Classic Album Review: Son Volt, ‘Honky Tonk’

son volt

[Originally published May 14, 2013]

Son Volt’s 1995 debut Trace is one of my all-time favorite albums. My mother played it for us in the car constantly during the summer before I began sixth grade. And I’ve found a new, more passionate appreciation for the record in recent weeks, listening to it essentially on repeat (which is rare for a music geek like me who is always searching for new things). So, when I heard earlier this year that Jay Farrar and co. were releasing a new record, it turned out it was only natural for me, as in numerous cases, to view that new record in light of their undisputed masterpiece.

So, here goes.

Right from the first bars of opener “Hearts and Minds,” Uncle Tupelo idolizers will instantly know Honky Tonk won’t be a standard Farrar effort. It’s in 6/8, as are several other tunes on the disc. The alternating time signatures are refreshing at first when observed in comparison to Trace’s full-4/4 itinerary (“Seawall” even features alternating signatures within the same song). However, the layout of tracks across the album in patterns of 6 and 4 becomes predictable and trite by album’s end. You find yourself knowing after each song what time the next track will be in before it starts.

Farrar, of course, is in top form as a songwriter. His world-weary, highway-evoking, quasi-pastoral lyrics have ripened, if only slightly, with age. Despite this perceived progress, Farrar’s gentle but substantial voice sounds less substantial. As if he’s holding back. This can be a good thing in some instances, but in this one, it’s not. That said, it’s pretty ironic hearing him sing, “Don’t let the barricades of life/Keep the wild spirit still” on the aptly-titled “Barricades.” This record makes it seem like Farrar is doing just the opposite: painting himself and his band into a corner with “barricades” of slick restraint that undermines the group’s own “free spirit.” There are signs of an attempt at past glory – the tranquil “Wild Side” and closer “Shine On” both bear more than a passing resemblance in structure and sound to the gorgeous Trace cut “Tear-Stained Eye” – but overall, it all falls flat.

Don’t get me wrong – I appreciate Son Volt’s efforts to expand their musical horizons – efforts that have been in motion since 2005, when Farrar resuscitated the broken-up group with an all-new supporting cast and released Okemah and the Melody of Riot. Whereas Trace was fairly straightforward alt-country, Honky Tonk is all over the place. Hammond organ. A melancholy-bright dual-fiddle attack that gives much of the album a “Ashokan Farewell” feel (the lilting “Down the Highway” even sounds a bit like a Celtic blessing). There’s even a few auxiliary strings thrown in here and there. It’s a sonic smorgasbord that can be overwhelming and almost unstable at times. Overall, though, the band’s deepened palate not only makes for a gorgeous and exhilarating listen, but also shows how far they have come as a group.

And yet – and yet – I can’t help but feel they’ve gone the way of Counting Crows or even (as much as it pains me to admit it) Ben Folds Five. In other words, they’ve spent recent years abandoning their loose, unbridled sound in exchange for sleeker, almost syrupy arrangements. Arrangements that, in Son Volt’s case, appear to favor modern trends in country-pop as opposed to the lovely, carefree college-rock abounding on Trace. Like the aforementioned groups, they do a reasonable job pulling it off, but the result is still somewhat less gratifying than what they’re really capable of. Each track on Trace has always evoked, for me, traveling down a long, empty stretch of highway, cool breeze blowing, taking my troubles away (sorry, couldn’t resist). With Honky Tonk, I just don’t get that – or any kind of unique emotion.

But that doesn’t mean this album doesn’t deliver in its own way. Far from it. It’s a great record. One of the best I’ve heard so far this year. It’s just not as good as Trace, is all. Then, the standard Trace sets for other Son Volt work is pretty freaking high.

Will my opinion of this record change with further listens? I’m almost certain of it.

For now, I can say this with certainty: while Honky Tonk may not stack up to the brilliant recklessness of Trace, it can still stand on its own as a thoroughly enjoyable record and a fine addition to the Son Volt catalogue. (7.3/10)

Son Volt

Honky Tonk

Rounder // March 5, 2013

Produced by Jay Farrar

Classic Album Review: Pixies, ‘Surfer Rosa’


[Originally published May 14, 2013]

The Pixies’ first proper studio effort embodies perfectly their recklessly unconventional college rocker persona. Every track incorporates that raw, fuzzy, unbridled sound later utilized by everyone from My Bloody Valentine to Deerhunter to Girls. That sound without which no one would ever have embraced a certain trio of long-haired Seattle upstarts and their fledgling garage-punk outfit – a mere three years, mind you, after this album’s release. (Kurt Cobain later admitted that “Smells Like Teen Spirit” was his stab at writing a Pixies tune, and it’s easy to see the connection.) But just because the record is sloppy doesn’t mean it’s a total mess – true, it threatens to fall apart at any moment, but the band manages to keep it together, and then some. Kim Deal’s plodding bass lines; the frantic, scorching siren that is Joey Santiago’s guitar; and Dave Lovering’s able-handed drumming come together to create something truly memorable.

Like Buddy Holly and the Ramones before them, some of the band’s best moments come out in their shortest, punchiest tunes – songs like “Something Against You” and tremendously catchy closer “Brick is Red.” The four-and-a-half minute “Vamos,” one of the few tracks that surpasses the 2-minute mark, even seems to drag a bit in comparison to these. But this only serves to further justify the group’s massive appeal among the bored, angsty, disconnected youth of the late 80s-early 90s.

Adding to the record’s disjointed feel is the tension, just barely palpable here, between leader Black Francis and Deal – tension that would demolish the band by the release of Nirvana’s Nevermind. Deal’s raspy yet oddly angelic vocals (used to miraculously eerie effect on “Gigantic” and the gleeful confusion of the band’s hands-down masterpiece “Where Is My Mind?”) collide haphazardly with Black’s yelping, paranoiac shout-singing – especially during the nonsensical hook of “River Euphrates” and the disturbed chorus of “I’m Amazed.” This goes without mentioning the countless moments when Black’s yelps turn to demonic screams and guttural growls – all of which are intensified by the masterful production of Steve Albini. Perhaps the group’s angst was directed not only at the deteriorating world but also at each other.

Surfer Rosa may not be a perfect record – that’s obviously not what they were going for – but with all its flaws, it’s still a brilliantly-assembled hodgepodge of bold ideas and a stellar cultural landmark from some of music’s true innovators. And after 25 years, it still hasn’t lost its sting. (8.8/10)


Surfer Rosa

4AD // March 21, 1988

Produced by Steve Albini

List: The 15 Best Albums of 2017 (So Far)

2017 has indeed been quite a rollercoaster thus far, but it’s also been remarkably generous to us in terms of music. We’ve heard no shortage of remarkable, transcendent, intricate, gorgeous, and even hilarious work from both familiar friends and new up-and-comers. Here are fifteen of my personal favorites from among the bounteous array of record releases in the past few months. May the remainder of the year be just as kind to us, and may we all also be a little kinder to one other – God knows we need it in such turbulent times as these.

Here it is – my top 15 of 2017 (so far):



(Sandy) Alex G



Meet the new Alex Giannascoli, same as the new Alex Giannascoli. The prolific Philadelphia-based singer-songwriter has made a name for himself – a name that now just happens to have a “Sandy” affixed to it – by crafting his own unique, eccentric world using the simple trappings of lo-fi recording. Rocket, the follow-up to his major-label debut Beach Music, sees him continuing trends from that record while at the same time branching out from his indie-folk/rock roots into the less comfortable territories of lounge-floor jazz (“County”), hardcore noise-punk (“Brick”), and country (the frothy banjo-and-fiddle stomp of “Bobby”). The ramshackle compositions, combined with Giannascoli’s heartfelt, often tongue-in-cheek lyrics, make for a novel, charming effort that rewards indelibly on further listens – an ideal showcase for the 24-year-old’s versatility and ingenuity as a musician.






Epitaph / Anti-

The Malian outfit, now nearing its fortieth year of existence, presents on Elwan some of their angriest, most electric music yet. Jagged, electrical Saharan blues riffs slither hypnotically over rattling, argumentative percussion and throngs of backing vocalists as founding member Ibrahim Ag Alhabib’s weary, trance-like voice laments the political and social unrest he has witnessed firsthand. “Love these days is like a mirage,” he intones on “Arhegh ad annàgh.” “It gets fainter the closer you get.” The lyrics are mournful and the music often caustic, but it never ceases to be a thing of profound power and beauty to hear these many seemingly disparate elements – which here also include contributions from Western musicians like Alain Johannes, Mark Lanegan and Kurt Vile – join together in an immaculately arranged tapestry of sound. It’s appropriate considering the band’s beginnings as a collective of grassroots rebels, joining together in the hopes that one day the peoples of the world might live in peace.




Julie Byrne

Not Even Happiness

Ba Da Bing! / Basin Rock

“Ambient folk” is a rather trendy and obnoxious-sounding descriptor, but there’s really no other way to describe Julie Byrne’s lovely, lilting arrangements. The Buffalo, NY native blends the understated style of Nick Drake and early Joni Mitchell with the aesthetic of Brian Eno’s pioneering ’70s work, channeling both into an inimitable universe of her own design. On Not Even Happiness, we hear little else other than quietly strummed guitar, bits of wispy synthesizer and Byrne’s ethereal voice – the voice of a peaceful yet restless wanderer, seeking meaning and permanence in her fleeting life and finding it through her connection with nature and with those she loves. Hers is an earthy, gorgeous world of immaculate serenity, a powerful refuge from the solid walls of noise that wedge their way into our brains daily and vie for our attention. Once you’ve settled into that world, the look of beatific bliss spread across Byrne’s face on the album cover may very well be your own.




The Mountain Goats



John Darnielle is arguably the greatest musical raconteur of the 21st century. His characters are vibrant and vividly realized, and each of his records reads less like an album than like a collection of short stories. What makes his songwriting truly unique, however, is his unparalleled knack for drawing lyrical beauty from the seemingly insignificant moments of everyday life. For the magnificent Goths – his sixteenth studio effort and his first without guitars – Darnielle draws inspiration from his youth, growing up listening to Siouxsee and the Banshees and the Cure on KROQ-FM and seeking out the company of society’s loners and outcasts. While the songs themselves are far more indie-folk than Gothic, his lyrics evoke masterfully the pain, angst, and melancholia of goth culture’s adherents – and the ever-present specter of death that fuels their black fire. From the doomy opener “Rain in Soho” to the heart-rending ballad “Andrew Eldritch is Moving Back to Leeds” (that’s the lead singer of Sisters of Mercy, kids) to “Abandoned Flesh” (an elegy for the long-forgotten Gene Loves Jezebel), Darnielle lets his narratives-within-a-narrative flow beautifully, his crackling, energetic vocals giving voice to the voiceless. Goths is an album about death, about life, and about the triumphs and tragedies in between – the kind of record that could only come from a mind as introspective and brilliant as Darnielle’s.





More Life

OVO Sound / Young Money / Cash Money / Republic

Last year’s charming but lackluster Views found Drizzy at a creative crossroads, but fortunately for us, it seems he picked the road less traveled. On the sprawling, lush “playlist” More Life, he adds dancehall, Afrobeat, and grime to his ever-expanding musical palate. He’s in top lyrical form throughout, unleashing an abundance of sometimes playful, often earnest ruminations on love, success, and the thinning line between his friends and his enemies.  It doesn’t hurt, of course, that Drake gets by here with a lot of help from his friends, including Young Thug, Giggs, Skepta, Sampha, Quavo, Kanye West, PARTYNEXTDOOR, Jorja Smith, 2 Chainz, and a walloping 31 credited producers. This seemingly endless string of cohorts adds another layer of vibrancy and excitement to More Life but never steals the spotlight from the man whose name it bears. Love him or loathe him, Mr. Graham is liable to stay with us for quite some time yet.





Dead Oceans

Thanks to the immense popularity of dreamy outfits like Beach House and Chromatics, shoegaze is perhaps more en vogue now than ever before. So it’s only natural that genre titans Slowdive would follow the lead of contemporaries My Bloody Valentine and make a triumphant comeback this year following a two-decades-plus hiatus. And as was true for 2013’s m b v, Slowdive proves that its namesake band hasn’t lost a single step in the 22 years since their last record. The lush ambient atmospherics, ringing guitars and hushed vocals of Souvlaki and Pygmalion are still very much present throughout. At the same time, we witness the band continuing to expand the dimensions of its sound through the Gothic post-punk of “Star Roving,” the hazy, disarmingly simplistic “Sugar for the Pill,” and the slow burn and fade of “Falling Ashes.” Equal parts beautiful and heartbreaking, Slowdive marks one of the most spectacular comebacks in recent memory – and perfect proof of just why the Thames Valley quartet mattered in the first place.





Fresh Air

Royal Mountain / Sinderlyn

“Kissing, hugging, making love and waking up and getting high”: This is the mantra that informs the woozily funky lo-fi R&B of Peter Sagar. On Fresh Airhis third LP as Homeshake, the veteran Mac DeMarco sideman crafts a succession of enticingly slick, lethargic dreamscapes as the backdrop for his subtle explorations of the fleeting highs and lingering lows of modern love. Armed with whispery, wobbly guitars; buzzing, thumping bass; and a voice that expertly treads the line between soulful release and quiet restraint (and between earnestness and kitschy throwback), he unspools scintillating melodies one after the other. Some of the album’s best moments come along in its middle stretch, when Sagar shifts into complete D’Angelo-esque soul-workout mode on tracks like “TV Volume” and “Getting Down Pt. II.” Fresh Air is an endearing and often lovely little opus that provides an ideal soundtrack for – well, just read the first sentence again.




Jansport J

p h a r a o h


Every single review I’ve read of Jansport J’s freewheeling, vibrant mini-hip-hopera (my own included) has drawn connections between him and another, more legendary J. These comparisons, of course, are not without merit, as Justin Williams’ work certainly owes plenty to the seminal Donuts. But let’s look past all that for a minute and consider the remarkable ingenuity and singular vision it takes to make a record like p h a r a o h. J’s funky, heartfelt and surprisingly fluid collection of song nuggets seeks to redefine the instrumental hip-hop album itself and explores the cratedigging genre’s potential for storytelling – in this case, our story takes the form of a ride on the L-train through NYC, an opportunity to breathe in the life and personality of the city. Old school boom-bap rides comfortably alongside psychedelic keys and analog synths, with an abundance of soul samples and vocal harmonies scattered throughout. J’s dynamic use of the human voice on tracks like “Peace, Pt. I” and “12” make p h a r a o h the warmest, most organic aural experience of its kind we’ve heard in a while. Just sit back, press play, and let it take you away.




The Magnetic Fields

50 Song Memoir


Just because Stephin Merritt has passed the half-century mark doesn’t mean he’s stopped approaching his music like a gleeful, twinkly-eyed kid. Never one to back down from an ambitious creative writing exercise (see 69 Love Songs), Merritt chronicles the first five decades of his life over the course of 150 minutes and fifty tracks (labeled by year for your convenience). His Tin Pan Alley-by-way-of-Kraftwerk-meets-Jonathan Richman songwriting continues to sharpen with age, and 50 Song Memoir serves to remind us that he’s both a gifted raconteur and a masterful arranger. In his unmistakable baritone, he regales us with erudite tales of his first fumbling forays into the worlds of religion (which he ultimately rejects outright, much to his Ethics prof’s chagrin), love (which he’s not so great at), and music (from the terrible bands he formed as a kid to the first inklings of a career in electronica), stopping here and there to deliver withering jabs at his flighty beatnik mom’s good-for-nothing boyfriends. He and his bandmates descend upon a bevy of instruments ranging from fairground organ to ukulele to autoharp to any number of magnificently orchestrated synthesizers. It’s quirky to a fault, to be sure – but what’s always made the Magnetic Fields truly great is that beneath all the wry witticisms and idiosyncratic deadpannery, there’s always an unflappable sincerity – and it comes through strongest on Memoir when Merritt talks of the death of his friend Elliott Smith (“’07 In the Snow-White Cottages”) or his bouts of melancholia and suicidal thoughts (“’97 Eurodisco Trio”). Even “’15 Somebody’s Fetish,” ostensibly a cheeky ode to sexual kinks, eventually transforms into a touching meditation on finding a love of one’s own. It all amounts to an extraordinary celebration of the grand tragicomedy of life itself – and a wondrous, wacky, lovable glimpse into the mind and soul of one of the world’s greatest living tunesmiths.




Dirty Projectors

Dirty Projectors


Dirty Projectors is the kind of post-breakup album only Dave Longstreth could create. He splatters his canvas with brooding, glitchy soultronica, utterly deformed samples and spastic, warped vocal harmonies to mirror the alienated frenzy hopping around his brain. He experiments with the R&B side of his signature yelp on tracks like the slippery, chaotic “Death Spiral” and the devastatingly blunt “Winner Take Nothing,” while frothy, slow-burning opener “Keep Your Name” renders his voice all but unrecognizable as he ruminates on love’s labors lost (“I don’t know why you abandoned me/You were my soul and my partner”). His arrangements bluster and jolt in myriad unexpected directions, making for a delightfully strange and disorienting listening experience. It’s far and away the darkest release under the DP name, but at the same time Longstreth manages to let some glimmers of hope creep in, no matter how manic and twisted things get. He’s clearly having a rough time, but he’ll be okay as long as he keeps following the light.





The Journey Man


Two decades removed from his career-defining masterpiece Timeless, the UK drum-and-bass god proves he’s lost neither the ambition nor the perfectionist’s touch that made that album great. On The Journey Man, he continually unspools vast, vividly-colored song-movements stuffed with breakneck beats, mesmerizing touches of strings and piano, and jazzy, soulful vocals courtesy of collaborators such as Natalie Williams and José James. It’s sixteen tracks and nearly two hours of hypnotic, luxurious, intelligent, and scintillating music that would feel out of place neither at a rave nor a meditation session. The Journey Man is, indeed, a journey – but one more than worth the taking.




Kendrick Lamar


Interscope / Top Dawg

DAMN., Kendrick Lamar’s fourth studio album in six years opens up with an understated spoken word bit from the Compton native atop soft, funky orchestration – sounds that would fit quite comfortably on his 2015 magnum opus To Pimp a Butterfly. Immediately after, we get an abrupt shift into the barebones riot act of “DNA.,” setting the pace for much of the album’s remainder and letting us know we’re in for an entirely different listening experience altogether. Skeletal, pseudo-trap beats buzz and snap in the background as Lamar – still easily the most gifted MC of his generation – unleashes some of the most direct, unadorned flows of his career on boldface-titled bangers like “HUMBLE.,” “FEAR.,” and “LOYALTY.” His unmistakable voice shifts effortlessly from a lethargic, understated drone to a frantic near-scream as he waxes philosophic about the experience of black America in 2017 and ponders his own place within its grand scheme. As with life itself, it’s tough to draw any definite conclusions from this colorful, jagged, complicated record at the outset, but piecing the puzzle together over subsequent listens is what makes the experience so exhilarating. Life, as our man Mr. Duckworth puts it on the track that bears his real surname, is indeed “one funny motherfucker.”




Father John Misty

Pure Comedy

Sub Pop

Josh Tillman has become something of a punching bag in the music journalism community, with the critiques running the gamut from “his facial hair is dumb” to “he’s an arrogant, smug, self-indulgent jackass who embodies everything despicable about white hipster culture.” What people seem to forget in their discussions of Tillman, however, is the music. The public’s varied opinions on the man don’t change the fact that he’s one of the greatest and most imaginative songwriters of his generation. The expansive, ambitious Pure Comedy could be used as fuel for either side of the Father John Misty debate, but still, it’s a damn fine record. Enlisting the aid of legendary arranger Gavin Bryars, Misty channels the majestic strings and prickled wit of Randy Newman and early Elton John in a series of scathing critiques on technology (“Things It Would Have Been Helpful To Know Before the Revolution”), liberal self-righteousness (“Ballad of the Dying Man”), and even the elite group of “L.A. phonies and their bullshit bands/That sound like dollar signs and Amy Grant” of which he counts himself a member (the 13-minute centerpiece “Leaving L.A”). Tillman’s attempts to cement his status as a social satirist for the millennial age vary in their success (the troubling “both sides” rhetoric of “Two Wildly Different Perspectives” could double as a mission statement for centrist Democrats), but when the record fails, it does so nobly enough that it’s hard not to fall in love with it anyway. At its best, Pure Comedy is a sweeping, gorgeous and deeply affecting look at the absurd state of modern humanity, as well as a call for some positive change. As Tillman croons at the end of the title track: “I hate to say it, but each other’s all we’ve got.”




Future Islands

The Far Field


The sublime theatricality of Baltimore’s Future Islands just keeps getting better with each record. The Far Field isn’t exactly a major shake-up of their signature New Wave-influenced sound, but what is different here is the trio’s ability to dig deep into the heart of their music, exuding levels of emotion and wide-eyed expression never thought possible. With help from the deft hand of producer John Congleton, the band delivers burst after burst of rapturous, euphoric sound. Sam Herring’s voice remains one of the most unique and inimitable in modern rock, and here he leaves no atom of himself unexposed, passionately bellowing about his hopes, his insecurities, his longing for connection with nature and with his fellow human beings. Bassist William Cashion and synth wizard Garrit Welmers, meanwhile, busily construct a lushly-orchestrated backdrop that intensifies and solidifies the drama of Herring’s vocal performance. Like Singles before it, The Far Field is an instant classic – a collection of perfectly-executed songs from people with a clear and distinctive passion not only for their craft, but for the human experience itself.




Fleet Foxes



The gap between the last and the next of a beloved artist’s records is always interminable for its fans, be it a year or a decade. But this sentiment felt doubly true for fans of Fleet Foxes, whose fearless leader Robin Pecknold disbanded the group after 2011’s generation-defining Helplessness Blues and essentially disappeared for the next half-decade. (Okay, he actually attended classes at Columbia, but hey, same thing.) Happily for us, great works of art often come from periods of isolation, and such is the case with the Foxes’ breathtaking, ridiculously great Crack-Up. At the outset, it sounds like your basic, run-of-the-mill Fleet Foxes album – reliable Laurel Canyon-influenced folk with echo-chamber atmospherics and thundering drum beats – but listen closely, and the album reveals itself. The harmonies are tighter. The songs are more complex, cinematic, sweeping, panoramic in scope (especially on lengthier song-suites like “Third of May / Ōdaigahara” and “I Am All That I Need…”). Pecknold’s songwriting is clearer and more socially-conscious – he witnesses the protests following the murder of Alton Sterling on “Cassius -” and laments the proliferation of gender inequality on “- Naiads, Cassadies.” The group even gets self-referential when a sample of a school choir performing “White Winter Hymnal” pops up. Crack-Up is everything we could have hoped for from the Foxes’ reunification; they move forward as musicians while keeping one foot firmly rooted in the sound that made them one of the greatest musical acts of the new millennium. Welcome back, boys. Stay awhile now, won’t you?

Honorable Mentions

Blanck Mass / World Eater (Sacred Bones)

Neil Cicierega / Mouth Moods (Self-released)

Foxygen / Hang (Jagjaguwar)

Steve Lacy / Steve Lacy’s Demo (EP) (Three Quarter)

Perfume Genius / No Shape (Matador)

Sampha / Process (Young Turks)

The Shins / Heartworms (Columbia / Aural Apothecary)

SZA / Ctrl (Top Dawg / RCA)

Temples / Volcano (Heavenly / Fat Possum)

The xx / I See You (Young Turks)

Album Review*: Timecop, ‘You Can’t Go Back From Where You Are Right Now’ (EP)

burning dome

(*not actually a review, just a shameless plug)

I’m going on vacation for a week, but before I leave, I thought I’d just say a few quick words about my new EP.

What’s this? An “EP”?? Oh, I see – you’ve finally decided to fulfill the stereotype of the music critic who “dabbles” as an artist? Very funny, Mr. Pretentious Writer-Person. Stop wasting our time and get back to work on those wryly comical semi-monthly music reviews, hipster scum. And by the way – where’s that best-of-the-year so far list? It’s almost fucking August now, for Chrissakes! Why don’t you just get your shit together already? Jesus, man.

To counter your argument, imaginary hypothetical detractors, this ain’t my first rodeo as far as music – making, not just listening – is concerned. Truth is, I’ve been a musician for literally over two decades (mostly vocals, though I’ve also been known to play a pretty mean harmonica/drum kit/vibraphone, etc.) This EP, however, is my first foray into the world of electronic music – a universe that has fascinated me for years, but which I’ve never really delved into fully myself. UNTIL NOW.

You Can’t Go Back From Where You Are Right Now (my first – and hopefully not last – release as Timecop) is a glitchy, atmospheric, idiosyncratic work – wow, with descriptors like that you’d think I was a music critic or something! – that draws equal inspiration mainly from IDM godheads like Aphex Twin and Goldie and ambient trailblazers such as Brian Eno and William Basinski. I like to think, however, that with this EP I’ve managed to channel those lofty influences into my own unique sound. More importantly, however, I finally motivated myself to thread together some of my experimental noodlings and happy electrical accidents into a cohesive whole. And you know what? I’m really, really impressed with how this thing turned out.

I hope you dig it, too.

Yours truly, faithfully and digitally,
Michael (aka Timecop)

(P.S. I swear to God I’ll have the best-of-2017-so-far list up here soon. I’m working on it. It’s coming. I promise.)


You Can’t Go Back From Where You Are Right Now (EP)

Self-released // July 28, 2017

Produced by Michael Heimbaugh

Album Review: Future Islands, ‘The Far Field’


At the risk of exaggeration, Future Islands was probably the best thing that happened to me in 2014. I was one of many who had committed the egregious error of generally ignoring them prior to their now-legendary network TV debut on The Late Show with Dave Letterman in March of that year. I still remember how electrifying that first performance was – the driving opening chords of the group’s beautiful, anthemic “Seasons (Waiting on You)”; the synthpop sound that hearkened to another age yet felt totally modern; and frontman Sam T. Herring two-stepping across the stage, screeching, bellowing, punching the air, thumping his chest and staring into the audience’s very soul. It was a captivating spectacle, equal parts disorienting and really, really cool.

With “Seasons” and its superb mother album Singles (which I naturally declared the best of 2014 in my end-of-year list), the Baltimorean trio captured our attention. Its follow-up, The Far Field, then, represents their attempt to retain it. To put it lightly, they succeed in spectacular fashion. Those expecting a departure from their previous work will be sorely disappointed. However, those who’ve come to know and adore the power and beauty of their music will find the new record a veritable feast for the ears.

As was true for Singles, each track on The Far Field (the title a nod to the Theodore Roethke poetry collection of the same name, as was 2010’s In Evening Air) is a miniature drama, bursting with euphoric energy; even the saddest tunes shoot up towards the heavens. Herring, as always, sells the dear sweet screaming shit out of every syllable he utters – snarling, crooning, enunciating viciously, throwing in the occasional grindcore shriek. Sam could be likened easily to any number of expressive rock vocalists, but for me, the figure that comes most readily to mind is Meat Loaf. I think back to the first time I heard Bat Out of Hell and how awestruck I was by his voice. You could feel his raw magnetism shredding through your speakers; he made even cornball phrases like “You’ve been cold to me so long, I’m cryin’ icicles instead of tears” sound convincing. Herring works similar wonders with his vocal delivery and performance style. Not a word passes his lips that’s without meaning, that isn’t felt in every atom of his body.

But while Herring may steal the show at the band’s live performances, their studio efforts give his fellow Future Islanders a chance to shine. Garrit Welmers, channeling the best and most adventurous of 80s New Wave, crafts lovely, intoxicating synth universes on each track, while William Cashion’s driving bass propels everything forward and keeps Herring’s soaring vocals tethered to Earth’s atmosphere. They’re as much a delicate, meticulously crafted formula as they are a band; take one element out of the equation, and the whole thing crumbles.

The album begins by fading into “Aladdin,” our regularly scheduled Future Islands song, already in progress – a simple but effective synth hook enveloped by lush long tones, drum and bass keeping steady, thumping time. Herring then launches headfirst into a poetic diatribe, describing his relationship with a lost love in terms of nature while showcasing his unique talent for internal rhyme (“I’ve seen the beaches, breached the peak of ‘please’ and ‘thanks’/I’ve seen my features age, my fingers strange”). Like that titular treasure-seeker, Herring is trying to decide whether the riches he found were mere illusions. By the end of the song, he pointedly concludes, straining to hit the highest notes he can, that “love is real/Our love is real/It’s a hand, it’s a hold, it’s a shield.” It’s not as dynamic an opening as “Seasons,” but it’s still thoroughly stirring and enrapturing.

Even by Future Islands’ standards, these songs feel remarkably personal. Herring, bearer of a known predilection for breaking down in the midst of live performances and giving his audience quick emotional pep talks, provides us with several vivid, often painful windows into his soul. The autobiographical nature of his lyrics gives him more to feel, which makes the songs themselves exude more emotion in turn. He dedicates much of his energy here to meditating on his relationships with others and how life on the road can decay those relationships over time. The gorgeous, majestic “Time on Her Side” finds him accepting that his departed lover is free (“so free, it’s sublime”) to choose her own path in life, as angelic, soul-rocking synth tones and chiming percussion blast readily into action. On lead single “Ran” (which happens to sound eerily similar to “Seasons” in pretty much every way), he sounds a bit more mournful, howling, “What’s a song without you/When every song I write is about you?” He yearns to reconnect with nature – and by extension, with the loved ones he’s drifted away from – on “Ancient Water” and “Day Glow Fire.” In so many words and with so much chutzpah, he’s really just expressing his desire for what most humans want: connection.

Herring’s emotional nakedness reaches its apex during “Through the Roses.” As Welmers’ synths float breathily around him, he speaks at length about his struggles with depression, anxiety and suicidal thoughts – “the temptation to look inside [his] wrist”. In other words, no matter how convincing Herring’s electric stage presence may be, when you take away “the lights and the smoke and the screen,” he’s just a normal guy – nervous, terrified, unsure of himself, trying to navigate this fucked-up, confusing world we’re stuck on.  He further ponders the inner workings of his troubled mind on the melancholy “Cave,” which explores the disillusion and loss of self he experiences in the wake of a breakup: “Is this a desperate wish for dying/Or a wish that dying cease?/The fear that keeps me going…is the same fear that brings me to my knees/I don’t believe anymore.” Herring obviously isn’t the first to unpack such emotions on record, but the sheer vulnerability and conviction with which he does so makes it truly unique.

And what self-respecting Meat-Loafian synthpop epic would dare to omit space for a rip-roaring, eleventh-hour boy-girl duet? That moment comes in the form of the driving “Shadows,” wherein Ms. Debbie Harry – herself at one time the queen-regent of New Wave – plays Ellen Foley to Herring’s Meat, urging him to “break free” from the darkness that holds him captive. Harry is perfect for the part, her ageless, ethereal voice an ideal counterpoint for Herring’s impassioned yowls. Together, they manage to make the song impressively sincere while reveling in its inherent goofiness.

But wait, I’m frequently tempted to tell myself. Didn’t they just use that exact same drumbeat/synth pattern/key three songs ago? And several more times on other albums? This is bullshit. I shouldn’t be enjoying this. This is base, vapid regurgitation. They’re just doing the same song over and over. Maybe so, but goddamn, is it a fucking great song. Sure, Field may essentially be twelve slight variations on a long-established signature sound (the possible exception being the tender, ultra-slowed-down reggae-cum-lounge ballad “Candles”), but the group infuses every moment on the record with enough charisma and genuine feeling to make it work – and then some.

Future Islands are a group that traffics in feeling – their success stems largely from the passionate appeal to the heartstrings and souls of their listeners they make in their music. More specifically, it’s their uncanny ability to mine pure joy, hope and goodness from the darkest depths of human experience – as they do plenty of times on the marvelous, sweeping Field – that makes them not just a good band, but a great one. As Herring puts it, bringing an auspicious end to the otherwise sorrowful “Through the Roses”: “We can pull through together, together, together, together.” Here’s hoping we do. (9.1/10)

Future Islands

The Far Field

4AD // April 7, 2017

Produced by John Congleton

Album Review: Drake, ‘More Life’


Scoff all you like, O ye rap purists, but you have to hand it to the man: Aubrey Drake “Drake” Graham has, in his own way, revolutionized hip-hop. With albums like Take Care and Nothing Was the Same, he orchestrated a marriage of rap and R&B sensibilities that hitherto had never been heard before. He rapped. He sang. He was profoundly, often uncomfortably, open about his private life. And everyone loved/loathed/secretly liked him for it. More Life, the latest tell-all tome from our young up-and-coming hero, is a sprawling, colorful sonic panoply that constitutes some of the most varied and enticing work he’s created in his career. It highlights the Toronto native’s strengths as a rapper while providing an exciting new platform from which to flex them.

Ultimately, More Life turns out to be a refreshing return to form following last year’s interesting but mostly lackluster Views. That album, paired with the prior year’s subpar Future team-up What a Time to Be Alive, made some fear that Drizzy, following an unprecedented winning streak, was finally beginning to lose his touch. Fortunately, Mr. Graham is nothing if not resourceful, and he changes things up a bit with this release, turning it into a celebration of black culture and the various musical forms it has begotten.

Don’t get me wrong – the Drake we’ve come to know and love/loathe/secretly like is still very much present here. He’s still reveling in his outlandish success and telling off all the haters nipping at his OVO Jordan-clad heels (“I mean, I keep the fuckin’ lights on in the building/Man, my record deal should be $500 million”). He’s still stressing out over work, doubting himself, wondering who he can trust (“I cannot tell who is my friend/I need distance between me and them”). He continues his never-ending search for that sweet spot between his hedonistic lifestyle and being a more sensitive, caring companion to the women in his life, with Rihanna, Jennifer Lopez, and Serena Williams being among the key culprits this time around (on one track, he even goes so far as to interpolate J.Lo’s “If You Had My Love”). At the same time, Drizzy has frequently proven that he’s at his best when he’s also at his most unpredictable, and More Life documents his evolution as a musician and as a person. If Views saw Drake fumbling for new ways to say what he wants to say, More Life confirms he hasn’t run out of juice just yet.

This reinvigoration is largely attributable to the project’s 31 (!) co-producers, who help instill it with its slapdash, globe-hopping motif (is it any wonder why it’s called a “playlist”?) Musical styles vary from track to track, keeping things interesting when the classic Drake formula threatens to slag. That’s in addition to the various high-profile guests (as well as a couple relative newcomers) Drake brings on board – and whom he wisely lets grab much of the spotlight. UK grime star Giggs makes two mind-obliterating features on the 808-heavy “No Long Talk” and “KMT,” brashly delivering such gems as: “I’m a black man, government earner/Could’ve just slapped man, but he wanted it further/Batman, da-na-na-da-na!” His fellow Britons Skepta and Sampha each get their own tracks, with the former unleashing the same ruthless, erudite flows found on his brilliant 2016 record Konnichiwa, and the latter using “4422” to croon about his relationship timidities as well as to shout out his Morden birthplace and his family’s roots in Freetown. South African DJ Black Coffee and British singer-songwriter Jorja Smith (another alleged love interest) endow “Get It Together” with a bouncy sex appeal, while lush, shimmering Afrobeat guitars and long synth tones bring a taste of Nigeria to the Wizkid-influenced “Madiba Riddim.” A few of Drake’s trap-slinging pals from the South – Quavo, Travis Scott, 2 Chainz and Young Thug – offer some competently jocular assists for “Portland,” “Ice Melts” and the somber, introspective “Sacrifices.” Even Yeezy and Weezy come along for the ride.

And then there’s the dancehall influence. Drake flirted with island rhythms on Views with the hit singles “One Dance” and “Too Good,” but here, he takes it to another level. He peppers many of the tracks with Caribbean soundscapes and Jamaican patois. He talks of being so “Blem” that he “might just say how I feel,” calling his lover’s ex a “wasteman” and warning her to “move from me with the passa.” The lush, tropical “Passionfruit” finds our man at his most vulnerable and tender, with a sunny backdrop flowing throughout as he softly expresses his anxieties about keeping a relationship together (“Listen/Harder buildin’ trust from a distance/I think we should rule out commitment for now, ‘cause we’re fallin’ apart”). Later, we hear tinny steel-drum hits punctuate his angry rebukes towards two-faced well-wishers on lead single “Fake Love.” It’s important to note that Drizzy never copies his influences directly or resorts to pastiche, but rather lovingly incorporates these styles into his own signature sound to create something new and uniquely stunning.

Drake himself often takes a noticeable backseat to his cohorts on a number of these tracks but is by no means phoning things in. When he does appear, he sounds completely rejuvenated, uncorking some of his most exhilarating, self-assured flows to date. Right out of the gate, he goes in on his manifold foes (in particular, one Meek Mill), offering them the fatal challenge of a “Free Smoke”: “Lot of n****s goin’ bad on me/Please, one at a time/I wanna move to Dubai/So I don’t never have to kick it with none of you guys/I didn’t listen to Hov on that old song/When he told me pay it no mind/I get more satisfaction out of goin’ at your head/And seein’ all of you die.” In this context, the title, a well-wishing catchphrase popularized by Vybz Kartel, becomes a bit of a double-sided mantra, echoed by Drizzy as much to himself as to the rest of the world.

Still, amid all the taunts, he isn’t afraid to do some genuine soul-searching on several tracks, admitting that much of his anger may stem from his own insecurities about himself. He bemoans the loss of support from friends and family on “Lose You” – “Winning is problematic/People like you more when you workin’ towards something, not when you have it…How they go from not wantin’ me at all/To wantin’ to see me lose it all?” Mom Sandi appears in voicemail form at the end of “Can’t Have Everything,” admonishing him to remember that, “when others go low, we go high.” By playlist’s end, his wrath seems to have cooled down a bit – or, at least, he’s a little more at peace with his situation. “Scary whenever I close my eyes at night,” he muses on album closer “Do Not Disturb.” “Wakin’ up to public statements about my private life/I can never sleep ’til morning on all my quiet nights/But you can rest assured that my mind is right.”

More Life is definitely a lot to take in and may be best digested in a few sittings, but there’s certainly a heck of a lot to love here. Drake melds his many influences into an intoxicating, irresistible aural smorgasbord; sometimes the seams are quite visible, but that only adds to the project’s charm. All in all, Drizzy seems to be learning more about the person he is, and in spite of his serious tone, he hasn’t sounded like he’s having this much fun with a project in quite some time. Here’s hoping that when he returns from his retreat to his “regular life” in 2018 to “give us the summary,” his inventive spirit will continue to thrive. More Life, indeed. (8.5/10)


More Life

OVO Sound / Young Money / Cash Money / Republic // March 18, 2017

Produced by Drake, Oliver El-Khatib, Noah “40” Shebib, Kanye West, Murda Beatz, PARTYNEXTDOOR, et al.

Album Review: Homeshake, ‘Fresh Air’


Peter Sagar first made a name for himself as the nimble-fingered touring guitarist for indie slacker idol Mac DeMarco. As a solo singer-songwriter, he creates music that (spiritually, at least) follows a similar path to that of the scruffy, weed-loving, chill-as-hell DeMarco. But whereas DeMarco espouses goofy, psych-influenced slacker-rock, Sagar’s muse is a bit more subtle, as evidenced by the lazy, delectable, discreetly funky electronica (often erroneously classified as “bedroom R&B”) that has become his trademark.

Sagar proves himself a master of that craft on Fresh Air, his fourth opus under the nom-de-stage Homeshake. For each of the album’s 12 tracks (bookended by two short instrumentals), he crafts a gorgeous melody and plays it on a loop, letting it soak into your brain until it permeates your entire psyche. The album plays much like a series of vignettes, offering intimate glimpses into the life of a young person who keeps regularly stoned on both love and other substances – and all the complicated emotions and relationship snags that accompany that life. Sagar soundtracks it all with a winning combination of quiet-storm instrumentals, bargain-bin yacht-soul synthesizers, and his lethargic, slightly strained falsetto (which sounds like a cross between the Revolution’s Wendy Melvoin and Lisa Coleman and a more reserved, balladeering Prince). As he has on past releases, he effortlessly strikes a perfect balance between deep soul and incredible restraint. He incorporates styles of the past into his own distinct sound without merely borrowing them or resorting to pastiche or cliché.

The album opens with smooth, chill guitar grooves over a light and wispy synthetic beat as automated voices (literally) welcome the listener to the forthcoming experience. Then the percussion of “Call Me Up” starts its clicking and clapping, and Sagar instantly unleashes an irresistibly ethereal atmosphere driven by a woozy synth hook. “I can feel the pain within you,” he softly observes. “It’s turning your insides out/And filling you up with doubt.” The track depicts an idyllic young romance, wherein the two lovers are so connected that a sort of telepathy develops between them, and they each know how the other feels even when they’re in separate rooms.

Would that all human relationships were so simple. Throughout Fresh Air, Sagar navigates the troubled seas of interpersonal hecticism as he alternates between party-hopping and hanging at home, indulging in God’s sweet leaf. He rejects the advances of an unrequited lover over loop-de-looping synths on “Not U” (“Staring daggers, like you think that it could change a thing…Hope that this will be the last time that I hear from you”). The uptempo R&B jam “Every Single Thing” portrays a severe strain in communication, with bleak airport-terminal tones and striking chord changes accentuating the drama (“Thought it’d be easier/For me to think of her/I was dreaming when you spoke and not listening to you”). As many of us (Sagar, it seems, very much included) know well, it’s not easy to be a lover in this modern age of distraction, confusion, and uncertainty – and yet, we keep trying our best anyway.

Fresh Air also finds Sagar routinely demonstrating that he can establish tone and mood with the very best of them. “Getting Down Pt. II (He’s Cooling Down),” with its gently buzzing bassline and whispery drums, sounds not far removed from a Voodoo-era D’Angelo jam. On “Timing,” he uses a chilly minor-key synthscape to evoke the supreme ennui of his loneliness while whiling away the hours until his s/o returns home. As the weirded-out, glitchy outro sets in, we as listeners come to the consensus that lazing around the house has never been – and may never again be – this gorgeously dramatic.

It’s the second half of the album, however, where we start to behold the true depths of Sagar’s mastery as a musician and arranger. He’d like us to think he’s not even trying – the breezy grace of his arrangements certainly make it seem so – but deep down, he’s a fussy sonic perfectionist, striving to find the exact right combinations of sounds to illustrate the moods he envisions.

Pretty much any song on Fresh Air could qualify as a standout track, but high among the ranks stands “TV Volume,” which finds Sagar’s guitar purring funkily over a razor-sharp groove, the drums repeatedly start-stopping in time. It’s a subtle, sensual kick in the ass that’s so understated, it’s almost devastating. Immediately succeeding this quiet beauty is yet another standout, the robotic, pure-sex-exuding “Khmlwugh.” Descending chromatic synths hover atop steadily tiptoeing bass and a clap-trap beat as Sagar unfurls his mantra of “kissing, hugging, making love and waking up and getting high.”

And so the magnificent sonic journey continues to its serene end. The title track, a subdued, six-minute slow jam, is colored by sweet, silky guitar strums over the faint sound of a swirling wind. “So She” sounds more than a little like 50s/60s lounge-pop with a dash of bossa nova, like something Stevie Wonder, Caetano Veloso, Astrud Gilberto and Fagen & Becker might record after smoking a few together in the studio. Closer “This Way” is Sagar at his most unabashedly yacht-rock; he croons about chilling out at home with his main squeeze as shivery percussion and delicate, goofy “night-life” keys that rather deliberately recall Paul Davis’ “I Go Crazy” meander in the foreground. It’s a great summation of what Sagar does best – using snippets of the past as a soundtrack for snapshots of the present. “Come and sit and stay a while,” he breathes. “You can relax, it’s me/Feeling slippers on the frozen tile/So cold, living comfortably…”

The charm of Sagar’s scrappy yet immaculate concoctions is boundless – simple elements are expertly combined to form something truly grand. He weaves magical, intimate universes out of his guitars and synths, creating a listening experience that’s equal parts soothing and compelling. It’s certain to serve as the backdrop to a THC-haze-coated makeout sesh between young hipsters – and I mean that as the highest possible praise. Here’s to Homeshake’s most thrilling and intoxicating effort yet, and here’s to the further sonic triumphs certain to form in its wake. (8.6/10)


Fresh Air

Royal Mountain/Sinderlyn, February 3, 2017

Produced by Peter Sagar

Album Review: Jansport J, ‘p h a r a o h’


On p h a r a o h, Jansport J (aka prolific DIY beatmaker Justin Williams) invites listeners to join him on a truly remarkable journey. Over the course of 42 minutes and 27 tracks, J weaves innumerable samples from throughout hip-hop and R&B history into a captivating sonic tapestry, bursting with color and emotion.

In an interview with Bandcamp, J reveals that origins of p h a r a o h lie in the Covina, CA-based producer’s entrapment in New York City in the midst of a blistering snowstorm early last year. Thus, experiencing the album is very much akin to a subway ride through the various neighborhoods of NYC. No track is longer than two-and-a-half minutes, meaning that beats stick around just long enough to hold your attention, then morph into new ones. Static abounds, and beats regularly fade in and out like radio glitches. These changes, though, are never jarring but, thanks to Williams’ seamless production, feel like natural progressions. Think of it as a hip-hopera in 27 short acts.

The trip begins with the opening invocation of “Peace, Pt. I.” Over a wonky, galloping backbeat, an unidentified voice calls upon “our ancestors…pyramid builders,” as a bustling congregation echoes his prayer. J’s unique and notable use of the human voice continues throughout the album as he sprinkles in among the tracks scattered snippets of conversation and recorded speeches. The variety of voices heard here contributes further to the metro motif, bringing to life the colorful and wildly varied personalities of the L-train.

This use of human speech reaches an unforgettable profundity with the track “RIP Harambe,” which opens with a sound byte of a news report on the Cincinnati Zoo’s highly controversial shooting of the titular ape last summer (“Some of the video you’re about to see may be disturbing”). The tribal drums, bongos, keyboard bleeps and screaming kids are succeeded by the clicks, whacks and thumps of the 6/8-time “12,” in which a 911 dispatch expresses concerns about a young black man “in a white t-shirt” – sentiments heard far too often in an age of rampant mass shootings and racial profiling. The implied commentary from Williams here packs an unsubtle, necessary punch: Why is the life of an animal valued over that of a black man? How is it that the media routinely broadcasts the violent deaths of people of color without a second thought, yet warns its viewers about “disturbing” footage of a gorilla’s demise? It serves as a brutally effective document of racism in the 21st century.

The music, of course, isn’t to be overlooked either. Old-school boom-bap, funk-saturated guitars, psychedelic keys, analog synth burps, quiet-storm strings and intricate harmonies all sit side-by-side comfortably as J unfurls lush, delectable instrumentals one after the other in dizzying succession. His samples run the gamut from Mos Def (on the mellow, soulful “IWasFeelinShortee”) to Luther Vandross (atop the overlapping, undulating synths and hi-hat of “Crenshaw,” an anthem to J’s native West Coast) to the King of Pop (a slowed-down loop of the “Rock With You” chorus prominently featured on the breezy “Crush”). Such brilliantly-employed pop touches give a slight touch of familiarity to the recording, brief interludes of calm amid the raucous turbulence.

J is quickly becoming a rising star in the vast galaxy of instrumental hip-hop, and p h a r a o h makes it easy to see why. His scrappy, expertly-constructed, classic soul-and-R&B-informed beats have garnered him inevitable comparisons to the mighty J. Dilla, whose groundbreaking Donuts J himself has referred to as the movement’s sacred manuscript – the work that made it possible for producers to craft worlds of unparalleled beauty using only 90-second nuggets of noise. In discussing his style, J also cites such varied influences as Timbaland, Madlib, Eric B. & Rakim, the Alchemist, even his own fiddlings with a See ‘n Say as a toddler. But derivative this ain’t – he synthesizes these many influences into his own distinct voice, breathing new life into the genre itself.

There’s never a dull moment in p h a r a o h, or an unnecessary one; J always keeps it rollicking, riveting, and thoroughly enjoyable as he fuses his gritty atmospherics with arrestingly gorgeous paintings of sound. It’s a sprawling celebration of a culture and its art, a masterwork as lively, eccentric, industrious and varied as the bustling metropolis that inspired it. Williams is clearly a master at his craft, and he’s just getting started; here’s hoping that this and subsequent releases garner wider attention and accolades for this ridiculously underrated talent. Peace. (8.9/10)

Jansport J

p h a r a o h

Released January 27, 2017 on blackwhitegoldville music

Produced by Justin Williams

Album Review: Dirty Projectors, ‘Dirty Projectors’


Following the departure of longtime collaborator (and one-time love interest) Amber Coffman, Dirty Projectors mastermind Dave Longstreth found himself forced to soldier on as a solo artist. In the face of heartbreak and creative isolation, Longstreth did the only logical thing he could: write a new album with the most personal material he’d ever recorded, his feelings of abandonment and alienation serving as lyrical and aesthetic fodder. That album, Dirty Projectors (what else could he have called his solo debut?), is a frantic, arty, gorgeously strange breakup symphony that offers a bizarre fusion of James Blake’s brand of understated soultronica; the jittery, juicy energy of tUnE-yArDs and Age of Adz-era Sufjan Stevens; and Longstreth’s own weirded-out psyche.

“Keep Your Name,” co-written with fellow noise experimenter Tyondai Braxton, starts the record off with chiming church bells, which abruptly morph into somber piano chords over which Longstreth mournfully meditates on the end of his creative and romantic relationship with Coffman. “I don’t know why you abandoned me,” he croons. “You were my soul and my partner.” His signature spastic vocals are thick and lethargic, contributing quite effectively to the distortion of reality he is experiencing. This warped mindstate is further documented by the addition of clicking percussion; a screechy, industrial equipment-aping sample of DP’s “Impregnable Question” (“We don’t see eye to eye”); and a nervy, double-speed interlude wherein Longstreth directly attacks Coffman – and highlights their clashing musical visions –  by mocking with sonic discord the sugary harmonies she once added to his music. “I don’t think I ever loved you/That was some stupid shit,” he rap-speaks on the bridge. “We shared kisses and visions/But like KISS’ shithead Gene Simmons said/A band is a brand and it licks that our vision is dissonant.”

Musically, Dirty Projectors is one of Longstreth’s most idiosyncratic efforts to date, as well as his most heavily indebted to modern R&B. This becomes clear early on in the record when “Death Spiral” splatters a latter-day Kanye-inspired soundscape with piano glissandos, laser-zap synths, flamenco guitar, and scattered organ – all while making frequent and all-too-appropriate use of Bernard Herrmann’s Vertigo score. Longstreth sounds entirely unhinged here, shifting in and out of an broken, volatile falsetto as the loss of his love sends him on a dramatic, stormy downward descent not unlike an aerial catastrophe: “I was reborn the second before the plane became shards of glass when it crashed on arrivaI/I woke up feeling like I’m sipping on some René Descartes, and you’re Big Gulping the Bible.”

Longstreth’s postmodern soul flirtations continue throughout the record. “Work Together” finds him warbling in cadences similar to those of Justin Timberlake over a chaotic hook laden with off-kilter drums and microtonal voice samples. The pretty, deceptively sweet “Little Bubble” crosses into weepy 70s folk-pop ballad territory before proceeding to turn the very genre on its head. On the Caribbean-smooched “Cool Your Heart,” he brings Solange Knowles and guest vocalist Dawn Richard along for the ride, the latter’s smooth, melodious voice creating a perfect counterpoint to Longstreth’s anxious yowls.

One of the record’s more honest moments comes with the seven-and-a-half-minute epic “Up in Hudson.” Intricately-layered vocal harmonies, a jarringly triumphal horn section and invocations of Roberta Flack flutter across a vivid account of Longstreth’s and Coffman’s partnership – their eyes first meeting at the Bowery Ballroom and the tour dates, trysts and “slept-on floors” that followed. After the turbulence of the preceding two tracks, we get somewhat of a return to the bouncy worldbeat-influenced rhythms of yesteryear as the singer wistfully recalls what once was – or, rather, what he once thought was. But love, as he says, is a fleeting thing – it burns out, fades, rots, dissipates. By song’s end we’re left with whining guitars swirling and twisting around each other atop rattling kitchen-sink percussion, our two lovers farther apart than either could have anticipated (“Now I’m listening to Kanye on the Taconic Parkway, riding fast/And you’re out in Echo Park, blasting 2Pac, drinking a fifth for my ass/I’m just up in Hudson, bored and destructive, knowing that nothing lasts”).

As is true for many of the great breakup albums, Dirty Projectors follows an arc of sorts. Its first half is largely spent brooding over Coffman and coming to terms with the estrangement, but a turning point seems to arise in the final stretch. In the aftermath of his earlier “death spiral,” he launches into an “Ascent Through Clouds,” struggling to establish independence from the relationship (“I am not contained/In my chest or in my brain/I am energy unconstrained”). On “Cool Your Heart,” he muses further, “Last night I realized/It’s been feeling wrong to start relying, making decisions based on another person.” By the time we get to the organ-splashed, gospel-like “I See You” (on which Yeezy cohort Elon Rutberg shares songwriting creds) it feels like he’s found something resembling peace of mind, claiming, “I believe that the love that we made is the art.”

It’s safe to say that Longstreth is Dirty Projectors. Since the group’s inception in 2002 – and at present in particular – he has served as its sole constant and driving creative force. Still, much of what made records like Bitte Orca and Swing Lo Magellan special were the lovely, complex backing harmonies courtesy of Coffman (and, for a brief while, fellow band expatriate Angel Deradoorian). This time around, the vocals are all Longstreth’s, and he manages to make it work. Still, if there’s a weak spot to his sonic noodlings, it’s the notable lack of input from those gifted collaborators. (Incidentally, Coffman’s own solo effort, City of No Reply, is slated for release sometime this year, and it’ll no doubt be fascinating to hear her side of this whole rigmarole.)

This record is a guy working through his personal shit in real time. In this case, though, the guy in question is David Longstreth; as a result, the journey is compelling, affecting, and endlessly inventive. It’s intimate without being too self-indulgent, utilizing plenty of sonic bells and whistles but never suffocating the final product with them. To be sure, Dirty Projectors is a departure for its namesake, but it’s one that appears to have changed Longstreth for the better upon reaching the other side. (8.6/10)

Dirty Projectors

Dirty Projectors

Released February 21, 2017 on Domino Records

Produced by Dave Longstreth

Album Review: Foxygen, ‘Hang’

Foxygen is a band that thrives on defying expectations. After Agoura Hills youngsters Jonathan Rado and Sam France formed the duo in 2005, they putted along relatively quietly for the next six years – releasing a string of EPs as well as an hour-long space opera – before signing to Jagjaguwar. Their next two records, 2012’s Take the Kids Off Broadway and 2013’s We Are the 21st Century Ambassadors of Peace and Magic, were both critically-lauded efforts informed equally by Motown and 60s garage-psych, crackling with eccentric energy and smartass charisma. The duo faithfully evoked the past while creating music that sounded singularly of the present. Shortly after Ambassadors threatened to bolster them into indie superstardom, they split up and put out solo records, only to regroup the next year for the ambitious but tragically uneven Rundgrenian-pop behemoth …And Star Power.

With LP #5, Hang, France and Rado display their unpredictability as musicians in an unprecedented way. Eschewing the scrappy psych-pop of their previous efforts, they employ the services of a 35-piece orchestra – and they’ll be goddamned if they aren’t going to milk every last molecule of sound out of that 35-piece orchestra. The resulting vaudeville-glam fever dream (which also happens to include such illustrious guest musicians as Flaming Lip Steven Drozd and Brian and Michael D’Addario of the Lemon Twigs) blusters by in just over half an hour, banishing any and all restraint to the sidelines in its wake.

In terms of production, Hang is easily Foxygen’s most polished work thus far – the production on the backing orchestra is darn near immaculate – but it’s also their most cluttered and uneven. Lyrically, it comes nowhere near the eccentric, electric wit of Ambassadors and Broadway. France continually spouts off strings of empty crypticisms masquerading as deep truths; it’s difficult to know what to make of them other than that they seem more like placeholders that the band never bothered to change.

Then, there’s the instrumentation. There’s certainly nothing wrong with elaborate orchestral arrangements in rock; in fact, just the opposite. Myriad musicians, from Barry White to Scott Walker, from the Rolling Stones to Curtis Mayfield – even contemporary indie songwriters like Sufjan Stevens and Jens Lekman – have used strings and horns to create works of enduring beauty and power. (And personally, I practically live for such musical grandiloquence. I’m all about that shit.) However, these artists had the foresight to balance their bombastic instrumentation with quiet beauty and lyrical witticism. Foxygen’s kitchen-sink approach to baroque-pop, on the other hand, just feels like – dare I say it – a bit much? Hang may leave a lot to be desired lyrically, but what it lacks in storytelling, it more than makes up for in stupid, over-the-top rock ‘n roll extravagance that teeters a bit too much towards chintzy self-parody. It’s like a shiny, jewel-encrusted box with nothing in it. One desperately wishes the band had spent more time refining their ideas into fully-realized songs instead of hanging back in hopes that the orchestra would carry the weight. But hey, at least they seem pretty satisfied with themselves, I guess.

The upbeat “Follow the Leader” opens the album with Supertramp-like keys, and it’s roughly another four seconds until the strings leap into action, then continue full-throttle for the remainder of the song. France does his best Mick Jagger-meets Hunky Dory-era David Bowie-meets-Thom Yorke on a coke bender over the lush, dreamy orchestration. Next, vaudevillian piano (complemented by horns and harp) leads us into “Avalon” (not to be confused with the Roxy Music song of the same name), a goofy pop-rock romp in the tradition of Elton John’s 70s heyday. Loop-de-looping clarinet solos, honking saxes, buoyant scatting, a double-time interlude, and a colossal sing-along chorus ensue as France yowls such sweet nothings as “Sunset Boulevard, nightmare dreams/Take this candle off the porcelain scene…Grab your favorite sweater, we’re in for nasty weather/In the gardens of Avalon.” Um, okay.

“America,” a schmaltzy, Todd Rundgren-worshipping suite-within-a-song, is perhaps the most ludicrous offender in the sensory overload department. France’s voice, now a wobbly, warbling snarl, rides flowing woodwinds and chintzy strings into a huge, drum-laden chorus as subtle organ and harp slip in and out of the frame. In the song’s maniacal bridge, the backing musicians make rapid, jerky switches between time signatures and tempos, shifting without warning from quiet piano-prog into big-band swing into John Zorn speed-jazz. Thankfully, this ecstatic delirium marks the halfway point of the record, so you can take a breather if you need to.

It’s clear that the band is still evoking the past; they’ve just shifted their focus to the more flamboyant side of rock history. At some junctures, they prove a bit too good at such emulation; “On Lankershim” straight-up hijacks the opening to “Tiny Dancer” before turning into what sounds like an ELO song and a Little River Band song being played at the same time, and the chorus of “Avalon” gallops with the exact same cadences as that of ABBA’s bouncy, sax-laden “Waterloo.”

The spectacle rages on: France adopts a Jim Morrison growl for “Upon a Hill,” fumbling blindly for rhymes in a manner not unlike Morrison himself (“I sit upon a hill/And through the windowsill she slowly sings a song for me/And in her eyes/She hands me my disguise, mmmmmmmm“); what starts as a relatively laid-back track transmogrifies halfway through into an madcap 2/4 runaway-carousel polka. The waltzy soul ballad “Trauma” continues piling on layers, threatening to collapse under its own cumbersome weight before it abruptly stops. The song, while ostensibly about trauma, has  disappointingly little to say on the subject (“Some are big, and some are much larger…They from our mothers and fathers, among others”).

Finally, we reach the end of this overwhelming sonic journey with the hyper-melodramatic “Rise Up,” which employs Meat Loaf-like choruses lousy with timpani, harp, strings, chimes, and some pretty kick-ass French horn. The track moves into yacht-soul territory on the verses as France fixates, apparently, on Wilson Rawls’ 1961 children’s novel Where the Red Fern Grows and stumbles upon the most profound lyrics on the entire record – words that, in these harrowing times, take on a particular poignancy (“It’s time to wake up early/Start taking care of your health/And start doing all the hard things, and believe in yourself/And follow your own heart, if nothing else/And listen to your own dreams, nobody else’s will do”). Really nice thought. Would that they could have applied this kind of thinking throughout the album instead of going all crypto-psychedelia on us.

Hang is a fucking weird record, even by Foxygen’s standards. Still, there’s more than a little charm to the whole affair, and it’s easy to get swept away by the maximalistic bedlam and truly awe-inspiring musicianship exhibited in these eight songs. At its best, it’s entertaining and enjoyable; it fails in a couple places, but does so in such a noble and uninhibited way that you find yourself falling in love with it all the same. If the guys continue on this new sonic path while further polishing their songcraft, they could easily have another pop masterpiece on their hands. This may not quite be it, but it sure is a hell of a ride. (7.8/10)



Released January 20, 2017 on Jagjaguwar Records

Produced by Foxygen