The world's 1st serial killer film remains, after 80 years, the best still.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
FILMS I LOVE
The Birdcage (1996) 
Gene Hackman in drag complaining that white makes him loook fat= priceless humor.
Gene Hackman in drag complaining that white makes him loook fat= priceless humor.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
MINI MUSIC REVIEWS
Dye it Blonde (The Smith Westerns) (2011) 
Synth pop has been all the rage with bands of late and The Smith Western dip their hands heavily in it on this their sophomore. There’s a decidedly 80s feel to the DNA of tracks like All Die Young and Only One. The instrumentalism is solid even if it doesn’t totally distinguish itself. Ditto the lyrics but married they accentuate the positives very well. The most interesting blend here is Still New because its bleeding production is tempered in the middle instead of starting things off. The band is still trying too hard to match their heroes thus neglecting their own signature style but Dye it Blonde is good enough for us to eagerly await the next move…hopefully an original one. 7/10
No Witch (The Cave Singers) (2011)
As the first strains of Gifts and the Raft come in the Fleetwood Mac comparisons rush in. And it’s a favorable remark too because The Cave Singers are equally gifted in drafting gritty rock ballads that groove yet forces one to think. Their rustic blues reels itself off effortlessly, yet there is a variety here that The Black Keys lost on their last album. Falls incorporates backing vocals but the lead never loses power. This is just their third album but it is progressive and easily their best. The only thing left for them to perfect is memorable lyrics that read from their own lives a-la Fleetwood Mac. The production though is clean, instrumentals pipe in on cue and the syntax of the vocal arrangements impeccable as noted on the brilliant Swim Club. 8/10
Gramahawk (Modern Skirts) (2011)
One of the most divisive releases this year, Gramahawk is at least very catchy. That said, it isn’t the spawn of the devil as some critics wouldv have you believe. It doesn’t help that the band is from Athens, Georgia or that they really are not a rock band. Sure, Glass of Water is cumbersome but that’s just one outright clunker on the album, which tries to cookie-cutter its pop with slight changes to delivery but not structure. Lead track, Jane Child can stand on its own ground though, full with cooing melodies. The rest is scattershot yet very interesting. Missing in the mix is a coherent hand in the production: the sage type that would have eliminated the rough edges and delve even deeper to find the potential in the album. 6.5/10
Synth pop has been all the rage with bands of late and The Smith Western dip their hands heavily in it on this their sophomore. There’s a decidedly 80s feel to the DNA of tracks like All Die Young and Only One. The instrumentalism is solid even if it doesn’t totally distinguish itself. Ditto the lyrics but married they accentuate the positives very well. The most interesting blend here is Still New because its bleeding production is tempered in the middle instead of starting things off. The band is still trying too hard to match their heroes thus neglecting their own signature style but Dye it Blonde is good enough for us to eagerly await the next move…hopefully an original one. 7/10
No Witch (The Cave Singers) (2011)
As the first strains of Gifts and the Raft come in the Fleetwood Mac comparisons rush in. And it’s a favorable remark too because The Cave Singers are equally gifted in drafting gritty rock ballads that groove yet forces one to think. Their rustic blues reels itself off effortlessly, yet there is a variety here that The Black Keys lost on their last album. Falls incorporates backing vocals but the lead never loses power. This is just their third album but it is progressive and easily their best. The only thing left for them to perfect is memorable lyrics that read from their own lives a-la Fleetwood Mac. The production though is clean, instrumentals pipe in on cue and the syntax of the vocal arrangements impeccable as noted on the brilliant Swim Club. 8/10
Gramahawk (Modern Skirts) (2011)
One of the most divisive releases this year, Gramahawk is at least very catchy. That said, it isn’t the spawn of the devil as some critics wouldv have you believe. It doesn’t help that the band is from Athens, Georgia or that they really are not a rock band. Sure, Glass of Water is cumbersome but that’s just one outright clunker on the album, which tries to cookie-cutter its pop with slight changes to delivery but not structure. Lead track, Jane Child can stand on its own ground though, full with cooing melodies. The rest is scattershot yet very interesting. Missing in the mix is a coherent hand in the production: the sage type that would have eliminated the rough edges and delve even deeper to find the potential in the album. 6.5/10
FILMS I LOVE
The Good, The Bad & The Ugly...
Eli Wallach in a landmark role that would go on to influence all quirky bad male characters.
Eli Wallach in a landmark role that would go on to influence all quirky bad male characters.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Let England Shake (PJ Harvey) (2011)
The Queen’s Speech 
When she emerged in the early 1990s at the height of the alternative rock scene, PJ Harvey was immediately endeared to critics for the deep introspective lyrics juxtaposed to her damaged goods aesthetic. Like a Teutonic goddess from high above, she seemed to spiral through the type of blues/rock that both sexes could deify yet reflect upon long after the head-banging stopped. That dual nature of her music though has remained the apotheosis of a remarkable career that both Harvey and her fans continue to view differently. Whereas she’s always maintained a non-political stance to her music, fans have long supplanted their own issues into the mix. So, for example, Dress may have been for her a semi-autobiographical account of getting ready for a date but there isn’t a single rock historian that doesn’t view it as some hefty feminist anthem of gender inequality.
Of course, if her music wasn’t so incisive then who’d have given a damn? She’d simply be Melissa Etheridge or, Liz Phair back when she was sleeping around in her Exile in Guyville days, and we’d respect but not revere her. Try as she might though, Harvey—one third of the so-called ‘Hammer of the Goddess’—cannot escape the expectation of her work. Her last album, the morose White Chalk, signaled clearly that after two decades, her rigid self-analysis had exhausted itself. The album was the continuation of the creative-sagging process that had befallen her ever since she abandoned the blues after Is This Desire, a whopping thirteen years ago. That was the last time her ballads felt striking and relevant (i.e Angeline, A Perfect Day, Elise).
Let England Shake thankfully is a decisive step into something more historical while retaining her blues/rock past. Its focus is the psychological damage done to England during the Great War (WWI) over a blistering span of forty minutes. Indeed the bruising imagery of her vocal epiphanies makes for an immediate and startling impact. Which she will no doubt chalk up to the many months spent in research of the material. The wider impact though is the reconnection of her belief in music-making. It may have taken something as horrific as war to channel her energy upon but Let England Shake is a huge game-changing moment in her career. The album uniquely presents her observations with restrained judgment and bitterness. There is flesh jangling in dust and sweat here, tension and panic and soldiers being blasted to bits and ‘fell like chunks of meat’ (The Words that Maketh Murder).
The more she presses the imagery upon us, the more trapped within a vortex of terror she sounds. Yet, she never gets hopeless: remarking on the title-track that, ‘we’ll rise again’ defiantly even as death closes in to snatch the soldiers on the battlefield. The biting opening line doesn’t go amiss either: a jab at America’s indifference during the period (‘The West’s asleep/ let England shake/weighted down with silent dead’). Her patriotism aside, Polly Jean is also exploring the love for her homeland sounds and all the provincialism that comes along with it too. England features just her with a guitar and her torturous wails and self-confession (‘I cannot go on as I am/ withered vine/ reaching from the country/ that I love’). Bitter Branches underlines its sad tone with a pummeled guitar and Harvey repeating the line ‘wave goodbye’ in esoteric fits of brilliance. All and Everyone bangs louder yet alternates its speed with a slowed-down chorus as if to induce sheer dread.
Then there is the monumental first single, The Words that Maketh Murder. The political undertone that she’s been at pains to eschew throughout her career finally catches up to her lips when she utters the line, ‘what if I take my problems to the United Nations?’ It’s a snarky piece of viciousness and one uncharacteristic of Harvey to let fall on record but it reinforces a point of entry into any war: countries only get involved when shamed or forced to do so. In these times such a line can be heralded as threat but also as ridicule. Harvey may be revisiting WWI but the chief elements of war are timeless—death, displacement ect. It’s been nearly a hundred years since that Great War and humankind still is under threat of more wars.
Indeed, the entire Middle East is currently aflame as dictators turn upon their subjects to remain in power while all over Africa losers of elections stubbornly stay on while tribes commit genocide daily upon other tribes. We know all about the bad guys and their deeds but that is merely half the issue. Credit Polly Jean Harvey then for being the first musician to ask the good guys (The United Nations) the other half: just exactly how much longer it intends to sit on the fence before taking decisive action to quell evil…the very purpose for which it was formed.
RATING: 8/10
When she emerged in the early 1990s at the height of the alternative rock scene, PJ Harvey was immediately endeared to critics for the deep introspective lyrics juxtaposed to her damaged goods aesthetic. Like a Teutonic goddess from high above, she seemed to spiral through the type of blues/rock that both sexes could deify yet reflect upon long after the head-banging stopped. That dual nature of her music though has remained the apotheosis of a remarkable career that both Harvey and her fans continue to view differently. Whereas she’s always maintained a non-political stance to her music, fans have long supplanted their own issues into the mix. So, for example, Dress may have been for her a semi-autobiographical account of getting ready for a date but there isn’t a single rock historian that doesn’t view it as some hefty feminist anthem of gender inequality.
Of course, if her music wasn’t so incisive then who’d have given a damn? She’d simply be Melissa Etheridge or, Liz Phair back when she was sleeping around in her Exile in Guyville days, and we’d respect but not revere her. Try as she might though, Harvey—one third of the so-called ‘Hammer of the Goddess’—cannot escape the expectation of her work. Her last album, the morose White Chalk, signaled clearly that after two decades, her rigid self-analysis had exhausted itself. The album was the continuation of the creative-sagging process that had befallen her ever since she abandoned the blues after Is This Desire, a whopping thirteen years ago. That was the last time her ballads felt striking and relevant (i.e Angeline, A Perfect Day, Elise).
Let England Shake thankfully is a decisive step into something more historical while retaining her blues/rock past. Its focus is the psychological damage done to England during the Great War (WWI) over a blistering span of forty minutes. Indeed the bruising imagery of her vocal epiphanies makes for an immediate and startling impact. Which she will no doubt chalk up to the many months spent in research of the material. The wider impact though is the reconnection of her belief in music-making. It may have taken something as horrific as war to channel her energy upon but Let England Shake is a huge game-changing moment in her career. The album uniquely presents her observations with restrained judgment and bitterness. There is flesh jangling in dust and sweat here, tension and panic and soldiers being blasted to bits and ‘fell like chunks of meat’ (The Words that Maketh Murder).
The more she presses the imagery upon us, the more trapped within a vortex of terror she sounds. Yet, she never gets hopeless: remarking on the title-track that, ‘we’ll rise again’ defiantly even as death closes in to snatch the soldiers on the battlefield. The biting opening line doesn’t go amiss either: a jab at America’s indifference during the period (‘The West’s asleep/ let England shake/weighted down with silent dead’). Her patriotism aside, Polly Jean is also exploring the love for her homeland sounds and all the provincialism that comes along with it too. England features just her with a guitar and her torturous wails and self-confession (‘I cannot go on as I am/ withered vine/ reaching from the country/ that I love’). Bitter Branches underlines its sad tone with a pummeled guitar and Harvey repeating the line ‘wave goodbye’ in esoteric fits of brilliance. All and Everyone bangs louder yet alternates its speed with a slowed-down chorus as if to induce sheer dread.
Then there is the monumental first single, The Words that Maketh Murder. The political undertone that she’s been at pains to eschew throughout her career finally catches up to her lips when she utters the line, ‘what if I take my problems to the United Nations?’ It’s a snarky piece of viciousness and one uncharacteristic of Harvey to let fall on record but it reinforces a point of entry into any war: countries only get involved when shamed or forced to do so. In these times such a line can be heralded as threat but also as ridicule. Harvey may be revisiting WWI but the chief elements of war are timeless—death, displacement ect. It’s been nearly a hundred years since that Great War and humankind still is under threat of more wars.
Indeed, the entire Middle East is currently aflame as dictators turn upon their subjects to remain in power while all over Africa losers of elections stubbornly stay on while tribes commit genocide daily upon other tribes. We know all about the bad guys and their deeds but that is merely half the issue. Credit Polly Jean Harvey then for being the first musician to ask the good guys (The United Nations) the other half: just exactly how much longer it intends to sit on the fence before taking decisive action to quell evil…the very purpose for which it was formed.
RATING: 8/10
Sunday, April 3, 2011
The Company Men (2011)
Poker Faces 
The film begins with Bobby (Ben Affleck) losing his job at the blue collar company GTX due to a corporate merger—the lone negative in a life so far filled with lovely clichés. From there things get comfortably predictable because John Wells’ directorial debut forgets it’s a feature film and, well, not a sitcom. Wells, a veteran writer for several popular TV shows (ER, The West Wing), simply isn’t able to translate the reality of the harsh corporate downsizing that’s swept across America and the world the last few years. What’s worse, he wrote the screenplay that has inexplicable cuts and gaps in it, none flattering or realistic.
For even if one were to look past the abrupt dismissal and the fact that Bobby gets only twelve weeks pay as a severance package for twelve years of employment, it is hard to fathom the lack of serious tension this blow impacts on his wife Maggie (the lovely but totally miscast Rosemarie DeWitt). She immediately goes into the type of cost-saving mode that makes one wonder why she wasn’t so wary of Bobby’s pernicious spending in the first place. Twelve years is a long time to feel insecure and hedging a bet on whether one’s boss will retain your services or not.
The storyline featuring another GTX employee Phil (Chris Cooper) is least developed despite being the most realistic character in the film. Cooper brings his usual crotchety genius to the role even though the ham-fisted screenplay dooms him to an inevitable outcome before real brutality can be brought up. His artfulness within the company has never been secure and Cooper plays him with a fidgety frame that works despite never explaining itself.
This is the biggest problem with The Company Men: its focus on a positive outcome overshadowing the dire ugliness of everything in between. Losing one’s job is an unhinging experience but only through Phil is that seen, whether it’s his wife insistence that he carries on a routine so the neighbors won’t suspect or the one spectacular scene when the female job placement officer tells him that his resume is too ‘old’. The look of indignation he gives her after she tells him to leave off his war experience is priceless as is his stuffed-shirt persona amid the sea of younger applicants, all busily on their Blackberry devices.
Bobby faces no such turmoil apparently; instead he plays golf and accepts his brother-in-law’s offer to work at his carpentry company. At most he loses his mansion but there are no ugly spats at home and he looks well-fed. This is a mere inconvenience for him---a cut-back on a car or dry-cleaning. Instead of severe reality being an issue it’s his pride at stake instead.
Then there is Gene (Tommy Lee Jones) who doesn’t need to worry about pride as his stock in GTX allows him to pretty much do what he’s always done. It is his duplicity though that lingers most as well as his inability to act. Or his reluctance to really call out GTX boss Craig (Craig T. Nelson) for what he truly his because he was a benefactor before the massive job cuts. What moves him to lash out is uncertain but maybe it’s the guilt of not being able to identify anymore with the ‘average Joe’. He was, after all, a senior manager and financially established. He is hypocritical too: staring down his wife’s inquiry about a company jet for personal travel but rarely feeling guilty for cheating on her with the company’s senior lawyer Sally (Maria Bello).
For all the focus on Bobby’s redemptive drive to become ‘the man’ again though, The Company Men is in fact Gene’s moment to reinvent himself into what he’s always seen in the mirror… which is, ironically, also ‘the man’. It’s the same phrase but the huge difference in the complexity of the term to both men is something Wells’ film, in its overpowering limitation, never seriously tackles. Nor is the film able to manifest the ties that bind corporate men together but seeks to instead paint a generic canvass as to what unhinges them. It is, of course, the slavish love for money and power but in the film it’s merely perfunctory, like an affair or Sunday afternoon golf.
Which is a shame because the minute Bobby sits down to head Gene’s new company he rallies the troops with the type of speech that is geared for one thing only: making money quickly. Greed is good but more importantly it is back as a glint in his eye. Back home his wife no doubt realizes what he won’t readily admit to but what we’ve been waiting for: the moment Bobby trades in one financial monster for another en route to becoming one himself.
RATING: 5/10
The film begins with Bobby (Ben Affleck) losing his job at the blue collar company GTX due to a corporate merger—the lone negative in a life so far filled with lovely clichés. From there things get comfortably predictable because John Wells’ directorial debut forgets it’s a feature film and, well, not a sitcom. Wells, a veteran writer for several popular TV shows (ER, The West Wing), simply isn’t able to translate the reality of the harsh corporate downsizing that’s swept across America and the world the last few years. What’s worse, he wrote the screenplay that has inexplicable cuts and gaps in it, none flattering or realistic.
For even if one were to look past the abrupt dismissal and the fact that Bobby gets only twelve weeks pay as a severance package for twelve years of employment, it is hard to fathom the lack of serious tension this blow impacts on his wife Maggie (the lovely but totally miscast Rosemarie DeWitt). She immediately goes into the type of cost-saving mode that makes one wonder why she wasn’t so wary of Bobby’s pernicious spending in the first place. Twelve years is a long time to feel insecure and hedging a bet on whether one’s boss will retain your services or not.
The storyline featuring another GTX employee Phil (Chris Cooper) is least developed despite being the most realistic character in the film. Cooper brings his usual crotchety genius to the role even though the ham-fisted screenplay dooms him to an inevitable outcome before real brutality can be brought up. His artfulness within the company has never been secure and Cooper plays him with a fidgety frame that works despite never explaining itself.
This is the biggest problem with The Company Men: its focus on a positive outcome overshadowing the dire ugliness of everything in between. Losing one’s job is an unhinging experience but only through Phil is that seen, whether it’s his wife insistence that he carries on a routine so the neighbors won’t suspect or the one spectacular scene when the female job placement officer tells him that his resume is too ‘old’. The look of indignation he gives her after she tells him to leave off his war experience is priceless as is his stuffed-shirt persona amid the sea of younger applicants, all busily on their Blackberry devices.
Bobby faces no such turmoil apparently; instead he plays golf and accepts his brother-in-law’s offer to work at his carpentry company. At most he loses his mansion but there are no ugly spats at home and he looks well-fed. This is a mere inconvenience for him---a cut-back on a car or dry-cleaning. Instead of severe reality being an issue it’s his pride at stake instead.
Then there is Gene (Tommy Lee Jones) who doesn’t need to worry about pride as his stock in GTX allows him to pretty much do what he’s always done. It is his duplicity though that lingers most as well as his inability to act. Or his reluctance to really call out GTX boss Craig (Craig T. Nelson) for what he truly his because he was a benefactor before the massive job cuts. What moves him to lash out is uncertain but maybe it’s the guilt of not being able to identify anymore with the ‘average Joe’. He was, after all, a senior manager and financially established. He is hypocritical too: staring down his wife’s inquiry about a company jet for personal travel but rarely feeling guilty for cheating on her with the company’s senior lawyer Sally (Maria Bello).
For all the focus on Bobby’s redemptive drive to become ‘the man’ again though, The Company Men is in fact Gene’s moment to reinvent himself into what he’s always seen in the mirror… which is, ironically, also ‘the man’. It’s the same phrase but the huge difference in the complexity of the term to both men is something Wells’ film, in its overpowering limitation, never seriously tackles. Nor is the film able to manifest the ties that bind corporate men together but seeks to instead paint a generic canvass as to what unhinges them. It is, of course, the slavish love for money and power but in the film it’s merely perfunctory, like an affair or Sunday afternoon golf.
Which is a shame because the minute Bobby sits down to head Gene’s new company he rallies the troops with the type of speech that is geared for one thing only: making money quickly. Greed is good but more importantly it is back as a glint in his eye. Back home his wife no doubt realizes what he won’t readily admit to but what we’ve been waiting for: the moment Bobby trades in one financial monster for another en route to becoming one himself.
RATING: 5/10
Saturday, February 26, 2011
James Blake (James Blake) (2011)
Getting the Memo 
A quick look at James Blake before spinning his debut album on your headphones will only prompt you to look him over again. Like, real slowly. We are, of course, not talking about the African-American tennis player but a white Brit dubstep producer who sounds like black neo-soul via southern gospel. It shouldn’t be a surprise because most young white musicians have grown up influenced by black American soul singers whereas the reverse is true. So, while Santi White may have a secret shrine somewhere dedicated to The Clash, we can deduce that Adele falls asleep nightly listening to Aretha Franklin.
James Blake listens to them all and incorporates the best of both worlds into one coherent stew on his debut LP. He’s been whetting out appetite for a year now with mini-releases and remixes. Last year’s Klavierwerke EP featured funky grooves and electro hi-claps parading as actual songs and radical concepts. Here though, he’s lessened his producer role and brought out his own soul, juxtaposing both into what may very well be the best debut album we’ll hear all year.
Unluck expertly mixes his slowed vocals with not one but two divergent beats that are like fissures of ice thawing slowly into each other. The fuzzy bass line only grows louder—a perfect foil for his raw sound as it strains through what can only be described as musical trauma. Wilhelm’s Scream is even more deceptive; luring one’s ears into a swelling reverb before blowing the best soul load since D’angelo’s last album. The track peters out with Nintendo-like sounds reverberating over his admission of hopeless love. His remake of Feist’s Limit to Your Love removes her sweet delivery and instead we’re treated to a haunting refrain that I’d never thought the original contained. Give Me My Month is just short of two minutes but its fey vocals put Antony Hegarty to shame. ‘I never told her where the fear/comes from’, he croons over a simple piano. It’s the sole track without any electronic frills but it’s the most heart-breaking moment on the disc. To Care (Like You) slips on his producer’s jacket again but the comfort of the fit is evident in the seamless transitioning of all the parts. I Mind winds down slowly, replete with the typical fissures arty types use for chillwave. Then comes the gospel-influenced Measurements which appropriately is solemn yet soulful at the same time.
Blake’s minimalism is sure to put off quite a few listeners though especially as nothing here snaps as immediately as a 2010 track CMYK. But, in his defense, the showman aspect of this LP is more impressive. Even the more straight forward tracks have a gloss to them that is interesting: I Never Learnt to Share, for example, pulls out a weird techno stream towards the end that feels out of place but kookily so. Lindesfarne I doesn’t quite pull off its aim but the result of Lindesfarne II hits home.
It’s all something new but then again, any artist is unto something genius when the establishment doesn’t initially get it: Geoff Barrow’s indirect Twitter snipe at Blake earlier this year sadly proves this point. Barrow, a member of trip-hop band Portishead, seemed dismayed that BBC’s Sound of 2011 poll was heralding the rise of a ‘dubstep meets pub singer’ genre. That, ironically, is how one could describe Beth Gibbon’s vocals on any of Portishead’s albums. The only difference is that Gibbons no longer sounds like early Tori Amos on acid but now rather more like how Amos currently sounds—established, bored and only occasionally brilliant.
Blake now stands at the start of an exciting, brilliant career, one that is erasing norms and rewriting possibilities for a genre that’s in need of a shake up. This mirrors the rise of trip-hop some sixteen years ago with Portishead and Tricky. It was daring and risky back then but I’ve yet to read of Massive Attack (the godfather band of both genres) deriding either for taking the music to a different level. That is, after all the purpose of art and vision. Given the overwhelming critical praise he’s been getting so far, I hope by the time year-end lists thrust him even further into the spotlight, doubters like Barrow would have gotten the memo by then…
RATING: 8/10
A quick look at James Blake before spinning his debut album on your headphones will only prompt you to look him over again. Like, real slowly. We are, of course, not talking about the African-American tennis player but a white Brit dubstep producer who sounds like black neo-soul via southern gospel. It shouldn’t be a surprise because most young white musicians have grown up influenced by black American soul singers whereas the reverse is true. So, while Santi White may have a secret shrine somewhere dedicated to The Clash, we can deduce that Adele falls asleep nightly listening to Aretha Franklin.
James Blake listens to them all and incorporates the best of both worlds into one coherent stew on his debut LP. He’s been whetting out appetite for a year now with mini-releases and remixes. Last year’s Klavierwerke EP featured funky grooves and electro hi-claps parading as actual songs and radical concepts. Here though, he’s lessened his producer role and brought out his own soul, juxtaposing both into what may very well be the best debut album we’ll hear all year.
Unluck expertly mixes his slowed vocals with not one but two divergent beats that are like fissures of ice thawing slowly into each other. The fuzzy bass line only grows louder—a perfect foil for his raw sound as it strains through what can only be described as musical trauma. Wilhelm’s Scream is even more deceptive; luring one’s ears into a swelling reverb before blowing the best soul load since D’angelo’s last album. The track peters out with Nintendo-like sounds reverberating over his admission of hopeless love. His remake of Feist’s Limit to Your Love removes her sweet delivery and instead we’re treated to a haunting refrain that I’d never thought the original contained. Give Me My Month is just short of two minutes but its fey vocals put Antony Hegarty to shame. ‘I never told her where the fear/comes from’, he croons over a simple piano. It’s the sole track without any electronic frills but it’s the most heart-breaking moment on the disc. To Care (Like You) slips on his producer’s jacket again but the comfort of the fit is evident in the seamless transitioning of all the parts. I Mind winds down slowly, replete with the typical fissures arty types use for chillwave. Then comes the gospel-influenced Measurements which appropriately is solemn yet soulful at the same time.
Blake’s minimalism is sure to put off quite a few listeners though especially as nothing here snaps as immediately as a 2010 track CMYK. But, in his defense, the showman aspect of this LP is more impressive. Even the more straight forward tracks have a gloss to them that is interesting: I Never Learnt to Share, for example, pulls out a weird techno stream towards the end that feels out of place but kookily so. Lindesfarne I doesn’t quite pull off its aim but the result of Lindesfarne II hits home.
It’s all something new but then again, any artist is unto something genius when the establishment doesn’t initially get it: Geoff Barrow’s indirect Twitter snipe at Blake earlier this year sadly proves this point. Barrow, a member of trip-hop band Portishead, seemed dismayed that BBC’s Sound of 2011 poll was heralding the rise of a ‘dubstep meets pub singer’ genre. That, ironically, is how one could describe Beth Gibbon’s vocals on any of Portishead’s albums. The only difference is that Gibbons no longer sounds like early Tori Amos on acid but now rather more like how Amos currently sounds—established, bored and only occasionally brilliant.
Blake now stands at the start of an exciting, brilliant career, one that is erasing norms and rewriting possibilities for a genre that’s in need of a shake up. This mirrors the rise of trip-hop some sixteen years ago with Portishead and Tricky. It was daring and risky back then but I’ve yet to read of Massive Attack (the godfather band of both genres) deriding either for taking the music to a different level. That is, after all the purpose of art and vision. Given the overwhelming critical praise he’s been getting so far, I hope by the time year-end lists thrust him even further into the spotlight, doubters like Barrow would have gotten the memo by then…
RATING: 8/10
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
MINI MUSIC REVIEWS
James Blake (James Blake) (2011) 
The best genre albums are those that don’t even sound like what they represent. The dubstep artist James Blake has been making quite a name for himself and now here, at last, is his astonishing debut. Surely critics will have the best new artist award already with his name on it and who can blame them: Unlock is a marvelous and soulful amalgamation of diverse sounds entwined and masterfully set in motion. Give Me My Month puts Antony Hegarty with a stunning falsetto set to piano. It’s more soulful and sincere than anything on contemporary R&B radio in ages. The diversity on display by this 22 year old Brit is the real treat; I Mind sounds as if it’s being stir-fried from outer space while Wilhelm’s Scream is the best soul any man has done since D’angelo. 8/10
Anna Calvi (Anna Calvi) (2011)
There’s no escaping the PJ Harvey comparisons. Not only has Calvi enlisted Harvey’s long-time drummer Rob Ellis to tweak the album, but her phrasings are reminiscent of Harvey in her younger, less oblique days. In fact, some of the tracks—Desire, The Devil—cover the same torturous terrain. But therein ends the similarities if one delves deeper. Calvi is more melodic and incorporates more refined sophistication in her music. She doesn’t have the rawness that was once uniquely Harvey’s nor the will yet to wreak havoc without a script in hand but this is one terrific debut. Calvi has the working-girl’s appreciation of Kate Bush as well. The standout is Blackout, the first release and it is a gushing ride of pop perfection. 7/10
Outside (Tapes ‘n Tapes) (2011)
Though critics continue to deride their efforts, the fact is that Tapes ‘n Tapes continues to pull through some pretty decent music. Outside is no classis but the guitar riffs are heavy and laden with promise. The issue therefore is lyrical content; the riffs on Freak Out propel a new direction but we’ve heard these situations before from the band. They seem to have been stuck in a warp but every now and then—the soothing People You Know—they spring a sweet surprise. Their career arc is reaching out for a blues revisit and once they succumb to those urges then a real gem may yet appear. 6.5/10
The best genre albums are those that don’t even sound like what they represent. The dubstep artist James Blake has been making quite a name for himself and now here, at last, is his astonishing debut. Surely critics will have the best new artist award already with his name on it and who can blame them: Unlock is a marvelous and soulful amalgamation of diverse sounds entwined and masterfully set in motion. Give Me My Month puts Antony Hegarty with a stunning falsetto set to piano. It’s more soulful and sincere than anything on contemporary R&B radio in ages. The diversity on display by this 22 year old Brit is the real treat; I Mind sounds as if it’s being stir-fried from outer space while Wilhelm’s Scream is the best soul any man has done since D’angelo. 8/10
Anna Calvi (Anna Calvi) (2011)
There’s no escaping the PJ Harvey comparisons. Not only has Calvi enlisted Harvey’s long-time drummer Rob Ellis to tweak the album, but her phrasings are reminiscent of Harvey in her younger, less oblique days. In fact, some of the tracks—Desire, The Devil—cover the same torturous terrain. But therein ends the similarities if one delves deeper. Calvi is more melodic and incorporates more refined sophistication in her music. She doesn’t have the rawness that was once uniquely Harvey’s nor the will yet to wreak havoc without a script in hand but this is one terrific debut. Calvi has the working-girl’s appreciation of Kate Bush as well. The standout is Blackout, the first release and it is a gushing ride of pop perfection. 7/10
Outside (Tapes ‘n Tapes) (2011)
Though critics continue to deride their efforts, the fact is that Tapes ‘n Tapes continues to pull through some pretty decent music. Outside is no classis but the guitar riffs are heavy and laden with promise. The issue therefore is lyrical content; the riffs on Freak Out propel a new direction but we’ve heard these situations before from the band. They seem to have been stuck in a warp but every now and then—the soothing People You Know—they spring a sweet surprise. Their career arc is reaching out for a blues revisit and once they succumb to those urges then a real gem may yet appear. 6.5/10
Sunday, February 13, 2011
MINI MUSIC REVIEWS
Rolling Blackouts (The Go! Team) (2011) 
Though they run the risk of not being taken serious, the fact is that after all the fun subsides in your listening of this album, The Go! Team has presented a pretty good album. Several tracks underperform in terms of lyrics but the production is vibrant and booty-shaking (see Voice Yr Choice). They haven’t managed to shake their British textbook pop approach but there is more natural brilliance in The Running Range than in half of the new North American releases this year. Plus the band has grown to cover more ground: the title track is cavernous and grows with each couplet. All this while retaining their core playfulness.
RATING: 7.5/10
The King is Dead (The Decemberists) (2011)
After the prog disaster that was the Hazards of Love, I seriously wondered if Colin Meloy could recover. Now I can worry no more because his band has hopped upon their Michael Stipe fetish once again and returned to form (or uniform) with the excellent The King is Dead. The music here is so lush and deep—from the glorious guitar work providing the backbone of This is Why We Fight to its wise minimalism on Rise to Me. Meloy is more than a mere Stipe clone however and the album proves his own dramatic rebound even if it overreaches a few times and features R.E.M. drummer Peter Buck on a few cuts. The aforementioned Rise to Me is melodic yet not sappy. It’s a rustic album, one that encompasses Americana and this is Meloy’s forte even if he claims not to be taking it all on as stated on the epic opener, Don’t Carry It All.
RATING: 8/10
Fluorescence (Asobi Seksu) (2011)
One of the problems I have with Xiu Xiu is that they’re a band stubbornly clinging on to an initial idea and refusing to delve deeper than what they’ve unearthed. I feared the same fate would pass down to Asobi Seksu because they’re so in awe of everything Jaime Stewart does. Fluorescence, thankfully, manages to slightly challenge out perception of this band. Yes, the same minimalism that has guided them in the past is still here but there’s more focus now and the music production doesn’t feel as aimless as before. Tracks like Pink Light and Counterglow are mere noise but damn if things aren’t slamming on them. Of course a lot rests on lead singer Yuki Chikudate and her vocals but unlike their last album (Hush) she finds solid ground here, the type that indicates the band is stepping up their game. RATING: 7.75/10
Though they run the risk of not being taken serious, the fact is that after all the fun subsides in your listening of this album, The Go! Team has presented a pretty good album. Several tracks underperform in terms of lyrics but the production is vibrant and booty-shaking (see Voice Yr Choice). They haven’t managed to shake their British textbook pop approach but there is more natural brilliance in The Running Range than in half of the new North American releases this year. Plus the band has grown to cover more ground: the title track is cavernous and grows with each couplet. All this while retaining their core playfulness.
RATING: 7.5/10
The King is Dead (The Decemberists) (2011)
After the prog disaster that was the Hazards of Love, I seriously wondered if Colin Meloy could recover. Now I can worry no more because his band has hopped upon their Michael Stipe fetish once again and returned to form (or uniform) with the excellent The King is Dead. The music here is so lush and deep—from the glorious guitar work providing the backbone of This is Why We Fight to its wise minimalism on Rise to Me. Meloy is more than a mere Stipe clone however and the album proves his own dramatic rebound even if it overreaches a few times and features R.E.M. drummer Peter Buck on a few cuts. The aforementioned Rise to Me is melodic yet not sappy. It’s a rustic album, one that encompasses Americana and this is Meloy’s forte even if he claims not to be taking it all on as stated on the epic opener, Don’t Carry It All.
RATING: 8/10
Fluorescence (Asobi Seksu) (2011)
One of the problems I have with Xiu Xiu is that they’re a band stubbornly clinging on to an initial idea and refusing to delve deeper than what they’ve unearthed. I feared the same fate would pass down to Asobi Seksu because they’re so in awe of everything Jaime Stewart does. Fluorescence, thankfully, manages to slightly challenge out perception of this band. Yes, the same minimalism that has guided them in the past is still here but there’s more focus now and the music production doesn’t feel as aimless as before. Tracks like Pink Light and Counterglow are mere noise but damn if things aren’t slamming on them. Of course a lot rests on lead singer Yuki Chikudate and her vocals but unlike their last album (Hush) she finds solid ground here, the type that indicates the band is stepping up their game. RATING: 7.75/10
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Cape Dory (Tennis) (2011)
Sailing Away 
The cover of Tennis’ debut Cape Dory is extreme in its deception. Alaina Moore (one half of the band) strikes an awkward pose in a loud blue strapless pantsuit. Her right leg is cocked high upon the other while her auburn hair cascades down her back. Perhaps the most shocking detail though isn’t the retro, country-ish texture of her stare but the fact that she isn’t tanned. For someone who’s been at sea for along time that’s highly suspicious and distracting.
Tennis is Moore and her husband, Patrick Riley and their story of how they even started to create music is one thing but setting up for the outcome is, admittedly, lined with cynicism. Most indie bands can only initially offer theoretical experiences, thus the self-consciousness of lyrics and drumming is inevitable. Luckily, they eschewed this by circulating a free mp3 while on their sea voyage, only to return to put the whole journey down on record. A sea voyage (through the Eastern Seaboard) made possible after selling out everything they had except their passion for adventure. They spent seven months away then returned to start recording.
Great material for a novel but it’s the music that’s truly remarkable: beach pop that isn’t strained under any delusions as to how sun-soaked it should sound. There are the unending lo-fi riffs as well as breezy melodies that serve as hooks deep enough to come off as pretty but not saccharine. The album embodies the sound of 1960s girl groups like The Shirelles but in a very modern way. Moore’s vocals have been likened to Bethany Cosentino (Best Coast) by many critics but she oozes more genuine tenderness in my view and besides the latter is terribly overrated anyway.
Moore knows what to do with her songs naturally: Take Me Somewhere—appropriately the lead track—sets us gently on our way. ‘Sitting in the sand/ waiting for you/to return to land’, croons Moore but though it’s a pretty track, the urgency of it is fraught with feminine wiles that you know her lover won’t figure out. She berates him for leaving her behind, depriving her of the adventure too, but her real motive remains hidden. Moore’s voice works a mesmerizing spell whether it’s heartbroken (Long Boat Pass) or playful (the ecstatic title track). Like Victoria Legrand (Beach House), she knows how to juxtapose her voice to atmospherics and create harmony, instead of being drowned out. Marathon oozes into the same tropical riffs that Vampire Weekend has perfected but this is so much better than anything they’ve produced. Moore is backed by a lush production that makes me wonder if Riley isn’t secretly a member of Grizzly Bear as well.
If Cape Dory suffers from anything then it’s the inevitable comparisons it’ll draw to recent twee pop masterpieces like Summer Camp’s Young EP and Beach House’s Teen Dreams. It sounds like a hodgepodge of both those discs but it’s neither as strong nor demanding. The ten tracks clock in less than thirty minutes and it’s all a bit too homogeneous for one to gush over so early in the year. That means there is no standout but that’s usually the case with beach pop albums. But then again, Tennis isn’t working with ornate production or pop culture references here, just their involvement with the sea and each other. Its pleasure is in its mere being and that’s a hard sell to listeners ever clutching and waiting for the next big thing. Cape Dory is at every turn simple yet filled with self-gratifying moments that can gut-check even the hardest cynic once they don’t close their hearts to it.
RATING: 8/10
The cover of Tennis’ debut Cape Dory is extreme in its deception. Alaina Moore (one half of the band) strikes an awkward pose in a loud blue strapless pantsuit. Her right leg is cocked high upon the other while her auburn hair cascades down her back. Perhaps the most shocking detail though isn’t the retro, country-ish texture of her stare but the fact that she isn’t tanned. For someone who’s been at sea for along time that’s highly suspicious and distracting.
Tennis is Moore and her husband, Patrick Riley and their story of how they even started to create music is one thing but setting up for the outcome is, admittedly, lined with cynicism. Most indie bands can only initially offer theoretical experiences, thus the self-consciousness of lyrics and drumming is inevitable. Luckily, they eschewed this by circulating a free mp3 while on their sea voyage, only to return to put the whole journey down on record. A sea voyage (through the Eastern Seaboard) made possible after selling out everything they had except their passion for adventure. They spent seven months away then returned to start recording.
Great material for a novel but it’s the music that’s truly remarkable: beach pop that isn’t strained under any delusions as to how sun-soaked it should sound. There are the unending lo-fi riffs as well as breezy melodies that serve as hooks deep enough to come off as pretty but not saccharine. The album embodies the sound of 1960s girl groups like The Shirelles but in a very modern way. Moore’s vocals have been likened to Bethany Cosentino (Best Coast) by many critics but she oozes more genuine tenderness in my view and besides the latter is terribly overrated anyway.
Moore knows what to do with her songs naturally: Take Me Somewhere—appropriately the lead track—sets us gently on our way. ‘Sitting in the sand/ waiting for you/to return to land’, croons Moore but though it’s a pretty track, the urgency of it is fraught with feminine wiles that you know her lover won’t figure out. She berates him for leaving her behind, depriving her of the adventure too, but her real motive remains hidden. Moore’s voice works a mesmerizing spell whether it’s heartbroken (Long Boat Pass) or playful (the ecstatic title track). Like Victoria Legrand (Beach House), she knows how to juxtapose her voice to atmospherics and create harmony, instead of being drowned out. Marathon oozes into the same tropical riffs that Vampire Weekend has perfected but this is so much better than anything they’ve produced. Moore is backed by a lush production that makes me wonder if Riley isn’t secretly a member of Grizzly Bear as well.
If Cape Dory suffers from anything then it’s the inevitable comparisons it’ll draw to recent twee pop masterpieces like Summer Camp’s Young EP and Beach House’s Teen Dreams. It sounds like a hodgepodge of both those discs but it’s neither as strong nor demanding. The ten tracks clock in less than thirty minutes and it’s all a bit too homogeneous for one to gush over so early in the year. That means there is no standout but that’s usually the case with beach pop albums. But then again, Tennis isn’t working with ornate production or pop culture references here, just their involvement with the sea and each other. Its pleasure is in its mere being and that’s a hard sell to listeners ever clutching and waiting for the next big thing. Cape Dory is at every turn simple yet filled with self-gratifying moments that can gut-check even the hardest cynic once they don’t close their hearts to it.
RATING: 8/10
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Black Swan (2010)
Paranoid Android 
We first meet Nina (Natalie Portman) in a dream. In it her perfectly executed movement is juxtaposed to shades of light from a theatre, where she is the Odette, the princess in Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. It is the scene where she must thwart the advances of the evil sorcerer Von Rothbart. She does so, fluttering gracefully around on tip-toe before the scene fades out.
Directed by Darren Aronofsky (The Fountain, Requiem for a Dream), Black Swan is a jarring, extensive look at the effect of fears upon the psyche, whether real or imagined. Nina, a veteran ballet dancer, is good enough to get recurring roles but just not the biggest one. That changes though when the theatre’s artistic director Thomas (a lusty Vincent Cassel) decides to cast a younger face into the role of the Swan Princess for their upcoming version of Swan Lake. Initially, he lies to Nina in telling her that Veronica (a delicious, bitchy turn by Ksenia Solo) has got the part. As she is about to leave, he shuts the door and delivers a frank summation of her dancing technique before kissing her. She bites him as a reflex action but with this one gesture, Thomas is apparently inspired to give her the role.
Of course, he does not tell her this but the look on Nina’s face when the roles are finally posted begins her ascent to stardom and rocky descent into madness. She quickly experiences highs (her mom’s unabashed approval) as well as lows (the word ‘whore’ scribbled on a bathroom mirror). It is at this point that her dreams start to get darker. She starts to pick at her skin and fingernails. This is followed by bulimia and, finally, neurological projection. The film’s brilliant cinematography works in tandem with Aronofsky’s idea of showing her inner conflict as primarily black and white and their conflict upon each other as dual forces, coursing throughout Nina. It captures the isolation that surrounds her, making her every move knife-edged. Portman—in the role of a lifetime—delivers deftly: along with Clint Mansell’s score, she is the constant that allows Aronofsky to pull off what is a totally engrossing film.
Aronofsky’s lens only gets dicey when it refuses to explore fully the duplicity of everyone. Erica (a frighteningly-good Barbara Hershey) watches over her daughter’s career in an unbearable manner. Her apartment serves as both prison and shrine to Nina’s accomplishments. The extent of her envy though is obvious but never tested. Beth (Winona Ryder), whom Nina envies, is hellish because she only sees younger versions of herself literally willing to suck up to Thomas for stardom. Then there is Lily (Mila Kunis), Nina’s shadow for the play, who is carefree and sensual...all the things Nina is not. The range of envy with the latter two is never revealed either but it’s clear that they too are knee-deep in basic insecurities. The type that forces them to spend so much time together but never truly pulling them closer to any sort of bond, just tense rivalry at every turn.
Black Swan never approaches a truce or communal peace, just a result without emphasizing it. ‘All the dedication, for what?’ Thomas asks Nina at one point and she remains speechless. What she should respond with is obvious but even clearer is the fact that she must not say it or else things may change yet again. Thomas, modeled after the legendary George Balanchine, waits for her to gather up the courage but realizes that she’s just not ready yet. But she will be one day because he’s seen this all before. What he hasn’t figured out yet is why his stars end up psychologically scarred nor the extent of his hand in it. He merely pits them against each other and hopes for the best.
Of course no one who sees Black Swan will forget the exquisite torture Portman brings to her role. If every Aronofsky film features a central performer struggling for redemption--the delusional Sara Goldfarb (Ellen Burstyn) in Requiem for a Dream, Randy the Ram’s (Mickey Rourke) painful meltdown in The Wrestler—then Nina is the result of what happens when there is no happy ending, just heavy delusion. Aronofsky takes a step deeper into the psychotic thriller genre with Black Swan—the point at which he’s no longer mimicking classics but attempting his own. He does borrow heavily from Polanski’s Repulsion but he’s taken that film’s silent idiosyncrasies and turns them into contemporary, transmogrified terror. Whereas Polanski jabs repeatedly at the androphobia gripping Carol (Catherine Deneuve) but fails to reveal its source origin, Aronofsky manifests Nina’s hallucinations at every angle the camera allows him to. And even though we’re robbed of time to witness the full Freudian damage, we know what Nina’s demons are capable of and she will ultimately pays the price for daring to achieve perfection.
That ultimately sets Black Swan up for a lot of personal interpretation. More terrifyingly though it reveals a well noted psychosis and its often-times overstepped limits. It demands outstanding direction from Aronofsky and he delivers and he in turn throws back a fanatical dare to its star, Portman; engulfing both in a hectic pas de deux that ultimately should land her an Oscar. In the process, Black Swan revels smugly in its own controlled world of conflicted emotions that takes no prisoners or cry-babies, just absolute prince and princesses when the curtains go up—or down.
RATING: 8/10
We first meet Nina (Natalie Portman) in a dream. In it her perfectly executed movement is juxtaposed to shades of light from a theatre, where she is the Odette, the princess in Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. It is the scene where she must thwart the advances of the evil sorcerer Von Rothbart. She does so, fluttering gracefully around on tip-toe before the scene fades out.
Directed by Darren Aronofsky (The Fountain, Requiem for a Dream), Black Swan is a jarring, extensive look at the effect of fears upon the psyche, whether real or imagined. Nina, a veteran ballet dancer, is good enough to get recurring roles but just not the biggest one. That changes though when the theatre’s artistic director Thomas (a lusty Vincent Cassel) decides to cast a younger face into the role of the Swan Princess for their upcoming version of Swan Lake. Initially, he lies to Nina in telling her that Veronica (a delicious, bitchy turn by Ksenia Solo) has got the part. As she is about to leave, he shuts the door and delivers a frank summation of her dancing technique before kissing her. She bites him as a reflex action but with this one gesture, Thomas is apparently inspired to give her the role.
Of course, he does not tell her this but the look on Nina’s face when the roles are finally posted begins her ascent to stardom and rocky descent into madness. She quickly experiences highs (her mom’s unabashed approval) as well as lows (the word ‘whore’ scribbled on a bathroom mirror). It is at this point that her dreams start to get darker. She starts to pick at her skin and fingernails. This is followed by bulimia and, finally, neurological projection. The film’s brilliant cinematography works in tandem with Aronofsky’s idea of showing her inner conflict as primarily black and white and their conflict upon each other as dual forces, coursing throughout Nina. It captures the isolation that surrounds her, making her every move knife-edged. Portman—in the role of a lifetime—delivers deftly: along with Clint Mansell’s score, she is the constant that allows Aronofsky to pull off what is a totally engrossing film.
Aronofsky’s lens only gets dicey when it refuses to explore fully the duplicity of everyone. Erica (a frighteningly-good Barbara Hershey) watches over her daughter’s career in an unbearable manner. Her apartment serves as both prison and shrine to Nina’s accomplishments. The extent of her envy though is obvious but never tested. Beth (Winona Ryder), whom Nina envies, is hellish because she only sees younger versions of herself literally willing to suck up to Thomas for stardom. Then there is Lily (Mila Kunis), Nina’s shadow for the play, who is carefree and sensual...all the things Nina is not. The range of envy with the latter two is never revealed either but it’s clear that they too are knee-deep in basic insecurities. The type that forces them to spend so much time together but never truly pulling them closer to any sort of bond, just tense rivalry at every turn.
Black Swan never approaches a truce or communal peace, just a result without emphasizing it. ‘All the dedication, for what?’ Thomas asks Nina at one point and she remains speechless. What she should respond with is obvious but even clearer is the fact that she must not say it or else things may change yet again. Thomas, modeled after the legendary George Balanchine, waits for her to gather up the courage but realizes that she’s just not ready yet. But she will be one day because he’s seen this all before. What he hasn’t figured out yet is why his stars end up psychologically scarred nor the extent of his hand in it. He merely pits them against each other and hopes for the best.
Of course no one who sees Black Swan will forget the exquisite torture Portman brings to her role. If every Aronofsky film features a central performer struggling for redemption--the delusional Sara Goldfarb (Ellen Burstyn) in Requiem for a Dream, Randy the Ram’s (Mickey Rourke) painful meltdown in The Wrestler—then Nina is the result of what happens when there is no happy ending, just heavy delusion. Aronofsky takes a step deeper into the psychotic thriller genre with Black Swan—the point at which he’s no longer mimicking classics but attempting his own. He does borrow heavily from Polanski’s Repulsion but he’s taken that film’s silent idiosyncrasies and turns them into contemporary, transmogrified terror. Whereas Polanski jabs repeatedly at the androphobia gripping Carol (Catherine Deneuve) but fails to reveal its source origin, Aronofsky manifests Nina’s hallucinations at every angle the camera allows him to. And even though we’re robbed of time to witness the full Freudian damage, we know what Nina’s demons are capable of and she will ultimately pays the price for daring to achieve perfection.
That ultimately sets Black Swan up for a lot of personal interpretation. More terrifyingly though it reveals a well noted psychosis and its often-times overstepped limits. It demands outstanding direction from Aronofsky and he delivers and he in turn throws back a fanatical dare to its star, Portman; engulfing both in a hectic pas de deux that ultimately should land her an Oscar. In the process, Black Swan revels smugly in its own controlled world of conflicted emotions that takes no prisoners or cry-babies, just absolute prince and princesses when the curtains go up—or down.
RATING: 8/10
Saturday, January 22, 2011
MINI MUSIC REVIEWS
Happy New Year to visitors of the blog. I've never done mini reviews before but here goes:
Don’t Rock the Boat, Sink that Fucker (Des Ark) (2011)
Des Ark is a band but Aimee Argote is the only one that matters on Don’t Rock the Boat…, a pop album that has tons of lyrical depth and melodic intrigue. Argote’s voice is warm and inviting no matter the tempo it’s caught up in. This shows confidence even though the songs aren’t necessarily epic. Competency guides her through Ashley’s Song, perhaps the finest testament to her credentials. I feel there is much theoretical work here in the band though where practicality should be but once they find a steady focus for their range or mix it up musically like on Girls Get Stuff, then we’ll see the real good stuff pouring through them to get them on level with a band like Metric. 7/10
Kaputt (Destroyer) (2011)
Dan Bejar can really do no wrong and Kaputt continues his amazing streak. For once though, he’s not overtly relying on his gorgeous vocals to get by, but instead jazzy, lush textures. Saxophones reign supreme here as well as the female backing vocals. Savage Night at the Opera is the brilliant lull that propels everything else afterwards it. Song for America follows, and it too is similarly tropical. Bejar has always been able to pull these results off in his sleep but he’s never explored the themes on Kaputt so broadly. It’s not a hugely risky album but it is one that perfects the art of hugeness in scope defining an artist. Bejar may have much more left in him but it is here at this point we will always remember as his springboard. 8/10
Native Speaker (Braids) (2011)
An early contender for best new artist, Braids soars under the vocal work of Raphaelle Standell-Preston as she tackles Sylvia Plath (Plath Heart) to life’s little fucked-up moments (Glass Deers). Lammicken starts nicely out as if deep in the clubs before worming out from under synths to reveal the sheer beauty of her voice. At such moments she recalls a younger Bjork but the backing music isn’t as intense. But this is a debut so there is lots of time to improve upon greats ideas like Same Mum…just as long as they don’t, in the future, continue to end up with the same results. 7/10
Don’t Rock the Boat, Sink that Fucker (Des Ark) (2011)
Des Ark is a band but Aimee Argote is the only one that matters on Don’t Rock the Boat…, a pop album that has tons of lyrical depth and melodic intrigue. Argote’s voice is warm and inviting no matter the tempo it’s caught up in. This shows confidence even though the songs aren’t necessarily epic. Competency guides her through Ashley’s Song, perhaps the finest testament to her credentials. I feel there is much theoretical work here in the band though where practicality should be but once they find a steady focus for their range or mix it up musically like on Girls Get Stuff, then we’ll see the real good stuff pouring through them to get them on level with a band like Metric. 7/10
Kaputt (Destroyer) (2011)
Dan Bejar can really do no wrong and Kaputt continues his amazing streak. For once though, he’s not overtly relying on his gorgeous vocals to get by, but instead jazzy, lush textures. Saxophones reign supreme here as well as the female backing vocals. Savage Night at the Opera is the brilliant lull that propels everything else afterwards it. Song for America follows, and it too is similarly tropical. Bejar has always been able to pull these results off in his sleep but he’s never explored the themes on Kaputt so broadly. It’s not a hugely risky album but it is one that perfects the art of hugeness in scope defining an artist. Bejar may have much more left in him but it is here at this point we will always remember as his springboard. 8/10
Native Speaker (Braids) (2011)
An early contender for best new artist, Braids soars under the vocal work of Raphaelle Standell-Preston as she tackles Sylvia Plath (Plath Heart) to life’s little fucked-up moments (Glass Deers). Lammicken starts nicely out as if deep in the clubs before worming out from under synths to reveal the sheer beauty of her voice. At such moments she recalls a younger Bjork but the backing music isn’t as intense. But this is a debut so there is lots of time to improve upon greats ideas like Same Mum…just as long as they don’t, in the future, continue to end up with the same results. 7/10
Sunday, January 2, 2011
The Top 30 ALBUMS of 2010: Part Three
As is custom, a new decade ushers in an abundance of ideas. It seemed as if every artist or band created some form of music this year and when it was good then hell, it was good. Album sales continue to peter off but somehow the creative process flourished. The album, a medium of conversation that critics felt was being eroded, is back as a talking social point across the world. This final part- of three parts-- looks at the very best of the year and how hip/hop records have totally dominated the year. Here we go:
1: Kanye West
My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy
Kanye West returns after a forgettable past year and he’s immediately astride the current resurgence in hip/hop. Monster grooves for days amid the subservient lyrics. How he manages to swirl Jay Z, Nicki Minaj and Bon Iver into it is his own secret. Runaway name-checks his ego and those who put up with it over a soulful groove but nothing tops the no-holds barred Power, with its catchy yet deft chorus. So Appalled is self-depreciation magnified with a sense of sarcasm. West also continues his hot streak as king of reinvention; he juxtaposes Pharrell Williams and a Foxy Brown sample to great effect on Don’t Stop. Ditto for the retro vibe of Devil in a New Dress. Devil, indeed.
2: Joanna Newsom
Have One on Me
In the end, love or hate the format, Newsom has yet again successfully pushed the boundaries of her art-form up a notch. She has forced us to view contemporary music as progressive and 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. Similarly, she may never reinvent sensuality as rabidly as Tori Amos did nor be as hallucinatory as Kate Bush in full flight. Neither is this some sort of Joni Mitchell-like folk revivalism. Instead Newsom resides somewhere betwixt them all in a fantastic web of complexity. And in this lovely process that lasts for two hours, she has given us yet another great album.
3: Janelle Monae
The ArchAndroid
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.
4: Big Boi
Sir Lucious Leftfoot: Son of Chico Dusty
A stunning opus that serves as a tool of red-hot revenge against his many naysayers. It doesn’t feature a single Dre moment either in its near hour long spell. Patton’s gift has always been to produce a comfort zone for others around him to bloom Tangerine, a clear interpolation of Eve’s Tambourine—gets a star turn by T.I but Patton hijacks parts with some brilliant wordplay. After their magic on her own opus, Janelle Monae turns up to direct the action on Be Still. Sir Lucious sees him taking more centre stage though. Follow Us is pure black swagger that takes a swipe at Jive (‘before the fame I was the s-it/now I’m just big’). He even drags the overrated Gucci Mane into some potent lines on Shine Blockas before stealing back all the thunder. Daddy Fat Sax finds him in his best tongue-tying form, almost seeming to show off his level of flow and emceeing. Lead single Shutterbug creeps over a steady 808 groove replete with shimmering textures. Turns Me On features a jazzy chorus and Joi, beautifully refrained as always, as Patton changes up his flow to deliver yet again.
5: Sufjan Stevens
The Age of ADZ
The immediate difference between The Age of Adz and its predecessors though is the fact that instead of interpolations of ideas, Stevens now is sharing real, actual things that we’ve all felt during our lives. The relatable factor is what 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. It’s hard to imagine that this is the same Sufjan Stevens we’ve thought on as a Bible-thumping, Jesus-loving, Republican-voting and lily white moralist the past decade.
6: Summer Camp
Young EP
Jeremy Warmsley and Elizabeth Sankey are more than lovers; they’re the duo behind Summer Camp, the duo responsible for the year’s best EP. It’s just over twenty minutes but the breezy brilliance contained on these six songs should be criminal: Jake Ryan features Sankey’s easy vocals wrapping around a lithe beat but it’s so damned catchy that it shows up the distance other electro-pop bands have to catch up to. Why Don’t You Stay features a newer blues hybrid than that coming from bands like Best Coast. Round the Moon sounds ethereal with its pockets of day-glo beats. Was it Worth It loops the opposing vocals into a neat, tidy ribbon but still feels fresh. Veronica Sawyer slumbers drunkenly along but when Sankey repeats the line, ’I’ve got so much more than this’, over and over again then it’s the stuff of greatness, leaving the listener humbled yet totally indebted.
7: Twin Shadow
Forget
We’ve spent such a long time trying to unearth the latest Prince reinvention that we haven’t realized that indie’s real hero remain David Bowie. Twin Shadow is George Lewis Jr, who is Dominican-born. Yes indie-heads, you’re newest messiah isn’t white but as assorted as his masterful music. If Bradford Cox is reinventing shoegaze as mini-operas then Twin Shadow’s debut is bringing the 80s pop scene back massively. Everything is technically masterfully in place, all the vocal work tweaked to perfection, just as Bowie does it. Tether Beats slams so subtlety that the vocals seem like ghostly musings. Slow reverses that order, pasting its voice as the main tool. The nostalgia is overwhelming but brilliantly so and voila, like FrYars last year, this is the best batch of pop songs by a new artist.
8: M.I.A
MAYA
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?
9: Tanya Stephens
Infallible
Infallible continues Stephens’ trend of jetting away from the crowd even while exploring the same issues. She’s added so much more melody too: No Strings Attached is a perfect example of this. The song examines the current state of the ‘sex buddy’ system but never sounds dated or trite. Elsewhere, social and ethical responsibility are explored, particularly the struggles of the discriminated and women. What Stephens does better than her peers is bring a point across without being preachy. Still Alive raps hypocrisy square on its finger. The title track is dedicated to her daughter and is a precious examination of her own life and legacy. She maintains her femininity though without the crassness dominating the dancehall culture with tasty tracks like Try Me (‘try me/ when you climb up on it/ you a go think/ you Spanish-fly me’) and Bury a Bone that’s a devilish ditty.
10: Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti
Before Today
There’s always been some untested genius level in Ariel Pink but here, finally, it gets tastefully measured on the stunning Before Today. If the opener Hot Body Rub serves as a mere introduction then consider what follows as a smorgasbord of the most filling post-punk air you’ve had the privilege of inhaling in a while. He’s kept it full of fun too: Fright Night (Nevermore) is a sun-drenched scare that fits best in dreams as well as Halloween. Butt-House Blondies best illustrates the lo-fi recording tactic of Pink to give his textures the extra cheese and glam. This is punk for contemporary ears; ears that can wax metrosexual on Menopause Man without a second thought.
1: Kanye West
My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy
Kanye West returns after a forgettable past year and he’s immediately astride the current resurgence in hip/hop. Monster grooves for days amid the subservient lyrics. How he manages to swirl Jay Z, Nicki Minaj and Bon Iver into it is his own secret. Runaway name-checks his ego and those who put up with it over a soulful groove but nothing tops the no-holds barred Power, with its catchy yet deft chorus. So Appalled is self-depreciation magnified with a sense of sarcasm. West also continues his hot streak as king of reinvention; he juxtaposes Pharrell Williams and a Foxy Brown sample to great effect on Don’t Stop. Ditto for the retro vibe of Devil in a New Dress. Devil, indeed.
2: Joanna Newsom
Have One on Me
In the end, love or hate the format, Newsom has yet again successfully pushed the boundaries of her art-form up a notch. She has forced us to view contemporary music as progressive and 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. Similarly, she may never reinvent sensuality as rabidly as Tori Amos did nor be as hallucinatory as Kate Bush in full flight. Neither is this some sort of Joni Mitchell-like folk revivalism. Instead Newsom resides somewhere betwixt them all in a fantastic web of complexity. And in this lovely process that lasts for two hours, she has given us yet another great album.
3: Janelle Monae
The ArchAndroid
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.
4: Big Boi
Sir Lucious Leftfoot: Son of Chico Dusty
A stunning opus that serves as a tool of red-hot revenge against his many naysayers. It doesn’t feature a single Dre moment either in its near hour long spell. Patton’s gift has always been to produce a comfort zone for others around him to bloom Tangerine, a clear interpolation of Eve’s Tambourine—gets a star turn by T.I but Patton hijacks parts with some brilliant wordplay. After their magic on her own opus, Janelle Monae turns up to direct the action on Be Still. Sir Lucious sees him taking more centre stage though. Follow Us is pure black swagger that takes a swipe at Jive (‘before the fame I was the s-it/now I’m just big’). He even drags the overrated Gucci Mane into some potent lines on Shine Blockas before stealing back all the thunder. Daddy Fat Sax finds him in his best tongue-tying form, almost seeming to show off his level of flow and emceeing. Lead single Shutterbug creeps over a steady 808 groove replete with shimmering textures. Turns Me On features a jazzy chorus and Joi, beautifully refrained as always, as Patton changes up his flow to deliver yet again.
5: Sufjan Stevens
The Age of ADZ
The immediate difference between The Age of Adz and its predecessors though is the fact that instead of interpolations of ideas, Stevens now is sharing real, actual things that we’ve all felt during our lives. The relatable factor is what 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. It’s hard to imagine that this is the same Sufjan Stevens we’ve thought on as a Bible-thumping, Jesus-loving, Republican-voting and lily white moralist the past decade.
6: Summer Camp
Young EP
Jeremy Warmsley and Elizabeth Sankey are more than lovers; they’re the duo behind Summer Camp, the duo responsible for the year’s best EP. It’s just over twenty minutes but the breezy brilliance contained on these six songs should be criminal: Jake Ryan features Sankey’s easy vocals wrapping around a lithe beat but it’s so damned catchy that it shows up the distance other electro-pop bands have to catch up to. Why Don’t You Stay features a newer blues hybrid than that coming from bands like Best Coast. Round the Moon sounds ethereal with its pockets of day-glo beats. Was it Worth It loops the opposing vocals into a neat, tidy ribbon but still feels fresh. Veronica Sawyer slumbers drunkenly along but when Sankey repeats the line, ’I’ve got so much more than this’, over and over again then it’s the stuff of greatness, leaving the listener humbled yet totally indebted.
7: Twin Shadow
Forget
We’ve spent such a long time trying to unearth the latest Prince reinvention that we haven’t realized that indie’s real hero remain David Bowie. Twin Shadow is George Lewis Jr, who is Dominican-born. Yes indie-heads, you’re newest messiah isn’t white but as assorted as his masterful music. If Bradford Cox is reinventing shoegaze as mini-operas then Twin Shadow’s debut is bringing the 80s pop scene back massively. Everything is technically masterfully in place, all the vocal work tweaked to perfection, just as Bowie does it. Tether Beats slams so subtlety that the vocals seem like ghostly musings. Slow reverses that order, pasting its voice as the main tool. The nostalgia is overwhelming but brilliantly so and voila, like FrYars last year, this is the best batch of pop songs by a new artist.
8: M.I.A
MAYA
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?
9: Tanya Stephens
Infallible
Infallible continues Stephens’ trend of jetting away from the crowd even while exploring the same issues. She’s added so much more melody too: No Strings Attached is a perfect example of this. The song examines the current state of the ‘sex buddy’ system but never sounds dated or trite. Elsewhere, social and ethical responsibility are explored, particularly the struggles of the discriminated and women. What Stephens does better than her peers is bring a point across without being preachy. Still Alive raps hypocrisy square on its finger. The title track is dedicated to her daughter and is a precious examination of her own life and legacy. She maintains her femininity though without the crassness dominating the dancehall culture with tasty tracks like Try Me (‘try me/ when you climb up on it/ you a go think/ you Spanish-fly me’) and Bury a Bone that’s a devilish ditty.
10: Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti
Before Today
There’s always been some untested genius level in Ariel Pink but here, finally, it gets tastefully measured on the stunning Before Today. If the opener Hot Body Rub serves as a mere introduction then consider what follows as a smorgasbord of the most filling post-punk air you’ve had the privilege of inhaling in a while. He’s kept it full of fun too: Fright Night (Nevermore) is a sun-drenched scare that fits best in dreams as well as Halloween. Butt-House Blondies best illustrates the lo-fi recording tactic of Pink to give his textures the extra cheese and glam. This is punk for contemporary ears; ears that can wax metrosexual on Menopause Man without a second thought.
THE TOP 100 SONGS OF 2010: PART FIVE
2010, by and large represented the comeback of the single as an event instead of merely being a tool to drive album sales. This final bloc of songs features Kanye West’s debut as well as his battle with Joanna Newsom and Janelle Monae for supremacy. The song—as a sprawling epic—is back. Here goes:
1: Joanna Newsom
Good Intentions Paving Company
Any traveller by night will tell you that the long drive to (or back, depending) of any trip is the time most do their thinking. Put a broken-heart record on and your life falls into precious minutes of recollection. It’s a reduction that touches us all and here, finally, Newsom zeroes in on the terra firma that we felt her aesthetic was too highbrow for. With her harp tucked away for a melodic piano and drums, magically piped in at just the right moments, Good Intentions Paving Company rolls up so many different styles that it leaves one devastated with its humanness.
2: Joanna Newsom
Have One on Me
Who says a song can’t unspool like a finely-written novella? Surely not Newsom, a woman who is prone to sprawling, epic ideas that –when juxtaposed to the harpsichord—is like nothing else in contemporary music. The title track from her current album takes a beautiful leap near the two minute mark, delving much deeper into the life of Lola Montez than Wikipedia ever did. Over a span of eleven minute, we are treated to Lola’s encounters with King Ludwig I of Bavaria (lovingly called ‘Daddy Long legs’) and the emotional delusion suffered. Towards the end when things get truly frantic, Newsom tosses off breathless gaggles like, ‘I remember everything/down to the sound of you shaving-/ the scrape of your razor/ the dully-abrading black hair/that remained…’ and, ‘I saw a star fall into the sky/ like a chunk of thrown coal/ as if God himself spat/ like a cornered rat…’ with so much ease that the sheer mastery is blinding.
3: Kanye West feat. Rick Ross, Jay Z, Nicki Minaj & Bon Iver
Monster
Conceived in Hawaii of all places, Monster flows red-hot like lava from a rampant volcano. The overriding theme here is violence and it matters little who grabs the mike and passes it along: Rick Ross thugs on it a lil’ bit then it’s unto Jigga , who rolls it to Minaj and she drops a lethal clocking before rolling it on to Yeezy who gleefully brings it on home.
4: Cee-lo Green
Fuck You
It’s only on a closer examination that one realizes that the target for Cee-Lo’s rant is the guy who’s stolen his woman from him but that doesn’t mean she’s spared; the line, ‘f-uck you too’, takes sufficient care of her. It’s a damning kiss off, one where he lists her need for materialism as greater for emotional connection and no one—I mean no one—can smooth-talk us into feeling his pain like him.
5: Kanye West
Power
A marvel of construction, Power builds itself from a sample of King Crimson’s 21st Century Schizoid Man, a fitting riff for Kanye to lose himself in. This funk riot long withheld is the best self-hate rap tale since Eminem dropped The Way I Am ten years ago.
6: Shad
Rose Garden
The Canadian has long perfected his conscience rap shtick but Rose Garden rises to highest ground possible due to the smartly-configured one-liners (‘those who have eyes/ should act like it’) juxtaposed to some retro soul music.
7: Big Boi feat. T.I
Tangerine
Tasty rap treat.
8: Sufjan Stevens
I Walked
Loosely based on Royal Robertson’s tumultuous life after his wife left in 1975, Sufjan soulfully twins it with his own apparent loss of faith recording this album.
9: Summer Camp
Veronica Sawyer
Even if you weren’t aware that Veronica Sawyer was the character Wynonna Ryder played in Heathers, the tone of lead singer Elizabeth Sankey makes the feminist intent resoundingly clear. The song conjures up a hazy imagery of all those cheesy parties in film where the heroine is the social outcast, underappreciated yet totally headstrong. Sankey manoeuvres her sublime vocals with so much sadness, that where she repeats the line, ‘I’ve got so much more than this,’, it becomes a frightening yet realistic mantra of what every youngster hates the most: the feeling of being trapped forever within their social limitations.
10: Janelle Monae
Wondaland
The fembot gets totally rocking.
11: Kanye West
So Appalled/ Devil in a New Dress
if My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy is West finally embracing his inner demon then Devil in a New Dress grabs the women in his life—his rich, fabulous, sinful life—and its shady ties involved into one big, brilliant mess. So Appalled is its sinister twin and just as devastatingly brilliant.
12: M.I.A
Teqkilla
Runs an exhausting six minutes but damned if it doesn’t crashes up against a wall of baille funk, ganja references and, most obviously, alcoholism.
13: Janelle Monae
Tightrope
More conventional blues than what we’re used to but yet again Monae bleeds more funk out of minimalism than all her contemporaries put together.
14: Janelle Monae
Cold War
Tripped-out, space funk as only she can.
15: Nedry
Squid Cat Battle
A lovely, screeching chaos.
16: The Morning Benders
Excuses
A sad yet poignant tale of recollection.
17: Joanna Newsom
Soft as Chalk
Where our heroine, in her best Tori Amos-esque garb shrieks at us winningly the line, ‘there is no treason where there is only lawlessness’.
18: Xiu Xiu
Gray Death
Picks up where The Leash left off as Jaime Stewart unwinds his fidgety gayness into self-loathing.
19: Janelle Monae
Come Alive (War of the Roses)
Literally does just that under her screams and electronic guitars.
20: Joanna Newsom
Easy
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.
1: Joanna Newsom
Good Intentions Paving Company
Any traveller by night will tell you that the long drive to (or back, depending) of any trip is the time most do their thinking. Put a broken-heart record on and your life falls into precious minutes of recollection. It’s a reduction that touches us all and here, finally, Newsom zeroes in on the terra firma that we felt her aesthetic was too highbrow for. With her harp tucked away for a melodic piano and drums, magically piped in at just the right moments, Good Intentions Paving Company rolls up so many different styles that it leaves one devastated with its humanness.
2: Joanna Newsom
Have One on Me
Who says a song can’t unspool like a finely-written novella? Surely not Newsom, a woman who is prone to sprawling, epic ideas that –when juxtaposed to the harpsichord—is like nothing else in contemporary music. The title track from her current album takes a beautiful leap near the two minute mark, delving much deeper into the life of Lola Montez than Wikipedia ever did. Over a span of eleven minute, we are treated to Lola’s encounters with King Ludwig I of Bavaria (lovingly called ‘Daddy Long legs’) and the emotional delusion suffered. Towards the end when things get truly frantic, Newsom tosses off breathless gaggles like, ‘I remember everything/down to the sound of you shaving-/ the scrape of your razor/ the dully-abrading black hair/that remained…’ and, ‘I saw a star fall into the sky/ like a chunk of thrown coal/ as if God himself spat/ like a cornered rat…’ with so much ease that the sheer mastery is blinding.
3: Kanye West feat. Rick Ross, Jay Z, Nicki Minaj & Bon Iver
Monster
Conceived in Hawaii of all places, Monster flows red-hot like lava from a rampant volcano. The overriding theme here is violence and it matters little who grabs the mike and passes it along: Rick Ross thugs on it a lil’ bit then it’s unto Jigga , who rolls it to Minaj and she drops a lethal clocking before rolling it on to Yeezy who gleefully brings it on home.
4: Cee-lo Green
Fuck You
It’s only on a closer examination that one realizes that the target for Cee-Lo’s rant is the guy who’s stolen his woman from him but that doesn’t mean she’s spared; the line, ‘f-uck you too’, takes sufficient care of her. It’s a damning kiss off, one where he lists her need for materialism as greater for emotional connection and no one—I mean no one—can smooth-talk us into feeling his pain like him.
5: Kanye West
Power
A marvel of construction, Power builds itself from a sample of King Crimson’s 21st Century Schizoid Man, a fitting riff for Kanye to lose himself in. This funk riot long withheld is the best self-hate rap tale since Eminem dropped The Way I Am ten years ago.
6: Shad
Rose Garden
The Canadian has long perfected his conscience rap shtick but Rose Garden rises to highest ground possible due to the smartly-configured one-liners (‘those who have eyes/ should act like it’) juxtaposed to some retro soul music.
7: Big Boi feat. T.I
Tangerine
Tasty rap treat.
8: Sufjan Stevens
I Walked
Loosely based on Royal Robertson’s tumultuous life after his wife left in 1975, Sufjan soulfully twins it with his own apparent loss of faith recording this album.
9: Summer Camp
Veronica Sawyer
Even if you weren’t aware that Veronica Sawyer was the character Wynonna Ryder played in Heathers, the tone of lead singer Elizabeth Sankey makes the feminist intent resoundingly clear. The song conjures up a hazy imagery of all those cheesy parties in film where the heroine is the social outcast, underappreciated yet totally headstrong. Sankey manoeuvres her sublime vocals with so much sadness, that where she repeats the line, ‘I’ve got so much more than this,’, it becomes a frightening yet realistic mantra of what every youngster hates the most: the feeling of being trapped forever within their social limitations.
10: Janelle Monae
Wondaland
The fembot gets totally rocking.
11: Kanye West
So Appalled/ Devil in a New Dress
if My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy is West finally embracing his inner demon then Devil in a New Dress grabs the women in his life—his rich, fabulous, sinful life—and its shady ties involved into one big, brilliant mess. So Appalled is its sinister twin and just as devastatingly brilliant.
12: M.I.A
Teqkilla
Runs an exhausting six minutes but damned if it doesn’t crashes up against a wall of baille funk, ganja references and, most obviously, alcoholism.
13: Janelle Monae
Tightrope
More conventional blues than what we’re used to but yet again Monae bleeds more funk out of minimalism than all her contemporaries put together.
14: Janelle Monae
Cold War
Tripped-out, space funk as only she can.
15: Nedry
Squid Cat Battle
A lovely, screeching chaos.
16: The Morning Benders
Excuses
A sad yet poignant tale of recollection.
17: Joanna Newsom
Soft as Chalk
Where our heroine, in her best Tori Amos-esque garb shrieks at us winningly the line, ‘there is no treason where there is only lawlessness’.
18: Xiu Xiu
Gray Death
Picks up where The Leash left off as Jaime Stewart unwinds his fidgety gayness into self-loathing.
19: Janelle Monae
Come Alive (War of the Roses)
Literally does just that under her screams and electronic guitars.
20: Joanna Newsom
Easy
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.
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