Concentration - Dog Day

Concentration

Dog Day
Outside Music.

SCQ Rating: 81%

So I’m listening to ‘You Won’t See Me On Sunday’ and minding my own business when I uncover how closely that seventh track off Concentration resembles The Pains of Being Pure At Heart’s ‘Come Saturday’. Is this a witty rebuke? Perhaps a chance combination of chords? In either case I’m bothered. It’s one thing for critics to launch The Pains of Being Pure At Heart into their fifteen minutes as if they’re the next messiahs of hipster-cool, but if that means a truly awesome band by the name of Dog Day ends up playing second fiddle, I take issue. Regardless of who wrote which first, there’s no questioning that ‘You Won’t See Me On Sunday’ is the stronger song; growing from its initial riff and exercising some expert guitar-swagger before spiraling into a moody overcast those Brooklyn kids could only dream of creating.

Enough blogosphere comparisons… Dog Day deserve better company (like Sonic Youth, who they share producer John Agnello with) thanks to Concentration, the Halifax-based quartet’s third album; a brooding collection that marries addictive songwriting with dissonant flourishes, ensuring its audience never gets too comfortable. Such mood-shifts are evident as early as in ‘Neighbour’, where an innocent party-invitation – from the “forces of darkness”, no doubt – turns sinister with Nancy Urich and Seth Smith trading ominous cups of sugar amid driving minor-chords. Or take the sympathetic string-picking of ‘Don’t Worry About the Future’, a song that consoles the listener’s anxiety with Smith’s casual intonation while subtle waves of tension shift and spike. Best yet is how ‘Judgement Day’’s taut anticipation allows some open-ended chords to punch through, reminding us that Concentration is as much about rock as it is about mood.

On that note, Concentration offers a few single-worthy tunes to contrast their drearier side. The celebratory ‘Wait It Out’ is a break-up daydream, where an insular relationship is prepped for self-destruction along with driving percussion and playful bass-lines. Moments later we’re dancing to the rousing ‘Saturday Night’, where Smith remarks:
“It’s Saturday night/
let’s ride the crazy wave of anticipation/
until we get let down.”
These nights on the town, detailed as both drunken and hollow, act as the setting for an album as nocturnal and nonchalant as Concentration. Yet they also set the stage for ‘Peace’; a late-night phone-call to weariness that exemplifies decadence with chiming electric guitars and echoed vocals. That an album of greatly converging moods closes with such a strong statement should hardly surprise fans of Dog Day, since the foursome were formerly spare-parts of well-known indie and hardcore bands. Still, as someone who recently discovered Dog Day and is fighting to ignore any instinctive tendencies to write in journalistic smoke and mirrors, this is an album carefully built to bare no expiry date. And for that reason alone, Concentration should, with any justice, outlast the few dozen indie-rock, internet-prodigies still lurking beneath Myspace this year.

You Can Have What You Want - Papercuts

You Can Have What You Want

Papercuts
Gnomonsong Records.

SCQ Rating: 76%

Upon a single, casual listen, Papercuts can come off like one of a thousand revivalist projects. Precise in his Golden Age-R&B grooves while adding some disaffected vocals, Jason Quever – sole official member of Papercuts – carries a 60s-torch that few would mime so exactingly; not because his chosen era of inspiration isn’t ripe for scrounging through, but because such focused songwriting eventually arises suspicion of the dreaded one-trick-pony label. Full disclosure: (A) I’ve never heard Quever’s previous Papercuts records and (B) You Can Have What You Want, as a collection of songs, does little to deter any one-trick name-calling. Labels be damned! While you can accuse Quever of cradling his muse with white-knuckled singularity, you can hardly criticize the results when You Can Have What You Want is as immersive as it is detailed. Somewhere… aging fans of Jefferson Airplane are downloading their first MP3s…

If you get beyond its easy-to-spot influences and investigate the liner-notes, you’ll find that Quever has aimed higher with You Can Have What You Want than most expected… and by higher, I mean into SPACE… into the great VOID! After a fond farewell to intimacy on opener ‘Once We Walked in the Sunlight’, Quever boards us up into his machine and blasts us into a comatose uncertainty… where our identities are our past memories, and our “contact”, we’re reminded, “has been lost for days”. The cover-art implies as much, depicting featureless bodies falling (or rising?) haphazardly from (or into?) some obscure vehicle-transport. These feelings of isolation are conversely unnerving and comforting; the analog production’s love of organs cause some suffocating moments of nostalgia (‘The Machine Will Tell Us So’, ‘The Wolf’) while the incorporation of a tense orchestra (on ‘Jet Plane’) and soft piano (on the title track) provide a soothing relief to a monotony that is commonly a step from the door.

Not unlike his vaguely space-bound narrative, Jason Quever’s songs are like a capsule - airtight amidst his army of organs, numb to any emotional trespasses. And while a few songs fail to measure up to the record’s high-points (‘Jet Plane’, ‘Dead Love’ and ‘Future Primitive’ is arguably one of the best triple-plays of the year), You Can Have What You Want proves irresistible after multiple listens, with Quever standing at the forefront of the revivalist pack.

SCQ's Top Twenty Albums of the 1990s

What the hell is this… a 90s Best-Of list? Why now? I thought it up last month at work while quietly seething over the radio station’s obsession with 90s grunge-rock. Really now, if these “modern” rock stations are going to wax retrospective on us every day, why not play the best the 90s had to offer? That very question tossed me down the rabbit hole of what my list would comprise of… where I encountered many questions: (1) Should I remain true to my actual favourites of the 90s… most of which I never listen to now? (2) What about excellent 90s records I only discovered in the 2000s? (3) Should I pay lip-service to universally-renowned albums or stick by those with personal significance?

For those interested: answers panned out as follows: (1) only if you still love them, (2) valid, and (3) Loveless by My Bloody Valentine. Done.

Most albums receive some sort of write-up, although several left me speechless or feeling lazy... so I let a video do the explaining. This seemingly random list is a warm-up for my Top Twenty Albums of the 00s; a feature that’ll arrive this November just ahead of my 2009 year-end lists. God help me.

20. Pinkerton - Weezer, 1996 (Best of the 90s)

Pinkerton

Weezer
Geffen Records.

From a band that hit such lovable heights just two years earlier with huge singles and the unforgettable ‘Buddy Holly’ video, Pinkerton was the last thing anyone expected from the power-pop quartet. The record was downright rejected by critics and MTV, with lead single ‘El Scorcho’ receiving little airplay. Moreover, no one expected this sophomore to become the band’s most crucial album; one that embraced Rivers Cuomo's oddity, carved out their true following and eventually helped hoist emo into the mainstream. The howl and thrash of dark pop tunes like ‘Tired of Sex’ and ‘The Other One’ exemplify the anguish Cuomo had endured post-Blue Album, and since Pinkerton has risen to cult fame, stories have emerged depicting how Cuomo painted his room black and pulled a Brian Wilson. Sadly (and possibly due to that initial backlash), Pinkerton would be the last recording to feature an invigorated Rivers Cuomo.

19. Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain - Pavement, 1994 (Best of the 90s)

Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain

Pavement
Matador Records.

Talk about writing the indie-rock handbook, Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain could’ve been released last week, not eighteen years ago. Undoubtedly more commercial than previous material, this record found Pavement at the height of hipness, writing classic tunes like ‘Gold Soundz’ while taking shots at The Smashing Pumpkins on ‘Ranch Life’. Despite how harmonious and musically approachable this material is, Malkmus’ lyrical curveballs had only strengthened in obscure details, keeping their singles better suited to college radio than mainstream culture. Although I’ve heard other Pavement albums, Crooked Rain… is the only one I’ve bothered owning. It’s something I plan to remedy eventually, but in the meantime, I can attest that if there’s a Pavement record to start with, it’s this one.

18. Selected Ambient Works 85-92 - Aphex Twin, 1993 (Best of the 90s)

Selected Ambient Works 85-92

Aphex Twin
R & S Records.


The overwhelming sensation apparent when hearing Richard D. James' now seminal Selected Ambient Works isn't casual enjoyment or pure elation. It's closer to bemusement – a complete lack of understanding – when I consider myself an ardent fan of electronica yet never heard this recording until its long-awaited 2008 remastering. Now part of my hesitation has always been the price-tag attached to both original records (Classics and Selected Ambient Works), although to be fair to us consumers, these remasters are indeed pricier. To boot, R & S offers no bonus tracks, no expanded artwork, no liner notes of any kind.

It reads like a rip-off, and would be if not for two important notes: Selected Ambient Works, in its original release, was in desperate need of remastering from the moment it was recorded, and secondly, fans of home-listening electronica need to hear how little their genre has truly evolved over the past twenty years. It's humbling, almost insulting, really, that Pantha Du Prince's This Bliss could stir such critical love in 2007 when early Aphex tunes, new to my ears, sound as innovative and accomplished (the two respective artists' aesthetic differences aside). Having found two copies of the original Selected Ambient Works abandoned to used bins (on the week of this remaster's release, no less), I can attest that its digital cleansing takes much of the credit for the record's contemporary sound. Even with the dated keyboard effect that opens 'Ageispolis', the song is a cunning mix of acid-jazz noodling and wintry soundscapes that could fit snugly onto the 2008 catalog of any electronic label.

What shook me most about this collection is how smooth it sounds as opposed to James' later work under the Aphex moniker, as though his career path has unraveled in reverse to most every other act. Instead of each release becoming increasingly coherent and polished, Selected Ambient Works (and its sequel, Ambient Works II) is likely the summit of his production in terms of pristine clarity; a peak visible years before James undertook even less conventional routes. Opener 'Xtal' is a glacial cut of dense beat patterns, gorgeous vocal loops and subtle keyboards layered overtop. The whole five minutes feel better suited to a Chill-Out mix, one admittedly of higher caliber than the average Thievery Corporation/Moby/Zero 7 collection, and it is singular in its breezy evocation, all of Selected Ambient Works runs on the same template: haunting keyboard melodies, beat programming that never shifts tempo, and several ideas dedicated to each track. No hints of the glitch-happy assaults from the Richard D. James album, and none of the monotony that plagued Drukqs is evident here. In many ways, this is Aphex Twin before Rick James, adolescent outsider, became Richard D. James.

Although the two tracks I've discussed and adore the most are pioneers for the current home-listening electronica scene, much of this material is better translated on the dancefloor than in an armchair. 'Heliosphan' anticipates the big-beat scene of the late 90s as if it was a hidden track on the Matrix soundtrack, while 'Schottkey 7th Path' can only be fully explored in the club; its subtle keys and overbearing repetition hard to appreciate on your home stereo. Despite its reputation, this album is hardly perfect; there are enough skeletal experiments to counter the fully-realized ones, which, running seventy-four minutes long, is to be expected for such groundbreaking work. Occasionally it wears thin, but never relies on any musical pillars we could call familiar.

Beyond the analog version's two dimensional sound, Selected Ambient Works 85-92 is essential, not only because it captures a teenage genius, resigned to his bedroom and struggling with the creation of a new genre – far removed from the mysterious, creepy Richard D. James of present day – but because this is revolutionary listening; a preview of tricks that would become cornerstones to everything from trance and hardcore to minimal electronica. It may be hard to find at a bargain, but Selected Ambient Works 85-92 is a crucial puzzle-piece in the history of its genre, and in my eyes, worth every penny.

17. Third Eye Blind - Third Eye Blind, 1997 (Best of the 90s)

Third Eye Blind

Third Eye Blind
Elektra Records.


An essential album of 90s rock... its influence only now beginning to show - for better and worse, respectively - in young bands like The Dangerous Summer and Panic at the Disco.

16. The Boy with the Arab Strap - Belle and Sebastian, 1998 (Best of the 90s)

The Boy With the Arab Strap

Belle and Sebastian
Matador Records.

A friend and I had slipped out to the campus bar one night. He was struggling with a break-up that just wouldn’t break and I hardly needed a reason. With his frustrations finally vented and our mood now elated, the pint glasses were free and clear to empty in record times. We laughed over nonsense and acted like jackasses, all the while knowing that we hadn’t solved any problem at all, when I recognized that I had fully enjoyed the last four or five songs played over the pub speakers. The vocals were inaudible and the bass too heavy, but it was clear that this was the work of a band I hadn’t heard, not the scatter-shot mixed tape they usually tossed on. I asked the bartender when grabbing the next round, and years later as I listen to Stuart Murdoch’s witty melancholy, I realize my friend and I could’ve learned a lot about heartbreak by shutting up and listening to The Boy With the Arab Strap.

Although it was the title track, with its hand-clap momentum pushing a rollicking organ hook, that first caught my attention, playing ‘Seymour Stein’ and ‘Chickfactor’ at a university bar is ingenious; what could be more therapeutic for rejected twenty-somethings than Belle & Sebastian with booze? As my first B&S experience, I still consider this the best of their catalogue, but for long-time fans who followed the group from their mid-90s beginnings, it couldn’t live up to the indie-smash of 1998’s If You’re Feeling Sinister. With that sophomore effort immediately considered “a classic” and band-leader Murdoch being hailed as a lyrical visionary, Boy with the Arab Strap finds the seven-piece band inching forward despite the pressure, refining their songcraft but keeping the twee that fans cherished so dearly. Murdoch shakes some of the weight from his shoulders by sharing songwriting duties, a risky decision that pays off (especially on the summer-kissed ‘Is It Wicked Not to Care?’) and preserves the fresh air of this collection.

By the time I had my copy of Boy With the Arab Strap, the last of winter snow had drained into gutters and cool rain tapped my headphones as ‘The Rollercoaster Ride’ cooed in my ears. Like those early Spring days we celebrate by purposefully under-dressing, Belle & Sebastian have made an album equally as revitalizing; one that raises your spirits from within the guise of gloom they wear with a wink.

15. No Protection - Massive Attack VS Mad Professor, 1996 (Best of the 90s)

No Protection

Massive Attack VS Mad Professor
Gyroscope Records.


I didn’t know Massive Attack, I didn’t know Mad Professor. I didn’t know Triphop, I didn’t know Dub. It’s the first electronic record I ever loved and the best remix album ever.

14. Elliott Smith - Elliott Smith, 1995 (Best of the 90s)

Elliott Smith

Elliott Smith
Kill Rockstars Records.

13. Everything I Long For - Hayden, 1996 (Best of the 90s)

Everything I Long For

Hayden
Sonic Unyon Records.


Crazy to think I first heard Hayden when I was fourteen years old. My friend and neighbour had just received Everything I Long For from his cousin - who, being in his late teens, was inexplicably, automatically cool – and we’d sit in his basement, blaring it from his father’s stereo speakers. Initially Hayden's course voice seemed a novelty but it was borne of his knack for grisly storytelling, and his tales of heartbreak and death resonated even then. Crazy to think Hayden was only twenty-three…

12. Laughing Stock - Talk Talk, 1991 (Best of the 90s)

Laughing Stock

Talk Talk
Verve Records.

I cannot wait to review this album properly some day, as it anticipated post-rock like no other. 1991, people... seriously. An underrated masterpiece.

11. Siamese Dream - The Smashing Pumpkins, 1993 (Best of the 90s)

Siamese Dream

The Smashing Pumpkins
Virgin Records.

Like any decade, the 90s could’ve gone several different ways and, as always, the swing vote came down to who died. Had Cobain lived to see 2009, who would our 90s-hero be? Many might ignore our collective fascination with young death/suicide and stick to their guns, yet Cobain’s survival springs to mind some key contenders: Vedder, Cornell, even Courtney Love (and that’s without diving back into the other deceased candidates: Bradley Nowell or Blind Melon guy, for starters). Above them all should be Billy Corgan, who introduced alternative music and even if it’s now defunct, it’s hardly irrelevant to today’s rock scene. As disgraced as the current “Smashing Pumpkins” are – and by Pumpkins and are, I mean Corgan and is – his brand of guitar-rock outlived both the figureheads of grunge (Nirvana) and its illegitamite offspring (Bush).

Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness became the elephant of any alternative-oriented conversation, either representing the scene’s best affirmation of commercial interests or playing the scapegoat of a genius’ selling-out. Yet few debates arise at the mention of Siamese Dream; an album that presented the Smashing Pumpkins at their pinnacle of talent while giving birth to Corgan’s now intolerable ego. The record catches the Chicago-based quartet in transition, still arming themselves with the heavy guitar-riffs of Gish (‘Quiet’) while branching into softer territory with highlights such as ‘Sweet, Sweet’ and ‘Spaceboy’. Most foreshadowing of Corgan’s later enthrallment with prog-rock narratives (remember ‘Glass and the Ghost Children’, anyone?) is ‘Silverfuck’, although this track is still goosebump-raising in its thunderous dynamics between muted distortion and sudden guitar-attacks. Siamese Dream remains the band’s most unified album, and while we can argue over whether Corgan played everything but the drums, or whether producer Butch Vig pulled the whole thing together, we can probably all agree that it should nominate the band for 90s-hero consideration.

10. The Bends - Radiohead, 1995 (Best of the 90s)

The Bends

Radiohead
EMI Records.

Not even Oasis can reduce what The Bends did for Brit-rock in 1995.

9. Letting Off the Happiness - Bright Eyes, 1998 (Best of the 90s)

Letting Off the Happiness

Bright Eyes
Saddle Creek Records.

Earlier in this Top Twenty Albums of the 1990s list, I congratulated Weezer on giving emo to the world. As a commercial failure and cult hit, Pinkerton eventually did just that, finding this generation’s emo bands while they were still ten years old. On a deeper, grassroots level, however, emo was alive and well, grazing the heartland of the Midwest. The brain-child of seventeen year old Nebraska-native Conor Oberst, Bright Eyes gave birth to its finest record yet, melding a country mentality with DIY punk flare and lyrics so deeply personal, they resonated beyond the kid’s shaky timbre.

As developed as Bright Eyes became during the mid 00s, mastering folk and diving honorably into electronic-rock, Letting Off the Happiness is Oberst at his most raw and unaware. There’s the lo-fi, seasonal suicide bid of ‘If Winter Ends’ that breaks the listener in, the dewy petal-steel of ‘The Difference in the Shades’, the erotic violence of ‘Pull My Hair’ and the calm resignation of ‘Tereza and Tomas’; each offering a slice of what you’d imagine Dylan might’ve sounded like had he admitted he was human. This is hardly the pristinely produced record we’ve become accustomed to and while Letting Off the Happiness is the last entirely concept-free record of his Bright Eyes discography, its effortless, id-driven passion easily overpowers the muddled narrative of Fevers and Mirrors or the maturity of his later, refined work. His best work was yet to come, yet there are several moments here that provide ample reasons to reconsider. Between this and Pinkerton, emo’s glory days were over before anyone gave it such an uninspired label.

8. This Desert Life - Counting Crows, 1999 (Best of the 90s)

This Desert Life

Counting Crows
Geffen Records.


While August and Everything After deserves a spot of its own, I cannot deny that This Desert Life is indeed the better album, taking all the trademarks that made August... the classic while reaching out into a more well-rounded sound. Disclaimer: this video isn't very good. It makes the band look lamer than they actually are. Still, the music is the message and few major-label, alt-country bands release seven-minute singles these days. Super-good.

7. Homogenic - Bjork, 1997 (Best of the 90s)

Homogenic

Bjork
Elektra Records.

6. Twoism - Boards of Canada, 1995 (Best of the 90s)

Twoism

Boards of Canada
Warp Records.


That’s right – Twoism. As objectionable as it may seem given the domineering favoritism of Music Has the Right to Children amongst fans, I have always preferred their once-rare, once-out-of-print mini LP. Initially unveiled on a limited supply and finally remastered and re-released in 2002, this 1995 debut (the earliest confirmed LP, anyway) displayed a pioneering sound at work. From the zen-like trance of ‘Directine’ to the archaic break-beats of ‘Smokes Quantity’, Twoism had already outlined the BoC blueprint with alarming accuracy. The latter of the two was considered refined enough to warrant inclusion on their aforementioned 1998 breakthrough, whereas more experimental tracks like the drum’n’bass ‘Basefree’ or seasick ‘Iced Cooly’ give this record a rare glimpse into the Scottish duo’s early days. I suppose what clinches my love for Twoism is its succinctness, capturing all the magic and mystery of the band’s more popular work without overstaying its welcome. Nothing had sounded like this before, and no one has been capable of properly replicating it since. Fifteen years on, we’re still a few decades from being able to properly assess the influence this sound has had, as their pastoral, nostalgic take on electronica continues to reverberate around the globe.

5. Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness - The Smashing, 1995 Pumpkins (Best of the 90s)

Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness

The Smashing Pumpkins
Virgin Records.


Some day I might get back to this album. I’ll dig through Rubbermaid containers dedicated to records of the past, reminisce about teenage days I’d prefer to keep airtight, meaningless, and bring Mellon Collie… back from my parent’s basement for a real review. Lord knows it deserves some sort of status in my apartment album-hierarchy. This was the double-tape I treated like a leather-bound bible but wore through with repeated listens and broke anyway. A double-album I listened to nearly exclusively between 1995 and 1997, I recall each of the mammoth’s 28 songs at one point became my favourite… with the exception of ‘Take Me Down’, which I always found a kind of humorous exclusion (really… just one song?). Perhaps the only record I’ve ever purchased twice for myself, vindicating the broken cassette with the double CD. Some day I’ll try to review this… the most influential album of my adolescence.

4. Mezzanine - Massive Attack, 1998 (Best of the 90s)

Mezzanine

Massive Attack
Virgin Records.


In its first decade alone, this record has become a mind-bending anomaly. Think about it: its popularity broke barriers between indie-kids and major-labels, pirate radio and blockbuster movies, obscure electronic subgenres and radio-rock homogenization, geeks who watch House and geeks who watch The Matrix, and between super-fan critics and shlubs who think Triphop might be some follow-up sensation to the Macarena. People of the same ignorance might even argue that such walls were torn asunder thanks to two tracks - ‘Angel’ (heard in just about every self-serious movie from 1998 through 2002) and ‘Teardrop’ (likewise…) but that would be discounting the power Mezzanine truly wields. Those two tracks may’ve taken Robert Del Naja and Co. to a stratosphere most bands dare not dream of but, when all trends die (Matrix wardrobes, lame hospital dramas, Triphop, whatever), Mezzanine will still stand as one of the most influential albums of the decade. Who could question a creativity that melded middle-eastern samples to ‘Inertia Creeps’, Velvet Underground samples to ‘Rising Son’, post-punk era Cure to ‘Man Next Door’ and Isaac Hayes’ swank to ‘Exchange’, all the while perfecting a subgenre they invented? Written on paper, such ideas sound goofy… their odds of success fanatical. Yet Mezzanine sounds virtually free of any samples or, for that matter, any knowledge of pop music before being sharpened and twisted into this nightmarish but timeless exoskeleton.

3. Beautiful Midnight - Matthew Good Band, 1999 (Best of the 90s)

Beautiful Midnight

Matthew Good Band
Universal Records.


As much as Good purports himself an unbiased activist on his constantly updated website, he never seems interested in playing the sheppard. Pity, since most of his registered flock is so unabashedly blind, they would kiss a pile of garbage if it vaguely resembled his ass. Point is, devout MG fans (myself included, although I steer clear of obsession) are an opinionated bunch when it comes to the man’s work. There’s the debate over what’s better: the MGB years or Good’s solo output, or for bonus indie-points, Good’s early 90s demos or Good’s post-band efforts? Hell, SCQ has indulged a similar debate by pitting Avalanche against Hospital Music for solo-album supremacy. One thing remains largely agreed upon, whether you’re a longtime or casual fan; that Beautiful Midnight is the crowning achievement (both artistically and commercially) that the Matthew Good Band ever released.

You could feel Good’s creativity swelling from the moment Underdogs went gold; the 'Apparitions' video, his growing presence on stage, his opinions publicized coast to coast and his prolific writing of self-described manifestos. Suddenly the brooding artist who wrote ‘She’s Got a New Disguise’ had a formidable platform to speak from and aside from some purposefully aloof entries about porn stars and setting off the world’s nuclear warheads on India, Good has used the stage responsibly. No surprise that the album recorded and toured throughout the posting of these online manifestos was Beautiful Midnight; fourteen songs that menace and unfurl the darkness of his imagination, with the odd faux-commentary (‘The Future is X-Rated’) thrown in for ironic measure. Beyond the noteworthy four singles are what best carries Beautiful Midnight to greatness; the ferocious stadium stomps of ‘Giant’, the black-comedy punchlines in ‘I Miss New Wave’, the restless but absolutely perfected misery of ‘Suburbia’. Good always knew when to rest his case, as proven in the deafening collapse of ‘Born To Kill’ – the record’s heaviest moment – which gives rise to ‘Running For Home’s daybreak soliloquy. One of Canada’s finest albums and an essential recording of the 90s.

2. OK Computer - Radiohead, 1997 (Best of the 90s)

OK Computer

Radiohead
EMI Records.

And the whole world gasps in unison: "no fucking way".

1. Agaetis Byrjun - Sigur Ros, 1999 (Best of the 90s)

Agaetis Byrjun

Sigur Ros
Fat-Cat Records.

I had spent the winter of 2002 with ( ), holed up in my student bedroom and embracing its sterile stillness compounded by some of the worst London icestorms in recent memory. When April exams finished up, my roommates and I all emigrated back to our hometowns where manual labour and the hopeless claws of high school clung true and tight. That’s where I first heard Agaetis Byrjun; in my buddy’s parent’s car, weaving under the humid streetlights of our childhood streets at 3am, and the impression - that I’d heard one of the finest albums ever – is resoundingly confirmed today.

What seemed ultimately shocking about Agaetis Byrjun was how full of life it sounded in contrast to ( ), as if the Icelandic four-piece had blossomed into Spring after what could only be felt as an emotional ice-age. When they aren’t laying down their cinematic, slow-core framework with the warm organs of ‘Flugufrelsarinn’ or classical piano ambitions of ‘Vidrar Vel Til Loftarasa’, Sigur Ros startle with the mounting tension and full-brass attack of ‘Ny Batteri’. With the benefit of hindsight, one can hear in Agaetis Byrjun the foreshadowing of every Sigur full-length that followed; the muted shifts of ( ) in ‘Avalon’, the parading orchestral enthusiasm of Takk… in ‘Staralfur’ and the acoustic trepidation of the title track which flourished on Með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust. Speaking from the time period, however, each of these compositions seemed woven from but one finely stitched imagination, completely alien from any musical sphere known to man.

Often I’ve wondered whether the inverted (and thusly chronological) shock of hearing Agaetis Byrjun first would’ve bested the course I stumbled upon, but it hardly matters. Funny thing is, there’s nothing about my love for Agaetis Byrjun that boils down to sweet nostalgia. While I might look back upon that summer of discovery with a slight smirk, I remember – between my awful 4am workdays and general restlessness - how unpleasant those months were. This record hardly needs a memory-crutch as it remains a document of uncompromised beauty, wonder and originality; one capable of casting a positive light on just about everything and anyone. Yes, this is a technicality since the record was only available domestically in Iceland until 2001, but if there was one record ready to take us into the new millennium, it’s Agaetis Byrjun.

Moth/Wolf Cub 12" - Burial + Four Tet

Moth/Wolf Cub

Four Tet & Burial
Text Records.

SCQ Rating: 86%

Like many electronica fans, I digested the curious news two weeks ago of a super-limited twelve-inch release that sported rare collaborations between Four Tet and Burial. No details, no confirmation from either camp responsible, and above all else, copies of this release had sold out before most major online-publications caught word of its existence! So I ravenously searched for proof of life, finding the same scraps as everyone else, before accidentally discovering it (and by “it”, yes, I mean the actual vinyl) several days ago. Forgive any bragging that ensues…

There’s a mystic rustling at the commencement of ‘Moth’; a masala of test-tones and dull taps that provide one’s first audio accompaniment to the many questions of this mystery release. The most common and probably necessary query to coattail this release boils down to who is responsible for what, given there are no liner notes amid the black-clad cover-art. Did each artist produce a side to this twelve-inch or were both tracks written and recorded together? Both bloggers and professional critics have embraced this lack of information with a zest best remembered from the days of print magazines and anticipated release dates, but it’s a question easily answered if, of course, you actually own the record. Each side of this limited vinyl is inscribed with the song and artist responsible, and on both sides, it reads: “Burial + Four Tet”. Case closed. If that doesn’t satiate your doubt, however, you can always just listen and discover the obvious collison of these two artists yourself.

Anyway, enough mystic rustling: we’ve traded enough mysteries when, really, the music proves to be the real story. As soon as ‘Moth’ flickers into its divine techno-trance of deep bass stabs and dancefloor stutter, you’ll think you’ve found the best club track of the year. Then it’ll wiggle out of its strict bassline and bounce from a softer lens, maintaining its momentum but increasingly dewier, out of focus, and upon Burial’s inclusion of perfectly-pitched vocal samples, you might just realize it’s the best electronic track of 2009. Moving from direct, spontaneous and white-knuckled to a nearly muted, nostalgic reflection of its first half, ‘Moth’ is artful in a way few dance tracks of recent years have been capable of. It’s a result could only arrive from not one, but two of our finest electronic producers, as both sets of fingerprints are all over these tracks. Imagine the frenetic melodies of Four Tet’s Ringer EP that endlessly cycled its own footsteps, yet instead of being stabilized by that EP’s dependence on 4/4 techno beats, now imagine Hebden’s loops hitched to Burial’s ever-accomplished percussive clatter - those wood-block thuds and concrete-wet smacks – which, combined, gives spirited new direction for both artists in the heart-pounding ‘Wolf Cub’. If ‘Moth’ is poised to steal the best dancefloors in Britain this summer, than ‘Wolf Cub’ might soundtrack the footrace that ensues out the back of the club and into the jungle night. Although Four Tet’s cut-up codas lay the track’s foundation, this is inevitably Burial’s high-point; each subtle tap or pounding grime-step beat deviating between sympathetic rain-on-window or irresistible, elastic, hammerhead euphoria. As these two compositions shift between speeds and emotions, Moth/Wolf Cub warrants the tease/argument of being both Four Tet and Burial’s finest work to date.

Artistic collaborations between solo artists are commonly akin to B-movies, not because the musicians involved are subpar but because with collaboration comes varied ideas, with varied ideas comes ego or disagreement, and with ego or disagreement comes polarity or - the evil enemy of art itself - consensus. It’s an extremely unpolished thesis but the proof is everywhere; it’s the reason Lindstrom albums are infinitely more anticipated than Lindstrom & Prins Thomas albums and, dare I say, Four Tet albums take precedence over Fridge albums. It’s also why remix albums are virtual footnotes to an artist’s body of work. How Burial and Four Tet sidestepped the usual homogenization inherent to collaboration is unbeknownst to me, but it’s a strategy as coveted and important as the resulting document itself. Now I’m no fool; the hype surrounding this release can only bolster the blogosphere’s blind delight. Yet if either of these tracks showed trace of a recycled or substandard idea, this underhanded press-approach would come off as little more than a hollow gimmick. Truth is, the whole package is so damned fresh, you’ll forget the piece of vinyl was hyped in the first place. Sure, these two producers may’ve first crossed paths on The Eraser RMXS but after Moth/Wolf Cub, their future collaborations (rumoured to be in the process) look to be deservedly higher in profile.

Choral - Mountains

Choral

Mountains
Thrill Jockey Records.
Myspace

SCQ Rating: 64%

I make the mistake of expecting too much from albums, many of which seemingly belonging to the ambient tag. Maybe it’s because I own several ambient albums that I adore to the point of envy, while the other 40% of them stare longingly with pristine spines; easily listenable, easily neglected. If you’d like to know the true, unedited theory on ambient records loitering the corners of my mind, I’d have to admit that an ambient record is only as potent as your mood. Flung headfirst into an anxiety-ridden or sexually exhausting relationship, you could grab any well-conceived ambient record and make it your personal therapy/sex-romp-aftermath soundtrack and chances are, you’ll grow to love it. Dropped from your fantasy job or dream girl, you could blindly choose any ambient piece from a respected label and likely find solace. Because listening to this genre requires an understanding far less tangible than your average litmus test of relatable lyrics and six-degrees-of-band-separation. When you decide to throw on an ambient record, you’re really choosing to explore the innermost recesses of your mind. In other words, you’re choosing to zone the fuck out… and what you hear might reflect what you innately feel.

So for those uninterested in my self-absorbed theory and those who simply want to know about Choral, the latest album by duo Brendon Anderegg and Koen Holtkamp: yes, it’s a soothing, quaint album, one that carves its own niche by incorporating so many analogue instruments, it’s arguably post-rock. As moody guitar-piece ‘Map Table’ cautiously branches into softly descending arpeggios, ‘Telescope’ takes standard strumming and drowns it in fuzzy atmospherics. The twelve-minute title track bodes well by accomplishing some mighty classy tempo switches but similar long-form techniques are wasted with ‘Add Infinity’, a track whose title arguably gives away their songwriting playbook. Their choice of which tracks to run toward infinity with is also a shame, since ‘Sheets Two’ is a tenth of the length but deserves the real fleshing-out.

The majority of Choral would be thrilling if listened to while an approaching storm blew in, but I’m stuck with it on my morning underground-commutes. Now far be it from me to lambast a record for requiring conditional listening; that’s partly an issue with my given listening environment. This is a fine album and Mountains prove themselves quite able to execute affecting ambient-drone. Yet is Choral’s relatively minor impact on my life, here and now, a reaction to my considerably settled lifestyle (no firings, breakups or new relationships present) or does my ho-hum reaction stem from the whole album’s contentment with settling? I mean, these six songs could be natural, individual craters of one endless plateau; never peaking, never arching in any exciting manner. There’s a difference between being happily settled and plain bored; zone out with Choral for an hour and you might experience both.

Life and Times - Bob Mould

Life and Times

Bob Mould
Anti- Records.
Myspace

SCQ Rating: 62%

District Line, Mould’s 2008 effort, fared better on SCQ than it probably should have. Here’s a songwriter who, fronting Husker Du, helped bring American hardcore to the public eye, formed the successful pop band Sugar and intermittently released fine solo records, but I only know this because of Wikipedia. That’s the truth when it comes to a subject as broad and multifaceted as music; you can’t be aware of everything and Mould was a case in point. As such, the man’s brilliance hit me like a twenty-year-strong freight train, making District Line one of SCQ’s most beloved records of the year. Fourteen months later, Mould is back with his second Anti- release, Life and Times; an apparent bookend to his first solo album, Workbook, as well as a precursor to his currently in-the-works memoirs. Such build-up and decades-old press references seem unfounded, as this latest collection acts as neither sequel nor supplementary package to Mould’s life story. In fact, Life and Times thematically picks up right where District Line left off, dealing with straining connections and aging hearts.

While Mould still offers reflective narratives accompanied by hard-hitting melodies, the true distinction here is Mould’s return to direct rock dynamics and foregoing his electronic trappings. Sure, the decision is at least aesthetically similar to his rustic Workbook but Mould is now twenty years older and by subtracting his protooled atmospherics, Mould is inadvertently showcasing how stationary his compositions have become. The snarl remains on rockers like ‘Spiraling Down’ and ‘Argos’ but both lack bite; as committed and consistent as Mould’s vocals are, these are paint-by-number examples of radio-rock, brash and harmless. ‘City Lights (Days Go By)’ would’ve been forgivable had Mould written it for, I don’t know, Sting, but it sounds too middle-aged for a man who, despite his own middle-age, keeps an authentic conviction half his age. Worse yet is lead single ‘I’m Sorry, Baby, But You Can’t Stand in my Light Anymore’, which clashes its awkward title against some of the most familiar chord progressions you’ve ever heard.

Despite Life and Times being a frequently shrug-worthy struggle, Mould manages a few key tracks to keep the album afloat. The opening title track is almost too good, as a vocoder-less vocal ruminates about the return of an ex while patient snare-hits usher a full-band blast as Mould asks aloud:

“What the fuck, what kicked up all this dust?/
You’re taking me back to the places I left behind/
the old life and times.”

It’s a blistering start and, as detailed in the last paragraph, a tragic tease of promise. Likewise, ‘The Breach’ displays Mould’s unique delivery next to muscular rock arrangements and ‘Bad Blood Better’ is the latest in his tradition of including one super-morose ‘relationship = death’ song; both tracks are great. The best is saved for last, however, as ‘Lifetime’ (not to be confused with ‘Life and Times’… sensing a theme here?) kinda-well-sorta breaks Mould’s promise by imbedding heaps of digital noise, treated keys and xylophone to a beautifully nostalgic song of love’s failures. ‘Lifetime’ doesn’t sonically fit into this album and it’s all the better for it, proving (right after ‘I’m Sorry, Baby…’ ‘s lowpoint) that Mould can still write embarrassingly great songs.

Had I heard the majority of Mould’s solo discography, I’d have a better idea of where Life and Times fits qualitatively (chances are, it would probably land square in the middle of the spectrum). A year after I first celebrated District Line, however, this release seems purposefully undercooked and bewilderingly rushed. Perhaps it’s all part of Life and Times’ would-be statement, that Mould, after years of lite-electronic tinkering, remains an impressive rock musician. It’s an assertion he only needed to prove to himself, I think, and here’s hoping the Husker Du alumni’s next project is burden-free, finding him looking forward instead of backward.

wow.