There was always something suspicious about Buffalo Daughter’s critics’ darling status in the States.
When the trio was first introduced to American audiences, Shonen Knife and Pizzicato Five had just recently wedged its way into hipster consciousness by being cute, quirky and Japanese.
American label heads go with what’s familiar, and Buffalo Daughter’s mix of indie rock swagger with sampling acumen must have seemed like a really cool way to ride the coattails of P5 and Shonen Knife — at the same time.
New Rock, Buffalo Daughter’s 1998 album on Grand Royal, was certainly an interesting work, but was it really a magnum opus indie media outlets made it out to be?
As it turns out, no, it wasn’t.
After New Rock, Buffalo Daughter released a few remix discs but no new material. In that time, the Beastie Boys folded Grand Royal. In 2001, the trio re-emerged with I, and everything that made Buffalo Daughter mildly interesting turned into a driving creative force.
This time around, Buffalo Daughter has incorporated more traditional songwriting elements into its lush sonic canvas.
Before, the band was content to sprinkle minimal lyrics amid dissonant guitar riffs and analog blips and bleeps. On I, they’ve added verses, choruses and melodies to that palette.
“Discotheque du Paradis” could have just remained a typical BD song by leaving out words all together, but SuGar Yoshinaga graces the song’s “Copa Cabana” rhythm with a sweet vocal.
Although “Robot Sings” and “Five Minutes” contain the kind of lyrical sparseness of New Rock, the songs are driven by entire verses, not just one-liners and non-sequitirs.
“Earth Punk Rockers” layers multiple tracks of vocals over ominous synthesizer effects and a menancing guitar lick, while “Volcanic Girl” calls to mind the straight-ahead rock of Seagull Screaming Kiss Her Kiss Her. Hands down, they’re the toughest songs on the album.
I also feels like more of an epic, with interludes such as “I Know” and “28 Nuts” making obtuse segues. Two-second gaps are in incredibly short supply here.
By the time “A Completely Identical Dream” wraps the entire album up, skeptics get the impression Buffalo Daughter are certainly more than they initially let on.
And fans will definitely feel the group has grown incredibly since the last time they were around.
Dependable. It’s not the most flattering adjective to describe a music group.
Calling a rock band “dependable” implies it’s creatively stiffled, only capable of doing one thing over and over.
Midnight Oil is dependable. Album after album, the five guys from Down Under deliver larger-than-life hooks, straight-ahead rock, and so-important-it-matters lyrics. They’ve stuck to this formula for a good 20 years, and it hasn’t failed them or their audiences.
Capricornia, in turn, is a dependable Midnight Oil album. Everything long-time fans — even Johnny-come-latelies that came aboard 15 years ago with Diesel and Dust — come to expect from the group is here. They even brought back producer Warne Livesley to twiddle the knobs.
As such, Capricornia is one of Midnight Oil’s less cluttered albums.
It’s just the band, the songs and Peter Garrett’s familiar urgent warble. But for some reason, this album takes much longer than the band’s previous work to warm up to.
Perhaps it’s because Capricornia is the Oils’ first album to be released Stateside in four years — and it comes on the heels of two of the band’s most challenging works.
After an 18 month tour forced the group into a long hiatus in the early 90s, Midnight Oil re-emerged in 1996 with the rough, demo-like Breathe. Then two years later, the band came out swinging with the loud, electronic-heavy Redneck Wonderland.
Both albums marked incredibly wild departures for the group. Breathe barely had any electronics, while Redneck Wonderland drowned in them.
Capricornia, by comparison, sounds familiar, and it is — Midnight Oil is a rock band, first and foremost, and this album returns to that simple aesthetic.
But adjusting to the usual modus operandi of Capricornia takes some getting used to. Midnight Oil spent the last half of the previous decade on a creative rollercoaster, and man has it been some ride.
In other words, fans who love Midnight Oil when they stick to the rock ‘n’ roll they know best will find Capricornia a true delight.
But anyone who holds the group to the creative highs they had established for themselves might feel jarred to hear them going back to the basics.
Some bands, such as the Grateful Dead, Phish and Dave Matthews, have developed reputations for delivering live performances that differ vastly from recordings.
For other musicians, the only thing that separates their live albums from their studio recordings is audience noise.
Sade’s performances on Lovers Live don’t really sound much different from its recordings. (We’re talking Sade the band, here — not just Sade the singer.)
In fact, the one spot where the live performance greatly expanded on the original — at the very end of “Smooth Operator” — gets the fade-out treatment.
Does this mean Lovers Live isn’t worth spending money on? Of course not.
As an ensemble, Sade is a tight group of musicians so in tune with its aesthetic, the energy and sensuality inherent in the band’s songs become even stronger.
If anything, Lovers Live puts more humanity, more warmth into music that’s already humane and warm to begin with.
In the eight years since Sade Adu last recorded an album, her voice has become more resonant. And hearing the group’s newer songs alongside its older material demonstrates how far the group has evolved musically.
“Jezebel” may be a gorgeous classic, but “Slave Song”, with its dub rhythm, is much more adventurous.
Fans who couldn’t see Sade on this latest tour will appreciate the track listing — a generous helping of classics, mixed with some album tracks and choice selections of new material.
Lovers Live probably makes for a better cross-section of Sade’s repertoire than 1994’s The Best of Sade.
For anyone who did catch the tour, Lovers Live does a terrific job of transporting a listener back to that night. Lovers Live the Tour was an incredible production, a brilliant mix of stagecraft and awesome performances.
In that sense, this album is a souvenir — a mighty fine one to experience again and again.
Huh. Those seem to be tunes coming out of the speakers when Source Code & Tags is playing.
That’s not to say … And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead don’t write hook-less songs. “Mistakes & Regrets”? Great riff it’s got there.
Nah. For Trail of Dead’s major label debut, the Austin, Texas, quartet seems to have reigned in its more ambitious conceptualizing.
The songs on Source Code & Tags are more apt to follow more traditional songwriting structures — you know, verse-chorus-verse.
Sure, the band might interrupt the normal flow of things by inserting a half-tempo middle section, or by starting at one tempo, then firing off in double-time.
And yes, the two-second gaps clearly missing on Madonna are nowhere to be found on this album as well.
But those barrages of noise that come out of left field or those breaks in songs where the phrase “fuck you” is chanted over and over and over again aren’t the order of the day.
“Baudelaire” and “How Near, How Far” have actual melodies. “Relative Ways” feels like the pre-release single it was meant to be. “Another Morning Stoner” toes the line between tunefullness and grit.
Has Trail of Dead sold its soul to Interscope Records for acceptance by the populus at large? Not to worry.
“Homage” demonstrates Trail of Dead still possesses its screaming rage. “Days of Being Wild” sounds like the title implies, and “Heart Is in the Hand of the Matter” has an off-key chorus that’s totally “Mary Christ”. (Sonic Youth? Goo?)
For anyone blown away by the epic feel of Madonna, Source Code & Tags might come across as non-descript — a bunch of loud songs that don’t have much to set themselves apart.
Don’t be fooled.
Source Code & Tags is still the same Trail of Dead, just scaled back a tad, more accessible to first-timers. And if Source Code & Tags is your introduction to Trail of Dead, soak in the aural aura of the album. Then go get Madonna and sit tight.
When an artist arrives as high as Alanis Morissette did back in 1995, any follow-up would have been a trip downward. It was just a matter of how far.
Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie suffered from ambition. In trying to prove she was more than a hook factory, Morissette delivered a set of indescript, impenetrable songs that lost their appeal on subsequent listens.
It was easy to like the album at first. The same can’t be said years later.
So what direction does Morissette go with Under Rug Swept, her first album of new material in four years? Back up, or further down? Thankfully, it’s the former.
Hitmaking producer Glen Ballard isn’t around this time around, but it’s clear Morissette learned a lot from him.
Under Rug Swept goes straight for the hook, and the mouthy prose-like lyrics that bogged down Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie have been pruned and sheered, particularly during choruses.
Tracks such as “Flinch”, “Narcissus” and “So Unsexy” still have a bit of a Sondheim-ish wordy-ness, but they all give way to insanely memorable choruses when all is said and done.
“Precious Illusions”, in particular, depends entirely on its chorus to drive home its theme.
“That Particular Time” borrows a bit from “Uninvited” and that most ubiquitous of influences, John Lennon’s “Imagine”, while on “Utopia” Morissette affects a pretty close Sarah McLachlan imitation.
Morissette has gone back to writing frank lyrics. “You’ve never been with anyone who doesn’t take your shit/You’ve never been with anyone who calls you on it,” she excoriates on “Narcissus”.
On “So Unsexy”, she indulges her doubts: “I can feel so unsexy for someone so beautiful/So unloved and for someone so fine/I can feel so boring for someone so interesting/So ignorant for someone of sound mind.”
Earth-shattering? Probably not, but it’s a lot easier to remember than that “Dear John” tune from four years back.
With the Lilith Era a distant memory in the wake of bare midrifts and pretty boy teen pop, Morissette and her earnest singer-songwriting could have felt obsolete.
They don’t. Morissette has armed herself with an arsenal of straight-forward songs, casting off any artistic pretense she affected to prove she’s no one-hit wonder.
She’s gone back to being comfortable with herself as a musician.
What genius told Zurdok to drop a 12-minute avant-garde musique concrete piece in the middle of a largely tuneful, rocking album?
The quartet’s second album, Hombre sintetizador, moves along nicely untill it hits a second version of the album’s title track.
Then, for 23 percent of the album’s total time, “Hombre sintetizador II” brainwashes listeners into forgetting they were listening to a rock album.
As a separate piece of music, “Hombre sintetizador II” is a terrific work, dischordant, daring — absolutely worthy for an album released on John Zorn’s Tzadik label.
But smack dab in the middle of some of the coolest haunting, aggressive music to come out of Monterrey, Mexico? Sorry, but file that one under “misstep”.
That transgression aside, Hombre sintetizador is a great discovery.
Zurdok participated in a few select dates on the 2001 Watcha Tour, and the group scored its first hit with “Abre los ojos”. Zurdok’s sound calls to mind the ambient moodiness of Japan’s Walrus juxtaposed with the grunge-iness of Alice in Chains.
“Abre los ojos” alternates between larger-than-life power chords and restrained verses.
On “Si quieres llegar muy lejos” and “¿Cuanto pasos?”, Zurdok keeps the arrangement minimal but dramatic, the former track sporting timpiani rolls, the latter a mouth harp and banjo.
As the album progresses, the songs get more forward. “Si me advertí” starts off quietly, but by the end, walls of flange pedals bring the song to a near-abrupt conclusion. “Tal vez” bursts into a loud chorus, while “Espacio” doesn’t let up.
Singer Fernando Martz, who left the group after the album’s release, thankfully sounds nothing like a Seattle clone. He can croon when the music gets soft and growl when it gets loud, all the while sounding like he never had to drink any Clorox.
Without the awkward sequencing of that 12-minute epic, Hombre sintetizador is a great introduction to this Mexican band.
Who says you need synthesizers to make ambient music? A heavily distorted guitar can be every bit as atmospheric as the latest model Korg.
The guys in Walrus aren’t above laying heavy on the overdrive pedals, but like their fellow countryfolk in mono, they can turn buzzsaws into satin.
In fact, think of Walrus as mono with songs — verse-chorus-verse instead of four measures ad nauseum, set over hulking but sublime guitar noise.
Hikari no Kakera, released back in November 2000, is a lot more focused and concise than 1999’s sprawling Seven.
Walrus songs tend to stretch for six minutes at a time, and on Seven, it resulted in a butt-numbing listening experience. The album never seemed like it wanted to end, and after a while, Walrus’ moody, haunting sound struck the same note over and over.
Hikari no Kakera doesn’t fall in the same trap. Songs such as “Exit”, “Iro no Aru Basho e” and “Nemuri” clock under six minutes, and there’s much more variety in tone and mood.
“Tsuki” and “Toneriko” still offer up the slow-tempo atmospherics the band has mastered, but “Spit” rocks out, while “Orange” punctuates its rhythmic drive with a jackhammer riff.
“Iro no Aru Basho e” moves along with the usual power chords, and the title track packs in a lot of activity under a long, flowing melody.
Singer Akitomo has an appealing voice, suitable for the band’s loud but dreamy aesthetic. He and guitarist Atsushi do incredibly Fripp-ish things with their instruments, while drummer Kenroo fills in the gaps like an octopus gone crazy.
Walrus are accomplished songwriters and brilliant sound architects, but even the most avid fan of dark, brooding, loud music might find the band too skilled in pursuing its muse.
Don’t listen to this music if you have clinical depression or if you’re trying to find work in the current job market. (Um. That’s a joke. It’s okay to laugh.)
Cultural trends experience 20-year cycles, which means the decadent 80s are ripe for rebirth in 2002. Kawase Tomoko, the label-described “coquettish” singer of the Brilliant Green, knows this.
Under the moniker Tommy february6 — February 6 is her birthdate — Kawase has crafted a saccharine album totally steeped in nostalgia.
In slavishly recreating a New Wave sound, Tommy february6 makes listeners remember the good, the bad and the ugly about Reagan era music.
In some ways, Japanese pop music never really got over the 80s. Kuraki Mai, for one, sounds like she writes on the synthesizers Terry Lewis and Jimmy Jam used during Janet Jackson’s Control sessions.
Tommy february6 seems to have borrowed her gear from Nick Rhodes, Martin Fry and the three singers from the Human League. No track on Tommy february6’s self-titled album has a live musician, and all the keyboards used on the songs sound analog.
The results can be incredibly tuneful and insanely catchy.
“*Kiss* One More Time” has a bass line John Taylor could have written. “Tommy Februatte Macaron” might have been an old outtake from an Exposé recording session. (You know — “Point of No Return”?) And “Bloomin’!” could have been convincingly belted by old J-pop stars Iijima Mari and Miyasato Kumi.
Tommy february6 also indulges in the pseudo-60s resurgence that made 80s music more trivial than it already was.
The wheezy organ in “Hey Bad Boy” screams bad anime song. “I’ll Be Your Angel” conjures up terrible memories of Madonna’s True Blue era, and the farty, square-wave synthetic horns on Tommy’s cover of “Can’t take my eyes off of you” are definitely cringe-worthy.
The rest of the album is little more than a game of “Guess Who I’m Referencing”. “‘Where Are You?’ My Hero” — Devo. “Koiwa Nemuranai” — “Cherish”-era Madonna. “Walk Away from You My Babe” — Jam and Lewis.
Music fans who grew up in the 80s would be reaching their 30s about now, and in an era where metal is “nu” and Creed can stay at the top of the charts for weeks on end, Tommy february6 could have been a nice souvenir from a derided but cherished era.
Instead, it’s a documentary, a bit of history that’s undergone no creative license to revise it. Artistically, that’s gutsy, but thirtysomethings looking for a bit of indulgence aren’t going to be coddled.
Tommy february6 is definitely a trip down Memory Lane with a few detours through Amnesia Street along the way.
Remy Zero’s third album, The Golden Hum, has so far drawn comparrisons to U2 and Radiohead, and they’re barely flattering.
Me? I’m inclined to make the same declaration I made about Powderfinger’s Odyssey Number Five — this album is precisely the kind of guitar rock I usually hate.
But I don’t.
In a day and age when Creed can sell five million albums, big majestic alt-rock of the type Remy Zero performs seems, well, fresh.
At the very least, the band sets itself apart from other whiny voice, bleeding heart grunge-lite bands. (The Calling? Train?)
It’s hard to resist the soaring chorus of the Smallville theme, “Save Me”, especially with the set of pipes Cinjun Tate possesses. When he proclaims himself “bitter” on the track of the same title, Tate sounds like he’s being honest.
“Out/In” indulges in the same kind of string work that made Odyssey Number Five from the aforementioned Powderfinger feel genuine. “Smile” could have come across as more precious than it does, but even the most hardened cyncial listener (hand raised) eventually succumbs to the song’s earnest chorus.
“And though I never led my troops to war/And though I never learned what my life was for/And though I ever got was nothing,” Tate sings to a memorable melody. It’s spine-tingling, maaaaan.
When Remy Zero does indulge in predictable alt-rock idioms — in other words, soft songs — listeners may as well run to their old R.E.M. albums.
“Perfect Memory” is nice enough, and “I’m Not Afraid” is pretty. But they’re not anything that hasn’t already been done better on Document or Automatic for the People.
Nope. Remy Zero works best when they’re rocking out and being jangly, like they are on “Impossibility”, “Over the Rails & Hollywood High” and “Belong”.
Despite being crouched in the same rock ‘n’ roll trappings that makes modern music tiresome, The Golden Hum cuts through its generic molds to become a really listenable, well-written, skillfully performed album.
The Golden Hum isn’t going to change your life, but it does provide 41 minutes of entertainment.
Awright — this review arrives about two years too late, but hey, at least it’s in time to precede the release of Source Tags and Codes, the band’s Interscope debut out on Feb. 26.
Sporting the coolest long name since Seagull Screaming Kiss Her Kiss Her, … And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead could have been screaming in Japanese, and the music wouldn’t be any less overwhelming.
Aggressive, brooding, dischordant, textured — Trail of Dead would like you to think they’re a bunch of guys who have worn out multiple copies of Sonic Youth’s Daydream Nation.
But Madonna isn’t just a disc packed with two-minute wallops of fuzzy guitars. (Actually, they’re more like three- to seven-minute wallops.) There’s structure to the madness — tracks that ram and bleed into each other, strange effects that segue into dramatic beginnings and endings.
Trail of Dead could have just left well enough alone, copping out to two second pauses and fade outs. But no — Madonna is an epic, made to feel bigger than just a bunch of screaming vocals, thundering beats and buzzing guitars.
And while it would have been cool just to hear Trail of Dead terrorize a stereo system with its scorched earth aesthetic, the fact they put some thought into making Madonna feel larger than it is shows some real acumen.
And none of it feels forced. If anything, it’s surprising how well punk music fits well with the kind of ambition usually reserved for prog rock and concept albums.
Madonna certainly feels tighter than the quartet’s no-less aggressive self-titled debut. Plus, the band’s singer (the credits aren’t clear who that is — Conrad Keely or Kevin Allen) does one helluva job trying to wrench the Kurt Cobain torch for best screamer from Mukai Shutoku of Number Girl.
Madonna, the pop singer, ought to feel proud Trial of Dead recorded a namesake album as excellent as this one. Madonna, the album, leaves listeners like they just had the workout of their lives in a mosh pit from hell.
(What are the chances her next album will be called … And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead?)