If Love Psychedelico topped the charts in the States with the same brand of ’60s nostalgia that conquered the Japanese pop charts, it would still be a magnificant feat.
In a musical landscape full of packaged pop, nu metal and (worst of all) Creed, Delico’s debut album The Greatest Hits is an anamoly at worst, a miracle at best.
(Kind of like how the Strokes and Mean Machine managed to sound total new by sonically photocopying Television and the Velvet Underground — respectively.)
In reality, The Greatest Hits was little more than an after thought. Anyone who got hip to Love Psychedelico six months before the duo released the album heard most of the songs already — six of the 11 tracks are available on the singles.
As a result, Delico’s second album, Love Psychedelic Orchestra, sounds positively fresh. Only two singles preceded the release of the album, and most of the material is entirely new.
Repeated listens, however, reveals Love Psychedelic Orchestra is more of an album — a collection of songs meant to feel like a single unit.
When “green” segues seamlessly into “dry town”, Love Psychedelico demonstrate how this time around, they were thinking more ambitiously.
Although KUMI and Sato Naoki still maintain their slavishly devotion to period sounds — those same clangly klaviers, those same wheezy organs, those same jangly guitars — the songs feel darker, and they fit together more nicely.
The “House of the Rising Sun” atmospherics of “dry town” leads nicely into the mellow “I will be with you”.
The infectuous klavier hook that introduces “Standing Bird” makes a good companion to a similarly catchy intro on “Freeworld”.
“life goes on”, with its country-rock groove, makes for a suitable lead-in to the mono rocker “‘0′”.
Although Love Psychedelic Orchestra sounds like its predecessor on the surface, deep down it’s the album The Greatest Hits should have been — cohesive, tighter, focused.
Love Psychedelico has found its voice, and now the duo is refining their songwriting chops.
Seagull Screaming Kiss Her Kiss Her have come a long way since Higurashi Ahia decided to form a band nearly 10 years ago.
Even as recently as 1996’s It’s Brand New, the band indulged in the usual indie gestures that toe the line between amateur preciousness and mature sophistication — angular hooks, changing tempo, sparse arrangements giving way to bombastic outbursts.
By comparrison, SSKHKH’s latest album, Future or No Future sounds tame next to It’s Brand New, and while Higurashi may be writing more conventional songs nowadays, they’re far more crafted and much more mature than her earlier work.
(Check out SSKHKH’s 2000 album, No! No! No! It’s got a bit more punch than the polished sound of Future or No Future.)
Higurashi knows now she can write a hook and still sound like she’s pushing the envelope.
“Sentimental Journey” hammers away with a dischordant guitar hook, but its primitive forcefulness is far more effective than some of her dissonant solos on It’s Brand New.
The 46-second title track is a nice, concise workout that says more in its brevity than some of the three-minute songs on the album.
“Mo’Mo’Gimi’Mo'” alternates between a quiet half-time strumming, a head-banging riff and a bombastic bridge, but this time around, Higurashi has a better handle on juggling all three elements.
When Higurashi does opt to nail a hook, she does so marvelously.
“Think It Over” shows off a Harley-riding rock ‘n’ roll swagger. Simple eight-note riffs drive “Fuck It Up and Get Hurt” and “Mo’Mo’Gimi’Mo'”.
“Evolution” sports a bittersweet melody countered by a saccharine organ line, while “Lullaby” supplements its dramatic chorus with amplified strings.
Up until Future or No Future, Higurashi sang exclusively in heavily-accented English. This time around, she’s thrown in some of her native Japanese into a few verses. It’s a nice break.
Future or No Future is a satisfying album, full of mature songwriting and incredible performances.
Boom Boom Satellites’ previous album, Out Loud, was remarkable for successfully incorporating guitars the Chemical Brothers and the Prodigy didn’t do back in the major label electronica bidding war of 1997.
But as time progressed, Out Loud revealed itself to be sonic wallpaper — interesting in the details but pretty boring in the big picture.
Umbra, however, takes far more many risks Out Loud ever dared.
The guitars are no less prevalent, but this time out, Boom Boom Satellites are showing off their jazz chops.
“Brand New Battering Ram” is pure be-bop — just heavily processed and accompanied by a stuttering drum ‘n’ bass beat having an identity crisis as a jazz drummer.
On “Ego”, a menancing vocal reverberates amidst clusters of piano chords, freaked-out flute solos and electronic effects that are nothing more than fancily-disguised be-bop solos.
On other tracks, the Satellites lay heavy with the effects the same way Billy Corgan would lay heavy on multitracking metal guitars or Enya would on creating a 500-member chorus of one.
“Sinker” gets dirty with a blues backbeat, but it’s those sliding sirens that give this track its edge.
Public Enemy’s Chuck D sounds totally at home amid the Satellites’ sonic tapesty on the wordily-titled “You’re Reality Is a Fantasy But You’re Fantasy Is Killing Me”.
The album reaches its dramatic apex on “Solilquy”. Over the course of 5’37”, the track builds to an incessant guitar riff hammering away till a loud thud from an echo-y snare drum brings Umbra crashing down.
Out Loud only hinted at what Boom Boom Satellites were truly capable of. Umbra realizes it.
This album goes far beyond what casual listeners may perceive as “electronica”. Although synthesizer effects lay the foundation for the album, its heart totally belongs to jazz, blues and rock.
Those awkward square wave timbres, those robotic preset beats. How wonderous to think a synthesizer with 64K of RAM was considered state-of-the-art.
The Prima Donnas remember. Oh, hell — they were there. At least that’s what the liner notes say.
The English-bred trio started out in 1980 as child stars whose fame ended when they all turned seven. A career resurgence in the late 80s resulted in a slew of No. 1 UK albums before scandal forced the group into exile, where they ended up in — of all places — Austin, Texas.
And if you believe that, then the Prima Donnas’ Drugs, Sex, Discotechque will make a perfect addition to your Gorillaz, Spinal Tap and Tenacious D albums.
In reality, the Prima Donnas aren’t from England, but getting them to fess up to their true Texas roots will take a bit of effort. It doesn’t stop them from sounding like they came straight from the ’80s.
Drugs, Sex, Discotechque is beautifully dated, steeped in Reagan-era decadence when a Yamaha DX-7 was supposed to usher the end of a bloated studio budget.
Otto Matik’s nasal whine infuses the band’s primitive cool synth-pop with a punk brattiness mostly devoid in the hey day of New Wave. (Not counting Frankie Goes to Hollywood, of course.)
When Otto screams “F-U-K! F-U-K! U-K!” on the approrpriately-titled “F.U.K.”, it’s an 8-MIDI track analog orchestra backing him, not power chords and wanking solos.
The Prima Donnas actually make a pretty convincing case against the coldness of digital. There’s just something warm about how the bass lines in their songs fart more than they growl — which means the Sussex-by-way-of-Austin trio need to navigate a third resurgence of its career with some delicacy.
Pop culture follows a 20-year rejuvination cycle, and Drugs, Sex, Discotechque’s utter lack of sampled patches makes the Prima Donnas sound tres cool.
(For further proof, jump on your favorite file-sharing network and search for “*Kiss* One More Time” by Tommy February6.)
Children of the 80s will wonder how they ever missed the Prima Donnas the first time around.
I’m curious — with all the Velvet Underground and Television comparrisons flying around Black Lipstick, would they have eclipsed the Strokes if they were signed to some major label?
Maybe Black Lipstick ought to tour the UK and engage in a Backstreet Boys-vs.-‘NSync type of battle with the current critics darlings from New Yawk City.
Sure, the Strokes have some pretty good, hook-filled songs — makes up for their total lack of stage presence, by the way — but Black Lipstick has two members from the defunct-but-always-great Kiss Offs.
At their best, the Kiss Offs came across as a raunchier, less brainy Waitresses — Katey Jones building up an indelible sexual tension with frontman Philip Niemeyer.
Black Lipstick strips away the Kiss Offs’ fuzzy pedal effects and Jones’ Casio keyboard artistry, leaving a more human, more obviously dischordant sound.
With a piano supplementing the cool strumming of Niemeyer and fellow singer/guitarist Travis Higdon, Black Lipstick comes across as more textured than the two guitarists’ previous band.
Niemeyer’s familiar, off-key, deadpan vocals infuse Black Lipstick’s music with a comforting swagger. “I don’t care about shit except for getting on and getting lit,” he sings on “White Jazz”. Amen.
As for all the Velvet Underground/Television/Talking Heads/Modern Lovers comparrisons — yeah, they’re true.
But unlike the Strokes or even another VU-like band from Japan called Mean Machine, Black Lipstick doesn’t sound like they need a banana peel on the cover of its EP.
Whatever hero worship Black Lipstick engages in, it’s mixed up well enough not to be too blatant.
First, let’s get the positive reinforcement out of the way: Shakira’s Laundry Service is a nicely-written, well-recorded pop album.
Shakira hits all the right notes, paints within all the proper pop music lines, delivers a good by-the-book hitmaker.
On the surface, tracks such as “Whenever, Wherever”, “Rules” and “Ready for the Good Times” contain ear-grabbing choruses and arse-shaking beats.
Scratch beneath the surface, and Laundry Service reveals itself to be a slump.
Although Shakira’s last album, Donde estan los ladrones?, was heavy on the ballads, the album had a rock ‘n’ roll swagger that translated into a riveting performance.
Non-Spanish speakers didn’t need to know what Shakira was singing to feel her music.
Laundry Service, on the other hand, has washed away some of that rawness, leaving behind a chart-topping-ready sheen that lacks any real passion.
Beatles-esque ballads such as “Underneath Your Clothes” and “The One” feel way too predictable. “Inevitable”, they are not.
“Fool” comes close to replicate the alt-rock vibe of “Donde estan los ladrones?” but not quite, while “Poem to a Horse” is passable but not remarkable.
As for Shakira’s ability to navigate the English language, she definitely deserves high marks. Unlike most of the foreign (read: Japanese) singers worshipped on this very site, Shakira’s diction shows few flaws.
And yet, the way Shakira scrapes her notes and alternates between throaty growls and demure whispers just doesn’t seem to fit English very well.
Tune out “Whenever, Wherever”, and there are moments when a listener’s ear would rather force Shakira’s delivery into Spanish rather than English.
Shakira includes a few Spanish-language tracks toward the end of the album, but it’s not enough to save Laundry Service.
Next time, Shakira should borrow a page from the Chris Perez Band/Pizzicato Five playbook: record a mostly-native-language album with the singles entirely in English and everything else either in the native tongue or with some English choruses.
Contrary to what American audiences believe, rock music not sung in English is no less good.
It’s probably easiest to read a review of mono’s Hey You E.P. first. There’s a lot of description about mono’s basic aesthetic there that would be redundant if repeated here.
Go on. Click on the link. You can do it. Come back here when you’re done. We’ll be waiting.
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Done? Good.
Under the Pipal Tree, mono’s full-length debut album, offers pretty much the same thing. In fact, two tracks from Hey You E.P. — a re-recording of “Karelia” and “L’America” — appear on the album.
After the kinetic opening of “Karelia (Opus 2)”, Under the Pipal Tree venture into some pretty ambient territory.
“The Kidnapper Bell” contains much of the same echo-y, U2-Edge-like foundation of “Karelia” but with a slower tempo and a more organic build. “Jackie Says” hinges on a four-measure hook that undergoes a slow metamorphasis but never loses its identity.
mono allows listeners a few repreives from its larger dramatic gestures by keeping “OP Beach”, “Holy” and “L’America” under wraps.
And when the band concludes the album with “Human Highway”, they reach their peak quickly, then fade out over a three-minute stretch.
mono takes a single harmonic rhythm, sometimes no more than four chords, and builds miniature epic works not too distantly related to Maurice Ravel’s Bolero in its sense of dynamics and layering.
As a result, the 63-minutes occupied by Under the Pipal Tree feels much shorter. mono do such a tremendous job creating drama from minimal source material, it makes minimalism, the high-minded compositional technique, feel totally accessible.
Philip Glass and Steve Reich ought to write pieces of this Japanese quartet. Or perhaps, mono ought to show Glass and Reich a few pointers.
Under the Pipal Tree expands on the beauty forged by Hey You E.P. into a dramatic work as gorgeous and introspective as it is aggressive and grotesque.
Here’s an instrumental band that makes overdrive a thing of beauty.
A year after releasing the appropriately titled Kibakuzai (“detonator” in Japanese), Bleach returns with an even more obtuse album.
On Kibakuzai, the Okinawa-trio stuck to straight-forward hardcore — lightning fast power riffs accompanied by hyper-aggressive screams.
Bleach liberally painted outside the lines on occassion, but at its core, Kibakuzai was a polished work.
Hadaka no Jyoou, however, revels in dissonance and noise.
After a seemingly normal metallic introduction with “Kemuri Kemuri Kemuri (Jiko 0 Shipoo 101)”, Bleach tears into “Furueru Hana”, a monstrously ugly hulk of a song that obeys no tonal center.
“Yawa” bounces along like the soundtrack to a nightmarish clown parade. Arrange this track for string quartet, and Kronos Quartet could include it on a program of works by Kryzystov Penderecki.
“Ikenie” is the album’s token mellow track, but even the minimalist arrangement of the song is no comfort. Kanna delivers an awkwardly-phrased melody while she strums ominous chords to Sayuri’s taiko-like drumming.
Even when they’re holding back, Bleach still manages to disturb.
“Bakuon Dashitai A-77” sports the most impassioned vocal performance by Yasuke, while Kanna jack-hammers even more dischordant riffs.
The title track concludes the album with a rumbling bass line and the oddest seventh-chord to be layered over a funk beat.
In other words, Bleach sets out to make listeners uncomfortable. Hadaka no Jyoou is aggression boiled down to its barest essence.
Like Kibakuzai, Hadaka no Jyoou clocks in at under half an hour. It’s a smart move on the band’s part — music this brash is best digested in small doses. Anything more might make listeners’ brains explode, let alone make them deaf.
Once again, Bleach produces a challenging work that dares to push the expectations of how far rock ‘n’ roll can go.
You don’t know heads or tails of the whole club music thing.
Allow me to disclose fully my own inability to channel club music as a listening experience.
I like drum ‘n’ bass and techno and what-not while I’m checking out bare-chested dancers in a gay bar, but I wouldn’t put any of that music in my stereo.
Zen, however, works outside of a club context, thanks largely to DJ Krush’s inate talent to impose a song structure to music that usually doesn’t call for any.
DJ Krush has usually been filed under “trip-hop”, a label imprecise for the kind of music Krush produces.
His collaboration with ACO and Twigy on the non-album single “Tragicomic” brought together dark, ethereal melodies, growling bass lines and two incredibly distinct vocal talents — ACO’s pouty singing, and Twigy’s Ebonic-inflected Japanese.
Zen follows that basic aesthetic, backing off a bit to be less intrusive, more atmospheric.
The music backing Black Thought on “Zen Approach” feels almost transparent. “Day’s End” fully integrates Kodama Kazufumi’s muted trumpet in a tapestry of restrained beats, classical guitars and glassy synthetic timbres.
Even the more aggressive tracks don’t feel heavy-handed.
“Vision of Art” does a fine job of housing Company Flow’s gauntlet-throwing raps in a lush arrangement that isn’t at all pushy. “Duck Chase” humorously sputters from abrupt start and stops but never loses a sense of proportion.
DJ Krush’s music works best when it draws inward. N’dea Davenport delivers a beautiful performance on “With Grace”. Boss Da MC infuses “Candle Chant” with a quick-paced momentum totally fitting with the track’s mellow vibe.
By squeezing his ambient textures into a more-or-less traditional verse-chorus-verse pattern, DJ Krush makes Zen accessible to listeners unfamiliar or intimidated by both hip-hop and electronica.
You don’t need to step into a dance club to figure out Zen is a remarkable work.
No new songs or rare outtakes. No interactive CD elements. No provacative pictures.
Just Madonna thinking she’s posing for the cover of Aphex Twin’s Richard D. James Album.
But this second volume of hits shows just how far Madonna has come in terms of her musicianship.
Madonna has always been disected as a pop culture icon but never seriously critiqued as a musician. Her songs always seemed to be periphery to her image — something to play in the background of her videos.
The Erotica-era songs certainly served this purpose. Despite catchy choruses and elaborate studio wizardry, tracks such as “Deeper and Deeper” and “Erotica” helped hammer the final nail in Madonna’s sexually frank gimmickry.
After that, Madonna literally zigged and zagged, trying to find ways to remain relevant without overtly pandering to youth fashion.
She attempted to draft Björk into writing an entire album for her. (Only one track, “Bedtime Story”, resulted.) She played the title role in a movie adaption of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Evita. Finally, she became a mother.
After all that exploration, the hits on GHV2 feel more cohesive than the ones on The Immaculate Collection.
The cool, scaled-back R&B production of Madonna’s Bedtime Stories work doesn’t seem all that much removed from the ambient-techno sessions of Ray of Light.
Even her fragile rendition of “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina” doesn’t sound out of place (although Madonna will never be Patti LuPone).
The helium, nasal squeal that propelled “Like a Virgin” and “Material Girl” to the top of the charts has given way to a sultry voice that can soar as well as it can whisper.
Madonna’s lyrics may not give Natalie Merchant any sleepless nights, but songs such as “Drowned World/Substitute for Love” and “Frozen” reveal Ms. Ciccone’s blonde ambition isn’t too misplaced.
In other words, GHV2 feels like the work of an artist. The maturity Madonna shows in these hits leaves the bubblegum exuberence of her early work stranded in the middle of a desert.
So even if there aren’t any bells and whistles to attract fans who already own her albums, GHV2 is still a good document of a modern icon.