Describing an Of Montreal show is like setting the scene for a circus. Literally. The amount of cartoonish yet elaborate characters, the band-built set of props, the whirlwind of energy… it is difficult to pinpoint which component of the performance merits the most mention. When it comes down to it though, like the mark of any great band, it is the music that keeps people going. For a band like Of Montreal, their set is not an illusion designed to compensate for sub-par music. Neither is frontman Kevin Barnes’ energy, which is the quite opposite of a facade and a vocal part of his music whether on stage or not. So when I saw them for the first time on Saturday night, I was not surprised by the festival-like atmosphere. I knew that would be there. What stunned me was a remarkably tight performance that somehow managed to take the best parts of the band’s music and their renowned stage presence, both of which are anything but subtle. Such immaculate management prevented an overflowing of ideas, which is always possible considering the band’s lofty scope. Fans were treated to quality with no pretentious showmanship.

The success of their performance on Saturday night, the second of a two-night stint at Terminal 5, is no surprise to fans. When you have an opener like Janelle Monáe, who is successfully attaining fame in both independent and mainstream circles, it is hard to have doubts. The little that I caught of her set was excellent, and her re-emergence during the phenomenal “Enemy Gene” later in the night brought emphatic cheering from an audience that were thankful to be given an opener that sounded like a headliner. This occurred about mid-way through Of Montreal’s setlist, which to my delight was culled heavily from their new album, False Priest (review here), and my favorite, Hissing Fauna, Are You the Destroyer? (review here). Barnes and co. were able to seamlessly navigate their way around a setlist that, despite their striking stylistic similarities (like Barnes’ falsetto or a funk-heavy rhythm section), contained appropriate variations in tempo and mood.

A rendition of “Casualty of You” was a surprising entry in the midst of jolted dance-friendly efforts like “Godly Intersex” and “Girl Named Hello”, which was accompanied with dancers in pig masks who proceeded to grind it up with Barnes. Yet, they all maintained synchronization even as breathing room got thinner. As the sole ballad-like track on False Priest, “Casualty of You” fit naturally with songs from the same album despite its emotional distance. Barnes’ piano-driven delivery reached believable authenticity despite the more vivacious preceding efforts, which was played with expected mastery by longtime members Bryan Poole, Dottie Alexander, and others. Barnes stole the show’s visual factor, but the music was a collaborative tour-de-force that contained the tightness and infectiousness demanded from funk-heavy efforts.

Performances of “Bunny Ain’t No Kind of Rider” and “She’s a Rejector” reminded me how wonderful Hissing Fauna, Are You the Destroyer? was. Even though Barnes is three years past the divorce that plagued him to write many of the exceptional but forlorn efforts on Hissing Fauna, the same intensity was there as if it happened yesterday. It is questionable whether an audience should enjoy an artist’s suffering, so perhaps these tracks sounded bouncier and more fluid than usual because the issue is not as sensitive. Or maybe it is simply that the band was on their game. The intro to “Bunny Ain’t No Kind of Rider” focused on some very interesting glitch-pop, while “She’s a Rejector” retained the same successful anthem-against-heartbreak feel as it did three years ago. These songs were fantastic additions to the False Priest-heavy set, showing more alt-rock and electro-rock than funk but achieving a similar degree of irresistible uniqueness.

These earlier efforts had little dependence on the set or scenery, which Barnes described to Spinner as being a very collaborative effort: “It’s like we’re an art collective, in a way,” he said. “Everyone in the band is contributing, everyone is the crew is contributing and this is very collaborative experience for all of us. Our bass player is responsible for building 85 percent of the props we’re going to use on tour. My brother designed all of them. All of us are involved in filming all the video content.” Seeing as how tightly involved the band’s music was, it is not surprising to see that this was a mutual effort. Barnes may steal the show on more occasions than one, but it is clear that the Georgia-based collective are blessed with additional talent beyond their enigmatic frontman.

For a tour that has seemingly been developed like an elaborate film, with costumes and sets taking the entire summer to create, it certainly lived up to expectations. I am not sure how Barnes had enough time to write a great album like False Priest AND help organize an intricate tour like this, but that is beside the fact. The band put on an exceptional show that was lively but also somewhat grounded, featuring a very accessible setlist (for Of Montreal’s standards) and not straying too far from it, apart from a few admirable Michael Jackson covers to close the night. I recommend that you listen to False Priest, fall in love with it, and check to see if the band is coming somewhere near you. If not, it is one of those tours you will regret missing a year from now.

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Of Montreal – Bunny Ain’t No Kind of Rider

Of Montreal – Coquet Coquette

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by Mike Mineo

The anticipation of ODDSAC was relatively complex for me. Like the rest of the world, I had no clue what to expect. Even in the ambitious and relatively inaccessible world of Animal Collective, a cross-promotion between audible appeal and visual stimulation sounds like a risk to take only after completing a unanimously well-received album. 2009’s Merriweather Post Pavilion was just that though. This made it very interesting during the Q&A after the screening, when Geologist spoke about the type of fans that like “My Girls” and not much else from the band. They may not like ODDSAC at all, he put bluntly, but there is certainly a specific audience for it. To an average bystander, this may sound like the sum of all pretension. How could a band charge people to see something intended for such a specific type of person? In the case of this wonderfully bizarre visual trip, attempting it any other way would have resulted in a film derived neither from genuine personal reflection and pure artistic integrity. This is exactly the opposite of what is accomplished in ODDSAC, a feature that while far from perfect is utterly captivating and well worth the hour-long ride for any fan that wants a peek into the band’s creative madness.

Since the majority of music comes from a group already known to many, the wild card for ODDSAC appeared to be director Danny Perez. As a longtime friend of the band, creativity between both parties appeared spontaneous in a shared admiration for horror films. Geologist specifically referenced the the 1977 Japanese horror film Hausu as one of his favorites, and this film takes a very similar approach in exposing unconventional images of deformity and cumbersome processes that eventually converge for a cohesive thematic center. The most surprising thing to me about ODDSAC, actually, was its cohesiveness. I came in expecting a series of music videos that hardly related to one another, and while it took some time to grasp the general theme, its focus was pretty evident by the mid-way point. Perez continuously places the audience in a feeling of discomfort as they watch deformed creatures attempt to complete meandering tasks that take longer than they should. It is indicative of frustration without being overly vague, as all these creatures are in situations where they are seemingly forced to complete a task, one that appears futile and utterly worthless but irritates them to the point of insanity. It does not matter that the audience has no clue what the task is (it ranges from washing rocks in a river to wandering through a forest). The most resounding effect of these images are the squeals, yelps, and bursts of physical frustration that resound with audible fluctuations in volume, tempo, and overall delivery.

I came away with the impression that the film represented artistic struggle specifically. This is shown especially in one of the last scenes, where Avey Tare (dressed in a monster suit) proceeds to scream profanities at a handful of young women after eerily watching them giggle with knives in their hands. The music shifts from a poppy key-led twinkle to a discordant thrust of industrial noise, employed respectively by either the image of the young girls or of Avey looking like a hideous deformity. When he begins to scream at them, the young ladies complete their descent into insanity by dancing about, knives in hand. Avey is jumping around too, accompanied by one of the catchiest Animal Collective tracks I have heard in some time. He takes the lead, of course, and I really wish I could describe the track more but one listen never does justice to an effort like that. I can say the same for most of the musical efforts on here. Some stood out and others did not, but at the time I was also focused intently on Perez’s visual splendor and how it collaborated with the music. Some songs were too beautiful to ignore, but I was attempting to digest the film as a whole rather than just focus on the musical material. Future watches/listens should reward more favorably in the future, which makes me look forward to its DVD release sometime in June. Even though there will be no release of the songs separately, I am sure their loyal fan base will churn out a few MP3s for those that wince at horror films.

(L to R: Deakin, Geologist, Avey Tare)

While much of the musical material was dependent on the visual presentation, some efforts on both ends shined brightly without the significant aid of the other. The most prevalent example of this was a track where Panda Bear took distinctive lead. It was very folky and easily the most barren effort in the film, but it was easily its most breathtaking. The footage of a moonlit canoe ride to accompany it was not one of Perez’s most visually stimulating accomplishments, but it required subtlety on his part because the focus was on the music. If he tried for anything more than this sad vampire riding somberly along the river, it would have diluted the structural importance of this glistening song within the film. It was the first song that was not pulsating with noise and electronics, so seeing a shift to a more tranquil presentation was welcome, even if it only lasted a few minutes. After editing hundreds of hours of footage, great decisions like these are why I am so impressed with Perez. The song here is one of the most beautiful efforts I have heard from Panda Bear thus far, but more importantly it fits perfectly within the film. The instrumentation here is little more than minimalistic acoustic resonance, but the range he showed in his vocals was breathtaking. Particularly during the chorus, it sent chills down my spine each time. It was easily my favorite musical component of ODDSAC and I cannot wait for everyone else to hear it. I managed to include a very poor-quality MP3 below for those that refuse to wait. It is just a fragment of the song though, and an effort like this deserves a full listen in its intended form.

The parts where Perez takes lead are usually in segments between the songs accompanied by vocals, either established by odd cut-scenes involving deformed creatures speaking and tasking, or wormhole-like journeys through various visual effects. The latter is welcoming in the context of Animal Collective’s continued style of psychedelia, specifically in one instance where Perez turns hundreds of fluttering bat-like images into serene images of blue and green. In another, engrossing visual designs take place for several minutes before cleverly appearing as little more than rocks along a river. The music to accompany these transitions were always minimal, but it still felt like different efforts altogether rather than intersections to Animal Collective songs. Some images wear on a bit too long with repetition, and some of the music/audio effects do as well. But as I said, the imperfections here have their own lovable quality to them once ODDSAC ends and viewers are left to wonder what their eyes and ears just witnessed. Certain scenes are memorable enough to linger in your head for days.

One instance of this involves marshmallows, monsters, and campfires. Try to picture: A deformed monster is slowly walking through a dark forest, the only light in most shots illuminating from a distant fire. Around this fire sits several children and their parents, joyously laughing and eating marshmallows. The audience continuously sees the contrast between the children laughing and this monster slowly approaching, the campfire folk completely unaware of its growing presence. The musical accompaniment is a mere whirring, with occasional blips of static that usually occur every transition. For minutes, the audience waits for both the audible and visual climax. The monster wobbles so slow as to irritate them to death throughout, all until the unexpected happens. The marshmallows that the kids and parents were eating begin to eat them, devouring their faces until they become little more than a white goo. Subsequent images involve vampires and other staples of horror films, which coincide well with the band’s unanimous love for B-rated horror films. The narrative flow is suspect as expected, but the thematic focus is not. It is extremely apparent by this point that frustration is arguably the intimate focus of ODDSAC.This is where the collaborative process takes true form, where the audible and visual components are clearly synchronized to the best of their ability. In such demeanor, the band has clearly reached the point where unanimous satisfaction is not a primary goal. Judging by both the film and reactions, it has already attained precisely what the band wants. ODDSAC is a representation of artistic struggle and persistent defiance, resulting in an authentic and personalized success for both Animal Collective and Danny Perez.

ODDSAC

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The post ODDSAC: A Review appeared first on Obscure Sound: Indie Music Blog.

The month of October always seems to root out the Album of the Year contenders, making this and November one of the most active months in new music releases. Similar to the several months preceding the Academy Awards for film, many marketing agencies and labels are thrusting out the last of their ’09 products before focusing on the new year. This includes everyone from veterans (The Flaming Lips) to newbies (Surfer Blood), each providing their fanbase with an early gift for the holidays. This month provided everything from infectious electro-pop (UltraChorus, Midnight Juggernauts) and ambitions psych-rock (The Flaming Lips, Her Vanished Grace) to indication of several stylistic revivals in the vein of surf-rock (Surfer Blood) and psychedelic electronica (Washed Out). Even unclassifiable artists like The Kilimanjaro Darkjazz Ensemble  and Lymbyc Systym provided focused and memorable efforts this month, making October 2009 unsurprisingly a month where artists of all different genres find a meeting point in their qualitative nature.

01. Surfer Blood – Take It Easy (post)
02. Washed Out – Belong (post)
03. Total Babe – Bearbones (post)
04. Midnight Juggernauts – This New Technology (post)
05. The Flaming Lips – Convinced of the Hex (post)
06. Tim Williams – Ozone Street (post)
07. A Brief Smile – Bigger Lies (post)
08. UltraChorus – Bestin the Farther (post)
09. Her Vanished Grace – Blue (post)
10. The Kilimanjaro Darkjazz Ensemble – Embers (post)
11. The Library – Tomorrow Is Better (post)
12. Aficionado – The Myth About Real Life (post)
13. Lymbyc Systym – Ghost Clock (post)

DOWNLOAD ENTIRE COMPILATION>>> (52.3 MB, .RAR)

The post Obscure Sound: Best of October 2009 appeared first on Obscure Sound: Indie Music Blog.

When projects attempt to be conceptual in both their style and purpose, there arises a sensitive area where criticism has difficulty retreating from the subjective to the objective. What we define as “quality” is premeditated by our own personal taste and is primarily subjective, but a release can also reach a consensus of inarguable quality and influence that gravitates more toward the objective. This almost always occurs quite some time after the initial release, for the term “instant-classic” is rarely used properly and often exaggerated when done so. If you wish to listen to The Kilimanjaro Darkjazz Ensemble, you are probably going to have to leave any of these subjective perceptions of quality at the door. You cannot compare anything definitive to this project, another brainchild of the ceaselessly active and multifarious Jason Köhnen. He is best known for Bong-Ra, another project of his since 1996 that has emerged as one of the most respectable sources of quality breakcore, which is basically a fancy name for industrialized techno with heavy percussion and samples at high tempos. Most of his projects possess these obnoxiously non-descriptive names like breakcore, but he is obviously not to blame. In fact, when you are as constantly innovative as Köhnen, listeners have no choice but to make up sub-genres in order to express what tickles their fancy.

It is always easy to cover an artist that fits generic words like “breezy indie-pop” or “tender acoustics”, but when using these terms without further clarification it tends to be an indicative of lacking originality. Perhaps this is why I am lost when attempting to concisely describe The Kilimanjaro Darkjazz Ensemble, as their swirling assortment of influences and stylistic directions allow the listener to take a full-bodied ride into unchartered territory with touches of jazz, post-rock, electronica, and IDM without being too overwhelming. The Kilimanjaro Darkjazz Ensemble formed in 2000 out of mutual admiration for silent filmmakers that used powerful music to convey raw emotion in synchronization with visual content, an interesting influence since this concept is often lost in modern film-making for special effects and generic instrumental covers. Notable influences included F.W. Murnau, Fritz Lang , and even somewhat contemporary works by the likes of Jan Švankmajer (check out his 1988 stop-motion interpretation of Alice in Wonderland for some cool stuff). The members of The Kilimanjaro Darkjazz Ensemble were so enthused by the passion of these filmmakers that Köhnen and co. began composing scores to already existent films, arranging soundtracks to the classic likes of Nosferatu and Metropolis in order to hone their experience in the most unique way possible.

As a true pursuer of stylistic ambitiousness, such tactics are hardly a surprise for followers of Köhnen. There is no method or style that seems beyond his reach. Bong-Ra played with everything from dance-rave to avant-garde jazz, a feat that was diverse enough to receive acclaim from the likes of John Peel (who included him as one of the 125 best Peel sessions ever). I admittedly find breakcore to be a frustrating genre, often sounding cluttered due to repetitive tempo or lack of melody altogether, but Köhnen’s work tends to appeal more to the majority despite his distinctively avant-garde leanings. Although his layers may have occasionally been too complex or his ideas overly thematic to grasp, Bong-Ra showcased a variety of genres like hip-hop and jazz that did not abide by breakcore’s very specific classification. In comparison to this, Köhnen’s new foray with The Kilimanjaro Darkjazz Ensemble is more straightforward, but also packs more of an emotional punch than any of his earlier material. Whereas his previous work would have sounded best at a rave party, this work with The Kilimanjaro Darkjazz Ensemble instead sounds like the ambiance of Hades, where contemplative sorrow is displayed more than impulsive excitement. The dramatic alteration in mood is one notable aspect of the transition to Köhnen’s new project, and it is not the only one either.

The stunning parts of The Kilimanjaro Darkjazz Ensemble’s third album, Here Be Dragons, are abundant, but not in the instantaneously infectious sort of way many are used to. Keep in mind that this is the same sort of stuff that World’s End Girlfriend have done so well, where full-blown orchestras combine with jazz percussion to craft audible worlds that are bleak, serene, and chilling. Too in-depth to serve as a film soundtrack, the works of these artists are often overlooked due to the sheer complexity and scope of the project. The beautiful “Embers” is one of the more concise efforts on the album, but it still builds with collapsing thunder as brass, horns, and the ghostly vocals of Charlotte Cegarra evolve into both vocal-led emissions of fury and smoothly presented saxophone solos. The diversity on tracks like these throughout the album is absolutely extraordinary, a true landmark achievement even for an artist as eclectically inclined as Köhnen. “Embers” almost has that sort of ethereal, crystal-y feel to it that is reminiscent of Air’s Moon Safari days, especially in the way Beth Hirsch sent chills up listener’s spines on “All I Need” with her fragile croon. The parallel between the somber and free-fleeting moments of “Embers” are the best parts; the brass solos and detached vocal additions are juggled masterfully.

It would be acceptable if the rest of the album sounded like “Embers”, but any fans of the Utrecht-based Köhnen know that it is his tendency to mix things up. “Sirocco” is an amiable effort with the initial giddiness of Afro-pop keys making one of those oh-so-brilliant Köhnen mood transitions. Cegarra’s vocals appear alongside the strings, which sound very thick and reverb-heavy over a haunting melody that already portrays darker elements on its own. The percussion here is certainly influenced by his earlier works, as the industrial feel is heavily prevalent in both that and the backing atmospheric pads. “Mists of Krakatoa”, while lacking the general passion of the other two tracks, is exceptional for its sheer curiosity in blending Cegarra’s operatically inclined vocals again with strings, except unlike in “Sirocco” they collide here with a piano in minor key and the backing whirring of what faintly sounds like machines at work. This is less structurally cohesive than the others, like the fantastic opener “Lead Squid” or plucked goodness of “Caravan!”, but still retains its value through innovative sophistication and cumulative emotional expression. Some tracks on Here Be Dragons may take too long in their introduction or conclusion, but in their climaxes they will convey a type of innovation and musicianship that stands out even among the avant-garde.

RIYL: World’s End Girlfriend, Portishead, the later and more experimental years of Talk Talk

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The Kilimanjaro Darkjazz Ensemble – Embers

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The Kilimanjaro Darkjazz Ensemble – Sirocco

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The Kilimanjaro Darkjazz Ensemble – Mists of Krakatoa

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It would be nice if all New Yorkers were given next week off for the sake of new music. CMJ’s Music Marathon is already intimidating enough with hundreds of artists on the roster, so with classes and work getting in the way it would be pretty nice to devote a whole week to new music instead. This nutty but alluring proposal aside, many of the groups playing next week are getting their first big break, a treat for audiences to be involved in. As a result, those attending will likely be more receptive to the potential and effort the artist may display or put forth, rather than instantaneous quality. Yesterday’s feature of Tim Williams was exemplary of an artist who put his first taste of CMJ exposure five years earlier to good use. Although he has yet to become a brand name, watching an artist live that you hypothesize to be prominent in a few years provides a unique feeling that is only rivaled by the discovery of a release produced under similarly deprived circumstances. Artistry is one of the few aspects of humanity that permits hunger and desire as beneficial forces and, although we never want well-deserved artists to go by unnoticed, we assume an unspoken role as listeners to spread the word about quality music. This site itself is a representation of that attempt, and comprehensively accessible festivals like CMJ are able to provide the wonderful feeling I get after writing about a band that I am positive will be adored by most that pass by this site.

Another great thing about CMJ is the amount of related e-mails I get for it. Since the majority of these groups are simply looking for exposure, the amount of invitations I receive is a nice source of entertainment for awhile, even if it makes me somewhat weary. Not so much because it is flattering, but instead due to my own time constraints and the many artists that have the potential to be breathtakingly original (if they have not reached that point already). To miss out on one because my inbox is full would be quite unfortunate. I have no clue what to attend during CMJ on the days I actually am available, so going through and listening to the artists beforehand is really the only form of judgment I and others can go by. This is what I do regardless though, so stumbling across a group like Midnight Juggernauts thanks to a CMJ invitation demonstrates how live appearances have both a direct and indirect effect on an artist’s exposure. Even if I were to not attend due to disinterest or personal conflicts, the mere fact they are appearing in the festival led me to their latest release, an EP by the name of This New Technology. Judging by the concise but impressive showing of the EP, perhaps I should clear my schedule for one of their CMJ shows.

Quite simply, Midnight Juggernauts are worth it. The title of their EP is good indication of their advanced stylistic trends, simultaneously emitting a fury of dance-rock in the vein of Cut Copy and hazy ’90s alt-rock reminiscent of early Suede or Manic Street Preachers, when drugs were influencing a sound influenced by both psychedelia and glam. Drug use is hardly advised but in some artistic instances it can serve as a beneficial supplement, shown throughout the recording of Suede’s Dog Man Star or even The Beatles’ transitional stage into works later classified as psychedelia. You can find a similar sort of revised psychedelia in the work of Midnight Juggernauts, even though they remain more sample-friendly and uptempo than many of these predecessors. Their pulsating bass work is more reminiscent of layered synths than anything, but the interesting decision to implement organs, varied guitar work, and a vocal delivery that would fit more aptly in the world of arena-rock make Midnight Juggernaut something of an unconventional success. Their debut, Dystopia, showed their blend of synth-pop and alt-rock for the first time in 2007, serving as one of the few electro-rock debuts that were polished full of confidence. The Tough Alliance and Cut Copy come to mind for this decade, but since the days of Massive Attack and Depeche Mode electronic-rock has dwindled into a more predictable entity that allows considerably more room for error.

Midnight Juggernauts defy such limitations on This New Technology, starting with the gorgeous self-titled cut. “This New Technology” already made a big splash in the blogosphere in late September, but this should do well in tiding you over until the EP’s release in November. A jaw-dropping effort, its integration of bubbly synths into chirps of brass and reverbed guitar licks may sound on paper like another typical indie-rock effort that mocks Cut Copy, but the advances this trio has made here makes for more than that. On Dystopia the group were often criticized for making their song structures too predictable, with verses often relying on vocals and choruses using more melodic forces of instrumentation. “This New Technologhy” rides on similar utilization of bass as the debut, but the interaction between guitars and organs here is what establishes it as a uniquely phenomenal effort. The vocals are also noticeably more empowering than on the debut, and the group’s newly acquired experience with structural alteration truly shows here as it makes the seamless transition between punchy dance-rock and hazy psychedelia. “Fantastic Valleys” is strictly instrumental but goes far in showing the listener even more stylistic growth, as the percussive intricacy and avant-garde keyboard work are new improvements for the trio. I am not quite sure whether it would sound more appropriate for the Goonies soundtrack or a film set in 2500, but those keys sure bring out feelings of both elusiveness and futurism in their unpredictable placement and synthetic tone. Midnight Juggernauts have made obvious improvements that should drive plenty of hype in anticipation for their forthcoming full-length album, set to be released sometime in early 2010. At the very least, they made me and others want to clear their busy schedules for a few CMJ appearances.

RIYL: Cut Copy, Manic Street Preachers, Suede, Giorgio Moroder, Scissor Sisters, Air, The Rapture

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Midnight Juggernauts – This New Technology

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Midnight Juggernauts – Fantastic Valleys

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Midnight Juggernauts – This New Technology (Emperor Machine Remix)

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The Cubical recorded their debut album during the humid Californian summer, complemented by the production skills of a veteran in Dave Sardy whose resume includes Johnny Cash and The Rolling Stones. A reputable producer, a studio in Hollywood, and touting the glories of a California sun are commonly characteristics of any short-lived, big-label act these days, so it would probably be easy to group The Cubical in with the rest. How premature that would be though, especially considering that their sound is the contrary of such cliches. Their studied approach takes listeners to the past with a refreshing ideology rather than bringing them to familiar territory with nothing but a pre-designed template at their side. This is one way to prove that The Cubical transcend their natural advantages, though Dan Wilson’s vocal delivery is singularly the component that separates them from the others featured on this site that also attribute slight stylistic interpretations to common themes of the past.

That Wilson sounds like a possessed madman just waiting for an exorcism makes his presence uniquely empowering on its own. As listeners will learn though, this is not the primary allure. How Wilson is able to manipulate his half-enraged, half-deranged tone is what brings The Cubical’s debut, Come Sing These Crippled Tunes, to great heights. For instance, we all know that Tom Waits has a coarsely unique voice that is entirely his own. Certainly his audience is attracted to it too, but do you honestly think they would keep coming back if he had nothing to say? He relays all kinds of wonderfully bizarre narratives, but how he alternates his vocal pattern (somber whimper developing into a coarse mumble, etc.) in coordination with the content at hand. The band’s own producer, Dave Sardy, could probably tell you that himself by working with Johnny Cash, who even before Waits had this technique down pat. Neither have the voice that Simon Cowell would get on his knees for, but they were both inarguably able to accomplish more vocalized distinction than any eventual winner of Americal Idol will thanks in part to this ability. Correlating one’s God-given vocal chords with the applicable songwriting that their talents provided them is quite difficult, but artists like Cash and Waits have paved the way for talented musicians like The Cubical in that regard.

As Wilson croons about a certain infatuation with little fingertips and a tiny silhouette on “Edward the Confessor”, listeners will be tempted to either cower in fear and raised eyebrows or take solace in a voice that is one of the most unique devices for interpretation you are likely to find on a rock album. With roaring guitars, bluesy organs, and thunderous percussion, the five-piece tread in territories of rockabilly and power-pop depending on the effort, though modernistic classic-rock might be the best tag for this group. “Edward the Confessor” is frantic in its guitar-powered romps, making room for occasional absences of instrumentation in its entirety for breaks that serve to either introduce a rollicking guitar solo or a coarse rumble from Wilson. Either one is welcome throughout the entire effort as Wilson pleads for forgiveness to a beloved who evolves from an object of infatuation to a symbolic representation of repressed desires and superficial privation. “No, no, pay the price with such fame and virtue,” he screeches, allowing for the shift between repressed forgiveness and exhausted agitation.

Like any good film, the best part about The Cubical is how it keeps the listener on the edge of their seat despite some predictable consistencies. Although Wilson’s voice may take some getting used to in its resonant consistency and tonal pattern, it becomes a redeeming component of the band’s sound in tracks like “Edward the Confessor” and “Like Me (I’m a Peacock)”. The latter begins with a guitar riff that is so soaked in so much reverb and old-fashioned melodic goodness that it immediately invokes nostalgia. The chorus follows a similar path, even if Wilson’s lyrical urgings of ripping his unrequited lover from the ground may have been a bit too risque for the ’60s. The music is not too far from the era though, as the classic-rock feel is better than ever here with nothing more than guitar and rhythm dominating successfully. Wilson calls himself a demon quite suitably in the lyrics as well, and his voice only allows for the listener to picture the face of a disgruntled but talented individual whose repressed adoration has led him to this point. This point? I almost made the point of artistic triumph sound detrimental for a second. My apologies. The Cubical deal with some pretty gruesome takes on romanticism and repressed love throughout Come Sing These Crippled Tunes, but at all points it is simply a refreshing addition to a sound that would not sound appropriate any other way. Would you really want Dan Wilson’s voice to be singing about lollipops and rainbows? I didn’t think so.

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The Cubical – Edward the Confessor

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The Cubical – Like Me (I’m a Peacock)

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The Cubical – Great White Lie

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Even if it brings necessary experience and helpful recognition, having a lengthy career also ignites some associations that can be highly detrimental to an artist’s frame of mind. Few would prefer anonymity to prominence, but even without the paparazzi there are some consequences to musical fame that prompt some to remain low-key. Though once one accomplishes an objective triumph, it is realized that it is more difficult to run from fame than accomplish it. Grant-Lee Phillips has always been an artist on the verge of both territories. His impressive array of work has stretched over 20 years, with a new project encompassing the three decades of his career. With each one, he has found success that is both unique and durable, at least in a relative sense. The borderline between songwriting genius and instantaneous fame is too small to tread, but Phillips has somehow sat here comfortably throughout his entire career. He is accustomed to critical acclaim and large audiences, but knowing that it is not the type of street-stopping fame that often disrupts artistic legends is perhaps one of the secrets to Phillips’ enduring success. Without the pressures of fame attempting to derail an authentic style or ideology, Phillips has the option of limiting his sources of constructive external knowledge to one of the most reliable and consistent: his own fan base.

If you were one of the few that heard Shiva Burlesque’s 1987 self-titled debut upon its initial release, there is a good chance that you have followed Phillips’ career up to now. That is hard to say for a lot of artists too, as deteriorating with age has occurred so abundantly that we are led to assume it is normative among artists of all kinds. Phillips is the rare breed of songwriter; his ideological talents (songwriting and stylistic intentions) are as consistent as his boastfully powerful voice and stellar sense of production. For an artist to retain any of these throughout a 25-year period is impressive, but for Phillips to maintain all of them while undergoing the transitioning of different eras and stylistic norms serves as indication of his gifted musical intellect. With that in mind, it is hard to believe his first artistic priorities were in film. Before he formed Shiva Burlesque with Jeff Clark, he was a film student attempting to sort out his life in LA. But upon re-acquainting with Clark – a fellow Stockton, California native – Phillips began to view music as his calling again, with he and Clark finding a mutual adoration of local L.A. underground college-rock groups like Rain Parade, Dream Syndicate, and other members of the “Paisley Underground” to be their biggest inspirations.

The “Paisley Underground”, a broad term used to describe a collection of alt-rock groups in ’80s Los Angeles, showed its influence on Phillips early. This term encompassed artists that incorporated psychedelic production into folk-rock and/or power-pop, eventually forming a tight-knit community in the L.A. area due to its aligning sound. The Bangles arguably had the most mainstream success out of this niche. A guitarist since high school, the “Paisley Underground” wave hit Phillips hard and attributed to the sound of Shiva Burlesque’s debut and its 1990 follow-up, Mercury Blues. Despite glowing reviews and a devoted California audience, Shiva Burlesque parted ways shortly after that to pave the way for Phillips’ next project. Great songwriting and performances could simply not hide the fact that their sound was somewhat outdated (at least in regard to L.A.’s music scene in the late ’80s). Along with the drummer and bassist of Shiva Burlesque, Phillips formed Grant Lee Buffalo to begin the ’90s. This project saw four fantastic albums be released from 1993’s Fuzzy to 1998’s Jubilee, all of which drew praise for a matured sound that was more contemporary in its guitar-based interpretation of alternative and folk-rock. Think of them in the vein of other ’90s landmarks like Pearl Jam or Cracker, both of which they opened for at some point, but with more folk and rootsy rock ‘n’ roll.

Grant Lee Buffalo disbanded in 1999 due to growing frustrations over lack of recognition. They certainly had a reason to gripe; practically all publications lauded their releases and other groups openly shared their adoration of Grant Lee Buffalo, but they could never attain even a glisten of commercial success. Frustrated but unfazed, Phillips began his solo work at the beginning of the millennium and has not looked back. Similarly to his preceding efforts, his four solo albums thus far has seen a combined fusion of glowing press and mediocre sales. As mature as Phillips is though, he must understand that the bulk of society is neither educated nor patient enough to recognize quality art. His hooks are evolutionary and often require attentive listening, and his attire does not contain glitter or giant sunglasses. Therefore, expecting fame is unrealistic, but to handle an undeserved lack of recognition the graceful way Phillips has is one of the many reasons why he is still going strong. Very strong actually. His fifth solo album, Little Moon, is one of the best releases of his career, which is saying a lot since he has never released a lackluster one out of the dozen or so. It is still distinctively Grant-Lee Phillips at play, but with a versatility that is more abundant among artists like Ryan Adams (as a track like “Nightbirds” can explain) or Beck.

Rolling Stone hailed Shiva Burlesque’s debut with gushing praise over 20 years ago, which was a decade or so before they called Phillips one of the greatest active male vocalists. It simply attests to his durability and how those able to recognize quality are aware of Phillips’ presence. Like Paul Weller, Phillips’ aggressiveness and fury within his work has subsided a bit with age. His songwriting power never lacks though. A track like “Little Moon” would sound uncharacteristic several years ago with its lush keys and plucked acoustics, but a charming piano-pop ballad like this one shows that it is Phillips’ by the songwriting alone. “It all starts with a seed so small for a song, little flower,” he sings, alternating his voice to a ghostly high-pitch before a series of dramatic violins emerge as the bridge. It seems to describe the evolution of personalities among individuals, with character study being a favorite theme among Phillips’ work (particularly in the vein of artistic struggles, like creating an album or song). In his case, he has expanded to styles that complement his songwriting beautifully. He returns to alt-rock theatrics on “Strangest Thing”, which bristles with energy in its swirling keys and concise guitar licks. This is also one of the most radio-friendly tracks of his career, and if anything serves as a potential commercial break-out for Phillips this would be it. This album should do that on its own though. This is such a fantastic work that I hope it exposes Phillips for what he is: one of the best songwriters of the past three decades. Little Moon is simply another testament to that.

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Grant-Lee Phillips – Strangest Thing

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Grant-Lee Phillips – Little Moon

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Grant-Lee Phillips – Nightbirds

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It was always interesting to me how varying generations perceive music differently. A well-written thesis or book has likely dissected this to pretentious hell already, so bear with me on this. There are too many intricacies involved to tackle this in a mere post, so I will touch upon it as concisely as I can. It is generally indisputable that a casual music fan can identify music from a specific decade as long as it abides by certain stereotypes. Certainly electronica and early bluegrass can find prevalent chronological differences based on the sophistication of their production alone, but differentiating between something like the power-pop of the ’70s and indie-rock of the ’00s is much trickier. To casual observers of music, it is not in the production or theory of the sound that arises these unavoidable comparisons, but rather what their impression of the particular decade was. One’s sociological surroundings and general upbringing has a larger influence on this than anything, with the more subtle components being the media’s role and how important that role appears to the individual. Now that commercial music is energized by bad cover versions and recycled genres, it has become increasingly difficult to separate the the present from the past. For the most part, it is like reliving past successes with all the cheesiness and without the exciting innovation. No wonder today’s music media is targeted largely at teens that know little more than what is put in front of them. The parents and older generations that have already heard it in a fresher, less manipulative, and more groundbreaking way years ago still have their vinyls, right?

Perhaps I am harsher of commercial music than I should be, but the pop music in mainstream America today seems to either directly imitate the boy-band craze of the ’90s or resort to re-workings of lost classics from decades ago. The lack of evolution from profitable pop artists of the ’90s to ’00s is alarming to me, and I am not even analyzing the quality of songwriting or production. That remains similar (poor to average). What surprises me is the hesitation to stylistically innovate or even incorporate in the mainstream media, an arguable reflection of longstanding political beliefs and rigid sociological systems. If there is one beneficial thing about all this dull consistency though, it is when an artist emerges and appears like a blast from the past without the pathetic indulgence of marketing potential. Like the artists of yesterday that continue to be imitated, both subtly and prevalently, they appear as a breath of fresh air. Only this time, it is amidst chaos that these older artists may not be familiar with. Like many others on this site, I believe The Wiyos to be one of them. And it is not just because they beautifully interpret a style that many associate with the past. Their ideology is one of tradition and old-fashioned integrity, two elements that integrate themselves into their music.

The four members in The Wiyos can be found enjoying silent films and playing instruments without an amplifier, all dressed in suits that expose little more than a nostalgic mystique. They look as if they just stepped out of Doc Brown’s time machine, enjoying the attempt to collaborate the past and present. In fact, they themselves clarify that anything from the early 20th century tickles their fancy, particularly the styles of music that grew and flourished in that era. Ragtime and piedmont blues, both noted for their melodically syncopated approach and historical importance, are their two prominent influences. Both relied on barren instrumentation and accompaniment, but both the passion of the performers and syncopated unpredictability of the rhythm and driving melodic soul led the types to extreme popularity during their heydays in the early and mid ’20s. Piedmont blues’ use of ragtime hardly makes it relevant in today’s realm of contrary rock ‘n’ roll and pop music, but Americana and rockabilly owe quite a debt to its rhythmic syncopation. This is perhaps why it would be so easy to group The Wiyos in with all the other Americana artists. Not so fast though. Unlike many contemporaries, the Brooklyn four-piece appear more authentic in their approach. Instead of tackling the genre in a song or two, they devote their craft to it, seeking to innovate and touch upon the past without imitating the legends of the past. It is an ideology that today’s artists could benefit from.

In addition to gaining a prominent fanbase by touring seven counties are crossing a supposed 400,000 miles throughout their five-year existence, The Wiyos have now released one of the most fascinating albums of the year in Broken Land Bell. Their fourth album shows The Wiyos did not name their band after a 19th century street gang for any old reason; they pack the same collaboratively brilliant punch as any successful working group of the past. The musicianship is astoundingly tight, steered by a stylistic direction that few, if any, of today’s bands can even attempt, nonetheless pull of successfully. While not the most technically startling piece on the album, “Promenade” is one of the more accessible efforts in exposing a style that many classify as “outdated”. To spice things up a bit, the boys integrate a barber-shop duet sort of feel with an array of accompanying instruments, specifically in the vein of harmonicas and brass. Banjos and upright bass stay on the conventional course, but all the instrumentation is highly impressive and even those not familiar with the genre should find themselves enthralled instantaneously by the nostalgic embrace with occasional reminders of contemporary placement. “Stomp” provides some great diversity in the rhythm section, particularly in the contrast between the bass’ support of solely a banjo and the entire assortment of instruments. The lull in the middle of the track allows the latter half to pack an even bigger punch, a build-up technique used in several of the songs on Broken Land Bell. Oh yeah, the incorporation of beat-boxing on this track and throughout the album is something special and entirely original. It is startling how many hooks it accounts for.

“Redbird” sits alone on the album as something contrary to the album’s general stylistic presentation, allowing a more fluid form of melancholic form of folk to emerge. The vocals are more subdued and the accompaniments more barren, but the emotional vulnerability is even heavier. When the acoustic guitar emerges in its brooding tone, The Wiyos’ emotional sincerity is even more thoroughly established. Most of The Wiyo’s most prominent influences were physically dead before they were born, but these guys do great justice in exposing an important style of music in a polished and contemporary form, prompting today’s listeners to expand their horizons and become acquainted with their favorite artists’ own influences.

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The Wiyos – Promenade

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The Wiyos – Redbird

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The Wiyos – Stomp

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An appreciation for film is arguably the most common first step in uncovering and eventually admiring the arts. Contrary to the conventional uses of music, photography, or painting, children are exposed to both educational and entertaining films at an early age in order to maximize their general perception of morals, social interaction, and social norms. At this early age, art is hardly an afterthought. Guardians use film to make their children more socially aware, and mainly to safely occupy them without putting much effort forth. The same could be said for something like finger-painting or children’s music, but kid-centric films remain the norm in introducing children to media for the first time. The others do not have the capacity for upheld interest when the child is older. When they grow of age and begin to examine the audible and visual creations around them, film is naturally the first form of art that many gravitate towards. Complex intricacies involving camera angles, music theory, and color schemes are not found within the arts until further investigation regardless, but to capture an essence of childhood in-depth is perhaps more rewarding than an interest that peaked around one’s pre-teens, which is most often the case with music or painting. There are always exceptions, which are what most of us like to call prodigies, but there are few truly talented artists that undervalue the function of film, whether it is used to complement their music or paintings, or simply enjoyed as a hobby.

I have featured dozens of artists that got their start by scoring music for low-budget films; The Western States Motel, Camphor, and The Leisure Society are just a few that come to mind. Apart from producing stellar music, they share a common bond in the narrative appeal of their songs. All of their recent albums have been at least slightly conceptual, whether it was The Leisure Society’s fascination with occupied time or Camphor’s infatuation with wabi sabi (a Japanese conceptual belief that true greatness exists in the inconspicuous details of our world and true beauty can only be discovered in life’s imperfections). Neither of these thematic approaches relates to film, but as groups with experience in both film and songwriting they have an increased capacity to interweave various experiences to result in an enhanced narrative for their music. For filmmakers this could result in more effective sound design for their films. These artists have found the proper divide in differentiating and unifying the uses of audible and visual art, leading to results that are more frequently successful than those with a minimal externally artistic influence. Although their appreciation for film is only found through their name to the naked eye, Noah and the Whale possess the same narrative prowess that most songwriters seem to foolishly neglect.

Taking their name from Noah Baumbach’s excellent 2005 film The Squid and the Whale, Noah and the Whale profoundly express an appreciation for film’s ability to simulate dramatic real-life experiences into a comforting, occasionally humorous depiction. This is what Baumbach’s The Squid and the Whale did so gracefully, which is perhaps why the London-based quartet chose their name as an ode to its flawless approach. Their sophomore album, The First Days of Spring, also plays with a funny little thing we call human emotions in a way that relieves the heartbreak, loneliness, and general sullenness of a life without authentic fulfillment. This is also a common theme among the films of Wes Anderson, another filmmaker that Noah and the Whale have publicly displayed their adoration for. The four-piece has already caught the attention of Baumbach, so I would personally be shocked if these guys are not featured in a film by the end of next year. The First Days of Spring clarifies this sentiment entirely, as it plays like a feature film from beginning to end. It is almost like a soundtrack to one of the quirkiest, but also ardently effective, films of the year. That sounds like a film by Baumbach or Anderson to me. You can expect them to be proclaimed the next big thing when either of them features the group in a movie… it seems pretty imminent at this point.

The group’s debut, Peaceful, the World Lays Me Down, last year was undoubtedly impressive, but when listening to The First Days of Spring and looking back on it the debut seems like such a menial affair. This is such an expansive, mature release that it only vaguely resembles the group that put out one of last year’s more impressive debuts. The fascinating thing here is the album’s progression, shifting from barren folk tracks like “Our Window” to the cinematic orchestras in “Instrumental I” and “Love of an Orchestra” with precision. It does not sound forced nor desperate, but rather an example of how this is a group that clearly values conceptual themes. For a track like “Our Window”, lead vocalist and songwriter Charlie Fink puts on his best Matt Berninger impression by mumbling subtly brilliant lyrical progressions in a deep baritone that resonates with elegance over his evolving folk melodies. “I Have Nothing” and “My Broken Heart” are in the more single-worthy category with their soulful accessibility. The former is particularly reminiscent of the acoustical, pop-minded tracks of the group’s debut, recalling the melancholic practice of unfaithfulness as Fink pleads for his beloved to walk with him on “a new spring morning”. Rebirth, reconciliation, and rejection are all common occurrences in Fink’s work. “Come back to me, my darling,” he pleads. “I’d do anything to be at your side.”

“My Broken Heart” is perhaps the album’s shining moment, not wasting a moment over its five-minute span with a perfect mixture of guitars, strings, and a voice that is powerful enough to make anything sound convincing. “Broken hearts are a fickle thing and complicated too,” Fink sings. “I thought I believed in love but I’ve never seen it through.” After lamenting that he never married the girl he loved, he resorts to a technique that most songwriters in the indie-folk genre are reluctant to use: the power of optimism. “But I’ll be laughing again,” he sings before the emergence of a triumphant horn. The track picks up into an expansively rewarding evolution here, leaving room for the gracefulness of strings and eventually a guitar solo that wraps this gem up beautifully. This ingenious use of additional instrumentation, particularly the emergence of brass, is particularly reminiscent of Andrew Bird, another immensely gifted songwriter with a knack for narrative bliss. But comparisons are insulting for a band that has released something as memorable as The First Days of Spring. For as the name of this album entails, Noah and the Whale have experienced a rebirth in which their music resonates with a sense of emotional authenticity that is only believable from the mouths of children. But with music as heartfelt, genuine, and excitable as this, no one can doubt the progressive talent of Noah and the Whale.

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Noah and the Whale – My Broken Heart

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Noah and the Whale – I Have Nothing

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Noah and the Whale – Love of an Orchestra

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With summer in full gear, some artists have to take a temporary backseat to the seasonal bias that is subtly prevalent in most people. For me, choosing an artist to listen to in my free time is not dependent on the weather, but rather my current emotional state and which style I feel would be most compatible with it. However, the seasons do play a role in my selections from time to time. On a beautiful summer day I would probably choose the likes of Springsteen over a gloomier group like Joy Division or The Smiths, with vice versa applying if clouds took the place of the sun. Few can argue that certain music sounds better during certain times and certain weather. With this in mind though, it is worth noting that one’s perception of a suitable atmosphere can be wildly subjective. However, it is hard to make the definition of “summer music” skewed, even if it is up to the listener’s personal taste to compile their own perfect summer mixtape. Contrary to the belief of most mainstream pop artists, a summer hit does not need to have the word “summer” in the title to achieve its status as a seasonal gem. Topics involving big waves, surfer girls, and the boardwalk could help, but it is hardly the most definitive factor.

The word “breezy” has been used time and time again to describe artists with a certain demeanor, one that defies the boundaries of pop without straying too far into hectic structural ploys. This sense of semi-capriciousness coincides with the carefree exuberance that summer often gives off, mainly due to a combination of increased relaxation time and warm weather. Listeners want something that is captivating and original, but not something that is going to detract from their relaxation time with overbearing ambition or artistic flops. The Beach Boys are a rather stereotypical example of a summer group, but also arguably the best one. The bulk of their material was accessible and melodically captivating, but hidden under their receptively good vibrations were reoccurring themes and harmonic intricacies that made their music much more than radio-friendly pop music. Brian Wilson was a songwriter who valued melodic cohesiveness as much as thematic intricacies that was present in both his musical and lyrical content. And with the concurrent themes of riding big waves and basking in the summer sun, I doubt anyone could argue against The Beach Boys being the most consummate summer-pop group of all-time.

It seems unfair to introduce a new songwriter after describing one of the greatest in Brian Wilson, but while Chris Velan does not boast the stylistic innovations or genius-level showmanship of such a predecessor, his potential for producing greatly effective summer pop music is blatant. His songs are often led by tendencies that appear outwardly conventional, like linear guitar progressions in strict 4/4 or the expected assortments of rockers and ballads. But like influences in the vein of Wilson, Velan possesses a creative peak that is unparalleled by most of his contemporaries, even if it is only subtly prevalent. On the surface, his charming blend of acoustical pop, Americanized reggae, and suave R&B may remind some listeners of Jason Mraz or Slightly Stoopid, but Velan’s material is considerably more diverse than either of them. The Montreal native can attribute his eclectic qualities to his forays in music throughout his life, doing it all from fronting a reggae band to scoring music for a film. In addition to this, Velan grew up on both his dad’s favorites (Leonard Cohen, Dylan, Van Morrison) and his sister’s cassette tapes (’80s new-wave). This put him on the path of music at an early age, even if a few pit stops along the way (the lawyer profession, in his case) put the whole solo singer/songwriter thing on hold for a bit. After two overlooked albums though, his third one appears most likely to receive exposure.

Solidago is hardly a showy album, but it deserves recognition for its consistency and melodic goodness. Velan has plenty of good ideas, and even though they are occasionally not expanded upon enough, he is able to capture them without it becoming tireless or agitated. One has to admire him for his diversity, whether it is for the twinkling indie-pop on “Oldest Trick”, the brassy mix of R& and reggae on “Pauper in a Palace”, or the cheery reggae in “Hunting Season”. The latter finds Velan channeling classic influences like Burning Spear and contemporary fusion artists like Michael Franti, with the occasional brass and rhythmic combustions adding nice flair to a genre that has too many imitators and not enough innovators. A song like “Oldest Trick” works with little more than a guitar and synthesizer, the latter arriving most prominently during the anthemic chorus. Velan’s nasally vocals here are reminiscent of Tom Petty’s, which makes for a rather nice tone under an undercurrent of acoustic guitars. It gives off a classic-folk vibe, sitting nicely on the album between the alt-rock leanings of “Wobbly Bones” and the reggae-influenced “Hunting Season”. “No one’s gonna knock on your door,” he sings during “Wobbly Bones”, one of his many comparisons of death to the desire for absolute solitude. It is one of the few showings of bitterness and melancholy throughout the album, but along with the similarly bleak “Out of Range” it shows that his usually upbeat demeanor does not detract from sentimental moments like these. They both reach extraordinary heights.

Velan’s Solidago is not a great summer album simply because it has great melodies that are often accompanied by gentle acoustic strums and Velan’s calming voice. Like Wilson, he also shows a fondness for the art of underlying pop accessibility with further intricacies that involve eclectic stylistic tendencies, thematic consistencies, and differing moods (check out the differences between an optimistic track like “House Upon the Hill” and the somber build-up of “Out of Range”; it is very enjoyable). Velan may come off like just another gifted songwriter with room to grow on the surface, but those who look more in-depth throughout Solidago should be convinced of his potential. Check it out when it is released on July 14th. Its mid-summer release date is quite apt, considering Velan clearly values the true meaning of quality summer music. If you are looking for great tunes that can be enjoyed during scenarios of both relaxation on the beach and thought-provoking conversations with friends, Solidago is the way to go. It is Velan’s finest effort yet.

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Chris Velan – Pauper in a Palace

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Chris Velan – Hunting Season

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Chris Velan – Oldest Trick

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