Single Reviews
with the loneliest girl in rock, Cass Single
Single of the Week:
The Drones
I Don't Ever Want To Change
Our first taste of the long awaited second album - Gala Mill - and it's an absolutely lacerating explosion of sound. The escalating interplay of jagged tones, the desperate overstretched vocals of Gareth Liddiard - this is transcendent noise. Somehow the arcane storytelling conceits and humble HATE of this band encapsulate an Australia burned and buried by the business of bullshit we endure today. Struggle and stasis combine - swells smash into blunt boulders, snakes shed skin. Is it wrong to feel triumphant when you've merely danced a devil down?
Fucking A
The Lemonheads
Become the Enemy
Despite his long-standing affinity with fairly mid-paced balladry, it's hard to avoid feeling that the sweet flaccidity of this tune might herald less of a comeback for Evan Dando, than some form of eternal comedown. His voice continues to carry the richness for which he was renowned but the spark that offsets his melancholia seems dim indeed as he resigns himself hopelessly to the casual cruelty that characterises the imminent end of any love. The poor bastard has woken screaming again, and all those kisses past just still won't mask life's slipping, slipping, from his grasp...
K
The Valentinos
Rain
Isn't it bizarre that Sydney is producing so much music reminiscent of drizzly London circa the mid 80's? I'm sure we've all had the strangely hypnotic and timeless pleasure recently of watching the elements wash over our humble abodes while gazing out from within. 'Rain' is as simple as that - repetitive, dated, almost twee - yet strangely charming in that ye olde new new romantic way. I'm not sure it will end up on retro Spanish AM radio in a decade the way I envisage similar Sydney confections like Van She's 'Kelly' to but you never know, these days, do you?
H
Naked On the Vague
All Aboard
Available on both 7" vinyl and CD through the amazing Dual Plover label this slice of local fare is one of those confounding numbers that will have half the people whinging that their 4 year old could do better and the other half revelling in it's infantile energy. For fucks sake! Playing with no real chops IS punk and is a contagious rambunctious joy for listeners and band alike. It is what it is, as James Brown would say. Value aint conferred only through evolution into Blondie or Talking Heads style pop and production. Proto-pirate distortion action-inalienable...
F
Single of the Weak:
The Inches
Somewhere At the Party
This sucks. A fairly promising rhythm guitar intro soon gives way to one of those stilted yet braying male vocals that seriously belong in the overwrought oeuvre most commonly found on what passes for 'talent' quests on the box! Throw quality lyrics like "somewhere at the party there's a man we need to wake up" and you'll be volunteering for deep sleep therapy-if not euthanasia-before you know it. What do groups like this really want? - Airplay on Triple M? A gig at the footy? A Root? Strike three, Inches!
W
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Drones
I Don't Ever Want To Change
Our first taste of the long awaited second album - Gala Mill - and it's an absolutely lacerating explosion of sound. The escalating interplay of jagged tones, the desperate overstretched vocals of Gareth Liddiard - this is transcendent noise. Somehow the arcane storytelling conceits and humble HATE of this band encapsulate an Australia burned and buried by the business of bullshit we endure today. Struggle and stasis combine - swells smash into blunt boulders, snakes shed skin. Is it wrong to feel triumphant when you've merely danced a devil down?
Fucking A
The Lemonheads
Become the Enemy
Despite his long-standing affinity with fairly mid-paced balladry, it's hard to avoid feeling that the sweet flaccidity of this tune might herald less of a comeback for Evan Dando, than some form of eternal comedown. His voice continues to carry the richness for which he was renowned but the spark that offsets his melancholia seems dim indeed as he resigns himself hopelessly to the casual cruelty that characterises the imminent end of any love. The poor bastard has woken screaming again, and all those kisses past just still won't mask life's slipping, slipping, from his grasp...
K
The Valentinos
Rain
Isn't it bizarre that Sydney is producing so much music reminiscent of drizzly London circa the mid 80's? I'm sure we've all had the strangely hypnotic and timeless pleasure recently of watching the elements wash over our humble abodes while gazing out from within. 'Rain' is as simple as that - repetitive, dated, almost twee - yet strangely charming in that ye olde new new romantic way. I'm not sure it will end up on retro Spanish AM radio in a decade the way I envisage similar Sydney confections like Van She's 'Kelly' to but you never know, these days, do you?
H
Naked On the Vague
All Aboard
Available on both 7" vinyl and CD through the amazing Dual Plover label this slice of local fare is one of those confounding numbers that will have half the people whinging that their 4 year old could do better and the other half revelling in it's infantile energy. For fucks sake! Playing with no real chops IS punk and is a contagious rambunctious joy for listeners and band alike. It is what it is, as James Brown would say. Value aint conferred only through evolution into Blondie or Talking Heads style pop and production. Proto-pirate distortion action-inalienable...
F
Single of the Weak:
The Inches
Somewhere At the Party
This sucks. A fairly promising rhythm guitar intro soon gives way to one of those stilted yet braying male vocals that seriously belong in the overwrought oeuvre most commonly found on what passes for 'talent' quests on the box! Throw quality lyrics like "somewhere at the party there's a man we need to wake up" and you'll be volunteering for deep sleep therapy-if not euthanasia-before you know it. What do groups like this really want? - Airplay on Triple M? A gig at the footy? A Root? Strike three, Inches!
W
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Princess Superstar
Perfect
Bizarrely beginning with a truncated lightweight dance-pop remix and featuring five other versions besides the original, ‘Perfect’ is far from it. Despite her woeful ‘live’ performances I’ve generally been a fan of the distinct sass that characterises the Princesses’ recorded output. Here there’s a cruisey datedness in the late seventies kinda disco-funk backing and her delivery remains stylishly syncopated but lame lines (“yo, why you got a mirrored chair?-you can see my ass much better there…to kiss it”) let her down bad. It’s painful to even attempt anal-ysis of the ill-logic contained in that one…is it the brown eye that sees better? How does one kiss a chair-planted ass? As intriguing and eternal as these questions may be, I’d rather dance…
Q
Single of the Weak
Bananarama
Look on the Floor(Hypnotic Tango)
Sadly not an ode to the desperate and humiliating necessity of scoping the grimey floors of da club for that pill, or worse - trip, your sweaty shaky hands dropped before you could get it anywhere near your perpetually pursing lips – a skill I’ve honed over so many years that I can reunite those in distress with what was wrongfully theirs in moments. Oh, the beatific looks of gratitude! No, the once complete (the smart brunette left eons ago) bananas have served us such appallingly average fodder here (including all SEVEN remixes) that no amount of pharmaceutical aids (or vocoder) will render this ‘hypnotic’ at all. Leaving aside the farcical folly of sub-titling songs with fawning adjectives I’m sure you’ve already guessed this aint no tango neither. These girls need to meet a cyclone.
Y
SubAudible Hum
All for the Caspian
This is a fascinating piece of work. There’s a lovely mix of the rough (drums, voice) and the rich (strings, vibes) at play in the production while the curious lyrics seem concerned with an Eastern European geo-political stoush with the North-American Defence establishment – standard pop fare it is not! From a quiet, sombre start the song escalates into a proud yet melancholic sing-a-long! Amongst the four other tunes here two remixes particularly stand out : ‘Everything You Heard Is True’ re-imagined by NYC’s Secret Frequency Crew and, more so, ‘Today Is The Day’ which becomes both bent and rollicking at the hands of ex-Avalanches member Gordon McQ (seriously, how many people can leave that band?!?). Inventive and varied.
G
Single of the Week
Charlotte Gainsbourg
The Songs That We Sing
Wow! What an immediately arresting sound – that layered, echoic, percussive, orchestral, loping mix that Serge (her father) pioneered. But then there’s this sweet English voice and one recalls that Charlotte is the daughter of Jane Birkin who sang on the infamous and orgasmic ‘Je t’aime’ with Serge in the Sixties. Since then Charlotte has endeavoured to assert herself beyond his shadow, becoming an enormously successful and respected actress (21 Grams, etc) and only releasing her first album (of his songs) a few years ago. Check the depth of talent here : words co-written by Jarvis Cocker (beautifully), music by Air, strings by Becks’ father David Campbell, drums by Nigerian Tony Allen (ex Fela Kuti) – recently described by Brian Eno as the greatest musician on the planet – with production by Nigel Godrich. Amazing!
C
Blue King Brown
Come Check Your Head
Solid, snapping beats; intelligent lyricism that is positive without being earnest or twee; powerful singing and propulsive soul jazz instrumentation, with a great live sound rather than the naff sheen we hear all too often in anything supposed to be ‘dance’ music. Independently released on recycled card with vegetable based ink no less! This is a unique and assured debut from a local outfit I’d hazard a guess will be going places soon (New Zealand for one – all the heads there will lap this up!). B side ‘Keep It True’ is a solid reggae groove also. Surely a group to catch in the flesh too given the ease with which they knock it down here.
H
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Perfect
Bizarrely beginning with a truncated lightweight dance-pop remix and featuring five other versions besides the original, ‘Perfect’ is far from it. Despite her woeful ‘live’ performances I’ve generally been a fan of the distinct sass that characterises the Princesses’ recorded output. Here there’s a cruisey datedness in the late seventies kinda disco-funk backing and her delivery remains stylishly syncopated but lame lines (“yo, why you got a mirrored chair?-you can see my ass much better there…to kiss it”) let her down bad. It’s painful to even attempt anal-ysis of the ill-logic contained in that one…is it the brown eye that sees better? How does one kiss a chair-planted ass? As intriguing and eternal as these questions may be, I’d rather dance…
Q
Single of the Weak
Bananarama
Look on the Floor(Hypnotic Tango)
Sadly not an ode to the desperate and humiliating necessity of scoping the grimey floors of da club for that pill, or worse - trip, your sweaty shaky hands dropped before you could get it anywhere near your perpetually pursing lips – a skill I’ve honed over so many years that I can reunite those in distress with what was wrongfully theirs in moments. Oh, the beatific looks of gratitude! No, the once complete (the smart brunette left eons ago) bananas have served us such appallingly average fodder here (including all SEVEN remixes) that no amount of pharmaceutical aids (or vocoder) will render this ‘hypnotic’ at all. Leaving aside the farcical folly of sub-titling songs with fawning adjectives I’m sure you’ve already guessed this aint no tango neither. These girls need to meet a cyclone.
Y
SubAudible Hum
All for the Caspian
This is a fascinating piece of work. There’s a lovely mix of the rough (drums, voice) and the rich (strings, vibes) at play in the production while the curious lyrics seem concerned with an Eastern European geo-political stoush with the North-American Defence establishment – standard pop fare it is not! From a quiet, sombre start the song escalates into a proud yet melancholic sing-a-long! Amongst the four other tunes here two remixes particularly stand out : ‘Everything You Heard Is True’ re-imagined by NYC’s Secret Frequency Crew and, more so, ‘Today Is The Day’ which becomes both bent and rollicking at the hands of ex-Avalanches member Gordon McQ (seriously, how many people can leave that band?!?). Inventive and varied.
G
Single of the Week
Charlotte Gainsbourg
The Songs That We Sing
Wow! What an immediately arresting sound – that layered, echoic, percussive, orchestral, loping mix that Serge (her father) pioneered. But then there’s this sweet English voice and one recalls that Charlotte is the daughter of Jane Birkin who sang on the infamous and orgasmic ‘Je t’aime’ with Serge in the Sixties. Since then Charlotte has endeavoured to assert herself beyond his shadow, becoming an enormously successful and respected actress (21 Grams, etc) and only releasing her first album (of his songs) a few years ago. Check the depth of talent here : words co-written by Jarvis Cocker (beautifully), music by Air, strings by Becks’ father David Campbell, drums by Nigerian Tony Allen (ex Fela Kuti) – recently described by Brian Eno as the greatest musician on the planet – with production by Nigel Godrich. Amazing!
C
Blue King Brown
Come Check Your Head
Solid, snapping beats; intelligent lyricism that is positive without being earnest or twee; powerful singing and propulsive soul jazz instrumentation, with a great live sound rather than the naff sheen we hear all too often in anything supposed to be ‘dance’ music. Independently released on recycled card with vegetable based ink no less! This is a unique and assured debut from a local outfit I’d hazard a guess will be going places soon (New Zealand for one – all the heads there will lap this up!). B side ‘Keep It True’ is a solid reggae groove also. Surely a group to catch in the flesh too given the ease with which they knock it down here.
H
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Kill Devil Hills
Nasty Business
Like a bunch of perpetually whinging white-arse farmers whose right wing political bias has horseshoed through climatic hopelessness into Centrelink dependant junkie juke joint joy, Perth’s rather large Devils deliver their first number from new album ‘The Drought’ and it is thirsty music indeed. Perhaps an ode to failing the New Enterprise Incentive Scheme – which is not nice, ‘Nasty Business’ sounds like discarded members of The Johnnys and The Beasts stranded and playing for beer and fuel at some godforsaken roadhouse to a bunch of cashed up mining town rednecks – “Hey, City Boy! What’s with yr poofta guitar?” – “It’s a mandolin, sir” – “Man go in, you say?” – you get the picture… Well, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do and these six fellas’ll get out of there somehow – even if it kills ‘em…Dead, and deadly.
J+
Single of the Weak
The Devoted Few
Don’t Listen To Us
Oh, very Ben Lee with the IRONY of the title. Having already heard this on the radio I thought I was to be spared a repeat of its bizarrely commercial bombast when my CD player decided to obey said titular instruction and negate the possibility. Unfortunately that machine and myself are both temperamental and determined so, after a little coaxing I’m assaulted with what at first blush seems a delightful racket before the Tim Sheens kick in and vocals, guitars and drums coalesce into an almost Brian Emo-like anthem where we are repeatedly assailed with the instruction to NOT LISTEN to this when coming down (a quote from a review, of all things!). I would add a similar warning for times when one is going up, or even just static at a plateau of some form. But then maybe I’m missing something – I had high hopes for these guys even as they split from Bluebottle Kiss – so I’ll give it another go. Uh-oh! No such luck - absolute refusal from the CD deck for any further listening - hilarious!
P.S. worst. cover. ever.
T-
Single of the Week
Sarah Blasko
What a lovely tune. Again the lead single from a forthcoming album (‘What the Sea Wants, The Sea Will Have’) and it is highly promising fare. There’s a real warmth in the mix with Sarah’s voice less affected and effected than some of her more recent material. Instead a kind of lilting sing-song style prevails that resonates more through its very lack of devices – resigned, mysterious, melancholic, divine. And how remarkable is the instrumentation? Piano, plucked acoustic guitar, bassoon, the faintest drums and violin arrangements harking back to the most subtle and emotive European film scores from decades past or even the work of Arvo Part. Adding to this male and female choral conceits that recollect early 70’s avant-pop vocal arrangements which make for a haunting, timeless quality throughout this piece - a feat rarely accomplished. Bittersweet and beautiful.
C
Regina Spektor
Fidelity
Man, gimme a goddamn break! This is being so ridiculously flogged on the airwaves I heard it three times on the one day this week. Ok – she is pretty, unusual, sings well, knows The Strokes, etc. And sure, we might all relate to thematics concerning a saturation of words and music that can tip us into tears when we hit capacity. But does that excite us so that we trill and sha-la-la like Bindi Irwin at a funeral? I think not. Don’t get me started on the Phil Collins meets Foreigners’ keyboard player backing muzak either. It breaks my heart. It breaks my ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-heart!
P
Hot Chip
Boy From School
Thank the Gods for these guys, hey? Sweet, smart, rich, danceable music that nonetheless possesses a genuine emotional heft. A friend of mine described a feeling of wanting to smile and cry all at once on listening to this song. Hearing that I delved deeper and caught, beneath its smooth veneer, where she was coming from. Filtered through the always interwoven realms of memory and nostalgia, ‘Boy From School’ captures the wistfulness, yearning and ultimate loss with which we dreamt of those we idolised, or lusted after, in all those years of safety and fear; changing and growing in the hothouse atmosphere of schools and family homes into something that, we can only really understand retrospectively, is now ‘adulthood’. By the time we realise what is actually happening, it has past. Is this the story of life?
C-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nasty Business
Like a bunch of perpetually whinging white-arse farmers whose right wing political bias has horseshoed through climatic hopelessness into Centrelink dependant junkie juke joint joy, Perth’s rather large Devils deliver their first number from new album ‘The Drought’ and it is thirsty music indeed. Perhaps an ode to failing the New Enterprise Incentive Scheme – which is not nice, ‘Nasty Business’ sounds like discarded members of The Johnnys and The Beasts stranded and playing for beer and fuel at some godforsaken roadhouse to a bunch of cashed up mining town rednecks – “Hey, City Boy! What’s with yr poofta guitar?” – “It’s a mandolin, sir” – “Man go in, you say?” – you get the picture… Well, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do and these six fellas’ll get out of there somehow – even if it kills ‘em…Dead, and deadly.
J+
Single of the Weak
The Devoted Few
Don’t Listen To Us
Oh, very Ben Lee with the IRONY of the title. Having already heard this on the radio I thought I was to be spared a repeat of its bizarrely commercial bombast when my CD player decided to obey said titular instruction and negate the possibility. Unfortunately that machine and myself are both temperamental and determined so, after a little coaxing I’m assaulted with what at first blush seems a delightful racket before the Tim Sheens kick in and vocals, guitars and drums coalesce into an almost Brian Emo-like anthem where we are repeatedly assailed with the instruction to NOT LISTEN to this when coming down (a quote from a review, of all things!). I would add a similar warning for times when one is going up, or even just static at a plateau of some form. But then maybe I’m missing something – I had high hopes for these guys even as they split from Bluebottle Kiss – so I’ll give it another go. Uh-oh! No such luck - absolute refusal from the CD deck for any further listening - hilarious!
P.S. worst. cover. ever.
T-
Single of the Week
Sarah Blasko
What a lovely tune. Again the lead single from a forthcoming album (‘What the Sea Wants, The Sea Will Have’) and it is highly promising fare. There’s a real warmth in the mix with Sarah’s voice less affected and effected than some of her more recent material. Instead a kind of lilting sing-song style prevails that resonates more through its very lack of devices – resigned, mysterious, melancholic, divine. And how remarkable is the instrumentation? Piano, plucked acoustic guitar, bassoon, the faintest drums and violin arrangements harking back to the most subtle and emotive European film scores from decades past or even the work of Arvo Part. Adding to this male and female choral conceits that recollect early 70’s avant-pop vocal arrangements which make for a haunting, timeless quality throughout this piece - a feat rarely accomplished. Bittersweet and beautiful.
C
Regina Spektor
Fidelity
Man, gimme a goddamn break! This is being so ridiculously flogged on the airwaves I heard it three times on the one day this week. Ok – she is pretty, unusual, sings well, knows The Strokes, etc. And sure, we might all relate to thematics concerning a saturation of words and music that can tip us into tears when we hit capacity. But does that excite us so that we trill and sha-la-la like Bindi Irwin at a funeral? I think not. Don’t get me started on the Phil Collins meets Foreigners’ keyboard player backing muzak either. It breaks my heart. It breaks my ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-heart!
P
Hot Chip
Boy From School
Thank the Gods for these guys, hey? Sweet, smart, rich, danceable music that nonetheless possesses a genuine emotional heft. A friend of mine described a feeling of wanting to smile and cry all at once on listening to this song. Hearing that I delved deeper and caught, beneath its smooth veneer, where she was coming from. Filtered through the always interwoven realms of memory and nostalgia, ‘Boy From School’ captures the wistfulness, yearning and ultimate loss with which we dreamt of those we idolised, or lusted after, in all those years of safety and fear; changing and growing in the hothouse atmosphere of schools and family homes into something that, we can only really understand retrospectively, is now ‘adulthood’. By the time we realise what is actually happening, it has past. Is this the story of life?
C-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jenny Wilson
Summertime The Roughest Time
What is it with the preponderance of quality skewed pop emerging from Sweden in the last few years? And can anyone explain the resurgence of the thin, reedy falsetto choruses we’ve copped this decade?
Ms Wilson, having become a mum for the first time, simultaneously began recording her first album outside the aegis of band structures and politics. Its name would be ‘Love and Youth’ and it became an exploration of the odd energies and general awkwardness that she struggled with as a teenage girl. ‘Summertime’ captures the anticipatory thrill that can rush us at this time of year while undoing it all with the morbidity and doubt characteristic of the age.
Some saccharine sounds morph through clever arrangements into an atmospheric series of ‘girl-talk’ vignettes by the songs end : my favourite - ”hey, watch out for those white desolate teeth.” ‘Grease’ it is not.
F
Single of the Week
The Mountain Goats
Woke Up New
I was awed by ‘Half Dead’ - the first song released to radio from the Goats new album, ’Get Lonely’. It was stark, simple, pure and devastating. Suddenly I understood the adoration of their fans from other than a live perspective.
‘The Sunset Tree’ record had never quite caught me. Perhaps its core character - a violent stepfather – was too particular for my usually ready empathy, or its tone too strident.
Nevertheless I was unprepared to be silenced again by a similar mix of barely bedded sounds (acoustic guitar and plucked cello with the slightest of additions for the ‘chorus’) and utterly spare storytelling.
Sadly, the panic, sorrow and stasis that can engulf us in loss is universal. Gladly, we have a humane and humble catalyst here in Mr Darnielle - almost unwittingly unifying those scattered in solitude through the guileless candour of truly great song writing.
D+
Chris Stills
When The Pain Dies Down
Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m a big fan of the cessation of pain. It’s so good it’s almost worth initiating suffering just for its eventual abatement – just ask my ex!
Unfortunately, the gradual recession of the physical agony of childbirth for ‘French chanteuse Veronique Sanson’ marked only the start of a far more dreadful psychic suffering for the music lovers of Earth. Chris here, spawn also of hippie icon Stephen Stills (of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young) carries forth his fathers proud heritage of soporific stodge, fearlessly incorporating every banality his mind could muster, all wrapped up in the digital age’s indistinguishable production ‘values’. Some undead drummer dude from Jeff Buckley’s band ‘plays’ too.
Legal torture…and just as goddamn useless.
U-
Single of the Weak
Marsmobil
Munich Loves You
With ruthless efficiency, Sydney’s ‘Creative Vibes’ and German label ‘Compost’ bring us arse-end losers THE OFFICIAL ANTHEM OF MUNICH FOR THE FIFA WORLD CUP 2006!!! Curb your enthusiasm people!
Here are the complete lyrics: ”Every girl wants to be like you. Every man wants some love from you. Every day the sun comes shining through. In my dreams I know it shines for you. You are a natural girl, the way you are, you lift me up and take to the sky. You know when you smile, it’s understood, the golden sun is shining on you. Munich loves you.”
Now, give it some bodgy euro backing complete with lame vocoder vocals like every other piss-weak commercial dance wannabe lately, omit from yr album (‘cos IT has a decent producer) and flog to a colony.
Shite.
X
Expatriate
Only Wanna Love You
What the?!?
I’m both relieved and perplexed upon hearing this - relieved to hear one of the recent crop of Eighties inspired Sydney bands continue to evolve; and perplexed as the mix of elements herein is so varied and peculiar I doubt one could gauge the nature of the forthcoming album based on them at all - a good sign I’d say.
Producer John Goodmanson (Sleater Kinney, Hot Hot Heat, Blonde Redhead) has given the band a weird mid-range carnivalesque air for the most part; offsetting the risk of cliché, as cocaine references meet the big cheesy chorus, with whack layers of intersecting guitars and keyboard sounds reminiscent of bad ‘China Girl’ era Bowie – in a good way!
G+
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Summertime The Roughest Time
What is it with the preponderance of quality skewed pop emerging from Sweden in the last few years? And can anyone explain the resurgence of the thin, reedy falsetto choruses we’ve copped this decade?
Ms Wilson, having become a mum for the first time, simultaneously began recording her first album outside the aegis of band structures and politics. Its name would be ‘Love and Youth’ and it became an exploration of the odd energies and general awkwardness that she struggled with as a teenage girl. ‘Summertime’ captures the anticipatory thrill that can rush us at this time of year while undoing it all with the morbidity and doubt characteristic of the age.
Some saccharine sounds morph through clever arrangements into an atmospheric series of ‘girl-talk’ vignettes by the songs end : my favourite - ”hey, watch out for those white desolate teeth.” ‘Grease’ it is not.
F
Single of the Week
The Mountain Goats
Woke Up New
I was awed by ‘Half Dead’ - the first song released to radio from the Goats new album, ’Get Lonely’. It was stark, simple, pure and devastating. Suddenly I understood the adoration of their fans from other than a live perspective.
‘The Sunset Tree’ record had never quite caught me. Perhaps its core character - a violent stepfather – was too particular for my usually ready empathy, or its tone too strident.
Nevertheless I was unprepared to be silenced again by a similar mix of barely bedded sounds (acoustic guitar and plucked cello with the slightest of additions for the ‘chorus’) and utterly spare storytelling.
Sadly, the panic, sorrow and stasis that can engulf us in loss is universal. Gladly, we have a humane and humble catalyst here in Mr Darnielle - almost unwittingly unifying those scattered in solitude through the guileless candour of truly great song writing.
D+
Chris Stills
When The Pain Dies Down
Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m a big fan of the cessation of pain. It’s so good it’s almost worth initiating suffering just for its eventual abatement – just ask my ex!
Unfortunately, the gradual recession of the physical agony of childbirth for ‘French chanteuse Veronique Sanson’ marked only the start of a far more dreadful psychic suffering for the music lovers of Earth. Chris here, spawn also of hippie icon Stephen Stills (of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young) carries forth his fathers proud heritage of soporific stodge, fearlessly incorporating every banality his mind could muster, all wrapped up in the digital age’s indistinguishable production ‘values’. Some undead drummer dude from Jeff Buckley’s band ‘plays’ too.
Legal torture…and just as goddamn useless.
U-
Single of the Weak
Marsmobil
Munich Loves You
With ruthless efficiency, Sydney’s ‘Creative Vibes’ and German label ‘Compost’ bring us arse-end losers THE OFFICIAL ANTHEM OF MUNICH FOR THE FIFA WORLD CUP 2006!!! Curb your enthusiasm people!
Here are the complete lyrics: ”Every girl wants to be like you. Every man wants some love from you. Every day the sun comes shining through. In my dreams I know it shines for you. You are a natural girl, the way you are, you lift me up and take to the sky. You know when you smile, it’s understood, the golden sun is shining on you. Munich loves you.”
Now, give it some bodgy euro backing complete with lame vocoder vocals like every other piss-weak commercial dance wannabe lately, omit from yr album (‘cos IT has a decent producer) and flog to a colony.
Shite.
X
Expatriate
Only Wanna Love You
What the?!?
I’m both relieved and perplexed upon hearing this - relieved to hear one of the recent crop of Eighties inspired Sydney bands continue to evolve; and perplexed as the mix of elements herein is so varied and peculiar I doubt one could gauge the nature of the forthcoming album based on them at all - a good sign I’d say.
Producer John Goodmanson (Sleater Kinney, Hot Hot Heat, Blonde Redhead) has given the band a weird mid-range carnivalesque air for the most part; offsetting the risk of cliché, as cocaine references meet the big cheesy chorus, with whack layers of intersecting guitars and keyboard sounds reminiscent of bad ‘China Girl’ era Bowie – in a good way!
G+
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Skullsquadron
Again and Again
Polish: not the people of the eccentric home nation of the previous pontiff, but the sparkle that can be bought with New York mastering money – is the first thing on show here. That and a love of early shoegazing they share with other Sydney outfits such as Sounds Like Sunset and the recently disbanded Null Set. Indeed, a global resurgence of the blissful mix of melody and noise pioneered by My Bloody Valentine has been gathering pace in fits and bursts recently, yet no-one has even remotely succeeded in wrangling those ethereal layers for more than the odd moment. Sadly, there are no such moments here, I’m afraid. Distortion, delay and phase do create immediate warmth but a rather plain tune requires far more inventiveness to soar the way they wish.
M-
The Magic Numbers
Take A Chance
Oh, cool – now I GET it! Far out, it’s been (extra) lonely being left out of the cavalcade of quasi-religious fervour that follows this band around. I never saw them live so perhaps the ideal forum for conversion has eluded me til now. This be a far more frenetic and animated slice of pure pop than anything I’ve heard from them before and all the better for it. The sound of ardour and sunlight, Danny Sugarman at 14 tearing outta school on his bike and making for The Doors office, BEFORE any drugs measured fun. Affirmative action. Get it while it’s hot!
E
The Phoenix Foundation
Damn The River
Comin’ on like some long lost collaboration between Country Joe and the Fish and a Mexican rock group from a lost Russ Meyer/Sergio Leone co-production, this first single from the Kiwi success-story’s easy second album somehow congeals into a curious ode to the need for isolation after over-exposure to what I like to call, ‘city shit’. At only 2 minutes long it flies by but within that changes tack time and again. And, unlike Skullsquadron, some of the sounds deployed are treated in unusual ways that, when combined in such a fluid manner, manage to form a song simultaneously unique yet familiar. Tell me: – is re-inventing the wheel, by definition, revolutionary?
H+
Single of the Week
Weird Al Yankovic
White and Nerdy
Fuck, how happy I am to now find this in my burgeoning pile o’ pap-smeared singles. Just last night at 3 in the morning I was cacking myself stupid listening to the whole rekkid (there are upsides to being eternally alone!). The amazing thing about Weird Al, which I remember from eons ago when I was a musically illiterate spinner, is that you don’t even need to know which songs he’s satirising to enjoy his farcical takes. In this instance it’s Chamillionaire (featuring Krayzie Bone) and their joint Ridin’ getting the treatment; finding yet another weak-ass white wannabe tryin’ to ingratiate himself with a bunch of cunts who are just stereotypical wanker imitators anyhoo, noo?
From, ‘my myspace pages are totally pimped-out’ to, ‘my wheels never spin - to the contrary – you’ll find that they’re quite stationary’, Al illuminates a litany of lameness over musical clichés that’ll have you laughing before a word gets spoke. Gold!
D-
Single of the Weak
Iota
Come Back To Me
Dude! Settle!!
What is it with the overkill that is Iota? The few arresting aural aspects and the generally sound song-line that underpins this piece are soon utterly undone by his grating histrionic wail. Evidently aspiring to a Bowie/Buckley type emotional depth, and perhaps emboldened by his reportedly star turn in the stage production of ‘Hedwig and the Angry Inch’, Iota has put pedal to the mettle here and thus squandered any of the seductive power such pleas rely on. If I was the subject of this little ditty I’d be bolting in the other direction! Be great for a Weird Al style parody though… Bedroom Philosopher?
U
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Again and Again
Polish: not the people of the eccentric home nation of the previous pontiff, but the sparkle that can be bought with New York mastering money – is the first thing on show here. That and a love of early shoegazing they share with other Sydney outfits such as Sounds Like Sunset and the recently disbanded Null Set. Indeed, a global resurgence of the blissful mix of melody and noise pioneered by My Bloody Valentine has been gathering pace in fits and bursts recently, yet no-one has even remotely succeeded in wrangling those ethereal layers for more than the odd moment. Sadly, there are no such moments here, I’m afraid. Distortion, delay and phase do create immediate warmth but a rather plain tune requires far more inventiveness to soar the way they wish.
M-
The Magic Numbers
Take A Chance
Oh, cool – now I GET it! Far out, it’s been (extra) lonely being left out of the cavalcade of quasi-religious fervour that follows this band around. I never saw them live so perhaps the ideal forum for conversion has eluded me til now. This be a far more frenetic and animated slice of pure pop than anything I’ve heard from them before and all the better for it. The sound of ardour and sunlight, Danny Sugarman at 14 tearing outta school on his bike and making for The Doors office, BEFORE any drugs measured fun. Affirmative action. Get it while it’s hot!
E
The Phoenix Foundation
Damn The River
Comin’ on like some long lost collaboration between Country Joe and the Fish and a Mexican rock group from a lost Russ Meyer/Sergio Leone co-production, this first single from the Kiwi success-story’s easy second album somehow congeals into a curious ode to the need for isolation after over-exposure to what I like to call, ‘city shit’. At only 2 minutes long it flies by but within that changes tack time and again. And, unlike Skullsquadron, some of the sounds deployed are treated in unusual ways that, when combined in such a fluid manner, manage to form a song simultaneously unique yet familiar. Tell me: – is re-inventing the wheel, by definition, revolutionary?
H+
Single of the Week
Weird Al Yankovic
White and Nerdy
Fuck, how happy I am to now find this in my burgeoning pile o’ pap-smeared singles. Just last night at 3 in the morning I was cacking myself stupid listening to the whole rekkid (there are upsides to being eternally alone!). The amazing thing about Weird Al, which I remember from eons ago when I was a musically illiterate spinner, is that you don’t even need to know which songs he’s satirising to enjoy his farcical takes. In this instance it’s Chamillionaire (featuring Krayzie Bone) and their joint Ridin’ getting the treatment; finding yet another weak-ass white wannabe tryin’ to ingratiate himself with a bunch of cunts who are just stereotypical wanker imitators anyhoo, noo?
From, ‘my myspace pages are totally pimped-out’ to, ‘my wheels never spin - to the contrary – you’ll find that they’re quite stationary’, Al illuminates a litany of lameness over musical clichés that’ll have you laughing before a word gets spoke. Gold!
D-
Single of the Weak
Iota
Come Back To Me
Dude! Settle!!
What is it with the overkill that is Iota? The few arresting aural aspects and the generally sound song-line that underpins this piece are soon utterly undone by his grating histrionic wail. Evidently aspiring to a Bowie/Buckley type emotional depth, and perhaps emboldened by his reportedly star turn in the stage production of ‘Hedwig and the Angry Inch’, Iota has put pedal to the mettle here and thus squandered any of the seductive power such pleas rely on. If I was the subject of this little ditty I’d be bolting in the other direction! Be great for a Weird Al style parody though… Bedroom Philosopher?
U
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Single Of The Week
Muscles
One Inch Badge Pin
A dark tale of indie betrayal from Melbourne’s trance-loving boy wonder. Flogged all over the shop on radio recently, I must confess to some irritation with the husky and repetitive multi-tracked chorus vocal conceit. That said, this is fresh and crazy. Listening at home I’m struck by how crisp the beats and bass are and how original Muscles’ use of swathes of synth sounds can be. It’s fascinating ‘cos he simultaneously evokes formative dance experiences of the recent past while having the audacity and assurance to devise wholly new combinations of elements that still set strong in song. Second track ‘Explode’ doesn’t but again provides intrigue and impatience for what is sure to be a hell of a debut album.
E+
Love Is All
Busy Doing Nothing
The recently announced Laneway Festival attractions provide us with some mutant Swedish garage-disco-sludge while ostensibly ruminating on a subject close to my heart. Perhaps a little indolence might not have gone astray when knocking up this number though. There’s probably three kitchen sinks in the mix and while that cacophony has an undeniable energy it seems an initial impetus may have been misplaced in the hurly-burly. This is borne out in the two additional tracks: a swingin’ 60’s girl-group vibe on ‘Motorboat’ and the sweet and stark ‘Felt Tip (Demo)’ carry a far more concise emotive sway. None, however, come close to their first ever tune, written ‘in a breath’- the epic ‘Make Out, Fall Out, Make Up’. The curse of both hindsight and forethought may mean that perhaps they never will…
K
Ned Collette
The Laughter Across The Street
An apparently stark ode to the slow healing of heartache metamorphoses through the deft touch of Mr Collette into shafts of light as the world moves on and the hush of an acoustic and a frail vocal are joined by gentle cohenesque choirs, double bass, even synths and handclaps, as time and tune unfold into far more free and hopeful territory. His sordid past as a conservatory nerd serves him well as twists in arranging transform each pattern in turn, giving us subtle songs that grow gradually richer. Self-effacing, lovely and rather redemptive, this is mercifully most unlike the other ‘musical’ Collettes Australia has been subjected to both recently and in the past. THAT laughter is just gas!
F+
Johann Johannsson
The Sun’s Gone Dim And The Sky’s Turned Black
I would be happy to review this for the cover alone. At a time when artwork is essentially the reason anyone buys physical product anymore, English label 4AD is continuing to advance it’s very proud history of attention to detail and design innovation. While typeface and washed out black and white photographs are printed on this off-white digipak the astonishing thing is further patterning physically etched into the cardboard! Inside the music is just as unique – stately, sombre and exquisite strings from the Prague Philharmonic Orchestra accompany an eerie mechanistic recital of the words of the title (from a poem by Dorothy Porter). It fades in rather than out before giving way to an instrumental piece reminiscent of Nyman at his most reflective. Pristine perspective from Iceland on a rapidly melting world.
E-
Single Of The Weak
To Change This World (A Tribute To Steve Irwin)
Performed by Daniel Mcgahan
Execrable formulaic balladry as a supposed ‘tribute’ (read money-spinner) to Germaine’s bestie - featuring impassioned and curiously sexual lines like, “to be a hero you’ve got to tango with danger” and “don’t you know we need to touch a billion people”! Given that it apes decades of clichéd form and sentiment I’m assuming the title is some type of joke. But then, many things are somewhat beyond me. Like why the words wildlife and warrior somehow belong together. And why, if it was Steve’s wish to be filmed even in mortal danger, it is somehow honouring him now to destroy that film. The second version here tastefully includes grabs from the man and his family. When the oldest known living creature – a turtle brought here by Charles Darwin – died last year Steve refused to display it and buried it quietly and privately, without fanfare. That I respected.
Z
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Muscles
One Inch Badge Pin
A dark tale of indie betrayal from Melbourne’s trance-loving boy wonder. Flogged all over the shop on radio recently, I must confess to some irritation with the husky and repetitive multi-tracked chorus vocal conceit. That said, this is fresh and crazy. Listening at home I’m struck by how crisp the beats and bass are and how original Muscles’ use of swathes of synth sounds can be. It’s fascinating ‘cos he simultaneously evokes formative dance experiences of the recent past while having the audacity and assurance to devise wholly new combinations of elements that still set strong in song. Second track ‘Explode’ doesn’t but again provides intrigue and impatience for what is sure to be a hell of a debut album.
E+
Love Is All
Busy Doing Nothing
The recently announced Laneway Festival attractions provide us with some mutant Swedish garage-disco-sludge while ostensibly ruminating on a subject close to my heart. Perhaps a little indolence might not have gone astray when knocking up this number though. There’s probably three kitchen sinks in the mix and while that cacophony has an undeniable energy it seems an initial impetus may have been misplaced in the hurly-burly. This is borne out in the two additional tracks: a swingin’ 60’s girl-group vibe on ‘Motorboat’ and the sweet and stark ‘Felt Tip (Demo)’ carry a far more concise emotive sway. None, however, come close to their first ever tune, written ‘in a breath’- the epic ‘Make Out, Fall Out, Make Up’. The curse of both hindsight and forethought may mean that perhaps they never will…
K
Ned Collette
The Laughter Across The Street
An apparently stark ode to the slow healing of heartache metamorphoses through the deft touch of Mr Collette into shafts of light as the world moves on and the hush of an acoustic and a frail vocal are joined by gentle cohenesque choirs, double bass, even synths and handclaps, as time and tune unfold into far more free and hopeful territory. His sordid past as a conservatory nerd serves him well as twists in arranging transform each pattern in turn, giving us subtle songs that grow gradually richer. Self-effacing, lovely and rather redemptive, this is mercifully most unlike the other ‘musical’ Collettes Australia has been subjected to both recently and in the past. THAT laughter is just gas!
F+
Johann Johannsson
The Sun’s Gone Dim And The Sky’s Turned Black
I would be happy to review this for the cover alone. At a time when artwork is essentially the reason anyone buys physical product anymore, English label 4AD is continuing to advance it’s very proud history of attention to detail and design innovation. While typeface and washed out black and white photographs are printed on this off-white digipak the astonishing thing is further patterning physically etched into the cardboard! Inside the music is just as unique – stately, sombre and exquisite strings from the Prague Philharmonic Orchestra accompany an eerie mechanistic recital of the words of the title (from a poem by Dorothy Porter). It fades in rather than out before giving way to an instrumental piece reminiscent of Nyman at his most reflective. Pristine perspective from Iceland on a rapidly melting world.
E-
Single Of The Weak
To Change This World (A Tribute To Steve Irwin)
Performed by Daniel Mcgahan
Execrable formulaic balladry as a supposed ‘tribute’ (read money-spinner) to Germaine’s bestie - featuring impassioned and curiously sexual lines like, “to be a hero you’ve got to tango with danger” and “don’t you know we need to touch a billion people”! Given that it apes decades of clichéd form and sentiment I’m assuming the title is some type of joke. But then, many things are somewhat beyond me. Like why the words wildlife and warrior somehow belong together. And why, if it was Steve’s wish to be filmed even in mortal danger, it is somehow honouring him now to destroy that film. The second version here tastefully includes grabs from the man and his family. When the oldest known living creature – a turtle brought here by Charles Darwin – died last year Steve refused to display it and buried it quietly and privately, without fanfare. That I respected.
Z
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Sleepy Jackson
I Understand What You Want But I Just Don’t Agree
So here I was thinking how fun it would be to frankly state what hundreds of timid music writers the world over have assiduously avoided in their lukewarm praise of the clearly overproduced sophomore effort from Perth’s Man O’ Steele: that possibly great songs have been lost in a morass of ill-disciplined, ego-tripping arrangements and devices. Problem is, while that’s true of the majority of the new album, it doesn’t apply at all to this or previous single Devil Was In My Yard. Somehow not knowing when to stop (orchestras, brass sections, choirs, ker-plunkitty stereo splaying) has only aided in creating an epic quality not seen since the layered heights of classic FM 70’s soft-rock like The Eagles and Fleetwood Mac. This crazy couple – Mal and Luke – windows down and driving dreams through our own dark desert; high on strife…
H+
The Temper Trap
My Sun
First ever single from one the latest local acts to be building hype with a straightforward guitar driven format delivered in fringe-tossing fashion by smartly attired fellows. It’s remarkable how often bands come out of the blocks as if already groomed by years of careful consultation these days. On the one hand radio aint gonna baulk ‘cos the edges are already smooth but on the other, aside from the lush chiming six strings and two suddenly dipping words, this feels a little nondescript. Simple rhyming lines repeated have got to resonate with powerful meaning or be backed by some soaring sonics to really cut through. Hopefully next time they might stray a little more beyond the pale.
P
Single of the Week
There Is No Ending
Arab Strap
One becomes absurd in adversity and moments like this are our reward. Seemingly a glorious, rollicking ode to both the bleak reality (‘no everything must end, no every romance must descend, no every lovers back decays’) and its inevitable lifting in change, it could well mean the opposite given that the thick Scottish brogue in which it is delivered may conceal a silent ‘t’ after each of those “no’s”! That sheer range; the bittersweet spectrum we career through daily, is celebrated here in a wild drunken waltz of brass, drums and guitars that ends by listing a mob of modern fears from bird flu to terrorism and tidal waves (chorus - “they’re comin”) before a triumphant dismissal of the lot (“they’re drinkin’ in the streets, they could steal yr name and I DON’T CARE!”) that gets swept up into an explosive carnivalesque conclusion. Wrapping up ten years together, this is the way to go - OUT!
C+
LDN
Lily Allen
Oh, how the sour set like to diss Miss Allen. Well, I shan’t have a bar of it. Sure, it’s lightweight - it’s POP! But not as we know it. She’s an absolute natural, sprung from a very specific sub-cultural zeitgeist where all sorts of ‘minorities’ have spent several generations growing up together now. It’s the same London that, despite the dour drabness surrounding, has yielded the greatest street carnival on Earth: Notting Hill - with its insane homemade sound-systems and rampant spliffage. Lily has taken those black musical roots on board – here a more calypso style reggae groove – adding her inherited eye for dry humour and the street smarts and verbal dexterity that you will get cut down without in those parts. Perhaps it’s the sheer variety of these sources, coupled with her evident humility, that confound the naysayer’s with what otherwise seems to be universal appeal.
I+
Single of the Weak
Once In A Lifetime
Keith Urban
“Just keep on moving into me, I know yr gonna see, the best is yet to come.” Yes, quite clearly Mr. Urban. Like, the divorce should be pretty cool. Then I guess there’s either your degradation and humiliation as a reformed reformed reformed reformed crack addict, or the profound emotional spectacle of you publicly being embraced as a reformed reformed reformed crack addict by the sinister ponytailed powder-brains of the Australian ‘music’ industry at the next ARIA awards. I have to confess I’ve always wanted to try crack but seriously; if it makes me write and perform songs as pretentious, insincere and overblown as the four here – not to mention marry some maniacal automaton with a history in closeted mental midgets – forget it! I’ll just stay ‘straight’. “I can see it in your eyes and feel it in your touch, I know that you’re scared but you’ve never been this loved.” Dude, I don’t want you touching me there, mmmkay?
Y
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I Understand What You Want But I Just Don’t Agree
So here I was thinking how fun it would be to frankly state what hundreds of timid music writers the world over have assiduously avoided in their lukewarm praise of the clearly overproduced sophomore effort from Perth’s Man O’ Steele: that possibly great songs have been lost in a morass of ill-disciplined, ego-tripping arrangements and devices. Problem is, while that’s true of the majority of the new album, it doesn’t apply at all to this or previous single Devil Was In My Yard. Somehow not knowing when to stop (orchestras, brass sections, choirs, ker-plunkitty stereo splaying) has only aided in creating an epic quality not seen since the layered heights of classic FM 70’s soft-rock like The Eagles and Fleetwood Mac. This crazy couple – Mal and Luke – windows down and driving dreams through our own dark desert; high on strife…
H+
The Temper Trap
My Sun
First ever single from one the latest local acts to be building hype with a straightforward guitar driven format delivered in fringe-tossing fashion by smartly attired fellows. It’s remarkable how often bands come out of the blocks as if already groomed by years of careful consultation these days. On the one hand radio aint gonna baulk ‘cos the edges are already smooth but on the other, aside from the lush chiming six strings and two suddenly dipping words, this feels a little nondescript. Simple rhyming lines repeated have got to resonate with powerful meaning or be backed by some soaring sonics to really cut through. Hopefully next time they might stray a little more beyond the pale.
P
Single of the Week
There Is No Ending
Arab Strap
One becomes absurd in adversity and moments like this are our reward. Seemingly a glorious, rollicking ode to both the bleak reality (‘no everything must end, no every romance must descend, no every lovers back decays’) and its inevitable lifting in change, it could well mean the opposite given that the thick Scottish brogue in which it is delivered may conceal a silent ‘t’ after each of those “no’s”! That sheer range; the bittersweet spectrum we career through daily, is celebrated here in a wild drunken waltz of brass, drums and guitars that ends by listing a mob of modern fears from bird flu to terrorism and tidal waves (chorus - “they’re comin”) before a triumphant dismissal of the lot (“they’re drinkin’ in the streets, they could steal yr name and I DON’T CARE!”) that gets swept up into an explosive carnivalesque conclusion. Wrapping up ten years together, this is the way to go - OUT!
C+
LDN
Lily Allen
Oh, how the sour set like to diss Miss Allen. Well, I shan’t have a bar of it. Sure, it’s lightweight - it’s POP! But not as we know it. She’s an absolute natural, sprung from a very specific sub-cultural zeitgeist where all sorts of ‘minorities’ have spent several generations growing up together now. It’s the same London that, despite the dour drabness surrounding, has yielded the greatest street carnival on Earth: Notting Hill - with its insane homemade sound-systems and rampant spliffage. Lily has taken those black musical roots on board – here a more calypso style reggae groove – adding her inherited eye for dry humour and the street smarts and verbal dexterity that you will get cut down without in those parts. Perhaps it’s the sheer variety of these sources, coupled with her evident humility, that confound the naysayer’s with what otherwise seems to be universal appeal.
I+
Single of the Weak
Once In A Lifetime
Keith Urban
“Just keep on moving into me, I know yr gonna see, the best is yet to come.” Yes, quite clearly Mr. Urban. Like, the divorce should be pretty cool. Then I guess there’s either your degradation and humiliation as a reformed reformed reformed reformed crack addict, or the profound emotional spectacle of you publicly being embraced as a reformed reformed reformed crack addict by the sinister ponytailed powder-brains of the Australian ‘music’ industry at the next ARIA awards. I have to confess I’ve always wanted to try crack but seriously; if it makes me write and perform songs as pretentious, insincere and overblown as the four here – not to mention marry some maniacal automaton with a history in closeted mental midgets – forget it! I’ll just stay ‘straight’. “I can see it in your eyes and feel it in your touch, I know that you’re scared but you’ve never been this loved.” Dude, I don’t want you touching me there, mmmkay?
Y
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Heart Made of Sound
Softlightes
Yay for EP’s! Like short stories they suggest all sorts of richness without the earnest detail and filler of albums and novels or the unrepresentative abbreviations of singles and poems. They are the ideal format for new artists to meet us – an unexpectedly inspirational conversation amongst the din of a party. A lot of folk left somewhat rudderless since the demise of the few sophisticates of simplicity in modern pop – The Beta Band, Grandaddy, Tindersticks – are going to be very gratified to hear this. From the outset ears are tickled by tangled tales filtered through lovely layers of naïve electronics and playful acoustics. They strike a fine balance and Modular’s Pav looks to have made yet another adept signing. Let’s hope we start to see a culture clash between the ksubi set of old, shirtless new Wolfmother yobs and a bunch of fey cardy-wearing intellectuals out on the dance-floor soon. Blood looks better under softlightes.
F
Single of the Week
Belles Will Ring
Mad Love
Alright! This is how to knock up a debut single. A big distinctive sound from the get-go: huge echoic 60’s guitars, sweet vocal melodies, swirling arrangements. Out of the eucalypt haze of the Blue Mountains – which has already spawned all sorts of brilliant hip hop and experimental noise – we now find another seemingly unlikely thread of evolving music: classic psychedelic pop. It’s great to hear something so timeless and assured from a new local act and I’m keen to catch them live now. Shame then that their press release has oversold them with ridiculous ill-logic and hyperbole – “this is to be the soundtrack to your next (?!?) forever” - when all three songs here speak so strongly for themselves. I reckon some of the coasting exponents of the current crop of tambourine wielding derivatives best watch their backs. There’s more going on here.
F+
Tenacious D
The Pick Of Destiny
Ha HA ha HA Har.
Satirise hard rock clichés by replicating them.
hahahahahahahahahahahaha
Not funny.
HILARIOUS!
Nup, not hilarious either.
Sorry, go see the movie.
Or The Hell City Glamours.
Or Sebastian Bach.
Or something.
That’d at least be wildly bemusing.
U-
Arctic Monkeys
Leave Before The Lights Come On
I like these guys. The urgency of every song. The unadorned quality of their meat and potatoes instrumentation. You can tell they’re fresh into the whole joy o’ making a racket with yr mates thing. Then there’s that tart storytelling style so captivating in its offhand, throwaway manner. Reckon they’re starting to scrape the bottom of the barrel in terms of singles here though. The title track has a great guitar breakdown at its end and all aforementioned qualities but it lacks the heart of other songs thus far. Second number Put Your Dukes Up John has more fun with call and response vocals over frantic beats. At times you feel a parallel to transatlantic debut sensations The Strokes, only with the keenness of the working class and emotional boozing rather than the lackadaisical indulgence of stultifying spoilt stoners. That said, the musics transmigrate again for a straight-up sentimental girl-group cover to close - Baby I’m Yours. Nice.
M
Single of the Weak
Paris
Nothing In This World
I just thought of one good thing about Ms Hilton! Some of the hypocritical self-important swine who murdered Greenpeace activists in another sovereign state in a typically idiotic attempt to preserve their ‘right’ to annihilate our Pacific with their nuclear weapons will be seething at her appropriation of the name of their capitol! I laugh (haughtily). But not even this convenient side-effect of the Hilton hegemony will allow me to refrain from placing this soggy tissue of client-sperm in the piss-weak bin where it belongs. Though I will say that for the first five seconds of rhythm guitar and slippy solid beat I thought I may be the odd man out on this one! Then it went bad, woeful, worse. For four agonizing mixes. Still I laugh (heartily) ‘cos this vapid bimbo with the world on a platter has blown her own cover. She was famous for doing NOTHING. Yet, greed and ego demanded more – legitimacy, respect – and now the one thing she really owned (emptiness), she’s lost.
X
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Single of the Week
Josh Pyke
Memories and Dust
Like a brighter Elliot Smith, Josh careens into view through rolling waves of acoustic strumming, pedal steel and timpani (another great touch from renaissance-lady Bree Van Reyk). The ever-assured production of Wayne Connolly makes a breezy bed for long-nosed Pyke (a tasty fish) to give us a birds eye view of life beyond the nest. It aint easy, to be sure, but faith arises from minutiae day to day, despite what goes down, and the man seems content enough to surrender to the weather by songs end. Of the two additional tunes herein it’s closer Clock In/Clock Off with its double tracked vocals and wandering rhythms and keys that fascinates most. Far from earth-shattering but the most coherent work in a flaccid week for singles.
G
Toni Collette and the Finish
Beautiful Awkward Pictures
Dusty piano (from David Lane), rich strings (from the Coda kids) and understated guitar (from Glenn Richards) allow an unusual voice the room to breathe in the first odd offering from Toni. As to the hysterical debate about whether they deserve their berth at Homebake despite their virgin-band status, it seems a deal of the outcry arises from perceptions of favourable treatment for celebrities sake and that old Oz stand-by of paying ones dues. On the one hand I’d say at least she’s writing her own material and this song in particular is a far cry better than the candy-dance dross our soap stars churn out. On the other though, the rest of the album comes across as less than the sum of its parts: slick values yet painfully earnest and musically average at best. Stick to the single.
P
Single of the Weak
Halloween
The Cauldron
From the opening line (‘Fuck Halloween’) it’s clear these kids have pretty much the same perspective on the USA’s bleached and consumerist appropriation of Latin America’s Day of the Dead as I do. But the 2 minutes of this song pass slowly even as a flat female voice regales us with tales of choking little shits with lollies. It should be enervating; instead it’s joyless, jaded unfunny Pommy rubbish whose folky form is then needlessly expanded into an appalling 6 minute remix of woeful techno by DJ Cruel Britt@nia. I can’t believe people as blank and self-important as this waste time and resources ‘creating’ such shite let alone distributing it to the other side of the world - 11 and a half months early!! Die before you hear this.
V
Lake of Bass
Sombre Yet Happy
Sweet keys, crisp beats, woody double bass and bold scratching – none of that weak quotation of hip (hop) drops - back a big jazzy vocal from Jodie Tess, complete with scat breakdowns. It’s a more carefree and wide open version of the sounds we’ve hitherto heard from the likes of Portishead or more recently Radio Citizen, as you’d expect from West Australians made laws unto themselves by geographical isolation. A cheesy cartoon superhero cover image borne of the video by Tim from the group is utterly incongruous however, given the clear-eyed nature of the song, and we fall a little further down the alphabet due to yet another invocation of the most over-used epithet in the music biz these last few years - “hauntingly beautiful” – in the press release. Otherwise solid.
J-
OK GO
Here It Goes Again
Classic Brit-pop in the vein of (Americans) The Knack (whose under-credited drummer died this month) but this time from Sweden. Dirty gee-tars (spell-check let me use that one only if I inserted the hyphen – weird!) and thin distorted vocals ramp around energetic beats for a heady live sound. It’s meaningless indie-rock for kids to slobber on one another and spill beer to – fortuitous fare for increasingly desperate major labels and a piece of piss to market globally. B-side cover of The Lovecats is an ordinary rendering remarkable mainly in its use of lead guitar to replicate Robert Smith’s ‘Baa-de-dup-dup-dup-dup-da-daa’s. Eat will Pop itself. Duck the pus!
L+
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Josh Pyke
Memories and Dust
Like a brighter Elliot Smith, Josh careens into view through rolling waves of acoustic strumming, pedal steel and timpani (another great touch from renaissance-lady Bree Van Reyk). The ever-assured production of Wayne Connolly makes a breezy bed for long-nosed Pyke (a tasty fish) to give us a birds eye view of life beyond the nest. It aint easy, to be sure, but faith arises from minutiae day to day, despite what goes down, and the man seems content enough to surrender to the weather by songs end. Of the two additional tunes herein it’s closer Clock In/Clock Off with its double tracked vocals and wandering rhythms and keys that fascinates most. Far from earth-shattering but the most coherent work in a flaccid week for singles.
G
Toni Collette and the Finish
Beautiful Awkward Pictures
Dusty piano (from David Lane), rich strings (from the Coda kids) and understated guitar (from Glenn Richards) allow an unusual voice the room to breathe in the first odd offering from Toni. As to the hysterical debate about whether they deserve their berth at Homebake despite their virgin-band status, it seems a deal of the outcry arises from perceptions of favourable treatment for celebrities sake and that old Oz stand-by of paying ones dues. On the one hand I’d say at least she’s writing her own material and this song in particular is a far cry better than the candy-dance dross our soap stars churn out. On the other though, the rest of the album comes across as less than the sum of its parts: slick values yet painfully earnest and musically average at best. Stick to the single.
P
Single of the Weak
Halloween
The Cauldron
From the opening line (‘Fuck Halloween’) it’s clear these kids have pretty much the same perspective on the USA’s bleached and consumerist appropriation of Latin America’s Day of the Dead as I do. But the 2 minutes of this song pass slowly even as a flat female voice regales us with tales of choking little shits with lollies. It should be enervating; instead it’s joyless, jaded unfunny Pommy rubbish whose folky form is then needlessly expanded into an appalling 6 minute remix of woeful techno by DJ Cruel Britt@nia. I can’t believe people as blank and self-important as this waste time and resources ‘creating’ such shite let alone distributing it to the other side of the world - 11 and a half months early!! Die before you hear this.
V
Lake of Bass
Sombre Yet Happy
Sweet keys, crisp beats, woody double bass and bold scratching – none of that weak quotation of hip (hop) drops - back a big jazzy vocal from Jodie Tess, complete with scat breakdowns. It’s a more carefree and wide open version of the sounds we’ve hitherto heard from the likes of Portishead or more recently Radio Citizen, as you’d expect from West Australians made laws unto themselves by geographical isolation. A cheesy cartoon superhero cover image borne of the video by Tim from the group is utterly incongruous however, given the clear-eyed nature of the song, and we fall a little further down the alphabet due to yet another invocation of the most over-used epithet in the music biz these last few years - “hauntingly beautiful” – in the press release. Otherwise solid.
J-
OK GO
Here It Goes Again
Classic Brit-pop in the vein of (Americans) The Knack (whose under-credited drummer died this month) but this time from Sweden. Dirty gee-tars (spell-check let me use that one only if I inserted the hyphen – weird!) and thin distorted vocals ramp around energetic beats for a heady live sound. It’s meaningless indie-rock for kids to slobber on one another and spill beer to – fortuitous fare for increasingly desperate major labels and a piece of piss to market globally. B-side cover of The Lovecats is an ordinary rendering remarkable mainly in its use of lead guitar to replicate Robert Smith’s ‘Baa-de-dup-dup-dup-dup-da-daa’s. Eat will Pop itself. Duck the pus!
L+
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Die, Die, Die
Locust Weeks (EP)
Loping, locking rhythms and shards of noise (shit! - just looked at press release and it says almost the same thing! Well, it’s TRUE!!) – the excoriating energy that characterizes their live show is better captured here than on any release to date. A doggedly independent band now with etch n sketch locally, it’s great to feel that infectious abandon come out the speakers after super lo-fi early efforts and the (self-financed) cost of Albini in Chicago and Abbey Road in London for their recent long player yielded little real spark. Recorded at The Walkmen’s studio in New York and self-produced this time, all four tracks burl along at pace with rudimentary garage instrumentation and a strained high vocal somehow compressing into that remarkable melodic rapture so particular to Dunedin bands like Straitjacket Fits (who’ve now reformed (!) and were recently supported by the boys). All power…
E-
Single of the Week
The Horrors
The Horrors (EP)
After just a couple of 7”s this is the latest band to blow up big in blighty and it isn’t hard to work out why. Aside from being ideal NME cover material with their puny frames, foppish hair and dapper fashion there’s the saturated Guitar Wolf meets The Cramps by way of Rocket Science sound. For a generation addled by fey ‘new’ wavers and ‘punk’ funk this must be a most redemptive blast of play full power. Rather than nauseating attempts at the offhand or ardent efforts in arrhythmia, The Horrors bring the boogie through rough-as-guts production, overdriven guitars, deranged Hammond, ragged vocals and left-field noise drops. This devil-may-care, throw yr partner overboard atmosphere has lured Chris Cunningham out of retirement to volunteer his services gratis in directing their first video. I aint seen it yet but you will, soon.
D-
Warmer
Time’s Come EP
The best value of this weeks EP’s, Sydney’s Warmer deliver eight songs over thirty-two minutes. There are out-takes from last years album, covers of Elliot Smith (Say Yes) and Bjork (Hyperballad), a song from a silent feature film and even a number from 2002 with backing vocals from Zoe Carides and Mandy Pearson. Released through home-spun label Half-a-Cow, we can only hope Nic Dalton keeps his faith - particularly with the sad and sudden retiring of Candle Records. As you’d expect from a band revolving around quality producer John Encarnacao (is that pronounced ‘a-cow’?) the songs have depth although the acoustic treatment of Hyperballad, for example, while unmasking intense lyricism, asks more of his voice than it can reasonably return. That said, opener Time’s Come to Let Go and the Tim Winton inspired Clear Light (with Jen Cloher and J. Walker) are both beautiful and achingly Australian.
G+
Red Hot Chilli Peppers
Snow ((Hey Oh))
The opening guitar line is typically sweet from Frusciante, the song light and inoffensive. So why, despite this happily underplayed structure, does it piss me off?!? Well, first there’s Kiedis’ hippy-dippy So-Cal self-help truisms (‘the more I see, the less I know, the more I like to let it go,’ – ‘Tell my Lord now!’). Hippies were bad enough with their smug righteousness and cultural appropriations but hearing this kind of earnest zen-lite from a ‘clean’ hair-boy body narcissist whose band ruins black music as well as any (check the ‘reggae’ of track two) gets my goat. The titular Snow is made of (watery) ice rather than a narcotic but you almost wish for that old cycle of depravity to kick in and fuel more than this flat plateau, this white-out. As for the title and it’s double bracketed phonetic over-signification….we’ll leave that to the scholars of its target Year 7 demographic to deconstruct.
P
Single of the Weak
Andorra
Keysar Trad Jazz
God, I wish I didn’t have to tell you this as Andorra’s aims are clearly sound in the atmosphere of paranoia and blame snowballing all around us lately. The independent local outfit aim here to promote inter-ethnic ‘tolerance’ and peace. An awkward pastiche of faux ‘trad’ jazz and hip-hop it features a stunning vocal by Arabic folk-singer Manelle Ibrahim and a spoken word platitude from Keyser Trad – ‘the founder of the Islamic Friendship Association of Australia’ – book-ended by an old-time MC imitation. Problem is, after all his good work the main thing we’ve heard out of Keysar this month is his defence of Sheik al Hilaly’s despicable statements that women who dressed in a Western fashion were ‘uncovered meat’ who invite rape. Decried and disowned by the majority of Muslims both nonetheless cling to power but in doing so forfeit any trust we may have previously extended.
W-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Locust Weeks (EP)
Loping, locking rhythms and shards of noise (shit! - just looked at press release and it says almost the same thing! Well, it’s TRUE!!) – the excoriating energy that characterizes their live show is better captured here than on any release to date. A doggedly independent band now with etch n sketch locally, it’s great to feel that infectious abandon come out the speakers after super lo-fi early efforts and the (self-financed) cost of Albini in Chicago and Abbey Road in London for their recent long player yielded little real spark. Recorded at The Walkmen’s studio in New York and self-produced this time, all four tracks burl along at pace with rudimentary garage instrumentation and a strained high vocal somehow compressing into that remarkable melodic rapture so particular to Dunedin bands like Straitjacket Fits (who’ve now reformed (!) and were recently supported by the boys). All power…
E-
Single of the Week
The Horrors
The Horrors (EP)
After just a couple of 7”s this is the latest band to blow up big in blighty and it isn’t hard to work out why. Aside from being ideal NME cover material with their puny frames, foppish hair and dapper fashion there’s the saturated Guitar Wolf meets The Cramps by way of Rocket Science sound. For a generation addled by fey ‘new’ wavers and ‘punk’ funk this must be a most redemptive blast of play full power. Rather than nauseating attempts at the offhand or ardent efforts in arrhythmia, The Horrors bring the boogie through rough-as-guts production, overdriven guitars, deranged Hammond, ragged vocals and left-field noise drops. This devil-may-care, throw yr partner overboard atmosphere has lured Chris Cunningham out of retirement to volunteer his services gratis in directing their first video. I aint seen it yet but you will, soon.
D-
Warmer
Time’s Come EP
The best value of this weeks EP’s, Sydney’s Warmer deliver eight songs over thirty-two minutes. There are out-takes from last years album, covers of Elliot Smith (Say Yes) and Bjork (Hyperballad), a song from a silent feature film and even a number from 2002 with backing vocals from Zoe Carides and Mandy Pearson. Released through home-spun label Half-a-Cow, we can only hope Nic Dalton keeps his faith - particularly with the sad and sudden retiring of Candle Records. As you’d expect from a band revolving around quality producer John Encarnacao (is that pronounced ‘a-cow’?) the songs have depth although the acoustic treatment of Hyperballad, for example, while unmasking intense lyricism, asks more of his voice than it can reasonably return. That said, opener Time’s Come to Let Go and the Tim Winton inspired Clear Light (with Jen Cloher and J. Walker) are both beautiful and achingly Australian.
G+
Red Hot Chilli Peppers
Snow ((Hey Oh))
The opening guitar line is typically sweet from Frusciante, the song light and inoffensive. So why, despite this happily underplayed structure, does it piss me off?!? Well, first there’s Kiedis’ hippy-dippy So-Cal self-help truisms (‘the more I see, the less I know, the more I like to let it go,’ – ‘Tell my Lord now!’). Hippies were bad enough with their smug righteousness and cultural appropriations but hearing this kind of earnest zen-lite from a ‘clean’ hair-boy body narcissist whose band ruins black music as well as any (check the ‘reggae’ of track two) gets my goat. The titular Snow is made of (watery) ice rather than a narcotic but you almost wish for that old cycle of depravity to kick in and fuel more than this flat plateau, this white-out. As for the title and it’s double bracketed phonetic over-signification….we’ll leave that to the scholars of its target Year 7 demographic to deconstruct.
P
Single of the Weak
Andorra
Keysar Trad Jazz
God, I wish I didn’t have to tell you this as Andorra’s aims are clearly sound in the atmosphere of paranoia and blame snowballing all around us lately. The independent local outfit aim here to promote inter-ethnic ‘tolerance’ and peace. An awkward pastiche of faux ‘trad’ jazz and hip-hop it features a stunning vocal by Arabic folk-singer Manelle Ibrahim and a spoken word platitude from Keyser Trad – ‘the founder of the Islamic Friendship Association of Australia’ – book-ended by an old-time MC imitation. Problem is, after all his good work the main thing we’ve heard out of Keysar this month is his defence of Sheik al Hilaly’s despicable statements that women who dressed in a Western fashion were ‘uncovered meat’ who invite rape. Decried and disowned by the majority of Muslims both nonetheless cling to power but in doing so forfeit any trust we may have previously extended.
W-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mew
Special
After so much word of mouth about the epic qualities of the Mew album I’ve been keen indeed to gauge their worth. How odd then to hear a fey piece of stadium pop, albeit with sporadic washes of guitar effects, that concerns itself with the staggeringly unique subject matter of ‘relationship dynamics’ (soft, loud, soft, loud, louder, finish?). I’m sure the rest of the record has more of the diabolics for which they are renowned but, that said, there is inventive arranging here and, between the naff clean choruses, some arresting pulses of sound. The press release grandly assures me that “there will always be someone in your life, who is deserving of this song”. Like maybe the jizz-mopper at the sex shop say, or the idiot ultra-sound operator proudly displaying to the mother the baby she’s there to abort? They’re special. Yeah, this one’s for YOU!
N
Art of Fighting
Eastbound
Despite the traditional bass, drums, guitar, vocal format, Art of Fighting conjure so much emotive, ethereal energy. Most focus on Ollie’s singing but its dominance can be wearing over the course of a concert. I’m a fan of the understated depth of the one band member whose name isn’t Browne or Brown – bass player Peggy Frew. For me the band really begin to transcend when carousing instrumentally. The two originals here though revolve around said singers evocative storytelling and ululating style, only fleetingly letting fly. Eastbound brushes land as fog before a front while Night On Night is tethered, wistful, bound. The bonus track had my mind folding as it occurred to me that I’d been present at The Metro when it was recorded. Believe it or not they’d kept everyone so enraptured that they got away with busting out Lionel Richie’s All Night Long for an encore – bizarre!
K
Single of the Week
Tilly and the Wall
Nights of the Living Dead
Fucking cool! ‘Bout bloody time something so original and intentional and freewheeling and REGARDLESS crossed my desk. Gotta say I was a little wary, as jaded journo’s get when successful labels like Dew Process (home of The Grates, Sarah Blasko, etc) tout a new act. But these boys and girls are more than worthy. A clatter of lo-fi guitar and big yelled up vocals herald an out and out anthem to bacchanalia in this queer Godless world. And get this! The beats are from the feet – hardcore rough-shod tap-dancing action! Brilliant! Signed first in the U.S. by Connor Oberst’s Team Love these kids from Omaha put a fire under the blasé bullshit that passes for ‘youth’ culture these days – “ I wanna fuck it up, I wanna fuck it up, and I feel so alive and I feel so alive”. The apocalyptic spirit of Iggy lives!
B-
Dan Kelly and the Alpha Males
I Will Release Myself (Unto You)
This man is a goddamn freak I tell you. His imagination scares me. It’s like he can remember all those twisted details we dream yet somehow his (un)real world contains none of the harrowing contradictions: it’s aesthetically intact, a singularity of unremitting oddness distinct from, yet not dissimilar to, our world. Get me?!? He utterly embodies his pantheon – in this case as man-meat of questionable intellect (“I’m not like Delta Goodrem – Born to Try, I’m an uncomplicated guy”) awaiting his sugar mummy’s return from work to the domicile where his true gift will be unleashed. Clearly, the gift of storytelling runs in his jeans! And, forget about the sophistication of each unfolding element, the amazing harmonies, the ingenious sound palette. Just lie back, relax, and dream…
E+
Single of the Weak
Thirty Seconds To Mars
The Kill (Bury Me)
With pleasure! So, laboured multi-word band name signifying cartoon-level concept – check. Dark song title with subsequent re-statement in form of key words of chorus – check. Band logo featuring skull or skulls – check. Black-fringed mascara wearing singer – check. Heavily treated vocals main aspect of mix – check. Inane teen-angst lyrics earnestly repeated – check. Live B-side to feature screaming teen fan base and acoustic C-side to reinforce songs truly ‘artistic’ core – check. Minor amount of guitar noodling subservient to basic chordal gloss – check. Main consideration ‘filmic’ videos with ‘actors’ and ‘period’ dress – check. Pay cheque – check.Pious, exploitative, formulaic crapola direct from the scene streets of Los Angeles carefully constructed for privileged kids to feel misunderstood and overlooked to. Tepid, cowardly, derivative diarrhoea from the bloated ass of America; custom-made for an apathetic audience of self-righteous morons without courage or curiosity. ChEMO would make me less sick! Whatevs….
W-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Special
After so much word of mouth about the epic qualities of the Mew album I’ve been keen indeed to gauge their worth. How odd then to hear a fey piece of stadium pop, albeit with sporadic washes of guitar effects, that concerns itself with the staggeringly unique subject matter of ‘relationship dynamics’ (soft, loud, soft, loud, louder, finish?). I’m sure the rest of the record has more of the diabolics for which they are renowned but, that said, there is inventive arranging here and, between the naff clean choruses, some arresting pulses of sound. The press release grandly assures me that “there will always be someone in your life, who is deserving of this song”. Like maybe the jizz-mopper at the sex shop say, or the idiot ultra-sound operator proudly displaying to the mother the baby she’s there to abort? They’re special. Yeah, this one’s for YOU!
N
Art of Fighting
Eastbound
Despite the traditional bass, drums, guitar, vocal format, Art of Fighting conjure so much emotive, ethereal energy. Most focus on Ollie’s singing but its dominance can be wearing over the course of a concert. I’m a fan of the understated depth of the one band member whose name isn’t Browne or Brown – bass player Peggy Frew. For me the band really begin to transcend when carousing instrumentally. The two originals here though revolve around said singers evocative storytelling and ululating style, only fleetingly letting fly. Eastbound brushes land as fog before a front while Night On Night is tethered, wistful, bound. The bonus track had my mind folding as it occurred to me that I’d been present at The Metro when it was recorded. Believe it or not they’d kept everyone so enraptured that they got away with busting out Lionel Richie’s All Night Long for an encore – bizarre!
K
Single of the Week
Tilly and the Wall
Nights of the Living Dead
Fucking cool! ‘Bout bloody time something so original and intentional and freewheeling and REGARDLESS crossed my desk. Gotta say I was a little wary, as jaded journo’s get when successful labels like Dew Process (home of The Grates, Sarah Blasko, etc) tout a new act. But these boys and girls are more than worthy. A clatter of lo-fi guitar and big yelled up vocals herald an out and out anthem to bacchanalia in this queer Godless world. And get this! The beats are from the feet – hardcore rough-shod tap-dancing action! Brilliant! Signed first in the U.S. by Connor Oberst’s Team Love these kids from Omaha put a fire under the blasé bullshit that passes for ‘youth’ culture these days – “ I wanna fuck it up, I wanna fuck it up, and I feel so alive and I feel so alive”. The apocalyptic spirit of Iggy lives!
B-
Dan Kelly and the Alpha Males
I Will Release Myself (Unto You)
This man is a goddamn freak I tell you. His imagination scares me. It’s like he can remember all those twisted details we dream yet somehow his (un)real world contains none of the harrowing contradictions: it’s aesthetically intact, a singularity of unremitting oddness distinct from, yet not dissimilar to, our world. Get me?!? He utterly embodies his pantheon – in this case as man-meat of questionable intellect (“I’m not like Delta Goodrem – Born to Try, I’m an uncomplicated guy”) awaiting his sugar mummy’s return from work to the domicile where his true gift will be unleashed. Clearly, the gift of storytelling runs in his jeans! And, forget about the sophistication of each unfolding element, the amazing harmonies, the ingenious sound palette. Just lie back, relax, and dream…
E+
Single of the Weak
Thirty Seconds To Mars
The Kill (Bury Me)
With pleasure! So, laboured multi-word band name signifying cartoon-level concept – check. Dark song title with subsequent re-statement in form of key words of chorus – check. Band logo featuring skull or skulls – check. Black-fringed mascara wearing singer – check. Heavily treated vocals main aspect of mix – check. Inane teen-angst lyrics earnestly repeated – check. Live B-side to feature screaming teen fan base and acoustic C-side to reinforce songs truly ‘artistic’ core – check. Minor amount of guitar noodling subservient to basic chordal gloss – check. Main consideration ‘filmic’ videos with ‘actors’ and ‘period’ dress – check. Pay cheque – check.Pious, exploitative, formulaic crapola direct from the scene streets of Los Angeles carefully constructed for privileged kids to feel misunderstood and overlooked to. Tepid, cowardly, derivative diarrhoea from the bloated ass of America; custom-made for an apathetic audience of self-righteous morons without courage or curiosity. ChEMO would make me less sick! Whatevs….
W-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Operator Please
Cement Cement (EP)
Forming for a high school band comp just last year then leaping into broader consciousness via a mess and noise compilation - where their Song About Ping-Pong fairly burst with childish glee - these Gold Coast teens are now being chased hither and thither by sinister industry pony-tails waving cheque-books from what I hear. Initially it’s a little hard to say why as lead song Get What You Want is rather plain. Things head higher quicksmart with Crash Tragic’s fairground atrocity air while the off-kilter ballad Two For My Seconds recalls the Go-Betweens circa Lindy and Amanda for a moment. More violin and even Cramps-like guitar appear on closer Waiting For My Car but at heart it’s Amandah’s keen high vocals that carry each track here with a nitrous-like enthusiasm we’d better hope isn’t leached by suburban slog and major-label schmoozing. Next, please…
H
Teenager
Pony
And so it is we move into the weird world of one Nick Littlemore who, having experienced the absurdity of commercial saturation with Pnau, and being many trashy years beyond his teens, has re-constructed himself as part of a ‘real’ band released on Newtown label Timberyard. The wisdom of this is immediately apparent. Live-sounding drums subtly messed, leathery bass and rusty rumbles of single-note guitar underpin addled lyrics re some ‘pony pony assed bitch’ that ‘looks like Bruce Lee’ and drops ‘yr knickers on the floor’. The first remix (the Parcell Cut Off My Member Mix) has a pedestrian beat however there’s a great guitar squall and some partially sic keyboard overtones. It’s the mix by Gabrielle Rowland that wins though with schizophrenic oscillations between tight electro and overdriven everything. New old pony club bringin’ it for the neigh-sayers.
F+
Daddy Cool
They Built The Ute
Whoa! What is it with the rock-of-the-ages this week? Here, the 50’s angle that unexpectedly catapulted Ross and Co. to the top of the charts in an era of Seventies spandex finds fine subject matter for a reformation – the humble (this was a LONG time ago) Aussie ute. Written for their headline appearance at the infamous Deniliquin Ute Muster two months back - and the first recorded output from the band since 1972 - it’s likeable (damning, no?) loping and, err - lame. Sure, there’s that swing they were renowned for and there’s a rootsy (I make myself sick!) roll going on but from the queasy lurid pink and lime artwork to the headshots of each fossil to the patronising and archaic Wiggle-esque tone it just seems infantile and ingratiating. You KNOW if there was no money in it, it wouldn’t have happened. And they reckon P-Plater’s are bad…
Q
Single of the Week
The Archie Bronson Outfit
Cherry Lips
How do get away with having a name that sounds like two old Aussie jazz outfits rolled into one? By being good, very good even. As simplistic as the chipper ringing of two chords, obese low tones and thudding beat are; from the stereo split that opens to the Beefheart-style sax squeal at the end, this ode to luscious lips starts large then swells to overflowing. Like the best of Bo Diddley and other blues originators, a trance gets concocted. Where many of the recent rash of bass-less acts are groping at the bottom of their bags of tricks, these guys are raising the stakes with dense rhythmic energy reminiscent of much larger groups like Sons and Daughters or Kings of Leon. It seems to cum naturally (enough!) so expect more facial action soon courtesy of album Derdang Derdang. Just watch out for that pink-eye!
E-
Single of the Weak
My Friend The Chocolate Cake
Home Improvements EP
Cringe. First there’s that appalling name. The pain abates a little as a mandolin jigs in. Then the clear voice of Mr Bridie begins to intone a litany of middle-aged wishful thinking: abandoning the renovations, throwing the TV down the stairs, etc. This being in order to: move to Barcelona, take a boat down the river and sleep beneath the stars, and drive around the rim of Australia. BUT, you can’t ‘cos you’ve gotta keep on working so you can pay the loan back! I cry. Do you know I’ve done each one of those things he’s dreaming of? In between voluntary community work we scammed the dole, worked for cash, hustled some sex and got the fuck on with it. I still live like that and I’m not about to start borrowing other peoples money then whinging about the shit I bought with it. I’m not drowning, I’m waving. Goodbye.
U-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cement Cement (EP)
Forming for a high school band comp just last year then leaping into broader consciousness via a mess and noise compilation - where their Song About Ping-Pong fairly burst with childish glee - these Gold Coast teens are now being chased hither and thither by sinister industry pony-tails waving cheque-books from what I hear. Initially it’s a little hard to say why as lead song Get What You Want is rather plain. Things head higher quicksmart with Crash Tragic’s fairground atrocity air while the off-kilter ballad Two For My Seconds recalls the Go-Betweens circa Lindy and Amanda for a moment. More violin and even Cramps-like guitar appear on closer Waiting For My Car but at heart it’s Amandah’s keen high vocals that carry each track here with a nitrous-like enthusiasm we’d better hope isn’t leached by suburban slog and major-label schmoozing. Next, please…
H
Teenager
Pony
And so it is we move into the weird world of one Nick Littlemore who, having experienced the absurdity of commercial saturation with Pnau, and being many trashy years beyond his teens, has re-constructed himself as part of a ‘real’ band released on Newtown label Timberyard. The wisdom of this is immediately apparent. Live-sounding drums subtly messed, leathery bass and rusty rumbles of single-note guitar underpin addled lyrics re some ‘pony pony assed bitch’ that ‘looks like Bruce Lee’ and drops ‘yr knickers on the floor’. The first remix (the Parcell Cut Off My Member Mix) has a pedestrian beat however there’s a great guitar squall and some partially sic keyboard overtones. It’s the mix by Gabrielle Rowland that wins though with schizophrenic oscillations between tight electro and overdriven everything. New old pony club bringin’ it for the neigh-sayers.
F+
Daddy Cool
They Built The Ute
Whoa! What is it with the rock-of-the-ages this week? Here, the 50’s angle that unexpectedly catapulted Ross and Co. to the top of the charts in an era of Seventies spandex finds fine subject matter for a reformation – the humble (this was a LONG time ago) Aussie ute. Written for their headline appearance at the infamous Deniliquin Ute Muster two months back - and the first recorded output from the band since 1972 - it’s likeable (damning, no?) loping and, err - lame. Sure, there’s that swing they were renowned for and there’s a rootsy (I make myself sick!) roll going on but from the queasy lurid pink and lime artwork to the headshots of each fossil to the patronising and archaic Wiggle-esque tone it just seems infantile and ingratiating. You KNOW if there was no money in it, it wouldn’t have happened. And they reckon P-Plater’s are bad…
Q
Single of the Week
The Archie Bronson Outfit
Cherry Lips
How do get away with having a name that sounds like two old Aussie jazz outfits rolled into one? By being good, very good even. As simplistic as the chipper ringing of two chords, obese low tones and thudding beat are; from the stereo split that opens to the Beefheart-style sax squeal at the end, this ode to luscious lips starts large then swells to overflowing. Like the best of Bo Diddley and other blues originators, a trance gets concocted. Where many of the recent rash of bass-less acts are groping at the bottom of their bags of tricks, these guys are raising the stakes with dense rhythmic energy reminiscent of much larger groups like Sons and Daughters or Kings of Leon. It seems to cum naturally (enough!) so expect more facial action soon courtesy of album Derdang Derdang. Just watch out for that pink-eye!
E-
Single of the Weak
My Friend The Chocolate Cake
Home Improvements EP
Cringe. First there’s that appalling name. The pain abates a little as a mandolin jigs in. Then the clear voice of Mr Bridie begins to intone a litany of middle-aged wishful thinking: abandoning the renovations, throwing the TV down the stairs, etc. This being in order to: move to Barcelona, take a boat down the river and sleep beneath the stars, and drive around the rim of Australia. BUT, you can’t ‘cos you’ve gotta keep on working so you can pay the loan back! I cry. Do you know I’ve done each one of those things he’s dreaming of? In between voluntary community work we scammed the dole, worked for cash, hustled some sex and got the fuck on with it. I still live like that and I’m not about to start borrowing other peoples money then whinging about the shit I bought with it. I’m not drowning, I’m waving. Goodbye.
U-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bloc Party
The Prayer
Finally something new from a band so dominant in the last two years and it’s a mixed bag. What strikes you first is distorted syncopated beats, handclaps, and the Fun Boy Three ‘Lunatics…’ style backing vocal hum. The spirit of TV on the Radio seems to have possessed them somewhat as the doo-wop intensifies later with a Futureheads type wolf-bark cascade also. One might expect this latter influence as both bands shared the producing talents of ‘last years Nigel Godrich’, Paul Epworth. Sadly though, this release lacks the tense focal punch he brought to bear and instead U2/Razorlight knob-twiddler Jacknife Lee undoes the endeavour with a supercilious keyboard-driven stadium sound that is painfully apt for Keke’s shallow lyrics. Essentially an ego’s plea for power, this really does belong on the O.C. Disappointing – with the head start they had you’d hope they’d aim higher.
L
Augie March
The Cold Acre
Curling around corners on gravel bush tracks, pushing on - having forgotten where to - transfixed by the bush and glimpses into its field-less depths; that’s the feeling I get among the winding words herein. It’s a tale of where we all end up, eventually - even through such drives - told with the resignation of a man preternaturalised by pain and its protection. The guitars and piano meander this way and that, shifting key where necessary, hesitating in neutral on the high plateau’s - then plummet headlong into the dense foliage below, leaching heat at last as the buzz of the bush softly resumes its pace above the damp hush of the valley floor. Archetypical Australian angst from, and for, those (still) unable to forget. A suspended suicidal waltz for the mild at art – ploughing on and then gone, again.
H
Little Barrie
Love You
Okay, so now we’re back in the 50’s. Fair enough. Plenty of great music started there. But what a fascinating time this is NOW where technology is creating a simultaneous revival of EVERY decade (well the one’s that could record music anyhow). What will that breed? Here we have three tracks (the last a demo) which all exhibit the infectious simplicity of the era - a clear high vocal, crisp rhythms and sharp-ass gee-tar. It’s spare but strong; sounding outdoor already – breezes throwing spaces of stereo about in each expectant pause. Again it’s the English reviving old blues – three skinny fucks from Nottingham this time. You don’t need me to analyse this. Just whack it on some time and shake it (like a Polaroid picture?). It’ll develop from there…
G
Single of the Week
The Mint Chicks
Welcome To Nowhere
Opening eerily with muffled party-music (theirs) behind closed doors, it soon becomes apparent we’re no longer welcome as a woman screams ‘get out of my house!’ Then it’s off in earnest for one of the most odd assemblages of influence I’ve heard in ages. The drums stutter a lo-fi kick-driven beat at speed, the guitars spit some semblance of ska and the vocal seems suspended between Devo and The Specials. Together it’s unique, driven and compelling – not to mention playful in that skewed Kiwi way. Extolling the virtues of ‘nowhere’, hoping to allay you in isolation, it’s easy to give in when a band is this casually great. From the coloured-pencil cover art, to the absurd synth-pulse slow-core breakdown that suddenly ends the song on an entirely unrelated note, it’s clear these guys give shit none. Just the vandals this party needs I reckon – let ‘em in!
F+
Single of the Weak
Jet
Rip It Up
Jet were a joke from the outset (they were named after a Paul McCartney tune!). Their bald-faced rip-off’s of rock’s canon were devoured like chips on the beach by a huge flock of she-gulls so bereft of musical knowledge their rebellion was readymade. Hearing these bums lift from such totemic masters as Iggy Pop then parade the Earth as if they’d invented it was grievous indeed. Now, of course, it’s just commonplace. Can you imagine how suckful the next wave of derivative lemmings will be? Bands that want to ROCK OUT like Stockdale – sorry, Wolfmother? Sure, it’s always happened and always will. Someone breaks new ground then the wannabes descend, some will flog and fade, others re-think and renew. But when you’ve made that first album killing, who ever really lifts their game? Not Jet. No major-label promo hyperbole will hide it. This is stadium-by-numbers. And it’s embarrassingly empty in there.
P-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Prayer
Finally something new from a band so dominant in the last two years and it’s a mixed bag. What strikes you first is distorted syncopated beats, handclaps, and the Fun Boy Three ‘Lunatics…’ style backing vocal hum. The spirit of TV on the Radio seems to have possessed them somewhat as the doo-wop intensifies later with a Futureheads type wolf-bark cascade also. One might expect this latter influence as both bands shared the producing talents of ‘last years Nigel Godrich’, Paul Epworth. Sadly though, this release lacks the tense focal punch he brought to bear and instead U2/Razorlight knob-twiddler Jacknife Lee undoes the endeavour with a supercilious keyboard-driven stadium sound that is painfully apt for Keke’s shallow lyrics. Essentially an ego’s plea for power, this really does belong on the O.C. Disappointing – with the head start they had you’d hope they’d aim higher.
L
Augie March
The Cold Acre
Curling around corners on gravel bush tracks, pushing on - having forgotten where to - transfixed by the bush and glimpses into its field-less depths; that’s the feeling I get among the winding words herein. It’s a tale of where we all end up, eventually - even through such drives - told with the resignation of a man preternaturalised by pain and its protection. The guitars and piano meander this way and that, shifting key where necessary, hesitating in neutral on the high plateau’s - then plummet headlong into the dense foliage below, leaching heat at last as the buzz of the bush softly resumes its pace above the damp hush of the valley floor. Archetypical Australian angst from, and for, those (still) unable to forget. A suspended suicidal waltz for the mild at art – ploughing on and then gone, again.
H
Little Barrie
Love You
Okay, so now we’re back in the 50’s. Fair enough. Plenty of great music started there. But what a fascinating time this is NOW where technology is creating a simultaneous revival of EVERY decade (well the one’s that could record music anyhow). What will that breed? Here we have three tracks (the last a demo) which all exhibit the infectious simplicity of the era - a clear high vocal, crisp rhythms and sharp-ass gee-tar. It’s spare but strong; sounding outdoor already – breezes throwing spaces of stereo about in each expectant pause. Again it’s the English reviving old blues – three skinny fucks from Nottingham this time. You don’t need me to analyse this. Just whack it on some time and shake it (like a Polaroid picture?). It’ll develop from there…
G
Single of the Week
The Mint Chicks
Welcome To Nowhere
Opening eerily with muffled party-music (theirs) behind closed doors, it soon becomes apparent we’re no longer welcome as a woman screams ‘get out of my house!’ Then it’s off in earnest for one of the most odd assemblages of influence I’ve heard in ages. The drums stutter a lo-fi kick-driven beat at speed, the guitars spit some semblance of ska and the vocal seems suspended between Devo and The Specials. Together it’s unique, driven and compelling – not to mention playful in that skewed Kiwi way. Extolling the virtues of ‘nowhere’, hoping to allay you in isolation, it’s easy to give in when a band is this casually great. From the coloured-pencil cover art, to the absurd synth-pulse slow-core breakdown that suddenly ends the song on an entirely unrelated note, it’s clear these guys give shit none. Just the vandals this party needs I reckon – let ‘em in!
F+
Single of the Weak
Jet
Rip It Up
Jet were a joke from the outset (they were named after a Paul McCartney tune!). Their bald-faced rip-off’s of rock’s canon were devoured like chips on the beach by a huge flock of she-gulls so bereft of musical knowledge their rebellion was readymade. Hearing these bums lift from such totemic masters as Iggy Pop then parade the Earth as if they’d invented it was grievous indeed. Now, of course, it’s just commonplace. Can you imagine how suckful the next wave of derivative lemmings will be? Bands that want to ROCK OUT like Stockdale – sorry, Wolfmother? Sure, it’s always happened and always will. Someone breaks new ground then the wannabes descend, some will flog and fade, others re-think and renew. But when you’ve made that first album killing, who ever really lifts their game? Not Jet. No major-label promo hyperbole will hide it. This is stadium-by-numbers. And it’s embarrassingly empty in there.
P-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Single of the Week
Gnarls Barkley
Gone Daddy gone
Regardless of the belated overplaying of ‘Crazy’ by all and sundry and the attendant distancing effect, Gnarls Barkley remain a unique proposition. This cover of the Violent Femmes classic doesn’t reach the nasal adolescent apogee of the original but it still struts with authority through crisp programming and underplayed vocals. Shifting butts fast on the dance floor - partly through the familiarity factor: sing-a-long chorus lines with that odd double resonance - love lost and gone like ‘out-of-it’ - mean universal application to any throng. And despite following one of the strongest tracks on the St Elsewhere album they show there’s more to come with B-side ‘Who Cares?’ where peculiar balladry floats over ropey bass and layered stabs of surreal 70’s-style soul/funk. I’m not sure at all where they’re at when I finish listening but I left here for a while and found myself lost – sweet relief for a lonely lady.
D
Old Man River
La
A surfeit of handclaps, backing vocals, and novelty sounds in this Beatle-esque romp is explained, in a personally penned press release, as being a by-product of its origins in a western suburbs music workshop for people with mental variations. Recorded in Sydney and London, as befits a man of the world, the contributions of these folk were voiced instead by Old Man River and a couple of ‘drunken choirs’. That may explain some of the sadness suffocating beneath the apparent brevity of this tune. Although these ‘choirs’ sound at times like a performance of Cosi by Dappled Cities Fly at their most aviary, the refrain of ‘leave it all behind’ best encapsulates the wary and weary undertones of the piece. Although ostensibly celebrating everyday aspects of life I hear a longing for death’s release of responsibility here that jars somewhat with the flip cries of ‘friends’.
K
Schvendes
Small Mercies, Sweet Graves
A low dirge typical of Perth’s recent arid Gothicism ‘Small Mercies’ utilises a range of less likely instrumentation - from Tristan Parr’s cello to a guest appearance on slide by Lucky Oceans (man, even if that name is real it makes me gag! And as interesting as the music he plays on Radio National is, his American accent alienates me from our national broadcaster). The artwork is beautiful – pin dolls with axes – impressive in the dying moments of the physically released singles era. The music however, while distinctive and original enough in its texture, is let down by the standard pub vocal trajectory of soft to strident and louder over the course of both tunes herein. While Kurt Cobain managed to lowlight pain in Nirvana’s rendition of second track ‘In the Pines’, here this beautiful song loses momentum as the singer fights for a commanding climax.
L
Sneaky Sound System
Pictures
Every poseurs preferred pizza-pigging accompanists have had a new lease of life since recruiting ex-Primary vocalist Connie Mitchell from a chance meeting in Hyde Park, though it’s indicative of the glitzy ghetto they occupy that her status as one of Sydney’s greatest vocalists had hitherto eluded them. Her undeniable authority as a singer and centred demeanour are a vital balance to the party-boys (clearly we’re not talking Kevin Borich style Oz-Rock here, how things change…) image of the two remaining Sneaky members. Black Angus has probably always been the level head behind Double D’s camera-hogging vapidity though both might need to pull their heads in a tad given their dubious claim to be “Australia’s numero uno dance act”. ‘Pictures’ is a co-write by Connie and her innate sass thankfully subsumes the cheesy disco of the backing track. Better is the remix in which GT has had a hand.
R
Single of the Weak
Shannon Noll and Natalie Bassingthwaite
Don’t Give Up
Or perhaps, do? Even the original version stretched credulity given the awkward rapport of Peter Gabriel and Kate Bush in a laboured video that attempted to conjure sexual chemistry between a businessman and a recluse. Here we see local beacons of the believable presented in a ‘humble’ cover shot – he in carefully crushed tee and creepy brushed hair, she in less make-up than usual - all awkward ‘engaging’ smiles. It’s the ‘lead single’ from the appallingly titled, ‘Home: Songs of Hope and Journey’ which Sony are flogging on the premise that an unspecified ‘part’ of the proceeds will go, through their ‘Foundation’, to Jeff Kennett’s ‘beyondblue: national depression initiative’. Have we not suffered enough? Do we really need multinationals to mobilise the likes of Anthony Callea, Guy Sebastian, Human Nature and these two to initiate MORE depression?!? In the words of Perry Farrell, ‘some people should die’. Guess who?
Y
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gnarls Barkley
Gone Daddy gone
Regardless of the belated overplaying of ‘Crazy’ by all and sundry and the attendant distancing effect, Gnarls Barkley remain a unique proposition. This cover of the Violent Femmes classic doesn’t reach the nasal adolescent apogee of the original but it still struts with authority through crisp programming and underplayed vocals. Shifting butts fast on the dance floor - partly through the familiarity factor: sing-a-long chorus lines with that odd double resonance - love lost and gone like ‘out-of-it’ - mean universal application to any throng. And despite following one of the strongest tracks on the St Elsewhere album they show there’s more to come with B-side ‘Who Cares?’ where peculiar balladry floats over ropey bass and layered stabs of surreal 70’s-style soul/funk. I’m not sure at all where they’re at when I finish listening but I left here for a while and found myself lost – sweet relief for a lonely lady.
D
Old Man River
La
A surfeit of handclaps, backing vocals, and novelty sounds in this Beatle-esque romp is explained, in a personally penned press release, as being a by-product of its origins in a western suburbs music workshop for people with mental variations. Recorded in Sydney and London, as befits a man of the world, the contributions of these folk were voiced instead by Old Man River and a couple of ‘drunken choirs’. That may explain some of the sadness suffocating beneath the apparent brevity of this tune. Although these ‘choirs’ sound at times like a performance of Cosi by Dappled Cities Fly at their most aviary, the refrain of ‘leave it all behind’ best encapsulates the wary and weary undertones of the piece. Although ostensibly celebrating everyday aspects of life I hear a longing for death’s release of responsibility here that jars somewhat with the flip cries of ‘friends’.
K
Schvendes
Small Mercies, Sweet Graves
A low dirge typical of Perth’s recent arid Gothicism ‘Small Mercies’ utilises a range of less likely instrumentation - from Tristan Parr’s cello to a guest appearance on slide by Lucky Oceans (man, even if that name is real it makes me gag! And as interesting as the music he plays on Radio National is, his American accent alienates me from our national broadcaster). The artwork is beautiful – pin dolls with axes – impressive in the dying moments of the physically released singles era. The music however, while distinctive and original enough in its texture, is let down by the standard pub vocal trajectory of soft to strident and louder over the course of both tunes herein. While Kurt Cobain managed to lowlight pain in Nirvana’s rendition of second track ‘In the Pines’, here this beautiful song loses momentum as the singer fights for a commanding climax.
L
Sneaky Sound System
Pictures
Every poseurs preferred pizza-pigging accompanists have had a new lease of life since recruiting ex-Primary vocalist Connie Mitchell from a chance meeting in Hyde Park, though it’s indicative of the glitzy ghetto they occupy that her status as one of Sydney’s greatest vocalists had hitherto eluded them. Her undeniable authority as a singer and centred demeanour are a vital balance to the party-boys (clearly we’re not talking Kevin Borich style Oz-Rock here, how things change…) image of the two remaining Sneaky members. Black Angus has probably always been the level head behind Double D’s camera-hogging vapidity though both might need to pull their heads in a tad given their dubious claim to be “Australia’s numero uno dance act”. ‘Pictures’ is a co-write by Connie and her innate sass thankfully subsumes the cheesy disco of the backing track. Better is the remix in which GT has had a hand.
R
Single of the Weak
Shannon Noll and Natalie Bassingthwaite
Don’t Give Up
Or perhaps, do? Even the original version stretched credulity given the awkward rapport of Peter Gabriel and Kate Bush in a laboured video that attempted to conjure sexual chemistry between a businessman and a recluse. Here we see local beacons of the believable presented in a ‘humble’ cover shot – he in carefully crushed tee and creepy brushed hair, she in less make-up than usual - all awkward ‘engaging’ smiles. It’s the ‘lead single’ from the appallingly titled, ‘Home: Songs of Hope and Journey’ which Sony are flogging on the premise that an unspecified ‘part’ of the proceeds will go, through their ‘Foundation’, to Jeff Kennett’s ‘beyondblue: national depression initiative’. Have we not suffered enough? Do we really need multinationals to mobilise the likes of Anthony Callea, Guy Sebastian, Human Nature and these two to initiate MORE depression?!? In the words of Perry Farrell, ‘some people should die’. Guess who?
Y
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Little Birdy
Bodies
Nifty power-pop that surprisingly recalls the work of Tall Dwarf Chris Knox (the last man to pen a song so titled to my knowledge) though only for the first few moments, as dinky keys, bitty beats and basic guitars make a bed to lie in. But no great white antipodean hopes making an album called Hollywood in said city are gonna keep a DIY feel for long are they? So it is then, that soon after Katy’s voice curls into place, everything shifts up a notch or four: wide-screen Mike Chapman-style production with all the bells and whistles. Yet the song itself - while airy and able enough to see plenty of summer radio action - lacks a certain hook of distinction. Thus rather than the catharsis of Blondie or the Divinyls we’re left plodding somewhat like late period Motels. Big bird needs a trim.
M
Something For Kate
California
Is it not somewhat unfortunate that this week features two big Australian bands with song names derived from the dominant state of the USA? Also recorded in Los Angeles, this time with ex Smashing Pumpkins producer Brad Wood, California has a rollicking quality courtesy of heavily strummed rhythms on acoustic guitars and piano. The arrangements allow the song to breathe as it passes through a variable landscape of shifting dynamics, bridges and keys. This tempers Paul Dempsey’s propensity for overwrought melodrama. In fact the strongest moment is the quietest and most stripped down – a resigned denouement at the bitter end. Made after what seemed to be a cataclysmic writers block finally shifted, the sheer invention evident structurally might serve to remind us all that panic at feeling dubious self-worth is not only universal, but often a pre-cursor to (re)creation.
L
Single of the Week
Dallas Crane
Tonight!
Total party music from the Crane – from the big clap-along beat to the sleazy bluesy rock riff. Yet behind this simplistic bravado and partypartyparty prerogative there are some clever touches. I swear I thought I was hearing a rare return to the big horns of Know Your Product era Saints at first but it was only the way Johnathan Burnside (is he related to Julian?) had doubled the lines of distorted guitars in the mix. And the back-up harmonies at the close recollect the golden age of Sunbury style psyche sounds. Two live recordings round out the package – one version of the title track and one of Wrong Party that almost steals the show with its ballsy bravado. It’s bloody great that the Alberts label continues to honour its incredible legacy with timeless local action of this nature. Safe hands. Catch!
J+
The Dead 60’s
Riot Radio
Spiky punk-funk-ska from Liverpool, this could well be a lost tune from Pump It Up period Elvis Costello. As well as claiming the belatedly ubiquitous Gang Of Four as an influence, these chaps reference dub master King Tubby. There’s nothing spread wide enough here to demonstrate such lineage though, as amphetamine spasms recall The Clash and other agitated white reggae-inspired outfits spawned in the decay of late 70’s England. Despite propulsive qualities Riot Radio is dated twice over. In 2005 it almost got into the Top Twenty in Blighty – why on Earth has it taken so long to get here? As for the thematic, I have to admit to a certain cynicism when bands incorporate the word ‘radio’ into tracks – it’s the oldest trick in the book to play up to the narcissistic tendencies of FM programmers. Quite a quiet riot then, no?
K
Single of the Weak
INXS
Never Let You Go
With all the subtlety of a dealer at an OD’s funeral INXS continue the merciless exploitation of their ‘brand’. It’s as conscionable as a family pretending a father committed suicide rather than admitting the slight embarrassment that he died wanking. The debacle of Rock Star actually advertised this bleak avarice, amongst twee tributes Michael would never have consented to, then bequeathed us the ultimate irrelevance in ‘JD Fortune’ - whose inane timidity can’t hope to approach even the outright plagiarism of Jim Morrison pursued by his forebear. This insipid ballad is the inevitable karmic outcome of such farce. Sounding like a cross between the two previous wannabes, Terence Trent Darby and Jon Stevens, JD weakly warbles cliché’s over hideous synths and sax in a song that belongs in the background of an 80’s straight-to-video flick about a brothel owner finding love in the desert or some shit. Pathetic.
Y
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bodies
Nifty power-pop that surprisingly recalls the work of Tall Dwarf Chris Knox (the last man to pen a song so titled to my knowledge) though only for the first few moments, as dinky keys, bitty beats and basic guitars make a bed to lie in. But no great white antipodean hopes making an album called Hollywood in said city are gonna keep a DIY feel for long are they? So it is then, that soon after Katy’s voice curls into place, everything shifts up a notch or four: wide-screen Mike Chapman-style production with all the bells and whistles. Yet the song itself - while airy and able enough to see plenty of summer radio action - lacks a certain hook of distinction. Thus rather than the catharsis of Blondie or the Divinyls we’re left plodding somewhat like late period Motels. Big bird needs a trim.
M
Something For Kate
California
Is it not somewhat unfortunate that this week features two big Australian bands with song names derived from the dominant state of the USA? Also recorded in Los Angeles, this time with ex Smashing Pumpkins producer Brad Wood, California has a rollicking quality courtesy of heavily strummed rhythms on acoustic guitars and piano. The arrangements allow the song to breathe as it passes through a variable landscape of shifting dynamics, bridges and keys. This tempers Paul Dempsey’s propensity for overwrought melodrama. In fact the strongest moment is the quietest and most stripped down – a resigned denouement at the bitter end. Made after what seemed to be a cataclysmic writers block finally shifted, the sheer invention evident structurally might serve to remind us all that panic at feeling dubious self-worth is not only universal, but often a pre-cursor to (re)creation.
L
Single of the Week
Dallas Crane
Tonight!
Total party music from the Crane – from the big clap-along beat to the sleazy bluesy rock riff. Yet behind this simplistic bravado and partypartyparty prerogative there are some clever touches. I swear I thought I was hearing a rare return to the big horns of Know Your Product era Saints at first but it was only the way Johnathan Burnside (is he related to Julian?) had doubled the lines of distorted guitars in the mix. And the back-up harmonies at the close recollect the golden age of Sunbury style psyche sounds. Two live recordings round out the package – one version of the title track and one of Wrong Party that almost steals the show with its ballsy bravado. It’s bloody great that the Alberts label continues to honour its incredible legacy with timeless local action of this nature. Safe hands. Catch!
J+
The Dead 60’s
Riot Radio
Spiky punk-funk-ska from Liverpool, this could well be a lost tune from Pump It Up period Elvis Costello. As well as claiming the belatedly ubiquitous Gang Of Four as an influence, these chaps reference dub master King Tubby. There’s nothing spread wide enough here to demonstrate such lineage though, as amphetamine spasms recall The Clash and other agitated white reggae-inspired outfits spawned in the decay of late 70’s England. Despite propulsive qualities Riot Radio is dated twice over. In 2005 it almost got into the Top Twenty in Blighty – why on Earth has it taken so long to get here? As for the thematic, I have to admit to a certain cynicism when bands incorporate the word ‘radio’ into tracks – it’s the oldest trick in the book to play up to the narcissistic tendencies of FM programmers. Quite a quiet riot then, no?
K
Single of the Weak
INXS
Never Let You Go
With all the subtlety of a dealer at an OD’s funeral INXS continue the merciless exploitation of their ‘brand’. It’s as conscionable as a family pretending a father committed suicide rather than admitting the slight embarrassment that he died wanking. The debacle of Rock Star actually advertised this bleak avarice, amongst twee tributes Michael would never have consented to, then bequeathed us the ultimate irrelevance in ‘JD Fortune’ - whose inane timidity can’t hope to approach even the outright plagiarism of Jim Morrison pursued by his forebear. This insipid ballad is the inevitable karmic outcome of such farce. Sounding like a cross between the two previous wannabes, Terence Trent Darby and Jon Stevens, JD weakly warbles cliché’s over hideous synths and sax in a song that belongs in the background of an 80’s straight-to-video flick about a brothel owner finding love in the desert or some shit. Pathetic.
Y
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Clinic
Harvest (Within You)
Any guff employing the term ‘eclectic’ – the single most overused, thus meaningless, musical descriptor of the past five years – immediately has me en garde. Here, Virgin has the temerity to claim a ‘loose reminiscence’ (god, I could do with one of those!) to ‘Can, The Velvet Underground, The Violent Femmes, Sonic Youth and Suicide’! Big shoes! But it seems Clinic can ‘walk the walk’, as they like to say in giant record companies. This low, slippy, struggle of a song emerges from a swathe of white noise to eerily occupy the spectral territories Suicide specialised in. Echoic back-up overlays a sinister rhythm while the reedy vocal takes it’s mourning excorsise. Evidently the work of jaundiced souls, Harvest is diametrically (what does that mean?) opposed to the Heart Of Gold type fare of its namesake. Nine years and four albums in and strange things are swimming in the liver pool.
F+
Single of the Weak
Audioslave
Revelations
Aaaaw, it starts all pretty (gaight!). And then it’s business as usual for the unbashed hip-petal proponents. You know: big guitars in choppy bits; singing strongly enunciated then all awash with chorus during the nasty, erm, chorus. Tom Morello described this record as ‘Led Zeppelin meets Earth Wind and Fire’ (since when did ‘artists’ themselves pre-empt PR’s and reviewers with their own lazy comparisons?) and if, by that, he meant ridiculous variations and pompous key-changes akimbo then, by golly, he was right! Other than that, and a bizarre, brief, pitch-bent solo by a heavily (mis)treated guitar, it’s really only more of the same for the brand and their customers. Not such a revelation, is it?
Q-
Single of the Week
Gwen Stefani
Wind It Up
Given this has already charted at number five you may have heard it - too many times - already. Or perhaps you, like me, stare blankly at unfamiliar names in such charts and amble back to splendid isolation. I guess, if you’re not into video shows on the telly, commercial radio or shopping malls such things can simply pass you by! Co-written with Pharrell and produced by The Neptunes, Wind It Up opens with Ms Rossdale singing Lonely Goatherd from The Sound of Music then dips back into both those strings, and the yodel, intermittently throughout - contrary genius! The singing is sassy and savvy (intonation shifts on the words ‘boys like’ in homage to the classic Waitresses single) and the beats typically spare, yet HEFTY. Critics are all uppity about it – dude in Billboard called it a ‘musical brain aneurism’. Man, that sounds like a MIRACLE to me.
E-
Hilltop Hoods
What A Great Night
Musically this aint gonna knock you down. It’s mid-tempo, the beat and samples are flat, it peaks early and does nowt but repeat itself thereafter. The flow is fine, just deadened by the Hoods habitual downward intonation. It’s like no one here wants to be seen to be striving. Or maybe everyone’s just numb from dull excess. That’s the subject here: good old Aussie inundation – with anything, legal or ill, you can get. That’s also what I like about it. It’s perfectly representative of what most young folk (and others) are up to on any given weekend (and plenty of other daze) anywhere in this country: a cycle of consumption to the point of stupefaction, pain, re-start. Essentially an inditement of our paralytic tendencies the song nonetheless performs the cynical dual function of appearing to be a celebration of such - listing grog options and repeating the title line. Partially sic! Mate.
O-
Craig Obey vs The Church
Under The Milky Way
Well, I had my bitch fingers all primed for a petulant frenzy here, figuring we’d have a shoe-in for Single of the Weak. Imagine then, if you can be arsed, my surprise at vaguely enjoying this! Perhaps we become so accustomed to appalling misuses of the past by ‘dance’ producers and DJ’s that when a half-decent treatment arises forgiveness (almost) becomes enthusiasm. I loved the original from the get-go, so it’s odd that I don’t feel overly violated by this appropriation. It samples the first verse only, adds a dry snare, then filters everything into AM frequencies and dives into bog-standard electro: it’s more pocket than rocket, scientifically speaking. Farcically named a ‘Bootleg’ it has, in fact, been licensed from EMI! Perhaps The Church themselves – notoriously jaded regarding this song (especially since miming it at the Commonwealth games) - wanna put the boot in now while it’s stumbling around on its last legs?
P-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Harvest (Within You)
Any guff employing the term ‘eclectic’ – the single most overused, thus meaningless, musical descriptor of the past five years – immediately has me en garde. Here, Virgin has the temerity to claim a ‘loose reminiscence’ (god, I could do with one of those!) to ‘Can, The Velvet Underground, The Violent Femmes, Sonic Youth and Suicide’! Big shoes! But it seems Clinic can ‘walk the walk’, as they like to say in giant record companies. This low, slippy, struggle of a song emerges from a swathe of white noise to eerily occupy the spectral territories Suicide specialised in. Echoic back-up overlays a sinister rhythm while the reedy vocal takes it’s mourning excorsise. Evidently the work of jaundiced souls, Harvest is diametrically (what does that mean?) opposed to the Heart Of Gold type fare of its namesake. Nine years and four albums in and strange things are swimming in the liver pool.
F+
Single of the Weak
Audioslave
Revelations
Aaaaw, it starts all pretty (gaight!). And then it’s business as usual for the unbashed hip-petal proponents. You know: big guitars in choppy bits; singing strongly enunciated then all awash with chorus during the nasty, erm, chorus. Tom Morello described this record as ‘Led Zeppelin meets Earth Wind and Fire’ (since when did ‘artists’ themselves pre-empt PR’s and reviewers with their own lazy comparisons?) and if, by that, he meant ridiculous variations and pompous key-changes akimbo then, by golly, he was right! Other than that, and a bizarre, brief, pitch-bent solo by a heavily (mis)treated guitar, it’s really only more of the same for the brand and their customers. Not such a revelation, is it?
Q-
Single of the Week
Gwen Stefani
Wind It Up
Given this has already charted at number five you may have heard it - too many times - already. Or perhaps you, like me, stare blankly at unfamiliar names in such charts and amble back to splendid isolation. I guess, if you’re not into video shows on the telly, commercial radio or shopping malls such things can simply pass you by! Co-written with Pharrell and produced by The Neptunes, Wind It Up opens with Ms Rossdale singing Lonely Goatherd from The Sound of Music then dips back into both those strings, and the yodel, intermittently throughout - contrary genius! The singing is sassy and savvy (intonation shifts on the words ‘boys like’ in homage to the classic Waitresses single) and the beats typically spare, yet HEFTY. Critics are all uppity about it – dude in Billboard called it a ‘musical brain aneurism’. Man, that sounds like a MIRACLE to me.
E-
Hilltop Hoods
What A Great Night
Musically this aint gonna knock you down. It’s mid-tempo, the beat and samples are flat, it peaks early and does nowt but repeat itself thereafter. The flow is fine, just deadened by the Hoods habitual downward intonation. It’s like no one here wants to be seen to be striving. Or maybe everyone’s just numb from dull excess. That’s the subject here: good old Aussie inundation – with anything, legal or ill, you can get. That’s also what I like about it. It’s perfectly representative of what most young folk (and others) are up to on any given weekend (and plenty of other daze) anywhere in this country: a cycle of consumption to the point of stupefaction, pain, re-start. Essentially an inditement of our paralytic tendencies the song nonetheless performs the cynical dual function of appearing to be a celebration of such - listing grog options and repeating the title line. Partially sic! Mate.
O-
Craig Obey vs The Church
Under The Milky Way
Well, I had my bitch fingers all primed for a petulant frenzy here, figuring we’d have a shoe-in for Single of the Weak. Imagine then, if you can be arsed, my surprise at vaguely enjoying this! Perhaps we become so accustomed to appalling misuses of the past by ‘dance’ producers and DJ’s that when a half-decent treatment arises forgiveness (almost) becomes enthusiasm. I loved the original from the get-go, so it’s odd that I don’t feel overly violated by this appropriation. It samples the first verse only, adds a dry snare, then filters everything into AM frequencies and dives into bog-standard electro: it’s more pocket than rocket, scientifically speaking. Farcically named a ‘Bootleg’ it has, in fact, been licensed from EMI! Perhaps The Church themselves – notoriously jaded regarding this song (especially since miming it at the Commonwealth games) - wanna put the boot in now while it’s stumbling around on its last legs?
P-
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Single of the Week
Camera Obscura
If Looks Could Kill
Delirious, bittersweet, wall-of-sound heartache from the sober (looking!) Scots. In a dense mix of reverb-soaked bass, drums, guitars and vocals, even trumpets and a toy xylophone arise. As with fellow aficionados of pop’s golden era, Love Is All, or The Concrete’s (with whom they share producer Jari Haapalainen), there may be an element of overkill in this pursuit of nostalgic grandeur, but Camera Obscura seem able to anchor their songs to an emotional core. If Looks Could Kill unfurls gradually til the melancholic wistfulness of Traceyanne Campbell’s chiming swing has somehow suspended our disbelief, beguiling us into a teenage twilight of crushes, dreams, and crushed dreams. These are the swirling sounds of unrequited love - a last chance to speak snatched away by fate - a feeling formed now haunting forever. Only you know this – other – you, alone.
F-
Andrew Bird
Dark Matter
This is an intriguing song that cascades through an array of energies, surprising with a guitar-based structure given Bird’s more elliptical work thus far. That said, the man is a changeling. Classically trained on violin, then emerging from a jazz background to create unique skewed pop, he has guested with everyone from Will Oldham to The Throwing Muses. I respect him particularly for his efforts in reviving the fine art of whistling – some of which features here. Aside from this and the odd phrase of plucked violin though, Dark Matter is all drums and guitars, bearing up an alternately fragile and soaring vocal as it intones a mysterious tale of whoa! Imagine a more homespun Arcade Fire created by one man and you’ll ‘get the picture’, as they say. It may be drawn in invisible ink but at least it’s yours! Imagine…
G-
The Basics
Lookin’ Over My Shoulder
What the..? This isn’t basic! The title track sounds like the bastard child of Split Enz and Men At Work - all paranoid reggae and piccolo – until footsteps and a woman’s scream (men just can’t cut it in the screaming stakes) end it. B-side You Will Know What’s Right offers more straight-ahead rock action, but it’s still jittery as all get out before dissipating into eerie Eagles-style harmonies. Two originals (Better, and Call It Rhythm and Blues) and one cover (The Kinks, All Day and All Of The Night), recorded live at Melbourne’s Espy, round out the package with beery raucousness - making me feel marginally more secure about their prospects during the 11 gigs in 7 days they’ll be doing at Tamworth’s Cunt-Tree Music Festival as I write. “Lookin’ like a choir girl, she’s cryin’ like a refugee” – you never know your luck in the small city.
G
The Frames
Falling Slowly Frankly, I was about to remove this from my player and choose something else to review about a minute in. I abhor transparent striving for epic qualities and it seemed a tad too formulaic and contrived. I enjoyed the reptilian slide guitars and whispered words at the beginning but once the strident, pleading chorus kicked in I felt like a rabbit caught in Chris Martin’s high beam. Soon, however, I was seduced by the tenuous pairing of sincere humility and hope being enunciated, while the stunning variations in tone and dynamics weaved their spell - the violins that conclude the piece are sublime. There are other reasons, and resonances, purely personal - such as the metaphor of man as a sinking boat. But, awfully, it is the images from the Twin Towers, especially those forensically featured in recent doco The Falling Man, that are killing me - over and over.
G+
Single of the Weak
Damien Leith
Night Of My Life / Come To Me
Now take all of my initial reservations about the Frames’ song, multiply them tenfold, and apply to this Irishman instead. Fear not, I’ll not recant halfway through! Every ridiculous device in the producer’s arsenal has been employed in a futile attempt at creating gravitas for this saccharine spew. I can just see the balding session muso’s struggling to bust that ‘deeply-felt’ guitar, straggly curls a-quiver, leather pants straining to contain the bulge – of the gut. As far as the vocal is concerned, Leith sounds like he’s swallowed soap while attempting congress with a cat! Second track Come On…sorry…To Me, features an emasculating falsetto as our new Aussie idly demonstrates his utter lack of originality with a song he wrote himself! Lyrically it’s even more abysmal than the Year 8 schoolgirl-journal guff written by ‘professionals’, but its excruciating plea may make a fine advert for Tamworth one day.
W-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Camera Obscura
If Looks Could Kill
Delirious, bittersweet, wall-of-sound heartache from the sober (looking!) Scots. In a dense mix of reverb-soaked bass, drums, guitars and vocals, even trumpets and a toy xylophone arise. As with fellow aficionados of pop’s golden era, Love Is All, or The Concrete’s (with whom they share producer Jari Haapalainen), there may be an element of overkill in this pursuit of nostalgic grandeur, but Camera Obscura seem able to anchor their songs to an emotional core. If Looks Could Kill unfurls gradually til the melancholic wistfulness of Traceyanne Campbell’s chiming swing has somehow suspended our disbelief, beguiling us into a teenage twilight of crushes, dreams, and crushed dreams. These are the swirling sounds of unrequited love - a last chance to speak snatched away by fate - a feeling formed now haunting forever. Only you know this – other – you, alone.
F-
Andrew Bird
Dark Matter
This is an intriguing song that cascades through an array of energies, surprising with a guitar-based structure given Bird’s more elliptical work thus far. That said, the man is a changeling. Classically trained on violin, then emerging from a jazz background to create unique skewed pop, he has guested with everyone from Will Oldham to The Throwing Muses. I respect him particularly for his efforts in reviving the fine art of whistling – some of which features here. Aside from this and the odd phrase of plucked violin though, Dark Matter is all drums and guitars, bearing up an alternately fragile and soaring vocal as it intones a mysterious tale of whoa! Imagine a more homespun Arcade Fire created by one man and you’ll ‘get the picture’, as they say. It may be drawn in invisible ink but at least it’s yours! Imagine…
G-
The Basics
Lookin’ Over My Shoulder
What the..? This isn’t basic! The title track sounds like the bastard child of Split Enz and Men At Work - all paranoid reggae and piccolo – until footsteps and a woman’s scream (men just can’t cut it in the screaming stakes) end it. B-side You Will Know What’s Right offers more straight-ahead rock action, but it’s still jittery as all get out before dissipating into eerie Eagles-style harmonies. Two originals (Better, and Call It Rhythm and Blues) and one cover (The Kinks, All Day and All Of The Night), recorded live at Melbourne’s Espy, round out the package with beery raucousness - making me feel marginally more secure about their prospects during the 11 gigs in 7 days they’ll be doing at Tamworth’s Cunt-Tree Music Festival as I write. “Lookin’ like a choir girl, she’s cryin’ like a refugee” – you never know your luck in the small city.
G
The Frames
Falling Slowly Frankly, I was about to remove this from my player and choose something else to review about a minute in. I abhor transparent striving for epic qualities and it seemed a tad too formulaic and contrived. I enjoyed the reptilian slide guitars and whispered words at the beginning but once the strident, pleading chorus kicked in I felt like a rabbit caught in Chris Martin’s high beam. Soon, however, I was seduced by the tenuous pairing of sincere humility and hope being enunciated, while the stunning variations in tone and dynamics weaved their spell - the violins that conclude the piece are sublime. There are other reasons, and resonances, purely personal - such as the metaphor of man as a sinking boat. But, awfully, it is the images from the Twin Towers, especially those forensically featured in recent doco The Falling Man, that are killing me - over and over.
G+
Single of the Weak
Damien Leith
Night Of My Life / Come To Me
Now take all of my initial reservations about the Frames’ song, multiply them tenfold, and apply to this Irishman instead. Fear not, I’ll not recant halfway through! Every ridiculous device in the producer’s arsenal has been employed in a futile attempt at creating gravitas for this saccharine spew. I can just see the balding session muso’s struggling to bust that ‘deeply-felt’ guitar, straggly curls a-quiver, leather pants straining to contain the bulge – of the gut. As far as the vocal is concerned, Leith sounds like he’s swallowed soap while attempting congress with a cat! Second track Come On…sorry…To Me, features an emasculating falsetto as our new Aussie idly demonstrates his utter lack of originality with a song he wrote himself! Lyrically it’s even more abysmal than the Year 8 schoolgirl-journal guff written by ‘professionals’, but its excruciating plea may make a fine advert for Tamworth one day.
W-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Air
Once Upon A Time
Piano and acoustic guitars immediately signal a more organic and less electronic feel, rather a breath of fresh air! Ex - Radiohead producer Nigel Godrich assists again, maintaining the duo’s distinctive ambling inertia despite the more delicate sources. As the first taste of new album Pocket Symphony it is promising - a lightness of touch informed perhaps by acts featured on their spare and subtle Late Night Tales compilation. Recent recordings with Charlotte Gainsbourgh also utilised Godrich and Jarvis Cocker (who contributes vocally to the forthcoming record) but here the lucid layers of flute and bells are overlain by singing from the boys themselves. Shed of vocoder they sound remarkably girlish and fey yet this resigned fluidity perfectly compliments the song’s eerie nostalgia. A peculiar and timeless transparency pervades – as if a photo from just the other day had already faded in the sun.
F-
Willy Mason
Save Myself
Whereby Willie forensically pares back the flesh on the fetid corpse of today’s body politic, carefully reconstructing the psychic turns taken at various ‘forks in the road’ (Dali does The Scream?) until we arrive here - at the apocalypse. I’ve always thought that if there were one word in the English language left to me it would be ‘HELP!’ - and it seems Willie is coming from the same place. Save Me may be sung in his laconic, matter-of-fact tone but it is a damning indictment of the death of (even the dream of) democracy. Musically, it remains simple – strummed acoustic, bare percussion and some beautiful cello– before morphing into a lover’s plea that drops into the infinite sea of silence before ever being answered. A paradox persists: every man is an island.
G-
New Buffalo
Cheer Me Up Thank You
Layered at the outset like Abbey Road era Beatles with multi-tracked harmonies, Sally Seltmann embellishes an early morning acoustic environment incrementally as bass, keys and some oscillating undertones of unknown origin rise and fall in the mix. At heart, this is a simple song, almost a nursery rhyme – albeit one informed by world-weariness and fragility of a depth no young-un would yet be acquainted with. I actually feel a little sad sharing it. During the course of the song a friend or lover diverts the subject from sombre states, however there’s an underlying sense that such singularities will slowly and surely re-emerge. The privations of the soul in solitude resonate so strongly, while pleasures are noted as they pass. We all get caught. But it’s not as bad as all that. Is it? This, for example, is lovely, just lovely. Thanks.
E
Single of the Week
Bit By Bats
One Six One
Brilliant, tensile, fuzzed-out, quivering wreckage from Adelaide’s most stylin’ male footwear ambassadors (seriously, Owen Eszeki could be a cravat wearing Dorothy in a Baz Luhrmann version of The Wizard Of Oz!). Screams, theremin, thudding drums, staccato overdriven guitars, impossible to follow lyrics about sugar and DJ’s n soul and shit – all sung with delirious abandon and arch humour. A single like All Night (which I reckon will be played on the Triple M’s of the future once a decade or three has allowed its classic qualities to percolate into the monkey brains of programmers) is a fucking hard act to follow, but these fellas have nutted out some flat-chat gear that sounds like Bowie on ice. In fact, I can see washed up celebrities being required to ‘crunk’ to tunes like this while on ice, on ice, in the crap TV of the future! Hey, so there is still something to live for!? All right!!
D+
Single of the Weak
Evanescence
Lithium
God, I hate it when scrawny white chicks try and sing big. This entire ‘tune’ is but a series of painful attempts at some form of majestic authority by a woman who sounds like she’s stuffing an old budgie down her throat with a flat vibrator! Now, in the Famous Spiegeltent that would be a guaranteed sell-out over four continents. But in the realm of the senseless - stadiums – such tawdry acts are merely sell-outs of a more mundane nature: intellectual incontinence for cashed up kids, chewing batteries for breakfast while moaning to anyone that’ll listen that the world won’t. The fact they’re using countless high-tech devices that only bequeath the Earth more toxicity is mere back ground noise. It’s all about ME! You wouldn’t understand!! As for the terror and numbness of psych treatments still employing this heavy metal? There’s not a word of it. IT is just another snappy Goth song title – from hell.
V
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Once Upon A Time
Piano and acoustic guitars immediately signal a more organic and less electronic feel, rather a breath of fresh air! Ex - Radiohead producer Nigel Godrich assists again, maintaining the duo’s distinctive ambling inertia despite the more delicate sources. As the first taste of new album Pocket Symphony it is promising - a lightness of touch informed perhaps by acts featured on their spare and subtle Late Night Tales compilation. Recent recordings with Charlotte Gainsbourgh also utilised Godrich and Jarvis Cocker (who contributes vocally to the forthcoming record) but here the lucid layers of flute and bells are overlain by singing from the boys themselves. Shed of vocoder they sound remarkably girlish and fey yet this resigned fluidity perfectly compliments the song’s eerie nostalgia. A peculiar and timeless transparency pervades – as if a photo from just the other day had already faded in the sun.
F-
Willy Mason
Save Myself
Whereby Willie forensically pares back the flesh on the fetid corpse of today’s body politic, carefully reconstructing the psychic turns taken at various ‘forks in the road’ (Dali does The Scream?) until we arrive here - at the apocalypse. I’ve always thought that if there were one word in the English language left to me it would be ‘HELP!’ - and it seems Willie is coming from the same place. Save Me may be sung in his laconic, matter-of-fact tone but it is a damning indictment of the death of (even the dream of) democracy. Musically, it remains simple – strummed acoustic, bare percussion and some beautiful cello– before morphing into a lover’s plea that drops into the infinite sea of silence before ever being answered. A paradox persists: every man is an island.
G-
New Buffalo
Cheer Me Up Thank You
Layered at the outset like Abbey Road era Beatles with multi-tracked harmonies, Sally Seltmann embellishes an early morning acoustic environment incrementally as bass, keys and some oscillating undertones of unknown origin rise and fall in the mix. At heart, this is a simple song, almost a nursery rhyme – albeit one informed by world-weariness and fragility of a depth no young-un would yet be acquainted with. I actually feel a little sad sharing it. During the course of the song a friend or lover diverts the subject from sombre states, however there’s an underlying sense that such singularities will slowly and surely re-emerge. The privations of the soul in solitude resonate so strongly, while pleasures are noted as they pass. We all get caught. But it’s not as bad as all that. Is it? This, for example, is lovely, just lovely. Thanks.
E
Single of the Week
Bit By Bats
One Six One
Brilliant, tensile, fuzzed-out, quivering wreckage from Adelaide’s most stylin’ male footwear ambassadors (seriously, Owen Eszeki could be a cravat wearing Dorothy in a Baz Luhrmann version of The Wizard Of Oz!). Screams, theremin, thudding drums, staccato overdriven guitars, impossible to follow lyrics about sugar and DJ’s n soul and shit – all sung with delirious abandon and arch humour. A single like All Night (which I reckon will be played on the Triple M’s of the future once a decade or three has allowed its classic qualities to percolate into the monkey brains of programmers) is a fucking hard act to follow, but these fellas have nutted out some flat-chat gear that sounds like Bowie on ice. In fact, I can see washed up celebrities being required to ‘crunk’ to tunes like this while on ice, on ice, in the crap TV of the future! Hey, so there is still something to live for!? All right!!
D+
Single of the Weak
Evanescence
Lithium
God, I hate it when scrawny white chicks try and sing big. This entire ‘tune’ is but a series of painful attempts at some form of majestic authority by a woman who sounds like she’s stuffing an old budgie down her throat with a flat vibrator! Now, in the Famous Spiegeltent that would be a guaranteed sell-out over four continents. But in the realm of the senseless - stadiums – such tawdry acts are merely sell-outs of a more mundane nature: intellectual incontinence for cashed up kids, chewing batteries for breakfast while moaning to anyone that’ll listen that the world won’t. The fact they’re using countless high-tech devices that only bequeath the Earth more toxicity is mere back ground noise. It’s all about ME! You wouldn’t understand!! As for the terror and numbness of psych treatments still employing this heavy metal? There’s not a word of it. IT is just another snappy Goth song title – from hell.
V
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Single Of The Week
Gotan Project
Mi Confusion
Aaah, the tango, there’s a rhythm! The Gotan Project flips the word and the genre on its head. Viscous beats undercut gliding strings and accordion that could be off a fifty year old record, while some serious French wordplay is sprayed over the top by hip-hop MC’s Koxmoz. Precise, radiant, playful, serious: realms (of time, as well as space) are straddled here - with the ease only true men of the world could maintain (the group comprises a Frenchman, an Argentine and a Swiss!). Soon to be performing in our own Opera House (the Concert Hall, no less) immersed in the diaphanous projections for which they are renowned, this augers well for an evening of sophisticated romance.
F
Mach Pelican
She’s A Mod
WTF?! I was expecting noise - you know, these guys are my favourite Ramones inspired Japanese band from Australia – but 41 minutes of excruciating MP3-in-yr-CD-player static was a little unexpected (OK, I did remove it in seconds). My ears are FUCKED. That was like Toecutter covering Guitar Wolf (not a bad idea). It seems Bop Records may have whacked the video clip at the beginning, not the end, of these three tracks. Well, luckily, they’re mainly well worth listening to – LOUD! The title track covers a classic 60’s Kiwi pop hit with hilariously succinct lyrics (“she won’t change anymore”) yelled infectiously over blaring backing that separates guitars and drums left and right old-school style. Next Week is lame and lightweight but Spit The Rock Out (recorded live at the Tote) redeems with straight abandon – guttural glee!
G-
Modest Mouse
Dashboard
A fine subject for a song! Vehicles, light, radios, the passing parade – there’s nothing quite like the feeling of privilege and independence we get driving – our dashboards become altars to luck and change. Given the ‘woulda been, coulda been’ refrain you get the feeling this old girls just hanging in there – c’est la vie! Modest Mouse embellish this hymn to fate with brass and surreal arcing strings over the interlocking layers of syncopated rhythms that would be fresh in the memory of those who witnessed them live recently. Fortunately, the indiscernible shouting that arose from Isaac Brock in his enthusiasm on those occasions is tempered here initially, enabling the song to build power over its course. Internal combustion for summer evenings on the roll.
G+
Pip Branson Corporation
Hot Dollar (EP)
Proudly proclaiming influences from T Rex to Devo and Fugazi on a snazzy silver sticker affixed to some stylin’ retro-active cover design, The Corporation clearly mean business (borne out by the hilarious office portraits within). Opening track Red Robin Heart teases with guitar feels that brings to mind Sonic Youth yet the subsequent numbers seem unique in isolation. And variegated they are – Pip’s elastic vocal tendencies and self-reflexive humour the primary link. My favourite would have to be Monkey Face for its ‘new wave’ synths and schizo characterisations. The Return Of Possessions sincerely touches on the pain of parting with the relics of love while Gutter Times abandons such stasis for a good old rebound binge! Allmyfriendsaretrashbags is clearly the next stage of recovery - i.e. funny. It’s great to hear our lives and locales so playfully employed in a self-produced and released record. Buy now!
G
Single Of The Weak
Confection
Feel It Coming
OMG! Roto-toms! Slap Bass! Digital reverb! This whole thing sounds like it was made by some reject from the remains of the New New Power Generation. Dated doesn’t even begin to describe it. This kind of ‘funk’ is a travesty and a betrayal of all its forebears. The spare and precise use of space, the depth, the passion and imagination, are all missing and replaced instead by a litany of petty irritants symptomatic of white people’s parasitic leaching effect on true spirit over time. Really, this sort of formula was created solely to mass-market to primping, derivative fools – 20 years ago!! Then there’s the lyrics - “ I can’t deny how I feel, oh baby it feels so real, hold me close, don’t let me fall, you and me we got it all, oh I feel it coming, feel it coming, feel it…” etc. Yep. Orgasmic. And oh - so real.
W
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gotan Project
Mi Confusion
Aaah, the tango, there’s a rhythm! The Gotan Project flips the word and the genre on its head. Viscous beats undercut gliding strings and accordion that could be off a fifty year old record, while some serious French wordplay is sprayed over the top by hip-hop MC’s Koxmoz. Precise, radiant, playful, serious: realms (of time, as well as space) are straddled here - with the ease only true men of the world could maintain (the group comprises a Frenchman, an Argentine and a Swiss!). Soon to be performing in our own Opera House (the Concert Hall, no less) immersed in the diaphanous projections for which they are renowned, this augers well for an evening of sophisticated romance.
F
Mach Pelican
She’s A Mod
WTF?! I was expecting noise - you know, these guys are my favourite Ramones inspired Japanese band from Australia – but 41 minutes of excruciating MP3-in-yr-CD-player static was a little unexpected (OK, I did remove it in seconds). My ears are FUCKED. That was like Toecutter covering Guitar Wolf (not a bad idea). It seems Bop Records may have whacked the video clip at the beginning, not the end, of these three tracks. Well, luckily, they’re mainly well worth listening to – LOUD! The title track covers a classic 60’s Kiwi pop hit with hilariously succinct lyrics (“she won’t change anymore”) yelled infectiously over blaring backing that separates guitars and drums left and right old-school style. Next Week is lame and lightweight but Spit The Rock Out (recorded live at the Tote) redeems with straight abandon – guttural glee!
G-
Modest Mouse
Dashboard
A fine subject for a song! Vehicles, light, radios, the passing parade – there’s nothing quite like the feeling of privilege and independence we get driving – our dashboards become altars to luck and change. Given the ‘woulda been, coulda been’ refrain you get the feeling this old girls just hanging in there – c’est la vie! Modest Mouse embellish this hymn to fate with brass and surreal arcing strings over the interlocking layers of syncopated rhythms that would be fresh in the memory of those who witnessed them live recently. Fortunately, the indiscernible shouting that arose from Isaac Brock in his enthusiasm on those occasions is tempered here initially, enabling the song to build power over its course. Internal combustion for summer evenings on the roll.
G+
Pip Branson Corporation
Hot Dollar (EP)
Proudly proclaiming influences from T Rex to Devo and Fugazi on a snazzy silver sticker affixed to some stylin’ retro-active cover design, The Corporation clearly mean business (borne out by the hilarious office portraits within). Opening track Red Robin Heart teases with guitar feels that brings to mind Sonic Youth yet the subsequent numbers seem unique in isolation. And variegated they are – Pip’s elastic vocal tendencies and self-reflexive humour the primary link. My favourite would have to be Monkey Face for its ‘new wave’ synths and schizo characterisations. The Return Of Possessions sincerely touches on the pain of parting with the relics of love while Gutter Times abandons such stasis for a good old rebound binge! Allmyfriendsaretrashbags is clearly the next stage of recovery - i.e. funny. It’s great to hear our lives and locales so playfully employed in a self-produced and released record. Buy now!
G
Single Of The Weak
Confection
Feel It Coming
OMG! Roto-toms! Slap Bass! Digital reverb! This whole thing sounds like it was made by some reject from the remains of the New New Power Generation. Dated doesn’t even begin to describe it. This kind of ‘funk’ is a travesty and a betrayal of all its forebears. The spare and precise use of space, the depth, the passion and imagination, are all missing and replaced instead by a litany of petty irritants symptomatic of white people’s parasitic leaching effect on true spirit over time. Really, this sort of formula was created solely to mass-market to primping, derivative fools – 20 years ago!! Then there’s the lyrics - “ I can’t deny how I feel, oh baby it feels so real, hold me close, don’t let me fall, you and me we got it all, oh I feel it coming, feel it coming, feel it…” etc. Yep. Orgasmic. And oh - so real.
W
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Single of the Week
Grinderman
No Pussy Blues
You bloody beauty! Finally, Nick Cave has knocked up something primal and abased! These Bad Seeds have all-too-rare moments of catharsis and abandon, and it’s been a long time since The Birthday Party and Boys Next Door terrified the world with Cave’s deranged embryonic agonies amidst sheets of utter abrasion. The loathing of that era is now an arch mockery of self - welcome, given the pompous mystique our hero, and his hair, have been cultivating of late. Here, the star of the show – amidst audience adulation – is tortured by an inability to get one individual to put out, regardless of his efforts: sucking in the gut; reading her Yates (not Paula!!); patting her ‘revolting little Chihuahua’. Spiralling from spat vocals over a scattered kit, through Warren Ellis’ oppressed violin, into squalls of white-out guitar from Nick, this is a beast of a piece and a welcome new habitat for wild colonial noise.
D
The Triangles
Meat Blanket
These kids met at a church camp and this surprised no one who heard their high-on-hope debut. I’m talking infectious hippy-dippy pop of an early Sixties nature – not nasty pious churchy group-groaning. That homespun, sunny sound is still present in this first offering from their second album, Seventy-Five Year Plan (great title!), but Meat Blanket (see below) is tainted with more adult doubts - adding depth to the light follies of old. Singer Katherine James has one of those bright, coasting voices that also registers sadness simultaneously - and all the glockenspiels, guitars and sing-a-long backing in the world won’t hide it. A tad more driving than their previous work yet not as flippant as Operator Please, this is an odd piece – name-checking mangos and de facto’s with pleasure and regret by turn. Two less adorned tracks (though one featuring group whistling!) help compensate for artwork as appallingly average as the title.
J
Ned Collette
Hours
Wherein our sombre Southern troubadour, at the behest of Cokemachineglow (man, that name rankles me), covers TV On The Radio’s Hours, doing pretty much what you’d expect – stripping it back to his awkward baritone and acoustic guitar, then gradually embellishing. So, after the spartan Nick Drake template is established, we get twangy Ennio Morricone guitar, organ, muffled drum, and handclaps – creating a funerary march for ‘future youth, summoned to the sky’. It’s a beautiful song, deserving of this focus on its lyrical core; but I have to say I’d like to hear Ned stretch his song-based fare further - both sonically and structurally. This happens more often in his solo guitar work and regularly with City City City, and it’s this very disregard for established patterns that has made TV On The Radio such a revelation, too.
H
The Thought Criminals
Peace, Love and Under Surveillance
So, the legendary Sydney punks of old re-form to play a show, then more, and now this – a five song EP – over 25 years after they split! Though far from lo-fi exponents, it is a little disconcerting to hear the first track sound like a slick Peg number from the early 90’s - chorus crispness akimbo! Their case aint aided by earnest and unimaginative attempts at political incisiveness, either – anyone making the usual references to ‘George and Little Johnny’ is only preaching to the converted (from a tired script) - and whose mind does that change? The final number is similarly laboured, but tracks two and four are better in every way – condensed, propulsive sounds, with great irreverent Australian storytelling then classic shouted refrains. While no mean feat, even the title is clearly a step down from a band that previously released an album called You Only Think Twice.
I
Single of the Weak
The Butterfly Effect
Reach
Oh, glad to note the extra-large G rating displayed on the cover. What does that stand for? Gratuitous? Grandstanding? Gross? See, these guys have a big rep round the traps - for their live shows, particularly. So maybe they’re just shifty overwrought try-hards on CD then? It’s true that the two live tracks recorded at The Metro are infinitely preferable in terms of their rock bite, but even there that is soon subsumed by the same pretentious vocal posturing that unsuccessfully attempts to straddle the entire recent history of strained sincerity in man-voice. Bust a nut, mate! I mean, as their encouraging intercession into the debate over morons at the Big Day Out bearing down on all and sundry with their inappropriate displays of the Union Jack – sorry, OUR FLAG - showed, these guys are thinkers. Aussie, Aussie, Aussie! Boy, boy, boy! Safe as (homogenised) milk and just as BORING!
T
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Grinderman
No Pussy Blues
You bloody beauty! Finally, Nick Cave has knocked up something primal and abased! These Bad Seeds have all-too-rare moments of catharsis and abandon, and it’s been a long time since The Birthday Party and Boys Next Door terrified the world with Cave’s deranged embryonic agonies amidst sheets of utter abrasion. The loathing of that era is now an arch mockery of self - welcome, given the pompous mystique our hero, and his hair, have been cultivating of late. Here, the star of the show – amidst audience adulation – is tortured by an inability to get one individual to put out, regardless of his efforts: sucking in the gut; reading her Yates (not Paula!!); patting her ‘revolting little Chihuahua’. Spiralling from spat vocals over a scattered kit, through Warren Ellis’ oppressed violin, into squalls of white-out guitar from Nick, this is a beast of a piece and a welcome new habitat for wild colonial noise.
D
The Triangles
Meat Blanket
These kids met at a church camp and this surprised no one who heard their high-on-hope debut. I’m talking infectious hippy-dippy pop of an early Sixties nature – not nasty pious churchy group-groaning. That homespun, sunny sound is still present in this first offering from their second album, Seventy-Five Year Plan (great title!), but Meat Blanket (see below) is tainted with more adult doubts - adding depth to the light follies of old. Singer Katherine James has one of those bright, coasting voices that also registers sadness simultaneously - and all the glockenspiels, guitars and sing-a-long backing in the world won’t hide it. A tad more driving than their previous work yet not as flippant as Operator Please, this is an odd piece – name-checking mangos and de facto’s with pleasure and regret by turn. Two less adorned tracks (though one featuring group whistling!) help compensate for artwork as appallingly average as the title.
J
Ned Collette
Hours
Wherein our sombre Southern troubadour, at the behest of Cokemachineglow (man, that name rankles me), covers TV On The Radio’s Hours, doing pretty much what you’d expect – stripping it back to his awkward baritone and acoustic guitar, then gradually embellishing. So, after the spartan Nick Drake template is established, we get twangy Ennio Morricone guitar, organ, muffled drum, and handclaps – creating a funerary march for ‘future youth, summoned to the sky’. It’s a beautiful song, deserving of this focus on its lyrical core; but I have to say I’d like to hear Ned stretch his song-based fare further - both sonically and structurally. This happens more often in his solo guitar work and regularly with City City City, and it’s this very disregard for established patterns that has made TV On The Radio such a revelation, too.
H
The Thought Criminals
Peace, Love and Under Surveillance
So, the legendary Sydney punks of old re-form to play a show, then more, and now this – a five song EP – over 25 years after they split! Though far from lo-fi exponents, it is a little disconcerting to hear the first track sound like a slick Peg number from the early 90’s - chorus crispness akimbo! Their case aint aided by earnest and unimaginative attempts at political incisiveness, either – anyone making the usual references to ‘George and Little Johnny’ is only preaching to the converted (from a tired script) - and whose mind does that change? The final number is similarly laboured, but tracks two and four are better in every way – condensed, propulsive sounds, with great irreverent Australian storytelling then classic shouted refrains. While no mean feat, even the title is clearly a step down from a band that previously released an album called You Only Think Twice.
I
Single of the Weak
The Butterfly Effect
Reach
Oh, glad to note the extra-large G rating displayed on the cover. What does that stand for? Gratuitous? Grandstanding? Gross? See, these guys have a big rep round the traps - for their live shows, particularly. So maybe they’re just shifty overwrought try-hards on CD then? It’s true that the two live tracks recorded at The Metro are infinitely preferable in terms of their rock bite, but even there that is soon subsumed by the same pretentious vocal posturing that unsuccessfully attempts to straddle the entire recent history of strained sincerity in man-voice. Bust a nut, mate! I mean, as their encouraging intercession into the debate over morons at the Big Day Out bearing down on all and sundry with their inappropriate displays of the Union Jack – sorry, OUR FLAG - showed, these guys are thinkers. Aussie, Aussie, Aussie! Boy, boy, boy! Safe as (homogenised) milk and just as BORING!
T
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Flamingo Crash
Toys/Shoot The Lights Out
Word is building about this Brissy mob and the hybrid sound they’ve down ‘pat’ (collective noun for a group of flamingos – derr!). Toys rocks reasonably, yet is still heavily populated by falsetto vocal garnishes and squealing analogue synths. Structurally it roams all over – a prog breakdown leads into an entirely new melody and harmonies a minute from the end. Shoot The Lights Out, meanwhile, comes across like Bow Wow Wow or Adam and the Ants at times - huge swathes of phonetic back-ups over a heavy percussive base – even as swish keyboards and vocals bring to mind homespun Scissor Sisters. Producer Magoo has polished this within an inch of its life and brought out the energy of such invention nicely. While the XTC/Talking Heads references some press have been recycling are far from apt as yet, Flamingo Crash are at least endeavouring to bring a little more complexity to the flightless fucks of fad-dom.
K+
Single of the Week
Pop Levi
Sugar Assault Me Now
Notwithstanding its atrocious title, this is a kicking tune. Handclaps and compressed kit combine with chugging guitars and Levi’s crazy wail to make for a 50’s juke-joint R&B get-down that’s got-up with mad methamphetamine zeal. A child prodigy who was playing piano at three, singing gospel at seven, and collecting records at nine (he also founded Super Numeri and played bass for Ladytron), this man evidently has the chops to warrant Ninja Tune setting up a label – Counter – just for him! Two other mixes offer choppy drums for dancing on the one hand, and less rhythm on the other, but the original (Part 1) has the balance spot on. Elsewhere there’s everything from late 70’s balladry on From The Day That You Were Born, to wild Bolanesque fuzz-soul on Blue Honey, to the guitar/harp/stomp-box folk-blues of Cyan Moan (reflecting the mixing of Davendra Banhardt’s producer Thom Monahan). Sweet!
E+
Kristin Hersh
In Shock
I still can’t forget how thrilling and terrifying it was to have Kristin look right through my eyes and out the back of my head while she channelled the voices in hers at The Lansdowne many years ago. In Shock features that same rasping, sliding, haunted drawl – you can hear her eyes rolling back as beautiful violins twin with distorting guitars and bear up her ailing cry. Three non-album tracks are starker still – acoustics replace the electrics as violas curl beside eerie keyboards, bowed bass and even banjo. All are powerful and precise – Windowpane’s domestic claustrophobia particularly frightening. Strangely, even Wikipedia neglects to mention the bi-polar disorder that Kristin admitted suffering from at around the time the Throwing Muses broke up. Her songs are clearly the products of a mental breadth that few experience. As she has said, “if I don’t turn ideas into songs, they can get stuck in me and make me sick”.
F
Lupe Fiasco
Daydreamin’
A brilliant piece of summer in the city storytelling by recent visitor Lupe, from the static encrusted intro to the breathy vocals and spacey synth plunges. His light yet concise flows are well suited to this subject matter – drawing a series of vignettes that span an urban diorama ranging from the abject to the sublime. Hip-hop really comes into its own when it comes to such overviews – it’s as if we’re elevated out of specificity and are at liberty to witness things in all their strange simultaneity. The only drawback is guest vocalist Jill Scott’s overblown gospel-style chorus – her other flourishes are complementary but the song just isn’t calling for this kind of self-aggrandisement. Additional numbers stretch polarity further - And He Gets The Girl showcase’s Lupe’s self-deprecating style with comic nerdplay, while The Music To A Drive-By sees saturated strings pulling pushers under. Live and deadly.
E-
Single of the Weak
Incubus
Dig
Speaking of overblown, here we have an ‘emotive’ ‘song’ from yesterdays zeroes. Brandon Boyd is an adornment to inanity and self-importance. His pious lyrics (embellished with preposterous news-reader phrasing) and strident attempts to soar amount to little more than third-hand-relief for socially retarded rich kids. Incubus’ desperate groping for grandeur continues to falter hilariously here. Whilst bemoaning the difficulties of ego-management, Boyd even resorts to bizarre attempts at charismatic scat-vocal stabs – “ugh, ugh”, he says, for no reason, in the middle of nowhere, before returning us to standard programming. It’ll take more than an impotent reversed guitar solo to save the likes of this – “We all have someone that digs at us, at least we dig each other; so when sickness turns my ego up, I know you’ll act as a clever medicine”. Well, I’m no PhDJ, but perhaps a herbal remedy might be in order? Say…Hemlock? Dig it, man!
U
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Toys/Shoot The Lights Out
Word is building about this Brissy mob and the hybrid sound they’ve down ‘pat’ (collective noun for a group of flamingos – derr!). Toys rocks reasonably, yet is still heavily populated by falsetto vocal garnishes and squealing analogue synths. Structurally it roams all over – a prog breakdown leads into an entirely new melody and harmonies a minute from the end. Shoot The Lights Out, meanwhile, comes across like Bow Wow Wow or Adam and the Ants at times - huge swathes of phonetic back-ups over a heavy percussive base – even as swish keyboards and vocals bring to mind homespun Scissor Sisters. Producer Magoo has polished this within an inch of its life and brought out the energy of such invention nicely. While the XTC/Talking Heads references some press have been recycling are far from apt as yet, Flamingo Crash are at least endeavouring to bring a little more complexity to the flightless fucks of fad-dom.
K+
Single of the Week
Pop Levi
Sugar Assault Me Now
Notwithstanding its atrocious title, this is a kicking tune. Handclaps and compressed kit combine with chugging guitars and Levi’s crazy wail to make for a 50’s juke-joint R&B get-down that’s got-up with mad methamphetamine zeal. A child prodigy who was playing piano at three, singing gospel at seven, and collecting records at nine (he also founded Super Numeri and played bass for Ladytron), this man evidently has the chops to warrant Ninja Tune setting up a label – Counter – just for him! Two other mixes offer choppy drums for dancing on the one hand, and less rhythm on the other, but the original (Part 1) has the balance spot on. Elsewhere there’s everything from late 70’s balladry on From The Day That You Were Born, to wild Bolanesque fuzz-soul on Blue Honey, to the guitar/harp/stomp-box folk-blues of Cyan Moan (reflecting the mixing of Davendra Banhardt’s producer Thom Monahan). Sweet!
E+
Kristin Hersh
In Shock
I still can’t forget how thrilling and terrifying it was to have Kristin look right through my eyes and out the back of my head while she channelled the voices in hers at The Lansdowne many years ago. In Shock features that same rasping, sliding, haunted drawl – you can hear her eyes rolling back as beautiful violins twin with distorting guitars and bear up her ailing cry. Three non-album tracks are starker still – acoustics replace the electrics as violas curl beside eerie keyboards, bowed bass and even banjo. All are powerful and precise – Windowpane’s domestic claustrophobia particularly frightening. Strangely, even Wikipedia neglects to mention the bi-polar disorder that Kristin admitted suffering from at around the time the Throwing Muses broke up. Her songs are clearly the products of a mental breadth that few experience. As she has said, “if I don’t turn ideas into songs, they can get stuck in me and make me sick”.
F
Lupe Fiasco
Daydreamin’
A brilliant piece of summer in the city storytelling by recent visitor Lupe, from the static encrusted intro to the breathy vocals and spacey synth plunges. His light yet concise flows are well suited to this subject matter – drawing a series of vignettes that span an urban diorama ranging from the abject to the sublime. Hip-hop really comes into its own when it comes to such overviews – it’s as if we’re elevated out of specificity and are at liberty to witness things in all their strange simultaneity. The only drawback is guest vocalist Jill Scott’s overblown gospel-style chorus – her other flourishes are complementary but the song just isn’t calling for this kind of self-aggrandisement. Additional numbers stretch polarity further - And He Gets The Girl showcase’s Lupe’s self-deprecating style with comic nerdplay, while The Music To A Drive-By sees saturated strings pulling pushers under. Live and deadly.
E-
Single of the Weak
Incubus
Dig
Speaking of overblown, here we have an ‘emotive’ ‘song’ from yesterdays zeroes. Brandon Boyd is an adornment to inanity and self-importance. His pious lyrics (embellished with preposterous news-reader phrasing) and strident attempts to soar amount to little more than third-hand-relief for socially retarded rich kids. Incubus’ desperate groping for grandeur continues to falter hilariously here. Whilst bemoaning the difficulties of ego-management, Boyd even resorts to bizarre attempts at charismatic scat-vocal stabs – “ugh, ugh”, he says, for no reason, in the middle of nowhere, before returning us to standard programming. It’ll take more than an impotent reversed guitar solo to save the likes of this – “We all have someone that digs at us, at least we dig each other; so when sickness turns my ego up, I know you’ll act as a clever medicine”. Well, I’m no PhDJ, but perhaps a herbal remedy might be in order? Say…Hemlock? Dig it, man!
U
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Single Of The Week
The Stooges
My Idea Of Fun
Far out! Reviewing the first Stooges single in 33 years is not a responsibility I take lightly. I’m sure the vast majority of folks reading this would share a strange mix of foreboding and hope. So let’s just hit it. First impressions are good: harsh, basic Steve Albini production - sheer stereo separating droning, simplistic guitars awash in distortion; a weird, thin, straining-for-pitch vocal; timely and timeless misanthropic lyrics (“my idea of fun – is killing everyone”). So far, so great. Add a twisted junkie stumble of a solo amongst stabs of staccato noise; then fleshed-out thematics in the ‘theatre’ of war; before crashing, suddenly, into silence - and after three baffling minutes you know you’ve got a classic. Even the offhand treatment of Iggy’s iconic baritone only lends this song greater authority. Pre-dating punk and shaming the future still. KILL
B-
The Shins
Turn On Me
Well, I’d like to – belated, saturated fan-dom; one-man-‘band’; promo overkill; licensing a song to McDonalds – plenty of ammo there. Admittedly they’re fairly petty snipes; bar the last, perhaps - though I’ve not heard anyone turn on Melanie Horsnell locally yet for her efforts on that foul McCafe mini-me-yuppie-chest-trapdoor ad. It’s just the fawning of the indie hordes is so cloying when it comes to these guys. Their shows at the Metro were like a religious revival for love-struck nerds despite average arrangements and feeble vocals. Such things don’t matter when everyone is singing along in their heads. But I can’t sledge this song ‘cos it’s full of all the light and intricate trajectories that render The Shins recorded work so evocative and resonant – pacing, melody, meaning – all humble and fine, so the song shines. Fair go!
F-
Bachelor Of Arts
Bang Bang Boom Boom
Well, well, this is curious - Copy 29 of what seems to be a pressing of only 100 on Melbourne label EXO Records. The onomatopoeic title track is a mix of deadpan Ian Curtis style vocals over big dry beats and occasional aberrant ascensions.
Track 2 is an ‘anti-mix’ of Dazed And Confused (no clue as to what that is – definitely not Led Zep!) - an instrumental number whose most interesting feature is a repeated high note over the rambling rest. Finally there’s They’re There which recalls The Virgin Prunes abandoned castle recordings - its two-word refrain haunting in ambiguous repetition as relics of synthesisers plead weakly for mercy beneath. Only last week the venerable Dame Edna Everage cattily declaimed, ”A single girl should get out of Sydney as soon as possible,” so I shall make these rare bachelors welcome when they visit soon – even if they are from the school of soft knocks!
H+
The Superimposers
I wait For You
Some sumptuous filtered wonky stylings here on 7” vinyl, no less! Like Hood or The Beta Band there’s a humane pulse underlying the layers of gentle drumming, organ, and effects. It’s pleasing to hear a vocal that hasn’t been airbrushed into irrelevance, too. I’ve never come across these fellas before (though, incredibly one of the two is named Miles Copeland, and he is neither the founder of I.R.S. Records nor the CIA agent that fathered him (and Stewart - The Police drummer) (those names make sense now?!?)) so I can’t imagine what the original is like, but this is credited as the ‘Boston Rodriguez Re-screw Radio Edit’. In fact, along with Wurlitzer, strings and such, you’ll also find credits for ‘GreenHouse FX, hallucinations, pipe smoking and basic Voodoo confusion’ – that’s the spirit! B-side Superimposters begins with twee classical piano then hits a bizarre jungle/exotica tip with congas akimbo in a jaunty jive. I like!
E-
Single Of The Weak
Weird Al Yankovic
Canadian Idiot
Oh, brilliant! Which genius at Sony/BMG came up with the bright idea of releasing a flaccid parody of North American stereotypes to coincide with Weird Al’s tour here?!? Sure, we’re living in a global economy saturated with U.S. culture and yes, there are many vaunted similarities between Canada and Australia socially. But are we seriously likely to get bad gags about hockey, health care and the way their money looks? Not so long ago Al had Single Of The Week for his hilarious gangsta parody White And Nerdy, and some of the other tracks on the album will split yr sides. Putting this out as a single smacks of the very cultural imperialism he is attempting to satirise. Damn, I wish I’d played it at my Canadian friend’s wedding, though. Was it fear or forgetfulness? I’ll never know how well they can take a (lame) joke.
N
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Stooges
My Idea Of Fun
Far out! Reviewing the first Stooges single in 33 years is not a responsibility I take lightly. I’m sure the vast majority of folks reading this would share a strange mix of foreboding and hope. So let’s just hit it. First impressions are good: harsh, basic Steve Albini production - sheer stereo separating droning, simplistic guitars awash in distortion; a weird, thin, straining-for-pitch vocal; timely and timeless misanthropic lyrics (“my idea of fun – is killing everyone”). So far, so great. Add a twisted junkie stumble of a solo amongst stabs of staccato noise; then fleshed-out thematics in the ‘theatre’ of war; before crashing, suddenly, into silence - and after three baffling minutes you know you’ve got a classic. Even the offhand treatment of Iggy’s iconic baritone only lends this song greater authority. Pre-dating punk and shaming the future still. KILL
B-
The Shins
Turn On Me
Well, I’d like to – belated, saturated fan-dom; one-man-‘band’; promo overkill; licensing a song to McDonalds – plenty of ammo there. Admittedly they’re fairly petty snipes; bar the last, perhaps - though I’ve not heard anyone turn on Melanie Horsnell locally yet for her efforts on that foul McCafe mini-me-yuppie-chest-trapdoor ad. It’s just the fawning of the indie hordes is so cloying when it comes to these guys. Their shows at the Metro were like a religious revival for love-struck nerds despite average arrangements and feeble vocals. Such things don’t matter when everyone is singing along in their heads. But I can’t sledge this song ‘cos it’s full of all the light and intricate trajectories that render The Shins recorded work so evocative and resonant – pacing, melody, meaning – all humble and fine, so the song shines. Fair go!
F-
Bachelor Of Arts
Bang Bang Boom Boom
Well, well, this is curious - Copy 29 of what seems to be a pressing of only 100 on Melbourne label EXO Records. The onomatopoeic title track is a mix of deadpan Ian Curtis style vocals over big dry beats and occasional aberrant ascensions.
Track 2 is an ‘anti-mix’ of Dazed And Confused (no clue as to what that is – definitely not Led Zep!) - an instrumental number whose most interesting feature is a repeated high note over the rambling rest. Finally there’s They’re There which recalls The Virgin Prunes abandoned castle recordings - its two-word refrain haunting in ambiguous repetition as relics of synthesisers plead weakly for mercy beneath. Only last week the venerable Dame Edna Everage cattily declaimed, ”A single girl should get out of Sydney as soon as possible,” so I shall make these rare bachelors welcome when they visit soon – even if they are from the school of soft knocks!
H+
The Superimposers
I wait For You
Some sumptuous filtered wonky stylings here on 7” vinyl, no less! Like Hood or The Beta Band there’s a humane pulse underlying the layers of gentle drumming, organ, and effects. It’s pleasing to hear a vocal that hasn’t been airbrushed into irrelevance, too. I’ve never come across these fellas before (though, incredibly one of the two is named Miles Copeland, and he is neither the founder of I.R.S. Records nor the CIA agent that fathered him (and Stewart - The Police drummer) (those names make sense now?!?)) so I can’t imagine what the original is like, but this is credited as the ‘Boston Rodriguez Re-screw Radio Edit’. In fact, along with Wurlitzer, strings and such, you’ll also find credits for ‘GreenHouse FX, hallucinations, pipe smoking and basic Voodoo confusion’ – that’s the spirit! B-side Superimposters begins with twee classical piano then hits a bizarre jungle/exotica tip with congas akimbo in a jaunty jive. I like!
E-
Single Of The Weak
Weird Al Yankovic
Canadian Idiot
Oh, brilliant! Which genius at Sony/BMG came up with the bright idea of releasing a flaccid parody of North American stereotypes to coincide with Weird Al’s tour here?!? Sure, we’re living in a global economy saturated with U.S. culture and yes, there are many vaunted similarities between Canada and Australia socially. But are we seriously likely to get bad gags about hockey, health care and the way their money looks? Not so long ago Al had Single Of The Week for his hilarious gangsta parody White And Nerdy, and some of the other tracks on the album will split yr sides. Putting this out as a single smacks of the very cultural imperialism he is attempting to satirise. Damn, I wish I’d played it at my Canadian friend’s wedding, though. Was it fear or forgetfulness? I’ll never know how well they can take a (lame) joke.
N
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Single of the Weak
Gomez
girlshapedlovedrug
Poor Gomez - lovely fellows, been through the industry wringer, were quite good once, etc. Really, how often can they continue recycling colonial tours and playing to beery expats while demand at home wanes to withering? Despite a sweet melody and a choice kraut/psych breakdown, all up this is as mediocre as the title suggests. Perhaps the Dandy’s could have gotten away with it - but only because their fans are equally fossilised and brainwashed overly forgiving fools. The dated psychedelia angle is reinforced further by the cover art from Australia’s ubiquitous Love Police and sealed with a geriatric rendering of The Stones tune I’m Free (previously popularised by Manchester’s The Soup Dragons in another drug-fucked era altogether). Its flat, unconvincing tone, and limp pace come across like the jaded ramblings of an old hippy reminiscing about how much better shit was in their day. Bullshit, maybe…
P
Little Britain
I’m Gay
Dashing my cynical expectations that their tour would be little more than a cash-in, the diabolical duo of Matt Lucas and David Walliams absolutely wowed all who witnessed them through creative staging and an innate aim in both spontaneous and scripted scenes live. The most impressive feats were offstage though, as Walliams ravaged various women, performed long-distance ocean swims, and even combined the two with iron woman Candace Falzon - halfway between Bronte and Bondi! Such heterosexual behaviour is compensated for somewhat by Lucas’ reciting a retinue of terms for the turned here but I’ve gotta say the programmatic backing is pretty gay – even for this time of the year! Pass the amyl! (I’ve a terrible headache).
P+
The Drones
Work For Me
“Are ya rollin’?” says Gareth to the engineer in their Tassie barn, and the brutally spare beats begin from Mike. Dry, dissonant guitars spider rustily over elementary bass as Fiona takes the lead vocally with a pale, frail entreaty to do as the title says. Her ambivalence to power apparent, the boys behind - backs to the wall - meekly echo her words. Then a string section captures perfectly the balance between striving, hopelessness and pain with a yearning, defeated arrangement - and it’s back to the grind. I suppose now is as good a time as any to mourn the barely reported sacking of second guitarist Rui Pereira, whose sly good-nature and tangled attack were such a perfect foil for Liddiard. Dan Luscombe is an accomplished replacement, but I’ve a fear one of our greatest bands will never have quite the same gang-powered tension again.
E-
Single Of The Week
Spoonbill
Half A Lamington / Low and Easy
For me and me mate Blobby, these guys were the highlight of the entire Peats Ridge Festival. One listen to this and you’ll hear why! Veering wildly from Tummy Touch beats type fare, through jazz stabs, into percussive exotica, and finally disco, Half A Lamington is held together with Spoonbills trademark folkloristic Australian samples. Low and Easy, for example, hangs off what sounds like an out of work Hey Hey It’s Saturday announcer moonlighting in porn voiceovers, while deeper beats dissemble beneath. Both are off soon to be released album Nestegg, while non-album track Cocoon Part 4 shows there’s plenty more where that came from. Jim Moynihan is a right renaissance man – making bizarre new instruments and improvising at festivals such as the Now Now; driving his van round Melbourne projecting amazing images onto buildings and installing sounds in public places. Sonically this is jaunty genius; now see ‘em live and be bedazzled.
D+
Amon Tobin
Bloodstone
The first taste of Ninja master Tobin’s found-sound project and it’s exquisite from the outset. While he relented from his initial Herbert-like dogme and recorded some instruments to accompany the field recordings, telling the difference between the two is nigh on impossible. Bloodstone opens with Middle Eastern string feels scattered over a pantheon of aural eruptions until huge slow beats emerge to anchor this floating world. Second track Esther’s accelerates the BPM and surrounds the rhythm with what sounds like motorbike engines and doctored waters. Finally, Here Comes The Moon Man stretches yr head even further with bowed double bass, religious trinkets and a monster kick that disappears as suddenly as it arises. All pieces are unlike anything I’ve heard before. Deriving surprise from ‘dance’ music can be like trying to get blood from a stone these days so thank the gods there are still bold souls re-imagining the palette of beat-based ‘instrumentals’.
D-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gomez
girlshapedlovedrug
Poor Gomez - lovely fellows, been through the industry wringer, were quite good once, etc. Really, how often can they continue recycling colonial tours and playing to beery expats while demand at home wanes to withering? Despite a sweet melody and a choice kraut/psych breakdown, all up this is as mediocre as the title suggests. Perhaps the Dandy’s could have gotten away with it - but only because their fans are equally fossilised and brainwashed overly forgiving fools. The dated psychedelia angle is reinforced further by the cover art from Australia’s ubiquitous Love Police and sealed with a geriatric rendering of The Stones tune I’m Free (previously popularised by Manchester’s The Soup Dragons in another drug-fucked era altogether). Its flat, unconvincing tone, and limp pace come across like the jaded ramblings of an old hippy reminiscing about how much better shit was in their day. Bullshit, maybe…
P
Little Britain
I’m Gay
Dashing my cynical expectations that their tour would be little more than a cash-in, the diabolical duo of Matt Lucas and David Walliams absolutely wowed all who witnessed them through creative staging and an innate aim in both spontaneous and scripted scenes live. The most impressive feats were offstage though, as Walliams ravaged various women, performed long-distance ocean swims, and even combined the two with iron woman Candace Falzon - halfway between Bronte and Bondi! Such heterosexual behaviour is compensated for somewhat by Lucas’ reciting a retinue of terms for the turned here but I’ve gotta say the programmatic backing is pretty gay – even for this time of the year! Pass the amyl! (I’ve a terrible headache).
P+
The Drones
Work For Me
“Are ya rollin’?” says Gareth to the engineer in their Tassie barn, and the brutally spare beats begin from Mike. Dry, dissonant guitars spider rustily over elementary bass as Fiona takes the lead vocally with a pale, frail entreaty to do as the title says. Her ambivalence to power apparent, the boys behind - backs to the wall - meekly echo her words. Then a string section captures perfectly the balance between striving, hopelessness and pain with a yearning, defeated arrangement - and it’s back to the grind. I suppose now is as good a time as any to mourn the barely reported sacking of second guitarist Rui Pereira, whose sly good-nature and tangled attack were such a perfect foil for Liddiard. Dan Luscombe is an accomplished replacement, but I’ve a fear one of our greatest bands will never have quite the same gang-powered tension again.
E-
Single Of The Week
Spoonbill
Half A Lamington / Low and Easy
For me and me mate Blobby, these guys were the highlight of the entire Peats Ridge Festival. One listen to this and you’ll hear why! Veering wildly from Tummy Touch beats type fare, through jazz stabs, into percussive exotica, and finally disco, Half A Lamington is held together with Spoonbills trademark folkloristic Australian samples. Low and Easy, for example, hangs off what sounds like an out of work Hey Hey It’s Saturday announcer moonlighting in porn voiceovers, while deeper beats dissemble beneath. Both are off soon to be released album Nestegg, while non-album track Cocoon Part 4 shows there’s plenty more where that came from. Jim Moynihan is a right renaissance man – making bizarre new instruments and improvising at festivals such as the Now Now; driving his van round Melbourne projecting amazing images onto buildings and installing sounds in public places. Sonically this is jaunty genius; now see ‘em live and be bedazzled.
D+
Amon Tobin
Bloodstone
The first taste of Ninja master Tobin’s found-sound project and it’s exquisite from the outset. While he relented from his initial Herbert-like dogme and recorded some instruments to accompany the field recordings, telling the difference between the two is nigh on impossible. Bloodstone opens with Middle Eastern string feels scattered over a pantheon of aural eruptions until huge slow beats emerge to anchor this floating world. Second track Esther’s accelerates the BPM and surrounds the rhythm with what sounds like motorbike engines and doctored waters. Finally, Here Comes The Moon Man stretches yr head even further with bowed double bass, religious trinkets and a monster kick that disappears as suddenly as it arises. All pieces are unlike anything I’ve heard before. Deriving surprise from ‘dance’ music can be like trying to get blood from a stone these days so thank the gods there are still bold souls re-imagining the palette of beat-based ‘instrumentals’.
D-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Single of the Week
Holly Throsby
Under The Town (Remixes)
I adore the original version of this song – its heartrending fragility and pining wist are distillations of Holly’s unique nature and the shared, unspeakable, aches those who’ve lost loved ones know all too well. Under The Town is an astonishing and intense tribute to love and companionship - attributes sadly lacking in human affairs. Purity, simplicity and trust underpin the co-operative relationships of people and dogs: enabling a playfulness, and peacefulness, that is wonderfully restorative – essential in this era of shifty allegiance and immoral panic. Perhaps because of the narrative’s emotional enormity, both remixes are oblique. Mountains In The Sky offer beautiful strings while J Walker tips a yearning dub into Indian territory; both reducing the text to a few obtuse refrains. The mixes are subtle, evocative, and redolent with an overflow of the personal - characteristics of grief, longing….and love.
E+
Silverchair
Straight Lines
Co-written by The Presets’ Julian Hamilton and coming across like a mid-70’s American FM anthem, this power ballad opens with pious piano and vocal tones before acquiring the obligatory driving chorus courtesy of shouted singing, big guitars, drums, keys and key-changes. The melody is strong enough to let them get away with it, but the template sure bangs another nail in the coffin of youth. Next track All Across The World goes even further back - to a 60’s Broadway musical realm. Daniel John’s tangled trajectory strains Iota-like for grandeur, offsetting the obvious derivatives in the orchestral arrangement. Yet this piece – like so much of Silverchair’s work – fails to achieve the suspension of disbelief necessary to transcend mere method, and again we are marvelling only at the tacky audacity of the apparatus. As their faithfully mundane live (at Homebake) cover of The Oils Don’t Wanna Be The One shows, nothing substitutes for a good song.
O-
Nine Inch Nails
Survivalism
Initially petrified that his muse would abandon him since getting off the gear, Trent Reznor’s actually been in relatively good form. Now, using that notorious ex-junkie nervous energy, he’s cobbled together what he proudly proclaims is a ‘concept’ album. Actually admitting as much is revolutionary given artists defensive habit of mealy-mouthed mincing with other terms (Bloc Party), or outright denial - despite evident thematic unity - (Paul McCartney, Jethro Tull). This, our first taste of the forthcoming Year Zero, bodes reasonably well. The programming is tight and quirky, sick and slight pulses bubbling awkwardly out of serrated guitar swamps, Trent retreating into mumbled whispers then blistering attack by turn. It’s not up there with his best work but such consistent and distinctive application is rare amongst the dinosaurs of music, so sobriety may even have the odd benefit! Check back post-apocalypse (drugs would be harder to score then, wouldn’t they?!?).
J-
The Flairz
Bullseye (EP)
You just don’t expect a bunch of pre-teens to sound this HUGE – even if two are the sons of infamous Stems guitarist Dom Mariani. Dad has produced this slab of garage rock action and it’s cookin’! The pubescent vocal pitch is a hysterical counterpoint to the heavy ZZ Top style backing, but it serves to reinforce the delirious, poppy, Sixties-trash heritage the band has grown up with – the vocals (by the boys) sounding like girl-groups from both back in the day and also current incarnations like The Donnas. Presently over in Texas for the South By South-West shenanigan, it’s hard to imagine how these guys can fail to kill it if they stick it out. Bullseye and Speakerbox are top songs; How I Live is worth it for the rock irony of the ‘I Love My Dad’ lyrics; and Dead Eye Dan is an instrumental blues bust-up with crazy lead larks. Too easy!
H
Single of the Weak
Ciara
Like A Boy
Standard U.S. R&B - complete with the sweeping synth washes that serve to activate bodily memories of ecstasy abuse in devout, 2DAY- FM listening secretaries - making that trip to the salon in the Mazda a quasi-religious experience! A string loop begins then is overlain with every generic, emotive, pseudo-sexual, vocal warble imaginable and – oooh, aaah, whoa-oa-aah-oa-oa-aaah-ah – you get to thinking (STOP!) – yeah: boys are always mean and sneaky, how’d they like it if I treated them that way? So indignant do you feel in yr solidarity with Ciara Princess Harris at this point that any awareness of the danger in subscribing to such stereotypical reductions is way beyond your Ken. You’ll show him! Yep, irony’s just an annoying word you don’t get, so…… while he’s swallowing Cialis and hooking up with some garden-variety HOE, yr driving madly singing the words of a woman whose hero is Mickey Mouse. Just like a boy.
P+
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Holly Throsby
Under The Town (Remixes)
I adore the original version of this song – its heartrending fragility and pining wist are distillations of Holly’s unique nature and the shared, unspeakable, aches those who’ve lost loved ones know all too well. Under The Town is an astonishing and intense tribute to love and companionship - attributes sadly lacking in human affairs. Purity, simplicity and trust underpin the co-operative relationships of people and dogs: enabling a playfulness, and peacefulness, that is wonderfully restorative – essential in this era of shifty allegiance and immoral panic. Perhaps because of the narrative’s emotional enormity, both remixes are oblique. Mountains In The Sky offer beautiful strings while J Walker tips a yearning dub into Indian territory; both reducing the text to a few obtuse refrains. The mixes are subtle, evocative, and redolent with an overflow of the personal - characteristics of grief, longing….and love.
E+
Silverchair
Straight Lines
Co-written by The Presets’ Julian Hamilton and coming across like a mid-70’s American FM anthem, this power ballad opens with pious piano and vocal tones before acquiring the obligatory driving chorus courtesy of shouted singing, big guitars, drums, keys and key-changes. The melody is strong enough to let them get away with it, but the template sure bangs another nail in the coffin of youth. Next track All Across The World goes even further back - to a 60’s Broadway musical realm. Daniel John’s tangled trajectory strains Iota-like for grandeur, offsetting the obvious derivatives in the orchestral arrangement. Yet this piece – like so much of Silverchair’s work – fails to achieve the suspension of disbelief necessary to transcend mere method, and again we are marvelling only at the tacky audacity of the apparatus. As their faithfully mundane live (at Homebake) cover of The Oils Don’t Wanna Be The One shows, nothing substitutes for a good song.
O-
Nine Inch Nails
Survivalism
Initially petrified that his muse would abandon him since getting off the gear, Trent Reznor’s actually been in relatively good form. Now, using that notorious ex-junkie nervous energy, he’s cobbled together what he proudly proclaims is a ‘concept’ album. Actually admitting as much is revolutionary given artists defensive habit of mealy-mouthed mincing with other terms (Bloc Party), or outright denial - despite evident thematic unity - (Paul McCartney, Jethro Tull). This, our first taste of the forthcoming Year Zero, bodes reasonably well. The programming is tight and quirky, sick and slight pulses bubbling awkwardly out of serrated guitar swamps, Trent retreating into mumbled whispers then blistering attack by turn. It’s not up there with his best work but such consistent and distinctive application is rare amongst the dinosaurs of music, so sobriety may even have the odd benefit! Check back post-apocalypse (drugs would be harder to score then, wouldn’t they?!?).
J-
The Flairz
Bullseye (EP)
You just don’t expect a bunch of pre-teens to sound this HUGE – even if two are the sons of infamous Stems guitarist Dom Mariani. Dad has produced this slab of garage rock action and it’s cookin’! The pubescent vocal pitch is a hysterical counterpoint to the heavy ZZ Top style backing, but it serves to reinforce the delirious, poppy, Sixties-trash heritage the band has grown up with – the vocals (by the boys) sounding like girl-groups from both back in the day and also current incarnations like The Donnas. Presently over in Texas for the South By South-West shenanigan, it’s hard to imagine how these guys can fail to kill it if they stick it out. Bullseye and Speakerbox are top songs; How I Live is worth it for the rock irony of the ‘I Love My Dad’ lyrics; and Dead Eye Dan is an instrumental blues bust-up with crazy lead larks. Too easy!
H
Single of the Weak
Ciara
Like A Boy
Standard U.S. R&B - complete with the sweeping synth washes that serve to activate bodily memories of ecstasy abuse in devout, 2DAY- FM listening secretaries - making that trip to the salon in the Mazda a quasi-religious experience! A string loop begins then is overlain with every generic, emotive, pseudo-sexual, vocal warble imaginable and – oooh, aaah, whoa-oa-aah-oa-oa-aaah-ah – you get to thinking (STOP!) – yeah: boys are always mean and sneaky, how’d they like it if I treated them that way? So indignant do you feel in yr solidarity with Ciara Princess Harris at this point that any awareness of the danger in subscribing to such stereotypical reductions is way beyond your Ken. You’ll show him! Yep, irony’s just an annoying word you don’t get, so…… while he’s swallowing Cialis and hooking up with some garden-variety HOE, yr driving madly singing the words of a woman whose hero is Mickey Mouse. Just like a boy.
P+
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Single of the Week
Arrested Development
Know I’m Bad
Is this a pre-emptive ‘tribute’ to the quality acts A.D. will soon share the Ent Cent stage with – namely INXS and Simple Minds (WTF?!?)? If so, they sure are one-up on the HEAD-liners! This kicks over like P.E.’s Fight The Power rendered acoustically: a loping circuit of sound with responses from a Sesame Street style kiddie crew, and calls courtesy of a faux-bragging Speech. It goes nowhere slow but the repetition is warranted - such is the cut’s snapping trim. A remix by Jamie Munton veers from whack jazz horns and scratching to outright noise, pleasing with playfulness rather than the beat retreat such fillers often provide. Two other album track remixes are less successful: Future Dogs give Caught Me a dipshit break-beat backing only; while our own Will Styles is marginally more inventive with Miracles – swooping bass tones and choppy percussive effects vaguely redeeming a pedestrian rhythm.
F
Single of the Weak
Kings of Leon
On Call
Synth washes herald a new feel for the dirty South’s latter day heroes – New Romantic anyone? It is truly peculiar to hear such a fey, plaintive cry from these race mating Baptist bristlers. And utterly unconvincing. Sure, points for not repeating the established formula. But the plausibility of such humourless clowns proffering eternal access to the latest (“I’m on call – I’ll BE there”) ranks with the rankest of lame lines laid out for todays gormless prey. Shooting fish in a barrel? It’s not as easy - as you think. Bullshit ballads like this are such empty ego-trips – meagre methods of with-holding patterns during mediocrities inevitable onset. Hold that lighter aloft, kids. Or perhaps a match – fixed – as Sony/BMG assure us “there is a phenomenal publicity SET-UP (my caps) surrounding this release…with features running in GQ, FHM, Rolling Stone, Frankie, Oyster, Blunt, Dazed and Confused, Ralph, MAG and Marie Claire”. It’s that queasy.
M
The Fumes
Mystery Belle
Despite being Avalon boys, The Fumes canna claim to be seafarin’ fellas, and guitarist Steve Merry admits as much. This hasn’t stopped him from penning a wee shanty though – hey, it’s a state of mind! The slower tempo allows the richness of his resonator air, and there’s an easy charm to both the slide variations and the unadorned vocal style. Piracy funds errorism! B side Grocery Store gets us back into stride quick smart - with delirious and explosive blues breakdowns – at pace! It’s hard to imagine a future evolving for many of the recent rash of ‘roots’ two-pieces, but re-invention within the parameters comes naturally to less affected souls. Big seas oughtta make for level heads if these guys keep conniving to roam free. And why not? There’s a sense of music for its own sake in their work, and outside of the wank-fest of fashion, that’s everlasting.
H+
Maximo Park
Our Velocity
The crisp, urgent union of synthesizers and guitars catapult you into a pogoing throng immediately here, yet architectural fault-lines steal momentum several times - as key changes unnecessarily interrupt the upward energy. It aint escape, but it’s rapid as, and on a par with their previous hit - stalwart of stale indie DJ’s everwhere - Apply Some Pressure. Unlike Bloc Party under Jacknife Lee, new producer Gil Norton has seemingly maintained most of the compact throttle that was Paul Epworth’s trademark. Such relentless, barreling sound symbiotically propels Paul Smiths manic phrases and disguises the underlying format with sheer speed. This is competent commercial indie-rock, venerated mainly for it’s uniqueness on the Warp roster. Like most bands with a measure of fame, there’s more to do but they’re heading in the wrong direction.
K
Love of Diagrams
The Pyramid
We should be proud of our better locals gaining recognition elsewhere, but the belated fawning over Macro signing to Kill Rock Stars, and Love of Diagrams to Matador, just reinforces how abject Australians remain when it comes to culturally cringe-worthy ‘validation’ from hip labels in the biggest market on Earth. Speaking of selling suckers cred, Vice mag is proudly quoted at the top of this press release, saying - “all we need is for them to grind with DFA and we’d have our 6th major religion”. Gee, so it’d be as cool as God and shit if it had today’s generic dance beat of choice. Thanks for that. I note also the reference to “call and response vocals” (unique!) that seems to originate here. Its repetition in both radio ads and other street press reviews has baffled me – til now. I like this, but deriving a dated sound from under-explored margins past is worthy, not great.
G
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Arrested Development
Know I’m Bad
Is this a pre-emptive ‘tribute’ to the quality acts A.D. will soon share the Ent Cent stage with – namely INXS and Simple Minds (WTF?!?)? If so, they sure are one-up on the HEAD-liners! This kicks over like P.E.’s Fight The Power rendered acoustically: a loping circuit of sound with responses from a Sesame Street style kiddie crew, and calls courtesy of a faux-bragging Speech. It goes nowhere slow but the repetition is warranted - such is the cut’s snapping trim. A remix by Jamie Munton veers from whack jazz horns and scratching to outright noise, pleasing with playfulness rather than the beat retreat such fillers often provide. Two other album track remixes are less successful: Future Dogs give Caught Me a dipshit break-beat backing only; while our own Will Styles is marginally more inventive with Miracles – swooping bass tones and choppy percussive effects vaguely redeeming a pedestrian rhythm.
F
Single of the Weak
Kings of Leon
On Call
Synth washes herald a new feel for the dirty South’s latter day heroes – New Romantic anyone? It is truly peculiar to hear such a fey, plaintive cry from these race mating Baptist bristlers. And utterly unconvincing. Sure, points for not repeating the established formula. But the plausibility of such humourless clowns proffering eternal access to the latest (“I’m on call – I’ll BE there”) ranks with the rankest of lame lines laid out for todays gormless prey. Shooting fish in a barrel? It’s not as easy - as you think. Bullshit ballads like this are such empty ego-trips – meagre methods of with-holding patterns during mediocrities inevitable onset. Hold that lighter aloft, kids. Or perhaps a match – fixed – as Sony/BMG assure us “there is a phenomenal publicity SET-UP (my caps) surrounding this release…with features running in GQ, FHM, Rolling Stone, Frankie, Oyster, Blunt, Dazed and Confused, Ralph, MAG and Marie Claire”. It’s that queasy.
M
The Fumes
Mystery Belle
Despite being Avalon boys, The Fumes canna claim to be seafarin’ fellas, and guitarist Steve Merry admits as much. This hasn’t stopped him from penning a wee shanty though – hey, it’s a state of mind! The slower tempo allows the richness of his resonator air, and there’s an easy charm to both the slide variations and the unadorned vocal style. Piracy funds errorism! B side Grocery Store gets us back into stride quick smart - with delirious and explosive blues breakdowns – at pace! It’s hard to imagine a future evolving for many of the recent rash of ‘roots’ two-pieces, but re-invention within the parameters comes naturally to less affected souls. Big seas oughtta make for level heads if these guys keep conniving to roam free. And why not? There’s a sense of music for its own sake in their work, and outside of the wank-fest of fashion, that’s everlasting.
H+
Maximo Park
Our Velocity
The crisp, urgent union of synthesizers and guitars catapult you into a pogoing throng immediately here, yet architectural fault-lines steal momentum several times - as key changes unnecessarily interrupt the upward energy. It aint escape, but it’s rapid as, and on a par with their previous hit - stalwart of stale indie DJ’s everwhere - Apply Some Pressure. Unlike Bloc Party under Jacknife Lee, new producer Gil Norton has seemingly maintained most of the compact throttle that was Paul Epworth’s trademark. Such relentless, barreling sound symbiotically propels Paul Smiths manic phrases and disguises the underlying format with sheer speed. This is competent commercial indie-rock, venerated mainly for it’s uniqueness on the Warp roster. Like most bands with a measure of fame, there’s more to do but they’re heading in the wrong direction.
K
Love of Diagrams
The Pyramid
We should be proud of our better locals gaining recognition elsewhere, but the belated fawning over Macro signing to Kill Rock Stars, and Love of Diagrams to Matador, just reinforces how abject Australians remain when it comes to culturally cringe-worthy ‘validation’ from hip labels in the biggest market on Earth. Speaking of selling suckers cred, Vice mag is proudly quoted at the top of this press release, saying - “all we need is for them to grind with DFA and we’d have our 6th major religion”. Gee, so it’d be as cool as God and shit if it had today’s generic dance beat of choice. Thanks for that. I note also the reference to “call and response vocals” (unique!) that seems to originate here. Its repetition in both radio ads and other street press reviews has baffled me – til now. I like this, but deriving a dated sound from under-explored margins past is worthy, not great.
G
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Children Collide
Cannibal
Currently receiving saturation airplay, this one throws me in two distinct directions simultaneously every time I hear it. In fact, I’ve repeatedly piked on this review because I didn’t want to relive some of the irksome elements. There are obvious merits: simple, driving, upwardly-mobile rock riffs ascend with effortless care, arriving at a restive rendezvous through curious lyrics and angsty ardour. Listened to while skating or driving, deep in love with yrself, this would resonate wildly. But cop it from a more considered perspective and deflation, even nausea, kick in. The “kinda ironic” words seem wanky when attached to such a basic major-chord progression (and this impression is hardly debunked by the precociously posed cover shot and band logo). One feels that these two genuinely enthusiastic Northern NSW guys aspire to a much more tear-away tone – such as you’ll witness if you see them live. As yet though, this airy mission is only half-baked.
H-
The Answer
Come Follow Me
Well, I guess that’s what piss-weak prefixes like ‘indie’ exist for – to delineate other ‘rock’ groups from this! No goddamn irony here, kids. This is straight-up, unreconstructed, big, brash, bluesy, balls to the wall – ROCK! It could date from any of the last four decades – England in the 70’s, the U.S. in the 80’s, Europe in the 90’s, or Australia throughout! These fellows – who’ve just swung through town supporting the Eagles Of Death Metal (and who’ve previously been on the under-card of everyone from Deep Purple to Whitesnake!) - are from Northern Ireland; yet they’re signed to our own home of basic bangin’ – Albert Productions. Searing, fiddly-arse solos, puny legs akimbo; strained voices screaming - “swallow me down”: yep, they’re the full package. Sweat, denim, smoke, booze and floozies. Quite frankly, I prefer that this be done in deadly earnest - especially after the rash of knobs we’ve endured making shapes recently – squares!
I+
Single of the Week
Dardenelles
Of Course You Said
Brittle yet expansive old romantic post-punk stylings from one of the latest buzz bands to emerge from down South – naturally out on Mosquito’s Tweeter! Allow me to dispose of the mere competence of the Riot In Belgium remix first - the tedium of local scenesters giving otherwise good songs the thrice over is becoming numbing (worst culprits – Van She’s symposium of stuttering electro clichés impersonating a remix of the brilliant Teenager song ‘Alone Again’). With radio often prioritising such formulaic spasms, you may never have the chance to find out if you like the original song! This one though, is dandy! Derivative aspects are transcended by a tide of unexpected elements that literally keep you on yr toes. Urgent rhythms are swept asunder, while drops of single note feedback ring out and synthetic bass modes descend: everything convulses into a bizarre, spare march; reforming abruptly - only to end. In a flash.
H+
Gersey
Fire
Like some wishy-(is that a bad thing?)-washy version of The Cults ‘Sanctuary’, hazy guitars emerge from a humming back ground to cyclically serenade cynics; and Gersey inflate to meet the world again. The brisk vocal style and production is somewhat alienating if yr accustomed to their more delicate oscillations; lulled into a real sense of insecurity by the banneds past. ‘Fire’ almost lights you, but sizzles in the damp, expectant air. Be-side ‘Searchlights’ wobbles bitterly but better meats the stark struggle of the sound – rattling window pains, passing.
H
Single of the Weak
X-press 2
Kill 100
Incorporating a stab at Donna Summer’s ‘I Feel Love’ in the chorus of a commercial dance single is not exactly genius is it? Especially when this pale imitation of the archetypical peaking plane fits only awkwardly here – highlighting the detritus clumsily assembled by these craven parasites in order to assist their desperate attempts to EMOTE! Oh yes, meaningful lyrics! Errm…something about killing. Or some…..whatevs! All you need to do to gauge the worth of this sticky, smelly, gum-mottled, slice of floor is to carefully scrutinize the artist and track names above. Could you compress any more faux-now factors into one product? I thought not. That is all.
P-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cannibal
Currently receiving saturation airplay, this one throws me in two distinct directions simultaneously every time I hear it. In fact, I’ve repeatedly piked on this review because I didn’t want to relive some of the irksome elements. There are obvious merits: simple, driving, upwardly-mobile rock riffs ascend with effortless care, arriving at a restive rendezvous through curious lyrics and angsty ardour. Listened to while skating or driving, deep in love with yrself, this would resonate wildly. But cop it from a more considered perspective and deflation, even nausea, kick in. The “kinda ironic” words seem wanky when attached to such a basic major-chord progression (and this impression is hardly debunked by the precociously posed cover shot and band logo). One feels that these two genuinely enthusiastic Northern NSW guys aspire to a much more tear-away tone – such as you’ll witness if you see them live. As yet though, this airy mission is only half-baked.
H-
The Answer
Come Follow Me
Well, I guess that’s what piss-weak prefixes like ‘indie’ exist for – to delineate other ‘rock’ groups from this! No goddamn irony here, kids. This is straight-up, unreconstructed, big, brash, bluesy, balls to the wall – ROCK! It could date from any of the last four decades – England in the 70’s, the U.S. in the 80’s, Europe in the 90’s, or Australia throughout! These fellows – who’ve just swung through town supporting the Eagles Of Death Metal (and who’ve previously been on the under-card of everyone from Deep Purple to Whitesnake!) - are from Northern Ireland; yet they’re signed to our own home of basic bangin’ – Albert Productions. Searing, fiddly-arse solos, puny legs akimbo; strained voices screaming - “swallow me down”: yep, they’re the full package. Sweat, denim, smoke, booze and floozies. Quite frankly, I prefer that this be done in deadly earnest - especially after the rash of knobs we’ve endured making shapes recently – squares!
I+
Single of the Week
Dardenelles
Of Course You Said
Brittle yet expansive old romantic post-punk stylings from one of the latest buzz bands to emerge from down South – naturally out on Mosquito’s Tweeter! Allow me to dispose of the mere competence of the Riot In Belgium remix first - the tedium of local scenesters giving otherwise good songs the thrice over is becoming numbing (worst culprits – Van She’s symposium of stuttering electro clichés impersonating a remix of the brilliant Teenager song ‘Alone Again’). With radio often prioritising such formulaic spasms, you may never have the chance to find out if you like the original song! This one though, is dandy! Derivative aspects are transcended by a tide of unexpected elements that literally keep you on yr toes. Urgent rhythms are swept asunder, while drops of single note feedback ring out and synthetic bass modes descend: everything convulses into a bizarre, spare march; reforming abruptly - only to end. In a flash.
H+
Gersey
Fire
Like some wishy-(is that a bad thing?)-washy version of The Cults ‘Sanctuary’, hazy guitars emerge from a humming back ground to cyclically serenade cynics; and Gersey inflate to meet the world again. The brisk vocal style and production is somewhat alienating if yr accustomed to their more delicate oscillations; lulled into a real sense of insecurity by the banneds past. ‘Fire’ almost lights you, but sizzles in the damp, expectant air. Be-side ‘Searchlights’ wobbles bitterly but better meats the stark struggle of the sound – rattling window pains, passing.
H
Single of the Weak
X-press 2
Kill 100
Incorporating a stab at Donna Summer’s ‘I Feel Love’ in the chorus of a commercial dance single is not exactly genius is it? Especially when this pale imitation of the archetypical peaking plane fits only awkwardly here – highlighting the detritus clumsily assembled by these craven parasites in order to assist their desperate attempts to EMOTE! Oh yes, meaningful lyrics! Errm…something about killing. Or some…..whatevs! All you need to do to gauge the worth of this sticky, smelly, gum-mottled, slice of floor is to carefully scrutinize the artist and track names above. Could you compress any more faux-now factors into one product? I thought not. That is all.
P-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Single of the Week
Regal
The Village Calling
Subtle, rangy beats underpin a rich array of feels here– from blaxploitation-funk guitar lines to jazz vibes and orchestral strings that float by in parallel tempo altogether. Cut-up samples of spoken-word and atmospheric washes of delay dislocate this piece beautifully, making its time and place of origin almost indefinable. Yet this is from right here, right now – the first release from Regal’s new album Loop Dreams. Regal originally came to prominence as a member of UK groups The Wise Guys and The Bronx Dogs but has subsequently made a name for himself as a DJ and remixer locally. The man knows music and I salute the selfless manner in which he’s assembled this track. It’s increasingly rare to hear gear as pure as this in our fad-addled global ghetto. Of the two other mixes offered its Sydney’s Versionaries that proffer the deepest cut, Washington’s AGFA merely skating on thin ice.
E-
Foreign Heights
Get Yours (Remix)
You wouldn’t think a supergroup that already contains Maya Jupiter, Trey and Nick Toth would need to enlist the services of too many other folks but, this being hip-hop, a bit of posse magic never goes astray. That said, any gig whose guest list outnumbers the punters tends to be a bit suss. Here, P-Money has bolstered the beat while Nfa, Brother Black and Sereck add verses. I like the rough and ready aspects, shitty guitar loops and lo-fi scratching I’d imagine are the work of Toth. However, lyrically it’s simplistic (work ethic capitalism and self-evident reinforcement of the fact this is “Aussie Hip-Hop”, etc) and musically it matches. This band could, and should, achieve more than suburban sloganeering given the talents at hand. Nod and repeat with the bovine masses as they play the ‘Next G Extreme Arena’ at the Royal Pig-Gut and Sugar Show this week. Or get smart, in stead.
K
iLIKETRAINS
Spencer Perceval
Echoic two-note guitar ushers us into the dark then meshes gradually with bass, drums and organ as a defeated English baritone grimly relates the anatomy of a murder. Everything gains an awful, buzzing urgency as the deed is done - the desperate killer, a wronged man, bitterly intoning, “your position - can’t save you now”. This amazing single relates two overlapping tales with each song: that of Spencer Perceval – the only British Prime Minister to have been assassinated - and that of his assassin; John Bellingham. To use the A and B sides of the single format so effectively and ambitiously takes me aback. This is epic, substantive and sombre - beautifully realized right down to the artwork. The second track - ‘I Am Murdered’ - is a sublime slow march that melds sustained cornet overlays with haunting feedback - raising restive spirits in this abject realm, and reminding us again of the pointless curse of power.
F+
Kate Miller-Heidke
Words
Mmmm….fancy! This comes on all skewed: clickety-splat percussion, carnivalesque harpsichord, distorted vocals bouncing hither and thither. It seems our opera refugee has decided being a sincere pop poppet may be a little shy of her aspirations. And why not? She’s young, pretty and gifted – experiment, by all means! ‘Words’ is clearly borne from a love of iconoclastic women’s music – Kate Bush being the ultimate example, Tori Amos less so. Amidst all the key changes, effects and trills there’s a risk of novelty and its devices undermining the songs, but people forget music is something you PLAY. As with sex, informed choices need to be borne of experience – so try it on! I can only imagine some of the barely suppressed furrowed brows and heart palpitations that this engendered as her major label copped its first listen - mmwhahaha! Funny.
G
Single of the Weak
Danni Minogue
He’s The Greatest Dancer
Aaaaw! Old plastic wide-face made a song! This is easily the best thing she’s ever done!!! But…..she didn’t do it. It’s actually an old Sister Sledge (hidden family-history reference perhaps? Postmodern! Sophisticated!) tune. Produced by a twerp. Remixed by twits (including Shapeshifters! Ahem. There’s some money over there! BEHIND YOU! – Suckers…). Aaaand……. it……sucks. Dog’s balls. Poorly. Forty-five minutes of a bag-lady computers can’t make sing being butchered by retro-active mercenaries might sound like fun to you, but such cosmetic neuro-surgery has severe side-effects: memory loss, nervous tics, spasms. Oh wow oh wow! He’s the greatest dancer!!
W-
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Regal
The Village Calling
Subtle, rangy beats underpin a rich array of feels here– from blaxploitation-funk guitar lines to jazz vibes and orchestral strings that float by in parallel tempo altogether. Cut-up samples of spoken-word and atmospheric washes of delay dislocate this piece beautifully, making its time and place of origin almost indefinable. Yet this is from right here, right now – the first release from Regal’s new album Loop Dreams. Regal originally came to prominence as a member of UK groups The Wise Guys and The Bronx Dogs but has subsequently made a name for himself as a DJ and remixer locally. The man knows music and I salute the selfless manner in which he’s assembled this track. It’s increasingly rare to hear gear as pure as this in our fad-addled global ghetto. Of the two other mixes offered its Sydney’s Versionaries that proffer the deepest cut, Washington’s AGFA merely skating on thin ice.
E-
Foreign Heights
Get Yours (Remix)
You wouldn’t think a supergroup that already contains Maya Jupiter, Trey and Nick Toth would need to enlist the services of too many other folks but, this being hip-hop, a bit of posse magic never goes astray. That said, any gig whose guest list outnumbers the punters tends to be a bit suss. Here, P-Money has bolstered the beat while Nfa, Brother Black and Sereck add verses. I like the rough and ready aspects, shitty guitar loops and lo-fi scratching I’d imagine are the work of Toth. However, lyrically it’s simplistic (work ethic capitalism and self-evident reinforcement of the fact this is “Aussie Hip-Hop”, etc) and musically it matches. This band could, and should, achieve more than suburban sloganeering given the talents at hand. Nod and repeat with the bovine masses as they play the ‘Next G Extreme Arena’ at the Royal Pig-Gut and Sugar Show this week. Or get smart, in stead.
K
iLIKETRAINS
Spencer Perceval
Echoic two-note guitar ushers us into the dark then meshes gradually with bass, drums and organ as a defeated English baritone grimly relates the anatomy of a murder. Everything gains an awful, buzzing urgency as the deed is done - the desperate killer, a wronged man, bitterly intoning, “your position - can’t save you now”. This amazing single relates two overlapping tales with each song: that of Spencer Perceval – the only British Prime Minister to have been assassinated - and that of his assassin; John Bellingham. To use the A and B sides of the single format so effectively and ambitiously takes me aback. This is epic, substantive and sombre - beautifully realized right down to the artwork. The second track - ‘I Am Murdered’ - is a sublime slow march that melds sustained cornet overlays with haunting feedback - raising restive spirits in this abject realm, and reminding us again of the pointless curse of power.
F+
Kate Miller-Heidke
Words
Mmmm….fancy! This comes on all skewed: clickety-splat percussion, carnivalesque harpsichord, distorted vocals bouncing hither and thither. It seems our opera refugee has decided being a sincere pop poppet may be a little shy of her aspirations. And why not? She’s young, pretty and gifted – experiment, by all means! ‘Words’ is clearly borne from a love of iconoclastic women’s music – Kate Bush being the ultimate example, Tori Amos less so. Amidst all the key changes, effects and trills there’s a risk of novelty and its devices undermining the songs, but people forget music is something you PLAY. As with sex, informed choices need to be borne of experience – so try it on! I can only imagine some of the barely suppressed furrowed brows and heart palpitations that this engendered as her major label copped its first listen - mmwhahaha! Funny.
G
Single of the Weak
Danni Minogue
He’s The Greatest Dancer
Aaaaw! Old plastic wide-face made a song! This is easily the best thing she’s ever done!!! But…..she didn’t do it. It’s actually an old Sister Sledge (hidden family-history reference perhaps? Postmodern! Sophisticated!) tune. Produced by a twerp. Remixed by twits (including Shapeshifters! Ahem. There’s some money over there! BEHIND YOU! – Suckers…). Aaaand……. it……sucks. Dog’s balls. Poorly. Forty-five minutes of a bag-lady computers can’t make sing being butchered by retro-active mercenaries might sound like fun to you, but such cosmetic neuro-surgery has severe side-effects: memory loss, nervous tics, spasms. Oh wow oh wow! He’s the greatest dancer!!
W-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dinosaur Jr
Been There All The Time
I still can’t forget being pinned back by a trebling of the volume when Mr Mascis hit his only pedal on their first tour out here. This is the first new recording with that original line-up (Mascis/Barlow/Murph) and, strangely, it sounds fairly flat. Mundane progressions thickly mixed give you the sonic equivalent of traipsing through mud on the third day of a stretched summer’s eighth festival. I’m not arguing for a return to the repulsive metallic sheen that characterised the ‘band’s output when it was J’s holding pattern and vanity project in the 90’s, but this definitely lacks the searing spill of the early albums. That said, Murph’s fills and the twisted leads up the ante enormously as the song goes on and somehow it slouches into yr heart in that offhand way that still has no peer today. Drawling time erupts (still) with explosive escalations but the melody has slipped slightly.
G
Single of the Week
Bonde Do Role
Solta O Frango
How freaky is the new musical whirled? Dinosaur Jr on 2 Many DJ’s PIAS label, now Brazilian Baile Funk out on Domino! This is quirky as all get out: kiddy keys, party sing-a-longs and that lush hefty swing these cats do so well - cuts akimbo, crispy snares and heavy kicks - all synthesized, bar the girl/boy vocals – naturally! At only 2 minutes 22 it’s as concise a dance track as yr likely to hear – as befits the playful, daylight degenerate, attitude (and lifestyle) of the group. It’s party music – trashy, sexual and silly. And the elements of self-deprecating humour serve to open the floodgates: allowing all the up-tight whiteys of the ‘West’ a dose of carefree abandon (free from caring? free from unsightly menstrual overflow poolside?); the chance to cut loose from their oppressive lives of dutifully and painstakingly tossing hair - and tight smiles - over shoulders, like so many grains of salt. Partypartyparty!
E
That 1 Guy
Buttmachine
Zappaesque monk-funk from the Canadian one-man-band who’s become a staple of festivals throughout Australia. By manipulating his Magic Pipe (and Boot and Saw) Mike Silverman can create diabolical rhythms, surpassing even the most complex work of jazz nerds despite the fact he employs only one string! This track performs the feat of surpassing the tacky associations of slap-bass, and incorporates some great word-play (“just because it’s a butt, doesn’t mean it’s a joke”) into a surprisingly adept hip-hop framework - though it never quite succeeds, like the best of his previous work, in actually trumping electronics at primal beat creation. Originality like this is rare, and it helps to see it - to believe it. Clearly, any man that calls an album ‘The Moon Is Disgusting’ operates on another plane altogether. Righteous. Babe.
G+
Frenzal Rhomb
Brian’s Problems
Only Frenzal could write a barely decipherable song mercilessly mocking Brian Molko (and - by default - all the other whining tossers of the emo era), with weird complex harmonies dressed down by a creepy, flat rendition, then perform and record it at breakneck speed to fling out as a single. They rule. Relentless short-poppy sin drones like this are just so awesomely and awkwardly Australian. The fact that Jay Whalley has unwittingly parlayed his weary scorn at the bullshit around us into a well rewarded and respected role in our national life cracks me up. There’s hope for us all! Well, there’s hope for the small minority of us that aren’t complete and utter tools! Hope, I tell you! What do you DO with that again?
F
Single of the Weak
Eric Prydz vs Floyd
Proper Education
So, Syd’s dead and well he may be. Pink Floyd consent to be sampled for the first time and Swedish ‘house’ DJ Eric Prydz decides to use the resulting ‘song’ (a pedestrian electro bass-line and back-beat) to “raise awareness of climate change” (has anyone actually MISSED that?!?). Never mind that the few lines of Another Brick in the Wall used refer only to the REJECTION of education (in the context of completely unrelated UK schooling issues of old). It’s all about the video, and the ‘carbon neutral’ CD, we’re told. Spell it with me: S.T.U.N.T - STUNT! If those involved (Floyd, Prydz, Ministry of Sound) are serious about this, all subsequent releases will be audited and offset, right? If not, like ‘Earth Hour’ and the doctored images used to ‘report’ it, this will merely be a tawdry, transient, insubstantial farce - perpetrated for PR, and more likely to disenchant than enlighten.
S-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Been There All The Time
I still can’t forget being pinned back by a trebling of the volume when Mr Mascis hit his only pedal on their first tour out here. This is the first new recording with that original line-up (Mascis/Barlow/Murph) and, strangely, it sounds fairly flat. Mundane progressions thickly mixed give you the sonic equivalent of traipsing through mud on the third day of a stretched summer’s eighth festival. I’m not arguing for a return to the repulsive metallic sheen that characterised the ‘band’s output when it was J’s holding pattern and vanity project in the 90’s, but this definitely lacks the searing spill of the early albums. That said, Murph’s fills and the twisted leads up the ante enormously as the song goes on and somehow it slouches into yr heart in that offhand way that still has no peer today. Drawling time erupts (still) with explosive escalations but the melody has slipped slightly.
G
Single of the Week
Bonde Do Role
Solta O Frango
How freaky is the new musical whirled? Dinosaur Jr on 2 Many DJ’s PIAS label, now Brazilian Baile Funk out on Domino! This is quirky as all get out: kiddy keys, party sing-a-longs and that lush hefty swing these cats do so well - cuts akimbo, crispy snares and heavy kicks - all synthesized, bar the girl/boy vocals – naturally! At only 2 minutes 22 it’s as concise a dance track as yr likely to hear – as befits the playful, daylight degenerate, attitude (and lifestyle) of the group. It’s party music – trashy, sexual and silly. And the elements of self-deprecating humour serve to open the floodgates: allowing all the up-tight whiteys of the ‘West’ a dose of carefree abandon (free from caring? free from unsightly menstrual overflow poolside?); the chance to cut loose from their oppressive lives of dutifully and painstakingly tossing hair - and tight smiles - over shoulders, like so many grains of salt. Partypartyparty!
E
That 1 Guy
Buttmachine
Zappaesque monk-funk from the Canadian one-man-band who’s become a staple of festivals throughout Australia. By manipulating his Magic Pipe (and Boot and Saw) Mike Silverman can create diabolical rhythms, surpassing even the most complex work of jazz nerds despite the fact he employs only one string! This track performs the feat of surpassing the tacky associations of slap-bass, and incorporates some great word-play (“just because it’s a butt, doesn’t mean it’s a joke”) into a surprisingly adept hip-hop framework - though it never quite succeeds, like the best of his previous work, in actually trumping electronics at primal beat creation. Originality like this is rare, and it helps to see it - to believe it. Clearly, any man that calls an album ‘The Moon Is Disgusting’ operates on another plane altogether. Righteous. Babe.
G+
Frenzal Rhomb
Brian’s Problems
Only Frenzal could write a barely decipherable song mercilessly mocking Brian Molko (and - by default - all the other whining tossers of the emo era), with weird complex harmonies dressed down by a creepy, flat rendition, then perform and record it at breakneck speed to fling out as a single. They rule. Relentless short-poppy sin drones like this are just so awesomely and awkwardly Australian. The fact that Jay Whalley has unwittingly parlayed his weary scorn at the bullshit around us into a well rewarded and respected role in our national life cracks me up. There’s hope for us all! Well, there’s hope for the small minority of us that aren’t complete and utter tools! Hope, I tell you! What do you DO with that again?
F
Single of the Weak
Eric Prydz vs Floyd
Proper Education
So, Syd’s dead and well he may be. Pink Floyd consent to be sampled for the first time and Swedish ‘house’ DJ Eric Prydz decides to use the resulting ‘song’ (a pedestrian electro bass-line and back-beat) to “raise awareness of climate change” (has anyone actually MISSED that?!?). Never mind that the few lines of Another Brick in the Wall used refer only to the REJECTION of education (in the context of completely unrelated UK schooling issues of old). It’s all about the video, and the ‘carbon neutral’ CD, we’re told. Spell it with me: S.T.U.N.T - STUNT! If those involved (Floyd, Prydz, Ministry of Sound) are serious about this, all subsequent releases will be audited and offset, right? If not, like ‘Earth Hour’ and the doctored images used to ‘report’ it, this will merely be a tawdry, transient, insubstantial farce - perpetrated for PR, and more likely to disenchant than enlighten.
S-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Electrelane
To The East
The ambling bass-line that begins, and underpins, this first offering from Electrelanes forthcoming album, ‘No Shouts, No Calls’, is reminiscent of The Arcade Fire’s ‘Rebellion (Lies)’ – odd, given that Electrelane were to be supporting said band on their (now postponed) European tour. This faint false cue sidles into a delicate and wayward vocal – pitch quavers as Verity Susman pines for an absent lover and ponders the chances of a home, made. The song’s frailty - underwhelming at first blush - beguiles gradually, and as the trembling tones congeal into a sweet swagger towards the end, I find myself charmed by the humility of the offering. While I miss the fits and bursts that so sexily erupt as tiny unconscious pony-kicks in Mia Clarke’s live guitar playing, it’s a tribute to Electrelane’s enduring invention that they continue to create such curious fare.
I+
Single of the Week
The Crayon Fields
Wouldn’t It Be Strange / Impossible Things
A slow, spaced, tambourine and kick beat – more Shangri-La’s than Ronettes – sets the scene, then telescopes rapidly through time to emerge in the hyper-imaginary, acid-addled realm of Phil Spector’s biggest fan – Brian Wilson. A faux Middle-Eastern guitar riff tumbles into a swirling morass of gentle vocal harmonies and organs, subsequently breaking down into wordless acapella, only to re-gather and transmute again into a peculiar reverb-drenched march - dwindling away eventually amongst finger clicks and tinkling bells. It’s beautifully written and realized, which is borne out further by the jaunty hand-clapping play of second song Impossible Things. Ostensible whimsy and a simpler structure mask a universal yearning for (much) more than this. The other-worldly production completes a unique array of attributes. I see a new colour in old pop: sub-lime. Pretty!
F+
The Beasts Of Bourbon
I Don’t Care About Nothin’ Anymore
Low-order and lo-fi (the whole of album ‘Little Animals’ was recorded and mixed in three days) - as we’ve come to expect from The Beasts – now released through Alberts! Every line’s a gem of antipathy towards social nicety (“I used to give my money to the motherfuckin’ poor, but I don’t care about nothin’ anymore”), delivered with the growling scorn only Tex really owns these days - and topped with a busted blister of a solo from the redoubtable Charlie Owen. The boys have been suffering their usual misadventures of late. Drummer Tony Pola missed their South By Southwest gig ‘cos of visa hassles (their live-sound man Skritch – who produced the album – deputised), while Tex cut his head, and this songs author, Brian Hooper – only recently recovered from a broken back, suffered in a fall – fell over. A gig in New York was then cancelled after Spencer P. Jones reportedly collapsed. Always said bourbon was dangerous!
G
Wilco
What Light
The first single from the brilliantly named LP Sky Blue Sky features a Dylanesque depth from the outset – Tweedy’s vocal crystal over acoustic and slide guitars ’til an almost gospel feel unites drums and back-up singers in a celebratory affirmation of ‘white’, ‘one’, and ‘what’ LIGHT - by turn! The altering prefixes and their similar sound undoes any earnest overtone, substituting instead a sense of mystery, confusion and change more suited to the restless quest of any self-guided spirit. Indeed, the bizarre subterfuge of this song may yet see the rise of a scatty new form of ‘follower’ and usher in an age of Disorganised Religion! My only quibble is that the pure form of the piece lacks any of the innovative sonic pre-mixing which - during the Yankee Hotel Foxtrot days - lifted Wilco beyond this ordinary, earthly plane. Here we have no match in style for the content meant. Is that all there is?
H-
Single of the Weak
The Veronicas
Leave Me Alone
OK.
V-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To The East
The ambling bass-line that begins, and underpins, this first offering from Electrelanes forthcoming album, ‘No Shouts, No Calls’, is reminiscent of The Arcade Fire’s ‘Rebellion (Lies)’ – odd, given that Electrelane were to be supporting said band on their (now postponed) European tour. This faint false cue sidles into a delicate and wayward vocal – pitch quavers as Verity Susman pines for an absent lover and ponders the chances of a home, made. The song’s frailty - underwhelming at first blush - beguiles gradually, and as the trembling tones congeal into a sweet swagger towards the end, I find myself charmed by the humility of the offering. While I miss the fits and bursts that so sexily erupt as tiny unconscious pony-kicks in Mia Clarke’s live guitar playing, it’s a tribute to Electrelane’s enduring invention that they continue to create such curious fare.
I+
Single of the Week
The Crayon Fields
Wouldn’t It Be Strange / Impossible Things
A slow, spaced, tambourine and kick beat – more Shangri-La’s than Ronettes – sets the scene, then telescopes rapidly through time to emerge in the hyper-imaginary, acid-addled realm of Phil Spector’s biggest fan – Brian Wilson. A faux Middle-Eastern guitar riff tumbles into a swirling morass of gentle vocal harmonies and organs, subsequently breaking down into wordless acapella, only to re-gather and transmute again into a peculiar reverb-drenched march - dwindling away eventually amongst finger clicks and tinkling bells. It’s beautifully written and realized, which is borne out further by the jaunty hand-clapping play of second song Impossible Things. Ostensible whimsy and a simpler structure mask a universal yearning for (much) more than this. The other-worldly production completes a unique array of attributes. I see a new colour in old pop: sub-lime. Pretty!
F+
The Beasts Of Bourbon
I Don’t Care About Nothin’ Anymore
Low-order and lo-fi (the whole of album ‘Little Animals’ was recorded and mixed in three days) - as we’ve come to expect from The Beasts – now released through Alberts! Every line’s a gem of antipathy towards social nicety (“I used to give my money to the motherfuckin’ poor, but I don’t care about nothin’ anymore”), delivered with the growling scorn only Tex really owns these days - and topped with a busted blister of a solo from the redoubtable Charlie Owen. The boys have been suffering their usual misadventures of late. Drummer Tony Pola missed their South By Southwest gig ‘cos of visa hassles (their live-sound man Skritch – who produced the album – deputised), while Tex cut his head, and this songs author, Brian Hooper – only recently recovered from a broken back, suffered in a fall – fell over. A gig in New York was then cancelled after Spencer P. Jones reportedly collapsed. Always said bourbon was dangerous!
G
Wilco
What Light
The first single from the brilliantly named LP Sky Blue Sky features a Dylanesque depth from the outset – Tweedy’s vocal crystal over acoustic and slide guitars ’til an almost gospel feel unites drums and back-up singers in a celebratory affirmation of ‘white’, ‘one’, and ‘what’ LIGHT - by turn! The altering prefixes and their similar sound undoes any earnest overtone, substituting instead a sense of mystery, confusion and change more suited to the restless quest of any self-guided spirit. Indeed, the bizarre subterfuge of this song may yet see the rise of a scatty new form of ‘follower’ and usher in an age of Disorganised Religion! My only quibble is that the pure form of the piece lacks any of the innovative sonic pre-mixing which - during the Yankee Hotel Foxtrot days - lifted Wilco beyond this ordinary, earthly plane. Here we have no match in style for the content meant. Is that all there is?
H-
Single of the Weak
The Veronicas
Leave Me Alone
OK.
V-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dizzee Rascal
Sirens
Sadly, this ain’t no grimey up-date of ‘The Body’ attempting pagan sex simulations for voyeuristic film directors in the Blue Mountains. It’s heavy urban gear – lumpy one-note sub-bass, metal guitar grabs, light jazzy drums, and frantic spitting from Dizzee. Street sounds drop all over the shop then three-quarters of the way through panic breaks out and it all turns into distorted garage sump-oil sludge. I can’t see this charting much at all, but it’s the disregard for such traditional trajectories that I respect most in the Rascall. This slab of fear and noise harks back to early P.E. and it’s been eons since anyone’s approached music with a similarly cold and dispassionate eye. Given past form new album ‘Maths and English’ is likely to overflow with ideas and approaches. This may be just a warning. Shot.
I+
Actor/Model
Gossip About Guys (EP)
Sharing their name with a Chicago ‘bluegrass indie genderfuck’ group (WTF?), this new-fangled Melbourne three-piece drift about in curious fashion: latte here, cheeky chardonnay there – WORKING! – ‘trying to give up the fags, but, you know how it is’. Yes, it’s an enviable death-style and they’re milking it for all it’s worth. Songs of suppressed stress, written with gay abandon, featuring (secret?) agents, lap(top) dancers and dubious diets. Cascading keys from two members, bursts of static, Mo Tucker style tub thumping, playful piano, boy/girl harmonies, dainty guitars – musically, genres are suggested and abandoned several times over the course of each tune. There are hints of Flying Nun pop, early Sonic Youth, Trans-Am electro, dour English Eighties fare, even Sixties trash. ‘Tis a strange and heady brew and a tantalizing debut. Waiter! Don’t I know you from somewhere? Check, please…
H
Single of the Week
Bjork
Volta
Bjork cannot be mortal. I’ve only ever had the teensiest reservations about aspects of her work – and they related mainly to the contributions of others over a decade ago. Ever since she has not put a foot wrong. I consider her one of the greatest artists of our time. The effects of her unparalleled vocal gifts are exponentially expanded by the sheer courage of her indomitable spirit. Unlike Madonna, and so many others, she reinvents with an unconscious relish for both the passed (over) and the true present – Timbaland on one hand, indigenous choirs and instrumentalists on the other. Earth Intruders storms in on muted tribal drums, vast synthetic swathes of fuzz tumbling about Bjork’s staggering singing – tip-toed touches spiraling into apocalyptic siren screams. This is a dance of utter delirium on the corpse of our planet, an offering of everything to Kali. It’s coming down around our ears, now– MOVE!
C+
Wolf and Cub
March of Clouds
A viscous morass of double-drum and bass, serrated, sustained guitars and that delay drenched vocal that is more an apathetic wail than any form of singing per se. Attempting to evolve a few devices other than two-or-three-notes-with-descending-intonation-repeated would enormously improve this bands potential. While they are clearly killing it internationally as is, there’s a danger of trailing off into default settings and dodgy remixes (a la Wolfmother) as touring continues to take precedence over recording (and life). These guys have yet to match the visceral shock of their live gigs on record, yet B-side Chameleon and Snakes’ manic Monkees-on-meth wig-out shows they could. As for the Serge Santiago ‘dub remix’ of This Mess, well, stripping all the real sources of energy in a track in order to prioritise the aforementioned vocals, defeated hand-claps and CONGAS isn’t so much dub as DUMB. Where’s Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry when you need him? Gone? Right on!
J-
Single of the Weak
Perry Farrell’s Satellite Party
Wish Upon A Dog Star
Catchy ‘band’ name. Brilliant first line - “Ooh, get your cool on, new shiny shoes on”. Best is – “It’s time to shine, and make all your dreams come true” – for real! I cannot fucking believe this is the same guy whose diabolical, authoritarian reserve at Jane’s Addiction’s one Sydney concert had me bucking Valium and Rohypnol - trying to stage-dive with a dislocated shoulder in a sling! (The roadies HELPED to throw you yet, even with the velocity to do multiple somersaults, no-one commanded a score of more than four out of ten from Perry). Imagine the album! Guests include Fergie (sadly, not The Duchess of York), “an amazing appearance by Jim Morrison of The Doors” (oh, THAT Jim Morrison) and “former extreme guitarist Nuno Bettencourt” (err, what is he now? A wussy guitarist?) and Perry’s goddamn wife! Messianic delusion of the most farcical form. Trance misses you, Perry! Go back, go back…
U-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sirens
Sadly, this ain’t no grimey up-date of ‘The Body’ attempting pagan sex simulations for voyeuristic film directors in the Blue Mountains. It’s heavy urban gear – lumpy one-note sub-bass, metal guitar grabs, light jazzy drums, and frantic spitting from Dizzee. Street sounds drop all over the shop then three-quarters of the way through panic breaks out and it all turns into distorted garage sump-oil sludge. I can’t see this charting much at all, but it’s the disregard for such traditional trajectories that I respect most in the Rascall. This slab of fear and noise harks back to early P.E. and it’s been eons since anyone’s approached music with a similarly cold and dispassionate eye. Given past form new album ‘Maths and English’ is likely to overflow with ideas and approaches. This may be just a warning. Shot.
I+
Actor/Model
Gossip About Guys (EP)
Sharing their name with a Chicago ‘bluegrass indie genderfuck’ group (WTF?), this new-fangled Melbourne three-piece drift about in curious fashion: latte here, cheeky chardonnay there – WORKING! – ‘trying to give up the fags, but, you know how it is’. Yes, it’s an enviable death-style and they’re milking it for all it’s worth. Songs of suppressed stress, written with gay abandon, featuring (secret?) agents, lap(top) dancers and dubious diets. Cascading keys from two members, bursts of static, Mo Tucker style tub thumping, playful piano, boy/girl harmonies, dainty guitars – musically, genres are suggested and abandoned several times over the course of each tune. There are hints of Flying Nun pop, early Sonic Youth, Trans-Am electro, dour English Eighties fare, even Sixties trash. ‘Tis a strange and heady brew and a tantalizing debut. Waiter! Don’t I know you from somewhere? Check, please…
H
Single of the Week
Bjork
Volta
Bjork cannot be mortal. I’ve only ever had the teensiest reservations about aspects of her work – and they related mainly to the contributions of others over a decade ago. Ever since she has not put a foot wrong. I consider her one of the greatest artists of our time. The effects of her unparalleled vocal gifts are exponentially expanded by the sheer courage of her indomitable spirit. Unlike Madonna, and so many others, she reinvents with an unconscious relish for both the passed (over) and the true present – Timbaland on one hand, indigenous choirs and instrumentalists on the other. Earth Intruders storms in on muted tribal drums, vast synthetic swathes of fuzz tumbling about Bjork’s staggering singing – tip-toed touches spiraling into apocalyptic siren screams. This is a dance of utter delirium on the corpse of our planet, an offering of everything to Kali. It’s coming down around our ears, now– MOVE!
C+
Wolf and Cub
March of Clouds
A viscous morass of double-drum and bass, serrated, sustained guitars and that delay drenched vocal that is more an apathetic wail than any form of singing per se. Attempting to evolve a few devices other than two-or-three-notes-with-descending-intonation-repeated would enormously improve this bands potential. While they are clearly killing it internationally as is, there’s a danger of trailing off into default settings and dodgy remixes (a la Wolfmother) as touring continues to take precedence over recording (and life). These guys have yet to match the visceral shock of their live gigs on record, yet B-side Chameleon and Snakes’ manic Monkees-on-meth wig-out shows they could. As for the Serge Santiago ‘dub remix’ of This Mess, well, stripping all the real sources of energy in a track in order to prioritise the aforementioned vocals, defeated hand-claps and CONGAS isn’t so much dub as DUMB. Where’s Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry when you need him? Gone? Right on!
J-
Single of the Weak
Perry Farrell’s Satellite Party
Wish Upon A Dog Star
Catchy ‘band’ name. Brilliant first line - “Ooh, get your cool on, new shiny shoes on”. Best is – “It’s time to shine, and make all your dreams come true” – for real! I cannot fucking believe this is the same guy whose diabolical, authoritarian reserve at Jane’s Addiction’s one Sydney concert had me bucking Valium and Rohypnol - trying to stage-dive with a dislocated shoulder in a sling! (The roadies HELPED to throw you yet, even with the velocity to do multiple somersaults, no-one commanded a score of more than four out of ten from Perry). Imagine the album! Guests include Fergie (sadly, not The Duchess of York), “an amazing appearance by Jim Morrison of The Doors” (oh, THAT Jim Morrison) and “former extreme guitarist Nuno Bettencourt” (err, what is he now? A wussy guitarist?) and Perry’s goddamn wife! Messianic delusion of the most farcical form. Trance misses you, Perry! Go back, go back…
U-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Soft Tigers
M.A.R.I.A.
Snapped, syncopated rhythms (chipper and tight, like early-FM filler) spark flying as a triumph of the ill unfolds. Our protagonist, Maria, navigates Crown Street and The Gaslight. It’s Friday night and Slurry Hills bristles in sordid, standard style. ‘Field’ recordings (a thick-witted bouncer barely enunciates, “keep walking”, sirens fade with each dim step, warm and foolish hill-down-goes) echo the innocuousness and insulation of her ramble: one drunk soul in a treadmill of time, tracing Chisel and The Cross, one day later, more than two decades ago. Wake up! We’re still there, yet - a clapped-out hooker is braying Branigan and drawing a crowd. The proportion’s all wrong! Chalk it up to experience (if you must) but banish those fantasies of a vinyl solution – etching sketched is hard enough. On the other side, a Bee-mix bumbles brashly about - banging into windows, flying out the door. A toilet flushes. I’m fine. Really!
F-
Gudrun Gut
Move Me
My bedroom is a graveyard for the toxic, circular, ‘artistic’ aspirations of so many – and then there are the CD’s! I constantly have to purge the back-log and prioritise incoming fare: making neat little piles, precisely arranged in an arbitrary ascription of descending promise. Then, each week we serve up several from the top and one from the lowly depths (such predominantly affirmative action somewhat disgusts me, and I miss the abject mediocrity of the material that would rank M to S in our scale). This particular anonymous white sleeve was about to visit my bribery box of death (mechanics, masseurs, etc) when the curious artist name caught my eye. I’m glad - as these are truly peculiar works: a sumptuous submerged tango, then a Smog-sampling overlay of Rock Bottom Riser. They skip about like skimmed stones thrown by nocturnal albino beach bums. I discover she’s the boss of Berlin’s Monica Enterprise label and ex Einsterzende Neubauten. Figures!
F+
KIM
B.T.T.T.T.R.Y
Weird! First I have the pleasure of reviewing a debut single from The Soft Tigers on 7” vinyl, then I receive a 12” ‘only’ release on CD from thee clearly confused paupers at Thee Bang Gang (guess they’re spending all the dough on the coke and strippers they so predictably crap on about in the press release). Coming on like Love Tattoo’s Drop Some Drums covered by Boy Scouts, a big latin percussive stomp soon gives way to KIM’s pre-set electro tendencies. Over a repetitive synth arpeggio, with steel drums the only embellishment, our bendy bra-boy tunelessly declaims, “By the time that they reach you, I’ll probably be dead,” (which is right up there with Pauline Hanson’s, “If you are watching this, I’ve been murdered,” in terms of credible assertions; and is also the basis of the compelling title). Some killer conniptions emerge as drummers multiply, choral breakdowns splay the sound, and keys scream sideways. Eeek!
F
Single of the Week
Lavender Diamond
Open Your Heart
Well, now I’ve heard only two songs by this band and I adore them both. The joyous good-will that radiates from singer Becky Stark could so easily trigger defensive cynicism in the listener were it not for the manner in which she humbly embodies such rapture. This is like The Polyphonic Spree scaled down, freed of their trappings (of cults, and conformity); refined into an individual’s celebration of the universality of difference. The arrangement is rendered simply - piano, acoustic guitars and handclaps are elevated by elegant, restrained strings and that bell-clear vocal. Somehow Becky marries cool observance of cycles of sadness with a transcending celebration of innate potential shared. This stunning song soars, borne aloft on love, alone. It’s exquisite, plain and pure. A dew-drop bending the world in the shape of our eyes, in the shape of our place, our planet – still, here.
C+
Single of the Weak
Deni Hines
5 Days of Rain
You know, once – a long, long time ago – Chrissie Amphlett was driving to Kogarah to reprise her job as Marcia Hines’ understudy in a piece of ‘musical’ theatre. On the way she saw Marcia’s car suddenly career off the road and into a ditch. Chrissie didn’t stop to see if her co-worker was OK, she put her foot down, seized the moment, and played the lead that night. Somehow I feel that daughter Deni, given half a chance, would pay the same amount of heed to the faux-family side of the showbiz equation Marcia attempts to parade on Idol and in ‘life’. I see her ruthlessly repaying the dominant ego its ambition in kind. She could become the Alan Jones of aging club-culture – a brittle bossy prattler. That should endear her to me, I know – a disease for diseases – but I decry this dreadful (up)dated disco dross and the lifestyle addictions that drive it. Desperate and dull.
U-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
M.A.R.I.A.
Snapped, syncopated rhythms (chipper and tight, like early-FM filler) spark flying as a triumph of the ill unfolds. Our protagonist, Maria, navigates Crown Street and The Gaslight. It’s Friday night and Slurry Hills bristles in sordid, standard style. ‘Field’ recordings (a thick-witted bouncer barely enunciates, “keep walking”, sirens fade with each dim step, warm and foolish hill-down-goes) echo the innocuousness and insulation of her ramble: one drunk soul in a treadmill of time, tracing Chisel and The Cross, one day later, more than two decades ago. Wake up! We’re still there, yet - a clapped-out hooker is braying Branigan and drawing a crowd. The proportion’s all wrong! Chalk it up to experience (if you must) but banish those fantasies of a vinyl solution – etching sketched is hard enough. On the other side, a Bee-mix bumbles brashly about - banging into windows, flying out the door. A toilet flushes. I’m fine. Really!
F-
Gudrun Gut
Move Me
My bedroom is a graveyard for the toxic, circular, ‘artistic’ aspirations of so many – and then there are the CD’s! I constantly have to purge the back-log and prioritise incoming fare: making neat little piles, precisely arranged in an arbitrary ascription of descending promise. Then, each week we serve up several from the top and one from the lowly depths (such predominantly affirmative action somewhat disgusts me, and I miss the abject mediocrity of the material that would rank M to S in our scale). This particular anonymous white sleeve was about to visit my bribery box of death (mechanics, masseurs, etc) when the curious artist name caught my eye. I’m glad - as these are truly peculiar works: a sumptuous submerged tango, then a Smog-sampling overlay of Rock Bottom Riser. They skip about like skimmed stones thrown by nocturnal albino beach bums. I discover she’s the boss of Berlin’s Monica Enterprise label and ex Einsterzende Neubauten. Figures!
F+
KIM
B.T.T.T.T.R.Y
Weird! First I have the pleasure of reviewing a debut single from The Soft Tigers on 7” vinyl, then I receive a 12” ‘only’ release on CD from thee clearly confused paupers at Thee Bang Gang (guess they’re spending all the dough on the coke and strippers they so predictably crap on about in the press release). Coming on like Love Tattoo’s Drop Some Drums covered by Boy Scouts, a big latin percussive stomp soon gives way to KIM’s pre-set electro tendencies. Over a repetitive synth arpeggio, with steel drums the only embellishment, our bendy bra-boy tunelessly declaims, “By the time that they reach you, I’ll probably be dead,” (which is right up there with Pauline Hanson’s, “If you are watching this, I’ve been murdered,” in terms of credible assertions; and is also the basis of the compelling title). Some killer conniptions emerge as drummers multiply, choral breakdowns splay the sound, and keys scream sideways. Eeek!
F
Single of the Week
Lavender Diamond
Open Your Heart
Well, now I’ve heard only two songs by this band and I adore them both. The joyous good-will that radiates from singer Becky Stark could so easily trigger defensive cynicism in the listener were it not for the manner in which she humbly embodies such rapture. This is like The Polyphonic Spree scaled down, freed of their trappings (of cults, and conformity); refined into an individual’s celebration of the universality of difference. The arrangement is rendered simply - piano, acoustic guitars and handclaps are elevated by elegant, restrained strings and that bell-clear vocal. Somehow Becky marries cool observance of cycles of sadness with a transcending celebration of innate potential shared. This stunning song soars, borne aloft on love, alone. It’s exquisite, plain and pure. A dew-drop bending the world in the shape of our eyes, in the shape of our place, our planet – still, here.
C+
Single of the Weak
Deni Hines
5 Days of Rain
You know, once – a long, long time ago – Chrissie Amphlett was driving to Kogarah to reprise her job as Marcia Hines’ understudy in a piece of ‘musical’ theatre. On the way she saw Marcia’s car suddenly career off the road and into a ditch. Chrissie didn’t stop to see if her co-worker was OK, she put her foot down, seized the moment, and played the lead that night. Somehow I feel that daughter Deni, given half a chance, would pay the same amount of heed to the faux-family side of the showbiz equation Marcia attempts to parade on Idol and in ‘life’. I see her ruthlessly repaying the dominant ego its ambition in kind. She could become the Alan Jones of aging club-culture – a brittle bossy prattler. That should endear her to me, I know – a disease for diseases – but I decry this dreadful (up)dated disco dross and the lifestyle addictions that drive it. Desperate and dull.
U-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Spencer P. Jones and the Escape Committee
She’s Hot and Cold
A chugging tune that may, or may not, relate to the sexual variability of groupies ‘of a certain age’. The loping gait of the guitars confirm that this fella has little left to prove. Only a few weeks back - while referencing his other band, The Beasts of Bourbon - we relayed the tale of a reputed recent collapse in New York. The label tells me it was all a crock – but with Spence you could believe just about anything. Last time I saw him it was 2pm and time for a live radio performance. He grabbed a bug-filled leftover half-glass of champers from a party the night before and swigged it down – that’s probably where he gets half his protein! His effortless style and sly humour travel well here, as befits a man who rivals Reg Mombassa as yet another dead-set Aussie legend born across the ditch.
F
Single of the Week
Rufus Wainwright
Going To A Town
“I’m going to a town that has already been burnt down, I’m going to a place that has already been disgraced…I’m so tired of you America.” So begins this sad and austere song from Rufus, written on the cusp of his departure for Berlin from home in New York. In an exhausted, mournful tone over bare, rich piano and strings he enunciates his reasons for going: the moral hypocrisy of the religious right (“do you really think you go to hell for having loved?”) and the monstrous folly of Bush’s foreign policy (“you took advantage of a world that loved you well”). This ‘new world’ of woe is contrasted with an emerging Europe where balance has been painstakingly accrued only through bitter experience of the desolation and despair that war engenders. The courage and wisdom inherent in these expressions is well matched by the sumptuous restraint of the arrangement and its rendition. Heartbreaking.
D
Architecture In Helsinki
Heart It Races
This opens like Germany’s Trio doing Baile-Funk – the sort of concept Malcolm Mclaren might have on today’s shoddy tranquilisers! A dirge-like beat emerges only to reach Cape Velocity the long way round: steel drums and nasal vocal affectations grating until phonetic farce and oodles of psychedelic harmonies eclipse the relative banality of the song’s base. I wonder how they were at The Metro recently? Two of the girls who brought a lightness of touch to the ensemble departed last year and I feel a slight malaise in this work; a straining towards fun. Frankly, the remix by Yacht is superior to the original - largely due to it’s adherence to early-Architecture rhythmic dressage. It is somewhat of a worry that a band needs to post a MySpace bulletin to solicit titling suggestions for their new album; more so that they then settle on meaningless platitudinal pap such as ‘Places Like This’.
K+
Battles
Atlas
Squelchy space-blues by little people with big (ear)drums. A Gene Wilder era Oompah-Loompah eccy-anthem swerves suddenly into a metal breakdown ‘til prog frippery bursts us under - then chains us down to robotic bed rock for the duration! Upon investigation I find that said beat bastardry emanates from ex-Helmet sticks man John Stainier. That sure explains a lot. It’s reassuring that he has not relied on his initial, evident energy and technique (or decayed in egotistical past-tension a la Page Hamilton). Instead he has sought out challenge and change (as per Dave Lombardo). Those in the know have been cajoling me to check these guys out for years. Two things pique my curiosity still more: one, the remix by DJ Koze is of a high calibre – as befits a label like Warp; two, the only other song I’ve heard from the album, Mirrored, sounds nothing like this at all. Spin it - I’ll go there!
E-
Single of the Weak
Melanie Horsnell
Kiss You Again
I was gonna go for Missy Higgins this week but I guess it’s best to keep it local where possible, hey? Miss Horsnell may be a cut above some of the singer-songwriters cluttering up our airwaves with earnest whinging and sickening self-absorbtion. She is one of the few original acts to emerge from the Northern Beaches these days. It sure has been a while since the heyday of The Oils and INXS up there - now it’s just precocious pseudo-hippies posing by the gene pool. Can The Goons of Doom please perform something non-consensual on The Beautiful Girls? It’s all so pretty-pretty and I don’t buy it (though thousands will). In this floral frieze Melanie pleads verbal impotence only to bleat plaintively of unspoken wishes; then does her hair and goes out to party – leaving ‘him’ at home (“sorry that I’m way too wonderful, sparkling, special”). It’s sudsy psychology at best. At worst it’s a call to prayer for those facing Macca’s.
P
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She’s Hot and Cold
A chugging tune that may, or may not, relate to the sexual variability of groupies ‘of a certain age’. The loping gait of the guitars confirm that this fella has little left to prove. Only a few weeks back - while referencing his other band, The Beasts of Bourbon - we relayed the tale of a reputed recent collapse in New York. The label tells me it was all a crock – but with Spence you could believe just about anything. Last time I saw him it was 2pm and time for a live radio performance. He grabbed a bug-filled leftover half-glass of champers from a party the night before and swigged it down – that’s probably where he gets half his protein! His effortless style and sly humour travel well here, as befits a man who rivals Reg Mombassa as yet another dead-set Aussie legend born across the ditch.
F
Single of the Week
Rufus Wainwright
Going To A Town
“I’m going to a town that has already been burnt down, I’m going to a place that has already been disgraced…I’m so tired of you America.” So begins this sad and austere song from Rufus, written on the cusp of his departure for Berlin from home in New York. In an exhausted, mournful tone over bare, rich piano and strings he enunciates his reasons for going: the moral hypocrisy of the religious right (“do you really think you go to hell for having loved?”) and the monstrous folly of Bush’s foreign policy (“you took advantage of a world that loved you well”). This ‘new world’ of woe is contrasted with an emerging Europe where balance has been painstakingly accrued only through bitter experience of the desolation and despair that war engenders. The courage and wisdom inherent in these expressions is well matched by the sumptuous restraint of the arrangement and its rendition. Heartbreaking.
D
Architecture In Helsinki
Heart It Races
This opens like Germany’s Trio doing Baile-Funk – the sort of concept Malcolm Mclaren might have on today’s shoddy tranquilisers! A dirge-like beat emerges only to reach Cape Velocity the long way round: steel drums and nasal vocal affectations grating until phonetic farce and oodles of psychedelic harmonies eclipse the relative banality of the song’s base. I wonder how they were at The Metro recently? Two of the girls who brought a lightness of touch to the ensemble departed last year and I feel a slight malaise in this work; a straining towards fun. Frankly, the remix by Yacht is superior to the original - largely due to it’s adherence to early-Architecture rhythmic dressage. It is somewhat of a worry that a band needs to post a MySpace bulletin to solicit titling suggestions for their new album; more so that they then settle on meaningless platitudinal pap such as ‘Places Like This’.
K+
Battles
Atlas
Squelchy space-blues by little people with big (ear)drums. A Gene Wilder era Oompah-Loompah eccy-anthem swerves suddenly into a metal breakdown ‘til prog frippery bursts us under - then chains us down to robotic bed rock for the duration! Upon investigation I find that said beat bastardry emanates from ex-Helmet sticks man John Stainier. That sure explains a lot. It’s reassuring that he has not relied on his initial, evident energy and technique (or decayed in egotistical past-tension a la Page Hamilton). Instead he has sought out challenge and change (as per Dave Lombardo). Those in the know have been cajoling me to check these guys out for years. Two things pique my curiosity still more: one, the remix by DJ Koze is of a high calibre – as befits a label like Warp; two, the only other song I’ve heard from the album, Mirrored, sounds nothing like this at all. Spin it - I’ll go there!
E-
Single of the Weak
Melanie Horsnell
Kiss You Again
I was gonna go for Missy Higgins this week but I guess it’s best to keep it local where possible, hey? Miss Horsnell may be a cut above some of the singer-songwriters cluttering up our airwaves with earnest whinging and sickening self-absorbtion. She is one of the few original acts to emerge from the Northern Beaches these days. It sure has been a while since the heyday of The Oils and INXS up there - now it’s just precocious pseudo-hippies posing by the gene pool. Can The Goons of Doom please perform something non-consensual on The Beautiful Girls? It’s all so pretty-pretty and I don’t buy it (though thousands will). In this floral frieze Melanie pleads verbal impotence only to bleat plaintively of unspoken wishes; then does her hair and goes out to party – leaving ‘him’ at home (“sorry that I’m way too wonderful, sparkling, special”). It’s sudsy psychology at best. At worst it’s a call to prayer for those facing Macca’s.
P
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Single of the Week
The White Stripes
Icky Thump
A droning, dithering keyboard line opens this title track from The White Stripes’ forthcoming album - the jumble of wobbly, distorted tones coming across like a dejected and rejected Rolf Harris stabbing drunkenly at a half-broken baritone stylophone. Guitars and drums pump with sullen menace beneath, then enormous rhythmic bursts chop the air aside as Jack’s wild border-line screaming begins to tear through. The lacerating precision of his enunciation on the cusp of vocal breaking-point is impressive enough (not to mention lines like: “White Americans, what? Nothing better to do? Why don’t you kick yourself out - you’re an immigrant too! ...Well you can’t be a pimp and a prostitute too!”) but it’s the guitars that really bring it all home. Outrageous arrangements, bordering on Prog at times, escape hack-kneed critique as extreme unaccompanied distortion and pitch-bending incinerate each bracket only to skew anew. Blithe, bold and brilliant.
D+
M.I.A.
Boyz
Delirious tribal beats underpin micro-loops of single-syllable chipmunk vocals while Maya spits questions at the un-fairer sex that are clearly beyond their Ken. The Bollywood-style rawness of the drums paired with “na-na-na-na-na” back-ups and massive swooping synthesised bass notes create an atmosphere of both menace and excitement – like a stoned street band stumbling awkwardly through a military wedding. At first such cyclical density threw me – there was no Sunshowers-style melody here (though that itself was stolen from Dr Buzzards Original Savannah Band and never credited as such - I discovered this only after hearing it play from a radio in the background of a scene in the movie Colors). However, the atmosphere created by Ms. Arulpragasm (what a name!) and producer Switch is unique and infectious and the internal logic of the piece becomes more embedded with each listen. Now - bounce!
D
Coda
Miss Bliss
In somewhat of a departure for the Coda kids this track - while still featuring amazing vibraphone and strings – introduces a pulsing underbelly of keys and bass that more resembles sumptuous electronica. Naturally though, these wayward minstrels don’t keep things that settled for long. Soon austere acoustic instruments such as the melodica are swept aside by a tempestuous flurry of fills from the drums until everything ascends into a churning rush of sustained distorted guitar - the abrasive intermittence of which is perfectly offset by stately violins gliding atop. This emotive, synchronous duality embodies the group, and is most pronounced in their live performances - yet their recordings are increasingly successful at incorporating key attributes like richness and risk. It’s intriguing and inspirational that such a humble and good-natured local collective can still be evolving artistically while working way outside established parameters here - or anywhere.
G-
DJ Jazzy Jeff
Supa Jean (featuring Jean Grae)
Kick and snare - crisp and rare. Two chords of electric piano and some bass notes from a dusty old real one floating about in the background. Jean Grae’s tone telling as she teases and sways – privileging the coquette over the strumpet then retracting all offers, power proven. This is a def slice of sassy minimalism from one of the earliest commercial success stories in the rap game. It’s rare indeed for an artist to compel with parallel pizzazz a decade or two after their prime but Jazzy swings it by underplaying that old hand of his. Never renowned as much of a hard-hitter due to his pop-culture presence (with Will Smith – ‘The Fresh Prince’ of Bel-Air) in both music and TV, the guy nonetheless made some killer singles and has here taken a leaf from the real Jazz culture into which Jean was born - stepping up by stripping it back – to essentials.
F+
Single of the Weak
Belinda Carlisle
La Vie En Rose
At the other end of the quality-work-in-later-years scale comes ex-Go-Go Belinda ‘Carlisle’ (real name Kurczeski). Having ripped (and snorted) the fruits of her labour back in the heyday, we now have to endure this ex-smokers reedy rasp painfully attempting to render one of the greatest songs of all time - in trans-Atlantic ‘French’ - as she makes a last, ghastly clasp at the remains of fame. It’s fleshed out by appalling production – the backing muzak resembles a karaoke reduction of the otherwise marvelous Grace Jones (sadly not the Triple J newsreader) version - as performed by a clapped-out poker machine on the blink. Don’t even get me started on the woeful remixes (DNS, Special Branch, who?). I’ve got better things to do than waste words on this shoddy shite – I’ve a life to lead! I’m gonna head up to the corner store and buy myself something to brighten up my day. I wonder if they’ve got any cancer?
X-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The White Stripes
Icky Thump
A droning, dithering keyboard line opens this title track from The White Stripes’ forthcoming album - the jumble of wobbly, distorted tones coming across like a dejected and rejected Rolf Harris stabbing drunkenly at a half-broken baritone stylophone. Guitars and drums pump with sullen menace beneath, then enormous rhythmic bursts chop the air aside as Jack’s wild border-line screaming begins to tear through. The lacerating precision of his enunciation on the cusp of vocal breaking-point is impressive enough (not to mention lines like: “White Americans, what? Nothing better to do? Why don’t you kick yourself out - you’re an immigrant too! ...Well you can’t be a pimp and a prostitute too!”) but it’s the guitars that really bring it all home. Outrageous arrangements, bordering on Prog at times, escape hack-kneed critique as extreme unaccompanied distortion and pitch-bending incinerate each bracket only to skew anew. Blithe, bold and brilliant.
D+
M.I.A.
Boyz
Delirious tribal beats underpin micro-loops of single-syllable chipmunk vocals while Maya spits questions at the un-fairer sex that are clearly beyond their Ken. The Bollywood-style rawness of the drums paired with “na-na-na-na-na” back-ups and massive swooping synthesised bass notes create an atmosphere of both menace and excitement – like a stoned street band stumbling awkwardly through a military wedding. At first such cyclical density threw me – there was no Sunshowers-style melody here (though that itself was stolen from Dr Buzzards Original Savannah Band and never credited as such - I discovered this only after hearing it play from a radio in the background of a scene in the movie Colors). However, the atmosphere created by Ms. Arulpragasm (what a name!) and producer Switch is unique and infectious and the internal logic of the piece becomes more embedded with each listen. Now - bounce!
D
Coda
Miss Bliss
In somewhat of a departure for the Coda kids this track - while still featuring amazing vibraphone and strings – introduces a pulsing underbelly of keys and bass that more resembles sumptuous electronica. Naturally though, these wayward minstrels don’t keep things that settled for long. Soon austere acoustic instruments such as the melodica are swept aside by a tempestuous flurry of fills from the drums until everything ascends into a churning rush of sustained distorted guitar - the abrasive intermittence of which is perfectly offset by stately violins gliding atop. This emotive, synchronous duality embodies the group, and is most pronounced in their live performances - yet their recordings are increasingly successful at incorporating key attributes like richness and risk. It’s intriguing and inspirational that such a humble and good-natured local collective can still be evolving artistically while working way outside established parameters here - or anywhere.
G-
DJ Jazzy Jeff
Supa Jean (featuring Jean Grae)
Kick and snare - crisp and rare. Two chords of electric piano and some bass notes from a dusty old real one floating about in the background. Jean Grae’s tone telling as she teases and sways – privileging the coquette over the strumpet then retracting all offers, power proven. This is a def slice of sassy minimalism from one of the earliest commercial success stories in the rap game. It’s rare indeed for an artist to compel with parallel pizzazz a decade or two after their prime but Jazzy swings it by underplaying that old hand of his. Never renowned as much of a hard-hitter due to his pop-culture presence (with Will Smith – ‘The Fresh Prince’ of Bel-Air) in both music and TV, the guy nonetheless made some killer singles and has here taken a leaf from the real Jazz culture into which Jean was born - stepping up by stripping it back – to essentials.
F+
Single of the Weak
Belinda Carlisle
La Vie En Rose
At the other end of the quality-work-in-later-years scale comes ex-Go-Go Belinda ‘Carlisle’ (real name Kurczeski). Having ripped (and snorted) the fruits of her labour back in the heyday, we now have to endure this ex-smokers reedy rasp painfully attempting to render one of the greatest songs of all time - in trans-Atlantic ‘French’ - as she makes a last, ghastly clasp at the remains of fame. It’s fleshed out by appalling production – the backing muzak resembles a karaoke reduction of the otherwise marvelous Grace Jones (sadly not the Triple J newsreader) version - as performed by a clapped-out poker machine on the blink. Don’t even get me started on the woeful remixes (DNS, Special Branch, who?). I’ve got better things to do than waste words on this shoddy shite – I’ve a life to lead! I’m gonna head up to the corner store and buy myself something to brighten up my day. I wonder if they’ve got any cancer?
X-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Single of the Week
Blonde Redhead
23
This mysteriously named opening title track from the exquisitely packaged (as ever on 4AD) new album is beatific in every way. Child-like backing vocals multiply and interweave with inscrutable lead lines while a propulsive and echoic snare and hi-hat rhythm gathers momentum incrementally beneath. It’s the guitars that really fly - loosing any tether to everyday structural conceits and implicitly asking why ALL music is not this angelic, unheard of and free. These twisting layers of melodic distortion and pitch white do have one progenitor – one that countless imitators have failed to even vaguely approximate – that of the bittersweet and majestic My Bloody Valentine. The man most responsible for this is in neither group. Alan Moulder mixed all the great late MBV work and has lent his remarkable ear to producing this blissfully layered sound. Let’s pray nothing impedes their long-awaited and (once-cancelled) tour this time around as they are truly at the height of their powers.
B
Machine Translations
Need a Miracle
Having created so many unlikely innovations, even interventions, during the course of his musical evolution, it’s somewhat surprising to hear such a placid, pastoral single released by J. Walker prior to his forthcoming album. It’s akin to Wilco’s What Light in this regard – a refinement of form shocking only in its relative simplicity. That said, the wistful melody still traverses plaintive minor-key progressions in the assured yet self-effacing style we’ve come to expect and the percussion clomps forth from primitive hand-played drums. The escalation and elevation arises as strings suddenly sweep through – sidling around the kind of micro-tonal Eastern scales sadly neglected in pop since the heyday of George Harrison. Two extra tunes are included b-sides: a lovely ballad structured similarly around acoustic guitar and voice, and - as if to reassure us that the peculiar production proclivities are intact - an instrumental of bizarre angular lo-fi guitars paired with high-frequency electronica.
F
Dungen
Gor Det Nu
Way to start a song! A frantic fill gives out to insane tremolo squalls of guitar feedback, lumpy bass and weird-arse Swedish vocals - all awash with reverb ‘til a change kicks in and it all gets stretched by sustain: bass becomes fuzzy, other voices harmonise and organ flutters about the extremities as the kick drum paradoxically doubles. There’s no question Dungen are in the thrall of the more blistering exponents of Sixties rock – Hendrix, The Who, Led Zep, Big Brother (that’s The Holding Company for you square eyes: where everyone goes into a house in Haight-Ashbury and takes acid, for years, without cameras!) – and why not? The velocity of the rhythms and the density of the noise can only be created with passion and abandon, engendering a visceral rush unknown to the plague of aneamic imitators attempting proximity through pedestrian fashion alone. Rock this play-full will always win the night - hands down.
F+
Malcolm Middleton
A Brighter Beat
At the time Arab Strap announced their own demise late last year Malcolm had already released two solo albums. This first release from number three is quite literally brighter fare than either previous incarnation. An up-tempo chase between acoustic and electric guitars occurs over crisply recorded drums (sonically reminiscent of Ed Kuepper’s Today Wonder material) as rich piano chords hover in the background. In a swinging, speaking style we are led from a domestic scene (the end of an affair) out onto the street - seeking distraction and engagement in the social whirl of music, yet tamed and tainted as we wryly observe the game; wishing to be absorbed, yet knowing time’s long spell must yet be played out. It’s typically dark Scottish storytelling on that level but the sparkling tone offsets any maudlin moping – a tiny ember of freedom and promise grows within - leaving you keen - ready, to move on.
F-
Single of the Weak
Natasha Bedingfield
Wow, a field full of beds to be bedded in…I could handle that! Such sensual plurality is not on the agenda of Ms Bedingfield, however. Maybe it’s a history of stress over their surname that has led to the entire family being so active – in evangelical Christianity (Hillsong, no less). Having grown out of her snappily-titled sibling-staffed teen group The DNA Algorithm, Natasha is now sewing up the market for urban fundamentalist anthemics and doing very nicely thank you. She has one hell of a voice and the drum programming here is solid but the chorus is as cringe-worthy as a cold syringe full of sperm in the hands of a desperate old yuppie giving it one more try. “Trust me it’d scare you if you knew what was going on in my brain,” she sings, and even the brainwashed kiddy-choir concurs. Be warned - the weak shall inherit the Earth!
Q
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Blonde Redhead
23
This mysteriously named opening title track from the exquisitely packaged (as ever on 4AD) new album is beatific in every way. Child-like backing vocals multiply and interweave with inscrutable lead lines while a propulsive and echoic snare and hi-hat rhythm gathers momentum incrementally beneath. It’s the guitars that really fly - loosing any tether to everyday structural conceits and implicitly asking why ALL music is not this angelic, unheard of and free. These twisting layers of melodic distortion and pitch white do have one progenitor – one that countless imitators have failed to even vaguely approximate – that of the bittersweet and majestic My Bloody Valentine. The man most responsible for this is in neither group. Alan Moulder mixed all the great late MBV work and has lent his remarkable ear to producing this blissfully layered sound. Let’s pray nothing impedes their long-awaited and (once-cancelled) tour this time around as they are truly at the height of their powers.
B
Machine Translations
Need a Miracle
Having created so many unlikely innovations, even interventions, during the course of his musical evolution, it’s somewhat surprising to hear such a placid, pastoral single released by J. Walker prior to his forthcoming album. It’s akin to Wilco’s What Light in this regard – a refinement of form shocking only in its relative simplicity. That said, the wistful melody still traverses plaintive minor-key progressions in the assured yet self-effacing style we’ve come to expect and the percussion clomps forth from primitive hand-played drums. The escalation and elevation arises as strings suddenly sweep through – sidling around the kind of micro-tonal Eastern scales sadly neglected in pop since the heyday of George Harrison. Two extra tunes are included b-sides: a lovely ballad structured similarly around acoustic guitar and voice, and - as if to reassure us that the peculiar production proclivities are intact - an instrumental of bizarre angular lo-fi guitars paired with high-frequency electronica.
F
Dungen
Gor Det Nu
Way to start a song! A frantic fill gives out to insane tremolo squalls of guitar feedback, lumpy bass and weird-arse Swedish vocals - all awash with reverb ‘til a change kicks in and it all gets stretched by sustain: bass becomes fuzzy, other voices harmonise and organ flutters about the extremities as the kick drum paradoxically doubles. There’s no question Dungen are in the thrall of the more blistering exponents of Sixties rock – Hendrix, The Who, Led Zep, Big Brother (that’s The Holding Company for you square eyes: where everyone goes into a house in Haight-Ashbury and takes acid, for years, without cameras!) – and why not? The velocity of the rhythms and the density of the noise can only be created with passion and abandon, engendering a visceral rush unknown to the plague of aneamic imitators attempting proximity through pedestrian fashion alone. Rock this play-full will always win the night - hands down.
F+
Malcolm Middleton
A Brighter Beat
At the time Arab Strap announced their own demise late last year Malcolm had already released two solo albums. This first release from number three is quite literally brighter fare than either previous incarnation. An up-tempo chase between acoustic and electric guitars occurs over crisply recorded drums (sonically reminiscent of Ed Kuepper’s Today Wonder material) as rich piano chords hover in the background. In a swinging, speaking style we are led from a domestic scene (the end of an affair) out onto the street - seeking distraction and engagement in the social whirl of music, yet tamed and tainted as we wryly observe the game; wishing to be absorbed, yet knowing time’s long spell must yet be played out. It’s typically dark Scottish storytelling on that level but the sparkling tone offsets any maudlin moping – a tiny ember of freedom and promise grows within - leaving you keen - ready, to move on.
F-
Single of the Weak
Natasha Bedingfield
Wow, a field full of beds to be bedded in…I could handle that! Such sensual plurality is not on the agenda of Ms Bedingfield, however. Maybe it’s a history of stress over their surname that has led to the entire family being so active – in evangelical Christianity (Hillsong, no less). Having grown out of her snappily-titled sibling-staffed teen group The DNA Algorithm, Natasha is now sewing up the market for urban fundamentalist anthemics and doing very nicely thank you. She has one hell of a voice and the drum programming here is solid but the chorus is as cringe-worthy as a cold syringe full of sperm in the hands of a desperate old yuppie giving it one more try. “Trust me it’d scare you if you knew what was going on in my brain,” she sings, and even the brainwashed kiddy-choir concurs. Be warned - the weak shall inherit the Earth!
Q
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Au Revoir Simone
Fallen Snow
Like a more genteel Stereolab, Au Revoir Simone coax and coast. Pulsing keys (all three ladies tread the boards with light fingers) and vibraphone form a fastidiously made bed for a feathery vocal that belies the sophistication at play. Staccato organ drips with reverb adding a timeless feel, daintily brushed drums (hard to believe they’re machine-made) gradually become more forceful, voices multiply and the rhythm stands still for a spell. Flurries abate like any eddy in our weather and we return from whence we came, somehow changed. This is far from revolutionary yet the unassuming aspects can catch you off guard. The two formative members of this group met on a train and listening, one absorbs their music as a witness: everyday elements shine strangely as we pass, cosy in our cabin, watching the world go – bye!
G
Katalyst
All You’ve Got
With customary critical confidence (not to mention patience – it’s five years since Manipulating Agent) Ashley Anderson delivers a brilliant mix of jazz, funk, soul and hip-hop that is snappy and substantial without ever being busy. Horns, strings, piano, and Sixties female vocal stabs embellish an understated beat of sheer solidity while killer scratching darts about raps from Ru C.L., Hau and Yungun. All three fella’s acquit themselves with tight, tart sprays on the state of play these days and verbally demonstrate the dexterous acuity necessary to thread through the bullshit in order to survive. Amazingly, all the remixes are good: Sinister Seven keeps up the pace over as many minutes with input from N’fa, The Tongue, Sleeping Monk, Mr Clean and Xela besides, while the Blue Guerilla mix almost improves on the original through heavier hits and fuzzed-up guitars. Add the tr/action of closer I Know A Place and you got somethin’ worth waiting for.
F
Single of the Week
LCD Soundsystem
All My Friends
44 minutes and four versions of one song! If it was anyone else you’d think they were no-good lazy scammers! But we’re talking here of one of the only current acts who’ve sketched and stretched time in a valid way and so it is here, my friend. Having only heard the driving delirium of the Franz Ferdinand cover version on the radio thus far it’s quite a revelation to hear the original. It’s almost out of phase piano retains the dramatic tension that fizzles fast with Franz – and then there’s John Cale! Beginning in an electronic puddle of distorted delay I imagine a regal treatment may eventuate but he veers directly into pure rock. The drummer busts a serious nut while Eno-esque vocal touches and some surreal guitar Frippery beautifully complicate matters. The Harvey Mix bears no resemblance but, like additional tracks No Love Lost and the completely bonkers Freak Out, it’s just fucking great music.
B+
Fabulous Diamonds
Fabulous Diamonds
Intriguing Eastern tonalities are rendered by a buzzing saxophone over primitive drums. Ethereal singing is heard as delay-addled piano serves to uplift the exquisite morbidity on this opening number, 1:52, from the debut release (on 7” vinyl) from Melbourne duo Fabulous Diamonds. A similar atmosphere is leavened by snatches of distorted keyboard on the next track before a direct dab at basic drums/sax/vocals lasts 34 seconds and we are amongst reeds and rails – lost, again. An instrumental aura devolves into a vocal-only overlay by the last song until waves of echoes conjoin in cyclical arrhythmia, internal organs aquiver. These are fascinating, restive, ghostly sounds – a slow waltz for the sedentary thrice around the cemetery. Is treasure to be found? In spades.
E-
Single of the Weak
Manic Street Preachers
Underdogs
You’ve (NOT!) gotta love a single with such a sad-arse, clichéd concept signposted in it’s very title that then proclaims in the very first line of the promo guff stuck on the back that the band have sold 7 MILLION ALBUMS! I hesitate to share the true woefulness of this bleached canine turd of a tune with you – it belongs in the bin! You’ll be heaving before you take a breath as the opening line is – “This one’s for the freaks” – enabling these pompous, rich gits to immediately establish their majestic and charitable benevolence in providing us with this disgustingly formulaic and overwrought song. They go on to claim everyman status with - “and like the underdogs we are” - before eclipsing any other inconsistencies with the diabolical deduction – “people like you (?!?), need to fuck, to fuck people like me”. Fucking DROWN them! It’s humane! Then they’ll be underdogs…
W
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fallen Snow
Like a more genteel Stereolab, Au Revoir Simone coax and coast. Pulsing keys (all three ladies tread the boards with light fingers) and vibraphone form a fastidiously made bed for a feathery vocal that belies the sophistication at play. Staccato organ drips with reverb adding a timeless feel, daintily brushed drums (hard to believe they’re machine-made) gradually become more forceful, voices multiply and the rhythm stands still for a spell. Flurries abate like any eddy in our weather and we return from whence we came, somehow changed. This is far from revolutionary yet the unassuming aspects can catch you off guard. The two formative members of this group met on a train and listening, one absorbs their music as a witness: everyday elements shine strangely as we pass, cosy in our cabin, watching the world go – bye!
G
Katalyst
All You’ve Got
With customary critical confidence (not to mention patience – it’s five years since Manipulating Agent) Ashley Anderson delivers a brilliant mix of jazz, funk, soul and hip-hop that is snappy and substantial without ever being busy. Horns, strings, piano, and Sixties female vocal stabs embellish an understated beat of sheer solidity while killer scratching darts about raps from Ru C.L., Hau and Yungun. All three fella’s acquit themselves with tight, tart sprays on the state of play these days and verbally demonstrate the dexterous acuity necessary to thread through the bullshit in order to survive. Amazingly, all the remixes are good: Sinister Seven keeps up the pace over as many minutes with input from N’fa, The Tongue, Sleeping Monk, Mr Clean and Xela besides, while the Blue Guerilla mix almost improves on the original through heavier hits and fuzzed-up guitars. Add the tr/action of closer I Know A Place and you got somethin’ worth waiting for.
F
Single of the Week
LCD Soundsystem
All My Friends
44 minutes and four versions of one song! If it was anyone else you’d think they were no-good lazy scammers! But we’re talking here of one of the only current acts who’ve sketched and stretched time in a valid way and so it is here, my friend. Having only heard the driving delirium of the Franz Ferdinand cover version on the radio thus far it’s quite a revelation to hear the original. It’s almost out of phase piano retains the dramatic tension that fizzles fast with Franz – and then there’s John Cale! Beginning in an electronic puddle of distorted delay I imagine a regal treatment may eventuate but he veers directly into pure rock. The drummer busts a serious nut while Eno-esque vocal touches and some surreal guitar Frippery beautifully complicate matters. The Harvey Mix bears no resemblance but, like additional tracks No Love Lost and the completely bonkers Freak Out, it’s just fucking great music.
B+
Fabulous Diamonds
Fabulous Diamonds
Intriguing Eastern tonalities are rendered by a buzzing saxophone over primitive drums. Ethereal singing is heard as delay-addled piano serves to uplift the exquisite morbidity on this opening number, 1:52, from the debut release (on 7” vinyl) from Melbourne duo Fabulous Diamonds. A similar atmosphere is leavened by snatches of distorted keyboard on the next track before a direct dab at basic drums/sax/vocals lasts 34 seconds and we are amongst reeds and rails – lost, again. An instrumental aura devolves into a vocal-only overlay by the last song until waves of echoes conjoin in cyclical arrhythmia, internal organs aquiver. These are fascinating, restive, ghostly sounds – a slow waltz for the sedentary thrice around the cemetery. Is treasure to be found? In spades.
E-
Single of the Weak
Manic Street Preachers
Underdogs
You’ve (NOT!) gotta love a single with such a sad-arse, clichéd concept signposted in it’s very title that then proclaims in the very first line of the promo guff stuck on the back that the band have sold 7 MILLION ALBUMS! I hesitate to share the true woefulness of this bleached canine turd of a tune with you – it belongs in the bin! You’ll be heaving before you take a breath as the opening line is – “This one’s for the freaks” – enabling these pompous, rich gits to immediately establish their majestic and charitable benevolence in providing us with this disgustingly formulaic and overwrought song. They go on to claim everyman status with - “and like the underdogs we are” - before eclipsing any other inconsistencies with the diabolical deduction – “people like you (?!?), need to fuck, to fuck people like me”. Fucking DROWN them! It’s humane! Then they’ll be underdogs…
W
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Von Sudenfed
Fledermaus Can’t Get It
Despite possessing a moniker fit for a wide-eyed, mustachio twirling, speed-freak of the European aristocracy, Von Sudenfed actually comprises of roustabout Pom Mark E. Smith of The Fall and Jan St. Werna and Andi Toma of German electro-fruits Mouse On Mars. The sound is as you’d expect if yr familiar with these folk: drawling stream-of-consciousness wordplay from Mark, with effectual intervention from Mars, over a dirty rhythmic spread of clunking tonal clashes that rolls about restlessly like a flea-ridden dog on an old carpet. This spontaneous combustion forms a hilariously dry riposte to the dreary derivative dance floor filler/s currently in vogue. The rarity of such a heady mixture of relish and disregard may be why ‘critics’ have seen fit to reference the somewhat iconoclastic LCD Soundsystem as a possible source. Crotchety old Smith is having none of it, saying Von Sudenfeld are mainly influenced by The Fall – which would be him, of coarse.
D-
Single of the Week
Macromantics
Physical
Avert yr eyes from the Olivia-era cover design and look within as an unexpected slab of sinister solidity awaits. Macro gifts us an unreleased number from the same source (Buchman and her bad self) that ripping recent album Moments In Movement arose. An orchestral ascension heralds the heaviest loping bass beat I’ve heard from any recent Australian act. As Romy waxes sweaty text, dry, clipping, locked loops flay ears asunder beneath buzzing vapours of synthetic drones. Bitter lyrical bombast gets de-sexed by default when fools rush h/ours but Hoffman maintains engagement despite density courtesy of her idiomatic inventions and the dexterity of her deviations. Which is to say that this is full, but not of shit. So step up, and shake it – no mind/body split will stymie this lady - it’s all ready, time to move on. Let me hear yr body torque!
D+
Queens of the Stone Age
Sick, Sick, Sick
Simple on one level, sophisticated on many others, I’m relieved to hear this from The Queens. I’d hate them to coast on their suburban status now that they’ve achieved mass recognition around the globe. Josh Homme functions as the sole ‘leader’ in the group now and the absence of counterpoint when operating at scale regularly engenders mere fatuous farts of formula. But the guy is such a freak! On a personal plane he’s maintained curiosity and playfulness where others are numb divas. Professionally he continues to rethink the obvious and challenge listeners with a combination of instinct and aversion. The sounds on this single seethe with single-note tones that distort the air as a hive of deeper de-tuned guitars gathers only to disperse in a rough and ready mix. This is the fevered loop playing in Paris’ drug-addled ‘brain’ as the herpes worsens. Sad…. like laughter!
F-
Single of the Weak
The Androids
Whole Lotta Love
Woeful wannabe stadium rock with equivalent originality to the title. Evidently The Androids have abandoned any flimsy pretence at artistry and are currently looking only to cash in on the tragic notoriety accrued by wanting to have sexual intercourse with Madonna. The ‘band’ seems to be entirely composed of Tim Henwood - and everywhere you go in the weak web of his history the ‘un’ in imaginative is staring blankly back. Previously in The Superjesus (“there’s just heaps of Jesus’ in the music world so we thought we would have that”), then Rogue Traders (named after the film of the same name), now he releases dross like this - labouring for majesty like Keating’s off-hand on the Queens bum – saggy, white and meaningless. Even the extra track’s name is a rip-off – ‘Money’. It’s spelt repeatedly in the chorus in case yr dumb or asleep. Clearly, amongst the dinosaurs of the Australian industry it remains the Jet age.
Y
Interpol
The Heinrich Maneuver
The flash matt black CD informs me that this is from the forthcoming album ‘Our Love To Admire’. Excuse me while I re-line my stomach. For fucks sake. That makes Expatriate’s ‘In The Midst Of This’ sound positively humble! Yet no-one can surpass Sydney’s self-importance ratio while we have the likes of The Mares representing with ‘Love Billows From My Soul To Consume You Splendid People Like an Avalanche Does A Mountain’ (I don’t want to quibble but wouldn’t the mountain be the last thing ‘consumed’ as snow is shed on what lies below?). Anyhoo, Interpol, I know they’re good and shit and Carlos blah blah blah blah but they’re also BORING! They’ve released the same album twice and now it seems we’re to receive a third, even more homeopathic, dose. The organ’s cool and crap but the spelling is stupid and I don’t CARE how things are on the West Coast so choke on that - suckers!
M
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fledermaus Can’t Get It
Despite possessing a moniker fit for a wide-eyed, mustachio twirling, speed-freak of the European aristocracy, Von Sudenfed actually comprises of roustabout Pom Mark E. Smith of The Fall and Jan St. Werna and Andi Toma of German electro-fruits Mouse On Mars. The sound is as you’d expect if yr familiar with these folk: drawling stream-of-consciousness wordplay from Mark, with effectual intervention from Mars, over a dirty rhythmic spread of clunking tonal clashes that rolls about restlessly like a flea-ridden dog on an old carpet. This spontaneous combustion forms a hilariously dry riposte to the dreary derivative dance floor filler/s currently in vogue. The rarity of such a heady mixture of relish and disregard may be why ‘critics’ have seen fit to reference the somewhat iconoclastic LCD Soundsystem as a possible source. Crotchety old Smith is having none of it, saying Von Sudenfeld are mainly influenced by The Fall – which would be him, of coarse.
D-
Single of the Week
Macromantics
Physical
Avert yr eyes from the Olivia-era cover design and look within as an unexpected slab of sinister solidity awaits. Macro gifts us an unreleased number from the same source (Buchman and her bad self) that ripping recent album Moments In Movement arose. An orchestral ascension heralds the heaviest loping bass beat I’ve heard from any recent Australian act. As Romy waxes sweaty text, dry, clipping, locked loops flay ears asunder beneath buzzing vapours of synthetic drones. Bitter lyrical bombast gets de-sexed by default when fools rush h/ours but Hoffman maintains engagement despite density courtesy of her idiomatic inventions and the dexterity of her deviations. Which is to say that this is full, but not of shit. So step up, and shake it – no mind/body split will stymie this lady - it’s all ready, time to move on. Let me hear yr body torque!
D+
Queens of the Stone Age
Sick, Sick, Sick
Simple on one level, sophisticated on many others, I’m relieved to hear this from The Queens. I’d hate them to coast on their suburban status now that they’ve achieved mass recognition around the globe. Josh Homme functions as the sole ‘leader’ in the group now and the absence of counterpoint when operating at scale regularly engenders mere fatuous farts of formula. But the guy is such a freak! On a personal plane he’s maintained curiosity and playfulness where others are numb divas. Professionally he continues to rethink the obvious and challenge listeners with a combination of instinct and aversion. The sounds on this single seethe with single-note tones that distort the air as a hive of deeper de-tuned guitars gathers only to disperse in a rough and ready mix. This is the fevered loop playing in Paris’ drug-addled ‘brain’ as the herpes worsens. Sad…. like laughter!
F-
Single of the Weak
The Androids
Whole Lotta Love
Woeful wannabe stadium rock with equivalent originality to the title. Evidently The Androids have abandoned any flimsy pretence at artistry and are currently looking only to cash in on the tragic notoriety accrued by wanting to have sexual intercourse with Madonna. The ‘band’ seems to be entirely composed of Tim Henwood - and everywhere you go in the weak web of his history the ‘un’ in imaginative is staring blankly back. Previously in The Superjesus (“there’s just heaps of Jesus’ in the music world so we thought we would have that”), then Rogue Traders (named after the film of the same name), now he releases dross like this - labouring for majesty like Keating’s off-hand on the Queens bum – saggy, white and meaningless. Even the extra track’s name is a rip-off – ‘Money’. It’s spelt repeatedly in the chorus in case yr dumb or asleep. Clearly, amongst the dinosaurs of the Australian industry it remains the Jet age.
Y
Interpol
The Heinrich Maneuver
The flash matt black CD informs me that this is from the forthcoming album ‘Our Love To Admire’. Excuse me while I re-line my stomach. For fucks sake. That makes Expatriate’s ‘In The Midst Of This’ sound positively humble! Yet no-one can surpass Sydney’s self-importance ratio while we have the likes of The Mares representing with ‘Love Billows From My Soul To Consume You Splendid People Like an Avalanche Does A Mountain’ (I don’t want to quibble but wouldn’t the mountain be the last thing ‘consumed’ as snow is shed on what lies below?). Anyhoo, Interpol, I know they’re good and shit and Carlos blah blah blah blah but they’re also BORING! They’ve released the same album twice and now it seems we’re to receive a third, even more homeopathic, dose. The organ’s cool and crap but the spelling is stupid and I don’t CARE how things are on the West Coast so choke on that - suckers!
M
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Feist
1, 2, 3, 4
Leslie Feist has led an amazing life: from fronting a punk band only to damage her vocal chords, to playing guitar with By Divine Right and recording with Broken Social Scene. She roomed with Peaches during years in Berlin then settled in Paris - where she accepted money from Lacoste to advertise perfume with her song Mushaboom, yet rejected a million dollars from McDonalds for the same number. Despite this fanciful trajectory she seems to be in genuine shock at the success of her new album, The Reminder. Imagine then how our own Sally Seltmann (aka New Buffalo) feels? After shyly proffering a song at the end of a tour in support it’s chosen as the second single for a record that’s Top 20 in the States and number 2 in Canada! The song suits - simple and beguiling melody coasting amongst banjos and brass like the sun peeping out through the trees.
G
Timbaland featuring The Hives
Throw It On Me
You’d think the prospects for a track written by a dude named after a shoe that features a group named after itchy skin welts would be pretty dim, hey? Well, despite the fact we’re dealing with global juggernauts of urban and rock music combined, you’d be right. The problem is the cursory nature of ‘collaboration’ in a ‘culture’ of mass production that devises by demographics. Imagine cooking up a recipe not on the basis of flavour but instead delineating ingredients solely by form - this is really big, and that’s really big – they MUST go together! There’s plenty of accounting for taste but to make it matches need to be creatively combined - not just slung in a blender. All the bells and whistles Timbaland can muster fail to redeem the Swede’s song-line here - it’s as staunch and plain as their countries vegetable name-sake - and together they’re no more than a meagre circular shenanigan wrestling the wrong wring.
M-
Single of the Week
The Go Team
Grip Like A Vice
I’d hate to hear the jubilant juvenilia of The Go-Team diluted in any way. They are such a hedonistic concoction – a party-punch of under-the-counter proportions from the days when Mardi-Gras meant street parties for all sorts in Sydney! Thank fuck they’re bringing it bad as ever – this slab of delirious disregard has me primed for what’s reported to be an even more hyper new LP. The trashy sass kicks in from the get-go as bent guitars, clipped-out early drum machines and fourth-world horn sections clamber about in a psychedelic cacophony that finds its perfect foil in the steady surety of Ninja’s rap. Amidst all the laughter, sirens and jive of some insane scene she’s calling out to tha ladies, affirming it, and striding with ease. This proof of youth comes neither from the inter-net nor the govern-meant. It’s wild-size inside and will burst any bitches that can’t let go! So move!
C
dj Kentaro
Harvest Dance featuring Hifana
This is fresh. Kentaro won the DMC World DJ final in 2002 at just 20 but has grown as an artist and producer since signing to Ninja Tune a few years back. He shares the subtlety and sophistication of countryman Krush in terms of tonal richness yet exhibits bolder attributes in terms of structure. Indeed, those marooned by Shadow’s lurch into the sea of mediocrity could do worse than to revive here with real beat mistreatments. Frantic tablas get scratched into oblivion as an electro firestorm of bass and flute descends - stretching and floating before distortion bends the wheel and it all ends up ditched. The Yppah remix brings a purer, Can-like, flow to the piece without sacrificing the dangerous ebbs, ‘til Kentaro throws a live version on the end that’s like an aural strobe – phenomenal juggling ripping yr brain a new farce-whole while the crowd melt down. Forget jogging. I keep fit with epilepsy!
H+
Single of the Weak
Rose Tattoo
Black-Eyed Bruiser
This is a more than adequate slice of no-bullshit rock if you subtract the cartoon character affectations of Angry Anderson. The guitars chug along with no pretension, building tension even during the slide solo. ‘Angry’ (nee Gary) has been a Channel 9 charity-case and pacifist for donkeys but again on this song he’s role-playing the sort of creep that just killed a guy and shot two other people trying to stop him bashing a woman so, needless to say, I do not fucking buy it. The Tatts lost their drummer Digger to cancer in 1991 and the last year has claimed original bass player Ian Rilen, one-time guitarist Lobby Lloyde and original slide guitarist Pete Wells. Unless you were Tim Freedman you’d think that sort of loss might give you pause but, instead they’ve trotted out the ‘it’s what they would’ve wanted’ line and gone off to tour with Guns ‘N (Axl Rose)s. Wanes world.
Q
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
1, 2, 3, 4
Leslie Feist has led an amazing life: from fronting a punk band only to damage her vocal chords, to playing guitar with By Divine Right and recording with Broken Social Scene. She roomed with Peaches during years in Berlin then settled in Paris - where she accepted money from Lacoste to advertise perfume with her song Mushaboom, yet rejected a million dollars from McDonalds for the same number. Despite this fanciful trajectory she seems to be in genuine shock at the success of her new album, The Reminder. Imagine then how our own Sally Seltmann (aka New Buffalo) feels? After shyly proffering a song at the end of a tour in support it’s chosen as the second single for a record that’s Top 20 in the States and number 2 in Canada! The song suits - simple and beguiling melody coasting amongst banjos and brass like the sun peeping out through the trees.
G
Timbaland featuring The Hives
Throw It On Me
You’d think the prospects for a track written by a dude named after a shoe that features a group named after itchy skin welts would be pretty dim, hey? Well, despite the fact we’re dealing with global juggernauts of urban and rock music combined, you’d be right. The problem is the cursory nature of ‘collaboration’ in a ‘culture’ of mass production that devises by demographics. Imagine cooking up a recipe not on the basis of flavour but instead delineating ingredients solely by form - this is really big, and that’s really big – they MUST go together! There’s plenty of accounting for taste but to make it matches need to be creatively combined - not just slung in a blender. All the bells and whistles Timbaland can muster fail to redeem the Swede’s song-line here - it’s as staunch and plain as their countries vegetable name-sake - and together they’re no more than a meagre circular shenanigan wrestling the wrong wring.
M-
Single of the Week
The Go Team
Grip Like A Vice
I’d hate to hear the jubilant juvenilia of The Go-Team diluted in any way. They are such a hedonistic concoction – a party-punch of under-the-counter proportions from the days when Mardi-Gras meant street parties for all sorts in Sydney! Thank fuck they’re bringing it bad as ever – this slab of delirious disregard has me primed for what’s reported to be an even more hyper new LP. The trashy sass kicks in from the get-go as bent guitars, clipped-out early drum machines and fourth-world horn sections clamber about in a psychedelic cacophony that finds its perfect foil in the steady surety of Ninja’s rap. Amidst all the laughter, sirens and jive of some insane scene she’s calling out to tha ladies, affirming it, and striding with ease. This proof of youth comes neither from the inter-net nor the govern-meant. It’s wild-size inside and will burst any bitches that can’t let go! So move!
C
dj Kentaro
Harvest Dance featuring Hifana
This is fresh. Kentaro won the DMC World DJ final in 2002 at just 20 but has grown as an artist and producer since signing to Ninja Tune a few years back. He shares the subtlety and sophistication of countryman Krush in terms of tonal richness yet exhibits bolder attributes in terms of structure. Indeed, those marooned by Shadow’s lurch into the sea of mediocrity could do worse than to revive here with real beat mistreatments. Frantic tablas get scratched into oblivion as an electro firestorm of bass and flute descends - stretching and floating before distortion bends the wheel and it all ends up ditched. The Yppah remix brings a purer, Can-like, flow to the piece without sacrificing the dangerous ebbs, ‘til Kentaro throws a live version on the end that’s like an aural strobe – phenomenal juggling ripping yr brain a new farce-whole while the crowd melt down. Forget jogging. I keep fit with epilepsy!
H+
Single of the Weak
Rose Tattoo
Black-Eyed Bruiser
This is a more than adequate slice of no-bullshit rock if you subtract the cartoon character affectations of Angry Anderson. The guitars chug along with no pretension, building tension even during the slide solo. ‘Angry’ (nee Gary) has been a Channel 9 charity-case and pacifist for donkeys but again on this song he’s role-playing the sort of creep that just killed a guy and shot two other people trying to stop him bashing a woman so, needless to say, I do not fucking buy it. The Tatts lost their drummer Digger to cancer in 1991 and the last year has claimed original bass player Ian Rilen, one-time guitarist Lobby Lloyde and original slide guitarist Pete Wells. Unless you were Tim Freedman you’d think that sort of loss might give you pause but, instead they’ve trotted out the ‘it’s what they would’ve wanted’ line and gone off to tour with Guns ‘N (Axl Rose)s. Wanes world.
Q
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Single of the Week
Straight Arrows
Something Happens / Can’t Count 1-22
No, not the Australian organization for HIV+ heterosexuals (to my knowledge) – this is the already infamous garage rock lark for Alex Red Rider, Owen (ex) Holy Soul, Angie Kiosk and some dude called Adam. They’ve dished up their first release on 7” vinyl and it’s the debut for Juvenile Records. And what an absolute corker! This is an intensely primal lo-fi BLAST of real rhythm and blues which sounds as though it could have been recorded on a Dictaphone in Detroit 40 years ago. The B-side yells it like it is but it’s all about fucking A for the sort of delirious racketeering unheard of in Sydney since the days of the razor gangs.
D-
The Chemical Brothers
Do It Again
A tale of clubbing excess repeated ad nauseum as is the Brothers wont. It begins well with an underhanded beat bubbling away under the sort of oddly sliced sonic snippets that might emerge from a Toytown version of The Prodigy. There are some satisfying stretches embedded in the breakdowns but the almost falsetto vocal touches are less successful and the middle eights sound weakly commercial like Prince doing Trance. The Chemical Brothers consider this ‘challenging themselves to reinvent’ etc, but really what we have here is a thinning formula clad in clay. You won’t dirty dance but you may scuffily sway.
H
Mia Dyson
People Will Turn On You
Well, I’ve been waiting but, apart from dummy spits from one multinational label and one lowly Iota fan (or manager / representative), I’ve gotten away with almost a year of mercilessly dissing even my friends in this rag without so much as a whimper from the great unwashed. Don’t you get it? This is an apathetic cry for help! I’m so lonely even a hostile glance would make me wet. But I digress. This cut beguiles, as what appears to be a basic blues roller yields strangely subtle, muted horn stabs on the way to allowing Mia her utmost holler only late in the game. Credit, too for use of the exceedingly rare fade-in.
J
Jack Penate
Spit At Stars
Short and (sickly?) sweet pop beats from this loudmouth Londoner. It’s like pseudoephedrine skiffle, the guitars chiming and the drums belting along. The pace of the piece is leavened by electric piano and glockenspiel but it’s rapidity that redeems this otherwise rather disposable number. There’s a slight ska touch and given his storytelling style it’s no surprise to hear he’s toured with Lily Allen. I’m sure there are commercial applications akimbo currently being proffered and it won’t be long til we hear this in the background of an ad for toothpaste or gossip mags so….why buy it, huh?
K
Unkle
Burn My Shadow
A fantastic Francis Bacon-esque painting adorns this sleeve, devoid of any intrusive language or identifying features. Inside the CD yields a rough, acoustic guitar rhythm until the unlikely baritone of Ian Astbury begins intoning his wishes to be done with the remnants of self we think of as the past (as well he may – remember INXS Ian?). Suddenly the beats take off ass paper-thin snare fills are let loose over sub-sonic bass tones. Next, a dirge-like distorted de-tuned lead loops hard only to give up the ghost for a brief choral interlude. It’s heady fare from the long-lost Unkle fuckers - fiddy kiddling while domes turn.
G+
Magic Dirt
Bring Me The Head Of…
It pleased me to read that Magic Dirt were to return to their roots and release a plain, nasty rock album devoid of all the commercial-courting multi-tracking they’ve been pissing about with for far too long. This is our first taste of said Beast and it’s streets ahead of all that major label crapola and a massive return to form. Influenced perhaps by the classic covers Adalita rendered under Mick Harvey for Suburban Mayhem, there’s a much stronger melodic bent lurking under the flat-out fuzz of this Quatro-Sonic styling and it kicks into the pricks with gleeful vehemence. Not before time.
F-
Single of the Weak
Michael Buble
Everything
Oh, for gd’s sake, who the fuck listens to this shit? This is worse than anything Billy Joel EVER did and believe me that man made whole albums of unbearable filler. This is despicable diet-cock for utter suckers. The lyrics (“I can’t believe that I’m your man, and I get to kiss your baby whenever I can”) are abominable schmaltz and the music ham-fisted ‘jazz’ butchery. This ‘charming’ automaton wants bucks so bad he has giant link on his Myspace to ‘send your own PERSONALISED Michael Buble Mothers Day Ecard’ – STILL! The cunt drank water willingly from the mouth-like slit in Rove McManus’ face!! Stick with Francois, I tell ya – he has class.
Y+
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Straight Arrows
Something Happens / Can’t Count 1-22
No, not the Australian organization for HIV+ heterosexuals (to my knowledge) – this is the already infamous garage rock lark for Alex Red Rider, Owen (ex) Holy Soul, Angie Kiosk and some dude called Adam. They’ve dished up their first release on 7” vinyl and it’s the debut for Juvenile Records. And what an absolute corker! This is an intensely primal lo-fi BLAST of real rhythm and blues which sounds as though it could have been recorded on a Dictaphone in Detroit 40 years ago. The B-side yells it like it is but it’s all about fucking A for the sort of delirious racketeering unheard of in Sydney since the days of the razor gangs.
D-
The Chemical Brothers
Do It Again
A tale of clubbing excess repeated ad nauseum as is the Brothers wont. It begins well with an underhanded beat bubbling away under the sort of oddly sliced sonic snippets that might emerge from a Toytown version of The Prodigy. There are some satisfying stretches embedded in the breakdowns but the almost falsetto vocal touches are less successful and the middle eights sound weakly commercial like Prince doing Trance. The Chemical Brothers consider this ‘challenging themselves to reinvent’ etc, but really what we have here is a thinning formula clad in clay. You won’t dirty dance but you may scuffily sway.
H
Mia Dyson
People Will Turn On You
Well, I’ve been waiting but, apart from dummy spits from one multinational label and one lowly Iota fan (or manager / representative), I’ve gotten away with almost a year of mercilessly dissing even my friends in this rag without so much as a whimper from the great unwashed. Don’t you get it? This is an apathetic cry for help! I’m so lonely even a hostile glance would make me wet. But I digress. This cut beguiles, as what appears to be a basic blues roller yields strangely subtle, muted horn stabs on the way to allowing Mia her utmost holler only late in the game. Credit, too for use of the exceedingly rare fade-in.
J
Jack Penate
Spit At Stars
Short and (sickly?) sweet pop beats from this loudmouth Londoner. It’s like pseudoephedrine skiffle, the guitars chiming and the drums belting along. The pace of the piece is leavened by electric piano and glockenspiel but it’s rapidity that redeems this otherwise rather disposable number. There’s a slight ska touch and given his storytelling style it’s no surprise to hear he’s toured with Lily Allen. I’m sure there are commercial applications akimbo currently being proffered and it won’t be long til we hear this in the background of an ad for toothpaste or gossip mags so….why buy it, huh?
K
Unkle
Burn My Shadow
A fantastic Francis Bacon-esque painting adorns this sleeve, devoid of any intrusive language or identifying features. Inside the CD yields a rough, acoustic guitar rhythm until the unlikely baritone of Ian Astbury begins intoning his wishes to be done with the remnants of self we think of as the past (as well he may – remember INXS Ian?). Suddenly the beats take off ass paper-thin snare fills are let loose over sub-sonic bass tones. Next, a dirge-like distorted de-tuned lead loops hard only to give up the ghost for a brief choral interlude. It’s heady fare from the long-lost Unkle fuckers - fiddy kiddling while domes turn.
G+
Magic Dirt
Bring Me The Head Of…
It pleased me to read that Magic Dirt were to return to their roots and release a plain, nasty rock album devoid of all the commercial-courting multi-tracking they’ve been pissing about with for far too long. This is our first taste of said Beast and it’s streets ahead of all that major label crapola and a massive return to form. Influenced perhaps by the classic covers Adalita rendered under Mick Harvey for Suburban Mayhem, there’s a much stronger melodic bent lurking under the flat-out fuzz of this Quatro-Sonic styling and it kicks into the pricks with gleeful vehemence. Not before time.
F-
Single of the Weak
Michael Buble
Everything
Oh, for gd’s sake, who the fuck listens to this shit? This is worse than anything Billy Joel EVER did and believe me that man made whole albums of unbearable filler. This is despicable diet-cock for utter suckers. The lyrics (“I can’t believe that I’m your man, and I get to kiss your baby whenever I can”) are abominable schmaltz and the music ham-fisted ‘jazz’ butchery. This ‘charming’ automaton wants bucks so bad he has giant link on his Myspace to ‘send your own PERSONALISED Michael Buble Mothers Day Ecard’ – STILL! The cunt drank water willingly from the mouth-like slit in Rove McManus’ face!! Stick with Francois, I tell ya – he has class.
Y+
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Patrick Wolf
The Magic Position
Kicking off with kid’s cries and toy piano, Mr. Wolf soon deepens his scheme as his earnest baritone takes its place amongst jaunty 60’s-style strings. Like many storytelling singers from that era he works within the limits of his vocal capacity well, suggesting more than mere words may through mannered effusion. This number almost carries the epic sensibility it strives for but is let down by the relative banality of fawning as subject matter. The charisma witnessed on his recent dates is better served by the melodramatic thematic of songs such as Accident/Emergency, for mine. Tragic happens, after all.
H+
Single of the Week
Midnight Juggernauts
Into The Galaxy
With an eerie, pulsing panache our two vagrant wanderers return from space bearing melodious moon-rock capable of condensing less accomplished braggarts into tiny dots of dust. This gloriously pompous piece of dark matter stretches our perception of time by pairing potentially dated synth arrangements with raucous old-romantic vocal posturing, successfully breathing life into the conceptual corpses of Jean-Michel Jarre and Kraftwerk with the help of passionate lyrical exposition and bursting waves of bass. Whether or not you are a speeding soldier bolting, drunk, back to base along our lonely coast - this is the sound of a last levitating moment of warmth, and power - a vehicle, flying, suspended above the sea - for a fleeting instant - free..
D-
bluejuice
Vitriol
Genevieve Maynard has sure come a long way since being the less interesting half of Bughouse - amazing considering her next destination was amongst the passé pretensions of Stella One Eleven. Her production on this first single from bluejuice’s forthcoming album Problems at last releases the rollicking velocity that characterises the band’s ballistic live shows and has long been slipping between the cracks on their releases. Great songwriting, raps, harmonies, handclaps, drumming, absurd bass and the best organ riff in donkey’s doesn’t hurt either. This savage sucker starts strong and takes it further throughout, escalating effortlessly to a frantic finish. Bitchin’!
F+
Art Brut
Direct Hit
My first response to this band was dismissive. Singer Eddie Argos seemed too transparently in the thrall of The Fall’s Mark E. Smith and it seemed hideously inevitable to me that Smith’s lifetime of commercial evasion might now be swept aside as the industry eagerly bought up safer shit by an art-branded imitator. Listening to the new album It’s A Bit Complicated showed me, however, that it, indeed, was. A half-talking singing style over fairly simple rock backing has been practiced by others before (Life Without Buildings, etc) and there’s something peculiarly British about such self-effacing storytelling styles. Here, Argus’ witty reductions of awkward dynamics are as amusing as they are revealing (fairly).
G-
Andrew McCubbin and the Hope Addicts
Blue
A remarkable, apparently self-released trio of songs from Melbourne’s McCubbin and his band. The line-up comprises two cellos, harmonium, guitar, double bass and drums while between them the musicians have played with individuals and outfits as esteemed as Mick Harvey, Penny Ikinger, Princess One Point Five, Silver Ray, Registered Nurse, The Killjoys, The Anyones and The Plums. This depth allows the timeless qualities of the songs herein to surface and breathe. Each piece is beautifully understated and realised with only judicious embellishment although lead track Blue is the standout – a kind of antipodean crush of gravity and scale, taut and fraught, a breakdown in the desert, beyond belief.
F
Fridge
Eyelids
The drudgery of this track is indicative of the stasis that has swallowed post-rock almost since its inception. Really, even the most lauded proponents of the genre are only re-treading ground that was well-worn when it all began. Merely subtracting vocals from grandiose garage-band arrangements does not somehow elevate music to the realm of epic emotion - it just leaves marginally more space for the listener to impose their prerogatives. Fridge have done diddly-squat since 2001 and this could easily have emerged from far back. As Fourtet and Adem (two members) had, hitherto, moved on and I recommend that you do, too.
J-
Single of the Weak
Fall Out Boy
THNKS FR TH MMRS
MG! JST SW THT STMPY DDE FRM FLL T BY ND HS RLLY GLY P CLS BT MY FRND TFFNY SCKD HM FF NYWY CS HS RLLY SD ND MYB NT 2 SMRT ND T MST B RLLY LNLY 2 B THT WY. SH SD HS CCK TSTD NSTY - NT SWT T LL - RLLY RNK! TFFNY GGGD ND SPWD LL VR HM ND H CRYD CS HS JNS STNK! HLRS!!!
Y
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Magic Position
Kicking off with kid’s cries and toy piano, Mr. Wolf soon deepens his scheme as his earnest baritone takes its place amongst jaunty 60’s-style strings. Like many storytelling singers from that era he works within the limits of his vocal capacity well, suggesting more than mere words may through mannered effusion. This number almost carries the epic sensibility it strives for but is let down by the relative banality of fawning as subject matter. The charisma witnessed on his recent dates is better served by the melodramatic thematic of songs such as Accident/Emergency, for mine. Tragic happens, after all.
H+
Single of the Week
Midnight Juggernauts
Into The Galaxy
With an eerie, pulsing panache our two vagrant wanderers return from space bearing melodious moon-rock capable of condensing less accomplished braggarts into tiny dots of dust. This gloriously pompous piece of dark matter stretches our perception of time by pairing potentially dated synth arrangements with raucous old-romantic vocal posturing, successfully breathing life into the conceptual corpses of Jean-Michel Jarre and Kraftwerk with the help of passionate lyrical exposition and bursting waves of bass. Whether or not you are a speeding soldier bolting, drunk, back to base along our lonely coast - this is the sound of a last levitating moment of warmth, and power - a vehicle, flying, suspended above the sea - for a fleeting instant - free..
D-
bluejuice
Vitriol
Genevieve Maynard has sure come a long way since being the less interesting half of Bughouse - amazing considering her next destination was amongst the passé pretensions of Stella One Eleven. Her production on this first single from bluejuice’s forthcoming album Problems at last releases the rollicking velocity that characterises the band’s ballistic live shows and has long been slipping between the cracks on their releases. Great songwriting, raps, harmonies, handclaps, drumming, absurd bass and the best organ riff in donkey’s doesn’t hurt either. This savage sucker starts strong and takes it further throughout, escalating effortlessly to a frantic finish. Bitchin’!
F+
Art Brut
Direct Hit
My first response to this band was dismissive. Singer Eddie Argos seemed too transparently in the thrall of The Fall’s Mark E. Smith and it seemed hideously inevitable to me that Smith’s lifetime of commercial evasion might now be swept aside as the industry eagerly bought up safer shit by an art-branded imitator. Listening to the new album It’s A Bit Complicated showed me, however, that it, indeed, was. A half-talking singing style over fairly simple rock backing has been practiced by others before (Life Without Buildings, etc) and there’s something peculiarly British about such self-effacing storytelling styles. Here, Argus’ witty reductions of awkward dynamics are as amusing as they are revealing (fairly).
G-
Andrew McCubbin and the Hope Addicts
Blue
A remarkable, apparently self-released trio of songs from Melbourne’s McCubbin and his band. The line-up comprises two cellos, harmonium, guitar, double bass and drums while between them the musicians have played with individuals and outfits as esteemed as Mick Harvey, Penny Ikinger, Princess One Point Five, Silver Ray, Registered Nurse, The Killjoys, The Anyones and The Plums. This depth allows the timeless qualities of the songs herein to surface and breathe. Each piece is beautifully understated and realised with only judicious embellishment although lead track Blue is the standout – a kind of antipodean crush of gravity and scale, taut and fraught, a breakdown in the desert, beyond belief.
F
Fridge
Eyelids
The drudgery of this track is indicative of the stasis that has swallowed post-rock almost since its inception. Really, even the most lauded proponents of the genre are only re-treading ground that was well-worn when it all began. Merely subtracting vocals from grandiose garage-band arrangements does not somehow elevate music to the realm of epic emotion - it just leaves marginally more space for the listener to impose their prerogatives. Fridge have done diddly-squat since 2001 and this could easily have emerged from far back. As Fourtet and Adem (two members) had, hitherto, moved on and I recommend that you do, too.
J-
Single of the Weak
Fall Out Boy
THNKS FR TH MMRS
MG! JST SW THT STMPY DDE FRM FLL T BY ND HS RLLY GLY P CLS BT MY FRND TFFNY SCKD HM FF NYWY CS HS RLLY SD ND MYB NT 2 SMRT ND T MST B RLLY LNLY 2 B THT WY. SH SD HS CCK TSTD NSTY - NT SWT T LL - RLLY RNK! TFFNY GGGD ND SPWD LL VR HM ND H CRYD CS HS JNS STNK! HLRS!!!
Y
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Holly Throsby
One Of You For Me
I’ve been ‘re-viewing’ (stupid term) singles (love it!) for almost a year now and, with ever-expanding towers of tunes clamouring for attention, I’ve consciously avoided returning to an artist previously featured - thus far. But this unassuming little ditty sidled up beside me while I peered mournfully out of my window at the bitter winter, hopped on my lap and won my heart - so I’m duty bound to return the favour. Here Holly’s wonderfully warm voice opines hopefully as Bree Van Reyk’s bedazzling percussion dives amongst cascading tinkles of the highest piano notes, exquisite muted trumpet and cello. It is beautiful and we are blessed.
E+
St. Vincent
Now, Now
The first single from the debut album by Annie Clark, guitarist for both The Polyphonic Spree and Sufjan Stevens, begins already redolent with stunningly sophisticated arrangements - reminiscent of the Gainsbourg era in their plush orchestration, yet underlain with an urgency that is purely of the present. Declaiming the inadequacy of another’s reductions of her over drumming straight outta Genesis and Fred Frith-style avant-jazz guitar, soon sumptuous strings are swimming the surface and choirs appear to brightly declare, “you don’t mean that, say you’re sorry” – before the whole thing blows up! Of course, our sorry excuse for a leader DOES, thus won’t. May he end in much the same way.
F
Urthboy
We Get Around
Big bass buoys a rolling number, in every sense, as our foremost exponent of spoken local lore continues his stylistic growth - without hurling a bunch of bells and whistles about to prove it. In some respects it’s the apparent simplicity of this piece that best represents Tim Levinson’s building assurance as a writer and performer. Singing a chorus with harmonies that coasts over the big, loping backbeat, then delving into acute verbal expeditions in rap; he illustrates the complex oddity of our omniscient frozen ‘presence’ in surrounding media without interrupting the breezy flow of the track for a moment. Pasobionic contributes a typically crisp and clacking remix.
H+
Fi Claus
Come Home
Fi used to be one half of Gorgeous, and as you’d imagine from anyone prepared to serve under such a painfully adjectival name, she’s inclined towards the saccharine side of girly pop. This first solo release has already been accorded Single of the Week status in Melbourne and Brisbane street rags yet, despite being a fan of her talents, I beg to differ. The jaunty lift of this tune’s opening is soon betrayed by blatant lifting of Angie Hart’s Frente-era vocal affectations. “The girl who played everything on her album,” actually has a Boat Person and a Pete Murray Band member as her rhythm section. Pete was also executive producer. *coughs*
O-
Happy Mondays
Jellybean
Dude! This is loose, loopy shit. Weird old-school sounds like wah-wah guitar, Wobble bass, naff synth’s and gospel backing work it over a wide-spread rhythm, Bez’s maracas and all. It’s the unhinged bray of Mr. Shaun Ryder that brings it all home - and the man sure sounds like he’s lived a little here: rasping through a bizarre number replete with all the hallmarks of a highly re-wired head-hole. Shaun, though now professing to be straight, says, “now that I am naked I’m a lady,” then proceeds to sing of the feel of his ass on the grass, bleeding, and breeding crazy babies. Nucking futs.
I-
Single of the Week
Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Down Boy
Beginning with the subtlest tremolo organ and earthy drum beats, Karen O gently intercedes before sublime guitars crash in and otherworldly rhythms bury you - things really start snarling. You brace for a ride but the tempest subsides and we’re back to being sombre witnesses again - until suddenly another wave throws you down and scratches you out in an awesome exercise of careless dominance. This is the female counterpoint to Iggy’s I Wanna Be Your Dog - an offhand glance at the obvious and a calculated escalation. Dating from 2004, this transports me back to side of stage last year at Splendour, eyes unsure, blinded by sound. Brilliant! Dying to hear the whole EP…
C
Single of the Weak
Fergie
Big Girls Don’t Cry
Listening to this song just about did me in. First, her very name. Second, the dry-retching divulgence that FERGIE has the smell of some tasteless lover stuck to her skin. Then, as he flies away, her revelation – to wit: “I’m gonna miss you like a child misses their blanket”. Err…coldly? The manner in which she sings this atrocity had me literally holding my head in a futile attempt to stem the pain. Seriously, she sounds like a motley crew of mutant cats cawing in sexual frustration. Assiduously asserting a laughable air of assurance only heightens the harshness. This is involuntary euthanasia. If pain persists, buy the album.
W
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
One Of You For Me
I’ve been ‘re-viewing’ (stupid term) singles (love it!) for almost a year now and, with ever-expanding towers of tunes clamouring for attention, I’ve consciously avoided returning to an artist previously featured - thus far. But this unassuming little ditty sidled up beside me while I peered mournfully out of my window at the bitter winter, hopped on my lap and won my heart - so I’m duty bound to return the favour. Here Holly’s wonderfully warm voice opines hopefully as Bree Van Reyk’s bedazzling percussion dives amongst cascading tinkles of the highest piano notes, exquisite muted trumpet and cello. It is beautiful and we are blessed.
E+
St. Vincent
Now, Now
The first single from the debut album by Annie Clark, guitarist for both The Polyphonic Spree and Sufjan Stevens, begins already redolent with stunningly sophisticated arrangements - reminiscent of the Gainsbourg era in their plush orchestration, yet underlain with an urgency that is purely of the present. Declaiming the inadequacy of another’s reductions of her over drumming straight outta Genesis and Fred Frith-style avant-jazz guitar, soon sumptuous strings are swimming the surface and choirs appear to brightly declare, “you don’t mean that, say you’re sorry” – before the whole thing blows up! Of course, our sorry excuse for a leader DOES, thus won’t. May he end in much the same way.
F
Urthboy
We Get Around
Big bass buoys a rolling number, in every sense, as our foremost exponent of spoken local lore continues his stylistic growth - without hurling a bunch of bells and whistles about to prove it. In some respects it’s the apparent simplicity of this piece that best represents Tim Levinson’s building assurance as a writer and performer. Singing a chorus with harmonies that coasts over the big, loping backbeat, then delving into acute verbal expeditions in rap; he illustrates the complex oddity of our omniscient frozen ‘presence’ in surrounding media without interrupting the breezy flow of the track for a moment. Pasobionic contributes a typically crisp and clacking remix.
H+
Fi Claus
Come Home
Fi used to be one half of Gorgeous, and as you’d imagine from anyone prepared to serve under such a painfully adjectival name, she’s inclined towards the saccharine side of girly pop. This first solo release has already been accorded Single of the Week status in Melbourne and Brisbane street rags yet, despite being a fan of her talents, I beg to differ. The jaunty lift of this tune’s opening is soon betrayed by blatant lifting of Angie Hart’s Frente-era vocal affectations. “The girl who played everything on her album,” actually has a Boat Person and a Pete Murray Band member as her rhythm section. Pete was also executive producer. *coughs*
O-
Happy Mondays
Jellybean
Dude! This is loose, loopy shit. Weird old-school sounds like wah-wah guitar, Wobble bass, naff synth’s and gospel backing work it over a wide-spread rhythm, Bez’s maracas and all. It’s the unhinged bray of Mr. Shaun Ryder that brings it all home - and the man sure sounds like he’s lived a little here: rasping through a bizarre number replete with all the hallmarks of a highly re-wired head-hole. Shaun, though now professing to be straight, says, “now that I am naked I’m a lady,” then proceeds to sing of the feel of his ass on the grass, bleeding, and breeding crazy babies. Nucking futs.
I-
Single of the Week
Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Down Boy
Beginning with the subtlest tremolo organ and earthy drum beats, Karen O gently intercedes before sublime guitars crash in and otherworldly rhythms bury you - things really start snarling. You brace for a ride but the tempest subsides and we’re back to being sombre witnesses again - until suddenly another wave throws you down and scratches you out in an awesome exercise of careless dominance. This is the female counterpoint to Iggy’s I Wanna Be Your Dog - an offhand glance at the obvious and a calculated escalation. Dating from 2004, this transports me back to side of stage last year at Splendour, eyes unsure, blinded by sound. Brilliant! Dying to hear the whole EP…
C
Single of the Weak
Fergie
Big Girls Don’t Cry
Listening to this song just about did me in. First, her very name. Second, the dry-retching divulgence that FERGIE has the smell of some tasteless lover stuck to her skin. Then, as he flies away, her revelation – to wit: “I’m gonna miss you like a child misses their blanket”. Err…coldly? The manner in which she sings this atrocity had me literally holding my head in a futile attempt to stem the pain. Seriously, she sounds like a motley crew of mutant cats cawing in sexual frustration. Assiduously asserting a laughable air of assurance only heightens the harshness. This is involuntary euthanasia. If pain persists, buy the album.
W
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Batrider
Legs
Sporting paintings of figures so deranged they seem like the syphilitic children of Egon Schiele as depicted by Ralph Steadman, this first single from Batrider’s cutely named new album – Tara – is, in fact, surprisingly healthy compared to their previous pustulous emissions. In the case of B-side Pink Guitar’s this is more explicable as it is taken from an acoustic record to be released simultaneously. Listen though to lead track Legs and you’ll hear the band withholding their customary extremity for a time, garnering an uneasy tension as spare notes of guitar accompany Sarah’s serrated spelling out of a routine ritual of mercenary sexuality.
I+
Bat For Lashes
What’s A Girl To Do?
I wonder what the girls from Coco Rosie make of Bat For Lashes’ Natasha Khan? Aesthetically, she is encroaching on their Native American shtick - though as she was partly raised in Pakistan she may feel entitled to any form of Indianism. (Her Dad coached the national squash team so there may be hope for Darren Hanlon’s missing sport songs yet!) Fortunately, as per Coco, she has an ornate originality of such finesse that normal rules do not apply. What’s A Girl To Do contains a dry Morricone breadth - harpsichord quivering above enormous drum beats as Natasha dreamily narrates an endless end. Bitter/sweet.
G-
Shooting At Unarmed Men
Sometimes The Best Thing You Can Do Is Die
I’m sure the not-so-silent majority advocating legal euthanasia would agree - but shooting people just because they have no arms?!? That’s taking things a little far, isn’t it? I’m aware the Welsh are a tad peculiar but really! Ex-mclusky bass player Jonathon Chapple may agree as he’s transplanted himself to Melbourne - and picked up duo from The Cheats to form this third line-up of the group. Their first release is a gurgling rocker – squiggly guitars and raspy vocals barked over fuzz. B-side Missed Opportunities, however, sounds like a Chris Knox outtake – full of dainty Zen mountaineering. Range!
J
Paul McCartney
Ever Present Past
I pulled this out thinking we’d have a laugh - throw a few (more) amputee gags about, etc. Surely it’d be a shoe-in (!) for Single of the Weak. I’ve always hated Paul and his doggedly eager ambition, his braying ardour, his very survival. I pray that, perversely, Ringo will be the last man standing. Yet this is a quality piece of chugging melodic pop. It’s simple yet creative musically and matched well by lyrics that are imbued with the rosy melancholy of time’s vantage. I even like the name of the album – Memory Almost Full. That said, McCartney’s the first signing for Starbuck’s new label. Lame!
K
Single of the Week
Iron And Wine
Boy With A Coin
Exquisite and involving from the first great dollops of double bass, Carried Home traverses some terrible territory as it unfolds. Beyond the warmth and beauty of its rustic instrumentation lies a sick shock – almost denial – as an unfortunate son, home from a war of mind-boggling misadventure, is welcomed back by his tiny town – a hero in a bag. Sam Beam scans the averted eyes and renders this biblical folly with both horror and humility. Throughout these three songs (Boy With A Coin and Kingdom Of The Animals follow) he is aided immensely by the gentle yet restive production of Brian Deck. Sad, strong and superb.
E-
The Teenagers
Homecoming
No, not Nick Little-More and his aural backdrop for diarrhoetic Calvin Kline rejects – this is actually a newish outfit from France, now based in London. Begun as a Myspace piss-take and now signed to the label that launched the Klaxons (Merok) this was knocked up as a 7” for the U.K. It’s an utterly ridiculous boy/girl holiday sex story as told by the two protagonists in turn – a European male and an American female. As such, it’s a lo-fi up-date of Tell Me More from Grease – vapidity and xenophobia overflowing in coldly-stated chorus lines like “I fucked my American cunt”. Modern love, huh? It’ll (have to) do.
F-
Single of the Weak
Grinspoon
Black Tattoo
This could be the best thing Grinspoon have ever done! But I wouldn’t really know ‘cos I tend to change the channel when increasingly ubiquitous junk like this crops up on our national broadcaster. A few times I’ve been at a festival with ‘em but I invariably evacuate as soon as that tinny racket begins piddling out the speakers. It seems our ‘reformed addict’ has turned confessional cross-promoter to sell this passé piece of emo-lite and good luck to him! I, for one, will never order a Jamieson’s on ice again.
T
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Legs
Sporting paintings of figures so deranged they seem like the syphilitic children of Egon Schiele as depicted by Ralph Steadman, this first single from Batrider’s cutely named new album – Tara – is, in fact, surprisingly healthy compared to their previous pustulous emissions. In the case of B-side Pink Guitar’s this is more explicable as it is taken from an acoustic record to be released simultaneously. Listen though to lead track Legs and you’ll hear the band withholding their customary extremity for a time, garnering an uneasy tension as spare notes of guitar accompany Sarah’s serrated spelling out of a routine ritual of mercenary sexuality.
I+
Bat For Lashes
What’s A Girl To Do?
I wonder what the girls from Coco Rosie make of Bat For Lashes’ Natasha Khan? Aesthetically, she is encroaching on their Native American shtick - though as she was partly raised in Pakistan she may feel entitled to any form of Indianism. (Her Dad coached the national squash team so there may be hope for Darren Hanlon’s missing sport songs yet!) Fortunately, as per Coco, she has an ornate originality of such finesse that normal rules do not apply. What’s A Girl To Do contains a dry Morricone breadth - harpsichord quivering above enormous drum beats as Natasha dreamily narrates an endless end. Bitter/sweet.
G-
Shooting At Unarmed Men
Sometimes The Best Thing You Can Do Is Die
I’m sure the not-so-silent majority advocating legal euthanasia would agree - but shooting people just because they have no arms?!? That’s taking things a little far, isn’t it? I’m aware the Welsh are a tad peculiar but really! Ex-mclusky bass player Jonathon Chapple may agree as he’s transplanted himself to Melbourne - and picked up duo from The Cheats to form this third line-up of the group. Their first release is a gurgling rocker – squiggly guitars and raspy vocals barked over fuzz. B-side Missed Opportunities, however, sounds like a Chris Knox outtake – full of dainty Zen mountaineering. Range!
J
Paul McCartney
Ever Present Past
I pulled this out thinking we’d have a laugh - throw a few (more) amputee gags about, etc. Surely it’d be a shoe-in (!) for Single of the Weak. I’ve always hated Paul and his doggedly eager ambition, his braying ardour, his very survival. I pray that, perversely, Ringo will be the last man standing. Yet this is a quality piece of chugging melodic pop. It’s simple yet creative musically and matched well by lyrics that are imbued with the rosy melancholy of time’s vantage. I even like the name of the album – Memory Almost Full. That said, McCartney’s the first signing for Starbuck’s new label. Lame!
K
Single of the Week
Iron And Wine
Boy With A Coin
Exquisite and involving from the first great dollops of double bass, Carried Home traverses some terrible territory as it unfolds. Beyond the warmth and beauty of its rustic instrumentation lies a sick shock – almost denial – as an unfortunate son, home from a war of mind-boggling misadventure, is welcomed back by his tiny town – a hero in a bag. Sam Beam scans the averted eyes and renders this biblical folly with both horror and humility. Throughout these three songs (Boy With A Coin and Kingdom Of The Animals follow) he is aided immensely by the gentle yet restive production of Brian Deck. Sad, strong and superb.
E-
The Teenagers
Homecoming
No, not Nick Little-More and his aural backdrop for diarrhoetic Calvin Kline rejects – this is actually a newish outfit from France, now based in London. Begun as a Myspace piss-take and now signed to the label that launched the Klaxons (Merok) this was knocked up as a 7” for the U.K. It’s an utterly ridiculous boy/girl holiday sex story as told by the two protagonists in turn – a European male and an American female. As such, it’s a lo-fi up-date of Tell Me More from Grease – vapidity and xenophobia overflowing in coldly-stated chorus lines like “I fucked my American cunt”. Modern love, huh? It’ll (have to) do.
F-
Single of the Weak
Grinspoon
Black Tattoo
This could be the best thing Grinspoon have ever done! But I wouldn’t really know ‘cos I tend to change the channel when increasingly ubiquitous junk like this crops up on our national broadcaster. A few times I’ve been at a festival with ‘em but I invariably evacuate as soon as that tinny racket begins piddling out the speakers. It seems our ‘reformed addict’ has turned confessional cross-promoter to sell this passé piece of emo-lite and good luck to him! I, for one, will never order a Jamieson’s on ice again.
T
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Single of the Week
Cut Off Your Hands
Blue On Blue (EP)
Brilliant, propulsive pop tones kick in immediately as opener Still Fond weaves it’s deceptively complex harmonies around the inspired simplicity of a three-note lead line in the sing-along chorus. Oh Girl goes Motown only to break down; Closed Eyes brings cascades of blood stars; and On Blue hand-claps its way to bony stumps. Other suckers have already thrown around Strokes references and ‘on ice’ in various reviews. Combining the two may help you conjure this sound – or merely chafe yr genitals. Either way, the opening number is an instant classic that rocks like rehab – fearfully fast and forever.
E-
Goodnight Mr. Howard
Mostyn & Quro
A cogent rap sheet of the betrayals inflicted on Australia’s culture and values by this arcane Federal Government, now riven with disunity as spiteful and embittered ‘colleagues’ smell blood. Self-interest alone animates these creeps (on both sides – see Labor’s recently announced Tasmanian forestry policy for a sickening example; what say you now Garrett?). This is a well-produced piece of affirmative action that is free from the insults and rhetoric of lesser fare. Whatever your persuasion, these elitists - who are meant to represent us - changed the law in order to stop you from voting once the election is called. So ENROL NOW and do not be silenced.
I+
The Hold Steady
Stuck Between Stations
Well they’re not, are they? Far from being in some sort of limbo, Daniel Radcliffe’s favourite band (*spews*) are actually playing the Chicago Lollopalooza Festival as I write. It seems their gig down here in the colonies was not nearly as important appearing at a washed up trance DJ’s sold-out franchise at home. Wankers! No other country in the world has given this group such (undue) adulation. I mean, they formed hoping to emulate the (middle of the) road-kill that was The Band - adding tired and implausible stories of ‘youth’ to standard, stultifying rock clichés. Screw yr song, pikers! I’m otherwise engaged.
…
Okkervil River
Our Life Is Not A Movie Or Maybe
Don’t The Hold Steady wish they could write songs like this? (No - they’re completely content being exemplars of mediocrity, actually. They’re great live, though.) Here a driving energy unites relentless drumming, eerie harmonies, melodic, resonant piano and the quivering intensity of Will Sheff’s voice as he delivers an utterly unbound narrative. Don’t be put off by the possible arrogance of the fragmentary title; in context all elements combine to effect a euphoric dislocation of the familiar, a giddy exaltation – as if we’ve spun from the dustbowl front of stage clear out to the fringe, marveling at how unreal nature can appear.
F
Kamikaze Trio
Are You Going To The Protest?
Barreling, berserk, groaning, rabid rock - voiced in stern and scornful terms by guitarist Sam Agostino - while Snoop Mitchell and Andy Moore berate the remains of yr middle ear with breakneck bass and drums. This is one of the better uses I’ve made of one minute and eleven seconds. The solo alone is sic, mate - a feral’s upchuck on what might have been a root. Speed won’t hold off the effects of that much goon forever fella! B-side When I Hit The Ground tries but can’t compete with the scorching sarcasm of the title (and what a title!) track.
F+
Calvin Harris
Acceptable In The 80’s
I’ve been ignoring this for a month because the title seemed naff and the design matched. The music’s pretty nifty though - especially the wheezy synths that sound like elves with emphysema whistling into popped packets of ‘crisps’. It ‘aint no big thing, but it’s kinda refreshing to hear someone dumb-down the whole electro fad to the clunky level of medium fidelity from which it emerged. The ‘acceptable at the time’ vocal refrain adds to the mirth given that the vocal seems to have been recorded by the long-lost bum-child of Jimmy Somerville and Ian Dury. Hypercolour, buttoned-up polio shirts, anyone?
G
Single of the Weak
Good Charlotte
Dance Floor Anthem (I Don’t Want To Be In Love)
Sure, that’s what I sing when I’m dancing up a storm! These guys are just so in touch, you know? I mean with little girls, like me. Joel dated Hilary. Is she up the Duff? Yes, but she’s not pregnant. He obviously has a lot of respect for wmyn. Now he’s with Nicole. I don’t think she has enough spare flesh to make a baby but he wouldn’t touch her anyway. She’d break. And he’s a gentleman. As for Benji and the Monk, it’s clearly a religious thing. In summary: brackets right, rest WRONG!
Z
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cut Off Your Hands
Blue On Blue (EP)
Brilliant, propulsive pop tones kick in immediately as opener Still Fond weaves it’s deceptively complex harmonies around the inspired simplicity of a three-note lead line in the sing-along chorus. Oh Girl goes Motown only to break down; Closed Eyes brings cascades of blood stars; and On Blue hand-claps its way to bony stumps. Other suckers have already thrown around Strokes references and ‘on ice’ in various reviews. Combining the two may help you conjure this sound – or merely chafe yr genitals. Either way, the opening number is an instant classic that rocks like rehab – fearfully fast and forever.
E-
Goodnight Mr. Howard
Mostyn & Quro
A cogent rap sheet of the betrayals inflicted on Australia’s culture and values by this arcane Federal Government, now riven with disunity as spiteful and embittered ‘colleagues’ smell blood. Self-interest alone animates these creeps (on both sides – see Labor’s recently announced Tasmanian forestry policy for a sickening example; what say you now Garrett?). This is a well-produced piece of affirmative action that is free from the insults and rhetoric of lesser fare. Whatever your persuasion, these elitists - who are meant to represent us - changed the law in order to stop you from voting once the election is called. So ENROL NOW and do not be silenced.
I+
The Hold Steady
Stuck Between Stations
Well they’re not, are they? Far from being in some sort of limbo, Daniel Radcliffe’s favourite band (*spews*) are actually playing the Chicago Lollopalooza Festival as I write. It seems their gig down here in the colonies was not nearly as important appearing at a washed up trance DJ’s sold-out franchise at home. Wankers! No other country in the world has given this group such (undue) adulation. I mean, they formed hoping to emulate the (middle of the) road-kill that was The Band - adding tired and implausible stories of ‘youth’ to standard, stultifying rock clichés. Screw yr song, pikers! I’m otherwise engaged.
…
Okkervil River
Our Life Is Not A Movie Or Maybe
Don’t The Hold Steady wish they could write songs like this? (No - they’re completely content being exemplars of mediocrity, actually. They’re great live, though.) Here a driving energy unites relentless drumming, eerie harmonies, melodic, resonant piano and the quivering intensity of Will Sheff’s voice as he delivers an utterly unbound narrative. Don’t be put off by the possible arrogance of the fragmentary title; in context all elements combine to effect a euphoric dislocation of the familiar, a giddy exaltation – as if we’ve spun from the dustbowl front of stage clear out to the fringe, marveling at how unreal nature can appear.
F
Kamikaze Trio
Are You Going To The Protest?
Barreling, berserk, groaning, rabid rock - voiced in stern and scornful terms by guitarist Sam Agostino - while Snoop Mitchell and Andy Moore berate the remains of yr middle ear with breakneck bass and drums. This is one of the better uses I’ve made of one minute and eleven seconds. The solo alone is sic, mate - a feral’s upchuck on what might have been a root. Speed won’t hold off the effects of that much goon forever fella! B-side When I Hit The Ground tries but can’t compete with the scorching sarcasm of the title (and what a title!) track.
F+
Calvin Harris
Acceptable In The 80’s
I’ve been ignoring this for a month because the title seemed naff and the design matched. The music’s pretty nifty though - especially the wheezy synths that sound like elves with emphysema whistling into popped packets of ‘crisps’. It ‘aint no big thing, but it’s kinda refreshing to hear someone dumb-down the whole electro fad to the clunky level of medium fidelity from which it emerged. The ‘acceptable at the time’ vocal refrain adds to the mirth given that the vocal seems to have been recorded by the long-lost bum-child of Jimmy Somerville and Ian Dury. Hypercolour, buttoned-up polio shirts, anyone?
G
Single of the Weak
Good Charlotte
Dance Floor Anthem (I Don’t Want To Be In Love)
Sure, that’s what I sing when I’m dancing up a storm! These guys are just so in touch, you know? I mean with little girls, like me. Joel dated Hilary. Is she up the Duff? Yes, but she’s not pregnant. He obviously has a lot of respect for wmyn. Now he’s with Nicole. I don’t think she has enough spare flesh to make a baby but he wouldn’t touch her anyway. She’d break. And he’s a gentleman. As for Benji and the Monk, it’s clearly a religious thing. In summary: brackets right, rest WRONG!
Z
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Honeys
In The Sun
It’s bizarre to throw this in the player and be immediately transported back to a Sydney of big share houses, easy dole money and long drunken daytime discussions at any number of campuses. This was the Keating era - when a measure of hope still flowed through arts communities - and musically this was borne out in swirling guitars, giddy romance and pure pop, free of the ugly and obvious prefix of ‘indie’. Perth’s Honeys have reformed countless years on yet it seems not a day’s gone by. Bright, rich guitars propel the mellifluous, melancholic tone of Andrea Croft’s beautiful singing. Where (and when) am I?
H
Single of the Week
Jose Gonzales
Down The Line
This first offering from Jose’s much anticipated second album is neither a great departure from his existing sonic template or another astounding cover. It is a sombre selection for a single and full credit to him for utilising the cache he’s acquired to make such a move. As rippling strums stream out from his guitar he sings – “I see problems down the line. I know that I’m right.” – a statement that righteous fools might label cynical but one that serves, for those with common sense, as a rare and affirming acknowledgement of the depth of difficulties faced at this time. “Don’t let the darkness eat you up.”
F+
The Long Blondes
Once and Never Again
Produced by fellow Sheffield resident and ex-Pulp bass player Steve Mackey, this careening romp through jaundiced teen angst was released in the U.K. almost a year ago. It’s a fantastic song instrumentally propelled by rapid rhythm guitars replete with a distinctly Sixties shimmy and shake. As evinced live however, the real gumption comes from singer Kate Jackson. Her deep-throated descriptions of an age-weary lust to (temporarily) rescue a self-harming hetero teen are a rich and toxic tease. “I’ll show you the ropes,” she offers. “I know how it feels to be yr age” is altered, by the last line, to “oh, I’d love to feel a girl yr age.” Naughty!
F
Salmonella
Dub Love, Sunshine and Happiness
Waves of aural molasses emerge out of the speakers this time - perfectly recorded dollops of brass, subliminal (that’s sublime and minimal) bass with the E.Q. pitched way down, organic electronic percussion and oodles of delay coating understated vocals. Their distinctly unpalatable band name suggests that which is either undercooked or not kept chilled thereafter, yet these guys can be prone to overdoing it. In this case however - despite the saccharine song title - the Kiwi’s have struck a balance, keeping it spare and simple, and in doing so have rendering something fresh - more like sugar cane juice, straight up!
I-
Northern State
Better Already
Three women outta NYC previously signed to Columbia/Sony who split that scene after one album then knocked a new one up with folk like The Beastie’s Adrock and Wu Tang producer Chuck Brody of Shitake Monkey. Said LP – Can I Keep This Pen? (great title!) – was then snapped up by Mike Patton for release on his Ipecac label. That’s some serious lineage and it’s apparent why when you garner that, at best, they approximate a Le Tigre meets Catcall type-sound. But, frankly, it’s all a little lightweight and pre-digested on this track – a bit Luscious Jackson - just too damn nice.
J+
Lost Valentinos
17 Deaths
Their name may have been changed to protect the guilty but their sound remains in the mainline of that quintessentially Australian synth-rock style being peddled so successfully by The Midnight Juggernauts et al at the moment. The difference is that The Valentinos (oops!) burst forth with more agitation - guitars all dated bristle (it is ridiculously apparent that this track has been produced by The Rapture’s knob-twiddler Ewan Pearson) and vocals from the Ground Components school of shouting. These habitual defaults may have gotten them this far but they’ll need to evolve if they’re to fulfil the ‘promising’ tag so regularly affixed to their name(s).
K+
Single of the Weak
Damien Leith
22 Steps
This was written by a Canadian and is sung by an Irishman who pledged his allegiance to Australia direct to John Howard. Howard’s eradicated ‘multiculturalism’ at some cost and, listening to this, I’d say that it was worth every cent! Sounding like a pre-teen drag queen, ‘their’ Damien sappily seeps re some girl he stalks; then inflicts his own Song for Jarvis on us (he’s named his poor brats after rather more credible artists: Jarvis Dion and Jagger Ramone). He has milked the family angle previously - having a band with his sis and bro’s called Leaf. When two had the smarts to split it became Releaf. Sigh.
U
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In The Sun
It’s bizarre to throw this in the player and be immediately transported back to a Sydney of big share houses, easy dole money and long drunken daytime discussions at any number of campuses. This was the Keating era - when a measure of hope still flowed through arts communities - and musically this was borne out in swirling guitars, giddy romance and pure pop, free of the ugly and obvious prefix of ‘indie’. Perth’s Honeys have reformed countless years on yet it seems not a day’s gone by. Bright, rich guitars propel the mellifluous, melancholic tone of Andrea Croft’s beautiful singing. Where (and when) am I?
H
Single of the Week
Jose Gonzales
Down The Line
This first offering from Jose’s much anticipated second album is neither a great departure from his existing sonic template or another astounding cover. It is a sombre selection for a single and full credit to him for utilising the cache he’s acquired to make such a move. As rippling strums stream out from his guitar he sings – “I see problems down the line. I know that I’m right.” – a statement that righteous fools might label cynical but one that serves, for those with common sense, as a rare and affirming acknowledgement of the depth of difficulties faced at this time. “Don’t let the darkness eat you up.”
F+
The Long Blondes
Once and Never Again
Produced by fellow Sheffield resident and ex-Pulp bass player Steve Mackey, this careening romp through jaundiced teen angst was released in the U.K. almost a year ago. It’s a fantastic song instrumentally propelled by rapid rhythm guitars replete with a distinctly Sixties shimmy and shake. As evinced live however, the real gumption comes from singer Kate Jackson. Her deep-throated descriptions of an age-weary lust to (temporarily) rescue a self-harming hetero teen are a rich and toxic tease. “I’ll show you the ropes,” she offers. “I know how it feels to be yr age” is altered, by the last line, to “oh, I’d love to feel a girl yr age.” Naughty!
F
Salmonella
Dub Love, Sunshine and Happiness
Waves of aural molasses emerge out of the speakers this time - perfectly recorded dollops of brass, subliminal (that’s sublime and minimal) bass with the E.Q. pitched way down, organic electronic percussion and oodles of delay coating understated vocals. Their distinctly unpalatable band name suggests that which is either undercooked or not kept chilled thereafter, yet these guys can be prone to overdoing it. In this case however - despite the saccharine song title - the Kiwi’s have struck a balance, keeping it spare and simple, and in doing so have rendering something fresh - more like sugar cane juice, straight up!
I-
Northern State
Better Already
Three women outta NYC previously signed to Columbia/Sony who split that scene after one album then knocked a new one up with folk like The Beastie’s Adrock and Wu Tang producer Chuck Brody of Shitake Monkey. Said LP – Can I Keep This Pen? (great title!) – was then snapped up by Mike Patton for release on his Ipecac label. That’s some serious lineage and it’s apparent why when you garner that, at best, they approximate a Le Tigre meets Catcall type-sound. But, frankly, it’s all a little lightweight and pre-digested on this track – a bit Luscious Jackson - just too damn nice.
J+
Lost Valentinos
17 Deaths
Their name may have been changed to protect the guilty but their sound remains in the mainline of that quintessentially Australian synth-rock style being peddled so successfully by The Midnight Juggernauts et al at the moment. The difference is that The Valentinos (oops!) burst forth with more agitation - guitars all dated bristle (it is ridiculously apparent that this track has been produced by The Rapture’s knob-twiddler Ewan Pearson) and vocals from the Ground Components school of shouting. These habitual defaults may have gotten them this far but they’ll need to evolve if they’re to fulfil the ‘promising’ tag so regularly affixed to their name(s).
K+
Single of the Weak
Damien Leith
22 Steps
This was written by a Canadian and is sung by an Irishman who pledged his allegiance to Australia direct to John Howard. Howard’s eradicated ‘multiculturalism’ at some cost and, listening to this, I’d say that it was worth every cent! Sounding like a pre-teen drag queen, ‘their’ Damien sappily seeps re some girl he stalks; then inflicts his own Song for Jarvis on us (he’s named his poor brats after rather more credible artists: Jarvis Dion and Jagger Ramone). He has milked the family angle previously - having a band with his sis and bro’s called Leaf. When two had the smarts to split it became Releaf. Sigh.
U
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Young Husband
Motorcade (EP)
Flesh-toned female figures adorn the cover, one flashing knickers and sporting devil horns. She’s as clichéd as a truckers (hub)cap and sadly the same can be said of the stodgy Melbourne rock within. Only opener Dirty Money Young Man rises above the turgid inanity of past forms performed less well and that is due to singer Keesan Roberts’ powerful proto-Quatro growl. The problem there is Adalita’s kinda got that sound sewn up locally of late. More interesting is the first Google result on their name, an Islamic sex guide: “a young husband should enjoy sexual intercourse with his wife once every four days…” (Not) enough!
P+
Kat Frankie
Serves You Right For Using Violence
A peculiar mix of skittering drums, lolloping bass and acoustic guitar coils beneath Kat’s vocal histrionics, cooling in the eerie drifting harmonies of the chorus and breaking down altogether towards the end of the song (and relationship). The ultimate impotence of the violent warrants scorn and elicits anger but one has to remove oneself altogether to prevent feedback. The catharsis seemingly sought by this song never quite occurs – the gothic intensity of its expression snagging that which might otherwise freely go – and grow. Kat defines her work as darkness (‘heart-break, deceit, ambition’) but I’d rather not dwell.
L+
Single of the Week
Animal Collective
Peacebone
A foreign word, tremolo synthetic frippery, a beat and we’re away in the unique la-la-land of The Collective once again - fuzzy descending basses, falsetto back-ups, great crashes, whistling chip-monks and their fat-fried choral conceits – every man and his dog gets a peace of the action here. Conceivably a sonic diorama of a remembered cityscape, fashioned amongst cyclones by the future descendants of ducks; or perhaps a poorly encrypted Dad-joke from aliens attempting endearment - whatever it is, I like! Now, take me to your leader/s, gimme some of what they’re having and let’s get it on!
F
Digitalism
Idealistic
The latest slab of overblown electro from Europe and it’s par for the coarse. Vocally, the refrain “I have an idea, that you’re here,” (like, no way!) encapsulates the mindlessness inherent in the few lyrics that seep onto dance-floors today. It’s sung terribly too but who’s gonna notice when everyone’s off-chops, spasmodically jerking limbs and attempting to get that idiotic two-fingers-and-tongue face right for the photographers? These Euro-bangers are popular simply because they invert the repetitive cleanliness of that which dominated previously. It’s amazing - all that time and trouble spent making sounds seem like they’re emerging from a busted P.A. Pragmatic.
J-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Motorcade (EP)
Flesh-toned female figures adorn the cover, one flashing knickers and sporting devil horns. She’s as clichéd as a truckers (hub)cap and sadly the same can be said of the stodgy Melbourne rock within. Only opener Dirty Money Young Man rises above the turgid inanity of past forms performed less well and that is due to singer Keesan Roberts’ powerful proto-Quatro growl. The problem there is Adalita’s kinda got that sound sewn up locally of late. More interesting is the first Google result on their name, an Islamic sex guide: “a young husband should enjoy sexual intercourse with his wife once every four days…” (Not) enough!
P+
Kat Frankie
Serves You Right For Using Violence
A peculiar mix of skittering drums, lolloping bass and acoustic guitar coils beneath Kat’s vocal histrionics, cooling in the eerie drifting harmonies of the chorus and breaking down altogether towards the end of the song (and relationship). The ultimate impotence of the violent warrants scorn and elicits anger but one has to remove oneself altogether to prevent feedback. The catharsis seemingly sought by this song never quite occurs – the gothic intensity of its expression snagging that which might otherwise freely go – and grow. Kat defines her work as darkness (‘heart-break, deceit, ambition’) but I’d rather not dwell.
L+
Single of the Week
Animal Collective
Peacebone
A foreign word, tremolo synthetic frippery, a beat and we’re away in the unique la-la-land of The Collective once again - fuzzy descending basses, falsetto back-ups, great crashes, whistling chip-monks and their fat-fried choral conceits – every man and his dog gets a peace of the action here. Conceivably a sonic diorama of a remembered cityscape, fashioned amongst cyclones by the future descendants of ducks; or perhaps a poorly encrypted Dad-joke from aliens attempting endearment - whatever it is, I like! Now, take me to your leader/s, gimme some of what they’re having and let’s get it on!
F
Digitalism
Idealistic
The latest slab of overblown electro from Europe and it’s par for the coarse. Vocally, the refrain “I have an idea, that you’re here,” (like, no way!) encapsulates the mindlessness inherent in the few lyrics that seep onto dance-floors today. It’s sung terribly too but who’s gonna notice when everyone’s off-chops, spasmodically jerking limbs and attempting to get that idiotic two-fingers-and-tongue face right for the photographers? These Euro-bangers are popular simply because they invert the repetitive cleanliness of that which dominated previously. It’s amazing - all that time and trouble spent making sounds seem like they’re emerging from a busted P.A. Pragmatic.
J-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Robyn
Cobrastyle / Konichiwa Bitches
It may appear to Australian ears that Robyn sprung from nowhere yet she’s been recording since 1991, often being cruelled by record company mismanagement in the interim. Forming her own Konichiwa label in Sweden in 2005 allowed her to assert control locally and create a substantially more potent hybrid sound. Cobrastyle was first recorded by compatriots Teddybears in a rock/reggae vein yet here it gets electronically undone in the style of The Knife. Bitches, meanwhile, is the baddest sass since Kelis sucked straws. How lame then that it’s taken two and a half years for anyone to release it here? “Count you out, like a mathematician.”
E
Operator Please
Just A Song About Ping Pong
Another industrial delay in delivery sours a song. I first heard this on a Mess+Noise compilation where submissions were taken from unsigned acts Australia-wide. Operator Please were blown away to have made the cut. That exposure began a feeding frenzy amongst the major labels and it was briefly amusing to watch a bunch of Gold Coast teens - in the words of Robyn - ‘make their balls bounce like a game of ping-pong’. Virgin/EMI emerged with their signatures and now, 18 months after the band self-released it, we get a shiny sped-up, less fun version. And Virgin mobile TV ad’s exploiting another tune. Great band, great song; bodgy business.
E-
The Bumblebeez
Rio
Despite respecting their larrikin pop front, I was never a big fan of Thee Bumblebeez. Hit and miss live shows didn’t help. But their new album, despite its clunky stoner title (Prince Umberto & The Sister Of Ill), has turned that around. It has a boldness and variety not unlike The Avalanches – though it does fall short Since I Left You’s innate coherence. On the one hand, Dr Love woulda been a certainty for Single of the Week (if it had arrived in time) - on the other Rio has only marginal melody and terrible rhymes. It’s a bizarre choice for a single - every other track is better.
J-
Single of the Week
PJ Harvey
When Under Ether
A frightening depth rings out from the first few notes of piano. Polly’s voice is fragile. She hallucinates from a sick bed - the ceiling rippling above. Dosed-up and wondering at the gentle love of fellow sufferers and carers. Conscious of a will to live yet in a state of gracious surrender should this world pass. As I lay in such a way not so long ago I cannot ‘review’ this song. It sings me – and likely you. Such elemental insights inhabit almost all of us eventually. Trust this humble, wise and soulful woman to distill such otherworldly universality into two tiny minutes of timeless transparency.
A
The Devastations
Mistakes
The Devastations have long been perceived as Bad Seeds wannabe’s. Many reasons for this were sheer patina: they were Melbourne born yet Berlin-based, shared friends and a sense of style. More substantive connections lay in their sound (particularly the tone of vocalist Conrad Standish) and lyricism. Whether by accident or design their new LP (the awkwardly affirmative Yes, U) seems likely to challenge that stereotype somewhat. This initial single begins with 80’s electronic drums until a hefty, lurching bass line and guitar fuzz returns us to more familiar ground - only to veer into lighter confessional pop for the chorus! Curious, indeed.
H
Datarock
The New Song
Stupid church organ gives way to massive guitars over yr standard, driving Andrew WK / Spod big rock beat and Fredrik goes nuts screaming obvious acronyms (‘FBI, CIA, EMI, TDK’) and a frenzied proclamation that this is the NEW SONG! It’s totally dumb shit that’s been done a million times before but it works! Snobs can’t knock it ‘cos it’s clearly a mockery of the (music) business’ production and consumption cycle; yet who’s gonna be thinking that deeply while jumping at a festival to this? It’s an out-and-out anthem for nothing at all. Computer says, ‘YEAH!’
F
Single of the Weak
Serotonin
The Liverpool St Sessions
Oh dear God, has punk achieved nothing? Nerd bass (and drums), noodly guitar and plaintive yet tacky vocals. The accompanying two page presser reveals a maze of music-writing cliché’s (every song gets reduced to ‘famous-musician meets other famous-musician while other famous-musician blah-blah-blahs’) and misplaced self-importance. For example, ‘Intelligentsia…features a wickedly rad bass line and tender Middle 8 which metaphorically kicks you in the balls with its emotional impact’ while ‘You Need Serotonin…features the great line: “It’s not what I need but it’s all I got / I’m low on serotonin won’t you top me up.”’ They want feedback. If only it would eclipse them entirely.
T
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Cobrastyle / Konichiwa Bitches
It may appear to Australian ears that Robyn sprung from nowhere yet she’s been recording since 1991, often being cruelled by record company mismanagement in the interim. Forming her own Konichiwa label in Sweden in 2005 allowed her to assert control locally and create a substantially more potent hybrid sound. Cobrastyle was first recorded by compatriots Teddybears in a rock/reggae vein yet here it gets electronically undone in the style of The Knife. Bitches, meanwhile, is the baddest sass since Kelis sucked straws. How lame then that it’s taken two and a half years for anyone to release it here? “Count you out, like a mathematician.”
E
Operator Please
Just A Song About Ping Pong
Another industrial delay in delivery sours a song. I first heard this on a Mess+Noise compilation where submissions were taken from unsigned acts Australia-wide. Operator Please were blown away to have made the cut. That exposure began a feeding frenzy amongst the major labels and it was briefly amusing to watch a bunch of Gold Coast teens - in the words of Robyn - ‘make their balls bounce like a game of ping-pong’. Virgin/EMI emerged with their signatures and now, 18 months after the band self-released it, we get a shiny sped-up, less fun version. And Virgin mobile TV ad’s exploiting another tune. Great band, great song; bodgy business.
E-
The Bumblebeez
Rio
Despite respecting their larrikin pop front, I was never a big fan of Thee Bumblebeez. Hit and miss live shows didn’t help. But their new album, despite its clunky stoner title (Prince Umberto & The Sister Of Ill), has turned that around. It has a boldness and variety not unlike The Avalanches – though it does fall short Since I Left You’s innate coherence. On the one hand, Dr Love woulda been a certainty for Single of the Week (if it had arrived in time) - on the other Rio has only marginal melody and terrible rhymes. It’s a bizarre choice for a single - every other track is better.
J-
Single of the Week
PJ Harvey
When Under Ether
A frightening depth rings out from the first few notes of piano. Polly’s voice is fragile. She hallucinates from a sick bed - the ceiling rippling above. Dosed-up and wondering at the gentle love of fellow sufferers and carers. Conscious of a will to live yet in a state of gracious surrender should this world pass. As I lay in such a way not so long ago I cannot ‘review’ this song. It sings me – and likely you. Such elemental insights inhabit almost all of us eventually. Trust this humble, wise and soulful woman to distill such otherworldly universality into two tiny minutes of timeless transparency.
A
The Devastations
Mistakes
The Devastations have long been perceived as Bad Seeds wannabe’s. Many reasons for this were sheer patina: they were Melbourne born yet Berlin-based, shared friends and a sense of style. More substantive connections lay in their sound (particularly the tone of vocalist Conrad Standish) and lyricism. Whether by accident or design their new LP (the awkwardly affirmative Yes, U) seems likely to challenge that stereotype somewhat. This initial single begins with 80’s electronic drums until a hefty, lurching bass line and guitar fuzz returns us to more familiar ground - only to veer into lighter confessional pop for the chorus! Curious, indeed.
H
Datarock
The New Song
Stupid church organ gives way to massive guitars over yr standard, driving Andrew WK / Spod big rock beat and Fredrik goes nuts screaming obvious acronyms (‘FBI, CIA, EMI, TDK’) and a frenzied proclamation that this is the NEW SONG! It’s totally dumb shit that’s been done a million times before but it works! Snobs can’t knock it ‘cos it’s clearly a mockery of the (music) business’ production and consumption cycle; yet who’s gonna be thinking that deeply while jumping at a festival to this? It’s an out-and-out anthem for nothing at all. Computer says, ‘YEAH!’
F
Single of the Weak
Serotonin
The Liverpool St Sessions
Oh dear God, has punk achieved nothing? Nerd bass (and drums), noodly guitar and plaintive yet tacky vocals. The accompanying two page presser reveals a maze of music-writing cliché’s (every song gets reduced to ‘famous-musician meets other famous-musician while other famous-musician blah-blah-blahs’) and misplaced self-importance. For example, ‘Intelligentsia…features a wickedly rad bass line and tender Middle 8 which metaphorically kicks you in the balls with its emotional impact’ while ‘You Need Serotonin…features the great line: “It’s not what I need but it’s all I got / I’m low on serotonin won’t you top me up.”’ They want feedback. If only it would eclipse them entirely.
T
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