Youth Lagoon revolves around Trevor Powers on the keyboard, and at the Red Palace on Sunday night, he brought in a full crowd of devoted and youthful fans.
Youth Lagoon also contains an unassuming, excellent, and intensely-focused guitarist. In addition to the two players, the show consisted of rifle-shot pre-programmed drum beats and a couple lamps with red light-bulbs. But it was all about Powers, who controls the attention of the crowd effectively even though he is not a typical or forceful front man. He does not carry the stage with power, but rather through his well-placed instrumentation and modesty.
The Drums have a schtick, and they do it well. At the Black Cat Sunday night, bass lines were steady, sliding up and down. The guitars (they switched between a single guitar and a two guitar lineup) darted, repeating single notes and then expanding to notes close by, sometimes lingering, sometimes flitting quickly.
Instrumentally, their sound borrows from the more guitar-oriented songs of the New Order, with some of the vocal melodrama of The Cure. Drums pounded at a constant and rapid pace throughout, there were mild touches of synths, and a whole lot of harmonized “oohs” and “aahs,” especially at the end of songs, where the band tended to “ooh” and “aah” until they stopped on a dime. It all worked—the crowd was dancing and swinging and swaying and generally trying their best to mimic the antics of lead singer Jonathan Pierce.
M83 played the Black Cat Friday in a blaze of flashing lights.
The band was alternately silhouetted and shadowed, highlighted and obscured. Sometimes powerful riffs appeared punctuated by a bright green laser-like beam that shot out over the crowd. It was one of the more involved stage set-ups I’ve seen at the Black Cat. While M83’s image was obscured their sound was not; from their hazy platform, they rained down shimmering guitars, ascending synth lines, and funky bass riffs.
Everything about Dawes’ live show blows away their recordings. At the Black Cat Monday night, they were barbed but somehow intimate, loose but steady, familiar yet also fresh. It was easy to see why they had packed the place with a cadre of devoted followers ready to swoon and sing along (sometimes both at the same time).
On Dawes albums, bits of songs sound like great songs that exist deep in your brain—harmonies from the Grateful Dead, The Band’s cheeky shuffle, story-telling like Paul Simon, guitar pyrotechnics from Neil Young. But in live performance, the songs take on a life entirely of their own.
Dawes sing in voices tinged with twang and dust; there are strumming guitars, tinkling pianos, and solid rhythm sections. Their songs are simple stories of love and loss, home and away, roots and rootlessness. The fuzzy electric guitar melodies sometimes evoke Neil Young, and multi-part harmonies add gravity and a sense of cohesion to the appealing looseness—the chorus of “When My Time Comes” almost rolls into gospel territory. Dawes usually doesn’t move faster than a pleasant lope, but when things go too fast, it’s good to have an anchor to hold on to.
People are always saying that the world is going to end, but until now they might have had trouble picking the proper sound track for its promised demise.
Luckily for them, M83 just released his latest album, Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming, and there are few albums better suited to soundtrack the end of the world—exciting, terrifying, sad, ecstatic, quiet, bombastic, the works. Luckily for M83 fans, the people who keep saying the world is going to end appear to be crazy, so there is plenty of time to listen to the new album.
M83’s Anthony Gonzalez has become a synthesizer reverend of sorts and he is completely and wholly committed to whatever he is preaching. Every little thing matters—from the cosmic to the magic frogs—and it all matters a lot.
Yuck traffic in early ’90s sounds, but their simple template goes further back than that. They are a standard four piece with no extra adornments, and they emphasize cohesion. Lead singer Daniel Blumberg plays rhythm guitar while versatile bass and workman-like drums act as an anchor, and the lead guitar comes out on top.
Both guitarists and the bassist sing (the drummer sings along to every song but sadly didn’t get a microphone at the Black Cat last Wednesday), but they never step on each other’s toes, adding emphasis or harmony when it’s needed. Their instrumentation is similarly tight—guitar chaos never overpowered melody or dragged on, looser tunes never spiraled too far apart. After weak vocals on the opening song, they played seemingly without a hitch the rest of the night.
Wilco came out at Merriweather Post Pavilionon Sunday with a jarring thud, in the form of “Art of Almost,” the first track on their new album, Whole Love. “Art of Almost” begins with electronic beeps over an ominous bass rumble. It’s weirdly funky, but funk isn’t Wilco’s strong suit.
The band debuted several new songs: “Black Moon” is a quiet, love-lorn storm of finger picking and slide guitar, “Dawned On Me” is a cute chugger buoyed by its head-over-heels sentimentality. The title track of the new album has a lovely swing, Tweedy straining to an affecting falsetto. However, “One Sunday Morning (Song For Jane Smiley’s Boyfriend)” shuffles rosily along on a sweet acoustic riff for too long.
Wilco are experienced performers and superb musicians. Jeff Tweedy is a completely charming frontman, and he seems to love every moment he is on stage—it’s impossible not to be caught up in his baby-faced disheveled enthusiasm. He is also highly amusing, at one point thanking the “communists at NPR for helping us to be better capitalists.” (The show was recorded live for NPR.)
Movies spend hours and novels contain millions of pages trying to describe the intricacies of relationships: good ones, bad ones, good ones gone bad. Otis Redding, whose 70th birthday falls on September 9th, 2011, usually takes about three minutes to complete this task.
He conveys heartache, despair, and ambivalence through a voice that cracks with desire and rasps with weariness. Perhaps the greatest soul singer ever, he mashes together sandpapery crooning pleas and scorching screams of joy or pain. You’re never bored listening to Otis: his words, visceral manifestations of love and loss, force their way out of your speakers and hit you right in the gut.
Otis’s path to transcendence was built on a song type I call a “RAF,” which centers around guitarist Steve Cropper’s notes as they slowly Rise And Fall. The bass and piano enter behind the guitar to provide reinforcement. Drums are more muted during verses, but they come on strong, often with horns, to add extra heft to the hook.
This platform forms the basis for Otis’s best songs, songs that unite happiness and sadness into pure, raw emotion. Otis released five classic albums before his death, but he also had a deep vault of unreleased studio material. After his death, Steve Cropper compiled many of these tracks and released them on several discs: Dock Of The Bay, The Immortal Otis Redding, Love Man, and Tell The Truth.
Adam Granduciel, lead singer of The War on Drugs, has one of those tough, weary voices that makes for enthralling song delivery. He naturally embodies the troubles and difficulties of life, and by doing so he lessens them for the rest of us. Granduciel shares former band-mate Kurt Vile’s classic rock sensibilities, love of torn denim, and tousled locks, but he is very much his own man. The War on Drugs covers much-traveled territory musically, but Granduciel’s voice makes it fresh and vital. His latest album Slave Ambient, released today via Secretly Canadian, works its way into those hard-to-reach places in the soul, leaving the listener in an agreeable reverie.
War on Drugs’ songs fit smoothly and warmly into your life like a well-worn sweater. This comfort is noticeable almost instantly, about 50 seconds in, when Granduciel’s voice softly descends, stretching syllables, gently nudging you along. Throughout the album, acoustic guitars strum, drums beat steadily, and brilliant lead guitar courtesy of Granduciel himself floats on top, unassuming but quietly dazzling. Harmonicas and keyboards add to the rich, ramshackle, soothing feel.
At Merriweather Post Pavilion Friday night, opener Neko Case inhabited a mellow country-rock groove. She was a good choice to set the stage for My Morning Jacket, who often build their songs off of a country and blues base. Stand up bass, banjo, and slide guitar all made an appearance during Neko’s set, but her most potent instrument is her own voice. She has the ability to soar or to kill with melancholy cool, bringing to mind Stevie Nick’s best vocal performances with Fleetwood Mac.
When she played songs with stronger, more rock-oriented arrangements, her voice did not get as much space as it deserved. But on songs like “Star Witness,” Neko was superlative and sultry, blending with her back-up for breath-taking harmonies or climbing effortlessly above them, her voice washing soothingly over the crowd.
Near the end of her set, Neko thanked the crowd for joining her “to stalk My Morning Jacket,” adding “they’re so furry… and they rock.” She wasn’t wrong; both rock and fur, in the form of beards and sweaty locks, were in abundance. (I can’t speak to the number of MMJ stalkers in the crowd.)
Lead singer Jim James started the evening hurling himself around the stage, hopping from one foot to the other, as the band jumped into a visceral version of Circuital’s opening track “Victory Dance.” James spent much of the night gesticulating and gyrating, his arms thrown in one direction while his hair exploded the opposite way. (James’ hair is a vastly underrated member of the band.) He launched frenzied guitar solos, jumped up and down, and generally led his band like a wonderfully deranged hooligan, howling, screaming, and crooning as the occasion demanded, a versatile, enthusiastic, and often riveting front man.
The best rock ‘n’ roll is the musical incarnation of a huge melting pot: elements of blues, country, soul, funk, gospel, folk and whatever else is lying around, thrown together and stirred around into a potent stew. The music of My Morning Jacket is one of the tastiest dishes you can find, every spoonful delicious in a different way.
MMJ’s bass covers the full spectrum from groovy and elastic to ominous and rumbling; guitars play fiery blues licks, gentle acoustic patterns, or churning climbing runs with equal verve; there are horns, strings, organs—you name it. And lead singer Jim James adapts himself to whatever stellar sounds are bubbling up behind him. Of course, we have a pair of lawn tickets to give away for their show at Merriweather Post Pavilion this Friday (8/12).
Dom’sfirst release, the Sun Bronzed Greek Gods EP, is the embodiment of pop brevity: seven songs clocking in at just nineteen minutes. Two synth jams, the bleeping juggernaut “Livin’ in America,” and the gleefully isolationist anthem “Burn Bridges” garnered the most attention. But Dom’s sound is defined more by guitars than synths—one guitar usually scuzzed up, one clearer—and low, murky drums that flutter unpredictably. Cymbals slip and slide around these beats to create a dilapidated, propulsive shuffle.
Greek Gods’ best song, “Rude as Jude,” moves from churning guitar on the hook to sweet, chiming guitar during verses, all atop of stuttering percussion. During the bridge, the churner falls out behind the chimer before both guitars unite and the vocals drop back in, mumbled, sugary, and irresistible.
Dom’s newest EP Family of Love, released today via Astralwerks, loses the murk and scuzz in favor of pristine drums, shiny guitars, and studio effects, but the underlying magic hasn’t changed; he still has a way with sugary irresistibility. Family Of Love opens with “Telephone,” a groovy nugget that suffers from the whooshing effects in the background, which obscure the goofy telephone tone riff.
The title track follows, bouncing along and displaying the same gorgeous interplay between instruments as “Rude As Jude”—this time between synth and guitar. “Damn,” which has been floating around the internet for weeks, is another loner anthem buoyed by stellar guitars.
Imagine you’re at bar trivia and you receive three clues: 1) This band’s album was produced by the same guy who produced The Smashing Pumpkins. 2) This band is named after heart-ache. 3) This band sings things like “Tell me again what the bodies for/ ‘cause I can’t feel it anymore/ I want to hurt like it did before.” When did this band make music?
The answer has to be the early ‘90s, when angst ruled the airwaves and guitars were the instrument for deep introspection. But the band, The Pains of Being Pure at Heart, released Belonga few months ago—just the latest sign that early ‘90s rock has been enjoying a well-deserved resurgence. In addition to The Pains, Big Troubles and Yuck also put out excellent albums indebted to sounds from that period, ranging from the hazy explosions of My Bloody Valentine to the simple yet cryptic riffs of Pavement.
The Pains of Being Pure at Heart draw from fuzz-and-jangle bands like The Darling Buds or the bubble grunge (more bubble, less grunge) of Velocity Girl.
Sonny & The Sunsets love tunes from the late 1950s and 1960s. This is a mythical period for music making: a time of constant invention, a rare uniting of the commercial and the creative in the music business. The top 40 was cranking out amazing songs on those weird radio things every week, records reigned supreme (and they were cheap! and record companies made money!), and every sweet, innocent chorus rang true.
But it is important to remember that just like any other time period, there were plenty of bad bands hanging around in the ’60s too, and a lot of boring imitation.
For a group deeply immersed in sounds from this period, like Sonny & The Sunsets, the connection can be both a gift and a curse. Everyone loves grooving to a swinging baseline, some easy guitar strumming, and honeyed backing vocals, but it’s hard for an artist building off these elements to establish a personality.
