Category: Pop

Album Reviews 22/12/29

Justin Courtney Pierre, Permanent Midnight (Epitaph Records)

If you’re going to sound like a male version of Mazzy Star — I mean the full Monty of that vibe, the aural equivalent of sipping a vodka drink while floating around in a luxury pool and feeling the tremors as the earth collapses — your lyrics might as well be so maudlin and psychologically adrift that people would worry about you a bit if they cared enough to try to grok your intentions (not that I detect any in the tune we’re discussing right now, “Used To Be Old School,” other than reflections on trite, Freudian little boyhood/adulthood reminiscences, but whom did that ever stop?). On and on Pierre warbles in his helium falsetto throughout the opening track of this listenable-enough five-songer, after which he tables a bunch of mid-Aughts noise-ish rock recalling Dandy Warhols and all that, exploring aging, fatherhood, family, longing and whatnot. Nothing wrong here, but by the same token there’s nothing that hasn’t been attempted by literally thousands of bands. A

Various Artists, This Ain’t Your Mama and Papa’s Holiday Music: A Compilation of Holiday Favorites for the Weirdo in Your Life (Island House Recordings)

You have about 20 seconds left to get this downloaded and prettily packaged so you’ll have a nice, edgy, indie collection of holiday tunes for your edgy indie holiday feast, which, if you’re like most people trying to get by during this corporate-greed jubilee that’s being blamed on “inflation,” will consist of buns, with actual hot dogs if you’re lucky. I got dragged into this set of 17 songs when someone clued me in to an upcoming EP from the New York City-based Royal Arctic Institute, a five-piece all-instrumental band that contributes to this compilation a sloshy, dreamy version of “Christmastime Is Here,” you know, the maudlin melody from the old Charlie Brown Christmas cartoon. It’s fine for what it is, but there are plenty of edgy indie things from which to choose here: a giggling, sample-soaked “Deck The Halls” from Synthetic Villains that didn’t upset my stomach, and so on. I’m already out of room for this shtick, but do keep in mind that all the proceeds from this one go to benefit the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, so you should buy it just to be nice. A

Playlist

• Icky and gross, it’s the least wonderful time of the year, because as far as I can tell, there are almost no new albums due out tomorrow, Dec. 30, a Friday, which is of course the traditional day of the week on which to release new albums. Let’s face it, the holidays are over, no more plastic Halloween skulls everywhere, the Thanksgiving-flavored turkeys are all eaten up, Christmas and all its good will toward people and whatever is but a memory, and all that’s left is New Year’s Eve, the night we married couples stay up late to watch a bunch of people who’re immune to frostbite make out in Times Square after an electronic ball drops, and then, if we have any brain function remaining, we stay up another 15 minutes to catch up with all the latest new corporate rock acts (“Wow, honey, I didn’t know Florida Georgia Line actually had a catchy song!”). Then, of course, we ceremoniously clink our Coke glasses together and try to herd the cats up to bed. See, that’s what happens when you grow up enough to realize that New Year’s Eve is a plot to sell you cheap liquor, and that nothing really magical ever happens on that holiday, that is unless you get engaged to someone you can actually deal with as the clock strikes Bedtime. Have you ever gotten engaged on New Year’s Eve and broken up with that person two months later? I have. Have you ever gone bar-hopping and been stuck driving in a car when the clock struck midnight? I’ve done that one too. They should make a movie about New Year’s Eve that exposes the potential horror of it, like someone being stuck in an Uber at the stroke of midnight and they get sent back in time to the day before Thanksgiving, and they have to relive the whole holiday season, and if they don’t get it right and have an incredible moment of New Year’s Eve wonderfulness in which they smooch with their Twitter crush or whatever, they have to go back and do it all again. No? What about if there are velociraptors to deal with too?

• OK, I have no bloody idea what I’m going to do to fill the remainder of this space. Want to hear about the worst-ever meal I cooked on New Year’s Eve, of course you do, one time I was dating a vegetarian and I spent the entire day of New Year’s Eve making this disgusting tempeh-meatball dish with sauerkraut. The recipe required all sorts of stupid ingredients, like ginger root and sesame oil, all sorts of things that would have been great by themselves but which together made for a dining experience so unpleasant that I should make a short horror story out of it, to horrify people. But oh look, I’m saved, because some U.S. band called Bandit is releasing an album of “grindcore” (actually overly polished emo) tuneage, titled Siege of Self, on — oops, it was Dec. 29, but close enough. It’s stupid, and everyone’s calling it a worthless pile of Pig Destroyer worship. In other words, the only people who might like it are grindcore dudes who’ve never heard Pig Destroyer before. (No, don’t bother.)

• On New Year’s Eve day, some American metal band called Bayonette will release a new single called “Grógaldr.” No one knows anything about it, not even the Album Of The Year site, which means either that it doesn’t exist or that the band doesn’t understand that record releases need to be announced so that people know they exist. I don’t care what the case is, let’d just wrap up this dumb year with one more thingie.

• Finally we have DaniFighter, apparently a Turkish artist who, like Bayonette, has absolutely no idea how to announce an album. This dude has been known to put out Gorillaz-influenced noise-hip-hop that really sucks, and his new album/EP, Lecsavarlak, will be out this Friday, Dec. 30. Have a great New Year, folks!

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).

A Christmas Memory, by Richard Paul Evans

A Christmas Memory, by Richard Paul Evans (Gallery, 183 pages)

Thirty years ago, Richard Paul Evans was 29 years old and working for an advertising agency in Salt Lake City when he decided he’d try his hand at writing a book. He didn’t have a Haruki Murakami moment, when he suddenly knew he could be a novelist while sitting in a baseball park; rather, he had just run for a statewide political office and lost, and needed a new goal to fill the void.

In his spare time he spent four weeks writing a novella he called The Christmas Box and then made 27 copies at Kinko’s and gave them out as Christmas gifts. Family and friends loved the story, which was about a young couple who become caretakers for a widow who has a mysterious box full of letters that (spoiler alert) turn out to be life-changing for the man and his wife. A couple of publisher rejection letters later, Evans self-published the book and eventually it hit No. 2 on The New York Times self-published bestseller list. Shortly thereafter, it sold at auction to Simon & Schuster for $4.2 million. It wasn’t a bad investment.

Evans has gone on to write more than 40 novels, most of them bestsellers, many of which have something to do with Christmas. His latest is A Christmas Memory, which steals a title from Truman Capote. (Disclosure: Capote’s poignant reflection about making fruitcake with his elderly cousin was published in 1956 and is a staple in my annual holiday reading.) Capote, the author of In Cold Blood, would no doubt be amused that two writers with such different trajectories and styles converged in this way.

Like Capote’s A Christmas Memory, Evans promises, in an author’s note, that his story is a lived experience, or more accurately, a collection of lived experiences woven into one narrative memory. It is a “composite of childhood experiences,” he says, without detailing which parts of the book, if any, are fiction.

Despite the title and festive cover, A Christmas Memory is disappointingly not really a Christmas story. It’s a story about a friendship that develops between a young boy and his elderly neighbor.

It opens with a family tragedy in 1967: the loss of the narrator’s older brother, who was killed in the Vietnam War. “He had promised to be home for Christmas. He kept his promise. Just not in the way we hoped.”

The narrator — presumably Evans, or some version of Evans, as he is called Richard or Ricky throughout the book — is “an awkward boy of eight with Tourette’s syndrome” who suffers 20 different kinds of tics. The family’s troubles get worse after the brother dies. The father is unemployed, the narrator’s grandmother dies, the family moves from California to Utah and then Richard’s parents separate.

The boy takes all of this hard. One day, while he is outside sobbing, he is comforted by a dog, which turns out to belong to a neighbor he later learns is named Mr. Foster. Mr. Foster is Black, which is unusual in Utah, which is “homogeneous as whole milk.” The man keeps to himself, for reasons that gradually become clear.

One day, Mr. Foster rescues Richard from bullies, and the two develop a relationship. At first, it seems mostly business. Mr. Foster hires the boy to shovel snow and to walk his dog, Beau, a deal they consummated with (possibly the most Utah thing ever) a snack of hot croissants with strawberry preserves. The two grow closer, with Mr. Foster gradually revealing parts of his life as the boy’s visits become more regular. At Thanksgiving, Mr. Foster invites young Richard and his mother to his house for the holiday meal, and there is finally a hope that with the start of the Christmas season, something Christmassy might ensue.

Alas, no.

The story culminates in December, that is for sure. There is a subplot about a cruel public school teacher who, for reasons that are not fully explained, basically ruins Christmas for her whole class with an angry tirade about Santa Claus. But there are also tragedies of mental health and physical health that, for all Evans’ narrative gifts, make this a bit of a downer to read, especially around the holidays. That’s not to say that depressing circumstances don’t make for a good holiday story; the travails of Jim and Della in O. Henry’s “The Gift of the Magi” make one of the most beloved Christmas stories despite its soul-crushing ending. And for anyone suffering the loss of a loved one at Christmas, this little book might be a comforting read.

As Mr. Foster tells young Richard, “We hate grief because it hurts. Not everything that hurts is bad. Whatever grief may be, it’s one thing for certain. Grief is the truest evidence of love.”

Reader reviews warn that Foster, who is a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, is heavy-handed with Christian imagery and themes, but this is not the case in A Christmas Memory, aside from a few references to resurrection and an afterlife. For anyone who celebrates Christmas, this certainly wouldn’t be off-putting.

It’s tempting to compare Evans’ Christmas titles to the mauldin “Christmas Shoes” song and movie, which grew out of a story that circulated on the internet and has, at least in my house, become a subject of mockery. But Evans is a much better storyteller than that, and his commercial success shows that there is an appetite for these sorts of books, particularly since major publishing houses have lately failed to deliver any intellectually stimulating holiday titles, instead concentrating their efforts on cheesy Christmas romances and Hallmark movie fare.

A Christmas Memory is no A Christmas Carol, and Evans is no Charles Dickens. But it is a holiday bonbon of a book in a genre with disappointingly few choices, and it’s a serviceable and poignant story, particularly for anyone tending more toward misery than merriment this Christmas season. B

Album Reviews 22/12/22

Sarah Pagé, “Méduses” [single] (Forward Music)

You might remember this Montreal, Canada-based harp-experimentalist from her 2019 album Dose Curves, or, more likely of course, not, but as avant-music goes, this is something that might interest you, as she’s been working on a new record titled Voda, and this single is intended as a teaser for that. This bizarre piece features cellist Vera Ronkos, bassist Jonah Fortune, and Pagé on bowed harp, all working to create a sound triangulation that bespeaks weird undersea goings-on. “Méduses” is French for jellyfish, and they’ve nailed the vibe, I’d say; the seven-minute study shimmers and floats like an incidental bit that escaped from the soundtrack for The Abyss, if you remember that movie. The album will include a limited-edition set of art prints comprising “a visual for each movement of the album, along with album credits and interpretive texts.” I know I’ve written up a good chunk of oddball ambient music on this page over the years, but very few have been so, well, accurate as this. Gets a little gloomy here and there, but it’s pretty friendly drone overall. A

Nyte Skye, Vanishing (Sonic Ritual records)

This northern California-based shoegaze/’80s-technopop duo is a father-and-son band in the most endearing sense of the phrase: It consists of vocalist-guitarist-dad Nyles (who came to this project after a stint with psychedelic-shoegaze band Film School, which released a good handful of records in their day) and his son Skye, who was 12 when this album was recorded. Admit it, that’s kind of cute, and the kid does like to take glam shots while wearing knockoff Ray-Bans, but the punchline is that they do look like some kind of quintessential ’80s band. That fits, given that dad Nyles is an unabashed Cure fan, as most of these tunes would attest. And we’re talking early Cure, too, the stuff that was on Standing On A Beach. But the beats aren’t about the old-school 16-bit drums Robert Smith favored; somewhere along the line, young Skye found an old Slingerland marching drum from the 1930s, which makes for some pretty wide timekeeping sounds. Anyone who loves ’80s stuff, this is all you. A

Playlist

• So this is Christmas, and what have I done? Another year older, and there’s more snark to come. You know? Hey gang, I’m supposed to talk about albums coming out on Dec. 23, because it’s a Friday, but guess what, there aren’t any! Yes, this week’s pretty much a wash, I doubt there’ll be many albums to talk about, but do any of you older people remember Gail Savage, the seacoast New Hampshire singer who used to play Pat Benatar cover tunes in all the local bars during the 1980s? Well, the other day, I accidentally found out she lives forever on YouTube, like, she recorded an EP with her long-haired androgynous tattooed love boys in 1985, titled Swedish Eyes (can I get a nudge-wink?), and it really wasn’t all that bad at all. In fact, the four songs were actually kind of good! She played basically every weekend at local places like the Kahala restaurant in Nashua and the Meadowbrook in Portsmouth, and all that stuff, and she sounded exactly like Pat Benatar. Oh come on, boomers and Gen X-ers, don’t look at me like “Hurr durr, geez, Eric, I have no idea what you’re talking about, I had chores to do at my family’s chicken farm, and I sure wasn’t out and about at all those rock clubs, with all that sin, and girls who looked and sang exactly like Pat Benatar!” Riiight, if you so much as set foot in New Hampshire during the ’80s, you couldn’t help knowing about her! If you ever stayed up past your bedtime, you probably heard her singing someplace, like, she and her band were probably singing some awful Steve Winwood cover tune while you were trying to eat your chicken wings or eggs Benedict at Howard Johnson’s, or — what’s that, you’ve never heard of Howard Johnson’s? It had an orange roof. Not a typo. Anyway, Gail Savage, everyone, the former queen of New Hampshire’s rock ’n’ roll scene. I’d love to dish some info about her current whereabouts; some former guitarist of hers is on some music-gear chat site, and I asked him where she was, but he never wrote me back (yes, he dared to ignore me) and no one else seems to know. Boy, it’s too bad clubs are no fun anymore, like, I went to one in Manchvegas a while ago and everyone was just standing around playing with their phones, except once in a while someone would start getting all weird and loud and performative, like they owned the place. Well, I suppose some things never change then, am I right? Someone please kindly get in touch with me this instant if you know where she is, that’d be great.

• Oh, the horror, what do we even have to talk about in this column this week? Ack, Weezer put out an album titled SZNZ: Winter a few days ago, but I can’t really deal with millennial-centric nerd-rock right now, folks, I just can’t. Let’s not. Wait, here’s one, from Viper The Rapper, called You’ll Cowards Don’t Even Smoke Crack II, but guess what, it comes out on Christmas Day. Whatever, there’s the title track on YouTube, and it’s such a funny song, ha ha, listen to this guy, sounding like Biggie after guzzling an entire gallon of Robitussin. This may be the most awesome thing I’ve heard this year. Merry drugs, everyone!

• We’ll end this week’s torture with Sonic Speed’s Sweet And Subtle Toxins, which looks like another hip-hop album. Funny, it used to be that the only things I had to write about during the Friday closest to Christmas were metal albums, but nowadays it’s hip-hop. This one comes out on Christmas Eve, and their Bandcamp page is useless, but I found one older Sonic Speed tune on YouTube. It sounds homemade, and they admit the band is a joke band, but it’s awesome, Kool And The Gang meets Usher or something, probably produced for free using a Disney Princess beat from a Fisher Price toy gizmo.

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).

At the Sofaplex 22/12/15

Lady Chatterley’s Lover (R)

Emma Corrin, Jack O’Connell.

In this adaptation of a book that I feel like I should have read but probably won’t ever, dissatisfied Lady Chatterley, a.k.a. Connie Reid (Corrin), starts an affair with Oliver (O’Connell) the groundskeeper at her husband’s, Lord Clifford Chatterley (Matthew Duckett), big family estate. The pair got married during what sounds like a brief mid-World War I romance, after which Clifford returns to the front. After the war, he comes home paralyzed from the waist down and drags Connie from London out to the family’s country home. She seems initially interested in making the best of things, but Clifford is not interested in finding new ways to, uhm, show affection. He is, however, interested in having an heir — so long as Connie doesn’t catch feelings for the guy she chooses to hang out with for just long enough to get pregnant. Connie is actually appalled by this idea and increasingly annoyed by Clifford himself — first with his dumb literary friends as he tries to be a writer and then by the businessmen who appear when he decides to take over the running of the local mine. By the time we get to the “workers should be grateful for whatever crumbs we brush their way”-type discussion, we’re well out of sympathy for Clifford and just fine with Connie pursuing her affair with the kindhearted Oliver, who made it to lieutenant in the war but just wants the peace and quiet of groundskeeping.

This movie is very pretty and filled with lots of scenes that I think are supposed to be steamy and romantic of the pretty Corrin and the very pretty O’Connell in various states of undress. But the movie, which takes nearly 50 minutes of its more than two-hour run time to get to the Lover part of things, feels like it is running at .75 speed. We get a lot — A Lot — of scenes of people walking through fields at less than a brisk pace or just staring off into the middle distance or looking after someone who is leaving the shot. It’s maybe supposed to help build tension but mostly it made me want to fast-forward.

Joely Richardson shows up as a character who seems mainly like she’s supposed to deliver information but she does help to highlight some of the more interesting aspects of the movie. There is this whole post-war labor-management tension that runs through the story as well as some nods to the idea that, after the calamity of the war, maybe some prewar societal conventions are just less important to some people (Oliver seems to represent, to a degree, the idea that after the battlefield people might be less willing to just “know their place”). But the movie doesn’t do much more than present these ideas — you know, between long walks. B- Available on Netflix.

Descendant (PG)

This documentary from Higher Ground Productions (the Obamas’ production company) looks at the current residents of Africatown, a neighborhood near Mobile, Alabama. The community was founded by people who had been enslaved and transported to Alabama from Africa shortly before the start of the Civil War. The trip, which was an illegal smuggling operation some 50 years after the international slave trade had been outlawed in the U.S., ended with the people being offloaded from the ship, the Clotilda, which was then burned to hide the crime. After the Civil War, many of the Clotilda survivors and their families moved to Africatown, which is still home to many of their descendants. The documentary follows both the rediscovery of the Clotilda and the attempts by community members to memorialize their families’ histories and place them in the larger context of the calamity of slavery in the U.S.

The movie serves as a nice companion piece to Zora Neale Hurston’s book Barracoon, which was published in 2018. It features her 1927 interviews with Cudjoe Lewis, one of the last living survivors of the Clotilda. The movie focuses not only on the stories of the Clotilda survivors but also the way land grabs and indifferent zoning have led to Africatown’s being surrounded by industry and to the hollowing out of the area’s main street. As much as its story contains an important slice of American history, the community is shown as a vibrant, energetic and hopeful part of the present. A Available on Netflix.

Sr. (R)

Robert Downey Jr. makes a documentary about his father, the filmmaker Robert Downey Sr., who died in 2021. The movie features interviews with Sr. starting in about 2019 — and while Jr. put together his film, Sr. worked on his own cut. He also dealt with worsening health due to Parkinson’s disease, a situation that pushed Jr. to learn and discuss as much as he could with his father while they could still be together. While giving us the professional life of Downey Sr. (an idiosyncratic filmmaker in the 1960s through the mid aughts),the movie also tells an intergenerational story of a son (Jr.) attempting to embrace the good and make peace with the bad from his childhood while also raising his own children. The movie reminded me a bit of Dick Johnson Is Dead, another documentary about a filmmaker coming to terms with a father’s mortality. Sr. is incredibly sweet with Robert Downey Jr. being shockingly vulnerable and honest as he examines the relationship with a father he clearly loves and admires. A Available on Netflix.

Screaming on the Inside, by Jessica Grose

Screaming on the Inside, by Jessica Grose (Mariner, 197 pages)

Every decade or so there emerges a new book by a writer who became a mother and was clearly not up to the task. The latest in the genre comes from The New York Times’ Jessica Grose, whose Screaming on the Inside is billed as an indictment of how society treats its mothers. In fact, it’s more of an indictment of the life choices that Grose has made. This is not mommy shaming, just the facts.

Grose is an opinion writer for the Times, and also writes a newsletter about parenting. She has been yowling for several years about America’s mothers being in crisis, hence the book’s subtitle: “The unsustainability of modern motherhood.” This is a popular position in a culture that likes to aggrandize individuals’ problems into societal crises. Parenting is difficult, yes. And the pandemic added new stresses. But Groses’s assessment, which is as much a hysterical rant that probably should have remained in her personal journal, is tiresome to read and full of cringy confessions that undermine her case.

She begins by admitting that, despite covering family policy, she had not looked into the provisions of the Family and Medical Leave Act before getting pregnant at the time she took a new job. She was therefore shocked to learn that she could not just walk away from her new job when she developed debilitating morning sickness and severe anxiety (having gone off antidepressants while trying to get pregnant). She does herself no favors by saying that she “could barely leave the house because I was afraid of both barfing on the subway and sarin gas attacks,” nor by telling the story of how she was incredibly rude to one of her new editors on a work call. Not surprisingly, she was reprimanded and soon left that job.

Thus begins the pattern of the book: a tale of personal woe, followed by tales of woe from a few other women, followed by some statistics and comparisons to Europe:

“A study of around three thousand women from Norway, which has universal health care and paid sick leave, showed that three-quarters of women had taken at least one week of sick leave during their pregnancies. The median length of sick leave was eight weeks, and half of women needed between four and sixteen full weeks away from work. This is what should be standard for American mothers, too.”

We can definitely have a serious conversation about whether American companies are accommodating enough to pregnant women, but citing the number of women who take sick leave during pregnancy — in a country where paid sick leave is available — is probably not the evidence of need that Grose thinks it is.

But OK. Let’s continue to the birth of her first child and her admission that she’d barely even held a baby before coming home with one, her reluctance to breastfeed, her sad attempts to find friends who also had babies through mom groups. (“The only thing most of us had in common was that we had sex in March 2012.”) She later had to qualify her criticism, saying “This is not to say that all mom groups are judgmental and oppressive.”

Despite all the unhappiness and struggle, she then has another child, and takes a job at the Times when her daughters are 2 and 5. There, she comes under attack from the newspaper’s famously acidic commenters whose comments cause her, “in my darker moments,” to ponder the question: “Am I really somehow constitutionally unfit to be a mother?”

Well, yes and no. Obviously, there is no federal licensing for motherhood; otherwise America’s shrinking fertility rate would be even worse than it is. And she is right that mental health struggles shouldn’t be a barrier to having a family. But there is something disturbingly celebratory about how Gross talks about her mental health; in fact, one section of the book begins with the header “Celebrating my birthday with a Klonopin prescription.” This was, in part, brought on by the panic she experienced when schools and day cares shut down due to Covid-19, and a full chapter addresses the problems that the pandemic caused for parents and children.

Those problems are real and were worse for mothers who, unlike Grose, did not have jobs that could be done from home, husbands with health insurance and children’s grandparents who could help provide care. But it was a pandemic, a once-in-a-century (if that) event, so using pandemic problems as evidence of systemic failure is one more example of her flimsy evidence.

Mercifully, this is a short book, and she concludes by describing a conversation with a pregnant friend in January of this year. The friend was ambivalent about having another baby, and Grose was initially upbeat and tried to convince her friend to be happy about the pregnancy (“Once the baby is here, you’ll feel better! … Part of me wishes I had another!”) but then feels “awful that I was still conditioned to slap a happy face on her mixed feelings.”)

Instead of trying to look on the bright side, I guess we should wallow in the emotional mud with our unhappy friends. There’s a lot to be said for honest sharing, but there’s also much happiness to be found in positivity. Unfortunately, Screaming on the Inside is a collection of shared misery with a thin menu of solutions. D

Album Reviews 22/12/15

Wolfgang Haffner, Silent World (BMG Records)

Jumping the gun a bit on this one, as it’s not out until the end of January, but it’s worth knowing about if you’re a jazzhead on a budget. German drummer and bandleader Haffner is a dreamer in sound whose real gift is being able to combine groove and bounce with a wide sound palette comprising cool jazz, tango and other Spanish flavors, all brought together in a unique way that creates a special kind of tension. In recent times, Haffner has drawn inspiration from external sources: lots of guests here, the constants being Simon Oslender (piano and keyboards) and Sebastian Studnitzky (trumpet); Haffner claims it’s his “dream band,” and I’m in no position to argue the point, given that the result is indeed rather sweeping. The record is claimed to be conceptual, nine pieces whittled down from 18 songs Haffner originally wrote for it; it progresses nicely from the sturdy “Here and Now” until the finale, “Forever and Ever,” a minimalist (but not entirely morose) number made of piano and bass. A

Fire Sale, “A Fool’s Errand” / “We Dance For Sorrow” (Negative Progression Records)

Here we go, more emo. This four-piece band is said to be a punk rock supergroup, but if you don’t mind my pedantry, it’s a power-pop thing, which, as I’ve said many times, isn’t quite the same level of scatterbrained derangement as actual punk. It all sounds the same to me, only because I don’t really care about it and never really have. But I’ll belay all that for our purposes and point out that this two-song dry run pulls out all the stops in trying to put the Negative Progression label back on the map, after the owner of the imprint (which hosted a stage on the 2003 Vans Warped Tour and released 30 albums) decided to bag it eight years ago to work as an attorney (well isn’t that the punkest, am I right?). The bass player is from Face To Face, and the other guys were in The Ataris and Ann Beretta, and it’s quite listenable for what it is. Whoever’s singing on the B-side, “We Dance For Sorrow,” has a leathery, sturdy voice that evokes old post-punk stuff like Lords Of The New Church, while “A Fool’s Errand” is Black Flag-speed Hoobastank-ish and very catchy. I don’t hate these guys at all. A

Playlist

• Dec. 16 looms over my head like one of those “dementor” bros from Harry Potter, just swinging his arms and hollering all ghostly or whatever dementors do, and of course also reminding me that Dec. 16 is the last general-release Friday for new albums before the holiday week, when there will basically be no new albums, so I’ll have to make something up. Actually, now that I’m looking at this mess, there’s not a lot of albums coming out this week, and I will have to scrounge. Ah, here’s one, the latest release from Circa Survive, titled Two Dreams, their first full-length since 2017’s The Amulet. None of that means anything to me. All I know is that Circa Survive is an emo band from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, which means they’re batting with two strikes right off the jump here. They’ve been around for a while now; their first album, Juturna, did have some screamy tunes, like “Act Appalled,” which did point to a slightly more-melodic-than-usual flavor of nerd rock — OK, it was pretty cool, is what I’m trying to say, but I still hear it all the props I dropped on Good Charlotte for whatever the song was, so let’s just keep it between ourselves, whattaya say. OK, so the new record — wait a second, hold it, late breaking, from some website that knows things (nme.com): “After months of rumors, Circa Survive have confirmed to fans that they’re no longer an active band.” Well there goes that, but Two Dreams is indeed due out on the 16th, and one of the tunes, “Sleep Well,” isn’t emo at all, more like early Hanson doing a slightly trip-hop thing that has lo-fi drums. It’s pretty good, and that’s probably why they broke up; it’s always risky to make good music, you know?

• Jonathan Blake Williams Jr., better known as Jabee, is a hip-hop artist and actor from Oklahoma City. Chuck D of Public Enemy and Sway Calloway both think he’s awesome, so I guess it’s OK for me to say he’s awesome, because, you know Chuck D is awesome. Anyway, this fella’s new EP, Good, will be in the stores and streaming services within the next few hours, standing as the newest EP in a series of them. Reaction has been mixed so far with adjectives like “nostalgic” and “unoriginal” being the most common when people discuss it. The track “Black Star” is stoner-mellow and pretty trippy beat-wise.

• In edgelady news, Mimi Barks is a U.K.-based trap-metal artist (originally from Berlin, Germany) who likes to pour on the anger in Slipknot-ish fashion. Other than that, there’s no information to be found on her on the entire internet other than the fact that she likes to change her day-glo hair color every few days or whatnot. Her new album, Deadgirl, has a title track that’s pretty much what anyone would expect “trap-metal” to sound like: She sings in a sort of Marilyn Manson style, and then there’s a standard trap beat that’s begging for attention from goths, some Death Grips-ish flourishes, things like that. Apparently she’s going on tour with goth dude Combichrist, a show I’d attend if it were a little more worth risking Covid and all that happy stuff.

• Finally we have Atlanta hip-hop crew Germ & $uicideboy$, whose favorite thing is to put people with really gross teeth on their album covers. The latest in their DirtyNasty series is a new album called Dirtiestnastiest$uicide, and yes, the cover is as disturbing as anything else they’ve pulled. Only thing to be found online is a live version of some tune that’ll be on this record, and it’s a lot like Beastie Boys, which I’m sure will bring ’em lots of underage customers.

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).

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