Reviews 'n' Rants 2004 Archive
Ghost * Hypnotic Underworld (Drag City) 9+
True to their name, Ghost were seen so rarely during the first sixteen years of their existence that they were more a whispered legend than a tangible group. Rumors that they lived a nomadic existence amongst ancient temples and subway stations in and around Tokyo were supported by their chaotic blends of hippie acid-folk, trance drones and prog rock. An American tour in 2002 seemed to have energized the band, lead by guitarist/songwriter Masaki Batoh. Hypnotic Underworld is considerably more focused and powerful than the serene but impressive Tibetan-influenced works from 1999 (Snuffbox Immanence and Tune In, Turn On, Free Tibet). Here their multiple elements have gelled, lending Ghost the power that fits their stature, as they should rightly and proudly stride the strasophere alongside the likes of musical demigods Amon Düül, Ash Ra Tempel and Led Zeppelin. In the half-decade since the previous albums, their sound has evolved, lightening up on maribas and cellos and adding more guitars, keyboards, electronics, flutes and a variety of ethnic instruments such as a lute, celtic harp, tabla and bouzouki.
The album begins with a four-part title suite, a thirteen minute ethereal instrumental with distant horns, tinkling percussion and placid bass. “Escaped and Lost Down In Medina” gradually layers on tension with discordant pianos and intensified drums and guitars. The song peaks with more of a rolling thunder than a crescendo, and serves as an excellent setup for the driving “Aramaic Barbarous Dawn.” The 22-second speedmetal percussion of “Leave The World!” finishes it off. “Hazy Paradise” is a cover of a song by Dutch prog-psych band Earth & Fire, and features a breathtaking guitar solo by Michio Kurihara. Rock energy abounds throughout this album, the hard-hitting “Piper” providing another fitting setup for the entrancing groove of “Ganagmanag,” which is rich with beautifully produced layers of treated percussion, electronics, flutes and piano. Throughout the album, Batoh’s singing is the weakest link, but not so much to be distracting. The Celtic “Holy High” sounds like a rumbling, bass-heavy version of Incredible String Band. Hypnotic Undergound closes an another high note, an utterly unique, massive powerhouse cover of Syd Barrett’s “Dominoes – Celebration for the Gray Days.” It’s all in the coda – apocalyptic church organs, bells, howling yodels and pounding drums.
It’s their not-so subtle way of showing that they’re bigger and better than any of the pissant Terrastock psychedelic-revival bands they’ve been ghettoized with over the years. Indeed, Ghost have set a new standard to aspire to. Load this album on the iPod for your next journey, whether it be mountains, dark forests, European squats or herb-assisted dreamcatching.
Annie * Anniemal (679) 9+
Let’s hope Annie marks the beginning of a new era where vapid, stupid mouthpieces for corporate focus group songwriting teams are replaced by hip, educated, cosmopolitan pop stars who write their own music and are actually good. Let’s not talk of Kylie Minogue, who isn’t fit to carry Annie’s gear. While many pop stars end their story in tragedy, few begin with it. It almost feels like cheating to provide the backstory, because the songs really have enough strength and depth not to need the context. At any rate, Anne Lilia Berge-Strand from Norway collaborated with boyfriend and producer Tore Korknes (Erot) on the great electro-dub single, “The Greatest Hit” in 1999. Before they had a chance to write an album, he died of heart complications at the age of 23. The fact that Annie was able to go on to write such an infectious, glistening album is moving, really.
Anniemal kicks off with the joyous “Bubble Gum.” The lyrics might be a sly putdown (“Hey Annie! Well, look at you! Is that a new boy stuck on your shoe?” “Oh no, oh no, you’ve got it all wrong / You think you’re chocolate but you’re chewing gum”), but the celebratory P-Funk squeaks and bleeps and deliberate pacing recall the glorious singles from the first Tom Tom Club album. The sentiments aren’t quite deep (“I don’t want to settle down, I just wanna have fun—I don’t want to settle down, I just wanna chew gum!”), but are certainly healthy for someone in their early 20s.
”Me Plus One” is another bouncy hit-to-be about a wannabe pop queen with some rapid-fire tongue-twister lyrics that will provide hours of entertainment decoding (”Mrs B, Mrs E, Mrs A-U-T, Mrs I, Mrs F-U-L, I’m gonna reach the top, I ain’t ever gonna stop and I’m sure gonna ring your bell!” PING! “Mrs D, Mrs I, Mrs F-F-I, Mrs C, Mrs U-L-T, if ever there’s a girl that can rock your world then that girl sure iss me- RIGHT!”). “Heartbeat” is another winner that makes you feel the palpable excitement and thrilling chemistry of a first encounter at a party. It might flow by unassumingly at first, but repeated listens reveal it as true genius.
“Always Too Late” features a stuttering beat, plucked strings and breathy chorus that resides somewhere between Missy Elliott, Gwen Stefani and grime. “No Easy Love” nearly whispers the sad lyrics to a melody that 80s Prince would have envied. The album is beautifully paced, with the aforementioned “The Greatest Hit” leading into the euphoric disco vamp, “Come Together.”
Now you experience the all-too rare panic of not wanting an album to end. Fortunately there is one more song, “My Best Friend,” directly addressing her deceased boyfriend. It’s the first overtly melancholy tune, and an appropriate wind-down, with a spare arrangement of a simple beat and a keyboard, as she sings, “Thought I saw you last night, looking at me. Thought I heard your voice calling for me.” Heart wrenching maybe, but it ends with the hopeful, “…there’s always someone out there.”
We’re out here, and we want to make Annie rich and happy.
Björk * Medulla (Elektra) 9+
Through no fault of her own, Björk has been teetering on the path towards becoming a mainstream diva. Despite the fact that her music of the past eleven years (20 if you count her lesser known work with post-punkers Kukl) is far more challenging than your average pop music, she has become somewhat of a celebrity due to her powerful personality and presence on film and awards shows. One could imagine drag queens transferring their campy impersonations from Barbara Streisand and Cher to Björk. While she may hold nothing against camp, consider Medulla as a tactical move of keeping this elfish’s queen’s material out of the cabarets.
Initially intended to be a dense, bombastic cacophony of orchestras and odd instruments, Björk, decided Medulla’s songs were better left stripped down to primarily the voice. She often skirts around accessible pop melodies, aiming for disorientating twists rather than comforting hooks. There are exceptions, such as the chorus on “Who Is It” which could fit onto older albums. Elsewhere, temptations to sing along are often thwarted by alien-sounding scales and Icelandic lyrics. It’s fitting that she duets with Robert Wyatt on “Submarine” (which sounds, oddly enough, like TV on the Radio’s deconstructed doo-wop). Wyatt made a career out of mastering fragile, beautiful music far outside the radar of mainstream accessibility. Other guests include gothic sounding choirs, Inuit singers, Mike Patton (Mr. Bungle/Fantomas), human beatboxers The Roots’ Rahzel and Dokaka, who’s guttural throat-singing sounds like an injured muppet monster under your bed on “Ancestors.” Rather than whimisical, Björk’s minor key and atonal experimentations with breath and voice are as frightening and challenging as anything by the wicked Diamanda Galas.
If all but the most die-hard fans are scared off, those who put on some headphones and give it a chance are rewarded with surprisingly rich details. Aside from the unaccompanied acapella of “Show Me Forgiveness,” this album is densely layered, with pleasurable production by Matmos, who assist with a few well-placed keyboard lines. Vocals are creatively multi-tracked, building upon previous accomplishments by avant-global artists like Sheila Chandra (1996’s ABoneCroneDrone) and Sussan Deyhim (1997’s Majoun). At times the multiple voices can cause goosebumps as they tickle and massage. As is the risk with pushing boundaries, not every experiment will resonate. But the success rate is definitely high.
The true star of Medulla is Björk’s powerful vocals. Tales of her toppling men three times her size like trees in vodka drinking contests sound like urban/Icelandic myth-making. But the sheer hot headed power of her vocals shows a woman comfortable in excess, making believable the superpowers of this diminutive woman of Viking stock. It’s easy to imagine, after the downfall of the pop divas, Madonna, Britney, Janet and Christina forced to live together in a reality show as bored audiences wait for them to make out or expose themselves, while drag queens around the world lampoon them. Meanwhile, Björk will be one of the last women standing, proudly, continuing to break ground and blow away expectations.
Tom Waits * Real Gone (Anti-) 9+
One of the most notably dramatic and welcome shifts in artistic direction came in 1983, when Tom Waits transformed from a beatnik piano balladeer in a creative rut to a pioneer who seemed to have discovered Captain Beefheart, and mixed it with a unique blend of Hoagy Carmichael and circus music. It’s as if he were possessed. Indeed he was, for that was when Tom Waits the artist effectively became the formidable two-headed beast, Waits/Brennan, with Waits as the Grand Weeper, and Kathleen Brennan the Grim Reaper. He met playwright Brennan on the set of Francis Ford Coppola’s One From The Heart, the soundtrack for which was, while not without its charms (it won him an Academy Award nomination), was his most tepidly maudlin and sentimental effort yet. He was scraping the bottom of the taste barrel when he requested Crystal Gayle as his duet partner. Brennan, with her large record collection (including Beefheart), rescued Waits from becoming Christopher Cross, and they lived happily ever after. Well at least for the next 22 years. Lucky for us, it looks like their musical partnership will last as long as their marriage.
After the doubly-whammy excursions in avant-garde theater music with 2002’s Alice and Blood Money, Real Gone shows Waits and Brennan returning to the giddy, freewheeling feel of that initial gateway album, Swordfishtrombones. Also returned is ace guitarist Marc Ribot, along with bassist Les Claypool (Primus). “Top Of The Hill” kicks off with the most overtly Magic Band-influenced rhythms of his career. He even hired a chicken to fill in the beatbox duties. The chicken appears to have a hairball. Oh, of course, that’s Tom, rockin’ it old school like no one else can. The chicken is doing the scratching instead – no that’s their son Casey. On paper it seems ridiculous, but it works, although about a minute too long. On “Hoist That Rag,” Ribot brings his experiences with his Prosthetic Cubans band to provide a lovely Afro-Cuban lead. But when Waits barks the chorus like he’s been gargling draino, you know he means business. These are grim, troubled times, and his seemingly paranoid apocalyptic rantings on 1992’s Bone Machine are coming true. The protagonist soldier cleans his gun, prays, and struggles to survive as smoke blacks out the sun. “Sins Of The Father” is almost too serious. At 10:36, it’s a slow crawl to hell, yet also pleasantly mesmerizing as the damned subject savors a few pleasures on the way, ruminating “When I’m dead I’ll be dead a long time/But the wines so pleasing and so sublime.” There are enough sly clues to suggest that the sinners are the culprits who rigged the Florida election. The abrasive “Shake It” also threatens to get repetitive, but is enhanced by some inspired junkyard percussion and the great line, “You know I feel like a preacher waving a gun around.”
By track seven (“Metropolitan *boom boom, ack!* Glide,” it appears that Waits junked his piano and used the parts for his Frankenstein percussion contraptions. The gentle non-ballad “How’s It Gonna End”aside, Real Gone is his hardest hitting, most abrasive album. On “Dead And Lovely,” Waits must have had to massage his throat with honey tea in order to get a close approximation of his 70s singing voice. Its lyrics read like an outtake from a Nick Cave session, or a lost Edgar Allan Poe poem. “Don’t Go Into That Barn” is even creepier, about a barn haunted by angry ghosts of slaves. “Circus” sees Waits returning to spoken word. The title is practically a warning sign of clichés ahead, but it’s actually one of his most descriptive, evocative pieces, with colorful imagery of characters like “Horse Face Ethel and her Marvelous Pigs in satin,” “one eyed Myra, the queen of the galley who trained the Ostrich and the camels,” who bottle fed “an Orangutan named Tripod,” and Mighty Tiny played the saw to music like electric sugar, throwing “his head back with a mouth full of gold teeth.”
Real Gone is a heavy, gnarly log of an album. Those tough enough to withstand the rough bark of its exterior will be rewarded with beautiful detailed rings of its rich imagery, and in the smooth center, its lone, lovely ballad, “Day After Tomorrow.” It’s a timeless, heart wrenching song about a 21 year-old soldier writing home, “It’s so hard and its cold here/And I’m tired of taking orders . . .What I miss you won’t believe/Shoveling snow and raking leaves . . .They fill us with lies, everyone buys . . . You can’t deny, the other side/Don’t want to die anymore/Then we do, what I’m/Trying to say is don’t they pray/to the same God that we do?/And tell me how does God/Choose, who’s prayers does he/Refuse? . . . I’m not fighting for justice/I am not fighting for freedom/I am fighting for my life and/Another day in the world here/I just do what I’ve been told/We’re just the gravel on the road…” It’s as powerful a protest song as anyone has written.
The Black Keys, Rubber Factory (Fat Possum) 9+
I’ve never been a fan of most blues revivalists, at least the ones who so slavishly tried to be authentic that they usually lost what was magical about it in the first place (guilty parties include John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers, Cream, Stevie Ray Vaughan, even the White Stripes in more reverential blues moments). Millions would bitterly disagree with that take, but I just prefer the mavericks, from Hendrix’s soulful space excursions to Captain Beefheart & The Magic Band’s dadaist deconstructions to Jon Spencer’ Blues Explosion’s often misunderstood, playful revival show. On 2002’s The Big Come Up, The Black Keys’ Dan Auerbach displayed an awesome vocal maturity for one so young, with pipes reminiscent of Paul Rodgers (Free, Bad Company). 2003’s Thickfreakness focused their youthful energy into killer hard rock riffs. Rubber Factory takes a big leap into world class songwriting.
True to its namesake, the album was recorded in a former rubber factory, kind of sounds like it. The mix follows the Free template in trimming down the sound to its sparest, most primal essence (interestingly members of Gang Of Four listened to a lot of Free while brewing up their own spare sound). The space enhances the impact of every tom tom and guitar chord (incredibly free of cliché despite their reliance on blues-based scales). And it’s endearing to hear that even after their recent success, it sounds like they haven’t upgraded the shitty guitar amp that’s probably held together with band aids. The tones are decidedly fuzzy and distorted, but the playing is utterly disciplined, almost staccato, occasionally rising to a roar far more abrasive than on previous albums.
”When the Lights Go Out” starts out at a sinister shuffle accented with deep tom toms, while the catchy “10 A.M. Automatic,” with its sharp garage-punk riffs that The Cramps would have lovingly exhumed, deserves to be a hit. Two covers actually match, if not improve on the originals. The Kinks’ “Act Nice And Gentle” is given a jaunty, almost country-ish style they wouldn’t tackle until Muswell Hillbillies. “Grown So Ugly” is an old Robert Pete Williams blues tune originally covered by Captain Beefheart & his Magic Band in 1967. Black Keys rock it hard like Led Zeppelin/early AC/DC, with a masterful vocal performance on the break. Every tune offers seemingly endless hooks sturdy enough to hang your leather on, some ass-shackin’ boogie rhythms (if only more 70s butt rock achieved this simple but elusive objective) and now and then, a surprising twist of a phrase or pop melody.
At its most explosive moments, or even the rustic, sparkling, “Wild Horses”-type balladry of “The Lengths,” Rubber Factory rekindles fond memories of the long forgotten, mighty Mule. But hear this – Black Keys are not destined for indie rock obscurity. Regardless of what the flavor of the month is, these songs will be impossible for the masses to deny once they find ‘em.
The Mark Lanegan Band, Bubblegum (Beggars Banquet) 9+
Despite Mark Lanegan having six solo albums under his belt, most of the thousands of people who saw him perform as part of Queens of The Stone Age didn’t even know he did anything other than The Screaming Trees. Bubblegum should change that. Lanegan mixes up his usual Nick Cave-influenced noir-folk Americana formula with some harder rocking elements, collaborating with Josh Homme and Nick Oliveri (QOTSA), Izzy Stradlin and Duff McKagan (GnR), Troy Van Leeuwen (A Perfect Circle), and Polly Harvey among others. The album’s title isn’t a coy reference to a new accessibility, but rather a lyric in the short, haunting “Bombed,” – “When I'm bombed I stretch like bubblegum/And look too long straight at the morning sun.”
The album commences at twilight with the dark, brooding “When Your Number Isn’t Up,” in which Lanegan is surprised he isn’t dead yet, presumably after the decade of hard living, hard drugs and hard punches. Instead it simply buffed his voice like sandpaper, which is stonger than ever, but with a touch more character. “Hit the City” is an early highlight, finding him duetting with Polly Harvey on top of a driving guitar and organ groove. “Methamphetamine Blues” is a pounding rocker, featuring Homme’s supercharged guitar that treads territory somewhere between desert rock and Queen’s Bian May. “Strange Religion” continues his successful series of soul ballads, including “Pill Hill Serenade” from 2001’s Field Songs, and “Consider Me” on 1999’s I’ll Take Care Of You. “Come To Me” features Polly Harvey again, this time they’re like the creepy yet sexy goth couple trying to lure a third party into bed. “Come to me/Burn your starry crown/My dark angel.” “Can’t Come Down” contends for the album’s peak, a harried junkie’s lament that writhes underneath pummeling percussion.
While he doesn’t spin a yarn quite like Tom Waits (who does?), Lanegan’s embattled tales of strife and addiction ring true. Along with tightly focused songs and impassioned performances, what more could you ask for?
Nouvelle Vague (Peacefrog) 9+
To its limited audience, what made post-punk special was its refusal to lazily rely on clichés. As a result, the tendency to eschew obvious rhythms and catchy melodies in search of creating something new meant that a larger audience missed out on the fact that they did come up with some killer tunes. It’s depressing that the late 70s/early 80s is largely known for disposable one-hit wonders like Kajagoogoo, when there was so much more. So it’s inevitable that the only way to draw attention to these missing treasures outside of getting them commissioned on the soundtrack for a blockbuster film is to revert back to cliché. In this case, French multi-instrumentalists and producers Marc Collin and Olivier Libaux stripped thirteen songs of everything but their basic chords, and reinterpreted them with cocktail jazz/bossa nova arrangements, sung by eight female vocalists (six French, one Brazilian, one American). But these are far from clumsy, gimmicky musak exercises in nostalgia. These are Gilberto caliber -- sensitive, subtle interpretations, worthy of João Gilberto, the godfather of bossa nova, with modern production values comparable to Suba’s inspired work with Bebel Gilberto, and fine vocal performances on par with Astrid Giberto. Collin has a long, impressive pedigree, from the Francophone trip-hop/soundtrack work with his first band Ollano to adventurous work under many nom de plumes for the experimental Output label. Those nervous about the potential desecration of favorites like Tuxedomoon, P.i.L., Killing Joke and Joy Division need not worry, their babies are in good hands.
Nouvelle Vague, which translates to “new wave” in French and “bossa nova” in Portuguese, does touch on a couple more populist new wave tunes, with Depeche Mode’s “Just Can’t Get Enough” and Modern English’s “I Melt With You.” In both cases, the rearrangements are surprisingly fresh, breathing new life into the songs, the former laid on a propulsive rhumba rhythm, the latter sung like an impassioned version of Hope Sandoval (Mazzy Star), wringing out more emotion that the original. Despite the sweet female crooning, it’s not all safe for supperclubs and upscale martini bars. The Dead Kennedys’ “Too Drunk To Fuck” could be a disaster with the coy, French lilt and squeals, but it works. The Clash’s “Guns Of Brixton” is slowed down to make it more menacing. Yet despite its edginess, it’s one of the few to fail to do justice to the original. Joy Division’s “Love Will Tear Us Apart” is almost too obvious a choice, and the Swans already did a bang-up job in covering it 15 years ago. But again despite all odds, it’s irresistibly gorgeous. Everyone will have different favorites. Standouts include “This Is Not A Love Song” (P.i.L.), “Making Plans For Nigel” (XTC), “A Forest” (The Cure), “Teenage Kicks” (Undertones) and “Friday Night Saturday Morning” (The Specials).
Taking grey, post-industrial Britain to a tropical beach is an inspired move, with obviously huge populist potential. It may not be groundbreaking, but it’s a godsend for those who can hear some favorite post-punk songs sung in sufficiently late-night sultry style so as to not frighten their dates. And the quality and detail of this music helps sustain many repeat listens. Inevitably it’ll be cashed in by dozens of lesser talents. And what if we do start hearing Gang Of Four songs in the grocery stores and dentist offices? The world certainly wouldn’t be the worse for it.
The Earlies, These Were The Earlies (Peacefrog) 9+
With two members each from Texas and England, composing songs by swapping fragments across the Atlantic years before ever meeting, The Earlies appropriately merge traditions of Texas psychedelic freaks the Red Krayola, Euphoria, The 13th Floor Elevators and Butthole Surfers with more up-to-date English psychedelia and electronica. The result sounds more like the orchestral pop of Mercury Rev circa the mid-90s and Spiritualized. These Were The Earlies avoids sounding dated by mixing in electronic beats and whooshes amongst the woodwinds, sawtooths, euphonium and Chinese puzzle bass, like a less dense Manitoba. Brandon Carr’s vocals are somewhat limited, but he knows this and keeps the melodies short and simple, like the Delgados augmented with Beach Boys harmonies. The lyrics are fittingly dreamy and metaphysical, such as “Slow Man’s Dream” and “One Of Us Is Dead.” The only shortcoming is despite the sweet tunefulness, the songs sometimes break down into pure soundscapes before they seem finished.
Fortunately these washes of inventive sound are almost always breathtaking. Pianos warble, orchestras rise and collapse with a sigh. And once the sounds are introduced and influences identified, repeated listens reveal this to be a very special album. More fragments of lyrics sink in, revealing yearning for home, wide-eyed wonder and uplifting joy. But not in the overbearing way that The Polyphonic Spree tries to bulldoze you with. Song after song, from “Wayward Song,” “Slow Man’s Dream” to “25 Easy Pieces”, The Earlies demonstrate a masterful balance of subtlety and bombast that rivals The Flaming Lips and Super Furry Animals. These Were The Earlies will integrate itself into your routines, as its beauty enhances your enjoyment of sights and sensations like the moon’s reflection in the water, the summer air caressing like warm silk.
Razorlight, Up All Night (Vertigo UK) 9+
It goes without saying that the UK music press hypes bands seemingly indiscriminately. All their b.s. about saving rock or revolutionizing music is enough to make your eyes glaze over. But eventually, something has to stick. Razorlight’s Up All Night may not change anyone’s lives, but it’s sticky like your floor after a marathon debauchery. It’s easy to see why there’s strong similarities with The Libertines. Frontman Johnny Borrell is their mate who sometimes sat in on live gigs. They share the same breathless romanticisim of being young and drunk in London, and some killer songs that leave you no choice but to play air guitar like the guy who won’t leave the party until physically ejected. The tinking piano on the first tune sends a tingle of anticipation up your spine, perhaps a Pavlovian response programmed by classic openers like Patti Smith’s “Gloria.” “Leave Me Alone” doesn’t quite measure up as such a titanic statement of purpose, but its ringing guitar chords and Borrell’s perfectly ragged vocal delivery don’t disappoint. Throughout the album his vocals range from belting out punk shouters to a rambling chatter somewhere between Rancid’s Tim Armstrong, Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen. “Vice” and “Up All Night,” evoke The Boss’ early, rambling epics with the tension between feeling trapped and hopeless and celebrating life.
“Rock ‘n’ Roll Lies” sounds like a tossed-off punky throwaway, but its hooks make it one of the more enduring numbers. “Which Way Is Out” balances the wordy lyrics with the band’s tightly disciplined riffing, building into a tremendous racket. Worked into a frenzied lather, the album’s masterful sequencing sets up for its first killer knockout, “Rip It Up.” While Bjorn Agren’s guitar tone can be admittedly derived from Television, more significantly, its controlled chaos is inspired by The Voidoid’s Robert Quine. Another key element of Razorlight that comes to light here is their drummer is an absolute animal. A great drummer can really make a band, and I’m salivating to hear this live. “Dalston” illuminates another great strength. I have no idea why one shouldn’t go back to Dalston, but the band injects so much convincing passion into the plea that I’m certain going back to Dalston would be a very, very bad idea.
“Golden Touch” starts with another simple, spare riff cribbed from The Cure’s “10:15 Saturday Night,” but blossoms into something much more, and another great, catchy single that demonstrates a lighter touch, which bodes well for the band’s versatility. “Stumble And Fall” is even better, another frenzied album highlight with more fantastic drumming. That and the shouty “Get It And Go” seem to whip by so fast I start to panic, realizing I’m at track 11 and that’s as good as it’s going to get. Many recent albums seem to go limp in the last few cuts, but Up All Night proves its meddle, keeping it hard until the job’s done. “In The City” taps back into Patti Smith for inspiration, invoking beat poet Bukowski, this time taking its sweet time in getting to the point. One can nearly miss the point with the false ending, before it explodes into a righteous rave-up like The Velvet Underground joining The Who onstage in 1969, Lou Reed furiously strumming, Pete Townsend windmilling, and Moon wailing. Fucking satisfying, that one.
At this point, as “Hang By, Hang By” ambles on, you’ve got a stupid grin on your face, and if you’re drunk (like I was the second, fourth and fifth times I heard it last night after July 4th celebrations), you’ll be shouting along to the chorus. “In The Sea” is appropriately triumphant and blustery, with Borrell shouting himself hoarse, “I know your love lies somewhere in the sea! In the seeeaaaaaa!!!” “Fall, Fall, Fall” wraps the album up on a more subdued, melancholy note. Take note people, the hyperbole this time is for real, this is the rocker of the summer.
Junior Boys, Last Exit (Kin UK) 9+
Blue-eyed soul has always been a nefarious proposition. The result is usually pop that awkwardly and stiffly incorporates soul, like Young Americans-era Bowie, and Hall & Oats. Soul music without much soul. Synth poppers like Soft Cell and John Foxx, initially inspired by the cold teutonic drones of Kraftwerk, incorporated soul with better, but still limited success. It took Grandmaster Flash’s sampling of Kraftwerk to remind white people that they can be funky in their own way. Twenty years later, Canadian Junior Boys picked up on that idea and ran with it. Equally inspired by the pristine production of Orchestral Manoeuvres In The Dark and the staccato beats of Timbaland, they have conjured an original potion that at first taste has the slick sheen of MOR pop.
Underneath the glass there’s real blood flowing, driven by bizarre little sonic mechanisms that set the music far apart and above the mainstream. They’re not the first to touch on this idea. Colder made a good effort to build upon 80s synth pop, while occasionally sounding too much like its influences, while Telefon Tel Aviv got an original sound, but didn’t quite tap into soul’s emotional power. Junior Boys’ soul power strikes the sweet spot between subtlety and strength. Doing away with the superfluous machismo that cripples many male performers today, singer Jeremy Greenspan taps into the same vulnerability that made Otis Redding so appealing. His breathy, feminized voice exudes doubt and yearning with seduction, rather than just sounding like another cloying pale-skinned boy.
Every track is a winner, from the four singles previously released on EPs (the slyly teasing pityfest “Birthday” a highlight), to newer tracks like “More Than Real,” a funky powerhouse that suggests a collaboration between Tom Tom Club, ABC and Adrian Sherwood. “Bellona” could easily be mainstream R&B, even with its imbedded experiments of digitally scrambled vocals. Tricksy sounds that are more often associated with Radiohead could very well invade top 40 radio someday. What initially sounds like a snoozy lullaby in “Last Exit” reveals enough melodic hooks for several hit songs, and to keep you awake enough to think about the more interesting things to be done in bed before sleep. “Teach Me How To Fight” is one of two excellent instrumentals, anchored by New Order-ish guitar picking, as beautiful as anything by the austere Durutti Column.
Last Exit is a quietly revolutionary album. Within six months savvy producers will borrow and steal its innovations, changing the pop landscape for years to come. Few will realize where it started. But like rare finds like Massive Attack’s Blue Lines and Tricky’s Maxinquaye, this should still found fresh long after its innovations are formulized, diluted and beaten to death.
TV On The Radio, Desperate Youth, Blood Thirsty Babes (Touch and Go) 9+
I’ve had no complaints with the New York music scene. I didn’t care that The Strokes have nothing important to say, as long as their songs could spark excitement, even if we don’t know what exactly we should be excited about. But like Two Tone superheroes, decked out in afros, wild beards and nerd glasses, TV On The Radio swooped in last year with a heavy, heavy little EP that outweighed the combined creativity of a dozen Williamsburg bands. Young Liars transcended fashion and hip influences with deep lyrics and original music. Who else could pull off doo-wop backed by spacerock drones and not sound ridiculous, much less brilliant? The key was Tunde Adebimpe’s hotshot vocals. Here’s someone with real pipes. Never mind the comparisons to Peter Gabriel, a careful listen to this album and their live shows reveals a man with a soul on fire, channeling the spirit of a dozen soulmen and possibly a voodoo loa. In the 2002 movie Jump Tomorrow, Adebimpe played the lead character George, a timid, nerdy, bespectacled wallflower who fantasized about letting loose with his alter-ego, Jorge. Musically the band embodies that persona and more, with more on their minds than their naughty bits. Angry at the gods and government, empathetic with the sufferers, patient with the misguided, darkly romantic, both Adebimpe and Kyp Malone have come up with some killer poetry. The opening track, “The Wrong Way” Malone tackles prickly issues of race, materialism and violence – “hungry for those diamonds/served on little severed bloody brown hands/…oh the bling drips down/fallin’ down just like rain…Hey, desperate youth!/Oh, blood thirsty babes!/Oh your guns are pointed/your guns are pointed the wrong way.”
“Dreams” starts like a downbeat dirge, proclaiming “all your dreams are over now/and all your wings have fallen down.” But the flurry of words, spinning abstractly around grief, are something to behold, delivered assertively, with conviction – “I know your heart can’t grieve/what your eyes won’t see/but you were my favorite moment/of our dead century…bartering bellowing barracking blundering pillaging plundering living and lavishing hammerings harrowing flourishing flattening leveling reveling wrecking and ravaging savoring savaging.” “Ambulance” is the most unique love song in recent memory. Use on that mash mix with caution, depending on if your sweetie can stomach the morbid metaphors, “I will be your accident if you will be my ambulance/and I will be your screech and crash if you will be my crutch and cast/and I will be your one more time if you will be my one last chance/oh fall for me.” The music consists solely of doo wop vocals, but the arrangement is totally fresh, and Adebimpe delivers the words with exquisite sensitivity.
Some may be disappointed by the relative lack of melodic hooks and driving rhythms that they’d expect from a hotly anticipated debut. Desperate Youth will not be your windows-down summer party music. This is night music, to be absorbed with alcohol or bittersweet sex. While the sound is spare, the songs are full of innovative ideas, from jazzy brass and unique spiritual harmonies to abstract post-rock soundscapes. “Poppy” is one of the more perfectly balanced numbers with just enough scratchy guitar to provide a backdrop for the breathtaking, even uplifting acapella outro. “Don’t Love You” almost slows things down too much, a Velvet Underground organ-dirge that starts to drag. “Bomb Yourself” is laid upon an almost dub reggae bass, a pithy message that in war, what comes around, goes around. Not to neglect the erotic, “Wear You Out” winds up the album with a 7:21 meditation on lust. With sensuous flute contributed by Martin Perna, Adebimpe and Kyp Malone harmonize and coo, “Let’s pursue this argument in darkness/curtains drawn, limbs entwined…/let me wear you out/let me make you mine.” Many who even own this album might not notice this sexy conclusion for several listens, as it catches you offguard after the previous stern cuts.
TV On The Radio may produce more extroverted, crowd-pleasing material in the future, but time will most likely reveal Desperate Youth, Bloodthirsty Babes to be an imperfectly groundbreaking album with a long lasting cult appeal.
Franz Ferdinand, Franz Ferdinand (Domino) 9+
Sometimes an indie band has got to be tempted to just become a shitty, noodly mainstream band like Dave Matthews and make easy millions. Franz Ferdinand takes one small element from CBGB-era New York bands (Television’s clean dual-guitar tones and Robert Quine’s staccato rhythms), and they’re accused of copping from The Strokes. For the modest living they’re eeking out, is it worth putting up with this bitching? Never mind that they managed to write a whole album full of catchy songs that don’t steal any chords or melodies from anyone, which is more than you can say for Elastica. You might be able to find broken bits of a Blondie, Blur, Gang of Four or The Jam, but only fleetingly. By and large this Scottish band has emerged from art school fully formed, and despite people’s suspicions, they are great.
Witness the timeless intro to “Jacqueline.” The nearly a capella intro kicks off into a popping bass line, and the band is immediately lathered into a spastic frenzy, rocking harder than any of the current bands they’re supposed to be ripping off. The lyrics are typically meaningless (“It’s always better on holiday”), but they’re just warming up, a call to arms, revising Richard Hell’s famous request to “please kill me” with “I don’t mind if you kill me/Come on you gutless/I’m alive/I’m alive…and how I know it.” “Take Me Out” is their fabulous single, cleverly referring to the assassination of the Archduke that inspired the band’s name with a double entendre, another invitation for homicide (“I’m just a cross-hair/Just a shot away from here”) or a night of decadence. The way they bridge the rote chugging into a spanking dancefloor rocker is a simple pleasure, but that’s the thrill of good rock. Skipping sentiment and romance “The Dark Of The Matinee” is nearly as great, cutting to the chase with pervy flirtation (“You take your white finger/slide the nail under the top and bottom buttons”). “Auf Asche” is slightly more mannered, with a disco beat, but manages to introduce enough changes to keep the boys fluffed with punk-spiked guitars, and girls attentive with a sexy groove (or vice-versa). “Darts Of Pleasure” is another highlight, originally released last year as the band’s first single. Here, Alexander Kapranos gets almost too campy, crossing Bryan Ferry with Falco when he smarmily croons, “You can feel my lips undress your eyes…/Words of love and words so leisured/Words are poisoned darts of pleasure.” The shouted german refrain is an ingenious ending, bringing to mind The Coral’s fresh interpretations of sixties psychedelia. “Michael” tackles homoeroticism more boldly and blatantly than anything by Suede or Morrissey, who shied away from gender-specific lyrics.
Just to show what the band has in store for the future, they flex a little more musical muscle on the last two cuts. “Come On Home” features a brilliantly arranged chorus that sounds nearly epic with its harmonies, crescendo and perfectly succinct organ solo. “40’” slows things down, toys with the rhythm, and artfully adds a melodica to sweeten the farewell just so you’re left wanting more. I certainly am. Judging from the several new songs already introduced to their live set, Franz Ferdinand are poised to be as prolific as they are precocious. And as it turns out, the charts have revealed that persevering despite the whiny naysayers is paying off in a big way. Hoobastank and Jet be warned, your days are numbered.
The Walkmen, Bows + Arrows (Record Collection) 9+
As much as I like Wilco, I don’t think the band merited a movie and a book at this point in their careers. Everyone now knows the smug “we-showed-them” tale of how they were dropped by their label only to be picked up by a subsidiary of the same company. But it’s not like the band did anything. This was just routine, boring business conducted by the band’s handlers, while Jeff Tweedy passive-aggressively alienated and terrorized his band. The Walkmen may not be ready for a feature length documentary either, but they’re certainly more inspiring. After previous incarnation, next-big-thing Jonathan Fire * Eater was unceremoniously dumped by the label, they made lemonade from the lemons by building their own studio in Harlem, taking on additional members from Decoy and crafting a completely new, distinctly uncommercial sound on 2002’s enigmatic Everyone Who Pretended To Like Me Is Gone. Ironically, Saturn picked up the distinctly uncommercial, meandering “We’ve Been Had” for use in a commercial, exponentially expanding their name recognition, if not record sales.
Rather than add a disco beat to capitalize on their potential success, the band put out another challenging album. But not without some extremely pleasant surprises. “What’s In It For Me” starts Bows + Arrows as a sort of reprise of the previous album’s sound of delicate organs, rustic beauty that sparkles and floats, like Nick Cave and The Pogues crafting drunken holiday hymns. And then the album shudders from impact of the supersonic “The Rat,” firing with all barrels blazing a full-on stadium rock assault mode never heard from this band before. Snowglobes are shattered and gauze incinerated in the afterburn as the savage drums propel Hamilton Leithauser’s angry howling, “You’ve got a nerve to be calling my number! You’ve got a nerve to be asking for favors!" This is a startling change of pace to say the least, like watching an acoustic folk combo becoming Naked Raygun, or a mogwai transforming into a gremlin. The juiciest part of this is that there are at least four songs that are better.
As John Lydon once said, anger is an energy. While “The Rat” used enough to cause another East Coast blackout, it’s transformed into an uplifting force in "Little House of Savages.” Here the early U2 comparisons start to make sense, as this serves well as a heart-pounding, fist-pumping stadium-ready anthem, with Leithauser’s voice bearing some resemblance to Bono’s, were he to smoke unfiltered cigarettes and gargle with whiskey, coke and pop-rocks. “Thinking Of A Dream I Had” is another top contender, a key feature being a Pixies-inspired organ riff, surfing the galloping beat. On the other end of the spectrum is the most delicate number, “Hang On, Siobhan,” a rewrite of an Appalacian ballad with a weeping piano. “Bows + Arrows” bows out in slow, kingly stride. In addition to the stunners, all of the songs offer something great, with not a single bum track. “138th Street” is a folky ballad sung in a cadence that brings to mind early Dylan, while “New Year’s Eve” could be Dylan were he young today, a bristling package of simultaneous sneering putdowns, lecherous lust and melancholy.
If more big touring bands got my pulse racing like The Walkmen, I’d buy season tickets to the arenas. Meanwhile, catch them in the more intimate clubs while you still can.
Quick Impressions 2004 Archive
Last updated: December 30, 2004
