I think it was Lester Bangs who said listening to Pink Floyd is like wrestling with shit. Him or Spiro Agnew. Whoever it was, they were right. It’s a band I tried to like for a long time—“everyone says they’re great, so they must be”—but I have finally come to the dawning realization that theirs is the type of music that should be confined to history—or the dorm rooms of frowzy, flatulent frat boys with too much money, too much time, and too much homegrown. From what I understand, the sempiternal Dark Side of the Moon is supposed to be a musical masterpiece, but I wouldn’t know, because try as I might, I have never been able to listen past “Money” lest I die of ennui. And, fine, I will be the first to admit that “Wish You Were Here” is a pretty good tune. But so was “I’ve got the key—I’ve got the secret.” I don’t see anyone waxing lyrical about the euphonious delights of Urban Cookie Collective.
And I am not ashamed of my disapprobation of Pink Floyd. That seems like a bizarre statement on the surface, but, more than in any other art form, your preferences in pop music have the ability to turn you into a social misfit (Qualifier: anything that’s not classical music is pop music, unless I state so otherwise). A declaration of love for the works of Uwe Boll might be considered ironic, and even subversive, in this fickle age if put forward in circumlocutions usually reserved for scholarly appreciations of Ingmar Bergman. Not in pop music though. Social sub-structures usually dictate the sort of music one is supposed to enjoy.
I have always been a late-comer to musical trends. And my favorite music, originating as it does from the sixties and seventies, keeps me occupied enough that I don’t usually feel the need to go spelunking into the cultural nadir that is the pop music charts. But, you know, these things have a way of sneaking up on you. First, on the radio, and then VH1, which is always on in the background when I am cooking (and I cook a lot). It’s just the sort of music channel that’s made for me—a panoply of songs by Van Morrison, Tom Petty, The Small Faces, punctuated, intermittently, by a random totty with a fake voice, and synthesized breasts. Actually, that might be the other way round.
At least, that was the story until May this year when, for reasons completely unknown to me, I started to take an active interest in new music. I now follow quite a few new releases, take down notes on new songs (for I am a nerd, and therefore I shall list)—I even bought my first CD in over ten years! Fine, the CD was empty, but still. It was like 1992 all over again—and, once again, my obsessive interest could only be matched by my terrible taste.
A few months ago, I had the idea of incorporating into my best films of 2008 piece (it’s coming, it’s coming) a few thoughts on music and literature. Unfortunately, that essay has since turned into an interminable saga, and doing separate pieces on film, music and books felt like a more manageable idea, and the only way I could finish my cultural review of 2008 before Europa turns into a new star, and we inexplicably end up calling it Lucifer.
So here it is: My top ten best songs of last year. You must bear in mind that, as is the case with these things, the list is subject to change over time (this list is most certainly not life), and there is a good possibility that I might even come to hate some, if not most, of the songs on it. I can’t believe, for example, that there was a time I actually thought Maroon 5’s “This Love” was a decent tune (I didn’t say good, I said decent).
After that, I have also highlighted a few honorable mentions from 2008. Contemporary pop music is not my bailiwick but that’s never stopped me before. Enough of my yakkin’; let’s boogie:
10. Katy Perry: “I Kissed A Girl”
There is something positively delightful about tales of alcoholic abulia, especially when it involves someone (male or female) who looks like Zooey Deschanel and Lorelai from Gilmore Girls (Lorelai is an awesome name for a cat, by the way). But juvenile fantasies about the daughters of Lesbos aside, Katy Perry’s “I Kissed A Girl” is a revelatory pop song. The lyrics at first betray confusion and frustration, tinged with the subtle delight of sexual epiphany. But it is in the latter part of the song, especially the ironic last line, when it takes a subversive turn to mock today’s youth, which has come to accept female homosexuality as innocent fooling around, while male homosexuality still remains somewhat of a taboo. Case in point: the very same fanboys who were making terrible, third-rate gay cowboy jokes about Heath Ledger three years ago are now virtually campaigning for his canonisation.
Perry brings daring and spunk to what less ambitious singers would bring lenity, and her undulating tone is perfectly becoming of the melody. This is one of the classic pop songs.
9. Estelle featuring Kanye West: “American Boy”
Yeah, I am as surprised as you are.
I don’t have an automatic aversion towards a particular type of music, but I can’t say I have many favorites in R&B or hip-hop (except, of course, for Snow—a licky boom boom down). I doubt “American Boy” will do much to buck that trend, but it’s one of the year’s best, nonetheless. Estelle’s duet with Kanye West, whose “Stronger” was my favorite song of 2007, had the potential of being as icky as a Kenny Rogers/Barbara Streisand collaboration—instead it is sweet and melodic, and Estelle’s throaty vocals create a nice confrontation with them.
But, I think it’s West’s rap interlude that seals the deal: “He crazy, I know what you thinking/Ribena I know what you’re drinking” made me laugh like a drain the first time I heard it, as did “Dressed smart like a London bloke/Before he speak his suit bespoke.” I have visions of infants, dressed to the nines in finest Saville Row suits, speaking like David Niven.
Nothing to do with this song, you understand. I just have those visions. Thought I should mention that.
8. Kings of Leon: “Sex on Fire”
Now, this is an unlikely choice. The lead singer of Kings of Leon, Caleb Followill, sounds like an emo Ed Kowalczyk (wasn’t that the name of a Superman villain?) of Live. That’s not a good thing. I have been inadvertently following the band’s career since their first album—a friend of mine used to ear-rape me with it all the time—and, as is the case with R&B, their music doesn’t particularly appeal to me. They’re like Jamiroquai—so close to being good, but they’re not.
“Sex on Fire,” though, is different. With subtle yet trenchant guitar work from Matthew Followill, the song’s passionate and to the point; and Caleb’s otherwise irritating howls are a perfect fit for a tune that essentially says: “You’re hot; let’s fuck.” This blurb reads like a backhanded compliment, but it shouldn’t. They’re a talented bunch of musicians, who, with time, might well duplicate, and hopefully surpass, the sheer power of “Sex on Fire.”
7. Weezer: “Pork and Beans”
I first heard this song on my way to work, liked it instantly, and almost crashed my car when I tried to steer through the infernal Istanbul traffic while attempting to make out the track name on the radio screen. Equally startling was to find out that it was by Weezer, a band that brings fond memories of my teenage years in the nineties.
According to Wikipedia (from which I get all my information on everything), “the song was written by Rivers Cuomo (the lead singer) as a reaction to a meeting with Geffen executives where the band was told they needed to record more commercial material.” Ironically, this is probably their most commercially accessible song since Buddy Holly, but I have no way of verifying that since Weezer were pretty much completely under my radar since that delightful ditty (unless, of course, I check Wikipedia).
“Pork and Beans” is petty, and it is glaringly commercial, coming as it does with a backstory as most pandering songs do (I am sure Offspring had a saga to go with every one of their singles). But it has a mature sound, the band know exactly what they are doing with tempestuous guitars and larger-than-life choruses. And a little navel gazing every now and then never hurt nobody.
6. The Killers: “Human”
You didn’t ask, but my favorite spam message ever was this (a giant [sic] applies to the whole thing):
“Ladies always laughed at me and even gentlemans did in the public comfort station! Well, now I smil at them, because I took Me – ga – Di k for 5 months and now my putz is excessively greater than civil.”
Another thing that’s excessively greater than civil is this outstanding dance track by The Killers. A blend of 80s and 90s British pop (seriously, think of any band, from Erasure, to Duran Duran, to New Order, and The Killers sound like each and every one of them at least a little bit), “Human” has the most memorable hook of any song that came out in 2008. Brandon Flowers, the lead singer, has as distinctive a voice as his hero Neil Tennant (and is equally detached), and the harmony between the lyrics and the music has an almost architectural precision. The pretentious, new-age lyrics are, admittedly, part of the bargain, but no one ever expected Keats from Pet Shop Boys, either.
5. Vampire Weekend: “Mansard Roof”
OK, fine, “Mansard Roof” was released in 2007, but Vampire Weekend’s eponymous debut album came out in 2008. You can’t really fault my accuracy.
Vampire Weekend are perkier, more talented, cousins of Arctic Monkeys. And “Mansard Roof” is a better song than anything the latter, incredibly overhyped band, has ever come up with. It’s catchy from the get-go, with wonderful crooning vocals from the lead singer Ezra Koenig, but the unsung hero of the song is the drummer, Chris Tomson, pounding away like a sailor on shore leave. The ska beat is sustained throughout, and it’s never once reminiscent of Madness, another band whose enduring popularity is a mystery.
I haven’t paid that much attention to what the kids call punk-revival, because it lacks the two cornerstones of proper punk: anger and failure. But as long as you’re comfortable with the de-politicization, it’s a nice enough sub-genre of pop. “Mansard Roof” is a compact, playful song with a mid-sixties flavor, and I listened it to it a hell of a lot during the summer.
4. Fleet Foxes: “White Winter Hymnal”
Contrapuntal harmonizing is not one of pop music’s mainstays these days. But this innovative five-piece band from Seattle, like Bolsheviks in hemp cardigans and corduroy pants, prove with the glorious “White Winter Hymnal” that they are more than just a novelty act. It’s hard to describe their music—there’s a baroque element to the canons, with the melodic progression owing a lot to Pachelbel. It’s impossible, too, not to be reminded of Simon and Garfunkel’s “Scarborough Fair” or Led Zeppelin’s “The Battle of Evermore.” Add to that the vocal harmonies of The Beach Boys, and what you end up with should really be a chimera. Instead, it is a unique sound; rich, meaningful, yet totally accessible. I doubt Seattle will be the birthplace of a neo-baroque revolution in American popular music the way it was of grunge in the mid-eighties, but that really is a shame.
I am not sure what the song is supposed to mean—as far as I understand it’s about a school trip where the singer’s friend, Michael, falls and breaks his nose, and gets a nosebleed, but I don’t really care. The point is the melody; the point is the harmonies. The point is the music.
3. The Ting Tings: “Shut Up and Let Me Go”/“That’s Not My Name”
Another unlikely choice. And, once again, an apparently transmogrified clone of a far more successful band, in this case The White Stripes. Wikipedia informs me that Jules De Martino, ostensibly the drummer, but also doing his fair share of vocal and guitar work, used to play in a Christian rock band. And Katie White (now that’s a coincidence) had her own all-girl band (Wikipedia labels them a “Riot Grrrl” trio, the meaning of which not only alludes me, but is also a piece of information I would be happy to do without until I shuffle off this mortal coil). Naturally, when they got together, they ended up forming a tween-punk/dance act.
White sounds like a baby being hit with a cat when listing all the names that aren’t hers, but her voice is perfectly complementary of the band’s intentionally simple sound. But it is the incipient yet irreducible femininity of “Shut Up and Let Me Go” that is a true tour de force of minimalist pop, with such certain use of synthesisers during the chorus that the song achieves some sort of transcendence. It is the first great neo-feminist anthem.
2. Marianne Faithfull: “Flandyke Shore”
I don’t know when, or why, Marianne Faithfull’s dulcet voice turned into a cross between those of Harvey Fierstein and Pazuzu, but it suits her wistful sound. When she sings now, there is a sense of longing, and it’s more powerful than arbitrary nostalgia; like she’s in mourning, perhaps, for a past that never was. It’s strange to think that Faithfull has almost become a footnote in the discography, and the apocrypha, of The Rolling Stones. A sad moment comes early on in Martin Scorsese’s “Shine A Light,” just before the band is about to sing “As Tears Go By,” when, in his introduction, Jagger goes off on one about how it was one of the first songs that he and Richards wrote, that it was sweet but they sort of didn’t like it at first, but that they gave it away to someone. Not a single mention of Faithfull, who, you know, only made the fucking tune famous in the first place (Stones lore goes that Mick and Keith were all too happy, originally, to kick the tune, which they hated, over to Marianne). It’s sad.
“Flandyke Shore” is a traditional English ballad, famously sung by Nic Jones in the early eighties. It’s like the “Smoke on the Water” of English folks bands—every band does it at least once. But Faithfull’s guttural, pained, grudging version is the ultimate rendition—beautiful, sad, and, most importantly, reflective.
1. Scott Weiland: “Paralysis”
The last song Scott Weiland sang that I liked was “Plush.” That was sixteen years ago.
So imagine, if you please, my surprise when this track grabbed me, and kicked me to the kerb, with its bleak lyrics (“Every piss and a girl is a ghost of you”), cuspate guitars, and Weiland’s majestic vocal work. Everything comes together perfectly to make this one of the great break-up songs. A stellar achievement.
Kaiser Chiefs: “Half the Truth”: The Jam? Meet The Ramones.
TV On the Radio: “Golden Age”: Funky. With a tight guitar reminiscent of John Squire.
Coldplay: “Violet Hill”: Fuck you. I like it.
My Morning Jacket: “I’m Amazed”: Heavy, but never deep. Just the way I like it.
Elbow: “Grounds For Divorce”: A great sing-a-along. Not one for weddings, though.
Best Video of the Year: Her thighs scare me. But the video for Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” is a classic in the vein of “Addicted to Love.”
The Best Song I Heard in 2008 I Forgot Even Existed: Pearl Jam: “Corduroy”
The Second Best Song I Heard in 2008 I Forgot Even Existed: Ocean Colour Scene: “The Day We Caught The Train”
The Third Best Song I Heard in 2008 I Forgot Even Existed: Cat Stevens: “Into White”
The Fourth Best Song I Heard in 2008 I Forgot Even Existed: Fastball: “The Way”
The Fifth Best Song I Heard in 2008 I Forgot Even Existed: Deep Purple: “Highway Star”
Worst Song of the Year: Pink’s enduring popularity is a sure sign that Satan is winning. And “So What?” is like early morning small talk in an elevator: banal, exhausting, and fake.
Worst Song of the Year Runner-Up: Coldplay’s “Viva La Vida.” I am not sure if it’s the inane lyrics (I used to roll the dice/See the fear in my enemies’ eyes—oh, brother!), or the third-rate pseudo-symphonic melody, or Chris Martin’s unintentional homage to Baltimora, but this tune bugs the hell out of me. Also, what the fuck are they wearing these days? Who are you, The X-Men? A rock band with costumes is like hunting chinchillas on a rhinoceros. It looks good on paper, but a rhinoceros can’t climb trees.
This article was originally published on The House Next Door.
Review: On Jump Rope Gazers, the Beths Cloak Heartbreak in Bright Pop Hooks
Every element of the album is so richly defined that these songs can’t help but pop.3.5
Though indie pop seems to be having a particularly dour year, with albums like Soccer Mommy’s Color Theory and Perfume Genius’s Set My Heart on Fire Immediately focusing on heavier-hearted subjects and exploring denser, more brooding sonic palettes, the Beths’s sophomore effort, Jump Rope Gazers, relies mostly on upbeat pop-rock. That’s not to say that the New Zealand band is anxiety-free, but they’re so canny at cloaking heartbreak and dread in bright, warm hooks that their music never sounds too dire.
The album’s opening track, “I’m Not Getting Excited,” is a charged-up rocker that’s so spirited that it’s easy to miss the song’s passing references to death. Lead singer Elizabeth Stokes eagerly bursts into a brilliant falsetto to deliver the song’s caffeinated chorus. Songs like “Dying to Believe” and “Out of Sight” keep this energy going, with drummer Tristan Deck and bassist Benjamin Sinclair maintaining a brisk rhythm section as Stokes and Jonathan Pearce’s guitars shimmer, groove, and ignite in equal measure.
But the Beths are, perhaps, at their best when they’re at their breeziest. The languid verses of the album’s midtempo title track are set against a backdrop of sun-soaked harmonies, as Stokes describes a crumbling relationship: “If I don’t see your face tonight, well, I guess I’ll be fine.” The song’s chorus is more melancholic, with Stokes delivering lines like “I think I love you/And I think I loved you the whole time” with a wistful nostalgia.
The album’s closer, “Just Shy of Sure,” is lush and mellow, tinged with more sadness than its laidback demeanor might suggest. Here, the Beths approach a relationship from a pained angle: “Love in memory is a plague that consumed me,” Stokes sings matter-of-factly. The song finds the singer grateful for the experience even if it didn’t end the way she might have hoped: “Hey, you can’t win without entering/Do you care to lose everything?” These songs display the Beths’s penchant and skill for making the bittersweet sound so good.
Jump Rope Gazers was written while the Beths toured the world in support of their 2018 debut, Future Me Hates Me, and songs like “You are a Beam of Light,” a bleary ode to a loved one, reflect the feeling of being far away from the people and the places you know best. Besides the band’s pitch-perfect songwriting, though, one of the things that makes the album so endlessly infectious is Pearce’s crisp and spacious production. From the acoustic and electric guitars that gently intertwine on “Do You Want Me Now” to each layer of the band’s crystalline harmonies on “Acrid,” every element of the album is so richly defined that these songs can’t help but pop.
Label: Carpark Release Date: July 10, 2020 Buy: Amazon
The Best Albums of 2020 (So Far)
These 20 albums reflect a reckoning with ourselves, the patriarchy, systemic racism, and our connection to the planet.
It’s been a very long year—and we’re only at the halfway mark. So it seemed like a good time to take stock of the human experiment circa 2020 with our first-ever mid-year albums list. Just as the COVID-19 pandemic has exposed who we are at our cores, both good and bad, the best albums of the year so far—almost all of them created prior to the crisis—reflect the simmering tensions that have been roiling beneath the surface of American life for years, if not decades. These 20 albums reflect a reckoning with ourselves (Arca’s kinetic Kick I), the patriarchy (Fiona Apple’s prismatic Fetch the Bolt Cutters), systemic racism (Run the Jewels’s electrifying RTJ4), and our (dis)connection to the planet itself (Grimes’s boundless Miss Anthropocene). As we grapple with what it means to shut down and rise up, music can give us an outlet, a voice, or—in the case of Dua Lipa’s Future Nostalgia and Jessie Ware’s What’s Your Pleasure?—an escape. Sal Cinquemani
Fiona Apple, Fetch the Bolt Cutters
Like fellow singer-songwriter Scott Walker, Fiona Apple achieved fame at a young age by making music that was more sophisticated and adventurous than that of her peers. Now, with Fetch the Bolt Cutters, she’s made an album not unlike Walker’s The Drift—that is, unmistakably in the pop idiom but aggressively unconventional. But if Walker’s late-career music was alienating and difficult, Fetch the Bolt Cutters is compulsively listenable, full of catchy melodic hooks and turns of phrase that linger with you long after the album is over. Released in the midst of a global economic and health crisis that could have been largely prevented if not for the disastrous mismanagement of a ruling class for whom mediocrity is an unattainable level of functionality, the album is prismatic for all that it reflects. On a purely musical level, it’s a bold experiment in pop craft, a collection of songs on which Apple stretches her talents in adventurous new directions. It can be read biographically, as a self-conscious act of narrative-building that continues to define Apple’s legacy as an artist. Most importantly, Fetch the Bolt Cutters is a vituperative catalog of the failures and pointless cruelties of a society propped up by fragile, nihilistic, patriarchal ideology. Seth Wilson
Arca, Kick I
Where Arca’s past efforts sought to express states of dissociation, rendering a consciousness flitting in and out of reality, the songs on Kick I are noticeably present and tuned-in. Arca’s gender identity is infused in the playfulness of her lyrics and compositions. Despite the addition of actual pop hooks throughout the album, Arca’s beats continue to emphasize destabilization and change. Her songs are all bridge—stretches of evolution from one idea or mindset to the next. Just when you’ve grown accustomed to a sound or riff, the floor drops out, shifting to another mode and vibe altogether. The production oscillates wildly between harsh and smooth, as in the way the kinetic, abrasive “Riquiquí” segues into the graceful ballad “Calor”; strings and clanking percussion mix, squaring off in striking juxtaposition. By far the bounciest, most ecstatic song cycle of Arca’s career, Kick I is a celebration of actualization, whether that’s spurned by finding harmony internally or in communion with another. Charles Lyons-Burt
Bad Bunny, YHLQMDLG
With his inclination for pairing heartbroken lyrics with fiery dembow beats, Bad Bunny has finetuned the art of crying in the club. On his second solo album, YHLQMDLG, the Puerto Rican reggaeton star offers dance floor-ready sentimentality that feels familiar, but he breaks out of his reliable formula with the most blistering production of his career to date, courtesy of Tainy and Subelo NEO. The viral “Safaera” is the best example of this audacious streak: Over an episodic five minutes, the track pivots between eight exhilarating beat changes, simulating the head-spinning pyrotechnics of a DJ club mix. With collaborations from today’s hottest Latin-trap heavyweights and legendary reggaetoneros like Daddy Yankee, the album solidifies Bad Bunny’s rightful place in the Urbano canon. Sophia Ordaz
Phoebe Bridgers, Punisher
Throughout her sophomore effort, Punisher, Phoebe Bridgers is often transfixed by a feeling of stasis. Songs like “Chinese Satellite” and “I See You” evoke the sensation of being frozen, exacerbated by the perpetual anticipation of doom. “I’ve been running in circles trying to be myself,” she sings on the former. Again and again over the course of the album, the singer-songwriter laments her inability to find solid ground, her voice low but certain. These songs simmer beautifully and quietly, eventually boiling over in intermittent moments of sonic boisterousness, and the results are often stunning. Punisher’s closing track, “I Know the End,” is a travelogue at the end of the world, explicitly illustrating the cloud of uneasiness that hangs over the album. It ends with blood-curdling screams, until all the sound fades out and Bridgers’s voice is hoarse. The end of the world is a central detail on Punisher, an influence over the uncertainty that falls over these dark but gorgeous songs. Jordan Walsh
Dogleg’s Melee is a bristling, relentlessly cathartic collection of pop-punk. From the moment that the opening track, “Kawasaki Backflip,” bursts into its full-band glory, the album never slows down or backs off from the Detroit group’s loud, crunchy, anthemic style. Lead singer Alex Stoitsiadis shouts every word with dire conviction, his voice shredding and straining to deliver some of the best shout-along hooks of the year so far. “Any moment now, I will disintegrate,” he frantically yells at the explosive climax of “Fox.” Melee is the sound of a band pushing off self-destruction through sheer force of will. This isn’t to say that these songs aren’t complex, or that their loudness is a cover for a lack of imagination. The guitars on “Cannonball” splash loudly, creating violent ripples over the rest of the track, while “Ender” closes the album in a six-minute punk odyssey wherein Dogleg ups the stakes at every turn. Melee is exhausting in the best possible way, a cleansing release of tension in a howling, desperate rage. Walsh
Bob Dylan, Rough and Rowdy Ways
Sharp and precise in its references, descriptions, and personal confessions, Bob Dylan’s Rough and Rowdy Ways is thematically universal and powerfully prescient, in many ways acting as the culminating expression of the apocalyptic spirituality that’s preoccupied Dylan since his earliest recordings. It’s also a masterpiece of mood as much as lyrical poetry, and as stunningly and surprisingly atmospheric as many of the major musical achievements in a career more associated with monumental songwriting than sonic mastery. This is an album that showcases a similar comprehensive spectrum of ideas, attitudes, citations, perspectives, stories, and jokes as Dylan’s greatest recordings. True, many of these are grave, but the few hopeful spots—like “I’ve Made Up My Mind to Give Myself to You” and “Key West (Pirate Philosopher)”—are well-earned and, quite simply, beautiful. Latter-day Dylan is the man behind “To Make You Feel My Love” as well as “Not Dark Yet,” and along with dispensing fire and brimstone, Rough and Rowdy Ways keeps romantic and spiritual faith alive, through both the fervor of unshaken convictions concerning the high stakes of the soul as well a basic yearning for love, companionship, and peace. As with his best work, the album encompasses the infinite potential for grace and disaster that can be clearly discerned but rarely summarized in the most turbulent of ages. Michael Joshua Rowin
Grimes, Miss Anthropocene
Claire Boucher has said that the process of writing Miss Anthropocene was an isolating experience, and that much of the material came from a dark, personal place. Even the album’s most apparently apocalyptic lyrics, like the reverb-drenched “This is the sound of the end of the world” on “Before the Fever,” seem to do more to elucidate the kind of headspace Boucher was in at the time of writing than any grand message about the world’s climate woes. But while this overarching concept might seem flimsy, Boucher’s broad-strokes approach to lyricism and confident, cinematic production allows her to explore concerns that feel at once both deeply personal and fundamentally communal. The latter in particular is bolstered by the way she dissolves the limits of genre, splicing together ethereal electronics with nü-metal guitars on “So Heavy I Fell Through the Earth.” On “Darkseid,” deep bass and doom-laden beats grind beneath a brittle performance by Taiwanese rapper 潘PAN, and a Bollywood sample butts up against drum n’ bass on “4ÆM.” On an album as sonically diverse as Miss Anthropocene, the most significant thread that holds it all together is Boucher’s wild imagination and commitment to experimenting with her sound. And the result is a challenging exploration of the conflicting boundaries and boundlessness of personhood, technology, and society. Anna Richmond
HAIM, Women in Music Pt. III
While there’s plenty of genre-hopping on Women in Music Pt. III—hip-hop, reggae, folk, heartland rock, and dance—HAIM has created an album that’s defined not just by exploration, but by their strong sense of individuality. Unlike the sparkling, thoroughly modern production of 2017’s Something to Tell You, this album’s scratchy drums, murky vocals, and subtle blending of acoustic and electronic elements sound ripped straight from an old vinyl. It’s darker, heavier fare for HAIM, for sure—a summer party record for a troubled summer. HAIM’s instincts to veer a little more left of the dial result in an album that strikes a deft balance between the experimental and the commercial, the moody and the uplifting. You’re unlikely to hear these songs on Kroger’s in-store playlist—on which 2017’s “Little of Your Love” seems to have become a permanent staple alongside the likes of “Eye of the Tiger” and “I Wanna Dance with Somebody (Who Loves Me)”—but these songs are riskier, and ultimately that much more rewarding. Jeremy Winograd
Lilly Hiatt, Walking Proof
Lilly Hiatt’s songs are disarmingly personal and immensely endearing, even when she’s singing about fucking up—which is pretty often. There’s an almost parasocial element to Hiatt’s songwriting: Her voice is like that of an old friend who’s perpetually in various stages of getting her shit together. Hiatt’s fourth album, Walking Proof, forms something of a thematic trilogy with her last two albums: 2015’s Royal Blue, a portrait of a relationship in its death throes, and 2017’s harder, darker Trinity Lane, which depicted its immediate aftermath. Hiatt spent both albums seeking solace and guidance for her troubles everywhere she could, from family to her favorite records. On Walking Proof, she’s emerged wiser and more confident, ready even to dispense advice of her own. She also finds herself in full command of her broad stylistic palette, melding influences as disparate as backwoods country and garage punk into a cohesive signature sound. There are a couple of lingering references to Hiatt’s past relationship problems. But when, in the hauntingly stark closer “Scream,” she claims, “I swear to God I’m done with him,” it’s convincing this time. Winograd
Carly Rae Jepsen, Dedicated Side B
A defining feature of last year’s Dedicated was Carly Rae Jepsen’s embrace of her sexuality—a topic the singer had, for the most part, previously sidestepped in favor of more chaste subject matter. The dozen songs that comprise Dedicated Side B, all leftovers from the original recording sessions, double down on pillow talk, lending the album a uniformity that its predecessor lacked. That songs as strong as the sublime “Heartbeat” and the anthemic “Solo” were left off Dedicated speaks to not just the wealth of treasures she had to choose from, but her ability to craft a cohesive narrative. “I’m at a war with myself/We go back to my place/Take my makeup off/Show you my best disguise,” Jepsen offers wistfully on the meditative “Comeback,” demonstrating the tangled multi-dimensionality of both her own psyche and the act of sex itself. Alexa Camp
Review: Arca’s Kick I Is a Kinetic Celebration of Self-Actualization
The album is a statement of exuberance from an artist who’s known to deal in gloom.4
Pop music, it seems, has finally caught up with Arca, née Alejandra Ghersi. The Venezuelan artist has helped shape the sound of hip-hop, indie-pop, and R&B over the last decade, making sizable contributions to projects by Kanye West, Björk, and Kelela, while toiling away at her solo work in a separate, more challenging lane. After three albums of apocalyptic, ambient tone poems, Arca’s pop and avant-garde interests converge on Kick I. It’s an anti-pop pop album, a distillation of the producer-singer-arranger extraordinaire’s ambitions and a statement of exuberance from an artist who’s known to deal in gloom.
Where Arca’s past efforts sought to express states of dissociation, rendering a consciousness flitting in and out of reality, the songs on Kick I are noticeably present and tuned-in. This mood is reportedly due to newfound romance and reaching a comfort with her hybrid identity as both non-binary and a trans woman, and Kick I feels buoyed and fueled by these personal landmarks. In the past, Arca opined about the discomforts of being who she is, but on the album’s opening track, “Nonbinary,” she practically gloats: “I’m special, you can’t tell me otherwise…What a treat/Is is to be/non-binary.” This confident swagger abounds across the album, and Arca’s spirit of self-affirmation is well-earned.
Arca’s gender identity is infused in the playfulness of her lyrics and compositions. Despite the addition of actual pop hooks throughout Kick I, Arca’s beats continue to emphasize destabilization and change. Her songs are all bridge—stretches of evolution from one idea or mindset to the next. Just when you’ve grown accustomed to a sound or riff, the floor drops out, shifting to another mode and vibe altogether. The production oscillates wildly between harsh and smooth, as in the way the kinetic, abrasive “Riquiquí” segues into the graceful ballad “Calor”; strings and clanking percussion mix, squaring off in striking juxtaposition.
The album’s lyrics, sung in equal parts Spanish and English, toy with and complicate notions of gender and desire. On “La Chiqui” (which roughly translates to “babydoll”), fellow electro-industrial popsmith Sophie has anarchic fun with pronouns, knowingly upending binaries: “She is my boyfriend/Flowers of my love/He is my best friend/Roots blowing up…the schism it shifts, it rips…” “Machote” and “Mequetrefe” express Arca’s yearning for a hyper-masculine man who’s an accomplished lover and, of course, “knows how to shake it.” The latter song’s title is Venezuelan slang for a type of cocksure man, often used derogatorily, but for whom Arca makes no apologies for wanting, even delightfully asserting that she “deserves” him.
Arca’s always been amusing—after all, she once titled a song “Front Load”—but Kick I is a new high water-mark for her leftfield one-liners and absurd metaphors, all tied to her assurance and strength. “Rip the Slit” winds its way through a series of tongue-twisting phrases and fragments that speak frankly of anatomical mutation, delivered in lurching, pitched-up vocals. And on “Riquiquí,” she vividly, hilariously invokes both mangos and mayonnaise.
“Riquiquí” includes a repeated description of “a white metal rose,” whose paradoxical mix of materials perfectly encapsulates the joining of the natural and the mechanical across Arca’s music. Her beats move and operate based on collisions of one element crashing into another or the cacophony emitted by many noises firing off at once. And true to her habit of straddling binaries, the sonics on Kick I have a real dimensionality and tangibility—as in what sounds like wood splintering on “La Chiqui”—even though they also have a kind of wispy, cyber-weightlessness, as if they could self-destruct at any given moment.
On the off chance that the forces colliding are both bodies, Arca can be tender. She croons about the unity of becoming one with a lover on “No Queda Nada,” the album’s beautifully patient closing track. “Nothing left in me that you haven’t touched,” she lilts, “Not even a corner left/Into which your warmth hasn’t seeped.” The “you” could be a paramour, but it’s also possible Arca is talking about coming into her own. Thus, Kick I is a sometimes quite bawdy love letter, both to the self and a potential partner. By far the bounciest, most ecstatic song cycle of Arca’s career, the album is a celebration of actualization, whether that’s spurned by finding harmony internally or in communion with another.
Label: XL Release Date: June 26, 2020 Buy: Amazon
Review: Jessie Ware’s What’s Your Pleasure? Is a Transportive Disco Trip
An album that, just a few months ago, might have felt like a nostalgia trip or a guilty pleasure now feels like manna for the soul.4
The art and media released immediately following a crisis or disaster often exist in a strange sort of vacuum—paradoxically oblivious to the bleak realities of the world into which they’ve been dropped and inextricably bound to it. The digital age allows for a more immediate reaction to world events—Charli XCX’s How I’m Feeling Now was created as a real-time response to the COVID-19 shutdown—but the vast majority of the albums released so far this year were recorded prior to the pandemic. They serve as relics preserved in time, reminders of the simple pleasures we took for granted just a few months ago.
Some, like Lady Gaga’s recent Chromatica and Jessie Ware’s What’s Your Pleasure?, were created specifically for clubs, most of which have been temporarily shuttered. To add irony to injury, both albums find their creators returning to their dance roots after years-long sabbaticals from the genre. Ware, in particular, has with each album moved further away from the experimental electronic music of her early collaborations with the likes of SBTRKT and Sampha, and 2017’s Glasshouse eschewed dance music altogether.
More than a dance album, though, the U.K. singer’s beat-driven What’s Your Pleasure? is a truly immersive experience, transporting listeners not just to pre-COVID days, but to a time and place much further back. The opening track, “Spotlight,” is a sultry, understated throwback to Four Seasons of Love-era Moroder and Bellotte, with Ware’s recollections of a fleeting romance floating atop a plush arrangement of disco strings, chirpy guitar licks, and wobbly bass. As the song climbs to its blissed-out climax, you can almost feel the polyester on your skin and smell the Paco Rabanne in the air.
Ware’s devotedly crafted escapism isn’t limited to one narrowly defined period or genre: The title track’s rollicking bass and squelchy synths nod to Italo disco, while the cheeky “Ooh La La” dips into expansive funk-pop, with Ware playing Teena Marie to producer James Ford’s Rick James. And that’s just the album’s opening stretch. Ford, one half of British electronic duo Simian Mobile Disco, is at the helm of most of What’s Your Pleasure?, striking a deft balance between vintage and modern, between organic and synthetic, on tracks like “Save a Kiss,” whose live orchestral swells wash over sleek programming and driving house beats.
The album doesn’t completely abandon the smooth R&B that Ware has honed over the last several years, and there’s plenty of downstairs music to groove to here. The slow-burning “In Your Eyes” glides along an oscillating bassline that allows Ware’s mesmerizing vocal to take center stage: “It feels like we’ve been dancing to this song all of our lives,” she sings, her voice mimicking the track’s sweeping strings and brass. “The Kill” is another smoldering slow jam, an undercurrent of orchestral and gospel flourishes bolstering its tenuous hook.
Lyrically, the songs stick to common, if not completely frivolous, tropes like love, lust, and longing. “Tell me when I’ll get more than a dream of you,” Ware implores on “Spotlight.” But these themes take on even deeper meaning in a time where physical connection and communal experiences are few and far between. Depending on your level of caution fatigue, the album’s explicit invitation to indulge might seem sadistic. The thought of bumping up against a stranger on a dance floor these days feels forbidden, even dangerous. But when Ware croons, “Last night we danced and I thought you were saving my life,” on the rapturous “Mirage (Don’t Stop),” it’s a reminder that music and dancing remain universal forms of salvation. What’s Your Pleasure? is an album that, just a few months ago, might have felt like a nostalgia trip or a guilty pleasure, but now feels like manna for the soul.
Label: Interscope Release Date: June 26, 2020 Buy: Amazon
Review: Khruangbin’s Mordechai Confronts the Present with Open Arms
An effort to appreciate the present before it slips away into the recesses of memory forms the album’s foundation.4
A live act at heart, Khruangbin performs at the leisurely pace of experienced improvisational musicians, while their songs are judiciously pared down to playlist-friendly lengths ideal for your local Starbucks. But the Houston rock trio’s output can hardly be categorized as “easy listening.” Khruangbin’s homage to eclectic musical traditions from around the world demands close attention. The band’s third album, Mordechai, coalesces the balmy Southeast Asian-influenced rock of 2015’s The Universe Smiles Upon You and the baroque Iranian psychedelia of 2018’s Con Todo El Mundo, injecting it all with a generous helping of funk. All the while, the ornamental, unhurried grooves maintain Khruangbin’s signature air of reverence and abundance, ensuring that each song unfolds organically.
The album’s opening track, “First Class,” launches the album into a dreamy stratosphere, as the band—whose name means “airplane” in Thai—details the opulence of a first-class flight over shimmering guitars. This euphoric yet playful tone permeates much of the rest of the album, which unlike the group’s past efforts, incorporates vocals into all but one of the tracks. Lead single “Time (You and I)” offers an Edenic proposition, smokily sung by bassist Laura Lee: “We can play like children play/We can say like children say.” She beckons us to shed the concerns and judgments of adulthood and rediscover the world through the eyes of a child.
Having gained renown primarily as an instrumental band, Khruangbin mastered the dimensions of their sonic blueprint early on. Propelled by drummer Donald “DJ” Johnson’s tumbling backbeats, Lee’s meandering bass often provided the heartbeat of each of the band’s songs, while Speer’s guitar, laden with brambly hammer-on passages that evoke Middle Eastern rock, served as a lush accent. This interplay spared little breathing room for vocals; the rare mantra-like chant would be a word or phrase sung by the trio and sustained, as if the vocal were itself another instrument adding to the mix.
By contrast, there’s only one true instrumental on Mordechai, the pensive “Father Bird, Mother Bird,” and half of the album’s tracks boast entire verses and choruses. What was once implied is now overtly articulated. Lee’s ruminations on memory surface on “Connaissais de Face,” a Thai surf-rock jam interspersed with a conversation between two old friends. One remarks to the other, “Time changes everything,” a truism that seems hackneyed until it’s put into relief with the friends’ struggle to reconcile the old and new versions of themselves.
On the tender “Dearest Alfred,” Lee gives thanks to a loved one after receiving a letter that transports her to their shared past: “Can you imagine the joy/When I received your wonderful letter?/Your letter is the best gift.” For Khruangbin, the act of recollection entails articulating past emotions. Language, be it a bittersweet heart-to-heart or the scribbled thoughts of a letter, enables us to historicize the past—the closest we can ever come to reliving it.
Armed with this special regard for memory, the band confronts the impetus of the present with open eyes and arms. The Spanish-language “Pelota” is a playful jaunt situated at the intersection of Iranian rock and Afro-Colombian cumbia. Lee compares herself to a ball of soot traversing life’s peaks and valleys, at once acknowledging her smallness and the immensity of the chaos surrounding her. Still, she adopts a stance of acceptance: “Pero quiero amar el desastre/El desastre que es mío” (“But I want to love the disaster/The disaster that is mine”).
This effort to appreciate the present before it slips away into the recesses of memory forms the album’s foundation. While past Khruangbin albums risked coming off merely as studied tributes to the microcosms of Thai and Iranian rock, Mordechai finds Khruangbin coming into their own, thanks to the band’s lyrical development and the honing of their fusion of intercontinental influences. As the adage goes, there’s nothing new under the sun, but Mordechai makes a case that maybe there just might be.
Label: Dead Oceans Release Date: June 26, 2020 Buy: Amazon
Review: HAIM’s Women in Music Pt. III Is Defined by a Strong Sense of Self
The album strikes a deft balance between experimental and commercial, moody and uplifting.4
HAIM’s third album, Women in Music Pt. III, opens with “Los Angeles,” an off-the-wall mishmash of jazzy horns, light funk guitars, and dub rhythms that attempts to transpose Vampire Weekend’s distinct sound to the West Coast. It is, perhaps, an unsurprising development given that the album was co-produced by VW cohort Ariel Rechtshaid and former member Rostam Batmanglij, and that Rechtshaid’s girlfriend, Danielle Haim, is featured prominently throughout the band’s 2019 album Father of the Bride.
But while there’s plenty of genre-hopping on Women in Music Pt. III—hip-hop, reggae, folk, heartland rock, and dance—Danielle and sisters Este and Alana have created an album that’s defined not just by exploration, but by their strong sense of individuality. Unlike the sparkling, thoroughly modern production of 2017’s Something to Tell You, on which both Rechtshaid and Batmanglij also served as producers, this album’s scratchy drums, murky vocals, and subtle blending of acoustic and electronic elements sound ripped straight from an old vinyl. It’s darker, heavier fare for HAIM, for sure—a summer party record for a troubled summer.
The album’s title is tongue-in-cheek: Danielle, Este, and Alana aren’t known for singing about gender politics so much as hook-ups, breakups, and all of the points in between (“3 AM,” for one, finds Danielle contemplating her response to a wee-hours booty call). But the same could be said of a feminist icon like Joni Mitchell, whose influence looms large—perhaps too large—over back-to-back cuts “I’ve Been Down” and “Man from the Magazine.” A stripped-down acoustic missive, the latter recounts an experience Este had with a skeevy reporter who asked her if the exaggerated faces she makes on stage are the same ones she makes in bed. “What do really want me to say back?” Danielle scoffs. “Is this what you think making a pass is?”
HAIM’s brand of feminism is otherwise less explicit, manifesting in their unapologetically unfiltered, fiercely independent persona. “The Steps” is the album’s most cathartic moment: “I can’t understand why you don’t understand me,” sings Danielle, who isn’t one to mince words. “And every day I wake up and make money for myself/And though we share a bed you know that I don’t need your help,” she bellows. With its ecstatic octave-jumping hook and braying guitar licks, “The Steps” is a nearly perfect pop-rock song. So, for that matter, is the sleepily chugging “Up from a Dream,” while the infectious “Now I’m in It” and “Don’t Wanna” blend synths and guitars so deftly that the line between pop and rock remains blurred. (Anyone still skeptical of HAIM’s rock n’ roll bona fides is likely to be won over by Danielle and Alana shredding dueling acid-drenched guitar solos at the end of “FUBT”).
While only one of its songs exceeds four minutes, Women in Music Pt. III runs a bit long at 16 tracks, including a trio of singles that were released last year and are sequenced unceremoniously at the end of the album. While “Now I’m In It” meshes well with the rest of the material, the folksy “Hallelujah” and the generic groove track “Summer Girl”—which borrows heavily enough from “Walk on the Wild Side” that Lou Reed receives a writing credit—stick out on an album that otherwise flows sublimely. And with such thorough melding of influences to be found elsewhere, the more bald-faced genre exercises—hip-hop on “3 AM,” reggae on “Another Try”—come across as a bit lazy.
Yet, HAIM’s instincts to veer a little more left of the dial on Women in Music Pt. III result in an album that strikes a deft balance between the experimental and the commercial, the moody and the uplifting. You’re unlikely to hear these songs on Kroger’s in-store playlist—on which 2017’s “Little of Your Love” seems to have become a permanent staple alongside the likes of “Eye of the Tiger” and “I Wanna Dance with Somebody (Who Loves Me)”—but these songs are riskier, and ultimately that much more rewarding.
Label: Columbia Release Date: June 26, 2020 Buy: Amazon
Review: Bob Dylan’s Rough and Rowdy Ways Is Powerfully Prescient
The album encompasses the infinite potential for grace and disaster during the most turbulent of ages.4.5
When, in March, Bob Dylan previewed “Murder Most Foul,” the closing track from his 39th album, Rough and Rowdy Ways, the timing was eerie. A haunting, 17-minute piano and violin duet that addresses the assassination of John F. Kennedy, the song paints an epic, Bosch-like portrait of a country ripped asunder by violence, confusion, and hatred, the president’s death marking the moment when “the soul of a nation [was] torn away.” Released two weeks after the U.S. government’s bumbling proclamation of a national emergency in the wake of the COVID-19 pandemic, and not long before mass protests erupted over the killing of George Floyd, “Murder Most Foul” looks back to the mythical origin point of the era that fostered Dylan as a visionary of social conscience and artistic freedom and depicts America’s seemingly perpetual state of chaos and division.
Dylan’s first album of original material since 2012’s Tempest, Rough and Rowdy Ways operates in the same vein as its larger-than-life finale. Sharp and precise in its references, descriptions, and personal confessions, the album is also thematically universal and powerfully prescient, in many ways acting as the culminating expression of the apocalyptic spirituality that’s preoccupied Dylan since his earliest recordings. It’s also a masterpiece of mood as much as lyrical poetry, and as stunningly and surprisingly atmospheric as many of the major musical achievements in a career more associated with monumental songwriting than sonic mastery.
Only superficially signaling a retreat from contemporary and topical concerns, Dylan’s last three albums—all composed of material from the Great American Songbook—gradually perfected the stark, elegiac sonic palette that Dylan has been refining since 1997’s Time Out of Mind, and Rough and Rowdy Ways applies that palette to the most poignant songcraft of his late career. This is evident on opening track “I Contain Multitudes,” which features a slowly strummed, drum-less arrangement that would have fit snugly on any of his three previous albums. But instead of comforting traditionalism, the song offers a statement of purpose that dares immodesty and tastelessness (“I’m just like Anne Frank and Indiana Jones”) only to somehow arrive at honest self-reflection and self-discipline (“I’ll keep the path open, the path in my mind/I’ll see to it that there’s no love left behind”).
“I Contain Multitudes” sets the tone for the rest of Rough and Rowdy Ways, which frequently meditates on mortality and mayhem with bemusement as well as dread, though not always in equal parts. Whereas the album’s opener posits that an unstable world can be rescued through expansive perspective and creativity, “My Own Version of You” turns this reassurance on its head and in the process becomes one of the most macabre songs of Dylan’s gargantuan catalog.
On the song, he casts himself as a grave robber digging up “limbs and livers and brains and hearts” in order to create a patchwork human a la Frankenstein’s monster. The dark, running joke here is that this human is “you”—a former lover Dylan wishes to perfect according to his perverse, insatiable desires, perhaps, but also any listener whose point of view has become fragmented and disoriented by a lyrical kaleidoscope referencing Richard III, Julius Caesar, The Godfather, Scarface, Leon Russell, Liberace, St. John the Baptist, the Crusades, Sigmund Freud, and Karl Marx, and more. “My Own Version of You” suggests that the restoration of sense and meaning, as well as a shot at artistic immortality, through the reimagining of history and culture is yet one more desecration of an ungraspable grand design; the song’s creepy waltz-time shuffle, as pierced through by Donnie Herron’s ghostly steel guitar work, forms an unsettling backdrop for Dylan’s hypnotic, and hypnotized, despair.
Like much of the grittier material that Dylan has penned since turning to electric rock in the mid-‘60s, the album’s no-nonsense blues are also shot through with dire proclamations that at times get downright bloody. The second half of Rough and Rowdy Ways contains two such numbers, “Goodbye Jimmy Reed” and “Crossing the Rubicon.” The former is a deceptively upbeat tribute to sackcloth-and-ashes religiosity (“For thine is kingdom, the power, the glory/Go tell it on the mountain, go tell the real story/Tell it in that straightforward, puritanical tone/In the mystic hours when a person’s alone”), while the latter is a 12-bar slow-burner that speaks of final decisions and lasting regrets during a time of tribulation (“What are these dark days I see?/In this world so badly bent/I cannot redeem the time/The time so idly spent/How much longer can it last?/How long can it go on?”).
As others have pointed out, “False Prophet” pilfers (and without giving credit to) Billy “The Kid” Emerson’s smoky “If Lovin’ Is Believing.” Dylan has unabashedly stolen others’ music since at least “Masters of War,” but in almost every case he’s made other musicians’ work so uniquely his own in terms of lyrics and sensibility that he’s almost justified the practice. In “False Prophet,” he brilliantly replaces Emerson’s straightforward tale of romantic betrayal with a surreal, eschatological narrative that, as spun in Dylan’s gravelly croak, evokes the possible viewpoint of the Angel of Death: “You don’t know me darlin’/You never would guess/I’m nothing like my ghostly appearance would suggest/I ain’t no false prophet/I’m just said what I said/I’m here to bring vengeance on somebody’s head.”
Rough and Rowdy Ways, though, doesn’t just hammer away at a few foreboding notes. This is an album that showcases a similar comprehensive spectrum of ideas, attitudes, citations, perspectives, stories, and jokes as Dylan’s greatest recordings. True, many of these are grave, but the few hopeful spots—like “I’ve Made Up My Mind to Give Myself to You” and “Key West (Pirate Philosopher)”—are well-earned and, quite simply, beautiful. Latter-day Dylan is the man behind “To Make You Feel My Love” as well as “Not Dark Yet,” and along with dispensing fire and brimstone, the album keeps romantic and spiritual faith alive, through both the fervor of unshaken convictions concerning the high stakes of the soul as well a basic yearning for love, companionship, and peace. As with his best work, Rough and Rowdy Ways encompasses the infinite potential for grace and disaster that can be clearly discerned but rarely summarized in the most turbulent of ages.
Review: With Shadow Offering, Braids Embraces a Clear-Eyed Directness
The album demonstrates the band’s versatility, locating something of a sweet spot.3.5
Raphaelle Standell-Preston boasts one of the more versatile and distinct voices in modern rock. She’s able to emote with a breathy whisper or deliver a full-force belt, each imbued with singular intonations, but her sublime contributions to Braids’s music have often been buried beneath ornate sonic pile-ups. By contrast, Standell-Preston’s vocals on the Canadian trio’s fourth album, Shadow Offering, are clear, legible, and lead their sound rather than the other way around. Where her voice was once looped with multiple tracks on songs such as “December,” extending its dreamy power via reverb, Shadow Offering rarely employs those old psychedelic tricks, giving Standell-Preston’s voice a bracing directness.
The choice is emblematic of an album that gives forthright expression to its themes. Gone is the opaque poetry of 2013’s Flourish // Perish, replaced with more narrative shape and clear-eyed lyrics that address relationships and selfhood without romanticizing them. On “Young Buck,” Standell-Preston sings: “Maybe I’ll go get my sex on/Go drinking tonight with a nice-muscled guy/The numbing kind/Everyone needs a little numb once in a while.”
This stylistic shift, which began on 2015’s Deep in the Iris, is aided here by production from Death Cab for Cutie guitarist Chris Walla, who seemingly prompted Braids’s new emphasis on guitar and piano arrangements. Like Austin Tufts’s percussion, there’s a renewed confidence in Standell-Preston and Taylor Smith’s guitar work; it’s gliding and measured, and deferential to the singer’s introspective lyrics. A staple of their repertoire, Braids’s synths are downplayed, most notably on the opening track, “Here 4 U,” and the stunningly intense “Fear of Men.”
The latter song bravely unpacks paralyzing social and existential anxiety, and Shadow Offering as a whole throws into sharp relief the nagging self-doubt that often accompanies a faltering relationship. Standell-Preston’s vulnerable, piano-driven confessions at times recall those of Fiona Apple, while her brand of theatricality, as well as her strange, beguiling phrasing on songs like “Eclipse (Ashley),” is reminiscent of Kate Bush.
An examination of white privilege, the nine-minute “Snow Angel” is the kind of sprawling dive into what Standell-Preston once described as “my lake of a head,” but Shadow Offering comprises mostly more economical rockers like the cymbal-crashing closing track, “Note to Self.” Demonstrating their versatility throughout the album, Braids locate something of a sweet spot, embracing a restrained plainspokenness without completely veering from the outré flourishes and melancholic, midtempo jams that are their specialty.
Label: Secret City Release Date: June 19, 2020 Buy: Amazon
Review: Baauer’s Planet’s Mad Relentlessly Evokes a Sense of Doom
The album buries what traces of melody there are beneath thundering drums and bass.3
Best known for 2012’s meme-generating “Harlem Shake,” Baauer, né Harrison Rodrigues, delves deep into the low end on his second album, Planet’s Mad. Essentially finding 10 different ways to pummel the ear, the album is a relentless experience, burying what traces of melody there are beneath thundering drums and bass. It’s a soundtrack fit for a world in such disrepair that there’s no option but to throw one last raucous dance party.
Baauer’s 2016 debut, Aa, found the producer and DJ fruitfully playing with trap conventions—sirens, airhorns, 808s—while simultaneously showcasing his ease with subtler textures. By layering tracks with frantic rattling and sound effects, he achieved a sonic density so corporeal that one song was titled simply “Body.” That album has a structural simplicity, beginning with a series of interconnected instrumental tracks that segue midway into bona fide club bangers featuring the likes of M.I.A. and Future.
On Planet’s Mad, Baauer largely dispenses with the high-profile guests and mounts a loose sci-fi narrative about environmental destruction, hinted at in the album’s title. On “Magic,” he adds various elements one by one before removing them, evoking the gradual process of degradation. This motif can also be seen in the album’s artwork, which pictures the Earth split open, its core and layers drifting outward, but one would be hard-pressed to spot a clear through line in the music, as its concepts are conveyed almost entirely in the abstract.
Musically, Planet’s Mad takes its cues as much from British techno and footwork as it does from trap. Clearly influenced by Jlin and RP Boo, the percussion on tracks like “Aether” busily mutates and recalibrates itself, continually upping the ante in terms of speed. “Hot 44” recalls the bruising bass and ever-escalating pacing of Dog Blood’s “4 Mind” and “Turn Off the Lights,” with Baauer sculpting a percussive trajectory that sounds like it’s rippling over hard, staccato ridges. The artist’s range of tones and patterns are certainly a highlight; every time we hear a drum it sounds different than the last.
On “Pizzawala” and “Yehoo,” Baauer assembles a tangle of drums and samples of looped tribal chants. While white artists pilfering African sounds is nothing new in dance music, the way it’s appropriated and exoticized here feels mostly anonymous. This is especially notable when considering Baauer’s entire aesthetic, given his trap origins, is premised on black music. But while it’s culled from a mélange of styles and influences, Planet’s Mad still stands on its own for its sonic depth and detail. Even if the album’s themes aren’t fully articulated, Baauer’s use of bass, constantly elongating and amplifying, succeeds at evoking a sense of doom.
Label: LuckyMe Release Date: June 19, 2020 Buy: Amazon
Review: Neil Young’s Homegrown Provides a Missing Link in the Artist’s Legacy
The album offers a homey, bittersweet charm largely unique to the troubadour’s legendary catalog.4
Originally slated for release in 1975, Neil Young’s Homegrown was shelved at the last minute in favor of the fractured masterpiece Tonight’s the Night, and an alternate history in which the swap never happened is inconceivable. Young describes the album as “the unheard bridge between [1972’s] Harvest and [1978’s] Comes a Time,” but those two releases don’t comport with the haunted, ragged, and much less commercial music that Young was making in the mid-‘70s. Friendlier and rootsier than the likes of Tonight’s the Night but more intimate than Harvest, Homegrown offers a homey, bittersweet charm largely unique to the troubadour’s legendary ‘70s catalog.
It’s unlikely that any song on Homegrown would have become a hit back in 1975; the only probable contender is “Try,” a woozy after-hours honky-tonk come-on. With its barroom chumminess and bright backing vocals courtesy of Emmylou Harris, the song probably could have found a home on the radio, if not an all-day one, as it’s a bit too wry and cavalier to appeal to the masses who lapped up Harvest’s treacly “Heart of Gold” a few years earlier.
Indeed, rather than recreate the polish that made Harvest such a sensation, Young scaled back the presence of his all-star ensemble—including members of the Band, alongside familiar sidemen like bassist Tim Drummond and pedal steel stalwart Ben Keith—in favor of minimally arranged meditations. On pensive vignettes like the piano-based “Mexico” and the wispy “Little Wing” (previously released on 1980’s Hawks & Doves), Young’s patented brand of impressionistic memoir cuts deep.
Like much of his work from this period, the material on Homegrown sees Young intent on stripping away all pretense and ego and exposing the pain that laid beneath. Just as Tonight’s the Night found him preoccupied with the tragic deaths of friends Danny Whitten and Bill Berry, he’s dogged by the dissolution of his relationship with actress Carrie Snodgrass throughout Homegrown. His inner turmoil is felt most keenly on the stunning “Kansas,” in which he awakes “from a bad dream” next to a woman whose name he doesn’t know. She’s lovely and kind, but he can’t take his mind off his difficult reality, surrounded as he is by the walls of “my bungalow of stucco that the glory and success bought.”
The album’s comparatively scant electric material is less consistent. The album’s stoner-anthem title track, a version of which later appeared on 1977’s American Stars ‘N Bars, is unquestionably one of the dumbest songs Young has ever written, while “We Don’t Smoke It No More” is a jokey white-boy blues vamp that serves only to indicate how profoundly stoned everyone performing it probably was. At the very least, these two songs poke holes in the perception that Young spent this entire period in a depressive, tequila-sodden haze.
Nonetheless, it’s hard to deny the raw emotion of tracks like “Vacancy,” a dark, rumbling rock song that could have easily fit on Tonight’s the Night. “Are you my friend/Are you my enemy?” Young sneers, sounding shaky and paranoid. But on Homegrown, it’s more of a passing thundercloud than an endless storm. “All your dreams and your lovers won’t protect you,” Young laments on “Star of Bethlehem,” deftly sequenced here as the album’s closer. “And yet,” he insists, “still a light is shining.” The album turns out to be missing link in Young’s catalog as much for Shakey’s emotional life as it is for his stylistic choices.
Label: Warner Release Date: June 19, 2020 Buy: Amazon
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