For Against – Echelons

Echelons originally came out on the Independent Project label in 1986, and its impact was both immediate and lasting. For Against – from Lincoln, Nebraska – had put together an amazing album that challenged the supremacy of Britain’s engagingly gloomy early-to-mid-80s outfits (the Cure, Joy Division, the Chameleons).

Words on Music has performed a great service by re-issuing this album, if only for the fans who until now had to resort to making MP3s from their cassettes that they made from the Echelons vinyl. In a perfect world, this re-issue would reach a whole new audience of curious listeners.

The album’s moodiness comes primarily from the rhythm section of Greg Hill (drums) and Jeffrey Runnings (bass). These two produce a turbulent, stormy background over which Harry Dingman III lays down minor-key chords and melodies. There are occasional keyboards (remember: 1986), but they’re used sparingly and only to fill out the atmosphere.

It’s the guitar you notice first when you start playing the album. Dingman has a rich tone and a real knack for melancholy in his phrasing; a few years later the Verve’s Nick McCabe played in a similar way, only did so at much more mannered tempos. The tempos here are not relaxed. In fact, Echelons brings an intensity uncommon to this style of music, much to the credit of drummer Hill. But in song after song, it’s the guitar playing that adds the real color to the canvas.

In the opening track alone, Dingman goes from single-note announcements to REM-style picking to choppy chording to McCabe-style expansiveness. All the while, the rhythm section keeps things varied and propulsive. Across the album, the production sharpens the contrasts between the instruments, allowing each player his own space in the sound. The vocals are plaintive but not whiny or gothy (like other bands of the time).

Over the last 18 years of listening to this album, I’ve gone through phases where this song or that song on Echelons was my favorite. But what I’ve noticed about the CD release is that the title track, “Echelons,” strikes me as the most fully realized track on the album. It’s a pattern that they repeated on the band’s follow-up album, December, where the title track also falls mid-album and brings together the best elements of the songwriting found elsewhere on the recording.

The song “Echelons” begins by brooding. The bass carries the melody (all three notes or so) while the guitar churns slowly in the background. Here, it is the drums that break out of the mix instead of the odd guitar note. The rimshots and high-hat accents are brought high in the mix, as is the occasional tambourine-hit as the track progresses. The tempo quickens halfway through, and the ominous sound deepens as the drums and guitar pick up speed. It ends with the repeated refrain of “Someone somewhere waits for me,” chanted over repeated (offbeat) chords and tom rolls. It feels like a song about loss, but never resignation.

There’s so much more to say about the album, but the best way to experience it is of course to pay the good folks at Word on Music for a copy of your very own. By the way, the artwork and packaging of the initial pressing of Echelons was nominated for a Grammy when the album was released in 1986. So, Words on Music, how soon can we expect you to release other vinyl-only gems? If I could make a couple of suggestions, maybe you could pick up D is for Dumptruck by Dumptruck, or 86’s Minutes in a Day? In the meantime, thank you, thank you, thank you.

Struction – 13 Minutes of Love and Doom EP

It’s really frustrating when an otherwise excellent record is soiled by a single conspicuous fault. The most common fatal flaw is slick overproduction. Then there’s the mistake of inserting superfluous sound effects. Other times the lyrics are so horrendous it ruins the music and renders it unlistenable. With Struction, it’s the vocals.

High-pitched female vibrato causes this dancing-atop-a-junkpile record to sink straight into the rubbish and become an execrable piece of waste. It’s unfortunate. Instead of noise as sound art, it becomes noise as unbearable turn-it-off cacophony. Having that Evanescence-girl-on-speed singing in this noise-rock EP defiles it so badly it reminds me of Rod Stewart covers (the most atrocious thing I can come up with). This could have been 13 Minutes of Love and Doom as the title assumes, but it isn’t. Instead, it’s 13 minutes of vexation.

When I disregard the vocals, I hear a great instrumental noise record; say, Melt Banana with an anti-static filter, minus those chEekY SONg Titles. “Red Guitar / Black Guitar” and “DNA” each start off with a thick blanket of noise that wouldn’t sound out of place on a Fennesz record, before off-the-wall percussion and guitar squalls commence to disorient the listener. And then those wretched vocals appear — though there’s also a male singer here who’s somewhat less annoying — and totally destroy the whole thing.

“Even if They’re Big We’ll Find Something Sharp” opens with the kind of harsh, industrial clanging that those Wolf Eyes boys are fond of; electronics and kitchen utensils scrape against each other for a few seconds before being sucked into Struction’s black hole of noise. On this track and “Nemesis,” spasmodic guitar spirals weave their way through the discord like the aural assaults on Lightning Bolt’s Wonderful Rainbow. But that god-awful squawking is still present and as annoying as ever.

Those grating vocals are particularly frustrating because this is a band that has potential. These folks are perfectly capable of making a record as lethal as Wonderful Rainbow. This is Struction’s second EP, and the band hasn’t even released a full album yet, but when it does, here’s hoping it’s an instrumental album. It could be killer.

Gasoline Fight – Useless Piece of Weaponry EP

I’ve got to say that I was expecting something quite different from this record. I’m not sure exactly what I was expecting, but I was pleasantly surprised by what I actually heard once I hit the play button. Apparently the band has members of Sweep the Leg Johnny and Small Brown Bike, but being unfamiliar with those bands in any way but what they actually sound like, I have to say that I’m not sure who from which band is in this one. Gasoline Fight sounds nothing like Sweep the Leg Johnny, I can say that for sure. This band sounds like it could have been any one of Mike Hirsch’s projects such as Fuel (not the shitty radio rock band), Torches to Rome, or Bread and Circuits. I’m not one to throw those comparisons around lightly either. Torches to Rome was seriously one of the best and most overlooked bands of the 90s. Its LP on Ebullition was an amazing post-hardcore record with some of the most spiteful lyrics ever laid to tape.

This EP is quite short at five songs and maybe 20 minutes or so in length. It begins with the song “Night Terrors Come and Go,” which sounds just like Torches to Rome. If I heard this song and didn’t know better, I would swear that it was a song by that band that I had never heard. All of the features are here alright: the throat-shredding shouting, complex drumming, and thick wall of guitars that make this style so endearing. “Truth of What Doctors Tell You…” is a little more tame and the vocals are reigned in, making it somewhat more melodic. This isn’t a bad thing, but if I had to choose I would take more stuff like the first song any day of the week. Some of the choppy guitar work in this song reminds me of Four Hundred Years. “Scum” is another really awesome song just like the first track. I wish that the whole EP sounded like this, but I guess you can’t have everything. “Threadbare” and “Lay Down and Die” are both similar to the second song with more melodic gang vocals.

All in all, I would have to say that Gasoline Fight has presented a nice little record here. There are things that I like about it and a couple of things I would change, but if you are looking for quality post-hardcore this is a pretty good record. Besides, EPs are usually pretty cheap too.

Various Artists – Poor Boy: Songs of Nick Drake

The songs of Nick Drake have been re-done and covered by such a multitude of artists that this compilation shouldn’t be anything special, yet Poor Boy: Songs of Nick Drake is a stunning album. The brainchild of Songlines label-owner Tony Reif, Poor Boy contains 14 tracks by Seattle and Vancouver artists, each covering a Drake song in their own style, making an album that spans the musical range from jazz and experimental to pop. The result is an almost eerily beautiful set of tracks that had me spellbound long after the CD stopped playing.

One of the most beautiful tracks on the album is “Cello Song,” done by Aiko Shimada and Bill Horist. Sweet vocals are accompanied by acoustic guitar and the quiet pulsing of electric drums, giving the song the strong, simple, emotional impact of so many other tracks on Poor Boy. The album is one of simplicity; you won’t find over-worked riffs or clutter in here, as each song is filled with the obvious emotions of the artists. Instrumentals like the Gershwin reminiscent piano of “One of These Things First” by Chris Gestrin and Simon Fisk, give Poor Boy a depth and range that’s rarely heard in cover albums.

Jazz tracks on the album abound, like the stirring “Poor Boy,” sung by Kate Hammett-Vaughn, which soars with her old jazz-standardesque voice and backing piano and jazz guitar. The range on the album is unbelievable, flowing from standard jazz tracks like “Poor Boy” to the indie-pop of Mike Dumovich’s “Fly” to the experimental raga like track, “Black Eyed Dog,” that does more to show the heartfelt admiration for Drake that the featured artists have than any simple cover could ever do.

Poor Boy: Songs of Nick Drake is a compilation of artists with such obvious and heartfelt admiration for Drake that it shows in every track. With each artist interpreting the songs in their own way, the result is an emotionally beautiful album that flows perfectly from jazz standard to experimental tracks. Poor Boy is an almost perfect salute to Nick Drake, and it’ll be hard for any other tribute or cover album to beat this one in its sincerity and quality.

Re: – Alms

There is an incredible number of sound-portraits and lyrical clips of found sounds on Alms, the second full-length player from the Constellation duo Re:, but there’s little in the way of “songs.” The record just doesn’t seem interested in them, even as fodder or fuel or foundation for further experimentation. That’s not to say Alms is one of those high-minded academic disasters where some brainy theory is writ large over the course of 80 long minutes, a mess of hypotheses only discernable to its well-intentioned creator. Re: is genuinely taken with sound and its possibilities and has crafted an audio document (to be played “as loud as possible”) that’s a feast for the ears. For some, no doubt, it’ll take a few listens to soak it all in, and for some the whole album may feel like a puzzle not worth deconstructing or assembling. But the record, both in spite and because of its disregard for some of the lynchpins of independent “experimental” music, is an interesting spectacle, if only for the sonic moments and textured sound-narratives that members Aden Evens and Ian Ilavsky seem to construct without resorting to the tried and true.

Alms may be, more than anything you’ve heard in a good number of years, an industrial record – and I mean that more in the vein of rusted, abandoned factories than the familiar crack-whir-thud of an aspiring TVT Records ensemble. In the old sense of the term “industrial,” Re: makes elements without any apparent or inherent musicality seem, well, musical. In “Golem,” it’s the rusty lurch of gears over a simple electronic measure and the dramatic tease of drum cymbals. In “On Golden Pond,” it’s the stuttering trot of what feels like a hand-cranked machine. In “Lasers, Tracers, Radar Drones,” it’s — somewhat literally? — lasers, tracers, and radar drones. In “Radio Free Ramadi,” it’s the crackle and high-pitched whine of what could be a magnetic field, the sound your AM radio makes when its signal goes bumping and crashing into airborne interference. The found sounds become so oddly musical that when Evens and Ilavsky introduce a clearly constructed or prepared moment, it all blends together. Take “Orientalism as a Humanism,” where drones and glitches fall prey to a bombastic electronic backbeat and then everything fades away to let a somber wail and moan, the distant cousin of an emergency siren on downers, step into the limelight. It’s hard to stress just how elegiac and effective that moan is and how much it sells the listener on the intentions of what surrounds it, even in its apparent lack of “song” structure.

Then there’s “the song” — dubbed “Pawk” — which may be, oddly enough, one of the most peculiar and unexpected moments herein. Following the drones and screeching of “Lasers, Tracers, Radar Drones,” it begins, a simple piano line hanging in silence, a repeating measure in all its Grubbsian glory. If pulled from Gastr del Sol’s Mirror Repair or Upgrade & Afterlife, the piece would feel like an intermission, a place-keeper. Here, accented at one point and another with what sound like animal-calls, the track feels monumental. The record ends without returning to the song structures hinted at with “Pawk.” The closing track on Alms seems just as concerned with statements as with sound, so the listener gets a collection of textured white noise and endlessly looped industrial percussion called “Home Security.” It’s not a big climax or even the quiet resolve of a denouement, but, then again, Re: doesn’t seem interested in crafting a traditional song/story arc or making the ups or downs of its musical narratives too obvious. Re: is interested in sound. Its listeners should come to the table with open ears and a similar set of interests.

Auburn Lull – Cast from the Platform

Smart people are wondering, just what is space rock? Billed as pioneers in this rather amorphous sub-genre, Auburn Lull’s latest, Cast from the Platform, offers a rather terrestrial answer to this question: it’s in the atmosphere. Presumably these blokes have taken the last three years off to cruise the Crab Nebula and Planet XR-1142 in search for the type of highly atmospheric crypto-hymns found on Cast. Auburn’s main concern is a rock that takes up space, both literal and figurative, often lingering with synthesizers that take an eerie minute or two to prefigure each meandering song. Apparently in space you’re not allowed to rock out at anything over 5 rpm.

Drolly named tracks like “Direction” – which, if it has a direction, it can only be called “somewhere” – take us from the trippy filler tracks common to early Pink Floyd to the more desolate electronic drones of post Kid A “actually-playing-your-guitar-is-so-bourgeoisie” Radiohead. Auburn makes stronger moves on the spooky “Seaforth,” which, as the title implies, has more direction. Sean Heenan’s vocals, vaguely British in a Lord of the Rings sort of way, are spare and effectively evocative. On this track, Auburn Lull manages to fill the room and beyond with light drums and slowly cascading synth lines. “Sovereign Messages,” a delicate, downtempo hint at communications from the beyond, is either the music you hear when the saucer finally lands and you suddenly realize you probably won’t have to go to work the next day, or the track the aliens put on to pacify you just before the anal probe. Either way, it’s some otherworldly stuff, unique as hell, and unflinchingly committed to it’s own spacey aesthetic.

Space rock, according to Auburn Lull, implies a zero-gravity sort of songwriting, untethered by the earthly pull of hook, bridge, and chorus. But if there’s a drawback to this album, it’s that it may be too atmospheric. At times, it’s so undauntedly broad and drawn out, it feels slight. This expansive songwriting may, however, be the point. When you’re lost in space, after all, you’ve got room to work with.

Sahara Hotnights – Kiss and Tell

If a slightly hipper Britney Spears and her gal pals were in search of the perfect Crossroads soundtrack, the lasses would need not search any further than the newest Saharah Hotnights release, Kiss and Tell. The album affirms that adolescent pseudo-rebellious spirit while still fitting neatly within the confines of formulaic pop.

Taking the 80s idiom of edgy estrogen rock to heart, it is often difficult to discern whether or not the Saharah Hotnights is indeed the genuine article. Often, I find the only true test to solving this mystery is to listen for catchy, post-80s staples that have somehow found their ways into the music. And then there is “Stupid Tricks” – wait, I know this one. Is that Carlos Santana and those crazy cats from Matchbox 20? Answer: the Saharah Hotnights are faux new-wave.

Swedish legendary producer Pelle Gunnerfeldt (The Hives, Fireside) teamed up with the quartet in order to complete this album that is, in the band’s own words, “bubblegum teenpop.” If this is supposed to be an epithet of praise, I’m just not sure it works…

The music from this third full-length lacks depth or any sort of emotional engagement: it is almost as if the album was inspired by and written for sassy, broken-hearted junior-high kittens (see “Who Do You Dance For?”). Though I might add one track to a mix CD for a friend trying to mend a broken heart, I would save the copy of the full-length for my 13-year-old niece. With repetitive, though bizarrely catchy refrains of failed puppy love and crushes gone awry, Kiss and Tell markets itself to an audience that still borrows money from mom in order to purchase the release.

This aside, Kiss and Tell is insanely catchy and easy to dance to. It is light-hearted roller-rink music that doesn’t claim to be anything more, and in a rock word of pretentious art songs, the Saharah Hotnights offer a refreshing alternative.

The Elevator Division – Years

Those indie-rock fans familiar with the sound coming out of Kansas City – and Second Nature Recordings for that matter – may be a bit surprised by Elevator Division. In fact, even those that have heard any of the band’s previously self-released albums may find Years an interesting development. Elevator Division has eschewed the Midwestern emo sounds of its hometown and of its own previous works and turned out an album rich and deep in tone and harmony, a release owing as much to U2 and Coldplay as Jeff Buckley.

For its widest and most mature release yet, Elevator Division enlisted the production efforts of Larry Gann, known for his work with Elton John, Oleta Adams, and Natalie Merchant. Gann brought out a richness of tone to Years that perfectly fits the dynamic and soaring vocals and harmonies of the band as well as the guitar and bass that hark back to the more ‘modern’ sounds of the mid-80s and -90s. In case you weren’t paying attention, that ‘retro’ thing is popular these days, but Elevator Division provides enough of a timeless rock quality so that it doesn’t feel retro at all.

The opening “October” has a catchy chorus, rich with gorgeous vocal harmonies and guitar lines that soar along with the vocals. It’s a nice intro to the much more bass-heavy “Radio,” a track that reminds me of the Cure and current favorites Interpol. On “Devotion,” the band ups the rock a bit with some guitar soloing, and on “Cemetery Road,” the band shows off a quieter side, with some nice, quiet effects and a more patient pace. This track does have a Midwestern vibe, reminding me of some of Waxwing’s more lofty moments. “Rearview Mirror” and “Tempo of Three” feel a bit more modern too and have fantastic bass lines, making this one-two punch the album’s highlight.

There’s a few songs here that feel a bit artificial in pacing. “Confession,” for example, would benefit from more liveliness in its verses, and “God Send” has some nice guitar reverb but an overly repetitive guitar line that ruins the song for me. In fact, at times the band reminds me of a mid-90s one-hit wonder I heard recently, Dishwalla. That’s not really a knock, but with so many more powerful moments here, it shows some room for improvement.

Years is a very well-crafted album of rich and soaring rock. It has a timeless, classic feel and an incredibly rich tone that makes it a delightful listen. And while it’s a very strong album in its own right, I can’t help but feel it’s the definitive building point for a band that quite possibly has arenas in its future.

Klondike and York – The Holy Book 12"

Klondike and York are two guys with an unnatural predilection for chocolaty things. K and Y also blow some mean horn noise and bang on some shit and fidget with the electro gadgets real well and such. The Holy Book is the band’s first album, a real humdumdinger from dingersville available on 12″ vinyl from the band’s own label, Weird Forest. Klondike and York specialize in a sort of outsider free-jazz punctuated by emissions from what sounds like an ancient unknowable synthesizer of ineffable design. Imagine Albert Ayler jamming with Suicide after someone poured Mountain Dew all over their gear. It’s definitely something good, for sure.

Like the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Klondike and York keeps their shit in threes. There are three songs on this here record, three songs with nary a title in sight. Side one, track one, is some straight-up free-jazz, with the saxophone blurting and buzzing over a jittery percussive backdrop. The playing is frantic, rushed, with an indifference to melody and recognizable patterns. It’s one hell of a squealer. Side one, track two, begins with some gurgling synth noise and the sounds of someone throwing shit around in a room off in the distance. After a minute or so the sax pokes its head in, belching out some notes while the percussionist continues randomly whacking the shit out of whatever in the back. At 2:25 or so, something approximating vocals can be heard; it sounds like a baby bird yelping for some worms. The synth gets drowned out by the sax and drums, eventually, until they recede back into the ether halfway through. But then it comes full circle and the blasting starts anew and all is right with the world, until it ends. On the flip is a side-length piece that features much of the same, but for twice as long, and with gongs and/or the throttling of amps with built-in reverb thrown in, as well. It’s really quite wonderful, now, isn’t it?

Oh hell, as I type this, a co-worker of mine is relating her experiences backstage at the Ozzfest show in Tampa earlier this year. Apparently she knows Slayer? She’s saying they asked her to fly down and see them play. Maybe she’s talking about somebody else, but the only names I’ve heard her say are Slayer and Ozzy. So she met Ozzy, who gave her a dress shirt with skulls on the shoulders, or something. She’s one of those life-long rocker chicks whose age is completely impossible to determine. She could be 60 or 30 or anywhere in between. She looks exactly my mental picture of legendary former Atlanta classic rock DJ Kaedy Kiley, but less feminine. She’s like a leather sack that always smells of smoke and wears Iron Maiden sweatshirts to work. She’s simultaneously amazing and hideous, and is the person I most admire in this world, other than Shaq. But so, she would most likely dislike Klondike and York, as there is very little metal in this music. There is lots and lots of squawks and skronk, though, and in a lot of ways that’s a hell of a lot better. So let’s pay our well-earned respects to Klondike and York, and thank the maker for this fine-ass LP.

Coastal – Halfway to You

Logic dictates that the shortest distance between point A and point B is a straight line. In musical parlance, however, a lateral route, with stops in odd places off the map, is usually what guides the most interesting music. No doubt, Utah’s Coastal is fond of this sinuous road, unfortunately walking in the same footsteps laid down by previous intrepid travellers, still amounts to a linear and safe travelogue. The arena of the plaintive and melancholic songs for bruised heartaches and enraptured lovers has become densely populated with a number of hangers-on in recent years. The most successful architects have been the ones who haven’t hesitated in throwing a small dose of dissonance or well-placed abstraction in the wellwater of cinematic and glacial ambience.

Coastal’s second album, Halfway to You, shows that the incumbent limitations of the genre are tantamount to being ensnarled in a web of finite choices and roadblocks. All the signposts are there: metered brushed cymbal and snare, gentle guitar arpeggios and acoustic strums, and gently coo-ing male/female vocals. Over the course of Halfway to You’s nine songs, these requisite signposts colour and mar any divergent path that Coastal has attempted to wrest from the formula its chosen as path and destination. Having said that, most of the album’s nine songs are certainly affecting and pleasant on one level, albeit weighted down with the self-consciousness of the genre’s homogeneity.

The album opens with “Until You Sleep,” which bears more than an analogous nod to Low’s “Shame.” It’s on the second track, “Eternal,” that Coastal’s fragile harmonies and stripped-down arrangement work best. With just a gently plucked Spanish guitar, loping analog keyboard motif, and cello quartet, the melodic vocal lines of Jason and Luisa Gough ebb and flow with the caress of a breathless whisper. The seasonal lament of “Leaves” is suitably permeated by the chill and frost its meant to evoke, with a sparse guitar line and distant vocal melody. Album closer “So Close” shuffles along as an Ida pastiche, swaying to a backward guitar loop and interweaving strings that are quite effective until halfway through the song. Unfortunately, it runs out of steam and meanders to a listless close.

Frankly, to really be effective in this arena, one has to really divest of all ascribed baggage to determine how much room there is to manoeuvre in a self-limiting box of restrictions like slow-core. If the blueprint is hushed, fragile vocals, delivered over a meandering and narcoleptic pace, then it is essential to add something outside these limitations to produce something of inspiring magic. As is represented on Halfway to You, it is not as easy as it appears.

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