Best Coast

May 4, 2010

A cursory glance at the bands to have graced Tuesday-night London-staple White Heat‘s stage over the years reveals an unbalanced combination of temporary fad bands, and bands who have gone on to far greater things. Hype dictates this, so here I am to see what side of the fence Bethany Cosentino sits on…

Best Coast, by nature of the songs at hand, sit somewhere in between the two. “How so, o’ fence-sitter?” Well, frustrations with the knowingly teenage all-pedals/no-tunes substance of the songs are beset with the admission that this much was obvious. She never pretended to do anything else, and I chose to be here.

The lo-fi is cute at first, short songs all summery and swoony, but the sound here tonight is atrocious – not just because the drummer (borrowed from Vivian Girls, fact-fans) is so busy acting mardy she forgets to sit back and dare I say enjoy the set, but also because the pedal-heavy sounds still-crystalline and not quite messy enough. The young and simple nature of Best Coast and the brattishness of their attitude are a natural, borderline parodial fit, just an exceptionally tiring one to watch for this long.

The idea behind Best Coast’s short and sweet boyfriend-anecdotes is delirious on record but here, it feels frustrating and stretched out. The “when I’m with you/ I have fun” line of ‘When I’m With You’ is adorable but in this too-long set, the songs are irksomely small and cute. The surprise strength is Cosentino’s vocals, which are far more menacing than expected – the delicious leanback on ‘Sun Was High (So Was I)’ sounds blanket-like here, all sunny and beachy.

The venue’s technical problems form a sizeable part of the negative but that aside, a 14-year-old standing on stage talking in a super-high accent about her boyfriend might well have done the trick. But isn’t that the ultimate compliment? I’m torn.

Memory Tapes

March 13, 2010

The first time I caught Memory Tapes was at the tiny Social, in the gig-desert that was January 2010. It was his second ever show and with zero-expectation, proved spectacularly invigorating.

Two months on, and Dayve Hawk is back in London on the stage of a sold-out Cargo. And conversely, high hopes are met with a flat atmosphere, a still-short set and just too much nonchalance.

Maybe it’s the transient nature of hype-bands that’s to blame for Memory Tapes failing to adapt to playing these bigger shows, or maybe just plain time; selling out the 500-capacity Cargo on your second visit to a city is some accolade. The live show as guitar, vocals and (admittedly great) drums over a backing tape just doesn’t cut it; while the beautiful force of an extended ‘Bicycle’ brings excitement, it’s smack-blind that a full band show would set the roof off.

The “I don’t even recognise the sound of your voice” refrain on ‘Graphics’ sits too comfortably in its reverb-cloud, jubilant but not reaching the powerful heights it soars in on Seek Magic. And the blissier bits are exactly that – there’s a feel of cinematic, aquatic nostalgia in the pre-recorded backing the tape, Hawk’s lacklustre playing adding to the lo-fi. What Seek Magic so special is its astonishing mix of spacey electronica and all-out massive tunes along the lines of Cut Copy – it’s a fuzzy, heady pleasure, something new. And that fever doesn’t translate into the show because the predictability of the pre-recorded backing tape feels like a tick-box waiting to expire.

Memory Tapes’ songs undoubtedly have a beautiful force, but the show’s just not enough for the venue tonight. The drummer is marvellous to watch, drumming so hard and fast against the glistening light show that his movements become as hazy as the sounds.

The first show felt like a taster, but it turns out it was only in size. Here’s hoping that the next level of Memory Tapes’ live show is waiting just backstage, hand up in the air ready to be given the go ahead.

Neon Indian - Psychic Chasms

Thump, thump, thump, thump…

Whilst I wouldn’t want to claim any sort of encyclopaedic knowledge of internet music journalism, there seems to me to be two specific musical aesthetics which have been especially successful in making bloggers cream themselves this year: lo-fi noise pop and one-man-and-his-laptop loops and samples. Neon Indian straddles both of these categories and, accordingly, is garnering a fair amount of e-attention. However, just as with any act who (presumably unwittingly) surfs the crest of a musical trend, the question is: should you believe the hype? I’d say no.

Thump, thump, thump, thump…

Initial signs for this act were pretty promising when album highlight ‘Deadbeat Summer’ appeared on the internet a few months ago. As the song splutters into motion, a stuttering wash of electronics swings freely in pitch along a dangerously loose melodic phrase serving as a great canvas on which to paint his song. Electronic riffs and guitar licks swim in and out of the mix beneath the well defined hooks of the songs’ verse and chorus. “Deadbeat summer/It’s just a deadbeat summer” isn’t going to win any awards for lyricism, but the irresistible, summery drawl of the song makes the thing a sultry little earwig – and, indeed, Neon Indian manages to pull off the same trick again a handful more times over the course of the album.

Thump, thump, thump, thump…

However, the main problem with this album is that, even with its brief half hour running time and multiple interludes, it manages to massively overstay its welcome. The first thing about the album with will make you raise a questionable eyebrow is that Neon Indian appears to have used the same, dull drum loop on every single song. Sure, it has a huge, thumping reverb-laden drum sound suitable to trip out too but, by the time you’ve heard a few songs, it feels like you’re just listening to an aggressive metronome. It makes the album very difficult to swallow in one sitting despite its brevity. Similarly, the trippy, acid-soaked bleeps and blips become more and more difficult to muster enthusiasm about. When Neon Indian doesn’t have the hooks he displays on his best songs, he simply buries his messy vocal lines under a blanket of loops and reverb.

Thump, thump, thump, thump….

At no point can Psychic Chasms be defined as flat out dislikeable or bad but it frequently sounds both uninspired and uninspiring. This is my quick test to help you determine whether or not you’ll want to give the album a spin: if you’ve gotten bored of reading thump, thump, thump, thump again and again throughout this review, chances are you’ll get just as bored of hearing it when listening to the album. Having Psychic Chasms on your iPod is by no means a bad thing: it’s more than welcome to pop up on shuffle for short blasts and its useful to have for making mix-tapes for specific occasions. It’s very difficult to imagine, however, anyone putting the disc in their stereo with the intention of just listening to the thing for its own sake.

Lou Barlow

Lou Barlow may sound like he’s giving lo-fi a crack at a mid-Western open mic night, but make no mistake, friend – he is the granddaddy of them all.

As the brains and heart of behind Dinosaur Jr, Sebadoh and Folk Implosion, Ohio native Barlow was Gen X before Gen Why-O-Y came on the scene, all too cool for school and heavy on the effects pedals. He’s had more collaborative recordings that you’ve had hot dinners, and yet carries the same detached, world-weary WTF air that he sported all the way back when he played bass on Dinosaur in 1985.

Through his work – songwriting and multi-instrumentalism – Barlow has influenced every lo-fi band since the dawn of time, buddying up with members of the unfeasibly legendary Slint and generally being there when ‘there’ was the place to be.

His mucky sonic fingerprints are all over Ben Kweller, Moldy Peaches and so much more modern anti-folk, and the fact that he can make this, his second solo record, so listenable and notable is frankly a testament to the great man’s skill and nonchalant cool.

This is important to know – not because his classic tunes and maturity make him any more pertinent in the musical realm than whichever rowdy teeny teens Zane Lowe is currently crushing, but because it’s a measure of how far we’ve come – like listening to The Beatles’ Tomorrow Never Knows and wondering how 33 years later we’re still having to put up with The Kooks.

So what’s so good? On the opening ‘Sharing’ there’s a great Phantom Planet drum thrust underpinned by Barlow’s resonant melodic baritone. The song has ‘pogo-a-go-go’ all over it, with a catchy refrain and characteristically fuzzy production.

Title track ‘Goodnight Unknown’ is a less strident beast, with the thumping drum keeping a slow pace. The music is shot through with Folk Implosion-style guitar flourishes, and it leads nicely into the ‘Cannonball’-style (Damien Rice, not The Breeders) ‘Too Much Freedom’, a lo-fi lullaby.

Barlow’s archetypal neo-folk may not seem cutting edge now, but he did help spearhead the whole thing back in the day. The moving thing about this album is 14 songs with a spellbinding quality – the slow, soft hymnal of ‘Faith In Your Heartbeat’, the dropbeat slacker cool of ‘Gravitate’ – at 43, Barlow is still rocking them out. And with 75% of these tracks coming in at under three minutes, he’s every MTV-er’s ADHD dream.

With the weight of history behind it, and the gift of incredible talent chiming through every note, Goodnight Unknown is well on its way to classic status – and deservedly so.

First Aid Kit

If you didn’t already know that First Aid Kit‘s Klara and Johanna Söderberg were Swedish sisters it’s likely that you wouldn’t guess their nationality from their music. They could quite easily come from the North West of the USA, home of Fleet Foxes who gave them a leg up by showcasing their heartbreaking cover of their ‘Mountain Tiger Peasant Song’ on their MySpace page. Now signed to Wichita, they have a debut album out next year and this lead-off single is a perfect showcase for them.

We’ll forgive the slightly clunky lyrics (‘Love is tough, time is rough’) which brought to mind some of Richard Ashcroft’s groping with his mother tongue on the last Verve album, though thankfully the rest of the lyrics take a surprisingly, mature nontheistic outlook on life and how to live it. The building nature of the piano, tambourine and structure also come out of the late-Britpop playbook with the song easily passable as Embrace or Oasis on paper.

However, what sets it apart is their beautiful, sad, intertwined vocals, knotting together as well as the equally pleasing sound of a trilling mandolin, ringing out bringing to mind The Smiths’ ‘Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want’. The harmonious refrain of “and it’s one life/and it’s this life/and it’s beautiful” is as life-affirming as the message. Flipside ‘Waltz For Richard’ is more pastoral and acoustic based but again displays the sister’s winning combination of vocals and a sweet melody.

The Xx

‘Islands’ is a brilliant choice of single for The Xx. Most of the tracks on their eponymous debut do not make much sense on their own, but ‘Islands’ makes its breakthrough brilliantly, the girl-boy vocals of Romy Madley Croft and Oliver Sim provide a superb introduction to what the band is all about.

It’s short and sharp, with lots going on despite its typically understated charm, and even contains the closest thing The Xx has produced to a hook, in the repeat refrain of “I am yours now…”, a typically heartfelt and bed-cuddly line that makes The Xx the perfect alternative lovers band.

B-side ‘Do You Mind?’ is no different to the rest of The Xx’s material, which at the moment shows an ability to remain consistently excellent, but in future might show them to struggle progressing their sound. It’s typically sexy, with Croft and Sim inviting the listener to come home with the pair of them, over untypically brash drums. Minimalism is the key to The Xx and at some point they are going to have to bring new things to the party. But at the moment, we should just settle for what they are giving to us, the finest music by a new British band this year.

As a gateway into the mysterious and wonderful world of The Xx, ‘Islands’ is majestic. But let’s hope they remain our little secret for now, yeah?

The Wave Pictures

The Wave Pictures have been quietly gigging as well as self-recording and releasing albums since the early part of the decade. This approach to their music is refreshingly old-fashioned – any other band may have sought out wider recognition long before now, or given up completely, but the band seem to have been content to just write songs, and have built up an impressive back catalogue as a result. Their albums look and sound like the work of just three men, while their songs are rooted in the strange, mundane reality of the 21st century.

This year’s If You Leave It Alone, released on Moshi Moshi Records, is perhaps their most accomplished release yet. The songs are punctuated by Stanley Brinks’ extra musical arrangements, though it is David Tattersall’s voice and lyrics that remain at the centre. Tattersall’s voice is distinctly ordinary, but his lyrics and delivery more than compensate and, after a while, it begins to feel right. Besides, musically the band are impressive, plucking styles and references from anywhere in music history between the Second World War and the present day for their songs.

‘Strawberry Cables’, the most recent single from If You Leave It Alone, is a bittersweet song about childhood, full of the odd, seemingly random, remembered events that everyone seems to hold on to. In the verses, David’s “keeping my friends close/my enemies closer/my parents even closer than that”, while gorging himself on sweets and smashing windows. The chorus, with David and his friends singing, “You know I tried to find my way back to you”, puts it all into perspective though.

‘Strawberry Cables’ is backed with the brighter ‘Three Songs Called Louise’, which sees the band continue to work with relatively more expansive production – guitar lines positively glimmer as a girl takes a lonely flight from Berlin, her thoughts filled with memories of the city. Tattersall’s skill with combining storytelling and melody is at its peak here, and suggests that new-found recognition hasn’t blighted their creative instinct. Fans of Belle and Sebastian, The Modern Lovers, or just pop music in general, take note – here is your new favourite band.

Omo - The White Album

Very occasionally, an album arrives which leaves us scratching our heads. An album which, in spite of repeated listens, does not open itself up or click into place. An album which you just don’t quite know what to make of. The White Album by Omo is such an album.

Omo are a two piece outfit consisting of Berit Immig and David Muth, They’ve been playing together for about five years, and this, their debut long player, is an assemblage of what they describe as “domestic pop for domestic occasions”. And it’s an unbelievably frustrating listen.

There’s absolutely no doubt that Omo possess unbounded creativity and flair. The White Album a lesson in exemplary electro textures. There is no shortage of ideas lurking among the exquisite concoction of beats and lo-fi instrumentation. Penultimate track ‘Turtle Neck’, for example, marries a looped guitar line to a pounding electronic pulse and the result, although hardly anything new, is still something vitaland invigorating. ‘König’ is an edgy, atmospheric piece of music which shows a creepier facet to the band’s sound.

Sadly though, Omo give with one hand and take away with the other. The most exasperating thing about The White Album is the handling of the ‘zany’ subject matter of the lyrics which ranges from underwater robots, to making a cuppa, to why birds couldn‘t fly if their eggs were too heavy. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with humour in music. If Neil Hannon can pull off a whole album about cricket, then why shouldn’t Omo be able to give us a song about tennis? The key is in the way the songs are delivered. There’s precious little warmth in Immig’s spoken word vocal delivery, which means the absurdity of the songs just sounds forced.

However, there are one or two instances where the Casio-pop aligns perfectly with the vocals, and, not surprisingly, these are among the album’s most successful moments. We see it on ‘Oversized’, where the mantra-like chant of “Will you be surprised when I’m oversized?” combines nicely with the hypnotic beat. It’s a shame that these moments of lucidity are few and far between, because underneath the wackiness is a brilliant album of painstakingly constructed bedroom electro desperate to make itself heard.

Cheatahs - Warrior/Minotaur

This double-header opens with a split second or two of faint hiss and crackle alerting us to the fact that we are almost certainly hearing a recording made in a band member’s bedroom or garage. Cheatahs, however, appear to be purposefully cultivating the low production value of the recording in an effort to create an atmosphere of distorted texture more akin to the hazy drone of bands like Women rather than the face melting abrasive lo-fi rock of someone like Wavves . Unfortunately, however, Cheatahs lack the charm or engagement of any of their shoegaze or lo-fi contemporaries.

The first of the two tracks, ‘Warrior’, is a simple verse-chorus-verse-chorus number with only two melodic phrases. “Like a waaarrrrior/Like a warrrriorrrr/Like a warrrrriorrrrruhhh” drones the insufferable chorus in a totally unengaged delivery. ‘Minotaur’, the other track on offer here, even abandons the idea of a B section and chooses to run one solitary melodic phrase into the ground over the course of a couple of minutes. This single melodic phrase does not, in case you’re interested, contain a hook.

Bradford Cox has shown us over the last couple of years with Deerhunter and Atlas Sound, however, that having repetitive vocal melodies doesn’t mean a song can’t be vital and engaging just so long as it’s coupled with rich or beautiful arrangements. Indeed, this is the basket in which Cheatahs put their eggs: the multi-layering of fuzzy electric guitars and distorted acoustic guitars are clearly the ace up the sleeve for this recording. Whilst the first verse and chorus of ‘Warrior’ are already muggy and thick in their guitar textures, a new slew of guitar lines and distorted chords are brought into the mix over the course of the song’s second half which enhance and fatten the aura of the song. ‘Minotaur’ is no different: an even noisier shower of guitars provides the only vaguely engaging aspect of the music. The percussion is pushed right down in the mix, the vocal lines are uninspiring and, to be frank, the guitar work is only noteworthy by comparison.

Cheatahs seem to be attempting to create a soundscape of enveloping hypnosis with their hazy layers of distortion and melodic repetition but fall somewhat flat in this endeavour. Instead, the two songs lazily drift through your ears leaving you with a sense of almost total indifference. Nothing really happens over the course of these two tracks to excite the listener. Nothing really happens over the course of these two tracks full stop.

Janapdroids

Art and music is nearly always worth far more than the sum of its parts. I mean, all Van Gogh ever did was slap some oil paints with a horsehair brush onto cheap canvas. And all Shakespeare did was to dip a feather plucked from some poor bird’s backside into a pot of ink and scrawl on some cheap parchment.

But I’m getting carried away. Comparing Japandroids to Shakespeare or Van Gogh is a signifcant measure of hyperbole too far. But the fact remains that the debutante drums and guitar duo have definitely put together, in the coyly titled Post Nothing, an LP that is sounds far more vital than its relevant parts. For those parts, read equal measures of slamdance disco a la Death From Above 1979, scuzzed up grunge punk and a certain amount of titanic stadium rock.

The band began, so the story goes, when Brian King and David Prowse decided to stop looking for a vocalist and just do it themselves. Since then, the pair have found themselves pigeonholed with such luminaries as No Age, Women and other such darlings of the American ‘lo-fi’ scene. That it’s an awkward tag for a band who state they want to be “anything but lo-fi” is borne out by the first listen: ‘The Boys Are Leaving Town’ might have the treble heavy production and sheen of fuzz glistening over its throbbing guitar pulse and crashing drumbeats, but tinny lo-fi it must definitely isn’t. As plaintive howls about trying to find their way back home echo over crazed drumfills and an arpeggiated but suitably feedback laden solo, the feeling is of a band trying to sound as massive as they can. Thin Lizzy would be proud.

The only shame is that ‘The Boys Are Leaving Town’ sets the bar so high, that everything else pales slightly in comparison. But that would be unfair on some very strong material: ‘Young Hearts Spark Fire’ is a slab of infectiously catchy scuzzpunk along the lines of Husker Du. Not only does it out No Age No Age, but the strangled plea “I don’t wanna worry about dying/I just wanna worry about sunshine girls” out anthems those Springsteen humpers The Hold Steady. It’s the single best vocal line since Times New Viking bleating about needing money for drugs. Elsewhere, ‘Heart Sweats’ is a looser DFA1979, stomping and pouting before launching into a scream along chorus. Lyrically, they’re definitely singing from the same sheet as the much missed Canadians: “I’m as cold as ice girl, I should know, I’ve been to the north pole” is a lip licking phrase, even if the yelped  X-O-X-X-O-Xs sound oddly out of place.

The only problem with the album is a lack of consistency – not in terms of quality, but in terms of style. Japandroids sound oddly enough like a band stuck between several rocks and various hard places: they don’t know if they want to sound like a bunch of scuzzy kit humping DIY punks, or something altogether bigger. The crunching riff of ‘Crazy/Forever’ might sound like Soundgarden until the vocals kick in, but it’s followed the altogether more soaring ‘Sovereignty’ which, with it’s achingly personal lyrics and hollered shouts heads back into DIYdom. Similarly, final track ‘I Quit Girls’ is a slower, chiming number, which brings to mind the mid-nineties dischord scene. It’s an original mix, as the album title suggests, but at times it’s a little bewildering and the listener does start to wonder where on earth the duo are going with this.

For now though, that’s by the by. With Post Nothing, Japandroids have created an album which can’t fail to be appealing to most listeners. It’s a heartfelt, ear wrenchingly catchy, and rock solid LP with enough hooks and kicks for several albums worth. Definitely worth more than just a pair of worn drumsticks and a beat up guitar.