Category: Music Reviews
BRONCHO: ‘Bad Behavior’
When formulating ideas for new music, BRONCHO bandleader Ryan Lindsey could not help but focus on the bad things. While spending a lot of time watching CNN, he says, “…man, there’s a lot of bad behavior out there. Not to mention, there’s a company making money off of people watching their depiction of it all.” Shortly after this, the Tulsa-based five piece examined scandalous topics and how they relate to themselves, and perhaps how they affect the world around them.
Drugs, sex, overindulgence, and other vices: one could argue that this is the perfect framework for BRONCHO’s most broad and murky release to date. Instead, thanks in part to a recording process allowing them to work at their own pace, we are offered a well-constructed, uncomplicated record of pop tracks. Bad Behavior is BRONCHO at all of their bests, combining intelligent and swift songwriting with broad, yet thoughtful musings on a sinful society.
Bad Behavior has a musical center, but what makes the the album so impressive is their ability to loop out into other sounds before returning to ground. “All Choked Up,” the album’s opener, relies entirely on the beat in both its vocal and instrumental cadence. The result is a faded, libidinous march reminiscent of Tobacco. It’s the perfect track to match with the album’s not-subtle artwork of red cherries and extended tongues.
The tracks that follow keep this confrontational theme with pulled back instrumentation, leaving plenty of room to ponder in the space. This doesn’t break until “Keep It in Line,” the most single-worthy song, playing with the delayed, peppy beat iconic through much of the beach pop of the past decade. Lyrically, this is some of their most impressive work to date, where Lindsey addresses “bad behavior” in himself, expressing a disappointment in his own actions. The lines are the most memorable of the album and serves as a sugary bridge into the album’s second half.
“Keep It in Line” is even more impressive when coupled with its following track, “Sandman.” Scaling it back, BRONCHO returns with the same walking beat as the album’s beginning, but this time with much more of a confident swagger. Fleshing itself out with hard-plucked guitar, this is a track with a mission: a return to pleasure, even if it comes at the cost of a return to the uncouth. “Sandman” leans harder on past classical pop influences than much of the rest of the album, and the less-is-more approach pays off with a real earworm.
Things get more scandalous in the second half, especially the debaucherous confession of “Family Values.” The songwriting of the last tracks take on a power pop strut a la the Cars, while digging deeper into lyrics of embracing material vice and desire. The closer, “Easy Way Out,” reprises a swagger-filled strut and doesn’t stray too far from its rhythm. Lyrically, it serves as a reminder that even if these themes are tough to come to terms with, you can always take the safe route of embracing the coarseness of society.
For an album to address vice with such a broad stroke, Lindsey states that Bad Behavior is meant to be a tabula rasa of degeneracy, merely reporting back to listeners at the current state on the carnal. “We’re assuming that everyone is coming from a certain set of values, but ultimately that’s impossible.” Without assumption of a moral compass, BRONCHO are free to approach subject matter with honesty and blunt language.
What makes Bad Behavior so notable in the context of BRONCHO’s discography is the simplicity of the songwriting while letting go of the leash on the subject matter. Focusing on this theme would be quite an easy tableau to run off the rails. Instead, BRONCHO bring to light the wanton while also setting up a sound framework to start a conversation on the vice that surrounds our day to day.
7.8/10
REVIEW: Lala Lala – ‘The Lamb’
Lillie West has described her recent past as one of “general violence.” In the midst of writing her follow-up to 2016’s delicate Sleepyhead, West’s inner circle faced home invasions, assault, and death, leaving her running inward, dreading the world outside. Through fear and personal deconstruction, West’s latest album as Lala Lala makes big realizations around strong, unpredictable melodies that always return to the center. The Lamb—out today on Hardly Art Records—is a massive leap forward in songwriting from the Chicago-based artist: a multi-genre exploration of looking inward to project outward.
The Lamb opens with the lead-off single, “Destroyer” – a sitrep of distrust. The most garage-friendly offering of the album, we’re met with a walking beat fleshed out by aggressive strums. West offers up a fear of continued self-destruction alongside a realization that her mistakes were ones that she could have saved herself from.
“Destroyer” would be the perfect opener to a bedroom garage record; West decisively forgoes this in favor of focused exploration. “Spy,” a playful, crunchy ridicule of introspection, is a drum-machine skip teetering on the edge of pop-punk. “Water Over Sex,” a reflection over sobriety, is a true gem, combining choral yawns with surf-toned guitar. West examines the guilt that comes with fun and loss of control, and in the process creates one of her best tracks to date.
This pronounced, echoed motif continues near the album’s median with “Dove”, a reverberating song dealing with what West calls “very plainly about the death of someone I loved a lot and the guilt I had, and still have, afterwards.” The melody lies almost solely with the vocals, as if reaching you in a hallway from being bounced off the surface of the bathroom floor. A vulnerable realization, the song needs very little to take up a large amount of room. This space is given up at the track’s abrupt conclusion, as if the thought leaves one too vulnerable to continue entertaining.
West ventures further with her songwriting chops in the jangle-pop swing of “The Flu.” Bright melodies are the spoonful of sugar to a story of focused self-destruction to the point of hurting others. The contrast is a perfect balance of grime and sheen. This proves an exquisite set up to “Copycat,” a telling of West’s hyper-analyzation in her new sobriety: “Everyone talks this way, everyone looks the same / and maybe one day, I’ll be surprised / with my twin fists and my twin eyes.” There’s a frustration that comes along with expression in a crowd where everyone (including yourself) thinks and reacts the same, and West’s delivery is of pure boredom.
Falling into The Lamb’s second half is a series of impeccably-expressed feelings and new sound tableaus. The album’s shortest track, “Moth,” begins as an aggressive, percussion-less track of dissonance that gives way to dream pop melodies; it’s a treat that lasts just long enough. “When You Die” is a post-punk confessional stemming from the death of a number of close ones in a small amount of time. Much of The Lamb deals with futility, but this is one of the only times when it is met with defiance instead of resentment.
The album’s closer, “See You at Home,” builds off of earlier, airy tones and brings an assurance that cements all of the previous tracks by contrast. The lyrics read like a vulnerable letter left on a countertop by someone stepping out for the first time in a while. The combination of these words with a simple, saxophone-backed melody would have this song easily fit on any Dan Bejar record.
The Lamb is a merciless inspection of one’s values and motivations, and it undoubtedly has not come at a price for West, but this has inspired a record filled with adventurous turns in tone that gel into an authentic, confident snapshot of a woman growing in her dimensions. She has left the house she’s locked herself in without bothering to close the door, and The Lamb is a sonic road map of where she could go next; something entirely up to her.
8.4 / 10.0
Middle Kids are a Force to be Reckoned with on Debut Album “Lost Friends”
An eclectic combination of confidence, self-doubt, love, and lust ooze from “Lost Friends,” the debut album from Australian trio, Middle Kids. The vocals of singer/guitarist Hannah Joy radiate self-assurance, but the lyrics tell a story of uncertainty and woe. Combined with the powerful instrumentals of Tim Fitz and Harry Day, the fresh-faced band navigates rocky waters throughout 12 tracks, ultimately finding their footing and showing promise as a compelling force in indie rock.
The first two tracks radiate angst and frustration, with the opening track “Bought It” expressing immense, hopeless frustration. The words, “My friend, I need a little help / To fend the darkness at the end” serve as an introspective, foreshadowing nod to the tracks that follow. It marches on with an uptempo, catchy chorus reminiscent of an early aughts alt-pop sound. “Mistake” continues with a similar angst, exploding with sounds that somehow feel pleasantly nostalgic and strangely outdated all at the same time.The lyrics and composition seem like something that would have been written 10 years ago, yet Joy’s vocals thrust it into the contemporary. Despite the too-new-to-be-retro, too-old-to-be-cool feel it gives off upon first listen, it all still lands. The emboldened lyrics are refreshingly relatable, while the powerful, larger-than-life instrumentals are more than impressive coming from a band of three.
The fourth track, “Maryland,” serves as a refreshing break from the chaotic opening three tracks, and the band seems to be settling into their skin at this point in the album. As the tracks build, the album begins to find a new, more mature path that feels more self-assured than the upbeat, mystified jolts of energy found in the opening tracks. Lost Friends continues to build from here, with “On My Knees” expressing lost bewilderment that’s vague enough to be relatable, telling a heartfelt, compelling story of the ever-winding frictions of life and love.
Pieces of the album show great promise for the future of the band, although there are points where the trio’s maturity as a band falters. At parts, the lack of complex emotions exposes weaknesses in the lyrics. “Don’t Be Hiding” feels shallow and uniform in comparison to the labyrinth of emotions and sounds the band is so clearly capable of. But, while the listener is left wanting more off and on throughout the tracks, the complex scope of arrangements shows promise for the future of Middle Kids’ development.
The scatterbrained, diverse organization of the tracks in the album actually become a redeeming quality, conveying vulnerability, empathy, and accessibility. The title track is tear-jerking and exposing, showing a naked fearlessness that so many artists fall short of finding. Overall, the unwavering fortitude in the band’s musical tone, combined with the confessions of hopelessness and confusion found within the lyrics, establish Middle Kids as a force to be reckoned with for many albums to come.
Melody’s Echo Chamber: ‘Bon Voyage’
The time between albums for Melody Prochet has been close to six years, and that span can be categorized by loss and rediscovery. In the initial recording of Melody’s Echo Chamber’s follow up to her acclaimed self-titled debut, Prochet abandoned the first attempt, describing it as a “dead baby”. Choosing to go it alone and end her work with Tame Impala’s Kevin Parker, Prochet dove head first into new, but familiar attempts at self-expression. She returned to her childhood conservatory to learn drums, and upon finishing, picked up several other instruments in attempt to connect with her innermost music psyche. Enlisting the aid of Sweden’s torchbearers of psyche rock, Frederik Swahn (The Amazing) and Reine Fiske (Dungen), Bon Voyage is a short and wild odyssey that explores the anima of Prochet, often with neglect to focus and time.
Bon Voyage‘s opener, “Cross My Heart”, is a quick plunge into psychedelic guitar work, backed by a marching beat, as if some sort of rowing cadence into the Bermuda Triangle. If you were excited at the prospect of a Melody’s Echo Chamber album backed by Dungen and The Amazing, this is the song you were hoping for. The song breaks down one third of the way in to an unexpected blend of scat singing, a hip hop beat, and flutes. The album takes its time in this odd juxtaposition; a theme for this record. While this does come together in a more traditional psych sound, it is abundantly clear that Prochet made this album to experiment with her influences and have fun.
If there is anything on Bon Voyage that resembles a comfort zone, it’s “Breathe In, Breathe Out”, a breathy, arousing track that lives in its looseness. However, even the familiar gives way to a tempo and key change, teeing up to a freefalling power chorus. Playful “oohs” and “ahs” keep the tone light, but the track ends abruptly after creating such a sprawling path.
Timing is an issue throughout much of this record. Prochet’s admiration of Stereolab and Broadcast are on display in the beginning “Desert Horse”, a post-punk track that envelops itself in the avant-garde. It’s an experiment with influences of Can and Neu!, splashing together dialogue breaks with vocoder looping, and while it all seems chaotic, it ends without exploring this influences in the room the track has created for itself. The track has space to move beyond admiration of other artists, and Prochet cuts a tempestuous ride short.
While some songs end before coming to fruition, there are others that take space and remain in it long past its delivery. “Quand Les Larmes D’un Ange Font Danser La Neige” is Prochet at her most lyrically vulnerable: “I found somewhere to hide / someone to held by / a safe place to cry.” The song itself is fairly simple: a blooming melody that restrains itself from some of the calamity of other tracks. While enjoyable, the track unnecessarily loops back around and revisits itself after a brief dialogue break, falling apart in small spirals reminiscent of The Amazing.
The album’s closer, “Shirim”, is also Bon Voyage’s oldest offering, released in 2014. It is Prochet at her most straight-forward, beginning with a heavy-handed drum beat and Radio Dept.-esque chiming of chords. Still playful, the track plays like the end of a long ride. While quite pronounced, “Shirim” is a hazy pop song that is a welcome respite from the disorientation from other parts of the record.
Bon Voyage is not necessarily for the same fans of the self-titled record, but it never tries to be. In telling stories from recording the album, Prochet recalls the friendships developed with Swahn and Fiske. It is music made from an affinity to new ways of expression and a devotion to personal discovery. Regarding “Desert Horse”, Prochet says, “It’s the most sculptural and mad I guess, with no real common format. It embodies my difficult life journey these last few years through my own personal desert of heartaches, thirst, mirages, moving sands, disillusionment and of becoming an adult woman in a mad world. It’s a little punk to me somehow.” This album may not have been made for anyone but her, and that is a statement to her journey of discovering artistry in the wake uncertainty. It may not always make sense. It may stop short where we want to hear more, and we may not follow it to everywhere chooses to go, but it is Prochet creating the path for herself. Finding focus on such a voyage will only bring back a stronger artist.
6.7 / 10.0
Courtney Barnett Gets Real on ‘Tell Me How You Really Feel’
The start of Courtney Barnett’s sophomore album, Tell Me How You Really Feel, sets the scene for the chaotic, emotional turmoil to come with the words, “Take your broken heart / turn it into art.” While this first track, “Hopefulessness,” seems to drone on upon first listen, with its slow rhythm and monotonous vocals, it later becomes evident that each layer of the album serves a unique, intentional purpose. While “Hopefulessness” certainly doesn’t shine as a standalone track, it succeeds in easing the listener into the ups-and-downs that come throughout the collection.
In many ways, Tell Me How You Really Feel shows a maturation of Barnett in all aspects. Although the album is contradictory, uncertain and self-conscious throughout, her unflinching dedication to expressing her fears and vulnerabilities continually sets her apart as a daring, introspective artist. Her anger and frustration get the best of her in “Nameless, Faceless,” with the track serving as a nod to Kurt Cobain and a simultaneous jab at double standards in gender roles with the lyrics, “I wanna walk through the park in the dark, men are scared that women will laugh at them / I wanna walk through the park in the dark, women are scared that men will kill them.” Her anger reaches its peak in the explosive “I’m Not Your Mother, I’m Not Your Bitch,” with impassioned, infuriated screeching vocals. This frenzied, aggression-ridden track is uncharacteristic of Barnett’s typical style, but displays a unique versatility reminiscent of the White Stripes.
But it’s not all anger and aggression; Barnett continuously illustrates herself as both poignant and empathetic. In “Need a Little Time,” she’s apologetic, level-headed and self-reflective. Her exasperation with both herself and those around her is a refreshingly relatable contemplation. She continues peeling back her layers, up until the tender final track, “Sunday Roast.” Ending the chaos of Tell Me How You Really Feel with a softer, more loving piece leaves the listener with a welcome sense of calm after the myriad of emotions expressed.
Overall, the unexpected irrationality, self contradictions, and internal battles found in Tell Me How You Really Feel are what make the album so appealing. While Barnett shows her self-conscious side throughout, her creative arrangements, hard-hitting vocals, and fearlessness in self-expression portray a confident, unapologetic artist. The track “Crippling Self Doubt and a General Lack of Self-Confidence” puts it all out there, displaying an unwavering vulnerability largely uncommon in today’s world ridden with Instagram likes and filtered selfies. And it doesn’t stop there. Like most of the tracks on her newest album, “Crippling Self Doubt and a General Lack of Self-Confidence” switches its tune. Just as you think Barnett is full of self-loathing and despair, she lifts the mirror and quickly points out the faults of whoever hurt her (and by the looks of it, someone hurt her). Lesson to be learned from all of this? Don’t f**k with Courtney Barnett. Nobody’s perfect, even her, but if she’s a woman confident enough to put her insecurities on display for the entire world to see and come across this strong, then there’s no telling what else she’s capable of.
Rainbow Kitten Surprise: ‘How to: Friend, Love, Freefall’
On paper, Rainbow Kitten Surprise should be a complete disaster: A North-Carolina five-piece playing moody folk-rock music with spurts of rapping, paired an ultimately ridiculous name. Yet somehow, the band has beat the odds and gained quite a reputation for incredible shows and a distinct sound. On RKS’ third studio effort How to: Friend, Love, Freefall, the band is at its most confident and consistent in its career, with its best album to date.
The success of Rainbow Kitten Surprise stems from its brilliant frontman Sam Melo. The singer’s gorgeous voice and ability to change from soft to loud in a blink makes his voice a powerful instrument. The singer’s growth is fully evident immediately on lead single “Fever Pitch,” as the song begins with Melo’s beautiful falsetto (which thankfully is all over the album) before moving into a rapid-fire rap-like fury. Melo is not necessarily always rapping, but he certainly isn’t simply singing either, which serves as an ultimate strength to the album as the band refuses to fit under one genre.
The band’s vocal skills are on full display early on the record as harmonies between Melo and guitarist Derrick Keller are truly gorgeous. On an early highlight of the record “It’s Called: Freefall,” melodies and slow-building acoustic guitar help carry the song throughout its two brilliant minute runtime. The band’s softer side comes out on the album’s later half on the gorgous “Painkillers.”
That isn’t to say that every song is a wild success. “When It Lands” for instance is the album’s low point as the song tirelessly goes from slow to fast and features Melo’s most careless lyrics about good vibes and hanging out. That being said, there is much more good than bad on this record, including the aforementioned “Painkillers” which immediately follows and brings the album back into focus.
The record is at its best when it sounds more raw and experimental, especially on the delightfully grooving “Hide” . Melo used the release of this song to openly come out, as he sings to his Mom about a new partner. The song moves at a leisurely pace before a guitar solo that screams homage to Modest Mouse catapults the song into a remarkable uptempo filled with huge energy. That Modest Mouse sound is especially evident on the ripping guitar riff of “Matchbox” which is particularly reminiscent of “Dashboard.”
Friend, Love, Freefall is the first Rainbow Kitten Surprise album that works as a full piece of work, which is a refreshing aspect of this record. The songs work towards a greater tone of the record, not just to stand out on their own. The album sets the tone with a 30 second acapela opener “Pacific Love” and closes with one of the band’s most moving tracks to date in the keyboard led “Polite Company.” The band’s attention to detail and focus on creating a distinct sound shows great growth from the band’s subpar 2015 album “RKS.”
The album’s final highlights come with the remarkable closing sequence which begins with “Possum Queen.” The increased role of keyboards on this record greatly help Rainbow Kitten Surprise grow sonically without sounding overwhelmed with new sounds. Melo experiments with his voice as he wanders throughout the song curiously backed with a pounding drum beat that pushes the song in an exhilarating and unexpected way. The song transitions into “Polite Company,” that ends the record on an introspective note. The attention devotion to perspective rather than thrills greatly benefit the second half of the album as it helps change tone from the largely upbeat first half.
As a whole, How to: Friend, Love, Freefall shows Rainbow Kitten Surprise maturing by leaps and bounds as they not only continue to grow their sound but also grow in scope and focus. Backed by Melo’s compelling vocal performance and the band’s many risks, the album stands out as a truly great listen from start to end and is the band’s best work to date.
7.8/10
HINDS: ‘I Don’t Run’
Hinds is back with the release of their much-anticipated sophomore studio album I Don’t Run, and they haven’t strayed from their ultra-cool, garage-tinged rock. Despite Hinds hailing from Madrid, I Don’t Run sounds like it was recorded in an American garage by four dogged women who aren’t putting up with your shit – oh wait, that last part is true. Hinds is Carlotta Cosials, Ana Perotte, Ade Martin, and Amber Grimbergen, a femme-tastic lineup that only ups their mystique amidst international buzz. “Talented” is perhaps the best word to describe the still-nascent band, as Cosials’s vocals effortlessly pierce the air above jangling guitar chords, flaunting the maturity of a band whose second album is even more arresting than the first without needing a soul-searching scramble for identity.
Hinds doesn’t hold back on I Don’t Run; Cosials obstinately sings “dude i get confused i’m not openly yours / and what about the necking when i came / should i’ve known before you were also banging her?” on “Tester,” one of the album’s most brazen songs. Hinds expertly toes a fine line between fun and gritty, between rock and pop – contrast “Tester” with the pop anthem “New For You” or the similarly catchy “Echoing My Name” that follows it and you’ll recognize a band that loves to let loose but is capable of restraint and tight melodies, but never exactly polish. Their lo-fi production is essential to their music, evoking a sense of comfort and relatability; there’s just something about hearing Cosials sing with a hint of weariness “you don’t need a lover but I don’t want – I don’t wanna go” over head-bobbing guitar hook that makes her infinitely human.
Some of the downtempo tracks on the album – in particular, “I Feel Cold But I Feel More” – carry a whiff of The Velvet Underground in their self-assured, minimalist panache. Sometimes this makes their denser tracks pale in comparison, as on tracks like “Rookie,” the layered voices of Cosials and Perrote eventually become grating; the back-and-forth on “Soberland” is a less overwhelming utilization of both member’s pipes, and acts as a testament to the band’s creativity.
I Don’t Run isn’t a far cry from Hinds’ first release Leave Me Alone, but that isn’t a bad thing. A little more vulnerable and a little more ambitious, Hinds continues to capture hearts with their signature easy garage-pop, and although they have claimed their stake in the American music scene, they remind us of their roots with album closer “Ma Nuit” (My Night). Although partially in French and English as well as Spanish, it drifts along on eerie, minor-keyed guitar strums that will transport you to the alleys of Barcelona’s gothic quarter, reminding us that Hinds is gracing our ears from across the ocean.
8/10
Wye Oak: ‘The Louder I Call, The Faster It Runs’
Wye Oak is a band of separation and reconnection. Bandmates Jenn Wasner and Andy Stack are divided by over 1,500 miles (Durham, NC to Marfa, TX, respectively), meeting back to write and record. Forgoing the recording methods of previous albums, the duo approached their latest release with a freer process, allowing them to delve further into the toolbox they’ve built in their decade-long career. The Louder I Call, The Faster It Runs is an exploration of personal reconciliation and the search for power in a life of compromised expectations.
If the sequences and synthesizers of 2014’s Shriek was Wye Oak’s greatest departure, The Louder I Call confidently takes up more space in that change of form. After the introduction of “(Tuning)”, we are met with “Instrument”, equal parts spiraling synth loops and bombastic chords. The end result is effervescent and finds fun between moments of dissonance. The title track is staccato-punched pop flirting with willful ignorance while simultaneously keeping eyes over the shoulder: “Like any other day / we will make the bed / thinking it is dead / It is finally dead.” It’s hard to imagine these songs coming from them were we able to hear them five years ago.
“Lifer” sonically resembles much of what listeners have come to know from the band, but Wasner makes full use of this comfort zone to make some of her largest lyrical declarations in the band’s decade-long career: “The end is kind, the mean is cruel / I have to love the life I make, / make up for all the space I take.” Reconciling success amongst peers can be difficult, and Wasner acknowledges privilege while openly figuring out how to use that for good. Long tonal strokes are the backdrop of these confessions, and the bridge is just as much an avowal to taking advantage of life’s luck as the lyrics. This vulnerability occupies an anxious space between audacity and modesty, fearful of hitting either edge.
There are few bands that exude the confidence that Wye Oak demonstrates with every new release. Their approach may constantly change, but no matter the strategy, it is impressive that they always get their best foot forward. “Symmetry”, the album’s most synth-drenched song top- to-bottom, is a delightfully tenacious spin of bubbly production work, but seems familiar to their past songs. “Say Hello” resembles a lot of the folk-influenced singing of Civilian, built on top of a U2 riff and vocal layering; it is the best example of Wye Oak’s past and current top forms intersecting.
Louder I Call is overall not a departure musically, but thematically, it is an expression of resolution that we have never heard from them. It is not their most cohesive album, nor is it intended to be. Every song together is a testament that sometimes it’s okay to let life happen to you as opposed to approaching every day with attack. Current times are tumultuous, and part of the process of change is acknowledgement, and Wasner’s lyrics make space for that. The album’s closing track, “I Know It’s Real”, croons and builds voice, but ends rather abruptly; to connect, there must be separation.
7.8/10
The Voidz: ‘Virtue’
How does Julian Casablancas want to be remembered? It’s been 17 years since the release of The Strokes‘ Is This It, and I think Julian is finally a little tired of being a Stroke. I never thought that I could have typed this sentence, but I also didn’t ever expect to be this taken aback by a new VOIDZ album. I should have realized when they dropped Julian’s name from The Voidz, I suppose. “Oh, I guess they want to be a real band instead of just a side project” is how I thought about it. And after listening to “Leave it In My Dreams” for the first time, I just kept on thinking about how it only sounded like the Strokes for about eight seconds. But then we got to “QYURRYUS”. WHAT AM I LISTENING TO? WHAT MAN IS THIS? How was this the man that gave us “Last Nite”???
Indeed it is. And he does not give a DAMN what you expect. Where the previous Voidz album left me looking for something more melodic in the waves of super compressed noise, Virtue instead reigns in the noise of its predecessor Tyranny and brings us almost an hour of new jamz (sorry, the z is going to come out a few timez here) for us to wrap our heads around. Ostensibly at the forefront of the main creative process of the Voidz as a whole, this could be one of the biggest creative flexes of Julian Casablancas’ career.
It seems pretty hyperbolic once it’s all typed out, but the sheer amount of genres he crams into nearly every song (and successfully, in my humble opinion) is pretty staggering. Be it the schlocky ’80s hair metal guitars in “Pyramid of Bone” or the ’00s pop piano and hip hop influenced drum sounds on “ALieNNatioN,” or the downright Latin sounding percussion on “All Wordz are Made Up”—and how he uses the vocoder to essentially change the key signature on “Wordz” in the second half—Julian feels in control. Does he make it look easy? You bet. I don’t even know if they can play all of these songs live, since theres so impossibly much going on at once.
Right now: Forget about a legacy. Do you feel it? Is that what rock and roll feels like in 2018? Does it even really matter? Julian Casablancas knows what he’s doing. By some strange coincidence he’s decided that no, he’s not done. This timeline is real weird, but at least our boy still has some jamz in him.
8.5/10
Preoccupations: ‘New Material’
Have you ever been to a rave? No, like a real one. I’m talking about the kind that would be in warehouses, bunkers, or maybe even condemned buildings. What if the new generation of post punk kids all decided to throw a new kind of rave together in that fashion? New Material by Preoccupations asks this question. Are they having a good time? I really hope so. With lyrics this bleak and production this icy I really hope that the dancing is keeping them warm.
Jokes aside for now, there is a different sense of groove present here that didn’t exist on earlier Preoccupations albums. While rhythmically repetitive (read: danceable) like most rave and classic post punk, most of the songs on New Material carry with them a dismal, apocalyptic sentiment, but their anxiety is masked (or more likely accentuated) by the very new wavey melodies employed throughout (look to the Duran Duran-esque chorus of “Antidote” for a bold example). Locking into a groove and sticking with it is what most of New Material traffics in and when the band is successful, I couldn’t imagine anyone ditching the dance floor to watch the sun explode.
When the groove exits, the ambience that Preoccupations has excelled in creating since their first album as Viet Cong comes to the forefront. Album closer “Compliance” creates a transfixing miasma that really shows off the band’s ambient chops. It really does feel like it was recorded in the concrete room on the album cover. The same can be said about the production aesthetic of entire album. True to their roots, the production feels sufficiently frigid and distant at times which creates a sense of something more immediate than full on detachment, but not close enough to feel like any sort of embrace. Instead it feels more like slowly losing yourself in a dense, choking fog with nothing but an array of strobe lights to guide you deeper in. It might feel disorienting at first but there is a deliberate nature to the strobes; a definite modus operandi that never lets itself get obfuscated by the swathes of reverb on the guitars and synthesizers. To disorient and thrill is the name of the game, and Preoccupations are dead set on doing that better than anyone right now.
I really hope those ravers brought jackets, but then again, I don’t think they even care. The world’s ending anyway.
8/10