death cab for cutie - narrow stairs

Death Cab for Cutie has a knack for making disjointed, shifting rhythms and unconventional phrasing sound fluid and melodic. It’s this songwriting dexterity that keeps the band from drowning in its self-involved pathos. Death Cab’s music evokes a mood of angst and self-loathing, whether or not the cryptic and sometimes overwrought lyrics specifically define their songs in such ways. For all the listeners who ridicule Death Cab for their emotive proclivities, they look over the fact that the music can also be uncomfortably resonant. And while some bands articulate a more inclusive and uniting sense of weight, doesn’t everything need the kind of pseudo self-loathing isolated introspection only Death Cab can bring?

After a drift toward pop hell on “Plans”, Death Cab return to form and greater authenticity on “Narrow Stairs”. Opener “Bixby Canyon Bridge” follows a well-tred, but effective formula, starting simply with Gibbard’s nasal tenor, slowly building into a beautifully layered finale of angular guitars and crashing drums. The epic “I will possess your heart” piano riffs recall the windswept glory of Transatlanticism with spylike basslines and seducing waves of guitar providing the song with the most edge Death Cab’s ever delivered. The vocals don’t even begin until almost five minutes have passed, and instead of going for a climactic build, the melodies remain consistent and slightly thin out. The song could have been shorted slightly, but its innovative structure makes it refreshing even at its recorded 8 ½ minute length. “Grapevine Fires” has a dreamy nostalgia to match its sweet simplicity and provides a more accessible counterpoint to the intricate tracks for which the band is known. Despite a few exquisite tracks, "Narrow Stairs" is marred by its baser pop instincts, with “Long Division” and “Your New Twin Size Bed,” being thoughtless and over produced and “No Sunlight” as saccharine pop junk. Hopefully next time they'll forego the pop fodder for the introspective puzzles they unravel so well.

santogold - santogold

Santogold, Philadelphia-based singer Santi White, is arguably the most hyped new artist to hit the scene in 2008. I’d never heard of her until I suddenly found myself exhausted by endless blog posts, videos, and pictures. By the time her eponymous debut album came out on April 28, she was already on an Ipod commercial and the new Bud light beer had commissioned remixes of another song. She was touted as kind of an M.I.A. lite, an informed artist with a lot of personality and a never-ending supply of cool. And her lead single, “Creator” echoes the rhythmically charged candence and aggressive vocal delivery that makes M.I.A so galvanizing. Unfortunately for Santi White, her debut, though promising, lacks the continuity, authenticity, and substance to allow her to push through the hype.

“Santogold” seems crafted with maximum hit potential in mind, surveying an eclectic palette of new wave, post-punk, global hip-hop, and even reggae to increase its demographic range. While “Creator Main” is probably the strongest album track, it is also highly derivative, its cadence and vocal phrasing and global hip-hop aesthetic a perfect imitation of M.I.A. The song opens with what appears to be a bird call, the most creative use of synthetic sound in a song that relies on tired deejay tricks to add complexity and hipness to its foundation. Zig-zagging synthetic bass serves as the melodic backbone, while the vocal cadence and tin-like, clapping drums provide the song’s galvanizing rhythmic focus. “You’ll find a way” fits somewhere between eighties pop, authentic post-punk, and the modern revitalization post-punk a few years ago. Slick production, coy nasal vocals, and a surfeit of hooks reveal the song’s transparency as everything feels contrived and designed to sell. “Say Aha” is one of the album’s more original tracks, merging Afro-pop with R+B and eighties pop again, but the song’s multiple perspectives are a little unfocused and its overly affected vocals are obnoxious. “Lights out” sees White letting her guard down and going for a light, pop aesthetic. The song has the bright melody of 80s pop with 70s style guitar (the Cars come to mind). For the most directly pop song on the album, it feels the most natural, and like all good pop songs, its light aesthetic is infectious.

White has expressed indifference to selling out, and while, in contemporary times, selling the rights to one’s songs may be the only way to make a living, it seems White fashions her songs with economic success as her number one priority And it’s principally this lack of organic self-expression that prohibits her from rising above the masses.

crystal castles - crystal castles

Recent years have seen the proliferation of electronic music with infinite sub-genres delineated and hyper-categorization that confuses even the most informed electro fan. In many instances, it’s not worth the time to develop an interest in any band because in a few weeks, they’ll soon be eclipsed by another wave of music, offering slightly varying aesthetics, but ultimately indecipherable from its electro-dance peers. Crystal Castles’ latest self-titled release would get lost in the endless sea of dance music where it not for two things: their frenetic use of arcade-like noise and the occasionally dark, punk roots underscoring their otherwise carefree aesthetic.
All the tracks—even those with little resemblance to dance music—are linked to one another by their heavy use of digital Nintendo beats. “Alice Practice” opens with plinking electronic noises while electronic squalls and abrupt vocal institute violence on the listener, while the song’s fuzzed out backdrop sounds like turned up ambient noise from an arcade. “Air wars” layers unintelligible lyrics over dance beats in a way that suggests the multi-dimensional audio activity of a night at the club. The song is perhaps the most smartly layered and well-constructed track on the album. “XxcxuzMe” sounds like a video game on the fritz, all its audio components violently clashing in perfect cacophony. Though “Crimewave,--“ a remix of a song originally by LA noise band Health—boasts some gimmicky qualities like robotofication of vocals and pseudo dj techniques, it’s also one of the group’s most organically danceable tracks.
Crystal Castle’s approach is exciting for its innovation, but the band has a long way to go before they achieve a fluid sound. With too many competing sonics and frequently abrasive unmelodic vocals a lot of the punk-inspired songs lack any kind of melody or hook to ground the listener. And some of the more traditional dance tracks, like, “Vanished” and “Knights,” are great dance tracks but ultimately unorginal. With a debut album of sixteen songs, it’s hard to maintain solidity throughout. Hopefully Crystal Castles can sharpen their focus and build on the more innovative and distinctive elements of their sound because without them, they’re just another face in an endless crowd of electro-dance fodder.

Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks - Real Emotional Trash

I must confess I have a conditioned aversion to jam bands. When I was eighteen I hung out with a group of hippie musicians. They were effusively warm and carefree and shared the same kind of disdain for mainstream America I was beginning to fashion. But they never really went anywhere and their lack of steady work left them constantly asking my friends and me for money to buy gas and cigarettes. I soon went on my way, recognizing that though nice people they were not really appropriate role models for where I saw my life going.
Given my deep-rooted aversion to jam bands, I was extremely disconcerted to learn that Real Emotional Trash, the latest album by Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks, has several tracks that surpass the six minute mark and is filled with aimless, lengthy solos. Despite my reservations, this open-endedness seems a natural progression for Pavement front man Malkmus. Most of Pavement’s work was desultory and rhythmically loose; its focus grew from the conspicuous force of the band’s anti-mainstream philosophy. Now that rock music is less vested in culture wars—and Malkmus at 41 and his band mates are older—it makes sense that Malkmus’s music would drift toward the lazy meanderings of 70s rock and progressive rock.
Most of Real Emotional Trash’s songs—notably “Hopscotch Willie” and “Wicked Wanda”--are anchored by delightful rhythmic tensions: the abrupt force of the drums vies for control over looping 70s style guitar while Malkmus’s sputtering, staccato vocals further jumble any lingering rhythmic stability. Unfortunately these songs are frequently addended by long, drifting guitar solos which diminish the petulant energy of earlier song parts. The Jicks diverge from this formula with mixed results. “Baltimore’s” gritty, meandering rhythm lacks the vitality of Pavement’s class struggles but its solo seques into a jaunty rock pace that actually breathes life into tired 70s guitar riffs. “Gardenia” is the album’s worst song even without a solo, melding Thin Lizzy riffs with inane, starry-eyed pop. “Real Emotional Trash” and “Cold Son” trade in the rhythmic intricacy for sedate but more emotionally charged melodies. The title track showcases increasing emotive sensitivity from Malkmus, who lengthens his traditional tapered delivery and reaches for high notes with newfound earnestness. Its solo transforms it from an introspective, desultory narrative into a delightful Grateful Dead-esque romp. “Cold Son” ends in under four minutes with the unintelligible shouts and cacophonous collision of instruments common in many Pavement tracks.
Real Emotional Trash is a mixed bag and will try the patience of many an indie rocker. Its most vital parts are too short and its tepid aspects often languish too long. Without the anchor of a dominant philosophy, Malkmus is in danger of losing focus and vitality. Without a purpose to structure his ramblings he will never recreate the dynamism which made Pavement so important.

clinic - do it

With their fifth album, Do It, Clinic return to their Internal Wrangler roots, revisiting the experimental psych-rock that made them famous. Do It offers a strange counterpoint to their breakthrough LP, both more traditional and more unexpected. Most of the songs ascribe to straightforward psych rock aesthetics, and when more adventurous choices are made, they manifest in strange places, like rock and roll ballads and folk-pop tracks. At times the unconventional strategy injects depth into otherwise insipid tracks--opener “Memories” is an example—,and in other instances it gives songs a choppy, uneasy feel when simplicity would have been more appropriate—and compelling. Clinic has a knack for old-fashioned rock, but it's their more experimental ideas that keep me coming back. The album’s lo-fi production provides an excellent backdrop for jangly garage numbers like “The Witch” and “Shopping Bag,” which along with "Coda," provide some much needed fervor to an otherwise lukewarm delivery.

“Memories” starts off the album with fuzzed out guitar riffs and glockenspiel, which soon gives way to an organ-based folk-pop verse. Each bridge revisits the opening riff in different variations, jazzing up an otherwise boring song. The song successfully meshes its disparate pieces, but feels a bit sluggish for an album opener. “Tomorrow,” makes this aesthetic a bit more interesting, its loose strung guitar clanking along muffled, nasal vocals. Ringing rhythm guitar chords and mystical horns give the song a psychedelic feel. Single “The Witch” expertly posits catchy psych-rock, it’s shuffling drums, steady, throbbing bass lines, and jangling guitar issuing the perfect mix of danceable rhythms and eccentricity. “Shopping Bag” is the album’s best song, injecting a manic intensity and vitality into its aesthetic. It opens with a squall of screeching woodwinds and metallic guitar, and a brilliant cacophony closes each of its taut, pulsating guitar verses. “Corpus Christi” and “High Coin” have interesting meandering verses with flourishes of sitar-like guitar, but never really go anywhere. Sadly, the album saves its most experimental work for its ending, a song with an adventurous spirit so rich it could surely have livened up the rest of the album. “Coda” opens with a waltzing staccato organ while strange harp flourishes and whirring sounds circle in and out. A jagged guitar solo impales the middle of song, with a haze of distorted church bells bringing "Coda's" strange chaos to a close.

Despite a few adventurous moments, Do It ultimately feels like a diluted version of Internal Wrangler, aesthetically compelling but lacking the vitality and dynamism of the band's best work.

the kills - midnight boom

Allson Mosshart has just climbed onto the thin, wobbly railing enclosing the Waterloo Records in-store stage. She is hovering over the crowd, fearless of her precarious balance despite the steep narrow heels of her gray boots, and commanding the railing as if it were an arena stage. She beckons the crowd with her slyly derisive tones, while her musical partner, Jamie Hince, plays grizzly, seductive guitar rhythms. The crowd is held captive, manipulated by Mosshart’s fearlessness and the teasing escalations of songs that build but never climax. On “Midnight Boom” the band experiments with their aesthetic in a number of ways, but their adventurousness, spellbinding presence, and sexually charged textures—so aptly personified in their live performances--remain the band’s most recognizable feature.

The Kills’ music defies categorization. Their aesthetic is undeniably post-modern, integrating drum machines and every day sounds (like dialtones) into a garage rock aesthetic. For all of their gritty, seductive edges, their records are remarkably contained, feeling edgy but not sinister, and if anything, the best way to define it is through the group’s performance behavior, intriguing and suggestive as the obvious sexual tension between the bandmates, and forceful and commanding like Mosshart’s conquest of the tiny railing and Hinces’s virulent guitars.

Midnight Boom breaks apart rock conventions and circumscriptions of their own aesthetic, only to return to traditional rock on the album’s best songs. The band takes turns playing coy and indifferent, experimenting with flat post-modern aesthetics and schoolyard pop flourishes. Many of the songs strip The Kills’ already minimalist aesthetic to percussion-only accompaniment. And while synthetic percussive sounds give the songs a post-modern flair, they ultimately lack the vitality that Hince’s guitar work would produce.

The album opens with U.R.A. Fever, a song grounded in near melodic phone sounds and tin-like percussive rhythms. Its sexual undercurrent is palpable, but without Hince’s virulent guitar it never soars above its sauntering tempo. The album then takes a sharp right turn to “Cheap and Cheerful” a bouncy, hook heavy song, vibrant but without any substance. The album’s most successful track, “Tape Song” cleverly plays with dynamics and aesthetics. A simple drum machine loop anchors the song and during the verse is almost the only audible accompaniment to Mosshart’s textured vocals. Hince’s sexy, angular guitar works comes to the fore during the chorus and remains in different degrees throughout the song. The song’s intensity subtly builds to the final chorus where Mosshart’s rich vocals seem to be spitting with derision. “Last Day of Magic” echoes the sparing versus/rock chorus of “Tape Song,” but with a warmer, more upbeat atmosphere. The Springsteen swagger of its chorus makes for good pop fodder, but it never reaches the contrast and emotive depth of its sister song. “Hook and Line” channels early PJ Harvey with raw, charged guitars and strong, pissed off vocals. “Goodnight bad morning,” perhaps the only successful diversion—U.R.A. fever comes close—is a reflective song grounded by an acoustic guitar picked melody and Mosshart’s sweet, thoughtful vocals. A fitting closure to a coy and indifferent album, and a reminder that sincerity is always more resonant than acting cool.

It’s hard to criticize a band for experimenting, but sometimes, they should just stick with what they know. For all their suggestive gestures and innovative techniques, Midnight Boom is ultimately tepid. And that’s a shame, because when they do what they do best, they really nail it.

these new puritans - beat pyramid

If we were in the middle of some dystopian future, These New Puritans would be our soundtrack. Distant and dispassionate, TNP incorporate technology’s darker side into post-punk’s already moody themes. Though songs are grounded in the genre’s intricate, rhythmically-centered contest between guitar and drums, they diverge from the telos and containment structuring the genre. Its more purposeful exchanges are constantly usurped by futuristic voids, grounded only by electronic drums and isolated vocals. Even the more familiar elements are constantly shifting and many songs lack a landing strip to soothe worried listeners. But it is precisely this lack of familiarity that makes the music so contemporary and innovative. At its best, the group strays from traditionally propulsive tempos and crafts a new dynamic.

“Elvis” is the album’s most listener friendly track; opening to loosely strung bass chords and forceful, spoken vocals, its chorus of shuffling drums and synthesizer drones sound like a mid-tempo version of Bloc Party. ‘Numerology (AKA Numbers)” strength is in the taut determined rhythms of its verse, its angular guitars and forcefully abrupt vocals puncturing the authority of the infrequently shuffling drums. “Navigate-Colours” opens with an inventive build of synthetic elements almost identical to an orchestra warming up, but its gritty UK pop feels too familiar and lead singer bennn lacks the vocal skill the song’s aesthetic requires. “4” is frighteningly experimental and disorienting, a circling rhythm is the only constant to an unrelenting barrage of synthetic bass drones, creepy electronic movements, multiple drum variations, and the cold loop of angular guitars. “Swords of Truth” opens with a warped horn introduction, which trades hands with nihilistic guitar chords as the only melodic components of a cold and distant drum and vocal foundation. Other songs drift toward more experimental or more traditional UK Rock, but These New Puritans are at their best when navigating the cold and disorienting world of rhythm and void.