Here in America, Pizzicato Five releases its fifth album, creatively titled The Fifth Release on Matador, and it comes across like all the other albums P5 has recorded.
Back in Japan, singer Nomiya Maki strikes out on her own, not exactly stretching beyond the comfort zone of P5’s club friendly pop trash, but she manages to record a better album.
Miss Maki Nomiya Sings sports many of the elements that makes Pizzicato Five such a familiar listen — big club beats, homages to Burt Bacharach and Serge Gainsbourg, lush strings, bossa nova rhythms, and a lot of French lyrics.
But it’s her collaborators which make all the difference on this project.
P5 instrumentalist Yasuhara Konishi knows only so many ways to make good use of Nomiya’s voice. On Miss Maki Nomiya Sings, guests such as Cibo Matto’s Honda Yuka and former Deee-Lite DJ Towa Tei offers Nomiya something new.
And boy does she ever shine.
On “Star Struck,” Honda sandwiches Nomiya’s sweet harmonizing between stretches of buzzing guitars and synthetic drums. “Baby” features a catchy, catchy, catchy intro that makes a terrific counterpoint to Nomiya’s bouncy delivery.
“Arrivederci a Capri” has the best back beat to support Nomiya’s voice since “Magic Carpet Ride” on Made in USA. At times, you’d wish Nomiya would bust out of her usual fare, such as the reprise of “Fiorella with the Umbrella” that follows P5’s habit of putting remixes of the same track on the same album.
It’s not until the very final track of the album where Nomiya’s potential for so much more becomes readily apparent. With acoustic guitars chiming behind her, Nomiya does a mean cover of KISS’ “Hard Luck Woman.”
At that moment, a listener realizes that Nomiya’s smooth alto could sing a shopping list a still be riveting. Sugoi!
Marilyn Manson lives under a microscope in every music publication known to man. Except this one.
Nope. This site isn’t going to explicate any deeper meanings or extract any autobiographical parallels from the lyrics Manson screams from track to track on Holy Wood.
Why not? ‘Cos (1.) it’s already been done (2.) it’s not hard to glean the general gist of Manson’s tirades (3.) it’s not anything we haven’t already heard before from the same person.
God is dead, if he ever existed, and the downtrodden becomes the oppressors’ undoing. Et cetera. Ad infinitum. Pax Nabisco.
Why listen to Marilyn Manson in the first place? Aside from being an excellent showman — which last year’s live album The Last Show on Earth failed to demonstrate — Manson makes some decent rock ‘n’ roll.
Sure, a lot of the shock has worn off since 1996, but what’s left is a good 19-tracks of full-on guitars, spooky synthesizer effects and Manson’s sprechstimme scream. That, and it’s good for some licks. (The guitar kind, please — not any other.)
As Rolling Stone and other music mags have said already, Holy Wood isn’t the White Album Manson claimed it would be. But it’s certainly a lot louder and heavier and more interesting than Mechanical Animals.
Nor does Holy Wood feel like the completion of a trilogy, but that says more about the accompanying works than it does about the album itself.
Antichrist Superstar had its own thematic workings within itself. Musically, it employed little tricks — repeated motif here, recurring lyrics there — that made it more than just a concept album.
But on Holy Wood, Manson would like you to think there’s something bigger going on — categorizing the track listing under parts of headers that spell the name, “ADAM” or writing an accompanying novel which has yet to be published. The music doesn’t reflect it.
Not like that detracts from anything. Holy Wood is still a good rock album, but that’s all it is. It’s not Manson’s great creative achievment, nor is it a grand dramatic gesture.
If Anton Bruckner wrote one symphony nine times, then Eithné Ní Bhraonáin has recorded one album five times.
And yet symphony orchestras still perform Bruckner’s symphonies in the same way Enya’s albums sell in the millions.
That’s because Enya knows how to do one thing, and she does it well — extremely well.
A Day Without Rain has everything longtime Enya fans expect from the reclusive Irish artist — poignant melodies, oceans of harmony, soothing strings, Enya’s clear voice.
Rain even mirrors the arc of her four other albums. A piano piece, which also serves as the title track, starts things off. Then comes an uptempo number, followed by a slower song, followed by the requisite Latin piece, followed by a song in Irish Gaelic, followed by an uptempo but sparse number, followed by an instrumental, etc., etc.
There’s nothing incredibly new, and on some level, Enya is a bit too predictable in that regard.
At the same time, the album is distinct from Enya’s previous work. Like the title suggests, A Day Without Rain is sunnier, much lighter than her other albums. The sparsely introspective songs that anchored Watermark and The Memory of Trees have given way to lots of plucked strings and lilting waltzes.
The mood, however, doesn’t last very long. Clocking at a little more than half an hour, the album seems far too short for such a long a wait — it’s been five years since she released an album, not counting the greatest hits collection, Paint the Sky With Stars in 1997.
And while Enya has written what could be considered a “happy” album, A Day Without Rain doesn’t take listeners as far into that introspective zone where her other albums have ventured time and again.
It’s a familiar sound, done beautifully as always. Enya doesn’t give us anything terribly new, but she does still satisfy with what she has mastered.
Two albums came into mind when I put Bonnie Pink’s Let Go on the CD-ROM drive: The Sundays’ Reading, Writing, Arithmetic and Wendy and Lisa’s Girl Bros. album from 1998.
Pink’s sweet, soothing voice recalls the Sundays’ Harriet Wheeler, while her songwriting manages to bridge that group’s dreamy amalgan of the Cocteau Twins and the Smiths with the blues-yness of Prince’s former front women.
Perhaps the most telling track is “You Are Blue, So Am I,” a song as every bit as infectuous as the early Sundays’ hit, “You Think You’re the Only One.”
Shimmering guitars, a tastefully funky bass line here and there, Pink’s child-like voice soaring above everything — it’s a remarkable combination distinct not only from other Japanese women rockers but from nearly anyone in the world.
After a pair of false starts (“Sleeping Child,” “Fish”), Let Go, Pink’s fourth album and her debut on Warner Bros. Japan, finds its groove and latches onto it for the album’s remainder. Pink hits a songwriting homerun from one track to the next.
“Reason”, “Kako to Genjitsu”, “Run With Yourself”, “Shine” — just when you think her songs couldn’t get any better, they do.
Singing in English and Japanese, she employs both languages to good effect. On “Trust,” she delivers verses in her native tongue, but during the bridge, she bursts into English: “Why did you hide my toothbrush? Where did you hide my picture? Why did you ask me not to call you last weekend?”
Although Pink sings with a noticeable accent, her handling of the English language is never awkward — no misplaced syllables, no odd stresses. If American artists were remotely interested in covering her material, they’d have no problem. (Hint, hint.)
Pink’s understated, sparsely arranged songs, however, require a lot of attention for their beauty to become readily apparent. It’s easy to overlook her songs on first listen, but repeated spins reveal levels of satisfying depth.
If Shonen Knife had a little sister who was rough around the edges, she would be Mummy the Peepshow — and she’d be the worst kind of sibling to have.
She’d upstage her Big Sis time and again, being brattier, cutesy-er, and more in-your-face. While Shonen Knife works hard to get to where she is, Mummy the Peepshow comes along and does something bigger and better.
Of course, there really is no rivalry between the two all-women bands from Osaka, Japan, but it’s difficult to hear Mummy the Peepshow without thinking about Shonen Knife.
With Electric Rollergirl, Mummy the Peepshow sharpens its ever improving songwriting skills. Where This Is Egg Speaking … stayed true to its punk roots, Electric Rollergirl finds the group etching its way into onee-san’s territory.
From the quasi-disco beat of “Disco Holiday” to the New Wave riffs of “Kick Off” even to the charming off-kilter cover the Smiths’ “This Charming Man,” Mummy the Peepshow dash out one earnest pop ditty after another, tackling an encyclopedia of post-punk influences with indie abandon.
Unlike Shonen Knife, who take after the power pop of Red Kross, Mummy looks toward 50s bubblegum pop and, silly as this sounds, the Dead Milkmen for inspiration.
And while Maki Mummy’s untrained vocals grounds Mummy the Peepshow firmly in punk, the band’s music moves toward more crafted, more hook-filled pop. The band has also thankfully found a sound engineer to boost its levels, giving Electric Rollergirl just a touch more polish.
In other words, Mummy is maturing. They’re growing up, and given the proverbial leaps and bounds the group has attained since its scattered debut Mummy Bullion two years ago, they’re ready to step out the shadow of Osaka’s more recognized punk trio.
Sade has always been a great singles band. When they write a hit, as they have on “Is It a Crime?” or “Smooth Operator” or “Stronger Than Pride,” they strike the nail on the proverbial head.
But when it came to making albums, the quartet’s fillers were forgettable — mostly meandering, repetitive mood pieces that fell short of being actual songs.
Sade’s previous album from eight years ago, Love Deluxe, barely had any singles — it was an hour’s worth of filler.
Now, Sade has returned with Lovers Rock, perhaps the tightest album in the band’s repetoire — and mostly devoid of any singles.
Sure, “By Your Side,” with its “Whiter Shade of Pale” feel, makes for an appealing first offering, but it doesn’t possess the wildly catchy hooks of “Never as Good as the First Time” or “Sweetest Taboo.” Not like it should.
Lovers Rock shows Sade moving far, far away from the bad porno soundtrack leanings of the band’s earlier work. (“Your Love is King” is great, but that sax …) They still offer soothing, soft, morose jazz-pop, but it comes across as sharper, more restrained, more subtle.
More seductive, really.
Consider Lovers Rock Sade’s version of Everything But the Girl’s Amplified Heart — a set of songs that don’t have much flourish but relentlessly pursues a mood that gives the band’s sound clarity.
“King of Sorrow” qualifies as a dark horse hit. The title track has one of those memorable choruses that linger hours after the album has ended. “Slave Song” is a terrific experiment in dub, one the group can afford to explore more.
There’s a lot to like about Lovers Rock. Sade has managed to spread the best the group has to offer over an entire album. Eight years is a long time, but it paid off.
Yasuhara Konishi really worships his 60s record collection.
When Pizzicato Five was first introduced to the United States five years ago, Yasuhara was one of the best pillagers of the past to propel the present. His mix of trashy 60s pop with modern club beats was irresistible.
In the past two years, however, Yasuhara hasn’t hid his hero worship. He doesn’t just want to emulate Burt Bacharach — he wants to become him. Last year’s Playboy & Playgirl was the most earnest expression of imitation ever set to aluminum. Nancy Sinatra could have walked all over this album without encountering a single club beat.
With The Fifth Release on Matador Records, P5 are stuck in a time warp. Lush harps and strings, exuberant beats, Maki Nomiya’s soothing croon — it’s the same stuff Pizzicato Five has offered its audience for a better portion of the decade.
Unfortunately, P5’s most recent material lacks the cohesion of Happy End of the World, an epic work steeped as much in the past as the present. Even the First and Second Releases on Matador, which were just collections of past P5 tracks, held together more tightly.
But the moments when P5 shines are bright. “20th Century Girl” hinges on a simple, anthemic chorus. “Wild Strawberries” has a “la-la” chant that would make Stevie Wonder jealous. Even the muddy “LOUDLAND!” is charming, if only because Nomiya’s voice goes through a lot of distortion. The group even includes two versions of the same song so different from each other, it takes a glance at the liner notes to reveal they’re the same song.
When Pizzicato Five meander, however, it’s hard to stay interested. The fascinatingly titled “Darlin’ of Discotechque” works best in a lounge, not as casual listening. And when Yasuhara tries his damnedest to become his idols, even Nomiya’s ever-appealing voice can’t save those indulgences.
P5 fans who don’t like change very much won’t mind this album at all. At the same time, this duo has produced better work when they’re not trying to be so much like their idols.
This album gives me a headache. And that’s actually a compliment.
Thee Michelle Gun Elephant plays its brand of rock ‘n’ roll really loud and really obnoxious. Play the band’s U.S. debut Gear Blues at any volume, and it’s still too much.
The Japanese quartet’s take on punk owes as much to the 12-bar-blues and surf rock as it does to the Ramones. It’s as if everything between the Beatles and Led Zeppelin never happened.
Call it “crotch rocket rock.” The band wears a lot of leather in the packaging for Gear Blues, and it’s not hard to imagine Harley Davidson devotees blaring this album in their earphones while tearing down the interstate.
From the uniform black to the ultra-cool shades, Thee Michelle Gun Elephant is a lot of attitude. Which is to say Gear Blues does little more than reinvent the wheel.
Vocalist Chiba Yusuke growls, screams and swears his way through Abe Futoshi’s cranked-to-11 garage rock riffs. You probably heard it all before, and you probably heard it better from other bands.
But what Thee Michelle Gun Elephant lacks in originality — a rather overrated concept, at times — they make up for in sheer gumption.
On the surface, tracks such as “Smokin’ Billy” and “G.W.D.” don’t really offer much other than really grungey guitars and choruses delivered in vocal-chord busting screams. But after a while, TMGE’s music becomes hypnotic. It’s simple. It’s guttaral. It’s the perfect soundtrack for letting your hair whip across your face (assuming your hair is long enough to do that.)
Alive/Total Energy calls Gear Blues, which was released in Japan two years ago, a “classic” album. Perhaps. If nothing else, this album is a textbook example of how image and attitude go a long way in the rock ‘n’ roll world. A very long way.
With Julieta Venegas’ last album Aquí, listeners could play the CD, put its music in the background of their consciousness and let its minialistic beauty seep in slowly.
The same can’t be said for Venegas’ new album Bueninvento.
It’s not a bad album, per se. Indeed, Venegas has sought to broaden the aural scope of her music. Where Aquí consisted mostly of accordion and piano with spare accompanying instrumentation, Bueninvento is a major production by comparrison.
On “Hoy no quiero,” it’s guitars, not Venegas’ classically-trained piano, that drives the track. “Simepre en mi mente” bristles with quiet energy, but a huge bridge serves as a dramatic apex for the song.
In fact, a good portion of this album is spent delaying the inevitable big bang of a full band, giving many of the songs an incongruous feel to them. It takes more than a minute before a real back beat grounds “Instantánea,” a minute and half before the full band plays on “Voluntad,” and nearly two minutes for “Enero y Abril.”
Very artistic, on one hand, but it’s a clever technique that gets run into the ground on Bueninvento. It worked with fewer instruments on Aquí.
Venegas possess the kind of voice that can overpower anything, but here, she’s lost in the mix somehow. That, coupled with a set of mostly well-crafted, well-written but on the whole hook-less songs, qualifies this album for borderline sophomore slump.
There are a lot of reviews out there that trumpet Bueninvento as a really impressive work, and perhaps those reviews are a lot more trustworthy. None of them mention anything about Venegas’ first album.
Aquí, however, casts quite a shadow for a debut, and Bueninvento, while brave in its attempt to steer away from the aesthetic established by its predecessor, seems to get lost attempting to find its own sound.
If it helps, Zoobombs have been compared to the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion. It doesn’t help me, so I’m going to try to describe what I hear.
I hear two chords. I hear a lot of syncopated beats. I hear a vocalist who does something in between singing and chanting. I hear some really loud guitars. And I hear some great bits of English between a deluge of Japanese.
“You need to get more funky,” advises singer Don.
Zoobombs perform funk you can pogo to. It’s got fist-pumping intensity and a stubborn sense of minimalism — read: they don’t exactly write verses, choruses and middle-eights — that quite nearly reaches a hypnotic state.
If you listen too closely to Zoobombs, you might be disappointed. There’s a lot going on in their songs, but not enough to hum along or to anticipate where the next change might happen.
But if you take in the organized sense of chaos as a license to tune in and drop out or whatever the hell hippy phrase that was, Zoobombs are actually quite fucking cool.
Hell, they even cover Spinal Tap’s “Gimme Some Money,” right down to a Japanese-inflected British accent.
But in between those moments of repetitive chant-like transcendence, Zoobombs turns it down. “Pleasure Drop” is ruddy and pretty at the same time. “4190” goes for a bit of trip-hop, and “Ships Are Alright” could have come straight out of a Muddy Waters’ nightmare.
For the rest of Let It Bomb, Zoobombs sound like an old 60s funk band that time warped into the late 70s and dug the Sex Pistols and the Clash. It’s a pleasing mix of modern noisemaking with some timeless rhythms.
Very few bands can make an old organ mesh well with buzzing guitars. Zoobombs is one such band.