Crystal Castles – xxzxczx me

Thank god for drum machines & sequencers. I am in love with this band. Fractured, disjointed keyboards layered with manic vocals that recall Black Cat #13 makes for a really sexy song. I am glad that bands like this are around to combat the boredom of straight forward guitar bands. Heavily indebted to both San Diego & Providence, this is the type of song that makes you want to bush off the dust from your roland, get drunk, & make some music with your friends.

A lot of people complain about music like this, saying there are no hooks or melodies & that it is a lot of noisy trash with no thought behind it. I disagree to a certain extent. Yes, there are some bands who just have sped up drums with a lot of noise riding a top of it just to be noisy, but there are a lot of bands who put tons of thought & effort behind every song. Crystal Castles definitely fall into the latter category of these groups, as not all of their songs fall into this category. I chose this song though because it appealed to me the most & showed how innovative I think this band is.

The Black Maria – A Shared History of Tragedy

The knock on indie punk and hardcore pioneer label Victory Records is that the current roster is weak. The Black Maria’s A Shared History of Tragedy won’t change that. This band doesn’t just play radio-ready hard rock; they have obliterated any urge they had to sound unique. So if you don’t see these guys on MTV2 soon, someone is going to get fired for wasting a lot of money – or for not wasting enough.

Cynical punk and hardcore music fans still clinging to the indie ideals of the late 1980’s and 90’s will not like A Shared History of Tragedy. To them this music is the latest sign of the independent music apocalypse, with each over-produced, punched-up kick of the bass drum driving a nail deeper in the indie coffin.

All you’re getting with The Black Maria’s new album is high production value – high enough to turn a run of the mill hard rock band into potential radio stars briefly adored by a small throng of pissed-off suburban junior high kids. If you’re one of those kids, or if you have been wondering what Linkin Park has been up to, you will probably like A Shared History of Tragedy.

But if you’re a music snob, then don’t bother. Each song on this album tries and fails to be an epic. It is an album full of wanna-be November Rain’s. Under different circumstances that could be a noble effort. But instead, The Black Maria just sound like they tried everything in hopes of gaining broad appeal and the cash that follows. Verse parts merely serve to contrast money shot choruses. In softer moments, guitars give way to piano. Vocal harmonies back up the fake yearning lead. Breakdowns and screams come on cue. Throw in some orchestral shit for the chicks and sensitive boys. And don’t forget the expensive packaging, complete with the band members’ sensitive but serious faces Photoshop-ed in against some heavy backscapes.

I am oversimplifying but this album is too predictable and generic to worry about it.

The Knife – Silent Shout

Being Swedish Grammis winners of “Pop Group of the Year” in 2003 for their previous work on Deep Cuts, specifically the ultra-sweet “Heartbeats,” expectations were high for The Knife to produce a delicious follow-up. Hell, the song was so good it jump-started two careers, The Knife’s and Nick Drake wannabe Jose Gonzalez (whose cover of the song was featured in a Sony ad campaign). However, those expecting the sibling duo of Karin Dreijer Andersson and Olaf Dreijer to plant another digestible pop hit on the international scene may be slightly put off by some of the ghastly sounds on Silent Shout. This record, the duo’s third, moves in a decidedly darker and different direction than its predecessor.

Silent Shout immediately establishes its supremacy to Deep Cuts’ dance-floor pop. Gone are the awkward transitions from 4/4 techno to weird music box romps, having been replaced with self-assured arpeggiated synth lines and gross electronic squelches. Karin’s vocals have been treated on just about every track, vocoded and pitch-shifted into severely higher and lower ranges than most of the previous albums’ material. Even the vocal parts that the average listener would be inclined to attribute to a male voice are hers. Just listen to the call-and-response part at the end of “We Share Our Mother’s Health.”

While these things can make initial exposures to Silent Shout bewildering and in some cases even frightening, time invested is key to the equation. On the one hand, those not already acquainted with much electronica might find the record impenetrable; fans of Bjork, Radiohead, and even mid-period Depeche Mode, on the other hand, will see recurring themes in the disfigured vocal approach and knotty keyboard tones. “Silent Shout” masks Dreijer Andersson with the voice of Starscream from the Transformers cartoon series, robotic and harsh over strong drum machine bleating. “Na Na Na,” “From Off to On,” and “Still Light” break up the grotesque onslaught of tracks like “Neverland” and “Like A Pen” with the sort of beatless-ambience one would expect if Boards of Canada took a more shadowy approach to its time-lapsed craft. “One Hit” has a campy feel to its story of raised fists and Corleone family comparisons. Al Pacino would be so proud.

The Knife has managed to surpass all of its previous efforts by doing the exact oppposite of most of its peers. While many electronic acts are trying their hand at folkier compositions and attempting to squeeze warmth from the digital realm, The Knife’s Silent Shout opts for ice-cold distance. The record suffers nothing for it, instead coming out monolithic and beautiful.

Pumajaw – Edinburgh – Liquid Room, Scotland – 2006-10-22

I’ve been going to gigs at the Liquid Room, and back when it was called the Music Box, for many years now and it was the first time I’ve walked into the venue and seen seats laid out on the floor. Perhaps this is a sign that they weren’t expecting a big crowd, although it isn’t a typically raucous, all-standing show tonight, maybe they were taking the opportunity to make it a bit more intimate and homely for Yorkston and co.

Still, there was a reasonable turnout for a Sunday night. Pumajaw (a.k.a. Pinkie Maclure and John Wills) played a haunting, gothic folk sound, Wills adding beats, guitar and drum loops and noises to Maclure’s resonating voice and concertina. Maclure was a captivating sight as she glides around the stage, seemingly lost in the moments of her and Wills’ songs. And their songs, at times lovely and alluring, at others dark and mystical, were nothing less attention-holding.

As much as I loved The Delgados, I can’t help feeling disappointed by Emma Pollock’s solo material. Armed with an acoustic guitar and backed by Jamie Savage (brother of Delgados drummer Paul) on electric piano, Pollock delivered a set that never lifted itself above the bland and inoffensive. I am intrigued to hear her songs with a full band nonetheless, perhaps they will fill out and become as multi-layered as her previous recordings. Maybe that’s a forlorn hope and that wish is clouded by memories of times past. My erstwhile colleague on the evening described her set as “Hersh-lite” and it was a fair comparison. A comparison that may continue to accompany her throughout her time as a solo performer.

There wasn’t any chance of being disappointed by James Yorkston (and the 2 Athletes accompanying him on stand-up bass and accordion). Yorkston’s beautiful, frail songs were full of warmth, feeling and depth. He opens with an an acapella, traditional number before segueing into “Steady As She Goes” from his latest, and best, LP “Year Of The Leopard”. Traditional folk has always played a part in Yorkston’s 3 LPs and he takes its best elements (he’s a brilliant guitarist) and mixes it in with winsome melodies and arrangements that are quite heartbreaking at times.

Yorkston is a wonderful self-deprecating performer too (near the end of the set he asks for the time and muses when told “it’s ten to (ten). Time to wheel out the hits…”). He and his band play choice cuts from each LP (“I Awoke”, “Us Late Travellers” from the latest, “Shipwreckers” from the second and the closing coupling of “St Patrick” and “Sweet Jesus” from the first) were particular stand outs) before disappearing into the night at the appointed curfew time.

He could have played for a lot longer than the hour and 20 minutes or so that he did and I know that not a second of it would have been wasted. It’s a fairly simple formula Yorkston has and sometimes that simplicity bears fruit. It’s easy to tell that Yorkston and his friends enjoy what they do, they are relaxed and easy with each other and it lends itself to an atmosphere that the Edinburgh crowd add to. The reception afforded to them is warm and well-deserved. It was pretty special to be in their company.

The Oaks – Our Fathers and the Things They Left Behind

The Oaks’ debut album, Our Fathers and the Things They Left Behind is a thought-provoking recording of several songs that have their roots in the soil of Afghanistan. Songwriter Ryan Costello spent two years there on a humanitarian mission living with recently returned refugees, learning from them, and helping teach them nutrition development and agriculture. He was incredibly moved by the experience and expressed these emotions through his guitar. These musical expressions became the seeds for the songs featured on his first full-length album.

After returning from the Middle East, Ryan joined with his best friend and long-time musical partner, Matt Antolick, to expand these songs and refine them for recording. Over the next eight months, they worked together to produce their first album, recording it entirely in their living room with the help of several friends.

The album begins with beautiful, fluttery acoustic guitar, a prelude to their musical homage to Hugh Thompson, Jr., one of the heroes of the Mai Lai massacre in Vietnam who saved a village of wounded civilians from being massacred by US troops. The song, “For Hugh Thompson, Who Stood Alone. My Lai Massacre, Vietnam, 1968” is quite possibly the best on the album, with flowing guitar, fluid drums, bells, horns and back-up vocals that frame the inspiring lyrics, “In the line of fire you raised your hands / as the silence slowly descended / between infamy and fame your name was on the lips / of both angels and demons.”

Another song, “Hugh Thompson, the aftermath” laments the result of the My Lai incident, in which Officer Thompson was punished by the military and rejected by who he thought were his close friends. “The silence still remained as you lay in your bunk that night / as your friends prepared to make of you a sacrifice.”

“Message from the Moon” is another great song, with beautiful rhythms and a full sound created by layers of guitars, vocals, and marimba. The lyrics, “my light won’t shine forever / so lift up your head and look around at the cave you’re in” urges the listener to live life now because, “all our days are numbered / until we stand before our maker.”

All of the songs on the album are very well written, and they are as inspiring as they are introspective. You can hear their influences including Guided By Voices, Sigur Ros, Paul Simon, Radiohead and Donovan, with a fluid mingling of sounds that creates a musical atmosphere well suited to their poetic lyrics. This album is worth a listen, and with 50% of all profits going to aid Afghan refugees, you can feel even better about purchasing the CD.

The Curtains – Calamity

Sometimes songwriters need time to get the lead out. The Curtains, Chris Cohen’s not-Deerhoof band, stands as the musical bathroom where he squats when he gets a bad case of song diarrhea. Thanks to a deft ear, Cohen molds song farts into brown logs of beauty without the shitty smell or corny leftovers.

Cohen (who recorded Calamity almost entirely himself) plays pretty pop that hearkens back to ‘60s greats The Beach Boys, The Beatles, and The Zombies. Upon repeated listens, Calamity reveals itself to be a nice enough record, understated in its delivery and layering.

Not that there are a million guitar tracks or anything like that. Instead, Calamity traipses on the quiet side, but swells as certain songs necessitate, such as the cacophonous conclusion of the title track. Just check out the nearly unrecognizable muted guitar in “Tornado Traveler’s Fear”, so rhythmic and well mixed that one may mistake it for a lightly galloping tom roll.

The record’s real strength, though, lies in Cohen’s voice. At once clear, inviting, delicate, and playful, Cohen sings longingly on “Go Lucky”, underwater on “Wysteria”, and in a cave during the weirdo lurch of “Invisible String”. When joined by Nedelle Torrisi, Cohen’s vocal chords step back and work to complement the song, as in “World’s Most Dangerous Woman.” Cohen takes the bumpy low road as Torrisi’s ascending soprano pulls the song just a little closer to the sun above the clouds.

Calamity’s undeniable highlight, however, squeezes itself in near the end. “Fell On a Rock & Broke It”’s chorus, complete with chiming bells, fuzzy guitars, and Motown boy-girl “oohs”, inches ever closer from good to great. The infectious melody jumps up and down, immediately setting itself apart from the simple verse.

Upon first listen, some of Calamity, though fun, sounds like partial ideas rather than full-fledged songs. Some tracks never recover from this symptom after a dozen spins; some do. At just over a half hour, the LP doesn’t overstay its welcome. Though not as ADHD as Deerhoof, The Curtains keeps up with any other group inspired by the more innocent pop of the 1960s. I believe Cohen when he sings in “Old Scott Rd”, “Because the magic’s turned to brown/ I will turn it back around.” He managed to mold nutty chunks of ideas into solid shit and flushed it out. Whoosh! Now don’t you feel better?

Annuals – Be He Me

I’d never have imagined associating the chirping of crickets with anything short of an irredeemable borefest – popular culture be damned, I was wrong.

“Brother,” lead-off track to Be He Me, evolves behind the facade of an ambient, insect-centric landscape. Once the tiny creatures lose their prominence, North Carolina-based Annuals advance on the listener’s cognition with a bewildering collection of organic, relaxing, and deeply-involved tracks as dense and active as a forest’s flora yet as listenable as any other contemporary pop cut.

First impressions left me imagining Animal Collective strung out on barbiturates and stranded in the woods, recording equipment and a bevy of instruments existing as their sole physical attachments. However, scrutiny – as it has a penchant to do – revealed what might very well be the antithesis to the “freak folk” movement altogether. Annuals naturalize and nurture dense sonic scenery into tight pop vignettes whereas groups in the genre have a tendency to debase conventionality for the sake of all things bizarre and outlandish. This gentle technique aids in the creation of a far more sentimental and passionate work, hoisting an emotive, narrative capability above alienating contemporaries.

Granted, Be He Me isn’t afraid to approach the fuzzed-out, sing-along-in-tongues territory charted by those groups when it allows whirling howls, meticulously-placed aural aberrations, and off-kilter vocal dynamics to bleed into the tracks like indiscreet trails of color slung about an abstract work of art, but the bulk of Annuals’s material charts ground that the freakier bands willingly avoid by opting for such unorthodox soundscapes. Dabbling in these atypical techniques allows the band to bore into the listener’s consideration and then consequentially embed much more commonplace modes in areas otherwise unattainable by a simple pop tune. The songs are then gloriously down to earth and wholly natural – much better suited for a get together around the fire with close acquaintances than for a day at the zoo with distortion pedals and individuals in painted masks.

When “Brother” was first released months ago, it causes quite a stir on various blogs and publications, and, I must say, all the press is well warranted. Its frail acoustic origins burst into a brusque, exhilarating imagining of a hike gone awry, yet the brume of enlivened drumming and cathartic, over-dubbed shouts never send the general serenity of the track into disarray befuddlement. “The Bull and the Goat” sports scattered percussion alongside Bakers’s flushed, alleviating vocals to achieve a fusion of relaxation and animation. “Dry Clothes” is as bubbly and harmonic as an Islands song and arguably more focused and better produced, resulting in a crisp cut of folky cheer; the same description easily extends to the greater part of Be He Me,

With their debut, Annuals extend an invitation into a mossy alcove, one sequestered off by the hanging of lush curtains of vegetation and lit by a hanging moon in a cloudless sky. Be He Me offers a snapshot of a picturesque scene worth reviewing and revisiting time and time again.

Tanya Donelly – This Hungry Life

Given Ms. Donelly’s impressive rock resume, I expected more from This Hungry Life. I wanted more of the visceral post punk that graced Throwing Muses’ seven studio albums, more of the energetic alternative rock of the Breeders, and more of the sprightly guitar pop of Belly. Or even better, more of the impressive blithe pop of her polished solo debut Lovesongs For Underdogs. At times This Hungry Life hints at Donelly’s brilliant past but for the most part it’s a kinder, gentler and leaner rock sound and perhaps her most personal work yet.

However, you don’t survive over 20 years in this business without constantly pushing the envelope and taking chances while writing songs people can relate to. This philosophy has extended into This Hungry Life, and for that Donelly should be commended. The entire album was recorded in front of a small, live audience over one hot summer weekend in Vermont. A noble idea with the intent of capturing the energy between artist and audience, though it is pointed out that this is much less a live album than an album recorded live. Donelly says “The focus was not to capture a show, but rather to make a record with people there”. The sound quality is better than what you would expect from a live album. In fact the only hint that this album was recorded live is the occasional smattering of applause between tracks. Sitting in as Tanya’s band are husband and guitarist Dean Fisher, Rich Gilbert (Frank Black and the Catholics) also on guitar and pedal steel, Arthur Johnson (Come) on drums, Joe McMahon on upright bass, Joan Wasser (Lou Reed, Antony and the Johnsons) on the violin, and Bill Janovitz (Buffalo Tom) on vocals.

The album opens nicely with “NE” which is one of a handful of higher energy songs that boasts the rich, layered guitar sounds we have become accustomed to hearing from Donelly’s previous bands. In addition to “NE”, some of the more dynamic and vibrant tunes include “Kundalini Slide”, “Days Of Grace” and “River Girls” which employ a full band sound and lean more towards her indie-rock roots. Unfortunately interspersed between these radiant rockers are some leaner and slower ballads, including a cover of George Harrison’s “Long Long Long”, where the violins are used more like fiddles and the pedal steel guitar nudge these tracks over the line into country terrain, although lyrically more pensive and erudite.

The saving grace in all of this, of course, is Donelly’s voice and singing. There is certainly no lack of emotion and she uses her distinctive voice in such a way that it sounds both pretty and hauntingly surreal at the same time. So whether it is a slow-burning, melancholic ballad or a nimble pop song, and no matter what the subject matter, it is always easy on the ears.

While This Hungry Life shows flashes of Ms. Donelly’s past indie-rock excellence, the leaner, more mature and country-ish sound is somewhat of a disappointment since the essence of rock and roll is to maintain that edgy, rebellious streak even as we age. But at least she is continuing, and willing, to explore new musical avenues and, as always, creating emotional songs while singing from the heart and having fun at the same time which is also what rock and roll is all about.

Red Sparowes – Every Red Heart Shines Toward the Red Sun

Explosions in the Sky once revealed that an ideal, if naïve, approach to instrumental music is plot formulation and, in doing so, underscored their not too tenuous connection with orchestral music past. If a composition of any genre can tell a story without language’s aid, then it has achieved meaning in some respect—an end that should arguably be shared by all artists. “Six Days at the Bottom of the Ocean,” for instance, is allegedly the story of the Kursk, a Russian submarine that sank with its crew. And, with this knowledge, it is easy enough to hear those crystalline guitars, ringing like depth sounders, trace out the tragic narrative. For those familiar with Red Sparowes and their debut, At the Soundless Dawn, this should all be reiteration. Red Sparowes’ manifesto-like song titles and apocalyptic tendencies reveal a clear desire to spin a yarn, and, credible or not, Every Red Heart Shines Toward the Sun is a story of the Brave New World-sort, though, sadly enough, it is based on 20th century history.

“The great leap forward poured down upon us one day like a might storm, suddenly and furiously blinding our senses.” So the story is not languageless after all; its outline is suggested by the song titles. The “great leap forward” initiated by Mao Tse Tung in 1958 sounds at first like the Secret Machines before dropping into Mogwai-mode, where the band will remain. This is one of the album’s finest tracks, bearing its melodic progression through successive displays of distortion and power—the metal pedigree is never clearer. The song moves forward like the political machinery it invokes, permitting neither pause nor dissemination.

“We stood transfixed in blank devotion as our leader spoke to us, looking down on our mute faces with a great, raging, and unseeing eye.” If “The great leap forward” is Mao, “We stood transfixed” is his proletariat: the most numerous people on earth, squarely in nationalism’s grip. The main guitar sways in rhythmic convolutions while a bass swathed in chorus and distortion reminds us where this is going.

“Like the howling glory of the darkest winds, this voice was thunderous and the words holy, tangling their way around our hearts and clutching our innocent awe.” Mao’s voice, evidently, is processed through a Boss Chorus pedal. Thunderous indeed, this chord progression sounds like something Refused would use; 10 minutes might stretch the attention, but only the best public speakers can do otherwise.

“A message of avarice rained down and carried us away into false dreams of endless riches. ‘Annihilate the sparrow, that stealer of seed, and our harvests will abound; we well watch our wealth flood in.’” This is a lovely song, bolstered immeasurably by its slide guitar and continual progression. A decree is no place for cycle and alteration when polished persuasion and a sense of inevitability are demanded.

“And by our own hand did every last bird lie silent in the puddles, the air barren of song as the clouds drifted away.” How did the villagers kill the sparrows, you ask? Apparently, they “banged pots and pans to keep the sparrows in flight until the birds die[d] of exhaustion.”

“For killing their greatest enemy, the locusts noisily thanked us and turned their jaws toward our crops, swallowing our greed whole.” The locusts’ gratitude is understated and short. A loathsome rattling of wings appears at the end.

“Millions starved and we became skinnier and skinnier, while our leaders became fatter and fatter.” Is this the sound of famine? The anger’s there, but I don’t sense the desperation. The press sheet reports that villagers were in some cases driven to cannibalism; I suppose only a composer of the highest order could extract the requisite emotion in this case. This song, then, is almost necessarily the weakest in the narrative.

“Finally, as that blazing sun shone down upon us, did we know that the true enemy was the voice of blind idolatry; and only then did we begin to think for ourselves.” Buildup and explode. Buildup and explode. Buildup and explode. An effective (apocryphal?) tale of apprehension told in eight minutes.

Did you catch that? A retelling of Communist inhumanity, however worn-out, is nearly ideal for Red Sparowes’s brand of heavy post-rock. With their talk of sixth extinctions (see interviews) and apparent concern for direction in human affairs, Every Red Heart is an admirable epic, notable for its ambition—the unsympathetic may call it pretense; can a band like this attempt something of this magnitude without selling it short?—and fidelity to a few well-worn devices. The latter, it must be noted, is most likely to attract criticism and frustrate their narrative attempts: the enduring presence of distorted, chorus bass and clean arpeggios on guitar makes the album a bit of a monolith—how can Mao’s voice sound so similar to the proletariat’s? It is also sure to be pointed out that this is a retread of all post-rock that has come out in the past decade, and, rightly enough, there is not much new here. But can we not appreciate a bold artistic statement for what it is? With the conspiracy theory paranoia of metal and the dynamic flourish of Explosions in the Sky, Every Red Heart is, at the very least, a valuable addition to the year’s already-impressive instrumental canon. At its best, the album is a statement with rare integrity to a concept and its musical extension.

Librarians – Alright Easy Candy Stranger

Would you have trouble with a band from West Virginia that has caught your attention in the past few years? Unless you live there, or nearby there, you probably consider the West Virginia music scene a well-kept secret. Not many exports, it seems, and not always a destination on touring bands’ itineraries.

Librarians have a shot at bringing some attention to its scene. Alright Easy Candy Stranger finds the band mixing elements of better-known indie acts of the past few years together with some influences that go back to the 70s and 80s. The lead track, “Culture Vulture,” sounds like something The Faint might have recorded after taking sedatives. Its catchy, modulated synth line has a “dance track” vibe, but its patient tempo sets it apart from the cuts on something like Danse Macabre. The vocals have the kind of detached air you hear in Gary Numan’s best works. And considering Numan’s pioneering use of synths in making cold, electronic music, it’s likely that fans of Numan will appreciate Librarians’ work.

“Secret Sugar Lip” gets away from the keyboards and puts the emphasis on guitars and singing. The backing vocals (are they saying “Lola”?) and the simple effectiveness of the guitar lines make this one radio-ready. The raved-up ending shows that the band can rock when it wants to, even if the rest of the song is more Big Star than Big Black. Similar to other tracks, such as “Wax Teeth,” the guitars get themselves into Interpol territory now and again: the tight, constant-downstroke, single-note picking that gives the music a sense of momentum even when the rhythm section plays it low-key. Intersperse some choppy chording, as Librarians do, and your sound has even more to do with the kinds of bigger indie acts that have been making names for themselves over the past few years.

Librarians slows things down again with “Right On,” which gets back to the sound of “Culture Vulture”: slower in pace than the rock numbers, but with noticeable keys and chilly vocals. “Spend All the Cash” brings back the spectre of The Faint, albeit with a little less dance in the beat. You can hear some Les Savy Fav coming through in the guitar of “Spotlight” and, at times, in “Smoke and Mirrors,” although the latter owes more to Interpol than anything else.

Even though the liner notes claim that the album was recorded “in a basement,” you’d never know it. I’m guessing that “in a basement” really means “in a fully equipped basement studio,” because the sound is clean and even. It’s polished and sometimes even bright, which contrasts nicely with the intentionally chilly, deadpan feel of some of the cuts.

Librarians might have it good and might have it bad by being in a comparatively overlooked scene. The good part is that the band might not have as much competition when it vies for good slots at the clubs or for opening slots on touring bands’ dates when those bands come through town. The bad part is that probably not enough people who’d really like the music get a chance to hear it. Thanks to Postfact, an upstart DC-based label that has issued some fine releases from local and very not-local acts, there’s a shot that Librarians will reach the ears of fans who don’t know what they’re missing.

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