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By Rudy Klapper, March 3, 2009 6:47 pm

Neko Case – Middle Cyclone

ANTI- 2009

Rating: 9/10

Alt-country chanteuse Neko Case has become more well known in alternative circles for her excellent vocal work with fellow Canadians the New Pornographers, but if you’re only familiar with her from that, you are sorely missing one of the great female talents in indie rock today. 2006’s Fox Confessor Brings The Flood was rightly hailed as one of the best albums of that year and her best to date, even hitting #54 on Billboard’s Top 200. And with this month’s Middle Cyclone, Case continues her ascent, creating a concise album of lightly country-flavored pop revolving around her distinctive alto and smart lyrics.

“This Tornado Loves You” is a soothing intro, opening with a chugging riff overlaid with tinkling, bright guitar licks and Case proclaiming “my love, I am the speed of sound” with that fairly flawless voice. The gradual buildup to the titular climactic chorus is propulsive and natural, leading Case to a question that seems to set up a challenge for the rest of the record: “what will make you believe me?”

Even more so than Fox Confessor, Middle Cyclone is permeated by nature in all its aspects, be it the careful warning of acoustic strummer “Never Turn Your Back On Mother Earth” and its aching strings, to the literal chorus of frogs barely heard in the background of “Polar Nettles.” Part of this undoubtedly has to do with one of Case’s recording locations of choice: a dirt-floor barn in rural Vermont, where most of the piano was recorded. This, unfortunately, leads to the greatest misstep on the record, a completely ambient track of wildlife sounds in the pond outside of said farm, a track that falls just short of the 32-minute mark (!). Luckily, the pointless “song” closes out the album for optimal skipping ease, but it still mars an otherwise enjoyable record.

The success of Fox Confessor might have led Case to branch out even more here, trading in some of her oft-depressive Americana flavor for more lighthearted chamber-pop goodness. Just check out confident first single “People Got A Lotta Nerve,” which flows along on a jangly electric melody before erupting into Case’s obscenely catchy “I’m a man-man-man, man-man-man-eater” chorus. But her country-pop roots continue to remain her strongest point and an influence she does well to embrace, such as on the gentle finger-picking of ballad “Vengeance Is Sleeping” and the smoky folk of “Magpie To The Morning.”

With guests from M. Ward to Calexico, the album is a finely produced and colorful work, but it’s Case who steals the spotlight once again. Her voice is at the top of its game here; with only Ward’s guitar to accompany her on the title track, she effortlessly paints a picture of repressed love in imagery like “I lie across the path waiting / just for a chance to be a spiderweb / trapped in your lashes,” and in her cover of Harry Nilsson’s “Don’t Forget Me” she is a comforting presence, her voice rising above swelling piano to assure that “you know I’ll think about you / let me know you’ll think about me too.”

Aside from the ill-advised nature “field recording” of closer “Marais La Nuit,” Middle Cyclone is remarkably short, with most songs ranging between two and three minutes. It is Case’s most solid album to date, a record that is gone almost before one realizes what they’ve just listened to and which merits repeated spins to appreciate it fully. It’s a cinematic record that wanes and waxes to its singer’s tunes, going from dauntless love to quiet, sultry melancholia with the ease of a well-practiced performer. An album that could hold its own against any of the New Pornos’ best, it’s sure to continue to establish Case as an accomplished artist on her own terms.

*Originally published in the Daily Trojan*

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By Rudy Klapper, March 3, 2009 12:00 pm

U2 – No Line On The Horizon

Interscope 2009

Rating: 6/10

U2 have been on a hot streak of critical and commercial success lately, their two millennial albums (All That You Can’t Leave Behind and How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb) selling millions and landing them lucrative gigs like Grammy awards and Super Bowl half-time shows. With such success comes, as it always does, accusations of the band “getting soft,” trading in the transcendent, thoughtful rock of their late ‘80s/early ‘90s heyday with palatable arena rock. But let’s face it; U2 have always been a band suited to the stadium, with Bono’s Messiah-complex and resonating voice mixed with the Edge’s crystalline shards of guitar noise a perfect fit for the kind of bombastic, lyrical rock ‘n roll they have come to represent.

With the undertaking that is No Line On The Horizon, a record that’s taken nearly five years and numerous superstar producers, however, U2 have tried to reinvent themselves again, although Horizon is more of a remake than a reinvention; in this case, a harkening back to the atmospheric sounds of The Unforgettable Fire courtesy of producer extraordinaire Brian Eno. Predictably, this “experimental” attempt is at times gorgeous and at others hackneyed, a record with just as many “holy-shit” moments as there are “why-would-they-ever-do-that” outrages.

It’s not hard to pick out the latter: just take a listen to first single “Get On Your Boots,” the equivalent to an aural warning against masturbatory studio excess if there ever was one. It starts off promisingly with a rugged guitar riff before abruptly dropping off into a sparse arrangement of percussion and bass and Bono singing “future needs a big kiss / winds blow with a twist / never seen a move like this” and more nonsensical spouting. The song has more transitions and shifts than a classical symphony, with none of the subtlety or any clear direction to be spoken of. Adventurous, sure, but easily one of the most painful things U2 has put to disc.

As if knowing their mistake, “Get On Your Boots” doesn’t show up until the tedious midpoint of the album amidst a three-song run of the worst on the record. The opening run of the title track, “Magnificent,” and “Moment Of Surrender” are much better, a trio of musical statements that end up being reminders of what the album could have been. The former is an effectively chugging rocker with all those characteristics U2 fans have come to love; Bono’s soaring vocals, a wall-of-sound spurred along by Edge’s vibrant guitar work, and a swelling, emotional chorus. “Magnificent” starts out slower, ambient noise building up around a threatening bass roar before Larry Mullen, Jr.’s drums come pounding in and Edge’s lick propels the song along into quite the effective pop tune.

The seven-minute-plus “Moment Of Surrender” ups the grandeur even more, announcing itself with a solemn string part and a techno-y drum beat as Bono sings one of his most affecting love songs in recent memory. And when the band reach the epic chorus and Bono sings out “at the moment of surrender / of vision over visibility / I did not notice the passers-by / and they did notice me,” it’s easily one of the highlights of a record that rapidly turns south.

After the acceptable “Unknown Caller,” a stereotypically Bono song about the banalities of modern life replete with a multi-tracked chorus, comes the ill-titled “I’ll Go Crazy If I Don’t Go Crazy Tonight.” It’s poppy and catchy and, overall, not particularly interesting, the kind of filler that is all the more obvious coming after the excellent trifecta of the beginning. And lyrics like “is it true that perfect love drives out all fear?” don’t really do much for Bono’s reputation as a corny wordsmith.

“Get On Your Boots” follows along with “Stand Up Comedy,” their poor idea of funk and the type of song that seems more than a little bit forced from a band like U2. “Fez – Being Born” and the quiet “White As Snow” push the record in an increasingly ambient direction, with co-producer Eno’s handprints showing up everywhere. “Fez”’s opening minute seems like an entirely pointless waste of noise that shows little connection with the up-tempo song that follows, while “White As Snow” seems more like a half-realized idea of a folk tune than a truly finished, genuine U2 product.

It’s only on the closing duo of “Breathe” and “Cedars Of Lebanon” that U2 match the arena-rock grandeur of their recent releases with this more atmospheric bent of some of their older ones. “Breathe” is vintage U2, with a revitalizing guitar solo by the Edge and typical Bono-esque lyrics about modern life and an urge to “walk out into the street / sing your heart out.” “Cedars Of Lebanon,” meanwhile, is explicitly experimental, but this time it sounds natural rather than contrived. Bono seems exhausted, singing more in a talky verse than the full-throated echo we’re used to, with a collapsing drum part driving the song along behind a dreamy guitar lick. It’s a haunting musing on people in war and one of the few places where the ideas Bono and company no doubt had coming into the studio actually combine to create entertaining music rather than fall apart like a badly constructed house of cards.

No Line On The Horizon is an unabashed U2 album complete with all their trademarks, and in that respect it will surely please all but the most stringent of their humongous fanbase. But it’s surely not as cohesive as Atomic Bomb nor as accomplished as All That You Can’t Leave Behind, and it’s definitely a far cry from some of the earlier work they attempted to emulate with the help of Brian Eno. Much like the disastrous “Get On Your Boots,” too much of the album sounds like too many disparate ideas tacked onto each other in an effort to sound fresh, leading to a release that does have some genuinely awesome moments and more than a few head-scratching ones. But hey, when you’re U2, I guess you can pretty much do whatever you want. I doubt the kids in Africa will complain.

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

…And You Will Know Us By The Trail of Dead – The Century of Self

Richter Scale 2009

Rating: 8/10

Fiercely independent Austin, TX art-rock standbys …And You Will Know Us By The Trail of Dead have been getting heaps of critical dirt thrown on them by zines and fans alike over the past several years, be it for their meandering prog adventures on record or their inexplicable onstage band feuds, and it came as a surprise to no one when major label Interscope finally dropped them in 2007. After throwing away the sizable amount of credibility 2002’s classic Source Tags & Codes and their awesome if rather long band name garnered them over the years, one would certainly expect The Century of Self to be a bit of a compromise to retrieve their lost audience, but although the out-of-left-field experimentalist urges and oddball genre exercises have departed, Trail of Dead remain as defiantly unique as ever.

I can safely say I was in the minority in my opinion of 2005’s Worlds Apart and 2006’s decidedly unhinged So Divided, records that I strongly felt to be “growers” the highest sort. Worlds was self-consciously grandiose and took the band’s prog ambitions to their logical peak, but the epic songwriting and style was intact. Divided took a bit longer to get used to, but although decidedly uneven, it had enough gems to continue to make Trail of Dead one of my favorite modern rock bands. They would have you think that The Century of Self is a “return to form,” but in all honesty it’s the logical next step in the band’s evolution, melding their prog tendencies and multi-layered noise assaults into an enjoyable post-rock stew.

Obligatory instrumental opener “Giant Causeway” begins the album with a burst of static before erupting into a distorted guitar solo accompanied by crashing drums and some heavy-handed piano playing. Trail of Dead is a band best listened to with the volume turned way up; when I say they play loud, I mean they are loud. The drone of feedback announces the first proper song of the collection, “Far Pavilions,” a song that does away with orchestral flourishes and launches straight into an up tempo punk roar. The duo of vocalists Conrad Keely and Jason Reece has long been one of Trail of Dead’s strongest points, and their interplay here is like a blast from the past.

It’s almost impossible for Trail of Dead to write a three-minute song, however, and the band’ compositional wankery is revealed right off the bat with “Far Pavilions”’ swelling bridge and the half a minute of white noise that ends the song. This comes with the territory with them, and in songs like “Far Pavilions” or the atmospheric multi-movement epic “Halcyon Days” it highlights what makes the Dead truly special; the ability to craft dramatic, theatrical works of genuine rock ‘n roll without coming off as ham-fisted egomaniacs. But fairly pointless interludes like piano ballad “Insatiable One” bore rather than entertain, and while fifty-second instrumental “An August Theme” sets up the closer rather grandly, it’s also totally unnecessary.

Then again, this is Trail of Dead, a band who invented a whole myth to explain their name and whose intricate album artwork could be mistaken for the Renaissance drawings of a rather disturbed individual. And when Keely desperately cries out “I have made you in my likeness / and I will make you a keeper of my garden world” or screams out “I heard the voice of God coming in the music / and I felt like Satan,” it becomes just another part of the majestic musical scenery rather than meaningless lines of bullshit.

But it’s truly the music that separates The Century of Self from Trail of Dead’s more divisive musical explorations, a potent blend of fist-pumping guitars and thumping drums mixed with a dose of symphonic orchestration that doesn’t overpower the band’s roots. Keely has said that this is the first time the band has tracked everything live without overdubs in years, and it’s a welcome respite from the often jumbled messes of sound that characterized So Divided and, to a lesser extent, Worlds Apart.

The band’s trademark climax/breakdown juxtaposition has been polished to perfection here, from the threatening buildup of “Inland Sea” to the tug-of-war between galloping electric guitar and stomping chants on “Isis Unveiled.” Less polished than their previous two records, it’s Century’s noisy grit and unmitigated passion that make songs like the understated “Luna Park” highlights; the gorgeous, simple piano melody outlining Reece’s plaintive vocals and a gradual conclusion that might be the best of its kind on the album.

Keely, normally the primary singer, has never been known for his strong voice, and many a Trail of Dead song has been derailed by pushing him forward too much. “Inland Sea” is dragged down by Keely’s slurred howl and on “Pictures of an Only Child” he is virtually unintelligible in the mix, two extremes that showcase the exception rather than the norm. For the most part, however, the band rides a comfortable equilibrium between the two, and on songs like the rollicking “Fields of Coal,” Keely’s exuberant verses are an essential ingredient.

It’s no Source Tags & Codes, an indie rock masterpiece if there ever was one, and it’s certainly not the cluttered hit-or-miss of their later efforts, but The Century of Self is a fine achievement for a band in a potentially dangerous phase of their career. Excellently produced and performed with a fervor that many have said has been missing from their oeuvre for too long, Trail of Dead’s latest should be a satisfying refresher course in the more destructive, noisier aspects of art rock. 

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By Rudy Klapper, February 17, 2009 12:00 pm

M. Ward – Hold Time

Merge Records 2009

Rating: 10/10

In a world of Pro Tools and Logic, any wannabe guitarist can pick up the nearest acoustic and strum out a few half-hearted tunes about the allure of the road and their lost love, but few have been able to do it as consistently and as accurately as Portland, Ore.-based wunderkind M. Ward. With a healthy appreciation for his musical roots and a talent for speedy finger picking that calls to mind the greats of his favorite genre, Ward has proven time and again that folk-pop is in no danger of dying out, no more so than on his seventh effort, the superb Hold Time.

Ward’s diverse oeuvre is even more striking when you look at the clearly discernable sense of progress he has made over the years, from the lo-fi acoustic wizardry of his debut to his more recent orchestral tapestries. Fresh off his work with actress Zooey Deschanel in the duo She & Him, Hold Time is the logical progression in his work, sounding like a more male-dominated version of She & Him’s ode to the soul of the ‘60s, Volume One. Opener “For Beginners” is a concise bridge into his new work, a deceptively quick guitar melody underlying Ward’s roughened vocals. The mellow production and Ward’s campfire playing create a song with a sort of timeless quality to it, one that would sound just as home in an old-time western saloon as it does on an iPod’s headphones.

The following trio of songs that open the record play like a best-of collection of some unsung folk hero, with the bluesy thump of “Never Had Nobody Like You” and the hypnotic jangle-pop of “Jailbird” leading into the more reflective, sedate title track. Ward’s vocals, always a hate-it-or-love-it bone of contention among listeners, has rarely sounded as accessible as it does here, his eternally-stuffy, cracked delivery guiding the songs like a wizened folk patriarch without sounding off-key.

Ward is someone with an appreciation for his inspirations, and the few choice covers on Hold Time do their originals more than sufficient justice. His soft take on Buddy Holly’s “Rave On” is buttressed by the charming back-up work of guest Deschanel, and the wisely understated standard “Oh Lonesome Me” pairs Ward with legend Lucinda Williams in crafting an old-time country ballad that fits in well with its Americana surroundings.

But it’s Ward’s own considerable skills as a songwriter and producer that turn Hold Time into one of his best yet, with tunes like the remarkably catchy “To Save Me” (yes, even Ward is not averse to throwing a synthesizer or two into an album) to the poppy love-letter of “Epistemology,” where Ward declares “finally, I found you without ever learning how to / I put the right foot in front of the left” to a blazing guitar riff. The man is a world-class musician, and while his arrangements are often better served under an abler singer, such as Deschanel, his Dylan-esque vibe and subtle delivery make for a different, albeit entirely enjoyable, experience.

Lyrically, Ward doesn’t stray too far from what his predecessors made their fame on, those old musical touchstones of love, death, and everyday life. The nostalgic “Stars of Leo” pines for a country life away from the bustle of the city, while “Shangri-La” welcomes death’s embrace as an opportunity to “see the expression on the face of my sweet lord.” Lyrics are mostly secondary throughout Hold Time, but that isn’t to say they weak. Rather, it is Ward’s spot-on delivery that turns these present-day songs into what seem like folk relics.

At fourteen tracks, Hold Time might seem like a bloated record, but aside from one exception, most songs stay around the three-minute mark, and it’s a testament to Ward’s skills that the record seems much shorter than it actually is. Ward changes things up enough times to avoid becoming complacent, and in every aspect of his work there is the mark of a consummate professional, from the flawless guitar work on nearly every track to his tasteful selection of covers. Hold Time is the kind of record that could match up with its inspirations and fit in right next to them, the highest kind of praise for a man who has carried the folk torch proudly into the new millennium.

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By Rudy Klapper, February 17, 2009 12:00 pm

Morrissey – Years of Refusal

Lost Highway 2009

Rating: 6/10

It’s rare to find a pop icon that has aged as gracefully as former Smiths frontman and sardonic crooner Morrissey. For a man approaching that great milestone of midlife crises, the quintessential English singer-songwriter has achieved a newer, more vital sense of purpose that has led to some of the most vibrant music of his solo career. The latest, Years of Refusal, continues this trend in force, led by typically acerbic lyrics and Morrissey’s classic vocals.

Opener “Something Is Squeezing My Skull” is a guitar rave-up that propels the album off to a quick start, a rapid-fire assault of galloping snares and squealing amplifier feedback. Morrissey bemoans the fact there is “no love in modern life” and desperately cries out “how long must I stay on this stuff?” while reciting a laundry list of anti-depressants, all while sounding like the most well mannered gent this side of the Thames. Years of Refusal is typically Morrissean in content, from jaded reflections on wasteful love in “That’s How People Grow Up” to the tragedy of a mother driven to suicide by debt and her vengeful son on “Mama, Lay Softly on the Riverbed.”  Few artists can include “priggish” in their lyrics and not come off as a total buffoon, but it only adds to Morrissey’s over-the-pond charm.

Morrissey’s insistence on spouting on about depression, grief, and assorted farewells, however, conjures up the ghost of an eternally gray London and threaten to drag the album down into a morass of unrelenting negativity. Even coming from the former ringleader of that band of all-time depressives, the Smiths, Years is in danger of wallowing in too much pessimism. Morrissey is blunt in his rage on “It’s Not Your Birthday Anymore,” where he asks “did you really think we meant all those syrupy sentimental things that we said,” and comes off as a petulant self-pitying youngster on “Black Cloud,” where he cries out “I can choke myself to please you / and I can sink much lower than usual / but there’s nothing I can do to make you mine.” You would think nearly fifty years of life on this mortal coil would have given Morrissey some perspective, but even for a crafty veteran, love evidently still sucks.

The album is supported by Morrissey’s backing band, the aptly named Tormentors, who frame their leader’s suave vocals competently, if not exceptionally. Single “I’m Throwing My Arms Around Paris” makes up for its whiny lyrics (“no one wants my love / no one needs my love”) with a soaring melody and a catchy piano line that make Morrissey’s uninspired lyrics much more acceptable. The atmospheric ballad “You Were Good In Your Time” is another highlight, strings and a gentle accompaniment lending Morrissey’s vocals an extra weight of emotion before they abruptly cut off, followed by two minutes of disconnected noise that is as chilling as it is effective.

For the most part, however, the band performs capable renditions of the kind of guitar rock that made Morrissey famous in the first place, but aside from the aforementioned cuts, none are as revelatory as Morrissey’s still powerful vocals. The production is well done, and the arrangements are performed perfectly, but the whole affair almost has a workmanlike quality to it, as if the Tormentors are merely going through the motions. Morrissey’s voice remains the band’s most potent weapon, but even that needs a little inspirational help once in a while.

Morrissey ends the record with a maelstrom of rolling drums and lilting vocals in “I’m OK By Myself” and the realization that “after all these years I’m okay by myself,” but if there’s anything to be learned from Years of Refusal, it’s that Morrissey cannot succeed on his own. Years is an accomplished album, but the somewhat lackluster energy his backup band produces and Morrissey’s own rather tiring brand of relentless cynicism make one wonder what could’ve been. Someone get this guy a working relationship!

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By Rudy Klapper, February 10, 2009 12:00 pm

Ben Lee – The Rebirth of Venus

New West Records

Rating: 4/10

Australian troubadour Ben Lee’s seventh (!) album, The Rebirth of Venus, is an interesting concept album on the surface, a record dedicated to the mythic goddess of love and beauty. Hence song titles like “Boy With A Barbie,” “I’m A Woman, Too” and that symbol of feministic rock everywhere, “Yoko Ono.” Other than that merely skin-deep distinction, however, Venus is much like any other of Lee’s albums of entertaining but workmanlike guitar pop: catchy, sugary sweet, and, more often than not, ultimately boring.

“What’s So Bad (About Feeling Good)” opens the album, continuing Lee’s obsession with bouncy, hook-laden choruses, eternally optimistic lyrics, and parenthetical titles. The tasteful percussion and understated guitar complement Lee’s boyish vocals well, and the song is everything you’d come to expect from him. Following song, however, is more typical Lee, but in a bad way. “Surrender” rides along a strummed acoustic part and energetic drum line while Lee urges the listener to “let go, give in / give up, surrender,” but the song gives a new meaning to call-and-response as a chorus repeats nearly every line, verse and chorus. It’s redundant in the extreme, and the song’s bland empowerment lyrics do little to make hearing everything twice worthwhile.

Lee’s lyrics, a mixture of hippie-esque love is all sentiment, exhortations to take initiative, and reveling in the power of music and song, are usually the worst offenders on this collection, along with Lee’s often-embarrassing earnestness and cringing sentimentality. “I Love Pop Music,” a sing-a-long in the vein of his earlier hit “Catch My Disease (That’s The Way I Like It)” compares politicians to professional wrestlers, criticizes the government for not committing “to a plan of action on renewable energy” and implores his audience to “turn up the radio / and sing along, like you’re all alone.” Other tunes, like the unbearably sappy “Rise Up” or the unintentionally humorous “I’m A Woman, Too” where Lee announces “I’m gonna get loud / hear me roar, I will not be ignored” as he proclaims his femininity while mentioning that everyone, from Palestinians to “freedom fighters to the Messiah” is “a woman too,” are interesting concepts, but not the best of executions.

There is little overall to distinguish Venus from anything in Lee’s previous catalogue, particularly anything from his last few albums. “Boy With A Barbie” switches things up for a few minutes with a rippling synth line and some more gender-twisting lyrics, making the song a welcome relief from the omnipresent guitar-pop that surrounds it, and I couldn’t help but compare the chorus to Queen’s “Under Pressure.”

For the most part, however, handclaps, guitars, and multiple harmonies dominate the scene, and by closer “Song For The Divine Mother of the Universe,” the call-and-response and campfire chants (“your love is everything” goes this last chorus) were becoming a bit overplayed. Lee undoubtedly has a gift for melody and the right ear for a hook that sticks, but his one-track mind has become, over the course of seven albums, the same old formula. It’s always refreshing to hear a guy who seemingly is always in a good mood, especially when he has a penchant for tastily arranged indie-pop harmonies, but it’s all too easy to forget about this CD after only a few spins.

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By Rudy Klapper, February 10, 2009 12:00 pm

Lily Allen – It’s Not Me, It’s You

Capitol 2009

Rating: 9/10

British singer-songwriter Lily Allen has never been one to shy away from the press or her opinions; since the release of her debut album, Alright, Still, the fiery brunette has agonized over being “fat and ugly” on her MySpace, assaulted obnoxious paparazzi, and been upfront about her previous drug use. It might sound like any other pop diva with self-esteem issues, but with Allen it’s always been about the music. It’s Not Me, It’s You comes onto the scene after two and a half years of work and very public turmoil, but Allen’s skills as a songwriter have only improved.

Gone are the Jamaican dub influence from Alright and the ironic rap verses, and while there aren’t any huge singles here like “LDN” or “Smile,” It’s Not Me is overall a much more balanced record. Opener “Everyone’s At It” is a masterpiece of electro-pop courtesy of producer Greg Kurstin, buzzing synths and crashing drums building a dance-y mood that belies Allen’s lyrical warnings against drugs.

First single “The Fear” is more relaxed, a gentle guitar melody flowing along with Allen’s strong vocals before climaxing into a keyboard-heavy chorus complete with orchestral flourishes of atmospheric sound, reminiscent of Kurstin’s work as half of The Bird and the Bee. Lyrically it’s one of Allen’s sharpest songs on the album, a razor-sharp indictment of celebrity culture: “I don’t care about clever, I don’t care about funny / I want loads of clothes and fuck loads of diamonds” goes an early verse before she worriedly wonders “I don’t know what’s right and what’s real anymore / and I don’t know how I’m meant to feel anymore.”

It’s Not Me, It’s You is a pop album at heart, and Kurstin’s wizard-like production and Allen’s flawless songwriting and blunt wit make for one of the best combos in recent memory.  “I Could Say” is a piano-based ballad about the joys of leaving a shite boyfriend that wouldn’t sound out of place on a Kelly Clarkson record, while the hilarious “Not Fair” is a frustrated ode to a boyfriend who is, shall we say, amorously challenged. The country-ish rhythm and excellently placed bluegrass guitar make the song a highlight, and Allen’s typically straightforward lyrics (“I look into your eyes I want to get to know you / and then you make this noise and its apparent it’s all over”) make it a highlight among an album filled with them.

Songs travel from the politically-inspired rage of the subtly-titled “Fuck You,” a song made all the more ironic for it’s ridiculously cheery chorus of the title, complete with falsetto call-and-response, to the “what-if-God-was-one-of-us” conceit of “Him.” Allen is an unusually introspective and accomplished lyricist, coating her harshest observations with a smart layer of humor, as on “Him” where she wonders “do you think he’s ever taken smack or cocaine / I don’t imagine he’s ever been suicidal / his favorite band is Creedence Clearwater Revival.” It’s her ability to turn the most serious subject matter, from post-20s malaise (“22”) to a rude break-up on “Never Gonna Happen” that make this a pop album that is much more than a few well-made melodies and innovative instrumental choices. Not to say there aren’t plenty of those; “Never Gonna Happen”’s accordion gives the song a carnival-esque festiveness, while the spacey vibe and twinkling keyboard of “Chinese” make the song’s vision of a simple, loving relationship all that more uplifting.

For a pop album, Lily Allen’s latest is an inventive, personal, humorous, and finely wrought piece of work. There is nary a weak song on the album; Kurstin’s striking production and Allen’s ingenious turns of phrase make nearly every song a treat and a potential hit single. Closer “He Wasn’t There,” in fact, comes off as the weakest song on the album, simply because it seems an anti-climactic finish to the outstanding tunes that precede it. It’s only been a month into 2009, but with Allen’s latest venomous, hilarious collection of electro-pop rants and love swoons, the Brits may already have produced the pop album of the year.

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By Rudy Klapper, February 3, 2009 12:00 pm

The Fray – The Fray

Epic 2009

Rating: 3/10

It’s been almost four years since Denver-based piano-rock combo the Fray released their debut How To Save A Life, a fairly acceptable disc of mid-tempo “rockers” and MTV-pleasing ballads, and became multi-platinum superstars. Of course, after listening to their self-titled sophomore effort, you shouldn’t be surprised to find yourself thinking that no time at all had passed. The piano is still the centerpiece of the band’s sound, pounding out chords in accompaniment to the stadium-ready drum parts and unexciting bursts of guitar. Singer Issac Slade still sounds like he has a perpetually sore throat and still spouts high-school poetry like “man was born to trouble like sparks fly upward, innocent” (“Absolute”) or “happiness is a firecracker sitting on my headboard” (the sublimely-titled “Happiness”).

During the course of this album I often pondered questions that I had, in fact, struggled with during my last encounter with the Fray in ’05, questions like: or “Is singer Slade really still this unhappy after becoming one of pop-rock’s most successful radio acts?” or “Will the Fray ever consider speeding up the monotonous tempo they have sold millions of records on?” or even “How many interchangeable minor-key melodies can one man take before simultaneously combusting with sorrow?” Alas, the answers are, respectively, “yes,” “no,” and “possibly.”

Single “You Found Me” is the kind of piano-based, optimistic single that is the Fray’s bread-and-butter and a song that will assuredly grace multiple high school proms across the country, heartbreakingly earnest and totally uncompromising. Unfortunately, I couldn’t distinguish it from the opener “Syndicate,” another piano anthem in the lyrical vein of previous hit “How To Save A Life.” Nor were either of them much different from the frantic “Say When,” or the somber “Ungodly Hour,” or the fast-paced “Absolute,” although the handclaps on that latter are an admittedly nice touch. The hooks are all there; the same melodies that sold millions of records are all nicely in place, brushed up and polished to studio perfection; the originality, however, is not.

To be fair, there are a few attempts by the band to branch out of their comfort zone, however lackluster they might be. “We Build Then We Break” is the most obvious one, building off a buzzing synth line and a pulsing drumbeat rather than the omnipresent piano. It’s also the best, a song that messes with the Fray’s signature sound, introducing a sweet little guitar lick there, a spacey synth twirl here, and soaring vocals that contribute to the haunting atmosphere of the song. And the entirely out-of-place instrumental breakdown at the bridge and droning climax are awesome simply because it’s totally separate from the rest of the album. The Fray can do different, and this should give listeners hope after they’ve digested all the middle-of-the-road piano rock they can handle.

Artists have been excused of making the same album over and over again, and some for good reason, but few have gone about it as blatantly as the Fray. If this was their debut, I would be convinced to award them a few more points with their solid grasp of pop hooks and workmanlike piano skills, but in truth their sophomore effort is practically identical to How To Save A Life. They will make millions, they will rule the radio for the next year or two, and that will be probably be all the reason they need to keep doing the same thing over and over again. Welcome to modern pop radio.

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By Rudy Klapper, February 3, 2009 12:00 pm

Ben Kweller – Changing Horses

ATO Records 2009

Rating: 7/10

Going country seems to be the cool thing to do nowadays with the alternative/indie set, but on acoustic-hippie hero Ben Kweller’s fourth record, it seems much less like an affected art than a natural fit for the former power-pop auteur. The eternally boyish Kweller, more well known for his charmingly earnest lyrics and straightforward guitar-oriented rock ‘n roll, has always had a vaguely sort of country twang to him, from his slightly accented vocals to his childhood in the Texas heartland, but it hasn’t been as wholeheartedly embraced as on the metamorphosis that is Changing Horses. Hey, if Jessica Simpson can do it, Kweller certainly had a decent shot at pulling it off.

Kweller makes it a point to let the listener know that things have changed right off the bat, with the folksy riff that opens the album on “Gypsy Rose” and his fragile, lilting vocals announcing “now you’ve got me goin’ / somewhere no one could find.” No more bland guitar anthems or tongue-in-cheek pop toss-offs for this Ben; “Gypsy Rose” and the following “Old Hat” are as country as anything you’re likely to hear out of Nashville, but Kweller’s endearing accent and tasteful instrumentation, replete with pedal steel guitar, saloon-style piano, and soft drum brushes, make this more of an admirable emulation than a hubristic parody.

Indeed, it’s Kweller’s respect for old-school country that makes Changing Horses such an interesting and authentic experience, especially for those familiar with his past work.  Kweller takes the standard conventions of country and does more than passable imitations of them, such as on the entertaining backwoods barroom sing-a-long “Fight,” where he extols the listener to “fight ‘til your dying day” amidst a honky-tonk piano and multi-tracked harmonies. Like Conor Oberst’s latest works and Ryan Adams’ forays into alt-country, Kweller has a good understanding of Americana folk tradition and music, imbuing his vocals with the proper amount of longing and grief on ballads like “Hurtin’ You” and calling up images of that great American symbol, the road, on driving guitar-and-drum based rhythms like the surging closer “On Her Own.” Occasionally, he might get a little too country for some longtime fans’ tastes, such as the corny love ode of “Things I Like To Do,” but, with all due respect to his previous work, it’s nice to hear a change-up every other album or so.

Changing Horses does suffer, however, from what afflicts practically every Ben Kweller album; it remains on a one-track mind the whole way through. Much as Sha Sha or On My Way played the same brand of witty pop rock for twelve or so songs, so does Changing Horses relentlessly maintain the country shtick for the entire length of the record, with little to no variation. Kweller’s fairly vanilla lyrics, which detail love lost or love won or love in some way shape or form throughout most of the album, don’t exactly help in differentiating the songs from each other, but they don’t necessarily detract from the material either.

For an experiment in form, Changing Horses is an undeniable success. For an artistic accomplishment, it falls a little short in its strict adherence to the standard country formula of tear-in-my-beer lyrics and pedal-steel guitar. Songs like the ‘60s pop-meets-redneck-guitar-picker “Sawdust Man” and the haunting strings and bubbling bass of “The Ballad of Wendy Baker,” however, prove that country doesn’t have to suck, and that Kweller more than makes for an acceptable country-rock tunesmith. Maybe next time he’ll trot out an entire album of Afro-Caribbean jazz…dare to dream!

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By Rudy Klapper, January 27, 2009 12:00 pm

Franz Ferdinand – Tonight: Franz Ferdinand

Domino 2009

Rating: 7/10

The spark to a revolutionary slew in British and American guitar-based rockers and the blueprint to that retro sound that tore up charts in 2004, Scottish foursome Franz Ferdinand always towered above many of their peers with their concise blasts of tuneful guitar hooks, dance rhythms, and singer Alex Kapranos’ wry, irrepressibly clever lyrics. Franz Ferdinand’s third album, Tonight: Franz Ferdinand, has been three years in the making, and longtime fans expecting a return to the angular post-punk guitar ricochets of You Could Have It So Much Better and their self-titled debut will be more than a little disappointed with this latest outing. Kapranos himself has stated that Tonight was to be “quite new . . . quite different sounding from everything we’ve ever done before.” This is undoubtedly true, but for all the benefits of evolving, not everything on Tonight is up to the standard of the band’s seminal earlier work.

Still there but far less important in the mix is Nick McCarthy’s guitar, replaced by bombastic ‘80s keyboards and slinky bass lines. First single “Ulysses” is the perfect example of Franz’s new direction, a love-it-or-hate-it opener that starts off with a simple beat and Kapranos’ whisper of a voice before expanding with a twirling synth and distorted guitar as he belts out “I’ve found a new way.” Indeed, this is a new Franz, but the song’s lackluster bridge and fairly standard chorus cause “Ulysses” to pale in comparison with previous Franz singles.

Everything is forgiven, however, with the excellent one-two punch of the following “Turn It On” and “No You Girls,” songs that recall the dance-punk of their debut but with a noticeably funkier sound. “No You Girls,” in particular, jives along a twisted guitar riff and Kapranos’ deliciously naughty lyrics (“kiss me where your eye won’t meet me” goes an early verse) before exploding into one of the best choruses on the record.

Throughout, Franz do a fair job of switching between the familiar guitar-based rock of their earlier work, such as the thumping, unrelenting rhythm of “Bite Hard,” and their newfound fascination with synthtastic, Hot Fuss-era Killers new-wave punk, like the keyboard-heavy “Live Alone.” On some songs it sounds forced and over the top, as on the aforementioned “Live Alone,” but tunes like the dub-influenced “Send Him Away” and the buzzing techno and impressive bass playing on “Can’t Stop Feeling” show some serious promise for Franz’s future if they continue in this direction.

There’s one thing, however, that will definitely need some work on future records: Kapranos’ often-unforgivable lyrics. The album follows a loose theme of a night out on the town, so maybe lines like “I typed your number into my calculator / where it spelled a dirty word when I turned it upside down” can be attributed to one too many pints at the bar. Too many times, however, does Kapranos resort to bad puns or nonsensical rhymes to get through a song. Luckily, his distinctive pipes are so pleasant to listen to it’s easy to overlook many of his verbal gaffes.

Tonight: Franz Ferdinand is easily a step down from their debut and the oft-underrated You Could Have It So Much Better, but, at its best, the band’s merging of electronica and ‘80s synth rock with their own inimitable post-punk guitar tricks show that Franz are not content to re-make their debut over and over again. Sure, I never thought I’d hear Kapranos and co. bloat a song like the otherwise enjoyable “Lucid Dreams” out to nearly eight minutes with pointless electronica wankery, but, hey, musicians sometimes have weird desires. Tonight is a grower, and for a band branching out of their comfort zone, it’s an uneven, entertaining experiment.

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By Rudy Klapper, January 20, 2009 12:00 pm

Animal Collective – Merriweather Post Pavilion

Domino 2008

Rating: 9/10

I’ve always made it a goal of mine in life to try something new when the opportunity presents itself. From my pre-teen samplings of Indian delicacies to my developing infatuation with high-definition television, I’ve consistently found that new experiences are truly the spice of life. Sure, there will always be missteps along the way, such as my ill-fated attempt to appreciate modern art and my disastrous foray into death metal, but it’s the things you discover that make it all worthwhile.

Animal Collective’s latest album, Merriweather Post Pavilion, is just the kind of new adventure that I look forward to the most: the musical expedition into the unknown. I’ve treaded the Collective’s path before; 2005’s Feels was a psychedelic enigma that I tried desperately to get into but never really succeeded; for one reason or another, the lyrics always seemed a bit too obtuse and the music way too far out of left field to ever really grab me. Perhaps that was why I never gave 2007’s Strawberry Jam a fair chance despite the oodles of critical acclaim, a decision I will surely re-think after listening to Pavilion. Again, Animal Collective has been showered with hyper-literate blogosphere praise and lauded for their experimental creativity, but don’t mistake this for the same old hype for musicians who dare to be different: Merriweather Post Pavilion is for real.

The first thing that makes itself fairly evident within the first few minutes of Pavilion is that Animal Collective have fully embraced the pop idiom that they have been flirting with on their last couple of records. Sure, opener “In The Flowers” rides along an otherworldly synth line and a chugging drum machine rhythm before coalescing into a carnival sideshow melody and the Collective’s haunting vocals (all four members share vocal duties, but Avey Tare is the primary singer), but gone are the Collective’s often off-putting vocal inflections of earlier records and the confusing musical frameworks that set them firmly apart as an “experimental” band. The climactic chorus of interlocked harmonies, threatening bass, and searing electronics is genuine, enjoyable pop.

The band still throws conventional pop song structures to the wind, switching from verse to interlude to gloriously multi-tracked choruses seemingly at whim, but it’s this sense of organized chaos that makes Merriweather Post Pavilion such a well-designed record. At 55 minutes, it’s one of their longest yet, but one never gets the feeling that Animal Collective is just wasting space and sound. “My Girls” starts off with a space-y keyboard riff and vocals that come out of nowhere seemingly only to announce that “I only want a proper house / I don’t care for fancy things” like some cosmic god of the family. It’s only when the brilliant chorus comes in, complete with handclaps and unabashedly cheerful “yeaaahs” that the song reveals itself as a hauntingly affecting pop masterpiece.

It’s hard to think that Animal Collective could follow up the one-two punch of “In The Flowers” and “My Girls” with a consistent batch of songs to last the rest of the album, but they rarely fail to disappoint. There’s the nearly tribal “Also Frightened,” which floats along on a detached electronica loop and vocalists Tare and Panda Bear’s (yes, that’s what he goes by) droning questions. The excellently unhinged “Summertime Clothes,” follows, perhaps the most accessible song on the record and easily the most entertaining, with its deliriously happy beat and Tare’s drunken declarations of “I want to walk around with you / and be here with you.”

No matter how many seemingly out-of-place dance rhythms are mixed with drug-induced guitar riffs or alien harmonies, Animal Collective never seem to lose their grip on the essential pop pulse of their songs. “Bluish” meanders all over the place throughout its five-minute-plus length, from a squishy synth line to seemingly random effects that sound culled from an ancient Nintendo game to a poppy outro stuffed full of unnecessary sounds and falsetto vocals, but in the end it comes off as just another wildly inventive song that, for all its wackiness, works on a record full of them.

Despite what many blog powers may have you think, Animal Collective is not perfect. The problems here are few, but undeniable, most noticeably the ridiculously annoying ear-piercing synth riff that turns “Daily Routine” into perhaps the record’s most obnoxious experiment. The mumbled spoken-word lyrics of “Lion in a Coma” lack any particularly intriguing beat to mask them, a surprise for a record that is nearly spot-on with its production and instrumental choices. And whatever you do, don’t try to read too much into the lyrics: the Collective might have made their vocals more understandable, but aside from a few choice cuts such as the aforementioned “My Girls,” what Tare or Panda Bear say is largely inscrutable.

Merriweather Post Pavilion is the kind of record that comes around only once in a long while. It’s most assuredly not everyone’s idea of a good time; it requires an open mind and a willingness to drop all preconceived notions of comprehensible music. It is assuredly a critic’s record above everything else, not the kind of product that millions will be clamoring for anytime soon, but in their crazily convoluted vision of pop music Animal Collective have created a record that mixes and matches multiple genres while retaining their uniquely art-house sound and their all-important indie credibility. It’s only been twenty days into 2009, but already Animal Collective have set a high-water mark in experimental pop that looks likely to stand for years. Oh, and that album cover is sheer genius.

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By Rudy Klapper, January 20, 2009 12:00 pm

A.C. Newman – Get Guilty

Matador Records 2009

Rating: 8/10

In a fairer world, Carl Newman would be heralded by mainstream media outlets the Western hemisphere over as one of Canada’s preeminent modern pop songwriters, the Great White North’s newer, hipper version of Sir Paul or Burt Bacharach. The brainchild behind perennial award-winners and indie mainstays the New Pornographers, Newman’s sun-kissed brand of quirky, technically accomplished baroque-pop has been imitated by many yet matched by few. Few songwriters working today can match his depth of wit and devious lyrical turns, and his immediately pleasing arrangements match the best of ‘60s pop with a properly indie experimental sensibility. With his second solo release under his “A.C.” alias, Newman does little to dispel the notion that he remains one of the most consistent entertainers of the indie world.

Newman was always the steadying force behind the New Pornographers fun-loving brand of pop. While Neko Case had her own style of countrified balladry and Dan Bejar a sense of weirdness and inexplicable charm that made its mark on any New Pornos song he wrote, Newman remained the lover of harmonic choruses, intricately developed melodies, and brilliant guitar-piano-vocal interplay. While the New Pornos’ latest, Challengers, focused more on slower tunes and diverse styles, Get Guilty harkens back to the New Pornographers of old, a guitar-drive, eminently catchy record of earnest pop-rock.

Opener “There Are Maybe Ten or Twelve” is suitably majestic, riding a pounding, ascending guitar line before settling into a quieter stop/start rhythm and Newman’s ambiguous lyrics to “make of that what you will.” The soft-loud dynamic works well here, alternating between brash bursts of toms and crashing chords to a lilting piano-led melody framing Newman’s distinctive pipes. Newman’s seemingly effortless ability to craft involved melodies that sound instinctive and easy. “The Heartbreak Rides” moves along cascading drums, lyrics that rhyme without even seeming to mean to, and a powerful chorus built on top of what sounds like woodwinds, a nonsensical chant of “yell-oooo,” and a pounding march of a climax.

Newman’s supporting cast fits the quality caliber of his song craft, from ex-Superchunk drummer Jon Wurst’s fine work on the breakneck pace of the South American-flavored “Like A Hitman, Like A Dancer” to Mates of State’s solid backing vocal work. But it’s Newman’s record through and through. “The Palace at 4 a.m.” is vintage Newman, flowing along a propulsive beat, a perfectly placed series of “ba-ba-bas,” a sugary-sweet chorus that could match up to the best of the New Pornographers’ catalogue, and typically obtuse Newman lyrics.

Wordiness, in fact, is perhaps Newman’s biggest downfall: when he proclaims “no more pushing words around” on “The Palace at 4 a.m.,” you wish he would have taken that a bit more to heart. The best Newman songs, such as his 2004 masterpiece “Miracle Drug” to Get Guilty’s highlights, “Submarines of Stockholm” and the closing “All of My Days and All of My Days Off” are simple and effective demonstrations of the power of a well-written melody. Songs like the otherwise enjoyable, elegiac “Young Atlantis” and the jumbled mess of “Prophets” suffer from rather odd thematic choices and lyrics that flounder rather than connect with the listener.

Luckily for us, Newman doesn’t seem to be running out of interesting material anytime soon. After four New Pornographers records and now this second solo effort, along with countless extracurricular contributions, Newman’s creative flow seems to be practically unstoppable. Do yourself a favor and listen to songs like the epic “There Are Maybe Ten or Twelve” and the syncopated sing-a-long ode to youth that is “Thunderbolt,” and perhaps comparing him to McCartney won’t sound too far off. Get Guilty is not a groundbreaking record, and it won’t have critics grasping frantically for some obscure superlative like, say, the latest Animal Collectives release, but it’s undoubtedly excellent music: honest, with smart writing and gorgeous production, and hooks that refuse to quit.