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By Robin Smith, September 4, 2010 8:00 am

Eels – Electro-Shock Blues

Dreamworks 1998

Rating: 10/10

Electro-Shock Blues isn’t just a reaction. It’s a hundred shades of one reaction; a funky, playful album of horrible mirth at times, a completely hopeless document at others, an open stream of all the emotion one could have in the face of being left on your own. And finally, it’s life-affirming, an E beating up through the rubble of his life as if he’s learning some lesson and subtracting the bitter from the bittersweet. Because surely that’s why Electro Shock-Blues ends on the up. “P.S. You Rock My World” is the aftermath before itself, E’s words so bluntly honest: “I was thinking about how everyone was dying / and maybe it’s time to live.”

Sometimes I wonder that about E. His descriptors do him horrible service, painting him black and white in his never-ending sadness, as if every song is an “Electro-Shock Blues.” He’s more complex than that- hell, in the last number onElectro-Shock Blues his epiphany comes at a funeral service. At first I thought this was all a devastating black comedy, but now I realise it’s deeper than some ironic Indie pop record: it’s E’s honest smack of tough love, and he is his own recipient. On “Last Stop: This Town” he places himself in position with no compromise whatsoever, both with lament and celebration- “You’re dead / but the world keeps living.”

This song (and the album it belongs to, don’t forget) has soul. E pumps his fists, fires up his guitar riffs and screams his yeah yeahs, and, quite simply, lays it down like it is. What makes Electro-Shock Blues so honest it can be called a document, an accidental journal left around for curious eyes? Surely it is that E never flinches. He writes his tragedy from both sides and doesn’t shy away from measuring every millimetre of his mind; the lows and the highs come together, as the insanity comes with the joy on “My Descent Into Madness,” a pop highlight on the album that depicts E’s late sister and the reasons to root for her- “Come meet me at 8 o’clock tonight and you will see how I am not the crazy one.”

Electro-Shock Blues is held together like no other fragile thing is, its acoustic mopes, layered dance offs and electric rockers all landing on the same plane. Most would call this structure, and sure, this album has the beginning and end and the moments in-between, but ultimately the truth is what keeps E’s songs clutching to one another. Each one, to put it simply, is a reaction. A reaction to two deaths, to being the last remaining Everett and to wondering where the hell one goes from such a dark place. And every reaction leaves us humbled, but no perhaps more than the heart-stopping strings of “Dead of Winter”- “I will not fade into the night.”

Eels – “My Descent Into Madness”

See larger image Electro-Shock Blues (Audio CD) List Price: $9.98 USD New From: $4.80 In Stock Used from: $1.68 In Stock Release date October 20, 1998.

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By Robin Smith, August 15, 2010 8:00 am

Galaxie 500 – On Fire

Rough Trade 1989

Rating: 10/10

There’s barely a second that goes by on Galaxie 500’s On Fire without Dean Wareham begging love lost just one more chance, but it’s “Where Will You Come Home” that really sticks out for me. “When will you come home? / watching TV all alone, watching Kojak on my own,” he wails with his eyes potentially closed, but through all the radiating passion I’m left wondering: is this just time passing by a commercial break? Whoever Wareham’s ex is, his high-pitched mopes try and try to convey the blues she’s given him, but he sends her (and all of us) one better – yep, On Fire is an album that couldn’t be without melodrama. Melodrama sets it all alight.

Even if this isn’t true, On Fire succeeds on a similar feeling, a contradiction of terms that makes Wareham sound like he needs the agony more than he needs it cured. It’s a record about romantic things gone the wrong way: a shitty date, a weird acid trip, a sad night alone or even the frolics at the end of the world. Each song exists on its hunger for this darn-shame sadness, and the band accepts this feeling. At times Wareham seems aware of how trivial he is being, side-stepping his problems with silly anecdotes- “I stood in line and ate my twinkies / I stood in line I had to wait” when he’s drugged up; “you said / can I bring my guitar?” when he leaves the planet. Wareham doesn’t patronise us and give us life-lessons on love and pain – hell, even on his band’s tearful cover of “Isn’t It a Pity” he stops short of this – he just shares it with us, he makes a day of it. In fact, his George Harrison rendition sums it up with a grin. Sucks, doesn’t it?

The synchronisation couldn’t be better. The music and emotional weight of On Fireshare a mutual understanding, with the flattened out guitar play reserved when Wareham sets his dull, plodding scene and the blistering solos temperamental when he enters it. That in itself summarises all ten of the album, each explosion of instruments set to its weepy conductor; when he has his serious face on, the music makes us frown as much as he does (“Isn’t It A Pity,” or “Snowstorm”) and when he’s light-headed his band mates respond, just as they do on the glum hoedown that goes on in “Leave The Planet,” the band reverting to an out of tune harmonica to fend off the apocalypse. It’s silly, but serious and touching in the same blow, and in a sense Wareham and co. smooth over their melodrama with something more realistic. The music is realistic, in a way- there are times when Wareham is each feeling he has, and these simple guitar chords deafen us and mellow out when the time is right.

This is my favourite dream pop record out there because, quite simply, nobody is shoving it down your throat. On Fire plays out with only half a heart, spacing out Wareham’s passion as if it were for no one other than him. He repeats himself like he’s the only guy that matters and to hell with bigger problems, but still I can share in every moment of this, even without being told to. It’s immersing at every turn, playing out with the best kind of music- that which reflects mood. Most importantly though, Wareham shows us what we’re all too fond of. He knows melodrama makes us tick, that we’ll use this beautiful On Fire record and make it all about our foolish selves when really it’s just another rock record. I’ve never watched Kojak, though, so take one off five hundred.

Galaxie 500 – “Isn’t It A Pity?”

See larger image On Fire (Audio CD) List Price: $11.98 USD New From: $69.87 In Stock Used from: $5.40 In Stock Release date April 29, 1997.

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By Robin Smith, July 26, 2010 12:00 pm

Arcade Fire – Neon Bible

Merge 2007

Rating: 10/10

It’s kind of sad, but I don’t think I have any opinions. Or, at least, I don’t think I have any that belong to me. I can’t think of a book I’ve read that I haven’t asked of others its worth or its literary relevance. I can’t think of a political opinion I didn’t steal from my brother. I can’t think of a musical obsession I had that wasn’t born from hype. I can’t help but feel a little useless about the whole thing because, quite simply, I don’t think I’ve made up my own mind about anything.

And that is why I’m so glad Neon Bible exists. Butler’s rock opera is just that: profoundly and devastatingly useless. Neon Bible waves a white flag in the air; the Arcade Fire is outraged in the realisation that its very last ounces of significance have been stripped away, and all they can do is scream out at those who hold claims on the truth. Butler’s lyrics declare himself and all of us powerless, not just over the world we are fighting over to change, but also the rights and wrongs in our head and our control over them. Butler gives up on that control. He gives up on religion, in the now and in the afterlife (“Heaven is only in my head”). He gives up on society and preachers who will sacrifice anything for their scheme, including their most sacred trait, spirituality (“Tell me lord / am I the antichrist?”). Most importantly, though, he lets go. Whether or not you flick through the themes of Neon Bible and agree to disagree, the album’s debt is to uncertainty and, most importantly, acceptance of that uncertainty. Neon Biblepresents a city of the brainwashed and determined, doing anything for something, be it putting daughters on the stage or selling souls to the church. And the album doesn’t end with some beautiful release from it all, either – nope, Neon Bible keeps its citizens trapped forever.

That white flag isn’t waved with weary arms, though. No matter how resigned Butler is to all of this, he and his followers surrender with nothing but passion.Neon Bible shows violence and while it does not indulge in the aggression that runs through its forty-six minutes, it uses it as a means of statement. Butler’s vocals, most notably, sparkle with melodrama. When as loud as he is on “Intervention”, his voice universalises what he is saying and no matter how hopeless his descriptions are, he makes his words monumental. On “Intervention” he dooms his protagonists to fear and the end of love and friendships, but he does so with such immediacy and drama that the song could spew from the world’s most tragic pantomime – hyperbole reigns over this record. It’s the only thing other than darkness.

And here’s the thing about Neon Bible. It’s a record controlled and surrounded by darkness, and maybe the group even focus in upon it and create the record around that absence of light. It certainly feels like it. “Keep The Car Running” tells the story of a man waiting in the dead of night to be taken away, but the conspiracy ultimately turns internally to his fears. “No Cars Go” is a run-away rock opera set in the dead of night with the thrill of escapism. And “Antichrist Television Blues” paints us a metropolis at midnight, with the reverberating guitars only shining artificial light on the buildings downtown. In this sense, Neon Bible is so unlike Funeral and just as worthy for its differences: it shows a second shot of Butler and Chassange, and it’s a paranoid one. What’s even more triumphant about Neon Bible is how this mood is never lost through the orchestral side of the Arcade Fire, in fact it enhances it. Musically, Neon Bible brings an empty landscape to life, and it is far bigger than the box it is put into. We’ve got flutes, church organs, accordions and thunder effects, and we become cramped into what is a supposedly a dead scene. If anything, Arcade Fire get lost further in their entanglement with baroque pop and their dated sound, and it makes a horror-flick of Neon Bible twice over.

People will argue against that, and scoff at Butler and co. for creating a record too grandiose for its own good, but in a sense, isn’t that the point? Where Funeral looks into the personal loss of the band with reservation and respect, its successor is external, making a social spokesman of Butler and creating something that speaks to everyone regardless of inward experience. He never quite becomes an activist and the anger he shows bubbles on the surface of Neon Bible, but the passion seeps through every piano note, every choir of voices and every church organ. This record is cyclical with this passion for fear, and where Butler opens his tragedy by warning us that all words will lose their meaning, he closes it with a revelation: that he’s living with us in an age of fear and self-doubt. That fear and self-doubt is what puts Butler’s music at its peak. It’s what puts it at its most intense. And it’s how he keeps us in line: by creating an album for us, the kids who squirm at gore and close their eyes until the scary part is over. But for Butler, it never ends. “World War III, when are you coming for me?”

Arcade Fire – “Antichrist Television Blues”

See larger image Neon Bible (Audio CD) List Price: $14.98 USD New From: $9.08 In Stock Used from: $8.24 In Stock Release date March 6, 2007.

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By Rudy Klapper, March 11, 2010 12:00 pm

Guster – Lost and Gone Forever

Reprise 1999

Rating: 10/10

It’s impossible to discuss certain records without just a little bias creeping into your argument. The illusion of impartiality is one that takes years to hone, and with Boston rock trio (now a quartet) Guster’s seminal album, Lost and Gone Forever, I’m not even going to try to maintain it. I love Guster – their effortlessly intertwining vocals, their penchant for acoustic over electric instruments, drummer Brian Rosenworcel’s wildly creative drum work and impassioned playing (dude drums with his hands!). For most of the ‘90s Guster was “that band with the bongos,” a talented but fairly inoffensive (and thus inconsequential) group that became fairly well known in the coffee shops and college bars of New England but never really progressed past their stereotypically “college band” vibe: three guys sitting around jamming in some Boston bar. Their major label debut changed all that; it’s the same quirky band, full of double-sided metaphors and those awesome hand drums, but on a much wider studio canvas that fully realized the band’s unique voice. It’s an emotional rollercoaster, at times dripping with surprising venom and at others awash in heartwarming sentimentality, and the band hadn’t yet fully succumbed to the radio-ready formula that would dominate their latter, lesser, efforts.

Pop can be a beautiful thing when done right, and Guster, while indubitably a rock band, have never shied away from their inner pop sensibilities. It’s apparent right there on opener “What You Wish For,” where Ryan Miller’s alto contrasts companionably with Adam Gardner’s low-end rumble and Rosenworcel’s busy drum work carries things along nicely. But it’s the little things that truly shine through and make this a Guster song: the way Miller’s voice purposely cracks on the chorus, the way the band coats lyrics like “and what you wish for / won’t come true” with a bright, poppy melody. That bipolar charm is even more evident on single “Barrel of a Gun,” perhaps Guster’s best song. The drums are titanic, swelling rolls of congas and cymbal crashes that propel everything onward. The lyrics are hilariously disturbing, a love song from a man unhealthily infatuated with the celebrity on his movie poster. And the chorus is pure money, two-part harmony highlighting the dichotomy of the song itself and inviting the audience to sing along with its obsession. It’s the purest distillation of the Guster sound, and the template for the rest of the album.

The major label production does the band a big favor, showcasing and uplifting the band’s traits and talents to stadium-sized levels on an anthem like “Fa Fa” and letting them successfully pull off a near acapella effort with the fragile, triumphant “All The Way Up To Heaven.” Producer and alternative-rock maestro Steve Lillywhite deserves much of the credit here, for knowing just when to let an epic song like “Happier” explode from its timid constraints into a full-blown chorus. Too often in later efforts would the band reveal their cards too early, obscuring their unique appeal with formulaic sounds and structures that sounded just like everything else out on the radio. Here, though, Lillywhite lets a song like the threatening closer of “Rainy Day” to develop on its own. The result is an organic evolution from the foreboding drum taps and crackling guitar of the intro to an apocalyptic, thunderous stomp of an ending, a song that progresses and flows with the ease and chameleonic strength of the record itself. It’s lightning in a bottle, a time-stamped image of where the band had been and where they were going to go in the new millennium.

But Guster would be just another lucky college band if it weren’t for the members themselves, who continually hit homers with nearly every song here, each of which boasts mammoth hooks and sterling performances. Rosenworcel is an absolute beast on the drums, throwing out polyrhythms seemingly on demand and abusing his hands with passion; check out the subtle work on concert favorite “I Spy,” or the way he kills the chorus on “Happier” (there’s a reason he also goes by “the Thundergod”). Miller’s vocals aren’t as polished as they would be in the future, but it’s this winsome imperfection that gives his emotional performances such character. Lost and Gone Forever is a surprisingly dark record, something not readily apparent when you listen to Miller’s eternally optimistic vocals and the songs’ supernaturally bright melodies. But it’s there in the lyrics, from the sarcastic daggers Miller throws on “Two Points For Honesty” to the damning chorus of “Happier” that Gardner’s bass voice adds so much gravity to.

Guster’s mixture of pop joy and lyrical disenchantment is a paradoxical one, and the direct reason for Lost and Gone Forever’s timelessness. It’s the band in a nutshell, three guys who know how to write music that spoke to the sunnier side of one’s heart, but also with that singular talent to match it with subversive wit and hopeless lovesickness. It’s something that the band never really lost, but never again could they focus it as tightly as they did through these forty-four minutes. It’s that rare pop-rock record that demands repeated listens and rewards them; the kind of album that proves that radio hooks and accessible songwriting can coexist alongside impressive musicianship and a roiling mess of emotions. In short, it’s proof that pop music can overcome its self-imposed limitations and result in something true and honest – something great.

Guster – “Barrel of a Gun”

See larger image Lost & Gone Forever (Audio CD) List Price: $13.98 USD New From: $7.99 In Stock Used from: $2.75 In Stock Release date September 28, 1999.

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By Rudy Klapper, December 24, 2009 12:00 pm

The Veils – Nux Vomica

Rough Trade

Released: September 18, 2006

Rating: 10/10

New Zealand collective the Veils have always been a front, a smokescreen for the roiling mess of emotions that make up singer/lyricist Finn Andrews and his nakedly emotional, often abrasive tales. He’s the kind of obsessive frontman who writes all the songs, directs everyone how to play, and truly becomes the soul of the band; it should come as no surprise, then, that Nux Vomica, the Veils’ sophomore effort, features an entirely new cast of backing musicians than their debut did. Perhaps even more importantly, it features Andrews (son of Barry Andrews of ‘80s power-popsters XTC) doing what he does best: emoting exactly what he feels, as dramatically and as powerfully as possible. One would think all this single-minded input would lead the Veils’ to become a bit stale. On the contrary, however, Nux Vomica is Andrews’ shining achievement, a tightly focused, poetic work that establishes Andrews’ as a gifted songwriter in his own right and perhaps one of the most impassioned performers in rock today.

With The Runaway Found, the Veils seemed too attuned to major label interests, writing songs that yearned for radio airplay but in the process tended to suffocate Andrews’ outsized ego and combustible personality. It’s immediate right from the opening howl of “Not Yet,” however, that Andrews isn’t going to restrain himself this go around. A Western-tinged rollercoaster of sliding guitars and rollicking drums led on by Andrews’ fiery vocals, it’s an appropriate opening thesis for Nux Vomica, telling the kind of literate story and twisted metaphors that Andrews long ago mastered with wild instrumental fervor. Andrews has never been one to be subtle (“Not Yet,” after all, could either be read as a struggle with indecisiveness or the tale of a young boy discovering sexuality via his mother), and his extravagant vocal stylings make that readily apparent.

The Veils’ have often been compared to the Bad Seeds, both for their musical approach and lyrical attitude, and Andrews’ vocals even call to mind Nick Cave, with a little bit of young, intelligible Tom Waits thrown in for good measure. It’s a potent if sometime caustic combination, and it makes for a number of songs that would fit right at home on the alternative end of the FM dial: the Celtic hue of “Calliope!,” where arching strings and lively drums highlight one of the band’s most straightforward love songs, and the gender-flipped confessional of “Advice for Young Mothers To Be,” full of pleasant “oohs-aahs,” female backing vocals, and tragic lyrics that belie the tone, are the most obvious ones.

But it’s when Andrews lets it all hang out, musically and vocally, that the Veils shine brightest. “Jesus For The Jugular” is that type of song, the kind of outright blues that would make the White Stripes proud. Andrews enunciates every word carefully, with the vehemence of a revivalist preacher and the fury of the damned, and the band’s hard-hitting stomp is all fire and brimstone. The title track is even more of a revelation, a slow burn of staccato drum rolls, threatening bass, and occasional jabs of guitar noise framing Andrews’ long and increasingly chaotic questions: “Am I living wrong? / Do you see a long road with no one on it / and the right of men that you learnt only to forget / you see my sad wife and my high margin of profit / but you don’t care at all.” It’s a crisis of faith that only propels itself along with Andrews’ erratic temper and the growing fever of the band which bubbles below the surface, finally exploding as Andrews screams “I’ll see you all / and I’ll raise you” and then collapsing in on itself with the last, haunting series of lines, where Andrews cautions “honey, it ain’t hard to loose your grip in the midst of all of this / but it ain’t far to fall / it’s not far at all.” It’s a masterful exercise in tension and release, and a microcosm of the record as a whole.

Nux Vomica is a difficult record to pin down, going as it does from ‘60s-pop songs to Jeff Buckley-esque ballads to tough-as-nails, blues-influenced rock ‘n roll, but what keeps the ship steady remains Andrews’ consistently brilliant performances, from the wretched anguish of “Not Yet” all the way through to the melancholy “House Where We All Live.” It’s an album that succeeds largely based on something that is often so hard to catch, something that many artists search in vain for throughout their careers: the very heart of a emotion or feeling, encapsulated perfectly and without editing into a song. It’s doubtful that an individual as volatile as Finn Andrews will ever release a record that so accurately transcribes his feelings and stories as well as Nux Vomica does. But even if he never comes close, the Veils have still left us with one of the great sublime records of the decade, a triumph of heartache and longing that is so intensely personal, it’s message becomes universal.

The Veils – “Not Yet”

See larger image Nux Vomica (Audio CD) List Price: $14.98 USD New From: $10.09 In Stock Used from: $2.96 In Stock Release date April 24, 2007.

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By Rudy Klapper, August 6, 2009 12:00 pm

Cut Copy – In Ghost Colours

Modular 2008

Rating: 10/10

Original Release Date: 03/22/08

The indie scene’s love affair with dance music has always been an iffy proposition – from the two-step shuffle commonly associated with scenesters at concerts to the fairly awkward relationship many fans have with “cool” (read: hip, Pitchfork-approved, etc.) dance-rock, it’s always been difficult to correspond “indie” to “dance” or vice versa. With the recent upswing in dance-oriented groups and accompanying critically-acclaimed albums like Hot Chip, Justice, and LCD Soundsystem, it’s become okay, nay, necessary for fans formerly just fine with a four-piece rock band to kick out the DJ sets and neon shirts and actually move those Doc Martens.

The resulting over-saturation of electro-pop, techno-lite music has become impossible to ignore and even harder to tolerate, and so it’s refreshing to hear a record like Australian group Cut Copy’s sophomore effort In Ghost Colours, an album so unabashedly fun and free of postmodern irony that it’s an almost unreasonably good time. A heady blend of ‘80s-tinged synth pop, whirling atmospheric electronica, and frothy, carefree pop, it’s music that holds itself above no one and caters to everyone. And as you can guess, it’s pretty damn catchy too.

It’s all there on opener “Feel The Love,” where a squelching burst of keyboards attached to a robust drum beat feeds into a guitar strumming along in major-key bliss while synths soar overhead, the bass pumps out a slinky disco groove and vocalist Dan Whitford’s unassuming tenor holds it all together. Sounds like a lot? It is, and it’s true of In Ghost Colours in general. The record is a massive pastiche of musical styles, a neon-bright watercolor of ‘80s new wave, rave-ready dance, and sunny pop melodies that keep everything nicely packed together into four-minute slices of old and new.

Producer Tim Goldworthy of DFA deserves much of the credit. He works seemingly effortless magic here, from the moody house jam of “Lights and Music” to the psychedelic space rock of “So Haunted” to the trippy, slow-jam mega-hit (in Australia, at least) “Hearts On Fire,” infusing the band’s disparate styles into a vigorous whole. Acoustic guitar and studio drums mesh unobtrusively with synthesizers and all manner of stereo effects, a gleaming array of instruments that rise and fall with Whitford’s vocals but never overwhelm or clash. The sequencing is particularly well thought-out, separating many of the full tracks with one-minute mood pieces that enhance rather than detract from the record’s flow and make fifteen tracks enjoyable rather than painfully long.

Perhaps the album’s strongest point is its ability to take and borrow from dozens of influences, yet never come off as overly derivative or mere hacks, as so many of their scene peers have. “Far Away” is a sinfully catchy new wave piece that sounds like it was pulled out of a time machine from 1985, yet the splashes of live drumming, Whitford’s not-too-little, not-too-much vocals and clattering synth breakdown are entirely ‘00s. “So Haunted” calls to mind a more optimistic Interpol, one with a penchant for suddenly uprooting their droning guitar for a brighter, keyboard-friendly chorus.

Even better, In Ghost Colours is full of genuine songs – forget dance-rock bands that catapult onto the scene with one smash hit and an album of filler. The sexy guitar pulse and spiraling chorus of “Nobody Lost, Nobody Found;” the out-of-left-field country-rock gem “Strangers In The Wind;” the cheerfully anthemic “Unforgettable Season;” this is a record that leaves a lasting impression and an overwhelming desire to go through it again, as a whole.

It’s rare to find a collection of songs like In Ghost Colours, particularly in a genre and era where it’s practically impossible to find something that hasn’t been done before. Cut Copy are not revolutionaries of the dance-rock world, and the last thing In Ghost Colours has done is create something new and wholly original. Rather, it’s an eclectic effort that is an excellent example of painstakingly refined craftsmanship; a purely pop album meticulously put together for maximum summer enjoyment, yet one that loses nothing in immediacy or creativity. A vibrant amalgam that will no doubt prove as timeless as pop music itself, it not only makes it okay to dance, it makes it fucking righteous.