Nas
Untitled
Def Jam
originally published August 27, 2008
Any discussion of Nas’ ninth proper album begins with his initial decision to call it Nigger and then, in the months leading up to its release, change it to the more Wal-Mart-friendly Untitled. Was this chain of events motivated by artistic integrity or marketing ambition? How you answer that question will determine how you respond to the album.
If you buy that his intentions are artistic and genuine, then it’s a fascinating account of how one man lives with the word, at times reveling in it and in the next moment despising it. However, if you want to ignore the controversy and focus on the music, the album is a disappointment. Most of the songs have a slick and dated R&B feel. This makes it a task to listen to all the way through, which may be appropriate for an exploration of the word... Untitled. It’s a concept album where the concept is a word, possibly the most vulgar, uncomfortable and complicated word we have, but a word most rappers use freely nonetheless.
In the midst of blessing us with non-stop rhyming and a flow that proves he’s still at the top of the game, Nas gives multiple definitions of the word, most contradicting each other. Nas contradicting himself is nothing new, and in the past he has defended his discrepancies and inaccuracies with the argument that he’s repeating what’s said on the street corner. His goal is to recreate the conversations of the overlooked and ignored for the masses. Because Nas changed the title, the world now has access to this conversation. Remarkably, Nas has created a musically unsatisfying album worthy of multiple listens.
The Green Knight
The Eternal Om
Thor's Rubber Hammer Productions
originally published August 27, 2008
This album has got so much going for it. First off, its format is that venerable, most saturated sounding and nearly extinct of media: it’s a cassette tape! And a green one at that! It takes me back to that first menacingly colored cassette I ever got: Sabbath’s Sabotage in a pitch-black cartridge. It changed my sweet young life, and this mug’s destined to live in the same two-decades-old shoebox that houses all my faves, collected since I was 14: Germicide, Amps for Christ demo, Crack W.A.R., Meat Puppets Live '81 and said copy of Sabotage, among others.
Second, it’s a TRHP release, so you know it was conceived of and assembled with enthusiasm, energy and total art-for-art’s-sake righteousness by former Athens homeboy Lars Gotrich. The cover art is killer: full-color bong-puke distorto-psych doodles with Ozzy in a Lechter mask.
And, finally, this is puretee, eyebrows arched, mind annihilating anti-music made by two spirits so drug-destroyed, nullified and incensed that they actually attempt to massacre the playback head of your tapemachine with a chainsaw, a retarded piano, affected cries of agony and layers and layers of evil skree-filth that can either plainly wreck your day or brighten your black mood, depending on where you’re at when you come to it. It's as shitty as a stolen bike or as edifying as an hour with Pandit Pran Nath. This dark missive is pure abstract expressionism: a feces-encrusted ego-mirror; a funny way to clear a room; a worthless piece of trash - all true.
And it sounds great!
Blue Sky Foundry
Whispering Campaign
Chop Shop Sound
originally published August 27, 2008
While the band reportedly formed in Athens in the mid-'90s, I’ll be damned if I can remember it. Now grown up with demanding careers, Blue Sky Foundry still manages to put out records that sound as if the band lives in a musical time warp.
That said, Whispering Campaign is quite tuneful and delivers its strongest moments when the band sticks to songs featuring crystal clear, arpeggio–laden melodies and minor chord vocalization. That is to say, it's best when it sounds like college charts of the early '90s (i.e., The Connells, etc.). This isn’t meant as an insult but rather as an encouragement for the band to play to its strengths.
Occasionally, Blue Sky Foundry veers into distorted guitar territory (“Hard Charger," “Winter”) which sounds like cheap filler. At the band's best there are gentle, echo-filled songs like “Mean What You Say” and Natalie Merchant-styled up-tempo numbers like “ETA.” The band makes much use out of the musical touchstones of its college days, and because of this the record can sound unintentionally retro. However, there’s probably very few folks in college today who have even a passing knowledge of how jangly and folksy so much of college radio was almost 20 years ago.
The point is that this record should, ironically, only sound old to, well, older people. There’s lots of young folks who would love this album's commitment to melody and composition. Even as someone who can’t stand people talking about how "great" music used to be, I still can’t deny that I was positively pleased by much of this.
Okkervil River
The Stand Ins
Jagjaguwar
originally published August 27, 2008
Rejoice, music fans; there’s hope on the horizon. Okkervil River, who released one of 2007’s most criminally under appreciated albums - The Stage Names - is back with the sequel, The Stand Ins.
Written at the same time as The Stage Names, The Stand Ins picks up where its predecessor left off. Country rhythms, gorgeous instrumentation and a lyrical earnestness few bands seem to have these days are Okkervil River’s strengths. These guys mean business, and The Stand Ins proves it.
Throughout the album’s outstanding tracks, listeners are pummeled with excellent song after excellent song. There are moments of sheer beauty on The Stand Ins, such as the organ swell that leads to an epic outro on “Blue Tulip” and the out-and-out pop of “Calling and Not Calling My Ex.”
There’s not a lot wrong with The Stand Ins, which is what makes the album so hard to describe. Too much praise will seem disingenuous, while not enough praise will be selling Okkervil River’s accomplishment with the album short. Let’s just say this: The Stand Ins is an album you should buy, and buy now. Its gorgeous moments are enough to make you fall in love with the band, while its lesser moments aren’t enough to take away from the whole. Highest possible recommendation.
Matt Pryor
Confidence Man
Vagrant
originally published August 27, 2008
Multiple listens to Confidence Man has left me wondering what the heck happened to Pryor.
Pryor first bubbled up on the rock radar as guitarist and singer for The Get Up Kids. His hyperactive voice was all listeners needed to instantly start pogo-ing. Now, instead of listening to his inner Black Francis, Pryor seems to channel his inner James Taylor on Confidence Man. The result is pure suburban dad rock; acoustic guitars, songs about love and loss and unabashed, bleary-eyed optimism.
Even though Confidence Man reeks of pure schmaltz, there are still a few moments that are worthy of checking out: “Loralai” is a song that proves that Pryor can still write a melody that will stick in your head for days. “When the World Stops Turning” is a gorgeous little song that is punctuated by a lonesome harmonica, and “I’m Sorry Stephen” has the chord progressions in place to be a Get Up Kids barn burner; instead the strums of the guitars are quieted, and the chug along melody leaves listeners wondering what might have been.
Confidence Man may be a misstep, but it’s a decent portrait of what happens to the aging indie rocker, warts and all.
The Verve
Forth
On Your Own
originally published August 27, 2008
The latest of the legendary bands recognizing the futility of its individual efforts, The Verve has reformed to recapture past magic. Few have penned songs as big and celestial as The Verve's stoner epics, which streak the sky with crestfallen majesty and psychedelic grandeur. As if acknowledging the titanic feat of filling its own shoes as one of the most definitive English bands of the ‘90s, The Verve has come with the entire original lineup rather than some half-assed franchise reunion.
While not a complete return to the transcendence of some of its past heights, Forth is a solid effort that can claim a legitimate, unasterisked place in The Verve's hallowed catalog. It’s mature without resembling singer Richard Ashcroft’s surprisingly bland solo career. For all his immense shamanic mystique, his post-Verve work lacked the foundational heft to lift his naturally soulful pop hooks into the heavens where they once were. Thanks to his old bandmates, that rock muscle is restored and in fit form here.
Reintroducing the band in assertive fashion is the narcotic, serpentine shuffle of opener “Sit and Wonder.” The iconic, motoring elegance of “Love Is Noise” packs enough single-worthy gestures to reaffix them to the popular consciousness. The immaculate pop-soul of the wistful “Judas” shimmers, while the mounting violence of “Noise Epic” proves they can still turn on the afterburners.
Forth’s success as a comeback album is in the balance it strikes between popular appeal and artistic depth, age and relevance. It’s a substantial return to form good enough to reclaim The Verve's throne in the canon of great British rock.
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