Significantly Liars was recorded in LA and Berlin, and the art-rock influence of both places characterizes this new garage rock/krautrock hybrid, often recalling early Can, West Coast psychedelic punk or even The Jesus and Mary Chain’s romantic rendering of American rock n’ roll nihilism.
“Plaster Casts of Everything,” with its mounting guitar and drum cycle and the repeated screaming mantra of, “I want to run away, I want to bring you too,” is propelled forward with an overwhelming wall of guitar noise and “Freak Out” delivers a perfect interpretation of what you would expect of a song with this title, with two and half minutes of dissolute fuzzy reverb and listless vocals, proving that the throttling velocity of these and many of the tracks provides a sharp contrast to the more tribal dissonance of their earlier work. But Liars isn’t all noisy alt-rock intensity and strangled guitar solos. Tracks like “Dumb in the Rain” and “Leather Prowler” recognisably continue in the sparse rhythmic form of previous releases, “Houseclouds” mimics pre-Scientology era Beck (in a good way) and “Protection” delivers an affecting album finale with its poignant pump organ and falsetto-led coda.
Liars, for all its aping of a rock pantheon suitable for a Kenneth Anger film, still sounds contemporary and offers an innovative mix of avant-garde abstraction, seedy garage rock and the expected mercurial brilliance of a Liars record. The self-titled album moniker is wholly appropriate.
November 2007
Devendra Banhart
Commodore Ballroom - 09/01/07
It's the first night of the tour, but instead of making a grand entrance, Devendra Banhart and his cohorts amble on stage and slowly begin with a relaxed set of gentle folk songs. Devendra sings in his not-so-unique Bolanesque butterfly-in-the-throat technique, and an aura-of-twilight contemplation is created. But no pulses are quickened—both out in the audience and on the stage.
This hairy band does a good approximation of a ’70s folk-rock sound, with a democracy of shared vocal duties and songs; but for all the possibilities of seeing a version of Santana/Free/T-Rex in the 21st century (without having to even close your eyes), the collective’s shambolic lack of focus is a constant letdown. Songs from the new album, Smokey Rolls down Thunder Mountain, are often paused halfway through with quips from Devendra, such as “This is a good bit.” The over-familiar “Golden Brown” melody of “Seahorse” is cut in half by an interrupting guitar riff. And a bashful audience member is pulled on stage to awkwardly sing his own composition while the band happily slinks off stage.
Such a ramshackle performance may be charming in its own special way, but the band’s start-stop inconsistency only further disintegrates its graceless momentum. The setlist, with its endless block of sedate down-tempo numbers and feeble attempts at animation, reinforces the notion that beyond the beards and the hair, this really is just a bunch of clumsy laid-back hippies. The real shame here is that Devendra has a lot more to him than a waistcoat and velvety voice. And there are hints of something greater locked beneath his cumbersome and recycled 40-year-old shtick, if it ever broke free from its hackneyed self-imposed restrictions.
October 2007
Suburban Pornography & Other Stories
Matthew Firth
[Anvil Press]
The ghosts of Charles Bukowski and Hubert Selby, Jr. lurk in Matthew Firth’s new short story collection. Even the sparse prose-style of Raymond Carver materializes in passages of matter-of-fact description where the seemingly minute incidents of existence become indelible. These influences may be common currency to an author who casts an unflinching eye on the lurid margins of life, the poverty stricken and the ever-widening gap between expectation and reality, but the authenticity of the content soon diminishes any prejudices based on the familiarity of a writing style. There’s more to Matthew Firth than being a new version of Bukowski transposed to the cold of a Canadian metropolis.
In Suburban Pornography,
characters struggle to exist in challenging social conditions, in
ruined familial, social and sexual relationships and often seek
emancipation through satiating their basest
desires. “The Summer of No Love” describes the cruelty of an abusive
relationship with a mentally disturbed woman, and “Smooth with the
Ladies” depicts an evening of sexual pursuits that ends in humiliating
violence. Throughout the novel, sex is the realm of the cruel, the
sordid and the disappointed, which figuratively portrays a larger world
that is just as cruel, sordid and disappointing.
Despite an unwavering graphical depiction of degenerative and desperate
situations, Firth frequently places his characters at a dispassionate
distance from the world they survey. They are mostly impotent
chroniclers, watching their own and other people’s tawdry lives with a
mustering of cold indifference. In this collection, men stare at naked
women through their living room windows, view copulating suburban
neighbours in their homes or catch bus drivers receiving the services
of a haggard prostitute. These voyeurs witness the not-so-private lives
of others and the tragic circumstances behind them. From the
ten-year-old who observes an occupied house burning down in “August,
1974″ to the homeless shelter worker who documents its assorted patrons
in “The Centre,” most characters in Suburban Pornography
keep a cool physical or emotional distance. The narrator in “Everybody
Loses,” who is affected by an unfolding public accident, puts it this
way: “Someone somewhere always strings us along, keeps us hanging on.
But I’m an interloper so I say nothing…”
Fortunately, Suburban Pornography is not a forum for dry social criticism dressed up as fiction to be told from a safe distance. For all of Firth’s character displacement, these tales create a genuine world of despondency, where people are burdened by their dumb jobs, alienated by their personal relationships and suffocated by their unrealized dreams. “Shelia Crawford Sucks Cocks” once again details a voyeur, this time an adolescent, who notices the local girls, not much older than him, offering backstreet sexual services. Although the teenager is never involved with what he sees, the first-person narration perfectly transcribes the child’s feelings of alienation and longing as he wrestles with his own unfulfilled sexual desire. In “Giants,” a long-distance driver illustrates his vulnerability by describing a group of giants that enter a hole in his body. More often than not an implicit inner territory of anguish is revealed, even when what is described isn’t very real at all. Firth reliably conveys a dejected voice, not so much in conflict with a harsh and volatile milieu, but one that is struggling to accept the apparent frailty of existence. These stories deliver an authentic retelling of lived-in worlds full of wayward compulsions and engulfing dead ends, whether inspected by a detached and unflinching gaze or experienced through a character’s internal but unacknowledged suffering. Suburban Pornography surpasses a generic understanding of a tell-it-like-it-is literary form, born from American 20th century fiction, and delivers a unique Canadian voice offering a universal reflection of troubled humanity.
October 2007
Architecture in Helsinki
Places Like This
(Polyvinyl)
The first song on Architecture in Helsinki’s third album shouts the words, “You’ve got the wrong idea if you’re leaping off the edge of this world.” In reference to this and the following nine tracks that make up Places Like This, such a sentiment describe the chaos of a band trying too hard. Architecture in Helsinki have got the wrong idea if they are, in a sense, jumping into the unknown, for the band carry too many thrown-together and hastily assembled musical aspects, which would cause them to plummet off of the edge of the world. Where a mix of strained vocals, bombastic brass, electro-pop and Remain in Light-ish white-boy funk would otherwise work, Places Like This delivers the soundtrack for a headache in an over-crowded nursery, but only because the songs have little room to breathe. Wrenching vocals crumble under the weight of barely shouted syllables and layers of instrumentation, laser-synth surges, omnipresent cowbells and acoustic guitars. All these elements scream out against one another in desperate attempts to find spaces to be heard. Unfortunately, it’s an arrangement of sound that is both jarring and forced.
Despite Places Like This’ laboured shambles, there are some segments that work. The climatic last half of “Same Old Innocence,” the bouncy intro of ”Red Turned White” and the building zenith of “Heart it Races,” all let the band’s separate sounds coalesce. More often than not, though, these harmonious arrangements are just fleeting sections in a cluttered mess of songs. Maybe Architecture in Helsinki could consolidate their wayward sound if they looked before they leaped next time.
October 2007
Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Is Is EP
(Interscope)
If this review were one word, it would be an adjective. On this EP the band are prowling and roaring, and if only one word could be used it would be “feral.” But the Yeah Yeah Yeahs deserve more than one word and so does the Isis EP.
The visceral guitar, drums and the “New Yawk” yodel are back, and for those that found Show Your Bones to be a little too clean and toned down, this new release delivers the desired trashy intensity. Nick Zinner’s guitar has been turned up to 11 and gone are the acoustic spaces and the songs that aren’t too far removed from the “Maps” template. The Isis EP shows the Yeah Yeah Yeahs at their most carnal and maybe even shows them in their most absolute and undiluted incarnation.
Tellingly, most of the tracks were written in the period between their two albums, and at times the material does sound like an ideal mix of the noisy, lusty vigour of Fever to Tell and the modelled directness of Show Your Bones. Karen O regularly careens between her spoken word drawl and ear-splitting yelps, coming on like a female version of a young Iggy Pop. Like many good three-pieces, the band create a pandemonium that seems to come from a group with many more members. On this EP, one mode doesn’t necessarily obscure the other.
The quiet-loud method is in full force here. The organ drone at the start of “Down Boy” recalls Roxy Music’s “In Every Dream Home a Heartache” before exploding into clattering guitar and throaty yowls, and “Rockers to Swallow” escalates and oscillates between undulating guitar volumes and rising shrieks while being held together by a steady hi-hat. This level of momentum is sustained throughout the EP and the band continuously lurches between loud and quiet spaces as each instrument responds to the other with its own contrasting clamour. As old live favourites, these tracks have all benefited from a long history of performance, and now as recorded pieces they have become fairly muscular and lived-in. Considering the age of the songs, this snapshot may be fleeting, but ultimately the Isis EP manages to capture the fierce and wild animal of a band.
September 2007
My Ion Truss
(JagJaguwar)
They may have called their musical arrangements “a wall of shit” and a new producer may have polished away the charms of a former shambolic sound. The vocals are strained and cracked, and the noise behind them is crowded, but this new album by Minus Story rises above such cursory considerations. On this release the pleasure is in the episodes, the key changes, or the bricks in the wall of shit.
It’s the disarray here that is responsible for the misconception that this album is a mess of jumbled prattles, and the crammed aural attack of “Aaron” throws the listener straight into the muddle from the start, but it’s a beautiful muddle if the ears are willing to stay and listen. The wailing guitar at the end of “Battle of Our Lives,” the entrance of the piano in “Mama Mama” and the rising climax in the “Beast at My Side” are examples of the more obvious, attention-catching moments. Along with the awkward flutes, clomping handclaps, slinky pianos and clickety-clack of toy-like electronics, there are some rather captivating musical passages contained therein.
The instrumental busyness and, particularly, the uneasy waver of the vocals furnish the tracks with a misleading fragility. These songs are robust despite the veneer of delicacy. Where the voice is flimsy, it is vulnerable and affecting, and the diverse transition of the flutes, guitars, pianos, saxophones, keyboards and drums become, in the end, just different ingredients on an album that is remarkably accomplished. My Ion Truss is one of those albums that sounds like shit if you only play it a couple of times. But if it stays in your stereo it could eventually make those other more immediate and organized records in your collection sound even worse.
September 2007
The Lamplighter - 07/23/07Bands may come on stage at ungodly hours, but at the Lamplighter, the wait for a performance can test the most patient of punter. As much fun as it is to watch musical instruments being rearranged as if they were pieces of furniture, by the time the bands get to play, most of the concert goers have let their beards grow a little longer. In fact, Azeda Booth stood around shouting about the monitor levels for ages, before anything resembling a concert took place.
Curiously, while laboriously setting up, the drums are placed at the front right of the stage and soon a circle of five is formed, which contracts and divides as figures move between their collective spaces. By the time the band begins, it becomes apparent why they move around each other in such an unorthodox way. The drums are shared by at least three of the band members and the instruments are in a constant rotation. If Azeda Booth is a many-headed beast, it uses its five interchangeable limbs in a fluid and cohesive way.
As this year’s Mysterious Body EP demonstrated, Azeda Booth offers an interesting mix of glitchy electronics and post-rock dynamics; but in a live setting—as a newly expanded five-piece with extra guitars and drums—the band has a fuller and more exhilarating sound, which expands on what the EP sketched out.
The singer still sings like a fragile little girl. The guitars still clang together in ascending and repeated patterns. And the electronics still churn away in the background like the misunderstood tweets of an angry robot; but as a bigger unit, Azeda Booth is reaching towards new horizons. As if to indicate how far the band has come since its first release, the band barely touches any of the material on its new EP.
For Azeda Booth, being bigger may be better, but so could the possibility of playing for a little longer. Many of the songs have the potential of going off into further uncharted areas of experimentation and discovery. Nevertheless, there is a lot of promise in this incarnation and they are band to watch for the future. But naturally, in a Lamplighter setting, the sets are short and the stage is meant for testing instruments, not playing them.
September 2007
Azeda Booth
Mysterious Body
[Independent]
On initial listens, Azeda Booth’s Mysterious Body comes across like the Icelandic bastard child of electronica, fathered by Warp Records and birthed (appropriately enough) by some amalgamation of the band Mum. But this band doesn’t reside within the Arctic Circle nor are they signed to a dance label from the U.K. Azeda Booth are from Calgary, and despite the obvious influences, this new EP delivers a fresh blend of material and a new, developing sound.
Of the disc’s five tracks, three are instrumental and placed symmetrically at the beginning, middle and end of the recording. All three contain warm synths reverberating against tinkling percussive beats. Jumbling away in the background, these clanking rhythms sound like the work of deranged birds set loose on a collection of half-empty milk bottles or the hollow clatter of a heap of wooden blocks being thrown down the stairs. Significantly though, none of these instrumental tracks create a sense of dissonance by putting melody in complete conflict with the percussion like some of Autechre’s more discordant numbers, for example, with their loose tool-kit-in-the-washing-machine modulation. The first track with vocals, “Landscape (With Grass),” builds with chiming guitar patterns and a fragile falsetto and is the most traditional song on the EP. The second song with vocals, “Dead Girls,” is glitchy, keyboard driven, and throbs over and underneath the same fragile falsetto that sounds female but is in fact male.
As diverse as these songs may be to one another, the mix of styles on Mysterious Body is refreshing. The arrangements and experimentation have enough charm and intricacy to surpass the more pedestrian constraints of imitation. At times, the band may sound like the conjoined amalgamation of their influences, but for the most part, this release shows the potential for something unique and exciting.
August 2007
FridgeThe Sun
(Temporary Residence)
Touted as the first Fridge album in nearly six years, The Sun marks the return of Kieran Hebden (Four Tet) and Adem Ilhan (Adem) to their original launch-site band. Since Fridge’s last record (2001’s Happiness), both artists have had success individually or in participation with high-profile figures, such as Radiohead, Steve Reid and David Byrne; and this new release can’t help but be marred by the burden and consequence of these separate triumphs. Rather than being an inspired continuation of previous endeavours, The Sun works in showcasing fresh techniques, competence gained elsewhere and a six-year absence of participation that seems to have removed the alchemy of the band dynamic.
Much of what has been produced mimics what has been absorbed in the time between the two aforementioned Fridge albums. The imaginative patterns of percussion aren’t so dissimilar from the instrumental tinkering found on Kieran Hebden’s work with Steve Reid, and the folk ambience of tracks like “Our Place in This” and “Years and Years and Years” does correspond to equivalent material by both Four Tet and Adem. As singular songs, most of the tracks are interesting as opposed to captivating, and for all presentation of ability, there is nothing that galvanizes the album together as a whole. There may be a residing krautrock influence in the use of recurrent drum and guitar rhythms, but the jarring oscillation between the sequencing of jazz-drum workouts and folk atmospherics cause attempts at overall coherence to disintegrate.
If it wasn’t for the baggage associated with this release, The Sun could be mistaken as a ramshackle compilation of old B-sides, with no defining consistency and a little underwhelming. As a brand new Fridge album, The Sun is too disjointed to work as the great return of a lost band. The jumbled mess of content typifies the nature of this reformation, which seems to be based on celebrated solo adventures and not the experience of shared creativity. For members of Fridge, collaboration seems to be about where they are and not about where they were, which would be admirable if the notion was encompassed within the band.
August 2007
Album LeafUnder Byen
The Plaza - 07/04/07
Denmark’s Under Byen seem like an interesting aural prospect when the eight members of the band appear. Two drummers, a man with a cello and another with a violin join a singer, keyboardist and a pair of guitarists to make the stage look a little smaller. They play what sounds like Björk fronting Sigur Ros playing “Venus in Furs.” Such a categorization may be a little too general for a band that swaps instruments or thumps the drums as if it’s mimicking the footsteps of heavy giants.
However, the group’s arrangements are one-dimensional in tone and the tempos are steady and dull. There isn’t enough in the songs to divert the attention from such generalizations. The band may create an adequate mood, but after a handful of brooding songs that don’t go anywhere but onto the next brooding session, there is nothing to hold anyone’s attention other than an accompanying yelping voice.
At first, the Album Leaf gives a more spirited performance. Gorgeous melodies build to become pretty piano crescendos and continue to build, while added guitar and electronic adornments dress the sound in a refined space. Most of the performance consists of the enveloping resonance of the Rhodes piano, as it echoes onward, constructing a collection of musical journeys, some with vocals and some without.
The problem is, like Under Byen, the Album Leaf’s songs create tonal repetitions instead of contrasts. The rising waves of interstellar electronics have no attributed musical dissemination, or even a release that isn’t constrained by surge after surge of endless piano-led ascents. The band may enjoy its journeys, and by their blissed-out eyes-half-closed mouth-ajar expressions on stage, it looks like it does. Unfortunately, due to their lack of destination, the songs lose their instrumental radiance and end up meandering in a realm of missed opportunities.
By the end of the concert, one of the long musical passages is disturbed by a 20-second squeal of welcome feedback before it returns to wallow and wander in a domain that by now has become tired and monotonous. This brief disturbance gives relief and hints at what is missing here in its most basic configuration. Interesting soundscapes are constructed with engaging details, but these realms are unable to develop—save the odd screech of feedback—beyond the limitations of their self-imposed form.
August 2007
Lou Reed
Hudson River Wind Meditations
(Sounds True)
Considering Lou Reed’s most famous instrumental opus, Metal Machine Music, is a howling cacophony of wailing feedback and a possible middle finger to contractual obligation, then Hudson River Wind Meditations, his new vocal-less release, is entirely dissimilar to its predecessor’s construction. As the liner notes state, this album has been composed to facilitate meditation, the practice of Tai Chi, and is meant to be, “music to play in the background of life.” It’s soft wind-like rhythms or long-thrumming drones are gentle but insistent. In the 35 years between the reverb-drenched clamour of the one record, and the gradual throbbing electronics of the other, there has been a clear change of mood and intent.
Reed has often been distinguished as contrary, but Hudson River Wind Meditations will not shock the listener, nor will it be as surprising as his Edgar Allan Poe concept album that came before it. For all the perversity and myth that surrounds the unholy noise of Metal Machine Music, it was nonetheless created as a serious piece of art (or, as Lester Bangs said, “to be taken every day like vitamins”). Now, there may be cynical guffaws over aging rock stars producing indulgent ambient soundtracks for the pace of their twilight years, but these new compositions are successful in moving beyond the more pedestrian constraints of the oeuvre. Instead of sounding like a soon-forgotten generator humming in the corner, where a stereo is situated, the aural textures of these pieces probe and surround to create the ideal atmospherics for a journey into inner spaces.
Hudson River Wind Meditations offers little for those who want a repeat of Reed’s previous art rock incarnations, or another chapter of his particular brand of street poetry. Two of the four tracks are around 30 minutes long, repetitive, and completely different from the other extended works in his back catalogue. There is nothing that resembles “Sister Ray,” or even “Street Hassle,” but as a suite of slow electronic pieces, the album delivers the subtlety and the detail required for meditation. It also exists as an engaging background, without the use of a crescendo of angry guitar feedback.
July 2007
Patti Smith
12
(Columbia)
Following Patti Smith’s recent induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, a somewhat fusty institution, her album 12 is a rather obvious collection of post-induction, conservative cover versions. Museum pieces of Hendrix, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones and The Doors all appear among a roll call of other recognizable baby boomer artists. Apart from Smith’s distinct drawl, there is nothing that differentiates these songs from the abundance of other bland cover versions. The band may be replicating the originals to perfection, but most of the songs are too well-known to be enjoyed as a by-the-numbers remake, and there is little hint of any inherent artistry capable of transcending the mundane. Smith’s backing is lacklustre and perfunctory, and mostly offers repetition of overly familiar material. Such familiarity breeds contempt, with yet another dull retread of “White Rabbit” or “Gimme Shelter.”
Considering the vitality of Smith’s previous transformations of traditional rock songs back in the 1970s (Van Morrison and The Who), this new compilation is a big disappointment. It is also an indicator of how an artist can go from a position of high regard to self-regard over a period of time. If the majority of the covers included are unable to refresh, or even add an interesting slant to the originals, the purpose of the enterprise seems superfluous. Overall, 12 exists as an empty vanity project when compared to the brilliance of her legacy.
Despite the stink of trite complacency, there are a few scant surprises. The Dylan number, “Changing of the Guards,” is fairly obscure and there are songs chosen by Tears for Fears and later-period Paul Simon. Only on Smith’s take of Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” does any invention make itself apparent. Complete with a middle-eight poetry rendition, and composed as a bluegrass dueling banjo song, this version of very familiar material towers above its more routine neighbours. It is a shame none of the other 11 tracks were recorded in the same fashion.
Like the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame itself, 12 can’t help but come off as self-congratulatory and maybe a little redundant. The vibrancy of music isn’t meant for the museum, or to be repeated with a lack of imagination. For an artist who used to be consequential, even when covering other people’s songs, this album is a bit of a blunder.
July 2007
Jarvis Cocker
The Choir Practice
Commodore Ballroom - 05/01/07
He strides onto the stage with a lanky swagger that is all his own. The band launches into "Fat Children", and within a minute, he traverses both sides of the rostrum, leaps from the monitors and wags that famous pointy finger of his at almost every person in the front row. Jarvis Cocker puts the 'front' back into frontman, and it is easy to see why he is seen as a national treasure in his home country. Back out of semi-retirement, and obviously relishing his return, here is a man doing what he's born to do, and doing it his particular way—complete with a patented brand of flailing limbs, hilarious stances and gesticulating energy. Some people just have that special magical quality and, in context to material that is fairly low-key in places, Jarvis gives a performance that is testament to his distinctive talent.
"Let's unleash the magic again," it says on his MySpace page, and, on this short jaunt along the West Coast, Jarvis has recruited a variety of local support acts through the web. The band he chose for Vancouver is The Choir Practice, who cast a warm and gentle spell on the audience. This ten-piece indie choir delights in the possibility of multiple vocal harmonies, and musical participation, and produces a perfect introduction to the proceedings—one that creates the required enchanted realm.
The adroit charm of a Jarvis Cocker gig may consist of witty inter-song banter and the value of inclusive contribution. But for all the physical histrionics of the main performance, Jarvis still manages to skew a tongue-in-cheek presence within artfully-crafted songs containing smart sentiments. This isn't a novelty act burdened by its own ironic capabilities, as the closing number, "Running the World", pinpoints in its matter-of-fact form. The lyrics may contain a swear word or two, but the song (like the Pulp hit "Common People" before it) manages to tap into a universal sense of outrage and powerlessness. It isn't surprising when a large part of the Commodore Ballroom crowd seems to be singing along to its discriminating chorus.
Jarvis Cocker bids farewell to Vancouver with rousing rendition of Gary Numan's "Are Friends Electric". Executed in all its surging keyboard glory, and sung in the appropriate South London accent, it is a fitting end to a concert that is electric, friendly, and a celebration of music. Most leave the show content in the knowledge that someone has returned that should have never disappeared in the first place.
June 2007