Reviews 'n' Rants 2003 Archive
a l b u m s
Sufjan Stevens, Greetings From Michigan: The Great Lake State (Asthmatic Kitty) 9+
At first glance at the cheesy cover art and an initial listen to the first track, it seems like Sufjan Stevens is just another sad whitey playing mopey folk, like we need another one of those. But “Flint (For the Unemployed and Underpaid)” turns out to be quite a pretty little number, with piano ahttp://cdnow.com/switch/from=sr-52994/target=buyweb_purchase/artistid= Billy Bragg would admire. Greetings From Michigan reveals more of its hidden talents on the percolating “All Good Naysayers, Speak Up! Or Forever Hold Your Peace!” which sounds like a folky Stereolab, with wonderful backing vocals from members of the Danielson Famile, Stevens’ regular tourmates. No mere folk multi-instrumentalist (including keyboards, banjo, glockenspiel, xylophone, vibraphone and wood flute), Stevens is a gifted arranger and even has a firm grasp on avant-garde experimental music and electronica, as demonstrated on his second album, 2001’s Enjoy Your Rabbit. This combination mhttp://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/B000062UT7/qid=1018455680/sr=2-1/ref=sr_2_3_1/026-9834889-5410024ty like “For the Widows in Paradise, For The Fatherless In Ypsilanti” into memorable art music with heart. On “Say Yes! To Michigan,” the odd marching band sound recalls Neutral Milk Hotel, but less willfully eccentric, while Stevens’ softer, subtler vocals still manage to pack nearly as much harrowing emotional punch. The fact that there is no tidy conclusion, trailing off with “I did everything for you,” makes it all the more realistic and compelling. “Tahquamenon Falls” and “Alanson, Crooked River” are sparkling, chiming instrumentals that evoke an icy beauty similar to Björk’s Verspertine. “Holland” features intricate guitar playing worthy of prime Nick Drake. “Detroit, Lift Up Your Weary Head! (Rebuild! Restore! Reconsider!)”” is even more densely busy, brilliantly using rhythm to reflect the bustling and pulsing energy of the industrial city to a similar effect as Charles Mingus’ landmark “A Foggy Day (In San Francisco)." “They Also Mourn Who Do Not Wear Black (For The Homeless In Michigan)” uses similarly frenetic drum patterns, with cacophonous toyboxes of bells and whistles, incorporating enticing elements of the post-rock of Pram, Tortoise, The Sea And Cake and Jim O’Rourke. “Romulus” strips the sound back down to simple folk, handling a loss of a grandparent with the deft touch of heart-wrenching detail and naked honesty. As the energy winds down, Stevens stretches out with the languid, 9:23 “Oh God, Where Are You Now? (In Pickeral Lake? Pigeon? Marquette? Mackinaw?)" This might be a bit slow and long for some, but it rewards patience with blissful harmonies and a beautiful orchestral conclusion. Michigan is portrayed with complex, mixed emotions of affection, sadness and admonishment with such intimacy and passion as if it were family. Indeed, Brooklyn-based Stevens grew up there. And remarkably, he claims to have plans to record an album for all fifty states. It is doubtful that he could regularly match the heights reached here about states he may have only passed through. But whatever Stevens does in the future, his place is secure as one of the most vital artists of the 00s on the strength of Greetings From Michigan.
Otto, Sem Gravidade (Trama) 9+
Sem Gravidade (Without Gravity) concludes a trilogy of collaborations with producer Apollo 9, including Samba Pra Burro (Samba Donkey) (1998) and Condom Black (2001). The latter title is a play on words in tribute to candomble, Brazil’s Yoruban religion, culture and music. With daring mixes of electronica, cambaleada and modern dance rhythms, it was one of the most exciting Brazilian releases of the new era of Nova Música Popular Brasileira, leading a pack of young musicians (Lucas Santtana, Moreno Veloso, Max De Castro, Lenine and DJ Dolores) who were reinvigorating the freewheeling experimentation of Tropicália. With Dutch and Indian roots, Otto was originally a percussionist for Chico Science & Nação Zumbi and Mundo Livre S.A., illustrating why Afro-Brazilian polyrhythms are such an essential component to his music. But Sem Gravidade finds him easing back somewhat on the electronica experiments, and focusing on cohesive songs and his voice, which is improving with age. This is immediately apparent on the celebratory “Lavanda,” as Otto projects his vocals with more conviction and melody than previous efforts. A tribute to poet Waly Salomão who died in May 2003, the album tackles issues of war, poverty in Recife, friendship, solitude and Nietzsche. It was conceived on a roadtrip through the Amazon up through Death Valley with singer/actress girlfriend Alessandra Negrini, who contributes some vocals. The styles reflect the vast differences between the terrains of their travels, from lush jungle to harsh desert, sometimes within a single song, such as “Pra Quen Tá Quente,” which leaps from gentle and smooth keyboards to an impressive rock slide of pounding drums. Balancing out the solitude from his travels, Otto invited several friends into the studio. Max De Castro contributes guitar to “Avisa Gil” (Informs Gil), and Rita Lee sings on “Tento Entender” (Try To Understand), centered around a groovy sixties mod/Byrds guitar riff. Her son Beto Lee (Nation I Buzzed) and Dadi (The New Bahians), B. Negão and Pupilo also contribute. Between the luminous pop beauty of “Amargosa,” the mutant country-reggae stylings of “Quem Sabe Deus”and the dubbed-out post-rock rhythms of the closing title track, Sem Gravidade captures the essence of a lot of musical terrain in a challenging, rewarding sonic snapshot suspended in time and space to be enjoyed at our leisure. Otto’s ambitions seem to have no bounds, as he intends to tackle the mountains of Nepal. I get dizzy imagining the heights of the resulting musical inspiration.
The Concretes (Licking Fingers, Sweden) 9+
In a better world, top 40 radio would have bands like The Concretes holding their own against Britney, Christina and Pink. The Concretes are three teenage girls from Stockholm who didn’t know how to play formed a band. After making some musical progress they added some blocks, three boys to flesh out their sound. The septet recorded two records, which were later released as Boyoubetterunow in 2000. Inspired by Phil Spector’s wall-of-sound productions, particularly sixties girlgroup The Ronettes, and The Velvet Underground, the grossly underexposed album was full of charming, pretty pop. For the self-titled follow-up they expand to ten (or more) members and take a giant leap in development, revealing the band as the most accomplished self-taught, women-lead unit since The Raincoats. It’s not just that the playing, songwriting and production are nearly perfect. It’s one of those special albums that you never lose or sell because certain songs become permanently entwined into your life, attaching themselves like barnacles to memories of first kisses, clandestine trips and last goodbyes. Which particular songs evoke that kind of magic depends on the listener, but there are literally no duds here. The melodic songs are undeniably accessible, evoking the gauzy, country-folk seductiveness of Mazzy Star and the tambourine-shaking fuzziness of The Jesus & Mary Chain, morphed into their unique signature sound but not quite breaking ground. Choruses swell (with rising star Nicolai Dunger contributing backing vocals), horns swoop, organs wheeze, strings tickle, and gigantic cartoon bumblebees fly straight out of (Mercury Rev/Flaming Lips) Dave Fridmann’s bonnet (he didn’t produce it, but probably dreamt he did). Opener “Say Something New” builds up to celebratory heights that might inspire geezers in Mercury Rev and Spiritualized to take notes. “You Can’t Hurry Love” isn’t the Supremes classic, but its hook nearly rivals it. “New Friend” sounds like a long-lost VU tune written for Nico. Meet Victoria Bergsman, who’s every bit as deep as Nico, but possessed with a truthful simplicity that invites rather than repels. “Diana Ross” is another highlight, a marching salute to Motown soul and love hangovers, sung in an adorable accent that stays far from the threshold of gratingly precious. “Warm Night” swings in waltz time to a gorgeous mandolin backing and choruses, the women contributing spine-tingling “oohs” and “ahhs.” “Seems Fine” is the most uptempo tune with fittingly catchy hooks. Perhaps it’ll be a hit in 2005 when people finally find this album. “Lovin Kind” is another melodic, swaying love song that’s leagues above the sentimental mush of Coldplay. “Lonely As Can Be” starts to sound a little too familiar, but is revived by a brilliantly prickly guitar solo. The elegiac “This One’s For You” tops off the album like lightly whipped cream, as sparkling harp and ascending strings evaporate into pixie dust. The Concretes is not a heavy listen, but with absolutely no fattening filler and every song utterly swoonworthy, it’s that much easier to go back to again and again.
Lomax, A Symbol Of Modern Living (93 Records UK) 9+
I’d just about given up on American post-post punk bands creating anything that can stand on its own spindly legs as a great work of new music. Sure, there’s plenty of skill (Radio 4), beats (Rapture) and live chops (Liars and many others) to keep us intrigued, but never satisfied. What’s missing is relevance. These bands seem to be doing the “Time Warp,” their message making more sense in a context that’s twenty years long gone, completely lost on anyone outside of the usual old cognoscenti with large record collections. They rarely speak to the here-and-now conditions of the world. Political affairs are at their utmost fucked-up. Where’s the howls of protest and anger? There’s a place for escapist claptrap, but what’s to balance it? And how does one build upon the creative zenith of ’79-’81 post-punk without apeing it? An all-too-common catch-22 for bands determined to avoid becoming derivative cliché’s, they go overboard the other way by indulging in formless spazz-rock that resembles a child’s tantrum more than a display of power. Leave it to a British band to offer some answers. On A Symbol Of Modern Living, Lomax have come the closest of anyone of walking the line between tribute and racket. And even more exciting, they bristle with relevance, and shoot it spitefully like a porcupine’s needles. The lyrics do better than mewl and complain. From what I can decipher, they’re informed, intelligent, and sharp-witted. This alone is a revelation. When’s the last time you examined a band’s lyrics without being embarrassed for them? “The Bodies Of Journalists” explodes out of the box with righteous anger. Don’t be a prat, of course they’re not whining about us lowly music critics. This is about war crimes. “Brought To Rights” is a barbed funk-bomb that can trace its roots to The Pop Group and the deadly astute songwriter Mark Stewart. Elsewhere (“Modern Life”) there’s nods to The Fall’s equally prickly Mark E. Smith. The music is sharp and noisy but veers away from tunelessness, reigning in tight Gang Of Four rhythms, shards of brittle Killing Joke, Birthday Party and P.i.L. guitar sounds, and surprisingly tuneful choruses. Lomax are no mere revivalists. Every cut offers twists and surprises, and you never forget what year this is. “Arnstein’s Ladder” is startlingly fresh, with the best use of percussive guitar chimes since Dog Faced Hermans. “Principles” begins with a thick post-funk groove and peaks with some terse space rock. “Reiterator” is an infectious highlight, featuring raspy vocals not unlike Girls Against Boys, and a harddriving drum and bass track, with some surprising touches of synth. The effects-laden “The End” sounds like an updated recent Primal Scream. Except when the former do a good job in simulating punk rage, Lomax are the real thing.
Dizzee Rascal, Boy In Da Corner (XL) 8
Are people pretending to like Boy in Da Corner? Typically I would never harsh a young MC getting mad pub and garnering accolades, not to mentions scooping the Mercury…but after listening to Dizzee Rascal more times than my threshold allows I was left with two questions: “What purpose does garage serve?” and “What’s up with those tight jumpsuits?” While it’s true that I’m prejudiced by my more American sensibilities when it comes to rap, I am not certain what direction Boy in Da Corner was taking.
Da beats: Apparently Garage is supposed to be an amalgam of drum ‘n’ bass, hip hop and house. Well, Dizzee comes by his name honestly as there is a dizzying array of convoluted beats throughout. The best adjective I can offer is ‘playful’ like the wild rodeo style sounds that riddle the second track “stop dat.” Where are the deep disemboweling reverberations of Drum-n-Bass? Where’s the sumptuous snips and samples found in hip hop? Where’s the bouncy hammering that makes house partiers sweat? Mostly the background is a stark and rather boring UK club formula that demands a head nod instead of induces one. This is not to say that cacophonous and abrasive sounds don’t have their place in hip hop. Terminator X was masterful at using Sirens and other alarming pneumonic noises to signify a wake-up call. We can’t give Boy in Da Corner that kind of credit; the unsettling sounds aren’t nearly as smart.
Da lyrics: The hubbub surrounding Dizzee’s celebrity has some root in the idea that he has portrayed the crime ridden London in a fresh manner that is as powerful as what we might get from harder rap groups stateside. While he may be depicting a London that needs exposure, he has not managed to use masterful rhyming or display any real talent with word-smithing. The preamble of the fourth track “Brand New Day” gives false hope that leads to overly simplistic Dr. Suess rapping “Useless Mans wif no plans… pay money pay respect don’t insult my intellect.” The cadence is basic and too unsophisticated for this day and age. He doesn’t bend phonemes or punctuate anywhere besides the downbeat. In fact, many of the critics touting the virtues of this album are simply thankful that they could actually understand the lyrics without having to give a hard listen as the argot is plain and the turns of phrase overused.
While there were risks taken and bold attempts at creating a new sound, this fact alone didn’t make the experience less painful or annoying. As the U.K. struggles to find a voice in rap, their hopes should not be placed in this effort nor should Dizzee be crowned the future of British hip hop. This album is not hip hop. It’s garage plain and simple. To quote my neighbor, a 17 year old Chicago west side native” If this shit was on the radio I’d a been turned the station.”
Fast 'n' Bulbous Classics: 1988
Eleventh Dream Day, Prairie School Freakout (Thrill Jockey/Amoeba, 1988) 10-
The mid-80s were unsatisfying times for rockers. Aside from the handful of seminal releases from The Replacements, Naked Raygun and the post-hardcore stable at SST, pickings were slim. By 1985 the formerly great X and The Dream Syndicate had devolved into merely serviceable roots rock, along with The Blasters, Rank & File, Del Fuegos, Green On Red, True West, Long Ryders and True Believers. The solution began blooming in Lexington, Ky. in 1983, when Rick Rizzo scooped up Janet Beveridge Bean after the dissolution of his punk band The Pods and relocated to Chicago. Picking up Doug McCombs and second guitarist Baird Figi, Eleventh Dream Day were a road-hardened band by 1987, eager to blow away their unsatisfying debut EP with a document of their live fire, an update of Zuma-era Crazy Horse topped with Rizzo and Bean’s frantic John Doe-Exene Cervenka harmonies. And the main attraction, Rizzo and Figi’s twin guitar interplay reminiscent of Television’s Tom Verlaine and Richard Lloyd, had they brawled drunkenly like they were always itching to do. Recorded late at night in one take in a tiny Louisville studio in sweltering heat with a malfunctioning amp, the result was an intense, buzzing masterpiece of American guitar rock, Prairie School Freakout.
”Watching The Candles Burn” explodes out of the box like an angry, grizzled dog, its driving momentum knocking contemporaries like Thin White Rope aside like rag dolls. “Sweet Smell” doesn’t let up, Bean’s wailing chorus adding eerie menace, the lyrics referencing Neil Young’s “Ambulence Blues.” The drums sound like Bean’s using John Bonham’s coffin as a kettle drum, and the guitars play fast and loose. “Coercion” is even better, with one of the album’s catchiest, memorable guitar hooks, and Bean’s poetic, haunting lyrics, ending with the strangled words, “she became the night.” Figi’s “Driving Song” and Bean’s “The Death of Albert C. Samson” are more traditionally blues-based, with stellar slide playing on the former, the latter a savagely rocking, breathlessly gripping tale of a serial killer. At the heart of the album lie two songs that, fifteen years later are still the highlights of Eleventh Dream Day’s live shows. “Tarantula” and “Among The Pines” are both classics that combine Dylan-ish surreal imagery with truly inspired guitar wankery while perfecting the noir-roots vibe that The Gun Club had lost track of. Along with Dinosaur Jr. and, in their own way Sonic Youth, Eleventh Dream Day rescued guitar heroics at a time when everyone else was afraid or embarrassed to go nuts on the fret. Less cock rock than tastefully expressionist outpourings of emotion, the solos define the melancholy, autumnal feel of the album (“A cold fall rain/a distant vague pain/a long black train).” Like the twin-guitar solos on “Marquee Moon,” I’ll never get sick of ‘em.
After the peak, the album offers more blazing fun with McCombs’ frenzied meditation on drowning in “Through My Mouth,” the country charm of “Beach Miner” and “Life On A String,” a gentle break-up song that builds into sandblasting agony as the woman who broke Rizzo’s heart changes her mind and asks him to come back and he repeatedly wails “No I can’t come back.” The lovingly re-mastered Thrill Jockey reissue adds the Wayne EP, which includes tracks from the same session, the 11:19 “Tenth Leaving Train,” EDD’s own “Marquee Moon” and their steamrolling cover of Young’s “Southern Pacific.” “Go” was recorded later, a preview of the cleaner, tighter direction they would take in their Atlantic period. The band has since evolved and remained great . . . but they've never recorded anything that surpassed the beautifully damaged, smoking fury of Prairie School Freakout.
Four Tet, Rounds (Domino) 10-
At only 25, Kieran Hebden is already practically a grizzled veteran. With five albums under his belt with Fridge, he’s toured with Radiohead and Super Furry Animals and remixed dozens of artists. With its third album, Four Tet has definitively eclipsed Fridge as Hebden’s primary creative endeavor. While the largely analog Fridge is often bogged down in self-conscious experimental post-rock formalism, Four Tet effortlessly transcends genre exercises, emanating the strange beauty of field recordings gathered by an alien Alan Lomax. Call it “organica” or “folktronica,” Four Tet infuses in its music the beautiful detritus of humanity lacking in the chilly lab experiments of many a music technologist. The first two Four Tet albums, Dialogue (1999) and Pause (2001) still had some recognizable inspirations – Alice Coltrane’s cosmic jazz, Can, Fennesz and even folk music. It’s obvious that Hebden paints from a vast musical palate, and, like Amon Tobin, he has finally managed to blend the brushstrokes into something entirely fresh and unique with Rounds.
It begins with the stunning, amorphous “Hands,” a microscopic journey from a beating heart through the brain, to the hands as your fellow travelers the blood cells hum, hemoglobin coos and plasma squishes. Its glowing melody never fails to inspire a rush of tingling warmth, like a fizzing aural mineral bath. It’s clear from the start that this music has so far outdistanced the creative dead-end of glitch techno and blip-hop that it’s like a forgotten bad dream. “Spirit Fingers” is the ghost of Orbital’s creative muse, made more brilliant as frenetically buzzing will o’ wisps.
As per the title, there are no edges, angles or ridges on Rounds. The music flows with suggestive curves, soft ovals and sumptuous loops. The feeling of floaty, suspended animation is somehow supplemented a sense of travel. The secret, which really should be no secret but the talent for it seems to be missing from far too many musicians, is the use of melody. From the sinister “She Move Me” to the delicate music-box chiming of “My Angel Rocks Back and Forth,” the songs are infused with gorgeous, often stately tunefulness. The massively lyrical, nine-minute “Unspoken” rivals the best work of DJ Shadow peaking with a free jazz freakout that compliments rather than overpowers the sense of flow. Rhythm is not neglected here. Hebden is a well-schooled beat scientist, an equal to his hip hop heroes, marrying the spare, zen beats of DJ Krush with the frenzied sheets of percussion from free jazz. In “Unspoken” and “She Moves She,” the living pulses provide an anchor that prevent the celestial reveries from floating too far into space or subconsciousness, and “As Serious As Your Life” gets seriously funky.
“And They All Looked Broken Hearted” brings back some Eastern melodies that served well on the latter part of Dialogue, supplemented by some psychedelic backwards tape. “Slow Jams” is incidental music with an uplifting, rising scale, overheard vocal snippets and radio transmissions punctuated by the brilliant use of a squeak toy, demonstrating the power Pavlovian response of joy we feel via murky memories of early childhood and beloved pets.
Music this good is rarely rewarded on its own merits. Instead we see people discovering Nick Drake and Charles Mingus for the first time via car commercials. Do people deserve the pleasure of this music after stumbling upon it accidentally? No less than they deserve the warmth of the sun. If Four Tet gains a new audience via a commercial, good for him, better for us.
Prefuse 73, One Word Extinguisher (Warp) 9+
Scott Herren’s ambition to decentralize the delivery of hip hop and take the focus away from MC placing it squarely on the DJ as mastermind is accomplished yet again with One Word Extinguisher. Aside from forays into mediocre rhyming in cuts like “Plastic” where it appears Scott Herren (A.K.A. Prefuse73) allowed the MC to say for him what he’s typically brilliant at conveying through his own IDM textured beats and melodies; the album as a whole is filled with evocative flights where you can sit and rest in sound bit nostalgia while simultaneously being pinched and prodded into the future with blips and bleeps.
The album kicks off with “The End of Biters International” splashing through the headphones with sonic Kung- Fu that promises no sophomoric flop. What separates Prefuse73 from other IDM or “glitch hop” artists is his ability to veer from the straight narrative of his tune but still maintain continuity like a basketball player weaving in and out of the opposing team members and managing to bring the ball to the basket. This is most notably demonstrated on “The Color of Tempo” where he trips fancily into spliced soulful female vocals then brings it back to the more playfully driven primary beat. There’s definite gymnastics to the way his songs are engineered.
“Choking you”, my favorite, floats slowly through the last ¼ of the track list like an aural whale using sonar to remind us of the depth of hip hop history Herren had to swim though to bring us his flavor.
The work as a whole has a story that is unclear until we learn that Scott just went through a thang with his lady. The agony of romantic splits and his musings on relationships in general are pointed to not so indirectly in songs like “Why I love you”, “Female Demands” and in particular “90% of my mind is with you” with it’s old school R&B clips that disintegrate and collapse into fragmented fades. The story itself is broke up by interludes like Altoid Addiction that come off like a soundtrack to a Spike Lee film put through a blender.
Prefuse73’s technically evolved brand of hip hop leaves us a place to hang our hopes much like higher flow did in the early 90’s except the sounds are much smarter and accurate in provoking a push to the future.
-- Tomiiko M. Baker
1995 Revisited: Fast 'n' Bulbous Classics
Tricky, Maxinquaye (Island) 10
It's easy to see why Tricky so despised the reductionist "Trip Hop" label. While it may have sufficiently defined the idea-deficient ambient wallpaper of misguided late-90s Tricky plagiarists, the shapeshifting Maxinquaye is an entirely different beast. During Tricky's tenure in Massive Attack, he helped pioneer a new fusion of hip-hop, soul and dub reggae. Yet it did little to prepare for the shocking sense of new in Maxinquaye. It's a complex dialogue between technological sensuality and human sexuality, one in which it's ambiguous which side possesses more soul. On one hand, the music starts out at ground zero in the politically cynical, burned/spliffed-out, stripped-down electro-funk of Sly Stone's There's A Riot Goin' On, layers in the astral dub of Augustus Pablo, and slows down Public Enemy's Bomb Squad into a stop-motion sci-fi animation and techno voodoo.
It's difficult to immediately peg the meaning of Tricky and Martina's mumbo jumbo lyrics, and like Ishmael Reed, the improvised language forces the audience to reckon with the meaning on Tricky's terms. In "Aftermath," he samples both a replicant in Blade Runner and Japan's "Ghosts" for a pinnacle future-shockingly sexy moment. Here the human element, the sexuality, is blurry and ambiguous -- more My Bloody Valentine than Prince, more Kate Bush than hip-hop. "Hell Is Round The Corner" offers glimpses of Tricky's m.o. -- his narrative voice ebbing and flowing in time, space and multiple identities -- "Confused by different memories/Details of Asian remedies/Conversations, of what's become of enemies/My brain thinks bomb-like/So I listen he's a calm type/And as I grow, I grow collective" "Pumpkin" transcends any contextual meaning and simply floats ethereal more effectively than anything by the Cocteau Twins. Hallucinatory ("Abbaon Fat Tracks"), woozy ("Feed Me") and nearly exuberant ("Suffocated Love"), nearly every song is an original masterpiece. With his first solo album, Tricky has already earned himself a place in the pantheon of Afro-alien shaman alongside Sun Ra, Miles Davis, Exuma and George Clinton. And like the spells of any self-respecting trickster deity, no one has yet to crack and decipher Maxinquaye's mysterious secrets, let alone Tricky himself. Which is why it still continues to unfold its erotic, frightening spell to new listeners, and remains the best album of the 90s.
Radiohead, Hail To The Thief (Capitol) 10-
You know a band has come into its own when the backlash starts. OK Computer was little more than well-written stadium rock and power balladry, with superficial electronic treatments. Within a couple of years, readers polls were hailing it as the best album ever. How boring. What was fascinating was to see a lumbering, miserable beast threatening to collapse under its own bombast, evolve, shed its skin and take on a trickier, amorphous form. This new surreal and ethereal Radiohead of Kid A and Amnesiac had some fans confounded, already pining for the corporeal Radiohead of old, while other cognoscenti hip to the IDM and Warp artists that have inspired them sneered that it was nothing special. Yet despite the lack of obvious fist-pumping anthems, Radiohead proved on tour that the silvery songs can still shake the bleachers. And today they sound far fresher than their more populist anthemic guitar rock. Stoked from the triumphant tours, the band entered the L.A. recording studios with more energy and purpose than ever. Thom Yorke was quoted, probably only half-kidding, that it would be their “shagging” album.
While it’s no Let’s Get It On, not to mention a Maxinquaye, Hail To The Thief does have more of a visceral quality than the previous two. The static of a guitar being plugged into an amp gives a prelude for things to come on “2 + 2 = 5.” Ed and Jonny get to play. After a quiet intro with softly strummed guitar and Yorke’s high tenor, the band gleefully explodes. Greenwood squeezes several rapid-fire parts, too short to call solos, but worth hitting repeat for, particularly the sharp, processed part at the end that sounded like Queen’s Brian May. “Sit down. Stand up” is equally masterful with the tension build-up and release, this time featuring keyboards and synthetic beats. Electronica is no longer a conspicuous new toy to be experimented with – it’s simply another thread that’s tightly woven into Radiohead’s seamless fabric. “Sail to the Moon” is a twinkling lullaby to Yorke’s son, telling him “Maybe you’ll be president/But know right from wrong/Or in the flood you’ll build an Ark/And sail us to the moon.” No wonder Yorke named him Noah.
The initially unassuming “Backdrifts” is a grower. Elegantly arranged electronic and percussive textures offer layers of hypnotic syncopation that merit breaking out the big fat studio-quality headphones. “Go To Sleep” begins with a minor-key acoustic riff and melody that owes something to Screaming Trees/Queens of the Stone Age Mark Lanegan’s solo work. The song soon introduces several changes and electro-fried solos that veers it far away any hint of (god forbid) rootsy Americana. “Where I End and You Begin” sounds like Brian Eno’s work with Talking Heads’ Remain In Light, with some propulsive U2 bass and drums, it’s the simplest, easily absorbed pleasure on the album. “We Suck Young Blood” is in turn the most difficult. Eschewing melody for an excruciatingly funereal pace with sinister piano and handclaps, it’s harder to love, but the eerie harmonic beauty shines through in the end. “The Gloaming” is a study in “glitch-pop” techno that flirts with the danger of becoming a dated genre experiment, but pulls it off just fine. It’s obvious to see why “There There” was the lead single. It starts with a guitar-driven groove that will sound familiar to longtime fans, and gradually crescendoed to an intensely emotional peak. With “I Will,” “Punchup at a Wedding” and “Scatterbrain,” the creative juice levels off a bit. Mind that this is no filler. They’re simply not quite as jaw-dropping amazing as the rest of the album. Just to ensure itself as a contender for album of the year, HTTT offers two more mind-bending classics. The buzz-guitar dervish of “Myxomatosis” features varying tempos that produce a deliciously unbalanced sensation. Even better is the closing “A Wolf at the Door,” a surreal cacophony of images rattled off like Dylan’s “Subterranean Homesick Blues,” meditating on violence, madness, kidnapping and a frightening future.
While the album title fairly obviously references the lunatics who are in power, Radiohead refuses to put themselves out in the spotlight for writing anything overtly political. For good reason, given the madness and violence that could be unleashed on anyone for speaking out. But Radiohead are capable artists, and a close listen to the overall gothic dread of the music, and a read through the subtle lyrics will make their concerns and worldview fairly clear. These are dark, heavy times, and while Radiohead’s songs many not be able to make sense of it, they are weighty enough to make sense in this context.
The Mars Volta, De-Loused In The Comatorium (GSL/Universal) 10-
It’s a relief that something good finally came of the At The Drive-In breakup. While the majority of the band went on to form the utterly uninspiring Sparta, the two key creative forces, Omar Rodriguez-Lopez and Cedric Bixler Zavala, have produced the missing part that left At the Drive-In feeling incomplete – unhinged, ambitious imagination. Unconcerned with archaic rules of verse-chorus-verse, riff, riff, hook, hook, The Mars Volta have bravely leaped into untested waters, exposing themselves to savage accusations of musical pretension and ridiculous, incoherent lyrics.
While it’s true that only through press releases could we know that the album is about a friend who suffered from a coma and later committed suicide, it’s obviously not meant to take any sort of a narrative form. Deloused In The Comatorium imagines what kind of nightmare/dreamscapes might have occurred in his mind. Coherent narrative here would be completely inappropriate. Bixler’s surreal and sometimes nonsensical lyrics have roots in both William S. Burrough’s cut-up methods introduced with Naked Lunch, and Captain Beefheart’s dada poetry. And they sound just great. When Bixler sings lines like "exoskeletal junction at the railroad delayed" with such passion and intensity on “Roulette Dares (The Haunt Of)”, who can argue? He really stretches his vocals here, making it nearly unrecognizable next to his more restrained performances in At the Drive-In. When his high-register howls bring to mind Jon Anderson (Yes), Geddy Lee (in early Rush) and even Dennis DeYoung (Styx), there’s some cause for concern.
Yet he pulls it off, thanks largely to the brilliant arrangements of Rodriguez-Lopez. Melding post-punk with prog rock, this is no mere aping of overblown Yes, pompous Emerson Lake & Palmer or dull Pink Floyd. I’m talking about the crazed, prickly rantings of Van Der Graaf Generator (whose Peter Hammill was given props on a radio show by Johnny Rotten), the proto-math rock calculus of King Crimson and the fiery post-Miles Davis Bitches Brew work of John McLaughlin’s Mahavishnu Orchestra. The 12:29 centerpiece, “Cicatriz ESP” showcases all of these influences, from brittle-edged rhythms Fugazi would be proud of, along with propulsive Latin rhythms that recall Santana in his lean-mean, space-rocking days (see 1974’s Lotus). The late James Ward provides mind-bending, sometimes woozy sound manipulation, while Flea (Red Hot Chili Peppers) contributes to an astounding rhythm section chock full of stops, starts and changes.
With surprises and twists every minute, it’s hard to choose highlights. “Inertiatic ESP,” “Roulette Dares (The Haunt Of),” “Drunkship Of Lanterns” and “Eriatarka” all move from strength to strength with savage guitars, spaced-out bridges, and compelling vocal melodies. They even achieve almost gentle, lyrical beauty with the relatively subdued “Televators.” “Take The Veil Cerpin Taxt” ends with another high note, featuring a fascinating dub-electronica interlude, the final dramatic chords leaving you exhausted, realizing you’ve made it through a truly harrowing, epic musical experience. Knowing you’ll be hearing new layers and details a hundred listens down the road, you press play again…
Cafe Tacvba, Cuatro Caminos (MCA) 10-
Rock en Español brings images of bands that are colorful and wacky, producing chaotic funhouse mixes of mariachi, hip-hop, metal, ska and klezmer music. While Café Tacuba transcended this label years ago, their success is still tethered to their identity as one of the best bands . . . in Mexico. With 1999’s ambitious double album Reves/Yo Soy, they made an artistic leap, with one album featuring traditional music and the other featuring experimental post-rock, electronica and avant garde classical. Cuatro Caminos (Four Ways) showcases all their influences into one intersection much like the Mexico City metro station the album is named after.
Along with longtime Argentinean producer Gustavo Santaolalla, the Tacubistas enlisted help from Dave Fridmann (Flaming Lips, Mercury Rev) and Andrew Weiss (Ween). Percussionists Victor Indrizio (Beck) and Joey Waronker (Walt Mink, Beck, R.E.M.) also lend their sticks. The result is their most cohesive sounding album yet. Not to say the songs are homogenous. There is still a wide variety of styles, from the ska-inflected new-wave single “Eo” to the nearly croony balladry of “Eres” sung by keyboardist Emmanuel del Real. Lead singer (with the ever-mutating name) Elfego Buendía displays impressive range as he wails and whispers the songs, which are not a pastiche, but rather, a defining, ground-breaking style unique to Café Tacuba. This is best exemplified by "Puntos Cardinales,” which covers all emotional bases -- "Amor y dulzura/fuerza y coraje/cuatro puntos cardinales con los que navega/y cuando se pierde porque siente miedo olvida el pasado/no piensa en futuro y eso es suficiente (Love and sweetness/strength and anger/four principle points with which I navigate/I don't think in the future and that is sufficient)".”
This is music to party to (the infectious “Cero y Uno”), woo with (the dreamy psychedelia of “Mediodía”), and brood over (“Encantamiento Inútil,” the one song that could justify a Radiohead comparison). What’s remarkable is with all the leftfield influences and treated sounds, the music is always accessible. “Recuerdo Prestado” sounds like a long-list Beatles take in Spanish. “Qué Pasará” is immensely catchy, and “Camino y Vereda” is a powerful rocker, with keyboard and percussion work that recalls recent Dismemberment Plan. The album reaches an emotional apex with “Hoy Es.” The song starts with some psychedelic phasing and Indian strings, crescendoing to a climax that brings to mind “A Day In The Life.” The final cut, “Hola Adios,” it’s title again referencing the Beatles, cools things out with soft strings and tinkling keyboards. Over a decade into their career, Café Tacuba have produced their best album, and cemented their reputation as one of the best bands in the world.
Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Fever To Tell (Interscope) 9+
Those who don’t get the Yeah Yeah Yeahs must not have ever loved punk-rocking women-led bands like Babes In Toyland, The Breeders or Boss Hog. As great as those bands were, I always wished they were better. I wished they had better songs, played better, rocked harder. The Yeah Yeah Yeahs must have heard my wishes (though they were probably in sixth grade at the time).
Last year’s garagey EP justified the bated-breath anticipation for the full-length. Karen O’s stuttered timing and post-rockabilly squeals and hiccups on “Bang” were cool as hell, and “Miles Away” and “Our Time” were instant classics. Fever To Tell doesn’t disappoint. The most startling revelation after the sloppy EP is the exceptionally strong musicianship of drummer Brian Chase and guitarist Nick Zinner. They very much define the band’s sound, particularly Zinner’s bottomless bag of riffs that echo but never copy the best of The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, Fugazi, The Pixies’ Surfer Rosa, and early PJ Harvey. Karen O fine tunes her yelps, and also reveals a startling, deeply sultry singing voice much like The Pretenders’ Chrissie Hynde. The entire first half of Fever To Tell rocks viciously without letting up a single moment. “Rich” swaggers out of the gate slowly but confidently, with O emasculating the fanboys around her, taking charge and choosing her prey (“I’ll take you out boy!”). On “Date With The Night,” O is a slavering, shrieking harpy, while Zinner peels off some distorted Birthday Party licks. On “Man” she makes “we’re all gonna burn in hell” sound like a sado-masochistic come-on, while on the hyperactive “Tick” you can imagine her eyes roll back in her head as she loses her mind while time slips away. “Black Tongue” features hand-claps and the withering put-down, “Boy you’re just a stupid bitch and girl you’re just a no-good dick.” “Pin” begins with a lilting melody before erupting into more furious rock.
While there is no bum track, “No, No, No” nearly drops the ball when it’s subdued, dubbed-out outro meanders slightly too long. That’s when “Maps” catches you with your guard down. It’s a love ballad, with fairly unremarkable sentiments (“Wait, they don’t love you like I love you,”) yet with the alluring music and O in sincere, vulnerable Hynde mode, it’s fruitless to resist the emotional pull on the gut. Better rip that MP3 now and get that mix ready for the next time you fuck up and your partner exiles you to the couch or the streets. “Y Control” maintains the emotional tone, with O showing the effort of her restraint, this time dealing with regret (“I wish I could buy back the woman you stole.”) Here she’s a far tamer animal than the Tasmanian Devil earlier in the album that would simply tear apart the wrongdoer with teeth and. By “Modern Romance” she’s receded to the pink bunny portrayed by her logo, purring like a cross between Velvet Underground’s Moe Tucker and a demure, hung-over Björk. On the hidden track, “Poor Song,” she’s fading away in a golden glow of pixy-dust, advising her paramour to not be afraid of love. Let’s hope he listens, and she and the band return with more.
Super Furry Animals, Phantom Power (XL/Beggars) 9+
Super Furry Animals have six albums under their belt and they’re still the UK’s best-kept secret. It’s not for the lack of trying. 2001’s Rings Around The World was a big, flashy effort, buffed to sparkle and catch the eyes of a new audience. In retrospect, it did so only modestly, with longtime fans grumbling about recycled ideas and lack of enough killer songs. Good news, Phantom Power challenges 1997’s Radiator as the band’s all-time best batch of songs.
While the production is more down-to-earth, it retains the sonic experimentation, but imbeds it more subtly within the songs, rather than compromising the songs as showcases for fancy knob twiddling. There’s still plenty of sonic ambition. “The Piccolo Snare” packs more parts than “Bohemian Rhapsody,” with lush Beach Boys harmonies, psychedelic backwards masking, a gorgeous interlude with tinkling bells and Indian drones which seamlessly evolve into a glitch techno conclusion. The ascending melodies of “Hello Sunshine” is the most uplifting album opener in recent years, while “Liberty Belle” greets us with tweety birds, but all is not well. It turns out that amidst the sweet “woo woo” choruses, the birds are the alarms ringing in the trees while you’re “digging to hell/drowning in your oil wells.” A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down, as they say. Puppies defend us from the devil (“Golden Retriever”), robots battle and screw (“Sex, War & Robots”), and pet turtles keep a lonely boy company who was raised by wolves (“Venus & Serena”). This imagery is no surprise coming from a band that regularly deals with Yetis and reptiles in their songs.
But hereafter, there are no fluffy bunnies to soften the impact of the increasingly darker lyrics. “Bleed Forever” deals with the consequences of a nuclear disaster in detail, to an achingly beautiful melody of course. “Out Of Control” is an incredibly powerful psychedelic rocker that reflects on the world’s hatred and madness, concluding with, “Bear it in mind/we are one kind/unrefined and/out of control.” “Cityscape Skybaby” lightens up with some lush ELO harmonies, while “The Undefeated” is a horn-driven soul/Caribbean number as The Specials circa ’84 might have done. The album concludes with “Slow Life” is a celebratory collage, a jumble of electronics and guitars, driven by an incessant melody and more dark sentiments, how rocks will outlast our corrupt civilization. With deep sentiments, smart turns of phrases, surprising sounds, catchy hooks and as many as ten potential singles, this is Super Furry Animals at the top of their game, and along with Radiohead, the very best the UK has had to offer in the last decade.
The White Stripes, Elephant (V2) 9+
What’s so mind-boggling about the complaints about White Stripes mania is that the whiners think they just came out of nowhere. They’ve been around for SEVEN YEARS, for crying out loud. It’s like complaining that The Beatles hadn’t paid their dues in 1969, as they completed their final two albums. While the Stripes are no Beatles, let alone Stones or Led Zeppelin, they have accomplished more in four albums than most bands today. Starting with the hyper-minimalist debut that tackles Robert Johnson and Bob Dylan with two-chord garage punk that somehow sounded fresh, the Stripes expanded their influences on De Stijl to bubblegum pop and The Kinks. The 2001 breakthrough White Blood Cells temporarily abandoned the overt blues influences, which returned for Elephant.
Nearly every White Stripes song is larger than life. The secret weapon is Jack White’s stellar songwriting abilities. Even if he wasn’t an exceptional guitarist, the songs would still sound colossal. Every turn of phrase, economical hook and melody seem perfectly in place. Like all great music, you don’t question White’s songs, wondering if they’d sound better if they were done differently. They’re already perfect. The furious “Seven Nation Army” begins with what sounds like a bass, but is actually his guitar played through an octave pedal. When the guitar comes in, it roars. Recorded at London’s Toerag studio with all pre-1962 equipment, the sound is thick and loud, better than anything recorded at that time. “Black Math” begins with a standard repetitive two-chord riff, but again breaks down in an ear-shredding, cantankerous meltdown. “There’s No Home For You Here” sounds like a sequel to the vocal melody on the previous album’s “Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground,” but offers another surprise with a multitracked chorus a la Queen. Bacharach’s “I Just Don’t Know What To Do With Myself” starts innocuously enough, until halfway through White lets out a bloodcurdling shriek that sounds uncannily like Robert Plant, kicking some serious ass. “In The Cold, Cold, Night” features Meg on vocals, exuding some detached, sexy Peggy Lee coolness. “I Want To Be The Boy To Warm Your Mother’s Heart” and “You’ve Got Her In Your Pocket” are two of White’s most heartfelt, tender ballads, with the former recalling the country-blues of Let It Bleed. “Ball And Biscuit” turns a 180, flicking on the predatory sexual braggadocio -- “Right now you could care less about me/But soon enough you will care by the time I’m done/Let’s have a ball and a biscuit sugar/And take our sweet little time about it.” Meg’s insistent bass-pedal booty-beat drives the point home for 7:19, pausing only for Jack’s suggestive solos. “The Air Near My Fingers” is a standout, with a lazy rap-drawl similar to Aerosmith’s Stephen Tyler, and a fabulous organ solo. “Girl, You Hve No Faith In Medicine” is another frantic romp, making excellent use of the word "acetaminophen" in the chorus.
The album closes with a jokey throwaway, “Well It’s True That We Love One Another.” Amazingly, its charm is sturdy enough to withstand repeated listenings. Sometimes a band need not be groundbreaking to be special or enduring. To have an album so full of enduring near-classics is radical enough nowadays. Elephant is The White Stripes’ most assured album so far. And it could easily be the last, so climb up its trunk, take a ride and enjoy the view while it lasts.
Broadcast, Haha Sound (Warp) 9+
Having released a series of singles throughout the mid-nineties that pegged them as Stereolab acolytes, it’s no surprise that listening to Broadcast reminds me of the excitement and pleasure of first hearing the startling new mutations of 60s French and space-age pop, krautrock and electronica of Stereolab, Pram and Laika. Yet as Broadcast proved on their acclaimed full-length debut, 2000’s The Noise Made By People (released on Warp, the mega-hip electronica label), they’re no mere copycats. Yet while Trish Keenan’s cold-filtered chanteuse vocals originally left me wanting, Haha Sound is much more satisfying. Having given up the task of building their own studio, the band decided to use the church across the road. The new ambience is most easily noticed on the big, echoey drum sounds, which serve well on the motorik rhythm of “Pendulum,” recalling Can’s hypnotic “Mother Sky.” Elsewhere, like on the instrumental “Distortion,” the electronics are acoustically recorded so that you can hear the reverb, imagining the shape of the 60-ft church hall as if you had sonar capabilities. Broadcast make better use of melody than ever before, partially recalling the Velvet Underground (“Before We Begin”), the gothic dread of solo Nico (“Ominous Cloud”) and the somnambulist sing-song nightmare lullabies of Pram (“Colour Me In,” “Little Bell,” “Winter Now”). It’s actually quite cozy music for those Goreyites and Tim Burton fans who like to sleep tight and let the bogeyman fright.
Colder, Again (Output) 9+
As the excitement from the electroclash fad fades, few of the artists, predictably, were able to write many actual songs that will hold up over time to merit, say, an electroclash revival twenty years down the road. But there are always a couple who slip under the radar and produce an ultimately winning sleeper. Parisian Marc Nguyen Tan’s coolly downtempo debut album gets under your skin, much like Air did. Eschewing the artificially hysterical nitrous-fueled early 80s club energy, Colder instead focuses on more subterranean sounds. The spirit of Cabaret Voltaire is felt throughout, as Again filters sleek European synth pop through minimalist electronics, ghostly dub treatments and Morricone soundtrack themes. “Shiny Star” combines the droning rhythms of Neu! with glassy modern classical, while “Silicone Sexy” references the stripped-down rockabilly oohs and yeahs of Suicide’s Alan Vega. “Where” answers the question of how New Order would have sounded had Ian Curtis stuck around. All is not icy, however. Colder has just enough heart to share some of the warm pop instincts of current genre compadres such as Schneider TM (“Confusion”), and a touch of Massive Attack’s soulful groove (“One Night In Tokyo”). Tan’s voice is ultra-smooth throughout, a deadpan cool reminiscent of Serge Gainsbourg. By the time the album nears and end with the pulsing, spellbinding “This River,” it’s clear that Again has managed to become this year’s perfect comedown/chillout album while avoiding the dull hippy-wallpaper-muzak trappings of most music of that type.
Quick Impressions 2003 Archive
Last updated: December 30, 2003
