Category: Pop

Three Days in June, by Anne Tyler


Three Days in June, by Anne Tyler (Knopf, 166 pages)

Anne Tyler is one of America’s most beloved writers, especially in Baltimore, where many of her novels are set. Six of her books, including The Accidental Tourist, were adapted for film, and she won a Pulitzer Prize for Breathing Lessons in 1989. As such, it’s a bit surprising that her latest, Three Days in June, landed in February like an out-of-season beach read.

Not that it’s not a good beach read. But coming from the keyboard of Tyler, one expects a bit more.

Set (of course) in Baltimore, Three Days in June is about a divorced mom getting ready for the wedding of her 33-year-old daughter. Gail Baines is an assistant headmistress at a private school who has just been informed that her boss is retiring and that she, at 61, is not in line to succeed her because she lacks “people skills.”

As her boss tells her, “All I’m saying is, to head a private girls’ school you need tact. You need diplomacy. You need to avoid saying things like ‘Good God, Mrs. Morris, surely you realize your daughter doesn’t have the slightest chance of getting into Princeton.”

When the boss suggests that Gail might want to leave the field and follow her dreams, Gail wonders what that would be: “I am not the kind of woman who dreams of doing things.” Nor is she the kind of woman who gets her hair done, or who moves on from an answering machine. When she goes to a hair salon the day before the wedding, she will only allow the hairdresser to “pouf it out” a little bit — “just something to show I tried.”

Gail had been married to Max, an affable underachiever eking out a living teaching at-risk teenagers, and living in a “one-room apartment above somebody’s garage.” He is “fond of recounting his dreams and they were always interminable.” It’s initially unclear why they are no longer married — they are friendly enough when Max shows up at Gail’s house unexpectedly, carrying a elderly foster cat and needing a place to stay, as their future son-in-law turns out to be deathly allergic to cats.

There’s soon one more complication when their daughter, Debbie, shows up, fresh off a pre-wedding “Day of Beauty” where she had inadvertently learned something terrible about the fiance that puts the wedding in question.

This is the point at which, were this plot in the hands of a less accomplished writer, we could sigh and say, “hijinks ensue” and be done with it. Tyler is too smooth a storyteller to let us go, however, and we are too pleasantly invested in Gail (and the foster cat) to leave them alone with a wedding on the brink.

For much of the book, Tyler gives us an entertaining and humorous look at the rituals surrounding an American wedding. When meeting, for example, the groom’s mother, we learn that everything she says is “three degrees too vivacious” — “It seemed that she lived on some other level than ours, someplace louder and more brightly lit.” And Gail and Max reflect upon the ridiculousness of the rehearsal ritual itself (the same thing happening the next day, with “fewer et ceteras” and fancier clothes). It’s a pleasure to read her witty observations on these slices of life.

As Tyler finally gets around to revealing why and how Gail and Max broke up — a story not unconnected to the present tension — she is a master storyteller at work. There is no one better at crafting dialogue that breathes life into characters and puts them in the room with the reader. There are no wasted words here, either coming from the characters or in the narrative. It may be a beach read in plot, but it’s a finely tuned one, with enough heart to justify its release in February. The conclusion, while not a shocker, doesn’t feel contrived.

It’s worth noting that Tyler is 83, and she could be sitting by the shore, enjoying her fame and the royalty checks from her 25 books. Three years ago, she told People magazine that “For several years I thought, ‘The world does not need another of my books.’ What if people are saying, the woman doesn’t know when to quit?’” She continues to write, she said, in part because “I’m not wildly social and I have no hobbies.” Her fans, and they are legion, hope that she doesn’t pick one up. B+

Album Reviews 25/02/27

Anika, Abyss (Sacred Bones Records)

Since the assimilation of punk, New Wave, et al. by the corporate Matrix (it happens every time), rock and rebellion have been business partners more than any sort of combined force for socioeconomic or culturally equalitarian progress. You can quote me on that, but chances are that you’re already well aware of it; most of the tuneage that lands on this desk (from white-kid bands especially, let’s note) has no idea that “the system” is their real problem, not their awkwardness or generational malaise. Yet they persist, for the most part, but once in a while a record does bumble in here that evokes memories of artists who seriously wanted to break stuff rather than resign themselves to forlorn inevitability. This British-born, Berlin-based singer channels Patti Smith more succinctly than anyone I’ve heard recently; she actually wants people to direct their energies toward creating “safe spaces” where people can vent and collaborate on ideas for better living in an unlivable world. The tunes are rough and jangly and decidedly punky; she comes off like a ’90s-grunge Grace Slick with no-wave sensibilities. I hope she keeps sticking to this formula, put it that way. A+

The South Hill Experiment, Earthbreaks

Brothers Baird and Gabe Acheson left Baltimore for Los Angeles several years ago and the move is finally paying off: “Open Ocean,” the single from this, their band’s third full-length, hit No. 1 at KCRW, the seminal Santa Monica NPR affiliate. This is decidedly DIY stuff, probably recorded in their bedrooms, which afforded them the opportunity to experiment, as heard in album opener “Rifting,” built around backward-masked percussion and gentle vocals that have the reverb set to 11 (it’s not shoegaze, just to clarify, it’s a lot more experimental than that: Think early Luke Temple or a more technologically adventurous Gorillaz). But things change quickly here, with “Maybe It Takes Time” borrowing its bubbly ’70s-radio-pop undergirding from Michael McDonald, and then we have the focus track, “Open Ocean,” a deep-house-adjacent dance-along combining Atlas Sound with Jamie Lidell. This is all to say that it’s definitely worth investigating, I assure you. A

Playlist

• Feb. 28 is a Friday, which means new albums will be released en masse! Now, one thing we Professional Music Journalists always have to remember is that not every band with “Bear” in its name sounds the same, even if OK, they basically do. It’s sort of like bands that have “Deer” in their names: Deerhoof and Deer Tick are both supremely boring indie bands, but my mnemonics go like this: “Deerhoof helps me fall asleep faster than Deer Tick when I’m stressed,” or “Don’t even bother trying to name a Deer Tick song, because even their fans don’t remember any of them.” You see? But I digress, which I can do because it’s my multiple-award-winning column, so let’s get back to the “bear” thing. I liked Grizzly Bear, but only because I didn’t really hate them; they can indeed be borderline interesting with their skronky noise approach, and Minus The Bear was a great prog band but for some reason no one cared about them or their potluck formula of Rush-meets-Jackson Browne, so they broke up, and it made me sad. But the really sad news is that for the purposes of this week’s column I have to pretend I know who Panda Bear even is if I ever hope to win another award, let’s go have a look, because their new album, Sinister Grift, is coming out this Friday! Oh, OK, Panda Bear is what Noah Benjamin Lennox calls himself, in order to get dates with awkward college girls just like all the other indie rock bros. Lennox is co-founder of Animal Collective, a band that was relevant during the Aughts when college radio stations nationwide became hypnotized by their use of “fractal” music patterns, back before Nels Cline of Wilco invented the fractal riff to “Love Is Everywhere,” which was so cool that it instantly made people forget who Animal Collective even is (what took you people so long?). Anyway, at first, the “Defense” single sounds like a Hank Williams Jr. song about sitting in a Dumpster drinking Jagermeister, which would be cool, but then it turns into a really boring mess, something you could tell your little brother was considered too stupid to be added to the Napoleon Dynamite soundtrack and he’d totally believe you.

• Brooklyn R&B singer Jonathan Josiah Wise is more famously known as Serpentwithfeet, and since we were just talking about Grizzly Bear, his Wikipedia page says that he opened for them for a while. Boy, this Wiki page may be the most boring one I’ve ever seen — blah blah blah, his mom forced him to join a boys choir, he worked with a producer who worked with Bjork, yadda yadda. Whatevs, his new album is Grip Sequel, featuring the single “Writhing In The Wind.” The beat is kind of cool, like Blue Man Group doofing around with Aphex Twin, and Wise is singing like Keith Sweat. Is that what all the children are listening to now, I simply must know.

• Andy Bell used to play bass for famous indie-pop band Oasis, but now he is on his own because everyone in Oasis hates each other. Pinball Wanderer is his latest “opus,” and the single “I’m In Love…” is very neat because it sounds exactly like Wire circa Change Becomes Us, except there are girls singing. I endorse it.

• Lastly it’s British metalcore band Architects, whose new album The Sky The Earth & All Between is on its way to your eardrums if that’s the sort of thing you enjoy doing to yourself. This is pretty loony stuff, reminiscent of Dillinger Escape Plan and such, but with occasional Cannibal Corpse vocalizing. What does that mean? It means that their listening experience is lightning-fast and scary, but one of the things chasing you is the Cookie Monster, and he really wants your tasty, tasty cookies!

Featured Photo: Anika, Abyss (Sacred Bones Records) & The South Hill Experiment, Earthbreaks

Mood Machine, by Liz Pelly


Mood Machine, by Liz Pelly (Atria, 241 pages)

Spotify is in the news this month, having recently reported that 2024 was its first profitable year, with 675 million monthly active users and climbing. That made investors happy, but what are the costs? That’s the subject of music journalist Liz Pelly’s timely examination into the rise of the music streaming company, founded nearly 20 years ago in Sweden.

Spotify, of course, is the Godzilla of streaming services, eating the lunch of most of its competitors, although Apple and Amazon also have strong shares of the market. The business model sprang vaguely formed from the forehead of Napster, the digital music-sharing platform — notably illegal — that freed consumers from actually paying for music.

While today’s streaming services, of course, are not free, they remain a mind-boggling value. As Hua Hsu wrote for The New Yorker, “Adjusted for inflation, a monthly subscription to an audio streaming service, allowing convenient access to a sizable chunk of the history of recorded music, costs much less than a single album once did.”

Musical artists and their associated companies, however, have contended that the change has come at their expense, and it’s been a slog to get to the point where most everyone is satisfied. Count Pelly among those who are still pushing back against the changes that streaming has wrought.

Spotify’s goals, apart from making money, are ostensibly to make what Pelly calls “self-driving music” — the ability for a subscriber to “simply open the app, press ‘play,’ and instantaneously get the perfect soundtrack for any given moment or context, without having to search, click, or think.”

But in achieving this on-demand nirvana, Pelly argues that Spotify and other streaming services have helped give rise to a “dynamic of passivity” among consumers, who are spoon-fed what algorithms have determined they will like. Spotify playlists “worked as a flattening, making a scene that was previously sprawling and complicated into something commodified and palatable, cutting out many original voices along the way.”

At the same time, music has become background noise in modern life, and “it follows that a population paying so little conscious attention to music would also believe it deserving of so little financial remuneration,” Pelly writes.

These are all interesting cultural changes worthy of reflection, but Pelly comes to this book as a nuts-and-bolts journalist, not as a philosopher. She tracks the minutiae of Spotify’s ascent, which she was covering in real time, and reports with detail on the inner workings of the company, aided by both named and anonymous employees, some of whom have since left.

That sourcing adds, of course, to pervasive cynicism about Spotify throughout the book. Pelly and her sources are not dispassionate observers, but people with a take, and that take is that streaming, while great for consumers, is not great for artists, who are paid fractions of a cent per stream. And how big the fraction is is virtually impossible to figure out, given the many variants possible, which include the type of streaming plan (free, standard or family?) and even what country the consumer lives in.

“This is all to say: the digit on an artist’s royalty statement is much more complicated than a per-stream rate. And artists are almost always systematically shut out of any sort of transparency around the calculations creating their livelihoods,” Pelly writes, explaining how the digital age has led to a music labor movement.

To be fair, she notes, with every change in technology, the industry has had to adapt. In the 1920s the rise of the phonograph was seen with the same sort of concern that musicians have had about digital music. Musicians went on strike in the 1940s over LP records; they feared unemployment, believing that people were less likely to go see a live performance if they could hear the music in their living rooms. Of course, that’s proved not to be the case; witness Taylor Swift’s proceeds from her Eras tour.

Still, Pelly sees the problem of artist compensation as something all of us should worry about, even arguing that music, like libraries, should be seen as a “public good,” with public funding and protections. Some people in Europe are even arguing for what amounts to a universal basic income for musicians. In fact, that’s even been tried in Ireland, which experimented with a “Basic Income for the Arts” that gave 325 euro each week to 2,000 artists for three years. France has also experimented with a system that gave artists their own unemployment system, in order to make up for the irregularity of their work.

In her conclusion, Pelly asks, “What’s the ethical alternative to Spotify?,” which is not a question the average American consumer will want to entertain, and Pelly admits there are no easy answers. For those who are not inclined to worry about artist pay — or to consider that “our shared music cultures would be so much more compelling and diverse if so many [musicians] did not need to abandon the arts for jobs with health insurance” — Mood Machine may seem like so much hand-wringing, interspersed with sometimes mind-numbing detail on things like hyperpop and Discovery Mode.

Ultimately, while well-reported, Mood Machine is more a book for insiders than the general public. But insiders and struggling musicians will love it.

B- —Jennifer Graham

Featured Image: Mood Machine, by Liz Pelly

Album Reviews 25/02/20

Sanhedrin, Heat Lightning (Metal Blade Records)

I haven’t checked in with the Metal Blade Records stable in quite a while. This record seemed mildly interesting, given that the New York-based three-piece band’s musicianship is advertised as being top-drawer, which made me think of Rush, a band that was rather interesting for two or three albums before they decided to kind of suck. Ah yes, look at that typical Metal Blade-approved cover art, evoking an AI-created Halloween card created for sale at dollar stores; but wait. Opening song “Blind Wolf” rips off the intro to Metallica’s “For Whom The Bell Tolls,” then combines Savatage and Mercyful Fate and tables some really nice melodic touches. “Above The Law” nicks Buckcherry but in a good way; “Franklin County Line” Slayer-izes the Fates Warning formula. It’s fine for what it is. A —Eric W. Saeger

Mark Pritchard & Thom Yorke, “Back In The Game,” Warp Records

The only reason I came within a country mile of paying any attention whatsoever to this new collaborative single is its painfully strident “edgelord” factor: “Look everyone, it’s Thom Yorke! And it’s on Warp Records!” Usually I avoid both those things like leper-hospital Dumpsters (my favorite all-time line about Yorke was Dr. David Thorpe’s iconic “Thom Yorke, the man with completely superfluous letters in both his names,” while Warp’s output has never failed to disappoint me; they have a strange fetish for electronic music that’s so boring it makes Postal Service sound innovative), but it was either this or dig through my emails for something great but which most of you wouldn’t care about anyway, so here we are. Pritchard, of Reload and Link fame, previously featured Yorke on the Sigur Ros-ish “Beautiful People” from his (Pritchard’s) 2016 LP Under The Sun; the only thing that made that tune interesting was its New Age vibe and some mildly innovative vocal effects. This track employs the latter trick again but with less boldness; all in all the song comprises dated, government-issue krautrock that sounds like a bonus track from the Saw soundtrack. There, I pretended to care about this, I demand my gold sticker this instant. C —Eric W. Saeger

PLAYLIST

A seriously abridged compendium of recent and future CD releases

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

• Before I descend into the usual madness about albums good and bad coming out this Friday, Feb. 21, here’s something important. You guys know I’m a big supporter of New England-based singer-songwriter Kris Pedersen, whose award-winning Tom Petty-meets-Florida Georgia Line/Kings Of Leon-style music is amazingly well-written and well worth your support. You may also know that he’s had a very tough slog of it, but on Feb. 9 the absolute worst possible thing happened. A fire consumed his family farmhouse in South Wallingford, Vermont, in no time flat; his home and all his possessions were totally gone before the fire department guys could even get set up. He and his wife April have literally nothing left but the clothes they were wearing that day, and that’s where you rascals come in: Kris’s fan base stepped up immediately to start a donation page, which is already up to around $3,500 at this writing with a $5,000 goal (and no limit), but he’s obviously going to need a lot more than that to get back to business, so if you’re feeling it, please do give. “Mutual aid” is a big thing nowadays, as you probably know, and this is as deserving a cause as you could ever imagine, so if you have a few bucks to spare, please donate to Kris’s GoFundMe pool at this page: www.gofundme.com/f/support-kris-and-family-after-devastating-fire. It’s the best way for you to help out this struggling world-class artist.

• British techno-funk-blues singer Neo Jessica Joshua is better known as Nao, and her new album, Jupiter, will be out this Friday! Her resumé is top-level, including singing backup for such peeps as Kwabs and Jarvis Cocker, and six years singing in an all-girl a cappella group called The Boxettes. And so I must take her very seriously, and thus I shall remove my (true fact) custom-designed T-shirt that reads “Your Band Completely Sucks =(” and approach this section with all the professionalism I can muster, excuse me while I open this box of Jolly Joes grape jellybean thingies to ensure that my brain has enough reserve sugar for the task! So I am watching the visualizer video for her new song, “Happy People,” and let me just say that she is blessed with a bubbly voice that sounds kind of like a Munchkin; the music underneath is sparse and lo-fi, a combination of acoustic guitar and authentic-sounding Afrobeat, in sum a very island-vacation feel to this. It is very nice, yes.

• Singing human Patterson Hood, a co-founder of the band Drive-By Truckers, releases his fourth solo album this Friday, Exploding Trees & Airplane Scream! The spearhead track is “The Pool House,” whose video features the stupidest-looking puppet I’ve ever seen, doofing around in a quaint doll house or whatnot. The music is an eclectic but listenable mixture of Bon Iver and corporate country & western, sort of like what you’d hear if Garth Brooks toned things down in order to do a Robert Palmer trip from 1990, you know, when he did that dumb Marvin Gaye cover tune.

• British wimp-indie bros The Wombats are up to six LPs as of this Friday, with their latest, Oh! The Ocean. “Can’t Say No” is a twee-ized ripoff of Echosmith’s two big hits, you know the ones. Nice but completely disposable.

• Lastly we have Boise, Idaho-based producer-DJ-whatever Trevor Powers, who goes by the nym Youth Lagoon, and his new album, Rarely Do I Dream! “Speed Freak” is wicked cool in my opinion, a ratty, crunchy no-wave/electro joint with an ’80s-pop center. —Eric W. Saeger

Featured Photo: Sanhedrin, Heat Lightning (Metal Blade Records) & Mark Pritchard & Thom Yorke, “Back In The Game,” Warp Records

The Heart of Winter, by Jonathan Evison


The Heart of Winter, by Jonathan Evison (Dutton, 368 pages)

A 70-year marriage is unfathomable to most. After all, approximately half of all marriages end in divorce (not a myth, according to a recent Forbes article), and, logistically, you’d have to marry young and you’d both have to live beyond the average life expectancy to hit that 70-year mark. But if a marriage were to endure for 70 years — how?

The Heart of Winter by Jonathan Evison sheds some light on this as it follows Abe and Ruth Winter’s journey from college-age courting (very reluctantly on Ruth’s part) to 90th birthdays and end-of-life planning.

The book gets off to a slow start as Abe unenthusiastically allows his family to celebrate his 90th birthday. Evison does the reader no favors by naming dozens of characters up front: the Winters’ living children — Anne, Kyle and Maddie — plus their significant others and their kids and their kids and their pets, plus family friends.

It seems trivial to point this out now that I’ve finished the book and mostly enjoyed it, but the fact is that it almost made me put it down and not pick it up again — too many people to try to remember, plus dialogue that makes their grown children sound like teenagers, which adds to the confusion around who’s who. Meanwhile, Abe is lamenting that he’s still alive, making for a depressing start.

But get past the beginning and you’ll find the answers to that “how” question, laid out by Evison in shifting perspectives between Ruth and Abe, and shifting timelines between present day and various impactful years in their marriage.

The answers, it seems, are resilience, patience, perseverance and tolerance, a recipe of big words mixed with steadfast love.

From the moment they meet in college, it’s clear that Abe and Ruth are very different people, and Ruth does her best to avoid him at all costs. But Abe is enamored by her spirit and free will and eventually wears her down. They date, and before she can graduate Ruth gets pregnant. They get married, and Ruth is suddenly a stay-at-home mom with little use for her books of poetry and lofty ideals.

Ruth is not unhappy, but she isn’t exactly happy either. And so Abe, without Ruth’s knowledge, accepts a job and buys a farmhouse on Bainbridge Island, a ferry ride away from the hustle and bustle of Seattle and not exactly the kind of life Ruth thought she’d be living when she was deep into her studies of the liberal arts. But Abe is convinced she will love life on the farm, where she can garden and raise chickens and take care of the kids. She’s mad, really mad, at his presumptuousness but ultimately acquiesces, and another chapter of their life together begins.

Ruth does like living on the farm, as it turns out, at least for a while. But as Abe focuses on his growing business and ensuring his family is financially set, Ruth has moments of restlessness. Keep in mind that we’re exploring 70 years of life together, so of course life doesn’t always go smoothly. They experience a number of situations that could have ended another couple: Abe’s unilateral decision to move the family, the tragic loss of a child, a brief infidelity (Ruth), an even briefer exploration of sexuality (also Ruth), absentee parenting (Abe) and differing political views (Ruth’s views being “pseudocommunist malarkey” and “unreasonable optimism,” as far as Abe is concerned).

And through it all, Evison keeps bringing us back to present day, where they squabble like the old married couple they are.

“‘Minor inconvenience?’” Abe says to Ruth about the CPAP machine she insists he use. “‘You try strapping that contraption on! Every time I open my mouth, I’m like a human leaf blower.’

‘One of these mornings, you’re just not gonna wake up, you know?’

“Good,’ he said. ‘Then I won’t have to hear about it anymore.’”

They can joke at times, but they also have to face some harsh truths about old age. Ruth thinks, at one point while worrying about Abe falling in the driveway, “Everything was a high-risk proposition after eighty. To rage against the dying of the light sometimes meant shoveling the walkway or driving after dark.” (I love how Evison deftly references Dylan Thomas’s “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night” here, subtly showing that Ruth’s love of poetry never fully dies.)

And, as Ruth undergoes an invasive procedure to save her life, she questions whether it’s worth it to keep fighting. “While she wasn’t without use, the world was hardly dependent on her participation.”

But Abe is not ready to try life without her, and his 90th-birthday thoughts of preparing for death turn into a steadfast need to be Ruth’s caretaker, despite their children’s misgivings. He drives through snow on city roads that terrify him to be with her at the hospital, and, with the deepest sense of love and commitment, brings her back to their farmhouse and tries his best to take care of her.

Like Abe and Ruth, I’m glad I made it past the beginning of their story. The Heart of Winter reminded me that love can last even through the darkest of times if your heart is in it. B+ —Meghan Siegler

Featured Image: The Heart of Winter, by Jonathan Evison

Album Reviews 25/02/13

EST Gee, I Ain’t Feeling You (Bonus Edition) (Interscope Records)

This 30-year-old Louisville, Kentucky-born rapper lost a good number of fans after trying actual singing on for size for a couple of albums or so, but his return to straight spitting in this one does go pretty hard, aiming for the same intensity as 2021’s Bigger Than Life or Death. Of course, “intensity” isn’t an attribute that’s usually applied to him, what with his mumbly, disjointed style; he’s been dubbed a “less coherent Rich Homie Quan” among other things, but I was captivated enough by opener “Free Rico” and its woofer-rattling, from-the-mountaintop kettle-drum beat to get past the pedestrian trap undergirding that serves as its base. “The Streets” winds and roils in hypnotic, serpentine fashion, evincing casual excitement and an endless supply of oxygen, instantly lending the record grower potential rather than evoking some texted-in flavor-of-the-week exercise. “Do My Own Stunts” is the underground stoner-a-thon, for those who live for that kind of thing. A —Eric W. Saeger

Friko, Where We’ve Been, Where We Go from Here (ATO Records)

In In-Case-You-Missed-It news, this album didn’t hit my radar until just now, so you have my sincere apologies if you’re already deeply familiar with it. I’m literally a year late on it, but in my defense the angle here is that on Saturday, March 8, they’ll be at The Sinclair in Cambridge, Mass., and besides, at the rate indie bands come and go in the endless flux of our no-attention-span zeitgeist, it’s worth mentioning. This Chicago duo, claiming to be inspired by such acts as Minski and such, are, as some have noted, remindful of Radiohead and Arcade Fire, but there’s a wild-horses feel to these frightwiggy tunes; they incorporate some of the decent things (few though they were) about Aughts-indie bands like New Young Pony Club and Los Campesinos, for one thing the amateurish group-singalong sound that was a staple at Bowery Ballroom shows and later refined by Arcade Fire. The overall effect is like being subjected to a cult initiation; you want to learn the lyrics because the melodies sound so bloody important, a rare thing these days. A —Eric W. Saeger

Playlist

• Happy Valentine’s Day to those who celebrate, and even to those who haven’t dated or even talked to another human being since the 1990s (good choice)! It is another two months before the South Korea-originated “Black Valentine’s Day,” when people who celebrate being “happily single” take themselves out to dinner and a movie and then go home to descend into madness in front of reruns of Classic Concentration on the Buzzr channel, as opposed to us totally happily married people who spend most of our time living like Fred Flintstone, half-watching Match Game ’78 while trying to figure out how to hide ridiculously impulsive Amazon purchases from our spouses, do you guys even know how much money buying a 20-pack of button-cell batteries for kitty laser pointers can save you in the long run? But I digress, someone stop me, the record companies are gearing up for a long year of releasing albums and trying to figure out a way to out-sell Chappell Roan, who won the Best New Artist Grammy award the other week for such things as dressing up like Carol Kane in Scrooged, giving attitude to random people with cameras, and of course her masterstroke, adding gravelly Ed Banger beats to microwaved Madonna oatmeal and summarily dispatching a battalion of record company mafiosi to pressure low-information writers from Nylon and such to proclaim her marginally listenable album The Rise and Fall of a Midwest Princess to be the greatest thing since Reese’s Cups. This too shall pass, as you know (by the way, are Zola Jesus and Poppy still relevant, someone please tweet at me), but in the meantime we have albums to discuss, new ones that are coming out on Valentine’s Day, let’s get it over with. First things first, speaking of Buzzr, guess who’s got an album coming out on Friday? None other than Richard Dawson! But wait, it’s not that Richard Dawson, the creepy touchy-grabby British dude from Family Feud, it’s a different one, some British folkie whose voice sounds like a drunk Basset hound! Nothing normal is going on here, this man has been using a literally broken guitar as his go-to instrument for years, he just likes the sound of it. His trip has been described as “the folkie version of Captain Beefheart’s approach to blues music.” In other words it’s completely horrible, but our pals at Domino Records are releasing this monstrosity nevertheless, so I’m compelled to listen to it, so I am. OK I’m not anymore, it sounds like the Unabomber singing a love song to his first-grade teacher on a wooden Fisher Price guitar from 1959. If you honestly love this I hate you.

• Usually when I hear the term “space rock” I start barfing uncontrollably, figuring I’m about to hear something that sounds like Spacemen 3 or a Loot Crate version of Pink Floyd, but British band Doves are pretty awesome: They actually sound kind of like Elbow! Constellations For The Lonely, their new one, features the tune “Renegade”; it’s psychedelic, yes, but singer Jimi Goodwin’s voice is seriously neat.

• Oh, great, notoriously awful singer Neil Young has once again found some old tapes in his goat barn and made an album out of them. Oceanside Countryside was recorded in 1977 but never released until now; it features “Field of Opportunity,” a fiddle-driven bluegrass jam that’s OK if you like bad singing with your bluegrass.

• Finally we have Sleepless Empire, the latest LP from Italian goth-metal spazzers Lacuna Coil. The song “Gravity” is doomy and epic, of course, less so when the Cookie Monster-voiced dude is doing the singing, more so when the hot chick singer is trying to sound like an America’s Got Talent contestant. It’s fine for what it is. —Eric W. Saeger

Featured Photo: EST Gee, I Ain’t Feeling You (Bonus Edition) (Interscope Records) & Friko, Where We’ve Been, Where We Go from Here (ATO Records)

Stay in the loop!

Get FREE weekly briefs on local food, music,

arts, and more across southern New Hampshire!