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Tokyo Police Club
Tokyo Police Club
Elephant Shell
(Saddle Creek, 2008)
Keyboardist Graham Wright says that his band’s new release is the one you put on when the party’s over. “It’s the record that you listen to when you’re driving around town in the dark, wondering if she likes you, wondering if you should have tried to flirt more or less.” Tokyo Police Club’s debut EP, he writes on the band’s blog, was the record for Friday nights, the one everyone could dance to, that was “quick and immediate and to the point.” Whatever happened to the old adage about letting the music do the talking?
Wright is right about A Lesson in Crime, the TPC’s 16-minute, seven-song debut, which was something of a smash for the Canadian combo. It started parties all over the place, garnering the band smiles from the bloggerati (blognoscenti?) and even in the eminent pages of the New York Times, Rolling Stone, and Entertainment Weekly, which gushed, “I can hardly wait for the full-length.”
Talk Talk’s Mark Hollis
Mark Hollis
Mark Hollis
(Polydor, 1998)
Not sure, but it was probably the poofy hair. Or maybe it was the drums that went peueww. For whatever reason, New Romantic bands never got a lot of respect from critics for their artistry—the quality of their songs—and history hasn’t treated them well. (That is, unless you consider ’80s dance nights.) Talk Talk was stuck in this camp when they issued their debut in 1982 and, while they organically evolved into a sort of pre-post-rock band, a lot of people left them there.
There’s no question, though, that Talk Talk were artists crafting songs as artful and as nuanced as any other outfit, and the man largely responsible was singer-songwriter Mark Hollis. The London-based band quickly ditched the dancey, synth-heavy sound of early singles like “Talk Talk” and “Mirror Man”, which saw them paired with Duran Duran producer Colin Thurston, and morphed into a more cerebral combo showcasing great ambience, natural themes, jazz-inspired chord progressions, and poetic lyrics. Talk Talk would chart a few radio almost-hits in “Life’s What You Make It” and “Give it Up” in the late ’80s, and they enjoyed much critical acclaim by the time they released their final album to indifferent commercial response in 1991. The band would influence everyone from Radiohead to Shearwater, but they never knew it in their day, and they disbanded without much fanfare in 1992. Thereafter, their multi-talented songsmith fell off the map.
Who’s Commercial Now? Radio Sucks.
.jpg "illustration by Tanith Connolly")
I was doing a little shopping recently and was astonished to find myself whistling along to Yo La Tengo’s “My Little Corner of the World” at a Kohl’s in Augusta, Maine. The amazing part was that it wasn’t in my head—it was being broadcast over everyone’s head on the store’s sound system. Maine’s state capital being the kind of place it is, I was probably the only person in the building who could identify the song. However, no one seemed particularly bothered that the college radio favorites were providing the soundtrack to their shopping expedition in this, not particularly hip, Big Box.
Several things about this little incident struck me. First, I shouldn’t have been so surprised. In my local grocery store, a big Maine chain, I frequently hear things that make me scratch my head as I’m filling my cart with pretzels and Dr. Pepper: the Jayhawks and Ryan Adams and Josh Ritter come to mind. Besides, almost any band that once had a conscience seems to be shilling their music to TV commercials these days. From the Buzzcocks to Nick Drake to Cat Power to Low to Band of Horses to Iggy Pop to the Mates of State—there’s so much great music in commercials now it’s almost worth watching them.
What I find truly remarkable, though, is that, for the most part, none of this stuff is ever played on the radio. I wondered, “What makes it acceptable for all of these acts to be played for popular consumption in stores and on TV but not on the radio?” Obviously, the suits find this stuff not only acceptable but commercially viable. What is it about broadcast radio that prevents actual music from being broadcast? I’ve always lamented to my buddies that there is so much great stuff out there worthy of airplay that will never ever get it, even on the slightly deeper Triple A station my wife listens to. If only people would hear Robert Francis’ “One by One” or Don McGlashan’s “This is London” or Patrick Park’s “Life is a Song” or Nina Nastasia’s “Why Don’t You Stay Home”, they would like it. I guarantee it. They’d keep tuning in, and they’d buy cars from the dealer that advertises.
Robert Francis
Robert Francis
One by One
(Aeronaut, 2007)
It’s too bad we don’t have much in the way of AM radio any more. There’s a certain breed of indie singer-songwriter whose work would have fit perfectly alongside the “If I Were a Carpenter(s)” and “Baby I’m-A Want You(s)” if they only had been born in a time when actual music was played on the radio. Josh Ritter is someone who comes instantly to mind, and Ryan Adams, of course, and Patrick Park. Add to that list Robert Francis, the 19-year-old Los Angeles dweller whose debut One by One is just now hitting wide release. (It was given a “soft release” in August and is making its way to the masses this week.)
Francis shares Adams’ penchant for tousled hair and shades and many of Dylan affectations. Musically, though, he bears a striking resemblance to Ritter, from the instrumentation to the phrasing to the Leonard Cohen fixation—it’s uncanny on songs like “Little Girl” and “Dakota” and “Good Hearted Man.” He’s not quite as polished—or as accomplished a wordsmith—as Ritter is, but he was born in 1988, so cut him some slack. (And at least with Francis, you don’t have to put up with the self-satisfied feeling that underlies Ritter’s records.)
Like Ritter, Francis’ stock-in-trade is acoustic-based music rooted in AM radio but fleshed out with beautiful, often repetitive, and often unusual instrumentation. Like Mellotron and glockenspiels, spooked-out pianos, affected banjos, the ethereal choir that opens “Dakota”, and the helium-balloon backups on “Pilgrims.” All of these touches are integrated to great effect, not only filling out the songs but giving them a sort of haunted quality in the process.
Considering Francis was still a teen when he put this record together, his world-weariness and gifts as a musician are rather stunning. He did have many advantages, though, growing up in a musical household with siblings in indie bands (his sister Julliete Commagere is in Hello Stranger) and family friends like Ry Cooder, who lends guitar here. Francis was Chili Pepper guitarist John Frusciante’s only guitar student, and he learned his lessons well. He plays everything from six string to banjo to drums to glockenspiel—and he does so well.
In fact, most everything about One by One was done well. There are few faults to the record. A bit of teenage angst might be cut and a song or two stretch on too long, but overall it’s a fantastically accomplished debut. The bio his distributor is using to promote the record has the youngster compared to impossibly great songwriters like Townes Van Zandt, Steve Earle, and Neil Young, which isn’t fair to any up-and-comer no matter their age. Francis has many more records to put out before he belongs in that rarified company, but One by One suggests he’s got it in him.
Listen: Various Tracks [at myspace.com]
The Raveonettes
The Raveonettes
Lust, Lust, Lust
(Fierce Panda, 2007)
When I heard that the Jesus and Mary Chain were putting out a new record last year with their sister on vocals, I was giddy with anticipation. But I found Sister Vanilla to be too, well, vanilla. The Raveonettes have always had fascinations similar to the those of the brothers Reid—noise, ‘50s rock, the Velvets, noir, simple themes of love and betrayal, simple three-chord pop, simple lyrics that harken back to a time before Dylan spoke of serious issues in pop music. And you might even say they’ve had a fascination with the brothers Reid themselves. The Danish duo admits as much on its My Space page, listing the JMC as one of its influences (after the likes of Suicide, Buddy Holly, and the Pogues(?!)). On this, their third full-length record, the Raveonettes have out Jesus and Mary Chained the very Jesus and Mary Chain.
Lust, Lust, Lust opens with “Aly, Walk with Me”, and it sounds like the next logical step after JMC’s Psychocandy—the long-lost record between a masterpiece and the exceptional follow up, Darklands, but with a beautiful, honey-voiced, blonde dame singing lead. Drenched in distortion with a ringing, reverby, artificial snare as its pulse and a surfy guitar lead carrying the melody, it breaks into a noise explosion that threatens to overwhelm and rip a hole in the speakers, and it’s as if there was another song after “It’s So Hard.” And it never lets up from there. The enthralling “You Want the Candy” is perhaps the most obvious example, a “Just Like Honey” for the double-aughts, and “Black Satin” takes that Psycho song’s drum sound and sticks it behind a curtain of frying transistors. Lovely.
Not that this is any surprise. It was there from Whip It On and has carried through each of the band’s records. But the noise was toned down a bit for 2005’s Pretty in Black, which seemed to be a conscious effort to tame their inner beasts and aim for a prettier sound. Songwriter, Sune Rose Wagner, has stated publicly that the band had to do something different after its first two releases, each which was written in a single key. Pretty in Black saw them reaching in new directions—with less success—so Lust is a bit of a return to form. It’s also interesting to note that the band rediscovered their fuzzboxes after parting ways with their label, Sony. Lust is their first effort on the indie label Fierce Panda.
As much of a debt the Raveonettes owe to chez Reid, Wagner and cohort Sharin Foo have brought plenty of other ideas to the studio. Wagner has both an innate sense of pop songwriting and an amazing ability to find and filter what will work for the band—they obviously love the Shangri-Las and the girl groups of the ‘50s, surf guitar, the Ramones (”Blitzed” lifts a guitar riff), Julee Cruise, and beautiful-noise progenitors like My Bloody Valentine, and they assimilate it all to great effect. Foo carries the melodies beautifully, and has a haunted delivery that jibes perfectly with the band’s B-movie image.
On Lust it sounds a lot like the Raveonettes got caught with their hands in the Psychocandy jar, but perhaps they simply pilfered from the same sources Jim and William Reid did. If two different kids stole the answers and aced the test, does that make one less smart than the other? And even if Wagner had Pscyhocandy playing the whole time he wrote Lust, nakedly stealing the wall of noise, is there a better band to cop in 2007? I can’t think of one.
Listen: Various Tracks [at myspace.com]
Wussy
Wussy
Left for Dead
(Shake It, 2007)
The sophomore slump. This old critics’ phrase can be just as easily applied to bands as it can to its intended target: records. Following one great band with another is about as easy for musicians as releasing a masterpiece on the heels of another masterpiece. This is to say, it ain’t easy. Putting together a new combo is fraught with many of the same challenges as writing/recording an album: having something to say, coming up with enough fresh ideas, finding sympathetic musical cohorts, and creating a sum that’s better than all its parts. The vast majority of rockers are simply not able to do it.
A list of failed second bands is much easier to come up with than a list of smash successes: Audioslave? A pale approximation of Rage. The Jicks? Not remotely in the same league as Pavement. Electronic? Not even a Jones to the Smiths. Tuatara? Yeah, right. Foos? No Nirvana. It does occur, though. There have been a few bands that are actually better than their musician’s previous efforts: Sacrilege perhaps, but I prefer Sugar to Hüsker Dü. Crooked Fingers is arguably as good as or better than Archers of Loaf. Even though I’m more of a Jay Farrar guy, I’d agree that Summer Teeth is better than any single Uncle Tupelo release.
Into the better-than-its-predecessor camp resides Wussy. Chuck Cleaver made some good records as the singer/guitar player for the Ass Ponys, but never a great one. Funeral Dress, the debut by his follow-up group, Wussy, was a great record. Eminent critic Robert Christgau called its 11 songs “about perfect,” and while maybe not that, they were astonishingly great and deserved placement on year-end best-of lists. (Funeral Dress made a few, especially in the band’s native Ohio, but it was virtually ignored in the biggies: Pitchfork, Spin, Rolling Stone, etc.—apparently it didn’t have enough beats or rhymes for those outlets.)
And now here comes Wussy trying to top it with their cheerfully titled sophomore record: Left for Dead. There’s no slumping here. Again, Cleaver and songwriting cohort Lisa Walker have put together 11 songs (plus one) of twangy, occasionally countrified, sometimes noisy, indie pop par excellence. The overall sound is reminiscent of May I Sing With Me-era Yo La Tengo or, on Walker-sung songs like “Rigor Mortis”, the Heartless Bastards. Imagine stumbling into an Ohio dive that no one else knows about and finding the best bar band ever on stage. An extraordinarily literate bar band and one that’s not afraid to take risks, to bring out the random set of bells or vibraphone or even French horn. But still a band that’s rooted in the two guitars, bass, drums, post-blues of the bar band tradition. That’s what you have here. Cleaver and Walker may be the best guy/girl combo in this vein since John Doe and Exene.
The songs on Left For Dead are a little more optimistic and less despairing than those on Funeral Dress, but they still explore themes of loss and longing. In “Sun Giant Says Hey” things start out pleasantly with said giant lifting you “Up above the rain to where the sun is always out,” but it ends with “It’s a lonely lonely lonely lonely life.” Cleaver has always had a knack for writing clever songs filled with enough whimsy and truisms to be amusing without falling into the black hole of the joke song and he does so again on “God’s Camaro.” “Washing God’s Camaro with my favorite shirt / There’s silver in the bird shit and there are / Diamonds in the dirt.” And he finds a fine foil in Walker who is just as adept at looking at relationships, reminiscing about happiness past.
Walker plays a larger role on this record. Songwriting duties were largely split on Funeral Dress and here she gets many more credits, handling the majority of lead vocals. This isn’t necessarily a good thing—Funeral Dress was pretty phenomenal—but it’s not bad either. “Jonah”, a Walker number, is about as good as anything the band has done yet.
Overall, Left for Dead is a fine successor to an extraordinary debut; walking down the same path, this band of seasoned vets continues to improve upon their own legacy. Hopefully more people will notice this time.
Listen: Various Tracks [at myspace.com]
Nick Garrie: The Nightmare of J.B. Stanislas
Nick Garrie
The Nightmare of J.B. Stanislas
(Acid Ray, 1969)
There’s long been this idea in the music industry that if a record is any good it’ll find an audience. That jewels glitter even when they’re covered with the dirt and detritus of the music marketplace. This certainly holds true with the Nightmare of J.B. Stanislas—it just took more than 30 years for the world at large to catch on to the genius of Nick Garrie.
Stanislas is an epic of a record, comparable in scope to Sgt. Pepper and Smile and just about as good, filled with baroque folk-pop that had few peers when it was released, because it was far ahead of its time. If anyone had ever heard it, Stanislas‘ influence would have been huge. You can hear seeds of the New Romantic school of new wave, and a lot of contemporary orchestral rock a la Mercury Rev in its dozen songs.
Tunng
Tunng
Comments of the Inner Chorus
(Thrill Jockey, 2007)
Every other indie kid these days seems to be holed up in his bedroom with an acoustic guitar and a sampler, and before going any further they should listen to this, the second record by London’s Tunng. Originally released in 2006 on the tiny Full Time Hobby label, Comments of the Inner Chorus has been reissued by Thrill Jockey alongside its latest, Good Arrows. And a thorough listen will teach those kids how to do this folktronica thing right.
Tunng masterfully combines the pastoral—almost trad even—sounds of British folk, the sort of stuff the Incredible String Band trafficked in, with the glitchy, sample-heavy production of the contemporary studio. Unlike many of the freak folk bands to which they’ll inevitably be compared, the London septet isn’t self-consciously hippy dippy or purposefully freaky, and their songs are actually songs. They get the delicate balance between the organic and the electronic just right, navigating the dark woodlands between the two without getting lost between them or tripping at their intersection as so many groups do. They do this by keeping a structure to their songs, infusing them with pretty picking and melodies, and by not allowing them to be swallowed whole or the least bit distracted by electronics. It sounds almost as if they have the songs first and then bring out the effects and add the production afterwards. And it’s also worth noting that the songs clock in at an average of three minutes each, which is fairly economical and doesn’t allow for the meandering beats and noodling that plagues so much of the freak folk stuff.
Comments is all very English, conveying imagery of its characters traipsing across British highlands, and the masterminds behind Tunng—Mike Lindsay and Sam Genders—seem to have a thing about quirky English accents as they sample them on several occasions. They also borrow heavily from the UK tradition of murder ballads with the loveliest song on the album, “Jenny Again.” The story opens with a guy being stabbed by the lover of his girlfriend, the titular Jenny. “Throw the knife into the stream / Run away across the fields / Leave me lying where I fell / Rivers running out of me.” It’s haunting and beautiful with Elliott Smith and Garfunkel-like double-tracked vocals, fine finger picking, and a voice over sample of an old English gentleman: “Jenny, so shy,” that interrupts the proceedings when you aren’t expecting it.
Tunng employ tricks they learned from a wide variety of sources—the repetitive guitar on “Woodcat” is reminiscent of both Bert Jansch and Jose Gonzalez, and the latter could easily be the author of “Man in the Box.” The band’s use of studio technology sounds as if it owes something to Four Tet and the Notwist, whether it actually does or not. There’s tastefulness to the application of the electronics that is missing in so much of today’s music. It isn’t perfect, of course. Closer “Engine Room” segues into several minutes of flute and harp that could be cut without missing anything.
Comments reminds me of the old theory that underneath every good rock tune is a song that can be played on the acoustic guitar. These songs could survive on their own without the electronics; the skittery moments and twittering beats just add extra interest and intrigue to otherwise fairly straightforward folk music. The electronics elevate rather than weigh down, which is a lesson that all those kids in their bedrooms should take to heart before they plug in their samplers.
Listen: Various Tracks [at myspace.com]
Matt Pond PA
Matt Pond PA
Last Light
(Altitude, 2007)
Matt Pond has lost a lot of band members over the years. And somewhere between 2005’s Several Arrows Later and his new disc Last Light, he shed most everyone from Matt Pond PA but his own namesake self. (Perhaps it ought to be Matt Pond NY now, since the one-time Pennsylvanian moved to Brooklyn? If he would only move to Boston the name of the band could go from PA to MA.) This has happened to the Pond before and Matt never seems to falter. Perhaps it’s impeccable taste or knowing exactly what he wants and how to get it.
So we have new support staff in guitarist Steve Jewett and bassist Matthew Daniel Siskin for record number seven, a new role as producer for Pond, and a new penchant for welcoming large-name indie-rock guests—hello, Neko Case—as well as members of Ratatat, Rooney, the Pernice Brothers, Bardo Pond, Metric, and Elliot Smith collaborator Rob Schnapf. Quite aside from being his new release, Last Light feels, well, new for Matt Pond. Bigger, stronger. The songs are bigger than they have been in the past, not exactly arena big, but much more grand and rockin’ than the slightly restrained, string-heavy chamber pop we’ve come to love from Pond. The guitars are more forceful, the cellos less prominent. There’s always been a balance between the pastoral and the poppy in Matt Pond’s music, and on Last Light the poppy wins out.
Joan as Police Woman
by: Andy Vietze
To Survive
(Cheap Lullaby, 2008)
You may not think you’ve heard Joan Wasser before, but you almost certainly have. She has the kind of pedigree that’s rare among indie artists, having contributed to a vast catalog of recordings in the past 10 years: Rufus Wainwright, Antony and the Johnsons, Elton John, Lou Reed, Sheryl Crow, Scissor Sisters, Shudder to Think, the Grifters, Better Than Ezra, Juliana Hatfield, Medeski Martin and Wood, and Dave Gahan, among them. When you’re a hip violinist, you’re in demand. In addition to her session work, she was also a member of Boston greats the Dambuilders—as well as the ex-Grifters band, Those Bastard Souls. Wasser’s been busy since she left Boston University.
On the debut full-length of her own project—Joan as Police Woman—the Maine-born musician left behind the instrument that made her career, for the most part, and concentrated on piano and guitar. And where her previous bands played post-punk indie rock, Real Life was an exquisite combination of ’70s soul and singer-songwriter traditions—a sort of R&B for the cool kids. The violin was used here and there, but the first chairs of this orchestra were reserved for the instruments of soul.
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by: Andy Vietze
published: June 11, 2008
in column: Reviews
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