Kyp Malone has always been a grand provocateur, singing, "I wanna love you all the way / I wanna break your back," on last year's "Lover's Day" (from TV on the Radio's Dear Science). So to hear Malone, with his new solo project, moaning that "it's no burnt-cork affair" on the six-and-half-minute "Smiling Black Faces" is to hear him at his most comfortable. Rain Machine doesn't have TVotR's Berlin Wall of Sound might, but it's still an accomplished work. Quadruple-tracked vocals on the quavering "Hold You Holy" and the bone-shaking pop jangle of "Give Blood" make this the best side gig since Jack White rediscovered the drums.
Portland, Ore., buzz band Hockey puts an impressively modern twist on '80s beats and synths via its new set, Mind Chaos, which definitely lives up to what all the advance chatter has been about.
Opener "Too Fake" begins all Flock of Seagulls before invoking New York rockers The Strokes via singer Benjamin Grubin's higher-pitched (but still swaggering) vocals and off-the-cuff spoken-word moments. "3 AM Spanish" folds a Chuck D–style rap melody around electro handclaps. And the album's standout track, "Song Away," sings of "small-town music and big-town music" with a sound so huge and immediately familiar that it seems destined to be a sing-along, hold-up-those-cell-phones anthem. "Work" effectively cribs (but doesn't copy) from both Talking Heads' "Psycho Killer" and "Wild Wild Life."
Elsewhere on this ultimately danceable set, "Learn to Lose" offers up an unforgettable, effervescent hook, fitting nicely next to the Casio-pong beat and spiky guitars of "Put the Game Down" and a funkier, Beck-like, more urban feel in "Curse This City." Wrap it all up in the band's remarkably confident arrangements, and you've got a winner.
Vapours, the title of Islands' third full-length album, materialized after a particularly boisterous show last year in Switzerland.
After his opening set, Los Angeles rapper Subtitle watched the Montreal indie-pop band put on a dazzling performance.
"After the show he said we were so good that there were vapors coming off the crowd," Islands frontman Nick Diamonds recalls. "It boiled down to a new way of interpreting entertainment; it was like we had cast a spell over the audience."
Islands will get the chance to hypnotize larger crowds this fall, when the group opens for veteran alt-rockers the Psychedelic Furs on a brief North American trek (starting today in Tampa) before kicking off a headlining U.S. tour.
Stuffed with pop hooks built around flashy synths and drum machines, the album seems tailor-made for larger venues. Vapours abandons the heavy themes of last year's Arm's Way and offers more light thrills along the lines of 2006's Return to the Sea and Diamonds' previous work with lauded pop group the Unicorns.
The singer-songwriter credits the return to form to the recording process, which began in January in New York and was broken into different parts for instruments, vocals and mixing. "For Arm's Way, we were rehearsing every day, so everything was accounted for in the studio and kind of claustrophobic," says Diamonds. "This record was built more vertically, so some songs took on a completely different direction than their demos."
The album's immediacy can also be attributed to the return of drummer Jamie Thompson, who left Islands after the release of Sea to pursue other projects. Although Diamonds admits "there was a bit of bad blood" when Thompson left, he thought that working with his longtime friend "felt right for this record" and recruited him.
While Anti-, which signed the band in early 2008, releases the album in North America, Islands is looking for international distribution. But Diamonds seems entirely focused on the upcoming tour: The band will forgo its usual six-member lineup and play as a four-piece. "The shows will be much more skeletal and sparse," Diamonds says, "but in a good way, with more space for each of us to work."
"Evil" Antics Original release date:
September 27, 2004 iTunes
September 22, 2004:
On their 2002 debut, Turn on the Bright Lights, Interpol proved that their uncanny resemblance to the heavy-hearted post-punk guitar groups of the early Eighties was both a blessing and a curse. On its follow-up, the New York quartet moves forward. Continuous touring has clearly improved each member's chops: Antics is a far more refined and finessed record than its predecessor. More remarkable is the well-dressed foursome's improved songwriting. Whereas Bright Lights made its mark with bleak moods and Paul Banks' vocal anguish, Antics achieves a tunefulness that warms and broadens Interpol's music, and helps them establish an identity distinct from their dolorous influences. On "Evil," the guitars pulsate, pause as if for breath and then surge as the melody soars and Banks offers hard-won optimism: "It took a life span with no cellmate / The long way back / Sandy, why can't we look the other way?" What was once forced for Interpol now comes naturally: Antics chooses light over darkness without denying gray areas between.
"Bang and Blame" Monster Original release date:
September 26, 1994 iTunes
Stipe shaves his head, Buck turns it up to 11 (which, for R.E.M., is more like 8.5) and they deliver excellent songs about being famous in the age of alternative culture. It's their most forceful, heavy record: established superstars kicking it like a pissed-off garage band. As romantic metaphors go, the call-return anthem "Star 69" hasn't aged well. But Monster is music of a moment — '90s alt-rock perfected.
After an extended and productive flirtation with garage rock and punk earlier this decade in indie circles, sweeping, atmospheric rock is back in vogue, and few bands capture the sound as well as Low vs Diamond.
The Los Angeles quintet bears the clear influence of bands like U2 and The Killers on songs that swell into ringing anthems while retaining a certain intimacy on its self-titled full-length debut.
Low vs Diamond makes excellent use of musical contrast, with bright piano chords set against soaring minor-key guitars and a propulsive rhythm on opener "Don't Forget Sister," and Lucas Field's emotive vocals cutting through dizzying bursts of churning guitar on "Heart Attack."
Field matches his tuneful voice with graceful lyrics perfect for cold, rain-slicked streets. He sings of growing apart from an old friend on "Actions Are Actions," likens a relationship to the story arc of a film on "Cinema Tonight," and cuts his losses in love on "Wasted."
The songs are occasionally brooding, frequently beautiful and consistently compelling, which makes Low vs Diamond an inspired first effort from a promising young band.
What made 2008's Visiter, The Dodos' Frenchkiss debut, such an immediate head-turner last year could be chalked up to any number of things. More than a handful of lo-fi folkies have found their rightful voice through under-budget tampering, and plenty can be accused of cadging exotic music to truss up overused American forms. But ultimately what kept The Dodos from floundering under the radar is their jaw-dropping ability to steer their disparate influences and lo-fi leanings toward their strengths.
Much the same can be said for their follow-up, Time to Die, though, in some ways, the two couldn't be more unlike. While Visiter relished the blemishes of their splintered acoustics, frantic percussion and impulsive structure, Time to Die trades in all of that for a sheen production that tempers the band's more waggish tendencies. Those looking for the same flagrant recklessness that made Visiter such a shot in the arm and lent it its replay value — too rash to be earthy, favoring unedited energy over precise textures — might be taken aback. Time to Die glosses the string swipes, tinny snare pops and blighted vocals for a cautiously polished finished product that all but airbrushes its flaws.
To some extent, this strips The Dodos of their familiar charms, but it also draws the string tight on their bag of tricks before the gig loses all of its novelty. Plenty of country-blues fingerpicking, mid-sentence drum changes and run-on passages still provide the backbone for Meric Long's bittersweet vocals. But with a more balanced production (better mics, better studio, better everything), enough breathing room is left for a denser palate. The underlying synths on "Troll Nacht" are able to bubble to the surface, and the xylophone chimes on "Fables" aren't drowned out by Long's thick-picked strums and Logan Kroeber's sporadic, metal-induced chops. This newfound tone, however, doesn't come without its setbacks, as is apparent on opener "Small Deaths," in which Long's already boyish vocals are softened to a sheen finish — a rather bland foible that coats the entire album. As it is, though, Time to Die kind of plays like the next great Shins album, which is saying something. If The Dodos' pugnacity is exchanged for something a little too quixotic to the taste, the songs themselves hold their own. Trimmed down to nine tracks with most nearing the five-minute mark, the album expands its range beyond what once seemed likely for a band with such a singular sound. Visiter may have been a left-field gem, but Time to Die assures them longevity by finding a comfortable stride. For the Dodos, it seems, discovering a snug middle ground means uncovering fresh ambitions.
It's official; we're heading for the end times. Look at the signs: the economy is shattered, Michael Jackson is dead, Blur is back together, and, somehow, Lungs is brilliant. Because, really, it shouldn't be. After all, we've seen the cycle before. A band comes along with a couple brilliant singles and a follow-up that inevitably disappoints. That initial buzz sputters out as quickly as it started, and a promising musician heads back to the corners of the interwebs, cranking out singles that the world treats with polite indifference.
Maybe that's because it's so hard to sustain the raw excitement of those initial tracks in the face of incredible expectations; say, for example, featuring on the NME Awards tour, or winning a critics' choice award at the Brits. To do so requires more than just a great songwriter, stellar vocals, and musical talent. It requires a level of commitment that most young newcomers would balk at before retreating to the comforts of sexting and iPhones, or whatever young people do these days.
Luckily, Florence is not like most newcomers. Really, she's not like anyone. Some key details first: Florence is Florence Welsh, a self-described pretty pale girl, and the Machine are one brilliant backing band. But they are a backing band, because this is Florence's show. And what a show it is. Just that voice, the one heard many months ago coming from absolutely nowhere, a mix of jazz and folk and blue-eyed soul like nothing in a long time. Or rather, like everything. Lungs is a vast jumble of influences, from Kate Bush and Tori Amos to UK electronica (on the Source/Candi Staton cover "You've Got the Love"), with Florence's voice taking on most of the work.
But before going on, we've got to deal with "Kiss With a Fist," Florence's first single and still one of her best. I admit that when I first heard "Rabbit Heart (Raise it Up)," single number three, it sounded like a retreat, an admission that nothing could match the scruffy brightness of that first effort. But on further listening, "Kiss with a Fist" feels more like the most traditional number on an album straining to be something new.
That's not to say that it's a bad number. It's obviously brilliant. It's a pitch-perfect pop song in the KT Tunstall vein, with Florence sneering her way into our hearts. But just look at the haunting menace of "Drumming Song," the sheer ambition of "Cosmic Love," the celebratory pop of "Hurricane Drunk." This is an artist you can't pin down, can't demand anything from because, like all the greats, she knows how to surprise your expectations. "If you could only see / the beast you've made of me," she snarls on "Howl." Anyone who's come across this redheaded waif in the papers and made their snap judgments needs to hear just how brutal, how brilliant, and how sexy, she can really be.
Of course, this is still a debut, so it might be a little premature to crown Ms. Welch the best thing to happen to British pop since Lily Allen. Like that the titular creature on "Rabbit Heart," it'd be all-too-easy to frighten her away and send her back to the bizarrely beautiful place she came from. And, yes, she might not be the most versatile singer out there (her operatic voice tends to swing from melodramatic to melancholy, and that's about it). But for an artist this young, on a first album, that only feels like strength. Because those pipes are big enough to shake the rain from the trees and, with an eclectic balance of genres leaning heavily towards folk and soul, she's got enough support to make her seem powerful rather than overbearing.
Ultimately, with so many new bands scrambling to be heard amidst the din of MySpace and YouTube, with a million next big things out there, why should you spend 45 precious minutes with Florence and the Machine? Maybe because of the resigned but resilient woman singing on "I'm Not Calling You a Liar." Or because of the near-brilliant lyricism of "My Boy Builds Coffins." Or maybe because few moments in pop history have captured joy like the last 30 seconds of "The Dog Days Are Over." Because what you have, right here, is a truly rare thing — a perfect debut. So congratulations, Florence. Now it's time to conquer that troublesome sophomore slump. But frankly, I wouldn't worry.
A.A. Bondy messes with your head. A refugee from the grunge era, when he fronted the band Verbena, Bondy has repositioned himself as a potent folk 'n' roots artist, reconfiguring the Nirvana-inspired loud-soft-loud pattern into more subtle contrasts. His second album, When the Devil's Loose, has a lot of chaos and strife churning below calm pacing and bemused tone. The album's first couple of songs put out a thick haze of cryptic imagery. Then the phenomenal title track tightens things with a cautionary tale tucked into a litany of disasters. A young Bob Dylan used to craft songs like "When the Devil's Loose" but delivered them with a staccato panic. Bondy, though, keeps his cool while observing the wreckage. Bondy's supple vocals and the roomy song arrangements let him shake off the world-weary gloom at times for the more peaceful evocations of the piano waltz "On the Moon." And Bondy breaks the tension mid-album with the whimsical "Oh the Vampyre" and upbeat folk hymn "I Can See the Pines Are Dancing." Bleakness bubbles up again before the record is over, but his song "The Mercy Wheel" suggests that Bondy is giving the devil a fight.
2004: Miami is the album Elliott Smith would have made if ever in his short life he was trapped on a desert isle with a guitar, an iBook, and a copy of Kraftwerk's Autobahn. The Go Find is a one man band, the living sweat of former Orange Black guitarist Dieter Sermes, who was so indie he then opened for the likes of Pavement and Stereolab. Given the tools he used to make it, this album should not sound as rich as it does, but his long-time friendship with Morr producer Arne "Styrofoam" Van Petegem more than likely had a lot to do with that being, as he taught Dieter the basics of electronic music production and all. With its mixture of cheap synths, uncomplicated guitar work, traveling beats, and rich sound with a hint of distortion, Miami sounds like a chance jam session between Luke Vibert and The Cure, which probably isn't that far off from Orange Black jamming with Styrofoam now that I think of it. According to Dieter, the best way to enjoy his music is driving down the highway at dusk, but I've since found this situation to be very hard to write in, what with the driving and the darkness and all; so you'll just have to trust his judgement and my memory that it's good road music. Miami is upbeat yet calm, contemplative, interesting, and emotional. It's a classic representation of the kind of quality indielectronics Morr should be world famous for and everything you need to pleasantly kill an hour of a trip.
Ra Ra Riot's debut album The Rhumb Line charges out of the gate with ''Ghost Under Rocks,'' a bass-and-cello-driven outburst whose urgency recalls Unforgettable Fire-era U2. Two tracks later, ''St. Peter's Day Festival'' proves them equally adept at sighing balladry. Founding member and drummer John Pike co-wrote both of those tunes, along with three others. His accidental death before the disc's recording gives them all a distinctly bittersweet tinge. But the upstate New York quintet's assured performances act as a suitable memorial.
Silversun Pickups' 2006 debut, Carnavas, seemed to arrive a dozen years too late. Awash in the guitar sounds of early-'90s alternative rock, the record recalled My Bloody Valentine ("Melatonin"), Veruca Salt ("Well Thought Out Twinkles"), and most conspicuously, Smashing Pumpkins ("Waste It On," "Lazy Eye"). Of the possible eras to emulate, Silversun picked one just about due for a renaissance — which may help explain why the L.A. group caught on, especially with listeners who came of age when those sounds were new.
But dwelling on the band's influences misses the point. Carnavas didn't play like a best-of-the-'90s compilation. Neither does the new Swoon, which makes those sounds Silversun's own. It isn't a departure — thick, huge-sounding guitars propel the chorus in the opener "There's No Secrets This Year" — but Swoon shows commendable growth. Like Carnavas, Silversun recorded it with producer Dave Cooley and mixed it with Tony Hoffer, but unlike that album, Swoon was tracked all at once, not in multiple sessions interrupted by touring. That lends the album a cohesion its predecessor lacked; Swoon sounds like Silversun taking its time, with a minimum of studio bloat (16-piece orchestra excepted). It lacks some of Carnavas' instant pleasures, but Swoon finds Silversun Pickups on the right path.
Is your life a mess? Perhaps a perky pop song could help! So say these thoughtful New Orleans lads, whose sparkling debut wraps stories of loneliness and shaky relationships in shiny melodies and sweet vocals. Frontmen Ted Joyner and Grant Widmer use strummy sounds as a substitute for antidepressants, dulling the misery of "Bobby Beale," a Fountains of Wayne-style melodrama, and "Faces in the Dark," which observes, "I take some comfort, losing my memories." Although their cheery facade ultimately doesn't overcome the gnawing desperation, Con Law is good, neurotic fun.
April 28, 2005:
A highly accomplished debut from Deep Southerners, the Features (and one would expect no less from a band who have been playing together since 1993), Exhibit A presents a giddy half hour of swirling hillbilly pop, with a sinister edge to a style that would make tracks like "Exorcising Demons" and "Harder to Ignore" fit nicely on the soundtrack to a Tim Burton movie.
The fantastically named organist, Parrish Yaw, who, according to the band "looks as if he just strolled out of some eighteenth century ghost town," holds the whole outfit together and maintains that vital American-gothiccircus- sleaze-chic which should ensure that the Features find their fans in likeminded trendy young things, and not articulated lorry drivers.
There's no denying the strength of the actual songwriting on this LP, with more than a small amount of anthem potential in tracks such as opener "Exhibit A," and the obligatory new-wavemeets- country floor filler "There's a Million Ways to Sing the Blues," but it offers an increasingly saturated and jaded market nothing new or particularly necessary.
The Features' press people might push comparisons with the Buzzcocks, the Attractions, and Sparks but there is, nevertheless, an inexorable REM-MOR quality to this record that pervades their overly considered musical mania. Self-consciously deranged singer Matt Pelham sums up his band's sound eloquently in the chorus of the second track, "Me and the Skirts," with the phrase "a little bit angry, a little bit tame."
Even with the outpouring of indie-folk music over the last decade, Timber Timbre's Taylor Kirk has remained largely undetected — which is probably the way he likes it. Since his debut album Cedar Shakes was released in 2006, the enigmatic Torontonian has been fine-tuning his creepy brand of roots music, with this latest release marking his first time in a studio. Timber Timbre isn't the kind of music you get right away; it may take a couple of listens before the album's brilliance begins to shine through the gloominess. The music is sparse and the album intentionally drags, like a serial killer chasing after a doomed victim in a horror flick. But Kirk is more than your average folkie with a fondness for vintage tones and worn-out records. And hidden beneath the eerie melodies and dark images are eight songs about age-old subjects like love and relationships. The album opens with "Demon Host," a song every bit as haunting as you would expect from the title. The surprise comes near the end, when Kirk finishes singing about evil apparitions and the song is turned over to a ghostly choir. "Lay Down in the Tall Grass" reveals an obvious influence, ripping the organ riff straight from Screamin' Jay Hawkins' "I Put a Spell On You."
Vancouver duo Brian King and David Prowse throw themselves into every song as if it's the last one they'll ever play. That go-for-broke attitude carries Japandroids's full-length debut, which is less about the songs than the sheer joy of playing them.
King and Prowse suggest a couple of overgrown golden retriever pups playing fetch with a well-chewed tennis ball at the beach. King's guitar is less about virtuosity than texture, evoking an ocean wave big enough to surf or the relentless throb of a factory machine. Prowse keeps the frenzy at a high pitch on drums, frequently thrusting himself into the foreground as lead soloist.
The give-and-take is like a garage-rock version of gospel music, building to feverish crescendos in which the guys purge their anxieties ("I don't wanna worry about dying") and declare their desire to have their hearts dashed against the rocks by those ever-elusive "sunshine girls."
Even those who believe that there's nothing new to express with a guitar, drums and two voices may have their jaded hearts melted by Japandroids' blue-flame exuberance.
Fronted by the husband-and-wife team of Win Butler and Régine Chassagne, the Arcade Fire's emotional debut — rendered even more poignant by the dedications to recently departed family members contained in its liner notes — is brave, empowering, and dusted with something that many of the indie-rock genre's more contrived acts desperately lack: an element of real danger. Funeral's mourners — specifically Butler and Chassagne — inhabit the same post-apocalyptic world as London Suede's Dog Man Star; they are broken, beaten, and ferociously romantic, reveling in the brutal beauty of their surroundings like a heathen Adam & Eve. "Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels)," the first of four metaphorical forays into the geography of the soul, follows a pair of young lovers who meet in the middle of the town through tunnels that connect to their bedrooms. Over a soaring piano lead that's effectively doubled by distorted guitar, they reach a Lord of the Flies-tinged utopia where they can't even remember their names or the faces of their weeping parents. Butler sings like Radiohead's Jonny Greenwood used to play, like a lion-tamer whose whip grows shorter with each and every lash. He can barely contain himself, and when he lets loose it's both melodic and primal, like Berlin-era Bowie or British Sea Power. "Neighborhood #2 (Laika)" examines suicidal desperation through an angular Gang of Four prism; the hypnotic wash of strings and subtle meter changes of "Neighborhood #4 (7 Kettles)" winsomely capture the mundane doings of day-to-day existence; and "Neighborhood #3 (Power Out)," Funeral's victorious soul-thumping core, is a goose bump-inducing rallying cry centered around the notion that "the power's out in the heart of man, take it from your heart and put it in your hand." The Arcade Fire are not bereft of whimsy. "Crown of Love" is like a wedding cake dropped in slow motion, utilizing a Johnny Mandel-style string section and a sweet, soda-pop stand chorus to provide solace to a jilted lover yearning for a way back into the fold, and "Haiti" relies on a sunny island melody to explore the complexities of Chassagne's mercurial homeland. However, it's the sheer power and scope of cuts like "Wake Up" — featuring all 15 musicians singing in unison — and the mesmerizing, early-Roxy Music pulse of "Rebellion (Lies)" that make Funeral the remarkable achievement that it is. These are songs that pump blood back into the heart as fast and furiously as it's draining from the sleeve on which it beats, and by the time Chassagne dissects her love of riding "In the Backseat" with the radio on, despite her desperate fear of driving, Funeral's singular thread is finally revealed; love does conquer all, especially love for the cathartic power of music.
He's not. Upside down, that is. If you caught just one lyric the first time through, you caught that much. In a way, though, Alesso Natalizia — the bedroom-pop dreamweaver who records as Banjo or Freakout — is, if not head over heels, then at least bringing us full circle. London-based Natalizia honed his skills covering highly bloggble artists from Burial to High Places in his own intimate, atmospheric style. Instead of singing for his supper in smoky bars before unappreciative crowds, like the acoustic covermen of an era that feels further away than it actually is, he's sitting at a computer, forced to gauge reaction by clicks and blog comments rather than in-person audience interaction. Only later did he form a proper band for live shows.
All of which might seem ass-backwards, but it's really just contemporary reality. "Upside Down" is essentially "42," a highlight of Banjo or Freakout's Upside Down EP last year, now re-recorded for a new 12". Natalizia's rough-hewn strums and wounded vocals still evoke something between Elliott Smith's early four-track material and the Shocking Pinks' melodically similar "Emily." But this time he dives a little bit deeper into the original's watery textures, bringing shaky piano plinks and low rumbling sounds up higher in the mix. As before, the track ends with Natalizia's wordless vocal harmonies on top. No freakout (or banjo). Oh, inverted world.
"Walking With a Ghost" So Jealous Original release date:
September 14, 2004 iTunes
2004: Tegan and Sara's third album, So Jealous, is by far their most ambitious and liveliest record, opening up their punk-folk sound with a heavy dose of new wave sensibility and pop hooks. They started moving in this direction on their previous album, but here they dive headfirst into slick, shiny surfaces, insistent synths, clean guitars, and bright, playful melodies that sound sunny even in minor keys. This musical revamp doesn't betray their nervy emotionalism. Instead, it focuses them, giving their music style and flair that focuses them while making the duo more accessible. And So Jealous is indeed the Tegan and Sara album that could play to a wider audience, but the group remains an acquired taste for one reason: their thin, squeaky voices and close harmonies can be grating to the uninitiated. Nevertheless, for those who have acquired that taste, So Jealous is the most satisfying album Tegan and Sara have yet made.
Of all the New York art-rock bands to command column inches in the New York Times arts section and elicit echolalic reporting of new singles and remixes this year (like Animal Collective circa January or Grizzly Bear circa April/May), Dirty Projectors have had the most circuitous and unlikely ascension. The band started as a way for Yale composition graduate Dave Longstreth to mix his orchestral leanings with R&B grooves and prog-rock pretension. His third album, 2005's The Getty Address, was a concept album about Don Henley. (Seriously.) His fourth album, 2007's Rise Above, was a reinterpretation of Black Flag's Rise Above that Longstreth arranged without listening to the original for 15 years. It's hard to believe that anyone would have pegged Dirty Projectors as the next band to leap from obscurity to blog-hype.
But then came the excellent "Knotty Pine," the group's collaboration with David Byrne on the charity comp Dark Was the Night, which suddenly made the Projectors a hot prospect. But that proved to be a meager palate whetting compared to the broken, art-rock R&B grind of "Stillness is the Move," which sounds like it was dropped in from a long-lost Aaliyah album (thanks to the singing of guitarist Amber Coffman), the first single from the band's suddenly hotly anticipated fifth, and best, album, Bitte Orca.
Given the relative accessibilty of "Stillness is the Move" compared to the rest of Dirty Projectors' catalog, it's tempting to call Bitte Orca Dirty Projectors' pop breakthrough. That's not really the case because Bitte Orca, and "Stillness is the Move," is a refinement and perfection of all the ideas that Longstreth has batted around since he was making dense orchestral records; the collision of vocal harmonies, percussive R&B grooves, genre curveballs, high register, taut guitar lines that sound like they're about to break and orchestral passages that add lush layers to Longstreth's already dense arrangements.
Bitte Orca opens with the dusty "Cannibal Resource," a Longstreth-led harmony and string collision that has handclaps in lieu of a snare backbeat. Longstreth's voice was something of a deal-breaker on past Projectors albums (its warble is idiosyncratic and an acquired taste), but on Bitte he's honed his squawk into a multi-note behemoth, capable of growling or harmonizing. "Useful Chamber," the album's centerpiece, is his spotlight moment (like "Stillness" is for Coffman and "Two Doves" is for bassist Angel Deradoorian), as he rides the song's multi-part prog-rock explosion, nailing the talking bridge, the crushing stoner-rock chorus and the harmonic build of the Spartan verses.
Dirty Projectors have gained notoriety for how quickly and frequently the band cycles through members (every album has had a different cast), but the period from Rise Above to Bitte Orca has been the lineup's most consistent, leading to great rewards for keeping things constant. It's hard to imagine a new group still feeling each other out being able to pull of the vocally dexterous "Remade Horizon," which features Deradoorian, Coffman, and Longstreth harmonizing in concentric circles, lining up sometimes, and floating on their own the rest, or creating the tension of late R&B-tinged highlights "No Intention" or "Fluorescent Half Dome." These sound like the work of a band coming together creatively, hitting every right note and reaching peaks that none could hit alone.
"Stillness is the Move" is sure to dominate a lot of the talk regarding Bitte Orca, and probably rightfully. But what can't be overlooked is how much of an achievement the album is. "Stillness" might provide the entrance point, but Bitte Orca is the kind of album that is best taken from start to finish, where the songs and musical themes are allowed to grow, endear, and impress.
Chicago indie pop rock band Pet Lions was formed by guitarist and vocalist Karl Ostby and bassist Shuhei Yamamoto. The duo began writing and recording music in October 2007. As they progressed, the lineup was rounded out thanks to Craigslist of all places with the addition of Tom Owens on guitar and keys and Matt Dahl on drums. In 2008, the band started performing gigs in and around the Chicago area.
Pet Lions score a touchdown by perfecting classic pop rock sounds with a modern twist on their debut EP release, Soft Right (recorded with Brian Zieske). The group members list among their influences 1960s garage rock/pop of The Kinks, early Beatles, plus more recent bands like Phoenix, The Cure, and My Bloody Valentine. Pet Lions are an indie band to watch in 2009-10.
Au Revoir Simone is a bit of a one-note band, and their latest album, Still Night, Still Light, is a bit of a one-note album. But what a lovely note it is. The album may add little to the trio's trademark sound (three vintage Casios, what sounds like a very inexpensive drum machine, and endearingly sad, harmony-driven vocals), but Thom Monahan's production cloaks the whole affair in atmospheric fuzz that makes it a perfect late-night listen. And though it largely eschews the charming, straight-ahead pop songs that highlighted Au Revoir Simone's first two records, this is inarguably the band's most coherent, filler-free effort to date. Here their homogeneity is finally a strength, as Still Night (like St. Vincent's recent Actor) is a boldly effective, album-length mood piece for the post-album digital age.
Given the innate adorableness of three awfully cute girls from Williamsburg playing lo-fi snyth-pop, it'd be easy to dismiss Au Revoir Simone as the indie-rock equivalent of what film critic Nathan Rabin calls the "manic pixie dream girl." But while the group always seemed too coyly melancholy to be twee, here they sometimes sound genuinely heartbroken. On "Shadows," they coo, "I'm moving on, I hope you're coming with me," seemingly addressing the person from which they're moving on; similarly, the speaker in "Trace a Line" informs its subject that he'll "be the end of me." The lyrics are often hard to decipher beneath all the fuzz, but it's particularly well-suited fuzz: The startlingly good "Anywhere You Looked" manages to fill Kraftwerk-style mechanics with a sense of real yearning. And the fact that many of the songs have lengthy instrumental passages confirms that Au Revoir Simone is more concerned with conveying emotions than just singing about them. On this count, the album is a clear success.
Amazing Baby are the latest band to emerge from the creative hub of New York that is Brooklyn. Their story is more incestuous than most — as well as springing from the same scene as the likes of Vampire Weekend and Yeasayer, they also studied at Wesleyan University with MGMT and Chairlift. Founding member Simon O'Connor was even in a band with MGMT, by the curious name of Misogynistic Pineapple.
So if you're expecting a spacey synth-rock album with some touches of prog and some very odd song titles, you're in luck. Amazing Baby plough the same furrow as their old college mates, but with a more straight-ahead rock approach. Opening track "Bayonets sums up their sound best" — swathes of synths, killer tempo changes, and sweeping strings leading up to a chorus which just begs up to bounce up and down and pump your fist into the air.
Rewild is lushly produced (sometimes bringing to mind Super Furry Animals) and each song seems to be bursting with invention. Take "Kankra," for example, which seems to have about five different time signatures, pounding drums, Jarvis Cocker-style vocals, and even throws a touch of Bollywood soundtrack in there. "The Narwhal" even goes all folk-rock, sounding like a hidden track from Led Zep 3 at best, and a Tenacious D out-take at worst.
And therein lies the problem with Rewild. When they're focused, they produce some damn good pop music — as the fantastic "Headdress" proves, employing a melody which manages to be both wistful and aggressive. Yet their insistence on cramming as much as possible into each track means that the quality of the song suffers — take "Dead Light" which meanders along before eventually petering out.
It doesn't help either that some songs are stronger than others, leading to a slightly inconsistent listen. "Smoke Bros" is excellent, bursting into a handclap-fuelled chorus of "we are starving cannibals," but it's preceded by the unremarkable "Roverfrenz," which sounds rather like Mercury Rev in search of a tune. Similarly, "Old Tricks in Hell" leads expertedly up to a blissful chorus, but that's followed by the twee and somewhat irritating "The Narwhal."
There's also the feeling that, in this rather fickle world, maybe Amazing Baby's time is already behind them. What would have sounded fresh and intriguing a year ago now inevitably sounds like a tired copy. The lack of a killer song — their version of a "Time to Pretend," if you will — only adds to that impression.
Maybe that's unfair. After all, it's not their fault that their contemporaries achieved success before they did. Besides, without being exceptional, Rewild is a decent debut album with enough promise to justify keeping a watchful eye for the future.
November 4, 2004:
It's certainly tempting to write off Akron, Ohio-based group the Black Keys as another one of the seemingly hundreds of the garage rock bands that have sprung up over the last few years. They've already drawn many comparisons to the White Stripes, as their band has only two members, Dan Auerbach (guitar and vocals) and Patrick Carney (drums). Yet when I walked into the Sahara tent at Coachella earlier this year, I was shocked to see only two men on stage, because it sounded like there was an entire army of instruments on stage. Between Auerbach's wailing voice, his throaty lyrics, and Carney's ever-present pounding of the drums, they more than make up for the lack of band members.
On their third album, Rubber Factory, the Black Keys continue their militaristic assault on modern music. In "10 A.M. Automatic," Auerbach questions the ever-changing demeanor of his significant other: "What about the night / Makes you change / Oh, from sweet / To deranged?" The duo from Northeast Ohio even attempts a cover of the Kinks' "Act Nice and Gentle." Auerbach provides a nice walking bass line that feels like a stroll through the park, while Carney taps the drums in the background. Auerbach's voice is one of the most unique in recent memory; at times it's difficult to discern what is being said through the slurring sounds of Auerbach's throat. But therein lies the band's main appeal; the raw, unpolished sound gives the album its charm. Rubber Factory manages to bring the soul of the blues to indie rock, thanks in large part to Auerbach's unique vocals and guitar.
English songbird Polly Scattergood entrances, disturbs, and impresses with her debut self-titled album. This 22-year-old native of Colchester, England threads together upbeat pop melodies with electronic and dark synth beats. Many of the songs, deceptively ethereal at first, suddenly take the listener to dark places. In "Nitrogen Pink" when Scattergood sings of "sweet, rotting memories" she's referring to an acquaintance's early death from cancer. In "Bunny Club," which sounds like a potential dance hit, she recounts giving lap dances to strange men under pink, fluorescent lights. In "Breathe In, Breathe Out" she croons about a lost lover, and in "I Hate the Way" Scattergood turns the classic romance song on its head, combining discordant melodies with painful lyrics about swallowing pills and suicidal thoughts. The lyrics make the listener think twice — are they about Scattergood or someone else? The mystery is just one part of the appeal.
Whether it's a happy accident or a painstaking work of art, the rousing debut of this San Diego quintet impresses mightily. Despite passing echoes of Spoon and Violent Femmes, Delta Spirit's rough barroom pop is its own creature, with jangly pianos, rattling drums, and scruffy acoustic guitars making a thrilling ruckus. Sounding just a day away from a sore throat, singer Matt Vasquez possesses the energy of a hustling televangelist, issuing irony-free invitations to a better life. When he shouts, "All you soul-searching people, c'mon!" don't hesitate to join the rally.
Originally Scott Reitherman's moniker for his one-man indie-pop project, Seattle's Throw Me the Statue is now a disarmingly skillful quartet that arranges Reitherman's tightly constructed songs with a loose playfulness. Creaturesque, TMTS's second album, is a broad jump above their debut, 2007’s Moonbeams: Not only is the group fully integrated into the proceedings, the songs are sturdier, and Reitherman's sweet-toned, sighing fog of a voice gains character and depth with repetition. Early R.E.M. serves as a sonic touchstone, particularly on "Ancestors," whose rolling-kudzu dreaminess is nicely offset with a mosquito-buzzing guitar, and "Cannibal Rays," which sets its open-ended vocal melody over chiming Peter Buck-like guitars and a tinny drum machine. Sometimes TMTS gets a little too cute, as on the somewhat cloying chorus of "Cannibal Rays," and when Reitherman sings nonsense like "I'll play drums in your hair" during "Shade for a Shadow," it throws off the track's quietly brooding spell. But even during the group's most blatantly obvious hat-tips (the scrappy rhythm-guitar-and-cymbals intro of "Hi-Fi Goon" screams Built to Spill), Reitherman and company have plenty of their own character.
Nic Cester was blessed with the kind of voice that maintains a constant edge of desperation. It's the sound of a perennial teenage boy always on the prowl and slightly worried about it. That brawny bark works perfectly for Jet's best songs, the ones — to paraphrase Madonna — that are about ladies with an attitude and fellas that are in the mood. The Aussie rockers' third album has a few of those songs, including current single "She's a Genius." With its rubberband riff, whoa-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh chorus, and lyrics like "Love is when you want a kiss and you get bit," it's classic Jet. It mashes up the heat and raunch of all their idols (AC/DC, the Stones, Cheap Trick) into one memorable track. "Beat on Repeat," a slouchy disco amble, and the strummy, INXS-ish "Black Hearts (On Fire)" — the perfect soundtrack to the haughty runway strut of a model — are also keepers. The rest of the album is solid but less immediate. It also lacks a truly strong ballad, although closer "She Holds a Grudge" has an alluringly hazy quality. There are a couple of clunkers, including the chaotic, love-is-war opener, "K.I.A. (Killed in Action)." While not as full-throttle arresting as the band's previous two albums, as a placeholder, Shaka certainly rocks.
From the very first note, you know Miike Snow are Scandinavian. There's something about the stuttering synthesizer pounding out a graciously major-key melody, with a hint of horns coming in, that is unmistakably Nordic. There's a long line of this winning, celebratory pop with a melancholic undercurrent, running at least from Abba all the way through A-ha, Bel Canto, and the Sugarcubes; to the Cardigans, Annie, and Röyksopp. And that's by no means an inclusive list. You can definitely add Miike Snow to the canon, though. Their self-titled debut is one of the most interesting, fun, and hummable pop albums of the past year.
Miike Snow have a couple aces up their sleeves. That's right, contrary to appearances, they're a band, not a solo artist. The tightly-arranged, danceable, electronic tunes are created by Swedes Christian Karlsson and Pontus Winnberg. You might know them as the production team Bloodshy & Avant. They are most famous for producing and co-writing Britney Spears' "Toxic." They've also done other tracks with Spears, Madonna, and Kylie Minogue, among others. Yet you won't hear any of these divas on Miike Snow. Nor is the album the kind of genre-spanning, guest vocalist-strewn mish-mash you might expect from a production team making a "proper album." Instead, Karlsson and Winnberg have focused their talent and energy on catchy-yet-intelligent and often challenging pop songs. And, crucially, they've hooked up with American lyricist/vocalist Andrew Wyatt. Not only do Wyatt's words add a sharp lyricism to the beats, but his smooth, expressive, charismatic voice gives them soul.
The traditional criticism of Scandinavian pop is that it's too calculated, cold, and self-consciously "quirky" for its own good. The artwork for Miike Snow lampoons those notions brilliantly. The band have chosen for their symbol the jackalope, the mythical antlered jackrabbit that represents humans' tendency to embrace the absurd. And the inner booklet features portraits of the three members, immaculately groomed but encrusted with ice and snow, as if they were hit by an avalanche on their way out of the stylist's. It's enough to warrant a physical CD purchase.
As if the music itself didn't warrant it. Synths and pianos, and pitter-pattering, Ringo Starr-inspired live drums provide most of the backing. Karlsson's and Winnberg's dance music background is apparent in the various filtering and phasing effects, and some songs do take off on techno-inspired excursions. But it would be wrong to call this techno, or even straight dance music. It's pop. The arrangements are uncluttered, clean, and crystalline, but often lush and warm.
Miike Snow lend plenty of diversity to their songs without straying away from their basic production values. "Animal" and "Cult Logic" are sharp, catchy pure pop with choruses that charm their way into your brain. The more pensive, martial "Burial" wouldn't sound too out of place on Animal Collective's recent Merriweather Post Pavilion, while "Black & Blue" is smooth, winning blue-eyed soul. Though it comes only three tracks in, Miike Snow's centerpiece is the stunning "Silvia." A six-minute epic, it begins as a stark, delicate ballad, a lost Duran Duran classic. On two occasions, gauzy synth pads and cascading synths accelerate the track into a psychedelic, danceable workout. It's so thrilling, you'll forgive the overzealous Auto-Tune. On the mellow side of things, closer "Faker" is a Beatlesque, midtempo charmer, bumbling bassline and all.
While all of Miike Snow is flush with the confidence displayed on its best tracks, it's not without its lesser songs, or shortcomings. The snappy "Song for No One" is plenty good, but may be too close to Peter Bjorn and John's iconic "Young Folks" for comfort. If the melodramatic "A Horse is Not a Home" and dirty glam stomper "Plastic Jungle" aren't quite over the top, they're dangerously near. One or two too many songs open with staccato, eighth-note piano. But the trio's craftsmanship combined with the momentum of the strongest tracks, pulls everything through.
Wyatt's lyrics are another factor. Not interested in standard pop pap, they're witty, complex, and often concerned with mortality and struggling relationships. Certainly, the divas whom Karlsson and Winnberg produce wouldn't likely come up with a lyric like "I've become the serial killer of us both…don't forget to cry at your own burial." As in a lot of great pop, the darkness is belied by the upbeat, melodic music. "Oh God I think I'm dying / And our drinks were just poured" is a more typical example of the double-edged one-liners Wyatt is capable of.
Miike Snow, though not perfect, is one of those albums you're thrilled to discover. An intelligent, satisfying, extremely listenable pop record, it's simultaneously nothing you expected, and most everything you hoped for.
On last year's mix tape Esau Mwamwaya & Radioclit Are the Very Best, London-via-Malawi singer Mwamwaya lent his exuberant vocals to the British production duo's party-ready remixes of such sonically disparate artists as Michael Jackson, M.I.A., and Vampire Weekend. The trio's official debut further expands their musical palette to include triumphant synth rock ("Chalo") and woozy G-funk ("Julia"). The title track — featuring VW frontman Ezra Koenig — is pure Afropop pleasure, while Warm Heart's sparser moments ("Nsokoto," the M.I.A.-assisted "Rain Dance") prove less can be, well, less.
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.
