The Pains of Being Pure at Heart “A Teenager In Love”

Let it be known that I don’t have the greatest affection or sentimentality for the twee indie-pop of the late 80s and early 90s. It was never my scene, and honestly, I kinda dislike most of it to this day, mainly for the crimes of being boring and amateurish. This is not to say that there aren’t songs and bands that I enjoy within the genre, or that I have ill will for fans of the music I don’t care about. In fact, the apparent intensity of the Pains of Being Pure at Heart’s devotion to the genre is part of what make their best tunes work: They care so much about the music that they love that they put in a great deal of effort to measure up to their heroes.

Whereas most other latter day acts working within the same aesthetic over-embrace the whole “I’m shy!” thing to the point that absolutely nothing in the music asserts itself properly, the Pains of Being Pure at Heart come off like a band that actively wants to sound great, if not actually be stellar musicians. The rhythm section lays down brisk beats while the guitars and keyboards glimmer and shine, effortlessly falling into the romantic shorthand of ’80s pop without seeming cheesy or overworked. In this comparatively confident context, the sweet, understated vocals achieve their desired effect, conveying character rather than laziness and apathy. Not all of the band’s songs are winners, but when they hit upon a good melody and rhythmic hook as in the sparkling “A Teenager In Love,” they not only pay tribute to the lovesick fey pop that they admire, but they also enter its canon.

Buy it from the Pains of Being Pure at Heart.

Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks “Walk Into The Mirror”

“Walk Into The Mirror” is essentially a post-modern hippie song, but it is not especially snarky or ironic. Instead, the song finds Stephen Malkmus paying tribute to a particular strain of idealistic, optimistic, inclusive sort of rock and roll from the 60s, adapting its language to fit his own concerns, and engaging in a meta-commentary on hippie-dippy aesthetics in the present tense.

The tune starts off with a few lyrics that lay on the flower child vibe thick and heavy, but it’s an intentional cliché, and Malkmus trusts the listener to both recognize the affectation and take its sentiment at face value. Within a few lines, communal creation of music is compared to work songs and spirituals, but through a rather unpretentious allusion to Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. Only one line later, and the guy is flipping the rosy, nostalgic view of 60s rock established at the start of the song, and bringing up the fact that much of that music was about jilted love, which is of course the primary topic of all pop music.

There is no clear point to be made about the 60s in the song, aside from perhaps acknowledging that the varying conventional wisdom about the era and its music is shaped by hagiography, fiction, commercialism, and kneejerk bias. We definitely need to approach this sort of art with a bit of critical distance if just to avoid getting suckered into drinking Baby Boomer Kool-Aid, but I think the implied argument here is that it’s also okay to engage with this sort of earnest sentiment on its own terms. Its rhetoric still has use, not just on a philosophical level, but as a valid mode of expression in rock and roll.

As much as the verses toy with the idea of “the 60s,” the chorus comes across like an evergreen Malkmus-ism about an escape into the surreal. In context, the notion of walking into the mirror does have something of a hippie flavor, but I think that mostly comes down to the way the song foregrounds the roots of his own lyrical tics. Between the hopeful vibe of the melody and the assertive momentum of its beat, the question asked in the chorus has a very obvious answer: Don’t you want to walk into the mirror? Oh God, yes! I hardly know what it would entail, but I very much would like to walk into the mirror, thanks for asking.

Buy it from Bleep.

A couple months ago I got to interview Stephen Malkmus for Pitchfork, and after a bit of a wait, the feature has been published on the site. I’m very proud of how it came out, and I’m super grateful for the opportunity to do a nice long interview with my favorite musician. The conversation spans his entire career, from the beginning of Pavement on through his current work on the next Jicks album, with a particular focus on Brighten The Corners. We spent a fair chunk of the interview discussing his motives and methods in regards to the songs that never get properly finished, or get cut from the albums, which is something I had been wondering about as a fan for quite some time. If you’ve been curious as to why “Walk Into The Mirror” didn’t make it on to Real Emotional Trash, you’re in luck — I made a point of specifically asking about that song, and he gave a pretty good answer.

Thieves Like Us “Drugs In My Body”

“Drugs In My Body” sounds very young to me. Some of that comes through in the voice, which delivers a slightly impatient sing-song melody with a soft, boyish tone. The rest of it is in the wired thump of the arrangement, and the way it alternates between a restless though graceful groove, and just bouncing in place. The songs comes off like a young man’s earliest experiences with nightlife. He’s been at it just long enough to feel like he knows the rules, but he’s still sorta clueless in his pursuit of a girl, and ends up spending most of his time just wandering around, taking drugs, and distracting himself from whatever is on his mind. The music is effective mainly because it so perfectly captures our protagonist at a halfway point in his mind, right at the intersection of self-induced oblivion, and the awareness of what he’s doing, and what he’s trying to escape.

Buy it from Amazon.

N.A.S.A. featuring Kanye West, Lykke Li, and Santogold “Gifted”

One of the running themes of Joe Matt‘s comics is his obsession with crafting personalized porn videos by dubbing and editing his favorite scenes into a single tape designed to maximize his arousal. It’s very creepy, but certainly pragmatic in its way, and if you transpose the concept to pop music, you essentially have the blueprint for Girl Talk’s albums — no budget, guided by OCD impulses, and focused on efficiently producing nonstop pointless pleasure.

On the surface, N.A.S.A.’s The Spirit of Apollo seems to have a lot in common with Girl Talk. There’s a similar joy in the pile-up of familiar voices, and both acts share an interest in putting rock and pop artists into the context of well-known rappers and hip hop-centric beats. The taste overlaps quite a bit, but their methods are drastically different: If there is any real world analogue for N.A.S.A., it’s those fabulously wealthy Russian oligarchs who pay big name artists millions to perform at their private parties. Though the cavalcade of superstars on The Spirit Of Apollo mostly turn in good performances and the juxtaposition of certain artists can be inspired, it’s very hard to get away from the impression that the project is driven by much more than money, connections, and a vain desire to pack in as many top-drawer guests as possible, as if it were more of an awards show than a pop album.

“Gifted,” one of the album’s clear highlights, starts off with a strong though formulaic rap from Kanye West that matches the style of his verses from Graduation, and hits most of the same talking points from that period. Still, despite the nagging sense that we’re listening to a studio outtake, West’s charisma and instinct for simple, propulsive rhymes allows the song to build up enough momentum to allow Lykke Li to really glimmer and pop on the chorus. Santogold’s performance is neither here nor there, and so Li gets to dominate the track from the moment West disappears, which works out rather well given that the timbre of her voice nicely complements the particular synth tones in N.A.S.A.’s arrangement.

Buy it from Amazon.

Fight Like Apes “Jake Summers”

“I’m a simple man. I just want a band with synthesizer and girls yelling that sounds like McLusky. Is that so wrong?” – Mike Barthel, on Idolator yesterday.

No, it’s not wrong at all. In fact, upon hearing Fight Like Apes for the first time over this past weekend, it felt like I was getting a correct answer to a question I hadn’t even thought to have asked.

Fight Like Apes specialize in bold, urgent pop songs that lean hard on the propulsive dynamics of post-Pixies alt-rock while stripping out the guitars and replacing them with colorful synth textures. (In this way, they are more like Future of the Left, Andy Falkous and Jack Egglestone’s keyb-centric post-McLusky band, than McLusky proper.) To sweeten the deal, the band deliver strong hooks with a powerful oomph, and boast a lead singer who can neatly transition from yearning arena balladry to spunky, shouty bits and thrilling, wordless exclamations.

“Jake Summers,” a song seemingly penned about a character from a largely forgotten tv show by the creators of Saved By The Bell, covers a lot of territory in just under four minutes, careening from one thrill to another while barely calling attention to its odd, slightly asymmetrical structure. The lyrics are wonderful too, full of amusingly specific language with a particular focus on taste and scent. The band certainly get bonus points for writing a line as silly and damning as “You’re like Kentucky Fried Chicken, but without the taste!” and then making it one of the most fist-pumping moments in any song I’ve heard in the past few years.

Buy it from Fight Like Apes.

Dominique Leone “Tension”

Dominique Leone’s melodies tend to be rather playful and bouncy, but even when his tunes approach the manic energy of Max Tundra, his textures are slightly muted, and he sings in a way that suggests a relaxed, easygoing demeanor. This contrast is particularly effective in “Tension,” a song that deals with the ritualized anxieties and predictable mood swings within an established, functional relationship. From verse to chorus and instrumental interlude, the tone of the piece bounces from distress to resignation and restlessness, but there’s hardly a trace of anger or resentment. Sure, he sounds a bit pained with his voice pinched and compressed on the verses, but the warmth that comes through on the lively, rounded melody of the chorus makes it rather clear that this is a song coming from a place of patience and unconditional love.

Buy it from Amazon.

Franz Ferdinand “Lucid Dreams”

One of the running themes in Franz Ferdinand’s music is an awareness that music and the social culture around it can provide an valuable escape from the more dreary aspects of life, and that framework gives us the raw materials to reinvent ourselves and reshape the narrative of our lives. In other words, the band have been making a case that hedonism and imagination are essential coping mechanisms for dealing with life, and ought to be embraced lest we give in to boredom and horror.

“Lucid Dreams” takes the band’s themes — both conceptual and musical — to the furthest extreme of their career to date. The lyrics express a desire not only to fully escape reality, but to reshape it within the mind to something more like a utopia. Of course, there is a catch: The escape is fleeting, and the alternate reality is constructed by a flawed mind, and so the limits of one’s own awareness and the depths of one’s neuroses are imposed on the supposedly perfect world.

In terms of the musical arrangement, the structure of the song is like a flowchart of the band’s development, starting with a charming power pop introduction before leaning into a more intense variation on their standard dance-rock template, and then concluding with an electronic acid climax and resolution that pushes them into an uncharted territory of their aesthetic. In context, the transition into the electronic section — which, I should mention is rather similar to the trick LCD Soundsystem pulled in “Yeah” — has a way of signaling a slip into another state of mind, as if casting off the vestiges of rock music has taken the music to a more “pure” place that mirrors the utopia in the singer’s mind.

Buy it from Amazon.

Rivers Cuomo “My Brain Is Working Overtime”

Rivers Cuomo was a guest on Fresh Air with Terry Gross last week. It’s a very interesting interview. He’s very candid, and as strange as he can be, he comes off as being mostly quite unaffected and clear-headed. One thing that is apparent upon listening to him talk about all these different phases of his life and career is that he’s the kind of dude who feels compelled to take his every pursuit to a logical extreme. He seems to fundamentally reject the notion of doing anything halfway, and I greatly admire that about him, even when it leads to either creepy extremes in his personal life, or over-embracing the notion of democracy and collaboration to the point that it sidelines his own worthwhile efforts from Weezer albums in favor of less compositions by his band mates.

Anyway, one of the more interesting things for me came near the end of the interview, just after Terry plays a clip from “The Greatest Man That Ever Lived,” and slips up by referring to it as “The Greatest Man Who Ever Lived.” Cuomo is quick to correct her, noting that he intentionally made the title phrase grammatically incorrect because it “sings better.” He’s correct too — just try singing the song each way, and it becomes very clear that while “who” fits the meter, it does not sound as good, and the slight percussive sound from hitting the second t in “that” just feels better as the words form in your mouth.

The fact that Cuomo is very conscious of this sort of thing is telling, particularly in light of how simplistic his language has become in his later works. This isn’t to say that he was at any time especially clever or wordy, but more to highlight that especially on Make Believe, his lyrics seem designed to be as melodically aerodynamic as possible, often at the expense of anything that would be normally recognized as “good” writing.

I’m not clear on when “My Brain Is Working Overtime” was written, but it certainly seems to fit in with this type of thinking. The language is incredibly plain, and the focus of the writing is clearly placed on following the melody and expressing a simple, highly relatable sentiment. There is no poetry to this at all, but I do appreciate its economy, and emphasis on clarity. The words hardly matter, to be honest — all of the charm in the song comes through in its hooks, which may be somewhat familiar and predictable, but are nonetheless very well-crafted and enjoyable, like most quality Weezer tunes.

Buy it from Amazon.

Lil’ Wayne & Pharrell “Yes”

It’s easy to forgive the mind-blowing awfulness of Lil’ Wayne’s experimentation with rock music when he’s still tossing out incredible hip hop gems like “Yes.”

At this point in time, Wayne seems like the kind of guy who will put his voice on just about any piece of music in proximity of his microphone, so it is increasingly important who is producing his beats. Much of the success on this song comes down to Pharrell Williams, who turns in a churning, menacing track that sounds a bit like an undead version of his arrangement for the Clipse’s hit “Grindin’.” Wayne responds to the evil vibe of the music by cackling demonically and indulging in a slightly creepier variation on his usual puckish persona. Even with Wayne on a roll, Williams holds his own on the mic, subtly autotuning his usually amiable voice into a harsh, cold tone that recalls the dead-eyed, aloof cruelty of Marlo Stanfield from The Wire.

So many artists, including Wayne and Williams, spend a disproportionate amount of their time attempting to create escapist monuments to ego and success, but it’s a very special and potent thing when they are executed as well as “Yes.” The song is incredibly efficient in drawing out the feeling of vicarious thrill that is so essential to a huge number of hip hop classics — it’s hard to imagine anyone listening to this without getting caught up in a fantasy of ultimate confidence and ruthless perfection.

This song may or may not be officially released in the future. Let’s face it, there’s no logic to this guy, so enjoy it now.

Veronica Maggio “Inget Kan Ändra På Det”

This is the sort of song where it really doesn’t matter much if you can’t understand the words because it’s all right there in the music, and in Veronica Maggio’s lovely, soulful voice — the heartbreak, the regret, the doubt, and the guilt. Nevertheless, I went through the effort of getting a rough translation of the lyrics from a Swedish-to-English online language tool, and it just confirmed what I’d already gleaned. The title translates loosely to “Nothing Can Change That,” and though the words come out all scrambled, it’s pretty obvious that it’s about a crumbling relationship. (Cheating may be involved, but I can’t be certain.)

To a certain extent, we already know this song, or at least its archetype. Maggio draws on that instant, Pavlovian emotional response and carves out her own niche in its familiar, comforting melodramatic melancholy. Her phrasing recalls a young Michael Jackson — warm and human, but carefully controlled and never overwrought or over-sung. Maggio sings to convey precise emotion, not to showcase her formidable voice, and the result is a piece of music that is both gorgeous and casually devastating.

Visit the official Veronica Maggio website.

P.O.S. “Savion Glover”

What are we going to do with so much of the political music about the Bush administration now that it’s officially over? Yes, people are totally justified in their outrage about what happened and the bitter feelings aren’t likely to go away any time soon, but at least in the short term post-Obama afterglow, so much of it already sounds shrill and dated, even when the music and lyrics are quite sharp and clever. “Savion Glover” was originally released a couple years ago, but is just now being issued as part of P.O.S.’ new record, and as nimble and catchy as it is, in light of Barack Obama’s victory and subsequent order to shut down Guantanamo Bay, the song’s rant about Gitmo and the impatience with the Democratic Party seem….well, ironic? Overly Cassandra-ish in retrospect? Totally appropriate and right on, and the root of why Obama got elected in the first place? Music never has to be timeless, but it does feel sorta strange when a newly released song already has a time capsule quality.

Also: I should note that I very much appreciate the fact that P.O.S. quotes Fugazi in this number, and a song from their amazing yet generally underrated End Hits album at that!

Buy it from Amazon.

Anni Rossi “Ecology”

“Ecology” is a short, tightly constructed piece of music that evinces a deep fascination with natural order, particularly in the ways counter-intuitive behaviors can make sense within their specific contexts, but are nevertheless the part of a larger interdependent system of life on earth. In the middle of the piece, Rossi expresses non-specific confusion and uncertainty, which I read as a way of underlining the disconnect we can feel from these systems — they can seem so alien, so obscure, so totally disconnected from what we understand of our lives as humans. The composition reaches no conclusion on this matter — its structure ends as it begins, like a mental digression returning to a default position.

Pre-order it from 4AD/Beggars Group.

Antony & the Johnsons “Kiss My Name”

“Kiss My Name” starts out with a rather solemn introduction before settling into a steady, simple groove that provides a bit of solid ground to contrast with Antony Hegarty’s lovely, gently floating vocal melody. As the piece progresses, Hegarty’s voice is increasingly overcome by romance and elation, and the rest of the instruments in the arrangement follow suit, leading to one of the most wonderfully rhapsodic sequences in any composition I’ve encountered in recent memory. The composition is remarkably articulate in expressing extraordinarily nuanced emotional states, with every minute change in the arrangement suggesting a gradual shift in the balance of a delicate set of emotional shades and hues. This is truly the sort of expression best suited to music — the tones, beats, and inflections convey so much more than the words, which are fine enough and give shape to the sentiment, but are only the most superficial element of the song.

Buy it from Amazon.

The Oohlas “Lemmings Anthem”

As you can probably gather from its title, “Lemmings Anthem” is a song that criticizes conformity, written from the perspective of a person who deeply distrusts the rituals of modern life while at the same time envying the perks of doing exactly what it is expected of her. The interesting twist here is that the lyrics emphasize credit cards, debt, and living well above one’s means as being a crucial aspect of this horrible conformity, and rightly calls into question a rush into “adult” living without having a sensible, mature relationship with money.

The composition itself is another in a line of sharp tunes from the Oohlas, a band from Los Angeles who excel at producing catchy songs in a sub-genre that is instantly recognizable and understood, but to my knowledge has no proper name. I mean, I could say “early-to-mid ’90s-style female-fronted alt-rock” but that’s a bit wordy, you know? There really should be a proper taxonomy for this, because there is certainly an entire canon of material in this vein, and not just the Breeders, who are the most obvious reference point thanks to singer Ollie Stone’s vocal similarities to Kim and Kelly Deal. I’d propose a genre name if I had one, but I don’t. Maybe you do?

Visit the Oohlas’ MySpace page.

Andrew W.K. “Kiseki”

The ironic thing about Andrew W.K.’s album of J-Pop covers is that it is only available in Japan, which is perhaps the one place on earth where it is least useful. If you are a Japanese music fan, you probably know all of the selections on The Japan Covers, and the value of the record comes down to the novelty of hearing them performed in AWK’s distinct style. For most everyone else, AWK is providing a curatorial service — a crash course in his favorite J-Pop numbers, with all of the lyrics translated to English. Andrew’s love of J-Pop is apparent in every second of the album, and in retrospect, it becomes clear that the influence had been in his music from the start, and particularly evident on Close Calls With Brick Walls. The songs overflow with bold melodies, optimism, melodrama, romance, and fun, and fit perfectly into his bombastic triumph-rock style.

“Kiseki,” an adaptation of a hit by the boy band GreeeeN, is a revelation in Andrew’s new arrangement. Whereas the original version’s wonderful melody was diluted by its limp, sappy accompaniment, AWK’s take is a highly dynamic power ballad with a massive, anthemic chorus. It’s difficult not to get swept up in the moment of the song, and its outsize optimism and over-the-top sentimentality. The lyrics are clearly about romantic love, but I think it’s fairly easy to take lines like “we went through a bad night / but we still saw the sunlight!,” and interpret it as a love song to Barack Obama on the day of his inauguration.

Buy it from CD Japan.

Max Tundra @ (le) Poisson Rouge 1/17/2009

Which Song / Nord Lead Three / Orphaned / Lights / Will Get Fooled Again / ? / Glycaemic Index Blues / Lysine / The Entertainment / What Time Is Love / So Long, Farewell / Until We Die

Max Tundra “Which Song”

I have no doubt that if Max Tundra put forth the effort to relentlessly tour throughout North America for a year or so, primarily focused on playing college towns and opening for simpatico acts, he would end up with some very enthusiastic word of mouth and a very loyal fanbase of excitable nerds. Tundra is a magnetic, though somewhat atypical showman. He’s a tiny dude in unremarkable clothing, but he’s constantly in motion, whether he’s dancing and striking poses or running through his arsenal of instruments like a person with severe ADD showing off their home studio. He’s very good at playing to an audience without indulging in many contrivances — he builds enthusiasm in the room by displaying it on stage, and his understated wit and affable demeanor encourages identification and affection. The catchy, highly frenetic songs count for a lot too — even having heard Mastered By Guy At The Exchange and Parallax Error Beheads You several times in the past, they feel very fresh and exciting in a concert setting, particularly the slick, Scritti Politti-ish “Which Song” and the skewed, fast-forward R&B of “Lights.”

Buy it from Amazon.

Frankmusik “3 Little Words”

“3 Little Words” seems innocuous and sugary at first, but somehow the song conveys so much acute anxiety and restlessness that its 2:45 duration can feel very exhausting. This guy’s heart — literally and figuratively — sounds as though it could burst at any moment, and the music follows through, wrapping his emotional crisis in a bright, crisp synthpop arrangement that sounds equally frantic and romantic.

Buy it via Frankmusik’s MySpace page.

Captain Mantell “Turn Your Head Around”

“Turn Your Head Around” is another anxious synthpop song, but in comparison to the Frankmusik track, its tone is much more relaxed. Whereas Frankmusik deals with confusion and expectations in a pre-existing relationship, Captain Mantell is concerned with fear and attraction to a total stranger. Maybe this is why it feels so much more open and excited — it’s more about confronting possibilities, and trying to get yourself to act on instinct, and willing a desired result into reality.

Buy it via Captain Mantell’s MySpace page.

Circlesquare “Stop Taking (So Many)”

“Stop Taking (So Many)” is essentially an epic song on a miniature scale. The grandiose sentimentality of “meaningful-core” acts such as Arcade Fire and U2 present, but muted to the point that the bombast disappears, and the implied “we” in the music shrinks down to a more manageable and intimate “you and I.” This is manifested in the vocals, which are rather cool and sedate, but more so in the music, which turns the trappings of arena rock balladry inside out: The beat is rendered as minimally as possible; a handful of understated, plaintive piano notes carry much of the emotional weight; and the strum and noise of guitars is replaced with abstract electronic hums, whirs, and beeps.

Buy it from Amazon.

Lily Allen “The Fear”

Vapid, cynical, hyper-consumerist neo-celebs of the Paris Hilton/Heidi Montag variety are utterly loathsome, but when we tear into them in comedy and art, it can often seem too easy and overly mean-spirited in way that eclipses any righteousness we could hope to claim in calling out their grotesque antics. Yes, they are clearly villains in the context of our culture, but on scale, they’re more like the Goombas in the Super Marios Bros. games — cannon fodder along the path to the Big Bosses.

So, keeping that in mind, this song probably shouldn’t work as well as it does. It starts off feeling like Allen is shooting fish in a barrel, but even just in the span of that first verse, there’s some hint that we’re dealing with a character with self-awareness, and that Allen has some degree of empathy for her. Essentially, this is a song about a very shallow person who is troubled by her own self-awareness, which leads her toward an existential crisis that threatens to undermine and poison every pleasure that she knows. In contrast with the painful doubt and nagging terror of the song’s chorus, the bratty statements in the verses begin to feel less certain, and more like a person trying to reaffirm and justify her reality: I know all this is true! This is just how it is! I’m a winner, and you’re a loser! Still, the lies being lived seem increasingly flimsy and transparent, but she doesn’t know how to get out, or want to leave any of it behind.

Allen does a good job of selling both parts of her song — fragile yet clear-eyed on the chorus; petulant but extremely vulnerable everywhere else. It probably helps that she seems to know a thing or two about being young, rich, beautiful, and famous, either out of proximity, or through actual lived experience.

Buy it from Amazon.

Cotton Jones “Gotta Cheer Up”

The first time I heard this song, it was snowing. Through all the white, the sunlight had a soft, pale amber hue that reflected off the ice, and through the flakes. Time seemed to move very slowly, and though there was plenty of movement, there was an overwhelming sense of stillness and grace just outside my window. In other words, I experienced this music under seemingly ideal conditions. Cotton Jones’ album Paranoid Cocoon sounds warm, soothing, and hazy, as though it was all shot in soft focus, and processed with a sepia toner. The music has a highly appealing ambiance, but its low key melodies are very emotionally engaging, and seem to draw me in deeper upon repeated listening. As implied by its title, “Gotta Cheer Up” is a rather melancholy number, but despite its lightly bummed vocals and stoned mid-tempo beat, bits of bright notes cut through the darkness and fog, like tiny blinking beacons of hopeful light.

Buy it from Suicide Squeeze.