March 9th, 2009 8:09am
Micachu’s music tends to be rough and jumpy, but her voice is cool and calm, providing a smooth center for arrangements that tend to emphasize odd textural contrasts and jagged edges. This isn’t to say that she seems aloof or distant. More often than not, her vocals come across as polite but informal, and rather intimate in the context of production values that can err on the side of sounding like inspired demos sprung fully formed from her unconscious mind. “Calculator,” one of the most immediately ingratiating and pop-oriented tracks on her debut the Shapes, is built upon a nervous, jaunty rhythm, but her amiable, androgynous voice evens out the tone so that the anxiety is downplayed in favor of emphasizing the tune’s more jovial and level-headed qualities. The song feels mature and self-assured, but not in a dull sort of way — if anything, Micachu has a way of making emotional stability sound complicated and exciting, perhaps because the music always has a tension implying that it could all come falling apart with one false move.
March 6th, 2009 7:46am
A lot of women have beautiful voices and many of them can sing with great authority, but still, there’s something extraordinary and distinct about Neko Case’s voice and the way it can convey even the smallest, sweet emotion with an assertiveness on par with the forces of nature. Her boldness lends itself to a variety of styles, but whether she’s the vocal equivalent of a fuzz pedal in Carl Newman’s New Pornographers tunes or singing a quiet ballad, she invests lyrics with an emphatic earthiness that makes them seem like immutable facts: This is how I feel; this is how things are. It’s hard to imagine her singing anything at all and having it come out feeling like a lie.
In other words, Neko Case sounds like a tornado that loves you.
In this song, Case’s voice is accompanied by guitar parts that seem to hover and spin like wind storms in the distance. We sense a form, but know there’s no solid thing there, only pressure and chaos that could spin out and destroy us if we’re not lucky. Maybe it’s like being in the eye of a storm, or it could be the solace of feeling a brisk wind when you could just as easily get hit with devastating gust. As much as the song can feel enormous and intimidating, there is also a sense of lucidity and grace to the sound of it all, not unlike what can be felt in many of the best songs by 10,000 Maniacs. Natalie Merchant may be considered horribly unfashionable now, but despite her occasionally prissy vibe, she’s really one of the few singers I’ve heard that shares many of Neko’s most remarkable qualities, and can communicate a similar balance of the gentle and the mighty.
March 5th, 2009 10:27am
Roxy Music’s “Do The Strand” was already a very campy song, but the Scissor Sisters have gone and pushed that campiness to a glorious extreme, even by their own standards. Though the essence of the song remains the same, the Scissor Sisters version strips out the original’s glam rock boogie-woogie in favor of a delirious quasi-Italo disco arrangement that showcases Jake Shears’ signature falsetto, resulting in an odd collision of goofiness and serious sensuality. Whereas the Roxy Music version has a bit of a smirk to it, the Sisters version has a touch of genuine sincerity that infuses the silly, unapologetic fun of the song with a gentle tug of poignancy and intensity, even when it starts to sound a bit like a gay disco jingle for New York City’s most beloved used book store.
March 4th, 2009 9:44am
I’m not sure if “Get Yourself Together” is the right title for this song. That phrase implies that the singer is issuing some sort of ultimatum, whereas the actual sentiment of his words is a lot more passive, even when his language comes across as a demand. Basically, Chaz Jankel is singing about not understanding his lover, and the confusion that comes from not being able to anticipate — much less comprehend — their mood swings. In some cases, this is a surefire sign of a self-absorbed person who can’t handle the inconvenience of other people’s emotions, but in the context of Jankel’s sweet falsetto and Andrew Butler’s lush yet subtly anxious disco arrangement, it’s easy to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume he’s genuinely trying to please and understand the person he is addressing.
March 3rd, 2009 9:16am
People have been referring to electric guitars as ‘axes’ for who knows how long now, but I don’t feel like I actually hear enough music in which guitars actually swing and slash in the manner of a big ol’ medieval battle ax. “Cave Mouth” does just that, and it’s rather specific. It’s not the sound of a knife or a sword; the particular tone and the velocity of attack imply the weight and the pendulous motion of a big fuck-off ax wielded with strength and grace. It’s pretty rad, and I’m not even the type of person to get excited about medieval weaponry. My impression of this is greatly influenced by the way Clues are (inadvertently?) combining the aesthetics of three bands I love in an unexpected way: The sharp, cutting chords of Chavez, the fantasy novel vibe of late-period Helium, and the oddball drama of the Danielson Famile. They’ve got the menace and violence, but the tone is not dark or serious — the genre of this song is adventure, not horror.
March 2nd, 2009 9:13am
These Are Powers specialize in making pleasurable music that nonetheless feels a bit sickly and gross. In some tracks, particularly their earlier work, their percussive grooves and metallic tones evoked dull, persistent headaches, or the stinging-eye sensation of going just a bit too long without sleep. On their debut full-length album, the music feels more like an upset stomach. Just listen to “Double Double Yolk” — it’s all churning rhythms and gurgling synthesizers, vertigo and nervous acid. It’s severely disorienting, but somehow it still reads as being a bit pop. The vocals probably help, as least in as much as they sound a bit sexy in the context of some seriously icky sonic textures, and that they feel somewhat level and grounded in a composition that seems to float on a stormy sea of gastric juices.
February 27th, 2009 7:59am
I suppose that if you’re going to have a song title that doubles as the name of your band, it ought to be the ultimate expression of what you’re all about. This is certainly the case for “Those Dancing Days” by Those Dancing Days, an incredibly lively number about fun, music, dancing, and romance that encapsulates the group’s charming mixture of youthful enthusiasm and wistful nostalgia for moments that have not yet passed. That slight undertow of melancholy mostly comes through in the cool, understated soulfulness of Linnea Jönsson’s vocals, but the rest of the arrangement is focused on conveying excitement and pleasure. There’s a particularly cheery tone in the organ that carries much of the song’s melody, but the recording’s giddy vibe is mainly a direct result of the rapid-fire drum fills that provide a jolt of energy every few measures.
February 26th, 2009 7:00am
One of the most remarkable things about Gui Boratto’s music is how well he can evoke a state of contentment, and make that feeling urgent and visceral, implying a full awareness and presence within a particular magical moment. In “No Turning Back,” he creates an overwhelming sensation of romance, comfort, and a very mild melancholy that builds gradually before reaching an emotional plateau during its vocal sections. The lyrics and vocals ground the song in pop music and provide a useful bit of context, but the piece seems most articulate when the sound takes over and carry us through its most turbulent and placid moments with equal measures of grace.
February 25th, 2009 7:00am
“Sweet 16” is a song about a teenage girl who finds her way into a nightclub, but it’s rapped from the perspective of a slightly older woman. It’s hard to get a read on how that woman feels about the girl — at various points throughout the song, she seems dismissive, competitive, appreciative, and nostalgic, because you know, maybe she did the same thing at that age. It’s a surprisingly nuanced character sketch in a song that hardly requires that sort of detail, as its steady thumping bassline and Pavlovian dancefloor triggers (disco string hits, synth sirens, electronic claps) are powerful enough to rattle a body into involuntary movement when played at a sufficiently loud volume.
February 24th, 2009 7:00am
The most obvious thing about Cymbals Eat Guitars is that their epic, widescreen indie rock bears a striking resemblance to that of Built To Spill and early Modest Mouse. The most impressive thing about them, however, is just how comfortable they sound playing around with a sound those bands defined on albums like The Lonesome Crowded West and Keep It Like A Secret. This isn’t just a case of some young band wearing their influences on their sleeves, and offering up a lesser version of their favorite records — these are strong, creative players stretching out and finding their own niche within a rich yet largely unmined aesthetic territory. The band use more or less the same musical palette and techniques to convey scope and sprawl, but they navigate the suggested space differently. Whereas Modest Mouse simulated the feeling of driving down endless interstates and Built To Spill express the inner life of an introvert on a monumental scale, Cymbals Eat Guitars’ songs tend to be more dramatically volatile, and move like the tides of a vast ocean of emotion.
“And The Hazy Sea,” the opening track on their debut album Why There Are Mountains, elegantly transitions from moments of screaming intensity and gentle, placid movements marked by shimmering guitar leads, fluid bass grooves, and tinkling keyboards. The composition is all drift and sudden catharsis, but despite its odd shape, the piece overflows with melodic flourish. The keyboard parts are particularly lovely in the way they seem to sparkle like sunshine on the ocean, and clever in that they offer melodic counterpoint without cluttering the song with redundant timbre and texture a la the guitar overdub overkill of Built To Spill.
February 23rd, 2009 7:00am
As much as “The Wooden Chair” slinks and throbs, the composition nevertheless evokes a feeling of being confined within a tight space, either physically or emotionally. The arrangement is sparse and immaculate, focused almost entirely on a shifting array of simple rhythmic motifs that move around Wilson’s vocal melody, giving her ample negative space to fill with subtle yet highly evocative phrasing. The lyrics mirror the claustrophobic sensation of the track, suggesting a desire to get away from a messy emotional situation, but also a sense of inexplicable immobilization. The frustration peaks on the chorus, which feels about as cathartic as a song can get while still conveying confusion and indecision.
February 20th, 2009 9:19am
Though it comes as no surprise that a song about a guy bitching out a passive-aggressive, voyeuristic apparition would be more than a little goofy, it is something of a revelation that it would also be quite tender and moving. Even when paired with a sad, creaky guitar part that sounds as though it was lifted from some almost-familiar record from 50 years ago, the singer’s silliness on the verses doesn’t quite prepare you for the sweetness and aching sincerity in his voice on the chorus, which soars just when you expect him to go flat and understated. The genuine, slightly pained emoting opens the song up a bit, and draws out its subtext — sure, he could be going for the literal here, but it seems a bit more plausible that the ghosts haunting the singer are more along the lines of unpleasant memories and emotional baggage from his past.
February 20th, 2009 9:19am
Though it comes as no surprise that a song about a guy bitching out a passive-aggressive, voyeuristic apparition would be more than a little goofy, it is something of a revelation that it would also be quite tender and moving. Even when paired with a sad, creaky guitar part that sounds as though it was lifted from some almost-familiar record from 50 years ago, the singer’s silliness on the verses doesn’t quite prepare you for the sweetness and aching sincerity in his voice on the chorus, which soars just when you expect him to go flat and understated. The genuine, slightly pained emoting opens the song up a bit, and draws out its subtext — sure, he could be going for the literal here, but it seems a bit more plausible that the ghosts haunting the singer are more along the lines of unpleasant memories and emotional baggage from his past.
February 19th, 2009 10:27am
I wonder if there is a cultural reason why so much of the music that is fashionable today features vocals that have been obviously treated with studio effects, often severe enough to transform the natural sound of the performer. Perhaps many of us relate to the subtext of a person burying their identity, or altering it in a way to become more acceptable to others. Maybe it’s to do with how we have the option of living much of our lives in a mediate state, in which we are offered the opportunity to construct our identities as we please on the internet and in games. Either way, it’s difficult for me to hear things like severe autotune, vocoder, or extreme reverb applied to the human voice without thinking that the singer is trying to hide and/or become someone or something else.
Shout Out Out Out Out, a synth-funk band from Edmonton, use what sounds like a vocoder on a majority of their songs. In context, it seems rather matter of fact, as though the band have hired a big clunky sci-fi robot as their lead singer. In using this effect, the group draw on a long history of robo-voices in electronic dance music, but whereas this sound can often feel harsh and cold, their digital voice is mellow, soft, and relatively warm. As “Guilt Trips Sink Ships” unfolds and builds toward a series of ecstatic crests, the robotic voice manages to feel both precise and cheerful, emphasizing the composition’s feeling of relaxed bliss.
February 18th, 2009 10:37am
“Feelin’ The Pain” is a pained soul ballad, but it’d be hard to pick up on that if you tuned out the vocals and only paid attention to the rhythm section. The melody is plaintive, but the beat is all busy Latin funk, with groovy bass parts lifting the listener out of the sad bits and into an up-tempo fanfare that shifts the song’s self-pitying melancholy into a sort of ecstatic melodrama. I’m especially fond of the organ sound on this thing, and the way it melts into the strings, horns, and percussion to get this perfect, brilliant musical and emotional tone.
February 17th, 2009 9:23am
“Lovers Beware” begins as a tale of banal office romance, but its narrative rapidly escalates until it becomes a hysterical, paranoid nightmare about a corporation hell bent on driving them apart, even if it means murdering the male half of the couple. In a traditional romantic tragedy, family would the institution standing in the way of love, but it makes sense that in modern life it would more likely be a supremely unforgiving human resources department enforcing a faceless company’s elaborate, restrictive rules of conduct. The song itself is a turbo-charged rock ballad with a fist-pumping chorus, and a lead vocal from Dick Valentine that acknowledges the silliness of his premise while selling its tragedy with genuine conviction.
February 16th, 2009 9:57am
I’ll be honest with you, I’m not the type of person to get excited about the prospect of a “family prayer.” Nevertheless, upon hearing this amazing live recording of the Traveling Inner Lights from 1961, the concept suddenly became a LOT more appealing. The band sound exceptionally warm and joyous on this song, and as the group settles into a brisk vamp, the gravel-voiced lead singer becomes increasingly unhinged in his ecstatic exhortations to worship his lord and savior. There’s something especially mesmerizing about the vamp section — it almost sounds as though they are emulating the sound of a skipping record, with the vocal harmony and guitar rhythm settling into a very tight groove. It’d be very interesting to hear some modern acts play around with this sort of arrangement and performance, while not necessarily while working in the gospel genre.
February 13th, 2009 9:29am
Around the time this blog began, there were a lot of dancehall acts making amazing new songs out of the “Cure Riddim,” which was basically just a slightly modified version of the Cure’s “Close To Me.” On the other end of this decade, Lady Sovereign has released her own variation on the track, further proving its remarkable malleability. However, unlike Ce’cile and Tanya Stephens, both of whom virtually ignored everything from “Close To Me” aside from the sound of the music itself, Lady Sov integrates bits of Robert Smith’s lyrics into her verses, making it feel a bit like a cover at some points. The melancholy tone of the original also affects her lyrics and vocals, making her come off significantly more introspective, defensive, and low-key than she did on her earlier records.
Well, it looks like the best Beastie Boys song in eleven years was outsourced to three dudes from SNL. Stranger things have certainly happened, like, for example, when those same three comedians lost their virginity simultaneously to a guy from Mars.
February 12th, 2009 8:44am
You know what’s weird? I don’t think twice about Kylie singing about a boombox, but for some reason, when she sings the words “give me your cd,” that’s the thing that strikes me being somewhat anachronistic. I guess I’m just not used to hearing people romanticize cds in song just yet. Obviously, the lyrics of “Boombox” have a nostalgic quality, but not in a fuddy duddy sort of way. It’s essentially a song about wanting to hear new, exciting music, and desiring the immediacy of blasting it out of portable speakers. The music is very pumped-up and frenetic, even by Kylie remix standards — aside from a lovely, relatively mellow bridge, every other part of the song seems locked into a “maximum bounce” setting. There’s something sort of ruthless about this music, as if it’s just hell-bent on exhausting the listener with pleasure, but hey, that’s why we listen to Kylie in the first place, right?
February 11th, 2009 9:50am
The most striking thing about “I’ve Never Been This Afraid,” aside from the fact that it boasts a central guitar hook that sounds sorta like Keith Richards reinterpreting Tago Mago-era Can, is the way virtually everything in the song’s arrangement rings out with precise definition and clarity. Only the vocals seem to be in soft focus, but as far as rhythmically murmured and moaned vocals go, these are front and center, lucidly narrating the singer’s awareness of his own terror as the music articulates his emotional state as it gradually shifts into full-on panic.
It’s sort of an odd thing to hear a groovy, somewhat anthemic rock and roll song with a fairly positive attitude about illness and injury. The lyrics take a rather cold, abstract view of sickness that likens most maladies to the glitches and bugs in computers, i.e., the sort of unfortunate setbacks that can help to identify problems in the system, and force us to adapt or upgrade. Both vocalists are a bit dry and aloof, but they nevertheless convey an optimistic outlook, particularly as the chorus offers comforting words without a hint of condescension or false hope.
