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There's a long list of albums with titles that are misnomers for the music inside. With Summer Sun,Yo La Tengo are pretty close to adding another to the list. Severaltracks interspersed save the album from this category by shining alittle light in, though the band generally gets mired in theirexquisitely somber sound, which is a very good thing. Album afteralbum, Yo La Tengo produce quality music with impressive productionvalues, and this album is no different. The proceedings start, as morethan one Yo La Tengo album has, with an instrumental of sorts, and"Beach Party Tonight" is a clear indication that the electronic side ispossessing the band more and more on each release. The whole albumfeatures more technology, and these additions lend a lot to the generalaura of the music without being intrusive. Ira Kaplan's vocals arefrequently hushed, as usual, and on "Beach Party," they're almostincomprehensible, bringing the music to the forefront. Georgia Hubleyis coming into her own vocally, sounding more and more like thechanteuse that's been hiding away. "Little Eyes" is a perfect power popproduction, much like the more mainstream fair of I Can Hear the Heart Beating as One.Elsewhere the tradition of one epic song per album continues, too, with"Let's Be Still" as this album's "Night Falls on Hoboken," and it's abit more coherent and a bit more freeform than before. One thing thatthe title suggests clearly, though, is that Yo La Tengo were out tohave a lot more fun this time, and it shows on tracks like "Georgia vs.Yo La Tengo," an almost '70s porn anthem laden with effects and funkpiano, and on "Winter A-Go-Go", which could almost pass for Steve andEydie. Even though there's more sun in the sky, there's always shadowscast, and that's what they thankfully couldn't avoid. Summer Sunis not their best work, but it is another solid album from a band notafraid to expand their sound, take chances or let loose every now andthen.
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Replicator are a neat dynamic rock trio from the San Francisco Bay Area who get compared to Shellac a lot. This seems to be mostly because Shellac bassist Bob Weston records them and because they are quite vocal on the Shellac email list, which is how I happened to hear about them. To me a much better comparison would be Poster Children, but imagine how they might have ended up had they introduced the loops and synths of Salaryman into their exuberant rockpop shapes instead of separating into two different projects involving the same people.Feedback Loop Industries
But enough of comparisons, Replicator have their own thing and they've built on and transcended the solid foundation of their debut album Winterval with a quartet of addictive angular rockin' bursts of hopeful angst. The EP opens with Validation Complex, a tongue in cheek spoken self help therapy session for hardcore kids, with singer / guitarist Conan Neutron reciting multi-tracked paens to the powerful foundations of confidence, before erupting into choppy oriental chord trashing. The weakest aspect of their debut was probably the vocals, and on this track they cleverly turn that into a strength with double tracked tricks. "It's a blast of utter frustration," so begins the stormin' Bawkbakawk Bawkbagone and as the day wore on the situation deteriorated but in the interests of self preservation it wasn't something they concerned themselves with, even if it had rendered their song titles nigh on incomprehensible to mere psueud mag eds. Despite such frivolity, Replicator do stop on a dime to squawk like an unruly hen or three. Their use of programmed loops has become more intrinsically organic to the songwriting process than on Winterval, and marks them high in moderninity. They never forget that their job is to rock yer ass, but like many of the best bands they realise this does not have to be a brainless shake. This EP was recorded over a year ago, and apparently the tracks have evolved somewhat and some might be reworked for the album that Replicator are currently recording. Check the label site for links to songs. It would be wonderful if they could get over to the UK for some gigs. Perhaps Bob Weston might consider them for the line up of next year's All Tomorrow's Parties? I find it amazing that a band this good has to be self releasing a CD-R. What's the matter with record labels these days?
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Eitzel and his hosts refurbished eight of his American Music Club and solo songs spanning from 1987 to today, plus a new one and one written by producer Manolis Famellos. Fortunately it still sounds like it should: the inimitable Mark Eitzel performing his emotionally wrought song craft. Eitzel is in fine voice and the Grecians' flourishes of plucked, strummed and sweeping strings are tastefully reserved, careful to add local flavors but not to overwhelm the songs. Except maybe for "Here They Roll Down" as it's given a slightly bothersome bagpipe-like drone. Classics such as "Western Sky", "Jenny", "Nightwatchman", "Take Courage", "Will You Find Me" and "Last Harbor" are as heartbreakingly beautiful as they've always been. If nothing else, this album serves as a reminder of just how fucking great these songs are and preserves them with modern production. "Anything" from 2001's 'The Invisible Man' may very well be better than the original. The new one "What Good Is Love" and Famellos' "Love's Humming" are far from sore thumbs and delve a bit deeper into Greek drama, musically and lyrically. In the former Eitzel rhetorically asks "and if there's no way to love / the one that I love / then what good is love?" and in the latter cries "but oh the one she could hurt the most / she claimed his joy and ruined mine". Unlike the hit and miss, half-hearted covers of 'Music for Courage and Confidence', Eitzel has put all of his heart into covering himself.
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The Exploding Hearts are unabashed disciples of the vibrant,inescapably catchy power pop of bands like The Knack and The Nerves.Mixing the thrust of early punk with the melodic sensibilities ofsixties results in a spirited, irresistible product with a sharp edge.It's evident throughout Guitar Romantic that it isn't a pose, nor is it a joke. These are guys who are on their third or fourth copy of Singles Going Steadycause they wore them out, who wondered what Brian Wilson might havesounded like if he met up with Richard Hell, who know the value of agood, steady finger snap and aren't afraid to use it. This is the musicthey love and it is that passion that makes Guitar Romanticsuch an engaging listen. Don't think that because they pay homage to somany of their influences that there is nothing new on this record. Infact, the Exploding Hearts bring a ferocious energy to their sound,charging headfirst into a crunchy rocker, or soulfully crooning alongwith a backup harmony. "Modern Kicks" opens things up, digging rightin, and guaranteeing that you'll stick around for the rest of album.The lead guitar slices through the fuzzed out production that causesthe instruments to blur and rattle around each other. The mix gives adirty, vintage sound that adds to the personality of the music. Itsounds as if the album had slipped behind a shelf or under a pile ofrecords twenty years ago, only to be rediscovered today as a lost popgem. The bright shuffle of "Sleeping Aids and Razorblades" carries theHearts' soulful romantic persona with clever lyrics like "it's a littleupbeat / and it ain't in tune / you know it's just like this heart ofmine." That line could serve as the tagline for Guitar Romantic,as the Hearts cover the trials and troubles of teenage romance with theresiliently forlorn attitude they deserve, all packaged in a blissfullysweet pop delivery. "Jailbird," a love song about sniffing glue, has adevastatingly hooky chorus, amplified by the call and response backupvocals and a 120 watt guitar melody. You'll find yourself followingalong with every "Yeah, Yeah" and "Woah, Woah." There truly is not aweak song on the entire album. Each track is irresistibly catchy andafter a brief ten songs in twenty-eight minutes, the desire for anotherfix is intense. Guitar Romantic could have easily become justanother nostalgia act looking to knock off the past, but this is farfrom the case. They bring their own tack to a familiar style, imbuingit with a newfound youth and soul. The energy and vitality that theExploding Hearts put out is stunning, their music finely crafted topound even the most jaded music fan into grinning, head bouncingsubmission.
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These five Lucier pieces dating from 1961 to 1970 provide handyillustrations of my love-hate relationship with American academicmusic. Its central Theory versus Music dialectic is interesting. Is thetheory on which music is based important? If so, to whom? If a CD makesno sense aesthetically or otherwise until the liner notes are read (andthe liner notes are in this elevated domain unquestionably important)what does that say about the music? Does the pleasure of listeningdepend on the theory or should the pleasure be sought in the theoryitself? The first illustration on this CD is "Vespers" (1969) whichinvolves performers moving around a given acoustic space withdirectional pulse generators. I liked the piece before I read the notesbut I find it makes even more interesting listening how that I have.The piece demonstrates the theory that humans perceive physical spacethrough our sense of hearing. Without the theory, it's fifteen minutesof attractive clicking sounds but with the theory the listener becomesconsciously involved by providing and operating the apparatus for theperceptual half of the experiment, which can lead to deeperunderstanding and pleasure—it's rather like having impressionistpainting explained to you for the first time. Implication: theory canenhance music. "Chambers" (1968) illustrates another point; beforereading my response was: sounds okay, nice enough. It involves variousrecordings of sound spaces, such as a railway station, cafeteria orwhat-have-you, playing on portable devices, disguised in some kind ofwrapping, that are placed within the performance sound space—thuschambers (i.e. acoustic spaces) within chambers. Now that's fine andperhaps even witty, in a rather twee academic way, but grasping theconcept doesn't improve the listening experience and I'm beginning toget annoyed by the suggestion that the concept is even relevant to me.Implication: theory doesn't always enhance music and can detract. Onyet another hand, "North American Time Capsule" (1967), a performanceon the archaic Sylvania encrypting voice encoder without thecorresponding decoder, is unlistenable with or without the various deepand interesting levels of meaning provided by its associated theory.Implication: theory cannot enhance bad music. "(Middletown) MemorySpace" (1970) is scripted thus: a number of singers and/orinstrumentalists go out into a city and "record, by anymeans—electronic recording, graphic notation, or memory—the sounds ofthe city," return and "re-create, solely my means of your voices andinstruments and with the aid of memory devices (without additions,deletions, improvisation, interpretation) those outside soundsituations." On this performance the music sounds like rather dullimprov. Contemplating the composition (i.e. the instructions) providesa better distraction than the music: can it be done?; does it matter atall if it can't?; is the absurd impossibility of the parenthetical"without" clause another joke?; is this what group improv sounds likewhen exerting personality and thus interaction is explicitlyforbidden?; what must it be like to be paid to think about thesethings? And there we have, I fear, the crucible of my irritation:jealousy. These Cagian exercises must surely be great fun for thecomposer and may even be pleasing for the performers but the disregardfor whether or not the music will be any good to listen to is a littleirksome to the mere audience member. The implication is that composingand being a composer is more important than being a listener, eventhough the former is existentially dependent on the latter (composingfor its own sake has little to do with music). Such elitism isjustifiable and I am thankful for it when the resulting art is good andvaluable. But when it is not, which is not the exceptional case inAmerican academic music, I find that I cannot discard it without envy.
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This is proof that a band can combine a number of different musicalgenres into an album and still have it be as beautiful as it isinteresting. Country and folk roots, good ol' fashioned rock, blues,and sound collages all fit together quite nicely and summon spiritsboth old and new with outstanding results. Califone's Quicksand/Cradlesnakesdoesn't have a single wasted note on it. Electric and acousticinstrumentation fit together like pieces of a musical puzzle few othershave been able to solve; tape loops of broken, stringed instruments,computer beeps and bloops, and spiraling machine noise slideeffortlessly into and alongside country-tinged ballads full oflamenting pianos and dancing guitars. A perfect example of this lovelycombination is "Horoscopic.Amputation.Honey.," where buzzing guitarsshift in and out of mix that includes wooden, rattling percussion, whatsounds like a type-writer, and twangy acoustic guitar. Tim Rutili'svoice plays a big part in the music, too. At times his voice is sweetand soft like a lullaby and elsewhere it is bold and full of attitude.The rebellious and edgey "Your Golden Ass" is full spicey vocals,surreal lyrics, grimy guitar, and steel drums that somehow fit in witheverything else. The primitive and nervous "(Red)" makes me feel likeI'm in the middle of an almost-deserted and very dangerous townsomewhere in a vast desert and "When Leon Spinx Moved Into Town" is asexy, albeit quiet, rock tune blossoming with southern spices and atension that is hard to identify, but is looming and menacing in a verysinister way. The entire album is lavished with images and emotionsthat leave no room for dull moments. Califone has given birth to onehell of a fine rock album; it is diverse, full of lovely songs, andjust plain fun to listen to.
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Occasionally there is a song which comes along that is so damnedexciting time just plain stops for three minutes and 14 seconds. Theexperience of hearing Sharon Jones' cover of Janet Jackson's "What HaveYou Done for Me Lately" on the local college radio waves has beenabsolutely maddening. Perhaps the novelty of a soul revival outfitdoing a 1980s cover tune in 1960s funk style was enough to get thissong noticed, but once it's heard, it's damned addictive. No matter ifI was stuck in traffic behind dildos on mobile phones or getting up andready for work, the world truly did feel like a great place to be whenthis song came on. Hearing the album in full now is nothing less than adivine reward. It's safe to say that the energy captured by Jones andthe Dap Kings througout the entire record is equally as feverish andunstoppable as the single, and after countless listens it's not losingone bit of the charm. Dap-Dippin'is the first full-length for NYC-based Daptone Records (founded in thewake of the demise of Desco records) and collects a number of the songsfrom various 7" singles released by Jones over the last couple years.Recently, the singles and albums seem to be popping up in bizarreplaces and catching on to those both curious and adventurous enough togive it a try, and rightfully so. The music is a fantastic tribute tothe untainted sound of years long gone, presented in living mono andskillfully produced with an ensemble of talented musicians to give it alive in-studio production feeling that bands HAD to get right backbefore multitracking was affordable. Jones, a former session vocalistand the singer occasionally known as Miss Lafaye, fronts the groupthrough ten songs of unchained vigor with the saucy attitude of themost famous funk frontmen and the seasoned grace of a lady who knowsher shit. The real leader however seems to be Bosco Mann, bassist forthe Sugarman 3 and probably a member of a number of Daptone (andformerly Desco) in-house bands. Dap-Dippin' tactfully has theelements which usually contractually made up a late 1960s vocal soulrecord, with the live clip for the introduction, the high energy hitsingles (like "Got a Thing on My Mind" and "Got to be the Way it Is,")the ballad ("Make it Good to Me") and the tunes with the instrumentalbreakdowns for the band to show off and the listeners to get down("Pick it Up, Lay it in the Cut"). I hate to admit that it may besomewhat formulaic but I will stand by my claim that it is undeniablyfun.
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The ensemble is quiet, and soft-spoken, and forever tinkering with their own sound, like a child who is playing doctor for the first time. "Deja, Comme Des Trous De Vent, Comma Reproduit," the first song is a meandering melody line which repeats over and over with instruments coming in and departing. The line is engaging enough that the repetition is not abrasive. "Holy Throat Hiss Tracts to the Sedative-Hypnotic" features a field recording (not the only one of the album) of a truly mundane story recounted by an older gentlemen; something about a horse and a trampling. Or was it a trampoline? An intense creaking frames the story, sounding either like the creaking of a ocean vessel's guts or some ungodly-built metal structure held together by linchpins of corroded plastic. It's almost as if the old man realizes the banality of his story, for he swings wildly in the other direction and recounts a entirely incredulous tale of fire emanating from some man's eyes. "When Sorrow Shoots Her Darts" is a moody orchestral piece which regains some of the composure from the first songs, but ends too soon. The final song on disc one, "Tehran in Seizure/Telegraphs in Negative," is a marked change in sound, more of an organic noise piece than the others. The other departure in sound is "Buzz of Barn Flies Like Faulty Electronics," which approaches free jazz. The souls of both songs are muted and understated, demonstrating the how you have to listen rather intently to these songs in order to find their elegance, a lesson which instructs the listening for the whole album. In the end, the album does not sound dissimilar from what is actually is: a talented ensemble isolated in the confines of a dark house, making improvisational music while staring at boarded-up windows, blank walls, and a dearth of stimuli straight in the face.
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Trimmed down to founder Bennett and longtime member Philip Best (also known to noise fiends as the brain behind Consumer Electronics), the duo have unleashed a venom-spewing foray into the digital/analog hybrid noise sound initiated on their essential Mummy And Daddy and further explored on the somewhat disappointing Cruise. The album opens with a vengeance on "Why You Never Became A Dancer," a blistering track stuffed with harsh lyrics. Truth be told, the real fun of any Whitehouse album comes from trying to decipher the rage behind their menacing and profane lyrics. As usual, there are some lines that exude their dark humor, as on "Cut Hands Has The Solution," (a song apparently about self-mutilation/cutting) where Best bellows "Are you so much of a slug that you can't live without a fucking sundae?" Here, both Bennett and Best doubleteam the victim, with a barrage of questions and insinuations that almost come across like a perverse Scientology auditing session. Supposedly based on the murder mystery linked to gay British actor Michael Barrymore, "Wriggle Like A Fucking Eel," released months before the album as a 12" single, slings verbal abuse at Stuart Lubbock, a used boytoy who ultimately drowned in the actor's swimming pool—a "chlorine gargoyle." The only contribution from now former member Peter Sotos comes in the form of a tape collage of television news programs on child abduction and prostitution, similar to those on the last two albums. Overall, his exit from the group seems only to have intensified the project's overall mission and sound. Bird Seed is destined for my Top 10 list for 2003.
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None of the multiple sudden changes in musical style help to add to the album's enjoyability, they subtract from it because the changes seem so arbitrary. For instance, the opening song "The Wherewithall" begins with an excellent rhythm section and shimmering guitar melody that faultlessly and easily travels across a broad sonic spectrum. Indeed, it begins colorfully and promisingly enough but then suddenly explodes into a heavy metal brawl of screams and grinding guitars that completely ruins the mood that was only just established. Within the next four minutes the song goes from a quiet, meditative movement to a spoken-word dronescape and then back to still more heavy metal. Normally shifts like these are the sort of things that can make an album exciting, but on Osama this just isn't the case. This game of musical chairs pretty much continues for the rest of the album and it only becomes more annoying. Just when Shalabi seems to finally be settling down, he radically changes styles and ruins everything. Just one more note about this album: the title might suggest that an interesting political statement is being made; one that, given current events, would be worth investigating. This really couldn't be further from the truth. Sadly, I'd even venture to say that Shalabi doesn't have a message at all. A song with the name "Mid-East Tour Diary (2002)" might seem promising, but it starts off with the words "Why don't you just suck my big fat semetic cock?." The song only continued to alienate me as it plodded along with its redundant music and similarly aimless lyrics. The album ends as suddenly as it began and I'm left wondering why this was released; I know Shalabi can do better.
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Giant Sand frontman Howe Gelb credits this solo project to Howe Home, a somewhat ironic reference to the fact that The Listenerwas largely recorded on a trip to Denmark, an ocean and a continentaway from the southwestern sounds that have defined his work. Despitethe change in cultural climate, and the use of Danish supportingmusicians, Gelb sticks to his formula with middling results. Theinitial attitude of The Listener comes across not so much asrelaxed, but lazy. Like a Thorazine stuffed Leonard Cohen, Gelb spillshis vocals over the music in a lackadaisical, arrhythmic manner. Hefloats above the songs, coming down occasionally to momentarily latchonto the beat before releasing it again. "Jason's List" ventures intoclassic AM Radio territory with a modest horn section that sounds rightout of a Burt Bacharach arrangement. On the first several tracks,smooth jazz bass lines and blue-eyed boss nova rhythms threaten toconjure images of hotel lounge singers and elevator accompaniment. Gelbis strongest when his southwestern roots and inspirations form the meatof his songs. "Torque (Tango de la Tongue)" is a sinuous duet withsinger Henriette Sennenvaldt that evolves around a fantastic Latinrhythm. The vocal interplay between the two is wonderful; their hushed,suggestive tones twist around each other as they dance cheek to cheek.Sennenvaldt's Danish accented English adds a disorienting andunexpectedly exotic touch the track. Her presence is welcome, and seemsto focus Gelb's sleepy delivery. The Latin shuffle continues on theinstrumental "Plango," and while it is nearly as entertaining as theprevious track, it really does not add anything to the formula. "LyingThere" is a cute song that shows a pinch of vitality after the album'shalf awake opening. "You can bungle up your own birthday party / byshowing up one year late / you can foul up playing in traffic / just bytrying to concentrate." It's a sunny track that wins you over with abright acoustic melody. "B 4 U (Do Do Do)" invigorates the album with acountry-fried, searing electric guitar while copping the vocal melodyto "Lean on Me." Everything works on this track, with Gelb soundingbuoyant and the accompaniment as bouncy as hell, like a bar band ontheir third round of drinks. "Blood Orange" sees Gelb once againtrading vocals with a woman, this time Marie Frank. Together they tella sweet, endearing love story that's pleasant enough. The second halfof 'The Listener' vastly outshines the first, landing on the oppositeside of the fine line between easygoing and meandering. In a solidfinale, Gelb closes with "Now I Lay Me Down" and "Lemmy N Emmy," twosongs that sound completely formed and confident. Tasteful strings adda stately poignancy to Gelb's worn guitar lines and dusty voice.
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