DEATH MAGNETIC
PAPER TRAIL |
THE THEORY OF THE AUTOMATIC SELLER The media has been predicting the demise of the major label-dominated recording industry for some time, and so far 2008 has been notable for its lack of a huge album. Most of those artists who still shift units apparently were waiting until fall to release something, because suddenly there's a truckload. Metallica's was the first. It quickly went to number one and just as quickly fell off. Reportedly a return to their 80s form after almost two decades of experimentation, Death Magnetic still sounds wimpy compared to current metal monsters like Lamb of God. Nevertheless, what made Metallica the kings of metal--their gift for melody and drama--does seem to have been revived to a certain level. The songs sound like the stuff they wrote for Master of Puppets; in fact, they sound like pale copies, albeit pale copies performed with passion--or is it desperation? As with any metal band, the proof of the pudding is in the strength of the riffs, and guitarist Kirk Hamnett, having finally realized the blues is not his metier, channels whatever talents he still possesses into lightning-fast leads that actually go somewhere. James Hetfield continues to over-enunciate to no real purpose since his lyrics just keeping getting more personal and pointless. Whatever demons he entertains these days aren't half as interesting as the ones who troubled his sleep when he was an alcoholic twentysomething. Some complain that this is just warmed-over hard rock and doesn't compare to the extremes Metallica achieved when they were inventing speed metal. But these days I'll take my hard rock where I can get it, and this scratches that itch just fine. T.I.'s newest sits atop the charts as I write, and it may end up outselling Lil Wayne, whose latest was a hit several months ago, as well as Kanye and Jay-Z, who are scheduled to drop new CDs in a month or two. All three, in fact, trade raps with T.I. on "Swagga Like Us," and if that ain't a coup it's definitely an indication of Clifford Harris's position, regardless of what people think about his upcoming one-year prison sentence for attempting to buy weapons. You can find plenty of pseudo-references to his legal problems here, but mostly what you hear is a guy who would prefer not to let on he's as vulnerable as he is. He even drops his beef with Ludacris in "On Top of the World," which sounds so happy it could be two brothers reuniting after their own separate stints in the can. Of course, it could be commercial calculation. Paper Trail features more guests than an episode of "The Love Boat," and every one figures prominently. One imagines T.I. standing stage left and cheering Rihannon on as she auto-tunes her way to your heart on "Live Your Life." None of these people need to release albums at all. They can just guest on T.I.'s joints forever. |
@#%&*! SMILERS |
Aimee Mann's cult will be as happy with her new album as they always are, but even those who found her last two records too conceptual should be pleased with her return to the kind of melancholy misanthropy that characterized her 90s work with Jon Brion. The title says it all, but the tunes say it better, even if they all blend into one uniform melody. With her lazy nasal singing voice, Mann often sounds less than engaged, thus making her resentments and regrets seem unearned, especially when it's all presented in the same mid-tempo shuffle. But I'll bet my copy of the new Randy Newman album that no one comes up with a chorus as irresistible as "Looking for Nothing" or "Phoenix" or "31 Today" this year, and usually that's all you need to keep the record spinning and the songs settling comfortably into your routine. |
GUITAR MADAM |
Jun Nagami's gimmick is good, which is to say it's unique. It's enough to be a female blues guitarist in Japan, but Nagami doesn't think that's enough. Fast approaching 50, it's likely she gets called "obasan," so rather than resist the label she embraces it. On this album of original material, she samples an array of styles, from swinging jazz to walking blues to stomping funk, and while her picking style won't make Stevie Ray Vaughan's corpse sit up and worry, technique isn't the point. The point is that even a forty-something Japanese housewife gets the blues. She frets about the people her teenage daughter hangs out with and complains about the hours her salaryman mate works. And like any blues singer, she admits to liking a drink now and then. As it turns out, women in starched kimonos and fierce power chords aren't mutually exclusive concepts. |
SNOWFLAKE MIDNIGHT |
Like their co-conspirators in the post-grunge underworld of art rock, The Flaming Lips (they share a producer), Mercury Rev is identified by a singer with an insufferable whine, but at least Wayne Coyne gives the winking impression of putting on an act. Jonathan Donahue doesn't, and the band's re-embrace of orchestral electronics after several albums of guitars places his indiosyncrasies in new relief. Fortunately, the songs are short, the ideas quickly dispatched. Most like-minded groups would draw out a swirling psychedelic mass like "Senses on Fire," but MR wraps it up in less than three-and-a-half minutes. The one long cut, "Dream of a Young Girl as a Flower," threatens to dissolve into its own liquefying sonics until a column of percussion shows up to give everything form and substance. Patience pays off in that MR still know how to produce drama, with or without Donahue's earnest flutterings. |
LONDON UNDERSOUND |
Conceived as a suite of songs about how London has changed since 911, the latest by the omnivorous producer-composer hands the vocal chores over to a carefully selected group. Opening with rapper Natty's description of being caught up in the aftermath of the police killing of an innocent immigrant, the record nevertheless sounds deceptively upbeat, and with each subsequent track things become either heavier or more frantic. Brazilian-Spanish singer Tina Grace does two songs in a light Dido-like voice that comments on the soullessness of our media-saturated surroundings, a thought that's seconded by a gentle pop song in which Paul McCartney elaborates on the belief that his "soul has been stolen," ostensibly by a fair maiden but actually by paparazzi. Found sound interludes ground the album in the real world. Despite the wide-ranging variety it's very much the work of a single, serious spirit, and captivating. |
THE CHEMISTRY OF COMMON LIFE |
A six-piece punk band? You better believe it. Fucked Up have been tearing up Toronto for at least a year and one full-length, and their Matador debut, while slightly over-produced, is exactly the kind of brain-melting hardcore that lapsed 80s kids have been hankering for since Green Day hijacked the whole shebang. Purists might find the song lengths off-putting (opener "Son the Father"--6:30), but since the band doesn't pause between tracks it still feels like classic punk. Mountain-man vocalist Pink Eyes injects his shredded Henry Rollins singing with phlegm and true emotion, and the band isn't afraid of strings, horns or synths, but they're used for dramatic effect, the better to contrast Pink Eyes' explosive caterwaul or the crash of three guitars busting into a room at full roar. I hear they made their name with an 18-minute single blasting the sex industry. They're full of surprises. |
YEAR OF THE GENTLEMAN |
By virtue of his having written at least one song on every hit R&B album of the last five years, Ne-Yo is probably the richest man in music right now, and he doesn't do so bad with his own stuff, either, but until Year of the Gentleman it was easy to dismiss his reliance on formula. But this rocks; or, at least, the first two cuts, "Closer" and "Nobody" sure do. The latter, in particular, is the kind of thing Jacko would have spun off during a bathroom break in his mid-80s heyday, but I have a feeling even if Ne-Yo got the call from Neverland he'd politely pass. He's such a cornerstone of the current R&B zeitgeist that it's difficult to imagine him working for anyone older than Michael's sister. Still, who wouldn't kill for a hook like the one that anchors "Mad," or the chorus of "Lie to Me"? |
OCEANS WILL RISE |
The music of The Stills always starts in a lofty space and then soars higher, which is probably why it's often described as being "anthemic," a word that suggests dynamics the band never really delivers. On the their third album they return to the kind of loud, excitable rock that made their debut a hit and which in turn gave them enough confidence to attempt something earthier on their second. Trying to recapture past glory is a treacherous endeavor, and what sounds good on Oceans Will Rise is not necessarily the songs. Tim Fletcher is such a full-bodied singer in the Bono mold that he transcends the arena rock cliches of "Being Here," whose very title sounds like a U2 tribute. When he lowers the tone, as on the meditative "Everything I Build," it's like he's abandoned ship. Rock doesn't need to be authentic to sound good, but it at least needs to sound inhabited. |
CAR ALARM |
Once the designated pop group of the mid-90s Chicago postrock scene, The Sea and Cake no longer possess the hip cachet such a designation implied. With pop (or, more precisely, "pop") becoming the default descriptor of whatever style is currently piquing the interests of the culturati, the group sounds sort of declasse, what with their reliance on South American rhythms and Sam Prekop's precious vocals. The precision on their new album is so bracing that you may need a warm bath to get the blood moving again. Prekop and co-guitarist Archer Prewitt seem to live in each other's brain, but the record is much more relaxed than their previous work. Car Alarm also points to a high mark of melodic inventiveness for the group, as if they'd finally discovered what fun it is to hang out in a studio and goof around--but not too much. What would the culturati think? |
TIME THE CONQUEROR |
Don't let the beard or the title fool you. Jackson Browne still looks at the world through the eyes of callow youth, marveling at the flashing sea and the pretty pebbles. The act was already old in 1980, which is why he tried singing about lawyers in love and found a second life as an effective champion of oppressed peoples. His first studio effort since leaving Warner is notable for the chamber quality of the music--no rock poses or special guests, just a solid band of bland professionals. Tunewise, Browne can still reel them off, with the sprightly "Off of Wonderland" a brainpan-sticker as good as he's ever written. Still, the fans want guidance and enlightenment, and he mostly reheats past sentiments without adding any new spices. Time conquers everything, as he says in the title song, but Jackson Browne's trite romantic truisms will outlive us all. |
INTIMACY |
Following the ambitious art punk of A Weekend in the City, Bloc Party gets a little harder, a little more hip-hop, and a little less user-friendly. The cacophonous opening number, "Ares," with Kele Okereke shrieking over Public Enemy sirens and banging-on-cans, is a surefire candidate for the skip button, and the subsequent cut, "Mercury," isn't much more accessible, but it is definitely exciting. At first, it sounds as if the band hired the entire Warp label roster to create a racket behind their songs, but most of the credit, or blame, should probably go to Matt Tong, whose drumming manages to hold the chaos in place. Fans will breathe a sigh of relief at the buzzsaw guitars of "Halo," but it isn't really a change of pace, only a change of form. "Intimacy" seems to mean "claustrophobia": the band wants to be in your face, all four of them. |
THIS IS IT AND I AM IT AND... TOO
|
I'm not going to include the entire 31-word title here. Some things just can't be reproduced, and that should probably go for Marnie Stern's manic Alvin Lee guitar style. No one sounds more like she's having a good time making music than Stern does, and the songs on her new album are playful and tuneful. But they're also busier than Grand Central at rush hour, and it requires some effort to absorb them as songs. Apparently, the form, not to mention the circular title, all have philosophical underpinnings, but the childish, trebly glee that infects every cut defies analysis. All it does is get under the skin and keep digging. The high, multitracked vocals on "Ruler" are almost indistinguishable from the twittering guitar arpeggios. One thinks of kindergartners with ADD, but Stern sounds determined and deliberate. What kind of drug does she take to come down? |
DEAR SCIENCE |
ON TVOTR's last album, Tunde Adebimpe proved himself the most daring and able vocalist in rock, and on the group's new one he attains true star power. His swoops and coos and growls on the opening cut "Halfway Home" are the work of an instinctive singer who reacts to a lyric or a riff without pausing to contemplate what might work. And since the band is moving toward a more classical funky groove, Adebimpe gets to act out the sex symbol inclinations that have always lurked beneath the surface--dig those falsetto slides on "Cry." David Sitek's production is clear and bright but also warmer and less raw than their first two records, where the band seemed more comfortable the murkier they sounded. Is TVOTR getting bolder, or just more commercial? If there's a difference, somebody should explain it, because every Brooklyn band should sound this commercial. |
EL Magazine © 2008 Foss Publishing House. All rights reserved
