Having a song entitled ‘Focus’ doesn’t immediately say a lot about your band’s sound but, when that track starts like a grounded Get Up Kids and finishes like a devil-may-care Pavement, it does inform listeners as to the irony and energy percolating beneath the surface of this Halifax outfit. Whether Gamma Gamma Rays are cresting on detuned guitar jams or surveying intricate arrangements, new flourishes threaten their course at every heartbeat. Bearing curves that feel more like detours than flat-out U-turns, the eleven songs that constitute Beeps swarm with countless ideas but make sure to execute at least several to their full potential. Dizzying as this may initially sound, our failed attempts at pinning Gamma Gamma Rays down ends up being half the fun of courting Beeps.
Let me backtrack a moment; yes, this quintet packs songs as if they’re piñatas loaded with name-brand candy and frilly trimmings, but that chaos never overwhelms. Nor does it take precedence over clever songwriting; the spiky rush of ‘Banks’ connects the missing link between euphoric post-punk and orchestral pop (what with its lovely piano cascades) whereas ‘Blame’ savours a moment’s stillness before delving into scrappy indie-rock. Beeps’ glowing variety in part stems from influences, at different points finding the band cozying up to Modest Mouse (on ‘Growth and Health’) and Conor Oberst’s voice-shredding side-project Desaparecidos. Above those superficial parallels, Gamma Gamma Rays’ sound attracts because its clattering orchestration never relies on easy mood-setting effects that many pop acts utilize. Even the few tracks (‘Great Sons’, for example) that get overshadowed by their more melodic counterpoints display genuine, nearly-made-it potential. Truly indie-rock in its innovative and hands-on approach, Beeps deserves its jovial outlook, stitched of DIY charms and tiny triumphs.
Joe Lapaglia’s hometown of Niagara Falls, NY, has always rung false to me as a Canadian whose hometown exists twenty-minutes shy of Niagara Falls, Ontario. That two distinct countries share the world-wonder made sense, given the Falls’ proximity to the border, but driving over a bridge from one Niagara Falls to another – essentially leaving a country and yet not the city’s namesake – became a source of childhood confusion. Why have two entities right next to each other that pride themselves on the exact same thing? In short: because they still feel and look different. Whereas Canada’s half of the Falls became overrun with tacky sideshows and tourist-traps, the American side subsists on a quieter, suburban backdrop.
Joe Lapaglia exists on a similar parallel with Ben Chasny, also known as Six Organs of Admittance, in that both acts circle the same well of inspiration. Longform guitar jams weave delicately over coarse, sometimes abrupt, collages of noise and ambience while Lapaglia rasps in a softer, confident tone. ‘Days You’ve Left’ effectively encapsulates this streamlined take on Chasny’s aura, as fluently plucked acoustic-strings form a backbone of autumnal regret that eventually turns into a distortion-blurred wrath. These aurally abusive outbursts typically show up unannounced, preceding both the otherwise lovely ‘Soon Will Come’ and ‘Here, We Will Bury Our Memories’ without really playing into either song’s construction. To redeem these thrashing moments of disconnect, ‘In the Wake’ ties the sonic fury into its mood, allowing the electric to latch onto a momentum already worked-up via Lapaglia’s trusted acoustic. Even when faced with the psyched-out lead guitar of ‘Beyond the Edges’, no foul-play exists in Soon’s evocation of Six Organs of Admittance. Lapaglia avoids venturing into some of Chasny’s international influences and, besides, songs like ‘Somewhere, Tennessee’ display a soothing, textural focus that would disagree with Chasny’s malevolent side. If Lapaglia’s compositional efforts are purposefully so leveled, it would benefit this hour-length record to feature an occasional songwriting curveball for narrative’s sake. With each track so meditative and static, Soon illustrates a forested plateau lacking either an origin or exit sign.
Despite his rock-oriented set-up, Joe Lapaglia belongs on Moodgadget because, even without a heavy dependence on electronics, his music possesses that hypnotic quality the New York-slash-Michigan label is respected for. Soon proves that there’s no shortage of room left to wade in today’s brooding psych-folk well; if you’re a fan of what’s come before, don’t hesitate to cross this bridge.
This summer’s remix-heavy You EP, although enjoyable primarily for its few original tracks, seemed incapable of telling us what Gold Panda was really about. Sure, the title track suggested a beatsmith with the melodic ear of Four Tet while ‘Peaky Caps’ and ‘Killing Yourself On a Beach’ obsessed themselves with micro-house tinkering, but Lucky Shiner illustrates a much more thorough outline of Gold Panda’s strengths and intentions. ‘You’, which prefaces this debut full-length no differently than that cloaked EP, remains the poppiest effort here, but it’s a sugary appetizer compared to Lucky Shiner’s heady bulk.
That opener’s milking of repetition sounds elementary once ‘Vanilla Minus’ peppers over the speakers like a millisecond of Detroit techno spliced and thrown off-axis into an oscillating synth-line. Samples are incorporated patiently, not so patiently as to snowball into eight-minute decadence, but subtle enough for these disparaging pieces to fit snugly within half the time. Imagine hearing the euphoria of The Field but without Axel Willner ever coasting; that’s the Gold Panda M.O. That adventurous take on The Field’s love of repetition inspires a handful of other highlights here, from the stabs of trance like passing headlights on ‘Snow and Taxis’ to the bending momentum of ‘Marriage’’s club-hook.
Perhaps it’s because Gold Panda’s focus on textures tend to override the presence of any prominent bass, but Lucky Shiner – despite its BPM earnings – isn’t made for the dance-floor. Surrounding those upbeat bouts of jubilation are less concrete permutations of electronic songwriting, resulting in the micro-note armies behind ‘I’m With You But I’m Lonely’. The split duo of ‘Before We Talked’ and ‘After We Talked’ stray further from Lucky Shiner’s breathtaking first half; the former would’ve fared better sticking to its morning ambience undertow than tacking a hokey half-melody on top, and the latter track never gathers enough steam to jump beyond its sluggish core.
At Lucky Shiner’s optimal, Gold Panda motions electronic-pop toward a threshold that’s equally melancholic and joyous, with a technique both tender and visceral. ‘Same Dream China’ and ‘India Lately’ even advance his nonchalant approach to worldly influences by pitting deft beats against timeless organic instruments which, sampled or not, deepen the beauty of this collection. It’s certainly one of the better electronic records this year, but I wholeheartedly believe Gold Panda will top this sometime stunning but unbalanced debut.
Justin Rutledge’s name has always been more familiar to me than his work. It's a name that might not stand out among Canada’s folk-centric export-list of birth-name musicians totting acoustic guitars, where the truly gifted tend to blur in with the coattail clingers. Yet the Rutledge name has far more prestigious connotations than local indie-admiration, and the man twice long-listed for the Polaris Prize officially distinguishes himself from our nation’s sad-sack contemporaries on The Early Widows.
The grounds that single Rutledge out from a line-up of rootsy, plaid-wearing balladeers isn’t as cut-and-dry as the laws of genre would prefer. Yes, The Early Widows bears the alt-country cross, even if the reality of its ten songs is far bleaker and emotive than most followers of Great Lake Swimmers or Hayden could handle. This is death-country, patiently throbbing amidst a spectrum of highs and lows (mostly lows) reminiscent of California’s infamous desert valley. So then what renders the yearning ‘Islands’ or ‘Turn Around’, with its kick-drum echoing canyon-wide, so captivating? Rutledge’s quivering vocals don’t disappoint, lending a committed authenticity to lyrical olive-branches, and his frugal climaxes ensures The Early Widows’ flow more meditative than conservative, but give due credit to Hawksley Workman as well. Without Workman’s subdued but all-encompassing production, placing expertly layered contributions into a barren but hopeful abyss, Rutledge’s restraint and perpetually earnest tone might’ve stretched this record into an unmerciful marathon. At their chest-beating best, Rutledge and Workman churn out exhausted ballads about drawing lines in the dirt. ‘Be a Man’ and ‘I Have Not Seen the Light’ both build from down-and-out lyrics and Top 40 country-signifiers to rousing choruses that satisfy any listener’s restless highway spirit.
If the mention of “exhausted ballads” doesn’t tickle your buying-bone, The Early Widows will likely test your patience. Even ‘The Heart Of a River’, an excellent mid-tempo rocker, can’t balance out its neighbouring stillness. Those with a tolerant ear, however, will persevere Rutledge’s pitch-black plateaus and learn to appreciate their creeping beauty. Although the pacing may be litigious for some, the album’s mood fills in any generous compositional holes with pedal-steel and choirs. All of these additional musicians create a bigger, more compelling picture for The Early Widows, even if none of them can make it feel tighter.
First off, Monuments (a duo known as the preeminent Shane Murphy and myself) have reconvened after last winter’s Valentines mix with a seasonal mix called Autumn Sweaters (download it here). Fall was destined for lonely harmonicas to follow your footsteps, for acoustic strings to scrape like curled leaves on the sidewalk, and for this mix to play as your companion. With each step and song, we embrace its gentle breezes and vibrant colours as witnesses to a great collapse. This is a procession of death, y’all, get on-board.
It was during our preliminary planning for this autumn mix that we confronted the whole mentality behind reducing a piece of pop-art to a particular season. Unlike summer and winter records which easily compliment or oppose their season’s mood on instinct, fall albums tend to rely on subjectivity. The harder I looked for an autumn album I hadn’t discovered between the months of September and November, the more beleaguered my theories became. Are there real autumn albums or just perceived ones gained through seasonal osmosis?
Let this fall’s Quarterly feature act as the latest exhibit to either prove the concrete existence of autumn records or discard the idea as subjective nonsense. I hope this season captures you at your best.
Post-punk, to me, is premiere party-music. It launches out of the gate with a bass-heavy groove full of tension and uncertainty, then rides that momentum with deviations – some subtle, some grandiose – in a pattern that elicits a fully present hypnosis. New Order, Cocteau Twins; any genre that creates enough elbow-room for these two acts deserves acquisitions like Future Islands, a band capable of cutting performances and swoon-ready tempos. With a record so capably catering to very different circles, as both a party record and a break-up soundtrack, In Evening Air’s most unfamiliar association is its label, Thrill Jockey, more commonly known for structural experimentation than heart-pounding love-letters.
Future Islands’ core sound, on the other hand, feels familiar; maybe it’s the way vocalist Samuel Herring’s enunciation recalls a tortured Torquil Campbell of Stars, or perhaps it’s how the band’s take on post-punk extends beyond the tight confines of minimal synth into something scarier and more satisfying. ‘Long Flight’, which incorporates samples from the STS-1 shuttle launch, uses that discord as a dirge to alter the tempo perceived by its spritely percussion. ‘An Apology’ stretches those smoke-and-mirrors further, letting programmed drumming push on like a metronome while an unobtrusive synthesizer mans the counter-tempo. The rhythm section of J. Welmers and William Cashion are crucial, but another ingredient twists and bends the immediacy of In Evening Air: Herring’s vocal delivery. Moonlighting with a desperate rasp, Herring’s transformation from weirdo-crooner to cathartic bellower acts as a game-changer for off-kilter single ‘Tin Man’ and retro ballad ‘Inch of Dust’.
It’s that break-up-at-a-party combination again; you’ve just had your heart broken but the momentum’s so addictive, you can’t stop feeding the festive mood. Wallowing in self-pity has rarely sounded this controlled or liberating. In Evening Air’s macabre edge completes its impression as a perfect companion for autumn’s best parties and heart-heavy moments.
Brian Eno & Harold Budd Astralwerks/Virgin Records.
SCQ Rating: 80%
Eno-readers who weren’t alive during the time of Roxy Music seem to break-down into three groups: (1) those who are trying to gauge whether Music For Airports really is the ambient record to invest in, (2) those who are finally looking to branch off from Music For Airports, and (3) David Byrne fans who’ve wandered to the left. That third group I won’t comment on, namely because I can’t speak for them, but The Pearl contains valuable insights into Eno’s career that music critics, armed with twenty-twenty hindsight, typically overlook. As for groups (1) and (2), if any record can upset Music For Airports’ rank as the premiere ambient album, it can likely be found amid a shortlist of other Eno classics. Less hyperbolized than Ambient 4: On Land or Another Green World but equally powerful is The Pearl, the almighty underdog.
In 1984, the same year he composed the long-form Thursday Afternoon and produced U2’s The Unforgettable Fire, Eno camped out at Daniel Lanois’ Hamilton, Ontario studio and produced The Pearl with Harold Budd. A striking collection of piano-based compositions with transient electronics slinking behind Budd’s notes, The Pearl works with the same fluidity and grace that marked Eno’s heralded classics. What’s shifted, then, is Music For Airports’ sterility; here replaced with palpable emotion that weaves through ‘Late October’ like distant memories. Neither happy nor regretful, stunning follow-ups like ‘A Stream Of Bright Fish’ and ‘Against the Sky’ evoke those recollections as rightly intangible, thus partly tragic. Eno’s initial mission statement for ambient music still applies in spite of Budd’s thoughtful progressions but The Pearl become increasingly oblique, slipping further into heavy grays as the disc continues. The echo-wrapped piano strolls into eerie surroundings on ‘Dark-Eyed Sister’ and again for the twilight gloom of ‘Foreshadowed’.
Perhaps it’s that arc – an inevitability when you’re working with a renowned composer like Budd – which spoils The Pearl’s ambience for a purist’s perspective, thereby damning it to the completist’s end of Eno’s catalog. It hardly matters. As a studied appreciation between classical and electronic backgrounds, Budd and Eno weren’t afraid to give ambience some direction; that devious smile is what ultimately distinguishes The Pearl.
“Have you heard this yet?” Heather asked suddenly, lifting a copy of Admiral Fell Promises from a pile on her bed. No, my girlfriend Emily replied, explaining how she and I had been saving it until autumn came around. The end of September had ushered the beginning of fall and, although the outside gardens were still wet with green, we decided to end our Sun Kil Moon fasting. Heather hadn’t heard it properly either, having tried it once in her fiancé’s noisy car and given up. Now that fiancé is a husband, Heather’s his wife, and the soft finger-plucked notes of ‘Alesund’ dance into a room threatened by abandonment. Wall decorations that have marked her territory from student flops to this parental loft now lie on the bed, while cherished CDs have been pillaged from their shelves. Endless pamphlets for wedding locations, wedding dresses, wedding caterers and honeymoon resorts fold crisply into the trash.
Emily and I sat against Heather’s closed door, exhausted from a day of Boston shopping and Indian cuisine. No sooner had I arrived at the house when I developed a fever, something that made Mark Kozelek’s stripped arrangements more isolating but no less soothing. Certain tracks spoke out more immediately, like the sweetly melodic title track that harkens back to April’s more contemplative material. That’s the problem with the present, though; trying to determine the worth of a current moment seems impossible next to the power of a later memory. Admiral Fell Promises works no differently, expelling the attributes that would catch most listeners off-guard in favour of slow-burning melodies that dig under our skins over time.
Drinking tea on the floor and hopelessly dazed, I was still vulnerable to Kozelek’s skeletal atmospheres developed over lonely nylon strings. ‘Half Moon Bay’ speaks to New Hampshire’s blanketed night, its almost bluesy refrain carried by a haunted vocal performance. The bleak ‘Australian Winter’ burrows further toward autumn’s frozen end, begging for a fireside to warm our faces from all Kozelek’s old-fashioned inhospitality. Although technically astounding in their naked skill, these cold-hearted compositions can’t be salvaged by Kozelek’s warm timbre alone, his guitar’s darkness enveloping us no differently than the mouth of night swallowing this farmhouse. To quell the burden, the majority of these lengthy tracks drift off into incidental classical figures that provide a lighthearted bent to ‘The Leaning Tree’ and deepen the emotional complexity of ‘Third and Seneca’. And occasionally, as on ‘Church Of the Pines’, Kozelek breaks into bouts of experimentation, seemingly testing passages off of each other to see how they gel. Naturally, they do.
An hour of such narrow scope can understandably blur upon early listens and the calm beauty of ‘Bay Of Skulls’ closed the disc while we conversed unaware. Heather was due to take her luggage to the new apartment downtown but ended up staying late to watch bad movies, snack, and take comfort in the cozy paralysis a farmhouse affords after dark. Most of Admiral Fell Promises’ virtually endless subtleties were lost on us then, leaving only gentle progressions that scored tired conversations, but I’m swimming in those details now. Maybe, like all of Sun Kil Moon’s best work, that’s what substitutes all of Admiral Fell Promises’ empty space: memories. Those occasional waves of reflection in which you realize the implications of what was once an ironed-flat, cause-and-effect present and the crises, the ruts, and rites of passage you now admit as your past. Wistful for whatever reasons, maybe that’s the push Kozelek’s music gives us: to feel those moments we lost to the present.
“I’m really glad we waited until fall to hear that,” I told Emily the next morning, but I didn’t know the half of it. Rarely has a record stirred my interest in guitar tones so, and those obsessive codas have followed my park-side walks to work ever since our New England trip. Reminiscent of the four-track EP that April came bundled with, Admiral Fell Promises showcases Kozelek surveying the space of his own charisma, subdued but undeniably hypnotic. If memories are to assist us beyond the anecdotal excuses of this record review, let them highlight the refinement we’ve undergone as individuals since. And for Mark Kozelek, let Admiral Fell Promises stand as his sophisticated peak, a masterpiece of his former self.
Anyone who has even glimpsed over Skeleton Crew Quarterly knows that this is a haven for album discussion. Nobody who regularly scavenges these parts should be overly concerned with individual tracks, back-stories or tour-dates because, even in this digital age, all facets of music remain hinged upon recorded music. The art of creating a moving body of songs that sequence well and conjure something greater than the sum of their parts is perpetually changing, but the mindset remains the same. Gianna Lauren, whether she’s ever thought about it or not, knows this mindset all too well.
She’d have to, because Some Move Closer, Some Move On has the forethought and finesse of a great album. Bearing a tone would’ve felt tucked away had it not encompassed the vast majority of these eleven songs, Lauren’s sophomore album creates enormous elbow-room from the quaint quarters her music compliments. Drawing from languid bass-notes and molasses-slow guitar progressions, tracks such as ‘Be Nice’ and ‘Stowaway’ expand upon their minimalism with tasteful ventures into moody ambience that feel out and pad the corners of any listening space. None of this intimacy would matter so much if pocketed into couplets but Some Move Closer, Some Move On’s stirring start, with opener ‘Become What You Can’t Be’ peppering soft beats next to warm strings, grabs us with Lauren’s understated presence. A horn section, undoubtedly one of the toughest things to work fluently into a predominantly low-key record, arrives naturally, its fanfare as somber and elegant on ‘Standstill’ as the depression-era jazz tempo whispering through ‘Hold Your Horses’'s gramophone.
Although the songwriting-side of Gianna Lauren may attract fans of Cat Power’s brooding early work, the arrangements of Some Move Closer, Some Move On breathe like those found on a post-rock record. The spacious guitar-work of ‘We Were Displaced’ rings of Mogwai - yes, Mogwai! - even before she commands her electric six-string to a chugging climax. Few albums drop so many convoluted signifiers, ranging from folk to gospel (as on the a cappella ‘Oh Feather’), without sounding like a misdirected mash-up. Then again, few artists sound as fresh and original as Gianna Lauren.
Industrial noise must be a tough drug for electronic artists to dabble in. More often than not, it seems interspersing industrial elements into one’s laptop palette results in an overdose of dark synths that brood over and serrate any notion of a melody that might’ve been. ‘deep sleeping birds’ may be little more than an appetizer to proceedings but its jagged metallic shards repeatedly convinced me to skip those following twelve tracks and play something brighter instead. Little did I know that Enough Conflict’s opener is a red herring, a chrome-heavy chunk of IDM that stands alone in recalling all of those industrial-dependent artists who can’t muster any light to contrast their gloom.
Things take a positive turn from that point on, as Richard Bailey displays electronic songwriting unmasked of its ominous smoke and mirrors. Leave it to a song called ‘guns.knives.lemons’ to first let rays of sunlight upon Bailey’s tough-as-nails beats, but with the help of some acid squiggles and buzz-saw ambience, assenting vibes follow course. Enough Conflict doesn’t ditch its early industrial leanings but balances them more evenly with airy cinematics (‘jiittirrrrriii’) and crystal-clear melodies (‘seafaring velvet waltz’). For electronica fans who find all the doomladen material a bit cumbersome for everyday listening, Proem’s latest acts as an ideal gateway record; still fraught with challenging passages but melded to enticing refrains that, whether dreamy or nightmarish, should give industrial-fearing kids like myself an appreciation for punchier IDM. At times evoking Aphex Twin, Bailey creates concrete song-constructions from the otherworldly ‘she never cries’ and the Drukqs-era ‘a short bit before you go’.
A mixed bag of harsh beat patterns (‘back to fail’) and tender soundscapes (‘kalimba jam’), Enough Conflict, like its title, feels oddly at peace with its scattered ideas. Satisfied letting its unsettled nature drift almost organically song to song, Proem’s eighth LP often feels lacking in narrative, as if each stage of its journey finds disconnected chaos, serenity, or one within the other. Although concise in running-time, the record stretches generously without any major, game-changing highlights – something ultimately more liberating than detracting. It may not be for everyone… but anyone with an ear for IDM would be remiss to pass on a listen of Enough Conflict.
Pretention is a matter of dates. Those who argue between worthy innovation and been-there bullshit are slipping down a subjective wash, divided by musical knowledge and general preferences. About two weeks ago, a showdown concerning pretention kicked up on No Ripcord over its review of Public Strain, Women’s sophomore album, which was described as “auditory maliciousness”. Yet for a record with such a comprehensive blueprint for divisiveness, it’s strange that Public Strain’s relationship to lo-fi – a focus-point in many of the readers’ colorful comments – lies at the center of debate. Unlike the contest between innovation and pretention, there’s a tangible difference separating orchestration from noise, premeditation from experimentation.
Treat ‘Can’t You See’ as the debate’s official litmus test: if all you hear over the course of the opener’s three-minutes and forty-one seconds is off-key screeching and plodding bass, well, nobody should argue that this record isn’t for you. For the rest of us: yes, Public Strain has lo-fi’s elusiveness but only as a playful tool to position these songs within earshot or frustratingly beyond. The argued-over ‘Penal Colony’ ascribes to similar subdued effects first heard in ‘Can’t You See’, but feels warm and aquatic as if Jim O’Rourke had taken over sound-duties. Instead it’s Chad VanGaalen behind the boards, stretching strings, laying down warm keys and recording some of Women’s most pristine rock jams. Whether you buy into VanGaalen’s blizzard of drones or not, the merits of lo-fi needn’t come up; there isn’t any four-track tape-hiss or untrained static being wielded here.
Speaking of O'Rourke: Sonic Youth must love this album, and not because the two bands share lo-fi as an icebreaker. Women’s songwriting compliments the Thurston Moore-led outfit’s exceptional approach to pop music, rebuilding the genre’s foundations with scathing arrangements that would sound self-hating to most pop purists. Bass-driven grooves cement ‘Narrow With the Hall’ and vicious call-and-answer guitar-spikes surf ‘China Steps’ to a calming resolution, showing Public Strain’s considerable thaw; one that pierces VanGaalen’s desolate atmospheres with rays of clearheaded (but still rightly soggy) pop sensibilities. None of these sonic parallels tread on Sonic Youth’s history in the least and yet elements of this uneven, patience-testing sophomore by Women strike mirrored threads of genius that pepper E.V.O.L. or even Sister.
Some hooks are nearly inaudible, but their set-up and repetitions are felt in tiny collisions, as how the bass and guitar finish each other’s thoughts in ‘Heat Distraction’. Otherwise it’s the deceiving nature of Public Strain’s negative space that transforms these initially underwhelming valleys (‘Can’t You See’, ‘Penal Colony’) into wondrous slow moments which, through no accident, reveal their faults as charms we’d never really considered before. In some cases, listeners may require closing highlight ‘Eyesore’ to put all of Public Strain’s wayward instrumentation into perspective. There is a slight learning-curve here. Even in the presence of ‘Drag Open’ and its tremendous ferocity, I acknowledge that the punk-as-fuck DIY spirit can only bring you so far. Teamed with VanGaalen, Women have transgressed lo-fi for the greater good, delivering one of the year’s most quietly affecting indie-rock records.
Last Saturday night, the temperature hit zero for the first time in five months. Just a tiny touchstone in the greater transition toward winter but, standing on a transit platform, I witnessed its effects as if I’d just fallen out of July. The glow of humidity that hung beneath summer streetlights, seemingly magnifying the reach of its rays, had gone and all of the hospitality of Ottawa’s downtown core – the warmth of its curbs and benches – was thinning into the sidewalk’s texture. And, waiting for the last-call bus, I took in winter’s first breath with Broadcasts In Colour dancing between my headphones; a record that grapples for the heat of the moment between subdued and chilly mood-scapes.
Despite ‘As Far From Here As Possible’ being peppered by prominent IDM beats and treated melodies that arrive and pass like speeding headlights, Boy Is Fiction’s embrace of autumnal melancholy lasts until ‘Feeling Lazy’ delivers a swoon-worthy anthem that exists purely in the present. That Alex Gillett’s lazy feeling acts as the potent focus to such an emotionally motivated song unveils just a shade to his songwriting’s complexity, the greater confusion residing in the question: why doesn’t Gillett write more of these electronic-pop stunners? Heavily treated vocals make another appearance in ‘Until Morning Comes’ but are barely audible amidst the drums and lovely piano that carry the majority of these songs. The densely layered ‘I Close My Eyes’ plants these piano progressions into an industrial pit that Jesu might approve of, unlike ‘Either Way, I’m Dead’ which languishes them in stand-still ambience. Standing firm at seventy-five minutes, though, the record's growing dependence on pretty instrumentals makes us long for another upbeat, vocal-assisted anthem.
Flexing songwriting chops that excel at capturing the sweet and menacing, Broadcasts In Colour keeps remarkable flow considering how perpetually unstable its direction is. Gillett has vision and talent - attributes that are plainly audible within his LP's purposeful ego - but these widescreen laments not only become predictable (take what should’ve been one of the record’s loveliest moments, 'For My Friend', here undermined by an overused template), they outweigh what ‘Feeling Lazy’ proves to be Gillett’s equal skill. An enviable collection of songs to take through the brisk weather, Broadcasts In Colour leaves somber clues to what tremendous follow-up album may lie ahead if Gillett balances his gifts.
Luke Doucet & the White Falcon Six Shooter Records.
SCQ Rating: 73%
“It’s strange,” Doucet admitted in a recent interview with Canada.com. “I still sometimes wake up and go: ‘How the fuck did I end up in Hamilton?’” Now there’s a sentiment I can immediately relate to, having lived my own spontaneous, month-by-month existence in our nation’s notorious Steel Town. Sometimes it’s easier to question my time in Hamilton than to remember the reasons that delivered me, no differently than how its garish cityscape of industrial towers and thick smog disguise the many charms that lay just beyond view. Steel Town Trawler, a joint project between Toronto ex-pat Luke Doucet and cartoonist David Collier, embraces this conflicted romance with Hamilton through blue-collar tunes and a comic protagonist who’s battling to find sanctuary in a troubled town.
For the musical end of Steel Town Trawler, Luke Doucet carves expert impressions into songs of the Hamilton experience. Borrowing from the classic-rock riffs that continue to terrorize the working-man’s radio (y’know: Bachman Turner Overdrive, Ted Nugent, etc.), ‘Love and a Steady Hand’ boasts some familiar percussive prowess (courtesy of Sloan’s Andrew Scott, who produces) whereas anthem-for-a-girl ‘Dirty, Dirty Blonde’ swaggers like a minor summer hit. Doucet’s artistic longing joins the greater proletarian anguish, glorifying the underappreciated on ‘Thinking People’ and empathizing their hardworking principles over the thorny blues-rock of ‘You Gotta Get It’. “Everything I own I slaved for it / and everywhere I been I traveled so far / everyone I love they love me in turn / and every time I crash I burn,” Doucet intones, and his gritty musicianship meets the muse head-on. The White Falcon’s guitar-licks can border on raunchy and Doucet’s lyrics can show vulnerability – sometimes, as shown by ‘Hey Now’, on the same track – but Steel City Trawler rarely drifts too far from its Can-con centre-of-gravity. In the odd case of 'The Ballad of Ian Curtis' (replete with new-wave leanings), it’s an unexpected, unprovoked delight.
David Collier’s graphic novella, bundled and doubling as a lyrics-book, is equally enjoyable to rummage through, capturing the city’s downtrodden feel while investigating some of its beautiful escapes. As with Collier’s chronicle Hamilton Sketchbook, his new tale Lo in Steel City documents the artistic struggle for integrity and, of course, financial survival within Hamilton’s downtown core. Corporate buildings hang “for lease” signs and filth litters the crowded streets. And yet there’s a field where the city dump once was, the Bruce Trail on Hamilton Mountain, and a selection of great music-buying locations (Cheapies and, my favourite, Dr. Disc). Steel Town Trawler is an album full of fun and familiar rock-and-roll jams but it’s Doucet’s subject matter that elevates this record beyond commonplace classic-rock fodder.
Plenty of moments on Holkham Drones attest to Luke Abbott’s ability to cause elation in both our limbs and mind. A flurry of tones stir up and bedazzle listeners into a cocoon of barely distinguishable details before a procession of glassy notes steals your attention. From completely spellbound, you turn euphoric. Tricky sleights of hand like that one, from ‘Trans Forest Alignment’, are no doubt why James Holden signed Abbott to his exclusive Border Community label, but they also position Abbott at the gateway where only the most insightful electronic artists have passed through. He’s no Richard D. James and he isn’t quite yet Kieran Hebden, but Luke Abbott calls to mind the sensitivity those artists’ can impart through the unlikely means of harsh beats and alien synths.
Not much sounds outwardly pretty on Holkham Drones; in fact, the record feels incredibly self-conscious about overlaying too many ear-pleasing sounds at once. A healthy percentage of these tracks begin in only the partially constructed stage, whirring like machinery (‘More Room’) or gurgling like a chemistry experiment (‘Sirens For the Colour’), and Abbott – as mad scientist – slowly creates beauty out of these awkward collisions. It’s a ballsy approach to innovation, guiding listeners through every sonic manipulation, but it works so long as Abbott has an ace up his sleeve. That sleight of hand works wonders on the title track, a swollen coda gently streamlined to its pristine essentials, as well as on the techno rhythm that meets a shoegaze-worthy summit on ‘Brazil’. By squeezing harmony out of resistant forces, Abbott achieves an off-kilter hypnosis that not only sounds purely analog-based, but renders these tracks cozier than you’d initially believe.
Holkham Drones’ episodic momentum can only bring listeners so close and, at sixty-odd minutes in length, it requires rigorous levels of patience. Abbott’s processes are easier to respect than love, meaning those tuneless warm-ups that bookend some of his tracks will likely merit the skip button after a few spins. Still, weak moments aside, Luke Abbott has one tremendous thing going for him: he’s the only guy that sounds like Luke Abbott. In the world of electronica, individuality is a rare gift indeed.
Duos that allow their first names to double as their band name usually fall prey to a series of stereotypes that sketch a well-meaning-but-hopelessly-square folk outfit. If that misguided sentiment is mine alone, I’ll work on it, but my first listen to ‘Mermaids and Surfer Girls’ fit right into that typecast of cutesy folk singers who pride themselves on idiosyncratic lyrics about mermaids and aliens. What turns out to be Colleen and Paul’s fluffiest moment just happened to be my first impression and, needless to say, the song nearly upended my relationship with this debut. It would’ve been a serious shame, as the bulk of Colleen and Paul’s songs contrast their lighthearted approach with peppy compositions that leave melancholic edges for us to cut ourselves on. Don’t worry, it won’t bleed… but it’ll help you relive those times you did.
A good deal of Colleen and Paul’s material touches on relationships, their tumultuous nature and the silly ways we distract ourselves from facing them, so it’s hardly a surprise that Colleen and Paul skips between vague state-of-the-union appeals (‘Please Be Kind’) and disconnected daydreams (‘Ladybug Song’). Regardless of their lyrical content, Colleen Hixenbaugh (of By Divine Right) and Paul Linklater (of the Pinecones) arrange each song to feel carefree first and wistful later. The longingly finger-picked opener ‘Crepe Suzette’ establishes this soft sadness as pleasant and unavoidable; it’s how this nonchalance plays organically into the sharper ‘Shouldn’t I Breathe’ and ‘Lullabye For the T.W.’ that removes almost any trace of occasional triteness. Yeah, even ‘Mermaids and Surfer Girls’ is easier to stomach.
So how did I maneuver from that eye-rolling false impression to a clearer understanding of Colleen and Paul’s obvious talent? Nothing more than a stroll on a clear autumn’s day when the duo’s record unexpectedly registered for what it is: a sweet collection of modern folk that isn’t square at all.
