Reviewed by Kid Spill
Album rating: 
Concert rating: .
When the wee and lovely Leslie Feist recently released Let It Die (with assistance from collaborator Chilly Gonzales), the album fell into a pit of hyped-out, ultra-critical music fans, weaned on the stylings of Feist's more musically byzantine contemporaries. In the face of this difficult audience, Let It Die was generally accepted, and in some circles, heralded. Employing '80s synths and a post-mod production ethos, the album points to the inevitable mid-'90s revival that will surely soon descend upon us.
The Paris-based Feist (via Toronto, among other Canadian locales) is a transient member of the Broken Social Scene assemblage. As such, Feist had serious expectations of merit and method awaiting this release. She offers up a distinctive and engaging sound – while her own songs are largely unoriginal in form, they are pretty, seductive, and viscerally appealing. Her vocals are pure and insistent, yet sometimes take on an almost plugged quality. Feist's lyrical prowess is similarly uneven, at turns adept and largely flawed.
The album focuses on the span of emotional tumult that, along with low-fi artistic endeavors, myriad educational pursuits, and the construction of a precarious personal identity, defines the mid-twenties urban bohemian experience. The first track, "Gatekeeper", is a spare, ragged paen to loving and living in the present. This leads into "Mushaboom," the album's real opening statement, which lusts after a calmer, more settled life before such a thing is in the realm of possibility.
The title track is watery and dreamy, a song that tempts one to succumb to the languid and dreamy mood, emblematic of the album's overarching vibe. The greatest line on the record may not be that which is taken from this song and emblazoned across the liner notes, "The saddest part of a broken heart/Isn't the ending so much as the start," but instead "The tragedy starts from the very first spark," which falls alone in the last verse.
The beauty of seduction runs through Let It Die like blood through the veins. There has been a marked absence of lighthearted sleaze in music these days - few albums of late have contained the quirky, bouncy sexiness of Let It Die, which is especially evidenced on "One Evening" and the appealing "Leisure Suite.” A relaxed disco-lounge track with sweet and silly sexual repartee ("Don't come knocking/ This door's for locking" and "Just a place to meet/ And do what we do when we're there"), "Leisure Suite" is a request
to forgo the usual bullshit and kick back naked on a faux-bearskin rug. The quietly shimmying beats, breathy vocals and sentiment of fleeting love invoke a mod aesthetic and a winking narrator. Similarly, a laissez-faire, Euro-sexy sensibility is (appropriately) apparent on the track that the venerated Frenchie François Hardy wrote, "L'amour ne dure pas toujours" (which, based on a loose translation, means "love doesn't last forever"). This song does, however, indulge in the trappings of ironic techno, a genre not entirely ready for its return to the forefront.
The most depressing rhythmic clap-along of the year is found on Feist's version of "When I Was A Young Girl." And clap they did, when Feist performed at a "surprise" appearance at Toronto’s Sneaky Dee's as part of the Wavelength music series. Although she contended with a sore throat that affected her normally impressive range, Feist was buoyed by an enthused introduction by Kevin (Wavelength host/Rotate This shop boy) and a receptive audience. Feist employed a minimalist setting, using only her guitar and
some pre-recorded effects, and where too many musicians would come off as barren, Feist exploded. Her bold, fluid guitar sounds matched her rich vocals, which in addition to Feist's call for the crowd to make out with each other, played into the "love is all around" vibe that flowed through the Sneaky Dee's upstairs bar, and indeed throughout the ultimately solid and worthy Let It Die.
Franz Ferdinand - Franz Ferdinand Domino
Reviewed by Brighid Mooney
The past couple of years have seen a slew of indie rock debuts whose makers are either praised and forgotten or proclaimed among the growing throngs of bands representing the umpteenth rebirth of rock. Only time will tell what becomes of Franz Ferdinand, the post-punk rock quartet from Glasgow, but until then there's plenty to enjoy on their self-titled debut album.
Bands as hyped as Franz Ferdinand, named after the Austro-Hungarian archduke whose assassination was the catalyst for WWI, are often in danger of "pulling an Edsel." But this band manages not to disappoint. The dark edge of the music (no less than four of the album's eleven songs make a tongue-in-cheek reference to dying) is somewhat appropriate when one considers their namesake, but it's a darkness that is tempered by vocals concurrently loungy and aggressive with a driving backbeat, creating music that's like the dark, dirty side of disco but without the cheesiness. And just in case they were in any danger of being accused of taking themselves too seriously, there's plenty of light-hearted fare to counter the accusation. Like the sleazy guitar intro of "Tell Her Tonight," which brings to mind a 70s porno soundtrack, or the relentless tempo, and equally relentless camp of "Michael," a song that gleefully throws aside all sexual ambiguity in favor of abject, unadulterated lust. The lyrics are littered with a dry humor and a painful self-awareness that help to balance out the more lurid aspects of the album. There's just something delightfully charming about lines like "I'm alive/and I know it/but for chips and freedom/I could die."
The album largely centers on love and lust, but for all the heat and passion there's not a single track that is straightforwardly romantic. Even lyrics that are fundamentally sweet like "Oh how I needed you/When I needed you/Let's not forgot/We are so strong" from "Come On Home" are sung with such harshness and aggression that they never sound so much romantic as they do menacing. Especially when the previous line boasts "I replace you easily." It's an album that's lusty, sexy, passionate, and swaggering in all the right measures; romance without the burden of sentimentality.
Franz Ferdinand has an indie rock, post-punk, art school vibe to it and an energy so contagious that the band could be writing an entire album of doleful dirges, and with music this frenetic you would only be able to dance away your tears..
Jolie Holland - Escondida Anti.
Reviewed by Adam D. Miller
Jolie Holland’s first solo album, a home recording called Catalpa, was an accidental hit. The album, recorded around 2001, was largely intended as a demo recording to be circulated among friends and fans. But it drew attention from Tom Waits, who nominated Holland for the esteemed Shortlist prize, an annual contest that promoted quality new releases that had only experienced limited sales. He also suggested that his label, Anti, sign her and officially release the album, which they did in 2003, much to the pleasure of Anti labelmate Nick Cave, who allegedly stopped Holland in the street to thank her for recording the album.
On Escondida, Jolie Holland’s second release (though her first proper studio release), we hear a melting pot of music more at home in the 1920s and 1930s than the 21st century. Like her former outfit, The Be Good Tanyas, Holland’s solo effort draws equally from country, folk, and blues, while incorporating early jazz influences as well. In a voice that evokes both Billie Holiday and Will Oldham, Holland takes us on an evocative musical journey, singing about “Old Fashoined Morphine” that was “good enough for my grandpa,” and a ukulele that the narrator holds near and dear to her heart. Instrumentally and lyrically, it expands on Catalpa’s earthy focus, adding more of a variety of instruments played by studio players. Yet, despite being a studio effort, it retains much of the low fidelity appeal of Catalpa.
Escondida contains ten originals and two traditional songs, though I challenge the listener to guess which is which. Many of the originals incorporate traditional elements, which depending on how you look at it, will either win you over or not. Despite containing songs that stand up easily next to the old standards they mimic, the album lacks the cohesion that draws people back to it again and again. “Old Fashioned Morphine”, “Amen”, and “Goodbye California” (the album’s most upbeat track) are great fun, but almost sound clichéd. Still, it’s great to hear a woman this young sing and play in a style so old.
Juliana Hatfield - In Exile Deo Zoe Records
Reviewed by Kid Spill
For someone historically dubbed a slacker, and for one who revels in producing songs about the beauty of just lounging in bed, Juliana Hatfield has had a remarkably prolific career. From indie staple The Blake Babies, to numerous solo efforts, to turns with the Lemonheads and as frontwoman for Some Girls, up to her new solo album In Exile Deo, Hatfield has established herself as something of a reliable presence in the rock pantheon. In possession of solid, idiosyncratic songwriting talent, decent guitar skills, and undeniable reluctant rocker mystique, Hatfield delivers a respectable effort with In Exile Deo.
Like Liz Phair, a musician who shares Hatfield's approximate vintage and ethos, this most recent album can be readily understood as a more commercial departure from her older, grittier works. While Phair's eponymous album was a definite disaster, containing none of the magnificence that steadily decreased in her work since her first record, Hatfield's new album offers what fans, new and long-standing, want from the pouting, tough, waifish loner.
Despite an overly manic opening, Hatfield's pulsing, driving guitar style (returning after an apparent hiatus during the Some Girls recording sessions) effectively infiltrates the album as a whole. There are, however, moments of over-the-top sweetness that too easily invite comparison to some of the less credible contributors to modern pop - some tracks on In Exile Deo would be fitting in a Hilary Duff film, not the least of which are "Some Rainy Sunday" and "Tomorrow Never Comes." One can almost see the teen couples swaying in unison. Much more accomplished are "Dirty Dog" and "Because We Love You," an oddly upbeat ditty about a family's destruction.
Hatfield's strength is in her easy, skilful juxtaposition of chugging guitars and a solid, unrelenting perspective on the nature of loneliness and relationships. However, on "Get In Line," Hatfield's use of the objective-correlative in her lyrics serve only to alienate the listener, instead of seducing them into Hatfield's cool yet neurotic world. The track “Tourist" touches on the deceptive nature of celebrity (or, in Hatfield's case, quasi-celebrity, although in this age of Us Weekly and Access Hollywood, any commentary on the topic is certainly relevant).
On In Exile Deo, Juliana Hatfield spins a world that is prettier, sleepier, sadder, and at times more pissed off than maybe most of us inhabit, at least on the outside It is unlikely that Hatfield will recapture the raw earnestness that she offered with the Blake Babies, or the timely relevance of her early solo career. However, over the course of this album, a certain unique beauty emerges. While it is perhaps time for Hatfield to mine new territory - her ire at those who throw her world into turmoil, as well as at herself for allowing it is growing quickly tired - In Exile Deo is the work of a skilled musician and strange, endearing poet, and as such is certainly worth a listen.
Loretta Lynn - Van Lear Rose Interscope
Reviewed by Adam D. Miller
Ah, the musical comeback. Nothing makes me shudder more than the prospect of yet another KISS or Cher farewell tour, not to mention the number of albums that seem to come out on a yearly basis as an attempt to bring back a mediocre pop icon from days of old and give them a new image. If I had not heard “Portland, Oregon,” the standout track from Van Lear Rose, before knowing that it was a comeback or that it was Loretta Lynn, I probably would have avoided it at all costs. And yet, Van Lear Rose is one of the few comeback albums released by largely washed-up icons of yesterday that succeed in convincing us that they are still worth listening to.
Loretta Lynn, who many know as the subject of the 1980 film Coal Miner’s Daughter, is a country singer with a voice that even some country fans can’t stomach. As someone who was introduced to country music largely through rockers who lacked any sort of southern drawl, I myself have only recently been able to handle the more authentic country voices that hail from the Deep South. And yet, there is something magical enough about Lynn’s latest effort that despite finding her voice grating under normal circumstances, I manage to thoroughly enjoy the album.
The White Stripes’ Jack White’s role as producer on Van Lear Rose is a big part of what makes the album such a joy to listen to. Like Rick Rubin’s role on Johnny Cash’s American Recordings and Joe Henry’s on Solomon Burke’s fabulous Don’t Give Up On Me, White makes no attempt to turn his client into a pop icon or make her music or voice more accessible to a mainstream rock audience. A strange match up, perhaps, but their duet on “Portland, Oregon” is equally evocative of both their musical styles and upbringings. Not as successful is “Have Mercy,” an almost laughable blues-rock track that simply does not work with Lynn’s fragile voice. White holds back his heavy guitar on tracks like “Family Tree” and “This Old House”, making them beautiful highlights that are more fitting to Lynn’s style.
Despite the heavy guitar and White Stripes influence that White brings to the record, this is still very much a country album that most White Stripes fans will probably dislike. I have played the record to several friends, and few could put up with it for more than half of a song. Still, with its mix of pedal steel, electric guitar, and traditional country lyricism, Van Lear Rose is the best work Loretta Lynn has done since the 1970s. Those willing to look past their preconceived notions of music and genre are in for a true gift.
The Magnetic Fields - I Nonesuch
Reviewed by Brighid Mooney
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The always prolific Stephin Merritt returns at last with a new album from the most successful of his myriad of musical outlets, The Magnetic Fields. Five years after overwhelming fans and critics alike with the mammoth and multifarious 69 Love Songs, Merritt offers up a more digestible and infinitely more focused effort with I, an album that doesn't stray from the band's proven success with romantically-themed bubblegum pop and heartbreaking ballads. But what sets I apart from all of its predecessors is that while its songs still joyfully wallow in eternal romantic despair, its focus is, as the title suggests, pointed squarely inward.
In the past, Merritt has been labelled both a hopeless romantic and a hopeless misanthrope, though the seemingly disparate qualities easily combine with tongue-in-cheek, self-deprecating lyrics and unabashedly winsome tunes to create the bittersweet pop songs that the Magnetic Fields are known for. I is no different in that respect, simultaneously facetious and melancholy, but also more subdued overall, with Merritt's reputation as the Cole Porter of pop shining through on ballads like "I'm Tongue-Tied" and "Is This What They Used To Call Love." But as always, Merritt is at his best when he's being clever and ironic, like on the first half of the album, which abounds with wit and playful observations. "So you quote love unquote me," he deadpans in "I Don't Believe You," with a voice that is morose, laconic and surprisingly versatile. I marks a first in Magnetic Fields albums, where Merritt sings every track himself, and the songs come across as more personal and intimate because of it. And though the album lulls in the second half with a few lacklustre tracks like "Irma" and "Infinitely Late At Night", it gets swept back up in the end with Merritt's moving falsetto and pointedly sincere lyrics on the sugary final song, as he sings "Years falling like grains of sand mean nothing to me. It’s only time."
The Magnetic Fields have a long tradition of augmenting their albums with unusual instruments, as well as the distinction of being one of a very few bands who have successfully integrated the ukulele into pop music. The liner notes strangely boast "no synths," but among the more traditional guitar and piano, there can also be heard a cello, harpsichord, banjo, and even an electric sitar. While these quirky additions compliment the whimsical feeling of much of the album, they simply aren't necessary for some of the more effervescent tracks, like "I Thought You Were My Boyfriend," whose relentless discotheque beat makes it easily one of the most infectious songs on the album. Or for the candor of "I Don't Really Love You Anymore," or the humor of "If There's Such a Thing as Love." In the end, while gimmicks like pervasive wordplay and the odd pop ukulele may be unavoidable for Merritt, they seem dispensable when the true genius of I lies, as always, in his boundless ability to create genuine, enjoyable pop confections.
Nick Drake - Made To Love Magic Universal Island Records
Reviewed by Adam D. Miller
The rarities compilation has long been a controversy among those of us who buy albums, particularly those by artists who have been deceased or defunct for many years. For some artists, releasing these compilations is simply an indication that the artist or artist’s heirs are scraping the bottom of the barrel in an attempt to sell more records. The common statement is that an artist would surely include anything of worth when they initially release their albums, leaving the outtakes on the cutting room floor. However, one tends not to consider that a song may be omitted from a given album for other reasons than quality. It sometimes is due more to time restrictions or simply the intended sound of an album.
Some artists are able to carry over songs, including on their next album a track that might have been recorded during sessions for a previous album. The tragedy of an artist like Nick Drake is that he only released three proper albums in his short life. Five Leaves Left, Bryter Layter, and Pink Moon are all phenomenal albums, showcasing Drake’s talent as a singer, songwriter, and acoustic guitarist. Yet it is a fallacy to cite these three albums as Drake’s only recordings of worth. Made To Love Magic proves that Nick Drake had some wonderful songs that simply did not make it onto his official albums. The compilation contains a few alternate mixes and takes, but largely includes songs that are previously unreleased in any form.
The major let down of this album is that it is simply a rehashing of another outtakes album called Time Of No Reply. The sole difference between the albums, aside from the obvious remastering, is the inclusion of one 1974 recording unavailable anywhere else. Some also may be irked by changes that have been made to the tracks. Robert Kirby added a tasteful orchestration to “Magic” in 2003, long after Drake’s death. The track is beautiful, and certainly a highlight of the set, but whether or not Nick intended this piece to sound this way is a mystery.
Despite the beautiful tragedy of Nick Drake’s life and music, one cannot help but smile to hear these “new” songs. As was typical of Drake’s music, the songs are often either overwhelmed by strings or bare with nothing but voice and acoustic. By no means an essential recording, but for those who own all three of Drake’s albums and are left wanting more, a welcome addition.
The Postal Service - Give Up Sub Pop Records
Reviewed by Brighid Mooney
I'm not a fan of electronic music. There's a detached, unfeeling quality to it that has always proven uninteresting to me. Add to that my well-founded scepticism for all bands that didn't exist before this century and The Postal Service's chances of grabbing my attention were something like George Bush trying to woo votes from the ACLU.
But Death Cab For Cutie's Ben Gibbard and electronica veteran Jimmy Tamborello have stolen my vote, and my heart, with their collaborative side-project’s debut. I'm still not completely sold on the genre itself, but Give Up has shown me that the combination of synth-pop electronica and indie music can be worth more than the sum of its parts. Why the album is called Give Up remains a mystery, since to me each listen feels more like giving in. Gibbard has taken Tamborello's electronic soundscapes and added lush guitar, sincere, guileless vocals and lyrics both literate and introspective. The result is an atmospheric, ambient album that remains subtly engaging all the way through the tenth and final song.
Musically, Give Up is affable and urbane. In contrast, Gibbard's poetic lyrics often broach somewhat weighty subjects, but even the socially and self-aware songs are never heavy-handed or sermonizing. Nor does serious subject matter bring down the mood of the album as a whole. Even at its darkest moment, Give Up never gives in to melancholy. The only song without some degree of optimism is the sinister "This Place Is a Prison," which brings an ominous four minutes to an album that is otherwise rather sanguine. "Sleeping In" ties together the assassination of JFK, global warming and human imperfection quite perfectly, while "Recycled Air" is arguably the most beautiful song about airplane travel ever written. "We Will Become Silhouettes" explores the irrefutable consequences of nuclear holocaust with such poeticism and matter-of-factness that by end of the song the thought of becoming nothing more than a shadow of radiation left on the wall doesn't sound all that bad.
Gibbard is often turgid and verbose, but the straightforward manner of his expression keeps his lyrics free from artifice. "I'm thinking it's a sign that the freckles in our eyes are mirror images and when we kiss they're perfectly aligned," he sings in "Such Great Heights". Somehow his why-use-one-word-when-seven-will-do approach doesn't upset the balance of the songs but instead creates an uninterrupted flow of sympathy, honesty and hopeful acceptance. Give Up has an undeniably cohesive feel to it in all regards. Not without fault, but so charmingly laid-back you won't care enough to object to any minor imperfections.
Ron Sexsmith - Retriever Nettwerk/V2
Reviewed by Adam D. Miller
What is it about the Canadian music that manages to find success abroad? As a Canadian who enjoys traveling and discussing music with the locals, I have been very defensive when bringing up the subject of my country’s national music. I am personally put to blame for people with strange names like Avril, Bryan, Celine, and Shania taking over the radiowaves worldwide. My fellow Canadians can vouch for me though. It’s not my fault!
Canada’s musical history is rich and wondrous. Four of the greatest singer/songwriters of the late 1960s and 1970s were born and raised in Canada. Leonard Cohen of Montreal, Joni Mitchell of Ft. McLeod, Alberta, and Robbie Robertson and Neil Young, both born in Toronto. These songwriters quickly found success in the United States and abroad, much like the non-songwriters or mediocre-songwriters you hear on BBC Radio on a daily basis. But before my Canadians give up on the future of Canadian music, I am proud to announce that great singer/songwriters still exist in this country, and that Ron Sexsmith of St. Catharines, Ontario, is the best of the bunch.
Despite having made several fantastic records over the past decade, Ron Sexsmith has largely maintained a cult following, both in his native country and abroad. Many of his biggest cheerleaders are household names, such as Elvis Costello, Sheryl Crow, and Coldplay. Yet despite his famous fans and accessible sound, he still remains one of Canada’s best kept secrets.
With his last album, Cobblestone Runway, it seemed as if Sexsmith and his promoters were getting desperate for a younger audience and more publicity. The album featured guest stints by Mr. Gwenyth Paltrow himself, Chris Martin, and Sexsmith even opened for Coldplay on their last tour. The album was not bad, by any means, but it did not contain much of the magic from Sexsmith’s previous efforts. Retriever on the other hand, could very well be the best Ron Sexsmith album yet, filled with catchy melodies and clever lyrics without the strains of overproduction that blemished Cobblestone Runway. The highlight of the album is “Imaginary Friends,” a song warning the listener that “imaginary friends will always let you down.” The single, “Whatever It Takes”, which has received some radio play in Canada, could easily have been a hit for Al Green.
While Sexsmith’s limited range and unique sense of delivery may put off some critics, his songs are both accessible and timeless, without a doubt. He remains Canada’s best kept secret, and while that confuses me, I don’t mind it one bit.
Sonic Youth - Sonic Nurse Geffen
Reviewed by Mark Biggs
Sonic Nurse is the 19th studio album by Sonic Youth. It sounds more akin to the music that the band was producing in the mid-1980s, and in my opinion that’s certainly no bad thing. The album is full of many of the hallmarks of a Sonic Youth album; the songs are complex and musically, very adventurous. This does not sound like an album by a band that is now – and let us be honest - past what many would consider its creative peak. Sonic Nurse does still suffer from a lack of approachability. Never an easy band to listen to, this album remains a difficult introduction to Sonic Youth.
It is very hard and quite a rare feat for a band to remain creative after such a long career. Being an experimental rock band, Sonic Youth have always pushed their particular sound and musical style. Some of the later albums that the group produced took this too far and the albums were worse off for it. Change is good, but shouldn’t be forced, which on occasion is what seemed to be happening with Sonic Youth.
That’s not to say that this album is somehow without purpose or any kind of advancement. The songs make up a very strong line-up of the reasons why the band have always received critical acclaim. Its songs contain some really great riffs and the tension in both the build up of the songs and the lyrics is very strong throughout. One of the strongest tracks, “Unmade Bed,” starts with the lyric: “Look who’s come back home again, loser looking for his lucky break, this time he says he just needs a friend, ain’t on the run he ain’t on the take.” The wistful tone and the simple sound to the intro, setting the build for the central part of the song, is classic Sonic Youth and is probably why many fans will get a lot from this album.
That right there is the problem with this album, and is the difficulty that bands like Sonic Youth face. Existing fans, and there are many, will love this album. It is everything that a fan wants; a series of songs that highlight why they like Sonic Youth. For somebody who is new to the band it is much more difficult a proposition. The quality of some songs really stand out, however some of the songs such as “Mariah Carey and the Arthur Doyle Handcream” will probably leave newcomers not quite sure what this album is trying to be. The sequencing of the album is less than perfect for someone who has not heard any of the eighteen other albums Sonic Youth has produced. There is a tendency for the songs to jump around in approach and it often leaves you surprised at the change in feeling and the resonance of the track when compared to what you were listening to five minutes ago.
Overall, Sonic Nurse is an album that is certainly worth listening to. Always challenging, its songs are inventive, creative, and demand attention. Listen to it, and I think you’ll be somewhat surprised.
Stellastarr* - Stellastarr* RCA
Reviewed by Brighid Mooney
Um, it's got a good beat and it's easy to dance to?
What can be said about Stellastarr*'s self-titled debut album that wasn’t said about countless bands two decades ago on American Bandstand? Well, not much, though that kind of memory-evoking accessibility doesn't seem to work against this band. But danceability isn't the only element that would have made Stellastarr* feel right at home on Dick Clark's musical showcase. Stellastarr* is a band that isn't afraid to wear its influences on its sleeve, and that kind of shameless bravado seems to have served it well on their initial effort. Within the 10-song debut, lead singer and songwriter Shawn Christensen seems to be simultaneously channelling both the B-52's Fred Schneider and David Byrne. Christensen didn't originally envision himself as the band's singer, but after failing to find someone suitable, he took on the position with enthusiasm and his raw, unpolished vocals are a defining part of the band's sound. Unfortunately for Stellastarr*, the band's sound lacks the singular flair that would help set it apart from its more distinct contemporaries like Hot Hot Heat or Interpol. But if you were ever a fan of the Cure, the Talking Heads, or the Pixies, Stellastarr* does manage to bring a modern verve to the essence of your old favorites.
Most of the songs on the album are post-punk pop affairs with catchy beats that at some point explode into a kind of climactic emotional vocal breakdown. The band's first single "Jenny," while nothing groundbreaking, is as infectious a song as you're likely to get out of the largely homogenous indie rock movement. But well-planned and executed backing harmonies, as well as the more subtle and languid tone of songs like "Moongirl" and "Untitled," hint at a mature potential that will evade the copious like-minded indie rock bands on the scene today. And despite their sometimes less than subtle 80s flashback sound (guess which band the punky closer "Pulp Song" is an homage to), Stellastarr*'s influences do go farther into the past. At certain points you can hear traces of David Bowie in his spacier moments. "Untitled" has an ethereal quality that echoes of Pink Floyd, and I swear the final drawn-out notes of "Moongirl" never fail, for me at least, to bring the epic and sweeping last strains of Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven" to mind.
Although musically Stellastarr* relies on mostly upbeat tempos and haunting riffs, lyrically they owe more to the doom and gloom of bands like the Cure, with Christensen adding wit and a touch of hope to the predominately dour themes of loss and disappointment. "I'd like to blame it on the artist in me," he sings in "A Million Reasons", "but there's no one there, plus that's bullshit."
He may be right, but if so, it's the kind of bullshit that you'll actually enjoy hearing.
Reviewed by Shel Desormeaux
(What the hell.)
The Killers have called themselves "a cross between Duran Duran and the Rolling Stones," and while I've yet to hear the Stones anywhere on Hot Fuss, the original boy band is a definite influence.
The guys also insist they’re certainly not a New Wave band, but please. The debut album’s first track, “Jenny Was a Friend of Mine” brings to mind very early, more pop-ish Cure, even down to the band’s enthusiastic tendency to name friends in their song titles. The second track, “Mr. Brightside,” reminds me of Ontario New Wavers’ The Spoons (remember them? Damn.). “On Top” brings to mind King’s “Made in Japan,” and shit, I could go on.
Now, that’s not to say that as a bit of a throwback the album is devoid of originality, or isn’t refreshing. It’s full o’ hooks but not completely synthesized, which lends to a heavier than expected sound and would result in, I would imagine, a great live show. Brandon Flowers’ voice doesn’t sound like any you’d find in a bar anywhere in the southwest, but you could pluck the guitar, bass or drums out of this lineup and put them just about anywhere you find a tumbleweed.
It’s no surprise at all that a band like this hit hard in the UK before taking off from their home city of Las Vegas, where it would likely be difficult for new bands to find a niche for themselves alongside Celine Dion and David Blaine. These guys could do worse than be accused of sticking their desert-hot toes in cool UK mud. Hot Fuss is fun to listen to, even without the Flock of Seagulls hair.
They Might Be Giants - The Spine
Zoe Records
Reviewed by Russell Bartholomee
If you’re anything like me, a new They Might Be Giants record is met with a strange mixture of joy and trepidation. Joy because it’s wonderful that the Johns are still making records more than twenty years since first informing us that “Everything Right is Wrong Again.” Trepidation because - let’s be completely honest - starting with John Henry, every new record has seemed pale relative to the early triumphs of their debut, Lincoln, Flood, and Apollo 18. Don’t get me wrong. I dig what they’ve been doing for the last ten years. Some of their best songs are on their recent releases. But none of those albums have consistently hit the majestic heights of Flood. Whether an album has too much filler, too may recycled b-sides, or because there are too many guitar solos and not enough glockenspiels, each new disc has been at least mildly disappointing. As good as they are, each new listen begs the terrifying question: “Is this the TMBG album that will finally (gasp) suck?”
I’m happy to say that their latest effort, The Spine, answers that question with a resounding “No!” This is their most consistent set of songs since John Henry, and with repeated listening, possibly since Apollo 18. From beginning to end, The Spine embodies everything you have come to love and expect from TMBG. It has instantly hummable melodies (“Experimental Film,” “Prevenge”), idiosyncratic instrumental arrangements (“Stalk of Wheat,” features the tuba prominently), and - most importantly - surreal, mind-bending lyrics that make you laugh out loud every time you hear them.
Consider this lyric from “Wearing a Raincoat”:
“Turning to drugs to help you sleep will only lead to sleep.
And sleeping is a gateway drug to being awake again…
Wearing a raincoat is flying around in an airplane made of a raincoat,
But when you think of that it hurts your mind,
And you’ll need your mind for later on....”
The Johns have always constructed delightfully twisted characters and matching alternate universes for them to inhabit, whether they be thousand-year-old baritones or crooning nightlights. On The Spine, they imagine a poker game played by Jodie Foster, Bach, and Gandhi (“Au Contraire”), sing a love song to a alcoholism (“Thunderbird”), and wax rhapsodic about the film they are making, which does not technically exist but which will nevertheless “make your face implode” (“Experimental Film”). The entire disc is brimming with clever wordplay and is the most consistently rocking record they have done in a long time.
Is there a song as brilliant as “Anna Ng”? Well, no. But if you’re waiting for They Might Be Giants to make another Lincoln, then you’re probably also waiting for Wilco to make another A.M. Not going to happen. Even so, The Spine is an excellent record, full of quirky, funny, musically rich songs that get better every time you hear them. And you can dance to it. To ask for more would be greedy.
Wilco - A Ghost Is Born Nonesuch
Reviewed by Adam D. Miller
In the nine years that have passed since Wilco released their first album (1995’s A.M.), the band has gone through a variety of changes, both in sound and personnel. Of the original lineup that delivered Neil Young and Byrds-inspired alternative country on the group’s first album, only two remain members of the band: singer/songwriter/guitarist Jeff Tweedy and bassist John Stirratt.
Whether it is due to Tweedy’s shifting vision or expanding songwriting techniques, each album Wilco releases is drastically different than that which preceded it. Much of the country influence heard on A.M. remained on Being There, but elements of 1960s R&B and rock ‘n’ roll were also introduced on their second release. By their third proper album, Summerteeth, the band had largely abandoned any signs of country-influence, focusing more on perfectly constructed power-pop. Their last release, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot shunned practical pop altogether, introducing more abstract influences, which ultimately got them booted from their record label at the time.
A Ghost Is Born is the fifth Wilco album, not including their two collaborations with British singer/songwriter Billy Bragg. The album largely picks up where Yankee Hotel Foxtrot left off, but continues to challenge the listener even further in terms of both subject matter and musical experimentation. The personnel changes continue, with only Tweedy, Stirratt, and drummer Glenn Kotche remaining from the Yankee Hotel Foxtrot lineup. Longtime Tweedy collaborator Jay Bennett quit the band during the recording of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, and more recently, Wilco’s talented multi-instrumentalist Leroy Bach departed as well.
Mikael Jorgenson, the newest member of the band, fits right in on A Ghost Is Born, offering great piano intros on “Hell Is Chrome” and “Hummingbird,” and assisting wth the electronic noise that make Yankee Hotel Foxtrot and A Ghost Is Born sonically comparable. The album also contains some of the longest songs Wilco has ever released. “Spiders (Kidsmoke)” runs at over ten minutes, while “Less Than You Think” is even longer, thanks to droning feedback that probably could have been left out. Wilco succeeds where other bands have failed in “Spiders (Kidsmoke)” by disallowing the listener to get bored, yet the skip button is awfully tempting during “Less Than You Think.”
But I’m not going to tell Wilco what to do. The album is still one of the finest the year has yet to offer, and they have succeeded in making each album they release more interesting than the ones that came before. Besides, sometimes interesting isn’t as accessible as the bland, something that Wilco’s growing audience recognizes.
