Electronic pop auteur Flying Lotus (a.k.a. Steven Ellison) displays a new clarity of vision on Until the Quiet Comes as he reins in the scattershot tendencies of 2010’s Cosmogramma in favor of a more unified approach. The composer/producer still offers inspired pastiches of jazz, hip-hop and ambient sounds. But where his earlier work could be intentionally jarring, this album takes the listener on a smoothly-sequenced journey through inner landscapes. Ellison is aided by such notables as Erykah Badu (floating diva-like above the tribal groove of “See Thru to U”), Radiohead’s Thom Yorke (making his dark presence felt in “Electric Candyman”) and the Long Lost’s Laura Darlington (cooing her way through the eerie expanses of “Phantasm”). There’s plenty of sinewy pulsation amidst the billowing electronica, supplied by Stephen “Thundercat” Bruner’s insistent bass lines and Ellison’s jittery programmed beats. From the funkified growl of “The Nightcaller” to the robotic munchkin twitch of “Putty Boy Strut” and the sweet psyche-soul of “DMT Song,” Flying Lotus infuses the album with mystical vibes laced with subversive humor. Unearthly yet inviting, Until the Quiet Comes’ sonic spell is hard to resist.
Although Chromatics have substantially changed their lineup since 2002, their 2012 configuration shows a huge development in both musicianship and songwriting. Now with deadpan chanteuse Ruth Radelet on the mic, *Kill for Love* opens with her demure vocals giving “Into the Black” even more tension than on Neil Young’s 1979 recording. The title track blends Italio Disco flourishes with \'90s-inspired indie rock, as Radelet contrasts a catchy vocal melody with a coolly aloof performance. She looks toward Velvet Underground–era Nico for inspiration in “The Page,” most noticeably when singing “I could be your mirror” over cold, gothic guitars that sound imported from The Cure’s *Disintegration*. “These Streets Will Never Look the Same” taps into every young woman’s desire to be Stevie Nicks, with a muted “Edge of Seventeen” guitar stutter that sounds identical to the original.
While many electronic music listeners in the U.K. were enthralled by dubstep and grime in the late ‘00s, that era also saw the rise of darker, less accessible sounds from a group of defiantly hermetic producers on small labels like Modern Love and Blackest Ever Black. These producers took the metronomic throb and dark minimalism of deep house pioneers like Frankie Knuckles and Virgo 4 as creative touchstones, deliberately eschewing dubstep\'s then-fashionable jungle-derived break beats. Manchester-based producer Andy Stott is among the most formidable and creative practitioners of this deeply introverted brand of U.K. techno. His 2011 release *Passed Me By* set the basic template: trudging tempos, cavernous dub-like ambiance, and house-derived beats, all enlisted in the service of creating an atmosphere of unremitting dread. On 2012’s *Luxury Problems*, Stott put another layer atop this already-compelling sound, inviting Alison Skidmore to add her spectral, unearthly vocals to his sparse, unnerving instrumentals. The result is positively mesmerizing, a haunting late-night listen that stands as one of Stott’s strongest albums.
Stepping away from both the pop songwriting machine and his former crew Odd Future’s stoned anarchy, Frank Ocean guides us on a meandering but purposeful journey through his own vast mythological universe on his major-label debut. *Channel ORANGE* breezes from sepia-toned Stevie Wonder homage (“Sweet Life”) to the corrosive cosmic funk of “Pyramids,” which stretches from ancient pharaoh queens to 21st-century pimps. Rendered in pristine detail with calm, dazzled awe, even his most fantastical narratives feel somehow familiar—at once unprecedented and timeless.
© 2012 The Island Def Jam Music Group ℗ 2012 The Island Def Jam Music Group
Australian musician Kevin Parker is a bit of a musical savant. Although Tame Impala tours as a band, the group\'s psychedelic trip-pop is pretty much due to Parker\'s writing, playing, and even producing. Parker sidekick and collaborator Jay Watson shares songwriting credit this time around, notably on two standout tracks: \"Elephant\" (an impossibly delectable blend of Sabbath stomp and Syd Barrett trippy-ness) and \"Apocalypse Dreams\" (a gorgeous, chameleonic tune that reflects Parker\'s noted influence, Todd Rundgren). And though it\'s hard to hear the opening \"Be Above It\" or \"Mind Mischief\" without detecting some *Revolver*- and *Sgt. Pepper\'s*–era Beatles in the songs\' DNA, *Lonerism* is loaded with more synthesizers and ambient sounds than guitars. It\'s definitely a more pop-oriented album than the crunchy *Innerspeaker*, and it reveals another compelling side to Tame Impala. (Check out Watson\'s other band POND, and its LP *Beard, Wives, Denim*, for another dose of satisfying psych-rock.)
'I Know What Love Isn't' came out of a break up which isn't a new story. He fell in love and it didn't work out. It borrows sparingly from the vast and colorful palette of sounds he created on 'Night Falls Over Kortedala'. 'I Know What Love Isn't' has strings but not a string section, an upright piano not grand, a single saxophone, gracenotes from a flute, a lot of tambourine. Combined in exact proportions with Lekman's melancholy abstract lyrics, the songs evoke the classic sound of the Brill Building in it's heyday. Lekman is a storyteller of the highest caliber, letting his delicate vignettes unfold to show the wonder that lies in the mundane. That's what 'I Know What Love Isn't'… is. A collection of songs that grew to a story that had to be told. A story that is not new, but essentially human. The story of the grey areas of love that you have to excavate and explore, using the method of exclusion, to find out what love is.
West Coast hip-hop elders like Snoop and Dre have virtually anointed Kendrick Lamar to carry on the legacy of gangsta rap. His second studio album *good kid, M.A.A.d city*, conceptual enough to be a rock opera, certainly uplifts the genre with its near-biblical themes: religion vs. violence and monogamy vs. lust. Verbally nimble, Lamar experiments with a variety of different lyrical styles, from the Bone Thugz-type of delivery on “Swimming Pools (Drank)” to the more straightforward orthodox G-funk flow on “m.A.A.d. City feat. MC Eiht.” Like prog rock, Lamar’s tracks have songs within songs—sudden tempo changes with alter egos and embedded interludes, such as unscripted recordings of his parents asking for their car back and neighborhood homies planning their latest conquest. These snippets pepper the album providing an anthropological glimpse into his life in Compton.
How to Dress Well is musician Tom Krell, one of a score of American artists making lo-fi bedroom pop. But his niche is particularly narrow, and it’s difficult to find another singer in the genre capable of setting the mood and hitting the notes that Krell has mastered. He grew up loving R&B, and he clearly learned a few things along the way; the ease with which he coaxes a note into silken bliss or coos atmospherics into a microphone is impressive. *Total Loss* is the Colorado native’s second full-length release, and those who were troubled by the hiss and grit of 2010’s *Love Remains* will be pleased to hear his new appreciation for cleaner, lighter production values. If you’re an indie pop fan who\'s unsure about R&B speaking to you, first give a listen to the slowly building, almost a cappella gem “& It Was You.” If Krell’s own backup harmonies and big, empty-room beats interlaced with crisp shakers and fingersnaps don’t pull you in, well, we might suggest a spiritual intervention. *Total Loss* feels well-named, with hollow piano loops, hazy strings, and sheets of echo coloring the collection with melancholy, while Krell’s voice alternately lifts and devastates.
A NOTE FROM MICHAEL GIRA “The Seer took 30 years to make. It’s the culmination of every previous Swans album as well as any other music I’ve ever made, been involved in or imagined. But it’s unfinished, like the songs themselves. It’s one frame in a reel. The frames blur, blend and will eventually fade. The songs began on an acoustic guitar, then were fleshed out with (invaluable) help from my friends, then were further tortured and seduced in rehearsals, live and in the studio, and now they await further cannibalism and force-feeding as we prepare to perform some of them live, at which point they’ll mutate further, endlessly, or perhaps be discarded for a while. Despite what you might have heard or presumed, my quest is to spread light and joy through the world. My friends in Swans are all stellar men. Without them I’m a kitten, an infant. Our goal is the same: ecstasy!" HOW THE SONGS CAME TO BE The songs The Seer, Ave. B Blues, Avatar, and The Apostate were developed organically as a group in rehearsals and on tour. They morphed constantly throughout the last series of Swans tours, and were captured and lovingly adorned in the studio. The remaining songs on the album were developed from the ground up in the studio with the participation and input of all the contributing musicians, guided by an invisible hand... Recorded at Studio P4 and Andere Baustelle in Berlin, by Kevin McMahon and at Marcata Studio, Gardiner, NY, by Kevin McMahon. Additional recording at Trout Recording, Brooklyn, NY, engineer: Bryce Goggin. Mixed by Kevin McMahon at Marcata. Produced by Michael Gira. FULL CREDITS SWANS Michael Gira voice, acoustic guitar, electric guitar, harmonica, casio, sounds Norman Westberg electric guitar, voice Christoph Hahn lap steel guitars; electric guitar, voice Phil Puleo drums, percussion, hammer dulcimer, voice Thor Harris drums, percussion, orchestral bells, hammer dulcimer, handmade violin thing, vibraphone, piano, clarinet, voice Christopher Pravdica bass guitar, voice, incredible handshake Honorary Swan: Bill Rieflin piano, organ, electric guitar, acoustic guitar, drums, percussion, casio, synthesizer, bass guitar, voice, bird idea SPECIAL GUESTS Karen O lead vocal on Song for a Warrior (Karen appears courtesy Interscope Records) Al and Mimi of Low co-vocals on Lunacy Jarboe backing vocals and voice collage on Piece of the Sky and backing vocals on The Seer Returns Seth Olinsky, Miles Seaton, Dana Janssen (Akron/Family) backing vocals on Piece of the Sky Caleb Mulkerin and Colleen Kinsella of Big Blood accordion, vocals, dulcimer, guitar, piano and assorted other instruments on the Seer Returns Sean Mackowiak (the grasshopper) acoustic and electric mandolins, clarinet, various songs Ben Frost fire sounds (acoustic and synthetic) on Piece of the Sky Iain Graham bagpipes on The Seer Bruce Lamont horns on The Seer Bob Rutman steel cello on The Seer Cassis Staudt accordion various songs Eszter Balint violin, various songs Jane Scarpatoni cello various songs Kevin McMahon additional drums on the Seer Returns, electric guitar, sounds on various songs Bryce Goggin piano on Song for a Warrior Stefan Rocke contra bassoon on the Seer Produced by Michael Gira. Recorded at Studio P4 and Andere Baustelle in Berlin, by Kevin McMahon, assistants Marco and Boris, and at Marcata Studio, Gardiner, NY, by Kevin McMahon. Additional recording at Trout Recording, Brooklyn, NY, engineer: Bryce Goggin, assistant: Adam Sachs. Mixed by Kevin McMahon at Marcata. Mastered by Doug Henderson at Micro-Moose Berlin. Pre-mastering by Jamal Ruhe at West Westside Music. Artwork: Paintings and Swans photo portraits by Simon Henwood.
The first release in a projected two-volume set, *Clear Moon* was recorded in a \"de-sanctified\" church. Its songs feature a solemn sadcore and/or ambient metal feel, like the milder strains of Dolorean with touches of Spacemen 3 and Boris cresting over the horizon. \"The Place I Live\" creates a Sigur Rós–like slow burst of sound that features both plaintive vocals and modulated harmonies with a rhythm track that stutters in the background. Mount Eerie\'s Phil Elverum acts as both multi-instrumentalist and producer, playing his parts with a distinctive ear toward the end result. \"(something)\" is a brief interlude of porous textures that serves as the training ground for the ambitious \"Lone Bell,\" where an imaginary film score takes shape underneath the haze. \"House Shape\" cranks up like the backing tracks of a Velvet Underground–influenced garage band before blurring into a subliminal, ambient shape-shifting dance track/tone poem. The juxtapositions are inspired. Just when you think you have a track figured out, it does something completely unexpected.
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Lost in the Trees’ 2010 debut appears to be the first stage of grief for onetime Berklee student Ari Picker, whose mother committed suicide in 2009. On *A Church That Fits Our Needs*, Picker worked to create a “space for (his) mother’s soul to go,” even putting her solemn face on the cover. LITT’s orchestral ensemble—cellos, violins, French horn, acoustic guitars, pianos and more—and Picker’s own delicate (yet powerful) and androgynous voice indeed conjure a magical place that glitters with a twilight-colored promise. Poignant lyrics of cancers and lost babies (twins, in his mother’s case) are intertwined with poetic images of birds in flight, glowing forests, and golden armor. “Loneliness, you’re haunting me,” he trills unsteadily in the sweet “Neither Here nor There,” while a harpsichord is struck and clattering percussion keeps the tune somersaulting along. There\'s a lovely, childlike feel here at times, though it’s on equal footing with a mature and introspective guiding hand. *A Church That Fits Our Needs* is an extraordinarily beautiful “place”; we thank Picker for letting us see it.
Dark, crusty fuzz guitars dominate the music of Ty Segall, whose prolific output threatens to dilute the attention that should be paid to his committed allegiance to vintage rock \'n\' roll. Shades of psychedelia present themselves in the mercury-like lead guitar lines and translucent melodies that date themselves back to the mid-to-late 1960s. \"Love Fuzz\" takes on guitar work worthy of modern fuzzheads like the Bevis Frond and Dinosaur Jr. and matches it with a rhythm track copped from the Stooges and a mock-falsetto that exposes Segall\'s love for bubblegum 60s pop. \"Handglams\" throws in a descending guitar riff worthy of any garage-punk collection. Fans of MC5, The Pink Fairies, Blue Cheer, the grungier tones of Monster Magnet and the Stooges should find much to outright *love* with this swamp of sound. \"Gold On the Shore\" throws in an acoustic number with harmonies that are enhanced by a production that keeps things a beautiful blur.
It ain't two records, but it is called Twins. Ty's new mind-blow won't just make you see double, it'll make you be double! Fold in on yourself endlessly, hold your own hand, and leap towards the mega-Segall-meteor of 2012, Twins.
Balearic beat-based house music evolved in the mid-\'80s before becoming the staple of beach raves in Ibiza and European dance clubs during the early \'90s. With his debut album, *Fin*, Barcelona\'s John Talabot builds on these bygone foundations. While there are colorful hints of nostalgia throughout, Talabot never really backpedals. More swampy than tropical, “Depak Ine” opens *Fin* with a murky ambience of croaking frogs and marshland crickets chirping, as synth tones inspired by Andy Fletcher and pulsing beats slowly seep into the mix. This flourishes into a gothic disco with a choir of haunting vocal samples. Madrid’s Pionel cameos as coproducer in the following “Destiny.” Similarly eerie tones are contrasted by Caribbean-tinged instruments and melancholy singing that would sound right at home on a Cabaret Voltaire recording. Talabot’s penchant for sonic pointillism surfaces in “When the Past Was Present,” a more unapologetically sentimental glimpse at a time when jabbing synths and handclaps flourished on the floor.
Perfume Genius is Mike Hadreas, a Seattle songwriter whose jarring 2010 debut album, Learning, was called “an album of rare, redemptive beauty…one of the most uniquely endearing and quietly forceful debut albums of recent years” by Drowned In Sound, and established him as one of the most singular songwriters today. The bulk of Learning sprung from a time of self-imposed isolation in his mother’s suburban home following a period of trauma and self-destruction. The album was actually mastered from second-generation MP3s, as Hadreas had lost the original recordings, and this distant, abraded sound reinforced its harrowing tales and haunting melodies. “No secret/No matter how nasty/Can poison your voice/Or keep you from joy.” – Perfume Genius, “Normal Song” Though Learning’s voyeuristic window into Hadreas’s experiences resonated intensely with many people, his new album Put Your Back N 2 It is much more universal, addressing intimacy, power, family, secrecy, and hope not just through his impressionistic lyrics, but the music itself, which is as lush as Learning was stark. It’s a gorgeous soundtrack for anyone trying to keep it together in everyday life, and about moving forward. “I don’t want it to seem like I’ve been through more than other people,” Hadreas says. “Everyone has stuff. Staying healthy can be more depressing and confusing than being fucked up. But I want to make music that’s honest and hopeful.” The hypnotic songs on Put Your Back N 2 It are tender and moving, but they are also surreal and grand, recalling at times the universality of lullabies and hymns, faraway folk songs, the dramatic arc of a film score, and the almost spiritual quality suggests a kind of opiated gospel. He cites as a primary influence not one of the indie icons to which he’s sometimes compared (Cat Power, Bon Iver, Thom Yorke), but The Innocence Mission (“not their sound, but their timelessness”).
The Men break all kinds of rules. Their music’s bark is as bad as its bite; it rages and pummels, burying perfectly capable hooks and melody under an avalanche of guitars. Yet they do it so smartly, so efficiently, that not a riff is wasted, not a layer of grime yearns to be wiped away. And they dare make instrumentals a large part of their weaponry (one even mixes twangy slide guitar with a Spacemen 3 haze). They serve up songs that easily crash the three-minute barrier, with two beauties clocking in at more than seven minutes each. The Men unabashedly beg, borrow, and steal: their last LP title (*Leave Home*) was lifted from The Ramones, and riffs and tones on songs like “Open Your Heart,” “Animal,” and “Oscillation” are inspired by antecedents The Buzzcocks, The Damned, and Sonic Youth. The clamorous assault of guitarists Mark Perro and Nick Chiericozzi recalls the sheer power of bands like Hüsker Dü and The Stooges. So why aren’t we complaining? Because each release by The Men leaves us a little more in awe, and they prove, again, that punk rock seeds sown 35 years ago can still sprout fresh, green shoots that impress and thrill.
Ironically referred to by Time Out New York as "Thurston Moore & the E Street Band," The Men have never been a band to play by categorical punk subgenre rules.
With leader Jason Pierce pushing his vocals closer to the front of the mix in recent years, *Sweet Heart Sweet Light* again finds Spiritualized coming close to accessible pop music in key spots. It provides clarity to a music that previously excelled as an oblique blur. \"Too Late\" cruises near convention, with a gentle folk melody that could pass for a Mojave 3 number. Elsewhere, there\'s still plenty of sonic detail; buzzing fuzz and psychedelic orchestration make \"Get What You Deserve\" a looping narcotic hit that ends in a torrent of feedback. \"Headin\' for the Top Now\" dives deeper into the distorted sonic soup that made Pierce\'s work with Spacemen 3 such a welcome enigma. Weirdest of all is the unexpected team-up with New Orleans\' gumbo-voodoo legend Dr. John for the co-written \"I Am What I Am,\" where both artists find a way to make their presence felt and reach a common ground, where gospel vamps marry Pierce\'s harshest sonic attacks.
Pierce is still using large orchestras and choirs to take his Robert Johnson blues way past the crossroads, to vistas that are as endless as they are empty. He's still singing his own rock'n'roll gospel: Jesus, fast cars, girls named Jane and Mary, pimps, death, fire, freedom, and God all show up, giving life to Pierce's alternate-universe Eden, inhabited by Lou Reed, Iggy Pop, self-loathing, and a spitty syringe. He's still his own genre-- this tiny voice elevated by the super-church-sized arrangements in his head. "I want to make music that catches all the glory and beauty and magnificence, but also the intimacy and fragility, all within the space of the same 10 seconds," Pierce has said. It's a mad goal. But it's also an inherently intriguing and universal one, just as ancient myths or Biblical tales can be. Pierce isn't religious, but he uses Christian language and figures as a thematic shorthand. "As you have a conversation about Jesus, you know you're talking to him about how it is to be fallible and question yourself and your morals," he told me. "When I sing, 'Help me, Jesus,' you know I'm not asking for help fixing the fucking car." Such an all-or-nothing attitude is risky, but that's the whole point. Pierce mixed Sweet Heart over eight drawn-out months under something of a drug-induced stupor. But it wasn't the kind of drug-induced stupor Pierce is known for. At the time, he was being hit with experimental chemotherapy treatments to combat a degenerative liver disease. (Three doctors are thanked in the liner notes; Pierce is apparently OK now.) During this album's creation, the singer referred to it as Huh?-- a nod to his jumbled mental state. All of which would make one assume that Sweet Heart would be messy, fucked-up, and completely depressing. That is not the case. This is probably the most uplifting album of his career.- Ryan Dombal Pitchfork.com 8.8/10
At first blush, Mac DeMarco’s second album, released in 2012, is almost comically unassuming. For starters, it’s called *2*, which is the album-naming equivalent of referring to a pet as “Cat” or “Dog.” Then there’s the cover, which features a black-and-white snapshot of DeMarco, six-stringer close to his chest, flashing a toothy grin and a peace sign in a manner that brings to mind *Fast Times at Ridgemont High*’s chilled-out surfer-dude, Jeff Spicoli. And as for the music itself? Well, there are at least two songs about smoking cigarettes, while another one is simply called “Dreaming”—which, true to its title, sounds like someone lazily looking out the window during a hot summer day. (For what it’s worth, DeMarco has since claimed that most of the record was made while he was in just his underwear.) Of course, all of this plays into the deceptive brilliance of DeMarco’s entire deal: He looks and feels like *just some guy*—your good friend at the bar, maybe, or the lovable class clown from your childhood. And he’s content to let your assumptions take hold as he casually unspools warm, warped guitar baubles that possess a simple and deeply affecting tenderness—not unlike Paul McCartney’s solo work, or the reveries of indie-pop greats Felt. Released the same year as *Rock and Roll Night Club*—DeMarco’s shaggy, after-hours debut—*2* was an undeniable breakout moment for the Vancouver singer-songwriter, who would go on to become one of the 2010s’ biggest indie-rock stars. The album’s 11 songs possess a charming timelessness to them, like floating down a lazy river in a big inner tube. The lovely and romantic “My Kind of Woman” is the closest we’ll likely get to a modern indie-music standard, while the peppy beat and tangled guitars of “Freaking Out the Neighborhood” represents *2*’s most explicitly *rock* moment, as DeMarco offers a lyrical apologia to his assuredly weary mother: “I know it\'s no fun/When your first son/Gets up to no good.” Such a sentiment is key to understanding DeMarco’s appeal—and it sums up the essence of *2* as a whole: His goofball side may be endearing and immediately apparent, but the more he hangs around, the radiance of his sincerity grows brighter.
A reissue of the 2012 debut release by the Ty Segall Band on In The Red, featuring a bonus song not on the original release! The Ty Segall Band is Ty Segall (obviously), Mikal Cronin, Charlie Moonheart and Emily Rose Epstein. While Segall has released many incredible solo releases, Slaughterhouse marks the first time he recorded with his touring band. For this mini-album (originally released as a double 10-inch, but now expanded to a double 12-inch) the band recorded with Chris Woodhouse at the Hangar, turned their amps all the way up, set their fuzz pedals on “obliterate” and commenced to kick ass and take names. Seriously, this record will melt your face. All of Segall’s usual psych-pop sensibilities are present but Slaughterhouse adds the full-throttle, go-for-the-throat bombast that the band delivers in the live setting. The fuzz riffs, bratty howl and Cro-Magnon bashing culminate with a feedback freakout that’s clearly the only sensible way to end a workout of this magnitude in shit to announce the debut release by the Ty Segall Band.
Take note: the shortest song on this five-track LP from the Arkansas doom-rock upstarts is more than eight minutes long. But who cares that brevity isn’t Pallbearer\'s strong suit? The punishing lethargy and smear of sludgy, distorted guitars give tunes like “The Legend” and “Foreigner” a furious, protracted intensity. An impressively mature debut, *Sorrow and Extinction* sounds a bit like playing a Sabbath record at 15 RPM. Or in a word: awesome.
After two albums of harmony-heavy dream pop, Beach House continued its dazzling evolution with 2010‘s *Teen Dream*, which we named Best Alternative Album in iTunes Rewind. The ethereal, hypnotizing melodies are as gorgeous as ever on the duo’s forthcoming *Bloom*. From the jump, a sinewy guitar melody gets blanketed by blissful atmospheric mist on “Myth.” While *Teen Dream* introduced more complexity (which is echoed on the weightless, organic melodies floating from composition like “Troublemaker”), *Bloom*’s “On the Sea” proves that Beach House can also drop our jaws (and give us chills) with stripped-down, piano-driven journeys.
Bloom is the fourth full-length album by Baltimore-based Beach House. Like their previous releases (Beach House in 2006, Devotion in 2008, Teen Dream in 2010), it further develops their distinctive sound yet stands apart as a new piece of work. Bloom is meant to be experienced as an ALBUM, a singular, unified vision of the world. Though not stripped down, the many layers of Bloom are uncomplicated and meticulously constructed to ensure there is no waste. Bloom was recorded in 2011 at Sonic Ranch Studios in Tornillo, TX and mixed at Electric Lady in NYC. The band co-produced the record with Chris Coady.
Godspeed You! Black Emperor’s first proper LP in forever is either a rallying cry released on the cusp of a contentious election cycle or a return to form with the forward momentum of a runaway train. The band of post-rock pioneers certainly isn\'t subtle on *Allelujah! Don’t Bend! Ascend!*. As you might imagine, given how…uplifting!…that!…title!…is!, Godspeed’s fourth studio album is heady but hopeful, with an ominous but non-overbearing mood that sounds like the collective’s secular take on a tent revival. With REALLY loud guitars. And divebombing drums. And strings that are plucked, slapped, and sideswiped. Of the two 20-minute pieces here, “Mladic” is the one you might not wanna play at midnight, what with the way it bursts through your speakers screaming after just a few minutes. “We Drift Like Worried Fire,” on the other hand, raises its fists to the heavens while showing the group’s many disciples how instrumental melodrama is done. As for the record’s other pair of tracks, they’re both riff-raking meditations on the Power of the Drone. Guess GY!BE wasn\'t kidding about that whole *Ascend!* thing.
These are the first new recordings by Godspeed You! Black Emperor since 2002. Featuring two twenty-minute slabs of epic instrumental rock music and two six-and-a-half minute drones, ‘ALLELUJAH! DON’T BEND! ASCEND! provides soaring, shining proof of the band’s powerful return to form. Having emerged from hiatus at the end of 2010, GYBE picked up right where they left off, immediately re-capturing the sound and material that had fallen dormant in 2003 and driving it forward with every show of their extensive touring over the last 18 months. The new album presents the fruits of that labour: evolved and definitive versions of two huge compositions previously known to fans as “Albanian” and “Gamelan”, now properly titled as “MLADIC” and “WE DRIFT LIKE WORRIED FIRE” respectively. Accompanied by the new drones (stitched into the album sequence on CD; cut separately on their own 7″ for the LP version), GYBE have offered up a fifth album that we feel is as absolutely vital, virulent, honest and heavy as anything in their discography. We don’t have much time for mythology, but we’d be lying if we said the return of Godspeed You! Black Emperor in 2010 didn’t signify a whole lot to us as a marker from which to look back on the past decade, to reflect on what’s been gained or lost within the confines of independent music culture and what’s been gained or lost in the socio-political landscape writ large. Godspeed’s music will do that to you. It is music that bears witness to, channels and transforms this predominantly terrible, infuriating, venal and nihilistically sad story we’re all living, sharing, resisting, protesting, deconstructing and trying to change for the better. We think GYBE has once again provided a uniquely moving and compelling soundtrack for these acts of analysis, defiance and ascension. * * * Hard to believe a full decade has passed since the release of Yanqui U.X.O., the last album by GYBE. Never a band to care for conventional industry wisdom, Yanqui was released shortly before xmas 2003 with little publicity and no press availability, no marketing plans or cross-promotions or brand synergies, with back cover artwork tracing the inextricable links between major music labels and the military-industrial complex. Driven by word-of-mouth from a passionate and committed fanbase galvanized by the group's sonic vision and its dedication to unmediated, unsullied musical communication, the album found it's rightful audience. To suggest that such simple principles and goals have become harder to maintain and enact a decade later is an understatement. For all the contents and discontents – for all the "content" – of our present cultural moment, the idea of circumventing the glare of exposure, the massaging of media cycles and the calculus of identity management appears quaint, if not futile. But Godspeed is looking to try all the same. The band wants people to care about this new album, without telling people they should or talking about themselves. They want to hold on to some part of that energy that comes with the thrill of anonymous discovery and unmediated transmission, knowing full well that these days, anti-strategy risks being tagged as a strategy, non-marketing framed as its opposite, and deeply held principles they consider fundamental to health as likely to be interpreted as just another form of stealth. Truly, thanks for being open to hearing it.
*Children of Desire*—the second LP from Florida\'s Merchandise—is another stunning collection of classic-feeling post-punk that\'s both beautifully, viscously barbed and delicately melancholic. It\'s remarkable how these Americans expertly reignite the passions triggered by \'80s groups like Echo & The Bunnymen, The Smiths, and The Jesus & Mary Chain. (Merchandise has much in common with The Horrors, a band that, we note, is British.) The guitars throw off shards of white light, organs swirl, drums ring with reverb, and vocalist Carson Cox has a lovely, soft baritone that swoons and wails in the emotional palette that Morrissey once ruled. Congas race incongruously through \"In Nightmare Room\" (and they\'re *awesome*), while the 11-minute beauty \"Become What You Are\" ebbs and flows with a gorgeous, bittersweet melody until, at about six minutes in, it morphs into a hungry maelstrom of guitar distortion atop Cox\'s smooth vocals and a Sufi-worthy, trance-driven rhythm. Every song here is to be savored, and you might want to get in on these guys before they become the Next Big(ger) Thing.
Forget witch-house, grave-wave, and whatever other spooky electro subgenres are being championed by taste-making blogs. Holy Other is the real deal. The Berlin/Manchester–based producer keeps his name and identity shrouded in mystery, right down to donning a mask during live performances. His 2012 debut album, *Held*, offers up nine indie-electro compositions that are beautifully melancholic and haunting without a trace of irony. “(W)here” opens with synthesizer notes painted in the darker hues of new age tones. Armed with what sounds like a blend of modern and vintage drum machines, Holy Other manages to blend R&B melodies with gothic moods to tread uncharted territory. Those same synthesizers seem to make heavy inhalations and exhalations in the following “Tense Past,” over which he loops high-pitched samples of Eastern female vocal parts. Both this song and the darkly atmospheric “Past Tension” share DNA with vintage 4AD recordings—it’s easy to envision this side of Holy Other opening for Dead Can Dance. But there\'s another side to Holy Other steeped in sultry soul and R&B, as heard on the standout cut “Inpouring.”
'Held' is the eagerly anticipated debut from one of the jewels in Tri Angle's crown, Manchester's own Holy Other. It's not any kind of departure from last year's striking With U 12", but a subtle refinement of its themes: the same quietly anguished, crepuscular vibe reigns, and virtually every sonic element - from Burial-esque vocal clips to the synth pads, hell, even the drums - seems to sigh. For all their DNA-level foundation in US hip-hop/R&B and British soundsystem music, the crashing waves of 'Tense Past' and the magnificent 'Love Some1' owe as much to the airy gothic grandeur of This Mortal Coil as they do to, say, Keyboard Kid or Clams Casino. On the rather more lithe, club-attuned 'Inpouring', the clicky, scuttling drum patterns deftly summon UK garage and the taut d'n'b minimalism of Instra:mental's mid-decade work, while 'U Now''s teasing suggestion of a footwork riddim opens up more space for yet more melancholy drift. Subdued, heartbroken and drug-hazed, this is perhaps one of the most satisfying iterations of the Tri Angle aesthetic yet, and an impressive statement in its own right.
Purchase physical LP/CD/Cassette via the label store www.omnianmusicgroup.com/collections/captured-tracks/products/oshin One part THC and two parts MDMA; the first offering from DIIV chemically fuses the reminiscent with the half-remembered building a musical world out of old-air and new breeze. These are songs that remind us of love in all it’s earthly perfections and perversions. A lot of DIIV’s magnetism was birthed in the process Mr. Smith went through to discover these initial compositions. After returning from a US tour with Beach Fossils, Cole made a bold creative choice, settling into the window-facing corner of a painter’s studio in Bushwick, sans running water, holing up to craft his music. In this AC-less wooden room, throughout the thick of the summer, Cole surrounded himself with cassettes and LP’s, the likes of Lucinda Williams, Arthur Russell, Faust, Nirvana, and Jandek; writings of N. Scott Momaday, James Welsh, Hart Crane, Marianne Moore, and James Baldwin; and dreams of aliens, affection, spirits, and the distant natural world (as he imagined it from his window facing the Morgan L train). The resulting music is as cavernous as it is enveloping, asking you to get lost in its tangles in an era that demands your attention be focused into 140 characters.
There\'s not a whisper of second album jitters on this follow-up from fearsomely singular childhood friends Jamie Smith, Oliver Sim and Romy Madley Croft. But—while opener “Angel” plays like an even leaner take on their signature witching hour sound—there’s discernible evolution in all those sonic spaces. “Reunion” boasts the unexpected calypso of synthesized steelpan, and “Our Song” is a warped, strangely intimate duet that lets Madley Croft and Sim’s vocals intertwine like tangled limbs.
Having waded deeper into electronic waters with *Merriweather Post Pavilion*, the onetime freak-folkies in Animal Collective discover vast new worlds of color and texture on *Centipede Hz*. “Applesauce” tosses jangly ‘60s garage pop down a funhouse hall of mirrors; “Today’s Supernatural” heaves like a roller-coaster in a hurricane, yet it\'s also one of their catchiest songs ever. “Rosie Oh” exemplifies their effortless balancing act between lilting vocal harmonies and wildly psychedelic details: Writhing like a bag of centipedes, it’s nevertheless eminently hummable.
On Centipede Hz, Animal Collective return to being a four-piece, an event that is reflected in the widescreen completeness of the album. This is a panoramic set of songs that shimmer with the confidence and wonder of Animal Collective’s unique inner logic and the luminous warmth of their sound world.
On the acclaimed independent album that preceded his mainstream breakthrough, Quincy Hanley developed his gruff voice and reluctant gangsta persona with complex, emotionally ambivalent songs like “Sacrilegious.” Q and A$AP Rocky also establish what would be a fruitful chemistry on the hedonistic cult hit “Hands on the Wheel.”
On Dirty Projectors sixth album, Swing Lo Magellan, songwriter and leader David Longstreth shows he really doesn't know how to do the same thing twice. Where prior Dirty Projectors albums investigated 20th-century orchestration, west African guitar music and complex contrapuntal techniques in human voices, Swing Lo Magellan is a leap forward again. It's an album of songs, an album of songwriting. Swing Lo Magellan has both the handmade intimacy of a love letter and the widescreen grandeur of a blockbuster, and if that sounds like a paradox -- it's because it was until now.
In 2009, Cleveland’s Dylan Baldi began writing and recording lo-fi power-pop songs in his parents’ basement, dubbing the project Cloud Nothings. His music quickly started making the Internet rounds, and fans and critics alike took note of his pithy songcraft, infectiously catchy melodies, and youthful enthusiasm. Baldi soon released a string of 7”s, a split cassette, and an EP before putting out "Turning On"—a compilation spanning about a year’s worth of work—on Carpark in 2010. January 2011 saw the release Cloud Nothings’ self-titled debut LP, which, put next to Turning On, found Baldi cleaning up his lo-fi aesthetic, pairing his tales of affinitive confusion with a more pristine aural clarity. In the interval since the release of Cloud Nothings, Baldi has toured widely and put a great deal of focus on his live show, a detail that heavily shapes the music of his follow-up album, "Attack on Memory." After playing the same sets nightly for months on end, Baldi saw the rigidity of his early work, and he wanted to create arrangements that would allow for more improvisation and variability when played on the road. To accomplish this desired malleability, the entire band decamped to Chicago—where the album was recorded with Steve Albini—and all lent a hand in the songwriting process. The product of these sessions is a record boasting features that, even at a glance, mark a sea change in the band’s sound: higher fidelity, a track clocking in at almost nine minutes, an instrumental, and an overall more plaintive air. The songs move along fluidly, and Baldi sounds assured as he brings his vocals up in the mix, allowing himself to hold out long notes and put some grain into his voice. Minor key melodies abound, drums emphatically contribute much more than mere timekeeping, and the guitar work is much more adventurous than that of previous releases. For all of early Cloud Nothings’ fun and fervor, Baldi admits that it never sounded like most of the music he listens to. With "Attack on Memory," he wanted to remedy this anomaly, and in setting out to do so, Baldi and co. have created an album that shows vast growth in a still very young band.
Dan Deacon\'s electronic music works many different angles, far beyond what many similar artists consider their realm. The Baltimore chopper slices and dices his influences with irreverence, and *America*—his first album for the estimable independent label Domino—isn\'t afraid of getting tangled up in difficult emotions. \"Guilford Avenue Bridge\" sets the tone; it\'s an ambient instrumental that neither settles as wallpaper nor kicks up to raging ecstasy. Indie pop underpins the high-energy romp \"True Thrush,\" while \"Lots\" and \"Crash Jam\" come closest to the pure mania most listeners associate with 21st-century electro-pop. With \"Prettyboy,\" sounds start to boil over with a sense that something big and rather ominous is coming. And it arrives. The four-part \"USA\" series features a mix of programmed and live instruments that create an orchestral suite beyond anyone\'s expectations. \"USA II: The Great American Desert\" is a rumbling and tumbling epic with beats that flutter to and fro. Dan Deacon proves that electronic music can still be affected by a human touch.
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Now here is some amusing, candy-coated anarchy. For the blown-out punk-rap act’s second record and (somehow!) their major-label debut, Death Grips fuse abrasive techno with shouted and amped-up hip-hop and crazed distorted backing loops. The Sacramento, Calif.–based group brings together producer Zach Hill of the avant-metal act Hella with vocalist Stefan Burnett and coproducer Andy Morin. Lyrically, there’s a bit of the Rage Against the Machine problem at work here. Songs like “I’ve Seen Footage” and “Get Got” icily remark on the proliferation of violence and the way it desensitizes youth. It’s also easy to see how desensitized youth would just think it’s cool. Two of the least venerated forms of the \'90s—electroclash and digital hardcore—are resuscitated in a way that will cause parents the world over to politely ask that that music be turned down. Yet it\'s undeniably good—always layered and frequently strange.
*Tramp* is a study in controlled power. Soft yet muscular, vulnerable yet tough, the music moves at a languid pace while also conveying urgency and unresolved tension. Sharon Van Etten’s striking voice is the album\'s central feature. Her vocals are commanding throughout, resonating when surrounded by ample space (“Give Out”, “In Line”), in the midst of precise arrangements using strings, keyboards, and artful drumming (“Leonard”, “We Are Fine”), or backed by a squall of electric guitar (“Serpents”). Van Etten closely doubles her vocals on many tracks; by hitting two closely related notes at once, this gives her voice a haunting, ethereal quality. Produced by Aaron Desner of The National, the album also benefits from contributions by drummer Matt Barrick (The Walkmen) and vocals by Zach Condon (Beirut) and Jenn Wasner (Wye Oak). *Tramp* is a triumph of understated beauty and grace.
The shimmering sound of Sharon Van Etten’s Jagjaguwar debut album, 'Tramp', both defies and illuminates the unsteadiness of a life in flux. Throughout the 14 months of scattered recording sessions, Van Etten was without a home -- crashing with friends and storing her possessions between varied locations. The only constant in Van Etten's life during this time was spent in Aaron Dessner's garage studio. Tramp contains as much striking rock (the precise venom of “Serpents,” the overwhelming power of “Ask”), as pious, minimal beauty (the earnest solemnity of “All I Can,” the breathtaking “Kevins,” “Joke or a Lie”); it can be as emotionally combative (“Give Out”) as it can sultry (“Magic Chords”). Contributions from Matt Barrick (Walkmen), Thomas Bartlett (Doveman), Zach Condon (Beirut), Jenn Wasner (Wye Oak), Julianna Barwick, and Dessner himself add a glowing sheen to the already substantial offering.
