We all concede to our skepticism every now and then, especially when doing so in the face of unrelenting praise. Last year, TV on the Radio's Dear Science was released on a wave of such extreme esteem that, upon hearing the first six minutes of the album, the inevitable "all that hype for this?" rhetorical spiel unfolded in my brain.
When buzz first began forming around Deerhunter, I didn't even give them a courtesy listen. I simply warmed myself to skepticism's embrace. I was so far gone that even catching Deerhunter for free turned into an opportunity to ignore them publicly.
I write this review today as a huge Deerhunter fan.What finally liberated me from my disbelief? Another free show, this time Deerhunter leader Bradford Cox's side project, Atlas Sound. Sounds presented under this moniker were closer to being straightforward songs than ambient diversions, yet they were still unsettling enough to disturb the curious passersby at the South Street Seaport's Pier 17. I obtained Let The Blind Lead Those Who Can See But Cannot Feel, the first Atlas Sound venture, and suddenly the hype became far, far easier to tolerate.
While Let The Blind... contains one of my favorite songs of this decade (the creepy dreamy "River Card"), as a whole Let The Blind... seems little more than a couple of really great songs and a lot of meandering ones. Logos, The latest Atlas Sound release, opens with more of the same."The Light That Failed" starts out promising then goes nowhere. Yet, just when that old trusty skepticism comes coiling back toward my ears, Logos gets really, really good. Tracks begin molding into actual, complete songs with the advent of "Walkabout," a duet with Animal Collective's Noah Lennox. What could have been far too indie for its own good becomes a lovingly crafted pop duet firmly placed on the right side of indie. "My Halo" features the return of Cox's yearning '60's girl group vocals; always welcome, the delivery is even more spellbinding when backed by music that could possibly be described as experimental doo-wop. The album's final song, which shares its title with the album, comes across as a boppier, more memorable version of one of Beck's blippier endeavors. Cox's hooks hold stronger, though; bops prove more victorious than blips.
The obvious album highlight, however, is "Shelia," three and a half minutes of beauty that makes the line "we'll die alone together" sound like the sweetest of pop sentiments. On infectiousness alone, it is rapidly becoming another personal favorite of the '00's.
At its best, the songs on Logos come and go like a dream, luring the listener into a hard to shake trance by the album's conclusion. Is Logos worth this threat of post-album haziness? For once, the answer is a very sound yes.
Level of Disappointment: 3; thank god Cox is so goddamn prolific. If you don't like his latest release, just wait twenty seconds and he'll probably come back with something you'll love.
To Watch: "Quick Canal" video (Not official, per se, but utterly befitting of the song, which features Stereolab's Laetitia Sadier)
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Richard Hawley--Truelove's Gutter: An Aural Delight for the Sad Bastard in All of Us
In spite of or maybe due to sounding not of this time, Richard Hawley is one of my favorite music makers of the twenty-first century. So blinding is my love for him, I don't even mind that he rarely experiments with his grand sound from release to release. Yes, his last album, Lady's Bridge, favored rockabilly a bit more than its croony and brutally underappreciated predecessor, Coles Corner, but this progression was hardly a dramatic one. What's more, Lady's Bridge was somewhat dull in places, not as consistently moving as past Hawley affairs, which bloom in loneliness and longing.
The loneliness and longing is out in full force on Truelove's Gutter, but compared to other Hawley albums, this one is a whole other beast entire. Doubters should skip to the 4:05 mark of "Soldier On," and brace themselves for the most rockin' blast of sound to appear on a Richard Hawley album thus far. The moment is as fleeting as the storm referred to in the song's lyrics, but exhilarating all the same. Elsewhere, washes of ambient tones back Hawley's stately vocals, as do unique instruments such as the cristal baschet. However, rather than distressing the listener with strangeness, Truelove's Gutter unsettles with its beauty. The lyrical triteness of tracks such as "Open Up Your Door" ("love is hard to find/ and even harder to define") is elevated by the music's mood and Hawley's croony demeanor; thus, those trite lyrics eventually explode in the musical equivalent to the sun rising on a day rich with promise and hope. On the other side of the coin, album closer "Don't You Cry" showcases Hawley at his most mournful; his voice staggers to the end of each line as if to wring the optimal amount of sorrow out of each plaint.
Truelover's Gutter real tragedy, however, is that it will probably get snubbed when the time comes to dole out year end accolades; a select few--those who love a challenge, or have faith that gloom provides endless innovation in art--may be the only ones who notice its glaring omission. This is the precise reason why we all need to find a sad old bastard, be they stranger or best friend or even lover, and tell them to listen to this album, because surely there will be no other release quite so brilliantly sorrowful this year.
DO IT.
DO IT.
Level of Disappointment: 2 ; a few of the songs drag just a tad too much, but really, its faults are microscopic.
To Watch: For Your Lover Give, Some Time official video (what we must--gladly--bide our time with until Scott Walker releases something else.)
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Amanda Blank--I Love You: Still Rides Like Kelly Bundy, Albeit Inconsistently
I never really understood the collective critical jizzing that accompanied Spank Rock's YoYoYoYoYo release three years ago. It's a good album, sure, but so good that you compel Bjork to enlist you as a support act? Still, few can doubt the pervy goodness of Spank Rock's breakout track, "Bump," at the core of which is Amanda Blank's thrillingly horny, Black Eyed Peas-dissin' guest verse. No matter how many plays "Bump" got on our digital music devices, we all yearned for more from Blank's sassy ass.
Blank's solo debut, I Love You certainly gives us more--even teasing us with song titles like "Something Bigger Something Better"--but doesn't exactly satisfy our cravings, base or otherwise. A dirty rhyme turns up here and there, but the listener will have to choke down a lot of electrotrash rehash, and Blank's unspectacular singing voice, to get to it.
Not all these expectational upsets are negative, though. At times, as on the LL Cool J interpolating "Love Song," Blank shows sincerity and heart. This is a smart move that suggests potential staying power--Blank is savvy enough to know that you can't go cruising on the sleaze highway at 100 mph all the time. Yet, she should work a little harder on her voice when her libido takes a day off, because slower tracks like "DJ" and "Leaving You Behind" plod on and on. However, these two tracks can be excused, as sandwiched between them are I Love You's best tracks--"Big Heavy," which brings on one of the most immense hooks of the year and a disco euphoric outro, and "Might Like You Better," a riff on Romeo Void's "Never Say Never," in itself a winning idea, if not a totally successful one.
On the sleaze end, Blank is still at her dirtiest when collaborating with that foul soul Spank Rock, who pops up on "Gimme What You Got." Still, give Blank some time and more room to spread her wings, and she could someday be our new smut-pop leader.
Level of Disappointment: 8; seeing her live prior to hearing I Love You really inflated my expectations; we're definitely talking an artist who's better live than on record here.
To Watch: Video for "Might Like You Better" (eh, she's foxy!).
Blank's solo debut, I Love You certainly gives us more--even teasing us with song titles like "Something Bigger Something Better"--but doesn't exactly satisfy our cravings, base or otherwise. A dirty rhyme turns up here and there, but the listener will have to choke down a lot of electrotrash rehash, and Blank's unspectacular singing voice, to get to it.
Not all these expectational upsets are negative, though. At times, as on the LL Cool J interpolating "Love Song," Blank shows sincerity and heart. This is a smart move that suggests potential staying power--Blank is savvy enough to know that you can't go cruising on the sleaze highway at 100 mph all the time. Yet, she should work a little harder on her voice when her libido takes a day off, because slower tracks like "DJ" and "Leaving You Behind" plod on and on. However, these two tracks can be excused, as sandwiched between them are I Love You's best tracks--"Big Heavy," which brings on one of the most immense hooks of the year and a disco euphoric outro, and "Might Like You Better," a riff on Romeo Void's "Never Say Never," in itself a winning idea, if not a totally successful one.
On the sleaze end, Blank is still at her dirtiest when collaborating with that foul soul Spank Rock, who pops up on "Gimme What You Got." Still, give Blank some time and more room to spread her wings, and she could someday be our new smut-pop leader.
Level of Disappointment: 8; seeing her live prior to hearing I Love You really inflated my expectations; we're definitely talking an artist who's better live than on record here.
To Watch: Video for "Might Like You Better" (eh, she's foxy!).
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Florence + The Machine--Lungs: A New Victor in the Impersonate Kate Bush Competition
One of the few comforts of the American anglophile is that we hold few preconceptions when one of the UK’s new talents fills our ears. We can take the music for what it is, without the promotional side of things mucking judgments up too severely. Even with the internet providing easy access to overseas press, what us yanks read won't summon the same amount of skepticism as hearing a song by a fresh up and comer on every iPhone commercial and UK teen drama before that artist's damn album is even released.
The above reasons made me count my lucky stars with heightened appreciation upon hearing Lungs, the debut from loopy poppet Florence Welch. There was an awareness of Welch's tendency of wearing her flamboyance on her sleeve, and her songs soundtracking popular British things, like the television show Skins, but mostly I let her immense voice override these facts.
Yet, I couldn’t let Lungs fully choke the life out of my skepticism. The first few tracks--instant summertime classic “Dog Days Are Over,” bombastic “Rabbit Heart (Raise it Up),” girl group + folk mishmash "I'm Not Calling You a Liar," synthy and sensual “Howl”--certainly weren’t lacking for glorious moments, but I couldn’t snuff uncertainty over just how Welch was going to sustain that “It’s in the trees!” Kate Bush sound for a whole album and still keep it interesting by bringing her own style into the mix.
Welch’s greatest weapon is perhaps her voice, which actually recalls Melanie more than Bush, with a faint rendering of Blaine Harrison's of Mystery Jets added in. This is not a bad thing at all. Lungs’ other major saving grace is its two central tracks, the punky, wail-showcasing “Kiss with a Fist”; and the cell block cabaret cum blues rock creepfest, “Girl with One Eye” (although the Bayou Percussion version, featured on the deluxe edition of the album, is even spookier). These two tracks take Welch right out of the tropic of whimsy and plop her straight down in grittier climes. The transition is refreshing, and actually effortless.
However, somewhere after the truly lovely “Between Two Lungs”, the songs begin to drag; “Hurricane Drunk” and The Source cover “You’ve Got the Love” give hints at what Lungs might have been were it not for Welch having weirdness in spades. Yet, I've been giving a good eight tracks repeated play ever since that first naïve listen. Lungs may not be as unique as Welch or her crew may want you to believe (Kate Bush is mentioned in most reviews of the album for a good reason), although drenching a slightly violent album in harps is a lofty step in the right direction. Although Lungs is not faultless, it’s doubtful that any divas of America can counter such a debut, but maybe that’s just my American cynicism talking.
Level of Disappointment: 4; it would have been a bummer if the music hadn’t lived up to that brilliant album cover. As an aside, this has been a great year for album covers, hasn’t it?
To Watch: Official Video for “Rabbit Heart (Raise it Up).” (Ooh, look at all those British eccentrics!)
The above reasons made me count my lucky stars with heightened appreciation upon hearing Lungs, the debut from loopy poppet Florence Welch. There was an awareness of Welch's tendency of wearing her flamboyance on her sleeve, and her songs soundtracking popular British things, like the television show Skins, but mostly I let her immense voice override these facts.
Yet, I couldn’t let Lungs fully choke the life out of my skepticism. The first few tracks--instant summertime classic “Dog Days Are Over,” bombastic “Rabbit Heart (Raise it Up),” girl group + folk mishmash "I'm Not Calling You a Liar," synthy and sensual “Howl”--certainly weren’t lacking for glorious moments, but I couldn’t snuff uncertainty over just how Welch was going to sustain that “It’s in the trees!” Kate Bush sound for a whole album and still keep it interesting by bringing her own style into the mix.
Welch’s greatest weapon is perhaps her voice, which actually recalls Melanie more than Bush, with a faint rendering of Blaine Harrison's of Mystery Jets added in. This is not a bad thing at all. Lungs’ other major saving grace is its two central tracks, the punky, wail-showcasing “Kiss with a Fist”; and the cell block cabaret cum blues rock creepfest, “Girl with One Eye” (although the Bayou Percussion version, featured on the deluxe edition of the album, is even spookier). These two tracks take Welch right out of the tropic of whimsy and plop her straight down in grittier climes. The transition is refreshing, and actually effortless.
However, somewhere after the truly lovely “Between Two Lungs”, the songs begin to drag; “Hurricane Drunk” and The Source cover “You’ve Got the Love” give hints at what Lungs might have been were it not for Welch having weirdness in spades. Yet, I've been giving a good eight tracks repeated play ever since that first naïve listen. Lungs may not be as unique as Welch or her crew may want you to believe (Kate Bush is mentioned in most reviews of the album for a good reason), although drenching a slightly violent album in harps is a lofty step in the right direction. Although Lungs is not faultless, it’s doubtful that any divas of America can counter such a debut, but maybe that’s just my American cynicism talking.
Level of Disappointment: 4; it would have been a bummer if the music hadn’t lived up to that brilliant album cover. As an aside, this has been a great year for album covers, hasn’t it?
To Watch: Official Video for “Rabbit Heart (Raise it Up).” (Ooh, look at all those British eccentrics!)
Monday, June 29, 2009
Jeffrey Lewis and the Junkyard--’Em Are I: Whoever the Junkyard are, they sure made Jeffrey Lewis a hell of a lot more musical
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.)
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.)
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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