Parlour – Hives Fives EP

Let the record show: I am indeed a fan of the often jazzy, possibly extended, mostly engaging, sometimes noisy, and always arty instrumentals otherwise known as “post-rock.” Not that rock is over or anything, but just in case you ever had a doubt of what comes after rock, the boys in Tortoise or Tristeza (just to name some bands that start with the letter T) will gladly give outstanding examples. However, just because I’m a fan doesn’t mean I’m eager to ingest anything with a noodly bassline and pseudo-new-age synth melody (yeah I’m looking at you Mister Second Album from Tristeza). It’s undeniable that acts like Tortoise carved out their own niche in the ugly bloated landscape that is Independent Music (whatever the fuck that means). Sometimes bands studied under these acts and evolved into something just as interesting and unique. Others feel fit to simply dwell in the shadows until oblivion comes knocking.

Parlour nestles itself firmly into the latter category. It’s not that seven guys in the band are untalented hacks. Their latest, High Fives EP, does a great job in displaying the chops of each band member. The synths and horns combine on opener “Such (A Year One Stem)” to create a warm swell into a nice buzzing sound. Further enhanced by the meticulous guitar and what can only be the “vibes” creating some neat scratching effects, the track creates a pleasant enough groove. Don’t expect much more. The track dwells on the groove for a bit before doodling to make room for “Hives Fives.” Here things get a little more interesting with some snazzy drum fills and wonderful unharmonious jarring chords under the horn-based melody. Again, the track holds so much potential, but just when it seems the proper moment to veer off into noise or something a little more raucous, the song stays chained to the original groove. The last minute allows a bit more bashing of chords for a muddled Sonic Youth effect, but it comes off as too little too late.

“Timorme” is a loping track with some great wobbly keyboard on the tail end. Here the sax sounds heavily reminiscent of Morphine if the Sandman was taking a breather from his growly croon. Parlour picks up the pace oh-so slightly with the last track. “Bringseeds” opens up with pounding keyboards and chords with rhythmic drumming. If this is the direction that Parlour is going, then I might have to start paying attention. With just the right amount of psychedelic zither and some entertaining drum fills, it wouldn’t be out of place on an Oneida album.

Tortoise fans who have worn out the entire discography will probably find Parlour incredibly appealing. The jazzy instrumentation gels nicely with albums like TNT. However, while extremely talented, these guys aren’t bring much new to an already crowded table. Since this is an EP, fans new to the whole “post-rock” thing might want to consider picking this up. With only four tracks, all of which under the six-minute mark, the EP serves as a nice introduction to the murky waters of complex instrumentals. Give this to that younger brother that constantly annoys you with Thursday CDs and expand his horizons.

Darren Hanlon – Little Chills

Australia’s Darren Hanlon is a clever singer/songwriter whose charms are destined to get lost in a world that values flash over substance. Even worse for Darren, the world in question also happens to contain a surfeit of clever singer/songwriters already, each strumming their own tales of awkward love and alienation for friends and patient locals who appreciatively coo, “He’s just as good as…”

In Darren’s case, the names dropped might be Ron Sexsmith, Elvis Costello, or the Chills’ Martin Phillips, assuming those locals happened to be musically erudite enough to make the comparisons. Note the tiny details of everyday life given loving and observant treatment, or the rush of words ending in painfully pithy rhymes, all delivered in the friendly twang of a pensive but warm and gregarious Aussie (though Phillips is a New Zealander – close enough). He may not have Sexsmith’s eye for detail, Costello’s bile, or hooks equal to those of the Chills’, but he is a fine tunesmith and lyricist in his own right.

Little Chills is the work of a smart, sensitive fellow, a guy you’d be lucky to sit beside after wandering solo into an unknown pub. “These are my principles, if you don’t like them I’ve got others / These are my opinions, if you don’t agree, I’ve got big brothers,” he sings with a sly grin on the typically likable “The Unmade Bed.” Like much of the record, the song is winsome and tuneful but relaxed almost to a fault. It’s unlikely to burrow deep into your ear – and pop songs are the only things you want burrowing into your ear – or demand a place at the top of your CD stack. So if Darren is the guy you’re next to in a bar, he may also be the acquaintance whose back you slap with warm but anonymous affection before moving on to your crowd of mates. “Who was that?” they may ask. “Oh, just some guy,” you reply.

The laudably minimal production throughout the disc keeps the focus squarely on Darren’s voice and the vaguely generic melancholy that permeates songs like “Brooklyn Bridge.” Little Chills actually sounds more stark than it really is, and that combined with the excessive length of most of these tunes will probably prevent the listener from playing the disc all the way through. The brevity of the opener “Wrong Turn” may have been a better template for Hanlon, the short meditation on chance meetings doing what the songs character does: makes a connection, drains his beer, than moves on. Those fleeting moments may be weighted with portent that outstrips their duration, but that doesn’t mean they need to evolve into anything more than what they are. A valuable lesson delivered just over two minutes, thank you very much.

I didn’t love Little Chills, it’s true, but I find a lot to like about Darren Hanlon. Maybe one day I’ll be lucky enough to cross paths with him, if only for a moment.

The Ebb and Flow – Time to Echolocate

It’s hard to say what’s more damning: The fact that San Francisco trio The Ebb and Flow seems to take this whole bat thing pretty seriously (the first song, “Sonorous,” is a two-part, nine-minute epic), or the fact that Sub Pop folkers Fruit Bats pretty much beat them to it a few years ago. Yeah yeah, I get it – bats use sounds to help them get around, and indie rockers use sound to … hell, forget it.

And yet part of me actually hopes that the bat motif is a product of some Banhart-ian longbeards feeding off Frisco’s emerging whatever-folk community. Because, say what you want about Devendra and company, it wouldn’t be terrible to see a little unity from a city in the throes of its first relevant scene since Quicksilver Messenger Service and Jefferson Airplane were hot tickets.

It wouldn’t be terribly difficult to lump the folks in The Ebb and Flow in with their urban brethren. Parts of the deceivingly morbid “Country Verses” sound straight out of some acid-folk fakebook, and the playful chants of “Sweet Southern Harmony” would make great campfire singalong fodder. The comparison is mostly unfair, however, as E&F’s music is more concerned with filling space and, well, rocking a little, than anything usually associated with the West Coast folk trend.

As a result, Time to Echolocate is more dynamic than recent Frisco releases, but it lacks any real personality. E&F is, for lack of a better qualifier, an indie-rock band, and it brings with it many of the tricks that tag implies. Rigid electric guitars cut through the second half of “Sonorous”; a nondescript sound bite from some bygone television show closes “Sweet Southern Harmony.” The interlude that splits the album – a gleeful horn orgy that marks the band’s most sonically interesting moment – is nearly ruined by the industrial blasts the tear through its closing seconds.

Of course, there’s nothing inherently wrong with being an indie-rock band, even one that’s not particularly original. Sam Tsitrin, who sings lead on half the tracks here, throws out a sinuous vocal melody on “Body and Soul (Bonnie and Saul)” to overcome its pedestrian arrangement. Roshy Kheshti turns in her best performance on “Framer Framed,” sounding somewhat righteous over harsh organ stabs. The galloping horns that highlight “See You in the Fjords” are refreshing from a band that too often seems content chugging along on electric guitar chords. Case in point: the uplifting chorus of Kheshtis on “Sweet Southern Harmony” is rendered nearly mute by several minutes of unmemorable guitar acrobatics.

The two also split time on the lyrics, and they come off as uneven at best. Kheshti, for instance, cashes the caveman-simple exposition, “When I grow up / I’ll be free / I’ll forget Tennessee / I will move to the big city / I will make that big money” and comes up golden, but her riot-grrrl romp in “Framer Framed” feels forced (“He takes credit when credit is due / She writes the plot and she turns the stew”). Tsitrin is no better: “I haven’t heard a human thought / Haven’t seen a friendly face / With freckles and a tooth parade for several years” isn’t a bad line, but if you’re having trouble imagining a melody to tether it to, you’re not alone – Tsitrin couldn’t either.

There’s plenty to like about Time to Echolocate, but it’s tough to remember exactly what that is when the disc isn’t physically spinning. E&F leaves no aftertaste, nothing to hang your hat on, save for Three Ring Records’ gorgeous cardboard packaging. It’s difficult to chastise a band for committing no crime, unless you consider too similar arrangements, tempos, and song lengths punishable crimes.

Soledad Brothers – Voice of Treason

It seems every blues band these days has some sort of interesting story in its past, and the Soledad Brothers are no exception. The Ohio-based trio has an often talked-about link to Jack White of the White Stripes. The part you hear most often is that Jack helped the Soledad Brothers get their first recording contract and produced their first album. The part of the story that seems to go untold most often – and honestly the part that has much more value, I believe – is that Soledad Brothers frontman Johnny Walker taught Jack White to play slide guitar.

Voice of Treason is the Soledad Brothers’ third full-length album. Released in the United States in 2004, well after its 2003 release in Europe, this disc finds the Brothers in a more solid groove while still following the path of garage-rock rhythm and blues. More cohesive, perhaps a bit more restrained, and much darker than their previous efforts, Voice of Treason seems much more focused on roots music. Whether the band is channeling the spirit of the early Rolling Stones or digging much farther back to the blues and country, the group is poised to lead the revival. Frankly, I’m surprised the Soledad Brothers aren’t getting more attention – but then again, so many great musicians aren’t given their due.

Walker (guitar/vocals) is joined by longtime partner in crime Ben Swank on drums and multi-instrumentalist Oliver Henry on Voice of Treason. The trio offers up 13 tracks that run the gamut from R&B and soul to country and gospel. Still, this is an album primarily based in the blues with “based” being the key word. Opening track “Cage that Tiger” is more reminiscent of early punk-rockabilly revival, while other tracks like “The Elucidator,” “On Time,” and “Handle Song” lean more toward pure boogie. “Lay Down This World” is a traditional gospel number that is more upbeat than some of the other tracks, but it still fits in nicely.

The Soledad Brothers also give ample time to slower songs like “Only Flower in My Bed,” a heartbreaker of crying in your beer proportions that serves as a fine prelude to the short “Boogie With Viner” – a 39-second guitar-and-piano ditty that sounds like an outro and would have been better used as such. Voice of Treason wraps up with the more straightforward blues of “Lorali” and ends the disc on a fairly languid pace.

Although the Soledad Brothers aren’t necessarily doing anything new with the blues – or garage rock for that matter – what these guys do, they do quite well. Enjoying this album is really a clear-cut case of whether or not you like this style of music. Make no mistake that much of what you’ll hear on Voice of Treason has been done before, but this trio does a fantastic job of paying homage to their favorite musicians while still keeping it interesting. It’s clear that plenty of time on the road has given Walker, Swank, and Henry the time to become better musicians and songwriters. Although the band had some initial trouble getting this album released in the US due to its supposed “subversive” title, I’m thankful that Sanctuary took a chance to bring this fine collection of songs to blues rock fans.

Ballboy – Light Saber

Let me just start off by saying that I am a huge Star Wars nerd. I saw Revenge of the Sith the day it came out, and I have a couple more devoted friends who had camped out a week ahead and saw the midnight show. So, obviously, I was automatically turned on when I saw the name “Light Saber.” For the past few weeks, I’ve surrounded myself in everything Star Wars, from only watching Star Wars movies to wearing Star Wars underwear (embarrassing indeed). All that possible bias aside, this song is awesome.

I managed to tear a friend of mine away from Star Wars for a few seconds (he was gawking at how the ending to what is now Episode six was brushed up to include Hayden Christiansen in place of the original Darth Vader) and asked him what he thought of “Light Saber.” His response was one of the stupidest things I have ever seen. He started dancing. Think of your generic Star Wars nerd, quite literally in a Star Wars t-shirt, dancing. Is it possible to not recommend this song?

Since my friends reaction to exposure to this song, I’ve been showing it to all my Star Wars buddies. I tried a little experiment and got them all in the same room (not an easy task, trust me). The result was some of the most awkward movements I’ve ever seen. Do I really need to go on? If you like dancing nerds, you like this song.

Shining – Perdurabo

Anger. Fear. Light-headedness. These are just a fraction of the menagerie of emotions and feelings experienced while listening to “Perdurabo” (or anything from Shining, for that matter). Everything about this nightmare-inspiring, mind-blowing song is amazing. You’ll be a Shining fan from the moment you hear those amazing “wailing” guitars, backed up by some genius drum work, and a plethora of unique, emotion setting sounds. It’s awesome.

Earlier this year, Shining released the brilliantly (and fittingly) titled In the Kingdom of Kitsch You Will be a Monster. This is an album that should not be missing from any indie-rock fan’s collection, and it certainly won’t end up just gathering dust. Shining could be described as genre-defying, if you could find a genre they fit into. It’s kind of like a mix between heavy metal and post-folk. Virtually polar opposites, and somehow it comes out beautiful, moody, and brilliant. Almost everything you come across while listening to Shining is going to be unique and different. Listening to Shining is truly an experience. And an experience that should not be missed, to say the least.

If listening to good music sounds like a good idea to you, by all means, listen to Perdurabo, and buy Shining’s new album. **WARNING** Tasteless people, beware.

Lovejoy – Everybody Hates

Everybody should like Everybody Hates. It’s hard not to like a well-produced album consisting of light and airy synth-based melodies and over-polished bass lines with breezy indie-guitar strums. But if you listen a little closer and dig a little deeper, you will discover that it’s not always sunny in the Lovejoy world, as the bright, up-beat pop melodies are accompanied by cynical views of relationships, English culture, and the music industry. Unfortunately, most of the songs follow this same formula, and even though the disc is short – 10 songs in just over 35 minutes – you will be ready to listen to something else when it is over.

Richard Preece is the driving force behind Lovejoy and the only musician credited in the liner notes, except for Guy Jackson who provides additional drums and percussion. Preece also lends his listless singing voice to the songs; however, it’s his vitriolic wit that gives the songs their personality. Singing in a hushed, breathy tone, Preece often seems completely disinterested in the subject matter, similar in style to Black Box Recorder’s Sarah Nixey. Morrissey also comes to mind as he sings “Everybody hates us and we don’t care” on the song with the same name, but think Morrissey on Valium rather than his work with The Smiths.

Most of the tunes are built around subdued, New Order-ish, hooky bass lines with waves of dreamy synth washes that flutter over light guitar strumming, creating sweet-sounding melodies that are pleasant enough while you are listening to them but cannot be recalled once the disc is over. Attempts to make the songs more interesting are made by adding additional percussion and occasional bell and chime effects that drift in and out. This works well on the first couple of tracks, including “Everybody Hates Us And We Don’t Care” and “Petrol Stars,” but this convention tends to drag on the next few songs before Lovejoy hits the nail on the head with the irresistibly catchy “Sid Vicious.” The disc closes with a couple of slower tunes that don’t quite match the energy of the better tracks and could be part of the reason that when the disc is over you’re looking for something else to play as opposed to looking for the repeat button.

Everybody Hates is a disc that can work on two emotional levels. If played on a bright, sunny day, the music will fit right in and act to boost your spirits with the blithe melodies and lofty keyboards, and if played on a rainy day that has you down, the gloomy commentary will match your mood. Overall, Lovejoy has created a likable synth-pop record that is enjoyable to listen to, but it’s one that does not cover any new ground or contain enough variety to make it a memorable experience.

The Mountain Goats – The Sunset Tree

To many people (your humble reviewer included), the Mountain Goats aren’t merely a band – they are an obsession to the point of being nearly fetishistic. We spend an inordinate amount of time hunting down old cassette-only releases and trading live bootlegs, tracking John Darnielle’s decade-long music career with a fervent dedication that is normally only seen in the devoutly religious.

While this type of behavior might seem befuddling to outsiders, it’s not really much of a mystery. The characters in Darnielle’s flash narratives tread the line of the everyman; they are at once instantly recognizable and eminently knowable, and even if we are not as poetic as some of his near-mythic protagonists, we can still easily identify with their plights. His songs resonate with us because it seems as if he is singing about our lives and our own personal triumphs and failures. And even when the songs are autobiographical in nature – such as 2004′s We Shall All be Healed – they still feel deeply personal, the conviction in Darnielle’s nasally voice transforming his history into a blanket confessional that became entirely relatable to our own occasionally troubled pasts.

The Sunset Tree, the latest release from the Goats, follows a narrative path similar to the one laid out in We Shall All be Healed; however, while the latter deals with the troubles (and the eventual fallout) of an early adulthood spent on pharmaceuticals and dirty motel floors, the former delves into Darnielle’s earlier life, seemingly sorting out the sordid details of his teenage years. This new collection of intensely personal narratives is perhaps Darnielle’s best work yet; while the material is at times uncomfortable and discomfiting, one can’t help but be fascinated – and a little touched – as Darnielle unflinchingly details a young man’s dread at his stepfather’s approach, the comfort found in the arms of strange lovers, and the acceptance and resolution found in the older, wiser years of adulthood.

The album keeps the same hi-fi studio production that the Goats have been utilizing since 2002′s Tallahassee. Longtime friends and collaborators Peter Hughes, Franklin Bruno, and John Vanderslice are back in tow, with Vanderslice and engineer Scott Solter manning the boards. And while the songs do not display the same sort of revelatory experimentation found in We Shall All be Healed, they do show Darnielle and company to be more at ease both in the studio and playing as a full, complementary ensemble; the sound is a little more unified and cohesive, with the songs sharing a stylistic similarity throughout the album. This might partly be due to the addition of cellist Erik Friedlander to several of the tracks; his work throughout the album is extremely versatile and dynamic, lending a nervous edge to certain tracks (like the anxious and jittery “Dilaudid”) and giving others a softly yearning accompaniment (such as in the subtly beautiful closer “Pale Green Things”).

Compositionally, the songs showcase the Mountain Goats finding and maintaining a comfortable groove, utilizing sparse percussion work, touches of bouncy piano, and even the occasional mandolin flourish. Opener “You or Your Memory” is carried along on softly shuffling drums, a muted acoustic, and a gently sustained piano, setting a nicely subdued backdrop for a sadly squalid evening spent in front of a mirror with “St. Joseph’s baby aspirin / Bartles and Jaymes / And you, or your memory.” The following track “Broom People” employs the same instruments to achieve a different dynamic; it sets a slow build-up for Darnielle as he describes the environment that fostered the dramatic theme of the album, an environment that spurred him to “Write good reasons to freeze to death / in [his] spiral-ring notebook.”

“Broom People” is immediately followed by the wonderful “This Year,” a peppy and upbeat number detailing the joy of leaving behind a broken home and driving towards the “good things ahead.” While the sentiment is ostensibly tempered by the “cavalcade of anger and fear” brought upon by his stepfather, the oddly rousing chorus says otherwise, as Darnielle proclaims in a defiantly triumphant voice that “I am going to make it / through this year / if it kills me.” Similarly, “Up the Wolves” finds Darnielle swearing that “it’s gonna take you people years / To recover from all the damage” to a cheery major chord progression; he uses the old myth of Rome’s founding to great effect during the chorus, as he exultantly declares that “There’s gonna be a party when the wolf comes home.”

But the ghost of his stepfather is inescapable, and he haunts nearly every aspect of The Sunset Tree. His face is seen in the shattered glass and circular figures of “Dance Music,” in the threateningly militant march and animalistic imagery of “Lion’s Teeth,” and in the ardently-strummed guitar and trembling fear of “Hast Thou Considered the Tetrapod.” And yet, in the end, there is tired resignation, and perhaps even acceptance; the delicate “Love Love Love” conjures King Saul, Dostoevsky’s Raskolnikov, and Kurt Cobain in an attempt to explain the strangely oppressive relief found in seemingly desperate acts, while the devastatingly poignant closer “Pale Green Things” – propelled by a surprising intricate guitar line and Friedlander’s sterling cello work – seemingly describes Darnielle’s own confused emotions towards hearing news of his stepfather’s death. It’s a touching recollection of what seems to be one of the few somewhat pleasant memories Darnielle has of his stepfather, one that he turns over in his mind “Like a living Chinese finger-trap.”

There are times when The Sunset Tree can be nearly unbearable; the emotions and sentiments expressed are extremely intimate, and it can be extraordinarily uncomfortable to peer so deeply into the life of a performer who once shunned the idea that a song could act as an autobiographical vehicle. However, it is also profoundly stirring, and knowing that there are aspects of the narrative that are actually true only cause the songs to resonate more clearly within the listener. Affecting, sad, and catchy as hell, The Sunset Tree is one of the most rewarding albums in the Mountain Goats’ oeuvre; while those hoping for Darnielle’s return to the lo-fi grind of his early works will be sorely disappointed, others will find this album to be a worthwhile excursion into what is perhaps the most interesting phase of his years-long career.

Doris Henson – Give Me All Your Money

Apologies for quoting the movie most over-cited by white males ages 21 – 40, Fight Club, but sometimes modern music can seem like “a copy of a copy of a copy.” Innovation hasn’t been in style in a long, long time, and perhaps that not entirely bad, because the finest moments on Doris Henson’s sophomore release Give Me All Your Money are about as good as derivative gets. In fact, Doris Henson is so good at mimicking and merging genres that many of the songs on Give Me All Your Money sound like tunes you’ve likely heard before, but can’t compute when or where.

The object of Kansas City’s Doris Henson’s musical obsession is primarily anything from the land of Oliver Cromwell, Benny Hill, and Screaming Lord Sutch that’s been released within the last 30 or 40 years. From the buzzing opener, “Pollen Tom,” which sounds exactly like Oasis copying The Smiths lifting from The Kinks, to the conclusion, “When You Go,” that sounds like a lost Brian Eno classic, and all points in between, Doris Henson revels in the past glories of Brit superstars. But these guys (it’s a band, not a woman named Doris) do it so well that it’s pointless to complain. Just shrug your shoulders, smile, and have fun playing that “spot the influences” game music critics and record geeks enjoy so much.

Three Give Me All Your Money tracks in particular are pretty phenomenal and take a listener on a journey to an earlier era more eloquently than a Norman Rockwell painting: “A Dark Time for the Light of the Earth,” “Big Future,” and “Dead Stars.” “A Dark Time for the Light of the Earth” builds around a dizzying My Bloody Valentine-styled riff and lazy Jim Reid-esque vocals and would sound beautiful in the middle of a late night collegiate makeout session in a random dorm room circa 1989. “Big Future” is an intensely melodic horn-filled song that resembles the best work by a various assortment of 80s psych-inspired post-punkers like Teardrope Explodes and Echo & the Bunnymen, complete with the requisite detached vocals and angular guitar riffs.

“Dead Stars,” however, is the coup de grace of “imitation as art form.” Picture the stiff yet funky guitar work of Mick Ronson, the tight-ass rhythm section of T. Rex, the glorious monotone of Ian Curtis or Robert Smith, and classic glam-inspired sci-fi imagery all unleashed at once over six-minutes you have a Brit-worhipping masterpiece that would make Stanley Kubrick blush.

When listening to Doris Henson and the band’s fixation on British bands of yore, simply ignore all preconceived notions you may have had about artistic mimicry and take some advice from the pioneers of Brit-rock – “turn off your mind, relax, and float down stream.”

Kill Crush Destroy – The Weaker We Get…

On The Weaker We Get… Kill Crush Destroy literally does everything implied by its name. This band brings all of the intensity of Damaged-era Black Flag. Now I know you’ve probably heard that one before, and you know what, so have I. I love early Black Flag stuff so much it isn’t funny. I could argue the point, needlessly I might add, that Black Flag was the perfect hardcore band right up until My War was released and Greg Ginn ruined the band with his terribly out-of-place wanking. We here at DOA get these little things called press releases with the stuff that we are sent to review. Now, most of the time I just throw that crap away and make my own decision about what I think a band sounds like. Kill Crush Destroy’s press kit included the phrase “sounds like Black Flag….no we really mean it…Black Flag.” I scoffed at the notion that any other band could sound like that again and pull it off without sounding contrived. That is until I heard this record.

Kill Crush Destroy serves up 13 tracks of brutal hardcore punk on The Weaker We Get…, and to be honest it sounds more like Black Flag than any other band I’ve ever heard. Not only that, but this band is fucking intense like early ‘Flag as well. All of the songs are around the two-minute mark, and the entire record is pretty much devoid of filler. This thing thrashes too, at times recalling the sound of Mark McCoy’s output with Charles Bronson or Das Oath. Now if you care about powerviolence at all then I’ve just dropped a bomb on you because Charles Bronson is another one of those bands that is very singular in sound, and Kill Crush Destroy is spastic and noisy in the same manner as that band’s best material.

While Kill Crush Destroy doesn’t offer anything very original here, the band does offer up some very good hardcore nonetheless. I meant everything I said about the Black Flag comparisons too. If you want something fast and furious but still intelligible, then this is the record for you. The Weaker We Get… is a great record that, while lacking slightly in ingenuity, still offers a peek at what can still be accomplished in the hardcore genre when real ferocity takes precedent over style.

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