Top 10 Most Overrated Albums of 2010

Like every other year, there are some albums that got universal praise seemingly long before even being released or for some sentimental reason. This list is for only those albums that are not on my top 30 of the best albums of the year but seemingly popped up everywhere else. So, Laurie Andersons’ Homeland isn’t here because, though critics descended upon it like a holy text to be revered---it has been totally been forgotten on their year-end lists. Yes, that’s how vicious and absentminded their hypocrisy can be. Here we go:


1. This is Happening (LCD Soundsystem): even before release, one could sense critics lining up to crown this year-end winner. I had no expectations but its ordinary dance tracks seem cartoonish and I don’t mean that in a nice way. It must have hurt critics too though they won’t ever admit it but the fact that most lists have placed this ridiculous record outside of top 20 range speaks volumes.

2. Swim (Caribou): a huge disappointment given how brilliant his previous album was (Andorra). The lead track, Odessa was cool enough but from their Dan Snaith tuned me out with his non-commitment to lyrics.

3. Plastic Beach (Gorillaz): I love me some Gorillaz but the second half of this album dragged on for ever and left us with an unbalancing act that Damion Albarn just doesn’t pull off convincingly.

4. Treats (Sleigh Bells): by mid-way I tired of their noise and wanted actual, real songs besides the brilliant ‘Infinity Guitars’. The hypocritical view of most critics was that though they’re signed to M.I.A’s label and she tried her hand at the same stuff with her album, she got slammed while they got all praise. Something isn’t balanced there.

5. How I got Over (The Roots): or, how I continue to do the same stuff year-in, year-out but get praised for it always.

6. Crazy for You (Best Coast): it’s retro surf-rock done with female vocals basically and that’s all. And no, I don’t want to head out to the beach with it.

7. Sisterworld (Liars): this edged out of the gates early but has remained there because the low spectral quality was obvious.

8. Crystal Castles (Crystal Castles): I loved their debut but this new opus just lacked any oomph or memorable lyrics pared with production value.

9. The Monitor (Titus Andronicus): maybe it was the super serious intent that swayed critics that this was Very Important material but I can’t remember one memorable hook. It’s not awful but it is forgettable.

10. Brothers (The Black Keys): a very fine duo but even with some fine moments, at what point will their garage rock expand?

The Age of Adz (Sufjan Stevens) (2010)

The Emperor’s New Clothes


The Wikipedia page on Sufjan Stevens gives us an endearing image: him strumming a guitar with, of all things, a pair of multi-coloured wings. Given all that we now know that he has faced in the five years without proper new material, it is quite apt. For the uninitiated, those wings used to be starchy white given the universal critical love that his past albums have enjoyed. Sufjan’s appeal to indie-heads has always been a bit cerebral: a kind of intellectual nod to the unflinching Chistian-based idealism he espoused. But after a daring scheme to dedicate whole albums to the fifty states of America, Stevens has interminably broken down. While the length of this review alone couldn’t properly detail his exhaustive musical output, suffice it to say that the pedestal he was placed upon after the stunning Illinois (2005) has proved to be the breaking point.


A breaking point that threatens to rebel against his lofty lyrical eviscerations because such conscientiousness demands a sturdy personal examination on a rotating basis. It was no surprise to me then to read somewhere that he had likened his construction of the album to how Woody Allen directs and stars in any of his film, most notably Manhattan. Add the inspiration of mad-cap artist Royal Robertson and you begin to understand the mountain of neuroses and schizophrenia that Sufjan has layered the album with. The Age of Adz (pronounced ‘odds’) thus powders its face with heavy electronics and orchestration but not the quasi-spiritual overtones we’ve become accustomed to. The immediate difference between it and its predecessors is the fact that instead of interpolations of ideas, Sufjan now is sharing something apparently real, worldly things that we’ve all experienced during our lives like a broken heart or a crisis of self.


In short, he’s finally become one of us, the imperfect mass of human life-form that he always seemed above of. It is this new found relatable factor that makes the opener Futile Devices touching even amid his trademark acoustic arrangement. I Walked, the standout, starts out with a quasi-R&B beat but mutates into a mournful wall of reverb that ricochets so sumptuously that it’s exhilarating and sad at the same time. I couldn’t image any of the second tier R&B crooners around (Usher, John Legend, etc) doing anything this mournful or remotely sexy. It’s intriguingly erotic too; something previous Sufjan songs were not. Chicago and John Wayne Gacy Jr had the same template but they were instructive songs to a fault: meant to warn not inspire conflicting emotion. It’s hard to imagine that this is the same Sufjan Stevens we’ve thought steadfastly as a Bible-thumping, Jesus-loving, Republican-voting moralist the past decade. Like, seriously, what accounts for the jittery beat that course throughout another highlight, I Want to Be Well? When he croons, ‘do yourself some good/ do yourself a favour/ do yourself a turn from the ordinary’, it’s almost as if the five years have coloured his dark materials to the point of becoming a soul brother. Another gem, Too Much, turns the amps up and the studio atmospherics literally bounce off each other with a care-free kinetic energy. Get Real, Get Right incorporates all the little tweaks and quirks we’ve become used to from Bjork but Stevens unearths an even weirder type of funk within the heavy layers of textures used.


Even the cagey ideas have a specialty to them that lets one know that Stevens has given us his best album to date. Now That I’m Older drags through six minutes of atmospherics but once his vocals chip in, it turns utterly mesmerizing: in effect, working a short yet clever trick until it’s done. Even when he retreads (Vesuvius) it sounds heightened, exalted even because there’s a worldly conviction behind it now, not just a theoretical one. The ambitious 25- minute closer Impossible Soul somehow works mainly due to the jarring horns awaiting us almost at every turn. They work to prop up his electronic synths and direction as it morphs itself into a separate EP’s worth of ideas. It’s more that twice the length of Joanna Newsom’s titular track for her album this year but both know how to cleverly spin a tale: she lyrically and he musically. His title track here bleeds electronic dissonance while being, at heart, a love letter. All for Myself proves that both Jaime Stewart and Antony Hegarty have been slacking off in the baroque pop terrain and are approaching irrelevance.


Sufjan’s ideas here aren’t exactly unprecedented—musicians have always been meant to question themselves-- but he’s made a great sonic record about losing faith and juxtaposed it with the result of what happens when the disillusion lifts. Like the cover art for the album, one senses that there is a new Sufjan emerging from the principles that has always guided him. The majestic emperor figure sketched decades ago by Robertson is regally robed but there is a red colour applied almost as if to highlight some inner turmoil slowly becoming external. The effect is pretty yet effective: ladies and gentlemen, the questioning section of the Sufjan Stevens career is over.


Where does it stand in the annals of 21st century popular music? Is it better than Kid A or will it have the same long-lasting effect? Honestly, I have no idea but Pitchfork loves it and it will feature prominently on most year-end critics’ lists. I reckon this is the new decade’s first great introspective album. It may take some time for his old fans to appreciate its change of direction and his loss of ideological innocence but no one can say that Sufjan hasn’t blown a huge load all over us with this brilliant album. I’d be a damned liar if I said I wasn’t here still gasping for breath listening to it while reaching for the hand towel…

RATING: 8.75/10

Project Runway Season 8 Recap

In Defence of Gretchen Jones:


In the few minutes right after Heidi Klum declared Gretchen Jones the winner of this season’s Project Runway, it was near impossible to keep track of the status updates on the show’s Facebook page. Not surprisingly, the messages were not congratulatory to the Portland designer for a hard-fought victory but instead to overwhelmingly reject the outcome. Fans of the runner up, Mondo Guerro, have been all over the internet with multiple claims that he was robbed so persistently that it must be an uncomfortable feeling for all parties involved since the show’s two hour series finale.


They say everything works better in hindsight but as a critic I prefer to look ahead and make all of my bets. When I originally picked Jones to win the season (see Bookends, October 10th edition) I had only the first five episodes to base such a decision on. That was after she won the first two challenges, something unprecedented in the show’s history. Guerro hadn’t become the second designer ever to string three challenge wins together nor revealed his HIV positive status yet. However, by the time my piece came out I had edited it to reflect those changes. I still stuck with Gretchen though to win the entire thing.


To understand how Project Runway operates one must take a look at its judges. In an interview even before Season 8 began, Michael Kors exclaimed that hats were the current accessory of choice and that floral prints were decidedly ridiculous. Kors has been a wunderkind since he was nineteen and still is the pre-eminent ladies-wear designer in America. Both he and Nina Garcia are graduates of the esteemed Fashion Institute of Technology and she oversees fashion trends at Marie Claire and Elle magazines. For fans of Mondo to turn against their insight just for choosing Gretchen, shows a type of fickleness that has no place in fashion. As one neutral blogger rightfully pointed out, both are heavily invested in and influence American fashion. Quite frankly, I’d take their expert opinion over Klum (a model & active wear designer) and Jessica Simpson (a pop singer) any day. Heidi deliberated on an emotional level while Simpson seemed ill at ease or constipated whenever the camera focused on her during the finale.



Another misnomer this season was to think that Gretchen was a total underdog. Though she only won two challenges, the judges had consistently held her styling and taste-level high. Their criticism of her was the superfluous type that betrays a genuine likeness for her designs. In essence, she was never in any danger of being eliminated. The same applies to Mondo, who started slower but once he came out of his shell then his invigorating style unleashed some memorable pieces on the runway. His tremendous talent became even more personal when we learned of his struggles.

Here I must point out that Project Runway is a show that centers on Fashion Week and the collections presented by the three finalists. It’s a total experience, one geared to expose designers to the pressures and idiosyncrasies of the business. Based on what we saw on the finale, both Mondo and Andy South had issues controlling their collections whereas Gretchen was in command and relaxed. This plays a huge part in the perception that a designer is at one with the pieces being sent out.


The final collections by all three designers were uniquely theirs but Gretchen’s underwent the hugest transformation. Whereas Mondo kept everything as was and Andy only substituted his previously shown lavender bathing suit for a grey one, Jones actually saw wisdom in the critique she got the week before and changed things up. Gretchen’s ego had often clashed with the judges but she humbled herself to an alternative idea. When first presented, I hated the three pieces she showed and the hideous brown texture that Nina Garcia cutely called ‘crunchy granola’. The clothes looked inexpensive and in dire need of accessories.


I’m not sure why Mondo had all his models in head-pieces but they looked slightly ridiculous with the colored party hats and I think if he had omitted them, he’d have won the show. Garcia had warned Mondo that he ran the risk of not being taken seriously as a designer if he couldn’t edit more sternly from his print template. I think she went against him too when she considered that Mondo’s ‘Day of the Dead’ theme was a single season feel and not as sustainable as Gretchen’s. His outsized prints are sheer genius but there was definite design overkill and its best he hears objectionable criticism from a professional than blind praise from a casual fan. Gretchen’s first look was met with silence but the preceding designs were simply stunning. The silence at that point was provoked by admiration and one could see all three judges nodding in approval. When the granola dress came out she had wisely cut out its middle to reveal skin and the accessories were easy and sprite. She incorporated different hues and the wild hair and hats added a depth I didn’t know she possessed. The final piece somehow pulled off two hideous colors and made it work. It did lack an outstanding piece but the cohesiveness of the look reads more relevant in these times. I feel if she had used basic black and made the apparel tighter-fitting then it’d be even more stunning. In fact, when I first viewed the collections two weeks ago online, hers immediately registered and I’m sure it was the same for both Garcia and Kors.


Still, Mondo fans maintain that he was robbed even though, from a professional standpoint, Gretchen’s look has been overwhelmingly embraced. On the show itself he won only one more challenge than her if you don’t count the finale. If you do then they were tied. Winning challenges isn’t everything: season 1 champion, Jay McCarrol didn’t win any en route to victory over Kara Saun who had won four challenges, including the last one just before the finale. Season 2 saw Daniel Vosovic win even more than Kara Saun (5) yet he too was upstaged at Fashion Week by eventual winner Chloe Dao. Those are real upsets in any scenario.


Finally, in order to press their claims, Mondo’s fans have smeared Gretchen as the bitchiest person ever on the show and the least talented. That is laughable because those people clearly never watched Wendy Pepper or season 6 champ Irinia Shabayeva who went as far as to accuse her runner-up of copying her design at one point. Besides, there were no angels this season including Mondo. He was initially derisive of Michael Costello before they made up. April Johnson unleashed her cattiness by episode 2 by deriding both Gretchen and Jason. On the contrary, Gretchen started by praising Valerie’s designs and helping out Cassanova when others wouldn’t. Gretchen gave her opinions on design, not personality. Ivy constantly dug into Michael Costello’s character without proof. Costello himself was disingenuous with Gretchen but no one has seemed to mind this or called him out on it. While I don’t totally buy Gretchen’s strong woman bitch slant, she has a point in that a defined female perspective always toes the line. Ever since the Team Luxe challenge when her leadership qualities became obvious, women bloggers in particular have been nothing but negative towards her. I found her to be calculating and naïve more than anything else. I never heard her say anything personally disrespectful to anyone on the show yet here she is now subjected to vicious, unsubstantiated claims. Maybe it’s because she isn’t suffering from some ailment or didn’t style a shoe in a model’s hair why we don’t care enough to humanize her existence. When she called Andy’s design ‘student work’ early on, it was totally inappropriate even though I felt the same way. It’s not like she tapped him on the shoulder and said it to his face during the finale though. She hasn’t learned how to be politically correct yet but she must if fashion is to totally embrace her. I also disagree when it’s said that Gretchen’s designs were boring. Her two challenge wins were daring and if the experts could see that then that’s all that really matters. She delved into earthy tones to present designs well styled and tasteful. This was evident to me, a fashion neophyte, but it was on that basis I was sure she’d triumph. Here’s to hoping that she has a long and successful career ahead of her.

There is No One Else When I Lay Down and Dream (Ninca Leece) (2010)

Future Bride



It happens every year: critic sits down to shape up a best music year-end list, fretting mightily that some new or relatively unknown artist or band will slip through the cracks after months of hearing everything as well as the unavoidable selective listening. It does help that they’re so many other indie-heads out there proclaiming ‘must-listen to’ types but for every FrYars or Jenny Wilson that I’ve unearthed there have been bands like The XX or producers like The Dream that leave me cold with indifference. It’s a fine line but one that most artists either fall into or against right away.


Ninca Leece, however, is a different type of proposition because I’m still not sure where her aesthetic is heading. Her debut begins with the track Touriste, a minimalistic dance number that reminds one of Bjork circa 1993. This is a good thing but the time-line is very important too because that was when our favorite Icelander dropped Debut, a delightfully weird, abstract project, full of great ideas like Human Behavior and Venus as a Boy. She wasn't yet at the height of her genius but at the point where its realisation was obvious. Unfortunately, Leece hasn’t armed herself with such variety here but what she gives off instead is a strong batch of house songs that are homogeneous to the dotted tee. It's a little rough around its edges but something epic is amid all this repetitiveness. Whereas Bjork or even Wilson use dramatic flourishes, Leece throws in electronic programming and children voices (The Uncut Version). There’s nothing edgy here either nor does she have a signature guttural growl but this isn’t comfort music for elevators or Bookophilia-browsing (sake for Love Song). This is la-la club music, at times blurred with techno and propulsive beats that DJs will be manipulating throughout the year. A track like Division, with its groovy one-liner, feels like a smug but deserving victory lap.


When Ninca turns up the amps though then her grooves go for days. On Top of the World introduces guitars and a lovely vocal wrap before the house beats collapse upon everything. Like a Tattoo is her only real head-on vocal workout and it’s gorgeous, replete with synths that enhance the taunt nature of the track. Its way too short but it’s the heralding of a great promise once she adds sensuality to the mix. Funny Symphony throws in fuzzy bass lines and blissful French, just like how her country-woman Camille does and the pastiche effect is strong. You’re Walking in My Head would fit into any club, remixed or not. When she croons, ‘somewhere between coffee and shower/ you’re still there/ wishing I could spend all day with you,’ then inserts the chorus with spray-gun synths, she finally achieves an originality that didn’t seem likely.


For, let there be no doubt, Leece does run into a few stumbling blocks with There is No One Else… because the music is so at odds with her intent. Maybe it is the two-tier genre effort that burdens her sound but techno is by nature monolithic while dance music must mutate constantly for survival. Any attempt to bridge the gap between both must walk that proverbial fine line. At times, it seems Leece scurries back from the challenge: The Beast has to suffer throughout five minutes of tediousness before some life kicks into it: all of fifty-two seconds! Aseptique is a lovely chillwave track but an instrumental piece nonetheless.

That leads right back to the point that maybe what Leece needs more than superfluous execution now is time to master her ideas. She needs time to grow out of her self-consciousness and critics, like myself, eager to pile on the early-Bjork years comparisons. The dance-hippie slant is fraught with many artists this year alone: Glasser, Avery Tare and Nedry can all claim great songs (Apply, Heads Hammock and Squid Cat Battle, respectively) but middling to just okay albums. Ninca doesn’t have that one defining song here but an album simmering with uniformly interesting stuff. I don’t know if that’s something music execs and impatient fans are willing to watch blossom but they should. I do know that it’s fascinatingly indecisive though, just as how Bjork was when she just started out. I need not to remind you how brilliant her career turned out afterwards with back-to-back masterpieces (Post in ’95 and the career-defining Homogenic in ’97). I’m not saying Leece has such an exalted trajectory in store but she’s unto something fantastic here, mark my words. And if she does evolve into the second French version of Bjork (Camille is the first) then I’ll be a genius for pitching it up now when it eventually happens, hopefully somewhere in the not too far future.

RATING: 8/10

MAYA (M.I.A) (2010)

Living in America



Beyond the now infamous spat with New York Times writer Lynn Hirschberg and the decision by Youtube to ban the video for Born Free, here we are still grappling with M.I.A’s third album just under a month of its release. Her career is at a compelling stage now; that of global provocateur and pop icon assaulting the problematic American terrain after the surprise hit of Paper Planes. The two halves of her persona though are so strongly entrenched that it is with much suspicion that MAYA has been greeted with. The pro-M.I.A faction has resisted it so far because for the first time they’ve started to suspect that the music isn’t what’s foremost on her mind. Any perception of M.I.A’s intentions must state that but it also doesn’t help that MAYA is coming off the back of Kala, a landmark album that saw her usurp Bjork as the leading proponent of pop music while bringing the world into recording studios and Western consciousness.


First up is the brief yet paranoid The Message where M.I.A outlines the connection between Google to an all-intrusive government. It sets the pace for what is a jittery yet enthralling ride. Steppin’ Up is a harsh, industrial-hip/hop rant that throws out the swagger immediately (‘I light up like a genie/ and I blow up on this song’). The album standout Teqkilla runs six minutes and it crashes up against a wall of baille funk, ganga references and alcoholism. It is one creative mindf_ck of an experience, the likes of which she’s never done before. Lovealot rides a stunning ruckus bag rhythm while racking up controversial mileage. When she croons, ‘like Obama needs to love up Chen’, the jarring beats can’t drown out the geopolitical statement but damned if it doesn’t try hard to. Meds and Feds steals the Sleigh Bells single Treats away to inject much needed attitude over the one line, ‘I just give a damn’ for what seems like an eternity but it never gets boring. Tell Me Why pairs electronic beats with chorale music to take a swipe at her critics (I’ve been coming up for a while/ on your radar/ and I know I made it/ just by counting up my haters’). It Iz What It Iz, a seamless cross between blues and pop, warmly reveals the woman behind the music and her struggles. Her vocals here find a range between contrition and sexiness, a combination that I’m not sure even she thought possible but it’s a stunning result… the slinky type of stuff I imagine Aaliyah would be doing were she still alive. Born Free brilliantly takes punk band Suicide’s Ghost Rider apart for her own use to finally give it a weighty rethink after Romain Gavras’ disturbing music video robbed it of any previous relevance.


The album is seriously flawed at points however; something previous M.I.A work was not. This isn’t fatal for most artists but for what M.I.A represents, it’s the stumbling block we’ve dreaded ever since she landed in the American mainstream. For each exciting layer of noise and context sculpted we also notice some lazy-sounding experiments that just don’t gel. Story to be Told sets up an intriguing premise but her vocals stay within a timid refrain so long that the incredible beat is wasted. It Takes a Muscle---destined to be a huge karaoke hit no doubt—takes a decent enough stab at reggae but there’s nothing interesting really going on lyrically. Where MAYA really loses edge though is its final two tracks. XXXO remix is the type of slick, commercial fare that’d be a perfect summer hit for someone else. Jay-Z intercutting with a phoned-in verse only reinforces the cynical panic that M.I.A is changing for the worst. This is within your own perception to judge though because, frankly, it is a fantastic pop song once you’re willing to trust her machinations. Space is three minutes of bland repetition that feels a bit too smug in its production. It’s a waste of collaborative effort and, well, we expect much more from M.I.A three albums in.


Though I believe some critics have gone too far in lambasting the album, I contend that it is to sharply rap the apparent hasty production and not to see her fall into an abyss. Counter-reviews have started to pop up to reinforce two points. The first—which I’ll credit to cokemachineglow’s Calum Marsh—is that while M.I.A’s quest for superstardom in America is ill-timed, the innovation and quality of her music hasn’t eroded to the point of whoring into the money-making Billboard market. The second point, accredited to Nas, is that she is the sound of the future of pop. Whereas her previous work established her on a highly successful personal level, here she is now gathering a mighty colony of producers (Rusko), an independent label (N.E.E.T) and influencing lo-fi/pop music that has dominated the year (Sleigh Bells, Wavves,).

In the process M.I.A has altered contemporary music yet again without caring where the displacement falls. It’s the inevitable move to wean fans off the expected and substituting it for something newer that’ll likely take years to appreciate in value. That’s the kind of risk-taking that makes M.I.A still the most vital yet flawed musician around. MAYA panders too much to expected fame, is an imperfect blueprint, rails too hard to be noticed and bloats on its own excess...all traits that are uniquely American. All M.I.A has done is captured these elements, jotted them down and delivered a Sandburg-esque ode to a country she must surely love and hate in equal measure. Indeed, that is the uncompromising sentiment that hovers around this record. Hate her now but it’s also worth asking that if this is her ‘worst’ album then how comes it’s still ten times more interesting than anything her counterparts can produce even at their best?

RATING: 8.5/10

Clash of the Titans (2010)

Some Odd Thunder

In the beginning we are told how the Olympian gods overthrew the Titans with the help of the terrifying Kraken and settled on Mount Olympus with Zeus (Liam Neeson) as ruler of all and his brother Hades (Ray Fiennes) ‘tricked’ into ruling the underworld.

That opening narrative aside, Louis Leterrier’s Clash of the Titans pays little homage to the 1981 film that it’s adapted from or actual mythological events in any proper sequence. Instead this vanity remake follows its hero Perseus (Sam Worthington) as he sets out to save Argos by destroying the Kraken and Hades, the god responsible for his mother’s death. Of course, this quest requires a motley crew of men to help him battle awkward-looking giant scorpions, three blind sister crones and, more dangerously, behead the gorgon Medusa.

It’s a plot we know well but soon enough huge holes appear and they blur the realistic efforts of the film almost as much as the hasty rush to 3D formatting on display. Leterrier, known more for the Transporter series, doesn’t fixate on storyline long enough to set off his action sequences to full effect. This causes much static. Clash of the Titans, like the ridiculous Percy Johnson and the Lightning Thief, misunderstands its source material by focusing less on the Olympians and more on one human (a demi-god, to be technical).

This antagonistic trend to modernize every mythological film is ridiculous because it leaves characters totally vacillating. For example, the romance between Perseus and Andromeda (Alexa Davalos) is absent and in its place she functions solely as a high-priced extradition request. Hades demands her as a sacrifice to the gods or else Argos will be wiped out by the Kraken. Though the king, her father, tries to find ways around the request, Andromeda eventually gives in to the idea so as to spare her people of certain destruction.

Perseus’ ‘love’ interest is Io (Gemma Arterton), a female nymph who has watched over him since birth. She councils him until conveniently killed before any real sexual tension arises between them. He saves Andromeda of course but Worthington’s performance evokes a type of rigid asexuality that contrasts sharply to Harry Hamlin in the original film. This asexual broad stroke from the writers (Lawrence Kasdan, Travis Beacham) makes every character suffer from an alarming purge of human frailty; they’re characters playing characters essentially, not full-bloodied people.

Only the gods are shown with any human traits ironically: Zeus as the conciliatory ruler looking out with concern for a son and Hades maliciously out to destroy Argos with tacit consent. That consent of course comes from Zeus and though it throws his own leadership and its consequences in doubt, Leterrier skirts any real religious implications by simply making him seem like an average Joe. Being an action film, Clash of the Titans thus isn’t concerned with Zeus’ complexity issues or who needs protection from whom. It is interested in bringing unruly subjects to the brink of peril before our hero saves the day and gets the girl. It is concerned with Medusa’s hair of snakes and Pegasus magnificently black and brief shimmering across your 3D glasses. Its innovative look sacrifices important characters in the original (Thetis) so as to give you more action and pretty destruction.

And sure enough, it is in this gargantuan scope that the film fails so miserably. Avatar showed us last year that with this new 3D technology much is visually possible but Clash of the Titans follows an annoying trend of hyping big fight sequences only to wrap them up just as you’re settling in for the long haul. The emergence of the Kraken adds menace but Perseus hardly toils to do away with it. Even more surprising is his ‘defeat’ of Hades by merely throwing a lightning bolt-dagger in the god’s direction.

A small gesture with big implications and one passed over entirely by Leterrier but Perseus’ hand is not unaided in the latest banishment of Hades to the underworld. That Zeus would so daringly side against a god (his brother) in favor of humanity (through a son of his) at such a moment of crisis is telling. Leterrier’s scant regard for these conflicts between the brothers limits their true motives. This is amplified by the deafening silence of the other gods whom we see virtually nothing of, not even Hera, the only deity who dares to contradict Zeus on a regular basis.

In the end though the film delivers on its basic premise of being just an update of a cultish fantasy film…nothing more, nothing less. Purists who fume at its clear inferiority to the original miss the point as much as how you can’t equate an online idea like Farmville to real farming. The fact is that more people will flock to the former to appreciate the latter and, for them, on surprisingly deep levels too. This crass update can therefore eschew any noble notion of ideology that makes sense or multi-dimensional gods just to present them—well, Zeus and Hades really—as merely capricious gods of war. Here are deities fighting for human adoration and control and only out to prove, quite frankly, who has the bigger penis. That at least, since the start of humanity, is something we can all relate to. The DVD/Blue Ray package include separate version on each as well as combined. This is important as one is able to view the original shooting of the film and enjoy its textures before the rushed 3D formatting. Blue Ray offers an alternate ending where Perseus confronts Zeus on Olympus as well as in depth discussions with cast…all which make you realize how wasted the final product is.
RATING: 4/10

The ArchAndroid (Janelle Monae) (2010)

Neon Messiah

In summarizing Janelle Monae’s Metropolis two years ago, I was surprised how few other critics had cited her as one of that year’s best new discoveries or even bothered to review her EP. It’s not like Monae didn’t have the stuff we love: cool weirdness, undeniable talent plus a kick-ass pompadour. Metropolis was more than an arty collage of pop music; it was a masterful exploration of alien rebellion and love denied. Its idea was not without precedence but it’s been decades since we’ve had a Ziggy Stardust figure in our midst, much less an interesting female version. Through her persona, Cindi Mayweather, Monae unearthed an ethereal yet groovy space that never dropped the ball.

When last we left her, Mayweather was busy dismembering her robotic parts and headed to Earth in hot pursuit of love. The ArchAndroid thus is the combination of her search for Anthony Greendown and the discovery of her own intrinsic value to her robotic race. It’s a Neo-like transition that takes root in historical and colorful literary references but somehow not overburdened by it all. The opus is comprised of two separate concept suites over seventy minutes and garnished with retro musical production.

Suite II leads off with Overture, an instrumentation piece that signals Cindi Mayweather’s arrival on Earth in search of the titular object. Monae steps immediately into a purple patch: Dance or Die is a nifty club number with a stunning guitar rave up towards its end. Faster flames out into a Badu-esque last few minutes that literally bring the funk curtain down on any thoughts of insincere flattery. Locked Inside juxtaposes her lovelorn vocals with a warm chorus and rhythms that wash over in seamless bliss. Come Alive literally does just that under her screams and electronic guitars. Oh Maker is a simplistic ballad but the multiple-vocal work is brilliantly layered to full effect. Mushrooms and Roses, a track dipped into so much Prince-like energy that by the time the electric guitars trip in you’ve already died and gone to heaven. These are simple songs but when the music is this glorious then it feels miles ahead of anything else R&B has now sake for Badu and Santi White. Cold War and Tightrope, the first two singles, both gloriously expand on Monae’s funk credentials. Tightrope evinces so much dirty funk that it’s hard to imagine your midsection not quivering under its command. Cold War ups the amps with its horns and irresistible beats. At such groovy moments, she becomes inhabited by a huge source of proto-funk, the source origin I’m still trying to figure out but all those years hanging around with Outkast have clearly influenced her.

If it had ended there then it’d be perfect but as Suite III’s Overture gets going, one realizes that if her focus was on satisfying our needs before, now she’s about to refocus on her mission. Neon Valley Street pulls off the Badu-esque trick but there’s something missing from the glint in her eye. Suite III totally slows down her frantic pace and thus we are finally forced to face the naked aim of this effort. The ArchAndroid stumbles in the homestretch though because of the overlap of different directions.

Which is frustrating because her aesthetics slightly suffers by trying to cram diversity where staying on point would’ve sufficed. The duet with Of Montreal (Make the Bus) is contextually mismatched here and as brilliant as Wondaland is, it only leads into the puzzling last trio of songs. These are the songs that focus exclusively on Greendown (57821, Say You’ll Go & Babopbyeya) but, unlike Metropolis, the focus on him here is plaintive. It’s as if the exhaustive nature of her genre-exploration has finally caught up with her.

This is not to distract from the praise Monae has been getting from critics. Given the heavy staleness that hangs over contemporary pop her attempt to bring something new is good. Never mind the fact that this gushing critical love is belated, The ArchAndroid is an established body of work from which to spring from. It doesn’t have masterpieces like Many Moons or Violet Stars Happy Hunting but it marks the point at which we’re making Lauryn Hill comparisons and fast-tracking to next year’s Grammy acceptance speech for Best Album. We’re all playing our part now in recognition of her talent and hype. How else could Clayton Purdom (cokemachineglow.com) write that her music is exactly the type of stuff we’ve (serious music lovers) been waiting for since ever. Oddly enough, he further states that while The ArchAndroid isn’t his favorite album of the year, it’s the best by far.

As someone who’s been in her corner since the start I read conscientiousness in such a statement as well as fiction. It’s a good sophomore but let’s not add pressure by applying the term ‘epochal’ because that only terrifies me as to the great expectations being put on her now…the same expectations that have irrevocably wrecked D’angelo and Lauryn Hill. The same expectations that had Badu sit out five years due to writer’s bloc. For now though it’s just enough that our heroine is still firmly caught up in the hunt for her true love. The only difference is that now she knows that her worshipful audience has finally shown up to register its support.

RATING: 8.75/10

Dear God, I Hate Myself (Xiu Xiu) (2010)

Lion in a Coma

Though his name isn’t familiar outside of indie, Jaime Stewart has spent the past decade as the main persona of the experimental-pop rock band Xiu Xiu (pronounced zhoo zhoo) and as a ringleader for the emo-rock movement. In many ways, he is the movement’s poet laureate and it takes its cues from his dark lyricism and subject palette. Of course, no movement can be held in sway by one person for too long and if Dear God, I Hate Myself is any indicator of Xiu Xiu’s future direction then Stewart’s reign is slowly coming to and end.
But, first we have to summarize what the band has achieved: Xiu Xiu’s music has remained totally uncompromising since their debut ten years ago. Stewart’s angst-ridden, queer lyrics craftily continue to expose a wounded psyche and combined with terrific pop beats it creates the type of music that only they seem capable of anymore.

Maybe then it is that weight of continuity that makes Dear God, I Hate Myself miss its own sardonic point. That of course is the point of being mired deliciously in self-depreciation. Instead, the lovely opening track (Gray Death) aside, it sounds more like a decade’s worth of album rejects and B side recordings that somehow never got completed. Coming off the cool-- yet not heavy critical embrace of-- Women as Lovers (2008) one felt the band was finally full circle. Everything was poised for a breakthrough.

It has not materialized however. I could give many different theories for this but the only one that sticks is Stewart’s great disappointment that no one really seemed to ‘get’ his last album. Thus, this new one isn’t titled as a personal reference but as a professional one. It is smattered with cynicism and unnecessary levels of morose insights. Instead of Stewart using his disappointment with determination he struggles for consistency throughout (for example, Chocolate Makes you Happy starts with riveting promise then tapers off way too easily). This is not with the album’s professed self-loathing but rather his dogged meandering. His interpretation of pop as a main tool of expression has always been fantastically abstract yet somewhat held back. Therefore, his whimsical lyrics have always played around the twin evils of abuse and unrequited desire but the last half of Dear God, I Hate Myself really drags because there’s no gay complexity or subtext present, just empty, boring space.

Which is a great indictment I know, but one that must be acknowledged before the band runs the risk of self-parody. Stewart remains-- amid this falling off--fascinating: his ticking time-bomb vocals still utter breathy non sequitors but the idealism of queer indie music keeps evolving whereas his has not. These kids now have FrYars and Patrick Wolf for affirmation so there is no further need for Stewart’s apparent resistance to change or adaptability to newer thematic ideas. How he got stuck in this holding pattern is not clear but it’s not as if the structural style of Xiu Xiu’s music has diverged greatly since their debut. Even their acclaimed Fabulous Muscles (2004) was very choppy despite having a much sharper personal focus.

Maybe what Stewart hasn’t realized yet is the extent of his collective’s development. Dear God, I Hate Myself never allows its production to subvert things beyond the point of recognition or his total control. So, both Impossible Feeling and This Too Shall Pass Away shut down well before lifting off into unchartered territory. That phrase, unchartered territory, is vital because Xiu Xiu is all Jaime Stewart, all the time so we’re not sure what their true capability lies outside of his doomed poetry. If Women as Lovers was the culmination of dark envy maybe it’s time for a second-party exploration or a break from the minimalistic sound they’ve used exclusively since The Air Force (2006). Lord knows we’ve marveled at his genius (The Leash, from the aforementioned Women as Lovers, is a terrifying piece of psycho-sexual brilliance) but now we’ve borne witness to this impasse. Not quite a step back but here is Stewart dawdling at the fork in the road, unsure where to next with us urging him from the sidelines to get on with it already and stop being such a pussy.

RATING: 6/10

Have One on Me (Joanna Newsom) (2010)

"Little Life-giver"


I won’t lie to you, when I first realized that Have One on Me was a triple CD with a run time of two hours, my heart sank. Eighteen tracks on any album is a huge task for any reviewer to go through but Joanna Newsom is one of the few artists that demand such patience. This is a woman after all who used the line ‘and the meteoroid is a stone/ that’s devoid of the fire/ that propelled it/ to thee’ on her last album, the brilliant yet challenging Ys (2006). The level of intelligence lurking behind her lyrics ensures that you either get her totally or you don’t ever want to. That’s a very uncompromising statement but in a pop landscape where everything must be tackily Lady GaGa-ed or deploringly RiRi-ed just to grab your fleeting attention, it’s refreshing to hear someone bravely flipping the script. Spreading these songs over three portions, six tracks each, makes the task easier but make no mistake: the tail does not wag this dog.


Disc I contains four masterpieces. Easy, the opener is a wicked experiment that juxtaposes her lovely voice with strings and violins. ‘I am easy/ easy to keep/ honey, you please me/ even in your sleep’, she croons, channeling Kate Bush lusciously throughout. Instantly, it is clear that Newsom has lyrically arrived to contemporary themes instead of just dawdling on the medieval intricacies that Ys conceptualized. Have One on Me seismically shifts her inward to the point of incapability from herself. The title track combines both motifs; taking a beautiful leap at 1:45 into the thrilling life of Lola Montez and her affair with King Ludwig I of Bavaria (lovingly called ‘Daddy Long legs’) to the point of being a novella. Then there’s Good Intentions Paving Company (‘and I will love you/ ’til the noise has long since passed/and that right there/is the course I keep…’), her most listener-friendly song ever. Both tracks run for a combined eighteen minutes but these are more than merely this year’s most brilliant musical theses; these are career highlights. Baby Birch builds its guilty abortion theme slowly with a hectic staccato burst of folk and overwhelming sadness. The unspooling of her craft here is particularly patient and masterful. These are songs that leave you in awe at their sheer perfection because this surely is the pinnacle of expressed human emotion.


Disc II is less dramatic as if deliberately cooling its heels. Her similarities to Joni Mitchell are reinforced here as she tackles various relationship issues that are sensually detailed. You and Me, Bess is Newsom tackling suicide as the backing vocals seep through along with horns on the chorus. In California stretches her into mid-love crisis and, in the process, puts her voice sharply in focus. This vocal vigor is her newest weapon and it is evenly distributed vis-à-vis her previous work which regulated her voice to mere spastic bursts. Have One on Me also dims the prominence of her harpsichord to embrace more alternative melodies. Quite a few critics mistake this for shapelessness but the structure that Newsom uses is deliberate. She isn’t experimenting but deepening her sound. Sure, she’ll toss off tracks like Go Long and Occident to placate those unwilling to accompany her to the depths of emotion but even those tracks are utterly beautiful and leave you wanting more.


Disc III feels like a combination of the two previous discs. Soft as Chalk is a fantastic track about ‘lawlessness’ that features some Tori Amos-esque piano strings and shrilly singing. ‘who is there/ who is there/ I am calling beyond anger/ and sadness’, she sings repeatedly amid an impressive instrumental set. Ribbon Bows returns her to the beloved harpsichord, this time shrouded in sadness that grows over its six minute length. Kingfisher is about a disturbing relationship, impressively retaining its lyrical freshness. Newsom spins her poetry with the sureness of a woman who is hearing a call most of us are not aware of but this makes Have One on Me a bold concept, one that renews faith in the album as a learning yet reflective experience.


This reinforces the point of albums still being relevant in an age that is determined to get rid of them. Triple albums have always been seen as a major artistic statement but perhaps none has ever been made to overpower the listener lyrically like this one. The beauty of Newsom is in her words: ‘like a little clock / that trembles/ on the edge of the hour…’ from the glorious In California. Autumn features the gem, ‘in the cold West/ flew a waxwing who falls/ and dies against my breast…’. And from the sad Does Not Suffice, ‘the tap of hangers/ swaying in the closet/ unburdened hooks and empty drawers/ and everywhere I tried to love you/ it is yours again/ and only yours…’.


Newsom has proven that there’s more, much more sadness yet to be etched from a pop singer’s
tongue. She makes it so because the record transcends music to become a stunning document that recalls some of the greatest literature. This is Pride & Prejudice for the 21st century. This is Alice Walker with headphones on and a pen. This is a feminine version of Brando demanding to be more than just a contender in On the Waterfront... the very thoughts trapped in Virginia Woolf’s head as she drowned in the Ouse. These are the painful admissions and personally rewarding moments we keep to ourselves still, laid bare by Newsom with such great detail that it renders her contemporaries toothless by comparison.


So, in the end while you balk at the thought of purchasing this chamber pop record or take the easy way out by avoiding it because you just can’t commit to its intensity, Newsom has yet again successfully pushed the boundaries of her art-form up a notch. She has forced us to view music as accessible yet incessantly clever. This feat mirrors the re-positioning of pop that Bjork achieved in the 1990s as well as the way M.I.A viciously detonated the genre with third-world consciousness a mere decade later. Newsom may never be seen as revolutionary as those women but that’s exactly where all this is heading. What she shares with them is a stubborn, singular vision that will have its way and succeed despite being antithetical to everything else around it. And while critics throw around comparisons to Tori Amos, Kate Bush and Joni Mitchell, the fact is that Newsom is, at last, their equal now, residing somewhere betwixt them all in a fantastic web of complexity. And in this defining process that lasts for two hours she has given us the most faith-affirming album of the year.

RATING: 8.75/10

Nobody’s Daughter (Hole) (2010)

Bitch’s Brew


Rolling Stone dubs her ‘the most controversial woman in rock’ but a quick look at Courtney Love’s shenanigans over the last decade would more make her the saddest. There has been far more rehab time, lawsuits and denial than actual new music from her and even though SPIN loved her America’s Sweetheart solo gig, that was all of six years ago. Nobody’s Daughter is in fact a five year project that had spawned its own problematic mythology, which Love has actively encouraged just for the heck of it and because, now in her mid-forties, it’s really all she has left of a once glamorous life.


Lyrically, the album points towards contrition and the settling of a guilty conscience, something Love has thwarted doing for many years. The title track deals, in depth, with Kurt Cobain’s suicide and the speculation on whatever role she may have had in the act (your whole wide world/ is in my hands/ I’ve got your blood in my hands/ and you know I’m drowning). Never Go Hungry Again affirms the descent to which her personal life fell into (and out of it all/ I’m still alive/ from the fires of hell/ I have survived). These are only two tracks but they set the overall tone of Nobody’s Daughter even though she hijacks the mood often by centering on sorrows she brought upon herself.


Lost among all this touchy-feely stuff though is the raw firework that had always set Love apart from other rockers. For Once in Your Life sounds more like a Stevie Nicks-wannabe on Vh-1 Storytellers than Love biting into a bitter pill. Letter to God gives us her most disarming line ever (why the hell am I so out of control?), yet this is a ballad which only turns the amps up towards the end, only to cave into, gasp, the type of adult contemporary that usually signals when an artist is out of ideas. She has wisely removed the awful Stand Up Motherf-cker that featured on the original leak in January but its absence still doesn’t lift the album. Loser Dust salvages some pride because it plugs the amps early and Love’s voice sounds enriched instead of drained, even though its wah wah chorus has little to say really.


This, funnily enough, leads to the catch-22 situation Love finds herself in way too often. Her contrition when dealing with her rowdy past with Cobain is juxtaposed with the failed fire of her current life without him. She’s spent so much of her career in his shadow that emerging from under it now would only further alienate listeners from her. Thus, her co-dependence on his name has driven her to frustration in two parts: the great years between 1994—1998 when she literally rocked. But also the lean years, which is everything since because it all started to take a toll on her. It didn’t help that she has never stopped at anything to impress upon us the extent of her own singular talent. The fact that her band, Hole hasn’t recorded new music for the past thirteen years is indicative of Love’s inability to sacrifice her own personality for a collaborative effort. Indeed, original members, Melisa der Maur and Eric Erlandson, are not even featured on this project. Love hasn’t even dealt with that publicly. In interviews all she’s fixated on is how much of her energy is invested in the album, ad nauseum.

The sad thing for her though is that she’s far easier to digest when others are in control of her direction. What little that works on Nobody’s Daughter is due mainly to the production and personal support Linda Perry and Billy Corgan--a far more important male figure in her life than Cobain-- have given Love over the years. Without their push and effort then she may have never been able to release the album, much less still have an emotional outlet for her despair. Nobody’s Daughter fights the same old ghosts she’s been battling since her rise to fame (adoption issues, family upheaval, infamy, etc.) but at what point, one wonders, does Love ever plan to cease manipulating them for her own purposes and finally release them?

RATING: 5/10

Clash of the Titans (2010)

Some Odd Thunder


In the beginning we are told how the Olympian gods overthrew the Titans with the help of the terrifying Kraken and settled on Mount Olympus with Zeus (Liam Neeson) as ruler of all and his brother Hades (Ray Fiennes) ‘tricked’ into ruling the underworld.


That opening narrative aside, Louis Leterrier’s Clash of the Titans pays little homage to the 1981 film that it’s adapted from or actual mythological events in any proper sequence. Instead this vanity remake follows its hero Perseus (Sam Worthington) as he sets out to save Argos by destroying the Kraken and Hades, the god responsible for his mother’s death. Of course, this quest requires a motley crew of men to help him battle awkward-looking giant scorpions, three blind sister crones and, more dangerously, behead the gorgon Medusa.


It’s a plot we know well but soon enough huge holes appear and they blur the realistic efforts of the film almost as much as the hasty rush to 3D formatting on display. Leterrier, known more for the Transporter series, doesn’t fixate on storyline long enough to set off his action sequences to full effect. This causes much static. Clash of the Titans, like the ridiculous Percy Johnson and the Lightning Thief, misunderstands its source material by focusing less on the Olympians and more on one human (a demi-god, to be technical).


This antagonistic need to ‘Americanize’ every foreign concept for film vanishes, for example, the romance between Perseus and Andromeda (Alexa Davalos) and in its place she functions solely as a high-priced extradition request. Hades demands her as a sacrifice to the gods or else Argos will be wiped out by the Kraken. Though the king, her father, tries to find ways around the request, Andromeda eventually gives in to the idea so as to spare her people of certain destruction.

Perseus’ ‘love’ interest is Io (Gemma Arterton), a female nymph who has watched over him since birth. She councils him until conveniently killed before any real sexual tension arises between them. He saves Andromeda of course but Worthington’s performance evokes a type of rigid asexuality that contrasts sharply to Harry Hamlin in the original film. This asexual broad stroke from the writers (Lawrence Kasdan, Travis Beacham) makes every character suffer from an alarming purge of human frailty; they’re characters playing characters essentially, not full-bloodied people.


Only the gods are shown with any human traits ironically: Zeus as the conciliatory ruler looking out with concern for a son and Hades maliciously out to destroy Argos with tacit consent. That consent of course comes from Zeus and though it throws his own leadership and its consequences in doubt, Leterrier skirts any real religious implications by simply making him seem like an average Joe. Being an action film, Clash of the Titans thus isn’t concerned with Zeus’ complexity issues or who needs protection from whom. It is interested in bringing unruly subjects to the brink of peril before our hero saves the day and gets the girl. It is concerned with Medusa’s hair of snakes and Pegasus magnificently black and brief shimmering across your 3D glasses. Its innovative look sacrifices important characters in the original (Thetis) so as to give you more action and pretty destruction.


And sure enough, it is in this gargantuan scope that the film fails so miserably. Avatar showed us last year that with this new 3D technology much is visually possible but Clash of the Titans follows an annoying trend of hyping big fight sequences only to wrap them up just as you’re settling in for the long haul. The emergence of the Kraken adds menace but Perseus hardly toils to do away with it. Even more surprising is his ‘defeat’ of Hades by merely throwing a lightning bolt-dagger in the god’s direction.


A small gesture with big implications and one passed over entirely by Leterrier but Perseus’ hand is not unaided in the latest banishment of Hades to the underworld. That Zeus would so daringly side against a god (his brother) in favor of humanity (through a son of his) at such a moment of crisis is telling. Leterrier’s scant regard for these conflicts between the brothers limits their true motives. This is amplified by the deafening silence of the other gods whom we see virtually nothing of, not even Hera, the only deity who dares to contradict Zeus on a regular basis.

In the end though the film delivers on its basic premise of being just an update of a cultish fantasy film…nothing more, nothing less. Purists who fume at its clear inferiority to the original miss the point as much as how you can’t equate an online idea like Farmville to real farming. The fact is that more people will flock to the former to appreciate the latter and, for them, on surprisingly deep levels too. This crass update can therefore eschew any noble notion of ideology that makes sense or multi-dimensional gods just to present them—well, Zeus and Hades really—as merely capricious gods of war. Here are deities fighting for human adoration and control and only out to prove, quite frankly, who has the bigger dick. That at least, since the start of humanity, is something we can all relate to.

RATING: 4/10

The Best Films of 2000-2009

FILM #18: 'Slumdog Millionaire' (2008)

The Oscar winner that very nearly went straight to video...Danny Boyle's look at slum life in India comes vividly alive at every winning turn.

THE 100 BEST FILMS of 2000-2009:

FILM #17: 'Le Temps qui Reste' ('Time to Leave') (2006)

Directed by Francois Ozon, this 81 minute French film explores the darkest moment of human life: knowing the time when one is to die. Romain (Melvil Poupaud)is a photographer who finds out that he has an inoperable tumor. The doctor tell him that even with chemo he has a 5% chance of remission. He decides to literally shut down everything and be as painfully honest to his emotions with the little time he has left.

That means breaking up with his boyfriend, silently accepting his fate and visiting his grandmother one last time. She is the only one he confides in and it is at this point of Poupaud's gritty performance that we see an eerie inner piece. Along the way, he sleeps with a couple and passes his entire fortune to his unborn child.

Straightforward enough but through Romain and the French culture we are witness to shocking intimacy and sadness that most American films just simply cannot unearth.

Life is Sweet! Nice to Meet You (Lightspeed Champion) (2010)

'Here a Track, There a Trap'


It’s an unsuspecting gaffe how the very first line of Life is Sweet! Nice to Meet You—‘nothing seems to be happening/except a shift from your world’-- sums up the entire feel of Devonte Hynes’, aka Lightspeed Champion, newest reinvention. The world he mentions on Dead Head Blues is not one inhabited by anyone other than himself apparently but such is the curse of the burgeoning genius. Yes, that’s right, Hynes is a musical genius, as much as Connor Oberst is and Andrew Bird and even bigger titans like Spenser Krug and Prince.

For the un-initiated, Hynes burst unto a solo career two years ago with Falling Off the Lavender Bridge, a self-conscious pop-rock project that hinted at his emerging talent. Trust me; it’d take others years to dust up brilliant tracks like Galaxy of the Lost and Tell Me What it’s Worth first time around much less ever. Before the solo outing though he was a member of dance-punk band Test Icicles and interconnecting this entire period was a plethora of online bootlegs and recordings…seriously, ad nauseum stuff.

What this is symptomatic of though is the restlessness that courses through his brain. Hynes’ approach to pop is jittery at best but when he merges it with rock then he becomes an entirely different musical beast. Falling Off the Lavender Bridge, for all its faults, at least accomplished this. This new album though, like a harsh AA meeting, has found him sobered up to the point of painful straightness. Now, instead of pop-rock experimentation, we’re limited to boring adult fare like the aforementioned Dead Head Blues.

Of course, being genius-based, it’s not a bad album by any stretch but it won’t have critics declaring him the new Beck either. For rock geeks like Hynes that is what counts though: due recognition of his art. But then that’s the problem with Life is Sweet! Nice to Meet You; its ultra serious musical landscape designed for you the listener to recognize it as such and nothing else. Which is sad because, at twenty-three, with the rabid producer’s resume he’s compiled so far, Hynes can rest assured that we consider him prolific. Maybe what he lacks now is just the raw data needed (life experiences) to people his songs. Falling Off the Lavender Bridge at least could cull from that but here he’s juxtaposed growth with grasp but left out anything personal to make a crucial connection. Thus, Life is Sweet! Nice to Meet You can’t hold a candle to, say, Patrick Wolf’s last gem, The Bachelor.

Speaking of Wolf, both artists still share a slavish admiration of others. It’s great to look up to innovators like David Bowie and Madonna but it’s another thing to actively try to relive their careers. Wolf is still guilty of such duplicity on a visual level whereas Hynes is still entrenched in audio guilt. So, Life is Sweet! Nice to Meet You wears its idols on its sleeves and that causes serious overlap and identity crises. Middle of the Dark is a quasi-Queen pop number that shows a glimmer of originality but it’s trapped under so much Freddie Mercury self-consciousness that it ends up being the most frustrating thing here. Romart is genetically lined by the presence of Oberst; in fact if this wasn’t a Lightspeed Champion album, I’d swear it was a new Bright Eyes (Connor Oberst’s band) track.

When Hynes rests his heroes though the music comes across more naturally: Sweetheart builds nicely into a living, breathing thing with vocal urgency and guitars crashing all around. There’s Nothing Underwater fits snugly too into an original space where he manages all the little tweaks effectively. Madame Van Damme oozes wry humor; the type that could have sexed up the album much more effectively than his gender-inappropriate lyrics. Even Faculty of Tears (‘if he’s so evil/ then/ why does he like to kiss’) shows spurts of the obvious brilliance this young man can conjure, lyrically and musically. All four tracks point to the need for Hynes to step out of shadows that he’s been at pains to present on a grand scale for so long; time now to breathe the music instead of merely re-interpreting it. I’ll go even further to state that Hynes will overhaul both Bird and Oberst once he starts to get laid and realize that the guitar is more than just a handy prop. With that crazy, cropped hairdo of his and thick-lens glasses, he’s got the look. Now it’s time for him to go forth and seek the complimentary swagger.
RATING: 6.5/10

THE 100 BEST FILMS of 2000-2009:

FILM #16: 'Borat' (2006):

A mocumentary of sort, 'Borat' is the vehicle for its star Sacha Baron Cohen to portray his immense comedic talents. Sure enough, 'Borat' is offensive, lewd, stunningly frank yet totally captivating. The type of satire and comedy involved is akin to the reality-based sketches of Monty Python.

Cohen plays Borat Sagdiyev, a Kazakhstani TV personality who comes to America with his producer, Azamat (Ken Davitian) to basically explore Western culture. He then discovers Baywatch star Pamela Anderson and goes in hot pursuit of her. Along the way, he tours America and uncovers the real state of things by interaction to some politicians, special-interest groups and rednecks. Of course the trick is that those interviewed were not aware of the true nature of the project and that within itself is a huge coup for this daring yet brilliant film.