Jeffrey Lewis has got quite an acquired singing voice. This is customary of the anti-folk scene in which he’s associated, but, even by those standards he has a tendency to grate. Lewis’ sparse compositions have become a touch fuller with each release, and with this the whiny edge in his voice has somewhat softened. These advances, however, provide drawbacks with the perks; the whininess is less of a distraction, but the increase in melody can divert the listener from paying attention to Lewis' splendid lyrics.
Oh, those lyrics! In terms of songwriting, Lewis teeters on the border of that whimsical territory that Jens Lekman holds claim to. Where lesser talents risk overindulging in the "w" stuff, both Lewis and Lekman prove consistently worthy of carrying on a fellow man of whimsey, Jonathan Richman's, torch. But, whereas Lekman's predominant preoccupation is love, on 'Em Are I Lewis seems to have a few other things in mind, as well as a predisposition for wordplay (as evidenced in the album title). Love does seem to rate pretty highly in his mind as well, but songs about mortality are just as prevalent, with a tune or two about traveling--whether it be through time or on a Greyhound bus--popping up every track or so. None of the songs paint a picture as brilliantly as City & Eastern Songs' “Williamsburg Will Oldham Horror,” but it’s not every day that you’re going to listen to a song by any Joe Folkie where a line such as “And children are clumsy people, and old people are rotting children” is followed up by "And I still don't have a cell phone, but this sea shell gets reception."
Returning to the musical side of things, 'Em Are I is a definite progression from Lewis' last release of original material, City and Eastern Songs, itself absolutely lush compared to his earlier lo-fi outings. 'Em Are I is the first Jeffrey Lewis album where I found myself grabbed by the tunes as much as the words. Opener "Slogans" starts things off on a bob and a jaunt, with the proceedings getting even boppier once "Broken Broken Broken Heart" kicks in--one of the most effervescent sounding songs about getting your heart busted in recent memory. "The Upside-Down Cross", written by Jeffrey's brother Jack, is a seven minute dabble in noise rock that neither grates, bores, nor overindulges itself. It’s the sort of song one would never expect on a Jeffrey Lewis album, yet its appearance is far from unwelcome.
Things slow down a bit after that point, with the second half of the album hitting a snag or two. Yet, a touch of sweetness is offered in "It's Not Impossible," and the final track, "Mini Theme: Moocher From the Future" has some operatic backup singing that somehow manages to fall short of irksome. Backup singing elsewhere isn't so deficient, unfortunately. But this is only one small drawback in a mostly great step forward.
Level of Disappointment: 4; it's hard to dislike someone as endearingly unattractive as Lewis.
To Watch: "To Be Objectified" video (He actually looks kinda cute in this! Still hard to dislike, though. )
To Watch II: A cover of Eminem’s “Brain Damage”, with Laura Marling (courtesy of The Guardian.)
Monday, June 29, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Deerhunter--Rainwater Cassette Exchange: An EP Bringing Dreaminess and Dreariness in Equal Doses
Who knew that all The Strokes needed to remain on top of the indie world was a theremin? The jaded among us may be wondering this upon hearing "Famous Last Words," the third track on Deerhunter's new EP, Rainwater Cassette Exchange. But Deerhunter, unlike so many hype today gone tomorrow bands, are not primarily early ’00’s nostalgia suppliers. Deerhunter haven't even truly morphed into The Strokes. They still make swoony, weird, drony songs, and thank golly for that.
After the lush deceptions that are the reggae-tinged title track and two Strokes homages---"Disappearing Ink" and the aforementioned "Famous Last Words"---the two closing songs, "Game of Diamonds" and "Circulation", revert back to a sound akin to last year's blissful Microcastles/Weird Era Cont.. Seeing as that album was one of 2009's best, this is certainly not an unwelcome return.
In spite of all five songs appearing to be about maladies, the almost ‘60’s girl group poppiness that features in the Deerhunter sound pacifies the listener enough to keep consternation at bay. Frontman Bradford Cox's vocals---while lacking in range---are wonderfully expressive, and serve as another key to alleviation. No one today comes as close to reproducing the lovelorn weariness of a Mary Weiss as he. As Cox sings, "No one ever walked with me/I got so tired on my feet/I lay drunk on the Bowery" in "Game of Diamonds," the listener is there, sighing along on the filthy ground.
What’s next for Deerhunter’s noise-inflected dream pop is wide open to conjecture, but Rainwater Cassette Exchange gives us confidence that the band will prove once again that the indie hysteria is valid.
Level of Disappointment: 3; it's five songs! You can't go wrong with that!
Watch: See, even David Lynch loves 'em.
After the lush deceptions that are the reggae-tinged title track and two Strokes homages---"Disappearing Ink" and the aforementioned "Famous Last Words"---the two closing songs, "Game of Diamonds" and "Circulation", revert back to a sound akin to last year's blissful Microcastles/Weird Era Cont.. Seeing as that album was one of 2009's best, this is certainly not an unwelcome return.
In spite of all five songs appearing to be about maladies, the almost ‘60’s girl group poppiness that features in the Deerhunter sound pacifies the listener enough to keep consternation at bay. Frontman Bradford Cox's vocals---while lacking in range---are wonderfully expressive, and serve as another key to alleviation. No one today comes as close to reproducing the lovelorn weariness of a Mary Weiss as he. As Cox sings, "No one ever walked with me/I got so tired on my feet/I lay drunk on the Bowery" in "Game of Diamonds," the listener is there, sighing along on the filthy ground.
What’s next for Deerhunter’s noise-inflected dream pop is wide open to conjecture, but Rainwater Cassette Exchange gives us confidence that the band will prove once again that the indie hysteria is valid.
Level of Disappointment: 3; it's five songs! You can't go wrong with that!
Watch: See, even David Lynch loves 'em.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Manic Street Preachers--Journal For Plague Lovers: An Album That Was Destined to Fail Proves Itself An Anachronistic Victory
I will probably expound on Manic Street Preachers' 1994 release, The Holy Bible, in a separate post, but for now I’ll just say that--after spending my eighteenth year playing “The Bible” to my doleful little heart’s content--I, with a Jehovah’s Witness-like intensity, tried to force it upon any random poor soul I encountered. I should have known that not everybody takes to songs about extreme self-abuse and the Holocaust as easily as myself, but, for a love ‘em or hate ‘em band, most music lovers will either enthusiastically agree that The Holy Bible is a truly original and untouchable piece of brutality, or they will begrudgingly concede that, yeah, it’s great.
I don’t want to rehash the band’s rich history for the eighty trillionth time, so please refer to Wikipedia if you’re uninformed. If you’re planning on reading further here, all you really need to know is that lyricist Richey Edwards, finally declared deceased last year and worthy of cult idol status on the sheer power of his cheekbones alone, bequeathed a journal of lyrics to his band mates in 1995. Fourteen years later, and in a potentially fatal move, the remaining members structured those words into songs and released them in a package highly reminiscent of, yep, their high water mark, The Holy Bible. Another painting by British artist Jenny Saville serving as the cover art? Check. The same number of tracks as The Holy Bible, with a society-bashing opener that is prefaced by a sound bite, ala their old classic? Check (see “Peeled Apples” with its sample courtesy of Christian Bale in The Machinist). The same fucking font? Check.
What are you doing, guys?
It seems that The Manics’ dearly departed really must be watching over the surviving members, because the doubters--me included--are currently eating their japes and taunts in a sullen huff. Journal For Plague Lovers is more surreal, less pulverizing, and more musically varied than The Holy Bible. It’s virtually impossible to out-gloom that album, so attempts to do so are largely dropped after "Peeled Apples" and relegated to hidden track “Bag Lady,” allowing the album to effortlessly progress through punchy punk bursts and a sprinkling of pretty acoustic tracks.
Early Manics lyrics were a marvel of insane amounts of words per meter, and words again abound here. The lyrics were edited down--they appear in full in the deluxe edition of the release--but it should still be impossible to sing “an African Punch and Judy show at half the price” with any level of intelligibility. James Dean Bradfield, an underrated singer and guitarist if there ever was one, mangles the lyrics into the meter, prompting the listener to engage in many an ear straining until some semblance of clarity is reached. This tactic reveals one of the album’s strong points--because a new word or line is deciphered each time, it takes far longer for repeat listening to give way to redundancy.
Another of the album’s gifts is the effortless way in which the music compliments the lyrics, in spite of the words being written fourteen years prior. These days, it is truly rare to find a song as near perfect as “Facing Page: Top Left.” Featuring just a guitar and harp, the song starts off as an unsullied acoustic number seemingly about hospitalization before the truly unusual chorus of “this beauty here dipping neophobia” sends the listener scrambling for both the lyrics sheet and an encyclopedia on psychological disorders. As the song progresses, guitar and harp partake in some melodic inversions, and the bleakness of the second verse holds a mirror to the first verse's sarcasm.
Music and lyrics work in harmony again on “Doors Closing Slowly,” three minutes of terminal woe backed by a condemned man drumbeat and a highly appropriate Virgin Suicides sample. “Marlon J.D.” comes at the listener with whiplash guitars and lyrics describing a scene in the Brando film Reflections in a Golden Eye. The most lyrically straightforward song on this or pretty much any other Manics album for that matter--is closer “William’s Last Words,” a simple indie-pop composition sung-spoken by bassist Nicky Wire. The lyrics are practically asking to be read as a suicide note, but the band doesn’t shy away from this association; the end result is all the more emotional and touching for it.
As with the Jarvis Cocker album, Journal For Plague Lovers was produced by Steve Albini, but here, his riley presence is more apparent. It may seem a little odd for a band of forty-something Welshmen to be riffing and pounding in a way so characteristic of the In Utero days, yet Journal For Plague Lovers sounds evocative rather than dated. Time will tell whether it becomes one of those old classics that will still sound as relevant and good in eight years as it does now. For the impatient among us who want to know if Journal For Plague Lovers is worthy of The Holy Bible style adoration, however, the answer is a resolute no, because, really, nothing in existence can touch it. Happily, Manic Street Preachers are aware of this fact also, and have wisely chosen to recall rather than rehash.
Level of Disappointment: 2; The only disappointing thing about the album is that it’s not getting a stateside release. Also, I’m disappointed in myself for not knowing any better and falling back into Manics fandom. I guess I’m just a sucker for cute boys with hang ups who like reading books.
Watch: A very insightful track by track dissection of the album by Bradfield and Wire.
I don’t want to rehash the band’s rich history for the eighty trillionth time, so please refer to Wikipedia if you’re uninformed. If you’re planning on reading further here, all you really need to know is that lyricist Richey Edwards, finally declared deceased last year and worthy of cult idol status on the sheer power of his cheekbones alone, bequeathed a journal of lyrics to his band mates in 1995. Fourteen years later, and in a potentially fatal move, the remaining members structured those words into songs and released them in a package highly reminiscent of, yep, their high water mark, The Holy Bible. Another painting by British artist Jenny Saville serving as the cover art? Check. The same number of tracks as The Holy Bible, with a society-bashing opener that is prefaced by a sound bite, ala their old classic? Check (see “Peeled Apples” with its sample courtesy of Christian Bale in The Machinist). The same fucking font? Check.
What are you doing, guys?
It seems that The Manics’ dearly departed really must be watching over the surviving members, because the doubters--me included--are currently eating their japes and taunts in a sullen huff. Journal For Plague Lovers is more surreal, less pulverizing, and more musically varied than The Holy Bible. It’s virtually impossible to out-gloom that album, so attempts to do so are largely dropped after "Peeled Apples" and relegated to hidden track “Bag Lady,” allowing the album to effortlessly progress through punchy punk bursts and a sprinkling of pretty acoustic tracks.
Early Manics lyrics were a marvel of insane amounts of words per meter, and words again abound here. The lyrics were edited down--they appear in full in the deluxe edition of the release--but it should still be impossible to sing “an African Punch and Judy show at half the price” with any level of intelligibility. James Dean Bradfield, an underrated singer and guitarist if there ever was one, mangles the lyrics into the meter, prompting the listener to engage in many an ear straining until some semblance of clarity is reached. This tactic reveals one of the album’s strong points--because a new word or line is deciphered each time, it takes far longer for repeat listening to give way to redundancy.
Another of the album’s gifts is the effortless way in which the music compliments the lyrics, in spite of the words being written fourteen years prior. These days, it is truly rare to find a song as near perfect as “Facing Page: Top Left.” Featuring just a guitar and harp, the song starts off as an unsullied acoustic number seemingly about hospitalization before the truly unusual chorus of “this beauty here dipping neophobia” sends the listener scrambling for both the lyrics sheet and an encyclopedia on psychological disorders. As the song progresses, guitar and harp partake in some melodic inversions, and the bleakness of the second verse holds a mirror to the first verse's sarcasm.
Music and lyrics work in harmony again on “Doors Closing Slowly,” three minutes of terminal woe backed by a condemned man drumbeat and a highly appropriate Virgin Suicides sample. “Marlon J.D.” comes at the listener with whiplash guitars and lyrics describing a scene in the Brando film Reflections in a Golden Eye. The most lyrically straightforward song on this or pretty much any other Manics album for that matter--is closer “William’s Last Words,” a simple indie-pop composition sung-spoken by bassist Nicky Wire. The lyrics are practically asking to be read as a suicide note, but the band doesn’t shy away from this association; the end result is all the more emotional and touching for it.
As with the Jarvis Cocker album, Journal For Plague Lovers was produced by Steve Albini, but here, his riley presence is more apparent. It may seem a little odd for a band of forty-something Welshmen to be riffing and pounding in a way so characteristic of the In Utero days, yet Journal For Plague Lovers sounds evocative rather than dated. Time will tell whether it becomes one of those old classics that will still sound as relevant and good in eight years as it does now. For the impatient among us who want to know if Journal For Plague Lovers is worthy of The Holy Bible style adoration, however, the answer is a resolute no, because, really, nothing in existence can touch it. Happily, Manic Street Preachers are aware of this fact also, and have wisely chosen to recall rather than rehash.
Level of Disappointment: 2; The only disappointing thing about the album is that it’s not getting a stateside release. Also, I’m disappointed in myself for not knowing any better and falling back into Manics fandom. I guess I’m just a sucker for cute boys with hang ups who like reading books.
Watch: A very insightful track by track dissection of the album by Bradfield and Wire.
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