Looking at the Wikipedia article "2002 in Music" brings back a lot of memories. Not always pleasant ones. Looking at the tracks listed under the top hits of the year, you see rock represented by Nickelback, Sum-41, Blink-182, Matchbox-20, Staind, Goo Goo Dolls, Coldplay, Creed, POD, Puddle of Mudd, and Foo Fighters... and while there are two or three bands listed there that I like or don't mind, a pattern sort of emerges.
None of their songs are about girls.
Oh, some of the songs are about relationships: "How You Remind Me," sorta, "Disease" by Matchbox-20, in their Matchbox-20 kinda way... but the one quirk of the post-grunge era was that it was not cool to be in love. It just wasn't. You had to be above it. I feel like the last great rock single about being in love before this was "Sweet Child O' Mine," or maybe "Buddy Holly." Every song about a boy-girl relationship from the 90s onward seemingly had to be about what a headache it was, or how miserable of a person the guy was: alternative rockers and mainstream ones alike had to find ways to circle around the idea without ever really allowing it to speak for itself. And I love the 90s. And there are plenty of holes in this theory, but they're outliers. And really, so were the White Stripes when they arrived on the scene. Even the bands they were bundled with in the so-called neo-Garage movement, weren't really writing about the same things. Jack White wanted to talk about girls. And not about scoring, or fumbling your way through an awkward first date like a pop-punker. He just wanted to sing about the real feeling of being in love with someone. And that's why it was so shocking when there appeared a song literally called "Fell In Love With A Girl." It felt practically like a novelty, but it was for real.
And it's far from an oddity in the Stripes' catalog. That album, White Blood Cells, is steeped in the language of young romance, sincere heartbreak like "Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground," wistful recollections of youth like "We're Going To Be Friends." Somehow it becomes a daring statement just to peel back the layers of detachment and irony and reveal, "This is what we all want to say, isn't it?" And for my generation, it was. We had a thing to call our own. I was in Grade 10 when I heard this album, and it felt like I was living out this album a half dozen times a week.
That straightforwardness, in their lyrics, moods, construction, was what made the Stripes so attention-grabbing, a cultural force instead of a novelty. Love was suddenly not just the domain of starry-eyed popstars and R&B seduction artists. It was once again a going concern for grimy white teenage boys. The same way "Smells Like Teen Spirit" taught Gen X that it was time to stop being shallow all the time, these tunes taught my generation that it was okay to give in sometimes. It was a cultural watershed moment.
This album delivers very fully on the premise of its subtitle. It contains exactly 12 songs on the subject of desire. Not a novel concept, sure, since "desire" in its many forms, has been grist for the creative mill since the dawn of man, but to draw attention to it is. Mark Oliver "E" Everett takes the dozen songs to approach the notion, that classic backbone of pop music, from its many vantage points. There are times when E's narrator voice is cocky, self-assured, even predatory (as the title, derived from the song "Tremendous Dynamite," suggests.) Then there are times when he is envious, frustrated, put-upon, dejected, regretful, hopeful... smitten, innocent, and guilty. The album is split about halfway between upbeat numbers and downbeat ones. It begins with the somewhat oblique, rock-on-your-heels "Prizefighter," probably the least direct of the lot, but an effective curtain raiser.
At times, they come on strong. "Lilac Breeze" is a heady, strong-in-love thundering beat, with a dirty fuzz riff that brings to mind Death From Above 1979, but it's playful. Besides the pumped up kick of "Tremendous Dynamite" there's the lip-licking "Fresh Blood," which furthers the wolfman conceit with a dark prowling sound, highlighting the dangerous, sexy, seductive side of desire. There's a simple, straightforwardness in these songs that even manages to outdo other primativists like the Black Keys by saying as much as humanly possible with the simplest of guitar licks. E and his company aren't showoffs, they're communicators. "Tremendous" reminds me a bit of Fleetwood Mac's "Tusk."
It became pretty immediately apparent that I was listening to something great during the second track, "That Look You Give That Guy," whose lyrics demonstrate the pinpoint accuracy shown all throughout the album, to show how you can look at the subject in many different ways. This one is so exact and so perfect. "That look you give that guy I wanna see / Looking right at me / If I could be that guy instead of me / I'll never let you down." The first of many heartbreaking moments, setting E's gruff, worn-thin vocals against a soft focus, lightly strummed idyllic fantasy scape. That feeling threads through "In My Dreams," which could be a forgotten British Invasion single breathed new life, a Herman's Hermits track or some such (even though yeah, E and Peter Noone have as little in common as two vocalists ever did.) Then there's the resigned, "My Timing is Off" and the heart-filling, distant "Alll the Beautiful Things" ("Birds come down from the sky so blue / See all the beautiful things you do / Why can't I just get with / You?") You really feel for this guy, and you feel it yourself, because everybody's been there. The sensitivity reaches its apex on "The Longing," a haunted waltz that sounds so put down, so rejected and depressed that E can barely manage to sigh the words. Some of these songs will really put you through the wringer, depending on your emotional state.
This is a no-bullshit record. They make no effort to transform the subject into an abstract artistic statement: the mere act of making it takes care of that, meaning the whole thing is elegant in its simplicity. There's not a lyric on there that I'd second guess, not an instrumental flourish I wonder why they did. It's terrifically balanced and constructed. The tension of the heavy material is eased by the more fun ones. The meaner ones are undercut by the sensitive ones, and manage to sit next to each other, with their lo-fi production and precise performance, with those specific instruments and that sledgehammer vocal. It's crisp yet perfectly distorted. They all belong as part of the whole. When it's on the hunt, it's fierce. When it's hurting, it's raw. "What's a Fella Gotta Do" blends the two, as the narrator frantically searches for the key to a woman's heart, but he's he's game for it. The two final tracks, "Beginner's Luck" and "Ordinary Man" serve as alternate endings: one together, one alone, sewing up the very thorough examination of the subject matter.
Pop music doesn't always have to be about desire, about love and loss and longing and the thrill of a new romance. But there's a reason we keep seeing writers of every stripe going back to it. Nobody is above it. Nobody is immune. And if you're a musician really worth your salt, you'll never stop trying to find a way to articulate it.
Surprise, surprise, guys: a very good band focusing in on a time-honoured and fertile subject matter results in a pretty incredible album. Eels are a skillful group, although their other albums have never quite grabbed me as much, at least as immediately, as this one did, but they are on point all the way through here. This one is worthy of its title: all twelve tracks come together to form a great 40 minute listen.
There's an old jazz saying that goes "There's some folks, if they don't know, you just can't tell 'em." There's a certain instinctual nature to music, and while there are plenty of acts I could probably build a case for an explain the appeal, DFA is simply not one of them. You're either on board, or you're left behind. And there's no shame in that, but it definitely speaks to your tastes. I guess, in embracing this album, I surrender my right to joke about dubstep, because this album's appeal is a lot like that subgenre's - hard to "get" from the outside, but ravenously consumed by those who are "in" on it. Even today in my store, people will grin and rub their hands when they think about this album.
Death From Above's landmark 2004 release is everything that frightens people about music. It obeys nothing but its own wild impulses, grooving, crashing, bashing, squealing and yowling with complete disregard for who might be listening. This is a high water mark for raucous, noisy, abrasive, disruptive, unpretty music. When you record something like this you take a huge risk, because it throws so many conventions in the garbage. It speaks to an audience that feels like there's nothing loud enough for them, nothing messy enough, nothing freaky enough, nothing elemental enough. It isn't punk, although its very existence is an act of punkish rebellion. It isn't metal, but it's certainly metallic in its hardness and heaviness and disregard for humanity. It isn't electronic, but it's definitely mechanical... if a bit haywire.
Here in fuzz and feedback and megaphoned larynx-testing vocals, is the continuation of the work that Iggy and the Stooges began once upon a time: hard, heavy, fast, repetitive, basic, sense-overloading, unsafe. Bombastic and uncontrollable from the get-go. This is the thread that was later picked up on the first Sleigh Bells album. This is music for young motherfuckers who are sick of being told what a song is supposed to be like.
Is it totally impenetrable? Not at all. Just because it goes for the rough edges doesn't mean it's without rhythm and melody. To my ears this is most definitely music. Those that get it get it, and nobody else needs to.
I should never claim to be an expert. There are too many things I know I don't know. But what keeps this blog going is my curiosity. I'm not here to preach at you, I'm here to learn. Up until this year, my experience with Sonic Youth was that I knew the song "Kool Thing" from Guitar Hero, and their cover of "Superstar" from Juno. I knew that by and large, their sound was experimental and generally seemed like something you really needed to be prepared to hear. You can't listen to Sonic Youth like you would to a normal radio-friendly pop group. They will twist you around, chew you up and spit you out in all their wild, mercurial, feedback-laden experimental glory.
So that's the sense in which a compilation album - not really a "Greatest Hits" by traditional standards - comes in handy, because I honest to God would never know where to begin with Sonic Youth. The format of this CD is brilliant in that regard, because instead of picking chart singles, an irrelevant measure of success for this band, they contacted famous fans of their music and got them to pick a song for inclusion. More bands should imitate this cherry picking form of a package.
It doesn't quite reveal anything I didn't already think about Sonic Youth: I was prepared for the squealing, halting crunch of "100%" and the bracing, melted-down grunge of "Sugar Kane." And while I didn't necessarily think of this band for the whispery, soft-focus "Shadow of a Doubt," it makes a nice tension-breaker and shows how well they play moods, not just loudly. At 16 tracks, an hour and 16 minutes thanks to some of the lengthier jams on here, the compilation hangs together in a surprisingly gripping, cohesive experience. As many thrashy, off-kilter experiments as they whip up, it's always ear-catching, never tedious or laborious. It's one thing to be an adventurous, experimental group, it's another to be one that really sounds good for 75 minutes of tracks culled from a 25-year career. If you're looking to become a fan of this band, or convert someone you know, this set will do the trick. It doesn't feel like a club I have been shut out of, it feels like a vital part of my everyday listening now.
The highlight of the album from me is the sublime "Stones," which has a great two-minute build, proceeds as an only-slightly-off-center pop song for a little bit, before exploding into one of the simplest, yet most effective final three minutes on the album. Also great is the utterly mesmerizing near-instrumental "Rain on Tin." These songs highlight exactly what this band does so well, taking rock and breaking it out of its shell.
When I was in grade 12, I was friends with a girl who had a Pretty Girls Make Graves pin on her backpack. I was always afraid to try bands my friends liked, especially obscure indie groups, because for whatever reason I was worried that whatever they sounded like, it couldn't live up to what I imagined they sounded like. This is, in case you didn't realize, an incredibly stupid way to go through life. I didn't try a lot of things. I had long gotten over this fear by the time I was in a used CD store this year and I saw this one filed under "Staff Picks." I thought of that girl from my high school and it seemed like there was no way I'd be steered wrong. I was delighted to find it sounded exactly like I thought it should, and yet like nothing I could have imagined.
This is a busy, frantic, nerve-wracking version of indie rock. There's so much going on here, such fidgety, jittery guitars, thundering drums and skittering hi-hats. Laid on top of it is the sweet, ominous, sometimes hair-raising vocal of Andrea Zollo. The opening track, "Something Bigger, Something Brighter" sets the stage exactly, taking over a minute to unfold, bubbling under the surface, until its fussy guitars and keyboards kick in under Zollo's chorus "Make it electric, make it electric!"
The production adds to the chaos, as parts dodge in and out, creating a rock solid sound collage made up of very particular parts. The ear catches on level after level of the mix, as each instrument does whatever it needs to, yet the whole project never succumbs to the risk of collapse under its own energy... take "The Grandmother Wolf," "All Medicated Geniuses," or "The Teeth Collector." Tough stuff but easy to swallow, because as confrontational and unrelenting as it often is, it's got such good energy, such performance, and such impeccable construction. It's pretty wonderfully ordered chaos. Take "Holy Names," with its smooth, soaring hook, underpinned by that nervy guitar, leading into the title track with its hyperactive MIDI-like hook, one of the best rhythm rock exercises in the set.
I'll never know how I would have felt about it in 2004. Odds are split whether I would have been impressed without really getting it, or dismissive for no good reason. What I know is that I love the slow burn of "Blue Lights" and the pulse-pounding punk-funk pay off in "Chemical, Chemical." What I do like it is that I liked it a lot when I finally did hear it in 2012, that somehow all this sound speaks to me.
Even though "fast-paced synth rock with a female vocal" has become a pretty well-trod ground in recent years, hearing this for the first time really felt fresh. This is a distinct thing, so wholly itself as to be inimitable except in its broad strokes. That kind of thing tends to stand the test of time, as scenes and trends fall away.
Something I say a lot is that the best Country music is often made by artists not found in the Country section, ones that owe no debt to the genre's conventions and have no desire to appeal to that genre's main followers. They're more interested in the feelings invoked by classic country: of loss, distance, the passage of time, vulnerability, and fiddles and steel guitar all over.
On the ominous opening track, it's clear that Cuff the Duke have the interest but not the allegiance. The fiddle squeals like a warning sign while the guitars kick up behind it and Wayne Petti comes in like Tokyo Police Club doing a Johnny Cash tribute, laden with weariness and resignation. That combination of the unconventional and the traditional makes for some of the album's best moments. Take "Failure To Some," with its gorgeous chorus, expressing a rather nuanced worldview, and its lengthy psychedelic wailing guitar coda letting you ruminate for four minutes or so.
There's a lot of contemplation, and a lot of melancholy on this album. It's baked into the band's sound, but they really explore it with their songwriting, on tunes such as "Remember the Good Times," "The Ballad of the Tired Old Man," "Rossland Square" which deal in their ways with time, change, and loss. The first is reluctantly celebratory, in its Byrdsy way. "The Ballad of the Tired Old Man" is an anti-war parable, "Rossland Square" is a light jab at urban development and the way our hometowns alter themselves if we're gone too long: it's an ode to Oshawa, which is on the other side of Toronto from me. (Great lyric courtesy of their tourism board: "Prepare to be amazed / That's the slogan of the city where I was raised.") This album is not made of pick-me-ups. Highlights include the crystalline, haunting "When All Else Fails And Fades" and the intimate "Confessions From a Parkdale Basement." My personal favourite song here is the barnstorming "By Winter's End." Let also let their character show with moments of quirk like "Surging Revival" and "Long Road."
And yet despite its bleak imagery and tone, I don't consider this album to be a bummer. It's refreshing, because it's a big, rustic production that never feels like it's kidding you. It's honest and sincere, eyeball-to-eyeball with the listener, laying out all these fears and doubts and wrapping them up in great sounds, confessional but not without sweetener. I don't know how much of the sentiment expressed is "authentic" or "real," but it succeeds in stirring something up in me and attaching it to some damn fine music. Sometimes it's one or the other, but in the best cases, it can be both.
The first song on Joel Plaskett's 2003 album, Truthfully Truthfully, begins with a tangled, twangy sounding guitar, before thickening into a heavy riff that marks the influence of 70's rock that threads throughout Joel's rock songwriting. On Truthfully, there's a confidence to the music that almost kids the listener, matched with the way the lyrics show a very Canadian interest in self-deprecation and suspicion of success. Truthfully, Truthfully almost has two lives, that arena-rock bravado and that shy earnestness. Joel's songwriting keeps the subject matter light and several degrees away from anger or melodrama, but there are gentle putdowns, beginning with that first track, where his admission that "I've got trouble written all over me" sounds less like a boast than a complaint. Another great track is "Mystery & Crime," where Plaskett muses over a relationship gone horrible wrong, where he is the "guilty" party, but still feels put-upon as the situation gets blown out of proportion ("I go to all the parties / And I never have a good time / It's like we're acting out a movie / Mystery & Crime / I never meant to hurt her / Now everybody's screaming murder, murder, murder...") Truth is, on this site, I tend not to fixate too much on lyrics, because I review a lot of music where the lyrics aren't inherent to the enjoyment of the song. But Joel is a for-sure true-blue songwriter. He knows how to turn a phrase, and how to craft a song that will service that.
Looking at songs like "Work Out Fine," "Extraordinary," and "Come on Teacher," are testaments to this. They are loaded with quirky lyrical details to push their stories and characters along. On "Work Out Fine," Plaskett takes a zen approach to the various inconveniences in his life, determined that "Everything will work out fine" just because he says so, while the music is simultaneously at ease and tense. "Extraordinary" is almost parodic, and testifies to Joel's background on the 90's indie rock scene with Thrush Hermit, seeming like something that could have come from a band like Cake or Sloan.
That first half of the album is loaded with character and added value. The second half is very much straightforward, often earnest and in-the-moment rock, exercises in Joel's ability with classic riffage and arena-sized ballads. The piece pivots on ominous "The Red Light" and "Radio Fly," which cracks open Joel's sentimental side with a chorus as big as all outdoors. "You Came Along" is a doe-eyed ballad ballasted by a swaggering rhythm section. "Lights Down Low" is a vintage rocker. Each of the songs have individual flourishes to distinguish them, like the gorgeous guitar break in "The Day" and the way that "All the Pretty Faces" builds to its first chorus and takes off from there. I particularly love the album closer, "Heart to Heart," though, a raggedy minor-key rocker that sounds a bit like Neil Young & Crazy Horse. The way it slips away from the listener ends the album almost as an ellipsis, like there's still more to come... but later.
In the years since this album's release, Joel Plaskett has proven himself one of the most distinctive talents Canada has produced, probably ever. He's earned this distinction, which I just bestowed on him, largely through his more ambitious projects like Ashtray Rock and Three, which show his commitment to developing his craft and setting new projects for himself. But his regular-ass albums are no less appealing, because he's just so goddamn good at what he does. He may play awkward and goofy, but he is most definitely very assured in his artistic talents. When I listen to an album like this, I feel like I "get" the author's voice, that he has really put himself into the work. And while putting yourself into your music doesn't inherently make it better (there are plenty of embarrassingly personal albums that are also awful) when you get someone who knows their work like Plaskett, that self-assurance provides a deep well of material. The songs on this album are so varied, and yet they all have their charms, and all clearly come from the same mind. Terrific.
Maybe it's the case that every CAKE song sounds the same, and maybe it's the casethat this is the best example of that, or maybe this is just a singular moment from the pop charts years ago. I love listening to this song, its laconic energy, John McCrea's weirdly specific descriptions of his dream girl, the muted background vocals and trumpet, and ever-funky bassline. I think CAKE is based around a certain kind of specificity in its sound, what it intends, and if you get it, it really works for you, and if you don't, you can just move along.
And how very like CAKE to include all these completely idiosyncratic comments along with the song, many of which are not so complimentary.
I was in the drug store the other day, and Liz Phair's early-2000's hit "Why Can't I" was on the radio. I remember at the time, the album was pretty well savaged for being a hyper-commercial sell-out effort. I think Pitchfork gave it a 0.0, which (smug bastard alert) signifies they actually don't care what music sounds like. No, "Why Can't I" (a pretty decent pop song) didn't seem like it belonged in the same catalog as the caustic angry college girl rock of "Fuck and Run." But that same album, the 2003 self-titled release that saw Liz collaborating with the people behind Avril Lavigne, also had Liz penning probably the catchiest tune ever written about getting jizz all over someone's face. Tell me again how she lost her edge?
Likewise, a strongly negative reaction met Jewel, whose dulcet songwriting style largely defined the 90's, when she came around the same year with 0304 and the single "Intuition," which was slammed as being an overt attempt at pop stardom, a sell-out effort. Except not only does "Intuition" work as a damn good pop song (and of course, razor jingle,) its lyrics are a pretty cutting takedown of the image-obsessed music industry. I was 16 years old at the time and I knew there was at least some irony to the woman who sang "Who Will Save Your Soul?" shaking her ass in a sexy firefighter outfit. The lyric goes "Follow your heart / Your intuition / It will lead you in the right direction" (eg: appearances are deceptive.)
Unfortunately, there's a saying that goes: "Satire doesn't fill the audience on a Saturday night." There's a tricky element of playing with the audience at work here. If you appeal to much to the people you're making fun of, the people who are supposed to "get it" will think you've gone dumb. Give artists a bit more credit. And more hot white cum.
In spite of its origin as an album of filler - studio creations cobbled together on the spot between albums - the Coral's 2004 rag-and-bone set is probably the album of theirs I have spent the most time with. Without the constraints of sounding commercial or poppy, the coral turned out a set that was remarkably, invitingly dark and lonely. Most of the best songs are alienating in their weirdness, like the eerie "Song of the Corn" or the echoing, shadowy funk of "Grey Harpoon." The latter song pleads "Please don't let the light through my window / Keep the curtain shut, it brings me good luck." "Keep Me Company" is one that drags you over the coals, with its plodding pace and quivering vocal. There's such a sweet contrast between the defeated verse and the hopeful chorus: "But you could keep my company / Like an old memory..."
Elsewhere, the band cuts loose on a few speedy jams, like "I Forgot My Name," "Auntie's Operation" or "Migraine," where they sound ragged and ready to collapse. The opening tracks, "Precious Eyes" and "Venom Cable" are the slickest, most "complete" or conventionally good, and even they're pretty odd. And the album ends with what sounds like an old Victrola recording from the interwar years, "Lover's Paradise," painting an almost psychedelic ideal to leave off with.
This is a brooding, sullen, not-very-inviting album. It's not the first call when you want great songcraft or impressive musicianship, but for mood it almost can't be beat. I love to walk around listening to this album on rainy nights, because this album is very much what loneliness sounds like to me. And that's what music ultimately should be, an attempt to evoke moods and feelings and memories, through all the means available. This album wasn't intended to be much, but probably because of that it succeeds in offering a lot to anyone who's ready to put up with some weirdness.
There didn't used to need to be a reason. When I was a kid grabbing whatever music wandered past me (or did the music grab me?) I didn't think much about why. There wasn't a social or artistic component. There were simply things I wanted to hear over and over, and things I never wanted to hear again. It was only later that I started trying to figure out why, which led at first to listening to nothing, and now to listening to... well, not everything, but a lot.
Once you start trying to look at the big picture, you risk losing a lot of that intuitive joy. There's no way for me to explain the awestruck glee I have when I listen to Kaiser Chiefs' Off With Their Heads. They dive in headfirst and start rocking out and don't let up for 11 tracks. There's simply no accounting for why the "Girls start moving, the boys join in" refrain in "You Want History" is so brilliant, only that it is. With a busy, electric sound, every track on the album as something going on that makes you wanna move, makes you wanna keep going.
The album remains consistent without ever retreating itself. There's a languid flow on the opener "Spanish Metal" and "You Like It Too Much," but the former puts sweet harmonies between rough fuzzy guitar breaks, while the latter is a bit stiffer in its steady beat, with a rolling piano (and strings?) beneath. The band has a humorous way of puffing themselves up on songs like this, leading to a soaring chorus. There's the motor-mouthed "Can't Say What I Mean," and the breathless "Half the Truth," which is a fair bit more tense. "Good Days Bad Days" has a peppy stomp, built on a nearly Beatlesque playground prechorus. There's also the call-and-answer of "Never Miss a Beat," which adds a wicked synth flourish under its title phrase, underscoring the sarcastic celebration of its lyrical subjects (useless teens) lifting it into faux-gospel.
The band is very much working in a retro-80s dance, like post-Franz or Killers, with a bit of Arctic Monkeys (perhaps because they've left the accents in.) Most of the tracks are really busy, but "Tomato in the Rain" is a lovely bit of throwback pop for a lazy afternoon. There's also the earnest closer, "Remember You're a Girl," which nearly seems to be the work of a different band. Well, this was also the band that gave us the marvelous Britpop "Ruby" on their previous album. Nothing here sounds like that, which was ballsy, and since everything works, it pays off. The album is really based around the confidence to keep moving, that their music is so good that all the choices they make are the right ones.
Off With Their Heads is definitely all-conquering rock, and I don't need to tell you why, if you can listen to it and like it. The whole album feels almost intuitive, like as soon as they touched their instruments this was the result. But all the many elements are in place, from wicked danceable rhythms and exuberant guitars, to clever lyrics sung with a commitment to a raucous good time. It must have taken a good deal of work and refinement. Still, the result is so immediate that it defies criticism: it's there for those who like it. An album like this doesn't need to be studied, just enjoyed.
Stars, that most theatrical of Canadian indie pop-rock bands, creates a scene and a mood and characters in sound. This is one of the most beautiful, lovely, longing songs I know and it's always a pleasure to stop what I'm doing and let myself get absorbed in it. There are many songs that preach love and devotion, some sincerely, some truthfully. But for me it'll always be songs about the difficulty of ever having been in love.
The key to this blog is that it's not music journalism. I'm not out there to provide commentary on all the latest music and keep up on the scene. This is really a personal blog, documenting my ongoing project to discover and rediscover great music. And given I spent a lot of the 2000s not paying enough attention to current music, that leaves a healthy gap to fill in, since, on my first pass, I largely missed out these bands. I knew of them, but didn't pay any attention. And now I'm here, learning how to talk about them.
In the case of both of these bands, I came around to them specifically for material for this blog. The Arctic Monkeys' debut, Whatever People Say I Am That's What I'm Not, was one of my favourite albums I listened to in the first half of the year. I got around to the Strokes' first album in the fall, but didn't review it because I felt like my comments would be limited to "This is excellent." (Okay, I probably could have done better, but I was more interested in talking about their latest album, Angles.) These two bands are often linked in my mind because they both delivered massive debut albums with a ton of hype, then provided a series of follow-ups with diminishing sales and praise.
Having to write a second album is the worst prospect in rock music, especially if your first one is a smash. There's the possibility you used up all your good stuff on the first go, the insurmountable fan expectations for "the same but more," and the paradoxical concern you'll just end up copying yourself. I think a lot of fans, in the back of their minds, root for the follow-ups to fail, to maintain the purity of the first album. Both of these offerings navigated these pressures simply by being awesome.
The first few tracks of Favourite Worst Nightmare by the Arctic Monkeys are a bit like a hangover from Whatever People Say I Am: Wordy, observational, power-funk, bratty rock. There's the feeling, though, that as good as they are, they don't quite measure up to "I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor," "The View From The Afternoon" or "From The Ritz to the Rubble." But they do have some points in their favour: Their sound is thicker and more powerful, indicating that the band has leveled up some. "Brianstorm" is a whirlwind, "D is for Dangerous" is an explosion and "Balaclava" edges the album toward its greatness with its nimble basswork. The lyrics haven't suffered none either, especially on the latter.
"Fluorescent Adolescent" is where the album really hits its stride, bringing in any easy-riffing shuffle that culminates in a circular, overlapping lyric that marries form and function (tastes great, less fat!) It and even moreso "Only Ones Who Know" provide evidence that the band has a heart on this album. While "Fluorescent" was sort of a new prospect for the group, "Only Ones Who Know" has a shimmering beauty and earnest vocal that was not hinted at on the earlier record. But enough about how this one compares. It takes on a spirit of its own from here on out. The watchword for critics is "maturity," and that's true, it does feel like the songwriting has broadened its eye without quite changing the topic (the dark underside of a good time.) "Do Me A Favour," "This House is a Circus" and "If You Were There, Beware" propel themselves on a basic urgency that never makes the band seem too carefree or lightweight. Things in these songs, all through this album, are not simple. The way the dizzying "Circus" transitions into the ominous "Beware" is a thing of beauty.
"The Bad Thing" is the next great track on the album: it's not that it distinguishes itself from the rest of the songs as much as I feel it is one of the best examples of what Alex Turner & Co do, setting a rhythm-n-shakedown up with a lyric about how taking off one's wedding ring to cheat "Won't make it / That much easier / It might make it worse." Its abrupt end takes you to the mesmerizing funk of "Old Yellow Bricks," with its lyrics suspicious of nostalgia. The closing number, "505," is one of the most outstanding songs on either album, beginning as it does with that whimpering, lonely vocal (reminiscent of "Only Ones Who Know" or the earlier "Riot Van,") but exploding into a driving classic rock number, at last unwinding into an uncoiled bass riff that leaves you hanging just that little bit.
Like Favourite Worst Nightmare, Room On Fire has a number of pleasures of its own. The album doesn't foresake the bleary-eyed Sunday morning hangover sound of its predecessor, but it does pump it up to almost cartoonish proportions, wonderfully, right from the start on "What Ever Happened," with its pulsating guitars and that razor-rasp vocal from Julian Casablancas. Julian has two modes: uninterested mutter and freaked-out howl, and he alternates between them perfectly: some songs are all one or the other, and the ones that are both are perfect. Take "Reptilia," the best cut on the album, with its jigsaw riffs that snap together perfectly and that urgent chorus, set against a rock-solid rhythm of bass and drum. Those first two tracks both provide a listening experience different from that found on the previous album. "You Talk Way Too Much," "Meet Me In The Bathroom," "The Way It Is" and "I Can't Win" bring the straightforward, strummy, glossy garage punk you want from these guys. I'm particularly interested in the way the vocals are mixed, fuzzy and distant, almost desperate not to be heard. On a few key tracks, they monkey around with genres, with ska-like cuts (as Is This It also had) and the nearly doo-wop "Under Control."
Meanwhile, "12:51" features some of the best guitar sound, with its sparkling pedal effect, and the next-to-last track "The End Has No End" combines every element I like about the band into one, serving as an awesome climax for the record ("I Can't Win" is the abrupt aftermath.) It's a really exciting listen, and the band really does benefit from the upsizing of their sound.
I may be the only one who cares or thinks about this sort of thing, years later. But as I've mentioned before, an album does not cease to exist because its timeperiod of release as passed on. Both these bands' discographies are still widely available and perfectly enjoyable. The reason I don't give star ratings, of course, is so I don't have to concede "Well, it's not the first album, so I knocked off half a point." I mean, what is that? Why would "different" mean "worse?" Or for that matter, why would "too similar" also mean "worse?" Both albums to some degree are similar to the previous, and to some degree different, and both provide incredibly enjoyable listening experiences.
It's funny how oftentimes in music a feminine manner (tight clothes, long hair, high voice) becomes intensely masculine. It remains something of a mystery how one ends up as Justin Hawkins rather than Boy George (or worse, Pete Burns from Dead or Alive) although playing good music is a good start. The glam-rock conceit of the Darkness involves pushing forward into that falsetto voice as far as it'll go at just the absolutely most intense moments of the song, to increase its power tenfold.
It takes a lot of balls, if you'll pardon the expression (or don't, as I used it deliberately) to really sell the glam rock image. Make no mistake, this is cock-rock, but it's amazingly done and not at all ashamed of what it is.
When I was younger I was weird about music. I like to think I always had my tastes, but my selection was unrefined. It was completely random what I would find and get attached to, leading to a bunch of bands I found out about randomly and took as my own, while they escaped my friends' notice.
That's the case with The Coral. I remember brandishing their CDs in high school and everyone I knew would go "What does this sound like?" And I'd play it for them and they'd just look at me and go "Uh...? Kay." But hell, they're all into Fleet Foxes and Mumford & Sons now, so maybe they weren't ready.
Each album they released impressed me less and less (although Butterfly House was a real upturn) but those early albums had a real greatness to them that holds up for me. The first was trailblazingly odd, alive with fire and inspiration and confidence in its own uniqueness. Their second, which this comes from, was still quirky, but also loaded with straightforward and earnest moments.
Good morning. It's 2012 and this is Sound of the Week.
Something I noticed when thinking back on my first year as a music-talking-blog-guy was the power music has to link us to a place and time. Back in November, I went and saw Joel Plaskett in Hamilton (a big deal, since I am a lazyass who doesn't get out much.) In Summer of 2009, just a few blocks across town from the venue, a friend of mine named Cary directed a play I wrote. It was an amazing experience, not just because it happened at all, but because the audiences really loved it.
To introduce the play, which was about waiting for someone to come back, Cary selected this song from Joel Plaskett's album Three. It was the first time I'd ever heard his music and I instantly decided I needed more of it. In those days I was a musical scavenger, mainly feeding off recommendations from my friends and whatever random bands I would hear about through various means.
At the concert, as soon as the opening chords of this song played, the room exploded. It seemed like everyone in the place felt the same things I did, even though that's not possible. I don't think I've ever talked to anyone about Plaskett who didn't cite this as one of their favourites. It's one of those songs where everything just fits together so perfectly that it can't help but reach people.
I got to meet Joel that night. I fanboyed out a bit and told him about the play, and he was very polite as I rambled. We took a very blurry, awful cell phone picture and I shuffled off on my awkward way. In any case, no matter how many times I go on to embarrass myself in front of a professional musician, I'll always have the music, and so will we all.
It's important to commit to a bit, and I think Electric Six knows that perfectly well. Every song I've ever heard from them, they throw themselves heedlessly into, including this early gem, where you really believe that the passion can be responsible for a power overload of some kind. The song is helped along by a pulsing disco bass, a shockwave guitar, and a manic guest vocal by an uncredited Jack White. You can't help wanting to move when you hear this song. It puts all its energy right through you, at your peril.
"Hey now, cut that out, Scotto. Quit posting lame old '90s boy band songs. You love rock, you love Arcade Fire and Nirvana!"
Yes. Absolutely, and I wouldn't be caught dead holding an NSync CD, but y'know, I was not in their market so they probably would've been okay with that. If you had told 14-year-old me in 2001 that in ten years' time I would think Justin Timberlake was a pretty all right guy, that I would look forward to his appearances on Saturday Night Live or that he could go on TV and perform Eminem and Jay Z (and the Digital Underground!!) with utter impunity I would be shocked. Shocked, I tells ya! But here we are, it's 2011, I write about music, and Justin Timberlake seems like a really cool dude.
I don't have to like old Boyband songs, but they were exactly what they needed to be: groups of dudes singing and dancing in unison, to make girls between the ages of ten and 17 scream. And sometimes, it was better than it needed to be.
"Pop" is exactly what it claims: three-odd minutes of undiluted musical candy (plus a tag of weird beat-boxing thing.) But "Did you ever wonder why this music gets you high?" Sometimes, yes. I know now that Timberlake has a sense of humour about himself. What I couldn't have figured was that the whole NSync project had a vague air of self-awareness about itself, that they knew what they were doing was maybe not a stab at great art, but it was effective and fun. They took not taking themselves seriously pretty seriously, and it resulted in, yes, fairly disposable dance pop, but nothing you would look back at ten years later and recoil in disgust.
This type of music will always make up a certain segment of the musical tapestry. At times bigger than others. At the time I was very much of the opinion that none of it could ever be good. That's wrong. As with anything, it absolutely can be good, when you take care over it.
In 2001, when Bran Van 3000 released their sophomore album, disco hadn't yet enjoyed its brief early-2000's revival under Kylie Minogue, the Mamma Mia stage show, and later Madonna. So Bran Van couldn't be accused of jumping on the bandwagon, but they also weren't in a place to influence anyone else, so it was just an oddity.
There has always been dance pop, of course. It's not usually a subject music critics broach with much enthusiasm. Generally, it's made to order, according to specifications, rhythmic and repetitive. But ten years after this album we have Foster the People, among a host of others, applying rock philosophy to danceable music. So it's not like the entire concept is un-salvageable. Music like this has the capacity to be really fun, and at its best, get away with some weird stuff.
Legend has it, Curtis Mayfield's final recording session was for his part in this song. He had been paralyzed for most of a decade, but still wrote and recorded music, painstakingly line-by-line from his bed. Imagine being unable to move yourself, but still having the power to make others. I dare you to keep your head and feet still during this song.
Talk about exploring a sound: this band does it very thoroughly on their stark debut album. In the darkness, there could be anything. Love, desire, longing, heartache, wistfulness. Loneliness, togetherness. There are two voices, those of Romy Madley Croft and Oliver Sim. They mutter and hum, moaning and stumbling a little over lyrics. There's nervousness and resignation. Sometimes they are intertwined, sometimes they are separated by a thick, thick barrier.
There's no hiding, and the sound is reduced to mere elements of percussion, a bit of humming, droning instrumentation (usually guitar, but sometimes keyboard,) and those voices in the darkness. Modest, but honest. Two figures trying desperately to find each other blindly. It's remarkable how much is suggested by the music, which is what makes it so effective. They play moods as much as notes. Hypnotic, but knowing and ear-catching all the same.
The few elements split and recombine throughout the 11 tracks, all of which are good and some of which stand out, but which mainly exist as part of a whole. I love albums that work as complete projects. You can't pick this album apart and look at its elements. It's a solid slab. It's a brick. You crack it open, inside is only more brick.
I think what I like about is that it isn't a put on. It's melodic, it's real music, and yet, it isn't showy. It's like a real person, guarded, with a tone matching its contemplative, simple lyrics. It's relaxing and meditative. I like that it's a very artistic statement that remains obscure, capturing that moment where you're still struggling to express something, and ultimately being the best expression of that something, that ineffable something. Half of it is built in your head and the other half was already there waiting to be uncovered. You get out of it what you bring.
// 
// 
// 
// 
// 
// 
// 
// 
// 
) although playing good music is a good start. The glam-rock conceit of the Darkness involves pushing forward into that falsetto voice as far as it'll go at just the absolutely most intense moments of the song, to increase its power tenfold.
// 