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Album Reviews
The Decemberists Alright, I tried and I just couldn’t do it. Originally this review was to be written from the point-of-view of an 18th century whaler sojourning briefly at an inn on cape cod or something. He would have heard the Decemberists play at a local tavern. He’d speak of things like spending his long-lay on tankards of ale. Analogies would be made comparing their music to various nautical and whaling jargons. Much research was done. Words like ‘amidships’ were scribbled down for later use. The humor therein lay in that the Decemberists’ songs are character studies of such quirky people from the past as our would-be narrator, the boat-header. I decided not to write that review for two reasons. First, I am not nearly as clever as Colin Meloy, the helmsman behind the band’s brilliant literary lyrical aesthetic. The other is that, as funny as it was going to be, it could have never provided a fair appraisal of their newest album, Her Majesty. I must say that the album is beautiful. The lyrics are dark, slyly perverse, playful, and often joyful. Like on the last album, Castaways and Cutouts, Colin sings mostly stories of people from the past, like lost Dickens’ characters, complex and vulnerable. The music, too, is beautiful. Often with singer/songwriters, their band is more of an afterthought; a singer/songwriter with a band. Here we have the reverse: an honest-to-goodness band with a fantastic singer/songwriter. It is a band that is equally capable of producing the crystalline pop three-minute radio-friendly firecrackers, jaunty sea shanties, and epic ballads. Everything is spot-on. Everything is tight. The drumming compliments the music so well that it’s easy not to notice how perfect it is. The other musicians are similarly artful. The sometimes-unusual instrumentation (accordion, melodica, chromatic harmonica, glockenspiel, pedal and lap steel guitars, and a variety of strings and horns) never seems quirky because the musicians are such professionals. It’s all tasteful. Nobody overplays. The segments aren’t too long. They add character and move the song along without being obtrusive. None of this comes as news if you are familiar with Castaways and Cutouts. Both albums, lyrically and sonically are quite similar. Most songs on Castaways have their analog on Her Majesty. (Legionnaire becomes The Soldiering Life, A Cautionary Tale becomes Chimbley Sweep, and Grace Cathedral Hill becomes Los Angeles, I’m Yours.) While they haven’t annexed any new territory in the months since their previous disc, they’ve spent the time basking in their beautiful kingdom. -CD Vivian's Keeper Fans of Indigo Girls arrangement, Ani DiFranco phrasing and Sarah McLaughlin prettiness beware, you may become enraptured with Vivian’s Keeper. It’s quite possible that an individual cursed with these sensibilities will spend hours floating above Solid Ground, with no recourse but to attempt hovering over to the stereo before the album begins another repeat. This band is made up, amazingly, of only three students of the songwriting craft. They make it their business to write profound, moving and even playful songs. On Puzzle, front woman Joanna Agee sings: Then leads into My dear seems that I can’t hear when I look at your lips/as you talk
The lyricism is clever, but also innocent without being naive. There’s also a bit of enviro-friendly/activist type material here that, fortunately, deals in simple observation and deduction rather than emphatic modern ethos. In fact, Vivian’s Keeper succeeds where many of its predecessors have failed. It avoids being didactic while still maintaining conscientiousness. Lovers of fine-crafted, intentional music, find your way to this album. If you don’t fit into that category, well, you actually might like it anyway. I’m not very into any of those artists I mentioned. -DA Sky Cooper On the opening track of Wednesday, a song called Better Days, Sky Cooper jumps right into it with jaunty bridges and choruses splitting up the fun, Soul Coughing-style verses. His vocals are familiar to M. Doughty mostly in timbre, but the same funk sensibilities sit underneath the rest of the album. Unfortunately, no other song on the album sounds quite like this track, which happens to be my favorite. But that’s only a small complaint. Everything else is good, just in a different way.
In between each track we’re given glimpses into Mr. Cooper’s life via answering machine messages all recorded on some dateless Wednesday, hence the album name. Except for the first track, the album has a head-bobbing, jazzy but beat-conscious quality. All of the players (count ‘em: 14!) are exceedingly talented, but let me point out Mike Pisapia on sax. This man has hook-making skill beyond your average songster. Another shout out goes to Cas Lucas. I’m super impressed with his slide ability. He often reminds me of some of Ben Harper’s finer moments, but isn’t stuck in one style. Sometimes he’s a little bit country, sometimes he kicks on the distortion and rocks out. But even then, the recording levels are set just right so you won’t have to turn the song down. The engineer tried to make sure nothing could happen to ruin your buzz.
The songs vary in arrangements, but have a cohesive style all the way through. There’s even a little fiddle and banjo on track 10 called, surprise, Wednesday. But even on this song Sky avoids falling into any strict genre. Good job, man. But I’ll tell you what, the, like, ten minutes of rain before the “secret” song are just annoying!.
But maybe I just need to kick back and enjoy it. -IB
Desert City Soundtrack This Portland foursome has made good on the promise and potential of their debut ep of last year, Contents of Distraction (also on Deep Elm). No longer can you call this band simply “emo” and then try and get away before someone questions you about it. The band does write sullen songs imbued with starts n’ stops, quiet n’ loud parts, and an overall feeling that the guy singing the songs (Matt Carillo) is in a serious amount of pain. The record starts off quietly enough with two songs led by Cory Gray’s drizzly piano (hey, they are from Portland after all) and Carillo’s pained vocals. By the time Drawn and Quartered kicks into high gear the band is in a full rage. You get to hear Carillo howl as if it’s the apocalypse, Gray’s backing vocals and (by now) pounding piano, and the rock solid rhythm section of Mike Casanova (bass) and Caitlin Love (drums). Love is not afraid to overplay (I love it when drummers do that) and it’s an added strength to the band’s overall formula. If Janet Weiss moves out of town (doubtful) then Love just might be this fair city’s best drummer. The record carries on in this manner ‘til the end, a few slower numbers with the piano and Carillo’s vocals out front and then out of nowhere, for no good reason, the band goes gangbusters and all hell breaks loose. Another superb example of this is the brilliant Something About a Ghost. The song has some pretty dramatic shifts in tone and Carillo’s singing with all of the desperation he can muster (or maybe like he just saw a ghost). One thing that has only helped the band is Carillo doing more actual singing on this record and it’s most apparent on the acoustic charmer Second Sickness. I mean, the guy is not Pavarotti (or even, say, Mark Eitzel) but if you listen to his voice you’ll realize it’s a courageous step in the right direction. If I have any reservations about the record it’s the lyrical morbidity. I mean, actually listen to the lyrics. Most of them are about death, maybe to the point of overkill. Hey, I know these guys and they smile as much as anyone. Still, a small complaint to be sure. Desert City Soundtrack has made a giant leap forward from their humble beginnings (Santa Rosa, CA woof woof woof !! ) on this record and they should be damn proud of themselves. -TH Cross Eyed Rosie First some contrast. Have you ever noticed that most of the popular bands these days seem to be trying too hard to communicate how tragic their lives are? I imagine every other lyricist heaped together on-stage in a dogpile clambering over each other, gasping for breath and oozing narcissistic sweat, demanding that fans recognize the fact that life sucks, especially the frontman’s. Sure, it’s easy to feel miserable. But sometimes you need a break from that barrage of self-indulgent hooey and to be reminded that there is surely another take on things. Enter Cross-eyed Rosie. They sing and play for the love of music. Unpretentious for all their skill, everything about Cross-eyed Rosie reminds me of simpler bygone days. Built around a tight sextet of acoustic strings and sweet earthy harmonies, CER performs with a wholesome mountain sound conjured so faithfully from its roots you’d swear they keep a handful of pure Kentucky soil in their pockets. Most of these songs are adeptly penned originals. It’s tempting to foretell that one far-off era, after names are forgotten, they too will be included in the pantheon of traditional ballads. Each is a personal tale of striving and discovery set in familiar American locales, some as close as the John Day River or our own backyards. The lyrics come across with natural emotional honesty and understanding of life’s rhythms. Like our lives, these songs are woven with threads sometimes hopeful or reckless, joyous or bittersweet, yet always beautiful for all its variations. Take a look at the photographs of the band in the liner notes. You might be struck by how much they look like regular people. This is one of the things about this band that impresses me the most. They seem to smile out at you from the glossy paper and say, “Hey, I’m nobody special. Wanna hear some good music? Here, come listen.” Five words encapsulates Cross-eyed Rosie and their latest disc, Lookin’ Up. Real people doing real music. -JR Droney Tones The Droney Tones are a combination of acoustic guitar, hand drum, and sitar. Each song sounds, more or less, like the next. The sitar, along with the hand drum, creates a backdrop and the acoustic plays riffs on the top of the long songs, as they slowly evolve through various themes. Euphonia was recorded at a live performance last September. There are moments of creaking doors, crying babies, hushed voices and the whole recording carries the feel of the room it was created in, which sounds like a gymnasium. Sometimes, the echo of the instruments sounds like a roaring, whistling crowd. It’s a strange, beautiful album. The pieces come together perfectly, but one should not operate heavy machinery while listening to this album. It’s hypnotic and requires a mellow environment to fully appreciate. In the album credits, each musician is credited with vocals, but the album is almost fully instrumental, riding a spiral of sound from one song to the next. One can easily imagine swirling colors on a black background accompanying the music. There is a track with vocals on it, and probably my favorite on the album. It’s called ///… and at one point about 2/3 of the way through, the musicians sing an “Ahh ahh” sort of chorus that kind of picks up the hair on the back of your neck. So next time you’re cooking up a mescaline party, or even just some spaghetti, put in Euphonia, and you’ll be pleased with the additional guests via your sound system. -IB Gypsy Moths Meredith Cushing and Raina Rose are members of the generation in the Singer/Songwriter continuum. Though still carving out a personal sound, the Gypsy Moths write smart songs about lovers, be they human, planetary or from the town of Portland. Complex vocal arrangements add dimension to the dueling guitar compositions and the vocal harmonies, while familiar, are executed with sweet flair and sentimental precision. The self’-titled album continually flows with homage to the genre’s forbearers. In a funky, clever nod to Ani Difrancoesque offering, one of the Moths sings, “I don’t want to get more comfortable every time somebody drops a bomb,” in that stilted lyrical way that Ms. D is so fond of doing. Like I said, it’s familiar, but developing in a direction that I believe this brand of music needs pushing in. This album evokes exactly what a good S/S album is supposed to evoke: sadness, hope, and the reminder that sparse, interesting melody can give rise to dense, intelligent wordplay that can mean something to anybody. -SH Justin Blankenship Justin Blankenship has a strong voice and he uses it well. The songs are heartfelt and honest. It is riddled with pain, angst, breakup, and loss. I heard a story once that Bruce Springsteen is a veritable font of creative juice spilling forth but he chooses the songs that go on each album wisely. Only the best ones make the cut. I mean not to create a comparison between Blankenship and the Boss. Rather I mean to suggest that Blankenship use the same stringent criteria that Springsteen uses in putting together a coherent and, more importantly, listenable album. There are seventeen songs on this CD. Seventeen. And with the average time per song coming in at 4:44, 75+ minutes total, it makes it difficult to sit down and just appreciate this album at one listen. If I had to surmise, I would say that he recorded it at his home on a four track with a single microphone. Which doesn’t necessarily spell doom to a recording, but in this case he has chosen to let his voice occupy most of the tracks, while the all too often out of tune guitar sounds distant, as thought it was being recorded by placing the mic next to the speaker of the stereo. Blankenship shows us he is prolific and dedicated to the craft by giving us such a jam-packed CD. And this is the kind of stuff many people go for: emotional lyrics, easy to sing melodies, and songs you don’t really need tab to be able to play along in your bedroom. In front of a band is where I see Justin Blankenship really starting to shine. -SH Brenda Weiler Brenda Weiler qualifies as a Portland musician after having moved here last summer. She comes from the cold upper-midwest, and still only plays here occasionally. If you are even slightly singer/songwriter inclined, I strongly recommend going to see her the next time she performs. Her voice and playing are deft, subtle and touching. This album, Cold Weather, is her fifth recording, and fourth studio production. Generally, at her live performances she’s playing solo, but on her albums she’s made a habit of employing a long cast of studio musicians who, one can only assume, are well-known to the artist. The intimacy of their contributions produces a solid structure, and this record is no exception. The sounds and instruments used in Cold Weather are more bizarre and creative than any on her previous efforts. Brenda has taken a bold step forward with this album. Using synths, keys, lapsteel guitar, violin and a theramin in really novel, sometimes jarring ways, she’s constructed a world of sound very few “solo” acts ever achieve. It’s no surprise. This woman has been at it for a long time, and she’s let her experimentation grow over time. That isn’t to say that every song is a goulash of effects. There is a solid nucleus of simple, well-written folk songs for the true aficionado. Songs like Christmas Sweater, and Honolulu, Minnesota are like keepsakes in a scrapbook, marking a moment in the collector’s life like an old concert ticket or second-place ribbon. Another trademark of Weiler is her ability to write a powerful pop song. Scatter is based on traditional verse, chorus, verse phrasing, but comes off like a clean grunge song. It’s the first track I repeated, whether for the distorted guitar, background vocals or the really crisp snare sound, I’m not sure. It’s a head nodder, though. Her lyrics are deep in the same way one finds depth in haiku. Her way of telling a story is more like showing you a lot of pictures and letting you imagine what’s happening outside the frame. This style was not a strength on her earlier records, because those pictures were often blurred by too much emotion. Back then, she was angry in an adolescent way that is difficult to enjoy as an adult. But she seems to have left behind all of that conflict, or at least come to terms with it, and settled into herself as a maker of, well, pretty music. -DA The Key Here we are, with the second album from The Key. It’s another short offer, but packed full of energy and good songwriting. They do some cool tricks on this one. For instance, the first track, The New Age, is a short intro with a funky, distorted and quiet organ sound pounding out some crazy circus hip-hop beat. Then the album starts in earnest. I still think that The Key is one of the more fashionable bands in town, but the performance here backs up that style with a depth of recording skill (all done in their basement, amazingly) and phrasing technique that is at once smart and passionate. The sound reminds me of some spacious The Cure recordings. Each song has a sort of amphitheater quality to it. The songs are big. I don’t mean to say that each track is balls out or anything. In fact, there are several moments of sparse sound and long, thoughtful pauses in the noise. But the recording is large in general. It’s kind of like Jane’s Addiction in rehab. Anyway, the band is growing incrementally, and I can’t wait to hear what their first full-length album sounds like. Luke Janela gets credit for being one of the best rock singers you’ll ever hear live. -DA Vagabond Opera Slinking down the corridor comes Vagabond Opera, making serpentine music for wayward and mischievous fellows with yellow eyes. With lungs all mighty, the multilingual Eric Stern squeezes the metaphorically apt accordion, in the Eastern European flavor, and sings songs about wanting to be Marlena Detrich and swimming with Fu Man Chu. Often accompanied by mood inducing violin and/or creeping, oozing soprano saxophone, the Opera gives us a sinister glimpse into the life of the rascally little devil that sits on your shoulder. Sometimes beautiful, always haunting, the instrumentals, including the mellifluous Papirossen, are well placed, in between the strange, strange sung tracks, lyrics penned by Stern, slightly disarming in subject matter. A few traditionals round out the rest of Whatyoudo rather nicely, giving it as an authentic of a feel as possible, coming out of a town that is about as far away from the eastern block as can be. Still, the Opera give it their all with much success. While Whatyoudo cannot quite match what the Vagabond Opera can do live, it still demands attention as it sits on your shoulder and tells you to do things. -SH Trash Art Trash Art uncannily rises to its true nature and creates trash art with Little Broken Words. Simple as that. Is it trash? Yeah kinda. Is it art? Falls under the category. Is it little? Maybe, in ambition. Broken? Yes — melody, lyric, and music don’t really crystallize and coalesce. Are there words? Most definitely — too many obscure references to world religions and myths, and an emotional reference that isn‘t so much about the singer’s point of view as about a character from a story. At times it’s teeming with characteristics of those big ol’ Jesus musicals, Godspell and Jesus Christ Superstar, where alternating time signatures, lots of expository information, and syncopated lyrical melodies take precedence. For example, track 8, The Exquisite Corpse sounds like a college jazz-rock-jam poetry session with references to these huge world thinkers coupled with music that sounds like a bunch of guys sitting around saying, “Yeah, man, this is deep.” The album reeks of philosophical-spiritual dogma. Much of Trash Art has the ingredients of good music, but none of the substance that makes the heart burn and the self unfold. Where is the singer’s experience? And, more importantly, where is our experience? How do we relate to these sometimes profound but mostly empty words and ideas, sophisticated but dry music, and melody that is often very forgettable? You’re left feeling lost and thinking you’re not getting something, but there’s nothing to get. Trash art says it all. Only the simple music and lyrics of track four, Lost in the Woods, are most present and endearing. It expresses an experience of searching for comfort, and the melody’s blues undertone matches its emotional landscape. -AT Junior Private Detective Junior Private Detective, or, as my friends and I like to call them, Little Dicks, is one of my favorite local bands. It seems like every time I see these guys play I like them a little more. But I have to admit, and I want to get this out of the way early, Emilie’s voice is going to fuck with you a little bit. I don’t care what kind of music you listen to, she sings in this low, monotone kind of voice that bites you in the ass and forces you to make a decision. You’re either going to like this band or not. For me, after like how many listens, I find that I’m singing along. So in some attempt at description I’ll say that she’s go an ’80s sort of sound to her voice that totally functions as an integral part of the band. Her lyrics are really cool, too. She writes about everyday kind of stuff like going to shows and grocery stores and playing video games, but does it in this serious voice that makes almost everything she says sound way more philosophical than it really is. But then she always has a way of turning these mundane topics into deep thoughts somewhere around the bridge of the song. It’s a cool trick. But enough about the singer. Oh, did I mention that she plays a Rhodes? It’s good. The rest of the band fucking rocks. Bo, the guitarist, plays this mean lead that makes you think he would work really well in a modern grunge band. Jason hits the base like an outfielder hired for his RBI ability. Marcie, the sexy drummer, just whacks you over the head with her skill. It’s a real shame but Bo and Jason had their guitars stolen on Halloween. Hmm. This far into the review I should probably describe the music. It’s mathy in all the good ways. You don’t get confused, but you feel like you’ve learned something. The recording is great, having employed the illustrious Larry Crane on the recording and production end. The playing is kind of retro, especially with tracks like Lucky 13. If you’re as ignorant as I am, you’ll have to look up triskaidekaphobia. What else can I say? It’s good, modern, solid indie-rock that’s sure to level your playing field. Pick the damn thing up, already. -DA Minmae It’s hard to say which opinion of Minmae will be more popular: Genius or banal. I definitely can’t tell you which opinion is correct. I wouldn’t know genius if it bit me on my theoretical nose, but I like to think I’m capable of recognizing that which is dreamily commonplace. So I’ll have to go with my gut. Smart or silly, I really like True Love. When you listen to this album for yourself, which I hope you’ll do, the first thing you’ll probably notice is the omnipresent guitar. Sean Brookes, the heart and soul of Minmae, is most likely a guy who spends a lot of time in his basement, plugged into a number of effects, playing with lots of pedals and knobs. None of these songs are free of his lead instrument. The second thing you’ll probably notice is that his voice has a quality similar to the robot who declared, “Danger Will Robinson.” If you didn’t know before hand that this was a really good album, you might back out at this point. But then, if you didn’t know how pleasant a sauna was, you probably wouldn’t last the first few minutes of discomfort necessary to enjoy the relaxing experience of extreme heat and open pores. There’s not anything tangible about this album that I can point to and say, “That! That, my friend, is WHY this record matters.” But somehow it does. Maybe it IS that guitar playing-—that heavily effected voice-—played without any shame-—maybe that is what makes this a good album. I should mention that the drumming and bass playing (sometimes played by Sean, sometimes by others) are solid as concrete. I’d also like to point out that my favorite moment on the album is when Richel Martinez sings backup on Do Not Pretend. As for what this album sounds like: well…It’s mellow, kind of. It’s not really loud, but it does have that generous amount of guitar that I mentioned, as well as a liberal dose of distortion. It’s not electronic, but it has a very modern element achieved through effects and engineering wizardry. It’s kind of like (as the cover art suggests) a boat riding on choppy waters. It’s constantly jarring, but pleasant simply for being where it is. -DA The Neins Today’s special at Café Neins is punk rock sauce on a bed of surf noodles with a side of garlic rockabilly. For a reasonable price with service that’s rude in that I’m-rude-but-we-both-know-I’m-cool kind of way. No checks accepted.
Lance Grider If there’s one thing this boy’s got, it’s pipes, and the talent to back it. Lance’s composition skills combined with his out-of-the-ordinary singing range (meaning not many boys can do this, no offense boys) resembles that of the late, great Jeff Buckley. The first two songs on the album were produced and multi-tracked with Lance on piano, keyboard, violin, cello, and cosmitones(?). The other six songs were recorded live and raw, and were equally as enjoyable. If I was there during this show, however, I would’ve yelled, “Put the mic in front of Lance - not his friends in the audience!!” Still, its quality is good enough, especially in this indie, low-fi friendly day and age. Give Lance Grider some time and a studio to produce at a higher quality and you’ve got something damn fucking unique. Keep a look-out for Lance Grider and his no-fear stage presence playing at a venue or an open mic near you, and hopefully soon, a studio album. -MD Hurtbird Hurtbird is a very hard band to review because they’re unlike any band I’ve ever heard. They sort of have two sounds to one sound, but one sound to two sounds, but not really seperate, no wait ...... Oh, man, let’s try that one again. Hurtbird is indie rockin’, hip-hoppin, progressiveurbanpoliticalorganicelectroniccool-ness. Um. No, that doesn’t work either. Hurtbird is intelli-rock hiphop, I think. Furthermore, the album case is a cardboard box that is hand-painted and filled full of goodies like original, one-of-a-kind photos and stickers and even a separate case for the cd itself (also hand-painted). STICKERS! Also a card full of all the interesting lyrics that are generously flowing above the original melodies and grooves. One could compare this band to Tricky. I’m not going to because the presence of the vocalists, whether they be rappin’ or singin’, makes up one of the separate sounds I was mentioning earlier, and are a big part of why I like them. Finally, I got this album for free (stickers!) and all I had to do was write this here review. nanner, nanner. -MD Stars of Track and Field Amidst swirls of guitars and dramatic swells, Stars of Track and Field offer unto us their self-titled debut. Pulling together sonic cues that range from old school shoegazer to sullen PacNW indie rockers, the Stars have created a sound that has recreated these influences without ever quite ripping them off. A feat not to be attemped by the weak of heart. The compostions are like sitting in a warm bath, not because you are dirty but rather because a nice warm bath just sounds like a really nice idea. Guitar work is intricate, like bubbles, bass lines stop the water from going down the drain, drums keep the water from getting too hot or too cold and the vocals, finely harmonized, are the low lighting and the incense and candles. That’s not to say this album is some new age, soft rock affair. It’s dense and warm and fully immersive. Straight ahead and not fllled with many of the the indie rock tricks that I hear these days. Stars of Track and Field write solid pop songs that are serene and lucid, not aggresive but not timid. Just a nice warm bath. -SH |
