Headphones: R.E.M.'s Accelerate

Do you know anyone who would call R.E.M. their favorite band? Me neither. If you do, they are probably about 40 years old, and they discovered Fables Of The Reconstruction or Life’s Rich Pageant in their freshman year of college. But why is that? We’ve all met thousands of die hard music fans. I know at least a handful of people that swear by everything Mike Patton does (even those bedroom experiments), and I know at least two Rocket From The Crypt fans that genuflect at Speedo’s feet. I think one of the reasons R.E.M. hasn’t inspired crazed and obsessive fandom in people my age and younger is because there’s always at least one issue that prevents their albums from being the kind of disc you pull off the shelf for fun; their albums are frequently over-serious mixed bags, so it curbs someone wanting to be really into them. You listen to R.E.M. because you want to listen to them specifically, not just cuz you want some music on.

That’s why Accelerate, their fourteenth album, is such a nice surprise – its upside is that it’s listenable to a ridiculously pleasant degree. That doesn’t mean it’s not another mixed bag – it is, though it’s much less so than their last decade of work, as well as easing up on the big meanings. Where this new album succeeds is with what I think is the problem within the arc of their career: it’s all about audience expectations, right or wrong. R.E.M. has always been a melancholy band, but when they broke out, they did so largely on a string of singles pulled from their sunnier side; “It’s The End Of The World”, “Stand”, “Pop Song 89”, “Shiny Happy People”, etc, all gave balance to the gloom of “The One I Love”, “Orange Crush”, and “Losing My Religion”. And then they hit the world with the mixed messages of album-length stylistic explorations Automatic For The People and Monster. The world didn’t know what to think, and so they didn’t know what they wanted from R.E.M., and the great but confusing New Adventures In Hi-Fi definitely provided zero answers. It’s much like when U2’s audience rolled with the change of Achtung Baby, and the band rewarded the good faith with the perplexing single “Numb” and Zooropa; while the tour still did well, the album tanked, and people tuned out on Pop which, while spotty, had a handful of classic U2 songs buried underneath the gloss of “Discotheque”. And so, I propose that Accerlerate could be to R.E.M. what All That You Can’t Leave Behind was to U2: a fresh start in the eyes of the public. With the first single “Supernatural Superserious” sounding like everyone’s favorite R.E.M. song rolled into one, as well as a beefed up cover of “There She Goes” by The La’s, they might actually get their second chance.

The world wants the fun R.E.M., and the band responds here with fun-sounding songs. That doesn’t mean their lyrics are light-hearted, it just means they play with infectious energy. At this point in their careers, there is nothing stopping R.E.M. from doing whatever they want, and usually when musicians get to that point they put out albums heavily informed by what they liked when they formed a band in the first place (see Eric Clapton’s From The Cradle, ironically released the same day as Monster). It is fathomable that Peter Buck, Mike Mills & Michael Stipe sat down and decided that if they were going to continue to do this, then it had to be fun for them too. That is one of the two things that drive this album. The fun they’re having stirring up a racket, probably echoing their favorite songs from the 70’s and early 80’s (like the very post-punky title track), promotes the energetic performances, especially from Buck, who even on the album’s two weakest tracks, “Mr. Richards” and “Sing For The Submarine”, keeps you swirling around with fascinating guitar mastery.

The album rarely slows down, clocking in at a refreshingly brisk 35 minutes (five of the eleven songs finish up before the 3-minute mark; only two exceed 4 minutes). On “Living Well Is The Best Revenge”, “Horse To Water” and the already classic “I’m Gonna DJ”, they’re striving to reclaim the breathless rush of songs like “End Of The World” and “Star 69”, but wisely stop the songs when they’ve said what they have to say. The other thing driving the album is the smart decision to record with the touring lineup, featuring longtime fifth member Scott McCaughey and former Ministry drummer Bill Rieflin. R.E.M. has always had an unblemished live reputation, and Rieflin makes them ten times stronger, bashing away like a kid twenty-five years his junior, finally the perfect replacement for human metronome Bill Berry. Even slower, less aggressive songs like “Houston” and “Until The Day Is Done” retain a forcefulness that the band hasn’t possessed in years. In the end, this may not be the perfect R.E.M. album, but is there such a thing? What Accelerate can be though, sounding not unlike a cross between Big Star's Radio City and Wire's Pink Flag, is the R.E.M. album you actually want to take off the shelf and play all the way through, and for a band eyeing thirty years of existence, that’s about as much as we can hope for.




"Supernatural Superserious" [video]


"Living Well Is The Best Revenge" [acoustic, in a car]

Headphones: Be Your Own Pet's Get Awkward

I like the old school Punk Rock. I like it a lot. Actually, I probably like it way more than a man my age should like it, although considering Sonic Youth’s Thurston Moore signed BYOP, I really have zero to be self-conscious about. I remember a guy I worked with once wondering how I could possibly evolve my music tastes backwards – I loved sweet singer-songwriter stuff and classic Rock heavy on 10-minute solos when I was 17, but now I can barely even tolerate that stuff. I need my music LOUD, raucous, and (mostly) short and snappy. My attention span is shrinking as I age. Be Your Own Pet fit the bill nicely by piecing together all my favorite parts of the second wave of US punk, from Misfits to Black Flag, Descendents to Bad Brains, Avengers to Replacements. Howling pixie Jemina Pearl – a real-life version of what Avril Lavigne thinks she is – likes to sing about dreamy boys, bitchy girls, sex, violence, cult films and zombies, cartoons, drinking under age… you know all the finer things in life. It’s the new generation of teenage junk culture, a young band (average age now 19) for whom Dookie was their gateway drug, and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles fill the spot that Scooby Doo did for their parents (“Bummer Time” is Pearl’s heartfelt tribute her favorite pizza-eating mutated amphibians).

There are a couple of noticeable developments from the ’06 debut (which is a CSR fave). First, the greatest improvement is the addition of new drummer John Eatherly; the kid is only 17, but he’s already a powerhouse, leaving your jaw hanging with his power and speed. Second, the songwriting is growing in interesting ways. The band is moving away from bonkers hardcore, discovering their melodic senses (“You’re a Waste” is a straight-faced kiss-off with no fingers crossed), and trying on riff-centric classic CB’s-model punk, and like the Ramones and Blondie, they’re reaching back to elements of 50’s & 60’s teenage rebellion themes, updated with an explicit twist (though their label cut three tracks, including the BFF-breakup ballad “Becky”, from the US version for being “too violent”, which is total horseshit; find ‘em on the internets). The result is a more edgy, less cock-rocky, more fast-n-fun version of what The Donnas do, yet still with flashes of hardcore bite (though that hardcore, like the 65-second “Food Fight!” with its cries of “Sucks for the janitor!!”, and the undead love song “Zombie Graveyard Party!”, is more Milo Goes To College and “TV Party” than “Banned In DC”). Best of all, the galloping “Heart Throb” is sexual confusion at 90 mph with no seat belt. If I have one complaint, it’s that the lyrics feel a bit undercooked, but Jonas Stein’s guitar playing is getting sharper by the song, and Pearl shines with a more focused, robust performance. Her voice has matured into a powerful, bluesy belt; I’m sure in the coming years, we’ll hear her exploring her powers even more, with a tight rocket ship of a band behind her.




"Food Fight" [video]


"The Kelly Affair" [video]

Headphones: The Raconteurs' Consolers Of The Lonely

Look, this isn’t a bad album. It’s really not. But I also can’t recommend it to you. I should like this, but it’s been too many long years of hearing countless bands and albums that sound like this. I know my Hendrix Experience and Zeppelin backwards and forwards because they were special, like truly, to the core, on some other shit, but it’s all downhill from there. I have stacks of CDs like this one that collect dust, admittedly good even great, from Derek & The Dominos to Rod Stewart & The Faces to Machine Head to two handfuls of AC/DC to On The Beach or Rust Never Sleeps to most of Tom Petty or The Black Crowes or the Dazed and Confused soundtrack to anything Pearl Jam’s done after Yield. It’s Classic Rock. There’s not much else to say after that. The single which I posted the video for last week is good, and likewise any other song that has a tasty riff and a brisk pace sticks out as more fun, good for a BBQ soundtrack. Beyond that, it’s unfortunately forgettable.

Headphones: The Gutter Twins' Saturnalia

It’s the Fall of 1996, and my favorite albums are The Afghan Whigs’ cinematic Black Love and Screaming Trees’ psychedelic Dust. How could I know that one day these soundtracks to my college commutes would one day collide on “Idle Hands”, the first Gutter Twins single? It sounds just like I would’ve hoped – a swirling, dramatic, baroque, swaggering beast...sort of. It also kind of sounds like The Cult made a song for a horror movie tie-in...and the chorus isn’t that great. Everything about The Gutter Twins looks good on paper. Mark Lanegan and Greg Dulli are both booze-swilling, hard-living, recovering-smack-addict Grunge survivors...or were; they’re now “elder statesmen” who've hit bottom and are wise enough to know not to fall back down the rabbit holes they once sang about so vividly. They are, essentially, what Layne Staley wishes he had lived on to be, and they know this, happier now knowing that their comparative “lack of success” (if you can say that about men able to have 20-year music careers) probably saved their souls. All of this gets funneled into their songwriting, long on brilliant noir lyricism full of Catholic guilt and nailed to sweeping gothic arrangements. Their union as The Gutter Twins was a match made in the darkest corner of heaven.

Or at least that’s the way I hoped this would end. You see, with Dulli’s recent Twilight Singers albums, I like the songs but I’ve never been crazy about the production and the mix. His albums have been way too clean for the vibe of the music, with the vocals way too out front. Lanegan on the other hand has had all that worked out, but his melodic sense isn’t necessarily his strong suit, instead preferring to lean on rough, bluesy atmosphere. So, where’s the problem, right? Shouldn’t The Gutter Twins work if Dulli just writes songs for Lanegan to sing? Well, yes. And Saturnalia, while not the sinister masterpiece their fans would beg for, succeeds way more than it falters. “Idle Hands” really isn’t that bad – it’s actually pretty good – but as is the case with most of the album, Lanegan’s singing saves the day. “The Stations” opens the album with a straight duet, a perfect hybrid of their sounds and sensibilities, allowing you a brief high as you think that maybe this is really going to be ‘it’, that album you’ve been waiting for. But then “God’s Children” comes through, and it’s basically a Twilight Singers track with Lanegan singing backup on the chorus; don’t get me wrong, it’s a good song, but this album is supposed to be about the two of them together, and to lose that so early is a minor misstep. “All Misery/Flowers” recovers though, in a most strange way – by evoking Tricky (and not for the only time). Lanegan presents a cyclical blues lament, purposefully staying off the beat, and creating a tension which Dulli pulls along when he shows up halfway through.

Dulli must’ve been listening to late period Beatles while he was writing his songs, and his lifts produce a few of the worst and best moments on the album. His slow-burning solo “I Was In Love With You” is just the kind of song that doesn’t fit here, betraying the mood of the rest of the album with out-of-place keyboard work. On the other hand, “Circle The Fringes” is the type of ballad he excels at, beginning as an evil-twin take on Side Three of The White Album, before being shocked to life by a stuttering guitar, just in time for Lanegan to growl. The great “Bete Noire” recalls another 60’s supergroup – Blind Faith – filtering the melody of that band’s “Can’t Find My Way Home” through Lanegan’s lighter moments on the Trees’ Dust, held high by spry electric piano.

As on the opening two tracks, the duo’s religious dilemmas provide a fertile lyrical source; the acoustic gospel soul of “Who Will Lead Us” produces one of Lanegan’s most nuanced vocal performances. One of the best songs, “Seven Stories Underground”, returns to Tricky’s deconstructed Blues-Hop shuffle, with Lanegan intoning “Heaven is quite a climb”. Further on, the rush of “Each To Each” manages to be quite infectious despite its thin “1979” machine beat and a looping guitar figure that sounds like that Sting sample on Nas’ “The Message”. Saturnalia closes with “Front Street” which admittedly begins too naked, just the duo and an acoustic guitar, and the lyrics aren’t as strong as they should be for an arrangement like that. But as the song builds, it’s not in a heavy-handed way, it’s methodical and considered, and the song gains power from the steady roll. As the music swells, the former trouble-making Rock veterans sing, “We’re gonna have some fun, son”, and you realize that, with a twinkle in their eyes and mischievous smirks on their faces, they might be singing to each other.




"All Misery/Flowers" [video]


"Idle Hands" [live on Letterman]

Headphones: Hot Chip's Made In The Dark

Hot Chip tiptoe along a musical cliff. By choosing what can effectively be seen as an update of 80’s synth-pop as their style, they’ve put themselves in the same circle with New Order, Erasure, the Pet Shop Boys, and early Depeche Mode. This is not a problem in itself, as they are some of the best groups of the New Wave era, but problems can arise if you let the quality of your output dip below these lofty standards, you can fall off the cliff, sounding like the second and third-string New Wavers famous more for their haircuts than their music. Hot Chip’s breakthrough second album, 2006’s The Warning, was a near-masterpiece, a clear picture of their strengths with very little of their weaknesses, and an especially refreshing example of the wonderful juxtaposition of the voices of Alexis Taylor and Joe Goddard; the album was pleasurable enough to end up as CSR’s #4 album of that year.

Now, two years later, they return with the unfortunate mess of Made In The Dark. The clarity of the last album is mostly lost, with the band having more fragmented song ideas than actual fully-written songs, deciding to simply cram pieces together into awkward wholes. At least half the album falls prey to this, forcing most of the songs to be odd novelties. “Out At The Pictures” is the worst offender, sounding like aural vomit, and the genre exercises “Don’t Dance” (80’s Prince) and “Hold On” (Disco) don’t fair much better. There’s charm and tasty bits to lead single “Ready For The Floor”, “Bendable Poseable” and the cheeky “Wrestlers”, but they never really come to fruition. “One Pure Thought” starts off great, stumbles, falls apart, pulls itself together, and then falls apart again. The only track in this fashion that works is the rumbling “Shake A Fist”, but mostly just because its sonic elements are more exhilarating and interesting; it’s also fun, where most of this album is not.

Even when they pick something and stick to it, they still fall short. Club banger “Touch Too Much” actually focuses and emerges fully-formed, but that form is kind of a bland version of The Warning. After the good looks he got from the last album, Alexis Taylor has taken the feedback as license to go MOR pop for the Indie set. Blue-eyed Soul ballad “We’re Looking For A Lot Of Love” works its tender groove well enough to be the one slow song that really succeeds here, but the title track and “In The Privacy Of Our Love” are terribly maudlin, way too bad in an Elton John way for anyone’s taste. “Whistle For Will” is only a little less grating because it sounds more like John Lennon, but no less precious. It’s a shame really, because the band was able once to graft beautiful pop full of heartache to edgy computer music. Now we have to just hope they can remember how to do it for next time.




"Ready For The Floor" [video]

Headphones: Vampire Weekend's debut

I'm going to Boston this weekend, or as my Yankee super-fan girlfriend would call it, "enemy territory". It has given the world good things - Mission Of Burma and the Pixies - but Aerosmith has created a lot for the city to answer for (though Rocks is pretty fuckin' sweet). Anyway, Vampire Weekend spends a lot of time singing about New England, Cape Cod this, Cambridge that, all while dressed like the rich-kid villains from any one of the teen flicks in the 80's. I try not to judge, but it's hard. Some critics have made the distinction that the band is definitely a pop band as opposed to a rock band, and I'd say not only is that true, but it's a necessary point. Rock & Roll was, is, and should be partially about your parents disapproval. And here's Vampire Weekend looking like the L.L. Bean catalog. Hmmm...not so much.

That sensibility informs their music. They get compared to the Talking Heads and Strokes a lot, but these are terrible comparisons. First of all, The Strokes are a better band, and their debut is better. If you ask me what I want to hear about in lyrics, rooms on fire or professors & campus, I'm gonna exclaim "Rooms on muthafuckin' fire!!" No one likes school, you square. Speaking of, David Byrne went to college in Rhode Island - behind enemy lines - and he made it out fine because he was special (or batshit crazy). He managed to stay insane for a few years, and when he started mellowing and getting arty, that time people like the most, like Remain In Light, I tuned out. You want a good comparison, check this real-life exchange between my girlfriend & I from earlier this evening, and the reason I'm busting this review out right now:

[cheesy 80's music playing over restaurant speakers]
Me: "Have you heard Vampire Weekend yet?"
Veronica: "I saw the video. I didn't like it."
Me: "The one with the stop-motion?" [referring to "A-Punk"]
Veronica: "Yeah. The video and the song were stupid."
Me: "Really? I thought it was OK..." [playing devil's advocate]
Veronica: "It just seemed like something Sting would've done."

There you have it folks. She said Sting. Not The Police. Sting. And no one wants to be like Sting. I know, because when I was young and dumb, I was a Sting fan. Then I bought the first Clash record. Sting collected dust from then on. Furthermore, I'm also reminded of that "classic" Feelies album, Crazy Rhythms from '82 (the one Rivers Cuomo stole the cover idea for the "Blue Album" from), which is another album that I bought because of its revered status, before being underwhelmed, only to be exiled to sit in a box somewhere. Don't get me wrong. It's not a bad album. It's just...OK, and only OK. "Mansard Roof" has that interesting beat, and "I Stand Corrected" is pretty good (mostly cuz it doesn't sound like the rest of the album). But the rest is pretty much all the same. And seriously, if you want an album that's like this, but you know, GOOD, pick up The Police's Zenyatta Mondatta, from back when Sting didn't totally suck. Oh yeah, and by the way, if you're going to pose with Fear Of A Black Planet in a picture, why not try making some music that sounds like you know Public Enemy exists. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to listen to The Stooges' Fun House before bed.



"A-Punk" [video]

Headphones: Spoon's Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga

I'm not going to directly quote, but I recently read that R. Kelly compared himself to Marvin Gaye, Bob Marley, and Martin Luther King Jr. It's sad that someone can become so delusional. Um, Kelly has never given the world anything but the remix to “Ignition” and the heebie geebies. But he does shed light on a troubling fact - there are no unifying figures in pop culture right now. It's sad. There should be, but the relationship between clichéd, low-brow entertainment and a country-wide audience seems like a marriage built for the long haul, and the war between red and blue states has put impressionable children on opposite sides of the street and given them rocks and rotten eggs. Leonardo DiCaprio would have been a good choice earlier in his career, but he's now forever burdened by being a 'dirty hippie', as Eric Cartman would say. Another hopeful figure, to me, is Common. One listen to what the guy is trying to go for overall in his career...well, first of all, he wants a career, which is awesome. Second, he's trying to be everything to everyone, but without softening his personal stances. His recent alliance with Kanye West helps his beats, but hurts cuz Kanye yells louder most of the time. Anyway, if there's a new Marvin Gaye, it's probably Common. So, who's the new Beatles? Fuck, who's the new any rock band that can unite people? The next U2, Nirvana, whoever you got... And don't say Radiohead, cuz as much as their fans (myself included) want to see the world through ‘Black Star’ glasses, the unfortunate truth is most of the world doesn't want to get behind a sad-sack midget with a lazy eye, no matter how jaw-droppingly spectacular his voice is. There hasn't been one of those universal bands in ages. I have a dream that one day soon that band will be Spoon.

For the last dozen years, Spoon has primarily been Britt Daniel and Jim Eno, and they are one of the best bands on Earth. Britt's gift for melody and lyrics has allowed him to fuse the spirit of The Beatles, The Kinks, 60's Soul music, Elvis Costello, Prince, David Bowie, Tom Petty, and the Pixies into a distinctive Spoon sound. His lyrics skew to the familiar, small town tales about dancing with your girl, smoking some nice weed, or broken hearts - stuff that could have happened to anyone, told with missing details like you're only hearing one end of a phone conversation. His vocals come in pleas and moans and croons and sometimes growls, but always with his charming, stuffed-up nasal Texas drawl. He is Mr. Pop Everyman, and Spoon is the only band I could probably turn my entire diverse circle of friends onto. They are 'The Underdog' you can get behind, pun intended.

Jim Eno is the best drummer in Rock history that will never be recognized as such by a drum magazine. His plays it simple, somewhere between Watts and Starr, with some Stax Records thrown in. It's not that he can't throw down; when Spoon started, he could knock out some twisted post-hardcore signature changes (see their debut Telephono), but he'd rather be an unfuckwitable metronome. He is the funkiest white boy that looks like a science teacher or your dad that you'll ever hear. He isn't just in the groove, he is the fuckin' groove. And it doesn't stop there - he is usually credited with being the production genius behind Spoon. Since the band has grown out of its scrappy Punk fascination, starting with 1998's A Series Of Sneaks and emerging on 2001's already classic Girls Can Tell, Daniel and Eno have explored the deconstruction of Pop Music. They record the best album you'd ever hear, and then they chop it up and make it better. Daniel knows what he wants, and Eno knows how to make it a reality. They’ve held a remarkably high level of consistency since 1997, growing into the Jordan-Pippen axis of music. On Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga, they present their most complete collection of songs, culled from the ideas on all their previous records; it’s their 5th championship.

Do you remember what it was like to watch Michael Jordan play, like it almost wasn't fair to the other team? It's not even enough that Spoon make instantly classic albums, it's that they almost never record weak songs, and putting those rare weak tracks on albums is pretty much unheard of. I'd be hard pressed to give you 10 less-than-good songs over their last decade of music. Find another band that good. I dare you. We're talking five albums, 3 or 4 EPs, and probably about a dozen cuts for compilations and soundtracks. On this album, the closest you'll get is "My Little Japanese Cigarette Case", which has only three or four lines of lyrics, but it makes up for it by having some great little Japanese flourishes, string stabs and psychedelic echoes. It's tossed off, but perfectly done. It's a lovely little song, and there are nine more that are WAY better.


If there’s anything Spoon can do better than anyone, it’s set an atmosphere. I've listened to this disc dozens of times since it leaked onto the Internet in May, but tonight was the first time I listened on my excellent Sennheiser noise-canceling headphones. Let me tell you, I was whipping my head around constantly - Spoon had me thinking ghosts were talking to me in my house. Stray conversations, multiple sound effects and bits of studio noise are strategically left throughout the songs, and these rough edges only serve to further fascinate beyond the excellent tunes. "The Ghost Of You Lingers" is probably the most unsettling and weird song on the album, but once you've gotten past the banging piano, Britt's echo-chamber double-vocal (one in each headphone channel) enchants you and the song reveals itself as one of his most heartbreaking ballads; bursts of static that first seem like a CD glitch are just another part of Jim Eno's production genius. On the other end of the spectrum, "You Got Yr. Cherry Bomb" and "Black Like Me" are robust and grand; the former revisits Phil Spector and Motown with lots of bass, confident horns and all the bells & whistles, while the latter floats gently on acoustic guitar and piano before the big movie-score strings carry it away. You find yourself so engrossed in Daniel's narrative - "I spend the night in the map room; I humanized the vaccuum" - that you can completely overlook details like someone talking in the background or the scary, moaning mellotron burping what sounds like a foghorn over the verses.

Little details like this are left to be found all over the album, like an easter egg hunt or a Hardy Boys mystery, and they're just another reason that this disc will stay in your player for years. The great songs don't hurt. The melancholy of “Eddie’s Ragga” starts with what sounds like a machine stalling, before giving way to a rolling beat, slashing guitar, and a lyric juxtaposing a universal lament about a girl with specific details like “She’s never been to Texas, never heard of King Kong” (not specifying whether he means the giant ape or the band from Kentucky), and "We did an Airborne and settled in for the night". The great party-starter “Finer Feelings” piles on everything and the kitchen sink; a stuttering bassline and bouncy breakbeat are punctuated by handclaps, maracas, and colorful guitar, and still joined by snippets of reggae toasters, crowd noise, melodica, and what sounds like a Doppler-ed siren. Opener "Don't Make Me A Target" is Daniel at his most blatantly political, but it's from an interesting perspective you don't often hear - a Texan who disagrees with the President ("Here come a man from The Star; we don't know why he goes so far") and his administration ("Nuclear dicks with their dialect drawls"), and what would he say to him if he had the chance. The answer: the title of the song. Daniel gets the words out of the way, then letting the music do the talking; guitar noise strafes the area as the band lays down a solid chug.

It's already been decided by the Internet tastemakers that "The Underdog" is (a) one of the songs of summer ‘07, (b) surely one of the singles of the year, and (c) Britt Daniel's latest entry in the pantheon of classic Pop songs, along side (at least) "The Way We Get By" and "I Turn My Camera On". And those Internets are correct. The song could be Spoon's kiss-off to a bully, the Industry, the Man, whatever, that never believed in them to be the big time band they can be. "You don't talk to the waterboy; and there's so much you could learn but you don't want to know...You got no fear of the underdog; that's why you will not survive." Tell me that wasn't written from experience. Tell me you don't want these guys to stick it to the Man. Well, stand up and cheer with me, cuz Spoon just had this album debut in the top 10 after years of being pretty much ignored. The tide is turning; I think my dream might come true.

Raz's Rating
MUSIC: Spoon's Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga



-Spoon's official site
(see Jim Eno in all his science teacher glory)

"The Underdog" video

Headphones: Interpol's Our Love To Admire

One claim by critics in every Interpol review ever written is that they sound like Joy Division. I’d like to hope that if you're going to be a music critic, then you should have listened to Joy Division a few times, if not own their albums. And so I never heard the comparison, because being influenced by a band and sounding like them are two completely different things. Prince is heavily influenced by Joni Mitchell, but his psychedelic funk sounds nothing like her jazzy folk. You throw on any Interpol album, and you are sure to hear a heavy influence of late 70’s British post-punk music, and Joy Division is a band that falls under that umbrella. But to me, one of the most overriding elements of JD is the economy of the music. It’s stripped to its bare bones, trolling the dark underground; that’s kind of the point of it. Interpol is the exact opposite. Interpol is grand, shooting for the open skies, and their third full-length, Our Love To Admire, is their grandest, most baroque yet. I’d venture a guess that it has nothing to do with their new major label budget and more to do with their need to artistically expand.

One of the most noticeable things on the new album is the increased presence of keyboards, as well as orchestral arrangements; in some places, like the coda to “Wrecking Ball”, it allows the band to work with a softness that they have not yet explored. In other places, it accents a new expansiveness, as on the accordion-assisted opener “Pioneer To The Falls”, as well as the Morricone-flavored finale “The Lighthouse”. On previous albums, that UK influence has struck some as overwhelming to the bands natural personality; on OLTA however, Interpol wisely asserts their obvious growth, making the other noticeable change a shift of their musical focus to American Gothic, whether it be the Irish immigrant feel of “Falls” or the Old West on “Lighthouse”. Additionally, a track like “The Scale” digs into the deep sorrow of classic American Pop for its groove, at once recalling 50’s Rock & Roll and Girl Group ballads, but subverting the age-old ‘my baby’s gone’ narrative with a tale of a mysterious, sleeping son. Singer Paul Banks aims to soar where JD’s Ian Curtis never did, proclaiming “Under a molten sky, let the days collide; well, I made you and now I take you back.”

Further exploring the dark side of America, the most welcome influence that is buried in the DNA of OTLA is that of L.A. punks X. The first obvious nod in that direction is the subtle Billy Zoom twang in Daniel Kessler’s guitar, a new element to his already huge array of canyon echoes, watery reverb, and endless sustain. Also, Banks’ voice seems to slightly rise in register with each record, and here he’s not far off from X’s John Doe; he still projects with bluster, but he rarely broods like his UK predecessors. Both lyricists have always shot for the poetic side of songwriting, and Banks definitely likes to hit you with trivialities like “Life is like wine” or “You’re a daisy in my lazy eye”. He opens songs with lines like “I dream of you draped in wires and leaning on the brakes; as I leave you with restless liars and dealers on the take”, playing the straight man in his pressed suit to the countless smirking thrift store punks in ripped jeans. He’s been derided for overreaching in this way since Interpol’s classic debut, Turn On The Bright Lights, but I’ve always enjoyed the honesty and absurdist reality of it; guys who fancy themselves romantics do think like that sometimes. The perceived truth for both Banks and Doe is in the details. On the rehab anthem “Rest My Chemistry”, Banks greets you with “I haven’t slept in two days, I’ve bathed in nothing but sweat; and I’ve made hallways scenes for things to regret”, and your mind immediately wanders to the debauched conclusions to those allusions.


Banks never wallows in depression though, even as he chronicles his confusion and sadness; instead of turning his lyrical eye inward like countless Goths before him, Banks looks across the dinner table at his significant other and addresses their many problems together, their regrets and miscommunications. In that way he’s become one of our best reporters currently on the frontlines of the Battle of the Sexes, and he revels in the moments when either side feels it necessary to tell a lie or be brutally honest. He can put himself in the shoes of a misogynist, boasting that women have “insatiable needs” but “no self control”, then turn around and admit to the “destruction of man”, and “the corruption in my hand”. At one moment, he’s attempting to sway his lover with a winking “Maybe we need to give something else a try”, before insensitively pushing too far with “There’s no I in threesome”.

Banks’ bravado exhilarates the band, with the rhythm section of Carlos D and Sam Fogarino wringing as much pulsing bass and ornate percussive flourishes out of a simple 4-4 as possible. I often wonder if Fogarino is a drum teacher on the side, because he plays just complex enough without overshadowing the songs; he’s an expert in what to hit at what moment, and also when to hit nothing at all. The physical swing and momentum sets the band apart, whether at a molasses pace or a sprint. A song like first single “The Heinrich Maneuver”, one with the ‘familiar’ Interpol sound, works because of that momentum, Kessler and Carlos locking up through the chorus, Fogarino chopping it up behind them, as Banks intones “Today my heart swings” with complete conviction. Later, on "All Fired Up", when he bellows “I’ll take you on…I’ve got this soul, it's all fired up” with the band charging behind him, you know in your heart that Joy Division never threw down like this.

Raz's Rating
MUSIC: Interpol's Our Love To Admire

Headphones: Arctic Monkeys' Favourite Worst Nightmare

The question for today is does 'The Sophomore Slump' have to be a bad thing? I say, not really. Jimi's Axis: Bold As Love, Massive Attack's Protection, and De La Soul Is Dead are three examples of classic second albums that are somewhat less than their predecessors. However, Favourite Worst Nightmare, the Arctic Monkeys' second album, is not good enough to be on that list... But, it's not really a slump either. I'd say it's more akin to albums like U2's October, Pearl Jam's Vs., or Interpol's Antics, albums that are good, and will hopefully lead to something better, but will be forever compared to the superior debuts.

The album's strength is in its opening bum rush. Despite some writers claiming that it's too hectic, I find first single & opener, "Brianstorm" to be the exact opposite - something can't be hectic if it's expertly measured and delivered. This is the Monkeys after a tune up, firing on all cylinders, and it's completely vicious; Matt Helders storms center stage after merely hinting on the debut that he's one of the finest new drummers in music. "Teddy Picker" and "D Is For Dangerous" are both as strong as the best songs from the first album, with the latter begging to be blaring out of indie club P.A.'s everywhere. Along with track 4, "Balaclava", the band has used the first 10 minutes to set you up with a more sinister sound, their melodies snaking their way through choppy riffs and knotty rhythms.

Then comes "Fluorescent Adolescent". It has the same summery lilt of "Mardy Bum" from the debut, but the narrative never takes off; it wants so bad to live up to vintage Blur ballads, but doesn't come close. It's followed by the airy, lightweight "Only Ones We Know", which is completely forgettable. If you have a superb drummer, and a new bass player, why aren't you showing them off 100% of the time? These two songs accomplish nothing except sapping the album's unstoppable momentum from the first four tracks. The Monkeys never really recover, but they do try.

Of the second half, "Do Me A Favour" is the best; it sounds like nothing else in the band's discography, which is excellent. It's a subtle, simmering number, floating an emotion that young bands don't usually tackle: worry. Alex Turner's uncertainty is tight throughout the intro, as his breaking-up tale winds him up until he lets loose at the end with "perhaps 'fuck off' might be too kind". "This House Is A Circus" and "If You Were There, Beware", are fun but they seem almost too complex for their own good. Guitarist Jamie Cook plays with some new tones and effects, and they work nicely, but the resulting songs are both more like a few song fragments pasted together. They'll probably work better live, as will "Old Yellow Bricks", which is little more than a good danceable groove. "The Bad Thing" sounds like a forgotten outtake from the debut, and closer "505" isn't the slow-burning epic it wants to be; by the time Turner is yelling in your ear, the song has bored you, and you're in the other room making a sandwich. Let's hope the Arctic Monkeys' career doesn't follow that lead.

Raz's Rating
MUSIC: Arctic Monkeys' Favourite Worst Nightmare




- Arctic Monkeys website

Headphones: The White Stripes' Icky Thump

A funny thing happened when I listened to The White Stripes' sixth album, Icky Thump for the first time. I loved it. All of it. As soon as it was over, I played it again. I ended up listening to it four times that day. That doesn't happen too often. Now, I love Jack & Meg, but full disclosure - I've never been 100% satisfied with their albums as whole works. I think Jack tends to cram too many songs on their discs, which leads to me reaching for the skip button; maybe it's because he has a big songwriting ego and can't decide how to cut the fat, or maybe it's because he would feel guilty making his fans wait for only 30 minutes of music, so he loads the albums up. White Blood Cells, the best of the previous five due to the most unified themes, was weighted down by some weaker tunes in the third quarter, and that ended up overshadowing the excellent tracks buried at the album's end. And so I'm wondering what this means about my opinion of Icky Thump; is it a too-good-to-be-true situation? On the surface, I want to jump up and say it's their best album, but I think I'd disagree with myself a few years from now. It just isn't that...grand a statement... But maybe that's the point.

If there's a statement being made at all, it's that Jack wants to let loose and rock the fuck out after buttoning the top button on Get Behind Me Satan and with The Raconteurs. The classicism of his other gig gives way here to Jack's most feral howling and ferocious guitar slinging in years, with Meg pounding out earthquakes. On "Catch Hell Blues", Jack sounds like both Robert Plant and Jimmy Page at once, while Meg sounds like she recorded her drums in a cave. "Bone Broke" sounds like it could be a lost Rocket From The Crypt demo, and "Little Cream Soda" is particularly crushing. The Mexi-bombast of "Conquest" seems ripped from a Quentin Tarantino soundtrack (This statement will be repeated by countless blog and magazine writers because it's the only logical description and cultural reference for the song). There is still some lingering exploration left over from Satan, but it's mostly confined to the Celtic Folk of "Prickly Thorn, But Sweetly Worn" and the freak-out of its supplemental interlude "St. Andrew (This Battle Is In The Air)". More apt would be the assimilation of the last album’s discoveries into these new songs, like the acoustic picking and electric piano on “300 MPH Torrential Outpour Blues” or the manic organ on the title track.


The loose feel of Jack’s riffs is echoed by a more flippant attitude than most of their other albums, and that’s very attractive when looking at the CD shelf and picking out which one I want to listen to. Instead of trying to be a gentleman, Jack’s playing the rogue, dropping wisecracks like David Lee Roth in the breakdown of every great Van Halen song; the great boogie of “Rag & Bone” even features some hilarious dialogue between Jack & Meg that’s reminiscent of the VH classic, “Hot For Teacher”. You see Jack relaxing his staunch traditional image as well, even acknowledging Hip-Hop by name-dropping Technics turntables, and elsewhere, tossing off quips like “Broke as I’ll ever be” with the cool of a seasoned MC. What’s really the difference between a stray cat strut and a pimp lean anyway? In some places, Jack’s whole concept for certain songs is more playful; closer “Effect & Cause” is built around a series of punchlines that crack up their narrator mid-song.

Having moved away from Detroit (Jack to Nashville, Meg to L.A.), The Whites have cast off the bad vibes – and bruised knuckles – from a judgmental scene that started to encroach on their ability to have a good time with their music. Maybe that’s why Get Behind Me Satan was so dour. Even if you just look at that album cover, with the duo standing rigidly, back to back, looking away from each other, and compare it with the comfortable slouch and engagement of facing one another on Icky Thump's cover, the message should be clear. Kicking back, The White Stripes have made their most fun album. Time will tell if that ushers it along to being their most universally loved release, but we’ll all enjoy ourselves while we wait.

Raz's Ratings
MUSIC: The White Stripes' Icky Thump



- The White Stripes website

Headphones: Dizzee Rascal's Maths & English

I’d love for Dizzee Rascal to break through onto American radio and TV. I’d like to think he would be a star. His gruff charm would help him stick out from all the Southern hacks mugging for the camera in front of a mansion rented for the day. In the new video for Maths & English’s first (official) single, “Sirens”, Dizzee looks to shake game hunters down dark alleys just like the ones in early Wu-Tang clips; appearing shirtless under his winter parka, he cuts a similar figure to 2Pac, with scars from his stabbing filling in for the ‘Thug Life’ tattoo. In a genre where your street reputation is paramount, Dizzee is one of the most genuine ghetto urchins to bless a mic for a while.

When he debuted in 2003 with Boy In Da Corner, Dizzee came on like a one-man N.W.A., mostly because there had never been a truly gifted British MC. His rapid fire flow and post-jungle beats were a culture shock. Though singles “Dream” and “Stand Up Tall” were exceptions that raised his public profile, his second album, Showtime, was darker, further down those dark alleys, inhabiting the PJ’s pissy stairwells and elevators immortalized by Ghostface, Nas, and many others. On this, his great third album, Dizzee streamlines his sound and ups the tempo, while embracing a multitude of new sounds, from the cruising roll of West Coast G-Funk to Houston’s slurred Screwed sound, from the new Brit-Pop to the club play that American rappers cater to. “Excuse Me Please” rides a chilled-out Blaxploitation bassline that Ludacris would die for, while the absolutely mammoth “Hardback (Industry)” builds from the sub-woofer stress-tests of Paul Wall and Slim Thug to a cautious journey through the music business. Staying in the Dirty South, “Where Da G’s” brings in Houston legends UGK for a blunt examination of posers, while “U Can’t Tell Me Nuffin’” bridges Dizzee’s original Grime sound with the huge production of Lil’ Jon.

The middle of the album is where Dizzee goes for the dancefloors, with mixed results. “Suk My Dick” has the bouncy, playful, sing-songy delivery of Eminem, and even works in a bit of “Yankee Doodle Dandy” and some off-key warbling reminiscent of Ol’ Dirty Bastard, and the trio of “Flex”, “Da Feelin’”, and “Bubbles” continues the floor filling. “Flex” recalls David Banner’s “Play”, “Da Feelin’” marries a laidback funk groove with the skittering beats of drum & bass, and “Bubbles”, one of the album’s highlights, sounds like Prince’s “Sign O’ The Times” played at double-time and spun backwards. Unfortunately, of these, “Bubbles” is the only one that’s really memorable past its gimmick. Dizzee’s Pop experiments don’t fair well either; collaborations with hot UK acts like Lily Allen and Arctic Monkey Alex Turner don’t fit the vibe of the album. They would be better suited as a one-off single with Allen’s “Wanna Be” on the A-side, and Turner’s throwaway “Temptation” tucked away on the B.

Maths & English is best at street level. “Sirens” is a vivid, detailed crime narrative with metal guitar riffs and a clanging beat steamrolling anything in its path, while the vicious diss track “Pussy’ole” drops fuzzy synths all over the classic “It Takes Two” track while Dizzee sprays vitriol at his former friend, fellow UK MC Wiley; he doesn’t mince words, leading to one of the strongest beef blasts in Hip-Hop history, along with Jay-Z’s “Takeover” and Ice Cube’s “No Vaseline”. Like highlights “Bubbles” and “Hardback”, this deadly duo illustrate that, while his experiments might be admirable, Dizzee Rascal is at his best when he marries hints of other styles to his own unique street personality.

Raz's Ratings
MUSIC: Dizzee Rascal's Maths & English





- Dizzee Rascal website

Headphones: Queens of the Stone Age's Era Vulgaris

I never liked Josh Homme's original description for his band: robot rock. He spewed it in an interview at some point in 1997 or 1998, and it's always stuck. But it never fit. The Queens' music has always been too organic. The first three albums felt like the California desert that informs all of Homme's sun-damaged songwriting, and Lullabies To Paralyze ventured in the dark forests. They were somehow a roots-metal band, if that makes any sense. But now, with their fifth album, Era Vulgaris, Homme has recalibrated his band to actually sound, for the most part, like robot rock. It's a remarkably uneven album, infuriating and confusing at times. It advances the band's sound as experiments fail. It's one big contradiction.

The most mentionable aspect to the album is that it was written and recorded almost entirely in L.A./Hollywood. Right off the bat, it's the number one reason for the loss of the organic warmth and move towards a slicker, truly modern rock sound; Of course, you could argue this makes no sense since the only thing to change is the recording venue as Homme and Chris Goss oversee the process as usual. But the place is always in Homme's head; Songs For The Deaf was about the drive from L.A. to the Palm Desert, and it sounded as such. This is primarily an urban record; the upside to this is it highlights that most rock music out now has no feel at all, urban or otherwise. It's amazing to say that, somehow, the album does conjure the same vibes as a Hollywood classic like Guns N' Roses' Appetite For Destruction, even if it doesn't come close to being that good. Some songwriters wear their hearts on their sleeves; Josh Homme wears his neighborhood.


Let's work backward: The tracks with the "newest" sound are "Sick, Sick, Sick", "I'm Designer", "Misfit Love" and "Battery Acid". The first thing that's clear is there's pretty much nothing out right now that sounds like this, but that doesn't mean they're successful. "I'm Designer" and "Misfit Love" emerge the most fully-formed, with the former wrapping a cyborg groove around a tabloid commentary, while the latter comes off as the band's heavy tribute to Michael Jackson's "Beat It", complete with falsetto and copped riffage in the intro; it will rank with QOTSA's best. On the other hand, "Battery Acid", the most "robotic" song on the album, is annoying and the one that makes me reach for the skip button most. While the band pummels the listener with riffs and drums, Homme lets loose with lyrics that never come together, a troubling trend on the album. It's a forgettable moment in the QOTSA discography and further illustrates that, working in direct opposition to Homme's exceptional melodic gifts, their heaviest moments are usually their worst (see Lullabies' beaten-dumb twins, "The Blood Is Love" & "Skin On Skin"). In this way, Era's closer "Run, Pig, Run" also fails, despite some excellent guitar work. It tries to do too much at once and squanders any chance of cohering.

It's starting to become evident, that despite their skill, the other full-time Queens, drummer Joey Castillo and guitarist Troy Van Leeuwen, might be a big part of the problem. A member since Dave Grohl returned to the Foo Fighters around the August 2002 release of Deaf, Castillo is a Heavy Metal drummer. He was in Danzig. His method is to pummel. Hard. I've heard him play light; he can do it, but it's not his instinct, and it seems like his playing pulls Homme back towards his metal past in Kyuss. Likewise, Van Leeuwen played in Failure and A Perfect Circle, the kind of slick, gloomy hard rock bands that make music that sound like this album and Lullabies. Despite being a real music fan, with his taste running from Bjork to The Cramps to Roy Orbison to Peaches to Cream, Josh Homme bounces his sound off his collaborators; former bassist Nick Oliveri seems more indispensable now than ever because his batshit-crazy punk and sunny 60's garage sounds meshed perfectly with Homme's aforementioned melodic skills. A song like first single "Sick, Sick, Sick" would sound totally different with Nick in the band. It might take the two great verses and the grand riff in-between, and have some fun. Instead, the muddled second half of the song jettisons the song's debauched fun and wastes guest Julian Casablancas.


Next, there are the songs that try to bridge the band's new direction with their old one, and these songs are also a mixed bag. "Run, Pig, Run" we've already covered; it's a mess, and sounds like a forgotten outtake from the last album. Likewise, "River In The Road" tries to recall the psychedelic swirl of The Beatles' "Tomorrow Never Knows" but its vocals are just too monochromatic, losing Mark Lanegan in the hurricane of guitar lines and the martial beat (I even think there's a balalaika in there). Opener "Turnin' On The Screw" tries to revisit the choppy, layered sound of "Leg Of Lamb" from Rated R, but falters; the lyrics think they're smart but aren't, and a bungee riff used nicely for one measure in the beginning of the song is repeated for far too long later on, causing the song to overstay its welcome by at least a minute. "Suture Up Your Future" is the most troubling track on the album because it could've been really good if it weren't for its terrible lyrics. Musically, it works well with the new sounds, but because of the classic song structure, it reaches back for the old Queens, and in the process, the hybrid result comes out like a glam/goth ballad. "3's & 7's" is by far the best track on the album, kicking off with a riff reminiscent of Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit", but brighter, featuring strong lyrics, and utilizing the chugging, stripped, slightly disjointed style that so many of QOTSA's classic tunes feature.

And finally, there's the two songs that will feel most at home for longtime fans. The requisite Desert Sessions redux, "Make It Wit Chu" is pretty much exactly like the original, but like "In My Head" from Lullabies, unfortunately loses some of the original's verve and life. "Into The Hollow" is much better though, ranking alongside "3's & 7's" and "Misfit Love" as the album's highlights. Based on a runaway train groove, it's a soaring ballad that would've been the perfect centerpiece for Lullabies To Paralyze's dark fairy tale narrative. In the end, Era Vulgaris adds up to a hopeful disappointment. It's good to hear the Queens trying to branch out and explore new sounds, because that's more than most hard rock bands are doing, but it's just sad that they weren't more successful this time out. Josh should oil the robot's joints. Instead of blaring out of my open car windows all summer long, it will unfortunately get a few weeks play before being filed away on the shelf in favor of the great new discs by The White Stripes and Spoon...and probably QOTSA, Rated R, and Songs For The Deaf.

Raz's Ratings
MUSIC: Queens Of The Stone Age's Era Vulgaris



[ADDENDUM]
...We can save it. We have the technology. Where Era Vulgaris goes wrong, the band goes right, bestowing upon the music geeks of the internet who have initiative no less than six non-album tracks to create our own Era Vulgaris summer mix. The other tracks are the album outtakes "Era Vulgaris" (featuring Trent Reznor) and the orchestral "Running Joke", three covers: Tom Waits' "Goin' Out West", Elliott Smith's "Christian Brothers", and Billy Idol's "White Wedding", and finally, a re-recorded version of the epic "lost" Lullabies track "The Fun Machine Took A Shit And Died". All of these songs are better and more fun than half of the new album, so take from that what you will. Plus, there's also a remix of "I'm Designer", and acoustic versions of "3's & 7's", "Into The Hollow" and "Suture Up My Future", so you can check those out too.

Headphones: Ted Leo & The Pharmacists' Living With The Living/Mo' Living EP

Some albums are really great for a certain activity, which I made abundantly clear when I reviewed the new Kings Of Leon and said it was best for night driving. Ted Leo's new platter is great for mowing an overgrown lawn on a hot day. I know this because I'm sitting here, drenched in sweat, pollen clogging my throat, grass stains all over my jeans, and I still feel great. Thanks to Ted Leo. I think by being great for cutting the grass, and as cutting the grass is a pretty much experienceless, mundane activity, you could claim the album is good for anything, like say painting, or maybe throwing a molotov cocktail.

In a lot of ways, this new album feels like Ted's most personal, not because the subject matter is vastly different than previous albums, but because the recording and production is closest to the live sound of the band. It feels more like the front row than your couch, bed, or driver's seat. The Pharmacists road tested the material throughout the summer of 2006, before their fall recording sessions, so the kinks were worked out before hitting record. Highlights of the album that rank with Leo's best, tracks like "Army Bound", "Some Beginner's Mind", "La Costa Brava", and "C.I.A." all sound just like they did on stage when I saw the band at their near-annual appearance at the South Street Seaport in NYC last August. They played the bulk of this album that night, and I noticed that Ted & the boys have solidified a consistent sound while managing to vary their songwriting, and that shows on the album. Take the start of what would be Side 2 on vinyl: "Annunciation Day" blasts off like a Minutemen song-fragment before crashing into the Queen bombast of "Born Of Christmas Day". That's followed by the classic Reggae bounce of "The Unwanted Things", 7 minutes of "The Lost Brigade" which starts as punk/funk before unleashing a "Layla" coda, into the Cheap Trick-ish arena rock of "The World Stops Turning". Furthermore, the album would be even broader if the tracks from the Mo' Living EP were included; the band glides from the classic hardcore of "Living With The Living" to the 60's soul of "Already Too Late?" to a hurricane-strength take on Chumbawamba's
"Rappaport's Testament: I Never Gave Up" which recalls The Who at their Live At Leeds peak.

In this new varied approach, Ted wraps some of his usual political and social commentary, alternately weary and fiery. Leo has become sort of like the indie rock version of Michael Moore, but with one huge difference: Leo is eminently likable. I, or anyone else who has ever met the man, can tell you that he's so personable that you can go from thanking him for a great show to talking about Darfur to asking how his folks are. Where Moore beats his point home with sleight of hand editting, Leo simply says what's wrong in a way that you receive the message and want to get up, stand up. This has held true over the past three albums, but for the first time since his solo career really got rolling with 2001's Tyranny Of Distance, he finally boils over with frustration. On "Bomb. Repeat. Bomb", he spews lyrics like a machine gun, while on the Lennon-esque "The Toro And The Toreador", he plainly notes that "Everyone wants body counts, and I just want to cry." When taken with the varied surrounding tunes though, it doesn't seem like overkill. It's here that we can return to the belief that Leo isn't Moore with a guitar, but the man to carry on Joe Strummer's torch. Strummer could sings the praises of Motown or Dub as much as he could bleat over misguided politicians, and Leo follows this approach to the letter. Life is about more than The Man and The Powers That Be. It's about a girl named "Colleen" and having "A Bottle Of Buckie", and mowing the lawn. Ted Leo knows this. While The Pharmacists palette may not have as many colors as The Clash's yet, Living With The Living could easily be remembered as their London Calling.

Raz's Ratings
MUSIC: Ted Leo & The Pharmacists' Living With The Living/Mo' Living EP

Headphones: LCD Soundsystem's Sound Of Silver

James Murphy has been dubbed the critic's chosen one. He will never want for kowtowing nerdy hipster boys with unwashed hair and tight jeans. James Murphy is the lucky one - a slightly chubby, unshaven everyman in another thrift store blazer, dancing like an epileptic (or Ian Curtis), who made one song ("Losing My Edge") and became the dancefloor god to people who don't really go to dance clubs. We are all jealous of him...Listing my favorite bands over a disco beat? Why didn't I think of that? How much is that cowbell in the window? ...OK, so, does that cover it? No. The problem is that my theory is pretty much true, and so it's extremely easy to forget that Murphy is in fact that good, if not better. He is The Meek that will inherit the Earth of music in a lot of ways; the critics of the world love him so much because they think, with one twist of their life - if they spent their tuition on records & started DJing instead of on their Lit major textbooks - they could be him. Well, they can't. James Murphy is much more special than he was letting on, and now he's dropped his biggest hint in our laps with Sound Of Silver.

While his self-titled 2005 debut stuck close to the formula of his early singles, it was still a remarkably solid album that will continue to spin at apartment parties for decades. But Murphy is no dummy; he's honed his approach through years of production, DJing, and listening very very closely to all those bands. For instance, he knows that he really isn't that great a vocalist, and while most of his fans probably find that to be a plus, it probably doesn't help in the projected longevity department. On the new album, he builds songs around the fact that he's trying to sing; he may be greatly indebted to the baroque vocal style of late-70's Bowie/Eno/Iggy, but he uses it sparingly and for proper effect. He has to know that the beautiful "Someone Great" would be lost if he didn't find a more tender direction than to blurt out the lyrics like he does normally. In other places, his usual wavering, gravelly yelp isn't far off from either latter-day George Clinton or The B-52's Fred Schneider, two of the greatest frontmen ever who knew that what they paused to say was just as important as what they crooned. In that too, is another major point of Sound Of Silver: Murphy's lyrics have grown exponentially. The first single, "North American Scum" is caked in biting sarcasm, not far from the sentiment of Ted Leo's "Ballad of Sin Eater", while closer "New York, I Love You But You're Bringing Me Down" marries that sarcasm with the winking vitriol of Prince's "All The Critics Love U In New York" and the hollow sense of loss of, say, The Smiths' "I Know It's Over", then wraps it up in the glam-showstopper feather boa of David Bowie's "Rock & Roll Suicide".

And yet, even better is the core of the album. The aforementioned "Someone Great", "All My Friends", and "Us V Them" are all instant classics, epics that blast past the six-minute mark. The bum rush effect actually reminds me of the similar trio of "Let's Pretend We're Married", "D.M.S.R.", and "Automatic" from Prince's 1999 (making that two 1999 references in one review, therefore making this the most Prince-like album of the year that doesn't actually sound like Prince). The way Murphy spins his prose in the eulogy of "Someone Great" and the lament of distance in "All My Friends" point towards the euphoric highs of early Patti Smith; he's not there yet, but he's moving in that direction. He follows those twin towers of danceable sorrow with "Us V Them", an eight-and-a-half minute monster groove in the vein of "Losing My Edge" and "Yeah", as he makes it very clear that, "All the little people wanna dance! It's true!" And with that assertion, James Murphy cements his reason for sticking around for years to come.

Raz's Ratings
MUSIC: LCD Soundsystem's Sound Of Silver




-LCD Soundsystem website

Start At The End

If you love film the way I do, you probably have a genre or sub-genre that excites you on a molecular level. For me it's crime thrillers & mysteries, noir, neo-noir, etc etc. I mostly like the heavy dramatic variety, but the occasional lighter kind is good too (like say Out Of Sight from 1998, which remains the only worthwhile work that Jennifer Lopez has ever done). My problem, then, right now, is that I am majorly psyched because I just saw The Lookout, starring Joseph Gordon-Levitt, and I want to type & type & type about it, and well the problem comes in that I'm totally jazzed and can't focus on one thing...Look at this, I'm even runnin' my sentences on. As a bonus dilemma, I also want to catch the newest episode of South Park which is replaying in seven minutes. So that's like, what, 18 things I want to tell you about. I'm not going to sleep until I run out of things to say, I promise. It's gonna be a long night, but in here somewhere will be a glowing movie review.

Somehow, I don't get why Van Halen's "Jump" is a good stadium song. Granted, it's during the Lakers/Rockets game, so ya know, haha, get it, slam dunk = jump. Yeah whatever. Also, Amy Poehler (sp? I'm too lazy to check) is on Leno, and well (a) nice legs, and (b) bored me enough to watch the Lakers/Rockets game. Be more funny.

Speaking of Out Of Sight, Paul Schaffer's band is playing the Isley Brothers' "It's My Thing". And again, The Lookout was written & directed by Scott Frank. Frank is apparently one of my favorite screenwriters, and I didn't even realize. He wrote both Out Of Sight and Get Shorty. I like both; both are also Elmore Leonard novels. Both are crime thrillers. Difference though - The Lookout is (a) not an Elmore Leonard novel adaptation, (b) nor funny. The Lookout is wonderfully tense and downbeat and exhilarating and...uh...wait...

South Park is on. I'll be back...
...it's a '24' parody, and it's already hilarious.
There is a nuclear bomb in Hilary Clinton's vagina.
Trey & Matt are fucking out of their minds.

TV On The Radio is playing "Wolf Like Me" on Kimmel. This is sublime, and the musical freedom that Kimmel gives his performers more than justifies the existence of his show. Will Arnett has a mustache. They're gonna play "Dirtywhirl" off the air. This is blowing my mind right now.

Scott Frank obviously (...or maybe not) whittled The Lookout down from years of stray script ideas. The story isn't exactly special, in fact it's so straight-forward and kind of predictable that you could call it classic. It's one you've seen before, but that's because it's really really excellent. Small town high school jock star falls from grace, becomes cast aside loser, gets wrapped up in criminal plot (in this case, a heist of the bank he works as a janitor at) only to make his stand right at that climactic moment. Frank's brilliance is injecting his hero with a soul abyss, a deep sorrow my girlfriend said, that you rarely see in movies. Joseph Gordon-Levitt playing Chris Pratt is soaked in sadness, his eyes always downcast; he looks like a dank basement. There are no bright colors in (t)his world until Isla Fisher's panties - the color of raspberry ice cream at Friendly's, that lavender that leans on the red side.

Chris Pratt's affliction, the thing that places him firmly in the loser column, is his short-term memory loss and some motor skills problems. Now, we all saw Memento, and we know, it's a masterpiece. But this is different. Guy Pearce is awesome in that - but, well, he played it like he thought it should be played, as an actor, with a part and a script. Gordon-Levitt becomes it. He is this guy. He put himself in the life of a young guy who, in one night, in one accident, lost everything, and never came back the same. He disappears so completely, and sucks you in. Pearce's Leonard was at least still able, physically. Chris Pratt can't walk quite right, he can't lift a beer with his left hand, he blurts out inappropriate things to the women he likes, he gets the shakes, fits of rage, uncontrolled crying. That's why it doesn't matter that you just know how it'll end. You need to see it. You need to know, to see what happens to Chris Pratt. My girlfriend works in the health field - she's worked with people who've had serious brain injuries, and seen the spectrum of emotional wreckage that comes with it. She assures me, Joseph Gordon-Levitt got it exactly right, and it kills you to see him suffer, but as an audience member you're loving it. This why you pay for those ten dollar tickets. JGL is a talent to keep a close eye on. I said it in the beginning of this blog, when I talked about last year's Brick. When I die, I expect Joseph Gordon-Levitt to be my generation's Paul Newman. An actor of such stature that the mention of his name will immediately bring to mind a career of impeccable choices and breathtaking performances. I see the future, motherfuckers.

...I'm listening to the new Kings Of Leon album, Because Of The Times. It's brilliant. They manage to be completely retro, and yet not sound like anyone...so are they really retro then?? Yeah, I actually want to redact that, because every other review is going to use the word 'retro', and it's just not the right word. This album is doing something very unique - it's 100% a late night rock album, at the very least it needs to be dark, like 9pm before you put it on, but I'd say optimum range is 1am-ish. There is no way in hell that you could listen to this during the day, at least not the first half, which is where I'm at. I even want to say it's specifically a soundtrack to low lit debauchery, the spirit of Exile On Main St. filtered somehow through Andy Gill and The Edge, or the other way around. Haunting. Haunting is the word...OK, my one reference is, "Trunk" sounds like the second half of The Stones' "Can't You Hear Me Knocking"...OK, I'm done. It's also one of the greatest driving albums ever. "Ragoo" is the only weak track really...I wonder that it's title comes from that Adam Sandler skit from his second album, with the goat and the ragoo festival, cuz it's got that skank to it. It might be the greatest album specifically for open-highway night-driving of all time...AH, this makes sense - from The Observer Music Monthly:

Kings of Leon have spent much of the past couple of years in potentially soul-sapping support slots on extended US stadium tours by the likes of Bob Dylan, Pearl Jam and, most significantly, U2. But rather than be ground down by that experience, they've used it as the jumping-off point for a bold expansion of their own parameters

Yeah, that's tells me alot. The rhythm section, especially the bassist, paid alot of attention to Ament & Cameron. I'm going away in two weeks, Down South where the Followill boys are from, and I can't wait to drive on the interstate at midnight, surrounded by 18-wheelers, doing 90mph, listening to "On Call" or "McFearless" or "Black Thumbnail".

In alot of ways, the KOL album brings me back to The Lookout. I immediately perked up when the film started with fellow Southerners, My Morning Jacket's instant classic "One Big Holiday" from 2003's It Still Moves; there's a serendipity between Southern bands and the lands they come from, sprawling fields stretching like languid guitar lines, and in this case towering arpeggios crashing down as Chris Pratt's car does. And well, there's that sense of possibility, of the great farmlands, open wide across the middle of America, that these bands can conjure up. Because Scott Frank cast such excellent actors in his four major roles, they give the characters possibilities; they give them outs, choose-your-own endings. But in order to have those, you have to be in touch with where you're from, and why you are where you're at now. Gordon-Levitt has it easy in that sense; as the main character, his reasons are the crux of the tale. Not so for Jeff Daniels' Lewis, or Isla Fisher's Luvlee, or Matthew Goode's Gary. But no matter; they work wonders in scenes that are as much highlights as Gordon-Levitt's star turn. When Lewis argues with Chris at a restaurant, and snaps at the waitress for the check, it says volumes about how he's been mistreated as a blind person. His conversation/interrogation of Luvlee illustrates the same, a wisdom that can only come from being screwed over multiple times...there's a reason Ray Charles had all the same denomination of dollar bill. Luvlee is the most wide open; her moment, tears down her cheeks as she looks across the snow covered fields in the distance speaks volumes about her dissatisfaction with her life and her guilt about how she's treating Chris - hooker with a heart of gold and all that, 'cept for she's a stripper. As she looks in half-horror at the guns for the heist, Matthew Goode's Gary gives her that ice cold look, like 'if you double cross us, I'll have that emotionless spectre Bone snuff out your candlelight of life'. Gary stays sinister throughout, making you wonder if his high school back story really would check out. But in the final moments, it's his shortcomings, not Chris', that are left hanging, unforgiven.

...there's something very very special about De La Soul. It's too broad a feeling to really pinpoint why. Their greatness is just so...right. I think Plug Wonder Why is my favorite MC.

"Have You Ever Been To Electric Ladyland?" might be the most underrated song in Jimi Hendrix's catalog. It's completely alone, a nice little soul number. I remember reading that it was the only song he ever did where he was happy with his vocals. Which is amazing to me, cuz I think he's one of the greatest singers; his phrasing is second to none. I sometimes wonder what the Motown and Stax cats thought of him. I gotta imagine at least The Temptations dug him, considering their "Ball of Confusion"/"Cloud Nine" period.

Scott Frank's directorial debut is a success because he took the time to carve his characters some real details, and then found the right actors to make those details work. The journey need not be unique every time now in film, because fucked up shit happens to all of us, and it's those shared experiences that makes life easier. And Chris Pratt is on the road to forgiveness; his story is rewarding because the end justifies the beginning.

Raz's ratings
FILM: The Lookout




MUSIC: Kings Of Leon's Because Of The Times




-The Lookout website
-Kings Of Leon website
-Kings Of Leon video for "On Call"

WHERE BROOKLYN AT??!!?

OK, if you ask my friends, they can tell you that I love to rant about music, but this goes to the next level. I am really pissed off now. I know that...I think it was Brian Eno - cuz when in doubt, Eno - but I think Eno said that greatest hits albums were only for housewives...or some shit, I'm totally messing up the quote...The point is that greatest hits albums are crap, and real fans shouldn't get all bent out of shape over them since it's usually the record companies that throw them together (Speaking of: if anyone that works at said companies ever reads this, hire me to compile hits collections; I'd stick to the artist's vision & will give you good product - but I digress). I like to get bent out of shape anyway.

What happens when the record company head is the artist's "best friend", and the artist is dead?? You get the fucking rape of a great and vibrant career for truckloads of dollars.

I'm talking to you, Sean Combs, you motherfucking whore. You are a vaccuum in which art cannot breathe.

Stop ruining Christopher Wallace's artistic legacy. He was the greatest MC that Hip-Hop has ever known. His only competition would be from The R - Rakim, and it's close. I believe that Eric B. & Rakim's "Follow The Leader" is the greatest single MC recording in the 28 year history of Hip-Hop on wax. But Biggie's command of the English language, his ability to pull it & shape it & mold it, is second to none, and the variety of his elocution and rhyme schemes, his acute attention to detail, and his unique inflections, are what him make number one to me and alot of Hip-Hop fans. And this tremendous talent should be celebrated, not pissed on to prop up your own suffering career.

I read yesterday of the upcoming release of the long overdue Notorious B.I.G. Greatest Hits collection. Now, Pitchforkmedia was correct - you can have his two proper albums for $40 and be done with it. But I believe that hits collections are for the next generation, as introductions; all anthologies should be compiled with that in mind, not immediate dollar signs. Look at Al Green's Greatest Hits. At its core, it has remained the same for three decades, but gets added onto to further define its value. It is the ideal example. Why can't Biggie have that?? Let's look at the tracklist...

Juicy, Big Poppa, Hypnotize, Warning - OK, the hits. Check. But where is the monster hit "Mo Money, Mo Problems"? Could it be because Diddy is trying to have people forget the shiny jumpsuits, or is it because Mase left him for 50 Cent?

Ten Crack Commandments, Unbelievable - Universal genre favorites. Check.

One More Chance (Remix), Who Shot Ya - Ooh very good, hits not found on the original albums, so you get added fan dollars. Check. See, there is a way to do this with integrity AND dollars in mind.

Notorious Thugs, Niggas Bleed, Fuck You Tonight - Hmmm, I don't know what Mr. Puffy is going for here...I guess padding the collection with tracks from a bloated double CD, when this collection definitely doesn't need them. Now, I can see the argument for "Notorious Thugs", because alot of Hip-Hop heads feel this is an exceptional example of what I praised Biggie for before. He adapts his entire skill set to fit Bone Thugs-N-Harmony's quick stutter-step flow, and succeeds at a ridiculous level. But that doesn't change the fact that Bone Thugs take up too much of the track. Where's "I've Got a Story To Tell" or "You're Nobody 'Til Somebody Kills You"? Where's "Sky's The Limit" (which was a single), or "Going Back To Cali"? If you're going to pull material from Life After Death, where are the iconic tracks? Where is the fucking immense "Kick In The Door"?? That should be front and center here...

Get Money (by Junior MAFIA) - Well, here ya go. Lose this song and add "Kick In The Door"; they share lyrics, but 'Kick' is (a) a better song, and (b) all Biggie. Replace "Get Money" with "Players Anthem" which is better anyway. Besides "Get Money" was always more about Lil' Kim anyway.

Dead Wrong (feat. Eminem) - Sean. Please. This is obvious whoring - there is no reason to have the later version of this song featuring Marshall on a Biggie Greatest Hits other than to maybe catch a couple extra bucks. His tacked-on appearance, while very good, was a novelty to begin with, and was played out as it should've been when it was originally released in 1999. Why not release a good quality version of the original B-side so that the fans will actually pay for not having to listen to the shitty vinyl rips that have been floating around the internet for years & years? I'd also add (actually, open the disc with) the 1993 freestyle of Biggie completely slaying Tupac (the one that begins with Biggie yelling 'Where Brooklyn at??'). While you're at it, please also add the great "Party & Bullshit", Biggie's first single. Its absence here is inexcusable.

Notorious BIG, Nasty Girl, Running Your Mouth, Want That Old Thing Back - This can now be called sick, and Diddy is dangerously close to necrophilia. These posthumous cut-&-paste jobs, two from previous collections and two "new" abominations, sink to a horrible low and are exactly what I'm talking about when I call Sean Combs a whore. They are shameless and, even worse, as far from essential to the legacy of The Notorious B.I.G. as one could get. They are not celebrations of Biggie. They are musical leeches sucking his soul dry. Meanwhile, classic cuts, like the ones I've mentioned already, or even better tracks from Biggie's near-flawless debut such as "Things Done Changed" or "The What" get left behind; "Everyday Struggle" and "Gimme The Loot" might actually be his best songs - the former the shining light of hope in the middle of his nihilism, the latter a masterful crime narrative in which Biggie rhymes as two separate people with two flows, at two pitches - and they are still nowhere near this "Greatest Hits".

In the end, even if Diddy thinks he's being noble, he's doing his late friend a disservice by giving potential listeners the wrong impression of what the recorded legacy of The Notorious B.I.G. should be. Christopher Wallace deserves to be remembered as a pioneer in his arena, just as Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain, Bob Marley, and John Lennon are in theirs. He fills that space in the history of Hip-Hop. This compilation goes nowhere towards that goal, and Sean Combs' hand in this end result is wholly regrettable and borders on criminal.

Raz's Ratings
MUSIC: The Notorious B.I.G.'s Greatest Hits