All that talk about Puffy AmiYumi being “anti-idols” is nothing more than splitting hairs.
Sure, Ami and Yumi are a good decade older than most Japanese pop idols, and yeah, they don’t chirp over swirling techno beats and walls of synthesizers.
But in the end, they’re still idols, complete with their own line of merchandise spoofing corporate logos that replace brand names with the word “Puffy”. Take that for what it is.
Because scratching beneath the surface of An Illustrated History, a Puffy AmiYumi retrospective released in the U.S., reveals more surface.
Songwriter/producer Okuda Tamio, the man behind the duo’s music, jumps from one dated genre to another in pursuit of the perfect pastiche — disco on “Nagisa ni Matsuwaru”, 60s pop on “Kore ga Watashi no Ikirumichi”, 70s arena rock on “Jet Keisatsu”, blues rock on “Stray Cat Fever”, Phil Spector girl group on “Tomodachi”.
The assumption is a band versatile enough to traverse different styles has got to be good, right? Perhaps, but the musical jet-setting Okuda takes Ami and Yumi on is akin to flying within the state of Texas — it covers a lot of ground but remains in one place.
To Ami’s and Yumi’s credit, they don’t take their anti-idol status or rock stardom as seriously as this review does. And it shows in the duo’s breezy performances.
Ami and Yumi just wanna have fun, dammit. And the Asia-loving boys in the U.S. for which this music was intended aren’t going to find anything objectionable about that.
A few tracks stand out as positively beefy — “Love So Pure”, which is an English version of “Sumire”, “Asia no Junshin”, “Mother”. The rest of An Illustrated History is as light as cracker.
There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. Pop music aims squarely for the lowest common denominator, which Puffy AmiYumi hits on target.
And while Ami and Yumi may have more soul in their pinky fingernails than any of the boy bands and teen idols of the late 90s here in the U.S., they’re not the rockers other critics and fans would like to paint them as.
Puffy AmiYumi doesn’t take itself too seriously, and as such, they make music that doesn’t beg that much effort either.
Garnet Crow must really think they’re from Ireland.
Even though the quartet’s brand of by-the-numbers pop holds as many surprises as an Onitsuka Chihiro piano ballad, there’s an almost Celtic hue to the band’s songs.
The chiming guitars on “Last Love Song” could have been lifted from latter-day Clannad, and the lilting “pray” almost sounds like a folk song.
If anything, Garnet Crow bears a very close resemblance to the Corrs in the way both bands mix poignant melodies with club beats and heavily arranged synthesizers.
Singer Nakamura Yuri’s resonant voice doesn’t do much to dispell that notion. If she sang in Irish Gaelic instead of Japanese, she’d be dueting with Maire Brennan.
It’s this subtle mournfulness in Garnet Crow’s songs that prevents the band from getting lost in Japan’s superhyper-pop music assembly line. Sure, it might be hard to tell “Timeless Sleep” apart from “Holy ground”, but there’s no mistaking Garnet Crow for, say, Hamasaki Ayumi.
But in the end, Garnet Crow is a Japanese pop band, and J-pop is more about singles than albums.
Like the last time, Sparkle ~Sujigaki Doori no Sky Blue~ doesn’t do much more than assemble the bands last few singles with a few other tracks to fill out the disc.
What does it say about a band when three of its four most recent singles are stashed at the beginning of the album? In fact, Sparkle consists only of 10 new songs — the last two tracks are remixes, one of a song from the last album.
The Japanese music industry tends to favor one-year turn-around times for artists, and those demands sometimes produce spotty results.
Sparkle ~Sujigaki Doori no Sky Blue~ is indeed a nice compilation of well-crafted pop music from a band incredibly adept at writing hooks and crafting slick studio product.
But that’s all it is, and something says Garnet Crow is probably capable of a lot more.
It’s official — Utada Hikaru is now trapped by her own success.
On her last album, Distance, the young Japanese singer recorded an album that wouldn’t disappoint her legions of fans, while showing she had the potential to transcend her success.
Fifteen months later — normal for Japan’s music scene, but somewhat a rush in the U.S. — Utada returns with Deep River. The modus operandi which drove Distance also sets the tone for this album as well.
Deep River contains mostly slick, lush-ly produced R&B pop, mature in its sound, rich in execution. It’s the style that’s kept Utada on the top of the Oricon charts for the past three years.
At the same time, she provides just enough stylistic flourishes to keep hyper-critical listeners at bay — a buzzing guitar here, an international rhythm there.
Before, those kinds of flourishes could be construed as possible directions Utada could take her obvious talent. Now, on an album that doesn’t show much progression from what came before, those flourishes aren’t anything but.
In other words, Utada is repeating herself.
That’s not to say Deep River is an awful listening experience. Quite the contrary. Utada on a bad day is still light years better than Britney Spears smack dab in the middle of her 15 minutes.
On “Hikari”, Utada’s earnest croon feels heart-felt without being too forced. “Final Distance” is a beautiful re-working of the title track from her last album.
“travelling” might be a bit too akin to early-90s Madonna — you can practically sing the chorus of “Erotica” over the opening hook, and the word “travelling” was used as a refrain in the Björk-written “Bedtime Story” — but it’s a fun song appropriate for a packed dance floor.
But the level of calculation that felt organic on previous albums seems a bit more apparent on Deep River.
The Latin Explosion of 1999 didn’t escape Hikki, as “Letters” hints at Carribean rhythms. The Timbaland influences aren’t hard to mistake on “Tokyo Nights”.
“Uso Mitai na I Love You” even indulges in a bit of nu metal riffage. Rather than go fully rock, as she did on “Drama”, Utada combines dance beats with buzzing power chords. It’s the most imaginative track on the disc, albeit a combination of the two most prominent music genres of the past five years. How’s that for “target marketing”?
Deep River is a well performed, well written album. Then again, so was Distance. Both albums seem to hint Utada could really bring pop music some significant artistry.
But by once again appealing to her fanatical devotees, Hikki limits herself to a template that doesn’t say nearly as much as it could.
A lot of critics had a hard time swallowing Wilco’s forray into musique concrete. Many of them said living with sound files leaked on the Internet for a year allowed them to warm up to the album’s beauty.
Evidently, these writers never cozied up to John Zorn’s Elegy.
Yankee Foxtrot Hotel is probably more comfortable terrain for an indie rock crowd than Wilco’s long-time alt-country fans. (Although making a distinction between the two audiences is pretty much splitting hairs.)
The sonic flourishes Wilco employs on “I Am Trying to Break Your Heart”, “Ashes of an American Flag” and “Poor Places” would sound more at home on a Flaming Lips album than on anything remotely associated with the phrase “No Depression”.
All that to say Yankee Hotel Foxtrot is probably more geared to folks unfamiliar with Wilco at all. (Myself — I owned a copied of Uncle Tupelo’s No Depression untill I had to sell it to shore up my shaky finances.)
Sure, there are enough straight-forward pop tracks to ground the album from being too experimental — “Kamera”, “Heavy Metal Drummer”, “Jesus, etc.”, “Pot Kettle Black”.
But it’s Jeff Tweedy’s head-long dive into prepared pianos, sound effects and thickly-layered samples which gives the album its distinct identity.
“Radio Cure” starts off as a quiet tune, but eventually, strange sounds encroach on the song’s arrangements. “War on War” and “I’m the Man Who Loves You” both indulge a bit in some latter-day Edge guitar effects, ca. Achtung Baby.
Some very atmospheric sounds swirl in and out of “Ashes of an American Flag” till they build up to a wall of white noise that crackles and breaks into a segue for the following track.
“Reservation” sums up the album’s aesthetic by keeping the rhythm section to a minimum and the sound effects on full tilt.
It’s easy to see how listeners expecting folk guitars and alt-country instrumentation can be put off by Yankee Hotel Foxtrot’s experimental abandon. But that’s probably the whole point.
This album isn’t business as usual, and by creating a work as challenging as Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, Wilco has opened itself up to an audience that can appreciate Americana music filtered through a post-modern lens.
In reality, this album isn’t too far removed from Emmylou Harris’ landmark album, Wrecking Ball, or to the dissonant-friendly machinations of Robin Holcomb. Haunting, beautiful and disturbing — what could be more appealing?
It’s been 10 years since Robin Holcomb released a vocal album, and any starving fans expecting the Seattle-based improviser to be stuck in a time warp might be sorely disappointed.
Holcomb released two albums at the start of the 1990s sporting music that was Americana in foundation but avant-garde in attitude. A veteran of the downtown New York improvisation scene with her husband Wayne Horvitz, Holcomb’s rural music never lost it’s urban edge.
But for all the dissonant embellishments on those early 90s albums, Holcomb still managed to write hooks. “Help a Man” from Rockabye and “Nine Lives” from her self-titled debut were practically singles.
There are no singles on The Big Time. There aren’t many hooks either. At the same time, the album is more beautiful than her previous works.
On first listen, it’s difficult to figure out what’s going on. Holcomb’s melodies are never direct, her phrasing off-kilter, the contours barely conforming to a discernable pattern.
Her backing band — consisting of Horvitz’s bandmates in Zony Mash, plus guitarist Bill Frisell — comes across as no less cryptic. When they’re not embellishing an eerie drone with dissonant improvisation, they’re grounding Holcomb’s rhythmic liberties with odd harmonies.
“If You Can’t Make the Curve” epitomizes this skewered aesthetic. The song opens with an angular introduction, which gives way to a steady beat and Holcomb’s warbly singing. When the chorus appears, the rhythm section disappears, and the angular introduction returns as accompaniment.
Even a robust interpretation of a traditional tune, “A Lazy Farm Boy”, feels more like Charles Mingus than Nanci Griffith.
After adjusting to the album’s uncomfortable atmosphere, The Big Time comes across as every bit as haunting as Holcomb’s other vocal albums, only far more disquieting.
“Pretend” never feels like it has a solid rhythmic anchor. Holcomb crams wordy verses into “Like I Care”, while her bandmates provide a spare backdrop.
Horvitz and Frisell have rather large presences on The Big Time. At times, the album sounds like a cut from one of their recent works instead of a Robin Holcomb album.
“I Want to Tell You I Love You” could have come off of one of Horvitz’s 4+1 Ensemble discs. Frisell’s recognizable reverb-drenched guitar picking propells “Engine 143”.
In the end, The Big Time offers a lot of subtle complexity to keep attentive listeners rapt listen after listen. Holcomb’s unconventional songs have been given very detailed readings by Horvitz and his crew, and the results sound like country, feel like jazz, and endure like classical music.
Look up the word “spellbinding” in the dictionary, and you just might see the cover of Patty Griffin’s 1000 Kisses next to the definition.
Although her own recording career has been beset by label problems, Griffin developed a solid reputation as a songwriter among her peers.
Emmylou Harris picked Griffin’s “One Big Love” as the sole cover on her self-written album, Red Dirt Girl, and the Dixie Chicks included Griffin’s “Let Him Fly” on the trio’s multi-platinum hit album, Fly.
Now signed to Dave Matthews’ ATO label, Griffin has released one of the most entrancing albums of the year.
1000 Kisses draws its strength from incredibly minimal arrangements. When the songs build to their inevitable climax, Griffin’s powerful voice seizes center stage. It’s tough not to be moved by the latter moments of “Nobody’s Crying”, “Making Pies” or the album’s opener, “Rain”.
Other times, Griffin draws even closer in. Her haunting rendition of Bruce Springsteen’s “Stolen Car” remains sparse and clear throughout, without losing its sense of drama.
The most lush moment on the album is “Mil Besos,” a Cuban ballad chock full of atmospheric percussion, cello and bass. Griffin’s resonant voice suits the cabaret feel of the song, and her Spanish ain’t too bad either.
Griffin’s reputation for telling compelling narratives is also well deserved.
On “Nobody’s Crying”, a jilted lover hopes the best for her ex-, knowing full well his problems were the reason for their break-up. Simple premise, but wonderfully spelled out by Griffin.
“I wish you well,” she sings, “On your way to the wishing well/Swinging off those gates of hell/But I can tell how hard you’re trying.”
“Chief” draws the portrait of an American Indian who won’t be deterred by racism. When Griffin hits the middle section of the song, it transforms from a fast-paced folk narrative to a soaring apex. Spellbinding, indeed.
Taken as a whole, 1000 Kisses is an incredibly tight opus, an album where every track fits well with the other, and the overall sound feels like a snugly-fit puzzle. A terrific voice, engaging songs, great arrangements — all the elements present to make 1000 Kisses a work of beauty.
The first time I encountered the Back Horn, the band’s overtly Japanese melodies prevented me from really appreciating everything happening in the background.
Truth be told, the Back Horn’s music sounds like anime themes done in a heavy punk style.
But to take the surface at face value does an injustice to the band’s often eclectic sound.
Vocalist Yamada Masashi could have just stuck to singing Western melodies over his bandmates, but fashioning a more Japanese style is far more daring, especially given Japanese bands’ tendency to mimic Western influences slavishly.
Guitarist Suganami Eijun and bassist Matsuda Shinji can switch between ska, punk, metal, even marches at the drop of a proverbial hat.
“Sunny” starts of with a metal cliché that switches into a ska rhythm. “Ikusen Koonen no Kodoku” begins with big power chords, but a Latin bass line drives most of the song.
“8-gatsu no Himitsu” and “Hyoo Hyoo to” would probably sound like traditional Japanese songs if only Yamada didn’t scream and Suganami didn’t play huge, beefy riffs.
Like Bugy Craxone, the Back Horn performs highly emotional music which changes mood many times within a song. “Suisoo” starts off quietly, but a larger-than-life chorus crashes through. Another Latin rhythm drives “Mr. World”, only to be off-set by a straight-forward, fist-pumping rock chorus.
Yamada’s versatile voice adds more mayhem to the band’s maniacal music. He can sing a melody well enough, but when he screams, there’s no question this music is rawk music. It’s amazing his voice even keeps after all the hollering he does.
The Back Horn’s eclectic sound may strike some listeners as incredible, but it can also put others off.
So many influences go into the the band’s music, it almost seems the individual elements don’t fit together comfortably.
The samba rhythm of “Ikusen Koonen no Kodoku” is one of the most overused bass lines in Western-influenced Japanese music. It can sound cheesy in one listening, inspired in another. Combined with music that alternates between punk and ska, it’s difficult to channel how any of it works.
But there’s a point where it does all click together, and the Back Horn become more than the sum of its parts. It may take one listen; it may take 20.
Or it may not happen at all.
There’s no mistake the Back Horn has a very singular sound, and no band out there does quite what this trio accomplishes. But don’t expect to get it right away. (Hell, I didn’t.)
It was bound to happen — a trend emerges, and major labels throw money into the hype machine to keep it going.
In the last two years, a number of “The”-named bands have scored hits by blatantly recycling garage and classic rock — the White Stripes with Led Zeppelin, the Strokes with Television, the Hives with Blue Cheer.
Now, Capitol Records comes along, convincing music journalists that the Vines are, like, really cool. “Beatles meets Nirvana”, so the blurb reads.
And it’s a somewhat apt description — “Get Free” does sort of harken back to Nirvana’s “Breed”, while “Autumn Shade” and “Homesick” are definitely haunted by the ghost of John Lennon.
“Outtathaway!” does kind of seem like some cross-breeding of the Fab Four’s early work with Nirvana’s more metallic moments, and that ska rhythm on “Factory”? Totally “When I’m 64”.
But if the Vines really are the Beatles meeting Nirvana, wouldn’t that make them Oasis?
To the band’s credit, Highly Evolved, the Vines’ U.S. debut, is well written. These songs aren’t soulless, five-generations-removed parodies of metal or punk or grunge. There’s some real attempt at craft and melody on these tracks.
But the hype machine is totally off-base with this one. The Strokes, the White Stripes and the Hives pull off their rip-off act by convincingly replicating the swagger that goes along with their influences.
The Hives can be forgiven for not being totally original — Howlin’ Pelle does the effiminante Jagger strut really well.
But for all of the power chords, screaming vocals and hero worship, the Vines just can’t capture that timeless “It” factor which make both Nirvana and the Beatles the critics and audience favorites they are.
The Vines do indeed get something right — the Robert Pollard-like concise lengths of its songs make Highly Evolved feel breezy and urgent. There’s no metallic wanking on this album, and in a rock music atmosphere where metal is nu, that’s pretty refreshing.
If you must listen to the Vines, do it because a Beatles-influenced band willing to rev its songs up appeals to you. But don’t expect the band to flaunt the same kind of magic possesed by its predecessors.
Bad reviews are born of high expectations, and like all adjectives, “high” is pretty relative.
Aside from Rolling Stone — that bastion of taste! — most media outlets have given Dirty Vegas reviews ranging from bad to vitriolic. The fact the trio’s self-titled debut is a chart hit only reinforces that stance. (Id est, if it’s popular, it must be crap.)
Thing is, some of the criticisms levied at the group are indeed on target. Dirty Vegas, the album, does become homogenous after a while, and no, Dirty Vegas, the group, can’t be accused of shaking things up too much — “Days Go By” is a hit; why mess with that formula?
But Dirty Vegas, album and band, isn’t half as ambitious as hipster publishers think it is.
It’s office music. It’s party music. In short, it’s background music.
Maybe not background music on the level of Brian Eno’s Music for Airports — or Tift Merritt’s Bramble Rose, for that matter — but it’s a decent collection of tunes made to sound like a club mix.
Dirty Vegas does deserve some credit — most dance music is little more than a string of one-liners and pre-fabbed samples, all texture and little substance.
Singer Steve Smith and non-brothers Ben Harris and Paul Harris attempt to fashion choruses and verses into dance music. That’s above and beyond what most electronica requires.
“Ghosts” makes for a sensible second single, its chorus total radio fodder. “7 AM” belies a strong Everything But the Girl influence — think “Missing” — while “Candles” sounds totally ready for a Zero 7 remix.
Set against a lush synthetic background, Smith’s raspy-nasal voice sounds at home, but the acoustic version of “Days Go By”, tacked on as a bonus track, does reveal the limitations — and charm — of his singing.
The trio flexes its MIDI skills on a few instrumental tracks, “Throwing Shapes” being the most ambitious of all the songs on the album.
But in the end, Dirty Vegas strikes a pleasing balance between dance music’s love for minimalism and songwriting’s need for structure. If you’re expecting more than that, you’re listening too closely.
The Austin Chronicle called Trans Am D.C’s answer to the Prima Donnas — a convenient description, but a tad inaccurate.
The Prima Donnas push the most absurd elements of New Wave to their post-punk extremes. The England-by-way-of-Texas trio take their lack of seriousness seriously.
And if there’s one thing critics and audiences couldn’t do was take New Wave seriously.
Trans Am, on the other hand, sound like they have a real respect for the robotic, analog beats of New Wave, incorporating it with rock ‘n’ roll with the same kind of aplomb rap-rockers apply to their trade.
New Wave wasn’t just a fashion faux pas — it’s a legitimate aesthetic, or so Trans Am would like us to believe.
And the D.C. trio makes a really good case on T.A..
Rife with period synthesizers and drum machines, T.A. could have sounded like it was recorded circa 1982.
“Molecules” certainly doesn’t sound like it was made in the last two years. Twittering synthesizers and thumping bass lines practically bury the wailing guitars on the track. It’s a cousin piece to Re-Flex’s “Politics of Dancing”, just with a bit more viscera.
“Cold War” combines Kraftwerk drum programming and Johnny Marr guitar embellishments. “Run With Me” jumps along at a double-time pace reminiscent of Wire.
Unlike Tommy February6’s historically accurate reading of the ’80s, Trans Am infuses more recent influences to give its music some rough edges.
“You Will Be There” may have an ominous beat, but Nathan Means’ growl bears no resemblance to the English drawl of Phil Oakley or Dave Wakeling. The moody guitar on “Afternight” goes against the precision of everything that went before.
By the end of the album, “Infinite Wavelength” edges away from New Wave and closer to the precursors of industrial.
T.A. does a great job of giving New Wave a lot more credit than it’s been given, infusing it with a gravity that’s not too heavy-handed nor uncharacteristic. There’s definitely a party vibe to T.A. but not at the point of slapstick.