A lonely Saturday night is what it is.  A little over a week ago, I sat down with 18 Tecates and set sail for drunj.  Not drunk, drunj.  And upon my arrival, I found the need to hear Jeff Garber sing.  I’ve always enjoyed his voice– whether it was the warbling storyteller he was in Castor or the more high-pitched, staid version in National Skyline.  When I went to itunes to search for the Castor album I have never owned, I noticed that the the reviews mentioned a National Skyline song I have never heard.  Enter “Revenge.”

Two hours later, I was immersed in an album I never thought I’d be able to hear.  With their “permanent hiatus” status, I had stopped hoping for a new album or even new projects.  As the title track started the album, the piercing piano hearkened me back to albums past. Then, “Edge of the World” forced me forward.  Seems the break Garber took from this project changed his thinking about the band a bit.  Where the swells of looped pianos and groovier bass lines reigned, now they’ve been reigned in.  “Edge of the World” is a vocally-driven gem to begin with– the first three minutes being easy digestible and laid back– before turning toward layered excess.  The track builds toward a fiery finish, but Garber keeps the controls down.  Ultimately, the song is a subdued reminder of what layers can do without being overdone.

In fact, the entire record is an exercise in subdued top-heaviness.  “Revenge,” the single for an album no one seems to know exists, staggers at the start with a stilted beat. The melody follows shortly after and Garber’s vague lyrics croon a chorus of oohs and ahhs.  Once he actually crests (”You and I were born/ to be alone), the song builds to a crescendo that greatly overpowers his already powerful voice.  Soon after, the song wanes into radio static– a chorus of unimportant voices.  To think, all of this was washing over me 10 beers in.

Then, another change.  “Bloom” is a straight-ahead rocker in the exact vein of Failure. Nearly a carbon-copy.  I hate making comparisons.  It’s a lazy reviewing strategy that is all but disallowed here, but I had to go back and make sure this wasn’t a cover.  The song stays at crest for 7 minutes before letting up for “Glimmer,” my favorite track on the album.  “Glimmer” relies on a steady, even flow of acoustic guitar, keyboard swells and  Garber’s perfect sense of building vocals. The chorus dials in a beautiful melody on electric guitar into a swirling solo accompanying Garber belting at his loudest and most vulnerable part of the album.  Needless to say, I love it.

The faults of the album lie in the filler material between tracks.  Songs like “Golden Daggers,” “Solid Cold” and album-ender “I’m A Ghost II” are beautiful in-between songs in their own right.  I’d even say they were necessary if the album weren’t so short.  It’s as if Garber were trying to fill out an EP to be a full-length.  I’d accuse him of as much, but he’s released two EPs of material he didn’t use on the album. This is his vision– a myriad of instrumentals and simple lyrics intertwined with commercially viable electro-rock.  I’m totally fine with it.  Others may not be.

“Kingdom,” the last vocally-endowed track, is National Skyline at its best and most friendly. The acoustic guitar and keyboards return and Garber is at his echoing best.  The effects overshadow the simplicity of the track and thus it goes for Bliss and Death. As the electric guitar layers chime in, Garber carries his voice over everything.  “Without hope/ you can never feel good.”  Yeah, it sounds cheesy, but 12 or so beers in, it also sounds damned good.  Then, in the morning hungover.  Then on the train ride into town to meet up with friends.  The more I listened, the more I knew this record would be a staple in my collection.  It will join all the other National Skyline releases in that regard, at least.  Admittedly, I’m a fan.

When we received the press release and promo copy for the new Titus Andronicus record, The Monitor it featured a stream of the song “Four Score & Seven.” Going out of their way to point out that the song is 8:39 seconds long, the stream was split into two parts. Not totally shocking from a band who’s first record, The Airing Of Grievances featured a some shamblers that hung around the 6 minute mark. The tune is as nakedly grand as it’s title, with sections demarcated by what sound like drum rolls done on an actual Civil War snare drum. Patrick Stickles words and delivery are chanty, ragged and earnest (the mostly good kind). In other words, it’s what you may have been expecting form the second TA record. And with the emphasis on it’s length in the press release, I imagined it to be the grand statement of said record. Imagine my surprise, when downloading the whole thing to find out it’s only the third longest song on The Monitor. And it looked to have a Civil War theme.

Without even listening to another track I had the sinking feeling that I was going to find this sophomore effort “overambitious.” Which made me feel like a total dick.

There isn’t an opinion I find more worthless than the critic’s evaluation, not of an artist’s actual work, but their worthiness in undertaking its scope. If one wonders what exactly a critic is allowed to judge (especially in pop music), know at least that whether an artist’s ambition of meaning/message/style outpace their perceived artistic station aint one of em. Loathe was I to have that filthy O word pop into my head.

But that’s why they play the games, and that’s why we listen to stuff 10 times around here. After living in it for a couple weeks The Monitor plays like a statement not of ambition, which by definition looks to address the future and achieve a certain end, but of the immediate present. The record is a portrait of Stickles’ voice, and of his worldview. It’s full of chants, witticisms and yes, some 8, 9 and 13 minute songs. It’s not perfect but any moments of rote sloganeering are outnumbered by its moments of affecting and effective bottle raising and fistpumping.

And man, some of these refrains stick with you. Please assume all lyrical excerpts from here on out end in an exclamation point. “Four Score And Seven” has “You won’t be laughing so hard” and the tried and true “It’s still us against them.” Pair these up with the emphatic “The enemy is everywhere” from lead single “A More Perfect Union”** (there goes Pat addressing the American People again), “You will always be a loser” from “No Future Part III: Escape From No Future” and The Monitor is a drawing of battle lines between that ubiquitous societal enemy and the kids he’s singing to. The ones described in “A Pot In Which To Piss” as “never a virgin, you were fucked from the start.” In that light allusions to bygone political rhetoric seem quaintly fitting, not overstated or overblown. Them is us, and Us vs. Us is what a civil war is all about.

Washed in guitar swells, screeching horns, E-Streety keys, ripping drums and barroom chorus backup singers, this style of earnestly (mama, there goes that word again) pissing off a soapbox is a proven formula for dredging up old battles, but it’s one that Stickles and company employ with a junkyard dog authenticity. There are kids out there that need and will love this record, made now. And I liked it, so I guess I’m not a dick. The Monitor may not be your favorite record but there is little doubt in listening to and getting to know it, that it surely will be someone’s. And that’s a pretty decent ambition to have.

——
**I am writing this review without any specific reference to what appears to be Stickles slamming Boston for most of this track. He mentioned living here in Somerville last time I saw them. Go easy on us, dude, we’re cranky.

After a forgettable first album to review on 10Listens, I was anxiously looking for something to cleanse my musical pallet.  Something consistent and enjoyable enough to make me forget the back-and-forth that dominated my last reviewing experience.  Ted Leo and The Pharmacist’s latest effort, their sixth full length album as a group, was exactly what the doctor ordered.

Some might say that Ted Leo’s sticking with the same general technique throughout his career represents an inability to evolve as a musical artist. He can very easily be written off as “always sounding the same” and “unmemorable.” These antagonistic people have nothing but my unmitigated scorn. In truth, this new album, Brutalist Bricks, is an accomplishment because of the fact that it’s Ted Leo playing a game he knows how to play very well. Brutalist Bricks is self-contained, and it certainly  doesn’t overreach to try to be something that it actually isn’t.  Unoriginal? Maybe. But it’s entertaining and fun. Even if  the vast majority of the album does sound like other Ted Leo efforts, why would this be a bad thing?

If pressed to respond using only two words, I would go with “playful” and “energetic” to describe the album. I really can’t think of two better terms. I cannot help but feel that the now-pushing-forty Ted Leo had an immense amount of fun putting this together. From the very first track, entitled “The Mighty Sparrow,” Ted Leo’s guitar is leaping out of the speakers with an immeasurable energy and pace, backed by steady drumming replete with more than enough cymbal play to maintain the overall mantra of the track. This song sets the tempo for the whole album, which rarely deviates from the fast-paced scheme.  If anything, most of the album seems to be an exploration by the group to see how fast they can go before they’re forced to stop to take a breath, a stylistic decision that makes the more mellow, thoughtful guitar play by Leo shine through in moments where the tempo is lessened and the vocals are given pause.

Brutalist Bricks really hits its stride in tracks three through seven. The first of these, “Ativan Eyes,” might be my favorite on the whole album.  The song is quite chorus-driven, accentuated by echoing from backing vocals that highlight perhaps the best guitar sound on the record. I use the term “playful” above, and this song is the epitome of it on this album from a guitar perspective, as Ted Leo ventures from the bold  sound that made “Mia and Me” so awesome, to an almost whisper-like string picking with no vocals to end the track, all while Leo asserts that he “wants your eyes here” because he is “so sick of cynics” and “wants something to trust in.”  I easily exceeded the requisite ten listens on this particular track, and I can see myself coming back to it in the future.

Another instance of the “playful” quality of this album can be seen at the 2:40 mark of the second track, “Mourning In America.” Here Leo employs what I can best describe as “the airhorn sound effect from that Drake song.” It’s out of place in a Ted Leo song,  assuredly, but so out of place that it works perfectly to achieve a unique sound and level of humor not often seen.  Well done indeed.  The song “Tuberculoids Arrive In Hop” is the only song that can be seen as a radical departure from the others.  Driven by hauntingly simple acoustic guitar, only a few notes dominate the majority of the song. Ted Leo shows no lack of ingenuity here as he pairs moments where he sings like Phil Collins with the occasional helium-high falsetto.  At least, for a brief song before we explode back into the typical sound of the album with “Gimme the Wire.”

This album is a far cry from “best album ever,” but it is fun and extremely enjoyable as a result. With Brutal Bricks you have forty-one, awesome, energetic minutes that will be over before you even know it.

Color me shocked. I got an email from a band asking me to review an album I was looking forward to, and I actually like it. Arpline has undergone lineup and name changes in the past few years and a total reconstructive sound surgery, of sorts.  Their synth-driven rock lends less to the dance sound and more toward a thoughtful reconstruction of what new music can accomplish.

In other words, it’s lazy to call this “retro.” It’s even lazier to dismiss them with a label or moniker. There is some interesting shit going on here, and I am going to get to the bottom of it.  Expect a review in a week or so.  The album is out now, and available at your own price at their website. Free swag, dudes. Get used to it.

The words in the title of this post are a mouthful. More specifically, a mouthful of eighteen syllables that seem better suited to a review for the soundtrack of a Bollywood horror musical. Thank god there is a hyphen in there, otherwise this post would have read like this: “First Listen: Serena Maheesh’s Serena Maneesh 2: Abyss in B Minor.”

If it’s not obvious by now, I didn’t know anything about this band before I gave S-M 2: Abyss in B Minor a First Listen. Sure, I could have Wiki-ed the shit out of them and pretended to myself like I knew what was up, but I figured I would save that for later. Why not just dive right in? All I had to go on was the press release that accompanied the promotional download, which told me that they were 1) Norwegian and 2) a good band. Like… a really good band. Okay, the press release fucking loved them. I guess I missed the boat (the Knarr?) when their self-titled debut came out in 2005. I haven’t listened to it yet. But I might.

First, though, I’m going to give S-M 2: AIBM a Second Spin. I didn’t love it, but god damn is it one strange album. Just all over the place with songs that stopped, stuttered, started and merged in to one another. They did that thing where the next song started at the end of the song you were listening to. It seems kind of gimmicky (and really, it is) but they pulled it off. In large part because everything is so batshit weird.  The album is a foggy cloud of textural noise with clear bubbles of melody, lyrics, and grooves that occasionally float by as you stumble around, kind of lost. It’s a lot like Can. And I really like Can. The real question is whether or not those moments will be enough to sustain multiple listens, especially when you know they are coming.  The album comes out on March 23rd.

“Every time a bell rings,” goes one famous quotation about bells, “an angel gets his wings.” Another one says, “Never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.” So then what happens if those bells are broken? Do new angels just hang around Earth, flummoxed and wingless? Will mere mortals no longer know when it’s our time to die?

Chances are, James Mercer of The Shins and Brian (Danger Mouse) Burton of Gnarls Barkley didn’t have these exact questions in mind when they named their collaboration “Broken Bells.” But their self-titled debut most definitely exists within a bemused realm between life and afterlife. Mercer sings about ghosts, specters, vaporized beings, messages from the dead, phantoms of lost time, and that ever-elusive highway to heaven. Burton’s production is haunted by supernatural voices, dusty pianos, and shadowy synths. The atmosphere, while frequently frisky and elegant, is persistently unsettling, as if it’s always on the verge of revealing some bubbly, non-threatening mindfuck.

Perhaps the most shocking revelation of Broken Bells is simply how well it works, considering the widely disparate styles of its members. Burton built his career on making the past reach out to the future- think The Beatles adapting to fit Jay-Z’s rhymes on The Grey Album, or the spirit of the ’60s hauling ass to catch up with Cee-Lo Green’s 21st Century sizzle in Gnarls Barkley. Mercer, on the other hand, has typically retreated from the ultramodern world through his old-fashioned folk-rock. The collision of these two opposing forces could have easily resulted in a disastrous clash. Instead, Broken Bells creates a bold and timeless sound straight out of the 3rd-and-a-half dimension, at an intersection of hip hop, folk, and experimental pop.

The album starts with two of the strongest tracks of either artist’s career. Both “The High Road” and “Vaporize” overflow with superb melodies, seductive beats, and a Tears For Fears-ish vibe where the songs sound like polite but passionate protests into the cold, indifferent void. “The longer we wait around, the faster the years go by,” the chorus of multi-tracked Mercers reminds us in “Vaporize.” During the bridge, the voices practically cry, “Make our escape, before we start to vaporize,” and they sound like they just might. On paper, such things may not seem like the freshest insights, but on record, the resonance of these passages tingles my hide.

The third track, “Your Head Is On Fire,” glides into mellow, trippy territory that’s most effective when you’re buzzed in a steamy late-night bath. The offbeat disco of “The Ghost Inside” follows, providing one of the album’s most charming moments as the traditionally non-funky Mercer suddenly gets his Prince on. And with the sinuous and spellbinding “Sailing To Nowhere,” Broken Bells‘ fantastic first half draws to a close.

Unfortunately, the second half gradually reveals that Burton and Mercer front-loaded the album with most of their A-material.  ”Trap Doors” and “October” are the two least adventurous tracks here, and they’re anchored by some of the record’s most lethargic hooks. At least these tunes are broken up by the super-villainous grime of “Citizen,” even if it’s the one spot where Mercer seems out of his element. “Mongrel Heart” initially sounds like a pretty cool Morrissey tribute, until a Morricone interlude lifts the whole thing to the level of sublime; it’s the clear standout of side 2. “The Mall And Misery” is catchy and groovy with a sharp, rusty guitar hook, and it’s a satisfying way for the album to zoom off into the cosmos.

Despite Broken Bells‘ top-heaviness, the record as a whole wields an eerie power over me every time I listen. Not just because it’s one of those records where you’re still discovering its bells and whistles even after a dozen spins. It’s all about the alchemy, the aura, and the sense that some strange intelligence is at play here…some alien presence, disturbing but friendly, peering at us from behind an intergalactic veil…something trying to tell us the end is always near, but now is never the time to panic…we are alive, and we are dead.

Fittingly, Rogue Wave begins their album by asking, “Will I follow you down the line?”  It’s the question I asked as the album continued the trek toward desperate.  As a Rogue Wave fan, I’ve ignored transgressions in the past: shoddy lyrics, strange effects, cheese, and dialectical oddities, but nothing like Permalight.  This album asks too much with its opening question and seemingly knows it has.

That isn’t to say the entire album is bad.  Rather the opposite, I refuse to apologize for liking slow number “Sleepwalker” despite it’s ridiculous, plot-based lyrics.  “Fear Itself” is a good mid-tempo jam with awesome hooks.  “We Will Make a Song Destroy” accentuates the bands strengths while going a step beyond their normal rockers.  Even “You Have Boarded” and “Right With You”  are pretty good despite being annoying.  Hell, I like nearly half the album. Problem is, I can’t say I love any of it.  And what I don’t like? It’s too critically awful to ignore.

The genuine spirit and soul that made the band one of my guilty pleasures has dissipated after some tough times.  I won’t go into those problems here, since it would probably be kind of patronizing for the dude trashing their record saying they have an excuse.  Instead, I’ll cut everything a little short and say that Permalight feels more like a band trying to hang on to status than it does a band experimenting with their sound.  Songs like “Good Morning,” “Stars and Stripes,” and “Solitary Gun” venture haphazardly into the fracas of popular drivel and decimate the forward-moving idea of a band through their tragedies.

I will say this: through it all, they can still write catchy, likable songs. “I’ll Never Leave You” sheds the ulterior motives and combines their penchant for poppy folk mixed with an ability to use delicately simple lyrics. “Your pain is my pain./ We’ll go out of this just the same./ We’re better when our paths combine./ I nearly drove past the sign.” It’s simple, in the moment and worth it to know that everyone is still trying to get out alive.  I just wish the music had survived their pitfalls unscathed too.

I can barely contain myself. The only tragedy of National Skyline’s last album, This=Everything was that is seemed to be their last.  After five quiet years, Jeff Garber’s golden pipes and ear for layered, textural electronica has returned, and in fine form. I’d recently been listening to his former band Castor, so I am quite prepared for this release.

Bliss and Death is short and sprinkled with instrumental tracks, suggesting filler material, but I was shocked to find the release of two new EPs bookmarking the album, so it wasn’t a lack of material that drove Garber’s mindset.  Instead, it seems like atmospheric touch is the rule of the album.  Not to get too excited too early in the process, but the instrumentals are just as good as I would expect and only add to other tracks.

I feel like I could just review this on each listen, but I should quit while I am ahead, of sorts, and mention the album’s instant digital availablity.  It was released last week (I had no idea until Saturday night when I accidentally stumbled on the album searching for old Castor records) and my review will likely come next week, since I am already pumped to hear it over and over.

There are times, when hearing an album or band, you feel truly alone.  I’ve had so many of these times with Mercury Program, I can hardly imagine them playing to a crowd (even though I have seen them do so more than once).  What makes these guys so separatist? What divides the seas of humanity when the bassline hits?  Why is a jazz-influenced instrumental band so paramount to my insular personality? I set to find out with their newest release– one that came after a long absence– Chez Viking.

As the opening keyboard riffs sprinkled over me, there was no realization.  Not immediately.  By the time the song settled into its groove, I realized that Mercury Program are unlike any other band on the planet.  The smoothness of opening track “Chez Viking” nailed their biggest strength: transitions.  From the poppy and full intro to the settled-in vibe of “Arrived/Departed,” the transition from poppy and angular to bass-heavy jazz quartet is damn-near perfect.

Hearing this is no surprise.  The band had a seamless quality throughout their career.  There is something different in “Chez Viking,” however. They have become more accomplished playing music apart than they ever could have staying together for the past few years.  Chez Viking has dynamic changes that never existed before.  They are still built on the repetition of the guitar, the meandering-yet-insanely-tight basslines and the light sprinklings of drum fills and rhodes/vibes.  Listening to Mercury Program’s new album is like rereading a classic– one you liked in college, but devour now.

As the album continues, the bass pulsates and drives.  The guitar, especially in “Backseat Blackout” curls in and out of songs, and Chez Viking ebbs and flows like any good record should.  Then, “Katos” remembers me to my task. The band hits a stride.  There is a dynamic of quiet-loud without the unnecessary explosions of other instrumental rock bands.  There is an interplay in the rhythm section that is unrivaled.  They play the simplest song to the maximum ability it can be played.

Therein lies the mastery of this band.  They have their craft so solidly penned, that they could play the same song night after night and it would rarely sound the same.  We are not lonely when we listen to the Mercury Program, we are just choosing to ignore the rest of the world.  We choose to shut out the honking cars, the creepy silence of the morning commute, the attention-grabbing hordes in the parks, the television blaring and even our friends telling the same stories again and again.  It’s because their stories aren’t as good two times as any one of these seven songs is 100 times.  No one can listen to this album without concentrating on how good it really is.  Even through sleep (trust me on this one), the foot will tap and the brain will continue to slink alongside the bass as if all along.

By the time “Stand and Sing” ends the all-too-short Chez Viking, I’ve learned more than enough to know that there’s no analyzing perfection.  I just let the instruments coagulate.  When they do, the song is over before I noticed how good it really was, so I play it again– all the while ignoring my surroundings and getting lost in my own head.  It’s a special talent that few bands have; continually surprising and beckoning a listener without words, and Mercury Program has it in spades.

Suprises is the moniker for Brooks Paschal, a songwriter, multi-instrumentalist, music producer (and probably a bunch of other things) from Orlando, Florida.  All Dressed Up And Nowhere To Die is Surprises’ debut album, and like one might glean from the title, it walks the fine line between melody-driven introspection and bedroom-pop sappiness.  But this is a first listen, right?  And hell, there is nothing wrong with a grown man recognizing the beauty of a well-crafted pop song, and Surprises offers up a handful of them in this 14-track long-player.

All Dressed Up And Nowhere To Die is the kind of record you could listen to with your parents. That’s not a back-handed comment, but rather speaks to the mainstream appeal of Surprises.  Acoustic guitar, piano, textured percussion/drums and the occasional inclusion of strings are the vehicle for Paschal’s vocals, which will certainly have a polarizing effect on listeners.  On this first listen, there were times when the sentimentality and sheer unsurprising-ness of Surprises left me kind of bored, like something was held back.  Yet there are definitely some gems here, especially when Surprises is stripped down to a single, capoed guitar and a melody.

I’m not enamored by this first listen by any means, but given that I’m sick as a dog and it’s near blizzard conditions here in the mountains of North Carolina, giving a straight-up acoustic pop album like All Dressed Up And Nowhere To Die some more plays seems like a good idea.  Who knows, it might make me feel better.

Editor’s Note:  name your price for the album here, peoples. Enjoy.