Live Reviews
The Redwalls
Birgit Pops It at the Rock-It Room
Mother Mother - Live at Cafe Du Nord
The Album Leaf - live at Slim's
00I00 - Uh-Oh! 00I00 - live at the Independent!
Record Reviews
Goldfrapp
Liars
Matinee Club
Angela Darling
Patrick Wolf
The Dollyrots
Form and Fate
Emily Haines
The Prototypes & Les Breastfeeders VS. America
Rykarda Parasol
Jarvis Cocker
Sterling
Live Reviews
The Redwalls
12 Galaxies
2/22/08
Friday at the Twelve Galaxies, Campo Bravo took the stage before
headliners The Redwalls to play some all-encompassing Americana,
from folksy ballads to rangy, hirsute porch-stompers. Their pleasantly
jaunty country constitutionals maintained a determined pace throughout,
an emphatic stroll, occasionally picking up into a gallop. They began
with an ominous tom-rumble that broke into a congenial country sing-along.
Lead singer Mark Matos sang lines filled with dense, naturalistic imagery
like "filled my cup with blood from the sea/ filled my veins with needles
from pine trees" in a plaintive lilt. Between two acoustic guitars, a bass,
and drums, the band produced a chunky, bucolic sound that leant itself
to thigh-slapping. The kind of stuff you can grow a beard to, that is,
unless you're cursed with the perennially smooth face of an eleven year-old
like I am.
Eventually, The Chicagoan Redwalls made their way to the stage.
Word on the street is these kids were some sort of modern British
Invasion cover band before they began to write their own material,
so I was worried they'd be another name on the roster of bastard
children fostered by Oasis, or even worse, a would-be Kaiser Chiefs
or Louis XIV. So it was a pleasant surprise that they sounded much
more like the Strokes. Pleasant by default, but still. There was
also a significant amount of John Lennon aping. Guitarist and
vocalist, Logan Baren moved between Julian Casablancas's jaded
resignation and John Lennon's pinched, British vocalizations.
In fact Julian Lennon would be a perfect description of these
guys' poles of influence.
It wasn't a bad performance by any means. Derivative doesn't
necessarily preclude pleasant. Hook after jangly hook sailed by,
each accompanied by a sense of déjà vu, the composite parts of the
songs rubbing up against all the songs you already knew, so you
felt like you'd heard them all before. They played a series of
compact, sprightly numbers that stuck in the head for as long as
they were played and no longer. So it was no horrible ordeal to
watch these guys play. But if it came down to seeing them play or
listening to Imagine or Is This It?... Well, the beer at my house
is cheaper.
Pete Mack
Birgit Pops It at the Rock-It Room
So, I'd never been to the Rock-it Room before. Didn't know what to expect,
but found it to be an ok place. The acoustics weren't all that great - every
one of the bands were complaining about the sound, and I could tell it wasn't
the best either. Very...tinny. Or something.
Still, I enjoyed the evening more or less. Or I should say, I enjoyed two of the bands,
and disliked the other two. Of course the two I liked were the openers, the Downfalls,
and the closers, Birgit and her crew. The other two were, for the most part, abysmal,
but I'll get to them in a minute.
The Downfalls surprised me with their rocksolidness. Their sound never wavered; they were
confident and never cautious, going all out for the crowd with noticeable, and likable,
abandon. As their motto states, they are 'indie rock that doesn't suck,' and they proved
it tonight. Even with the crappy sound. Consisting of Mark Bornstein on guitars and lead
vocals, Mark Nichoson on bass, back vocals and 'more bass', and Lance Mathyssen on
'sex, drums and rock and roll,' this three-piece knew what to do with what it had and
the crowd knew it too. Apparently they hadn't played together for a long while,
but you couldn't tell. They were terrific. Check out their website at thedownfalls.com.
Next were Disconnect. Boy did they get their name right, for they really played
disconnectedly. Half the band was going all hard rock, and...well, I don't even
know what the other half was playing, but the result was a disjointed mess that was
utterly boring. Granted, it could have been experimental music at its best, had it
been done right. But it wasn't. Trust me. Most of the crowd left to see what was
going on downstairs or somewhere else as the noise was so horrid. I knew something
would be amiss when the hard rock side of the band set up with a Les Paul guitar
and a Stratocaster bass, and the other side with a completely disconnected type
of guitar (whose name now eludes me, but I noticed it then. Trust me, you would
have too. It spelled trouble from the get-go). Ho-hum! And they just wouldn't stop!
After that mess came another, albeit less messy, band that just grated on my nerves
too, Amalgamation. This was their record release party, and to my knowledge, nary
a record was sold. They were half '70s hard rock, half wanna-be New Wave, with a
female singer who had a nice voice, had she not screamed all the time. Very annoying.
They played too long as well, but half the crowd seemed to like them. I guess anything
was better than Disconnect. Should you care, you can check them out at myspace.com/amalgamationmusic.
Finally, on came the group we all (or at least I) wanted to see: Birgit and her
backers, who were Jeroen den Hengst on guitar and backing vocals, Niels Zuiderhoek
on bass guitar and backing vocals and Cyril Directie on drums. This was their first
night playing in the US and also their first time playing outside of Denmark, so you
can understand that this was a big deal for them.
Birgit seemed a little nervous as she started out with "Bring Me Back," singing Can you
hear what I'm saying , each time?" rather timidly, so that I almost screamed, NO!.
As she started, her voice reminded me of Vanessa Paradis', which isn't a bad thing,
but I'd heard Birgit had tricks up her sleeve and I couldn't wait to hear them,
so I hoped she'd get into herself soon. And she did, after morphing into Natalie
Merchant for a song or two, again probably due to nerves. For by the time she
got to the first single off the album, True Stories I Made Up, "Guniang,"
I started to see her individuality. For that song is about a girl
(that's what the word means in Chinese; Birgit is partly Chinese and not afraid
to flaunt it) who is dumped by a guy for being too Caucasian - probably a true
story she didn't make up. By this time, she was really playing with the audience,
flirting with us, using a fan, a parasol, anything to show us how cute she could be -
and she could be damn cute, that's for sure.
As she moved on with her set, I got to examine the others in the band more carefully.
Everyone proved to be totally professional in every aspect, truly expert in their
instruments and their performances. Jeroen and Niels got on great together,
backing Birgit, playing along with her games, and Cyril really kept pace with
them. As we got into more fun songs like "Celebrity Trash," a few people in the
audience even started to dance, and that gave Birgit more oomph. We really got
some pop music with an Asian flair, something I've never seen before, and I couldn't
get her songs out of her head. Especially "Tsunami," "Hard," and "More Than I Show,"
with which she closed the show. Her vocal power impressed me, and her Chinese
references kept me interested, as I am not really a fan of pop music. But she's pop
with a unique twist, like Vanessa Paradis, who I also admire, and Birgit's
show was one to remember fondly. The one recommendation I'd give the band to
improve the act is to have Birgit interact more with Niels and Jeroen.
She really didn't, almost as if she were afraid of them or something, and that
was a shame. She should be flirting with them as much as she does with us.
Still, look for Birgit's new album, and for her next show in town. You won't
be disappointed - unless Disconnect open for her again!
Diana Slampyak
Mother Mother
Slim's
At any given moment, the creatures would emerge from the sides of the stage, crawl up
their legs, and sit on their shoulders contently watching the audience. Sparks of light
flashing off a snare sneaking into our ears. Their features elongating, five rows of
teeth, a never ending funny face. What does this have to do with their music? Very
little. It has everything to do with the performance. They were five of the tightest
performers I have seen in a long time. They incanted a feeling that was almost cartoon
like. Their playfulness with each other, and with us, made each fast paced verse a merry
go round ride. Each instrumental a boggle head dance party. I could almost see the
environment surrounding the stage distort to a two dimensional plane, where colors and
characters were free to play with our little heads...weird.
Mother Mother, a five member extravaganza from Vancouver, introduced themselves to San
Francisco with an explosive energy. Their densely worded songs were executed with
playful detail. Words cant describe the feeling you get in your ear when lyrics are
layered with the tones of three completely different people, a harmonious cacophony. If
you closed your eyes, you could easily imagine that there was a spectacular beast with
three separate vocal chords singing you a song. Three different expressions in their
faces but, one tone, dead on...every time. At times it reminded me of looking through a
photo album of their childhood memories. These songs had an accent of child like
sarcasm, creating characters and that made the songs tall and easy to relate to. Looking
forward to future endeavors.
Jesse Wilson aka Roadkill
The Album Leaf
Slim's
If you can give us the right melody, it will create the soundtracks of life. Music
creates a nostalgia more potent that smell or touch. A trigger that sends you back to a
field, a kiss, a memory kept in time. The art of day dreaming. Bringing an instrument
to this place is like a soliloquy, sweet nothings in your ear. The Album Leaf gracefully
provided a score of colors and sounds that had an ability to send you wandering and hold
you there at the same time. Sometimes, being still is a sign of lucidity, that though
your eyes seek the stage you are dancing in your mind.
The Album Leaf gave us permission to stay with them or paint a surreal picture behind
closed eyes. The dream of a show and a sea of people, intersecting currents of
attention. One thousand eyes looking and thanking the providers of a soundtrack. The
ambient relationship between the synthetic and the organic. Almost angelic, their soft
compositions were given a heart beat by a duet of live and electronic percussion. A
violin carries a question to the ears of the audience that prompts me to wonder where
they were when this music was captured. When Jimmy Lavalle touches a key an open
invitation is given to dive into the psyche of an amazing composer. Supported by a strong
triad of musicians (Matthew Resovich- strings and things, Drew Andrews- guitar, keys and
bass, Timothy Reece- drums and keys) and a visual elixir (provided by Andrew Pates) he
has given us all the components to rise above the lights and sail with words that take us
to our dreams. The synchronized sway of strangers held me there.
Through out the entire performance a layer of warmth resonated and settled right above
our heads. A haze between each smile. A connection to the vacant stares. I realized
we were all day dreaming, and that this music, and these people were scattered across the
galaxies and interwoven inside a box called Slim's. The choice was to be right there;
for this was a rare dream. One that we all woke up from together.
Jesse Wilson aka Roadkill
00I00
Live at Independent
Flavorpill, the SF weekly guide to everything hip going on, gypped a lot of people who went to
the amazing 00I00 show. It proclaimed the group "noisy bastards" simply because Yoshimi of the
Boredoms just so happens to spearhead this lovely band, who no more make experimental noise
than do Belle and Sebastian. So as soon as the show was over, many stormed out angrily, saying,
"Boy, did I expect something different!" As if the show sucked or something.
What the hell is wrong with these people? For 00I00 may not be a noise band, but it is a beautiful,
harmonious, creative one. Yoshimi and her team of three (although a fourth, a second drummer,
was added to this lineup) make some amazing sounds, and anyone who thought otherwise after this
entrancing show is just a moron.
Dressed all in white and ready to promote their new CD, Taiga, the band came on around 9:30.
I just made it in time. In fact, my friend thought for sure that they had to be the openers,
Neung Phak, although I of course knew better. Immediately they queued up, Yoshimi in the middle,
the guitarist and bass player on her sides and the two drummers backing them up
(what else did you expect? Drummers up front?). The stark whiteness of their outfits was a beautiful
sight, reflecting off the lights and giving the appearance of angelic harmony. I'd love to tell you
who is who, but I only know their names, not their instruments. Nevertheless, they are Ai, Aya,
and Kayan. I'm assuming the second drummer was Yo2ro Taetekawa, for she is listed as
'super guest player' on Taiga.
Regardless, we were charmed immediately by the opener, "Uma," which also opens the album.
Mixing a lot of percussion (steel drums, and tanner pan four chelo along with the drums) created
an Asian feel, transporting us to ancient Japan, for the influence of medieval times was definitely
in the air. Vocals were less evident on this track, Yoshimi instead concentrating on also playing
guitar.
The band continued to woo the jam-packed crowd with new songs, playing mostly them. I did recognize
a few off their eponymous first release, but I honestly don't know the names of them. When Yoshimi's
voice did grace us with its presence, it was clear, strong and lilting, providing more ethereal
balance to the moving music.
00I00 played for over an hour, then came back for an encore, giving it their all. How anyone
could be disappointed in their performance or not won over by their music remains beyond me!
Diana Slampyak
Record Reviews
Goldfrapp
Seventh Tree
Mute
2005 was the year in which Goldfrapp went supernova. The electro-glam of
Supernature streamlined their idiosyncratic aesthetic into concise pop
nuggets.It even had that perennial pop magpie Madonna taking notes while
everybody else seemed entranced by its ultra-glossy insistency.
Even so, Supernature's crystalline perfection seemed to leave you
wondering one thing: what next?
Wisely, Alison Goldfrapp and Will Gregory have not tried to revisit the
sleek modernity of Supernature and its' Trex goes glitterbeat disco swagger.
If the influence of Bolan permeates Seventh Tree at all, its
the 'hippy gumbo' of Tyrannosaurus Rex. It's tempting to see Seventh
Tree as the hazy comedown to Supernature's nocturnal thrills. If their
last record luxuriated in Studio 54 decadent fantasia then this one
revels in a bucolic sun soaked tranquility. On Some People the singer
ponders on where to go 'once the glitter fades' and this seems to be
seventh tree's whole raison d'etre'; wiping away Supernature's
cosmetic gloss and ploughing more organic terrain.
Opening track Clowns perfectly unveils their new sonic universe,
acoustic guitars, a murmur of a vocal tracing a melody of spine-tingling
beauty while strings waft in and out with the dignified majesty of a
cinematic score. The whole album is peppered with lush but never overwrought
orchestration that recalls baroque folk mastermind Robert Kirby as much
as it does John Barry. Deciphering the lyric is tricky yet one refrain
'only Clowns could play with those balloons/what do you want to look
like barbie for?' suggests a withering glance is cast at our silicone
implant tabloid hell world. It's touches like this that neatly destablize
the cozy warmth.
The whole disc is suffused with a radiant, arcane elegance. The brutal
metronomic beats and Numanoid synths that propelled large swathes of
both Black cherry and Supernature have been jettsoned in favour of breezy
psych-folk exotica. The music as always with Goldfrapp seems drenched
in references to pop's past while remaining unmistakably stamped with
their own identity. Post-Rubber Soul Beatles seem to be quoted heavily here.
The toy town sing song lilt of Happiness and its primary-coloured brass
arrangement all evoke Sgt Pepper's. The fantastically trippy Little Bird
pivots on a mellotron riff that echoes Strawberry Fields.The song
climaxes with a psychedelic wig out with a bassline so striking it
seems vintage Mccartney. But this wouldn't be a Goldfrapp record if it
didn't come with a whole panoply of ideas. Eat Yourself could be a
broken-down folk-blues reminiscent of Karen Dalton until the pounding
percussion and sweeping strings imbue it with a widesceen grandeur
that is uniquely their own.
They remain sonic collagists par excellence. The galloping rustic power-pop
of Caravan Girl effortlessly pins sun-dappled west coast 60's pop to a
stratospheric coda that recalls the giddy moog-drenched euphoria of Mr Blue
Sky ELO. Similarly, Cologne Cerrone Houdini (the title itself the very
essence of Goldfrapp) glides along with the same kind of space-age lounge
vibe of Air at their Moon Safari best while the thick, skipping strings
seem cut from the same cloth as Paul Buckmaster's arrangements for Madman
across the water-era Elton john. To top it all off, the vocal has Alison
Goldfrapp playing an icy chanteuse of Nico- like sang froid.
Which means that for all its novel stylistic departures, Seventh Tree is
very much a Goldfrapp record, rich with influences and yet synthesized in
such a beguiling fashion that makes it all seem fresh and vibrant. Seventh
Tree's pastoral whimsy is not entirely uncharted terrain for Goldfrapp.
On initial listens, it bears somewhat of a resemblance to their debut
Felt Mountain. The two share not only a pared down grandeur, embossed
with detail and yet full of spectral space, but also in the way
Alison Goldfrapp uses her voice as an instrument. Little Bird has her
ecstatically wordlessly vocalizing equal parts Liz Fraser and Kate Bush.
The closing Monster Love is the real treat here; a lovelorn lament whose
melody has the purity of some age-old folk tune while waves of backwards
effects drift through the mix like the spectre of Tomorrow Never Knows-era
Beatles (yes them again). The result is pure Seventh Tree; serene yet a
little creepy. A bit Wicker Man, a bit Picnic At Hanging Rock. The cover
art says it all; a soft focus shot of Alison looking like a young Goldie
Hawn in a pirate's hat, bathed in a sun-kissed glow. Yet her almost
sinister gaze pierces the idyllic veneer. How very Seventh Tree...
Mathew Lindsay
Liars
Self-Titled
Mute Records
The self-titled follow-up to Liars conceptual, drum-centered opus
Drum's Not Dead, trades the tribal pummeling of that album for the
familiar ground of a guitar-rock album. Of course, familiar for this
band of New York art-punks still ends up sounding like a macabre
garage-rock soundtrack to a John Carpenter film, all dark,
echoing breezeways and flashing knives.
Liars is a reanimation of all manners of Stooge-like punk and even
some late 80's British angst-pop, all doused in disorienting,
pinging reverb and sludgy, battering guitar riffs.
The album abruptly lets fly with "Plaster Casts of Everything",
a hectic, Charge-of-the-Light-Brigade dash, with a slash and burn
guitar riff and Angus Andrew's unhinged wails sounding like the rebel yell.
(Despite the fact that most of the lyrics seem to be "Wanna run away,
wanna run away, wanna run away"). "Cycle Time" works around a similar
repetitive, brutalizing biker riff. "Houseclouds" is backed by a beat
that almost sounds borrowed from mid-90's Beck, all easy, drum-machine
backbeat, but offset with Andrews's eerie falsetto singing
"our sights are right between our eyes".
Songs like "Leather Prowler" and "What Would They Know" are grotesque
mood pieces, songs to be followed down dark alleys to, with unsettling,
arrythmic sensibilities and clattering, predatory guitar work.
"Freak Out" and "Pure Unevil" are the closest thing this band has
come to writing what resembles conventional pop songs. "Freak Out"
actually has a big, dumb, pop chorus you can sing along to.
But these songs are not concessions, this band still and
hopefully always eschewing the wide, smooth path.
All the press on this album has been about its (gasp!)
actual songs, but Liars are still making frightening noise,
even if its set to something as pedestrian as a riff or a chorus.
Pete Mack
Matinee Club
The Modern LP
Ninth Wave Records
I was raised by a pack flaming homosexuals in
the mid eighties. We would wake up in the afternoon in various states of
inebriation, apply mud masks, smoke cigarettes, drink screwdrivers with towels
on our heads and get snappy until the mud flaked off and then hit the dance clubs.
All of this was set to music of course and this is where Matinee Club rings in. Emma Cooke (vox), Nathan Cooper
vox & keyboards) and Chi Tudor-Hart (keyboards) have captured the essence of the glam camp dance scene
that has spanned these last few decades and laid it out with fresh electropop sensibilities.
I give this album eight and half sraight up snaps.
JDD
Angela Darling
Deep Inside These Curtains
Angela Darling's first EP, "Deep Inside These Curtains" is a short
attempt at several different ideas, from angry and sarcastic songs to
slow bittersweet ballads, but sadly, they all seem to butt heads and
topple over before they can even walk. This entire album made me want
to say, "Look, we broke up AGES ago, will you please stop sending me
these CDs?!"
I can't help but warn the listener that there is no occasion to
listen to music like this. The closest thing would be a bath, but I
gotta say, the lyrics would make the water go cold a bit too quickly.
Ick. Ick, all over, just, ick.
I don't like being harsh when it comes to musical critiques, since
I do sincerely believe that everyone who does anything creative should
be recognized, but Angela Darling (aka Brandon Thomas De La Cruz) has
certainly made me think twice about being too nice. It's time to roll
up my sleeves.
There are moments during the 5 song EP that you can almost smell
something good deep beneath all the garbage, and I can tell that the
drive of the artist alone gives way to definite possibilities. As a
creative gesture, it's cute, but as a serious "piece", this EP has a
lot to tinker with if it ever wants to become something decent, or
even be the cornerstone of more albums to come. Weak lyrics and
emotionless guitar patterns trip up the listener; I found it more than
difficult to distinguish what was being expressed.
Track 4 titled, "Flower Shop Lullaby" could be seen as pleasant; a
slow acoustic instrumental with a thin thread of viola running
throughout. It makes a pretty background blur, which is mostly due to
the absence of the stage-whispered lyrics. Maybe I could brush my
teeth to this one...I don't know if I'd go so far as taking a bath,
though. The song isn't long enough, and track 5 is too close ahead to
relax.
Sara Lindsey
Patrick Wolf
The Magic Position
Loog Records
"Since his debut 2004 release, "Lycanthropy", Patrick Wolf has proven
that, unlike many other metro-musicians who've been marking their
territory, this crazed dog runs with no pack, but remains a lone wolf
in a big genre, certainly paving a way for many others on the same
path.
Even when he was a toddler to the scene at 20, he made his music known
easily, but perhaps not his demeanor. The style was a fresh
combination of sounds that few people had heard, and I don't think
it's changed much. He has maintained an ability to shock and surprise
without becoming boring or repetitive, and his skill as an artist has
only improved with time. It's been three years, now at 23, and it
seems that his colorful admirers not only understand his music more,
but are probably growing more and more familiar with his odd and
mysterious ways, which I personally can't get enough of.
Beginning with the clearly-titled, "Overture", Wolf initiates his
manner of layers, using it as a soft entrance for anyone not quite
ready but still curious, opening the door for new listeners, but
leaving no room for a parachute, trusting his audience to simply have
faith.
The lyrics get a little scary at times, referring to torn skirts and
blood, which coax images that may be unpleasant and uncomfortable for
some listeners, but also beautiful and a perfect marriage with the
eerie melodies, whether it be digital laptop scratches and bangs, or
droplets of romantic piano and desperate violin.
"Augustine" is probably my favorite song on the album, mainly due to
Wolf's fearlessness, complimenting heavy and hollow drums with rusty
piano, and adding, my favorite part, his guttural, crooning voice. The
music from top to bottom of the entire album is flawless in its
organization, and the vocals aren't interrupting whatsoever.
"Get Lost" is another loud (very loud) and clear representation of
Wolf's incredible sense of childlike playfulness, which grabs tighter
and tighter with every bang of the snare drum. (I listened to this
song on my bike which I don't recommend, since I nearly got hit a few
times from absentmindedly swerving through cars.)
I can't wait to hear what Patrick Wolf makes next. For people who've
yet to hear "The Magic Position", have fun with it, and don't be
afraid to free fall straight in. It's an odd world, but definitely a
safe place to be."
Sara Lindsey
The Dollyrots
Because I'm Awesome
Blackheart Records
The Dollyrots are exactly what their name says: cutesy girly deadly
pure poison fueled fun on wheels. As a very fortunate band still a
little wet behind the ears, they're "up" is more than their "coming"
after being included in the 2006 Warped Tour, and managed to quickly
jump from Lookout! Records, to Joan Jett's Blackheart Records, a
definite improvement on their former label, and a good way to start
their second album, "Because I'm Awesome."
Anybody who's anybody would find themselves at least tapping their
feet to this album, with it's nonstop speedy beats, clever and funny
lyrics from singer and bassist Kelly Ogden ("I always tell you how
great you smell; it's 'cause I'm naturally deodorized!!- "Because I'm
Awesome"), and catchy melodies.
However...they might be a little too fun for some people. There are
still, unfortunately, a great big handful of listeners out there who
are just too stuck up for this sort of stuff. It's crazy, but true.
They're the same people who can't handle the girl next door listening
to Spice Girls in the shower...it's too bad, they're missing out on a
good time.
Oh...did I mention how fun the Deana Carter sample of "Brand New Key" is?
What I like about The Dollyrots is their tendency to make fun of
society while also having fun in society, a very important balance to
have. They're not taking themselves too seriously, but at the same
time they clearly have respect for what they do. I have to admit, 13
songs in a row is a little too much for even my pop-craving sweet
tooth to handle, but that's not to go without saying, it's still super
yummy.
Sara Lindsey
Form and Fate
The Form and Fate of Lakes
Three Ring Records
"Form and Fate" have come from a loooong road of instrumental
experiments, with bands like "Explosions in the Sky" who've been
revered for their range of sounds and simplicity, "The Album Leaf" who
are new on board but still intriguing, and especially "Slint" who are
a sort of cult alumni, which many could learn from. After the first
three minutes of the opening track to "The Form and Fate of Lakes"
titled, "Emoticons vs. Decepticons", I couldn't fight off a woeful,
"ehh..."
This albums fluctuates back and forth from soft slow beats and heady
strings to shockingly violent bursts of noise!!...Which...turns out,
isn't that shocking. Sorry, but it feels worn, like too many people
have tried it on, and after never looking right and being passed time
and time again, has grown thin and exhausted.
Initially my response was interest. Form and Fate certainly have
something behind them, a personal talent with each instrument
certainly, but held together by a sloppy, and almost garish
arrangement. Holding back from any digital technicalities, the band
comes off as garage-ish, but without any direction. Carelessness can
sound great if the motive of the band is to sound careless, but this
generally comes along with fewer instruments and lyrics, more of a pop
sound rather than a grunge metal-esque take. I'm turned off by
constant noise that seems to be scrambling around in an attempt to
capture attention as quickly as possible. It seems like an attack on
itself, like a "cool guy" who's just trying too damn hard and therefor
never gets the girl.
The cover art is beautiful and the album layout itself is worth
noting, with incredible black and white photographs of several
glaciers (photographer unfortunately unnamed), however, it's not so
much the cover I want to enjoy rather than the music. I believe if
these guys were to take more time to compose what the music tries to
mention rather than trying to prove, they would benefit greatly, and
possibly produce a fantastic band.
Sara Lindsey
Emily Haines
Knives Don't Have Your Back
Last Gang Records
The late, great Elliot Smith possessed a voice that was so phantom-like it had to be
double-tracked. It wasn't only a Beatles homage, you felt sometimes it was done just to
make sure he was there at all. Emily Haines' voice hovers in the mix in a similar fashion
although her throaty delivery gives it an earthy underpinning that neatly balances such
ethereal atmospherics. This tension seems a signature motif of Knives Don't Have Your
Back, her first full-length recording. Her supple piano-led compositions are drenched in
a ghost-like reverb. The arrangements appear at once rich with detail and stark,
almost austere. Her songs frequently resist easy classification and yet they make a
direct communication to the listener preoccupied as they are with the matters of the
heart. Her vignettes have a romantic, gauzy shimmer but they probe personal politics
with a shrewd acuity. The effect is often devastating; the immaculate prettiness of
these 11 songs is almost dream-like but listen closely; this could well be a nightmare.
As Robert Wyatt's blurb on the back of this disc states, 'Haines doesn't take a
predictable route to the inside your head'. Sometimes the lyrics seem like slogans or
aphorisms ('Numb is the new high' 'it's a lottery everybody roll the dice') but the
meanings seem oblique. As Wyatt notes 'she's speaking your language...but it could all
be in code'. Opener 'Our Hell' is strident enough, its robust, arcane instrumentation
reminiscent of baroque pop mastermind, Jon Brion. But at its core, this record revels in
an unhurried melodicism that grows in stature with every listen. Some moments, like the
harmonies on 'Doctor Blind' or the Strawberry Fields-ish mellotron break in 'Our Hell'
are spine-tingling in their incandescent beauty. Songs like 'The Last Page' and the Neil
Young paraphrasing 'The Maid Needs A Maid' initially sound like rambling sketches
navigating a hook. But just when they appear on the brink of being meandering dirges,the
sweetest, sharpest melodies unfurl. Her skewed torch songs recall the dusty confessionals
of the 70's singer-songwriters but there's a malaise here that seems specific to our
fractured century and all its disgruntled yuppies.
Haines' compositions are largely driven by her deft piano playing but within that she
shows considerable range and scope. 'Crowd Surf of A Cliff' is an elegiac slow-burner, a
genuinely haunting recollection of someone at the end of their world. There's a palpable
sense of dread here. 'Rather give the world away than wake up lonely', sighs the song's
narrator and the feeling is eerily desolate rather than reassuringly romantic. The
funereal intensity of its pace gives it an epic doom-laden vibe that was once the terrain
of Nico. Then there is the tantalising brevity of the lovely 'Reading In Bed', its
circling, wistful melody ending too soon, leaving the listener suspended in mid-air.
Reference points are tricky and it seems facile to compare her to any decent worker in
song that tinkles on the ivories. Some of the songs are embossed with overdubs that
suggest she is a fan of the esoteric art-rock of the 70's (as does the Wyatt piece).
'Detective Daughter', for instance, is cushioned in swirls of Eno-like fuzztone feedback.
The song's metronomic beat has a rhythmic pulse that shows a collagist sensibiity which
bodes well for future outings. And the way these songs metamorphose from 'puddles' of
sound to minor masterpieces, their protean dexterity and offbeat emotivity seem to be
the hallmarks of a singualr talent. In an age where the future of the album seems
uncertain, Haines' disc seems to be the bastion of a bygone era where a collection of
songs formed a cohesive statement, an aesthetic universe all of its own. Even the
packaging, which houses the album in a sleeve not entirely dissimilar to a hardback
novel, suggests this...
Matthew Lindsay
The Prototypes - Self Titled
Les Breastfeeders - Les Matins De Grands Soirs.
Versus America
If you were ever prejudiced towards French music, thinking that in some way it was
inferior to American rock music, maybe now is time to realize that you are wrong. I have
handily compiled ten good reasons to prove my point.
- There are no bongo drums. The French, rightly so, do not recognize bongo drums as an
instrument.
- The female lead singer of the Prototypes can sing a phrase like "choo choo" and have
it sound utterly endearing. American singers just like to rhyme "rain" and "pain" over
and over again.
- The female guest singer in Les Breastfeeders can sing a song like "Qui A Deux Femmes"
in a sultry voice that sounds introspective yet sensual at the same time. You can tell
she drinks her bandmates under the table and likes to go home and drink red wine and yell
like a banshee on her Parisian fire escape. When American female singers try to sing all
cool and shit, it just sounds fake. You just know that the most dangerous thing they're
going to do that night after recording is to go home and rub aromatherapy oil on their
cat.
- There is no French phrase for "fog machine".
- I don't speak French, but both bands have songs that feature the word "danse" in the
title along with sinewy guitars and frantic drumming. If any song came from America that
had the word "dance" in it, it would inevitabley feature no guitars and be custom made for
American teenagers to puke Purple Hooters onto their socks and sandals to during Spring
Break. Which brings me to point 6,
- Birkenstocks originated in America.
- The Protoypes song, "Totale Paranoia" is sung in a tightly wound loop, complete with
skittering keyboard samples. After all, the French have good reason to be paranoid,
their countries still have cool things like cultural uprisings and political rallies.
All Americans are paranoid of are transfats and parking tickets.
- Sometimes Americans have singers like Amy Winehouse, who at first seem intriguing,
but then you realized their lyrics just chronicle how whiny they are. French people like
to sing about sex and dancing, which is the very foundation of rock music. Okay, so Amy
Winehouse is English, but you get the point. Straight on to point number 9.
- God, England has some horrible bands. What's the deal with Pete Doherty, anyways?
That man can't sing his way out of a paper bag.
- I've always wanted to use the word "batard" in a review.
Tuula Ala
Rykarda Parasol
Our Hearts First Meet
Rykarda Parasol is
a). a brushed suede recliner from IKEA's 2007 Spring catalog.
b). the newest luxury hybrid from Honda, like the Prius but with more leg room.
c). a singer from San Francisco.
- Did you guess C? You're correct! But before she moved back to SF, Rykarda spent time in:
a) Los Angeles, which is another large city in the state of California.
b) Texas, which is an even larger STATE in the US.
c) Puerto Rico, which confuses mostly everyone to it's identity, and in a recent study of schoolchildren under the age of 12, most could not locate Puerto Rico on a map.
- This was a trick question, both a and b were correct!
Rykarda's new album, Our Hearts First Meet, has some critics comparing her smoky vocals to:
a). that woman in Cat Power who keeps having nervous breakdowns,
b). that woman who calls herself Christina Aguilera, but this might be due to the fact that the two share an uncanny resemblance,
c). that woman Shakira, who may or may not be from Puerto Rico, but because we have no idea where it is, we will never know for sure.
- Yet another trick question! All of the above are correct!
Bonus Question -
Rykarda Parasol has three times as many cookies as Bob. Bob has two-thirds as many cookies as Susie. Susie has 27 cookies, how many cookies does Rykarda Parasol have?
Tuula Ala
Jarvis Cocker
Jarvis
Rough Trade
It is often said that artists make their best work when people stop paying attention.
And so it goes that when Pulp delivered their swansong, the organic idiosyncratic 'We
Love Life' almost sank without a trace. Similarly, the retrospective 'Hits' fared even
worse peaking at a lowly 71. It seemed to be a woefully inadequate postcript for a band
whose central figure, Jarvis Cocker had chronicled the lives of Britain's underdogs with
more wit, eloquence and piercing insight than any other pop writer since Morrissey. A
few years later and a voice like Cocker's is exactly what pop music seems sadly bereft
of. Self-aggrandizing public schoolboys declare themselves 'geniuses' and those that
showed early signs of promise become more reknowned for the column inches they fill in
the tabloid press rather than their musical output. Nobody is really articulating the
horror and insanity of what it means to be alive right now.
Which is why 'Running the World', Jarvis Cocker's first download-only single
seems unbearably poignant, tearjerking even. Cocker slices through the fabric of
modern society with exactly the same caustic humour and burning sense of indignation
that charged 'Common People' 11 years ago. It's an sad and angry record. It's a funny,
oddly life-affirming record, a protest song that breathes life into a form long
considered obselete. It also shows you that pop music can be as thoughtful as any medium,
squeezing a polemic into its four and a half minutes that seems to share as much with
Mike Leigh or Ken Loach as it does any pop writer. With its anthemic chorus, metronomic
beat and vintage synths, 'Running The World' seems to be the track which most closely
resembles the 'classic' Pulp sound. It is included on Jarvis' debut as a hidden track,
perhaps sensibly so as it seems out of place with the (equally fine) vignettes that
comprise the disc.
in some ways, 'Jarvis' bears all the hallmarks of what made Pulp a great band;
incisive social commentary delivered via the most intimate of narratives in the form of
succint though often grand pop songs. The spare piano led instrumental which opens the
album is reminiscent of the intro to 'We Love Life's "Roadkill"' and in many ways, 'Jarvis'
picks up where that record left off. Both records share an antique warmth and elegance.
In other ways, the disc's compositions echo the more heartfelt and low keys highlight's
on 1998's This Is Hardcore ('Dishes', 'TV Movie' & "A Little Soul').
The opening trio of full-length songs are punchy and direct; 'Baby don't let him
waste your time' riding in on a jubilant swell of brass, a 60's-style melodic
confection graced with an immortal line about some 'skinny bitch in hot pants'. 'Black
Magic' is even better, propelled by a sample of Tommy James and the Shondells
pop-psych classic 'Crimson and Clover'. It's a huge swampy slice of mutant glam, all
stuttering and twitchy musical tension with its slapback vocal effects and Eno-era Roxy
style treatments. The third track 'Heavy Weather' is a brief pop gem, the most
straightforward of the bunch. It is songs like these and the music box lullaby 'Baby's
Coming Back To Me' which comprise one aspect of 'Jarvis': DIY baroque pop. Best of
all these may well be 'Tonite' a shimmering sing-along bolstered by infectious doo-woop
harmonies. It radiates pop perfection & yet its tirade against 'culture vultures and
faux-artists make it too bitter-sweet to be deemed lightweight. These elegant,
romantic compositions are juxtaposed with material of a slightly more troubled nature.
'From Auschwitz to Ipswich' squeezes the horrors of terrorism and the decadent
vacuity of modern life into its slender frame. It neatly crystallizes the record's
strengths; appearing initially slight and unassuming with its restrained musical
backing and then building into something quite devastating. Bookended by the line 'they
want our way of life, they can take mine anytime they like ' and charged with a
world-weary starkness. Like Cocker's best songs, it plays out like a miniature drama
where the quotidian tribulations of personal experience are prismatic nuggets of wider
political significance. It is something Cocker has always been remarkably gifted at. The
frantic garage punk of 'Fat Children' casts an equally withering glance at society.
This is a familiar world to listeners of Pulp (Joyriders, Misshapes), a world littered
with obese neglected children terrorizing innocent passers-by while the police 'too busy
putting bullets in someone's head for no particular reason' fail to come to the rescue.
The spectral 'Disney Time' is even more foreboding. A cautionary tale about the
pitfalls of 'averting one's eyes' to the world's perils. Halfway through, the track
drifts off into a string-laden choral passage that is genuinely haunting.
But this disc is as much the work of a shameless romantic as it is a state of the
world docudrama. Penultimate track, Big Julie (a nod perhaps to scott walker's classic
Big Louise)is as grand and sweeping as anything he has written A rococo ballad,
punctuated by opulent strings and a lovely sad clown 'celeste', it is also one of
Cocker's most exquisite 'character' songs highlighting his flair for empathizing with
his characters without ever patronizing them. And how self-reflexive that a song that
concerns itself with the consolatory power of pop should crescendo with such a
transcendental flourish that 'Big Julie' climaxes with. And how apropos that such
grandeur should remain at all times rooted in the everyday. 'Quantum theory' closes the
disc with a mood of dispersal. It is the kind of radiant secular hymn that 'We Love
Life's Sunset' was but now the mood is suffused with an otherworldly air, an echo-laden
soundscape sprinkled with spacey electronics and a lyric all about 'a parallel
universe' where 'you are not alone'. This beguiling mixture of awe-struck wonder and
anxiety that runs through the record as a whole is perhaps informed by the writer
becoming a father in recent years. Whatever the reason, the Jarvis Cocker record,for
all its retro motifs (Richard Hawley is one of the major players here) is the sound of
what it means to be alive in 2006.
Matthew Lindsay
Sterling
Cursed
Remember when you used to smoke a lot of pot? Remember when you used to steal your
roommate's stash and rifle through your record collection? Then you would get up to make
some scrambled eggs with Nutella or Ritz crackers with marshmallow fluff or whatever and
you won't notice that the record kept skipping? Then you would wash the pipe out
carefully so no-one would guess you were up in the middle of the night smoking all your
roommate's pot? And you thought that the weird little Chinese lady who lived next door
and didn't ever smile was peeping in your window, but part of your brain kept telling
you it was just because you were stoned out of your gourd? Then suddenly you would get
nostalgic for a record that had long aural soundscapes with ambient noise that slowly
morphed into other long aural soundscapes with ambient noise? And then you would
eventually double check all the bolts on the windows and finally be reassured that no-one
was going to steal your Rush Live picture disc or your 32 sided die that you bought at
the comic store when it was the last one left?
It's too bad Sterling weren't around then.
Tuula Ala
