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Delphic: Acolyte
Delphic
Acolyte
(Poyldor, 2010)
From music to sports to all the rest, we—as members of the media and as consumers—are often too quick to label new bands as the “next big thing,” and also much too quick to excoriate said new bands when they fail to live up to our lofty expectations. The next young group set to ride the harrowing roller coaster of massive critical and commercial expectation is Mancunian quartet Delphic.
Burdened by the unbelievably unfair title “The New, New Order,” the band—who is, admittedly, clearly influenced by their legendary compatriots—can be found perched atop myriad “Bands to Watch of 2010” lists, mostly due to the runaway success of three singles, all released prior to their debut. The first of those, “Counterpoint”, came out back in April and is a perfect representation of why Delphic remind so many of Manchester’s heady Factory heyday. It is an engulfing, expansive slab of synth-pop that is built around a simple, ethereal keyboard melody with just the right dash of electric guitars and live drums. Lead singer James Cook’s immediate, passionate vocals recall a less-polished, anxiety-ridden Bernard Summer. Four months later, the group dropped the atmospheric “This Momentary”—a ghostly track that kept the buzz going. After the group signed to Polydor, they dropped a third single, which really sent the hype machine into overdrive. “Doubt” broke the group into the UK mainstream with an infectious blend of indie rock, electronica, and new wave that is equally friendly blasting on the dance floor, burning up modern-rock radio, or snaking through your headphones. read more
His Name Is John Michael Rouchell
At the end of 2006, things seemed to be going pretty well for John Michael Rouchell. The New Orleans native’s band, Ellipsis, was one of the most popular bands in the city, opening up for Incubus, playing the main stage of the world-famous New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival, and touring all over the country. The group had just released their second album, One Course Current, but instead of looking to his high school band’s bright future, Rouchell took a long, hard look in the mirror.
“I took a look at myself in the mirror one day and said, ‘I’m not happy,’” Rouchell remembered. “‘I don’t like what I’m doing; I don’t like what we’re playing. I really love these guys, they are awesome people, but I am just not doing what I want to be doing. I’m not writing the songs that I want to write because I am writing songs for this band that’s just not me anymore.’ I just didn’t feel like I was being honest.”
With that, Rouchell left the group that he’d grown up with, and the lifelong musician— who often played guitar with Parliament in his teens—spent time jamming with local talents Blair Gimma and Theresa Andersson. One day, late in November 2007, he made a bet with a friend that took him down yet another musical path.
Kings of Convenience
Kings of Convenience
Declaration of Dependence
(Astralwerks, 2009)
We are often told, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” While the idiom occasionally rings true in our closest relationships, in most cases, absence simply makes the heart forget. One field this platitude undoubtedly doesn’t apply to is modern music. In a world driven by instant gratification, artists who find success are expected to flood the market with new, fresh material to feed the insatiable masses. Since most great art takes time, an abundance of lackluster, hurried follow-ups come from those artists who simply needed more than a year or two to craft the response that their previous work deserved.
One group that’s eschewed the creative arms race is Norway’s Kings of Convenience. After their critically acclaimed second album Quiet Is the New Loud in 2001, the duo—made up of Erlend Øye and Eirik Glambek Bøe—released 2004’s Riot on an Empty Street. The album showcased the band’s graceful twin-vocal harmonies and subtly gorgeous acoustic accompaniments, gaining them worldwide acclaim. After playing packed theaters around the world, the group mostly dropped out of the spotlight in 2006. Øye released two albums with dance-poppers the Whitest Boy Alive, and Bøe focused on a new, similarly upbeat band called Kommode.
Fran Healy and Andy Dunlop of Travis at the Swedish American Hall, San Francisco
.jpg "Travis: Photo by Elizabeth García")
Fran Healy and Andy Dunlop of Travis
October 8th at the Swedish American Hall, San Francisco
I’ve had countless conversations with friends about what it would be like to see an arena-sized band in a tiny club. While the discussions would generally center around slightly bigger names like Springsteen and Dylan, when I saw that songwriter/vocalist/guitarist Fran Healy and guitarist Andy Dunlop of Travis—a band that has recently performed for upwards of 100,000 people—were touring the states playing at intimate venues, I jumped at the chance to see their retrospective set at the Swedish American Hall.
Admittedly, I got to the Travis party quite late. An ex of mine introduced me to them in 2003, four years after the released of the ubiquitous The Man Who. Over the next couple of years, I gobbled up their back catalog and have followed the Glaswegians ever since.
J. Tillman
J. Tillman
Year in the Kingdom
(Western Vinyl, 2009)
As a new crop of folk artists have clawed their way to the top of the “What the kids are listening to” heap, no band has risen higher than Seattle’s Fleet Foxes. While singer-songwriter Robin Pecknold gets all the plaudits (deservedly so), he may not even be the best songwriter in his own band, and certainly not the most prolific. That mantle belongs to drummer/guitarist/vocalist Josh Tillman. While he didn’t join the Foxes until after their 2008 debut LP was finished, and there isn’t an inkling of him sharing songwriting duties with Pecknold on future releases, there’s no doubting Tillman’s songwriting chops as he’s crafted an army of rustic solo albums—six, in total, since 2005.
In many ways, Year in the Kingdom is a giant step forward for Tillman, most notably because it is his first release where the production values match his top-notch songwriting. While his earlier records are full of great songs, this album’s sterling production highlights the subtlety of his solo work in a way his previous albums didn’t. The disc is entirely acoustic and shows off his myriad talents—Tillman takes on all guitar parts, as well as percussion, bass, banjo, recorder, and the hammered dulcimer.
Happy Mondays at the Regency Ballroom, San Francisco
Happy Mondays
September 17th at the Regency Ballroom, San Francisco
“Son, I’m 30 / I only went with your mother ’cause she’s dirty.”
That’s when it hit me.
In the case of the Mondays, I was a little late to the party, really only getting into them in the late ’90s, when someone gave me a cassette copy of Pills ‘n’ Thrills and Bellyaches. And, due to my age and the band’s (shall we say) “penchant” for certain substances, I never imagined I would ever get to see them in the flesh. So while I had been looking forward to the show, that massive wave of excitement didn’t really hit me until a slightly puffy, low-key Shaun Ryder sauntered on to the stage and delivered—with his trademark nonchalance—my favorite opening line in rock music.
From there, it was an hour that felt over in an instant. While only Ryder, drummer Gary Whelan, and backing vocalist Rowetta remain from the original outfit that crafted the LP that made me fall in love, it didn’t matter, as the fill-ins handled the funky, eclectic arraignments perfectly. I would have loved to see Bez, but there was more than enough Bez-esque “Freaky Dancin’” from the audience (I even saw one fan with a pair of maracas!).
Outside Lands 2009, San Francisco
Outside Lands, San Francisco
Friday, August 28th to Sunday, August 30th, Golden Gate Park, San Francisco
As Witnessed by Angela Zimmerman:
Friday—Friday was hot. Unseasonably, uncharacteristically hot. I got to Golden Gate Park around 2pm, and after checking in to the massive, Another Planet Entertainment and Superfly-promoted, three-day festival, I made my way through a sparsely populated park to catch Boise favorites, Built to Spill. Doug Martsch’s fluid vocals were not quite resonating to the far reaches of the polo fields, but upon getting close enough to the giant stage, it became clear that the band sounds tight as ever, their sweeping compositions serenading an audience easing its way into the festival weekend, the weather fostering—for once—a celebratory, seasonal vibe. After their hour-long set, I crossed the compound again to check out some of the artistic adornments, which, I hate to say it, were less than stellar. Evidently, the festival sold 30,000 less tickets this year than last, and maybe that lapse in budget was taken out of the art installations and set-up because there just wasn’t much to see. A towering, waffled twin windmills structure separated one area of the festival from the other, effectively cutting the festival into two self-contained units. I meandered around this middle area for a while, checking out some of the food and beverage vendors, mostly out of curiosity—Outside Lands takes great pride in the foodie contingent of the festival, with vendors ranging from elite local restaurants to Whole Foods. Most things looked organic, and delicious. No funnel cakes here.
I headed over to the Lindley Meadow stages to swing by Blind Pilot’s set, a folky pop band that writes sentimental tunes executed by standup bass, mandolin, and supplementary hand percussion. Though I very much enjoyed their set, that was simply a warm-up for the National, who played across the way at 5pm. Backed by a three-piece horn ensemble, the Brooklyn-based quintet absolutely stunned and shined in this festival capacity, rising to the occasion with Matt Berninger’s handsome baritone carrying every song home. Playing mostly material from 2007’s Boxer, they opened with “Start a War”, also treating us to, among others, “Apartment Story”, “Fake Empire”, “Slow Show”, “Brainy”, and “Mistaken for Strangers”, closing with Alligator standout “Mr. November.” The quiet chatter among the crowd proved to be endlessly appreciative and blown away by the band’s consistently excellent caliber.
Next up on my agenda was Q-Tip, and after picking my way through the audience up front, I got close and was immediately ecstatic to hear that he was playing Tribe Called Quest songs. Joined by Phife Dawg for a rendition of the classic “Award Tour”, the crowd went wild, getting down in the afternoon’s cooling light to old-school hip-
hop. Tom Jones was next on my itinerary, if for nothing other than the sheer novelty of seeing this dude play a live set. It’s easy to see why he’s so popular; he kinda rules. Backed by a huge, tight band, he crooned out classic, smooth songs, delighting fans of all ages reveling in the falling dusk of the day. I didn’t stay for long though, because I had it set that I’d make it to both Thievery Corporation and the night’s big headliner, Pearl Jam. Thievery Corporation, a standby of worldly electronica, played hypnotically midtempo songs that fed the crowd under colorful lights and video projections, giving us a groove to dance to before the stadium rock of Pearl Jam, which was a seemingly endless distance away, though the voice of Eddie Vedder was discernable and giant screens erected to the left and right of the stage projected his magnified likeness. I got as close as I could but still could barely see anything, so I just sat back and listened to what was a ridiculously long set, culminating in a 45-minute encore. Vedder gave extended thanks to Neil Young and a few others (which had me falsely hoping that Young would join him for a guest appearance). I got to hear “Alive”, which was always one of my favorite Pearl Jam songs, and I left the park on my bike and was home in minutes, elated and full from all the good music.
Saturday—A festival of this size and caliber is all about decisions. As much as I convinced myself that I was going to be able to cross the nearly mile-wide festival grounds to see every single band I had interest in, the reality is that you can easily be spending the vast majority of your day simply walking back and forth between stages. By Saturday afternoon, the crowd was considerably larger. I got there just in time for Mastodon, whose set was prefaced with recorded music by the Fleet Foxes, a funky dichotomy to usher in the only really heavy band slated for the festival. I realized while standing there with a few thousand other people that Mastodon has really awesome fans. It was actually endearing rather than obnoxious to be standing right next to a trio of dudes screaming along to every word. Head-banging ensued as Mastodon projected their metal noise a good quarter-mile away. I headed over to check out Trombone Shorty and Orleans Avenue’s set in Lindley Meadow, which was incredibly high-energy and made even more fun by the fans that were getting down to the music. A dynamic, robust band executing New Orleans-style funk, they are among the most fun funk bands I’ve seen in recent days. The land of Jason Mraz was mellow, with people dotting the sprawling lawn on blankets and chairs, laying low and taking in his polished, radio-friendly pop. Made my way back across the grounds to catch TV on the Radio; despite how brooding and atmospheric their music is, they know how to perform and really rose to the occasion, as most bands seem wont to do when playing before thousands in a festival setting. I forwent Conor Oberst to see Deerhunter next, who is one of my favorite bands ever, and as always, they didn’t fail to impress, playing a tight set of sweeping, hypnotic melodic rock that I always find completely captivating. I finished by catching a partial set by Mars Volta, which I just couldn’t get into, before I left to rest up for the following day’s marathon.
Sunday—I had a full day lined up for the last day of the festival. I was in it to win it. Although I was wrongly directed when I was trying to find the alternate entrance to the grounds, walking to the far side of the far-western field only to have to cross the giant expanse again to get to Atmosphere, which I, unfortunately, didn’t make in time. So, I decided to cut my losses and start with the Avett Brothers instead. With a new record on the way produced by Rick Rubin, the North Carolina-based band has slowly been rising the ranks of Americana, and while they forsake drums to keep their own thumpy rhythms on their respective instruments, they did do a song whereby the guitarist sat in on a drumkit, giving the folk-flavored song a propulsive, full-bodied sound. The Dead Weather was next on my agenda, and let me just say: Wow. Rock ‘n’ roll has found its siren in the sheer awesomeness that is Alison Mosshart. Commanding her band, which includes Jack White on drums and Queens of the Stone Age member Dean Fertita on organ and guitar, Mosshart both purrs and howls, flinging herself around the stage, getting soulful and bluesy on some songs and viciously rockin’ on others. Most people in the crowd stood rapt watching her, and after they were done with their set, a collective appreciation for their garage-rock tittered about as people made their way to other stages to take in the next act. For me, that was Heartless Bastards, a chick-fronted band from Cincinnati, who played rock ‘n’ blues and shined under the powerful vocals and guitar prowess of Erika Wennerstrom.
Now I was in the homestretch. The weather having turned damp and chilling, I was 
fraying a bit around the edges. I headed over to see Ween, a longtime crowd favorite who treated me to one of my faves, “Roses are Free”, and then hightailed it back to catch M.I.A., who, despite very publicly making her distaste for opening for Tenacious D be known, was full of that signature style and sass. At one point she yelled, “Give it up, San Diego!” which I found pretty funny. Band of Horses was next, and the meadow before them was packed with sprawling spectators who reveled in a gorgeous set of material from both highly acclaimed full-lengths they released on Sub Pop, but my favorite might have been the cover of the Gram Parsons song, “A Song for You”, which made me really, really happy. They also came back with a quick encore performance, the only non-headliner band I’d seen encore all weekend. By now, night was falling quick and cold, but I definitely wanted to check out Tenacious D, who fucked with the audience from the get-go, when Jack Black had a stunt double do all sorts of crazy gymnastics (backflips and handsprings!) all the while convincing us that he’s in great physical shape. He and Kyle Gass then staged a spat, which involved Gass walking off stage and Black luring him back on with, of course, a hand-written composition. After watching the embodiment of “Heavy Metal” clunk on stage (an imposing creature in silver armor), I made my way back to the bike lock area to head outta there, and called it a weekend. – Angela Zimmerman
Watch: The Dead Weather at Outside Lands [at youtube.com]
The Antlers
The Antlers
Hospice
(Frenchkiss, 2009)
Sometimes inspiration comes when you least expect it. It hit Peter Silberman—singer, songwriter, guitarist, and, at that point, sole member of Brooklyn-based group the Antlers—when he was on a train from Brooklyn to his parents’ house.
“This melody line started running through my head,” Silberman remembered out loud to me during a phone interview we recently had. “I usually write with a guitar in my hand at home, but this time it just came out of nowhere. I had a notebook with me, so I just started writing pages and pages of lyrics to this melody.”
From that lone melody (which appears in two of the record’s standout tracks, “Bear” and “Epilogue”) Silberman built an opus of profound depth framed by self-doubt, mania, horror, reflection, love, fear, and countless other emotions, all surrounding the singer’s battle to deal with both the death of a loved one and the death of a marriage.
Fitz and the Tantrums
Fitz and the Tantrums
Songs For a Break Up, Volume 1
(Future Sounds, 2009)
There’s a brilliant scene in Alan Parker’s classic 1991 film The Commitments when the group’s manager, Jimmy Rabbitte, sits down with the core of his unsigned, directionless ,working-class Irish band and informs them that they are to become a soul band. The manager pops in a VHS copy of a James Brown concert, and says, “That’s what you have to measure up to, lads.” The group’s mulleted saxophone player, Dean Fay, gives Rabbitte a pricelessly flummoxed look and sheepishly responds, “Do y’not think, uh, we’re a little white…”
Though soul has long been loved by hordes of Anglos, generally over the last 30 years white artists who play traditional soul music have struggled to gain the respect of mainstream audiences and critics—save a certain heavily-tattooed junkie from North London. Sure, scores of successful melanin-deficient artists have worn their soul influences on their sleeves—from the Rolling Stones to Michael McDonald—but, besides Ms. Crackhouse (and, possibly, Robin Thicke), no recent white artist has successfully captured that classic Motown sound (sorry, Adele and Duffy—you don’t count).
Album Review: Local Natives, Gorilla Manor
by: Daniel N. Alvarez
Gorilla Manor
(Frenchkiss, 2010)
Remember lead singers? No? You know, those assholes who can’t find the time to carry gear and soundcheck with the rest of the band, because they’re too busy drinking Jack Daniels and having mother-daughter threesomes? Still not ringing a bell? Well, fuck me, that must be because they’re practically becoming an endangered species, as mega-groups like Animal Collective, MGMT, Fleet Foxes, and Grizzly Bear—four of the more culturally significant American indie-rock bands of the last three years—don’t seem to need one. (For the record: I am aware that all those groups have guys who often sing lead vocals, but none have lead singers in the classical, Jagger/Plant mold.)
Meet Local Natives, another band that doesn’t need a preening, petulant prick prancing around the front of the stage. Their debut LP, Gorilla Manor—named for the Los Angeles house the five-piece shared (think a sunny, messy Yellow House)—is very much about the sum of the five members’ collective talents. The whimsical opener “Wide Eyes” bristles with the kind of exuberance generally reserved for young bands dying to break out, evidenced by the passionate refrain of “Oh, to see it with my own eyes.” It also introduces the listener to the Natives’ stunning vocal harmonies, which are especially captivating on the bouncy “World News” and the airy, frenetic “Who Knows, Who Cares.”
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by: Daniel N. Alvarez
published: February 19, 2010
in column: Reviews
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