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Montreal's Soft Canyon are the latest in a recent outcropping of bandsattempting to recreate the power and majesty of 1970's Neil Young-stylepsychedelic-inflected guitar rock. They are also in the unfortunateposition of having named themselves Soft Canyon, a strange choice giventhe fact that Canyon, a Washington D.C. band with a strikingly similarsound, have just recently released their album Empty Roomsto wide critical acclaim. Recording an album inspired by 70's arenarock under such a similar band name makes this Canadian five-piece seema little like copyists, even if they came up with the idea first, whichis doubtful. Furthering their unlucky destiny, their first album Broken Spirit, I Will Mend Your Wings is not nearly as good as Canyon's Empty Rooms,falling far short of the bar set by their obvious influences. Thisincredibly brief album tries and fails to recreate the epic sweep ofNeil Young's Zuma. Their tepid guitar pop has little to offerthe listener, being entirely derivative in a largely uninteresting way.Where Canyon's Empty Rooms was an awe-inspiring set ofmajestic, atmospheric guitar anthems in the mould of "Cortez theKiller", Soft Canyon's Broken Spirit is a snore-inducing half hour ofover-produced, under-written songs that sound more like those late-70'salbums Young phoned in because of contractual obligations. SoftCanyon's vocalist has an annoying, unpolished presence, and the lyricsare lukewarm amalgams of teenage love poetry and fake mysticism. Also,these average pop songs are not given enough room to breathe, mostending before the four-minute mark. Neil Young's spacious,"canyon-esque" guitar solos were the key element in his magical rock n'roll, but the instrumentalists in Soft Canyon are not talented enoughto stand on their own. To cover up for the dearth of musical invention,Broken Spirit's producer has added a number of laughable psychedelicinterludes that seem terribly out of place. By the time I reached thefinal, failed seven-minute epic "We Threw Our Love Into The Universe,"I just wanted to hear the other, superior Canyon. Soft Canyon need togo back to the drawing board for their next record, or they run therisk of creating another disposable cliché of an album destined to beunfavorably compared to their American counterparts.
Montreal's Soft Canyon are the latest in a recent outcropping of bandsattempting to recreate the power and majesty of 1970's Neil Young-stylepsychedelic-inflected guitar rock. They are also in the unfortunateposition of having named themselves Soft Canyon, a strange choice giventhe fact that Canyon, a Washington D.C. band with a strikingly similarsound, have just recently released their album Empty Roomsto wide critical acclaim. Recording an album inspired by 70's arenarock under such a similar band name makes this Canadian five-piece seema little like copyists, even if they came up with the idea first, whichis doubtful. Furthering their unlucky destiny, their first album Broken Spirit, I Will Mend Your Wings is not nearly as good as Canyon's Empty Rooms,falling far short of the bar set by their obvious influences. Thisincredibly brief album tries and fails to recreate the epic sweep ofNeil Young's Zuma. Their tepid guitar pop has little to offerthe listener, being entirely derivative in a largely uninteresting way.Where Canyon's Empty Rooms was an awe-inspiring set ofmajestic, atmospheric guitar anthems in the mould of "Cortez theKiller", Soft Canyon's Broken Spirit is a snore-inducing half hour ofover-produced, under-written songs that sound more like those late-70'salbums Young phoned in because of contractual obligations. SoftCanyon's vocalist has an annoying, unpolished presence, and the lyricsare lukewarm amalgams of teenage love poetry and fake mysticism. Also,these average pop songs are not given enough room to breathe, mostending before the four-minute mark. Neil Young's spacious,"canyon-esque" guitar solos were the key element in his magical rock n'roll, but the instrumentalists in Soft Canyon are not talented enoughto stand on their own. To cover up for the dearth of musical invention,Broken Spirit's producer has added a number of laughable psychedelicinterludes that seem terribly out of place. By the time I reached thefinal, failed seven-minute epic "We Threw Our Love Into The Universe,"I just wanted to hear the other, superior Canyon. Soft Canyon need togo back to the drawing board for their next record, or they run therisk of creating another disposable cliché of an album destined to beunfavorably compared to their American counterparts.samples:
After a couple years of hiatus, degrouping and regrouping, John Waters'favorite surrealistic futuristic thrash quartet return with theirlongest album to date. With 23 songs, their debut release for Epitaph'sAnti Records is nearly double the length of their debut and almosteverything else that's emerged from their chrysalis. Credit needs to begiven to the San Diego crew for perhaps being one of the most efficient"rock" groups around, cramming full songs with verses and repeatedchoruses in an astounding amount of time (the longest song that gracesthis record is one second shy of being a minute and a half). The Locusthave clearly passed into a new stage of development. The instrumentalcoordination is top notch, the onslaught is maddening, the coordinationis astounding, and the technological integration is the most prominentas it has ever been. Doctors recommend that adults raise theirheartbeat about 20 minutes every day. At slightly over 20 minutes, Plague Soundscapescan't hurt. Thematically, the Locust has migrated. The subject matterhas gone from the borderline comically ridiculous to new, bizzaredepths far knocking on the outposts of tangible reality. Songs like"Late for a Double Date with a Pile of Atoms in the Water Closet,"where full-throttle belched out lyrics like "Arbiter of shittilyplanned dilemmas, you were born with only three faces," are just anexample of the true verbal surrealism the band practices and has beenperfecting over the years together. Printed lyrics are marginallyhelpful but don't ever count on being able to sing along. The practiceand dedication involved has taken years to perfect and the strain ontheir voices must be taking years off their lives. For those fortunateenough to have their town plagued by The Locust, be warned that theirlive sets rarely stretch longer than 12 minutes, so don't be a fool anduse up your bathroom and bar time in time before their set commences.Inside those 12 minutes is a deafening glare of pure energy, but blinkand it's over. As a bonus, the video for "The Half-Eaten Sausage WouldLike To See You In His Office" is included.
Resident Morr space cadets Manual (Jonas Munk) and IcebreakerInternational (Alexander Perls) have teamed up to produce this firstrelease for Morr Music's sub-label Sound of a Handshake. Thiscollaboration was hinted at last year on the Morr compilation/Slowdivetribute Blue Skied an' Clear,to which Manual and Icebreaker contributed this record's title piece.They expand the project to eight songs here which if you lied to me andtold me the songs were purely Manual solo works, I would readilybelieve you. Manual trades in atmospheric guitar works to which he addssubtle electronics and melodic undertones, while Icebreaker createsconcept albums which sound a slightly more abstract branch of the PianoMagic school. The opener, "The Countdown," features Manual's signaturewarbly guitar lines understated by a metronomic beat in the background.This song in particular peppers and prepares you for the whirling andswirling noises to be expected for the rest of the album. The titletrack, "Into Forever," has this wanky guitar part which harks back tosome lost remix of a Sting song from his adult contemporary days(perhaps circa "Ten Summoner's Tales" or "Soul Cages") and is reallythe only objectionable song on the album. Curiously, it was the songincluded on the Slowdive tribute, yet I have trouble seeing howSlowdive contributed to or inspired the song. Icebreaker makes itssound known slightly in "The Inner Rings," which begins with an echoingdin of an empty ship hull but rises to a more ecclesiastical or angelicdrone by the end. The highlight of the album has to be "A Turning" (isit a coincidence that all the song titles sound like Brian Enotitles?). The song is a persuasive combination of three chord pickedprogression, Manual's warbly guitar effects, and a haunting and ghostlyvocal wail which fills out the song's substance. "The Outer Rings" onceagain showcases Icebreaker's sound and makes you begin to think thatPerls is responsible soley for the ring cycle on this album, whereasmost of the other contributions are strictly Munk's. This is certainlytrue for "Beacon," which sounds as if it was lifted directly fromManual's "Ascend" album. I could try and tell you about the outer spaceinfinite music loop concept prepared (conceivably by Icebreaker) forthis album, but it's pure fantasy and adds nothing to the music itself.Better to enjoy these songs for their terrestrial charms.
Post-industrial music is about as loosely defined as a genre can get,and with artists ranging from the beat-driven cacophony of SomaticResponses and Venetian Snares to the electro experiments of Lusine ICLand Starfish Pool, Hymen Records has managed to stay within itsboundaries. At one time, the same could be said for Substanz-T, whosetrack "Industrial Music for Industrial People" reminded us that "if youdon't like fascism, don't play industrial music." As the jazzy, urbanvibes of their Hymen debut Tripped Experiences and their latest longplayer Electric Opiumsuggest, the Frankfurt duo have either developed a dislike for saidphilosophy, or simply grew up. While their so-called peers are contentto remain stagnant in black make-up and fishnets, Substanz-T have optedout in order to create their downtempo gems. On their latest disc, theyhave collaborated on multiple tracks with former Einsturzende Neubautenmember F.M. Einheit, another musician who has moved past the clang andbang of gloomy industrial music. Electric Opium shifts theirsound further away from the Kruder and Dorfmeister school of cool,resulting in a musical work both percussive and pensive. The overallmood is decidedly ambient, whether on the Basic Channel influenced"Steer The Stars," or the intelligent hip hop of "Place Cells." TheNinja Tune-worthy, echo-heavy soundtrack of "Rekall" is only furtheraccented by the clever use of theramin, and the track best representsthe collaborative spirit of the album. "Ubique" holds true to theessence of chillout originators such as The Orb over its 18 minutes ofsoft cinematic synth washes, crackling percussion, and ultra-minimalspecks of audio dirt. To call Electric Opium ideal for Sundaylistening would not do it justice. To call it an album that grows onyou would be and out-and-out insult. In all honesty, this is truly apainstakingly constructed collection of songs with more than its fairshare of nuances and studio-crafted subtlety. Goodbye post-industrial.Hello new ambient.
For a thirty-year-old record to still sound ahead of its time is quitea feat. Arbete & Fritid are one of few bands lucky enough to becalled legends. That they were Swedish is incidental, and to try andcategorize the music they made is a futile pursuit. Their liveperformances were not to be missed, as they could easily shift from onemusical language to another, crossing styles and genres jazz and rockbut always with a folk base. Listening to this, their third album,today is like opening a time capsule and hearing a Nordic folk bandthat could have recorded this music fifteen minutes ago. The reissuealso includes a rare bonus track, recorded for Swedish National Radio,that shows the band in their best light. The CD on a whole is like onebig wedding party: there's the bachelor party on "Gånglåt efter LejsmePer Larsson, Malung," a ribald gyration but all in all suave andsoaring presence of an album opener; the tryst of "Elâzig-dans," wherethe lovers dance for the world to see, and profess their undyingdevotions to each other; and then the album moves its way through thewedding march and on to the reception. There are a few exceptions tothis general mood, such as the dark brooding feel of "The EuropeanWay," and the pure feral angst of "Petrokemi Det Kan Man Inte BadaI"—my favorite due to the saxophones and throated chants. I hear thestrains of countless bands of today in this sound. For the most part,though, this is a classic, gorgeous record that presents a range ofemotions anyone can identify with, despite an inability to understandthe words, the titles, or read the liner notes.
Former D Generation frontman Jesse Malin is an odd mix of Bob Dylan,Mark Knopfler, and Neil Young in the vocal department, and on his debutsolo album, he shows he's straying further and further from his punkrock roots to become a roots rock punk. With frequent cohort Ryan Adamsat the knobs and sliders and on electric guitar, Malin is free to letout his more troubadour tendencies, spinning yarns of lost love anddying dreams. For the most part, the formula works just as long as youcan get past Malin's aforementioned voice and some occasional triteimagery, mostly involving the repeated mention of cigarettes. On thecover, Malin projects the image and feel this album most embodies: asubway performer, strumming away on his acoustic guitar, begging peopleto throw him a couple quarters. He's that unlucky sap with an openguitar case and a Yamaha acoustic, track after track, waiting for hisluck to change rather than try and change it himself. Even though itrocks out here and there, like on "Wendy," and "High Lonesome," thereis an overwhelming emptiness and depression throughout the record.Malin is here, warts and all, including the most awful vocal momentsimaginable in places ("Solitaire" with its strained wails), anddecidedly low production values. He paints a picture of New York Cityfrom the dim side, where people are down on their luck, can't evenafford a beer, and just want someone to notice. It's not a new theme,not a new approach, and Malin's not a new voice; but it's still apretty good debut, with some varied flavors, and he occasionally hintsat a grandeur that might rival New Jersey's favorite son someday.
Every single song on Whispermoonis moody, dark, soulful, and reminds me of an old, sparsely populatedbar in the middle of a desert somewhere around dusk. Live drums,upright bass, bluesy vocal samples, and a smattering of scratching andcoarse atmospheres bounce about the entire album weaving catchymelodies and smooth grooves. "Train Song" features a ringing acousticguitar, a beautiful female vocal part that summons the blues, and anirresistible beat fed by both live drums and thick digital bass drops."Decadence," on the other hand, is a beat-heavy and more vocallydexterous track, fed by the energy of a bass guitar and Manchild'sraps. Thematically, the topics of many of the songs are a bit grandioseand this is where Listener's weakness is exposed. "You're SoUnderground" attempts to critique the I'm-a-player attitude so popularin rap but ends up falling short in the rhyme-department. Listener'swriting isn't entirely bad, but it's certainly not as strong as itcould be. I find myself agreeing with a lot of what the guy has to say,but I often feel as if it could be said with more command. That's notto say that every rap Listener makes is dull. The aforementioned "TrainSong" is a gorgeous narrative the likes of which I've never heard inhip-hop. It's just that some of themes (such as drug use, love, media,and religion) are laid so bare as to be a bit cheesey; many of thelyrics simply come off as too calculated and his vocal style begins tosound repetitive as the album moves along. Musically this album iscolorful, inescapably catchy, and varied; there's not a dull moment tobe found. Perhaps with some reflection and a bit more disciplineListener will become a lyrical force to be reckoned with, as well.
Best known for his work as bandleader and drummer for Norwegiancollective Jaga Jazzist, Martin Horntveth sets aside the sticks toconcentrate more on the role of sound manipulator, mixer and produceron his second solo release. While the prevalent, fast-paced industrialsounds on the six-track SkullEP have very little in common with the style of music that Jaga Jazzistperform, certain elements of rhythms and low end sounds may seemfamiliar. Grinding gears at the top of the disc, "100%" fuses distortedup-tempo beats and demolished keyboard bass sounds with high-pitcheddental drill chirps and whistling, detuned keyboard lines for a trackthat teeters on the edge of cacophony. The warm, floating tremolokeyboard and heavy, precise drum machine propelled "Comic" is litteredwith clipped spoken word samples and sound snippets, which can befollowed along with on the handy, phonetically sounded "lyric" sheetinside the disc's front cover. Horntveth adds his frenetic sampling ofbeats and synth squelches to fellow Norwegian metal outfitNOPLACETOHIDE's tight, chugging guitars for a sixty second rendition ofa track of theirs on "Sole (Remix)." The distorted shuffle of "SzakalIs Home For X-Mas" rounds out Skull's twenty minutes with anarrangement of squelches and bass end that bring in a pretty keyboardmelody which, by the tune's end, glimmers through to slightly conveythe festive mood indicated in the title. The farthest thing from a"drummer" record, Horntveth's electronic-based compositions andarrangements are solid enough to provide a viable outlet aside fromJaga Jazzist and make a name known by those that don't necessarily readliner notes.
Vastness of an ocean or shallowness of a bathtub? The Islewas quietly put on a musical map by Japanese cartographers P-Vine backin April, joining the ranks of sea-themed concept albums such as PianoMagic's A Trick of the Sea and Rachel's The Sea and the Bells(diaries of aquatic adventures, scrupulous accounts of seasickness,logbooks of navel/naval gazing). Unlike its conceptual predecessors,the creators of The Isle do not go after the epic and theexpansive but aim for the childish and the minimal: a fairy tale. It'sa split album cleverly disguised as a collaboration. Tokyo's SohichiroSuzuki (World Standard) and Cologne's Jörg Follert (Wechsel Garland,Wunder, 1/3 of Visor) each contributed seven compositions and'co-wrote' only the title track, swapping ideas via mail. On firstencounter, Suzuki's and Follert's previous efforts seem more satisfyingthan this. Through their infantile melodies and simplisticarrangements, the musicians channel not the vastness and deepness ofthe sea but the rather comfortable confines of a washbasin. A faintasthmatic wheeze of a rubber ducky at the end of the first trackreinforces this impression. Subsequent listens, however, reveal a muchricher palette of mood, harmony and texture, full of subtleties thatwere not apparent initially. Acoustic guitars, xylophones, toy pianos,melodicas and violins (most of the string parts masterfully played byan uncredited Susanna Welsch) are weaving a patchwork of pointillistwaltzes, plinky bossa-novas, mournful ambient vignettes, and even oneharpsichord-driven ballad beautifully sung (in German) by Follert, "TheHarbour," which, incidentally, is the only vocal piece on the album.The result is not a heavy-lidded Odyssey but rather a Treasure Islandas enacted by talented carefree kids, wearing oversized Hessian bootsand paper cocked hats, with prop parrots perched on their narrowshoulders and plastic spyglasses pressed firmly to their wide-openeyes. This is Visine-washed music, clear and bright. The latitude andlongitude of The Isle may be different from the ambientbanjoisms of World Standard's Country Gazette or cinematic dubisms ofWechsel Garland's Liberation von History but it confidently stands onits own in the murky sea of this year's music. The last harbor for theLost Children.
Originally released in September 2002, Magic Radios is the documented collaboration between experimental jazz musician Morgan Caney and electronic-based composer Kamal Joory, showcasing an interesting blend of both their backgrounds for nine compositions and a remix.
