Record Reviews
The New Sound Of Numbers
originally published October 11, 2006
"Something entirely new… and fresh," says a woman in the sound bite opening Liberty Seeds, the debut by local gang The New Sound of Numbers. If this is supposed to refer to the album, it's an outright and wonderful lie. No, Liberty Seeds pays a lot of tribute to an era that can never be mined too deeply: late-'70s, post-punk art rock.
Frontwoman Hannah Jones hones her musical chops as percussionist for Circulatory System, but the sound of the new band is only peripherally beneath the Elephant 6 shadow. There's that Olivia Tremor Control sense of disjointed pop and delicious quirkiness, for sure, but all 13 tracks here are underpinned by a love for This Heat, The Slits, The Raincoats and their ilk. "Luminous September" features scraping, picked guitar alternating with Athens jangle and Jones' "la-la" vocals, which sound not unlike Verity Jones from Electrelane, another group to name-check here.
Percussion is the key to Liberty Seeds, obviously a given with such a gifted bearer of things to be shaken. "Minimal Animal" sounds like a kinetic, early His Name is Alive song, flitting through pseudo-gospel and bluegrass. At times things get a bit avant-garde, and this is where Jones shines. "La" is just that, beautiful violin swaying beneath hundreds of "la"s and some odd "eeeeeee" words. Here's to hoping that future albums will see Jones indulge even more in her adventurous tendencies.
For now, though, Liberty Seeds will fit snugly between Cut and Dusk at Cubist Castle in your collection. Another float in the Athens Hit Parade.
Record Reviews
KMFDM
originally published October 11, 2006
Although I’ve been listening to Ruck Zuck as a proper album, it is, essentially, a companion piece to the last full-length album by KMFDM, Hau Ruck. Featuring six remixes from that album, along with three additional tracks, it’s difficult to say this is a necessary release. KMFDM has passed the point of having to justify anything it does; although the band sells records to what is now its third generation of fans, KMFDM doesn’t play to audience expectation so much as its audience molds its taste to what the band does.
The group specializes in grinding guitars (“industrial," if you will, although that misses the mark somewhat), super-tempo dance beats, surprisingly melodic tunes and lyrics that are, depending on one's interpretation, deeply considered or laughably surface-oriented. The evidence of the latter seems clear enough (“Yours is not to ask why /yours is to do and die / professional killer”), but the former is much more difficult to ascertain. Ultimately, that’s part and parcel of what makes me continue to listen to KMFDM. It’s not so much a case of me wanting to figure the band's songs out, but, rather, me wanting to figure out what these songs mean to me.
Ruck Zuck's best track is “Professional Killer,” with its maddeningly simple-faced lyrics. A determined bass line plants the track immediately, and the almost-sexy vocals entice. Further, the tune itself is so damn addictive that forgetting its subject matter is easily ignored. But is this a case of picking out the good and leaving the mundane?
Although ostensibly a companion piece, Ruck Zuck's nine tracks hold their own quite well. KMFDM has a library full of similar albums with some significant divergences, it’s a sound I still find myself undeniably drawn to.
Record Reviews
Obie Trice
originally published October 11, 2006
So Mr. Trice apparently thinks he’s heir to the throne in Detroit now that Eminem has supposedly retired (even though we all think he’s taking it about as easy as Jay-Z), and with the blond boy stepping in as producer on Trice’s second album, I suppose he kind of has the right to say that. The problem is that, while Trice is interesting, he’s not exciting in the way Eminem is.
Second Round’s on Me takes some chances in production, with “Wanna Know” built on a riffy '70s rock song by Power of Zeus, but there’s nothing off-putting in the curious way Em excels; that is, everything that might make you turn up your nose is simple, old and done, rather than freshly irritating. The narrative of Obie’s life provides a lot of material, turning up in at least a third of the songs, and while that gets tired after a while, most of those songs are the ones that stand out. Sure, “Jamaican Girl” has a sweaty little beat and “All of My Life” is pretty catchy, but lines like “Wanna choke on the dong like it’s a bong” detract from the beat a little.
Mostly, the storyline seems confused. As best as I can interpret, it’s all about how he used to sell drugs and shoot people, but now he’s past that and a rapper, except he still seems to want to do the latter, although sometimes he thinks about his mom and doesn’t want to. Can you have both redemption and nostalgia for a bad past? And should you talk about your dick a lot in the process? Maybe you can, but it’s all a little muddled. On the other hand, the dude did get shot in the head.
Record Reviews
Wolf Eyes
originally published October 11, 2006
The writhing, electro-fried noise rock that oozes throughout the American underground right now is typically agoraphobic. Musicians create most of the stuff alone in front of computers and homemade instruments, the concerts happen in dark, dilapidated basements and warehouses, and God knows the records will kill a party dead in its tracks.
Wolf Eyes has successfully flipped that script, though, making albums that desire, in their own insecure way, to be heard and liked. The band's live shows are absurd spectacles, more monster truck rallies than scenes of subcultural catharsis - you are asked to check your sincerity and self-consciousness at the door and get totally pumped. And the trio’s songs are, well, songs - purposive units devoid of aimless bleating and droning.
On Human Animal, its second album for Sub Pop, the band injects a little widescreen ambition into its post-hardcore power electronics, taking its game up a notch and moving even further out of the noise ghetto. Opener “A Million Years” offers a more cinematic reading of the group’s patented tension-and-release approach, noir-ish blues sax swelling into an onslaught of distorted screeching. Elsewhere Wolf Eyes exercises more restraint, dealing in atmospherics rather than explosive pay-offs. This slow-burn approach works surprisingly well, yielding forbidding cross-breeds of Coil’s spooky industrial electronics and a pro wrestling villain’s anti-humanist streak like “Lake of Roaches” and “Rusted Mange.”
Even Human Animal's more vitriolic songs are far from the chest-beating bro-downs featured in the band’s early albums: in “The Driller,” a piercing, Fripp-esque high-end tone and wispy sax lament bookend a march of tortured screams and muddy electronic pulses, with the vocalist sounding more frightened than we are.
Record Reviews
Helevetia
originally published October 11, 2006
While listening to The Clever North Wind, a colleague of mine said something that was very true. He said, "The cooks need clean soup cups and bowls downstairs." This was very true, because I was at my day job washing dishes, and he was not my colleague, he was my boss. After he chased me around the kitchen in fast-forward Benny Hill-style, we returned our attention to discussing The Clever North Wind and how bad it is. A coworker of mine compared the music to the theme from the TV show "Grey's Anatomy," and here's what I can say about that: I have never seen that show and I cannot confirm whether that is true. That's Flagpole's fact-checking nightmare, not mine.
I can, however, say that Helvetia establishes a mid-tempo groove as the album lazily kicks off, and more or less stays there for the duration of the 15 (!!!) tracks. Synths and undistorted guitars lay limp underneath a slovenly lead singer who sounds reluctantly awoken and bored. The music reminds me why I wasted so much time hating Stephen Malkmus when I was younger, chiefly for hatching in so many serotonin-deprived white guys the idea that effort is not mandatory. Think Grandaddy minus the soulful detachment, or Stereolab deprived of all sexiness. It is unoffensiveness epitomized.
It's not the sort of stuff that my service industry brethren and I can relate to; these dudes probably work temp jobs. In fact, as I found myself struggling to focus on the record itself, my mind wandered (as it often does while listening to indie rock of this ilk) towards thoughts of what sort of car this music would be used to sell. The car would be described as "sporty" and would probably be a two-door. The commercial would feature a woman, probably in her late 20s, with a smart, short haircut and a knowing smirk. She makes more money than I do and, in all likelihood, works at the same temp job as the dudes in Helvetia. What is she smirking about? Is she single? Is there a baby seat in the back, and furthermore, would her having a kid disrupt the chances of her sleeping with me? All questions gone unanswered thanks to Helvetia's wholly inconspicuous and fully marketable dreck. Thanks for nothing, Helvetia. I don't even know if I'm spelling your name right.
Record Reviews
Scissor Sisters
originally published October 11, 2006
The music of Scissor Sisters is often compared to Elton John (and okay, he actually plays on the first track, the probable classic "I Don't Feel Like Dancing"), but favoring the still-hip, gay '70s piano man seems too easy. What about the actual piano man, one Mr. Billy Joel? His spirit is evident on Tah-Dah!, signaled most clearly by an electric banjo (evoking "The Entertainer") but lurking primarily in the album's mood, which takes the grief the band faced between albums and turns it into desperate, hostile cheer. The banjo song, "Can't Decide," sets lines like "My heart feels dead inside / cold and hard and petrified" to a Vaudevillian two-step, and vacillates over killing someone because they might come back as a zombie. If Tah-Dah! isn't as sweaty as Joel - and it's not, it's shiny almost to a fault - well, the members of Scissor Sisters aren't the poets laureate of Long Island.
It's this dual meaning that makes Tah-Dah! a less immediate album than the band's debut, and while some songs likely won't pan out over time (hard to envision the Lionel Richie horns of "Lights" ever sounding appealing), most sport as many buried hooks as Radiohead. Try listening to "Intermission" when you're down sometime: it perfectly encapsulates the album's philosophy of unflinchingly facing death, making fun of it and then having a party, as the band does on fantastic disco tracks like "Paul McCartney" (another apt comparison) before summoning mass inclusion and uplift on the anthemic "Everybody Wants the Same Thing." It's like a Yoshimi that doesn't suck.
Record Reviews
Megan Baer
originally published October 11, 2006
The first time I saw Megan Baer and her band play was at the 40 Watt in the spring of 2005, and even though all concerned had a heady touch of the “pollen,” I was still touched by Baer’s bittersweet vocals and the band's evocative and feisty country-folk musicality.
It’s taken this long to record and finish Out of Place, but it’s been worth the wait for an album that definitely serves to polish the memory of that initial impression while lifting a veil to reveal the many facets of Baer’s diverse vocal and songwriting talents. Across the 12 tracks, these bear some strong resemblance to Johnette Napolitano’s early work fronting Concrete Blonde, as well as warm hints of Neko Case, Beth Orton and Sarah McLachlan, with enchanting glimpses of Sinead O’Connor, Billie Holiday and Norah Jones.
Musically Baer and band, the backbone of which includes multi-instrumentalist and album producer Michael Wegner (Cosmic Charlie) and master timekeeper Seth Hendershot (Blueground Undergrass), also spread their wings from a base of country folk rock and invite in a healthy dose of traditional world grass, due, I’m sure in no small part, to the encouragement, friendship and musical input of Noel Beverley (Calliope Fair) and the oh-so-fine fiddling of Amanda Kapousouz (Tin Cup Prophette).
Out of Place is a coat of many autumnal colors, a seductive and luxuriant debut of great depth and warmth. It should add the vital element to many a smoky fireside or rain-soaked road trip.
Record Reviews
Damien Jurado
originally published October 11, 2006
Upon first listen, it’s difficult to believe that once-upon-a-time Damien Jurado was a drug-addled Seattle gutter punk that played in hardcore bands and rubbed shoulders with the likes of Kurt Cobain. The simple and sparse folk songs floating over veiled orchestral arrangements courtesy of Eric Fisher and Jenna Conrad and a warm acoustic guitar make it easy to believe Jurado is in fact a pre-school teacher and a father.
Delivered with a plaintive calmness (similar to Mark Kozelek, with a dash of Will Johnson), songs like “Denton, TX” are matter-of-factly melancholy. The album is a day-long slow drizzle, and unfortunately for Jurado, he’s on foot and without an umbrella. While this may sound a bit heartless - his misfortune is a blessing for listeners.
Gluttons for sadness, immerse yourselves in the deeply emotional “What Were The Chances,” a confessional testament that examines the confusion of infidelity while a metronome keeps the beat and bandmate Jenna Conrad echoes Jurado’s vocals in a darkish whisper.
It’s a little disappointing to learn that Jurado’s narratives are wholly impersonal; he channels the characters he sings of and like an actor merely portrays emotion. But then, fiction is acceptable on the haunting Bruce Springsteen facsimile “Shannon Rhodes,” a moving portrait of a missing person that sends shivers.
Record Reviews
Stefy
originally published October 11, 2006
Yes, the name of the girl is the name of the band. If PJ Harvey can do it, why can’t these kids? Especially when said girl, despite not being involved so much in the writing part, does such a good job at the frontwoman role. The album art makes it clear that she can both dress and pose with hands on hips, but she’s more than cuteness propped up in front of instrument-playing dudes. Her voice isn't all that, but that’s pretty much irrelevant in this kind of pop assessment. Suffice it to say that she can growl, and she’s got better, stronger pipes than Madonna, a comparison which is appropriate for some of this stuff.
It’s nice to be reminded that '80s nostalgia isn’t always leggings with heels and Justin desperately trying to bring sexy back. Stefy is working much more in the Duran Duran line, with the occasional bit of electro nerd a la Thomas Dolby and some early Madge. That is, there are lots of those lovely keyboards from back in the day, and a dreamy touch to the production, but there’s a softer, more romantic side to these songs than the waxed feel of LeBon.
The ballads work just as well as the more pumped-up numbers. “Orange County,” for example, has plenty of cheese in its tale of teen pregnancy, but both it and “Lucky Girl” use piano, strings and general prettiness to produce a Martha Coolidge kind of heart satisfaction. The dancey songs are equally satiating for the most part (e.g., “Chelsea” and “Hey School Boy”), neither aggressively sexy nor stuporous, but solid and twitchy at the same time. There’s some filler, but it’s certainly enough orange for the price.
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