L. Pierre – Touchpool

The foundation for Touchpool is simple. The seven songs contain mostly drum machines and orchestral loops, with added live instrumentation used throughout but not to such degree as to change the basic formula. One would expect either something danceably upbeat and derivative, or bare-bones and experimental. One might not expect the lovely brilliance that Touchpool is.

L. Pierre, formerly known as Lucky Pierre on Hypnogogia, is Aidan Moffat, one half of Arab Strap. While Moffat recorded Hypnogogia as a means to indulge his often thrown-away studio experimentations during Arab Strap’s writing and recording period, Touchpool is an extremely purposeful album, and each of these seven instrumentals – some of which include instrumentation by other Arab Strap members Malcolm Middleton, Dave MacGowan, and Allan Wylie – are lovely and rich.

Light fuzz, as if listening to an old vinyl recording, provides subtle backing to the sweetly swirling “Crush,” and that feel comes back on the dreamy, almost Air-like “Baby Breeze.” “Rotspots from the Crap Map” has a booming, richly brooding quality, and “Fan-Dance” uses Spanish-style beats and Italian cinema dreaminess to create its mood. That vinyl crackle accompanies lovely piano and background ambience of “Velbon,” surely the sweet dirge of this symphonic soundtrack. The acoustic guitar on “Jim Dodge Dines at the Penguin Café” livens things up with a playful flow, while the beats take prominence on the lengthy closing track “Total Horizontal,” with its lilting and light theme.

There’s an orchestrated, symphonic beauty to Touchpool. I listen to these songs and see old black-and-white movies, where the director puts great emphasis on the emotional quality of his actors’ faces as they dance together across the floor. There’s something of the innocence and beauty of a by-gone age to the orchestrated sounds on Touchpool, brought into today by the mechanized beats that never overpower the songs themselves. If things are a tad repetitive, it’s all a part of the plan, and it results in this being the perfect backing album for any occasion.

The Art Ghetto – Slumming

Remember that scene at the end of Sid and Nancy where Sid is dancing in a New York City ghetto to KC & the Sunshine Band (his version of hell or heaven, I think)? That’s probably the closest anyone could have thought punk rock and disco would become a cohesive unit… until now! Actually, no not hardly, but LA’s The Art Ghetto does describe itself as “disco punk,” for whatever that’s worth. The music essentially consists of punk vocals, noisy guitars, and mechanical drum beats. Anarchy in Studio 54 it is not.

That’s not to say that The Art Ghetto and the band’s most recent release, Slumming, doesn’t have its charm. The male/female duo’s best moments usually occur when they have the hooks to back up their ironic detachment (“Slumming,”” Punk Rock”), the cleverness to match their sarcasm (“Nuvo Nippon,” “Power Woman”), or the passion and powerful guitars to justify their anti-corporate/anti-materialism stance (“Protest Song”). Essentially, the band strives to be a variation of the Talking Heads/Devo post-punk/new-wave sound for the new millennium. They actually only come close to achieving this goal on two occasions: “Slumming” and “Protest Song.”

“Slumming” is an insanely catchy (almost Cheap Trick-worthy) raveup about a gutter dweller’s uncontrollably narcissistic urge to be famous. Sung in a mockingly earnest-tone, “Slumming” does a nice job of mimicking the vapid desire “to be famous tonight, out in Hollywood.” “Protest Song,” a propulsive rock track that almost sounds like Joan Jett’s “Bad Reputation,” eloquently deals with the underlying elements of fascism involved in the American media. Provocative lines like “admit that the words you sing are not your own,” “raise your hands and hail the subtle reich,” and “to open your mouth is to cut out your tongue,” are the hallmarks of a truly smart and insightful anthem.

Perhaps someday a band will come along with the unique ability to synthesize the sounds of The Ramones and Chic, The Clash and The Bee Gee’s, or Sham 69 and The Andrea True Connection, but right now, the Art Ghetto doesn’t quite reach that plateau (nor do these folks probably want it). However, on many of the better songs off Slumming, the band creates an interesting mix of anti-corporate politics, rock guitars, and drum beats. Just don’t expect it to sound any better on amyl nitrate.

The Loved Ones – S/T EP

The Loved Ones is a new three-piece from Philly with some veteran musicians. The band members previously played in Kid Dynamite (bass), The Curse (guitar, vocals), and Trial By Fire (drums), and they are releasing a debut EP on Jade Tree Records. These five tracks of raw rockers are produced by a big name, Brian McTernan (Thrice, Hot Water Music), who manages to make the trio sound rather huge. The abundant energy and loud sing-alongs make the music better than your run-of-the-mill bar band. Regardless, these Springsteen punks have a lot of improvements to make before they can “set Philadelphia ablaze,” a goal proposed in their press release.

Heavy, chunky guitar hooks introduce you to The Loved Ones in “100k.” The loudness of the guitar sounds derived straight from the amp and not a slew of distortion pedals. The more traditional tone compared to young punk rockers aids The Loved Ones in creating a mature sound. However, the straight-forward guitar playing hinders the EP. The conformity all five songs is the leading cause of blandness, and there aren’t enough leads sprinkled in to add catchiness. Maybe the remedy is adding a counterpart to round out The Loved Ones’ guitar lineup. Hause is a fluent guitar player, but he doesn’t offer much more than loud hooks.

Although the guitars bog the EP down with some predictability, Hause’s vocals are true quality. With a mildly raspy voice, Hause strongly belts out things like, “and they’d leave us to drown here according to plan / but if this ships going down you’ll find me with the band’” on the slow acoustic cut, “Drastic.” At times, Hause’s voice is reminiscent of Hot Water Music’s gruff vocals, but his lyrics are easier to hear. Hause confidently closes the disc with “Candy Cane,” showcasing fiery shoutouts and powerful declarations. Rhythm is explosive throughout the disc, and it does help to make things more exciting. The drumming is relentlessly hard, as you witness when the pounding resumes in “Candy Cane” just when you think it’s over. Still, the standout performance must be awarded to Hause’s vocals, which add heartfelt honesty, all with a punk sensibility.

The biggest gripe I have with The Loved Ones is the lack of variety. Similar-sounding hooks are in every song, and unfortunately it hinders the band’s uniqueness. With better songwriting and more emphasis on leads, this band could make great strides. Hause is definitely a strong vocalist, but he has not mastered the title of singer/songwriter yet.

Frank Smith – Burn This House Down

Frank Smith isn’t a guy. Well, mainly it is a guy, one guy, but he’s not named Frank Smith. He’s named Aaron Sinclair. Frank Smith is Sinclair’s band, but its numbers can balloon from one up to a half dozen. The music Frank Smith makes is in that breezy, folky, and lazy (sometimes in a good way, sometimes bad) tradition of late-night living-room sessions of a bunch of guys with guitars passing around a whiskey bottle. It’s homemade and rootsy country-folk that isn’t in a hurry.

Burn this House Down is the group’s second album. It starts off strong, as Sinclair’s singing stays in the neighborhood of the key on “Take All the Things” and “In the Night.” But the drunken quality of the songs gives you the sonic equivalent of the bedspins: a little euphoric, but also a little queasy. There’s a lot of contemporary alt-country (or whatever you prefer to call it) acts that make the mistake of confusing simple, tipsy casualness with the sly, easygoing drawl of the old masters (Willie, Hank, Gram). Frank Smith is better than that, as the smooth and distant steel guitar on “Keep ‘em Out” helps to indicate, but there’s still something missing on Burn this House Down. Maybe it’s the songs, which avoid cliché but which don’t offer a whole lot you haven’t heard before. True to form, Frank Smith is all about having a good time, and it’s also about drowning your sorrows, sometimes both in the same song.

But to be fair, this group is really a side project (Sinclair also fronts the band Lot Six). In that sense it lives up to its more modest ambitions, and there’s not an ounce of the pretensions that often accompany urban neo-country. I guess what I’m saying is that it’s a little too “homemade” for my taste, but it does the job it sets out to do, and there ain’t nothing wrong with that. Now pass me that Jack Daniels while I tune up.

Six Organs of Admittance – School of the Flower

If the indie-rock pundits are to be believed, the recent crop of “freak-folk” progenitors – Devendra Banhart, Joanna Newsom, Animal Collective, and the like – are as notable for their obscure influences as they are for their music. John Fahey? Check. Vashti Bunyan? Check. Michael Hurley? Check. As far as obscure, cred-building influences go, however, it’s pretty tough to beat Gary Higgins. You see, no one’s sure who the hell he is. He released a well-received record in the mid-70s and disappeared. He was probably in prison at some point. He might still be.

On School of the Flower, Six Organs of Admittance mastermind Ben Chasny covers Higgins’s “Thicker Than a Smokey” and includes a brief statement in the liner notes: “If anyone has any information regarding the whereabouts or fate of Gary Higgins please contact us at Drag City.”

Chasny’s Six Organs project is only loosely connected with the aforementioned new-folk artists. He shares a rough geographical location with scene leader Banhart and taste-making record label Young God (northern California), but Chasny’s approach to folk music is diametrically opposed to those artists listed above. Instead of relying on folk’s longstanding tradition of narrative and structure, Chasny borrows only its rustic earthliness, building his free-form jams from the ground up. Only Chasny’s penchant for soft acoustic finger-picking shares anything with the tradition of folk music.

Building on his pillowy beds of melody, Chasny adds skyscraping electric guitars and his own heavenly voice. The Higgins track is actually the most structured on the album. When Chasny busts out the vocals, he does so to augment the mood of these songs rather than to convey emotion. A full-time member of Northwestern psychedelic rock behemoth Comets on Fire, Chasny’s electric ruminations carry the songs, be it the droning prattle of “Saint Cloud” or the humming, silver lead on “Home.”

As eclectic as Chasny’s influences may be, there isn’t much here that would sound out of place to underground rock fans. The astral tones of “Home” wouldn’t sound out of place on a Wilco record, and the percussion and white noise eruptions of the title track recall his work with Comets on Fire. The opener, “Eighth Cognition / All You’ve Left,” opens with a blast of discord before settling soothingly into a lilting ballad. The short resonating guitar piece “Lisboa” closes the album with a burst of optimism, its wordless lullaby a fitting wrap-up to the album’s hard-won tunefulness.

The cover art of School of the Flower is perfect: artfully rendered, full of solid colors and hazy lines, it reflects the elemental quality of the album. Vaguely familiar, inarguably open to interpretation, School of the Flower is a triumph of ambiguity. Six Organs has little to do with the recent freak-folk scene, but if his proximity to those artists brings greater attention to School of the Flower, we’re all better off for it.

Shearwater – Thieves EP

It’s mid-February in upstate New York, and winter has firmly sunk its teeth into the land. This is the time when the snow, built up over the past two months and unbroken by even the hint of over-32-degree weather, turns into something as solid and unyielding as rock. The air has a hard and heavy quality itself, the grayness of a heavy sky. It may be the shortest month of the year, but it’s the darkest, and it feels like the longest.

There’s naught to do in February but shut yourself indoors, wrap yourself up in layers, and hibernate as much as people can do. Try a hot mug of tea, a warm and fuzzy sweater, some soft lighting, and the perfect album of quiet and moody music. Take, perhaps, Shearwater’s Thieves, an EP that may be short in length, like February, but similarly rich in weight.

“I Can’t Wait” is nearly chamber pop, building Low-like from quiet moodiness to almost climactic emphasis, Jonathan Meiburg’s voice soaring over lush acoustic and electric guitars. Will Sheff’s trademark raspy voice leads “You’re the Coliseum,” a more country-tinged song. Meiburg sings almost just to you on the lovely chamber-pop “Mountain Laurel,” which features lightly plucked banjo to contrast with booming, march-like drums. This is your new mix-tape highlight, kids. It’s contrasted by the hart-wrenchingly sparse “There’s a Mark Where You Were Breathing,” a truly dark winter song. The only change is the closing “Near a Garden,” perhaps the nod to coming Spring with its light pace and acoustic finger picking.

I recently reviewed Okkervil River’s latest EP, which hinted at spring-like quiet beauty. Shearwater’s Meiburg and Sheff also lead Okkervil River, but Thieves, while also soothing and moody, is the winter counterpart to Okkervil River’s latest. It’s rich and lovely, yet dark and enveloping. It’s the soundtrack to your depressing winter months.

The Zak – Orlando – The Social, Fl – 2005-02-23

Beep Beep is a Saddle Creek band that doesn’t play melancholy shoegazing music. The label responsible for the juggernaut that is Bright Eyes has ventured into the strange-but-intriguing school of noise rock with the release of Beep Beep’s debut album, Business Casual. Borrowing Joel Peterson of The Faint on bass, the band is out on a headlining tour of small clubs. On their trip to Orlando, rather than bring along an opening act they’ve given a pair of unsigned Florida bands a shot at prepping the crowd.

Choosing an opening act is more important than most bands seem to realize. If you choose a band that’s too good, you suffer the risk of having yourself upstaged. But if you choose a band that sucks, you run the risk of killing your crowd’s enthusiasm. Choose two bands that suck, and you’ll be lucky if the room is still awake by the time your band hits the stage.

As for this particular choice of openers, ’twas not a good one.

I love 80′s music, and the recent resurgance of new-wave has produced some great new bands, BUT it has also produced an equal number of uninspired, copycat artists. The first rule in resurrecting a dead trend is to adapt it. You can’t merely copy what’s been done, you’ve got to add your own twist. Opening band, The Zax, failed to do this. This trio of teenagers sounds like a copy of a copy. Vocalist Ryan Harmon’s sugary teeny-bopper-sweet voice didn’t help their sound.

To be fair, though, it was hard to really absorb this band when my distracted gaze fell upon some 40-something man in a pink blazer, with Robert Smith hair, who looked eerily like the legendary KROQ DJ Rodney Bigenheimer. This man became a source of amusement for his chain non-smoking way of smoking. In other words, he kept lighting up, but not inhaling. His cigarettes served as an annoying accessory, and the shroud of smoke, a fashion statement.

To my diminishing turn of luck, Mr. Chain Non-Smoking Smoker turned out to be the singer for the second band, Miami’s Fashionista. Oh joy. Musically the band had promise (more 80s glitter/glam/new-wave), but this guy was just killing it with his embarassing bloated Morrissey poses. And they went on like this for over 45 minutes.

By the time Beep Beep appeared, my buzz was gone, and my energy was quickly following. The band, perhaps sensing the audience’s need for a jumpstart, launched into their explosive album opener “I Am the Secretary.” Screaming with banshee abandon, Eric Bemberger jerked around the stage wearing white stockings and Mary Janes. His soft tranvestitism in combination with his childlike movements (at one point he curled up in the corner of the stage, leaning against the wall, to play guitar) added a strange, but welcome, flavor to the band’s relentless onslaught of noise.

Equally sharing the vocal duties is co-founder Chris Hughes, whose experience in corporate settings is responsible for much of the band’s lyrics (“Executive Foliage,” “Flourescent Lights” – both songs about office culture). In contrast to Bemberger, Hughes tended to stay in the shadows, allowing all of his energy to come through in his vocals and guitar attacks. Providing the stability to the band’s sound were Peterson on bass and Mike Sweeney on drums.

It’s a different world of music these guys make. Think Beck meets Jawbreaker meets Archers of Loaf – dance music for indie kids. I expected to see some dancing, or at least some thrashing fish-out-of-water fits of musical interpretation. There was none. The small crowd stood back from the stage and only offered some head bopping and lip synching. Not even at Bemberger’s invitation to “join us in the pit” did the crowd liven up. Maybe if the opening bands hadn’t put them all to sleep they would have had more energy to extend.

Hitchhike – Night Light EP

There is something comforting in the nostalgic eyewink of the mid-90s broad, black and white, easily digestible strokes. The musical canvass was a semi-irony-free, straight-forward, blank mirror reflecting the relatively humble state of indie rock to the listener. From a random sampling of labels like Merge, Matador, and certainly Sub Pop, the lo-fi charm of guitar rock had yet to lose the shine and luster from its juicy apple. It had yet to lapse into the pitfalls of underachieving diminishing returns that most bands fall prey to in today’s climate when trying to recapture the ghosts of 90s indie guitar rock. Somehow its resonance and shimmer has been supplanted either by indie rock’s discovery of new electronic toys and trinkets or — ironically — genre anachronisms like “new weird folk” or 80s new-wave. It’s enough to send any self-respecting Sebadoh fan into apoplectic fits of disbelief.

With this in mind, a record like Hitchhike’s short and sweet five-song offering, Night Light, is the welcomed, if somewhat frayed and musty, comfort blanket you dug out from under the bed. While its lackadaisical and somewhat quaint shambolic charm won’t set barren city street lights to glisten and buzz with sudden energy, it is still a faint porch light memory beckoning wayward strangers and lost refugees of 90s indie rock back home for a weekend visit.

Existing since 2002 and hailing from the perennial indie-rock friendly Austin, Texas, Hitchhike has come up with a bristling little slow-burn charmer that demonstrates an aptitude for solemn hymns of reflection, warmth, and understated style. Although Night Light does lapse into cloying overplayed lo-fi whimsy, there are enough strong melodies and forthright eyes on the prize earnestness to win the day. “I’m Not Tired” is a rousing example of this, espousing an immediate guitar hook and four-to-the-floor rhythm section that bobs and weaves like early Yo La Tengo, circa President Yo La Tengo. If “I’m Not Tired” doesn’t have you harkening back to the adrenaline rush of prime mid-90s pure indie-pop exuberance, than you have ice water in your veins.

Both “It’s You and Me” and “Ceremony Three” take elements of Sebadoh and forgotten Merge label anti-heroes Spent and come up with wry and surreal lyrical backdrops to nostalgic slacker past times of sipping beer by the lake, toasting summers end. Only “All of Your Friends,” with its thinly veiled Beatles cop, and the vague Bright Eyes shuffle of “As it is Said” fail to capitalize on the energy set in the previous songs strengths. While not completely lacking the swagger and stealth of the EP’s opening set, both tracks still come across as muted lackluster bookends to an entirely promising debut. Overall, Night Light aptly suggests a shelf life beyond its antecedent’s heyday, illustrating not so much new tricks to teach an old dog but merely reminding us that the charm of the old dogs’ tricks can still be joyous ones.

Lesbians on Ecstasy – S/T

Earlier tonight, the girly girl and I accompanied some friends to the theatrical version of The Merchant of Venice, starring Al Pacino and Jeremy Irons. As far as Shakespeare adaptations go, this one is one of the best, and Pacino should get nominated for this next year. So any of you Lit geeks out there or maybe those more oppressed folk that simply long to see Joe Fiennes in tights once more should go see this movie. Post haste. For those of you that clicked, expecting a review of risqué material, (LESBIANS – sorry, I just couldn’t go very long without typing that) be not discouraged. You’ll get more lesbian that you bargained for. I simply wanted to develop some semblance of contrast, because Lesbians on Ecstasy is quite possibly the polar opposite of everything Shakespeare. This is not necessarily a bad thing.

Putting aside creepy images of women enjoying the company of other women while under the influence of MDMA and then performing and/or quoting Shakespeare, let’s get the formalities out of the way. The self-titled debut album from Lesbians on Ecstacy is dance music lifted straight out of the acid-washed beats of late 90s techno (with a capital T). Obviously, I could waste a club full of time providing some rambling (and probably incorrect) history of the techno scene as it exploded in the 90s. Since I have absolutely no desire to do that right this moment, and I seriously doubt anyone really wants to read it, we’ll make this simple. As far as this review goes, know that there were two types of electronic oriented music in the 90s:

• Headphone electronica created with a certain feeling or mood in mind, intended to amplify or enhance an emotion or feeling. For example, “Dwr Budr” (Orbital) is one of the most gorgeous haunting pieces to be released, while “Eyes of Stanley Pain” is a claustrophobic nightmare (Download).

• Dance-centric throbbing seizure-inducing techno meant to put the dance in your pants and really regret being stuck in the drink line when the track hits hard. Obvious examples are things like L.A. Styles’ “James Brown is Dead” or that Eon track with all the Dune samples.

Now before I get twenty million emails, yes there are exceptions and obviously I’m excluding a lot of sub-genres and sub-sub genres. Get over it. The point is that Lesbians on Ecstasy are on the dance floor knocking back vodka and tiny white pills while the keyboard geeks are tweaking the sample one more time in their quiet London studio.

This has Lords of Acid written all over it. From the sampled guitar and pounding beats, to the sultry oh-so-sexy female vocals, this is the sort of thing that might play in a phenomenal European strip club or perhaps the backing video for some tasty performance art. Either way, one should expect a lot of leather and submission.

“Intro” starts things up like thousands of other techno compilations and “huge” songs. Keyboard drones slowly build with drums as a distorted voice introduces the band in a drawn-out loopy style reminiscent of Green Velvet’s excellent club-kid track “Flash.” Predictably, the opening spills over into the first proper track, “Parachute Clubbing.” I imagine this serves as the theme song, with empowering lyrics like “we want the freedom / to live in this peace / we want power / we want to make it ok / we want to be singing at the end of the day / ’cuz were lesbians on ecstasy / we want the freedom.” You go girl. Yeah, nothing riveting or remarkably in-depth like say a Phranc song, but then again a lot of the classic house tracks played at Fire Island were nothing but “I’m FREEE I’m FREEE” spun over a disco beat. Aside from the sloganeering lyrics, the track is watered-down musical excitment with familiar club beat, repetitive sampled guitar (think KMFDM demos), and a goofy-ass breakdown.

The girls do possess a sense of humor. “K&undstant KrØving” is quite possibly the most fucked k.d. lang cover in existence. Sleazy electroclash, the vocals are processed to succubus level and the whole track takes on a sinister tone giving me creepy acid flashbacks of a My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult show back in my wilder days of youth. Yikes! It’s a fun track, and it should definitely be a hit with the more pasty-faced vampiric folk out there.

So there it is. If you dig on drug-influenced hardcore dance then this album should get you off properly (umm … yeah, we’ll just let that one go, eh?) “Closer to the Dark” (which carries a bizarre reference to that one Indigo Girls song that gets played on college radio stations around the country at least once a week) is quite possibly the creepiest claustrophobic dance track this side of “Crablouse.”

There’s a live track tacked on to the end, proving that these ladies don’t just sit around in the studio all day long thinking up new songs to fuck with. Live, they present a fairly accomplished if not slightly goofy Butthole Surfers cover band if the band was all females and played more dance-oriented music. So lace up that leather corset and put down your copies of Ayn Rand, because there’s an army on the dance floor and they take no prisoners.

Mike Ferraro – S/T EP

It’s a shame Mike Ferraro could only spare us three songs on this brief introduction to his talents. He’s got a couple of years gigging in and around NYC under his belt and a jones for sturdy pop songwriting delivered in an unfussy, spontaneous state – useful when you’re a performance guerilla, ready to jump at the next available gig with as minimal an entourage as possible. Various demos offered elsewhere reveal him to be a sharp writer comfortable with the constraints forced on him by a low budget home-recording arrangement, forging vigorous, buzzing power-pop of a slightly art-damaged sort. This small offering cleans up the sound and performances, honing the songs to rest easier on Ferraro’s appealingly nasal croon, yet it is a little frustrating in its brevity. A grander statement would have at least helped to clarify whether Ferraro is worth hoarding or just a cute diversion.

Both “Baby Brother” and “Something for Nothing” are stripped-down laments with shades of Elliot Smith and Ferraro’s admitted inspiration, Sebadoh’s Lou Barlow. Ferraro’s lyrics are a little more vague, but they’re suggestive enough and they don’t get in the way. Perfectly good songs, with Ferraro’s North Jersey whine strongly reminiscent of fellow Garden Staters, the Wrens. The remaining “Lovers Only Love” is a snappier tune with bare-bones production and a simple, effective hook. These songs may not be in a league with Ferraro’s other inspiration – Bob Dylan – but they’re certainly better than Jakob’s.

Not that anyone asked, but I’d suggest powering up that old Tascam eight-track Ferraro has so lovingly photographed on his website and having at it. The home demos available there are a bit more interesting and sound good with the scratchy basement production values. Just sayin’.

If these three songs were the best on a 12-song record, they wouldn’t be enough to save the disc: if they were the worst, you could say that Mike Ferraro is a capable writer even when he’s coasting. As it is, it’s hard to say much more based on these pleasant, but unessential songs other than: not bad…what else ya got?

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