Archives : all posts by Sean

Bishop Allen are from Brooklyn and they're the best guitar pop band in the world. Probably.

Maybe that's an overblown thing to say, but when I listen to "Busted Heart" or "Little Black Ache" (free downloads on their website!!!), the truth of it resonates strongly. Here's glee, hooks and a casual musical panache - surprising turns of guitar on "Little Black Ache," three songs worth of choruses on "Busted Heart". These are songs that knock me down and pick me right back up. Unlike the New Pornographers their genius is understated, part of a simple easy pleasure. It doesn't intrude. But when you perk up your ears, when you pay attention, all sorts of brilliant flourishes shine through, all sorts of inspiration and magic come whirling out from the magnets. What the finest pop bands do so well - The Strokes, The Beatles, and to a lesser extent Pavement/late VU/Belle & Sebastian - is make wonderful songs sound easy. There's no huffing and puffing in "Last Nite" or "I Want to Hold Your Hand"; it flows like gold bullion from an endless source, something natural and glorious and rich. When our cup overfloweth with good pop songs, it's easy to take things for granted. But if we're hunting for new veins (same as the old veins), Bishop Allen are like the Northwest Territories. Or Botswana. Or somewhere else that's ripe for exploiting.

And did I mention that they're catchy?

Charm School is wonderful without comment. But that won't stop me. Rolling Stone gave it four stars. NPR called it "vibrant, vivid and refreshingly different". Newsweek compared it to Bright Eyes (?!??!?). It's not a "sounds like" record, but there are endless flashes of the familiar, mixed into something new and catchy and live: REM, Tigermilk, Spoon, the Go-Betweens, Buddy Holly, the Lucksmiths, Jonathan Richman, The Shins, Modest Mouse, The Pixies, The Kinks, Wilco, Built to Spill (and on and on). It's not the sound of a band at its peak - it's the sound of a band that has bought a shiny chrome engine, that has stocked the holds with brightcoloured cans, and that is prepared to stay airborne for the rest of its collective lifetime.

So you must listen to "Little Black Ache": it has jangling guitars, oblique-coherent lyrics, yelled vocals in the back, a girl who agrees wholeheartedly. It's got that little blossom of guitar that comes just before the chorus. It's got a depression that's sorta personified, that's dancing with Snoopy at the sock-hop.

So you must listen to "Busted Heart": it starts like a Modest Mouse b-side, but then in comes the sparkly summertime artillery, a jumbled happy-growling chorus. Then the bridge - it lulls, it rocks, it tips back and then reaches high high high.

And yes, you should listen to

Bishop Allen - "Coupla Easy Things". This is the band at its most twee, a creaking swaying boy-girl thing that's hipper but not too distant from "I'm Sticking With You". It wants very much to be liked. It's shrugging in the kitchen and eyeing the phone uneasily. "Telephone turn on sunshine / When it sends you the right voice." The drums nod like a friend who's waiting in the living room. A guitar plays idly, briefly telling its own story. Hot air through a window. A lightbulb flickers and turns off. And maybe, yes maybe, they will indeed sing you to sleep.

[buy]

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a new favourite blog: Fat Planet (legal international downloads)

The LiveJournal of Zachary Marsh (for moorcock fans).

BlackMothSuperRainbow - "Vietcaterpillar". For several years I've been listening to BlackMothSuperRainbow continue his trajectory deeper and deeper into his own idiosyncracies. He now has his genre wrapped around his finger - he sounds like a lot of other things sound like, but no one sounds like him. It's thrumming analog IDM that takes bits from folksy psychedelia, bits from school dances in 70s gymnasia, and more still from his own attics and vinyl milk-crates. Easy comparisons are drawn to Air, Manitoba and Boars of Canada - and more importantly, the low-budget documentary soundtracks that inspired BoC's name. This thing squelches out from a hole in a field, sky falling in blue dribbling drips. Dreams blossom with obscene speed - sudden garish flowers, bending in the sun. A vocoder is lost in its own burbles, a lakeside organ remembers long stretches of afternoon. And that stamping clamour of life, never-ending, incessant, stop. (From 2004's Start a People. [buy]

Jesse Sykes & the Sweet Hereafter - "Your Eyes Told". Pungent goth country from a woman with a husky, dusky voice. At times, Oh, My Girl is like a wispier Sixteen Horsepower, full of darkness and the inevitable. Elsewhere, though - as on this track, - a sense of contentedness glows through; like watching dawn with the curtains drawn. Things are never as barren as on a Giant Sand record - too much lushness in each big violet bat of Sykes' eyes. The long arms of a pedal steel, the strain of Sykes' vocals - it all contributes to a slow, smoky beauty. Magnolias in the desert. [buy]

note to self: must update the blog-roll!

Y'all have been quiet, lately. Is everything all right? Would you like me to be doing something differently?

I hope you all enjoyed your weekend. Thanks for the well-wishes; my Uncle Hy passed away on Thursday, and we made the early-morning dash into Toronto for the service. It was a sad weekend, an exhausting one, but a good one. Rest in peace, Uncle Hy. We'll jitterbug for you.

One of the unexpected surprises of the weekend came when I heard from Dan on Saturday afternoon, and made it downtown to see the Fiery Furnaces at the Mod Club. It was a brief, dazzling set - they blazed through twelve or fifteen numbers without pausing, Eleanor still mumbling out the song titles. Highlights - "Worry Worry," "Tropical Iceland," and the recurring "Lost My Dog". Tracks from both albums were - as predicted - completely reformed, sent crashing down. I think some of the whimsy was lost, but it was made up for with a loose and free energy - like, indeed, fire in a furnace. I've got to say, though, that the high point came in the encore, with Eleanor and Matthew alone on stage. Gone was the one-setting rock-smashing drummer. Only a song and a half, but there was more play, and even an awkward, unexpected beauty. "Rub Alcohol Blues" was entirely amazing. And then bits and scattered tattered pieces of something old? new? that had balloons. Wond'rous.

Joanna Newsom - "Clam, Crab, Cockle, Cowrie". I feel like Joanna Newsom was mp3blogged to death a month or two ago. But coming home today, on this came. And I had to share. Ontario's smudged green trees filed past and Joanna was singing with all that wistfulness that was hiding in the landscape, that was wandering a small room in my heart. She's weird, sure. She plays a harp and yawls. The lyrics are mad, but so too are they inspired, sometimes wise. Damned if out of that strange, squeezed voice, out through the strange, slipp'ry words, she hasn't done something as beautiful as Cat Power ever has, as lonely and at peace and as true. Van Morrison if he lived in sea-shells. "There are some mornings when the sky looks like a road. / There are some dragons who are built to have and hold. / And some machines are dropped from great heights lovingly. / And some great bellies ache with many bumble-bees / and they sting so terribly."

Vetiver - "Amerilie". To continue on the theme, here's a song from the self-titled debut from Vetiver, a sort of psychfolk supergroup that's directed by Andy Cabic and includes contributions from Devendra Banhart, Colm O'Ciosoig (My Bloody Valentine) and even Hope Sandoval. Joanna Newsom's harp is here, glancing in between strokes of cello and the flutter of guitar. I like the long heaving sighs of this song, the feeling of a horizon above the sea, a reassuring drawl that reminds me of Turin Brakes.

gmail swap news: made the front page of the Toronto Star over the weekend. slashdotted again. and something in the pittsburgh post-gazette.

Due to some unfortunate circumstances, I'll be making a last-minute trip to Toronto tomorrow morning. Consequently, I really need to get to bed, so tonight things will be brief.

Doris - "Did You Give the World Some Love?". On the bright side, however, this song is totally, unabashedly, roll-down-the-hill kick-the-bucket-and-come-back-to-life awesome. It's from a 1970 LP of the same name, by Swedish singer Doris Svensson. The song is written by Norman L. Martin. Kinda Petula Clark, kinda Dusty Springfield, kinda Carole King, it's a breathless swirl of a song, a simple setting of piano and acoustic guitar that's been made mountainous by the conclusion. Pressing swells of strings, smashing drums, a psychedelic burble of electric guitar. Over it all, Svensson's brilliant voice - it's coo and snarl, Jackie DeShannon and The Flirtations. Berndt Egerbladh's arrangement is genuis: sounds climb all over both channels, with surprising flashes and familiar smiles. When the main theme whispers back at 2:20, it's a big white bed by a bright open window, and then we're bounding out and through, down the hill, into the nightlife and the starlight and the dazzling glow of human generosity. Single of the year! (if only.) (more info here) [buy]

Now listen to it. See? Wasn't I right? Totally, unabashedly, roll-down-the-hill kick-the-bucket-and-come-back-to-life awesome!

Elsewhere -

A good cover-story on (and a terrific photo of) The Arcade Fire in Now. [via Chromewaves]

Five's posted some live Royal City tracks at My Mean Magpie, including the excellent "Postcards" (seriously: go get it).

See you Monday.

Self - "Better Than Aliens". Two minutes of distinctly weird guitar pop. A widow goes down the usual lifepath, ignoring the squiggly synth sounds that are hiding in the left channel. But then - zoom, zap, "abducted." "Your love's better than aliens, tonight" sings a lace of vocals, a silly scoop of wry romanticism. Self was brought to my attention by Justin, and they do a variety of quirky-earnest things (like a twang-less Clem Snide, kinda, or Liam Lynch). The main site is here, but there's a phenomenal fan-site which carries several dozen okayed mp3s from the band's records (although, well, said mp3s are currently offline). A new LP should be coming out later this year. (This is from 1999's Breakfast with Girls.) [buy]

Royal City - "Little Heart's Ease". A track from Royal City's surprisingly excellent new record, Little Heart's Ease. I was one of the few who wasn't so taken with Alone at the Microphone (apart from the blaze of "Bad Luck"), so this is a wonderful return to form. It straddles a fence between the reverent, Edenic lovesongs of At Rush Hour the Cars, and Microphone's maggot-ridden Gomorrah. Aaron Riches sings in a kind, new testament voice about hopeful, new testament things. His band, meanwhile, doesn't let the noise disrupt the pages or let the dust settle around them. There's life, even in the hush: the optimism of those who have undergone trials. "Jerusalem" is a little song in the shadow of a tree, hot and dry, with a crag of electric guitar that overhangs. Hayden after five years as a Franciscan monk, after buying a white linen suit and finally (really) learning how to play guitar. [buy]

The Greatest Drum Solos, with mp3 samples. [via close your eyes]

It's 2003 all over again. Or the first half of 2004. Or something. Although it had hardly left, sexy electro pop is back. Fischerspooner and Jewel introduced us, and now it's... um... Belle & Sebastian and Mouse on Mars.

Belle & Sebastian - "Your Cover's Blown". Ok. On Dear Catastrophe Waitress, B&S were breaking free of some of their accumulated hackles. Here, on the lead-off track from the upcoming Books EP, they've turned those hackles back into hand-cuffs and are using them to seduce-and-entrap unwitting shy kids. A fellow called fsolinger passed this my way, and he puts it rather well: "like 'stay loose,' with larry levan on the mix instead of trevor horn." Sliding, cheapskate discopop opens the song, and then in the second half they do a 45-degree turn, pull out the backup vocals, let an electric guitar curl up round the dance-steps (but not before they go all Tarantino for a second). Like the themesong for a late-80s movie about the Working Woman Who Cuts Loose. (I will update this post with any witty two- or three-word descriptions that appear in the comments. Help me out, yo.) Thus far: vinyl cardigan music; daft funk; shit sandwich; Japanglish Beatles tribute.

Mouse on Mars - "Wipe that Sound". A terrific slice of juddering dance music, Daft Punk with a hangup. If Mouse on Mars was once the link between Mum and Amon Tobin, tis' no more the case: this is a heavy groove, robot-moving electro-dance. Squelching, stamping, squirreling up and down like a broken cell-phone tweet. Is that "move it" or "woo-wit"?!?! I want to know!!!! Or maybe I want to dance!!! I don't know!!! From their upcoming Radical Connector. [This is good.] (Thanks, Toiletduck.)

Canadian Leadership Debate was last night/tonight. Julian, Jordan and I decided that we wanted Gilles Duceppe to be wearing a linen suit, with a tiny gramophone he can hold in his hand, playing records by la Balduc, while a icing-decked birthday cake sits on the podium beside him. He should also have a rickshaw driver waiting to take him away. He was like a superman up there: I can do anything and it doesn't matter! Yes!

ps: go ndp!

The Hidden Cameras - "Builds the Bone". The second song from the Hidden Cameras' upcoming record, Mississauga Goddam. According to AllMusic, it's the only album to have ever named the Toronto suburb in its title. I looked.

I like the Hidden Cameras in concert. They bring an astonishing energy, a Flaming Lips party-craze display, a love of life and a cheering, dancing spirit. Listening to the recording "Ban Marriage," from their first album, is entertaining. Seeing it in person is life (and love) affirming.

So on Mississauga Goddam things are at their very best when the band's not trying to be manic, to be carnival. Whereas the live performance of "Builds the Bone" went on a little long, here, set to wax, it's rosy-cheek'd and very beautiful. When the strings glide in, it's icing on the cake: I'm already weak at the knees from the stumbling electric guitar, lost in a young crush (am I projecting when I hear "St Swithin's Day"?). I'm already swooning from Joel Gibb's pop song, the double-track of vocals, the openness of it all. I'm already dying. (There is, of course, there's what the song's about. Which is subversive, maybe, but I think really it's just honest. Sad. And, as I said, beautiful.)

Rachel Goswell - "Warm Summer Sun". Slowdive/Mojave 3's Rachel Goswell has gone out on her own, recording an album of girly folk that's noisier and more complicated than most. "Warm Summer Sun" is the opening song, and boy did it surprise me. It starts with a chittering rhythm and acoustic guitar, simple as something by Rosie Thomas or Dar Williams. In the second half, though, the uilleann pipes that had been lurking in the background bound to the forefront, a piano dives through the canopy, a bassline casually sets the ground a-trembling. One expects to hear such things on Mary Jane Lomond, Ashley MacIsaac or Capercaille records, but not on the solo debut of a founding shoegazer. Better yet - it works gloriously: a slow-motion trainwreck, a decelerated whirwind, an orchestra-hall at the end of the movie when you can't hear anything but the soundtrack and the roof caves and the instruments splinter and green shoots burst out from where the woodwinds would sit. A panicked quiet. Church bells. (From Waves are Universal, which is released tomorrow.) [buy soon]

Klosterman's brilliant piece on "advancement" does things that make me giddy with pleasure: punctures egos, laughs at nonsense, celebrates the fascinating. It's about the musical artists that transcend our ken, and is published in this month's Esquire. (via fp and then clap clap)