The Deacon Brandon Reeves
One of These Days
Lost Cat
originally published January 10, 2007
A husky-voiced singer-songwriter relatively new to the regional scene and familiar to Athens audiences, the Deacon Brandon Reeves conjures up images of more familiar artists like Ben Harper and Jack Johnson on his adequate debut One of These Days. Reeves handles all the musical duties himself, as many of the songs are framed by only his vocals alongside acoustic and resonator guitars. A wider variety of instrumentation would’ve helped fill out some of the dead air but, fortunately, Reeves proves himself an ace guitarist who specializes in bluesy dobro licks, and his emotive singing is able to keep things breathing soundly throughout.
Many of Reeves’ songs deal with the ups and downs of spiritual faith (he is “the Deacon,” after all) but never get too denominationally specific or heavy-handed. Rather, Reeves seems to be wrestling with and embracing his chosen faith simultaneously, adding creative depth to tracks like “Waiting On Me” and “Vigil.”
Overall, One of These Days is a solid enough first outing for the Gainesville musician. None-too-fancy with its intimate one-man approach, the Deacon puts the album’s weight on his own shoulders; more times than not, this simplicity steers the balance in an intriguing, accessible direction.
Under Byen
Samme Stof Som Stof
Paper Bag
originally published January 10, 2007
I've been claiming this a lot lately, but it seems as though all the music I've been drowning in the last few months has been flowing from northern Europe. Denmark's Under Byen (pronounced "Oh-nah Boon") is the latest example. An eight-piece trafficking in post-rock, the band refreshingly places the emphasis on the rock with mostly successful results. Anyone familiar with Sigur Rós and the like is probably bored with reading that the music conjures images of the artists' homeland, all icy tundras and vast swaths of verdant green. Under Byen falls into that cliché as well, but if something good is in your own water, why drink Dasani?
Opener "Pilot" rides a pounding drum beat that brings to mind Animal Collective's Panda Bear if you're in the next room. Vocalist Henriette Sennenvaldt has a lovely breathy voice, but it tends to grow a little grating over the course of such a long album. "Panterplanker" is all Múm music boxes undermined by squealing noise and over before it starts. Such is the problem with Samme Stof Som Stof. It has far too many good ideas while struggling to maintain a lovely mood. When the piano makes appearances, it somehow sparkles with stately moodiness, and the distorted violin works beautifully.
After the second listen to the album this review started out positively, but now rounding out the third, I can't find it in me to recommend it strongly. If you're jonesing for new post-rock, listen to Sickoakes' Seawards. It kicks everyone's ass.
120 Days
120 Days
Vice/ Small-town Supersound
originally published January 10, 2007
"Madchester Revival," a teleplay in one act
Int. smoky strobe-lit nightclub in Manchester, England. Revelers sweat and sway to the pulsing groove of 120 Days' "Come Out, Come Down, Fade Out, Be Gone." It is a scene smacking of the bygone rave era, only less lame and with fewer drugs. Erich and Trent, two trendily clad lads stand in the foreground, subtly shifting in a bare approximation of groove. Trish dances in the background.
Erich (Lad #1): "Whoa, I don't remember the Happy Mondays being this good." Flicks bangs out of face.
Trent (Lad #2): "They weren't, no matter what allmusic.com says. This is 120 Days' new single."
Erich: "New? Like, they're from right now, like, here? They are totally Madchester."
Trent: "Yes, but no, they're from Oslo or something. They're doing the Neu! and Kraftwerk thing with the motorik groove and the New Order primitive-but-ruling synth thing."
Erich: "They sound like Underworld's vocal tracks, but less clubby."
Trent: "Yeah. Ooh, here's 'Be Mine.' The deejay's playing the whole album, what a lazy ass."
Erich: "Fine by me. But what makes them rule is the way they use noise and drones. Bringing the avant-garde into pop without either suffering. That's tough to do."
Trent: "Yeah, epic. This track's got some serious Factory vibe. If I weren't so in the know, I'd think they were from here, too."
Erich: "Uh oh, ladies."
Trish: "I love Bloc Party!"
Trent: "Uh, this is 120 Days. The hippest."
Erich: "Here's 'I've Lost My Vision.' The dreamy 11-minute closer. We're supposed to go walk outside now and fall in love in the starry, starry night."
Exit.
Jóhann Jóhannsson
IBM 1401, a User's Manual
4AD
originally published January 10, 2007
If Iceland provides more of the musical beauty than any of the Scandinavian countries, its principal exporter might be Jóhann Jóhannsson. The composer is actually the first artist I really got into that could be termed "classical," although at the time I was interested because he was signed with the experimental label Touch. Those two records were achingly, meltingly beautiful, absolutely fitting for the tundra and sheer breathtaking landscapes of his homeland.
IBM 1401, a User's Manual is Jóhannsson's debut for the label 4AD. The five pieces are based on the first computer ever to come to Iceland. Jóhannsson's father was its chief maintenance engineer and an amateur musician who experimented with the machine. Fast forward, insert nostalgia, etc. The music here is haunting and timeless, have no doubt: slow swelling and crashing movements played by the Prague Philharmonic, along with a heavy dose of electronic texture from the IBM. Just imagine Sigur Rós without the actual band. Then make it BIGGER.
The only flaw on IBM 1401, a User's Manual is the inclusion in two pieces of old recordings of maintenance procedures. If you listen to what the voice is saying, it's impossible not to be distracted. Such ungodly beauty doesn't mesh with mechanical descriptions of detached topics, and it's not so contraposed as to really say anything. But I suppose the man-machine duality is the point; besides, I'm too close to crying like an emo kid to complain much.
Allison Weiss
An Eight-Song Tribute to Feeling Bad and Feeling Better
Independent Release
originally published January 10, 2007
We’re not living in a great age for female singer-songwriters who play acoustic guitars. Unlike the heyday of the mid-1990s, when there were enough to pack a Lilith Fair, the present trends more toward heavy production and bouncing around with a microphone. Local songwriter Allison Weiss, who won’t turn 20 until April, is a strong exception to that, and her gift is that she shoots straight for earnestness without the hippie downside that often accompanies it.
Imagine, for example, if someone like Jewel had been able to write strummy little songs without cringe-inducing lyrics about social consciousness. That is, girl-plus-guitar is a great formula if the girl is bold and interesting, and Weiss certainly is. I don’t want to say she has maturity beyond her years because that would imply something much grayer than her sweet, direct sound. What she sounds like is a smart 19-year-old with a ton of self-confidence that somehow makes her appealing, not annoying, even to a habitual introvert. Call it Daisy Miller-ish unflappability.
Weiss also sings simply, avoiding the vibrato techniques of most "American Idol" competitors, which is as refreshing as the unpretentious melodies of her tunes. Pick a favorite tune? It’s difficult to do so, which is a mark of quality, but there are particular moments on “Perfectly Alright” (the vocal turn into “not the good kind”) that could be nominated. Categorize this debut album overall as apricot-flavored: delicate, unusual, promising great ripeness, and worth a chance.
Christina Carter
Electrice
Kranky
originally published January 10, 2007
The music of Christina Carter has always struck a perfect chord between timelessness and namelessness. The former because it uses the simplest frameworks and instrumentation while stretching across eras; the latter because it is nigh impossible to capture properly and place beneath a familiar descriptive heading. "Freak-folk" is the most common attempt, but it falls far short. Whether solo or with her main group Charalambides (primarily a duo with Tom Carter), her art is never redundant, always gorgeous, and it drifts and wisps and digs soft claws into the rootsy earth.
Electrice may be her most fertile work yet, which is a bit odd because it's her most limited in scope. Carter decided to perform the entire album in the same key and with the same guitar tunings. A deceptively simple and imposing task, certainly. But the payoff is far greater than the concept. Ephemeral, haunting, hypnotic, these are all thin words I could employ. How about just regular old beautiful? The album could best be described as a 40-minute tone poem, with Carter alternating between hushed vocals and hushed wordless vocals, like a content and mildly drugged Liz Fraser. But this is aware and powerful music. "Second Death" bleeds into "Moving Intercepted" bleeds into "Yellow Pine" bleeds into "Words Are Not My Own," and that's exactly the way this record should unfold. Patiently, gauzily, clean-picked melodies blurring into drones and back again.
Something this stripped down shouldn't be so full, but that's the brilliance of what Carter's been doing for nearly 15 years. She's obviously not slowing down anytime soon, regardless of her music's tempo.
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