Our language is stupid. These words confuse me.
In memoriam of 2008, I'd like to say a few words about the state of music at the moment. Much like 10 years ago when "alternative" had been supersaturated into the mainstream and thus rock music had become a staticky gray nothing, the music that is happening today is both post-indie and post-irony, and therefore rather dull. I can't remember a year since the year 2000 when I felt this unenthused about everything; I'd chalk it up to age and cynicism except I've already seen firsthand the great things that happen to my enthusiasm when there is truly something worth getting excited over. Even 10 years ago there were Radiohead and the electronica threat to keep things jumping. Right now, I don't care what it is—hip hop no longer innovates (like rock, it just absorbs other genres), everything has been done in the electronic realm, and the best rock can come up with is unnecessary regurgitation from weak acts like Vampire Weekend, who were only big this year because nothing else of interest is stirring things up. I get no sense of where this music is *going*, no feel for how the music of days past is influencing the now, no headkick of wonder that I have tapped into the pulse of something that keeps the world's blood pumping, and least of all, I get no sense of boundary pushing. The fact that Pitchfork named Fleet Foxes the best band of the year is quite telling; as lush as it may be, their sound is deeply rooted in something 40 years past. Perhaps it's the fact that the post-punk music that I've always held so dear to me has been reappropriated ad nauseum by today's artists and as such I have nothing left to look forward to, but realistically I think each genre and subgenre have just spiralled inward to the point of irrelevance. Bring on 2009!
Monday, December 29, 2008
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
Congratulations, America!
Welcome to Postmodern Accident, wherein your host in smug giddyness is celebrating the fact that it looks like Barack Obama has just been elected one of the most esteemed leaders of the free world. At the moment I am writing this, Obama has taken Ohio and Pennsylvania both, which more or less clinches the election.
MISGUIDED FRIENDS
I am very pleased to say that despite the fact that most of my extended family lives in Missouri with their heads securely up their asses and some of my best friends proved themselves hopelessly out of touch with the needs of the country (and thankfully said friends wasted their votes in the deep blue of California), those of us who believe that Obama represents a change in our country's international standing and hope for our future have prevailed.
I have to scratch my head in complete bewilderment at anyone's support of John McCain at this point, who has run a terribly negative campaign based on discrediting his opponent with false and cheap fear tactics rather than emphasizing his own strengths and ably demonstrating his ability to lead. His horrific selection of a running mate should have been a red flag to you that his judgment was impaired.
MISSING FRIENDS
Although I have certainly enjoyed watching Diane Sawyer giggle as she shimmies across the floor of the ABC News studio in Times Square, I am forced to consider that this is the first presidential election in which I've taken part where I haven't had Peter Jennings as my evening's guide.
You were a class act, Mr. Jennings, and sadly a casualty of your love for cigarettes. ABC News is not the same without you.
But this evening is not about sadness!!! Leave it to RTW to find a reason to mourn tonight.
In honor of a great day, the blog is turning blue for a time.
MISGUIDED FRIENDS
I am very pleased to say that despite the fact that most of my extended family lives in Missouri with their heads securely up their asses and some of my best friends proved themselves hopelessly out of touch with the needs of the country (and thankfully said friends wasted their votes in the deep blue of California), those of us who believe that Obama represents a change in our country's international standing and hope for our future have prevailed.
I have to scratch my head in complete bewilderment at anyone's support of John McCain at this point, who has run a terribly negative campaign based on discrediting his opponent with false and cheap fear tactics rather than emphasizing his own strengths and ably demonstrating his ability to lead. His horrific selection of a running mate should have been a red flag to you that his judgment was impaired.
MISSING FRIENDS
Although I have certainly enjoyed watching Diane Sawyer giggle as she shimmies across the floor of the ABC News studio in Times Square, I am forced to consider that this is the first presidential election in which I've taken part where I haven't had Peter Jennings as my evening's guide.
You were a class act, Mr. Jennings, and sadly a casualty of your love for cigarettes. ABC News is not the same without you.
But this evening is not about sadness!!! Leave it to RTW to find a reason to mourn tonight.
In honor of a great day, the blog is turning blue for a time.
Saturday, November 01, 2008
“We’ve made such advances…”
Welcome to Postmodern Accident, where enquiring minds want to know: how exactly does the new Legendary Pink Dots album measure up? Now that I’ve had more than a month to absorb it, will it ultimately help me recapture my love for the band, or am I ready to write them off entirely?
BLINDER
Unlike what the Dots have been doing for much of the last 10 years, Plutonium Blonde focuses first and foremost on studio craft, rather than attempting to reproduce their live sound on record. The best pieces, such as the opening “Torchsong,” the nostalgic “Faded Photograph,” and the chaotic “An Arm and a Leg” may not break any new ground, but the studio experimentalism conjures up an earlier direction once passed over rather than expanded upon; within the first five minutes of the sinister chopping of “Torchsong,” I feel I am listening to Shadow Weaver Part 3. With Ka-Spel declaring, “So much to kill for!”, the album opens on a darker note than anything the Dots have done previously. The electronic effects have the same sort of uber-digital, clean detail that has been all but missing from the band’s more recent organic forays. Considering that 1994’s 9 Lives to Wonder, as good as it is, truly marks the beginning of the Dots’ obsession with their live performance rather than their records, this emphasis on studio wizardry is a welcome development, even if the band remains entirely oblivious of recording trends and modern gimmickry.
BLANDER
That being said, I wish Ed and Phil would occasionally let Niels sit out for a few rounds. I respect his place in the band’s history but the throwback hippie sound of his horns in certain contexts still horribly irritates me. His work on the otherwise guitar-oriented “A World with No Mirrors” really isn’t terrible, but when coupled with Edward’s somewhat strangulated vocal performance, the track overemphasizes both the band’s dated approach to songwriting and the production constraints that have left the record sounding of slightly lower fidelity than just about anything the LPDs have recorded since The Golden Age (their golden age?).
This is a small gripe, though. The album really is remarkably better than anything the band has done in a decade. Its most common relative is probably Your Children Placate You from Premature Graves but other than perhaps the brief “My First Zonee,” it never really seems to be pandering specifically to children and girlfriends. “Zonee” is in fact quite weird. It’s the album’s “Crumbs on the Carpet,” or possibly “When Lenny Meets Lorca.” Overtly poppy and based on a major chord arpeggio, it exemplifies those moments when the Dots don’t seem to realize that they’ve mutated into aliens who are completely unaware that nobody on earth is truly clamoring for music like this.
BLENDER
Once again, the Dots have produced a record with a mind-bending variety of stylistic twists and turns, often within the same song. “Rainbows Too?”, which perhaps takes its name from the classic Tear Garden epic “You and Me and Rainbows,” has a nine-minute, three-part format that allows it to switch gears dramatically from a percolating pop song to a slow-pulsing, ambient space passage and back again. Although they’ve done this kind of thing before (“The Andromeda Suite,” for starters), the song is a strong and adventurous track that helps establish that the band might be back on course. Similarly, “A World with No Mirrors” drops into a dark ambient passage just as it starts to wind up, and “An Arm and a Leg” is a spoken spaz-out piece—like “The Saucers Are Coming,” but with the stoner rock jams reverting to bleepy electronic freak-outs that are more in line with Ka-Spel’s solo work.
BLUNDER
Despite its strengths, I’d go so far as to say Plutonium Blonde could possibly be the worst-sequenced album in the Dots’ long career. Once upon a time, they released nearly everything as a concept album, no matter how muddled or overlabored, or else they meticulously edited everything together to produce an ever-flowing suite of sometimes-disparate pieces. Here, they bother with neither, following epic synthscapes with odd, sappy folk experiments unfortunately carried over from the All the King’s Horses era. A simple playlist reshuffle can remedy the problem of the sequence but not the frustration it inflicts. As is, “A World with No Mirrors” and the sing-songy, banjo-laden “Mailman” feel completely out of place, when they could have been so much more effectively positioned elsewhere. For example, if the slight “Mailman” segued directly into the mighty “Torchsong,” the creative juxtaposition would prove unbearably evil.
As it stands, only the last third of the album flows well, dominated mostly by languid and tranquil (tranguid?) electronic instrumentation. The trance-inducing “Oceans Blue” finds the band almost in Eno mode but with a patented LPD spin, putting forth repetitive ambience (which could be loop-based) for nearly 8 minutes only to interrupt it suddenly with an ominous, rickety motor that rudely jolts listeners out of their comas. This kind of brilliance proves that the Dots’ most boring excursions of the recent past have been primarily the result of laziness by not tending to the finer details. After the brief “Savannah Red,” an instrumental blip that showcases the album’s only musical bass line/rhythm combination, dissonance returns in the perfect album closer, “Cubic Caesar,” which is so saturated in listless barbiturate haze that I find it extremely difficult to muster the energy to hear another song immediately afterward.
BLONDER
In conclusion, I’m more surprised by this record than I am disappointed, and though I’m not going to run out and buy it in 20 different physical formats as I might have done a few years ago, I’m perfectly happy with my $10 digital download. Make of that what you will...
And see you next time!
BLINDER
Unlike what the Dots have been doing for much of the last 10 years, Plutonium Blonde focuses first and foremost on studio craft, rather than attempting to reproduce their live sound on record. The best pieces, such as the opening “Torchsong,” the nostalgic “Faded Photograph,” and the chaotic “An Arm and a Leg” may not break any new ground, but the studio experimentalism conjures up an earlier direction once passed over rather than expanded upon; within the first five minutes of the sinister chopping of “Torchsong,” I feel I am listening to Shadow Weaver Part 3. With Ka-Spel declaring, “So much to kill for!”, the album opens on a darker note than anything the Dots have done previously. The electronic effects have the same sort of uber-digital, clean detail that has been all but missing from the band’s more recent organic forays. Considering that 1994’s 9 Lives to Wonder, as good as it is, truly marks the beginning of the Dots’ obsession with their live performance rather than their records, this emphasis on studio wizardry is a welcome development, even if the band remains entirely oblivious of recording trends and modern gimmickry.
BLANDER
That being said, I wish Ed and Phil would occasionally let Niels sit out for a few rounds. I respect his place in the band’s history but the throwback hippie sound of his horns in certain contexts still horribly irritates me. His work on the otherwise guitar-oriented “A World with No Mirrors” really isn’t terrible, but when coupled with Edward’s somewhat strangulated vocal performance, the track overemphasizes both the band’s dated approach to songwriting and the production constraints that have left the record sounding of slightly lower fidelity than just about anything the LPDs have recorded since The Golden Age (their golden age?).
This is a small gripe, though. The album really is remarkably better than anything the band has done in a decade. Its most common relative is probably Your Children Placate You from Premature Graves but other than perhaps the brief “My First Zonee,” it never really seems to be pandering specifically to children and girlfriends. “Zonee” is in fact quite weird. It’s the album’s “Crumbs on the Carpet,” or possibly “When Lenny Meets Lorca.” Overtly poppy and based on a major chord arpeggio, it exemplifies those moments when the Dots don’t seem to realize that they’ve mutated into aliens who are completely unaware that nobody on earth is truly clamoring for music like this.
BLENDER
Once again, the Dots have produced a record with a mind-bending variety of stylistic twists and turns, often within the same song. “Rainbows Too?”, which perhaps takes its name from the classic Tear Garden epic “You and Me and Rainbows,” has a nine-minute, three-part format that allows it to switch gears dramatically from a percolating pop song to a slow-pulsing, ambient space passage and back again. Although they’ve done this kind of thing before (“The Andromeda Suite,” for starters), the song is a strong and adventurous track that helps establish that the band might be back on course. Similarly, “A World with No Mirrors” drops into a dark ambient passage just as it starts to wind up, and “An Arm and a Leg” is a spoken spaz-out piece—like “The Saucers Are Coming,” but with the stoner rock jams reverting to bleepy electronic freak-outs that are more in line with Ka-Spel’s solo work.
BLUNDER
Despite its strengths, I’d go so far as to say Plutonium Blonde could possibly be the worst-sequenced album in the Dots’ long career. Once upon a time, they released nearly everything as a concept album, no matter how muddled or overlabored, or else they meticulously edited everything together to produce an ever-flowing suite of sometimes-disparate pieces. Here, they bother with neither, following epic synthscapes with odd, sappy folk experiments unfortunately carried over from the All the King’s Horses era. A simple playlist reshuffle can remedy the problem of the sequence but not the frustration it inflicts. As is, “A World with No Mirrors” and the sing-songy, banjo-laden “Mailman” feel completely out of place, when they could have been so much more effectively positioned elsewhere. For example, if the slight “Mailman” segued directly into the mighty “Torchsong,” the creative juxtaposition would prove unbearably evil.
As it stands, only the last third of the album flows well, dominated mostly by languid and tranquil (tranguid?) electronic instrumentation. The trance-inducing “Oceans Blue” finds the band almost in Eno mode but with a patented LPD spin, putting forth repetitive ambience (which could be loop-based) for nearly 8 minutes only to interrupt it suddenly with an ominous, rickety motor that rudely jolts listeners out of their comas. This kind of brilliance proves that the Dots’ most boring excursions of the recent past have been primarily the result of laziness by not tending to the finer details. After the brief “Savannah Red,” an instrumental blip that showcases the album’s only musical bass line/rhythm combination, dissonance returns in the perfect album closer, “Cubic Caesar,” which is so saturated in listless barbiturate haze that I find it extremely difficult to muster the energy to hear another song immediately afterward.
BLONDER
In conclusion, I’m more surprised by this record than I am disappointed, and though I’m not going to run out and buy it in 20 different physical formats as I might have done a few years ago, I’m perfectly happy with my $10 digital download. Make of that what you will...
And see you next time!
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Dig Out Your Smurfs
Welcome to Postmodern Accident, wherein I shall now discuss two completely unrelated things in a somewhat bizarre collision of epiphany-fueling thought processes stuck inside my head.
FOOKIN' O-AYE-SIS...
...have somehow miraculously just put out one of the best records of their long and unvaried career. And somewhat more miraculously, even though five of Noel's six contributions to the album are stone cold classics, the best songs on the record are two of Liam's three. Yes, I know there were a lot of naysayers when "Little James" first reared its ugly Hey-Judish head eight years ago, but I always saw the promise there, and now the Gallagher Minor has delivered. Expect the Beatlesque (no, really) "I'm Outta Time" to knock the tired "Don't Look Back in Anger" out of future setlists, and for the entrancing "Soldier On" to plant the seed for Liam's inevitable solo album in 5 years' time.
The album doesn't offer much in the way of surprises—they've been honing this "full band contribution" approach for two or three albums now. It's just that Gem and Andy have really fully taken hold now, and as a result this one feels more consistent, even if a bit top-heavy; all of Noel's songs are positioned at the front. In some ways, this allows for the album to act more like a psychedelic journey (something Oasis have always wanted), because it starts with the familiar and gradually works its way out to other textures.
Refreshingly, though, Dig Out Your Soul is never TOO familiar, which has been the shortcoming of all Oasis records since 1997. Granted, nobody ever thought the band would pull a Kid A—they absolutely haven't—but from the starting gate this is a rip-roaring version of Oasis unlike any version previously heard, who absolutely plow through every sonic hurdle in the book without losing any momentum whatsoever. Subtle details often link the tracks together, adding that much more to the overall cohesion. Most of the sonic success here probably goes to producer Dave Sardy, returning after his masterful work on the last Oasis record, Don't Believe the Truth. Here, his touch is similarly clean and powerful, keeping Oasis from getting bogged-down in their own vortex of late-'60s muck.
And now I'm going to move on to a new topic before this one devolves into a discussion about digital music file formats and Apple's apparent inability to get the other major labels to contribute to their higher bit rate, DRM-free mission. I'll save that complaint for a later day.
GNAP!
Completely switching gears here, do you remember the purple Smurfs? I have never forgotten them. Of course, part of this might have to do with the fact that my friend and I had a tendency to parade around our junior high school shouting GNAP! at any convenient opportunity we could find.
The story, which falls in line with any classic story about zombies or vampires or fascist thought control, goes something like this: One day Lazy Smurf is sent into the woods to do some tiresome chore when he's caught napping on the job, and in the process he comes across a dreaded (gasp) purple fly. The fly bites him on the tail, and he immediately turns purple *and* evil, and his full vocabulary is replaced by a single word.
GNAP!
One by one the Smurfs bite each other on the tail, turning one another purple, until gradually the remaining blue Smurfs are outnumbered. Papa Smurf is the last one left, and of course he has spent most of this time trying to formulate the remedy in his smurfy little lab. He actually does get turned for a brief second, but his vaccine has already been released into the air and all the Smurfs are saved.
So why do I bring this up now? Because there's something about all those little blue dudes eyeing up each other's asses and biting one another that reminds me of homosexual behavior in quarantined societies, such as prison. No, seriously. I mean, the first Smurf that Lazy goes after? Hefty Smurf, with his gruff voice and tattooed arms and manly demeanor. Just look at the expression on Lazy's face, and look at *where* he's looking:
There has always been something gay about the Smurfs, and not just in that "La, La, La-la-la-la" way. Ninety-something adult men living together in harmony with their Daddy. (I hear you now: "What about Smurfette?") Well, yes, Smurfette is present in this particular cartoon but she is completely sidelined as she didn't exist when the story was written for the comic books, and as such we're not even graced with the sight of some hungry purple dude sizing up her ass. But guess how many guys sizing up guys we see?
I rest my case.
Now, as a famous TV commercial once said, "Boboli. See you next time!"
FOOKIN' O-AYE-SIS...
...have somehow miraculously just put out one of the best records of their long and unvaried career. And somewhat more miraculously, even though five of Noel's six contributions to the album are stone cold classics, the best songs on the record are two of Liam's three. Yes, I know there were a lot of naysayers when "Little James" first reared its ugly Hey-Judish head eight years ago, but I always saw the promise there, and now the Gallagher Minor has delivered. Expect the Beatlesque (no, really) "I'm Outta Time" to knock the tired "Don't Look Back in Anger" out of future setlists, and for the entrancing "Soldier On" to plant the seed for Liam's inevitable solo album in 5 years' time.
The album doesn't offer much in the way of surprises—they've been honing this "full band contribution" approach for two or three albums now. It's just that Gem and Andy have really fully taken hold now, and as a result this one feels more consistent, even if a bit top-heavy; all of Noel's songs are positioned at the front. In some ways, this allows for the album to act more like a psychedelic journey (something Oasis have always wanted), because it starts with the familiar and gradually works its way out to other textures.
Refreshingly, though, Dig Out Your Soul is never TOO familiar, which has been the shortcoming of all Oasis records since 1997. Granted, nobody ever thought the band would pull a Kid A—they absolutely haven't—but from the starting gate this is a rip-roaring version of Oasis unlike any version previously heard, who absolutely plow through every sonic hurdle in the book without losing any momentum whatsoever. Subtle details often link the tracks together, adding that much more to the overall cohesion. Most of the sonic success here probably goes to producer Dave Sardy, returning after his masterful work on the last Oasis record, Don't Believe the Truth. Here, his touch is similarly clean and powerful, keeping Oasis from getting bogged-down in their own vortex of late-'60s muck.
And now I'm going to move on to a new topic before this one devolves into a discussion about digital music file formats and Apple's apparent inability to get the other major labels to contribute to their higher bit rate, DRM-free mission. I'll save that complaint for a later day.
GNAP!
Completely switching gears here, do you remember the purple Smurfs? I have never forgotten them. Of course, part of this might have to do with the fact that my friend and I had a tendency to parade around our junior high school shouting GNAP! at any convenient opportunity we could find.
The story, which falls in line with any classic story about zombies or vampires or fascist thought control, goes something like this: One day Lazy Smurf is sent into the woods to do some tiresome chore when he's caught napping on the job, and in the process he comes across a dreaded (gasp) purple fly. The fly bites him on the tail, and he immediately turns purple *and* evil, and his full vocabulary is replaced by a single word.
GNAP!
One by one the Smurfs bite each other on the tail, turning one another purple, until gradually the remaining blue Smurfs are outnumbered. Papa Smurf is the last one left, and of course he has spent most of this time trying to formulate the remedy in his smurfy little lab. He actually does get turned for a brief second, but his vaccine has already been released into the air and all the Smurfs are saved.
So why do I bring this up now? Because there's something about all those little blue dudes eyeing up each other's asses and biting one another that reminds me of homosexual behavior in quarantined societies, such as prison. No, seriously. I mean, the first Smurf that Lazy goes after? Hefty Smurf, with his gruff voice and tattooed arms and manly demeanor. Just look at the expression on Lazy's face, and look at *where* he's looking:
There has always been something gay about the Smurfs, and not just in that "La, La, La-la-la-la" way. Ninety-something adult men living together in harmony with their Daddy. (I hear you now: "What about Smurfette?") Well, yes, Smurfette is present in this particular cartoon but she is completely sidelined as she didn't exist when the story was written for the comic books, and as such we're not even graced with the sight of some hungry purple dude sizing up her ass. But guess how many guys sizing up guys we see?
I rest my case.
Now, as a famous TV commercial once said, "Boboli. See you next time!"
Monday, September 08, 2008
Whatever happened to (my love for) the Legendary Pink Dots?
Well, folks, you can't get much more psychedelic or indie than the Legendary Pink Dots, who have been releasing albums (LPs, CDs, cassettes, box sets, special packages, live concerts, etc.) prolifically—no, make that maniacally—since 1980. And those of you who have known me for a while know that, like other LPD fans, I was into them almost exclusively and obsessively for at least 10 years.
Buzz is now starting to build for Plutonium Blonde, their first record in 2 years ("just a lifetime" in the scheme of the LPDs' release schedule). Pre-release descriptions so far have referred to it as their most commercial-sounding album ever, shocking and delightful, etc., though there hasn't been much in the way of official reviews or samples, even on their newly revamped website or myspace page.
To these reactions I say, in muted disbelief, "Really??"
YOU CAN'T JUDGE [AN ALBUM] BY ITS COVER...
The new millennium so far has seen the Dots mired in a strange, almost dull place between mature songcraft and dad rock, reserving their more experimental sides for Ka-Spel's solo projects and their rarer outtakes and companion albums. Their 2002 album All the King's Horses ranks as my least favorite in their oeuvre, while 2004's The Whispering Wall sounded like a retread of their late '80s work. And though 2006's Your Children Placate You from Premature Graves holds a unique low-key spot amongst their albums, it's not particularly memorable nor exciting, and it holds the proud distinction of having one of their worst titles and worst album covers. So one would think that in 2008, the guys would want to dazzle us with something new—if they can. Thus far, here's what we have:
Now I'll be the first to admit there's something charming about this cover, namely its pastel artwork and the dated look of the woman on the cover. Who is she? Why does she resemble a mother from the late '50s who is likely living a double life as a hotel prostitute? And what does she have to do with apocalypses, premonitions, and poppies?
But on the other hand, it concerns me a bit. The Dots roped me in first and foremost because their music was very exploratory. Most of their songs start in one place and take you somewhere else, whether lyrically or sonically, and I hate to say it but they've been leaving this side of their sound behind for nearly 10 years. In my opinion, 1997's Hallway of the Gods is the last time they broke any ground at all, though the quality and symphonic depth of the two albums to follow obscured what was truly happening.
I get that the band has grown older and that most bands can't stay edgy forever, especially those who are based in technology. What has Brian Eno done of serious interest lately? Which of Richard H. Kirk's side projects expanded upon his initial Sandoz ideas? I mean, Kraftwerk didn't release any truly new material between 1986 and 2003; when they finally did, it was a record based on a 20-year-old song.
But the Dots seemed different. Their ability to do their thing while continuing to function outside of the flux of whatever scene they were orbiting always made them strangely relevant—and their live shows are still, for lack of a better term, legendary. Whether traversing the halls of New Romantic synth-pop, descending into the goth ghetto, or aspiring to some sort of high-brow free-jazz mutation revered by graduate students and stoners, the Dots were always interesting and surprising.
Until they weren't.
BLONDE BOMBSHELL
As a disgruntled fan with lowered expectations, I suppose this is where I express my needs for a new Legendary Pink Dots album. Does it truly need to blow me out of the water? Stun me with its kaleidoscopic depth? Lull me into a blissful coma? Scare me?
Yes.
Well, no. All I really want is an album that Edward hasn't written for either his introverted girlfriend or his children. From here we'll watch the world go by and I'll report back once I've absorbed the damn thing.
Buzz is now starting to build for Plutonium Blonde, their first record in 2 years ("just a lifetime" in the scheme of the LPDs' release schedule). Pre-release descriptions so far have referred to it as their most commercial-sounding album ever, shocking and delightful, etc., though there hasn't been much in the way of official reviews or samples, even on their newly revamped website or myspace page.
To these reactions I say, in muted disbelief, "Really??"
YOU CAN'T JUDGE [AN ALBUM] BY ITS COVER...
The new millennium so far has seen the Dots mired in a strange, almost dull place between mature songcraft and dad rock, reserving their more experimental sides for Ka-Spel's solo projects and their rarer outtakes and companion albums. Their 2002 album All the King's Horses ranks as my least favorite in their oeuvre, while 2004's The Whispering Wall sounded like a retread of their late '80s work. And though 2006's Your Children Placate You from Premature Graves holds a unique low-key spot amongst their albums, it's not particularly memorable nor exciting, and it holds the proud distinction of having one of their worst titles and worst album covers. So one would think that in 2008, the guys would want to dazzle us with something new—if they can. Thus far, here's what we have:
Now I'll be the first to admit there's something charming about this cover, namely its pastel artwork and the dated look of the woman on the cover. Who is she? Why does she resemble a mother from the late '50s who is likely living a double life as a hotel prostitute? And what does she have to do with apocalypses, premonitions, and poppies?
But on the other hand, it concerns me a bit. The Dots roped me in first and foremost because their music was very exploratory. Most of their songs start in one place and take you somewhere else, whether lyrically or sonically, and I hate to say it but they've been leaving this side of their sound behind for nearly 10 years. In my opinion, 1997's Hallway of the Gods is the last time they broke any ground at all, though the quality and symphonic depth of the two albums to follow obscured what was truly happening.
I get that the band has grown older and that most bands can't stay edgy forever, especially those who are based in technology. What has Brian Eno done of serious interest lately? Which of Richard H. Kirk's side projects expanded upon his initial Sandoz ideas? I mean, Kraftwerk didn't release any truly new material between 1986 and 2003; when they finally did, it was a record based on a 20-year-old song.
But the Dots seemed different. Their ability to do their thing while continuing to function outside of the flux of whatever scene they were orbiting always made them strangely relevant—and their live shows are still, for lack of a better term, legendary. Whether traversing the halls of New Romantic synth-pop, descending into the goth ghetto, or aspiring to some sort of high-brow free-jazz mutation revered by graduate students and stoners, the Dots were always interesting and surprising.
Until they weren't.
BLONDE BOMBSHELL
As a disgruntled fan with lowered expectations, I suppose this is where I express my needs for a new Legendary Pink Dots album. Does it truly need to blow me out of the water? Stun me with its kaleidoscopic depth? Lull me into a blissful coma? Scare me?
Yes.
Well, no. All I really want is an album that Edward hasn't written for either his introverted girlfriend or his children. From here we'll watch the world go by and I'll report back once I've absorbed the damn thing.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Millennium Hallucinogenium
Welcome to Postmodern Acid-ent. Pardon the following miscellany, but my brain is a bit fried at the moment.
TAKE A TRIP IN CHICAGO!
The following series of pictures was taken on a brisk day back in February when my friend Dave Schwartz came to visit.
One thing that my recent Journey to the End of the Night experience has taught me was that I should take much more pride in the city and flaunt my urban exploration as much as possible. So while Schwartz left Chicago nearly 8 years ago (we are OLD!) and hasn't really had a chance to see all the recent developments in Millennium Park, I have constantly lived here and yet have rarely taken the time to just go down there and walk around. I am therefore pleased to present these cool, escapist pics, perhaps as a reprieve from the harsh realities of flood-damaged farming towns and depressed economies. Are you ready to freak out?
These pics are slightly more recent, from a beautiful night in May.
And remember... LAKE SHORE DRIVE? = LSD!
TAKE A TRIP IN CHICAGO!
The following series of pictures was taken on a brisk day back in February when my friend Dave Schwartz came to visit.
One thing that my recent Journey to the End of the Night experience has taught me was that I should take much more pride in the city and flaunt my urban exploration as much as possible. So while Schwartz left Chicago nearly 8 years ago (we are OLD!) and hasn't really had a chance to see all the recent developments in Millennium Park, I have constantly lived here and yet have rarely taken the time to just go down there and walk around. I am therefore pleased to present these cool, escapist pics, perhaps as a reprieve from the harsh realities of flood-damaged farming towns and depressed economies. Are you ready to freak out?
These pics are slightly more recent, from a beautiful night in May.
And remember... LAKE SHORE DRIVE? = LSD!
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Journey to the End of the Night
Welcome to Postmodern Accident.
EXPERIENCE YOUR OWN ZOMBIE MOVIE
Last night, I did this:
The whole evening was unspeakably awesome. Quick summary: About 150 players with blue armbands made their way out of Wicker Park to visit a series of checkpoints all over the city. Players in red armbands chased them. When caught, blue were turned red. Some red were on bicycles! Blue could only walk, run, or use the train. Areas around each checkpoint were safe zones. Trains and train stops were also safe zones.
The six checkpoints had to be visited in order. At each checkpoint, an agent would sign your manifest. You did not get a description of the agent at each checkpoint until you visited the previous one.
The six checkpoints were:
The full recap for the SF0 website (who sponsored the game) is HERE.
EXPERIENCE YOUR OWN ZOMBIE MOVIE
Last night, I did this:
The whole evening was unspeakably awesome. Quick summary: About 150 players with blue armbands made their way out of Wicker Park to visit a series of checkpoints all over the city. Players in red armbands chased them. When caught, blue were turned red. Some red were on bicycles! Blue could only walk, run, or use the train. Areas around each checkpoint were safe zones. Trains and train stops were also safe zones.
The six checkpoints had to be visited in order. At each checkpoint, an agent would sign your manifest. You did not get a description of the agent at each checkpoint until you visited the previous one.
The six checkpoints were:
- 1117 N Elston - the exterior of a bar on a semi-deserted stretch between Divison and Augusta, along Goose Island. Not a lot of access, with only a couple of ways to get under the expressway.
- Green & I-90/94 - literally an underpass in the middle of nowhere, near the intersection of Grand, Milwaukee, and Halsted. Getting to and from this one was the scariest part of the night.
- Hubbard & Michigan, lower level - essentially, the Billy Goat Tavern, which was still open, and a welcome rest stop.
- Exelon Plaza - the executive park outside the Chase building, on the block between Madison & Monroe, Clark & Dearborn. Getting here was likely the easiest stretch, as the loop is well-lit with lots of people and numerous routes to use.
- Roosevelt & Canal - just to the west side of the Roosevelt bridge crossing the river. Getting here was the longest and most difficult stretch of the evening. We lost teammates, we split apart, we ran like hell.
- Field Museum Lawn - this one got moved, likely due to police interference, over to the grounds behind the Shedd Aquarium. The entire section of Grant Park to the east of Lakeshore Drive was a safe zone -- but with 100 chaser zombies accumulating there, how would we make it??
The full recap for the SF0 website (who sponsored the game) is HERE.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Posting just to post
Sorry, POMAX frenz -- I seem to have gone AWOL. New exciting responsibilities in the real world of book publishing and all that... not to mention a re-submersion into all things Fall, as I prepare for the imminent release of Imperial Wax Solvent (a Batman reference).
Here is my favorite pic of Mark and Brix, by the way. The page it's from is a compilation of photos by Michael Pollard from the This Nation's Saving Grace time period, and they're all roundly excellent.
Here is my favorite pic of Mark and Brix, by the way. The page it's from is a compilation of photos by Michael Pollard from the This Nation's Saving Grace time period, and they're all roundly excellent.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
1.
Welcome to Postmodern Accident’s Best of 2007. Now you can all just kiss off into the air.
Let’s begin the final installment of the countdown by reiterating my choices for best album of the past several years. I think it’s the best way to illustrate my mindset in making these selections.
The best album of 2003 was in fact Radiohead’s Hail to the Thief. I tend to think of that year as having an embarrassment of riches when it comes to strong individual songs, but only a few major contenders in the album category. At this point, I was still floating from the slow, syrupy fix of Amnesiac a few years before, and it may have clouded my judgment. Big apologies to Mew, and Muse, and Tangiers, and the Rapture, but none of you seemed to push the boundaries of your capabilities; Radiohead, on the other hand, managed to go even further into the experimental abyss while still maintaining an exceptionally identifiable sound.
The best album of 2004 was Liars’ They Were Wrong, So We Drowned, and I knew it the first time I heard it, and I never wavered from that decision. This is the album that nobody likes except for me, except of course for all of us who say that this is the album that nobody likes except for us. This was the sound of a band completely shattering the expectations of every last one of their fans, all the while challenging themselves. I reward nothing more than fearless adventurousness, especially in bands that already fit neatly into a box. (Additional bonus points for sampling Einstürzende Neubauten.)
The best album of 2005 was the Dandy Warhols’ Odditorium or Warlords of Mars. This is the album that nobody likes except for me. Really. Google it if you don’t believe me! For me, it’s the sound of a highly talented pop group going completely off the rails. It’s perverse, trippy, long, and nobody else likes it; in other words, the perfect album.
The best album of 2006 was Hot Chip’s The Warning. This one almost seems like a conservative choice for me, but I was constantly stricken by its intelligence and its playability, plus it marked the culmination of my three-year obsession with all things produced by the DFA. “Over and Over” is dirty, “Boy from School” is charming, and “No Fit State” is hypnotically alluring. I still listen to this album frequently, and no, their new release Made in the Dark doesn’t hold a candle to it.
And the best album of 2007? It shouldn't take a nihilist with a good imagination to figure it out.
The problem with “best albums” is that they’re the ones you least want to talk about. This year, I could go on about Kevin Barnes’ transformation into a bona fide rock star, his use of the record as a therapeutic outlet for his depression and as a document of his recovery. I could make long statements about how I am still completely uninterested in Of Montreal’s shady past of twee, children-being-indulgent pop records, with titles like The Bedside Drama, The Gay Parade, and Coquelicot Asleep in the Poppies. I could even lash out generally against the painfully unadventurous Elephant 6 collective, while pointing out how this album marks Of Montreal’s evolution beyond such earlier constraints.
And you know what? Kevin Barnes is weird.
But none of that really matters. Mostly, I just want to play the album... repeatedly. Hissing Fauna, Are You the Destroyer? struck a chord in me immediately, as it takes just one listen to hear its magic. Barnes is a stunningly great melodicist and lyricist, and the music—something akin to synthesized glam rock, complete with glorious dollops of Sparks and early Eno—is kaleidoscopic in its constant whirl of color and energy. Barnes moves effortlessly from sunny, histrionic pop like “Suffer for Fashion” through the epic driving menace of “The Past Is a Grotesque Animal” to the crunchy manic rock of “She’s a Rejecter” in such a way that you can tell he’s reached some sort of catharsis. (Or possibly several of them: emotional, mental, sexual...) Every time I go back to the album, I discover new moments; the simple fact that I’ve heard such gems as “Heimdalsgate Like a Promethean Curse” and “Gronlandic Edit” hundreds of times and yet still feel like I’m listening with virgin ears is a testament to how fun and fresh the record remains.
Oh, shit. You probably just went to YouTube and watched the video for either one of those songs and now you think I'm fucking mad. This could be the music of a million crack-addled street musicians, vying for attention. You and your Wilco New Pornographer ears have now lost all faith in my musical credibility. That's it, folks. Game's over; the countdown is done, and it was all rendered meaningless by a quick, harsh judgment against music that sounds completely inane to you on the surface.
I won't lie: Hissing Fauna is overwhelmingly self-indulgent, but here's a key difference between Of Montreal and, say, Dan Deacon. Most artists indulge after a taste of success; buoyed by confidence, they lose their ability to self-edit and produce disastrously misguided material as a result. Of Montreal, however, has done the opposite. Their indulgence has brought about their success, and Barnes has delivered his finest album to date on the heels of severe self-doubt. I can only hope that the massive confidence boost he received this year (especially evident in their live show) does not cloud his vision for the future. I have ranked Hissing Fauna as the #1 record of the year because, more than any other record, it demonstrates remarkable growth in an artist whose future could not be brighter.
Let’s begin the final installment of the countdown by reiterating my choices for best album of the past several years. I think it’s the best way to illustrate my mindset in making these selections.
The best album of 2003 was in fact Radiohead’s Hail to the Thief. I tend to think of that year as having an embarrassment of riches when it comes to strong individual songs, but only a few major contenders in the album category. At this point, I was still floating from the slow, syrupy fix of Amnesiac a few years before, and it may have clouded my judgment. Big apologies to Mew, and Muse, and Tangiers, and the Rapture, but none of you seemed to push the boundaries of your capabilities; Radiohead, on the other hand, managed to go even further into the experimental abyss while still maintaining an exceptionally identifiable sound.The best album of 2004 was Liars’ They Were Wrong, So We Drowned, and I knew it the first time I heard it, and I never wavered from that decision. This is the album that nobody likes except for me, except of course for all of us who say that this is the album that nobody likes except for us. This was the sound of a band completely shattering the expectations of every last one of their fans, all the while challenging themselves. I reward nothing more than fearless adventurousness, especially in bands that already fit neatly into a box. (Additional bonus points for sampling Einstürzende Neubauten.)The best album of 2005 was the Dandy Warhols’ Odditorium or Warlords of Mars. This is the album that nobody likes except for me. Really. Google it if you don’t believe me! For me, it’s the sound of a highly talented pop group going completely off the rails. It’s perverse, trippy, long, and nobody else likes it; in other words, the perfect album.The best album of 2006 was Hot Chip’s The Warning. This one almost seems like a conservative choice for me, but I was constantly stricken by its intelligence and its playability, plus it marked the culmination of my three-year obsession with all things produced by the DFA. “Over and Over” is dirty, “Boy from School” is charming, and “No Fit State” is hypnotically alluring. I still listen to this album frequently, and no, their new release Made in the Dark doesn’t hold a candle to it.And the best album of 2007? It shouldn't take a nihilist with a good imagination to figure it out.
The problem with “best albums” is that they’re the ones you least want to talk about. This year, I could go on about Kevin Barnes’ transformation into a bona fide rock star, his use of the record as a therapeutic outlet for his depression and as a document of his recovery. I could make long statements about how I am still completely uninterested in Of Montreal’s shady past of twee, children-being-indulgent pop records, with titles like The Bedside Drama, The Gay Parade, and Coquelicot Asleep in the Poppies. I could even lash out generally against the painfully unadventurous Elephant 6 collective, while pointing out how this album marks Of Montreal’s evolution beyond such earlier constraints.
And you know what? Kevin Barnes is weird.
But none of that really matters. Mostly, I just want to play the album... repeatedly. Hissing Fauna, Are You the Destroyer? struck a chord in me immediately, as it takes just one listen to hear its magic. Barnes is a stunningly great melodicist and lyricist, and the music—something akin to synthesized glam rock, complete with glorious dollops of Sparks and early Eno—is kaleidoscopic in its constant whirl of color and energy. Barnes moves effortlessly from sunny, histrionic pop like “Suffer for Fashion” through the epic driving menace of “The Past Is a Grotesque Animal” to the crunchy manic rock of “She’s a Rejecter” in such a way that you can tell he’s reached some sort of catharsis. (Or possibly several of them: emotional, mental, sexual...) Every time I go back to the album, I discover new moments; the simple fact that I’ve heard such gems as “Heimdalsgate Like a Promethean Curse” and “Gronlandic Edit” hundreds of times and yet still feel like I’m listening with virgin ears is a testament to how fun and fresh the record remains.
Oh, shit. You probably just went to YouTube and watched the video for either one of those songs and now you think I'm fucking mad. This could be the music of a million crack-addled street musicians, vying for attention. You and your Wilco New Pornographer ears have now lost all faith in my musical credibility. That's it, folks. Game's over; the countdown is done, and it was all rendered meaningless by a quick, harsh judgment against music that sounds completely inane to you on the surface.
I won't lie: Hissing Fauna is overwhelmingly self-indulgent, but here's a key difference between Of Montreal and, say, Dan Deacon. Most artists indulge after a taste of success; buoyed by confidence, they lose their ability to self-edit and produce disastrously misguided material as a result. Of Montreal, however, has done the opposite. Their indulgence has brought about their success, and Barnes has delivered his finest album to date on the heels of severe self-doubt. I can only hope that the massive confidence boost he received this year (especially evident in their live show) does not cloud his vision for the future. I have ranked Hissing Fauna as the #1 record of the year because, more than any other record, it demonstrates remarkable growth in an artist whose future could not be brighter.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
2. Radiohead - In Rainbows
Welcome to Postmodern Accident’s Best of 2007:
“…for my family.”
Look, I am as sick of this as you are. I am aware that it is no longer 2007 and that 2008 is slowly creeping by. Another Valentine’s Day has come and gone that meant nothing to me whatsoever because I am a loveless black-hearted fool who is always obsessing about the year before. Musically right now I’m excited about a number of interesting things that have nothing to do with 2007. And most importantly, I have pictures and experiences that I’d like to post that have nothing to do with this inane countdown that nobody seems to be reading anyway.
And so, you might ask, why not just finish up? And so, I might ask back, is that really the way you expect things to run in my world? Of course you don’t… There are death flus and catalog copy and friends visiting and IDM from 15 years ago and all sorts of things that have commanded my attention in the interim. I even considered just not finishing the countdown, because it somehow seems strangely appropriate.
Earlier this month I made a point of establishing a distinction between favorites and the selections on this list, and by that standard the following artist has absolutely no right to be anywhere near the countdown, and really, nobody wants to hear me talk about them again after 10 whole years of hyperbolic fanboy blathering.
Radiohead keep breaking everybody else’s rules; I’m not sure why I expect them to adhere to mine.
Despite the three years of hype that followed OK Computer and the documentary film that I saw at the Music Box behind that big-headed guy and the complete immersion in Kid A that made me sound like I was proselytizing to everyone I knew and the traveling across the country to see the band perform at Liberty State Park and the downloading of a bazillion live bootlegs and the rapture that followed when “True Love Waits” was finally released on a record and 4 years of listening to one particular bootleg that contained an unreleased live track called “Reckoner” that was somehow reminiscent of Led Zeppelin “being pulled apart by horses,” I was convinced that Radiohead were done. It was taking far too long for them to record a follow-up to Hail to the Thief and Thom’s solo record oddly failed to affect me.
“Radiohead are done,” I told my friends, as many of you know. And if they weren’t done, they would surely suck. They would somehow unwrite the fact that “There There” still managed to qualify in my mind as the best single of 2003 and that if I had gotten my cat two years later I would have named her “Myxomatosis” and that “The Gloaming” is still in my head, always, every day, and that there are a LOT of inappropriate situations where you should not sing out loud, “They will suck you down to the other side.”
As you can imagine, it took me all of 8 seconds to decide I was going to shell out the $80 for the In Rainbows Discbox when the band made the announcement that changed everything.
You’re rolling your eyes.
But before you write off my comments as a true believer, please hear me out. I understand that the band’s “pay what you want” approach to downloading sub-par MP3 files was not really as cool as it sounded, and that the skeptics in the audience see it as not much more than foregoing the traditional avenue of distributing free promo CDs to stores and publications around the world. But Radiohead understood that the greatest, fastest form of spreading information was via the Internet, with which they came of age, and ultimately they didn’t need a dinosaur business industry to help them with this part of the task. Rather than just leaking their own album, they offered up an alternative that made people think about the value of music, the value of artistry, the future of the music industry, and the responsibility that goes hand in hand with an awareness of their own power.
In other words, Radiohead took the opportunity to show everyone in the industry that there are other ways to proceed rather than to simply adhere to a dying model. And if the record itself weren’t possibly the finest they’ve recorded to date, this fact alone might be enough to justify their inclusion near the very top of my 2007 countdown.
But, oh, that record…! I was sick as a dog the night it became available for download. Actually, it was about 8 in the morning in the UK. Knowing this, I went to bed early and got myself up in the middle of the night to download it as soon as possible. I transferred it to my iPod and carried it back to bed, and lied there mesmerized and feverish for 40 minutes, entranced, absorbing the whole thing.
What I recall from the haze: the shouts of the children at the end of “15 Step,” the unprecedented high note that Thom holds at the climax of “Nude,” the weird switch in dynamics 3/4 of the way through “Weird Fishes,” and the endless wait for the pile-driving guitar momentum of “Reckoner” to interrupt the swoony, sophisticated tapestry of noodles and bleeps and synths that was dominating the record, which of course never happened because “Reckoner” developed a soul and became something else entirely.
It's an awe-inspiring record by a band who has creatively surpassed themselves so many times now that I have difficulty understanding why anyone still considers the stalemated U2 to be the best band in the world. And my Discbox has proven to be worth every penny, as the vinyl is mastered at 45 rpm to allow for more information in its grooves and the bonus CD has a number of additional gems on it like "Down Is the New Up" (sultry, minor-keyed rock), "Last Flowers" (desolate beauty, like "True Love Waits" or "Like Spinning Plates") and "4 Minute Warning" (gentle, ghostly).
Then why isn't In Rainbows the best record of 2007? Because I think it hijacked the year somewhat. Radiohead are currently bigger than charts and countdowns; even their baby steps are noted by major news networks and cultural commentators. Despite my crazy fandom for a decade, I always felt that their music was somehow "mine." But not anymore; Radiohead truly belong to everybody.
So there's another record, by another artist, who defined 2007 for me so much more profoundly than this did...
(Oh, here's the marvelous clip for "Jigsaw Falling Into Place"...)
“…for my family.”
Look, I am as sick of this as you are. I am aware that it is no longer 2007 and that 2008 is slowly creeping by. Another Valentine’s Day has come and gone that meant nothing to me whatsoever because I am a loveless black-hearted fool who is always obsessing about the year before. Musically right now I’m excited about a number of interesting things that have nothing to do with 2007. And most importantly, I have pictures and experiences that I’d like to post that have nothing to do with this inane countdown that nobody seems to be reading anyway.
And so, you might ask, why not just finish up? And so, I might ask back, is that really the way you expect things to run in my world? Of course you don’t… There are death flus and catalog copy and friends visiting and IDM from 15 years ago and all sorts of things that have commanded my attention in the interim. I even considered just not finishing the countdown, because it somehow seems strangely appropriate.
Earlier this month I made a point of establishing a distinction between favorites and the selections on this list, and by that standard the following artist has absolutely no right to be anywhere near the countdown, and really, nobody wants to hear me talk about them again after 10 whole years of hyperbolic fanboy blathering.
Radiohead keep breaking everybody else’s rules; I’m not sure why I expect them to adhere to mine.
Despite the three years of hype that followed OK Computer and the documentary film that I saw at the Music Box behind that big-headed guy and the complete immersion in Kid A that made me sound like I was proselytizing to everyone I knew and the traveling across the country to see the band perform at Liberty State Park and the downloading of a bazillion live bootlegs and the rapture that followed when “True Love Waits” was finally released on a record and 4 years of listening to one particular bootleg that contained an unreleased live track called “Reckoner” that was somehow reminiscent of Led Zeppelin “being pulled apart by horses,” I was convinced that Radiohead were done. It was taking far too long for them to record a follow-up to Hail to the Thief and Thom’s solo record oddly failed to affect me.
“Radiohead are done,” I told my friends, as many of you know. And if they weren’t done, they would surely suck. They would somehow unwrite the fact that “There There” still managed to qualify in my mind as the best single of 2003 and that if I had gotten my cat two years later I would have named her “Myxomatosis” and that “The Gloaming” is still in my head, always, every day, and that there are a LOT of inappropriate situations where you should not sing out loud, “They will suck you down to the other side.”
As you can imagine, it took me all of 8 seconds to decide I was going to shell out the $80 for the In Rainbows Discbox when the band made the announcement that changed everything.
You’re rolling your eyes.
But before you write off my comments as a true believer, please hear me out. I understand that the band’s “pay what you want” approach to downloading sub-par MP3 files was not really as cool as it sounded, and that the skeptics in the audience see it as not much more than foregoing the traditional avenue of distributing free promo CDs to stores and publications around the world. But Radiohead understood that the greatest, fastest form of spreading information was via the Internet, with which they came of age, and ultimately they didn’t need a dinosaur business industry to help them with this part of the task. Rather than just leaking their own album, they offered up an alternative that made people think about the value of music, the value of artistry, the future of the music industry, and the responsibility that goes hand in hand with an awareness of their own power.
In other words, Radiohead took the opportunity to show everyone in the industry that there are other ways to proceed rather than to simply adhere to a dying model. And if the record itself weren’t possibly the finest they’ve recorded to date, this fact alone might be enough to justify their inclusion near the very top of my 2007 countdown.
But, oh, that record…! I was sick as a dog the night it became available for download. Actually, it was about 8 in the morning in the UK. Knowing this, I went to bed early and got myself up in the middle of the night to download it as soon as possible. I transferred it to my iPod and carried it back to bed, and lied there mesmerized and feverish for 40 minutes, entranced, absorbing the whole thing.
What I recall from the haze: the shouts of the children at the end of “15 Step,” the unprecedented high note that Thom holds at the climax of “Nude,” the weird switch in dynamics 3/4 of the way through “Weird Fishes,” and the endless wait for the pile-driving guitar momentum of “Reckoner” to interrupt the swoony, sophisticated tapestry of noodles and bleeps and synths that was dominating the record, which of course never happened because “Reckoner” developed a soul and became something else entirely.
It's an awe-inspiring record by a band who has creatively surpassed themselves so many times now that I have difficulty understanding why anyone still considers the stalemated U2 to be the best band in the world. And my Discbox has proven to be worth every penny, as the vinyl is mastered at 45 rpm to allow for more information in its grooves and the bonus CD has a number of additional gems on it like "Down Is the New Up" (sultry, minor-keyed rock), "Last Flowers" (desolate beauty, like "True Love Waits" or "Like Spinning Plates") and "4 Minute Warning" (gentle, ghostly).
Then why isn't In Rainbows the best record of 2007? Because I think it hijacked the year somewhat. Radiohead are currently bigger than charts and countdowns; even their baby steps are noted by major news networks and cultural commentators. Despite my crazy fandom for a decade, I always felt that their music was somehow "mine." But not anymore; Radiohead truly belong to everybody.
So there's another record, by another artist, who defined 2007 for me so much more profoundly than this did...
(Oh, here's the marvelous clip for "Jigsaw Falling Into Place"...)
Sunday, February 10, 2008
3. M.I.A. - Kala
Welcome to Postmodern Accident’s Best of 2007:
“…for my heartache.”
I cannot think of any working artist right now who feels more vital than Maya Arulpragasam; her music has an absolutely perfect balance of universal appeal, intelligence, political weight, and forward-thinking production. Her basic style, best described in muso terms as grime infused with ragga and electro pop, makes her the first artist in my mind to show that hip-hop will ultimately prove to be a genre of music even more comprehensive than rock. The fact that I am even covering this record on Postmodern Accident is a testament to its breadth. M.I.A. references the Clash, the Modern Lovers, and the Pixies on Kala, and she brings in such disparate elements as ABBA-esque Bollywood pop and a group of aboriginal boy rappers. It is a truly astonishing assortment of sounds, approaches, and—most importantly—cultures.
Last year I remarked several times that M.I.A. had produced the album of the year. If we were speaking strictly on musical terms, I might still feel that way, but I think middle-class American guilt actually keeps me from upholding it so highly. The problem is that Kala is so earnest in its multiculturalism, and so readily tuned to the NPR set, that despite its relevance to my musical tastes (think dancy, edgy, electronic, British, sarcastic, etc.), it makes me feel phony, like some sort of silent passenger on its wild ride. I mean, who am I? Just some dull, overeducated, thirty-something white male who has been surrounded by cushions his entire life; I know more about British men with teased hair and lipstick than I do about militant struggles for Tamil independence. So what right do I have to declare that M.I.A. rocked my world more than everyone else in 2007??
When it came to compiling this list, the bottom line is that she didn’t, no matter how much I wanted her to. Kala is an extraordinarily fun record that somehow makes me want to dance and listen to non-American newscasts at the same time. It makes me want to be a better person. But I am not yet that person, and last year, two other artists—far more predictable in terms of little ol' RTW—rocked my world even more.
Here is Postmodern Accident’s choice for song of the year, “Paper Planes”:
“…for my heartache.”
I cannot think of any working artist right now who feels more vital than Maya Arulpragasam; her music has an absolutely perfect balance of universal appeal, intelligence, political weight, and forward-thinking production. Her basic style, best described in muso terms as grime infused with ragga and electro pop, makes her the first artist in my mind to show that hip-hop will ultimately prove to be a genre of music even more comprehensive than rock. The fact that I am even covering this record on Postmodern Accident is a testament to its breadth. M.I.A. references the Clash, the Modern Lovers, and the Pixies on Kala, and she brings in such disparate elements as ABBA-esque Bollywood pop and a group of aboriginal boy rappers. It is a truly astonishing assortment of sounds, approaches, and—most importantly—cultures.
Last year I remarked several times that M.I.A. had produced the album of the year. If we were speaking strictly on musical terms, I might still feel that way, but I think middle-class American guilt actually keeps me from upholding it so highly. The problem is that Kala is so earnest in its multiculturalism, and so readily tuned to the NPR set, that despite its relevance to my musical tastes (think dancy, edgy, electronic, British, sarcastic, etc.), it makes me feel phony, like some sort of silent passenger on its wild ride. I mean, who am I? Just some dull, overeducated, thirty-something white male who has been surrounded by cushions his entire life; I know more about British men with teased hair and lipstick than I do about militant struggles for Tamil independence. So what right do I have to declare that M.I.A. rocked my world more than everyone else in 2007??
When it came to compiling this list, the bottom line is that she didn’t, no matter how much I wanted her to. Kala is an extraordinarily fun record that somehow makes me want to dance and listen to non-American newscasts at the same time. It makes me want to be a better person. But I am not yet that person, and last year, two other artists—far more predictable in terms of little ol' RTW—rocked my world even more.
Here is Postmodern Accident’s choice for song of the year, “Paper Planes”:
Saturday, February 09, 2008
4. Animal Collective - Strawberry Jam
Panda Bear - Person Pitch
Welcome to Postmodern Accident’s Best of 2007:
“…for my headache.”
Did you ever watch the MTV Top 20 Video Countdown that was played on Friday nights at 7? I think it was aired again over the weekend, so you didn’t have to cut into your Friday night mall time to watch it. I most frequently remember the show hosted by Adam Curry, possibly China Kantner or Carolyn Heldman occasionally.
WOW. Remember Kevin Seal? There are, like, NO pictures of these people online. For personalities who were so pivotal to suburban teen life in the late ‘80s, they sure seem obscure now.
Anyway, my point is that as the countdown reached its higher realms, there was almost always a video that everyone, without exception, was just completely sick of seeing, and instead of playing out the whole damn thing again, they’d show an excerpt from it and move on to something else. I mean, why watch all 7 minutes of “The Way You Make Me Feel” if you could gloss over it in 30 seconds and avoid the crotch-grabbing altogether? This was especially important if a song were moving down the chart, though I’m fairly certain MTV never failed to play the entirety of “Pour Some Sugar on Me.”
I’m not exactly sick of Animal Collective, and their standing on my list hasn’t faltered in any way. But as I already spent
an entire post back in October blathering on about Strawberry Jam and Avey and Panda, I don’t really need to say much about them now.
Here’s the video for Panda Bear’s “Bro’s,” but don’t expect to be able to watch the whole thing because even as an edit it’s still 6 minutes long, and it’s so swirly that it kind of makes me sick. There’s a cat and a long haired (boy?) showering and something else but I don’t have the mild dose of ketamine handy that would undoubtedly slow my visual processing down enough to figure it out. Still, it’s a good example of Panda’s unusual Brian-Wilson-meets-Brian-Eno variant of postmodernism and deserves to be exalted here.
“…for my headache.”
Did you ever watch the MTV Top 20 Video Countdown that was played on Friday nights at 7? I think it was aired again over the weekend, so you didn’t have to cut into your Friday night mall time to watch it. I most frequently remember the show hosted by Adam Curry, possibly China Kantner or Carolyn Heldman occasionally.
WOW. Remember Kevin Seal? There are, like, NO pictures of these people online. For personalities who were so pivotal to suburban teen life in the late ‘80s, they sure seem obscure now.
Anyway, my point is that as the countdown reached its higher realms, there was almost always a video that everyone, without exception, was just completely sick of seeing, and instead of playing out the whole damn thing again, they’d show an excerpt from it and move on to something else. I mean, why watch all 7 minutes of “The Way You Make Me Feel” if you could gloss over it in 30 seconds and avoid the crotch-grabbing altogether? This was especially important if a song were moving down the chart, though I’m fairly certain MTV never failed to play the entirety of “Pour Some Sugar on Me.”
I’m not exactly sick of Animal Collective, and their standing on my list hasn’t faltered in any way. But as I already spent
an entire post back in October blathering on about Strawberry Jam and Avey and Panda, I don’t really need to say much about them now.
Here’s the video for Panda Bear’s “Bro’s,” but don’t expect to be able to watch the whole thing because even as an edit it’s still 6 minutes long, and it’s so swirly that it kind of makes me sick. There’s a cat and a long haired (boy?) showering and something else but I don’t have the mild dose of ketamine handy that would undoubtedly slow my visual processing down enough to figure it out. Still, it’s a good example of Panda’s unusual Brian-Wilson-meets-Brian-Eno variant of postmodernism and deserves to be exalted here.
Sunday, February 03, 2008
5. LCD Soundsystem - Sound of Silver
Welcome to Postmodern Accident’s Best of 2007:
“…for my lonely.”
James Murphy’s 2005 full-length debut as LCD Soundsystem established that he could be as good as his mighty influences: Daft Punk, Brian Eno, the Fall, Talking Heads. Since then, his newfound status as tastemaker and trailblazer has allowed him to grant careers back to long-forgotten groundbreakers from 25 years ago: Liquid Liquid, Pigbag, Pylon, This Heat. His ever-growing legacy as a remixer has enabled him to keep company with seemingly untouchable contemporaries: Gorillaz, Hot Chip, the Rapture, Soulwax.
Opening with the best dance number of an already-incredible career and resonating emotionally with its audience for much of its remainder, Sound of Silver raises the stakes considerably for James Murphy; it proves that he deserves his ongoing position atop that high, high pedestal. Other than dropping a few more names, what more could I possibly say?
“…for my lonely.”
James Murphy’s 2005 full-length debut as LCD Soundsystem established that he could be as good as his mighty influences: Daft Punk, Brian Eno, the Fall, Talking Heads. Since then, his newfound status as tastemaker and trailblazer has allowed him to grant careers back to long-forgotten groundbreakers from 25 years ago: Liquid Liquid, Pigbag, Pylon, This Heat. His ever-growing legacy as a remixer has enabled him to keep company with seemingly untouchable contemporaries: Gorillaz, Hot Chip, the Rapture, Soulwax.
Opening with the best dance number of an already-incredible career and resonating emotionally with its audience for much of its remainder, Sound of Silver raises the stakes considerably for James Murphy; it proves that he deserves his ongoing position atop that high, high pedestal. Other than dropping a few more names, what more could I possibly say?
6. Shocking Pinks
Welcome to Postmodern Accident’s Best of 2007:
"...for my sorrow."
DISCLAIMER: The following artist is from New Zealand, and yet has absolutely nothing to do with anyone named Finn.
I think I trust the DFA too much. Ever since the one-two of “House of Jealous Lovers” and “Losing My Edge,” I’ve been picking up just about every release that has that stupid little hand-drawn lightning bolt logo on it—and almost without exception have enjoyed them all. But in a year where the DFA may have spread themselves too thin (focusing on their flagship, signing new bands, reissuing old ones, licensing 12” singles from across the sea), it’s reassuring to know that Tim Goldsworthy and James Murphy are still capable of utterly surprising me with their outright coolness, snatching up a fantastic, little-known lo-fi independent act from one of the farthest corners of the world and sharing it with the rest of us.
DISCLAIMER: This album is a compilation of tracks from two prior records released only in New Zealand. Although the bulk of it is composed of tracks from their latest record presented in the same sequence, in some circles this might disqualify it from inclusion on any 2007 list. If you are a member of such circles, fuck you. This record trumps any of that New Pornographers shit to which you keep clinging.
If you think the DFA affiliation means that this album is going to be chock full of white electro-funk and disco beats, think again. Shocking Pinks is basically the outlet for self-confessed reformed heroin junkie Nick Harte to indulge his fascination with the Pretty in Pink soundtrack, and it shows almost immediately. “This Aching Deal” and “Second Hand Girl” could be outtakes from New Order’s Low Life. “How Am I Not Myself?”—a great title undoubtedly stolen from I Heart Huckabees—sounds like an attempt to emulate the Smiths’ famous riff-and-warble combo. And “End of the World” and “Emily” have a melodic romanticism that has been missing from most alt-rock since the gritty ‘90s turned the Psych Furs into Love Spit Love.
But the two greatest things to know about Shocking Pinks are that (1) Harte is a drummer first and foremost, so the record bears an overwhelmingly hot live-drum sound that sets it apart from everything else on the DFA roster and (2) Harte seems committed to a strictly lo-fi approach that frees these songs from a distinct time and place and gives them all a common denominator. The end result is a record with an embarrassment of riches in a number of disparate styles that sounds like a smartly sequenced greatest hits and plays like a cultural touchstone.
There’s a transcendent moment in the video for “End of the World” where an electric saw is throwing sparks as it cuts through the door of a crashed car in order to reach the passengers inside. The sparks are strangely beautiful despite the circumstances, and I like to think this element is part of what makes Shocking Pinks so appealing, and why I rate it so highly.
"...for my sorrow."
DISCLAIMER: The following artist is from New Zealand, and yet has absolutely nothing to do with anyone named Finn.
I think I trust the DFA too much. Ever since the one-two of “House of Jealous Lovers” and “Losing My Edge,” I’ve been picking up just about every release that has that stupid little hand-drawn lightning bolt logo on it—and almost without exception have enjoyed them all. But in a year where the DFA may have spread themselves too thin (focusing on their flagship, signing new bands, reissuing old ones, licensing 12” singles from across the sea), it’s reassuring to know that Tim Goldsworthy and James Murphy are still capable of utterly surprising me with their outright coolness, snatching up a fantastic, little-known lo-fi independent act from one of the farthest corners of the world and sharing it with the rest of us.
DISCLAIMER: This album is a compilation of tracks from two prior records released only in New Zealand. Although the bulk of it is composed of tracks from their latest record presented in the same sequence, in some circles this might disqualify it from inclusion on any 2007 list. If you are a member of such circles, fuck you. This record trumps any of that New Pornographers shit to which you keep clinging.
If you think the DFA affiliation means that this album is going to be chock full of white electro-funk and disco beats, think again. Shocking Pinks is basically the outlet for self-confessed reformed heroin junkie Nick Harte to indulge his fascination with the Pretty in Pink soundtrack, and it shows almost immediately. “This Aching Deal” and “Second Hand Girl” could be outtakes from New Order’s Low Life. “How Am I Not Myself?”—a great title undoubtedly stolen from I Heart Huckabees—sounds like an attempt to emulate the Smiths’ famous riff-and-warble combo. And “End of the World” and “Emily” have a melodic romanticism that has been missing from most alt-rock since the gritty ‘90s turned the Psych Furs into Love Spit Love.
But the two greatest things to know about Shocking Pinks are that (1) Harte is a drummer first and foremost, so the record bears an overwhelmingly hot live-drum sound that sets it apart from everything else on the DFA roster and (2) Harte seems committed to a strictly lo-fi approach that frees these songs from a distinct time and place and gives them all a common denominator. The end result is a record with an embarrassment of riches in a number of disparate styles that sounds like a smartly sequenced greatest hits and plays like a cultural touchstone.
There’s a transcendent moment in the video for “End of the World” where an electric saw is throwing sparks as it cuts through the door of a crashed car in order to reach the passengers inside. The sparks are strangely beautiful despite the circumstances, and I like to think this element is part of what makes Shocking Pinks so appealing, and why I rate it so highly.
Friday, February 01, 2008
Not 6. Liars
Welcome to Postmodern Accident. This is not number six. Six. Six is still coming.
Whenever I compose lists like this, I have to be especially careful not to confuse my “favorites” of the year with “the best.” There are certain artists who have crossed some sort of threshold in my mind that essentially disqualifies them from the year-end best lists, simply because they would always rank there. I am forced to admit a certain degree of subjectivity; I can no longer judge clearly whether I am judging these records clearly. Otherwise, my list would have Depeche Mode, the Fall, and something Damon Albarn-related on it every year.
Liars have probably ascended to that level. For me, they remain the most consistently unpredictable and refreshing band of the 2000s. Yet after I heralded their 2nd album They Were Wrong, So We Drowned as the best of 2004 ("Foot in the grave!" The album is all about witchcraft…), I just kind of stopped talking about them. So please allow me a moment, in the midst of this year’s countdown, to reflect upon the state of Liars today, how they measured up in 2007, and what it means to be a Liars fan.
My friend John, who typically likes laid back singer/songwriter types and countrified rock bands like Wilco, went to see Interpol back in October, with Liars opening up. The morning after the show, I asked him what he thought of it. “Interpol were okay,” he said. “But that opening band? They weren’t even music.”
Of course, Liars are music, but I know what he meant. Liars are so driven by their own contrarianism that they’ll spend two years making noise just to make up for the previous two years in which they composed songs. Most of the time, they focus so heavily on hovering near the outer fringes of convention that the brief hooks and choruses that inevitably pop up on their records come across as extreme moments of experimentalism. Somehow after six or seven years of making severe left turns in their career, the decision to tour with Interpol—a much more refined and palatable band—just seemed like another bizarre and shocking move for the trio. After all, these are the guys whose biggest hit to date is called “The Other Side of Mt. Heart Attack,” and who grafted their own heads onto an explicit gay porn photo for the cover of one of their singles, even though I am fairly certain they’re all straight. These are the guys who named their debut album They Threw Us All in a Trench and Stuck a Monument on Top and yet named their fourth album Liars.
The self-title is appropriate, though. This record qualifies as one of my favorites of the year, not because of its experimentalism, but because it incorporates all the elements of their previous albums into one: '70s punk rock, sinister synth drones, percussive experiments, and remarkable pop songs. Even though 2006's Drum’s Not Dead restored the band’s esteem within the indie community, it remains their weakest record overall. Liars, however, is a clear return to form, a form that the band will likely blow wide open the next time they emerge from the darkness of the woods.
Warning: weirdness follows, but we Liars fans wouldn't have it any other way. We spit upon the Wilcos of the world.
Whenever I compose lists like this, I have to be especially careful not to confuse my “favorites” of the year with “the best.” There are certain artists who have crossed some sort of threshold in my mind that essentially disqualifies them from the year-end best lists, simply because they would always rank there. I am forced to admit a certain degree of subjectivity; I can no longer judge clearly whether I am judging these records clearly. Otherwise, my list would have Depeche Mode, the Fall, and something Damon Albarn-related on it every year.
Liars have probably ascended to that level. For me, they remain the most consistently unpredictable and refreshing band of the 2000s. Yet after I heralded their 2nd album They Were Wrong, So We Drowned as the best of 2004 ("Foot in the grave!" The album is all about witchcraft…), I just kind of stopped talking about them. So please allow me a moment, in the midst of this year’s countdown, to reflect upon the state of Liars today, how they measured up in 2007, and what it means to be a Liars fan.
My friend John, who typically likes laid back singer/songwriter types and countrified rock bands like Wilco, went to see Interpol back in October, with Liars opening up. The morning after the show, I asked him what he thought of it. “Interpol were okay,” he said. “But that opening band? They weren’t even music.”
Of course, Liars are music, but I know what he meant. Liars are so driven by their own contrarianism that they’ll spend two years making noise just to make up for the previous two years in which they composed songs. Most of the time, they focus so heavily on hovering near the outer fringes of convention that the brief hooks and choruses that inevitably pop up on their records come across as extreme moments of experimentalism. Somehow after six or seven years of making severe left turns in their career, the decision to tour with Interpol—a much more refined and palatable band—just seemed like another bizarre and shocking move for the trio. After all, these are the guys whose biggest hit to date is called “The Other Side of Mt. Heart Attack,” and who grafted their own heads onto an explicit gay porn photo for the cover of one of their singles, even though I am fairly certain they’re all straight. These are the guys who named their debut album They Threw Us All in a Trench and Stuck a Monument on Top and yet named their fourth album Liars.
The self-title is appropriate, though. This record qualifies as one of my favorites of the year, not because of its experimentalism, but because it incorporates all the elements of their previous albums into one: '70s punk rock, sinister synth drones, percussive experiments, and remarkable pop songs. Even though 2006's Drum’s Not Dead restored the band’s esteem within the indie community, it remains their weakest record overall. Liars, however, is a clear return to form, a form that the band will likely blow wide open the next time they emerge from the darkness of the woods.
Warning: weirdness follows, but we Liars fans wouldn't have it any other way. We spit upon the Wilcos of the world.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
9. A Place to Bury Strangers
Welcome to Postmodern Accident. Not the kind of accident where you end up listlessly waiting for the emergency squad to saw through the car door while the warm blood flows down your chest from the sizable piece of glass protruding from the top of your head… I’m strictly referring to the other kind.
My friend David has always referred to my taste in music as “foot in the grave,” and he’s persisted to call it that for years even after I renounced most things goth. It’s pretty funny, actually, because through the 2000s there have been a number of bands—Death Cab for Cutie, the Dismemberment Plan, And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead, the Rapture, the Killers, the Knife, etc.—that nominally seem to lend credence to his theory, even though there’s nothing technically goth about any of them.
In fact, when Brainwashed started to champion A Place to Bury Strangers over the course of the year, I successfully disregarded what they had to say. Though the site has really grown in recent years to accommodate many other kinds of alternative music, I still equate them first and foremost with 4AD and Soleilmoon and World Serpent. Subsequently, I imagined that the band must be three guys from New York barely out of high school with Robert Smith hair, playing pop songs about Helena, Lucretia, and Charlotte to girls with yarn dreads.
Yet eventually APTBS became inescapable. The painful slabs of feedback on “Missing You” and the familiar churn-and-hurl guitar dynamics that separate the verses of “Don’t Think Lover” are pure Jesus and Mary Chain and My Bloody Valentine, respectively. But whereas every other band that summons these influences ends up sounding like a knock-off trying to cater to a built-in audience, APTBS is actually building on their accomplishments. Where the Reid Brothers would have smothered their songs with noise, APTBS use the noise strategically to heighten the dramatic impact of their brilliantly palatable songwriting. Where Kevin Shields would have twiddled a knob to obscure a song’s clarity, Strangers’ mainman Oliver Ackermann actually customizes effects pedals for a living. In other words, for many of these songs, the sounds came first.
A Place to Bury Strangers is the only record in my collection that requires me to turn down the volume on my iPod in order to listen to it.
The album chugs along from strength to strength, all the while stewed in a sumptuous darkness. Is it goth? Not exactly. But the guitar drone that dominates my favorite track, “The Falling Sun,” will sound familiar to anyone who’s ever gone to a darkwave club night. Let’s just call it “foot in the grave.”
For your undead pleasure: “I Know I’ll See You.” Get a load of the bassline in all its Gallup-ish glory.
My friend David has always referred to my taste in music as “foot in the grave,” and he’s persisted to call it that for years even after I renounced most things goth. It’s pretty funny, actually, because through the 2000s there have been a number of bands—Death Cab for Cutie, the Dismemberment Plan, And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead, the Rapture, the Killers, the Knife, etc.—that nominally seem to lend credence to his theory, even though there’s nothing technically goth about any of them.
In fact, when Brainwashed started to champion A Place to Bury Strangers over the course of the year, I successfully disregarded what they had to say. Though the site has really grown in recent years to accommodate many other kinds of alternative music, I still equate them first and foremost with 4AD and Soleilmoon and World Serpent. Subsequently, I imagined that the band must be three guys from New York barely out of high school with Robert Smith hair, playing pop songs about Helena, Lucretia, and Charlotte to girls with yarn dreads.
Yet eventually APTBS became inescapable. The painful slabs of feedback on “Missing You” and the familiar churn-and-hurl guitar dynamics that separate the verses of “Don’t Think Lover” are pure Jesus and Mary Chain and My Bloody Valentine, respectively. But whereas every other band that summons these influences ends up sounding like a knock-off trying to cater to a built-in audience, APTBS is actually building on their accomplishments. Where the Reid Brothers would have smothered their songs with noise, APTBS use the noise strategically to heighten the dramatic impact of their brilliantly palatable songwriting. Where Kevin Shields would have twiddled a knob to obscure a song’s clarity, Strangers’ mainman Oliver Ackermann actually customizes effects pedals for a living. In other words, for many of these songs, the sounds came first.
A Place to Bury Strangers is the only record in my collection that requires me to turn down the volume on my iPod in order to listen to it.
The album chugs along from strength to strength, all the while stewed in a sumptuous darkness. Is it goth? Not exactly. But the guitar drone that dominates my favorite track, “The Falling Sun,” will sound familiar to anyone who’s ever gone to a darkwave club night. Let’s just call it “foot in the grave.”
For your undead pleasure: “I Know I’ll See You.” Get a load of the bassline in all its Gallup-ish glory.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
8. Deerhunter - Cryptograms
Jrypbzr gb Cbfgzbqrea Nppvqrag. Va ubabe bs zl pubvpr sbe gur rvtugu orfg nyohz bs 2007, V nz cerfragvat guvf ragel va ebg-13. Fbeel gb or bofpher, ohg gung’f whfg zl jnl. Vs lbh jnag fbzrguvat shpxvat fgenvtugsbejneq, gura tb ernq CbcZnggref.
Guvf frrzf gur nccebcevngr nggvghqr gb gnxr va n cbfg qvfphffvat Ngynagn’f Qrreuhagre, jub unir nyy fbegf bs vffhrf gb jbex guebhtu, nyy gur gvzr. Qba’g nfx zr nobhg gurve qrnq sevraqf be onaq zrzoref yrnivat be snvyrq erpbeqvat nggrzcgf be trargvp qvfbeqref be inthr frkhnyvgl. V whfg yvfgra gb gur zhfvp.
Naq thrff jung? Guvf erpbeq vfa’g shpxvat fgenvtugsbejneq rvgure. Erpbeqrq va gjb unyirf, vg nygreangrf orgjrra fcnprq-bhg fbhaq cvrprf gung fbhaq yvxr Fbavp Lbhgu cebqhprq ol Rab, naq oyvffshy vaqvr cbc gung pebffrf gur Jeraf jvgu fubrtnmr. Gubhtu n unccl nppvqrag, gur pburerapr vg zhfgref vf oevyyvnag, gung bs bar tvtnagvp ohg qryvpngr cebt-cbc nqiragher gung genafsbezf vgfrys nf vg tbrf. V qba’g pner vs gurl fhccbfrqyl unir n qrohg nyohz pnyyrq Ghea Vg Hc Snttbg naq V qba’g pner vs gur arkg bar gurl znxr jvaf n Tenzzl; jung znggref urer vf gur beqrerq punbf gung unccraf orgjrra gur ubaxvat fcnpr-ntr nynezf bs “Vageb” naq gur tragyl eulguzvp fvat-fbat bs “Urngurejbbq.” Tnentr ebpxf fjveyf, jngre sybjf, gncr ehaf bhg, fbzr haoryvrinoyr tbqyvxr zrff pnyyrq “Ynxr Fbzrefrg” gnxrf cynpr, n pbecfr fcvenyf bhg, naq gura jr’er tvira gur bar-gjb chapu bs “Fcevat Unyy Pbaireg” naq “Fgenatr Yvtugf” yvxr znaan envavat qbja hcba gur fgneivat, qebhtug-fgevpxra znffrf.
Pelcgbtenzf erfhygf sebz gur xvaq bs pbzcebzvfr orgjrra qnzntrq negvfgvp vagrag naq hapbbcrengvir bhgfvqre crefbanyvgl gung nyjnlf tenof zr ol gur arpx. Vg cerfragf gur bayl inevngvba bs vaqvr ebpx gung V pna gehyl fgbznpu gurfr qnlf, naq enaxf ba zl lrne-raq yvfg sbe gung irel ernfba.
Naq vs lbh qner, pyvpx urer sbe “Ynxr Fbzrefrg” naq cvmmn.
Guvf frrzf gur nccebcevngr nggvghqr gb gnxr va n cbfg qvfphffvat Ngynagn’f Qrreuhagre, jub unir nyy fbegf bs vffhrf gb jbex guebhtu, nyy gur gvzr. Qba’g nfx zr nobhg gurve qrnq sevraqf be onaq zrzoref yrnivat be snvyrq erpbeqvat nggrzcgf be trargvp qvfbeqref be inthr frkhnyvgl. V whfg yvfgra gb gur zhfvp.
Naq thrff jung? Guvf erpbeq vfa’g shpxvat fgenvtugsbejneq rvgure. Erpbeqrq va gjb unyirf, vg nygreangrf orgjrra fcnprq-bhg fbhaq cvrprf gung fbhaq yvxr Fbavp Lbhgu cebqhprq ol Rab, naq oyvffshy vaqvr cbc gung pebffrf gur Jeraf jvgu fubrtnmr. Gubhtu n unccl nppvqrag, gur pburerapr vg zhfgref vf oevyyvnag, gung bs bar tvtnagvp ohg qryvpngr cebt-cbc nqiragher gung genafsbezf vgfrys nf vg tbrf. V qba’g pner vs gurl fhccbfrqyl unir n qrohg nyohz pnyyrq Ghea Vg Hc Snttbg naq V qba’g pner vs gur arkg bar gurl znxr jvaf n Tenzzl; jung znggref urer vf gur beqrerq punbf gung unccraf orgjrra gur ubaxvat fcnpr-ntr nynezf bs “Vageb” naq gur tragyl eulguzvp fvat-fbat bs “Urngurejbbq.” Tnentr ebpxf fjveyf, jngre sybjf, gncr ehaf bhg, fbzr haoryvrinoyr tbqyvxr zrff pnyyrq “Ynxr Fbzrefrg” gnxrf cynpr, n pbecfr fcvenyf bhg, naq gura jr’er tvira gur bar-gjb chapu bs “Fcevat Unyy Pbaireg” naq “Fgenatr Yvtugf” yvxr znaan envavat qbja hcba gur fgneivat, qebhtug-fgevpxra znffrf.
Pelcgbtenzf erfhygf sebz gur xvaq bs pbzcebzvfr orgjrra qnzntrq negvfgvp vagrag naq hapbbcrengvir bhgfvqre crefbanyvgl gung nyjnlf tenof zr ol gur arpx. Vg cerfragf gur bayl inevngvba bs vaqvr ebpx gung V pna gehyl fgbznpu gurfr qnlf, naq enaxf ba zl lrne-raq yvfg sbe gung irel ernfba.
Naq vs lbh qner, pyvpx urer sbe “Ynxr Fbzrefrg” naq cvmmn.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
7. Burial - Untrue
Welcome to Postmodern Accident. I have skipped numbers 8 and 9 because I wanted to wax eloquent about #7.
A couple of years ago, I was an active member and contributor to a tight-knit community of online music fans, from which I basically divorced myself once I began working two jobs. I met a lot of very cool people through the boards, both in the States and the UK. Some became friends in real life, especially if I was able to meet them in person. But some—especially those in the UK—sadly remain relegated to that particular time and place in my life.
One such friend—let’s call him BOB—had a successful career in the television industry and a happy family life in London with his beautiful wife, a renowned music journalist and published author in the UK, and their two young children. He was considerably older than I, possibly mid-40s, and yet spectacularly seemed to go clubbing all the time. In fact, he seemed to thrive on it, and indulged in the sort of drug use that a 19-yr-old guy might happily endure. This didn’t seem to slow him down at all; in fact, BOB was sharp, and he had the sort of clearness of vision that qualified him for guru status. (He also seemed to understand boys in clubs, and his gay-friendliness certainly allowed for a better friendship between us.)
One common argument I found online throughout that time, especially amongst British fans of the Fall, was that no “produced” music could possibly be any good. They all favored rootsy, lo-fi rawk, blues, and rockabilly, and were particular enamored by anything American. And as I was rekindling a lot of my interest in electronic music at the time after several years indulging primarily in indie rock, I found myself constantly on the outside of the general consensus. My musical kinship with these folks was limited… except for that with BOB. (And with Jake, who also liked the Hafler Trio, but that is a different story.) BOB was constantly encouraging my exploration into electronic music, and his pedigree as an elite London clubber was certainly helpful. So naturally, with the onslaught of such “pop” artists as Dizzee Rascal, M.I.A., and Lady Sovereign, I had to ask about grime.
But BOB knew I wasn’t invested in hip-hop, and steered me in a different direction. “Grime is okay, but what you really want to check out is dubstep.” I ended up buying all sorts of recommended stuff, from Rephlex’s first Grime compilation featuring MarkOne, Plasticman, and Slaughter Mob (all of which is actually dubstep) to a peculiarly dark and relentless album of slow-motion breakbeats by Vex’d. Good stuff, but a bit esoteric for my tastes at a time when I wasn’t looking for even more interests to set me apart from the rest of the Chicago populace at large.
Fast forward to 2007. London’s Burial releases his second album, Untrue, and quickly becomes the poster child for dubstep. How ironic, considering his baffling anonymity! Yet, once you hear this release, it is completely understandable. Untrue is haunting and soothing and almost unbearably soulful, but before I can explain this, I have to establish that it sounds like house music that has been melted in a microwave. Except for the crisp rhythms produced by the drum tracks, the sounds all smear together, like warm musical chocolate morsels in a giant crispy cookie. I mean, I want to buy the vinyl and set it in the sun for an hour and then play it again and see if it sounds even better.
Ewww… That may be the worst string of sentences I have ever written. Blog writing is certainly liberating, compared to the self-editing one must constantly undergo when writing for someone else’s publication, but it also leads to the production of some really craptastic metaphors.
So back to the soulfulness… like house music, this has innumerable vocal snippets and repeated melodic catchphrases that heighten the emotional impact of the songs, but they are skillfully pitch-shifted so that they warble everything mournfully. Little half-sentiments like “Love you” and “It’s all because you lied” end up sounding like monumental truths or devastating accusations that cut right to the core, not a trait commonly found in dance music.
But the vocals aren’t what make Untrue so great, at least not exclusively. As a concentrated collage of moody sounds and feelings, it perfectly qualifies as a masterpiece of electronic urban soundscape, one that belongs beside the Future Sound of London’s Dead Cities and Massive Attack’s Mezzanine. More importantly, it feels undeniably authentic; though it sounds like nothing that came before it, its ancestry from soul to reggae to drum-and-bass is evident in every note.
All the haters out there will tell you that the hype garnered by this release marks the end of dubstep as an underground phenomenon and that Untrue can’t possibly be an adequate representative of the genre. I certainly won’t argue, because it’s not. But I can only attest to this because Burial’s success has single-handedly caused me to go back and revisit Skream, Kode 9, Distance, MRK1, and other contributors to the sound; isn’t that what any worthwhile genre spearhead is supposed to do? BOB would be so proud.
Listen:
A couple of years ago, I was an active member and contributor to a tight-knit community of online music fans, from which I basically divorced myself once I began working two jobs. I met a lot of very cool people through the boards, both in the States and the UK. Some became friends in real life, especially if I was able to meet them in person. But some—especially those in the UK—sadly remain relegated to that particular time and place in my life.
One such friend—let’s call him BOB—had a successful career in the television industry and a happy family life in London with his beautiful wife, a renowned music journalist and published author in the UK, and their two young children. He was considerably older than I, possibly mid-40s, and yet spectacularly seemed to go clubbing all the time. In fact, he seemed to thrive on it, and indulged in the sort of drug use that a 19-yr-old guy might happily endure. This didn’t seem to slow him down at all; in fact, BOB was sharp, and he had the sort of clearness of vision that qualified him for guru status. (He also seemed to understand boys in clubs, and his gay-friendliness certainly allowed for a better friendship between us.)
One common argument I found online throughout that time, especially amongst British fans of the Fall, was that no “produced” music could possibly be any good. They all favored rootsy, lo-fi rawk, blues, and rockabilly, and were particular enamored by anything American. And as I was rekindling a lot of my interest in electronic music at the time after several years indulging primarily in indie rock, I found myself constantly on the outside of the general consensus. My musical kinship with these folks was limited… except for that with BOB. (And with Jake, who also liked the Hafler Trio, but that is a different story.) BOB was constantly encouraging my exploration into electronic music, and his pedigree as an elite London clubber was certainly helpful. So naturally, with the onslaught of such “pop” artists as Dizzee Rascal, M.I.A., and Lady Sovereign, I had to ask about grime.
But BOB knew I wasn’t invested in hip-hop, and steered me in a different direction. “Grime is okay, but what you really want to check out is dubstep.” I ended up buying all sorts of recommended stuff, from Rephlex’s first Grime compilation featuring MarkOne, Plasticman, and Slaughter Mob (all of which is actually dubstep) to a peculiarly dark and relentless album of slow-motion breakbeats by Vex’d. Good stuff, but a bit esoteric for my tastes at a time when I wasn’t looking for even more interests to set me apart from the rest of the Chicago populace at large.
Fast forward to 2007. London’s Burial releases his second album, Untrue, and quickly becomes the poster child for dubstep. How ironic, considering his baffling anonymity! Yet, once you hear this release, it is completely understandable. Untrue is haunting and soothing and almost unbearably soulful, but before I can explain this, I have to establish that it sounds like house music that has been melted in a microwave. Except for the crisp rhythms produced by the drum tracks, the sounds all smear together, like warm musical chocolate morsels in a giant crispy cookie. I mean, I want to buy the vinyl and set it in the sun for an hour and then play it again and see if it sounds even better.
Ewww… That may be the worst string of sentences I have ever written. Blog writing is certainly liberating, compared to the self-editing one must constantly undergo when writing for someone else’s publication, but it also leads to the production of some really craptastic metaphors.
So back to the soulfulness… like house music, this has innumerable vocal snippets and repeated melodic catchphrases that heighten the emotional impact of the songs, but they are skillfully pitch-shifted so that they warble everything mournfully. Little half-sentiments like “Love you” and “It’s all because you lied” end up sounding like monumental truths or devastating accusations that cut right to the core, not a trait commonly found in dance music.
But the vocals aren’t what make Untrue so great, at least not exclusively. As a concentrated collage of moody sounds and feelings, it perfectly qualifies as a masterpiece of electronic urban soundscape, one that belongs beside the Future Sound of London’s Dead Cities and Massive Attack’s Mezzanine. More importantly, it feels undeniably authentic; though it sounds like nothing that came before it, its ancestry from soul to reggae to drum-and-bass is evident in every note.
All the haters out there will tell you that the hype garnered by this release marks the end of dubstep as an underground phenomenon and that Untrue can’t possibly be an adequate representative of the genre. I certainly won’t argue, because it’s not. But I can only attest to this because Burial’s success has single-handedly caused me to go back and revisit Skream, Kode 9, Distance, MRK1, and other contributors to the sound; isn’t that what any worthwhile genre spearhead is supposed to do? BOB would be so proud.
Listen:
Sunday, January 20, 2008
10. The Field - From Here We Go Sublime
Welcome to Postmodern Accident. No more stalling. I now have 112 power stars in Super Mario Galaxy. Time to get cracking on the Top 10 of 2007.
Much has been said about the Field this year, and yet I’m not sure I have anything to add, though I’m definitely keen to reiterate. I have been following electronic music fairly closely for more than a decade and had never purchased anything on the Kompakt label before (Note to self: Why???), but upon reading that one track on this remarkable album (“Over the Ice”) was composed almost entirely of digital edits of a great song from Kate Bush (“Under Ice”), I had to check it out.
What is my thing with Kate Bush and electronic production? More importantly, anybody remember this old chestnut from the rave era?
Thankfully, the Field is nothing like that. Despite an emphasis on thumping beats and pulsing repetition, it has much more in common with Fennesz and Ulrich Schnauss: beautiful waves of electronic ambience that simply wash over its audience. Is there such a thing as organic bedroom trance? Actually, the way it depends on rhythm owes a little bit to Everything Is Wrong-era Moby, a source of influence that more musicians should allow for themselves. I am guessing that the track “Mobilia” is, quite appropriately, named after him.
For the most part, I can’t recommend this album enough, and I keep going back to it. While many tracks are built upon bits and samples from recognizable pop tunes, most of them are vaguely familiar without actually being recognizable, giving the whole mix a warmth and an immediacy not usually common in the realm of minimal techno. But when the samples are identifiable, such as the ghostly use of the Flamingos’ “I Only Have Eyes for You” deep in the center of the album’s title track, I am inclined to believe that I am listening to the music of the future, when the 20th century is barely a memory and faint traces of it resurface only in dreams.
This fan-made video is fantastic. Stay with it at least until about 1:45 to hear the Field's sense of development.
[And to my friend Dario who has a super mega car... actually, I mean my friend Ned who has been bugging me to get Okie Dokie It's the Orb on Kompakt for some time now... I swear it's going to happen.]
Much has been said about the Field this year, and yet I’m not sure I have anything to add, though I’m definitely keen to reiterate. I have been following electronic music fairly closely for more than a decade and had never purchased anything on the Kompakt label before (Note to self: Why???), but upon reading that one track on this remarkable album (“Over the Ice”) was composed almost entirely of digital edits of a great song from Kate Bush (“Under Ice”), I had to check it out.
What is my thing with Kate Bush and electronic production? More importantly, anybody remember this old chestnut from the rave era?
Thankfully, the Field is nothing like that. Despite an emphasis on thumping beats and pulsing repetition, it has much more in common with Fennesz and Ulrich Schnauss: beautiful waves of electronic ambience that simply wash over its audience. Is there such a thing as organic bedroom trance? Actually, the way it depends on rhythm owes a little bit to Everything Is Wrong-era Moby, a source of influence that more musicians should allow for themselves. I am guessing that the track “Mobilia” is, quite appropriately, named after him.
For the most part, I can’t recommend this album enough, and I keep going back to it. While many tracks are built upon bits and samples from recognizable pop tunes, most of them are vaguely familiar without actually being recognizable, giving the whole mix a warmth and an immediacy not usually common in the realm of minimal techno. But when the samples are identifiable, such as the ghostly use of the Flamingos’ “I Only Have Eyes for You” deep in the center of the album’s title track, I am inclined to believe that I am listening to the music of the future, when the 20th century is barely a memory and faint traces of it resurface only in dreams.
This fan-made video is fantastic. Stay with it at least until about 1:45 to hear the Field's sense of development.
[And to my friend Dario who has a super mega car... actually, I mean my friend Ned who has been bugging me to get Okie Dokie It's the Orb on Kompakt for some time now... I swear it's going to happen.]
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Drum roll, please...
Welcome to Postmodern Accident.
I know you're all waiting with baited breath for my top 10, but I've been busy!! Sorry.
Blame Michael and Mary and Dexter and Devon, dinner with Stacey and Leslie and Kevin, Marathon mewing, and most of all, Mario woohooing.
Here's a glimpse at what's coming up:
Coming soon!
I know you're all waiting with baited breath for my top 10, but I've been busy!! Sorry.
Blame Michael and Mary and Dexter and Devon, dinner with Stacey and Leslie and Kevin, Marathon mewing, and most of all, Mario woohooing.
Here's a glimpse at what's coming up:
- an electronic act with hypnotic, repetitive tunes made from digital edits of pop songs
- a brash and infectious power trio who do for the Jesus and Mary Chain what the Jesus and Mary Chain did for the Velvet Underground
- a psychedelic album recorded in two parts
- and a special follow-up on what's going on with the band who had my favorite album of 2004.
Coming soon!
Sunday, January 13, 2008
11. Justice – Cross Digitalism – Idealism
Welcome to P-O-S-T
1-2-3-4-Fight!
Then to the M-O-D-E
Get ready for the site
R-N-A-C-C-I-D
Spelling songs are trite
Just easy as E-N-T
I'm posting out of spite
Fuck Justice.
To be fair, Justice Digitalism are excellent producers/remixers from France Germany who took didn’t take the indie world by storm this year because some Pitchdork or other decided to exalt trash them, and it’s not hard to see why. I was a big fan of “Waters of Nazareth” “Zdarlight” last year, as I’d finally crossed the final frontier into buying straight-up dance music and was buying all the digital 12” singles that I read about. The track had an unusual two-part structure to it, with a lo-fi straightforward tech-house intro overcome by a big chord progression of gothic church organs buzzing electronic pianos in the second half. And based on remixes of songs from Soulwax, Franz Ferdinand, and Death From Above 1979 Cut Copy, the Presets, and Test Icicles, the band seemed to know exactly how to fill the floor with a signature sound. But Though the full-length album released this past summer spent spends too much a lot of time simply aping paying tribute to Discovery Human After All-era Daft Punk, albeit with a dose of synthetic disco strings and Jackson-like rhymes to somehow make da funk feel da funkier it actually betters their #1 influence's approach to robot rock, unveiling other creative ancestors in the process, such as the Cure and New Order.
With Despite a fashionista video (of creatively animated T-shirts spinning girls in bodysuits) for their sugary pop song post-punk hit “D.A.N.C.E.” “Pogo” as well as a featured spot in Cadillac commercials on video game soundtracks, both hipster girls in leg warmers tube tops and hipster boys with Motley Crüe-inspired mullets barely pubescent-looking ‘staches were entirely hardly impressed. Justice Digitalism ended up on everybody’s nobody's year-end top 10 lists while other relevant electro auteurs were subsequently overshadowed, not even my own, where it places at #11... but only because it was an incredible year for music.
"D.A.N.C.E." (Click if you must.)
"Pogo":
1-2-3-4-Fight!
Then to the M-O-D-E
Get ready for the site
R-N-A-C-C-I-D
Spelling songs are trite
Just easy as E-N-T
I'm posting out of spite
Fuck Justice.
"D.A.N.C.E." (Click if you must.)
"Pogo":
Saturday, January 12, 2008
13. Arctic Monkeys or Maxïmo Park ?
12. Maxïmo Park or Arctic Monkeys ?
Welcome to Postmodern Indecision.
Part of the reason why this list is moving forward so slowly is because I haven’t finalized it. Essentially I’m locking in certain choices as I go, swaying my own decisions according to whatever criteria I'm using at the time. As a result of my strangely organic method, my ranking is gradually taking on extra dimension, a second vector that curves back and forth while the numbers descend.
Arctic Monkeys and Maxïmo Park are both sophomores who got up and running in 2005. Both have released deeper, more complicated follow-ups to stellar debuts, yet both are just conventional enough that I really couldn’t consider either album for my top 10 this year. Still, I couldn’t stop listening to them, and both bands have quickly become favorites.
Arctic Monkeys briefly held the record for the fast-selling debut album in UK history, all the more impressive when considering they had considerable stateside success as well. Initially seen as everyman kids saved by guitars from the dole queue, they’ve unleashed one massive single after the next and quickly become a national institution, something akin to the 2000s version of Oasis. This year's Favourite Worst Nightmare builds upon their success while significantly widening their sound to include more minimal and rhythmic arrangements.
Maxïmo Park were late entries in the post-punk revivalist game, unveiled upon the public after the high profile influx of peers and competitors such as Franz Ferdinand, Kaiser Chiefs, the Futureheads, and Bloc Party. By that time, the public was tired, but critics gave the band well-deserved credit anyway. More unapologetically middle-class and pop-oriented than the Arctic Monkeys, their popularity has remained modest. They are the sort of indie college band with a huge student following that never suffers from overexposure or media hype. Their album Our Earthly Pleasures tries to tone down the hyper urgency on which they originally made their name, but it ends up a bit like caging a tiger.
Both bands are fronted by literate writers and play music that feels simultaneous retro and fresh—sculpted sounds dominated by razor sharp angular guitars. And yet the end result is entirely different. Alex Turner of the Monkeys has already ascended to deity status in the book of British songwriters, a working-class social commentator on par with Paul Weller and Damon Albarn in front of a brash and beloved band. If Arctic Monkeys are descendents from Oasis, derivative but fully-formed right out of the gate, then Maxïmo Park are early Radiohead—undeveloped but undeniable, with a white-hot future. Paul Smith is a somewhat demure guy who sings of Russian literature, unpacking books from boxes, and girls who play guitars (after all, anyone can play guitar), yet he’s a frantic, aggressive monster on stage, exhibiting passion and near-crazed intensity that make him impossible not to watch. Simply put, Maxïmo Park was possibly the best live act I saw last year, and anyone who attended a different show with me knows there was some extremely tough competition in the category.
So which album do I pick for #13? Whichever one I happen to be listening to at the moment. Which would you choose? For your deliberation, I give you the classic Clown-vs-Non-Clown video for the unstoppable “Fluorescent Adolescent” by Arctic Monkeys, up against a bootleg video of Maxïmo Park performing my favorite song from Our Earthly Pleasures, “The Unshockable.”
Part of the reason why this list is moving forward so slowly is because I haven’t finalized it. Essentially I’m locking in certain choices as I go, swaying my own decisions according to whatever criteria I'm using at the time. As a result of my strangely organic method, my ranking is gradually taking on extra dimension, a second vector that curves back and forth while the numbers descend.
Arctic Monkeys and Maxïmo Park are both sophomores who got up and running in 2005. Both have released deeper, more complicated follow-ups to stellar debuts, yet both are just conventional enough that I really couldn’t consider either album for my top 10 this year. Still, I couldn’t stop listening to them, and both bands have quickly become favorites.
Arctic Monkeys briefly held the record for the fast-selling debut album in UK history, all the more impressive when considering they had considerable stateside success as well. Initially seen as everyman kids saved by guitars from the dole queue, they’ve unleashed one massive single after the next and quickly become a national institution, something akin to the 2000s version of Oasis. This year's Favourite Worst Nightmare builds upon their success while significantly widening their sound to include more minimal and rhythmic arrangements.
Maxïmo Park were late entries in the post-punk revivalist game, unveiled upon the public after the high profile influx of peers and competitors such as Franz Ferdinand, Kaiser Chiefs, the Futureheads, and Bloc Party. By that time, the public was tired, but critics gave the band well-deserved credit anyway. More unapologetically middle-class and pop-oriented than the Arctic Monkeys, their popularity has remained modest. They are the sort of indie college band with a huge student following that never suffers from overexposure or media hype. Their album Our Earthly Pleasures tries to tone down the hyper urgency on which they originally made their name, but it ends up a bit like caging a tiger.
Both bands are fronted by literate writers and play music that feels simultaneous retro and fresh—sculpted sounds dominated by razor sharp angular guitars. And yet the end result is entirely different. Alex Turner of the Monkeys has already ascended to deity status in the book of British songwriters, a working-class social commentator on par with Paul Weller and Damon Albarn in front of a brash and beloved band. If Arctic Monkeys are descendents from Oasis, derivative but fully-formed right out of the gate, then Maxïmo Park are early Radiohead—undeveloped but undeniable, with a white-hot future. Paul Smith is a somewhat demure guy who sings of Russian literature, unpacking books from boxes, and girls who play guitars (after all, anyone can play guitar), yet he’s a frantic, aggressive monster on stage, exhibiting passion and near-crazed intensity that make him impossible not to watch. Simply put, Maxïmo Park was possibly the best live act I saw last year, and anyone who attended a different show with me knows there was some extremely tough competition in the category.
So which album do I pick for #13? Whichever one I happen to be listening to at the moment. Which would you choose? For your deliberation, I give you the classic Clown-vs-Non-Clown video for the unstoppable “Fluorescent Adolescent” by Arctic Monkeys, up against a bootleg video of Maxïmo Park performing my favorite song from Our Earthly Pleasures, “The Unshockable.”
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
14. Klaxons - Myths of the Near Future
Welcome back to Postmodern Accident's Best of 2007 countdown. First, an explanation.
WHY 15?
Essentially when I went to assemble my list, I realized that I was using two sets of criteria to determine my favorite releases of the year. On the most fundamental level, I wanted my top 10 to be the works that impressed me the most. However, the reality is that the selections I picked weren't necessarily the albums I listened to (i.e. continuously appreciated) the most. Thus I offer this expanded list. I didn't want to simply list selections 11 to 15 as "honorable mentions," because they're certainly more substantial to me than that.
Despite its status as winner of the 2007 Mercury Music Prize, the debut record from Klaxons might be the closest thing to an "honorable mention" here. Obviously, I've always loved electronic punk music, which this record enhances with science fiction, mythology, apocalypse, Aleister Crowley, Thomas Pynchon, the occasional dance beat, a rave whistle, and a massive dose of pop thrill. It is a heady and breathless mix, produced by James Ford of Simian Mobile Disco. Pair this with the fact that these photogenic young guys come close in artistic spirit to the studious experimentalism of the Cure at their most aesthetic (pre-1983), and this should be my record of the year.
Yet after "Golden Skans" stopped popping up everywhere and the rush of "Atlantis to Interzone" died down, "new rave" never really took off as either a media catchphrase or a new subgenre of music, leaving behind a record of somewhat dirgey art rock that manages to blend a lot of disparate influences together irresistibly but stops just short of developing any single idea into the monster it's begging to become. As if to underline this, Klaxons' live show is trim and straightforward, a powerful set of hooky rock songs that unfortunately lacks the vitality and versatility occasionally on display here.
More than any other artist, Klaxons rank highly for me this year based on what they'll undoubtedly become, rather than what they're already doing. They have now gained an all-important confidence that will push them to develop all of these wonderful ideas even further, and with a band as creative as this one, there is no such thing as "too far." Expect a kaleidoscopic masterpiece in the Near Future... later in 2008. Until then, here's the wild video for "Magick":
WHY 15?
Essentially when I went to assemble my list, I realized that I was using two sets of criteria to determine my favorite releases of the year. On the most fundamental level, I wanted my top 10 to be the works that impressed me the most. However, the reality is that the selections I picked weren't necessarily the albums I listened to (i.e. continuously appreciated) the most. Thus I offer this expanded list. I didn't want to simply list selections 11 to 15 as "honorable mentions," because they're certainly more substantial to me than that.
Despite its status as winner of the 2007 Mercury Music Prize, the debut record from Klaxons might be the closest thing to an "honorable mention" here. Obviously, I've always loved electronic punk music, which this record enhances with science fiction, mythology, apocalypse, Aleister Crowley, Thomas Pynchon, the occasional dance beat, a rave whistle, and a massive dose of pop thrill. It is a heady and breathless mix, produced by James Ford of Simian Mobile Disco. Pair this with the fact that these photogenic young guys come close in artistic spirit to the studious experimentalism of the Cure at their most aesthetic (pre-1983), and this should be my record of the year.
Yet after "Golden Skans" stopped popping up everywhere and the rush of "Atlantis to Interzone" died down, "new rave" never really took off as either a media catchphrase or a new subgenre of music, leaving behind a record of somewhat dirgey art rock that manages to blend a lot of disparate influences together irresistibly but stops just short of developing any single idea into the monster it's begging to become. As if to underline this, Klaxons' live show is trim and straightforward, a powerful set of hooky rock songs that unfortunately lacks the vitality and versatility occasionally on display here.
More than any other artist, Klaxons rank highly for me this year based on what they'll undoubtedly become, rather than what they're already doing. They have now gained an all-important confidence that will push them to develop all of these wonderful ideas even further, and with a band as creative as this one, there is no such thing as "too far." Expect a kaleidoscopic masterpiece in the Near Future... later in 2008. Until then, here's the wild video for "Magick":
Monday, January 07, 2008
15. Von Südenfed - Tromatic Reflexxions
Welcome to Postmodern Accident...
...and Happy New Year. We interrupt our regularly-scheduled programming (namely the long-overdue account of my trip to Mexico, ::blush::) in order to bring you 15 musical reflexxions on the year that just passed.
Let’s face it: the last three Fall records were boring. I never liked the sorry excuse for a replacement band that Mark E. Smith assembled around him back in 2001—failed pub rockers and football hooligans who seemed to be in it for the wrong reasons and who complained about being in it the whole time they were doing it. Jim Watts struck me as whiny, Ed Blaney as dishonest, and Ben Pritchard as untalented. Thankfully, last minute addition Steve Trafford pulled out his best Steve Hanley impression and gave the band a fantastic, elastic bass-driven car commercial called “Blindness,” the closest thing to a legendary Fall track all decade by a band who used to turn out ten such masterpieces each year.
It’s no wonder that MES jumped at the chance to collaborate with German techno rebels Mouse on Mars. Though they’ve been releasing records nearly every other year since the early ‘90s, they’ve never really followed fashion, which is unique amongst electronic artists whose sounds depend on state-of-the-art production and equipment. More importantly, MoM have never quite sounded like they give a rats ass about rock, which makes their collaboration with the king of devolved, lo-fi rockabilly racket quite surprising.
The strength of Von Sudenfed’s album is that it sounds like neither of its parent bands, despite the fact that the Fall have tried a record in nearly every alternative style imaginable and Mouse on Mars have used vocalists before. Tromatic Reflexxions melds arrhythmic, bleepy music to MES’s space alien storytelling in such a way that the pairings seem almost arbitrary and incompatible, like two opposing musical forces crashing together in chaos and cacophony. Its success lies in the fact that neither element overcomes the other. The Fall have failed in the new millennium because MES hasn’t been able to find bandmates who are truly his peers; Von Sudenfed marks his first real artistic collaboration in a decade.
Thus, in honor of this album placing at #15 on my best of 2007 list, I am pleased to present the video for “Fledermaus Can’t Get It.” Admittedly, I have never been enthusiastic over drag queen routines and likely never will be, though here it is obvious that these men, whoever they might be, are in way over their heads. The beardy one with Sarah Michelle Gellar hair is fabulous, though he fares quite poorly (and hilariously) as the white-haired mop attempting to keep up with MES’s vocals.
G-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g. Enjoy.
...and Happy New Year. We interrupt our regularly-scheduled programming (namely the long-overdue account of my trip to Mexico, ::blush::) in order to bring you 15 musical reflexxions on the year that just passed.
Let’s face it: the last three Fall records were boring. I never liked the sorry excuse for a replacement band that Mark E. Smith assembled around him back in 2001—failed pub rockers and football hooligans who seemed to be in it for the wrong reasons and who complained about being in it the whole time they were doing it. Jim Watts struck me as whiny, Ed Blaney as dishonest, and Ben Pritchard as untalented. Thankfully, last minute addition Steve Trafford pulled out his best Steve Hanley impression and gave the band a fantastic, elastic bass-driven car commercial called “Blindness,” the closest thing to a legendary Fall track all decade by a band who used to turn out ten such masterpieces each year.
It’s no wonder that MES jumped at the chance to collaborate with German techno rebels Mouse on Mars. Though they’ve been releasing records nearly every other year since the early ‘90s, they’ve never really followed fashion, which is unique amongst electronic artists whose sounds depend on state-of-the-art production and equipment. More importantly, MoM have never quite sounded like they give a rats ass about rock, which makes their collaboration with the king of devolved, lo-fi rockabilly racket quite surprising.
The strength of Von Sudenfed’s album is that it sounds like neither of its parent bands, despite the fact that the Fall have tried a record in nearly every alternative style imaginable and Mouse on Mars have used vocalists before. Tromatic Reflexxions melds arrhythmic, bleepy music to MES’s space alien storytelling in such a way that the pairings seem almost arbitrary and incompatible, like two opposing musical forces crashing together in chaos and cacophony. Its success lies in the fact that neither element overcomes the other. The Fall have failed in the new millennium because MES hasn’t been able to find bandmates who are truly his peers; Von Sudenfed marks his first real artistic collaboration in a decade.
Thus, in honor of this album placing at #15 on my best of 2007 list, I am pleased to present the video for “Fledermaus Can’t Get It.” Admittedly, I have never been enthusiastic over drag queen routines and likely never will be, though here it is obvious that these men, whoever they might be, are in way over their heads. The beardy one with Sarah Michelle Gellar hair is fabulous, though he fares quite poorly (and hilariously) as the white-haired mop attempting to keep up with MES’s vocals.
G-g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g. Enjoy.
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