Reading other reviews of Vespertine, it’s easy to think that it’ll be love on first listen.
It’s. Not. True.
Yes, Vespertine is a remarkable work. Yes, Björk has carved out yet another striking sonic palette. Yes, this album is every bit as good as every critic on the planet who’s wet himself singing high praises for Björk says it is.
But make no mistake —
Vespertine rewards only the hearty listeners who can give it at least five to seven spins.
There really isn’t anything out there at the moment that sounds like Vespertine. Boy choirs, lush strings and music boxes co-exists in harmony with needles skipping on record surfaces, thundering timpanis and bizarre percussive effects.
All throughout, Björk threads everything together with her distinct, fragile croon, drawing listeners in with a whisper.
Vespertine is nothing if not beautifully crafted. “Pagan Poetry” builds slowly to a wonderful climax when Björk exclaims repeatedly in a capella, “I love him/I love him.” Then she reaches the crux: “But this time/I’ll keep it to myself.”
“It’s Not Up to You” saunters along at a leisurely pace, but the song ebbs and flows, washing the listener in a sea of strings and harps for a second, then backing off and letting Björk spell out a nugget of truth: “If you leave it alone, it just might happen.”
“Frosti” appoximates the soothing sounds of a gamelan orchestra with music boxes, while “Aurora” overdubs harp work by Zeena Parkins with a distorted backbeat.
All told, Vespertine just writhes in beautiful sounds.
But it’s a beauty that’s presented inconspicuously. Björk treats a backbeat as a nice suggestion — her asymmetrical melodies come across as enlongated improvisation.
On 1997’s Homogenic, Björk still managed to wed hooks into some seemingly obtuse melodies, but on Vespertine, it takes a lot of attentive listening to figure out what’s melody and what’s texture.
As a result, less patient listeners might find themselves playing the album and not remembering a single thing about it. Long-time fans might find themselves intially disappointed in an album that leaves an impenetrable first impression.
But stick with it. Vespertine pays off in the end.
By most accounts, ACO wasn’t always so interesting. Earlier in her career, the Japanese singer attempted to carve out a piece of the sultry jazz-pop pie already staked out by UA and Chara.
After three albums, the young ACO didn’t really go anywhere.
Then in 1999, she got bold, collaborating with hip-hop rockers Dragon Ash on “Grateful Days”, and in early 2000, ACO provided vocals for reknowned international club artist DJ Krush on “Tragicomic.”
She enlisted the help of Japan’s emerging musicians for her 1999 album Absolute Ego and found her voice.
ACO continues to grow with Material, an album that never turns back on her jazz-pop past but trains the 23-year-old singer’s eyes squarely on the future.
The opening synthetic chimes and heavily processed samples of “Melancholia” call to mind Post-era Björk, and from there, ACO delivers one seething, sensual song after another.
ACO is no powerhouse vocalist, and she could never give the likes of UA or Cocco or Do As Infinity’s Van Tomiko much competition.
But when her voice is drenched in thundering bass, ethereal synthesizer effects and booming drum samples, ACO’s bittersweet whisper feels totally at home.
Tracks such as “Hoshi no Kuzu”, “Shinsei Romantist” and “4gatsu No Hero” saunters at a leisurely pace, but ACO fills all the open spaces with an emotive wail all her own.
On “Canary wa Naku” and “Sora Shiranu Ame”, she turns into a space age cabaret singer, delivering a riveting performance amid some dark, ominous music.
ACO cites Kate Bush as an influence, and Material ably demonstrates it. “Interlude” incorporates samples of Bulgarian women’s choirs much the same way Bush employed Trio Bulgarka on her 1989 album The Sensual World.
ACO even goes so far to cover Bush’s “This Woman’s Work” from that album. If it weren’t for ACO’s accent, a person couldn’t tell the difference between the two singers.
While Material concentrates heavily on creating vast canvases of bizarre synthetic effects, the album is still a jazz-pop work at its core.
At a faster tempo, “Time” could have become a very blues-y, bouncy tune. “Anata ni Sagasu Uta” is a total torch singer’s anthem even without the lush string arrangements.
As a single, “Heart wo Moyashite” felt out of place, but as the conclusion to Material, the song becomes the culmination of an artist’s incredibly broad vision.
Material is an intriguing, appealing work, and ACO does an incredible job housing her voice in music suited well for her talent.
Timing is everything in the music industry, and bands live and die by it all the time.
Formed in 1996 and disbanded four years later, Oblivion Dust died by bad timing.
Fronted by a singer who could navigate both English and Japanese, Oblivion Dust wrote hook-ladened songs that never let up on the volume nor the distortion. Singer Ken Lloyd could carry a tune while throwing a few throat-crunching growls now and again.
As evidenced by the band’s final release, Radio Songs: Best of Oblivion Dust, Oblivion Dust’s hard, tuneful brand of metallic rock could have conquered the world — back in 1992.
At the beginning of the 1990s, Nirvana, Pearl Jam and Smashing Pumpkins made it cool to profess allegiance to both metal and punk. Those influences weren’t lost on the young lads who eventually formed Oblivion Dust.
If Lloyd had a Clorox-drenched growl instead of a nasal whine, Oblivion Dust may not have been distinguishable from other bands that called Seattle home at the early part of the last decade.
Some of the tracks from the band’s first two albums — Looking for Elvis and Misery Days — don’t hide these influences.
“With You” sounds like a Siamese Dream-era Smashing Pumpkins outtake. “Sucker” and “Therapy” attempts to combine some Trent Reznor-like rhythms with big, power chords.
When the band released its third album Reborn, it finally found its own voice, and its songwriting consistently hit the proverbial nail on the head — something that continued with Butterfly Head, Oblivion Dust’s last album.
Radio Songs slants heavily toward these two albums, going so far as to include songs from Butterfly Head that were never released as singles and leaving off earlier work such as “Falling”, “Numb” and “Blurred”.
As such, the collection bucks tradition of most best collections released in Japan. Radio Song doesn’t just merely collect all the band’s many singles on one disc, it actually attempts to present what could be perceived as Oblivion Dust’s best work.
Fans may protest the inclusion of the very Cure-sounding “Lucky #10” or the slight hip-hop deviation of “No Regrets”. But as a whole, Radio Songs holds together incredibly well.
Oblivion Dust was a hit band that never was, and Radio Songs allows everyone who missed out to catch up.
Restrained arrangements, programmed rhythms, tasteful acoustic guitar flourishes — Garnet Crow has AAA Radio stamped all over them. That is, of course, if Japan had such a radio format.
Garnet Crow’s first album, First Soundscope ~Mizu no Nai Hareta Sora He~, can be described with all the adjectives used somewhat derisively by non-fans of light jazz-pop — soothing, polished, unintrusive, pretty.
In this case, all those descriptive words are compliments. Garnet Crow may paint well within the lines of acceptable hit-making jazz-pop parameters, but they do it incredibly well.
That is, the band’s songwriting is strong enough to make even casual fans of so-called business jazz take notice.
“Kimi no Ie ni Tsuku Made Zutto Hashitte Yuku” sounds like an ethereal, folk-pop tune Clannad should have written around the time of Anam. Even the saxophone work doesn’t interfere.
“Natsu no Maboroshi” borrows a few of Ace of Base’s drums samples, but Garnet Crow stamps its own identity over those bouncy beats.
For the most part, Garnet Crow subscribe to a very bright, optimistic sound. Even when the band venture into dark territory, it’s more introspective than brooding.
“Rhythm” is drenched in a minor key, but it’s driving backbeat prevents it from being too dark.
“flying” starts off with an ominous hook, but when singer Nakamura Yuri reaches the chorus, a bit of sunny-ness peeks through the song’s cloudiness.
The band has an interesting split of duties. Nakamura writes most of Garnet Crow’s songs, and even though she’s the singer, the group’s lyrics are written by keyboardist Nana Azuki. Second keyboardist Furui Hirohito arranges all the tracks.
What results is a set of solidly built performances. Sure, the mostly keyboard-driven songs give Garnet Crow’s music a somewhat cold and precise feel, but the band knows how to adorn those base tracks with warmth.
Washes of strings, layers of chiming guitars, a chorus of background vocalists — First Soundscope easily avoids the cookie cutter trap of most Japanese pop music.
First Soundscope is an impressive debut by a band that does a stellar job of stretching the boundaries of pop music’s limits without breaking them.
Just on the strength of the songwriting alone, AJICO’s debut album Fukamidori positively shines.
And while the group opted to present a well-produced, professional recording drenched in reverb and deftly overdubbed, there was always a hint of an intangible chemistry underlying AJICO’s performance.
That chemistry comes to the forefront with AJICO Show, a two-CD live album.
Most of Fukamidori is represented on AJICO Show, but the album also includes a number of tunes from UA’s solo albums, one song from Asai Kenichi’s Blankey Jet City days and a cover of the jazz standard “Take Five”.
For the most part, Fukamidori was mostly a mellow affair, introspective and disturbingly quiet. AJICO Show, however, shows that UA, Asai bassist TOKIE and drummer Shiino Kyoichi can rock out.
After a somewhat slow start, the album takes off with the incredibly kinetic “Utsukushii Koto” and doesn’t let up.
Even when AJICO ventures into an incredibly haunting rendition of UA’s “Kanashimi Johnny”, the quartet hammers away with an energy only slightly hinted by Fukamidori.
In the best traditions of legendary live shows, AJICO manages to imbue its songs with alter egos. “Kin no Doro” was a genteel coupling track on the single for “Hadou”, but on AJICO Show, it becomes a hard if not bouncy rocker.
On “Kanashimi Johnny”, AJICO bring out a more unsettling somberness to an already sad song. On the original album, “Fukamidori” was a minimalist opener. On AJICO Show, it becomes one-part jam, one-part ballad for a total time of 10 minutes.
While “Pepin” may have been a great single for Blankey Jet City, it becomes a better duet with UA and Asai trading vocal calls and responses.
TOKIE is already an incredibly bass player, but with AJICO Show, it becomes clearly evidently just how intuitive she can be. She and drummer Shiino are locked in tight throughout the album, navigating through Asai’s thorny solos with ease.
But judging by the number of UA solo songs that appear on the album, it’s clear whose show this is. UA commands the music with an incredible presence. And when Asai’s Dylan-esque screech chimes in, the interplay is nothing short of electric.
AJICO Show shines a deserving spotlight on AJICO’s inherent collective talent. It’s a great document.
Really — there’s not point in reviewing the music on this album.
Rio turns 20 next year, and even mainstream rock music criticism begrudgingly considers this album a classic.
Duran Duran may have been pretty, and Rio is certainly a pretty album. But this music is timeless in the way it dates the 1980s.
As such, Capitol’s reissue of the album is less an attempt to reintroduce new listeners to great (old) music as it is to target the band’s initial demographic, now aging and armed with their own disposable income.
The digitally remastered Rio also contains a lot of CD-ROM extras. It’s those features on which this review will mostly concentrate. And Capitol deserve a few praises.
First off, the CD-ROM designers don’t feel it necessary to hijack a user’s computer. Putting Rio in your drive won’t result in your screen blacking out dramatically while you’re composing that very important piece of e-mail.
Instead, a polite, simple text window pops up giving users an option to listen to the album or explore the CD-ROM. A soft sell — very elegant.
The “index page” of the CD-ROM sports a floating cube that allows users to explore the rest of the disc. Handling it can be difficult, and the lack of labeling on the images doesn’t indicate those are links to the videos. The CD fails in terms of usability in that regard.
But venturing deeper into the extras is incredibly satisfying.
The gallery contains dozens of pictures, a good number of them probably never published till now. A discography section charts the myriad of discs released by the band around the world at that time. The lyric section seems a bit redundant, especially since the album contains a lyric sheet.
The disc includes three full-length videos of the album’s singles. The resolution on the clips look only marginally better than a medium-bandwidth streaming file. You get better viewing from a VHS copy of Greatest.
While the clips look spotty, the accompanying notes that pop up next to them are pretty illuminating. Imagine having to stand barefoot on hot stone, and you get a better appreciation for the ending of “Save a Prayer.”
In short, even the most lapsed Duranie will find the interactive portion of Rio an enjoyable experience.
This particular reissue comes in two covers — a regular jewelbox and a cardboard gatefold. Hardcore fans would be remiss not to get the gatefold sleeve.
Replicating an old album gatefold sleeve, the Rio packaging also includes an alternate cover painted by Patrick Nagel that appeared only in Japan. It’s a beauty. (Although not as impressive as the cloth-bound cover of AJICO’s Fukamidori.)
Capitol has set it sights on making long-time Duranies part with their cash by rehashing old material. Fortunately, this reissue of Rio does its job.
If 9 Songs had been released last fall as planned, it might seem like a different album.
Japanese band FEED released its debut EP, Make Every Stardust Shimmer!, back in March 2000, and its Lenny Kaye-produced debut album was supposed to follow approximately six months later.
But Sony underwent restructuring, and the label subsequently dropped FEED. As a result, 9 Songs arrives nearly a year late.
FEED re-recorded four of the songs from Make Every Stardust Shimmer! and placed them at the start of the album. As a result, listeners who’ve worn out their copy of FEED’s debut may feel displaced, especially since some of the last songs on Stardust open 9 Songs.
Kaye has cleaned up the band’s sound, all but banning reverb and keeping overdubs to a minimum. Some tracks, such as “Find Me” and “As You Like It”, benefit from the treatment, but others, specifically “Laughing”, suffer from it.
After 9 Songs dispenses with all the familiar material, FEED transforms from a band of solid songwriters to a psychedlic outfit.
And that’s where the album starts to suffer from an identity crisis.
The five newer tracks on 9 Songs are a total 180 degrees in mood, proportion and tone to its companion material from Stardust. It’s almost as if FEED record two halves of two albums and put them on one disc.
And given the that 2/3 of the band’s debut appears on 4/9 of the band’s debut album, that seems to be what’s happened.
Which isn’t to say the newer tracks are bad. When singer Saito Maya switches between Japanese and English on “The Bell”, it’s beautiful. “Lucifer” not only has great lyrics (“I’m losing you Lucifer/Don’t leave me now.”) but an unforgettable melody.
But 9 Songs is split in the middle between two opposing aesthetics, and the tension is never resolved satisfactorily.
If only that “Loser” guy — you know, the one who took a slide folk guitar and hip-hop beats and rapped about termites choking on splinters? — if he never hit it big back in 1994, Shea Seger would probably be the shit right now.
It’s difficult not to think of Beck when you put Seger’s debut album, The May Street Project, for a spin.
Dallas native Seger recorded the album in London, and the results sound approximately like what would happen if Texas and England had a musical love child.
The opening track and first single, “Last Time”, sets the tone for everything else that happens musically — semi-robotic beats and eerie, atmospheric effects laying foundation for solid American, perhaps even Southern songwriting.
That overused saying (drastically paraphased) is true — you can take the woman out of Texas, but you can’t take Texas out of the woman.
“Clutch” features some very soulful backing vocals, even while a drum machine thumps out a dirty, gritty club beat. “Shatterwall” feels like a four-track demo taped next to a campfire. (And no, I refuse to mention the name Michelle Shocked.)
If “Always” were recorded in Nashville, it would probably have been covered by Lucinda Williams or Emmylou Harris. But The May Street Project is not a southern rock record. Hardly.
The folk-rock guitars and funky bass lines of the album feel very much at home with the analog synthesizer effects and the dry, programmed beats.
Seger and producer Martin Terefe strip The May Street Project of any gloss, leaving the album to sound dusty, just like portions of Seger’s home state.
And while the southern influence in Seger’s music is strong, she does allow herself some wiggle room. On “Blind Situation,” Commissioner Gordon breaks out in a rap. “Twisted” channels into “Ironic” and “You Oughta Know” from that most predictable of comparrisons. (Alanis Morisette, if you couldn’t tell.)
“I Can’t Lie” is pure rhythm and blues, while “Isn’t It Good” goes for the “Let’s Get It On” vibe.
The May Street Project is an incredibly impressive debut, full of unlikely combinations that work seamlessly with each other. Seger has done something marvelous.
At its core, Sugababes aren’t all that different from the likes of En Vogue or Destiny’s Child or TLC.
The three 16-year-old girls from England sing about those no-good guys in their lives and finding someone else to treat them right.
And while technically Sugababes and their American counterparts cover the same thematic and musical territory, they’re on different planes spiritually.
Where a TLC or Destiny’s Child album may ooze out of a listener’s stereo, Sugababes comes across as a bit rawer.
Although touted as sounding far more mature than their adolescent age, the youthfullness of the trio’s voices significantly contribute to that rough-hewned sound.
In short, these girls don’t quite have the vocal prowess to sing Destiny’s Child under the table, but it’s that lack in techincal precision that makes them sound rather appealing.
On the surface, Sugababes’ debut album, One Touch, is a predictable collection of R&B pop. There’s nothing terribly new or ground-breaking about tracks such as “Same Old Story” or “Real Thing”.
But the Sugababes stripped-down, low-ish budget production doesn’t scream “hard sell” as badly as with American-produced girl bands. The trio’s first single, “Ovaload”, works because it doesn’t try to hit listeners over the head.
One Touch is the perfect album for people who don’t mind R&B but can’t stand most of the R&B music out there. It’s hook-filled enough to fill an hour without grating on a person’s nerves for overly long.
Let’s hope Sugababes don’t lose that rough-edge as their talent improves.
I say the following at the risk of raising some ire: Thee Michelle Gun Elephant aren’t the greatest songwriters in the world.
The Japanese garage punk band has built an entire career rehashing with complete earnestness the kind of gritty rock ‘n’ roll music that paved the way to the Sex Pistols and Ramones of the world.
We’re talking stuff like MC5 or the Who or, as most often cited by rock pundits, Blue Cheer. Thee Michelle Gun Elephant don’t indulge in the kind of Pixie-esque atonal melodicism of Number Girl, or the jackhammer, hardcore assault of Bleach.
Nah. Yusuke Chiba and pals love their 1-4-5 progressions. Which isn’t to say Collection is a bad disc. Rather the contrary.
Thee Michelle Gun Elephant do such a great job at capturing that rock ‘n’ roll essence, they can be forgiven for not crafting great songwriting masterpieces.
If anything, Collection demonstrates that a band as loud and as brash as Thee Michelle Gun Elephant can’t be captured accurately on aluminum. This band probably puts on one helluva live show. (TMGE canceled it’s only Austin, Texas appearance at SXSW 1999.)
From start to finish, Collection brings together the best bits from TMGE’s many albums, and while the disc on the whole sounds incredibly homogenous, no one can deny these guys work hard for their cover charges.
“Young Jaguar”, “Hi! China!”, “Smokin’ Billy”, “Black Tambourine”, “The Birdmen” — all great tracks not for having tremendous hooks but for capturing some great, raw energy.
Collection does a great job of keeping listeners interested in a style of garage rock that might otherwise come across as somewhat retread.