A-Side “Alma Rose” was the track that convinced me. I first heard it several months ago and it’s floated in my head ever since. “Alma Rose” is packed with hooks so memorable that each one could merit a hit and, in sum, they amount to an epic hit. It begins with an ephemeral and melodic guitar riff that soars when the full band kicks in behind it. From here the band sinks into a more subdued verse, fueled by a drum and bass groove reminiscent of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, circa 1999. That comparison is no doubt bolstered by the voice of Alex Hall, whose extensive dynamic phrasing and subtle drawl hint at the power hidden behind the smooth poise. When the chorus finally hits, it delivers all we could hope for, melodic and powerful.

“Alma Rose” derives its unique (oxymoronic?) polished power in part from expert production. Slow Motion Centerfold’s debut album, Rock the Body Language, bears the mark of producer Brian Virtue, whose résumé includes work with main-stream rock icons like Jane’s Addiction, 30 Seconds to Mars, Audioslave, Deftones, etc.
The album is a bit of a throwback to these commercially successful rockers—the crunch of power chords and crash of symbols come across as heavy yet accessible.

Commercial may seem like the antithesis of indie, but it doesn’t have to be. To be commercial, an artist must be popular. An artist cannot be popular unless it appeals to the listener. When you tweak that notion, the rejection of popular music signifies the rejection of the listener. We must then be suspicious of the artist that claims to not give a shit about the public, then, for such claims are inherently paradoxical. An artist with a true distain for the public wouldn’t bother to release an album or perform a show. To do so engages the listener and invites feedback, whether positive or negative. So, in a sense, doesn’t all music seek to be popular?

“Alma Rose” contains much more than the fluff we’d expect from a track with such immediate appeal. The title lyric is a reference to a violinist who was deported to a concentration camp, where he was forced to lead an orchestra of prisoners as they played for their lives. B-Side “Super Grand Master” reveals a similar hidden weight. On first glance, it seems like a textbook pop-rock anthem with so many memorable sections that it’s hard to determine which one is the real chorus. (Is it the vocal harmonies at 43-seconds? The hits at 49-seconds? The unexpected heartbreak chord and reggae backbeat at 53 seconds?) Hidden behind these immediate pleasures, however, the lyrics reveal a mix of highbrow geekdom and punk attitude. The title is a reference to chess, and the verses were conceived as a “string of couplets.” Meanwhile, guitarist Chris Smith describes the principle theme as a “rally cry against narrow minded anti-visionaries who sleep in silk pajamas and are scared of people with Mohawks.”

Slow Motion Centerfold manages to weave these seemingly disparate elements together with ease. That stems in part from the fact that the band is comprised of childhood friends and includes a pair of brothers. Smith notes that “longterm friendship and brotherhood make the songwriting process more challenging but more rewarding. There is a great deal of trust and awareness of what we are all capable of contributing to a song, so if someone’s slacking, they aren’t going to get away with it.” It may be a mixed blessing, but I feel as if the bond between members is a significant element in the equation—it endows the music with added personality and comfort. Process may also factor into it. Slow Motion Centerfold’s compositions all stem from instrumental hooks but were developed piece by piece, as the band members were once scattered across different states. Hall observes that, “We used to write songs by sending pieces of demos through email. Then we’d put everything together during live rehearsals. We still work in this way even though we live in the same zip code.” In the process, we see an inherent balance between the immediate that the reflective—creation and revision.

We can all rattle off a short list of artists that have managed to appeal to the public and the critics alike. However, we tend to view these artists as an exception to the rule, and marvel at how they’ve struck a balance. Slow Motion Centerfold has carved a much more holistic path. Where other artists have seen inherent conflict and struggled for compromise, Slow Motion Centerfold has found the potential for symbiosis. Popular and immediate appeal serves as a gateway to the heavier stuff. It does not detract from the more enduring qualities of the music but, rather, allows the impatient easy access to those qualities.

I’ve been meaning to write up Slow Motion Centerfold for several months. Instead I procrastinated. With each month, I was afraid that I’d miss my window, and that the band would make it big before I got to it. Lucky for me, that hasn’t happened yet, but I’m certain it’s just a matter of time. Now and then a hit comes along that deserves the heavy rotation it gets. The two tracks featured in this review could be those hits. I wouldn’t mind hearing them in car commercials or piped into the aisles at CVS. For now, though, let’s enjoy them from the comfort of our home stereos.

Nate Greenberg

[[[Download the 7-inch]]]

Rocketship Park draws its name from a playground in the hometown of creator Josh Kaufman.  It’s an appropriate metaphor for an artist whose music balances bittersweet reflection with a hopeful childlike wonder.   At some point we realize that we’re too big to fit through the mouth of the rocket shaped slide but, with luck, we never forget how much fun it used to be.  Kaufman remembers and conveys that in the music on his new album, Cakes & Cookies.  Here too, we get a convenient metaphor.  The album entices the sweet-toothed listener with a cover illustration of the eponymous delectables and a unique promotional offer—each copy purchased comes with a free homemade cookie! While one must never judge an album on the dessert, here it provides a taste of the contents.  Rocketship Park’s original blend of symphonic folk-pop is rich, immediate, and above all, homemade.  NPR noted that it offers “a sense of peace and nostalgia that grounds even the most anxious of listeners.”

Rocketship Park is the main creative outlet for Kaufman, a Brooklyn-based instrumentalist, vocalist, songwriter, producer, and pâtissier. Kaufman has been an invisible force in the scene for several years.  His talents as a side-man and producer have brought him to the stage and the studio with the likes of Dawn Landes, Caithlin de Marrais, The National, Josh Ritter, Yellowbirds, Balthrop Alabama, and Higgins.  He has also collaborated with previously featured artists Benji Cossa and the Unsacred Hearts.  Kaufman seems at ease in the limelight, though, and the new album reveals that his most impressive talents may be compositional.

A-Side “Swan” is a small masterpiece—a warm and comfortable track with the potential to provoke a profound emotional response.  One would not often use the term epic to describe a two-minute composition but it’s the only appropriate term here.  The track begins with a simple but powerful chord progression that swells with each successive repetition.  “Swan” reaches phenomenal heights, but it never loses the stable foundation on which it is based.   With the heart of a folk ballad, it remains sincere and straightforward.  Acoustic guitar and banjo dominate the mix, while innumerable textures flesh out the rough edges with a lush background ambiance.  The brass arrangements, subtle and beautiful, are responsible for much of the effect, with contributions to harmonic depth that makes the simple composition glow.   Lyrics prove to be another focal point.  The track revolves around a single phrase:

I tried to see him,
but he was halfway gone.
Just a battered bird now,
he used to be a strong, strong swan.

The sentimental image evokes a sense of loss that darkens the euphoria of the instrumentals.  The words don’t sink in when they are first stated, but they become more and more powerful with each repetition.  On one level, they suggest a cynical reversal of the ugly duckling’s maturation into an elegant swan.  But I suspect that the message is not just cynicism.  Kaufman’s choice to ruminate on the line—rather than to bury it behind more words—emphasizes its emotional weight.  When I reflect upon the image, I do not feel duped by an empty metaphor but, rather, privy to an intimate and heartfelt confession.

B-Side “See You” takes the same essential ingredients and draws them out over a much longer span.  Kaufman delights us again with a simple chord progression full of harmonic momentum.  The dominant hook is the falsetto vocal line that delineates verses as an interlude.   However, Kaufman remains a compositional minimalist, and lets the track unfold at a leisurely pace.  When the layers of horns, washed out guitars, and noises finally escalate, they seem like a meditation on the words themselves.  Although the song clocks in at nearly five minutes, it seems to bypass time altogether. The loops continue to weave on in our sub subconscious even after the music itself has faded out.

Cakes & Cookies marks a slight shift in process since Off & Away, the artist’s debut album released in 2007.  Rocketship Park has downsized from a band to a solo initiative.  In some senses, the shift is just semantic.  Kaufman has always been the main impetus behind the project, and even the material on the new album includes important contributions from guests—most notably, Dawn Landes, Bryan Devendorf, Travis Harrison, and Nate Martinez.  Some of these musicians also appeared on the artist’s debut.  However, Rocketship Park has coalesced primarily around the visions and efforts of Kaufman.  In another recent review, I noted the Toronto-based artist Del Bel’s evolution from a one-man studio project to a twelve-member collective posed to take the stage.  Rocketship Park has headed in the reverse direction.  Kaufman never lost his original vision of a grand, symphonic sound, with rich layers and textures.  Nevertheless, the intimate atmosphere of the studio seems to have meshed well with the individual and reflective nature of the music.  Kaufman uses a lot of overdubs, but it’s not about the overdubs.   He employs them as a means rather than an end, to emphasize compositions that remain simple and personal at the core.  Even when I listen to these multilayered recordings, I can’t shake the feeling that Kaufman is seated over in the corner of the room, strumming a battered acoustic and singing his lyrics directly at me.

A homemade cookie has universal appeal.  However, it’s also a nice gesture that illustrates the very essence of Rocketship Park.  In an age where most people get their music on the internet, the artist becomes distanced from the listener.  This is true of double-platinum mainstream artists and obscure independent artists alike.  But the cookie is a solution—it’s a warm personal touch in a cold digital era.  I feel pretty much the same way about RocketshipPark. Kaufman’s music doesn’t merely satisfy your sweet-tooth, but also resonates on a deeper level.  You’ll find yourself drawn to it for the same reasons you favor your grandmother’s recipe over the store-bought brand.  The ingredients are preservative free, and they’re baked with undeniable love.

Nate Greenberg

[[[Download the 7-inch]]]

Del Bel began in the studio as an outlet for the compositions of Tyler Belluz, a Toronto-based multi-instrumentalist.  The talents of Belluz must run deep, since to list them all on the Del Bel press-kit required the liberal adjustment of the page layout.  He is the principal compositional force behind the collective, and plays double-bass, electric-bass, drums, guitar, accordion, organ, and, musical saw on the artist’s forthcoming debut, Oneiric.  From what I gather, the final instrument on the list is not some sort of saw-toothed synthesizer but a very real and very sharp handsaw played with a bow, much like a violin.

Belluz has the credentials to be a one man band, but he’s also recruited ample assistance since he began work on Oneiric in 2010.  Del Bel has evolved into a collective effort, and the album credits reveal—when you make it past the surprise mention of the musical saw—that Belluz is supported by an ensemble of epic scale and experience.  To list all the projects in which the collective’s dozen members have been involved would require a veritable retrospective of Toronto indie-rock since the turn of the millennium.  Members of the collective hail from Broken Social Scene, Do Make Say Think, Bry Webb Band, Happiness Project, Ohbijou, Flowers of Hell, Sun Parlour Players, and countless other bands that I haven’t bothered to list, but which are probably worthy of mention.  The link between Del Bel and these illustrious acts, however, is cemented by more than shared members.  Del Bel is a child of the creative orgy that spawned super-groups like Broken Social Scene in the first place.  These artists share a collective heritage in an era of free love and free downloads, where a band does not represent an exclusive relationship, and where the amount of projects a respectable musician may be involved in is limited only by the number of accounts he or she can bother to register on Facebook and MySpace.  The inherent philosophical framework seems exemplified by the scene in Toronto, although Belluz insists that it’s become a worldwide phenomenon.  “I don’t think Toronto has more collectives then other cities,” he explains.  “In our case, we don’t want to be confined to playing the same stuff, day in and day out. It’s quite exciting trying to remember the songs in the middle of concerts.”

Del Bel plans to perform with a (marginally) stripped-down ensemble of nine. “I still have other people that recorded on the album that want to join live” Belluz jokes, “but I think I gotta keep this band smaller than a hockey team.” Already, the collective is so large that transportation to shows requires a caravan of automobiles.  Nevertheless, with nearly all nine members involved in three or four additional active projects, I wondered whether logistics might prove problematic. “I haven’t run into too many problems trying to organize this 9 person band,” Belluz explains, “but by all means, I need to book these people way in advance.” With regard to creative process, Del Bel seems to have happened upon a functional dynamic rare for bands of such size.  Belluz oversees the artistic direction of the collective, but encourages other members to contribute to the compositional process, with the observation that, “it would seem a bit controlling to direct someone on how to cry into their instrument for desired effect.” Thus, Del Bel has coalesced into a more permanent fixture, poised to step from the shadow of the prolific resumes of its membership.

Oneiris, a term that signifies a surreal state, is an apt title for the album—slated to be released on Friday, November 11th in CD, vinyl, and mp3 format—which evokes a thick dreamlike atmosphere.  Like a dream, its full of unexpected twists and turns.  The eleven tracks on the album all sound very different.   A-Side “No Reservation” and B-Side “Invisible” give a pretty accurate indication of the vast range of styles represented.  Nevertheless, the tracks seem united by a common bond that is difficult to pinpoint.

A significant part of the bond is Lisa Conway, whose dynamic vocals and fresh lyrics mark the Del Bel aesthetic.  Belluz describes Conway as a major creative force behind the project, and frames her role in the band as all but crucial.  Therefore, I was surprised to learn that Oneiris was initially recorded as an instrumental album.  Belluz hints that it took a bit of coercion to get long-term co-collaborator Conway on board with the project at first. “She only quit three—maybe four—times,” he jokes.  “Technically the songs were conceived as weird little instrumentals. But I knew in my heart she would be the (only) one to sing on them.” Upon further listens, however, we may notice the mark Conway’s indecision has left on the music.  Del Bel seems to draw its unique personality from the uncertain maturation process.  To imagine how it might have sounded otherwise would be to imagine Harry Potter without the scar, or to imagine the Canadian topology unmarred by glaciers that carved it’s lakes and mountains.  “I still can’t imagine anyone else’s reaction to trying to fit vocals lines to the instrumental tracks, confesses Belluz. Conway’s additions are shaped by the unique demands she faced in fitting vocal parts to compositions that had developed without them.  She has taken great care not to intrude upon the music’s instrumental core.  The tracks unfold at a leisurely rate, and Oneiris includes several instrumental interludes. For instance,“Invisible” forces the listener to wait nearly a third of the track time for vocals to drop.  When they finally do, Conway’s line maintains a tasteful deference to the ensemble, buried behind wispy synths and a persistent piano drone.

In general, Del Bel devotes a lot more attention to instrumental detail than the typical indie band—even the typical twelve member indie band, if such an archetype exists.  This comes across not only in the shape of each composition, but also in the intriguing arrangement of acoustic and electric elements. The whispers of keyboards wash over earthy drum grooves and the unpredictable slaps and creaks of a double bass.  Ample credit is also owed to Heather Kirby, who mixed the tracks.  All tracks on Oneiris suggest a focus on timbre over melody or harmony. “No Reservation”, for instance, builds toward a chorus unusual for its stark lack of harmonic movement, anchored by a memorable riff forcefully delivered in unison by vocals and instruments.  The tune evokes the cabaret-jazz of a bygone era, but it does so with deceptive minimalism, capturing the vibe but rejecting the details.  I recalled a memorable trumpet solo on the track but upon repeat listens, I suddenly realized that there is no trumpet solo whatsoever.  A few growls and single-note burst evoke the sensation as convincingly all the borrowed notes of a Dizzie Gillespie solo.  In that respect, Oneiric seems philosophically a closer relative to a film score than any album by the indie-rock collectives from which it draws members.  And indeed, Del Bel has contributed to numerous film scores, which is a nice accomplishment if you remember that the group has yet to play its first show or release its first album.

In short, the ingenuity of Del Bel shines through in the grand scale of the vision, and in the tactful precision with which it has been realized. Listeners will be seduced by the top-notch production and arrangement, while the emotional weight of the composition and nuanced musicianship will keep them hooked.  This music has a lot of layers, and it’s bound to resonate with most audiences.

Nate Greenberg

[[[Download the 7-inch]]]

I grew up in Boston, where I was brainwashed from birth to love the Red Sox.  Despite its liberal reputation, Boston’s commitment to open-mindedness falters when it comes to baseball.  If two men fall in love and decide to marry, they will generally find acceptance—unless one of them roots for the Yankees, in which case there will be hell to pay.

Naturally, raised in such an environment, I was a devout follower of the Red Sox by the time I had learned to use a toilet.  My loyalty was completely without motive, conditioned almost completely by the geographical coincidence of my birth.  Nevertheless, I viewed it as a personal choice in which I could take due pride.  I declared my colors—the same red, white, and blue of the star spangled banner, but far more meaningful to me) and pledged allegiance.  In the years to come, I mastered long division by calculating the batting averages of my favorite sluggers, and baseball was the closest thing I had to a religion.

Of course, my unfounded fervor eventually burnt itself out.  It’s been six years since I moved away from Boston, but even before that I had ceased to take even a passive interest in sports.  Gradually my childhood heroes drifted from memory, displaced by new concerns and interests.  However, there is still one ballplayer who stands out from the others, and it isn’t for his accomplishments on the field.  I recall Nomar Garciaparra because, every time he stepped up to the plate, he would systematically adjust the velcro straps on his batting gloves—left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right.  It was a ritual that fascinated me as a child, but which seems significant even now.

Most rituals—no matter how profound or banal—can be broken into simple steps which appear inconsequential in isolation.  Only together do they evoke a tradition far grander.  A man passes his hand from spectacles, testicles, wallet, to watch.  He is crossing himself.  Miss a step or reverse the order and he becomes just a pervert groping himself.  Many rituals are so deeply embedded into the course of life that we don’t notice them.  If somebody sneezes, you say “God bless you.”  If somebody hands you a joint, you puff, puff, and pass it to the left hand side.  We rarely stop and wonder why.  And yet, it’s the repetition of these baby steps—always in the same exact sequence—that transforms the mundane into the sacred and gives definition to the infinite possibility of existence.

Several tracks on this mix speak to the theme of ritual in this way; they chronicle everyday events with precision and insight to reveal the hidden inner ritual.   So it is when Conor J O’Brien of Villagers transforms his daily commute into an epic journey in the track “27 Strangers”

The bus was late
It forced us all to congregate
27 strangers made to stand and wait

With the title lyric, O’Brien cuts the undefined crowd into twenty-seven individuals, whose daily rituals intersect in the melting-pot of public transportation. The lyrics spin a beautiful tale—subject matter universal enough that anyone could relate, yet treated with such precision that most listeners will feel drawn to look at their daily grinds    with heightened awareness.  As the story unfolds, O’Brien subtly introduces the idea of inevitability, an unnamed force that guides our everyday actions.

That’s why I’m late.
My dearest one, what can I say?
And tomorrow it could be the same,
When I do it all again.

The narrator suggests that his path is not a choice, and does not make excuses for an action, the repetition of which seems destined.  Indeed, what can he say?

“In The Ridge” by Hank & Pigeon approaches the theme from the same general tack but from somewhat stranger perspective—that of a pigeon.  The pigeon character is a regular character throughout the duo’s work but, in this track, he is introduced.  Generally, we don’t read too much into the actions of pigeons.  They eat, they shit, and they sleep.  After all, we’re talking about an animal with a brain the size of an acorn.   But here, the pigeons actions take on a new weight, and become a presence far more dear than construction, noisy neighbors, or other more plausible explanations for the strange sound guitarist/vocalist Alex Wernquest hears emanating from his apartment walls every day.  Actually, it’s unclear whether the lead pigeon is real or imagined.  But as a tangible and physical embodiment of the phantom noise, the bird becomes a sort of breathing and feathered ritual.

Pushing our tolerance for absurdity one step further, The Wave Pictures draws attention to ritual though highly imaginative and bizarre imagery.  The sparse aesthetic and simple pop progression of “Just Like A Drummer” leave the listener free to focus on the lyrics—thankfully, since they are both vivid and unusual enough to require our full attention.  The first time I tuned in, they washed over me as a nonsensical wave of the whimsical.  It was only gradually, that I began to sense that the words relate a more tangible storyline.

The sun came in like a pack of orange spaniels
Through the window, under the ledge
Under the curtain, on their bellies
Creeping and bending

What is the story behind the words?  Well, I’m pretty sure it’s about sunlight—probably daybreak—creeping through the window.  Yet clearly, the point of interest is not the action, but rather the extended metaphor.  There’s nothing inherently exceptional about sunlight, but here we view it as a pack of orange spaniels (whom I envision to be invertebrate jelly-dogs) snaking over the windowsill.  “Just Like A Drummer” is everyday life as seen through the eyes of a genius, a lunatic, or both, under which even an image so cliché as daybreak may thrill and delight.  Lead singer David Tattersal’s desperate whine accentuates the frantic intensity of this unusual mind-frame.  Yet , perhaps the true accomplishment of the lyrics is the way in which all the extended metaphors weave together into a semi-coherent tapestry.  The story hinges on the refrain, “Just like a drummer, I wake up to the thunder, of your typewriter.” These three phrases suddenly make sense together, just like the motion of a hand from spectacles to testicles, so on, and so forth.  But the order is completely bastardized in the extended outro, which implements brilliantly a tactic usually left up to third graders in school districts too poor to afford plastic recorders—the round.  In this case, the round consists of a three phrases segment, the peak of one cycle overlapping the trough of another, such that they connect in new and bizarre ways:

I wake up with the thunder (just like a drummer)
Of your typewriter (wake up with the thunder)
Just like a drummer (Of your typewriter)

The mismatched round pairs phrases with echoes that don’t make sense.  To compound the chaos, this three phrase repetition is pitted against a four chord progression.  What seems like a beginning becomes the middle in the next repetition, the entire refrain cascading into a figurative Ouroboros—the mythical serpent perpetually swallowing his own tail.  It’s no wonder that Tattersal can’t help but crack a laugh after a couple of cycles.

Life is full of rituals, but rarely are these practices so pronounced—and so taken for granted—as in music.  Of course, every genre has its own specific set of rituals.  A pop ballad builds from verse to pre-chorus to chorus, with a bridge inserted after the second or third chorus and, perhaps, a double chorus at the end for dramatic emphasis.  A concerto includes three movements, each centered on specific themes and variations.  A jazz quartet knows instinctively to play the head, pass around solos, repeat the head, and tag the final four bars to end a tune.  Yet such devotion to rituals seems at odds with the creative spirit so crucial to music.  Thus, most music seems to strike an appropriate balance between adherence and defiance, a process which we may view as its own ritual.

Darlingside’s “Malea” was written to accompany a dance, and adapted to the rituals which this purpose demanded.  The rhythmic focus—from the crisp drum beat to the percussive claps and note skips on the chorus—is a throwback to this intent.  These are traditions that go without saying in dance but, in this context, become a spicy and somewhat novel addition to the mix.  “Malea” is a bold departure for a band whose sound is generally marked by folksy arrangements and radio perfect vocal harmonies, yet it’s a risk which pays off considerably.

In “Adderech”, Debo Band draws on numerous traditions but breaks from them all at whim, in the quest for a formidable groove; and it definitely finds what it’s looking for.  The band is an amorphous collective of musicians whose eclectic sound spans oceans and centuries.  Most Western ears will pick up on the Afrobeat (specifically, Ethiopian) influence which, admittedly, is prominent.  Yet those familiar with Ethiopian music will not be surprised to learn that the group formed in Boston rather than Addis Ababa, in 2006 rather than 1976.  Gabe Birnbaum puts it well in his November, 2009 review on Ampeater.  “They man­age to strad­dle a lot of seem­ingly con­tra­dic­tory posi­tions. On the one hand, their music is deeply tra­di­tional, includ­ing a lot of cov­ers of Ethiopian Folk and Pop songs from decades ago, yet on the other it is staunchly con­tem­po­rary, incor­po­rat­ing orig­i­nal com­po­si­tions and traces of the indi­vid­ual mem­bers other projects, which range from the dra­matic Post-Rock silent-film sound­tracks to dance­hall derived exper­i­men­tal Eelec­tron­ica.” The product honors the traditions and values of its diverse influences, without buying into the specific rituals wholesale.  It’s a brew which accommodates the “tautly stretched and rolling time feel that locks in per­fectly with the won­der­fully twitchy and propul­sive Ethiopian eskista shoul­der dance com­monly per­formed along­side the music,” and yet, creates new rituals and grooves of its own.

Pistolea treads a similar tightrope, meshing Mexican Folk with the Rock, Pop, and Jazz of New York.  It’s a tasteful and energetic foundation, on which songwriter Sandra Velasquez preaches soapbox politics.  In fact, the music accentuates the political message, which centers on immigration reform and civil rights.  In the final lyric of “La Polica,” Velasquez rattles off a list of adjectives that could be used—by friends and foes alike—to caricature the band: “terrorist, feminist, Mexican, American, condemned, dangerous, PISTOLERA.” But she says all this in a language which the bigoted system she attacks would be unlikely to understand.  Meanwhile, the music cements the band’s heritage, which lies on both sides of the border, far more viscerally.

In Jerome Ellis’s meditative “Hymnal,” ritual is again cemented by the music rather than lyrics.  In fact, there aren’t so many lyrics to speak of.  Like most loop based compositions, “Hymnal” takes hold of a few simple ideas and explores them meticulously—in this case, for nearly thirty minutes.  The progression is so gradual that it’s almost indiscernible from one minute to the next, until suddenly it’s shaken beyond recognition.  Through such careful rumination and premeditated destruction, the main themes gradually shine.

Of course, a hymnal is itself a sort of ritual, and the choice of titles cements this ideal, although Ellis’s take is woven from a far more expansive history of tradition.  In fact, I feel as if he takes on the entire history of music—impossibly vast terrain—as his inspiration, and nearly manages to cover it all.  The mysterious drone which slowly swells into a song sounds like the dawn of time.  Or, rather, it sounds like the soundtrack to the dawn of time, since obviously primitive musicians didn’t have access to synthesizers.  All that’s missing is the voice-over narrated by Leonard Nimoy.  Soon, a chant emerges from the sci-fi soundscape, accompanied by tribal percussion.  It builds toward a saxophone lead, which evokes the stereotypical but universally recognizable pulse of African music, while harking back to Coltrane’s modal compositions or, perhaps, the work of Rahsaan Rolland Kirk. On and on, the history flows.  We pass through the European Classical tradition in a few minutes, from blues to jazz, and beyond.  Prominent (and often disconcerting) sound effects mark the most dramatic moments.  The applause of the crowd, for instance, becomes a recurring theme.  This itself is a strange ritual—why do we slap our palms together to show respect after a performance and, so often, drown out the final note?

The more I contemplate ritual, the less I understand it.  In most cases, it seems arbitrary, and yet, so profoundly poetic.  Why did Nomar Garciaparra adjust his batting gloves?  I imagine he did so because he did it once accidentally and it worked.  The repetition was most likely just superstition. Of course, humans seem bound to this sort of behavior. Rituals exist in every society all around the world.  It’s natural, since each moment offers infinite possibility and demands infinite choice.  We come to a crossroads, and we wonder whether to turn left or right, but the possibilities are far vaster than that.  We could back up, halt forever, continue straight into the unmarked woodland between the paths, get out of the car and climb a tree, dig a hole, sit on a stump read a book.  Ritual saves us from all that.  It tells us exactly what to do and how to do it, beautiful for its complete disregard for reason.  And it’s completely dependent on our blind adherence.  The moment we notice it, the power is shattered.

Yet if, after a period existential crisis, we return to ritual, aware of alternate possibilities, our adherence is more meaningful still, because it’s intentional.  Once we are aware of ritual, it becomes a choice.  Some of the tracks exemplify ritual, some defy it.  Others merely talk about it.  But I think in exemplification, defiance, and discussion alike, they share an important trait—awareness. Through pushing ourselves to notice ritual, we arrive at perhaps the most fundamental freedom of artistic expression.  Or, at the very least, we give our eleven-year-old fans something to remember.

Nate Greenberg

[[[Download the 7-inch]]]

This is a followup single. Interested readers are encouraged to check out AEM095 for more free music and information.

Last year, The Powder Kegs earned our attention with their catchy and energetic cuts “La Mariposa” and “Shake Me Down” on AEM095. Since then, they’ve refined their sound and have a new album, The Amanicans.

Historically, the sophomore album is a litmus test. It requires the artist to strike an appropriate balance between old and new and, no matter how artfully he succeeds, the he can expect a certain degree of shit from fans who think he leaned too far in one direction. Indeed, sophomore albums invite criticism. However, if an artist can make it past the sophomore album hurdle without receiving too much shit, we must view this as a mark of considerable success. Indeed, the sophomore album is the key measure by which we may distinguish the bands we really like from the bands we only think we like.

The Amanicans offers much to enjoy and leaves very little to wish for. Moreover, it marks a major step in the artistic development of the band. The new material is darker, heavier, and considerably more substantive than the material on the debut EP, and it draws upon more diverse influences.

With pronounced shades of Punk and Brit-Pop, A-Side “Broke Time” has the requisite punch to capture the attention of any listener sedated by the previous album’s laid-back vibe. Yet these new influences do not seem incongruous;the music retains the salient features that drew us to The Powder Kegs in the first place. The tune commences with the artists’ characteristic lush falsettos, accompanied by a twangy guitar lick. After a few cycles, the beat drops, satisfying the listener’s more visceral audio-needs with a solid foundation upon which the composition unfolds. The crisp bass and drum groove persists throughout several refrains (repetitions of the title lyrics) and verses, offset now and then by a chorus. The mellow half-time feel of the chorus does not threaten to undermine the escalation of the composition, but rather serves as a respite, and each time the verse/refrain reappears, it’s rehashed with heightened intensity. The build culminates with a heavy pentatonic riff accentuated by a strong back-beat—an ending that fans of The Powder Kegs’ previous material might find abrasive, had we not been eased into it so gradually.

Like so much of The Powder Kegs’ material, both new and old, B-Side “The Sea” is marked by falsetto and harmony. This time, however, those characteristics are re-contextualized against the backdrop of eerie drugged-out lullaby reminiscent of the Beatles during the height of their LSD years. The composition’s loping three-beat pulse, occasionally shaken by isolated five-beat measures, adds to the general sense of uneasiness. As the composition builds, the many distinct voices (instruments) within the dystopian dreamscape appear ready to coalesce. And yet, our expectations are never satisfied—which is precisely what makes this track so satisfying. The triumphant horns that so hopefully buoy the end up from the depths of delusion are ultimately tethered to the seafloor, and leave the listener tantalizingly close to the surface, inches short of harmonic salvation. Cheesy ocean metaphors aside, “The Sea” represents a bold departure for a band I so recently praised—but nearly wrote off—as accessible.

In fact, the Powder Kegs do remain accessible, but The Amanicans demonstrates a slight penchant for the experimental that I wouldn’t have necessarily anticipated from the band I wrote up just last year. They’ve taken a few risks—enough to maintain our interest without fucking up the original recipe—and it really shows.

If you like what you hear, The Amanicans may be purchased at music.thepowderkegs.com.  Now you can pat yourself on the back for supporting starving independent artists and also for having impeccable taste!

Nate Greenberg

[[[Download the 7-inch]]]

Imagine that the members of an iconic rock band suddenly grow tired of their work.  They still know how to write a hit, but they’re sick of hits.  It’s almost too easy, and they see through all the tricks they once employed in blissful ignorance.  Unanimously, they decide that they don’t want to be in a rock band any more.  But under contract, they’ve agreed to release one more album under their label.  They propose an experimental final album, but the label rejects it.  The fans demand rock.  Consequently, the band decides to trick the label and fans, and disguise the avant garde behind a thick cloak of the usual tricks.  At first, they view the album as a parody of their former work.

However, in the creation of this parody, the jaded musicians—now freed of past pretensions—discover that they still love to make music.  The problem had not been the tricks themselves, but rather their uninspired implementation.   Suddenly, the band feels compelled to parody the parody, and revel excessively—if furtively—in the excess.  And, when the new album drops, fans, critics, and band concur that it’s a hell of a lot better than anything released before.

Biographically, Quiet Loudly shares little in common with the aforementioned hypothetical rock band.  Certainly, these guys aren’t burnt out stars, and they’re not under contract to a corporate label.  From what I gather, they’re just a bunch of normal dudes.  However, I feel that the metaphor is a useful way to approach the final product—the music.  When I listen to Quiet Loudly, I sense the spirit of renaissance.  Quiet Loudly rehashes old ideas in ways that surprise and invigorate.  Despite the considerable competence and perspective demonstrated throughout their epic album Soulgazer, the band manages to tap into the euphoric eureka of the middle-school rock-star wannabe who has just discovered an awesome new chord.  And perhaps they also smile knowingly at his dejection when he learns that it’s only an A7.  The result is not strictly satirical, but perhaps we may understand it as the parody of parody.  We may wonder whether duplicity in parody signifies negation or exponential multiplication.  In the case of Quiet Loudly, it seems to be a little bit of both simultaneously.  These guys definitely don’t take themselves too seriously, but they also seem to poke fun at bands that degrade the craft by not taking music seriously and whose appreciation of the artform does not extend beyond the ironic.

Max Goransson (guitar, vocals) explains that the inspiration for the name Quiet Loudly came from his exploration of extreme dynamics. “I was trying to explore regarding the impact and significance of breaks or ambiance in what would be considered otherwise loud, epic music,” he elaborates.  Yet he also admits that the name was a joke at first.  It stuck because the band liked it… and because they had already created the MySpace page.  True, the contradiction posed by multiple layers of intention and chance seems a tumultuous vantage point from which to understand a band.  Yet I challenge you to ask yourself, how else could we approach a band with a name as paradoxical as Quiet Loudly?

Quiet Loudly pays due homage to its roots.  Soul is clearly a major influence—hence the name, Soulgazer.  The band also embraces rock-n-roll, in its countless permutations—classic-rock, punk-rock, grunge-rock, alt-rock, indie-rock, post-rock, insertprefixhere-rock. Yet, even in direct allusion to these numerous traditions, the band refuses to buy into any one of them wholesale.  Always, I sense a process that involves the extraction of the best features from these genres and their rearrangement into new shapes.

A-Side “Be My Baby Mama” challenges the conventions of pop composition, but rests upon such stable foundations that a casual listener might not even notice that anything is amiss.  Harmonic and melodic simplicity obscure the underlying innovation.   The tune begins with a three-chord progression which seems bound to spark a sense of deja ecouté.  The first two chords are rock staples, while the third chord is the predictably-unpredictable heartbreak chord.  The rhythm hints at R&B a bit too obviously.  When the vocals enter, we perceive a verse.  When the drums kick into full throttle and the distortion thickens, we perceive a chorus.  A catchy vocal hook—accentuated by all the right harmonies—confirms our suspicions.  But all the evidence proves deceptive.

“Be My Baby Mama” does not return to the sections we instinctively perceive as verse and chorus and, thus, we can not appropriately label them as such, though still we cannot conceive them in any other way.  The tune veers into an extended outro full of compositional twists that, cumulatively, reveal epic grandeur.  The momentum builds as harmonies are layered below the lead vocal line.  It continues to mount with the auxiliary support of a soaring electric guitar solo.  Finally the parts converge on the refrain, of which the climax is marked by piercing falsettos.  However, having reached this mighty summit, Quiet Loudly refuses to take the scenic route back to base.  Instead they skydive—forgive the continuation of this cheesy metaphor—with an unexpected a capella breakdown that proves to be the coup-de-grace to our cliché expectations.  As with most of the tricks in Quiet Loudly’s arsenal, the a capella breakdown is not inherently unprecedented.  However, it is completely re-contextualized and rarely—I feel compelled to add—has it been implemented to such delightful effect in any context.

Breakdowns of this sort are a risky venture.  At their best, they may leave the listener awestruck.  “How the fuck did they think of that?” More often, however, they undermine the whole composition and leave the listener confused and disappointed.  “What the fuck were they thinking?” The line between these diametrically opposed outcomes is actually vaguer than one might suspect, but it seems indisputable that Quiet Loudly falls on the correct side.  To begin with, the breakdown strikes a healthy balance between unexpected and incongruous.  I did not anticipate it but, in retrospect, it seems to have been foreshadowed by the layered harmonies which preceded it.  Moreover, it lifts the lyrics of the refrain—“you could rescue my bloodline”—to our attention.  The plea casts an additional layer of irony over the satire posed by the raunchy pickup line that the title so convincingly insinuates.  For these reasons—in addition to the sheer precision of its execution—the tune lingered in my memory after a single listen.

“I Would Be Your Man” may seem an unusual choice for a B-Side.  From the start, I appreciated the poetic logic of the progression between a tune called “Be My Baby Mama” and a tune called “I Would Be Your Man.”  However, I couldn’t dismiss the itty-bitty technicality that Quiet Loudly neither wrote the track nor received principle performance credit.  The song was written by Gunfight, another Brooklynite outfit whose sound falls within the expansive umbrella of rock but occasionally tests these limits.  Quiet Loudly is featured on the track but, on the mp3 they submitted to Ampeater, the id3 tag reads Gunfight.  No mention of a feature.  I liked the music, but I was a bit perplexed.

The missing link proved to be “Brooklyn Heat,” a compilation curated, engineered, and mixed by Shane O’Connor.  Through this initiative, a handful of underappreciated local bands—whose ranks include both Quiet Loudly and Gunfight, in addition to previous Ampeater featured artists Shark? and Quilty—were given the opportunity to cut track at Monsterland Recording Studio.  (At this point, I can’t resist the urge to give a shoutout for the upcoming MMNY Festival at which all these bands are slated to perform on June 21^st).  In fact, Quiet Loudly did lend a hand (several hands?) to the version of “I Would Be Your Man” featured on this digital 7-inch.  The original recording of “I Would Be Your Man” has a prominent folk vibe, with slide guitar and sound effects that seem like they may have come from a spaghetti western.  But, in the studio, Gunfight decided that their track would benefit from a large ensemble and turned to Quiet Loudly—a decision probably influenced in part by the fact that they share a bassist, Anthony Aquilino.  The result is a rowdy rendition which portrays the energy and urgency of the live show in convenient mp3 format.

I once believed that I had outgrown my love for scorching guitar solos when I graduated from high-school but “I Would Be Your Man” forces me to question my assumptions.  I now suspect my soft spot did not diminish but was simply shrouded by a thick cloud of skepticism.  Actually, the guitar solo is only the tip of the iceberg.  The cut is an unabashed rock anthem.  Yet it is full of tasteful subtleties that become more evident with repeat listens and which shed a new light on the boisterous excess.  Perhaps this is why it penetrates the cloud of skepticism, and calls to me.  I also suspect that a healthy dose of excess is prerequisite to the party vibe so convincingly evoked.

Some music is inherently loud.  Some music is not.  Heavy metal was made to be blasted.  Antonio Carlos Jobim was not.  Quiet Loudly seems to realize this.  The band demonstrates a rare ability to make the calm moments boom, and can find tranquility in the midst of the thickest distortion.  Check them out.  I hope that you—like the hypothetical iconic rock band, and like me—will find your love for the classic rekindled by their astute and fresh perspective.

Nate Greenberg

[[[Download the 7-inch]]]

1: “The Wanderer” — Translations (AEM101)
2: “Wade in the Water” — Jean-Rene Ella (AEM020)
3: “For Sparrow” — Cabinet of Natural Curiosities (AEM058)
4: “Alain Delon” — Francois Peglau (AEM107)
5: “Dogwood” — Ashraya Gupta (AEM010)
6: “I Don’t See It That Way” — Extra Life (AEM006)
7: “Settlers Song” — Uncles (AEM092)
8: “We Are the Hunters” — The D’Urbervilles (AEM066)
9: “Satellite of Love” — Color of Clouds (AEM009)
10: “Empire State of Mind Edit” — Blissed Out (AEM114)

An ex-girlfriend once accused me of transposing my anxiety regarding an upcoming exam onto our relationship. Put off by such indiscrete psychoanalysis, I dismissed her comment, and within a month we had parted ways, despite the fact that my exams and any anxiety they had allegedly provoked were already behind me. I recalled my ex-girlfriend’s words recently, though, as I scoured hundreds of recordings in search of the handful that would become the inaugural Concrete Experience Digital Mixtape.

My ex-girlfriend studied Comparative Literature; a detail which I failed to appreciate at the time but now seems enormously consequential. If she had preferred linear algebra to poetry, her notion of transposition may have involved points and axes rather than romance. Had she studied music, she may have conceptualized it as a fixed-interval melodic shift. Of the countless ways to define transposition, some are inherently more malleable than others. In retrospect, my ex-girlfriend’s indiscreet psychoanalysis was a blessing in disguise, because it pushed me to approach the theme from a principally emotional angle—had I decided to write about fixed-interval melodic shifts, I would have already run out of things to say. Moreover, it prompted me to evaluate the moral implications. Perhaps I really did transpose my anxiety but, so what? What’s so bad about transposition?

Yeats muses, “How can we know the dancer from the dance?” Along the same lines of inquiry, we may question whether music could exist without the musician—or for that matter, if it could exist without the listener. Practically speaking, I propose that it could not, just as we needn’t pay taxes on the imaginary number i. A somewhat more prosaic metaphor may be the famous conundrum—when a tree falls in the forest and there’s nobody around to hear it, does it make a sound?—for which the only reasonable conclusion is who the fuck cares? Music unheard bears no relevance to humanity. By this standard, all relevant music must involve the listener and becomes, ergo, an act of transposition. So, why these ten tracks?

The mix is intended to stand on merit of the music alone, with its ten diverse tracks offering something for everyone. The relationship between the individual songs, however, as well as the relationship between the songs and the theme, is a little more abstract.

Let’s begin with “Alain Delon”, a humorous and totally groovy exploration of an impossible dream. “I can’t take it,” whines Francois Peglau in the opening lyric. “I’ll never be Alain Delon.” He’s referring to the star of vintage French cinema known for his memorable of role as le solitaire—a suave, handsome and brooding anti-villain. Conceptually, Peglau’s wish is easy to relate to, since nearly everybody has hoped to become a star. However, as the song unfolds, we sense a hint of sarcasm, and are drawn to question whether the true idol is the man or the character. The tension escalates in the bridge (if you can understand French) with sound clips from a 1970s interview in which the aging actor explains his recurring role. Does an actor stepping into character signify an act of transposition? If so, we must speculate about the agency involved. In other words, does the man become the character or does the character become the man? Who is the real Alain Delon, or has he ceased to exist?

Of course, the notation of identity is complicated for actors and non-actors alike, perhaps especially so for someone like Peglau, who describes himself as Peruvian/French/Argentinean. He began his career as guitarist of Lima-based indie phenomenon Los Fuckin’ Sombreros, but now resides in London where he recently recorded a solo album. I mention this not tangentially, but to point out that Peglau, so to speak, wears many hats, a trait shared by several artists on this mix. Ashraya Gupta was born in India and lived in England and Cincinnati before winding up in New York. Jean-Rene Ella was born and raised in Cameroon but eventually made his way to Indiana where, most improbably, he now works as an organic chemist. Of course, a compelling background does not necessarily lead to good transposition—nor does good transposition necessarily lead to good music—but it certainly gives the artist inspiration to draw upon.

Although Gupta’s international background is not immediately evident in this small sample of her work, the process of continually reinventing herself has left indelible marks on her music. This is clear when you look at her artistic progression. She’s best known as singer of The Kitchen Cabinet, an indie folk-pop quartet, yet her solo music represents a significant and bold leap for Gupta, who manages to forge new aural ground with just a keyboard and her own vocal chords. Gabe Birnbaum, who profiled Gupta back in October 2009, observed that “though this barebones set-up could prove monotonous or boring in another’s hands, Gupta carries [the music] with her voice alone.” Even though her vocals are relatively low in the mix, the intimacy of Gupta’s delivery and her sparse harmonic arrangements make them seem extremely close, as if we’re listening to her singing to herself alone in her apartment. The music, which occasionally swells to high volumes, unfolds so organically and hypnotically that we’re only aware of these ebbs and flows peripherally.

I’ve never heard a more authentic blues recording than Ella’s rendition of “Wade in the Water”—a bold claim to make of any song but particularly of one released on YouTube in the site’s fledgling years. The song’s charm lies in its un-indulgent simplicity and emotional honesty. Anyone who’s picked up an electric guitar understands the seductive allure of the three-chord twelve-bar blues. It practically begs for gratuitous shred-solos. As a result, many blues musicians are no more tasteful than the average 80’s hair band—and considerably less entertaining. People tend to think of the blues as an American archetype, like baseball or apple pie, but we must remember that the ingredients are considerably more diverse—African rhythms and European harmonic conventions baptized in the holy water of the muddy Mississippi. That Ella made the transatlantic journey himself may explain his authenticity. His parents also played a role.  Ella’s French-born mother introduced him to the folk music of her country while his father got him hooked on Gospel. When Ella sings the blues, it is a personal history, a heritage, that he’s tapping into. Organic chemistry may not be terribly relevant, but it indicates a lot about Ella’s lifestyle. He’s not famous, nor does he seem to aspire to stardom. We wouldn’t have heard from him at all were it not for a series of homemade videos on YouTube, which he posted only after encouragement from friends.

To return to Peglau, it is worth noting that his personal history has influenced not just his musical or lyrical content, but the very code in which it is written. His recent songs are in English. For anyone who grew up in an English speaking country, this fact may seem insignificant, but for Peglau, who used to write more in Spanish or French, it involved conscious effort. Peglau explains that, when he first arrived in London, he was uncomfortable with the language, and used songwriting as a way to increase his fluency. Is translation also a form of transposition?

We might expect a band called Translations to shed light on this matter. Indeed, they do, although the type of translation they employ has nothing to do with language. Ben Heller touched upon this dichotomy in his original Ampeater write-up of the band in June 2010: “Translations are acutely aware of their place in history, even before that place has been culturally affirmed by more than a small handful of fans and critics.” In other words, Translations is a band that can tell us not only where they’re going, but also where they’ve been, and with remarkable accuracy. They manage to sound both cutting edge and retro at once, with crunchy punk-era guitars offset by electronics—surprisingly premeditated for a band whose attitude and exuberance might suggest a singular focus on rocking out. In spite of the hidden self-awareness, though, Heller notes that the members of Translations place their music at “different crossroads on the map of New York rock & roll.” This highlights just how much personal leeway the act of translation involves, and might explain why Google Translate is still searching for the perfect algorithm.

In fact, genre transposition—the re-contextualization of diverse and often archaic influences—is a dominant theme on this mix. The process becomes particularly clear in cover songs, such as “Satellite of Love” by Color of Clouds, since it’s easier to spot points of alteration. In this instance, singer Kelli Scarr’s airy vocals and the song’s extended final chorus transforms Lou Reed’s embittered original into a dreamy fantasy. “We Are the Hunters” by The D’Urbervilles and “For Sparrow” by Cabinet of Natural Curiosities, while not covers, also fall under this general mode of transposition. In contrast to the deliberate consciousness that sets Translations apart, Extra Life takes a more holistic approach in “I Don’t See It That Way”, borrowing from metal, medieval folk and math-rock. If you’re wondering how such diverse influences can coexist peacefully in a single song, they don’t. Jolting between time signatures, it’s rhythmically so unpredictable that you’d have a hard time finding something to tap your foot to, let along dance to, but if you just let it sweep you around, you’ll get an interesting ride. The song constantly seems to be waging war on itself to the extent that you wonder if the band is even in control of what happens.  Of course, they must be, as the parts are so complex that it must have taken a lot of rehearsal.  Yet, Jake Brunner, who penned Ampeater’s post on the band in October 2009, notes that frontman Charlie Looker’s manipulation of musical material “goes far beyond the look-what-I-can-do aesthetic of many similarly technically proficient musicians,” and that his compositional process lets “the notes tell him … the rhythmic organization, as opposed to entering the creative zone with a preconceived idea of which moves to employ.”

With Uncles, this manipulation is both musical and lyrical. I was skeptical when I first heard New York native Dan Bateman’s thick southern accent which, suspiciously, is present only when he sings. It turns out, though, that there’s a natural explanation. As a child, Bateman often visited his uncle in Alabama, who introduced him to music by singing to him in that same thick drawl. Eventually, Bateman took these songs back to New York and collaborated with Will Schwartz to create Uncles (so named in homage to his Alabama kin, one assumes). Yet Uncles is not ashamed of its urban roots and the duo’s lyrics—ranging from profound to profane—sound a lot more like Jack Kerouac than anything Bateman’s uncle might have sung. “Replacing Words with Other Words,” the title of Uncles’ latest album, alludes to this juxtaposition. The music brings separate worlds together and seeks to reconcile them, such that we walk away from it with a heightened perspective of each. When I think of settlers, I imagine Plymouth Rock, the Oregon Trail, or something similarly obsolete in this world yet “Settler’s Song” addresses settlers of a different sort, finding poetry in the urban grit and poverty of the immigrant’s New York. Above a sentimental guitar figure and warbling synth, Bateman sings:

Cracked and torn
Faces scorn
Dominicans sipping 40 ounces
Sitting bent up on the metal grate on the nail salon
I want to hear my shit pumping
from an SUV down a side street bend
Or on the lips of obese women
Yakkity yakking in the supermarket

I’m reminded of a pivotal moment in Milan Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being when a European discusses the beauty of New York. “Beauty in the European sense has always had a premeditated quality to it,” observes the novel’s protagonist.  “The beauty of New York rests on a completely different base. Its unintentional… Forms which are in themselves quite ugly turn up fortuitously, without design, in such incredible surroundings that they sparkle with a sudden wondrous poetry.” His lover, an artist, cryptically suggests that such unintentional beauty is the final phase in the history of beauty. What does “final” imply? Do we infer that it signifies the demise of beauty, or the pinnacle, or both?

Either way, it’s easy to see why such an unintentional art is the most resilient, as it requires no motive. Perhaps, after all, music can exist without the musician. Without the musician, however, the listener becomes responsible for recognizing music in the honking of horns or the pelting of the rain against the windowpane. We might even say that the listener becomes the musician, just as practitioners of found art are called artists. Oscar Wilde’s Vivian attests to this in the author’s 1891 essay, “The Decay of Lying:”

To look at a thing is very different from seeing a thing. One does not see anything until one sees its beauty. Then—and then only—does it come into existence. At present, people see fogs, not because there are fogs, but because poets and painters have taught them the mysterious loveliness of such effects. There may have been fogs for centuries in London. I dare say there were. But no one saw them, and so we do not know anything about them. They did not exist till Art had invented them.

It seems the process of transposition is reversed in unintentional art, for instead of converting intangible experience into art, we’re taking existing forms and converting them into emotion. Plato banished artists from his utopian Republic on the pretext that representation dilutes an ideal. He was talking about intentional art, yet I suspect that he would have been even more critical of unintentional art, for if intentional art obscures an ideal, unintentional art doesn’t even attempt to relate to an ideal. Plato seems to have viewed art as a photocopy, where each successive copy is fainter than the last, until finally the page is blank. What he doesn’t account for is what we add, and our additions are often unintended.  Alvin Lucier’s seminal sound experiment “I am sitting in a room” demonstrates the failure of the copy machine metaphor. He records his voice and plays it back into the room which he records and replays again, repeating this process ad infinitum (or so it seems, the total work is about 45 minutes long).  His voice is quickly warped, morphing into the resonant frequencies of the room, creating a haunting ambient soundscape rather than silence.

And so, the last track on the mix is a remix that revels in a glitch. The original song, Jay Z’s “Empire State of Mind,” is one that everyone is familiar with, unless you’ve been living under a rock for the past two years. What we may not have noticed—I myself did not until Ben Lasman’s August 2010 review drew my attention to it—is the miniscule glitch that occurs at the 21-second mark in and repeats every so often afterwards… Blissed Out’s remix, “Empire State of Mind Edit,” is the magnification of that glitch to extreme heights. Of course, Blissed Out is quite aware of what they’re doing and, as Lasman surmises, so was Jay-Z.

It’s a strange little imperfection to find in a more or less immaculately constructed pop song. Something ostensibly unrelated to musicianship or writing, but still too much there to be considered an oversight. Every ten seconds or so it pops up out of nowhere, grinding at the gears of the chorus, tearing the whole jam apart from the inside out like an armful of bot fly babies … Rap is quite a bit different today than it was a decade ago, sure, but where most heads like to whine about the lyrical transition from the socially-conscious to the fiscally-conservative, it’s also important to note how that thematic shift has been mirrored in the genre’s musical methodology. Sampling, record scratching, the infinite repetition of a breakbeat were all transcendent sonic malfunctions, punk gestures stemming from the same kind of technological anti-humanism as playing slide guitar with a lead pipe or cutting up your torso with a bunch of broken beer bottles thrown hatefully at the stage … Which is why, when Hova’s biggest hit in years comes accidentally equipped with incessant, intrusive noisiness, we not only get a throwback to the auto-destructing golden years of rap, but an exciting insight into how this sort of musical antagonism could pop a hole in hip-hop’s fat-suit.

But if that’s so, we’re treading into another phase of beauty that Kundera’s couple did not imagine, since this is the deliberate representation of unintentional beauty. And so, with each successive layer of transposition we vacillate between the tangible and intangible, the real and imagined, and somewhere in the midst of all of this a complete picture begins to emerge.

Unfortunately for my girlfriend, her accusation backfired. Rather than seeking to appease her, in the following week I grew even more concerned about the upcoming exam. Perhaps I’d flipped the switch, and had begun to transpose my romantic worries onto academics. More likely, though, I just resented her for making me so self conscious about it all, which is why I urge you to push everything you’ve just read to the back of your mind and give the tracks a relaxed listen.

CONCRETE EXPERIENCE is a new journal of contemporary photography and creative art published quarterly and based in Seoul, South Korea committed to delivering an engaging alternative to standard art and literature periodicals to creative-minded audiences. Incorporating a variety of writing styles and aesthetic sensibilities, it locates itself at the interstices of high and low art, litmag and fanzine, fiction and journalism, conceptual and concrete, all wrapped up in a beautiful and enduring journal-cum-objet d’art. Our guiding mantra—“let the words vibrate”—embraces the way we want readers to interact with CONCRETE EXPERIENCE; rather than churn out a lineup of unrelated articles or photography features, we carefully curate the magazine as a whole, providing readers with a cohesive and comprehensive unit.

Nate Greenberg

[[[Download the Mixtape]]]

Most bands can be summed up in a paragraph and many in a single sentence.   Compression to such extremes is rarely advisable since it leaves no room context, artistry, emotion, and all those nuances that draw us to music in the first place.  Nevertheless, it can be effective when you need to quickly convey the gist of an artist, especially if your audience has enough background to intuit the rest.  Just as skimming the sparknotes won’t make you enjoy Ulysses, the single-sentence summary won’t make you enjoy a band, but both are sufficient if your goal is basic comprehension.

Have you heard about Lucky & Wild?   Well, that’s a long story, and the sparknotes haven’t been published.  It’s telling that I couldn’t find a way to summarize Lucky & Wild in a sentence, paragraph, or even in a 1000-word review.  I couldn’t even select two tracks to adequately represent it.  In my defense, neither could those involved in the project.  Therefore, we decided to forgo the standard 7-inch in favor of posting the full album—if that’s even the right word for it.  You’ll have to experience it for yourself.

Perhaps the first key to understanding Lucky & Wild is to realize what it isn’t—an artist.  Lucky & Wild should be approached as another entity altogether, for which there’s little precedent.  The project is a collaboration between musician Ben Seretan and visual artist Angus McCullough.  Seretan is best known as the vocalist and guitarist of Duchampion, a Brooklyn-based band that draws on rock, punk, and shoegaze.  I won’t delve into detail now because we hope to highlight Duchampion in a future 7-inch.  McCullough’s art and design span several mediums.  A common thread throughout his work is his uncanny ability to evoke character, emotion, and storyline through unconventional means.  Seretan and McCullough also enlisted the help of filmmaker Spencer Sheridan of No Face, a Philadelphia-based performance group, and released their… err, whatever you want to call it, definitely not album… with the support of Mighty Kitten Records under the Creative Commons License.

Collaborations between musicians and visual artists invariably spawn cool results and Lucky & Wild is no exception to this rule.  Still, Lucky & Wild is not the usual breed of cool.  The brew is far stranger than the ingredients would indicate.  Let’s discuss the recent release OOO, an unpronounceable title which Seretan describes as a “typographic and computer friendly way to represent three periods, three circles, etc.” and which is anything but an album.  In addition to eleven audio files, it includes a video, photos, drawings, cryptic graphs supplemented by a series of ‘renderings’ that pose more questions than they resolve, excerpts from emails between Seretan and McCullough, a Cherokee fable and other obscure literary selections—all vaguely related to the theme of hummingbirds, production notes as incomprehensible as Gertrude Stein’s diary, and copious bibliographical credits.

Of all these, the video provides the best point of access—insofar as it’s a medium we can wrap our minds around and appreciate with relative ease.  Trippy visuals draw us into the dark universe of Seretan’s music, where even the most self-assured will quickly begin to doubt their own sanity.  It’s like looking at a series of inkblots that seem too grotesque to be coincidental.  Is your therapist playing a trick on you?  However, the imagery is sufficiently abstract that you won’t be able to say for sure whether the shapes swelling and dissipating in the smoke are real or just figments of your fucked up imagination.

For those who wish to delve deeper, the correspondence between Seretan and McCullough provides biographical and philosophical context.  Seretan explains his inspiration for the work—hanging around an abandoned arcade in triple-digit heat, surrounded by the sporadic blinks and flashes of glitchy machines, and taking in the “ghost echoes of lost decades of fun.” This was impetus for the pixilated arcade game motif, as well as the name Lucky & Wild.  He also alludes to Marconi’s theory that sound never truly dissipates, a cool idea to keep in the back of your mind as you sift through the content.

The other major theme of the release—hummingbirds—is also addressed.  Seretan recounts a recent visit to the UC Santa Cruz Arboretum where he describes a “kick-ass hummingbird trail.” This may be the first time such words have been used to describe a hummingbird trail, but Seretan elaborates convincingly enough to diffuse any doubts regarding their propriety.   “Hummingbirds must see us humans as these huge, loafing, slow-moving monsters as they flitter about…surprisingly apt description of how my life here has felt.”

Now that I’ve provided the background on Lucky & Wild, I’ll leave you to explore at your own pace.  There may, in fact, be a method to the madness.  A few of the images and poems seem to carry encrypted messages but it might be purely aesthetic.  I haven’t been able to crack the code—if it exists at all—and even with an entire sheet of LSD to inspire me, I doubt I’d get any closer to a definitive truth.

Because Lucky & Wild packages OOO as a single-click free download, we’re tempted to dismiss it as the sort of work we can experience passively.  You can listen to the music.  You can watch the movie.  You can read the words.  However, to realize the full potential of OOO, you’ll need to take a more active role.  OOO is avant-garde installation art.  Think of it as an exhibit in a box.   If you were a curator at MOMA, how would you install it?  Now take that mentality and apply it to your apartment.   Host a party.  Print out several copies of the text and give one to each of your guests as they arrive.  Distribute pot brownies, acid punch, etc. Release live hummingbirds.  Turn off all the lights.  Loop the audio in surround sound.  Project the images and videos on the walls and ceiling.  If you don’t have a projector, a laptop will suffice.  The more laptops, the better, so ask your friends to help.  Position them strategically throughout the room.  Recruit a performer to recite a dramatic rendition of the parable of the Crane and the Hummingbird as the party unfolds.  Enjoy, and don’t forget to invite your friends at Ampeater!

Nate Greenberg

[[[Download Lucky & Wild — OOO]]]

36 inches of snowfall were recorded in Central Park last month. Never before in New York’s long and illustrious history of shit-weather had a year been ushered in with such force. Other cities throughout the region fared little better. Boston’s Logan Airport received 38 inches—a figure rendered only bleaker for its failure to break any records. In cities everywhere, plowmen worked overtime to clear the roads, evasively deflecting whatever lay in their paths toward the parking lanes where icy mountains rose up and then thawed, spawning rivers of toxic sludge. Escape was nearly impossible. The rustic pleasure of sleeping on the floor failed to sate the rage of passengers stranded for days at JFK. Conditions were evidently so bad that it took an entire revolution in Egypt to push everyone’s bitching out of front page news. But I wonder whether conditions have really been so much worse than usual?

Even without unprecedented snowfall, winter has several strikes against it. Brutal cold and interminable nights are two big ones. These invariably result in higher incidence of suicide, divorce, and people seeking therapy. Crime rates drop marginally but only because nobody wants to venture outside. Naturally, we’re all tempted to succumb to the seasonal gloom and overdose on bleak music by artists from places even colder than Gotham City.  I’ve passed months wallowing through audio tours of the Arctic Circle, meandering from Norway to Iceland to Siberia—Opeth, Sigur Ros, Tchaikovsky—in self indulgent angst.  This winter, however, I headed to Los Angeles where I discovered The Smiles. Many bands with a name so cheerful and idiotic would be quickly torn to shreds in the smog of cynicism that pervades the East-Coast indie circuit. Luckily, The Smiles have enough merit to win a place in even the coldest of hipster hearts.

Let’s cleanse the palate! You’ve been listening to far too much Eliot Smith for your own good and you haven’t laughed in weeks. Press play and digest the first ten seconds of A-Side “Cala Cola” before reading on. Ten seconds is all you’ll need to don the appropriate mindset because The Smiles waste no time in cutting to the point—they can’t afford to when the longest track on their six-track debut, Hermosa, clocks in at just over three minutes! The songwriting throughout the album is remarkably concise. Each song covers impressive ground without ever testing the limits of your attention span. Moreover, The Smiles never temper the beach-rock attitude which distinguishes them from virtually every other indie band hip enough to appreciate. Each song develops at a leisurely pace.

The Smiles have already earned considerable acclaim in California but they’re ready to become a national phenomenon. This is, at least in part, because Vampire Weekend paved the way for them. Anyone who has listened to ten seconds of “Cala Cola” may have drawn that comparison already. It’s been drawn several times, which bodes well for the California quartet. The East Coast adored Vampire Weekend, so it seems predisposed to accept The Smiles. The Smiles may even have a crucial edge over Vampire Weekend. John McGrath (guitar) and Will Sturgeon (bass) split lead-vocal duties, and their starkly different voices emphasize key moments in compositional narrative. This notion is epitomized by “Cala Cola”, in which vocal contrast clearly delineates the shift between verse and pre-chorus. Nevertheless, the two bands have enough in common that Vampire Weekend makes an ideal point of reference anybody unfamiliar with The Smiles. Aesthetic hallmarks of each include jangly electric guitars blurred by ethereal reverb, propulsive basslines with enough high-mids to cut through the mix, and the crisp pop of tightened drumheads. Moreover, both groups write songs with simple chord progressions, memorable melodies, world rhythms, and clearly delineated structure. Another less obvious ground for comparison might be biographical. Both bands formed in college, albeit on the opposite side of the country.

This geographical distinction leads us to a crucial point of divergence. The Smiles and Vampire Weekend arrive at a similar auditory aesthetic, but they do it via starkly different philosophies. To put it another way, “Cala Cola” sounds a lot like “Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa” but nobody’s pitching it as a critique of colonial exploitation. “We’re just trying to write good short pop songs,” explains vocalist and bassist Will Sturgeon. Though well educated, The Smiles won’t be writing any songs about obsolete syntax.

B-Side “California Girls” is testament to this. The Smiles tell me it was influenced by The Strokes but the one-note build and tribal tom-tom introduction alludes more directly to another well known California band to which the group have drawn much comparison—The Beach Boys. Touches of youthful exuberance like the subtle yelp before the second chorus and the bass breakdown at the onset of the bridge cement the surf-rock vibe. The last chorus is truly explosive, buoyed by vocal lines that weave back and forth and synch up at key moments in satisfying harmony. What more could one hope for from a song called California Girls?

Of course, The Smiles are more than your run-of-the-mill surfer band. “We didn’t set out to be beachy,” explains Sturgeon, “but once we moved to a full band setting and Brendan’s reverb got involved then there wasn’t much we could do… We got our roots playing college parties, so the louder we could play the better, and basically that’s how all these songs sound.” Both Sturgeon and McGrath have folk roots which they plan to exhibit in subsequent releases. Even Hermosa demonstrates more breadth than meets the eye. With repeat listens, the subtle intelligence begins to shine.

Few indie bands could choose a name like “The Smiles” and get away with it. The Smiles are one of them, and they don’t even have to pretend that it’s ironic! They exude a lot of positive energy but it comes across as sincere rather than overmedicated. Maybe it really is just the weather? This has led many listeners to speculate whether The Smiles represent the trajectory that Vampire Weekend might have taken if they’d gone to USC instead of Columbia. Would they still have chosen to name their band after a blood-sucking nightwalker with a melatonin deficiency?  The Smiles represent a light hearted alternative to the esoteric/existential indie archetype without sacrificing an ounce of integrity. If you suffer from seasonal depression, this upbeat and highly addictive indie-pop might be just what you need!

Nate Greenberg

[[[Download the 7-inch]]]

Whale Belly approaches the challenges of modern urban life through a distinctly folk lens.  I’m not simply referring to the genre of music that the band plays.  When most people hear the term folk, they think of folk music, which conjures images of Bob Dylan, a barefoot hillbilly playing banjo on a porch in Kentucky, a barefoot Bob Dylan playing banjo on a porch in Kentucky, or other permutations of the same components.  Educated listeners may know better than to anticipate barefoot Bob Dylan, but they’ll still harbor preconceptions which, albeit considerably better informed, are nonetheless the product of reflex.

Whale Belly’s music borrows stylistically from folk, but it also exhibits shades of rock, pop, blues, and western classical, and there are certainly a number of bands today playing in a more obviously folksy vein.  Nevertheless, the link becomes clearer when you strip away the connotations and focus on the terminology itself.  Folk signifies not just music but a way of life, the simple life, and a rejection of the ‘bigger, faster, stronger’ ethos that fuels the so-called American dream.  In that regard, Whale Belly is a bona fide folk band.  The music doesn’t stem indirectly, via the genre “Folk Music”.  It stems directly from the source, evoking the philosophy that sparked the genre in the first place.  It doesn’t matter that the band members are children of the digital age, residing in the most urban of locales—Whale Belly projects a simultaneous love for humanity and contempt for the society humanity has subscribed to that would make Woody Guthrie proud.

At heart, Whale Belly is not just a band but a community of friends.  You’ll find anywhere from 4 to 15 musicians onstage during the typical Whale Belly set.  The focus of this musical community is on creating a dynamic show rather than a polished CD or appearing hip.  Those involved put as little distance between themselves and the audience as possible.  Vocalist and multi-instrumentalist Todd Bogin explains, “we work really hard at involving the crowd and making them feel a part of the whole thing.” The group frequently performs stunt like having the crowd jump up on stage to sing along.

It’s also clearly not about the money, as Whale Belly is offering up its entire debut album, The Smile at the End of the Slope, for free download.  Incidentally, this album makes a perfect introduction to the band.  It gathers up the chaotic reverie of the moment and miraculously packs it into a slender little disc that can be spun again and again.  Needless to say, it doesn’t fit so cleanly, and casual listeners may view the recordings as cluttered or even sloppy.  Some tracks have so much going on that it’s difficult to pick individual parts out of the mix.  However, so much seems unavoidable when you have a ten-track album featuring 23 different musicians on instruments ranging from violins to Wurlitzers.  The recordings are about as close to a live set in a packed and slightly inebriated club as you can get without stepping out of your apartment.  The sincerity and intimacy of the music are completely unabridged.

In addition to the live aesthetic, the album is supplemented with original artwork by Bogin, which adds a personal and decidedly playful touch to every song.  I’ve included the images for both songs in this review and the rest can be downloaded on the band’s website along with the album.  As you’ll notice, darker themes are dressed in the bright colors and cartoon abstraction of youthful optimism.   Not a bad metaphor for the band.

Even the name is revealing, foreshadowing the lyrical content of the album.  We could view the slope as symbolic of the struggles that we must endure to make ends meet and arrive at something to smile about, but that’s not the whole story.  The name also pays homage to the band’s neighborhood, Brooklyn’s South Slope, while riffing off clichés like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow or the light at the end of the tunnel.  This clever double entendre is only the tip of the iceberg, for you’ll find that Whale Belly has a penchant for wordplay that’s evident throughout its catalogue.

In A-Side “Odds and Ends” Whale Belly takes a stock phrase, flips it on its end, and uses the resulting deviation as a platform to explore a complex social phenomenon, unfounded biases and our reluctance to accept differences.

It’s odds and ends, ends and odds
We’re both the same person, just believe in different gods
Mine is cruel and yours is sly…

The listener finds an ironic twist at every turn, culminating in the parallel structure of the refrain:

I know what I hate but I just don’t know why.

The constant double entendre allows for an economy of language, since each phrase is packed with so many layers of meaning that Whale Belly manages to say a lot while saying very little.  As for delivery, Bogin’s voice grabs listeners’ attention right away.  It’s not pretty and it’s not always in tune, yet that’s often an asset in both Folk Music and music of the common folk alike.  Honesty is the goal and perfection is not honest.  Bogin delivers like a true balladeer and when I listen to Whale Belly, I feel as if I’m being told a story rather than merely sung a song.  And if the vocals seem abrasive, the music will temper that.  Tasty fiddle licks smooth out the rough spots, naturally driving the swells in volume and tempo and helping the arrangement gel together.  Meanwhile, snappy snare rolls, uptempo country guitar strumming, and a steady rockabilly bassline provide the tension and momentum to keep the listener engaged.

If you like what you hear, you’ll also want to check out the music video.  It fits broadly with the theme of soul searching expressed in the lyrics and highlights the sense of movement conveyed by the music… but above all, it’s fun!

B-Side “Poor Man’s Dance” is considerably more amped up than “Odds and Ends” and demonstrates the range of Whale Belly’s genre-hopping.  Bogin observes that when comparing the two, “you can easily see the diversity of the band and get an idea of how different each song on the album sounds.” You’ll still find a bit of folk perspective but the Folk Music is buried under a healthy slab of distortion.  The chorus even hints at a rock anthem, while the guitar generally leans toward blues.  Aurally, it may still seem like an abrupt transition but the lyrics and structure help it adhere to the Whale Belly’s aesthetic.  True to form, the band uses impeccable wordplay in treating some heavy issues.

The song hinges on the refrain—also the title lyric— “do the poor man’s dance…” To an extent, I feel like any song bold enough to reference its own dance and to order the listener to do it commands a certain degree of respect.  Such songs make it crystal clear that you damn well better shut up and dig it, even if the “it” is something as lewd as to “superman that ho” or as inane as the hokey-pokey.  In this case, the command is considerably more philosophical than either, but similarly self actualizing and, astonishingly, the first verse manages to reference the hokey-pokey without sounding stupid.

Put your whole life in
Take your whole life out
Take all your clothes
and shake the money out

It’s the ironic recasting of a poor man rifling through his pockets for change as an action so deliberate and artful as a dance.  Powerful juxtaposition.

In summary, check out the album because it’s free and every song has something unique to offer!  If you have the time and means, check out Whale Belly in concert too, because despite all I’ve said about the live aesthetic of the album, nothing can completely replicate the thrill of joining in on the moment and arriving at that smile at the end of the slope.

Nate Greenberg

[[[Download the 7-inch]]]

“Chrome and the Ice Queen was birthed out of a sudden inclination to write pop music, perhaps the result of studying more traditional forms of composition. Particularly, the aim was to fully craft just one song… And to post it on the internet without disclosing any information about the personnel involved. To see what the hell would happen.”

This cryptic message mysteriously found its way into the Ampeater submissions box a few weeks ago and whoever sent it delivered exactly as promised.  The submission form was accompanied by precisely one fully-crafted pop song (A-Side “Sway”) as well as a B-Side which in comparison seems superfluous, its primary function to fulfill the two-track requirement for an Ampeater Review.  Apart from a few words about each track, we didn’t receive much else.  Conspicuously absent were the fun goodies (novella length biographies, spiffy press kits, etc) we often receive from artists itching for a write-up.  We didn’t even receive an email address or phone number at which to press the band for more information.

Whenever I hear a new band I’m struck by an unshakable urge to learn everything there is to learn about it.  With Chrome and the Ice Queen my efforts didn’t get me very far.  Intrigued by the anonymity, I decided to prod my most reliable friend for additional info.  Unfortunately, even she wasn’t able to assist me much.  I learned that Chrome and the Ice Queen is a boy/girl duo which barely qualifies as news in light of the name and general aesthetic.  Faces were blurred or obstructed in all the press photos I was able to uncover.  I discovered that the group is from Toronto and that they’ve played a few shows recently which is a decent lead but, regrettably, one I’m completely unable to follow up on since I don’t live anywhere near Toronto.  Discouraged, I quickly abandoned the search.  Besides, I consoled myself, even if I could unravel their true identities it would be quite tactless for me to do so publicly when they’ve clearly gone through such pains to hide them.

I thus found myself confronted by the unique challenge of writing up a band that, on paper, doesn’t exist.  To understand the implications of this challenge, you must keep in mind that, by conservative estimations, the average music review is comprised of nearly fifty percent biographical filler.  Philosophical rhetoric vaguely related to the aforementioned biographical filler generally makes up another quarter and so, in the best of cases, perhaps the remaining quarter will pertain directly to the music.  So what was I to write about?  To scrap the whole review would have been the safest choice and I considered doing so for a brief moment.  I wouldn’t even have needed to go through the awkward formality of explaining to the artist why he or she isn’t the right fit for Ampeater.  I didn’t have any way to make contact.  Oh, it would have been so easy not to write this review!  Consequently, the mere fact that it exists should be taken as a powerful testament to the music.  The enigmatic artist’s solitary pop masterpiece was so captivating that I felt compelled to press forth and I’m glad I did because eventually I discovered something—even more alluring than a strong bio is a complete lack thereof.

The idea of forming a faceless and storyless band in an industry where image counts for so much seems, to say the least, counterproductive.  Granted there are a handful of bands that have managed to make a splash in spite of—perhaps as a result of—embracing what I will henceforth refer to as the hidden identity gimmick.  Gorillaz succeeded gloriously but probably couldn’t have done so without the economic and promotional support of a major label and extensive industry connections.  The façade didn’t last long either, and Albarn’s efforts to hide his identity were probably doomed to begin with.  How long did he seriously expect before the world noticed he sounded suspiciously like the guy from Blur and connected the dots?  Daft Punk also flirted with the hidden identity gimmick, revealing their names but hiding their faces behind robotic masks.  Incidentally, such masks proved to create a more memorable image than their faces ever could have.  Both examples are clearly exceptions to the rule and for a band to hide its identity is akin to playing Russian Roulette on a revolver loaded with 5 bullets.  In other words, it’s practically suicide.  Does Chrome and the Ice Queen have what it takes to make it big against improbable odds?

My verdict is yes—that is, provided commercial success is something they care about.  The litmus test is whether the impenetrable enigma of the hidden identity gimmick jives with the image evoked by the music.  In this case it really does.  It’s time check out A-Side “Sway” if you haven’t already done so.  It’s not the sort of song you’ll want to sing along with but it’s a great song to get hopelessly lost in.  The overall effect is reminiscent of Portishead.  It’s dark, mysterious, and treads the improbably thin line between fiery passion and ice-cold indifference.  The band describes it as “the story of a seductive murderess” which rings true, even if you’re not paying attention to the lyrics. The Ice Queen projects the image of a bona fide femme fatal and her chillingly sexy voice and nonchalant delivery are considerably more alluring because of her inaccessibility.  We face a complete dearth of photos to salivate over but I suspect the vast majority of our readership—regardless of gender or sexual preference—would like to go to bed with her.  No real beauty can rival imagined beauty.  Meanwhile, Chrome brews up a deep trip-hop groove that bathes the vocals in just the right ambiance.  It’s slow, sensual, and sinister.  The production value is spot on and unexpected horn riffs turn an otherwise bread n butter arrangement into something a bit more memorable.

To a certain degree B-Side “Endings” is filler material but what else could one expect from an artist who has made the creation of precisely one fully crafted pop song the explicit goal?  Chrome and the Ice Queen enlightens us by explaining that it was created using cut-up (physically) cassette tapes.  As one might reasonably assume from this description, the composition sounds more like a final project for an electronic music course than anything you’re apt to hear at a club or on the radio.  It clearly wasn’t designed to be a hit but the concept is sound.  Tune in, especially if you enjoy ambient music.

The more I dwell on it, the more it seems likely that Chrome and The Ice Queen are established musicians playing a joke on the world.  Why else would they be so eager to reveal their identities?  Yet the possibility remains that they’re simply unknowns with an astonishing understanding of the art of suspense.  Regardless, I hope that the pair will be motivated by the reception of “Sway” to release a follow-up single.  They certainly have the right sound and image to become a cult phenomenon with significant mainstream crossover appeal.  I see vast room for growth should they wish to perpetuate the hidden identity gimmick. The enigmatic personas of Chrome and The Ice Queen could be flushed out considerably and perhaps even developed into full characters.  Unless I’m missing the point.  Having fulfilled their goal of creating just one fully crafted pop song, perhaps they’ll keep quiet.  It all comes down to their motives, which are difficult to decipher as we know so little about them.  Nevertheless, I can’t shake the feeling that they’re trying to tell us something through their anonymity.  The lesson may be that we should pay more attention to the music itself and less attention to whoever’s making it.  Perhaps it’s better just to listen.

I’ve been unable to contact Chrome and the Ice Queen to inform them that their review has been posted but I suspect that those involved will find it and have a good laugh at us all.

Nate Greenberg

[[[Download the 7-inch]]]

Five beautiful voices backed by three guitars and the conventional bass and drums. Backed somewhat less-conventionally by violin, cello, and mandolin. Further supported by the thoroughly obscure pennywhistle and saz. Five guys. Five unique musical personas. One aesthetic, astonishingly more congruent than the sum of its parts.

I’m talking about Darlingside, a self-dubbed “string rock” outfit based out of Northampton, MA. String rock is an apt term since, for a band with three guitarists, guitar plays a surprisingly minimal role in Darlingside’s sound, taking a backseat to rich string arrangements. Bass too keeps mostly clear of the limelight, with low frequencies dominated by cello. Vocals also dominate, often in the form of lush five-part harmonies, and drums are the final major ingredient in the Darlingside aesthetic, commanding in both volume and intensity and perpetually diverging from the expected course. The songwriting carefully balances satisfying refrains with a penchant for exploration and, while somewhat heavy handed, is refreshingly self assured in that. Although they’ve been together for only a year, they’ve broken out of their hometown’s venerable but student-centric music scene and have the toured east coast heavily, from Portland, ME to D.C.

The band chalks its eclectic sound up to an “unlikely hodge-podge” of musical backgrounds, which merits some explanation. Harris Paseltiner (cello, guitar) is an accomplished classical cellist who has appeared twice on NPR. Auyon Mukharji (violin, mandolin, saz) traveled to Brazil, Ireland, and Turkey, on an ethnomusicology fellowship, studying and writing about the traditional music he encountered there. Don Mitchell (guitar) toured throughout the states as a boy alto and, after picking up guitar, honed his singer/songwriter talents playing for sunset boat cruises in Maine. Dave Senft (bass, guitar) started arranging vocal music in college as musical director of his a cappella group after which he spent two years as a street musician. Sam Kapala (drums, pennywhistle) began drumming at the age of seven, and his background includes ample training in jazz, funk, hip-hop, and rock. On top of it all, they’re all talented vocalists. In fact, the band met in college while singing together in an a cappella group. Listen carefully and you’ll probably hear all of these influences at play, although they blend together naturally enough that it’s easy to forget how unconventional the mix is.

A-Side “Malea” is the most anomalous and probably the most captivating cut on Darlingside’s debut EP. The band explains that it was originally conceived as contemporary dance piece, which is easy enough to imagine given the strong hip-hop groove, a surprising ingredient amidst the band’s usual blend of rock, pop, and bluegrass. Kapala’s drumming marks this unexpected yet satisfying addition most notably. The spastic dance-club breakbeat he conjures behind the set completely recontextualizes the rootsy and somewhat sinister string groove. The rhythmic hand-clap breakdown during the first chorus is another key instance in which this acoustic ensemble draws upon electronic influences. Granted, this sort of syncopated clapping descends most directly from flamenco, where it is commonly used to accentuate impassioned vocal crescendos and polyrhythmic guitar strumming, but in context, the effect resembles more closely a remixed Justin Timberlake club hit than anything off a Camarón de la Isla album. Senft’s punchy vocals undeniably have a lot to do with that. His spot on falsetto leaps are soulful ear candy and the way his voice skips on the word “try-y-y-y” screams sampled.

But Darlingside doesn’t use samplers or drum machines. These guys often forgo even electric guitars, opting for an unplugged aesthetic. Oddly enough, you’ll find few instances of acoustic musicians incorporating electronic influences into their style but the reverse is longstanding tradition. Many pioneers of electronic music opted, either by popular demand or a lack of imagination, to adopt acoustic conventions of composition and arrangement. Consider, for instance, Switched on Bach, the seminal recording in which an entire orchestra was replicated on the Moog. But how often do you see a pianist attempting to mimic a DJ scratch battle? And yet, it seems only natural that musicians growing up in the digital age would be inspired by the popular sounds of their generation. What then can we make of Darlingside’s use of acoustic instruments to approximate a glitch-heavy remix? For that matter, what about the breakdown a la Rage Against the Machine in which the expected scorching electric guitar is replaced with equally scorching strings? Listen and draw your own conclusions, but I’m enthralled. “Malea” bumps and rips as much as the sources from which it draws inspiration, but is warmed by a touch of earthiness.

B-Side “Good Man” is a well-crafted pop song tinged with a dose of folk. It’s not so experimental as “Malea” but it better represents Darlingside’s signature rootsy aesthetic. The strings at the beginning make for an alluring intro, evoking a touch of bluegrass until a stadium rock drum beat cuts through the mix with unexpected but pleasing force. However, vocals quickly dominate. Darlingside’s spot on five-part harmonies carry the tune, giving the refrain much of its punch. The bridge provides a nice interlude and allows the lush instrumentals to swell briefly to the front of the mix, but it’s primary function seems to be to set up the epic final chorus which Darlingside delivers in good form.

“Good Man” showcases Darlingside’s vocal talent better than perhaps any other recording on the EP. Listen and it will become abundantly clear that not only can everybody in the band sing, they can all sing incredibly well. I wonder whether some readers may feel, however, that they even sing a little too well. In particular, lead vocalist Senft has a voice worth millions, but this may be perceived as both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, a voice like his seems destined for heavy radio play and sold-out stadiums around the world. On the other hand, it may not be so palatable to indie taste buds. Most indie singers have voices that, at least classically, would be considered less than ideal. The genre prizes those who turn lemons into lemonade, bound by vocal limitations to forge their own unique styles. This naturally leads to a bias against vocalists appealing too strongly to the mainstream. I mention this to urge you, should nauseating comparisons to Jason Mraz or John Mayer be difficult to suppress, not to dismiss Darlingside and keep your biases in check. Focus on how the band utilizes its vocal power and I expect you’ll agree that they’re considerably more versatile and dynamic than any of the pop rock stars you’ve categorically disowned.

Darlingside’s sound doesn’t fit cleanly (or even approximately) into any of the numerous hip subgenres in vogue today. It’s also not the kind of music to be dissected and deified by the avant-garde, for although it’s got plenty to enjoy, it’s not bizarre, challenging, or ironic enough to warrant such attention. However, it’s still a bit too quirky to be lapped up mindlessly by the undeserving mainstream. One might wonder then where Darlingside, alienated from both extremes, will find its most ardent support.

A fair concern, and yet, I can’t shake the feeling that this music has widespread appeal. It’s music that my hip college sister, jazz aficionado father, and eccentric grandmother who only generally only listens to the Beatles, children’s songs, and feminist spoken word poetry, would probably all enjoy. And it’s music I enjoy. Pop sensibilities unconstrained by the pop aesthetic push Darlingside outside the realm of trendy, safely beyond the obnoxious trifling of those who wear their music tastes on their sleeves as a mere fashion accessory, and into deeper and more enduring places.

Purchase the full EP at www.darlingside.com/shop or check out their show tomorrow (the 10th) at Crash Mansion!

Nate Greenberg

[[[Download the 7-inch]]]

When I listen to Shiv Hurrah I’m struck by a deep nostalgia for an adolescence unlike the one I actually lived.  The band’s bittersweet and expertly crafted songs send me cascading down memory lane in search of a first kiss far more poetic than the one I truly gave and received, for that fleeting summer night which probably never existed outside of a movie I once watched and—lo and behold—I find exactly what I’m looking for.

Frontman David Bechle is a superb songwriter.  His yearning melodic hooks are supported by the perfect balance of major and minor chords.  As I’ve emphasized, this is music that memories are made of, and the songs—charming, sensitive, resilient, and above all, timeless—capture all the ups and downs.  The progressions are classic—you may feel as if you’ve known some of these songs since childhood—although a few surprising and highly satisfying resolutions will keep you on your toes.  There’s a strong dose of teenage angst but it’s treated with the maturity and heightened awareness that can only come with hindsight.  The lo-fi production certainly helps too.  Bechle’s slightly overdriven vocals struggle to cut through the mix, which creates a sense of desperation that tinges the music with sadness at even the most triumphant moments.   Audiophiles may cringe at the dead snare tone and muddy low end but DIY enthusiasts will applaud the intimacy of this homely aesthetic.

In addition to Bechle on vocals, guitar, and (occasionally) keyboard or trumpet, Shiv Hurrah features Daniel Benjamin on drums, Alex Drum on guitar, Carl Robinson on guitar, and Sean McCausland on bass.  The Brooklyn-based ensemble, which has frequently been compared to the likes of Wilco and Morning Benders,has been at it for less than a year under the current formation.  However, all except Robinson played together in Rochester, NY a decade ago.  They moved to Boston in 2001 where they met their fifth member, but things quickly disintegrated and it wasn’t until they found themselves in New York this past year that the band was reborn under the name Shiv Hurrah.  They’ve recorded a 5-track EP thus far, from which both cuts on this Ampeater Digital 7-inch are drawn.  I’ve included the album art (the original work of bassist McCausland) here, simply because I love itand because if I hadn’t been intrigued enough to click on it, I might never have heard of Shiv Hurrah in the first place.

A-side “Oh Oh Oh” is the last track on the EP and it ends things in grand style.  The strongest hook—the title lyric—is melodic ear-candy delivered in captivating ghostlike falsettos that the lack of “real words” accentuates.  There are only about five chords in the entire song but they’re astonishingly well used.  A two chord hook gives way to a verse with a bit more harmonic motion before settling on the minor for the chorus.  As noted, the vocals are low in the mix—a stylistic choice that I support—buried under a thick background (er… foreground?) consisting of guitar, drum, bass, keyboard, and brass section (trumpet and trombone).  However, it’s nice when harmonies kick in to help the vocals stand out at key moments.  If you listen carefully, you’ll find a few lyrical gems, my favorite being the delightful paraprosdokian, “I never get homesick, I just get sick of my home.”  B-side “Heart of Lead” shares some of the same great qualities—simple yet powerful chord progressions and memorable melodies that tug at the heartstrings  A nice addition is the synthesized bassline which seems straight out of the 80’s—the vocal refrain adds to this effect—but which blends surprisingly well with the indie production and vibe.

When I asked Bechle why he’d selected these particular tracks, a question I ask the majority bands that I review, I received one of the most concise and telling answers I’ve ever heard.    “If my house was on fire,” he explained, “but I only had enough time to save two songs, these would be the ones.”  It’s telling because there is indeed something unquestionably dear about these bittersweet and highly evocative songs.   When I listen to Shiv Hurrah, a number of incredibly visceral feelings bubble up, and I find myself sorting through memories—both real and imagined—in search of their source.  I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again—the music inspires a deep nostalgia for an adolescence unlike the one I actually lived.   Admittedly, the idea that one may feel nostalgic for something imaginary seems rather suspect but that’s precisely the kind of nostalgia that Shiv Hurrah somehow conjures for me.  How?  I believe that nostalgia is caused not by recollection of the lovers we’ve lost or by the “golden days” we’ll never relive but by recollection of the emotions that they once provoked.  It occurs when those emotions hit us with an urgency and vividness we’ve long forgotten.  What caused them in the first place isn’t so important.  How exactly does this relate to music?  Allow me to digress briefly by drawing upon an analogy from the art world.  Realism gave way to Impressionism and eventually to surrealist and abstract modes of representation because many artists found themselves better able to express emotion in less formally restrictive styles.  There’s a big difference between technical honesty (when everything appears exactly as it really appears) and emotional honesty (when everything feels exactly as it really feels).  Shiv Hurrah’s music falls into the latter category, cutting straight to the heart by conveying emotion at the expense of particulars which may or may not be broadly applicable.  The listener can fill in the blanks for himself, with personally relevant imagery inspired by the powerful dose of unadulterated sensation.  That’s why it’s not my first kiss that I recall—a meaningless affair with a girl I hardly knew and which ended as abruptly as it had begun when our front teeth awkwardly collided—but the imagined first kiss, the paralyzing radiance of her soft lips, two souls uniting, caution giving way to confidence as my pounding heart confirmed that this is the moment my whole life has been leading towards.  Of course, it didn’t work out that way, but my thirteen-year-old self certainly devoted enough thought to the fantasy, and the force with which I yearned for it was as real as anything I’ve ever felt.  I never forgot the fantasy per se, but I’ve long recognized it for cheesy, and consequently had viscerally forgotten the potent sensations it once provoked until the music of Shiv Hurrah conjured the same angsty yearning and a sense of déjà vu sent my mind drifting.

Shiv Hurrah probably won’t help you recall an imaginary first kiss, but I’m willing to bet it will evoke something impressive.  Listen and enjoy!

Nate Greenberg

[[[Download the 7-inch]]]

In the wave of public attention recently bestowed upon indie/dance/punk duo Hank & Cupcakes, the term minimalist has been applied with greater frequency than perhaps any other.  I’ve encountered it in reviews by several prominent publications and blogs, as well as in an array of press releases and publicity materials.  Even Hank and Cupcakes themselves have embraced the term.  “If I had to define it, I’d call the music experimental minimalist pop,” explains Hank.  And so, given what the whole world seems to think, I’m probably going to raise a few eyebrows by admitting what I’m about to admit—I just don’t see it.  Although I love what Hank & Cupcakes are doing—A-side “Ain’t No Love” has tallied up enough spins on my computer in the past month alone to merit a tenured position on my top twenty-five iTunes playlist—minimalist is among the last words that I would use to describe it.  Terms such as high-energy, strong, seductive, and funky would be more appropriate, and on the spectrum between minimalist and over-the-top, it lies considerably closer to the latter end.

Of course, I’m prepared to offer ample justification for my contrarian beliefs.  I suspect that most critics are trying to emphasize that Hank & Cupcakes is a two-piece band.  Hank plays bass while Cupcakes sings and beats on the drums.  The ingredients, admittedly, are low in quantity, but they’re deceptively potent.  Hank gets more oomph out of his instrument than just about any other bassist out there, amply filling the void left by the absence of guitar.  His technical ability and sense of groove are undeniable and his mastery of effects—an unfathomably complicated chain of wahs, flangers, and loopers that I couldn’t begin to describe—allows him to transform the bass from a chiefly rhythm-instrument into an everything-instrument.  Cupcakes, for her part, lays down hard-hitting beats behind the set and dominates the mic with the soul of a blues diva and the fuck-you-suavity of a disillusioned punk rocker.  Put them together and you get something that sounds suspiciously like a full-fledged rock band trapped in the body of an incredibly talented duo—not exactly what I imagine when I hear the term minimalist.

Hank and Cupcakes are the noms de plume of Ariel Scherbacovsky and Sagit Shir.  The pair began making music together in their hometown of Tel Aviv and took their act to New York City a little over a year ago.  Since then they’ve generated a lot of hype, as one critic phrased it, “sucking in a whole class of the most dour and sophisticated hipsters, forgetting the trends and coolness and making them dance.” There’s an undeniable chemistry between the pair, which probably—okay, definitely—has something to do with the fact that they’re a married couple.  “Since we’re a couple, our love and musical communication gives the music a sense of urgency when we play live,” Cupcakes explains. “We create something new every time we play and invite the audience to take part in the process.”  Whether it’s urgency, intimacy, or something else entirely, couple-bands invariably project a certain je ne sais quoi that can be highly alluring.  It worked for The White Stripes, it worked for Matt & Kim, and it’s working for Hank & Cupcakes, which has the potential to become every bit as successful.

A-side “Ain’t No Love” has enough hooks to become a Top-40 radio hit, enough groove to keep the crowd moving at the discothèque, and enough personality to merit respect from the most pretentious of listeners.  Cupcakes’ edgy vocals bring to mind Karen O of Yeah Yeah Yeahs, while the music is more reminiscent of Sly & The Family Stone or Blood Sugar Sex Magic-era Red Hot Chili Peppers.  Structurally and lyrically simple, the song exudes an infectious and upbeat energy that persists even through breakdowns.  B-side “She’s Lost Control” explores much darker themes without sacrificing an ounce of intensity.  Covering the iconic Joy Division but staying true to its own style, Hank & Cupcakes breathes new life into the song.  The lyrics “she’s lost control” seem self-referential when delivered by Cupcakes, producing an unsettling intimacy that no male singer could replicate, accentuated by Hank’s ominous low groove and eerie melodies. The song punches into second gear when the beat drops with discomforting robotic precision—as if control really has been forfeited—and builds steadily toward a climax in which the earlier melodic themes return and spiral together as the beat dissipates in a flurry of cymbals.

Both A-side “Ain’t No Love” and B-side “She’s Lost Control” come from Hank & Cupcakes’ self-titled EP, but to fully comprehend the group’s appeal, you’ll need to experience the spectacle of its live performance.  Bands with lead-vocalist drummers are rare, due to both the technical difficulty of singing while beating out complicated rhythms and the challenge of exuding a vibrant stage presence from the confines of the drum throne.  Cupcakes surmounts these challenges by standing behind—or even atop—the kit and allowing the rhythmic intensity of her drumming to permeate throughout her body, manifesting itself in dance that seems to drive rather than hinder her punchy delivery on vocals.  Hank takes care of the rest, covering so much territory that one critic observed “fans may find themselves scrutinizing the stage, looking in vain for the guitar player that seems to be filling out the band’s sound.” The couple also projects undeniable sex appeal.  Admittedly, the relationship between sex and music has been complicated by the rise of MTV, with many lamenting a shift in emphasis from good music to good looks.  Nevertheless, music and sexuality have always shared an inexplicable link—a link that Hank & Cupcakes artfully draws upon.  Cupcakes’ sultry voice and Hank’s bottom-heavy grooves exude a sexual energy from which their music derives much of its vitality.  This vitality is precisely what gets the crowd moving and keeps them listening with rapt attention.  Rather than serving as a distraction from the music, sex appeal (exaggerated lipstick, short skirts and high heels) actually serves to accentuate the power and message of the music.  Check out this clip of Hank & Cupcakes’ televised performance on Fearless Music and you’ll understand. Or, better yet, go and see them live.  Hank & Cupcakes is currently on tour, stopping off in Boston, Philadelphia, and various upstate NY locations before returning to the big apple in late September.  For a full concert schedule, check out their  MySpace profile.

Nate Greenberg

“Our sound has been called tweegrunge by some, awkpop by ourselves, and indie rock by others,” explained guitarist/vocalist/keyboardist Candace Clement when asked to describe Bunny’s a Swine. While the distinction may be largely semantic, I concur with Clement that awkpop is the most suitable and certainly the most telling classification for this unconventional trio from North Hampton, MA.  Those other labels might still apply, but they fail to capture the essence of Bunny’s a Swine.  What separates these guys from other indie rockers out there is that they’re so fucking awkward.  It hit me the first time I heard A-side “I Should Have Left the Bushes Hours Ago” and numerous spins later, I still can’t get over it.  Even if you haven’t heard the music, take one look at the press photo accompanying this review and you’ll probably be nodding enthusiastically in agreement.  What could be more awkward than some scruffy hipsters standing in front of a faux-dramatic nautical backdrop striking convoluted poses?  Even the name “Bunny’s a Swine” seems pretty awkward.  I asked the band for the story behind it and their answer only confirmed my suspicions.  “We really liked referring to things using ‘bunny’s a…’,” they explained, “like ‘bunny’s a tour’ or ‘bunny’s a show’ or ‘bunny’s a swingle,’ a reference to a 3 song single CD we made for a weekend tour in Vermont.  Its really infectious after a while.” Major-league awkward.

But in case you haven’t noticed, awkward is the new cool.  Many musicians nowadays subscribe to the outcast mantra, embracing the embarrassing traits for which they might have gotten their asses kicked and their milk money stolen in elementary school and recasting them as quirky or charming.  Bunny’s a Swine simply pushes that mantra to its limits and, I should add, succeeds gloriously in doing so.  The untempered awkwardness is irresistible.  I adored Bunny’s a Swine after hearing just a few notes.  I don’t mean strictly that I adored the music.  More precisely, I adored the lovely people behind the music and was struck by an unshakable urge to give each of them a big hug.

In addition to Clement, Bunny’s a Swine features Dustin Ashley Cote on drums and Emerson Stevens on 3-string guitar.  The latter instrument is another good indication of just how awkward this band really is.  Perhaps you haven’t heard of the 3-string guitar but one needn’t think too hard to imagine the conditions under which this unusual instrument might have been born.  The inability to string a guitar, the failure to master anything beyond power chords, and a lack of money to purchase new strings were the primary hypotheses to jump to my mind.  As it turns out, there’s a little truth in all of them.  Stevens found his first guitar in a dumpster and never bothered to restring it.  “My interest never was in being a great guitarist,” he clarifies.  “I wanted to write songs and found that pounding out bar chords on some piece of junk with 3 strings was more than enough to do that.” But even Clement, the de-facto virtuoso of the group, plays nothing so technically demanding that somebody who has played guitar for only six months wouldn’t be able to master it.  “Much of what we do derives from our beginnings as a band,” explains Cote.  “We started out as a two piece, Emerson and I, neither of us really knowing how to play.” Bunny’s a Swine rejects virtuosity in favor of simple might.  The lo-fidelity recording techniques employed by the band accentuate this decision, creating the sensation that the music never left the attic in which it was born.

Among the many awkward traits that make Bunny’s a Swine so damn endearing is unabashed sloppiness.  The creative process is pretty transparent.  Most of the songs originate with Stevens but when he brings them to rehearsal, everybody sings whatever they feel like singing until, eventually, something interesting emerges.  Clement explains, “most of the time we have no idea what the others are singing about until months after we’ve finished the song.” A band with multiple lead vocalists who pay little heed to one another will inevitably devolve into chaos.  Bunny’s a Swine simply harnesses this chaos and transforms it into an exhilarating tension.  Distinct vocal melodies pile sloppily together, vying for the listeners attention, and then converging in brief flashes of harmony.  To catch the words is nearly impossible.  As soon as you hone in on one lyrical thread, another will butt in over it.   And yet, miraculously, Clement observes, “the meanings almost always sync up.  Bushes is a great example.  It wasn’t until we recorded that track that we knew both people were singing about very similar themes of voyeurism.”

The song Clement refers to is “I Should Have Left the Bushes Hours Ago” Beginning with calm and luxuriously paced instrumental introduction, it kicks into second gear when the whole band starts to sing and shout simultaneously.  A punchy melody delivered in sloppy unison by an out-of-tune baritone and screechy tenor is tempered by a delicate and melodic soprano line. Select words cut through the mix but are quickly drowned out, evoking the atmosphere of a crowded house party—incidentally, the kind of event at which I’d most like to see this band perform—in which only fragments of conversation manage to rise above the roar of the room. The music gradually escalates in speed and volume until the climatic moment when vocal melodies finally intersect.  “Please do not turn out your inside light,” the band shouts in harmony.  This flash of clarity packs a strong punch after such a long buildup.  B-side “Fuck Bunny’s a Swine” employs many of the same techniques but is notably more schizophrenic in form.  Beginning with a steady instrumental dirge to back Stevens’ deep and unrefined voice that at times channels Johnny Cash, the song unexpectedly jumps into to a doubletime punk feel about halfway through before finally returning to a tranquil refrain with harmonies reminiscent of The Carter Family.   Not that such references were premeditated.  I get the impression that Bunny’s a Swine was simply having a good time.  The common thread linking these sections is a raw energy so earnest it could not have been forced.

After commending Bunny’s a Swine on its sloppiness, awkwardness, lack of instrumental prowess, and other traits not generally deemed praiseworthy, I feel compelled to stress that my appreciation is not in any way ironic.  I admit to enjoying certain bands because they’re so bad they’re good but Bunny’s a Swine really isn’t one of those bands.  Only when you strip away technical virtuosity and fancy production does it become clear what a band is really made of.  Occasionally you’ll find a band that has a heart beneath the superficial gloss but more often, virtuosity and production mask a disappointing inner void.  So many bands lack genuine substance, which is precisely what makes Bunny’s a Swine so refreshing and, probably, so awkward.  Sincerity can be embarrassing.  Ever wonder why rock stars never smile?  Bunny’s a Swine is a labor of love.  Wait, scratch that!  Was labor really involved?  This band doesn’t practice, it plays, and the joy of playing shines through every note—wait, scratch that!  The joy of playing simply shines because without the gloss, there’s nothing to stand in its way.

Nate Greenberg

[[[Download the 7-inch]]]