Single Reviews Round-Up: May-June 2005
1/5
By: Toby L
Note From The Editor: You may've noticed we got a bit behind on single reviews in the last couple of months. Here's the apology. Sorry. But just gawp at the following - this is barely half of what was unleashed in shops. Exactly. Testament to our current orbit and times, musical output hasn't been as rife as it has become. Here's an overview of two months in music. Savour. Toby L, Creator/Editor
First up is Rilo Kiley (the presumptuous 'It's A Hit' - Warners - ***); recent Bright Eyes support, and providers of shimmery, bubbling pop music unashamed to bask in its own gawdy cutesiness. But when this infectious, we're not to complain. Something The Kills ('Love Is A Deserter' - Domino - ****) would have some trouble in undertaking - on 'Love...', VV and Hotel are as brisk and rough around their jagged, pouting edges as we'd come to expect by now. With bitterness this assured and snarling, it makes the matter of that debut-LP almost sound like Love in comparison.
A return from JJ72 ('She's Gone' - a reference to the departure of former Irish fox bassist, Hillary Woods? - Lakota - ***) proves the surprise of the batch, if not aesthetically. A new female bassist lauds up the rhythm as Mark Greaney screeches up yonder in one of the band's more accessible moments since that semi-disastrous (yet partly valid), dirgey second record. James Yorkston is considerably more refined ('Song To The Siren - Domino - ***), notching up low-key nouveau-folk with a hearty voice and cautiously strummed acoustic; it's quaint, but gorgeous. Alec Empire ('Kiss Of Death' - Digital Hardcore - ***), played afterwards, meanwhile, sounds like the apocalypse: f**king heavy and as foreboding as the first day of your exams. Especially if you start with chemistry. 'I'm talking about the death of rock 'n' roll,' our Alec sneers. Blimey.
New signings to Mike Skinner's The Beats label, The Mitchell Brothers ('Harvey Nicks' - ***) follow in the same vein, unsurprisingly, to their head-honcho reveller, he himself appearing on the bark-along chorus, this an ode to getting turned away in said-store for looking a bit crappy in the acts' overalls. Serves you right, boys. Embrace, naturally, are more wet ('A Glorious Day' - **); the title should say it all. This band churns out robotic-indie-anthemery as if their blood was replaced with petroleum, but at least it's not evil (not knowingly, anyway). LCD Soundsystem; coolest mo-fo's on the block and all-round NYC masterclass; return with 'Disco Infiltrator' (****) - self-explanatory, dance-(s)punk offerings from James Murphy that only the most rigid and inhibited of arse-wobblers could fail to wibble to.
Oh, Kaiser Chiefs ('Everyday I Love You Less & Less' - EMI - ****); it's the attention to detail that'll keep the army of Kaiser Cadets growing. The intricacies of the artwork, the enclosed questionnaire asking whether this is A - not a patch on 'I Predict A Riot', B - Nearly as good as 'Oh My God' or D - May I have another copy for Ebay please?', the way the CD is a phonetic word wheel. Not to mention being perhaps the best indie guitar act since the nation was in two minds about whether to roll with it or live in a very big house in the country. Marx thought he knew it, Hawking pondered it. Look far enough in to the future and you might just end up looking over your shoulder. The soundtrack's come back around, so tonight we're going to party like it's 1995.
Fellow city-ites, yet polar-opposite minded duo, Joy Zipper return on Vertigo with 'You're So Good' (****), at long last. If you hadn't heard their 'American Whip' effort, then shame on you. The pair conjure pretty fuzz-pop that swerves the twee through sheer heartfelt earnestness and song arrangements as infectious yet cautiously, sleekly twisted as bubblegum in the mouth of a petty offender. Iceland's ethereal songsmiths Leaves return from the brink with a new line-up and material from a forthcoming album, 'The Angela Test' ('The Spell' - Island - ***). Here, the effects are that of effecting, basking and bright pop music, with some of that inevitable, glacial-Sigur purity. Better than the righteous pub-rock batterings of Winterville ('Shotgun Smile' - Toxxic - **), who recently returned from a tour with Thin Lizzy. This is not surprising. The 'Ville brandish fervent, upfront and loud blues-rock grappling that is both noisy and knackering. Similar ferocity to be found from Hot Snakes in their 'Peel Sessions' EP (***) - this being a slightly monumental outing in that it was the final session recorded for John Peel's show prior to the legendary broadcaster's death. It's not rocket science, but these loud gems could still tremble a few students to the right path.
Interesting one, Johnathan Rice (if only for the awkward first-name spelling). He's set to be transported to some form of ubiquity shortly, for sure, if his casting as Roy Orbison in the upcoming Johnny Cash biopic is anything to judge by, let alone his recent inauguration into the Songwriters Hall Of Fame. He's only 21, too. Bloody hell. 'Behind The Frontlines' (***), fittingly, is heartfelt singer-songwriter land - trad, but sorta rad. More such troubadour stylings from Ray Lamontagne ('Forever My Friend' - Echo - ***), whose ascent seems to have come out of jolly well nowhere. It's deserving - his husky, bear-like gravel makes for an intoxicating listen, minimalist and warmly orchestrated. Joseph Arthur is the more contemporary, stars-rated, Waits-y counterpart - revered by REM and Wilco, with whom he's shared a stage. His 'All Of Our Hands' is engrossing proof why (***)... Yet all such individual talents makes digging The Glitterati that much more of a chore; 'Heartbreaker' (** - Atlantic) is sleazy, pummelling retro-stadium-schlock with little in the way of subtlety, or class.
Good Charlotte ('The Chronicles Of Life & Death' - Epic - *): we could have chosen a more suitable first word in that name of theirs... Derivative and un-striking, dumbo US punk-rock-by-numbers. So thank f**k for The White Stripes - 'Blue Orchid' (XL - *****) is one of their greater singles, an AC/DC-via-DFA1979 charge through of sonically screeching guitars and Jack White's precarious falsetto. Club-anthem, kids. Then saccharine jollies from Saint Etienne, the Sarah Cracknell-fronted, overt, camp-pop outfit you probably didn't know were still going. 'Side Streets' (Sanctuary - ***) is the first lifting from their new concept LP, 'Tales From Turnpike House', and entrenched it is in atmospheric niceness and brittle indie sumptuousness. As if it'd be anything else.
My Chemical Romance - 'Helena' (** - Reprise): There's only a point in measuring this against other work in its field, the emo-rock-for-the-kids-at-school-who-once-looked-genuinely-scary-and-now-look-vaguely-silly genre that, for every piece of tripe it churns out, is inevitably prone to some fantastic pop songs, dragging Blink-182 away from fart jokes and providing genuinely worthy acts like the much missed Rival Schools, Jimmy Eat World and Brand New with a platform from which to encroach upon the radars of those apart from any recognised scene. It's My Chemical Romance's turn to launch a similar affront. So 'Helena' deserves to be, as each of us merit a voice, to feel like we're being heard. Yet, whether the voice is heard beyond enclosed, cliquey and youthful circles is another matter entirely.
Foo Fighters continue to belt it out, eh. 'Best Of You' (Sony BMG - ****) is, admittedly, cheesy as arse (a fist-in-the-air, distinctly American modern rock anthem), but when executed this fervently, this blisteringly, this Grohl-ingly... who's to deny this empowered slice of 'f**k 'em all' chart battering? Arctic Monkeys ('5 Minutes With...' - **** - Bang Bang) are the country's latest, most haziest sensation, and - if you've seen them live - you'll know why. Each gig is a bruised, shout-along mosh of flailing limbs and, from the attendees the nation over, belief. From the active Internet forums and rampantly shared mp3s, the country's next stars have been unveiled. 'Fake Tales Of San Francisco' is anthemic in a grower sense; its tight and taut rhythms won't immediately overwhelm, but the charged-up closure and snappy cynicism just might ('You're not from New York City, you're from Rotherham') whilst equally perky flip-side 'From The Ritz To The Rubble' doesn't harm either.
How do Simple Plan ('Welcome To My Life' - Lava - *) sell shit-loads of records? Their name says it all: trite, crass, simplistic, nu/dull/old/past-sell-by-date-metal (delete as applicable) that doesn't veer from being anything other than a turgid, ear-hammering, nega-aggresso-pants-soiling nuisance. Kids love it, of course. 'Boasting' influences in the key of Pet Shop Boys, INXS and prince puts you in a vulnerable spot. Just ask Cagedbaby (what's with these apt band-names?), whose '16 Lovers' (Fried - **) is enjoyable, but confusing; just which way are you going, lads? Which ever way it is, we're getting left behind. The latest from Manchester's Akoustik Anarkhy label comes as some form of relief - Autokat are conjuring an angular-ish, arty racket through 'The Driver' / 'Television' (***) that seems resoundingly informed. Promising nuggets. Subconscious partners are C-Jags and their Richard Hell-evoking mess, 'Paradise Park' (Voluptuous - ***); equally bracing in a frenzied, punk-ish vein.
Formed from the ashes of Far and Crumb (oh yes), Gratitude released their debut single 'Drive Away' (Atlantic - **) recently, noisy rock kerfuffles with the riffage of Page about it. More alerting, however, was a first EP from Morning Runner ('Drawing Shapes' - Parlophone/Faith & Hope - ****), triumphant headliners of our May/Basement Club event, and deliverers of three, fine and original compositions designed to fulfil the heart and soul of the most intrepid of ponderers. 'Work' is a testament to the ongoing strife of change and the everyday grind; 'Hold Your Breath' is similar in sentiment, asking of us all to take time out; and 'It's Not Like Everyone's My Friend' is a call and celebration for isolation. And it's such desolate, piano-tinged introspection that could hanker a quiet revolution in 2006.
The Departure return with 'All Mapped Out' (Parlophone - ***); a re-release of their debut single, which - second time round - entered the charts three spots lower than its original effort. Oops. Still, a decent song de jour: jittering and infectious, stylish Brit-pop; very much of the era, but not to be dismissed for it. Exist ('Spiders & Saints' - At Large - ***) cautiously plough the Kasabian side of things - whirring indie/dance evocation and a maliciously infectious slab of baggy we'd happily shuffle aimlessly to on a 'shrooms bender. Bristol quintet The Undercut couldn't be further away - 'To Die For' (Distiller - **) is wannabe epic; rounded, yes, but too emulative of what preceded it to form a nagging sign of what's to come. Offering too few answers, they starve the adventure in us. Akira The Don: try-hard, white, Welsh-boy rapper that Interscope just snapped up is more endearing, yet only because of the slight honesty here and lack of pretence. The 'AAA EP' (Something In Construction - ***) is still pretty fledgling; production-values are low, artwork is rank, but we're still perpetually charmed in part.
Otherwise... getAmped, attempting to dismantle the SoCal side of things, proffered 'Tyrannosaurus' (Stronglikebull - ***), a Brit rendition of that aforementioned of US rock genre-lising... Nine Black Alps ('Not Everyone' - ****) unleash their most Nirvana-y moment, and it's g®unge-tastic - filthy, guitars, wallowing vox, and bearing the sort of stubborn obstinacy of youth that we love... Funeral For A Friend blare and rasp in their typical emo-pubey way, but 'Streetcar' is so rollicking and forceful, with its noisy guitars, we can't begrudge (Atlantic - ***)... Redjetson 'Stay Comfortable' ahead of their mammoth Bloc Party tour supports in the autumn by plying a whole dense heap of emotional post-rocking with a searing sense of drama and warming whimsy in vocalist Clive Kentish's words (Drowned In Sound - ***)... 'U Don't Know Me' from Basement Jaxx marks more frantic party pop for the eternally under-fifteen-year-olds amongst us, and neon-techno as it is with its whizzing samples and keys and loopy vocal blurts, we can't deny its effect (XL - ***)... And then there's The Mau Maus ('Ataraxia' - Boobytrap - ***): one of those Do Me Bad Things-type ensembles, who're frightfully unafraid to mash up everything they know and hear into one teasingly accessible plop of noise (hip-hop / rock / R&B... we shit you not). It sort of works...
Like The Chicarones; a new beats-laden ensemble on the Bella Union label ('Pork Rind Disco EP' - ****). Their fabulously-titled seven-tracker weaves in and out of amusing, pleasurable, hooky beats and general vivaciousness would not make you think they're label-mates of The Dears. Brakes' 'All Night Disco Party' (Rough Trade - *****) continues the merriment ('uber-rockin' is uttered in this; say no more), and is a dancefloor classic in the making, as crafted by those from The Tenderfoot, British Sea Power (whose own 'Please Stand Up', released on the same label, gains an almighty **** for being one of their most aplomb-ridden and anthemic singles thus far) and Electric Soft Parade. The Brighton Marina Mafia, they're also known as (to us, anyway). Go buy. Comparably, Ben Folds is a dour sod, with his plinking on the ivories. But with a tune as bittersweet as 'Landed' (Epic - ****), perhaps as far removed from the precocious knees-up-i-ness of his Five efforts, we're willing to forgive the detached archness of the enterprise; a classically penned, affecting song shouldn't be discarded.
'Someone gets excited in a chapel yard, catches a bouquet - another lays a dozen
white roses on a grave...' (Audioslave - 'Be Yourself' - Interscope - **) If the leisurely pace of it wasn't enough of a hint, the imagery in the first verse is clear - someone wants us to know they've grown up, and have no intention of doing so disgracefully. Just a bit too bloated for our tastes. Now, there's no doubting that Jen Gloeckner ('Otherside' - One Little Indian - **) has one hell of a voice - beautifully delicate, masterfully controlled, captivating in its restraint. You know that she could really let out one hell of a wail and do it marvellously, but this, her debut release, sees her only ever hint at such a thing, staying instead with a delivery of a soft, lilting, very guarded love song. You'll want to be paying attention when she does. Queens of the Stone Age ('In My Head' - Interscope - **): The CD calls it 'Everybody Knows That You're Insane'. The artwork and accompanying press blurb follow suit. But more fool you to think that the record you're about to enjoy will actually have the same title as every piece of literature accompanying it. Quite clearly, this is instead 'In My Head', the newest offering from this ever rotating band of stoner rock warriors. Business as usual with the Queens then - nothing's ever simple.
'Dance Me In' (****) kick-starts the ascent proper of Sons & Daughters, having deservedly scraped a top-40 placement, and being taken from their second, critically lauded, Edwyn Collins-produced LP (get better soon, Ed); a thunderous and ferocious, killer pop record with a quite sexy ragga beat about it. Probably more fun than Coldplay's return; 'Speed Of Sound' (***) is skywards-gracing, big and euphoric... but quite standard. There's little here that distances it from the likes of prior greats like 'Clocks'. The safe terrain trodden once more? Yes. Oasis were guilty, too - 'Lyla' (*) is tired, 'Street Fighting Man' dross, don't care what you say. Nexxxxxxxxxxxxt. The Bravery and 'Fearless' (despite the pricey video) flopped, not making the hit parade top-forty countdown; shame, it's not that bad (**) - more jaunty and bouncy than their prior, angular New Order/Joy D merger, 'Honest Mistake', so perhaps just not as cool.
White Rose Movement, cool producer-boy Paul Epworth's favourite new band, are a sterling onslaught ('Love Is A Number' - Independiente - ****), bringing with them as they do a fine fettle of postured frames and frisky guitars and urgent pop extravagance, big-sounding, and quite commendably ambitious in their loudness. Fellow hotly-tipped-ers Be Your Own Pet ('Fire Department' - *** - Rough Trade) are rated as one of the finer new live talents out there, and their second single infers that the recorded side is still slightly lagging behind - fun, energetic, but still too garage-centric to generate a true storm. Narco, you may have already heard. If you're a hardcore, geek-pilot gamer, that is; they're one of the main bands to provide music to such exasperating computer-related, yet thrilling, mind-fodder as 'Grand Turismo 4'. Their 'Worth It' single is pretty worthwhile, naturally (Fume -***), taking in influence - according to the PR - from R 'n' B and Suicide. We reckon the Stooges reference is more befitting.
The Isle of Wight has had something of a resurgence in recent times; spawning-ground of The Bees and its reinvigorated, (mobile-phone-sponsored) Festival, it's no longer perceived as the useless end-up getaway for Brit criminals. Welcome also fellow inhabitants, The Jackson Analogue. Their latest EP 'Stop' (Fallout - ***) marks a soulful stab at the rock thing, not dissimilar to Led Zep in part, given the odd lo-fi tarring. But far more exciting are Larrikin Love: London urchin-punks not half partial to a cravat and top hat. And a killer tune. Or two. Debut 45 'Six Queens' / 'Little Boy Lost' (**** - Young & Lost Club) is clueless irreverence in the realms of psyche-punk with Coral-y, squall-driven guitars and rasping, Clash-like urgency. Only somehow more loveable and romantic than both. We back this shit.
'New York 70s punk rock from Barcelona,' reads the aiding press-sticker amidst the jewel case of Dover's 'Die For Rock 'N' Roll' (*** - EMI). Right. A charming four tracks, we're mostly just pleased they didn't name themselves another part of the English coastline. Say, Portsmouth. As it is, 'Sugar' is pretty staunchy stuff. The Shout Out Louds continue the Euro flair, residing in Sweden, but this is a lot cleaner, more endearing affair (**** - 'Very Loud' - EMI). Even though its title is slightly contradictory. Chugging chords line the track, in turn boasting fe/male vox and the sense of doting melody and Scando-sweetness that The Concretes are revered to employ. 'Superman' (** - V2) from Stereophonics isn't as forgivable as their prior 'Dakota', caked in its customary 'Phonics nuances, such as Kelly Jones' increasingly Rod Stewart drawl and thick, sludgy production that's as raw and rockin' as a serious sunbedding sesh in a yacht off the coast off Saint Tropez. Feeder aren't much better (** - Echo), a band resigned to plod-rocking with very occasional glimpses of basking melody... We just wish for more soul. That's all.
In the moments for breath between snorting white powder from between the buttocks of a lady of loose ethics, it must grate at Mötley Crüe ('If I Die Tomorrow' - ** -Universal), a band who have somehow managed to find the time to both release seven albums over nearly 25 years and stay (just about) alive in the process, that it's crass and offensive statements like the one that began this paragraph that the world remembers them for, and not, as they claim, that they rescued the late 1980s rock scene from a middle of the road dominance by the likes of REO Speedwagon and, gulp, Foreigner. There's a record to be set straight. Trouble is, the reputation is a large one to ignore, and in the case of 'If I Die Tomorrow', the song isn't quite strong enough to wipe that rather clammy slate clean.
Belgium's Millionaire were rudely ignored several years back. But with a new Warners contract in the US and fab new material such as 'For A Maid' (*** - PIAS), as produced by Josh Homme, there's a chance their ultra-swish, dance-noise could transcend only the merest of discerning indie camps as '05 ducks out. The Juan Maclean reside in a similar-ish camp, as part of the pump-action, ace DFA stable. 'Tito's Way' (****) is more James Murphy-endorsed/involved (see earlier) crossover funk-f**king that will subvert and clog every pore in your body with its dextrous, rowdy, mildly off-kilter grooviness. Bonkers, wonky, Fiery Furnaces-alike, girl-fronted, Scouse quintet The Little Flames are back with 'Put Your Dukes Up, John' (*** - Deltasonic). Yes, they're a bit out there. Not quite as immediately appealing as their equally oddball debut 'Goodbye Little Rose', there's still an as-is charm to the Flames that is a toughie to dispel.
The Subways offer far more straight-up rock kicks with 'Rock 'N' Roll Queen' (**** - City Pavement); have you seen the video for this? It's an apocalyptic festival scene with the band, like, playing, and stuff. It's a sneering rabble-rouser this one, with vocalist Billy Lunn's pipes getting so grimy and grungy at times we're tempted to offer him a tissue to hock it up and get it out of his system. Poor la'. Then there's ever-mournful, opera-harking boyo Rufus Wainwright ('Crumb By Crumb' - Dreamworks - ****), who we're convinced is incapable of creating something anything other than dripping beauty in a yearning few minutes, seemingly richly orchestrated in the heavens above... We'll end with a final, truly recommended one - 'Hard To Beat' by Hard-Fi (**** - Necessary); an embarrassingly accessible, Streets-y indie-house anthem that's simply bangin' and, satisfyingly, fulfils its own prophecy.
Additional Reviews: Tom Hannan
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