Pop – Page 18

Album Reviews 22/11/03

Brothertiger, Brothertiger (Satanic Panic Records)

If you were around in the late ’80s, you probably heard your share of corporate metrosexual chill-techno music by Tears For Fears, Scritti Politti, Spandau Ballet and all that junk, usually at the most inopportune times, like when you were stuck someplace where it was being played loud enough for you to hear it. No, I kid this kidder, because you could do a lot worse these days than this kind of thing, Perry Como makeout tunes for the generation who thought John Waters was the greatest filmmaker of all time. This guy — the mononymed Jagos, who’s done four other LPs with this project — has really nailed the vibe; there’s pretty, slick synth-cheese all over the place, as well as the staple fake-bell sounds that signified ’80s-pop more than basically anything else if you think about it. It’s all well done, the vocal lines smooth and low-slung. There’s no reason for this kind of music to exist in current-year, but it is what it is. A

Amanda McCarthy, “Lifeline” (single) (self-released)

When last we left this New Hampshire-based country-pop singer-songwriter, she’d released her 14-song debut LP Road Trip, which, now that I’m re-listening to it for the first time in forever, actually has almost a Christian-pop feel to it, but that’s probably mostly owed to my listening to a lot of church-rock nowadays for some reason. Anyway, she’s in Nashville or thereabouts now, shooting for the bigs, and to make it in the bigs, one needs big-sounding – and, yes, I hate this word as much as anyone — production. This song does have that, let’s get that out of the way; it’s got as much a Tegan and Sara feel as it does a slight Faith Hill twang to it. It’s a very catchy rock-ballad-ish tune, one she “tried to write for years,” so she says”… my brain kept coming back to this song.” Good thing it did. There’s nothing amiss here. A

Playlist

• Like Zippy The Pinhead always says: Yow, look at all the new CDs that are coming out! Yup, it’s a huge pile of new albums due out on Friday, Nov. 4, and the worst, I mean first, one is Aughts-indie stalwarts Phoenix, with their new album, Alpha Zulu! You know, back when I first started writing this column — before the Best Of New Hampshire CD Reviews award and the other one, I forget which it was — I was really intimidated by Phoenix and their musical meatloaf of Kaiser Chiefs and whatever else, like, it was kind of heavy but also kind of awkward and badly done, which was all the rage back then, so I had to watch what I said about them because I was afraid some 98-pound hipster with skinny jeans and a flavor-saver patch under his lips would tell my editor to fire me because I just wasn’t sufficiently plugged into the zeitgeist. Of course, the happy ending came years later, when music journalists who’d suffered under the whip of utterly incompetent Brooklyn scenesters who pretended to like bands like Pavement and Air — you know, the really bad stuff — finally decided enough was enough and that it was OK for us writers with a bare modicum of taste to admit that we couldn’t stand any of those bands. It was kind of organic for me, like, I had gotten to the point where I just couldn’t take it anymore and had started dragging some of them (ha ha, remember Snow Patrol, how they couldn’t quite write a song that Gin Blossoms wouldn’t laugh at? Write those weak, unsellable B-sides, Snow Patrol! Write!). OK, and whatever, I’ll go listen to this dumb Phoenix album so that you don’t have to. I assume they’ve improved by now, seeing as how they’ve had what, 15 years to think about all the damage they’d done to rock ’n’ roll? I have no expectations at the moment, I just hope it isn’t completely unlistenable, whatever it is — ah, there it is, the title track. Oh jeez, they’ve gone the Yo La Tengo/Chk Chk Chk route but (and you’ll never believe this) less interesting. Kind of mellow, a sneaky little hook in there halfway through the song, vibe with no purpose other than ordering avocado toast or something. Anyway, there you go, Phoenix, everyone.

• For whatever reason, some of you are really big into Queens Of The Stone Age and buy all their albums, and for that, they thank you, and you’ll want to know about Tropical Gothclub, the new solo album from QOTSA multi-instrumentalist Dean Fertita, streeting this Friday! This fellow also played with Dead Weather, so he’s supposedly seen Jack White eat an entire bag of Wendy’s hamburgers in one sitting, a story he can tell his grandchildren. I expect this will be a set of stoner-rock songs, given Fertita’s liking for stoner rock, but let’s do a quick CSI just to be sure. So the first single, “Wheels Within Wheels,” is, you guessed it, basically a QOTSA song, but with a more boneheaded, King Gizzard-ish psychedelic angle. Good lord, it’s noisy and pointless, I’m unimpressed but will admit it’s better than a lot of the trash out there.

• What in tarnation is the Ezra Collective, fam? I don’t know, I have no idea, let me Google it. Ah, OK, I get it, they’re a jazz band of some sort; their 2019 instrumental single “Quest for Coin” was premiered as a “Hottest Record in The World” on BBC Radio 1’s Annie Mac show. Where I’m Meant To Be, the new album, features the single “Life Goes On,” a weird but irresistible thingamajig combining breakbeat, ska and Fela Kuti. Simply too cool.

• We’ll wrap up this nonsense with Swedish folk-rock girls First Aid Kit’s new LP, Palomino! Not much to say other than if you ever wanted to hear a slightly depressing version of ABBA, you’ll love this. Great stuff.

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. Message me on Twitter (@esaeger) or Facebook (eric.saeger.9).

Leech, by Hiron Ennes

Leech, by Hiron Ennes (Tordotcom, 336 pages)

If you’re looking for gothic fiction, horror spiced up with adventure, LGBT representation or just plain good writing, check out Hiron Ennes’s debut novel, Leech. Fair warning: This novel is packed with spookiness, body horror and psychological dread. Upsetting things that happen in this book that make it appropriate only for older teens and adults, like murder and rape. A few times I had to put the book down and felt my skin crawl (or I was delightedly disgusted).

Anyway, I liked Leech quite a bit! I was immediately hooked by the first few pages. You follow the narrator, a doctor traveling to a haunted château in a remote alpine town to investigate the death of their colleague. When a string of hideous discoveries threatens the doctor’s existence, their control of the situation and themself unravels. It’s later revealed that the main characters are not the people you were at first led to believe they were.

The story has good pace; each chapter ended with a discovered secret or new information that underscored the horror and kept the plot surprising. As the reveals pile up, you slowly learn more and more about the narrator, their relationship to the denizens of the château, and what secrets they keep hidden.

The writing is heavily erudite and had me reaching for a dictionary even more often than Seth Dickinson’s The Traitor Baru Cormorant. I wrote down more than 50 terms to double-check. Many of these are medical or scientific, like “atrophic,” “hyphae,” and “enucleated.” The obscure vocabulary sometimes distracted me (if I bothered at all to stop and discover its meaning), but I also think that the vocabulary supports the narrator’s character as an overly educated doctor. Regardless of that, the writing was obviously talented and enjoyable on its own.

The setting is a post-apocalyptic steampunk-ish version of Earth orbited by the pulverized chunks of a destroyed moon and beset by natural disasters like earthquakes and hurricanes that are as normal as the weather. Some of the details felt a bit disjointed when put together. Why was it mentioned that one city is paved with ruby bricks? This didn’t turn out to be important. Nevertheless, other elements of the setting well support the genre and themes. The very landscape seems to haunt humanity for its past transgressions, isolating modern society into a huddled clan terrified of science, the sky and the unknown. Fantastical elements such as the mineral wheatrock used for fertilizer, the arctic cryptids called the ventigeaux, and the native Montish with their black eyes give the novel a mystical feel like a fairy tale or myth.

The plot was always exciting and the reveals unexpected, sometimes putting me on the edge of my seat. I was caught off guard when the narration changed focus to different characters midway through the novel, and the genre took a swing toward hopeful adventure, fast-paced, full of danger and action. The uplifting final act was a sweet way to wash out the doom and gloom from earlier. My only critique is that the very ending was a bit abrupt and open-ended for my taste.

In Leech, some characters suffered, some heroes became the villains, and others got the second chances they deserved. This novel’s horror lightened by relief, clever writing, and compelling characters made it an enjoyable read. Give Leech a shot for a spooky Halloween! A-

— Alaina Tocci

Album Reviews 22/10/27

Nelson, A Nelson Family Christmas (UME Records)

So glad to get the first holiday record of the season into the books, and this one is actually nice, if you like being in a good mood in front of a crackling fire, or eating Hobo Beans out of a can under the Interstate 93 overpass or whatever you’ll be doing this season. No, you’re not seeing things, this is indeed Matthew and Gunnar Nelson, the twin sons of Ricky Nelson, the same photogenic pair of boys who graced the post-hair-metal world with the marginal hits “(Can’t Live Without Your) Love and Affection” and “After the Rain,” the latter of which is the only one I remember at all, it was actually OK. This is a decent holiday album, no knuckleballs or weirdness, and it includes jangly, poppy, rather pretty versions of everything from “Jingle Bells” to “Joy To The World” to (really the only Christmas song I can stand anymore) “Holly Jolly Christmas.” Solid, nice, nothing wrong here. A

Peggy Lee, Norma Deloris Egstrom from Jamestown, North Dakota [50th Anniversary Deluxe Edition] (Capitol Records)

Odd little vintage curio here, the 50th anniversary release of the jazz-pop singer’s final album for Capitol Records, released in 1972. For the most part the tunes were bum-outs about love and loss and everything in between, including “Just for a Thrill,” “Superstar,” “The More I See You,” “I’ll Be Seeing You,” all made fascinating by her unique, somewhat low-throated warble. “Love Song,” a gently finger-picked number, was the biggest song on board; released as a 45-rpm single, it was a minor hit, spending four weeks on the Billboard Easy Listening chart and peaking at No. 34 in October 1972. It was also Lee’s last single for Capitol, nearly three decades after she released her first on the label. This set includes a 23-page booklet, annotated by Iván Santiago, featuring new interviews with Tom Catalano, Artie Butler and Brian Panella, as well as previously unseen photos from the 1972 recording session. A

Playlist

• It’s Halloween, baby, and new albums will hit the streets this Friday, Oct. 28!

We’ll go over And I Have Been, The latest full-length from U.K. singer-songwriter Benjamin Clementine first. He is billed as being “one of the great singer-songwriters of his generation, and the future sound of London,” although critics have had a hard time placing his music in any one genre. After listening to the new single “Genesis,” I’d categorize him as a trip-hop-infused Nick Cage, not that his voice is all that annoying but yeah, it kind of is. The song kind of rips off “House Of The Rising Sun,” and it looks like he’s dancing with his mom in the video, which is weird, but whatever.

• Canadian electro-pop band Dragonette is now a solo act consisting of singer Martina Sorbara, the daughter of a former Member of Provincial Parliament and Minister of Finance in Ontario. Now gather ’round, kids, this little story isn’t going to be about nepotism in rock ’n’ roll or government or whatever, it’s actually a sad tale of love gone horribly wrong, because Sorbara was originally married to the band’s bass player, Dan Kurtz, but that didn’t pan out so much, like maybe he said something inappropriate during some fundraising banquet for the Canadian Prime Minister or he used a salad fork instead of an actual normal fork to eat his royal poutine when the Pope or Finland’s Chancellor came to visit the Canadian White House or whatever they have in the frozen hinterlands of our “neighbors to the north.” And such and so, but the title track of this album, “Twennies,” is OK if you usually like mall-techno, it’s got sort of like an aughts-era Miss Kittin-style house groove, pretty harmless and unoriginal but it’s alright overall, bedroom vibe and all that, decent enough hook, etc.

• Yikes, it’s yet another album from Australian psychedlic-stoner freaks King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard! It wouldn’t be a normal week without a new album from these guys, you know? Ha ha, I can’t stand it, this is their literal fifth album of 2022, their 23rd overall, and it’s titled Changes. Boy, you have to admit, it’s a pretty smart gimmick, the whole idea of being in a band and putting out a bunch of albums, what madness is this, amirite? OK, whatever, it’s Halloween, so let’s go to the YouTube and find a video for one of these new songs and, like Frankenfurter said on The Rocky Horror Picture Show, see what’s on the slab! Ah, here’s one of their new rock ’n’ roll songs, “Oce V,” and uh-oh, look at this video, our boys are in Italy or some other country, whatever, and it looks and sounds like some goofy B movie from like 1971, like dig the funky beat! LOL, these guys are such stoners, if they had a time machine, they’d probably go back to the Jurassic age just so they could watch a velociraptor hatch out of an egg and put a little baseball cap on it, because randomness is so cool.

• We’ll end this week’s rundown with another Canadian indie musician, namely Dan Mangan, whose new album, Being Somewhere, is in the books as of this Friday! He’s done soundtracks scored for feature films (Hector and the Search for Happiness for one), as well as music for things you may have seen on Netflix and AMC. The first single is “All Roads,” which has the same kind of vibe as Modest Mouse’s “Interstate 8,” you know, quirky and half-plugged-guitar-y but not as stupid as Figurine or any of that garbage. Pretty boring, that’s it, folks, nothing much to see here, truth be told.

Carrie Soto is Back by Taylor Jenkins Reid

Carrie Soto is Back by Taylor Jenkins Reid (Ballantine, 384 pages)

You know when a book’s protagonist is really hard to like but, for reasons that you can’t quite understand, you root for her anyway? That is Carrie Soto.
When we meet Carrie, she’s 37 and has been retired from professional tennis for six years. After watching Nicki Chan match her Grand Slam record, she decides to come out of retirement and win back her spot at the top of the tennis world.
Taylor Jenkins Reid has created a character in Carrie who is so real, I keep expecting her to show up in daily sports headlines. But her name appears in fictional media stories time and again, as Jenkins Reid uses sports commentary and news articles to help shed light on what the world thinks of Carrie. And the world sees her exactly as she is: supremely talented but ruthless. In fact, she was given the nickname of “the Battle-Axe” when she was in her prime.
We see some of that ruthlessness during a press conference that takes place during her first event back, the Australian Open. One of the reporters asks if there’s truth to her comeback being a stunt. Carrie responds, “I’ve proven so far that my game is outstanding. So everyone can whine and moan all they want about me being here, but I’ve earned the right.”
Another reporter asks about her upcoming match, to which she replies, “I’m gonna crush Carla Perez and anyone else I play on my way to the final. I’m going to hold their beating hearts in my hand.”
That’s Carrie, inside and out. She’s as abrasive internally as she is externally; it’s not just a show for the media. She’s hard on everyone else, and she’s equally hard on herself. We see this in the thoughts that permeate her mind during her games, including during a tight match against Natasha Antonovich, one of her more formidable rivals.
“I do not look at my father. I do not want to see the worry in his eyes. I tell myself: Do not let her win this set. You are either a champion or a ****up. There is no in-between.”
Rarely, we see Carrie’s vulnerability. She puts a hard wall up against Bowe Huntley, a fellow tennis pro with whom she’d gotten too close to in the past. She has the chance to train with him again, and she imagines a scenario in which she does let him back into her life.
“He’ll say something wonderful at some point, and I’ll start to believe he means it, despite all evidence to the contrary. And then I’ll start to like him or love him or feel something that I swear I’ve never felt before. And then one day, when I’m in too deep, he’ll stop liking or loving me, for one reason or another. And I’ll be left with a hole in my heart.”
Also softening the storyline is Carrie’s relationship with her dad and coach, Javier, a former pro himself. Their relationship, at first, seems all business; when Carrie trains with him as a child, Javi is demanding and has what some might see as unrealistically high expectations. But as the story goes on, we see how deeply he loves her and just wants her to be happy. And Carrie’s feelings for him change, seeming to soften over the years. She had fired him as her coach during her pre-retirement career, but she agrees to work with him for her comeback. Javi becomes a likable character, an endearing foil to Carrie’s hard-headedness.
Carrie Soto is Back is very much about tennis, but don’t let that stop you from picking it up, even if you care nothing about sports in general or tennis in particular. I’ve never played tennis, never watched more than a few minutes of tennis, and never really cared to. But Carrie is tennis, and who she is is expressed through her intense tennis practices, tennis games and tennis relationships.
It helps that Jenkins Reid has done her homework. According to an Aug. 29 interview on The Cut, Reid has played tennis for fun, but “I don’t think I’ve ever won a game, let alone a set or a match. … I had to learn it all for this book, and I’m very insecure about it. Did I learn it right? I don’t know, guys. I’m an imposter. I’m trying really hard. I’m trying to learn as much as I can so that I can give you a good time.”
Jenkins Reid has done just that. Carrie Soto is Back is a good time, not in spite of Carrie’s brashness — or the intense focus on tennis — but because of it. A-

Album Reviews 22/10/20

Peel Dream Magazine, Pad (Slumberland Records)
With its Postal Service-vs.-the very worst parts of Spoon-sounding tunes, this dude’s first album, 2020’s Agitprop Alterna, should have sunk straight to the bottom of the ocean, never to be heard again, but lest we forget, people have absolutely dreadful taste these days, so here he is again — and by “he,” I’m referring to Joseph Stevens, the driving force behind this project, which, as of this album, has turned toward a more cleanly engineered pop direction. Anything’s better than the stuff on Agitprop, up to and including the Belle & Sebastian stylings of the tune “Pictionary,” which is what you’d hear if Donovan were still around and big into twee. But it’s not all that, ahem, good: The title track is pointless and awkwardly confident, dragging a really horrible-sounding keyboard and a flute into the mix, but that’s this guy’s jam. Boy, he loves him some Stereolab, you can tell, but the funniest part is that he fancies this thing as a concept album in the vein of Nilsson’s The Point. Pfft, he wishes. He’ll be at Lilypad in Boston on Nov. 1. D

Ben Harper, Bloodline Maintenance (Chrysalis Records)
Yeah, I missed the first waltz with this LP, Harper’s 15th overall, when it streeted in July, but the 140-gram vinyl pressing just came out as of this writing, so, you know, sue me. The three-time Grammy Award winner’s forte is an oddball mixture of blues, folk, soul, reggae and rock, if this is all news to you, although his attendance at a Bob Marley show when Harper was 9 years old was his real “OK, this is what I need to do with my life” moment. Can’t tell that right off the bat from this one, though; it launches with a nicely done 2-minute Bone Thugs-begging vocal harmony routine in opening song “Below Sea Level,” and then it’s on to some Jamie Liddell-ish asphalt-soul in “We Need To Talk About It.” “Where Did We Go Wrong” is pure Fifth Dimension ’70s-pop straight out of Burt Sugarman’s Midnight Special TV show; “More Than Love” works an Otis Redding vibe. Still no reggae by that point, but the Leadbelly/Led Zeppelin mud-folk of “Knew The Day Was Comin’” makes up for that. Solid, lots of knuckleballs. A

Playlist

• Well, will you look at that, the next Friday for new album releases is this coming one, Oct. 21, and guess what day that is. No, seriously, you’ll die: It’s my birthday, guys, which will be celebrated by welcoming the newly crowned King Charles of England and Wales and Wolveringhampshire or whatever to our home, for tea and crumpets and a masked ball! Either that or a Netflix monster movie and takeout from Panda Express, I haven’t decided, but either way I won’t have to do anything on my wife’s “honey do” list that day; in fact, maybe if the King gets here on time for once I’ll borrow one of his jingle-hatted knave-clowns to fix the stairway banister and have him stop every once in a while to juggle some flaming aerosol cans or whatever those guys do for their royal paychecks. But whatever, it’s my birthday, so hopefully there will be a good album or two out of this week’s dump, and we will talk about it here. OK, let’s look at the list — yikes, I suppose I should mention Midnights, the upcoming new album from glorified Kellie Pickler wannabe Taylor Swift, in case there are any 11-year-old girls reading this week’s column, even though it’s written by an “icky boy.” So the title track from this new Tay-Tay album is a sleepy ballad that sounds a little like Kellie Pickler doing a cover of the old Kiss song “Beth.” It’s an OK song, which leads me to believe she didn’t actually write it, and the video shows her dancing and doing other stuff when she was like 16 it looks like, before she started dating Jake Gyllenhal and whoever. OK, I’m feeling a little queasy, may I be excused now?
• Boy, I can’t wait to open my next birthday present, an advance preview of Direction Of The Heart, the new LP from ’80s synthpop pioneers Simple Minds, who are still led by singer Jim Kerr and guitarist Charlie Burchill, just like when they started in 1977, formaldehyde does have its uses, doesn’t it gang? I’m sure you’ve heard their biggest (and I believe only) hit single, “Don’t You (Forget About Me),” if you were ever trapped at your aunt’s house and there were a John Hughes movie marathon, because that was the closing song from The Breakfast Club, the movie where rich high school girl Molly Ringwald had her Pikachu backpack stolen by a thug (played by some actor, Judd something, who cares) and in return she gave him a cubic zirconia ear-stud if he promised never to talk to her in the school halls ever again. But I digress, we’ve got Simple Minds here, folks, or at least I do, and I can’t wait to hear this band’s version of “Vision Thing,” because — wait, this isn’t a cover version of the old Sisters Of Mercy tune, it’s a new song, and it sounds totally ’80s, believe it or not. It’s not very interesting but your aunt won’t care, let’s move on to my next “present.”
• You know what’s the best birthday song is that Stevie Wonder tune, “Happy Birthday to Ya!” I love that one, but you know what’s probably not going to be a great song to commemorate my birthday is “Yellow,” from Tegan and Sara’s upcoming new album, Crybaby! Why do I assume that? Because I’ve never really liked any song I’ve ever heard by Tegan and Sara, but for argument’s sake, let’s say I go listen to it now and I like it. OK, that’s what I’m doing right now, and it’s cutely annoying, awkwardly ’90s-chick-poppy, sort of pretty but nothing I’d ever want to hear again. OK, one left to go and I’m going to spend the rest of my birthday chugging Jagermeister.
• Lastly, it’s North Carolina-based indie rockers Archers of Loaf, with their latest full-length, Reason In Decline! The single, “In the Surface Noise,” is kind of early U2-ish but the singer sounds like he has adenoids, he should probably consult a physician about that. — Eric W. Saeger

Sacred Nature, by Karen Armstrong

Sacred Nature, by Karen Armstrong (Knopf, 224 pages)

In the opening to Sacred Nature, Karen Armstrong tells a story of visiting a British library to look at original manuscripts of the poets William Wordsworth, Samuel Coleridge and John Keats. She was deeply moved by the visit, which she described as “a kind of communion.”

“I was looking at the moment that these poems, which were now part of myself, had come into being. I did not want to analyze the manuscripts. I simply wanted to be in their presence.”

Today, she is troubled by the people who walk through museums seeming more interested in taking photos and selfies than allowing themselves to become absorbed in the extraordinary things stored there. This tendency is also reflected in our relationship to the natural world, which Armstrong says has become an irrelevant backdrop in our busy lives. She quotes Wordsworth to describe this: “light and glory die away / and fade into the light of common day.”

It’s not all because of social media. In fact, the disconnect between humans and nature can’t be fully explained without also explaining the ways in which Western culture dissociated from nature when it embraced monotheistic religions.

The ancient Egyptians believed the annual flooding of the Nile was a “divine event,” as was the rising and setting of the sun; as such, it was near impossible to ignore Mother Nature, who could, at any moment, be ready to unleash divine wrath. As science and theology ran down separate paths that grew further apart, the thought of nature being somehow divine, or even vaguely important, was swept aside as dusty myth.

Armstrong wants to change that, by gleaning wisdom from the myths and practices of the Axial Age, 900 to 200 BCE, a time she says was “pivotal to the spiritual and intellectual development of our species.”

The religions of that time, including Confucianism, Daoism, Hinduism and Buddhism, had practices that can profoundly benefit us today if we can look beyond our modern view of a myth as being a fabrication, a “charming story,” and instead look at the meaning of the myth and allow it to be a guide. Yes, that is Oprah-level malarky, but hear her out. “A myth is true because it is effective,” she writes.

Armstrong begins by exploring the Confucian belief in “qi,” the energy that links all life, animal or plant, human or divine. Interestingly, Chinese religions are unlike others because they have no creation story, no God-creator, but the opposing forces of yin and yang. (They also were among the first to articulate what is known in Christianity as the Golden Rule.)

Early Buddhism, too, taught that enlightenment could be achieved in not just human beings but was “inherent in plants, rocks, trees and blades of grass.”

Armstrong walks through practices of other ancient modern religions, including the respectful rituals of animal sacrifice (many of the ancients who practiced it would be horrified by our mass slaughter of animals today, she says) and the practice of kenosis, or “anatta,” the “emptying” of the self required in many faiths. St. Paul, Armstrong notes, used the language when he wrote that Christ had “emptied himself” on the cross.

Although Armstrong makes clear the ways that Christianity dissuaded people from seeing nature as sacred, there have been exceptions. A disciple of St. Paul called Denys saw the natural world as revelatory of God, believing “We can only intuit God’s presence through the veils of natural objects, which conceal as much as they reveal. If we could see God clearly, it would not be God. But if we learn to contemplate nature correctly, we find that the tiniest particle of soil can yield a glimpse of the ineffable divine.”

At the end of each chapter, Armstrong offers what she sees as “the way forward.” Her recommended practices include altering our perception of “God” to be not a male dwelling apart from the Earth, but a “dynamic inner presence that flows through all things”; embracing not only stillness and silence, but images of suffering in order to develop compassion; developing our own “Five Great Sacrifices” similar to Hindu practice; the ritual practice of gratitude for the natural world that sustains us; and adopting the Indian rule of “ahimsa” or harmlessness that holds every creature deserves to live, or at least not to suffer. (The Jains took this to the extreme, believing that even stones were capable of pain.)

Regrettably, there is an overarching preachiness in Sacred Nature with regard to deepening “our spiritual commitment to the environment” that will repel some readers.

“Recycling and political commitments are not enough,” Armstrong says, later adding, “We must re-form our attitude to nature and that will entail sacrifice. We can no longer board airplanes, drive our cars or burn coal with our former insouciance.”

You can agree with her completely but still wish for a book that is more poetry, less sermon. Although it is an interesting compilation of major religious traditions’ teachings on the natural world, Sacred Nature will appeal mostly to those who already share Armstrong’s views. B-

Book Events

Author events

• JOSH MALERMAN, a horror novelist, will be at Gibson’s Bookstore (45 S. Main St., Concord, 224-0562, gibsonsbookstore.com) to presentDaphne on Thursday, Oct. 13, at 6:30 p.m.

• MELODY RUSSELL will sign and discuss her book Noni and Me: Caregiving, Memory Loss, Love at Toadstool Bookshop (12 Depot Square in Peterborough, toadbooks.com, 924-3543) on Saturday, Oct. 15, at 11 a.m.

• RICHARD LEDERER will discuss and sign his books about language at Gibson’s Bookstore (45 S. Main St., Concord, 224-0562, gibsonsbookstore.com) on Monday, Oct. 17, at noon.

• JOHN IRVING The Historic Music Hall Theater (28 Chestnut St., Portsmouth, 436-2400, themusichall.org) will host novelist and Exeter native John Irving to present The Last Chairlift, at the Music Hall on Tuesday, Oct. 18. Tickets are $49 and include a book voucher.

History, stories & lectures

• BRET BAIER, the Fox News Chief Political Anchor and author of several books, will discuss his career in media and news journalism, followed by a book sale and signing, on Saturday, Oct. 15, at 7:30 p.m. at the Palace Theatre (80 Hanover St. in Manchester; palacetheatre.org). Tickets start at $59.

Poetry

• GAIL DiMAGGIO and KAY MORGAN hosted by the Poetry Society of NH at Gibson’s Bookstore (45 S. Main St., Concord, 224-0562, gibsonsbookstore.com) on Wednesday, Oct. 19, from 4:30 to 6 p.m.

Writer events

• THREE-MINUTE FICTION SLAM Monadnock Writers’ Group is hosting its regional Three-Minute Fiction Slam on Saturday, Oct. 15, at 9:45 a.m. at the Peterborough Town Library, 2 Concord St., Peterborough. Prizes will be awarded to the top three winners. The first-place winner will advance to the statewide finals and a chance to win $250. Everyone is invited to take part in the free competition by either participating or observing the fun. The competition challenges writers to perform original pieces of fiction in three minutes or less before an audience and a panel of judges. The regional event is part of an annual competition sponsored by the New Hampshire Writers’ Project. See monadnockwriters.org.

• TENACITY PLYS and JULES PERLARSKI host a craft class on nonlinear storytelling for all at the Bookery (844 Elm St., Manchester, 836-6600, bookerymht.com) on Saturday, Oct. 22, at 4 p.m.

Album Reviews 22/10/13

Gogol Bordello, Solidaritine (Cooking Vinyl Records)

I swear, one of the few remaining genres I can still consistently stomach is European-folk-rooted punk. Have you ever been disappointed by Korpiklaani or any of those bands? Never mind, I already know you haven’t, like, who could? It’s drunken noise that’s so sweaty and smelly you can’t help holding your nose and bobbing your head up and down to it, and that brings us to this New York City-based outfit that’s been putting out albums since 1999’s Voi-La Intruder. By all rights Solidaritine should be their supernova, given that most if not all of them are Ukrainian, but yes, this band’s putting out a political punk album right now is definitely good business. Typical Ramones/Bad Brains rattle-bang hardcore here for the most part, Slayer meets Borat, you know the routine. A

Laufey, The Reykjavík Sessions (Awal Recordings)

From Ukrainian folk-punk to Icelandic wombat-jazz, we’ve got all the bases covered today, my friends. I dunno, Fader loved this record, and I’m fine with it in the main I guess; her sold-out tour, which took her to Boston’s 500-seat Sinclair in September, compels me to take her a little more seriously than I might, and I’m in a lousy mood right now, so when I say she sounds a bit hacky, you might not want to take it to heart; I’m simply referring to her rather uneventful, unadventurous voice. She’s a good songwriter, though, specializing in a weirdly edgy but quite palatable style that makes the songs sound like they’d been written during mid-century romantic periods; she dabbles in things like bossa nova and cowboy-saloon player piano at odd but fitting moments. She plays piano and cello here at turns, exhibiting some serious musicianship, not that the songs really call for it. Music to drink coffee by, sure. A

Playlist

• We’re up against Friday, Oct. 14, gang, a whole bunch of new albums coming at us in a burst of crazy, hoping for your holiday gift-buying dollar (what, your Halloween skeletons are wearing Santa suits, come on!) and we’ll probably have to start with the ’90s band I like the least, Red Hot Chili Peppers, with their new LP, Return Of The Dream Canteen! No need to belabor the point again; as I’ve said before, I think when historians close the book on ’90s rock, it’ll be Pearl Jam that’s considered the Band Of The Decade. I mean, lots of people love the Chili Peppers, with their perfect blend of jangly, watered-down Sublime-ska and basic quirky bar-rock, but come on, Pearl Jam, you know? Everyone can stomach at least one Pearl Jam tune, don’t kid around with me. Anyway, that, so let’s move it along here and check in with the Peps, and whatever they’ve done this time. When last we left them it was April of this very year, when they released their previous album, Unlimited Love, which saw the return of Rick Rubin as their producer, but wait a minute, it wasn’t that great, and that’s not according to me, it’s what fans have told me: They didn’t like it. So I guess I was right when I uttered such sweetness as “[on and on] the tune drags, with Anthony making stupid rapper hand movements even though he doesn’t rap, and then there’s some psychedelic ’70s vibe that’s just annoying and then some Austin Powers 1960s-pop vibe that also just made me depressed.” So shout out to you Pep fans who agreed that it was an awful album: you like me, guys, don’t you, you really, really like me! Sorry, could you repeat the question? Well no, I think the dude from Primus is a million times better a bass player than Flea, but let’s proceed to the part where I force myself to listen to whatever these overrated little rascals have done to destroy rock ’n’ roll this time. Rick Rubin is on board for this one, rakin’ in the mad bank, just cold helpin’ make boring songs famous, but hold on folks, let’s see what the dilly is with the first single, “Tippa My Tongue,” whatcha think of them apples? Oh, look at this video, this is so cool, guys, it’s like random colorful Austin Powers psychedelic just, you know, weirdness, right, and then they start their little joke song, and it’s sort of a mixture of Eminem and parts from the only two songs people know from this super-hilarious joke band, and look at the guys in their funny music video for this idiotic song, all dressed up in 1970s disco clothes, trying to look like they should be in one of those awful Will Ferrell “comedies.” It’s working, folks, any minute I’m expecting to see John C. Reilly or Chris Kattan pop out of nowhere and make funny jokes, those freakin’ hams, ha ha.

• The 1975 is one of those bands that has no idea what the ’70s were really like, yet everyone thinks their ’80s music is ’70s music. Their new album, Being Funny In A Foreign Language, is out on Oct. 14 and features the single “I’m In Love With You,” a tune that’s catchy but unexciting, like if the Cure and Guster had a boring baby.

• Todd Rundgren used to be famous, but nowadays he begs for nickels from Zoomers who have been taught that music is supposed to be awful. The title track from his new LP, Space Force, steals the hook from Toad The Wet Sprocket’s “All I Want,” apparently to remind us that “All I Want” was an OK song 40 years ago.

• Finally, it’s annoying quirk-chill band Wild Pink’s ILYSM, the single from which, “Hold My Hand,” sounds like Bon Iver on animal tranquilizers. I do not like it, nope.

Babysitter, by Joyce Carol Oates

Babysitter, by Joyce Carol Oates (Knopf, 448 pages)

My desire to read books about abduction and murder of children was never strong even before I had children of my own. After becoming a parent, I wondered how anyone could.

As such, I wasn’t sure if I could get through even two chapters of the long-awaited novel from Joyce Carol Oates, which is built around a serial killer who specialized in children. Dubbed the “Babysitter,” because he abducted children between the ages of 11 and 14 who were neglected and unattended, the killer murdered five children near Detroit, Michigan, when the novel opens in 1977.

The victims speak collectively to reveal details: “When we died, our bodies were carefully bathed, the smallest bits of dirt removed from every crevice of our bodies and from beneath our (broken) fingernails, and the fingernails cut with cuticle scissors; rounded and even, as our hair was washed with a gentle shampoo, combed and neatly parted in such a way to suggest that whoever had so tenderly groomed us postmortem had not known us ‘in life’.”

Even as we may want to run screaming from what came before and what will surely come after, we cannot.

Joyce Carol Oates didn’t become one of America’s most celebrated writers for lack of talent, and with that horrific opening, she glides seamlessly into what at first seems an unconnected story: The budding affair between a wealthy housewife in Far Hills, Michigan, and a man she met only briefly at a fundraiser.

Hannah Jarrett is 39, beautiful, privileged, vapid, taught by her parents to prize elegance, simplicity and taste: “Never take a chance of appearing common” is a mantra to which she clings. Her life and her marriage somewhat resembles that of Don and Betty Draper in Mad Men — outwardly perfect, if vaguely hollow, with picture-perfect children, a girl and a boy. Unlike Betty Draper, Hannah Jarrett has a live-in housekeeper, who, despite Hannah’s belief that she is an attentive mother, seems to do a significant amount of the mothering in the household.

When Hannah is contacted by the man with whom she shared an electric moment at a charity event, she decides to meet him at an elegant downtown hotel, enabled by her husband’s business trip and the housekeeper, who will be with the children no matter how late Hannah returns.

On the drive to the hotel Hannah tells herself a reassuring story: she’s only going to satisfy her curiosity, to feel beautiful and desired for an afternoon; she won’t break any vows, but will have a satisfying and fulfilling conversation with the man in the hotel bar about their mutual and ultimately thwarted desires.

That, of course, is not what happens. In her skillful narrative, Oates makes Hannah’s drive to the hotel, and even the ride up the elevator to the man’s suite, suspenseful and chilling. It is a drama seemingly completely unconnected to the “babysitter” killings, but also, we know, somehow entwined. Moreover, there are hints of future — or are they past? — events that push their way into the telling, making it unclear if what happens on any given page is, as Ebenezer asked of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, things that definitely happened or things that simply could happen.

The dynamic between Hannah and her Manila-born housekeeper, Ismelda, is polite, but fraught, as perhaps all housekeeper/employer relationships are. Hannah is both grateful and resentful of the help, and at times the similarities between “the Babysitter,” serial killer, and the babysitter/nanny/housekeeper are a bit heavy-handed. While Hannah’s children, we are led to believe, are not neglected in the way that the Babysitter’s victims are, their mother’s deficiencies are revealed in her interactions with her housekeeper.

Coming home distracted after a tryst, Hannah is so consumed by her fantasy life (“I have a lover!”) that she is unaware that her daughter is gravely ill until the housekeeper apologetically wakes her. While in no way evil or even deeply unlikeable — she is much too bland a person for that — Hannah is not a sympathetic character, even though her upbringing was in many ways troubled. Which is why it’s a shock to so quickly care so much about what happens to her and her family.

When Oates writes, “Despair of women, that men are unknown to them, essentially,” she speaks not only of the overt monsters but also of the hidden lives of husbands and friends. But women, too, have parts unknown to others and also to themselves, as Hannah learns as she is drawn deeper into a relationship despite the frantic screaming of conscience.

Babysitter is no cheap thriller but offers sharp cultural commentary on racism, class, religion and modern-day parenting. Give all the credit to Oates, who has crafted a finely tuned horror story that, like the film Fatal Attraction, is all the more horrific because of its placid suburban setting. A

Book Events

Author events

• DONALD YACOVONE will discuss his new book Teaching White Supremacy: America’s Democratic Ordeal and the Forging of Our National Identity on Thursday, Sept. 29, at 7 p.m. at Gibson’s Bookstore (45 S. Main St., Concord, 224-0562, gibsonsbookstore.com).

• STEPHEN PULEO visits the Nashua Public Library (2 Court St., 589-4600, nashualibrary.org) on Sunday, Oct. 2, at 2 p.m. to discuss his book Dark Tide: The Great Boston Molasses Flood of 1919. Registration is required.

• RENEE PLODZIK, Concord author, visits Gibson’s Bookstore (45 S. Main St., Concord, 224-0562, gibsonsbookstore.com) on Thursday, Oct. 6, at 6:30 p.m. to present her cookbook Eat Well Move Often Stay Strong.

• MARGARET PORTER presents The Myrtle Wand at Gibson’s Bookstore (45 S. Main St., Concord, 224-0562, gibsonsbookstore.com) on Wednesday, Oct. 12, at 6:30 p.m.

• JOSH MALERMAN, horror novelist, will be at Gibson’s Bookstore (45 S. Main St., Concord, 224-0562, gibsonsbookstore.com) to present his newly released bookDaphne on Thursday, Oct. 13, at 6:30 p.m.

• JOHN IRVING The Historic Music Hall Theater (28 Chestnut St., Portsmouth, 436-2400, themusichall.org) will host novelist and Exeter native John Irving to present his newest release, The Last Chairlift, at the Music Hall on Tuesday, Oct. 18. Tickets are $49 and include a book voucher.

• LYNN LYONS, psychotherapist and anxiety expert, returns to Gibson’s Bookstore (45 S. Main St., Concord, 224-0562, gibsonsbookstore.com) on Wednesday, Nov. 16, at 4:30 p.m. with The Anxiety Audit: 7 Sneaky Ways Anxiety Takes Hold and How to Escape Them.

• JOSH FUNK & KARI ALLEN Children’s authors Josh Funk and Kari Allen present their newest books, The Great Caper Caper: Lady Pancake & Sir French Toast Book No. 5 and Maddie and Mabel Take the Lead, atGibson’s Bookstore (45 S. Main St., Concord, 224-0562, gibsonsbookstore.com) on Saturday, Nov. 19, at 11 a.m.

Album Reviews 22/10/06

Alexis Castrogiovanni, Someday My Thoughts Will Be Like a Range of Mountains (self-released)

Debut EP from this Canadian singer-songwriter/cellist, steeped in ’90s throwbackism in the vein of Tori Amos and tinted with Minski, more or less. Castrogiovanni loves her some angst, as the above influences would handily indicate, but lyrically she’s more concerned with her own inner journey than the usual suspects on which “angry girl music” of the ’90s (exes, bad boyfriends and the patriarchy) focused. This is no Alanis clone, in other words, more an Ani DiFranco thing, characterized by her rapid-fire ranty-singing in “Ex-Girl,” whose beat is driven by the artiste plucking a bass-like line on her cello. I expect most listeners would hit Eject right off if they’re not into Ani or Tori or even PJ Harvey, and that’d be too bad, because the title track fares a lot better, sort of a Bjork-on-meds trip, and the effects she put on her instrumental weapon of choice keep it from being entirely disposable. B-

Chez Kane, Powerzone (Frontiers Music)

Cheerio, Bob’s your uncle, I’ll take any excuse to go check out a gorgeous British hard-rock-singing girl who dresses in basically nothing to shoot her videos, and bonus, fam, she’s actually a sweet, rather shy person, or at least she plays one on YouTube. This is her first solo album, one that doesn’t involve her sisters, who play with her in a band called Kane’d, whose 2013 single “I See Ya” was a pretty neat cross between Alanis Morissette and Joan Jett, if you can imagine. That wasn’t bad, even if it was kind of derivative, but time’s passed. Now Chez is older and is on a mid-1980s Heart trip; opener “I Just Want You” is basically “What About Love” but without an orchestra. “The Things We Do When We’re In Love” rips off Bryan Adams’ “Summer of ’69,” and so on and so forth. It all sounds great, but it’s also literally all been done. B-

Playlist

• Watch out, kids, here comes Friday, Oct. 7, bearing albums aplenty, and with that, you can make a note that I have indeed used the word “aplenty” in this award-winning column, as of today! No, there will be lots of albums coming out on the 7th, I’m sure of it, since Halloween is over and it’s basically the holiday shopping season until we get to the snow-and-abject-misery quarter of our year, can’t we just get it out of the way now so we can start thinking about eating fried fish and chips on the beach? I’d love for it to be over already, wouldn’t you? But there’s nothing we can do other than to press on, do our best to avoid getting frostbite, and listen to all the great new rock ’n’ roll albums, like for instance Under The Midnight Sun by U.K.-based ’90s-hard-rock fellers The Cult, you know, the band where the guitarist and the singer beat each other up on stage when their drugs wear off and they remember how much they despise each other. One of those two guys definitely earned some hatred, and I’d nominate whichever of them decided to abandon the slithery, almost psychedelic awesomeness of their breakthrough 1985 album Love — you know, the one with “She Sells Sanctuary,” “Revolution” and all that groovy hippie stuff — and decided to turn the band into some sort of straightforward and boring Buckcherry tribute band on their 1987 Electric LP, with all those stupid bonehead tunes like “Love Removal Machine.” Ha ha, I’ll bet it was the singer’s idea, remember how he had that stupid possum-fur hat on the album cover and all the songs were extra dumb, and you were “RIP, rock ’n’ roll, again?” Man was that album a disappointment, but hey, a lot of water’s gone under the bridge with these guys, so hey, man, maybe there’s something to like about this new album, as in maybe they realized how awful they became 35 years ago and there’s something cool on this album. Just call me a dreamer, folks, I’m going to go listen to the latest “cut” (I hate when that moron bass player Needle Drop uses that word to describe a “song” or “tune” in his CD reviews on YouTube; I only used the term to remind you that I detest Needle Drop as much as the guys in the Cult detest each other) “Give Me Mercy,” and frankly I already have high hopes, because the sample loop of the video shows Ian Astbury dressed like Anton Lavey at a devil conference, and there’s a spooky tree. OK, to the song itself, because that’s why we’re even here in the first place. Huh, look at that, they’re dancing in devil robes, and the guitar sound is awesome, almost kind of emo, maybe they did figure out that they needed to sound like they did in 1985. But wait, singer Ian Astbury’s voice is boring and old-person-sounding. Eh, it’s just the shell of The Cult, but with a great guitar sound, a lot of you would probably like it.

• Holy cats, King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard has a new album coming, called Ice, Death, Planets, Lungs, Mushrooms And Lava – do I even have room for all that text? “Ice V,” one of the tunes, is an electro-tinged Flaming Lips thingie, it’s OK. Needle Drop had words to say about that “track”/”cut” but I didn’t listen to them.

• Ermagerd, look out, it’s super-heavy (from what I’ve heard) metal band Lamb of God, with their new one, Omens! The title track is metalcore, surprise, and it isn’t as fun or cool as Heriot, if that affects your buying decision.

• In closing we have idiotic ’90s band Bush with The Art Of Survival. Leadoff single “Mor Than Machines” is ’90s-hard-pop oatmeal but with bendy guitar bits reminiscent of Korn added for no reason whatsoever.

The Milky Way: An Autobiography of our Galaxy, by Moiya McTier

The Milky Way: An Autobiography of our Galaxy, by Moiya McTier (Grand Central Publishing, 244 pages)

In college, I once signed up for an astronomy class. I dropped out after two weeks, having painfully discovered that astronomy isn’t so much about looking at celestial bodies in awe as it is about doing complex math. After that, other than a star-gazing class at a local community college, my knowledge of outer space hasn’t evolved much beyond watching Men in Black, which I maintain is a documentary.

So I was excited about the publication of Moiya McTier’s promised examination of the Milky Way in down-to-earth terms, billed as “an autobiography of our galaxy.” Finally, I could get the astronomy class of my dreams, on my couch, in a mere 244 pages, with an instructor who studied both astronomy and mythology at Harvard and went on to earn a Ph.D. in astrophysics at Columbia.

And I could have, and should have, except for the dumb gimmick that cripples the book: the Milky Way as narrator.

Maybe if this had been a kindly, wise Milky Way, a sort of cosmic Gandalf the Grey, the gimmick would have been easier to stomach. But we are instead given a haughty, snarky, disparaging galaxy, whose persona is made even worse by its perception that it is talking to puny, finite creatures not really worth its time. “I know it’s likely a lot for you to take in, and your brain is fully formed!” the narrator says at one point.

Another time, it says, “Sadly, your ignorance compels me to explain so much to you that I’m still not at the part about me yet.” And then there’s this: “A mayfly can live its entire life in one room of your homes. Isn’t that sad? Don’t you ever wonder why the mayfly even bothers to do anything at all? Because that’s how I feel about you.”

He seems nice, right? Or she. Who knows? This middle-school snark is hard enough to stomach for one chapter; it’s wearisome for the whole of a book. And this persona is so unnecessary; plenty of people write autobiographies without constantly addressing “dear reader.”

The implication of “Dumb reader,” over and again, is even worse.

To be fair, McTier is trying to convey the unconveyable: the vast chasm between small, finite creatures like human beings and the unknowable expanse of space and, if you’re into that sort of thing, a cosmic Intelligence, with a capital I. But Ed Yong did this without talking down to us in An Immense World, and for that matter, there are Twitter accounts that do as much without even using words, like ones that consist of nothing but photos of outer space or microscopic images.

Maybe this is just the kind of unintentional dumbing down that occurs when astrophysicists try to talk to regular people. There aren’t that many of them, after all, and they’ve got their own peculiar brand of humor. As McTier says while trying to explain red dwarf stars, the most common ones in the Milky Way, astronomers don’t all agree on the “initial mass function” of red dwarf stars: “If you ever want to cause an uproar among your astronomers, stand in a crowded planetarium and claim that the Kroupa IMF is better than the Salpeter. Most won’t be able to refrain from loudly asserting their opinion back at you.” Astronomers are clearly the life of the party.

McTier awkwardly hobbles from the Big Bang (“Don’t concern yourself with thoughts of what came before the Big Bang. That kind of knowledge is not for the likes of you — or even me, though I am fabulously worthy on nearly all other counts — to understand”) to the creation and destruction of other galaxies, to black holes, to the modern, mind-boggling telescopes to myths about space, to theories about when and how the world will end. It’s not all terrible, but it’s like eating pistachios with shells; at some point, you question the effort, particularly when she answers the question of extraterrestrial life, “Well, that’s for me to know, and hopefully for you and your scientists to find out.”

What’s most disappointing is that McTier does have a fascinating story to tell: her own.

In a much-too-short foreword written in her voice, McTier throws out a tantalizing morsel of her life story: how a girl who grew up in a cabin with no running water after her parents’ divorce fell in love with the universe and launched herself on an intellectual journey that found her, in her undergraduate studies at Harvard, having an internship that involved spending hours “analyzing five-dimensional data cubes to measure properties of a distant star-forming galaxy.” This from a girl who had to cross state lines to visit a bookstore when she was child.

It speaks to the power of imagination — she used to imagine the sun and the moon were her celestial parents — but also an incredible internal drive and intellect. I would gladly read 500 pages of McTier’s autobiography. But spare me her version of the galaxy’s in half that. D

Book Events

Author events

• MARGARET PORTER presents The Myrtle Wand at Gibson’s Bookstore (45 S. Main St., Concord, 224-0562, gibsonsbookstore.com) on Wednesday, Oct. 12, at 6:30 p.m.

Category: Pop

Album Reviews 22/11/03

Leech, by Hiron Ennes

Album Reviews 22/10/27

Carrie Soto is Back by Taylor Jenkins Reid

Album Reviews 22/10/20

Sacred Nature, by Karen Armstrong

Album Reviews 22/10/13

Babysitter, by Joyce Carol Oates

Album Reviews 22/10/06

The Milky Way: An Autobiography of our Galaxy, by Moiya McTier

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