Similar to Flying Lotus' Cosmogramma, I'm not sure when I would ever listen to The Way Out. But Cosmogramma is at least a compelling piece of craft. The Way Out feels like a slapdash idea-mash.
The Books do a lot of sampling work, like a poor man's Avalanches or even Lemon Jelly. "Group Autogenics" provide the two-part album bookend, some whispered wisdom over mechanical twinkle-scapes, which is unoffensive enough. But "A Cold Freezin' Night" is a child talking about murder, and it's some uncomfortable balance between edgy and non-musical. This is more typical.
The odd part is that there are some nice acoustic ballads on the tail end of The Way Out. "All You Need is a Wall" and "Free Translator" are both lovely. Check them out, and ditch the album.
DJ Sub Par Says:
For many fans, will Arcade Fire ever make an album better than "Funeral"? Probably not. The alchemy of new but approachable sound, emotional but not sentimental is rare. So lets move on. "The Suburbs" is thematically and aesthetically as you'd expect it - filled with mid-tempo strummers about growing up and raising families. My favorite tracks get lost in the mix - "Rococo," where Win Butler seems to be joshing us, and the clap-along "City with no Children." But perhaps these were just the first to perk my ears with their hooky choruses. People may say this album is a little overlong and same-y, but on an album where there are two songs called "Sprawl" I suppose ambling might be the intention.
DJ Responsible Says:
I got a little nervous thirty seconds into The Suburbs. I was listening to a song called "The Suburbs," looking over song titles like "Wasted Hours," "Suburban War" and "Sprawl II (Mountains Beyond Mountains)," and thinking that this acoustic guitar sounds a little too polished. I mean, do we really need another meddling reflection on middle class ennui?
The Suburbs, despite its thematic familiarity, is so expertly crafted and finely written that it pushes this band's already fascinating musical arc. There's a reason Arcade Fire are the perpetual punching bag for indie-haters (well, two): they're popular, but more importantly, they make epic, envy-inducing albums that leave outsiders looking in. For example, The Suburbs manages to mesh the Breakfast Club sentiment of "Suburban War" ("And now the music divides us into tribes/You grew your hair so I grew mine") with the pummeling faux-angst of "Ready to Start" and the glimmering "Sprawl II" (note to Arcade Fire: release an entire EP of this new sound, please!). If you're too cool for The Suburbs, I can see why you might be envious.
This is an outstanding record (although can you really call it a Rock Record?). Up there with career best You Forgot It In People.
From the unbeat finger pointer "Texaco Bitches" to the downtrodden slip slide "Sweetest Kill" to the indie meander "Ungrateful Little Father" to the sultry-electro "All to All," I am perpetually asking myself: how does this all mesh so smoothly?
Seriously, Bad Boy Records? Puff Daddy found this chick? I guess the man has an eye for talent, which he manages to separate a decade or two apart (Notorious B.I.G., Janelle Monae).
I love the idea of this album: the most memorable and awesome cover art in years meets the madness of the songs themselves--orchestral interludes, jazzy ballads, psychedelia, hip hop, Of Montreal, cut and dry Rhythm & Blues. This album is America's melting pot in the year 2200.
I found new favorites on every listen, transitioning from obvious favorites like "Cold War" to the down-tempo tractor beam of "Sir Greendown" and Monae channeling her inner Willy Wonka/Pigeon John on "Wondaland." For any band or artist releasing a debut album this year, good luck toppling this epic.
DJ Sub Par says: "Epic" is right. this album flips though genres like it is shuffling cards. What makes it remarkable is how the album doesn't sacrifice flow while indulging a restless creativity. Songs unfold seamlessly from the last, making each progression feel natural rather than audio whiplash.
This is the second album this year that I can confidently say to anyone I know, "go listen to this from tip to tail." The first was Big Boi's efforts that came out only weeks ago. That half-of-Outkast actually produced this album and contributes a few verses on the single Tightrope. Someone is having a good year...
Let's just get this out of the way: "Shine Blockas" is an amazing song (Pitchfork nailed that one on their 'best of' last year). It stands out like the last M&M in a bowl full of trail mix.
But there's a lot of other good stuff on Sir Luscious. And there's a lot of questionable stuff. It's just one of those dense, throw enough ingredients into the soup kind of albums.
For whatever reason, rap albums get a free pass in this regard. If any indie band outside Yo La Tengo released an album with unnecessary tracks like "You Ain't No DJ" or obnoxious interludes like the David Blaine segment, they'd be taken down a peg. But not Big Boi. He manages to remain on the pedestal, largely because 85% of his work is somewhere between good and stellar.
Sir Luscious is only a great hip hop album in relation to the rest of the drivel out there. And it could use a final edit. But why can't more rap music be this adventurous and fun?
DJ Sub Par Says:
Lets keep this simple. Go listen to this album. It might be the best album you hear this year. It is sonically daring. Here is a classical guitar. Here is KRS-ONE reference. Is that Opera? In addition to Shine Blockas listen to "Shutterbug," 'Tangerine," and "Daddy Fat Sax" (Be warned that Big Boi is an enthusiastic fan of sex.) Also don't miss the tracks exiled from the album by legal troubles, the Andre 3000 assisted "Lookin' for Ya" and "Royal Flush."
American Slang answers the eternal question: what if a slightly-more-eloquent Sam's Town-era Brandon Flowers made an album with the drummer from The Hold Steady and the lead guitarist from My Morning Jacket?
Sound exciting? Not really. It's more like a mere two notches above a waste of time.
The Hold Steady drumming: check out the uninspired 'thump-thump-thump' ad nauseum on the titular opening track. The My Morning Jacket guitaring: very talented, but often wanky and disconnected, like when Michael J. Fox solos to an unimpressed crowd in Back to the Future. The Brandon Flowers-esque vocals: throaty and serious and, my God, does he know how to rough up some ballad backing vocals.
Sometimes, when it all meshes together, American Slang can be quite palatable. "Orphans" and "Boxer" offer a spirited, concise one-two punch. But don't expect this album to find its way into my heart anytime soon.
DJ Sub Par Says:
I'm often a fan of backwards looking rock bands. (See Visqueen and Free Energy.) And Gaslight Anthem can turn out uptempo straight ahead rock. Their best weapon, as Kevin mentioned, are rock god vocal chords stolen from Bruce Springsteen. The band falters when they continue to rehash "Born to Run." They open the album with the profoundly mediocre title track, which casts a shadow over the tracks that makes everything sound the same. The second track "Stay Lucky" may be better, but still feels like a band coasting. It isn't until they slow down with "Bring it On," does it feel like the band is making music and not just playing songs. They follow it up the finger-snaps of "The Diamond Church Street Choir." Let's hope they continue to evolve their sound, maybe even making their own Nebraska.
Since 2007 album, Wild Mountain Nation, Blitzen Trapper have incurred comparisons. This album is so overstuffed with ideas that that critics tried to explain it by calling it "Grateful Dead meets Pavement", for their sound that veered from loose Americana to crunchy angular guitars. On their more focused follow up, Furr, critics tossed around the Band and 60's era Dylan. On Destroyer of the Void, they come out of the gate with the title track a proggy number, that I'm sure will invite comparisons to a prog-band-I-don't-know very well (maybe ELO?). After the title track and Laughing Lover, proving they are willing to try something new, they settle back into the folk of Furr. Who wouldn't welcome the delightful storytelling of "The Man Who Would Speak True" and "Heaven and Earth"? However, this album feels like a transition between the sound of "Furr" and whatever will come next.
DJ Responsible Says:
I initially thought that Destroyer of the Void was too prog--and the musical comparison I might offer would've been Rush. But on repeat listens, Destroyer doesn't stray too far from Blitzen Trapper's first two albums, instead further revealing the band's strengths and weaknesses. Blitzen Trapper, much like fellow Pacific Northwesterners Fleet Foxes, can knock a ballad out of the park. "The Tree" is gorgeous, both simple and understated, and beautifully sung over a minimal acoustic arrangement. Their 'rockers' are more of a mixed bag: "Destroyer of the Void" ultimately succeeds, but a song like "Evening Star" falls into meddling Fleetwood Mac territory (for however that makes you feel). I still don't think Blitzen Trapper have put together an amazing album-in-full, but they continue to release promising collections with a sprinkling of memorable tracks.
This is Happening is a whirlwind. Every track is restless (some just fidgety, others epileptic). Emotions and insecurities are strewn about. The dance floor is spinning on a miraculous axis. It's a lifetime, albeit a drunken New York lifetime, crammed into a little over an hour.
The coolness isn't the draw, it's the tunes: there's always a new favorite, but you can't go wrong with the splendidly over-the-top synth-and-squeal of opener "Dance Yrself Clean" or the Bowie-esque "All I Want" (or the extended chug of "You Wanted a Hit", or the outer monologue musings of "Pow Pow"--"We have a black president and you do not, so shut up"--goddamn there's a lot to love here).
Best of all might be "Home," which is all shimmery and warm and full of cowbell. The sentiment is all the more pertinent, given James Murphy's desire to quit this whole album, touring thing. You can't blame a man for growing up, at least when he captures it this magnificently.
DJ Sub Par Says:
LCD broke into the conscious of the indie rock scene with the exuberance and humor of "Daft Punk is playing at my house." Since then he has reused his tricks of danceable beats, synthesized squelches, and jokey talking lyrics to similar effect with the previous single like "North American Scum" and now "Drunk Girls." James Murphy makes the most of these elements and seems to be striving to get past his own cool. The half humor of "Drunk Girls" seems to be a way for him to squeeze in a chorus that claims "I believe in waking up together."
To say an album needs to be listened to over and over to "get it" tends to be an excuse for mediocrity. Often the best music is immediate and gripping. We don't need to ask ourselves, "Do we like this music?" We either we do or don't. Sometimes, however, bands that don't give us immediate thrill still have something of value.
The National consistent create moody guitar driven indie rock and High Velvet is no exception. Occasionally they achieve the emotional power of Arcade Fire or Frightened Rabbit, though pounding drums and jagged guitars, but for the most part they could fall inline with a hundred other indie rock bands. A few extra spins of the National and one of the best aspects of the band emerge: the lyrics. On their last album, Boxer, I had become disinterested until I heard the lyrics of "Green Gloves", where the narrator breaks into his friends house while he's not there and questions how much we really know people. On High Velvet singer Matt Berninger uses images of floods and bee swarms to craft tales of spiritual emptiness and becoming a father.
DJ Responsible Says:
The lyrics are actually the first thing that I noticed about The National; Alligator fit a perfect balance between Sam Shepard's poetical clarity and Isaac Brock's nervous detachment. Curious psychoanalytical lines like "I had a secret meeting in the basement of my brain/It went the dull and wicked ordinary way" swirled alongside anthemic, Americana-capturing classics like "I'm the new blue blood, I'm the great white hope...I won't fuck us over, I'm Mr. November."
High Violet is no Alligator, but I suppose that's not really the point. High Violet is a gentler affair.
The National have obviously grown comfortable in their own skin--too comfortable, I would argue, since much of the album's first half drifts along about as memorably as an afternoon lost. But anything The National releases is still special, and anything Berninger sings is still essential: the album feels destined to be part of a larger narrative we'll one day be proud to have shared at the source. As Berninger might suggest, everything's just a series of moments.
DJ Sub Par Says:
One man electronic wrecking crew, Dan Snaith, must have made a pact with the Devil never to make the same album twice. He has torn through flavored his albums with over-loaded psychedelia (Up in Flames), Beat heavy Kraut Rock (Milk of Human Kindness) beach-boy tinged pop (Andorra). Here he returns with a album that sounds if it was actually recorded under the sea with bleached out cassette tapes. He takes the strange summery sounds of a wave of pitchfork approved indie bands (Memory Tapes, Neon Indian, Real Estate) and out does them all with the track, "Sun." My only suggestions is give these tracks a few spins - what might first appear as calculated beats eventually shows itself do be as comfortable as worn-out walkman on a summer day.
DJ Responsible Says:
"Odessa" is amazing. Dance floor ghosts, a mesmerizing bass beat, Prince-lite guitar twangs, salt shakers, hand claps, Chromeo drum rolls, church bells, synth archipelagos, and thoughtful lines like "Turn around the life she let him siphon away": this is one impeccable opener. And, indeed, an impossible bar for the rest of the (impressive) album to match.
"Sun" is quite bliss as well. As is "Lalibela" (a.k.a. maple syrup electronica).
Swim (I always want to call it simply "Odessa") succeeds in its density, texture, and cohesive experimentation. There's not a dud in the bunch. But it lacks in two regards: 1) occasionally, Caribou drift too far into straightforward electronic music (as on the Pantha-du-Prince-but-not-as-good "Bowls"); 2) more broadly, sometimes I just miss the real, double drum set sound of the eternal "Melody Day" (and the rest of Andorra, really). Maybe next album.
Local Natives surprised me with their adult contemporary-ness. I mean, look at the formula: much-hyped L.A. quintet releases much-hyped debut, complete with artsy could-be-Vampire-Weekend album cover and incongruous album title (Gorilla Manor). Here we go again, I thought.
But not quite.
It's not that I don't like their adult contemporary-ness, it's simply not as compelling as their more adventurous (and, paradoxically, more traditional) first half of the album. The second half couplet of "Who Knows Who Cares" and "Cubism Dream" could be The Fray with a respectable ghost writer and less restrained drummer. John Kerry wouldn't be offended to hear "Airplanes" on his ham radio. It's nice to see a band with range, it just happens to be at odds with the rest of the album. And schmaltzy, I suppose.
There's a lot of good stuff: "Wide Eyes" and "World News" put the bands amazing-yet-not-overbearing percussion work on full display. These guys are talented, obviously, but still need to solidify their sound.
For those of you who don't know the New Pornographers, please for the love of music give them a listen. In an alternate universe this is the pop music that plays on the radio and gets covered on American Idol. This Canadian super group crafts three and half minute songs that are hooky and fun with cryptic lyrics that bare repeated listens.
For those who know this band: You may have been thrown off by the last album by A.C. Newman and the gang - "Challengers." The prevailing opinion was that they had abandoned the energy-cranked-to-ten approach for a mellower (read: boring) sound. I couldn't disagree more. "Challengers" was a natural progression from the Hey-la-las of stellar song "The Bleeding Heart Show." While the last album may have slowed things down it allowed them to bring in a complexity of sounds and find a strange highlight from weirdo contributor with "Myriad Harbor." So some critics may be calling this a come back of sorts, the bad-ass cello hits that start this album, the whistling bridge on "Crash Years" and fuller sound are a natural continuation.
DJ Responsible Says:
Normally my least favorite contributor, Dan Bejar, is on fire here. I used to think he was sprinkled in for the sake of indie cred--Electric Version's wordy "Testament to You in Verse" just couldn't keep up with A.C. Newman's splendour-pop like "It's Only Divine Right." No more. Maybe I've matured, or maybe last year's whimsically epic Destroyer single "Bay of Pigs" was simply a turning point, but try not to love "Silver Jenny Dollar."
Together's best song, however, has been wrapping around my head for almost a week now: "Valkyrie in the Rollerdisco." Holy lovely banjo, I [heart] this duet. "You're a gold mine" New Pornographers. Keep making songs this bliss and albums this cohesive, and you're in for one hell of a discography.
Los Campesinos! made two of the best albums of 2008: their visceral debut Hold on Now, Youngster... and the nearly-equal follow-up faux-EP We Are Beautiful, We Are Doomed. My first thought: prolific, anyone?
It's not surprising then that their one-year hiatus produced the 15-track barrage Romance is Boring, which overflows with (dark, provocative, often elegant, often comical) ideas. Most of the experimentation pays off (like killer opener "In Medias Res"), just watch out for those that fall flat (the raw ra-ra of "Plan A"). And don't expect a smooth ride.
Los Campesinos! have two dimensions to their alluring madness: words and temperment.
I'm not arguing that it all makes sense, but how can you argue against lines like "I'm leaving my body to science/Not medical but physics," "I think we need more post-coital and less post-rock," "Said I'd gone deaf/But I'd heard everything they said/It's just I had no interest," and even the album's titular "romance is boring."
This all might sound pretentious on paper, or if it were strewn over an acoustic guitar (check the song titles, e.g. "This Is a Flag. There Is No Wind"). Not a problem: they tie this sensible nonsense to a fitting high-energy constitution. The result: Another great effort from on of music's most interesting and compelling outfits.
If you are in the mood for wooze, look no further. Beach House have crafted a memorizing, drifting current somewhere between the Potomac and the Milky Way.
Yet, I was also surprised by the density and velocity of the album, which confidently swells and hastens between the more lovely, lucid meanderings. Sometimes these surprises take the form of entire songs, like the mind-melting "Norway" and the bouncy, nostalgic picnic "Used to Be."
The album is a lullaby, built around longer tracks that take time to create their texture, which is both Teen Dreams strength and weakness. This is one of those albums that might be best appreciated alone. Or with a few couch-bound friends.
One of the best fits for the otherwise potentially confusing pairing of James Mercer (of The Shins fame) and producer Dangermouse is their emphasis on concise album structures. This ten-song set clocks in under the forty minute mark, like much of each of their previous releases. It's a great way to test out a new sound, an odd hybrid of the 2010 variety, and to see if another collaboration should be sought down the road.
"The Ghost Inside" has the most Dangermouse in it, and succeeds, while "Vaporize" is the most Shins-like, and also succeeds. Broken Bells, combining the strengths of each artist in interesting if unambitious ways, is a thoroughly enjoyable experience.
Don't get me wrong, I'll be on board when Yeasayer release their follow-up to the uber-frustrating Odd Blood. This band has a knack for songcraft, buried here amongst a host of drivel, peeking out like daisies through cracked suburban sidewalks.
In fact, I'll probably be listening to "O.N.E." until the die I day (at least once a year, maybe more, forever). I think I've finally figured out why that song is so contagious. Every breakdown until the last is a perfect tease, suckering you back full-fledged into the hyberbolic keyboard anthem, and making the real breakdown at the end that much more rewarding. Let's just say the rest of the album can't keep up.
The drop off to "Ambling Alp" is noticeable but not disastrous. Ditto the next drop off to "Madder Red" and "I Remember." And then comes the abyss. Nothing else feels cohesive, compelling, innovative, or built from talented hands. In fact, the rest of the album is sloppy and faux-artsy.
There's not a lot to dislike on Volume Two, the more polished follow-up to the still bizarre M.Ward-Zooey Deschanel pairing's 2008 debut. Admittedly, my fascination with doe-eyed Zooey gives her an initial congratulatory boost; but, hey, I can't say I'll be listening to any Scarlett Johansson serenades in the near future. It's clear that Zooey, given more room to roam around M.Ward's compositions than on the last effort, carries this album on talent, grace and innate charm.
Volume Two is all about pretending the last fifty years of music never happened. Smooth backing vocals, steady four-piece drum rhythms, and quaint, innocent yearnings make this entire journey feel like time travel. M.Ward provides most of the album's compelling wordsmithery, but nothing beats the old-fashioned cover "Gonna Get Along Without You Now." The perfect song for a cocky, springtime jaunt.
Oh man, hip hop was due for a quality release. Sure, Raekwon, Mos Def and Brother Ali dropped some pretty impressive rap albums last year, Kid Cudi piqued some interest, and Wale didn't entirely disappoint. But Bk-One's Radio do Canibal mix combines the novelty of a mixtape with album-worthy production that is an entirely different manner of compelling.
There's not really a dominant theme here; Bk-One favors latin rhythms on the few interludes throughout, and on the impressive instrumental "Tema do Canibal," but the tendency only subtly invades much of the rest of the album. For instance, he favors a (Sean Connery era) 007 aesthetic for Slug's "Blood Drive," while providing a shadowy Spanish-tinged backdrop for the Brother Ali and Scarface duet "American Nightmare."
All of the MC's are near the top of their game, and Bk-One wraps into a tight, digestible package. The highlights are many, and the lulls are few.
Band: Gorillaz
Album: Plastic Beach
Sounds Like: Gnarls Barkley, Basement Jaxx, the other two Gorillaz albums that you own
Sub-sub Genre: Much-Anticipated Mainstream Hipster-Mixtape Hybrid
Essential Tracks: Rhinestone Eyes, Melancholy Hill
Plastic Beach is a beautiful, tumultuous world in which Lou Reed and Mos Def hang out all the time, the American public revels in buoyant inanity, and Snoop Dogg is the greatest rapper alive. Gorillaz have further established their presence in that saddeningly rare niche of simultaneous popular and critical success, alongside wonders like Radiohead and Pixar.
Damon Albarn's production is insanely crisp and contagious, particularly sparkling synth-pop gems like "Rhinestone Eyes," "Melancholy Hill" and "Some Kind of Nature." Plus, the album floats along on networking skills alone: almost every track has an interesting guest appearance, somehow stuffed together into the same 61 minutes. If anything, Plastic Beach suffers from a lack of cohesion to a greater extent than either Gorillaz or Demon Days, perhaps stemming from the lack of an interwoven captivating hip hop presence (Del and DOOM clearly outmatch this ragtag bunch). Setting aside the (commendable) experimentation-gone-awry, this album deserves a place on the same shelf as its two brilliant predecessors.
Band: Free Energy
Album: Stuck on Nothing
Sounds Like: OK Go, Foghat, Blue Oyster Cult
Sub-Sub Genre: Soft-Hearted 70's Rock Revivalists
Essential Tracks: Bang Pop, All I Know, Free Energy
I don't mean to knock Free Energy too hard, but little about Stuck on Nothing appears to have any staying power. These kids never claim to be wise, but instead ballyhoo "cruising across town/lost in the endless sound" ("Dream City"). Yet they lack the manic youthful frenzy of early Arctic Monkeys or the sonic adventurousness of something like Japandroid. Free Energy seem unashamed to revel in a world where handclaps and cowbells are not only cool, but act as suitable lifeblood.
Not to allude that Stuck on Nothing is completely without life. "Bang Pop" is a taste of unadulterated joy quite rare in the indie rock realm, and which would be destined to become an alternative radio summer hit in a just suburban America. This is followed up by the most mature and textured piece, the string-heavy, mandatory-bob-along "All I Know" (and that hypnotizing finale...). Indeed, this track pairing would've made a fine finale to a excellent four-track EP.
