Science And Sorcery is saturated in funk. After the verve of Vessels, the wolves and cubs have decided to lay back and produce a considerably looser record.
“What Are They Running” has a devilish Mayhew bass and a toe tapping kick drum, it’s irresistibly racy. The production is dirtier, forests away from the power production on Vessels by Tony Doogan. The song ends with improvised percussion, while vocalist Byrne howls and yelps. The wolves are following their instincts, making music more intuitively.
“One To the Other” assaults with, believe it or not, a saxophone. It’s positively lethal. Some Sorcery is then launched, as Wolf & Cub flex their visceral skills on the atmospheric “Master”. Riffs reverberate and the drum pulsates relentlessly while buried under heavy drones.
“Spider’s Web” rollicks along at a playful pace, while verses are interspersed with vocal modulations that sound like hooting owls. “Restless Sons” is bruised and soulful, “Change comes our way, but I don’t wanna be one of the helpless ones, I don’t wanna be one of your restless sons”. All the elements then converge into a jazzy fusion.
New producer and electro-eccentric, Bumblebeez, makes his presence known on “Hearts”. The song marks Wolf & Cub’s first foray into electronic sounds, but the artificial buttons are used sparingly and not as a desperate attempt at reinvention (sidenote: this accusing turn of phrase is directed at Yeah Yeah Yeahs).
“The Loosest of Gooses (Go On Your Own)” is a balls out, punch in the face. “Blood” is like pub vomit, replete with gritty guitars and a dazed chorus. “Burden” closes the record noisily and messily, the hazy production working an absolute treat.
A few years ago, international record label, 4AD, dropped Wolf & Cub. 4AD jumped ship prematurely, because this vessel is well and truly soaring. On their second record, Wolf & Cub have fleshed out their ideas to create a striking and kaleidoscopic long player.
It’s mother’s day soon. Vous comprenez? What are you going to bestow on your mother to illustrate your undying gratitude? She already has too many Rod Stewart Best Ofs. And what of your other anxiety? Anything which you purchase her might be inflicted on you also.
A: This compilation.
So Frenchy So Chic is delightful. It’s topped to the rim with sweetness and sophistication, 2 very notoriously French attributes. You could suffer worse than to have this collection wake you every morning, after liquored low points the night before.
With 33 tracks, So Frenchy So Chic doesn’t just have an expansive duration; it also covers an impressive expanse of styles. There’s jangly pop (“Let’s Party”), tribal (“Pom”), acoustic pop (“Je N’aime Que Toi”), piano pop (“L’idéal”), garage rock (“7 Heures Du Matin”), chamber pop (“Bruises”), sunshine pop (“Pourquoi Pas Moi”), reggae (“Toi Et Moi”) and baroque pop (“Demain”).
“Concrete” has a navel-gazing charm. “Come To Me” has a playful and fidgety drum line. The vocals are just as twitchy, while flashes of trumpet bubble and bounce cheerily.
Above all, the singing in French proves endlessly enriching. All the sung syllables are velvety, soupy and pleasant. The vocalists amorously conjure a sunny space to spend 2 hours in.
So Frenchy So Chic is pastel pink and blue. It’s sugary and filling. It’s melodiously lovely.
Forget all about "Frère Jacques", So Frenchy So Chic is the new French regime.
If Merriweather Post Pavillion was the album that introduced the mainstream Indie throngs to the dissonance and streaming synths of 'noise-pop' then Dan Deacon's Bromst is the album that will test if those throngs are there to stay. The album is dirty, unpredictable, wildly eclectic and yet devastatingly beautiful.
A friend of mine described Deacon's style as a mixture of Animal Collective, The Lion King and schizophrenic with a synthesizer. Indeed, the similarities between Bromst and Merriweather are obvious from the album's opener - 'build voice'. After enduring a minute of what can only be described as 'vocal sirens' the song melts into a jubilant harmony. The vocals are crowded; Deacon's arrangements have the effect of almost suffocating us with sheer concentration of sound.
After 'Build Voice' lulls us into a false sense of aural security, 'Red F' clatters and jolts. The song is like listening to an Atari 7800 sound effect on loop. Deacon injects the vocals with an obscene amount of auto-tune and layers the synths to the level of 'dial-up modem log-in tone'.
'Padding Ghost' returns to flat-out joy-synth. It opens with a xylophone - wooded and hollow - and hook-soaked vocals sweeten and soften as the song picks up speed. The end effect is one of absolute euphoria. This triumvirate of solid openers sets Bromst up as one of the best things to come out of 2009. When Merriweather was hailed as the album of the year in January, it appeared that critics had jumped the gun.
Where Bromst falters, however, is in its descent. After 'Of the mountains' - a blend of Soweto gospel beat and Lion King pulse - and one of the album's better fillers, Deacon loses pace. The closers are good, but not great and, with the exception of perhaps 'Slow with horns/Run for your life', they are generally a little annoying. 'Baltihorse' tests your patience with the vocal stylings of the Chipmunks and 'Wet wings' is grating and motionless.
So Bromst isn't the album to dethrone Animal Collective. Deacon's shades of brilliance aren't overshadowed by his inconsistencies but are definitely muddied by them. The album opens triumphantly; it hums with organized discord and leaves you static, even numb with appreciation, but as it winds up, the experience is soured. It's as if Deacon lost patience, or gained indifference. Thankfully these shortcomings don't spoil the fact that Bromst is still a good album with some great songs and undeniably worth playing.
Wild Mood Swings by The Cure is pretty universally abhorred. It is a pop album that actually managed to sell less than the preceding gothic dirge of Wish. While Robert Smith has verbally defended the album- actions speak louder than words, and only about two songs from this one seem to ever get played live (and rarely, at that).
One of these songs that Cure fans graciously accept into the canon is opener “Want”- it sounds a lot like the bile-spewing slow-burners like “End” and “Open” that characterised Wish. It’s really not a great track, having fairly obvious lyrics and little to distinguish itself musically. Overall, it is a comfortable song for The Cure to play, and a comforting song for listeners wanting more of the same.
The second track, also not hated by Cure fans, is much more interesting. On “Club America”, Smith whips out an unnaturally low sounding growl as he tackles the American clubbing scene. Over a borrowed Bowie riff (“The Man Who Sold the World”) he denounces those who “So carefully couldn’t care less/You’re really trying very hard to impress”. The conviction is there, and it’s an interesting twist for a band band that could have easily stuck to a very successful formula.
The album is at its best when it sticks to its edgy pop concept- “The 13th” (with more strange singing from Smith) and “Strange Attraction” are great pop tunes written with an almost Ray Davies-esque dedication to the craft. “Jupiter Crash” is a gorgeous adolescent sex ballad with interesting astrological analogies throughout and appropriately spacey production.
There are a lot of songs in the vein of 1992 hit “Friday I’m in Love”, but they all present an interesting enough twist of the formula to justify their existence. All of them, that is, except the actual lead single “Mint Car”- its somewhat forced-sounding happiness grates after about 30 seconds.
There are no true duds here, but some of the fat (notably "Want", “Return” and “Round & Round & Round”) could have been trimmed. Minor issues aside though; it’s hard to see, in retrospect, what’s so bad about this album- it is much less wearying (and more interesting) than the overly-comfortable Wish.
If an attempt to make a great pop album fails to chart then it is a conceptual failure. Just ignore that technicality, because Wild Mood Swings is a truly rewarding listen, both for sugary pop hits and for some interesting lyrics and textures that you won’t hear on any other Cure album. Because, sadly, thanks to the backlash against this record, Smith has never been as daring or vital since- all the albums since this one have been absolutely fine, but he hasn't truly been able to escape the dreaded curse of second-guessing.
Gary Numan is a laser. Gary Numan is TRON. Gary Numan is the villain in Terminator 2 who can liquefy, all metallic and silver. The Pleasure Principle suggests that the future was in 1979, so where are we now? This record set the standard for the 80s, when synthesizers were the new plague.
“Airplane” menaces with erratic synths. “Complex” is tender like a lonely robot, each sung syllable succinctly pronounced: “Please/ Keep them aw-ay/ Don’t let them touch me/ Please/ Don’t let them lie/ Don’t let them see me”. “M.E.” has that muddy baseline that was lifted by Basement Jaxx for their hit “Where’s Your Head At?” years ago.
There’s no guitar on the record, just bass and violin. The rest is all electric, fluorescent blue and green and purple.
The Pleasure Principle has endured excellently. It’s technologic, disconnected and cold. It’s the 21st Century. One could argue that the tracks are indistinguishable; 10 songs, all of them synthetically saturated. However, that would be missing the point slightly, this album was produced by a mechanical life form: “And I want your lines/ And I want your time/ And I want your face/ And you can have mine”. There’s nothing human about the repetitious phrasing in “Tracks”, it’s artificial, but purposely so.
“Cars” went to #1 on the UK Charts. How funny that such a large population should embrace their predictable and pedestrian behavior: “Here in my car/ I feel sa-fest of all/ I can lock all my doors/ It’s the only way to live/ In cars.” Maybe in the future future bell towers will be replaced with synthesizers.
In preparation for their new record in June, I felt it appropriate to look at Sonic Youth’s last offering- 2006’s Rather Ripped.
As soon as “Reena” opens this album, there’s something different. While I would never accuse Sonic Youth of using traditional tunings, you could almost swear that either Lee or Thurston is playing a guitar set to EADGBE. What’s more, it opens with a chorus- a melodic one at that! While Gordon isn’t strictly singing in tune, she almost is. There’s no true aggression here, it’s sung like Nico on the first Velvet Underground album. Yet, perplexingly, there are more alt-rock hooks in this song than the band has had on any album since Dirty, and I applaud them- it actually works.
The emotional core to songs like “Incinerate” and “Turquoise Boy” comes through virtually unfiltered- rather than attack their own melodies and tear the songs inside out, the band’s knack for unusual production values is used to support some uncharacteristically honest lyrics. The perfect example of this is the closer “Or”- warm, overexposed bass and low-cut pounding drums provide the soft backdrop for Thurston’s weary, itinerate lyrics; punctuated by very simple strumming and picking. It all comes together to create the sound of 3AM cigarette-warm beer light.
Which isn’t to say they don’t rock out here at all, but when they do- as on “Rats” and “Sleeping Around”- they groove seductively. If this album is laidback, it’s far from lazy- it’s almost as detailed as career-best Daydream Nation- it’s just here they let things breathe. Noise is used sparingly, yet more effectively than it was in the 90s.
This is a mature (but by no means adult) record. Sonic Youth are, almost impossibly, still an energetic and essential force in rock. Here’s hoping The Eternal is even half as good as this.
Grizzly Bear conjure up folk songs to envelop. Think blankets, canopies and slivers of light. The tracks swathe listeners and reproduce the sensory equivalent of a midnight walk through a dense forest. Veckatimest wants to soundtrack your autumn. Named after a remote island, Veckatimest expertly crafts the sound of solitude. There’s less variation in the songs than on 2006’s Yellow House, though the latest offering is certainly more concise.
“Southern Point” opens the record with a quiet-loud, hushed-bombastic alertness, while “Two Weeks” champions a marching band with playful harmonies. “Fine For Now” insists that “There is time, so much time”, while exploiting what sounds like a forest choir. Contrary to these words sung throughout, the chorus rollickingly rips open and cymbals are attacked, suggesting there is little or no time. Grizzly Bear are engaging in musical dish-smashing. The beginning vocals on “Dory” are ghostly. All four musicians are expelling what haunts them.
In the body of the album, Veckatimest falters somewhat. Atmosphere drops substantially with directionless songs “About Face” and “Hold Still”. These sketches are more suited to inclusion as B-Sides on a single, rather than an LP.
Fortunately, “While You Wait For Others”, ensures that the record is injected with renewed intensity, while “I Live With You” has a thrilling and thunderous conclusion.
“Foreground” complies with the convention of most records, in saving the most graceful song to close the curtain. It echoes with an irrepressible emotional weight, before retreating from ear shot. With ripped jeans and a dirty face, you’ve found your way out of the forest.
Paradise is full of many contradictions, the most obvious one being that as a listening experience, it’s a great deal closer to hell. The album artwork is befitting of the noise. These songs are desolate, sparse and unforgiving. The desert is uninterrupted and repetitive in its terrain, so too are the 10 beatings which populate Paradise, where chord changes cease to exist. The album was produced by Steve Albini, whose polished production makes for a sharper listen than 2006’s Cancer.
The bass lines in Paradise assault. They force themselves upon the listener repetitively and with bludgeoning precision. Every so often a guitar will flourish, disrupting the drum and bass lines that were exacting a hypnotization.
“You Came To Me Like A Cancer Lain Dormant Until It Blossomed Like A Rose” commences in an almost danceable manner with drum and bass line punches, before battering listeners with an excruciating guitar bellow midway. It operates as a preparation for what’s to come, an album which is merciless, simply and completely.
The album’s centerpiece, “An Even Sun”, stretches for 9 minutes. It’s akin to being strung up. At the conclusion of the song the guitar slows, now you’re phasing out on Rohypnol. There’s an uncertainty and loss of control at this point, the guitars resonate at a leisurely pace.
Paradise is repetitious, unsettlingly so. The record ends with “Land”, a sluggish number which marks the listener’s surrender to the landscape. You were probably hungry for a chord change. Paradise is a record replete with starvation.
FBR reviewsrecords and reels. All scores are out of 100.FBR is Australian.Combined Ratings are the average score of 2 or more contributors' ratings.
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Science And Sorcery is saturated in funk. After the verve of Vessels, the wolves and cubs have decided to lay back and produce a considerably looser record. 
