A Downloader's Diary (38): May 23, 2014
by Michael Tatum
Well, I had an exciting and colorful month of May. First, I quit a
thankless job of ten years after being passed over yet again for a
promotion. Then, I spent a grueling four days in a motel after being
evacuated from my house due to a harrowing man-made wildfire. That
behind me, I'm happy to say that not only is there as much great music
this month as last month, but all three full-A titles tackle
"maturity" in their own ingenious and/or poignant ways. And although
I'm a little behind the curve in terms of new releases (did you know
writing a weekly column lowers the sperm count?) there's certainly
more good stuff in the pipeline for June.
Lily Allen: Sheezus (Warner Bros.) This London
troublemaker was overcome by a brainwave, one which I sincerely hope
came to her while she was breastfeeding on the Tube in late afternoon
rush hour: to deconstruct and reassemble Kanye West's most infamous
persona into a ball-breaking babymama who rules in a world in which
she's "let herself go," hubby makes breakfast-from-frozen for the
kids, and the only "motherfuckers" on the premises completely
sympathize when said mothers are too fagged out to fuck. From sucking
to dick in order to land a major label contract to insulting runway
model Jordan Dunn's Instagram, lovely house, and ugly kids, Allen's a
nonstop font of shit talking low comedy, and cohort Greg Kurstin keeps
the earworms burrowing whether he devises them himself or shamelessly
swipes them from James Brown or the Tom Tom Club. I could do without
the insult directed toward an online taste-making poseur -- who does
Allen think she is, Brad Paisley? -- but I'm disappointed that URL
badwomen like Pitchfork's Lindsey Zoladz aren't down with Allen's
hilarious conceit. Of course Allen's cheeky demand for the teen pop
crown is supposed to be "too convincing" -- she's merely parodying (and
therefore paying tribute to) a grand tradition that goes back to Kool
Moe Dee and LL Cool J, while simultaneously casting aspersions at a
male-dominated press that pits starlet against starlet. Before she
goes to "hell in a Range Rover," may she continue to prefer
domesticity to "sticking things up my nose." A
Cloud Nothings: Here and Nowhere Else (Carpark)
Amazingly, given his anemic lo-fi juvenilia, Dylan Baldi has mastered
an aesthetic, mapping the inter-workings of his Nirvana and Pixies
records like others might feverishly study Fibonacci sequences in the
leaves on flower stems or the delicate balance of light and shade on a
Vermeer. Plowed down by the massive tempo shift in "Quieter Today" --
duple time in the verses, common time in the chorus, separated by a
jarring full-stop that will catch your breath every time -- you'll
know Baldi has far surpassed his one-man-band apprenticeship. But if
this record is as "primal" as its adherents claim, it's less in a
mother-you-had-me-but-I-never-had you way than in a
mommy-I-want-that-piece-of-candy-way -- especially given the bookended
sentiments "You know there's nothing left to say" and "I'm not telling
you all I'm going through," Baldi needs merciless drummer Jason
Gerycz, the major musician in this power trio, to articulate all the
pent-up confusion Baldi can't quite express with words alone. Of
course, an over-reliance on feeling over thought signifies as one of
the reasons this record generates a strong buzz when it's on, but
fades after it's finished. One of these days, when the "somewhere"
becomes "here" no matter how hard Baldi tries to keep it at bay, he'll
regret not cultivating the memory he fights so hard
against. A MINUS
Company Freak: Le Social Disco (Opus) One thing that
bugs me about modern day disco revivals is the novelty factor -- the
feeling that the artists in question approach the genre "ironically,"
distancing themselves so much from the music spiritually you get the
feeling they would record music on the order of the Dirty Projectors
if they thought they could get away with it. You don't get that vibe
from Company Freak maestro Jason King -- this Renaissance man doesn't
cover Sylvester as a joke, but because he truly adores the man, and I
say right on. Both on the faculty of NYC/Tisch (among the courses
taught: "The Record Producer as Creative Artist," "Music Moguls," and
"Branding") and a sharp freelance journalist (from his heroic defense
of Drake's Nothing Was the Same: "Unsalvageable homophobes
point to Drizzy's love jones for Aaliyah and Sade as proof that he's a
wuss, and if they were alive in the '70s they would have given the
middle finger to Alan Alda and James Taylor, too."), King is one smart
cookie, so it makes sense that this project-not-band would boast
plenty in the jokes department. And it does -- "If you want to do a
crackdown/Better do a crackdown on yourself" throws some seriously
hilarious shade at the 1%. But I wasn't prepared for the sincere
outpouring of love -- not just for the music, which suggests what
Niles and 'Nard might have done with a battery of synthesizers, but
for a whole subculture, one that embraces former Vogue editor at large
André Leon Talley, parties on Friday night after slaving all week at
thankless jobs, and finds no need to check themselves into a clinic
for their rampant sex addiction. And if that's not enough to cheer the
man on, here's one more: his ballad doesn't
suck. A MINUS
Deena: Rock River (Life Force) Unfeigned innocence
crossed with warm sensuality is this ex-Cucumber's modus operandi,
except there's nothing especially calculated about her tone -- this
middle-aged Jersey Gurl is as modest and unassuming on record as I
imagine she is in real life. With the exception of the perky "My
Friend Superman," a clever metaphor about an overachieving husband who
can bend steel in his bare hands but can't stomach Sunday morning with
the in-laws, her unpretentious self-effacement might make you slow to
register the high quality of her bright folk-pop tunes. But once
absorbed, you'll notice some subtle but deft wordplay, like the
numerical shell games she plays on "All She Wrote," or how the days of
the week delicately underscore the stress of long distance
relationships on the sassy "Find the Love" and the lovely "Always
Tomorrow." And when she asks for a kiss on that incandescent ballad,
it's a pop moment worthy of Taylor Swift -- except I dare Taylor to
sound this wide-eyed and clear when she's fifty-six, on a song cycle
about a husband/collaborator she's been married to for three
decades. A MINUS
EMA: The Future's Void (Matador) I have no sympathy for
Anderson's information overload era alienation -- I mean, here's a
woman who consistently monitors her Instagram, Tumblr, Twitter,
etc. and she has the gall to protest about people posting videos of
her own Youtube without her consent? Then I read her compelling
Talkhouse piece on Britney Spears' last record, which begins by
describing various paparazzi "ring wraiths" dispatching disturbing
clips on the order of "Britney Spears Screaming Mad Inside Gas Station
Restroom" and "Britney Spears Has Mini Breakdown at Starbucks" and
suddenly it clicked -- ah, not just internet privacy invasion of the
garden variety sort, but the kind that impinges upon
celebrities. With apologies to Ms. Spears, this arouses my
sympathies even less, no matter how genuinely traumatic it might be
for the participants, Anderson included. But there's no arguing with
this record's sonic improvements on her spare 2011 debut: swirling
white noise, gripping big-beat drum patterns, Anderson's often
enthralling vocals mitigating such dim puns as "might lose some fur/my
Lucifer." And though I'm not so sure the promulgation of selfies
spells the end of Western Civilization, lyrical strokes on the order
of "He's gonna act like a feminist/But leave it up to you" and the
lurid infidelity psychodrama "When She Comes" make this sensitive
Neanderthal grunt in begrudging approval. A MINUS
Freddie Gibbs & Madlib: Piñata (Madlib Invazion)
Never having cottoned to Gibbs' blaxploitation malarkey in the past,
I'm not necessarily convinced by the artiste's contrite disclaimer to
the webzine Rappcats: "I will show you my flaws. I'll show you what
I've done wrong and what I've fucked up at. I don't regret shit, but
I'll show you the things I'm not proud of." This is partly because
he's got so much to answer for: three tracks in and he's viciously
castigating an ex who's wisely dumped him for a "pussy nigga"
astronaut-in-training who may or may not be the father of her
child. "Maybe you's a stank ho, maybe that's a bit mean," this former
drug dealer raps, "Maybe you grew up and I'm still living like I'm
sixteen" -- a self-aware aside that not only justifies the song, but
creates a rationale for the rest of the record, even for Gibbs' most
blustery tough guy platitudes (be careful if you find yourself behind
him in line at Harold's Chicken Shack on Chicago's South Side). Later,
something similar happens on the frenetic "Shitsville," in which our
Young Anti-Hero, after bragging about hitting your girlfriend's pussy
for "six minutes" (try breathing techniques, dude), confesses he
dipped into his father's condom stash whenever he needed a jimmy
protector, then stops to wonder if his mom knew about Pop's "bottom
drawer" for his "bottom ho." As epiphanic ironies go, not as humanely
expressed as a button-down suburbanite like myself might prefer, but
with the help of Danny Brown, Raekwon, and other rappers that provide
a thankful respite from Gibbs' somewhat monotonic bellow, Gibbs
finally creates a context for these cautionary reminiscences from his
drugged-out wasted youth. And crucial ingredient Madlib provides the
kind of blissful, phantasmagoric soundtrack that you don't have to be
blunted to get lost in. A MINUS
Haiti Direct: Big Band, Mini Jazz & Twoubadou Sounds,
1960-1978 (Strut) Compas means "beat," but what does
compas direct (literally "direct beat") mean? Bandleader Nemour
Jean-Baptiste explained what he had in mind for this new aesthetic at
an epochal rehearsal in 1955: "Today, we are going to adapt the slow
meringue ("slow?" -- ed.) to a slower rhythm ("slower?" -- ed.)
but the various notes of the horns need to fully intertwine with the
amalgamated sounds of the guitar, drums, congas, and percussions." In
other words, a cosmopolitan cross-pollination of too many variegated
Afro-Cuban musical styles to count, in which the arrangement treats
every instrumentalist equally, and unlike similar crate digs from
continental Africa from the same period, the stereo separation allows
you to follow -- and thus, appreciate -- the music's collective bob
and weave. The screwy track order makes little sense -- disc one
chronicles the explosion of the pared-down "mini jazz" combos of the
late '60s and early '70s, while the second backtracks to the music's
pre-compas formative years, then jumps ahead to the slightly
more post-modern late '70s, where you'll meet Djet-X, nicknamed "La
Douce qui Vient" by their fans (literally, "Here Come the Sweetness")
and who famously interpolated "Hotel California" into a song called
"Jive Turkey" (though not the Ohio Players, harrumph). Far slinkier
and less uptight than similar music made concurrently in neighboring
Spanish-speaking countries -- I'm guessing crippling poverty and the
odious Duvalier dynasty had something to do with it -- this represents
a precious chunk of musical history only now beginning to be
retrospectively charted by the world music claque. So thank the angels
at Strut for pulling the curtain on these beguiling, serpentine,
highly danceable styles. Believe me, you haven't lived until you've
heard the lowly Vaksin, a long bamboo flute which appears here on two
very different versions of the appropriated folk song "Gadé Moune Yo,"
represented twice to show how far Haitian music had evolved in a mere
ten years. It can play only one note. A MINUS
Old 97's: Most Messed Up (ATO) After years of compact
vignettes observing the grand theater of the great wide world, this
time Rhett Miller elects to get autobiographical and let it all hang
out. Except that the opening tour diary "Longer than You've Been
Alive" isn't as stream of consciousness as it first appears -- bet it
took Miller a few drafts to nail the right words to master the
illusion of spontaneity, like the uproarious way he crams the word
"self-referential" into one couplet despite the clumsy syllabic
over-spillage. Also, I highly doubt that these consistently funny rock
star brags and plaints truly represent his real-life day-to-day --
after all, what would his wife and elementary-school aged daughter
think? But whether this is poetic overstatement, persona mongering, or
gussied-up memories from his twenty-something self, from hotels where
the best amenity is the free ice to f-words Miller yelps like he's
been dreaming of dropping them for years, this is the raucous cow punk
document they didn't have the wit or songcraft to pull off before
Elektra smoothed out their rough edges. If you're hung up on themes
and such, consider the burning phallic symbol on the cover. But these
days, Rhett and the boys don't aspire to the slacker poetry of their
classic one-two punch Fight Songs and Satellite
Rides. Instead, they're rowdy knights-errant on a holy mission: to
show Paul Westerberg what a real hootenanny sounds like. A
Shakira: Shakira (RCA) I can't resist quoting the Roland
Barthes epigraph that graces the lyric sheet: "Love has protected me
against worldliness: coteries, ambitions, advancements, interferences,
alliances, secessions, roles, powers: love has made me into a social
catastrophe, to my delight." This, from a pop dynamo whose first album
in English since 2009's She Wolf comes riding on product
endorsements from Activia, T-Mobile, and Crest 3-D, a spot on Target,
a key role on NBC's The Voice, and duets with Rihanna and Blake
Shelton, two people who wouldn't be caught dead partying in the same
island resort -- does this sound like she's got all of her bases
covered? But though sloughing the two lone songs en Español to
the back like they were sops or afterthoughts strikes me as a sad
testament to Yankee-centric commercial caution (especially with one of
them a reprise of her Rihanna radio hit), that's all just me being my
usual fussbudget self -- sure, hearing Shelton stutter the line
"p-p-p-p-popping the pills" is chortle-worthy, but elsewhere Little
Miss Hips' predictable foray into dubstep is as hot as her
dancehall-grunge mash-up, sounding as sizzling from your home
entertainment system as it might from the dozen or so radio formats
she's scheming to ransack via the back door. Also of continuing
interest is her continuing talent for ingeniously mangling and/or
subverting common idioms: "I am covered in scars/Like a rose without
thorns," sure, but how about "I used to think there was no God/But
then you looked at me with your blue eyes/And my agnosticism turned
into dust." Okay, shut up about the correct word being "atheism" --
how often do you hear the word "agnosticism" in a song by a pop
dynamo? As far as I'm concerned, she can storm whatever Billboard
chart she fucking wants. A MINUS
Wussy: Attica! (Shake It) By now it's getting to be an
existential joke: obscure indie rock quartet-now-quintet beholden to
classic rock virtues and adored by a major rock critic (and, in turn,
his critic-followers) releases yet another album celebrated by their
enamored clique while the rest of the world once again fails to take
much notice -- if it takes five regular release albums for the
obscurity hounds at Pitchfork to catch up with you, what does that
say? Yet above all else, these mighty Cincinnatians' newest batch of
tunes validates those of us who obsessively love them to pieces,
pitting such markers of Midwestern mundanity as "a pamphlet on the
door declaring he has risen," a cork popped alone "to toast another
year," and a Sunday morning not spent at Bethel no. 12 in Norwood with
Job's Daughter's International against such life-affirming talismans
as Keith Moon's bass drum exploding in Pete Townshend's ears on The
Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour, "North Sea Girls" diving into the ocean
"hair done, makeup on," Sonny Wortzik mocking New York City's finest
for the sake of TV glory, and, oh yes, "the life outside of here/much
more amazing/than either one of us could ever imagine." And as usual,
tunes, guitar noise, and detailed vocals make all of those bristling
metaphors flesh. I doubt Chuck Cleaver was really a "monster" in 1994
-- I mean, that Ass Ponys record was pretty good. But this burns
brightly with the weathered beauty that callow young people only
imagine inhabiting. A
Honorable Mentions
Let's Wrestle: Let's Wrestle (Fortuna Pop!) "I'm an
actor, comedian -- but no one really notices me" ("Rain Ruins
Revolution," "Always a Friend") **
Baseball Project: 3rd (Yep Roc) From major songs
about minor players to minor songs about major players ("The Day Doc
Went Hunting Heads," "¡Hola America!") **
Tune-Yards: Nikki Nack (4AD) Who knew drum machines
wouldn't be as funky as whatever was lying around the house? ("Water
Fountain," "Left Behind") *
Peter Stampfel and the Brooklyn & Lower Manhattan Banjo
Squadron: Better Than Expected (Don Giovanni) Even if the
instrumental sketches weren't trifles, how could they top a song that
begins: "Who reads everything you post on Twitter/Who has drones to
watch you on the shitter?" ("Eat That Roadkill," "NSA Man")
*
Trash
Neneh Cherry: Blank Project (Smalltown Supersound)
Unlike his 2013 project with Syria's Omar Souleyman, Kieran Hebdan's
production tricks on Neneh Cherry's first solo record in sixteen years
are plainly evident -- his spare, claustrophobic beats make themselves
felt on nearly every track, particularly on the martial washing
machine tumble of "Blank Project," which would be called "Paper Cup
Regrets" on an album confident of its strengths. But unfortunately,
Cherry's problem here is the same as on her record with Scandinavian
jazz trio the Thing -- the meager melodies she brings to the table
don't fly high or wild enough to compete or even complement the hectic
music of her more unruly associates. One wonders what Cherry might
have accomplished collaborating instead with Tricky, who would have
been a better fit, and whose former better half Martina Topley-Bird's
style owes much to Cherry's sing-song alto. But Cherry would still be
left with clumsy similes (anyone who says "like your bricks are filled
with mortar" hasn't attempted her own landscaping) and head-scratching
metaphors -- the lost-years plaint "Weightless" includes a tangential
masturbation reference before declaring "It ain't over 'til the fat
lady sings." I'm not sure if there were any songs per se on Raw
Like Sushi either, but she sounded so much wiser when she was a
spunky up and comer, charged with the afterglow of having just heard
"It Takes Two" and confidently declared to herself, "Damn, maybe I
could do this, too." And with all deference to Hebden, the beats of
the early Wild Bunch didn't hurt either. B
Skrillex: Recess (Owsla/Big Beat/Atlantic) Bugged that
he spent years doling out singles and EPs rather than going pro with
longplayers, I'm now wondering if short-sharp-fast isn't this six-time
Grammy-winning speed demon's natural format. It's not like he's slowed
down, or that his beats don't still hit like a reggae-ton of bricks,
but a combination of some notion of artistic progress (I've got more
in my bag of tricks than bing-bam-boom) and the not-so-deluded notion
that you have to vary up what you do over the course of eleven tracks
in forty-seven minutes has forced Sonny Moore into a position where he
feels he needs to diversify. I applaud that, much the same way I might
have applauded the Ramones for doing the same on Rocket to
Russia and Road to Ruin had I been cognizant and
appreciative of punk rock in 1978. But where the Ramones expanded
their minimalism with surprising genre exercise, Sonny Moore merely
enlists guest stars: Chance the Rapper, Passion Pit's Michael
Angelakos, and others of even less renown, none of whom do much for
Moore's cacophonous ragga bombs and doompy poomps. When a parade of
puffed-up dancehall rejects makes you pine for Elle Goulding and the
Doors, you've got problems. B
The Pains of Being Pure at Heart: Days of Abandon
(Yebo) Abandoned: their label, several band members, their big
shot production team, and, sadly, memorable
songcraft. B MINUS
Afghan Whigs: Do to the Beast (Sub Pop) Dulli noted:
"This must be what jailbait is really like." Wonder if the young stuff
knows that he nicked the opening riff of "The Lottery" from the theme
from Shaft? B MINUS
Isaiah Rashad: Cilvia Demo (Top Dawg Entertainment)
Stoner rapper wants to "take it back to 1998" (!!!) which explains his
fondness for E-Z listening hip hop, if not necessarily explicate why
living for "bitches and blunts" is any better or worse than living for
"weed and money." B MINUS
Todd Terje: It's Album Time (Redeye) There's mojitos
and shuffleboard on the top deck, but even on vacation, you can't pry
Esquivel from his laptop. C PLUS
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