News Analysis
Agenda
April 19, 2010
Link (subscription required)
Monday, April 26, 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Mark Van Hoen - Where Is the Truth
Album Review
Pitchfork
April 20, 2010
Link
7.2
Mark Van Hoen didn't know he was adopted. Just listening to Where Is the Truth, the Brooklyn-based UK emigre's new album inspired by that discovery, neither would you. This founding member of UK electro-shoegaze pioneers Seefeel-- later known for his 1990s electronic output as Locust-- returns at a time when a similar strain of woozily psychedelic synth-pop has made the leap to indie prominence. Though not to be confused with chillwave or "hypnagogic pop," Van Hoen's first new record in six years serves as a reminder that wistfully nostalgic electronic haziness is no Gen Y novelty-- and ups the sound-design ante for the contemporary style's typically lo-fi practitioners.
Musically, Van Hoen belongs to a distinguished family tree. Originally influenced by the likes of Brian Eno and Tangerine Dream, and later presaging both Autechre's glitch and Boards of Canada's pastoral IDM, with his latest album Van Hoen would fit in just as well alongside White Rainbow or Atlas Sound on a current label like Kranky: He combines oceanic drone with pop lyricism, using technology as a catalyst. On "A Glimmer of Forgotten Ancestors", a mesmerizing 23-minute epic from 1997's The Last Flowers From the Darkness, he excerpts a wonderful quote where, in the full remarks, you can hear Gandhi go on to say, "God is...truth." Bearing that in mind, then, as well as Van Hoen's newfound knowledge of the truth about himself, it seems best to approach Where Is the Truth as an album of-- but, thank your deity of choice, not about-- inner spiritual search.
It's an intricately constructed album, at that. Vintage synthesizers, tape, radio, drums, and Van Hoen's airy vocals join with elegaic electric guitar by Neil Halstead (Slowdive, Mojave 3) and somber piano by Julia Frodahl (New York septet Edison Woods) to evoke a journey of self-discovery it never describes quite so literally. The emphasis on abstraction means that in casual settings, the more obscure tracks-- such as fragile organ-and-Orchestron opener "Put My Trust in You"-- may tend to drag. And the ones with vocals-- even the fantastically falsetto-led "She's Selda", or murkily propulsive "Render the Voice"-- don't quite communicate the way many pop fans would expect. Still, when you can spare your full attention, the album's meticulous production and nuanced conceptual unity make for a uniquely captivating listening experience-- a lot more cerebral than the stoner bliss-outs of the chillwavers, sure, but still related. Van Hoen may have found himself in more ways than he expected.
Pitchfork
April 20, 2010
Link
7.2
Mark Van Hoen didn't know he was adopted. Just listening to Where Is the Truth, the Brooklyn-based UK emigre's new album inspired by that discovery, neither would you. This founding member of UK electro-shoegaze pioneers Seefeel-- later known for his 1990s electronic output as Locust-- returns at a time when a similar strain of woozily psychedelic synth-pop has made the leap to indie prominence. Though not to be confused with chillwave or "hypnagogic pop," Van Hoen's first new record in six years serves as a reminder that wistfully nostalgic electronic haziness is no Gen Y novelty-- and ups the sound-design ante for the contemporary style's typically lo-fi practitioners.
Musically, Van Hoen belongs to a distinguished family tree. Originally influenced by the likes of Brian Eno and Tangerine Dream, and later presaging both Autechre's glitch and Boards of Canada's pastoral IDM, with his latest album Van Hoen would fit in just as well alongside White Rainbow or Atlas Sound on a current label like Kranky: He combines oceanic drone with pop lyricism, using technology as a catalyst. On "A Glimmer of Forgotten Ancestors", a mesmerizing 23-minute epic from 1997's The Last Flowers From the Darkness, he excerpts a wonderful quote where, in the full remarks, you can hear Gandhi go on to say, "God is...truth." Bearing that in mind, then, as well as Van Hoen's newfound knowledge of the truth about himself, it seems best to approach Where Is the Truth as an album of-- but, thank your deity of choice, not about-- inner spiritual search.
It's an intricately constructed album, at that. Vintage synthesizers, tape, radio, drums, and Van Hoen's airy vocals join with elegaic electric guitar by Neil Halstead (Slowdive, Mojave 3) and somber piano by Julia Frodahl (New York septet Edison Woods) to evoke a journey of self-discovery it never describes quite so literally. The emphasis on abstraction means that in casual settings, the more obscure tracks-- such as fragile organ-and-Orchestron opener "Put My Trust in You"-- may tend to drag. And the ones with vocals-- even the fantastically falsetto-led "She's Selda", or murkily propulsive "Render the Voice"-- don't quite communicate the way many pop fans would expect. Still, when you can spare your full attention, the album's meticulous production and nuanced conceptual unity make for a uniquely captivating listening experience-- a lot more cerebral than the stoner bliss-outs of the chillwavers, sure, but still related. Van Hoen may have found himself in more ways than he expected.
Lucky Soul - A Coming of Age
Album Reviews
Pitchfork
April 20, 2010
Link
6.4
"There's always a friendly, easygoing atmosphere at the club, but this one feels extra special for some reason-- like a secret gathering of like-minded people, hidden away from reality." That's the from the liner notes to The Kids at the Club, a 2006 compilation that features one of the earliest tracks from the London sextet led by songwriter/guitarist Andrew Laidlaw and singer Ali Howard. The image is pure Lucky Soul: a party where the nice kids are also the outcasts.
It's also pure indie pop, but Lucky Soul were always out of step even among the Bowlie set. Their 2007 debut, The Great Unwanted, was not only meticulously crafted and emotionally overflowing, but also polished for a popular appeal it could never realistically attain. Not that it did poorly: Despite being self-released and receiving little attention from big U.S. print publications, the record boasts worldwide sales of 50,000 copies. Three years later, sophomore album A Coming of Age is that much further removed from prevailing trends, and it's not quite as immediately endearing, but it's a little more grown-up. And it's still pretty easy to like.
The state of pop influenced by 1960s girl groups, Motown, and soul has changed a lot since the indie boomlet that gave us Lucky Soul, the Pipettes, and so many others. From Sharon Jones to Duffy, artists who take care to make music that "feels like it was born in 1963," as one Billboard source put it recently, are on the rise. Younger acts like Vivian Girls, Dum Dum Girls, and Best Coast inherit from early girl-group singers the shambling "feel" as much as the emotional directness, adding their own reverb and lo-fi scuzz. As for the Pipettes, on the basis of at least one new song, they've skipped straight to the 70s-- and lost much of the human tenderness that made them special in the first place.
A Coming of Age attempts a subtler maturation, with mixed results. Drawing again from Spector- and Bacharach-sized 60s pop-- plus glam ("Woah Billy!"), country ("Love 3"), and singer-songwriters like Carole King ("Warm Water")-- the songs are packed with hooks, but they don't sink in as easily as before. For every "White Russian Doll", which bounds into the sort of romantic shadows where the Long Blondes used to smolder, or the title track, with its just-late-enough "...come too late!", there's a, well, "Ain't Nothin' Like a Shame". Still, Lucky Soul's latest proves once again that well-wrought, traditional melodic narratives packed with handclaps, strings, horns, whoa-oh-ohs, yeah-yeah-yeahs, and heartbreak can succeed without being painstakingly retro or modestly muffled. They only have to connect.
The nice kids are no longer so nice, nor such kids, but they're still just as unfashionably welcoming. The closest comparison to A Coming of Age is the 60s-steeped adult-pop of Stuart Murdoch's God Help the Girl project, except instead of fitting into indie's niche mindset, Laidlaw's glistening production doubles down on Lucky Soul's (poignantly unlikely) radio-readiness. Howard's delicately forceful lilt, which brings to mind Dusty Springfield and Saint Etienne's Sarah Cracknell, has only grown stronger, more supple. The debut's teenage themes, meanwhile, give way here to sadness, loss of innocence, and mortality. On The Great Unwanted, Howard sang, "I ain't never been cool." Now, she concludes, "It could be that I just don't belong-- anywhere but here."
Pitchfork
April 20, 2010
Link
6.4
"There's always a friendly, easygoing atmosphere at the club, but this one feels extra special for some reason-- like a secret gathering of like-minded people, hidden away from reality." That's the from the liner notes to The Kids at the Club, a 2006 compilation that features one of the earliest tracks from the London sextet led by songwriter/guitarist Andrew Laidlaw and singer Ali Howard. The image is pure Lucky Soul: a party where the nice kids are also the outcasts.
It's also pure indie pop, but Lucky Soul were always out of step even among the Bowlie set. Their 2007 debut, The Great Unwanted, was not only meticulously crafted and emotionally overflowing, but also polished for a popular appeal it could never realistically attain. Not that it did poorly: Despite being self-released and receiving little attention from big U.S. print publications, the record boasts worldwide sales of 50,000 copies. Three years later, sophomore album A Coming of Age is that much further removed from prevailing trends, and it's not quite as immediately endearing, but it's a little more grown-up. And it's still pretty easy to like.
The state of pop influenced by 1960s girl groups, Motown, and soul has changed a lot since the indie boomlet that gave us Lucky Soul, the Pipettes, and so many others. From Sharon Jones to Duffy, artists who take care to make music that "feels like it was born in 1963," as one Billboard source put it recently, are on the rise. Younger acts like Vivian Girls, Dum Dum Girls, and Best Coast inherit from early girl-group singers the shambling "feel" as much as the emotional directness, adding their own reverb and lo-fi scuzz. As for the Pipettes, on the basis of at least one new song, they've skipped straight to the 70s-- and lost much of the human tenderness that made them special in the first place.
A Coming of Age attempts a subtler maturation, with mixed results. Drawing again from Spector- and Bacharach-sized 60s pop-- plus glam ("Woah Billy!"), country ("Love 3"), and singer-songwriters like Carole King ("Warm Water")-- the songs are packed with hooks, but they don't sink in as easily as before. For every "White Russian Doll", which bounds into the sort of romantic shadows where the Long Blondes used to smolder, or the title track, with its just-late-enough "...come too late!", there's a, well, "Ain't Nothin' Like a Shame". Still, Lucky Soul's latest proves once again that well-wrought, traditional melodic narratives packed with handclaps, strings, horns, whoa-oh-ohs, yeah-yeah-yeahs, and heartbreak can succeed without being painstakingly retro or modestly muffled. They only have to connect.
The nice kids are no longer so nice, nor such kids, but they're still just as unfashionably welcoming. The closest comparison to A Coming of Age is the 60s-steeped adult-pop of Stuart Murdoch's God Help the Girl project, except instead of fitting into indie's niche mindset, Laidlaw's glistening production doubles down on Lucky Soul's (poignantly unlikely) radio-readiness. Howard's delicately forceful lilt, which brings to mind Dusty Springfield and Saint Etienne's Sarah Cracknell, has only grown stronger, more supple. The debut's teenage themes, meanwhile, give way here to sadness, loss of innocence, and mortality. On The Great Unwanted, Howard sang, "I ain't never been cool." Now, she concludes, "It could be that I just don't belong-- anywhere but here."
Monday, April 19, 2010
Toro Y Moi - Causers of This
Album Review
SPIN
April 2010
Link
8/10
Southern bedsitter bids for king of swoon-pop
Of all the auteurs making hazy electronic pop in the mini-movement dubbed "chillwave" or "glo-fi," Toro Y Moi's Chaz Bundick is the one you'd most expect to cover Michael Jackson. Like Neon Indian, Memory Tapes, and Washed Out, Bundick floats dreamy yearning over lovesick synths, delicate guitars, and programmed beats. But the former punk frontman jacks more R&B than his peers. Funky bass and soulful samples add physicality to wispy apologies and shy come-ons. "It's my body's way," Bundick sings. Alas, his cover of "Human Nature" is online only.
SPIN
April 2010
Link
8/10
Southern bedsitter bids for king of swoon-pop
Of all the auteurs making hazy electronic pop in the mini-movement dubbed "chillwave" or "glo-fi," Toro Y Moi's Chaz Bundick is the one you'd most expect to cover Michael Jackson. Like Neon Indian, Memory Tapes, and Washed Out, Bundick floats dreamy yearning over lovesick synths, delicate guitars, and programmed beats. But the former punk frontman jacks more R&B than his peers. Funky bass and soulful samples add physicality to wispy apologies and shy come-ons. "It's my body's way," Bundick sings. Alas, his cover of "Human Nature" is online only.
Monday, March 29, 2010
John Rogers: A Valued Investor in People and Progress
Feature
Agenda
March 29, 2010
Link (available to non-subscribers as a PDF here)
Agenda
March 29, 2010
Link (available to non-subscribers as a PDF here)
Editor's Note: This is the first of six profiles of this year’s Outstanding Directors. The Outstanding Directors program, a sister program to Agenda, awards recognition to a select group of directors annually. These directors are nominated by fellow board members for making a valuable contribution to their boardrooms and are selected by the Outstanding Directors Editorial Board.
A turtle is an unlikely symbol for a company founded by a 24-year-old. Why not the early bird? Almost three decades after John Rogers launched Ariel Investments, however, the Chicago-based mutual fund firm’s slow and steady growth to more than 70 employees and $4.8 billion in assets under management has made its logo’s reference to the classic Aesop fable “The Tortoise and the Hare” look almost prescient.
As an investor, Rogers models his approach after the long-term, value-oriented strategy of famed investor Warren Buffett. As a director at McDonald’s, Aon and Exelon, the Ariel chairman and CEO is credited with bringing a similar perspective to the boardroom.
“John is a major talent and an asset for all of Aon,” says former Qwest Communications chairman and CEO Dick Notebaert, who serves alongside Rogers on the Aon board.
Much that Rogers has accomplished as a director — whether delving into the details of global compliance, fostering diversity or sharing his special insights into Wall Street and Washington — can be traced back to his lifelong love affair with investing.
When board colleagues want to know how a particular disclosure might play on Wall Street, Rogers provides an objective sounding board. “He sees things through the eyes of an investor,” says Notebaert. “His financial background is a major plus.”
Given Ariel’s value bent, the 2008 financial crisis hit its funds especially hard. True to the firm’s founding metaphor, though, the long-term results remain strong. Over the past 10 years, the fund has ranked sixth in its Morningstar category, and it has bounced back, with its performance over the past 12 months ranked number one.
That track record is not lost on people who work with Rogers. “He’s very bright, and everyone respects the business he has built,” says John Rowe, chairman and CEO of Exelon. “His experiences in the investment arena are totally relevant to us. His championing of diversity is very important to us.”
What's the Matter With Sweden?
Feature
Pitchfork
March 29, 2010
Link
The first time the Knife got money from the Swedish Arts Council was in 2001, for their self-titled debut album. The electro-pop duo received 45,000 Swedish kronor (SEK), or about $6,327-- "pretty standard for albums back then," says lead singer Karin Dreijer Andersson. Statens Kulturråd, as the arts council is known, awarded funding for the Knife in 2006, too. That time, Andersson (who also records as Fever Ray) and brother Olof Dreijer received 80,000 SEK, or $11,248, through label Rabid as tour support for their first-- and, so far, only-- U.S. shows. "We have a long history of social democratic culture in Sweden, which I think has made this possible," Andersson explains.
Swedish taxpayers' investment in the Knife led to quick results. The New York Times' Jon Pareles described one 2006 show at New York's Webster Hall as "an elaborately synthetic production that flaunted technology but conjured emotion." That same year, the Knife's Silent Shout was frequently mentioned in critics' year-end lists (including finishing #1 in our own list). Sweden's political culture, however, is shifting. In the September 2006 general election, a center-right coalition toppled the long-dominant Swedish Social Democratic Party. "Everything is getting more up to the individual," Andersson says. "Taxes get lower and poor people get even less money. We have an election in September, and I hope there will be an end to this."
Scandinavian social democracies have come under the microscope amid the U.S. debate over President Barack Obama's domestic agenda. In February 2009, FOX News host Bill O'Reilly asked, "Do we really want to change America into Sweden?" Last December, at a Tea Party protest in Washington, D.C., a handmade sign went further: "Norwegian socialists like what they see in Obama. WE DO NOT."
As American musicians wait to see whether Obama's landmark health-care legislation-- finally signed last week after a year of heated debate and concessions-- will do anything to relieve their worries about surging medical costs, countries such as Sweden, Norway, and Canada make it easier for bands to focus on the creative arts by providing not only universal health care, but often cold hard cash, too. Every year, millions in public money goes toward recording, artist promotion, videos, venues, touring, festivals-- even showcases at South By Southwest or CMJ Music Marathon. "Things that are not possible are made possible," notes Ólöf Arnalds, an Icelandic singer/multi-instrumentalist who has benefited from government support. Over the past decade, Sweden has, perhaps not coincidentally, become a major player in global indie music. So, too, has Canada, which also enjoys government support for pop music.
It's enough to make your average econo-jamming U.S. touring band drool with envy. But taxpayer funding for music isn't right for everybody. In some countries, public funding is a way to promote national culture in the face of American music's commercial dominance; in places like Sweden and the UK, it's also a means of protecting a prized national export. Nearly everywhere, more funding goes to classical forms like opera or ballet than to what is loosely called "rhythmic music." When bands do get money, there are always debates over which ones really deserve the support. Of course, this is all possible only because taxpayers are willing to fork over what, to Americans, would be exorbitant sums: Total tax revenue in Sweden, Norway, and Denmark runs as high as nearly 50% of GDP, compared with the UK 38%, Canadian 33%, and U.S. 28%, according to the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development. And, just as U.S. health-care legislation has constantly hovered over the brink, public arts spending programs in these nations are always at risk of being slashed.
Norway, as it happens, is one of the most active government sponsors of music. The Norwegian Arts Council has budgeted 126.3 million Norwegian kroner (NOK), or $21.4 million, for music in 2010. Similarly, the Fund for Lyd Og Bilde (fund for audio and video) raised its budget for 2010 to 28.7 million NOK ($4.9 million), up 5.5% from 27.2 million NOK ($4.6 million) in 2009. Each organization has provided money for touring and recording to the likes of should-be pop star Annie, singer-songwriter Sondre Lerche, and artists on such respected Norwegian labels as Rune Grammofon, as well as everything from children's hip-hop to jazz to extreme metal. "A lot of this money is well spent in smaller European countries, where you have to have some help at times to try to be exported to the rest of Europe," says Jonas Prangerød, spokesman for Øya Festival, which receives a multi-year grant from the arts council.
Public funding helped Joakim Haugland shape the Smalltown Supersound label he started at age 15 into an Oslo-based juggernaut that has released music by Annie, Lindstrøm, Bjørn Torske, the Whitest Boy Alive, and Jaga Jazzist, plus Americans Sunburned Hand of Man and Sonic Youth. He credits the Norwegian fund for audio and video with giving a big boost to the operation. "I took the whole route with cassettes and then 7"s and some LPs and some CDs, but it took quite a while before I got support from this fund," Haugland says. "The first band that I got it for was a band with my brother in it, and the reason I got the money is because I'm from the south of Norway-- a really small town. That was district politics; they want to stimulate districts outside of the big cities. It was not much money, but it allowed me to make my first proper CD, which earned a little money so I could put out the next one."
The early foundation of the fund was a tax on blank cassette tapes in the 1980s, Haugland says. In Norway and other countries with taxpayer grants for music, a committee of people from the industry generally decides who will get the awards. Haugland, like the Knife's Andersson, views the funding of music and culture in Norway as closely related to the whole idea of Scandinavian social democracy-- "you know, the state involved in a good way," he says. "From the outside, there seem to be some people in America afraid of the state. But we're not. Because Norway is divided: There's the state, and there's private ownership of stuff. I think there's a perfect mix. It's not communism, but it's not the U.S. We're somewhere in between."
Sweden has its own assortment of groups that sponsor the arts and culture. When it comes to music, the Swedish Arts Council is the body that awards money to music ensembles, orchestras, and other groups, while the Swedish Arts Grants Committee makes awards to individual artists. The Swedish Arts Council grants about 11.5 million SEK ($1.65 million) each year to about 145 music groups out of 250 that apply, plus about 24 million SEK ($3.3 million) to venues, 222 million SEK ($30.9 million) to regional music organizations, and 64 million SEK ($8.9 million) to Concerts Sweden, says Hasse Lindgren, an administrative officer specializing in music; Concerts Sweden, however, is in its final year. The Swedish Arts Grants Committee allocates about 19 million SEK ($2.7 million) to musicians annually. There's also Export Music Sweden, which organized two all-Swedish SXSW showcases with the Swedish Chamber of Commerce in Austin, Texas.
In Sweden, labels apply for recording funding twice a year, and that money pays for only part of the recording, not the full budget, says Martina Ledinsky of Stockholm-based Razzia Records, which has used grant money toward releases by Hello Saferide, Firefox AK, Dundertåget, and Joel Alme. "When I received the recording funding for my second album, Waiting for the Bells, from Kulturrådet it enabled me to use a real strings orchestra and I could spend more time in a very good studio with a good producer, Mattias Glavå," Alme says.
Nevertheless, not all labels expect to receive support-- including Alme's former patrons, Sincerely Yours (home to the Tough Alliance and jj). None of its artists have gotten government funding, the label says, and Lindgren confirms. "There's one which you apply for but we'd never get that," a Sincerely Yours representative says, in the label's usual cryptic, anonymous way. "We're too much in our own little world I guess."
Could the best health-care policy be a strong arts and culture policy? Lindgren invokes the possibility. "There is a big debate in Sweden, Norway, and Denmark," he says. "In which way do cultural experiences help you in health? So for instance, there's a project here in Sweden where doctors actually can prescribe going to the opera to help you get well. For sure, music and art can help people."
Denmark, too, has its Danish Ministry of Culture, Danish Arts Foundation, Danish Arts Council, Danish Arts Agency, and Musix Export Denmark. The Danish Music Act of 1971 established the "arms-length principle," where politicians decide upon a framework but do not get involved in what is supported. Roskilde Festival and other music festivals, however, receive no support from the state, though by donating all profits to charity, Roskilde is excluded from certain taxes. "It is evident that the emphasis on supporting rhythmic music since 2000 has really borne fruit," Roskilde spokeswoman Christina Bilde observes. But she says there's still a desire for such music to be "recognized on equal terms with other kinds of music and other cultural expressions," financially and otherwise.
NEXT: Arts funding in Canada and the UK
Pitchfork
March 29, 2010
Link
The first time the Knife got money from the Swedish Arts Council was in 2001, for their self-titled debut album. The electro-pop duo received 45,000 Swedish kronor (SEK), or about $6,327-- "pretty standard for albums back then," says lead singer Karin Dreijer Andersson. Statens Kulturråd, as the arts council is known, awarded funding for the Knife in 2006, too. That time, Andersson (who also records as Fever Ray) and brother Olof Dreijer received 80,000 SEK, or $11,248, through label Rabid as tour support for their first-- and, so far, only-- U.S. shows. "We have a long history of social democratic culture in Sweden, which I think has made this possible," Andersson explains.
Swedish taxpayers' investment in the Knife led to quick results. The New York Times' Jon Pareles described one 2006 show at New York's Webster Hall as "an elaborately synthetic production that flaunted technology but conjured emotion." That same year, the Knife's Silent Shout was frequently mentioned in critics' year-end lists (including finishing #1 in our own list). Sweden's political culture, however, is shifting. In the September 2006 general election, a center-right coalition toppled the long-dominant Swedish Social Democratic Party. "Everything is getting more up to the individual," Andersson says. "Taxes get lower and poor people get even less money. We have an election in September, and I hope there will be an end to this."
Scandinavian social democracies have come under the microscope amid the U.S. debate over President Barack Obama's domestic agenda. In February 2009, FOX News host Bill O'Reilly asked, "Do we really want to change America into Sweden?" Last December, at a Tea Party protest in Washington, D.C., a handmade sign went further: "Norwegian socialists like what they see in Obama. WE DO NOT."
As American musicians wait to see whether Obama's landmark health-care legislation-- finally signed last week after a year of heated debate and concessions-- will do anything to relieve their worries about surging medical costs, countries such as Sweden, Norway, and Canada make it easier for bands to focus on the creative arts by providing not only universal health care, but often cold hard cash, too. Every year, millions in public money goes toward recording, artist promotion, videos, venues, touring, festivals-- even showcases at South By Southwest or CMJ Music Marathon. "Things that are not possible are made possible," notes Ólöf Arnalds, an Icelandic singer/multi-instrumentalist who has benefited from government support. Over the past decade, Sweden has, perhaps not coincidentally, become a major player in global indie music. So, too, has Canada, which also enjoys government support for pop music.It's enough to make your average econo-jamming U.S. touring band drool with envy. But taxpayer funding for music isn't right for everybody. In some countries, public funding is a way to promote national culture in the face of American music's commercial dominance; in places like Sweden and the UK, it's also a means of protecting a prized national export. Nearly everywhere, more funding goes to classical forms like opera or ballet than to what is loosely called "rhythmic music." When bands do get money, there are always debates over which ones really deserve the support. Of course, this is all possible only because taxpayers are willing to fork over what, to Americans, would be exorbitant sums: Total tax revenue in Sweden, Norway, and Denmark runs as high as nearly 50% of GDP, compared with the UK 38%, Canadian 33%, and U.S. 28%, according to the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development. And, just as U.S. health-care legislation has constantly hovered over the brink, public arts spending programs in these nations are always at risk of being slashed.
Norway, as it happens, is one of the most active government sponsors of music. The Norwegian Arts Council has budgeted 126.3 million Norwegian kroner (NOK), or $21.4 million, for music in 2010. Similarly, the Fund for Lyd Og Bilde (fund for audio and video) raised its budget for 2010 to 28.7 million NOK ($4.9 million), up 5.5% from 27.2 million NOK ($4.6 million) in 2009. Each organization has provided money for touring and recording to the likes of should-be pop star Annie, singer-songwriter Sondre Lerche, and artists on such respected Norwegian labels as Rune Grammofon, as well as everything from children's hip-hop to jazz to extreme metal. "A lot of this money is well spent in smaller European countries, where you have to have some help at times to try to be exported to the rest of Europe," says Jonas Prangerød, spokesman for Øya Festival, which receives a multi-year grant from the arts council.
Public funding helped Joakim Haugland shape the Smalltown Supersound label he started at age 15 into an Oslo-based juggernaut that has released music by Annie, Lindstrøm, Bjørn Torske, the Whitest Boy Alive, and Jaga Jazzist, plus Americans Sunburned Hand of Man and Sonic Youth. He credits the Norwegian fund for audio and video with giving a big boost to the operation. "I took the whole route with cassettes and then 7"s and some LPs and some CDs, but it took quite a while before I got support from this fund," Haugland says. "The first band that I got it for was a band with my brother in it, and the reason I got the money is because I'm from the south of Norway-- a really small town. That was district politics; they want to stimulate districts outside of the big cities. It was not much money, but it allowed me to make my first proper CD, which earned a little money so I could put out the next one."
The early foundation of the fund was a tax on blank cassette tapes in the 1980s, Haugland says. In Norway and other countries with taxpayer grants for music, a committee of people from the industry generally decides who will get the awards. Haugland, like the Knife's Andersson, views the funding of music and culture in Norway as closely related to the whole idea of Scandinavian social democracy-- "you know, the state involved in a good way," he says. "From the outside, there seem to be some people in America afraid of the state. But we're not. Because Norway is divided: There's the state, and there's private ownership of stuff. I think there's a perfect mix. It's not communism, but it's not the U.S. We're somewhere in between."Sweden has its own assortment of groups that sponsor the arts and culture. When it comes to music, the Swedish Arts Council is the body that awards money to music ensembles, orchestras, and other groups, while the Swedish Arts Grants Committee makes awards to individual artists. The Swedish Arts Council grants about 11.5 million SEK ($1.65 million) each year to about 145 music groups out of 250 that apply, plus about 24 million SEK ($3.3 million) to venues, 222 million SEK ($30.9 million) to regional music organizations, and 64 million SEK ($8.9 million) to Concerts Sweden, says Hasse Lindgren, an administrative officer specializing in music; Concerts Sweden, however, is in its final year. The Swedish Arts Grants Committee allocates about 19 million SEK ($2.7 million) to musicians annually. There's also Export Music Sweden, which organized two all-Swedish SXSW showcases with the Swedish Chamber of Commerce in Austin, Texas.
In Sweden, labels apply for recording funding twice a year, and that money pays for only part of the recording, not the full budget, says Martina Ledinsky of Stockholm-based Razzia Records, which has used grant money toward releases by Hello Saferide, Firefox AK, Dundertåget, and Joel Alme. "When I received the recording funding for my second album, Waiting for the Bells, from Kulturrådet it enabled me to use a real strings orchestra and I could spend more time in a very good studio with a good producer, Mattias Glavå," Alme says.
Nevertheless, not all labels expect to receive support-- including Alme's former patrons, Sincerely Yours (home to the Tough Alliance and jj). None of its artists have gotten government funding, the label says, and Lindgren confirms. "There's one which you apply for but we'd never get that," a Sincerely Yours representative says, in the label's usual cryptic, anonymous way. "We're too much in our own little world I guess."
Could the best health-care policy be a strong arts and culture policy? Lindgren invokes the possibility. "There is a big debate in Sweden, Norway, and Denmark," he says. "In which way do cultural experiences help you in health? So for instance, there's a project here in Sweden where doctors actually can prescribe going to the opera to help you get well. For sure, music and art can help people."
Denmark, too, has its Danish Ministry of Culture, Danish Arts Foundation, Danish Arts Council, Danish Arts Agency, and Musix Export Denmark. The Danish Music Act of 1971 established the "arms-length principle," where politicians decide upon a framework but do not get involved in what is supported. Roskilde Festival and other music festivals, however, receive no support from the state, though by donating all profits to charity, Roskilde is excluded from certain taxes. "It is evident that the emphasis on supporting rhythmic music since 2000 has really borne fruit," Roskilde spokeswoman Christina Bilde observes. But she says there's still a desire for such music to be "recognized on equal terms with other kinds of music and other cultural expressions," financially and otherwise.
NEXT: Arts funding in Canada and the UK
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Goldfrapp - Head First
Album Review
Pitchfork
March 25, 2010
Link
6.6
Pitchfork
March 25, 2010
Link
6.6
Yup, another wardrobe change. Alison Goldfrapp and Will Gregory have always valued style along with song, and on most of the fifth Goldfrapp album, Head First, pink spandex turns out to be a great look. Bringing 1980s roller-disco synth-pop motifs out of mothballs has given the UK duo their most immediately entertaining album since 2005 electro-glam juggernaut Supernature. The only problem: They fail to give each song a face as memorable as the overall album's Jane Fonda workout-video get-up.
Good thing Goldfrapp do spectacle like few else. No less a glamor lover than Adam Lambert was quoted recently saying he had wanted to work with the group for his debut, but couldn't because they were already busy with Christina Aguilera-- not exactly pop's dowdiest persona herself. Whether in the clown robes and animal masks of Goldfrapp's expert live shows, or the sharp-edged sound design of an eclectic discography, they treat pop as a form of not just communication, but presentation.
With sunny Van Halen synth tones, Xanadu-era Olivia Newton John optimism, and galloping Giorgio Moroder basslines, Head First marks as dramatic a shift from 2008's disappointing Seventh Tree as that album's moodily atmospheric folk did from the fembot stomp of Goldfrapp's prior two LPs (or those from the John Barry-soaked trip-hop of 2000 debut Felt Mountain). Alison's voice is still commanding, gaining a bit of Stevie Nicks huskiness while staying versatile enough to rise to a glassy peal or drop to a suggestive purr. So, too, are Gregory's electronics, from the fist-pumping opening trio of songs to the krautrock seduction and wordless vocal ambience on the second half.
First single "Rocket" shows Head First at its best, but it's also a reminder of where some of the other songs fall short. When Alison exhorts, "I've got a rocket/ You're going on it," the potential double entendre is obvious. This isn't a come-on, though; with suspicions about "how she got in the door uninvited" and a decisive "you're never coming back," it's a lot closer to a kiss-off. (Although not available on the album, Richard X's powerhouse remix is even better.)
Still, beyond "Rocket", few of the songs here are melodically or lyrically catchy enough to attain anything like the the popularity of the 80s songs they'll remind you of-- or of Goldfrapp's past highlights. An exception is "Hunt", which approaches the bedside intimacy of Beach House or White Hinterland through gorgeously breathy space disco. Another is "Shiny and Warm", full of Suicide-seeking synths and icy sensuality. Alas, a nine-song album doesn't leave much room for error. Goldfrapp remain excellent in the studio-- any future work they do for Aguilera or anyone else (they also recently scored the soundtrack for John Lennon biopic Nowhere Boy) deserves watching-- and there's plenty of highly stylized fun to be had here. Just don't expect to remember many of the details when it's all over. You might be the best-dressed person at 80s dance night, but if there's nothing particularly noteworthy about you otherwise, nobody's going to recognize you out of costume.
Good thing Goldfrapp do spectacle like few else. No less a glamor lover than Adam Lambert was quoted recently saying he had wanted to work with the group for his debut, but couldn't because they were already busy with Christina Aguilera-- not exactly pop's dowdiest persona herself. Whether in the clown robes and animal masks of Goldfrapp's expert live shows, or the sharp-edged sound design of an eclectic discography, they treat pop as a form of not just communication, but presentation.
With sunny Van Halen synth tones, Xanadu-era Olivia Newton John optimism, and galloping Giorgio Moroder basslines, Head First marks as dramatic a shift from 2008's disappointing Seventh Tree as that album's moodily atmospheric folk did from the fembot stomp of Goldfrapp's prior two LPs (or those from the John Barry-soaked trip-hop of 2000 debut Felt Mountain). Alison's voice is still commanding, gaining a bit of Stevie Nicks huskiness while staying versatile enough to rise to a glassy peal or drop to a suggestive purr. So, too, are Gregory's electronics, from the fist-pumping opening trio of songs to the krautrock seduction and wordless vocal ambience on the second half.
First single "Rocket" shows Head First at its best, but it's also a reminder of where some of the other songs fall short. When Alison exhorts, "I've got a rocket/ You're going on it," the potential double entendre is obvious. This isn't a come-on, though; with suspicions about "how she got in the door uninvited" and a decisive "you're never coming back," it's a lot closer to a kiss-off. (Although not available on the album, Richard X's powerhouse remix is even better.)
Still, beyond "Rocket", few of the songs here are melodically or lyrically catchy enough to attain anything like the the popularity of the 80s songs they'll remind you of-- or of Goldfrapp's past highlights. An exception is "Hunt", which approaches the bedside intimacy of Beach House or White Hinterland through gorgeously breathy space disco. Another is "Shiny and Warm", full of Suicide-seeking synths and icy sensuality. Alas, a nine-song album doesn't leave much room for error. Goldfrapp remain excellent in the studio-- any future work they do for Aguilera or anyone else (they also recently scored the soundtrack for John Lennon biopic Nowhere Boy) deserves watching-- and there's plenty of highly stylized fun to be had here. Just don't expect to remember many of the details when it's all over. You might be the best-dressed person at 80s dance night, but if there's nothing particularly noteworthy about you otherwise, nobody's going to recognize you out of costume.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Fyfe Dangerfield - Fly Yellow Moon
Album Reviews
Pitchfork
March 19, 2010
Link
4.7
Pitchfork
March 19, 2010
Link
4.7
All you need may be love, but love isn't all you need. Look at Fyfe Dangerfield. As lead singer for Guillemots, his swooping vocals helped lead the London four-piece to a Mercury Prize nomination for 2006's Through the Windowpane, a debut album overflowing with ideas and passion. Romantic grandeur and wide-eyed sincerity were part of Guillemots' early appeal, but that group's stylistic adventurousness and avant-garde impulses are all but gone on Dangerfield's solo debut, Fly Yellow Moon.
Instead we get syrupy sentimentality and drab earnestness. Fly Yellow Moon sticks to the modest, direct simplicity of classic 1970s singer-songwriter albums. Backed by piano, acoustic guitar, and in places orchestration that dimly recalls Guillemots' lushness, Dangerfield's voice still leaps tall buildings, while his words trade in schmaltzy clichés and his tunes too often fail to assert their own personality.
The problem definitely isn't a lack of feeling. The opening whoop of "When You Walk in the Room" sets the carefree, love-filled spirit nicely enough, and it's easy to believe Dangerfield when he sings, "I can't help it if I'm happy." Some of his former band's knack for atmosphere comes through occasionally, too. On the waltzing, acoustic "High on the Tide", children's chatter and seagull's squawks give a beach setting to Dangerfield's delicately voiced professions of happiness.
Fly Yellow Moon just can't quite solve that old problem: how to be mushy but not mundane. Dangerfield wants "to be near you all day" on the "Hallelujah"-ish "Barricades", to "put my hands around your heart" on the "No Woman No Cry"-ish "Livewire", and to "run circles around you" on the "Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon"-ish "So Brand New". "Firebird" finds him wanting to re-enact music hall staple "Daisy Bell". I'm sure it's all very well-meaning, but it's also saccharine and, in places, a little embarrassing. Before his next outing, let's hope Dangerfield remembers that even Stevie Wonder, that maestro of happy love songs, eventually did "I Just Called to Say I Love You".
Instead we get syrupy sentimentality and drab earnestness. Fly Yellow Moon sticks to the modest, direct simplicity of classic 1970s singer-songwriter albums. Backed by piano, acoustic guitar, and in places orchestration that dimly recalls Guillemots' lushness, Dangerfield's voice still leaps tall buildings, while his words trade in schmaltzy clichés and his tunes too often fail to assert their own personality.
The problem definitely isn't a lack of feeling. The opening whoop of "When You Walk in the Room" sets the carefree, love-filled spirit nicely enough, and it's easy to believe Dangerfield when he sings, "I can't help it if I'm happy." Some of his former band's knack for atmosphere comes through occasionally, too. On the waltzing, acoustic "High on the Tide", children's chatter and seagull's squawks give a beach setting to Dangerfield's delicately voiced professions of happiness.
Fly Yellow Moon just can't quite solve that old problem: how to be mushy but not mundane. Dangerfield wants "to be near you all day" on the "Hallelujah"-ish "Barricades", to "put my hands around your heart" on the "No Woman No Cry"-ish "Livewire", and to "run circles around you" on the "Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon"-ish "So Brand New". "Firebird" finds him wanting to re-enact music hall staple "Daisy Bell". I'm sure it's all very well-meaning, but it's also saccharine and, in places, a little embarrassing. Before his next outing, let's hope Dangerfield remembers that even Stevie Wonder, that maestro of happy love songs, eventually did "I Just Called to Say I Love You".
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Broken Bells - Broken Bells
Album Reviews
Pitchfork
March 11, 2010
Link
7.2
It's been a while since Danger Mouse or the Shins did anything to change your listening habits, let alone your life. In the past decade, Danger Mouse's landmark Grey Album mash-up and membership in Gnarls Barkley helped anticipate indie rock's increasing openness to hip-hop and R&B crossovers. A couple of years earlier, James Mercer paved the way for future indie crossover success stories with the Shins' Garden State contribution and controversial Olympics-aired McDonald's commercial. That the pair's paths might eventually cross was more inevitable than unexpected.
Mercer and Danger Mouse's debut as Broken Bells is not quite up to the level of either's best projects, but in its own quiet way, it hits its marks. The pair first worked together on the David Lynch/Sparklehorse project Dark Night of the Soul, and Broken Bells picks up the sadsack spirit of that record-- it's a deceptively catchy album centered on personal loss. It's unclear whether we're supposed to trace Mercer's lyrical malaise to a shattered relationship with his band (Mercer split with Shins mates Marty Crandall and Jesse Sandoval in 2008), a lover, or both. But this much is certain: Something has ended.
In the album's brightest moments, there are enough swooning harmonies, replayable choruses, and psych-baked production elements that you might not even notice Mercer's dark thoughts. Besides, the singer is clearly attempting to move on here, taking advantage of this fresh setting to try on new looks: film-score orchestration and acid flange meet a Pet Sounds-like vocal odyssey on "Your Head Is on Fire"; "The Mall & the Misery" opens with Springsteen-ian Americana and then veers off into post-punk guitar stabs; "Sailing to Nowhere" is a horror-show waltz; and Mercer's nearly unrecognizable falsetto on album standout "The Ghost Inside" recalls the high, cracked croon of another Danger Mouse collaborator, Blur/Gorillaz singer Damon Albarn.
An early version of the record included a nicely gloomy song with Knife-like vocal effects that's been replaced by the sumptuous psych-pop balladry of "Citizen". "Trap Doors", already one of the album's catchiest songs, benefits from some extra synths and backing vocals, and "October" has a few new lyrics.
Still, unlike its creators' best prior accomplishments, Broken Bells doesn't seem prepared, or even attempting, to cross over. Nor does it feel like a new direction or outlet for either artist-- it's more of a nice detour. In one of the record's more cheerful moments, amid the shambling acoustic guitar and slithering keyboard of "October", he shares some helpful advice: "Don't run, don't rush, just float." It's what he and Danger Mouse do here, and while that's hardly a recipe for breaking new ground, the results are rarely less than pleasant.
Pitchfork
March 11, 2010
Link
7.2
It's been a while since Danger Mouse or the Shins did anything to change your listening habits, let alone your life. In the past decade, Danger Mouse's landmark Grey Album mash-up and membership in Gnarls Barkley helped anticipate indie rock's increasing openness to hip-hop and R&B crossovers. A couple of years earlier, James Mercer paved the way for future indie crossover success stories with the Shins' Garden State contribution and controversial Olympics-aired McDonald's commercial. That the pair's paths might eventually cross was more inevitable than unexpected.
Mercer and Danger Mouse's debut as Broken Bells is not quite up to the level of either's best projects, but in its own quiet way, it hits its marks. The pair first worked together on the David Lynch/Sparklehorse project Dark Night of the Soul, and Broken Bells picks up the sadsack spirit of that record-- it's a deceptively catchy album centered on personal loss. It's unclear whether we're supposed to trace Mercer's lyrical malaise to a shattered relationship with his band (Mercer split with Shins mates Marty Crandall and Jesse Sandoval in 2008), a lover, or both. But this much is certain: Something has ended.
In the album's brightest moments, there are enough swooning harmonies, replayable choruses, and psych-baked production elements that you might not even notice Mercer's dark thoughts. Besides, the singer is clearly attempting to move on here, taking advantage of this fresh setting to try on new looks: film-score orchestration and acid flange meet a Pet Sounds-like vocal odyssey on "Your Head Is on Fire"; "The Mall & the Misery" opens with Springsteen-ian Americana and then veers off into post-punk guitar stabs; "Sailing to Nowhere" is a horror-show waltz; and Mercer's nearly unrecognizable falsetto on album standout "The Ghost Inside" recalls the high, cracked croon of another Danger Mouse collaborator, Blur/Gorillaz singer Damon Albarn.
An early version of the record included a nicely gloomy song with Knife-like vocal effects that's been replaced by the sumptuous psych-pop balladry of "Citizen". "Trap Doors", already one of the album's catchiest songs, benefits from some extra synths and backing vocals, and "October" has a few new lyrics.
Still, unlike its creators' best prior accomplishments, Broken Bells doesn't seem prepared, or even attempting, to cross over. Nor does it feel like a new direction or outlet for either artist-- it's more of a nice detour. In one of the record's more cheerful moments, amid the shambling acoustic guitar and slithering keyboard of "October", he shares some helpful advice: "Don't run, don't rush, just float." It's what he and Danger Mouse do here, and while that's hardly a recipe for breaking new ground, the results are rarely less than pleasant.
Black Rebel Motorcycle Club - Beat the Devil's Tattoo
Album Review
Pitchfork
March 10, 2010
Link
4.0
Pitchfork
March 10, 2010
Link
4.0
As rock traditionalists go, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club were a little bit ahead of their time. Sure, the California leather jacketers came up a few years after the Dandy Warhols and Brian Jonestown Massacre, and more or less alongside Detroit garage-rockers like the White Stripes. But 2001 debut B.R.M.C. loudly heralded the rock-is-back swagger that would soon hit glossy magazines in the form of the Strokes, the Vines, and the Hives. As if that weren't enough, BRMC's stratosphere-pummel predicted not only the Jesus and Mary Chain reunion, the Magnetic Fields' Distortion, and A Place to Bury Strangers, but also last year's Verve-scale electro-shoegaze anthems by the Big Pink.
Here in the future, though, the sneering young dudes who once asked "Whatever Happened to My Rock'n'Roll" now bear all the telltale signs of a band desperately flailing to live up to the dangerousness of their band name. In 2005, that meant divisive folk-blues change-up Howl. In 2008, it meant not-even-divisive insomniac-wank instrumental album The Effects of 333. Sixth studio outing Beat the Devil's Tattoo is already getting billed as the one that brings all these prodigal sons' (and daughters'-- ex-Raveonette Leah Shapiro is now on drums) stylistic detours back home. It kind of is, but if BRMC's sound has cohered, their songwriting has unfortunately done the opposite.
So yeah, Beat the Devil's Tattoo assembles BRMC's full arsenal of swamp-stomp riffage, chain-gang acoustic blues, rawk-Spiritualized psych-gospel, endlessly repeated gothic nonsense, and effects-geek pedal farts. And no, of course, originality isn't necessarily a prerequisite for rock'n'roll fun times. So if someone apathetically intoning about whether he wants to "feel love" on a midtempo Velvet Underground guttersnipe castoff called "Evol" (yup) is enough to make you remember that, oh my gosh, you wanna feel love, then who am I to argue? Plus BRMC can sound surprisingly pretty when finding the tear in Ryan Adams' blandly folksy beer ("The Toll", "Sweet Feeling"); in a Grand Funk/Free way, their bluesy proto-punk jams ("Conscience Killer", "Shadow's Keeper") or mythological T. Rex boogie ("River Styx") can be mookishly satisfying-- big dumb fun.
There's a fine line, however, between "big dumb fun" and "insulting your intelligence." The Ride-like whooshes of "Mama Taught Me Better" (main lyric: "It brings me down"), are one thing, but finale "Half State" stretches the 1990s neopsych pedal play to an utterly excruciating 10 minutes. Witchy-woman screamer "Aya" and vaguely political lurcher "War Machine" feel like they were probably already somewhere in this band's catalog. And there's little fun for anyone, dumb or otherwise, on piano-pop comedown "Long Way Down". Besides, BRMC already had a release that brings together all their disparate elements: last year's solid, strobe-lit DVD/CD package Live, which actually has some memorable songs. Chalk it up to another case of being ahead of their time.
Here in the future, though, the sneering young dudes who once asked "Whatever Happened to My Rock'n'Roll" now bear all the telltale signs of a band desperately flailing to live up to the dangerousness of their band name. In 2005, that meant divisive folk-blues change-up Howl. In 2008, it meant not-even-divisive insomniac-wank instrumental album The Effects of 333. Sixth studio outing Beat the Devil's Tattoo is already getting billed as the one that brings all these prodigal sons' (and daughters'-- ex-Raveonette Leah Shapiro is now on drums) stylistic detours back home. It kind of is, but if BRMC's sound has cohered, their songwriting has unfortunately done the opposite.
So yeah, Beat the Devil's Tattoo assembles BRMC's full arsenal of swamp-stomp riffage, chain-gang acoustic blues, rawk-Spiritualized psych-gospel, endlessly repeated gothic nonsense, and effects-geek pedal farts. And no, of course, originality isn't necessarily a prerequisite for rock'n'roll fun times. So if someone apathetically intoning about whether he wants to "feel love" on a midtempo Velvet Underground guttersnipe castoff called "Evol" (yup) is enough to make you remember that, oh my gosh, you wanna feel love, then who am I to argue? Plus BRMC can sound surprisingly pretty when finding the tear in Ryan Adams' blandly folksy beer ("The Toll", "Sweet Feeling"); in a Grand Funk/Free way, their bluesy proto-punk jams ("Conscience Killer", "Shadow's Keeper") or mythological T. Rex boogie ("River Styx") can be mookishly satisfying-- big dumb fun.
There's a fine line, however, between "big dumb fun" and "insulting your intelligence." The Ride-like whooshes of "Mama Taught Me Better" (main lyric: "It brings me down"), are one thing, but finale "Half State" stretches the 1990s neopsych pedal play to an utterly excruciating 10 minutes. Witchy-woman screamer "Aya" and vaguely political lurcher "War Machine" feel like they were probably already somewhere in this band's catalog. And there's little fun for anyone, dumb or otherwise, on piano-pop comedown "Long Way Down". Besides, BRMC already had a release that brings together all their disparate elements: last year's solid, strobe-lit DVD/CD package Live, which actually has some memorable songs. Chalk it up to another case of being ahead of their time.
Liars - Sisterworld
Album Review
SPIN
March 2010
Link
8/10
American psychos go on SoCal orchestral spree.
When in Rome, sack it. That's been Liars' m.o., whether arting up Brooklyn post-punk with witchy concepts or conquering German abstraction in Berlin. The globe-trotting trio's fifth album is a total Los Angeles record, but not the Tom Petty, good-vibes kind. Sisterworld veers between frenzy and foreboding, exploring the City of Angels' demonic side, from Charles Manson to Bret Easton Ellis, while producer Tom Biller adds richly detailed Hollywood orchestration. When frontman Angus Andrew howls over discordant guitars on "The Overachievers," "L.A." sounds a lot like "help me."
SPIN
March 2010
Link
8/10
American psychos go on SoCal orchestral spree.
When in Rome, sack it. That's been Liars' m.o., whether arting up Brooklyn post-punk with witchy concepts or conquering German abstraction in Berlin. The globe-trotting trio's fifth album is a total Los Angeles record, but not the Tom Petty, good-vibes kind. Sisterworld veers between frenzy and foreboding, exploring the City of Angels' demonic side, from Charles Manson to Bret Easton Ellis, while producer Tom Biller adds richly detailed Hollywood orchestration. When frontman Angus Andrew howls over discordant guitars on "The Overachievers," "L.A." sounds a lot like "help me."
Tanlines - Real Life
Track Review
Pitchfork
March 2, 2010
Link
8
In an interview a couple of years ago, Swedish electronic pop duo the Tough Alliance, asked what (if anything) they're looking for, answered simply, "Reality." Now, past TTA remixers Tanlines have named the first single from their forthcoming Settings EP "Real Life", though as far as I can tell that phrase appears nowhere in the song's lyrics. Not that the Brooklyn-based duo of ex-Don Cabellero/Storm and Stress man Eric Emm and former Professor Murder-er Jesse Cohen are being elusive here. As with Delorean or Cut Copy at their catchiest, "Real Life" is neon-synthed pop you could imagine going over equally well at a dance party or, seriously, a sporting event. Echoing in there amid all the sproingy bass lines and calypso-calibrated percussion, Emm's no-frills voice at first might seem like the weakest part, but it's also what sells the song's emotional vulnerability. "It was a past life thing," he repeats, on one of those swooning choruses you don't realize you love until you hear somebody else play them in a public forum. And then, with an air of sad finality: "It wasn't anything at all." TTA might claim to "know a place where diamonds never fade away," but Tanlines know nothing gold can stay. For real.
Pitchfork
March 2, 2010
Link
8
In an interview a couple of years ago, Swedish electronic pop duo the Tough Alliance, asked what (if anything) they're looking for, answered simply, "Reality." Now, past TTA remixers Tanlines have named the first single from their forthcoming Settings EP "Real Life", though as far as I can tell that phrase appears nowhere in the song's lyrics. Not that the Brooklyn-based duo of ex-Don Cabellero/Storm and Stress man Eric Emm and former Professor Murder-er Jesse Cohen are being elusive here. As with Delorean or Cut Copy at their catchiest, "Real Life" is neon-synthed pop you could imagine going over equally well at a dance party or, seriously, a sporting event. Echoing in there amid all the sproingy bass lines and calypso-calibrated percussion, Emm's no-frills voice at first might seem like the weakest part, but it's also what sells the song's emotional vulnerability. "It was a past life thing," he repeats, on one of those swooning choruses you don't realize you love until you hear somebody else play them in a public forum. And then, with an air of sad finality: "It wasn't anything at all." TTA might claim to "know a place where diamonds never fade away," but Tanlines know nothing gold can stay. For real.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Shout Out Louds - Work
Album Review
Pitchfork
February 25, 2010
Link
Pitchfork
February 25, 2010
Link
For these Stockholm-based indie vets, Work signals an embrace of music as a calling. Or, at least, a living. When advance mp3 "Walls" started showing up in bit.ly links late last year, its horns and jittery piano made Merge labelmates Spoon an easy first reference. A more revealing comparison, however, may be Lou Reed and John Cale's "Work", which reportedly gave Shout Out Louds' third album its title. From 1990 collaboration Songs for Drella, the Reed-Cale song is a manic, edgy portrayal of Andy Warhol's blue-collar Pittsburgh work ethic that sounds best on undistracted listens. Work, by contrast-- all innocuous midtempo thrum and vague yearning-- will be pleasant enough soundtrack bait, but it suffers from the bland risk-averseness that can sustain careers while smothering creativity.
Still, having a job at all is cause for celebration these days, and Shout Out Louds have tightened their belts accordingly. Work scraps the Cars synths and trashy Lower East Side glamour of 2003 debut Howl Howl Gaff Gaff, along with the orchestral lushness of 2007 follow-up Our Ill Wills, both at least co-produced by Peter Bjorn & John's Björn Yttling. In his chair is Phil Ek, who worked wonders for Built to Spill, the Shins, Fleet Foxes, and Band of Horses. Ek makes Shout Out Louds sound like rock'n'roll pros, with every drum hit or tastefully atmospheric guitar lead in its right place, especially on a decent stereo. Dude obviously knows harmony, and his best call is bringing keyboardist Bebban Stenborg's tender backing vocals more to the front.
Under Ek's guidance, Shout Out Louds have also cheered up a little. Adam Olenius' high, light vocals lose some of their sensitive quaver-- just the change you'd expect when a band leaves twee-friendly Stockholm to record in Seattle with an indie-rock guy who came up in the 1990s. More broadly, Work replaces Our Ill Wills' open-wound heartbreak with wistful nostalgia. When the choruses are big and the memories relatively specific, as on Phoenix-cosmopolitan opening pair "1999" and "Fall Hard", that's a fine change. But by the bazillionth time Olenius repeats, on strummy sixth track "Throwing Stones", "I'm not slowing down," well-- it sounds like he's trying to convince himself.
Work finds these former Next Big Things railing against maturity while tacitly embracing it. The title of lulling finale "Too Late, Too Slow" pretty much sums the album up. Olenius may want us to "Show Me Something New", but those ringing chords and ignorable lyrics are commercially palatable without a hint of novelty or much personality. "Even if I know that you're right, I'll still go on," Olenius retorts again and again on "Four by Four", as if to unseen parents suggesting he find a normal job, before repetition runs yet another solid chorus into the ground. String-flitting anthem "Moon", meanwhile, gives us the album's most unexpected moment-- unless you encountered any aspect of pop culture in vampire-friendly 2009: "Have you ever tasted young blood?"
For the 21st century's "creative class" of young professionals, Work raises bigger questions, ones that very few-- Warhol, Reed, and Cale, I hope, among them-- have ever been able to answer successfully. Questions like: When does making a living with your art require such inoffensiveness that it's no longer art? And: At what point does getting by mean being untrue to yourself? Thankfully, Shout Out Louds aren't there yet. But they're closer than they were three years ago. "I play the game," Olenius confides. "Are you the same?" Work, as the TV dads say, is work.
Still, having a job at all is cause for celebration these days, and Shout Out Louds have tightened their belts accordingly. Work scraps the Cars synths and trashy Lower East Side glamour of 2003 debut Howl Howl Gaff Gaff, along with the orchestral lushness of 2007 follow-up Our Ill Wills, both at least co-produced by Peter Bjorn & John's Björn Yttling. In his chair is Phil Ek, who worked wonders for Built to Spill, the Shins, Fleet Foxes, and Band of Horses. Ek makes Shout Out Louds sound like rock'n'roll pros, with every drum hit or tastefully atmospheric guitar lead in its right place, especially on a decent stereo. Dude obviously knows harmony, and his best call is bringing keyboardist Bebban Stenborg's tender backing vocals more to the front.
Under Ek's guidance, Shout Out Louds have also cheered up a little. Adam Olenius' high, light vocals lose some of their sensitive quaver-- just the change you'd expect when a band leaves twee-friendly Stockholm to record in Seattle with an indie-rock guy who came up in the 1990s. More broadly, Work replaces Our Ill Wills' open-wound heartbreak with wistful nostalgia. When the choruses are big and the memories relatively specific, as on Phoenix-cosmopolitan opening pair "1999" and "Fall Hard", that's a fine change. But by the bazillionth time Olenius repeats, on strummy sixth track "Throwing Stones", "I'm not slowing down," well-- it sounds like he's trying to convince himself.
Work finds these former Next Big Things railing against maturity while tacitly embracing it. The title of lulling finale "Too Late, Too Slow" pretty much sums the album up. Olenius may want us to "Show Me Something New", but those ringing chords and ignorable lyrics are commercially palatable without a hint of novelty or much personality. "Even if I know that you're right, I'll still go on," Olenius retorts again and again on "Four by Four", as if to unseen parents suggesting he find a normal job, before repetition runs yet another solid chorus into the ground. String-flitting anthem "Moon", meanwhile, gives us the album's most unexpected moment-- unless you encountered any aspect of pop culture in vampire-friendly 2009: "Have you ever tasted young blood?"
For the 21st century's "creative class" of young professionals, Work raises bigger questions, ones that very few-- Warhol, Reed, and Cale, I hope, among them-- have ever been able to answer successfully. Questions like: When does making a living with your art require such inoffensiveness that it's no longer art? And: At what point does getting by mean being untrue to yourself? Thankfully, Shout Out Louds aren't there yet. But they're closer than they were three years ago. "I play the game," Olenius confides. "Are you the same?" Work, as the TV dads say, is work.
Sambassadeur - European
Album Review
Pitchfork
Feb. 23, 2010
Link
Pitchfork
Feb. 23, 2010
Link
From freedom fries to tea parties, the American relationship with Europe over the past several years has been as complicated as continental philosophy. Or a sibling rivalry. Coming out of a global financial crisis, the Old World way-- with less conspicuous consumption and more built-in safety nets-- looks more than ever like the better way. Named after a Serge Gainsbourg song, winsome indie poppers Sambassadeur won't shake up any Sarah Palin fan's European stereotypes. But the Gothenburg, Sweden-based band's third album, European, again demonstrates the virtues of cosmpolitanism, craft, and restraint.
Of all the Swedish groups in recent years, Sambassadeur have perhaps the most in common with likely indie-kid preconceptions of Swedishness-- no blog-house attitude or hip posturing here. One part ABBA, one part C86, the fragile, idyllic pop of 2005's self-titled debut translated naturally to a studio and the lusher production of Dungen's Mattias Glavå on fine 2007 follow-up Migration. The new album doubles down on an aesthetic that should appeal to fans of Camera Obscura, the Clientele, or the Concretes, resulting in Sambassadeur's most consistent full-length to date, even if its peaks don't quite match earlier highlights like "Between the Lines", "Kate", or "Subtle Changes", marred in part by occasionally generic lyrics.
As with generations of Swedish popsters before them, Sambassadeur excel at picking up sounds from the U.S. and UK and refining them to their catchy essence. When European is at full gallop, making loneliness almost cheerful on first single "Days" or another album highlight, "Sandy Dunes", it's pretty tough to beat: Those horns! Those strings! That piano opening! Where Migrations quotes Pavement and includes a Dennis Wilson cover, Sambassadeur's latest sprinkles its lyrics with well-selected phrases from Nick Drake or James Bond movie titles (though you probably enjoy them more if you don't realize it). Plus there's a hushed, intimate rendition of Tobin Sprout's "Small Parade".
For all that, it's hard to pinpoint moments when European rises beyond "pleasant" or "comfortable" to something transcendent. While the slower songs may drag on early listens-- hint: try speakers instead of headphones-- "Albatross" eventually emerges as the closest thing. "I was happier alone/ Cut my hair just like a boy," sings frontwoman Anna Persson, her voice full and conversational over Astral Weeks-style upright bass. It's a moment that more than makes up for every "ivory skyline of your smile" or "pine trees like paintings." Put down your protest signs, people: There's still so much we could learn from each other.
Of all the Swedish groups in recent years, Sambassadeur have perhaps the most in common with likely indie-kid preconceptions of Swedishness-- no blog-house attitude or hip posturing here. One part ABBA, one part C86, the fragile, idyllic pop of 2005's self-titled debut translated naturally to a studio and the lusher production of Dungen's Mattias Glavå on fine 2007 follow-up Migration. The new album doubles down on an aesthetic that should appeal to fans of Camera Obscura, the Clientele, or the Concretes, resulting in Sambassadeur's most consistent full-length to date, even if its peaks don't quite match earlier highlights like "Between the Lines", "Kate", or "Subtle Changes", marred in part by occasionally generic lyrics.
As with generations of Swedish popsters before them, Sambassadeur excel at picking up sounds from the U.S. and UK and refining them to their catchy essence. When European is at full gallop, making loneliness almost cheerful on first single "Days" or another album highlight, "Sandy Dunes", it's pretty tough to beat: Those horns! Those strings! That piano opening! Where Migrations quotes Pavement and includes a Dennis Wilson cover, Sambassadeur's latest sprinkles its lyrics with well-selected phrases from Nick Drake or James Bond movie titles (though you probably enjoy them more if you don't realize it). Plus there's a hushed, intimate rendition of Tobin Sprout's "Small Parade".
For all that, it's hard to pinpoint moments when European rises beyond "pleasant" or "comfortable" to something transcendent. While the slower songs may drag on early listens-- hint: try speakers instead of headphones-- "Albatross" eventually emerges as the closest thing. "I was happier alone/ Cut my hair just like a boy," sings frontwoman Anna Persson, her voice full and conversational over Astral Weeks-style upright bass. It's a moment that more than makes up for every "ivory skyline of your smile" or "pine trees like paintings." Put down your protest signs, people: There's still so much we could learn from each other.
Monday, February 22, 2010
This Is Not a Mixtape
Feature
Pitchfork
February 22, 2010
Link
Last December, Brooklyn's Oneida issued a limited-run cassette, Fine European Food and Wine, on Scotch Tapes. Sure, the tape contained years-old live improvisations the band deemed unfit for "mainstream" treatment. But Oneida aren't unheralded kids laboring in their bedrooms. Over the past decade, they've put out 10 albums on Jagjaguwar, including 2009 triple LP Rated O. "Why release a cassette?" their singing drummer, Kid Millions, muses. "Man, who knows, right?"
Oneida are only one of the most recent indie-inclined outfits embracing the tape format. London label the Tapeworm opened its virtual doors last summer, selling out a limited run of cassettes by enigmatic multimedia artist Philip Jeck. Upstart bands Jail and Harlem each put out tapes on Fullerton, Calif.-based Burger Records; Sub Pop went on to sign Jail, now Jaill, while Matador inked a multi-album deal with Harlem. Hometapes, the Portland-based label behind art-rockers like Bear in Heaven and Pattern Is Movement, capped the year by mailing out a label sampler to journalists-- on cassette.
Perhaps more surprisingly, a few of underground music's heavier hitters are also championing the medium. "I only listen to cassettes," Sonic Youth's Thurston Moore told CBC radio last summer. Dirty Projectors released last year's highly anticipated Bitte Orca on CD, vinyl, mp3-- and cassette. Deerhunter have made two EPs available on tape: 2008's super-limited On Platts Eyott and 2009's aptly titled Rainwater Cassette Exchange. Beck told Pitchfork last summer he was recording a cassette-only cover of Moore & co.'s classic EVOL album for an upcoming Sonic Youth box set (a spokesperson contacted for confirmation did not immediately respond to e-mail).
Tapes never fell completely out of favor among experimental and noise musicians, but their broader underground resurgence appears to reflect a confluence of cultural trends. Instant access to almost any recording has left some of us over-stimulated, endlessly consuming without really digesting what we hear. Many children of the 1980s first owned their music on cassette, so for them the format represents a nostalgia for simpler times; younger kids probably never owned cassettes in the first place, so for them tapes don't have any negative associations. The spread of Internet-enabled smart phones and 24/7 social networking has made work and pleasure increasingly intertwined in our digital existences. Like records, cassettes offer listeners a tangible experience at a time when our jobs, our social lives, and our popular culture are becoming more and more ephemeral.
Pitchfork
February 22, 2010
Link
Last December, Brooklyn's Oneida issued a limited-run cassette, Fine European Food and Wine, on Scotch Tapes. Sure, the tape contained years-old live improvisations the band deemed unfit for "mainstream" treatment. But Oneida aren't unheralded kids laboring in their bedrooms. Over the past decade, they've put out 10 albums on Jagjaguwar, including 2009 triple LP Rated O. "Why release a cassette?" their singing drummer, Kid Millions, muses. "Man, who knows, right?"
Oneida are only one of the most recent indie-inclined outfits embracing the tape format. London label the Tapeworm opened its virtual doors last summer, selling out a limited run of cassettes by enigmatic multimedia artist Philip Jeck. Upstart bands Jail and Harlem each put out tapes on Fullerton, Calif.-based Burger Records; Sub Pop went on to sign Jail, now Jaill, while Matador inked a multi-album deal with Harlem. Hometapes, the Portland-based label behind art-rockers like Bear in Heaven and Pattern Is Movement, capped the year by mailing out a label sampler to journalists-- on cassette.
Perhaps more surprisingly, a few of underground music's heavier hitters are also championing the medium. "I only listen to cassettes," Sonic Youth's Thurston Moore told CBC radio last summer. Dirty Projectors released last year's highly anticipated Bitte Orca on CD, vinyl, mp3-- and cassette. Deerhunter have made two EPs available on tape: 2008's super-limited On Platts Eyott and 2009's aptly titled Rainwater Cassette Exchange. Beck told Pitchfork last summer he was recording a cassette-only cover of Moore & co.'s classic EVOL album for an upcoming Sonic Youth box set (a spokesperson contacted for confirmation did not immediately respond to e-mail).
Tapes never fell completely out of favor among experimental and noise musicians, but their broader underground resurgence appears to reflect a confluence of cultural trends. Instant access to almost any recording has left some of us over-stimulated, endlessly consuming without really digesting what we hear. Many children of the 1980s first owned their music on cassette, so for them the format represents a nostalgia for simpler times; younger kids probably never owned cassettes in the first place, so for them tapes don't have any negative associations. The spread of Internet-enabled smart phones and 24/7 social networking has made work and pleasure increasingly intertwined in our digital existences. Like records, cassettes offer listeners a tangible experience at a time when our jobs, our social lives, and our popular culture are becoming more and more ephemeral.
Via Audio - Animalore
Album Review
Pitchfork
February 22, 2010
Link
4.8
Pitchfork
February 22, 2010
Link
4.8
Via Audio's band van has the word "SNOB" painted on its side in cartoonish block letters. The Brooklyn-based, Berklee-educated foursome surely aren't the only music lovers who self-identify that way these days-- even beyond their home borough. Based on the recent chart successes of Vampire Weekend, Grizzly Bear, and Animal Collective, a growing portion of U.S. record buyers now think a lot like critics. If widespread connoisseurship leads to more adventurousness inside and outside the mainstream, as Solange Knowles' Dirty Projectors cover or Antony Hegarty's Beyoncé cover appear to portend, then the stage could be set for some of the weirdest and most exciting pop in ages.
As Animalore shows, however, the new snobbishness isn't always for the best. That's a shame, because the mature, earnestly proficient folk-pop of Via Audio's first LP, 2007's Say Something, was mild-mannered to a fault. Again produced by Spoon's Jim Eno, Animalore keeps its predecessor's smooth gloss and evident chops, demonstrating why Death Cab for Cutie's Chris Walla was an early supporter, but adds touches of funk, R&B, and cloying humor. With songwriting that veers between snoozy and face-palming, it's the kind of sophomore album that makes you question whether the debut deserved so much love in the first place. To paraphrase Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, true expertise is knowing there's a whole lot we don't know.
For instance, I don't know how much it matters that Animalore shares its name with a rare 1953 "animalanthology" featuring Lewis Carroll. If there's a concept here, it's subtle: "The Lizard Song" ably ventures into tropicalia; "Tigers" rides an indie pop groove but catches its tapping toe on Mother Goose-like rhymes. Animalore's charms are subtle, too, but easier to find. Spoon's Eno establishes a dubby sense of space beginning with the jazzy chords and thick bass of coolly seductive opener "Hello". Co-songwriter Jessica Martins' light, versatile voice should please fans of former tourmates Headlights, particularly on acoustic-to-technicolor finale "Happening"-- the album's best song. Martins also keeps the Fleetwood Mac-dreaming "Summer Stars" and castanets-kissed "Wanted" from collapsing underneath their complex arrangements. She can't save "Goldrush", which sounds like a 1970s-era "Sesame Street" ditty about the Olympics, but its hook should be sharp enough to catch some listeners.
When Via Audio engage with recent chart pop, though, they bring an ironic distance that can be... off-putting. It's hard to imagine anyone would actually "want to make babies" to first mp3 "Babies", which turns the sci-fi synths and slinky rhythms of a Timbaland production into wry parody. "Digital" adopts the deadpan electro of LCD Soundsystem to broach the shocking revelation that pop stars use Auto-Tune: "It doesn't even matter how good you are," co-songwriter Tom Deis sneers, aghast. It's sad and embarrassing hearing complaints about "something 12-year-olds will like" from a band that elsewhere sings, "Olga, the poetry of music rises like the ashes of a life before I knew you." As long as pop is going to encourage us would-be connoisseurs, here's hoping it doesn't forget about the 12-year-olds-- or the 17-year-olds, either.
As Animalore shows, however, the new snobbishness isn't always for the best. That's a shame, because the mature, earnestly proficient folk-pop of Via Audio's first LP, 2007's Say Something, was mild-mannered to a fault. Again produced by Spoon's Jim Eno, Animalore keeps its predecessor's smooth gloss and evident chops, demonstrating why Death Cab for Cutie's Chris Walla was an early supporter, but adds touches of funk, R&B, and cloying humor. With songwriting that veers between snoozy and face-palming, it's the kind of sophomore album that makes you question whether the debut deserved so much love in the first place. To paraphrase Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, true expertise is knowing there's a whole lot we don't know.
For instance, I don't know how much it matters that Animalore shares its name with a rare 1953 "animalanthology" featuring Lewis Carroll. If there's a concept here, it's subtle: "The Lizard Song" ably ventures into tropicalia; "Tigers" rides an indie pop groove but catches its tapping toe on Mother Goose-like rhymes. Animalore's charms are subtle, too, but easier to find. Spoon's Eno establishes a dubby sense of space beginning with the jazzy chords and thick bass of coolly seductive opener "Hello". Co-songwriter Jessica Martins' light, versatile voice should please fans of former tourmates Headlights, particularly on acoustic-to-technicolor finale "Happening"-- the album's best song. Martins also keeps the Fleetwood Mac-dreaming "Summer Stars" and castanets-kissed "Wanted" from collapsing underneath their complex arrangements. She can't save "Goldrush", which sounds like a 1970s-era "Sesame Street" ditty about the Olympics, but its hook should be sharp enough to catch some listeners.
When Via Audio engage with recent chart pop, though, they bring an ironic distance that can be... off-putting. It's hard to imagine anyone would actually "want to make babies" to first mp3 "Babies", which turns the sci-fi synths and slinky rhythms of a Timbaland production into wry parody. "Digital" adopts the deadpan electro of LCD Soundsystem to broach the shocking revelation that pop stars use Auto-Tune: "It doesn't even matter how good you are," co-songwriter Tom Deis sneers, aghast. It's sad and embarrassing hearing complaints about "something 12-year-olds will like" from a band that elsewhere sings, "Olga, the poetry of music rises like the ashes of a life before I knew you." As long as pop is going to encourage us would-be connoisseurs, here's hoping it doesn't forget about the 12-year-olds-- or the 17-year-olds, either.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Everybody Was in the French Resistance... Now! - Fixin' the Charts, Vol. 1
Album Review
Pitchfork
February 18, 2010
Link
3.8
Pitchfork
February 18, 2010
Link
3.8
"Answer records are not new," Time magazine wrote. That was in 1961. From "Yes, I'm Lonesome Tonight" to "No Pigeons", "Roll With Me, Henry" to "Wearing His Rolex", songs that respond to other songs have long been a lively pop tradition. In 1995, German reissue label Bear Family put out a three-volume compilation series, And the Answer Is: Great Pop Answer Discs From the '50s and '60s. It shows that as engrossing as the answer record trend can be, most of the records themselves are for obsessives only.
Eddie Argos is such an obsessive. The plucky raconteur for UK rockers Art Brut has always portrayed himself less as a pop star than as the ultimate fan, whether California dreaming about Axl Rose on 2004 debut Bang Bang Rock & Roll or belatedly discovering the Replacements on last year's Art Brut vs. Satan. And, as titles like "Pump Up the Volume", "Nag Nag Nag Nag", "Twist and Shout", and "The Passenger" may indicate, Art Brut were already making "answer songs" of a sort.
Everybody Was in the French Resistance... Now! is Argos' band with Dyan Valdés of L.A. group the Blood Arm. Produced by former Mighty Lemon Drops guitarist Dave Newton and recorded at Joshua Tree (take that, U2!!! ...I guess?), Fixin' the Charts, Vol. 1, an album-length excursion into answer songs, is only the latest example of Argos' fascination with participatory culture. Too often, though, its jokes are one-note, and so are its arrangements. It's irony. It's rock'n'roll. It's a listening experience not worth repeating a second time.
Wisely if foolhardily, Everybody Was in the French Resistance... Now! have chosen to respond to songs already rich in history. Wisely, because it's difficult not to take "The Scarborough Affaire" on its own terms when the Simon and Garfunkel original was already based on a Martin Carthy arrangement of a traditional song. Foolhardily, because this approach also highlights Fixin' the Charts' shortcomings: The limply parodic indie funk of "Billie's Genes" has nothing on earlier answer records like Lydia Murdock's Billie-Jean's-view "Superstar".
Argos is still witty, but here his punchlines tend to be predictable, due in part perhaps to the disc's overstretched answer-song conceit. I get that trying to reveal the emotional truth behind classic pop songs could theoretically be a way of giving Fixin' the Charts the sort of honesty about relationships that makes Bang Bang Rock & Roll or Art Brut vs. Satan stick with you for so long. But to "fix" the tacit anti-feminism of Avril Lavigne's "Girlfriend", "G.I.R.L.F.R.E.N. (You Know I've Got A)" would have to out-entertain her. Drunken indie-pop karaoke won't cause a generation of young women raised on Taylor Swift's "You Belong With Me" to stop fighting over boys and embrace girl power.
Then again, everybody was on the right side of history... now. When the Replacements sang about a musical hero of theirs, on Pleased to Meet Me/"Rock Band 2" fave "Alex Chilton", Paul Westerberg rasped, "I'm in love/ What's that song?/ I'm in love/ With that song." On "Hey! It's Jimmy Mack"-- in which, guess what, Jimmy tells Martha and the Vandellas he's never coming back-- Argos quips, "It certainly didn't deserve a song." What makes for a mildly amusing MySpace click can lead to a painfully obnoxious album. Particularly when, if you really think about it-- and I'm hardly the first person to have this idea-- every song is an answer song. Why else would you form a band?
Eddie Argos is such an obsessive. The plucky raconteur for UK rockers Art Brut has always portrayed himself less as a pop star than as the ultimate fan, whether California dreaming about Axl Rose on 2004 debut Bang Bang Rock & Roll or belatedly discovering the Replacements on last year's Art Brut vs. Satan. And, as titles like "Pump Up the Volume", "Nag Nag Nag Nag", "Twist and Shout", and "The Passenger" may indicate, Art Brut were already making "answer songs" of a sort.
Everybody Was in the French Resistance... Now! is Argos' band with Dyan Valdés of L.A. group the Blood Arm. Produced by former Mighty Lemon Drops guitarist Dave Newton and recorded at Joshua Tree (take that, U2!!! ...I guess?), Fixin' the Charts, Vol. 1, an album-length excursion into answer songs, is only the latest example of Argos' fascination with participatory culture. Too often, though, its jokes are one-note, and so are its arrangements. It's irony. It's rock'n'roll. It's a listening experience not worth repeating a second time.
Wisely if foolhardily, Everybody Was in the French Resistance... Now! have chosen to respond to songs already rich in history. Wisely, because it's difficult not to take "The Scarborough Affaire" on its own terms when the Simon and Garfunkel original was already based on a Martin Carthy arrangement of a traditional song. Foolhardily, because this approach also highlights Fixin' the Charts' shortcomings: The limply parodic indie funk of "Billie's Genes" has nothing on earlier answer records like Lydia Murdock's Billie-Jean's-view "Superstar".
Argos is still witty, but here his punchlines tend to be predictable, due in part perhaps to the disc's overstretched answer-song conceit. I get that trying to reveal the emotional truth behind classic pop songs could theoretically be a way of giving Fixin' the Charts the sort of honesty about relationships that makes Bang Bang Rock & Roll or Art Brut vs. Satan stick with you for so long. But to "fix" the tacit anti-feminism of Avril Lavigne's "Girlfriend", "G.I.R.L.F.R.E.N. (You Know I've Got A)" would have to out-entertain her. Drunken indie-pop karaoke won't cause a generation of young women raised on Taylor Swift's "You Belong With Me" to stop fighting over boys and embrace girl power.
Then again, everybody was on the right side of history... now. When the Replacements sang about a musical hero of theirs, on Pleased to Meet Me/"Rock Band 2" fave "Alex Chilton", Paul Westerberg rasped, "I'm in love/ What's that song?/ I'm in love/ With that song." On "Hey! It's Jimmy Mack"-- in which, guess what, Jimmy tells Martha and the Vandellas he's never coming back-- Argos quips, "It certainly didn't deserve a song." What makes for a mildly amusing MySpace click can lead to a painfully obnoxious album. Particularly when, if you really think about it-- and I'm hardly the first person to have this idea-- every song is an answer song. Why else would you form a band?
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Lightspeed Champion - Life Is Sweet! Nice to Meet You
Album Review
Pitchfork
February 1, 2010
Link
6.7
Pitchfork
February 1, 2010
Link
6.7
Devonté Hynes enjoyed critical acclaim at age 19 as a member of art-thrashers Test Icicles, and now, as Lightspeed Champion, he works with the resigned determination of someone who realizes hype is fleeting. Under a pair of pseudonyms (Blood Orange is the other), Hynes gives away impossible-to-digest amounts of free music online. Most recently, Hynes had his heart sawed to pieces by adorable animated bears in the Kanye West-endorsed (all caps: "THIS IS DOPE") video for Basement Jaxx's 2009 electro-pop stunner "My Turn", a song he co-wrote. As Hynes wonders aloud, "When will this all start?" it sounds like he knows it probably won't. If "My Turn" lays bare Hynes' fears, his Lightspeed project battles them-- eccentrically and at times too obscurely, but no less quixotically.
As Lightspeed, Hynes flees from the trends that briefly propelled his former band, while inevitably failing to escape them. His 2008 debut, Falling Under the Lavender Bridge, embraced the Americana twang of Saddle Creek in-house producer Mike Mogis, skewering ghetto-fetishizing peers with songs like "All My Friends Are Listening to Crunk". It was hard to tell who was being more ironic. Appropriately, then, Life Is Sweet! Nice to Meet You brings on a producer with a hip-hop background, Ben Allen, who also oversaw a little record called Merriweather Post Pavilion. For better and worse, Lightspeed's sophomore album plays like a product of Hynes' restlessness. Alternately inspired and frustrating, it addresses themes of lost love (and lost chicness) with Queen-size 70s-rock pomp, neoclassical interludes, and one ukulele-based chamber-pop song.
Hynes can shred, too, laying down a nasty guitar solo on the album's first single, "Marlene", a twitchy but slightly overlong funk barrage that could make "more triangle" the new "more cowbell." "Stop being cool," Hynes demands, a refrain that might be a mission statement for the whole Lightspeed project. The catchiest song, live favorite "Madame Van Damme", takes hipster self-loathing to its cheerful extreme, repeating, "Kill me, baby, won't ya kill me," over a light girl-group bounce. Heaven knows he's miserable now, but "Faculty of Fears" goes one Morrissey hiccup too far, tethering a badass bass groove to inscrutable lyrics about sarongs and Pythagorean theorems.
The best and the worst of Life Is Sweet! Nice to Meet You meet on "The Big Guns of Highsmith". First it's a clever kiss-off to London: "Chelsea teas and Socrates still haunt me/ A life I strived and chased and had and lost." Then it's clever self-recrimination: "Hurts be to be the one who's always feeling sad," Hynes whines, before a Greek chorus retorts, "Oh, just stop complaining!" This dry self-awareness puts the album's remaining highlights-- baroque keyboard plaint "Middle of the Dark", spaghetti-Western epic "Sweetheart", jazz-splashed rumination "Smooth Day (At the Library)"-- in proper context. It's also bloodlessly cerebral. We are not the champions, my friends. Hynes has been, and still could be again, but for now he's keeping that English stiff upper lip about it.
As Lightspeed, Hynes flees from the trends that briefly propelled his former band, while inevitably failing to escape them. His 2008 debut, Falling Under the Lavender Bridge, embraced the Americana twang of Saddle Creek in-house producer Mike Mogis, skewering ghetto-fetishizing peers with songs like "All My Friends Are Listening to Crunk". It was hard to tell who was being more ironic. Appropriately, then, Life Is Sweet! Nice to Meet You brings on a producer with a hip-hop background, Ben Allen, who also oversaw a little record called Merriweather Post Pavilion. For better and worse, Lightspeed's sophomore album plays like a product of Hynes' restlessness. Alternately inspired and frustrating, it addresses themes of lost love (and lost chicness) with Queen-size 70s-rock pomp, neoclassical interludes, and one ukulele-based chamber-pop song.
Hynes can shred, too, laying down a nasty guitar solo on the album's first single, "Marlene", a twitchy but slightly overlong funk barrage that could make "more triangle" the new "more cowbell." "Stop being cool," Hynes demands, a refrain that might be a mission statement for the whole Lightspeed project. The catchiest song, live favorite "Madame Van Damme", takes hipster self-loathing to its cheerful extreme, repeating, "Kill me, baby, won't ya kill me," over a light girl-group bounce. Heaven knows he's miserable now, but "Faculty of Fears" goes one Morrissey hiccup too far, tethering a badass bass groove to inscrutable lyrics about sarongs and Pythagorean theorems.
The best and the worst of Life Is Sweet! Nice to Meet You meet on "The Big Guns of Highsmith". First it's a clever kiss-off to London: "Chelsea teas and Socrates still haunt me/ A life I strived and chased and had and lost." Then it's clever self-recrimination: "Hurts be to be the one who's always feeling sad," Hynes whines, before a Greek chorus retorts, "Oh, just stop complaining!" This dry self-awareness puts the album's remaining highlights-- baroque keyboard plaint "Middle of the Dark", spaghetti-Western epic "Sweetheart", jazz-splashed rumination "Smooth Day (At the Library)"-- in proper context. It's also bloodlessly cerebral. We are not the champions, my friends. Hynes has been, and still could be again, but for now he's keeping that English stiff upper lip about it.
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