syn*error – Nummer 5 Lebt.

Does anyone remember Still Life? These kids sure do, which is rad, because I always felt that Still Life kind of got the short end of the stick in the mid nineties, with a lot more people payiing attention to Portaits Of Past.

syn*error play my favorite style of hardcore, the kind without breakdowns, the type where kids have heart and spit passion. The one embodied by d.i.y. shows in basements and houses, where everyone has handmade patches sewn onto their hoodies, where no one is afraid to be themselves, where there is no type of consumerism or corporate endorsement involved whatsoever. They remind me a lot of Still Life mixed wiith Saetia, with some early Four Hundred Years thrown in there. They actually start “Nummer 5 Lebt” out with a guitar part that could have been lifted right off of Transmit Failure, with the vocals sounding quite a bit like Guy from Rites Of Spring mixed with Indian Summer. They have these great build ups which are emotionally charged and some gorgeous melodies interspersed with the chaos and fury that they bring.

syn*error are a great addition to this series. Get anything you can by them now before they self implode.

Jeff Tweedy – Tulsa – Jeff Tweedy, OK – 2007-01-19

Perhaps no one, at least any artist relevant to fans of indie rock, has more effortlessly juggled stylings from country, pop, prog rock, Americana, and experimental rock ‘n’ roll than Wilco front man Jeff Tweedy.

He has quietly played the curmudgeon to Uncle Tupelo’s Jay Farrar and Wilco’s Jay Bennet, at least it seems this way in lore and documentary films. He’s unearthed an artistically platinum stack of Woody Guthrie lyrics, and with Billy Bragg and Wilco, he’s given those lyrics music. In fact, the songs from “Mermaid Ave. 1 & 2” are perfect primers for any one curious about the dust bowl ballads of Guthrie or the prison cell blues of Lead belly. He has built the golden gate bridge to some of the greatest songs written about America. Which is the important thing. In our age of lightning fast games of musical chairs, our genre shoots and ladders, our tendency to one up each other in this kind of discourse with arcane musical references, Tweedy has stepped in and played the role of generous, song slinging historian uncle.

“I can play these songs all night. I hope by the end of the night, I’ll be playing these songs without the microphone or the PA,” Tweedy told a sit-down audience at Cain’s Ballroom last Friday night.

Last Friday in Tulsa, Oklahoma (home of Bob Wills and some of the best Wilco shows the folks in Tulsa have ever seen) Tweedy was just playing songs, not roles. Going to see a Jeff Tweedy solo show , you don’t exactly expect musical theatre; you expect something stable. He’s a radio. This is how every acoustic show should be– in orbit around a solid set of songs written and not written by the singer. This is the role he plays best, even better than biographer of his son’s shit (a subject Tweedy relished in his stage banter).

Five well lit guitars wrapped Tweedy in a soft tan glow and each song was reciprocally welcomed with warm applause. “Sunken Treasure” opened the set and cat calls could be heard when Tweedy professed “I was saved by rock and roll.”

The two Guthrie songs were “Remember the Mountain Bed” and “Airline to Heaven” delivered quickly after the opener “Sunken Treasure.” He knocked out “Heavy Metal Drummer” early in the set, saying he’d, “play the song every one wants to hear.” Afterwards he smiled, and talked about his son’s shit more.

A father was onstage. This was appropriate. The demographic at Cain’s ballroom was hard to figure. It was a blur of ages. It seemed audience members ranged from 13 to 55. I saw one of my professors standing in the beer line with his wife and I said hi to a film student I know from school. Shiner Bocks were $3.50 and at the end of Tweedy’s set, he didn’t give two shits whether 10 fan girls, and I, ran through the aisle parting fold out seats to sit cross-legged at the foot of the stage.

Winding down his quiet set, Tweedy played “Jesus Etc,” marking the solo melodies with a smile, turning their orbits around. The Yankee Hotel Foxtrot material was stripped of anything but well-played solos and that ugly ass Jeff Tweedy nine o’clock shadowed grimace. By the end of the set, Tweedy did as was promised. He unplugged his guitar and walked to the edge of the stage and unearthed an Uncle Tupelo classic. He strummed like M. Ward does on his best tracks and yelled out the nostalgic lyrics to “Acuff-Rose.

It’s an ego-centric move to leave your band and embark on a solo tour where fans go to hear your cigarette stained words clearly. But clearly there’s something about Tweedy’s songs that we long to inch closer to and hear without these other jangly guitars. Tweedy has a voice that sounds like the eternal hangover, and his lyrics, if you close your eyes, appear to be written on Diner napkins. The best way to get these images is by taking the man away from the monster. A Ghost is Born and Yankee Hotel Foxtrot are works where the music has evolved beautifully with Tweedy’s painful state of migraine mind, but for true Wilco heads it’s essential to hear the content up close by the man of whom we can probably hand the title of poet. Live, every word counts. He seemed more relaxed that Friday than he has been at every Wilco show I’ve seen.

He took requests, talked shit, unveiled some new stuff – new song (is that the thanks I get?) and played “Late Greats.”

“The greatest singer in rock and roll, would have to be Romeo. His vocal chords were made of gold. He just looked a little too old.”

Like the post-mortem track, Tweedy’s looking damn old. But this high highfalutin world of zines, schemes and things needs him and his tributes to the old cowboys that hang grinning from the walls of Cain’s.

Jeff Tweedy – Tulsa – Jeff Tweedy, OK – 2007-01-19

Perhaps no one, at least any artist relevant to fans of indie rock, has more effortlessly juggled stylings from country, pop, prog rock, Americana, and experimental rock ‘n’ roll than Wilco front man Jeff Tweedy.

He has quietly played the curmudgeon to Uncle Tupelo’s Jay Farrar and Wilco’s Jay Bennet, at least it seems this way in lore and documentary films. He’s unearthed an artistically platinum stack of Woody Guthrie lyrics, and with Billy Bragg and Wilco, he’s given those lyrics music. In fact, the songs from “Mermaid Ave. 1 & 2” are perfect primers for any one curious about the dust bowl ballads of Guthrie or the prison cell blues of Lead belly. He has built the golden gate bridge to some of the greatest songs written about America. Which is the important thing. In our age of lightning fast games of musical chairs, our genre shoots and ladders, our tendency to one up each other in this kind of discourse with arcane musical references, Tweedy has stepped in and played the role of generous, song slinging historian uncle.

“I can play these songs all night. I hope by the end of the night, I’ll be playing these songs without the microphone or the PA,” Tweedy told a sit-down audience at Cain’s Ballroom last Friday night.

Last Friday in Tulsa, Oklahoma (home of Bob Wills and some of the best Wilco shows the folks in Tulsa have ever seen) Tweedy was just playing songs, not roles. Going to see a Jeff Tweedy solo show , you don’t exactly expect musical theatre; you expect something stable. He’s a radio. This is how every acoustic show should be– in orbit around a solid set of songs written and not written by the singer. This is the role he plays best, even better than biographer of his son’s shit (a subject Tweedy relished in his stage banter).

Five well lit guitars wrapped Tweedy in a soft tan glow and each song was reciprocally welcomed with warm applause. “Sunken Treasure” opened the set and cat calls could be heard when Tweedy professed “I was saved by rock and roll.”

The two Guthrie songs were “Remember the Mountain Bed” and “Airline to Heaven” delivered quickly after the opener “Sunken Treasure.” He knocked out “Heavy Metal Drummer” early in the set, saying he’d, “play the song every one wants to hear.” Afterwards he smiled, and talked about his son’s shit more.

A father was onstage. This was appropriate. The demographic at Cain’s ballroom was hard to figure. It was a blur of ages. It seemed audience members ranged from 13 to 55. I saw one of my professors standing in the beer line with his wife and I said hi to a film student I know from school. Shiner Bocks were $3.50 and at the end of Tweedy’s set, he didn’t give two shits whether 10 fan girls, and I, ran through the aisle parting fold out seats to sit cross-legged at the foot of the stage.

Winding down his quiet set, Tweedy played “Jesus Etc,” marking the solo melodies with a smile, turning their orbits around. The Yankee Hotel Foxtrot material was stripped of anything but well-played solos and that ugly ass Jeff Tweedy nine o’clock shadowed grimace. By the end of the set, Tweedy did as was promised. He unplugged his guitar and walked to the edge of the stage and unearthed an Uncle Tupelo classic. He strummed like M. Ward does on his best tracks and yelled out the nostalgic lyrics to “Acuff-Rose.

It’s an ego-centric move to leave your band and embark on a solo tour where fans go to hear your cigarette stained words clearly. But clearly there’s something about Tweedy’s songs that we long to inch closer to and hear without these other jangly guitars. Tweedy has a voice that sounds like the eternal hangover, and his lyrics, if you close your eyes, appear to be written on Diner napkins. The best way to get these images is by taking the man away from the monster. A Ghost is Born and Yankee Hotel Foxtrot are works where the music has evolved beautifully with Tweedy’s painful state of migraine mind, but for true Wilco heads it’s essential to hear the content up close by the man of whom we can probably hand the title of poet. Live, every word counts. He seemed more relaxed that Friday than he has been at every Wilco show I’ve seen.

He took requests, talked shit, unveiled some new stuff – new song (is that the thanks I get?) and played “Late Greats.”

“The greatest singer in rock and roll, would have to be Romeo. His vocal chords were made of gold. He just looked a little too old.”

Like the post-mortem track, Tweedy’s looking damn old. But this high highfalutin world of zines, schemes and things needs him and his tributes to the old cowboys that hang grinning from the walls of Cain’s.

Various Artists – Socyermom Records Sampler

This collection of Albuquerque-grown tracks from Socyermom Records opens with two tracks from the band Scenester and, like a true scenester, they sound like they are just following the latest thing heard on the radio these days. The pop-punk band has little new to offer with their high-energy, driving songs that are stuffed to the brim with electric guitars – however, they do manage to serve up a unique vocal harmonization now and then in their first track, “Gasoline Barbie”..

Romeo follows up with a similar punk-style energy, but with even worse vocals in “Sweet.” The lead singer almost loses his voice at times when he yells between “Sweet” constantly yelled in the background and then later some strange chanting of “Ooohs” and “Ahhs” among some electric guitar. Another oddity was the chorus being sung – or perhaps yelled is a better word – among hand claps. This song is just a mess.

The third band on the album Unit 7 Drain opened their first of two tracks with a little less energy and thankfully a bit less electric guitar with some added keyboards. The music is actually the most pleasant I’ve heard on the album so far and it is kind of catchy. The vocals enter a half-minute into the song with some distortion that makes it difficult to understand the true quality of the vocals. The lyrics are certainly nothing insightful but at least they aren’t annoying like in Romeo’s “Sweet” – except when the shouting female vocals appear in the last 30 seconds, which kind of caught me off-guard. There is slightly less distortion in the band’s second track “Something Pretty” and I think I kind of like the somewhat timeless quality of the male lead singer’s voice. I feel like he could easily cross a few genres with ease. The female singer who appears throughout the song, though, has a typical punk female voice that adds some depth to the chorus lines but isn’t terrible strong on its own.

Feels Like Sunday is a female-led group that seems to have an identity crisis. The music says rock with a punk undertone and yet the vocals feel more like early 90’s pop. She doesn’t have a bad voice, in fact it has a bit of an intriguing tone, but she really needs to find a genre that works better for her and this isn’t it. Black Tie follows up with two tracks that provide a nice mid-album breather with some atmospheric tracks. Some guitar finger picking is heard in “Monochromatic” and later heavier electronics are layered with sparse yet crashing drums and the occasional cello. There are no vocals to be heard here. This group is reminiscent of the Athens-based Maserati in its ability to provide a layering build-up towards a climactic end. “Again” is a beautiful tune with its borderline haunting and yet joyful feel. Vocals join halfway through with a Sigur Rios-like quality, but in a known language.

Kimo’s “I am not crazy” continues to surprise me with a beautiful voice that floats above her acoustic guitar and immediately grabs my attention with her intelligent and heartfelt lyrics. Her voice rises and falls with an alt country twang that fits perfectly with her smoky music. This is an artist to pay attention to.

The bass line that enters on “My Love is Electric” snaps me back to reality. The Dirty Novels are hard to listen to with their early 90’s classic rock performance that is half silly and half annoying. I can only hope they have a really entertaining performance. Their second track “Show Me” provided the same Tom Petty wannabe style that was just comedic. The Mindyset follows with two tracks that remind of what The Killers might sound like when they get older and have a little less energy and a few more heartbreaks under their belt. Riding along on keyboards, tambourine and drums, the lead singer provides little to set himself apart but doesn’t sound bad either.

Lousy Robot enters with some upbeat music and fuzzed-out vocals in “Gone.” They have smooth vocal harmonization and I like the fact that while being upbeat and incorporating a catchy rhythm they manage to keep from being too over the top. The group sounds well put together in this song and it shows great promise for the band. Since I have heard their most recent full-length I can say that this portrays that band at their best. Rip Torn tears it up in the penultimate track with a fully instrumental electrical guitar meltdown that rides along on a high for all of the nearly four minutes. Hit By a Bus finishes up the collection with “Fil.” This group conjures up visions of Fuel but with a female lead voice that could have slight resemblance to Amy Lee of Evanescence, but with less of a range and not quite as darkly melodic. The guitars are solid, the mood is dark and her voice lends itself to some great harmonies; however, her voice is a little too pretty and I’d love to hear her let go a little more. In the last 30 seconds of the song she lets it all out and her voice gets downright demonic which is quite impressive.

This collection is an excellent way to get the gist of this label’s genre offerings with mostly a punk-tinged pop leaning but with a few gems among the group. This album does, however, seem to have two parts. The first portion which mostly displays that more pop punk edge and then the last half which is more diverse. It’s worth checking out if anything of the aforementioned genres interest you because there could very well be some groups on here that you may want to look into a little more.

Dead Voices On Air – From Labrador to Madagascar

Dead Voices on Air is the work of Mark Spybey who comes to the table with an impressive resume within the experimental/ambient/industrial musical world. As an ex-member of Zoviet France and Download, Spybey has appeared on over 50 albums in a 5-year period with the likes of Faust, Michael Rother (Neu!), Dieter Moebius (Cluster), Pigface, I Am Spoonbender and members of The Legendary Pink Dots, to name a few. He was also a part of Can guitarist Michael Karoli’s band Sofortkontakt! that appeared at the Can 30th anniversary shows in 1999.

On From Labrador to Madagascar Spybey proves his worth to this genre by formulating 52 minutes of bleak and dense, minimalist, shapeshifting, electronic soundscapes over the course of the album’s 9 tracks. Dead Voices on Air proves the perfect designation for Spybey’s solo work as it includes everything from droning buzzes, to radio hiss, tribal percussion, machine noises, animal squeals and human heartbeats, all strung out in a dark, ambient, electronic musical haze that gives these tracks a compelling edge and a sinister feel. As if beings from the great beyond are channeling communications to the human race through sonic tapestries.

The compositions on From Labrador to Madagascar are to be taken as more of an experimental, musical art-form than experimental rock music. And while they could be labeled ambient, only in the sense that they can accommodate many levels of listening attention, they also possess a sense of preternatural sonic space that includes techno, noise and industrial textures. These otherworldly soundscapes evolve and morph into various dissonant incarnations and rarely form into anything cohesive or excitingly amiable.

Although a few tracks like “Furtive,” “”Halv” and “Splay” contain passages that occasionally venture into more melodic ambient territory covered by the likes of Labradford and Holger Czukay, most others teeter on the edge of being eerily seductive and annoyingly eerie while never really being either. That being said, From Labrador to Madagascar should only be experienced by those willing to throw aside their preconceived notions of what experimental, industrial-ambient music sounds like and brave enough to let Dead Voices on Air demonstrate their interpretation.

Dawn of the Replicants – Bust the Trunk – The Singles Collection

Bust the Trunk is a collection of 22 tracks spanning the last 10 years from long-running electro-indie band, Dawn of the Replicants. As a matter of fact, this release is somewhat of a celebration of the band’s 10 year anniversary. As evidenced by the charming tracks herein, I’d say it was a well-spent 10 years.

This Scottish band’s sound is similar to that of Super Furry Animals in its mid to late 90’s electro-indie flair. Among noisy, effect-laden guitars and driving percussion the band adds bright, electronic flourishes with little blips and beeps bouncing around. However, over 10 years you would hope a band would change their sound around at least a little, and DOTR do, having some songs clearly coming from a Brit-pop influence and others having more straight forward rock leanings. You can also tell there were periods of time when the band was more interested in the digital tinkering they lace throughout their songs.

While it’s not clear whether this collection represents every single from band’s vault, it is 22 tracks and the disc comes with a limited edition DVD that features 100+ minutes of material ranging from music vidoes to live performances to documentary-style footage, so there is plenty of material here to keep you entertained.

On the whole, Bust the Trunk is a pretty average collection release. It is pretty hit and miss from track to track and since it is career-spanning, there is varying quality in writing as well as stylistic appeal. If you are familar with the band or are intrigued, this is probably a good place to start.

Various Artists – Sail Away: The Songs of Randy Newman

It’s hard to believe it took so long for a Randy Newman tribute to see the light of day, coming so late after the height of the tribute record era. Back then, beginning about a decade past, it seemed every band that had managed to lay claim to any speck of influence was being feted by some random bunch of newbies and coasting vets. Harry Nilsson’s 1970 release, Nilsson Sings Newman was an early recognition of Newman’s unique talent, but somehow Randy missed out while countless others received theirs.

Now Sugar Hill brings us Sail Away: The Songs of Randy Newman, and as good as it is, it proves just what we might’ve expected all along: Randy Newman is his own best interpreter. The musicians on this record – culled from Country, Blues and various crossover genres – pull off some nice performances and they all fit Newman’s songs to their own styles easily. These songs are dirt simple, though, and open to any number of stylistic interpretations; Randy Newman’s just happen to be the most compelling.

The burbling, brassy funk in Marc Broussard’s version of “You Can Leave Your Hat On” certainly grooves pretty hard, but you can’t help but miss the lecherous rasp as Randy eggs on his lover in the original, a dirty old man losing himself in his own lust. And Steve Earle’s sneering “Rednecks” chooses to thump and scrape where Newman bounced and twanged his way through the songs’ bracing lyric, the latter to better effect.

Really, the covers themselves are fine, the only exception being the Duhks overly cute “Political Science.” One of the best is Guster’s take on “Memo to My Son,” even if it lacks the vocal polish and meticulous plucking and picking of some of the more Country and Bluegrass leaning contributors. There are a number of outstanding vocal performances here, too. Tim O’Brien’s keening turn on “Sail Away” may counteract the ironic lyric with a touch too much sentimentality, but it’s damn good singing nonetheless.

Slide guitar virtuoso Sonny Landreth gets to take a shot at one of Randy’s catchiest songs, but his too-perfect technique and too-adult-alternative production on “Louisiana” leave a funny aftertaste. The song still sounds great, but we’ve strayed a bit too far from the skewed voice of its author into a safe and pleasant world of impeccable musicianship and production at this point. And in a different way, Bela Fleck’s banjo instrumental version of “Burn On” is admirable, but kinda pointless. Randy Newman without words just seems wrong, unless generous amounts of Pixar generated magic are involved, I guess.

I have a favorite memory of Randy Newman I’d like to share; it was during his 1979 appearance on SNL where he performed “I’m Gonna Take Off My Pants.” My mother sat near me on the couch and made gagging noises as Randy cooed Will you take off my pants?, if one can be said to “coo” like a leering slimeball. I wasn’t sure what was going on. I was even more confused later when he performed “The Story of a Rock & Roll Band,” his backhanded “tribute” to ELO, a band I loved then and now. Was I being lied to by this dorky singer? Did he really expect anyone to want to take off his pants?? Mom was revolted, but I was intrigued. Not to mention cursed with the image of some slender hand tugging Randy’s slacks over his ugly knees. Which is probably just what he wanted.

Though it qualifies as a very good collection of very good musicians playing very good songs, nothing on Sail Away: The Songs of Randy Newman would encourage my mom to vomit. I’d like to think Randy would be disappointed by that.

Sunkissed – Beobachtet

Who said that music needs to be well produced? Some of the best records have been raw, sometimes even sounding like they were recorded on four tracks or even better boomboxes. That first Le Shok seven inch sounded terrible, but the songs were so fierce and raw that the record fast became my favorite seven inch of that year.

Sunkissed follows that long held punk tradition of sub-quality recording, but the song still is amazing. Mixing the passion of Zann with Amanda Woodward & La Quiete, with the vocals sounding like older Orchid, the song is pretty simple and straightforward, but it hits the right way. It has the requisite traditional emo parts, with lots of cymbals, low bass and high fuzzy guitar that bleeds all over the place. It even has the soft spot in the middle of the song for the kids to beat their chests to.

Once again, German hardcore bands outshine American ones.

Old Sun – S/T

When I got this, I got way stoked because the design on this CD is beautiful, looking like something Ebullition or Hand Held Heart or Old Glory would have put out forever ago. The press sheet made me cream my pants because of it’s over the top DIY-ness. It’s a hand written note, name dropping all the right bands to get little girl’s panties in a bunch. They list off The Pixies, Pg 99(!), Blonde Redhead, Nirvana, Unwound, Dinosaur Jr, Orchid(!), and Jesus Lizard(!!!). They say all the right things to evoke memories reading Heartattack while listening to Bleed and Downcast seven inches … right on political messages said with the fervor of fire breathing passionate basement bands.

When I put it in though, I was kind of let down. The guitar parts are alright, the bass playing is competent although almost inaudible, and the drumming is well done. It’s the vocals that put me off. Imagine a teenage Kurt Cobain fronting Fake Train era Unwound. I know it sounds like it might be a good combination, seeing as Unwound and Nirvana are both important bands to me, but unfortunately it’s a no go. I wish these kids the best of luck because they seem to have their hearts in the right place, just tighten up the sound and develop the vocals a bit more.

Tia Carrera – Untitled

Apparently, some people worship weed in this wonderful country we call the U.S. of A. Rumor has it there exist three dudes from Austin, TX, known collectively as Tia Carrera, that smoke weed as often as dogs smell each other’s asses. And though most marijuaners partake only recreationally, TC seems to indulge in a way that borders on obsession. Stroke a string, smoke a bong. Pluck a bass, puff a blunt. Slap the skins, shit yourself ‘cause you’re so mashed.

But there comes a cost to this indulgence: laziness. On Untitled, the trio (bass, drums, and guitar) of THC trudges over mountains of sound, digs through avalanches of groove, and flies above the waters of wah. This is all well and good, but only if you prepare your body to handle a mind-expanding seven riffs crammed into seven songs. Yes, you read right, only one fucking riff per song. Listening to Untitled is like opening a bag of mixed nuts and finding only walnuts, except the walnuts play boring, unending riffs.
The repetitive nature of TC’s sound sinks this LP. Remember your friend’s jam band in high school? The one where the guitarist couldn’t take his foot off the wah pedal and the bass groove ran itself into the ground after 30 seconds? Welcome back, friends, because Untitled proves that while over time influences change and musicians mature, banal musicianship doesn’t.

The most frustrating thing about listening to TC stems from what floats on the surface. TC lovingly blends ‘60s psychedelia with the stoner sludge of the Melvins and Sleep. These influences match up well on paper, but TC refuses to step beyond the threshold of its forefathers. Untitled’s entirely improvised, which in and of itself is not a detriment, but rehashing the same old shit is.

The talent is all there, but Untitled simply lacks creativity. TC’s live show probably serves as a better introduction to its brand of deafening punishment as it rattles bones and brain cells with oppressive volume. I’m almost positive this band slays onstage, letting the immediacy of the moment and the energy of the crowd power it forward like Maui Wowee stuffed into a humming vaporizer. Unfortunately, this vaporizer vaporizes ideas, and TC’s Untitled sputters out in a tepid studio environment. Maybe these marijuana mavens can muster a monstrous live album. Of course, that would require some killer hash, an electric stove, and a couple of old knives. And, of course, a wah pedal.

Next Page »