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(07/09/03 11:53pm)
This album reminds me it's alright to be pissed off and say it and shrug it with a dance step at the same time. "We Don't Stop" is the best single I've heard yet this year, couched in an album of hip-hop dance that focuses on something true even if musically it's a bit repetitive. Michael Franti isn't afraid to have a sense of humor with his agenda, via the politically charged wit of Jurassic 5 or Living Colour (though invariably sounding much different). "Bush war one and Bush war two, they've got a war for me, they've got a war for you," Franti says in that single. Yet the political message falls a step short of firing people up by only stating the obvious instead of suggesting solutions (and having a couple of derivative parts). Follow it up with the title track "Everyone Deserves Music", which is more melodic and peaceful while still carrying a message of the hidden folks trying to get by. They deserve something good too. The album's positive without getting dragged down by the flippant nature of other such funk-fused artists. The guys seem to represent what they write about, advertising sweatshop-free gear on their Web site and playing benefit shows. If the entire album was like the first half of that single, Franti would be looking at many new shock and awed out fans.
(07/09/03 11:48pm)
The connection between the neo-psychadelia of The Polyphonic Spree and cult living is a little too easy to make; it's been done before. But for a band with 23 plus members, pop orchestral arrangements and vaguely alluring lyrics, ignoring the connections would be a fallacy. Leader Tim DeLaughter's (formerly of Tripping Daisy) lyrics pledge sun and positive futures to a generation of would-be-cool, disillusioned teens and 20-somethings (also the age and state of mind of most cult join-uppers). The music is floating, lilting and warm, circumferencing you in those preached upon sun rays. It's good and it's something a little different from your typical pop offerences today, but it doesn't vary much from pattern. Dig below the amused smiles the costumes, piccolos, horns, choral arrangements, Web site games and colorful marketing kits bring, and you won't find much substance. This album, while boasting a 36-minute minimalist synth composition at its end (guaranteed to have a one-time listenability) and four bonus tracks, chances to stir no emotions in you. But if happy, soothing sounds are enough, this is your religion.
(07/03/03 4:00am)
So, Bush is pledging for money to aid Africa. For now, he's promising $100 million in the next 15 months to counter terrorism, later $15 billion over five years to fight HIV/AIDS (despite all the moral baggage that the money comes with, read the news). Though it's been a very long time (in deaths and orphans, not months) after HIV/AIDS researchers and activists asked the most powerful and affluent nation in the world to give enough money put a dent in the fight against AIDS in Africa. Help those who need it most (like the 12.1 million children in Africa whose parents have died of AIDS, many of whom inherited HIV), down with isolationism. But then we'll have to quit being imperialists too. Let's see if it happens. \nThe point is, the leaders in the States have long been Eurocentric, and have cast Africa aside as a forgotten continent. Aside from the millions who have died due to unnecessary disease, war and famine, some unaided or struck down by their own corrupt governments, even in modern times (MUGABE @#%^!!), affluent Americans sit by and watch and laugh at jokes about the little Ethiopian boy on "South Park." Avoiding this unabashed ignorance from our political leaders (Oh thank you, Bill Frist, yet again for your honor and unrestrained moralist wisdom), we, of the 20-something persuasion, often also do nothing and look to our substitute heroes for leadership and hope in times of peril. Musicians. Yup, rockstars. Some have not let us down (enter band names with leftist lyrics here). But you're not seeing the truth. \nYou need to hear Afropop. Be it us stupid Americans who group the music from hundreds of different cultures and many different countries under one title, but yeah we did. (Who's the fucking dark continent? Let's let ignorance and tendencies decide that.) So as not to get too confusing, let's just focus on South Africa. \nIn the short form, South Africans have suffered immensely at the hands of their former government (apartheid, death, violence, necklacing, passbooks, forced Afrikaans learning, children killed by cops, etc...) that still has residual effects even though the African National Congress (Mandela's crowd) has taken over. It takes a while to forget 46 years of governmentally sponsored racism, classism and violence. \nDespite or because of all of the tragedies the people have suffered -- this music is so human it's unbelievable. It's polyrhythmic -- like the many thoughts that chase through your head at once. It's about life, it's about dancing. It doesn't matter that you'll never understand the languages, they're more musical than English anyway, you know what they're singing without knowing. It's RESISTANCE, it's fever, fire, beauty, pain, sadness, all of the basic things that make you remember, every once in a while, when you turn the TV off, that there's a reason to living. There's a purpose to you waking up every morning. Ladysmith Black Mambazo never fails to sound like a succession of beautiful hymns, no matter the group's subject matter or if you're religious or not. Miriam Makeba, the already-accepted-by-America musical, political, beauty, while more watered down than the stuff you have to search for, still sings the most beautiful, depression-inducing story in the Hugh Masekela-written "Soweto Blues." It's educational too. \nIf you find the right album to palpate (check out Shanachie's Indestructible Beat of Soweto) you may, embarrassingly enough, admit that you're not the same as before you heard it. At least you won't think of your new Radiohead or Moby or Metallica album in the same way. And these musicians have done it in the face of all adversity, singing songs that were political simply because of the language they were sung in and how they were put across. These musicians didn't lose album sales when they became political enemies either -- they could be exiled, self for safety or otherwise. \nThat's real rock and roll. \nWhen American music of the '80s began to lean toward electronics, coolness factor instead of communication, we began to lose the point. Aside from roots music, be it grassroots, DIY garage bands to indie rock that's more about the message than the haircut to hip hop that began with frustration and a story to get out, the majority of the filler in our chain record stores today is becoming distant and irrelevant. The point is that with music you can say what you want without the cumbersome dullness of words. Without their limitations. When you start to remove yourself from the music, putting as many machines between yourself and the songs as you can, you lose the only thing that will make you a musician. The one thing all people crave -- Intimacy.
(07/03/03 4:00am)
This bastard actually wrote a song with the lines "What a time for love/love makes it alright." Hurrah, hooray, the man with such an impressive background (has played/is playing with BOTH Hootie and the Blowfish and the Dave Matthews Band) has made a solo album. Fiddle player-gone singer/songwriter (yeah, surprise) Boyd Tinsley's True Reflections is a pile of pacifying, suburban, push-no-limits crap. The only way it could have been released is because RCA's focus group figured trapped 40-year-old housewives with nothing better to do while cooking dinner might put it on in the background. Before, I always wanted to give Tinsley a chance, he almost seemed the most unique of the Matthews bunch -- scrawny and electrified. But as the awful cover art of Tinsley walking down railroad tracks implies (it's an overused metaphor, as anyone in an entry-level photo class knows if you want to try and seem prophetic and are extremely uncreative, head to the tracks) the man is just wandering down a lost path and has nothing striking to say about it. It's an album full of boring "love" songs. The worst thing about Reflections is Tinsley covered Neil Young's "Cinnamon Girl," and made the king of isolation and disgruntled respect sound like an easy-listening version of a long-haired frat boy playing acoustic guitar on his front stoop. Tinsley makes bad songs sound like worse stereotypes. There's no excuse for music like this.
(07/03/03 4:00am)
Who would have thought that evil would be propagated by fluid cello and tinkling piano lines. Bloomington's Murder By Death (formerly Little Joe Gould) takes a fascination with fire and darkness to a beautiful level in Like the Exorcist, But More Breakdancing, a spring release, if only falling somewhat short it's potential. Weird how the kindhearted directors of Octopus Palace seem fascinated with darkness. With an instrumentation of guitar, bass, drums, keyboards and cello, the band's structure leads to a more refreshing take on the ethereal side of indie rock (aside from a predictable addition of a few drum machine loops and samples). The thing is, despite the great start, the songs end up sounding the same after a while and become more forgettable than transcendent. Listeners can guess the builds that are coming. Lyrically, Adam Turla spins interesting phrases mostly, but for example, lets jilted lyrics about a drama queen make him seem deathly 20-something. It's an easy album to sink into, which is good. Hopefully, with time the band will make a record as captivating as it's live show, which is more interesting than comfortable.
(07/03/03 2:38am)
Who would have thought that evil would be propagated by fluid cello and tinkling piano lines. Bloomington's Murder By Death (formerly Little Joe Gould) takes a fascination with fire and darkness to a beautiful level in Like the Exorcist, But More Breakdancing, a spring release, if only falling somewhat short it's potential. Weird how the kindhearted directors of Octopus Palace seem fascinated with darkness. With an instrumentation of guitar, bass, drums, keyboards and cello, the band's structure leads to a more refreshing take on the ethereal side of indie rock (aside from a predictable addition of a few drum machine loops and samples). The thing is, despite the great start, the songs end up sounding the same after a while and become more forgettable than transcendent. Listeners can guess the builds that are coming. Lyrically, Adam Turla spins interesting phrases mostly, but for example, lets jilted lyrics about a drama queen make him seem deathly 20-something. It's an easy album to sink into, which is good. Hopefully, with time the band will make a record as captivating as it's live show, which is more interesting than comfortable.
(07/03/03 2:34am)
This bastard actually wrote a song with the lines "What a time for love/love makes it alright." Hurrah, hooray, the man with such an impressive background (has played/is playing with BOTH Hootie and the Blowfish and the Dave Matthews Band) has made a solo album. Fiddle player-gone singer/songwriter (yeah, surprise) Boyd Tinsley's True Reflections is a pile of pacifying, suburban, push-no-limits crap. The only way it could have been released is because RCA's focus group figured trapped 40-year-old housewives with nothing better to do while cooking dinner might put it on in the background. Before, I always wanted to give Tinsley a chance, he almost seemed the most unique of the Matthews bunch -- scrawny and electrified. But as the awful cover art of Tinsley walking down railroad tracks implies (it's an overused metaphor, as anyone in an entry-level photo class knows if you want to try and seem prophetic and are extremely uncreative, head to the tracks) the man is just wandering down a lost path and has nothing striking to say about it. It's an album full of boring "love" songs. The worst thing about Reflections is Tinsley covered Neil Young's "Cinnamon Girl," and made the king of isolation and disgruntled respect sound like an easy-listening version of a long-haired frat boy playing acoustic guitar on his front stoop. Tinsley makes bad songs sound like worse stereotypes. There's no excuse for music like this.
(07/03/03 2:25am)
So, Bush is pledging for money to aid Africa. For now, he's promising $100 million in the next 15 months to counter terrorism, later $15 billion over five years to fight HIV/AIDS (despite all the moral baggage that the money comes with, read the news). Though it's been a very long time (in deaths and orphans, not months) after HIV/AIDS researchers and activists asked the most powerful and affluent nation in the world to give enough money put a dent in the fight against AIDS in Africa. Help those who need it most (like the 12.1 million children in Africa whose parents have died of AIDS, many of whom inherited HIV), down with isolationism. But then we'll have to quit being imperialists too. Let's see if it happens. \nThe point is, the leaders in the States have long been Eurocentric, and have cast Africa aside as a forgotten continent. Aside from the millions who have died due to unnecessary disease, war and famine, some unaided or struck down by their own corrupt governments, even in modern times (MUGABE @#%^!!), affluent Americans sit by and watch and laugh at jokes about the little Ethiopian boy on "South Park." Avoiding this unabashed ignorance from our political leaders (Oh thank you, Bill Frist, yet again for your honor and unrestrained moralist wisdom), we, of the 20-something persuasion, often also do nothing and look to our substitute heroes for leadership and hope in times of peril. Musicians. Yup, rockstars. Some have not let us down (enter band names with leftist lyrics here). But you're not seeing the truth. \nYou need to hear Afropop. Be it us stupid Americans who group the music from hundreds of different cultures and many different countries under one title, but yeah we did. (Who's the fucking dark continent? Let's let ignorance and tendencies decide that.) So as not to get too confusing, let's just focus on South Africa. \nIn the short form, South Africans have suffered immensely at the hands of their former government (apartheid, death, violence, necklacing, passbooks, forced Afrikaans learning, children killed by cops, etc...) that still has residual effects even though the African National Congress (Mandela's crowd) has taken over. It takes a while to forget 46 years of governmentally sponsored racism, classism and violence. \nDespite or because of all of the tragedies the people have suffered -- this music is so human it's unbelievable. It's polyrhythmic -- like the many thoughts that chase through your head at once. It's about life, it's about dancing. It doesn't matter that you'll never understand the languages, they're more musical than English anyway, you know what they're singing without knowing. It's RESISTANCE, it's fever, fire, beauty, pain, sadness, all of the basic things that make you remember, every once in a while, when you turn the TV off, that there's a reason to living. There's a purpose to you waking up every morning. Ladysmith Black Mambazo never fails to sound like a succession of beautiful hymns, no matter the group's subject matter or if you're religious or not. Miriam Makeba, the already-accepted-by-America musical, political, beauty, while more watered down than the stuff you have to search for, still sings the most beautiful, depression-inducing story in the Hugh Masekela-written "Soweto Blues." It's educational too. \nIf you find the right album to palpate (check out Shanachie's Indestructible Beat of Soweto) you may, embarrassingly enough, admit that you're not the same as before you heard it. At least you won't think of your new Radiohead or Moby or Metallica album in the same way. And these musicians have done it in the face of all adversity, singing songs that were political simply because of the language they were sung in and how they were put across. These musicians didn't lose album sales when they became political enemies either -- they could be exiled, self for safety or otherwise. \nThat's real rock and roll. \nWhen American music of the '80s began to lean toward electronics, coolness factor instead of communication, we began to lose the point. Aside from roots music, be it grassroots, DIY garage bands to indie rock that's more about the message than the haircut to hip hop that began with frustration and a story to get out, the majority of the filler in our chain record stores today is becoming distant and irrelevant. The point is that with music you can say what you want without the cumbersome dullness of words. Without their limitations. When you start to remove yourself from the music, putting as many machines between yourself and the songs as you can, you lose the only thing that will make you a musician. The one thing all people crave -- Intimacy.
(06/26/03 4:00am)
Tricky does a better job admitting his fears through music than titling his newest Vulnerable -- the overstatement almost does him an injustice by reducing his depth to a cliché. His textured electronica is a mixture of beats and fittingly barely-strange samples, with old-time sounding blues harmonicas mixed piecemeal with the drum machines. But the haunting necessity of this 13-song disc comes in the vocals. Tricky fades a dark, slightly off-rhythm ghost of a backing voice underneath the yearning rasp of Liz Constantine. The duo reaches its uncertain peak repeatedly demanding answers, but not expecting them, from God (once in a cover of XTC's "Dear God") with an accusing need. Tricky and Constantine play off of each others' determined unknowingness as the only two voices in the nuked-out city of sound Tricky's created. They are walking down the empty Times Square, searching for something of substance and someone to hold onto, minus any dues-ex-machina ending. Aside from these honest, conceptual motifs, the backing music is fittingly representative. From mildly punk-based tunes to a Cure cover ("Love Cats") to lonely balladry, Tricky covers enough material without mimicking.
(06/26/03 4:00am)
Winsome, wishful, witless. It always seems that the poets who compare love to nature are straining to capture some sort of profound redundancy, something that makes them seem wise and outer-worldly. Is man afraid to admit that he has created anything beautiful? The beauties of awkwardness and bashful mistakes are lost on the Pernice Brothers, who stretch for pleasing pop melodies mildly drifting amongst lyrics of romanticism that are so universal they're vaguely forgettable. The charm of "her eyes as kind as the morning rain" or some bullshit line like that lost its glimmer a very long time ago. With Yours, Mine and Ours, the heartbroken dreaming of the Brothers leads the formerly alt-country musicians (lead singer, Joe Pernice, is formerly of the Scud Mountain Boys) to pop diversions with mediocre success. As they say, it's "so familiar that it feels so strange." Finely-crafted, nicely produced, these guys could use some spice in their lives and music. While trying to spin themselves toward a heavenly escape, the Brothers will leave you reaching for something more attainable, like the beauty of a well-kept city sidewalk, split toward the end by a misplaced crack.
(06/26/03 2:25am)
Winsome, wishful, witless. It always seems that the poets who compare love to nature are straining to capture some sort of profound redundancy, something that makes them seem wise and outer-worldly. Is man afraid to admit that he has created anything beautiful? The beauties of awkwardness and bashful mistakes are lost on the Pernice Brothers, who stretch for pleasing pop melodies mildly drifting amongst lyrics of romanticism that are so universal they're vaguely forgettable. The charm of "her eyes as kind as the morning rain" or some bullshit line like that lost its glimmer a very long time ago. With Yours, Mine and Ours, the heartbroken dreaming of the Brothers leads the formerly alt-country musicians (lead singer, Joe Pernice, is formerly of the Scud Mountain Boys) to pop diversions with mediocre success. As they say, it's "so familiar that it feels so strange." Finely-crafted, nicely produced, these guys could use some spice in their lives and music. While trying to spin themselves toward a heavenly escape, the Brothers will leave you reaching for something more attainable, like the beauty of a well-kept city sidewalk, split toward the end by a misplaced crack.
(06/26/03 2:21am)
Tricky does a better job admitting his fears through music than titling his newest Vulnerable -- the overstatement almost does him an injustice by reducing his depth to a cliché. His textured electronica is a mixture of beats and fittingly barely-strange samples, with old-time sounding blues harmonicas mixed piecemeal with the drum machines. But the haunting necessity of this 13-song disc comes in the vocals. Tricky fades a dark, slightly off-rhythm ghost of a backing voice underneath the yearning rasp of Liz Constantine. The duo reaches its uncertain peak repeatedly demanding answers, but not expecting them, from God (once in a cover of XTC's "Dear God") with an accusing need. Tricky and Constantine play off of each others' determined unknowingness as the only two voices in the nuked-out city of sound Tricky's created. They are walking down the empty Times Square, searching for something of substance and someone to hold onto, minus any dues-ex-machina ending. Aside from these honest, conceptual motifs, the backing music is fittingly representative. From mildly punk-based tunes to a Cure cover ("Love Cats") to lonely balladry, Tricky covers enough material without mimicking.
(06/19/03 4:00am)
Too bad Jack White decided to guest on this album, thereby lowering his IQ by association. Electric Six's mixture of neo-hair-metal stupidity ala Andrew W.K., but somehow worse, is an exercise in blandness. You wouldn't think an album attempting to be chock full of adrenaline could be this vanilla, but with lyrics like "Fire in the disco/Fire in the Taco Bell/Fire in the disco/Fire in the gates of hell," and barely-developed attempts at keyboard coolness, Fire is all smoke. For crying out loud, the third track is called "Naked Pictures (Of Your Mother)." Discs like this, with meatheaded attitude, need to be tongue-in-cheek or at least mildly witty to be interesting. Instead, Electric Six is only mildly honest. Sure the lead singer calls for a"solo," but it'd be far more amusing if the solo was any good. White's backup vocals on "Danger! High Voltage" (the disc's single -- also the location of the bad lyrics) are the most interesting thing on the album. But even they are even dragged down by a mediocre attempt at disco-sounding guitar. Later attempts at surf guitar and hair-balladry are equally depressing.
(06/19/03 4:00am)
Former British art student Allison Goldfrapp (with musical partner/composer Will Gregory) paints a picture of electronic mysticism and allure with her second full-length, Black Cherry. With roots in synth-driven eloquence, song titles like "Crystalline Green" tell all. While the vocal and lyrical innocence of tracks like "Black Cherry," backed by synth strings and light percussion, create an enigmatic trap for the dreamy and romantic, other attempts at this sound fall empty. Maybe it's the harpsichord sound or the dull, repetitive drones on "Deep Honey," but some tracks just sound like a spacey French electronica throwback -- the kind that makes for good background music for mods but nothing else. There's more spaciness than enigma. When Goldfrapp gets a little speedier and funkier, with more techno-influenced beats and happier vocals, Black Cherry is more interesting. In the end, the aesthetic of the album is what holds attention instead of any message or technique. Unfortunately, the aesthetic is art school aloofness mixed with vintage trendiness, leaving anyone searching for something to remember in vain.
(06/19/03 4:00am)
I'm sorry if you saw this movie. In fact, I apologize to my younger brother, who I convinced to accompany me. I apologize on behalf of Kerasotes for bringing this dumbfest to town. I apologize to the two ten-year-old boys and their fathers -- the only others at the showing I went to.\nNine years after Harry and Lloyd touched our lives for the first time (which I remember being pretty funny, though I was 12) we are given a glimpse into when they first met, as high school outcasts in the '80s. Harry (Derek Richardson) leaves home school for public institution for the first time and straight through the door runs into Lloyd (Eric Christian Olsen), chipping Lloyd's tooth. Lloyd, somehow a Mexican janitor's son (Woohoo, racist jokes!! Check out the foreign exchange student named "Ching Chong"), lives at the school and takes Harry under his wing for a series of "Dumb and Dumber" throwback adventures. \nThe duo recruits other outcasts to join the newly formed Special Needs class, which is actually a plot by the Principal (Eugene Levy) and his mistress, the Lunch Lady (Cheri Oteri), to embezzle money from the state. By some high-jinxed series of actions driven by high school, reporter-wannabe sleuth, Jessica (Rachel Nichols), the Special Needs class exposes the fraud and everyone ends up happy. \nInconsistencies litter the movie. Every joke seems to be some play off its predecessor. Harry falls in love with a woman, has a shit scene in the bathroom (melted chocolate smeared all over…), they have oddball automobiles (a floor waxer and shopping cart), Lloyd has a fantasy sequence, etc. Then there's flashbacks to events that should have happened earlier in the movie but aren't shown. Even the soundtrack is littered with inconsistencies -- everything from Vanilla Ice to today's punk pop slop (remember the movie is set in the '80s) is strewn about carelessly. Harry and Lloyd aren't just stupid, they have the personalities of six-year-olds and are at least partly mentally handicapped. In 1994, you could believe there were stupid people out there like Harry and Lloyd. Now, you're just waiting for the act to let up. \nOh yeah,beware of a cameo by Bob Saget.
(06/19/03 12:17am)
I'm sorry if you saw this movie. In fact, I apologize to my younger brother, who I convinced to accompany me. I apologize on behalf of Kerasotes for bringing this dumbfest to town. I apologize to the two ten-year-old boys and their fathers -- the only others at the showing I went to.\nNine years after Harry and Lloyd touched our lives for the first time (which I remember being pretty funny, though I was 12) we are given a glimpse into when they first met, as high school outcasts in the '80s. Harry (Derek Richardson) leaves home school for public institution for the first time and straight through the door runs into Lloyd (Eric Christian Olsen), chipping Lloyd's tooth. Lloyd, somehow a Mexican janitor's son (Woohoo, racist jokes!! Check out the foreign exchange student named "Ching Chong"), lives at the school and takes Harry under his wing for a series of "Dumb and Dumber" throwback adventures. \nThe duo recruits other outcasts to join the newly formed Special Needs class, which is actually a plot by the Principal (Eugene Levy) and his mistress, the Lunch Lady (Cheri Oteri), to embezzle money from the state. By some high-jinxed series of actions driven by high school, reporter-wannabe sleuth, Jessica (Rachel Nichols), the Special Needs class exposes the fraud and everyone ends up happy. \nInconsistencies litter the movie. Every joke seems to be some play off its predecessor. Harry falls in love with a woman, has a shit scene in the bathroom (melted chocolate smeared all over…), they have oddball automobiles (a floor waxer and shopping cart), Lloyd has a fantasy sequence, etc. Then there's flashbacks to events that should have happened earlier in the movie but aren't shown. Even the soundtrack is littered with inconsistencies -- everything from Vanilla Ice to today's punk pop slop (remember the movie is set in the '80s) is strewn about carelessly. Harry and Lloyd aren't just stupid, they have the personalities of six-year-olds and are at least partly mentally handicapped. In 1994, you could believe there were stupid people out there like Harry and Lloyd. Now, you're just waiting for the act to let up. \nOh yeah,beware of a cameo by Bob Saget.
(06/19/03 12:11am)
Former British art student Allison Goldfrapp (with musical partner/composer Will Gregory) paints a picture of electronic mysticism and allure with her second full-length, Black Cherry. With roots in synth-driven eloquence, song titles like "Crystalline Green" tell all. While the vocal and lyrical innocence of tracks like "Black Cherry," backed by synth strings and light percussion, create an enigmatic trap for the dreamy and romantic, other attempts at this sound fall empty. Maybe it's the harpsichord sound or the dull, repetitive drones on "Deep Honey," but some tracks just sound like a spacey French electronica throwback -- the kind that makes for good background music for mods but nothing else. There's more spaciness than enigma. When Goldfrapp gets a little speedier and funkier, with more techno-influenced beats and happier vocals, Black Cherry is more interesting. In the end, the aesthetic of the album is what holds attention instead of any message or technique. Unfortunately, the aesthetic is art school aloofness mixed with vintage trendiness, leaving anyone searching for something to remember in vain.
(06/19/03 12:09am)
Too bad Jack White decided to guest on this album, thereby lowering his IQ by association. Electric Six's mixture of neo-hair-metal stupidity ala Andrew W.K., but somehow worse, is an exercise in blandness. You wouldn't think an album attempting to be chock full of adrenaline could be this vanilla, but with lyrics like "Fire in the disco/Fire in the Taco Bell/Fire in the disco/Fire in the gates of hell," and barely-developed attempts at keyboard coolness, Fire is all smoke. For crying out loud, the third track is called "Naked Pictures (Of Your Mother)." Discs like this, with meatheaded attitude, need to be tongue-in-cheek or at least mildly witty to be interesting. Instead, Electric Six is only mildly honest. Sure the lead singer calls for a"solo," but it'd be far more amusing if the solo was any good. White's backup vocals on "Danger! High Voltage" (the disc's single -- also the location of the bad lyrics) are the most interesting thing on the album. But even they are even dragged down by a mediocre attempt at disco-sounding guitar. Later attempts at surf guitar and hair-balladry are equally depressing.
(06/12/03 4:00am)
When you're an outcast, you feel it. \nYou know the stares from the other kids at work. Smoker. Tomboy. You're into Xiu Xiu, can't recommend DMB or 50 Cent. Grandaddy, not Pete Yorn. Maybe you can't pay attention so well. Dripped paint on the blueprints. Drifted off with the last instructions, completed your menial task the wrong way. You're almost 21; thought this feeling and the breakouts would have faded away with high school. \nNot a Republican or Demohipocrat. Not a hippie, not gangster. More mod, only very slightly punk. Black leather jacket, worn, not trendy. And even with "High Fidelity," everyone knows that the skinny (or fat) guy with the headphones on isn't really cool. \nYou are the girl who isn't the type to take to bars. You are the guy who drinks alone. Slopass. Ambitious. Workaholic. Scenester. Vegetarian (though it's amazing, I think the novelty and tweeness of it is making it more widely accepted, and hey, people say it's healthy). You'd rather listen to albums; down with house parties. You have a corner in the office, almost. You are too loud or too quiet. They can't make up their minds. Your boyfriend is somewhat off to the rest of the crew, but that's preferable. Your girlfriend is beautiful, but in a strange dirty t-shirt sort of way. Or you're alone. You cut yourselves together. It's too much oxycotin and snorting darvocet. Or maybe you just photographed the whole debacle.\nBut the blind leading the bled only leads to self-separation. It's inevitable, if you start feeling the outkastia now, it'll train you to withdraw in the future. It's hard enough to learn to love when you'd rather stay at home -- worse, when it's reinforced. \nThink of the type you know, the kind that could be saved by some measly part in a rock band. Charlie Manson was that way, you know. Just check out the Beach Boys' cover of his tune. Neil Young said it could have sanified the guy, somewhat. So you try to play the drums, sit in the back, keeping time, missing a high hat, squeaking bass pedal, when all the while your critics remind you it only started in March and you can't be good enough.\nYou knew you were different from the age of 10. Don't try to hide it, people will only think you're a stoner. But it's not what they think. It's the red lamp you painted that's waiting to be taken home, because you finally have one. It's the banjo in the corner that's easy enough to figure out a tune on. It's tossing baseballs at a rooster during work with the other losers. It's being the turntable to your comrade's beat-boxing, and underground hip hop all at once. Fidelity to life, not hookerstyle business ambitions. I found myself questioning if I would fit in when I move to Olympia, with all the real players and weird kids and photographers. I needed to ask. That's depressing. \nHandsome boy, don't pay your $60, you'll make it on your own. Just find a 6/4 time signature to learn the rhythm to, and you've got it. Snap. It's on, between bleak history and the impending heartbreak. \nGrab you're guitar, avoid the helter-skelter that's waiting for you. Manson should have pulled a Marianne Faithful. \nIt's why Neil Young, the Replacements and the Velvet Underground are so spectacular. The cool kids all have pretty voices, they don't know what's up. Forget about precision melodies and sad bastard harmonies and all that sissy music. No more Frank Sinatra records, come on.\nDon't worry, you were born a musician.
(06/12/03 4:00am)
Man, this band is annoying. From cutesy-everything to boring, kitsch lyrics to the damn flute that sneaks in every once in awhile, The Essex Green knows how to make a rut for itself. The sad thing is, the album seems to have a good premise. \nAt first listen, the clear prettiness of the sound strikes, lasting right about until you realize that while the songs are all structured differently, they add up to about the same thing. What's really disappointing is the little bits of promise the band shows that never quite come together. Vocalist/keyboardist Sasha Bell can hit the sweet note -- but only bothers to twice on the disc. Other times she's heard nearing delicate beauty but then just falls flat and plain, and some of the tracks are near monotone. Other times, the interesting quirks of drummer Tim Barnes pick up, just to be glossed over by some mediocre melody or cutesy bouncing guitar or keyboard part. A tip-off to the unbearable tweeness of the Green is the band's former association with Kindercore, a label with such prestige that it boasts the lameness that is The Four Corners. That's the problem with The Essex Green, the band shows a glimmer of hope, but then just turns lame. Maybe they'll figure out the magic of sustenance next time.
