One of the pleasures of following Kevin Barnes’ career in real time is that each Of Montreal record truly feels like checking in with them, each record like a scene report on their inner life. In recent years Barnes has cycled through a sort of psychosexual rebirth, new love, paranoia about politics, and embracing/accepting chaos as part of life. This time around on Freewave Lucifer f
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“FOH” opens Ari Lennox’s second album like a thesis statement that she explores in every subsequent track, and while those facets get very interesting I find this song in which she just lays out all her questions the most compelling. Why does she keep getting involved with lackluster men? Why does she feel pressured to get into a serious romantic relationship as she enters her 30s, and why does that feel necessary if she’s happy with her current success as a musician? She doesn’t spell that out exactly, but her lyrics are plain enough that I’m only lightly paraphrasing her words. I hear a lot of Erykah Badu circa Mama’s Gun in Lennox’s phrasing and arrangement here, which is in and of itself high praise and reason to recommend this song, but there’s a bit more open hostility in her tone. A lot of this song is just understandable frustration and bile as she questions why both her expectations and realities have let her down. She finds some strength in this, but the beauty of this song is in the ambiguity of where she might go from this point where she recognizes the problem but hasn’t yet thought of a viable solution.
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“Why Suffer??” is an odd mutant R&B song that nevertheless moves with a lot of grace, slinking and gliding and floating around and giving Carlos Truly a lot of space to exude sensativity and sensuality. The music is cozy and sexy, but…what the hell is this guy singing about? As far as I can parse this it sounds like he’s encountered some woman he’s attracted to after a minor car accident, learns she has a husband, and then he’s just like “this guy seems gross, why suffer the indignity of being with him when you could be with me?” The song positions it all like maybe there’s some abuse going on but all you really get in the lyrics about the husband is that he’s naked and sweaty at some point. Songs don’t really need to tell complete stories to work and this one certainly gets by just fine on purely musical charms, but there’s so many missing or vague details in this one that it’s hard to even tell where this song is coming from. Is this a song about a guy with a crush who develops an unreasonable grudge on this lady’s husband, and he’s meant to be an unreliable narrator? Or is this more like a song about a guy we’re meant to understand as a hero and his judgment of this husband is meant to carry more weight? I like it better if it’s the former.
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“National TV” is written from the perspective of someone who is somewhat recently out of a relationship that clearly got very codependent and they’re adjusting to the other person’s life moving on while they just…haven’t quite done that yet. Plenty of songs are about this, but the things that really intrigue me about this one is how Hannah Judge’s lyrics deal with resentment about having an influence on a partner’s life and art – “can you believe this guy? He’s starting to sound like he’s just like me” – and approaching their own music with dread because they’re worried the songs are about them. And he’s got a new girlfriend – and she looks just like her? This is all pretty normal stuff but rendered with exactly the right level of low-key irritation and simmering anxiety around wondering whether you were just a type, or if you’re being actively replaced because you got annoying. This is a song that benefits from the implied distance and shy affect of classic indie rock because if you came in too hot on any of this it would just feel like too much for the topic, but at this temperature it’s underplaying the anger in a compelling way.
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Damon Albarn has used Gorillaz as a vehicle for exploring a lot of musical ideas through the past two decades but there’s one trick he’s figured out that no one has come close to rivaling – electro-funk groove + energetic rap + plaintive indie vocal. This is the basic formula for a lot of the most successful and widely beloved Gorillaz songs – “Feel Good Inc,” “Superfast Jellyfish,” “Stylo,” “Ascension” – and it’s the setup for “New Gold,” their best song in a little while. It’s a delicious little ice cream sundae of a song, a perfect balance of those three core elements with a little bit of Albarn’s vocals tossed in like rainbow sprinkles. Tame Impala’s presence is the most overwhelming ingredient as anything with Kevin Parker’s voice ultimately sounds like anything else with his voice, but there’s just enough contrast between him and Bootie Brown’s verses to keep it squarely in the aesthetic realm of Gorillaz. And they’re all certainly on message with the lyrics, sketching out a vision of post-apocalyptic society not far off from most anything on 2010’s Plastic Beach.
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“I’m Tight” is a song showcasing Louis Cole’s dazzling skill as a funk bass player, but then you go and read his bio and it says “Louis’ main instrument is the drums.” This is impressive, but also vaguely infuriating – like, really, this isn’t even your core competency? Cole plays everything else on the track too like he’s Stevie Wonder or Prince, and comes pretty close to attaining the sort of magical tight-yet-minimalist funk of the latter circa Controversy. The big difference is Cole doesn’t have a magnetic and sassy persona or an overwhelming warmth and soulfulness, and rather than emulate that kind of presence on the microphone he goes in a totally different direction by embracing neurosis and self-deprecating humor. The lyrics don’t jump out enough to overwhelm the funk with irony but he spends a lot of the song trying to sort out what he thinks of himself and embrace the parts of himself he feels good about. It seems like he’s deliberately approaching a genre that’s traditionally hosted a lot of strutting confidence as a challenge to find that in himself, in his own weird way.
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Pretty much every sound in “Polaroid” feels as though it was arranged specifically to please my ear but the part that really puts this song over the top for me is the bass, which has the slo-mo groove and womb-like warmth of a classic Jamaican dub track. Boogarins’ track pulls in sounds from other sources – modern and classic psychedelia, some traces of classic Brazilian pop, a touch of R&B – but it gracefully avoids any particular genre, though I get the sense that we’ll have better terms for this sort of aesthetic down the line. I do love the neither-here-nor-there of it, and the way Betina’s vocal moves between different shades of melancholy so there’s a definite feeling but an ambiguous degree of intensity. The weight of sadness and positive feeling is constantly shifting through the song, and that fluctuation seems to be the point.
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Halfway through Glove’s grinding rave-up “Modern Toy,” after the second fake-out ending, Brie Deux sings a line that made me laugh out loud the first time I heard it: “How does he handle heavy machinery?” The first few verses and choruses are all about alienation from culture and labor, and a “modern guy” who is disposable and forgettable. Deux sings it all like a vicious taunt, like she’s a representative of the system that’s making these men useless. But that switch up offers hope – maybe he does have a utility, some useful skill? Maybe it’s literal, maybe it’s about how much he can cope with being a cog in this machine. Maybe this strapping man doesn’t have to be destroyed, even if that would provide some cheap kicks.
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It’s not easy to make an effective cover of a classic electronic dance song – you can update it to make it sound modern with new technology but strip out a lot of the song’s character; you can radically alter it and bring it into another genre; you can try to clone it but what’s the point of that? Aidan Noell and Nancy Whang’s interpretation of A Number of Names’ 1981 Detroit underground banger “Sharevari” stays very true to the track’s original arrangement and dutifully replicates its beat programming and keyboard parts, but they transform the vibe of the song with their vocal performances. The original mix features vocals from a guy who sounds like a dance club Dracula – a vague European accent, a seedy but dignified attitude. Noell’s voice sounds more youthful and innocent, like she’s only recently descended into this sexy underworld and is excited to tell you all about it. The original sounds like it’s fronted by a seasoned old seducer, this one is more like the seduced taking a crack at the seducer role.
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“Bumblebee” is shamelessly sunny even with its somewhat self-pitying lyrics, though even the darkest lines come across as more playful than genuinely angst-ridden. The opening line “obviously you’re already over me” sets the tone perfectly – sure, there’s some bad feelings to be felt, but the stakes are pretty low and you’re listening to someone who’s trying to have some fun. It’s definitely a young person’s song in the sense that it’s approaching some emotional realities of dating that become very mundane as you move along, but it feels remarkably well-adjusted in outlook and thus more appealing to my adult ears. It’s sweet, it’s light, it delights in the very notion of possibilities even as some of them close off.
There’s a lot of extremely literal music made by very young musicians today that I can’t really get into because the teenager-ness of it is so strong that I don’t think even a well-constructed tune can withstand the cringe factor for anyone older than the intended audience. I don’t think music marketed to teens was always like this – when I was a teenager anything made specifically for teens was deeply uncool and we mostly just got the same music marketed to people in their 20s and 30s, and I think the waves of teen pop through the 2000s and 2010s always had an eye towards scaling up to mainstream credibility. The algorithmic hyper-specificity of TikTok has pushed a whole generation of kids to make music specifically for their cohort in a very utilitarian way, and while this is interesting it feels like deliberately disposable music. A little like fast fashion?
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The first time I heard “Freakout/Release” was at Hot Chip’s show at Avant Gardner in Brooklyn back in May, well before a studio version was available. This was an advantage in that I could be genuinely surprised by the big turn in the song when it happened as I was coming to it without “spoilers.” This part of the song, in which the band shift into a heavy rock riff after starting off in a classic Hot Chip electro-funk mode, is a bit less dramatic in the studio recording. Some of this is probably in just mixing it so it made sense as a track, but it’s still a thrilling dynamic move that delivers on the promise of the title. The structure of the track is like an answer to Alexis Taylor’s lyrics, in which he’s fretting about feeling jaded about music and not getting the kind of rush he got from it in the past. He’s blaming it on everyone else – “music used to be in love, but now people leave it or take it” – but the song implies that the answer is simply shifting it up and breaking out of old patterns. A lot of a thrill is just enjoying something you didn’t expect, so why not toss a big dumb guitar riff?
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The best thing I can say about “Black Latex” is that it’s a song that fully delivers on the promise of naming a song “Black Latex.” Johnny Jewel’s arrangement is a strict machine built around a single menacing synth chord and electronic syncopation that gets off on witholding the funk but gives you just enough to groove. Desire’s spoken word vocal walks a similar tightrope – obviously sexy but not crassly sexual, flirtatious but not cute, romantic but not precious, intellectual but not nerdy. It’s more a scene than a song, a vision of an alternate reality created by two people with an intense bond and shared taste.
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“Silly Boy” is basically a banger entirely devoted to Lynks mercilessly roasting some obnoxious straight guy who everyone loathes for his consistent awful behavior. Actually “roasting” seems too benign to describe the goal here – it’s much more like gleefully humiliating this guy, maybe with some dim hope that he actually reflects on how he lives and course corrects. You know, maybe! For the most part this is just wild energy and vicious bile, and any ugliness to the overall vibe is pardoned by Lynks bullying exactly the type of person in the world who it’s totally justified to shame and belittle.
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Aimee Duncan’s vocal delivery on the verses of “Talk Shows” is very wry and a little bit cute, she sounds as though she hasn’t quite decided whether she’s telling someone they’re a loser or if she’s just flirting with them. Both, I guess? The verses shift gears into something closer to a breakup song, but one stuck in a frustrated stalemate state in which neither party has walked out just yet. The music conveys a lot of complementary energy – some nervous tension in the groove, a light and playful tone in the guitar. The overall mood of the song is basically “hey, we both know we’re stuck in purgatory and it mostly sucks, but we can figure out how to have some fun here.”
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Brijean’s music always sounds like paradise. It sounds like a world where the temperature is perfect, the light is just right, there’s lovely flora all over, there’s amazing food and drinks and everyone is either dancing or just kinda grooving. It’s a place you can immediately envision upon hearing a song like “Take A Trip,” and it’s something that can and does exist but it’s also something that mostly lives in the imagination. Pretty much every Brijean song feels this way, it’s like they’re gradually building out an alternate world they can live in when playing and recording this music. It’s an act of escapism that’s also something that also generously serves as escapist art for everyone who listens. Knowing that this particular record was made during a spell of serious loss and grief for the band only makes it more powerful and poignant. In a harsh and hostile world, they created their own beautiful mind palace to retreat to.
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Shoegaze is a genre where simply nailing the familiar post-My Bloody Valentine aesthetic is enough to make a song very appealing, and “Atonement” really hits that mark. The odd tones, the sensuality, the wooziness – check, check, check. But the combination of Samira Winter and members of Hatchie results in something a bit brighter, a little more bubblegum. There’s some darker tones in the mix – that central detuned guitar part sounds very grey to me – but all of that is in sharp contrast with a cooing vocal hook that seems to blast through the song like big beams of blinding light.
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Piri and Tommy specialize in relaxed songs with tempos so fast the beats start to feel more soothing and meditative than jumpy and anxious. A lot of this comes down to the arrangements being quite minimal and the keyboard tones filling out the grooves having a chilled tonality, but the centered and friendly quality of Piri’s voice also goes a long way in making this all sound like casual low-key fun. “On and On” sounds like you’re just listening in on some friend’s interior monologue as they dance – they’re feeling the music, they’re feeling the room, they’re feeling some drugs kick in. There’s simply no dark energy to be found here.
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Dan Snaith’s style is distinct enough that most anyone would notice his authorship whether they’re listening to Caribou or Daphni, but articulating what makes something obviously his work feels roughly similar to describing the particular curvature of handwriting. “Cloudy” isn’t too far off from what his friend Four Tet would do, but there’s more calm to the beat and that central piano hook has a graceful melodic swoop to it that feels specific to Snaith. It’s the sort of clean and elegant motif he always places ahead of funkiness, though thankfully not too far ahead of funkiness.
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When “indie sleaze” took hold as a popular nostalgic obsession earlier this year at last one man called Harrison Smith took note and decided “well, fuck, I can do that.” “Girls” distills mid-00s party sleaze aesthetics into two minutes of twitchy electro-funk that basically sounds like if LCD Soundsystem had the coked-up abrasive lecherousness of Louis XIV. This is simply a song about being extremely horny for all kinds of girls, or at least all the girls who are likely to turn up at the indie sleaze club. Girls who do drugs, who hate cops and buy guns, girls with degrees, mean girls and kinky girls and trans girls and sex workers, and the list goes on. It’s a knowingly dumb and funny song, and he makes sure the joke’s on him: “they say I’m too fucking horny, wanna put me in a cage – I’d probably fuck the hole in the wall the guy before made.” The Dare could stop with just this one utterly shameless novelty single and it’d be a job well done, but I’m genuinely curious where they’d go from here. Is this the start of something bigger?
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I was a child in the 1980s and as I gradually came to understand pop music through the radio Madonna was like a fact of life, a pillar of existence, a figure whose domination was respected but not questioned. It’s funny to think of this now, as by the time I would have this awareness Madonna would only have been around for at most three or four years. But I was a kid without a sense of chronology, and my memory of this is so blurry that I can as an adult be totally surprised to learn that “Live to Tell” was the first single from True Blue in 1986.
This was a crazy gamble at the time and you can hear the song’s composer Patrick Leonard get into that in this interview – sure, “Crazy for You” was a big hit, but at this time Madonna was known for her danceable smashes like “Into the Groove,” “Material Girl,” and “Like A Virgin.” But it wasn’t just that “Live to Tell” was a ballad, it was a very harmonically ambitious one with a peculiar structure. Leonard originally wrote the music to be an instrumental for a soundtrack and that certainly accounts for its atmosphere and busy melodies that don’t quite necessitate a vocal lead. Madonna wrote a vocal melody and lyrics as a favor to Leonard and it was immediately clear that they’d made something quite special. Something so special Madonna would lobby for it to open her comeback campaign and get her way. (It all worked out well, as the song is incredible and Madonna was an unquestioned dominating presence in pop.)
“Live to Tell” really got to me as a kid. It’s a song I clearly remember bumming me out in the backseat of my mom’s car, Leonard’s dramatic keyboard harmonies evoking some grand cosmic sadness I couldn’t imagine but could feel. Madonna sings the song with a solemnity that made lines like “a man can tell a thousand lies” and “hope I live to tell the secret I have learned, til then it will burn inside of me” register as the most important things ever sung. These secrets and lies, these intense vows! There’s no context to any of this, no implication of what the secret could be but that only makes the song seem darker. Why would you hold on to something and feel this deeply about it unless it would cause chaos and destruction? It’s specific enough to be a recognizable drama but vague enough to fit it into whatever story you need it to be, and I suspect for a lot of people it gets very bleak and traumatic.
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A lot of art about growing up Catholic tends to be about related trauma or being indoctrinated into a culture of guilt so young that it becomes unshakeable whether you stick with the Church or not. You can find some of that in the subtext of “Like A Prayer” but the lyrical focus of the song is more on how aspects of Catholicism can imprint on you in a way that leads to interpreting all kinds of heavy emotional experiences through its profound iconography and mysticism. You can take the song to be a love song to a man or a love song to God, I hear both at the same time. She transubstantiates this man through her lust, she’s experiencing communion through sex. She’s allowing herself to feel everything on a deeper and more profound level by exalting him and submitting to his will. To paraphrase another brilliant pop provocateur a few years down the line – her whole existence is flawed but he brings her closer to God.
Madonna wrote “Like A Prayer” with Patrick Leonard, one of her all-time best collaborators. Leonard, a jazz and prog guy when left to his own devices, came to work with Madonna on a work-for-hire songwriter. They were a bit of an odd couple but had an incredible chemistry as a songwriting duo, their respective tastes and tendencies resulting in very accessible but subtly sophisticated songwriting. Leonard’s taste for interesting chords and complex harmony made songs like “Live to Tell,” “La Isla Bonita,” and “Cherish” sound totally unlike anything else on the radio at the time, and even if people weren’t consciously registering the elegance of his compositions people could intuit a certain prestige in this music which indicated that Madonna was a cut above her direct competition.
The structural genius of “Like A Prayer” is that it moves between verses rooted in the dour musicality of Catholic psalms and choruses in the tradition of ecstatic Black gospel music, both parts rendered with the rich tones of jazz chords. The melding of two very different approaches to Christian church music makes the song wildly dynamic and thematically dense, opening up discourse on the differences between these expressions of faith while allowing Madonna to indulge in the best of both worlds. The Catholic parts of the song are full of loneliness and melancholic longing, the gospel parts emphasize joy and connection with others. It’s a continuum of feeling, a personal emotional and intellectual journey leading to a collective catharsis.
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