Machines Against the Rage

In Rainbows by Radiohead

2007-10-10T20:34:00.000+09:30

I'm sure you heard the sound reverberate around the globe when millions of jaws collectively hit the turf as Radiohead announced the impending release of In Rainbows without the help of any label or distributor - major or minor. One of the risks that they ran was that the immediate hype generated by such an act would overwhelm the music, or inflate expectations so greatly that the 10 tracks that eventuated would be a letdown.

But Radiohead, contrarian musical giants that they are, seem genetically incapable of producing anything that conforms to expectations. In fact, today, no one really has the bollocks to predict what a forthcoming Radiohead record will sound like, as everyone has, at some point, been proven wrong.

So, what exactly is In Rainbows like?

Well, like pretty much every other Radiohead recording, it sounds like both a radical departure from everything they've ever recorded and the natural culmination of the past six records at the same time. Opener, "15 step" is the beat-heavy, "Idioteque"-era Radiohead, but with added guitar, and minus several layers of distorted beats. Once again, while unlike much of the rest of the album, In Rainbow's opening track sets the scene for what is to follow. Because the album is positively naked, arrangements, while still astonishingly - and possibly wilfully - complex, instrumentation is pared back, guitarists Johnny Greenwood and Ed O'Brien often found gently plucking out duelling arpeggios while Thom Yorke's still developing howl wafts beneath (and above, and around, he's positively everywhere on this record). Perhaps this newfound instrumental restraint is the motivation to finally include "Nude", a live staple for the past 10 years, which here springs vibrantly to life as a studio piece.

In fact, this album bears all the hallmarks of a debut, each recording having been thoroughly tested to audiences for some time (with the exception of Faust ARP, which had never been heard before, and is the most subtly beautiful thing Radiohead have done since "Bulletproof...I Wish I Was") and, having all been published by Rolling Stone online, are all live winners. Any changes from these live performances has been unquesionably for the better, "15 Step" benefitting from a guileful fusion of electronic and drum beats, while "Nude" and "House of Cards" both become more exquisite for being fleshed out in the studio. But it is the stunning "Reckoner" which morphs from out-and-out rocker into a gorgeous, gentle, traditional verse-chorus-verse number, with Yorke's (cliche alert) soaring falsetto in its finest form ever before coming to a string-drenched finale, that is the real gem. Meanwhile, closer, "Videotape" a missive to a loved one via the dearly departed VHS, is another highlight in an album not short of them, gently easing the listener out of the 45 minute experience.

Finally, after teasing for 10 years since The Bends, Radiohead have made what is, to be sure, a straight-out rocker. It's undoubtedly complex and still disobeys much of Rock's dogma, but, while songs will undoubtedly grow and develop with care and attention, this record is immediate, attention-grabbing and stunning.

Absolutely stunning. Again.

4 1/2 stars

Proof of Youth by The Go! Team

2007-10-04T20:26:00.000+09:30

Man, I love that exclamation mark. Everything that was so totally ace about The Go! Team's debut, Thunder, Lightning, Strike! was encapsulated in that one modestly (yet audaciously) positioned piece of punctuation. Vibrant, modern, bold and catchy as all fuck, the Team combined samples, cheerleading rhythms, primary school chants and a genuine pop music sensibility, it sounded like FatBoy Slim had about 6 love children with George Michael. And it was ace. So naturally, the release of Proof of Youth was greeted with joyous cheers at MAtR.

Opening track "Grip Like a Vice" didn't disappoint, so long as one was looking for much the same as the found on the debut. And therein lies the problem with Proof of Youth. It's one thing to stick to a winning formula: Maximo Park proved it earlier this year with Our Earthly Pleasures, which didn't diverge far from 2005's A Certain Trigger, but maintained a sense of vibrancy and was still chock-full of hooks to be worthwhile. Just nice and safe. It's another thing however, to release what is essentially a record which sounds like a collection of tracks that missed the cut the first time around and then received the full treatment. The full treatment, in this case, being another session in ne band member's bedroom or another.

It's not that Proof of Youth is bad - it isn't - but it's just the same again, just no really as good. Each song is solid, there really aren't any bad tracks, it's just that there aren't really any good ones. Where is the killer cop-show horn section from "Junior Kickstart" or the ultra catchy chanting of "Bottle Rocket"? They certainly aren't here.

Fear not, fans of The Go! Team, they'll come back strong. They're clearly too good to remain mediocre for too long, but this record is clearly a case of sophomore blues.

2 1/2 stars

From Here We Go Sublime by The Field

2007-09-16T00:16:00.000+09:30

Minimalist techno is not a phrase you hear very often around the MAtR offices, most people involved here having an inbuilt aversion to the droning repetition of trance and house music, as well as the tendency towards laziness - i.e. taking a (bad) sample from a (bad) song from the 80s and throwing a beat at it - most notably Eric Prydz's woeful effort in 2005 "Call on Me". So when Metacritic.com announced that the debut album from The Field, a pseudonym of Swedish producer Axel Willner, From Here We Go Sublime, was the best album of the year, there was an obligation to raise eyebrows, blow fringes out of eyes, then head to the record store and give it a go.

The opening lines of the opening track, Over The Ice, didn't provide any stunning surprises, except that it was clearly a cut above any other techno that had come out of late, with beats that in other hands would be thumping club anthem style fed through a filter about a mile thick, and a sample of, well, something, cut and shaped down to a female voice repeating the letters 'e' and 'i' in two octaves. The funny thing is though, it gets under your skin. Buries itself deep inside your head, and comes back to you at three in the morning, when you're winding down. Suddenly that sound of a massive rave happening next door makes perfect sense, and you realise that now, 30 years after Brian Eno invented ambient music, his natural successor has arrived. The Field has not made a dance record. This isn't for the revolving dancefloor, but for the couch.

This gets reinforced on the next track, "A Paw in My Face", which takes its cues slightly more from the ambient milieu, quietly building to the point where another sample, a guitar piece, again cut and shaped out of all recognition, kicks in, and the songs finds another gear. However, it's at the very end, 5 1/2 minuted in, where the true beauty of the song is revealed. The last 6 seconds, the track unspools, ends its seemingly endless repetitions, and unveils the sample in its true form, the guitar intro from Lionel Richie's fairly flavourless A.M. radio staple, "Hello".

And this is the wonder of the record. It is the brief moments that drop your jaw, bring you back from the reverie which the simple, gentle beats send you and give a swift, strangely caressing, kick in the guts.

Some people will never get into trance, or house, or dance music in general. And that's ok, it's not for everyone. But anyone seeking to find an entry into this most mysterious of genres, look no further than From Here We Go Sublime.

4 stars

Kala by M.I.A.

2007-08-24T15:37:00.000+09:30

Maya Arulpragasam, or M.I.A. as the moniker she understandably performs under, is not one for backward steps. However, after her debut in 2005, Arular, was critically lauded and announced a new talent to the world, the inevitable questions began to be uttered: where to now?

Well, the answer is here, in the sequel, Kala, a stunning melange of Bollywood rhythms, hip-hop sensibilities and a mish-mash of funk, reggae, jungle, gunshots, chanting, guest vocals and indigenous Australian rappers.

MIA has long been known for her fairly radical political views (and for the daughter of a rebel fighter with the notorious Tamil Tigers in Sri Lanka, who has been a refugee in India and traveled the world after losing her father, who can blame her?), and it turns out that they're responsible for the production of the most amazing hip-hop record to come out in years (and yes, that includes everything Kanye West has ever released). MIA was refused a visa to the US in 2006 when she was scheduled to work with uber-producer Timbaland on a number of tracks, awhich likely would have resulted in the necessary homogenisation endemic in US hip-hop right now.

Unfazed, she traveled the world, becoming something of a musical sponge, soaking up influences from African tribal beats ("Bird Flu"), Australia ("Mango Pickle Down River"), her native subcontinent ("Boyz", "Jimmy") and European garage ("Bamboo Banger"). The resulting record is an incredible mix of rhythms, samples and rhymes, positively oozing sweat from every pore, a feverish, thumping album of party pop unlike anything anyone has heard.

Perhaps it is he sheer audacity of Kala that is so intoxicating, sounds that appear in each speaker seem unannounced, uneccessary and utterly extravagant, but it is this superfluous soundscape that makes the record such compulsive listening. At no point is the listener left alone to await the next verse, sample or generic rhyme; instead, gunshots fire in the left speaker, while bleeps lifted from old Nintendo games jump out of the right, Bollywood strings jerk and shimmy over thumping tribal drums, didgeridoos and all manner of synthesised noises.

In short, Kala is a triumph, a veritable smorgasboard of wonderful, inventive, creative and utterly delicious sounds that cannot fail to leave the listener dazzled. While M.I.A.'s debut was a startling wake up call to the world, Arular was the stark, beautiful monochrome compared to Kala's delectable technicolour.

4 1/2 stars.

The Stage Names by Okkervil River

2007-08-24T09:51:00.000+09:30

There's something wonderfully reassuring about dudes whose songwriting chops are so terrific that it totally outweighs the fact that he's not all that much of a singer. Not only that, but he (or she) sings with such commendable vigour and enthusiasm that you just don't care anyway. Will Sheff, frontman for Texan troubadors Okkervil River, is most definitely one of those men. On nine numbers on their new release, The Stage Names, Sheff manages to pump

bellow and howl his way through all manner of emotions, volumes and tempos, each time attacking it with such fervour that you can't help but emote along with him, all the while tapping a foot or breathing a sigh.

What's also reassuring is bands like Okkervil River (and for that matter, fellow Texans Spoon, whose drummer Jim Eno produces here) that can produce solid, modestly ambitious middle-American rock without falling into cliche or bland reproduction. When Sheff self-references Okkervil River as a 'mid level band' on "Unless It's Kicks", one of many highlights, it is indicative of the lack of hubris surrounding the group, who have been around for so long without any kind of raging success to know their place in the world.

But that said, when it comes to sheer solidity of songwriting talent, it's hard to look past these guys. They don't reinvent the wheel - they don't want to - but they rarely, if ever, fail to come out with a hook-laden piece of pop magic, be it "You Can't Hold The Hand Of A Rock And Roll Man", with it's rollicking downtempo, late-night barfly rhythm, or any of the numerous gorgeous, introspective, stripped back pieces, foremost of which is the beautiful "Title Track", which demonstrates the band's confidence by allowing Sheff's vocals to rest delicately over a gently strummed guitar, before the rest of the band jump in on a full-bodied (in the most late-night red wine sense) chorus.

Another one of 2007's essential albums has come out, replete with fully formed characters, struggling through life in a world that doesn't quite seem to give a shit, and who always remain accessible enough for the listener to care more. Okkervil River have proven - again, as if they needed to - that they are among the best in the world at producing sad, serious and pretty rock music. A pearler.

4 1/2 stars

A Weekend in the City by Bloc Party

2007-08-20T21:11:00.000+09:30

Bloc Party are a lot of things: ambitious, serious, dedicated and earnest. Oh, so very earnest. When Bloc Party decide to take their epic (ish), dead serious power pop rock in a slightly different direction, you know damn well that they'll do just that. And still have a message to push. And push it they will. With vigour.

After Silent Alarm in 2005, with its onslaught of energy and immediacy, Bloc Party announced themselves with a piercing yell that easily pushed them to the forefront of the many, many exciting debuts of that time (Arcade Fire, The Go! Team, Maximo Park et al), serious subject matter being married seamlessly to dancefloor riffs and beats, driven by one of the most furiously tight and tidy rhythm sections since Rage Against the Machine. Suddenly, Lindsay Lohan and Brad Pitt were rocking up to gigs. So where do you go for a sequel? Well, these guys still are dead serious, and the riffs are still there, but something's a bit different. They're still irony free, and while that can easily get irritating, you can't help but believe them, and that they really give a shit. Of course, there are a series of bonus features not heard on Silent Alarm, most notably singer Kele Okereke's - slightly forced - falsetto on lead track "Song for Clay (Disappear Here)", before kicking into more familiar thumping riff territory in the second half. It's actually a real corker, and it's Bloc Party's real strength: if nothing else, these guys are professional, thorough and precise. Songs are crafted here, unlike the aural energy bursts of the previous record; "Hunting for Witches" opens with digitally mixed random noise and beats before drummer Matt Tong steps in with some of his (now trademark) creative drumming and the riffing, thumping song proper kicks in. And it's great.

And that's the thing: much of the record is great. Not just that, but it's the one thing you wouldn't expect a Bloc Party record to be: a grower. A real, cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die, dead set grower (hence the review coming some months after the release). In fact, the most accessible song here, "I Still Remember", the second single, is also the weakest. And that is no co-incidence. Opening single, "The Prayer" which, from a band that seems enthusiastically atheistic, is actually Okereke hoping to get the balls to hit the dance floor and pull chicks, is positively thrilling, tribal drums thumping along over pseudo-electronica-with-instruments, and it's, once again, great. And it's not isolated: "Waiting for the 7:18" is a genuinely pretty little love song, "On" is the most creative track here, and "Uniform" is a gentle breather.

However, there are some sequencing issues. The second half falls a litle flat in patches, not least on the by-the-numbers "I Still Remember", with its paint by numbers lead riff and Okereke's truly awful jumper in the film clip.

But in the end, not many bands can ake themselves this bloody seriously, try so damn hard, and not sound complete turds. Bloc Party is most definitely one of those bands. They can suck occasionally, but A Weekend in the City is evidence that if you've got the time, the talent, and the sheer pig-headedness, you can put together a solid, mature and thoroughly enjoyable record.

4 stars

Redressing a gaping hole...

2007-08-12T11:55:00.000+09:30

I've recently received some correspondence from a couple of readers of Machines Against the Rage who, amid several pages of glowing praise, suggested that doing something to increase the variety of artists and genres dealt with here might be of some benefit. So naturally I trawled throught the collection and dug up some of the finest examples of hip hop from the past 25 years in order to present for your edification:

The bluffer's guide to hip-hop.

It all started in 1982, with The Message. While hip-hop had been around on he streets of New York and LA for years, even decades, springing out of blues and funk, the vocal stylings driven by lack of instruments, as was the tendency to 'sample' other artists tunes, Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five (and yes, I realise there are seven people on the cover) were the first of these to make it to vinyl. The Message is an important milestone in the history of rap, setting the standard for lyrical dexterity and beats garnered from forgotten funk records. Just as importantly, though, was the overt political message, paving the way for many of hip-hop's greats, before the political MO of rap was stolen by pretenders of the gangsta-rap ilk.

Four years later, thanks to Run DMC and The Beastie Boys, not only had rap become socially accepted across the US, but three white Jewish boys from New York were setting the standards, releasing Licensed to Ill in 1986, skillfully blending rock and rap and opening up barriers for available subject matter. The success of 'Fight for Your Right' led to the album becoming the highest selling hip-hop record of all time to that point. One year later, Run DMC appeared in a film clip with Steve Tyler, covering 'Walk This Way', and bringing hip-hop squarely into the mainstream.

Then along came Public Enemy, and in the space of two records, 1988's It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back and Fear of a Black Planet two years later, hip hop experienced arguably its finest hour. The strange, squeaking sample on Nation..., the brutal, explosive lyrics and the non-stop sound and fury, so intense that the record needed numerous instrumental interludes to offer the listener a breather. The follow up, the most wildly non-commercial record to dominate the charts in rap's history, attacked white musicians, while spitting venom across the world, all to a funky beat, a wild departure from the Run DMC-styled rock-driven rap, paving the way for a hybrid of all three in Rage Against the Machine. And all this while The Fresh Prince was on top of the charts with his utterly inoffensive commercial pap.

Following that came one of the more underrated bands in early '90s hip-hop: Arrested Development. Unashamedly activist and pushing a uniquely positive message of self-respect and brotherhood, some of the smoothest rhymes in the business merged flawlessly with a surprising lack of samples, while also recalling everyone from De La Soul to Sly Stone in what was the first ever example of Southern hip-hop, to be followed (eventually) by Outkast.

A complete contrast to that, and the evolutionary pinnacle of the rap-rock pioneered by Run DMC was Rage Against the Machine's debut, self-titled record. Never have extreme politics and vicious, angst driven venom combined so perfectly with mainstream middle-class white boy affections. But even now, the violence, urgency and relevance of Rage remained unmatched.

In 1993, Snoop Doggy Dogg's debut record, Doggy Style, appeared on the scene, bringing gangsta rap screaming into the mainstream with the stomping single "What's My Name?", and the album itself was a classic example of what hip-hop was to expect for much of the next decade. Samples from Curtis Mayfield, George Clinton and a series of other funk and soul legends abound, crammed into the record with multicoloured brilliance. It's a shame that the album's successors failed to live up to the potential of this one.

Many years later, the southern rap milieu recovered with the release of Outkast's Stankonia, fusing Hendrix, gospel, southern deep fried rock, RnB and soul in a blazing flare of creativity, to be followed a few years later by the squillion-selling Speakerboxx/The Love Below, which featured the mammoth hit "Hey Ya".

And of course, Eminem. With The Marshall Mathers LP, The Slim Shady LP and The Eminem Show, the 'new Elvis' redefined what a white rapper could do, weaving words together with wit and humour not witnessed since Bob Dylan was at the top of his game. With Dr Dre sitting in the producer's chair, Eminem was the only name in hip hop before wis woeful Encore and subsequent retirement in 2005.

Common was a widely reputed rapper well before he released Like Water for Chocolate and Be in 2000 and 2004, and represented the combination of Arrested Development's concientiousness and the RnB club sensibilities of their northern cousins including Snoop Dog, Dr Dre and Ice Cube. Common, however, rested on an entirely separate plane, rhyming at times breathtakingly complex rhymes with positive affirmations of self-respect and mutual love that stood out like a sore thumb in the hip-hop climate of the time.

Screaming into the present, in 2005 and 2006, two artists announced their presence in the most clear way possible. Kanye West, already with a killer record under his belt in The College Dropout released what he certainly believed to be the best record of 2005, Late Registration. Already a renowned creative force as a producer, West's skill in tinkering with samples, twisting, stretching and scratching them to suit his needs, became the new normal, and "Gold Digger" and "Touch the Sky" made him the new main man of hip hop, but it's the dazzling, Shirley Bassey inspired "Diamonds from Sierra Leone" that sets new standards for top level hip hop. Then, the next year, a young Muslim who had guested on "Touch the Sky" released HIS debut, and Lupe Fiasco's Food and Liquor, with it's youthful exuberance and delight in creating new sounds, is the true sound of the future.

So there it is, the history of hip hop in under 1000 words, and, yes, I have left out numerous examples that have littered the last 30 years and achieved great distinction, but, too bad. For those who previously couldn't name one rapper after Eminem, you now have the tools to pass yourself off as at least a passing fan of urban grooves.

Good luck!

Robbers and Cowards by Cold War Kids

2007-08-08T19:20:00.000+09:30

It's a constant problem for indie bands to somehow distinguish themselves from all the other indie bands clamouring for the attention of what is, let's face it, a fairly limited audience of converse wearing, stovepipe-jean sporting indie fans. And the Cold War Kids do a pretty good job of it, cobbling together a respectable pastiche of nouveau blues, knocking off little pieces of everyone from The White Stripes' blues rawk to Spoon-ish sparse pop, with singer Nathan Willet jumping around from a gruff David Byrne yelp to a quasi-Jeff Buckley croon, as the occasion demands.

Of course, like any indie group striving for kudos from that most difficult to please demographic, there is a significant amount of superfluous musical extravagance; time signatures shift around almost arbitrarily and references to obscure literary figures (a little Gabriel Garcia Marquez, anyone?) abound, but refreshingly, the subject matter is strangely conservative, opening track, 'We Used to Vacation' a cautionary tale of a despondent alcoholic whose life slowly collapses, resigns himself to optimism, 'Still, things could get much worse/This will all blw over in time'.

With the almost underwater clash-bang drumming well forward in the mix, the rhythmic drone of the record carries it along for much of it's running time, particularly when songs as strong as 'Hang Me Up to Dry', 'Tell Me in the Morning' and 'Robbers' bob up periodically. It does all get a bit much towards the end, but for a solid half hour, Cold War Kids keep things fresh and interesting enough to suggest that they can, indeed, stand above the masses, at least for a little while.

3 1/2 stars

Icky Thump by the White Stripes

2007-07-19T21:05:00.001+09:30

It's quite funny, really. When the White Stripes released their breakthrough record, White Blood Cells, they were hailed as the saviours of rock, reviving the notion that music, stripped bare, was the real essence of ROCK! Now, of course, with keeping it real de rigeur for any young band (except Muse), The White Stripes have once again defied fashion and currency by making what could most easily be defined as a prog rock record. The opening, and titular, track is exhibit A in this argument. With cacophonic keyboards, grinding metal guitar, and of course Jack White's most infectious riff, all hammering over the top of Meg's Bonham-esque drumming, the song seems to be an anecdote about a strange encounter in a Mexican town, while passing commentary about US immigration policy. Pretty proggy stuff. Perhaps this is why previous records were made in less than a week (this, by contrast, was recorded over 3 weeks in Nashville, a veritable eternity in the White Stripes' universe); to stop Jack going a little mental.

There are certainly more traditionally White-ish tracks on the record, such as 'You Don't Know What Love Is (You Do As You're Told)' and 'Bone Broke', but these seem to be something around the filler level, becuase it's when the band's imagination kicks into overdrive that Icky Thump really hits its straps, most notably on the wonderfully cheeky 'Rag and Bone', where Jack and Meg play thieving (or opportunistic) vagabonds stripping pop culture of its trinkets, ostensibly to put it to better use than it currently is being.

After the release of Get Behind Me Satan in 2005, the White Stripes announced a new look (absent the lollipop outfits), a new sound (more than three separate instruments) and a new approach to music (layers, production and variety), and the music world shivered a little bit. The White Stripes were supposed to be paragons of the new rock, simple, straight up and thumpingly awesome. Suddenly, they were willfully creative and difficult. Of course, there was a backlash, and diehard fans hoped for a return to the old days. It was in vain. The White Stripes, now officially veterans of the scene, have decided to buck any and every trend, and are now pioneering a new scene, a revival of the other Led Zeppelin, zany, overblown and great fun. And if Icky Thump is any indication, there is plenty more where that came from.

4 stars

Boxer by The National

2007-07-17T14:10:00.000+09:30

To look at the cover of The National's new record, Boxer, is to catch a glimpse of both the album's essence, and its antithesis. On one hand, the washed-out black and white, the half-closed eyelid through which we view it and the lack of energy of the image's participants which belies the thorough, restrained enjoyment they're clearly all experiencing could not convey any better the music contained therein. Restraint, of course, being the key word in regards to Boxer. Gone is much of the welling anger that pervaded the previous release, Alligator, which, on occasion, bubbled over the rim into a cathartic explosion of mythic proportions.

That's not to say that Boxer lacks catharsis. In fact, it is the cover's outgoing nature which represents the antithesis of the record, for Boxer is positively agorophobic. An indoors album. Away from crowds of dancing septogenarians. And with track titles like 'Guest Room' and 'Apartment Story', it's little wonder. Singer Paul Beringer's sonorous baritone dominates proceedings here, gently easing out lyrical gems like "Hold ourselves together with our arms around the stereo for hours / While it sings to itself or whatever it does", or 'Standing at the punch table swallowing punch". It is through Beringer's very presence on the record that catharsis still exists, hidden, perhaps, behind Bryan Devendorf's insistent drumming and Bryce Dessner's glorious Spanish guitar, which suffered on Alligator from the more volumnious efforts of his bandmates.

Opening track, the stunning 'Fake Empire' muses ambiguously on either the state of a dying relationship or the state of the US of A "We're half asleep/In a fake empire", building slowly over a jumpy, nervous staccato piano piece, while the urgent drumming and stately bass line gently direct the song towards is gorgeous, understated, horn-driven finale. From there, Boxer barely misses a beat, taking the listener both languidly and apprehensively through to the sweet closer, 'Gospel', where Beringer sounds almost nostalgic for a time when he was comfortable hanging around inside dreaming about spending time with friends who he may or may not have been ambivalent about.

Boxer is the sound of a band on top of its game, a stately, beautiful, if slightly moribund epic which cannot serve but reassure those who were concerned about the likelihood of a repeat after the wonder of Alligator.

4 1/2 stars

Our Love to Admire by Interpol

2007-07-11T13:58:00.000+09:30

Interpol have always been pretty depressing, in a glorious, strangely uplifting way, much like their spiritual antecendants, Joy Division. But now, they're epically, massively, stirringly depressing.

Not to say that Our Love to Admire, the band's third long-player, makes me more or less depressed than either of their previous two outings (actually, Interpol don't really depress me at all, but I am fully aware of the subject matter), but as far as scope and intent go, this is a quantum leap forward, if not so much in structure and influences. Yes, the Interpol of old is here, in spades, droll vocals singing ruthlessly tongue-in-cheek morbidity, aping Joy Division and other suicide-rock outfits of the post-punk era, but there is also a new sensibility, not readily heard at first, but when the ultra-high, ultra-staccato solo kicks in at around 3.10 on the opening track, "Pioneer to the Falls", there is indeed an epic-ness here that is rapidly reaffirmed after everything but vocals drop out shortly thereafter. It's like Chris Martin decided that he GENUINELY WAS miserable about hwo truly awful his life is and suddenly (and simultaneously) decided to devote his powers to good, rather than evil.

And even better, it's subtle. The chiming of a church bell ringing out after the climx of highlight 'Mammoth', the strings (not cheesy or unecessary at all) on 'Wrecking Ball' or the twisted, distorted flamenco and funereal outro on album closer, 'Lighthouse'. This is a band making music custom-built to rock sold-out stadiums without making it look like that's what they're doing, or diluting their worth in any way to achieve it.

Whether this stacks up to the high quality of Interpol's previous two releases is a difficult proposition, all three being very decent records, with subtle changes between each emphasising the band's gradual growth, but this is definitely worth a look, and, one imagines, the place where many new fans will begin their affinity with Interpol.

4 stars

Tones of Town by Field Music

2007-06-26T12:39:00.000+09:30

I don't think anyone really expected much from Field Music, leawst of all the members of Field Music. It all seemed like an innocent collaboration between members of Maximo Park and The Futureheads, with no aspirations of world conquest or end-of-year best-of lists. But from the first beat of their self-titled debut in 2005 to the last note of the heart-stoppingly gorgeous 'You're so Pretty', that expectation was dashed as they made one of the highlights of the year.

So, in the face of renewed expectations and the notion of Field Music being a band in its own right, rather than the ubiquitous side project, how does Tones of Town stack up? Pretty darn well. I say darn as any form of foul language being used in association with Tones of Town seems out of place. Field Music have made that most wonderful of anachronisms, a good Beatles-esque pop album. That particular adjective gets tossed around a little bit too much, but it may well be appropriate, with the record recalling those oh-so English moments from Sgt Peppers or Abbey Road, when a Liverpudlian accent seemed to encapsulate all that was beautiful and nostalgic about 1950s England. Even on the cover art, the band members are pictured holding an old microphone recording machine dating from at least then.

That's not to say that Tones of Town is not very much a product of the here and now; even as instrumentation is determinedly old-fashioned, songs are kept tight and taut in a way Messrs Lennon, McCartney and Harrison often failed to see the beauty of. Not a note is wasted, no harmony overused (witness beautiful littly opening ditty - ditty seems like a more appropriate word than song here, and that's a compliment - 'Give It Lose It Take It') as strings wash in and out without overstaying there welcome. Percussion jumps around with xylophone cameos and little keyboard flourishes, all the while making the listener feel like a cup of tea and his slippers while waiting for the local marching band to appear around the corner.

Field Music may well slip under the radar this year, but if you're into music that suffers adjectives like 'sparkling' and 'jangly' then this is very much the record for you.

4 stars

Mirrored by Battles

2007-06-15T14:35:00.000+09:30

Apparently, Battles released two EPs in 2004, which their label, Warp, then re-released as a double disc set in '05. Apparently, these discs sent a substantial ripple through the music world, a world hungry for experimental rock and roll, notwithstanding occasional visits by Tool and TV on the Radio (although even Tool seem fairly mainstream these days, don't they?). Apparently, these guys were going to make the musical equivalent of a big middle finger to the establishment which claims rock stopped moving forward in 1967 by producing a gargantuan masterpiece.

Apparently, it's all true.

In Mirrored, Battles have produced one of those records that feels like it's about 20 years ahead of its time, as much at home among live instrumentation as with highly processed vocals, looped guitar and drum circling around each other and multilayered production. Even the cover art is reminiscent of what one's notion of a futuristic recording studio may look like.

Opening single 'Atlas', while utterly brilliant, a seven minute club stomper built around a metal rhythm section and twisted and every concievable musical affectation layered on top of it, isn't necessarily the best thing here. In fact, it's hard to view this record as more than a single recording, so seamlessly and languidly does one movement shift into another, breaks in the thrilling noise only thrown in as a submissive bow to modern rock conventions (none of any others, by the way, Battles saw fit to adhere to).

Bookends, 'Race: In' and 'Race: Out' are fitting opener and closer respectively, the latter opening in a grpahic dirge, then slowly shifting into an alternate universe version of it's sister at the beginning, while 'Race: In' shuffles in over urgent, chase-scene drumming before exploding at the midpoint.

In between are a series of thrilling adventures into sonic experimentalism that often conspire to leave the listener open-mouthed at the sheer audacity of the ideas being thrown out at every turn. However, despite all this pretense to high-art math-rock, at no point does Mirrored cease to be anything but highly accessible (in fact, don't be surprised if you hear 'Atlas' at the local nightspot sometime this year): at no point do Battles forget that the audience is listening.

Pity the band that sets out to make the veritable PhD of rock music, to make something that has never been done, as it almost always ends in failure. But when it works, as it has here, it just struggles to get any better.

4 1/2 stars

Memory Man by Aqualung

2007-06-14T15:08:00.000+09:30

Aqualung (aka Matt Hales with a little help from his brother Ben) have long garnered comparisons with Coldplay, much to the confusion of this writer, with the exception that they're both British and make mid- to slow-tempo heartfelt rock music. That's about it. However, upon hearing the intro to 'Cinderella', the opening track off Aqualung's newest release, Memory Man, with it's chiming guitar strumming, distant piano tinkling and pounding backbeat, I immediately begun to wince. While it is undeniably uplifting stuff, it screams of the weaker, derivative moments from 2006's excerable X&Y.
Then, suddenly, as the opening crescendo drops, what we have is a gentle, slightly disconcerting verse utterly drenched in reverb. And suddenly the loud bits make sense, stop sounding derivative and the whole song clicks into place. And that is what differentiates Aqualung from Messrs Martin and Bono (and the Edge) is the clear individualism of the tunes, and no clear yearning, burning desire to write another smash hit and sell a bucketload of records to 15 year olds and 25 year old bogans and chavs. Because make no mistake, there are moments of clear U2-ish-ness here, be it the gradual fadeout of 'Glimmer' or the Edge-y guitar picking and gut-busting chorus of 'Outside' (I swear he even sounds like Bono on some tracks). But, by record's end, you feel like you can forgive him the indulgence of a lazy pseudo-cover, as the highpoints more than make up for it, both in creativity and quality.
Much as Aqualung try to deny it on this record, it's when the tempo slows, the volume drops and instrumentation step back a little that the band(?) really shine. Gentle verses nestle between booming choruses, giving songs their emotional core ('Pressure Suit', 'Something to Believe In', which, incidentally, is another bit of potential U2-aping), which isn't to say that said choruses lack punch, but when everything slows down and Hales' slightly cracked falsetto comes to the fore, Aqualung find their place.
Importantly, though, is that Aqualung realise that they can't go on making the same slow, emotive tracks forever, so are looking to branch out. While the upbeat numbers aren't quite what it seems they were looking for, the willingness to push into uncharted waters (while tethered to the shore, granted) suggests that when the promised land is located, it will be beautiful indeed.

3 1/2 stars

Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga by Spoon

2007-06-01T14:32:00.000+09:30

I'm a lucky man. Having managed to get my hands on Spoon's forthcoming record ahead of schedule, I've been privileged enough to have had it in my headphones all morning. And for fans who, like me, have been waiting breathlessly for the follow-up to 2005's Gimme Fiction and 2003's Kill the Moonlight, it is a wonderful pleasure to reveal that none of us will be disappointed. Spoon have, once again, delivered a stone cold classic. Whether this is the record will be the one to delver Spoon to the unwashed masses is debatable, as Spoon are perhaps too wilful, artistic, intelligent and (dare I say) good to ever achieve any international acclaim on the level that Coldplay enjoy or Snow Patrol are enjoying, it seems that everything Britt Daniel and Co. seem to touch has turned to gold over the past five years.

With titles such as 'You Got Yr. Cherry Bomb', 'Don't You Evah', 'Rhthm and Soul' and 'Black Like Me', it would seem clear that Daniel has immersed himself in hip-hop and been relentlessly texting his friends for the past two years. However, nothing could be further from the truth, with Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga feeling like it is exactly in the right place at the right time, the natural successor to it's two older siblings, with the only possible reference to 'black' music being the presence of a horn section on 'The Underdog'. What certainly remains is the band's uncanny ability to convert sparse, clean production into songs of great depth and atmosphere, merely with the single strum of guitar, burst of random noise recordings or series of hand claps (as heard on the contender for song of the year 'Finer Feelings').

In fact, small bursts of hitherto unheard instruments are an ongoing trend on Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga, be it Piano tinkles ('Don't Make Me a Target'), distorted vocals ('The Ghost of You Lingers', which is by far the greatest departure from 'Old Spoon', and one of the best songs on the album) or xylophone and horns ('You Got Yr. Cherry Bomb'), and that's just the first three tracks.

While probably failing to scale the lofty heights of predecessor Gimme Fiction, Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga more than ably maintains a standard of excellence for Spoon that any band would kill for.

4 1/2 stars

Sky Blue Sky by Wilco

2007-05-21T15:07:00.000+09:30

There are a lot of things Wilco, and, by extension, frontman Jeff Tweedy, can be accused of; conforming to expectations is most certainly not one of them. That's why it comes as a surprise that Sky Blue Sky has been met with such contempt from some corners of the music press.
When alt. country was burgeoning, mainly because of Tweedy's early work with Uncle Tupelo, Being There came as a big, eclectic bolt from the Rock 'n' Roll blue.

Then, some smoothly produced pop in Summerteeth, which morphed into the white-noise/pop masterpiece, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. When A Ghost is Born came along, you'd think people had cottoned on to the fact that while Wilco records are never quite what you'd expect, there's always a natural progression from one to another. So, while Sky Blue Sky, on the surface appears to be a quantum leap back in time for Wilco, a band that has unquestionably fought against its Daddy-rock leanings for over a decade, closer inspection reveals much more in common with its predecessors, and many tracks carry a clear connection to the less experimental moments on Ghost.

An important point to note is that the creative and artistic success of Sky Blue Sky should not be judged exclusively on its progressiveness (or lack thereof), as the band's experimental nature was not something they ever expressed an interest in maintaining in the long term. Unfortunately, that is most likely exactly what it will be judged on, and that is a shame. Because even though this may be Wilco's most clean, crisp and uncomplicated recording to date, it is also possibly the one that takes the longest to make its mark.

Irrespective of the intent of the band (or its fans), this is a collection of twelve really beautiful, well crafted songs. And that is what Wilco have always done better than anyone. In fact, the record opens with one the band's most beautiful recordings to date, in 'Either Way', a delightful 70s mid-tempo number which is a world apart from the angst-ridden fuzz of previous recordings, almost certainly a statement of intent from Tweedy regarding his emergence from the haze of painkiller addiction, as no doubt is the absolutely spotless production. And when newly recruited guitarist Nels Cline's solo kicks in midway, you just have to sit back and let it all wash over you, sappy strings and all, because it's a great song.

Cline's free jazz background comes screaming to the fore when the band let him loose on tracks like 'Impossible Germany', and when Wilco decide to rock out, they do so with gusto (at least, as much gusto as 6 well-to-do gents pushing 40 can muster), as on 'Please be Patient With Me' and 'Hate it Here'.
Not many bands in the world could flirt with Eagles-esque MOR rock and not come off looking impossibly twee and camp. It is testament to the songwriting chops of Tweedy et al. that Sky Blue Sky comes off as a beautiful, and surprisingly memorable excursion into middle-aged contentment. Wake up on a clear Sunday morning, put this CD on, close your eyes and enjoy it for what it is. Don't expect anything but quality.

4 stars

Volta by Bjork

2007-05-18T12:58:00.000+09:30

It's a trend that almost all artists/bands that enjoy any form of longevity tend to follow: Appear on the scene with either the debut or sophomore album wth a blinding crash, consolidate with two or three solid follow ups, broadening horizons, branching out, before going nuts, 'doing a Kid A' in the words of NME and making something totally unexpected. Having done THAT, one must then revert to the previous course, making a record that sounds like a natural progression from the record five years ago.
That's where Bjork appears to be now.
Volta picks up seamlessly from Post and Homogenic, heavy on beats, an electronic wonderland firmly rooted in moving your feet, and nodding your head, rather than floating, ethereal explorations of love circa the diversions of Vespertine and Medulla. There are indications, however, that this is the same woman who made those records: the bells-in-a-pond backing on 'I See Who You Are', and the swirling horns on 'The Dull Flame of Desire', which stars guest vocals from the ever-welcome Antony Hegarty (of Antony and the Johnsons). But it's clear that this is back to the future for the Icelandic songstress, most notably evidenced on the video game punch-up backing beat of 'Innocence'.
Perhaps it's personal disappointment that Bjork didn't follow the Vespertine/Medulla road to its final (and potentially stunning) conclusion, but while it could never be accused of being boring, Volta seems to lack the cohesion that has set Bjork's work above other electronic/avant-garde artists of a similar ilk, suck as Norway's John Kaada. Beats, sounds, and lyrics are imaginative, novel and occasionally thrilling, but (and this is possibly being a bit harsh, given Volta is being compared to an incredible back catalogue) at the same time, it all feels like it's been done before, just not in quite this way.

3 1/2 stars

Release the Stars by Rufus Wainwright

2007-05-17T09:58:00.000+09:30

He said he wanted to make a record that made the sound of 'cash registers ringing'. And after 10 years of making orchestral high camp his turf, winning adulation from the elite minority, no one would deny Rufus Wainwright the right to chase the dollar. However, before even pushing play, it's quite clear that Rufus was either taking the piss in a big way, or has absolutely no idea what the vast majority of the unwashed masses want to listen to.

Having yourself photographed in personalised, monogrammed Leiderhosen posing in front of a fireplace is hardly the way to de-camp yourself after posing as Lady of Shallott on 2002's most excellent Want Two. And if you want to sell records, particularly in America, being gay, either overtly or covertly, is probably not the way to go. Then you hear the first track, 'Do I Disappoint You', and you realise that he's made no effort whatsoever to back away from his previous florid, layered, exquisitely dramatic and camp self, and we are all wealthier for it, because Release the Stars is a triumph.
Perhaps not quite the elegiac masterpiece that the Want twins were, this record actually emphasises Wainwright's 'more is more' approach, and the fact that it follows two utter gems probably harms it by comparison. But fear not, from the moment his voice kicks in (liquid gold emerging from a human's throat, if ever that has been) about 20 octaves up 3.12 into the opening track, and the brass section is unleashed, this record is exquisite in its majesty and grandiloquence.
One of Wainwright's strengths (other than that voice, and his impressive songwriting chops) has been his ability to do bombast and moderation with equal skill and panache. Stormers like 'Do I Disappoint You', 'Between My Legs' and album highlight 'Rules and Regulations' (horns and flutes have rarely been so judiciously unleashed) sit comfotably with downbeat ruminations such as 'Going to a Town' (where Rufus laments the rednecked homophobia of his homeland) and 'Not Ready to Love'.
Of course, no Wainwright release would be complete without a piece of high camp tory-baiting, a la 'Gay Messiah' from Want Two, and here we find it in the oh-so unsubtle 'Between My Legs', with it's gloriously cheecky climax, gleefully pilfering the hook from Andrew Lloyd-Webber's 'Phantom of the Opera', which is steeped in gay allegory that is open to interpretation. Just not much interpretation.
Closing on the title track, we realise that he's saying it in the same manner as Mr Burns and his hounds, setting celebrities loose on the world with a wry grin and a certain amount of satisfaction, all to a lounge music groove and an unspeakably sexy horn section (again). This is no departure from the old Rufus, this is Rufus in all his glory, replete in Leiderhosen and wonderment, revelling in the lofty heights his unparalleled talent can take him, and our lives are so much better for it.

4 1/2 stars

Hissing Fauna, Are You The Destroyer? by Of Montreal

2007-05-06T20:00:00.000+09:30

Don't try to make sense of the title. In fact, don't try to make too much sense of anything on this new record. Of Montreal, who are actually of Athens, in Georgia, USA, on their umpteenth record (having debuted in 1997 with Cherry Peel, and have released other incredible titles, such as Coquelicot Asleep in the Poppies: A Variety of Whimsical Verse), have created a wonderment of pop/funk magic. The zany titles don't end with the album either, with songs called 'A Sentence of Sorts in Kongsvinger' and 'Faberge Falls for Shuggie' (in fact, I could probably list all twelve tracks and they'd all be equally cool), but please, please, don't let this deter you from buying this record. Today. Now. Fuck, yesterday, just get your hands on this album, because you won't hear anything like it anytime soon.
Scandanavia lyrical references hint clearly at the Bjork/Sigur Ros/Jenny Wilson/all the other electronic pop and avant garde musicians from that musically adventurous part of the world, because every single track is infused with mischief, wonder, and danceable grooves worthy of Timbaland and N.E.R.D. However, they go a step beyond ANYTHING you can get your hands on right now, with the sliding bass of 'Gronlandic Edit', while the whole record is an endless supply of off-kilter but instantly appealing melodies intact over the band's newly robotic sound.
The record is also the darkest one that the band has made, a breakup album of sorts, with an ongoing theme of transformation, which explicitly takes place on the 12-minute centrepiece, 'The Past is a Grotesque Animal'; the opening few tracks are steeped in regret and sadness, while post 'Grotesque Animal' the album veers towards sexual adventurism as a form of therapy, with 'Bunny Ain't no Kind of Rider' finds the singer searching for a 'lover with soul power'.
But lyrical therapy aside, Hissing Fauna, Are You The Destroyer finds a talented band at the height of their powers, and is a rare example of a band trying to step out of their comfort zone and succeeding extraordinarily well. This is an incredible recording.

4 1/2 stars

Favourite Worst Nightmare by Arctic Monkeys

2007-05-04T15:18:00.000+09:30

Bands that manage to carve out a proper career, i.e. one that can be measured in years rather than records, tend to have a choice of methods by which to achieve this. First, the Coldplay method: Make an unobtrusive entry to the world with an understated, excellent record, then follow it up with a stadium-sized behemoth of equal quality, with enough single to get known, then reproduce it. Second, the Radiohead method: Release one song which takes over the world for a while, release it on a sub-standard debut record. Then, proceed to disown that record and

take over the world with a second, dazzlingly good record (bear in mind that this requires a dazzlingly good second - and third - record). Thirdly, there is the Live option: Release a solid first record, a classic second record, then slowly fade into obscurity/up your own arsehole. That said, they've been around for over 12 years, so they've done ok.

Or, the Arctic Monkeys' option. Their entry to the music world was unique enough; web-based promotion par excellence, coupled with a fresh, exciting, and, most importantly, really fantastic debut record, they hit unprecedented heights, and managed to get their name on the lips of almost everyone who cared who they were (and plenty who didn't). So the question stands: what to do next? Well the answer is out, and it certainly isn't what anyone expected. First, the new album was out little more than a year after the first, and second, it's uniquely wilful and independent. Favourite Worst Nightmare could easily have been a rehash of their wonderful debut, but instead, it's measured, mature and balanced. The funniest thing, though, is that there is still a clear intent to keep things upbeat. Slow songs remain a rarety, however, the subject matter is darker, hooks are suddenly almost non-existant and the 'drop-out' (when everything stops except for the vocals or one instrument), which the Monkeys proved they were so good at last time, is used sparingly at best.

'Do the bad thing/Take off your wedding ring', off Do the bad thing is a far cry from tales of hookers, dodgy bouncers, sleazy tools at the pub and tales of young men trying to get their ends in. However, it's all very natural and amazingly dignified for a band that could so easily have fallen into the celebrity trap, believed their own press, and vanished into high-profile obscurity. That they haven't combined with this record, is an indication of the brains contained in their four 20 year-old heads.

That said, this record does lack the urgency, vitality and sheer excitement of Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not, but it's still pretty loody good. And more importantly, it is a fair indication of the talent, nous and longevity the Arctic Monkeys possess. If Favourite Worst Nightmare is an indication of things to come, I think we can expect a wonderful career from these lads.

3 1/2 stars

Close but No Cigar

2007-04-23T13:18:00.000+09:30

Well, if anyone actually reads this thing regularly, they'd know that I just finished listing my favourite ten records of all time. For those of them who really give a shit, here's the list again:

1. OK Computer - Radiohead
2. ( ) - Sigur Ros
3. Yankee Hotel Foxtrot - Wilco
4. Bitches Brew - Miles Davis
5. Abbey Road - The Beatles
6. Blood on the Tracks - Bob Dylan
7. Kid A - Radiohead
8. Strange Bird - Augie March
9. Mothership Connection - Parliament
10. Pink Moon - Nick Drake

Having put all that out on paper, so to speak, I thought I'd list a few of the records that I shortlisted, primarily as I felt guilty for not mentioning some of my favourite albums on a post listing my favourite albums. So it is with a mixture of congratulatory and apologetic glee I offer (In no real order - possibly alphabetic if I get anal retentive):

Air - Moon Safari: No one does ambient like this.
At The Drive-In - Relationship of Command: The best hard rock album of all time, hands down.
Beck - Odelay: A new kind of genius emerged when this appeared in 1996.
Belle and Sebastian - Tigermilk: 'She's Losing It' is the template for all pop music.
Bjork - Debut: Ditto Beck.
Blur - Think Tank: Everyone talks about Parklife and Gorillaz, but this is Blur's, and Damon Albarn's, watershed moment.
Bob Dylan - Blonde on Blonde: Just because of the front sleeve haircut.
Can - Tago Mago: Multinational, multicultural, totally mental, all awesome.
Captain Beefheart and his Magic Band - Safe as Milk: Everyone talks about Trount Mask Replica, but this is the classic.
David Bowie - Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars: The first and only glam rock record to stand the test of time.
David Bowie - Aladdin Sane: The perfect way to follow up Ziggy.
Doves - Lost Souls: Former dance trio create moody, Mancunian magic.
Elbow - Cast of Thousands: Mellow Radiohead. More sad, less angry, just as beautiful.
Frank Zappa - Hot Rats: Would be in just for the Beefheart vocal cut, but the other 59 minutes are equally awesome.
Happy Mondays - Pills'n'Thrills and Bellyaches: The 'Madchester' scene redefined rock'n'roll, and this defined Madchester.
Jimi Hendrix - Are You Experienced: The biggest and best hands of all time.
Led Zeppelin - III: Only in ahead of I and IV because of 'Bron-Y-Aur Stomp'.
Massive Attack - Blue Lines: Revolutionary in every conceivable way; still being copied 15 years later.
Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds - Abattoir Blues/The Lyre of Orpheus: He rhymed 'Orpheus' with 'orifice'. Enough said.
Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds - And No More Shall We Part: Sadness was never this stunning.
Nick Drake - Five Leaves Left: What 60s folk music was all about.
Peter Gabriel - So: The only person ever to make Worldbeat sound cool.
Pink Floyd - Wish You Were Here: Just overblown and pretentious enough.
Portishead - Dummy: Built on Massive Attack's foundations, and pumped it full of acid.
Pulp - Different Class: 'Common People' is the best angry bloke song ever.
Queens of the Stone Age - Rated (R): 'Feelgood Hit of the Summer' might just be the best SONG ever.
Rage Against the Machine - Rage Against the Machine: I stole their name, so I owe them. And it's amazing too.
Rufus Wainwright - Want Two: High camp and high drama will never dance this closely again.
Sigur Ros - Aegaetis Byrjun: Sheer. Icelandic. Maginificence.
Sly and The Family Stone - There's a Riot Goin' On: Funk and angry militant activism. One potent mix.
Sufjan Stevens - Come On! Feel the Illinoise!: It's totally unreal, it shouldn't work, but it SO does.
Super Furry Animals - Rings around the World: The best album by the band with the best name.
Television - Marquee Moon: All guitarists - actually, all humans - ahould hear this record.
The Arcade Fire - Funeral: Probably the best debut album since Bjork.
The Avalanches - Since I left You: Another Aussie entry, and redefined what Aussie music could mean to the world at large.
The Beatles - Revolver: The pefect balance between pop melodies and avant-garde. Brilliant.
The Beatles - Rubber Soul: The turning point for this most incredible band. A lot of people till haven't figured out what 'Norwegian Wood' is all about.
The Cure - Disintegration: Another fine entry into the pantheon of glum rock. However, it's the flashes of happy that make this a classic.
The Frames - For the Birds: Ireland's best ever (and I'm aware of where U2 come from), make their best ever.
The Shins - Chutes Too Narrow: For unashamedly poppy pop music, this is incredibly important and foot-tappy.
The Smiths - The Queen is Dead: I love Morrissey.
The Velvet Underground - The Velvet Underground and Nico: This must have pissed off a lot of people who though Sgt Peppers was controversial.
Tom Waits - Sworfishtrombones: Waits' Revolver. The midpoint and highpoint of an incredible career.
Tricky - Maxinquaye: Music at its most technicolour.
TV on the Radio - Return to Cookie Mountain: Probably too soon, but in time, this will be on every all-time list.
Wilco - A Ghost is Born: Hard to pay attention to after YHF, but nearly as good, and the good bits are probably better.

Roger, Wilco!

2007-04-20T10:54:00.000+09:30

Go Wilco. One of the best bands in the world put on one of the best shows in the world on Wednesday night at the Palais Theatre in Melbourne. The new lineup gelled as if they had been together for decades, the set as tight as any I've had the pleasure of bearing witness to. The addition of jazz guitarist Nels Cline an obvious bonus as he shredded his way through the numerous freeform guitar solos on tracks like 'Handshake Drugs', 'Spiders (Kidsmoke)' and 'I Am Trying to Break Your Heart'.

I went in to the show hoping that I could see 'Handshake Drugs' and 'I Am Trying to Break Your Heart', and then I'd go home happy. Three songs in, my wishes had been satisfied and I could sit back in anticipation of a killer show. Two and a quarter hours and two encores later, the crowd still going bananas, singer Jeff Tweedy, a different man having dispensed of his various vices and addictions, came out and once again demonstrated the astonishing connection he developed with the crowd during the show by performing solo, with an acoustic, and no amplification. I haven't the faintest idea what song it was. But I have never known 2,000 people to be in a confined space and be so utterly silent, before completely erupting at the close of the song. It was truly one of the most magic moments I have witnessed at a music gig, not least as the uplifting nature of the lyrics served as a glorious underlining of the new Tweedy, a positivity refelcted in the five or so tracks from the upcoming Sky Blue Sky, which if Wednesday night was any indication, is set to be an absolute corker.

But it really was Tweedy's show, with his sparkling wit shining through in his wonderful repartee with the (possibly inebriated) Melbourne crowd, his efforts to create (further) tension between Melburnians and their Brisbane couterparts a real highlight. When a band can combine incredible songs with an awesome performance and a charismatic frontman, they're on a winner. And even before the final, glorious solo from Tweedy, as the 'Poor Places/Spiders (Kidsmoke)' double wrapped up, it was indelibly clear just how much of a winner they (and we) were on.

Our Earthly Pleasures by Maximo Park

2007-04-18T12:30:00.000+09:30

When you're onto a good thing, you're faced with a heap of choices:

Push new boundaries, challenge yourself and your listeners.

Soullessly attempt to recreate whatever it was you first did in an attempt to benefit with more money and/or groupies.

Stick to it.

Happily, Maximo Park have chosen door number three with their second long player, Our Earthly Pleasures, which comes to us replete with a similar formula that worked so successfully on 2005's A Certain Trigger. Guitars alternate between post-punk and modern-day melodicism (yes, I just invented a word, what are you going to do?), anchored by a solid if unimaginative rhythm section and glued together by some inventive keyboards and the wonderfully Yorkshire-esque vocal stylings of frontman Paul Smith. While Smith has little to say that is particularly shocking or personally revealing, he says it in such a way that you can't help but be moved. 'I've got no-one to call/In the middle of the night anymore' he glumly announces on lead single 'Our Velocity', which smoothly alternates between the riffing heaviness of 'Limassol' from their debut and the delicate chorus of 'The Coast is Always Changing'.

This song stands as the midpoint of an opening triple-salvo which proves to those willing to listen that Maximo Park are one of the better exponents of perfectly melodic pop-rock going around at the moment. Opener 'Girls Who Play Guitar' puts a quirky lyrical slant on a standard breakup tale, complete with catchy backing vocals from the band, while the final chorus of 'Books from Boxes' will win over even the most cold-hearted.

While, at 13 tracks, Our Earthly Pleasures threatens to overstay its welcome (and there are a few weaker tracks towards the back before being resuced by 'Nosebleed' and 'Robert Altman'), it is more than atoned by numerous moments of sheer joyful wonder. With a charming frontman, and a knack for bridges and choruses that can't help but brighten your day, Maximo Park are onto a good thing. Here's hoping they don't stick to it for too long.

3 1/2 stars

All time top ten - #1 - OK Computer

2007-04-13T12:43:00.000+09:30

Yes, it's a cliche. We've finally reached the point where it's now totally uncool to say that OK Computer is your favourite record ever. Uber-hipsters are disowning this record faster than Germans dispensed with Nazism in 1945, labelling it 'boring', 'overrated' and 'pretentious' to name but three of the less vitriolic adjectives that have been hurled its way in the music press and amonsgt the public musical intelligentsia of late.

Now I understand the desire to recant a love of a record that received phenomenal hype upon its release, the very essence of being musically literate, conscious and current is obscurity. And hype (and it's evil twin, popularity) is the natural enemy of obscurity. Your favourite Led Zeppelin song can't be Stairway to Heaven, it has to be The Lemon Song or (my favourite) What is And What Should Never Be. Owning up to loving something that is loved not only by millions of people, but millions of people who are unaware of who Nick Drake and Husker Du are, is the very essence of not being cool.

But revisionist history is a very evil thing indeed. Just as I imagine the music world probably turned on Sgt Peppers in 1977, and definitely turned on Off the Wall in 1988, ten years after the release of OK Computer, people decided to get it in their heads that they, and the rest of the world, were wrong after all, and it wasn't that great a record, we simply got carried away because it was WAY different from BritPop and we all loved The Bends so much.

Well, I feel compelled to disagree. Vehemently. It is not boring. In fact OK Computer is so exciting that even today, nearly 520 weeks after its release, it still sounds current, fresh, imaginative, as I imagine it will continue to do well into the distant future, much as the sprawling reverse flute breakdown at the end of Strawberry Fields Forever will always sound abstract and cool, no matter how many bands copy it and attempt to rob it of its lustre. Some music defies time.

Radiohead had already formed a habit (which continues today) of announcing their intentions with not only the opening track, but the opening bars of the opening track. Witness the empty cold wind of Planet Xerox, the descending keyboard refrain of Everything in its Right Place I or the sound of a guitar plugging into an amplifier on the latest return to guitar rock, Hail to the Thief. On OK Computer, Airbag announced the epic scope to come with a triumphal, soaring guitar riff, leaving no doubt in the listener's mind as to what kind of aural assault they wer in for. Drums loop, guitars squeal, mystery guitar and vocal sounds are cut up and scratched on a turntable, while melopies blend into each other and guitars morph into choirs singing a counterpoint to Thom Yorke's vocals in the final, mindblowing chorus and outro. Anyone who doubts the impact of this record should be challenged to sit in a dark room with headphones on and listen to that song, and not find themselves short of breath by the end. And that's just the opening song. The opening line, 'In the next world war/In a jack-knifed juggernaut/I am born again' recalls a time when lyrics were not only left open to interpretation, but were actively encouraged to be interpreted as the listener saw fit.

An ongoing theme across the record fear of the new, impersonal world being created by the increasing intrusion of computers into our lives, and the social disconnection they create. That the bulk of the album was recorded with the overt asssistance of newly available computer technology, lent the entire work a sense of irony that, in lesser hands, would have seemed churlish. 'Such a pretty house/Such a pretty garden' on No Surprises, or 'The dust/The screaming/The yuppies networking/.../God loves his children, Yeah!' from the schitzophrenic masterpiece, Paranoid Android positively yell this from the rooftops, alternating between sorrowful longing on the former and outright rage on the latter.

Radiohead manage to namedrop Bob Dylan's famous moment when he 'plugged in' on Subterranean Homesick Alien, clearly an indication that the band knew full well how this record was likely to be received. But here's the thing. When the chorus kicks in, with its gradually swelling and ebbing guitar and gorgeously escalating keyboard coda, with Yorke wailing 'Uptight/We're all uptight', none of it really matters. You can't help but be swept along with it all, as with the vitriolic, vituperative and viscious interpretation of Romeo and Juliet, Exit Music (For a Film), where sheer fury and indignation have never sounded so gorgeous.

Clearly there are 11 songs (and a computer-generated poem) on OK Computer, but it doesn't quite seem necessary to discuss them all. They're best left a mystery, on the off chance that someone who is yet to hear them can experience the sheer emotional tsunami that the first (and indeed, tenth and hundredth) listen of OK Computer can create. Right now, the final verse of Let Down is echoing in my headphones, and for the millionth time, I feel moved to tears.

Pretentious? Yes. But who cares, when it's so beautiful. Overrated? Probably. It's widely regarded as the greatest thing ever by alot of people, and clearly there is no one greatest record EVER, but it's my favourite. And don't you ever call it boring.

Runaways by Art of Fighting

2007-04-11T13:48:00.000+09:30

Art of Fighting deserve to be written about purely due to the distinct lack of effort they go to to promote themselves. In fact, it's hard enough to find an AoF gig in their hometown of Melbourne. And for a band that has produced three quality records over seven years, that's pretty understated in anyone's terms.

But more about record number three. Runaways, released in a flurry of inactivity by both band and label, comes packaged in the now-familiar artwork of singer/guitarist Ollie Brown, and announces itself in a similar fashion. Somehow, Art of Fighting have managed to actually become more unassuming over the years. Where once they could be relied on to throw in a couple of radio-friendly numbers (think 'Akula', 'Reasons are all I Have Left' and 'Along the Run'), the closest they get to those positively hook-laden numbers (by comparison) are the choruses of tracks two and three, 'Distance as Virtue' and 'Free You', while the horns on 'Territories', while hardly hook-ish, are positively gorgeous. However, it is the lead single, the sweeping, floating 'Eastbound' that stands out head and shoulders above the rest.

None of this is to suggest that Runaways is in any way an inferior recording by this Melbourne four-piece. In fact, it is possible that this may stand as their greatest work yet. A fair portion of their appeal, and the appeal of this record, is the complete lack of pretension, hyperbole and general wank that is so easily identified. It's unclear whether the band members hold down day jobs, but the sheer grounded-ness and resolute determination to avoid fame and fortune allows the music to come screaming to the fore, without any songs jumping up and down screaming for your attention.

For a band that seems to spend so little time touring, Runaways is a record very much about life on the road, with titles such as 'Distance as Virtue', 'Eastbound', 'Ride After Ride' and 'In the Free Blue' suggesting as much. The notion of travel is routinely explored as a metaphor for personal growth, going from travel on buses and trains to 'Past drinking/Past smoking'.

Listeners expecting bombast, attention seeking, arrogance and other such contrivances will find themselves bitterly disappointed with Runaways, everyone else will most likely find themselves charmed by another understated, intelligent, melodic and beguiling entry into the Art of Fighting canon.

4 stars

MySpace Against the Rage!

2007-04-10T11:07:00.000+09:30

That's right folks, Machines Against the Rage has succumbed to the unrelenting pressure of people I've never met to get involved in the world's greatest phenomenon...MySpace. Go visit www.myspace.com/machinesagainsttherage and sign up as a friend if you like. Please bear in mind, it's still a work in progress!

Sound of Silver by LCD Soundsystem

2007-04-04T10:53:00.000+09:30

The malaise affecting dance music (as well as hip hop, incidentally) today is an obvious one. Its practitioners are almost uniformly lazy. Come up with a catchy beat, find an appropriate sample (currently in vogue are 80s New Wave and New Romatics numbers), repeat ad nauseum, stir. The true tragedy is that these records find their way to dancefloors everywhere, and drunk and high university students go nuts to them. So thank God for LCD Sound System.

So what does silver sound like? Pretty bloody good, it would seem. Immaculately conceived, drawing from influences as diverse as Berlin-era Bowie, Kraftwerk (obviously), Human League, Blondie, and stapled together by good helpings of the punk ethos, with Sounds of Silver, LCD Sound System has created one of those rare records. A genre album that defies genre, anachronistic in its insistence in avoiding what is current and cool, and just making a kick-arse recording. But bear in mind, this is unquestionably a dance record. Superbly recorded, every rapid-fire hi-hat clash and bass drum thud comes through loud and clear at the front of the mix, beats, while varied, practically demand that your feet start tapping at the very least.

Also, unlike almost every other dance recording of recent years, some thought has actually gone into the lyrical content. Much like 2005s LCD Soundsystem, a chief theme running through the record is James Murphy's attempts to come to terms with getting older. As with 'Losing my Edge' off that record, songs like 'All My Friends' cry age-weariness all over, such as 'You spent the first five years trying to get with the plan/And the next five years trying to be with your friends again', a clear call of confusion from a man who spent his youth living hard on the dance scene suddenly finding himself not wanting to 'stagger home'.

The songwriting and craftsmanship on this record also set it far apart from its peers. Murphy displays an amazing ability to mould a song to suit its role, be it four-minute storming single 'Time to Get Away', or longer, languid heartbreakers such as 'Someone Great', with its personal tragedy clear, but the details agonisingly hidden in the obscure, yet heartfelt and pertinent words.

Closing on the Nouveau-Jazz-Blues-ish 'New York, I Love You, but you're Bringing me Down', this sense of gradually increasing disatisfaction at being in stasis in New York in his forties is brought home just as effectively in a more downbeat fashion, closing out a record much as his big nights out probably wrap up these days, tired, worn and sitting down with a cup of tea.

2007 is turning into something of a wonderful vintage.

4 1/2 stars

Because of the Times by Kings of Leon

2007-04-03T08:36:00.000+09:30

Woah. Kings of Leon, the band that brought you 'Slow Night, So Long', a tale about deflowering a young groupie from boredom then passing out from overindulgence in who knows what, open their new record, Because of the Times, named for a Pentecostal seminar they regularly attended with their preacher father, with 'Knocked Up', a seven minute tale of a young couple on the road, with an impending childbirth, disapproving parents, and, no doubt, The Man hot on their tail. "She don't care what her mama said, no/She's gonna have my baby/I'm taking all i have to take/This takings gonna shake me", this could be the tale of Madonna's ertswhile boyfriend from 'Papa Don't Preach'. Highlighted by a driftng guitar coda reminiscent of something The Edge would play, deep fried and doused in bourbon, this is a true statement of intent.

However, this is a record influenced as much by Thin Lizzy and The Pixies as Lynyrd Skynyrd and Credence Clearwater Revival. 'Fans' is a rollicking yet gentle hoe-down, while 'The Runner' and 'Arizona' are genuinely heart-warming ballads. The latter sounding reminiscent of 2005's terrific contribution by Bright Eyes, I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning. 'Trunk', another tale of melodrama on the road (road music usually something most bands simply assume means complaining about how hard touring is), with it's woozy 'wooo-ooooh-ooohs' is worthy of The Band at its peak.

This is not to say that the record's short of stompers. 'Charmer', 'On Call', 'McFearless' and 'My Party' all keep the tempo up without detracting from the band's newfound dramatic intensity. In fact, they all serve to enhance it, irrespective of the subject matter. Influences shift from 80's new wave to 20's bluegrass, all without a drop of irony or disrespect.

Kings of Leon have shown an astonishing leap forward in musicianship, maturity and skill. No longer the swamp-rock kings of the type who supported U2, Pearl Jam and Bob Dylan, this is a band doing things no one thought they were capable of, and as such have opened up whole new questions about what they can do next.

A new benchmark for 2007 has been set.

4 1/2 stars

We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank by Modest Mouse

2007-03-29T13:13:00.000+09:30

Even if this record contained only the lead single, the stunningly radio-friendly, bounce-rock-with-horn-section behemoth 'Dashboard', it would still be worth the price of purchase. A perfect sequel to the radio-friendly crossover hit of 2005, 'Float On', from Good News for People who Love bad News, 'Dashboard' proves, as if there were any doubt, that Modest Mouse are as capable of making music commercially viable and totally awesome at the same time as anyone going around today. And that song isn't alone. 'Florida', with booming drums and crunching guitars becomes suddenly beautiful during the chorus. The addition of 80' music iconJohny Marr (The The, The Smiths) is a welcome, if subtle, change to an already fluid and dynamic band. In fact, if it weren't already common knowledge, Marr's influence would probably be put down to a change in producer, rather than the inclusion of a legendary musician.

Singer Isaac Brock's wildly varied vocals, from barking scream to soothing coo manage to co-exist, sometimes within one line of a song, without grating, and is once again a major factor in distinguishing Modest Mouse from the plethora of indie-rock impersonators that sprund up at about the same time.

If 'Dashboard' doesn't achieve the success it deserves, the record is hardly out of ammo. 'Missed the Boat' is a gently triumphant mid-tempo rock number, 'We've Got Everything' builds on 'Dashboard's' bouncy rhythms, while 'Invisible' is a pounding closer. MM virgins who think all of this sounds like a demanding listen would not be wrong, but, in the end, this is good news for people who loved Good News for People who Love Bad News.

Sorry.

4 stars

Grinderman

2007-03-23T12:42:00.000+10:30

It all looked pretty normal at first. Grinderman. New Cave et al. side project. Nick Cave, with regular collaborators Warren Ellis on bouzouki, fendocaster, violin, viola etc., Marty P Casey on bass and Jim Sclavunos on percussion. Nick Cave on vocals and, hang on, Nick Cave on electric guitar? What the hell's happening? Has the world gone topsy turvy? Not even the reassuring note that Mr Cave had not abandoned his ivory tinkling was enough to shake the nagging feeling that something odd was afoot.

Apparently, he decided to pick up and learn the instrument a few weeks before entering the studio with this particular half of the Bad Seeds with no material ready. And the record begins on an appropriate atonal note, Cave striking a nothing note on his new strat, before launching into 'Get it On', cave booming 'Kick those baboons and other motherfuckers out, and GET IT ON!', with a thumping, grinding (sorry) exhiliration not heard on a Cave record for over a decade, with the possible exceptions of 'Babe, I'm on Fire' from 2003s Nocturama and 'Get Ready for Love' from 2005s Abattoir Blues. These old men, replete with awe-inspiring facial hair and suitably dishevelled demeanour are a great and clearly intentional step away from the growing maturity and sophistication of the Bad Seeds. This is men well into middle age reclaiming their youth. And loving every second. And we're invited for the ride.

And what a ride.

This is not to say that these blokes are in any way deluding themselves into believing that they can reclaim lost years. On the frankly amazing 'No Pussy Blues', happily married Cave laments the lack of sexual attention received from the younger generation, bemoaning 'I changed the sheets on my bed/I combed the hair across my head/I sucked in my gut and still she said/that she just didn't want to', revealing an awareness of the ravages of age that some bands seem to struggle with (and yes, I'm referring mainly to the Rolling Stones). Not only that, but it reveals Cave in fine form lyrically. Ironically, this acknowledgement of age and the desire to be younger is conveyed with a wit and lyricism that seems unreachable by that younger bunch of bands; there's no 'lady/maybe/baby' rhymes here. Try 'flower/hour/chihuahua'. The growing influence of Cave's regular Bad Seeds collaborators is clear to see, adding a subtle new edge to the now trademark cave vigour and gothic humour. This is not to say that this newfound vim comes mutually exclusive of maturity and tenderness, as evidenced on 'When my ove Comes Down' and the woozy bar-room blues of 'Go Tell the Woman' and 'I Don't Need You (to Set Me Free)'.

Closing on first single 'Love Bomb', Grinderman is reassuringly chaotic, yet cohesive and, most importantly, awesome, to warrant inclusion in the growing pantheon of Cave-related classics.

4 stars

Neon Bible by The Arcade Fire

2007-03-05T14:32:00.000+10:30

After releasing a record (2005's astonishing Funeral) that, despite some positively macabre subject matter (see the title), managed to resolutely hold its head high, uttering consistent refrains of hope and love springing eternally from fountains of pain and death, it's a little surprising that while the deaths of several family members wasn't enough to drag the Arcade Fire's spirits down, 18 months of relentless touring and examination does.

If Neon Bible is, perhaps inevitably, a little world-weary, it is probably a little understandable, after all, making the second album for a band hailed as all conquering heroes not two years ago would rest heavily on anyone's shoulders, it's certainly not cause for dismay. Opening with an ominous rumble of thunder and an insistent, yet strangely inconspicuous beat, album starter 'Black Mirror' sets the equally ominous tone, singer Win Butler intoning is his own inimitable way "I will walk down to the ocean/After waking from the nightmare/No moon, no pale reflection". What is perhaps most notable on Neon Bible is the presence of restraint that was perhaps lacking on Funeral. Where, on 'The Well and the Lighthouse', one would have previously expected a joyously uplifting final chorus to rapidly dispel any morbid feelings one might be suffering, the song shifts gear into a wonderful 3/4 time ramble.

It is this tendency to cover some palpably dire subject matter with some wonderfully upbeat music that defines Neon Bible from its predecessor. Where Funeral was, well, funereal, while singing songs of hope and joy, Neon Bible is replete with lyrics like "I don't know what I'm gonna do/Cause the planes keep crashing always two by two/Don't wanna work in a building downtown/No, I don't wanna see it when the planes hit the ground" on 'Antichrist Television Blues', while being set to what could possibly be described as the Arcade Fire doing their own 'Subterranean Homesick Blues'.

However, the clear highlight is the showstopping 'Keep the Car Running', possibly the most perfect three and a half minute pop song ever recorded. Set to gentle, pulsing mandolin, Butler sings of what seems to be the pressures of recording this oh-so-difficult second album ("There's a weight that's pressing down", "can't climb across a mountain so high") and makes magic.

On this, a fine sophomore effort, the Arcade Fire almost manage to live up to the impossible expectations set by their debut. But certainly, it is a more mature and balanced, if occasionally wilfully adult - lacking the spontaneous flights of fancy of Funeral - effort, and will certainly see the band once again resume their place atop many a best-of-2007 podiums come December. Quite possibly this one, too.

4 1/2 stars

Avatar by Comets on Fire

2007-02-26T12:42:00.000+10:30

Relatively unknown in these parts, Santa Cruz five-piece, Comets on Fire unveiled this gem nearly 6 months ago to minimal notice. And what a travesty of the music media that this happened, because Avatar is probably one of the best records to come out of the US last year.
Opening with the faux-blues psychadelia of 'Dogwood Rust', the tone is set. Not many bands have the confidence or virtuosity to open their record with a solo and close the same track with about 4 minutes of wigged-out jamming and multiple, simultaneous guitar solos. This is classic rock, today style. Connections to 70s mid-America rock and progressive acts are tenuous on the surface. But listening to Avatar, one gets the distinct impression the band recorded this in the desert, bearded and probably wearing sunglasses, at night-time, in a peyote-fuelled jam session. Like the best of the classic American rock canon.
Shades of classic 70s acts like Zeppelin, Hawkwind and Sabbath flitter around the edge of your awareness, so briefly and flirtatiously that you're not sure you heard them. Mid 1970s excess and indulgence never sounded so good in 2007.

4 stars

All time top ten - #2 - ( )

2007-02-16T12:32:00.000+10:30

Pretentious lack of album name? Check. Pretentious song length? Check. Pretentious lack of track titles? Check. Pretentious lack of any writing anywhere on the case other than two mysterious shapes that have been interpreted as brackets, parallel sausages and everything in between? Check. Pretentious use of a fictional language when the bulk of your audience can't speak your native tongue anyway? Check. You get the idea. Compile any list of overblown, proggy, self indulgent records, and Iceland's own Sigur Ros' major label debut is likely to find its way to the top of it (or perhaps come a close second to Metal Machine Music).

So how on Earth does it find itself at this (fairly illustrious) position on this list? Because it is so amazingly rare to find a record that provides irony-free attempts at bringing high-art rock music to a stadium level and succeed this dazzlingly. Simply put, if you're this good, you can be as pretentious as you bloody well want.

Sigur Ros had established themselves as idols of the musical intelligentsia with their breakthrough second album, Agaetis Byrjun, full of ethereal, swirling sounscapes (yes, I know these are the Sigur Ros buzzwords, but they've become cliches for a good reason), sitting gracefully at the back of some of the most mind-bendingly stunning melodies ever heard. Celebrities arrived in droves. Metallica attended a gig, Chris Martin and Gwyneth Paltrow's first child was born to the sounds of that record and Sigur Ros were the IT band. So what did they do? Attempt a retreat into obscurity.

All the vocals by Jón Þór Birgisson (the man with a voice like Thom Yorke mind-melding with a children's choir) were recorded in a fictional language which was originally named 'Hopelandic' by the band, and was later revealed as gibberish. Songs became longer, averaging 8 minutes, with two songs pushing out past 12. The songs and album remained unnamed, the band claiming that the music spoke for everything. They were reluctant to do interviews.

Some songs can almost be called 'mainstream'. Track 4, appropriated by one Tom Cruise (another fan) for the closing credits of his epically banal Vanilla Sky, is the most conventional offering here, with something resembling a chorus, over vibrato guitar plucking, gentle rhythms and sweeping bass guitar and keys, while the mammoth Track 8 (or 'Pop Song' as the band have been heard calling it) is 12 minutes of gradually building tension, released in an explosion of bass drums and screaming guitar, almost the logical 21st century extension of late Led Zeppelin. Other moments are less clearly defined. Track 3, an ascending piano loop, played again and again above a slowly growing crescendo, is more of a movement in a symphony than a stand-alone song, but is mesmerising nonetheless. Track 5, after 30 seconds of silence (perhaps splitting the record in 2 halves like the album's 'title' suggests, is a sloth-paced affair which, while possibly the weakest link here, is possibly the perfect preparation (and perhaps antidote) for the slow-building series of climaxes that close the record.

But behind all the stories, pretentions and supposed difficulties of the album sit a collection of the most hauntingly beautiful songs ever recorded. If ever a record rewarded repeat listens, benefited from being heard through headphones in a dark room, this is it. Contrary to popular belief, ( ) is anything but elevator music. Detail lies everywhere. No sonic nook or crevice remains unfilled or unexplored. Jonsi's voice is stretched to mosquito pitch, layered and thickened. Guitars are played with cello bows, not a piano key goes unplayed. And throughout it all, imagery is conjured, of sweeping, icy plateaus, eerily beautiful landscapes, starlight night skies and heart-crushingly gorgeous mountains, to name but a few possibilities. Because if there is anything, ( ) is about, it is possibility. The possibility that there is still new music to be made. The possibility that music will keep getting better. The possibility that it's still ok to be willful, obscure, self-indulgent (as, one might point out, the Beatles were in 1967) and create sheer, unparalleled, magic.

The Good, The Bad & The Queen

2007-02-12T12:24:00.000+10:30

Whether Damon Albarn is implicitly calling the Queen ugly for the benfit of fans of Westerns, or if there is some deeper, more ephemeral meaning to the title of the new record by his new band (which, depending on who you read and listen to, either has no name yet, or shares its name with the record - and closing track), is open to interpretation. What seems more certain is that this feels like Parklife MkII. Not to say that The Good, The Bad & The Queen is derivative or unoriginal - it most certainly is not either of those - but it is very much a record about London and living in it. The difference being that this is coming from the mouth of an older, more worldly man, whereas Blur's breakthrough could only ever have been written by someone under 25. 'Friday night in the Kingdom of Doom/Ravens fly across the moon' muses Albarn on potential single 'Kingdom of Doom', providing what seems to be a more refined and gothic view of his hometown than Parklife's "Girls who are boys/Who like boys to be girls/Who do boys like they're girls/Who do girls like they're boys/Always should be someone you really love", screaming of a young man rapt that me managed to string together such a sequence of non sequiturs in a pop single and get away with it.
What Albarn has defeintely created is one of the best English post-punk records since his very own Think Tank. The band photo in the sleeve speaks volumes: Albarn, Paul Simonon (yes, the guy from The Clash who is forever distilled in that iconic photo on the verge of shattering his bass), Tony Allen (Afrobeat superstar of Fela Kuti fame and widely reputed to be one of the greatest drummers on Earth) and Simon Tong (former Verve keys man) looking grizzled, cold and maintaining classically starchy British upper lips. Simonon even has a bandage on his nose from what we are obviously meant to assume was a bar fight. The music fairly screams this grittiness also, gone is Albarns's Gorillaz-era dance music/hip hop influences (irrespective of the presence of Danger Mouse heading up production duties), and in place are moody, layered and vocally/lyrically sophisticated songs. The rhythm section in and of itself also speaks volumes about Albarn's newfound adulthood and maturity (Blur's last - and most excellent - release, Think Tank notwithstanding) in the recruitment of two legends of their capers, and then proceeding to heartily under-utilise them. This restraint pays off in spades, particularly in Simonon's case (although, seeing as he is on record as saying he hadn't picked up a bass in 20 years, it may have been through neccessity), as his pared-back rhythms carry many a song to a level that more youthful exuberance may have missed, particularly on 'Baby Bunting' and 'History Song'.
The closing, titular, track suddenly finds itself impulsively picking up classic Kinks-ian britpop and turning it upside down and inside-out, creating seven minutes of fuzz-filled mayhem and wonderment, Albarn opining 'Don't kick the crack heads of the green/They are a political party/And the kids are never going to be tired', and it's this geo-political spectrum and awareness that gives The Good, The Bad & The Queen it's allure and a sense of place and maturity that ensures that this project, in amongst the growing catalogue of side projects and Blur revivals, will live on as something more than a 2007 curio.

4 stars

Muse Deliver!

2007-02-01T12:41:00.000+10:30

I'm sick of people knocking Melbourne's Festival Hall. Buried away on Dudley St, near the docks, surrounded by warehouses, people whinge 'it smells', 'it's too hot', 'the floor's sticky' etc. etc. But you know what, having seen two of the best gigs I've attended (and I DO mean ever, the other being Nick Cave in 2005) within the space of 18 months, I can say it is one of the BEST places to see a big-name band. The sweat, the smell, the heat and the adhesiveness only add to a rock and roll experience which is generally sorely missing in any venue that houses over 1,000 people. But enough of that.

I'm here to talk about the face-melting awesomeness that was Muse last night at that very venue. And my face has been very much melted. Opening with the first track of 2006s Black Holes and Revelations, 'Take a Bow', complete with dazzling light show (something that did not let up for the entirety of the show and was probably the most effective use of video and computer imagery at a show I've yet seen - apologies to Sigur Ros), Muse proceeded to rock Festy Hall and all within its confines to within an inch of their lives. Recently, I commented on the performance of the Arctic Monkeys at the Palace, and how the show had been over-rehearsed to death. Well, this was no less choreographed, yet managed to be thrilling in a way no live show has been for me (with the possible exception of last year's TV on the Radio show at the Hi Fi). Ever. Moving seamlessly from belters like 'Hysteria' from 2003s Absolution to the more synth-heavy numbers of the new record, Muse established themselves as one of the live acts in the world right now. Highlight of the night was the crazy, martial Invincible, which climaxed with a guitar solo that must have left many aspiring axemen in the crowd shaking their heads in wonder and resignation.

I can recommend nothing more to anyone, fan or not, than to go see Muse next time they're in town. You won't regret it.

PS: Special mention to support act Ground Components (a favourite of Machines Against the Rage from way back) who put on a terrific show in front of a semi-hostile crowd of ignorant wanks who obviously had no intention of broadening their horizons past Muse one iota. They showed that should success beckon, they're definitely up to the task of performing big arena shows such as this, numbers such as (and especially) On Your Living Room Floor standing out.

PPS: Special arse-kicking for the event organisers who decided to put an 8pm door time on the ticket, only to have the support act start at 7.55. Dickheads.

Wincing the Night Away by The Shins

2007-01-31T13:14:00.000+10:30

You rarely hear about a difficult third album. So often music writers toss around such a label for a band's sophomore release, a sure sign that the heady days of a successful debut record are over. From their days in Alberquerque (that's right, the place Bugs Bunny should have turned left at), the Shins have come along way; their debut Oh, Inverted World was a critical, if not commercial hit which didn't receive its much-deserved attention until two things happened. One was Natalie Portman. Describing 'New Slang' from that record as a song that will 'change your life' in The Shin's number one fan Zach Braff's directorial debut Garden State (he also used it in an episode of Scrubs he directed) unveiled the band to the oh-so-hip indie scene and beyond. The other was the all time classic, piece of guitar pop genius second long player, Chutes Too Narrow. Now they were everywhere. And now people expected solid gold. Hence Wincing the Night Away, The Shins' third release, comes with the burden of expectation placed upon it by that most demanding segment of the music listening public.

And it frankly does sound like main man James Mercer has laboured under this pressure while producing Wincing the Night Away. That's not to say that it's a bad record: certainly not. There are songs here as good as any from Chutes Too Narrow, namely the oh-so-hummable lead single 'Phantom Limb' (apparently about two lesbians, although no-one on Earth would know that had Mercer not said so in an interview) and the upbeat banjo-toting 'Australia', while opener 'Sleeping Lessons' has a tempo change at just the right time to kick off the album. However, the record reeks of having tried just a little bit too hard; most notably the overt synthy-ness, which, while occasionally useful, seems like it was done purely so Wincing would not be accused of being Chutes Too Narrow II.

The Shins are still a great band, and this is a very good record, and it stacks up against pretty much anything around right now. Except Chutes Too Narrow. Must be difficult.

3 stars

The Trials of Van Occupanther by Midlake

2007-01-25T13:21:00.000+10:30

Unfashionable music is often a risky business. Throwing your proverbial hat in the ring when the music listening public's taste aren't inured to your particular ideosyncratic styles can be a minefield. But storming out of nowhere has come Midlake, a Texan quintet of music majors, making sounds more reminiscent of Fleetwood Mac, Granddady and even The Beach Boys, rather than the current Talking Heads/Duran Duran/New Order 80s rehash-new wave crop, or the 70s-80s heavy rock apers such as Jet and Wolfmother.
'The Trials of Van Occupanther' is pretty. Undeniably, irresistably pretty. And pastoral. And in a musical soundscape dominated by dudes in tight jeans desperately attempting to 'keep it real', a band happy to proceed at a leisurely stroll, replete with the kind of vocal harmonies Brian Wilson and James Mercer would be jealous of is a wondrous thing. When, in the wonderful 'Bandits', vocalist Tim Smith gently coos a tale of being robbed while out looking for a 'rabbit and an ox', the impact is more significant than it was probably intended. In this way, Midlake share much in common with Muse, who, at first glance, are about as similar to Midlake as Pantera are to Elton John. Both offer an escape from 'reality', by musing (pardon the pun) on those things a bit more existential than how to pay for milk or get to the pub.
Do not panic when you hear “Roscoe,” it’s still 2006, and you’re still surrounded by people who listen to Nickelback and try to explain the complexities of how the band’s lyrics help explain their inner most insecurities and thoughts. While 'Bandits' reflects on the appeal of dispensing with the comforts of home and living as a rogue, Van Occupanther is less wistful, the actual story of Van Occupanther may be more obscurant than overt or literary, but the music is so perfect it’s impossible to hold the narrative shortcomings against Smith and the rest of the band.
If an escape from the regular, everyday, and the mundane without reverting to putting on 'Rumours' for the millionth time, look no further than Midlake, circa 2006.

4 stars

All time top ten - #3 - Yankee Hotel Foxtrot

2007-01-24T12:52:00.000+10:30

You must have heard the story by now. In early 2001, Wilco offered their new record, 'Yankee Hotel Foxtrot', to execs at Reprise Records (a subsidiary of Warner Music), ready for release. The suits didn't hear cash registers ringing, and turned it down, telling the band they wanted more country and less alt. country. Wilco refused to change a thing and wound up buying out the contract and posting the music on their website. And then everything exploded. 5 star reviews came out of the woodwork, tens of thousands took up the music and the then-burgeoning blogsphere ran riot. Reprise wanted back in, but Wilco signed to Nonesuch records (ironically enough another Warner subsidiary)for twice as much as they bought their old contract out for, making the Reprise suits appear biblically short-sighted.
Against a backdrop such as this, it's easy to see why people can get caught up in the rapturous claims of brilliance that now surround this record. Fortunately enough, the record itself is just that.
It's apparent from the opening, psychadelic drone of 'I am Trying to Break Your Heart', complete with bursts of of-kilter drumming, snatches of guitar and alarm clocks, that this is no ordinary pop record. When the pop is there, it's nothing short of quintessential, 'Heavy Metal Drummer', 'Kamera' 'I Am the Man Who Loves You' and 'War on War' equal parts nostalgia and futurism, many times closing by devolving into chaotic hum and buzz, and in the case of the amazing 'Poor Places', morphing into the dischordant, disembodied voice of a Mossad spy recording droning the titular 'Yankee....Hotel...Foxtrot...' again and again.
But it is the record's quieter, more reflective moments that truly give it it's classic status. In 'Jesus, etc.' the album finds ts heartbeat, a poignant, lovely and utterly desperate plea for simpler and happier times. 'Radio Cure' and 'Ashes of American Flags' in the hands of lesser beings would rapidly have been viewed as filler; here, they're raw emotion, singer Jeff Tweedy intoning 'All my lies are only wishes/I know I would die if I could come back new....I would like to salute/The ashes of American flags/and all the falling leaves/Filling up shopping bags'. And it's Tweedy's lyrics that are the unsung (pun utterly intended) champions of YHF. If it's playing the noun-as-verb game on 'I Am Trying to Break Your Heart', croaking 'I am an American aquarium drinker/I assassin down the avenue'. Such jive-talking lyricism is certainly not out of place on YHF. But it is the yearning, pain, regret and, ultimately, hope that set this record apart; 'Distance has a way/of making love/understandable' from 'Radio Cure' speaks this in dolby surround.
The album closer, 'Reservations' contains the line 'I've got reservations about so many things, but not about you'. This encapsulates the longing, love, pain and drink that YHF is soaked in, and what makes it one of the truly great records.

Stand Your Ground by Little Barrie

2007-01-15T12:32:00.000+10:30

In 2005, Little Barrie appeared on the scene with their debut record, 'We Are Little Barrie'. Such an unassuming title was a good indication of the unpretentious, fun loving music contained within. Not only fun and unpretentious, but dazzlingly good. 60s garage rock melded with modern pop sensibilities and a sparse sound was the most danceable release of the year. Then they got rid of their drummer, Wayne Fulwood. The man was the heart and soul of the debut record, his wailing jazz vocals (both lead and backing) lending a feeling of timelessness and groove. Replaced by Billy Skinner on this year's new release, 'Stand Your Ground', whose drumming is just as tight as Fulwoods, Little Barrie present a record that's the equivalent of recieving a box of chocolates only to find that your favourite fudge flabour isn't in there. It's still good, there's nothing much to complain about, but it's missing that special something that normally makes you go looking for a new box as soon as the old one is finished.
Replacing previous knob-twiddler (I'm referring to his production role) Edwyn Collins with (now veteran producer) Dan the Automator is an inspired choice, 'Stand Your Ground' retaining the stripped back feel, while somehow finding space for some volume and texture which only does good things. However, the songs feel increasingly like the Barrie Cadogan show (and yes, I know it is HIS band, hence the name). Where on 'We Are Little Barrie' the interplay of all three musicians (Lewis Wharton providing some of the years coolest basslines) was a clear strength, now Wharton is often relegated to sitting lonely and bored on the root note, while Skinner keeps a tight, if uninventive rhythm, and both stand back to watch Cadogan hold the melody while singing both lead and backing vocals.
Don't expect this to be the record that hurls Little Barrie into the Mainstream (lead single 'Love You's chorus is so bad it is barely made up for by the awesome remainder of the song), as there's no stand out classic single, those who were hoping for another burst of joy from a band that knows and acknowledges its roots without apeing them will probably wind up a little disappointed.

2 1/2 stars

The Crane Wife by The Decembrists

2007-01-05T14:56:00.000+10:30

So rare is it that a band can straddle the seemingly infinite gulf between what is conventionally titled 'rock/pop' and 'prog rock', but when track two of The Decemberists' new release, The Crane Wife, the 12 minute, Pink Floyd-esque, 3-part epic 'The Island-Come and See-The Landlord's Daughter-You'll Not Feel the Drowning', kicks in after the sweeping gorgeousness of album opener, 'The Crane Wife 3', you know you've stumbled onto something magic. Taking all the whimsy and melody from 2002s Picaresque, while dispensing with the bouncing pop of '16 Military Wives', Colin Meloy and co. have adopted an undeniably proggy approach, and it pays off in spades.
With 2 tracks reaching over 10 minutes, shifting from rolling lullaby to stomping multi-faceted monster, not a note is out of place, not a word wasted. Case in point: the introduction of a Gaelic-influenced rhythm section and vocal melodies and harmonies to the aforementioned album opener is nothing short of inspired.
Winsomely balancing frivolity and gravity, the Decemberists assemble an oddball menagerie of the usual rogues and rascals, soldiers and criminals, lovers and baby butchers-- but they've got a lot more tricks up their sleeves than previous albums had hinted.
On this, their fourth album, The Decembrists have finally found their Qi, and it's on display for all to see and hear. And it looks and sounds great.

4 1/2 stars

Into the Dark by Jess McAvoy

2007-01-05T12:34:00.000+10:30

Much as it is the lot of those who write about music to heap effusive praise upon those who push boundaries, redefine genre, challenge conventional notions of popular music and all that bollocks (and much as this writer is given to those same failings), sometimes it takes a simple, beautiful record to stick its head out above the dross to remind you that music is about good songs. Nothing more, nothing less. Bells, whistles, and computer-generated effects count for nothing in the face of rhythm and melody. And Jess McAvoy's new release, Into the Dark, is exactly that record.
Released independently, Into the Dark is a collection of beautifully written, perfectly sung, heartfelt and straightforward songs about nothing so immense as world politics and global warming. Like Bob Evan's recent release, McAvoy's songs convey tales of suburban romance set to music that is gorgeous in its simplicity, McAvoy's rich, honeyed voice weaving stories of love and lust with the same wonderful joy de vivre.
Embellishments are few, but when they arrive they are never wasted, such as the glorious banjo that gives 'Take You In', with its middle-Australian vibe the kick it needs. Piano tinkles here and there, and electric guitar occasionally appears to lend character and volume. But it's 'See How I Go', with its extraordinary vocal melody during the chorus, that announces Jess McAvoy as the female singer-songwriter to look out for.
Aus music is awash with talented women at the moment: Missy Higgins, Sarah Blasko, Clare Bowditch, Jen Cloher, Mia Dyson, Holly Throsby, Macromantics all producing music of genuine international quality (although Missy seemed to lose her way a little once success beckoned); but Jess McAvoy perhaps more than the others, makes music that speaks to everyday Australians with a clear and unwavering voice.

4 stars

All time top ten - #4 - Bitches Brew

2006-12-29T12:55:00.000+10:30

In 1970, Miles davis seemed to have lost relevance. 11 years ago, with Kind of Blue, he had provided modern music with a genre-defining moment, a statement of musical intent that redirected jazz for future generations and established himself as the premier jazz man of the 50s and 60s. However, in 1970, rock music had well and truly arrived. Hendrix had demolished 'Star Spangled Banner' onstage at Woodstock, the Beatles had spent nearly ten years bending conventional notions of popular music, Captain Beefheart had set new standards of experimentalism, possibly inventing Prog-Rock with the insane Trout Mask Replica and now Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath and the Rolling Stones were taking the Blues and rocking it within an inch of its life. Jazz need a kick in the pants to remain current and important. And Davis provided it.

Bitches Brew is a law unto itself. Genre barely counts, it almost seems unfair to label it as a jazz record. The rhythm section is almost conventional - well, as conventional as two bass players and a veritible army of percussionists could be - but that's where comparisons to pre-existing jazz music ends. Horns and woodwind swirl in cacophanous harmony, keys dance around the backbeat, drawing on influences as diverse as The Doors and Thelonious Monk, all the while, all sections of the band retained the improvisational stylings that Davis pioneered in 1959. Over three days anger, confusion, and exhilaration had reigned in the studio, and the sonic themes, scraps, grooves, and sheer will and emotion that resulted were percolated and edited into an astonishingly organic work. This Miles Davis wasn't merely presenting a simple hybrid like jazz-rock, but a new way of thinking about improvisation and the studio. Both lauded and savaged by critics, many of whom took offense at the use of an expletive on a record cover, Bitches Brew invented fusion, defied definition and opened the eyes and ears of an entire generation of musicians.

First, there's the slow, modal, opening grooves of "Pharaoh's Dance," with its slippery trumpet lines to John McLaughlin's snaky guitar figures skirting the edge of the rhythm section and Don Alias' conga slipping through the middle. The keyboards of Chick Corea and Joe Zawinul create a haunting, iffing groove echoed and accented by the two basses of Harvey Brooks and Dave Holland.

The second half of side one, the title track, was originally intended as a 5-piece suite, but only 3 made the final cut. Polyrhythmic, ebbing and flowing, climactic and cataclysmic, it is possibly the most awe-inspiring piece of jazz ever recorded. Those who could carry on would find side 2 no less dazzling. Opening with the now famous 'Spanish Key', and allowing McLaughlin a four minute interlude, Bitches Brew powered on to it's rightful place in the pantheon of musical classics. And over the top of all of this, Davis' muted horn floats, swims, gallops and marches, setting the pace when required, while happily sitting in the shadow, allowing the band's talents to come powering to the fore.

Music has possibly never been so audaciously conceived while being so perfectly executed. A true moment in time. Mile Davis never had to worry about being relevant again.

Christmas Love!

2006-12-22T13:53:00.000+10:30

In the seasonal spirit, I thought I'd list some classic Christmas records that people can grab if they need to get in the festive mood:

1. 'What do you get a Wookie for Christmas (If he Already has a Comb)? - I don't know whta is on this or who it's by. But it deserves a mention.

2. Sufjan Stevens - Songs for Christmas: I don't know how prolific one man can be (unless you're Ryan Adams) but going on the fact that this is a compilation of 5 years of Christmas EPs from Mr Stevens, with both originals and reworkings of forgotten carols, it's a fair assumption that most of it's gold.

3. Ringo Starr - I Want to be Santa Claus: If you're going to go kitsch, bloody well do it properly, I say. Rockin' Rudolph is, of course, included.

4. Bootsy Collins - Christmas is 4 Eva: Christmas is time for a party, right? If your answer to this is a resounding 'Yes', then no Christmas record will shake your arse more than this. He really does turn the water into FUNK!

5. It's a tie for the fifth!
Colonel Sanders - Christmas with Colonel Sanders! vs. The Six Million Dollar Man - Hear 4 Exciting Christmas Adventures! May they forever fight to the death. You be the judge.

Merry Christmas to all.

Stand Up! by Blue King Brown

2006-12-21T13:24:00.000+10:30

In the fine tradition of Bob Marley, Marvin Gaye, Michael Franti and even Public Enemy, Melbourne (having started in Byron Bay) band Blue King Brown succeed in combining potent, heartfelt social commentary with some damn fine grooves that can't help but fill a dance floor with their new release, Stand Up!. Clearly influenced by their Samoan roots, BKB have pulled together Reggae, roots and salsa rhythms to contribute another worthy entry to Aus music's growing alumnus of roots artists making some world-class sounds, including The John Butler Trio and Ash Grunwald. Be it advocating indigenous land rights on 'Water' or oppression of native peoples everywhere on 'Come and Check Your Head', Blue King Brown never cease to hammer the crap out several forms of percussion, as part of one of the country's funkiest rhythm sections, that'll keep feet tapping well into 2007. The band recently picked up the APRA Songwriters Award and Best Alternative Group at the 2005 MusicOz Awards. released on their own label 'Roots Level Records', Stand Up! is neither rooted in the past or desperately trying to sound 'now'. Sometimes great music can be nothing more than the result of a passion for something totally unrelated. Expect to hear this record pumping out of cafes over the summer; and fair enough too, I have every expectation that this will become my summer album of 2006/07.

3 1/2 stars

St Kilda Bastards

2006-12-21T13:06:00.000+10:30

I really detest going to gigs in St Kilda (barring the always brilliant Espy). This is not a standpoint I have arrived at lightly, as some of the venues are wonderful, well designed, welcoming places that always provide a great environment for bands to perform and connect with the crowd. Said crowds, however, need a lesson in 'how-not-to-be-a-complete-twat-at-gigs'. Urgently.
Last night I rocked up to see Augie March at the Prince of Wales, an august venue with a proud history of live music, and the scene of some of my best music memories, such as Coldplay (pre crap) in 2000, George in the same year and The Cat Empire a number of times. Having seen Augie March a number of times also, I knew what to expect and it was always going to be heartfelt and entertaining, if a little ramshackle. But such a great band rarely fails to please. In fact, the previous time I had seen them was at the HiFi in Melbourne a few months earlier, which was far and away the best Augie gig I have been to. And here's the thing. The music itself was not really much different between that show and last night. The difference was the crowd. At the HiFi, the audience hung breathlessly on every word, stayed silent during the quiet songs and applauded madly every time a song finished or something cool happened. It was a great crowd, genuine fans who were there to see the band.
Unlike last night at the Prince.
Pretentious, toolbag, disrespectful wankers abounded at the place that on Saturdays turns into 'OneLove' nightclub, aka the Ecstasy capital of Melbourne. During what would have been the highlight of the night, the woozy, literate and beguiling 'The Keepa', half the crowd decided to hold conversations. Whatever they were talking about, it's reasonably certain that it wasn't about the wonderful sound texture created by the band in a live setting. More likely it revolved around haircuts, alcohol and the OC. Wankers. Then, along came 'One Crowded Hour', and suddenly, the whole place came to life! Young women stopped chatting long enough to sing along (mainly just to the chorus) and then clap and cheer madly at the end. No doubt they then bought a T-shirt on the way out and are today wearing it proudly proclaiming themselves to be 'real fans' who 'liked them before they were popular'. Fuckers.
Anyway, if a band you like is playing more than one gig in Melbourne, see them in the city, Fitzroy, Brunswick or Northcote (or even Belgrave - go Ruby's). Leave the scum where they can congregate and be 'cool' together.
As for Augie March, good show guys, hold your heads high, there was at least one bloke in the cowd who paid attention.

Everything All the Time by Band of Horses

2006-12-20T12:45:00.000+10:30

Band of Horses, a new indie collective formed from the Ashes of Seattle underground heroes Carissas Wierd, popped up this year with their debut record, Everything All The Time, and since then, the critical adulation has been incessant: featuring heavily on many end-of-year best of lists, along with glowing comparisons to My Morning Jacket and Neil Young.
All that being said, I'm quite clearly about to attempt to debunk all of that, so I don't want to give the impression that I didn't like this record. I did, it's very good. But, quite frankly, I don't understand where all this ejaculatory praise is coming from. Everything all the Time sounds to me like a second rate Shins record (a second rate Shins record still being superior to a great deal of music by lesser mortals), with vocalist Ben Bridwell sounding just a bit too much like James Mercer, not just in sound quality, but grammar, sytax and inflection. The same jivey, energetic rhythms abound, without many of the more wistful flourishes The Shins are known for.
EATT, though, is not without its own neat touches. Everything's a bit, well, heavier, and there are some really terrific songs, not least of which is the oh-so-indie-anthem 'Wicked Gil', which would not have been out of place on My Morning Jacket's 2005 epic, Z.
But the greatest sin committed by these guys is that they're just so, well, damn INDIE! The opening track is called 'The First Song', in one of those self-referential, 'oh, we're way too cool to come up with a song title because indie bands are all about the MUSIC, man'.
Dig it.
Good on Band of Horses for making a really good record. But let's keep our penises in our pants, otherwise every time a bunch of guys who like to strum electric guitars like they're acoustic and back it with a banjo come along, we'll be caught in the trap of anointing them saviors of some long-forgotten form of music that no-one previously gave a fuck about anyway. And then we'll be NME.

3 1/2 stars

Good songs

2006-12-19T10:05:00.000+10:30

Good songs have been many this year, and normally I refrain from compiling a list of the best of them, but for some reason I feel compelled to - so here's the top 11 (I just couldn't pick the last one, so call it a tie for tenth).

11. Welcome to the Black Parade - My Chemical Romance
Emo comes of age! Despite containing a verse so awful and mind-numbingly boring I nearly switched off before the song finished, The Black Parade contains the most awesome, Queen-inspired musical excess this side of Muse with a chorus that practically demands all listeners to pump their fist in the most convenient direction (generally up) with force and repetition.

10. I Want You So Hard (Boy's Bad News) - Eagles of Death Metal
Containing far and away the best guitar solo of 2006, this positively stinks of sweat and rooting. And it's SO great. Stealing blatantly from 60s hit 'Summertime Blues', EoDM have ripped it a new arsehole, greased it up and stuffed it full of god knows what. Rock on.

9. Ta Doleur - Camille
The French Bjork came out of nowhere in Australia with this piece of quasi electro/quasi vocal gymnastic, totally cool piece of avant-garde-ism. Camille actually makes farting noises and still sounds in tune. Amazing. And so danceable.

8. When the Sun Goes Down - The Arctic Monkeys
Followed closely by unknown classic off the same record 'From the Ritz to the Rubble', 'When the Sun Goes Down' is everything that is great about the Monkeys' debut encapsulated in 3 minutes and 20 seconds. Tales of whores and pimps on the streets of Sheffield, cockney lyrics, references to Sting and the Police and the BEST riff in about 5 years, magic in its simplicity, if 2003-2005 were the years when the likes of Franz Ferdinand and Bloc Party brought rock back to the dancefloor, 2006 told the new wave to fuck off and let the Monkeys work.

7. One Better - Les Claypool
Funk - circa 2006 for Mr Claypool. Dispensing with extraneous instruments (i.e. guitars), Les decided he could do more on HIS 6-string than an army of budding Van Halens and created the quirkiest and coolest release since Primus. 2006's best song about the Space Race.

6. {Explain} - Sarah Blasko
Sarah Blasko threatened to make a classic on her debut, and delivered with this moody piece of operatic drama-ballad, despite the appalingly pretentious parentheses. Clarinets and oboes must be the most under-utilised instruments in the world.

5. Mojo - Peeping Tom
The most subversive pop single since Gorillaz' Clint Eastwood took everyone by surprise in 2002. With Mike Patton's crazy beat-boxing and the smoothest jazz/pop style around, it's probably the most under-rated song of the year.

4. Black Swan - Thom Yorke
Singers need to learn to swear as well as Thom Yorke does. When he says 'this is fucked up/fucked up/this is your blind spot/it should be obvious/but its not' you know he damn well means it. Like the best Radiohead songs of recent years, Black Swan finds the elusive balance between electronic experimentalism and old school rhythms and melodies. Terrific, heartfelt and morbidly depressing. Just how we take him.

3. Dirtywhirl - TV on the Radio
No song title has ever captured to perfectly both the sound and the 'feel' of a song as this one. Swirling guitars, a thumping, tribal rhythm and a vocal melody that you can't help shouting along with ('Commander!/Controller!/I found you!'), TV on the Radio are the shit.

2. One Crowded Hour - Augie March
It's not experimental. It doesn't break taboos, push envelopes or blaze trails. It's just a song. But for a band to take what has been done a million times before and do it this well is deserving of high praise. Glenn Richards' standard poetic, convoluted lyrics are driven along by pure beauty of sound before a climax that belongs in a porn film.

1. Sixteen Straws - The Drones
Reworking an old Australian convict shanty - 'Moreton Bay', a tale of hardship within the penal colonies - shouldn't be this good. Driven solely by a plucked acoustic and gentle harmonica, the tale of a prisoner and his Faustian pact with 15 other convicts belongs in the annals of Australian musical lore, as bloody as Nick Cave and as touching as, well, it shouldn't BE touching, but somehow it is. Not for a second over its nine-minute running time does it let your attention falter. Expect to find yourself short of breath.

Honourable Mentions
I feel Like Going Home - Yo La Tengo, Roscoe - Midlake, Chips Ahoy - The Hold Steady, Juicebox - The Strokes, Assassin - Muse, Go-Go-Gadget Gospel - Gnarls Barkly, 19 20 20 - The Grates, Not Yet - The Veils, On Your Living Room Floor - Ground Components, This Mess - Wolf & Cub

2006!

2006-12-11T13:51:00.000+10:30

Well, as it's fast approaching the New Year, and by now, pretty much anything good that should come out already has, making space on the shelves for numerous pop starlets and fading rap-rockers to release best-ofs that successfully compile the cream of careers that span 2 (maybe 3) records. As a result, I feel confident enough to release my top ten records for 2006, figuring that anything that comes out now that might make the list, I probably won't have time to listen to.

So, straight into it:

10. The Hold Steady - Boys and Girls in America
Pure soulful, intelligent, verbose and genuinely touching ROCK. The Hold Steady confirm their reputation of being the hardest drinking, hardest rocking rhodes scholars on the rock scene today. Have I said Rock enough? This record is rock as rock should be. Rock.

9. Yo La Tengo - I am Not Afraid of You and I Will Beat Your Ass
Would have made this list on the strength of the title alone, thankfully Yo La Tengo have backed up such wonderful inventiveness on the cover with THE record for musical eclectics everywhere. Equal parts bouncing pop ('Beanbag Chair', 'Mr Tough', 'The Weakest Part') psychadelia ('Pass the hatchet, I Think I'm Goodkind', 'The Race is On Again', 'Daphnia') and swirling beauty ('I Feel Like Going Home'), IANAOYAIWBYA has something for everyone. And it's all great.

8. Peeping Tom - Peeping Tom
God Bless Mike Patton. The man who can keep pop music fun, interesting and still very, very good! While few songs this year have come out that are better than lead single 'Mojo', Peeping Tom truly comes into its own when Patton's now famous collaborations kick in. Be it Dan the Automator, Danger Mouse, or a kick-arse Norah Jones, there is always a surprise around the corner.

7. Ground Components - An Eye for a Brow, a Tooth for a Pick
Fun, individual and with two of the year's best covers, along with the years best hip-hop/rock crossover, Melbourne's Ground Components have rewarded the patience shown by local fans in taking several years to launch a debut by putting out such a wonderfully inventive and totally cool record. We will see more of them.

6. Thom Yorke - The Eraser
Let's face it. We were all terrified that, left to his own devices and without the O'Briens and Selways of the world to say 'No Thom, that just sounds weird', Yorke would make music that sounded, well, weird. How wonderful it was to be surprised with a record that, while including the now-trademark skitters, glitches and scratches, also had some of the most glorious melodies, soaring harmonies, and one of the world's sweetest voicest at the peak of its powers. We can only hope next year's return to Radiohead will be as rewarding.

5. Muse - Black Holes and Revelations
Wow. The bigger, louder and more apocalyptic Muse get, the better they seem to be. While perhaps not topping the insane magnificence of 2000s Origin of Symmetry, BH&R displayed Messrs Bellamy, Wolstenholme and Howard showing almost every other band in the world that whatever they did, Muse probably did it better. From the ultra-sexified 'Supermassive Black Hole' to the thrash-metal-with-melody 'Assassin', the flamenco styled 'City of Delusion' and everything in between, Muse continue to conquer the world, one cataclysm at a time.

4. Augie March - Moo, You Bloody Choir.
Bugger me, it's been a great year for album titles, hasn't it. While The Augs have begun to flirt with commercial success to match the almost orgasmic rapture of the critical set, this hasn't resulted in any dilution in quality. While not as wilfully absurd and brilliant as 2002s Strange Bird, Moo, led by (one of the songs of the year) 'One Crowded Hour' continued to pave the way for Aussie bands to make smart, adult music that has no shame wearing its intellectual heredity on its sleeve.

3. The Arctic Monkeys - Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not
While it would be so easy to take the uber-cool, NME option and turn on these lads from Sheffield, the beneficiaries of a hype-machine never before witnessed - anywhere - (and hopefully nowhere else ever again), another listen to their debut record confirms that it is, in fact, a dead set corker. Witty, punchy and with great melody and attitude, The Arctic Monkeys have, irrespective of the hype and the inevitable backlash, made one of the best albums of 2006.

2. The Drones - Gala Mill
You either love or hate Melbourne's The Drones. (Speaking of which, 3 Melbourne bands in the top ten! I'm not particularly parochial...actually yes I am, this is AWESOME!) And I love them. Steeped in Australiana, soaked in booze and misery, and buried under a pile of bush poetry and murder ballads, Gala Mill is utterly unfashionable and amazingly potent. 'Sixteen Straws', the tale of murder and survival in Australian convict settlements, is one of the most bloody, savage and heart-rending portraits of Australian history ever recorded. Imaginative, alive, dramatic and powerful, Gala Mill is one of the best Australian records in years.

1. TV on the Radio - Return to Cookie Mountain.
I still don't know what the title means, but who cares. Return to Cookie Mountain is so full of amazing, mid-blowingly good music that it hardly matters, and there's no point trying to list highlights. Ditching the drum machines, picking up a rhythm section and bucketloads of pathos, emotion and groove, TVOTR have made a record for the ages. Art Rock as it should be. Brilliant.

Honourable Mentions:
Sarah Blasko - What the Sea Wants, the Sea Will Have, The Presets - Beams, Joanna Newsom - Ys, The Grates - Gravity Won't Get You High, Bob Dylan - Modern Times, Camille - Le Fil, Beck - The Information, Midlake - The Trials of Van Occupanther.

All Time Top Ten - #5 - Abbey Road

2006-12-06T12:52:00.000+10:30

It's the perennial question. Which Beatles record? Which of course raises innumerable other questions. Are they really the greatest band of all time, the modern day Mozarts? If you struggle to choose between, Abbey Road, Rubber Soul, Revolver, Sgt Peppers and A Hard Day's Night, and you put Abbey Road at #5, should 6-9 be taken up by the others? John or Paul?
So first of all, yes, they're truly great. Mozarts? Maybe, only time will tell. the best ever? No. No-one ever will be. But they were great. And this (perhaps) is their greatest.
This was the record The Beatles truly recorded as a group of individuals. The final recording they made (Let it Be, while recorded earlier, was released in 1970 due to Phil Spector's production schedule), it was made at a point when the band were arely on speaking terms. As a result, it allowed the long-supressed talents of George Harrison to come screaming to the fore, with 'Something' and 'Here Comes the Sun' two of the most gorgeous arrangements the Beatles ever laid to vinyl.
Opening up the now utterly iconic cover, laden with 'Paul is really dead' clues, as many others were before it, side one doesn't reveal anything that significantly sets it apart from previous releases. There's the beautiful ballads, such as the aforementioned Harrison numbers, the children's song 'Octopus's Garden', the 7 minute long wig-out 'I Want You (She's so Heavy) and the slightly forward looking weird funk of 'Come Together'. Quality was never an issue, and it wasn't until side 2, when the 16 minute suite, made up of unfinished bits and pieces, blows all they had done before out of the water. Be it the startling 'Mean Mr Mustard', the melodic, floating 'Sun King', the achingly beautiful 'Golden Slumbers' or the hidden Beatles' classic, 'She Came in Through the Bathroom Window', and closing with 'Her Majesty', arguably music's first ever secret track, this was The Beatles: fractured, broken, dysfuntional, and yet still triumphant, powerful and magical.
A band as wonderful as The Beatles deserved a sensational swansong. It's hard to imagine a more glorious one than this.

Boys and Girls in America by The Hold Steady

2006-11-29T12:34:00.000+10:30

Rock and Roll today it seems, is almost bereft of people with something to say. Platitudes abound, like the singer just couldn't be bothered thinking of anything particularly creative or relevant. Just sing something nice, or sad, or angry, or winsome. The Hold Steady's Craig Finn bucks that trend with a vigour that is as admirable as it is awesome. Too rare it is today to find that rare vocalist who is both articulate, literate, and manages to have kept his/her finger on the pulse enough to write songs that people feel they can relate to. And not in a Panic! at the Disco kind of 'I hate my mum, she never really loved me, why does no one understand me?, Oh I hate being a teenager' way. By telling tales of low lifes, drunks, average Jjoes and Jjills who all hang out at bars and drink and bond, much in the way Tom Waits built a career on, the songs weave narratives of people who we feel we know 'She put $900/On the 5th horse/in the 6th race/I think it's name was Chips Ahoy', even if they are a little fantastic 'we hung out in the car/And I drank out of a purse'.
And that's before we get to the music. Rooted in Bruce Springsteen as much as the Sex Pistols and the aforementioned Mr Waits, it seems the Hold Steady have no idea why Punks and Old School rockers drink in separate pubs. Riff heavy guitar and power chords rock around, with a tinkling (or pounding) piano crashing or caressing song after song. And just when you think it's all a little bit E Street, in comes 'First Night', one of the best, heartstring-tugging, country-influenced, mournful love songs you'll hear all year.
Every time you start thinking that smart people have stopped enjoying straight-out rock music, along comes a band like The Hold Steady to remind you that it's ok to just be rock and roll.

4 1/2 stars

Correction/Amendment

2006-11-22T14:19:00.000+10:30

I may be alot of things, but pig-headed is not one of them. (Well, it's less so then when I was younger, but that's not important) I am not one to avoid admitting when I'm wrong. And I was a bit wrong about Beck's The Information. I accused the man of laziness. Upon repeat listenings, I've come to the roundabout conclusion that this is possibly the record he has put the MOST effort into since Odelay in 1996. The first half does have that familiar Beckish wrap/pastiche vibe about it, but flip to side 2 and the influence of producer Nigel Godrich becomes far more apparent. In fact, if it's the subdued wrap over glitchy, Radiohead-esque (who would've thought) beats of 'We Dance Alone' or the Captain Beefheart aping chaos of 1000BPM or the ultra cool morbidity of the climactic 'Horrible Fanfare/Landslide/Exoskeleton', this record sees Beck pushing new boundaries. This doesn't make it his best record, but it certainly puts it up alongside Odelay, Midnite Vultures, Seachange and Guero as one of his strongest offerings.

All time top ten - #6 - Blood on the Tracks

2006-11-13T13:51:00.000+10:30

Any list of the greatest Bob Dylan records invariably lists ‘Highway 61 Revisited’ and ‘Blonde on Blonde’ over ‘Blood on the Tracks’. They’re the legendary Dylan records, lending an enigma that will never be decrypted. Moving from folk to rock and blues, confounding fans, and creating a new brand of rock that is still emulated today. People tend to forget ‘Blood on the Tracks’. It wasn’t the record that blazed a trail, or established a mythology. But it was the record that stands as the bridge between the Wunderkind of 1966 and the modern day elder statesman of music today. Poignant, earnest, heartfelt and intimate, this is as close as Dylan ever got to bearing his soul on a record. While still full to the brim with allegory and cryptic poetry, ‘Blood on the Tracks’ is an open window into the true Bob Dylan, a man dealing with a broken marriage, and as a result is forthright in its honesty, sadness (‘Simple Twist of Fate’), anger (‘Idiot Wind’) and hope (‘You’re a Big Girl Now’) in equal measure.
After being somewhat forgotten since his motorcycle accident in 1966, Dylan had made some lackluster music (Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid anyone?), and 1975 saw him returning somewhat to his roots. Dispensing with the amplification that made him (in)famous, it once again became about the words; the music merely a means of concentrating and focusing an emotion. While regressing somewhat to his acoustic heritage, this is not the record of the angst-ridden 24 year-old of 1966, but a worldly adult. His vocals were deeper, wiser and fuelled the lyrics with a life of their own, the music seems to have a greater awareness of the history they invoke when ‘Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts’ rollicks over a rockabilly rhythm section.
Whether it be the stunning ‘Tangled Up in Blue’ making life as a fugitive cool, or the sneering, furious ‘Idiot Wind’ (“you’re an eeeeidiot, babe”), ‘Blood on the Tracks’ is resolutely human, examining the flaws of both singer and subject. But it’s when Dylan just picks up a guitar and punches out ‘You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go’ which, at 2.55, is the shortest song on the record by a minute and a half, the listener is reminded how devastatingly effective a song can be without unnecessary instrumentation, particularly when written by a genius such as Mr. Zimmerman.
Dylan made a greater mark with other, earlier records, but it’s hard to argue that he made a better record.

All time top ten - #7 - Kid A

2006-11-10T14:46:00.000+10:30

The opening bars of 'Everything in its Right Place' are a defining moment in modern music. The descending keyboard riff, interspersed with cut-and paste, nonsensical vocal mutterings from Thom Yorke was automatically dismissed as 'too hard' by many. But with this glaring statement of intent, Radiohead dispensed with conventional song-writing rules and notions of structure. Gone were the Johnny Greenwood screaming, tortured guitars, gone were much of the drums, replaced by skittering beats and drum machines. There was very little recognisable guitar at all. There were no choruses! Released in early 2000, if ever an album could have ushered in the 21st century, it was this.
Taking its cues from everywhere, and possibly nowhere at all, Kid A redefined what it meant to make a rock record. Vocals are twisted, sliced and distorted within an inch of their lives, such as on the title track, with Yorke's voice squeezed until it actually sounds like a child singing; on the driving, hypnotic 'The National Anthem' an insane, climactic, horn driven crescendo would not be out of place during the more psychadelic moments on 'Bitches Brew'; the instrumental 'Treefingers' is made entirely out of guitar samples, yet sounds nothing like any guitar anyone had ever heard and the thumping, tribal 'Optimistic' breaks down via a jazz wig-out interlude into the seasickness-inducing clamour of 'In Limbo'.
'Idioteque', a disco number for those coming down after the night out, is the most radical departure from 'Old Radiohead', while 'How to Disappear Completely' is the one track that might possibly feel at home on 1997s 'OK Computer'.
Harps merge with angelic choirs, saxophones conduct squealing, wailing duels with french horns, Yorke's tortured angel voice proclaims 'I'm not here/This isn't happening'.
Difficult it may be, but a more rewarding listen may not possibly exist for those with the patience (and the stomach). Radiohead plotted a course for the new generation of musician. Ignoring genre, convention and style, Kid A brought together every conceivable influence and made something that sounded like nothing else.
And the world is still listening.

What the Sea Wants, the Sea Will Have

2006-11-09T10:19:00.000+10:30

Talk about living up to your potential. After the promise displayed in her debut, 'The Overture and the Underscore', Melbourne girl Sarah Blasko has come through with a triumphant second record. So much for being difficult. Stylistically, 'What the Sea Wants, the Sea Will Have' is not far removed from its predecessor, but on top of the sweet vocals and gently plucked strings are layer upon layer of dense, orchestral arrangements, sweet, almost child-like vocals, or, in the astonishingly great (except for the slightly pretensious parentheses) '{Explain}', a hyper-dramatic descending piano ballad, replete with haunting clarinet and oboe.
The clearest example of this newfound confidence and clarity is 'The Garden's End' which would not be out of place on 'The Overture...' were it not for the gorgeous multitracked backing vocals and haunting, barely-there bass line.
Lyrically, Blasko is also well ahead of many of her contemporaries, often walking along well-trod lyrical paths, but leaving new and clearly defined footprints with a verbal deftness lacking in much of the current crop of sensitive new age solo singers.
God knows what's coming next.

4 stars

From the Vault - Pill 'n' Thrills and Bellyaches

2006-11-06T09:41:00.000+10:30

Firstly, what a great thing that a record title clearly referring to the fun (and aftereffects) of dropping e can contain the most non-hardcore word in the English language, 'Bellyaches'.
From the opening, reggae-influenced, Lady Marmalade-pilfering (or rediscovering) 'Kinky Afro', the Happy Mondays created the seminal dance-rock album of the late 80s-early 90s (often overlooked for the more fashionable Stone Roses' debut), the movement typified by the Stone Roses and Primal Scream's 'Screamadelica'. Certainly, this record contains the biggest hit of the period, 'Step On'. Throughout, Shaun Ryder's (the guy from Gorillaz 'Dare') convoluted lyrics jump around, rarely making a great deal of sense. He was later known to say he wrote the words and sung because 'none of the others can be arsed'.
The epitome of the Madchester scene, Pills 'n' Thrills and Bellyaches set the standard for dance production of rock music (soon to be aped by Primal Scream), and introduced the cut-and-paste ethos of dance and hip-hop as a legitimate rock and roll muscial technique.
The fact of the matter is, almost every track on this record borders on the absolutely essential. The late 80s is often regarded as something of a black hole of musical rubbish, but in 1990, the Happy Mondays created a modern pop-rock-dance-fusion masterpiece that came swirling out of the mire and pushed rock into the 21st century.
10 years early.

All time top ten - #8 - Strange Bird

2006-10-31T15:40:00.000+10:30

It may be parochial, but I'm so glad that this most excellent album made it into my top ten (suggesting of course, that it is my favourite Australian album ever). It may be a controversial choice. The newest record in the list, released in 2002, it is little heard outside Australia, by a band that has received little mainstream exposure. But since when has the mainstream been a decent jusge of good music? After releasing their debut, 'Sunset Studies' in 1999, Melbourne's Augie March set abot topping what was a cracking standard.
Theatrical where 'Sunset Studies' was poetic, clamourous where its predecessor was serene, 'Strange Bird' is an anachronism. From the psychadelic rockabilly drunken hoe-down of 'This Train Will be Taking No Passengers' to the distorted waltz with a jazz-lounge (applause included) breakdown of 'Little Wonder', or the 1920s swing of 'The Keepa', (which manages a misspelt cricket reference and is still majestic), 'Strange Bird' is like something from another era, yet is firmly rooted in the here and now.
Along with the aching 'The Night is a Blackbird' and the ukelele-driven 'Sunstroke House', 'Addle Brains' exemplifies the poetic grace with which singer-songwriter Glenn Richards paints his musical pictures. Not a note is wasted, not a word overwrought or forced. There is a lyrical grace sweeping across 'Strange Bird'. Here is a songwriter of the modern day raised on Nabakov, Yeates and Bellow (hence the name of the band, appropriated from 'The adventures of Augie March'), rather than just listening to his folks' old beatles and doors records before forming Jet.
Gorgeous, magical, literate, smart, sweeping, majestic and bold. Adjectives could flow for hours. But instead, you should just listen to it.

I am Not Afraid of You and I Will Beat Your Ass

2006-10-31T14:17:00.000+10:30

For some time, there has been stiff competition for the title of Best Band Name in the World. ...and You Will Know Us By The Trail of Dead, Super Furry Animals, Future Kings of Spain, G. Love & Special Sauce, Captain Beefheart and his Magic Band and many others fought tooth and nail. But as far as best album title goes, Yo La Tengo have swept all before them, with their new epic 'I am Not Afraid of You and I Will Beat Your Ass'. Buy it, solely for the purpose of telling your friends you own a record called 'I am Not Afraid of You and I Will Beat Your Ass'. Awesome. Which is a fairly apt description of the music contained therein. Yo La Tengo have created another eclectic, sprawling, unpredictable gem. Opening with the cryptically titled 'Pass the Hatchet, I Think I'm Goodkind'. Lord knows what that means, and the song itself is similarly obtuse, a bouncy bassline jumping in and out behind a distorted, grinding guitar piece, no trend whatsoever is set, as they move seamlessly into 'Beanbag Chair', 'I Feel Like Going Home' and 'Mr Tough', alternating between addictive, melody-driven pop and sweeping, dramatic and introspective string-laden ballad.
Convention and restraint are utterly ignored across the record, with opening and closing tracks exceeding ten minutes, and no musical landscape is left unmined, no sonic field unharvested. Lyrics are convoluted, instruments appear and vanish with (occasionally) frustrating regularity, but throughout, a senseof excitement and challenge permeates.
There may be better records this year (not a great many, mind you), but few, if any, will prove as challenging, or as rewarding.

4 1/2 stars

All time top ten - #9 - Mothership Connection

2006-10-22T19:41:00.000+09:30

Who gots the funk? In 1975, Parliament redefined party music, creating a new genre of sound. Perhaps not creating, but defining. Funk had a name, and an image. Someone born in 1990 can put on Mothership Connection and instantly feel like they've heard it all before, partly because of the umpteen samples that have been plagiarised by Snoop Dogg, P. Diddy et al, but also the clear influence it wields over R'n'B ever since.
Fusing together blues, jazz and rock, dressing it in a cape and sunglasses and soaking it in acid, George Clinton and his cohorts put in place a clear picture of what funk was. The opening two tracks ('P-Funk (Who Wants to Get Funked Up?)' and 'Mothership Connection') introduced two new characters on this starship of funk (there was a LOT of acid), including Starchild, who was to appear routinely in future Parliament records, guiding the listener through 8 tracks of party-inducing, drug fuelled insanity.
In 1975, there was no middle ground between rock, which tended towards overblown pretensions of a Pink Floyd-esque scale (Velvet Underground, King Crimson, Led Zeppelin etc) and disco, always rambunctious, but lacking in depth and vision (until the appearance of Chic in the late 70s). Funk filled the void perfectly, and never before or since has one record so amazingly distilled an entire muscial movement, while still thumping out record-scratching dancefloor magic of unparalleled fun at the same time.
This top ten list is dominated by bands and records renowned for being 'deep' and 'intense' and 'artistic', so for 'Mothership Connection' to grace it at number 9 speaks volumes for its power, influence, and sheer, hip-shaking brilliance.

The Information

2006-10-21T20:31:00.000+09:30

It's quite thrilling, really. Beck gives you stickers! Design your own cover! And here, take a free bonus DVD with about 12 really crappy home-made film clips of songs from the album! It was worrisome. It smacked of the kind of thing a record company does to cover up the fact that one of their marquee names has recorded a dud. Happily, The Information is not that. Beck's too good, it seems, to produce rubbish. Even on autopilot, he still pumps out (with the help of producer Nigel Godrich) quality white boy eclecticism. The problem is, he's on autopilot. One can't quite say that The Information is bad, because it certainly isn't, but comparisons to his 1994 breakthrough, Odelay abound, and for a musical chameleon like Beck, to stagnate is to die. There's the faux-80s hip hop of lead single 'Cellphone's Dead', and the familiar latino/western/funk-on-crack gem 'Nausea'. He revisits 2001s Seachange on the swelling, moving 'Strange Apparition' and opener 'Elevator Music' is smugly ironic. These songs, amongst all the others, do not want for quality or catchiness, there's just a whiff of laziness about the whole thing. For an artist who has never taken a backwards step, what appears to be a sidestep is cause for concern. Those of us who remeber the thrill of sticking a new Beck record on the stereo pray that whatever's next will be something along the lines of a death metal record, or something similarly unexpected.
Until then, at least we can play with the stickers.

Gala Mill

2006-09-22T12:26:00.000+09:30

The Drones are a band unlike any other in the world today. Totally immune to fasion or currency, what you hear is what you get. And you get gold. The previous release, 'Wait Long by the River and the Bodies of Your Enemies Will Float By...' was a rare treat; a record by an Australian band proudly playing Australian music and daring to take it seriously. Justly rewarded with critical praise and awards, the follow-up, 'Gala Mill' takes that platform and builds what hopefully will be viewed in the future as a masterwork.
Restraint is the order of the day here, with the high-intensity explosions of 'Wait Long...' only allowed out once or twice (needless to say, when they do, it's a doozy, as evidenced by the thumping 'I Don't Ever Want to Change'), instead opting for longer, more spacious arrangements, allowing frontman Gareth Lidyard's crazed, strained vocals to come screaming to the fore. The restraint shown on this album actually manages to increase the intensity throughout, creating a sense of barely suppressed rage, fear and alienation.
Recorded shortly after the release of 'Wait Long...', 'Gala Mill' was recorded in a stone mill on Gala Farm in Tasmania, and the area's convict past permeates the record, be it the folk tale 'Words From the Executioner to Alexander Pearce' and the reworking of the old traditional ballad 'Moreton Bay' into 'Sixteen Straws', an 8 minute, sprawling, wordy epic, which along with opener 'Jezabel', bookend this magnificent piece of modern Australiana.
With this, The Drones have established themselves as one of, if not the most, relevant and important rock band in Australia today. They may never get the attention (and sales) of rehash rock bands like Jet and Wolfmother, but hopefully, many years from now, the legacy of this most wonderful band will live on.

5 stars

Top Ten....ever! #10 - Pink Moon

2006-09-08T12:42:00.000+09:30

As previously mentioned, I am something of a listophile. Top tens in particular are a great conversation starter, and always a source of controversy and interest. Being a music blog, I therefore decided to post my all time top ten albums of all time....in a serial format!
So here is number 10.

Never before has the sound of one man and a guitar been so intoxicating, or hauntingly beautiful. In 1972, Nick Drake was a disillusioned man. After releasing 2 records to critical acclaim, he had failed to achieve any sort of commercial success, All the while his Fairport Convention friends had achieved quite considerable success, only fuelling his diappointment and angst. So, over two midnight recording sessions in early 1972, in the space of 8 hours, he put it all to vinyl.

Only one overdub exists over 11 tracks; a couple of tinkling piano keys on opener 'Pink Moon'. With the exception of those few notes, 'Pink Moon' the entire record is Drake and his guitar in stunning, technicolour close-up. Even his breathing is in tune. Over gently plucked guitar strains, his tenor voice singing songs of alienation ('Know') and loneliness ('Which Will'), Drake unwittingly created an entire mythology following his death in 1974 from a sleeping pill overdose.
After finishing recording, he simply dropped off the master tapes with a secretary at the record company and walked off. But this indifference is't apparent when listening to the music. Other than the sparse arrangements, and the lack of excess instrumentation, the music is astonishingly complex, Drake using his trademark unique tunings to fashion songs that are simultaneously beautiful in their simplicity and appealing in their depth.
The record closes on a rare note of optimism with 'From the Morning', a touching tale of the beauty of sa simple life. Odd, then, that the lyric from it; 'And now we rise, for we are everywhere' adorns the tombstone of this most talented musician, who provided us with something truly beautiful before he departed all too early.

Pearl Jam - Fading star or Rock Royalty?

2006-09-06T15:31:00.000+09:30

When Pearl Jam exploded on the scene 15 years ago with 'Ten' the ultimate in the new grunge wave (until 'Nevermind' appeared 3 months later), they were hailed as the new rock mesiahs, saviours of rock and roll from the over-produced, hyper-synthesised Duran Duran's of the world. All flanelette and attitude, this was raw, emotive, and powerful rock. Motley Crue with integrity. Buttloads of the stuff. No film clips, no extraneoous rubbish, just rock. Two acclaimed follow-ups, Vs. and Vitalogy maintained the rage, and immortality beckoned.
Then something strange happened. As the last bars of 'Betterman' faded off into the distance, people forgot Pearl Jam. 5 albums have been released since, each with lower sales than the last, people began to ask, 'have Pearl Jam lost their balls?'
In my mind, the answer is an unequivocal 'NO'. 8 albums in, and they may have produced their weakest record yet, self titled, back-to-our-roots rock 'n' roll. And it's still bloody good. World Wide Suicide is perhaps just too political to be a hit these days. It just doesn't appear on commercial radio, and this is Pearl Jam. People will listen to a new Pearl Jam song, surely? Surely not. If any band had such a record of sustained excellence, they'd be thrilled. But Pearl Jam are pilloried.
The problem is not that Pearl Jam have lost it, the problem is that people who loved Ten are now in their late twenties and early thirties and want more of what reminds them of being 16. Without the angst, because they're quite comfortable now, thank you very much.

Along came Yield in 1999. And it is amazing. By far Pearl Jam's finest hour. Yet hardly anyone owns it. Why? It can't be for lack of songs. Given to Fly, No Way, Brain of J, Do the Evolution and Wishlist are all nothing short of brilliant, many have received substantial air time. Yet no-one wants a bar of it. There's something wrong, and it isn't with Pearl Jam.
So if you're at the record store and see 'Binaural' on special. Pick it up, take it home, and listen to it without prejudice. Imagine it's a debut record from some bunch of unknowns from Seattle. And then see whether Pearl Jam have still got it.

No Balance Palace

2006-09-06T14:56:00.000+09:30

Even thought the title sounds exactly like a Danish band that speaks English as a second language trying to get all mysterious, Radiohead-style, and a name that is taken from Zepellin at their most bloated and pompous (they were still very cool then though), Kashmir are certainly no overblown Radiohead wannabes.

No Balance Palace is Kashmir's 5th album (the second to be available on the shelves in Australia), and it sounds exactly like a band that knows exactly what it is doing. Kashmir are HUGE in Denmark, kind of a Scandinavian Powderfinger, and these early forays into Western (i.e. English) music look pretty good so far.
Previous release, Zitilites, was a hidden gem, defying those who passed them off as little more than clones of Thom Yorke and Co. (Kashmir did, however acknowledge Radiohead's influence in many interviews at the time). While the comparisons are probably deserved, Zitilites displayed control and restraint in equal measure, resisting the urge that many of their contemporaries fell into of attempting to create a new musical genre and demolishing musical barriers for evermore. Funnily enough, that kind of thing rarely comes off.
It is this restraint that makes No Balance Palace such a rewarding listen. From the opening fade in of 'Kalifornia' to the Bowie-inclusive 'The Cynic' (David certainly is getting around at the moment)and the closer, 'She's Made of Chalk', Kashmir display a thoroughness bordering on the anal-retentive, inflecting every inch of this record with very personal ideosyncrasies and sounds. Chord (and Key) changes are always a little unexpected, and frontman Kasper Eistrup's vocals range from sounding bored, almost tired on 'The Cynic' to exultant ('Ophelia').
If atention to detail and atmosphere are the hallmarks of a great band, don't expect Kashmir to be confined to Denmark for much longer.

Modern Times

2006-09-04T13:08:00.000+09:30

Dylan is back. And more Dylan that ever. Some are labelling this new piece the third installment of a trilogy that begun with 1997's Time Out of Mind and 2001's Love and Theft. The three represent a huge return to form, and Modern Times may well be the best of the lot.
"I don't see myself as a political activist, I see myself as more of a song and dance man", he was quoted in 1965, but here it seems he has managed to merge the two into a cohesive whole. Modern Times is the title from Charlie Chaplin's silent film about Nazi Germany, and, as with much throughout Dylan's vast career, it is unlikely the title selection is a coincidence. This is a record steeped in history - indeed, the songs take their cues directly from 50's rock, swing, jazz, country and blues - yet their tone, in a most subtle way, is astonishingly contemporary, a gentle dig at the modern world via a glowing reminiscence of simpler times.
Dylan actually wrote a flat-out love song (the leisurely 'Spirit on the Water')harking back to a simple life and a simple love, enhancing the sensation that 'Modern Times' are losing their quaintness and appeal. Throughout, music that in lesser hands would seem dated and stale is brought to vivid life through the (naturally) sharp lyrics and Dylan's, new, old man growl, so full of character that you wonder how he ever sung before all the cigarettes got to him.
Bob Dylan is back in form, in a big way.

An Eye for a Brow, A Tooth for a Pick

2006-09-04T12:52:00.000+09:30

There is a constant debate amongst everyone from schoolkids to the intelligentsia over what the definition of cool is. Shakespeare probably got the closest when he wrote 'above all else, be true to thyself'. Ground Components certainly have done that. And they've made a record that is cool. Very cool. Cool in it's total lack of pretension and a resolute focus on rock and fun. Opening with the schizophrenic 'On Your Living Room Floor', blending creepy keyboards, barking commands (otherwise known as Joe McGuigan's vocals), screaming guitars and (of course) a childrens' choir, the resistance to external influences is stamped all over this ultra confident, ultra cool debut. Did I mention it was cool? MC Macromantics joins in on the unexpected delight 'Coming in From All Angles', while the stunningly tight groove of rhythm section Indra Adams and Joe's brother Simon come storming to the fore on 'Head in the Sand' and the 70's Cop Show inspired 'Stale Thoughts'.
But the two clear highlights are the pseudo-Spaghetti Western/horror movie theme 'Fistful of Dallas' and the extended cover of Dylan's 'It's Alright Ma (I'm Only Bleeding). Stretched out to over 8 minutes, it never steps below exhilirating and inventive. Eye for a Brow... is chock full of vision and ambition; Ground Components have created one of the most confident and impressive debuts from an Aussie band for years. An absolute corker of an Aussie record.
And it's cool.

I'm Jack of This

2006-08-25T12:28:00.000+09:30

Paris Hilton has cut an album. Seriously, how can we expect to take the music industry as a whole seriously anymore? Things like health, education and employment have for centuries been far more easily accessible for the wealthy and elite, but now, it's been proven that, if you have the money behind you, you can buy songs. Successful songs. Stars are Blind, her first single, actually isn't too bad. The problem is, it has nothing to do with her. She bought a songwriter, numerous producers (A-list ones at that) and enough software to make her sound like an asthmatic Whitney Houston (in tune, but weak as piss), and made a hit record. It is now official. To be successful in the music industry, you now require ZERO talent. Just a pre-existing profile.
The most worrying thing of all is the perception of Hilton as role model to young girls. The same woman who is on countless mobile phones performing sex acts in front of a camera is idolised by hundreds of thousands of (mainly American) young women. I guess the new aspiration is to be born wealthy and act like a twat. Touche, Paris.

Of Whales and Woe

2006-08-21T12:32:00.000+09:30

I'll be open and honest with you. I am a bass player. Not particularly good, mind you, but I play a bit and know enough to be a bit biased when listening to either a Primus or Les Claypool record. The man is a freak. Listening to one of his records usually elicits a reaction somewhere in between outright awe at his prowess and downright devastation due to my profound lack of said prowess, generally incorporating both at once, in a very Orwellian, doublethink-style manner. Opening with Back Off Turkey, one would be forgiven for thinking that Les has gone completely nuts, even by his own standards, but after 2 minutes of vocal yelps and half sentences over half complete music lines and a repetitious rhythm, suddenly the bass starts slapping, and One Better begins. And it is the funkiest, wildest ride to be heard this year. Indeed, for many years. Of Whales and Woe is Claypool's 5th solo album, and in a nutshell, it's Primus withouht the backing band. There is minimal guitar, and Claypool plays drums himself, and this spare nature allows his amazing bass skills to come very much to the for, whether it be on the ultra funky, ultra sly and ultra quiry One Better, or on the equally funky but way quirkier Filipino Ray, or perhaps the strange jazz lounge-on-acid trip of Vernon the Company Man.
Replete with Xylophone, odd percussion and distorted brass, woodwind and strings, the album's lack of convention is it's clear strength, allowing a truly unique musician on top of his game to carve a very unique path for himself.
If you play bass, or love Primus, this is for you. If not, you probably won't get it.

From the Vault - Cast of Thousands

2006-08-11T12:21:00.000+09:30

Recently I was given as a gift the fantastic critical list '1001 Albums you must hear before you die', the purpose of which is quite self explanatory. Now, with any critical list, there will be disagreements, and I tend to avoid attacking these lists with a great deal of vigour, understanding the intrinsically subjective nature of music. However, on that list was missing 2 absolutely seminal records of the past 5 years (in their place, I might add, was Destiny's Child's Survivour). One was the Shins' Chutes Too Narrow, and the other was this.
Cast of Thousands was a bolt from the blue. Having established some critical acclaim with the overrated, yet Mercury award winning Asleep in the Back, Elbow's sophomore effort was anticipated with some trepidation. Would it be more gloomy, undergratuate (yet admittedly, very beautiful) doom-rock, or something else? The answer was the latter, in the most emphatic manner possible.
Opening with the jumpy, neo-radiohead beeping that has taken over the world, 'Ribcage' quickly morphs into a pounding, repetitious gospel number filled with swelling choral sounds more at home in a US baptist church than a quintisentially British love song.
In fact the opening 5 songs are nothing less than essential. 'Fallen Angel' with it's buzzsaw bass and glorious mid-song breakdown, 'Fugitive Motel', all desperately longing strings and heart-tugging lyrics 'I'll blow you a kiss/It should reach you tomorrow/as it flies from/the other side of the world'. These are followed by one of the most devastating one-two punches in modern music. 'Snooks (Progress Report)' is a tribal drum-driven ode to something about dodgy friends or other, while 'Switching Off' is undoubtedly the centrepiece. With frontman Guy Garvey singing like he's underwater, Elbow deliver an astonishingly touching portrait of undying love, with a chorus that could bring the most mean-hearted to tears.
The jazz-lounge menace of 'I've Got Your Number' can still send shivers up the spine when the fingernails-down-the-blackboard organ kicks in, and the crowd at Glastonbury singing along on 'Grace Under PRessure' is always thrilling (hence the title of the record.
This is, without doubt, one of the highlights of British music for the past 25 years, and that's saying something.
Absolutely essential.

Peeping Tom

2006-08-08T15:31:00.000+09:30

Mike Patton is the Shit. Over nearly 20 years, it is arguable that no other artist (with the possible exception of Bjork, who has guested with Patton before) has so consistently pushed musical boundaries and genres while still selling a heap of records, as he has. It really is unarguable that he is certainly the most prolific. Bungle, Faith no More, Fantomas, Tomahawk, and now this, the solo project, Peeping Tom. And this is no exception to his record of sheer quality and uniqueness. Collaborating with an astonishing variety of artists, from Dan the Automator to Norah Jones (who is dazzlingly, awesomely, potty-mouthed on Sucker), this record traverses some familiar terrain, the schitzophrenic, pseudo hip-hop insanity of opener 5 seconds, to the much more different (for Patton) in the oh-so-nearly-regulation pop of lead single Mojo. While it is almost a straight-up pop track, it is so, so, so much better than anything you'll hear this year by anyone we might categorise as a pop artist, that it may as well be a new artistic medium, let alone a separate genre. For the perfect balance between the conventional and the madcap, bizarre, and the otherworldly, look no further than this record.
Also, credit must go to the cover artists, who have come up with, by far, the best CD sleeve in many, many years.
Madness rarely sounds this good.

Live Monkeys

2006-08-04T12:20:00.000+09:30

A couple of nights ago a mate and I caught a gig that very few Melburnians were able to attend (although many, it seems, wanted to). At the Palace we bore witness to the Arctic Monkeys, wonders of the new musical age, live.

Before I go on, I just want to congratulate The Grates for one of the best support slots I've seen in many years. Energetic, colourful, enthusiastic, and with some great songs that, having never heard them all at once, I'd never attributed to the one band. Nice work.

With a record as strong as Whatever People Say I am, That's What I'm Not to perform, and a crowd as devoted and rabid as I haven't seen since Metallica in 1996, it's really impossible to do a bad show, and the Monkeys performed a one-hour set comprising of all the songs off that record minus Red Light Indicates Doors are Secure, plus three new tracks, the (very tall) crowd chanting along faithfully to every cockney word and convoluted lyric.
As I said, this was a good show, but it lacked one absolutely essential ingredient which stopped it from being a great show.
Anarchy.
This was, quite possibly, the most professional, polished and rehearsed-to-within-an-inch-of-it's-life set of music I've ever seen. Songs segued into one another a number of times, but not in a spontaneous, Cat Empire-like explosion of impulsiveness, but because it had been decided upon much earlier. Songs refused to divert from the original structure and sound, either through bold improvisation or premeditated decision. And it was this lack of chaos that held the show back.
The great thrill of live music isn't the crowd, or the banter from the band (of which there was precious little, and it was mainly unintelligble. Whether through mumbling or a thick Sheffield accent, I'll never know). It's not the songs themselves, which you've probably heard a number of times. It's the feeling, in the back of your skull, that at any moment, something amazing, or awful, could happen. That's the magic moment. To be there when something incredible happens.
One of my favourite live music moments was seeing Snow Patrol last year. During the big, climactic, centrepiece number, the big, ballsy ballad, Run, just before the soaring, triumphant, minute-long guitar solo, Gary Lightbody trod on his lead, cutting out the sound of the aforementioned virtuoso performance. The crowd stood agog as he kept playing, waiting as a roadie came out, re-amplified his instrument, and he continued. After the solo, the closing chorus was to begin, and, as one, perhaps as a show of support, perhaps because it was the only bit much of the crowd knew, the audience sung for him. All four blokes stood on stage with "I can't believe a bunch of tossers from Scotland are having their song sung in Melbourne" smiles on their faces. And it was glorious.

And it never would have happened on Wednesday night.

Death by Sexy....Oh Yeah!

2006-07-28T14:57:00.000+09:30

Eagles of Death Metal. They're not the Eagles, and they don't play death metal, but they like to rock, and it's sexy as all fuck. They like to root, frequently and imaginatively. Opening with I want you so Hard (Boy's Bad News), they basically re-release the opening track off their previous record, Peace, Love and Death Metal, but amp up the sexification to 11. All falsetto vocals, fast paced, Josh Homme trademark rhythms, and a blistering guitar solo. This is cock rock, circa 2006. Emphasis on the cock. And the rock. Featuring other titles like Don't Speak (I came here to BANG) and I like to Move in the Night, there is only ever one thing on the mind of these Eagles.
And it's awesome. Not since King's of Leon's Aha Shake Heartbreak has a rock record been this steeped in sex. Admittedly, it's lacking the drugs and rock 'n' roll of KoL's effort, but it retains the same Mid-American tight jeans swagger. And speaking of tight jeans, the knowing nod to the Rolling Stone's Sticky Fingers on the cover (or is it giving it the finger?) just adds to the forthrightness of the record.
These guys like to fuck. And they want to tell the world about it.

TV on the Radio on the Stage

2006-07-24T12:08:00.000+09:30

Last night I was lucky enough to bear witness to the organised chaos that was TV on the Radio in person. Having been shifted from the Forum to the Hi Fi Bar (I assume due to low ticket sales, no surprise considering the diffcult, avant-garde nature of the music), TVOTR proceeded to try to blow the roof off the place through sheer volume.
This was the dub-oriented, melodic, soulful intricacies of both of TVOTR's previous albums being rocked to within an inch of their lives. And it was awesome.
The jazz fusion/gospel of 'The Wrong Way' was wrenched out of shape to resemble something like At the Drive-In doing rockabilly, 'Dirtywhirl' eased into a flowing groove before exploding in a feedback-drenched explosion of noise.
There is something intrsinsically thrilling about a band that can come up with more than one way to make a song sound great, and even more thrilling to hear that new way in person. The vocals of Tunde Adebimpe and Kyp Malone blended together to create amazing sounds, all the while making the lyrics absolutely unintelligible, yet still strangely mesmerising.

The encore of 'A Method' and 'Staring at the Sun' switched smoothly from vocals/percussion creating a new texture and feeling, to a wailing cacophony, David Sitek powering away on every pedal he could lay a foot to, pummeling the audience with sound.
The greatest compliment one can pay is that as the noise of the final song subsided, the volume in the room didn't change as the rapturous applause of a sold-out HiFi Bar singing the band's praises took over.

Snow Patrol - Eyes Open

2006-07-20T16:12:00.000+09:30

A couple of years ago, Snow Patrol, after years of struggling as a Scottish band always hovering around success, broke through with 'Final Straw', one of the absolute gems of 2005. Filled with beauty, paranoia and alienation in equal measure, it was, for many, myself included, the soundtrack to their winter that year. Be it the glitchy pop-rock of 'How to be Dead', the dread-filled 'Somewhere a Clock is Ticking' or the triumphant singalong anthem 'Run', Snow Patrol had married accessible stadiu rock with creative zing and emotional authenticity to hit on a winner. And the public agreed.
And Snow Patrol got a taste for it.
Singer Gary Lightbody ditched co-founder and bass player Mark McLelland, who was keen to continue the push into new waters, recruited a newbie and set about recreating the success, Coldplay-style. And just like Colplay's Chris Martin, Lightbody has certainly got the songwriting chops to back up his actions. It's just that it's so damn SAFE. No risks, nothing seriously personal or introspective. Just rehashed ideas and standard break-up platitudes.
Muscially, this is crafted for stadium success, from the rocking opener, 'Hands Open', to the more sedate duet with Martha Wainwright, 'Set Fire to the Third Bar', this is brimming with radio-friendliness. It's just not original. Parachutes, Coldplay's debut, was hardly innovative, but it was chock full of heart and genuine wonderment at how much fun this music caper was. Very similar to 'Final Straw'. 'Eyes Open' is just like 'X & Y', bland, unimaginative rock for the masses, with the glaring exception of 'Shut your Eyes', a moody, flowing number which stands out on this album like a sore thumb.
A disappointment.

He hasn't quite disappeared completely

2006-07-11T15:22:00.000+09:30

The solo album that isn't. Thom Yorke insists that this is no solo project. Well, sorry Thom, but it is. It's just you. Going SOLO. I understand you don't want to scare fans inot thinking you're breaking up the band, but unless you consider Johnny Greenwood playing a bit of piano, or Nigel Godrich (who else) producing to be collaborative, this is very much a solo album.
And it's a pretty good one. Imagine a Radiohead album without Radiohead. Stupid as it sounds, what you're thinking of is most likely quite close to what we have here: The Eraser contains what are now Yorke's trademark skittering beats, electronic noise and broken time signatures, but actually stops short (mostly) from taking a step into what would be avant-garde, even for Radiohead, with the exception of the disturbing (and disturbed) 'Skip Divided'.
The big difference here, and the thing that truly sets this apart from any of the group's work, is the personal nature of the material. Previously, when Yorke has sung 'you' one tends to imagine he's referring to anyone, speaking in the second person, always making a somewhat rhetorical statement about the sorry state of the world. Here, he's actually speaking directly to (apparently) a very specific person. When, on album highlight 'Black Swan' he mumbles 'Do yourself a favour and pack your bags', it actually sounds like a relationship song. A rocky one nonetheless, as evidenced by the chorus 'Cause this is fucked up, fucked up'.
It's always so refreshing to hear a singer capable of swearing in song without resorting to cliche.
'Harrowdown Hill', the location of the suicide of Dr David Kelly, the British intelligence specialist is a deeply moving portrait of a man contemplating ending it all, over a scratchy, almost funky bassline. And 'Atoms for Peace' finds Yorke's vocals at possibly their sweetest ever.
The Eraser always feels ready to pack up its bags and leave, but hangs around, forlornly, but still there. And it's the brief flashes of hope that seem to shine through each song that make this a gem. If you like Radiohead post-OK computer, you'll like The Eraser, but don't expect it to make you smile.

Black Holes and Revelations

2006-07-10T12:19:00.000+09:30

I think Mel Gibson's new movie, 'Apocalypto' stole it's title from Muse. For if ever there was a title for a Muse record, that was it.
The closing track on Muse's new record, 'Black Holes and Revelations' is entitled 'Knights of Cydonia'. It opens up, before the intro, with the sounds of galloping horses and laser fire. Seriously. This is Muse, 2006-style. Flying in the face of the current in vogue notion of 'keeping it real', Muse defiantly look to the stratosphere and beyond. Black Holes (Supermassive ones at that), other universes, futuristic knights, it's all here. And it's here HUGE. Like everything Muse have ever done, they embrace their overblown pretenses with a vigour that is as admirable as it is impressive.
Opener, 'Take a Bow' is all fire-and-brimstone anti-incumbent-government diatribe, with intergalactic overtones. Following straight after is 'Starlight', which may be Muse's first ever straight-out love song, with intergalactic overtones. 'Supermassive Black Hole', is three minutes of Muse giving the finger to Rogue Traders, TV Rock and BodyRockers. All sexy rhythms, falsetto vocals and pumping, thrust your hips guitar. With intergalactic overtones. 'Invincible' is a big, triumphant, marching-band produciton, all uplifting lyrics and high, soaring guitar noise. Suddenly, in it's place is the best 80's cock-rockin' finger-tapping guitar solo this side of Def Leppard. Muse sure know how to close out a song. However, no intergalactic-ness here. But the highlight has to be "Assassin", where Muse decide that, just for one song, they'll do thrash metal. And how. Blistering drum work and painfully fast fretting leaves you exhausted after nearly 4 minutes. I don't know what they're singing about, but I assume there's some intergalactic overtones to it.
Muse, with this, their fourth LP, have fully established themselves as one of the most exciting, interesting and imaginative bands in the world. It's a shame Mel forced them to change the title of the record (the current one's still pretty good), but never has Armageddon and insanity seemed this exhilirating, or fun.

P-Funk!

2006-07-07T09:38:00.000+09:30

Of late, I've been indulging in my love of 70's funk. Not your soft core, kind of bouncy with a backbeat cool of James Brown 'Sex Machine' era (which is still cool), but more the wear-nappies-on-stage, funk yourself into oblivion, funk-as-a-way-of-life mania! In other words, P-Funk.
Parliament-Funkadelic, one band made of two bands, over 50 musicians, one message. The Funk.

It really began with Eddie Hazels 9 minute guitar solo on the opening, title track of 1971's 'Maggot Brain'. Legend has it that frontman George Clinton told Hazel to 'play like yo' momma just died', and the result was pressed to vinyl. Clinton had the good sense to move any other band members way into the background and let the wailing solo do the talking. Maggot Brain set the standard, switching from barber shop to gospel to more rock, but always with the funk in the foreground.
but P-Funk really kicked into gear with Parliament's 'Mothership Connection', possibly the only record ever to wear the label of pure funk. There is no rock, no soul, no gospel. This is funk as it only could be. Also providing Parliament with their biggest single, "Give up tha Funk (Tear the Roof Off the Sucka)" the album cover sports Clinton wearing thigh length silver boots and spaceman costume, spreadeagle from the door of a flying saucer. And that's about as close a representation of the music within as a photo could get.
Standing on the Verge of Getting it On" is the best funk-rock until Rage Against the Machine took funk and tore it a new arsehole, while "One Nation Under a Groove" is P-Funk at its danceable best.
No matter the occasion, funk is the music that anyone can listen to and not complain about. It is universal, danceable and groovy.
This is one back catalogue you need to have.

TV on the Radio

2006-07-07T09:04:00.000+09:30

Firstly, one of the coolest band names going around.
TV on the radio are one of those bands I always heard about but had never heard any music, so never got around to buying their records, then, about a year ago, in an impulsive rush, I picked up their 2004 debut, 'Desperate Youth, Bloodthirsty Babes' (again, what a great title), and whacked it on the stereo.
Immediately I was assulted by 'The Wrong Way' and it's neveau-jazz tenor saxophone cacophony over a one-note bassline that can only be described as 'driving'. With broken-time drum loops, fuzz guitar, and potent political lyrics ("your guns are pointing the wrong way"), I instantly fell in love.

Rock music as avant-garde and original as this is rarely any good, and even more rarely finds its way from New York to the backwaters of Australia, but here they are. And we're richer for it.
'Dreams', the first single, with it's dub-heavy percussion and dreamy guitars (I think they are guitars) reminds the listener that it's not all totally weird rock/dub/electronica/gospel/blues, but retains a melodic intensity that shines through all but the most proggy wig-out.
The highpoint comes about half way, with 'Poppy', which for one third of it's 6 minute length is a soaring, triumphant, guitar-driven (it's definitely a guitar this time) rock epic, sounding like The Strokes, with enormous testicles, and less need to be danceable. But then, about 2 miuntes in, the song shifts gear into an amazing acapella doo-wop version of the same song. It's nothing short of incredible.
TV on the radio have captured the artistic integrity and creative spirit of bands like Yes, Mogwai, and even a bit of King Crimson, distilled it, and brought it screaming into the now. It's terrific.

Which brings me to the new record, 'Return to Cookie Mountain'. If 'DY,BB' opener, 'The Wrong Way' was difficult, then 'I Was a Lover' is positively impossible. Dischordant strings float over 'Pyramid Song'-style drum patterns, with the occasional sound of the CD skipping. Lyrics are there, but you can't quite see where they fit. And then, and second beat kicks in, skittering in under the radar, and suddenly the song gels. And probably not the first time you hear it. This is song making of the highest order.
However, the album never quite follows through on the promise to be even zanier than the debut, and thankfully, the band pull it off with aplomb. Hours, with it's humming Hammond organ and high vocals, sets a high precedent for accessible art-rock, followed by the Bowie-esque 'Province' which funnily enough features a backing vocal by the man himself. It is a testament to the confidence of TVotR that, even when the services of such a luminary are available, he is relegated to a muffled backing vocal.
'Wolf Like Me' is pounding hyper-rock, and 'Dirtywhirl' sounds exactly as it's title should.

10/10 for both records.

PS - I will be seeing these guys at the forum on July 23rd, so expect a report on what will hopefully be a great show.

5 months in.......

2006-05-09T10:39:00.000+09:30

What a year 2006 is shaping up to be! Every week it seems there is a new record that is vying to be the best I've heard all year. And it's only May! Arctic Monkeys, Augie March, Tool and now Gomez! how we Operate, the new studio album from the suddenly prolific British 5 piece, follows in the mould of 2005's Split the Difference, but goes another step. Where StD had pop gems (Catch me Up, These 3 Sins, Me, You & Everybody), The Way we Operate has stone cold classics, with some of the catchiest choruses you're ver likely to hear (Notice, See the World, girlshapedlovedrug). And, where StD had a second half of more traditional Gomez meddling with structure and genre (and getting it right and wrong in equal measure), TWWO seems to work, with Eastern strings, horns and fuzz vocals. While Gomez could be accused of going a bit poppy, there seems to be a renewed focus and attention to detail that has been missing somewhat since 2000's Liquid Skin.
Gomez are back.

Art-Rockers rock - Even more!

2006-05-03T12:38:00.000+09:30

Tool have, for nearly 15 years, been synonymous with deep, heavy, artistic rock music. All double-kick drums and heavy bass, with cracked time signatures, floating, almost-insane guitar and Maynard James Keenan's deep, threatening vocals, sometimes screaming, sometimes bawling a gutteral yell hovering over the top. But always different. Always looking to change things. 10,000 Days, their latest offering, is no different. But, if possible, they've gone even heavier. Witness the speed-metal riffing and drumming intro to the kick-arse 'Jambi', or the heightened crescendo of 10,000 days (Part 2).
Then, just when you wonder how long they can maintain this kind of intensity, comes 'The Pot', and amazing blend of the aforementioned depp metal/rock and Eastern/Indian raga. It's incredible. And Keenan is in such fine voice, you find yourself questioning whether it's actually him. It stands out as one of Tool's greatest ever songs.
After 16 years and (only) 4 albums, it is refreshing to see that Tool are still capable of the mind-numbing, powerhouse riffing and skin-bashing to match their lyrical and melodic complexity.
When it comes to power-metal, Tool (and perhaps System of a Down) are in a class of their own.

The Hardest Way to Earn an Easy Living

2006-05-03T12:02:00.000+09:30

Mike Skinner, aka The Streets, is famous. In a pretty big way. And what do you do when you've spent 4 years rhyming/rapping/singing about the traumas of quasi-poverty in London's north, and you're faced with serious wealth, miders to pay your bills, serve your food and drive your rolls? Complain about it, of course. And Skinner does so with the same brutal honesty seen on 2000's Original Pirate Material and 2003's A Grand Don't Come for Free.
However, where those records were full of bouncing, original, creative garage beats, melodies and guest vocals that were by turns funny and inventive, The Hardest Way... seems to be drowning in a sea of cliche. Suddenly, many of the guest vocalists sound like Montell Jordan, and the beats and loops sound like the same rubbish you might hear on the Rage top 60 on a Saturday morning.
Not only that, but it seems that this wasn't a Skinner idea, as his vocals seem uncomfortable over the top of the music on this record. Painful to say as this is, but perhaps the men in suits have got to The Streets.
So while ranting about the joys of a blatantly materialistic lifestyle on Memento Mori, or mourning the death of his father on Never went to CHurch, Skinner retains his wit and charm, it seems US success has (funnily enough) tainted what was once a thoroughly original artist.
Shame.

From the vault: Bryter Layter?

2006-04-20T12:20:00.000+09:30

I don't know if Nick Drake was referencing some obscure piece of Welsh history, or if he just couldn't spell. But the parallels between him and his modern day equivalent (Jeff Buckley) are striking. Both recorded astonishingly mature debut records (Drake's Five Leaves Left) and both utilised a lush production method to create music of striking beauty and emotional forthrightness. Thankfully, Drake survived long enough to record 3 records, and it is his second, Bryter Later, that tends to slip under the radar.
Opening with a brief, finger picked guitar over sweeping strings (beautifully arranged by maestro Robert Kirby) introduction, the album kicks in with 'Hazy Jane II' (why this precedes 'Hazy Jane I', no one will ever know), which is in equal measures a bouncy early 70's pop gem and wistful tale of unrequited love.
Drakes tenor voice manages to hold sway over the dense produciton across the record, as he muses on life's unpredictability ('One of These Things First'), then produces a love song, which in lesser hands would have stunk of 5 day old gouda, but here is the achingly gorgeous 'Northern Sky'.
A true folk/rock/pop classic, and a perfect introduction to a truly gifted musician, whose legacy, while short, will live on for generations.

Album of the year (so far)??

2006-04-19T12:19:00.000+09:30

Well, it's only April, but I've already picked up two records that could well be vying for best of 2006 by year's end (bearing in mind upcoming releases by Radiohead and Muse, among others).
The Arctic Monkeys debut is as good a freshman album as you'll hear, brimming with vigour, humour and observance. Oh yeah, and it rocks. Think Mike Skinner from the Streets picks up an axe and chucks on his back catalogue of AC/DC, along with the Pixies, the Stones and Blur.
Terrific Stuff.
At the other end of the spectrum, Melbourne (Go local boys!) band Augie March ahve produced yet another compelling addition to their already impressive discography. Backing up 2000's Sunset Studies, and 2002's Strange Bird (Both of which made their respective year's top ten in my book), the Augs have condensed and slightly abbreviated their sound, without going - for want of a better word - 'poppy'. Opener 'One Crowded Hour' could well be the best song every written by anyone, anywhere. Well, not quite, but it's a corker. It is followed by an hour of intense, melodic poetry, revisiting the intimate stylings of Sunset Studies, but with greater control and maturity.
2006 is looking pretty solid so far.

The times, they are a-changin'

2006-04-19T12:05:00.000+09:30

Seeing as Easter is a time for reinvention, rebirth and renewal, I figure it's time to announce that a quantum shift has taken plance, a change in paradigm, if you will here at Machines Against the Rage. After finally succumbing to the inevitable truth, I've decided it's impossible to continue blogging in the manner I had attempted. Once I missed about a week, I would sit down to type, only to become swamped with a number of topics too great to really deal with.
So now, today, MATR is REBORN! Henceforth, this blog will concern itself solely with matters musical. I have embraced my musical nerdishness/snobbery, and will now critique and applaud (in equal measure) music from around the globe, and invite others to do the same.
be it gigs, CDs, discussions of the benefit of digital music or whether Peter Gabriel's work was better after he left Genesis or not, you'll find it here.
Stay tuned, fellow music nerds, stay tuned.

Return of the King

2006-03-05T20:36:00.000+10:30

Well, this is it. After my seven days (ish) in the wilderness, I return. Better than ever, with greater powers and insight, having spent several months ensconsed with the tribal cult of nefata -toktiki-tki in Chelsea, Victoria, drinking the menstrual blood of Japanese virgin daughters of prostitutes, I now am a complete human being, replete with wisdom and insight. Seriously.

In actuality, life's been good. I've visited Hobart, which was brilliant, I've added several thousand songs to my MP3 player, and I've bought the new record byu the Arctic Monkeys. They rock. Massively. Happy ten years in power to John Howard, I'm happy for some portion of my tax money to pay for parliamentarians to attend your various functions around the country to celebrate your dubious achievements.

Anyway, this is merely a return to form, more detail will follow, and the events of the missing 2 months will forever remain a secret.

Summer Lovin'

2006-01-08T18:01:00.000+10:30

Not that I have anything particularly revelatory to say, I just haven't posted for ages, so I felt obliged to put pen to paper, figuratively speaking. Right now, it's hot. Damn hot. Melbourne weather can get out of control at times, such as new years eve, when we experienced a 43 degree day (that's about 109 farenheit). Global warming? Who knows, but it's hot. Right now, I could do with some raised sea levels, rather than have to drive half an hour to get to the beach. There's no worse feeling than waking up and having your legs velcroed together by sweat. Having said all that, I love hot weather. Love the warm discomfort. I figure I complain all winter about how cold it is, therefore I have relinquished any right to bitch about the weather in warmer times, like all the people that constantly feel obliged to inform me about how horrible the weather is unless it's 25 and clear with a light breeze.
Forecast for tomorrow? 36 and hot. Damn hot.

Christmas Cheer

2005-12-22T12:38:00.001+10:30

Ahhhh, the office at Christmas time, is there anything as remarkably cheesy/charming? Kris Kringles (i scored an excellent desk calender filled with useless factoids), morning teas, and a LONG WEEKEND baby! Excitement is something I have no intention of contating right now. Five days of relaxation (even if one of them is the eating/drinking/small-talking-with relatives-you-see-once-a-year marathon that is Christmas day) seems so foreign to me as to be surreal. Not in a Dali-esque, melting clocks kind of way, but a crazy, 'there's no way they'll let me out of here for that long, they must be rebuilding the office in my living room while I sleep' kind of way. Or is that paranoia? Who cares. Seasons Greetings to all who undergo what must seem like some form of unique torture in reading this blog. I'm actually supposed to be writing about the annual trauma that is new years eve (hereafter referred to as NYE).

I will get around to the travails of the aforementioned relatives on Christmas day, but I think I'll save that for after the ordeal is over. Currently, I am faced with the dilemma that is organising/deciding how I will spend the yearly attempted uber party that happens on December 31st, and with whom I will spend it.

I told Nicole that she can choose if she likes, but my girl isn't the most decisive character in the world (bless her soul), so I think it might fall to me.
Unfortunately, some of my friends are talking about going to a pub next Saturday night. This would be a grave error. To spend upwards of $50 to be locked into a sardine tin with women so gorgeous that you feel like a criminal just looking, and blokes with collars so far up around their ears that I feel they are actually some means designed specifically to keep their heads attached, while keeping their designer mullets with the peroxided mohawk thing untouchable and therefore perfectly coiffed and primped (I can't stand the collar up, private school, head-up-their-arse brigade. Wankers), seems just foolish to me. That doesnt even take into account the expense of continuing to drink while surrounded by said denizens of the Melbourne underworld.

Think I'll stay home, drink bloody Lubers (that's bourbon shots for the uninitiated) and watch TV to see how different their respective clocks are by seeing how far apart their celebrations take place. Then again, I'm sure that TV will be filled with many a raised collar too.....

PS - stay tuned for my analysis of the life forms that surface to forage for booze on NYE.

Christmas Cheer

2005-12-22T12:38:00.000+10:30

Freeform Jazz Odyssey

2005-12-15T10:07:00.000+10:30

Since 'Spinal Tap', the words Freeform Jazz Odyssey have carried the connotation of incompetence. Derek Smalls' incoherent bass, while hilarious, was indicative of the kind of associations we make with the idea of letting jazz musicians have free rein.
Well, I witnessed what could be termed a freeform jazz oddysey last night at Bennet's Lane Jazz Club in the city, and it was magnificent.
Jazz muso and piano virtuoso Paul Grabowsky has teamed up with the country's best (by a mile) singer, Katie Noonan, to create a double album called 'Before Time Could Change Us', employing lyrics by acclaimed Australian poet Dorothy Porter, and it's beautiful. With a rhythm section that beggars belief (Phil Rex on double bass and Simon Barker on drums) complemented by trumpeter Scott Tinkler and Grabowsky's piano work, the entire 16 songs gel together to form a moving whole.
Porter's libretto charts a lover's journey, from cynicism and self-protection to joyful surrender, then along a rocky course of doubt, disillusionment and, finally, a sense of lost innocence and quiet reflection.
Paul Grabowsky's musical score brilliantly evokes the shifting emotional terrain negotiated by the protagonist, using texture, mood and genre to mirror the lover's inner world.
Occasionally, Grabowsky's arrangements, which tend towards the complex, seem to intentionally contradict each other, sometimes held together only by the dazzlingly fast Rex's bass lines. But this complexity serves as a wonderful counterpoint to the softer, more reflective moments, such as 'If Snakes Could Fly', where Noonan's voice finally gets a chance to reveal itself, sheltered as it was by a wall of sound for much of the performance.

An amazing night out, for sure, and a record that I recommend to any jazz fan.

A cause for national shame

2005-12-12T14:33:00.000+10:30

Even though it pains me to pull out one of those ubiquitous 'A Current Affair' - style cliches, I can't think of a better way to describe the events on Sunday in Cronulla. I am not so concerned about the event itself (for those who are unaware, there were ugly scenes which have been described as 'race riots' over the weekend. Whether this is sensationalist journalism or not, the targets of the anger were certainly of Middle Eastern descent), but greater concern hangs over the underlying community feelings behind the mob violence. Like you tell any woman at the pub, for every guy who has the guts to speak to you, there's five who want to, but haven't for whatever reason. The same rationale applies here. The real worry are those who sit in their armchairs at home and watch the news with a sense of quiet satisfaction. The door that was opened by Pauline Hanson in 1996, and kicked off its hinges by Howard in 2001 is now the venue for a gradual outpouring of xenophobic sentiment.
It's the little things - i.e. 'Bloody Asian drivers' or Wog this or Lebbo that. Innocuous as it may seem, it's growing up in a culture that on the surface, tolerates bigotry, that can lead to the grander and more frightening racism we saw yesterday. That is, blaming an entire ethnicity for the actions of a few. Racial stereotyping is nothing new, but the new climate of 'home-grown terrorists' and 'Islamist terrorists' and 'Islamic fundamentalists' boils a complex issue down to racial lines...the very thing that results in unmitigated hatred being unleashed on the innocent.
Something must be done to institue radical social and cultural change at the grass roots level. And it is up to political and cultural leaders to set a better example than obligatory statements of 'disgust' and 'condemnation' that spew forth from PM's and oppostition leaders alike in times like these.
Moves must be made to eradicate the idea that Australians of one colour are any different from Australians of any other colour.
I live in hope that one day, kids will grow up unaware of the original nationality or ethnicity of their next door neighbour.

Australia's Favourite Films

2005-12-08T14:41:00.000+10:30

On Sunday night, the ABC ran a programme entitled 'My Favourite Film', which was basically the announcement of the country's 10 favourite flicks, after a 3 month internet and mail and phone poll. The results were in some cases, very surprising.
10. Fight Club
9. Gone with the Wind
8. The Princess Bride
7. Pulp Fiction
6. Star Wars - Episode IV
5. Donnie Darko
4. The Shawshank Redemption
3. Blade Runner
2. Amelie
1. Lord of the Rings (Trilogy)
Excellent films, all of them. But best ever? Absolutely not. And nor should they be. This is the 'favourite' films of the Australian public. This is not the assessment of an assortment of film experts, but the preference of the unwashed masses. I think it is indicative of the ephemeral nature of film that almost all are so recent (Citizen Kane came in at 92). One point that film elitists must come to terms with is that modern films are, in fact, very good. Occasionally.
Peter Carey is one such elitist who can't stop extolling the virtues of every film ever made by a foreigh director. Here is an article he wrote attacking the 'My Favourite Film' process.
http://www.theage.com.au/news/opinion/movie-favourites-a-populist-grovel/2005/12/07/1133829659777.html

Not to say that these aren't great movies - they are - but intelligentsia such as he must accept that films that are American and made in the past 20 years can still be great, and labelling the public (and by virtue of that the ABC) as foolish is ignorant in the extreme.

By the way, if you want to see the full top 100, see the below address:

http://www.abc.net.au/myfavouritefilm/

Question Time

2005-12-07T12:30:00.000+10:30

I read a great article today, by Chris Evans, who is, granted, an opposition senator, in The Age.
http://www.theage.com.au/news/opinion/senate-under-pressure-as-majority-rules/2005/12/06/1133829597743.html?page=2

Primarily, it's about the government's abuse of it's senate majority. And for a sitting member of the opposition, it's remarkably free of hyperbole. That's refreshing from a politician.
I'm too tired to get genuinely fired up right now, maybe because it's so depressing seeing what's happening. So check out the article and get angry too.

A sad day for Australia

2005-12-06T12:26:00.000+10:30

Tomorrow, it may be illegal for me to write this. The Australian government are routinely incompetent, arrogant, unscrupulous rogues who have completely disregarded the well being of the Australian people to further their own self driven, power-hungry ends. Today, the new anti-terror legislation will be passed through parliament fundamentally unopposed, as the government holds a majority in both houses of parliament. Statements that 'can cause hatred or violence towards the sovereign or the government' will become punishable by a maximum of 7 years jail. As will the publication of said statements.
If the AFP can convince a retired judge that my statements could infer an intention to commit a terrorist act, then I can be taken from my home - for two weeks - without trial, unable to make a phone call or see a lawyer, while all who know of my situation are legally bound to remain silent about where I am or what I'm doing.

This is how democracy dies. The rights of the people are slowly eroded under the pretence of serving their best interests. We now live in a world where it is easier than ever to do. Governments can advertise their intentions, promote their ideologies and in short convince the populace that what they are doing is right. What's more, we live in an age of greater political apathy than ever before. While the country is busy watching Australian Idol, their rights are stolen out from under them.

The government can effectively pass any legislation it chooses, and under the new laws will have a means to silence any dissenters or those who choose to promote alternate views. And the people don't care.

The fear of terrorism has created an atmosphere of carte blanche for the Howard government, and they have been caught up in the wave of their own propaganda. There's far too much material for me to try to attack here.
Rest assured I'm angry. And frightened.

Supermarket Rage

2005-12-06T10:18:00.000+10:30

Last night I needed to buy food for lunch. After a couple of hours hard labour shifting temporary sports flooring (long story), I was on the way home at about 11.45, thinking 'I'll just grab something for my sandwiches tomorrow and be done with it'. I really ought have known better.
Arriving at Coles on Toorak road at 11.58, I was told in no uncertain terms to find myself another supermarket by a typically slack-jawed, self important knob jockey who clearly gets his kicks from excercising what meagre authority is bestowed on him by the powers that be at Coles Myer. So, rather than kick up a shit, I drove further down Toorak Rd to the Burwood 24hr Coles. I walked in, asking for someone to help out in the deli. 'Sorry, the deli shut at 12'. Sorry?
'The deli's closed'. You mean there's no-one here who can weigh some chicken and wrap it in paper? 'No-one'. What about that guy? 'He can't' Isn't he the duty manager? 'Yes'. And he can't operate a scale? 'No.'
Well, after resigning myself to pre-packaged meat, I returned to the checkouts to find the queue 8 DEEP! At 12.15!!! WHAT KIND OF FUCKING BUSINESS ARE THEY RUNNING HERE??!!
Some ageing, matronly woman behind the counter cruising along at her own pace, while I burn in the eternal fires of hell for all she cares. Clearly in their mad rush to be a safe workplace (trust me I used to work for them), the concept of giving a shit about your customers has gone out the window.
When this wizened old crone decided to call for assistance, another slack jawed, buck-toothed, DUMB-ARSED bloke rocked up, then insisted that even though he knew how to operate a till, had no interest in doing so. You lousy little fucker! I'm tired! I'm bored! And I'm PAYING!!!! Without people like me paying for goods, you won't get paid, so you won't be able to afford the detergent to remove the shit stains from the inside of your pants you dumb punk!
Anyway, I'm about to drop an O-ring, so that'll do for now.

The Gender Gap

2005-12-02T13:49:00.000+10:30

Well, last night some mates and I played a scratch match against the Melbourne Falcons Women's AVL (Australian Volleyball League) team to help their preparation for the finals this weekend. To see the draw check out this link: http://www.avf.org.au/comps/AA/2005/AVLFinalsDraw.pdf
Anyway, during the game I encountered a dilemma. How do you go about playing against girls? Even against really excellent players like these girls, it was a no-win situation for the boys, and I think we pulled through admirably. If we played hard - i.e. to win - we look like big bullies getting a kick out of beating up on girls, if we go soft, we look like we're patronising them becasue they're girls. If we lose, we look like hacks, and if we win, we get no kudos, because 'men are better athletes'. (Even though if you saw me you'd realise how far from athletic I am). The only way out was to just win, while trying hardish and at the same time trying to look like you aren't trying. Luckily enough, that's what happened. Well done to the girls though. If I was half the player they all are I'd be....a much better player.
Gender issues are also favourite talking points of mine, so you'll hear more of this kind of thing in the future.

Top Ten Albums of 2005

2005-12-01T08:21:00.000+10:30

As previously mentioned, I am something of a listophile. I will take any subject and spontaneously compile a list of my preferences in order just to satisfy my own stupid urges. So, in the spirit of controversy and provoking debate, here are my top ten records of 2005:

1. Arcade Fire - Funeral

Debut albums don't come much better than this. Dramatic, powerful, the dark subject matter (see the title) actually serves to enhance the quiet triumph of vocalist Win Butler over the grief of losing those close to him. Of the rash of bands emerging recently to cite new wave bands, Arcade Fire is the only one to truly imbue their music with a sense of drama, pathos and genuine importance, rather than dancefloor rock. Majestic.

2. Doves - Some Cities

After the wonderful 'The Last Broadcast of 2002, Doves have come back with a more refined sound, and boy does it work. Drawing on Motown influences to complement the present Mancunian moods and textures, 'Some Cities' hits all the right notes, from the gorgeous pop melody of 'Snowden' to the richly layered rock of 'Sky is Falling' and 'Black and White Town', Doves have created their most soulful, concise and beautiful record yet. Great

3. Little Barrie - We Are Little Barrie

Grooves don't come much groovier than this. Little Barrie, discovered by British underground musician and one hit wonder Edwyn Collins, have, on the back of some exceptional musicianship, created some of funkiest blues heard since 1965. This one is a sleeper, and if you haven't heard of them, go out and have a listen. Your feet will still be tapping next week.

4. Sufjan Stevens - Come On!! Feel the Illinoise!

With ridiculously long song titles, and the ambition to create an album to represent each of America's 50 states, Sufjan Stevens could be accused of being pretentious, but when you make music this good, pretentiousness and self indulgence are very welcome. Beautiful, sweeping song construction, stories told with just the right combination of local knowledge and personal introspection, Illinoise is a masterpiece.

5. Antony and the Johnsons - I am a Bird Now

The voice. My God, the voice! Hearing Antony (a transgender who controversially won the Mercury Award despite living in New York most of his life) sing is one of those moments that will stop you in your tracks, like hearing Jeff Buckley sing for the first time. An androgynous falsetto, Antony's voice swirls around the gorgeous accompaniments he has also provided. This is the album for 2005 that throws the book out the window.

6. Spoon - Gimme Fiction

Intelligent, artful pop music at its absolute finest, Gimme Fiction is brimming with creativity and spark. Dense where 2002's 'Kill the Moonlight' was sparse, Spoon's latest is a rewarding experience, particularly on repeated listenings.

7. Bloc Party - Silent Alarm

Bloc Party's debut rings out like a clarion call in the night. Full to the rim with intent and purpose, Silent Alarm marries 80's dance floor beats and staccato guitars with a seriousness and currency that somehow complement each other in a perverse way. The best of the crop of new new-wavers.

8. Sigur Ros - Takk.....

Unbelievably, Sigur Ros have been accused of selling out! This may be because second single 'Hopipolla' has a runtime of less than 5 minutes. However, have Chris Martin sing that song in English and you would have (other than a much weaker song) the best and most wildly creative Coldplay song ever. By a mile. Sigur Ros have abbreviated their approach to song construction without compromising their integrity. If only all bands could sell out and be this unique.

9. Maximo Park - A Certain Trigger

What sets Maximo Park apart from the other New Order-inspired young bands at the moment is their attention to melody. In amongst the post-punk beats and thickly accented, somewhat obtuse lyrics, ("I'll do graffiti if you sing to me in French") lie some truly beautiful songs, such as 'The Coast is Always Changing', with it's gorgeous 2 guitars and keys coda through the bridge. The fourth of 5 debut albums on this list.

10. The Go! Team - Thunder, Lightning, Strike!

The Avalnches on crack. The Go! Team's superfluous exclamation mark is the best adjective possible for this eclectic UK group. Combining samples with instrumentation to create a singular musical experience, TLS is the party album of 2006.

Honourable mentions:

Beck - Guerro, Lior - Autumn Flow, The White Stripes - Get behind me Satan, Super Furry Animals - Love Kraft, Hot Hot Heat - Elevator, The Bees - Free the Bees, BRMC - Howl, Ambulance Ltd. - Ambulance Ltd.

Well, there you have it. Feel free to rip my musings to pieces.

About Me

2005-11-30T10:37:00.000+10:30

Hello, as it says over on the right, my name is Ed Butler. If you've gone to the effort of finding and reading this blog, you probably deserve to know a little about me. 24 years old, I live in a disgustingly suburban area in Eastern Melbourne, having experienced a disgustingly suburban upbringing. I work in a laboratory, but not as a scientist, I'm in the finance department.
You will learn more about me as this blog progresses, but I feel I should introduce you to some of the people whom I will reference routinely as I go:

My girlfriend, Nicole - light of my life, apple of my eye, Nic is the one who says, 'Ed, I don't think the kids would appreciate it if you stole all the balls from the McDonalds playground'. My muse and my conscience at once. What a girl.

Mum, Anne - Partially unstable potential mass murderer with a heart of gold or supermum with a mean streak (depending on who you ask), Mum can be angel and demon within the space of half an hour. Unless there's guests (or your room's clean), then it's all Christ-like calm.

Dad, Peter - The big man with the big heart and Yin to Mum's Yang. The only man on Earth who could concievably withstand one of Mum's tirades without punching a wall. Great beard.

Brother & sister-in-law - Troy & Karen - the picture of domestic, suburban wedded bliss. Married for nearly 5 years, and going strong. Good on them. Happy, secure (and a little frugal).

Sister, Charlotte - If I'm the black sheep of the family, Charlotte must be the golden one. Incapable of doing anything wrong, she is walking proof that Mums have favourite children. Top chick my sister, don't worry about that. Likes a drink (and a smoke), good value to have around. Just high maintenance.

Friends - numerous to say the least, I am blessed with an assortment of great people that I call friends (irrespective of whether or not it is reciprocated). Names such as Dan, Megan, Tony, Jen, Rob, Tammie, Tombo, Dave, Rich, Tash, Tim, Caz, Trav, Stokesy, Amy, Luber, Chambo, Belinda, Julia, Tom and Matt (aka Juggs) will all feature at some point or other.

Well, that's it for now, I look forawrd to regaling you with tales involving the cast of characters listed above.
Cheers

Spielberg Boycott

2005-11-29T16:10:00.000+10:30

Well, now it's time to make a real post on this brand spanking new blog of mine, and it goes thus:
I spent a couple of hours last Friday night sitting on the couch with my girlfriend, Nicole, nestled in to watch Spielberg's 'modern masterpiece' (according to many a reviewer), War of the Worlds. Now being an avid fan of science fiction novels, I was reasonably excited to see Tripods erupt from the earth and wreak havoc, so I anticipated an enjoyable DVD experience. And, for about 101 minutes of the estimated 112 minutes runtime, I did enjoy myself. Then, suddenly, it happened. It was Minority Report all over again. After the best part of two hours of trials, challenges and suspense and fear, suddenly, Ray (the chief protagonist) finds his family, alive, well and TOTALLY UNSCATHED!!! What the hell is going on, when the streets are deserted, millions are being wiped out, and yet a small, wealthy family in Boston survives in quiet contentment, while Ray and his children are hunted down by any number of armed aliens in some anonymous barnyard basement! Spielberg is a pussy! That's what's wrong. He can't handle anything but a gloriously happy (read: American) ending (With the notable exception of Schindler's List). Minority Report: ruthlessly hunted down, wrongly accused, CUTS OUT HIS OWN EYEBALLS, to then at the end, beat the baddie, reunite with his estranged wife and recover from the traumatic loss of his son and the ensuing drug addiction.
Am I the only one sensing a distressing dichotomy in his films? I hope not. Therefore, even though this blog may never be read by anyone, I propose we boycott Spielberg movies till he grows a dick!
Who's with me? Hear the call, join the march and let me know brothers and sisters, that we will not stand for such mediocre storytelling (there's a whole new WotW post about that coming some other time)! WE WILL NOT BE SILENCED!!!

Welcome

2005-11-29T15:50:00.000+10:30

Well, here it is. The last word in rambling, open ended blogs. Wishing for a window into the tortured soul of the 9 to 5er? Here it is. The obsessive-compulsive music listening list-o-phile? Look no further. The anti-incumbent political raver? This is your blog. Currently, I am feeling quite passionate about the incoming IR laws the current Howard Liberal (has there ever been a more ironic name for a political party) government are so fond of. You will hear more about them in future postings. Along with my top ten albums of 2005, and maybe even films and songs. And anything else I have time to arrange in order of preference. Hope you enjoy my rantings.

Cheers