The B-52s
Funplex
Astralwerks
originally published April 2, 2008
One thing that’s always been surprising about The B-52s is how infrequently the band’s sound has been imitated. This last decade has been fraught with resurrections of musical trends both mainstream and obscure, but nobody’s really tapped into the infectious joy of The B’s harmony-laden dance tunes. That’s fine, though; let the band do that itself with Funplex, its first album in 16 years.
The vocal harmonies of Cindy Wilson and Kate Pierson reach back to the band’s 1980 vibrancy, a weirdo mix of new wave quirkiness, post-punk rhythms and retro/futuro time warping. If the band’s self-titled debut and follow-up Wild Planet sounded like a twisted late-‘70s/early-‘80s take on ‘50s nostalgia, then Funplex is more like an ‘80s interpretation of what the ‘50s might’ve thought the 2000s would sound like - by which time we’d all be wearing jetpacks and chrome panties. So, it's heavy on lasers and outer-space sounds, and tempered by the band’s subtly raunchy innocence.
Funplex’s title track is an instant winner, though its depiction of mall culture as a haven for pleasure-seekers seems like it would’ve been more prescient 10 years ago.
And the shimmy-shaken track “Hot Corner” is an ebullient document of the last-call antics of the (sizable) slice of Athens club-goers eager to dance, drink and find more fun after last call. Fred Schneider’s cheesy shout-out of “Hey y’all, last call!” is close to irresistible.
It’s a slickly produced affair, almost to a fault; one of the most charming aspects of The B’s early recordings is that they sound like they brought the house party to the studio, while the inverse is the case on Funplex. The glittery enhancements and computer-y effects (guitarist Keith Strickland has said he was inspired to start writing tunes again while listening to a lot of electronic music) sit a little too near to featureless mid-‘90s electronica, but the band’s never been too concerned with fitting neatly into any particular era.
On one hand, it’d be easy to say that Funplex sounds out of date; on the other hand, you could say that it sounds out of time. One thing that can’t be said about Funplex, though, is that it sounds out of character.
The B-52’s are playing at Chastain Park Amphitheatre in Atlanta on Monday, June 16 and Tuesday, June 17.
The Weakerthans
Reunion Tour
Anti-/Epitaph
originally published April 2, 2008
When I think of the Weakerthans, the first thing that comes to mind is "Ska Sucks" by Propaghandi. Without fail - I can't help it. Still, John K. Samson has come a long way since his first band's goofy beginnings. Propaghandi went on to become more literate and political, and during a lengthy vacation, Samson was obviously busy honing his writing blades. All four Weakerthans albums have first and foremost been about well-written words, and Reunion Tour might be the most notably so. Samson is a lyricist in the same league as other indie greats, such as Ben Gibbard, Blake Schwarzenbach or Stephin Merritt.
Musically there's not much different here than on previous outings. The bulk of the 11 songs is melodic, introspective, catchy mid-tempo indie rock along the lines of The Decemberists. "Tournament of Hearts" fills the role of the punk song, and there are a couple of pretty ballads. I've never been blown away by the band as a whole, but once the lyrics sink in, everything clicks as the tracks become short films. If anything, the record has an even more narrative structure. "The pause feels like an extra year of high school" is one of the best lines I've ever heard. Ever. There's so much wrapped inside those few words, and that is Samson's true gift, condensing novels into three minutes. In fact, I should see if he's published any fiction.
The Weakerthans are playing the 40 Watt Club on Tuesday, Apr. 8.
Beach House
Devotion
CarPark
originally published April 2, 2008
Devotion, like the band's name suggests, offers a rare escape from the chaos and tension of the working world. Like that secret seaside hideaway we all yearn for, the swaying, delicate melodies on this record will warm listeners from the inside out.
This isn't a bouncy, wild spring break kind of escape. It's more like a serene, solitary voyage to some desolate island. It's peaceful here, but isolation is as lonesome as it's liberating, and you can sense that subtle, sad yearning in Victoria Legrand's breezy vocals. Her hushed whispers chill the air and raise goose bumps like a cool ocean breeze on damp skin. Before you drift off, following her siren song, you can sink your toes deep into the warm guitar and harpsichord tones, like a bed of sun-toasted sand.
Fans of Beach House's self-titled debut will not be surprised by anything new on this record; it's just a more refined, polished presentation of the same sensual, breathy beautiful tunes. Standout track "Gila" is especially moving, with Alex Scally's atmospheric, reverb-drenched guitar creating a distant, almost mystical backdrop for Legrand's sighing vocals.
For all the summer time imagery I associate with Beach House, there is also a touch of holiday joy here as well, with the recurring sweet jingle jangle of bells softening the percussion. "All the Years" is like a psychedelic Christmas song, with sleigh bells ringing around warped slide guitar. It's just a reminder that Beach House's gentle melodies will certainly resonate year-round.
The Strugglers
The Latest Rights
Acuarela Discos
originally published April 2, 2008
It isn’t until the tasteful, lone trumpet flourish during the waning moments of “Redeployment” that The Latest Rights distinguishes itself from the swelling homogenous ranks of men armed with six-string acoustics compelled to share their defining moments and deeply personal tales of woe in the LP format. The very next song, “Out on the Main Drag” reinforces held interest - admittedly (here comes the irony) because of this listener’s affinity for something similar.
North Carolina-based Brice Randall Bickford, offering these songs under the moniker The Strugglers, is immediately reminiscent of Mark Kozelek (Sun Kil Moon), which isn’t to say the music is nothing more than a reasonable facsimile (or rip-off), but the album does resemble a better groomed, yet equally brooding, little brother of Kozelek’s 2003 gem, Ghosts of the Great Highway. The inadvertent similarity puts The Strugglers in fine company.
When these obviously portable songs are augmented by the talents of accomplished players like violinist Daniel Hart (Destroyer) and anything-with-keys Alex Lazara (The Prayers and Tears of Arthur Digby Sellers), the sparse aural fabric hangs as if painstakingly tailored - and I suspect that even if Bickford were to tour as a stark naked soloist, our minds would not allow the pedal steel, cello and trombones to be absent from the mix, assuming one has been briefed by a few living room listens of The Latest Rights.
Explorers Club
Freedom Wind
Dead Oceans
originally published April 2, 2008
Ten words in, and already this review brings up The Beach Boys. That’s because Explorers Club sounds a lot like them. Maybe someone has already told you that. Maybe you’ve looked at the album cover and noticed the band photos with beaches, striped shirts and yachting caps. Still, none of this will prepare you for the beginning of the record, when a Spector-inspired Wall of Sound backs four-part harmonizing and a cherubic falsetto.
Is this a bad thing? Maybe. I don’t know. Sometimes? This record is a little mystifying. Part of me wonders if this isn’t some elaborate piece of performance art or Andy Kaufman-esque comedy. If it is a joke, though, the delivery is a perfect deadpan.
These guys sound best when channeling Brian Wilson and the fragile brilliance of his Smile era. “Lost My Head” floats from a solemn hymn to a chant in the round and back again, stopping occasionally for a brief banjo cameo. With painstaking dedication, Explorers Club recreates every aspect of The Beach Boys’ sound: melodies, orchestration, vocal harmonies... everything. The accuracy of this reproduction is astounding.
Unfortunately, the band shifts its focus from Brian’s legacy on several songs like “Do You Love Me,” a paint-by-numbers tune with schmaltzy sax that sounds like Mike Love performing at a state fair. Explorers Club is not new. The beautiful pop epiphanies on this record are bound to be diluted by the knowledge that you’ve heard them before. Sure, when I turn the music off and walk away, I’m humming Explorers Club, not The Beach Boys, but I’ll put Pet Sounds back on soon enough.
Evangelista
Hello, Voyager
Constellation
originally published April 2, 2008
“Eleven years old, my blood ran cold; by 13... I had to spill it.” If the stranger next to you with the tattooed hands and lopsided grin chose this to be her conversational icebreaker, you might opt to change barstools. I’m not sure I’d blame you. But that’s how it is with Carla Bozulich’s new project Evangelista, and in this instance, you’d be wiser to stay put and dig in for the drama. Hello, Voyager certainly bears a lioness’ share of the dramatic, but God damn it, sometimes the truth has to be dramatic - a little too close for comfort.
It’s that shade of in-the-red emotionalism that Bozulich has painted in for 20 years; traversing industrial music, fucked up Americana and cinematic improvisation, she has employed plenty of vehicles for her broken-mold siren song. Wilco fans would do well to dig up the Geraldine Fibbers, her '90s avant-alt-country collaboration with impressionistic guitar hero/ Jeff Tweedy sideman Nels Cline. Bozulich more than matched Cline in sheer intensity - no easy feat.
Evangelista is a fitting outfit for Bozulich - faded canvases of strings and drones are draped over a rusted skeleton of stumbling percussion. Meandering improv-clatter bumps up against stately, stoic swaths of dark blue, black and grey. Bozulich lords over the whole mess, peaking her mic out, exhorting call and impassioned response, bringing fire to the brimstone table like Nick Cave at his grittiest. (If only the Load Records noise clique had this much soul!) Bozulich continues to reign in her own strange, slightly sick, pretty beautiful world. It’s definitely worth hearing her out.
Earth
The Bee Made Honey in the Skull of the Lion
Southern Lord
originally published April 2, 2008
Since forming Earth in 1990, guitarist Dylan Carlson (the band's only permanent member) has collaborated with an unlikely assortment of musicians. Kurt Cobain jammed with Carlson in the group's early days, contributing guitar and vocals to demos and an early EP. Around the same time, sludge metal legend Joe Preston (Melvins, Thrones) stood in on bass for about a year. And on Earth's sixth studio album, Bill Frissell, one of modern jazz's true guitar virtuosos, lends his talents to Carlson's project.
Frissell plays a key role in making this record Earth's most graceful to date. A far cry from the rhythm-less drone metal of Carlson's early recordings, Bee is equal parts gothic country sludge and dirt-caked, cinematic Americana. Frissell's undistorted, lyrical guitar and Steve Moore's gospel-inflected piano ring beautifully over Carlson's smeary, distorted riffs and Adrienne Davis' sparse, heavy drum beats. The band selects complementary and contrasting tones and textures with painterly precision.
The field of sounds is so rich that one scarcely realizes how simple these compositions are. Each song is based around a short, repetitive progression of twangy chords. Riffs circle like vultures over a dead horse, with subtle improvisations coloring each measure. These brief, off-the-cuff flourishes make Bee great; without them, this would be little more than post-rock mood music.
Baby Walrus
Baby Walrus
Slumber Party
originally published April 2, 2008
Baby Walrus can seem like two separate bands, each with its own virtues. Live, the trio from Omaha is tight. Chris Senseney bangs on the keyboard, propelling the songs forward, while drummer John P. Voris deftly navigates the band through all its time changes. Dylan Strimple lets his guitar hide beneath it all and fill out the sound, until Senseney picks up a guitar, and the two play off each other in complex interweavings. They know what they’re doing.
On Baby Walrus’ self-titled debut, the band gives its songs more space to unhinge. The percussion is sparse, sometimes absent completely. Senseney slurs the words to “Grape Jelly’s Origins” over a plodding accordion, while distant drums come in and out, as if Voris knows the song will fall apart, and tries a few times to give up early. Sure enough, at the end, the song fades into chaos, and it would seem ramshackle if it weren’t so well executed.
Baby Walrus doesn’t sit still very long. The bandmembers string the melodies together loosely, with abrupt leaps that grab your attention. “Nobody’s Got a Beautiful Heart” is hardly more than a minute long, but even then it can’t help switching from off-kilter blues to Sun Records rockabilly and back again. The album is frenetic, often coming out of left field, and it is clear just how much the songwriting owes to musicians like Tom Waits that distort traditional American music to make something unexpected. In this case, the result is equal parts sinister and playful, all drunken waltzes, church organs and kazoos. You won’t hear any of the blitzkrieg guitar solos that populate Baby Walrus' live shows; the band's happy to sacrifice musicianship if it means making a more interesting record.
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