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Review: Hiss Golden Messenger, Bad Debt

Bad Debt is utterly ageless, like a surviving relic from time immemorial.




Hiss Golden Messenger, Bad Debt

From its inception in a Walden Pond-esque corner of the rural South in the wake of the U.S. financial crisis, to the sudden destruction of the initial CD pressing of the album during the London riots in 2011, it was almost as if Hiss Golden Messenger’s Bad Debt was inherently drawn to catastrophe, resulting in an inextricable link with the bleak sociological forces that both inspired and erased it. But to consider Bad Debt exclusively through a historical lens would be to miss a lot of the point. This is a heartrendingly personal work, whispers of love and fear and aching uncertainty to Taylor’s family, their future, and the looming, perhaps benevolent, embrace of the hereafter.

Taylor grapples with all sorts of slippery metaphysical questions throughout the album: mortality, faith, reckoning, and even his insidious desire to court death. But what makes Bad Debt so disarming is how he approaches all this material; that is, with such a natural, un-self-conscious ease that it seems to just tumble out of the most profound crooks and crossings of his being. It’s a rare poet that can conjure a deep, moving voice that nonetheless sounds effortless, like a heretofore hidden universal truth spoken without fuss or affectation. When Taylor sings, “No master, I am free,” on “O Little Light,” the tender defiance feels sacred and numinous, like it weren’t just his own imperative, but all of humanity’s. And that’s the lovely paradox that rises out of Bad Debt: For songs recorded in such intimate isolation, many of them feel like plaintive jeremiads and wracked monologues that we can all recognize.

The question concerning Bad Debt, now being given a full-fledged reissue release, is the degree of its religiosity. How can a self-proclaimed skeptic be so seemingly preoccupied with a patriarchal God? The answer is probably what makes HGM and Bad Debt so unique. The combination of a fragile, almost fatalistic soul-searching and a sincere awe for the Earth and sky give Taylor’s music a romantic bent. Resigned to unknowing, he instead indulges devotional reveries and fantasy pilgrimages, as in “Jesus Shot Me in the Head,” where he’s “gone to see the king” at the “pearly white gates.” The lyrics read prosaic on paper, but he has a way of imbuing them with a hypnotic naturalism, as if he were the first and only one to ever whisper to heaven. It’s one thing to write them, but to sing them and mean it is another, and Taylor accrues a kind of spiritual street cred through the course of Bad Debt: In the monastic simplicity of his voice, guitar, and the ubiquitous tape hiss, he carves a sort of woodcut self-portrait, full of scars and fevered courage.

Bad Debt loses some of its bones-of-the-earth authenticity as it progresses; the later tracks are more narrative and literal, and therefore lack the everyman lucidity off which most of the album thrives. The justification for this release, however, is evident from the first few seconds of opener “Balthazar’s Song”: Taylor’s trembling, private croon, wreathed in demo-tape crackle, haunting in its equanimity before life and death, meting out the merits of each with hushed resolve.

For an album with a creation tale so bound up in contemporary history, Bad Debt is utterly ageless, like a surviving relic from time immemorial. You could liken Taylor’s work here to a more understated Bill Callahan or Tallest Man on Earth, but Bad Debt is so stripped down and minimal, it doesn’t invite easy comparisons. Aside from the album’s asceticism, it’s those bibilical, eternally human themes of suffering and transfiguration that make the songs incomparable and anachronistic. Without even a whiff of contrivance or dogma, Taylor manages to stage his own reenactment of the fall, the desolate road to redemption, and the final reconciliation with God. It’s the unmistakable voice of that American archetype, the estranged believer, lonesome and full-hearted with something that’s not quite faith, but isn’t far off.

Label: Paradise of Bachelors Release Date: January 14, 2014 Buy: Amazon



Review: Guster’s Look Alive Is the Sound of a Band Rejuvenated

Guster’s eighth album buzzes with inventiveness, charm, and youthful dynamism.




Guster, Look Alive

Guster has long been associated with “college rock,” and not without reason. Even though every member of the Boston-based band is now over 40, they still make bright, hyper-polished alt-pop tailor-made for campus radio. The band’s eighth album, Look Alive, adds synths and contemporary production flourishes to their sonic repertoire, but all the hallmarks of their sound remain: winsome melodies, soaring hooks, and tight, immaculate songcraft that combines the best of Britpop, 1960s folk, and post-grunge.

Like most Guster albums, Look Alive has a few duds, a few modest successes, and at least one showstopper—a song that makes you wonder why the band was never more successful. On 2006’s Ganging Up on the Sun, that song was “Satellite,” a shimmering power-pop masterpiece that split the difference between the Shins and Neutral Milk Hotel. Here, it’s “Hard Times,” which also happens to be the least Guster-like track on the album. Drenched in Auto-Tune, buzzing synth frequencies, and stadium-ready percussion, the song doesn’t sound anything like “Satellite,” let alone like the band’s output before 2000. Yet, true to form, it’s a remarkable piece of pop. “Sinister systems keep us satisfied/These are hard times,” Ryan Miller wails. It’s a simple statement, but it makes for a stunning chorus, and Miller’s effusive delivery renders it the most cathartic moment on the album.

On “Not for Nothing,” the band ventures into dream-rock territory, surrounding themselves with icy synth textures that wouldn’t sound out of place on a Wild Nothing track, while “Hello Mister Sun” is unabashed bubblegum pop that pays homage to whimsical Paul McCartney tracks like “Penny Lane” and “Good Day Sunshine.” Likewise, the sprightly “Overexcited” bounces along with a spoken-word verse and pounding, piano-centric chorus. While none of these tracks tackle complex themes, they’re playful, infectious, and eminently listenable.

Many of Guster’s best-known songs delve into same subject matter: newfound love, crippling heartache, the pain of being young, restless, and alone. Yet much of Look Alive is more elliptical. “Maybe we’re all criminals and this is just the scene of a crime,” Miller sings ambiguously on “Terrified,” forcing the listener to fill in the blanks. “Summertime” similarly defies easy explanation: Brimming with obscure religious imagery, whispered background vocals, and references to an unspecified war, it follows no logical narrative, instead allowing the track’s mood—a feeling of triumph over some great adversity—to tell the story.

For better and worse, Look Alive’s production mimics the spacious, ‘80s-inspired aesthetic that pervades much of contemporary indie-rock. “Don’t Go” transplants a prototypical Guster melody into a synth-soaked songscape, while the title track seems expressly engineered for Spotify’s Left of Center playlist. Still, the album never feels like the work of aging musicians struggling to stay relevant; it buzzes with inventiveness, charm, and youthful dynamism.

Label: Nettwerk Release Date: January 18, 2019 Buy: Amazon

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Review: Toro y Moi’s Outer Peace Bends Boundaries with Mixed Results

Chaz Bear’s sixth album as Toro y Moi bends the boundaries of club music, albeit with mixed results.




Toro y Moi, Outer Peace

Having already concocted brainy dance music under the alter ego Les Sins, chillwave trailblazer, synth-pop alchemist, and psychedelic rock enthusiast Chaz Bear fully embraces the dance floor on Outer Peace, his sixth studio album as Toro y Moi. Pulling from sources as disparate as R&B, tropical house, and trap, the California-based singer bends the boundaries of club music, albeit with mixed results.

Upon first listen, it seems like Outer Peace colors a rough sketch of a dystopian future where the material is mistaken for the immaterial, technology becomes a gateway to the metaphysical, and fleeting pleasures, prompting ever greater hedonistic pursuits. It doesn’t take long to realize, though, that this dystopia isn’t some future prospect, but the present moment. With lines like “Mystic staring at his phone for oneness,” Bear masterfully defamiliarizes our world, exposing the absurdity of the digital age.

Bear charmingly pairs this oft-heavy subject matter with club-ready grooves. The existential crisis of “Who Am I” is juxtaposed with sweetly pitched-up vocals and a fizzy patchwork of synths. Bear’s playful approach to house music ensures that no amount of existential dread and doom can dampen the mood he creates throughout the album.

Bear’s tinkering, however, isn’t always transportive. The rather vanilla tropical house beat of “Baby Drive It Down” recalls Drake’s dancehall-lite, with a lifeless performance from Bear. His experimentation with trap is at first promising on “Monte Carlo,” with the support of a dreamy pillow of vocal samples, but coming in at two minutes, the track feels one note, lacking any tempo changes or even a bridge, suggesting it was perhaps better fit for an interlude.

The cover of Outer Peace depicts Bear gazing intently at a computer screen, surrounded by instruments in a clean, sterile room. He reportedly created the majority of the album during an unaccompanied two-week retreat off Northern California’s Russian River, and this isolation can be felt throughout. The album’s title represents the remarkable possibility of finding freedom from the outside world by letting loose on the dance floor and experiencing liberation in a crowd of strangers. Bear certainly takes the album there at several points, but in the limited scope and cerebral slant of these too-brief songs, he loses that outer peace.

Label: Carpark Release Date: January 18, 2019 Buy: Amazon

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Review: Joe Jackson’s Fool Is a Concise and Punchy Nostalgia Trip

On Fool, Joe Jackson sounds younger and angrier than he has in years.




Joe Jackson, Fool

Joe Jackson has spent the better part of four decades trying to put some distance between himself and his debut, Look Sharp!, a collection of acerbic new-wave pop songs that earned him the label of “angry young man.” But on his 21st album, Fool, he sounds younger and angrier than he has since 2003’s deliberately retro Volume 4. Maybe it’s a symptom of nostalgia: Fool, after all, is being released almost 40 years to the day after Look Sharp!, accompanied by a tour that promises to draw from Jackson’s entire career.

The album’s first two singles, “Fabulously Absolute” and “Friend Better,” both seem to deliberately rekindle the spirit of 1979: the former with its wiry post-punk guitar and synth riffs, the latter with its snotty vocal cut from the same cloth as early Jackson hits like “Is She Really Going Out with Him?” Even the refrain of the opening track “Big Black Cloud”—“No luck, no money, no sex, no fun”—is torn straight out of the London punk playbook.

Not all of the album calls back so specifically to Jackson’s debut: With its jazz-inflected piano and flute, closing track “Alchemy” is a welcome return to the moody sophisti-pop of 1982’s Night and Day. More often, however, Fool‘s refined pop-rock recalls an amalgamation of styles from Jackson’s “classic” era while also reflecting his late-career maturity. Tracks like the elegiac “Strange Land” marry his long-standing jazz and classical ambitions with his undeniable knack for pop melody in a way that doesn’t shortchange either.

Jackson, though, still hasn’t quite shaken his tendency to overextend himself. The title track is well-played, with some virtuosic runs by longtime bassist Graham Maby, but it also careens from Jackson rapping into a megaphone to a madrigal-like bridge to a synthesized surf guitar solo. The Beatles-esque “Dave” holds together better musically, but its character study of a pure-hearted but simple-minded everyman, who could have something to teach us about slowing down and enjoying life, feels cloying and condescending.

If Fool doesn’t quite measure up to Jackson’s sterling early work, it’s still more concise and punchy than 2015’s Fast Forward and less self-consciously arty than his late-‘80s and ‘90s work. By now, Jackson has surely come to terms with the fact that he’ll never be able to outrun his new wave days; keeping it as just one of the tools in his expansive arsenal is a fine compromise.

Label: earMUSIC Release Date: January 18, 2019 Buy: Amazon

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