So much of this album is musical comfort food to me: the effortless, sing-along melodies; the swinging, laid-back, Music From Big Pink vibe; the sporadic flashes of religious carny spirit, like the ghost of Neutral Milk Hotel; the ample layers of nostalgic soft-focus reverb, to match the vacation slide cover art. That’s why I’m not quite sure: are these songs really the timeless gems they initially appear to be, or was I merely distracted by charms that will fade after a few more listens? I think I might examine this one a little more and find out…
For an album I was randomly recommended, Moondrifts is a winner. For a record I want to try and review anytime soon, Moondrifts might just be a loser. Not my normal cup of tea, this drifting, yet calculated sound of airiness is a fantastic background record. Unfortunately, I can’t imagine forming enough thoughts on it to make a review. Maybe a couple more runthroughs will change my mind. I hope so. This record has promise. Let’s hope it finds it way to the foreground soon enough. Until then, check them out here.
For a minute there I thought Sharon Van Etten might be like dozens of other humorless, heartsick folk singers I’ve tuned out before, only with a better-than-average sense of melody. But by the end of the first verse of the first track of Epic (Van Etten’s 2nd release, but the first one I’ve ever heard), she made me think she’s a lot sharper than the average folk singer, too. By the end of track 3, I was hooked. After hearing all 7 tracks, I decided I’m going to obsess myself with this record for a week or two.
Judging strictly by the singing and the songwriting, Le Noise is so quintessentially Neil Young it’s almost self-parody. Almost, but not quite. I may laugh when I hear a riff that goes halfway toward ripping off “My My, Hey Hey;” I may laugh when I hear the familiar themes in “Peaceful Valley Boulevard,” with the California gold rushing and the superficial billboards and the idling cars and the poisoning of Mother Earth and the polar bears drifting on ice floes; I may laugh when, right in the middle of it all, there’s a meta-song that seems like it’s trying to sum up an entire career (”I sang songs about love/ I sang songs about war/ since the backstreets of Toronto/ I sang for justice/ and I hit a bad chord/ but I still try to sing about love and war”). I’m not laughing at Le Noise, though. I’m not laughing with it either, because I’m pretty sure it’s not trying to laugh very hard. I guess I’m just laughing because, as I said, it’s so quintessentially Neil Young, and quintessentially, Neil Young is great.
What sets Le Noise apart from your run-of-the-mill Neil Young greatness, however, is the way it sounds, thanks to producer Daniel Lanois. It’s just Neil, his guitars, a healthy amount of cavernous fuzz and occasional digital effects- and it demands to be heard. It’s quiet and loud, usually at the same time. The feedback permeates, yet it also sounds carefully contained. It rocks without a single drum. And a mere pluck of an acoustic guitar string can feel like a tower of wistful light.
I’m still not sure if I’ll go 10 listens with Le Noise, though. If I end up eagerly going the full 10, that might mean we have yet another Neil Young classic on our hands. Right now I can safely say I’ll give it at least 5 listens. The sounds of those guitars have guaranteed that much.
Stream the new EP for free. Or download it for cheap. Then disagree with this statement:
This EP is fucking good.
Maybe you’re not an “instrumental music” person. Maybe you’re having a bad day. Maybe your dog is eating toilet paper while you are asleep. Hell, I barely know you, but I want to believe you love this EP immediately. You see, I want to respect you: as a person, as a music lover. And Bells’ debut is one of those records where I draw lines. This is only the first listen and I am already drawing lines. LINES I TELL YOU LINES.
In any event, expect a full and glowing review quite soon. Then, maybe we can talk about my judgmental nature. But not now. I got some listening to do.
Every time Superchunk puts out an album, an angel gets his/her wings. “Water Wings” pun not intentional. Seriously, though, I am excited about this album. So excited, in fact, that I listened to it on my shitty computer speakers rather than putting it on my ipod (which was not nearby). I just had to have it, and it seems worth it. Superchunk’s umpteenth release sounds like a damned fine one and just in time for the annual fall angst. Get excited.
I’m pumped. Why am I pumped? Because this album rules. And it makes me want to rule even harder than I already rule. Remember that scene in The Wrestler when Tomei and Rourke are all “The 90s sucked,” and “They didn’t make ‘em like they used to?” Well, screw them. We make ‘em just fine and we did then too. This album proves it. Rock and roll didn’t die because everything frivolous died, rock and roll just lives in a new frivolity. Anyway, back to the point: this album rules. I doubt anything will change in 9 more listens.
Quite like this year’s spectacular (and unfortunately as of yet not fully reviewed) School Of Seven Bells’ release, Glasser’s Ring pushes all the right electronica buttons. Easy to digest, perfectly nondescript when necessary and noise-exact at its best, it is an exercise in fruitful movement and pitch. Often, the chances they take are easy, but every now and again they shatter their easygoing facade with songs like “Mirrorage” or opener “Apply.” With a beautiful sense of structure, these songs use the remarkable female voice more backbeat than I’ve been hearing in the rest of the album, but it is possible I’ve not heard them at my best. As I continue to listen to Ring, I might find more rewards.
The Eels’ first 3 albums were as integral to my teenage years as my closest friends were. Though the electronic-tinged folk-rock tunes of bandleader Mark Oliver Everett were decidedly simple, their spirit resonated with me like few others have before or since. I often felt (feel) the way those songs sound- like you’re waking up hungover from whatever lousy hand life had dealt you the night before, and you’re wondering why you should even bother to get out of bed… but then you hear a bird singing a lovely song just outside your window, and you get up and look at it blissfully chilling on a tree branch, and somehow that’s enough for you to want to leave the house and face life again. Continue reading ‘First Listen: Eels’ Tomorrow Morning’
These are unnatural greys. Interpol have sold us something untenable. There is bass and there are drums, and they meet somewhere in the night to receive wind and subterranean pulse. These instruments still function. The new record terminates at voice and guitar, which are now dispersed, abstract, bad carbon. On everything they leave black marks that signify how they are compromised. Paul Banks is not one but many; he throbs in and out of the mix in blunt choirs. He is approximating what it must feel like to have your head cratered by a rock. This rock is not even a particularly exceptional rock. It captures no peculiar strain of light. It travels in no specific arc. In its wake, a mess of blood and bone. An obtuse, grey pain. No economy, just dull muscle.