Midwest Blue – Remembering to Forget

Midwest Blue is a four-piece band hailing from Illinois that is clearly rooted in the pop-punk style of the recent past. The songs are peppered with tight and catchy instrumentation that is played with a lot of feeling and emotion. The vocals of Sam Swanson are very strong and he covers a lot of range with his vocals that change frequently. The musicians are all very adept at the style and they craft the songs to their full advantage.
The CD kicks off the right way in a very tight rock fashion in “My Own Constant Reminder (Hey You),” which has very strong and melodic vocals. The guitar playing is sharp and helps express the sorrow and hurt in the music and vocals. “Ignorance” picks up some steam with tension-filled breaks in the music that is accompanied by some stabbing guitar work. There are a lot of strong feelings in this song that propel the action, though it may be a hindrance as the lyrics are a little too earnest, which makes it somewhat difficult to get through.
A lot of this disc is what you would expect from any pop/punk band, as the formula is pretty hard to change and has been done to death recently. The musicians play with a lot of intensity and feeling, as well as the vocal performance is strongly emotive, still it’s lacking something. Most of these songs tread very predictable ground covered by many bands that have come before. The lyrics are here are also pretty clichéd, take for example, “Left behind in the cold / No place I can go / Lay down and die / No will to survive / Stuck in between of you here with me” from “Lost Rarities.”
This is definitely by-the-book stuff, and a lot of it will sound familiar to anyone with even the slightest knowledge of the style. Though the songs sound like they came straight from a textbook they still have a certain unmistakable spark, which makes it enjoyable. It’s all done in a workmanlike effort, and it seems like a lot of work went into the performances. I found this record enjoyable to listen to, even if it is rather flawed in its overwhelming familiarity and rather clichéd lyrics. This style had been done much better elsewhere, but still I found a little something to be intrigued by and I’m not adverse to continuing to listen.

Bear vs. Shark – Right Now, You’re in the Best of Hands…

Let’s talk about their name. Bear vs. Shark suggests an epic confrontation, a full-on, take-no-prisoners brawl between two formidable forces of nature. In one corner, you have the big, bruising strength of the mighty bear, and in the other you have the speed, agility, and sheer tenacity of the shark. Taken a bit further, all sorts of connotations begin to make themselves evident. Solid earth versus mercurial water, brute force versus graceful cunning, lumbering passion versus streamlined precision. It is not immediately clear whether the Highland, Michigan-based quintet chose the name based upon a fleeting whim or as the result of calculated introspection, but judging from the contents of this 12-song debut, I would definitely opt for the latter. Musically, Bear vs. Shark is a seamless melding of clashing elements, combining the bludgeoning riffs and indomitable spirit of hardcore and punk with the anthemic virtues of melodic power pop, as well as the spastic guitar flurries of bands like Faraquet and At the Drive-In.
The album opens with the fluttering dynamics of “Ma Jolie,” which starts off with a thunderous riff that soon dissipates into the upbeat jangly guitars of the verses before exploding into the angular bombast of the chorus. This song is a real adrenaline charger and sets up some pretty high expectations for the remainder of the album. Fortunately, Bear vs. Shark’s invigorating style and ingenuity – minus a flawed track or two – are up to the challenge. “Campfire” is a relentless, writhing post-punk thriller, while the stellar “Buses/No Buses” showcases the band’s adept songwriting skills with a vicious volley of thick, driving guitars, tense stop/start rhythms, and fluid, grooving basslines. Vocalist Marc Paffi’s manic approach can be somewhat overwhelming at first, but his gruff, gravelly-throated vocals (reminiscent of Hot Water Music) are indeed infectious and soon wear down your resistance.
After this initial sonic barrage, however, things begin to settle down considerably, moving steadily towards less cacophonous and more focused, contemplative material. Still, what the band loses in frenetic urgency they recoup with vibrant songs intricately laced with captivating melodies. Tracks like the emo-influenced “We Were Sad But Now We’re Rebuilding,” the cathartic “Kylie,” and the triumphant “Second” are alternately beautiful and visceral rockers chock full of meaty pop hooks that you can really sink your tooth into. But it is the Fugazi-esque “Don’t Tell the Horses the Stable’s on Fire” that really reaches out to grab your attention with its formidable bass/drum groove, slow-simmered guitars, and jarring vocals.
Overall, Right Now, You’re in the Best of Hands… is a raw, uncompromising record that is a breath of fresh air from all the tired, staid emo and punk that has been clogging up the airwaves like so many bad arteries. It’s clear that these guys have their hands in lots of musical pots and are not afraid to stretch their horizons. Admittedly, Paffi’s stream-of-consciousness approach can be a bit of a thick puzzle, and the schizophrenic contortions of the music could be somewhat confusing and alienating to the casual listener. So what? Screw the casual listener. This is an album that may take several attentive listens before it can work its considerable magic on you, but once it does, look out – it may be stuck in your player for days or even weeks. Don’t miss out on this one. A terrific debut.

Gameface – Four to Go

Have you ever listened to an album for the first time and find that every track sounds familiar? Have you ever heard a band whose lack of originality astounds you and you find yourself guessing which bands the musicians ripped off or “modeled” themselves after? Well, if these are things you’ve never experienced, pick up a copy of Gameface’s fifth full-length and you’ll understand what I mean.
Southern California’s Gameface have been putting out albums since 1991. Their music is a mixture of several genres, namely punk, rock, emo, and a whole lotta’ pop. Although this sounds like a complex and intricate mix, it’s actually not – well, not the way Gameface does it it’s not. Their bio states that Gameface aims to “make music simpler,” and that’s exactly what the band has done; Four to Go is a simple, obvious, and unoriginal album. Gameface has done nothing to set the band apart from any other band in the post-hardcore music scene. Instead of creating their own distinct style on Four to Go, the members of Gameface have resorted to a cookie-cutter genre of emo-pop. For a band that has been together for over a decade, one would expect much more.
Four to Go offers up 12 tracks that are indistinguishable from one another. At times Gameface sounds like a Matchbox 20 cover band, with singer Jeff Caudill’s voice highly reminiscent of Rob Thomas’ alt-rock holler. At other times, Gameface seems to be attempting to duplicate the post-hardcore genius of Rival Schools (former Quicksand members). However, unlike Rival Schools or even Matchbox 20 (who I am not a fan of) for that matter, Gameface does not have a unique sound. Some bands’ songs are recognizable right away, even without knowing for sure that it’s them. Gameface, however, has yet to achieve this. Even after listening to Four to Go quite a few times, none of the songs will stick in your head; rather, you will easily and quickly forget them.
Gameface is not a bad band, and there is no denying the members’ talent. Yet, a new style and approach is certainly necessary if Gameface wants to make a mark in today’s music scene. Gameface has already been touring for countless years and has built up a large fan base. Assuming that they are striving for more, these musicians need a change, otherwise they will not be distinguishable enough from other bands to garner new fans and an even larger following. Four to Go is simply too obvious and predictable of an album. Remember, Gameface, originality is key!

Nan Turner – Leg Out

Formerly a go-word (or go-acronym, if you will) tied onto just about anything associated with independent music, the letters “D,” “I,” and “Y” have almost faded out of currency among today’s indie rockers. Once a necessity for bands with nothing to offer but audacity, energy, and the willingness to express the convergence of these elements in public, now even moderate successes among independent artists have a roadie, tour manager, or sound tech. Of course, this much was an inevitability, as when indie rock became profitable it was only natural to have experts in the realm of production and promotions take over to maximize commercial impact. In short, the Ian MacKaye’s of the world are growing increasingly scarce, and there just aren’t that many bands that are going to small talk at the merch table and load up the van after a gig. And while the current gatekeepers of the anti-folk movement can occasionally confuse for their lack of a clear artistic agenda, with the honorable Major Matt Mason USA and his Olive Juice coterie holding down the front lines, it makes up for any apparent inscrutability with its extreme self-reliance and pioneer spirit. You want DIY, look no further than Nan Turner.
A former member of Bionic Finger and current half of the food-obsessed, quirk-pop duo Schwervon with Major Matt himself, Turner is an obvious choice for the Olive Juice family to pop out a solo album, as her distinctively inviting chirp and tuneful arrangements offer considerably more songcraft and less navel-gazing than her contemporaries. Obviously a labor of love, from the pictures of her cat that dot the back cover, Leg Out reeks of sincerity and shy charm. Augmented by the ever-present Major Matt on guitar and keys, the bulk of the music is produced by Turner herself. And where many solo projects lack distinction, largely because the artist making the album is still trying to find her musical identity away from those she has collaborated with, Turner suffers from no such difficulties.
More contemplative and texturally chilly than much of her previous work, here Turner trades the silliness of Schwervon for a more serious and sullen set of songs. The darkly strummed electric guitar chords of the opening “Work Song,” an autobiographical slab of occupational ennui with spoken word parts mingling with her lonesome high croon over snappy drums, approaches a similar dour alienation as that found on Beck’s earliest 4-track recordings, the song triumphing for its stolid mood construction as much as its blunted sonic underpinning. The meditative “Farms & Landlines,” seemingly a Lou Reed-ish tribute to New York City, maintains the mood with heavily strummed guitar reverb caressing the song’s hymn-like verses. Still, Turner isn’t one to get stuck in one conceptual gear.
The bouncy “Big Bad Wolf,” a twee mixing of twinkling vibes, somewhat dissonant guitar, and Turner’s sexy coo adds levity to the set, just as the snarky hook and slacker escapism of “Bad Manners,” with soft verses giving way to an irresistible lo-fi stomp, adds wistful amusement. “Stuck,” the plaintive standout of the set, is similarly escapist, with the narrator indulging in dreams of running away from her life to find a new one, nearly getting caught in a tangle of lamenting electric guitar lines and lush multi-tracked harmonies. With only five songs running a scant 19 and 1/2 minutes, this release would probably be more accurately referred to as an EP or mini-album, but as Turner manages to come full circle in that amount of time, the album succeeds in creating a complete statement.
All this isn’t to say that the DIY route is the saving grace of all art, making execution and innovation irrelevant as long as said artist doesn’t have a Diet Coke banner hanging behind his Marshall stack. Such prurient concerns easily become dogma and mean little or nothing in the actual quality of artistic statement. But it is nice to see an artist who is listed as the driving force behind nearly all of the facets of her album, from the font that spells out the song titles to the glowing thanks to her friends in the liner notes, the album is personalized with the intricate engraving of an artist who sincerely seems to enjoy crossing every “t” and dotting every “i.” So much more than empty self-disclosure, her songwriting is the expression of a singularly sincere talent, engaging in the classic process of using music as a therapist and diversion, allowing her listener to engage in the process of reading a chapter of her life. Everything has her fingerprint on it, however humble, making the connection between listener and audience all the more complete.

Cash Monies & the Jetsetter – Thinkin’ Out Loud

Some say that the Southern white male (you know, the mullet-headed, tank-top-sporting, Camero-tinkering, small-towner) is the last cultural demographic that can be stereotyped without incurring the wrath of the politically correct. For some, the land below the Mason Dixon line is terra non grata, a bastion of Bible Belt conservatism and cultural hibernation, equal parts Deliverance and The Jerry Springer Show that might as well be excised now before they put Bush in the White House for another term. Still, anyone who takes even a cursory look at the history of American music will find that nearly all musical trends that have relevance today had their beginnings in the music of the South. Country, blues, jazz, rock, soul, funk – all come from the South and the unique convergence of Anglo-Saxon and African culture. And while hip-hop and most strains of indie rock are largely products of the urban East and West coasts, the trail of inspiration will lead back to the South if you trace them far enough. What they’ve lacked in the finer arts, they’ve more than made up in their genuinely innovative contributions to music.
Country music has always benefited from the influence of carpet-bagging musicians from the North and West, from Milwaukee’s Pee Wee Reese to Michigan’s Lefty Frizzell, and the essential California duo of Buck Owens and Merle Haggard (although it’s worth noting that each of their families had been rather recent transplants from the South). All this is to say that Cash Monies & the Jetsetter is a band steeped in the traditions of country music and Southern rock. And they’re from Boston (though to be fair, lead singer Jim Gaddis is from Mississippi).
And such a fact wouldn’t even be a cause for much mention, as everyone from seminal Chicago alt-twangers Uncle Tupelo to Denver’s rustic doom merchants 16 Horsepower have proven that you need not hale from the South to successfully cut to the essence of its traditions. But Cash Monies & the Jetsetter simply revel in it. From a song about spilling a Pabst Blue Ribbon on your crotch while driving your pickup to charmingly designating their lead guitarist as “head guitar picker” and lead vocalist simply as “sing’n,” these boys are only a few guitarists and Confederate flags short of resurrecting Lynyrd Skynryd (although technically, the members of Lynyrd Skynyrd are not all dead and are still together).
Gaddis’ voice, with a similar redneck raspiness as Steve Earle, is the perfect vehicle for the tales of small-town carousing and blue-collar boasting. And while rumors of Earle auditioning to front an early 90s lineup of Skynyrd remain speculated upon but unconfirmed to this date, Gaddis occasionally allows the listener to imagine that such a summit has taken place. The cowbell rattling “Get it on the Way,” a tribute to rowdy living complete with twisting lead-guitar wankery is bettered only by the cocky strutting blues-rock riff of “Worth a Damn,” where the narrator indulges in touting his own worthlessness of swinging fiddles. Most representative, though, is the willingness to dive headlong into the worst of white trash stereotypes, with the muscular “Make Mine Stronger” touting the unforgettable line, “If I’m going home, I’m gonna drink her pretty tonight.” But, I guess if you’re going to utter such a line, you might as well do it with conviction, as Gattis has no shortage of that.
Impressively, the musicians prove themselves very capable of working within the strictures of traditional country music as well as they do the Southern rock-isms. The chugging “Takin’ it Out” is a pure Johnny Cash homage, with startlingly tight country harmonies covering up the fact that it also features lines like “I’m gonna get in fights every night to get back at you.” The group’s rockabilly roots turn up on “Here With Me,” a standard lovin’ and cheatin’ melodrama that they pull off much better than they should. The good-natured, and even a bit quaint, “Cemetary Hill” melds a pleasantly clucking banjo and swaying fiddle over an easy-going lilt, easily ranking as their most austere, if not their most distinctive, moment. Still, they seem a bit unwilling to completely commit to a musical direction.
Take the opening “15 Years,” an upbeat anthem that aside from a buried banjo sounds exactly like the Gin Blossoms with a Southern accent. “Out of My Reach,” a ballad of quiet longing, is only a few tweaks away from being likely country-radio fodder, just as the rich flowing organ and gratuitously repeated chorus of “Someday” is a Wallflowersesque slice of Americana-lite. And while former Georgia Satellite Dan Baird does an entirely competent job as producer and can’t be blamed for allowing such songs to slip through, his taste is such that he should have found a way to push the band into tweaking their formulas a bit to avoid falling into the chasm of modern rock/adult alternative blandness.
Surprising, especially given the overall professional layout of the CD artwork, no fewer than four songs are listed out of order on the back of the disc (unless, of course, they have intended to name songs according to the words that form the chorus of other songs). Other than that, they are a talented and versatile band that most assuredly has better things in their future, as the flashes of impeccable stylistic intuition displayed here when paired with their general skill level are enough to make it possible that they have the necessities to make a distinctive musical statement should they decide to. And when you’re a country band from the North, you better do something, because history indicates you’re probably not going to come up with anything better.

The Devils – Dark Circles

I have something I need to push off my chest. I hated the 1980s. There, I said it. I absolutely hated that never-ending, god-awful decade. Sure, a good piece of the decade could be neatly classified as a textbook example of the D.I.Y. punk ethic: scores of incredible independent bands blazing trails and setting standards that many have followed and admired since, all the while doing it on their own terms. But, let’s face it, for the majority of the 1980s, I was in elementary school and far removed from the world that writers like Michael Azerrad – and many others, if less eloquently – have struggled to document and memorialize. The 1980s to me were a massive blur of John Hughes melodrama, Nintendo theme songs, annoying florescent colors, big hair, and – possibly above all – ridiculously clean and perky pop soundscapes. This is why the grunge that seemed to inaugurate the 1990s, for all its obvious debt to its punk-rock forefathers, was such a blessing. This was rough, dark music made by flawed human beings, a kind of rusty nail to seal closed a decade that brought the world Milli Vanilli and the word “gnarly.”
Nick Rhodes and Stephen Duffy were clearly more entrenched in the 1980s than I ever was, as synth-pop artists and, more specifically, as members of the much-lauded Duran Duran. Their latest collaboration as The Devils, however, steers clear of what many icons of the age are already doing, opting to revisit the artistic fabric of the 1980s over merely waxing nostalgic about it. What Rhodes and Duffy manage to come up with on their 12-track debut by taking this route are sometimes a guilty pleasure and sometimes an intense sonic experience but, even in its lulls, it’s something to hear.
The record seems to be informally split between two camps: the tracks that lean toward the more structured, pop-oriented pieces that Duran Duran junkies may anticipate, and looser journeys that hint at electronica and hip-hop as much as they do a strange breed of post-rock. “Big Store,” the Bowie-ish “Dark Circles,” “Come Alive,” and “World Exclusive” are arguably the best examples of the former category, each of them utilizing electronic drum beats, synths, and wailing electric guitars to great ends. Sure, the carefully layered electronics of “Big Store” are impressive, but it’s the clear pop moments that sell the track: the soulful female back-up – by Sally and Evie – on the chorus, the pitch-perfect reverb over the lead vocals. It’s the same story on “Come Alive” and “World Exclusive.” The interplay between crafty guitar work and well-mixed electronics is the foundation, but the spacey delay effects on the vocals, the catchy backbeat, and the backing female vocals get you.
The record’s best moments may not be the times, however, when Rhodes and Duffy take the creative comb to their roots. Case in point: “Hawks Do Not Share,” a dreary ballad-ish piece that moves forward courtesy of a series of bass rumbles and keyboard murmurs that, if nailed to a wall in isolation, wouldn’t be out of place in one of Jim O’Rourke’s minimalist experiments (Happy Days, anyone?). Even with the melancholy that seems to pepper the track, though, the pop streak is still clear, and the listener can hear echoes of Bowie from around the time he decided to watch David Fincher films and hang out with Mr. Reznor. Yes, yes, it’s dark, but in its heart it still wants you to sway and dance and move. Other great examples of The Devils’ drive toward more sonically adventurous material are the tracks that open and close the record: “Memory Palaces” and the engulfing, eerily triumphant “The Tinsel Ritual,” respectively. Both utilize the same keyboards and production tricks as the tracks that surround them, but they seem to stand out more as collections of sounds, colors, and patterns than as clearly digestible pop morsels. In short, not for the radio but not to be tuned out.
Dark Circles, like most anything, is not without its weaker moments. Songs like “Signals in Smoke” seem to act as bookmarks inserted between pages with interesting passages, there more to hold your place in the proceedings than continue to draw you further in. It’s also a little difficult to warm up to “Newhaven-Dieppe,” a poppy, soundtrack-ready offering that seems too buoyant for the generally introspective and reflective material around it.
All in all, Dark Circle is a sharp record and a great debut for what may essentially be viewed by many as a passing project. For those who love the 1980s, some may argue this is essential listening, and for those hated the decade, you’re in good company; but this still may be worth giving a spin. The can of industrial strength Aqua Net is thankfully, thankfully, thankfully not included.

Macrocosmica – Art of the Black Earth

As a critic, I’m not supposed to compare bands to other bands. There are virtually a million reasons not to do so. For one, it’s sort of unfair to anyone involved. It’s also trite, lazy, indulgent, and boring. I’m not supposed to say, for instance, that Explosions in the Sky sounds like Mogwai, even though, well, they frickin’ do. So, rather than lazily toss off a bunch of references and sound-alikes, I’m supposed to come up with some sort of original, descriptive text that approximates the “experience” of a listening to a disc. I throw out adjectives like candy. My prose will flow like a million Mississippis, flowing into the delta that is your head. It will melt into your brain until you know almost exactly what a band sounds like before you even tear the cellophane off (well, that, or just click “download”). There are three problems with this sort of experience. One, I’m a mediocre, hack writer almost completely incapable of producing the above experience. Two, the vast majority of critics are mediocre, hack writers almost completely incapable of producing the above experience. Third, bands like Macrocosmica just simply do not inspire golden prose.
It’s true. No matter how hard we critics try, the fact remains that a majority of bands sound like other bands. And so instead we are left approximating bands, using bargain bin terms like “electro” and “shoegazer,” and filling in the blanks with specific band names. It’s just no use, and bands like Macrocosmica simply bring out the worst in critics.
Here’s a quick rundown. The first track screams “brainy hardcore” from the top of its lungs. It starts with an interesting, groovy bass figure and an intriguing vocal melody, but when the singer turns from talking to long, assailing wails, hope fades quickly. “Bunuel” is the point where we are introduced to the female member’s Kim Gordon obsession. By track four, “Lunarian,” the Tool influence becomes apparent. The entire album is chock full of low-tuned bass grooves, and though there isn’t a hardcore band on the planet capable of approximating Tool’s rhythmic complexity, it doesn’t take much to mimic their groove-heavy semi-tunefulness. The “Fuck YOUs” that litter the tracks are probably the band’s strongest link to any sort of hardcore scene. The almost tribal chants of “Terra Ungunka” are a nice break in the action, though I can’t listen to them without thinking “Soulfly.”
Since the lyrics are mostly indecipherable, the band conveys its humor and laid-back attitude with songs titles like “Michael Jackson, Child Toucher” and some goofily photoshopped band mugs. The grating white noise and churning feedback the band musters on the MJ track are actually passable, and they serve as some of the more interesting moments on the album. Additionally, the band’s tinkerings with song structure hint at potential growth.
There’s nothing wrong with wearing your influences on your sleeve. Hell, Interpol rode that horse to international indie stardom. There is something wrong, however, with sounding like a collage of hastily glued parts, strung together in annoying succession. In the end, the real problem with Macrocosmica isn’t that they’re hard to review without mentioning other bands. It’s that they’re hard to listen to without pining for the greener pastures of their influences.

The Mystic Underground – The Nameless and Faceless EP

Every once in a while, we get a chance to review a band that feels like a discovery, that has an impact and seems destined for greatness. The Mystic Underground, with its technology-driven sound, is not one of those bands.
Made up of Benedetto Socci (keyboards) and Vladimir Valette (vocals), The Mystic Underground is reminiscent of every bad 80s synth band rolled into one. This music left me wondering what inspired these gents to produce music so dated, generic, and insipidly boring that it makes the boneheads behind the “art noise” of Whirlwind Heat seem like musical geniuses.
The Mystic Underground describe themselves as a “sensual, romantic synth band that seethes poppish and ballady magic.” I’d call them a whole lot worse. They are one step removed from making elevator music. The duo has been at it since 1998, so I think it’s time to sell the keyboards and the P.A. and start putting in some serious hours at the day job. Forget about this business, unless you want to do weddings and bar mitzvahs.
“Mary’s Dead” opens this four-track EP. The lyrical content, meant to be a commentary on the injustice of a woman’s murder, winds up being unintentionally funny. “He took her by the hand / then left her lying there / soaked in a pool of red / one day she’d be found dead.” How romantic. The worse part is that the last track is an eight-minute reprise of this tune – a repeat that we could easily have done without. By only the second track, “Townies,” the band’s repetitiveness is evident: How could it not be, when they perform with synthesizers and drum machines exclusively. “I Remember Everything” starts slowly and has a gothic whiney sound, with more unfailingly bad lyrics such as: “You thought I’d lose sight of you / seemed so sure I’d leave you and blue / curled up in a ball of flesh.”
Even people who like this type of synth-pop music will throw their hands over their ears and run from the room after a few minutes. It’s sure to leave you curled up in a ball of flesh.

Deadstring Brothers – S/T

The Deadstring Brothers struck a good note with me before I even listened to the disc, because I really dug the simple hand-stamped packaging that brings me back. The sticker on the back tells me to “think Gram Parsons meets Hank Williams at Nick Cave’s house for a drink or three,” and I know that I will like this album immensely.
Based out of Detroit, the band originally started in 2001 as a duo of Kurt Marschke on vocals and guitar (also of Sponge fame) and Pete Ballard on pedal steel and dobro. Deadstring Brothers soon added Aric Karpinski (piano, organ), William King (drums, percussion), and Philip Skarich (bass, percussion, backing vocals), and the group has been getting noticed for their interesting take on Americana. With the inclusion of dobro and pedal steel, it would be easy to assume that the Deadstring Brothers are a country band or at least alt-country in the vein of Wilco or the Old 97′s, but the music here is more of an amalgamation of styles.
Album opener “I’m Not a Stealer” definitely has an alt-country vibe, but the rock and blues influences are much more prevalent. The arrangement is a perfect and from the beginning you note that these guys are giving it all they’ve got. Though it’s a laidback tune, from the very first listen the melody is contagious. “Entitled” is the one truly upbeat track, and it cranks up the attitude level quite a bit. These two are easily my favorite tracks on the album because everything else takes a rather melancholy turn that you really need to be in the mood for.
“I Know You Dear” sounds straight out of a Western flick and really shows off the Deadstring Brothers’ penchant for country music. The same is true of “Jones Street,” another of the more exceptional slower tracks. The band also includes a cover of “Long Black Veil” that took a few listens to truly grow on me, largely because I’m so used to hear Johnny Cash singing it.
While there are a few songs on this album that I could take or leave, the Deadstring Brothers do a fine job with their debut. With a touch more honing of their songwriting skills, the band’s next release could be extraordinary and really place the Deadstring Brothers on the map as yet another great group out of Detroit. These guys have a genuineness that many alt-country and bluesy outfits lack, which will surely give them an edge in the future.

Growing – The Sky’s Run into the Sea

I’m not going to lie to anyone about my feelings for Kranky Records. This one-time label that gave birth to groundbreaking acts like Godspeed You! Black Emperor, Windy & Carl, Labradford, and Low has simply lost its Midas touch. The majority of their current releases fall under the cookie-cutter ambient-rock category that pays no attention to detail, has little regard for melody and innovation, and, the majority of the time, remains staler than two-week old bread at a bakery thrift store.
I wanted Growing to change all of this; I wanted them to impress me, to take me to new places, to show me new things, to change me as a person – but at this point, my idealistic hopes have been crushed. The Olympia, Wash. trio uses guitars, bass, and electronics to create ambient soundscapes that build on top of one another while incorporating both diverse aspects of both drone and metal genres.
“Painting” starts things off slowly with calculated and minimal delayed guitar harmonics. Repetition seems to be the key to the song, which clocks in at a whopping 17 minutes and 21 seconds. The usual drones follow in about five minutes into the song but fail to take it anywhere particularly interesting. The listener is never presented with any ethereal moments (a la Sigur Ros) or mind-spinning moments (a la Landing). Instead we are given a drone that would be more fitting to a movie soundtrack about an infamous serial killer rather than featured on a song by an indie band. The only saving grace comes at around 15 minutes when we are presented with some beautiful distorted and delayed guitar work, which remains melodic and interesting. Thankfully all of this time waiting was not completely lost. But the song ends things on a sour note (literally) while taking the addition couple of minutes to play bland and meaningless distortion.
“Life in D” uses Windy & Carl as a reference point for the beginning with fuzzy distorted guitars, no drums, and the ability to take the song in absolutely no direction. Seven minutes later we’re pumped up with distorted and disturbing guitars that are more akin to the deeply disturbing moments of Neurosis and Tribes of Neurot. Again, I feel void in that the song has taken me nowhere. “Southern Rites” and “Pavement Rich in Gold” follow a similar path with the exception of a horrid metal part, which sounds more like a 16-year old picking up a guitar for the first time and trying to impress his new girlfriend.
In conclusion, this album is indeed a painful listen, and I can only recommend it to people who might possibly enjoy banging their heads against the wall a couple of hundred times or those who might enjoy accidentally hitting their finger with a hammer when pounding in a nail. While I usually find the majority of bands in the ambient/space-rock genre interesting – this CD in particular proves the point that if it is not done well, it is probably not worth doing at all.

« Previous Page — Next Page »