Geogaddi, the most anticipated sophomore full-length from an IDM act since Aphex Twin's SAW 2 in 1994, certainly looks and feels similar to the 1998 Boards of Canada debut, Music Has the Right to Children. The package design includes artful, bleached-out photos of children playing, while the lengthy track listing balances short vignettes with longer tracks. Fans will be delighted to hear that the music also reveals no great departure from one of the most immediately recognizable sounds in electronica; a pair of Scottish cottage producers apparently whiling away the hours creating music, Boards of Canada specialize in evocative, mournful, sample-laden downtempo music often sounding as though produced on malfunctioning equipment excavated from the ruins of an early-'70s computer lab. Geogaddi has a bit less in the way of melodics (the prime factor why Music Has the Right to Children was an immediate classic) and, as a result, sounds slightly less like trip-hop for fairy tales and more like the slightly experimental, but definitely produced, electronic music it is. Still, Boards of Canada surely haven't lost their touch for creating spectral machine music: "1969" is particularly lovely, with starburst synthesizer lines and disembodied vocoders trilling the chorus (the samples apparently originate from a David Koresh follower). For "Sunshine Recorder," a very fitting vocal sample -- lifted from a documentary concerning a species of dandelion found by sub-aquatic robots on the ocean floor (and yes, that is Leslie Nielsen narrating) -- prefaces the melancholy synth, vocal cut-ups, and glacier-speed basslines. It's clear Boards of Canada labored long to create Geogaddi, since only a tremendous amount of work can produce music that flows so naturally and unobtrusively that it never sounds produced.
Just to reiterate, John Peel had tremendous taste in music! The Sydney, Australia outfit Even As We Speak was one of late UK radio personality’s favorites.The band’s work garnered the attention of Mr. Peel in the early 1990s and as result, help usher in other attention in the form of three Top 5 singles on the Melody Maker_/_New Musical Express independent charts on top of acclaim in their native Australia.
Don’t let the haunting, foreboding opening track “Beelzebub” fool you, the album’s contents is more indicative of the band’s association with Sarah Records (known more for twee/sucrose pop sounds). Musically, the band carries over obvious familiarities like The Go-Betweens (“Falling Down the Stairs”), and The Primitives (“Beautiful Day”), with Paul Clarke’s and Matthew Love’s effervescent guitar work. Where the record differs from its Sarah brethren however is its contradicting pop variations (from the discotheque danceability of “Drown” and “Spirit of Progress” and the heavily-effected “Straight As An Arrow” to the easy flow of acoustic-based “Sailors’ Grave”), and weird segues (spoken word transitions like “Squid” and “Zeppelins” and an out-of-place, mouth-harp led “Cripple Creek”), between song clusters show the more experimental side of the band.
Feral Pop Frenzy remains a record with contradicting qualities of what pop music was at the time of its release all the while pushing a technological envelope of what was at a band’s disposal back in the early ’90s. With its diverse use of instrumentation, the album’s sound scapes sound as fresh today as they did then while Mary Wyer’s nectarous vocals give the tunes a brevity and beauty that allows the band’s sound explorations to remain grounded and wondrous
Stereolab were poised for a breakthrough release with Emperor Tomato Ketchup, their fourth full-length album. Not only was their influence becoming apparent throughout alternative rock, but Mars Audiac Quintet and Music for the Amorphous Body Center indicated they were moving closer to distinct pop melodies. The group certainly hasn't backed away from pop melodies on Emperor Tomato Ketchup, but just as their hooks are becoming catchier, they bring in more avant-garde and experimental influences, as well. Consequently, the album is Stereolab's most complex, multi-layered record. It lacks the raw, amateurish textures of their early singles, but the music is far more ambitious, melding electronic drones and singsong melodies with string sections, slight hip-hop and dub influences, and scores of interweaving countermelodies. Even when Stereolab appear to be creating a one-chord trance, there is a lot going on beneath the surface. Furthermore, the group's love for easy listening and pop melodies means that the music never feels cold or inaccessible. In fact, pop singles like "Cybele's Reverie" and "The Noise of Carpet" help ease listeners into the group's more experimental tendencies. Because of all its textures, Emperor Tomato Ketchup isn't as immediately accessible as Mars Audiac Quintet, but it is a rich, rewarding listen. [Like all of the 2019 Stereolab reissues, Emperor Tomato Ketchup's bonus material is lovingly curated and provides an illuminating look into the band's creative process. Fans will be especially excited about the two rarities included here: "Freestyle Dumpling," which was previously only available as a bonus 7" included with the Japanese version of Aluminum Tunes, is a shining example of the band's bouncy, philosophical pop from this era -- and a reminder of how strong the rest of Stereolab's material was at the time that they didn't include it on the album. Likewise, the breezy, brassy "Old Lungs," which was formerly included on a 2002 All Tomorrow's Parties collection curated by Sonic Youth, is another delight. The Emperor Tomato Ketchup demos are also a treat, offering stripped-down but still intricately lovely sketches of songs such as "Cybele's Reverie," where Laetitia Sadier and Mary Hansen's glorious vocal interplay takes center stage. A slower, almost sultry version of "Percolator" and a surprisingly subtle take on "Metronomic Underground" are among the other fascinating moments. Combined with Tim Gane's insightful liner notes, this edition of Emperor Tomato Ketchup is a must for fans of the band and this landmark album in particular.]
This collection of "Scott's best self-composed songs" features 20 Walker originals from his 1967-1970 heyday. While he covered some interesting material on his albums during this period, paying tribute to Jacques Brel with special devotion and frequency, his original compositions are his most enduring achievements. Besides such highlights as "Big Louise," "We Came Through," "The Seventh Seal," "Plastic Palace People," and "The Old Man's Back Again," it includes half a dozen songs that were not included on the four other solo albums that Fontana UK has reissued on CD. Some of those cuts are very strong, especially the ennui-ridden "Time Operator" with its positively eloquent despair, and "The Plague," a representative sampling of Walker's taste for the disquieting and bizarre. This is a recommended starting point for those interested in checking out this singularly strange '60s phenomenon, who was a relatively unacknowledged and undetected, but nonetheless substantial, influence on David Bowie and other fashionably decadent British singers.
Barry Adamson is playing quite the "jazz devil" on As Above, So Below. The album sees the dark noir guru taking a detour from the more experimental electronica of Oedipus Schmoedipus into a cool, brutal concept album of aggressive, ominous rock-jazz. It seems that a great deal of Nick Cave's cinematic themes have rubbed off on Adamson from his days as a Bad Seed. Where Cave deals mostly with vampiric goth ballads, Adamson creates his art under a moody, effective jazz noir cloud. Many of the songs shuffle about with a determined sense of cool, as Adamson utilizes deep crooning vocals; he often sounds remarkably like a more sane Nick Cave, especially on "Come Hell or High Water." Perhaps Adamson's work on David Lynch's Lost Highway soundtrack inspired the tales of dead detectives and shady women detailed on As Above, So Below. One can easily imagine these songs coming from a younger, rocking, and more sinister Angelo Badalamenti, a frequent Lynch collaborator. The album's high points include "Can't Get Loose," "Still I Rise," and "The Monkey Speaks His Mind." "Can't Get Loose" sees Adamson cooly cooing over keyboards reminiscent of New Order, with a fun, suave xylophone sound and a sample of "Can't Get Used to Losing You" by legendary songwriters Doc Pomus and Mort Shuman. The song operates under a pleasant, humorous atmosphere, while still displaying ample doses of Adamson's warped, dark vibes. "Still I Rise" is monumentally cool. Adamson sounds quite angry and defensive, sing-screaming "still I rise" repeatedly, alternating that mantra with verses of autobiographical, stream-of-consciousness lyrics. The final cry is as punishing and entertaining as it is crass. Barry Adamson has yet to release an album that isn't entirely compelling. As Above, So Below is a strong, winning mix of style, emotion, and rock-jazz noir power. It's a bold, satisfying vision from an artist who shows no fear in expressing the seedier sides of life.
A high watermark of early alternative metal, Troublegum is a spectacular, powerful, clutter-free record. Densely packed at 14 songs in 40 minutes, there's sharpness on every level, demonstrating that the promise evidenced on Nurse was no mirage. Chris Sheldon's job on the boards provides separation among all the instruments, avoiding the mashed effect from Therapy?'s previous outings. Fyfe Ewing and Michael McKeegan basically do what they've been doing all along as a rhythm section, but the increased clarity really allows for one to fully appreciate their abilities. Andy Cairns' vocal range and ear for melody increase tenfold, and his guitar takes on countless tones and textures only hinted at before. Detractors might claim that the riffs are too predictable and too "metal," which is somewhat understandable but ultimately unfair. One could call them simple, and one could call them focused; it's more the latter. Since the songwriting is more direct and less concerned with merely knocking things out and stopping after three minutes or so, everything is fully formed and completely realized. It's the absolute opposite of aimless, which is something Therapy? was sometimes guilty of. There's much more variety, too. With each play, it becomes increasingly obvious that no two songs sound much like each other, yet each song hangs together to form a singular piece. Metal-phobes can't help but give in to the irresistable pop-punk hooks of "Screamager" and "Nowhere." An obvious influence is acknowledged in a storming version of Joy Division's "Isolation," which pays tribute and transforms at the same time. "Unrequited" can't be missed, featuring a rattling guitar riff that gets yanked away by a violent cello tug from Martin McCarrick.
Dirt is Alice in Chains' major artistic statement and the closest they ever came to recording a flat-out masterpiece. It's a primal, sickening howl from the depths of Layne Staley's heroin addiction, and one of the most harrowing concept albums ever recorded. Not every song on Dirt is explicitly about heroin, but Jerry Cantrell's solo-written contributions (nearly half the album) effectively maintain the thematic coherence -- nearly every song is imbued with the morbidity, self-disgust, and/or resignation of a self-aware yet powerless addict. Cantrell's technically limited but inventive guitar work is by turns explosive, textured, and queasily disorienting, keeping the listener off balance with atonal riffs and off-kilter time signatures. Staley's stark confessional lyrics are similarly effective, and consistently miserable. Sometimes he's just numb and apathetic, totally desensitized to the outside world; sometimes his self-justifications betray a shockingly casual amorality; his moments of self-recognition are permeated by despair and suicidal self-loathing. Even given its subject matter, Dirt is monstrously bleak, closely resembling the cracked, haunted landscape of its cover art. The album holds out little hope for its protagonists (aside from the much-needed survival story of "Rooster," a tribute to Cantrell's Vietnam-vet father), but in the end, it's redeemed by the honesty of its self-revelation and the sharp focus of its music
The musical transition that seemed to have just begun with Fear of Music came to fruition on Talking Heads' fourth album, Remain in Light. "I Zimbra" and "Life During Wartime" from the earlier album served as the blueprints for a disc on which the group explored African polyrhythms on a series of driving groove tracks, over which David Byrne chanted and sang his typically disconnected lyrics. Remain in Light had more words than any previous Heads record, but they counted for less than ever in the sweep of the music. The album's single, "Once in a Lifetime," flopped upon release, but over the years it became an audience favorite due to a striking video, its inclusion in the band's 1984 concert film Stop Making Sense, and its second single release (in the live version) because of its use in the 1986 movie Down and Out in Beverly Hills, when it became a minor chart entry. Byrne sounded typically uncomfortable in the verses ("And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife/And you may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?"), which were undercut by the reassuring chorus ("Letting the days go by"). Even without a single, Remain in Light was a hit, indicating that Talking Heads were connecting with an audience ready to follow their musical evolution, and the album was so inventive and influential, it was no wonder. As it turned out, however, it marked the end of one aspect of the group's development and was their last new music for three years.
Arriving after a Steve Albini-produced trove of mopey wonder (1991's Seamonsters) and a collection of relatively more lighthearted singles (1992's Hit Parade), the Wedding Present's fourth album Watusi found David Gedge and company hitting a particularly brilliant stride in terms of songwriting and creative development alike. Produced by Seattle personality Steve Fisk in a time when "grunge" was a breathless buzzword, there's some rock muscle happening on tracks like "So Long, Baby" and "Shake It" that veers more toward flannel-friendly guitar tones than C-86 fuzz, but the jangly melancholy of the uptempoed "Yeah Yeah Yeah Yeah Yeah" finds the perfect balance between the two, with booming drums locking in with spindly guitar lines and electrified organ. Tracks like "Spangle" tap into the band's trademark way with syrupy slow songs of crushing heartbreak, this time supported by the scratchy tones of Fisk's church organ drum machine. Watusi is one of the more dynamic Wedding Present albums, with both songs and production stretching into less predictable territory, presenting Gedge’s by now familiar ruminations on difficult love and disintegrating relationships with an extra dose of daring. The band's straying from the formula is at its best in forms as divergent as the long fits of Velvets-like guitar squall on "Catwoman," and the tender, a cappella back and forth between Gedge and Beat Happening vocalist Heather Lewis on "Click Click," the album’s finest and most impacti Moment
Mirrorball is a melodically affecting exercise in ethereal ambience -- precisely what you might expect from two artists whose CVs list collaborations with Harold Budd. That's not to set Budd up as an overarching influence, though: Foxx and Guthrie come to this album with their own long-established and distinctive pedigrees, the former as an electronic pioneer and the latter as chief architect of the Cocteau Twins' unique dream pop lullabies. Mirrorball bears the musical fingerprints of both, combining Guthrie's trademark hypnotic, echo-laden melodies with the kind of otherworldly, cavernous spaces that Foxx mapped on Cathedral Oceans. Like David Bowie on "Warsawa" (and Guthrie's former bandmate Elizabeth Fraser), Foxx sings lyrics that aren't recognizable as English; he favors improvised vocals that suggest a hybrid of Latin and glossolalia. Foxx's sonorous baritone -- often set amid austere synth washes, slow, droplet-like piano notes, and Guthrie's reverberating waves of guitar -- contributes a hauntingly beautiful, almost liturgical gravitas. Most memorable are "The Perfect Line," "Spectroscope," and "Empire Skyline," relative miniatures that conjure up cathedral-sized ambience; and "Luminous," a more amorphous, oceanic piece, whose sounds and words overlap and bleed into one another, spreading like ink through water. Foxx and Guthrie also explore more boldly defined arrangements on "Sunshower," with its Cocteau Twins' lilt, and on the string-adorned "Estrellita," which could be the theme from an imaginary James Bond film. While these tracks are more direct than most of the material, Mirrorball is by no means a predominantly abstract endeavor. Far from it. Alongside Another Green World and the instrumental suites on Low and Heroes, Mirrorball shows that ambient music isn't only about epic soundscapes: skillful practitioners can also bring that aesthetic to bear on more compact tunes whose brevity belies their richness. Foxx and Guthrie's work makes that point emphatically. Much like its namesake, Mirrorball is a shimmering, multi-faceted artifact.
Robert Fripp's second team up with Brian Eno was a less harsh, more varied affair, closer to Eno's then-developing idea of ambient music than what had come before in (No Pussyfooting). The method used, once again, was the endless decaying tape loop system of Frippertronics but refined with pieces such as "Wind on Water" fading up into an already complex bed of layered synths and treated guitar over which Fripp plays long, languid solos. "Evening Star" is meditative and calm with gentle scales rocking to and fro while Fripp solos on top. "Wind on Wind" is Eno solo, an excerpt from the soon to be released Discreet Music album. The nearly 30-minute ending piece, "An Index of Metals," keeps Evening Star from being a purely background listen as the loops this time contain a series of guitar distortions layered to the nth degree, Frippertronics as pure dissonance. As a culmination of Fripp and Eno's experiments, Evening Star shows how far they could go.
Ball's second album in a row to obsessively chronicle the aftermath of a romantic breakup (the first was 1996's If Ever a Man Loved a Woman), Catholic Guilt posits Edward Ball as the middle-aged, balding, British male equivalent to Lili Taylor's character in Cameron Crowe's Say Anything, endlessly writing songs about her ex-boyfriend. The difference is that Ball's songs are actually really good. Starting with the self-lacerating single "The Mill Hill Self-Hate Club," which has the horn-driven groove of an early Style Council single, Ball examines the relationship from every possible angle, with leavening doses of dry wit and warm-hearted compassion to balance out darker tunes like the lengthy, almost Dylan-esque "Docklands Blues." The witty "Controversial Girlfriend," which sounds almost like Nick Lowe backed with the Barenaked Ladies, is another clear standout, but nearly all of the album mixes intriguing lyrics with catchy, hook-filled melodies and substantial production. For Ball, whose albums with the Times seemed more concerned with fashionable mimicry than emotional directness, this album is surprisingly weighty and thoughtful
In many ways, it's impossible to overestimate the impact of Hüsker Dü's Zen Arcade on the American rock underground in the '80s. It's the record that exploded the limits of hardcore and what it could achieve. Hüsker Dü broke all of the rules with Zen Arcade. First and foremost, it's a sprawling concept album, even if the concept isn't immediately clear or comprehensible. More important are the individual songs. Both Bob Mould and Grant Hart abandoned the strict "fast, hard, loud" rules of hardcore punk with their songs for Zen Arcade. Without turning down the volume, Hüsker Dü try everything -- pop songs, tape experiments, acoustic songs, pianos, noisy psychedelia. Hüsker Dü willed themselves to make such a sprawling record -- as the liner notes state, the album was recorded and mixed within 85 hours and consists almost entirely of first takes. That reckless, ridiculously single-minded approach does result in some weak moments -- the sound is thin and the instrumentals drag on a bit too long -- but it's also the key to the success of Zen Arcade. Hüsker Dü sound phenomenally strong and possessed, as if they could do anything. The sonic experimentation is bolstered by Mould and Hart's increased sense of songcraft. Neither writer is afraid to let his pop influences show on Zen Arcade, which gives the songs -- from the unrestrained rage of "Something I Learned Today" and the bitter, acoustic "Never Talking to You Again" to the eerie "Pink Turns to Blue" and anthemic "Turn On the News" -- their weight. It's music that is informed by hardcore punk and indie rock ideals without being limited by them
