Somewhere, Elvis Costello is smirking. He’s not even dead yet, and his influence is becoming increasingly noticeable in music today. Lots of groups are picking up their Fenders and starting to emulate Costello’s power-first, pop-second brand of power-pop. That’s great. Of course, in any movement, there will be greatness, there will be garbage, and there will be everything in between. The Soft Pack are closer to the great end of things, but definitely, decidedly, aren’t there. They’re for sure, at times (it seems) almost by design, in the middle of the pack (oof, pardon the pun). They’re not pure Costello, mind you – there’s definitely, definitely a very healthy splash of the Ramones in there as well.
Opening track “C’mon” is full of the sort of uncomplicated gusto that is so characteristic of this album. They don’t waste too much time on crafting actual melodies, but they make up (at least in part) for this lack of musicality by sounding like they’re having a genuinely good time. There’s a sort of endearing lack of refinement and nuance to this music that makes it easier to swallow. The lyrics are never particularly creative, but also never sophomoric or too painfully cliché. I know this will sound shitty, but The Soft Pack seem so comfortable with being in the middle of the road, that they make it sound kind of stylish.
The album as a whole, as well as the songs on it, is a bit one-dimensional, but the band knows how to keep things brief, never dwelling too long on any one idea before briskly on. This is a blessing and a curse; because while it means that the bas moments never have a chance to really, really take hold and start to piss you off, it also means the best ideas are never fully fleshed out, like the intriguing, Hammond-touched “Move Along”, that almost evokes The Doors played in fast-forward.
The Soft Pack are kind of a one-trick pony. This album won’t reveal all that much to you with subsequent listens, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. It’s nice to have music that can be appreciated at face value. If you’re looking for deep artistic fulfillment, then this is one to skip (and check out Surfer Blood instead), but if you’re looking for something to play at your next party that isn’t LCD Soundsystem or Phoenix, this is a worthy alternative – even if it doesn’t manage to balance sophistication with spunk they way those other two acts seem to do so effortlessly. But on the whole, I’d say it’d be a bad decision to totally write these guys off. There’s nothing wrong with having a good time.
7.2 / 10.0
If you wrack your brain, you might be able to remember Midlake. They’re a group that has been tirelessly touring a record they released in 2006. It was called The Trials of Van Occupanther. It’s been almost four years since that record was released, and now, we have the follow-up. With that much of a gap, it’s tough to not expect a thing or two. It’s not like Van Occupanther was that mind-shattering a record, either. It was good enough, sure; but it was essentially a droopier iteration of Fleetwood Mac. Even so, I came to The Courage of Others expecting serious progress. After the better part of four years, you better bring something new (and worth a damn) to the table.
Baltimore is putting itself on the map. Animal Collective are obviously the biggest stars the city’s produced in recent years. They’ve started to fill up bigger and bigger venues and you could hear their songs in an American Eagle store (no shit), not just on some hipster’s iPod. And now Beach House is rapidly becoming the toast of the town. This duo always manages to generate some serious buzz. But if I’m being honest, I have to say I wasn’t wild about Beach House’s first two albums. So when the time came to give Teen Dream a listen, because it had received a lot of positive press and some endorsements from friends I trust, I sort of grudgingly put my headphones on and pressed play.
One of the greatest mythological narratives in music today is the “What if Rivers Cuomo hadn’t sucked” question. It’s really a fascinating theoretical exercise, answering that question. Of course, no one can know. A songwriter of Cuomo’s talent and curiosity could have gone any number of different, equally intriguing ways with his career (he chose blowing – what can you do?). But until recently, this question has been purely a speculative one. Never before has a band surfaced that has made me say, “You know, this is probably the music Rivers Cuomo would be making if he hadn’t turned into a corporate, cookie-cutter caricature of himself.” It’s surprising, when you think about it, because there was a whole niche of the market thirsting relentlessly for a taste of what Rivers Cuomo might have been.
Beck has come under kind-of serious fire in recent years (it’s not really clear why, but that’s a different discussion for a different day). So I guess it’s not really that hard to understand why his latest effort would be offered from the safety of someone else’s name. Sure, he wrote, produced, and performed a huge portion of the heretofore unextraordinary Charlotte Gainsbourg’s new album, IRM, but I’m sure most people that listen to it wouldn’t know it. His footprint is not as overtly evident as, say, Britt Daniel’s was on White Rabbits’ sophomore effort, It’s Frightening. But once you know how integral he was, you start to hear him everywhere: the chord progressions, the charmingly idiosyncratic lyrics, and even the punchy, compressed Sea Change snare drums that crop up ever so often (like on the standout, “Le chat du Café des Artistes” – think “Lonesome Tears”).
Spoon has been around for the better part of two decades, so it’s tough not to think of their records as pieces of a timeline rather than self-contained efforts. That’s a hitch you’ll run into when you follow nearly any band, but it’s more pronounced with Spoon because their sound is more carefully constructed than that of most other bands around. Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga was great not only because it was great, but because it picked up right where Gimme Fiction left off and continued the stylistic progression. It was richer, more developed, but still familiar. So when first I spun Transference, the question that immediately popped into my head was not, “Is this record good or bad,” or even, “How does this record compare to the rest of Spoon’s catalogue,” but rather, “Is this a fitting continuation of Spoon’s career?”
What I’ve noticed in the reaction to Contra is that critics have been overwhelmingly positive, and fans (at least the fans that I talk to) have been overwhelmingly negative. But critics are human. They built this band up to almost godlike status. They over-hyped and oversold the band’s debut, and put a burden on these boys that they couldn’t bear. So, approaching Contra, they had started to believe in the miracles they’d peddled. They really bought into the idea that this band could do no wrong. Now, I didn’t think the band’s debut was a total miracle (I did think it was great, but not life-changing), so I’d like to think I am a little more realistic about their follow-up. But it’s not just me. I think more than a few of us suspected that Vampire Weekend didn’t really have a fruitful career in front of them. The sound of their debut wasn’t going to afford them mileage, and they knew it. That’s why, inside of a year, you had band members already going in other directions (case in point: Discovery, also known as Rostam Batmanglij’s attempt to show he wasn’t a one trick pony from a production standpoint)
The ascendancy of Annie Clark has to be one of the feel-good stories of the decade. It’s shocking to think that a talent like hers could have been lost in her career as a backing musician for Sufjan Stevens (I guess maybe that’s one good thing about Mr. Stevens’s inexplicably long hiatus from recording). When Marry Me came out a couple of years ago to much adoration, I adored along with everyone else, but was concerned that Ms. Clark was a flash in the pan and nothing more. With Actor, my worries have been put to bed. If anything, Actor, her second record under the St. Vincent moniker is better than the first, charming, rich, and ever-so-slightly kissed by a dark irony. Clark is still a crack vocalist, and her time as a backing musician has obviously benefitted her as an arranger. These songs are not only wonderfully crafted, but expertly executed. “Laughing With A Mouth of Blood” is the album’s stunning centerpiece, with brooding call-and-response verses giving way to the soaring chorus. “I can’t see the future, but I know it’s got big plans for me,” Clark cooes. Don’t bet against her.
Grizzly Bear’s an interesting case. Before Veckatimest, I couldn’t really formulate a cogent argument as to why I loved them so much, but I really did love them. Their sound has always sophisticated but understated, not to mention very pleasing. With Veckatimest, Grizzly Bear has made my life easier. They are some of the best songwriters in the world today, and this record shows it. Their penchant for vaguely creepy chord progressions and jarring harmonies is unabated here. But they’ve upped the stakes on this record; as though to prove to the world they aren’t just some brooding folk group. “Two Weeks” is the most obvious statement to that effect (it’s a piano vamp piece, for Christ’s sake). But many of the other songs here are quietly ambitious as well, with “All We Ask” featuring driving drums, backed in the songs numerous crescendos by palm-muted guitar and gently building harmonies. “About Face” is another quick-step piece that repeatedly, teasingly aspires to climaxes that never quite come. No matter where you look, though, the name of the game is still nuance and restraint. Grizzly Bear know their strengths and have not abandoned them here. They’ve just fleshed them out a little bit. If you know how far to push, pushing the envelope is almost always a good thing.
It’s always a little scary when hip-hop artists turn to acting. Especially when you consider how bad most of them are as actors, it really must mean their music careers are taking a particularly nasty turn. Most people had written off Mos Def as a rapper-turned-actor who wasn’t really relevant in either field. That’s really sad, especially when you consider just how gut-wrenchingly phenomenal Black on Both Sides was. Well, Mos proved just about all of us wrong with his latest, stunning, incisive effort, The Ecstatic. He’s absolutely at the top of his game here, his flows cutting and organic, his beats rich and purposeful. Mos makes no mystery of his political focus on this record; he shines the light on the hardships of inner city life most compellingly on the album’s heart-stopping centerpiece, “Life in Marvelous Times”, but the whole album undoubtedly paints a bleak picture of the American condition post 9/11. It’s thought-provoking, intelligent stuff with all the anger of the underrepresented, but with none of the vitriol so common these days. Musically, The Ecstatic effortlessly blends the modern with the classic, horns and synthesizers used to perfection provide the perfect backdrop for Mos Def’s beautiful delivery. Hey everyone, Mos Def doesn’t suck – on the contrary: he’s reclaimed his spot at the top.
Sometimes I think subtlety is going out of style. So many records wear their artistic impulses so hugely on their sleeves that it’s easy to feel like you’re getting beaten over the head. Have our ears for nuance been so blunted by this day and age? In a digital era, where every note is sharper than ever, I can’t help but feel as though music has become less about careful assembly of sound and more about thickness, more about esoteric walls of sound. Thank Phil Spector later. I mean, imagine what The Beatles would have done with this kind of technology. Seriously. Now, Dayve Hawk (aka Memory Tapes) may not be the second coming of John Lennon – in fact, he’s nothing like that – but Seek Magic, his latest solo endeavor, is a gorgeous, and – praise heaven – subtle, brooding album. It’s dynamic and alive; it ebbs and flows with grace and natural precision. Never forced, never pretentious, it’s always gorgeous and pure. It’s a strident, confident statement, but it doesn’t seek to command attention by way of novelty, but rather by way of sheer atmospheric beauty.
The Dodos are the best thing to come out of San Francisco ever, probably. Like, seriously. I feel genuinely goofy listening to most music that San Franciscans have made (although I’m not opposed to occasionally getting hyphy…I’m actually pretty opposed to it). But the Dodos? They’re awesome! I don’t need to feel guilty or stupid about listening to them, because they’re so consistently good! Time to Die is their second record, and they’ve proven their first album, Visiter, was not a one-off fluke, but rather the beginning of a potentially profoundly kickass career. It’s gorgeous, simple folk music. Meric Long not only has an amazing set of pipes, but he’s also right up there with the best songwriters in the world (I’m talking the Will Sheff / Colin Meloy echelon here – this man is not fucking around). The most amazing thing is how much they manage to do with so little. Their arrangements are charming and uncomplicated, and their execution is straightforward and confident. Something to be excited about from San Francisco. Who knew?
Go God Go, the latest album from Irish pop veterans Fred, flew more or less under the radar, but it’s tough to understand why. It’s an eclectic offering with something for everyone, whether it’s swaggering funk (“Skyscrapers”) to straight-up 60s powerpop (“Good One”) or the subdued reserved 6/8, violin-kissed lilt of “Evergreen”. And it’s one thing to be versatile, but it’s another thing entirely to genre-hop with such ease, so sound as natural as Fred do in so many different aesthetic iterations. Go God Go is a remarkably fresh, vibrant effort that matches the richness of experience with the freshness of youth. But perhaps the most defining aspect of the record is how it manages to be simultaneously approachable and sophisticated, being catchy but never kitschy, refined but never aloof. It may be an uncommon pleasure, but it’s certainly not a guilty one.
Nick “Diamonds” Thorburn’s past has been solid, but he’s always come up a little short. His records have never lived up to the massive potential that so many of his songs hinted at; it always seemed as though there was an immense reservoir of untapped creative potential bubbling beneath the surface of all his records. Thorburn has never seemed to have full command of his artistic ability; as a result, Islands records were charming but never compelling – until now. Vapours is a stylish, polished, relentlessly inventive effort, where Thorburn has held himself to more rigorous standards than ever. “Switched On” is quite simply the best song he’s ever written, and it’s one of the best songs of the year. “Tender Torture” recalls the rough around the edges impulses of Return to the Sea, but with a new polish and sleekness that makes its pop appeal sharper and more prominent. And “Heartbeat” continues the work of 808s and Heartbreak, proving that AutoTune can be used for good as well as evil. “Everything is under control,” Thorburn crooningly assures on the closing track. For the first time in his career, we can believe that.
If anyone made the mistake of writing off Yeah Yeah Yeahs as a unidimensional garage rock outfit after hearing the singles from this album (like I almost did), then they missed out on one of the most artistically surprising and nuanced efforts of the year. It’s Blitz! finds YYYs guitarist Nick Zinner seriously showing off his chops while never taking the limelight away from Karen O’s tortured, often gorgeous, vocal performances. There’s surely some wailing on this album, but on the whole, it’s a far darker affair, definitely a change of pace for this group. The big danger with a move like that is that it’s too often motivated by restlessness, too often forced rather than natural, and that tends to come through in the music. But It’s Blitz! is delivered with all the casual cool of any of the band’s former works. Dave Sitek’s production adds a little verve – as would be expected – but doesn’t make it’s blitz too frantic an affair. It’s urban to be sure, but melancholy urban, not churning industrial urban. Yeah Yeah Yeahs know how to dial it back and still turn out a great record. Ultimately, It’s Blitz proves that they have what it takes to dominate outside of the niche so many of us thought they’d occupy for their whole career. Look out world.
It’s kind of hard to understand why, but this record stirred up quite the controversy. “It’s too bubbly!” “He can’t really sing that high!” “It’s so annoying!” “What do those lyrics even mean?” Such were the cries of the haters. But come on. Lighten up. It’s just dance-pop. It’s a marvel to this blogger that anyone can actually listen to Manners all the way through and not feel genuinely happy at least once. Michael Angelakos’s vocals are indeed otherworldly, but in the context of Passion Pit’s larger than life sound they fit perfectly, only adding to the frenetic, joyous exuberance brimming from even the mellowest of moments on this record. And besides the obvious winners like “Make Light” and “Moth’s Wings”, there are some moments of genuine beauty here, not least being the (dare I say it) anthemic “To Kingdom Come”. The biggest mistake we can make with this record is to underrate it: it’s much more than a good pop record. This band shows the beginnings of a striking artistic flexibility, a command of their genre that usually takes several albums and years to achieve. It’s not unlikely that this band will get your attention in the not-too-distant future. If hating on Passion Pit is in vogue now, I’ll say enjoy it while you can, because it certainly won’t be for long.
I hesitated while writing my Never Learned to Swim review of Album. I thought I would look back on that review and think that I was overstating the significance (and the quality) of the record. It was a solid record, sure, but was it really so transcendent that it could and would save pop music as we know it? And then it struck me: it didn’t need to be transcendent to save pop music. Nor was it aspiring to be. That was precisely the reason I thought (and still think) that this record will do a lot to keep pure pop music alive and vital. It is not groundbreaking; it keeps one eye fixed firmly to the past and its feet planted squarely in the here and now. Christopher Owens and company sculpt immersive, razor-sharp rock songs. “Lust for Life” and “Laura” are plaintive but electric, overflowing with verve and charm. “Hellhole Ratrace” is expansive, gorgeous, and sad, anchored by Christopher Owens’ vocals, which invoke the best of Jens Lekman and Elvis Costello. But few of the tracks on Album are as daring or challenging as “Hellhole Ratrace”. But this record’s simplicity is its greatest strength, and it (hopefully) will help keep pop music relevant and active as we move in the next decade.
