Reviews 'n' Rants 2006 Archive
TV On The Radio, Return To Cookie Mountain (4AD/Interscope) 10-
Seeing TV On The Radio live the other day for the third time, I'm convinced that they are one of the best live bands in the world right now. First of all, Tunde Adebimpe is a shit-hot firebreathing dynamo of a performer, stalking the stage like he's going to explode, wailing like a true soul shouter. It's like he's possessed by the spirit of Otis Redding, who's pissed off that the world's gone to hell since he died in 1967, but also in ecstasy to be on stage to vent about it in this energetic young body. Within five minutes from the start, there isn't a single audience member who isn't thoroughly convinced that this man is feeling the music, deeply. One would expect Dave Sitek, the band's main musical architect, to be sitting behind a bank of computers, tweaking his audio collages and pushing up his glasses. Instead, he's running around with a guitar like a madman, furiously strumming punk rock style, with less technique than Johnny Ramone. He knows that the fussy details work for recordings, but live he's got to rock. Rather than just keeping a beat, the rhythm section changes it up to keep you on your toes. Jaleel Bunton reveals his jazz chops when the bottom drops out and he hunches over and spews out some crazy rhythms distorted with various pedals and toys. Gerard Smith's nimble, diverse repertoire shows he could be comfortable freaking out with the Mahavishnu Orchestra. Underneath the massive afro and beard is Kyp Malone, the anchor holding down the maelstrom, contributing his sweet falsettoes and complex guitar textures. By the end of last song of the night, "Let The Devil In," with openers Grizzly Bear doing the Hope Snake Dance and shaking percussion instruments, the audience was screaming and pleading for more. Had they played just one more, like "Ambulance," no one would leave. TV On The Radio had us in their paws. After they left, the audienced echoed the "whoa whoa" chorus from the song, just as I once expected proper audiences to do after hearing U2's Under A Blood Red Sky before actually having been to a proper rock show.
Not that TV On The Radio are a proper rock band. They may put on sublime, transcendent shows, but their records are confounding and subversive. Sacrificing groove and emoting, their recordings subvert and defy expectations. While there was some slight disappointment that the first full-length, Desperate Youth, Blood Thirsty Babes (2004) didn't quite deliver on the promise of the absolutely cracking Young Liars EP (2003), Return To Cookie Mountain is hardly more extroverted or crowd-pleasing. While he's a brilliant front man live, Adebimpe's vocals are not given a chance to shine, but remain embedded in choruses and harmonies. It's obviously a conscious choice to sublimate individual performance for the good of the collective. And it works. Return To Cookie Mountain is their best album, with a more assured, cohesive aesthetic vision that can't be succinctly described or attributed to any particular influences. TV On The Radio are more stunningly original than ever. They simply sound like no one else. For one to get any sort of handle on them without first hearing the album a dozen times, I can only suggest that in spirit, if not sound, it evokes David Bowie's (who as a fan and a gentleman, contributed vocals to "Province,") Scary Monsters, when Robert Fripp contributed some startlingly unsettling guitar parts that made the songs sound decidedly dark and off-kilter. Or think of Tricky, who abandoned Maxinquaye's lucscious melodies for a more claustrophobic, apocalyptic feel in Pre-Millenium Tension.
"I Was A Lover" starts off an appropriately evocative line, "I was a lover, before this war," adorned with wheezing, multilayered synthesized guitars and horns that deftly triggers the melancholy button, underscored by furniture-shaking dub bass. It's a remarkable sound, something between an orchestra an the mournful bellow of a colossal and long-extinct mammal. One might think the lyrics enter into a pointed rant against war and our betrayal to our fellow critters. But there will be no pointed, topical political critiques here. The band certainly has strong opinions. Hear 2005's online-only Hurricane Katrina protest song, "Dry Drunk Emperor." But their lyrics here consist more of startling imagery ("My clone wears a brown shirt, and I seduce it when no one is around / Mano y mano, on a bed of nails"), oblique metaphors and stern allegories ("We're busy tempting, like fate's on the nod . . . And it's been even longer since our plastic priest class / Had a goddamned thing to say") than calls to action. "Hours" and "Province" are slow burners, hooks and catchy melodies eschewed for vocal harmonies sung to slow marching rhythms. The deceptive spareness of "Hours" (put on headphones and you'll hear an uncredited baritone saxophone) blossoms on "Province" with more ornate choruses, aided by Bowie, and chiming guitars and piano. The sentiments are simple but beautifuly put - "Hold these hearts courageously / As we walk into this dark place / Stand steadfast beside me and see / That love is the province of the brave."
"Playhouses" is the most direct song, addressing the dissolution of a relationship caused by addiction. It's driven by some frantic, layered percussion. You don't know how much it contributes until it's suspended for the refrain, "Playhouses / Haunted by / Broken spirits / Just trying to get high," before it kicks in again to exhilerating effect. The energy level reaches a peak with "Wolf Like Me," the most kicking song on the album. Here all the helpless ennui and indignation expressed so far boils over and howls to reclaim freedom and passion ("My heart's aflame / My body's strained but god I like it"). Like the last album's "Wear You Out," they get a little kinky. "Charge me your day rate / I'll turn you out in kind / When the moon is round and full / Gonna teach you tricks that'll blow your / Mongrel mind." Another brilliantly executed break highlights the stanza, "Dream me oh dreamer / Down to the floor / Open my hands and let them / Weave onto yours." "A Method" is stripped down to just clanging percussion and sensitive vocals, providing a nice lead in to the rhythmically similar "Let The Devil In," which sounds damned anthemic. "Beg the bee's forgiveness as it's falling from your sleeve / Watch its guts pump poison into sting / Watch it reach completeness, see it fall asleep / Legs above fold in eternal dream." Then the seven-strong chorus joins in to stirring effect. It turns out of course that we as a nation are the bees, attacking others to a suicidal end. "Blues From Down Here" is prickly and challenging, a slightly artier departure worth chewing on.
The album begins to wind down with "Tonight," which recalls the lovely, meditative drone of "Blind" from their first EP. By the end, Sitek's samples and glitchy electronics glisten and sparkle. "Wash The Day" brings the album to a satisfyingly heavy conclusion, with colossal humming guitars and psychedelic electric sitar. The "little flightless metal birds / high above in limbless tree" ominously evoke 9/11, where the "Grey cascades in foreign waves / Wash the day away." Okay, so it concludes with more dread than hope, yet it doesn't feel like the end. It feels almost celebratory when they sing lines like "Making out so high in the backseat of a car-bomb under carcinogenic sun," and "Lay your malady at the mouth of the death machine." Nightmarish, Philip K. Dick and J.G. Ballard-like visions as they are, they're going to defiantly live out their lives in the face of them.
In Super Mario Brothers, Cookie Mountain is only the third of seven levels. It's a tantalizing hint that TV On the Radio have only just gotten started. And with their unique sound and haunting, almost chant-like hymns, they've already created a new gospel for the 21st century. Imagine what they could do on the next four albums.
Mastodon, Blood Mountain (Reprise) 10-
Mastodon's third album, Blood Mountain is the charm. Not that there was much lacking in 2004's poll-topping Leviathan. Like with Metallica's Ride The Lightning, there are diehard fans who insist a peak was reached on the second album. But evidence on every facet points towards Blood Mountain's dominance. There's growth in vocals, musicianship, arrangements, concept and lyrics. Probably aware that Cookie Monster style screamo vocals can get old, especially since nearly every extreme metal band has been doing it for the past 18 years, Brent Hinds and Troy Sanders do some pretty creative work intertwining each others' vocals, alternating screams with real honest to god singing. On "Colony of Birchmen," with the assistance of Queens of the Stone Age's Josh Homme, the chorus is downright velvety. Throughout the album, drummer Brann Dailor has outdone himself. Always known for his amazing skills on the kit, it's Dailor's handiwork that earns Mastodon's "prog-metal" tag. Check out the tricky time signatures in "Capillarian Crest." The guitarwork is inspired throughout also. Not everything is so forbiddenly densely layered. "Sleeping Giant" is straightforward enough to almost make it on a classic rock rotation, but with enough twists to make it a unique, slow-building psychedelic epic. "Circle of Cysquatch" offers cyber-vocoder effects, while the jazzy "Bladecatcher" makes a jazzy nod to Mike Patton (Mr. Bungle, Fantomas), with effects that sound like R2D2 getting fucked up... The last three tracks are increasingly epic, the peak being "Siberian Divide," with The Mars Volta's Cedric Bixler-Zavala contributing vocals.
Rather than riffing off pre-existing literature (Melville's Moby Dick), Mastodon created their own world for Blood Mountain, a mythical construct alive with all kinds of beasts, tree roots acting as its capillaries coursing its lifeblood to an actual heart in the center, and a crystal skull at the peak. The journey starts in a labyrynth at the foot of the mountain, populated by Cysquatches, one-eyed shamans. Then there are Birchmen who resemble trees, until they climb off each other, surround you, and convert your cellular structure to become one of them. The ultimate goal of the quest is to obtain the crystal skull, which is the key for humanity to evolve beyond its reptilian origins and primitive urges for violence and evil. It's homegrown mythology that rivals anything by Iron Maiden, for sure. While it's a little too dense for mainstream acceptance to the extent of platinum sales, Blood Mountain is without a doubt one for the metal gods.
Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Show Your Bones (Interscope) 10-
I can see why some people are turned off by Karen O. People like their pop stars unchallenging, cookie-cutter pretty, and, if not stupid, a blank slate on which they can project their fantasies of glamorous affluence, sex scandals and stints at posh rehab clinics. Karen has her own high-concept fashion designer (Christian Joy) but dresses really weird. She might be just as likely stay in and read a book as swan around parties. She and drummer Brian Chase went to a fancy private liberal arts college. It might seem the artsy Brooklyn scenesters think they're better than you. While in interviews they are actually quite shy and modest, the truth is, they probably are. They are certainly better than your typical pop stars. I imagine pre-rock star Karen O as the somewhat funny-looking girl who is obviously more talented than most people, making her more attractive and intimidating. And that's exactly how I prefer my rock stars.
I once read that Yeah Yeah Yeahs were initially meant to be just a one-off project. A fun lark. Let's be an art-punk band, drink and rock, and then move on. All the members have a lot of projects going on, and as creative people, they restlessly jump between many ideas. Success surprised them when the plaintive love song "Maps" hit big. Despite the talk of the added pressures and strains in their relationships, Show Your Bones may never have happened without that success. And despite the fact that far too many bands hang around far beyond their creative capacities, we're lucky to get one more gem from this unit. It's as successful as one could imagine, as long as you're not hung up on the ragged post-punk of their first EP and first half of Fever To Tell. Show Your Bones is a progression while still retaining Nick Zinner's endless bag of the best riffs The Pixies never wrote. Karen doesn't yelp and slaver as much, but her vocal range remains wide. The staccato march of "Gold Lion" grows increasingly impressive as the intensity grows. "Way Out" initially seem like modest album track, but its melodic gifts gradually open up like intricate origami, making for one of the strongest songs. The lyrics are conceptually simple and direct, not getting bogged down by trying to do too many things at once. On the rockers ("Fancy," "Phenomena," "Honeybear") they bluster appropriately without sounding like hollow exercises in style. Were the first five songs released as an EP, it would already top any other album so far this year.
Things get really interesting with "Cheated Hearts," "Dudley," "The Sweets" and "Turn Into" which range from introspective to devastating. This is where it's clear that they're obviously not the same band as three years ago. Many layers of meaning can be found in "Cheated Hearts" beyond O's joyous chorus of "Sometimes I think that I'm bigger than the sound" which some have stupidly taken offense to. It's a post-breakup meditation on the competing emotions of regret, melancholy, yearning, hope, relief and ultimately release. It may not be Dylan, but it's fucking great, and Zinner's sensitive accompaniment of alternatively chiming chords and slashing crescendoes are genius. "Dudley" scores again on a slightly more delicate, gorgeously melodic base. "Sweets" and "Turn Into" are as stately as their crawling pace, making the explosive ending of the former all the more riveting, and the soaring riffs on "Turn Into" ecstatic. The album would be flawless were it not for the the less distinctive "Fancy," the slightly too campy "Mysteries" and "Warrior" tripping up the pace to nearly a crashing halt. Nevertheless, even "Warrior" could be a favorite for some for its memorable, enigmatic lyrics.
Karen O started working on her solo album even before starting this one. Like Polly Harvey, she may abandon her band and continue to grow. A great band chemistry should not be taken for granted, however. I'm hoping they'll give it another go.
The Hold Steady, Boys And Girls In America (Vagrant) 9+
Hold Steady built a pretty devoted following with their first two albums, Almost Killed Me (2004) and Separation Sunday (2005). Though based in NYC , Craig Finn based the songs on his experiences living in the Twin Cities in the 90s, as a member of Lifter Puller. Like Bruce Springsteen’s cast of characters on a semi-fictional Jersey shore, Finn does some myth building with fucked up, tempestuous, drunk, larger-than life characters that make multiple appearances, particularly Charlemagne and Holly. The band is great, a sort of mix of Thin Lizzy power riffing and Guided By Voices garage rock. But Finn’s choice to mostly talk and shout made it tough going for more than a few songs at a time.
Problem solved. On Boys & Girls In America, Finn sings, at least some of the time. He sounds a bit like Bob Mould, and the occasional melody in the vocals makes a world of difference with some great shouty-harmonizing from the band. The band has stepped it up a notch too, with catchier hooks and a more sweeping, epic sound that really blows up Finn’s poetic vision to widescreen proportions. The album starts out quoting Jack Kerouac’s On The Road, with a stirring piano line. This is definitely The Hold Steady’s Born To Run. Hell, it’s better.
My five year stint in the Twin Cities predates Finn’s by a few years, but he definitely captures the flavor. It comes out October 3. It’ll save some lives and ruin others. It’s that good.
Quick Impressions 2006 Archive
Last updated: December 30, 2005
