THE 100 BEST ALBUMS of 2000-2009:

Yankee Hotel Foxtrot (Wilco) (2002):

Though I can’t be counted among the legion of critics who love Wilco, I can appreciate the ground-swell of the reception to the band’s fourth album. Delayed time and time again, Jeff Tweedy’s alternative country musings hit the gut hard and refreshingly like a rebellion because finally, thankfully, the band tripped into the electronic age. Bands that pride themselves on longevity sometimes struggle with change and after a patch of purple Wilco could have continued being everyman’s band and careened through the good life. Yet, things changed after 9/11 and Tweedy looked within himself to unspool some of his most personal feelings and plugged in. It had consequences immediately: their label (Reprise) refused to release it, fearing that such an experiment wouldn’t be successful and the two split. In a move that preceded Radiohead, Wilco then offered the album free through their website and the rest is history. It remains the highlight of their career and best selling album (nearly 600,000 copies in America). Despite the upheaval though, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot is a record about being in love, not in the classical romantic self but simply loving life and an appreciation of it. Before it was cool to reminisce, Wilco was doing that on tracks like Heavy Metal Drummer, an ode to Kiss. Even better are Tweedy’s slow burners like Radio Cure which expresses the lingering for a lover while away so specifically and Jesus, which is a renewal of faith. The last track is Reservations, which swells memorably and sadly but with a twinge of self-belief. Maybe Tweedy knew all along this project was fated to be definitive of his career and for that he stuck to his guns and we can all acknowledge that perseverance.

THE 100 BEST ALBUMS of 2000-2009:

Return to Cookie Mountain (TV on the Radio) (2006):

In the final analysis, it is this album, and not the two it sandwiches, that will come to define the TV on the Radio experience this decade. Though Bowie championed their debut’s cause, it is here that he contributed and though critics lapped up Dear Science by rote, it still doesn’t cover as much ground and really just benefits from its predecessor. One can bandy Bowie’s name around to define the middle group the band covers with pop/rock but predominately this is the sound of Prince if he had leaned in on the heavy stuff. And who has not been wondering when the next Prince would come along? In Tunde Adebimpe we’ve found the next best thing and his band proves that no one does swagger quite like them. At just under an hour, Return to Cookie Mountain wastes little time in establishing itself. I Was a Lover is a slow-burn that samples Massive Attack’s Teardrop to beautiful effect. The track sounds like electronic poetry being slowed for a saddened heart. Wolf Like Me is the undeniable hit, a track that captures the restless, beast-like energy that pulsates through rock music and the youth who live by it. A Method features a simple percussion loop but fierce backing vocals by Kyp Malone and Adebimpe. These three tracks help to identify what is so enduring about the album and the band; a uniting force that draws so many different listening ears to one central figure or moment in time, just like Prince and Bowie in their prime. This is for all the freaky folks uniting and getting their cookie genetic make-up groove on while sipping cool-aid and taking shade from the sun in designer glasses.

THE 100 BEST ALBUMS of 2000-2009:

New Amerykah Part One (Erykah Badu) (2008):

If life indeed imitates art then the cover of Badu’s fifth album is very telling. A big-ass afro of writhing figures is being figuratively pomaded by Badu who has both fists out sporting the bling that has come to define American hip/hop. New Amerykah Part One therefore is a cultural statement, one that targets the African-American experience through critical lenses. Whereas her previous records centered through neo-soul expressions, Badu’s change of direction from here on would be more pointed social commentary. Unlike others though who sacrifice funk for politicizing, Badu ups the cheese through producers like Madlib and Mike ‘Chav’ Chavarria. Juxtaposing message and music can be tricky but Badu has spent the last twelve years doing just that. The opener, Amerykan Promise, twins the evil of commercialism and black exploitation. Healer documents succinctly the state of hip/hop being the driving force of the American dream. The track serves as a warning as well as guarded celebration. The Cell derides the effect substance abuse has had on the black community (momma hopped up on cocaine/daddy on space ships with no brain) while Twinkle exquisitely rebuffs hand-outs for blacks looking excuses not to do better for themselves (they say their grandfathers and grandmothers/work hard for nothing/and we still in this ghetto). It is very heartening to hear Badu tackle these issues as her male counterparts are more concerned in the accumulation of street credo to effect change besides she has done in this decade what none of them have managed so far: she has grown up.

THE 100 BEST ALBUMS of 2000-2009:

The first decade of the 21st century is nearly up so it's time to start looking back at the albums that shaped our thinking. It's a lot of recollection but here are my picks at the best 100 CDs in no particular order.

Kala (M.I.A) (2007):

If her grimy debut (Arular) helped launch Maya Arulpragasam into public consciousness, then her sophomore cemented her spot as the one to watch. By the one of course I mean that tag of the pre-eminent pop visionary of the day… that label we lovingly bestowed upon another cool, non-American with a weird name, Bjork Gudmundsdottir. The two women are inextricably linked by this record, both pre and post-release. Bjork saw the firepower long before we did and embraced it even as Kala was the closest sonic document to her own masterpiece ten years before, Homogenic. Both albums work within a known pop frame to bring forth results that resemble everything around yet itself not being imitable. M.I.A brings an evolutionary process to this though, a kind of battle-weary toughness that finally had won its way to the spotlight. Whereas Arular was a rallying cry that critics embraced but wondered if it was a bluff, Kala rode into town, positively glowing with confidence and Maya’s own special brand of experimentation. Armed with producers such as Timbaland, Switch, Blaqstarr and Diplo, she drove head-first into the varied sounds with her pastiche method. Steel-pans queue up on the soca-driven Bird Flu. Grime and umree roll out on Hussel and Boyz respectively. Even Bollywood isn’t spared as both Jimmy and the brilliant opener Bamboo Banga are soaked through with Hindi references. Elsewhere, it is her use of sampling and sharp jabs at the many assertions of her character that lifts tracks like $20 and Paper Planes into the stuff that will be ripped off for decades to come.

Harry Potter and The Half-Blood Prince (2009)

Devil May Care

You know the stakes are high for Harry Potter (Daniel Radcliffe) in his sixth year at Hogwarts when headmaster Dumbeldore (Michael Gambon) appears within five minutes of The Half-Blood Prince. Indeed the film opens with a shot of Death-Eaters running foul in London and a cloud formation briefly manifests the dark lord Voldermort. Harry is initially also found in the Muggle world enjoying the twin delights of nightly coffee and picking up a potential date. The escapism is touching but also acts as a catalyst for what is to come. For what marks the transformative relevance of The Half-Blood Prince is the juxtaposition of the threat on Potter’s life to our own as Muggles. By the end of Order of the Phoenix, Voldermort had shed any reservation of taking out anyone who dares stand in his way. His then brief clash with Dumbledore was merely buying for time. Now his minions are forcing an all-out attack and that includes randomly terrorizing humans.

With the Ministry of Magic being slowly overrun, Dumbledore realizes that his options have tightened considerably and sets out to amass all he needs to thwart Voldermort for the last time. That includes, of course, Potter but the scope of Dumbledore’s thinking is finally laid out. He carries Harry along to convince an old friend, Prof. Slughorn (the ever excellent Jim Broadbent) to return to Hogwarts. Both men know the real reason behind the request is not merely to resume teaching potions yet Slughorn agrees. Harry is in awe watching the two wizards as they display magic before him, not realizing the role he will later play. Dumbledore wants a particular memory from Slughorn, one that he feels will help to destroy Voldermort. Dumbledore’s manner here is increasingly human. In many ways, The Half-Blood Prince is the first real examination of him. The previous films have maintained an invincible yet distant aura about him but here we see the ineffability of his role. His scholarly pitch is effective to convey thought yet it bends more tenderly the more it centers on Harry. It is the best Gambon performance of the series so far because the duality involved has never had so much impetus behind it.

But if Dumbledore represents all that is good about wizardry then he also knows that tactics have to be dire in perilous times. He dangles Potter in front of Slughorn like a prize to be had while impressing upon Harry the importance of ‘allowing’ Slughorn to win his confidence over so as to collect the memory. He goes as far as to show Harry the tampered memory through the Pensieve. Here the general aloofness of Dumbledore plays well against the request. There is something almost homoerotic in which Harry is to befriend Slughorn that is never stated yet it hangs in the air thickly. Broadbent’s exquisite performance lends credence to this idea as Slughorn is atypically vain, romantically attached to his students’ achievements and clearly a man hungry for attention. The flashbacks of him and Tom Riddle (the young Voldermort played efficiently by Frank Dillane) show how the latter played on Slughorn’s self-importance to elicit information. Of course, being a film for the PG-13 audience, The Half-Blood Prince makes this impression then relents even though screenwriter Steve Kloves is able to fire off some potent stuff. More salacious is the memory of Dumbledore’s initial meeting with Voldermort at the orphanage where he grew up. The young lad becomes only excited when Dumbledore sets his a part of his room on fire. There is a scary yet impressionable glint in his cold eyes. I think there’s something in your wardrobe that’s trying to get out, Tom, states the elder wizard in reference to things Riddle has stolen. I can speak to snakes, they tell me things about people, Riddle shoots back and the headmaster cannot hide his shock. One sense a vague homoerotic reference between the two or at least the beginning of a power struggle for supremacy or even both entwined in messiness that the film does not resolve.

Kloves works just as hard at character development of others except the villains. Voldermort is only present in flashbacks and memories. Bellatrix Lestrange (Helena Bonham Carter) remains painfully enigmatic as is Snape (another delicious Alan Rickman one-tone performance). The film’s main antagonist is Draco Malfoy (Tom Felton) but the progression from student rebel to budding Death Eater is not sufficiently presented. He remains the film’s weakest link because his family ties to the dark lord are never brought up for a proper examination. Which is odd because The Half-Blood Prince promised to be redemptive for the character, a kind of temptation-based trial to be overcome or overrun by. It is only towards the end, where the irreversible damage is done, do we see Malfoy’s doubts about the path that was chosen for him. We can surmise his loneliness but never truly feel it as how we can feel the twitches of adolescent love emerging from Harry, Hermione (Emma Thompson) and Ron (Rupert Grint). Here the film succeeds in showing the youthful romantic interest and the adult recognition of it. In one scene, Harry and Ginny (Bonnie Wright) find themselves staring at each other in the Weasely household. Arthur Weasely watches them then quickly leaves and they are alone for a few seconds before Ron comes crashing between them uneasily. Ron is himself battling to define the extent of interest in Hermione. He becomes a hero in Quidditch thus girl-bait and one in particular sets out to claim him with a zeal that irks Hermione.

At over 150 minutes though, director Davis Yates is yet again criminally overusing elements that needed to be scaled back. Ron’s lovesick portions end up annoyingly cutting into his time as emerging finally from Harry’s shadow. We see Malfoy repeating the same (dis)appearance trick without realizing the implications beforehand. Bellatrix taunts the Weaselys without any real reason while repeating lines from the last film. Of the three only Malfoy arrives at some epiphany that has repercussions and even then that is swallowed up by the final thirty minutes. The film takes on new life at that point when Dumbledore discovers Slughorn’s secret memory of passing on information to Tom Riddle about horcruxes, dark magic that allows wizards to store parts of their soul into objects. In such a state the wizard would never die unless the horcruxes be destroyed. Dumbledore and Harry set off to destroy a potential horcrux yet both are nearly vanquished by the effort. In his greatest scene, Gambon flips from authoritative to pleading as draughts of poison must be consumed by him to get the cursed amulet. It maddens him but he helps Harry escape from the Inferni, guardians of the cave where the amulet was hidden. They Apparate back to Hogwarts where separate fates await them in the form of Snape.

What happens next yet again proves how Dumbledore’s calculations prevail overtime but still sting in the short-term. Hogwarts becomes vanquished as there is a glorious shot of Bellatrix in all her mad-cap glory eliminating the light from the dining hall while Malfoy sobs openly. The damage is done but the gamble played by Dumbledore is threatened to be for naught if Harry’s fury cannot be abated. Taken into the headmaster’s confidences only to be deserted yet again, he reacts by violently attacking Malfoy, using Snape’s own curses against him and, ultimately, questioning Dumbledore himself. It is the crux of The Half-Blood Prince; the point where the student questions the master. No one has the nerve to answer him except Lupin, who quips the film’s most telling line. ‘Dumbledore trusts Snape, therefore so do I… it all comes down to a question of judgment.’ Judgment indeed and one that must be repeated several times to be believed.

RATING: 7.5/10

The Bachelor (Patrick Wolf) (2009)

Version 2.0


If like me your first experience of Patrick Wolf was the shocking red hair two years ago then what has happened since comes as no surprise. Shamelessly ambitious and talented, Wolf represents a cultural oddity in popular music even though he wasn’t aware of that status until this record. The Bachelor thus serves as a buffer, or, more appropriately, a barrier to reflect on as well as to go beyond. There is no proverbial ‘going back’ now for him, especially with there being no more Universal execs to guide his career. The Magic Position garnered him a huge fan base two years ago because even then his potential was obvious so with initial plans for his next project to be a double-album, many wondered what next from the Brit.

Many critics have cited that the decision to split the double album’s worth of music into separate halves has negated the full scale of his ambition this time around. Those critics fail though to understand Wolf’s immense appetite for self-reinvention. It is this trait that serves him yet measures the reception of his music. The Bachelor, though over-reaching at times, is very much an epic statement, the type of artistic bravura that has almost vanished from pop music ever since the start of this decade. Swinging from personal politics to depression to falling in love, The Bachelor is an immediate indie experience.

The opening track, Hard Times sums up in its pristine production and steely lyrics the state of Wolf’s mind and the recording industry at large (we have grown to ignore/ mediocrity applauded/ show me some revolution/ this battle will be won). One track in and we are welcomed to the world Wolf inhabits and the showman and dramatist in him shines superbly. Along with Hard Times, the next four tracks help to form an amazing arc of consistency that rivals any other album this year so far.Oblivion stutters to life with sweeping violin and a lush programmed beat without letting up. The title track tackles the topical issue of gay marriage without being too pointed. Wolf is at his resonant best here yet the result is gorgeous and reflective, making it one of the best songs of the year. It even manages to make guest vocalist Eliza Carthy sound manly, further complicating the track. Damaris laments the loss of a lover due to religious belief (my God damned Damaris/killed with last kiss/ I loved you) while Thickets reels away into such lovely Celt musicianship that one ignores its lack of a message.

The other stuff is engaging too: from that stinging political line, ‘in this war without and end/ what fear do you defend?’ of Count of Casualty to Vulture and its decidedly disco groove that doesn’t quite work but it’s fascinating to hear Wolf wrap himself up into the effort of being pretentiously someone else.

Not everything works quite as smoothly though. Unlike his last album, the ballads here---Theseus, The Sun is often Out—lack the same immediacy that a track like Bluebells had. Both tracks seem at odds with the tone of the album, as if the switch from major label to independent funding source caught them in a cross-fire. It’s as if when the context of his music strays from his personal politics, Wolf is left in a bit of a lurch. Without a sense of societal injustice to highlight, Wolf becomes trapped with the confrontation he seeks to flee from: his former mirror image. He seems to realize this midway Blackdown as he questions himself, ‘desire/desire/you are not the maker of me’, which ends the track. One can argue that ambition is the maker of him but what Wolf doesn’t highlight enough is what he’s pushing back against. Battle trudges its pop/rock terrain, battling homophobia, anti-human rights and conservatism, et al while The Messenger ends things optimistically. Nice enough but here I have to agree with his detractors who claim that his sense of artistry at such turns is vague and do not cut deep enough to the root problem. Tilda Swinton and Alec Empire are present with nice touches but still they merely camouflage the enigmatic leading man.

Wolf’s brilliance as an artist has never been in doubt and now, with The Bachelor, his evolution as an entertainer is entering an original phase. Never mind that his music videos are gaudy and still reflective of his heroes (Bowie’s White Duke, Madonna circa 1990) his real accomplishment is surviving the split with Universal. Funding for The Bachelor was completed after an appeal to fans through bandstocks.com (the remarkable FrYars—you heard about him here first—followed the same route). It’s a novel way for direct interchange between fans and musician and allows an artist like Wolf to express ideas, flaws and all, without big label interference. Universal no doubt would have tweaked the misses here but perhaps we’d never hear the title track either. That alone speaks volumes about the importance of his split and freedom to create art in any explicit way he chooses. It is at those times, when he is his new liberated self, that his battles are won.

RATING: 8.10/10

R.I.P Michael Jackson

"Goodbye, King of Pop"


Of course I could not allow the most significant death of the MTV-toting popular cultural movement to pass without adding a few words. The media coverage has been surprising to some because Michael Jackson was not currently recording music and was fifty (50)but what they fail to note is that the man wasn't just a star but he was the star. Time doesn't allow for too much detail right now but even without his statistical brilliance on the pop charts, MJ is the main reason why the pop/R&B stars can enjoy the vast cross-racial appeal now. Back in the late 1970s--before MTV emerged, black artists were mostly pigeon-holed into one frame, R&B, but when he released "Thriller" in 1982, all that changed. MJ was the first to create the possibilities of men of color in popular music. His albums, singles, endorsements, stage performances all became the ultimate, not just for black men but for everyone. MTV rolled around and the videos that he conceptualized--"Thriller" especially--were larger than life.

Yet, this doesn't answer the question why we care so much about him now. Consider though that most of the current pop acts that people pine for and worship (Rihanna, Usher, Justin Timberlake) are obviously influenced by MJ's "full package" approach to music. He made art and they all strive to do the same, to be mentioned in the same breath as him decades from now. This media storm is even more remarkable when one considers that he was the only one of his peers (that trio of him, Madonna and Prince, all fifty coincidentally)who was not still recording music. Yet people cared time and time again for the sinewy details of his personal life, grabbed up the expensive tickets for his London concert (July) and still could moonwalk.

On top of it all, we cared fiercely to see if he would get the redemption perfectionists like him crave. We wanted a last hurrah, a triumphant show that if necessary he could muster up some of the old magic. We do not like when our stars struggle or show, finally, mortality settling in. We want them to live forever, to excel always, to make the world seem alright. Who watches the mighty Roger Federer just merely to win a match...no, we want an exhibition, a flawless display of skill that is beyond mere human execution. For the music critics, Radiohead occupies that rarefied space currently of enviable love from critics and fans. If they follow up the blissful "In Rainbows" with anything less than ideal or remotely commercial, we will feel a sense of betrayal, a letdown beyond words. Not everyone reaches such idealized heights in our eyes but it brings with it its own set of issues, that we are miostly unable to rationalize.

Michael Jackson leaves a rich musical legacy: great pop music that transcends its time and genre. That immense Beatles catalogue that his children will now inherit. His family and fans are left with a lifetime of good and not so good memories. In the days to come, we will hear the rumours, the possibilities of prescription-drug overdose, the state of his accounts. Endless critics will tear into his child-molestation cases but the truth is that it all plays a part of his life, his legacy.Bob Dylan may be the most culturally relevant musician alive, David Bowie the most vastly copied and Radiohead the most acclaimed band but MJ was the greatest entertainer for the vast part of four (4) decades. Take a second to reflect on that. Bless.

Michael Jackson was fifty (50) years old.
1958--2009

Together Through Life (Bob Dylan) (2009)

Talking Blues

(a mini review)

In my review for his Modern Times album two years ago, I stated that death was an idée fixe for Bob Dylan but now here he comes, rushing through a new album unto an adoring public, full of, well, the blues.

The album starts off tantalizingly with Dylan rasping over some nifty guitar work on Beyond Here lies Nothing, a track that sets an immediately likable yet casual tone. His supporting band compliments the track with effective accordion and a bluesy atmosphere. It’s a sure-fire hit, the type of song he can pull off in his sleep but for once his voice doesn’t grate as much, thus the track isn’t obscured into some wizened meaning. For those who can’t digest his music because of the voice, no need to worry, this song is just for you.

The only weak moment here, interestingly enough is track two, Life is Hard. The album’s concept was built around it as a single for Oliver Dahan’s upcoming film My Own Love Song. Given how contrary Dylan can be in the eyes of endless analysis, one can deduce that the song’s basic drawl would’ve bored him into an entire new direction. So whereas critics continue to pigeon-hole him into a death phase without really hearing the upbeat sections here, he has simply moved on. Some people they tell me/ I have the blood of the land/ in my voice, he croons on I Feel a Change Coming On, as if to reiterate this point.

Which is not to say he has gone all skylark on us now because beneath this sense of resolve lurks a flinty type of realism and humour. If Time out of Mind through to Modern Times was to sort out his issues with mortality, then Together through Life embarks upon another sort of adventure, one where all restriction is wedged away. Shake, Shake Mama undercuts its stark lyrics with a pop, bluesy shuffle of feet. Dylan has no time for tears or fears this time around, just workman-like fun. Tracks like Jolene and My Wife’s Hometown crackle with wryness and a sharp intent that belies his years.

Of course, to critics, this new-found aimlessness can be a good thing or indicative of the finality of his career that they’ve been announcing since the 1980s. Dylan, as he is wont to do, attaches no weight to either camp but just merely records music and let the chips fall where they may. This is within itself, and I’m sure he is marveling at this feat, is a type of restraint rock musicians can only dare dream about. Love him or hate him, Dylan may be the very first one of them to ascend to this rather fanciful and critically-free ether.

RATING: 8/10

Pan's Labyrinth (2007)

"Betrayal & Consequence"

N.B. This review was originally posted on e-pinions and the only thing I have added is the rating that did not appear in Bookends.


Readers of any early twentieth century Latin American novel will know the term 'magical realism'. Its main exponents include Marquez and Llorca and it blurs the gap between reality and make believe. The many trailers for 'Pan's Labyrinth' highlight this concept as essential to the film. Indeed, every online review, in an orgy of praise, has the same glorious photo-op: the Pale Man with his fantastic eyes stuck in his palms ogling the little girl, Ofelia. Yet, it's misleading in the sense of how the film must be perceived. Viewers expecting a fabled story of optimism and escapism will be shocked to realize that the fantasy is very minimalist in Guillermo Del Toro's new film and how much it is subverted by lots of tragic consequences.

'Pan's Labyrinth' really centers more on Franco's grip on the Spanish countryside in 1944. Ofelia (Ivana Baquero)is traveling with her pregnant mother, both soon to be in the grip of Captain Vidal, her step-father. He is a high-ranking official and wields power cruelly to everyone he comes in contact with, be it servant or military aide. Ofelia fears for her mother's health but Carmen (Ariadna Gil), effectively separated from her because of the pregnancy, only functions to scowl Ofelia for reading a lot of tall tales. Ofelia sees the scope for her imagination to grow immediately after they arrive at Vidal's manor: the old labyrinth on the grounds prompts her curiosity. She thereafter meets Pan, a faun-like creature, who assigns her three tasks to complete before the next full moon so as to rejoin her other-worldy life as a fabled princess.

The magical realism aspect of the film doesn't take off at this point however. It's beautifully shot but Del Toro regulates it to Ofelia alone. Apart from the infrequent visits from Pan, Ofelia encounters just two unreal instances initially. She retrieves a key, without as much as a tussle, from a large toad that lives in a tree and--in the film's most suspenseful bit--escapes the Pale Man through chalk-drawn doors. Guilermo Navarro's cinematography shines especially in these scenes but it hardly seems Ofelia's need for escapism is pressing enough. The irony of the film is that dire need engulfs just about everyone else and in a real terror-stricken way too. It's just sheer gratuity when Ofelia tells her unborn brother not to hasten his arrival into the world. The imagined world brings her more possibility for harm than the real one. But there are many dreams that demand to be explored here that Del Toro finds himself only touching lightly on them instead of weaving them delicately into being. The film fixates on Ofelia, thus firmly placing the authentic fears of the adults as secondary. This is where 'Pan's Labyrinth' rescinds its claim to greatness. Adults dream too and sometimes even harder than children. Carmen may perpetually scowl Ofelia for her fairy-tales but it's with a hint of jealousy, besides her new life with the powerful captain-albeit short-lived-is her own fairytale. Mercedes, Vidal's main female servant and Doctor Ferreria betray the captain in a bid to be rid of his oppresion over them. The only difference between them all and Ofelia is that they already have an idea of the cynical limitation of dreams.

Del Toro's examination of the war being fought is much more fascinating than Ofelia's dalliances with Pan too. I'm sure this wasn't intentional and while it doesn't subtract from the film's sturdiness, it does question its overall focus. Even though the inner circle of Vidal's domain is downright gripping, no pun intended, there are scenes, while graphic, that seem a little too convenient for the plot's sake. It does explore--within its own confines--the double-edge issue of loyalty and fear nicely though. Captain Vidal (Sergei Lopez) rules with fear because it's the way he knows and the only manner with which he himself has been dealt with. In a weird, unexplored way, he inhabits a more fanciful place than Ofelia's imaginaton; his own. It has had more time to shape itself and longer to run its destructive course. Vidal proves to be the most fascinating character here and in need of more introspection than what we're treated to. His demise pointedly shows the consequence of too much daydreaming.

In the end though, the film does tie in neatly the duality of its story as much as it juxtaposes it into separate casings. This makes it more a technical achievement despite of the aggressive emotional praise it has won by critics. Del Toro uses an even hand to balance both worlds but his two main devices fall just short: his parity doesn't fill out with intrigue a-la "Munich" and the magical realism never threatens to wonderfully subvert the film a-la "Moulin Rogue". This point is driven home when Ofelia dies and we are transported to the last images she sees: herself as a princess reunited with her king-father and queen-mother in a grand hall seated high among the creature-folk. We're never sure if in death she's reborn as she imagined all along or if it's just the delirious reaction of a dying human being. 'Pan's Labyrinth' leaves the task of dealing with such a messy, complicated question up to your own vivid and duplicitous imagination.

RATING: 7.5/10

Loose (Nelly Furtado) (2006)

"Sleight Of Hand"

N.B. this review appeared originally on e-pinions in 2006, I have just added the rating that Bookends no longer puts on.

No one rues the tragic death of Aaliyah more than Tim 'Timbaland' Mosely. Their collaborations paid off in a kind of glove and hand way that no amount of financial success can compensate for. Ever since then Tim has been spreading his trademark outsized funk grooves into many drowning pools with either growing success (Justin Timberlake's two solo albums)or indifference (Pussycat Dolls' stiff 'Wait A Minute'). The search for the next sensation has been a laboured task for him and now it's Nelly Furtado's shake of the dice.

Furtado's career has followed a well-trod path: bright splash into the murky waters that is pop music,followed by the inevitable let down that was her sophomore album. Her popularity waned more steeply than expected though so now it's up to Tim to restore some sense of balance.

It nearly works all the way through too. Six tracks into the album and listeners will be wowed by the stunning variety of the production and sounds employed. Furtado operates with a limited vocal range that would hinder other savants but Timbaland is used to such a dilemma--Aaliyah's vocals grew to command any frantic beats dished towards her. Eventually, she learned how to subdue the beats to the point where she controlled their tempo. Furtado is yet to have such elevation nor is she willing to carve out under the beats and carry them away into other levels. She remains content to stay within form and that prevents 'Loose' from being even more remarkable than it already is.

The album plays it trump cards early yet keep them in check--'Maneater's' groovy chorus swirls towards an extacy that never commands us to take our shirts off. 'Promiscuous' sizzles with a shimmy shimmy texture but her attempt at rapping isn't as sublime. "Glow" one ups Madonna's dance-floor ambitions with an unbearably sexy retro slink and fun but she never lets it get ahead of her. "Showtime" proves that--as with Aaliyah before her--no matter the gloss applied, Janet Jackson's career is over. "No Hay Iqual" playfully splashes its groove --using a hook similar to Busta's "What It Is"--to rock out more successfully than the other tracks and merely using English at intervals, propelling it to awesome scat levels.

Now for the letdown: the second half of the album. "Te Busque" features Juanes as a calling card to the Latino community. It's by no means a bad song but it's the type of stomper that has been done better ever since Ricky Martin went solo. Hell, "No Hay Iqual" is more effective so it feels like filler. "Say It Right" swings by to, temporarily, restore order but its noticeably less hectic than the parade that was before. "Do It" and "In God's Hands" are throw-aways to the type of 80's pop ditties that Janet Jackson was doing but just not as intriguing. Why Furtado chooses such a route for the second half of the album is puzzling. It never really worked for Aaliyah either because such contrivances are for divas not funk-masters. Not only does the album screech to a halt at this point but it hints to the same type of manipulation and mainstream ambitions that tainted Gwen Stefani's solo debut. It's such a pity because after rocking us out quite successfully she then turns a material eye and it dulls the vibe of the album.

More crucial though is the uneven placing of the songs on the album. If Furtado had sandwiched the duds between the excellent pop tracks then the sting of her mainstream ambition wouldn't feel so deep nor would it feel so bogged down by commercial instinct and be genially split down the middle trying to be all things to all people. The sooner she learns that rocking out cannot include bending midway in midstream or trying to play nice all the time, then the steadier a card player she'll become.

RATING: 7/10

"Music" (Madonna) (2000)

N.B. This review was originally published on e-pinions.com in 2004 and the only addition I did was the rating.


"Rising From The Mosh Pit"

The curse for established pop stars is that fans accept them as thus and nothing else. As the cliche goes, "once you pop, you can't stop." Only a few, determined to show serious artistic intent, shrug off this fact and end up forcing dim witted fans to embrace their diversity as "art". Examples include peerless acts like Michael Jackson and Prince, with the most stunning case being the Beatles. How Ringo, John, Paul and George overcame their innocuous beginning to rule the world...should be studied in universities.

That's harsh. Most pop acts are very talented and use the genre just to get a toe-hold into the biz, but that small step becomes a vice-like grip once success is achieved. Some, like Jackson, never leave pop's heart but others, like Prince, eventually get bored and decide to rock the house in other ways. Note that these are all men. Women, on the other hand, have had it much harder. Fans have been molded to buy into their cosmetic appeal and pay less attention to what they were saying. And no woman has struggled with this divide more than Madonna.

No other female since has had to endure such scrutiny from both sides of a very heated coin. Many will say that she brought this upon herself; why, wasn't it she who clamoured for more, more, more? Wasn't she the one who shamelessly lapped up the good/bad publicity just to sell out records and her immortality? But even ardent supporters felt she went too far on "Erotica" with that steamy, bi-curious video and "Sex" book, yet Madonna was just reversing age-old roles and suffered for it. She was branded, not surprisingly , more by women who dared to do the very thing she was doing and getting away with it.

But from this the artist arose and staying the course was the way to prove us all wrong ; she was not going away or heading into obscurity. In fact she got a running start when , in 1994, an electronic-tinged single penned by Bjork, was included on her new album. "Bedtime Story" clearly intrigued her, cause all her material henceforth has been inclusive of nothing else.

As she started to pander to her techno needs though, she stuttered on her first full pledged album "Ray of Light" ,as her choice of producers left a lot to be desired. Marius DeVris and William Orbit failed to supply the opus with legs simply because they never rocked to begin with. But twice is the lucky charm as Madonna has pulled off stunning results with "Music".

Honestly, she's only ever had one great album before--no need to remind fans, you should know its name by now--, but a lot of great singles. Whole albums got muddled and there was no cohesion or "flow". But this is art in heavy doses and proportionality in even bigger ones.

"Music", the first track, swamps your ears, sucking up all the available space with a persistent bass and employing stylistic tricks. Oh, the synths and loops are relentless, courtesy of the enigmatic Mirawis, without whose help, I doubt Maddie would have pulled it off by herself.

"Impressive Instant" sways us to la,la clubland with an insane techno ride. Mirawis punishes us again with harsh sounds that sound better than "Skin". It even features a clincher-ending..."you're the one that I've been waiting for/ I don't even know your name." Could this really be Madonna?

But amid all the revelry and triumph of creativity lies the issue of her pain and struggles and humility learned through her many experiences. Her highs are expressed on the poignant "I Deserve It", a surprising guitar-wielding affirmation of her happiness and subsequent marriage;"many miles, many roads I have traveled/fallen down on the way/many hearts, many years have unraveled/leading up to today." And she doesn't omit the lows either; "Nobody's Perfect" is a throw away back to a decade best forgotten, but "Gone" is spare and beautifully done, even if Orbit is on board for the ride. The lyrics give a haunting introspect into her life; "letting go/is not my thing/walk away/won't let it happen again/I'm not/I'm not very smart".

But we still love Maddie best when she's naughty. If she can't be good then at least she should be good at being bad. Sensuality is a clever deployed trick she used on hallmarks like "Justify My Love" and "Erotica". This album's lone "bad" song is also one of its most successful tracks. "What It Feels Like For A Girl" opens up with sarcasm, "...it's ok to be a boy/but for a boy to look like a girl is degrading/ cause you think that being a girl is degrading/but secretly you'd love to know what it's like/wouldn't you." Her message gets through with contrasted pretty music, but don't let the irony get lost on you. This track is more akin to "Where Life Begins" than any other track, and only Madonna dare encase such controversial topics like fellatio and gender-bendering in bold packaging.

Yet, the most satisfying track is "Paradise(Not For Me)". Its pace grows maddeningly until it actually mutates in mid-sentences. Unheard of from pop singers, even more so the shameless Bjork-like drawl used on lines like, "I was so blind/I could not see/ your paradise/is not for me." It even packs in a little French for good measure...brilliant. This tune will make electronic-heads realize that she may be serious after all.

The only bad footing is the free reign given to Orbit. His two tracks, "Amazing" and "Runaway Lover", are flat, pointless and best not mentioned. Not even remixing can cleanse or purge the damned things. But one small misstep is counterbalanced by her many big strides forward into the great beyond called uncertainty.

RATING: 7/10

In Appreciation: Bea Arthur

(May 13th, 1922—April 25th, 2009)

In the final season of The Golden Girls, it is revealed that Rose’s (Betty White) husband Charlie may have slept with Blanche (Rue McClanahan). The news horrifies Rose but Blanche produces records that keep track of her ‘social’ activities to ease any fears. Rose then asks her if she didn’t sleep with all the men why is it that the books are labelled B.E.D. Blanche replies that it stands for her initials—Blanche Elizabeth Devereaux. Dorothy (Bea Arthur) who has been watching this interplay then quips a deadpan yet classic line, ‘your initials spell B.E.D?’ and gives the audience a kind of half-winking look and you can’t help but erupting with laughter.

Bea Arthur was to elicit such smart and tart-tongued dialogue over the thirty-eight years she spent doing comedy. The Golden Girls series itself was not the start of her immense relevance as a comedienne but rather a continuance. Her deep voice and imposing height had prevented her from landing the classical feminine roles on and off Broadway but were the very tools that landed her fame on television, a medium she was initially skeptical of.

In 1971, her friend and All in the Family producer Norman Lear asked her to guest-star in an episode as Maude Findlay, Edith Bunker’s (Jean Stapleton) cousin. Lear wanted the character to be the direct opposite of Archie Bunker (Carroll O’Connor), hence modern, feminist and loud in intent. Arthur, who was near fifty at the time—an age where most careers have already peaked, proved to be a smash and the following year landed her a series of her own simply called Maude.

The rest, as they say, is history but the success of the show is deserving of real analysis and not just clichés. Maude was the first real outspoken female lead character on American television. She was several-times divorced, spoke back to her husband and the intimacy of the conversations was at times shocking. Of course, Lear’s savvy as a producer was to mimic the wider popular culture and foment subtle change through the writing and his characters. Arthur fleshed out Maude as a real woman, not the stereo-types that dominated the screen in the 1950s. Maude was not the model housewife nor always had dinner waiting for Walter (Bill Macy) and would often threaten him with the catch-phrase, ‘God’ll getcha for that, Walter’. Through Maude, Arthur connected to an audience of people, mostly older women and feminists who felt due representation of their issues had finally captured real interest. It’s most definitive moment though came when Maude had television’s first abortion (November 1972), a mere two months before the landmark Roe vs. Wade Supreme Court decision. Arthur, in subsequent interviews, exclaimed surprise at the heated reaction of the letters she received from fans for and against the decision. It showed though that television didn’t operate in a vacuum but helped to foment a conversation among individuals. Through it all the show was a hit in the ratings and she won an Emmy for her lead performance in 1977. Watching the episodes on YouTube, one senses that Arthur was being led unwillingly into the type of celebrity that the stage hadn’t prepared her for. She hadn’t expected to have a real impact on lives but more so the reverse; drawing inspiration from the lives of others to help shape her character. Never one to overstay her welcome, Arthur left Maude in 1978 after six years, thus ending the series. She hoped to get back on stage and never expected to do another series again.

All that changed in 1985 when NBC had an idea for a series with four older women living together in Miami and the role of Dorothy Zbornak was being floated around as a ‘Bea Arthur type’. The role proved to be a pivotal one; the character being the lynchpin for everyone else. Dorothy was level-headed, harsh yet fair and good in a crisis. Her daughter-mother relationship with Sophia (the late Estelle Getty) is among the most revered in television still and her dealings with her ex-husband Stan (the late Herb Edelman) garnered many guffaws. Dorothy’s relationships with these two characters are so realistically portrayed that it allowed the series to defy the odds of success. I doubt now that the show, or Maude for that matter, could thrive in the Neilson ratings without Arthur’s presence being able to command a slight awe yet grasp on comedic timing. Her one-liners are priceless: telling Rose that her daughter moves faster than Marcus Allen after sleeping with her son (Michael) after knowing him for one day. Intimating that Blanche had landed on her back more than the American Gladiators. Telling the girls how Stan surprised her with a wedding ring in a wine glass and it turned up three days later…on the Home Shopping Network when Rose’s naiveté presses the issue. The caustic wit with which these lines are delivered and her serious expressions remain the true legacy of her work and she was honoured with another Emmy in 1988. As in the case of Maude, she left the show feeling it had explored all its avenues and couldn’t possibly top itself.

The influence of The Golden Girls is palpable enough, from the several American spin-off shows and global affiliates it spawned. It remains in syndication long after it ended and shows like Sex in the City and Desperate Housewives wouldn’t have been possible without the success of The Golden Girls and the topics discussed. The fan base of the show has expanded to more than just women over fifty but also purists of good comedic writing and gay men in particular, for whom Bea Arthur is an icon. One can see the clear correlation between Dorothy and a character such as Miranda (SITC) and Lynette (DH).

Thirty-eight years after introducing a smart, feminist type to television audiences, Bea Arthur leaves the stage knowing that her legacy has secured the continuity of such strong-willed female characters. Bea Arthur died of cancer-related illness and was eighty-six (86) years old.

“The Fat of the Band”

No Line on the Horizon (U2) (2009)


As I sat to write this, I remembered when former Observer critic Marlon James said that the reason U2 was failing as a band (circa 1997) was because the group ‘never rocked to begin with’. I’ve had time to assess such a statement with each release after Achtung Baby and, not surprisingly, came to the same conclusion. Apparently, so too did the band because they have spent the ensuing years tinkering with a sound that has never been known to settle for uniformity. It took guts to follow up War with the experimental The Unforgettable Fire then bridge both ideas with the master-stroke that was The Joshua Tree, and for that U2 had my respect. No other band sounded more vital in the 80s nor had the grasp on crowds that turned up to be a part of the arena-rawk movement that the band had help foment in Europe.

Then a new decade came and kids were expressing rage through grunge by listening to Nirvana and the burgeoning college-rock scene exploded with voices like Michael Stipe (R.E.M) and Billy Corgan (The Smashing Pumpkins). It’s not that U2 panicked but more like they tried to buy into a scene that they could never fit into with arty collage efforts like Zooropa and Pop. Suddenly U2 were everywhere, at the drop of a pin, snatching every conceivable popular culture moment while ignoring their music. Thus they stopped being the ‘best band’ in music and became the ‘biggest band’. I’m not sure what such a label means though because Radiohead is undeniably the best rock band out there---stop kidding yourselves and agree already---and Coldplay the biggest selling (out?!) band, then where does that leave a dinosaur like U2?

So, now what does Bono do…he goes back to the drawing-board and regurgitates. That means Brian Eno is present to sweep sonic gloss over No Line on the Horizon and the band queues up and dole out exactly what is expected of them. The title track opens things up fairly enough but by track two---the uneven Magnificent—Bono is already crooning that he was here to sing for us and he couldn’t help it if he tried. As if. Then there is Get on your Boots where Bono deigns to remind us, albeit briefly, that he still considers himself a rock star. As if. The album ender, the numbing Cedars of Lebanon, if not pretentiously-titled already, has Bono’s vocal wrap slumbering over such hash like, ‘This shitty world sometimes produces a rose/ The scent of it lingers and then it just goes’. Lyrically, the track tackles the very issues that the band is dealing with but it’s devoid of any passion or sense of direction. Not surprisingly, the band fares better when the lyrical focus is on Bono particularly. Breathe succeeds in at least firing them up in an almost religious fervor. Bono’s sonorous approach doesn’t harm as much as it placates.

The album however trips under its own deep-rooted good intentions far too often. This is not surprising as given the halo of irreverence that surrounds Bono; it was always likely that the band would eventually nosedive under its own excess. Not only is White as Snow terribly boring but a line like ‘Who can forgive forgiveness where forgiveness is not’ serves as a test to the resolve of even the most diehard fans (and there are many, trust me). Fez takes forever to start up and until it really gets going I feared some type of (gulp!) Sting-like train wreck best suited for mid-level business managers at the end of a stressful work day. Stand Up Comedy is embarrassing enough with clunky lines like, ‘The DNA lotto may have left you smart/ but can you stand up to beauty?’ Moment of Surrender is the worst offender though in terms of pure verbiage. Here is Bono, sounding as if on a cross himself, draining all energy out of an already lacking song.

The biggest problem with U2’s music however is one of direction or the lack thereof. Back in the late 80s they helped to define and amplify a movement that preferred their rock stars front and centre on stage and not generic dispensers of isms. It’s not that the music here is totally horrid but for a band that used to evocate loss and sadness on a grand scale, a track like Unknown Caller simply pales in comparison. Nothing sticks thematically except Bono’s nauseating goodwill. War had its Irish politics to frame protest from and The Joshua Tree suffused loss in a myriad of unforgettable ways but what keeps die-hard fans from openly admitting how terribly uneven No Line on the Horizon is framed , is really beyond my comprehension.

The most stunning thing about the average U2 fan though is how clueless their music appreciation is. They praise the ground U2 walks upon yet conveniently ignore Radiohead, the band Bono is desperately copying with each record. Ironically, these fans do not listen to Radiohead and would sooner recite the fifty states that make up the USA than come up with any three songs from that band. Nothing is wrong with adapting ideas though and using them ruthlessly for your own schemes, I mean look how fabulous Paper Planes turned out for M.I.A and now everyone loves her even though they wouldn’t give her the time of day initially. When U2 pillage on this record though the effect is a type of sappy sentimentality that I always suspected Bono of. There is a deep insularity to No Line on the Horizon as if its own reward was upon completion. Of course this threat of gratuity looms as the years pass for each band, especially one as celebrated as U2. Bono has been accepted by every cultural indicator that we mark as a sign of someone who has achieved importance and in that inner-peace zone we all idealize. The trouble is, like Sting (ugh!) it is precisely at that point where the insistence and hunger to record music wane significantly. Twenty-five years ago when the future was unsecured and in front of the demanding crowd Bono then was an effective lead singer, railing on the hopes of those who couldn’t be up there with him. That is, essentially what rock and roll is, but whose pain is he eviscerating now? Even worse, Bono has forgotten what he is: a rock musician. His music has stopped influencing his politics and the reverse is true, thus making his statements less than the sum of their parts. Now, U2 is too neat, too concerned with saying all the right things, too flawless to make a beautiful yet flawed piece of art.

I never took that Bono statement at face value when he said it but the mere fact that he felt the need to reapply for vitality meant that on a very deep level he understood the predicament that surrounded him. His failure though is in clinging to a safety zone that is boring at this point, instead of opening up his band to newer possibilities. That, in a nutshell, sums up No Line on the Horizon, an album that toils hard at its insides and still, for all its labor, comes up empty and well short. Heading into a fourth decade, it is clear that those great, relevant days are behind U2 and we are all witness to what Marlon James calls, to borrow another quote from him, ‘talent leaving the talented’.

RATING: 4/10

“Swedish Smorgasbord”

Fever Ray (Fever Ray) /Hardships! (Jenny Wilson) (2009)


Though it is a Sri-Lankan born revisionist who currently jangles the keys of popular music, there can be no doubt which country is generating the most buzz to keep pace with her; Sweden. While the UK posse (Duffy, Adele and the prodigious Laura Marling) has greater visibility, the Swedes have permeated North American dance- floors with a swathe of bonafide hits. Sure, you probably can’t spell or pronounce any of their last names but their infectious beats are what you’re currently listening to without realizing it. There’s Robyn, the art-pop boss whose most recent gem, the self-titled Robyn shows just how much Pink has run out of ideas…and that album was originally released three years ago. Lykke Li’s debut last year showed spurts of promise with great dance tracks like Dance, Dance, Dance and I’m Good, I’m Gone.

No such cache could be complete however without mention of Karin Dreijer Andersson and Jenny Wilson. Both women share more than just the same year of birth but Wilson was famously the only other act signed to Andersson’s label, Rabid Records. Andersson is more popularly known as one-half of The Knife, the critically acclaimed duo she formed with her brother ten years ago. Their 2006 album Silent Shout featured prominently on many year-end lists, with critics marveling that not since the emergence of Bjork in the mid-nineties had non-American electronic music been presented so innovatively.

Her solo debut, Fever Ray starts off harmlessly enough with If I Had a Heart but as that track fades away we come upon the album’s highlight, When I Grow Up. Here Andersson’s beats are sparer than usual but a wicked dancehall groove is dropped midway and her vocals soar above the din while remaining emotionally unattached. There’s lyrical poison here but Karin understands that in music less is more even if you’re telling tales. Seven and Triangle Walks are intangibles that somehow work but by time she reaches to Concrete Walls, the album has already been enveloped into a sense of Knife déjà-vu. Andersson retreads into her safety zone and only I’m Not Done shows any real need to tinker with a sound that has been hers to dispense. This is understandable in most cases as record labels do tend to wean new or exotic acts slowly and as carefully structured as they can. But Andersson is, after all, releasing Fever Ray on her own label and, pardon my slight frustration, but it’s widely known among their fan base that there will be no new Knife material until 2010.

Andersson’s glacial pop beats are a canvass from which she can explore such varied ideas as homoerotic longing (Pass This On) and subtle swipes at Bjork (We Share Our Mother’s Health) but that’s when she’s one-half of The Knife. What eventually comes to differentiate her role in The Knife and as Fever Ray is personality. Her identity dominates totally the Fever Ray project and Karin falls slightly into the trap of back-story; thinking that somehow her fans need re-introduction to her life and music career. That scope narrows the fun she could have had on this solo project, which is admittedly admirable but surely could have skimmed the top off its seriousness to let its guard down a bit. Just like TV on the Radio’s much hyped Dear Science last year, the album is a tad pedantic and sacrifices fun for statement too much for my liking.

Whereas Andersson remains stoically in character, Wilson isn’t able to sit still for too long. She throws in just about everything to enliven her tracks, including jazzy textures and carefully-aligned multiple vocal work—the latter which supremely lifts the closing minutes of We Had Everything. It is fair to say that she’s been leading the Swedish avant-garde movement and look no further than Strings of Grass, a track that unfurls her many stylistic tricks without missing a beat, to prove such a point.

The first three tracks on Hardships! alone virtually guarantee Wilson her retainer fee however. The Path sounds like a cross between retro white pop and early-Bjork, thus making it one of the best songs the year has revealed so far. Like a Fading Rainbow is a pas de deux that she alone inhabits. Along with Clattering Hooves she sounds eerily similar to Camille’s animated expressions on Music Hole last year. On the shrilly Pass Me the Salt and Only Here for One Night, she recalls the playful vibe of Cansei de Ser Sexy and Roisin Murphy, which speaks volumes for her given that Wilson’s voice never registers as aggressively. Hardships! establishes itself as a moderately progressive opus due to the smooth juxtaposition of the electronic beats and associative rhythms. Anchor Made of Sand typifies this transition and if you don’t believe me then listen to her debut and hear the slight moments of disconnect that mar otherwise engaging tracks. The Wooden Chair is a huge jam that benefits from her new-found restraint. Wilson now has the ability to harness her delivery more coherently and that’s the most strikingly thing on Hardships!

Even though there’s nothing as masterful as Let My Shoes Lead Me Forward--a track from her debut that perhaps Lilly Allen should’ve heard before releasing the ridiculous It’s Not You, It’s Me mid-February—her vocal nuances are less abstract thus easier to follow. I’m glad Wilson has continued to plug away at her oeuvre so much so that she’s grown comfortable in strengthening her songs. The only issue with the album, if I had to be picky, is that while she has expanded her song length, Wilson hasn’t unearthed much about her own inner-workings. If Andersson is guilty of flooding listeners with her back-story then Wilson presents hardly any at all. The tracks where we glean something of her life tend to be the most fascinating here as her fans are well weaned on her sprite tales by now. In a sense she’s continuing a tale rather than breaking away to commence a newer one.

Both women owe a huge debt to Robyn, in whose path they are following. The transformation from Swedish dance star to global pop phenomenal isn’t one that easily comes without years of struggling to raise personality and profile. Andersson sports a mask on the rare occasion she is publicized or interviewed and the Fever Ray cover is in line with this caricature. Wilson dons a beret and arms herself with a gun, as if readying for what is to come on her album cover. If Annie ever gets to re-release Don’t Stop this year then I suspect a turf war with the lasses emerging from Norway may be next.
Fever Ray: 7.5/10 Hardships!: 8.25/10

Merriweather Post Pavillion (Animal Collective) (2009)

‘Checkmate’

Two years ago Animal Collective decided to play a little game of dare in the blogosphere and have the chips fall where they may. Both dares---the critically acclaimed Strawberry Jam and Person Pitch---were immense triumphs. Yet in the process of this revelry of sound was rooted a division that no one involved except them could foretell its outcome. Critics fell over themselves in praise of Person Pitch, hailing group member Panda Bear as the next electronic messiah in the process. Words were lavished upon its organic tone and Beach Boys-like sunny verses. In fact, this praise nearly drowned out the reception for Strawberry Jam, an album that naturally featured Panda Bear but just not on lead. This was seen as Avery Tare’s counterpunch, a stealthy directive that could only leave one leader standing. I, for one, fell for Strawberry Jam hard because it is their ‘pop’ album: a convincing juxtaposition of their hazy, water-logged sound and catchy lines. Amid this tussle though it became clear that aspiring electronic musician had a new model to emulate but still which direction would it be for them to follow?

The answer is, of course, the brilliant Merriweather Post Pavillion. This end result was always going to be the band’s to provide and instead of abandoning either ship, Animal Collective have cemented their union with the marriage of both pop and electronic sounds into one huge, larger-than-life apotheosis. One can always tell when a band has transgressed when their every release is seen and felt as a statement. As is their tradition, they gave hint of their resolve on the Water Curses EP last year but kept the real stunning stuff to themselves until now.

The album opens with the dreamy In the Flowers, a track that rumbles as if underwater with heavenly choruses being shouted out by the band. It’s the best thing here, with its potent poetry (‘if I could just leave my body for the night/ then we could be dancing/ no more missing you while I’m gone’) and seamless production matching its sombre, regretful tone. The track—indeed the entire album-- celebrates not just the restless New York energy that defines Animal Collective but also the precious memories and loved ones they’ve gathered along the way. The lucid song writing of Avery Tare and Panda Bear can claim the giddy heights of John Lennon/Paul McCarthy because what Merriweather Post Pavillion really excels at is manifesting the band’s personality; something most electronic groups cannot yet put forth on record.

This frees the band to experiment within a foiled sound that seemingly has become their own. Also Frightened overdubs itself more pointedly with each verse, with no apparent hook other than repeating its chorus and dragging its lines along to full psychedelic effect. Such audacity only comes from a band assured in its stature and not concerned with playing it safe. Even bolder is the anthem aspirations of songs like Bluish and My Girls, both swirl with heavy grooves and performed well in advance at concerts. Other tracks like Brother Sport reveal a personal side to the band with lines like, ‘I know it sucks that Daddy’s dumb/ open up your throat Matt/ support your brothers’. It’s more than poignant to hear Panda Bear address a personal issue on record like this (Brother Sport is for his brother, aimed to console for their father’s passing) but also vital to the process of life itself. Art does not stand outside of real life and Merriweather Post Pavillion triumphs by recognizing that and embracing it wholeheartedly.

Of course, it’s all very manipulative to a musical extent. Nothing about Merriweather is left to chance. Critics who may have felt the need to hesitate with the left-leaning Strawberry Jam have been buttered up into the Person Pitch comparison trap viciously thus can offer no opposition here. Hell, even Panda Bear has gone on record already to state that this is, in his view, the best thing they’ve ever assembled. As the reviews churn out expectedly greater than before (Pitchfork even went as far as to assign its mega-serious 9.6 rating) it is obvious that come year-end this opus will be highly regarded still. I call that a win for this group of friends who, rather than divide over creative styles, remain together to craft inimitable songs about their love of music. Now if only Deakin can pull himself together then the trio can become a foursome again. For now though this is a clear checkmate, a game over career move. Time for critics to unreservedly hand them their crown and a fork while they’re at it, the sooner for the band to start carving out their next fantastic sonic adventure. It may be very ealy in the year but I suspect already that a better album will not be released this year.

9.5/10

THE 50 BEST SONGS of 2008: PART TWO

Happy New Year to everyone who visits my blog. I thank you for checking it out and spreading the word. This year will see me using the blog even more to update my reviews and thoughts so please continue to read and feel free to comment.

It's taken me a while to post this second part of my list but I felt it important to do so. Though my top 10 has already been published in Bookends, this space allows me more words to express why I chose these tracks. Here goes:


Top 10 songs of 2008


1. 'Wait for the Summer' (Yeasayer):

I have put a youtube link up for this song already but if anyone who is familiar with the track will know of its majestic build-up only to be blown away by the Americana vocals that critics seem to think only Fleet Foxes used last year. The range of emotions covered by Yeasayer on the track are stunning; a clever, honest delving into a human mind, jealously guarding its love and self-conflict. But there is also obsession bordering on creepy here too, as manifested in lines like, 'it's an accidental fall/ and they won't suspect a thing at all'. Towards its end, the inevitable occurs: a lyrical murder beautifully smothered with lovely repetition.


2. 'Twinkle' (Erykah Badu):

How any serious critic could compile a top songs list last year without a Badu track is beyond me but it shows how little R&B is still thought of. Nonetheless, Badu's masterful assessment of the African-American experience shows how issues trancend generations. Writen before Obama would become the first non-white President, the track outlines how different ages view each other. When she croons, 'they say their grandfathers and grandmothers/ work hard for nothing/ and we still in this ghetto', it illustrates the economic hunger causing strain within the projects. The beauty of 'Twinkle' though is that Badu leaves it without judgment, just clear explanations on both sides. You listen to it though and the honesty of the music leaves you with only certain dread that things will never change.


3. Buriedfed (Miles Benjamin Anthony Robinson):

If there was a better song of '08 that summed up those depressing days when you question existence, your friends and your sanity, then it slipped me big time. 'Buriedfed' is pessimistic, awaiting and choosing death instead of stubbornly clinging on. Robinson frames this desperation in couplets of different stories but no persona frightens more than when he shouts out, 'fuck you/ I just wanted to die'. Even up to its end, the conflicts are no less fraught with danger.

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4. 'Money Note' (Camille):

Rotating endlessly over non sequitors about Whitney Houston, Mariah Carey and Dolly Parton,'Money Note'is literally just that; an examination of divadom and its exclusiveness. Of course being French allows Camille to delve into the totally American concept without seeming dishonest but the smartness of the track is accompanied with her stylistic tricks that prove far more accomplished than the aformentioned superstars.


5. 'The Leash' (Xiu Xiu):

The male-to-female sexual transgression in popular music has no greater lyricist than Jamie Stewart and 'The Leash' is a brilliant stab at the resentment festered on both sides of this obsession. It is unreservedly queer--not in the way that Antony Hegary is--but Stewart can frame tunes that both sexes can recognize their foibles in. History is replete with men rejecting fellow men as lovers, denying that part of themselves that readily is seen as weakness. Stewart frames 'The Leash' from the view of the forlorn lover who is at one hurt yet understanding. 'God had made your sweetheart wrong/ born to suffer/born only to die', he croons in one couplet. Yet there is urgency to resolve too; the track ends with, 'but you cannot deny me as a woman/ oh ensign/ I was your woman'. Disturbing yet morbidly fascinating.


6. 'Alla This' (Ani DiFranco):

A vicious yet sweet anti-war, anti-branding, anti-sexist track that restores the feminine mystique only DiFranco seems to hold up, years after being out in the fields. It figures such a complex artist would not be able to do a ballad decked out with only personal views on, say, such pastoral things like the changing of the season. Not Ani, not ever. Here she swipes organized religion, George W Bush and just men on a whole. Whew!



7. 'Sincerely, Jane' (Janelle Monae):

A big part of why my trend of '08 was 'return to art' is this magnificent track by Monae, a visionary who makes the R&B flock like Ciara, Beyonce, et al look as if they really are not even trying. Whereas those musicians are still fumbling to focus on anything other than themselves, Monae's concern is the projects and spiritual upliftment. 'The way we live/ the way we die/ what a tragedy/ I'm so terrified', she laments on the chorus as the Cindy Mayweather persona who is the chronicler of the experience.




8. 'The Healer' (Erykah Badu):

I'm still grappling with the fact that cokemachineglow actually had Badu atop their year-end album list. It's unheard of that a R&B record would beat the likes of TV on the Radio and Fleet Foxes on a publication that is skewered towards rock music but that is the cool thing about Badu; her music transcends genres. That's why she can take apart hip/hop the way she does on 'The Healer' and proclaim it, ironically, its own worst enemy. History notes always that the oppressed turn around and become oppressors. This haunting middle finger is thrown yet not even she can deny that the bent other four fingers on the hand will rise up one day to claim their fame too.


9. 'DVNO' (Justice):

Following up in some huge footsteps, 'DVNO' achieves its aim easily. Justice are a tricky proposition yet juxtaposing beats and repetition is easy enough but you need real genius to get these booty-shaking results.





10. The Only Bones that Show' (Baby Dee):

Dee rasps along, guttural yet determined as is if pouring out this track is the inly thing left to do in this uncaring world.

2008: The Year’s Best Music: ALBUMS

It is testament to the diverse year popular music has enjoyed that even up to the time of writing this I wasn’t exactly sure who would land the top spot. I know that sounds weird but I had to use a near-mathematical structure just to show the degrees between the picks. Thematically, there was no one artist trending who overshadowed everyone else. Twelve months ago M.I.A’s landmark Kala topped my album list and threatened to let loose a funky, global infection of beats and matching attitude. Note that word—attitude—because maybe, just maybe, that was the signpost of the year. By the way, if you’re still fooling yourself that she isn’t the biggest music star globally then check her out on SPIN’s December cover and even the ultra-boring Grammy’s couldn’t ignore her anymore (her Paper Planes snagged a Record of the Year nomination). It is interesting though that the state of popular music has repositioned itself to a more critical bent, one I think that even conservative record labels are being forced to accept. I caught an interview on YouTube recently with the year’s best ‘find’, Janelle Monae, where she talked about her creative process and how artists now are more concerned with quality, not sales. This is a stunning about face from the music industry. Need proof: Monae is signed to Bad Boy records, a label notorious for milking every dime it can.

It is all dicey for now but this is, to borrow from a political slogan, ‘change we can believe in’. This is especially heartening because hip/hop soul is the genre headlining this change. No one played a bigger part than Erykah Badu, who returned with an album that put her contemporaries to shame. Badu is her generation’s conscience, an artist whose entire personality embodies the cyclical nature of a movement. If she resurrected soul eleven years ago with Baduism, then she filters it in stages with part one of her New Amerykah series. The aforementioned Monae—who is, in truth, part Badu, part Joi, part Lauryn Hill—is the result of such an evolutionary process. She is an assortment of influences flooding creativity. Ruling music is what Santi White is all about too. Billed as heir-apparent to M.I.A, White—who is the main entity in Santogold—spun newness over the 80’s vibe that she’s comfortable pandering to. Some were divided but that’s only because such mastery over an era we’d all like to forget is a stunning thing. So, thanks to those women American hip/hop is finding itself again. After years of obvious degradation, things are changing. Other genres are playing catch up but rock looked inward and found much tenderness. Dance music dominated early on but acts like Hot Chip still flounder for full length album consistency.

My list features, for the first time, no one album that is an immediate masterpiece. The top pick received 8.75 out of ten on my scale. There is a reason for this but for all the consistency this supports my view that it is a care-taker year. I hope next year will see an all out attack on our pop sensibilities.

Here are the 20 best albums of 2008:

1 Metropolis Suite I: The Chase EP (Janelle Monae): ‘I’m an alien from out of space/ sent to destroy you’, croons Monae on her lead single Violet Stars Happy Hunting and given her penchant for all things robotic, pardon me if I believe her. Monae is the mixed propulsion of many innovators like Outkast, Erykah Badu, Lauryn Hill and even the cool weirdness of Bjork. She’s grown up listening to them and filtered them through her own dedicated lens. The aforementioned Violet Stars... is gloriously carefree with its energy. But funk aside, soul music is given the freshest spin since Aaliyah on Many Moons and Sincerely Jane. Along with the title track, the EP is stunning it the scope it explores. She’s got people believing in soul music again. Look out for her debut proper because that’s domination time. 8.75

2. New Amerykah, Pt. One: 4^th World War (Erykah Badu): Badu, at thirty-seven, has come full circle with New Amerykah, a disc that gleefully erases the frustration one feels hearing lesser artists attempt such depth. What separates her from peers is her ability to take chances while taking stock. All this while showing humour and resilience: her focus on The Healer stunningly puts hip/hop in check with the stark reality that the genre is currently, ‘bigger than religion’. No matter her politics—whether personal or controversial—Badu has finally complimented her 90’s masterpiece Baduism with an equal worthy of all the admiration my mere pen can ink on it. 8.68

3. For Emma, Forever Ago (Bon Iver): the story of Justin Vernon going off to mourn the end of his band is famous now but the question that will continue to taunt him is why hadn’t he done so earlier? If this becomes the normal result of embattled musicians then I’m all for it. For Emma, Forever Ago is a gorgeous album, best listened to early in the morning or during rainfall. There’s peacefulness, a type of resolve to tracks like Flume and Lump Sum. He could have padded the album with safe, structured songs but credit him for clenched-teeth grit of The Wolves (Act I & II), the brilliant endgame of Creature Fear and the title track swirls endlessly into the stuff of greatness. 8.66

4. Santogold (Santogold): Philly native Santi White is the residual force of this entity (John Hill runs the tweaks in the background). The album effortlessly mirrors the 80’s pop vibe she clearly fell in love with growing up, without overdoing it. Subtle tracks like Lights Out and Anne reveal a Pixies fixation that is mingled with a contemporary funk intuition. Even better, the punk-tinged You’ll Find a Way runs its heavenly chorus with remarkable skill. Not content there, she rolls out ska by numbers on Say Aha and infuses it with dub and new wave. If that hasn’t hooked you then L.E.S Artistes tags along merely for bragging rights and, as brawta, Shove It downright kicks ass. She could have comfortably fit right into ‘American M.I.A’ space critics were desperately trying to pin her down in but White’s brilliance is as stubborn as it is unique. One hell of an authoritative body of work too. 8.59

5. Dear Emily, Best Wishes, Molly (Prussia): for the most part, punk was pretty low-laying this year but no one told Prussia. These kids actually impress upon the genre their own intent: Oil wreaks itself with a type of narcissism, slick its space with lyrics that actually fits its title. Supreme Being glides over its start-stop-start terrain. There’s a wide-eyed pragmatism that Prussia blends on the album that keeps the focus steady. Even more stunning is the funkiness of their beats (Lady, Lady). It’s not all sledge here; there’s some real heart and realism in it too. Besides how does one not love a Rolling Stones-esque track like Closed Lips? 8.44

6. All Hour Cymbals (Yeasayer): released in the USA around the same time Radiohead dropped In Rainbows, Yeasayer’s debut got almost no attention. Indeed, I hadn’t even heard of them until its release in the UK this year. Good thing too because it is one hell of a debut: Sunrise opens things up with a lovely vibe but even it pales to the next track, Wait for the Summer, arguably the year’s best track. It’s a revival and big Western tent concept that swells with each couplet and it never let’s up. 2080, another epic track, features some children voices towards the end in a classy touch. These are, incidentally, the first three tracks. The rest of the album is just as fascinating with its variations of tension of emotion that the band can muster. 8.40

7. Music Hole (Camille): it’d be a pity if Music Hole is allowed to fall through the cracks this year because though it has received scant blog attention, its best tricks rivals that of any other disc released. Katie’s Tea is one of many stunning numbers that feature the chanteuse outmanoeuvring her American counterparts. These divine moments (Home is Where it Hurts/ Waves/ Kfir) uncover the true indicator of her growth: a broadened palate of influences. If that isn’t enough then check out the seven minute wonder that is Money Note, one of the great tracks this year. 8.40

8. In Ear Park (Department of Eagles): part Grizzly Bear (Daniel Rossen) and part New York air, this band builds their tracks from within a smouldering motion and recycles them through winsome experimentation. No One Does it Like You is atypical of their sound but even within such set standards they find ways to eke out brilliance: Teenagers is a daring riff and the masterpiece Waves of Rye rotates itself blissfully. Not often can folk and electronic acts find the nexus between both genres and manage such gorgeous results but DOE get away because their aspirations are always to take and never to seek permission. 8.30

9. Exit (Shugo Tokumaru): Not because every year-end list must have some vaguely-known foreign act is Tokumaru here but this is just some damn fine music by way of Japan. Parachute is a gorgeous pop number, replete with a sing-song chorus. Green Rain twitches with a fiddle a-la’ Animal Collective while Button may be the cross-over hit that could make him known in America’s pop market. The track features actual singing juxtaposed with steep instrumentals. While blogs praise American experimentalists like Deerhunter and Gang Gang Dance, they bore me because I know they can push beyond the confines they work with. Tokumaru is the best line of reasoning this year to support my view. 8.29

10. Vampire Weekend (Vampire Weekend): there will be endless comparisons to Paul Simon but unlike him VW are unrelenting in their ability to just have fun. The one-two punch of Mansard Roof to Oxford Comma is among the strongest this year. Several critics have tried to negate the feel-good aspect of the band, as if their Ivy League achievements exclude them from musical greatness. What they fail to mention is beyond the surface of all this hippy vibe, there is complexity in volumes. A-Punk throws riffs around like prized boxer. The Peter Gabriel name-check in Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa is more than a ploy, it’s an allegiance call. Lyrically, there’s some breathy stuff too: M79 and Campus are both backed up by furious twiddling and backing choruses. Conventional wisdom would have us expecting a letdown at some point but VW clearly do not pander to the idea of their music have greater significance than to themselves and, quite frankly, that will do for now. 8.27

The best of the rest:

11. Dig, Lazarus, Dig! (Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds): this year’s Nick Cave apotheosis has the towering title track setting the mood for wiseacres that carry right through this blistering opus. 8.25

12 At Mount Zoomer (Wolf Parade): it’s not easy trying to follow up an immaculate debut but somehow I never doubted Wolf Parade would do it. At Mount Zoomer is a complex sophomore effort, replete with great craftsmanship. 8.24

13. Sun Giant EP (Fleet Foxes): if the ultimate aim of an EP is to whet one’s appetite for a new band then consider Sun Giant an overachiever. 8.22

14. Miles Benjamin Anthony Robinson (Miles Benjamin Anthony Robinson): depressing as hell, especially the masterpiece Buriedfed, but seldom has a musician been able to sum up the hopeless state people can get in at times. 8.20

15. Chunk of Change EP (Passion Pit): like Of Montreal, this band has a whale of a time grinding emotional love axes. 8.13

16. Furr (Blitzen Trapper): quietly moving across its intent, Furr proves how skilful Blitzen Trapper peddles their brand of blues/pop-rock and taking risks while doing so. 8.00

17. Skeletal Lamping (Of Montreal): a thinking man’s idea, Barnes presents a portfolio that incorporates his usual eccentricities and queer vagueness. Prince is the role model here so this embodiment is sexier than before, edgier and pushing more buttons. 8.00

18. Red Letter Year (Ani DiFranco): DiFranco, an iconoclast in the middle of a career arc, proves that there’s still much left in the tank despite her hectic pace. 8.00

19. That Lucky Old Sun (Brian Wilson): or, Smile part two, Wilson continues to document his love affair with Southern California via a musical travelogue. 8.00

20. Please Mr. Boombox (The Lady Tigra): think of a sound that is reminiscent of M.I.A but without the divisive politics but with just as strong a personality. 8.00