Taylor Hollingsworth
Bad Little Kitty
Mass Music
originally published July 30, 2008
Filth is more complicated than it seems. Sometimes you catch a whiff of something (or someone) ripe, and the reaction is an immediate jump backward. Other times, as with the rich, rotten stench of decomposing woodchips, there’s a strange kind of appeal to dirt and grime. Taylor Hollingsworth’s new record, Bad Little Kitty, is the musical equivalent, mostly of the latter, although occasionally of the former. Powered by rough guitar and an almost cartoonish voice that seems to pour from a squished larynx, his songs can be excessively simple twelve-bar blues stomps that still manage to catch the ear or they can be something else entirely. “Christmas Blues,” a delicate folk tune that echoes Paul Simon, numbers among the latter tracks, as does the reprise of “TNT & Dynamite,” which starts off raucous in a good way and then overstays its welcome, becoming increasingly obnoxious. Still, you can skip the tracks that rub your ears raw and focus on the more Romweber-esque tunes which are pleasingly scuffed up without moving into teeth-gritting territory and, in fact, make up the majority of the album.
Various Artists
Gigantic: A Tribute to Kim Deal
American Laundromat Records
originally published July 30, 2008
All I wanted was one note: the singularly lonely, passing-in-outer-space synth beep that appears in the first 30 seconds of The Breeders' "Off You," only to disappear, never to be heard in the song again. It's a brilliant moment among numerous that Kim Deal has accrued in her patiently artful career, but apparently it's something that some band called Francine deemed frivolous and omitted altogether. Sad to say, that's regrettably par for Gigantic: folks with the good taste to pay homage to great songs but ill-equipped to note the nuance that put said songs over the top.
The collection of grungy unknowns gathered to pay tribute to Ms. Deal tend to bash where The Breeders simmered, highlighting that band's cool restraint and low-key smarts. Gigantic is clearly a labor of love, but the listener's preconceptions of the what eternally jimmied songs like "Cannonball" and "Invisible Man" into our hearts and minds put the 13 bands compiled here at a disadvantage. It doesn't help that most of them hedge pretty close to the originals, with only "Descartes a Kant" coloring outside of the lines with a spazzy-diva take on the Frank Black kiss-off "I Just Want to Get Along."
Ultimately, Gigantic pretty much stands to reaffirm that, to nick a phrase, very few people are cool like Kim Deal. I feel for these kids, but unfortunately, I'm out of anything to say that aren't "Best Week Ever"-style one-liners. So, without further ado, God help us all: "Divine Hammer"? Needs more heroin! "Doe"? More like D'oh! "Fortunately Gone"? I'll say! Wackity-smackity-doo!
Horse Feathers
House with No Name
Kill Rock Stars
originally published July 30, 2008
Pharmaceutical folk, that is, languid Americana music performed by tuckered troubadours, hasn't required its own corner of the record shop (or drug store, for that matter) yet, but with the recent praise rained down on Bon Iver's For Emma, Forever Ago and this little find from hushed and haggard strummers Horse Feathers, it may be coming to that soon. The sleepy, campestral arrangements composed by the Portland-based trio of multi-instrumentalists Justin Ringle, Heather Broderick and Peter Broderick sound good with the windows open, in bed at night, as crickets and toads attempt to mate within earshot.
Ringle has the voice of a man with sleeping-pill eyes and steady drool dropping into his beard. And these songs are made for it. The vague and disconnected lyrics, often mumbled and semi-coherent (the lyrics printed in the liner notes remind me of an optometrist appointment that needs to be scheduled), float within the wonderful fog of lap steel, trumpet, piano, singing saw and a variety of organic elements.
After the abrupt pluck of a metal string on an old acoustic guitar, one expects a shaky cover of "The Thunder Rolls," but soon the weary intensity of an oscillating cello, hand claps and shimmering cymbals on "Rude to Rile" provide something more compelling. Additional highlights include the lonely banjo line that guides us into "Working Poor," where an almost chipper, and at least meh, matter-of-fact Ringle declares, "We are young and we are weak/ Just as bland as we are bleak..." That's no bull butter, it's Horse Feathers.
G-Unit
T.O.S. Terminate on Sight
G-Unit
originally published July 30, 2008
Tony Yayo, Lloyd Banks, and 50 Cent aspire to be hip-hop’s next milestone rap group. T.O.S. is their second album as G-Unit, and they begin and end it with tributes to two of the most influential rap ensembles in hip-hop history. First up, “Straight Outta Southside,” an unabashed homage to N.W.A.’s “Straight Outta Compton.” While N.W.A. was simple, vulgar and exciting, G-Unit’s version is just simple and vulgar. They end the album with “Money Make the World Go Around,” their take on Wu-Tang Clan’s “C.R.E.A.M. (Cash Rules Everything Around Me).” Instead of Raekwon and Inspector Deck’s slang-heavy and specific explanations of their indulgent but ultimately depressing world, we get generic boasts about being badass.
While content-wise they fall well short of their heroes, 50 Cent does have a prodigious skill for cranking out nauseatingly catchy hooks, and it’s clever if you consider it clever to add “with an H.I.V. carrier” to the classic N.W.A. line, “Fuck the police.” Ultimately, T.O.S. is the type of album kids listen to when they want to look hard while passing around a blunt with the bass shaking their S.U.V. (and if they’re really tough, the car next to them). If the purpose of gangsta rap is to make sinful indulgences with no taboos (except homosexuality) entertaining, T.O.S. is mildly successful. With T.O.S., G-Unit ensures that the legacies of thuggish posturing and adult-themed nursery rhymes in hip-hop are alive, if not well. Without a trace of introspection from the talent, it’s up to the listener to decide if this is a good thing.
Ratatat
LP3
XL Recordings
originally published July 30, 2008
It had to happen eventually: cocktail party music for the hipster set. In spite of the fact that those aforementioned seven words are enough to elicit fear into the hearts of music fans everywhere, RATATAT has managed to put together a compelling album in LP3.
The music never really moves beyond a 3 a.m.-let’s-chill-after-coming-home-from-the-bar vibe, but within these sleepy artificial grooves are the makings of one hell of an album. LP3 isn’t going to rewrite the book on instrumental music, but it is going to make skimming the chapters rather easy from here on.
Over the course of 13 tracks that range in style from faux bossa nova to trippy psychedelic dance music, RATATAT makes sure that the bleeps and squeaks have a human touch. LP3 isn’t dance music for the ecstasy-addled club kid, instead it’s the secret ingredient to a thick with pot smoke after party.
On LP3’s best tracks, listeners are transported to an area just beyond finger snapping bebop and right before the incessant pounding of a techno band’s bass drum. It’s a combination that proves irresistible for listeners that have only dipped a toe into either genre.
Suicide
Live 1977–78
Blast First Petite
originally published July 30, 2008
Phil Spector has nothing on Suicide’s Alan Vega and Martin Rev. These gentlemen are the real masters of the wall of sound, and on Live 1977–78, a six-CD box set featuring 13 complete concerts from the very beginning of Suicide’s illustrious run, Vega and Rev prove countless times that they are the masters of the full scale sonic assault.
While the sound quality often varies from performance to performance, what can be heard is nothing short of a kick to the stomach. Vega’s trademark yelps rise above the mechanized pulse of Suicide’s music and turns songs that at first work better as experiments into something more than just a caustic art project. Instead, these tracks are a shot in the arm to rock and roll. There are moments of sheer transcendence, such as every performance of “Frankie Teardrop” that shows Vega and Rev’s fingers were dialed into the pulse of what rock and roll was and could be again.
While Live 1977–78 is an impressive document of a band’s evolution, it’s not for the squeamish. Recorded often times with less clarity than on your average cell phone, Suicide’s pea soup-thick sound can be nearly impenetrable. But for those brave listeners who can get through it, they’ll find it to be a rewarding listen - even if at times it’s like a rose sprouting from the concrete.
Albert Hammond Jr.
¿Cómo Te Llama?
Black Seal (Sony BMG)
originally published July 30, 2008
I don't think it's too much to ask of artists to not start their albums off with their best song, and then let the rest of the songs just fall off a table. It's definitely a growing problem, and it's getting old. Sure the pop-crafty work and genuine musical abilities are abundant on Albert Hammond Jr.'s newest release, but so is genuine boredom and side-project slack. I like Albert's songs, like a lot of other pop jingles I hear on the radio. Not enough to purchase an entire album of them, but enough to not change the channel until the song is over. The lyrics on ¿Cómo Te Llama? are light and airy, while the seemingly mandatory "two-thirds of the way though each song instrumental section" is sadly yawn-worthy and completely unnecessary. After "Bargain of a Century," the only real highlights of the album are "G Up" which, I must admit, is a pretty perfect pop ditty, and "Rocket" which sounds so much like a song by the band Spoon, it has to be heard to be truly believed. There are also a couple of reggae songs, and that is a sound that white pop stars really need to leave alone (along with Willie Nelson). "Spooky Couch" unfortunately isn't spooky at all, and it is such an instrumental bore I couldn't even recommend listening to it one time if you purchase this album.
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