Yearly Archives: 2000

File under: Eno

Three words: Music for Airports.

In some circles, comparing Radiohead’s Kid A, probably the most anticipated album of 2000, to Brian Eno’s quintessential long-player would be high praise.

But in reality, Kid A bears little resemblance to Music for Airports. Sure, both albums really go for that atmospheric, ambient experimentation, but there are enough A-to-B dissimilarities to make the comparrison a stretch. (Music for Airports didn’t have vocals, for one.)

Yet Kid A achieves the aesthetic for which Eno aimed with Music for Airports — it’s music that works only if you actively ignore it.

Sure, if you’re a Radiohead-phile, listening to Kid A with the aural equivalent of a fine-tooth comb may produce a really rewarding experience, but for the rest of us who stopped paying attention to the erstwhile art rocking quintet from England after 1993’s “Creep,” it’s the most ideal purchase.

Even when you put Kid A in the background of your consciousness, it’s studio savvy still manages to embed itself in your head. It’s one of the neatest tricks to come around in a long while — an album that leaves a lasting impression when you don’t remember ever hearing a single note of it.

Thom York integrates his voice with the rest of the band, de-emphasizing the role of “lead” vocalist on this disc. He could have been singing phenomes like the Cocteau Twins, and it would have made little difference to the outcome of the album.

Which is only partly true. When York repeatedly sings “Everything in its right place” over and over again, you wonder why he’s so insistent on making that assertion. On “The National Anthem,” most of the lyrics are obscured by heavy effects processing, but two words manage to reach out of the hazy fray: “So alone. So alone.”

It’s that well-timed minimalism that makes Kid A an effective work. Radiohead has created music that’s spare on the surface but rewarding on deeper levels.

P.S. You may not agree with his assessment, but Douglas Wolk of the Village Voice wrote one of the catchier leads for a Kid A review. To wit:

Maybe Radiohead had to destroy rock to save it, or maybe they had to destroy themselves in order to save themselves. In any case, with Kid A, they’ve given their core constituency the biggest, warmest recorded go-fuck-yourself in recent memory, a follow-up to OK Computer’s artistic and commercial breathrough that rejects as much of its form, method, sound, and scale as they’re capable of rejects. It’s … really different. And oblique oblique oblique: short, unsettled, deliberately shorn of easy hooks and clear lyrics and comfortable arrangements. Also incredibly beautiful.

Any album that does what Kid A does says “go fuck yourself” to just about everything. Praise be.

And fans might like it too

<!– Link: Meat Puppets
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If you’re wondering whether the new Meat Puppets compares to the old Meat Puppets, you’re reading the wrong review.

Although I’ve heard of the name for years, it wasn’t until last year that I even heard a single Meat Puppets song. A friend of mine was in town for the first time, and the Meat Puppets show at Stubb’s amphitheatre was the only thing that really caught his attention.

We went, and even though I was unfamiliar with pretty much everything the band played, I was left rather impressed.

So I bought Golden Lies when I saw it on the CD rack.

Now if you’re a long-time Meat Puppets fan wondering what non-Meat Puppets fans think of a post-Cris Kirkwood Meat Puppets album, you’re reading the right review.

And, yeah, it’s pretty good. Enjoyable, even.

For some reason, I remember the songs being a lot rockier and louder than how they turned out on CD, but how often do studio recordings ever capture live performances?

It’s obvious from the breadth of the material on Golden Lies that Curt Kirkwood has been around a while. His hooks and riffs sound like they came out of 1981 instead of 1991.

The opening guitar line on “Armed and Stupid” could have been the source material for a lot of Soundgarden songs. (Oh, wait — maybe it was.) “I Quit” could have been an R.E.M. outtake circa 1986. “Batwing” contains a dissonant hook that many bands are too scared to write nowadays.

For a band credited to being progenators of grunge, Golden Lies comes across as being a slick, big rawk album, but Kirkwood’s nasal deadpan is a refreshing break from all the gargling-the-Clorox singers like that guy in Creed.

And who can resist the polka-like beat of “Push the Button” with its cryptic chorus: “The ocean’s parted for the boiling ice cream vendor/The codor circles in the vapor up above/The misses cheering/As the worm depart the apple/The old machinery/Has registered its love.”

If Golden Lies is good enough for someone who’s never heard of the Meat Puppets, maybe it’s good enough for someone who has? Yeah. I know. Not always.

Beyond the target audience

<!– Link: Dexter Freebish
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Tired of the Third Eye Blind-Matchbox Twenty-Goo Goo Dolls kind of bands? Sick of singers who do second-rate Eddie Vedder-Dave Matthews imitations? Had it up to here with post-grunge-lite?

Then you’re a perfect candidate to absolutely hate Dexter Freebish. But you know what? You won’t. Maybe.

I just know I’m as much a target audience for post-Gin Blossoms-Lemonheads watered-down “alternative” pop-rock as I am for, say, Dynamite Hack. Which is to say I hate it all.

But I can’t bring myself to dislike Dexter Freebish, despite their being a textbook example of a ’90s alternative pop band.

Growly singer channeling Michael Stipe and Chris Cornell? Check. Hook-ladened guitars that attempt to retain that oh-so-rustic sound with a lot of muddy distortion? Check. Heavy-handed lyrics depicting simplistic but immediate imagery? Watcha: “She’s the leader of her own world order/She’s a legend in my own mind/She’s the goddess of her own religion/My Madonna, and I can’t believe she’s mine.”

While it’s easy to take cheap potshots at Dexter Freebish’s overtly commercial brand of music, it’s really hard to stay cynical about it.

Maybe it’s because the Austin, Texas, group’s songwriting is actually pretty good. Maybe it’s because the group takes it’s music seriously enough to make it a fun listen. Maybe it’s because, uh, they’re decent.

Or maybe I’m beginning to accept the carcass of alternative rock for what it’s become. Maybe I’m beginning to stop worrying about the decline of rock and love it. Maybe I need a little bit of mainstream, socially acceptable music to counter all the weird crap I keep buying from Japan and South America.

Nah.

A Life of Saturdays is set of well-written songs performed by a tight band that may not have needed the slick production afforded by a major label budget but benefited from it nonetheless. (Which is a lot more than anyone can say about that other Austin group that’s big at the moment.)

But be forewarned — Dexter Freebish can be easily lost among the aforementioned alterna-pop bands, and if you really aren’t the target market for that kind of music, save your cash for whenever Midnight Oil releases a new disc.

Squeezebox rocaroll

When I first heard the opening strains of Julieta Venegas’ “Oportunidad,” I thought I’d encountered a Robin Holcomb album I missed.

Then a drum machine kicked in, and Venegas’ powerhouse voice burst in. The illusion was disrupted, but as it turns out, only for a moment.

Venegas has been compared to Fiona Apple and PJ Harvey, and as a marketing angle, it works well enough. Venegas certainly would fit in the whole women-in-rock-Lilith-power thing, but certain things, aside from her singing in Spanish, make Venegas stand out.

First off, when was the last time Sarah McLachlan ever slinged an accordion? The seminal polka instrument’s sound is vital to Venegas’ brand of singer-songwriter rocaroll.

“Antes,” for example, sports the squeezebox’s timbre effectively complemented by plucked strings. On “De mis pasos,” the accordion supplants the guitar in playing rock’s best loved chord progression, I-IV-V.

And none of it sounds remotely ethnic. Well, maybe slightly.

Venegas’ music is infused with the kind of perilous balance between traditional Latin American music and rock music similar to Café Tacuba. Is it no surprise that members of Tacuba make guest appearances and that the album was produced by Gustavo Santaolalla?

Venegas also possess a voice that can crumble walls as well as Sinéad O’Connor’s but maintains a bittersweetness that doesn’t sound precious. If a Celebrity Death Match pitted Venegas against Jewel, Venegas would whop some major posterior. (In a match with Shakira, however, I’d put my money on Ms. Merabek R.)

But when Venegas trades the accordion for the piano, those reminders of Holcomb pop up again.

Holcomb, who released two albums in the early ’90s that realized a downtown New York aesthetic in folk-pop, shares little with Venegas aesthetically, but it’s difficult not to notice some of the same chord voicing in both their slower pieces.

It’s as if Venegas found Holcomb through six degrees of separation, and Wayne Horvitz snuck into the studio while Santaolalla wasn’t looking.

All of that to say Aquí is a stellar debut from a performer whose music sounds like everything and herself at the same time. Does that make sense?

The velvety Latin underground

Somewhere, in some music rag, some writer described Aterciopelados as “trip-hopping” its way through its music.

For anyone who suffers narcopelpsy at the mere mention of the phrase “trip-hop” — nightmares of Portishead dancing in our heads! — worry not.

Oh sure, Aterciopelados’ music is heavy on the special effects, and most of the group’s song range from slow mid-tempo to slightly faster mid-tempo. But the last thing they are is lethargic.

Aterciopelados translates to “the Velvety Ones,” and it’s an appropriate moniker.

The band’s music is indeed propelled by the usual trip-hop/hip-hop beats, but rather than let them thunder like a superslick dance album, the Velvet Ones make them rumble instead. The result — music that makes you want to dance and chill at the same time.

Like some of its best contemporaries in the Genre Formerly Known as Rock en Español Now Unfortunately Called Latin Alternative, Aterciopelados infuses its brand of, ahem, “trip-hop” with definite Latin music influences.

A slowed-down Latin rhythm here (“El estuche”, “El desinflar de tu cariño”), accordions and trumpets there (“Maligno” and “El estuche,” respectively) — there’s no mistake from which American continent this music originates.

And the marvelous glue which holds all these disparate elements together is Andrea Echeverri’s rich alto. Her easy-going delivery suits Aterciopelados’ contradictory moods. Do you dance or do you take a drag from that reefer?

Probably both. Caribe Atomico suits either purpose well.

His name ain’t Rio

<!– Link: La Ley
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If La Ley can be described as Latin America’s answer to Duran Duran, don’t think this Chilean band does nothing but “Girls on Film” and “Hungry Like the Wolf” covers.

Instead, La Ley takes after Duran Duran’s Liberty and The Wedding Album era. Guitarist Pedro Frugone even cites Duran Duran guitarist Warren Cuccurullo as an influence.

The opening track of Uno has a perfectly telling moment. Right before singer Beto Cuevas tears into the soaring chorus of “Eternidad,” there’s a bass solo that sounds like it came straight from John Taylor’s fingers himself.

But that’s not the only influence informing La Ley’s music.

For Uno, the band ditched most of the synthesizers from 1998’s Vertigo that made them sound somewhere between Depeche Mode and Erasure. Now relying more on acoustic and electric guitars, La Ley sounds like the Cure would if Robert Smith took Prozac, and Maná’s Fher cited the Smiths and Echo and the Bunnymen as songwriting influences.

(One track, “Delirando,” could have come off of a L’Arc~en~Ciel album.)

Without all the keyboard effects, La Ley’s songwriting comes into sharper focus, and while there are a few moments that would make either Nick Rhodes or Neil Tennant proud, Uno is mostly Frugone’s showcase.

Fans of La Ley’s more synthetic sound may actually be shocked by the change, but hang in there — Uno features a set of tunes worth listening to over and over again. The Grammy-nominated “Aquí” is only the tip of the proverbial iceberg — other quick favorites include the dramatic “Fuera de Mí”, the driving “Paraíso”, the twangy “Verano Especial” and the showstopping closer “Al Final.”

As bands are wont to do nowadays, La Ley tacked a hidden bonus track after “Al Final” with Cuevas singing in English. The song serves as subtle warning — this band has a singer that can allow La Ley to take on North America if they so wanted.

And it should.

Predictably satisfying

<!– Link: Soraya
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Do a search for past articles about Soraya, and more than likely, some writer is going to compare her to Sarah McLachlan.

The comparrison is only partly true.

Soraya shares with McLachlan a pristine soprano and very earnest delivery, but that’s where it ends. Unless, of course, McLachlan ever decides to team up with Celine Dion’s songwriters.

Soraya’s music is slickly-produced pop, make no mistake. As such, she shares more with Spanish-singing Italian popster Laura Pausini.

Torre de Marfil is an inoffensive album. It hits all the right spots for a none-too-difficult listening experience — jazzy chords, easy-to-sing melodies, soaring choruses, an occasional flash of ethnic flair, straight-forward hooks.

It’s a well-made product, but on the artistic merit scale, music snobs would have a field day. In short, Soraya is predictable. To her credit, she isn’t cookie-cutter either.

Soraya, who writes her own material, chooses her influences well, and as such, Torre de Marfil works because of its predictability.

“Lejos de Aquí” features an irresistably stirring chorus most cynics would find themselves humming. “El Cruce” thrives on its folk guitar vibe. “Cosas en la Vida” has an electric guitar hook that borders on rocking out.

Soraya’s pristine voice and her unconfrontational music makes for satisfying and plesant listening. It’s no great artistic statment, nor should it be.

It’s like candy

<!– Link: Robbie Williams
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Robbie Williams’ managers were clever.

Rather than risk a series of potential duds, Williams’ U.S. label, Capitol, culled the best tracks from the erstwhile British sex symbol’s first two albums and packaged it as his debut.

The Ego Has Landed was trimmed of filler, and it was one of the guiltiest pleasures of 1999 — a textbook collection of pop that neither disguised its commercial appeal nor totally surrendered to straight-forward formula.

Sing When You’re Winning, as such, is Robbie’s first album released on both sides of the Atlantic without doctoring.

How does it hold up? Very well, actually.

“Let Love Be Your Energy” contains one of the most infectous choruses written this year. “Rock DJ” can easily be one of those silly, grating songs that induces chronic head-bobbing.

Williams is as much a party-guy as he is introspective pop singer-songwriter. For every feel-good Wham!-George Michael moment like “Kids,” there’s heart-felt balladering such as “If It’s Hurting You.”

“Better Man” attempts to be the album’s “Angels,” while “Supreme” fails in its attempt to incorporate a clever quote — this time, Gloria Gaynor’s “Survive” — as effectively as “Millenium.”

In short, it’s business as usual for Williams, who is pretty much a national obsession in his native England — well-crafted Europop that suites his rough-hewned voice. Williams has struck on a very lucrative muse, and even he’s smart enough not to fix what isn’t broken.

At the same time, Sing When You’re Winning is like an Enya album — it’s the same one Williams has been recording for the past four years, and if a listener really wants to be picky about it, there’s fault to be found.

Which is a roundabout way of saying that there are few surprises on this album, and it won’t recreate that kind of revelatory feelings first-time listenrs experience upon hearing a couplet like “I look like Kiss but without the make-up.”

Not a bad thing really. Williams and his collaborators, namely Guy Chambers, are a hook factory, and they produce some nice ear candy.

A matter of degrees

<!– Link: Orgy
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Vapor Transmission follows in a great tradition of albums like Molotov’s Apocalypshit, The Brilliant Green’s Terra 2001 and Nine Inch Nails’ The Fragile.

All of them, save for Terra 2001, sound exactly like their immediate predecessor but don’t possess the same luster.

Apocalypshit is the same blistering rap-metal Molotov offered on ¿Donde jugaran las niñas?, and The Fragile is just a longer, meandering version of The Downward Spiral. Only Terra 2001 improves on its predecessor, The Brilliant Green, while sounding exactly the same.

Why is that?

Pretty much, it boils down to hooks. Terra 2001 had better hooks than The Brilliant Green. The same goes for Vapor Transmission and Candyass — the latter album had better songwriting.

That’s not to say Vapor Transmission isn’t likeable. In fact, there’s something downright appealing in how Orgy pillages New Wave and glam rock with post-Trent Reznor industrial.

Even if the actual songs don’t quite surmount the bar established by Candyass, fans of heavily synth-processed guitar hooks and pounding layers of thundering drums and drum machines will eat Vapor Transmission up.

And yet, put each album side-by-side, and it’s hard to even tell the difference twixt the two.

Jay Gordon still sounds like Marilyn Manson would if Manson could hold a note. The choruses of the songs still possess a flair for the dramatic. And no instrument on this album isn’t somehow put through some sort of effects processing. The studio is still as much of an instrument for Orgy as the guitars, bass and drums themselves.

It’s a matter of degrees, really. Candyass is only slightly better than Vapor Transmission, and since Candyass was downright likeable, it follows that Vapor Transmission has its own appeal as well.

All that to say: go ahead and buy this album if you’re a big fan of Orgy; use caution if you just bought Candyass to get the cover of New Order’s “Blue Monday.”

Drama! Action! Suspense!

<!– Link: Björk
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Björk wants to organize freedom. How Scandanavian of her.

On the first few tracks of 1998’s Homogenic, she did just that, reigning in the chaos of distorted drums thundering over dramatic swells of strings.

It was one of the most successful combination of acoustic and synthetic timbres recorded.

With Selmasongs, Björk attempts to push that sonic envelope further, bringing in Hollywood musical melodrama into her quirky mix of blue-eyed electro-pop.

Containing only seven songs and clocking in at half an hour, Selmasongs packs a lot of ideas into a short time span. The “clatter, crash, clank” of factory sounds turns into the chorus for “Cvalda.” On “Scatterheart,” the sound of a skipping phonograph needle becomes a back beat.

Even Catherine Deneuve, Björk’s co-star in Dancer in the Dark (for which Selmasongs was written), adds a dash of surrealism to the already bizzare, dream-like soundscape Björk has fashioned.

Some writers have suggested Selmasongs is too short for these ideas to gestate, and perhaps they’re right. There’s a lot of stuff — no, make that a helluvalot of stuff going on in these tracks, but they probably wouldn’t have been better or more interesting if they had more room to breathe.

If anything, Selmasongs sounds like what it is — songs written for a movie.

There’s just a hint of something incidental about these songs, and if they don’t make for a very coherent music listening experience, well that’s probably because they’re taken out of context of their origin.

In other words, let’s see how these songs work in the movie.

P.S. About her duet with Thom Yorke of Radiohead — well, his singing isn’t exactly awash with emotion, and Björk does vocal gymnastics around him. It’s not until the end of the song where Yorke’s whiskey-rasp deadpan sweetens up and becomes an appropriate foil to Björk’s thunderous range.