Musicwhore.org Archive The original

While Musicwhore.org may have given a very favorable review to downy’s second untitled album, truth is that album is pretty homogenous.

In fact, the review in question pussyfooted around the issue by stating, “… the entire disc feels like a single-flowing work.” That’s just a nice way of saying it was monotone.

downy’s third album — also untitled — pretty much reveals its predecessor’s shortcomings. By comparrison, this latest work is far more textured, a lot more varied, and even more hypnotic.

Instead of jackhammering from the start, downy begins quietly, almost hesitantly with “Tetsu no Fuukei”. The band’s trademark minimalism seethes but never explodes.

Even on the more kinetic “Anarchy Dance”, downy carefully structures its outbursts, layering tiny blasts of distortion over an oddly lilting rhythm.

This time around,

downy opts to intersperse softer, intense moments with its more kinetic ones, often within tracks.

“Keijijogaku” starts off sounding like another slow piece but eventually reveals itself to be a sparse, quick song instead.

“Akatsuki ni Te” starts off mechanically, then breaks down to only a few instruments.

Frontman Aoki Robin is as obfuscating as ever, but this time, he doesn’t sound so buried. On “Zen”, an overdubbed chorus of Aokis produces one of the album’s most haunting moments.

downy’s music may appear to be cold and robotic, blocky in the way its repeated motifs insistently loop and curl. But just when it seems the band is stuck, something gives way — an underlying guitar line coming to the fore, a mumbled vocal giving way to a percussive explosion.

On this album — should we bother nicknaming it “Cloudburst”, while calling the previous untitled albums “Thunderbolt” and “Eye”? — there’s an ebb and flow to the music that infuses it with emotion.

There are enough twists and turns in the downy’s songs to keep listeners interested. And perhaps entranced.

Start here.

I asked my friend, the biggest Radiohead fan I know, how many listens it takes before Radiohead albums to stop being boring.

He said 12.5.

I’m pretty sure I passed the 12.5 mark weeks ago with Hail to the Thief, and while the album may very well be beautiful, it doesn’t seem to want to sink in.

Sure, certain tracks have definitely made a dent.

“2+2=5” starts off hesitantly, then finishes with a rage Thom Yorke should have maintained for the rest of the album. “Scatterbrain” possesses the kind of appealing melody absolutely suited for Yorke’s angelic croon, and “Wolf at the Door” sounds like the nervous breakdown for which Radiohead’s music has served as a soundtrack for the past decade.

But those tracks anchor the ends of the album. What about everything in between?

Hail to the Thief is a difficult album to evaluate because on some level, the album offers up a lot — synthetic rhythms and electric guitars weaving into each other, Yorke’s vocals blanketing everything. It’s hard not to consider such tracks as “Backdrifts” and “There There” as anything less than good.

Unfortunately, the album misses something intangible to leave a lasting impression.

“Sit Down, Stand Up” is pretty much wallpaper until Yorke unleashes that crushing holler. “The Gloaming” does a nice job of bubbling under, but that’s all it’s good for.

Other tracks seem to resemble each other too closely in temperament: “A Punch Up at a Wedding” and “Where I End And You Begin”; “Sail to the Moon” and “We Suck Young Blood”. Thanks to skillful sequencing, none of these track bleed into each other.

While the band may be reknown for being pessimistic, it needn’t be homogenous.

Even though Radiohead offers up a lot of contrast on Hail to the Thief — fast songs with the slow, electric guitars with the sampling — there’s not enough to keep the album interesting.

Hail to the Thief may very well grow on you, given lots and lots of time, but for those first few spins, it’s sheer luck if any of it sticks in your subconscious.

Personally, Radiohead seems more interesting when other people are doing its music (except for that Christopher O’Rielly dude — he should listen to some Bad Plus.) So perhaps when Wayne Coyne and Shiina Ringo cover songs from this album, it’s real beauty may come forth.

Imagine what would happen if Mandy Moore somehow managed to morph into Björk or, to use a parallel closer to home, if Hamasaki Ayumi turned into Shiina Ringo.

That would only begin to describe the creative trajectory of ACO. The Japanese singer started out as a young idol, but in recent years, she’s transformed herself into a daring explorer.

Her sixth album, irony, demands a lot of effort on part of the listener. It’s not just a challenging album — it’s a work that defies comparisson from the rest of her repertoire.

And that’s perhaps the most difficult hurdle to overcome in approaching irony. ACO, who distinguished herself from other idol singers by writing her own music, has always been a skilled melodicist.

When she offered that talent to such producers as Adrian Sherwood and Sunahara Toshinori, it yielded two of the most gratifying electronica-influenced pop albums of the early decade — Absolute Ego and Material.

irony represents a natural and yet drastic leap from those albums. ACO has dived straight into a sonic ocean of strange sounds, primeval rhythms and eerie vocals. She sets human strings against inhuman effects, and she pushes her voice to extreme ranges.

Her gift for melody is still present, as demonstrated on the lullaby-like “hans”, the fragile “Subako” and the tender “Kitchen”.

But it’s been obscured, rendered unrecognizable by a tapestry of floating textures. On “lang”, harmonics played on violins double ACO’s wordless singing, a pairing that’s both chilling and beautiful. Rhythmless synthesizers almost sound like they’re broadcast alien signals on the album’s title track.

The vocals on irony almost take a secondary role. On “Akai Shishuu”, ACO doesn’t start singing till half way through the four-minute song. On the opening “00000”, they’re rendered backward.

For long-time fans, the aural world in which this album inhabits is perhaps akin to visiting an alien world. The few beats on the album are delivered in spurts, and any hint of the sensual jazz chords of her mainstream work are missing in action.

But once the lay of the land is set, irony becomes a fascinating work. Much like Björk’s Vespertine or Radiohead’s Kid A, the album abides by its own internal logic, its own atmosphere. And the more you listen, the more there is to discover in such sparse surroundings.

ACO has delivered perhaps the most strangely beautiful album of the year. It may take effort to appreciate it, but it’s well worth it.

Truth be told, Värttinä was more interesting when they went electric.

In the mid-90s, the Finnish folk collective recorded Aitara and Kokko, two albums in which the group augmented its already souped up instrumentation with a rock rhythm section. The rock musicians kept up with the band, but they (thankfully) never took over.

Starting with 1998’s Vihma, Värttinä returned to a more acoustic sound, and on 2000’s Illmartar, they explored their introspective side.

Iki, Värttinä’s 10th album, finds the group entrenched in its acoustic trappings, but it’s recaptured the spirit of its plugged-in diversions.

Front and center, of course, reigns the vocal triumvirate of Mari Kaasinen, Susan Aho and Johanna Virtanen. The versatile trio can deliver poignancy (“Tuulen Tuto”) or spit-fire virtuosity (“Nahkaruoska”) with equal aplomb.

The three woman are clearly the group’s central focus, as demonstrated on the Trio Bulgarka-like “Potran Korean”, and the album’s two-part framing tracks, “Syyllinen”. That doesn’t mean their six-piece backing band is no slouch.

On “Tauti”, bassist Hannu Rantanen and drummer Jaakko Lukkarinen navigate a thorny rhythmic mine field, while managing to infuse the track with a distinct rock feel.

On “Morsian” — a clear vocal showcase if there were any — accordian player Marrku Lepistö manages to comment on the singers’ melodies with his own flourishes.

Kaasinen and company get out of the way for “Vihi”, an instrumental track which shows why Celtic label Green Linnet was interested in the group long ago and far away.

There isn’t much else that can be said of the singers that hasn’t already been said. Their eastern European harmonies remain bittersweet and compelling. Thankfully, they’ve moved away from applying too many effects processors to their voices. They don’t need that kind of “help”.

While Vihma and Illmartar may have found Värttinä at its most sonically adventurous, Iki harkens back to the energy and confidence of its mid-90s work. To put it simply, it’s some the band’s catchiest work in a while.

It’s nice to see Värttinä getting back to getting down. It’s even nicer to know they don’t need to plug in to do so.

Volovan aren’t interested in being another rock en Español band.

Sure, the band plays rock music, and singer Chalo Galván sings in Español. That’s as far as the description can go.

Unlike their fellow countrymen in Molotov, Café Tacuba or Maná, the members of Monterrey, Mexico-based Volovan put nary a Latin influence in their music. They like their Brian Wilson-isms, and Brit-pop-isms straight up.

And they waste no time on their self-titled debut.

“Flor Primaveral” opens the album with a confection that could have been recorded if the Beach Boys spent any time across the border. “Ella es Azul” gets propelled by a driving rhythm and woo-hoo vocals straight out of a surf tune.

But the band isn’t all sun and fun. “En Mi Cielo” and “Violines” find Volovan employing weepy strings and wistful choruses. “Blanco” indulges their more psychedlic side.

“Panqué” and “Lindo” harken back to the Byrds much in the same way latter-IRS-era R.E.M. did, while “Me Vas Dejando” finds the band sticking close to Thurston Moore’s garage.

Through it all, the band hammers out one tasty pop treat after another.

Galván’s easy croon is cool enough not to overpower the music but can grab a listener when things get loud.

Although helmed by three different producers, the album doesn’t indulge in much studio wizardry. Sure, keyboards here and there add a nice flourish, but for the most part, the album exercises some wise restraint.

Bassist/guitarist Alejandro Gulmar deserves extra nods for giving his part some melodic muscle.

Would a little vallenato here or salsa there have enhanced anything? Most likely not. (And yeah, I know — wrong countries.)

“Lindo” is as close as Volovan, the album, gets to an overt Latin influence, but Galván and his bandmates hold on their own as pop songwriters.

If this strong debut is any indication, Volovan don’t need much more than some chords and a killer hook.

Is it possible for an album to have too much good music? And is that a bad thing?

The Klezmatics probably didn’t set out to answer those rhetorical questions on its newest album in five years, but on Rise Up!/Shteyt Oyf!, the band comes close to answering both questions with “yes”.

Of course, the members of the Klezmatics come from very high musical pedigrees. The downtown New York sextet has performed with Itzhak Perlman, Chava Albertstein and Peter Yarrow of Peter, Paul and Mary. They’ve also collaborated with playwright Tony Kushner.

The muscle behind that versatility doesn’t let up — in the first four tracks alone, the Klezmatics ably demonstrate the manic range of klezmer’s emotional content. “Kats Un Moyz” is as hot as any be-bop jam, while “Tepel”‘s wordless lyrics can get mindnumbingly frantic.

Twixt those two highs, singer Lorin Sklamberg shows how his tender tenor suites klezmer’s more melancholy moments.

By the time the group reaches Holly Near’s eeriely prophetic “I Ain’t Afraid” — a song that rallies against religious fundamentalism, written a year before 9/11 — the album feels like it’s reached its half way mark.

Nope. The half way mark comes two songs later.

And the Klezmatics have barely begun to experiment.

On past albums, the band was content to take old klezmer tunes and play them like jazz improvisers out to shove their Yiddishisms in the world’s face. The music was traditional, but the energy behind the performances was thoroughly modern.

On the latter half of Rise Up!, the Klezmatics take quite a number of liberties with their arrangements.

“Barikdan” starts off with a sample of a field recording, and when Sklamberg comes in with his take on the melody, his bandmates keep their accompaniment sparse but urgent. “Yo Riboyn Olam” foregoes the Western drum kit for a more Eastern European sound.

On other tracks such as “Hevl Iz Havolim” and “Davenen”, the Klezmatics sound more like a compact orchestra, turning traditional songs into grand works.

They even have time to throw in a whimsical novelty (“Makht Oyf”).

Compounding all the dramatic arrangements and exuberent performances are lengthy tracks. Not until the last third of the album do any of the songs finish before four minutes. Most of the 14 tracks on Rise Up! last five minutes.

As a result,

Rise Up! becomes an exhausting experience. It doesn’t overstay its welcome, per se, but such a constant barrage of emotional extremes can wear a pair of ears out.

Still, it’s nice to know the Klezmatics haven’t given up the ghost, and even after a long half decade silence, they’re as uplifting as ever. (Not counting, of course, the myriad of other projects each member runs on their own.)

Rise Up! is a guaranteed to have a lot of wonderful music, but be careful about digesting it all in one go.

Let’s get the analogy out of the way: American Life is to Madonna what Pop was to U2.

When the Irish quartet recorded Pop, it took its techno-rock aesthetic to a redundant conclusion — and then some. Madonna has done much the same with American Life.

Allow me to be frank, though — Mirwais sucks. Music started out all right, but over time, it revealed itself to be thin and unconvincing.

No such grace period hinders Mirwais’ second collaboration with Madonna on American Life — it’s thin and unconvincing from the outset.

The French producer’s love of a square wave lends little character to the music.

For all the suu-haa surrounding electro-clash’s allegedly cool cachet, American Life comes off as drab and inhuman.

Not that Madonna doesn’t attempt to infuse her tenth album with some humanity. If anything, the folk guitar vs. electronics template of “Nothing Fails”, “Love Profusion” and “X-Static Process” deserve marks for effort.

But Madonna isn’t a strong enough lyricist to sound more than a self-help book. “Mother and Father” was justly derided for its simplicity.

And let’s not mention Madonna’s freestyling abilities.

Thing is, this isn’t the first time Madonna has missed. In a way, it’s comforting to be reaffirmed that she isn’t a musical genius.

When her sexual frankness backfired in the early ’90s with Erotica and the rarely mentioned picture book Sex, Madonna toned it down, then subsequently veered in another direction.

Now, she’s hit a dead end with club music — which, if you believe all the fashion magazines, is passé anyway — and it’s only a matter of time before Madonna retools for another make-over.

Still, it’s somewhat disappointing to see a creative direction hearlded by such a stellar introduction — Ray of Light still kicks posterior after five years — end up in such a miserable place.

“Do I have to change my name?” Madonna sings at the start of the album. After recording something as terrible as this, it wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

There isn’t much to say about this EP.

For fans, the rarities included on Fight Test range from strangely fascinating (a cover of Kylie Minogue’s “Can’t Get You Out of My Head”) to somewhat uninteresting (a techno-ish new song “The Strange Design”).

But given the range of material on the seven-track disc, it can’t escape having a stop-gap, throw-away feel.

The Lips’ cover of “Knives Out” proves Radiohead is far more interesting when other people are doing its music, but musically speaking, it shares nothing in common with the Scott Hardkiss Floating in Space Mix of “Do You Realize??”

If anything, Fight Test EP seems like a measure aimed at preventing exorbiant eBay auctions and rampant file trading — most of the tracks featured on the disc were previously released on promotional discs prior to the release of 2002’s Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots.

It’s a boon for fans, and if you set the White Stripes’ Elephant right before Fight Test EP on your CD changer (or MP3 player, as it were), you’ll find a nice congruency between the Stripes “We Just Love One Another” and the Lips’ whimsical “Thank You Jack White (For That Fiberoptic Jesus That You Gave Me)”.

It’s not, however, a disc you’d use to sell someone on the Flaming Lips. Get it if Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots made your year.