Eric Saeger – Page 37

Album Reviews 20/07/23

John Carpenter, “Skeleton”/”Unclean Spirit” (Sacred Bones Records)

It’s funny how things work out, isn’t it? I would have loved to hear the put-downs of Carpenter during the 1980s, mumbled during power-lunches with Hollywood executives, when they’d mercilessly tool on the musically untrained Carpenter’s insistence on soundtracking his movies (Halloween, The Thing, They Live, etc.). Of course, they probably ate all those words when he won a Saturn award for soundtracking his 1998 film Vampires, or maybe, more likely, they didn’t, but in any case, his musical style — bouncy, redundant Nintendo-techno — is pretty huge these days. This advance two-song single offers his signature vibe, which of course has seen a rebirth of late (think the theme music to the Netflix show Stranger Things), and voila, music critics have to pretend to be paying attention. “Skeleton” is a rather upbeat offing, entry-level ’80s krautrock with a good amount of heart, whereas the much darker “Unclean Spirit” conjures a cross between “Dies Irae” (the Gregorian chant that opens the movie The Shining) and, oh, something with the usual looping and piano-bonking, let’s say the theme to Halloween. Hey, if he’s happy, it’s fine with me. B+

Peel Dream Magazine, Moral Panics EP (Slumberland Records)

I wrote off this New York crew as the latest tuneless pile of emperor’s new clothes way back, upon hearing a few tunes from their 2018 debut LP Modern Metaphysics. Singer Joe Stevens is so bad that he single-handedly set back the entire hipster-pop movement a gorillion years (the only vocal comparison I can make is Lantern Waste, whose deliriously awful song “200 Miles to York” is often played as a joke by Toucher and Rich on their local 98.5 Sports Hub radio show in Boston). But whatever, here we go again, thankfully just an EP this time. It starts out survivably enough with “New Culture,” a droning stab at borderline no-wave remindful of Superdrag’s “Destination Ursa Major,” in other words amateurishly rendered Foo Fighters. Stevens doesn’t suck as bad as he usually does there, which had me — well, “salivating for more” wouldn’t be it; more like “not retching.” Of course, that attempt at normal music is immediately ruined by the pointless crayon-drawn doofus exercise “Verfremdungseffekt.” These folks have a gift for bad music, I’ll give ’em that. D

Retro Playlist
Eric W. Saeger recommends a couple of albums worth a second look.

As you (hopefully) just read, one signature feature of the pandemic is album release dates being canceled, changed or otherwise messed with. I’ve about given up the delusion that a release announcement consists of reliable information, but the show must go on here.

Another bizarre thing we’ve witnessed is the freezing of trends. In the area of music, after several years of the 1990s being laughed off as the worst decade for music ever (which always happens just before something blows big from the same arena), sure enough, bands were starting to fess up to listening to ’90s bands as a guilty pleasure. It was becoming cool for bands to cite grunge, riot grrl, commercial ska-pop, etc. influences when BS-ing rookie rock writers from Nylon and such. It looked unstoppable.

And then came Covid 19. Like I said somewhere above, at this point people are more occupied with virtue-signaling and fighting on social media and fretting about the apocalypse than reading some hipster dummy’s thoughts on Gwen Stefani’s “edgy” years. It’s as if every artistic rebirth and micro-renaissance that was in queue is in stasis, frozen like Ripley on Alien, waiting for the coast to be clear.

There were good things about the ’90s, at least in my view. Nirvana of course, Rage Against The Machine, Cypress Hill, Moby, Limp Bizkit, Korn, a bunch of other stuff, including many you’ve probably never heard of, bands that helped usher in the ’90s-rock era by releasing albums that were clear warnings of things to come. Transvision Vamp may have been doomed to obscurity from birth, but they were different in a lot of good ways, a sort of commercialized riot grrl thing that presaged sexy android-pop bands of the Aughts like Asteroids Galaxy Tour. In fact, Transvision Vamp peaked and declined at the decade’s turn, unfairly so, because their 1991 full-length Little Magnets Versus the Bubble of Babble was no less sexy and vampy and kickass than their 1988 Pop Art debut. Another one you may have missed was Gaye Bykers on Acid, which, along with a few other bands, almost squashed the grunge movement in favor of the “grebo” scene, which mashed influences from punk rock, EDM, hip-hop and psychedelia. We’d all be so much better off if their 1992 self-titled album hadn’t been lost in a sea of grunge (their 1987 freak-fringe niche-hit “WW7 Blues” is still monstrously cool).

Yeah, a ’90s revival wouldn’t be the worst thing.

If you’re in a local band, now’s a great time to let me know about your EP, your single, whatever’s on your mind. Let me know how you’re holding yourself together without being able to play shows or jam with your homies. Send a recipe for keema matar. Email esaeger@cyberontix.com for fastest response.

PLAYLIST
A seriously abridged compendium of recent and future CD releases

• Friday, July 24, is ahead, and with it will come albums, some good, some bad, some why-would-anyone-bother-recording-this. To be honest, the list is pretty thin at this writing, which may be due to the fact that all the bands have figured out that people aren’t interested in music anymore, because it’s much more fun and self-fulfilling to argue with people on the internet, just to take the edge off the stir-craziness the coronavirus has wrought. Matter of fact, my usual source of hot new music nonsense, Metacritic, only has two upcoming new records listed, so I’m going by the list on Pause And Play. This means I am out of my comfort zone once again, having to deal with some stupid new website that wants me to fork over my email address and then drop a cookie into my Cookies folder, just so that Pause and Play can send me spam and slow down my “browsing experience” while the cookie tracks every moronic thing I look for on the internet. Does anyone not just click the little “X-close” button when presented with that kind of junk, or should I really just spend an entire afternoon searching Google for “best free spamblocker”? (I won’t do that. I spend a lot of time on the internet, yes, but going to such trouble seems a little obsessive.) Where was I? Right, albums. Most of these look kind of dumb and boring, like the only one I’m actually drawn to is Goons Be Gone, the new album from Los Angeles-based duo No Age! They make noise-rock, which you all know makes me smile, and… oh, come on, the release date changed to last week, according to Amazon! See why I hate using new systems? See why I didn’t want to use Pause and Play? Whatever, I’m listening to the single “Sandalwood” anyway, because the whole rollout here is a hot mess, and maybe it’s coming out on the 24th. Whatever, the tune is cool, noisy and messy, like Mick Jagger jamming with Half Japanese, and that brings us to some actual usable news, the first new album in 27 years from ancient punk band X, called Alphabetland! Ha ha, look how old they are now, like Exene looks like some random Birkenstock Karen who haggles with gift shop owners for price breaks on stinky incense. The title track is like early Ramones except with Exene singing half-heartedly. It’s eh.

• Neck Deep is a power-pop band from Wales, in the U.K. Their fourth album, All Distortions Are Intentional, is on the way as we speak, led by the single “Lowlife,” which is OK but sounds like the last nine billion songs you’ve heard that involve ripping off Weezer in Nirvana mode. So, unless anyone has questions — yes, you, in the back. No, I will never willingly listen to this song again. That it? Good, let’s proceed to the next thingie.

• Country-Americana-folkie Lori McKenna is from Stoughton, Mass., where there are no cowboys. She once received a country Grammy nomination. Her new album, The Balladeer, includes the single “Good Fight,” a strummy folk-pop song that you might like if you dig ’70s radio-pop.

• Time for one more, and I choose Irish singer Ronan Keating’s new album, Twenty Twenty! Did I choose wisely? No, unless you like shuffle-y chill-out Ed Sheeran-ish boy-band pop that would be a perfect fit on the Ellen show. I do not.

Album Reviews 20/07/16

Jeff Cosgrove, History Gets Ahead of the Story (Grizzley Music)
This album is pretty niche indeed, combining a few things I tend to avoid (improvisational jazz, old-school classic organ, like, I mean right out of Lawrence Welk) with something I do appreciate regardless of setting, namely top-drawer musicianship. The story behind this (I assume) one-off is a bit convoluted; Cosgrove is a Washington, D.C.-based drummer leading a bass-free trio (himself along with organist John Medeski and sax player Jeff Lederer) in a tribute to bassist William Parker, who’s still alive. Got that? No bass playing in an album of tunes written by a jazz bassist (who, incidentally, played in a trio with Cosgrove until 2015). So, an odd duck indeed, but it gets odder; both Cosgrove and Parker love them some ad-libbing, so on the whole the record could be categorized as “skronk-coffeehouse,” if you will, a roller coaster ride of precision and spazzing. Some stellar organ-noodling on “Gospel Flowers”; adept modal sax things on “Moon”; even some noise on “Little Bird” (I had to double-check to see if a guitarist wasn’t messing around with pick-scraping in there or something; I still can’t guess what the sound is). Anyway, that; it is what it is. B — Eric W. Saeger

Skeleton, Skeleton (20 Buck Skin Records)
Debut LP from a crew of Austin, Texas-based guys who stalk a middle ground between old-time black metal and neo-street metal a la High On Fire. I have no idea why this isn’t more of a thing in the metal scene, but then again, any bunch of Air Max-wearing suburban dudes whose sole mission in life is impressing the barista girls at Starbucks knows that the quickest route to being able to brag that “we got a record contract” is to play some boring, pedestrian emo through a Mesa Boogie amplifier that’s been made wimpy and useless through too much processing. No, these guys have better riffing than any ’70s-revivalist band that I’ve heard lately (The Sword can sit down now), and it’s cut with Venom-style spazz-outs that keep listeners on their toes, or at least listening. I like everything about this one, but wait, there’s more, folks: the singer sounds like he ran out of enthusiasm for doing a scary-devil-guy Quorthon imitation the minute he got in the studio. A giant leap for mankind, in short. A+ — Eric W. Saeger

Retro Playlist

Erik W. Saeger recommends a couple of albums worth a second look.

With a new renaissance of thought and cultural realism dawning, I’m surprised that heavy metal hasn’t made a massive comeback. (Note that by “heavy metal,” I mean crazily angry music of a type that should, by all rights, be soundtracking the cultural transformations that are in the air everywhere, at least in an in vitro sense on social media.)

One of the things that may annoy you about me is the fact that I tend to ignore what’s happening in the area of “middle-of-the-road metal.” To clarify, that’s a pretty loose catchall I use to describe a wide range of bands, from mildly dangerous-sounding metalcore bands (Bullet For My Valentine, et al.) to nu-metal nonsense like Avenged Sevenfold. In contrast, my tastes gravitate to things that make Everymen feel their true power levels.

Your mileage may vary, of course. Like, for some, death metal peaked with Slayer (along with the 127,287,558 bands that sound like them) and it does the trick for them. Older folks just want some Black Sabbath. But for me it’s Ministry or bust. Their 1996 LP Filth Pig is an F5 tornado of rebellion; if you haven’t ever cranked that album’s “Dead Guy” to the point of permanent hearing loss, please do so now.

Zoomers, if you ever want to be as unstoppable as Greta Thunberg as a group, you need angry, uncompromising instrument-driven anthems, that is to say, riffs. Black Veil Brides is a cool band, but they’re literally too good in a politely melodic sense. Know what you really need, Gen Z? Sweaty fat guys with awesome, awesome guitar riffs, like Bachman Turner Overdrive. On their 1974 album Not Fragile, the title track may not have been the cleverest or most innovative use of a Marshall amp in history, but it’s perfectly conceived. The riff is exquisitely played; way past fed-up; boiling over with stubborn, overconfident resolve; and only really effective with the volume knob set to 11.

PLAYLIST
A seriously abridged compendium of recent and future CD releases
• The next traditional date for new album releases is Friday, July 17, and, as seems to be common these days, I must eat a few stupid words I said before. The Chicks’ new album Gaslighter is out on that day; it wasn’t released on March 4 as I previously reported. That was just the title-track single. It is a great song; otherwise there’s no way on Earth I’d have ever copped to this oversight, like, as if, and I blame Metacritic.com anyway, so feel free to send hate mail to them, because it’s all their fault.

• I reviewed Gang of Four’s EP This Heaven Gives Me Migraine back in February, but guess what, there is another Gang of Four EP coming out, called Anti Hero, on the 17th. If you recall, and you probably don’t, I did like Heaven, even though it was just a bunch of reruns of past GoF tunes that Andy Gill wanted to get off his chest while he was dying of pneumonia. There’s a similar downer history to this EP, a short collection of the last songs Gill was working on from his hospice bed; the story is that he was working on new tuneage until the very last. The kickoff single, “Forever Starts Now,” is an above average post-punk song, with art-wave elements borrowed from Talking Heads. By now you’ve either made up your mind about the band or avoided them like the plague, so in honor of Gill’s memory I’ll just keep my wise mouth shut about this one.

• Like everyone else on Earth, The Pretenders have something to say about the unspeakable train wreck that is the current American sociopolitical environment, but since it’s Chrissie Hynde putting in her two cents, I’ll actually pay attention, because Chrissie is my rock ’n’ roll waifu, accept no substitutes. But wait, the band’s new LP, Hate For Sale, isn’t some sort of political statement, it’s actually a tribute to The Damned, because Chrissie thinks they’re awesome, which only means that Chrissie is even more awesome than ever before. HFS is their first release since 2016’s Alone, and guess what, the original release date was May 1, but then there was the coronavirus, and here we are, it’ll finally be out at Strawberries or Tower Records or whatever store’s open. Hey, wanna know something hilarious, of course you do, they were supposed to do a five-month tour this summer with — you’ll die, I swear — Journey, of all the bands in the world. To me, that’s the ’80s-rock equivalent of Imagine Dragons touring with Black Lips, but anyway the new single, “You Can’t Hurt a Fool,” isn’t a tribute to The Damned, it’s a ’60s-Motown-influenced chill song about being in a stupid relationship, or maybe a diss of J-Lo (listen to the words), I don’t know for sure.

• To close out the week, we have Florida band Surfer Blood, with a new album, Carefree Theatre! Like so many milquetoast-indie bands, despite their scary name, these guys specialize in, you know, milquetoast-indie, but the single “Karen” is kind of loud, a little bit, and would almost be art-rock if it didn’t sound like Death Cab For Cutie with their volume accidentally cranked. It would make a great closing song for a trite hipster movie about a bunch of hipsters who are on an endless quest for an unused pair of 1971 PF Flyer sneakers, and one of the hipsters smokes weed all the time, which hurts his chances for ever finding true love, except for maybe with the crazily shy girl who works at Whole Foods and likes Perry Como records, and then it thankfully ends. — Eric W. Saeger

Local bands seeking album or EP reviews can message me on Twitter (@esaeger) or Facebook (eric.saeger.9).

Album Reviews 20/07/09

Tokyo Motor Fist, Lions (Frontiers Music SRL)

Clear the decks, grandmothers, it’s a bona-fide ’80s melodic-metal fest, a new project from Danger Danger singer Ted Poley and guitarist/producer Steve Brown of Trixter. Unlike so many wannabes who have (dis)graced this column, however, it would appear that this gang of hairdos can actually write songs, an ability that may or may not be critical to rock ’n’ roll success anymore, not that anyone’s keeping track really. “Youngblood” kicks off this set with Eddie Van Halen hammer-on-guitar stuff, a ton of hookage and a rather successful nicking of Def Leppard, which is the overarching thrust here. What’s that? No, I don’t mean stupid first-album Def Lep, I mean the ideas that came from the skull of Mutt Lange, the dumb-looking producer who got himself dumped by Shania Twain for being the stupidest playa in history. Poley doesn’t have the vocal range of Joe whatsisname, but the flash-fried hormonal angst is all there. Thirty years late, but yeah, nothing wrong here. A

The Beths, “Out of Sight” (Carpark Records)

With the slightest effort I’m sure I could pirate or Google my way into finding the rest of this New Zealand act’s upcoming second album, Jump Rope Gazers, but this single should pretty much spill all the tea I need in order to determine whether they’ve got a handle on ’90s radio rock, which is the real test. They look like they’re 15, or they dress like it; there’s a certain doubling-down on the millennial ukulele-rock look that seems to be defining Zoomer bands, which is fine with me, being that they really have nothing else to be enthusiastic about in the world these days. Anyway, yeah, their 2018 debut LP Future Me Hates Me put them on the radar of all the Stereogums and Pitchforks of the world, deservedly so, being that the better parts of the record would have fit in fine between a Fiona Apple track and one of those dreadful tunes by Live, and, well, voila, they’ve still got it, going by this new track, even down to the video, which was shot on Super 8 film, comprising footage of our heroes doofing around in their Volkswagen Rabbit or whatever it is. The tune has a huge shoegaze-rawk opening worthy of Goo Goo Dolls and such, but — here’s the kicker — singer Elizabeth Stokes’ vocal never gets above milquetoast level, lending it just the amount of broke-down cred it’ll need to get the attention of tedious zines like Nylon. Good luck to ’em, I say; this isn’t bad at all. A

Retro Playlist
Eric W. Seager recommends a couple of albums worth a second look.

Many things are going to change in a Covid-19 world. Meantime, not directly related to Covid but nonetheless indicative of a burst of cultural evolution, we’re also seeing changes in the arts as far as the general regard for women. We’re still miles and miles from arriving at the right place, but the #MeToo movement has made things just a bit safer overall for women to function in industry without having to expect the worst sort of discrimination and physical and psychological abuse on an ongoing, daily basis.

The perception of women in rock has changed as well over the years. The punk-based riot grrl movement, born in the Pacific Northwest in the early ’90s, has become a bit obsolete as far as a driving social force; we’re quite used to seeing women spazz and stomp or otherwise completely own a stage by now, whether you’re a boomer who dug on X-Ray Spex back in the day, a Gen Xer who followed Courtney Love, or a Zoomer who’s into the boldly androgynous vibe of Billie Eilish.

It’s still a work in progress. Looking back at my review of Dead Weather’s 2015 album Dodge and Burn, I’m a little disappointed that I didn’t go off on some tangent about women rockers needing an Eilish-style next-step. Yes, singer Alison Mosshart was/is a badass when she’s fronting The Kills, but her role in that band feels like more of a Robert Plant to Jack White’s Jimmy Page than an equal partner. There’s just something sketchy about it, is what I mean. Maybe it’s the band’s (well done) ’70s hard rock image, but it felt like less of an equal partnership than a case of White saying “She’ll do.” The number of female musicians and singers to whom White has played Svengali has bugged me for a while now, and I could be dead wrong, but I’ll just leave it at that.

To me, the queen of rock is and always has been Chrissie Hynde. The woman just doesn’t care about what you think, as we talked about in 2008 when the long-overdue ninth Pretenders album, Break Up The Concrete, landed. On that one, there was the bit where she comically sounded out a drum roll with her voice in one of the songs, another example on the album in which she flaunted her power level like an alternate-universe George Thorogood trying to save the world from greed and stupidity. Always, my vote would be Chrissie for President.

PLAYLIST
A seriously abridged compendium of recent and future CD releases

• Friday, July 10, is the next general release date for albums, when we will hear new material from Rufus Wainwright, whose new album, Unfollow the Rules, is in the trucks and on the way to stores, if there are any stores even left! Isn’t that exciting? No? Come on, you guys, you know, it’s Rufus Wainwright. No, I don’t know any of his songs either. All I know is that he was born around the time John Adams and Thomas Jefferson were making up crazy lies about each other in order to convince voters they should be the one to be president. Aren’t you glad that things have evolved so much, in our political arena? Wait, Wiki is telling me that Rufus Wainwright didn’t participate in the Battle of Bunker Hill, he was actually born in 1973. Huh, I thought he was some super-old dude who didn’t make it as big as the O’Jays or Minnie Ripperton. Wait, let me read this more. Let’s see, Blah blah blah, likes opera … his career peak was in 2007, when his album Release the Stars climbed to No. 23 on the Billboard payola spreadsheet, and his mopey sadboy piano “Going to a Town” did OK. He’s done acting. He’s Canadian. Burp. Did I miss anything? His new song is “Damsel in Distress,” a Harry Nilsson-ish tune, heavy on the wide-screen ’70s taxicab-radio vibe. It’s OK, but it’s definitely not opera. Jeez, the more it goes on, the more it sounds like every ’70s song ever made thrown into a blender. He should stick to acting.

• Mike Skinner is the white rapper dude who makes albums in his U.K. bedroom under the name The Streets, a project that’s huge in England but hasn’t yet cracked the U.S. Top 50. All that means is that I could probably deal with whatever Skinner’s selling on his new mixtape, None of Us Are Getting Out of This Life Alive, because it’s probably crummy British-cockney hip-hop, not crummy American Jeezy/Eminem-wannabe hip-hop. Yep, there it is, listening to the single “Call My Phone Thinking I’m Doing Nothing Better,” I am drowning in chill-out cockney rap that’s got a bumpy, off-kilter, mildly Gorillaz-ish beat, all made the better because Tame Impala is the guest. In other words it’s a tasteful, mellow Tame Impala song, except with Skinner doing his Stormzy imitation. All right? OK, everyone, single file, let’s move along.

• Julianna Barwick is said to be a New Age ambient artist, but I’ll be the judge of that. Her trip is using an electronic loop station to decorate her voice, which is interesting, and she was commissioned to remix Radiohead’s “Reckoner,” which I won’t bother listening to because I don’t have to. Her new album, Healing is a Miracle, is out within mere hours and features the single “Inspirit.” Hmf, it builds up for two minutes with multi-overdubbed vocals with from-the-mountaintop effects on them, yet never turns into something that would make me say, “Jeepers, that’s almost as nice as Enya.” Actually make that four minutes. Nothing happened, why did I bother.

• Lastly, The Fader calls Margo Price “country’s next star,” so maybe her new album That’s How Rumors Get Started will make me say the same thing after I hear the single “Twinkle Twinkle.” Hmm, I dunno, it has fuzzed-out ’70s Deep Purple guitars, but she sounds like KT Tunstall or something. It’s cool, I guess. Is it OK if I just call her “country’s next Deep Purple lady” or whatever?

Album Reviews 20/6/25

High Spirits, Hard To Stop (High Roller Records)

This is one of the many projects of metal guitar god Chris “The Professor” Black, who is from Chicago. He’s an alpha type for sure, insisting on diving into projects that call for him to play different instruments, including drums, and, well, he’s just, you know, one of these spazzy workaholics who’s got to be busy over his head all the time. In fact, last year, if I’m even reading this thing correctly, he recorded three solo albums under three different band names, and so on and so forth. He’s pretty stretched, is the takeaway, which shows in this tightly recorded set of NWOBHM/power-metal tunes, the first of which showed me exactly how thinly stretched he is; to wit, album opener “Since You’ve Been Gone” actually does borrow the chorus of the 1979 pop-metal song of the same name by Ritchie Blackmore’s Rainbow. I mean, the song’s much faster, like Savatage speed, but man, it’s hard to get past that. The other songs, despite having some great solos, are pretty rote examples of Mayyyden and Prieeeest worship, which wouldn’t have turned me off completely, but come on dude, slow down and think a little. B-

Bananagun, The True Story of Bananagun (High Roller Records)

If Flaming Lips were as Afrobeat-driven as Vampire Weekend, this is what it would … no, that’s not really it, because this is really old-sounding but in a good, super-cool way. It’s the first record by Melbourne, Australia-based multi-instrumentalist/singer Nick Van Bakel in a band setting, I understand, not that he’s ever been on my radar before, but it’s quite the revelation. This is all heavily groove-driven, heavy on the ’70s blaxploitation cinematics but instead of adamantly African Fela Kuti-style singalongs, the multi-vocal tracks evoke The Byrds, but not in that crummy Aughts-indie way, like the singing is all in key and whatnot. If you’ve heard really old Santana albums, this is similar product, rudimentary and analog in the overall sound, but with a slightly more polished feel. Ever watch the scenes in old Starsky & Hutch episodes where they’re chasing guys around with guns? It sounds like that, except with pro-enough Byrds vocals. Quentin Tarantino would love this, put it that way. A+

Retro Playlist

Eric W. Saeger recommends a couple of albums worth a second look.

Over these last interminable weeks we’ve looked at a lot of musical genres, but one of the things I’ve pretty much successfully avoided looking back at is old music, specifically antique arena rock. Granted, we did talk about Yes a while back in a different section, and I got roundly trolled for it by a reader, but we also covered the need for moronic silliness in this space, and I’d like to go back to that for just a second, skimming the most notable output of one of the great arena bands, New York City’s Blue Oyster Cult, which does tend to get name-checked in the course of my ravings.

The first thing you younglings should know about BOC is that they were hardly the missing link between punk and arena-rock that historians make them out to be. Their biggest album, 1976’s Agents of Fortune, was, put simply, the greatest vampire-centric classic-rock album of all time and had nothing punk on it at all. Assuming you haven’t spent your entire 20-whatever years off the grid, there’s no way you’ve avoided that album’s classic hit “Don’t Fear The Reaper,” the song Saturday Night Live made fun of during the Will Ferrell era (“more cowbell!”) and which was most recently used as an episode-closing tune on Orange is the New Black. My favorite from that record was “ETI,” which still kicks so much ass that you’ll need to sit on an orthopedic pillow for a week after listening to it.

Fact is, though, that album was pretty much their last chance to avoid becoming known as a joke band, which I didn’t even realize until I got into it with a Facebook friend a couple of weeks back. Really the only thing punk about the band was that the band’s second-banana guitarist, Allen Lanier, once dated punk goddess Patti Smith, probably because, my bro insists, she was otherwise homeless at the time. Listening to AOF’s preceding LP, 1974’s awesome-stupid-awesome-structured Secret Treaties, the other day, it really dawned on me that they were indeed just a bad album-closing song (which “Astronomy” is definitely not) away from registering as a joke band before AOF: part Grateful Dead, part Traffic and part Black Sabbath. Anyhow, younglings, now you know the rest of the story. Just put “ETI” and “Astronomy” in your Spotify and you can call yourself a BOC expert. You’re quite welcome.

PLAYLIST
A seriously abridged compendium of recent and future CD releases

• Barring further apocalypse, including my own demise from end-stage quarantine boredom, June 26 will occur, and that date is a Friday, a day full of awesome and awful new music albums for young and old! The most high-profile release scheduled for that date is the new one from Los Angeles sisters HAIM, called Women in Music Pt. III! Naturally, there wasn’t a Women in Music Pt. I or II, it’s their quirky L.A. way of saying this is their third album, which will cause some confusion, but who cares, as nothing makes sense anyway nowadays, other than my desire for greasy fish and chips at the closest beach, not that we’ll probably ever be at the point again when I can just walk into one of those joints without having to cover myself in Purell and Lysol mixed with cheap suntan lotion. Whatever, I’ll go check out the song “The Steps,” which came out the same day as the album preorder. Everyone’s talking about this tune, not that I know why. I mean, if you’ve always wanted to hear a twentysomething version of Sheryl Crow whine about having a rotten boyfriend (aren’t we all at some point?) while a subtle, countrified ripoff of the guitar line from “My Girl” plays underneath, you’ve hit the jackpot. In the meantime I’ll just be sitting here patiently, waiting for corporate pop-rock to evolve, which I’m sure will happen as soon as I can get some fried fish, the latter of which is the only thing I really care about, to be honest.

• Corb Lund is a Canadian cowboy singer, but wait, before you go do the Sudoku, there are actual cowboys in Canada, mostly in and around Edmonton, which is in Alberta, and guess what, this dude is from the town of Taber, in Alberta, whose corn crop is so awesome that they have a “Cornfest” every August. Now, I don’t know why they need cowboys to wrangle corn, but whatever, I’ll just go with it and say that Lund is a Canadian corn cowboy, who makes country music. Ha ha, this is funny, his touring band is called the Hurtin’ Albertans. I like him already! His new corn-wranglin’ cowboy-hat album is Agricultural Tragic, and the single “Raining Horses” isn’t bad, with its nice shimmery Americana guitar line. Only problem is I wish it wasn’t him singing, because he’s kinda boring, but — hold it, some dobro just appeared in the song, so its stock went up a little bit. It’s pretty, but he’s boring, let’s move on.

• No way, it’s fossilized arena-rock legends Kansas, with a new album! I haven’t checked to see yet which original band members are here; I’ll bet you anything there was a huge court fight, and there’s another band out there called “Kansas Featuring Blah Blah Blah” because legalities. Indeed, which members are putting out this new album, The Absence of Presence? Yup, told ya, it’s just the lead guitarist and the drummer, because all the other original members hate those guys. Original singer Steve Walsh isn’t here. Do I really have to do this? OK, one new song is called “Throwing Mountains,” and it’s an awesome prog-rock song. I would go to their show if they had fried fish at the concession stand.

• To wrap up this week, let’s listen to “Strong Enough,” from the album Monovision by Ray LaMontagne, who is from Nashua! Wow, this is kind of like a cross between Creedence Clearwater Revival and that old Stealers Wheel song, “Stuck in the Middle With You.” It’s cool, be nice to this singing man from Nashua.

Album Reviews 20/6/18

Sara Serpa, Recognition: Music for a Silent Film (Biophilia Records)

Serpa, a jazz singer from Portugal, has been a fixture for years, applying her elite-level voice to music that’s always just palatable (and dada) enough to keep influencers on their toes; she even won the No. 1 spot on Downbeat’s 2019 Rising Star Female Vocalist poll, which is, to me, amusing. Her shtick involves “wordless singing,” that is to say there are no recognizable words, just her voice uttering random vowel/consonant sounds. She does this gently and without electronic assistance, instantly captivating anyone in earshot who doesn’t have somewhere else to be. Her sparse but powerful 10th album, probably her most out-there work, is meant to backdrop a documentary she also put together, consisting of Super 8 footage of various scenes of life in 1960s Angola while under Portuguese colonial rule. An odd but ultimately fascinating work offered in memory of the victims of a long-forgotten injustice. A

Used Cassettes, Used Cassettes (Loose Union Records)

This is the purported final album from the surf-garage quartet, which finally disbanded for the same reason that they got together: they’re not from South Korea. You see, the members are from randomly different places — Detroit, South Africa and Canada — and met near Gangnam, where they were probably as surprised as their parents to find massive fame in the country, one highlight of which was starring in their own comic book, which was read by millions. The breakup weighed on their minds while recording this; finality is everywhere in these none-too-upbeat songs, all of which feature their trademark sound (think Coldplay with Raveonettes guitars), downtempo-ed to mark the occasion. It’s not like America didn’t have an opportunity to clue in to these guys; there were pieces in Spin and plenty of other places, but regardless, their legacy does live on as they go about their new lives, once again scattered to the winds (the bassist went off to build a beach hut in Sri Lanka – not shabby, friends). A

Retro Playlist

Eric W. Saeger recommends a couple of albums worth a second look.

In a local music scene almost solely composed of fedora-hat bar-bands that happily and unironically play “Brown Eyed Girl” for fun during rehearsals, my never-ending quest to find a halfway decent techno artist/band has come up bupkis, save for Otto Kinzel’s yeoman efforts to put some industrial-metal-tinged tuneage up on the board. In February I talked about his new single “I Bleed for You” here, a dark but very listenable song with addictive acoustic piano lines and a boss guitar solo.

Since you asked, what would get me really jacked is receiving a message from a local musician or soundsystem who’s released an album or EP that sounds even the remotest bit like something a respectable artist would put out, mindfully rendered both vocally and beat-wise. Maybe I’m missing an act that’s done stuff on one of the Facebook “NH Musicians” or whatnot groups, but to date, I remain unaware of any. You must come unto me, lambs, or I can’t help you get famous.

That reminds me, I totally spaced Tricky’s new EP, 20,20, when it came out on March 6. These three new tunes from the trip-hop pioneer were about as slow as you can go without flatlining, bare bones and morose but nevertheless brimming with, I don’t know, comfort? Opener “Hate This Pain” is an instant classic, driven by a lazy, Jelly Roll Morton-ish piano doodle and a string of expletive-riddled existential mumblings lovingly delivered by Tricky and his backup singer Marta.

PLAYLIST
A seriously abridged compendium of recent and future CD releases

• June 19 is a Friday, meaning brand new music releases, for your brain! Any self-respecting curator of such a weekly announcement list would naturally start this week’s proceedings with Rough and Rowdy Way, the new album from wizened folkie mummy Bob Dylan, so we’ll do that, just to be normal for once. If you don’t know what Dylan sounds like — hey, I once had a girlfriend who couldn’t name one Beatles song, so you just hush — think of Tom Petty with no vocal range whatsoever. If you start there, you must move on to his renown as a poet, and take that on face. A lot of critics have put this album’s advance tunes under a microscope, mostly the 17 interminable minutes of Murder Most Foul, a 17-minute ballad about the assassination of John F. Kennedy, which actually comes off more as a cultural reference name-checking exercise, wherein he mentions Shakespeare, Stevie Nicks, Charlie Chaplin, Jelly Roll Morton and A Nightmare on Elm Street, among others. I couldn’t care less about anachronistic laissez-faire folkies preaching to politically unaware comfortably settled boomer choirs about the ever-mounting perils of this era, but if someone derives a little fleeting comfort from mildly imaginative hot takes lifted from mainstream-media-pundits, like “The age of the antichrist has just begun / it’s 36 hours past judgment day,” I shan’t grumble but simply continue stocking up on Angel Soft and bottled water. I mean, Dylan did stop the Vietnam war, or was it that President Johnson’s enthusiasm ran out after the Tet Offensive? So confusing!

• Whew, I’m sure glad we’re done with that bit, because if we had to revisit some more ’60s flower-power music, I swear I’d … GAHHH, barf, looky there, fam, it’s a new album from shaky-voiced great-great-grandparent Neil Young, called Homegrown (get it?), and this one isn’t even about hot new takes on the current apocalypse, it’s about old hot takes from the old apocalypse, because this was recorded in 1974! I mean, I thought “Ohio” and “Southern Man” were cool songs when I was young enough to ignore his dreadful guitar solos, but I just don’t know if I can take this. Oh well, I suppose it’ll be cool to see what he was doing after he sold out completely in 1972 and released the wussy cowboy-rock single “Heart of Gold,” even while there were all sorts of other apocalypses that were apocalypsin’, and plus, Richard Nixon. Ha ha, the video for the single “Try” starts out with this dude in a yellow shirt and a giant bird in sunglasses — oh wait, that’s a “Limu Emu” car insurance commercial. So this tune is super slow and boring, really heavy on the dobro guitar, like I have this weird urge to chew tobacco, but I’ll bet I wouldn’t really like it.

• Thank goodness, finally a band this week that wasn’t making records during the Abraham Lincoln administration, Protest the Hero, with their new LP, Palimpsest! All progressive-metal heads know that their last album, 2013’s Volition, was a big deal, reaching No. 1 on the U.S. charts, but will this new song, “From the Sky,” be awesome? Huh, I like the drums. It sounds like Pendulum played at double speed. The singer’s too loud in the mix. I like Gogol Bordello a million times more than this, but whatever.

• Finally, fedora-rocker Jason Mraz’s new “slab” Look for the Good is also on the way; let’s see if my Tums has kicked in enough to handle the title track. So in the video he’s chilling in the forest, watching a magic laptop showing guys working at horrible jobs, but in slow-motion so it’s OK, and the lyrics are Brady Bunch platitudes about nice people. The song has a one-drop beat that makes me think of Raffi, not Bob Marley. I think Tums may be the answer here, guys. — Eric W. Saeger

Album Reviews 6/11/2020

Bird Friend, I Am the Hand (self-produced)

Desolate but hopeful hipster-chill direct from Manchester, New Hampshire, here, mainly an unplugged-guitar solo project for chef-cook-bottle-washer Geoff Himsel with some help from his girlfriend, Carson Kennedy. The entry point here would be Sufjan Stevens, but it’s of course more raw and quirky than that; throw a little Eels in the crockpot and that oughta do it. Himsel is a fan of fingerpick-style guitarists like Neil Young and John Fahey, which explains the rather full sound of this mildly quirky bareness; this sort of thing is a snapshot of an artist getting things off his chest, redolent of movie opening-credit scenes depicting world-weariness, animations drawn in crayon. You get it, I’m sure, but don’t be scared of this just because the guy’s a local; there’s some nice creativity here, as heard in such things as a segue consisting of recorded rain and train station sounds; some not-cheap-sounding handclaps (“Ohio”); a reed line played on a clarinet or somesuch (“Cuando Era Caballero”) and so on. All told then, Pitchfork wouldn’t necessarily throw this out of bed unless the writer broke his vape pen. There’s a psychedelic angle to this that needs to be mentioned, like a twee version of Wooden Shjips or whatnot. He knows what he’s doing, is what I’m saying. A

The Brazilian Gentleman, L & L (Internet & Weed Records)

Meanwhile on the dwarf planet Pluto, we have this New Yawk City collective of underground scene veterans with weird record collections, banded together to make what amounts to a Throbbing Gristle-ized version of Battles. To translate that depthlessly annoying music-wonk-ese, there’s a lot of gently rendered industrial noise here woven into the very listenable melodies, and that will surely lead a good number of critics to tag it as an EDM project and bag it just to get away from it. I wouldn’t be wildly surprised to hear something like this from The Orb, but it does get disconcerting, evoking the feeling of having boarded the wrong galactic battle cruiser (“Star Stuck in It”). But it’s not supposed to be an easy ride, as becomes plain in the hooted and dentist-drilled “Metals,” which is a pure let’s-ride-the-subway-and-disorient-the-straights earbud trip. “All Natural” is chill drone pocked with world-music-ish loops; “You’re Boring” explores some Frank Ocean-ish fever-dream bliss. A-

Retro Playlist

On the quarantine goes, and for that, the only remedy is focusing on good stuff, like criminally underrated British art-rock bands.

After so many years, I’m convinced I’m the only “bloke” in New Hampshire who’s a huge fan of Wire, a four-piece that’s been around since the 1970s. They were more noise-punk back in the day, but then college rock happened in the late ’80s and their comparatively mellow album A Bell is a Cup Until It is Struck was suddenly rising in something resembling an actual Top 20 chart. I babbled about their 2013 album Change Becomes Us in this space, and I still absolutely love it, from the skronky, nonsensical “Eels Sang” to the soul-healing “Reinvent Your Second Wheel,” both sung by their permanently weird bassist Graham Lewis. I’ve met and hung out with rock stars before, but he’s the only one who’d reduce me to a puddle of uncool if I ever got a chance to meet him.

Another band I always try to sell to anyone who can’t escape my presence is Elbow, from the town of Bury in Manchester, U.K. In 2011, I told you guys about their then-new Build a Rocket Boys! LP, which, as usual for the band, was shortlisted for a Mercury Prize, this time on the strength of tunes like “Lippy Kids,” a hauntingly gorgeous rock ballad that made you rethink all those scary kids in hoodies, who are, I assure you, just as scared as you. Try it, you’ll like it.

PLAYLIST
A seriously abridged compendium of recent and future CD releases
• The next general-release date for CDs is Friday, June 12, when you can buy To Love is to Live, the debut album from Jehnny Beth, the lead singer from Savages! No, not the DJ, you know, Savages! No, come on, not Screaming Lord Sutch’s old backup band; we’re talking about the way-cool Savages, the one made up of girls, and they’re pretty cool, like this Jehnny Beth lady sounds a lot like Siouxsie Sioux, and their music is all post-punk, noisy, deconstructionist and awesome. That leaves only one question: Is there any earthly reason for Jehnny Beth to make a solo album when she’s in such an awesome band? Well, by cracky, I’m going to toddle off to YouTube to see if this is worth anything. Ah, here we are, a single called “Heroine.” It’s got an understated jazzy 1970s drum track with grooving bass, some spooky sampling, and Jehnny Beth’s Siouxsie karaoke going full force. It’s not something I’d picture Siouxsie singing, but come on already, this isn’t a Siouxsie song, just an OK tune that Siouxsie probably wouldn’t sing, because it’s largely uneventful until the literal last five seconds. I don’t know, am I being too picky here? Be honest.
• Wait, this should be a good one, the new album from Norah Jones, Pick Me Up Off the Floor! This will be her eighth full-length, and she is officially a folk-jazz goddess, because she is awesome, and at least she’s not trying to become a media conglomerate like everybody else who lucks into a hit record, like, the only real acting she’s done was on the 2010 indie film Wah Do Dem, which only got made because the director won cruise ship tickets (back then, the Village Voice called it nothing more than “a glorified vacation video”). Sounds good to me, because hopefully now we won’t have to worry about Norah Jones doing anything more than playing herself on Sesame Street and 30 Rock and spending most of her time singing, which she does on the title track of this new album, a torchy, feathery, very slow, Maria Muldaur-like piano-crooner.
• Paul Weller was the frontman for the mod-punk band The Jam during the 1970s and early 1980s, but only people in England cared, but then they had an annoying ska-punk hit in the U.S. called “Start,” which was created simply by recycling the Beatles’ “Tax Man,” and then it was basically over, everyone recite the Funeral Prayer, and then the Beastie Boys sampled the tune for the song “Alive.” But wait, here is Paul Weller again, with a solo album, called “Sunset,” which means you’re probably wondering if there’s a song on there that sounds like that Beastie Boys song or whatever. I sure am, so I shall endeavor to stomach the new single, “Village.” Wow, it’s wicked ’70s-chill-funk, and he sounds like Peabo Bryson somewhat. There’s wicked mellow electric piano in there, like your grandparents could probably “get reacquainted” with this song playing in the background, nudge-wink. Talk about sassy!
• To end this week with our sanity hopefully intact, let’s go investigate the new Built to Spill album, titled Built to Spill Plays the Songs of Daniel Johnston! I can’t imagine what this will sound like, probably fluffy, despicable, hipster versions of equally aggravating Daniel Johnston songs. Yes, here’s one, “Bloody Rainbow.” Sounds like a twee version of a Roy Orbison B-side. I do not like this, Sam I Am.

Author: Eric Saeger

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Album Reviews 20/6/18

Album Reviews 6/11/2020

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