- joiezabel in Scarlett Johansson - Anywhere I Lay My Head it really is brilliant, scott. i hate you.
- hotshotrobot in Scarlett Johansson - Anywhere I Lay My Head Goddammit, Borch, now how am i supposed to review this? I can’t top that!
- Borch in The Avett Brothers - House of Blues - May 14th Good Lord, that’s a beautiful song! The Avett Bros. were in Chicago? Why wasn’t I notified?!
Yes, you can dance if you want to. And yes, you can even leave your friends behind. But you can only do it for so long — eventually, the club will close, the night will end, and then you have to decide what you’re going to do next.
That’s the downside of having a hit that even now, over twenty years later, probably still qualifies as “iconic.” Before “The Safety Dance” embedded itself in the public’s collective brain like a synthesized ice pick, Men Without Hats were a very good underground electronic band, pitched somewhere between a slightly snarkier OMD and a rather more human Kraftwerk. Post-”Safety Dance,” they were pegged as a novelty band, a bunch of goofball Canadians with a long-haired front man who liked dancing with dwarves.
The result of this was that, although Rhythm of Youth — yes, the one with the hit on it — sold reasonably well, the follow-up, the sadly underrated Folk of the ’80s Part III, stiffed. By the time that recording started on Pop Goes the World, the band (such as it was — after their first EP, the Hats were never really more than brothers Ivan and Stefan Doroschuk and a constantly revolving assortment of backing musicians) was at a career crossroads. The next thing they put out had to be good.
The album that came out of these sessions was one that I think of as the great lost albums of the ’80s. It’s a swirling, joyous record, on which the Hats’ earlier synthetics are infused with guitars, pianos, and flutes (played by Jethro Tull’s Ian Anderson, of all people). It has a loose thematic organization, if not an actual concept per se, involving a couple of people named Jenny and Johnny who have a band; the songs all work independently though, without any The Wall-style interludes that don’t make sense without the rest of the album.
The thing I notice the most now, a long time after I first heard this album, is its ebullient, unquenchable optimism, a pervasive notion that even if some times are hard, the moments in between are worth celebrating. It’s the kind of sentiment that risks sounding like a musical Hallmark card, but the Doroschuks are better songwriters than that. Sure, “In the Name of Angels,” “Jenny Wore Black,” and even the self-consciously silly title track wear their hearts on their sleeves, but there’s nothing duplicitous or disingenuous about them. When, in the second of those songs, Ivan sings, “There’s two holes called my eyes where the dreams peter through / all that I can remember is when I was with you,” what could be an unbearably saccharine moment is transformed by the sweep of the music and the force of Ivan’s conviction into a pure moment of joy. Even the more pensive moments, like the sparkling fragment “Bright Side of the Sun” (possibly the best song of less than 45 seconds that I’ve ever heard), and the wavering closer, “The End of the World,” can’t hide their smiles.
Unfortunately, Pop Goes the World didn’t revive Men Without Hats’ commercial fortunes. The title track scraped into the US top 20, but the album’s sales were disappointing at best. The band tried one more time, with The Adventures of Women and Men Without Hate in the 21st Century, an album that perhaps held the pre-Fiona Apple record for most awkward title. 21st Century, though not as consistent as Pop Goes the World, remains a criminally overlooked album, a record that retains its predecessor’s sonics, but reverses its emotions. It’s suffused with a subtle, ironic, but unmistakable despair; a close friend of mine in college, whose favorite records included Blood on the Tracks and The Queen is Dead, refused to listen to 21st Century more than once, calling it “the most depressing album I’ve ever heard.”
It didn’t sell, either, and that was essentially the end. The Hats briefly refashioned themselves as a hard rock band (!) for 1991’s Sideways, but it wasn’t even released in the US, and the band officially disbanded shortly thereafter. Ivan went on to have a moderately successful solo career in Canada; the band put out a reunion album in 2003, No Hats Beyond This Point, which was so wildly unsuccessful, both commercially and critically, as to lead one to believe that the Hats’ story is really over now. Unlike several other artists of their time, they haven’t been the subjects of a critical reappraisal, or even a nostalgia push; all of their studio albums are currently out of print stateside.
But even after it’s largely been forgotten, the music remains. And it’s brilliant, I tell you. Brilliant.
Label: Mercury
Release date: 1987
Rating: 9/10
LOOKIT THE PUPPY! LOOKIT! THE FACE! THE FACE! PUPPY!
*ahem*
So, one thing i’ve always admired about Shellac’s music is how it feels insulated against outside influence. For better or worse (mostly better), the music of Albini, Trainer and Weston has always been stubbornly original, almost to the point of daring the listener to take what they are dishing out in their own almost infuriatingly minimal tension-and-tension-and-tension-and-we’re-almost-to-the-release-but-here’s-some-more-tension way (i’m thinking specifically of the 10-minute “Didn’t We Deserve a Look at You the Way You Really Are” from 1998’s Terraform). Shellac have always felt to me like a band operating in a bubble; they may have influenced countless abrasive math-rock imitators, but they themselves are imitating, referencing, no one at all (OK, they did cover an AC/DC song once, and performed as the Sex Pistols one Halloween, but i’m talking about their original material here).
Therefore, when Albini screeched the first Verizon-esque “can you hear me now?” on “The End of Radio,” the funeral dirge opening track to Excellent Italian Greyhound, it threw me for a loop the first time i heard it performed live. Upon purchasing the album (LP version, which comes with an unmarked CD copy of the album, so why wouldn’t you buy the vinyl, doofus?), i was struck by additional pop-culture references peppering the album. Bob Weston croons “Here comes the argument” (an apparent reference to the chorus of “The Argument” by pals Fugazi) in the opening of “Elephant,” and his g-g-g-grunting in “Spoke” at times resembles the cadence of the vocals to “The World Loves Us and is Our Bitch” by the late, lamented Welsh pranksters Mclusky.
And then, of course, there are the guest voices in “Genuine Lulabelle:” voiceover masters Ken Nordine and Hal Douglas…and Strong Bad. Wtf.
The eight-minute “End of Radio” and nine-minute “Lulabelle” are Shellac at their most challenging. A simple two-measure bass run of quarter notes loops unyieldingly throughout the entire “End of Radio” as Albini and Trainer weave in and out of the rhythm, adding texture in spots and exploding into straight-up rock when that release finally comes. “Lulabelle” does it one better, sliding the music to a complete stop while Albini goes <I>a capella</I> with his ode to memory and indiscretion, as the aforementioned guest voices swirl around him. It’s definitely the oddest Shellac song perhaps in their career, and it’s definitely work to get through. And that’s not a bad thing.
But lest we assume the entire album is an exercise in cerebral patience, there is plenty of flat-out rockin’ happening too. “Steady as She Goes” and “Spoke” are probably two of the most straightforward 4/4 rockers the band has produced to date, and the instrumental “Kittypants” (named for one of the many cats of the Albini/Electrical Audio family…awwww) showcases the band at their prettiest. When Shellac want to, their thundering drums and beyond-abrasive aluminum guitars can be employed to produce some of the most hauntingly beautiful minimalist rock out there, and it’s demonstrated here with trademark Shellac aplomb. (Kitty!)
It’s been seven years between the last offering, 1000 Hurts, and Excellent Italian Greyhound, but it’s been worth the wait. Shellac, as previously stated, operate independently of outside pressures, so you know that when they release new music, it’s because they’ve decided it’s ready, not because anyone wanted them to put a new record out. Don’t fear, though–you want to hear this record. You also want to buy it on vinyl and enjoy the painstaking work that was put into the packaging. Jay Ryan’s sleeve and gatefold art, Joel Larson’s photography…all excellent. All about greyhounds. Italian? Well, there is a guy named “Albini” in the band.
Release Date: June 5, 2007
Label: Touch & Go Records
Well, if they are, don’t tell Alex Turner, lead singer of the Arctic Monkeys.
Turner has announced that he has created a pop supergroup made of up of fellow British musicians. The Arctic Monkey revealed to the British newspaper <I>The Mirror</I> that he, along with Lily Allen, Dizzee Rascal and James Righton from the Klaxons, have begun recording a new album as a group – although neither the names of the debut nor the band have been revealed.
While Turner, Allen and Rascal have worked together in the past, this is the first time the three of them have worked with Righton, whom they recruited during England’s Glastonbury Festival, which took place this past weekend.
So far, no other news has been made available except that the record, according to Turner, “will be out before you know it”.
I am not holding my breath for this music collaboration. No, wait, actually I am. That way I will be dead and I won’t have to hear the horror that usually comes from such unholy unions. I mean, what supergroup actually succeeded? Gorillaz? They had to turn into freaking cartoons to get along. I don’t know about you, but I am all set on going 2D to get famous. …Or am I? So hayyyyyy, any you readers happen to have a penchant for drawing and drum machines? I’ll pay (in Fritos) and you play. Is that too much to ask? Fine, Doritos but only Cool Ranch, and you better not touch the couches. Or at least sit on the plastic-covered ones. What?! My parents are immigrants!
Source - ONTD
Relient K must have pissed off one too many groupie. (or is it group-i?) Early Thursday morning, the band was roused from their sleep on their tour bus when the bus driver started yelling, “Fire!”
THE SPICE GIRLS ARE RETURNING FOR A WORLD WHORE TOUR!
Source - The Daily Mail
Dust off your plastic thermoses and anatomically incorrect collector’s dolls because the Spice Girls are coming to a country near you. Obviously, the end is upon us and the rapture is nearing because the Spice Girls will embark on a 25-city devouring the souls of impressionable children and lecherous old men. And the tour can start as soon as Christmas! By the power of Jeebus, I compel you, someone please stop the Spice Girls. What, you aren’t scared? Well, take a gander at them now!
For a band that has spawned so many imitators, it’s a shame that Interpol doesn’t inspire itself far beyond their own emulous template. “But they haven’t changed all that much since Bright Lights and you liked that one, so what’s wrong with Our Love?” my conscience wonders, wanting to give a good rating to an album that is almost really, really good, but is missing some essential load-bearing elements. Of course, the question answers itself, and beefing up the tone of one-note riffs and swelling dynamics 
doesn’t make for brilliance. In fact, it is a detraction because while Interpol have never been profoundly melodious, the slow burn of the first two albums was captivating; Our Love doesn’t change form but it isn’t quite as engaging, due to some puerile lyrics (specifically ‘No I in Threesome’) and excessive technical minimalism.
Let’s talk about threesomes. The subject of <I>menage a trois</I> on David Crosby’s overeager Triad was already quaint and smirkish in 1968, and now Banks makes his own straight-faced claim on track 2, ”There’s No I in Threesome,” that a gangbang would count for something “new.” Sure, I love a good sex song, but “Threesome” is too lame to offend the prudish, hardly convincing, and reflects a cache of songs that should be effective and even alarming were they not oddly flat.
To their credit, they didn’t give in to any industry demands, expressed or implied, as they made the leap to major labeldom. Still present are the same Interpol, replete with ominous soundscapes (dialed up a few notches this time) and worthy lyrical hooks, but is mysteriously bereft of suspense (even as Banks ironically sings “Spare me the suspense!” on “Mammoth”), which speaks to the arrangements that could have used a little more attention at the foundation and less eye-level decoration.
The bright spots are very good indeed. “Pioneer to the Falls” is a savory, solid opener that’s suggestive that the best Interpol release to date will follow, but … “Threesome” should never have been put in the second slot — it is momentum-killing, B-side fare. Fortunately, batting third — the slot historically reserved for the best song on the album, I postulate – is “Scale,” followed by ”Heinrich Maneuver.” These songs do the job of priming the listener for more–a job that, sadly, is co-opted by the following two tracks, which do little better than keep things in neutral.
By the end of the album, it becomes noticeable that maybe one or two tracks could be described as dynamic. Nearly every cut on the album finds a neutral space and stays there until its time for the next track to change the pace, and too few of them actually do. This is too bad, because the songs are, for the most part, well-written and could have been much more powerful if they hadn’t been so obviously layered with an excess of sonic icing. Lights and Antics were perfectly noisy, yet commodious enough to give each song room to expand; to engage the listener without having to wait for the next track. All the pieces were there for Our Love to be masterful, but it ends up big on sound and short on finesse.
Rating: 7/10
Label: Capitol
Release Date: July 10, 2007
