Jason Anderson – New England

After releasing two records and a half (given that Something/Everything was credited to Jason Anderson/Wolf Colonel) under the “Wolf Colonel” moniker, Jason Anderson decided it was high time to use his own name and not to hide behind a band’s name. This decision lead him to the release of his most sincere, complete, and satisfying record to date, New England.
The new album was produced by Phil Elvrum of The Microphones/Mount Eeerie and features 11 songs of warm and cohesive beauty. Anderson wears his heart on his sleeve and lets us into his universe made of thoughtful lyrics, gentle acoustic music, and subtle and intriguing arrangements.
From the inspired duet between Anderson and Elvrum (“You Fall”), where their voices intertwine so perfectly over acoustic guitar strums, piano chords, and drums, to yet another heartbreaking duet between Anderson and Mirah (“A Book Laid on its Binding,” a song written by Joe Knapp of Omaha’s Son Ambulance), New England strikes a chord with me and makes me want to isolate myself from the rest of the world for a couple of hours to truly appreciate the intricacies at work. The wonderful “Hold” even features a gospel-like chorus of what sounds like the entire K Records family singing along . The overall feeling of the album is melancholic and autumnal, and a song written by Phil Elvrum, “Thanksgiving” (this songs is also on The Microphones’ last record Live in Japan, Feb. 19th, 21st and 22nd 2000) fits in perfectly with the mood, as does the intimate folk rock of such songs as “I Want My Summer Back” and “So Long.”
I just can’t stop listening to this album. It grows on me after each listen, and if you are looking for honest, heartfelt, and beautiful folk rock and indie pop music, all you have to do is head to New England, call a nice guy named Jason Anderson, and enjoy all his wonderful songs!

Bonnie "Prince" Billy – Sings Greatest Palace Music

For someone as wilfully contrary in his approach to the music industry as Will Oldham, tackling the hoary old “greatest hits’ (that’s hits with a small “h’) compilation conundrum was never going to be done in a straightforward fashion. Instead of merely stringing together his most popular pre-Bonnie “Prince” Billy repertoire, released as either Palace Brothers, Palace Songs, Palace Music, or just plain Palace, throughout the 90s, Oldham has re-recorded a democratically-selected set (as voted by fans via the Drag City website) of his most loved early songs. But again, not in straightforward fashion. Familiar Palace brethren may re-appear by his side (brothers Ned & Paul, Colin Gagon), alongside distant cousins (Andrew Bird, David “Silver Jews’ Berman, ex-Jesus Lizardman Duane Denison, and assorted Lambchop members) for guest appearances, but this time around Oldham has entrusted his musical reins to some traditional Nashville session musicians. No, really. An act of heresy for many fans that have loved Oldham’s for his oddball existence outside the choking commercialism of mainstream Nashville country. But fear not folks, this isn’t Oldham’s attempt to outmanoeuvre Garth Brooks, as much as he might mischievously like us to think so.
If you leave your ideological qualms at the door, then Oldham’s post-millennial self-makeover isn’t so strange and unpleasant as it first seems. For all his fictional tales of incest, bad religion, adultery, and rural wongdoing, Oldham has always had a deeply romantic and populist streak to his muse. Re-shooting some of his – undoubtedly greatest – songs in wide-screen, with luscious strings, rippling pianos, and oodles of pedal steel forming the sonic bedrock, isn’t such an irksome prospect in reality. Especially if you can think dewy-eyed thoughts of Gram Parsons, Glen Campbell, John Denver, and George Jones doing Oldham’s songs with subtle wit and big-hearted emotion. The results – once you get past some initial acclimatising aches and pains – are consistently compelling for at least 10 or so of the 15 Palace classics re-jigged here.
Some of the songs definitely benefit from the re-mouldings. “The Brute Choir” (originally from Viva Last Blues) is transformed from being a cacophony of Crazy Horse guitars and prairie dog vocals into a serene sweeping ballad and “I am Cinematographer” (from Days in the Wake) is turned into a joyous sing-a-along rave-up. Whilst of course “New Partner” (Viva Last Blues), “Agnes, Queen of Sorrow” (from the mini-album Hope), and “Gulf Shores” (a B-side collected on Lost Blues & Other Songs) were damn near perfect in their more primitive former lives, their reincarnations are still supremely affecting. Although it’s arguable that Oldham’s infamous incest “anthem’ – “Riding” – needn’t have been redone for a third time, Andrew Bird’s stunning strings (which beautifully litter the whole collection) bring in a deeply evocative edge to the song’s biblical self-damnation.
Inevitably a few things don’t make it through the re-conceptualism. An attempt to move “No More Workhorse Blues” (Days in the Wake) away from its dusty back-porch and on to a bigger musical platform only ends in an overwrought strangulation. “I Send My Love to You” (Days in the Wake) is trampled by near-cabaret stampede, “Puskin” (Viva Last Blues) is turned into toe-curling faux-gospel, “Viva Ultra” (ditto) is garrotted by a ghastly sax solo, and “West Palm Beach” (Lost Blues…) is sapped of its ghostly ambience. Moreover, it’s somewhat disappointing that Oldham didn’t pull dictatorial rank to resurrect a few lesser known gems that got lost in the two tricky Palace albums – There is No One What Will Take Care of You (revisited with only one song) and Arise, Therefore (not represented here at all) – or even his lost “solo’ album Joya.
On the whole, long-serving fans will be aggrieved and enthralled in equal means, recent converts will be bewildered, and passing admirers will keep passing by. However, if you can get past your prejudices and preconceptions of what a Will Oldham album should sound like, then you’ll find yourself with a guilty little pleasure and the comforting knowledge that someone is still taking risks and fucking shit up amongst the increasingly staid alt-country crowd.

Runner & the Thermodynamics – S/T

What does it mean to rock? Many of the brightest lights of indie-ana could never make any credible claim to it. Considering that rock with a capital “r” (henceforth “Rock”) brings to mind names such as Ted Nugent, Foghat, AC/DC, and so on, it isn’t hard to see why today’s witty, punk-schooled post-grads would shy away from the title. Rock (remember, capital “r”) is for beer-swilling, cat-calling, machine heads, right? Yes, of course it is. But who could argue with Foghat’s “Slow Ride”? What twaty wallflower could decline the Nuge’s “Free For All”? And as for AC/DC, ignore their entire catalog at your peril. Point is, when Rock did it right, it just flat out rocked. You didn’t need a lyric sheet, nothing needed to be analyzed, and what the hell is wrong with swilling beer anyway?! But when Rock did it wrong, as it increasingly did through the 70s and beyond, it was rote, obvious, uninspired, and dumb. Boring dumb. And though the initial reaction to that decline – in the form of the first graduating class of punk – actually did rock, soon things got cleverer, and weirder, and ironic. The doctrine of Rock was largely shunned by those fighting the good fight, which is easy to understand when those carrying its torch were the likes of …actually, a lot of “em were bands that previously were cool but who just lost it somehow. Though the recent success of bands like the Strokes, the Vines, and the Hives revived the interest in an old-school approach to the concept of plugging in and turning it up, their aims are different. It was with an ear to the garage, not the stadium that they found their inspiration, or so they would have you believe. Their tactics left the whiskey bottle-strewn turf of the great riff-slingers of yore still fallow, the groupies undefiled, the hotel rooms untrashed.
Boston’s Runner & the Thermodynamics (henceforth R&tD) remember the thrill of Rock, and for them the question is how to resuscitate it. A three-piece – dare I say power trio? – from Boston, they conveniently capture the highs and some of the lows of that era and make a convincing case that Rock, in its way, might actually be Soul. For white guys anyway. Something immediate but not cheesy with dirty riffs that inspire the listener to assume the universally recognized air-guitar stance that can only mean one thing: this rocks! High praise indeed, that stance. “Powerlines” had me there during its chorus, and though the verse was more pop than Rock, it was cool. I may have come closest to that rarified moment of nirvana during “In School.” It’s got the drive, the elemental riff, and just enough sugar in the vocal harmonies. It also has killer bass playing and a great bass sound. The whole record benefits from it, and if it’s not a Rickenbacker I’ll eat my lunch.
As a whole though, the record’s a bit of a bumpy ride. The amped-up “Damsels in Distress” may not have that one devastating moment, but it does make good use of tubular bells. “You Let Me Down” however had me thinking unpleasantly of Vanilla Fudge, leaden and “heavy” with that sludgy slow-blooze beat that has accompanied a million endless solos leeching out from behind a million garage doors. “Gates of Dawn” also carries that monkey on its back, at least until it breaks into a rowdier mid-section, bass flailing away.
No one exposed to years of post-punk effluvia in its many forms could ever hope to revisit those innocent years of classic rock with an unsullied mind. But if Rock is Soul, then it should be instinctive and effortless. Resist the temptation to wink-wink your way through it and just do it. R&tD do resist the lure of ironic detachment and the safe harbor it provides, and when their good intentions coincide with good song ideas, it’s a blast. When the songs aren’t there, which is about half the time, the band is left to rely on their performances that range from excellent (that monster bass) to so-so (the drums on some slower tunes). I’m sure exposure to their live show would help quell some of the doubts I have, but until then the coveted capital “R” cannot be bestowed upon their greasy heads. They do rock though.

RockFour – Nationwide

Israeli psych-pop. Has there ever been a three-word phrase that inspired more cognitive dissonance? On one side of the equation is Israel, the epicenter of culture clash, the cutting edge of conflict. On the other psych-pop, a whimsical mode of expression for those with the luxury of free time and a surfeit of security and drugs. I’m sure the guys in RockFour would throttle me with their IDF-sculpted muscles, sick as they must be of the notion, but it’s inescapable I fear, especially in today’s hyper-volatile climate. But certainly if there ever was a nation who deserved a little psych-pop release now and again it’s Israel, so with respect to RockFour our larger concern is whether they deliver it, not why.
The members of RockFour describe themselves in terms that almost had me perspiring with expectation. “Neo-psychedelic,” “complex song-craft,” “pristine harmonies,” and here’s the kicker: “prog-pop.” Oh man. Influences? How “bout the Zombies, Moody Blues, Robert Fripp, and a band whose acronym is an anagram of EOL. Did I mention “energetic immediacy” and “clever atonal squalls”? Clever atonal squalls! Dudes you better back that shit up, is all I can say.
Oh, the crushing weight of thwarted expectations! It took me a few listens to dig out from under the rubble of untenable anticipation I had constructed – with RockFour’s help I should add – but the effort taught me the value of acceptance and compromise. Hmm…anyone else we know who might benefit from those qualities? Just asking.
Nationwide is definitely reaching for a sound that’s being left unclaimed by legions of non-Israeli psych-pop bands out there. The chord progressions are challenging but within the boundaries of classic pop construction. Somewhat like XTC, they’ve heard the grandest attempts at songwriting made by the McCartneys, Lennons, and Wilsons, maybe even the more twisted takes on songcraft from the likes of Love and Syd Barrett-era Pink Floyd. Unlike XTC, however, their compositions don’t really capture the inventive spirit of the former bunch, and RockFour’s more arena-friendly influences keep them firmly on this side of the Summer of Love, safe from the damaged muses of Arthur Lee and the lamented Mr. Barrett. There are no shortage of details to keep you occupied here, plenty of interesting guitar sounds and techniques for the fetishist (guilty as charged), and the songs often hit their stride just as your attention is diverted elsewhere. “Fuzzy White” and “Crush on Subtitles” both feature gnarly riffs using that pencil-through-the speaker-cone type of distortion common to acid casualties from back when. Frequent use of 12-string guitars also reminds me not of the Byrds, as might be hoped, but later, lamer George Harrison or Jeff Lynne. This puts me in the uncomfortable position of implying RockFour may be akin to a trippy Traveling Wilburys. Hopefully the band would have the sense to pummel me mercilessly in my driveway were I to go through with that implication.
My favorite song is “Candlelight,” a smoky ballad that actually sounds like the product of some bonged-out youths circa 1967 instead of 1991. Here the sour harmonies that plague the rest of the disc actually work in its favor, sounding woozy and period-perfect. No, the promised “pristine pop harmonies” weren’t quite so pristine I’m afraid. A little off and applied too broadly, too harshly. But that’s not a fatal flaw. “I Can Read You Now” overcomes it well, namely by being a sweet little tune, loping along like a forgotten Teenage Fanclub mash note. Almost every song manages the task to a fair degree, for some length of time, just not enough I guess, I don’t know.
So here’s the compromise: I agree to not be angry at RockFour for failing to live up to the band’s own hype. The musicians agree to iron out some of the wrinkles and try again. If I hadn’t been blinded by the laundry list of influences and seduced by all those purr-words promising proggy squalls of pristine pop atonality I might not feel so disappointed. But I know their heart is in the right place, and there’s always tomorrow.

Ric Menck – The Ballad of Ric Menck

Ric Menck can afford to toot his own horn. The man has done it all musically, whether in his own solo career or with one of his numerous bands or as a founding member of seminal power-poppers Velvet Crush, and he’s done it all with an easy grace and aplomb and an ear for hooks rarely seen in today’s pop songwriters. The Ballad of Ric Menck is a reissued version of an earlier compilation of all of Menck’s “hits” with some extra bonus tracks thrown in to sweeten the deal. Considering that all these songs were recorded at different points in Menck’s growth as a songwriter, with different backing musicians and different producers, the stylistic vision here is remarkable consistent. It rarely strays from a hazy, laid-back pop feel, as heavy on the jangle as the harmonies are as light and pleasing on the ear.
The disc kicks off with the altogether pleasant “Perfect Day,” which perfectly encapsulates the sound of its title. It’s light and upbeat, with some processed vocals and great fuzzy guitars that virtually scream summer. This segues perfectly into “The Bicycle Song” (which is in the same key and contains much the same feel as its predecessor). Menck’s vocals are more natural this time, and despite the fact that the lyrics were made up on the spot (according to him, if you listen closely, you can hear him trip up over the words, although I couldn’t), they perfectly fits the mood of the music.
A cover of a little-known Hollies tune, “Clown,” comes next. Its overall feel is much more melancholy than the first half of the disc, but it serves as a nice respite from the relentless feel-good nature (and that’s not a bad thing at all) of the disc. “Wishing on a Star” (despite the cheesy title and almost overly sappy lyrics) is just about everything you’d want to hear in a pop song, sounding something like a happier Stone Roses, complete with delicious sighing background vocals and a lovely shimmery guitar solo that would make John Squire jealous. In fact, the Stone Roses comparison holds a lot of weight here, as many of these songs sound like the would have been a great companion piece to the Roses’ debut album, albeit with warmer vocals that lack a great deal of Ian Brown’s characteristic arrogance/nonchalance.
Menck’s cover of the unreleased Matthew Sweet track “Are We Gonna Be Alright?” is an absolute treat, reminding me how great Sweet can be when he pulls out all the stops. “Big Blue Buzz” is a nice, driving (no, really, it’s about a car) tune that’s fun to listen to, while Primal Scream’s “Tomorrow Ends Today” goes for a more laid-back feel (that lead Scream vocalist Bobby Gillespie apparently hated, according to Menck’s copious and self-deprecating liner notes).
There’s so many great tracks on here it’s virtually ridiculous to try and talk about the merits of each and every one (although the angrily-directed-at- Aimee-Mann-at-the-time “Wonder” deserves special mention fro being so friggin’ catchy, and the Jesus and Mary Chain homage of “She Swirls Around Me” deserves attention a) because of its inspiration, and b) because it’s so well-written, if a tad short). I’ll limit it to this, if you’re a fan of pop music, you need this album. Buy it immediately. Thank me later.

Kammerflimmer Kollektief – Cicadidae

What do you think of when you think of Germany? No. Scratch that. That question opens itself up to much of the unpleasantness of history. More appropriate: What do you think of when you think of German Music? Falco, Kraftwerk, umm…the short-lived white rap group Die Phantastichen Vier, Kammerflimmer Kollectief? The latter is much more heroin than Hasslehof.
When you ponder the depths of German experimentalism (would you like to touch my monkey?), KFK is not so frigid and bizarre, or masochistic, as what might come to mind. In fact, Cicadidae can be downright soothing. The music is far from conjuring up the wholesome and earthy heartiness of a German countryside, but that doesn’t mean it’s without warmth. It’s less like the Berg and more like a post-modern city with a heartbeat. By utilizing melodies that are unnerving but also human, it is a mix of the progressive and the tender.
What Kammerflimmer Kollektief does best is convey moods and tension through its soundscapes. The minimalist and spacious “Sie Tranken Regnen” is like swimming in a chilled lake early in the morning. Much of Cicadidae is the soundtrack to a hung-over morning or a drive in the gritty urban reality just before dawn. The music suggests something pre-Cambrian, or a stirring in the world just before it comes to life.
But perhaps it is something German that best describes Kammerflimmer Kollektief. This unhurried world is like a parked BMW, the rhythm and energy never speed past a crawl, but it is always sleek and stylish.

Forest Giants – In Sequence

Within the first five seconds of Forest Giants’ debut LP In Sequence, singer Tim Rippington declares, “I am a rock star.” Whether it’s a claim made tongue-in-cheek or a prediction is unclear. Formerly of Beatnik Filmstars, Rippington is joined in Forest Giants by two other musicians (Ruth Cochran and Jo Head) to create washed-out rock that takes the best parts of pop and twists them into something completely refreshing.
The hip-shaking rhythm section is prominently featured in “Route 115,” backing a tour guide’s voice for the first minute and a half, then exploding into a rock chorus proper: “Goodbye my friends / Our run has come to an end.” Forest Giants sounds like a darker Boyracer: same frenetic drums, muggy bass, and phoned-in vocals. But where Boyracer is hyper in the sugar-laced sense of the word, Forest Giants’ succinct musings seem propelled by the feeling of being chased by something big, dark, and scary (a forest giant, perhaps?).
“Jello” has the same propellant drums, and a nice psychedelic jam at the end. “Do You Know What I’ve Been Through?” is calmer than a lot of the album and features a bassline that sounds eerily similar to the Twin Peaks theme. “Nervous” is a one-minute “nam style flashback, complete with what sounds like a distant chopper and radio static. “Postcards” was released as part of Invisible Hands’ Singles Club, and rightly so; It’s the most “complete” feeling song here, with its traditional structure and somewhat clear production. But “FWL” is the standout song of the album. It’s dark and sweaty, with a grinding bassline, and reminiscent of a dirty basement party. “Baby” finds Rippington sing-talking, turning the song into a poppier “Goodmorning, Captain.” “Holiday Song” has a very conspicuous electric guitar line over acoustic strums and distorted vocals. It’s actually kind of a mess, right down to the sarcastic la la la’s.
Forest Giants is hard to pin down. It’s too pop to be rock, and too edgy to be pop. That’s not to say pop lovers will feel alienated by Forest Giants; if anything, the band has taken a somewhat tired genre and enlivened it a bit. Rock fans will rejoice at finding a band that’s edgy without being wanky or “screamo.”

Franz Ferdinand – S/T

As much as critics like me like to harp on innovation and genre-bending, we all love a good rock “n’ roll tune. Enter Franz Ferdinand: there’s nothing extrinsically special about this music at all. One could say that it combines post-punk, dance-punk, and garage rock into one neat little crepe: seemingly the perfect recipe for public digestion (only 2 net grams of carbs!). Uniformity notwithstanding, there is a fervent charm to this band’s self-titled debut full-length that allows a new band in a tired genre to transcend its bounds without necessarily innovating much at all (see also: The Wrens).
The album opens by tricking the listener with a few acoustic plucks. Soon enough, a Turbonegro-esque riff caterwauls in, cascading in upon itself. The drama is palpable as “Jacqueline” rears its head. It’s obvious that the music is not startlingly different from anything you’ve heard before, but at the same time, each Ferdinand is a master in his own craft. “Tell Her Tonight” is a playful nugget of cymbal-riding, bass-heavy dance-punk. “Take Me Out” is a lumbering, persistent song built upon a standard bass-snare lick and some deft guitar work. “Auf Asche” heightens the theatrics more, featuring a dramatic chorus: “She’s not so special now / look what you’ve done, boy.” I could go on for a while, describing each song, remarkable for its excellence and not its originality.
Most of the album is spent riding the cymbals and dance beats of the excellent drums while the bass and dual guitars intertwine, weaving a web of dexterous dance-punk and good ol’ rock. Nothing strays too far from the formula; the closest thing to a down-temp song on Franz Ferdinand is “Come on Home,” a mid-tempo, rolling pop gem. The lyrics are saturated with understanding and wit; Alexander Kapranos sings with equal parts humor and melancholy, deftly expressing the ins and outs and ups and downs of relationships. Much of the lyrical content consists of detached lamentation on the seeming boringness of life: “So I’m on BBC2 now / telling Terry Wogan / how I made it out / what I made is unclear now… / my words and smile are so easy now.” These words perfectly complement the music: not overtly depressing, but devastatingly stunning in their simplicity.
Franz Ferdinand has already been called a lot of things in the great buzzworks of underground criticism: the Scottish Interpol, The Rapture with a deeper voice, Liars lite, et al. Not surprisingly, all of these descriptions probably are apt (to whatever degree), but in the end it really doesn’t matter. When the sun sets, Franz Ferdinand will be remembered not for the band’s lack of outright innovation but a haunting perfection of the genre.

Ai Phoenix – The Driver is Dead

Ai Phoenix started in 1997 as a lark between three friends who simply wanted to share their music. The world is lucky they did. Though one of the friends is gone now, a new friend (Bosse) has joined the remaining two (Patrick, Mona) and continued carrying the beautiful, soothing, lovingly-crafted streams of melody forth into the public ear.

Ai Phoenix released three full-length albums, of which The Driver is Dead is second. It was first released in the year 2000 in Norway and is just now reaching North America (US/Can/Mex) thanks to the efforts of Autonomy Recordings. In this time of incredible turmoil and upheaval taking place throughout the entire fabric of American society and culture, Ai Phoenix’s peacefully-rolling songs are just what the US needs. Mona’s often lazy delivery of her hushed vocals soothe without putting to sleep. Even when the subject matter may be sad, or even indiscernible, there is a distinct calm and uplifting spirit in all the songs that engages the mind and soul of the listener. Certain motions and all emotions are universal. A smile. A kiss. Laughter. Sorrow. Admiration and support in a time of difficulty. All of these are somehow represented in the songs Ai Phoenix play.

While the music is gentle and often subtle, its strong post-modern soul makes it impossible to ignore. Whether listening intently or merely inhabiting the same space as the notes, the music has an effect, slipping into the mind and lulling the subconscious into a happier, more pure, transcendent place. A place where friendship reigns supreme and we accompany one another unflinchingly through melancholy and mirth. Three friends came out of the attic to share their music with the world, and we are lucky they did.

Okkervil River – Split CD

On the surface, pairing the enigmatic effortlessness of songstress Julie Doiron with the queasy “bucolicalia” of Okkervil River would seem to be somewhat counterintuitive. Doiron, being unassailably fragile and graceful, and Okkervil finding strength in creaky and damaged songcraft, it’s hard to immediately see the uniting thread that would make the two an ideal fit, other than the fact that both have released albums on Jagjaguwar. In a strange way, though, the foundational ethic of each seems to emanate from a fairly similar place, where straightforwardness trumps elaboration and silence can be used to shock a listener into recognition. Interestingly, as Doiron’s music becomes more plaintive and Okkervil’s grows increasingly complex, their superficial compositional aesthetic (if not their overt song structures) has come near to intersecting and now is currently in danger of passing without so much as a knowing nod for either. This split release allows those differences to stand in contrast.
Stripping away all of the contaminating dross that could possibly inflict her songwriting, the first five tracks find Doiron with nothing more than her weary voice and a humble acoustic guitar. Startlingly direct, with every muffed note, vocal crack, and floor creak left in for good measure, she has rarely sounded so immediate. From the hymn-like devotion of “The Sweetest Eyes (When You Laugh)” to the uneasily bitter “The Songwriter,” two songs that seem almost polar opposite in sentiments, Doiron’s nimble fingerpicking and vulnerable croon are the perfect foil for the understated songwriting. In fact, the argument can be made that the intensely unaffected approach draws more out of her songwriting than anything we’ve seen from her previously, even though it’s likely that the style would grow a bit tiresome if stretched out over a full-length release. Most unexpected, though, the no-frills arrangements have the effect of allowing the most exceptional elements of the songs to rise in bold relief, with every arresting lyric or melodic twist standing all the more boldly.
Okkervil River opens with the humble strums of “He Passes Number Thirty-Three,” which mirrors Doiron’s simplicity in its first moments, soon giving way to the rich swirl that has come to represent the band’s last few albums. With a bittersweet melodic hitch and gorgeously rolling Hammond Organ, vocalist Will Sheff pledges his devotion and near-paternal love, promising to provide everything from rest to woolen socks to the object of his affection. Of course, every honest Americana band has to cover the standard “Omie Wise” at some point, and Okkervil River apparently couldn’t resist adding another name to the list. Surprisingly, then, is just how imaginative the band’s rendition actually is, starting off with haunting banjo and accordion but climaxing in shrill violin and roughly strummed banjo, climaxing with Sheff’s uneasy shrieks when the violence of the lyric unfolds. Like Dylan and the Rolling Thunder Revue, the sheer force of the music is nearly tangible, and the reinvention of the song is nearly transcendent. The harrowing “A Leaf,” a tale of senseless violence and an indictment of the media, places its protagonist in a crisis of faith after watching a friend die. A bit maudlin but convincingly heartfelt, the lyric is as direct as the closing “Blackest Coat” is vague, with the inevitable rise in sonic intensity (quickly becoming an Okkervil trademark) overwhelming the writing’s inability to connect in a timely manner.
So, in the end, although the aesthetic seems to be departing rather sharply, there is an internal logic in the pairing of these two stalwarts. Where Doiron is singing lullabies, Okkervil River is spinning nightmare narratives; where Doiron is confessing over a character sketch to cut straight to the emotion of the lyric, Okkervil River uses detail and texture to make the listener wonder if the message could be so obvious. Both are capturing the human condition in various phases of undress, with the resulting vulnerability the obvious uniting thread. Nowhere is that contrast more obvious than on this release.

« Previous Page — Next Page »