Music Reviews
All Delighted People EP
by Sufjan Stevens
Raise your hand if you saw this coming, because I sure didn’t. Earlier this month, Sufjan Stevens announced an October/November tour—an announcement that I admittedly didn’t pay much attention to because he’s not really coming anywhere close to my neck of the woods (and I just don’t have much time for concertgoing these days). And what’s more, I’d become a little Sufjan’d out, particularly after the indulgent BQE.
And then Asthmatic Kitty broke the news: a nearly hour-long EP of brand new material that was free for the listening (and that could be had for a nominal fee). The promise of new music from the man was too much to pass up—the old Sufjan fan inside of me dies hard, I guess—and so I hoofed it on over to Bandcamp to check out All Delighted People. And suffice to say, I’m hanging my head in shame, for I should not have let my faith in the man slip. (If that makes me sound like a fanboy, then so be it.)
At first blush, All Delighted People seems like classic Sufjan. It’s sprawling and epic, musically and thematically, but quite poignant and intimate at the same time. However, careful listening will reveal subtle breaks from the Sufjan releases of yore. For starters, the production is thinner in places, even brittle. Sufjan’s inimitable arrangements are compressed and more surface-level, which means the EP sounds more “in your face”, relatively speaking. Which seems apt because musically speaking, this is some of the most adventurous music that Sufjan has put to tape yet.
Openness Is Dreaminess & Everything In Between
by Keith Canisius
I first became aware of Keith Canisius in 2007, when Darla released the eponymous debut from Rumskib, his shoegazer project with vocalist Tine Louise Kortermand. What immediately struck me then was the sense of enthusiasm, ebullience, and yes, even joy that pervades Canisius’ music. There’s an infectious, starry-eyed giddiness to his swirling guitars and soaring vocals, such that no matter how obviously indebted he is to the great ‘gazer bands of yore, you can’t help but break into a smile and nod along as his music fills your ears.
That sense continues on through Canisius’ solo works, including last year’s Waves. However, with Openness Is Dreaminess & Everything In Between, I get the feeling that Canisius is maturing a little and looking to shed a little of the foolishness of his youth.
Official World Cup Theme 2010
by The Declining Winter
If you were to make a list of artists to compose so-called “jock jams”—those ubiquitous anthems that spice up the promos and highlight reels for your favorite athletic spectacles—I sincerely doubt that The Declining Winter would be on there, not even in the bottom position. Their mopey, pastoral music isn’t exactly the sort that conjures up feelings of athletic victory and virtuosity. On the other hand, if you’re looking for music to listen to whilst crying into your pint after your team has been trounced in the finals, then they make better sense.
Which is to say that the thought of Richard Adams and Co. composing a theme for the world’s biggest sporting event strikes one as a wee bit absurd. But therein lies the charm. Musically and lyrically, “Official World Cup Theme 2010” doesn’t deviate at all from the aesthetic that the band has employed throughout its career. It may be more chipper and upbeat, but only by a smidge. The lyrics still display a penchant for nostalgic musings even as they celebrate the summer’s warmth, and the music, with its blend of acoustic and electric instrumentation, is quite enchanting. And the sample that closes out the song, of what I assume is some famous soccer match of yore—sorry fellows, I barely know anything about American football, much less the real deal—is apropos.
The disc ends with an instrumental version of the theme, and sandwiched between is “Red Kite”, a slightly more downbeat number where stabs of violin jut out from lazily plucked guitars and scattered drumming. It’s the sort of lethargically haunting music that the Declining Winter do so very well, music that may seem boring and uneventful on paper, but that nevertheless draws the listener in with its sublime details and evocative mood.
The Sun Rose in a Different Place
by Echodrone
Echodrone has certainly come some distance since their 2007 self-titled EP. While “shoegazer” is probably still the best genre in which to place them, their debut full-length The Sun Rose in a Different Place reveals that that’s not the most accurate classification to make. True, the layers of shimmering guitars and sighing vocals are still there, but the band is clearly in the process of honing and refining such elements—which is both exciting and somewhat frustrating.
In Sea Remixes
by Various Artists
I’ll come right out and say it: I’m not a big fan of remixes. I understand the need and desire to pay some homage to music that you find inspiring and beautiful. And given our society’s predilection for recontextualizing and reiterating pop culture in general, remixing sort of seems to be the post-modern de rigueur thing to do. But maybe I subscribe too heavily to the auteur idea for artists in general, that the vision put forth by the original artist is the authoritative one—that it’s canon, if you will—and that other versions are, therefore, pretenders to the throne.
That’s one huge generalization, of course, and I don’t mean to whitewash all remixes in existence, nor do I intend to dismiss those with mad remixing skills. But again, generally speaking, if I have to choose between picking up an album of remixes, and getting an album of brand new material—either by the remixer(s) or the remixee(s)—new material will win out almost every time. I yearn for something new, something fresh, something original—and remixes just never quite leave me satisfied beyond the initial piquing of curiosity.
Which brings us to In Sea Remixes, a collection of remixes of Aarktica’s In Sea. And in addition to my normal dislike of remixes, I was especially anxious regarding this particular collection, for two reasons.
Drowned In Light
by Manual
When I last reviewed Manual (aka, Jonas Munk), it was for 2007’s Lost Days, Open Skies And Streaming Tides, a two-disc collection of b-sides, compilation tracks, remixes, and other odds and ends. And by the time I was finished with that release, I concluded, or at least hoped, that it was a harbinger of sorts, that it represented a desire by Munk to clear out any musical baggage and start exploring some new sonic territory.
As much as I like Munk’s music in spirit and theory, the truth is that a little bit of Manual goes a long way for me. I love his ethereal guitars and instrumental soundscapes, but they’re so smooth and crisp, so polished and well-produced, that they’ve always blended together in the long run. As such, I found myself eagerly anticipating something truly new from the guy.
2008 brought us Confluence, another one of Manual’s more ambient-minded releases—and his weakest of that sort (I’ve always preferred 2004’s The North Shore for my Manual bliss-out moments). But now it’s 2010 and Drowned In Light is here, and it represents the first real evidence that Munk is venturing towards a new place, musically. Which makes the album fascinating but also frustrating, because he’s not there yet.
Slow Motion Breath Forward
by Talik
Cory Zaradur, who is one half of Language of Landscape—I reviewed their Memories Fade Under A Shallow Autumn Snow earlier in the month—recently let me know about Talik, his collaboration with Musk’oakA. You could lump Talik in with Language of Landscape, since they’re both “ambient” projects, but that’d be really quite lazy of you. Sure, Slow Motion Breath Forward has plenty of ethereal guitars and drifting textures throughout its five songs, but even a cursory listen will reveal that Talik quickly goes in a very different direction.
Memories Fade Under A Shallow Autumn Snow
by Language of Landscape
It’s the middle of March, and we’re finally experiencing a gorgeous spring day here in Lincoln. The skies are blue and full of sunshine, kids are in the park, and the temperature is in the mid-60s. In other words, about as perfect a day as you can imagine, and you’d think I’d be enjoying some appropriately shiny, jangly music full of cheery hooks and effervescent melodies. But if you’ve any knowledge of the music that Opus has tended to focus on over the last few years, then it shouldn’t really surprise you that I’m listening to an album entitled Memories Fade Under A Shallow Autumn Snow, and yes, it sounds like you think it would based on the title alone.
Working under the Language of Landscape moniker, Chris Tenz and Cory Zaradur bring together the austere ambience of Stars of the Lid with the similar austerity that can be heard in Arvo Pärt and Max Richter’s most sublime compositions. The result is music that slowly envelopes the listener with gentle guitar drones and sparse-yet-evocative piano arrangements, that slowly drifts down around you like, well, a shallow autumn snow.
Milhaven
by Milhaven
Let’s get the obvious out of the way first, shall we? Yes, Milhaven are immediately comparable to Mogwai and Explosions In The Sky. But such is the curse of post-rock bands who employ slowburning climaxes and quiet/loud dynamics within their 7 to 8 minute long instrumental epics. That being said, I’m not inclined to write the band off as mere rip-offs, though the similarities to the aforementioned bands do make it somewhat difficult to differentiate Milhaven’s songs. (In other words, you might find yourself humming a guitar line from this album, only to realize that it was, in fact, “Greet Death”.)
But I can’t deny that once Milhaven gets going, with guitars that grow more chaotic with each iteration and rhythms that gain more momentum and urgency with each go-around, it’s hard not to just drop the cynicism and rock out alongside them—or at least, rock back and forth in your office chair while the band unleashes a sonic thunderstorm inside your headphones. Such is the power of good post-rock, I suppose, no matter how many bands might employ the same aesthetic. (Hey, it works for punk rock, right?)
Waves
by Keith Canisius
When listening to Rumskib’s self-titled debut several years back, I was struck by the duo’s exuberance, by the sense of joy that permeated their recording. The shoegazer genre has often been called “the scene that celebrates itself”, and here were a couple of shoegazers that were truly keen on celebrating.
That same feeling permeates Waves, the second solo album from Keith Canisius (one half of Rumskib). Indeed, Waves picks up right where Rumskib’s album left off: from the very get-go, Canisius dives headfirst into an ocean of shimmering, ethereal sounds, and does so with such enthusiasm that it’s hard to resist diving in right after him.