Archives : all posts by Sean

Two folky indie cutlets, of the usual high calibre:

Adem - "Ringing In My Ear". It's no surprise that Adem's debut was released on Domino: if there's another artist that their sound recalls, it's Domino's James Yorkston and the Athletes. Rhythmic acoustic guitar playing and a yearning vocal melody coaxed out from the repetition. Adem Ilhan is one third of the IDM outfit called Fridge (another third, Kieran Hebden, records as Four Tet). Here, however, clipping organic samples have been replaced with the natural tap and squeak of a folkie, and the po face of Fridge's electronica has been overtaken by an everyman's smile. The strength of this song is that Adem's not trying too hard - he's not pushing or whining or demanding attention. It's by no means Julie Doiron, though: he's still singing loud, and glad, but there's the feeling that sunlight would be a fine audience on its own, that these are meditations in a bright kitchen as vegetables are chopped up.

Clem Snide - "I'll Be Your Mirror". A soft, downplayed take on "I'll Be Your Mirror," from Clem Snide's Beautiful EP. Throughout the song, it is kept wonderfully quiet: even when the cello joins the voice and guitar, there's still a sense of inertia. Eef's refusing to give the tune flash or overblown emotion; it makes everything thoughtful, delicate, but most of all, honest. You can see the creases under the eyes, hear the awkward pauses between verses. "I'll be your mirror / reflect what you are." As the other vocals chime in, totally unassumingly, the song steps up from pretty and into the beautiful.

RIP parka 3.

The Robot Ate Me - "You Smile". A crisp leaf of bedroom pop, with curly strings and a slowsmiling organ. It shuffles towards you like a kid with a deep crush, an awkward child full of disappointment and infatuation. "Something makes me shiver / your eyes were laced with ice." Like Ugly Casanova gone twee, with Phil Elvrum producing. Spooky and romantic; strange but very compelling; a first kiss. From the band's debut, They Ate Themselves. The new one, On Vacation is out now, and (sadly) I haven't heard it yet.

Boy - "French Diplomacy". Boy's Stephen Noel Kozmeniuk recorded this album in his family's Yukon home, in a basement he dug out himself. He's since moved to Toronto and made enough waves to appear with Broken Social Scene and The Dears, among others. His brand indie rock is a long way from either band, however - it's Sloan doing the twist with The Strokes, Rufus Wainwright jamming with Paul McCartney. This is a jaunty chamber-pop stroll, a navyblue parade with oboes and a string section. Lest you dismiss my Strokes comparison completely, understand that "French Diplomacy" is the most Beatlesy thing on the record, but the pop panache is typical of Boy's style. While there are moments of precocity ("Nobody said that you were Escher"), it's sung with more of a shrug than a wink. The song's in thrall to the melody, and everything comes together around the hopeful marching splendor of the chorus. (With all the Risk I've been playing lately, I feel a deep empathy when Kozmeniuk sings "Might it be that France just isn't so sincere?")

Jeremy Brendan's interview with Wolf Parade scores a number of make-my-day scoops: 1) Spencer used to play synthesizer for Frog Eyes; 2) the Sub Pop rumours are likely true; 3) Isaac Brock will be producing their record.

No Frontin', Just Music is a new mp3blog with a fine Knife In The Water song for you and y'all.

The Beat Hunters - "Angie's Night". A fine, sleek mashup of Angie Stone's "Wish I Didn't Miss You," with some Nightmares on Wax ("Les Nuits") and Bjork ("Hyperballad"). It's a breezy twilight with long, dark stretches of water. Angie sounds perfectly velvet over the sweep of strings, the stuttering jazz guitars and organ. As with all the best mash-ups, the way that the Beat Hunters (Phil Neumager) has put this song together, it feels totally effortless, obvious. The casual repetition of strings emphasizes the sleepiness of Stone's voice, the slow candle fade. It's gorgeous. Neumager's a french designer/illustrator who's released a few house tracks and has put together a fine portfolio of bootlegs.

Loretta Lynn - "Have Mercy". Hopefully everyone caught the track that Matthew posted, but if you ask me, this is the gem of Van Lear Rose. Electric blues with crashing White Stripes flourishes, courtesy of producer/arranger Jack White. It's explicit without giving it all away, fiery while remaining its composure. With the martial drums and pushy, freespirit electric guitar, Loretta Lynn's not begging for mercy - she's making a confident, tight-lipped 'suggestion'. The jazzed down bridge shows the marked contrast between "she" -- loose, flimsy, a passing fancy -- and the brash, strutting power of the singer. "You listen," she warns at its end, and you imagine earrings that glint like knives.

elsewhere:

new and noteworthy mp3blog: The Suburbs Are Killing Us.

Music For Robots has been so good lately that it's making me crazy. Variety out the wazoo, and (almost) all of it is extremely, deliciously fine. One of the very best mp3blogs out there right now, and I don't say that lightly. While you're there, be sure to nab the fine soul of Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings.

It's gonna scroll off the page shortly, but Stereogum's got a more-than-worthy alternate mix of Modest Mouse's "The Good Times Are Killing Me". It doesn't exactly revolutionize the track, but I prefer it to the final version. You will too. This version's closer, busier, more distracting. There's more of a racket, and the walls are thinner. What's more, for those of you who were a-wonderin', the tap-dancing clearly is just that.

Tofu Hut is out of transition week and although I'm still the intermediary for john-on-the-move, the tracks now come with full and healthy commentary.

Eamon - "Fuck It (I Don't What You Back)". Doubtless familiar to my British readers, here's a cup of slinking angry soul, a man in a cool suit and kohl-dabbed eyes. Though Eamon sounds a little squeaky, he's also charmingly forthright - unflinching in the simple expression of what's on his mind. "Fuck you ... I don't want you back." All this over a sighs, strings, and a drum machine beat that would make Babyface proud. Don't misunderstand, though: it's a venomous comedown track that'll be among the best singles of the year. As if the New Radicals went R&B.

Another song for a tough week -

The Boggs - "Hard Times". Arena Rock signed The Boggs in 2000 or so. They must have been expecting something of them. That indie bluegrass might explode, I suppose. That the moosh-haired Strokes, Stripes and Vines would be replaced with moosh-haired, washboard-wielding, oldtimey hooligans. But it didn't happen. Instead, I guess, Interpol did. Or OutKast did. I'm not sure. But I think that I can safely say that neither Interpol nor OutKast suggest market demand for a Brooklyn sextet of twentysomething bluegrass revivalists.

Which is too bad. Because We Are The Boggs We Are was a pretty excellent record, full of shambling, cracked, quiet or riotous tunes. "Hard Times" is an excessively simple stretch of folksy blues, a man with a dog's voice singing out over round-and-round guitar picking. "Been hard times for so long / that I forgot / the good Lord above me / shines down with love." There's a glimmer of resignation, of regret, but stronger still is the feeling of hope. "This too shall pass," and so it does, ending with an abrupt and humble silence.

The Internet Archive's astounding Live Music Archive. Featuring more than 150,000 tracks from 10,000 shows and 500+ bands, including Pinback, Damien Rice, Soul Coughing, Antibalas, and, inevitably, the Grateful Dead.

Also, the very finest biography of Walt Whitman that I have ever read. And I've read more than one. (via clap clap).

Just got back from the Frames/Damien Rice concert at Theatre Outremont. It was strange seeing a performance from up in the balcony; with all the indie rock shows lately, I'm not used to being more than twenty feet from the stage. Still - twas lovely.

In the almost two years since I reviewed his record, Damien's become a star in North America. He's no U2, certainly, but he recently appeared on Letterman for the second time, the Short List Prize, yadda yadda yadda. There was definitely more adulation tonight - more unequivocal reverence - than at the show I saw in NYC last summer. It's understandable, really. The songs on O are remarkable, flush with feeling and musical sweetness. In person, he can sometimes do the same but better - freeer, braver, more playful. On the other hand, live, Damien can come off a bit precocious - and given my increasing impatience with big strummed acoustic guitar chords, there were moments when I couldn't help but wish he'd get on with it. (In addition, what's with his new material's fixation on, um, naughty words for 'penis'?) Nevertheless, Mr Rice brought with him the wonderful, plucky Vyvienne Long (on cello) and the incomparable Lisa Hannigan (on smoky vocals), and played some Leonard Cohen ("Hallelujah") in the man's hometown. There was a great deal to like, particularly the finale "Blower's Daughter," and a nearly drunk karaoke version of "Cheers, Darlin'," the high-point of which was Ms Long sawing on an imaginary cello.

The Frames opened, playing a short set. Which is a pity, because what they played was absolutely terrific. They are a band of such shining talent, so deserving of an audience. Quiet-to-loud with a sincere will to move; lyrics that rung out clear and sweet; rock'n'roll that reared and roared. I relished Glen Hansard's clumsybeautiful explanations between songs, the struggling to make poetry out of the rattling sounds of his heart.

Today, then, another installment in my diligent Frames advocacy. Two more songs that point to their poignancy and power. Dance the Devil and the Albini-produced For the Birds are records to buy.

The Frames - "What Happens When the Heart Just Stops". Introducing this song, Glen said something like this: "This is a song about letters... Because when you feel something it's important to write it down. To get it on paper. Because then it's physical and- and when something's physical you can hold it in your hands, and you can- you can burn it. Or tear it up. Or frame it and hang it on your wall and look at it every day." This song grows slowly, like moss over a grave, guitars tripping through and around the vocal melody, a synth tremble in the corner. When the horns rise up from the earth, wide and thick and blooming, it's enough to drown in. To dream in. And then it stops; cuts off; falls quiet. And you're left with grey. (Listen and listen loud!) From 2002's For the Birds.

The Frames - "Your Face". Something quieter: a beautiful and terrible lovesong. Such shining, languid loveliness, and yet that distance - that gap - that only the violin can cross. Electric guitar that mumbles like Julie Doiron (or, at 2:51, like Adam Sandler's character in Punch-Drunk Love), a melody that confesses like Jeff Buckley, and such confident use of stillness. It's a song about distance, about closeness, about "sending a tape" and remembering a face. "But if you wanna try again / I'll fall / ... / And all you have to do is give / Give me that look again." Off of 1996's Fitzcarraldo.

And finally, in the same spirit as The Frames' crashing live show -

Seachange - "Anglokana". Brought to my attention by James (many thanks!), here's a song from Matador's latest coup, Seachange. It's a breathtaking song, equally coarse and pretty, opening with a long stretch of seashore and then closing with a raucous mess of electric guitar, like The Wrens with a dose of English rain. The genius is in the way the different modes are two sounds of the same coin - the noise that roars under the melancholic drear, the hollow sadness that persists beneath the yells. This is what I daydreamed that British Sea Power sounded like - the reality's rather more boring.

Matthew's One-T and Cool-T song from a few days ago is wonderful, multicoloured pop.

Aaron pointed me to the quite likable sneak-peak of Royal City's upcoming record, Little Heart's Ease. It's a song called Bring My Father".

A day with Quentin Tarantino.

Wazimbo and the Orchestra Marrabenta Star de Mocambique - "Nwahulwana". Recorded in 1988, "Nwahulwana" ("Nightbird") is the sound of Wazimbo and a glittering, echoing guitar. This is the pop music of Mozambique, albeit at its most rested, thoughtful extreme. Mixing Portuguese fado and early alt.rock, the Orchestra Marrabenta Star de Mocambique is at home with a wide range of sounds, but here things have time to glimmer and fade: Wazimbo has a voice like wheat and heartbreak; his ballad floats out of an orange sunset and then falls back into it. Perhaps he's immolated, perhaps he tumbles through it, perhaps he appears on the other side of the horizon - somewhere kinder, happier.

Wild Colonials - "Charm". From one of the great forgotten releases of 1996, this is folk-rock with a squawking fiddle and Angela McCluskey's fine, cigarette-stained voice. The band zags towards the choruses, spruces surging from the ground, guitarists treading carefully in plain brown shoes. Things burst open: snowdrops, buttercups. Things burst into flames. We dive through wet green leaves as McCluskey declares her indisputable truth: "I'm freezing to death in the warmth of your arms / I'm wasting my charms." Pop music for a forest on fire.

Wolf Parade played a house-party in Montreal on Saturday night, and Modest Mouse's Isaac Brock was in attendance. So was my friend Dan. Isaac told Dan he was his "biggest fan." We'll never know why Isaac was in Montreal, but I think it's fair to speculate that he was here to see Wolf Parade. Last summer, Win of the Arcade Fire called the the best band in the world, and now rumour has it they've been signed to Sub Pop. They're originally from Victoria. They're a fourpiece. Their members play synths, drums, guitar, and laptop/theremin. And their guitarist is the coolest man alive: Jack White crossed with James Dean.

I've gotta admit, the band's not always to my taste - sometimes there's too much mess, too much purposeless back-and-forthing, - but at their best Wolf Parade provide an acrid blast of yellow-and-grey rock, brilliantly sharp new wave, Joy Division crossed with the Decemberists. I can't wait to hear what they do in a proper studio: and neither should you.

Wolf Parade - "Dinner Bells". Off their self-released EP, this is a long, rock dirge; a guitar that staggers alongside a wavering organ; a mournful song for death, and in the end, recovered life. Harmonica like a lone streetlight in the middle of the night, drums like the heartbeat that somehow keeps beating, a tune like a convertible shooting into flames. Listen to that electric guitar as it turns and whirls and falls, listen to the sounds that come out of the smoke.

Wolf Parade - "This Heart is On Fire" [live]. Recorded by Dan a couple months ago - and it sounds as good as something from a lofi studio. A rocker with a pounding bass-drum and ravaged vox, thrusting synths to drive feet on a dance-floor. At 2:30 there's a frenzy of feeling with a silver corona, and yet it keeps going, running and rutting forward. "Sometimes you rock and roll / I'd rather stay at home" - I don't really believe him.

Finally, as offered-and-requested, OutKast - "Ghettomusick [Benny Benassi remix]". (Thanks, Mark!) The hip-hop original's been cut apart to make way for straight-ahead club synths and an indisputable call to dance. I can't help but repeat what I said last week: this'll make you rock out "like an electric motherfucking flower," strutting and preening and curling toward sunshine. And wearing sunglasses. Techno with big-beat bump and a smiling over-the-shoulder glance at Big Boi/Dre.

Saw two shows this weekend: Sunday night was Dragana - a six-voice women's choir that does mostly Macedonian folk stuff, in the style of the Voix Bulgaires. They were very competent, and in places - particularly the songs with only 2 or 3 women singing - genuinely haunting (sad, real, true). Also performing with them were a goofy, extremely likable barbershop quartet called Four Brothers: basically a bunch of college boys goofing off, arranging old yiddish folk songs, and singing in tight harmonies. They wrestled a bit on stage.

Also saw Greg Macpherson, solo, on Friday night. The show only affirmed my belief that right now, Greg is one of the very greatest talents in Canada. In fact, if last Friday was any indication, he's got it in him to be as good as Billy Bragg, Joe Strummer, or Woody Guthrie - no joke. The man uses his guitar like a muscle - it is loud, shining, fierce, - his lyrics are crisp and fresh, his voice is a strong, thick song, and not simply a rocker's yell. Although I was disappointed by his recent EP (too plain, too acoustic, too boring in its politics), Good Times was a marvel, and there was too bright a flame in his eyes to think that the next LP will be anything less. Remarkable. (Sorry, Hayden.)

For the next month or so, as John is en route to his new home-base (best of luck!), I'll be managing the behind-the-scenes at The Tofu Hut. Do keep reading - it's one fine song every single day, with full commentary by mr forksclovetofu. When all is said and done, Tofu Hut is probably the best musicblog on the net: eclectic playlists, fantastic descriptions, astute research, boundless enthusiasm, and exquisite taste.