The War on Drugs
Wagonwheel Blues
Secretly Canadian
originally published May 21, 2008
The War on Drugs wastes no time establishing a ramshackle, election-year, revolt-folk vibe on Wagonwheel Blues. Album opener "Arms Like Boulders" is essential listening for denizens that don't mind subtle social commentary enveloped in their rock and roll, and frontman/multi-instrumentalist Adam Granduciel isn't the least bit bashful about wearing his Bob Dylan (circa any era) influence like a badge of honor. Fellow neo-folk troubadour Tim Bracy (Mendoza Line) has had to endure the warranted comparisons to Dylan, and like Bracy, Granduciel composes songs that stand comfortably and confidently on their own. Here's hoping for a career that allows The War on Drugs to be as prolific as the predecessor and/or the contemporary.
Guiding lights and sources of inspiration can be guessed at, or identified with absolute certainty, throughout the Philadelphia-based band's debut. Have fun discovering The Velvet Underground's "I'm Waiting for the Man" cadence augmented by trumpet and hiding on "Buenos Aires Beach," where Granduciel begs, "So, let's speak of the past in the future perfect tense/ of places we will go/ before we grow old." And yes, that train whistle vocal wail on "A Needle in Your Eye #16" is very reminiscent of The Boss.
Despite the obvious connection to the classic corners of rock, it would be unfair to dismiss or discount Wagonwheel Blues as merely an homage. Even filler tracks, instrumental and atmospheric compositions "Coast Reprise" and "Reverse the Charges," provide a perfect temporary respite from the album's pleasantly periphrastic offerings.
Joan Of Arc
Boo Human
Polyvinyl
originally published May 21, 2008
Ah, the Kinsellas. The wunderkind family from Chicago has its trademarks: Mike with his acoustic virtuosity, Nate with his indecent exposure and Tim with his… well, what is Tim Kinsella's calling card? It's hard to pinpoint how he ended up as the "face" of an ever-changing clique of knotty, unpredictable indie-rock bands, of which Joan of Arc has been the most enduring and well-known. Over a decade of side projects and obstinate pigeonhole-evading, Tim has garnered a staggering amount of infamy. I suppose the reason for this is his voice: some say nasal, some say pitch-deficient, but the guy's been doing it long enough that it must be at least somewhat intentional. Why he's such a lightning rod for critical venom is beyond me, but if you've despised Joan of Arc in the past, well, Boo Human won't change your mind.
That said, fans of JOA's more conventional past records will find plenty to enjoy. The tangles of briar-patch guitar are still there along with the syncopated drum-and-percussion rhythms that have been flexed by the Kinsella family for years now. Electronic flourishes pop up every now and then, and it's fascinating to see how, although the band remains a revolving cast of musicians, the sonics remain squarely in the JOA tradition. And so, that voice comes to the forefront as a focus; if all the music is as solid and similar as ever, the individual songs hinge on Tim Kinsella's performance and how believable, listenable or bearable you find it. The track that jumps out the most is also the briefest: "9/11 2" works towards equating emotional devastation with national tragedy, and for my money it succeeds. So it is with Boo Human in general - Kinsella has spent so long with an enfant-terrible attitude that a lot of folks haven't realized that he's boiled that style down to a science. Who knew he'd ever be considered a vet?
Be Your Own Pet
Get Awkward
Ecstatic Peace/ Universal
originally published May 21, 2008
In 2006, Be Your Own Pet seemingly sprung fully-formed from the head of a middle-aged rock critic. They were a bunch of kids from a somewhat unlikely town, fronted by a tough-talking chick with balls the size of Beth Ditto. The critics raved and occasionally even mentioned the music. Now, the band has released its second album; the members may not be teenagers anymore, but they're still from Nashville, and one of 'em's still a girl. So let's talk about 'em!
On the first song, Jemima Pearl accurately summarizes BYOP's purpose as "teenage mayhem." Get Awkward is almost a half-hour of energetic, attitude-fueled punk that's just raw and honest enough to appeal to kids and old-timers alike. The band's fixation on delinquency and scofflaw-ism might be a bit generic, like it's trying too hard to live up to The Ramones/ Runaways ideal of transgressive juvenilia. Pearl's writing is succinct and her authorial voice distinctive enough to stand out, though. Plus, the band isn't remotely serious, which keeps everything floating along smoothly. As such, BYOP's a great gateway band for pre-teens just getting interested in something beyond pop radio.
Unfortunately, the band's label Universal kneecapped Get Awkward by dropping three of the best songs off the American release, due to violent lyrics. One of them, "Becky," a casually brilliant murder fantasy about a former best friend, is basically Avril Lavigne's "Girlfriend," but funnier and more believable. Another, "Black Hole," features the amazing lyric "eating pizza is really great/ so is destroying everything you hate." Finding songs like these is one of the reasons the Internet was invented.
Snow & Voices
What the Body Was Made For
Elastic Ruby
originally published May 21, 2008
Those of us wanting to wallow in a woebegone state looking for an album to serve as a soundtrack for a disintegrating relationship can employ What the Body Was Made For to fill our broken hearts. Just don't expect the collection of mirthless songs from the Los Angeles-based duo Snow & Voices to repair said hearts.
Vocalist Lauri Kranz and multi-instrumentalist Jebin Bruni refuse to uncover the pleasant characteristics of an uncoupling and elect, instead, to remind listeners that the consequences of expired love will almost undoubtedly be unkind and uncomfortable. Their soft and simple approach - enhanced by sophisticated production and experienced session musicians - lulls one into serene resignation. It has been decided - if the songs speak of crushed souls, then they may as well sound sweet. Enjoy the juxtaposition, like poisonous candy. (Kranz breathes matter-of-factly, "Something. Something. Something's changed in me. Something. Something. Now you're the enemy" in a hush reminiscent of Margo Timmins (Cowboy Junkies) over syncopated, manufactured beats and a sustained synthetic drone on the opening track "Something Good," simultaneously providing an emotional assault and effective anesthetic. When the duo allows itself to stray from the tough love, gently delivered formula and swim in the spiritual end of the pool on tracks "A Little Strange" and "Astronaut," it absolutely shines, while perhaps suggesting that God does (or should) play a role in our interpersonal relations, well before the credits roll.
Scott Kelly
The Wake
Neurot
originally published May 21, 2008
Lingering a second too long on the fact that Scott Kelly is a founding member of adventurous metal band Neurosis would lead your expectations of this solo effort wildly afield. Strip away the rest of his bandmates, and you’d probably still never imagine a sound as purposefully austere as this record. Comprised primarily of the forlorn meditations of his gravelly croon atop a dejected acoustic guitar, the bleak landscape scrawled here is the starkest of Americana. Gothic, spare and hope-crushing, it taps the bottomless well of abject despair that William Elliott Whitmore yoked the blues to plumb. Unbound by the convention of rhythmic regularity, the music is willed forward by forces far more spontaneous and personal. These gestures thicken the record’s drama despite its skeletal architecture. In comparison, the more furnished arrangements on the concurrent solo release by Neurosis bandmate Steve Von Till (A Grave Is a Grim Horse) seem blunted.
However, the leaden grief that generally marks the album is what makes the two-song passage of “Catholic Blood” and “In My World” that much more of a deliverance. The former, like an old country hymn, is an introspectively rapturous dance between heartache and glory, while the latter unfurls in pastoral panorama. Both are the closest thing the album comes to traditional beauty. Considering the darkness of the night that surrounds them, their wider sweeping strums are downright celestial.
Intensely microcosmic and rendered on a cuttingly intimate scale, The Wake is a stunning recording that miraculously manages to evoke without volume or affectation.
Dizzee Rascal
Maths + English
Definitive Jux
originally published May 21, 2008
Almost a year after its release in the U.K., Dizzee Rascal’s third album arrives stateside, and if you’re the kind of Internet nerd who loves his combination of metallic clicks and, indeed, dizzying torrent of words delivered in a near-incomprehensible accent, you’ve probably already discovered at least some of the tracks. “Sirens,” for example, was all over the place online, but it remains threateningly paced, conveying the panic of being chased around corners, without actually upping the beats per minute. Some songs have been added, others deleted, and others modified. El-P has remixed “Where’s Da G’s,” which features UGK; it’s not necessarily improved, but it’s considerably more American, with warmer tones and more sounds, in contrast to the minimalism of grime. “G.H.E.T.T.O.” is another bonus on the American version of the CD, and it’s a strange fusion of English and Yank, with the squeaks and yelps of the former, and the gently fuzzy bass of the latter. “Wanna Be,” which features Lily Allen on the sing-songy melody that comes in and out, is an example of the most ear-friendly of Dizzee’s stuff. Much like “Dream,” on his previous album, Showtime, it crams cuteness into the inherent menace of the concrete overpass sound, like an adorable bit of graffiti that improves the blighted landscape and comes to seem part of it. It’s hard to say whether the album will help achieve more commercial success here, as it seems to strive for, but it certainly has some hits.
The Black Angels
Directions to See a Ghost
Light in the Attic
originally published May 21, 2008
With its debut album Passover, this shit-hot Austin band immediately shot to the head of the small, but tastemaking, neo-Velvet Underground pack. As one of the most resolutely purist members of the gang, The Black Angels stay well within the bounds of their well-defined vocabulary in this follow-up effort. Here, they delve deeper into the murky neo-psychedelic chasm, exchanging the obvious groove and swagger of before for an immersive, nuanced mood that hangs like thick smoke in a still room (“Science Killer”). Making effective use of negative space and churning atmospherics, it’s a heavier, more droning rendition of the nocturnal narcosis that made them so sexy in the first place. Half-lidded, the album purposefully plods and swirls with an intoxicated lack of clarity like the soundtrack to a nightmarish vision quest. At its best (“You on the Run”), it’s a heady, half-speed rumble that comes down with smothering finality.
With a theatric sonic signature manifestly informed by the Velvets and a moniker that even makes reference to one of their songs (“The Black Angel’s Death Song”), The Black Angels have never done much to conceal their slavishness. But when a band hits its notes as seductively as The Black Angels, well, there’s only so much bitching you can do. Through dogged focus and true belief, they’ve become the deliverers of the deliciously dark psychic promise that others have only hinted at.
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