Monsters Of Folk – self-titled

For this ‘super-group’ collaboration between M. Ward, Jim James (My Morning Jacket), Conor Oberst (Bright Eyes/Mystic Valley Band) and Mike Mogis (Bright Eyes/Lullaby For The Working Class/producer for hire) the comparisons with ‘70s Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young have been lazily and too quickly applied.  For whilst there are telekinetic group harmonies and balmy Laurel Canyon vibes within this debut Monsters Of Folk LP, the key difference is a colossal lack of ego and cocaine-sprinkled arrogance.  All four bring their talents to table to either serve as strong individual dishes or to be shared as communal platters.  Together these fifteen songs (five apiece from Ward, James and Oberst) gel together for a diverse feast that should sate the appetite and broaden the tastes of the group’s inherited fanbases.

Inevitably, given his open-handed prior donations to other extra-curricular projects (with the likes of Jenny Lewis, She & Him, Howe Gelb, Bright Eyes, My Morning Jacket and Jolie Holland), Ward is the most proficient at working outside of his own box, so his contributions here glow the most brightly.  The delightful rockabilly-pop bliss of “Whole Lotta Losin’” and “Baby Boomer”, as well as the strummy bluegrass of “Goodway”, would have sounded great on his recent Post-War or Hold Time long-players.  Elsewhere, the sublime near-solo “Slow Down Jo” and “Sandman, The Brakeman And Me” both echo the too-forgotten intimacies of his sophomore End Of Amnesia. The added vocal lines and intuitive instrumental interplay with his bandmates only magnifies Ward’s magic touch here.

Oberst – probably the most highly-strung of the singing-songwriting core trio – benefits from having his more histrionic impulses tempered but not tamed by the company of simpatico but gently challenging musical friends.  The gritty rustic “Man Named Truth” and “Map Of The World” sound like terrific left-overs from Bright Eyes’ Cassadaga or I’m Wide Awake, It’s Morning; the atmospheric voice-layered “Temazcal” could give Fleet Foxes some cause for concern; and the rousing “Say Please” gives the whole ensemble room to affectionately egg-up the Traveling Wilburys correlations.  Perhaps only the mid-tempo country-plodding of “Ahead Of The Curve” feels like a makeweight product of Oberst’s penmanship.

Jim James certainly brings the most wildcards to the game.  Seemingly suffering from some sort of identity crisis of late (prompting his adoption of the daffy ‘Yim Yames’ moniker for a recent George Harrison covers EP and for this album’s sleeve-credits), his compositions produce some of the most intriguing and strangest moments for his bandmates to stir into the collective melting pot.  The drum loop, sample and falsetto-driven “Dear God (Sincerely M.O.F.)” is a delicious soul-inflected opener that stretches the foursome beyond previous comfort zones, as does the ghostly “His Master’s Voice” with its spectral ambience.  Less revolutionary but still endearing are two post-Sweetheart Of The Rodeo Byrds homages in the shape of “Magic Marker” and “The Right Place.”  James/Yames only really comes unglued with the messy Crazy Horse-aping sludge of “Losin’ Yo Head.”

With only a couple of real missteps – that could have been eliminated by a less democratic division of songwriting labour to cut the tracklisting to a tighter 12 or 13 cuts – this first (and hopefully not last) Monsters Of Folk release happily proves that super-groups can be greater than the sum of individual parts, when kinship overrules  narcissism.

Rough Trade Records/Shangri La Music/Spunk Records/P-Vine Records

Tobias Hengeveld – All The Lines Are Down

Though his fiddle and whistle skills aren’t quite virtuosic, there are an uncanny number of parallels between Aussie folkster Tobias Hengeveld and Chicago’s Andrew Bird. Both of them showcase the expressive capabilities of the acoustic guitar throughout their work, all the while imbuing the songs with a sense of striking austerity. They’ve both recorded and performed with crack teams of supporting session players, and have released albums this year that feature late-afternoon pastoral landscapes on their covers. Each of them dresses impeccably well.

Much like Bird did when he left Squirrel Nut Zippers and the Bowl of Fire in pursuit of a solo career, All the Lines Are Down finds Hengeveld stepping out of his supporting roles in Scout Hall and the Night Bell to take the helm with a proper solo release. With nine tracks that play up Hengeveld’s dulcet vocals, the album makes for a warm and hypnotic collection of organic folk that soothes the listener even as it broods with tales of isolation and regret. Yet, whereas Bird will occasionally lighten the mood with moments of sprightliness, Hengeveld seems content to keep any spontaneous bursts of energy at bay with a level of mellowness not seen since the last round of coffeehouse gigs.

“Giant Red Wave” establishes the album’s affable vibes from the outset; Hengeveld’s dreamy narrative and delicate guitar work are bolstered by slow-moving string harmonies, piano inflections, and even a touch of harmonica and whistling. The song’s first half is on par with most of the album’s tone: dense and pensive. Yet the final two minutes find Hengeveld and his assembled band venturing into an uncharacteristically optimistic instrumental jam. A more liberal application of these brighter tempos would prevent All the Lines Are Down from becoming such a weighty affair.

Up next is “Make a Noise,” the sturdiest example of Hengeveld’s songwriting. Expertly orchestrated, the string section is now more up front in the mix, which provides the track with an ethereal presence despite such bluesy guitar work. Hengeveld’s vocal melodies are at their most memorable on this cut, despite lyrics that are occasionally rendered indecipherable due to a thick Aussie accent. It sounds like the song of a wanderer, and at less than three minutes in length, it’s one of the album’s most succinct and affecting tunes.

The remaining seven tracks all flirt with many of the same styles, moods, and textures. “Thunderbolt’s” features a lumbering groove in which the drums and bass produce some ominous rumbles. Hengeveld’s melismatic vocals on “Sawdust” (“Sawdust / your lights now fall on everything”) bring a mourning quality to a track that seems afraid to truly soar. “On the Night You Were Born” is heavy on atmosphere, with unobtrusive bass and synth lines setting the stage for an occasional electric guitar lick and some he said/she said vocal exchanges. The album’s narrative focus continues to be obvious with lines like, “On the night you were born / your mother barefoot and padding across the floor / to a radio static hum / and the smell of dinner.”

His songwriting and orchestration may bear similarity to those of Andrew Bird, but Tobias Hengeveld’s vocals have more in common with the National’s Matt Behringer than anyone else on the indie scene. Behringer may lay claim to a more formidable baritone, but both men possess a style of delivery in which sultry textures trump the clear dictions and subtle inflections of more expressive singers. With the acoustic instruments typically in slumber mode, it would’ve been a pleasant surprise to find Hengeveld pushing his range a bit further now and again. All the Lines Are Down may lack the emotional highs and lows of more adventurous folk albums, but as the soundtrack to your next study session, it makes for a compelling selection.

Into It. Over It. – 52 Weeks

The tale of Into It. Over It.’s 52 Weeks can easily fill up an entire review. That’s because for Evan Thomas Weiss, it is an entire year.

Weiss, most notably of NJ’s The Progress and NY’s Damiera, set out to write and record a song every week for an entire year (52 weeks, get it?). A substantial solo mission which consumed and documented being 22 – almost in real time. With that much material, what can you expect to hear? What the cover’s record needle doesn’t say, a love affair with 90’s emo and 2000’s post-hardcore will. This proper release on No Sleep allowed for some perfectionist’s touch ups that time didn’t allow during the project.

The highlights?

1. “Batso” – The somber, stripped-down lull preceding the meat of 52 Weeks. Rising out of a morning drone, we get to hear Evan’s “warm” voice hinting of disappointment and hopefully what are new beginnings. His inflection and intention turns naturally, but his full volume is yet to come. Just don’t tag him introverted – he hates that. “It’s the same old story / so help me if I try / to make an honest effort this time.”

3. “Heartificial” – The best song The Progress never wrote. The best pun I never wrote. Brutally honest, painfully bitter, and catchy as hell. The gateway drug to the album’s worth of hard hooks. The song ends in barely over a minute with sliding octaves working overtime. I don’t know if that’s perfect or the perfect crime, but it’s balanced out in future weeks. “I’ve finally found the time / to put two and two and you together.” Stagedives aren’t only reserved for hardcore bands, kids.

15. “The Liquor Your Older Friends Brought” – Evan’s vocals are mixed as though they’re travelling by telephone to do what he does best, vent to anyone listening. He throws in a jab at an apparent ex-bandmate for good measure. Punchy riffs continue a lively brand of man rock, explaining the numerous “sounds like Piebald” fan quotes. And like that band (RIP!), you can also find many a singalong dedicated to the grown up and jaded. “What a relief I’m not in high school anymore / The second this ends I’m going home.” I can only imagine Evan got “fested” on a show with 9 screamo bands.

23. “Gin and Ironic” – Repeating the incendiary approach of using a single build up (usually the intro) and pounding the point thereafter. Who can resist Frame and Canvas inspired hits? Or the ace line about sharing the same room with the last person you want to be with? “I’ll keep my head down / you can keep your back turned.” Been there.

42. “The Bullied Becomes the Bully” – An anti-cop mantra that’s personal, like every character on here. Building up with background and intersecting the punch line with bellowing rhythms (the only instrument not performed by Weiss). The most theatrical arrangement of 52 Weeks. Words that sting with Weiss on the attack again. “While I watch your punk rock past / disappear as fast / as you’ll be reading its Miranda Rights.”

47. “Afternoons Asleep” – One more rocker – you can almost hear the sigh of relief. A haze of post-college confusion and self-pity in their lowest common denominator: a lack of inspiration. “I’ve got nothin’ to do or say this week / I’ll spend the better half of my afternoons asleep.” It was a matter of time before a week was dedicated to sitting at home and “running late for anything remotely intriguing.” Claiming “everyone’s got a better plan than me,” only Weiss can make the miserable into such a rousing melody.

52. “No Big Chorus” – I said I wouldn’t ruin the ending, but I think I just did…just kidding?

Creative on concept alone, the audio autobiography of 52 Weeks really does the talking. Disclaimer: this crossection is biased towards my full-band nostalgia of The Progress, but there are literally albums worth of more intimate songs where Weiss still manages to hit as hard emotionally without a drummer. Engrossing as the day you upgraded to digital cable.

Vagina Panther rock out with new album in November

Vagina Panther recorded 11 tracks of white hot guitar sludge with producer/engineer Mario “J” McNulty (Ravonettes, Anti-Flag, David Bowie) at New York City’s infamous Looking Glass Studios right before it was shuttered. The band’s self-titled debut is made to be played LOUD and to disturb the neighbors. From the stoner pop of “Dave, You Are Killing Me” to the garage rock sound of “So How We Gonna Do This?,” and the anthemic closing track “Beast,” this music is meant for the real, the raw and the reckless. Claiming influences such as signs written in poor English, bands that think they’re Jesus and fucked up train rides, Vagina Panther makes magic out of these touchstones. Vagina Panther is Dead June on vocals, Kit Days on Guitar, Johnathan Swass on Bass and Trent Good on Drums.

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Islands – Vapours

Sure, disappointments are hard lessons learned. There’s the kind of let downs where failing seems inevitable and on the flip side, there are disappointments where you push and struggle and still come up short. Ever extensively study for a test, feeling confidently ready to find out you only got 26 out of the 40 questions right? Ugh, what a drag because well, at least you really tried and still, it didn’t work out. So how about putting all of your crazy, loose, extroverted eggs in one basket and hoping they all work together to deliver something glorious and instead, it’s a dud.

While it carried its notion of ambitious expression, there is no doubt that Arm’s Way was an exercise in epic self-importance. And although Return to the Sea definitely held some ambiguity as well (the rapping breakdown, the instrumental meltdowns) the difference in the two stances was the way the latter moves made the album feel uniquely thrilling. So it’s not a surprise that following the lukewarm-cold response Arm’s Way received that Vapours explores the tighter, tight-knit hooks and riffs that they’ve always been capable of. The first few songs make certain that everyone knows where they’ve gone, where they’re at now and where they are going. The basic use of drum machines is a noticeable change and the fact that the music is segmented into these neat “verse-chorus-verse” methods make for successful endeavors. Islands makes it all look easy because unlike other bands, the members have already honed their strengths and are ready to employ them at first call.

Maybe Islands just isn’t the kind of band that can create those hugely orchestral albums because even in the ‘easy’ tense, Vapours is a deliciously decorated album. The slide guitar on “Disarming the Car Bomb” finds Thorburn crooning to his most easily found Chris Martin and even the sweet accompanying vocals all add to an energetically gifted sound. Then everything breaks away to find Thorburn dancing away to the sound of a rickety piano; perhaps this is the most epic they should get.

It’s a retreat to the simpler way of making music: with the use of guitars, drums and never allowing any song to get past the five-minute mark. Lead singer and songwriter Nick Thorburn told the story of how he needed to relinquish his grandiose ideas of filling every crevice of the music with silly ideas regarding metaphors and poetic prose. So instead, he decided to make something substantially easier to follow and was quoted as saying, “This record is just made up of sequenced programming, synths, drum machines, guitars and real bass.”

There’s even something MGMT-like about the opening synths of “Heartbeat” before Thorburn puts his auto-tune to creatively fantastic results. Free and inviting, there’s nothing to get serious about here, other than openly expressing the steady tone of love. Elsewhere, on the breathtaking keyboard-driven swoon of “Tender Torture,” Thorburn is left with emotionally-charged music to pair with his longing desire as he sings, “And I’ve seen some great things, but I don’t wanna see anything, if I can’t see you.”

Making good on all of these ideas presents a truly remarkable win for Thorburn and his loyal band. Forget the previous disappointment and do yourself a real favor and return to the island, post-haste. Vapours isn’t just a welcome addition to the band’s collection but it’s a welcoming album filled with tremendously rich highs, blunt and honest lyrics, melodic music and captivating hooks.

ANTI-

Miss Autopsy – Caterpillar

Caterpillar is either art rock or a mockery. I side with the latter. The band responsible, Miss Autopsy, is one Steve Beyerink. Although often described as a bothered blend of post-punk and blues, Miss Autopsy’s sound is best likened to musical performance art–the kind you might hear at a middling poetry slam.

The repetitive, distressed songs on Caterpillar feature basic verse/chorus parts that sound like they were recorded on a four track. The album contains nine such creatures, all of them meditations on some memory or feeling that Mr. Beyerink just can’t shake. The music, like Beyerink’s torment, is unnerving and insistent. But, sadly, it is also more boring than it is intense or provocative.

The brush strokes of nuance, vision, and ingenuity that may color Beyerink’s mind don’t materialize on his abrasive musical canvas. Instead we hear only soft spoken ramblings mismatched with throwaway riffs. The man has acted on his inspiration, but hasn’t communicated much to the audience. His meaning was lost in translation.

As a result, the average song on Caterpillar is impenetrable and, often, insufferable. But two tracks struggle valiantly against this quicksand pit of an album: “Dead Loner Blues” and “El Paso”. The acoustic “Dead Loner Blues” takes crude, bluesy shape to the cry-for-help lyrics: “When your hope is gone, and you have no one to turn to, you’ll know where to find me / Let’s have a little talk about the things that keep us up, and all the good things that are totally behind me … I’m scared to death of everything”. And “El Paso”, the album’s only surprise, tops that song with some real pop form that is more than just wallpaper in Beyerink’s basement of gloom. Although the music loses steam long before the song’s 6:30 run is up, the lyrics endure: “Let’s go to the beach sometime, oh / We need something beautiful, oh … When I felt such blissfulness, I knew I couldn’t trust it / When I felt so deep in love, I knew I couldn’t trust it, oh”.

Beyond that, Beyerink’s lamentations and fixations–shared more through his spoken lyrics than his disjointed riffs and chord progressions–are public masturbations: a lot better for the performer than for the unfortunate people around him. The guy should either stop and go home or reciprocate.

http://www.lensrecords.com/
http://www.miss-autopsy.com/

Kalamazoo – How To Hunt A Deer

Is it important that I mention that Kalamazoo is French? The band themselves probably wouldn’t think so, and none of their declared influences are european. The Parisian four piece are fully paid up anglophiles, aficianados of the works of Kings Of Leon, Radiohhead, Interpol, Pixies, Arctic Monkeys …. none of them French bands. What does this tell us? That there are no musicians making original rock of any description anywhere in France, Belgium, west Switzerland or anywhere else that French is spoken? This is, of course, not true. For quite a few years now there has been a thriving London/Paris circuit with bands such as This Is Pop, Flairs, Nacional, Golden Silvers and several coachloads of others who find it easier to get gigs, or at least the gig and club nights they want, around Hoxton and New Cross than in their own cities and towns. Aside from notable exceptions such as Guillemots though, and 2006 is a rapidly diminishing memory, French music doesn’t very often break into the UK mainstream, for all that France is a mere 20 miles east of Dover, and I can only speculate as to what reception a band such as Kalamazoo might find in Montreal.

But enough of this preamble. Is How To Hunt A Deer a worthwhile listening experience, regardless of its origins? Yes it most assuredly is. Kalamazoo isn’t quite the artcore experimentalists referred to earlier though. Taking their cues from some very succesful mainstream acts, the quartet are quite determinedly aiming for the festival circuits, with a view to proving that, yes, French musicians do know what a guitar amp is and what it’s for. And crucially, they manage to sound very much like themselves, skilfully assimilating influences as opposed to merely regurgitating them.

So, between first track “Interpolis” and eighth and final track “Void”, Kalamazoo display a range of songwriting styles and some novel touches in the musicianship department, slipping between the 4/4 hihats of “Run”, the near magnetic guitar interplays of “Take It”, onto the more reflective atmospherics of “Change Order” and “The Easiest Song”. Edgier than Kings Of Leon, bluesier than Radiohead, less grimly humourless than Interpol, is Kalamazoo the French Snow Patrol? Or the Parisian Muse? There is a definite tradition of French bands emulating the UK and US scenes, which is perhaps why so little French rock music gets heard outside of its home country. But if more French bands can produce albums of the quality and important, originality which Kalamazoo presents us with on this 8 track release, that situation could change with some astounding rapidity.

Still Light – “Tenebre”

Still Light is an eclectic trio joining Edinburgh based Singer/Songwriter Lucy Hague, London based artist Sand Snowman, and Kirill Nikolai. My original search led me to Kirill Nikolai, who I was surprised to see Irish born painter Francis Bacon sighted as an influence. Also among the top friends listed I find Nick Drake. Upon seeing this I am immediately drawn to the conclusion that Still Light will be golden, and they are. Among the two songs found on their fairly new Myspace page, “Tenebre”, from the 2009 release “Lything” is part Iron And Wine’s “Our Endless Numbered Days” with a dash of imagery formed from the tale of Into The Wild’s Chris McCandless and strangely enough a touch of U2’s “Joshua Tree”. The open plain, the winding road, the desolation. I hear and feel so many ranges of influence. There is Pink Floyd, there is J. Tilman of Fleet Floxes, and to compare Lucy Hague’s vocals to that of Amy Lee, I will do just that. “Tenebre”, with is vaguely Southern use of what appears to be a banjo only leads me to speculate that the trio comes together with a broad background to form this truly new, original, and unique sound. With it’s subtle and overall non-intrusive instrumentation, “Tenebre” stands out and allows for Still Light to shine as vocalist’s as well as seasoned musicians. Music for elevation, not the elevator.

New Pariah Piranha album on Queer Control Records

Pariah Piranha’s album People People, produced by Pere Ubu and They Might Be Giants bassist Tony Maimone, is the band’s latest for the San Francisco-based label Queer Control Records.

The York, Pennsylvania-based band, Pariah Piranha is a product of the 90’s and will remain forever nostalgic. “When we were in high school, people called some music ‘alternative.’ It was a genre. It actually meant something. I think Pariah Piranha sounds like that,” says vocalist Tara Gordon.

Emerging from the Riot Grrl movement, the Queercore music scene, and DIY culture in general, Queer Control Records exists to promote lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, intersex, queer, and questioning musicians and artists.

[MP3] “Green Rooms”: http://tinyurl.com/pariahpiranha-greenrooms

Official Site: http://www.pariahpiranha.com/Pariah_Piranha/Home.html

Why? – Eskimo Snow

You’ve gotta love an artist who always finds ways to surprise you. Yoni Wolf has consistently surprised over the course of albums by cLOUDDEAD, Hymie’s Basement, Reaching Quiet, and for the last seven years as Why?, a project which shares a name with his hip-hop alias.  Just starting with the Why? material alone, you see Wolf moving from the abstract hip-hop of cLOUDDEAD to the severely skewed bedroom folk of Oaklandazulasylum, into hooky full-band indie-rock and pop on Elephant Eyelash, and then to Alopecia, a diverse, moody batch of songs following their own inner logic and employing rock, rap, minimalism, and pop styles. It featured the clearest demonstration of the artistic voice Why? has been chasing, and was played with the instrumental chops Wolf and company have been honing as they’ve developed as songwriters and as a live band. This body of work is a fascinating study in the development of an artist, so new release Eskimo Snow comes highly anticipated. The songs for Eskimo Snow were actually recorded during the same Minneapolis sessions that produced Alopecia over two years ago, ans as the sessions progressed, the band started to sense two different records emerging, and ended up with two different full-length albums. So, what surprises does Why? have in store this go-round?

Both the narrative and musical tone of the album is different than anything they’ve done before, but subtly so. Delivered in Wolf’s usual word-drunk style (with no rapping whatsoever), the lyrics here still dwell in uber-aware existentialism, chronicling obsessions with death, masturbation, family, identity crisis, aging, numbness, and home through witty observations and ultra-frank confessions. On this latest effort, the lyrical content can start feeling like rehashed at points, referencing soapy lubrication in the shower, wearing current styles, living with hunger, hair loss paranoia, suicide notes, and even reprising the line “Looks like a sky for shoeing horses under” from the previous album. This lyrical wheel-spinning is a somewhat minor quibble, though, especially considering the sheer volume of thoughtful words included. What’s really notable about Eskimo Snow is that the sourness and desperation from Alopecia and the heartsickness from Elephant Eyelash have morphed into something more insular and purely existential. Though always extremely introspective, Wolf’s characters used to react more to things out in the world, be it an ex-girlfriend, overzealously religious friends or family, Jesus, or other unnamed foes and obstacles. These ten songs are resigned and sad, and chronicle the thoughts of a person who doesn’t fit into the world and looks inside instead of outside to know why. They bring to life, and in their own strange way celebrate, the struggle between personally significant details and the inescapable conclusion of ultimate insignificance.

The sound, largely anchored by piano and vibraphone, has more of a live band sound and hews closer to the Reichian-pop side they flirted with on songs like “A Sky for Shoeing Horses Under” from Alopecia. The main criticism I have of Eskimo Snow is that the timbre of the music feels more safe and one-dimensional than prior output, especially using the piano as the dominant instrument, which sometimes sounds more nice than interesting, and makes the rest of the band feel a little bit backgrounded or unimportant. But the copious internal shifts in the songs spell this tendency pretty well, especially on repeated listens. The songs aren’t afraid to kick up some momentum only to collapse into something more languid, or vice versa. And there are twists and turns even in these piano-based songs that will perk up your ears. The ballad-ish “This Blackest Purse” is the exception from the piano, the tinkling chords painting a broad but intimate and sensitive picture, and leading one of Why?’s best traditional sounding songs yet. It also includes one of Wolf’s best lines, “I want to speak at an intimate decibel with the precision of an infinite decimal”. The monkey-esque cooing in the background of introductory track “These Hands” is a left-field thrill everytime. The anthemic “Against Me” raises enough racket with simple elements, and wonders when someone will “raise a scythe against me”. “One Rose” is a great rumination on human development and mortality over a bed of death ballad acoustic picking and graceful flourishes on keys. The jauntiness of the music and rueful reflection in the lyrics of “Berkeley By Hearseback” gel to fantastic effect. Title track and album-closer “Eskimo Snow” brings the acoustic guitar back out for a bittersweet dénouement that sounds like the closest Why? and Wolf have come to feeling comfortable with their place in the grand scheme of things, and provides a small lift at the end of a somewhat austere bunch of songs. The understated songs are the most memorable here (and the least Why?-like), and it sort of makes me wish the rockier material were shelved so that the whole album could be tailored to this mood of graceful resignation.

At first, I thought this would be a negative review, but in the process of listening to this album numerous times in numerous places, and sitting down and reading the lyrics, it really started to show more definition and made sense as a full-length project. Since these songs were written and recorded over two years ago, the only concern is that we’re missing out on a few years of Why?’s fascinating development. Let’s hope we get some new studio sessions in the near future. But for now, we have Eskimo Snow, just in time for fall’s gradual but assured death and winter’s numbing cold.

Why?

Anticon

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