Hey, everybody. It's interesting being back in here. I almost forgot my password.
In recent months, I've received quite a few e-mails from musicians and publicists asking for coverage via LaRuminator. It's weird. As far as I could tell, back when I was writing LaRuminator, the only readership I had was people I already knew -- I never received feedback from strangers, and I certainly never heard a single request for coverage. Since roughly the beginning of 2010, though, the e-mails have been coming in fairly reglarly.
While I'm flattered people have somehow stumbled across LaRuminator, I would advise anyone who might be about to e-mail me to request I write about their band to actually take a look at this site. Aside from this post, the most recent post here is dated Feb. 17, 2009. In my experiences, finding a blog where the most recent post is over a year old would indicate one of two things: 1. The blog has been abandoned by its author(s), or 2. The blog is being maintained by a really crappy blogger who doesn't understand the medium and posts too infrequently to keep a readership's attention. Either way, asking for coverage from a blog that's been silent for over a year is kind of like walking past Han Solo in carbon freeze and high-fiving the dude. And furthermore -- you can't discern this from any other blog post here, but I moved to Brooklyn this past spring. If LaRuminator ever were to be revived, it would not have the Connecticut focus that once was its raison d'etre.
I don't want this to look like one big, mean "GO AWAY" sign, because that would be more or less lame and too unnecessarily snarky for my taste. I still write, including music journalism, and I still play in bands, so communicating with like-minded people is always crucial to the furthering of my thing (and yours!). Basically, I'm writing this as a reminder that when you put out a new record or go on tour and enter that long slog of firing off e-mails to every print and web publication you can think of, it's important to make sure you're making the best use of your time. In general, maybe don't e-mail a blog that doesn't cover the kind of music you play, or that doesn't cover the region you're playing in, or that no longer exists. If you do anyway and you write something like, "I love your blog!," it's going to look kind of like you're lying.
Kudos to all the bloggers out there whose work is timely, pertinent and well-written. Maybe someday I'll join their ranks. Just not today.
Best,
Brian
Monday, June 21, 2010
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
We can talk about this now? Good.
Wait, no... seriously this time.
I know. I know, back in 2004, I said Morrrissey's You Are the Quarry marked an altogether new sonic chapter of the singer's body of work, with his sense of lyrical purpose rediscovered and pared down to its least-wordy point yet. And I know, in 2006, I said Ringleader of the Tormentors stomped all over YATQ (to my ear, at least). I know I said Tony Visconti's cavernous production rendered the previous album rather sterile and safe by comparison; that Morrissey's lyrics reached higher levels of pathos, comedy, perversity and sexual tension (all the things Mozfans want from a Morrissey album). But still. I should've known. I should've recognized he's capable of better-still work, more consistent albums, more... something. More of the reasons I get this excited whenever Morrissey puts out a new album or goes on tour. So with that in mind: I promise, this time he's really done it. He's really made another classic Morrissey album to be ranked amongst his best solo records.
Years of Refusal, released today in the U.S. on the Lost Highway label, falls sonically somewhere in between his two previous albums: With producer Jerry Finn (who worked on YATQ ) returning to the boards, the album has both the loose, lively feel of ROTT and the punchiness of YATQ. And it rocks harder than both of those albums: Morrissey's band throughout the '90s was made up largely of musicians drawn from the English rockabilly circuit, but nowadays those stalwarts are outnumbered by younger L.A. session guys who excel at the kind of garagey pop-punk Finn knew so well how to produce. Morrissey's voice is supple to the point of being utterly unhinged at the album's most frenetic spots, and so frequently his lyrics demonstrate his ability to sing something hilarious and devastating in alternate breaths, all the while reveling in the sounds of the English language. Take, for example, one verse from “One Day Goodbye Will Be Farewell:”
I have been thinking, what with my final brain cell,
How time grips you sliding in its spell,
And before you know, goodbye will be farewell,
And you will never see the one you love again,
And the smiling children tell you that you smell.
Well,
Just look at me — a savage beast,
I've got nothing to sell,
And when I die, I want to go to hell.
And that's when goodbye should be farewell.
But arguably the most important thing about Years of Refusal is one that's not as readily obvious as how smart the lyrics are (they are) or how catchy the vocal melodies are (they are — in the 26 years since the first Smiths single, Morrissey has only continued to grow and grow as a composer of melodies), or how well the band plays (very well, though unlike the stretch of records Morrissey and T'Lads made between 1992 and 1997, which sounded like “band records,” here it sounds like they're more or less providing an atmosphere whereby Moz can properly get into his game). The most important thing is that it produces the greatest number of pretty much ridiculous moments of any Morrissey solo album in many, many years.
I can explain that. There's always been something a little ridiculous in certain of Morrissey's lyrics and vocalizations. This is, after all, the man who once rhymed “so ugly” with “oh, hug me.” The man who once turned “Let me get my hands/On your mammary glands/And let me get your head/On the conjugal bed” into the chorus of song. The man who ended a stinging kiss-off of a song by repeating the caveat “Still, it was a good lay” over and over. Who's delivered a truckload what I can only call “voice solos,” long passages of riffing on “oh-oh-ohs” and “la-da-da-da-dums.” Whose first solo album ended with the sound of a guillotine falling. Who has a well-placed break for the sound of a chainsaw during the closing track of his most beautiful-sounding album. Morrissey's two most recent albums — notwithstanding ROTT's recurring choir of actual Italian children and bombastic orchestral “At Last I Am Born” — were just not ridiculous enough. But, oh... this time, it's on. It's evident from the opening track, “Something Is Squeezing My Skull” — itself a laugh-out-loud over-the-top title, sung in the chorus as a riotously ascending melodic line — wherein, after listing off a series of psychiatric meds, he repeats some variation on the phrase “Don't gimmeanymore!” for a full 45 seconds as the band builds into a frenzy. Four other songs peak in melodramatic “oh-woah-ohhs” — on closer “I'm OK By Myself,” that becomes nearly a minute of wordless emoting into an overdriven mic. (That song also contains one of the most entertaining enunciations of the record, where “myself” becomes “myse-e-e-oo-elf.”) Morrissey may or may not refer to himself in the first person plural on at least two songs. On “That's How People Grow Up,” the first sound is soprano Kristeen Young approximating a human theremin. “It's Not Your Birthday Anymore” builds into a pounding chorus that sounds strikingly like Moz and his band glancing to all those pop-emo youngers who claim him as an influence and handing those kids back their own template. Two songs feature mariachi-esque trumpet solos. “You Were Good in Your Time” closes with a groaning synthesizer and the sound of a brisk wind. The thing about all of these moments, throughout Morrissey's career is — when one is feeling particularly down, they feel perfect; they “go there,” and they allow the listener to come along and get lost in the overemphatic thrill of it all. And when one is feeling more or less okay, they catch one upside the head in a way that becomes... well, ideally, funny. Darkly, absurdly funny.
And the darkness matters. Years of Refusal is not without its moments where pathos crosses over into comic bathos — but the thing is, they have to pass through pathos first. And there is a startling amount of morbidity on this album — a good deal of death and some violence to boot. Take “Mama Lay Softly on the Riverbed.” Just so you know, she's lying there because she's dead, driven to suicide by life's petty frustrations. And in the final verse, the narrator promises lie down with her, to “be safe and sheltered in our graves.” “You Were Good in Your Time” is an ode to a pop star on his or her deathbed. (Remember, Morrissey's always given props to pop singers and film stars of the '50s and '60s, even pilfering dialogue from some of his favorite old films for lyrical fodder in the early days of The Smiths, and now so many of those stars who made young Moz feel, as he sings here, “not quite so deformed, uninformed and hunchbacked” are dead or very old indeed.) In “When Last I Spoke to Carol,” the very last time the narrator speaks to Carol is at her burial. Morrissey imagines an attempted assassination from a seemingly-friendly hand in “I'm OK By Myself.” He exclaims, “Let me live before I die!” in “That's How People Grow Up.” “It's Not Your Birthday Anymore” (a psychodrama as unsettling as the Moz classic “November Spawned a Monster,” in which pity for a disabled girl seems to veer into mockery) centers around a sexual assault perpetrated by an evidently disturbed narrator, his exclamation of “Do you really think we meant/All of those syrupy, sentimental things we said?” clashing with his description of “the love I am now giving to you right here, right now, on the floor.” And when human interaction doesn't erupt into violence, it still often fails to create any real interpersonal connection. “When Last I Spoke to Carol” has the narrator's doomy observations met by seemingly unrelated apparent cries for help on Carol's part. “That's How People Grow Up” addresses the futility of “looking for love,/For a love that never comes, from someone who does not exist.” “All You Need Is Me,” the sprightliest pop song on the album, is about a friendship sustained by one party's need to complain about the other, a process that helps distract him or her from the real troubles of the larger world. In “I'm Throwing My Arms Around Paris,” Moz chooses to embrace a city rather than an actual person. And in “Black Cloud,” the object of his desire, who “moves in the mind,” is about as physically intangible as, well, a black cloud. Death is all around on Years of Refusal, and until it finds us personally, things don't look so good for the living.
It's been said the problem with Morrissey's solo work is that it's so much about being Morrissey, leaving little for anyone whose fanship is not so much that they're emotionally invested in Morrissey himself. Perhaps it's impossible for me to make an objective call on this, as a long-invested fan — but I disagree with that judgment. Morrissey often writes about a solitary, unhappy figure who may or may not be Morrissey — but he also writes about pitiable characters and unsavory characters, characters who rage against their fates and characters who resign themselves to those fates. Maybe these are actually all aspects of Being Morrissey — but if that's the case, there are enough aspects therein for his songs to feel universal and purposeful. Morrissey, at his best, makes the listener think not about Morrissey but about himself or herself. And that's what's going on in Years of Refusal. Thankfully. Seriously.
I know. I know, back in 2004, I said Morrrissey's You Are the Quarry marked an altogether new sonic chapter of the singer's body of work, with his sense of lyrical purpose rediscovered and pared down to its least-wordy point yet. And I know, in 2006, I said Ringleader of the Tormentors stomped all over YATQ (to my ear, at least). I know I said Tony Visconti's cavernous production rendered the previous album rather sterile and safe by comparison; that Morrissey's lyrics reached higher levels of pathos, comedy, perversity and sexual tension (all the things Mozfans want from a Morrissey album). But still. I should've known. I should've recognized he's capable of better-still work, more consistent albums, more... something. More of the reasons I get this excited whenever Morrissey puts out a new album or goes on tour. So with that in mind: I promise, this time he's really done it. He's really made another classic Morrissey album to be ranked amongst his best solo records.
Years of Refusal, released today in the U.S. on the Lost Highway label, falls sonically somewhere in between his two previous albums: With producer Jerry Finn (who worked on YATQ ) returning to the boards, the album has both the loose, lively feel of ROTT and the punchiness of YATQ. And it rocks harder than both of those albums: Morrissey's band throughout the '90s was made up largely of musicians drawn from the English rockabilly circuit, but nowadays those stalwarts are outnumbered by younger L.A. session guys who excel at the kind of garagey pop-punk Finn knew so well how to produce. Morrissey's voice is supple to the point of being utterly unhinged at the album's most frenetic spots, and so frequently his lyrics demonstrate his ability to sing something hilarious and devastating in alternate breaths, all the while reveling in the sounds of the English language. Take, for example, one verse from “One Day Goodbye Will Be Farewell:”
I have been thinking, what with my final brain cell,
How time grips you sliding in its spell,
And before you know, goodbye will be farewell,
And you will never see the one you love again,
And the smiling children tell you that you smell.
Well,
Just look at me — a savage beast,
I've got nothing to sell,
And when I die, I want to go to hell.
And that's when goodbye should be farewell.
But arguably the most important thing about Years of Refusal is one that's not as readily obvious as how smart the lyrics are (they are) or how catchy the vocal melodies are (they are — in the 26 years since the first Smiths single, Morrissey has only continued to grow and grow as a composer of melodies), or how well the band plays (very well, though unlike the stretch of records Morrissey and T'Lads made between 1992 and 1997, which sounded like “band records,” here it sounds like they're more or less providing an atmosphere whereby Moz can properly get into his game). The most important thing is that it produces the greatest number of pretty much ridiculous moments of any Morrissey solo album in many, many years.
I can explain that. There's always been something a little ridiculous in certain of Morrissey's lyrics and vocalizations. This is, after all, the man who once rhymed “so ugly” with “oh, hug me.” The man who once turned “Let me get my hands/On your mammary glands/And let me get your head/On the conjugal bed” into the chorus of song. The man who ended a stinging kiss-off of a song by repeating the caveat “Still, it was a good lay” over and over. Who's delivered a truckload what I can only call “voice solos,” long passages of riffing on “oh-oh-ohs” and “la-da-da-da-dums.” Whose first solo album ended with the sound of a guillotine falling. Who has a well-placed break for the sound of a chainsaw during the closing track of his most beautiful-sounding album. Morrissey's two most recent albums — notwithstanding ROTT's recurring choir of actual Italian children and bombastic orchestral “At Last I Am Born” — were just not ridiculous enough. But, oh... this time, it's on. It's evident from the opening track, “Something Is Squeezing My Skull” — itself a laugh-out-loud over-the-top title, sung in the chorus as a riotously ascending melodic line — wherein, after listing off a series of psychiatric meds, he repeats some variation on the phrase “Don't gimmeanymore!” for a full 45 seconds as the band builds into a frenzy. Four other songs peak in melodramatic “oh-woah-ohhs” — on closer “I'm OK By Myself,” that becomes nearly a minute of wordless emoting into an overdriven mic. (That song also contains one of the most entertaining enunciations of the record, where “myself” becomes “myse-e-e-oo-elf.”) Morrissey may or may not refer to himself in the first person plural on at least two songs. On “That's How People Grow Up,” the first sound is soprano Kristeen Young approximating a human theremin. “It's Not Your Birthday Anymore” builds into a pounding chorus that sounds strikingly like Moz and his band glancing to all those pop-emo youngers who claim him as an influence and handing those kids back their own template. Two songs feature mariachi-esque trumpet solos. “You Were Good in Your Time” closes with a groaning synthesizer and the sound of a brisk wind. The thing about all of these moments, throughout Morrissey's career is — when one is feeling particularly down, they feel perfect; they “go there,” and they allow the listener to come along and get lost in the overemphatic thrill of it all. And when one is feeling more or less okay, they catch one upside the head in a way that becomes... well, ideally, funny. Darkly, absurdly funny.
And the darkness matters. Years of Refusal is not without its moments where pathos crosses over into comic bathos — but the thing is, they have to pass through pathos first. And there is a startling amount of morbidity on this album — a good deal of death and some violence to boot. Take “Mama Lay Softly on the Riverbed.” Just so you know, she's lying there because she's dead, driven to suicide by life's petty frustrations. And in the final verse, the narrator promises lie down with her, to “be safe and sheltered in our graves.” “You Were Good in Your Time” is an ode to a pop star on his or her deathbed. (Remember, Morrissey's always given props to pop singers and film stars of the '50s and '60s, even pilfering dialogue from some of his favorite old films for lyrical fodder in the early days of The Smiths, and now so many of those stars who made young Moz feel, as he sings here, “not quite so deformed, uninformed and hunchbacked” are dead or very old indeed.) In “When Last I Spoke to Carol,” the very last time the narrator speaks to Carol is at her burial. Morrissey imagines an attempted assassination from a seemingly-friendly hand in “I'm OK By Myself.” He exclaims, “Let me live before I die!” in “That's How People Grow Up.” “It's Not Your Birthday Anymore” (a psychodrama as unsettling as the Moz classic “November Spawned a Monster,” in which pity for a disabled girl seems to veer into mockery) centers around a sexual assault perpetrated by an evidently disturbed narrator, his exclamation of “Do you really think we meant/All of those syrupy, sentimental things we said?” clashing with his description of “the love I am now giving to you right here, right now, on the floor.” And when human interaction doesn't erupt into violence, it still often fails to create any real interpersonal connection. “When Last I Spoke to Carol” has the narrator's doomy observations met by seemingly unrelated apparent cries for help on Carol's part. “That's How People Grow Up” addresses the futility of “looking for love,/For a love that never comes, from someone who does not exist.” “All You Need Is Me,” the sprightliest pop song on the album, is about a friendship sustained by one party's need to complain about the other, a process that helps distract him or her from the real troubles of the larger world. In “I'm Throwing My Arms Around Paris,” Moz chooses to embrace a city rather than an actual person. And in “Black Cloud,” the object of his desire, who “moves in the mind,” is about as physically intangible as, well, a black cloud. Death is all around on Years of Refusal, and until it finds us personally, things don't look so good for the living.
It's been said the problem with Morrissey's solo work is that it's so much about being Morrissey, leaving little for anyone whose fanship is not so much that they're emotionally invested in Morrissey himself. Perhaps it's impossible for me to make an objective call on this, as a long-invested fan — but I disagree with that judgment. Morrissey often writes about a solitary, unhappy figure who may or may not be Morrissey — but he also writes about pitiable characters and unsavory characters, characters who rage against their fates and characters who resign themselves to those fates. Maybe these are actually all aspects of Being Morrissey — but if that's the case, there are enough aspects therein for his songs to feel universal and purposeful. Morrissey, at his best, makes the listener think not about Morrissey but about himself or herself. And that's what's going on in Years of Refusal. Thankfully. Seriously.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Bear With Me.
There's this point in a number of Bear Hands songs where one very simple one-, two- or three-note melodic part is essentially soloed with the drums -- a vocal line or a guitar part, usually -- and then, after a stretch, something else comes in -- bass or rhythm guitar -- and the root lands somewhere other than you might've expected, showing the melodic thing to be based around maybe the third or the fifth rather than the tonic, and then there's a chord change and that one melodic part keeps going, and then there's another change and... It's an exciting way to build tension, to mess around with intervals this way. And it's nothing, say, John Cage hasn't already done, but it's way cool to see a full-on rock band stripping away the surface, laying the machinery of the song bare and building it back up in a way that seems fresh and moving. There's a lot going on beneath the simple facade of a Bear Hands song. This is a band whose members clearly know how to listen to each other and make kick-ass songs in the process.
Bear Hands' show tonight at The Space in Hamden was a bit of a homecoming for the Brooklyn post-punk quartet, all four of whom grew up in Connecticut -- there were friends in the audience cheering them on and ribbing them in the way friends do. Not the liveliest crowd, though (perhaps that's what singer Dylan Rau meant when he said, "Tonight's been kind of a nightmare" -- he then encouraged the crowd to loosen up), in spite of a mass of bodies up near the stage, a handful of singers-along and a few definitely bouncy kids. Not that that affected the band's performance visibly or audibly -- they charged through their set with a great degree of energy and enthusiasm.
It's been over a year since I've seen Kiss Kiss, though they've come up to Connecticut repeatedly since then. And I daresay they've gotten even tighter -- if one's going to be a member of Kiss Kiss, one had better have one's shit down, because this proggy art-pop band's hallmarks include dense melodic interplay, coordinated rhythmic hiccups and off-kilter time signatures, and they've had nothing but suitably sick musicians playing with them for as long as I've been following them, but with the solidification of a steady lineup, a heavy gigging schedule and time in the recording studio, they've become not just tight but kind of scary. They seem to play these complex songs intuitively, to have internalized them enough to allow for all this flailing about and off-mic screaming without even giving the impression they might miss a beat. Great stuff. They also played an arrangement of the Tetris song (cultural blind spot on my part -- I don't know the source of that melody; if you can help me out, please do) that was far more nuanced and dynamic and run-through-the-wringer than that of any other band I've ever seen do that song, and singer/keyboardist/guitarist Josh Benash claimed they'd gotten it together in three hours the day before.
Since becoming buds with Greg and Tom Sommerville this summer, I've seen their band Bruhder a few times, in various configurations, and this was the first time I've seen them play a full set. And, as with previous sets, they played acoustic guitars and used no vocal mics. If their songs were put into a full electric band context, they'd be a smart power-pop band, but using the context of acoustic guitars and electric bass, with all three guys singing at the top of their lungs, gives them a special, communal vibe that would probably lose some of its charm in a traditional rock setting, and maybe some of the clever lyrics, too. Lots of friends and singers-along up near the stage for their set as well, giving their set a real living-room kind of feeling.
See/Saw is an acoustic avant-pop band of sorts that included, tonight at least, Fareed from Bottle Up and Go and another guy. Didn't really get off the ground. Their set was quiet to the point of being muffled, and while there were some pretty melodies in there, the songs didn't quite congeal into anything that suggested where those songs were going. Kind of hard to find the downbeat out in the audience. While Bruhder created a living-room feeling on The Space's already-homey stage, perhaps See/Saw's set would've translated better in a real-life living room.
Bear Hands' show tonight at The Space in Hamden was a bit of a homecoming for the Brooklyn post-punk quartet, all four of whom grew up in Connecticut -- there were friends in the audience cheering them on and ribbing them in the way friends do. Not the liveliest crowd, though (perhaps that's what singer Dylan Rau meant when he said, "Tonight's been kind of a nightmare" -- he then encouraged the crowd to loosen up), in spite of a mass of bodies up near the stage, a handful of singers-along and a few definitely bouncy kids. Not that that affected the band's performance visibly or audibly -- they charged through their set with a great degree of energy and enthusiasm.
It's been over a year since I've seen Kiss Kiss, though they've come up to Connecticut repeatedly since then. And I daresay they've gotten even tighter -- if one's going to be a member of Kiss Kiss, one had better have one's shit down, because this proggy art-pop band's hallmarks include dense melodic interplay, coordinated rhythmic hiccups and off-kilter time signatures, and they've had nothing but suitably sick musicians playing with them for as long as I've been following them, but with the solidification of a steady lineup, a heavy gigging schedule and time in the recording studio, they've become not just tight but kind of scary. They seem to play these complex songs intuitively, to have internalized them enough to allow for all this flailing about and off-mic screaming without even giving the impression they might miss a beat. Great stuff. They also played an arrangement of the Tetris song (cultural blind spot on my part -- I don't know the source of that melody; if you can help me out, please do) that was far more nuanced and dynamic and run-through-the-wringer than that of any other band I've ever seen do that song, and singer/keyboardist/guitarist Josh Benash claimed they'd gotten it together in three hours the day before.
Since becoming buds with Greg and Tom Sommerville this summer, I've seen their band Bruhder a few times, in various configurations, and this was the first time I've seen them play a full set. And, as with previous sets, they played acoustic guitars and used no vocal mics. If their songs were put into a full electric band context, they'd be a smart power-pop band, but using the context of acoustic guitars and electric bass, with all three guys singing at the top of their lungs, gives them a special, communal vibe that would probably lose some of its charm in a traditional rock setting, and maybe some of the clever lyrics, too. Lots of friends and singers-along up near the stage for their set as well, giving their set a real living-room kind of feeling.
See/Saw is an acoustic avant-pop band of sorts that included, tonight at least, Fareed from Bottle Up and Go and another guy. Didn't really get off the ground. Their set was quiet to the point of being muffled, and while there were some pretty melodies in there, the songs didn't quite congeal into anything that suggested where those songs were going. Kind of hard to find the downbeat out in the audience. While Bruhder created a living-room feeling on The Space's already-homey stage, perhaps See/Saw's set would've translated better in a real-life living room.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Simplicity; Pleasurable
The Simple Pleasure are one of the best bands in New Haven right now, and they released what's probably my favorite "local disc" of the year (and one of the best CDs I heard all year, period), Alive with Pleasure, in 2008. They play amped-up electro-pop with a heavy glam rock influence, sexy and seemingly with two shots of espresso, and their songs are excellent. Singer/guitarist/songwriter Chad Raines actually studied music composition while in college -- it's evident in his craft; their songs are incredibly catchy and full of melodies and chord progressions that go exactly where the thinking listener wants. It's music that scratches all kinds of itches for the active popfan.
I've seen awesome sets by The Simple Pleasure and simply okay sets. Tonight, at Cafe Nine in New Haven, was one of the awesome sets -- no equipment failures, all three members of the core band present, loads of energy. They were firing on all cylinders, tight and delivering killer jams left and right. There were newer songs in addition to older faves like "The Tunnels" and "Douchebag" (herein you see Raines' sense of humor -- a coming-of-age tale like the former and a dirty joke like the latter, in which he proclaims, "I ain't your douchebag, baby -- you got no L-O-V-E"); Raines seemed hesitant, gauging audience reception (very strong among a small cadre of fans who were paying attention) after playing a song in which he chanted, "LGBT! LGBT! W for W, M for M!" -- a terribly funny sentiment bolstered by a memorable synth lick (I saw a Simple Pleasure show a few months ago, wherein Raines and synth player Tamara Chiba, who was playing an electronic drumkit at that show, played a version of this song -- it's great to hear it evolve from a simple schoolyard sing-along into a full-sounding, well-orchestrated Killer Jam) -- and while the audience didn't get down as readily as they had on other nights when I've seen The Simple Pleasure, it wasn't for the band's lack of trying (and delivering). Yes, I danced like a deranged maniac. It was kinda silly and a butt ton of fun. I once referred to Raines as a "dance-floor prophet," and he is. As a frontman, he dicates where the party is going.
Thrill Velocity -- the synth-pop project of Nolan Voss -- closed out the night with the most focused set I've ever seen from him. He's always had this doomy, gothy kind of vocal style with Thrill Velocity, but he's written enough songs at this point for it to feel quite natural and pleasurable and not like a simple mood-setting affectation. Thrill Velocity once had a number of tunes that dragged a bit, but by this point Voss seems to have composed a set that keeps up the requisite energy, dark but energetic and fun. The vocodered-out "Colored Lines" remained a standout, but while in past sets Voss has played it as the closer, marking the moment where all the elements of his set came together in one clear moment, he slipped it somewhere in the middle of the set tonight, and the thing is, he's reached a creative point wherein whatever point he might've made by playing that song last was already evident before he got there.
Thank you for being there, if you were.
I've seen awesome sets by The Simple Pleasure and simply okay sets. Tonight, at Cafe Nine in New Haven, was one of the awesome sets -- no equipment failures, all three members of the core band present, loads of energy. They were firing on all cylinders, tight and delivering killer jams left and right. There were newer songs in addition to older faves like "The Tunnels" and "Douchebag" (herein you see Raines' sense of humor -- a coming-of-age tale like the former and a dirty joke like the latter, in which he proclaims, "I ain't your douchebag, baby -- you got no L-O-V-E"); Raines seemed hesitant, gauging audience reception (very strong among a small cadre of fans who were paying attention) after playing a song in which he chanted, "LGBT! LGBT! W for W, M for M!" -- a terribly funny sentiment bolstered by a memorable synth lick (I saw a Simple Pleasure show a few months ago, wherein Raines and synth player Tamara Chiba, who was playing an electronic drumkit at that show, played a version of this song -- it's great to hear it evolve from a simple schoolyard sing-along into a full-sounding, well-orchestrated Killer Jam) -- and while the audience didn't get down as readily as they had on other nights when I've seen The Simple Pleasure, it wasn't for the band's lack of trying (and delivering). Yes, I danced like a deranged maniac. It was kinda silly and a butt ton of fun. I once referred to Raines as a "dance-floor prophet," and he is. As a frontman, he dicates where the party is going.
Thrill Velocity -- the synth-pop project of Nolan Voss -- closed out the night with the most focused set I've ever seen from him. He's always had this doomy, gothy kind of vocal style with Thrill Velocity, but he's written enough songs at this point for it to feel quite natural and pleasurable and not like a simple mood-setting affectation. Thrill Velocity once had a number of tunes that dragged a bit, but by this point Voss seems to have composed a set that keeps up the requisite energy, dark but energetic and fun. The vocodered-out "Colored Lines" remained a standout, but while in past sets Voss has played it as the closer, marking the moment where all the elements of his set came together in one clear moment, he slipped it somewhere in the middle of the set tonight, and the thing is, he's reached a creative point wherein whatever point he might've made by playing that song last was already evident before he got there.
Thank you for being there, if you were.
(Photos by Brian LaRue)
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Read my stuff. Get hammered.
One of my sources of income is CD reviews, usually for local/regional artists. I take the job to heart and usually listen to a CD three times before I write a review, but I find my philosophical priorities lead to my bringing up similar points review after review, and my writing style has certain tics whereby the same phrases keep cropping up. So, I devised a drinking game to be played while reading several of my CD reviews at one time! Here are the rules, and please play responsibly:
Anything is "accessible" -- take a shot.
Anything embodies "professionalism" -- take a shot.
Anything is "technically proficient" -- take a shot.
There's a reference to "craft" -- take a shot.
Anything embodies "playfulness" -- take a shot.
Anything captures the "semiotics" of any style -- take a shot.
Songs are "efficient" -- take a shot.
Anything "transcends" -- take a shot.
Anything fails to "transcend" -- drink a glass of water.
The style is referred to as "post-[fill in]" -- take a shot.
Reference is made to the artist's "creative/artistic voice" -- take two shots.
Anything is "idiosyncratic" -- take two shots, punch yourself in the face.
There are two hyphenated adjectives in the same sentence -- chug the bottle.
There are more than two hyphenated adjectives in the same sentence -- chug the bottle, throw it into a wall.
"Hooks" are "ample" or "copious" -- take two shots.
There are "no/few hooks to speak of" -- drink a glass of water.
Anything is "badass" -- take a shot.
Anything embodies "badassitude" -- grab the drink of the person to your left, pour it over your head, run to the window, lean out, scream "LED ZEPPELIN!!"
Reference is made to "dynamic shifts" -- punch the person to your left in the face.
Reference is made to "intervals" -- punch the person to your right in the face.
Anything is "accessible" -- take a shot.
Anything embodies "professionalism" -- take a shot.
Anything is "technically proficient" -- take a shot.
There's a reference to "craft" -- take a shot.
Anything embodies "playfulness" -- take a shot.
Anything captures the "semiotics" of any style -- take a shot.
Songs are "efficient" -- take a shot.
Anything "transcends" -- take a shot.
Anything fails to "transcend" -- drink a glass of water.
The style is referred to as "post-[fill in]" -- take a shot.
Reference is made to the artist's "creative/artistic voice" -- take two shots.
Anything is "idiosyncratic" -- take two shots, punch yourself in the face.
There are two hyphenated adjectives in the same sentence -- chug the bottle.
There are more than two hyphenated adjectives in the same sentence -- chug the bottle, throw it into a wall.
"Hooks" are "ample" or "copious" -- take two shots.
There are "no/few hooks to speak of" -- drink a glass of water.
Anything is "badass" -- take a shot.
Anything embodies "badassitude" -- grab the drink of the person to your left, pour it over your head, run to the window, lean out, scream "LED ZEPPELIN!!"
Reference is made to "dynamic shifts" -- punch the person to your left in the face.
Reference is made to "intervals" -- punch the person to your right in the face.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Hiatus
Hi! I'm taking a hiatus from LaRuminator for a while. When I return, it'll be more aesthetically pleasing and less wack.
Some things worth pointing out:
1. At the Elephant 6 Holiday Surprise show at The Space last Wednesday, Jeff Mangum was not present. Just so you know. But I've been fairly annoyed with the fact that however awesome the songs of The Olivia Tremor Control; The Music Tapes; Pipes You See, Pipes You Don't; Nana Grizol; Elf Power and The Gerbils frequently are, so much attention to this tour has been focused on this possibility that Jeff Mangum might show up. Don't get me wrong: In the Aeroplane Over the Sea is probably one of my absolute favorite albums ever, too, but this does not mean Scott Spillane and Julian Koster's ramshackle trumpet/accordion arrangement of Aeroplane instrumental "The Fool" was worth more hushed reverence than Bill Doss and Koster's beautiful vocal/12-string electric guitar/singing saw arrangement of OTC's "No Growing (Exegesis)." For example. And how about yourself? Can you appreciate this crazy-ass sing-along campfire-style revue for what it's worth? Or do you need the brief appearance of a reclusive genius to truly enjoy it?
2. Gringo Star's All Y'all and their live show are equally awesome. I have never seen them tighter and more assertive than they were at BAR on Sunday. Seems like the psych-pop element of their sound is seeping out in place of a broader-reaching retro-rock sort of thing.
3. Why weren't you at the Griefs show at Cafe Nine? Were you unaware this band has better songs than the vast majority of garage rock bands out there right now?
4. On a political note, my friend Joe Killian, a reporter in Greensboro, NC, was kicked and knocked over by a McCain supporter while reporting a McCain/Palin rally where Sarah Palin was speaking. (Keep in mind Joe is about six feet tall and kind of jacked, and he trained as a boxer through most of his college years.) Meanwhile, this young woman in Pittsburgh made up a bunch of junk about getting jumped by an Obama supporter, and now everyone knows about her lies. Sigh.
See you in the future.
Some things worth pointing out:
1. At the Elephant 6 Holiday Surprise show at The Space last Wednesday, Jeff Mangum was not present. Just so you know. But I've been fairly annoyed with the fact that however awesome the songs of The Olivia Tremor Control; The Music Tapes; Pipes You See, Pipes You Don't; Nana Grizol; Elf Power and The Gerbils frequently are, so much attention to this tour has been focused on this possibility that Jeff Mangum might show up. Don't get me wrong: In the Aeroplane Over the Sea is probably one of my absolute favorite albums ever, too, but this does not mean Scott Spillane and Julian Koster's ramshackle trumpet/accordion arrangement of Aeroplane instrumental "The Fool" was worth more hushed reverence than Bill Doss and Koster's beautiful vocal/12-string electric guitar/singing saw arrangement of OTC's "No Growing (Exegesis)." For example. And how about yourself? Can you appreciate this crazy-ass sing-along campfire-style revue for what it's worth? Or do you need the brief appearance of a reclusive genius to truly enjoy it?
2. Gringo Star's All Y'all and their live show are equally awesome. I have never seen them tighter and more assertive than they were at BAR on Sunday. Seems like the psych-pop element of their sound is seeping out in place of a broader-reaching retro-rock sort of thing.
3. Why weren't you at the Griefs show at Cafe Nine? Were you unaware this band has better songs than the vast majority of garage rock bands out there right now?
4. On a political note, my friend Joe Killian, a reporter in Greensboro, NC, was kicked and knocked over by a McCain supporter while reporting a McCain/Palin rally where Sarah Palin was speaking. (Keep in mind Joe is about six feet tall and kind of jacked, and he trained as a boxer through most of his college years.) Meanwhile, this young woman in Pittsburgh made up a bunch of junk about getting jumped by an Obama supporter, and now everyone knows about her lies. Sigh.
See you in the future.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Fucked Up: "Canadian priorities are fucked up."
"The Canadian election is tomorrow," Fucked Up singer Pink Eyes said in the middle of the Toronto band's set at the Heirloom Arts Theatre in Danbury tonight. "No one cares. No one cares. Everyone in Canada wants to vote in the American election. Canada. Is. Pathetic. This next song is called 'Crooked Head,' about how Canadian priorities are fucked up."
It was an interesting turn of phrase, y'know, considering. But it was seamless, with the smarts and attitude of their set. Aside from having a fairly perfect name, Fucked Up is doing exactly what should be done with hardcore punk rock. If there's a more musically sophisticated, musically smarter band in hardcore right now, I want to know about it, and immediately. Their set proved them to be musically all over the map -- there are elements of art-rock, soul, early rock'n'roll and pop in their material, but they rev it all up and place it into a punk idiom. I wonder if the kids even knew what to do with it. I had to contrast the way the crowd treated them to the way the crowd treated opening band Hostage Calm (a very good old-school hardcore band with some catchy riffs and a totally sick drummer). During Hostage Calm's set, the kids erupted into a circle pit that took up maybe a third of the Heirloom's floor (I watched from the bar area upstairs -- have you ever watched a circle pit from a story up? it's kind of aesthetically interesting). During Fucked Up's set, there was a mass of kids near the stage, jumping up and down, climbing on each other's shoulders and straining for one of Pink Eyes' many passes of the microphone over the audience -- but very little moshing. Were the kids that absorbed, or did they just not know how to dance with this stuff? Can you mosh to the MC5? The Wipers? Fucked Up? I dunno; you'd have to get creative.
Two things worth pointing out: The members of Fucked Up collectively look a few years younger in person than they do in any photo I've seen of them, and Pink Eyes looks... bigger. He pulled off his shirt during the first or second song, and he's a heavy dude. Yet his energy is formidable. He began the set crouched near the front of the stage in a knees-bent hardcore stance and commenced owning the crowd from there. At one point, he mentioned he thought he'd thrown his back out; shortly thereafter he pulled a kid from the audience and told him to take his shoes off and stand on his back as he laid on the stage. There was something special going on between him and the audience.
Vivian Girls played before Fucked Up, and I'd been anticipating seeing them quite a bit, as I've been reading about them a lot -- usually glowingly, yet the songs I'd heard had done nothing for me melodically. Tonight, they sounded kind of like the late '50s or early '60s, if that era had included punk rock as we know it and had happened in space, and "space" was an urban art loft somewhere. Somewhere with a lot of reverb. In other words, they're working with about a zillion Things I Like. But only rarely did I really "see it." They have these great chord progressions that call to mind classic pop music, onto which they occasionally lay squalls of arty noise, but only four or so songs had catchy melodies to speak of. Those songs kind of ruled, but the rest of the set sounded... off. Maybe they were very sharp (vocally), maybe very flat, maybe based around the fifth of the chord rather than the more traditionally melodic root or third, maybe beginning or resolving a full tone or so off of the expected pop-song milieu. Maybe it's a matter of context. I'd heard them referred to as an excellent noise-pop band, and they were not. And yet everything I'm saying they did not-so-well are things I'd excuse in a good garage-punk band -- perhaps that's actually what they are, in reality. In that mode, it worked. Is it worth noting that the main singer played a Fender Squire guitar? That's like the Waterbury of Fender guitars: Close, trying, not entirely "it." Ignore the blogs and approach Vivian Girls as if they were their own thing -- something I'm evidently not able to do.
Missed 76% Uncertain -- again. I don't know if I'm the only person in Connecticut who grew up listening to punk rock yet has never seen 76% Uncertain or what. I've certainly tried a number of times. Hasn't worked out. Pink Eyes gave a shout-out to them, telling us we were lucky to have a band like that in Connecticut that was still active. I think he's right, but I have yet to see in person exactly why. Dammit.
It was an interesting turn of phrase, y'know, considering. But it was seamless, with the smarts and attitude of their set. Aside from having a fairly perfect name, Fucked Up is doing exactly what should be done with hardcore punk rock. If there's a more musically sophisticated, musically smarter band in hardcore right now, I want to know about it, and immediately. Their set proved them to be musically all over the map -- there are elements of art-rock, soul, early rock'n'roll and pop in their material, but they rev it all up and place it into a punk idiom. I wonder if the kids even knew what to do with it. I had to contrast the way the crowd treated them to the way the crowd treated opening band Hostage Calm (a very good old-school hardcore band with some catchy riffs and a totally sick drummer). During Hostage Calm's set, the kids erupted into a circle pit that took up maybe a third of the Heirloom's floor (I watched from the bar area upstairs -- have you ever watched a circle pit from a story up? it's kind of aesthetically interesting). During Fucked Up's set, there was a mass of kids near the stage, jumping up and down, climbing on each other's shoulders and straining for one of Pink Eyes' many passes of the microphone over the audience -- but very little moshing. Were the kids that absorbed, or did they just not know how to dance with this stuff? Can you mosh to the MC5? The Wipers? Fucked Up? I dunno; you'd have to get creative.
Two things worth pointing out: The members of Fucked Up collectively look a few years younger in person than they do in any photo I've seen of them, and Pink Eyes looks... bigger. He pulled off his shirt during the first or second song, and he's a heavy dude. Yet his energy is formidable. He began the set crouched near the front of the stage in a knees-bent hardcore stance and commenced owning the crowd from there. At one point, he mentioned he thought he'd thrown his back out; shortly thereafter he pulled a kid from the audience and told him to take his shoes off and stand on his back as he laid on the stage. There was something special going on between him and the audience.
Vivian Girls played before Fucked Up, and I'd been anticipating seeing them quite a bit, as I've been reading about them a lot -- usually glowingly, yet the songs I'd heard had done nothing for me melodically. Tonight, they sounded kind of like the late '50s or early '60s, if that era had included punk rock as we know it and had happened in space, and "space" was an urban art loft somewhere. Somewhere with a lot of reverb. In other words, they're working with about a zillion Things I Like. But only rarely did I really "see it." They have these great chord progressions that call to mind classic pop music, onto which they occasionally lay squalls of arty noise, but only four or so songs had catchy melodies to speak of. Those songs kind of ruled, but the rest of the set sounded... off. Maybe they were very sharp (vocally), maybe very flat, maybe based around the fifth of the chord rather than the more traditionally melodic root or third, maybe beginning or resolving a full tone or so off of the expected pop-song milieu. Maybe it's a matter of context. I'd heard them referred to as an excellent noise-pop band, and they were not. And yet everything I'm saying they did not-so-well are things I'd excuse in a good garage-punk band -- perhaps that's actually what they are, in reality. In that mode, it worked. Is it worth noting that the main singer played a Fender Squire guitar? That's like the Waterbury of Fender guitars: Close, trying, not entirely "it." Ignore the blogs and approach Vivian Girls as if they were their own thing -- something I'm evidently not able to do.
Missed 76% Uncertain -- again. I don't know if I'm the only person in Connecticut who grew up listening to punk rock yet has never seen 76% Uncertain or what. I've certainly tried a number of times. Hasn't worked out. Pink Eyes gave a shout-out to them, telling us we were lucky to have a band like that in Connecticut that was still active. I think he's right, but I have yet to see in person exactly why. Dammit.
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