The most refined of England's bands manages to refine itself even further on their fourth disc. How I Learned to Love the Bootboys is Luke Haines' most immediate sounding release to date, and even though his claim that each of the record's 12 tracks are singles sounds a bit highfalutin, he's not far off. While each of the Auteurs' three prior LPs are equally arresting, there are points at which the mind tends to wander, but not here. Haines' familiar themes of Englishness, youth, and hooliganism remain, playing like another short movie. The cohesiveness of the record is no small feat, given the wide-ranging sounds and moods.
Opening bedroom tale "The Rubettes" features a delicate, Brill Building lullaby chorus while a repetitive staccato riff offplays the fragility. The title track's quiet chaos has Haines' whispered vocals buttressed by sirens, percolating electro bleeps, and a graceful dub bassline. "Your Gang Our Gang" relocates the fight scenes of Grease and West Side Story to the streets of London with equal doses of menace and tongue-in-cheek. Tough and joyful at the same time.
Haines and Pete Hofmann attain the band's best production yet. Haines' guitar has never sounded so fittingly sharp while avoiding abrasiveness. Even guitar guru Steve Albini couldn't coax such an ideal sound from his guitar. Haines' supporting cast punches in with some excellent work, providing all the necessary support for an excellent record. Surely the few who have stuck around since New Wave are being spoiled rotten by the Auteurs' remarkable consistency.
Again working with Alan Moulder but now also using a live drummer on most tracks -- namely Monti from Curve, one of the Mary Chain's many descendants -- the Reids came back strong with Honey's Dead, on balance a more consistent and satisfying record than Automatic. There's a sense of greater creativity with the arrangements, while the balance between blasting static rampage and precise, almost clinical delivery is the finest yet, making the album as a whole the best straight-through listen since Psychocandy. Monti's drumming finally replaces Bobby Gillespie's properly; he's a much more talented musician than the Primal Scream overlord, using the warped funk hits familiar from Curve's work to the Mary Chain's advantage. Even the drum machine-driven cuts work better than before, especially the brilliant, coruscating opener, "Reverence." Burning with some of the best nails-on-chalkboard feedback the band had yet recorded, combined with a whipsmart sharp breakbeat, all it took was the finishing touch of Jim Reid's sneering lines like "I wanna die like Jesus Christ" to make it another stone-cold classic single from the band. Other winners include "Sugar Ray," with beats and melody so immediate and addictive the track was actually used for a beer commercial, of all things, and the steady slap and crunch of "Good for My Soul." If there's a danger in Honey's Dead, it's that the near bottomless pit of reworked melodies and lyrics had almost reached its end -- even the final track, "Frequency," combines both "Reverence" itself with the Modern Lovers' "Roadrunner" -- which made the stylistic shift on Stoned & Dethroned a logical follow-up. William and Jim Reid split all the vocals almost evenly, the former especially shining on the nearly gentle "Almost Gold," the closest the record comes to a sweet ballad.
Following hotly on the heels of 1986's Manic Pop Thrill, That Petrol Emotion's Babble brought more clever madness onto the scene, happily cutting Sean and Damian O'Neill's diversified punk influences with dance music, hook-laden pop, and a streak of acerbic political and social commentary. It certainly wasn't the Undertones. But the wiry, treble-kicking guitars and whooping vocals of "Swamp" made it just as vital, and "Dance Your Ass Off"'s "Party all nights"'s and "Hey! Hey! Hey!"'s weren't so much vapid dancefloor catch phrases as they were righteous calls to action. Despite the hooks that bled from every busted seam, Babble seemed to bask in the glow of a freshly lit car fire. Its walls of guitars, incessant, processed snare kicks, and snarling vocals celebrated the empty calories of pop music, and did so with bared teeth. (Was that a bullet ricocheting off "Split!"'s overdriven rhythm?) At the same time, the album's slower moments were just as accomplished. That Petrol Emotion didn't just set the fires -- they took time to watch them burn. Arriving at a flux point in pop music, Babble became a bridge album between blissfully ignorant dance, radio-ready pop and the remaining sentiment of punk rock. It wasn't just a call-to-arms snapshot at the end of a decade, but a prominent influence on the coming Brit-pop revolution.
There have been a few Irish bands over the years that should be, if not still with us, at least respected by anyone who claims to like terrific pop music. Cork's Microdisney were one such; driven by the twin efforts of vocalist/lyricist Cathal Coughlan and guitarist Sean O'Hagan, Microdisney left Cork for London in a (as it turned out) deluded effort to rid the world of bad pop music and replace it with good stuff. This the band did in the 1980s through albums as fine as The Clock Comes Down the Stairs, Crooked Mile and 39 Minutes. Over the course of a double album, we come to the conclusion that, following a rocky start, Microdisney mutated into a lyrically vituperative and quite subversive pop group. Bilious they might have been - shafted as they were by the music industry and their own self-lacerating disdain - but they were also quite brilliant.
If Everything Must Go found Manic Street Preachers coping with Richey James' sudden, unexplained disappearance, its follow-up, This Is My Truth Tell Me Yours, finds them putting the tragedy behind them and flourishing as a trio. Wisely, the group builds on the grand sound of Everything Must Go, creating a strangely effective fusion of string-drenched, sweeping arena rock and impassioned, brutally honest punk. Since the band never writes about anything less than major issues, whether it be political or personal, it's appropriate that their music sounds as majestic and overpowering as their pretensions. Given that the first single was titled "If You Tolerate This Then Your Children Will Be Next," calling the Manics pretentious is fair game, but they make their pretensions work through a blend of intelligence, passion, and sheer musicality. This Is My Truth sports more musical variety than its predecessors, which means it can meander a bit, particularly toward the end. Nevertheless, these misgivings disappear with repeated listens, as each song logically flows into the next. If the album ultimately isn't as raw or shattering as The Holy Bible or emotionally wrenching as Everything Must Go, it's because the ghost of Richey has been put behind them. That doesn't mean that This Is My Truth is light, easygoing listening -- the portentous, murky closer "SYMM" guarantees that -- but it's not as torturous as its immediate predecessors. But what it shares with them is a searing passion and intelligence that is unmatched among their peers on either side of the ocean -- and, in doing so, it emphasizes the Manics' uniqueness as one of the few bands of the '90s that can deliver albums as bracing intellectually as they are sonically
He experienced what could have been a traumatic blow to his inventiveness and creativity as a musician but ex-Verve frontman Richard Ashcroft is fresh. He has moved on from the effervescent prettiness of his former band to make music for himself -- something the Verve might have done somewhere in time, but it wouldn't have been so honest or stripped as this solo jaunt, Alone With Everybody. Another look into the shoegazing mind of this singer/songwriter, this record is not a comeback.Ashcroft is optimistic, hauntingly spellbound on the album opener "A Song for the Lovers." It is a signature love song, flowing with its illustrious string arrangements and simple brushing percussion. His drawl is naturally smooth and one cannot help but to be pulled into the seductiveness behind his words. "Brave New World" and "You on My Mind in My Sleep" are also songs that can carry emotion to another level, weighing in on something surreal. He also gets poppy with a sarcastic twist on the trippy groove "New York," and the twangy sounds of "Money to Burn" clap alongside folk-rock guitar riffs. Richard Ashcroft is still tastefully infectious.
He still believes that music has a soul -- with or without his former band. He is certainly a rock star and a believer in love, death, musical spirituality, and individuality. That is what made the Verve a great rock band in the first place, but Ashcroft's superior drive to do something real only makes him and his music more endearing. He is looking ahead, not wishing for past adventures. He celebrates life, pure and simple.
Daft Punk’s Homework is, in its pure existence, a study in contradictions. The debut album from Thomas Bangalter and Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo arrived in 1997, right around the proliferation of big-beat and electronica—a twin-headed hydra of dance music fads embraced by the music industry following the commercialization of early ’90s rave culture—but when it came to presumptive contemporaries from those pseudo-movements, Homework shared Sam Goody rack space and not much else. Daft Punk’s introduction to the greater world also came at a time when French electronic music was gaining international recognition, from sturdy discotheque designs to jazzy, downtempo excursions—music that sounded miles away from Homework’s rude, brutalist house music.
In the 23 years since Homework’s release, Daft Punk have strayed far from its sound with globe-traversing electronic pop that, even while incorporating other elements of dance music subgenres, has more often than not kept house music’s building blocks at arms’ length. 2001’s Discovery was effectively electronic pop-as-Crayola box, with loads of chunky color and front-and-center vocals that carried massive mainstream appeal. Human After All from 2005 favored dirty guitars and repetitive, Teutonic sloganeering, while the pair took a nostalgia trip through the history of electronic pop itself for 2013’s Random Access Memories. Were it not for a few choice Homework tracks that pop up on 2007’s exhilarating live document Alive 2007, one might assume that Homework has been lost in the narrative that’s formed since its release—that of Daft Punk as robot-helmeted superstar avatars, rather than as irreverent house savants.
But even as the straightforward and strident club fare on Homework remains singular within Daft Punk’s catalog, the record also set the stage for the duo’s career to this very day—a massively successful and still-going ascent to pop iconography, built on the magic trick-esque ability to twist the shapes of dance music’s past to resemble something seemingly futuristic. Whether you’re talking about Bangalter and Homem-Christo’s predilection for global-kitsch nostalgia, their canny and self-possessed sense of business savvy, or their willingness to wear their influences on their sleeve like ironed-on jean-jacket patches—it all began with Homework.
The poster boys of big beat, that hip amalgam of electronica and rock that has dug its way into the national consciousness via "The Rockafeller Skank," have been busy since their 1997 breakthrough, Dig Your Own Hole. DJ mix album, the reasonably decent Brothers Gonna Work It Out, should have been the clue, but Tom Rowlands and Ed Simons have clearly been raiding a library- sized record collection since their last offering of "original" music.
"Music: Response," the album's leadoff, starts like a ride on the Autobahn with Kraftwerk circa the mid '70s, with its analog synth blips and monotone computerwelt voices, before tossing in some ferocious beats to bring Krautrock into the new millennium. The mood carries through on "Under the Influence" with more Kraftwerk- styled noodlings. Meanwhile, their best instrumental effort is "The Sunshine Underground," an eight- and- a- half minute ride through chiming tones, wafting flute- like sounds, and sputtering and gurgling synths that intertwine with the briefest of dreamy vocals. Actually, it wouldn't have been out of place on the last Orbital album.
Surrender will receive a ton of hype based on its superstar guest appearances, and none more historically relevant than "Out of Control" with New Order's Bernard Sumner on vocals. Being electronic dance music freaks from Manchester, New Order is like the holy grail to the Chemical Brothers and it's easy to see why. The Chemicals share with their Manchester predecessors an obsession with hypnotic, melodic, dance beats. "Out of Control" works so well it could be a lost track from Low Life. After his turn on "Setting Son" with the Chemicals in 1996, Oasis' terminally out- of- style Noel Gallagher returns for another psychedelic, Beatles-esque anthem on "Let Forever Be," again snagging the rhythm track from "Tomorrow Never Knows" off Revolver. Surrender is both the Chemical Brothers most immediately satisfying work and, perhaps not coincidentally, the most like a rock album of their career. Unlike a fair share of techno, these songs feel like "songs," not a collection of clever samples and a race to the fastest BPM on the planet. Yeah, you can go out and buy your jungle, your trance, your trip-hop and your ambient, but why would you when you'd be sacrificing the greatest gift of all: Surrender's love and understanding
