One More Reason to Move to Scandinavia

When Saints Go Machine: Ten Makes A Face (2009) [EMI Denmark]

Okay so this album is not out in America yet. Usually I'd care about that because I'd hate to hype up a record you can't even go purchase, but sometimes a collection of songs comes along that makes you break your own rules just because it's that powerful. And not powerful like When Saints Go Machine are a band with a message or anything like that. They may very well be, but that's not why I'm here doing something I usually wouldn't. Because no crappy couplet about capitalism will change your political beliefs and no sappy love song will move you to go ask out that girl from accounting, but sometimes it's just the pure aesthetic beauty of something like the perfect combination of demented reverb and darkly inviting synth strings can make you say, "this is just too gorgeous to stay hiding in Denmark."

And of course there's that whole Internet thing. Sorry, Denmark, I guess that might have already ruined your super special secret surprise for the world.



But what a super special secret surprise! When Saints Go Machine's debut album Ten Makes A Face is the kind of record that not only makes you grab your friend by their shirt collar and say, "listen to this album or I will gut you like a fish," but it also makes you while away the hours of a lazy summer day by pressing repeat over and over again until suddenly it's bedtime. It's the kind of record where at one moment you'll be gushing with glee out of all of your orifices because of the synthesis of pop hooks and avant-garde electronica beats and the next you'll just be straight up banging your fists on your desk in a mighty groove as it blasts out of your tinny desk computer speakers with nary a thought in your noggin. It's furiously ear-pleasing, fascinatingly different from any pop record you'll listen to this year, and maddeningly addictive all at once.

"New Elvis" has a pounding low-end percussion section that is amply complemented by a wickedly delivered falsetto-driven chorus, which places it possibly the most prominent example of WSGM employing equal amounts of joy and weirdness in a single 3.5-minute verse-chorus-verse track. Possibly even more immediately enjoyable is "Spitting Image", a pulsing dance floor jam that feels like it's grabbing influence off the metaphorical shelves of 1980s keyboard-pop, 1990s neo-soul, and contemporary electro-minimalist behemoths like The Knife, all in an impressively calculated manner. This last bit makes the most sense because the man behind the mixing board for that Swedish heavyweight duo is also responsible for the lush yet skeletal allure of the instrumentation on Ten Makes A Face.



If I had to guess, though, I would predict "Head Over Heartbeat" to become the U.S. single whenever the album eventually makes its way overseas. Not only does it have the refreshing adventurous sound of the previous tracks mentioned, but its xylophone riff and lyrical refrain ("my girlfriend's on a date she don't know!") is so blissfully rich and bombastic in its execution that its power is literally impossible to deny.



And that's what this is all about, right? The power of music that somehow finds its way into headphones, whether randomly via Internet browsing, through personal suggestion, or because you were forced to absorb it during an awkward silence in your ex-girlfriend's Toyota Camry, is a wonderful thing. Even the slower tracks that demand more caressing attention, like "Armed" or "Fail Forever", end up sneaking up on you on that third or fourth listen, all because of the power of that first headphones session that inspired you to press play again days later. I still haven't had enough time to digest all the main melodies, much less the lyrical content, and I've been listening to Ten Makes A Face obsessively for about a month now. But I bring this to you now so you, like me, can (hopefully) get wild about a little band from Denmark and pass on the word, one person at a time, until someone finally picks up that pen and signs their EMI worldwide distribution deal and I can (just as excitedly as if I had heard it for the first time upon its U.S. release, I might add) go and purchase their album from my local record store.

No, It's Not

The Used, Artwork (2009)

Teen angst is a marketable emotion. Often in popular culture, angst is stigmatized, ignored, ridiculed. But it can easily be argued that angst is a part of the universal teenage experience, that everyone who has reached an age over thirteen has experienced some symptom of angst.

What makes angst valuable from a creative perspective is that it can be an extraordinary boon to art. The vast reservoirs of a person’s fragile, youthful depression can sometimes be a surprising view into the soul of a person who has not yet seen the life that may lay ahead of them.

However, angst becomes significantly less potent when it is overdone. And angst becomes significantly less potent and significantly more annoying when it’s overdone AND you’re being screamed at by a 27-year-old man.

The Used have been one of the more successful bands of their genre for several years now. Starting with their 2002 self-titled debut album, the band has been a flagship of the emo genre, pummeling their eager fans’ ears with hits like “Buried Myself Alive” and “All That I’ve Got.” They’re known for combining dark (one might say, melodramatic) lyrics with a hard rock sound overlain with well-crafted melodies and for staying true to their ardent following.

With their fourth studio effort, The Used has apparently decided that to grow as a band means to get heavier, messier, darker, and, frankly, shriller. The result is these 11 songs, which are replete with metal drums and thrashing guitars and kicking bass lines that all muddle together very noisily.

Singer Bert McCracken switches through what could be called a “range” of voices. There’s the whine- singing, which is usually very quiet and withdrawn, but most often he forgoes this method and chooses between a shout and a scream. Single/opener “Blood On My Hands” features all three of these vocal flavors, if you’d like a sampling. If not, you can just skip around. They don’t vary much from track to track.

The overall album is, at various points, either too in-your-face to be really artful or too grandiose to be interesting. There are ideas at work that have potential, like the piano-ballad opening to “Kissing You Goodbye” which could have been heartfelt but instead becomes ham-fisted and ends up simply lacking in imagination. “Empty With You” is probably the album’s best track, but the chorus is so standard that it could fit into any song on the album with just a slight key change.

In terms of lyrics, Artwork is almost devoid of anything resembling its title. There are 13-year-old poets around the country who could outclass lines like “So I’ve lost my mind/But I never really meant to die.” Incidentally, the song “Meant to Die” was, according to McCracken, inspired by the death of actor Heath Ledger. I’m sure the Ledger family is feeling closure at last.

I realize I’m being harsh on this album, but frankly there’s so little originality or life on this disc, especially compared to other bands in the same genre. And the best way to view this record is in the context of artists who have done the same things before, but better.

The Used is transparently and unsuccessfully copping from several bands, including Circa Survive and Coheed and Cambria. The latter made a similar but arguably more successful hard rock transformation back in 2005. The former features Alex Green, arguably the best singer in the emo genre, and someone who McCracken clearly wishes he could emulate. The guitar and vocal work at the beginning of “Blood on My Hands” and “Men Are All The Same” even owe a great deal to popular metal acts such as Avenged Sevenfold, who themselves are hardly groundbreaking rock musicians.

Similar arguments could of course be made about countless emo, post-hardcore, and screamo bands that aren’t as visible or don’t have the fan-friendly goodwill of The Used. And I’m not saying The Used can’t be a good band, or that they’ve never been. And surely, there will be a huge listenership for Artwork who will absorb it at length for weeks, months or, who knows, years.

But I would encourage fans of this genre, and of this band, to explore better alternatives and seek out someone who might actually be pushing the boundaries a bit, or at the very least allowing themselves to grow up. Because a band that never grows up is like a person who never grows up: Immature.

(This review previously appeared in the Minnesota State University Reporter: http://media.www.msureporter.com/media/storage/paper937/news/2009/09/03/Music/Useds.Latest.Release.Hardly.Art-3762765.shtml?reffeature=popuarstoriestab )

Marks The Spot

The xx: xx (2009) [Young Turks]

This is weird. I've been listening to this album a fair bit recently, and the result of my listening to this album has been that I love this album. If we at TMITM were in the business of putting things in a nutshell - which I'm pretty sure we aren't - I'd say that it's a very good record. But something happened, as I was seeking ways to put my case for this record being very good: I selected a song that I really like, from the album - all the while rubbing my hands gleefully, and muttering, "hoo-wee! They're going to love this one!" - and then I made of that song a widget. You know, this sort of thing:



And the thing is, I've just listened to it again, on the "widget", and it doesn't sound good. I've got to admit it. All the qualities in it that I loved and cherished, that made my heart skip, saunter and verily frolic, seem to have melted into an insipid puddle of self-regarding, tinny shoe-gaze. I blame The Widget, people. Because listening to it elswhere - and, crucially, in the context of this well-crafted, intelligent, charming album - I find again that loveliness: the precise guitar and the gentle, knowing vocals; the excellent, reverbing bass; the crackling, rumbling noises that kick the song off, which have so much Bjorkish texture. I love the way his dry, languid voice enfolds her hazy singing. What is wonderful about it is the way it hints at atmospheric indie bands of yesteryear while embracing modern beats and sounds - particularly in the bass, which repeats nicely throughout.

The xx are a London band who seem to be flavour of the month with certain music critics. They've just released this, their first album (I think; it's difficult to Google a band with such a retarded name), having graduated from one of those arty-farty London musical colleges along with people like Burial. I see them in a trend of music at the moment that encompasses people like Lykke Li and Casiotone For The Painfully Alone, in being interested in minimalism while still taking its cue from contemporary music: the bass and drum-machine, throughout this album, create recurring patterns that nod to hip-hop, and there's also something mildly dance-y to their indie shtick.

At the same time, I find it annoyingly hard to put into words what I like about them: it's something really pathetic and indefinable along the lines of finding them winsome and endearing, which really isn't good enough. But all I know is that when 'VCR' - the first song proper, after a predictably meh intro - burst through, with its winning xylophone start giving way to some whirring bass and a clipped beat and the duo's beautiful boy-girl vocals on the sweet chorus, my heart skipped a beat. Which allows me to segue most revoltingly into the song 'Heart Skipped A Beat' (Jesus, I make myself sick sometimes. I really do), which is another stone cold winner for me, on this album replete with loveliness. Over a smart sort of clickety beat, Oliver Sim and Romy Madley Croft - for those are their names - do their gentle Nancy & Lee thing while really killing it on their bass and guitar respectively; there's also a kind of distilled Be My Baby beat, softly thumped on a big drum - and handclaps. It all adds up to a good, exciting carpet of sound. That's right: an exciting carpet. Suck on that, Aladdin.

It really is an album to be cherished for its textures, though: the production is crisp and interesting, with great depth of sound coming from pedal-steel and reverbed instruments and echoing vocals. Add to this a gentleness in the singing and lyrics, and chuck in how incredibly neatl all the lines are - particularly the guitar - and you've got so much to listen to in every song; at every turn you hear a new thing to spike your curiosity. Besides the afore-mentioned songs, I recommend 'Crystalised' (for the plucky guitar) and - perhaps best of all - 'Infinity' (for its beautiful, stately pedal-steel and the great whips of beat which erupt here and there). But this is an album full of treasures and only the occasional misstep ('Fantasy', which I find turgid).

I'm giving this record the full Ebert two opposable digits because I think that is has real heart and sincerity, which are difficult to pull off when you're working in The xx's mode, which is low-key and sparse: there is real chemistry between the singers, and their simple stories really work in this context. I'm thinking of the wonderful song 'Islands' here, and its beautiful line, "I am yours now/So I don't ever have to leave". The xx are not like other bands, and this excellent, rewarding record is not like other records. Give it some love and it will love you right back.

Collection of Blah

Collective Soul: Collective Soul (2009)
[Roadrunner Records]

Collective Soul is the band’s second self-titled record, and their eighth studio release.

Did you know that? Collective Soul has put out eight studio albums? I didn’t know that.

Yeah…”Whoa-oh-ooh-whoa, [wah-oo-wah-oo-wah], brother let your light shine…” Yeah. Those guys.

The only Collective Soul record I’ve ever owned is, fittingly, their other self-titled release from 1995; I was a freshman in high school at that time. In many ways, Collective Soul (designated by the band as Rabbit, and hereafter referred to as such) reminds me of my fifteen year-old self: largely inoffensive due to being generally polite, but rather bland and indistinct due to having absolutely no balls. Thankfully, I managed to (over time) develop some confidence, mature, learn from life experiences, and am an entirely different person now, fourteen years later. Collective Soul, on the other hand, seems content to not only give this record the same name, but basically recreate the music of its fourteen year-old predecessor. As I said, it’s largely inoffensive, but absolutely equivalent to the sad, lonely man that would be writing this now had I not socially, emotionally and mentally progressed since the age of fifteen.

Being that my familiarity with Collective Soul has lapsed so completely, I did something different when listening to Rabbit: I took some notes.

Also, I only listened to it once, and probably will not again.

I didn’t write anything down for the opening track, “Welcome All Again,” because it’s actually pretty good. It’s catchy and upbeat with a decent lead riff. The rest of my notes, however, consist basically of multiple uses of the words “blah” and “90s,” punctuated by a few serious complaints. That’s the gist of Rabbit: a lot of unremarkable sound punctuated by some truly bad music. The second track, “Fuzzy,” for instance, is a train-wreck; between the completely obnoxious whistling, the not-at-all appealing melody, and the fact that it’s at least a full minute too long (at least), the phrase that I used to sum it up is “whole song sucks.” “Dig” finds Collective Soul attempting—unsuccessfully—to channel heavier modern bands like Anberlin or The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus. “Understanding” is a prime example of why lead singer Ed Roland should really quit with the falsetto. There’s a decent guitar solo, but the extremity of the song’s tempo changes destroys any flow it may have had; jarring dynamics can work for certain bands—not this one.

“Understanding” and “You” are the first songs that Collective Soul has ever written together as a band. Ed Roland attributes this to “the confidence that the other guys have gotten in their music skills and the songwriting and also, for lack of a better term, me letting go of my ego a little bit...” Wow; two whole songs, huh? You, sir, are a shining example of selflessness.

Honestly, you don’t even need to hear an example track from Rabbit. Aside from a decent opener and a pretty little closer (“Hymn For My Father”), it offers nothing noteworthy. It’s milquetoast, with a couple of rotten eggs on the side. It’s slightly worse than bland, because the intermittent fart smell will distract you from your dozing. Imagine, if you will, that nondescript teenager, probably dressed in his very best concert t-shirt (Aerosmith, no less), meekly asking out a cute, self-possessed teenage girl who has a real identity and self-esteem and everything. You can’t even root for him as the underdog, because there’s absolutely nothing distinguishable on which to latch. Only as she’s letting him down briefly and politely (because he is completely uninteresting), he randomly shouts “what the FUCK?” a couple of times. Not pretty, is it? Almost as unpleasant as these continued and irrelevant 1990s high school analogies, right? (A side note: I never did the yelling thing.)

You, dear reader, are the cute girl. Just say no.

The Song Remains The Same

Welcome to the resurrection of The Music Is The Message. We temporarily relocated to Pajiba.com, where we expanded our little dysfunctional family of writers quite a bit (check out our archive of articles here). Now we're back, hopefully better than ever, not much blacker, but certainly much badder. Check back daily, as we'll continue to bombard you with news, reviews, retrospectives, and all other things music-related.

To start off, let's meet the players in this gang of thieves:

Lizzie Borden: Lizzie Borden can be found most often polishing or sharpening one of the axes in her extensive collection. Or reading. Or watching movies. Or being snarky. She lives outside Baltimore, MD (after being acquitted up in Massachusetts, thank you very much) and also writes at her blog Lizzie Borden Took Her Axe. You will be subjected to reading about a lot of bands featuring dudes who wear more eyeliner than she does, about whom she is woefully passionate."

Christian Hagen: Christian is a young buck music journalist from Minneapolis. He's a former contributor for Pajiba (Pajiba.com) and currently works as a Variety writer for the Minnesota State University Reporter. Christian also plays drums in a band, and waffles over whether or not he's really an indie hipster snob (today he's pretty sure he's not).

Felicia: I'm Felicia and it's good to be back at TMITM. Hot bands on my list right now are Passion Pit, Discovery and Hockey. Um, yeah. That list isn't very diverse, but I like to think I have a very wide range of musical tastes with the exception of Nickelback, Creed and Akon. Don't ever come to me with that sort of shit or I will hunt you down and get all murder-like on you. I also blog at My Boring Life where I talk about things like being drunk, falling down and having anger management issues.

Chris Polley: Chris Polley teaches high school English, often with his hair disheveled and a glint of crazy in his eye, in the Midwest's greatest city, Minneapolis. In addition to TMITM, he rambles on and conducts discourse about the horrific beast that is pop culture with his friends over at The Blogulator. His favorite phallic symbol may be trite (the guitar), but he demonstrates his awkward love for it nonetheless via his instrumental post-rock band Paragraphs, who you can find gigging around the Twin Cities in advance of releasing their debut later this year. Chris also still buys CDs for some reason, and some of his staples that continue to make the rounds in the car stereo include Pavement's Slanted and Enchanted, Joan of Arc's A Portable Model Of, and The Six Parts Seven's Things Shaped in Passing. He also likes music without guitars, he swears.

Sean Kufel: Engineer, sweat fiend, all-around nerd and shameless smarty-pants. Resident power-pop junkie and pop-punk apologist. He lives in Southeastern Ohio, and excels at neglecting his blog at Fat Kid and the Afternoon Snacks.

Caspar Salmon: Caspar is in his late twenties but - in the manner of your indecent auntie - considers himself young at heart. He pretends to like serious, intelligent and forward-thinking music but would pick 'No Diggity' over 'Idioteque' any day of the week. If you asked him to name his three favourite artists, he would be incapable of answering. His favourite albums are 'Blue' by Joni Mitchell, 'Innervisions' by Stevie Wonder, 'Poses' by Rufus Wainwright and 'Mos Def and Talib Kweli Are Black Star'. His favourite instrument is the banjo and his next favourite the trumpet, with violin and ukulele coming joint third. His most often-used words are 'wonderful' and 'fuck', though to the best of his knowledge they have never been uttered in precisely that order. Caspar lives in London, enjoys the stories of Alice Munro, the films of Michael Haneke and the paintings of Caravaggio, and likes nothing better than chillin' poolside wit his ho's. He blogs at Straight Outta Crouch End.

Jez:

Main Influences: The guitar. Electric, acoustic, but not seven-string. Seven-string guitars will give you VD, son.

Favorite Drink: Beer. Preferably homemade, but also prefers highly-hopped versions or stinky, monk-basement infused beers.

Favorite Bands: Drive-By Truckers, Slobberbone, Whiskeytown, Thin Lizzy

Partial to: Working for the man, creating beer recipes and then making them, thinking about picking up an electric guitar, and washing dishes

Bats: Right

Favorite Legume: The one on Gilligan’s Island

Likes Coffee: with real cream and sugar, but will drink it black

Motto: “Mi casa es su casa.”

Nickname: The Old Man

I just want to welcome anyone and let you know two things about your favorite band: First, they suck. Second, I never heard ‘em.

Darcy: Darcy is Canadian, for some reason, and is the resident expert on all things electronica. He spends his days with a gun to his head, reading esoteric modernist proclamations and cultivating vice in Edmonton, AB.

Boo: Boo is a self-supporting wise ass with a mean streak, a sweet tooth and an amazing pair. You can find her under a rock in the Southern Appalachian mountains, attempting to write, play and sing music, usually while in some state of inebriation. Read more about her at Girl Named Boo.

John Wiz: John (aka PissBoy) is a fan of all things that don't suck and can be found at random moments giggling at shiny things in the streets of Wilmington. When things are dull he's a whore for corporate America while trying to be a special make-up effects artist.

TK: TK is the founder of this minor disaster, an antisocial reprobate who enjoys playing with his dogs, raising the dead, and tacos. He's a regular contributor for Pajiba, and an irregular contributor to his own stupid blog, Uncooked Meat.

So that's us. Who the hell are you?

Stay tuned for more.

The Music is the... Moving

Hi everyone,

So, first of all: thanks to everyone who's been reading the site. It's generated WAY more interest than I expected when I, virtually on a whim, got it started a few months ago. Along the way I've found some fantastic writers and some fantastic readers as well. Which is why we're closing down.

Just kidding.

Actually, what's happening is that we're moving, in a way. I was recently asked to become the music editor for Pajiba, a site I've been working with for a while now. As such, me and the writers of TMITM shall be over there, Monday through Thursday, posting at 5:00 PM every day. Look for more album reviews, live concert write-ups, you name it. Thanks for reading, and we'll see you at Pajiba!

Later gators.

-TK

ps - click here for the official Pajiba announcement!

The Rules of Hell

Here's a history lesson for you: When rock and roll first started in the 50s, it was considered "The Devil's Music." Sure, you may have heard this, but it doesn't get publicized that much. If you read up on any rock and roll history books, you'll find that in the early years of rock and roll, even up into the 60s, that white artists would cover black artists material, and usually do better on the charts. See Pat Boone for an example. That is evil in its own way.

So I present to you some of my most favorite evil bands.

Black Sabbath

The kings, in my opinion, of "evil" rock. I actually was exposed to Black Sabbath by my friend, Robert DiNardo, when I was in 8th grade in Germany. Rob was a big Ozzy fan, and he had the Speak of the Devil double-live album which had Ozzy singing all the old Sabbath tunes, except he had Brad Gillis of Night Ranger playing the guitar, and Rudy Sarzo of Quiet Riot playing bass. Brad was laying down the California version of those Sabbath riffs, and just like California pale ale is more awesome than British pale ale, I always enjoyed Brad's riffs more than the original.

Over the past few years, I've become more and more interested in the stuff Ronnie James Dio did while singing for Black Sabbath. Ozzy was Ozzy, for sure, but Dio's stuff, although very fantasy (Dungeons and Dragons) - oriented, seemed just so much more real to me. In fact, RJD has quite a great bunch of songs with Rainbow, Sabbath, and his own, self-titled band.

Chuck Klosterman wrote a book called Fargo Rock City. His writing is pretty great, although sometimes he delves into more personal stuff (I know, I know...pot kettle black). This book is about his personal discovery of heavy metal, and his justification of heavy metal as a legitimate culture. I actually was able to find Chuck's email and ask him what he thought about Dio. His reply: I did not find him compelling.

I never saw Dio live, but he is somewhat annoying live, what with his, "oh ohhs" and banter while the song is going on. On Live Evil he actually shills the latest Sabbath album, like he's a DJ or something. He's still one of the best metal singers, in my opinion.

Slayer

I think Black Sabbath and Judas Priest were gateway bands to more heavier stuff. I've probably mentioned ad nauseum how I had the first Metallica album when it came out in 1983. I actually missed a chance to see them open for Twisted Sister when I lived in Germany. This was before TS released "Stay Hungry."

Many of my friends moved on to other bands like Venom, Merciful Fate, and Slayer. Most of these bands freaked me out with their up-front Satanic posturing. Quite honestly, I was scared that my parents would find Slayer albums and prevent me from listening to any heavy metal. Just look at the cover of Hell Awaits. Demons ripping people to pieces as they descend into hell. Pleasant.

Then, during my senior year of high school, Slayer released "Reign in Blood" which would be too much for me to resist. Every single one of these songs is incredible. Here are two of my favorites, "Postmortem" and the title track:

Supersuckers

Venom was another of those "satanic" bands, only they weren't very convincing to me. Some of their stuff was even kind of campy. If I'm going to go campy-evil, I'm gonna have to go with the Supersuckers.

I actually got to interview and these guys, and my band opened for them once. I still love these guys. They're really out there doing their own thing, including the release of a country album, that is more "spaghetti-country" than anything. I leave you with the Supersuckers with a bleak message about rock and roll records: