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.
It’s true, after all — Thee Michelle Gun Elephant really does suck.
At least compared to Sweden’s the Hives.
Both bands serve up rehashed garage rock of the MC5-Stooges ilk. Although endlessly compared to current critics darlings the Strokes, the Hives actually sound closer to TMGE in spirit.
Two things, however, trump the Swedes’ musical cousins in Nippon — a powerful vocalist and actual songs.
Let’s not mince words here. Chiba Yusuke gets high marks where passion and effort is concerned but low scores when it comes to timbral appeal. Howlin’ Pelle’s off-key scream has enough grit to fit his bandmates’ volume-knobs-to-11 sound without turning into grating presence.
Originally released two years ago, Veni Vidi Vicious is a compact collection of two-minute, hard rocking ditties.
Most of the album traffics in double-time, whiplash-inducing rawk ‘n’ roll — “Outsmarted”, “The Hives Introduce the Metric System in Time”, “Statecontrol”, “Knock Knock”.
At times, the quintet eases up just a bit to make some single-worthy moments. “Hate to Say I Told You So” is, of course, the most obvious choice for MTV airplay. It’s also the longest song on the album, clocking in at an epic 3’21”.
“Main Offender” contains a fist-pumping, sing-along chorus, while “Supply and Demand” sports some nice interplay between Pelle and guitarists Nicholaus Arson and Vigilante.
And just to give listeners a bit of a reprieve, the Hives indulge its inner lounge lizard with the very exotic “Find Another Girl”. Another point in Pelle’s favor — Chiba probably couldn’t sound like a crooner if Frank Sinatra possessed him.
For the most part, the Hives pretty much have a single modus operandi — loud, loud, loud.
At worst, Veni Vidi Vicious is homogenic, one dumb rock song after another, but that homogeny works in the band’s favor.
Deep down, the album is a convergence of tunesmithing, balls and adrenaline. It’s the kind of rock album that doesn’t require much more explication than grunting, “Huh … cool.”
Lisa Go calls her music “quiet rock”. If that’s her idea of “quiet”, her notion of “loud” must be pretty ear-splitting.
Go’s 2000 debut album, Moonbeams, is the second Meg Lee Chin album we’re still waiting for. A mix of buzzing guitars, synthetic drums, electronic effects and Go’s singular wail, Moonbeams creates a wonderful sonic landscape.
In “Waiting Room”, a heavy-handed, growling introduction makes way for a quiet verse. “Kara Kara” seethes with a minimal intensity, untill it bursts into an almost industrial chorus.
Go is a master at texture. There’s not a track on the album that doesn’t make use of a full range of dynamics.
“Ice Candy”, for instance, starts off with an Indian-influenced sample, but not until half-way through the six-minute song does the full band come crashing in.
“Fade Away” starts off with an ominous thump of a reverb-drenched kick drum, then gives away to an oddly lilting rhythm as awkward as it is foreboding.
While Go, a third generation Chinese-Japanese, has written an album of very dramatic, tuenful pieces, only one significant thing interferes with the album’s execution — her English diction.
All the songs on Moonbeams are sung in English, and although Go’s nasal voice is intriguing, her heavy Japanese accent garbles what could have been a brilliant performance.
It takes a few listens to get through Go’s diction and to appreciate the painstakingly crafted music she’s produced.
Once that happens, it’s easy to pick personal favorites.
“Chinese-Made Machine Gun” dives head-long into a Garbage vibe, complete with catchy chorus. “Bed” makes for a terrific conclusion to the album, winding down Go’s frantic music.
Go has since released a number of singles and a second album, Utaime, since recording Moonbeams. Utaime includes songs sung in Japanese.
Moonbeams is definitely a promising start. Looking forward to more of Go’s work will be a treat.
The only thing wrong with Nina Hynes’ 1999 debut EP Creation was its length — six songs.
Hynes’ music mixes trip-hop and alternative rock, while her voice calls to mind Björk and Harriett Wheeler of the Sundays. Creation was such a strong album, it left listeners starving for more.
Fans, unfortunately, would have to wait 2 1/2 years before Hynes released her first full-length album, Staros.
Although the basic foundation of Hynes’ sound is in tact — haunting rock embellished with electronic effects — the sound on Staros sounds drier, even spare. By comparrison, Creation soaked in reverb, giving the music an almost liquid feel.
Fans of that more liquid sound may find it hard to warm up to Staros’ more earthen qualities. It shouldn’t stop them from enjoying Hynes’ songwriting.
In the nearly three years since Creation’s release, Hynes has embraced a broader sense of style. “The Other Side of Now” and “Last Song of the 20th Century” traffic in the same kind of folk-electronica combo Shea Seger explored on 2001’s The May Street Project.
“Mono Prix” is Hynes’ first stab at a fast-paced, straight-forward rocker. A vaguely Latin beat underscores the slow horns of “Tenderness”.
Other tracks sport a pared-down version of Hynes’ intial alterna-rock-trip-hop. “Universal” sputters along on a slowed-down drum ‘n’ bass beat, while “Dive” indulges in the same kind of atmospherics that made Björk’s Homogenic a fascinating listen.
“Shine” and “Swallow”, in the meantime, feature the kind of off-kilter melodies that gave Creation some interesting hues.
Hynes’ vocal performance does seem a bit more fragile here, and at times, she sounds almost indescript. There’s almost a sense she could have belted “Mono Prix” and “Shine” with the same kind of aplomb she attacked “This Magic Stuff”.
Those faults aside, Staros is worth the effort to like. Hynes is an incredible performer and writer, not as eccentric as Björk but every bit as engaging.
Not only must musicians respect the spirit of a song’s original performance, they also have to inject something of their own muse into it.
Good cover albums (Bill Frisell, Have a Little Faith) strike the right balance, while bad ones (Duran Duran, Thank You) end up smearing the reputation of both tributor and tributee.
Nearly a year after giving birth to her son, Shiina Ringo eases her way back into the hyper-productive Japanese music scene with her own cover album, Utaite Myoori. (Or, “Singer’s luck”.)
Shiina has cultivated a reputation for being an in-your-face rocker. She doesn’t fear banging tone clusters on an introspective piano ballad (“Tokiga Boosoosuru”) any more than wailing over a heavy metal guitar riff (“Identity”).
So it’s both surprising and typical for Shiina’s cover album to cut a wide swath of musical styles: Edith Piaf, Andy Williams, the Beatles, Franz Schubert.
Just how well does can one singer interpret Marilyn Monroe and a Japanese lullaby? Pretty well, as it turns out.
Although Utaite Myoori clocks in at 67 minutes, Shiina saw fit to split the album into two discs, one helmed by a different producer and performed by a distinct band.
Each disc is named after the person who arranged it — the “Mori-pact disc” by Mori Toshiyuki, the “Kame-pact disc” by Kameda Seiji.
Shiina was wise to keep the work of these two arrangers separate — like the album covers, they’re as different as night and day.
Fans will probably warm up to the “Kame-pact disc” more easily. Kameda worked with Shiina on her previous albums, and the performances he brings out of the band fits well with what’s gone before.
Compared to the “Mori-pact disc”, however, Kameda and Gyakutai Glycogen (the house band for that disc) deliver the most fiery performances.
Shiina sounds like blues mama on “Shiroi Kohato”, while the guitar work on the Beatles’ “Yer Blues” could be charitably described as wondefully chaotic.
Andy Williams’ “More” transforms into a space-age cabaret song, borrowing a few arrangement tricks from Shiina’s own “Yokoshitsu”. Even the unlikely cover of Monroe’s “I Wanna Be Loved By You” feels organic.
The most relevatory performance is Shiina’s duet with SPITZ’s Kusano Masamune. Kusano, who’s wonderful voice is often backed by jangly guitars, sounds at home in front of Kameda’s screaming axeslingers.
Although the “Mori-pact” disc isn’t bad per se, it doesn’t seem to possess the kind of passion of the “Kame-pact” disc.
Shiina’s duet with Utada Hikaru on “I Won’t Last a Day Without You” feels labored. The cold electronic arrangement of “Jazz a Go Go” seems a bit too stiff for the song’s need to swing.
Shiina does tackle “Kareha” (a.k.a. “Autumn Leaves”) with a very tangible sensuality, and her performance of “Komoriuta” is beautifully sparse.
Taken as a whole, Utaite Myoori is pretty impressive. Shiina navigates multiple languages, styles and idioms with forcefullness and ease. She has no qualms about shaping other people’s music into her own, and she makes it work well.