by Mike Mineo

Twangy rock with hints of country and alternative was prominent last year on Girls’ excellent EP, Broken Dreams Club. The feel was most notable on the self-titled track and closer “Carolina”, both recalling the likes of Ryan Adams and Matthew Sweet while remaining true to Girls’ eclectic pop approach. The group explores new territory within this particular sound on their second full-length, Father, Son, Holy Ghost. Its production techniques are in the same field of vision, but with less emotional ferocity than on the Broken Dreams Club EP. While Girls’ compositions remain atmospherically rich and engrossing, Father flows more like the infectious pop hybrids from their debut Album. It does so with the layered depth and elaborate stylistic variety of Broken Dreams Club, making Father the most consummately successful Girls album yet.

Along with “Die” and “Forgiveness”, centerpiece “Vomit” is one of several exceptions to the decrease in emotional complexity; its progression from ominous acoustic minimalism to full-blown progressive guitar-rock takes listeners by surprise at first, but by the time the second explosive verse arrives it plays with natural precision. After several alternations between the calm and the storm, the final two minutes present a new peak for the band. Combining southern-rock guitar theatrics with driving organs and backing harmonies reminiscent of soul, Owens repeats “come into my heart” over heavenly guitar licks and swaying organs. The guitars, which seem to swap between familial tones every other verse, resonates with clarity akin to acts like The Allman Brothers and The Band, able to cohesively alternate between devastating vocal hooks and lengthy guitar solos in a split second. Owens called Father a spiritual release, and this moment is the most prevalent testament to that. Even with the gospel choir and organs aside, “Vomit” maintains a spiritual aura that is indebted to a structure resembling an uplifting sermon; it ascends from ominous creaking to effervescent bursts of organ-drenched optimism with a divine-like inspiration.

The success of Girls’ looser and less dense material is predictable, but the songs on Father are anything but. The vintage surf-rock echoed on “Honey Bunny” practically prods at Girls’ abundance of Beach Boys comparisons. But on many of their efforts – and particularly on the subsequent “Alex” – the blend of gorgeous surf-inspired harmonies and interweaving guitar effects resembles power-pop heroes like Teenage Fanclub rather than stylistic pioneers in the vein of Beach Boys and The Zombies. Playing like surf-rock produced by a shoegaze or post-punk legend, “Alex” is an apt accompaniment to “Honey Bunny”, which rides on its punchy and quirky chorus (“They don’t like my bony body / They don’t like my dirty hair”) and fade-out, where jumpy electric swipes turn to delicate acoustic strums. As much as the chorus drives this effort, it is a marvel that “Alex” flows as successfully and with the same sort of infectiously hazy nonchalance. What’s most surprising is that it doesn’t show a chorus at all. It chugs along with starry-eyed romanticism, an object of desire repressed by feelings of inadequacy; the lush interlude in the last one-third provides its perfect accompaniment.

The direction of “Die” is both unsettling and completely unpredictable. After two accessible power-pop gems, Girls explode with an ambitious set of prog-rock that eventually concludes with a medieval-like jaunt. The ending, which features flamboyant acoustic fluttering and dramatic mimicking of woodwinds, is an interesting direction to take after three minutes of pulsating and heavily distorted guitar-rock. I never thought Girls would resemble a Queens of the Stone Age or Tool at any point in their careers, but the way it is accomplished here – with a constant reminder of Girls’ southern-rock playing styles – begs the question why didn’t it happen sooner. While less of a memorable experience than “Vomit” and questionably sequenced, “Die” is quite a worthwhile effort that showcases Girls’ growing virtuosity along with their growing closet of stylistic interests.

The most immediately accessible section of the album is the gut, right in the middle. “Vomit” is surrounded by several friendlier efforts. “Saying I Love You” will sound overly contrived to fans of Girls’ more daring approaches, but this country-pop charmer is a beautifully constructed gem that rides on the strength of its chorus. “There goes my lover, my everything,” Owens sings during the bridge, setting up for a chorus that takes full advantage of his voice’s delicate frailty. “I hear you crying / What can I do, oh-oo-oh,” he creaks here, the last word spoken with a quivering feeling of hurt. “You threw my heart away / You made me blue.” The lyrics are simple and the song is structurally thin, but it takes from a genre in country-pop where the classics are not necessarily strong in that department. It is a triumphant, hook-filled success and a welcome breather on Father. Equally dependent on its chorus is “Magic”, a playful effort with a wonderfully twangy hook. Wait for the chorus to expand the track into its bursting jangly goodness and then… it’s ma-a-agic with a little bit of madness. Girls comfort zone.

“My Ma” is the only track on Father, Son, Holy Ghost that sounds like it could possibly fit onto Broken Dreams Club. Like that release’s self-titled track, the percussive shuffle and strong guitar twang are immediate from the get-go. A shrill twang is introduced at the end of each chorus, which initially touts just a distorted rhythm guitar but later expands into organ accompaniments and more varied guitar leads. Just as great as any effort on Broken Dreams Club, “My Ma” is a perfect representation of Girls’ evolution into two cohesively intersecting deliveries: power-pop and southern-rock, which is flexible enough in their sense to include the likes of soul and country-pop. In Girls’ rare instances of indecisiveness, the meandering “Just a Song” and “Love Life” both seem stuck in limbo somewhere between the successful ambition of “Vomit” and instant power-pop appeal of “Magic” or “Saying I Love You”. “Love Life” is a pleasant enough ode to ‘60s pop, filled with the airy key tremolos that remain staples in stylistic odes like John Lennon’s “Woman” and Richard Hawley’s “Hotel Room”. Its repetitive and clumsy progression gets tiring very quickly though, along with its gimmick of adding a new accompaniment with each halted verse. It makes such comparisons only accurate in the sense of how it feels, not in its lasting impact on the listener.

For the most part, Father, Son, Holy Ghost is an exceptional album from one of the most promising pop songwriters in the business. Girls evolved last year with Broken Dreams Club, and their new full-length explores several of its stylistic devices. As a result, Father isn’t a groundbreaking career-changer. It doesn’t matter though; the variation between wonderfully infectious power-pop gems and ambitious guitar-driven experimentations in soul is beautifully managed on the album. There are no leaps required of Girls at this point, only an ongoing effort to organize their wide range of ideas. Father, Son, Holy Ghost features the most fascinating cast of songs yet, all presented with stunning cohesion. It’s yet another accomplishment for this San Francisco collective.

Girls – Saying I Love You

Girls – Vomit

Girls – Honey Bunny

Girls – Die

True Panther Sounds / MySpace / BUY

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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 Lauren Tischler

The sound of Ghost Mall is indescribable. But the band, made up of college roommates Pierce, Alex, Cody, and Jimi, give it their best shot. “Garage-y ramshackle pop/ethereal,” lead singer Pierce Lightening struggles, attempting to put a label on his own music. With a lead singer named Pierce Lightening, and influences along the lines of “Babes, Springsteen, Comic Books, and Star Wars,” you are naturally drawn to the quartet. What is surprisingly more interesting than the band members themselves is the music on their first album, Goons.

The album, produced by DJ Teenwolf of Ninjasonik, features five well-done and oddly classy songs. The EP starts out with the marijuana-induced “40 Nugs”, and while I would have chosen a different track for the first, it sets an appropriate tone to the album without giving away their mysterious style. Next is “Senile Felines”, setting a dark synthesized tone that lures the listener further in. The next couple of tracks are “Young Liars”, followed by “Balloon Idea’s”, which captures an eerie essence while keeping it light; it samples a few lines from Biz Markie’s “Just a Friend” with convincing maneuvers. The final track, “Johnny Appleseed”, serves as a near-perfect ending. It is more of an anthem than anything, providing the listener with a soft sort of closure.

The album itself is a work of art, but it is clear that Ghost Mall are about performance art more than anything else. Ethan Barnett, a fan, describes a show in full detail. “The first time I saw them, it was in the basement of SUNY New Paltz. It was one of the coldest nights of that winter, but as soon as I got into the basement and Ghost Mall was about to begin their set, I began to sweat because there were about 75 people packed into a small classroom. They began their first song and the room turned into a beehive, with everyone dancing in every direction. The lead singer was lost in the crowd, and all you could see was one of his hands. By the time they began their second song, the keyboardist and guitarist were lost in the mess too. Midway through their set, Pierce was thrown up into a crowd surf, and he held onto a water pole that was soaking wet from condensation. After the final song, “Johnny Appleseed”, everyone ran out the exit covered with sweat. Head to toe.”

“I don’t know what we’re trying to achieve,” Pierce says about his band’s music. “We’re just being honest. Sometimes it’s about our specific friends, sometimes it’s about how everything should be. Mostly, our songs are about the end of the world. So maybe they’re a warning.”

You can catch Ghost Mall on September 24th at 323 Wall Street in Uptown Kingston, New York.

RIYL: Japanther, Penguin Prison, Male Bonding, Urinals, Latterman, Cloud Nothings, Abe Vigoda, Times New Viking, No Age, The Mae Shi, Parts & Labor, Psychedelic Horseshit, AIDS Wolf, Wavves, Lightning Bolt, Jay Reatard, NODZZZ, Sic Alps, HEALTH, Arab on Radar

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Ghost Mall – 40 Nugs

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Ghost Mall – Balloon Ideas

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Ghost Mall – Johnny Appleseed (acoustic version)

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by Jon Chapple

Every time I go to listen to Band of Horses’ third and latest long-player in iTunes, I type ‘B-A-N’ (and possibly a ‘D’ if I’m feeling adventurous) and am always instantly rewarded not with Infinite Arms, but Music from Big Pink. “Isn’t that apt?”, I think. “The daddies of country rock and and their young heirs, side by side. Two generations of rootsy Americana, neatly rubbing shoulders in the sterile confines of the ‘Column Browser.’” And each time I smile a knowing little smile to myself.

But the problem is that Infinite Arms is hardly any more of a country or roots rock album than it is a jazz record, and I’m struggling to think about how this got into my head in the first place. It could be the fact that most live performances I’ve seen of the group tends to see them kitted out in some kind of curious cowboy-lumberjack hybrid attire (think flannel shirts with stetsons) could have something to do with it. The name, also, surely plays a part in it: ‘Band of Horses’; they’ve got to live on a ranch, right?. But no, despite my initial first impressions, Infinite Arms is none of the above; it’s a polished, restrained and relatively straight-forward pop-rock album, albeit one with the occasional ‘roots’ flourish or effect.

However, as much as I admittedly do have a soft spot for The Band, that’s by no means a criticism. The record kicks off with two of the strongest openers I’ve heard on a new album in a good few years; “Factory” floats along prettily on waves of ethereal strings, its closely-harmonized dual lead vocals and slow-building orchestral pomp swelling beneath them working to create a serene, lullaby-like atmosphere, whilst “Compliments”, a yearning, irresistibly catchy mid-tempo pop-rocker straight out of 1972, provides a welcome change of pace which compliments its predecessor perfectly.

The rest of Infinite Arms fails to live up to the potential of its incredible starting momentum, but song-wise, there are still a few other highlights. The unremarkable “Laredo”, another rocker in the vein of “Compliments” (but with far less melodic appeal) certainly isn’t one, but “Dilly”, with its sing-a-long chorus and some impressive interweaving vocal acrobatics from vocalists Ben Bridwell and Tyler Ramsey is pure pop gold. “Older” is a country-styled ballad (I know, but it’s the only one!) overlaid with some attractive, tasteful pedal steel guitar lines, whilst “Blue Beard”, a sparse, evocative number about love lost under a “grey and cold” Midwestern sky sees the group trying their hand at ornate, Brian Wilson-patented multi-part harmonies, which works relatively well but is spoiled by its sterile production, which is irritating and can make the voices involved sound unnatural and digital.

Unfortunately, that is a key problem with the album as a whole. Whilst, as already mentioned, it would be a stretch to call Infinite Arms an Americana release, lyrically it is a completely different story, and I would prefer if the production reflected this. “Blue Beard” isn’t the only song where far-flung American geography features prominently; “NW Apt.”, a middling, power-chord driven indie rocker without anything resembling a hook to speak of takes place in Oakridge, Oregon (“I’m driving over in Oakridge, baby, with the whole neighborhood in tow”), the six-and-a-half-minute closing epic “Neighbor”, which combines an achingly gorgeous melody with a lengthy build-up and cymbal-crashing climax that Explosions in the Sky would be proud of, makes frequent use of rural North American imagery (chipmunks, border towns and lights on porches) and the previously-mentioned “Compliments” contains the lines: “Deep in the heart of the country was a house I built from logs / a raven and a lady hawk” and “Quiet and calm through the day, see the sun burn through the fog / approaching was a yellow dog.” John Fogerty would be proud, I’m sure you’ll agree. And yet there’s no warmth or natural air to the recording to compliment such rustic sentiments; instead, for the most part, the album sounds shiny, brittle and thin. A deliberate artistic decision or simply pandering to the iPod generation? I’ll let you decide.

Out of the twelve tracks on offer here, only the aforementioned “rockers” (“Compliments”, “Laredo”, “NW Apt.”, and possibly “Neighbor” and “Dilly” if we feel like being liberal with the term) really provide any diversity to the album’s overall sound, mood or tempo (slow). I’ll draw the line at labeling the record as a concept album for fear of tarring the poor boys with a brush they may not appreciate, but I don’t think it is any coincidence that “Compliments” and “Laredo” were selected to be the first two singles drawn from the album, and – if I were a betting man (which I’m not) – I’d wager that the next will similarly be a component of my expertly-picked Rocker List featured above, simply because the more upbeat numbers feel a bit out of place in the sea of deliberate, precious mood pieces that bookend them. Think three (or five) “Sloop John B”s and you kind of get the picture.

Incidentally, I think Pet Sounds might be a good analogy here. Like that most hallowed and revered of musical creations, Infinite Arms is clearly designed to work as a whole; it is a neat little musical package that should to be listened to and digested in one fell swoop. But unfortunately, whereas Mad Mr. Wilson’s symphonic masterpiece is certainly comprised of a collection of similar-sounding tracks, it still has enough diversity, energy and – most importantly – melodies to keep to the listener hooked, something Band of Horses just achieved here. I wouldn’t say it’s a chore to persevere to the end, but it’s just not interesting enough on Infinite Arms to make the effort.

And that is the real killer blow to any lasting appeal Infinite Arms may possess. With a few obvious exceptions (notably, of course, the two killer openers) the album just fails to make much of a lasting impact, with around half of its songs meandering around with little confidence, seemingly filling the time for the sake of it. I can see what they were trying to do; there’s an almost Sigur Rós-y pseudo-‘epic’ vibe apparent on most tracks, but here it feels more like a necessity because of a lack of memorable material, and the concept of marrying said atmosphere with lyrics lifted straight from the golden age of roots rock is – dare I say it – an almost pioneering one, but it just doesn’t work. There’s also a distinct lack of hummable melodies or obvious hooks present, with the band seemingly more concerned with creating a ‘mood’ first and a decent song second. I haven’t found myself humming these songs when I’m walking to the shops or involuntarily hearing them in my head before I go to sleep at night, and on an album of four-minute pop songs, that’s simply unforgivable.

It’s a real shame and a wasted opportunity, because the non-filler material (“Factory”, “Compliments”, “Blue Beard”, “Dilly”, “Older”, “Neighbor”) is music really worth getting excited over, but the album just has too much sub-par material for me to be able to truly recommend it as a whole. But get a hold of the tracks listed above, and you’ve got easily the best EP of 2010 so far.

5.0/10.0

RIYL: My Morning Jacket, Fleet Foxes, Bon Iver, Rogue Wave, Death Cab for Cutie, Frightened Rabbit, Arcade Fire, Midlake, Manchester Orchestra, Bright Eyes, M. Ward, Blitzen Trapper, The Band, Okkervil River, Built to Spill, Iron & Wine, Minus the Bear, Wilco

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Band of Horses – Factory

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Videos for “Compliments” and “NW Apt.”

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