Thought I'd take advantage of Lolla ticket day to pop in with some recommendations not from the fabled chaos of Bobby Sunshine's brain for a change, but from a few of you -- the three non-familial readers of this site. From time to time the three of you are kind enough to shoot me feedback ("Hey dummy, you're way off base about [Band X] -- they suck almost as much as your semi-millennial posts!"), and sometimes they soften their shots with a touch of sugar and a band they think is worth the attention I'm currently squandering elsewhere. So the below represent three of their best suggestions from recent months -- the indie trio Good Old War, the duo Blind Pilot, and solo artist Gregory Alan Isakov.
The first offering comes from my buddy Mr. 50 (per) Cent, a lover of terrible metal and some bands like these guys who are actually quite nice. Good Old War -- a mix of Philly-based Keith Goodwin, Tim Arnold, and Daniel Schwartz's names and notes -- conjure a mellow vibe on this, their eponymous sophomore effort. Full of songs about life ("Sneaky Louise"), love ("My Own Sinking Ship"), and the pursuit of happiness ("My Name's Sorrow") the band rides along on Goodwin's bright vocals and Schwartz's fingerpicked guitar. It works well -- the band manages to thread the needle on songs whose tone or lyrics easily could tip towards schmaltz, but they maintain an earnest, sincere tenor throughout. It's a lovely Sunday afternoon album, and none shines brighter (or combines the aforementioned three pots better) than "That's Some Dream," which you can check out here:
Next comes an offering from a total stranger, so courtesy of Silent Observer, meet Blind Pilot. Comprised of singer/guitarist Israel Nebeker and drummer Ryan Dobrowski this Portland, OR duo arrive with another Sunday morning special on their debut, 3 Rounds and a Sound. Similar to Good Old War, this one exudes a warmth and sweetness that works nicely across the album's eleven songs. Nebeker's voice is a little deeper and fuller than Goodwin's, and he adds a few more notes of melancholy to the proceedings to round things out, but the effect (and enjoyment) is largely the same.
A languid, almost stately feel abounds -- from "Paint or Pollen" and "Poor Boy" to "Two Towns from Me" and "I Buried a Bone" -- each stretches lazily like a cat in the sun alongside Nebeker's classical fingerpicking and hushed croon. His lyrics are more obtuse than Goodwin's ("make music with the chatter in here, and whisper all the notes in my ear" from the lush opener "Oviedo"), which keeps you coming back to parse the mystery while the melodies usher you along. The closing title track shoots a little more clear, with lyrics on love in the hard times and a quiet resolve, which resonated lately -- check it out here:
Last up comes one from the reason for that resolve, the unstoppable hype machine that is my Commando. She found this one and put it on during one of our roadtrips a few months ago and it stood out, so wanted to share the discovery. Hatched from the talent of another Philadelphian (by way of South Africa and Colorado), Gregory Alan Isakov's latest The Weatherman, may be a first heard to me/you, but actually is his fifth disc. (And it came out two years ago, so we're late there too!) Despite being slow on the uptake, the minute you hear the opening strains of the regal "Amsterdam," you'll understand what others have likely known for years.
Isakov has a wonderful voice -- similar to the other bands noted today, he at times calls to mind Paul Simon, while others acts like Clem Snide, Bon Iver, or Jose Gonzalez -- and it lulls you into the warm stupor of a fireside nap. If Good Old War sketch the sunnier notes and Blind Pilot the melancholic mid-tones, Isakov fills in the weary shadows to the same painting. (The fatigue on "Honey, It's Alright" is almost palpable, while the narrator of "Second Chances" sounds like a man who's handed out more than his fair share.) Perhaps that's why the brighter moments shine all the more -- "Living Proof" and "Suitcase Full of Sparks" provide some animated juxtaposition to the gutshot hush, but none top the lovely "Saint Valentine." A lush little narrative infused with Isakov's patented weariness marbling the lyrics. Check it out here:
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
Sunday, March 8, 2015
Wintery Mix Advisory: Flakes, Mist, and Thunder
Finally shoveled a path from my couch to the computer, so figured I'd take a moment to stop in and highlight a few albums that have been the soundtrack to the snowfall lately. We'll start at the beginning -- in this case the beginning of what turned into indie darlings The Shins and the re-issue of the 1997 album, When You Land Here, It's Time to Return, released under the moniker Flake Music. All the original Shins are here -- most recognizably frontman James Mercer with his nasally voice and splendid melodies -- and from the onset it feels like you've stumbled upon a lost piece of their repertoire. It's classic Shins -- Mercer's aforementioned voice and harmonies aim for the stars, while Sandoval and Co. give heft to his sharp lyrics. (The album's opening line, "use a pen to reflect what you've got left to protect on the old dusty shelves of your childhood room" sets the bar from the get-go.) There's even the requisite instrumental tracks that filled time on their subsequent releases, albeit a bit more plentiful here. ("Roziere," "Candy Dish of Diamonds," "Vantage")
If anything the Shins as Flakes are a bit more amped up and muscular than you'd expect, like a high school jock in his prime before the knee injury that will leave him more timid and tame a few years down the road. (Their classic debut Oh, Inverted World came out in 2001.) "Deluca" roars from the gates while "Structo" has a classic grunge riff buttressing the chorus that works nicely. The aptly named "Blast Valve" is the most anomalous (in a good way), though -- Mercer's lyrics are still razor sharp ("there's a crowd that believes any lie that rhymes, rubs us better than our thoughts I guess..."), but what's different is the backing. Sandoval sounds like he's exacting his revenge for some unspoken slight as he punishes his kit and the band follows form, charging in his wake until things erupt at the end. It's that high school kid exploding through the line and bowling over a couple linebackers en route to the end zone; a great side of the band to see, if only for an instant.
The highlight for me is the song that's the most telling foreshadow of what's to come, the song (I'd like to think) that first lit the lightbulb in their heads and convinced them of the path they needed to follow, the one that launched The Shins as we'd come to know them. (They even named it after their future selves, it was so convincing!) It's vintage blend -- sing-song lyrics, great, shifting melodies. It wouldn't sound out of place on Inverted or Chutes too Narrow. So close your eyes and enjoy -- check it out here:
Appropriately up second is the follow-on album from singer/songwriter Josh Tillman, returning from his 2012 debut as Father John Misty. Similar to that outing (the fantastic Fear Fun), what immediately grabs you is his voice. It's a warm, wondrous thing, and it's easy to lose yourself in the glow, but what really makes his stuff special is the counterbalance -- how he juxtaposes that honey-laden croon and lush production with snarky, at times wickedly funny lyrics. It's easy to miss them if you're not paying attention -- he throws them off so casually he could be reciting his grocery list for all the emotion he's betraying -- but then you find yourself singing along and something in your brain clicks ("wait, did he/I just say...") and you start smiling because of how fucked up and excellent the lyrics are.
Take the opening single, "Chateau Lobby #4 (in C for Two Virgins)", a lovely tune about the early throes of a relationship, which also showcases the line, "I wanna take you to the kitchen, lift up your wedding dress someone was probably murdered in." Or "Nothing Good Ever Happens at the Goddamn Thirsty Crow," a stately, shuffling dirge that tosses out lines like, "Livin' it up, have it all, pull more women than any two men or train can haul," and immediately follows it with, "but my baby, she does something way more impressive than the Georgia crawl, she blackens pages like a Russian romantic and gets down more often than a blow-up doll." Or "Strange Encounter," whose opening line -- "[You'll] only ever be the girl who just almost died at my house, half-naked looking through your telephone, run you a bath and try hard not to freak out." -- sets the scene for a song about the awkward, ungraceful origins of our relationships.
Every song has at least a couple lines that are sharp enough to pierce stone. The title track would be great enough for the line, "I brought my mother's depression, you've got your father's scorn and wayward aunt's schizophrenia," but then tosses off the immaculately cynical, "Everything is doomed and nothing will be spared, but I love you, Honeybear," which I might adopt as my mantra. Nothing tops "The Night Josh Tillman Came to Our Apt," though, which is so chock full of brilliance I could quote any of its lines and still be leaving out a dozen winners. Beautiful melody, withering sarcasm, and the thing that brought you there in the first place -- Tillman's lovely voice. Check it out here:
Finally, we'll close with the decimating return of the legends -- Sleater-Kinney's ten years in the making return, No Cities to Love. I've had this thing on repeat almost non-stop since its release last month; 33 minutes of sheer, unbridled excellence. Like a prizefighter, it works on you in waves -- the initial killers were lead singles "Surface Envy" and "Bury our Friends," which are jabs probing your defenses that I bounced between for weeks until the album was released. When that finally happened (rejoice!) you're immediately greeted by the blistering opener "Price Tag," which is a hammer shot to the jaw. "Fangless," "A New Wave," and "Hey Darling," are shots aimed at your legs (or more specifically your feet, as all are bound to get you moving), while "No Anthems" is the body shot that breaks three of your ribs and ruptures your spleen.
Their last album The Woods showcased the ladies stretching out a little, thundering over you like a bear through that titular locale. This offering replicates the effect while concentrating the power -- instead of going ten rounds with a bruiser and barely making it to a decision, this is that hook to the temple that catches you unexpectedly and leaves you flat for a first round knockout. There's not much new you can say about these gals -- they're simply one of the best bands out there, male or female (damn that stupid GRRRlpower label), and they do nothing to tarnish that reputation here. As always, Corin's voice remains the litmus test -- you either love it or hate it the first time you hear it -- but as I always try to encourage people before knee-jerk writing them off, if you can force your ear to focus on the other two elements for a second -- Janet's thunderbomb drumming and Carrie's singular, stellar style of guitar playing -- Corin's siren's wail begins to make sense and shine.
That's part of what's always struck me about this band -- how perfectly balanced they are, far more so than any other I can think of. Most bands have got one, maybe two, elements that really shine -- a killer guitar player or an insanely good lead vocalist, say. The rest of the elements aren't bad, mind you, but what grabs you by the heart and/or ear and keeps you coming back are those one or two things. This band, on the other hand, is pure gestalt. You can't focus on Carrie's ever-shifting guitar runs without seeing how well Janet's drums drive them along, or how Corin's voice punctuates a guitar line or drum fill and takes the song (and mood) to the stratosphere. (Or how her lyrics drive things forward -- whether working you into a lather on anthems like "New Wave" and "Surface Envy," or exhorting you to focus on what you have in the closing "Fade." ("If we are truly dancing our swan song, darling, then shake it like never before.")) Each of them on their own are exceptional -- no bullshit, you're not likely to find many (if any) people better than them at their respective roles -- but together they're out of this world. (And somehow they're even better live -- I paid double point five over face to see them and it was well, well worth it.)
Another flawless outing from the Lady Led Zep, check out "No Anthems," a song that is a mindfuck of the highest order and hands down my favorite track on the album. Janet's drums are irresistible, Corin's lyrics and delivery are pure menace ("seduction, pure function --it's how I learned to speak. Steal your power, in my hour, I will change most everything...), and Carrie's guitar sounds absolutely possessed, like some demon-spawn slowly murdering the Matrix. I've listened to it dozens of times and it still fucks with my brain (I honestly cannot comprehend her guitar...) -- check it out here:
If anything the Shins as Flakes are a bit more amped up and muscular than you'd expect, like a high school jock in his prime before the knee injury that will leave him more timid and tame a few years down the road. (Their classic debut Oh, Inverted World came out in 2001.) "Deluca" roars from the gates while "Structo" has a classic grunge riff buttressing the chorus that works nicely. The aptly named "Blast Valve" is the most anomalous (in a good way), though -- Mercer's lyrics are still razor sharp ("there's a crowd that believes any lie that rhymes, rubs us better than our thoughts I guess..."), but what's different is the backing. Sandoval sounds like he's exacting his revenge for some unspoken slight as he punishes his kit and the band follows form, charging in his wake until things erupt at the end. It's that high school kid exploding through the line and bowling over a couple linebackers en route to the end zone; a great side of the band to see, if only for an instant.
The highlight for me is the song that's the most telling foreshadow of what's to come, the song (I'd like to think) that first lit the lightbulb in their heads and convinced them of the path they needed to follow, the one that launched The Shins as we'd come to know them. (They even named it after their future selves, it was so convincing!) It's vintage blend -- sing-song lyrics, great, shifting melodies. It wouldn't sound out of place on Inverted or Chutes too Narrow. So close your eyes and enjoy -- check it out here:
Appropriately up second is the follow-on album from singer/songwriter Josh Tillman, returning from his 2012 debut as Father John Misty. Similar to that outing (the fantastic Fear Fun), what immediately grabs you is his voice. It's a warm, wondrous thing, and it's easy to lose yourself in the glow, but what really makes his stuff special is the counterbalance -- how he juxtaposes that honey-laden croon and lush production with snarky, at times wickedly funny lyrics. It's easy to miss them if you're not paying attention -- he throws them off so casually he could be reciting his grocery list for all the emotion he's betraying -- but then you find yourself singing along and something in your brain clicks ("wait, did he/I just say...") and you start smiling because of how fucked up and excellent the lyrics are.
Take the opening single, "Chateau Lobby #4 (in C for Two Virgins)", a lovely tune about the early throes of a relationship, which also showcases the line, "I wanna take you to the kitchen, lift up your wedding dress someone was probably murdered in." Or "Nothing Good Ever Happens at the Goddamn Thirsty Crow," a stately, shuffling dirge that tosses out lines like, "Livin' it up, have it all, pull more women than any two men or train can haul," and immediately follows it with, "but my baby, she does something way more impressive than the Georgia crawl, she blackens pages like a Russian romantic and gets down more often than a blow-up doll." Or "Strange Encounter," whose opening line -- "[You'll] only ever be the girl who just almost died at my house, half-naked looking through your telephone, run you a bath and try hard not to freak out." -- sets the scene for a song about the awkward, ungraceful origins of our relationships.
Every song has at least a couple lines that are sharp enough to pierce stone. The title track would be great enough for the line, "I brought my mother's depression, you've got your father's scorn and wayward aunt's schizophrenia," but then tosses off the immaculately cynical, "Everything is doomed and nothing will be spared, but I love you, Honeybear," which I might adopt as my mantra. Nothing tops "The Night Josh Tillman Came to Our Apt," though, which is so chock full of brilliance I could quote any of its lines and still be leaving out a dozen winners. Beautiful melody, withering sarcasm, and the thing that brought you there in the first place -- Tillman's lovely voice. Check it out here:
Finally, we'll close with the decimating return of the legends -- Sleater-Kinney's ten years in the making return, No Cities to Love. I've had this thing on repeat almost non-stop since its release last month; 33 minutes of sheer, unbridled excellence. Like a prizefighter, it works on you in waves -- the initial killers were lead singles "Surface Envy" and "Bury our Friends," which are jabs probing your defenses that I bounced between for weeks until the album was released. When that finally happened (rejoice!) you're immediately greeted by the blistering opener "Price Tag," which is a hammer shot to the jaw. "Fangless," "A New Wave," and "Hey Darling," are shots aimed at your legs (or more specifically your feet, as all are bound to get you moving), while "No Anthems" is the body shot that breaks three of your ribs and ruptures your spleen.
Their last album The Woods showcased the ladies stretching out a little, thundering over you like a bear through that titular locale. This offering replicates the effect while concentrating the power -- instead of going ten rounds with a bruiser and barely making it to a decision, this is that hook to the temple that catches you unexpectedly and leaves you flat for a first round knockout. There's not much new you can say about these gals -- they're simply one of the best bands out there, male or female (damn that stupid GRRRlpower label), and they do nothing to tarnish that reputation here. As always, Corin's voice remains the litmus test -- you either love it or hate it the first time you hear it -- but as I always try to encourage people before knee-jerk writing them off, if you can force your ear to focus on the other two elements for a second -- Janet's thunderbomb drumming and Carrie's singular, stellar style of guitar playing -- Corin's siren's wail begins to make sense and shine.
That's part of what's always struck me about this band -- how perfectly balanced they are, far more so than any other I can think of. Most bands have got one, maybe two, elements that really shine -- a killer guitar player or an insanely good lead vocalist, say. The rest of the elements aren't bad, mind you, but what grabs you by the heart and/or ear and keeps you coming back are those one or two things. This band, on the other hand, is pure gestalt. You can't focus on Carrie's ever-shifting guitar runs without seeing how well Janet's drums drive them along, or how Corin's voice punctuates a guitar line or drum fill and takes the song (and mood) to the stratosphere. (Or how her lyrics drive things forward -- whether working you into a lather on anthems like "New Wave" and "Surface Envy," or exhorting you to focus on what you have in the closing "Fade." ("If we are truly dancing our swan song, darling, then shake it like never before.")) Each of them on their own are exceptional -- no bullshit, you're not likely to find many (if any) people better than them at their respective roles -- but together they're out of this world. (And somehow they're even better live -- I paid double point five over face to see them and it was well, well worth it.)
Another flawless outing from the Lady Led Zep, check out "No Anthems," a song that is a mindfuck of the highest order and hands down my favorite track on the album. Janet's drums are irresistible, Corin's lyrics and delivery are pure menace ("seduction, pure function --it's how I learned to speak. Steal your power, in my hour, I will change most everything...), and Carrie's guitar sounds absolutely possessed, like some demon-spawn slowly murdering the Matrix. I've listened to it dozens of times and it still fucks with my brain (I honestly cannot comprehend her guitar...) -- check it out here:
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