A few years ago, I was reading an issue of CMJ where they were reviewing Flying Saucer Attack’s Distance.  In the review, they referred to a genre of music called “greybeat.”  The writer claimed it was a term coined by critics in the mid-80s to describe the music that we now know as post-punk, most noticeably The Cure and Joy Division, bands that formed after the punk movement had worn itself out, in the vacuum all of that self-destructive ideology had created.  It was a gloomy, yet very influential time, with some of its best examples being The Cure’s Faith and Pornography albums.

I humbly submit that 23:03 picks up where those albums left off.  I don’t know if I’d call this stuff “greybeat”, but it has all of the earmarks; dense clouds of keyboards, chiming guitars and pulsing basslines, pounding rhythms, and gloomy wailing vocals.

The incredible thing about Antarctica is that the musical formula, which could be so 1980s steers clear of the silly cliches it could easily fall into.  Of the 3 songs, the highlight is definitely “Full Crescent Crusade”, which sounds eerily reminiscent of The Cure’s gloomiest outings that you might check to make sure you’re not listening to Standing On The Beach.  However, “Closetful Of Churches” is no slouch either, sounding like it belongs on a Disintegration B-side.

Gloomy without being goth, indie without being too clever for its own good, shoegazey without droning on and on, Antarctica’s influences are obvious.  The beauty is how original it all sounds.  Highly recommended.

Something seems certain in the latest from the French duo Air: they’ve returned with a more mature sound.  It’s noticeable that their soundtrack for “The Virgin Suicides” has probably affected their sound, even though the similarities with that work are few here.  In this album, elegance and quality are still the norm in Air’s music, but those looking for light, chic poppish notes a la “Sexy Boy” or “Kelly Watch the Stars” can forget it, or perhaps just hang onto “Radio #1”. The songs here are more daring, denser, and at times, darker.

The opening piece, “Electronic Performers”, sounds like any song from Mouse On Mars, To Rococo Rot, or any of those great German electronic bands. “The Vagabond”, a duet between Air and Beck, lets us notice Beck’s signature, and is probably one of the best pieces on the record. “Radian”‘s intro sounds like a collaboration betwen Steve Roach, and Susan Deihim or Lisa Gerrard, but it suddenly mutates into something resembling “The Virgin Suicides”’ melancholia, only with a sampled flute orchestration.

Another piece that sounds pretty much like an Air/Roach collaboration is “Lucky And Unhappy”, another great jewel on this record. “People In the City” is a classic dark yet beautiful Air downtempo ballad. “Wonder Milky Bitch” gives us an idea about how Tom Waits or (especially) Leonard Cohen would sound if they experimented with electronica, complete with a Cohen-esque voice, to great effect!.  The piece that closes the record, “Caramel Prisoner”, has another ambient candence and a very somber note; at times it sounds like a remix of a Radiohead theme.

This is probably not what many expected of Air.  Like Radiohead’s “Kid A”, “10,000 HZ Legend” might be a shocking record at first, but don’t let a first listen mislead you; this is just confirmation that Air is one of the greatest bands around right now.

Written by Pekky Marqez.

Reviewing Joy Electric’s release presents a quandary. How much can I say without dulling the impact of the work, while still accomplishing the purpose of the review?  This is a fine line that must be walked. The best way to sum up “The White Songbook” is as a consummation.

Things hinted at and approached in earlier works reach their peak here. The complexity hinted at in unreleased tracks such as “Parlor Inventor” and “The Ice Parade at Dawn” is attained. The layered vocals used sparingly in “CHRISTIANsongs” are integral. The melancholy sadness that pervaded earlier releases becomes heartbreaking. The defiance that has been masked and contained overflows. This is not to say that any of these qualities are excessive or melodramatic. They are simply complete. Ronnie Martin has said that his focus is “progress without change”, and this motto is not an empty homily. “The White Songbook” exemplifies this devotion.

But not all elements of the Joy Electric formula are carried to their logical conclusion. Some are modified or even dropped altogether. Gone is the candy fixation of earlier works, gone (for the most part) are the melancholy love songs, and gone are the Sunday school lyrics.

Before I even picked up “The White Songbook”, I knew it was different. The simplicity of Joy Electric’s cover art is taken to the extreme here. Two color and completely text-based, the cover is only adorned by a single off-center red column. When I opened the liner notes and flipped through them, I noticed that most of the songs are longer than previous Joy Electric works, and the songs are not numbered.  Instead, they’re organized like a book, in keeping with the motif of the album. The lyrics are degrees of magnitude more dense and opaque than previous Joy Electric efforts.

But it is not until you actually begin to listen to the album that the full impact of the departure from previous albums hits you. The “book” begins with the title song, a preface, history, and manifesto all rolled into one. The music and vocals are equally haunting; the abridged lyrics crescendo as the music fades away. The rest of the chapter is intriguing, quiet and introspective. “Unicornicopia” gives a glimpse of the “old” Joy Electric, with visions of maple leaves and country fireplaces, but weaves a foreboding feeling into the work with lines like “you covered in plain clothes, sewing neat, careful designs, but what makes you so fearful?”

“Chapter 2: Hunter Green and Other Histories” contains the shortest songs of “The White Songbook”, but also the most defiant. The book finally let me take a breath when it reached Chapter 3. The poetic, melancholy song “Sing Once for Me”, dedicated to Martin’s wife and daughter, hearkens back to songs like “These Should Be the Good Times” and “The Golden Age”.  The last two full songs on the album contain the most opaque of the album’s lyrics.

Like the best of books, “The White Songbook” left me with seemingly paradoxical feelings. It was complete, but yet I wanted more. And on continued readings and listenings, I will discover more about the author’s feelings and intentions. “The White Songbook” is unquestionably the best Joy Electric release ever.  Anyone who has any interest in listening to good music should buy this album. Even those who have joined the ranks of the Joy Electric mockers should listen to “The White Songbook”.

“The White Songbook” is so good that it seems to leave nothing to be said. I almost wonder, like Martin himself does at the end of the title song: “From here, where are we to go?”

Written by Frederick K. Ghansah.

My first exposure to Hidden came while I was going through some galleries on File Magazine‘s website, specifically Bob Stevens’ “Sublime Spaces”.  If there’s one genre that lends itself especially well to soundtrack-like moments and cinematic thoughts, it’s dark ambient when it’s done right, and Brett Smith (who has been recording under the Caul moniker for a number of years) proves once again that he does it quite well.

While listening to Hidden single 59-minute track, Stevens’ photos of ordinary vistas and scenes—an electrical tower at the edge of an empty field, an aluminum shed in the middle of an orchard, four strange structures off in the distance on some hills—though beautiful in their own right, took on a strange, otherworldly cast.  Despite being shots of ordinary American vistas, they came to more closely resemble something out of Tarkovsky’s Stalker or Attila Janisch’s After The Day Before.  (Indeed, many of the distant rumblings that serve as Hidden‘s foundation immediately brought the amazing sound design of Janisch’s film to mind.)

It’s always amazing to me how much an enveloping sound can completely alter your perspective.  Chances are, even a picture of some cute little puppies would suddenly seem ominous, alien, and foreboding were Caul’s music playing in the background.

Some may be turned off by the fact that Hidden is a single, nearly hour-long track, and I can’t blame them.  They’re probably imagining an hour of mindless drones, perhaps a few monk chants, some ominous factory rumbles, maybe a horror movie sample or two, some bone-rattling low end frequencies, some disturbing samples—you know, the sort of stuff one might expect from a, well, dark ambient disc.  Smith does employ many of those elements, to be sure.  There’s hardly a minute on the disc that isn’t awash with blackened waves of drone and drift, eerie scrapings and ringings, and whatnot.

However, despite the fact that Hidden isn’t as “focused” or “song-oriented” as some of Caul’s other releases, this isn’t merely a case of Smith leaning on his synth keys for minutes on end or just slapping on some evil-sounding samples here and there for creepy effect.  Listen closely, and you might hear a few surprises.

Occasionally light does pierce through the clouds.  Lighter, flute-like melodies can be heard slowly emerging during the first 5 minutes or so, as if seeking to bolster the listener before they begin traversing the darker territories of the next 50+ minutes.  About midway through the disc, a solitary cymbal begins measuring out a solemn step as reverent atmospherics drift all around.  As is the case with much of Caul’s music, the mental picture conjured forth is that of ancient religious ceremonies performed in ruined, ivy-covered temples—the cymbal setting the pace, the atmospherics drifting about like incense.

The mournful synths reappear in the disc’s final movement.  Reminiscent of Les Joyaux De La Princesse’ Die Weisse Rose, they’re undoubtedly sorrowful and yet, there’s something slightly off about their sadness, something distant and alien that leaves you as apprehensive as you are soothed.

Although, given its running time, it’s unavoidable that the disc occasionally meanders and loses focus, it’s these little details and nuances that I’ve always enjoyed about Caul’s music, and always make his discs a compelling listen.

Take three completely unrelated musicians. Throw them into a recording studio after a successful one-time gig at a New Orleans jazz festival. Mix thoroughly. Enjoy. Trey Anastasio (Phish), Les Claypool (Primus), and Stewart Copeland (Police) seemingly have nothing in common, with the exception that their bands all start with the letter “P”. However, their collaborative project Oysterhead manages to fuse three extremely dissimilar musical styles, and churn out a finished product that’s as polished as a band pushing its 25th anniversary. The styles weave themselves throughout each other like a well-crafted quilt, as is evidenced by the band’s first, and hopefully not last, project, The Grand Pecking Order.

With such distinctive personalities at the helm, my first fear while listening to this album was that it would end up being a fight for the wheel, ending in a stylistic disaster of album and a musical wall. Les Claypool, for all intents and purposes, is Primus, with various contributing musicians adding to his style. His idiosyncratic bass style has the ability to overpower any song in existence, and his eccentric lyrics make you think and giggle, or just ask, “What the hell is he talking about?” His nasal faux-southern drawl—Mr. Claypool is a California man—captivates the listener and puts an even more oddball spin on the already intriguing lyrics.

On the other side, Trey Anastasio has spread himself over so many musical genres that his very presence on stage alerts the audience that something awesome is about to occur. He’s worked heavily in experimental jazz, trained in classical composition, and was instrumental in the creation of the biggest jam band since the Grateful Dead.

With all of this said, the two musical heavyweights balance the album quite well, passing the mic as frequently as a wrestling tag-team, with Stewart Copeland displaying versatility on the drums that we rarely saw during his stint with The Police. Some songs are predominantly Claypool, like “Shadow Of A Man”, “Pseudo-Suicide”, and “The Grand Pecking Order”. These smack of thick and funky slap bass, very driving drum rhythms, and the patented Primus drawl. Some are clearly Anastasio, like “Radon Balloon”, “Birthday Boys”, and “Polka Dot Rose”. These are more mellowing, melodic, and often jazzy.

But the real gems of the album, not that the aforementioned songs are bad, are the songs during which you can’t tell who had the larger influence.  “Mr. Oysterhead”, “Owner Of The World”, and “Oz Is Ever Floating” all fuse heavy bass thumping with the atmospheric guitar hums and jazz chords. Les and Trey’s voices are bizarre compliments, with Claypool’s drawl melodically accompanying Anastasio’s clear and smooth voice. Copeland’s drumming is impeccably tight, fusing the two styles like a seasoned welder. The songs showcase Claypool’s outstanding bass licks, quickly interrupting them with carefully toned jazz guitar. It’s an outstanding brew.

Other songs are much trickier.  “Army’s On Ecstasy” begins with Claypool’s patented storytelling song speak, in which he proudly proclaims his tale as though he were a barker of a seedy southern tonic. However, throughout the song, it becomes increasingly apparent that we’ve been had, and the last two minutes are a jam band dreamscape, dropping into a break that’s reminiscent of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Free Bird”.

“Wield The Spade” finds Stewart Copeland at the microphone, vehemently blasting a speech that rivals a Marxist rally, calling to arms the working class. “Wield the spades/Ready the blades” rings through the song like a secret battle cry, masking the revolution from those in power. All the time, the rally is being carried by waves of mellow ostinato guitar licks and quick-paced light cymbals.

Although this type of experimentation and fusion of styles often happens in the Jazz field, very rarely do we find such a successful combination as we have with Oysterhead. Audioslave was a disappointment, and Velvet Revolver isn’t necessarily matching Stone Temple Pilots, although it takes little to surpass Guns N’ Roses. Oysterhead challenges this curse of the rock band fusion and comes out on top, smiling toothy grins. Their album consistently keeps the toes tapping, with the levels of funky always pulled to 10. The trio seems to have parted ways for now, but my biggest wish is for them to jam themselves into the studio again to try out newer directions. An album as unique as this rarely comes around.

Written by Guy Thillet.

Just a word to the wise… if you’re going to listen to Clairvoyants’ Your New Boundaries, don’t do so while operating heavy machinery, driving, or doing anything else that requires your complete and undivided attention.  Rather, turn the lights down low, curl up on the couch with a good book and a warm drink, and let the 13 songs on this CD just wash over and envelope you.  Trust me, it’ll be far more enjoyable that way, not to mention safer for everyone else.

When I saw this CD in the used bin, I assumed it was a release by a goth/darkwave band of the same name that I’d heard about years ago, and thought that’s what I was buying (despite the fact that this CD came out on Mark Kozelek’s Badman Recording Co., a decidedly un-gothic label).  However, from the very beginning, as the lightly brushed percussion, flowing keys, and lazily graceful guitars began drifting from the speakers, I knew I was in for something far different and eminently more enjoyable.

It’s kind of pointless to discuss individual songs, as they all begin to colaesce and blur together after about 5 minutes or so, and only in the loveliest and most mood-inducing of ways.  However, if I had to pick a standout, I’d be tempted to name “Interlude”, with its haunting flugelhorn denouement.  At only one point does the album’s slow, drowsy pace come close to being broken.  As it progresses, “To Harm” begins building pressure, as if all of the restraint the band has displayed up to that point threatens to burst, with feedback and percussion churning just below the surface.

As gorgeous as the band’s music is—and it’s mighty gorgeous—the band’s real strength lies in Brian Dunn’s gorgeous vocals, which evoke shades of Morrissey, Chet Baker, Jeff Buckley, and The Czars’ John Grant.  His voice rarely rises above a gentle, breathy croon, adding a certain poignancy to the songs.  Compared to many of the vocalists out there, his is a balm to the ears, smooth as silk and sad as any grey sky.

I first listened to this CD on a lazy Sunday afternoon.  I had the apartment all to myself, and was working on Opus when I decided to give the album a spin or two.  The neighborhood was completely quiet, and the pleasant, sunny spring day outside provided all the light I needed, flooding the room with the afternoon equivalent of twilight.  It was a perfectly relaxed afternoon, just me alone with my work, and I couldn’t have planned a better soundtrack for the time than the one provided by this album.  Absolutely gorgeous stuff any way you look at it, and a must-hear for any fan of dreamy, lazy day music.

If there’s a word to describe This Sad Movie, it’d have to be “sprawling”.  With 13 tracks spread over 74 minutes, there’s a lot of material on here to chew through, both musically and thematically.  Lyrically, the album follows the tried and true topic of relationships and their ups and downs, with lyrics that often sound better when delivered by Kristy Moss’ lovely voice than when read on paper.  Then again, shoegazers have never been known for being terribly novel when it came to lyrics.  Rather, it’s the album’s sonics that can provide its most daunting element.

If there was ever an example of “too much of a good thing”, it would This Sad Movie.  It’s not that Con Dolore employs questionable sounds, or that the many directions their album takes are disappointing.  That’s not the problem at all.  However, the album tries to incorporate a vast array of sounds and musical elements, especially during its midsection, and not without some loss of cohesion.

The album opens in fine form, with the solemn piano-based “Opening Theme” giving way to the airy keyboards and dreamy vocals of “The 7th”.  While the lyrics drift dangerously close to treacly, the layers and layers of vocals in the song’s latter portion could make any lyric sound gorgeous.

“She Said Goodbye” is one of the album’s finest compositions, an airy piece where all of the instruments and vocals are polished to a glassy sheen.  The song seems intent on drifting away and not even the Sea And Cake-like percussion, which relies heavily on marimbas and shakers, add much weight to the song.  Only Wes Snowden’s graceful bassline anchors the song, and even that bond feels like it could snap whenever the song transitions into the bouncy chorus.

Almost immediately after this, the album enters a period where it seems to lack any sort of musical direction.  The band shifts from effects-laden guitars to more electronic-oriented fragments to Steve Reich-esque percussion pieces.  Taken individually, they’re pretty enough, but when placed in succession, it makes for a confusing, meandering listen.

“Feed Us All” is the best example of this.  At 7 minutes, it’s one of the album’s longest tracks, but the band doesn’t quite seem to know what to do with all of that time.  If I didn’t look at the stereo, I’d be convinced that I’d just gone through 3 or 4 songs, ranging from the punchy opening movement to a more bombastic middle section to the closing minutes’ shifting pianos and marimbas.  It doesn’t help that the song features some of the album’s weaker lyrics.  The only saving grace of passages like “It’s cold in here/And made of fear/Get out of here/The end is near” is that they’re delivered by Moss’ vocals (whose merits I’ve already espoused).

“Fractions Of A Second” (parts 1 and 2) come off more as experiments, late night studio jams that the band deemed cool enough to include on the album.  Granted, “Fractions Of A Second 2” is a pretty interesting listen, with stuttering rhythms and a funky bassline creating a nice foundation for Moss’ wispy vocals.  However, even that piece feels disjointed as it gives way to one of those Reich-esque marimba segues the band is so fond of sprinkling throughout the album.  One wishes the band would get their love for Reich over with and just turn all of those pretty little pieces into a single, gorgeous song.

It gets to the point where I don’t even know what song I’m listening to, which is a problem when I just want to jump to those tracks which truly display Con Dolore in all of their glory.  “The Happy Girl” is a godsend for those of us still in love with Slowdive’s “Just For A Day”, as Moss’ vocals and the delicate cascades of chiming guitars embrace eachother during the song’s gorgeous climax.  Likewise, “Unexpected Love” is an audio daydream, with Moss’ vocals taking on a gauzy feel and guitars drifting by cloud-like.  It’s unfortunate that moments as wondrous as these often feel lost in the shuffle.

To some extent, I can understand the album’s disjointed feel.  The album’s lyrics often deal with the shifting emotions and sensations that accompany relationships.  Con Dolore just isn’t capable of always pulling it off, though.  This Sad Movie has many moments where their sound coalesces into something truly beautiful.  However, their disjointed approach often breaks into that, becoming far too conspicuous and heavy-handed for its own good.

Apparently, their followup album (“Sailor’s Warning”) adopts a more focused approach.  If so, I find that very encouraging, because This Sad Movie‘s most enjoyable moments, such as “She Said Goodbye” or “The Happy Girl”, occur only when the band settles down and keeps their focus.

Sometimes you need be at a certain place or in a certain environment to truly enjoy an album.  Some albums, good as they might be, don’t really make sense until you’re in the proper setting.  While many great albums transcend time and place, the right time and place certainly don’t hurt.  At least that’s what I’ve found to be true of My Morning Jacket’s At Dawn.

I picked this album up over a year ago, after it’d been out for a year.  And while I’ve always enjoyed it, it wasn’t until two events occurred that I gave it another spin.  One was walking into a local record store while my friend was playing At Dawn over the PA.  I didn’t recognize it at first, but it felt awfully familiar.  When it finally clicked, I realized that I probably hadn’t been listening to it as much as I should.

The second event occurred during quick trip to Colorado.  My Morning Jacket seemed like the perfect accompaniment for a nighttime drive across Nebraska’s lonely winter prairie.  Or any desolate landscape for that matter, be it buried in snow or blasted by sun and sand, where you can be alone with your thoughts.

Although At Dawn contains elements of alt (and old timey) country, arena rock, and 60s psychedelia, there are moments when it does certainly meet and exceed the promise held within those various genres.  Perhaps the Jacket’s closest contemporaries reside in Beachwood Sparks, but At Dawn never quite gives into the Sparks’ dreamy, starry-eyed romanticism.  Or at least not to the same extent.

The one weakness of At Dawn is that, at 74 minutes, it’s just too much and too long.  The sad irony is that, while your enjoyment of the album might be enhanced by a certain time and season, the album can easily outlast its welcome.  Some tracks just go too long, or shouldn’t even be on the album for that matter.

“Honest Man” is a perfect example.  At nearly 8 minutes in length, it’s 6 minutes too long, and the aimless guitar soloing and caterwauling by frontman Jim James gets downright painful at times.  And I have to admit that I rarely find myself making it past track 10 (mainly because I’m worn out after hearing “Honest Man”).

That being said, there are far too many gems on this album to simply pass it by.  One listen to “The Way That He Sings” was all it took to convince me to buy this album, and the track still holds that same appeal after all this time.  All comments about caterwauling aside, My Morning Jacket’s greatest strength truly is Jim James’ voice.  At his finest moments, he sounds like a cross between Wayne Coyne and Dwight Yoakam after the two have shared a bottle of Jack Daniels and bemoaned a few lost loves.  One minute, he can be world-weary and lonesome, the next rich and full, and all the while dripping with heartache.

On “The Way That He Sings”, James’ voice soars over slide guitar, organs, and a solid rhythm section.  It doesn’t hurt that the song has one helluva bridge, a transition that still hooks me every time I hear it.

“Death Is The Easy Way” finds the band at its most heartbroken, with James’ singing “‘Cause nothin’ gets you high/You’re poor the day you die/And alcohol, it only gets you tired” against a lonesome harmonica like he has firsthand knowledge of the subject.  “Hopefully” continues the mood, while adding a bit more atmosphere to the mix.  You can imagine the band recording this on a back porch somewhere in Kentucky during a humid summer evening, a tired coonhound stretched out beside the chair and a jug of moonshine close at hand.  James’ delivers again, plaintively singing “Hopefully, it occurs to me that there’s one thing I can’t stand/It’s the thought of one single day without your head in my hand” as if his voice alone can protect his lover.

Even the dragged out “Honest Man” can’t diminish the brilliance of “X-Mas Curtain”.  Here, the band is at their most Flaming Lips-esque, delivering a solid piece of country-tinged psychedelia that feels like “The Soft Bulletin”‘s longlost Appalachian cousin (even with the steel drums during the bridge).  James’ voice sighs away, making surreal lyrics like “Get some action from the Christmas girl that lives inside your womb” and “You’re the criminal that never breaks the law” things of beauty.  And lest you think that the band’s attempts to rock are all bloated jams, there’s the potent, harmonica-fuelled “Just Because I Do”

While you don’t need to be heading west on I-80 to truly enjoy At Dawn, it certainly adds to the effect when you’re heading into the sun.  However, don’t be afraid to hit the “Next” button at times to get to the album’s finest moments.  My guess is that you’ll be hitting “Back” several times to hear them again and again.