Caught by the Fuzz
a review by Dmitri jr.

The Magnetic Fields -- Distortion

The problem with some Stephin Merritt songs is they have to live next to the other Stephin Merritt songs. The great ones. The devastating ones.

You can make it straight through all three volumes of 69 Love Songs in longish afternoon, though doesn’t everybody eventually skip through “The Cactus Where Your Heart Should Be” to “I Think I Need a New Heart”? Why even sequence two “heart” together? On Distortion, the first Magnetic Fields album in four years, Stephin does it again, when the so-so “I Dream Alone” unfairly comes a mere one song after the show-stopping Cole Porter-Paul Westerberg mash-up “Too Drunk to Dream.”

I don’t pity a prolific songwriter for having to suffer in the shadow of his own best work. (Surely, Steve-o has more than enough uber-fans to tend to the less obvious parts of his back-catalog) Still there’s some itsy heartbreak to having to be the Ira to your own George. Sort of shocking Merritt hasn’t already written a song about it.

On Distortion, there’s both the average and the above average. The distortion of the title is two-fold:

1.
Every single song is soaked in the stuff. Awash in hisses and hums, fuzz and feedback, Merritt and crew go out of their way to make a record that’s both ode to psychocandy shoe-gazer bliss and the way heirloom pop sounds played off scratched 45s or distant radio stations on cheap speakers. The waves of noise here are powerful, but intentional and manicured. Pianos chime, guitars buzz and processed strings drone but there’s an internal order anchored on the stateliness of Merritt’s and drummer Claudia Gonson’s vocals. Any rocking out is done on a restrained, relative scale and, fitting Merritt’s sense of humor, the noise is understated, even elegant.

The songs are all written from distorted points of view or altered states: drunkenness, bitterness, lust. There are ironic narrators like the rich guy in “Driver, Drive On” telling his chauffer to leave the lover who he just through out of the car in the dust or the sister in “Nun’s Litany” wishing she had become a topless waitress.

Even near-instrumental “Three-Way” booms along without words except for the occasional gleeful shouts of the title, which is kinda of it’s own clever little commentary the probably fairly complicated logistics of group sex we’re willing to gloss over.

When it hits, Merritt’s cleverness bowls you over. When it doesn’t, you feel like you’re listening to They Might Be Giants castoffs. If you want to get reductive, it be easy to point out Merritt’s most recent projects include a series of Volvo ads and helping Daniel Handler crank-out Lemon Snickett tie-ins. Maybe this album is an excuse to cut loose and play bad with noise and sex jokes.

There’s this disconnect between the proper vocals and the noise surrounding them. On other albums and his 6ths project, Merritt has no problem farming out songs to, let’s say, more stylistically appropriate singers. I think he deliberate kept these for himself and Gonsons because their voices seem to come from another time. His is a deep narcoleptic croon is almost able to swing, but not quite. Hers might pass as back up in unrefined girl group.

Sometimes the disconnect is jarring, like the Caribbean undead-sex-slave dirge “Zombie Boy.” Sometimes it’s gorgeous and startling, like the sad bastard carol “ Mr. Mistletoe” and “I Hate California Girls,” which plays in alternative reality where a surly Brian Wilson threatens the cast of “Laguna Beach” with an ax. More often than not, the songs seem to be floating in from some strange, fuzzy past—slowly fading, yet timeless.

rating: 3/5

-Dmitri jr.

Mandy Moore -- Wild Hope.

Pure Chewing Satisfaction?

In a world of narcissistic celebrities where the career lines between pop star and actor are blurry at best, Mandy Moore is a breath of fresh air playing the other side. She has a self-deprecating dark sense of humor that endears her even more to the 16-35 crowd, as she releases more albums, stars in more films, and gets more ink in the tabloids. While many celebs try to sell that angle, it usually comes off as disingenuous. In Moore's case, you sense that it's actually sincere and her way of keeping herself grounded. Moore even went so far as to offer to refund money (if she could) to fans who purchased her first two albums (''I feel bad that people wasted their money on such trite, blah pop music"). She also recently kicked it up a notch, BAM! (Emeril style) by saying she's neither a good actress nor a good singer. By in large an overstatement to say the least, but she must be her own worst critic and ego checkmate at the same time.

Moore has a natural enchanting charm (or is that the Neutrogena?) that makes you want to like whatever she does, even if the overall product is mediocre at best or even downright worst. While I haven't seen Because I Said So, I imagine I would feel pretty bad saying that it's (probably) a movie best left never revealed. One also can't help but feel sorry for her when she's linked romantically to perennial Douche of the Year contenders such as Zach Braff and Wilmer "Fez" Valderama. Her (former) record company Epic didn't help her cause by releasing a greatest hits album in 2004, after just 2 and a half albums and a covers compilation (Coverage); saving ipods everywhere from the laborious chore of utilizing its shuffle function.

Moore's latest music effort, Wild Hope, can be best described as Care Free chewing gum. Nothing you have to hurt yourself thinking about too much, even enjoyable, but unfortunately there's not much flavor left within minutes of the first chew. Wild Hope is breezy like Natalie Imbruglia, Jewel, Paula Cole, or Sarah MacLachlan tunes. It's also nice to hear a female pop artist not snarl bitterly like Kelly Clarkson's recent review of her stay in Negative Town, or dumb it down five shades like Avril and Pink in Sparkle Motion Land. Moore's seamlessly moved on from the teen pop demographic to the adult alt-pop arena, all without alienating her largely teen fan base. Moore co-wrote all of Wild Hope w/ the help of Rachel Yamagata, Chantal Kreviazuk (Clarkson/Lavigne), and Lori McKenna (among others). While the songs are all fine and dandy, there's nothing remarkable or striking about them that commands an album purchase or many repeat listens for casual fans. Moore's voice, while pleasing to the ear, just doesn't have enough separation between her and every other female pop singer going these days.

Wild Hope moves back-and-forth from pop/light rock/country genres, offering at least something for everyone. Most songs lack the huge chorus critical for radio commercial success. “Ladies Choice” features nice string and piano arrangements and sounds like it could’ve been a quality b-side to Clarkson’s “Breakaway”. The title track gets grounded in the land of blah, never really taking the listener anywhere. “Gardenia” is a pretty slow piano ballad, but Moore reveals “I’m the one who likes to make love on the floor”, which is pretty hott. The slightly laughable, “She likes chocolate in the morning, she drinks her coffee late at night” in the country rock tinged “Can’t You Just Adore Her” will make its fair share of eyes roll. “Latest Mistake” and “Slummin’ In Paradise” are catchy summer pop singles likely to have the most commercial success. Country/folk song “Most of Me” may be the strongest song here. Throughout Wild Hope, Moore showcases her strong focus on melody and pop instincts, even if the results fall just slightly off the mark.

Say what you will about Mandy Moore's music, I for one will take any future slightly bland and not so adventurous Mandy Moore effort over a White Stripes album any day of the week, especially on days when both have free sendspace files hitting my inbox¹, er...albums hitting the shelves at Wal*Mart. While Moore comes off as a jack-of-all-trades/ master-of-none, Wild Hope is solid step in the right direction for Moore trying to put some air between her teen pop days. 7 years ago who would have predicted that of Britney/X-tina/Jessica/Moore, she would be the one flying under the radar toward the most long-term career success?

Rating: 3/5 or half a smiley face

-Damore

_{¹Editor's note: "We have no idea what you are talking about, do they have the internet on computers now?"}

Battles -- Mirrored

Do you know that James L. Brooks line? The one about "the Simpsons theme"?

No? OK, well some us couldn’t get a date in High School. Lay off.

Story goes that executives from FOX are standing around listening to music for the first episode of the Simpsons and no one likes Dan Elfman’s theme: no warm, memorable easy-to-sing-along-too words ala Cheers, a weird tempo that’s jaunty and sweeping at once—ratings poison, right? So they’re getting ready to ax it and in walks Brooks and he goes, "Oh my god! This is great. It’s like lemmings-marching-to-their-death music." And so they stick with it.

Underground electronica rockers Battles make lemmings-marching-to-their-death music. It’s not the dense, dour prog of black-clad Germans. It’s buoyant, dashing math rock for Xbox addicts and the pedal-obsessed space-rock faction of the Lollipop Guild.

Maybe that sounds terrible to you. Be warned, the potential annoyance factor here is pretty high. If the idea of Can or Tangerine Dream covering "the theme from the Smurfs" horrifies you more than it fascinates you (which admittedly it should), then this record might be "too hot for your chinchilla".

The vocals are all filtered yelps and keening nonsense—no actual words anyone seems able to pull out. They seem incidental and absurd until you get to the final moments of "Rainbow," when singer Tyondai Braxton finally sounds like a human, even if he still isn’t singing a single real word. It’s oddly touching, one of many little ghosts in the machine.

My passing, uninformed opinion of Bjork and the people who make music to rip-off and/or impress Bjork is they aren’t enjoying themselves these days, like they feel they’ve evolved past it. To quote an old SM t-shirt. "Fuck Art, Let’s Dance." If there’s a place on your hard drive for the crushing beauty of Sigur Ros or paranoid builds of Godspeed, You Black Emperor, then maybe there’s a spot for this record.

It’s experimental music that’s pulling listeners in, instead of shutting them out. Raymond Scott, the unsung genius of Warner Brothers cartoon soundtracks and an early electronic instrument pioneer, would be proud.

Rating: 3/5

-Dmitri Jr.

Ted Leo and the Pharmacists -- Living With the Living

For reasons I only 70% understand, Living With the Living, the new album from Indie sloganeer Ted Leo takes me back to Full Moon Fever and a dozen other records I stole from Gorilla in middle school. It’s not the content so much as the temperament and execution: Half a dozen front loaded anthems, a few of which are impossibly great, and a padded second side of genre workouts, ballads and throwaways.

When you’re young, you’re willing to put up with “Zombie Zoo” because of the majesty “Running Down a Dream,” and I’m sure there are plenty of folks willing to deal with the obvious “Bomb. Repeat. Bomb.” and British hooligan ode “Bottle of Buckie” (a tin whistle solo?? the 13 year old me would have shit his pants) for the perfection of “Sons of Cain” and “Who Do You Love?” Despite knowing better, somehow I still like all those ridiculous tracks, but that’s as much about the astonishing affability of Tom and Teddy.

That’s why you can’t fault this record for its earnest, well-crafted filler (even when it pushes past the sixth minute). It’s like (if I may throw in another emotional, rather than sonic metaphor) cheering for your best friend’s terrible prog band—that five-string bass solo rules because your buddy rules. (See Sufjan’s musings on “friend rock” and/or the raves of his
last record.)

Flipping through the reviews of Living you get the idea people aren’t mad at Ted Leo for not self-editing, but maybe they’re sick of him being so reliable. “Consistent” is backhanded, passive-aggressive rock scribe code for “boring us.” Hence, admiring well-made records more than swooning over them.

And when this album draws that kind of pleasant indifference, it’s because Ted Leo is the archetypal "Reasonable Liberal."

Despite the consequences on his career, Ted Leo is a levelheaded, smart 30 something-guy's guy, who sits around wondering where the rude boys are, instead of going out and fucking shit up. He’s never gonna be banned from Holiday Inns and he’ll always offer you a vegan cookie, instead of slapping the burger out of your hand. He might occasionally slice his forehead open
on a mike stand, but he’s a polite enough punk not to bleed all over the first row.

In other words, he’s us—sensitive, well-meaning, if wimpy, former (and former wanna-be) punks trying to get through the world without blowing up any more dark-skinned foreigners than we have to.

Rating: 3/5

-Dmitri Jr.

Aqueduct -- Or Give Me Death

David Perry, first came to my attention a couple of years ago with his first full album under the Aqueduct moniker (sorry, he's just not cool enough for an alias), I Sold Gold. It wasn't a hit, it wasn't an "auspicious" debut, but it was promising.

I Sold Gold is quirky bedroom pop. Despite being released under the name of a band, it is clearly born from and executed by a single musical mind. It had weird little synth blips, heavily effected drums and a vocal style that would have felt comfortable with Yoshimi and her Pink Robots.

Most noticeably it had lyrics that fed on plenty of pop culture amongst the fairly standard broken love of indie rock. Coupled with connections to Modest Mouse, Ben Gibbard and housed on Barsuk Records it was perhaps preordained to have a song on an O.C. compilation -- that is was "Hardcore Days & Softcore Nights" and not "Growing Up with GnR" was probably just to remind us old farts that plenty of OC fans are to young to remember skinny Axl.

Or Give Me Death doesn't come off so much as a sophomore slump, as it does an album distracted with trappings and the peripheral. Previous Aqueduct recordings felt cleverly cobbled with available resources: Musical, technical and monetary, but it was the thought that counted. Or Give Me Death is still quirky, but where the use of horns, strings, big grand pianos and presumably gobs of real studio time should support some musical purpose, they often seem like the whole point.

The little deceits of relationships (both told and received) are a driving topic of most of the lyrics and could be found on a whole host of other indie records and probably done better. That said, tracks like"Living a Lie" are largely a success, with energetic drums and a tasteful application of electronic blips.

However, the ode to The Princess Bride, "As You Wish" falls flat as an overly contrived attempt to hook up with young women nostalgic for a film of their youth. However, no one who rhymes "This is a song for all the lovers," with, "or anyone who's playing Spy Hunter," as Perry does on "Zero the Controls" is all bad.

In the end, despite a few nice moments, Aqueduct remains basically where he was after the last album -- merely a promising artist, rather than one moving into his prime. I have little doubt that he'll get a chance to make more records -- hopefully he'll be able to better discern where his burgeoning studio craft can be put to use in support of great songs, rather than in lieu of them.

Rating: 3/5

-Gorilla

Or Give Me Death is streaming in it's entirety for free at barsuk.com

The Shins -- Wincing the Night Away

I've been guilty of numerous cliches in my lifetime, one of which being "so and so changed my life." (Insert Radiohead, Elliott Smith and Wham! here)

The Shins (whether it be good or bad) have been made famous - for the most part - by being the "so and so" in that aforementioned equation, thanks to Zach Braff and Natalie Portman. And while they're not changing my life by any stretch, they're still a solid indie rock band.

That said, the New Mexico quartet's 3rd effort Wincing The Night Away is an adequate and consistent, if not safe, record. Unfortunately its "consistency" may also be its biggest flaw.

First track "Sleeping Lessons" is a highlight (if not apex); the song crescendos into a driving rock gem and acts as a perfect opener, despite lacking a true chorus. The song is a bit of a microcosm of Wincing The Night Away - many songs are borderline great.

Single "Phantom Limb" is as catchy as anything on their previous album, 2003's near-masterpiece Chutes Too Narrow; probably because it features the same progression as "Mine's Not A High Horse." In fact, there are similar qualities to this record that occur (though not as blantantly) throughout the record - "Girl Sailor" and "Turn On Me" also resemble that same quirky shuffle of much of The Shins' previous work, without eclipsing the brilliance of "Saint Simon" or "New Slang."

And while there's definitely no shame in playing it safe, The Shins aren't going to be changing lives anytime soon in doing so.

Rating: 3/5

-Peabs