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Sunday, October 30, 2005

Why?_(2005) "Elephant Eyelash" [7.5/10]

Why?
Album: "Elephant Eyelash"
Release Date: 2005-10-04
Label: Anticon
Rev Value: [7.5/10]
Genre: Rock
Styles: Alternative Pop/ Rock, Indie Rock
Buy It

Tracklist:

1 Crushed Bones (3:30)
2 Yo Yo Bye Bye (2:51)
3 Rubber Traits (4:01)
4 Hoofs (1:57)
5 Fall Saddles (2:43)
6 Gemini (Birthday Song) (5:27)
7 Waterfalls (2:50)
8 Sand Dollars (3:44)
9 Speech Bubbles (2:57)
10 Whispers into the Other (3:27)
11 Act Five (3:20)
12 Light Leaves


review by:Pitchfork
reviewer: Chris Dahlen, October 11, 2005
Album Value: (7.8/10)

I'll admit that I didn't "get" Why? on his early records, like that split EP with Odd Nosdam from 2001, where his puzzling lyrics and images are as fragmented as the clips of music he samples. It was like listening to the kids outside your window who are locked into their own in-jokes and use their own slang for sex acts: I just figured, you either get it or you're out. Somehow, his farther-out colleague and cLOUDDEAD partner Doseone was easier to follow, maybe because his jester act steers you more directly to his heart.

Dose has said about Why?, "I met him at 18 and he was 40." And you get that vibe from Why?, aka Yoni Wolf, more on every album. On Elephant Eyelash, Why? has moved even closer to using plain old song forms and he formed a live band to play them that includes Wolf's brother Josiah on drums, guitarist Matt Meldon, and Doug McDiarmid on anything else. Recorded in DIY lo-fi, they have better chemisty than when they debuted on the Sanddollars EP earlier this year. In fact, Wolf shrugged off his Why? alias and turned it into the name of his band-- which may violate the Hip-Hop Local 712 union regulations, but what the hey, they're underground.

In fact, forget about whether Wolf's career belongs in hip-hop or indie rock or jangle-psych or whatever: By now his music has oozed so far away from a clear-cut genre that the whoom-pa beats he's sometimes fond of could have been inspired by polka. The same goes for his fully-developed, fully-original vocals. His speak-singing lays packages of words one after another with attention to every syllable, dropping them in sequence like he's laying a stone path. But his pop songs showcase his singing, which starts off like he's reading his journal to a bored girlfriend, then takes flight in an impassioned croon.

Elephant Eyelash sounds less crisp and less striking than the folk-plus-beats arrangements of 2003's Oaklandazurasylum, but it brings more heart; where that earlier album's lyrics crackled with the anxiety of beating yourself up after a bad day at school, Elephant Eyelash soars like the last songs on prom night.You'll still puzzle over the lyrics-- Wolf says he's writing about a break-up, though don't let that limit your imagination-- but the emotional intent is blindingly clear. The music pours and soars over the splintered images, like on 'Sanddollars, which uses a triumphantly conventional pop anthem to make its chorus sound like a mountaintop declaration: "These are selfish times/I've got shellfish dimes/ And sanddollars." Yet he tops that with the huge, heart-pounding piano chords on "Rubber Traits", which propel him as he belts: "Unfold an origami death mask/ And cut my DNA with rubber traits/ Pull apart the double helix like a wishbone/ Always be working on a suicide note." And I finally understand how he feels.)

Full Review


review by: Dusted
reviewer: Charlie Wilmoth - Aug. 22, 2005
Album Value: (-/-)

The name Why? once referred to Anticon collective and Clouddead member Yoni Wolf, who released a string of rough-and-ready records that mixed elements of hip-hop and indie rock. Why?'s earlier output was fun - Wolf jumped among genres like the older, lo-fi Beck, but with less obvious irony and less of a folk influence. But those records weren't as fun as they could have been, because Wolf often tried to wring too much out of too few ideas, because his arrangements were a bit thin, and because he had one of the tiniest, weakest voices in the history of hip-hop.

The name Why? now refers to an entire Bay Area rock band, fronted by Wolf and including guitarist Matt Meldon, multi-instrumentalist Doug McDiarmid, and drummer Josiah Wolf (Yoni's brother). For whatever reason - perhaps the new lineup has something to do with it - Elephant Eyelash is fantastic, an indie rock record that nicely balances absurdity and directness, pop hooks with stoned weirdness.

Yoni Wolf's hip-hop roots (if indeed Clouddead counts as hip-hop) are mostly buried here - even the half-spoken rhymes on "Crushed Bones" and "Gemini (Birthday Song)" are accompanied by guitar arpeggios. Wolf sings melodies much of the time (in a stronger voice than before, although he's still no Sinatra), and the songs are mostly shaped like pop rather than hip hop, with verses and choruses taking similar amounts of time.

The result is indie rock that's quirky and seemingly casual in a way that makes the catchy parts (and there are many) seem catchier, a little like Pavement in their prime. The instrumental part on "Gemini" is similar to Pavement's "Range Life," in fact. Unlike Pavement, though, Why? gets a lot of mileage from samples and effects that augment their rock-band base. But the production doesn't feel digital at all, so the instruments and electronic touches both sound grainy, much like they do on Radiohead's OK Computer.
(...)

Full Review



review by: Prefix Mag
reviewer: Matthew Gasteier
Album Value: (3/5)

Why? (the singer, not the band) is most famous for his participation in Clouddead, the experimental hip-hop group that is proving increasingly influential. But Why? (born Yoni Wolf) has fashioned his solo project into a full-fledged band of the same name that includes Matt Meldon, Doug McDiarmid and his brother Josiah. On Elephant Eyelash, Wolf met halfway between his old group and his new bandmates, who seem to hail from somewhere in the Slanted Enchanted vicinity.

Shuttling between the multi-tracked free association of “Crushed Bones” and the summery pop of “Sanddollars” makes for a nice little trip through good enough indie rock, and by the time it’s over you’re just about ready for your mom to tuck you in and turn out the light. Not that there isn’t any emotional heft here, especially on album highlight “Gemini (Birthday Song).” This is an unambitious album in the best way. But then, Elephant Eyelash is an album for you to find and love for yourself if you are so inclined, so what can I do but sing along and nod?

Original Link


review by: Popmatters
reviewer: Josh Berquist
Album Value: (8/10)

After a number of beautifully flawed and fractured attempts, Why?'s Yoni Wolf finally realizes his hip-hop informed indie-pop aesthetic with Elephant Eyelash. While prior efforts were undercut by his impulsive restlessness, Wolf harnesses his inherent affinity for aberration and abstraction and directs it into an album that is more engrossingly O.C.D than aversively A.D.D. While still retaining every endearing idiosyncrasy, he exhibits unprecedented restraint over song structure and subject matter allowing his masterful word working to take its rightful prominence. This newfound focus makes Elephant Eyelash even more accessible than Wolf's previous output yet proves itself every bit as adventurous.

Even at his onset, Wolf distinguished himself from fellow Anticon alumni like Sole and Doseone by being much more They Might Be Giants than Deep Puddle Dynamics. That pop playfulness was plagued by Wolf's willfully chaotic compositions of unresolved movements leapfrogging over each other at whimsy. Backed by a capable and collaborative band, Wolf elaborates on these truncated tune fragments and sustains them over an intended trajectory. Rather than the sudden swelling and hasty deflation of his early work, these songs surge into the cathartic pop that was all too often absent in the past. Although they may be more coherent, these arrangements are still hardly conventional or commonplace; brushed snare reggae rolls offset the plaintive acoustic arpeggiation at the onset of "Crushed Bones" and rollicking carnival runs punctuate the piano ballad of "Fall Saddles".

These songs bolster an improved sense of subject matter in Wolf's work. His defining "coffee's turned my darkness into Woody Allen long-sigh anxiety" obsessions with leaving lovers, sex, and death remain but trimmed away are all the absurd and impenetrably personal references to things like cat food bowls and shirtless frisbee players. Wolf keeps his focus fixed on readily identifiable if albeit aching themes and refrains from the overtly and overly intimate details that had him censoring his own vocals on his last album. Of course there's still plenty of embarrassment and awkwardness in play through numerous references to masturbation and ruminations on spent semen. Even then, Wolf avoids outright obnoxiousness with winking playfulness.(...)

Full Review


review by: Almostcool
reviewer: ???
Album Value: (7.25/10)

The Anticon crew have never been ones to create hip-hop according to what is expected of the genre, and Why? is no different. In fact, one could argue that on his past couple releases he's very nearly created an entirely new genre that is grounded in indie rock, but dips into hip-hop and several other genres for something that's refreshing and unique (but maybe a bit frustrating for fans of one genre or the other without an open mind to accept the other). Elephant Eyelash is no different, with Why? pulling together all his previous influences into something even more focused and cohesive.

The release follows up closely on the Sanddollars EP, which came out only a couple months back, but is leaps and bounds beyond that effort in most respects. Yes, the almost nonsensical, stream-of-consciousness lyrics are still there, but the sense of songwriting, melody, and even depth of instrumentation has been expanded upon. "Crushed Bones" opens the release with lyrics that seem to touch on past drug abuse, and the song lopes along with skittery programmed beats and some dense layers of guitars while "Yo Yo Bye Bye" opens with pretty ambience and piano melodies with almost slurring vocals before chugging into almost bombastic refrains that drive home the odd (and often clever) lyrics even more.

Tracks just keep on throwing out interesting bits after that, with "Rubber Traits" dropping some of the weirdest lyrics of the album alongside some chopped-up indie guitar instrumentation while "The Hoofs" drops glittery chimes and squiggling electronics alongside acoustic guitars and the nasally vocals of Yoni Wolf (one of four members of Why?). One of the highlights of the entire album, though, is the insanely poppy (and catchy) "Gemini (Birthday Song)," which drops lyrics that reference the album title. As with just about every track, the actual lyrics are nearly indecipherable, but they (and the instrumentation) are absolutely buoyant in terms of overall feel, and the joyous tracks is easily one of the best things that Why? has done to date.

Once "Sanddollars" (from the aforementioned EP) hits, the album takes a distinct turn towards more straightforward sounds, and the overall release suffers a bit. For several tracks in a row, the album takes on a much more straightforward indie rock feel with a few strange bits and the typically odd vocals and lyrics thrown in for good measure. Coming after the inventive and infectious opening seven tracks, it's a bit of a letdown finish. That said, I've still got to give Why? some props for continuing to defy any genre boundaries in throwing hip-hop, folk, indie rock, and a dash of electronics in the cuisinart and molding the final concoction into something so darn great at times.

Original Link


review by: Hour
reviewer: Steve Guimond
Album Value: (3/5)

"I'm f***ing cold like a DQ Blizzard/ you act like a slut but you're really a freezer." What the?! Lines like this threw me off from the start - vocally weak, lyrically childish and lame. Too bad, because Yoni Wolf - cLOUDDEAD, Hymie's Basement - and his Why? project display an interesting amalgam of Beach Boy sunny harmonies and instrumentation, hip-hop beats and rhymings and neo-psychedelic pop traits. Having recently evolved out of a solo vision to full-band status, Why? continue Anticon Records' tradition of musical challenges, really only falling short in one very important category.

Original Link

Arab Strap_(2005) "The Last Romance" [7.0/10]

Arab Strap
Album: "The Last Romance"
Release Date: Oct 18, 2005
Label: Chemikal Underground
Rev Value: [7.0/10]
Genre: Rock
Styles: Slowcore, Indie Rock, Sadcore
Buy It

Tracklist:

1. Stink
2. If There's No Hope For Us
3. Don't Ask Me To Dance
4. Confessions of a Big Brother
5. Come Round and Love Me
6. Speed Date
7. Dream Sequence
8. Fine Tuning
9. There Is No Ending


review by:Playlouder
reviewer: Iain Moffat
Album Value: (5/5)

While the biggest band of the mid-90s have been quite content to re-emerge this year with a record unthrillingly unswerving from their long-established template, aggrandizing their own idleness in the process, a number of the bands that emerged in that fertile era have suddenly shown a trifle more imagination. Hence, 2005's seen a troubled Low rocketing away from their slowcore shackles, and given us the Stereophonics finally leaving the pub after all these years for the more exotic climes of 'Dakota'. And now, in a manoeuvre even more unexpected than the aforementioned, it's thrown up an Arab Strap album that, while unlikely to be mistaken for the new Rachel Stevens set by anyone at all, is the pair's Outstanding Pop Statement. Honestly.

Clearly, working apart - an endeavour that's borne most fruit on the ceaselessly amazing 'Into The Woods' - has done both Malcolm Middleton and Aidan Moffat a power of good. They've resumed their partnership suitably galvanised and, while the Strap hadn't yet begun to sound tired as it is, there's a lot more life to this than we've heard from them before. 'The Last Romance' is decidedly brisk, clocking in at around 36 minutes, but is filled with many of the most singalong tracks they've ever recorded - and, yes, Aidan really can sing these days, in something of a dark croon, admittedly, and perhaps a slightly acquired taste, but a real leap onwards from the bleak beat poetry of previous recordings. It also includes a number of songs that wouldn't sound out of place in today's indie-friendlier fab 40, such as the recent 'Dream Sequence' single, with its lovely piano cascades, or '(If There's) No Hope For Us', which bears an uncommon resemblance to the Kaiser Chiefs' 'Modern Way' and is one of the first of their numbers that could ever finds itself in the same sentence as the words "naggingly infectious" without that being a reference to thrush or somesuch.

Most significantly of all, perhaps, is the strong female presence on this album. It's entirely explicit on the aforementioned '...No Hope...' and 'Come Round And Love Me' with their inclusion of infuriatingly uncredited (on PlayLouder's copy, at least) guest vocals, but, furthermore, after years of thwarted relationships it finally sounds in many cases here as if Moffat has turned a corner; 'Stink' admits to an unwillingness to settle for a seamier way of life in the long run, while 'Fine Tuning' is a touching take on a very committed coupling, with even parenthood being very seriously considered. Standout track 'Speed-Date', meanwhile, is joyously, unanticipatedly dismissive of swinging, cheap sex and familiar grubbiness in favour of - blimey! - a sense-of-wonder-filled love of monogamy. There's still plenty to appeal to hardcore Strapophiles, of course, like the blurrily avant-garde stylings of 'Confessions Of A Big Brother' and the uniquely dazzling accordion-and-sung and spoken-vocals-fest that is 'Chat In Amsterdam, Winter 2003', but there's no denying the more fundamental impact of this record: with 'The Last Romance', a whole lot of people are at last going to fall in love with Arab Strap for the very first time.

Original Link


review by:Pitchfork
reviewer: Matthew Murphy, October 19, 2005
Album Value: (8.0/10)

For the men of Arab Strap, the concept of romance has always been a favorite joke. Over the course of their discography, Aidan Moffat and Malcolm Middleton have explored romance as an abstract notion constructed of the sordid lies people tell in order to pair off and-- as Aidan put it in one variation-- "go home and make a mess." On The Last Romance, their sixth proper studio album, Arab Strap present another song cycle detailing the craggy terrain that separates gloriously tawdry, dead-end sex from more lasting, mature (i.e. boring) relationships. But this time something wholly unexpected occurs, as the duo's notorious self-deprecating gloom here begins to lift, allowing the briefest rays of romantic comfort and satisfaction to flicker in the distance.

Throughout The Last Romance, Arab Strap's more familiar lyrical themes are thankfully bolstered by their boldest and most assured music to date, as they build confidently on the advances made on 2003's Monday at the Hug & Pint. Gone entirely are their once-frequent plunky drum machines, replaced by a skillfully balanced array of piano, strings, and horns. And though as a vocalist Moffat remains his curmudgeonly limited self, never before have his vocals been so thoughtfully integrated into Middleton's arrangements-- check the way his croon expertly mirrors the cello on "Confessions of a Big Brother"-- giving these performances an effortless, dyed-in-wool cohesion that their earlier pint-fuelled narratives sometimes lacked.

Over the years, Arab Strap have recorded an astonishing number of songs set in beds with dirty sheets, so the sleazy jolt of "Stink" opens The Last Romance in well-established territory, and with Moffat's customary disinterest in foreplay. "Strangers waking up in the Monday morning stink/ Of course I feel sick, but it's not why you think," he sings over formidably roiling guitars, postponing for a moment the album's newfound streak of tenderness. Equally uneasy are tracks like the propulsive "(If There's) No Hope For Us" and "Chat in Amsterdam, Winter 2003", a heartsick, drumless mutter which eventually opens out into impressively dissonant smears of guitar while Moffat glumly intones, "If we're having so much fun than how come I'm crying every Monday?/ Is it just to cancel out the laughter from Thursday 'til Sunday?" (...)

Full Review


review by: Contact Music
reviewer: Sharon Edge
Album Value: (-/-)

The sixth studio album from Scots Aidan and Malcolm and it's pretty much what you'd expect. It's apparent from the opening track - Stink - that their pre-occupations are still with the grimly realistic, dirty details of everyday life and love. Chat in Amsterdam, Winter 2003 is a strangely compelling track with a heavily accented, almost spoken vocal and screeching, distorted guitars. It's as thudding and grey as a hangover on a February morning, but has the distinction of being the only song I know that mentions Trisha.

The album then immediately springs to life with some jangly guitar and breathy singing with 'Don't Ask Me to Dance'. The vibe here is more laid back than miserable and the song has that Arab Strap intimacy - almost as if the words are extracts from a diary being whispered into your ear. 'Speed-Date' sounds cheerful enough but its description of 'ugly tattooed swingers' ensures the album stays firmly grounded in murky bars and backrooms. Full of emotional twists and turns and set against a bleak musical landscape, loyal fans will surely not be disappointed.

Original Link



review by: FasterLouder
reviewer: carlos esq
Album Value: (-/-)

When this boy with the new Arab Strap first played The Last Romance he knew what to expect. Yeah, yeah more alcohol drenched tales of the failings of love and sex, and nothing in-between. Arab Strap is like your favourite old
regular down at your local – you’ve heard all his tales a thousand times but that doesn’t make it any less essential. In fact the band seem so set in their ways that they can add a hint of happiness to their repertoire and call it progress.

Mind you, just a hint.

The Last Romance, the duo’s sixth studio album, is being touted as their �happy record’. If you were to believe that, though, you’d probably also believe the regular when he says he could have it off with any lass he desired. Malcolm Middleton and Aidan Moffat perhaps do have reason to be a little more upbeat given recent critical acclaim for solo projects and 2003’s Monday Night at the Hug and Pint but Moffat’s gruff Scottish brogue and stare into your half-empty not half-full pint mutterings just wouldn’t be the same were he to sound cheery.

It must be said that lyrically, yes, Moffat deals now with not only love lost but the genuine feeling of love. Musically, the single Dream Sequence resembles the atmospherics of Coldplay, which I suppose could be construed as happy, or pleasant, or, um, unnecessary.

If the album displays any notable development it is in the melding of the lyrical prowess of Moffat with the increasingly poignant music, largely Middleton’s domain. While Moffat should never be considered a singer as such, he has at last learnt to hold a tune consistent with his musical-backing. If you can get past his thickly accented croon, you will no doubt be captivated by the duty of care in which Moffat’s vocals are integrated into Middleton's arrangements.

Effortless melodies and sing-along choruses suggest maybe coherency is the key to The Last Romance. But then, just how coherent can pint-fuelled narratives be? Arab Strap may have toned down the doom and gloom but their music remains a sort of seductive misery. You simply cannot deny(...)

Full Review


review by: Popmatters
reviewer: Josh Berquist
Album Value: (8/10)

I oftentimes find myself peering into pints observing foam dissipate into still amber. What strikes me most about this process is that I cannot discern its aesthetic value. There is surely some appeal otherwise it would not prove so captivating. Yet my fondness for the sight is rarely shared so it may merely be beer lust. Admittedly my love of lager is such that any assessment stemming from or surrounding its consumption is surely biased beyond fairness. The whole display may not be attractive at all but I still find myself delighted by the sight of every bubble bursting.

It is this same quandary that grips me now as I consider Tanglewood Numbers. My fondness for Silver Jews rivals my lager love and the frequency with which both are intermingled further muddles any appraisal. Most immediately Tanglewood's surprising stridency struck me as impossibly beautiful and astonishingly inspiring. It was love at first listen and the stumbling onset of the album still unleashes a flood of joy. So zealous is my conviction in the grandeur of this record that it arouses skepticism. If I'm the lone punk in the beerlight fixated on foam, I may also be the only guy in the room who openly confesses that all my favorite singers couldn't sing.

Many aspects of the record are far from readily appreciable. Elemental Jew David Berman remains faithful to an aesthetic that rarely concedes to casual listeners. While these songs rock and rollick more straightforwardly than their predecessors, they still hover somewhere between country hayride and indie heyday. Unwilling to yield exclusive appeal to either genre, they run the risk of satisfying neither and alienating both.

Berman's voice has always been an acknowledged liability and age has not improved upon that shortcoming. That the stately balladry of Bright Flight which framed his unapologetically plain singing to a degree approaching conventional beauty has been sacrificed to raucous rockers that outpace his cadence and leave him straining only exacerbates the problem. It's endearing to those of us who fall for that kind of thing but others may not be able to get past it.

Of course substance has always held primacy over presentation for Silver Jews. David Berman isn't a singer-songwriter so much as he is a writer who sometimes sings. Deliberately considered and concise, his wordplay defines and distinguishes his art. His way with a loaded one-liner is unprecedented and his sense of humor unrivaled. Yet his is a casual genius that sometimes belies him with the appearance of veering from superficially funny to eye-rollingly obtuse. Tanglewood again offers little concession here as Berman comes up considerably shorter on lyrics and takes even greater liberties with the lines he lays down. The surreal imagery of Bright Flight is reigned in but replaced by overt over-simplifications and obvious rhymes. "Punks in the Beerlight" bemoans "it gets really, really bad" and "K-Hole" stoops so low as to state "I'd rather live in a trash can/ Than see you happy with another man". Contrasting with the consistency of earlier efforts, mere cleverness is allowed to suffice where meaning was once insisted upon.(...)

Full Review


review by: Manchester Online
reviewer: Iain Hepburn
Album Value: (4/5)

RAW, tender, emotional, charming, filthy... Arab Strap manage to be all of these, usually within the space of a single song. And, it's wonderful to report, The Last Romance is no different.

Outside of great 90s writer Gordon Legge and the Irn Bru producing Barr family, Arab Strap are perhaps the most significant thing to come out of Falkirk. One of the mainstays of the Chemikal Underground label, they've been charting the dark and dirty side of life and love for the last decade or so.

Actually, Chat in Amsterdam, Winter 2003 - which comes across like a piece of poetry, backed by a discordant accordian and the occasional burst of guitar - sounds very like one of Legge's short stories set to music. There must be something in the water supply at Brockville.

It's one of ten tracks on this short and bittersweet album, which flirts briefly with almost conventional CU pop stylings while still retaining that diverse post-folk sound.

Drawl

Aiden Moffatt's vocals, retaining that typically central belt drawl, never lose their ability to charm and repulse in equal measures - most notably on the opening track Stink, which really has to be listened to to be appreciated: words alone don't do it justice.

Don't Ask Me to Dance sounds dangerously close to an anthem with its 80s REM construction, while the soft, melodic and twisted Confessions of a Big Brother offers immediate contrast, comprising for the most part just Moffat's dark folk singing and the scarily versatile Malcolm Middleton on guitar.

And you have to admire the attitude of a band who can call their closing track - a surprisingly upbeat piece at that - There Is No Ending. Sadly, in this case, there is. But it's a fine ending to a fine album.

Original Link

Saturday, October 29, 2005

Silver Jews_(2005) "Tanglewood Numbers" [7.5/10]

Silver Jews
Album: "Tanglewood Numbers"
Release Date: Oct 18, 2005
Label: Drag City
Rev Value: [7.5/10]
Genre: Rock
Styles: Alternative Pop/ Rock, Indie Rock
Buy It

Tracklist:

1 Punks in the Beerlight
2 Sometimes a Pony Gets Depressed
3 K-Hole
4 Animal Shapes
5 I'm Getting Back into Getting Back into You
6 How Can I Love You If You Won't Lie Down
7 Poor, The Fair and the Good
8 Sleeping Is the Only Love
9 Farmer's Hotel
10 There Is a Place


review by:Allmusic
reviewer: Heather Phares
Album Value: (4.5/5)

Back after a much-too-long four-year absence — during which David Berman struggled with substance abuse, depression, and a suicide attempt — the Silver Jews return with Tanglewood Numbers, an album full of the wry, insightful storytelling for which the band is beloved, as well as some striking differences. The album's polished sound will come as something of a surprise to fans who have been around since the Starlite Walker days, as will Berman's urgent vocals on tracks like "Sometimes a Pony Gets Depressed." However, these changes work in the album's favor and give an anthemic heft to the most gripping moments, most of which are about confronting troubles and fears head-on: On the album's opening track, "Punks in the Beerlight"'s "burnouts in love" fight to stay that way even when it gets really, really bad; "There Is a Place" closes Tanglewood Numbers by moving from despair to hope with a thrilling, white-knuckle chant of "I saw God's shadow on this world." But, even on the album's most desperate, searching songs, Berman's unfailing eye for detail remains, and Tanglewood Numbers is populated with young black Santa Clauses, girls in special economic zones, and guys who work in airport bars. Funny couplets like "Sleeping Is the Only Love"'s "I heard they were taming the shrew/I heard the shrew was you" and lighter, more typically rollicking Silver Jews tracks such as "Animal Shapes" and "How Can I Love You if You Won't Lie Down" keep Tanglewood Numbers from sounding too much like a recovery journal (not to mention that Berman is too talented a writer to need to rely on strictly autobiographical subject matter). Nevertheless, the dark undercurrent that runs through the album makes sweet moments like these all the sweeter. Hopefully the circumstances around Tanglewood Numbers will never repeat themselves, but there's no denying that this is a uniquely powerful and moving set of songs.

Original Link


review by:Pitchfork
reviewer: Brian Howe, October 21, 2005
Album Value: (7.9/10)

Few cultural moments are as indelible as the one that occurred in fin-de-siècle Montmartre. Capping a hill north of Paris in the 18th arrondissement, the windmill-pocked neighborhood is modernly synonymous with a spirit of free-wheeling debauchery and artistic synergy. In infamous cabarets like Lapin Agile, Le Chat Noir, and Moulin Rouge, bohemian artists and bourgeois Parisians rubbed elbows with pimps and whores amid the bawdy entertainments of Jane Avril and Aristide Bruant. No artist is more emblematic of the period than the painter and lithographer Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.

David Berman invokes Toulouse-Lautrec's name in "Punks in the Beerlight"-- "Punks in the beerlight/ Two burnouts in love/ Punks in the beerlight/ Toulouse-Lautrec!"-- the first song on Tanglewood Numbers. With this invocation, Berman announces the aura of Tanglewood Numbers. Inextricably linked to time and place? Check. Berman's ear is still turned toward the hard-bitten rhythms and brassy twang of the American South, and his narratives still unfold in real towns and avenues.

Seamy glamour? Check. Where 2001's Bright Flight leaned into full-bore country, emphasizing Berman's voice and lyrical content, Tanglewood Numbers is a band-oriented rock record-- crashing, amped-up, aggressively ramshackle. Berman's wife Cassie, with whom he seems to be developing a Waits/Brennan (or possibly Johnny/June) relationship, reprises her vocal and inspirational role (she penned the noodly dirge "The Poor, the Fair and the Good"); Stephen Malkmus contributes some raucous, cutting guitars; drummer Brian Kotzur and keyboardist Tony Crow supply a yawing foundation; Paz Lenchantin flecks the songs with banjo and violin. These diverse players lurch into a shit-faced stumble to forge a remarkably drunken-sounding record in the angry crucible of sobriety, a rock'n'roll hayride kicking up feathers and peanut shells.

The most interesting parallel between Toulouse-Lautrec's art and Tanglewood Numbers is the signature blend of jubilance and sorrow. Montmartre wasn't all fun and games by a long shot-- what was a thrilling diversion for wealthy Parisians was a harsh reality for its insolvent denizens, and in Toulouse-Lautrec's work, a sense of alienation and hopelessness undercuts the vibrant subject matter. His dingy washes of grey and green allude to the cheap, soul-hollowing aspects of taking pleasure from class division, and no two gazes or trajectories intersect, subtly isolating each of his subjects in their own existential void. Again, the parallel is striking: While Tanglewood Numbers is probably Silver Jews' most fun album to date, with its riotous guitars and rambling sing-along hooks, it's also their saddest, an outsized hangover that makes everything into sharp edges and toe-stubbing impediments, with a patina of dizzy anxiety on every blaring chord.(...)

Full Review


review by: Dusted
reviewer: Nathan Hogan
Album Value: (-/-)

Following a lengthy hiatus, David Berman has resurfaced with a new Silver Jews record and the requisite barrage of press interviews (including one for this site) that are distinct in their variety, candor, and wit per word. Berman answers even the most pat questions so archly, that where I used to imagine it taking him two or more years of careful chiseling to bring together 10 or 12 songs in the manner of American Water (1998) and Bright Flight (2001), you almost wonder if he isn’t sitting on a small mountain of brilliant castoffs. But then how to explain Tanglewood Numbers?

In one of these recent interviews, a writer asked Berman if he had any advice for his sister, who was soon to be graduating high school. This is actually consistent with the level of reverence typically accorded this guy; I felt almost guilty taking up space at an impromptu Silver Jews gig in March of last year, learning only afterward that they occurred about as often as blizzards hit Nashville. Berman’s reply was to quote Schopenhauer – “In this world, there is only a choice between loneliness and vulgarity” – and to specify that, for better or worse, he’d recently reversed directions in pursuit of the latter.

As an auto-critique of Berman’s fifth full-length record this is unduly harsh, though not altogether off mark. The best Silver Jews albums are endearingly lonely affairs – sparsely arranged, countrified songs about drunk, disfigured characters in absurd situations. Their peaks (“I Remember Me,” “Trains Across the Sea,” “Random Rules”) are those moments when the singer’s lazy, shaky voice moves nervously to the fore with sly and self-deprecating humor. Their valleys (“Time Will Break the World,” “Smith & Jones Forever”) consist of same-ish melodies motoring sluggishly through the dust kicked up by countless indie rock bands, burying clever lyrics beneath plodding paint-by-numbers guitar, bass and drums.

Tanglewood Numbers isn’t uniformly of the latter style, but the album presents itself that way, arriving frontloaded with its most bombastic, half-rollicking numbers. The first twenty seconds of “Punks in the Beerlight” consists solely of a lone sparkling shred of electric guitar tone – a promising, unexpected start – until the full-band arrangement kicks in with its booming drums, ponderous rhythm guitar, proggy synth counterpoints, and echo-chamber vocals. The song has the booming, reverb-fueled feel of '70s hard rock – neither bad nor good, really – but Berman’s phrases are uncharacteristically limp. (Rolling Stone bafflingly exclaims: “Berman has a gift for lyrics like "Punks in the beerlight, two burnouts in love / I always loved you to the max!"). I guess the "to the max!" cheer is sort of cute, but "Punks in the beerlight / Toulouse-Lautrec!" made me fearful of the remaining 30 minutes.
(...)

Full Review



review by: Cokemachineglow
reviewer: Peter Hepburn
Album Value: (86%/100)

This last summer I finally managed to devote the necessary time to trying to understand, or at least appreciate, Bob Dylan. I tried to avoid the big names (Blonde on Blonde, Highway 61 Revisited, Nashville Skyline) and instead spent weeks listening to New Morning, Desire, and Slow Train Coming. I read Chronicles, Vol. 1 and tried to understand where he was coming from as I listened to The Freewheeling Bob Dylan and John Wesley Harding. What struck me most is how, over the course of 14 years (1962-1976), Dylan managed to not only create a good half-dozen of the best album ever recorded, but also totally reinvent folk music.

Earlier this year, Rolling Stone put forth the theory that Connor Oberst is the heir-apparent to Dylan’s poet-singer throne. It’s a ridiculous supposition. First, because there’s no need for such an heir; Dylan’s albums hold up just fine, thank you. Second, Oberst is a whiny little punk from Omaha without a quarter the creative drive or genius of Dylan. Third, we already have Dave Berman.

I’m not arguing that Berman’s music is really all that related to that of Dylan (even if they are both poets), or even that the two musicians exist in similar musical realms, but rather that at some basic level of songwriting and personal expression, they’re operating on a similar plane. Berman, along with Stephen Malkmus and a few others, help pioneer the '90s concept of "indie rock," but did it as an extension of country music rather than the punk that many of his peers were using. Dylan saved rock by mining folk music while starving his way through New York City in the early ‘60s. He emerged from the decade not entirely unscathed and then went on to make Desire and Blood on the Tracks, two of my favorites, with an entirely different take on music and songwriting. And now it seems that Berman has conquered at least some of his demons (and addictions) and hits 2005 wth one of his strongest and most focused albums to date, Tanglewood Numbers.

The history of the Silver Jews makes this a hard statement to justify. Over the course of their four previous albums (and The Arizona Record) Berman and his ever-shifting cast of backing musicians have made the Silver Jews the best indie rock band that no one ever paid enough attention to. Malkmus’s involvement in the band was always something of a mixed blessing, bringing both his nearly unparalleled guitar chops but also critical attention which was too quick to deal with the band as little more than a Pavement side-project. Both the beautifully lo-fi Starlite Walker and the indie classic American Water live up to anything Malkmus’s other band ever managed, and even the two lesser known albums have a magic of their own (misstep though The Natural Bridge may have been).

All the albums have their own personality, ranging from the gleeful guitar twiddling of American Water to the quiet acoustic approach for Bright Flight. Still, coming charging out of the gates with “Punks in the Beerlight,” Tanglewood Numbers is something of a surprise. None of the previous Silver Jews outings really prepare you for the raw energy and hunger of the track. Will Oldham rides a gloomy rhythm guitar under Malkmus’s searing lead, letting Berman, who sounds a good 10 years older than he did on Bright Flight, let loose with the remorseful “if we had known what it takes to get here / would we have chosen to?” It’s a far more bombastic song than we’ve come to expect from the Silver Jews, but then again this is a far more aggressive (and talented) group than have performed on any of the previous records. Most importantly, Berman’s trademark sloppy romanticism is still at the core, just now concerned with tales of “burnouts in love” and unironic declarations that he “always loved you to the max.” It’s a love song for someone who doesn’t particularly want to be in love, but who’s willing to run with it.(...)

Full Review


review by: Popmatters
reviewer: Josh Berquist
Album Value: (8/10)

I oftentimes find myself peering into pints observing foam dissipate into still amber. What strikes me most about this process is that I cannot discern its aesthetic value. There is surely some appeal otherwise it would not prove so captivating. Yet my fondness for the sight is rarely shared so it may merely be beer lust. Admittedly my love of lager is such that any assessment stemming from or surrounding its consumption is surely biased beyond fairness. The whole display may not be attractive at all but I still find myself delighted by the sight of every bubble bursting.

It is this same quandary that grips me now as I consider Tanglewood Numbers. My fondness for Silver Jews rivals my lager love and the frequency with which both are intermingled further muddles any appraisal. Most immediately Tanglewood's surprising stridency struck me as impossibly beautiful and astonishingly inspiring. It was love at first listen and the stumbling onset of the album still unleashes a flood of joy. So zealous is my conviction in the grandeur of this record that it arouses skepticism. If I'm the lone punk in the beerlight fixated on foam, I may also be the only guy in the room who openly confesses that all my favorite singers couldn't sing.

Many aspects of the record are far from readily appreciable. Elemental Jew David Berman remains faithful to an aesthetic that rarely concedes to casual listeners. While these songs rock and rollick more straightforwardly than their predecessors, they still hover somewhere between country hayride and indie heyday. Unwilling to yield exclusive appeal to either genre, they run the risk of satisfying neither and alienating both.

Berman's voice has always been an acknowledged liability and age has not improved upon that shortcoming. That the stately balladry of Bright Flight which framed his unapologetically plain singing to a degree approaching conventional beauty has been sacrificed to raucous rockers that outpace his cadence and leave him straining only exacerbates the problem. It's endearing to those of us who fall for that kind of thing but others may not be able to get past it.

Of course substance has always held primacy over presentation for Silver Jews. David Berman isn't a singer-songwriter so much as he is a writer who sometimes sings. Deliberately considered and concise, his wordplay defines and distinguishes his art. His way with a loaded one-liner is unprecedented and his sense of humor unrivaled. Yet his is a casual genius that sometimes belies him with the appearance of veering from superficially funny to eye-rollingly obtuse. Tanglewood again offers little concession here as Berman comes up considerably shorter on lyrics and takes even greater liberties with the lines he lays down. The surreal imagery of Bright Flight is reigned in but replaced by overt over-simplifications and obvious rhymes. "Punks in the Beerlight" bemoans "it gets really, really bad" and "K-Hole" stoops so low as to state "I'd rather live in a trash can/ Than see you happy with another man". Contrasting with the consistency of earlier efforts, mere cleverness is allowed to suffice where meaning was once insisted upon.(...)

Full Review


review by: Stylus
reviewer: Mike Powell
Album Value: (B)

ight years ago on American Water, Dave Berman boasted “my ski vest has buttons like convenience store mirrors and they help me see that everything in this room right now is a part of me.” An observer first and foremost, it often felt more like Berman’s passive, tender will to absorb the world at a distance rather than shape it led him to a strange state of absence; even though the words were necessarily filtered through his perspective, his essence felt stylized to the point of erasure. That same album began with the line “In 1984 I was hospitalized for approaching perfection” and proclaimed “I am the trick my mother played on the world.” Since then, Berman has had one book of poetry (Actual Air), the album Bright Flight (his fifth in nearly 10 years), a couple of drug addictions, and one attempt to end his life. Clearly, the world had come back to bite him in the ass.

Tanglewood Numbers is the sound of Berman’s convalescence. It’s the most immediate and vibrant release he’s made yet, but it’d be wrong to blankly call it a triumph. If Silver Jews fans have always seen the world through Berman’s eyes, we’re now just seeing Berman for the first time, a player returning to the field after the trauma of injury. The magic has waned a little, but he seems loose, present, and expressive; he talks about God in post-game interviews and we roll our eyes. He doesn’t transcend, but he has fun. He walks with invisible crutches, but goddamn it he walks.

The poetry on Tanglewood Numbers is at times unusually blunt for Berman, there’s no way around that. Still, his lyrics have often mixed the ultra-vivid and impenetrable, like “Grass grows in the icebox, the year ends in the next room / It is autumn and my camouflage is dying, instead of time there will be lateness.” It’s the kind of writing that leaves traces of immense feeling, but defies a final clarity. Though he’s also coughed up plenty of beautiful, grinning sad-sackery, some of his verse is unusually stark this time around; even though imagination is often the most alluring mode at our human disposal, lines like “Andre was a young black Santa Claus, he didn’t want to be like his daddy was / Better take the gun with you when you go, he’d rather be dead than anything he knows” shiver nakedly, sapped of mystery but sometimes more moving than any of his most bejeweled obscurities. (...)

Full Review

Friday, October 28, 2005

Sleater-Kinney_(2005) "The Woods" [8.0/10]

Sleater-Kinney
Album: "The Woods"
Release Date: May 24, 2005
Label: Sub Pop
Rev Value: [8.0/10]
Genre: Rock
Styles: Indie Rock, Alternative Pop/ Rock,Riot Grrrl
Buy It

Tracklist:

1 Fox (3:25)
2 Wilderness (3:40)
3 What's Mine Is Yours (4:58)
4 Jumpers (4:24)
5 Modern Girl (3:01)
6 Entertain (4:55)
7 Rollercoaster (4:55)
8 Steep Air (4:04)
9 Let's Call It Love (11:01)
10 Night Light (3:40)


review by:Allmusic
reviewer: Johnny Loftus
Album Value: (4.5/5)

Far from the retreat implied in its title, The Woods is another passionate statement from Sleater-Kinney, equally inspired by the call-to-arms of their previous album, One Beat, and the give-and-take of their live sets, particularly their supporting slot on Pearl Jam's 2003 tour. Throughout their career, the band has found ways to refine and elaborate on the fiery spirit that makes them so distinctive without diminishing it. The Woods is no exception -- it may be Sleater-Kinney's most mature and experimental album to date, but unlike most mature and experimental albums released by bands entering their second decade, it doesn't forget to rock like a beast. The album's opening salvo, "The Forest," is shockingly feral, an onslaught of heavy, angry, spiralling guitars, ridiculously loud drums, and Corin Tucker's inimitable, love-them-or-hate-them vocals. It's so crushingly dense that it's hard to believe it came from Dave Fridmann's studio; reportedly, The Woods' sessions were challenging for band and producer alike, but from the results, it's clear that they pushed each other to make some of the best work of both of their careers. Though it may be hard to believe, at first, that this is a Fridmann-produced album, his contributions become a little clearer on tracks like the dysfunctional domesticity of "Wilderness," which has the depth and spaciousness usually associated with his work. However, it's easy enough to hear that The Woods is quintessential Sleater-Kinney. This may be the band's most self-assured sounding work yet -- their music has never lacked confidence and daring, but now they sound downright swaggering: "What's Mine Is Yours" is a subversive nod to Led Zeppelin and also captures Sleater-Kinney's own formidable power as a live act. Tucker's voice and viewpoints are as thoughtful and fierce as ever, and as usual, she's even better when aided and abetted by Carrie Brownstein's harmonies, as on "Jumpers." Capturing both the deeply depressing and liberating sides of suicide, the song moves from moody almost-pop to an intense but still melodic assault; unlike so many bands, Sleater-Kinney can go back and forth between several ideas within one song and never sound forced or muddled. A martial feeling runs through The Woods, but unlike the more overtly political One Beat, dissent is a more of an overall state of mind here. The more literal songs falter a bit, but "Modern Girl" is saved by its sharp lyrics ("I took my money and bought a donut/The hole's the size of the entire world"), while Tucker and Brownstein's dueling vocals and Janet Weiss' huge drums elevate "Entertain" above its easy targets of retro rock and reality TV. However, the songs about floundering or complicated relationships draw blood: "Rollercoaster," an extended food and fairground metaphor for an up-and-down long-term relationship with tough-girl backing vocals and an insistent cowbell driving it along, is as insightful as it is fun and witty. The unrepentantly sexy "Let's Call It Love" is another standout, comparing love to a boxing match (complete with bells ringing off the rounds) and a game of poker. At 11 minutes long, the song might be indulgent (especially by Sleater-Kinney's usually economic standards), but its ebbs and flows and well-earned guitar solos underscore the feeling that the band made The Woods for nobody but themselves. It flows seamlessly into "Night Light," an equally spooky and hopeful song that offers promise, but no easy answers -- a fitting end to an album that often feels more engaged in struggle than the outcome of it. One thing is clear, though: Sleater-Kinney remain true to their ideals, and after all this time, they still find smart, gripping ways of articulating them.
Original Link


review by:Pitchfork
reviewer: Stephen M. Deusner
Album Value: (9.0/10)

By now you probably don't need to be told the particulars of Sleater-Kinney's new album, The Woods: about how they signed with Sub Pop, making it their first album since 1995's Call the Doctor not released by Kill Rock Stars; about how they hired Dave Fridmann to produce and recorded it in rural New York instead of Washington State; about how they wanted a heavier sound that mines classic rock like Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple, and Jimi Hendrix for inspiration; about how one song is more than 11 minutes in length.

So it should come as no surprise that The Woods marks a significant transformation for the band-- one they first hinted at on 2000's All Hands on the Bad One, and crept closer toward on 2002's One Beat. Nor should anyone be shocked that, despite the new song structures, guitar solos, and drum fills, Brownstein's guitar still roars wildly, Weiss's drums still thunder, and Tucker still wails with a primal urgency that is one of the most compelling sounds in rock music today. What hasn't necessarily been made explicitly clear is that, even in the face of its cock-rock trappings, The Woods most closely recalls the righteous fury of their first great albums, Call the Doctor (1995) and Dig Me Out (1996).

The brash economy of punk, for Sleater-Kinney at least, has always been just a short step away from the lumbering behemoth of hard rock. "The Fox", however, seems to say otherwise. Opening the album, this piece of Aesop rock is about a fox and a duck, and I think it just might be allegorical. But it's loud and it thrashes and Tucker shouts to be heard over the din. It's ferociously uninviting, but it works both as a context-providing preface to the nine songs that follow and as a deterrent for weak-eared listeners. Those who make it to "Wilderness" will have passed a test of sorts.

"Wilderness" and most of "What's Mine Is Yours" sound like prime Sleater-Kinney, as does much of the rest of The Woods. Fridmann's presence is far from disruptive; you can hardly hear him in the mix, except for a little sludge in the low end-- a nice substitution for a bass player. Instead of weighing them down with single-mic'd Flaming Lips drums or Delgados density, he simply steps out of the way and allows them to sound larger, louder, and looser.

Turning their crosshairs away from the overt political issues of One Beat, Sleater-Kinney's amplification here sounds like a reaction to the current wave of backwards-looking boys-club bands that idolize post-punk dramatists like Joy Division and the Cure and abstractors like Gang of Four and Wire. (And anyway, weren't the women of Elastica working this same nostalgia, like, 10 years ago?) On "Entertain"-- the first single, no less-- Brownstein chides the eyeliner brigade righteously: "You come around looking 1984/ You're such a bore, 1984/ Nostalgia, you're using it like a whore/ It's better than before."(...)

Full Review


review by: Shakingthrough
reviewer: Peter Landwehrà
Album Value: (4.6/5)

Sleater-Kinney has delivered an album that should give notice to other rock bands currently entering their second decade or longer: It’s possible for a veteran group to expand its sound without sacrificing an ounce of its passion or integrity. The Woods is a radical stylistic departure from the Pacific Northwest-based trio’s previous work.

Complementary guitarists/vocalists Corin Tucker and Carrie Brownstein (and drummer Janet Weiss) executed a similar stylistic shift with their second-to-last release, 2000’s All Hands On The Bad One, in which they used conventional pop melodies and slower, more graceful arrangements in combination with typical fast-paced hooks and dueling vocals to craft one of their most accessible albums. The Woods is the anti-Bad One, burying conventional pop-rock structures beneath distorted fuzz and an often-deafening wall of feedback to pay tribute to classic guitar heroics. That’s not to say that The Woods isn’t accessible -- it just doesn’t aim to please as obviously as Bad One. It's as if, having conquered punk, Sleater-Kinney listened to old Led Zeppelin and Jimi Hendrix albums and figured, hey, we can do that too. And, boy, do they -- masterfully so.

The Woods’ opening cut, "The Fox,” explodes with Tucker's wail at its most shrieking-banshee arresting as she belts out lyrics that seem inspired from a dark children's fable regarding a fox trying to coax a duck out of the water in hopes of making a meal out of it. The track is a declaration of war on everything one knows about the band. Weiss pulverizes the skins, and the guitars of Brownstein and Tucker play off of one another with furious intensity. Throughout The Woods, guitar chords hum behind a disconcerting backfill of noise, every note treated to the meticulous production techniques of Dave Fridmann (The Flaming Lips, Phantom Planet, Mercury Rev).

Longtime fans may lament the dearth of tracks featuring patented back-and-forth verses between Brownstein and Tucker, but thankfully there’s the passionate “What's Mine Is Yours” to help ease the pain. Backed by a rolling beat, feedback and heavy distortion, the two singers manage to integrate the band's familiar sound with newer, more adventurous sonic explorations (one of the least of which being a sustained, feedback-fed guitar solo). "Jumpers" is a dark duet about leaping off the Golden Gate Bridge that brilliantly self-destructs the moment its main subject strikes the water. "Rollercoaster" is an exultant combination of peppy handclaps, cowbell and ooh-wa choruses that ruminates on relationships and their similarity to (yes, you guessed it) an amusement-park ride.
(...)

Full Review



review by: Cokemachineglow
reviewer: David M. Goldstein
Album Value: (94%/100)

If you read CMG with any regularity, you've probably noticed we tend to churn out an inordinate amount of positive reviews. This is the third "best of year" rating we've handed out in as many weeks, we're not shy about rating much lower than that, and we practically abuse the 70-79% range of our scale on a weekly basis. Sure, it may seem like we love everything, but that's only part of the problem; the weekly update nature of our site dictates that we have to be selective, and most folks would prefer to read about the good shit, anyway. So, until we get paid to do this (Ed: Hahahaha), why waste valuable time by listening to crappy records merely for the purpose of having your website look tough?**

I’d surmise that we habitually crowd the 70% range because it’s the dumping ground for a records that the entire staff can appreciate as being unquestionably “very good,” if precious little else. These albums are well written, well produced, and probably get listened to eight or nine times before being reduced to space holder status in your already huge collection. To continue rehashing a line of thought that CMG's Aaron Newell already captured in far better form with his Russian Futurists review a few weeks back: generally appealing to a wide variety of right minded indie-rock folk, everybody can appreciate these kinds of records, but can anybody be truly excited by one?

Stick with me here. I’m going to be exposed to at least a hundred different albums over the course of this year. Of those hundred, at least fifty of them will be “good.” Another twenty will be “very good.” Maybe ten will be “awesome,” and those albums will make my proverbial top ten and force me to kick down money to see those bands live, the ones who compose their albums on laptop computers notwithstanding. Franz Ferdinand was an “awesome” record that held my top spot last year. I listened to that album on repeat last year for maybe a week.

It’s taken the new Sleater-Kinney record to confirm what I had already suspected for far too long: In terms of excellence in rock and roll, my standards, and I’m guessing the standards of the average CMG reader, are way too fucking low. A cursory listen to The Woods raises a host of important questions. Has it really been that long since I’ve been genuinely ‘excited’ by a rock album? A: Yes. Isn’t it the point of rock and roll to be exciting? A: Yes. Why do so many unexciting bands exist? A: Because our low standards allow them to. Why can’t I go forty minutes without feeling a burning, and quite likely unhealthy desire to listen to the 2:50-3:50 portion of “Let’s Call It Love?” A: Because it’s exciting. It’s also the most intense minute of music that Sleater-Kinney has laid to studio tape in their seven album, ten year career, and features the best use of a bell for added emphasis since the last second of Radiohead’s “The Tourist..(...)

Full Review


review by: Popmatters
reviewer: Jill LaBrack
Album Value: (9/10)

It's really too bad we're all so jaded now. In the universe that is rock 'n' roll, almost every new release has at least one major reference point (or "trick", as a large percentage of bands have proven). We've heard it all before. We've seen it done better. A band with early critical acclaim can mathematically determine when the reversal of accolades will begin, regardless of the quality of the output (check in with the Arcade Fire in 2008). Others find tepid reviews but all the right moves garner them a second listen and MFA-worthy essays (see "Paul Banks sounds NOTHING like Ian Curtis You Philistine Swine", circa one year after Interpol's debut), only to have that backlash, too. Now, try being the band from the early 1990s who are now on their seventh release and, get this, have never broken up (thus no revival acclaim). How do you get people to listen to you? No one knows, of course (Robert Pollard suggests complaining). But if you're Sleater-Kinney, you learn some new tricks and give it everything you've got. We're still jaded, but maybe The Woods could be a wake-up call. If we (the critics and the listeners) let it.

For three out of their last four records (including The Woods), Sleater-Kinney have maintained that they wanted to try something new. On The Hot Rock, they broke rank with John Goodmanson and worked with producer Roger Moutenot (famed for Yo La Tengo's dreamy sound). One Beat featured horns and strings. Somehow, both those releases still sounded remarkably like Sleater-Kinney writing a new batch of quality songs. The "trying something new" part was probably what the band needed to get through the existential questions of rock band-ism, but fans still heard basically the same band they always loved. The Woods, though, is indeed a departure. The women have added the sound of classic rock to their punk handbag. Classic rock, as in huge guitars, near-constant drumming, and frequent operatic vocals. As in Led Zeppelin, The Who, and Jimi Hendrix. Sleater-Kinney go straight for the zeitgeist on The Woods. Young punk rock converts quickly learn to cast off these masters. Older and mature punk fans eventually listen to the two styles side-by-side, appreciating the beauty and slow precision of a Pete Townshend solo as much as the amateur energy and joy of the Slits. To have Sleater-Kinney converge upon these styles and create The Woods is a boon to the music world.

It all starts with feedback. Literally one second into the record and you are on the ride, and there's no getting off it unless you jump. The guitars, as mentioned, are huge. Ferocious. Corin Tucker holds it down (no bass here) while Carrie Brownstein meanders all over the place. You can imagine her fingers bleeding from playing so hard. Janet Weiss has always been an exceptional drummer, but on The Woods she lifts off into the stratosphere. The real thrill, though, is how Sleater-Kinney takes all this unleashed fury (and that's what it sounds like -- fury. Even more so than on any other S-K release) and shapes great, f'n rocking songs out of it.(...)

Full Review


review by: Drawerb
reviewer: Eric Greenwood
Album Value: (-/-)

Returning from the creative slump of One Beat, Portland, Oregon’s Sleater-Kinney has jumped from long-time label, Kill Rock Stars, to almost-major-label, Sub Pop, and surprisingly churned out its most explosive album in years with The Woods. Even if Corin Tucker’s flailing vibrato wail grates on your nerves after a few songs, her new found appreciation for bristling, feedback-drenched, borderline psychedelic guitar interplay with bandmate Carrie Brownstein will surely make you re-evaluate the cause. Flaming Lips producer David Fridmann is responsible for nurturing the abrupt dynamic shift, but Tucker and Brownstein rise to the challenge with fistfuls of artful noise. Not exactly radio friendly, The Woods explores sonic deconstruction a la Led Zeppelin and Jimi Hendrix instead of the preciously catchy indie pop hooks you’ve come to expect.

It’s far and away the most raucous thing the band has ever recorded and Janet Weiss’ drumming pounds harder than anything since 1997’s Dig Me Out. The band sounds urgent and reinvigorated on caustic barn burners “Wilderness” and the 11-plus minute epic “Let’s Call It Love”- like it’s making music because it has to or it will whither up and die. With an album this uncommercial and experimental, I seriously doubt you’ll see Sleater-Kinney on The O.C. next season, but you will see the band on my iPod.

Original Link

Thursday, October 27, 2005

Bellini_(2005) "Small Stones" [7.0/10]

Bellini
Album: "Small Stones"
Release Date: 09/06/2005
Label: Temporary Residence
Rev Value: [7.0/10]
Genre: Rock
Styles: Indie Rock
Buy It

Tracklist:

1 Room Number Five (3:35)
2 Fuck the Mobile Phone (2:06)
3 Exact Distance to the Stars (3:33)
4 Buffalo Song (3:14)
5 Not Any Man (3:21)
6 Chaser (2:56)
7 Smiling Fear (3:26)
8 Switched Lovers (2:40)
9 Raymond (3:39)
10 Agatha (2:18)


review by:Artist Direct
reviewer: ~ Rob Theakston
Album Value: (4/5)

Though many of the landmark bands that changed the course of post-rock in the late '90s are gone, there are a few labels that keep the house lights on just in case there are still fans of the sound out there who crave more. One of these labels, Temporary Residence, has become a haven for the sound circa 2005, and the latest offering from Bellini only solidifies that notion further. Returning three years after their debut, Bellini reenlisted friend/sound guru Steve Albini for Small Stones, and the results are exactly what you'd expect from an Albini production: fierce, crisp, and confrontational. Bellini follow Albini's lead nicely, bringing glacier-paced drones and mixed-meter uptempo numbers to peak boiling points, with Girls Against Boys alumnus Alexis Fleisig being the central force keeping everything glued together nicely. There's nothing groundbreaking on Small Stones, but Bellini have definitely pushed themselves to explore new territories and dynamics that weren't found on their first record, a feat that is no small accomplishment by any stretch.

Original Link


review by:Pitchfork
reviewer: Austin Gaines, September 27, 2005
Album Value: (7.3/10)

Bellini aren't crunk or grime. They aren't on any freak-folk compilations. They aren't the daughters of Sri Lankan rebels, and I doubt they own a Detroit techno 12" or anything that would have been played at the Paradise Garage. I suppose that makes Bellini just good ol' math rock-- the mid- to late-90s kind on Touch and Go and Quarterstick. This figures, as Giovanna Cacciola (vocals) and Agostino Tilotta (Guitar) were in Uzeda, and Alexis Fleisig (drums) was in Girls Against Boys.

Bellini's previous album, Snowing Sun, worked thanks to the bionic drumming of Damon Che from Don Cabellero. But then again that was a few years ago, when the world was simpler. It was also prior to the comi-tragic departure of Che, which would provide tabloid-esque fodder for the indie rock world.

Today, Bellini sound like...well, Uzeda. Cacciola still takes her English lyrics and morphs them into that of a mourning siren from a Giallo film. Tilotta's guitar work still consists of sharp jabs played at high volume, sounding reminiscent of Shellac. Maybe that's because Steve Albini is still recording Cacciola and Tilotta. The oft-forgotten rhythm section of Fleisig and Matthew Taylor both fulfill their job duties and make sure the songs drive forward, without any of the screwing around that was present on Snowing Sun.

"The Buffalo Song" finds Cacciola yelling over some fine post-rock noodling/riffery; Bellini switch it up on "Not Any Man" which has Cacciola mellowing out and cooing, "Say I called you my love" like a mix of Tara Jane ONeil and PJ Harvey. Bellini move from crescendo to groove in "The Exact Distance to the Stars" while Cacciola mixes surrealistic bedroom behavior with existentialism.

All in all, Small Stones is a cohesive album, but its songs just plod down a road that is already heavily trafficked. But then again if you love their style of music, then it's nice to have a band like Bellini that's gonna consistently give you albums of the same quality, even if they only arrive every three years.

Original Link


review by: Prefix Mag
reviewer: Etan Rosenbloom
Album Value: (3.5/5)

On a map, Italy’s boot looks like it’s trying desperately to kick Sicily away. And why shouldn’t it? Given what little I know about Sicily, life there seems brutish and inhospitable. If you manage to avoid being smothered by a lava flow from Mt. Etna, one of the world’s most active volcanoes, you’ll probably get whacked by the Corleone family. Even the square shape of Sicilian pizza suggests rigidity, impenetrability.

So maybe it’s not so surprising that Bellini’s core creative unit, Sicilians Giovanna Cacciola and her husband Agostino Tilotta, make some of the most abrasive and uncompromising noise-rock imaginable. With their former band, Uzeda, the two spiked the Jesus Lizard’s drunken noir with a shot of discordant, Unwound-style racket. That basic template hasn’t changed too much since Uzeda morphed into Bellini in mid-2001. Though Bellini’s 2002 debut, Snowing Sun, was less assaultive than the Uzeda material, it was really a difference of execution, not concept. Bellini complicated its pummel by bringing aboard bassist Matthew Taylor and Don Caballero’s Shiva-like drummer Damon Che, but the emphasis was still on tricky, indomitable grooves and dual-vocal/guitar strangulation. (...)

Full Review


review by: Leo Beat
reviewer: Stephen George
Album Value: (-/-)

The question I’d like to ask Agostino Tilotta, Bellini’s guitarist, is elementary: How do you make a guitar sound like metal being hurled through a wood chipper without being abrasive? The answer is a quarter of why Bellini is top tier in the so-named indie rock echelons. Bellini brings the scuzz without the stink, champions of forbearance where they could slap on layers of chops, open and airy but still in your face. Like a friend’s fist hanging just above your shoulder, waiting for you to be the one to turn into it, Bellini resists the temptation to dazzle with the musicianship that’s clearly there, wooing instead with their ability to compress calculated riffs and off-time beats into something Giovanna Cacciola — whose voice is an unadulterated article of beauty — can sing over. One among a record of standouts, “The Exact Distance to the Stars” partners requisite angles in guitar-and-bass work with the crushing straight-arrow drive — And it’s not enough/This is not enough — that transcends Cacciola’s beatific accent and pushes her throat to fray. A magnificent, bullshit-free record. Bellini plays Uncle Pleasant’s, 2126 Preston St., on Tuesday,

Original Link



review by: BoomKat
reviewer:??
Album Value: (-/-)

Bellini are relatively famous (and I caution you against taking that 'relatively' as anything other than a gross over-exaggeration) for having their band leader and "notorious troublemaker" Damon Che quit live on stage in Athens, GA, stranding the Italio rockers on the wrong side of the Atlantic sans airline tickets. Labelled as their 'triumphant comeback', 'Small Stones' is Bellini's second full-length and the first to feature Alexis Fleisig (Girls Against Boys, Soulside) on drums. Recorded in a studio which appears to have contained Steve Albini in some capacity, Bellini took just 5 days to complete; a rapidity which lends the album a tenebrous quality. Distilling elements of post-rock, punk-rock, The Stooges, Billy Corgan, Melt Banana, Sonic Youth and all manner of leather trousered cliché's down into manageable chunks, songs like 'Room Number Five', 'Smiling Fear' and (in particular) 'The Exact Distance to The Stars', horripilate (look it up) with an attitude often lacking in today's shiny Kerrang sanitized rock scene. Bolstered by a fantastic vocalist in the shape of Giovanna Cacciola, Bellini are big, clever and (most importantly) feverishly contagious. See you at Donnington.

Original Link


review by: Satellite Magazine
reviewer: Ashley Baird
Album Value: (-/-)

Your drummer quits the band in an on-stage breakdown and leaves you stranded with no vehicle or drummer. What do you do? Throw in the towel? No. Cancel the rest of your tour and go home? I don’t think so. You phone an old friend and ask for help. You get a new drummer, a better one, someone like Alexis Fleisig of Girls Against Boys and Soulside who can learn all the songs in one whole day. And then you finish your tour. This is what happened to the Italian/NYC/Austin quartet Bellini. This is their story. They are a rhythmic, tight, beautifully aggressive band consisting of Agostino Tilotta, his wife Giovanna Cacciola (both of Italy’s famed Uzeda), bassist Matthew Taylor (the Romulans) and drummer Fleisig. Small Stones, their second album, is more intense and more melodic with a relentless rhythm section that is more astute than on their previous album, Snowing Sun. Cacciola’s vocals exude a luring siren of earthy vibrations that sends you on a dark, tragic drive to emotion and its interests. “The Buffalo Song,” the fourth track on the album, leaves you in an unrelenting state of suspense through to the very end. The guitar riffs and escalations are indicative of a pumped-up haunted moon. The final song on the album, Agatha, is an instrumental overhaul of breaking drumbeats and guitar stabs that leads you from one destination to another. The whole album feeds the living requirements of an unfortunate desire that each instrument tongues at, licking off the impurities with each note administered. And, if this is their enduring goal, then Small Stones is definitely some great reward

Original Link


review by: Brainwashed
reviewer: Nick Feeley
Album Value: (-/-)
Bellini appeared to have stumbled out of a time machine. Their barbed guitar hooks, thumping rhythm section, and obtuse lyricism seem strangely out of place in 2005. One listen through songs like “Room Number Five” and “The Buffalo Song” make things remarkably clear: Bellini belong in 1993.

Though I don't mean this in a patronizing way, it's hard to argue with it after one listen through their second release, Small Stones. Over the course of ten songs, the band pumps out a series of pick-scraped riffs and thrusting drums that would make any crusty college radio jock happy. The obvious touchstones are on proud display on Small Stones; Slint, The Jesus Lizard, Circus Lupus. All of this adds up to an album that, though not quite the remarkable accomplishment it could be, is an assured and rugged set of songs. A lot of the credit needs to go to guitarist Agostino Tilotta, who knows how to write jagged riffs that aren't lacking in melody. On songs like "Smiling Fear," his guitar playing is anchored in place by the solid time keeping of drummer Alexis Fleisig (a name you might recognize as the drummer from Girls Against Boys) and bassist Matthew Taylor. Over top of all this, singer Giovanna Cacciola moans out vague lines. Cacciola is the other linchpin on this album, her voice wavers from a soft coo to an assertive holler, all delivered in her deep and accented voice. Elsewhere, songs like "Raymond" crawls along a spiny guitar part and slow drum fills as the tensions slowly builds to a climax. While Bellini aren't radically changing the way guitar rock is made or heard in 2005, Small Stones exudes such confidence and swagger that it can't help but not be ignored.

Original Link

Wednesday, October 26, 2005

Bear Vs Shark_(2005) "Terrorhawk" [7.0/10]

Bear Vs Shark
Album: "Terrorhawk"
Release Date: Jun 14, 2005
Label: Equal Vision
Rev Value: [7.0/10]
Genre: Rock
Styles: Indie Rock, Hardcore Punk
Buy It

Tracklist:

1 Catamaran (2:55)
2 5, 6 Kids (3:49)
3 Six Bar Phrase Hey Hey (0:28)
4 Great Dinosaurs With Fifties Section (3:09)
5 Baraga Embankment (3:13)
6 Entrance of the Elected (3:07)
7 Seven Stop Hold Restart (2:43)
8 What a Horrible Night for a Curse (3:51)
9 Out Loud Hey Hey (1:38)
10 India Foot (0:25)
11 Antwan (2:45)
12 I F****d Your Dad (3:31)
13 Heard Iron Bug, "They're Coming to Town" (2:39)
14 Song About Old Roller Coaster (6:01)
15 Rich People Say Yeah Hey Hey (3:45)

Running time - 43:59


review by:Allmusic
reviewer: Johnny Loftus
Album Value: (4.5/5)

Terrorhawk delivers a thousand percent on the promise of Right Now, You're in the Best of Hands, Bear vs Shark's 2003 debut. It's an impassioned and anxious indie rock stomp with a straight line drawn to the tension and urgency of D.C. post-hardcore. But it also bleeds sensitivity, and has a novel's touch in its opaque yet highly evocative lyrics. Mark Paffi is a presence in the center -- he's not quite singing, but it's not a shout either, and this catch-all style is responsible for some of the album's most incredible melodies ("5, 6 Kids," "Entrance of the Elected"). Bear vs Shark also get a lot of mileage out of stopping and starting a blaring electric guitar, and get an assist from programming whiz Matthew Dear here and there. "Baraga Embankment" aligns brass instruments next to those guitars, "Seven Stop Hold Restart" and "Catamaran" channel Fugazi effectively, and "I F****d Your Dad" has a little bit of a Modest Mouse feel. There's a tangible depth to Terrorhawk. There's ballast in its songs, so they really sink in. It's that novelistic quality again -- it takes some doing to let it surround you. But by the time the six-minute "Song About Old Roller Coaster" comes around, the album's been through surging melodies ("5, 6 Kids" again), manically dense layers (the absolutely crazy "Heard Iron Bug, 'They're Coming to Town"), and slippery little interludes ("India Foot" sounds like a field recording from a video arcade), and you're in for the long haul. Powerful, visceral, rewarding, and just a little confounding, Bear vs Shark is a band with both sharp claws and razor teeth. Watch out -- the Terrorhawk will slice you good.

Original Link


review by:Pitchfork
reviewer: Brian Howe, June 15, 2005
Album Value: (7.7/10)

Post-hardcore is a slippery genre. If emo is commonly defined as "we know it when we hear it," maybe post-hardcore is "we know it when we can't hear anything after hearing it." But that's too easy; lots of music is loud. Maybe post-hardcore is what happens when people who are into hooks and melodies get into heavier styles like punk, metal, and hardcore. Post-hardcore kids listen to classic Metallica and hear the melody beneath the mayhem, the pop in the apoplexy. They listen to emo and imagine what those wobbly arpeggios would sound like with some real balls in the dynamic shifts, some buffness in the chordage.

You can hear some latter-day Wire in Bear Vs. Shark's linear, deeply textured riffs; there's some early Mission of Burma in their pronounced loud/soft dynamics and fist-pumping rhythmic maneuvers. But beneath Terrorhawk's ripped chords, frantic tempos and dudefaced vocals, there's a dewy-eyed indie rock record whimpering to be let out. Not that letting it out would've been advisable-- as it stands, the raw fury and insane energy level of the album stampedes right over the brain and booms down the spine.

Deeper than it initially sounds, Terrorhawk will send you scrambling for a few points of reference before you zero in on the right one. Trail of Dead? Not quite. Constantines? Closer...Soon it starts making sense how the ballads sit comfortably with the screamers, the uninflected melodic vocals with the shredded-larynx ones, the brainy leads with the knuckle-dragging chords: This is the spiritual heir to Cursive's Domestica, an indie-hardcore record that's interested in locating the violence inherent in the lullaby and the euphony in the scorched-earth anthem.(...)

Full Review


review by: Aversion online
reviewer: ???
Album Value: (7/10)

Another strange full-length from this unusual indie rock band that, if nothing else, is a step forward from their debut, which just didn't do it for me. I wouldn't particularly say that the band has as much of an individual sound this time around as the vocals are (thankfully) easier to digest here, and their brand of dry distortion, jangly chord progressions, and hectic vocals isn't alien to my ears at all, but there's still something different about them, so that's a nice touch. This time around most of the vocals are sort of running around between yelling and singing, but the vocal arrangements can get pretty energetic and wild, and the "singing" is rarely true singing, so don't expect soaring vocal harmonies or anything like that. I wish they hadn't gone the route of tossing in occasional keyboards just because I don't really hang with much of that form of the hipster quotient, though to their credit they keep that stuff very much under control (not to mention infrequent), so I can live with it. Offered up are 15 generally concise tracks in nearly 45 minutes, so even though it initially appears that there are way too many songs, the album actually moves along without a hitch. "Catamaran" kicks out a lot of speedy energy and quick fits of discordance right off the bat to grab your attention and nail the point home that the band's made some changes in their delivery, and then "5, 6 Kids" drops into plenty of pull-off riffs and power chord surges accented by quirky textures
(...)

Full Review



review by: Prefix Mag
reviewer:Etan Rosenbloom
Album Value: (3.5/4)

Bear vs. Shark’s frontman, Marc Paffi, scares the shit out of me. It’s not his appearance --the guy can’t be more than two foot seven, with a perfect fourth-grade bowl cut and an impish grin. It’s more that the dude could crack at any moment. Live, Paffi howls like a doberman and slithers through the audience without ever making eye contact, the microphone cord his only restraint against cannibalizing every last one of us. Even during the occasional quiet moments, the quaver in his voice suggests instability.

Bear vs. Shark’s terrific second album, Terrorhawk, conceived in a secluded cabin in northern Michigan, thrives on that instability. Overdriven guitars crackle with explosive potential, the drums seem to get faster and faster, and Paffi relentlessly pushes his vocals cords beyond their breaking point. The band barrels ferociously through every last chord change and drum fill, constantly threatening to lose control but miraculously keeping its shit together.

For much of Terrorhawk, Bear vs. Shark delivers the melodic post-hardcore goods like a woollier At the Drive-In, but the five-piece taps into the same ragged passion that made the Constantines’ Shine a Light so urgent. All these bands make music that moves. “5,6 Kids” is the sound of perpetual motion, with a cyclical guitar riff, polyrhythmic drum pattern and throbbing bass each searching for its own way to break free. When they all lock in on the thrilling chorus, Paffi wailing at the upper limit of his range, it’s clear that they’ve found release.

Even if there’s nothing here as kinetic as “Ma Jolie” from the band’s debut, Bear vs. Shark moves in some exciting new directions on Terrorhawk. The band expands its attack to include pianos, electronic interludes and even brass -- former Morphine saxophonist Dana Colley summons the spirit of Albert Ayler over a powerful four-chord vamp at the end of “Baraga Embankment. With the stunning “Song About Old Roller Coaster,” Bear vs. Shark perfects the art of the waltz-time power ballad. Take that, Nickelback.

Though they could get by on their blistering passion, the guys in Bear vs. Shark are smart enough to know that a pastoral melody or gruffly delivered hook can be just as potent as a scream. On Terrorhawk, we get all of the above. This is a band to watch.

Original Link


review by: Europunk
reviewer: Mikey
Album Value: (4/5)

It wouldn’t be fair to give this album the standard, lazy comparison to Fugazi-esque, Dischord Post-hardcore, although it certainly has all the hall-marks: the choruses indispersed with angular guitars and the occasional burst of brutality. But Bear Vs Shark have a certain uniqueness on this record that makes it stand out from the crowd.

This band obviously like to mix things up, and don’t drag out an idea. There is a real spectrum on display here – stripped down piano, the occasional use of atmospheric brass, a big nod to 80s/90s UK indie bands. And - most importantly - a healthy use of guitar noise, a measured mess of tremolo picking and frenzied riffs.

In fact, my only really problem with this album is that the album arrived with the type of pretentious artwork that told me nothing about what the fuck he is actually singing about. The song titles are as you might expect from a band called Bear Vs Shark – “The Great Dinosaurs With Fifties Section”, “What A Horrible Night For A Curse” and the genius of “I Fucked Your Dad”. Its all intriguing stuff.
Unfortunately the band have decided to go for that slightly trendy plan of placing the vocals deliberately partly hidden behind the guitars, and you are left to appreciate the distinct vocal tone rather than the lyrics themselves.

This slightly frustrating pretention and secretiveness aside, it is a great record for what it presumably aims to do – go in a lot of directions very quickly but always returning a certain, melancholy post-hardcore ethic.

It is likely that you have a good guess whether you’d like this band just by seeing their name, but if bands with names like Bear Vs Shark usually do it for you, this album won’t disappoint.

Original Link


review by: Rocknworld
reviewer: Mark Hensch
Album Value: (5/5)

Hailing right from my home state of Michigan, it is with a particular sense of pride that I have watched the five-piece avant-garde post rock outfit Bear Vs. Shark evolve. Their debut, Right Now, You're in the Best of Hands...was a simply amazing blend of hardcore vocals, quiet shoe-gazing pop, mathy and angular guitars, and even keyboard drenched backgrounds. To be honest, I loved Right Now so much I was starting to doubt this 2nd album, Terrorhawk, would be anywhere in the same galaxy. Boy, was I wrong.

Terrorhawk is an album needing actual songs to be heard for accurate comprehension. No words I have in my vocabulary can accurately describe the height to which Bear Vs. Shark have risen. The band, which has already sported enough influences to make it difficult to determine their sound, has now blended so many genres that it is indescribable. The traditionally off-kilter lyrics have also gone further off the deep end, with titles and phrases seeming to be largely whimsical yet poignant.

Opener "Catamaran" has a scratchy starting riff and a piano backdrop before high-speed and frenzied post-rock blasts out through the speakers. This song is in the vein of earlier Bear Vs. Shark, and a swank start to the album. "5, 6 Kids" is where things take a turn. The song glides in on boozed up, dirty, math chords and a restrained drum beat. The song's air-tight power chord chorus and twinkling keyboard effects sound so polished you'd swear you could see your reflection in each note. "Six Bar Phrase Hey Hey" is a twenty-eight second blast of optimistic and frenetic post-hardcore. "The Great Dinosaurs with Fifties Section" is an apocalyptic dirge over spacey guitars and with blasts from vocalist Marc Paffi's seemingly airless lungs. The completely genius "Baraga Embankment" is one of the most interesting songs I've ever heard. This slowly-growing jam mixes piano balladry, melancholy futuristic rock, and somehow the sounds of classic Motown. Hearing a horn section and jazz piano in a Bear Vs Shark song is like seeing Husker Du jam with Ray Charles at the height of both of their careers. This is simply a song you have to hear. "Entrance of the Elected" is a bass-line ballad interspersed with airy notes falling face-down into a cavern and blasts of air vomiting them back up with the force of an F-5 tornado. "Seven Stop Hold Restart"is a straight-up hydrogen bomb; that throat-rippping, pulmonary-collapsing shriek that Marc Paffi can hit totally shreds through this track many a time.(...)

Full Review

My Morning Jacket_(2005) "Z" [7.0/10]

My Morning Jacket
Album: "Z"
Release Date: Oct 4, 2005
Label: Ato/Badman
Rev Value: [7.0/10]
Genre: Rock
Styles: Indie Pop, Alternative Country-Rock, Neo-Psychedelia, Dream Pop
Buy It

Tracklist:

1 Wordless Chorus (4:12)
2 It Beats for You (3:46)
3 Gideon (3:39)
4 What a Wonderful Man (2:25)
5 Off the Record (5:33)
6 Into the Woods (5:21)
7 Anytime (3:56)
8 Lay Low (6:05)
9 Knot Comes Loose (4:02)
10 Dondante (10:33)
11 (GhostTrack)


review by:Allmusic
reviewer: Johnny Loftus
Album Value: (4.5/5)

In 2004, a dreamy cover of "Rocket Man" concluded My Morning Jacket's first volume of rarities. Which was prescient, because it's Elton John that Jim James' songs for 2005's Z first bring to mind. From the wistful recollection of "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road" to Honky Chateau's melodic and genre explorations, John's ability to mesh styles and take detours within his sturdy pop songwriting applies to James here, particularly in the expansive opener, "Wordless Chorus," or the initial happy-go-lucky lilt of "Off the Record." Z is My Morning Jacket's fourth full-length (and second for ATO), and it's the one that might finally jump-start the reaction that James' music has always deserved. It Still Moves from 2003 rightly enjoyed its accolades, but it meandered a little structurally, too, and sometimes got a little lost in its own reverb. On Z, MMJ's traditional influences are present -- the folk, blues, and country tones of John, Neil Young, and the Band shaded by contemporaries like Mercury Rev and Mark Kozelek. But songs like "Lay Low" and "It Beats for You" are crafted tighter, their sound-drenched keyboard lines meeting the percussion head on and riding meaningful flourishes of electric guitar. "Gideon" climaxes in James calling out throatily over twinkling piano and big chords borrowed from the Who, and "What a Wonderful Man" is a raucous, crashing tumble of unhinged crash cymbals, barroom piano, and mirthful yelping. Z is intuitive, intensely creative, classicist-minded, nearly flawless. It's music that's extruded from Jim James' id, and that's bearded, too.
Original Link


review by:Pitchfork
reviewer: Stephen M. Deusner, October 6, 2005
Album Value: (7.6/10)

Here's an album that begs for vinyl, although not for the reason you might think. Certainly, My Morning Jacket's worn-in rock 'n' roll-- its starchy guitar riffs and Jim James' other-end-of-a-long-tunnel vocals-- seems tailor-made for the intimate crackle of a dusty turntable. But the concisely titled Z, the band's fourth full-length, needs to be flipped over: It has two distinct sides. Granted, most albums still rely on the two-sided format the same way most movies still rely on the three-act plot, adhering to it almost subconsciously. But I'm not entirely sure My Morning Jacket intended such a dramatic difference between these two half Zs.

As Side One begins, the presence of producer John Leckie (of Radiohead, Stone Roses, and, er, Kula Shaker fame) is immediately evident. "Wordless Chorus" launches Z with a hardscrabble sound that recalls their earlier material, suggesting that the brighter production and looser, jambandier approach of It Still Moves was a slight detour. There are more keyboards on these songs, courtesy of new member Bo Koster, and more confident experimentation-- a little reggae, a little r&b, even a little ambient. Defiantly flaunting their rural eccentricities, My Morning Jacket once again recall the earliest of early R.E.M., before you could understand Stipe's mumbling, back when the Georgia foursome defined themselves by claiming a birthright to kudzu-covered mythology. It's not really My Morning Jacket's sound that suggests this comparison, but their willingness to let the music retain its mystery despite the risk of seeming obscure or evasive.

So Z abandons the Skynyrdisms of It Still Moves, but that album's lessons remain intact: Compared to those on previous albums, these tracks have more guitar crunch and tighter song structures. Even single "Off the Record", with its driving reggae rhythms and James' lively performance, foregoes a dueling-guitar climax in favor of an unraveling outro that sounds like Air noir. "Wordless Chorus" hinges on just what its title suggests: Jim James singing aaahs and ohhhs between verses as the band rocks around him. It's as if the entire album, not just this song, could be stripped of literal meaning, as if everything My Morning Jacket needs to say can be communicated exclusively through sound. And it works, especially at the end of "Wordless Chorus", when James breaks into a rapturous r&b yowl that recalls the Passion of the Prince..(...)

Full Review


review by: tinymixtapes
reviewer: jspicer
Album Value: (4/5)

Classic rock is the new face of indie rock. It doesn't matter if it's the psychedelic-inspired rock of Dungen, the skronk and pop of Wilco, or the southern rock of My Morning Jacket—classic rock, in its most generic meaning, is making a huge comeback. All we need now are the Kiss make-up, the expensive pyrotechnics, and Rick Nielsen novelty guitars. However, Z doesn't rely on fancy get-ups and cheap tricks. My Morning Jacket refuse to be molded into the next southern rock saviors, and the band's fourth full-length album moves farther away from traditional chops and into some uncharted territory for a band who records in silos on Kentucky farms.

What you can expect is what makes My Morning Jacket tried and true: bigger-than-life lyrics, classic rock swagger, and the need to move forward. Popping in the CD and listening to the opener "Wordless Chorus," a dose of what's to come is delivered soft and easy. The band has subscribed to the Mary Poppins philosophy: a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down. The track is all hushed guitars and whirling melody with a carnival beat—if only songs like this were played while riding the 4-H Merry-Go-Round. And if it makes a difference to you, the chorus actually is wordless.

(...)

Full Review



review by: Pop Matters
reviewer:John Bergstrom
Album Value: (7/10)

It Still Moves; It Still Rocks

How can the faint scent of disappointment lurk in the air when a good band releases its best album to date?

Sometimes a band releases an album that crystallizes that band's sound to such a degree, captures so completely everything that is unique about it, so brightly illuminates its strengths, that a follow-up seems almost unnecessary. My Morning Jacket's third album and last studio release, 2003's It Still Moves, was an album like that. It didn't display a lot of stylistic diversity. Not every song was great, and several were almost superfluous. But as a showcase for Jim James' high-pitched, reverb-drenched voice and songs about finding redemption through love and rock 'n' roll, and the band's boot-stomping yet heartbreaking brand of widescreen music, it was and is a classic.

Therefore it's impossible to listen to or discuss new album Z without the shadow of It Still Moves lurking outside the room. "For the past I'm digging/ A grave so big/ It would swallow up the sea," James sang on the latter album -- and parts of Z are certainly a departure if not a slate-wiping rebirth. The new album is clean, concise; and, song for song, the strongest My Morning Jacket record yet. The difference, ultimately, is this: It Still Moves sounded haunted and haunting. Z sounds like a band going into a studio and making a really good album. Take it on those terms and it won't let you down; in fact, it'll put in hard time on your car stereo.

While parts of previous My Morning Jacket albums sounded sloppy, Z is crisply-produced and markedly more refined, in part due to co-producer (with James) John Leckie. Leckie is best known for two records -- The Stone Roses' self-titled debut and Radiohead's The Bends. He might seem an odd selection for My Morning Jacket, but read Leckie's description of another band he produced in the '90s, House of Freaks, and the pairing makes perfect sense: "They combined Americana songs and atmospheres. They... wanted to sound British, as well as sounding American." That's My Morning Jacket in a nutshell. On Z, Leckie helps the band broaden its palette without losing its musical identity.

One of the startling aspects of Z is the absence of reverb from the backing tracks -- but, breathe easy, not James' vocals -- on several songs. So, on first listen "Wordless Chorus" and "It Beats for You" are subtle and underwhelming, even more surprising given the band's recent addition of a keyboardist and second guitarist. Give them a few listens, though, and they're almost as affecting a Track 1/Track 2 combo as "Mahgeetah" and "Dancefloors" on It Still Moves. "Chorus" in particular has that soaring, multitracked James chorus that simply arouses the spirit. Toward the end, James adds some soulful, falsetto wailing, and even the shittiest day turns into pure sunlight.(...)

Full Review


review by: Lost At Sea
reviewer: Phillip Buchan
Album Value: (8.5/10)

Beneath the bales of soft-serve psychedelic reverb and Crazy Horse-chasing jamming that characterized My Morning Jacket’s prior efforts, there has always been a distinct, interesting voice. Front man and lyricist Jim James has consistently tapped the lump-in-the-throat of the human experience, wrapping his emotional mining in epic swirl and naked sincerity that would come off as cloying or forced if it were anything other than an expression of a complex, highly-developed artistic persona.

Z continues to explore the band’s voice, but in a different manner than past works. MMJ’s musical palate has radically expanded: the reverb and alt-country trappings remain, but they no longer dominate the band’s aesthetic. In nodding to U2, John McLaughlin, Sunny Day Real Estate, Mercury Rev, The Clash and countless other icons through a holistic approach to the pop canon, James and his band mates refuse to let sonics define them; it’s the whole “so much style that it’s wasted” bit that Stephen Malkmus sang about. The structural expansiveness of MMJ’s seven minute barnburners has been translated into a formal breadth that draws attention to the spiritual twine holding this diverse song cycle together.

The band spends a great deal of time polarizing their warring sensibilities into individual songs. The bombastic, soul-tinged arena rock of “Gideon” coexists with the slide guitar and hand percussion bareness of “Knot Comes Loose”. Electronic blips, programmed poly-rhythms and breathy “ooh”s and “aah”s dominate opener “I,” while raging phallic guitar scales assert themselves in closer “Dondanti.” James lets his earnestness run free through a soaring, textured closed space in “It Beats for You,” then tosses off a cranking honky-tonk ditty about ice cream with “What a Wonderful Man.”(...)

Full Review


review by: Rolling Stone
reviewer: DAVID FRICKE Oct 20, 2005
Album Value: (4/5)

America is a lot closer to getting its own Radiohead, and it isn't Wilco. My Morning Jacket, from Louisville, Kentucky, have been on the road to their OK Computer for a while; imagine "My Iron Lung" soaked in sour mash and you're pretty close to the massed-guitar seizures on 2003's It Still Moves. The band still has too much bluegrass in its blood and Lynyrd Skynyrd in the riffing here -- the jamming elbowroom of "Lay Low" and the plunging power chords of "Gideon" -- to pass for paranoid androids. But a major lineup change on the way to Z apparently inspired My Morning Jacket's prime mover, singer-guitarist-songwriter Jim James, to mess with his template, to impressive effect. He is now writing actual pop songs, like the two and a half minutes of "What a Wonderful Man," which jumps and crackles like a Seventies Dixie-rock take on the Who's "Happy Jack." And there is an emphasis on keyboards, in pulse and architecture, that adds buoyancy and color to James' writing and flatters his keening, stratospheric tenor. The Eno-esque flutter and gentle bump of the electronics in "Wordless Chorus" bloom, with the addition of some tick-tock guitar, into something like Mercury Rev on Soul Train. In "Off the Record," the band's loose, rough strut dissolves into reggae-dub shadows, while the closing "Dondante" builds, explodes and expires like Pink Floyd's "Careful With That Axe, Eugene": It's a long, riveting psychedelic death scene. Except James, as a lyricist, for all of his free-associative spray, is plainly focused on life and how to hold on to it. "Tell me, spirit -- what has not been done?/I'll rush out and do it," he declares in "Wordless Chorus" -- a lot like Radiohead's Thom Yorke, but with more light in that near-falsetto.

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