Category: Pop

Album Reviews 23/02/23

Nite Skye, Vanishing (Sonic Ritual Records)

I’m like 100 percent positive I’ve talked about this father-son duo before, unless it was someone else. This is their debut album, which doesn’t jibe with my (probably faux) memory, but anyway, here they are, ex-Film School vocalist-guitarist Nyles Lannon and his 12-year-old boy Skye on the drum kit, stomping out the shoegaze/dream-pop vibes. You may have heard of Film School but I haven’t; they were a shoegaze act back in the day, so Nyles is a good dad for Skye to have picked, no question. Some very listenable stuff, particularly if your outdated tastes run to Tangerine Dream sans any krautrock elements, which is what album opener “Dream State” is about. “Guided By A Hand” is even more ’80s-ish, like Raveonettes without all the annoying performative noise. “Doing Time” finally brings us to the shoegaze subject that the record was supposed to be about in the first place; it’s not a wildly original tune but like everything else here it’s got plenty going for it. A

Charming Disaster, Super Natural History (Sonic Ritual Records)

This year’s full-length entry from the Brooklyn, N.Y.-based goth-folk duo, with Ellia Bisker on ukulele and Jeff Morris on guitar. I liked their 2022 record, Our Lady of Radium, a concept album focused on Marie Curie’s ghost, and that’s how they remain here, inspired by the gothic humor of Edward Gorey and Tim Burton, the noir storytelling of Raymond Chandler, traditional murder ballads and old-time cabaret. I like that these two really take their trip seriously; they’re releasing an “oracle deck” of cards similar to a tarot deck, which is brilliant strategy when you’re singing about monsters and ghosts like they do here again, although they have more musicians helping this time around, which makes for a more Built To Spill- or Lou Reed-style vibe, all told, more of a lo-fi post-punk thing. It’s goth-con stuff of course; they’ve opened for such good fits as Dresden Dolls and Rasputina. Nothing wrong here. A

Playlist

• Our next general CD-release date is this Friday, Feb. 24, as the awful winter starts running out of gas forever. LOL, remember when we thought January was just going to be an early spring and some of you were walking around in cargo shorts, remember that? And then it was a frozen ice storm the week of the 24th, and each shovelful of slush weighed 80 pounds? I can’t wait for that to be over, but in the meantime, there are albums we need to discuss, and we’ll start with the one that needs the least introductory verbiage, Adam Lambert’s new album High Drama, heading our way this very minute! Lambert is of course the Star Search version of Freddie Mercury in the current lineup of the classic rock band Queen, sort of; he has to share the singing duties with Paul Rodgers, who sang for Bad Company before they started putting out decent tunes like “No Smoke Without A Fire,” the only “Bad Co” song I like. Where were we, right, so Lambert is considered by many non-singing producers and non-singing musicians to be one of the best singers in the world, and I refuse to get trolled into an argument about that, so let’s have a listen to what’s on the new album, his first since 2020’s Velvet, which gave us “Feel Something,” a crooner ballad that’s so antiseptic that it sounded as if it had to get approval from some random Today show audience before it was released to the five people who actually bought the album. I’m hoping to hear a little originality in his new single, which is — wait, it’s a cover song, “Holding Out for a Hero,” that old Bonnie Tyler tune. He sings good, of course, and he dressed his band in Daft Punk helmets for some reason, maybe just so he’d have a reason to use a Daft Punk-y beat on a song from Footloose that should have been forgotten in 1985. But do have at it, whoever buys this dude’s albums.

• Radiohead drummer Philip Selway releases a new album on Friday, titled Strange Dance. That’s the only neutral thing I have to say on the matter, given that I can’t stand Radiohead, but I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and do the dance anyway with this thing, because I am a professional at this. The single, “Check For Signs Of Life,” starts off with a slow, rainy, melancholy acoustic piano line — good lord this guy has an awful voice — and leads me to think that he had Zero 7 or maybe Portishead in mind when he wrote this song, and then it slowly becomes a ripoff of David Bowie’s “Space Oddity” but more upbeat (what isn’t?). Anyway, no idea why anyone would want to make an album with this song on it, but voila.

• English singer and bass player Gina Birch founded post-punk rock band The Raincoats in 1977, right after she saw a Slits concert (today I learned that The Slits have been around since forever, how about that). Her new solo album, I Play My Bass Loud, is on the way this Friday. The title track is interesting and survivable enough, fitted with a subterranean, urban groove, some agreeable ’80s-ish art rock, and a weird, mocking vocal line from Birch that’s all doused in patch effects and that kind of thing. It’s not hard stuff like The Slits, if you’re wondering, but it’s still no-wave in my book, and besides, I doubt she’s shooting for actual punk these days anyway.

• And finally we have Gorillaz, a cartoon band whose appeal never struck me, not that I feel guilty about it. Cracker Island is the band’s new album, and the title track has a pretty neat electro beat, kind of goth-krautrock-buzzy, to be more specific. I’ve heard worse.

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).

Dinner with the President, by Alex Prud’homme

Dinner with the President, by Alex Prud’homme (Alfred A. Knopf, 400 pages)

Before this week, if you’d asked me to share a single detail of the presidency of William Howard Taft, I would have struggled to come up with anything other than that he was also a chief justice and was said to have gotten stuck in the White House bathtub.

The bathtub story isn’t true, so I only would have gotten one thing right.

But having read Alex Prud’homme’s delightful Dinner with the President, I can now riff on obscure presidents with the ease of Doris Kearns Goodwin. That’s because Prud’homme has figured out how to make American history fascinating: tell stories connecting it to food. If my old high school history textbook, The American Pageant, is still in use, Dinner with the President should replace it immediately.

Subtitled “Food, Politics, and a History of Breaking Bread at the White House,” this is really a foodie’s guide to American history, and despite the suggestion otherwise, it’s not all about the meals served at 1500 Pennsylvania Avenue. Instead, Prud’homme, the great-nephew of Julia Child (and co-author of her autobiography My Life in France) takes readers from George Washington spooning mutton stew into his almost toothless mouth in Valley Forge in 1777, to Rosalyn Carter getting tense Israeli and Egyptian diplomats to mingle at Camp David in 1978 by putting elaborate desserts in different rooms, to the hearty homemade soups that Ronald Reagan shared at his California ranch with Nancy.

“Hardly frivolous, a meal at the White House is never simply a meal: it is a forum for politics and entertainment on the highest level,” Prud’homme writes.

Smartly, Prud’homme begins at “the dinner table where it happened” — the famous repast Thomas Jefferson arranged to soften tensions between Alexander Hamilton and James Madison as they fought over the structure of the new government. The underpinnings of the Compromise of 1790 were already in the works, but Prud’homme describes in mouth-watering detail the fabulous meal that significantly contributed to saving the still vulnerable republic. (It wasn’t just “sausage being made” as the Hamilton musical says.)

Jefferson, Prud’homme notes, had been the ambassador to France and was “a skilled host who understood how to use food and drink to build political consensus.” He was both a foodie and an oenophile, and presided over a multi-course meal that included truffles simmered in chicken stock, white wine and cream; beef braised in wine, brandy, tomatoes and herbs; a green salad dressed in wine jelly; and vanilla ice cream (a rarity at the time) in puff pastry — and of course several bottles of fine wine and Champagne.

The men could “barely look at each other” when the night began, but they stood no chance of remaining angry after a palate cleanser of meringues and macaroons; really, who could? Similarly, nearly 200 years later, Ronald Reagan dined privately with Mikhail and Raisa Gorbachev to develop a friendly rapport two years before he said, “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall” at the Berlin Wall and the two men signed the Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces Treaty.

Not every administration gets the attention given to Reagan, Carter, Kennedy and the first presidents. Of 46 presidents, just 26 are featured, because they had the most compelling anecdotes, Prud’homme says.

And some who were included got short shrift: George H.W. Bush, for example, is allotted just four pages and a paragraph, some of it a tad disdainful, as Prud’homme chastises the elder Bush for his famous diatribe against broccoli (“Not only did Bush send a message to the children that vegetables are not important, but outraged broccoli farmers sent ten tons of their crop to Washington D.C. in March 1990”) and suggests his penchant for pork rinds and beef jerky might have been politically calculated to win working-class voters.

When researching this book, Prud’homme had ample resources, including his great-aunt’s 1968 TV special White House Red Carpet with Julia Child and detailed journals of the Founding Fathers. Curiously, it was more difficult to get information from recent White House occupants; no living president or former president or first lady agreed to talk about food, and Henry Haller, the chef for five presidents between 1966 and 1987, died while Prud’homme was writing the book, during the pandemic.

Regardless, the book is richly detailed all the way from Washington’s lodge at Valley Forge to Donald Trump’s 2019 fast-food banquet for the Clemson University football team, which won the NCAA championship that year and was fed Domino’s, Wendy’s and McDonald’s at the White House. While Trump was excoriated on social media, Prud’homme wrote, “The president had divined something primordial: we humans are wired to feel kinship with people who like to eat the same things we do.”

What then, should we make of Dwight Eisenhower, who once made a stew of squirrel meat, potatoes and beans on a camping trip; and Taft, who liked turtle soup and roasted possum?

Well, they were products of their time, and let’s be thankful that time has passed, and that the cold and hungry members of the Continental Army for the most part stayed loyal to Washington in that miserable winter of 1777 when they survived on something they called “fire cakes” — “patties of flour and water with a dash of salt, if they could find it, formed into sticky cakes, smeared over stones, and baked in glowing embers.”

The foodie history of America, in other words, wasn’t all wonderful when it came to the actual food. But Prud’homme’s account is as engrossing a history book as you’ll likely read. Also, there are recipes, including Andrew Jackson’s inaugural orange punch (which resulted in drunken revelers surging through his house), Woodrow Wilson’s morning health tonic (grape juice and raw eggs) and Abraham Lincoln’s gingerbread men, also called ginger crackers. Bon appetit. A+

Album Reviews 23/02/16

Dudes, Eternal Is The Fruit (Dudes Music)

OK, so I wasn’t even aware there was any such thing as a “Scandirock scene,” which is no surprise, given that I’ve never been to any of those countries. But it’s a thing, at least to those people, and a little digging reveals Norwegian glam-punk band Turbonegro as a leading light of this nonsense, fronting their classic hit “All My Friends Are Dead” as the sound’s gold standard (it’s like Kiss meets Anthrax, but emo, and with blazey guitar solos). These guys (Dudes) are heavy into that band and, they claim, The Hives, but this is a different kind of spazz-rock, like AC/DC welded to Animal Boy-era Ramones. I mean, these guys really want their minions to break stuff, as they bring a sense of eastern-European folk-metal into the mix but leave a Hives element in there to make it more or less dishwasher-safe. American bands should really be doing this kind of thing, given the dystopian circumstances, let’s be real. A

Florencia & the Feeling, Birthday (self-released)

Pop-funk fusion with four-part harmonies, hints of jazz, and Latin roots is the skinny on this one, released by a five-piece band led by singer-guitarist Florencia Rusiñol, who was raised in East Tennessee by Argentine parents who “instilled in her a love of Latin American music from an early age.” Comparison bands include Vulfpeck, Stevie Wonder and Steely Dan, the latter of which is definitely the closest as far as what I heard; there’s a lot of gently tendered, lazy syncopation over which Rusiñol practices her vaguely Natalie Merchant-ish mid-range-soprano, to no really thrilling effect, not that it’s bad or anything. The rub is that these jumpy songs were written while Rusiñol was working through a nasty breakup, which results in an odd combination of lines like “I can erase your pictures from the internet but not from my head” being sung over phoned-in Spyro Gyra semi-jazz. Best case, they wind up opening for some 70-year-old superstar in Las Vegas, is what I think. B

Playlist

• Friday, Feb. 17, is on the way, and so is a plethora of new music albums, which I only mention because I’ve never used the word “plethora” in the multiple-award-winning column prior to today! In hot news, Dallas, Texas-based alternative rock bros Secret Machines are releasing their fifth studio LP, The Moth, The Lizard, And The Secret Machines, this week, and it will probably be big in the U.K., because that’s where they’re really popular, which explains why you’ve never heard of them. Actually they’re more of a progressive-ish rock band, not wildly technical but just enough to impress Kerrang! writers, you know, how bands like Marillion used to get popular for being sort of like Genesis, like, not really progressive but not fun bands like Slade and all those guys. But here I am droning on about something I know nothing about, because, like you, I know these guys exist but for all I know they play nursery rhymes on kazoos. So the task at hand is to try to find out what they sound like, and we’ll do that right now by surfin’ over to YouTube to give a listen to the band’s new single, “There’s No Starting Over.” It’s really slow and draggy, but somewhat interesting. OK, you know what this song is, it’s something that was inspired by M83 when these fellas went on tour with them. Like, the tune is epic in some ways and just awkward and weird in others, and the synth layers give it a good amount of heft. Matter of fact, after it gets going it’s pretty good, with some big vocal layers, some noisy percussion and such and so, but the bottom line is that it’s totally like M83, kind of “Kim and Jesse”-ish. Nothing wrong with that, other than the fact that a lot of writers who are much meaner than me will write it off as derivative. Anyway, OK, very good, moving on.

• One pop diva I’ve never really paid any attention to is P!nk, mostly because she makes me think of lady wrestlers. Her new album is Trustfall, her first since 2019’s Hurts 2B Human, but she’s apparently pretty busy all the time, doing non-diva stuff like writing music; for example, she wrote the songs “I Walk Alone” and “Lie to Me” for Cher’s 2013 album Closer to the Truth, which I didn’t know, did you? Anyway, her new single “Never Gonna Not Dance Again” sees her entering the out-of-ideas phase of her career; the tune is a half-formed bubblegum radio bit that everyone will think is Kesha probably, and the hook sucks. Other than that I love it.

• According to this web thingie here, Anna B Savage is a London singer-songwriter whose songs are “stark, skeletal paintings of moods and reflection, using a palette of mainly voice and guitar. Most prominent is her voice — strong and sonorous, yet with a vulnerability that feels as if she’s in the same room as you.” What does this mean in actual words? Well, to me it means she’s more annoying and unintelligibly hyperbolic than Ani Difranco, meaning no, I don’t own any of her albums by choice. Her second album, in|FLUX, follows her 2021 debut, A Common Turn, and the title track is crummy Nintendo-techno with her creepy voice singing creepy words about sex. I really dislike it.

• And finally we have funny-looking Canadian folk-pop dude Ron Sexsmith, hawking his 17th full-length, The Vivian Line. In 2010, Paperny Entertainment made a documentary about this guy, called Love Shines, about his attempt to gain worldwide fame for an album that was produced by Bob Rock; apparently it didn’t work because this is the first I’ve heard of him. “Diamond Wave” is a good song, ’70s-radio-ish a la Jim Croce, something like that. It’s decent.

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 23/02/09

Shotgun Wedding (R)

Jennifer Lopez, Josh Duhamel.

Though she’s solidly in a supporting role, this movie gives a lot of the goofiness to Jennifer Coolidge, who plays Carol, mom to groom Tom (Duhamel).

Tom and Darcy (Lopez) have dragged their loved ones to a beach resort in the Philippines for the elaborate Insta-worthy wedding of Tom’s dreams. But standard wedding-movie difficulties — Darcy’s dad’s (Cheech Marin) preference for Darcy’s ex (Lenny Kravitz) over Tom, Carol’s insistence that Darcy wear her lump-of-whipped-cream-like wedding dress — have the couple bickering, leading to a fight right before they walk down the aisle that ends with Darcy throwing her engagement ring at Tom. Darcy stomps off to enjoy some Champagne and chips but Tom soon runs after her to tell her that all of their wedding guests have just been taken hostage by pirates. As the bad guys negotiate with Darcy’s wealthy dad for ransom money, Darcy and Tom work together — while also fighting about their relationship woes — to try to rescue their guests.

Shotgun Wedding is a perfectly OK lightweight, something-on-while-you-pay-bills watch, but with the talent involved it should have been better. There is a general liveliness that’s missing and the comedy all felt like sort of warmed over middling sitcom shtick. C Available on Amazon Prime Video.

You People (R)

Eddie Murphy, Julia Louis-Dreyfus.

Black-ish creator Kenya Barris directed and co-wrote (with Jonah Hill) this movie that is a little bit rom-com and a little bit social comedy with strong middling sitcom vibes.

Ezra (Hill), unhappy finance worker and in-his-element podcaster, does a meet-cute with stylist/movie costume designer Amira (Lauren London). They almost instantly take a shine to each other and are soon being cuddly together despite the difficulties friends (Ezra’s podcast partner Mo, played by comedian Sam Jay) and family (Amira’s brother Omar, played by Travis Bennett) predict that this Jewish man and Black woman will have as a couple. The difficulties start when Ezra meets Amira’s unimpressed parents, Akbar (Murphy) and Fatima (Nia Long), and when Amira meets Ezra’s culturally tone-deaf parents, Shelley (Louis-Dreyfus) and Arnold (David Duchovny).

A sitcom with this premise could have more room to be nuanced and specific in its observations; as a movie, a lot about the stuff happening here — the blending of families and cultures and the parental impulses toward acceptance or judgment — is shorthanded into broad caricature. What saves this movie from complete unlikability are the small moments between characters. Louis-Dreyfus brings something of a real person to her scenes, London and Hill have cute chemistry, Jay and Hill have a low-energy comedy bit “yes and” charm. I don’t know that I’m in a hurry to sit through this movie again, but in small bites, it rises above its basic setup. C Available on Netflix.

Ms. Demeanor, by Elinor Lipman

Ms. Demeanor, by Elinor Lipman (Harper, 304 pages)

I’ve never before finished a book and thought, “That was delightful,” but that’s the phrase that kept running through my mind as I transitioned from the fictional world of Ms. Demeanor to the bleak reality of New Hampshire in winter. It was a bright spot in a string of cold, gray days, and it’s a step up from the typical beach read romance, with a unique plot, witty writing and fun, well-developed characters.

Protagonist Jane Young, a spunky, sassy lawyer, is under house arrest for public indecency, having been caught on camera by her nosy neighbor as she was enjoying an intimate moment with a coworker on her semi-private rooftop.

This house arrest leads to Jane meeting an amusing cast of characters, including cute, age-appropriate Perry Salisbury, whom she learns from her doorman is also under house arrest, also for a white-collar crime. (I said it was a unique plot, not necessarily a believable one — regardless, a nice change from the average fictional meet-cute.) I like that Perry is just a normal dude. In many chick-lit-type novels, the male characters who end up with the female protagonist are often portrayed as pompous jerks who eventually show that they have a kinder, softer side worth loving, or as friendly next-door-neighbor types (as opposed to an actual neighbor, a la Perry, who is neither annoyingly friendly nor a pompous jerk). He’s a great foil to Jane, pretty chill and tolerant compared to her less relaxed, quicker-to-anger vibes.

Lipman’s minor characters are well-developed and quirky. There’s Mandy, another building dweller Jane introduces herself to, because why not, being stuck there for six months, and there are Dani and Krzysztof, whom Jane meets because of their relation to the old woman who called the cops on her. Even Perry’s parents are hilarious, his mom especially, being all posh and snotty but also likable somehow.

This book features a lot of relationships of convenience. Jane and Perry’s relationship is transactional at first, starting with food — Jane is trying her hand at making food from the 1800s and posting her cooking videos on TikTok, and she agrees to make meals for Perry as well, which gets her a bit of a paycheck and helps him curb his fast-food habit. That quickly transitions to a friends-with-benefits situation.

Dani and Krzysztof, meanwhile, are looking for green cards through any means necessary so they don’t get deported back to Poland. They ask Jane to hook Krzysztof up with anyone she knows who might want to get married, like perhaps her twin sister Jackleen, who is saved from the absurdity of even considering that plan because when Jane mentions it to Mandy — a quirky woman who apparently has no qualms with marrying someone, anyone, because her biological clock is ticking — Mandy jumps on the opportunity.

Some of Ms. Demeanor’s plot seems to go off the rails at times. For example, there’s a possible murder situation that isn’t really resolved — but that didn’t bother me at all because a resolution wasn’t really the point. The whole cooking on TikTok thing, which Jane is doing because for some unknown reason her sister has been asking her to for years, was kind of pointless. Jane cooking for Perry would have made just as much sense without that, though it may be more that I don’t understand how people use TikTok. Like, she’s making very old-school foods while complaining about her current house-arrest situation — why would anyone care? But my teenage kids tell me it’s normal to follow random people doing random things. My daughter was just watching a total stranger getting ready for a first date while talking about the guy’s red flags. So, there’s that.

The easy, witty writing made me want to keep reading no matter which storyline Lipman was on. Plus, it’s a quick read with those deliberately short chapters that make a book hard to put down (just one more chapter, I thought many times). I think the readability is one of the reasons it’s so delightful. Sure, there’s no going back to read over gems of sentences; this isn’t Shakespeare by any stretch of the imagination. It’s fast-paced and fun and at no point trying to be a contender for a Pulitzer Prize. So if you’re looking for serious, this isn’t it. B

Album Reviews 23/02/09

Nervous Eaters, Monsters + Angels (Wicked Cool Records)

If you’re old enough to have been part of the Boston rock scene when the success of The Cars lured in all the drugged-out saps, um, I mean record company reps to check out every band in the city, or even if you just listened to a lot of WBCN FM back then, there was no way to avoid this local band’s most popular hit, “Loretta” (you know, the one that went “when I talk to Loretta, cool slacks and sweater”). This Steve Cataldo-led roots-punk quartet nailed down a major label deal with Elektra Records in 1980, and that was about it; the LP was widely dissed as “not very punk for a punk record,” but in retrospect, the New York Dolls’ vibe was roughly in the same ballpark. Anyhow, this album is their first record since a 1986 EP, and the push single seems to be “Hop Sing Said,” a mellow-ish mid-tempo tune that’s kind of Dinosaur Jr.-ish. “Wild Eyes” recalls early Stones, “Superman’s Hands” is oldschool jangle-pop; “Last Chance” is pure ’80s radio-bubblegum. At worst, the songs are good and it sounds like they had fun doing this. A

ASCO, “Lacrimosa” (CAOS Records)

You know, it’s a wonder these Beatport-begging techno DJs get any press outside of 5 Magazine, Traxsource and whatnot. I say that because there’s always very little information to be found about them, which would be fine with me if all the artists wanted to remain anonymous or semi-anonymous, but I don’t think they all do. That goes double for this guy, the search for whose biography wore me out after 10 minutes and now I don’t care anymore: Ooh, you’re such an edgelord, whoever you are! But that’s not to detract from this guy’s music, don’t get me wrong. He’s been cruising along quite well over the last few months with a couple of neo-disco tracks (“Born Slippy” and “Fortuna”), and now this, a future-rave-style rendition of one of the most famous classical choir pieces in history, a part of the Dies Irae sequence in the Roman Catholic requiem mass. A real orchestra and choir help out here; it’s half orchestral and half buzzy-beetle-noise-electro, with no recognizable drop. Not my kind of jam but times have, unfortunately, changed. A

Playlist

• We’ll see a whole bunch of hot new rock ’n’ roll albums hit the streets on Feb. 10, as we draw ever closer to kissing this winter goodbye, can you even believe how fast it’s gone? And look, bonus, it’s a new album from acid-dropping loons Brian Jonestown Massacre, called The Future Is Your Past. I’m actually pretty happy about that. I think the last music I heard from these guys was either 2016’s Third World Pyramid or more probably 2010’s Who Killed Sgt Pepper, but it’s all good. The band is still led by Anton Newcombe, whose hobbies include hiring/firing every musician he meets and making the Dandy Warhols feel uncomfortable, and this is his, um, I mean the band’s, 20th album, a milestone no one would ever have predicted. You never know what you’ll hear from this band; usually it’s noisy neo-psychedelica, and a quick run-through of the album’s title track is pretty much what you’d expect: slow, dank, jangly early-’60s acid-rock, sort of like Donovan, that kind of thing. At least there’s normal-ish singing on this tune, and there you go, that’s about it for the 411 on this one, because Anton couldn’t care less if he made any money from his music, and that’s why he’s rich.

• Hey, man, what is this, an aughts-indie revival? Look there, gang, it’s New Jersey-based indie rockers Yo La Tengo, with their new album This Stupid World! I’ve owned a few Yo La Tengo albums over the years and have never really listened to any of them more than once; there’s synergy going on right now in this column, because this band uses roughly the same basic ingredients as Brian Jonestown Massacre — noise-pop, shoegaze, etc. — but the output is usually boring. At this writing the latest teaser tune is “Aselestine,” a lazy, sort-of-folk-ish song that’s sort of like Wilco meets Guster. I know, I probably should have posted a trigger warning before saying such a thing, but anyway, there you have it.

• Dutch dream-pop lady Annelotte de Graaf goes by the stage name Amber Arcades, and she’ll be releasing her fourth album, Barefoot On Diamond Road, in just a few hours! Interestingly, she holds a master’s degree in law, and worked as an assistant for war crimes tribunals at the United Nations; as of 2016 she held a position “assessing the claims of refugees granted asylum in the Netherlands who are seeking to have their families brought over.” The single, “Just Like Me,” is a weird little minimal techno joint that sounds like Aimee Mann after listening to way too much Aphex Twin.

• We’ll bag it for the week with the latest from Kelela! She is a former telemarketer from Washington, D.C., who got a spiffy record contract from the ever-trippy Warp Records, so she is now an alternative-R&B singer with a second album, Raven, out this week! She first hit the sort-of-big-time with 2005’s Hallucinogen, an EP that goes over all the disturby nonsense that happens during the beginning, middle and end stages of a relationship, except it’s all in reverse chronological order. Anyhow, this new album, which I’m required by law to take seriously because it’s on Warp Records, of course, is, artistically, intended as “a reaction to feeling alone as a black femme working within dance music,” which, granted, is probably pretty difficult, I mean, just look at what Steve Aoki gets away with just because he’s a white male. Whatever, she might get more love for this album if the rest of the songs aren’t like the title track, which is basically afterparty glitch-tech improv that makes no sense, but no one likes good music anymore, so who knows.

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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