Huh. Those seem to be tunes coming out of the speakers when Source Code & Tags is playing.
That’s not to say … And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead don’t write hook-less songs. “Mistakes & Regrets”? Great riff it’s got there.
Nah. For Trail of Dead’s major label debut, the Austin, Texas, quartet seems to have reigned in its more ambitious conceptualizing.
The songs on Source Code & Tags are more apt to follow more traditional songwriting structures — you know, verse-chorus-verse.
Sure, the band might interrupt the normal flow of things by inserting a half-tempo middle section, or by starting at one tempo, then firing off in double-time.
And yes, the two-second gaps clearly missing on Madonna are nowhere to be found on this album as well.
But those barrages of noise that come out of left field or those breaks in songs where the phrase “fuck you” is chanted over and over and over again aren’t the order of the day.
“Baudelaire” and “How Near, How Far” have actual melodies. “Relative Ways” feels like the pre-release single it was meant to be. “Another Morning Stoner” toes the line between tunefullness and grit.
Has Trail of Dead sold its soul to Interscope Records for acceptance by the populus at large? Not to worry.
“Homage” demonstrates Trail of Dead still possesses its screaming rage. “Days of Being Wild” sounds like the title implies, and “Heart Is in the Hand of the Matter” has an off-key chorus that’s totally “Mary Christ”. (Sonic Youth? Goo?)
For anyone blown away by the epic feel of Madonna, Source Code & Tags might come across as non-descript — a bunch of loud songs that don’t have much to set themselves apart.
Don’t be fooled.
Source Code & Tags is still the same Trail of Dead, just scaled back a tad, more accessible to first-timers. And if Source Code & Tags is your introduction to Trail of Dead, soak in the aural aura of the album. Then go get Madonna and sit tight.
When an artist arrives as high as Alanis Morissette did back in 1995, any follow-up would have been a trip downward. It was just a matter of how far.
Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie suffered from ambition. In trying to prove she was more than a hook factory, Morissette delivered a set of indescript, impenetrable songs that lost their appeal on subsequent listens.
It was easy to like the album at first. The same can’t be said years later.
So what direction does Morissette go with Under Rug Swept, her first album of new material in four years? Back up, or further down? Thankfully, it’s the former.
Hitmaking producer Glen Ballard isn’t around this time around, but it’s clear Morissette learned a lot from him.
Under Rug Swept goes straight for the hook, and the mouthy prose-like lyrics that bogged down Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie have been pruned and sheered, particularly during choruses.
Tracks such as “Flinch”, “Narcissus” and “So Unsexy” still have a bit of a Sondheim-ish wordy-ness, but they all give way to insanely memorable choruses when all is said and done.
“Precious Illusions”, in particular, depends entirely on its chorus to drive home its theme.
“That Particular Time” borrows a bit from “Uninvited” and that most ubiquitous of influences, John Lennon’s “Imagine”, while on “Utopia” Morissette affects a pretty close Sarah McLachlan imitation.
Morissette has gone back to writing frank lyrics. “You’ve never been with anyone who doesn’t take your shit/You’ve never been with anyone who calls you on it,” she excoriates on “Narcissus”.
On “So Unsexy”, she indulges her doubts: “I can feel so unsexy for someone so beautiful/So unloved and for someone so fine/I can feel so boring for someone so interesting/So ignorant for someone of sound mind.”
Earth-shattering? Probably not, but it’s a lot easier to remember than that “Dear John” tune from four years back.
With the Lilith Era a distant memory in the wake of bare midrifts and pretty boy teen pop, Morissette and her earnest singer-songwriting could have felt obsolete.
They don’t. Morissette has armed herself with an arsenal of straight-forward songs, casting off any artistic pretense she affected to prove she’s no one-hit wonder.
She’s gone back to being comfortable with herself as a musician.
What genius told Zurdok to drop a 12-minute avant-garde musique concrete piece in the middle of a largely tuneful, rocking album?
The quartet’s second album, Hombre sintetizador, moves along nicely untill it hits a second version of the album’s title track.
Then, for 23 percent of the album’s total time, “Hombre sintetizador II” brainwashes listeners into forgetting they were listening to a rock album.
As a separate piece of music, “Hombre sintetizador II” is a terrific work, dischordant, daring — absolutely worthy for an album released on John Zorn’s Tzadik label.
But smack dab in the middle of some of the coolest haunting, aggressive music to come out of Monterrey, Mexico? Sorry, but file that one under “misstep”.
That transgression aside, Hombre sintetizador is a great discovery.
Zurdok participated in a few select dates on the 2001 Watcha Tour, and the group scored its first hit with “Abre los ojos”. Zurdok’s sound calls to mind the ambient moodiness of Japan’s Walrus juxtaposed with the grunge-iness of Alice in Chains.
“Abre los ojos” alternates between larger-than-life power chords and restrained verses.
On “Si quieres llegar muy lejos” and “¿Cuanto pasos?”, Zurdok keeps the arrangement minimal but dramatic, the former track sporting timpiani rolls, the latter a mouth harp and banjo.
As the album progresses, the songs get more forward. “Si me advertí” starts off quietly, but by the end, walls of flange pedals bring the song to a near-abrupt conclusion. “Tal vez” bursts into a loud chorus, while “Espacio” doesn’t let up.
Singer Fernando Martz, who left the group after the album’s release, thankfully sounds nothing like a Seattle clone. He can croon when the music gets soft and growl when it gets loud, all the while sounding like he never had to drink any Clorox.
Without the awkward sequencing of that 12-minute epic, Hombre sintetizador is a great introduction to this Mexican band.
Who says you need synthesizers to make ambient music? A heavily distorted guitar can be every bit as atmospheric as the latest model Korg.
The guys in Walrus aren’t above laying heavy on the overdrive pedals, but like their fellow countryfolk in mono, they can turn buzzsaws into satin.
In fact, think of Walrus as mono with songs — verse-chorus-verse instead of four measures ad nauseum, set over hulking but sublime guitar noise.
Hikari no Kakera, released back in November 2000, is a lot more focused and concise than 1999’s sprawling Seven.
Walrus songs tend to stretch for six minutes at a time, and on Seven, it resulted in a butt-numbing listening experience. The album never seemed like it wanted to end, and after a while, Walrus’ moody, haunting sound struck the same note over and over.
Hikari no Kakera doesn’t fall in the same trap. Songs such as “Exit”, “Iro no Aru Basho e” and “Nemuri” clock under six minutes, and there’s much more variety in tone and mood.
“Tsuki” and “Toneriko” still offer up the slow-tempo atmospherics the band has mastered, but “Spit” rocks out, while “Orange” punctuates its rhythmic drive with a jackhammer riff.
“Iro no Aru Basho e” moves along with the usual power chords, and the title track packs in a lot of activity under a long, flowing melody.
Singer Akitomo has an appealing voice, suitable for the band’s loud but dreamy aesthetic. He and guitarist Atsushi do incredibly Fripp-ish things with their instruments, while drummer Kenroo fills in the gaps like an octopus gone crazy.
Walrus are accomplished songwriters and brilliant sound architects, but even the most avid fan of dark, brooding, loud music might find the band too skilled in pursuing its muse.
Don’t listen to this music if you have clinical depression or if you’re trying to find work in the current job market. (Um. That’s a joke. It’s okay to laugh.)
Cultural trends experience 20-year cycles, which means the decadent 80s are ripe for rebirth in 2002. Kawase Tomoko, the label-described “coquettish” singer of the Brilliant Green, knows this.
Under the moniker Tommy february6 — February 6 is her birthdate — Kawase has crafted a saccharine album totally steeped in nostalgia.
In slavishly recreating a New Wave sound, Tommy february6 makes listeners remember the good, the bad and the ugly about Reagan era music.
In some ways, Japanese pop music never really got over the 80s. Kuraki Mai, for one, sounds like she writes on the synthesizers Terry Lewis and Jimmy Jam used during Janet Jackson’s Control sessions.
Tommy february6 seems to have borrowed her gear from Nick Rhodes, Martin Fry and the three singers from the Human League. No track on Tommy february6’s self-titled album has a live musician, and all the keyboards used on the songs sound analog.
The results can be incredibly tuneful and insanely catchy.
“*Kiss* One More Time” has a bass line John Taylor could have written. “Tommy Februatte Macaron” might have been an old outtake from an Exposé recording session. (You know — “Point of No Return”?) And “Bloomin’!” could have been convincingly belted by old J-pop stars Iijima Mari and Miyasato Kumi.
Tommy february6 also indulges in the pseudo-60s resurgence that made 80s music more trivial than it already was.
The wheezy organ in “Hey Bad Boy” screams bad anime song. “I’ll Be Your Angel” conjures up terrible memories of Madonna’s True Blue era, and the farty, square-wave synthetic horns on Tommy’s cover of “Can’t take my eyes off of you” are definitely cringe-worthy.
The rest of the album is little more than a game of “Guess Who I’m Referencing”. “‘Where Are You?’ My Hero” — Devo. “Koiwa Nemuranai” — “Cherish”-era Madonna. “Walk Away from You My Babe” — Jam and Lewis.
Music fans who grew up in the 80s would be reaching their 30s about now, and in an era where metal is “nu” and Creed can stay at the top of the charts for weeks on end, Tommy february6 could have been a nice souvenir from a derided but cherished era.
Instead, it’s a documentary, a bit of history that’s undergone no creative license to revise it. Artistically, that’s gutsy, but thirtysomethings looking for a bit of indulgence aren’t going to be coddled.
Tommy february6 is definitely a trip down Memory Lane with a few detours through Amnesia Street along the way.
Remy Zero’s third album, The Golden Hum, has so far drawn comparrisons to U2 and Radiohead, and they’re barely flattering.
Me? I’m inclined to make the same declaration I made about Powderfinger’s Odyssey Number Five — this album is precisely the kind of guitar rock I usually hate.
But I don’t.
In a day and age when Creed can sell five million albums, big majestic alt-rock of the type Remy Zero performs seems, well, fresh.
At the very least, the band sets itself apart from other whiny voice, bleeding heart grunge-lite bands. (The Calling? Train?)
It’s hard to resist the soaring chorus of the Smallville theme, “Save Me”, especially with the set of pipes Cinjun Tate possesses. When he proclaims himself “bitter” on the track of the same title, Tate sounds like he’s being honest.
“Out/In” indulges in the same kind of string work that made Odyssey Number Five from the aforementioned Powderfinger feel genuine. “Smile” could have come across as more precious than it does, but even the most hardened cyncial listener (hand raised) eventually succumbs to the song’s earnest chorus.
“And though I never led my troops to war/And though I never learned what my life was for/And though I ever got was nothing,” Tate sings to a memorable melody. It’s spine-tingling, maaaaan.
When Remy Zero does indulge in predictable alt-rock idioms — in other words, soft songs — listeners may as well run to their old R.E.M. albums.
“Perfect Memory” is nice enough, and “I’m Not Afraid” is pretty. But they’re not anything that hasn’t already been done better on Document or Automatic for the People.
Nope. Remy Zero works best when they’re rocking out and being jangly, like they are on “Impossibility”, “Over the Rails & Hollywood High” and “Belong”.
Despite being crouched in the same rock ‘n’ roll trappings that makes modern music tiresome, The Golden Hum cuts through its generic molds to become a really listenable, well-written, skillfully performed album.
The Golden Hum isn’t going to change your life, but it does provide 41 minutes of entertainment.
Awright — this review arrives about two years too late, but hey, at least it’s in time to precede the release of Source Tags and Codes, the band’s Interscope debut out on Feb. 26.
Sporting the coolest long name since Seagull Screaming Kiss Her Kiss Her, … And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead could have been screaming in Japanese, and the music wouldn’t be any less overwhelming.
Aggressive, brooding, dischordant, textured — Trail of Dead would like you to think they’re a bunch of guys who have worn out multiple copies of Sonic Youth’s Daydream Nation.
But Madonna isn’t just a disc packed with two-minute wallops of fuzzy guitars. (Actually, they’re more like three- to seven-minute wallops.) There’s structure to the madness — tracks that ram and bleed into each other, strange effects that segue into dramatic beginnings and endings.
Trail of Dead could have just left well enough alone, copping out to two second pauses and fade outs. But no — Madonna is an epic, made to feel bigger than just a bunch of screaming vocals, thundering beats and buzzing guitars.
And while it would have been cool just to hear Trail of Dead terrorize a stereo system with its scorched earth aesthetic, the fact they put some thought into making Madonna feel larger than it is shows some real acumen.
And none of it feels forced. If anything, it’s surprising how well punk music fits well with the kind of ambition usually reserved for prog rock and concept albums.
Madonna certainly feels tighter than the quartet’s no-less aggressive self-titled debut. Plus, the band’s singer (the credits aren’t clear who that is — Conrad Keely or Kevin Allen) does one helluva job trying to wrench the Kurt Cobain torch for best screamer from Mukai Shutoku of Number Girl.
Madonna, the pop singer, ought to feel proud Trial of Dead recorded a namesake album as excellent as this one. Madonna, the album, leaves listeners like they just had the workout of their lives in a mosh pit from hell.
(What are the chances her next album will be called … And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead?)
Sequencing, the art of determining the track order on an album, can make or break a disc. Misplace one track, and it’ll totally throw off the momentum of a work.
In 1997, the Klezmatics released Possessed, a follow-up to the incredible Jews With Horns.
I don’t remember giving Possessed very many spins, even though I was left with the impression the music was every bit as good as Jews With Horns. Something didn’t allow me to enjoy it.
Five years later, the Klezmatics came to Austin and after the show, I bought a collection released by the band’s management company titled Between Two Worlds.
Half of the songs on the disc came from Possessed, and interspersed with other Klezmatics’ works, those songs sunk in. I came to appreciate the album I didn’t give a chance half a decade previous.
Why?
The moment happens after the emotionally wrenching “An Undoing World”. Following a wordy but beautiful cautionary tale of rootlessness, “Mizmor shir lehanef (The Reefer Song)” crashed the album.
A slow, overly-long, atmospheric fun song after a slow, concise, mournful sad song? My interest strayed.
And it couldn’t be salvaged in time for the epic, nine-track suite, “A Dybbuk: Between Two Worlds”, which was written for a Tony Kushner play.
That doesn’t mean Possessed isn’t a good album. In fact, Between Two Worlds, which is not available in music stores, proves it is — it probably shouldn’t have been sequenced the way it was.
The frentic “Sirba Sirba Matey”, which opens Between Two Worlds, is buried on track eight on Possessed. “Shprayz ikh mir”, a song which builds slowly to a joyous conclusion, works better as a second track instead of as an opener.
Many more examples abound, but ultimately, digital technology allows listeners to find a right order for them, and once you do that, the performances on Possessed really stick out.
Violinist Alicia Svigalis and trumpeter Frank London burn on “Shvarts un vays”, while reedman Matt Darriau gives his sax a workout on “Moroccan Game”.
Just don’t mess with the sequence of “A Dubbyk”.
Rounder Records has reissued Possessed, and the album should now again be available as of this writing.
Not-so-helpful superlative proclamation: this disc is the best album of 2002 so far.
No, really.
Twenty-five-year-old Minako has keyed into the same catholic cosmopolitanism UA first explored in the mid-90s. The cover of her album even bears a resemblance to UA’s turbo.
Each track on Suck It Till Your Life Ends focuses in on a different genre of music.
“Work Song” starts off with samples of Hawaiian chant, then launches into a mellow, tropical vibe. Slide guitars accentuate the “Whiter Shade of Pale” feel of “Ramen”.
Dub beats drive “Ha”, while Minako sings a vaguely Asian melody. “Run to the Blues” indulges in a bit of country, while “Please Sing Me a Song” keys into a definite alt-rock ballad feel.
Jazz veteran Don Grusin, who arranged the album, ties everything together by sticking to a house band approach. This album doesn’t indulge in multi-track studio excess. If anything, it almost feels like an old Police album, minimal but diverse.
But the real star is Minako’s incredible voice. When she belts like a torch singer, she sounds just like Linda Ronstadt. And when she decides to keep her performance rough, she comes across as Sinéad O’Connor.
Minako spent her youth attending American schools in Japan. Her English has a slight accent, but it detracts nothing from her music. If anything, it adds even a bit more exoticism to an already lush album.
Still, her command of English produces some occassionally confrontational and frank lyrics.
“Fuck you why d’you give a life to me,” she starts on “Melt Down”, later excoriating: “You never cross your fingers ’cause you don’t care about what’s gonna happen in the next 10 fucking years.”
The lyric sheet says she singing, “freaking”, but it’s pretty obvious what she’s really saying.
On “Smells Like a Lie”, Minako calls herself a “25-year-old bitch” with a plan. “Do you read me?” she asks. “My lips forming the letters L-I-E-S, and you took it as L-O-V-E. My plan has succeeded. Then how come I’m a loser again?”
Wonderfully performed and amazingly written, Suck It Till Your Life Ends hearlds the arrival of an incredible talent. Minako is definitely an artist to watch.
An average bloodthirsty butchers song can last as long as seven minutes. Some stretch as long as nine.
And while the butchers started out in 1987 as a rough-hewned, kill-the-vocal-cords kind of indie band, its dischordant, drawn-out songs always toed the line between brashness and hypnotism.
The guys in bloodthirsty butchers are a good 15 years older now, so it’s no surprise yamane doesn’t blare out of the stereo speakers as harshly as Kocorono or early songs such as “Modulator”.
The butchers have even indulged in a bit of quiet introspections on the not-quite instrumental “no future”. Yoshimura Hideki’s vocals are heavily processed to sound robotic, and as a result, the undecipherable singing focuses more attention on the song’s beautiful melody.
The butchers may not be as loud as they used to be — not to say you can’t play yamane loud and piss off the neighbors — but the hypnotic elements of the band’s songwriting are still in full force.
“wagamama no hitori” and two numbered tracks both sporting the title “-100%” take a single idea and pretty much stick with it for five to seven minutes at a time.
“happy end” and “nagasinanite”, the two “singles” from yamane, follow typical verse-chorus-verse patterns — only the verses and chorus have verses, choruses and bridges within themselves.
Toward the end of “kaze”, Yoshimura flashes a Sonic Youth card, hammering away at some off-kilter chords worthy of Goo.
Even though yamane has only nine tracks and clocks in at close to an hour, those long songs never feel like they’ve taken twice the length of a standard three-minute pop song.
Yoshimura and bandmates Imoriya Takeshi (bass) and Komatsu Masahiro (drums) aren’t dramatic, wanking instrumentalists. Hell, Yoshimura’s off-key warble takes a lot of adjusting, and his guitar solos won’t give Number Girl’s Tabuchi Hisako any sleepless nights.
But the butchers are good at finding a bunch of cool-sounding chords, and they know how to fit the right melody to those chords. They don’t need much fancy arrangements, and they sure know how to make a lot out very minimal elements.