mattbrehmer / pitchfork-full-text-album-reviews
Pitchfork Review Data + Text
Console output of last run
Injecting configuration and compiling...
Injecting scraper and running...
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| album | release_year | artist | url | text | label | accolade | score | publish_date | reviewer |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
|
After Dark 2
|
2013
|
Various Artists
|
When it arrived in 2007, Italians Do It Better's After Dark compilation provided a way forward. "Italo survived electroclash," wrote Marc Hogan; indie rock had too. Six years later, dance music has pervaded that genre to the point where discussing specific movements no longer feels relevant; it's just there, and After Dark had a part in that. Its status as a modern indie/dance classic makes it easy to forget to how thin and stitched-together it felt, how delicate its papier-mache disco. Putting aside the compilation's home-printed artwork and lack of jewel case, the album was rife with cover songs, demos, and remixes. Johnny Jewel's return last year with Chromatics and Symmetry was notable for the music's quality but also for its scope: confirmation, finally, that the Italians Do It Better label had gas left in the tank. There's always been a factory feel to Italians Do It Better, Jewel the enigmatic visionary farming his disco labor out to acolytes and hangers-on. The cast of characters assembled on After Dark 2 supports this; primary vehicles Chromatics and Glass Candy account for nearly half the tracks, but many contributions come from IDIB B-teamers recording their first music in years. If there's an exemplar of the odd IDIB universe, it's Mirage (officially the 24th artist to adopt that moniker according to Discogs) who show up with only their third-ever track; the first two being available only on the original After Dark. The assembly-line nature of Jewel's productions provides a counterpoint to Daft Punk's Random Access Memories, reminding us that while some strains of classic dance music were meticulous and expert, many were cheap and quick. Jewel's ability to pump out quality tracks with a host of collaborators connects him to the faceless electro/disco producers of the 1980s; presenting the tracks as glammy punk-noir fantasies contemporizes him. Jewel is an expert stylist, able to project fashionable cool without exclusivity or mightiness. Never more so than on After Dark 2; the songs here are big and warm, tighter, more muscular updates of the originals, and they make common sadness-- the search for love, forgiveness, intimacy-- feel heroic and communal. The IDIB rhythms and affectations-- thrumming Italo disco, icy female coos-- are largely unchanged, but the analog boil beneath them is robust. This is important when working with vocalists whose charm lies largely in their steely contempt for excess. Having Glass Candy back in the fold is crucial. Singer Ida No's flat, artless vocals are a perfect foil for Jewel's metronomic synthesizers. She's also the most compelling songwriter: the resplendent "Warm in the Winter" is the headliner, but "The Possessed" and "Beautiful Object" deliver pleasantly sighing choruses. Chromatics sound at home on the wistful "Cherry", and they parry their last album's title track with the nervy "Looking for Love": "I'm still/ Still looking/ Looking for love," killing for it having failed, apparently. It's in this context that contributions from Farah-- severe and menacing-- and Desire-- easy and sweet-- can be lovely diversions, and that instrumentals from Mike Simonetti and Jewel (as Symmetry) can feel like luxe interludes. The vocoder funk of Mirage's "Let's Kiss" and Twisted Wire's husky piano house offer crucial variety. Lesser lights are afforded the opportunity to be lesser, in other words. They can thank the compilation's album-like feel: After Dark 2 plays more like Johnny Jewel & Friends Present... than a compendium of disparate acts. It updates the IDIB sound without losing its buzzy neon charm, which remains a hugely attractive mode.
|
Italians Do It Better
|
Best New Music
|
8.3
|
2013-05-31
|
Andrew Gaerig
|
|
|
False Idols
|
2013
|
Tricky
|
I wouldn't blame Tricky if he was sick of hearing about the 1990s. It's the decade where he set up his presence, released his defining works, and then noisily tried to escape. That he spent the last dozen years of his career stumbling into the kind of modern rock/indie pop territory that didn't mesh well with his early aesthetic says something about how definitive (and potentially imprisoning) his fame-making sound was. Whether or not his genre-hopping would've worked out on its own terms-- and for the most part, it hasn't-- it'd have a hard time maintaining the moody, seductive yet stressed pull of his first few albums. But Tricky wasn't wrong to try shaking his trip-hop rep and attempt new things, he just sounded so adrift that it was hard to figure out where he'd find his way back to once he finally refocused. By the time he released Mixed Race in 2010, it became clear that the best-case scenario where Tricky was concerned was to either wait for some new thing to finally click, or hope that he looks back just long enough to be reinvigorated by memories of where he started. False Idols tries to split the difference, and weirdly enough, it nearly succeeds. Calling it Maxinquaye for the middle-aged seems a bit too glib, but this album really does return to the ethereal, almost fragile intensity that marked his well-loved 1995 debut with the more solemn perspective of a grown man who's felt like he's lost his way. And for a while, everything seems right. The production's appropriately spare, moody, and elegant, streamlined and engineered to sound uniquely his while still throwing alternate jabs and nods to contemporary R&B's underacknowledged debt to his sound. But it's still far from monochromatic; the subdued yet rich minimal house thump of “Bonnie & Clyde” and the dirgy guitar squall of Antlers collaboration/cover/semi-rewrite “Parenthesis” are integrated variations on the stylistic theme, not whiplash detours. That sustained mood benefits greatly from his harmonizing and interjections with singer Francesca Belmonte, filling Martina Topley-Bird's role as the quietly assured yet emotionally driven foil to Tricky's clenched, whispery murmur, like two introverts trapped in close quarters. Going into a Tricky album hoping for that pull between beauty and tension is going to leave you at least somewhat happy with this record. But the catch-22 of “return to form” albums is that without the dregs that precede them, they need to stand up as something deeper, something without ghosts following it around. And even if False Idols is approaching a more coherent idea of what a Tricky album could sound like in 2013, a lot of the record comes off more like a tentative first step. There's no overthinking here, which is a relief after all the tryhard high-concept ideas-- poppy hip-house, French Touch knockoffs, leering cock-rock-- that didn't really take off on his last couple of records. But with that simplified approach comes simplified songs: Only the gel-submerged minimalist funk of “Tribal Drums” barely scrapes past the three-and-a-half-minute mark, and even the more immediately catchy tracks start to sound like sketches on further investigation. It's most evident in the songwriting: Opener “Somebody's Sins” is simply a cover of Patti Smith's opening verses to her cover of “Gloria”; “Nothing's Changed” features a generous interpolation of Pre-Millennium Tension highlight “Makes Me Wanna Die”, and too many songs lean on simplistic metaphors and imagery that merely hint at deeper things they leave frustratingly concealed: the vague romantic overtones of “Valentine”; disjointed debauchery on “Is That Your Life”, the evasive “Passion of the Christ”. And yet in the end it does show promise: the songs aren't bad by any stretch, and when the first negative that comes to mind is that the ideas need to be fleshed out a bit, it's a long way from wishing they'd've been discarded in the first place. Even with 15 tracks all averaging around the three-minute mark, there's little time on False Idols devoted to offbeat goofs or weird failed experiments, just a handful of songs that bottom out at “not bad but a bit forgettable.” A front-to-back listen won't dredge up any obvious duds or collar-grabbing highlights, but it might get this album's focused vision planted a bit deeper in your head. Tricky might not have succeeded in bringing his old sound 100% back to life, but as an effort to hit the reset button and rediscover himself, this record's a better-than-expected surprise.
|
K7
|
|
6.7
|
2013-05-31
|
Nate Patrin
|
|
|
Hanging Gardens
|
2013
|
Classixx
|
Los Angeles production duo Tyler Blake and Michael David achieved prominence through a constant presence on the internet remix circuit, but their tendency to reference and recontextualize runs deeper. Before the pair adopted the nostalgic-by-design Classixx moniker, they cranked out a few electro-chintz remixes as Young Americans, an assumed allusion to the classic David Bowie LP of the same name. The debut single from Blake's solo project Fingerpaint, last year's "Lunar", leaned heavily on a sample of Arthur Russell's "This Is How We Walk on the Moon". The cover of Classixx's debut LP, Hanging Gardens, is a double-vision homage to the sleeve for Tangerine Dream's 1988 album Optical Race, while its title track pilfers the melody of Fleetwood Mac's glistening Tango in the Night cut "Seven Wonders". Internet-age producers who frequently create with others' raw materials aren't necessarily guaranteed a similar level of success when left to create worthwhile music on their own-- take last year's debut album from mashup outfit the Hood Internet, the astoundingly tepid FEAT. With Hanging Gardens, Blake and David soar above any low expectations; they've put together a cohesive, impossibly lush record that pays adequate lip service to a variety of pop sounds while loading the decks with glossy, head-cleaning dance. Classixx remixes frequently possess the slick expansiveness of disco, with a touch of nocturnal mood-shading to boot. By contrast, Hanging Gardens is bright, warm, and breezy, and as the summertime approaches, its release couldn't have come at a better time. Classixx excel at creating a textured push-and-pull within the framework of their own productions, and Hanging Gardens provides several wordless moments to get lost in. Take the contemplative 4/4 of "A Fax From the Beach", which plays like a post-post-comedown sequel to Fred Falke's indelible, wistful 2008 single "808 PM at the Beach"-- as well as a killer transition or two, like when the rollin'-and-scratchin' bump of "Rhythm Santa Clara" gently bleeds into the declarative synth stabs that open up "Dominoes"' positive, propulsive Balearic structure. Album highlight "Holding On", meanwhile, elicits comparisons to Discovery-era Daft Punk, uncannily combining "One More Time"'s repetitive pulse with the bright-eyed, bushy-tailed purity of "Digital Love". Classixx are very good producers-- their sonic excursions are placid and stylistically considered, with plenty of surface beauty, if not a ton of depth-- but the biggest surprise of Hanging Gardens is that they're great songwriters, too. It's astonishing how many of the guest appearances simply work, and in such a satisfying way, too: Take the all-caps kiss-off anthem "All You're Waiting For", featuring a typically tart vocal from ex-LCD Soundsystem member and DFA fixture Nancy Whang, and Sarah Chernoff's dizzying "A Stranger Love", reminiscent of Saint Etienne's glassy-eyed club gestures. Jesse Kivel of L.A. electro-pop duo Kisses does effective mush-mouthed romanticism all over the palm-muted synths of "Borderline", while chillwave castrato Pat Grossi (whose monastic Active Child project has benefitted from Classixx's touch before) does his weightless choirboy thing over the airy bells of "Long Lost", an ethereal R&B-leaning tune that's a silkier, less pathos-heavy version of what AC did on 2011's just-okay You Are All I See. The record's most potent punch, ironically, is more than three years old: "I'll Get You", which saw release as a single in 2009 on the waning tastemaker imprint Kitsuné, wields Jeppe's brash vocal beams as an effective weapon, as the former Junior Senior vocalist asks repeatedly and somewhat ridiculously, "Do you like bass?" It shouldn't work, but it does, and pretty well. More than anything else, the pure pop cuts on Hanging Gardens leave the listener wanting more, which is exactly the record's paradoxical flaw: although it runs to nearly an hour long, a good deal of space is relegated to the more instrumental cuts, which aren't quite distinctive enough to push the five-and-six-minute mark as they frequently do. The less impressive material loses its effectiveness when isolated from the sequencing of the album, which flows impressively as a front-to-back listen. Hanging Gardens is a decadent trifle to lose yourself in, a deceptively simple record that has the potential for great longevity.
|
Innovative Leisure
|
|
7.8
|
2013-05-31
|
Larry Fitzmaurice
|
|
|
Other Life
|
2013
|
Sean Nicholas Savage
|
Montreal's DIY-driven Arbutus Records is experiencing A Moment, boasting a roster led by now-bona fide superstar Grimes and fleshed out by the likes of Doldrums, Braids, and Blue Hawaii. Their sounds may be disparate, but they're united by their desire to tackle questions of identity from unique and exciting perspectives, which makes Arbutus' latest release (from one of its earliest signings) a strong fit. Edmonton transplant Sean Nicholas Savage put together three full-lengths in 2011, suffered through the end of a relationship, and decamped to Berlin, where he wrote and recorded Other Life, an album largely shaped by that romantic turmoil. The final product is an unvarnished, honest collection of avant-pop meditations on love and the individual. The major musical antecedent hanging over Other Life is Dan Bejar's band Destroyer, a group that has spent several full-length albums embarking on sonic reclamation projects like Your Blues (tiny MIDI symphonies) and Kaputt (chintzy, cheesy soft rock and jazz fusion). Savage deploys smooth, adult-contemporary instrumentation whose sound verges on tinny and toy-like, in a marriage of the principles guiding those two Destroyer records. It's not an innovative maneuver, but the juxtaposition of that sound with Savage's voice-- high, reedy; cracking and bending with emotion-- and the hefty lyrical content is jarring and effective. Savage's own exploration of identity manifests in ideas of impersonation: "These days I feel like I'm somebody else/ Who looks just like me/ But he's not me," he sings on opener "She Looks Like You", a relationship ballad that frames the way people change over time and slowly become unrecognizable to each other. The best songs on Other Life tuck similarly weighty concepts into romantic narratives, whether it's fantasizing about living another life to escape the mistakes made in this one (on the title track) or coping with a love that cripples as it endures ("More Than I Love Myself"). The icky come-ons and dismissals of "Lonely Woman" recall the way Arbutus alumnus Majical Cloudz delights in making his audience uncomfortable. It takes a good deal of bravery to write and record songs that are so naked and unflinching, and it pays off: Savage's courage and palpable investment in the material makes it easy to connect and empathize with his subject matter. After trekking through dangerous, taxing emotional terrain for the great majority of its runtime, Other Life ends with the sweet, bubbling "Chin Chin", an ode to gentle kisses on the chin delivered in the morning light. These lovers aren't posturing, fantasizing, or racked with anxiety; they're happy, unadorned, revelling in each other's goofy love. And while Savage has cobbled together a very good, honest album from a dark place, placing "Chin Chin" at the record's close is a bright glimmer of hope for what could come next.
|
Arbutus
|
|
7.4
|
2013-05-31
|
Jamieson Cox
|
|
|
Innocence Is Kinky
|
2013
|
Jenny Hval
|
On “Mephisto in the Water”, a standout off her second solo album for Rune Grammofon, the Norwegian singer/songwriter/novelist/critic/academic/provocateur Jenny Hval bends her voice into unusual and unexpected shapes. Over a disquieting Möbius strip keyboard line, she performs a wordless fanfare, sing-chants the verses, and splits into a choir of singers on the vocal hook. “Hey, what do you hear?” she asks coyly. On the protracted bridge, her voice warps and mutates and turns the syllables into pure sounds. Hval goes deliberately flat, savoring the pulsating dissonance, until all that is left is a high, tensile note that wavers in either distress or desire. Rather than alienating, it’s actually inviting: a strange and powerful performance. Innocence Is Kinky thrives on such moments, when Hval’s primary instrument sounds like it’s disentangling itself from her body and swooping around the ether of the song. First under the stage name Rockettothesky and later under her real name, Hval has been a mainstay in the Oslo scene for several years now, but little in her catalog-- which includes a handful of albums as well as two novels, several sound installations, and a master’s thesis on Kate Bush-- signaled the breakthrough she makes on Innocence Is Kinky. In the past her music has tended toward subdued art-pop, full of plaintive beats and hushed vocals; at her best such subtlety was commanding, even if it occasionally threatened to settle for decorous passivity. The new album, as that title suggests, is more direct, more brazen, more aggressive, more provocative, both conceptually and musically. Recording with producer John Parish, Hval explores some enormous, unwieldy concepts that tend to pop up more often in textbooks than on turntables. Opening with Hval watching internet porn and closing with her discovering a new way to inhabit her body, Innocence Is Kinky examines thorny issues of gender identity and commodified sexuality. She gives her songs titles like “Death of the Author” and “Amphibious, Androgynous”. Mythological figures wander in and out of these songs: Mephisto does his best Ophelia, Oedipus blindly wanders the streets of Oslo, and Pinnochio takes communion. By far the most significant figure among these songs is also the most human: Renée Falconetti, the silent-film star whose close-up in 1928’s The Passion of Joan of Arc is one of the most indelible images in the history of cinema. “The camera is a mirror, but mine, not yours,” Hval sings as an organ thrums in the background and a low bass note pulses on the downbeat. She’s obviously having a blast throwing these figures and narratives against one another, and her irreverence suggests a playfulness that dispels any hint of pretension. Yet, she keeps the focus squarely on her commanding vocals, which means you don’t need to know Carl Theodor Dreyer from Laura Mulvey to appreciate this album. In fact, the most fascinating ideas on Innocence Is Kinky are the musical ones. While rooted in the same art-pop as Laurie Anderson, Yoko Ono, and pre-“Sledgehammer” Peter Gabriel, Hval paints with a broad palette, not only deploying an array of sounds and styles but setting them against each other to create jarring juxtapositions. As “Mephisto in the Water” fades to its close, a few raw guitar chords introduce the stomping psych-pop of “I Called”. “Oslo Oedipus” opens with a Middle Eastern chorale, layered moans swaddled in reverb, before transitioning into a poetry recitation set to a clangorous beat. Based on a sound installation called “A Continuous Echo of Splitting Hymens”, “Give Me That Sound” is composed of belches of frazzled distortion and bent vocals that make for an arresting interlude before Hval launches into “I Got No Strings”, the album’s truest rock song. The seams between the songs speak as loudly as the songs themselves, giving the album the shape of a journey. It’s less a critical essay than a picaresque: a woman leaving the dirty white glare of her computer and wandering around Oslo. Ultimately, the album’s heady diversity originates in Hval’s malleable voice, which alters style, approach, timber, and tone from one measure to the next. One moment she addresses the listener in a slyly conspiratorial whisper, as if to draw you into her curious world. The next, she lets loose a full-throated wail that shakes that world apart. Not content to merely test the limitations of musical genre, of sound, of her own voice (and, by virtue, her body), Hval knowingly transgresses those limitations as she explores what’s just beyond her range. That bold tack gives Innocence Is Kinky its unique aesthetic, but it is also, oddly enough, what keeps the music so grounded in the physical and the human.
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Rune Grammofon
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|
7.8
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2013-05-31
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Stephen M. Deusner
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|
|
Ultraviolet
|
2013
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Kylesa
|
Kylesa have always been a moving target. Since their inception, the Savannah, Ga., group has translated instability into energy, outlasting membership changes and tragedies to create strange and compelling stylistic welds. During the last decade, they’ve shouldered themselves nominally somewhere between sludge metal and psychedelic rock, but those terms are simply outsider touchstones for Kylesa’s brilliant internal turbidity. Indeed, their music is a mix of hardcore force and pop approachability, narcotic textures and double-drummer thunder. They are less defined by any one of those elements than the way they treat them as critical components within a grand crucible, parts meant to be steadily whisked into an alchemic whole. To wit, when Brooklyn Vegan asked frontman Phillip Cope to list his favorite songs of the year in 2010, he named the usual suspects and stylistic peers (Torche, High on Fire) alongside dream-state indie rock (Beach House), insurgent post-punk garage rock (Abe Vigoda), and bands that, like Kylesa, still get dubbed metal because of heavy pedigrees and references (Alcest). This variety has long served Kylesa well, too, pushing them toward wider acceptance even as they’ve redoubled their strange syntheses. After a string of LPs that have consistently found Kylesa fortifying these wayward genre aggregations, Ultraviolet-- their sixth album and second for Season of Mist-- is an unexpected misstep. At first, Ultraviolet might feel passive or polite, as though Kylesa is the metal band auditioning for a roster spot on Sub Pop or Merge. There’s a slow-burning ballad, a straightforward charge or two, and at least one tune that stretches shoegaze reverie over quickly flickering riffs. It’s as if they’ve tempered their approach, eliminating the exciting outliers of their toolkit to arrive at a hard rock album that sounds standard enough to be safe. Past Kylesa albums have felt alternately like bulldozers and magnets; Ultraviolet often feels only like another middling record. But the problem is that Kylesa have actually let their genre pillaging overtake their actual songcraft-- that is, in trying to give the psychedelic, shoegaze and jam band aspects of their sound more room within the spotlight, they’ve created a mess that sometimes seems rudderless. The first three tracks, for instance, feel like a non-navigable maze with no steady vectors or outlined intentions: Opener “Exhale” shortchanges a great hook from Laura Pleasants with verses that don’t support the same weight and an instrumental breakdown that simply stalls the song. “Unspoken” hides behind an unnecessary 80-second introduction and subsequently plunges into an unremarkable and overly long solo, with Cope dancing around the impressive groove as though he’s ashamed of its simplicity. And during “Grounded”, Cope drowns many of his own vocals in effects, hiding them behind the wallop like coded messages. Likewise, Pleasants harmonizes the chorus with herself, singing in a round that distracts from the song’s sizzling riff. Time and again, from start to finish, Ultraviolet pauses to concede to such extraneous effects and rockpiled elements, as if Kylesa have finally made the mistake of brandishing their eccentricity rather than simply thriving on it. Ultraviolet rarely feels singular or confident; it’s the sound of a band attempting to underline its claims to distinction. But when Kylesa allows those extrinsic factors to emphasize their momentum rather than detract from it, they are unstoppable: “We’re Taking This”, for instance, is a monstrous flogging, with guitars that twist like rusty corkscrews, drums that push ahead like a cavalcade, and a refrain that feels like a battle cry. Thing is, all of Kylesa’s itinerant weirdness is here, too-- guitars that suddenly warp out of time, drums that pull back enough to give the textures space, and backmasked harmonies that swirl around Cope’s lead like vapor trails. The same holds for the two-minute bruiser “What Does it Take”, which gallops from the gates and doesn’t pull up until the next song begins. But Kylesa shoehorns a kaleidoscopic guitar solo into the tune and saturate the space between the drums and the vocals with guitar effects, not a central riff. “Low Tide,” the album’s best surprise, is a drifting, magnetic ballad; overactive bass, distant harmonies, and streaks of soft guitar noise create an impressionistic web for its starry-eyed hook. In all three instances, Kylesa’s disparate strains work together to create the same inexorable sense of euphoria that unites most of the band’s influences, if no longer their entire catalog. Kylesa albums once seemed cut instantly from whole cloth. Despite its highs, Ultraviolet is a patchwork of arduousness, with some seams still showing.
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Season of Mist
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7.0
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2013-05-30
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Grayson Currin
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|
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Scott & Rivers
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2013
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Rivers Cuomo / Scott Murphy
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There’s a 99% possibility that some 10th-grade boy out there is currently relying on Pinkerton to guide him through the indignities of adolescence, and how’s this for some perspective: He wasn’t even born when Weezer released that album. And it’s been that long since any form of denial played a role in Rivers Cuomo’s music. From “Pork and Beans” to “Can’t Stop Partying”; from the Raditude cover art to the Hurley cover art; from the Weezer Cruise to the Pinkerton reunion tour, Cuomo has pretty much done everything over the past 17 years except take “no” for an answer. So when you consider his longstanding predilection for Asian culture (to put it mildly), the only thing surprising about him making a Japanese-language album is that it took him until 2013 to do so. And yet, Scott & Rivers is one of the few unequivocally good ideas he’s had in a very, very long time: name a 21st century Weezer album that wouldn’t be immediately improved if you didn’t understand English. Cuomo linked up with a suitable travel buddy in Scott Murphy, frontman for Allister, a Drive Thru pop-punk band you might be familiar with if you keep tabs on the Warped Tour, but have likely only heard if you’ve been to the Warped Tour. They're very much “big in Japan.” So what can be expected of Scott & Rivers? Are Murphy and Cuomo going to fully concede to the stylistic tenets of J-pop? Is it simply going to split the difference between Girlfriends and Dead Ends with lyrics like “goddamn you half-Japanese girls” sung in full Japanese? Is it going to appeal to the 18-year old girl who lives in small city in Japan or the 35-year-old she grew up to be since Pinkerton? Holy shit, there’s a song called “Butterfly” on here; is Rivers really going there? Some of these questions are answered definitively, all are answered rather uninterestingly. No matter what language you speak or how familiar you are with either artist's work, there isn't much culture shock to be had listening to Scott & Rivers. In short, it’s a hell of a lot like an off-brand recent Weezer album, in that the style isn’t guitar rock taking cues from factory pop, but factory pop interpreted through clinical guitars that sound like they’re sourced from test tubes rather than tube amps. It would sound overproduced for 1998 yet seems curiously rinky-dink compared to the current pop maximalism of any continent; Scott & Rivers splits most of its time between ruthlessly utilitarian power pop and midtempo, jangly acoustic alt-rock that reimagines the break between Pinkerton and the Green Album as one where Cuomo ditched Harvard for higher education in the form of Stroke 9 or Eve 6 CDs. Or, in the case of the pure synth-pop numbers and the cover of Kimura Kaela's "Butterfly" (sorry), those of Vitamin C or any other sub-Spice I can’t immediately recall. This isn’t some Kickstarter lark-- it’s being released on Universal’s Japanese imprint. But the few hooks that are sung in English make it abundantly clear that neither Cuomo nor Murphy's songwriting has been altered in the slightest: “I love, love, love my homely girl!/ She just knocks me to the ground!” “I freakin’ love my life!/ It’s turning out just right!/ It’s a party every night!” Those two songs are “Homely Girl” and “Freakin’ Love My Life”, naturally. Otherwise, the frictionless production and rounded, vowel-heavy Japanese phonetics gives Scott & Rivers a sonic viscosity where consuming one song or all 12 feels roughly equal. It sticks with you, but the sweetness has a sickly chemical feel. Cuomo told us from the beginning that his favorite rock group was Kiss, so we shouldn’t be surprised about him using his artistic goodwill as quarters in a perpetual game of whack-a-mole, going after whatever monetization opportunity presents itself. In some ways, it’s weirdly admirable. Scott & Rivers just seems more savvy than anything-- you sense that he and Murphy know something us Yankees don’t, or maybe Scott & Rivers is just prelude to Weezer’s inevitable Live at Budokan. There’s a heartening belief in how Cuomo still sticks to writing the kind of songs that need mass exposure for them to mean anything to anybody, and assumes rock radio still has the juice to provide it. There’s no doubt he believes it, so there’s no way a song called “Freakin’ Love My Life” could be ironic; Cuomo’s fantasy world is the realest thing he knows.
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Universal Japan
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4.9
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2013-05-30
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Ian Cohen
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Nightmare Ending
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2013
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Eluvium
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Ambient music has plenty of stargazers, but not many stars. There are so many people working in subtly different but broadly similar styles, and so much of their music is less keen to develop the individual persona than to dissolve it in a universalist hum. One exception is Matthew Cooper, who has spent the past decade becoming a touchstone for contemporary indie ambient music. As Eluvium, Cooper has staked out an ambient brand that blends piano-playing in the styles of classical minimalism and French Impressionism with dreamy electronics and guitar drones derived from IDM and shoegaze. It should not diminish his talent as an arranger to hazard that his centralizing influence probably rests on his impulse for accessibility above intricacy. Cooper's music can be light or dark, vehement or mild, romantic or hopeless, but it is always shaped into emotionally lucid, easily habitable spaces. Still, Cooper's stature is surprising when you consider that he hasn't released a great record since 2007. Copia was the highlight because it combined modes that were isolated on his prior releases-- from the Satie-like piano jingles of An Accidental Memory in the Case of Death to the grainy, radiant drones of Talk Amongst the Trees-- with expanded acoustic instrumentation, resulting in a majestic statement that sounded like the work of an artistic thinker rather than a fine technician of incidental sound. Copia at last meets its match in Nightmare Ending, Eluvium’s commanding new double LP. That it was supposed to be Copia's immediate successor might make you slap your forehead over Cooper's five years of mixed successes: the low-impact ambient techno of his Martin Eden alias, the tepid vocal-centric pop of Similes, and the dark, noisy Static Nocturne (the best of the bunch). But perhaps Cooper couldn't finish Nightmare Ending until he repeated the process that produced Copia, gathering new fuel for this bonfire of an album. The bided time pays off in what feels like a career-spanning best-of that happens to contain all new music. Alternately delicate and deluging, the 80-plus minutes of music that compose Nightmare Ending are wrought together with a heft and thrust that banish the aftertaste of Cooper's most recent EPs, which collected leftover dregs from Similes. This tremendous collection holds electronics-encased piano themes (e.g. the breathtaking dawn of "Don’t Get Any Closer" and the Harold Budd-like "Covered in Writing"), rich orchestral fogs that recall Copia ("Warm"and "Unknown Variation"), and rhythmically roiling dark clouds resembling Static Nocturne ("By the Rails", "Envenom Mettle"). Elegant little solo piano compositions, insistent with nostalgic repetitions, periodically surface through the heavy drapings of texture and harmony, proving refreshing for it. Cooper even redeems the ambient pop that derailed him on Similes by roping in a ringer, Yo La Tengo's Ira Kaplan, to sing on the tender closer "Happiness". Cooper reportedly first conceived of Nightmare Ending as "a way of helping loosen his self-imposed ideals of perfection," which provides a clue as to why the record makes such an impact. Cooper has never made anything terrible, but the greatest danger to which his music succumbs is to be too perfect, too placid and undisturbed, too perfunctorily lovely and sad. Nightmare Ending, on the other hand, is always bursting out through its own imperfections and impulsive gestures, with a wide emotional spectrum pumped full of fresh life from when Cooper returned to finish it years later. It's a long glorious exhalation of energies not actually dissipated, as it seemed for a while, but only multiplying in force under suppression.
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Temporary Residence
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7.8
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2013-05-30
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Brian Howe
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Rites of Separation
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2013
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Agrimonia
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While the bands populating Southern Lord’s mercurial roster continue to veer between ferocious and tepid, the label’s most endearing habit in recent memory has been their firm support for a bunch of grimy Swedes who otherwise mightn’t have gotten that first shot or second wind. Martyrdöd, Wolfbrigade, and Agrimonia have all received a boost from their new American pals, with the latter perhaps reaping the most benefits due to their previous relative obscurity. In certain circles, Agrimonia’s resume is positively star-studded, boasting members of Skitsystem, Martyrdöd, Miasmal, and At the Gates (which may explain the profound melodic death metal influence that creeps in), but they’ve never received as much attention as one would expect. Luckily, the winds have changed, and this eight-year-old project is getting its due. Rites of Separation is the band’s first LP since 2010’s Host of the Winged and third overall release. As good as its predecessors were, this latest album (and their debut for Southern Lord) shows a marked improvement and more evolved songwriting techniques. They’ve learned how to play to their strengths and trim some fat, which is crucial when you ping-pong between as many genres and styles as they’re wont to do. Agrimonia come from a punk and hardcore background, but are perfectly comfortable shaking off the crust and incorporating metallic influences. The thick, groovy Carcass riff buried halfway through “Hunted” is proof enough of their healthy appreciation for the left-hand path, and that’s just the second track. Rites of Separation opens with a clarion call that heralds the entrance of a crunchy main riff, tugged down into a descending melody and punctuated by vocalist Christina’s rabid growls. By crafting the song in a way that spans almost 11 minutes and features several distinct movements, Agrimonia know they’ve got time to let intensity ebb and flow, and stuff in a few solos for good measure. The prodigious length of the album’s five tracks is no accident. There’s an obvious post-rock/post-metal reference to be made, as these Swedes have certainly learned a thing of two about atmosphere and carefully weighted dynamics from Neurosis and their ilk, but ultimately, there’s more of an epic, dark crust hardcore vibe. Think Morne, Fall of Efrafa, Downfall of Gaia, or even Tragedy, who all embrace the same original crust punk foundations, but have been willing to branch out in search of more. Agrimonia do this so well, it’s almost unfair. “While Life Lies” is a muted, somber affair, starting slow and quiet before picking up the pace from a shuddering sludgy crawl into a spate of sharply melodic death metal and bleak hardcore. Once more, Christina’s forceful, throat-scraping growls and admonitions are a massive help, used sparsely but wisely. Her approach is fairly one-dimensional, but allows her to fade comfortably into the shadows to function as an instrument rather than a focal point. Music like this needs space, and time, and Agrimonia know how to use both. “The Battle Fought” rushes out of the gate with a driving beat and a flurry of distorted riffs and doesn’t let up for a moment; even the peppy rock’n’roll part swinging on the tail end keeps its grip tight. Its smart, midtempo pace is typical of the songs on this album, but feels like a gallop compared to the more staid instrumental and atmospheric passages. There is an emotional element to the songs, of course, but the primary focus is on the music itself; indecipherable lyrics and cryptic song titles take a back seat to the wondrous scope of sonic expression that’s happening around them. Show, don’t tell. Agrimonia take the “epic” tag seriously, it seems; this is one hell of a long album, especially for a punk/hardcore band, but each note and chord feels absolutely necessary. The final and most ambitious track, “Awaiting”, starts off with a woozy, industrialized drone (courtesy of Miasmal/Martyrdöd guitarist Pontus’ ominous keyboard work) and dares the listener to navigate its treacherous terrain, wandering through fiery hardcore and icy black metal while accompanied by heavy nods towards pure metallic crust and circling a gloomy, doomy central passage. The song fades out on another strong, complex melody and ends with a few airy moments of piano and acoustic guitar. It’s a lot to take in, but well worth the effort. Rites of Separation is a truly marvelous work of art, and will hopefully receive the recognition it deserves as one of 2013’s great triumphs.
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Southern Lord
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8.0
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2013-05-30
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Kim Kelly
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4: Into Unknown
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2013
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Human Eye
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Over the last two years, Timmy Vulgar has recorded some of his most boisterously awesome work to date. Last year, he put out the Timmy's Organism album Raw Sewage Roq-- a solid collection of songs with scumbag lyrics slurred over blown-out hard rock guitars. But while the most recent Timmy's album is marked by its devotion to Johnny Thunders and the Freeze, his other band Human Eye is more defined by their sci-fi psychedelia. Their stage show usually involves Timmy throwing on a big monster mask, and their thematic territory tends to sound like something from the yellowed pages of a sci-fi paperback. Their 2011 album They Came From the Sky paired punk rock muscle with buzzing sci-fi sonics. Into Unknown, the band's fourth studio album, takes a risk of sorts by backing away from the "muscle" part of the equation. Instead, Timmy and the gang aim for a sound that's more paced than raucous. The percussion of "Immortal Soldier" moves quickly, but it simmers beneath the surface. Timmy is yowling, but the vocals are muffled. The guitar solo sounds smothered. With a slightly different arrangement and slightly faster tempos, it could be a soaring rock'n'roll anthem. Instead, the more muted tone folds into the album's loose narrative. And sometimes, the quieter elements are used to complement Timmy's noisier inclinations. "Surface of Pluto" starts out spare-- a quiet piano and acoustic guitar, some desolate 2001: A Space Odyssey synths. Then, right as things get a bit sleepy, boom: big screeching guitar solo. At the end of the LP sits the title track: a six-minute, all-instrumental odyssey. There's a krautrock bassline, a simple melody being plunked out on a xylophone, and a warm guitar solo that switches from a warm Eastern tone to a scuzzy Detroit attack. With an occasional tinge of UFO feedback, it evokes exactly what it's meant to: a journey into the unknown. Human Eye go in for more straightforward rock'n'roll, too, but aside from the barking track "Juicy Jaw", those are some of the album's weakest moments. "Alligator Dance" has the barroom piano, guitar sound, and howling vocals that sounded so great on Raw Sewage Roq. Here, however, they're implemented on a song with worse lyrics, an unnecessarily lethargic tempo, and a completely lazy guitar solo. "Buzzin' Flies" somehow feels too repetitive after just two-and-a-half minutes. Then there are the other questionable sonic decisions; throughout the record, there's a keyboard sound that's most easily described as "circus organ." Maybe that's what they're going for-- Timmy's stage presence and deranged howls, after all, aren't too dissimilar from Tim Curry in It. The easy highlight is "Outlaw Lone Wolf", a story with the basic revenge-fueled beats of a Tarantino movie. It's the kind of song that provides every single piece of context in the most transparently stated lyrics possible, like Lefty Frizzell's "Saginaw, Michigan" or Tim Heidecker's "Titanic". With some acid rock guitars, Timmy embarks on the tale of the son of a blacksmith, who was abandoned as an orphan, rescued by Apaches, and became a great warrior. One day, while he was out hunting, somebody burned the entire village. As the warrior's charred wife dies in his arms, she manages these last words: "It was the blacksmith/ Avenge our deaths." (Again, nothing vague about this story at all.) And then there's an instrumental breakdown that sounds like Human Eye doing Ennio Morricone. It's a ridiculous, campy, awesome six minutes. The pacing and sequencing of Into Unknown is stellar, but it's hard to get an accurate read of the album's overall feel. While the title track sounds contemplative, "Alligator Dance" is anything but. It's an album that seems to have a sense of humor, but aside from "Outlaw Lone Wolf", it's never quite funny. Raw Sewage Roq and They Came From the Sky each had a clear-cut aesthetic, and this album heads in too many directions to have one decisive focus. But hey, it's called Into Unknown-- an appropriate title for an album that has songs about both Pluto and patricide.
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Goner
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6.7
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2013-05-30
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Evan Minsker
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Statistics
Average successful run time: 3 minutes
Total run time: 29 days
Total cpu time used: 22 minutes
Total disk space used: 75.5 MB
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