Long Legged Woman
Nobody Knows This Is Nowhere
Pollen Season
originally published September 17, 2008
Holding vast brain-wonders of a variegated and bludgeoning sort, LLW’s first longplayer is an inelegant and over-compressed mudslide of “song” that couldn’t be more perfect if it actually tried. Recorded and mixed in 85 minutes just up the road with Comrade Joel Hatstat, this record stands as the dudes’ parting glass: they split town for the West Coast right after they dotted these i's, and the title itself seems a pretty direct evacuation spiel. That’s where the directness ends, though, in composition and execution, but be glad that’s the case, buster.
To get the point of this, for once you don’t need headphones or a lyric sheet; you just gotta lay prostrate and get gooey in the avalanche of caramel-textured vitriol. It’s an experiential listen, but it doesn’t smell like a gross house or sound like a broken amp; it’s not like their live show, or anyone’s, but to dig it, you must get neck-deep: shreds of melody surface then return to the murk; undecipherable voices call you around the corner before they evaporate into some cymbal crashes; a bad pop-punk song shows you its zitty buttocks before it’s remonstrated by the echobox back to being cool.
I don’t know where you’ll find this record, but you should look at all costs; it’s self-released in the most important way - as in it had to come out, regardless of if some label deemed it salable. The titles are scrawled across each handmade cover collage CDR; they’ll give it to you for free because you need it. Peep their MySpace, maybe, ask me to burn you a copy, do something, because being swept off by this mud-colored shitstorm will make reading pitchforkmedia.com feel like shopping for pants to Band of Horses by comparison.
Peregrine
The Agrarian Curse
F.C. Records
originally published September 17, 2008
“We’ve strayed for so long now that we’ve forgotten what home looks like… We face the ends of the earth. Our fate demands that we understand home is not a nest of cheaply built and consumed products; but the world that has nurtured us for millions of years. And it is much closer than we think…,” says Peregrine’s guitarist/vocalist Kevin Tucker during the spoken-word introduction of Peregrine’s debut full-length, The Agrarian Curse.
Self-described “green and black” metal with influence drawn from apocalyptic crust punk, death metal and grindcore, Peregrine’s core, Tucker and guitarist/vocalist Clem Adams, hold an extreme pro-wilderness, anti-machine, anti-civilization, anarcho-primitive view that is openly alienating in our pro-domestication, profit-driven, technology-based world. With such a view one might expect Peregrine’s music to be created with animal skin, sinew and bone, and while such an organic approach might seem apropos, the extreme nature of Peregrine’s sound - recorded at The Bakery by Joel Hatstat - would most certainly lose its impact, which is immediately established from the opening exhilarating blast of “Anatomy of the Machine” and maintained deftly through closer “Amor Fati.”
While many of today’s extreme metal acts concentrate on composing ridiculous one-dimensional riff-salads, Peregrine’s more dynamic approach wins out here. Escalating to withering speed within seconds, Peregrine lashes out with primal, uncompromising ferocity. It quickly downshifts to mid-tempo for several measures only to have the mid-tempo consumed by the next pulse-quickening blast. The musical point/counterpoint interplay woven throughout creates an ever-shifting “rise and fall” effect that openly engages the listener and, at times, elicits chills. When you factor in the bleak lyrical message, The Agrarian Curse achieves an overtly brutal, sociopolitical level the likes of which Athens has never seen, or heard, before.
Ra Ra Riot
The Rhumb Line
Barsuk
originally published September 17, 2008
So you’ve dropped Vampire Weekend already because it's, like, sooo eight months ago, but maybe you haven’t had your fill of the pop effervescence yet. Then meet Syracuse band Ra Ra Riot, whose debut long-player gushes with a charm similar to Vampire Weekend’s, only with the added bonus of being free of the gradually annoying Afro-popisms.
Precious pop is a fine tightrope to walk, but for now its sprightly, economical melodies manage to stay on the right side of cuddly. The airy, playful step of the band's chamber-kissed music is kept taut by the crisp grace and formalism of its small string section.
“Dying Is Fine” prances gleefully like an orchestra hopped up on too much candy and soda. Although the dance-floor kinesis of “Too Too Too Fast” sounds like Ra Ra Riot interpreting a CSS song and is somewhat out of step with the rest of the album, it happens to be one of the best cuts here. And the full body and elegant swoon of “Can You Tell” is the cogent balance this band is capable of when restraint is exercised.
It’s true, The Rhumb Line can get downright cute sometimes. However, their literate indie pop is a finely tuned machine that’s clear in purpose, built to charm, and effective in execution.
Catfish Haven
Devastator
Secretly Canadian
originally published September 17, 2008
Tell Me was a bitter break-up record brimming with songs of betrayal, heartache and regret and, in my semi-informed opinion, one of the best albums of 2006. Two years later, Chicago-based soul slackers Catfish Haven (named for singer George Hunter’s childhood mobile home community) offer a (literally) hot pink follow-up that seemingly declares hollow, broken hearts have been filled and/or mended by the passing of time, the cathartic quality of the creative process, and strippers, bitch. It’s not just the provocative album cover or liner note photos - which suggest carnal pursuits only a rock and roll band is privy to - that contributed to quasi-closure.
Not since Rare Earth conquered, er, infiltrated Motown has a band of the Caucasian persuasion elicited so much rhythm and blues. Yes, despite said strippers, Devastator still emphasizes the darkest blue hues, begging the question: Is the same woman haunting Hunter’s heart, or is there a new muse inspiring madness and melancholy?
In any event, the frontman’s pain translates into listener’s gain, and the stripped-down, garage band vibe of Tell Me has been augmented by female vocalists, saxophone and keys on most tracks. For evidence of the vim and vigor, bling and swing showcased this go ‘round, check the disco-tinged “Set in Stone” and the wicked '70s stoner rock-out “Full Speed,” then pray Hunter remains unlucky in love.
Matthew Sweet
Sunshine Lies Shout!
Factory
originally published September 17, 2008
When playing a genre as formulaic as power-pop, it's probably safe to assume every artist reaches a point where the formula runs thin. The new one from former Athenian Matthew Sweet, Sunshine Lies, hits a wall where everything seems tired and rehashed. In the '90s, Sweet was a '60s guitar-pop maverick, but here, everything from the playing to the production seems stifled and boring.
If Sweet recorded and mixed Sunshine Lies himself, why are the guitar leads typically buried when they took prevalence in Sweet's previous albums? “Flying” features a solo that is reminiscent of why pop nerds went nuts for Sweet 15 years ago, but it's barely audible under the rhythm and Sweet's own warbling. Where Sweet's charming, chubby-guy voice was once ebullient, now it seems aged and stale. Some Voidoids contribute guitar leads to the record, but not enough to revive this corpse. Make no mistake, this is not Girlfriend. It's not even 100% Fun.
There are some strong moments on Sunshine Lies, it's just upsetting that they are not as consistent as Sweet's previous stuff. “Feel Fear” is a touching ballad, and “Byrdgirl” manages to actually sound like The Byrds.
Sweet is not done for, he's got plenty of hooks left in him. He just needs to take a step back and let others do their job. Hopefully, soon we will see the Matthew Sweet that made heads bop in the last decade do the same in this one.
Helms Alee
Night Terror
Hydra Head
originally published September 17, 2008
With this massive debut album, the three-member wrecking crew of Seattle’s Helms Alee arrives with seismic intent. Packing noise rock, metal, sludge and drone, its majestically thick sound comes down like a rain of anvils. Its measured, prehistoric plod moves ever forward in wicked, canal-digging gestures.
But Night Terror is anything but a simple assault. It proves capable of extraordinary expressional richness, especially for heavy music. Above the constantly creeping rumble is a spectrum that spans slashing violence, chest-bursting catharsis and melodic gorgeousness. The huge, fuzzed-out sheets of guitars can crush or spiral heavenward, often at the same time. Like a slow-motion ballet in the middle of a blizzard, the dynamic tension at play is dramatic and masterful.
The scraping sludge of “Rogue’s Yarn” blisters with anger while the thundering sonic waterfall of “A Weirding Away” transcends with beauty. But the prime exemplar of Helms Alee’s dichotomy is “A New Roll,” a two-part song that opens with a rolling series of tornadic roars only to ride out in a long, pastoral exhale.
To further underscore their expansiveness, the tracks follow each other without pause, even occasionally overlapping. The result is an album that plays like multiple movements in one epic rock symphony, although only two of the songs exceed the four-minute mark. Capturing an intimidating degree of texture, emotion and immensity, Night Terror is as serious a debut as it comes.
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