Brit-pop legends Pulp are one of many phenomenal acts headlining Coachella. It was just revealed they’re padding their stateside stay with dates on both coasts. Keep your eyes peeled for ticket information. The six-piece “will be playing songs from all periods of their career.” They haven’t released an album since 2001’s We Love Life, but signs are pointing to a new album as well.

After some interesting yet inconsistent albums in the ’80s and early ’90s, Pulp broke out in 1994 with His N Hers, my personal favorite. A year later, Different Class and lead single “Common People” propelled Pulp to worldwide recognition. The equally great This Is Hardcore followed in 1998.

04-11 New York, NY – Radio City Music Hall
04-13 Indio, CA – Coachella
04-17 San Francisco, CA – The Warfield
04-20 Indio, CA – Coachella
05-04 Murcia, Spain – SOS Festival

MP3: Pulp – Razzmatazz

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Picture this scene: a dimly-lit bar with a wide variety of liquor lined up alongside its oak walls, the multitude of bottles casting a refraction on the dozen or so guests in the room. A grand piano sits on a small, elevated stage, several feet from your comfortable red silk-laden table. Those around you are subdued but attentive, their eyes peeled on the stage. Given the choice, which living artist would you like to see sit on that piano stool and begin to play tracks from their entire catalog? Paul McCartney is a pretty obvious choice, as are Neil Young and Bruce Springsteen. Such artists are skilled enough improvisers and pianists to replicate their intricate, emotionally expansive works into a bare-bones rendition on piano. But no emotion or vigor would be lost, as musicians of their caliber are increasingly rare. They have all participated collaboratively in reputable bands, yet have shown their presence as solo artists just as powerfully. Beside the fact that shows flaunting any of these individuals’ mere name are routinely sold out, their music has the rare effect of playing as resoundingly in an arena as it would in a cabaret lounge with an audience of one dozen.

Artists like these are somewhat non-existent these days. There are exceptions, even in popular music with individual personas like John Legend and John Mayer, but they are usually short-lived and have limited artistic capacity beyond their featured skill sets. Their tendencies to remain constrained to what has previously brought them success limits their growth, and eventually fans (apart from the lunatic die-hards) get tired of their shtick. With that in mind, it is hard to think of an up-and-coming artist that will have the same relevancy as a McCartney or Springsteen thirty years from now. There is simply too much commercialization, and I am simply repeating sentiments that have been written countless times before. The Divine Comedy, AKA Neil Hannon, has been executing the rare modernity of one-man acoustical performances for over twenty years, with not an ounce of publicized nonsense. This intimacy is not superficially found within his albums, which bustle with flourish orchestral arrangements, but those familiar with them find a singular personality in Hannon’s songwriting.

Hannon’s theatrical narratives, witty analogies, and nonchalant humor represents a prototypical ‘90s British singer/songwriter, like contemporaries Jarvis Cocker and Morrissey. Despite prevailing with this common archetype, Hannon does not contain an ounce of manufactured savvy. It is all him. The multi-instrumentalist practiced furiously in his parents’ attic throughout his youth, refining his gifted songwriting as he furthered his instrumental dexterity. His style has not been altered significantly since his 1990 debut, Fanfare for the Comic Muse, even if the thematic prevalence of releases like the self-explanatory A Short Album About Love added some topical spice. No need to change what is working, especially when there is no pressure to do so. He could have attempted different stylistic fixtures until he hit the commercial jackpot, but Hannon is satisfied with his fanbase and material for a damn good reason. His new live release, Live at Somerset House, shows that clearly.

Hannon’s catalog is consistently remarkable, his composure and personality – like Jarvis Cocker – is bursting with genuine attachment and wit, and his skills on the piano have always been notable. So easily, if I were to pick an artist from the past thirty years to sit on that intimate stage with a piano, Hannon would be at the top of the list. The closest this desire could come to being a reality is Live at Somerset House, which is a high-quality recording of his performance this past July 17th. Included are many fan favorites – like “If”, “Becoming More Like Alfie”, “A Lady of a Certain Age”, and “Tonight We Fly” – along with more obscure efforts. One of the highlights from the latter is “Your Daddy’s Car”, which appeared on their best-of compilation, A Secret History…

The live version here is even better than the somewhat stale studio version. What begins as a typical romantic fare, with two lovers taking her daddy’s car out for a ride, turns into morbid despair. When too much champagne and the pouring rain makes them wrap the car ‘round a tree, the sprightly workings of the piano halt their continuous bristle and give way to a succession of whole notes. The busier progression resumes resumes after Hannon reveals the lovers’ demise, but now his vocals take a more ferocious turn that concludes the song as a somber triumph.

The next song, “The Pop Singer’s Fear of the Pollen Count”, aligns with Hannon’s interest point of that specific night: hay fever (AKA, allergies). This lighthearted effort is certainly more uplifting for a participating audience, who sing along with Hannon at the end of each verse in the chorus. “How can you talk that way, on such a lovely day?” he sings, “when sunshine comes your way, it’s time to make some hay.” The participation from the audience is delightfully intertwined in songs like these, never too distracting and actually melodically complementary. The quality of the recording, which was distributed to the lucky concert-goers directly after the show, is exceptional in this case.

It is easy to access the personable demeanor of the performance and atmosphere, even if you are sitting listening at home. Of course, for those who have never heard The Divine Comedy (which is alarming to me in itself), I would recommend a studio album first like Casanova, A Short Album About Love, or Absent Friends. But for current fans, Live at Somerset House is an irresistible treat. Renditions of “Our Mutual Friend”, “Assume the Perpendicular”, and “National Express” are particularly stirring, with some oddities that even the most die-hard of fans may have forgotten about. I envy all those that were in attendance, but am grateful the rest of us got to experience this in some fashion.

For more Hannon material (both live and in studio), check out my previous post on his covers of classic artists (from Bowie and Roxy Music to Jacques Brel and Randy Newman).

RIYL: Pulp, Scott Walker, Jarvis Cocker, Duke Special, The Bluetones, Richard Hawley, Randy Newman, God Help the Girl, Suede Gene, Edwyn Collins, Super Furry Animals, Teenage Fanclub, The Lightning Seeds

The Divine Comedy – Your Daddy’s Car (live)

The Divine Comedy – Our Mutual Friend (live)

The Divine Comedy – Assume the Perpendicular (live)

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The post Neil Hannon Plays Somerset appeared first on Obscure Sound: Indie Music Blog.

by Mike Mineo

Neil Hannon’s talent is not to be doubted, as few artists are able to establish such a prominent solo career without prior recognition through another project. The Divine Comedy, Hannon’s only project, has produced ten albums in twenty years, not one of them faltering or even suggesting a sign of his abilities fading. The Divine Comedy’s fourth album, Casanova, made him a star in 1996 with an addictive presentation that was personable enough to be pub material, all while showing more intelligence and wit than most peers. His narrative focus, quivering tenor, and delightful array of pop-fueled hooks made his music sit well with fans at the time, especially considering that similar groups were finding rampant popularity at the time. This was especially true for British audiences. Pulp were finding even grander fame in Different Class, released just a year before Casanova, and other popular ’95 Brit-pop albums like Blur’s The Great Escape and Oasis’ (What’s the Story) Morning Glory? encouraged the lyrical playfulness and topically British demeanor of frontmen like Hannon or Blur’s Damon Albarn.

Like all the leaders of former Brit-pop phenomenons, Hannon has taken some interesting turns now that the stylistic heyday is over. In its aftermath, some artists like Albarn rose to even greater fame through stylistic transition (Gorillaz). Others, however, like Oasis fizzled to little beyond ’90s playlists. All have attempted some twist on their style, so one would expect Hannon to do the same. For the most part, while he has certainly pursued various concepts, Hannon sounds very little different from the days of Casanova. When one sees that Hannon is more in the singer/songwriter vein than Albarn, the Gallagher brothers, or even Jarvis Cocker simply by noticing the consistency in his discography, his stylistic rigidity is not that surprising at all. And while he is far from a household name beyond the UK, he packs a very deserving fanbase that still feel as if they know the world’s best secret. Hyperbolic as it may seem, I would be hard-pressed to argue with them in terms of pop songwriters. There simply have not been many as greatly consistent as Hannon.

The Divine Comedy’s tenth album, Bang Goes the Knighthood, offers no surprises for longtime fans. As usual, Hannon’s wit and playful observations are suited over a catchy variety of orchestral accompaniment, acoustic-laden folk, and other elements in a pleasant medium between folk and pop. Apart from the operatic distinction between the tears of children and men in “When a Man Cries”, the album is a generally lighthearted affair fueled by easily accessible pop songs with the twinkling choruses and orchestral flourishes one has come to expect from Hannon. “I Like” is a more typical rendering of the album’s mood. It finds Hannon literally listing the things he likes about his muse – her nose, hair, whether she’s clothed or she’s bare, her suits and her trousers, her mild political stances, her wild spontaneous dances… oh, and the way she whispers sexy things into his ear. On the lyrical end, this is like a grad student reverting to elementary school form; one would expect this impulsive list-dependent mode of songwriting to be acceptable for a rookie artist, not someone of Hannon’s experience. Apart from the dull lyrics, the music – while numbingly simplistic – is catchy enough to stymie the track’s total irrelevance.

While “I Like”, “Island Life”, and “The Lost Art of Conversation” are examples of Hannon focusing on musical content over lyrics (and often finds him just name-dropping people, items, or actions), the cheesiness of these efforts come across more gracefully when sentimentality is more prevalent, as is the case with “Have You Ever Been in Love?” Like “I Like”, the lyrics are list-dependent as Hannon lists the symptoms of love – like figuring out the meaning of life by looking in someone’s eyes, or floating freely into the sky as if the laws of physics don’t apply. That sort of stuff, with the catchy rhyming schemes and elegantly appropriate ballroom music, works better because it does not feel over-the-top. “I Like” is just an example from Songwriting 101, though, and Hannon is above that.

“Bang Goes the Knighthood” and “At the Indie Disco” both attempt the storybook-like narrative of classic examples like “Lady of a Certain Age” or “Our Mutual Friend”, deploying an urgent first-person delivery that is in contrast to most other efforts, which are more descriptive and often spoken in the past-tense. As a result, those are more observational tracks, whereas “Bang Goes the Knighthood” and “At the Indie Disco” perform as if they were live-action plays, just like an effort in the vein of “Our Mutual Friend”. The album’s self-titled effort starts out fine, but then in an ominous chorus of strings and organs it begins to sound like a song with two puzzle pieces that simply do not fit. The Medieval gothic effect that this instrumental fusion resonates is interesting, but not nearly executed to its potential. “At the Indie Disco” is an alright song, but it seems like it deserves more time on an Amazon Kindle commercial than a Divine Comedy album. What seems like a desperate attempt to connect with a “scene” comes across as neither enthralling or catchy enough to warrant its status as a single.

The failures on Bang Goes the Knighthood pretty much stop there though, the rest of the efforts stacking up with anything in Hannon’s catalog. “Assume the Perpendicular” is absolutely wonderful, its keys and brass interweaving various vocal harmonies for melodic perfection. Hannon’s vocals here are top-notch, and he seems much more comfortable in this capricious pop setting than the forced play-like setting of “Bang Goes the Knighthood”. This is not to blame on his abilities, but rather the preferential treatment of lyrical drive and the consequential abandonment of musical emphasis. “Assume the Perpendicular”, which excels in both areas, finds Hannon at his best. It reaches dizzying heights as the chorus descends from a grandiose accompaniment of keys and brass into a modest banjo revision. Its structural setup is genius and it is one of those instantly lovable pop songs that will certainly be earning some summer playtime. Opener “Down in the Street Below” packs the same punch in its flawless transitioning from piano-led balladry to an assortment of brass and keys that resemble some circus parade. This particular hook is early indication of Hannon’s craftiness for first-time listeners and should offer a suitable forewarning for those interested in his unique pop output.

“The Complete Banker” pokes fun at the selfish behavior of economical bigwigs, particularly those responsible for what many consider the “second great depression”. “If I say I’m sorry will you give me the money?” Hannon asks before his band kicks into full gear. He pokes fun at the ideology of those that drive in black Bentleys with Margaret Thatcher at their sides, with descriptions like that eliciting a chuckle and head-sway where necessary. The wit here finds the perfect medium between lyrical and musical entertainment that duds like “Bang Goes the Knighthood” and “Island Life” failed to discover. The music itself is bouncy piano-laden pop, with hooks abound in a soaring chorus that makes great use of backing vocals and guitar/bass. The next effort, “Neapolitan Girl”, succeeds in the same style of music, which finds the three opening tracks as the best stretch on the album. “Assume the Perpendicular” is the only effort on Bang Goes the Knighthood that exceeds them. While it is true that this is an album that falls short of Hannon’s best, Bang Goes the Knighthood is still an effort that warrants listening based on its bright moments alone. At the very least, Hannon’s discography is an urgent recommendation.

7.5/10.0

RIYL: Pulp, Jarvis Cocker, Suede, Oasis, Gene, The Auteurs, Luke Haines, The Lightning Seeds, Super Furry Animals, Richard Hawley, Mansun, Supergrass, The Tears, Ocean Colour Scene, Blur, Tindersticks, Manic Street Preachers, The Charlatans UK, The Verve, Ash, The Boo Radleys

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The Divine Comedy – Assume the Perpendicular

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The Divine Comedy – Down in the Street Below

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The Divine Comedy – The Complete Banker

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The Divine Comedy – Beside the Railway Tracks

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The post The Divine Comedy – Bang Goes the Knighthood (2010) appeared first on Obscure Sound: Indie Music Blog.

Calling a song “I Wish I Was in Hüsker Dü” seems pretty customary for a high school band. Maybe not today, but we can be sure that high school in the mid-‘80s consisted of many kids that would give up their newest cassette player to be in Hüsker Dü, R.E.M., or any other successful alternative-rock group of the era. Music-related dreams like these inhabit the minds of many artistically inclined high school students, as the end of high school generally marks a point where they must decide whether pursuing music full-time is realistic or not. I do not refer to respectable but somewhat conventional tasks like working as a session musician, music teacher, or music journalist, but instead that dream of rock ‘n’ roll stardom that has predominantly existed since the ‘60s among youths exposed to media. Nowadays, this sentiment seems to be replaced by a desire to scream voraciously and wear tight jeans, but that is a whole different story in itself. That Let’s Wrestle would name one of their early songs “I Wish I Was in Hüsker Dü” suggests an immediate influence, not so much directly in regard to Hüsker Dü but rather the era they resided in. Picture a surprisingly effective high school band in the 1980s and you will likely have something that sounds like Let’s Wrestle, a London-based trio that invokes nostalgia and a DIY ideology without lacking in stylistic originality or captivating songwriting.

Listen to Let’s Wrestle for about one minute. Which adjectives would you use to describe it? I imagine that a handful of critics with a nearing deadline would use words like “sloppy” or “awkward”, which is perfectly acceptable if you are a listener that judges a song by its first minute or so. Those with patience, though, will be rewarded unexpectedly and quite memorably. What is so enjoyably unique about Let’s Wrestle is how they exploit this sound of throwback ‘80s garage-rock, surprising listeners with an outstanding flurry of hooks after either opening up clumsily or showing little attempt at innovation. This always turns out to be highly intentional though, as the intricate components of the tracks are exposed after several studious listens. Much like their ‘80s alt-rock influences, Let’s Wrestle deliver a very raw sound that triumphs over its non-polish with solid songwriting, passionate performances, and clever hooks. Being in a high school garage band in the ‘80s was hardly a unique or innovative thing to do, but Let’s Wrestle’s implementation of alt-rock, post-punk, and psychedelia make such a scenario appear desirable because it reminds us of the days when a song did not need over-production and star power to get airtime on a prominent radio station.

Like any band indebted to the engaging force of ‘80s alternative-rock, Let’s Wrestle do have lyrical substance under their addictively concise melodies and the deep, nearly slurring vocals of Wesley Patrick Gonzalez. His vocals usually sound as if he is recovering from a very severe hangover, a very personable delivery that associates well with Let’s Wrestle’s grainy mixture of guitars, keys, and rhythm. Their music formula, Gonzalez’s vocals, and their lyrical content all result in something extremely relatable. In other words, they are the best modern group I have heard that can pass off sounding like a ‘80s garage-rock band. The relation to high school is distinctively reminiscent in their ardent depiction of a popular genre and the adolescent compatibility of their music For their youthful audience, it only makes sense that most of the lyrics on Let’s Wrestle’s full-length debut, In the Court of the Wrestling Let’s, involves everything from coping with lost loves to putting on the tea kettle. The latter is covered in “My Schedule”, a steadily trippy journey into a droll life inhabited by routine bouts with errands, forgetting to put the tea kettle on, and coping with lost love. “I wish that you’d call me but you don’t call at all,” Gonzalez says plainly, only to prepare the listener for the prevalent emotions that follow. When he beckons for the object of his affection to call him, Gonzalez’s voice strains and he begins to choke up. The emotion presented here seems genuine, and under the hazy reverberations of organs and whirring guitars it is an extraordinary moment that summarizes Let’s Wrestle’s explosive potential.

The serene woo-ing of the backing vocals in “My Schedule” are sure to send chills up most spines, displaying a side of Let’s Wrestle that is slower in tempo and more gradual in approach than most of the material presented on their 2008 EP, In Loving Memory Of. “My Arms Don’t Bend That Way, Damn It!” and “Tanks” show their post-punk leanings more, resulting in bustling rhythm sections and hooks . Check out the excellent bass line in the excellently paced “Tanks”, an excellent track that blends late ‘70s post-punk with modern art-rock. It sounds as if The Jam and Arctic Monkeys were somehow fused together, complete with Bruce Foxton’s irresistible bass lines and Alex Turner’s straining vocals. Gonzalez’s tone is deeper than Turner’s and most other artists in the genre, so it creates some pretty spectacularly unique moments like on the minimalistic “Diana’s Hair”, where Gonzalez seems to recall vintage Brit-pop with marching band percussion, a patriotically anthemic chorus, and an effective vocal delivery that uses his British accent to its full capacity. The melody here is delightfully bouncy, appearing as something Jarvis Cocker or Damon Albarn might have done during the late ’90s. And although shades of Brit-pop, post-punk, and art-rock appear throughout the album in sporadic doses, In the Court of the Wrestling Let’s is predominantly an ode to the diversity that quality ‘80s alternative-rock exhibited. And because of that, with their original hooks and stylistic variations, Let’s Wrestle’s full-length debut proves to be an eclectic release that finds a rookie band in the rare position of being fully confident and prepared for their stylistic direction, whichever way that might be.

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Let’s Wrestle – My Schedule

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Let’s Wrestle – Tanks

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Let’s Wrestle – Diana’s Hair

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To be honest, I am shocked that I have had the time to update lately. Finals and papers have been bombarding me since Monday, and I have a few more papers due next week. Finals have certainly taken their toll on me, but I have become accustomed to listening to music while writing by now. As a result, neglecting the fine few artists featured this month was not  an option. Whether you want your girl-group pop (God Help the Girl), the latest trend in electro-pop (Neon Indian), or a familiar face (Jarvis Cocker), this month should satisfy most needs. These are all songs that I have had on repeat at some point. It is indicative of their shared infectiousness, which is commendable considering the diverse array of styles presented here.

01. God Help the Girl – God Help the Girl (post)
02. Delay Trees – About Brothers (post)
03. Jarvis Cocker – I Never Said I Was Deep (post)
04. Clues – Remember Severed Head (post)
05. Two Door Cinema Club – Something Good Can Work (post)
06. Neon Indian – 6669 (I Don’t Know If You Know) (post)
07. Anna Järvinen – Boulevarden (post)
08. Crocodiles – Here Comes the Sky (post)
09. The Kingsbury Manx – Well, Whatever (post)
10. God Help the Girl – Perfection as a Hipster (post)

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

The music industry has a funny way of rooting out irrelevancy after a short period of time. One-hit wonders occasionally pop up on VH1 or the occasional radio station, but there is little veneration for artists that do not show an ability to make their work either enduring or consistent. Many artists these days are lucky to remain in the spotlight two years after their peak of recognition. And even if they still maintain a following, most of them can be found touring tirelessly and playing fan favorites in order to keep their fan base and themselves afloat. Jarvis Cocker and Steve Albini are both names that seem synonymous with the ‘90s, one as a musician and the other as a producer. They also serve as one of the rare cases of enduring recognition among music figures that were active in the ‘80s and ‘90s; Cocker was one of the integral figures of the vital Brit-pop movement in the mid-‘90s with Pulp, and Albini has produced dozens of classic albums by artists that include Nirvana, the Pixies, and the Auteurs. That Cocker and Albini will always receive royalty checks and festival invitations is irrelevant to their current standing though, as they have both shown no urge to settle down and cease their level of production. Cocker jumped right into a solo career after Pulp was put on hiatus in 2001 and Albini has averaged producing dozens of albums each and every year; it is simply indication of their shared commitment to music, which is an appreciation that fame has taken away from many artists.

Considering their similar musical ideologies and years of experience, one would assume that collaboration between Cocker and Albini would be ideal. Sure, Cocker’s fashionably witty Brit-pop is not the usual, gritty style of rock that Albini is accustomed to, but he has proven himself to be an eclectic producer on more than one occasion with a diverse resume that includes albums by Low, Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, and Smog. Also, his excellent work with Plush does not stray far from Cocker’s stylistic territory, as it features sweeping orchestral arrangements over deeply reverberating British vocals that tend to subtly incorporate more pop elements than anything else. 2008’s Pitchfork Music Festival was the meeting point for Cocker and Albini, with the two finding common ground immediately due to their plethora of experience. The duo headed to Albini’s Electrical Audio recording studio and began work on what would be Cocker’s second solo album, Further Complications. Predicting what this one would sound like before its release was a common practice despite the fact that Cocker has held a consistent style throughout his entire career. If anyone were to adapt to a new style, one would assume that it would be Albini as the producer, right? Surprisingly, Cocker is the one who appears to have adapted more to Albini’s guitar-based approach, rather than vice versa. Consequently, the album is filled with gems and miscues that appear to sway dramatically either way, which unfortunately enables the album to lag behind Cocker’s other material due to his previously accustomed consistency.

The collaboration between Cocker and Albini on Cocker’s second solo album, Further Complications, is reminiscent of another interesting one-album partnership that took place in the summer of 1977. When Leonard Cohen and Phil Spector came together for Death of a Ladies’ Man, it marked the partnership between one of the greatest songwriters of the era and a producer whose reputation within his occupation was practically unmatched at the time. The result, as most critics agree today, was hardly a disaster and featured a handful of great songs, but Spector’s producer role actually ended up becoming too influential on the album’s sound. Cohen had an individualistic style with his poetic lyrical approach and minimalistic musical content that was true to his own persona. Spector sacrificed Cohen’s trademark ability for a sound that was more depictive of his own interpretation of success, which was his densely layered “Wall of Sound.” In a few decades or so, after Cocker gets properly recognized as one of the most important songwriters of the ‘90s, the analysis of Further Complications may be resoundingly similar. Albini’s strengths are occasionally Cocker’s weaknesses, as one of Cocker’s appeals has derived from idiosyncratic lyrics that were simultaneously witty, erotic, and analytical. His music – a flashy display of glam, Brit-rock, and synth-pop – supplemented the approach well with its ardent flexibility, making this transition to a harder vein of rock on Further Complications very suggestive.

The title track alone is indicative of Cocker’s somewhat awkward transition into heavier material. Clouded in a haze of distortion, a repetitive electric guitar rings out menacingly as Cocker emits his familiar swagger. The straightforward guitar riff and basic rhythm section are fun the first time around, but the lack of intricacy or even a decent hook makes concentrating almost a chore. The chorus is simply a slight variation of the chorus with some ooh-ing and ahh-ing in the background, providing little reason to listen beyond the first or second chorus. Cocker’s vocals are flamboyantly exceptional as usual, but there is little to supplement his lovable demeanor here. “Angela” suffers similarly, regurgitating a similar song structure with a lack of variation that eventually sounds more discordant than captivating or angsty, as was the probable intent. The difference between songs like “Further Complications”, “Angela”, and the monotonous “Fuckingsong” to previous hard-rocking Cocker solo efforts like “Don’t Let Him Waste Your Time” and “Fat Children” is the lack of melodic sustainability and lyrical wit. The lyrics, structure, and musical content contain no surprise or durability; these songs play more with the audible emission of angst than anything else, lacking substance in all the necessary places. Cocker has always been a songwriter who has been receptive toward mood as much as lyrical content and instrumentation, so lackluster efforts like these should come as a surprise to any fan of Pulp. While fun for the first few go-arounds, even the two instrumentals in the psychedelic “Pilchard” and brassy “Homewrecker!” lose their appeal due to an overemphasis on one singular style or structural theme. Even if we were to push comparisons to Pulp aside, there is no denying that some of the songwriting here is lazy.

Fortunately for the album, it would be hard for a leading man of Cocker’s caliber to create a complete disaster. In fact, once some of the clutter is pushed aside, Further Complications actually boasts one of the best songs Cocker has released to date in the infectious “I Never Said I Was Deep.” This is where the Cocker-Albini collaboration shines with the trickling guitars, sporadic keys, and bursts of brass. The songwriting is exceptional as well, plying on a chorus that separates itself distinctively and a verse that develops throughout with precise additions on both an instrumental and lyrical front. Cocker’s lyrics are introspective, satirizing the romanticized sensitivity of songwriters in humorously invigorating form. When he proclaims the song’s title during the exceptional chorus, it becomes apparent that this is one of Cocker’s best, including both his solo work and with Pulp. The eight-minute “You’re In My Eyes (Discosong)” is also notable for its insatiable melody and stylistically precise build-up, hearkening back to Pulp’s enjoyable fascination with funk and disco as displayed on tracks like “F.E.E.L.I.N.G. C.A.L.L.E.D. L.O.V.E.” “Hold Still” salvages the album as well due to emphasis on Cocker’s lyrical imagery, a skill that has not faded even slightly since his days with Pulp. The problem with nearly half of Further Complications is that Cocker’s delivery seems too forced as he relies on forcedly volatile distortion and repetition more than memorable melodies and interweaving song structures, which is in stark contrast to his previous material. Further Complications stands out decently enough on its own, but for Cocker it is a disappointment considering the past quality of his releases. 6.5/10

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Jarvis Cocker – I Never Said I Was Deep

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Jarvis Cocker – Hold Still

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30. Richard Hawley – Lady’s Bridge

As a longtime (and near obsessive) fan of Pulp, I suppose it is only natural that I admire Richard Hawley’s songwriting prowess with great veneration. Though many have surely known him as the guitarist for Pulp during their most successful years, Hawley has slowly but steadily unattached himself from the mere label of “backing instrumentalist” for The Longpips and Pulp. Instead, he has become recognized as an exquisitely talented solo artist in his own right, with releases like Coles Corner and Lowedges depicting a style that falls somewhere in between folk-rock, rockabilly, and Brit-pop. Appropriately enough, Hawley seems to be getting better with every release. Though it serves as a continuation of a style that capitalizes on the pride of working class British life, Lady’s Bridge is Hawley’s best effort to date. “Tonight the Streets Are Ours” sparkles in elegance under layers of keys, strings, and Hawley’s deeply luxurious vocals, while the excellent “Lady’s Bridge” is an masterfully crafted version of twinkling, key-aided folk. “Take me with you when you go, it’s the only place I know,” Hawley speaks of the landmark bridge, symbolizing the crossing between childish dreams and imminent realism. “We lost the dreams that we once had, how did our lives turn out so bad?” he questions emphatically, crafting a devastatingly emotional hook over the drowsy groundwork of keys and reverbed guitars. Like Bruce Springsteen or even the occasional musings of close friend Jarvis Cocker, it is wholly rewarding to see an artist hang on to his original ties despite becoming a prominent figure in the music industry. Hawley shows his admiration for his hometown of Sheffield, England in a beautiful manner, demonstrating a form of respect that most contemporary artists seem to foolishly forget.

Richard Hawley – Lady’s Bridge

Richard Hawley – Tonight the Streets Are Ours

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29. LCD Soundsystem – Sound of Silver

It says a lot when an artist picks up a Grammy nomination for a debut album, just like James Murphy did with LCD Soundsystem’s self-titled debut in 2005. The two-disc album was critically acclaimed, dishing out supremely successful singles like “Daft Punk Is Playing at My House” and “Losing My Edge” in the process. Murphy’s sophomore follow-up, Sound of Silver, is merely a continuation of what made the debut so fantastic. Like its predecessor, Sound of Silver sees Murphy build his hooks in a meticulous manner, often relying on droning mixtures of guitars, synths, and percussion to create a tightly knit melodic force. The compositions are often repetitively epic in nature, relying on interchanging instrumentation and concisely memorable vocal performances in an effort to provide successful electronic differentiation. He juggles the varying styles well, with the anthemic “North American Scum” being one of Murphy’s most rock-centric tracks of his career, while the standout “All My Friends” is driven by a series of pulsating keys that is richly supplemented by a powerful bass line. It serves as a momentous build-up, with snippets of guitars and whirring synths preceding the rising emotion of Murphy’s crisp voice. One of the most melodic tracks in “Someone Great” is taken from the infamous LCD Soundsystem-Nike collaborative promotion of ’45:33′, an entirely instrumental song of its self-titled length. This time around, Murphy adds some reflective vocals on top of matching keys to make the section even more engaging. Oh yeah, and though it almost seems like an annual event for him by now, Sound of Silver recently awarded Murphy his second Grammy nomination in just as many attempts. For Murphy, the term “sophomore slump” is seemingly nonexistent.

LCD Soundsystem – All My Friends

LCD Soundsystem – Someone Great

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28. The Go! Team – Proof of Youth

Even if you consider the rampant comparisons to cheerleader chants and retro television theme songs in relation to The Go! Team to be a desperate journalistic reach, there is no denying the unique pop flair that lead songwriter Ian Parton has the ability to convey. With a multifarious approach that touches on variations of throwback funk, electro-tinged hip-hop, and sample-led pop, the six-piece from Brighton appears to be in a league of their own when it comes to crafting a sound that would be suitably classified as ineffable. Proof of Youth marks the group’s second album, with styles ranging from star-studded hip-hop to cutesy indie-pop being seamlessly incorporated. Ninja, the group’s leading rapper, takes control in the infectious “Grip Like a Vice”. Though drizzling guitars and trademark horns make their entry during the infectious chorus, the majority of the track sees its strength in the form of Ninja’s ceaselessly energetic verse; it is lengthy and repetitive, but also actively engaging. “Fake ID” is an absolute pleasure of a song that uses an amiable vocal delivery that maintains a tinge of youthful innocence, all while maintaining credibility. While immediate comparisons will likely arise to an in-key version of Deerhoof’s Satomi Matsuzaki, the track remains equally, if not more, reminiscent of Cibo Matto’s more accessible tracks. The Shibuya-Kei influence is very prevalent — and enjoyably so. That the vocals sound like they could be delivered by a child is part of the charm in “Fake ID”. Between that and the masterfully executed trumpet solo found after the notably gripping chorus, it is hard to pick a favorite track from the album. Having the perfectly casted Chuck D. lend guest vocals on the zestful “Flashlight Fight” does not hurt their cause either. Who would have thought that Chuck D., rousing horns, and cheerleader chants would have gone so well together?

The Go! Team – Grip Like a Vice

The Go! Team – Fake ID

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27. White Rabbits – Fort Nightly

It appears as if much of today’s youth has a clear misconception in regard to ska music. Many assume that some offshoot of emo with a few brass instruments here or there equates to a quality ska sound. In such a scenario, I want to throw them an album from Madness or The English Beat, artists who replicated the original Jamaican-led form of R&B with enormous success. While attempting to sound like early ska greats Madness would sound somewhat outdated, White Rabbits certainly had the right idea with their exceptional debut, Fort Nightly. Instead of tackling the genre head-on, they chose to incorporate classic ska with contemporary aspects of indie-rock. The result is one of the finest debuts of the year, with the shuffling swagger of “Take a Walk Around the Table” and “Dinner Party” being heavily reliant on a bustling rhythm section, with the tinges of ska coming in the rhythmic guitar patterns and smatterings of brass. “Dinner Party” is particularly impressive, as the six-piece’s potential is on full display. The correspondence between the guitars and horns are top-notch, with a series of grim keys gliding underneath the robust vocals in a subtly ingenious manner. Fort Nightly defies expectations of conventional indie-rock, incorporating a true style of ska that is wrongly beginning to feel forgotten.

White Rabbits – Dinner Party

White Rabbits – Take a Walk Around the Table

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26. Private – My Secret Lover

By the end of next year, I would not be surprised if Thomas Troelsen practically owns the music scene in his native Denmark. Over the past year, the producer/songwriter’s new project, Private, has taken the country’s charts by storm with a form of dance-pop that appears seemingly untouchable in terms of initial catchiness and radio-friendly appeal. Though his style translates to a high level of flamboyancy that will likely turn off those who yearn for a more original style of electronica and dance, there is certainly nothing wrong with conventionalism if it is pulled off properly. Private’s debut, My Secret Lover, sees its appeal in such commendable execution by offering a plethoria of dance-oriented hooks that are executed flawlessly over crip production and infectious songwriting. Troelsen is an all-in-one package; his vocals are a ranging replica of pop perfection, his songwriting is enduringly sharp, and he appears to have mastered a style in which clichés seem to dominate. The album’s self-titled track is truly descriptive of that, being one of the catchiest singles of the year despite its structural simplicity and general predictability. As in most of the album, the song relies on sheer execution for success. Troelsen just seems to pull it off every time. Private is not just a sensation in Denmark either. They are rightfully beginning to get noticed overseas and, with an album like My Secret Lover hitting shores, I expect the reception to be much of the same.

Private – My Secret Lover

Private – I Can’t Wait

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25. John Vanderslice – Emerald City

John Vanderslice has a knack for writing about the bizarre, the politically invigorating, and the emotionally challenging. Indisputably one of the “nicest guys in indie-rock”, the “nice guy” tag certainly does not stop him from holding back his intelligent thoughts, even if they are wildly as areu ambiguous in nature. Though often cloaked behind instances of metaphors, his usage of poetic diction and melodic captivation has earned him the title as one of the most consistent songwriters of the past several years, with albums like Cellar Door and Pixel Revolt earning him cult followings as a result. Throughout his career, Vanderslice’s lyrical content has often been political in tone and his newest album, Emerald City, is no different. His sixth solo album, Vanderslice named Emerald City after the controversial “Green Zone” in Baghdad, a 4-mile area where American forces are in heavy control. The stabs at Bush in the excellent “Tablespoon of Codeine” are interesting to say the least, whether one is in political disagreement or not. Also, for once, the lyrical content is hardly ambiguous. “And what happened in September was a fake,” he sings over echoed keys and shifting percussion, “But they’re chasing demolition or remote control planes.” The gruesome realities of war (murder, rape, and destruction) are also depicted in the chilling “The Minaret”, a gruesomely realistic tale aided by the surprisingly suitable factor of highly pitched, chirping keys. For those who could care less about politics, Vanderslice’s more conventional musings of childhood nostalgia in the breezy “The Parade” should serve as relief, though I am sure one would be able to transform it into a politically active song if they put their mind to work. Though Emerald City is largely a thought-provoking political album, there are plenty of moments for varying fans of Vanderslice.

John Vanderslice – Tablespoon of Codeine

John Vanderslice – The Minaret

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24. Panda Bear – Person Pitch

Every year, there always seems to be one album on this list that results in a dozen or so disgruntled readers taking their frustration out in e-mails or comments directed toward me. Last year, several people were surprised enough that I placed Joanna Newsom’s Ys at #31 that some of them went as far to be in “shock and awe”, simply because seemingly every other publication had it in the top 5. I am expecting a similar situation with Panda Bear’s second album, Person Pitch. Before you start the backlash, let’s get one thing straight: I think Person Pitch is one hell of an album. Perfect? No, a repetitive latter part prevents that. But Noah Lennox (Panda Bear) reaches rare stylistic territory in one of the bravest efforts of 2007; Person Pitch is at a stylistic flux where many other artists merely fear to tread. While it can easily be classified as a summery album, influences to Brian Wilson and Bill Holt’s “Dreamies” are abound, especially in Lennox’s ability to implement a variety of unconventional samples into a serenely beauteous soundscape. Whether it is something startlingly simple like wind chimes and bells or an aspect more irrelevantly laced like profuse sobbing, Lennox’s admirable level of unpredictability allows for songs like “Bros” and “Good Girl/Carrots” to be some of the year’s best. Though both are over 12 minutes long, Lennox makes every second count. With his vocals soaked in reverb over instrumentation that is both originally implemented and abundantly sampled, Lennox’s ability to transform sounds that are naturally disregarded daily by the human ear into a musical element is true art in its own right.

Panda Bear – Comfy in Nautica

Panda Bear – I’m Not

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23. Marissa Nadler – Songs III: Bird on the Water

Regardless of how the talented Marissa Nadler demonstrates such practical skill, incorporating a sense of fragile beauty into songwriting is not as easy as she makes it seem on her stunning third album, Songs III: Bird on the Water. Classified appropriately as a dream-folk artist, her arrangements and vocal accompaniments are a haunting spectacle. Often shrouded in heavy doses of reverb, her spine-tingling vocals provide for a singularly identifiable listening experience. She quivers her way through delicate arrangements consisting of acoustic guitars, strings, and harps, luring the listener into an otherworldly listening environment with tales that trace back to chronological eras of medieval relevance where love seemed more courteously adaptable. Nadler has the ability to craft extremely intricate characters, like the alluring vision of desperately vanishing widows in “Rachel” or the contemplating lady in the heartbreaking “Thinking of You”, where a wife is in deep contemplation of leaving a supportive lord who seems cold and barren. “You never gave me nothing that I could hold on to,” she sings tenderly, yet still dreaming of the elusive character that she left for a more advantageous life far away. Nadler’s genius of a folk album pulls this card well — it engages the listener in tales of tragedy and triumph, with stunning instrumentation and vocal accompaniments aiding such virtues with tragic force.

Marissa Nadler – Thinking of You

Marissa Nadler – Rachel

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22. The National – Boxer

There are several logical reasons explaining why The National are one of the most revered indie-rock bands of the past 7 years. Matt Berninger’s uniquely identifiable baritone vocals could be one explanation. The words flying out do not hurt either; he is widely considered to be one of the greatest lyricists in contemporary indie-rock. The spoken content releases a feeling of genuine acrimoniousness over sociologically analytical lyrics that are often metaphorically derived, providing for a tireless listening experience that depicts emotions that many other songwriters would simply push aside and call indescribable. Though The National’s moroseness and pessimism may be too overwrought with grief for some to handle, those who appreciate the beauty of perspective analysis have fallen in love time after time with the Brooklyn-based five-piece. The remarkable quality about The National’s fourth album, Boxer, is its ability to transition between tempo and instrumental style on a whim. “Oh, you wouldn’t want an angel watching over you,” Berninger sings in his trademark baritone, “Surprise, surprise, they wouldn’t wanna watch.” In summation, Berninger is depicting “another uninnocent, elegant fall into the unmagnificent lives of adults”, a tale he has certainly tackled many times before. The mood of sullenness is much of the same throughout the album, notably on the Sufjan Stevens-aided “Racing Like a Pro”, an excellent track in which Berninger depicts the effect that corporate pressure can have on an individual. Societal pressures, lost loves, and sullen regret… yeah, it sounds like another quality album from The National to me.

The National – Mistaken for Strangers

The National – Racing Like a Pro

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21. Arcade Fire – Neon Bible

After releasing one of the greatest debuts of the decade in Funeral, Arcade Fire had quite a bit of pressure on their shoulders. Funeral was considered an epic achievement by many, a monumental mark in indie-rock in which a rookie artist decided to focus on actual familial-based emotional baggage instead of producing weightless words over a generic melody. Though such a stance is purely opinionated, one thing is for certain: Arcade Fire has emerged successfully with Neon Bible, their sophomore follow-up to the acclaimed Funeral. Though it does not boast the emotional depth of its predecessor, Neon Bible remains generally more accessible with fervent tracks like “No Cars Go”, “Keep the Car Running”, and “Black Wave – Bad Vibrations” providing as relief for more intensely brooding tracks in the vein of the organ-led “Intervention”, the symphonic string-induced cries of “Ocean of Noise”, and the rapturing closer in “My Body is a Cage”. The band even earned some complementary Springsteen comparisons on excellent tracks like “(Antichrist Television Blues)” and the epic build-up in “Windowsill”, with the likeness lying primarily in Win Butler’s ardent vocal delivery. The transitional vocal attempt it not consistent from track-to-track, but the diversity allows for exhilarating captivation. Though the album’s best track (“No Cars Go”) was already released prior to the album, Neon Bible provides plenty of worthwhile and original moments for intense replay value.

Arcade Fire – No Cars Go

Arcade Fire – Windowsill

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The post Best Albums of 2007: #30 to #21 appeared first on Obscure Sound: Indie Music Blog.

Collecting every morsel of musical output from a band can be a particularly grueling, though often rewarding, task. While I am not referencing a fandom quite as severe as the “Deadheads” or any other group of aged souls lost in a certain time period, there comes an artist every so often in where I find myself in a state of complete infatuation. Since I was too young in the ’80s to even know what music was, my first traces of obsessive fanfare came in the mid ’90s when Jarvis Cocker’s Pulp broke out. Even as they continued to release albums, I was so enthused with the group’s ability that I felt the need to tame my hunger for material of any kind. Considering that I desperately collected every a-side, b-side, live set, or unreleased material in reachable existence from the Pulp’s expanding catalog, it was predictable that I became interested in the solo output of Pulp’s former guitarist, Richard Hawley. Always an enigmatic presence both in studio and on stage, I knew it would not be unrealistic to expect quality from the Sheffield native. Hawley’s first solo album, a self-titled release on Setanta Records, was released in 2000 after Pulp had already achieved the status in England as one of the greatest acts of the ’90s. Though Cocker’s form of songwriting and delivery was too distinctively British to ever chart highly in the USA, both Different Class and This is Hardcore reached the #1 spot in the UK on separate occasions.

As Pulp began to prepare their seventh (and perhaps final) album, We Love Live, for release the following year, Hawley had a substantive fan base of sorts anticipating his solo material even before his first release. With Jarvis urging him to release the debut, Hawley’s self-titled debut was released in 2000 with minimal sales but warm applause. His next two albums, Late Night Final and Lowedges, saw the same sort of odd behavior. Though his material had been praised by the likes of Thom Yorke and R.E.M., it had yet to find a larger audience apart from the masses of Pulp fans who had maintained an interest. When Setanta dissolved in 2004, Hawley signed to the larger Mute Records, a subdivision of EMI. His first release on Mute was Coles Corner in 2005, an album that finally saw Hawley’s exposure gaining more momentum. In addition to being nominated for the 2006 Mercury Music Prize, it sold fairly well compared to his past releases and garnered six successful singles, including the exceptional “The Ocean” and “Hotel Room”. Produced in a joint effort by Hawley and Colin Elliot, the impressive Coles Corner remains my favorite release from Hawley. With such a high standard in place, it set up great anticipation for Hawley’s next release.

When Hawley’s fifth album, Lady’s Bridge, drops on August 20th in the UK, fans are expecting to be embraced with the same sort of quality that Hawley has demonstrated in the past several years. After all, he has yet to release one dud in his seven-year solo career, with even his earlier albums containing the mark of a distinguished songwriter. Already scoring great reviews from the likes of NME and BBC, hopefully some American outlets can pick him up soon enough. However, though Lady’s Bridge is arguably the embodiment of Hawley’s finest material to date, I doubt that his reputation in the States will be more prominent when it releases overseas on October 9th. Like his close friend and collaborator Jarvis Cocker, Hawley’s work remains most appealing to an English audience. His lyrics reflect the English lifestyle to a sympathetically engaging effect, often using native landmarks of Sheffield in naming his album and song titles. Like Coles Corner borrowed from the the corner of Fargate and Church Street in Sheffield, the title of Lady’s Bridge is similarly in form of a tribute to Hawley’s native city; Lady’s Bridge is one of the oldest bridges in Sheffield. While calling him the British version of Springsteen would be too desperately linear, Hawley reflects the same working class atmosphere while simultaneously retaining a sense of pride. Despite how famous or profitable he may eventually become, it is inherently respectable that Hawley will always maintain a sense of acknowledgment to his originative roots.

Though I have yet to listen to Lady’s Bridge in complete detail, it is rather blatant that it is one of Hawley’s best. The first single, “Tonight the Streets Are Ours”, is one of the most enchanting tracks Hawley has written, sparkling in elegance under layers of keys, strings, and Hawley’s deeply luxurious vocals. While most of the album is majestically restful in pace, “Tonight the Streets Are Ours” is more characteristic of Hawley’s catchier, faster-paced side. Though such songs are impressive in their own right, I have always been a sucker for Hawley’s classier ballads. The self-titled track, “Lady’s Bridge”, nears absolute perfection. Both epitomizing Hawley’s genuine lyrics and somberly heartbreaking instrumental prowess, it my favorite track on the album. “Take me with you when you go, it’s the only place I know,” Hawley speaks of the infamous bridge, symbolizing the crossing between childish dreams and realistic opportunities. “We lost the dreams that we once had, how did our lives turn out so bad?” he questions emphatically, crafting a devastatingly emotional hook over the drowsy groundwork of keys and reverbed guitars. In the similarly adjusted “Roll River Roll”, Hawley establishes an impeccable relationship between strings and keys, a compatible collaboration that is repeated with joy throughout the album. Such moments serve as justification in Hawley’s standing as one of the most consistent musicians of the decade. Though he often goes overlooked as a proficient solo artist in favor of “that guitarist in Pulp”, Hawley’s Lady Bridge is an elegantly crafted effort that proves to be his finest yet.

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Richard Hawley – Lady’s Bridge

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Richard Hawley – Tonight the Streets Are Ours

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Richard Hawley – Roll River Roll

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Ah, Phil Spector. You just have to love the guy. Whether it is his influential production technique found within the “Wall of Sound”, his indisputable influence on contemporary music, or his infamous hairstyle in the courtroom, Spector is a figure whose impact will live on long after his eventual death (or murder conviction). While Spector’s efficacious “Wall of Sound” method of production has been subdued over the years due to the preference of stereo channels, his utilization of echoed strings, orchestral power, and integrable guitars still resonates prominently as a large influence for several new artists. Even so, I rarely hear a band that uses it as successfully as Mono in VCF. Hell, it sounds like only Spector himself could do a better job producing the gripping style found within their tracks. The five-piece knows this just as well and proudly promotes it in the “Mono” aspect of their name, deriving from Spector’s ability to make the most out of mono recording. Since stereo channels were first distributed in 1958, they did not become overwhelmingly popular until the the 70s. In the 50s and 60s, Spector managed to revolutionize music production using only mono. Whereas orchestral accompaniments in previous songs by other producers sounded flat, Spector managed to invigorate the concept with a whole new life through a variety of techniques involving reverb and echo chambers. While Mono in VCF do not go as far to involve mono channels, the influence that Spector has had them makes their sound richly enjoyable. However, do not let that mistake you. Mono in VCF are one of the most original bands I have come across in quite some time.

If you were wondering about the “VCF” aspect of their name, it stands for “voltage-controlled-filter”. For those who are a bit perplexed on the technical terms, it is merely a feature on the majority of Moog synthesizers, another instrumental aspect that is implemented into their style. So, does Mono in VCF manage to incorporate both the “Wall of Sound” and synthesizers into their sound successfully? You bet. While it is entirely possible to compare lead vocalist Kim Miller’s fervently brooding vocals to the those of Goldfrapp and Sarah Nixey or to liken Mono in VCF’s dark and mysterious use of strings to Björk’s more illustrious material, their conclusive stylistic result remains entirely innovative. While they do borrow several components from respectable artists of the past, Mono in VCF’s mixture of these components is what separates them from the masses of indifferent pop bands polluting the music industry. In fact, Miller’s vocals allow the suitability of the band to range dramatically. Songs like “Escape City Scrapers” could fit in a 60s spy film just as effectively as it would in some Ferrari commercial, giving off a vibe of seductive luxuriousness with Miller’s formidable vocals clashing with chilling strings in being the two most conspicuous factors of irresistibility. In fact, it sounds like it would fit perfectly in a Tarantino film with its throwback vibe and vividly depicted emotional baggage. “In an age of decay in the city, I waste my hours away,” Miller soulfully yearns, depicting urbanization as a melancholic symbol of conformity and greed. “The friends I don’t need won’t see me but the rainclouds seem to stay.”

The lead songwriter for Mono in VCF is multi-instrumentalist Hunter Lea, a skilled musician who grew up admiring the lavish string-induced styles of Scott Walker and The Delfonics, the latter being the prime influence for the breathtaking “Spider Rotation”. Based out of Tacoma, Washington, Lea began performing with eventual bassist and co-songwriter Jordan Luckman when they were 17 after discovering a mutual admiration for The Beatles. When Mono in VCF began to establish themselves in 2005 with the release of their debut EP, The Voltage Control EP, their vocalist at the time was Charles Perales. Luckman described Perales to me as being a tremendously skilled singer with a vibrato reminiscent of Scott Walker or Tom Jones. After Perales made the unfortunate decision in 2006 to leave the band due to creative differences, the vocal duties were handed over to Kim Miller as the remaining members began to head into a direction that was more distinctive of psychedelic pop. Despite Perales’ notable contributions to the band’s sound, Miller seems like the perfect fit for this type of production. Her deeply resonating vocals are in a mold that is nearly extinct, flawlessly expelling tales of story-like lyrical narrative as they integrate seamlessly into the ornate backing instrumentation orchestrated by Lea, Luckman, guitarist/keyboardist Dylan Taggart, and drummer Jason Falk.

Considering that Mono in VCF are one of the most enjoyable bands I have listened to this year, it eludes me why they remain unsigned. It should only be a matter of time though. After all, the great Jarvis Cocker is a personal fan. Last April, he hand-picked Mono in VCF to open for him when he played in Seattle. Considering Jarvis’ recent flair for orchestral accompaniments and darkly dramatic attachments on his solo album, I could not have picked a more suitable opener myself. Not often do you hear artists who appreciate and incorporate the stylistic vein of more under-appreciated artists like Scott Walker, The Delfonics, or other hidden gems from the late 60s as well as Mono in VCF do. With their debut album nearly completed, Mono in VCF continues their search for an appropriate label. Whichever lucky label scoops them up first will likely find immediate satisfaction because, quite bluntly, Mono in VCF are in a league of their own.

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Mono in VCF – Escape City Scrapers

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Mono in VCF – Spider Rotation

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Mono in VCF – The Only One

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If there is one thing that Christian McKee has down pat, it is his regard for influence. Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, and Nick Drake. Hardly an unconventional list but still, it gets his point across. Growing up as an archetypal music-loving youth in North London, McKee was first sparked by music when his father gave him a guitar in 1995. At this point in the decade, as he recalls, England was undergoing a radical era in musical innovation. Brit-pop was at an ultimate high with bands like Pulp, Blur, and Oasis scaling the charts, with the antecedent influences being pushed aside in favor of the hot new trends. McKee has now grown up, just like his influences, and instead of deciding on a strategy to retreat and mimic those influential greats, he has wisely decided to incorporate their impact into a noticeably present-day sound. From Bob Dylan to Jarvis Cocker, McKee has successfully materialized his sound to a point that establishes both his influences of the 60s and the 90s into one befitting mold.

Spending most of his adult years as a member of a London-based band, McKee finally rediscovered his urge to perform as a solo artist when he and his wife gave birth to a son. While child birth proves to be a time of pressure and anxiety for most, McKee transitioned the emotions into an artistic success. In a probable combination with sleepless nights, McKee released his debut album, 2 Mormons, and the proceeding EP, iPods and Cyclops, in 2006. As you can most likely tell from the titles alone, McKee’s ironic sense of humor is often evident throughout his albums and songs. A further example of this can be found on his new album, Songs From Wharf Avenue; scheduled for a July 2nd release.

“Alive By The Weekend”, the opening track on Songs From Wharf Avenue, is a catchy dance-oriented track that reaps from immediate synths and throbbing bass. McKee’s voice is strictly British, sounding appropriately full of angst through a catchy chorus where parental concerns are mocked and, at best, publicized. “If I’m alive by the weekend tell my mum I’m okay,” McKee prominently voices over a catchy array of synths. “I’ve not been blown up, I haven’t turned gay.” As elementary as some of the embarrassing lyrics are, McKee’s grasp of his own musical intervention remains impressive and his general outlook remains consistent and thorough. Though his dependency on the chorus remains frustrating, the opener remains a satisfying song. “Flowers In The Rain” is the second piece on the album, one that distinctively holds a Dylan influence. Held together by guitars and keys, McKee does the best Dylan impersonation that a British songwriter could possibly do. Well, consider that to be an imitation of young Dylan (obviously excluding the coarse raspiness and lovable slur). The lyrical content is also a sure step up from “Alive By The Weekend”, retelling the consequences of falling too deeply in love.

One of the gripes that I have with McKee is his constant source of repetitiveness. There remains no melodic shifts or successful key transitions in the majority of songs on Songs From Wharf Avenue. Despite the fact, the melodies that he does include are quite enjoyable. This is why the potential for McKee remains great, along with his promising lyrical prowess exhibited in both “Flowers In The Rain” and the nostalgic “Seventeen Again”. Sounding like a less amused Edwyn Collins, McKee recollects on the sudden change from teenage years to adulthood. “Choices weren’t ours to make, curfews were ours to break,” McKee sings through recollection of teenage events, “liberty is there to take, getting stoned in the park.” When he sings, “wish I was seventeen again, oh, to be seventeen again”, the impact contained over the simplistically layered synth and acoustic guitar is enough to warrant a substantial emotional impact. Christian McKee has a boatload of potential. If he manages to tone down the repetitiveness and continue to perfect his evident lyrical skill, his name should begin to rise in prominence. His ability to transition between infectious dance and Dylan-influenced acoustic ballads is impressive enough.

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Christian McKee – Flowers In The Rain

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Christian McKee – Alive By The Weekend

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Christian McKee – Seventeen Again

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