Top 10 lists are an exercise in futility, scenester-ism and dick-measuring. But we do them anyway, because they give us (or me and millions of other stunted “adults”) a necessary framework for thinking about the year that passed. A disclaimer just in case: this is a subjective list. It’s my past year, and I’m sorry I didn’t ever get around to hearing the highly-acclaimed LCD Soundsystem record. It’s always something.
1. Wilco, Sky Blue Sky: This summer, I moved into the first adult apartment of my life, which was a major shock: I learned how to clean dishes before the landlord went nuts over filth, how to live with other people without wanting to kill them, and how to clean my room without going crazy. Through it all, I kept listening to Wilco obsessively, which both surprised me and made me feel guilty: how could a band standing for something I find, in principal, supremely irritating (humorless ‘70s rock) be so satisfying for the third time in a row? Yankee Hotel Foxtrot made sense as the perfect compromise point between Jeff Tweedy’s pop sweet spot and Jim O’Rourke’s noise-in-every-spare-corner production techniques; Summerteeth is a sugar overdose with suicidal lyrics. I love both dearly, but surely Wilco was just a band that got lucky an unusual number of times; Sky Blue Sky is nothing if not the trad-rock album they were always gesturing to. And yet: the more people kept pointing out that the album was uncomplainingly domestic—that Tweedy sounded more resigned to suburban marriage than ever (“Hate It Here” is a song made for minivan dads who find themselves doing the laundry as penance), or that this would play fine next to the Eagles—the more I liked it. Not as a reaction, but simply because I couldn’t see how those were real complaints. I’ve never listened to the Eagles, aside from 14 million involuntary listens to “Hotel California”; are they really this subtle about their instrumentation and unpredictable about their chord changes? How many music obsessives (and critics) are really living wild, Iggy Pop (or even cough syrup-addled Lester Bangs) lifestyles, and how many of them are closer to the resignation of this album than they’d like to admit?
Sky Blue Sky finds Tweedy, as always, in a state of Pynchon-esque lyrical paranoia: on Yankee, the big concern was “speakers speaking in code,” and here inanimate objects have gone one step further in their conspiracy: “The doorframe screams ’I hate you,’” Tweedy claims on “You Are My Face.” As morbid as ever, he tackles death head-on in closer “On And On And On” with less metaphorical/poetic distance than he’s ever (ab)used: “Please don’t cry/We’re designed to die.” That’s the bracingly unsentimental yet all-encompassing heart of this album: accepting without embracing the inevitable compromises of time. Maybe it’s a bad thing that I associate this album with doing dishes, but oh well.
One more thought, hastily acquired at the last minute: listen to how flat Tweedy’s vocals are on Summerteeth, and how open they are here to vocal trembling and imperfection. Being open to naturalness certainly isn’t an asset in and of itself, but to claim that this record is somehow hermetically sealed to frames of reference outside of ‘70s rock is nuts. Such naked singing would have been unthinkable.
2. Spoon, Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga: I’m from Austin, so Spoon’s indie rock—perfectly calibrated for damn well near a decade now—is pretty much one of the sounds I could listen to being ripped off all day without it ever getting old; hometown pride forever. But it would’ve been one thing for me to have unreservedly loved this album (like I have everything Britt Daniel & Co. have done virtually since inception besides Gimme Fiction) and still felt like I was overrating it; it was another thing to watch it become the consensus album of the year. Consensus albums are, generally, dull things, immaculate songcraft everyone respects but no one feels wild about. So it was especially weird to look at Pitchfork and see some of the people who voted for it who really should’nt’ve: Andy Battaglia, who specializes in electronica, had it at #17; Tom Breihan, resident hip-hop advocate, had it at #21. Spoon was the indie-rock album for people who don’t like indie rock; proof that it wasn’t just my imagination that they’ve taken spare instrumentation, pared-down hooks, and oblique lyrical sentiments as far as anyone could. They really are the best people doing this prototypical thing with intelligence and something like innovation. Closer “Black Like Me” sums up every sincere, nostalgic, tentative sentiment Daniel’s let slip out the last few years: “I’ve been needing someone to take care of me tonight,” he announces unambiguously. It’s the perfect finale for a band that’s always been less austere than haters would claim.
3. Emma Pollock, Watch the Fireworks: If I had any balls, this would be my #1 for the year—I would’ve listened to it on infinite loop. But there are plenty of new favorites to meet, so Emma’s despairing, lovely album—the resurrection of The Delgados, for all practical purposes, and hence of one of my all-time favorite bands—will be trotted out sporadically and repeatedly for the next few years whenever I’m too lazy to listen to something new. She’s the new Elliott Smith or something.
4. The National, Boxer: Unexpected late-breaking triumph for The National, who crawled under my skin, to my great annoyance, with Alligator. At the time, I was convinced that they were too adolescently melodramatic and self-serious by half: “I feel just like Tennessee Williams” was a line that made me burst out laughing. It still does, but I’ve finally understood that their malaise may be kind of whiny and stupid, but it’s not adolescent—it’s mid-career/life despair, wondering why these people are your friends and you’re drinking so much all of a sudden. Which makes it a great quarter-life crisis too (mumblecore post-grad music drama?), in addition to them just being a rocking band, one of the tightest units out there so far.
5. Fountains of Wayne, Traffic and Weather: Whenever I mention my abiding love of Fountains of Wayne, my more tasteful friends immediately assume I’m being ironic or sarcastic—this despite near-universal acclaim for their last album, the constant enthusiastic support of Robert Christgau, etc. What’s it take, huh? I’ll keep repeating this argument over and over until people finally stop obsessing bitterly over the admittedly annoying market saturation status “Stacy’s Mom” had 4 FREAKIN’ YEARS AGO: catchy melodies, ripping off the Cars as necessary, and acute lyrics about suburban divorce pain (key line: “Ever since your dad walked out your mom could use a guy like me”) does not make a “novelty song.” Traffic And Weather finds the band at their most predictable, which is to say they’ve honed their sugary hooks and short-story-esque lyrics about disheartened corporate drones, stupid but endearing teenagers, and life in the strip-mall suburbs to a science. Lumping them in with the rest of the top 40 is just stupid.
6. Menomena, Friend and Foe: I didn’t hear Menomena’s first album when it came out, because their band name was cutesy and their album title was worse (I Am The Fun Blame Monster). Then I bought tickets for this summer’s Pitchfork Music Festival, started listening to bands just to figure out who to see live while waiting for Clipse, and discovered that these guys are really good. The Flaming Lips might’ve sounded like this if they’d never gotten a budget: epic drums shooting for uplift, oblique lyrics about wanting to be a robot, melodies that make all the recording instrumentation supremely accessible. Some people, however, seem to believe that Menomena are just another indie band (they’re not: they’re some of the most sophisticated musicians I’ve seen live in quite a while), and by some people I mean Torquil Campbell of Stars, who wins the prize for single most obnoxious statement made in an interview. “I really do think that people should probably lose their virginity before they start writing reviews for Pitchfork,” he announced to the Onion A.V. Club. “Because then you’d actually know something about life, as opposed to just being afraid of it and, you know, thinking Menomena are important.” Once more, people: the concept of Social Prominence does not automatically equal Importance. This album is here mostly because I really like it, but partly as a fuck-you to the thinking that really liking something which is semi-obscure is somehow willfully being obtuse and self-consciously “difficult.” I’m being sincere.
7. Rufus Wainwright, Release the Stars: Everyone missed the fucking boat on this album, and it annoys me. The general complaint seems to be that there’s so much orchestration that it’s hard to tell if they’re show tunes or pop songs. I don’t remember this accusation being thrown at the similarly top-heavy Mercury Rev or Flaming Lips, but whatever. This is the best album he’s done since Poses, and that’s saying a lot: the over-elaborate arrangement wankery of Want One is gone entirely. These songs are pared-down and definitely pop: if you can’t see that for the arrangements (which work in concert with the hooks, not against them), you’re totally missing the point. Look, you can even work out to it! “Do I Disappoint You?” Never, Rufus. Never. Yours, your only straight male fan.
8. The Good, The Bad & The Queen, The Good, The Bad & The Queen: Man, the tone of this list is getting kind of bitter and vengeful and score-settling, isn’t it? So let’s take a positive moment to celebrate the return of Damon Albarn to the world of live bands playing live music. I’m of the weird camp which believes that Blur’s last album, Think Tank, was one of the best things they ever did: Albarn is oddly sympatico with Spoon’s Britt Daniel, given his increasing obsession with paring songs to their essential elements. Minimalist but hooky, Albarn proves—in case Gorillaz made you forget—that he’s more than just a brilliant booking manager who brings unlikely people together. Which is to say, he does it again here—who ever thought Fela Kuti’s drummer would play with The Clash’s bassist?—but while harnessing everyone in favor of songs that aren’t catchy until you play them 5 times, and suddenly you can’t get them out of your head. “I don’t use choruses that much anymore,” Albarn said. Could’ve fooled me dude. In a way, this is actually the single most significant Britpop album of the ’00s: unlike the self-proclaimed zeitgeist flashpoints of the Libertines (who almost earned it) or the Arctic Monkeys (who really didn’t), this is an old-school master showing the kids how it’s done. Paul Weller would kill to age this well.
9. Justice, †: Aside from their annoyingly cutesy-illiterate title, Justice don’t make a single misstep on their bid to replace Daft Punk in the dance sweepstakes. Almost as much fun as Discovery and considerably shorter, it’s supremely friendly stuff: the one thing I really don’t understand is why people keep labeling this album as sonically “harsh.” The last time I checked, screeching synths and loud guitars were traits of good fun for rock bands: why can’t mindless dance-mongers do the same? This is downright sugary as far as I’m concerned. Is “D.A.N.C.E.” this year’s “Young Folks”? I hope so.
10. 1990s, Cookies: I just wrote about this in the last column. It’s awesome.
The Year’s Most Underrated Album:
Baby Teeth, The Simp: We have failed as a nation because we did not recognize how awesome this album was. Actually, it wasn’t us, it was Pitchfork. I’ll cut Pitchfork all the slack they need for being the most comprehensive 5-reviews-a-day wide selection of music coverage, but their not reviewing this super-awesome ‘70s pastiche—equal parts ELO strings and guitar solos, Queen multi-tracked vocals, and other things that should be godawful together but aren’t—just makes me cry in my beer.
Albums I Listened To To Hastily Cover My Listmaking Ass And In No Way Claim That These Are Good Judgments, Covered in Snide Blurbs:
Simian Mobile Disco, Attack Decay Sustain Release: These guys are like Fergie fronting Justice. Bleh.
Josh Ritter, The Historical Conquests of Josh Ritter: A more muscular version of M. Ward. Very cool; may creep up into the 10 on further listens.
Jens Lekman, Night Falls Over Kortedala: I don’t get it. Sub-Magnetic Fields lyrics + tinny samples = a really bad belated introduction for me to Scandinavia’s most important international export or whatever.
Jay-Z, American Gangster: Good but by no means great—long, patchy, and occasionally tedious. However, “Roc Boys (And The Winner Is) really is as good a single as he’s ever done.
Yeasayer, All Hour Cymbals: Sorry, I liked TV On the Radio better the first time round.
Lil’ Wayne, Da Drought 3: This actually should probably be on the Top 10 instead of, say, 1990s. Now that I’ve finally listened to Weezy, I must confess that all the excitable hype was completely correct. To me, he’s the Stephen Malkmus of ’00s hip-hop: I have no idea how he so consistently does so many bizarre things with his voice and general pronounciation. There’s just a monstrous onslaught of stuff to deal with, and it’s going to take me too long.
Taylor Swift Drops Star-Studded, Pride-Themed “You Need to Calm Down” Video
The video takes the notion of visibility as a means of acceptance to the extreme.
After years of political agnosticism, Taylor Swift endorsed two Tennessee Democrats during the 2018 midterm elections, prompting a backlash from white supremacists and their dear leader, Donald Trump. In the span of less than a year, the singer went from being the Aryan goddess of the alt-right to being called out as an agent of sodomy in a sermon by a homophobic pastor and sheriff’s deputy in her home state.
Swift’s path to wokeness has been a long one, and while the launch of her new single, “You Need to Calm Down,” during LGBT Pride Month might feel like the equivalent of Google slapping a rainbow flag on their logo, her activism—which included a recent $113,000 donation to a Tennessee LGBT organization—seems like more than just a branding opportunity. “To be an ally is to understand the difference between advocating and baiting,” Swift posted on Tumblr after rumors circulated that she kisses former rival Katy Perry in the video for “You Need to Calm Down,” the second single from Swift’s seventh album, Lover.
The clip does, however, take the notion of visibility as a means of acceptance to the extreme, featuring cameos from RuPaul, Ellen DeGeneres, Adam Lambert, Adam Rippon, Laverne Cox, Billy Porter, Jesse Tyler Ferguson (whom she serenaded at a surprise performance at New York’s Stonewall Inn last week), and other queer celebrities, YouTube stars, and allies.
Directed by Swift and Drew Kirsch, the video opens with the pop singer waking up in a pastel-colored trailer home adorned with kitschy paintings and a framed Cher quote (“Mom, I am a rich man”). She makes herself a cotton-candy smoothie, takes a dip the cleanest above-ground pool you’ll ever see, and parades through the trailer park’s pride-themed festivities, which includes a “pop queen pageant” featuring drag versions of Swift, Ariana Grande, Lady Gaga, Adele, Cardi B, Beyoncé, Nicki Minaj, and Katy Perry.
The real Katy pops up for a heartfelt reunion with Swift that makes “You Need to Calm Down”—which seems to strive for, but falls short of, the campy eye candy that Perry has honed in her own videos over the years—feel like a bachelorette party at a gay bar. But just in case you question Swift’s allegiance to the cause, the video ends with a message urging viewers to sign her petition for Senate support of the Equality Act.
Swift’s album, Lover, is due August 23 via Republic Records.
Review: Yeasayer’s Erotic Reruns Is a Collection of Benign Love Songs
The album aims for an enthralling vision of infatuation, but the band’s message rings hollow.2
Yeasayer’s decade-plus-spanning discography is eclectic, purveying everything from world music (All Hour Cymbals) to austere electro (Fragrant World) to outlandish psych rock (Amen & Goodbye). As a relic of the bygone age of neo-hippie pantheism marshaled by the likes of Animal Collective and MGMT, the experimental rock outfit faces the quandary of evolving their sound for today’s indie landscape, which favors the low-key over the baroque. On Erotic Reruns, the band dives headfirst into flowery pop-rock, accomplishing yet another stylistic about-face and pruning away their most esoteric tendencies.
Throughout their fifth studio album, Yeasayer aims to transmit an enthralling vision of infatuation, but their message rings hollow. With its truncated verses and refrain, opener “People I Loved” seems hastily assembled, and its “na-na-na” hook quickly grows tiring. The band’s lyrics are often half-baked, making the rapture of falling in love on the plodding piano-driven “I’ll Kiss You Tonight” feel like a rather banal occurrence.
Even when Yeasayer is primed toward eliciting the longing and lust of infatuation, their sound is fettered by exaggeration. “Let Me Listen in on You” is chock-full of sweet nothings like “I can make your dreams come true,” and its florid strings give the chorus a sense of overdone theatricality. Elsewhere, a high-pitched vocal and carnival synth grant “Ecstatic Baby” a whimsy so overblown that one imagines the track would be deemed too cheesy for an Apple commercial. When Yeasayar does accomplish to tap into love’s exhilaration, they relay it with a heavy hand, making already sentimental concepts feel saccharine.
Erotic Reruns is a collection of ultimately benign love songs, as the eroticism proposed by the album’s title is glaringly absent across 29 scant minutes. Yeasayer are amiable, starry-eyed musicians whose sound, at its best, is inviting even as it overreaches. But while a concern for authenticity may not be pop music’s primary enterprise, among its virtues is its capacity to consistently excite and enchant. Try as they might, Yeasayer fail to attain either.
Label: Yeasayer Release Date: June 7, 2019 Buy: Amazon
Review: Titus Andronicus’s An Obelisk Is All Sound and Fury, Signifying Nothing
On a superficial level, the ostensibly back-to-basics album could charitably be described as workmanlike.2
It takes balls to open your rock album by screaming about “an inferior version of rock n’ roll,” as Patrick Stickles does on “Just Like Ringing a Bell,” the opening track of Titus Andronicus’s An Obelisk. The band’s ostensibly back-to-basics sixth album could charitably be described as workmanlike. Stickles and longtime sideman Liam Betson’s guitar tones are fuzzy and chunky in all the right ways, and Stickles has his punk-rock growl down pat. But these are mere superficialities; loud guitars and screaming have hardly been the main focal point of the band’s sound. On An Obelisk, though, they’re just about all that Stickles and company have to offer. Forgive the cliché, but they asked for it by naming themselves after a Shakespeare’s tragedy: The album is the very epitome of sound and fury signifying nothing.
An Obelisk arrives just 15 months after the expectation-subverting A Productive Cough, but it couldn’t be more different, despite the fact that Stickles wrote both albums around the same time, separating the material into the bangers found here and the prior album’s more complex and mellower epics. This may sound like a welcome news for fans who struggled to embrace A Productive Cough’s cavalcade of guest musicians and auxiliary percussion, horns, and other instrumentation. But anyone who’s been clamoring for Titus Andronicus to make a uniformly hard and fast punk album like this one hasn’t been paying attention to what the band is about.
One of Titus Andronicus’s greatest strengths has always been the dichotomies in their music—those juxtapositions of the quiet and loud, the portentous and the irreverent. This is, after all, a band whose first album, The Airing of Grievances, borrowed its name from a Seinfeld episode, and whose breakthrough, The Monitor, was an epic concept album about the Civil War that they managed to somehow top five years later with a 90-minute rock opera about bipolar disorder. An Obelisk is loosely conceptual, but unlike The Monitor and The Most Lamentable Tragedy, there’s no discernable narrative or character to hang onto here. We do, though, get a narrator, known as Troubleman, who serves as little more than a thin veneer from behind which Stickles can excuse his under-baked ideas. After all, one wouldn’t expect the guy who wrote ambitious epics like “A More Perfect Union” and “Number One (in New York)” to be capable of penning the adolescent inanities that constitute the lazy three-chord blunders that are “(I Blame) Society” and “Tumult Around the World.” But he did.
From the generic stick-it-to-the-man platitudes of “(I Blame) Society” and the 68-second “On the Street” (“There’s too many police on the street/And they’re all after me!”), to the clearly unintentional parody of hardcore punk that is the 88-second “Beneath the Boot,” it’s almost hard to believe how dumb these songs are. Stickles has successfully managed to confront his demons in increasingly creative and resonant ways, from inventing a doppelganger on The Most Lamentable Tragedy to turning those demons into a party on A Productive Cough’s “Above the Bodega (Local Business),” but “My Body and Me” is insultingly glib: “My body and me, we don’t always get along/He tells me it’s all right, I tell him he’s all wrong.”
Producer Bob Mould, apparently unable to transfer whatever is powering his late-career renaissance to other artists, does capture an organic live-in-the-studio sound that shows the band’s current lineup—Stickles, Betson, and rhythm section R.J. Gordon and Chris Wilson—doesn’t lack for intensity. But with so many flat, unoriginal riffs and unmemorable choruses, there’s just not enough meat here to reward that approach, and despite its unrelenting volume, An Obelisk just feels empty without the wide-ranging dynamics and ambitious arrangements that have, until now, defined Titus Andronicus’s music.
Mercifully, most of the songs are over and done with quickly enough, though only a couple—the bright “Just Like Ringing a Bell” and the freewheeling “Troubleman Unlimited,” the only tracks here that don’t sound like “an inferior version of rock ‘n roll”—stick to the ribs at all. A few grind on unimaginatively for over five minutes, either to the point of boredom (“Within the Gravitron”) or absurdity (“Hey Ma,” with its face-palm-inducing imitation-bagpipe guitar solo). Like all of Troubleman’s diatribes, they just feel like a lot of hot air.
Label: Merge Release Date: June 21, 2019 Buy: Amazon
Review: The Raconteurs’s Help Us Stranger Is a Robust Return to Form
The album proves that there’s still more to be mined from the supposedly anachronistic guitar-rock template.4.5
The Raconteurs were initially billed as an outlet for Jack White to step outside of the self-imposed sandbox of the White Stripes. But coming after a period during which White’s work—as both a solo artist and with the Dead Weather—has become increasingly untethered from his original no-frills ethos, the Raconteurs’s first album in 11 years, Help Us Stranger, feels like a robust return to form for the musician.
But the Raconteurs shouldn’t just be viewed through a White-centric prism. There’s no better contemporary rock example of two halves of a songwriting duo, like John Lennon and Paul McCartney, uncannily counterbalancing the other’s strengths and weaknesses than White and singer-songwriter Brendan Benson. Benson’s irrepressible melodic instincts keep White’s focus on his songcraft, while White’s boundless energy coaxes new tiers of passion from Benson, a less expressive vocalist and more rudimentary lyricist than White.
As White and Benson trade vocals on the album’s savage opener, “Bored and Razed,” with White’s spitfire verses building into Benson’s soaring choruses, their twin lead guitars batter away at each other like feral animals. Add Patrick Keeler’s thunderous drumming, and the band enters a dimension of pure rock power they’ve only ever succeeded in accessing together. The Raconteurs may lack the unconventional optics and charming minimalism of the White Stripes or the relentless power-pop hooks of Benson’s solo work, but Help Us Stranger is another compelling exhibit in the band’s continuing quest to prove that there’s still more to be mined from the supposedly anachronistic guitar-rock template.
Almost every track here is another example of one that would never have reached the same heights without the contributions of each band member. The main guitar riff of “Sunday Driver” is far from White’s most indelible, but combined with Jack Lawrence’s revving bassline and White’s own swaggering vocals and squealing lead guitar—contrasted with Benson’s laidback, psych-tinged, harmony-drenched bridge—the result is one of the most well-rounded and satisfying straight-up rock songs White has made since, well, the last Raconteurs album.
Likewise, with White’s frenzied guitar and Lawrence’s fat, greasy sonic low end, the Benson-led blue-eyed soul of “Now That You’re Gone” becomes a lighter-waving anthem. The band proves itself able to apply this effortless chemistry to any type of song, running the gamut from the groovy Detroit-style garage rock of “What’s Yours Is Mine” to the yearning bluegrass ballad “Thoughts and Prayers.” With “Help Me Stranger,” the Raconteurs even uncover something fresh, with White and Benson’s Everly Brothers-style harmonizing and acoustic strumming getting a quirky, modern kick from the off-kilter rhythmic foundation provided by Keeler’s upside-down snare drum and Lawrence’s heavy bass-pedal work.
While the disparity in fame between the band members may forever doom the Raconteurs to being remembered as one of White’s “side projects,” such a view is ignorant of both the band’s overall chemistry and White and Benson’s virtually equal songwriting talents. In fact, it’s the Benson-heavy songs here that make the most lasting impression, and White was clearly responsible for the album’s only misfire, “Don’t Bother Me,” a generic bar-band choogle over which White angrily sputters about his old nemeses, the “clicking and swiping” generation.
Both the melancholy Beatlesque pop of “Only Child” and the swooning country-soul of “Somedays (I Don’t Feel Like Trying)” rank among Benson’s very best work to date, with White’s multi-textured, ever-inventive guitar riffs and the rock solid rhythm section elevating Benson’s usual sad-sack routine toward true pathos. Help Us Stranger reaches its emotional apex during the latter’s honey-sweet outro: “I’m here right now, not dead yet,” Benson repeats, leaping registers as the band slowly works up to a fevered pitch behind him. Corny as it sounds, he might as well be singing about rock n’ roll itself. Few other bands out there are such compelling proof of its enduring viability.
Label: Third Man Release Date: June 21, 2019 Buy: Amazon
Review: Silversun Pickups’s Widow’s Weeds Is a Clear-Eyed and Intrepid Renewal
The album grants us backstage access to the band at its most vulnerable and personal.4
Ever since the success of 2006’s Carnavas, the Silversun Pickups have had a hard time leaving the safety of their comfort zone. Without slipping completely into self-parody, each of the Los Angeles-based rock band’s subsequent releases has seen them tempering their winning formula with only cautious variations on Brian Aubert’s breathy, quavering vocals and their thick Gaussian blur of sonic distortion and reverb. The group’s dalliance with Depeche Mode-style synth-pop on 2015’s Better Nature boasted tantalizing moments of sparkling elegance and pulse-racing throttle, but its dependence on booming yet generically applied electronics left the album feeling vacant, even lethargic.
Enter Butch Vig. For a band that can’t quite quit its love for ‘90s alternative rock, their choice to enlist the production wizard behind Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkins, Garbage, and the Foo Fighters seems only fitting. But their fifth album, Widow’s Weeds, is anything but a sentimental rehash of the good ol’ days. Instead, the album profits mightily from the veteran producer’s ability to transition established acts into more mature, self-assured iterations of themselves, without scrapping the essence of what made those bands great in the first place.
Widow’s Weeds thus grants us backstage access to the band at its most vulnerable and personal, but also its most clear-eyed and intrepid. After years of lackluster reviews and a string of personal struggles, the Silversun Pickups were perfectly poised for renewal and, as Aubert croons on “Don’t Know Yet,” the band has worked hard to “reboot the machine.” Under Vig’s steady hand, they’ve stripped away the stylistic accretions of their previous albums and come up with a much tighter, more identifiably rock sound. From its opening notes, the album presents a band brimming with reclaimed confidence and vitality, one that need no longer take refuge behind endless waves of feedback and sonic distractions.
Right out of the gate, “Neon Wound,” as it chugs along to the metronomic precision of Christopher Guanlao’s drums, unrolls the perfectly pointed welcome mat for those familiar with the Silversun Pickups. “Hello, my friend,” Aubert sings, almost winkingly, “It’s nice to see you again/Now that we’re on the mend.” The song’s taut spareness gradually drifts off into what sounds like little more than a listless B-side from Better Nature, but “It Doesn’t Matter Why” hurries in to take up the slack in full-charging tempo.
To be sure, Aubert and the gang have given up no ground in creating soundscapes of great power and intensity, sculpting with staccato rhythms and relentless builds the jumpy, nervous tension of a downed power line. Where on previous efforts that tension relied on muddy guitar riffs or Lester’s alchemic keyboard effects, this is an album driven by instrumentation and tightly crafted movements. Excesses of distortion have been peeled away to reveal the musical proficiency beneath, so that the finger-picked intro to “It Doesn’t Matter Why,” the sensuous chord bends of “Simpatico,” and the poppy electronics on “Don’t Know Yet” receive their full technical due. And the timely flourishes of orchestral support across the album add interesting melodrama to the streamlined arrangements. What results is a sultry, if not still-too-hesitant, intimacy that allows songs to shimmer with moments of nuance and sophistication.
In keeping with this shift toward musical accessibility, Aubert’s lyrics have acquired a greater transparency. His customary blend of cerebral metaphors and visual imagery still prevails, but his language has become more plainly self-referential, lending unmitigated tenderness to the songs. And without having to compete any longer with the drone of sheer loudness, he’s able to showcase a range of peaks and valleys that ventures boldly outside of his typical monotone.
But for all of Aubert’s newfound reach, the punch of his vocal thrusts throughout Widow’s Weeds wouldn’t be possible without the harmonic parries of bassist Nikki Monninger. Her contributions on albums past have supplied softness and moderation to some of the group’s brawnier impulses (“Gun-Shy Sunshine,” “Ragamuffin”), and while it seems she’ll always be stuck at second mic, she’s no longer merely echoing Aubert’s lead. Her husky alto provides flawless melodic counterpoint on the ethereal “Freakazoid” and the restless “Songbirds,” and she offsets Aubert’s gravelly baritone on “Widow’s Weeds” with delicate grace.
The album also conjures the ghosts of exemplars past, sampling a whisper of Placebo’s “Pure Morning,” a hint of Radiohead’s “Paranoid Android,” and a whiff of the guitar crunches from Alice in Chains’s “Man in the Box.” Especially on “Straw Man” and “Simpatico,” the sleek, cleaned-up sound does little to hide the band’s influences. But if the going recommendation is to steal like an artist, then Silversun Pickups have appropriated their indulgences happily and in good faith. “Songbirds” bursts out of the speakers like a post-pubertal “Panic Switch,” still bristling with angsty vigor but far more composed and sure of itself. In contrast, “Bag of Bones,” a meandering blunder, just shuffles along aimlessly and repetitiously.
Elsewhere, “Simpatico” spotlights the band’s calmer, quieter tendencies while offering some of the album’s most intricate guitar work. And the hardest-hitting yet most nostalgic track, “We Are Chameleons,” lives up to its title by mopping up virtually every color and texture of Carnavas and wringing it out into a frenzied sonic meltdown that defies the restraint and self-control that led up to it. Widow’s Weeds may lack the arena-sized atmospherics and anthemic party songs of past Silversun Pickups efforts, but with each additional listen the hooks sink in deeper and the melodies stay longer in your head. It’s catchy, heartfelt, and far less forgettable than…what were those previous two albums named again?
Label: New Machine Release Date: June 7, 2019 Buy: Amazon
Review: Madonna’s Madame X Is a Fearless, Eccentric Musical Memoir
The album is the work of an artist reawakened, and one who’s got something to say.4
Madonna’s 2005 EDM opus Confessions on a Dance Floor is considered by many to be the 21st-century standard for both every new album the singer releases and contemporary dance-pop at large. Though glorious in its own right, it seemed, at the time, like the work of an artist in damage control. The damage was 2003’s American Life, a personal, politically strident, and humorless album that became Madonna’s first commercial failure in 20 years. It also happens to mark the last time the queen of pop appeared to make music purely on her own terms, without any consideration of the charts or what the public expected of her—a novel idea for an artist in the business of making, well, popular music.
Of course, Madonna has never been your average pop star. Though her music has deep roots in R&B and disco, she is, at heart, a rock auteur, with all of the inclinations toward upending the status quo and expressing a singular vision that designation implies. Her last album, 2015’s Rebel Heart, was designed by committee, while its predecessor, MDNA, was recorded during a period when she seemed more interested in directing movies and extending her brand than making music. So it makes sense that when she decided to forgo songwriting camps and aspirations of a late-career radio hit for her 14th album, Madame X, Madonna turned to French producer Mirwais, her primary collaborator on American Life.
In other words, Madame X sounds like the work of an artist reawakened, and one who’s got something to say. It’s a development reportedly inspired by her time in Lisbon, where she was surrounded by musicians and art in a way she hadn’t been since her pre-fame days in the East Village. The influence of Lisbon’s multicultural history can be heard on tracks like the fado-meets-Motown “Crazy”—co-produced by Mike Dean, the album’s other principal knob-twirler—and the polyrhythmic “Batuka,” featuring Afro-Portuguese group Orquestra de Batukadeiras.
Madame X plays like a musical memoir, sometimes literally: “I came from the Midwest/Then I went to the Far East/I tried to discover my own identity,” Madonna sings on the Eastern-inflected “Extreme Occident,” referencing her rise to fame and spiritual awakening, famously documented on her 1998 album Ray of Light. A multi-part suite that shifts abruptly from electro-pop dirge to classical ballet and back again, “Dark Ballet” is a Kafkaesque treatise on faith and her lifelong crusade against the patriarchal forces of religion, gender, and celebrity—an existential battle echoed in the Jean-Paul Sartre-quoting closing track “I Rise.”
The album’s autobiography is also conveyed sonically: It’s a thrill to hear Madonna singing over a ‘90s house beat on the smoldering “I Don’t Search I Find.” But despite its ballroom strings, finger-snaps, and throaty spoken-word bridge, comparing it to “Vogue” or “Erotica” would be too easy. This isn’t a song so much as a mood. It’s downstairs music, the distant bassline rumbling beneath your feet as you slip into a bathroom stall for a quick bump or fuck.
Madonna has a reputation for being a trendsetter, but her true talent lies in bending those trends to her will, twisting them around until they’re barely recognizable, and creating something entirely new. The album’s pièce de résistance, at least in that regard, is the six-minute “God Control,” which begins with Madonna conjuring the spirit and disaffected monotone of Kurt Cobain—“I think I understand why people get a gun/I think I understand why we all give up,” she sings through clenched teeth—before the whole thing implodes into a euphoric, densely layered samba-disco-gospel mash-up. Throughout the song, Madonna’s vocals alternate between Auto-Tuned belting, urgent whispers, and Tom Tom Club-style rapping as she takes on the gaslight industrial complex and so-called political reformers. On paper, it might sound like the ingredients for a musical Hindenburg, but—somewhere around the midpoint, when she declares, “It’s a con, it’s a hustle, it’s a weird kind of energy!”—it all coheres into the most exhilaratingly batshit thing she’s done in years.
If, metaphorically, Madame X represents Madonna’s rediscovery of her voice as an artist, then it also highlights the literal loss of it. Over the years, the soft edges of her voice have grown sharper, and the album’s pervasive vocal effects—most gratuitous on the electro-ragga “Future” and, to a lesser degree, the haunting “Looking for Mercy”—have a distancing effect. The heavy Auto-Tune on Music and American Life was deployed in service of larger conceptual themes like imperfection (“Nobody’s Perfect”) and anonymity (“Nobody Knows Me”), contrasted by the bare performances of more confessional songs like “Easy Ride.” Here, filters are indiscriminately thrown on nearly every song, which only serves to obscure Madonna’s humanity. On “Medéllin,” for example, her admission that “For once, I didn’t have to hide myself” is pointlessly cloaked in Auto-Tune, keeping us at a remove.
When Madonna isn’t singing with what sounds like a mouthful of gumballs on “Crave,” the rawness of her voice amplifies the nakedness of her lyrics: “Ran so far to try to find the thing I lacked/And there it was inside of me.” Likewise, you can hear the grit and grief in her voice when, on “Crazy,” she sings, “I bent my knees for you like a prayer/My God, look at me now.” The track “Killers Who Are Partying” has been flagged by some critics for its lyrics—ostensibly inspired by scripture, the post-World War II poem “First they came…,” or maybe both—but the naïveté of Madonna’s words would be more cringe-inducing if her delivery wasn’t quite so bewitching. Mirwais’s arrangement, too, casts a spell: Old world meets new world as mournful fado guitar and accordion swirl beneath the track’s stuttering beats and warped synths.
Madame X is fearless, the sound of an artist unapologetically indulging all of her whims and quirks. The garish favela funk of “Faz Gostoso” and the racy reggaeton of “Bitch I’m Loca”—featuring Anitta and Maluma, respectively—feel out of place amid the album’s otherwise refined sonic palette. But even when Madonna falters, at least you know you’re getting the real deal and not some version of a pop icon cooked up in a songwriting lab.
Label: Interscope Release Date: June 14, 2019 Buy: Amazon
Mykki Blanco Is a Trans Joan of Arc in Madonna’s “Dark Ballet” Video – Watch
The self-described transfeminine rapper stars in the video from the queen of pop’s upcoming album Madame X.
While presenting Madonna with GLAAD’s Advocate for Change award last month, Mykki Blanco hinted that a collaboration with the queen of pop might be imminent. Sure enough, the self-described transfeminine rapper stars in the video for “Dark Ballet,” the final track to be released in the lead-up to Madonna’s new album, Madame X.
Directed by Dutch Ghanaian visual artist Emmanuel Adjei, “Dark Ballet” echoes the themes of Madonna’s infamous “Like a Prayer” video, awash with Catholic iconography and a storyline revolving around a persecuted black person. But that’s where the similarities end. The singer only briefly appears in the clip, behind a black veil, and the burning crosses of her 1989 video are traded for a ceremonial burning at the stake.
The video is frenetic and non-linear, opening with Blanco held captive in a stonewalled room, wrapped in a dirty white robe. Wrists bound with rope, he’s led by clergymen to be executed for an undisclosed crime. He’s then seen dancing, first in a cathedral—pleading with the men, who forsake him—and then in the church’s sanctuary, dressed in a gold corset reminiscent of the iconic one designed by Jean Paul Gaultier for Madonna’s Blond Ambition Tour. Madonna is, in effect, all over the video, but her casting of a queer person of color as the oppressed, rather than herself, spotlights the disproportionate impact of the patriarchy on minorities.
Produced by Madonna and longtime collaborator Mirwais, the song itself is an ambitious electro suite featuring a heavily Auto-Tuned denouncement of gender, lies, and fame, before the track breaks into Tchaikovsky’s “Dance of the Reed Pipes” from The Nutcracker accompanied by a robot Joan of Arc proclaiming her faith. (There’s a brief, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it shot from Carl Theodor Dreyer’s 1928 film The Passion of Joan of Arc near the beginning of the video.) The song is a reminder of the wacky magic Madonna and Mirwais are capable of cooking up together.
Madame X will be released on June 14 via Interscope Records.
Review: Miley Cyrus’s She Is Coming Feels Like Empty Posturing
The singer finds her groove when she follows a less strident tack.2.5
The only thing Miley Cyrus’s critics found more problematic than her appropriation of black culture on her 2013 album Bangerz was the singer’s utter abandonment of hip-hop on 2017’s Younger Now. That album was marked by a more mellow pop-rock sound, complemented by a newly squeaky-clean image that found her literally frolicking in a country meadow. The move was seen as confirmation that Cyrus’s interest in hip-hop is merely performative, and her recent renunciation of Younger Now and subsequent pivot back toward urban-influenced pop is unlikely to quash that impression.
She Is Coming, the first of three EPs that Cyrus plans to release throughout the year, is rife with references to her newfound toughness. Lead single “Mother’s Daughter” boasts an admirable feminist-adjacent message—“Don’t fuck with my freedom”—but Cyrus’s standoffish pose feels like so much empty posturing, making the bravado of Taylor Swift’s Reputation seem downright menacing. On the mercifully brief “Unholy,” Cyrus tosses off glib vaunts like “I’m a little bit unholy/So what? So is everyone else,” while an unintentionally comical quip about having sex next to takeout food may arouse little in listeners besides a sudden compulsion to sanitize their kitchen counter.
The EP’s dubious employment of hip-hop tropes and graphic sexual metaphors reaches its nadir on ballroom-inspired “Cattitude,” part boast track and part ode to Miley’s female prowess: “I love my pussy, that means I got cattitude/If you don’t feel what I’m saying, I don’t fuck with you.” RuPaul’s presence lends a certain tongue-in-cheek quality to the song, but given the straight-faced appropriation on display throughout the rest of She Is Coming, it’s impossible not to consider this one with as much seriousness—that is, not much at all. When, at the end of the track, Cyrus awkwardly raps, “You’re just mad ‘cause your hair is flat,” it’s hard to tell if she’s taking the piss or deliberately provoking her critics.
Which is a shame, as Cyrus finds her groove when she doesn’t try so hard, as on “D.R.E.A.M.,” a hazy confessional that, true to its title, is dreamy enough to forgive its puerile conflation of chemical and romantic euphoria. Even an initially jarring coda from Ghostface Killah feels of a piece with the impeccably produced track’s distorted guitars and slyly discomfiting beat. The ragga-inspired “Party Up the Street” likewise cushions its drug-induced reverie with pillowy keyboards and swoony orchestral flourishes. Unless the subsequent EPs in this series follow this less strident tack, Bangerz might start to seem like an act of cultural reverence.
Label: RCA Release Date: May 31, 2019
Review: Katy Perry Proves It’s “Never Really Over” with New Single and Video
The video takes place inside a gated compound where the singer enrolls in a retreat for the brokenhearted.
Katy Perry’s first solo single in two years, “Never Really Over,” finds the pop singer struggling with residual ambivalence over a former flame. “Two years and just like that, my head still takes me back,” she belts in her signature bellow. Co-produced by Zedd, who previously collaborated with Perry on the DJ’s simmering electro-pop single “365” earlier this year, the infectious “Never Really Over” is a bright midtempo pop track that wouldn’t sound out of place on 2013’s Prism. And that’s probably by design.
Despite the strength of its lead single, “Chained to the Rhythm,” Perry’s 2017 album Witness fizzled on the charts, selling a fraction of its three multi-platinum predecessors. So it wouldn’t be a stretch to say that a lot is riding on “Never Really Over,” the title of which could—depending on how the song is received—double as a bold statement of purpose or tragic irony.
From the sound of a ticking clock to marching-band percussion, time is a clever recurring motif throughout “Never Really Over.” If Perry looked to the future on Witness, she mines the past for the music video for this track. But rather than revert to the retro, brunette bombshell look of her most commercially fertile eras, Perry opts for a long, wavy strawberry-blond coif and a ‘70s-inspired boho-chic aesthetic here.
Shot in Malibu, the video takes place inside a gated compound where Perry enrolls in a cult-like retreat for the brokenhearted. She her fellow romance recoverees dance merrily in a sun-kissed field and partake in cupping, acupuncture, and other forms of alternative medicine—“I guess I should try hypnotherapy/I’ve got to rewire my brain,” Perry sings—culminating in a cheeky ayahuasca-style ceremony in which the participants drink their own tears.
Directed by Philippa Price, “Never Really Lover” is a playful and imaginative portrayal of love’s intoxicating spell and the absurd lengths some of us will go to exorcise ourselves of it. The clip is ripe for repeat viewings and filled with New Age symbolism, including the compound’s yin-yang-inspired logo and enough triangle imagery to keep illuminati conspiracy theorists occupied at least until Perry serves up her next visual feast.
Premiere: Heather Nova Goes Back to Her Roots with “Just Kids” Music Video
We’ve got the exclusive premiere of the second single from the singer-songwriter’s 10th album, Pearl.
Released 25 years ago this fall, Heather Nova’s breakthrough album, Oyster, earned the singer-songwriter a faithful following, due in large part to her angelic soprano, memorable pop hooks, and, above all, her alternately thoughtful and visceral ruminations on love and healing. Singles like “London Rain (Nothing Heals Me Like You Do)” and “Heart and Shoulder,” from 1998’s Siren, further solidified Nova as a cult pop figure at once capable of harnessing the grit of alt-rock, the candor of folk balladry, and the sleek accessibility of Top 40 music.
Following a series of more stripped-down fare, Nova’s 10th album, Pearl, reprises the crisp, layered aesthetic of those early efforts, thanks in large part to the singer’s reunion with producer Youth (The Verve, Dido, Pink Floyd). Nova describes the album’s second single, “Just Kids,” as a celebration of the “carefree sense of open possibilities” that new love can conjure in us. “It’s a song about how love can make you feel like a kid again,” she says.
Shot in Bermuda, where Nova was born, the music video for “Just Kids” is a charmingly simple visual depiction of the song’s universal concept. Co-directed by Nova and photographer Vincent Lions, the black-and-white clip is largely composed of one long take that finds Nova lounging on the beach while Lions (Nova’s boyfriend) frolics playfully in the background in a valiant attempt to make her break.
Watch “Just Kids” below:
Pearl will be released on June 28 via Saltwater Records.
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