Dirt Blue Gene play heady, reverbed, psych-country indie. It’s wonderful being enveloped in the soft glow of dueling twin reverb amps, and having the hackles raised with some chilling pedal steel once in a while; DBG happily oblige in both respects. The band’s sound falls somewhere between Meddle-era Pink Floyd and, well, Mazzy Star. The vocals are a let down, though. So often musicians think that because they play so effortlessly that they shouldn’t work on their voices much, and that attitude detracts here. Also, some harmonies wouldn’t have gone amiss, but that might just be my ears lusting after some new Fleet Foxes material.
I last saw Mick Turner play here with the Dirty Three. That performance flamed and spat, Turner’s guitar acting as the muted, vital catalyst for the relentless argument that continually erupted between Warren Ellis and Jim White. Tonight, he’s accompanied by a reserved bassist and a tactful drummer; much gentler company, that frames Turner’s eloquent, wiry fumblings perfectly. He knows an awful lot about making a guitar talk, and half the fun of his music is witnessing how he goes about hiding that skill.
Hope Sandoval takes the stage gracefully, a slight silhouette in the near total darkness. A moment or two of standing, and she impatiently implores her band the Warm Inventions: ‘Will y’all play the song?’ Projections of swirling dancers interlaced with fading showers of sparks faintly illumine the stage. The wonderful fug established by the first opener and thickened by the second is cut through by Hope & Co.; the first few bars brings everything into a lucid focus. And as she graces us with the first few syllables of that smoky, delicate voice, even the hipsters surrounding me find themselves sufficiently arrested to shut up and listen.
The set traverses the sublime alt-country we’ve come to know her for, with a couple of viscerally textural two chord jams that leave me completely leveled. It’s a good three or four songs into the set before I locate the source of that quiet flickering sound: it’s issuing from three reel to reel projectors next to the sound desk. A dedicated projectionist is cuing loops of aged film to play against simultaneously against the stage, fading them in and out of focus by caressing the beams with his bare fingers.
This is a classy, tasteful, near flawless act, the likes of which Sydney is not often lucky enough to see. The audience leaves feeling deliciously dazed, and thoroughly sated.
published in the Brag on 05/07/10
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Infinite Arms – Band of Horses
Band of Horses sound enormous and lush on this, their third full-length. A mere three seconds into the album, and you’re ensconced in an expansive well of colour and space. You’re cool with drowning in this music. It’s folk rock, if you want to label it—and this album certainly falls into a certain rift in that genre that’s appeared over the last couple of years. Recordings like the first Fleet Foxes album, Bill Callahan’s Sometimes I Wish We Were An Eagle, even Joanna Newsom’s newie, all draw you into their oak-panelled worlds and woo you with their inventive backwoods charm.
A couple of things distinguish Infinite Arms from those records, though: while the above all have their darknesses and minor-key passages, this album is resolutely positive, and, thankfully, occasionally wistful. Also BoH fall squarely on the rock side of folk-rock. Whether it’s the full-body swoon of ‘Factory’, the dizzying spire of harmonies that open ‘Blue Beard’ or the glorious, uncompromising stomp of first single ‘Laredo’, xx and co clearly don’t do things by halves. Even the sublime zephyr of the title track has weight and a resolute determination that’s just, well, rock.
It’s easy for a band like this to get carried away with rollicking immenseness, but there’s plenty to hold your attention through those crucial middle tracks on this album. The sudden jump in vocal register on ‘On My Way Back Home’ feels like the first new breath after a steep dive.
It’s tempting to dub them the Crazy Horse to the Fleet Foxes’ CSNY. It’s also tempting to claim they’re a lesser band than those Foxes, especially since they’re so often mentioned in the same breath… but that’d be facetious. Their music is very much its own beast; simpler, perhaps, but with just as many nooks and crannies, lofty bough perches and sunny windowseats for you to cling to and cherish.
Remember that scene in Almost Famous where Kate Hudson says if you ever get lonely, just go to the record store and visit your friends? This album is going to be a good pal to you.
published in The Brag
A couple of things distinguish Infinite Arms from those records, though: while the above all have their darknesses and minor-key passages, this album is resolutely positive, and, thankfully, occasionally wistful. Also BoH fall squarely on the rock side of folk-rock. Whether it’s the full-body swoon of ‘Factory’, the dizzying spire of harmonies that open ‘Blue Beard’ or the glorious, uncompromising stomp of first single ‘Laredo’, xx and co clearly don’t do things by halves. Even the sublime zephyr of the title track has weight and a resolute determination that’s just, well, rock.
It’s easy for a band like this to get carried away with rollicking immenseness, but there’s plenty to hold your attention through those crucial middle tracks on this album. The sudden jump in vocal register on ‘On My Way Back Home’ feels like the first new breath after a steep dive.
It’s tempting to dub them the Crazy Horse to the Fleet Foxes’ CSNY. It’s also tempting to claim they’re a lesser band than those Foxes, especially since they’re so often mentioned in the same breath… but that’d be facetious. Their music is very much its own beast; simpler, perhaps, but with just as many nooks and crannies, lofty bough perches and sunny windowseats for you to cling to and cherish.
Remember that scene in Almost Famous where Kate Hudson says if you ever get lonely, just go to the record store and visit your friends? This album is going to be a good pal to you.
published in The Brag
Latin – Holy Fuck
Holy Fuck are battlers. In late 2008 they were named as one of the reasons for the abolition of PromArt, a $4.7m initiative by the Canadian government to promote their country's culture internationally. Gutted, but not sufficiently discouraged, they powered on with their defiant name and sound to announce their new album earlier this year.
Latin starts with a very post-rock build that denies you a crescendo, short-changing you with some squirrelly delay before trampling your eardrums with 'Red Lights'. First single 'Latin America' follows, and here they show their true Faust-on-steroids colours. The signature keys-driven, percussive propulsion is no longer naggingly insistent: instead it flattens you wth strident, stomping resolve. It's no surprise HF led with this; it's Krautrock taken to its logical, pop-perfect conclusion.
Thankfully HF don't make the mistake of indulging too heavily in the Krautrock necrophilia that's currently in vogue. Besides their obvious pop smarts and bristling virtuosity, there are a number of things that set them apart. Tracks like 'Sht Mtn' mangle a femal monologue, casting a decidedly creepy light over a prickly harmonic guitar workout. 'Stillettos' conjures visions of a heavenly kosmische roller-disco.
Latin reveals a more aggressive and refined band. It sounds like they've processed the gloriously scuzzy jams of their 2007 LP through some kind of Talking Heads/Funkadelic transmogrifier. It's a testament to them that this newfound funk isn't a bad thing.
The record is enormously inventive given how worn its source material is. Listening to it at full tilt will make you feel like cocaine has been rendered redundant as a recreational drug.
published in The Brag on 07/06/10
Latin starts with a very post-rock build that denies you a crescendo, short-changing you with some squirrelly delay before trampling your eardrums with 'Red Lights'. First single 'Latin America' follows, and here they show their true Faust-on-steroids colours. The signature keys-driven, percussive propulsion is no longer naggingly insistent: instead it flattens you wth strident, stomping resolve. It's no surprise HF led with this; it's Krautrock taken to its logical, pop-perfect conclusion.
Thankfully HF don't make the mistake of indulging too heavily in the Krautrock necrophilia that's currently in vogue. Besides their obvious pop smarts and bristling virtuosity, there are a number of things that set them apart. Tracks like 'Sht Mtn' mangle a femal monologue, casting a decidedly creepy light over a prickly harmonic guitar workout. 'Stillettos' conjures visions of a heavenly kosmische roller-disco.
Latin reveals a more aggressive and refined band. It sounds like they've processed the gloriously scuzzy jams of their 2007 LP through some kind of Talking Heads/Funkadelic transmogrifier. It's a testament to them that this newfound funk isn't a bad thing.
The record is enormously inventive given how worn its source material is. Listening to it at full tilt will make you feel like cocaine has been rendered redundant as a recreational drug.
published in The Brag on 07/06/10
Mount Wittenberg Orca – Dirty Projectors
Dirty Projectors’ Dave Longstreth is a talented guitar player, but not a particularly fashionable one. When his enthusiastic noodling overshoots the bowl by a couple of yards, it’s as though he secretly wishes he was born 40 years earlier so he could’ve had a shot at playing in Yes.
Even at their goofiest, though, DP are a remarkable band. Their inventive use of female vocals—harmonising, offsetting, arpeggiating—keep Longstreth’s ideas within due bounds.
This use of vocals as a wily contextual device is probably what roused Björk’s curiosity in the band. The two acts collaborated in early 2009, with the performance of a piece written by Longstreth for 5 voices and guitar.
MWO was written quickly, and the 2010 recording sounds as though it was performed mostly live—the vocalists seem to be singing directly to one another. If you close your eyes, it’s not difficult to imagine yourself sitting on the floor of the studio wallowing in the magic as it happens.
The set of songs is concise, encompassing upbeat love-struck pop, moody medleys and bizarre harmonic inversions. It’s nowhere near as dense as Bitte Orca or Volta, but it’s also not as simple as it first seems, rewarding multiple listens generously.
It’s best not to scrutinise too closely, as, out of necessity, the recording is charmingly off the cuff. But when the results are as simply beautiful as ‘No Embrace’, or as stunning as the vital, tender climax of ‘All We Are’, who cares how paired down or informal it feels? It’s beautiful music played by gifted musicians.
published 12/07/10 in The Brag
Even at their goofiest, though, DP are a remarkable band. Their inventive use of female vocals—harmonising, offsetting, arpeggiating—keep Longstreth’s ideas within due bounds.
This use of vocals as a wily contextual device is probably what roused Björk’s curiosity in the band. The two acts collaborated in early 2009, with the performance of a piece written by Longstreth for 5 voices and guitar.
MWO was written quickly, and the 2010 recording sounds as though it was performed mostly live—the vocalists seem to be singing directly to one another. If you close your eyes, it’s not difficult to imagine yourself sitting on the floor of the studio wallowing in the magic as it happens.
The set of songs is concise, encompassing upbeat love-struck pop, moody medleys and bizarre harmonic inversions. It’s nowhere near as dense as Bitte Orca or Volta, but it’s also not as simple as it first seems, rewarding multiple listens generously.
It’s best not to scrutinise too closely, as, out of necessity, the recording is charmingly off the cuff. But when the results are as simply beautiful as ‘No Embrace’, or as stunning as the vital, tender climax of ‘All We Are’, who cares how paired down or informal it feels? It’s beautiful music played by gifted musicians.
published 12/07/10 in The Brag
Monday, February 1, 2010
Where Did the Night Fall – UNKLE
James LaVelle is a clever man who boasts an undeniable musical talent. This is, after all, the fellow who managed to marry contributors as disparate and reclusive as Mark Hollis and Thom Yorke into the two tracks that closed the first UNKLE album—a record that deftly melded far-reaching samples (Frank Zappa, Twin Peaks soundtrack) into a crackly patchwork that wore it’s brazen, effortless charm on it’s sleeve. It was impressive. It was cool. I bought it at least twice.
Nothing that was great about the first UNKLE record is absent here. The arrangements are intricate and encompassing, the guest spots impeccably selected. The problem is: now there’s simply too much of it. While the all-inclusive approach to arrangements and production certainly yields some serious ear-candy when employed by someone as wily as Lavelle, it doesn’t necessarily make for an amazing body of music. Where Did The Night Fall is a classic and unfortunate case of style over substance. By the 6th track (of 15), each new piece begins to sound like the two that sandwich it, despite the variance that the admittedly interesting guest spots present.
It would appear that Lavelle has developed into a sort of modern Phil Spector; an auteur who uses his fondness for wall of sound arrangements to judiciously frame a highly-directed cast of vocal contributors.
Not even the sublime ‘Another Night Out’, that caresses us so menacingly with Mark Lanegan’s calcified cords, manages to lift the MOR pall of the rest of the record.
Where did the night fall may well be cherished in the future. But now, it just sounds like someone trying to patch an overlong collection of uninspiring songs with beautiful voices and immersive arrangements. Still, there are worse things in the world.
published 17/05/10 in The Brag
Nothing that was great about the first UNKLE record is absent here. The arrangements are intricate and encompassing, the guest spots impeccably selected. The problem is: now there’s simply too much of it. While the all-inclusive approach to arrangements and production certainly yields some serious ear-candy when employed by someone as wily as Lavelle, it doesn’t necessarily make for an amazing body of music. Where Did The Night Fall is a classic and unfortunate case of style over substance. By the 6th track (of 15), each new piece begins to sound like the two that sandwich it, despite the variance that the admittedly interesting guest spots present.
It would appear that Lavelle has developed into a sort of modern Phil Spector; an auteur who uses his fondness for wall of sound arrangements to judiciously frame a highly-directed cast of vocal contributors.
Not even the sublime ‘Another Night Out’, that caresses us so menacingly with Mark Lanegan’s calcified cords, manages to lift the MOR pall of the rest of the record.
Where did the night fall may well be cherished in the future. But now, it just sounds like someone trying to patch an overlong collection of uninspiring songs with beautiful voices and immersive arrangements. Still, there are worse things in the world.
published 17/05/10 in The Brag
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Rough Travel for a Rare Thing – Bill Callahan
It’s strange when an indie-rock luminary releases a vinyl only album. Curiouser still when it’s of a live show from three years prior.
At a stretch, it could be said that Callahan is framing the precious, fleeting experience essential of a live performance with the most nostalgic of all music formats. Just as a performance ebbs and burns into non-existence, vinyl, by its very nature, is not made to last; it deteriorates with every diamond stylus scrape.
Or, perhaps the nature of this release is a subtle move on Callahan’s part to encourage his future canonisation as some kind of alt-folk deity. Take the title for instance: Rough Travel For A Rare Thing. Is he so frail and rare to warrant that? Or is he poking fun at us? I wouldn’t put it past him.
This collection does feel as though it’s been engineered to appear as a timeless relic. The artwork would suggest as much, depicting his name as an anomalous growth ring in the cross-section of a tree-trunk. The selections are all old, too, Mostly from his back catalogue as Smog; with a token nod to his 2007 debut under his own name.
All of this equivocal, underhand irony would be wasted if the show—recorded at the Toff in Melbourne in November 2007—wasn’t as staunchly and simply perfect as it is.
The recording is very dry, but there’s a humble and inviting warmth to the music—a cohesion that’s aided, in part, by the sound of the vinyl. This ‘no frills’ feel is mirrored in the packaging: a simple tip-on sleeve concealing just the two records, all information—including a pic of BC clutching a les-paul and looking wistful—relegated to the labels.
The band is in fine form—just as loose as they need to be. Callahan is his rumbling, troubadouric self, his bard-like quality most apparent on tracks like ‘The Well’, in which his lonely ruminations meander confidently over the unravelling spindle of a folk-meets-krautrock backing. ‘In The Pines’ is another highlight.
For all of it’s self-conscious backward looking, the experience of listening to this is very immediate. If you close your eyes, it sounds like you’re in the room with the rest of the audience, BC towering over you like some kind of stoney-eyed scarecrow jesus. Sounds like it was a good gig.
published in the print edition of The Brag.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
High Violet – The National
Three years on from Boxer and it's easy to forget that this band makes albums that grow on you slowly; albums that reveal a little more with each listen until eventually your dreams start to act out the lyrics, and you find subconscious snippets providing a sublime soundtrack to internal monologues as you toil through your day.
The disappointment some may have felt with the first single 'Bloodbuzz Ohio' will be dissolved after living with the album. This record is much more direct, and has greater momentum—it's more confident than Boxer was, but the moody incandescence of that album is no longer as thick. Not to worry.
As usual, Matt Berninger's lyrics are largely responsible for the lingering resonance of the beautifully realised songs and the album's success. They sink into your skin and end up tugging patiently at the fabric of your very being. He really does have a way with them.
"It's a terrible love, and I'm walkin' with spiders / It's a terrible love and I'm walkin' in / this quiet company..." he intimates over a gauzy guitar at the outset of 'Terrible Love', as the aural palette blossoms into cavernous exultance, a quilt of mellotron, cymbals, guitars; "It takes an ocean not to break."
Later, "I guess I've always been a delicate man / It takes me a day to remember a day / I didn't mean to let it get so far out of hand"
High Violet's song cycle starts with a tangle of anxiety and despair, alone in the negative space of a lost intimacy. It resolves triumphant.
In truth, it's almost as heady and hackle-raising as it's superior predecessor. But don't worry, it's a stunner.
published 19/04/10 in The Brag
The disappointment some may have felt with the first single 'Bloodbuzz Ohio' will be dissolved after living with the album. This record is much more direct, and has greater momentum—it's more confident than Boxer was, but the moody incandescence of that album is no longer as thick. Not to worry.
As usual, Matt Berninger's lyrics are largely responsible for the lingering resonance of the beautifully realised songs and the album's success. They sink into your skin and end up tugging patiently at the fabric of your very being. He really does have a way with them.
"It's a terrible love, and I'm walkin' with spiders / It's a terrible love and I'm walkin' in / this quiet company..." he intimates over a gauzy guitar at the outset of 'Terrible Love', as the aural palette blossoms into cavernous exultance, a quilt of mellotron, cymbals, guitars; "It takes an ocean not to break."
Later, "I guess I've always been a delicate man / It takes me a day to remember a day / I didn't mean to let it get so far out of hand"
High Violet's song cycle starts with a tangle of anxiety and despair, alone in the negative space of a lost intimacy. It resolves triumphant.
In truth, it's almost as heady and hackle-raising as it's superior predecessor. But don't worry, it's a stunner.
published 19/04/10 in The Brag
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