 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
|
Album Reviews Taking Back Sunday - Tell All Your Friends Taking Back Sunday
-- Where You Want To Be Taking Back
Sunday - Tell All Your Friends Taking Back Sunday
-- Where You Want To Be Talib
Kweli – Quality Tear
Us Apart -- Iodine Ted
Leo/Pharmacists - Hearts of Oak Teenage
Girls – The Initial Assault LP: The Art of Friendship Tegan
and Sara - If It Was You The Templars -- Phase
II Templars
- Return of Jacques de Molay Terminus
Victor - Mastering the Revels Terror At The Opera
-- Snake Bird Blue The Planet The -- Physical
Angel The Plot
To Blow Up The Eiffel Tower – Dissertation, Honey Theraphosa – Blondi The Thermals -- Fuckin
A This
Bright Apocalypse -- Motion and Rest
This Moment In Black
History -- “Midwesterncuttalistick” Thistle
-- Oxygen EP Thistle --Tired
Anchor Thrice -- The
Artist In The Ambulance Thrice -- The
Illusion of Safety Thrice’s latest effort titled, The Illusion of
Safety, blew out my speakers and sent me flying across the
room. You said it
McFly, “Whoa, this is heavy.” Produced
by one of the scene’s best, Brian McTernan (Hot Water Music),
the sophomore release on Sub City records for this quartet from
Irvine, California, seems to be a contradiction of itself at
times. It’s hardcore,
without the repetitive and useless screaming. It’s
emo without the sob story. It’s
metal without the long hair and skin-tight leather pants. And
it’s punk, without the “1-2 fuck you”. Thrice
combines all the basic ingredients from each of these genres
and rolls it up into a nice tight burrito for the listener to
savor bite after bite. The
powerful driving beats and metal infused guitar harmonies carry
on throughout the entire album, so as not to interrupt the space/time
continuum. One of
the things that I found most impressive on this album was the
vocals. Singer/Guitarist, Dustin, switches from intense hardcore breakdowns
to soulful emo-pop melodies at the drop of a hat. Guitarist,
Teppei, also displays superb musicianship, demonstrating that
he could definitely trade licks with the likes of Iron Maiden. And
don’t ignore the flux capacitor that is the rhythm section of
this band, the cohesion of the driving beats and weaving bass
lines are enough to make you get up and dance. Drummer,
Riley, rolls out precise time-keeping and
earth-shattering beats, while bass player, Ed, attacks his bass
lines like a crazed madman, it’s hard to believe that he’s only
been playing since the incarnation of this juggernaut, three
years ago. The entire albums rocks throughout, so it’s kind of hard to
really pick out any standout tracks. But,
some of my personal favorites are: "See
you in the shallows," "Betrayal is a Symptom," "Deadbolt," "Trust," and "the
Beltsville Crucible." -Doran Dalton Thunderbirds
Are Now! -- Another One Hynotized By… E.P. Thunderbirds
Are Now – Doctor Lawyer Indian Chief. Thursday – Full
Collapse Thursday -- War
All The Time Tiger Army - II: Power
of Moonlite Tight Bros. From Way
Back When - Lend You A Hand Timber! -- Circle
the Wagons Time In Malta -- Alone
With The Alone Time Of Orchids
-- Early As Seen In Pace Time of Orchids
-- Much Too Much Fun Timescape Zero
-- Total War
|
O.K.,
I will, I will tell all my friends about this record, but only because IT'S
ACTUALLY REALLY GOOD. I didn't want to like this record. I didn't want to put
another dime in Tony you-know-who's ever-inflating-pocketbook, but Taking Back
Sunday was too good to deny. This band caught the boat that Saves the Day missed
with their last record. They took hardcore and pop and mixed it, quite well
if I may add. While the lyrics are somewhat sophomoric, the delivery more than
makes up for it. This band provides an intensity that pop music has lacked
in the Vagrant-era of "emotional music." The highlights of this record
stand out in my mind as the "Come On, Come On" sing along of "Great
Romances of the 20th Century", the piano intro of "The Blue Channel," as
well as the bootylicous, rump-shaking intro to "There's No I in Team." This
record is definitely for those who like pop music, but have been left disappointed
by the Vagrant records in your collection.
Quality for
damn sure. Thank God we have artists like The Roots, Mos Def, and Talib Kweli
to carry the torch of true hiphop into an age when mainstream rap music has
never been more vapid. Heads may lament the missing old-school vibe so prevalent
in the production on T.K. and Mos Def’s classic Black Star project, but
really it’s a treat to listen to Kweli’s positive, youthful flow
over a new variety of backing tracks. Standout songs here are produced by DJ
Scratch (the ‘70s-flavored “Shock Body”), Megahertz (the
not-to-be-misunderstood “Gun Music”), and the always-entertaining
DJ Quik (“Put It in the Air”). But the album’s finest and
most powerful music comes courtesy of Kanye West who completely blows up the
album with “Get By,” “Good to You,” and “Gorilla
Monsoon Rap,” (which features Pharoahe Monch and The Roots’ Black
Thought). And of course, Mos Def drops by for “Joy,” T.K.’s
excellent (and non-cheesy) ode to childbirth. Some of the album’s R&B
action drags the tempo down a little too much, but the majority of T.K.’s
solo debut is guaranteed to get your party going in a completely legitimate
way. If Quality does not make you feel alive, then my friend, you
are already dead.
Up
and comers Tear US Apart have blessed us with a five-song teaser titled, Iodine.
The first track “The Big Letdown” wastes no time introducing the
N.Y. natives, with wailing guitar that gives way to a melodic breakdown and
fires right back into catchy unique vocals entrenched in motivating drums.
The songs on the self-released Iodine are a bit raw, but each and
every one is memorable. Tear Us Apart is a band that is bursting with potential.
If they can put out an EP with five infectious songs like these all on there
own, I can only imagine what could be released with label backing, and a touch
more on recording and production. I’ve got my fingers crossed that it
happens and perhaps you should too.
What
does Ted Leo have in common with Dexy and The Midnight Runners and Thin Lizzy?
I have no idea either so this isn't going to be one of those reviews. As a
music writer, it is always a little easier to drop some obscure comparison
to another decade's underwhelming, or underappreciated bands than trying to
describe the 
Tegan
and Sara, a Vancouver, BC duo comprised of sisters who had their upbringing
in a punk outfit and who recently celebrated their 21st birthday, are not your
typical shy and sensitive female singer songwriters. In fact, after spinning
this disc it is clear that the sisters also have way more in common with the
likes of Stevie Nicks and Chrissie Hynde than they do with that fashion victim
in rotation on MTV who wears accessorizes a tank top with a neck tie….gasp.
Perhaps this is why they've toured with Jonathan Richman, Rufas Wainwright,
Brian Adams, The Pretenders, and even Neil Young (how is that for name dropping?).
The verses of "Time Running" bare a striking similarity to the chorus
Soft Cell's "Tainted Love," and showcases the sisters' forceful vocal
delivery, which alternates between throaty conviction (but not in that Four
Non Blondes kind of way thankfully) and breathy, dizzying soprano. "Monday,
Monday, Monday" is a cynical, but mature and ultra catchy pop jem, peppered
with subtle and organ that delivers an honest-beyond-their-years message of
hesitance and resolution. "City Girl," which plods along with the
help of some ironic, and endearingly amateur banjo picking, holds perhaps the
best chorus on the album, "I got so City Girl on you/I went so crazy I
didn't know what to do." With the help of John Collins and Dave Carswell
(New Pornographers, The Smugglers), these sisters take basement recording charm
and spit polish it enough to make their style really standout. This phenomenon
is perhaps most apparent on tracks like "Under Water," a nearly three
minute track that is perfect for bed-room sing alongs and cutting a rug behind
the ironing board (how utterly Claire Daines of me). "I Hear Noises," chimes
in like a paranoid Belly b-side with the sisters singing, "I hear noises
in the dark/I hear sadness inside you." The psychedelic guitar soloing
that drives the bridge is the icing on the bittersweet cake. The banjo makes
another appearance on the decidedly Stevie Nicks influenced "Living Room," which
again retains that basement-recording charm. Simply, this is a bad ass little
record that has forever endeared me to Canada, or at least two of its residents.
Were
it not for its stridently political content, Oi could easily be considered
hair metal for the hairless. Think about it: The uniform is just as rigidly
adhered to, the pants are nearly as tight, the guitar solos would be just as
wanky if only the guitarists knew how to play and the lyrics, even with their
rabidly activist stance, as just as dumb.
The
press release for Terminus Victor calls the two-man group "an electro-rockomatic
neo-inferno from Champaign, IL that spews powerful, thick rock onto a mountainless
landscape not known for eruptions of this magnitude." Yes, Terminus Victor
really does spew. I hate to be mean, but this is the kind of weak industrial
music that you hear in straight-to-video thrillers when protagonists walk into
goth/S&M-themed dance clubs. Fast forward.
The
Planet The is a fun, spastic trio from Portland that doesn't disappoint. Their
sound is frantic and hard to decipher, but remains interesting and full of
energy throughout. The lyrics are dispersed and often difficult to understand,
but the electro 70's psych rock they sling negates any issues with what they're
saying. It's really how they're saying it that's important here. It's controlled
chaos generated by the weaving guitars and diminished, almost panicked vocals.
They keep you on your toes by changing up their sound, often several times
within a song. "High School Hands" does just this, morphing as it
moves along. It begins with a choppy vocal delivery and keys, followed by that
slow, almost psychedelic element that permeates the album. The conclusion arrives
in a flurry of straight up electro rockin' guitar. The album is delivered in
much the same way, marked by changing sounds and tempos, and ending in a grand
organ solo. If you're into anything that incorporates rock and electronic music
you should check this out.
It
isn’t often that you pick up a record that really changes the way that
you’ve been hearing music, because it isn’t often that a group
of musicians are ambitious and brave enough to write one. That said, let me
assure you that The Plot To Blow Up The Eiffel Tower’s Dissertation,
Honey, like the Yank Crimes, Spiderlands, and The
Shape Of Punk To Comes that came before it, will be one by which all future
punk endeavors are measured. Unfortunately, I’ve just begun to untangle
the intricacies of this jazz/punk fusion masterpiece and am finding it difficult
to put the relevance of this record into words….mainly because can’t
recall any other record in my recent memory that comes close to this in any
particularly large way. I guess there are a few distinct hints of that San
Diego post-punk sound here -- think Nation of Ulysses playing Swing Kids/ Drive
Like Jehu medleys while backed by one of the Windy City’s tightest improve
jazz collective and I’m still not doing them justice. Now imagine it
bookended between two slam-style poetry pieces gliding smoothly across a silky
jazz backdrop (“Exhibitionism” and “Monotonous”). Did
I say, “Imagine it?” What I meant to say was, “Believe it!” And
if all this still ain’t got you testifying, then you’re probably
in a coma or something. TPTBUTET drops straight truth on that ass, no joke!
Despite
its interesting religious messages and complex time signatures, This Bright
Apocalypse's ambitious indie rock is overshadowed by constantly flat vocals.
The press release for Motion and Rest promises "stunning harmonies
and dynamics from guys who can actually sing." Stunning harmonies alright:
stunningly bad. Although they can play their instruments well enough, TBA took
me right back to the worst moments of junior-high choir practices. By the last
song, I was convinced that the actual apocalypse would be preferable to the
task of listening to this album again.
This
three piece from the Cincinnati area definitely delivers some solid rock music
that even evokes Dinosaur Jr., HUM, and perhaps, Sunny Day Real Estate. This
record consists of four songs that are delivered in waves of guitar that complement
the emotionally driven lyrics well. The EP starts off with “Iron Clad,” a
guitar-heavy track that leads into “Part II,” a story about a friend
who watches as someone they know enters a violent relationship (“I thought
you knew better than this/to open your arms/and open your heart to his fists”). “Consonants
That Kill” delivers the requisite relationship gone bad story (see Dinosaur
Jr. reference), but the EP finishes strongly with the Superchunk-esque “Oxygen.” The Oxygen
EP was followed by a July 2003 full-length release, and after hearing
this offering I expect to be checking it out to see where they’ve gone
from here.
I
am having difficulty putting into words how I feel about this record. There
is something that is extremely familiar about this style of music. I can’t
put my finger on a comparison. It has a feeling of early alternative rock in
the vein of early Radiohead mixed with a mid-tempo, better-mixed Dinosaur Jr.
The first track “New Christ Killer” gets your foot tapping, so
tap hard because you won’t get another rocker until track seven “Repent!
Repent.” While I enjoy some of the mid-tempo numbers, my ADD begins to
set in and I quickly lose focus on the band and the record. This record is
OK. I wouldn’t be pissed if I went to a show and this band was playing,
but I wouldn’t buy tickets weeks in advance to see them.
Thrice
has already released two relatively successful albums and managed to generate
a significant buzz among the Warped Tour/mallcore set. While that would normally
be enough to make me weary of them, the fact is that I just didn’t care
enough about them to give either of their albums a listen. So, until now I’d
managed to avoid their music entirely, writing them off as another underground
band riding Thursday’s coattails to a major label deal and guaranteeing
themselves a chapter in the tragic book that’ll someday be written – “How
the Great ‘Emo’ Signing Boom of Early-2000 Landed Post-Millenium
Punk in the Gutter.” But, after reading an interview in a popular music
magazine that mentioned that the album’s title was inspiration was an
essay by Milemarker singer/Burn Collector Al Burian, and seeing the
album’s $6.99 cover price, I decided to take a chance and split a ten-spot
on it. And Thrice’s latest effort had me eating my words and washing
it down with a tall glass of my own foot. If you’re like me, and hadn’t
already heard, Thrice are a furiously aggressive punk/hardcore crossover who
have an incredible strong sense of melody, jaw-dropping licks, and a frontman
who, frankly, makes all others following the scream-a-little, sing-a-little
format completely obsolete. As songwrighters and composers Thrice are at the
leading-edge of their genre. From beginning (the explosive “Cold Cash
and Colder Hearts”) to end (the equally stunning and high-energy “Don’t
Tell and We Won’t Ask”), the band’s transitions from technical
hardcore breakdowns to more punk or rock centered melodies are seamless. Whether
the band are hammering out serious grooves, as in “Sillouette,” stampeding
through a series of lightening fast riffs in “Blood Clots and Black Holes,” or
sharing their gift for story-telling and communicating a poignant message in “The
Artist In The Ambulance,” Thrice is a band who’s earned any attention
they’re getting. Though I won’t pretend to know what exactly Brian
McTernan (Snapcase, Hot Water Music, Cave-In) did to get this record to sound
so volatile, I’ve got hand down some props for the production. In keeping
with Sub City’s practice of donating a portion of proceeds to charity,
Thrice have continued to donate to a good cause – this time an organization
that helps to subsidize chemotherapy for breast cancer victims who can’t
otherwise afford medical treatment. This demonstrates just how big a rift there
is between this band and the testosterone-centric, and otherwise misogynistic
knuckleheads we’re used to in major-label music, and frankly, punk in
general. So big ups to Thrice because they’re a band who seem to be doing
everything right.
Over
the blare of the radio, where Bob Seger is singing, "We were makin' thunderbirds
/ They were long and low and sleek and fast / They were all you ever heard," the
low electric growl that I attribute to heat lightening or some other natural
phenomenon becomes more acute. By the time I've glimpsed the sunset's reflection
off the headlamps of the mechanical beast in my rear view mirror it is nearly
too late. So I stomp my breaks and turn the steering wheel hard and to the
right, hoping to get the hell out of the way and to catch a glimpse of the
muscley perpetrator. When my car has come to its heaving, whiplash-inducing
stop and I've gotten a good, hard look, I can barely push the words through
a throat that is tattooed with a bitter bouquet of burning rubber. "Thunderbirds
ARE Now," I concede. With a body comprised of tangled electric riffing,
pedal-down knob turning, and asphalt-boiling bass and drums (heavy on the cowbell),
Detroit's electro-snap speedster TAN swerve through a radiation storm of disco,
aggro-punk, and noise rock influences in around seven and a half minutes. While
the engine grinds out a sonic roar that will buzz and chaffe the skin between
your hips, a sneering bark akin to P.I.L.-era Jonny Lydon bursts from the tail
pipe. The band achieves top-speed on "My Girl Is A Beard" with an
endless stream of cymbal, snare and tambourine. But, when the lightening fuzz
of keyboards starts spinning, the wheels on this piece really dig into the
road. The guitars flutter and fluxuate as "Last Sandwich For Sanchez" peels
into the parking lot at the disco. So, when the guys from TAN toss the keys
over their shoulder with an invitation to take their sleek ride for a spin,
don't hesitate. 
I
realize now that I’ve made a tremendous mistake. I pulled up to my desk
this morning, cup of coffee in hand, and put on my headphones. First and foremost
on the day’s listening itinerary, and of the highest priority, was The
Rapture’s Echoes, which I spent a hard earned $9.99 on this
weekend. It was a somwhat pleasing way to start the morning, although I’m
not all that stoked on the Echoes version of “Heaven” turned
out (I liked the buoyant version on the Insound Tour Support CD much better),
and I’m already familiar with most of this material. Second on the itinerary
was this promotional disc, which came in the mail with a one-sheet from Action
Driver this weekend. And damn is this disc is a tried and true ass shaker!
In fact, it has me pretty steamed that I blew the morning (and frankly the
money) on The Rapture’s latest effort, which in comparison is criminally
under ambitious. With everyone from Brainiac to Gang of Four to Delta 72, and
Wire to Radio 4 to Les Savy Fav as a touchstone, Doctor, Lawyer, Indian
Chief, positions Michigan’s Thunderbirds Are Now! at the forefront
of the dance punk movement. Take that New York! Those who’ve been following
Detroit’s up and comers in recent years will recognize the Allen brothers
(Ryan and Scott) as the drummer and keyboardist (respectively) from indie pop
band Red Shirt Brigade. It appears that when those guys are off their Ridalin,
their pop sensibilities manifest themselves in one heck of a twitchy and spastic
dance party. Loaded with mish-mash percussion, keyboards, saxophone, drum machine,
and post-whatever-style guitar T.A.N! are swinging from the chandelier from
jumpstreet. This album’s juggernaut dance hits appear to be, “not
Whiterspoon, but Silverstone,” which recalls the livewire tenacity of
Brainiac’s Bonsai Superstar, “Pink motorcycle helmet,” which
shows that despite their electro-zaniness, they’re also balls deep in
rock and roll, and “Kitchen ORGY,“ which is a smarmy and sweaty
romp that comes to a head with the clammer of what sounds like kitchen utensil
percussion. Some of the tracks here veer a little left of center (“your
Mission is an intermission”) and into IDM/Powerbook pop territory, but
they end up providing the perfect breather. Most of the tracks clock in at
barely two minutes, but while this album is brief, it burns ‘til the
very end. p.p.s. Handle with extreme care cause this disc is hott!
I’ve
been pining for this album off and on since Thursday’s “break-through” album Full
Collapse. Anyone who’s heard the band knows that they are front-runners
in the current “emo” arena, and deservedly so. The band’s
recorded material is dark, resonant, and though it doesn’t venture too
far outside of the hardcore/emo/screamo envelope, they’ve cornered a
sound that is ambitious enough to keep copycats at arms length. And for the
most part, War All The Time, the band’s fourth offering, stays
true to this formula. Clean channel guitar melodies and pristine keyboards
wind tightly under singer Geoff Rickly’s caterwaul howl until the bands’ hair
trigger is tripped and the whole thing erupts in an intense cacophony of jagged
riffs, desperate rhythms, and vein bursting screams. My only real complaint
with the album is that Rickly’s wordy purging, which I suspect takes
some compositional cues from equally wordy forefathers like The Gloria Record/Mineral
singer Chris Simpson, gets tiresome after 11 consecutive tracks. I get it,
he has a lot to say, but at times the man seems like Atlas trying to hold the
entire weight of the band on his vocal chords. It’s sort of a shame because
it is in moments where Rickly steps to the sidelines and allows the band to
build the dynamics are when his inspiration strikes (the conclusionof “Steps
Ascending” is a perfect example). All in all, there are several memorable
moments here; “Division St.” is a bone-chilling scream along, while “Signals
Over The Air” (the first “single”) opens with a head-nod
inciting, disco guitar line. Another highlight comes during “Step Ascending” when
Thursday are joined by indie noteables Gretta Cohn (Cursive) on cello and Jonah
Mantranga (Onelinedrawing) on backing vocals. Buy this album and make peace
with your latent emo urges. You know you want to.
Circle
the Wagons is barely an E.P. It includes just three songs totaling a little
over twelve minutes. In their own promotional literature, Timber! classifies
themselves as math rock and like most designations in modern music this descriptor
means nothing. Unlike the tenants of post modernist poetry / visual art, Timber!
uses no discernible mathematical formula or attribute to construct chord structure,
changes or the mapping of each of their three instruments. One can only imagine
that their self-designation refers to the sometimes jaunty phrasing of the lead
guitar and/or the collapsing pattern of the drum's rhythms. This discrepancy
should in no way deter a potential listener from Circle the Wagons.
Besides what is lacking in length, it is a wonderful EP. It is reminiscent of
Turing Machine. A mash of brainy overtures, moody turns and decaying drum rhythms,
Timber! teases the appetite for a full-length album.
Synth
crescendos, barking guitars, otherworldy time signatures... and Kate Pierson
from the B-52s? I guess it makes sense for this oddly absurdist band from New
York, as the whole album seems to be a series of question marks. But if you
ask yourself "why?" too much you might miss what this music is all
about, which is that the avant garde can be both ridiculous and pretty exciting
at the same time. This idea has been presented very well in the past by bands
like the Residents and Mr. Bungle, but Time Of Orchids have managed to create
an accomplished album without sounding like they're aping a genre. Much
Too Much Fun is quite different from the harsh, abstract prog of their
debut, Melonwhisper, instead utilizing more clean instrumentation
and more pretty sounds (including those luscious vocals from Pierson, who appears
on four of this album's nine tracks). Both beautiful and wacky, Time of Orchids
do not create songs necessarily as much as string together song fragments and
create structure from those fragments in a way that most would not think to
do so. It will be interesting to see how Time of Orchids develops in the next
few years given their talent and ability to reinvent themselves in such short
periods of time.
(Writer’s
note: A few of the reviews I did are a bit untraditional. I decided to hang
out with a girl (Debbie Kirk), drink beer, eat pizza, listen to the CDs, and
just audio tape whatever we thought about ‘em. I think they came out
kinda funny, but not as funny as I had originally hoped. But hey, you know,
such is science.)
