Author Archive for Will

Jennie Arnau: Chasing Giants

Will, May 3, 2010 in Uncategorized. 0 Comments Tags: , .

The title should be a tip-off: South Carolinian (by way of New York City) Jennie Arnau seems to understand that being a young woman playing country-tinged folk music will inevitably draw comparisons to other titans in the genre. Chasing Giants is a perfect title for a record full of humility that also showcases a songwriter full of ambition, and one who is working with her burgeoning talent to carve some sort of space for her music.

Is it possible for someone to sound  like both Gillian Welch and Taylor Swift? The two are considerably different artists, but similar in their standing as icons in their respective fields (traditional folk and country-pop, respectively). Throughout Chasing Giants, Arnau manages to split the difference between the two disparate singers with her vocals, and often within the span of a single line. Arnau certainly evokes Welch’s husky tone, and “Safe Tonight” is the kind of stately hymnal that Welch can churn out in her sleep. Though it lacks the kind of narrative momentum common in Welch’s songs for a more standard repetition of ambiance and the phrase “Lord, keep him safe tonight,” it’s a fitting tone for a song that comes off more as a prayer than an actual tune. And like Swift, Arnau takes an extended metaphor in “Bouncing Ball” to describe a relationship and manages to enliven the song with a hooky, heart-swellingly optimistic chorus full of lilting, girlish charm that overrides her vocal limitations.

Those vocal limitations don’t stop her from nicely letting loose on many tracks (not unlike Neko Case, though without her pipes), delightfully avoiding the post-Elliott Smith/Cat Power mumblings of much of indie-ish folk music. Arnau manages to better evoke Case in one more crucial respect, which becomes her biggest strength throughout the record—she has a gift for creating a casually tossed-off lyric that seems full of both wisdom (”Their broken hearts must someday mend, but that won’t guarantee they will ever love again” from “The Sparrow & The Gods”) and indelible beauty (”She glows in the sun till nothing is left but some mascara on” from “For The Winter”).

If only her lyrical prowess reared its head more often, or influenced her melodic sensibility. Because while Chasing Giants begins strong with the aforementioned songs (as well as the wonderful “Beautiful Life,” full of bluesy intonation as well as a breakdown featuring honest-to-God hand-claps substituting the drums), much of the second half sags with uninspired melodies and too-samey production. “Jack B. Nimble” starts with some nice sliding guitar work before settling into something far more soporific, only rousing slightly with a haphazard sing-along towards the end. Arnau trots out her open-throated bellowing in “Savior,” but for a song so seemingly declarative it sounds unconvincing—a whole lotta sound signifying nothing.

The album does pick up again at its close. “No Guarantees” is an often lovely grappling with one’s own limitations, while “The Sharp Things” seems to encapsulate both the strengths and weaknesses of Chasing Giants as a whole. The song begins mournful and quiet, Arnau sing-whispering the lyrics over a plaintive acoustic strum, and then the drums kick in, as does a meaty electric guitar, and Arnau repeats the same lyrics only this time she’s really kicking some ass, caterwauling as if her entire life depends on singing these words in exactly this way. There is real drama and real pain in her voice at this part of the song, suggesting an artist far greater than the sweet, humble moments that have previously charmed and in comparison seem too restrained, too banal. The song is sadly undercut by its title; for all the catharsis on offer, the song deserves a better, sharper phrase to refer to her pain than “the sharp things.” But that lyrical foible doesn’t undercut the way she sings “I swear I can feel my heart breaking/Watch me break” towards the end. So even if she states “I don’t think I can take these giants on my own” in the title track, her phrasing on the final line of the album suggest that maybe, one day, she will.

The Unthanks: Here’s The Tender Coming

Will, March 23, 2010 in Music Reviews. 1 Comment Tags: , .

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In the first few seconds of Here’s The Tender Coming you begin to feel transported across the Atlantic Ocean and several decades—if not centuries—into the past. Rachel and Becky Unthank harmonize an a cappella opening to the traditional Irish folk song “Because He Was A Bonny Lad” that sounds like some tremendous long-lost field recording before the rest of the Northumberland band chimes in with a more modern chamber-pop arrangement. It certainly sets the template for this album, one that is full of (mostly) traditional folk songs gussied up by an indie-leaning sensibility that occasionally enhances the work but too often mires some great songs in drippy sonics.

In some cases, the updated arrangements work, as in “Living By The Water,” which sounds appropriately flowing, with its lovely guitar line constantly moving like a rollicking little stream. In others, such as “At First She Starts,” the Unthanks indulge their maudlin side, turning a gorgeous Lal Waterson song into a nearly atonal dirge. Perhaps the biggest disappointment is “Annachie Gordon,” a sort of trad Scottish version of Romeo and Juliet that, in the right hands, can become truly sublime. The Unthanks start off the epic brilliantly; what could become a cloying reading of the narrative is instead performed with real restrained grace. Until the final moments, that is; right after the words “They have married your Jeannie, and now she is dead,” the arrangement and song stop, becoming a near-silent drone that creates an almost-comical, too overt underlining of the song’s tragedy. It only lasts a few seconds, but those few seconds are enough to capsize a song that theretofore had been full of elegant aplomb, before finishing instead as a treacle.

The best marriage of traditional and contemporary occurs on a version of Frank Higgins’ “The Testimony of Patience Kershaw.” The Unthanks’ arrangement of rhythmically propulsive fiddles wonderfully ups the drama of the lyric, based on the real words spoken by the title character—a young girl working as a 19th century coal hurrier detailing the physical toil the job has wreaked upon her body. The greatness of the arrangement is that it lends a delicious edge to a song that could be turned, like other songs here, into something unbearably heartbreaking and more than a little dour. The churning, sharp fiddle instead elevates lines like “Great big muscles on my legs/A balding patch upon my head/A lady, sir? Oh no, not me/I should have been a boy instead,” which, combined with the terrific vocal, makes the song tinged with bitterness. And when the final lines are sung, “God bless you, sir/At least you tried,” it sounds seething and sarcastic rather than contrite.

The record could have used more of this sensibility; what gives the Unthanks an advantage is that they are working with a collection of songs as strong as these. There is no shortage of beauty among the traditional folk songs of the British isles, but a little of this does go a long way. The mournful melodies tend to become lachrymose before too long, and unfortunately the Unthanks indulge this side more often than they should. There is some exceedingly pretty music to be had here (Ewan McColl’s “Nobody Knew She Was There,” the title track), sometimes excessively so (”Flowers of the Town”).

But what do I know? I’m an American! These folk songs are our folk songs too, though; you hear these melodies throughout Appalachian music, for one, so these songs do form the bedrock of our country’s early folk music, whose narrative and melodic sensibilities only increased when it mixed with blues to become American country. Though Here’s The Tender Coming is flawed, it does contain the thrill of hearing these old songs with new ears. It certainly takes some fortitude to tackle the great folk songbook (though considering the only original here, “Lucky Gilchrist,” is a drearily monotonous affair, despite lines like “Lucky G was full of glee/a bit like Freddie Mercury,” perhaps it’s for the best), and the Unthanks here prove themselves up to the task, if not always completely worthy.

Miranda Lambert: Revolution

Will, October 13, 2009 in Music Reviews. 2 Comments Tags: , , .

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Miranda Lambert is experiencing an exceptionally tuneful bout of growing pains. Like other artists who are suddenly met with a windfall of concurrent critical and commercial success, Revolution sees Lambert exerting a conscious effort to showcase Growth and Maturity as a songwriter. Putting it bluntly, Lambert does not want to simply be known as the gun-totin’ chainsmokin’ vengeful firebrand that was birthed with the success of her 2007 breakthrough Crazy Ex-Girlfriend. She wants you to know that she can also go soft. Trouble is, any listener who moves past her image knew that already; part of the reason Crazy Ex-Girlfriend worked so well was that she ached on the ballads as beautifully as she rocked the barnburners. On Revolution, Lambert still knows how to rock the barnburners, thank God. But her very concerted effort to show that she can do the ballads makes Revolution have less of an immediate impact than Crazy Ex-Girlfriend or even her major label debut Kerosene. But it also means there’s a breadth of emotional complexity that makes for a more interesting artistic statement.

Part of the deliberate image-shift occurs in the curious choice to release two of the album’s first three songs as its first two singles: “Dead Flowers,” which was released to country radio back in May, and flopped; and album opener “White Liar,” which is currently flopping. Not that this hurts Miranda Lambert as an artist; she’s never been fully-embraced by Nashville (the feeling seems mutual–”I put a bullet in my radio,” she declares in “Maintain The Pain”). But it certainly hurts her as far as this PR move goes. Both songs are fine album tracks with the kind of interesting lyrical crinkles you won’t generally hear on country radio. “White Liar” casually drops a confession that complicates the song’s previous narrative, and “Dead Flowers” includes a wonderfully poetic link between dead flowers and burnt-out Christmas lights (proof of her writing talent is that she refuses to use the word “bulb” to connect them, letting the images speak for themselves). Both songs are wonderful additions to Lambert’s lyrical palette; the problem is that they are both less musically and vocally interesting than they need to be–almost as if Lambert is sanding down her idiosyncrasies in order to win some of those Best Female Vocalist country establishment awards she keeps losing to Carrie Underwood. Consequently, they are the two least interesting singles of Lambert’s career, which is no way to introduce a new album.

It is unfortunate, because potential hits abound elsewhere. It’s just that–yep, you guessed it–most of them are barnburners. Sandwiched between the two failed singles is “Only Prettier,” which actually seems to be addressed to Underwood and her Nashville-approved ilk with the lyric “I got a mouth like a sailor and yours is more like a Hallmark card.” The guitars swing along with Lambert’s delirious vocal, and she shows the kind of enthusiasm here that is missing from the two singles; she clearly relishes playing the Mean Girl–expressing a hilariously blistering contempt for skinny girls to boot–and this song is a lyrical trolling worthy of Toby Keith, except a lot more fun. And funny too; what was seemingly lost in appreciation of Crazy Ex-Girlfriend was Lambert’s biting wit–she did, after all, appropriate and reverse the misogyny of “Under My Thumb” in that record’s “Guilty In Here,” a fine ode to sluttin’ it up.

Lambert has exceptional taste. Aside from the Stones, she jacked Steve Earle so hard that she gave him a co-writing credit, and has previously covered the likes of Gillian Welch, Patty Griffin, and Carlene Carter; on this record she gives a large boot up the asses of Fred Eaglesmith, Julie Miller, and John Prine as well. Which means that, although the Loretta Lynn comparisons are tempting, her skill as an interpreter means that she may actually be closer to being this generation’s Emmylou Harris. Which is fitting, considering the “red dirt girl” reference in the lovely “Airstream Song,” a song with a melody so vintage-sounding that Harris herself would have done it proud during her great run in the 70s. Further proof that Lambert’s writing is up to par with her idols’ is shown in “Me & Your Cigarettes,” which contains such a classic  metaphor that it’s surprising this song wasn’t written until now.

The fact that Lambert can write such classic-sounding songs isn’t surprising; she is, at heart, somewhat of a traditionalist and keeps in line with a certain historical trend regarding country music’s reactionism (which makes something like the open-mindedness of Brad Paisley’s “Welcome To The Future” even more of an oddity). She is a Texan, after all, and she very clearly loves her guns. And considering the current political climate, what with people calling the President a liar and a socialist, this creates an anxious undertone in some of Lambert’s songs (the album’s very title itself seems slightly incendiary). It would do a myopic disservice to Lambert, however, to see her as some kind of wingnut spokesperson; she clearly aligns herself with the outlaw country of her hero Merle Haggard, and codes as more generally anti-authority than right-wing. The shit-talker who wants to cross party lines in “Only Prettier” can be from either side of the political stripe (and that’s only if you invest that line with politics). The reactionary in “Airstream Song” partly has an antecedent in Henry David Thoreau. And “Time To Get A Gun” was written by a Canadian, of all things, even if its satire may be lost on–or dismissed by–roadhouse patrons who just want something that sounds good for a sing-along. As a citizen she has preached gun control, but as a singer, part of the fun of her vocal is that she neither overplays the wink or takes it too seriously.

Such ambiguity only serves Lambert’s artistry further. And finally, she does prove again that she does the ballads well. Nashville writers-for-hire Tom Douglas and Allen Shamblin provide the gorgeous and unsentimental “The House That Built Me,” a song whose lyrics have such an impressive specificity of detail that they transcend the hoary concept–actually very similar in manner to Taylor Swift, country’s other great blonde singer-songwriter. “Makin’ Plans” is a nicely understated love song that only serves to highlight how overblown the similar “Love Song” is, which makes it the album’s only real misstep.

Revolution is far from perfect, but it’s another argument for Miranda Lambert as country music’s most exciting artist. And part of what makes her so exciting is that she would also be a boon to another genre, should she so choose: rock. Like Jamey Johnson, Lambert is one of the few country musicians who still knows the value of good guitar noise. Hell, “Maintain The Pain” by itself manages to open like Blue Oyster Cult, have a chorus worthy of Hole, and a title that sounds like a lost Metallica b-side. And her cover of “That’s The Way The World Goes ‘Round” has a punkish energy, from the feedback to the driving riff to the sloppy solo. She’s a woman who can play with the boys, but can also brandish her femininity as a firearm, a duality that is sorely needed in both genres. But she also knows to leave the party pretty, and by the time “Virginia Bluebell” finishes, it’s like a chaser after the exhaustiveness of this overlong album, a song that conjures a late night drive down a dusty country road. Wheels’ turning should be the only reason for this album’s title, not a political call-to-arms or even a self-serving estimation of growth; like all great country music, it would sound perfect in a car. Too bad they won’t play it on the radio.

Yo La Tengo: Popular Songs

Will, October 7, 2009 in Music Reviews. 0 Comments Tags: , , .

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Being Yo La Tengo in 2009 must be a small challenge; a band that has spent over 20 years launching itself into the indie rock firmament no longer has much left to prove, but as with other members of their cohort (Sonic Youth and Flaming Lips most notably) they have spent the past decade-plus trying to prove their relevance not only to a fanbase privy to their discography but also to a new generation of ears trained to consistently search for some new sound. Yo La Tengo is legitimately Old School by now, and have been for a while–so much so that one could call Popular Songs their first fully successful release since And Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside-Out, which came out nine whole years ago. A whole decade of new and old noise has fallen in and out of favor and here Yo La Tengo is, plugging away with their old values of enthusiasm and songcraft.

All of which isn’t to say that Yo La Tengo doesn’t have new tricks up its sleeve; it’s just that those new tricks come from older places, and sound fully integrated into the band’s repertoire due to their tenure as professional musical experimenters. This is not a band that has ever felt the need to shy away from a new challenge or genre exercise. So while it’s valid to point out the vaguely electronic-pop pulse of a song like “By Two’s,” it’s also prudent to note that it could easily slide onto And Then Nothing’s tracklist and feel just as organic there. With each genre experiment, though, the band aims its sights a bit further beyond the landscape of indie rock only to fall someplace very near their own backyard. Album opener “Here To Fall” starts with some ambient squall that shifts to a nearly late-period Stax-ish roll before settling instead for “Planet Telex” (they are white, after all). Similarly, “Periodically Triple or Double” aims to get funky but ultimately sounds like Spoon’s version of funky.

No one is going to look to a Yo La Tengo record for great singing, of course, but Ira Kaplan and Georgia Hubley’s vocals are too often detrimental to the possible greatness of a few tracks. Like true 90s indie vets, Kaplan and Hubley employ detached vocals for every track here–even on those that seem to demand vivacity. “Nothing To Hide” gets into a great garage-rock stomp (with a hand-clapping girl group bridge to boot) but is let down by its seemingly bored singers; in a better world, Kelly Clarkson would cover this and get massive radio success. “If It’s True” rips off the string section from “I Can’t Help Myself (Sugar Pie Honey Bunch)” but thanks to their thin voices, the duet sounds much more like an old Belle & Sebastian tune than a Motown nugget, which is alternately highly disappointing and somehow charming in a low-key manner.

The generally lackadaisical singing is problematic but, in a roundabout way, highlights a certain lyrical theme that runs throughout Popular Songs. Hubley is the main culprit in non-enunciation, and while “Avalon or Someone Very Similar” sounds like a very pretty–if somewhat bland–piece of cooing wistfulness, it only serves to make a distinguishable lyric like “Times have changed for me and times have changed for you/Looking back on all that we once knew” that much more effective. There’s a proud weariness to a line like this, a sense of hard-won struggle that was mapped out in “Here To Fall” and is echoed later by “All Your Secrets,” where Kaplan stops mush-mouthing long enough for us to hear “If we can’t stop the restless night/We won’t give up without a fight/Before the riot.” And they’ve earned that sense of pride–which also seems mixed with awe–as a band that has weathered all sorts of changes in mood, taste, and climate in regards to indie rock specifically, and the music business as a whole.

It is at the back-end where the record, perhaps a little too late, gets its game-changer. If there is one true flaw on this record of very fine individual songs with sometimes surprising charms (the Byrdsian jangle of “When It’s Dark,” for example, that then suddenly jacks the melody to “Sloop John B” and integrates it beautifully) is the sequencing. “Here To Fall” starts the album off well, but having two somnolent Hubley pieces back-to-back is a real lurch in momentum when it’s only just started; from then on Yo La Tengo seems to hopscotch with great abandon–it’s fun to listen to, but it also means a lack of cohesion. That is, until the final troika of songs, each more epic in length than the last, which play like a suite and elevate an album that has been hinting at this; at building towards something possibly greater than a mere collection of good songs. The glorious, chugging beauty of “More Stars Than There Are In Heaven” feels like the album’s grand statement, its refrain of “We’ll walk hand in hand” sounding like Popular Songs’s thesis. It is also perfectly titled, what with its endlessly spiraling and slightly desperate melody like a panoramic view of the nighttime sky as you see each new star that emerges. “The Fireside” provides a simple, elemental and crystalline acoustic riff, so achingly beautiful that it should soundtrack a montage of red Texas sunsets and desolate roads and embattled teenagers on Friday Night Lights. The effect is so haunting and meditative that when Kaplan begins his brief singing appearance at 7:16, it is nearly disruptive–like a kindler, gentler version of Sunn O)))’s “Aghartha.” “After The Glitter Is Gone” is a totally unnecessary excuse for Yo La Tengo to show that they can still do guitar skronk with the best of them, and if you can hang with its 16-minute run time it proves to be mindless fun.

At this point in their career, Yo La Tengo are an autumn sweater. They may be serviceable, but they are also comforting and warm, and sometimes may even seem fashionable. But like all good Mets fans from New Jersey, nothing they do anymore can be considered remotely sexy, and perhaps they weren’t even that 10-15 years ago, back at the height of their creativity and cachet. But it seemed more important then, that they were around; a band that was vital in helping to create individual spaces for their own little corner of the world. Whatever indie is now, it is no longer little and takes up a lot more space. And there are better, younger, cooler bands than Yo La Tengo to represent it. But it doesn’t mean they’re going anywhere; they are now a band that represents–and makes music about–marriage and fidelity and growing old together. “Together” meaning Ira and Georgia, meaning them as a band with James McNew, and with the listener as well. It doesn’t mean it won’t be hard, or messy, or sometimes take an eternity (or, say, nine years) before it feels like it’s worth the trouble. If those new sounds start to bore you, they’ll be around. Maybe they’ll even have a mini-career renaissance to offer as well. It just won’t mean as much as it used to.