Showing posts with label The Burg. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Burg. Show all posts

Monday, September 3, 2012

RY COODER


POLITICAL PARTY

Ry Cooder has some bluesy fun with current events on his new 'Election Special'


By: MATT ASHARE |


RHYTHM & NEWS: Cooder isn't shy about sharing his political views.
If there were something equivalent to a vetting process for rock musicians, it's hard to imagine anyone putting forth a stronger, more laudable resume than Ry Cooder. A guitarist by trade, Cooder's got far too many impressive credits to list here. He cut his teeth as a sideman in the ’60s, playing alongside out-there psychedelic cult classicist Captain Beefheart and celebrated bluesman Taj Mahal. He was the guitarist on 12 Songs, Randy Newman's landmark 1970 solo album. And he was one of the few artists who came through unscathed after hanging with the Stones when they were peaking artistically and narcotically on Let It Bleed and Sticky Fingers, adding soulful slide guitar to "Sister Morphine" and ringing mandolin to their reworked version of the blues standard "Love In Vain."
       Having established himself as something quantifiably more than just your average session dude, he went on to work with artists as diverse as Neil Young, Van Morrison, and Judy Collins. He's been the main man behind nearly a dozen solid soundtracks, including the haunting score to Wim Wenders' darkly romantic Paris, Texas and, perhaps most impressively, the Robert Johnson biopic Crossroads, on which he recreated the blues legend's masterful slide riffs. And, in the past two decades, he's become a major player in the realm of world music.
       Cooder's 1994 collaboration with Malian guitarist Ali Farka Touré, Talking Timbuktu, not only won a Grammy, but it also helped pave the way for an explosion of interest in African music. But his biggest and, in many ways, visionary achievement came in 1997 with the release of Buena Vista Social Club. A breakthrough collaborative album, Buena Vista introduced the world to dozens of overlooked Cuban musicians, many of whom have gone on to establish themselves as major players on the world music scene.
       For the most part, that's been Cooder's basic m.o. Although he hasn't actively shunned the spotlight — he did bring Wim Wenders along to Cuba to film what would become an Oscar-nominated documentary about the Buena Vista project in 1999 — he's largely stuck to the sidelines, working as a beneficent enabler who's seemed perfectly happy to let the music and his guitar do the bulk of the talking. Cooder has earned plenty of accolades in his expansive career: in 2003 Rolling Stone placed him at number eight in the magazine's list of the 100 greatest guitarists of all time. But he's savvily avoided taking on the baggage that comes with being a full-on star in our celebrity-obsessed culture.
       Through it all, Cooder has continued to steadily record and release his own work every several years. But his livelihood had never really depended on how his solo albums have performed commercially. And that has pretty much freed him up to do whatever he chooses whenever he sequesters himself in the studio. He's used that artistic license to explore everything from jazz, country, gospel, and blues, to classical Indian and African folk musics.
       Cooder's also never been particularly shy about embracing social causes: in 1995 he performed and recorded his take on The Wizard of Oz at Lincoln Center to raise money and awareness for the Children's Defense Fund, and ten years later he paid tribute to the culture of LA's Latino community on Chavez Ravine. But over the past couple of years, he's come out of his shell politically and committed himself to raging against the machine in his own subtly skewed, wryly witty manner. Last year, he convened a full complement of over twenty musicians to record Pull Up Some Dust and Sit Down, his first overtly politicized album, replete with telling titles like the bitterly sarcastic "No Banker Left Behind" and the more amusing "John Lee Hooker for President."

Ry Cooder, Election Special (Nonesuch)
       That was just a harbinger of things to come because Cooder, with just his son Joachim accompanying him on percussion, went straight back into the studio to launch an even more potently pointed and unabashedly partisan salvo at the forces he blames for the problems this country is currently facing. His timely and painstakingly topical new album, Election Special, is a rootsy, freewheeling blues and country romp that doesn't pull any punches when it comes to where Cooder stands on the issues. Indeed, the opening track, a gritty acoustic shuffle set to a stuttering backbeat, takes dead-center aim at the presumed Republican presidential nominee.
       Cooder may be pissed, but he hasn't lost his sense of humor. Instead of taking Romney to task for his turnabouts on health care reform, reproductive rights, the cat-and-mouse games he’s been playing with his tax returns, or his troubling tenure at the helm of Bain Capital, he has a little fun with a little story about a little dog in "Mutt Romney Blues." Singing from the perspective of the unfortunate canine, who was apparently caged and strapped to the top of the Romney clan's car on a cross-country trip, Cooder playfully pleads for more humane treatment, promising in return that he "won't spread the story around" or "blow the whistle" on the "mean things" that Mitt's gonna try to do.
       Things gets a bit more personal in "Brother Is Gone," a folky mandolin-based tune that places the notoriously conservative SuperPAC brothers Charles and David Koch at the mythical crossroads, making their own deal with the devil. "Immigration bills and foreclosed homes," Cooder sings with a sadness that's both genuine and feigned. "States rights we proclaim/Like those good old Jim Crow days/Our highest aim/Was to take your vote away." The tune ends on a wistful note, with Cooder taking a tasteful mandolin solo that's far too short.
       There are places on Election Special – the Stonesy "Guantanamo" being one of them – where you kinda want Cooder to cut loose with searing slide solo. But showboating has never been his style. He's always had the gift of sweet restraint. And, as openly partisan as Election Special is, that also applies to his politicking. Cooder may go "looking for the Wall Street part of town" in Tom Waitsian fashion; put himself in the sitting President's worn down shoes as "stray dog Republicans" nip at his heels in the chilly "Cold Cold Feeling"; and imagine an unholy coupling between "an NRA woman" and "a Tea Party man" at the Republican National Convention in the jaunty, countrified "Going to Tampa." But he never does so at the expense of the song, the riff, or the groove he and his son lock into.
       Cooder doesn't make any pretense of being fair and/or balanced, to borrow a soundbite from Fox News. But he's too much of a bred-in-the-bone bluesman to succumb to self-righteous superiority or egotistic elitism. He knows he's playing, not preaching, to the converted. And he does so from down in the trenches, where the culture wars are being fought, not from some lofty tower in the sky. It's just the sort of role that Cooder, rock's equivalent of a time-tested character actor, was born to play. And, quite frankly, he appears to be having a great time playing it here.

Monday, August 15, 2011

THE DECEMBERISTS LIVE 8/3/11 CHARLOTTESVILLE

The Decemberists enjoy a hot night in Charlottesville

By Burg Staff on Aug. 11, 2011
BY MATT ASHARE

The Decemberists; August 3, 2011; nTelos Wireless Pavilion, Charlottesville, VA


HOT SHOTS: The Decemberists sweat it out in Charlottesville
“You look hot,“ singer/guitarist Colin Meloy jokingly taunted the sweaty masses gathered to see his Portland, Oregon-based the Decemberists at Charlottesville’s outdoor nTelos Wireless Pavilion on the steamy evening of Aug. 3. “And you look pretty attractive too,“ the black-suited, bearded and bespectacled Meloy added cheekily, looking rather fine himself if he’d been a professor at a wine-and-cheese mixer and not the front man of a band riding a wave of near universal acclaim in what amounts to one of the bigger success stories of 2011.
     It’s a rare treat to witness — as many of us did with the Arcade Fire last year — the confident emergence of a band out of the comfort of cult stardom into something much larger and, progressively, harder to define. It can also be unsettling, as Gina Arnold detailed in her 1993 book about the rise of alternative rock, Route 666: On the Road to Nirvana (St. Martin’s Press). It used to be viewed as “selling out.“ Increasingly, though, it appears as if more and more people are simply “buying in” to a broader idea of what a big-time band can look and sound like.
     That would certainly apply to the Decemberists, who, after a PSA-style recorded introduction by the mayor of Portland — he encouraged the crowd to close their eyes and imagine they were all in a vast pine-tree forest— hit the stage in exaggeratedly formal attire. Nate Query, who switched between electric and stand-up bass, sported a white button-down shirt and black vest. Multi-instrumentalist Chris Funk, who spent most of the set playing an electric or an acoustic 12-string guitar, topped off his vintage suit ensemble with a handsome porkpie hat. And new addition Sarah Watkins was resplendent in a long, blue-print dress, as she embellished the largely acoustic arrangements with fiddle, keyboards, background harmonies, and, on the more electrified new “This Is Why We Fight,“ harmonica and an nicely distorted guitar lead. (Longtime member Sarah Conlee is on leave from the band battling breast cancer, and Meloy was kind enough to give her a shout out while letting fans know that she’s’ amassed a fine collection of “colorful head scarves.“)
     Meloy has always been drawn to folk idioms: swinging sea chanteys like “The Mariner’s Revenge Song” from 2005’s Picaresque; the two-stepping, fiddle-laced c&w of “All Arise” from this year’s The King Is Dead: English dance hall fare like the rollicking “The Chimbley Sweep” from 2003’s Her Majesty the Decemberists. All three tunes made it into the Charlottesville set, which had to be one of the quieter arena-rock shows I can remember seeing in quite some time. Parents danced with their kids amid strollers parked on the upper lawn area, while Meloy encouraged the college-age fans who were his original base to sing along to songs spanning a decade of Decemberists recordings, including the slowly swaying “Oceanside,“ a track from the band’s 2001 debut EP 5 Songs, which they opened the evening with. A playful Meloy, who’s developed a low-key, often self-deprecating manner of commanding a big stage, even reprised a deep cut from the 2008 solo acoustic EP Colin Meloy Sings Live! — “Dracula’s Daughter” — introducing it as “the worst song I’ve ever written.“ And late in the set, he handed the microphone over to drummer John Moen, got behind the kit, and the band launched into a messy, improv blues that ended with Moen writhing on the floor.
     Whether those seemingly unguarded moments were staged or not doesn’t entirely matter. The effect was to bring a little off-the-cuff, indie-rock charm along for a ride that has thousands of new fans jumping aboard the Decemberists’ mainstream train. Yes, they powered through the jangling, R.E.M.-ish “Calamity Song,“ the pounding, Neil Youngian “Down By the Water,“ and the charged anthem “This Is Why We Fight” — three tunes from the new album that have helped redefine the Decemberists as a radio-friendly, Grammy-worthy entity. And, yes, all three were, well, to borrow a word from Meloy’s opening joke, “hot.“
http://www.the-burg.com/blogit/entry/the_decemberists_enjoy_a_hot_night_in_charlottesville

Friday, July 22, 2011

MEREDITH BRAGG

Virginian Meredith Bragg puts his own twist on singer-songwriter

By The Burg Staff on Jul. 20, 2011
BY MATT ASHARE

MEREDITH BRAGG, NEST (The Kora)

“I’ve always wrestled with the idea of ‘singer-songwriter’,“ admits Arlington’s Meredith Bragg. “I think people get a particular idea or image in their head when they hear that. But I haven’t been able to come up with a better moniker, so I guess I’m stuck with ‘singer-songwriter.’“
SWEET VIRGINIAN: His delivery brings to mind Elliott Simth
     The 35-year-old Bragg was indeed the guy who wrote and sang songs he then brought to a band on his 2005 debut, An inquiry into the nature of pressure waves through eleven songs by Meredith Bragg with his band the Terminals, Vol. 1. But, as the title suggests, it wasn’t your rote heart-on-your-sleeve, dude-with-a-guitar offering. Bragg’s wistfully soft delivery and tendency to layer his vocals did earn immediate and favorable comparisons to the late Elliott Smith. But his penchant for penning impressionistic, non-linear lyrics rather than straightforward confessionals marked him as something quite different from your typical, well, singer-songwriter.
     “It’s always flattering to have that comparison,“ Bragg says of the many times his name has been mentioned in the same breath as Smith’s. “It’s also funny because the first time I actually heard Elliott Smith is when I was recording with another band and the producer mentioned that when I double tracked the vocals, it sounded like Elliott Smith. I had never heard him, so they handed me one of his records — I think it was XO. And then I went out and bought XO and Either/Or. They remain two of my favorite records.“
    Bragg was still with the Terminals — cellist Elizabeth Olson, drummer Jon Roth, and multi-instrumentalist Brian Minter — when he recorded the more collaborative 2006 release The Departures EP. But when he and his wife moved to Charlottesville later that year, Bragg finally found himself on his own with what you might call the standard tools of a conventional singer-songwriter — his voice and an acoustic guitar. What followed, the 2007 full-length Silver Sonya, was anything but conventional.
     “I couldn’t really get together with the band, so I decided to put out a solo record,“ he recalls. “And part of the idea was to give myself extreme limitations just to see what would happen. I worked with Chad Clark, a fantastic producer, and PJ Lipple; the three of us cut it up and messed around with it, treated it, and put it back in the songs to the point where they sounded like beats and ethereal strings and weren’t even recognizable as either guitar or vocals. I like the idea of creating walls and being able to delve into just the few things that you have there. It was also fun to figure out what you can do with production. You do have to limit yourself or you can end up going down the rabbit hole.“
     Bragg took that production know-how back to Arlington, where he’s resettled with his wife and their one-year-old daughter. And he also reunited the members of the Terminals when he entered the studio to record his new album Nest, a disc that finds an artful and compelling balance between the cut-and-paste avant-folk atmospherics of Silver Sonya and a sound more grounded in the rock of indiedom. Those haunting echoes of Elliott Smith remain, especially when Bragg pares down to simply strummed acoustic guitar chords on the reflective “Civilians” and harmonizes with himself against the shimmering, fingerpicked-guitar backdrop of “Arrowstork.“ And Bragg isn’t afraid to settle occasionally into something resembling a natural, if expressionistic, narrative in “Civilians,“ with verses like “Take me in/Into the summer haze/Hold me closer/A smile across your face/The light is right/The reasons are wrong/Seasons pushing/Pushing us along.“
     Elsewhere, it’s all about drone, tone, and texture. Quiet synths intersect with subdued electric guitars, and rhythms that seamlessly blend real drums with looped grooves to create the lush electro-organic soundscape of “Second Golden Age,“ as Bragg drops intriguing lines like “Take a minute for the breath to stretch and catch inside/Take a minute to check if we’re alive.“ Olson’s cello brings a chamber-pop feel to the rockier “Birds of North America,“ a track that builds calmly toward a buoyant, melodic climax. And in “Point, Line, and Plane,“ a song inspired by the ideas of the Russian artist/theorist Wassily Kandinsky, Bragg, who again has Clark on board producing, ponders the sublime in a near whisper with little more than random samples to guide him.
     “I consider it one long arc,“ Bragg says of where his muse had led him. “For whatever reason people are calling this the solo record. But even if you have songs, when you bring them to a group they put their imprint on them. You could really say the same about producers, especially the way I go back and forth. At the end of the day it’s very easy to stay in a comfort zone with an acoustic guitar and a voice. I feel like I’ve done that before, and I can still do that. But I like a little more experimentation and the give and take of collaboration.“
Email mattattheburg@gmail.com with tips about any local and/or regional music events 
http://www.the-burg.com/blogit/entry/music_review_virginian_meredith_bragg_puts_his_own_twist_on_singer-son 

Saturday, June 11, 2011

Arctic Monkeys

Music review: An artfully composed Arctic Monkeys orchestrate a breakthrough on new album

By The Burg Staff on Jun. 08, 2011
By Matt Ashare
In 2009, Britain’s Arctic Monkeys took a fairly unexpected left turn — not to mention a long plane ride — when they left the cold comfort of Sheffield for Josh Homme’s sun-baked Southern California desert enclave, where America’s reigning king of neo-stoner rock helped produce the foursome’s third disc. It would be wrong to assess the resulting release, Humbug, as an artistic failure. But for a band whose 2005 debut, Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not, came out of nowhere to become the fastest selling album in British chart history (in the process all but eclipsing Arctic Monkeys’ like-minded Domino label mates Franz Ferdinand), it certainly marked a modest commercial setback.
     Homme, best know as Queens of the Stone Age’s fearless leader, is back to lend a hand on Arctic Monkeys’ new album. Only, this time, his role amounts to little more than adding some nondescript background vocals to the noisy, supercharged, and willfully dumbed-down “Brick By Brick,“ a lumbering power chord rocker featuring guitarist Jamie Cook on vocals and a rather Homme-y blast of guitar-god soloing by — and I’m guessing here — singer/guitarist Alex Turner. The song, which was leaked via a YouTube video back on March 4, was conceived, I suspect, as a puckish prank or smokescreen to mislead fans and critics alike into assuming that the rest of the disc would be much in keeping with the dark density of Humbug, rather than a return to the infectiously playful, hyperkinetic post-punk intensity of the band’s first two albums.
     None of the above: that would be the most accurate assessment of Suck It And See (yes, that’s what the disc’s called). To suggest that a band who have chosen a title that’s caused more than a little consternation in the boardrooms of big-box retailers like Wal-Mart for their most accessibly melodic disc to date have “matured” might invite something along the lines of, say, ridicule. And, although it wouldn’t be entirely inaccurate to characterize the disc that way, I’m gonna play it safe and suggest that, minus “Brick By Brick,“ Suck It And See — an album well poised to be Arctic Monkeys’ big American breakthrough — is better described as a recording that’s more clearly composed, in both senses of the word, than their previous efforts.
     There are echoes of the bash-and-pop punk that propelled the quick-fire blasts of Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not and 2007’s Favourite Worst Nightmare, most notably in the reeling and rambunctious first minute of “Library Pictures.“
There’s even some bark in Turner’s voice as he bites into meaty bits of lyric like “Draw some ellipses to chase you round the room/Through curly straws and metaphors and goo.“ And then the clouds of distortion fade, the drums stop pounding, and Turner turns to a croon for the impressionist, vaguely psychedelic verse/bridge — “Been watching all the neon blossoms flickering/You look like you’ve all forgotten where you’ve been.“
     Turner’s always been a cynical romantic with a peculiarly persuasive way with words that brings to mind former Blur front man Damon Albarn. “I pour my aching heart into a pop song/I couldn’t get the hang of poetry,“ he cheekily acquiesces against the melancholy tug of Cook’s Johnny Marr-ish, Smiths-style arpeggios on the title track, before deploying one of the disc’s most arresting images: “That’s not a skirt, girl/That’s a sawn-off shotgun/And I can only hope/You’ve got it aimed at me.“
     With Cook brandishing his guitar to paint colorful figures around Turner’s never less than vivid lyrics, and bassist Nick O’Malley and drummer Matt Helders holding back just enough to give Turner the room he needs to employ a purer tone of voice, Arctic Monkeys, at their most composed and, yes, accessible, have begun to take on aspects of mid-period Echo and the Bunnymen. Except, I’m pretty certain Ian McCulloch never wrote a lyric as alluringly oblique, emotionally evocative, and playfully pointed as “Home sweet home, home sweet home, home sweet booby-trap/I took the batteries out my mysticism and put ’em in my thinking cap”. . . At least not in the context of a song as sing-along catchy as “The Hellcat Spangled Shalalala.“

Thursday, May 19, 2011

FLEET FOXES

Music review: The rousing retro-folk of Fleet Foxes’ Helplessness Blues

By The Burg Staff on May. 18, 2011
By Matt Ashare
For all the grousing and grimacing over the deleterious impact digital technology has had on the music industry (i.e., on major music labels), the same cannot be said for the effect it’s had on music itself. Beginning with the introduction of CDs in the late ’80s, the move to digital precipitated a veritable deluge of hard-to-find, out-of-print, and just plain obscure releases by a bevy of odd artists whose work is now not much harder to find online than the latest Lady Gaga remix.
     In fact, over the past dozen years, the rediscovery of lost recordings by late-’60s/early-’70s singer-songwriters like Vashti Bunyan, Judee Sill, and Jeff Buckley’s father Tim Buckley, has helped catalyze the emergence of the so-called “freak-folk” movement, a loosely bound underground that includes Baltimore’s Animal Collective and all its various spin-offs, Detroit singer-songwriter Sufjan Stevens, and the California songstress Joanna Newsom. (Incidentally, I prefer the designation “avant-folk,” given the often experimental nature of “freak-folk,” but apparently I’ve been out-voted.)
     Until now, this indie offshoot hasn’t produced a true Billboard-charting breakthrough on par with the Arcade Fire’s The Suburbs or even the Decemberists’ more recent The King Is Dead. But with Fleet Foxes gearing up for an American and European tour to support their new Helplessness Blues, that may soon change, in part because the Seattle-via-Portland sixsome have crafted an album that, even at its most extreme, is only guardedly avant.
It was a rich knowledge of folk-rock history, reflected in the fingerpicked guitars, flawless vocal harmonizing, and hints of Harvest-era Neil Young on Fleet Foxes, the band’s hushed 2008 full-length debut, that gained the group acceptance among freak folkies and led to singer-guitarist Robin Pecknold touring with Joanna Newsom in 2009.
     That jaunt kickstarted Pecknold’s songwriting for Helplessness Blues, and may explain why, despite the addition of a crafty sixth member — multi-instrumentalist Morgan Henderson — much of the album retains the pastoral, stripped-down sensibility of Fleet Foxes, particularly the muted “Blue Spotted Tail,” with its single acoustic guitar and close-mic’ed vocal track, and the more strongly sung and strummed, drum-less album closer “Someone You’d Admire.” But Henderson’s impact on a group that includes guitarist Skyler Skjelset, drummer Josh Tillman, bassist Christian Wargo, and keyboardist Casey Wescott, offers Pecknold the opportunity to broaden Fleet Foxes’ folk-rock palette, and he takes full advantage.
     Acoustic guitars still dominate, and those sterling, sometimes choir-like harmonies that at various times bring to mind Crosby, Stills and Nash (the pounding opener “Battery Kinzie”) and early Simon & Garfunkel (the airy epic “The Plains/Bitter Dancer”) remain central to Fleet Foxes’ appeal. Yet a vaguely Eastern-sounding violin accents the swooning “Bedouin Dress,” hammered dulcimer makes an appearance in the fast-picked “The Cascades,” and pedal steel slides accentuate the comfortable countrified clutter of “Grown Ocean.”
     Pecknold can occasionally be too preciously poetic for my tastes — “I slept through July while you made lines in the heather” (“Lorelai”) is a bit much. But his growing command of folk idioms serves him well, especially on the disc’s centerpiece, the yearning, rousing title track “Helplessness Blues,” a sprawling strum-along number with lyrics that recall early Dylan. “And now after some thinking,” he sings, “I’d rather be a functioning cog in some great machinery serving something beyond me.” Don’t look now, Robin, but you already are.http://www.the-burg.com/blogit/entry/music_review_the_rousing_retro-folk_of_fleet_foxes_helplessness_blues
Ashare, a freelance writer living in Lynchburg, is a former music editor for the Boston Phoenix.

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Okkervil River. . . Pretension is in. Being a fucking idiot is, apparently , out. . .

 Music review: Okkervil River deliver an indie magnum opus

Okkervill River, I Am Very Far (Jagjaguar)
The Burg Staff on May. 11, 2011
By Matt Ashare
Rock songs that deal with the trials and tribulations of being in a rock band are a tricky business. I mean, do we really need any more songs about how hard life on the road is? And does anyone who works a 9-to-5 job really care that getting paid to play can have an adverse effect on the artistic temperament? Then again, we tend to have a certain fascination with the human trainwrecks who populate “reality” TV franchises like MTV’s “Celebrity Rehab,” and the rise/fall/redemption storylines that kept VH-1’s “Behind the Music” in business for so many years.
     Will Sheff, the main brain behind the Austin-based band Okkervil River, expertly tapped into the allure of the troubled artist on 2005’s “Black Sheep Boy,” an album loosely based on ’60s folk singer Tim Harden’s struggles with heroin addiction — a battle he finally lost when he overdosed in 1980.
     Sheff’s way with words, his storyteller’s eye for detail, and his moody demeanor all helped elevate him to a top spot among indie rock’s literati (see Colin Meloy of the Decemberists, Conor Oberst of Bright Eyes, and Win Butler of the Arcade Fire). And “Black Sheep Boy” not only inspired a sequel — the 2005 EP “Black Sheep Boy Appendix” — it also led Sheff to mine the lives of other tragically flawed artists, including the poet John Berryman (suicide, 1972) in “John Allyn Smith Sails,” and an obscure, probably schizophrenic glam-rocker Jobriath (AIDS, 1983) in “Bruce Wayne Campbell Interviewed on the Roof of the Hotel Chelsea, 1979” (both from the 2007 disc “The Stand Ins”).
     So, yeah, it would be entirely fair to say that Sheff has rarely, if ever, shown any fear in the face of pretension. And he’s never wavered from the grand gesture, a tendency he exploits to its fullest on Okkervil River’s new “I Am Very Far.” (BTW: the band’s named for a short story by the Russian writer Tatyana Tolstoya.)
    There’s no overarching theme or concept uniting the 11 tracks on “I Am Very Far,” unless you count Sheff’s unwaveringly grim worldview. A dark shadow lies over the thump of “The Valley,” a wordy epic that finds a characteristically poetic Sheff watching “The sun switching in the sky off and on/While a friend stands bleeding on a late summer lawn/A slicked back bloody black gun shot to the head/He has fallen in the valley of the rock and roll dead.”
     For someone who’s always seemed more than a little suspicious of music industry machinations, Sheff’s got Okkervil River sounding suspiciously like Grammy winners the Arcade Fire on the neo-new wave “Pirates,” where he cryptically croons about “a murderess/Moved by writing a song/We agreed that it was wrong/And to believe in it,” and even more so on the urgent, orchestral “Rider,” a track filled with apocalyptic visions like “Over the ruins like we’re staggering apes/What we get is what we take/In a split open place where a man can get kinged/In a palace of panic and flames.”
     Sheff, who produced the disc, even does Win Butler’s two-drummers trick one better: “Rider” and the plaintively pounding “Wake and Be Fine” are fully stocked with two pianists, two bassists, seven guitarists, and, yes, two drummers.
     For all its arty extravagances — along with tympani, tuba, and bassoon, Sheff employs the found sounds of crashing cabinets, unreeling duct tape, and, on “Pirates,” a fast-forwarding cassette tape — “I Am Very Far” manages to stay within the bounds of indie-rock accessibility a la the aforementioned Arcade Fire and Decemberists. If that means Sheff may soon be dealing with some of the same pressures that ultimately undermined Tim Harden’s career, at least it’s a subject he’s studied well. http://www.the-burg.com/blogit/entry/music_review_okkervil_river_deliver_an_indie_magnum_opus
Ashare, a freelance writer living in Lynchburg who teaches journalism at Randolph College, is the former music editor for the Boston Phoenix, the former reviews editor for CJJ New Music Monthly, and a fan of music of other cultural emissions.

Thursday, May 5, 2011

Beastie Boys Bring Back the Rap on “Hot Sauce Committee Party Two”

Music review: Beastie Boys Bring Back the Rap on “Hot Sauce Committee Party Two”

By The Burg Staff on May. 04, 2011
By Matt Ashare
The career length for most rappers isn’t much longer than the wingspan of your average hummingbird. It’s not just that hip-hop tends to be a young man’s game: it’s that the biggest emcees begin diversifying their portfolios early on, moving into film and TV like Ice T and Ice Cube, opening restaurants and creating clothing lines like Diddy. Before too long, rapping becomes a secondary or even tertiary concern.
     Given hip-hop’s penchant for bravado, and the ginormous egos it tends to breed, the odds a rap duo or group will stay intact for more than a couple of Congressional terms are even slimmer. So even if you ignore all of their accomplishments — and up to the release this week of the new “Hot Sauce Committee Part Two” there have been many — the mere fact that Beastie Boys, a trio who stumbled into hip-hop almost three decades ago after cutting their teeth in NYC’s punk scene, are still a functioning musical unit goes beyond mere anomaly. That they’ve managed to remain relevant since the first bratty stirrings of the now classic 1983 single “Cookie Puss” is just plain freaky.
     Of course, I’ve got my theories. (After all, that’s what I’m here for, right?) Maybe they’ve just been super lucky. But Beastie Boys have scored a veritable hat-trick when it’s come to capturing cultural zeitgeist in a bottle. With their 1986 chart-topper “Licensed to Ill” they joined Run DMC in finding that sweet spot between rap and hard rock that brought hip-hop its first mainstream success. Then, on its follow-up, 1989’s “Paul’s Boutique,” they hooked up with future Beck producers the Dust Brothers, and found themselves on the cutting edge of pomo sampling collage, a kind of hip-hop-meets-musique concrete aesthetic that presaged contemporary electronica. Almost 10 years later, rather than just holding steady, they took another major left-hand turn, jettisoning samples for straight up old-school-style hip-hoppery with muscular Mix Master Mike working two vinyl turntables while Mike D, MCA, and Ad-Rock deployed their rhyming skills. Sure enough, it wasn’t long before the hip-hop DJ — all but an anachronism when “Hello Nasty” hit the racks in 1998 — and the art of turntablism was undergoing a major revival in the capable hands of masters like DJ Shadow.
     That’s not luck — it’s what I’d call “good taste” coupled with a genuine passion for the genre. Beastie Boys have always been into hip-hop more as style — a mode of expression, if you’ll excuse my pretension — than lifestyle. That’s one reason the Beasties never played much of a role in rap’s notorious East Coast/West Coast rivalry and you just never hear about any of them pulling an Eminem and getting arrested for guns or drugs. Not saying they’re choir boys, but the Beasties earned their stripes in the studio, not on the streets.
     Still, when the trio returned to their original positions (bass, drums, and guitar for MCA, Mike D, and Ad-Rock respectively) on 2007’s “The Mix-Up,” an all-instrumental romp through everything from fatback funk to noisy punk, I thought they were done with hip-hop — that they were ready to ride out their career emceeing larger concerns from the wings of their Tibetan Freedom Concerts. I was wrong. There may be extra-hip-hop excursions on “Hot Sauce,” but the Beasties are fully back to rapping in 2011. “Yes here we go again give you more nothing lesser/Back on the mic it’s the anti-depressor,” boasts Ad-Rock in his now vintage whine (it’s still a bratty varietal) on the disc’s opener, “Make Some Noise,” a wah-wah-organ funk-fueled affair that finds Mike D unabashedly repeating the hook from the Beastie classic “(You Gotta) Fight For Your Right (to Party!)” and Ad-Rock happily dating himself by referencing Ted Danson and dropping this giddy rhyme: “Leggo my Eggo while I flex my ego/Sip on prosecco dressed up in a tuxedo.”
     Too soon to tell whether the Beasties have again captured the zeitgeist. But the self-consciously stripped-down, lo-fi production of “Hot Sauce” suggests the Boys have been getting down with the underground — what the kids call indie-hip-hop. And the anything-goes infectiousness with which they incorporate everything from live instrumentation (metallic guitars), sci-fi samples, and DJ scratching on a track like “Say It,” along with the fearlessness with which they delve into reggae with guest singer Santigold on “Don’t Play No Game That I Can’t Win,” return to punk-rocking out on “Lee Majors Come Again,” and indulge in some sensual instrumental dub on “Multilateral Nuclear Disarmament,” may just portend the arrival of the global genre-hopping hip-hop band.
     Of course, as long as the Beasties are still with us, keeping their ears to the ground and their wordifying mouths on overdrive, we’ve got at least one trio who are practicing masters of the form. http://www.the-burg.com/blogit/entry/music_review_beastie_boys_bring_back_the_rap_on_hot_sauce_committee_pa
Ashare, a freelance writer based in Lynchburg, is a former music editor for The Boston Phoenix

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

UK's Sharks celebrate "The Joys of Living 2008-2010

England’s Sharks bring “The Joys of Living” to the US

By The Burg Staff on Apr. 27, 2011
By MATT ASHARE
“It’s very sarcastic, isn’t it, punk?," says Sharks singer James Matlock
It’s Saturday evening in the British Midlands town of Coventry and James Matlock, the 20-year-old frontman of Sharks, is in good spirits — “Out and about,” as he puts it when he answers his cell phone. He has reason to be happy. Less than a month ago, Rise released The Joys Of Living 2008-2010, the young punk foursome’s full-length debut (it compiles 14 tracks from two limited-edition, self-released EPs plus a couple singles).
     Prior to that, Alternative Press featured Sharks in its “100 Bands You Need to Know in 2011.” And, in less than 24 hours, Matlock and his bandmates — guitarist Andy Bayliss, bassist Cris O’Reilly and drummer Samuel Lister — are headed to the U.S., where they’ll begin their first American tour with a monthlong stint opening for Social Distortion. (They’ll be at the NorVa in Norfolk on May 17 and the National in Richmond the following night.)
     To judge from sentiments expressed in his lyrics, Matlock may also be more than a little relieved to have found a ticket out of Coventry. “How pathetic this must sound/To a hope of finally getting out/To someone who doesn’t even know/He’s bored of this town,” he screams a cappella into a dark void at the start of “Trains,” a sneering Clash city rocker that takes a vividly poetic turn on the refrain “Another night arrives/Slice open your eyes/Dream between the lines.” Matlock’s “bored” again in the serrated sing-along “Three Houses,” which coalesces around an insolent yet romantic chorus of “Travels underground make time for other things/including dust settling shackles to be broken free.” And in the pounding “Glove In Hand,” a sly homage to the Smiths (and their song “Hand In Glove”), Matlock growls “I can’t believe I’m jailed in neighborhood/I can’t believe I lived to stomach it” before an atmospheric and dreamy break in the guitar distortion opens and he intones, “I engage to take on every passing day with true hate.”
     “I’ve always lived around here,” says Matlock, who started Sharks with Bayliss when the two were in high school. “When I was growing up I was with different parts of my family. My parents left and I was in Coventry with my grandparents. That was a little rough and emotionally confusing. But really the town I live in is nice. It’s just a bit dull. There’s nothing to do. Boredom is the main incentive behind the band. If we weren’t in a band I have no idea what I’d be doing.”
     Punk’s been a potent outlet for teen angst for at least three decades, and Matlock was a quick study. “I can’t name any punk bands who were active when we got started, apart from the British bands who are still going from back in the day,” he admits. “I got into it from digging up old records. It was more of an American thing that I discovered from bands like Green Day and Rancid. Then I dug deeper and found their influences and I got my head around the history of the big punk family tree.”
     The Joys of Living is more than the sum of those borrowed parts. There’s precocious promise reflected in the philosophical premise of the disc’s title track, the wistful tenor of “More Blue,” and the sardonic humor of “The Light At the End of the Tunnel Is Hell.”
As Matlock concludes, “It’s very sarcastic, isn’t it, punk? It’s satirical. A lot of our lyrics are quite dark, but we don’t want to take it too seriously. After all, we’re just a band, aren’t we?” http://www.the-burg.com/blogit/entry/englands_sharks_bring_the_joys_of_living_to_the_us
Ashare, a freelance writer based in Lynchburg, is a former music editor for The Boston Phoenix.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Foo Fighters "Wasting Light"

Music review: Foo Fighters Move Forward with Wasting Light

By The Burg Staff on Apr. 13, 2011
By Matt Ashare
Is it finally time to stop referring to Foo Fighters frontman Dave Grohl as that guy who played drums in Nirvana? Sure, his powerhouse backbeats were integral to the explosive drive of 1991’s landmark Nevermind — you might say, Grohl put the hard in Kurt Cobain’s rock.
But that was 20 years ago. And it’s not like he’s been even the least bit idle since Cobain’s 1994 suicide: The Foos emerged as a fully-formed modern-rock entity in the spring of ‘95 and, with the release of Wasting Light this week, they’ve now got seven studio albums to their credit. Indeed, given the number of lineup changes the Foos have endured, they’ve shown a remarkable consistency, artistically and commercially, over the past decade and a half. (Unless you count the acoustic side of 2005’s 2-CD In Your Honor as some kind of major deviation, which I don’t.)
     And in his spare time, Grohl has found time to team up with guitarist Josh Homme, returning to the drums for Queens of the Stone Age’s metal epic “Songs for the Deaf” in 2001 and then partnering with Homme and former Led Zeppelin bassist John Paul Jones as Them Crooked Vultures. (The super-trio’s self-titled debut came out in 2009 and they’ve reportedly got another one on the way.)
     Wasting Light is already being hailed by some — Rolling Stone comes to mind — as the best FF disc since The Colour and the Shape (1997), and it very well might be. But it’s definitely not simply a return to the form of that disc — to the tightly wound pop-punk of “Monkey Wrench” or the brooding power-balladry of “My Hero.” That much is apparent from the muscular guitar riff that introduces the disc’s first single, “Rope”: It certainly owes more to the retro-alloys Homme mines in Queens of the Stone Age than anything Grohl’s done on his own before, and probably more still to the “Black Dog” wizardry of John Paul Jones. There’s even a drum solo refrain leading into an heroic guitar solo that’s just so early-’70s arena rawk, if you know what I mean.
     Grohl hasn’t completely gone over to the dark side. No, he’s simply put together what stands as the Foos’ most musically ambitious album to date, an amalgam of grunge, punk, metal and power-pop that’s never too fractious. “Rope,” for example, wouldn’t be a single if it weren’t for its sugary — yet never quite syrupy — chorus, which builds to a nice melodic climax before those serrated guitars return.
     Unrequited love mixes with ambivalence, bitterness even, in “Dear Rosemary,” a kiss-off of sorts bolstered by a wall of anthemic guitars and the kind of clever-enough refrain (“Truth ain’t gonna change the way lie/Youth ain’t gonna change the way you die”) that’s been Grohl’s stock-in-trade since the first FF disc.  But “White Limo,” with its screamed vocals and dark, churning guitars is twisted metal through and through. It really wouldn’t seem out of place on one of Homme’s Queens discs.
     And, yet, the ghosts of Nirvanas past can’t help but haunt Wasting Light. Not only did Grohl bring Butch Vig, the engineer who helped mastermind the alt-rock breakthrough of Nevermind, back to produce the disc, but Nirvana adjunct guitarist (and former Foo Fighter) Pat Smear has rejoined the band. As if that weren’t enough to make the connection, that’s Kirst Novoselic’s anchoring the angst of the wistful “I Should Have Known,” which rises to a screaming crescendo with Grohl repeating the pained, “No, I cannot forgive you yet…” He may be talking about Kurt, but I kinda doubt it. . .
Ashare is a freelance writer based in Lynchburg and former music editor for The Boston Phoenix.

Thursday, March 31, 2011

Honestly, I try to be nice. . .

Music review: The Strokes try to find their way back

By The Burg Staff on Mar. 30, 2011
BY MATT ASHARE
To alter a quip from Ben Franklin, in this world nothing can be certain but death, taxes, and the inevitability that rock music will from time to time circle back to find renewal in the past.
In the fall of 1991, it was Nirvana who exploded convention by restating the suburban teen angst of punk in terms that captured something essential about the alienation of the times, ushering in the rebirth of a certain brand of aggressive “guitar rock.“
Ten years later, in the fall of 2001, the out-of-nowhere emergence of an odd little band from New York City — the Strokes — heralded the re-emergence of another particular brand of retro guitar rock that, ah, captured something essential about the alienation of the times ... or something like that.
     If Nirvana got their point across with bolded, arena-sized hooks and confessional, if often oblique lyrics, then the Strokes delivered their message in italics, with slanted melodies and the enchanting vocals of Julian Casablancas, a master of debauched elegance with a gift for singing in subtext.
     Spurred on by early British hype that proclaimed the NYC fivesome rightful heirs to the downtown cool of the Velvet Underground and “Walk on the Wild Side” Lou Reed, the Strokes employed a scaled-down, underproduced aesthetic that created the impression they’d arisen fully formed from the garage — or, in this case, a cramped Lower East Side rehearsal — on their RCA debut, “Is This It” (no question mark needed).
     Unlike Cobain, who came out of nowheresville with the flannel shirts to prove it and a giant chip on his shoulder, the Strokes were privileged prep-school kids slumming it in second-hand-store black with affected yet intense nonchalance that was intoxicating. I mean, there’s just something so blithely charming about the way Casablancas slurs his way through “Last Nite,“ one of several stand-outs on “Is This It,“ and a song that, amid insistent, even upbeat guitars, essentially can’t be bothered to care about a girlfriend who feels “so let down” and “so left out.“
     A lot has happened to the Strokes in the past decade, most of it not so great. Following up “Is This It” was indeed a tall order, but bleeding the seedy out of the cleaned-up 2003 disc “Room On Fire” and 2006’s even cleaner “First Impressions of Earth” was just a bad move.
In the wake of declining record sales, the band opted for a “much needed break,“ which left rhythm guitarist Albert Hammond Jr. free to pursue his own pop pursuits on two adequate solo albums and led Casablancas to explore the dance floor in his own wry manner on 2009’s “Phrazes For the Young.“ Still, I was hopeful when I heard that the Strokes had regrouped to record their fourth album. One can always hope. . .
    It’s not that there’s nothing to admire about the new “Angles.“ For one, Nick Valensi has developed into a formidable lead guitarist. And the band locks into the same propulsive groove on “Under Cover of Darkness” that drove “Last Nite” home, even if it’s a kinder Casablancas who earnestly croons “I’m tired of all your friends listening at your door/And I want, what’s better for you.“ (On “Last Nite” he at least sounded tired.) When synths mix with guitars on “Two Kinds of Happiness,“ Casablancas affects an arch deadpan that brings to mind the Cars. And then Valensi steps all over the song with far too much noodling, as he does way too often on “Angles.“
     In the end, I found myself humming “Last Nite,“ which is just another way of saying thanks to the Strokes for reminding me to go back and spend some quality time with “Is This It.“
Ashare is a freelance writer based in Lynchburg and former music editor for The Boston Phoenix. http://www.the-burg.com/blogit/entry/music_review_the_strokes_try_to_find_their_way_back http://www.bostonphoenix.com/boston/music/other_stories/documents/04726984.asp


Wednesday, March 16, 2011

A St. Paddy's Day Present from Dropkick Murphys

Springsteen lends his voice to Dropkick Murphys’ Irish-punk

By The Burg Staff on Mar. 16, 2011
By Matt Ashare
Back in ’99, the Boston-born ‘n’ bred Irish-punk juggernaut Dropkick Murphys hit the national alt-rock airwaves with “10 Years of Service,” a prescient pro-union anthem that asked “Who’s gonna save us -from this lonely picket line?/Ten years of service but I’m still not worth your time.” In 2004, their amped-up reworking of “Tessie,” a 1902 Broadway musical number, became a rallying cry for an improbable Red Sox World Series run. The following year, on “The Warrior’s Code,” it was a Woody Guthrie poem that provided raw material for the hard-hitting Celtic-rock gem “I’m Shipping Off to Boston,” a track featured prominently in Martin Scorsese’s 2006 film “The Departed.” And just a few weeks ago, the Dropkicks lent their support to protesting public union workers in Wisconsin by issuing a limited edition t-shirt adorned with the title of their latest pro-union call to arms, the blunt and folky “Take ’Em Down.”
     So maybe I should have seen Springsteen coming down the pike. That’s right, 12 songs into the 13-track “Going Out In Style,” Guthrie-loving blue-collar Bruce does his proud best to out-gruff Dropkicks’ singer Al Barr’s bulldog bark on a slamming mandolin-laced cover of the “Zeigfield Follies” ballad “Peg ‘O My Heart.” It’s just one of the high points on this fittingly raucous St. Paddy’s Day present from a band who have never been shy about mining the past for material.
     It’s been over three years since the Dropkicks’ last studio album. But bassist Ken Casey, the only remaining member from the original 1996 lineup and the guiding force behind the Dropkick Murphy ethos, has been far from idle. Instead of bashing out a dozen or so mosh-and-stomp rockers, Casey set out to create an ode to Cornelius Larkin, a fictional immigrant who leaves Ireland at 16, is drafted into the Korean War, has a bunch of kids, and is memorialized in the disc’s liner notes, an obit written by noted Boston memoirist Michael Patrick McDonald (“All Souls,” “Easter Rising”).
     It’s not clear how “Sunday Hardcore Matinee,” a loud, fast romp through the glory days of old-school, all-ages punk that has multi-instrumentalist Jeff DeRosa racing to keep up on banjo, relates to the life Larkin might have led. Or where Larkin fits into the yearning Civil War epic “Broken Hymn,” with its clarion tin whistle melody.
    But you gotta take inspiration where you find it. And “Going Out In Style” is never less than inspired. From the martial drumbeat that crashes into the wall of guitars and bagpipes on “Hang ‘Em High,” a bruising sea-chantey that wouldn’t be out of place in the hands of Davy Jones and his “Pirates of the Caribbean” crew, to the disc’s celebratory title track, a homage to Boston that references Fenway Park and Mt. Calvary cemetery, and drops the names of Mayor Menino and NOFX frontman Fat Mike amid what sounds like an impromptu funeral after-party, “Going Out In Style” is a tribute to certain simple pleasures. Raising a glass of whisky. Singing along to shout-along choruses. And, of course, hearing Springsteen channel his inner punk.http://www.the-burg.com/blogit/entry/springsteen_lends_his_voice_to_dropkick_murphys_irish-punk

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

Liam Gallagher Beats Brother Noel to the Punch with Beady Eye

Music review: Beady Eye Look Back Toward the Beatles

By The Burg Staff on Mar. 09, 2011
By Matt Ashare

Every couple or three years, it seems, another English band steams across the Atlantic, their bags stuffed with the kind of hyperbolic press that's a Brit-crit staple, promising a nostalgic new twist on the sounds of swinging ’60s London or class of ’77 punk. In 1994, it was Oasis, a brother fronted group who were said to have one foot defiantly planted in both eras. Singer Liam Gallagher's fuck-all sneer was definitely — no, maybe — a third cousin twice removed from Johnny Rotten's spiteful delivery; guitarist Noel Gallagher wrote hard, indelible riffs that carried more than faint echoes of the Lennon/McCartney songbook; and Oasis were saddled by over-eager scribes with the unfortunate moniker "The Sex Beatles."
       All's well that ends well, I suppose: After years of brotherly squabbling, bad behavior, and big hits, Liam and Noel went out with a bang that erupted into a fist fight on stage in France two years ago. Since then, it's been Liam, not Noel, who's been working his way back to the USA babe, with three Oasis regulars, guitarists Andy Bell and Gem Archer, and drummer Chris Sharrock, in tow. This new band of non-brothers, strapped with the rather unsavory sobriquet Beady Eye (false modesty, or was "The Liam Gallagher Project" already taken?), aren't looking to make a break with the past so much as perpetuate the brand: "Different Gear, Still Speeding," as the title of their debut suggests, makes a few minor modifications to the machinery, but Liam's not shy about steering this trusty old chasis up and down the same long and winding road Noel's always favored.
       Ok. I'll stop with the Beatles allusions. There are simply far too many Lennonesque moments on "Different Gear" to enumerate here, not to mention direct cops from "Revolver," "Imagine," etc. . . There’s even “Beatles and Stones,” a retro Faces rocker that loudly proclaims “I’m going to stand the test of time/Like Beatles and Stones.” But first, Liam lets Noel have it, with a big, banging, wall-of-guitars monolith cheekily titled "Four Letter Word," as in "I don't really know what I'm feeling/A four letter word really gets my meaning." It's 1994's Definitely, Maybe all over again, only now we know exactly who rhymes like "It's about time your mind took a holiday/You're all grown up and you don't want to play" are aimed at.
If there's a revelation here, it's that Liam and co. manage to find plenty of fine, familiar melodies without Noel's guru-like guidance. Their several stabs at “Wonderwall” grandeur culminate with Liam earnestly crooning “it’s not the end of the world, oh no/It’s not even the end of the day.” But it’s not even end of the album: “Different Gear” fades to blue with “The Morning Son,” tempting tedium with a six-minute neo-psychedelic opus that ends in a mess of drums Noel might have nixed. 
http://www.the-burg.com/blogit/entry/music_review_beady_eye_look_toward_the_beatles 

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

To Be or Not to Be a Radiohead Fan

http://www.the-burg.com/blogit/entry/music_review_radiohead_get_back_to_business_on_king_of_limbs

Music review: Radiohead Get Back to Business on “King of Limbs”

The Burg Staff on Mar. 02, 2011
By Matt Ashare
When we last heard from them, Radiohead — that enigmatic big little band from England — seemed bent on shaking up a business model that had stood since the dawn of vinyl. With no label support, the group invited fans to pay what they wished in 2007 for a download of “In Rainbows.” The strategy also served as an effective marketing campaign, as cultural pundits scrambled to grasp the meaning of it all. Inevitably, perhaps, the music was overshadowed by media static.
  Sitting here now, with an actual CD of “In Rainbows” nestled on a shelf next to the band’s 1993 debut, “Pablo Honey” (“Creep” anyone?) and “OK Computer,” the bold, guitar-driven 1997 album that established Radiohead as a major musical force — a subtler but no less cerebral Pink Floyd, or maybe a less overtly political heir to U2’s grand guitarscapes, with singer Thom Yorke cast as the digital age’s reigning king of pain — two thoughts come to mind. For all its airy synth textures, electro-beats, and disembodied vocals, “In Rainbows” is far more accessible, and enjoyable, than I remember. More importantly, while its original mode of distribution seemed to challenge conventional notions of what music is worth, in the end Radiohead profited from an old-school paradigm: the download, like the bygone vinyl single, was simply a loss leader — a tease — for an $80 “In Rainbows” deluxe edition, and that handsome CD on my shelf. Radiohead simply put a new twist on the tried and true.
  They’re at it again. After abruptly announcing on Valentine’s Day that a new Radiohead album, “King of Limbs,” would be available as a download the following Saturday, the band created a bigger stir by delivering the “disc” a day early. “Limbs” didn’t benefit from the big build-up to “Rainbows,” but it created a stir nonetheless. Forthcoming, in late April or early May: Vinyl and CD, as well as a deluxe “newspaper” version featuring two 10-inch vinyl disc, a CD, and over 600 pieces of “artwork.”
  With eight tracks that fly by in under 40 minutes, “Limbs” feels even more like a loss leader than “Rainbows.” Longer than most EPs, but shorter than an LP, perhaps it’s meant to suggest that, in the age of downloads and digital media services like Pandora, those analog-era designations are no longer useful. And, yet, “Limbs” does have something akin to the ebb and flow of an “album.” The first half — yes, I’m finally going to mention the music — is flush with du-jour dubstep rhythms.
  The fluttering piano the introduces the first track, “Bloom,” quickly gives way to a rushed beat that feels like it’s tripping over itself and Colin Greenwood’s nearly subsonic bass (no guitars in sight). Yorke’s apparitional voice is front and center, but the only lyric I can make out is “Open your mouth wide/Universal sigh.”
  Typical Yorke: at once inscrutable and evocative.
  Guitarists Johnny Greenwood and Ed O’Brien arrive with an insistent scratch of a riff on “Morning Mr. Magpie,” and insinuate “Little By Little” with a bit of melodic interplay.
But it’s back to scattershot drums ‘n’ bass for the wordless exercise “Feral.” And then, viola!, the white lab coats come off and we’re back on quasi-familiar ground: the piano chords of “Codex” carry faint echoes of “Karma Police”; “Lotus Flower” has the verse/chorus structure of a potential single; acoustic guitars ground “Give Up the Ghost”; and for all his mumbling, Yorke doesn’t stumble over the key line of the final track, “Separator.” With guitars swarming like pixies around his spectral falsetto, he warns, or promises, “If you think this is over, then you’re wrong.”
  The album as unending project: a business model for the 21st century. 

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Corin Tucker Band

http://krs5rc.com/krs/bands/corintuckerband/audio/Doubt.mp3

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RwU7idFy2Ro

Corin Tucker Graduates From Riot Grrrl To Riot Woman
By Matt Ashare

It’s so very tempting to read between the lines of 1,000 years, the emotionally turbulent and often devastatingly poignant Kill Rock Stars debut by the newly minted Corin Tucker Band. Tucker, an early convert to the riot grrrl cause, got her start in the Olympia punk band Heavens To Betsy twenty years ago. But she really came into her own co-fronting the grrrl-powered trio Sleater-Kinney with fellow singer/guitarist Carrie Brownstein, a perfect rock-and-roll pairing that sadly dissolved when the band went on hiatus in 2006 after seven albums in eleven years. So when, for example, she opens the disc’s haunted yet insistent title track with the hyperbolic “About 1,000 years ago, you left/I felt nothing for centuries” and follows up with a chorus that begins “And when it hit that you were gone/I stood frozen for so long,” it’s hard not to assume she’s got Brownstein in mind — especially since she ends the last verse with the defiant “With each song I get closer/With each note I return.” Then again, back in October she told the Village Voice she’d written “1,000 Years” for possible inclusion in the film Twilight: New Moon.
    1,000 Years is peppered with could-be snippets of autobiography. In “Half A World Away,” against a slinky guitar riff that rises to a pleasing roar, Tucker sings with forlorn dignity about an absent partner who’s making a “film” while “the phone in the hotel room never rings.” In fact, she’s been married to filmmaker Lance Bangs since 2000. And is “Break up with the boogie/Break up with the beat/Did you let us down, or was it me” a reference to lingering doubts about her decision to move on from Sleater-Kinney? It is a line from the disc’s most overtly Sleater-Kinneyish track, the pounding rocker “Doubt,” with Tucker’s gorgeous ambulance siren of a voice reaching an anguished peak on every noisy, discordant chorus.
    It’s the gift of great songwriters — and storytellers — to exploit real-life experiences. But that’s only part of what gives 1,000 Years its emotional power and weight. Tucker has emerged from the shadow of her former band with 11 tightly knit, poetic vignettes that conflate the vividly real with the equally vivid imagined. The timely “Thrift Store Coats,” one of the disc’s most affecting tunes, captures the desperation of a family on the brink of financial ruin without falling prey to the all too common desire to find something ennobling in poverty and hardship. “If this is a test/Can we make it through?,” she asks without answering, as the gentle caress of piano makes way for the pleasant bite of growling guitars. I’d be lying if I said Brownstein’s sinewy guitar and vocal counterpoints are missed. But with 1,000 Years, Tucker has expanded her musical vistas, with strings and keyboards laced throughout, and sharpened her lyrical vision in ways that will surely come in handy when Sleater-Kinney (hopefully) reunite.
   

Ryan Adams

Ryan Adams Revisits his Cardinal Past on III/IV
by Matt Ashare

Ryan Adams has never been a particular good source for accurate information regarding Ryan Adams — at least, not unless you're really good at reading between the proverbial lines. So when the former Whiskeytown frontman began touting III/IV as a "double-album concept rock opera about the ’80s," prior to its mid-December release on his own Pax Am label (also the home of the vinyl-only sci-fi metal disc Orion, which became available by mail-order in early November), there was good reason to be skeptical. The product of six months spent sequestered at New York's Electric Ladyland studio with the Cardinals (drummer Brad Pemberton, bassist Catherine Popper, guitarist Neal Casal, and multi-instrumentalist Jamie Candiloro) in 2007, the disc collects 21 tracks that apparently didn't fit the alt-country bent of Easy Tiger, his second to last for Lost Highway, a label he famously feuded with over the number of albums he wanted to release. (In 2005, there were three, one solo and two with the Cardinals: oddly enough, although the Cardinals were present for the Easy Tiger sessions, it doesn't bear their name. All clear?)
    Actually, assuming Easy Tiger was essentially I, it's not at all clear why Adams skipped over II to get to III and IV. But, then, he's always enjoyed being a "difficult" artist and, since Adams has referred to the new pair of discs as "Cardinology III and IV," perhaps they're meant as a follow-up to 2008's Cardinology, which, come to think of it, doesn't actually clear anything up. Even "Cardinals III/IV," which is how Wikipedia has it listed, confuses matters because Easy Tiger was released as a Ryan Adams solo album. Oh well.
    Fortunately, there doesn't appear to be much of a rock-opera concept behind III/IV — it's, as you might have already guessed, simply the best of what was left when the Cardinals closed up shop after half a year at Electric Ladyland. And that's not a bad thing at all. The disc opens in the same rockist vein of 2003's aptly titled Rock N Roll, with Adams alluding his struggles with addiction ("I get my dreams confused with wishes and bad ideas") and rehab ("So you probably heard I went away/Where do we start?) against solidly churning guitars coalesce into respectably anthemic hook on "Breakdown Into the Resolve." Elsewhere, Adams puts his crooner cap on for a swing through the organ-laced "Dear Candy," veers into Killers territory with the bold synth-rock of "Users," returns to the familiar folky alt-rock ground of the plaintive and sweet "Death and Rats," has a little arena rock fun on the just-short-of-metallic first few minutes of the 7-plus "Kill the Lights" before he and the Cardinals close things out with their best Allman Brothers imitation. It's a tribute to Adams' penchant for bad choices that he neglected to include the winning romantic ballad "Typecast," a duet with Nora Jones, on Easy Tiger. As Adams himself admits it in "Users," as hard as he may "try to be good," he's forever haunted by "bad ideas."

   
   
   

The Return of POP ROCKS

For those of you who don't know, Pop Rocks is a column I first wrote for Stuff Magazine, a Boston monthly that later morphed into the bi-weekly Stuff@Nite. When I took over as music editor at the Boston Phoenix (it's an alternative weekly in, yes, Boston), I felt we needed to be more aggressive about engaging our readers and touting the high quality of the content we published. So I set out to recruit the best writers/thinkers I could find, and gave them each a forum — a bi-weekly column in which each could address any anything he or she felt was relevant, as long as it had some connection to music culture. Josh Kun had his "Frequencies" column; Douglas Wolk, "Smallmouth"; Jon Caramanica, "Slanguistics." As for myself, I adapted "Pop Rocks" to the Phoenix format and we were off and running. Eventually, even our initially wary jazz writer, Jon Garelick, got into the game with a column I dubbed "Giant Steps" after the Coltrane tune. Those columns helped create a unique identity for the Phoenix music section and, within a couple of years, the section was broken out of the "Arts" section as a stand-alone magazine within a magazine. Sadly, that came ended shortly before my tenure at the Phoenix came to an end. But the idea lives on, at least in my own mind.

Now I'm in Virginia, a State that most artists assiduously avoid when touring. But I'm writing a weekly column for the paper here and doing features for a Charlottesville weekly (C-ville). In an effort to revive the spirit, if not the form of "Pop Rocks," I'm going to begin this blogging experiment by posting my scribblings, beginning with a New Year's Eve playlist I contributed to C-ville. Too many hours were spent whittling that list down to ten songs that do not include the words "New Year's Day" or "New Year's Eve." And then we'll just see where that leads. . . In the words of Yeats, "The best lack all conviction while the worst are filled with a passion and intensity." Or, as Paul Westerberg once lovingly put it, "I hate music: it's got too many notes."