Grenade – Free

Looking at most music media coverage – even within the indie press, it would seem that the US has something of a monopoly on musical creativity. Most bands that do get coverage here are typically viewed as novelty acts (e.g. the blistering hardcore of Japanese bands such as Melt Banana) or as clever pop crossover (Belle and Sebastian, Radiohead, etc). Thus whatever music from other countries that does seep through to the American listener is regularly regarded as either an anomaly or as a regimented style. Either characterization is a disservice to the true variety and vitality of “indie” music throughout the world. Even if a great deal of international rock music is influenced by the sounds of US bands, such influence does not diminish the capability of these groups to do more than comically replicate their predecessors. Grenade, like many groups from Brazil, has been influenced both by the popular psychedelic rock of the late 60s as performed by everyone from the Beatles to the Beach Boys as well as the indie groups that share these musical ancestors: the Flaming Lips, Mercury Rev, etc. Whatever their influences, Grenade inhabits a world entirely of their own creation, which seems to stop time itself, suspending judgement of their work until it has already passed into memory.

“Free” dives right into the sound of Grenade. A burst of tape-noise and keyboards introduces the track, although this soon subsides, leading into a thin flanged guitar and doubled Pink Floyd-esque vocals. After the initial ideas are presented, a light keyboard melody darts in and out, adding a subtle but powerful embellishment. Slowly, additional layers emerge – oh so naturally, like a flower blossoming. A heavily processed guitar enters the mix, adding a more “modern” fuzz sound above the otherwise translucently clean production. Rodrigo Cesar’s computer samples complete the sound collage, culminating in the song’s animation and departure.

ike most of their songs, “Free” is a work of surprising and even startling compositional beauty. While not spectacular song-smiths nor authors of irresistible hooks, Grenade are still able to involve you so completely in their vision that you forget all their faults. The only criticism I can really stress is that their songs do not exhibit much versatility; and despite the narrowness of their approach, Grenade ooze talent from within the niche they are carving out for themselves.

Rescue 201 – Rumor Mill

If Rescue 201 had been around doing what they are doing now in the mid 70s, they would be well remembered. Seeing as how none of the members in the band (with ages ranging from 16 to 19) were even born yet when bands like the Germs were solidifying their place as punk myths, this isn’t really a viable option. My quip isn’t that Rescue 201 are unhip – who gives a fuck so long as they make good music. The problem is that their performances are so much like those of their influences, that as good as they are, the band can’t help but sound stale.

At times, the dual vocal delivery of Vanessa and Pat are able to transcend the moribund genre – or a crazed guitar run by Elias will grab your attention – like a clever turn of phrase in a Western or romance novel. None the less, such moments are fleeting and the overall listening experience leaves you with the impression that playing punk rock is as formulaic as operating an elevator. Its as if the band found a technical manual that described in detail, a step-by-step process for becoming a “punk” band. This is really disappointing as Rescue 201 exhibits sincere emotions as well as intelligent lyrics. There is a lot of talent here, but it is mostly spent on recreating a 30-year-old fashion rather than on digging deep to find a musical voice of their own. Then again, Rome wasn’t built in a day, and Coltrane didn’t start out playing multiphonic sheets of sound. “Rumor Mill” is not unpleasant to listen to, really – what is painful about it is that the individuals comprising the band are not mediocre artists per se – yet they appear to be trapped, speaking with a voice that is not their own.

The New Christs – We Got This!

“We got this, so flyblown away …. If we’re gonna get along you gotta share that line with me”
So begins what may be the final album for The New Christs, one of the greatest Australian bands, and long in the line of antipodean groups who found more success and recognition in the venues of Europe than in the beer barns of Terra Australis. Like every blitzkrieg of Australian rock, there’s a story here – slogging it out in Sydney’s tiny pubs while Silverchair and You Am I reap the rewards, more lineups than Spinal Tap, and the ultimate promise of Stateside success only to have the masters seized by the recording studio as their not-so-great label when bankrupt. Finally Laughing Outlaw forked out the dollars and funded what is the sound of all the stains in the garage of Australian rock coming to life and pissing over the impostors. But there’ll be no touring for this one – The New Christs, grown tired of these crucifictions, have called it a day.
And the album itself? The name Rob Younger should give you a nipple-twist of an idea how the album sounds. Younger is of course the former vocalist of Radio Birdman, sonic entrepreneurs of Xmas past, and he’s spent the last 20 years slogging it out with the NC’s, that familiar yet haunting and peculiar vocal inflection rocking its way through this set of 15 sounds. With bands like The Hives and The Vines posing on MTV awards, it’s a voyage and a half to travel into this – “He’s Too Slow” coming off like The Go-Betweens backed by The Stooges, but goddamn it, where are the lyrics? I want insight as the “Says his prayers, says he’s so so sick” thumps out into oblivion. “Spit it Out” is garage-pop par excellence, “love is all so-called little things” – is he sneering or sincere as the chorus leaves you hearing, “Spit it out, don’t swallow your blues, ooo-ooh”?
The Nirvana-like bombast chords opening “Sombrero” join with Younger’s whiskey-wearied croon and a crazy old-school keyboard for the chorus, “I was just an imitation of life” coming off so resigned. When the penultimate and gloriously titled “Intercourse” roles around, we’re almost ready for the sound of “fi-na-lly in-tercourse” dragged over the coals, “our generation has come to nothing,” and reminds me of how much Younger’s voice sounds like a cross between Ed Keupper and Ian Curtis, but still something more – the sound of survival perhaps?
The last track, “The Party Died,” is exactly that, the sound of endings, a relationship unwinding and a band hurling itself into the sound of what they might have almost known, their swan song. The final crash of cymbals and guitars, the feedback reverbing back, and then snap – it’s over. A band gone, and We Got This! as over as the party itself. Is this a happy-go-hippity album? No fucking way. But these 15 tracks are songs of life, spittingly ironic considering the circumstances. Will the band play on? Who knows…

The Train of Thought – City of Fire

This trio is difficult to pin down. Their influences are varied and their output is reminiscent of bands like Jawbreaker, yet features a minor-chord doom perhaps stemming from some of the member’s days as if in a Misfits cover band. This darker side of their sound reminds me of a sped-up version of the band Quicksand or Stompbox with different vocals. I would really like to hear them live, as they put forth strong individual performances but utilize guitar and vocal overdubs to achieve a thicker sound on record. This production kind of muddies the synergy that takes place between the members and creates an overly homogenous mix in which it is difficult to tease out or even hear the idiosyncrasies of each individual’s style and how they each complement each other. Tre Beaton’s bass playing is eclectic, moving one minute from a pummeling punk tone to a liquid elastic funk in the next. The opening phrase of the bridge in “City of Fire” is particularly interesting as he draws out droning harmonics and multiphonics out of the instrument. Unfortunately, his vocals are kind of trapped in the production as they are doubled by the stereo assault of guitars.

“City of Fire” shows that The Train of Thought are not a traditional power trio using the space provided by the small number of musicians to go off on extended solo adventures. Instead, the band narrows these gaps by tightening ranks and rarely playing harmonies, polyrhythms, or any kind of counterpoint. The contrasts we might expect from such a small and diverse group of musicians are for the most part absent – except for the occasional break during which the band is able to breathe a little before starting off into a new section. There is little variety of time, texture, or dynamics, and the color changes are broad and incidental rather than immediate and pointed. It is difficult to see much depth in the band by listening to just one song – perhaps their overall output is more versatile. While intriguing, “City of Fire” fails to capture more than an instinctual inkling of the potential that these three members bring to bear. Having listened to this track and read their bios, I am still left cold by The Train of Thought; however, there is an element of mystery about them suggesting rewards hidden until one delves deeper into their output.

The Goodwill – Forgotten Feeling

The Goodwill remind me of a lot of bands that I don’t want to like. Upbeat pop-punk suitable for the current crop of teen-movie soundtracks …lyrics about growing up, falling in and out of love, etc. You know, those ‘guilty pleasures’ that you don’t turn off when they come on some mix tape somebody made you: Green Day, Saves the Day, pick your poison. The phenomenon stems from a couple of hidden assumptions that most of us would not like to admit – namely, that all music is derivative to some degree, and therefore originality is not always as moving, at least on a visceral level as a good tune. That said, I’ll now return to listening only to bands who sing in a made-up language, play instruments of their own design that don’t conform to western harmonics, and live on a subsistence diet of that genetically modified goat milk that contains genes for the spider proteins that secrete web-silk.

“Forgotten Feeling” starts off with a syncopated, almost baroque guitar melody, which leads in to the verse which leaves space for the bass-guitar to do a repeated climb over the drum beat … this is interspersed with some time changes that let the music swing a little more in double or half time. The vocals are forward and confident. I admire Brian’s ability to sing without any distracting affectations in his voice. No bad British accents here. The back-up vocals are impressive as well in that they really add a soaring level of harmony over everything without drawing to much attention to the individual voices. Similar bands often make the mistake of using back-up vocals just to increase the overall volume (as if this were somehow a measure of sincerity). The chorus seems to get bigger each time we reach it, not just with added layers, but with a palpable increase in energy. You can feel the musicians grit their teeth and jump around.

Sometimes a little happy music can be cleansing. I’m not sure that it is a good thing, but The Goodwill are certainly the perfect antidote to tear you out of the mood induced by listening to all the Joy Division LPs back to back in candlelight. For some reason, I’m imagining Ed Sullivan introducing this band … “and now vweeve got a’ great li’ll number ffrom Long Island … ah-these boys have got PEP.” You may want to ridicule them, ignore them …but damn it their melodies absolutely sing, and their energy is undeniable. Bow down and praise the power of pop. Oh, by the way, they have a fan club (shhhhh!).

Keith Welsh – Where My Belly Hangs

Welsh could represent the softening of the American hardcore scene. Perhaps the strict discipline of social-standards is being relaxed to allow for a new pluralism as far as what constitutes good music? Then again, a part of all scenesterism is the ability to succeed based on who you know independent of the style of music you play, unless of course you are accused of “selling out” (terminology that may be applied without regard for your popularity or financial status). I don’t read Maximum Rock N’ Roll very often, so I’m not sure if the punk critics have demonized Welsh yet or not, but his ability to tour with hardcore acts despite the fact that his recent singer-songwriter work makes Cat Stevens sound like a tough guy indicates that he is getting away with it. And hell, why not? His straight-up approach to music, with the nakedness of vocals and guitar without anything to hide behind, demands respect. His singing style is personal and open but more commanding than vulnerable. His are not the crazed eccentricities of old-time music, nor the self-indulgent “empowered” stylings of modern folk (e.g. Ani DiFranco). Welsh neither alienates listeners with decontextualized individualism nor beats them over the head with a particular formula that he has falsely claimed as his own. Instead, he takes the well-beaten path of chord progressions and song structure used in countless ditties past and uses them as vehicles for his own voice.

“Where My Belly Hangs” is a solid example of Welsh’s technique and songwriting prowess. Lyrically, the song is personal but uses images that most of his audience will be able to relate to. His weathered melodies are those that we have heard before, but much like the words “I love you,” they of course sound different and fresh every time you hear them about yourself. Gentle and somber in place of shy, this is a loving song of quiet adoration – contemplative and almost sexy, although not in the sensuous way that a good soul record can make your spine quiver.

Welsh writes simple love songs, whether or not they are about love. There is not a lot else to mention about his music, although despite being so simple, it is rarely boring – and as he progresses, he adds a flourish of other instruments to his songs, which make the mix a little more diverse and memorable.

My Hotel Year – Breathing Patterns

When your only Internet access is at the public library – sandwiched in between a drooling, pit-stained whale who has beached himself at some kiddie-porn site and an irate woman who is unable, apparently for hours on end, to print out some hideous clip-art border for a baby shower – your research abilities become somewhat diminished; therefore, all I know about My Hotel Year is that they are from Orlando, Fla. and have been characterized (not disparagingly) as “emo.” This seems to have something to do with the way that they alternate rather predictably from quiet sensitive-guy verses, guitars whispering to each other behind the vocals, and rockin’ weezer-esque pop with increasingly belligerent vocals. OK, that’s a slight oversimplification, as the band is capable at subtle crescendos in addition to dramatic jumps in volume.

“Breathing Patterns” starts off almost inaudibly, the swallowing and lip-wetting of the singer being just as noticeable in the mix at this point as his vocal lines like “You’ll never know how you say the things you say and I’m listening, I’m listening for my name…and I’m wondering who’s to blame” and “Its ok, its alright, its all inside your mind.” These comprise pretty much all of the lyrics in the song, and despite their passionate delivery, they still come across like the empty pop cliches that they are. What at first seems promisingly creepy, as the singer hovers over someone in their sleep, is washed away in a sea of bubblegum once the rest of the band comes in with their cavalry of chunky guitars and hollering, indecipherable background vocals. There isn’t really a chorus to speak of or a verse, just two alternating states of quiet and loud that play off of each other in various interpolations, with new layers being added to both dimensions as the song progresses towards its conclusion. Such repetition is deceptive though and is skillfully obscured by the way that the music is performed. Rather than try to hypnotize you with cyclical phrases, My Hotel Year enables the listener to forget that she has just heard a particular riff or lyric. This is accomplished by never sitting on a riff or lyric for more than a few bars before starting the cycle over again with miniscule differences. Because of this attention-span bereft approach, the songs could almost be commercially viable – except that they don’t rely on any particular catch-phrase or hook that really stays with you after having heard the song.

Decoder Ring – Sydney – Sydney Metro, Australia – 2002-01-10

You know you’re getting too old for this rock and roll malarky when you arrive at a gig at 8 pm and the doors don’t open for a least another half an hour. You also know you’re getting too old when you groan audibly when told the main act won’t take the stage until at least midnight. Nevertheless, a quick squirt of caffeine directly into the eye socket, and your roving reporter was ready to rock. Or post-rock, as the evening demanded.

Decoder Ring kicked off the night’s affairs, a five-piece band augmented by five movie projectors and a man whirling like a dervish amongst them. The effort to synchronise was well worth it, the visuals joining in as simple melodies built up to Spector-esque wall of sound crescendos. Eeking out all they could through a variety of instruments, Decoder Ring seemed as if they recognised their blend of space prog-rock demanded a more visually enticing background and they succeeded at a professional show that highlighted their ability. It’s a pity that members of the band proceeded to chat amicably amongst themselves right next to me all the way through Pan American’s act – next time a bit of respect would go a long way.

Especially when it’s Mark Nelson, dub man extraodinaire, who worked his way slowly, exploratory through around half an hour of throbbing low-down beats that slowly pitter-pattered into keyboard notes, dripping off into the sultry summer air. Nelson’s hypnotic loops reverbed back off the rattle of the air conditioner, eventually rising to a white noise riot that faded into the ticking of a metronome. When a cash register at the bar chimed away, it reminded me of the seeming incongruity between what is essentially ambient-exploratory themes and the click-crash-ching of the alcohol-fuelled night club settings.

This incongruity was brought to the forefront with Sydney’s Ukiyoie – and don’t even ask me how to pronounce it. The five-piece excelled at their art, tapping drums almost out-of-time yet bringing the soft rattles and dangling guitars together into a travelling soundscape evoking passing scenes glimpsed through a grimy bus window, the pleasure in the journey, meandering, and not in the ultimate destination. However, everyone on stage seemed painfully shy, as if there wasn’t any other place they wouldn’t rather be, and the shyness stripped the music of its balls necessary to do it justice. Picture a band you wish you could plug a headphone jack into and drift away in the sonic cocoon – this was Ukiyoie with their rhythms rising and falling like lover’s breath on a Sunday morning. Gentle, delicate, yet sometimes brutal, but so not designed for a Saturday night drinking parlour.

When Nelson, Brown, and Donne – aka Labradford – took the stage to a loud cheer, it’s almost 12:20 pm and I’m tiring quickly. The looping of soft drum beats that lift up only to drop back aren’t helping, but it’s the squall of a jackhammer that jolts me into consciousness. I’m enthralled, wondering how the fuck Nelson makes his guitar sound like that, only to be dismayed by the flurry of worried glances … it’s a sonic fuckup, possibly one that happens in post-rock all the time, leaving the audience to debate the intention or otherwise of the music’s creators. A roadie wanders around on stage as the song (a loosely-used noun for this style) progresses, and after 15 minutes something stronger beings to surge, repeated guitar plucks drift up on a background of synth-a-phonic strings, and the speaker squalls glitch and groan beneath the weight. The audience is bemused / confused / enthralled / enwrapped in what they’re seeing, but by 12.40 the tune has drifted off into a slow stumble, a tumbleweed of tones beyond redemption. Do we clap?

Next up begins with either Brown or Donne bashing their way out on a wind-up instrument, sounding like a kid’s toy on acid and ending with what sounds like a dishwasher orgasming. Again the jackhammer sound appears, this time softer, rounding the sound off as cassette tape spooling sounds drift in and out, like an emphesemic drawing his last breath. There’s a Cage-like claustrophobia in this minimalism, reducing as well as emphasising the space in which Labradford’s sounds work. I’m reluctant to leave but by 1:15, but I have to in order to make the last train home, leaving a band drifting, occasionally jackhammering their way through what was to be the last song.

A friend who went to both concerts assured me that the following night’s gig was more coherent and substantially weightier, without the jackhammer guitar though, confirming our suspicions of a technical fuckup. But it’s this fuck-up that stood out, that asked the most questions of what and how post-rock dub and ambient work, and what it demands of audiences, performers and space alike. Essentially vocal-less, Labradford’s sonics open up possibilities rather than answer the questions. It’s those possibilities that should inspire us all.

Robb Milford – Goose Egg

Milford has been around for a few years playing gigs pretty much anywhere he can. His most recent release may not be representative of his performing abilities. His decision to hire what he describes as a “fictional back-up band” (The Green Olives of Justice) was probably in order to achieve a more complete realization of his musical ideas. When a good musician is also adept at production techniques and has unlimited time to apply his obsessions the result can be all encompassing – an alternate universe of personalized sound. A side-effect of such isolated creation under hermetically sealed recording conditions can be a subtle emptiness … the void normally filled by the interaction of musicians. Alexander “Skip” Spence is a great example, with his release of Oar that is haunting in its icy singularity. Milford does not suffer from this feeling of claustrophobia in his music; instead the multiplication of instruments creates the opposite effect. The clutter of varied sounds distracts us from his vocals rather than work with them to add warm interpolations or counterpoint.

“Goose Egg” starts off with a similar motive (albeit much cleaner) to that of early Dinosaur Jr. (a la Dinosaur), but as the vocals emerge, the driving buoyancy seems ill-suited to Milford’s southern drawl. His singing style merged with the poppy rhythms removes him from a blues-based style but accentuates the part of his voice resembling the particular regionalism of Eddie Vedder or the lead singer of Creed. Most of the time, Robb Milford’s delivery feels sincere and works as a vehicle for his lyrics, but the incongruity between his dialect and the musical accompaniment makes his vocals sound highly stylized with no benefit to his music or the listener. This attempt to sound gritty, to have a “well-lived” voice can work when it adds an element of theatricality or a sense of humor to the music (e.g. Tom Waits), but with Milford it adds nothing. Decent lyrics and songwriting skills are masked by the incompatibility of styles that Milford tries to bring together. It is not at all clear that this is the fault of the music itself having too many elements or if it is simply the production and instrumentation hiding the true potential of Milford’s song.

It may appear that I am harping on too subtle a point without giving you a full sense of just how the music sounds or makes you feel/think about. But then, I am unable to delve any deeper into the song as the arrangements are not at all conducive to this. I am reminded of a Dizzy Gilespie album I purchased only to bring it home to hear his solos obscured by a dense string-pop orchestra. Frustrating.

Beloved – The Blue Period

Ok, when worst comes to worst and I don’t know what band to review next, I just scan mp3.com through their list of bands defined by easy-to-find (and basically meaningless) category and pick someone who I’ve never heard of. I knew from the very beginning of “The Blue Period” that this was a song I had to review.

The percussion that kicks off “The Blue Period” is just outstanding. I’m talking phenomenal drumming, and the band wisely lets it carry on over some nice melodic guitar for just long enough before the vocals come in, and you’re thinking this is another Get Up Kids style emo band. But the song explodes suddenly with driving guitars over a powerful rhythm. It continues a sort of mid-tempo emo pace for a few minutes, with good lyrics, and then suddenly the vocals are being screamed, with backing screams to accompany, and I’m left reminded of the most intense Planes Mistaken for Stars and Thursday. Driving, slightly metal-tinged guitars and screaming mixes with more melodic, urgent emo-style moments.

Unfortunately, Beloved, which is a pretty terrible band name now that I think about it, didn’t bother to put up any information on their mp3 page except to say that this song is from an EP called The Running on Vindicated Records, and that they’re from Kernersville, NC. So I did a little research, and found their website and that they are a Christian rock band. Don’t’ worry, because that’s not obvious from this song, anyway, and it doesn’t appear the band is preaching in any obvious way, so all the more power to them. On the basis of this one song alone, I’m hooked. Powerful and driving, with great vocals, plenty of intensity, and amazing drumming, this is good stuff.

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