Birds Of Avalon
Outer Upper Inner
Volcom Entertainment
originally published April 16, 2008
This record is not punk rock at all, in any sense of the word or idea, and I do understand why: these cats have been at it for a long time, going back to the mid-'80s for some of them. They’re gnarly road-dogs, have gone all over, and shredded across the cosmos to be sure. They have bent themselves over the barrel to get it done, and I’d say they’ve earned the right to calm down a bit - sonically speaking. But watch out: if all this was an old movie - and thankfully it ain't - they’d be Charles Holden from The Wild Bunch: sage, lovelorn, grizzled and determined above the rocky vistas, though ready with the knife for your soft parts if you once blink wrong.
Live, Paul Siler and Cheetie Kumar’s old band The Cherry Valence was a primordial force; it took that Alice Cooper prerogative and beat you over the head with it. The band was brutally, bloody-your-lip awesome, but the records were way too raw to capture its soulful-caveman essence. So, it makes pure sense then, that BOA has made what amounts to a '70s pop record; the band hired Mitch Easter and his hairdo, and what you’ve got is a home-safe disc just a-brimming with Fender Rhodes, guileless saxophone solos over highly acceptable mid-tempos, Big Star-ish vocalizing and some warm, middle-of-the-road production. The prog-smarts are still there, and of course this EP gushes with those ingenious guitar harmonies, but don’t come dressed for the apocalypse anymore. Fans of mid-period Yes, '70s-era Kinks, those few Thin Lizzy doses from the way-late 1970s (Johnny the Fox, Black Rose) and Chris Stamey’s output should be right pleased.
Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks
Real Emotional Trash
Matador
originally published April 16, 2008
Stephen Malkmus' post-Pavement career has been a mixed bag. His earlier solo albums felt unfocused, alternating between overly coy pop songs and discursive, meandering jams. He's found focus, though, on Real Emotional Trash, his fourth solo record since breaking up Pavement. Yeah, the jams return in force, but they're tighter and more muscular. It might not be his most accessible solo record, but it is his most richly rewarding.
On Trash, Malkmus often lets the songs unravel to epic lengths in order to accommodate his elaborate solos. Jams abound, as Malkmus' infatuation with Pentangle-style psych-folk and Canterbury prog-rock rears its head yet again. The last time this happened, on 2003's Pig Lib, the results weren't too pretty. Trash is a more tuneful record though, and remains resolutely melodic despite the headiness. It's also a bit more relaxed; some people might say it's too relaxed, even lazy. The songs are long and not too fast, but there's nothing listless about these dizzying solos, or Janet Weiss' customarily powerful drumming.
It feels weird to focus almost exclusively on the music when discussing Malkmus. He used to be considered a great lyricist. Some people probably still think he is. I don't. His lyrics are a little too aimless and whimsical, concerned more with wordplay than meaning. That's not a bad thing, really, but it doesn't make for memorable lyrics. I do think that he's one hell of a fantastic guitar player though, and that his skills as such are vastly underrated. At its most basic level, Real Emotional Trash is a showcase for his guitar playing, displaying how thoroughly it has eclipsed his songwriting. And although it might be a sprawling mess, it's at least one hell of an entertaining mess.
Russian Spy Camera
Mutiny in the Kitchen with Knives
Independent Release
originally published April 16, 2008
It's a rare occurrence for a band's second release to be as good as its first, but Russian Spy Camera's sophomore effort manages just that. Mutiny in the Kitchen with Knives picks up right where You are a Vulture left off. In fact, many of the songs on both albums were written around the same time, and this latter record can be thought of as a companion piece to the first. Mystery, magic, the occult and the familiar are still very important subjects; however the overall theme of this album is envy; whereas time and deception were the key components of You are a Vulture. It would seem with this follow-up that the boys in the band have perfected their brand of frenzied indie pop. Still chock full of the unusual melodies and erratic arrangements that have become the band's signature, this album benefits from Ryan White's discerning ear as every multi-layered effect or barely audible whisper is where it should be. Most of the tracks shift gears in another direction about halfway in, but the band's cohesiveness and ability to meld genres make every song more engaging than jarring. Hands down the best track on the album is "This Town Has Placed a Curse on Me," a strangely mesmerizing minimalist hand-clapping/ foot-stomping sing-a-long that still hasn't made its way off my repeat button. And if that's not enough, Russian Spy Camera is generously giving this album away for free via the band's website.
William Tonks
Catch
Ghostmeat
originally published April 16, 2008
There are certain historic inevitabilities in this world; absolute power will in fact corrupt absolutely, when someone gains power someone loses power, and somewhere for whatever reason, someone is feeling nostalgic for Freedy Johnston.
As frightening as feeling nostalgic for Johnston may seem to some, William Tonks sees this nostalgia as a good thing on his latest album, Catch. Through 11 tracks of some of the most gorgeous acoustic guitar and pedal steel playing around, Tonks meanders through song after song daring to ask the simple question: “What if someone wrote an entire album where nothing happened?” It’s a rather drab listening experience, which makes the highs giant-sized.
At the core of the problem is Tonks’ production, which leaves both his voice and guitar stark and right up front. While this may work well in an intimate live setting, on album the songs become stale and repetitive. Not even the songs that hint at being upbeat (including “Your Brain Remains”) can escape the trap of Tonks’ dry production and the vanilla of Tonks’ voice.
With that being said, Catch is a great guitar album. The acoustic playing is intricate and hummable, and the slide and pedal steel work never creeps into boring blues-based territory. The overall musical sparseness may take away from the overall quality of the album, but it does the guitar playing a favor by making it the star of Catch.
Clinic
Do It!
Domino
originally published April 16, 2008
Considering the arty tendencies of the notable but sometimes impenetrable Liverpool band, Clinic's fifth full-length outing is a rather accessible affair. Without question, Clinic remains steadfast in its mission to make interesting rock music. It just takes less eccentric turns this time, a decision that doesn’t dent the band's impact in the least.
Clinic's ability to stay true to its trademark minimal essentialism, yet still achieve such deep, palpable moodiness is a true marvel. This is an album that knows the value of judicious placement, capturing the full effect of even simple elements like a lonely harmonica here or a primitive guitar echo there. Purposeful, optimizing gestures like these prove Clinic’s incredibly accomplished concept of rawness. Moreover, the band makes sure the record is dusted with plenty of patina by dragging its thick rock through the rich soils of spaghetti Western scores, psych, surf and Stax-style soul. Fairly consistent throughout is that Velvet Underground influence, which permeates the largely spacious songs like opium smoke rolling across the badlands. Apart from the bashed-out, feverish urgency of “Shopping Bag,” the narcosis is more meticulously rationed and atmospheric. Highlights include the big, studly swagger of cuts like “Memories” and “The Witch.” Also exceptional is “High Coin,” a funereal, Coyote-esque march that burns with foreboding inevitability. The nicely unpredictable “Free Not Free” is a gorgeous, drifting slab of ‘70s soul that’s occasionally raped with brief stabs of dire, razorblade guitars that come seemingly from nowhere. As only Clinic can do, the desert-tripping, rattlesnake psychedelia of Do It! is identifiable, original, outstanding.
Does It Offend You, Yeah?
You Have No Idea What You Are Getting Yourself Into
AlmostGold Recordings
originally published April 16, 2008
First impressions last. So, it's all the more crucial to start by saying this band is better than its name. Actually, since that moniker smokes the pole so much (The Guardian even crowned them “Worst Band Name” in 2007), let’s say that again: this band does not suck. At least, the debut album doesn’t. With an approach that bridges ‘80s indie rock and ‘00s dance music, these Brits are well-versed in the hybridized Madchester heritage. Their aesthetic thumps with the major signifiers of today’s dance floors and all the de rigueur Daft Punkisms that implies. But most dance acts do not, and often should not, attempt actual songs. DIOYY, however, proves to be the exception, executing many fully vocal songs convincingly. They’re prone to moments of abject lyrical stupidity (“Let’s Make Out”), but their name and song titles should’ve already tipped you off that these lads have no business handling language. In the way of sound though, they’re solid, showing keen aptitude in melody, pacing and construction. Of the highlights, “We Are Rockstars” packs everything a primetime dance cut should: power, simplicity and contrast. The dense, buzzing storm clouds of stomping acid insanity part occasionally and drop into a pimp-smooth robo-disco break. It’s such an obvious banger that DJ Steve Aoki couldn’t resist putting it on his debut mix album. Also excellent is “Epic Last Song,” an electro-coated, melodic indie-rock song that has a chorus so soaring that it’ll draw anyone wearing skinny jeans out on the floor. With this auspicious first step, DIOYY makes a credible bid to become the next huge party band.
These New Puritans
Beat Pyramid
Domino
originally published April 16, 2008
Beat Pyramid's pulsating sense of urgency creates the sense that you’re caught in the midst of a British heist film, as though some anonymous henchman might snipe you down at any moment. “We’re being watched by experts,” the unsuspecting listener is warned as the album’s cautionary tone progresses. Over an assault of angular sine waves, diabolical bass lines and tribal ragga beats, Jack Barnett’s repetitive vocal style is simultaneously irritating and terrifying as he mimics the very same bureaucratic forces that the lyrics seek to undermine. Recalling electro-indie albums like The Notwist’s Neon Golden, Barnett’s dehumanized delivery calls attention to the alienating aspects of technocracy and projects their broader social context, without giving them a name.
Given such a wealth of bravado for a group just old enough to perform in the UK’s Southend pub circuit, These New Puritans possess a keen musical instinct, and an occultist obsession with numerology cryptic enough to put Coltrane to shame. Track names like “Infinityytinifni” are written in retrograde with Arabic subtitles, while the album itself can be played cyclically without interruption. Yet, what comes across as infatuation is, in actuality, a cheeky way of overstating that objects are only given meaning to the extent that humans ascribe to them - “This music is symbolic/ This music is weightless,” we’re reminded in Wu-Tang-inspired “Swords of Truth.” Taken this way, “numbers in the back of our eyelids,” are given to signify the mind’s subjective inner-eye. Descriptive rather than prescriptive, the lyrics seek to evoke a mocking sense of paranoia, mirroring a society that has become excessively concerned with the purely quantitative and ostensibly meaningless.
The Brian Jonestown Massacre
My Bloody Underground
A Records
originally published April 16, 2008
In terms of impact, the work of this neo-psych band and the mercurial personality of its frontman, Anton Newcombe, have long been headed for a photo finish. His obvious talent is always in danger of being eclipsed by his self-stirred drama. But after several years of much needed quiet, BJM is back with lucky album number 13. Superstition aside, applying references to the two greatest shoegaze bands in the entire rock canon (My Bloody Valentine and Jesus and Mary Chain) to the title of your work should surely set it up for letdown. True, it doesn’t attain the masterful altitude that those two titanic forefathers represent, but this ain’t the work of a chump either. With influences that are nothing if not obvious, no one looks to BJM to change the language of music. No, mood is what this band offers. And in this effort, it's served up nice and thick. The fuzzy, suffocating waves and dark, shuffling breakbeat in “Who Cares Why” slather on the sexy narcosis in lecherous proportions. “Golden-Frost” is raw, bashed-out rock and roll trying to stay afloat in a roiling sea of paranoia. The lonely majesty of “Darkwave Driver/ Big Drill Car” rides a sonorous surf guitar over layers of white noise. The tracks aren’t so much songs as they are transporting auditory trips. Sprawling and atmospheric, it’s a lurid brand of medicated impressionism that hypnotizes through half-lidded repetition, deep grooves and a swirling, anxiety-ridden sense of perpetual motion. Welcome back, Anton. Now just keep your mouth shut and stick to the music.
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