Grunge, gravel, girls.

 

Apologies for such a long break between posts. As luck would have it, I'm writing/singing some music of my own for a few different projects. So instead of listening to all the music, I've been busy writing a very miniscule portion of the music. 

Anyhow, let's do this:

New Cloud Nothings! New Cloud Nothings! FINALLY. Pretty much since my first listen to their last release, 2012's angular and aggressive "Attack On Memory" (produced by that one guy Steve Albini), I couldn't wait to see what was up next for this indie-rock/post-punk outfit from Cleveland. And this week, I got my chance: "Here and Nowhere Else" packs a punch in a mere eight tracks, with punk-rock hooks and pissed-off lyrics that will have you shout-singing along. Dylan Baldi has one of my favorite male voices right now—a beautiful mix of gravel and grace.

Perhaps you've had enough of Pharrell's infectious song "Happy" from the Despicable Me 2 soundtrack. Maybe you're full-up on happiness and hooks. Perhaps, on a related note, you're effing crazy. But even if all of those things are true, please consider listening to the rest of Pharrell's album "G I R L." Unless, of course, you dislike dancing, sex, beats that won't quit or gravity-defying, funked-up vocals. Fair warning: aside from "Happy," some of it is a bit NSFLWK (Not Safe For Listening With Kids).

Interestingly enough, the band Perfect Pussy—a punk rock outfit from Syracuse, New York—only formed about two years ago because a local movie needed a punk band. You wouldn't know it from their cohesive sound. On their debut, "Say Yes to Love," lead singer Meredith Graves projects raw emotion to match the fury of her counterparts, with lyrics that are barely discernible but emotional intensity that's loud and clear. And the twists and turns that the band takes harmonically aren't the ones you expect from punk—at times, they're downright saccharine. If you can make it out through all the fuzz.

Some bands get by on bombast, a few basic chords, and some feedback. And some use that as a jumping off point, keeping things simple to make music that rocks hard. Baltimore-based Roomrunner also throws in a healthy dose of dissonance and grunge influence, bringing that whole seems-sloppy-but-is-actually-very-thought-out vibe. Their latest (on Fan Death Records—new last year, technically, but new to me) is called "Ideal Cities." It has moments of complete chaos that swirl into tight, headbangy riffs that take you back to the days of Nirvana. (And might transport you to actual nirvana.)

Outer space, inner struggle, angsty romance.

Yellow Ostrich is proof positive that lo-fi beginnings can lead to great things. The band's driving force, vocalist/songwriter Alex Schaaf, began making four-track pop recordings in his bedroom back in his home state of Wisconsin. And now, the Brooklyn-based band takes simple ideas and makes them larger-than-life. Their latest, "Cosmos," is heavily influenced by the work of Carl Sagan—an influence that can be heard lyrically and felt viscerally. And as Schaaf belts out words like, "I wanna feel small/don't you?", you'll feel just that, in the presence of their universe-sized, anthemic sound.

Sure, the city of Detroit has had its share of bankruptcy, but not when it comes to hip-hop. The city boasts a wealth of artists and has for some time now. Black Milk (real name: Curtis Cross) is one of them, and has recently released the EP "Glitches in the Break" on the heels of the top-rated "No Poison No Paradise" LP from last year. He draws heavily on his hometown for content, and on old-school hip-hop sound, with samples that feel nostalgic and familiar. There's way less lyrical audacity here than in most rap—seems Curtis is more intent on sharing his struggle than being deemed the dopest.



Y'all might know by now that I'm pretty jazzed about Speedy Ortiz. The Massachusetts-based foursome released what I thought was the best album of last year ("Major Arcana"—get thee to it, post haste), and now they're back with an EP called "Real Hair." It's got the noodley guitar work and the inventiveness of their previous stuff, and Sadie's voice kills it with the right balance of vulnerability and power. (For Kansas-City-based folks, Speedy Ortiz comes to Czar Bar on March 19th.)

"Gouge/my eyes out..." You've never heard someone sing words like these quite as sweetly as Eternal Summers singer/guitarist Nicole Yun. On their newest, "The Drop Beneath," you'll find other arresting lyrics delivered in a similarly dreamy fashion, backed by a jangly, phaser-effected guitar, reminiscent of Galaxie 500 or the Smiths. This three-piece outfit belongs to something called the Magic Twig Community, an art collective in Roanoke, Virginia. And they've got hooks for days. If you're a 90s kid, this will play like the soundtrack to your best, most angsty teen romances.

Longing, composing, rambling.

Angel Olsen makes sweet, old-timey-country-inspired music for people with a burning in their hearts. Her sound falls somewhere between Johnny Cash and Mazzy Star, with a 60's era sensibility in the chord progressions but a current aesthetic in the execution. The aching is palpable in Angel's nervous vibrato, and her biting delivery of lines like "Are you lonely, too?/High-five, so am I" cuts right to the core. There's not much to the instrumental, and that feels just right here—her voice is the thing, those lyrics are the thing. And the song "Iota" will take your heart out of your body and stomp on it.

A short history on St. Vincent for the uninitiated: school at Berklee College of Music (like every other genius), then Polyphonic Spree, then Sufjan Stevens' backing band, then solo career. What's amazing and wonderful is how she can take complex musical motifs and present them in a super-well-edited way—every instrument feels crucial to the mix, and nothing feels extraneous. And on this, her fourth album, her songs are just so danceable. Lyrically, she kills is yet again, with lines like "I took you off your leash/But I can't, no I can't make you heel..../We both have our rabid hearts/Feral from the very start." Come for the dancing; stay for the lyrics. And maybe also the dancing.

It's funny to think about where Beck started out and where he is today. He's always been solid musically, but his tongue-in-cheek lyrics, while hilarious and entertaining, seemed to keep him a safe distance from actually emotionally committing to anything. That has certainly changed over the years, and his new "Morning Phase" has charm in its poetic earnestness. With his sweeping string parts and lush arrangements, it's easy to start thinking of him as more of a composer than a songwriter. "Songwriter" just doesn't seem to cover it. This is a beautiful, cinematic record—far removed from the world of "Loser" and "Debra"—and will likely go down as one of his finest.

I'll come out and say this first: it takes a little bit to get used to the rambling lyrical style of Mark Kozelek, lead singer and songwriter for Sun Kil Moon. But if you're initially apprehensive, keep listening—this album is full of beautifully-told stories of tiny, unseemly slices of humanity. Kozelek's haunting baritone voice travels through each scene, interacting with the characters in a way that's so personal it's almost uncomfortable. And ultimately, his rambling voice is what makes it, because these aren't stories with convenient conclusions or easy answers.

An aside: The Joshua Tree.

If you think extroverts have an easier time socially, you obviously never met me in 8th grade. The only thing worse than being the nerd in the room is being the nerd who constantly draws attention to herself.

Much of my 8th grade experience felt like it was ripped from the pages of Judy Blume, only instead of "seven minutes in heaven," it was one year in hell. To help myself through it, I had a journal wherein I'd written a detailed plan for myself—a plan to make friends, including reminders to "be nice!" and "smile a lot!" and "don't talk so much!" That last one was pretty much never followed. And thus, the toothpaste was out of the tube: I'd outed myself as not only a nerd, but a loud one. 

If introverts can't come out of their shells, then I couldn't get back into mine, and I desperately wanted to. My only available option was to make my own shell. I spent recesses in the music room, practicing piano, when I could. And mostly, I took up residence between two headphones attached to a walkman.

It's there that U2's "The Joshua Tree" first gave me a sense of just how transcendent and therapeutic music could be. As a former church-going kid, that organ at the beginning felt spiritual and magical. Then in comes the Edge, with his signature delay and those suspended chords that take their sweet time to resolve themselves. "I wanna run...I want to hide." Yep. Exactly.

They talked about things that seemed more important than the lyrics of other musicians I'd listened to. They played with far more artistry and thoughtfulness. But mostly, it was the first time I saw how listening to an album could remove me from my current shitty situation and transplant me somewhere else. Somewhere where everything was anthemic, everything was a movie montage starring me as the good guy. Everything was possible—even something like a nerd finding happiness.

Problem was, I hadn't found "my people" yet. Any adult within earshot assured me of that, and they were of course right. That would indeed come later, with the school musicals and choir groups and bands and any number of geeky music-related things. But as a lonely 8th grader, there's no way of knowing what's coming at all. And as a kid who's sort of kind of not a kid anymore, that level of despair hasn't ever happened to you before—and it makes you wonder, "Why am I even here at all? What's the point?"

The point was music. Music got me through eighth grade. I've been on this earth for a good while now, and still, eighth grade is about the most painful stuff I've ever dealt with. And the thing that saved me was "The Joshua Tree." It gave me a place to hide, it gave me something to believe in, and best of all, it gave me hope.

"So she woke up,
woke up from where she was, lying still,
said, 'I gotta do something
about where we're going.

Step on a steam train.
Step out of the driving rain, maybe.
Run from the darkness in the night.'
Singing ha, ah la la la de day
Ah la la la de day
Ah la la de day

Sweet the sin
Bitter taste in my mouth
I see seven towers
But I only see one way out
You got to cry without weeping
Talk without speaking
Scream without raising your voice
You know I took the poison
From the poison stream
Then I floated out of here
Singing...ha la la la de day
Ha la la la de day
Ha la la de day

She runs through the streets
With her eyes painted red
Under black belly of cloud in the rain
In through a doorway she brings me
White gold and pearls stolen from the sea
She is raging
she is raging
And the storm blows up in her eyes
She will
suffer the needle chill
She's running to stand still"

When I finally took the headphones off, high school choir was there waiting for me. And I knew my purpose. And I knew it would all be OK.

Transition, self reflection, found percussion.

"Transgender Dysphoria Blues" has been eagerly anticipated for a while now, because of the backstory: lead singer Laura Jane Grace (formerly Tom Gabel) came out as transgender in 2012, and this was to be the first album since that revelation. So many questions: would her voice sound different? (Nope. Still freakin' unreal and focused.) Would the band's sound be different? (Yep. Stripped down, more punk, less produced.) It still carries a strong pop sensibility, but lyrically, it's more emotionally-charged and brutally honest than ever before.



One listen to "Eighteen Hours of Static" by Big Ups, and you might feel like you're in high school again—in the best, bright-eyed-and-idealistic-school-kid kind of way. Because Big Ups is punk with socially-conscious lyrics designed to make you feel things about stuff. And with their pitch-perfect, ultra-earnest delivery, it's hard not to. In their slower, more subdued moments, like the beginning of the track "Wool," they call to mind Fugazi, but they often switch gears and tempos mid-song, quickly careening off into frenzied distortion.

Here's the deal with Willis Earl Beal (that entire preceding phrase needs to be a book title someday): this guy started out in Chicago, attracting attention and an audience by posting flyers. FLYERS. On his album "Nobody Knows," he pairs his evocative baritone voice with a songwriting style that calls to mind "Bone-Machine"-era Tom Waits in its eccentricity. Though he sometimes performs with Cat Powers, as good as she is, she seems to detract from the main event. Beal's lyrics are shockingly (and refreshingly) frank, and his recurring theme of disconnection is something that's very relevant. This is experimental music with soul.

The first song I heard from the latest Cass McCombs album, "Big Wheel and Others," is a track called, "There Can Only Be One"—a sweet, bouncey, Dylan-esque love song with a bass line carrying the melody. And I'm sure glad I didn't stop there: McCombs is a skilled storyteller, and a master of using traditionally country guitar effects in a modern way. It's an ambitious album, both for the artist and for the listener, at 85 minutes long. But this is one that grows on you, and reveals itself over time in subtle and surprising ways.

Friends, fathers, jagbags.

Imagine you're a new father, but even more than that—more than keeping another human being alive—you're also a singer-songwriter. Imagine you record an album's worth of demos at your kitchen table, singing and playing in hushed tones because shoosh, you'll wake the baby. Imagine that someone deems your songs worthy of an actual album release. Imagine the warehouse that's storing your stock of CDs burns to the ground. That's the story behind the original 2009 recording entitled "Bad Debt" by Hiss Golden Messenger (guy's actual name: M.C. Taylor), now finally seeing the wide release it deserves. It's uncomplicated, intimate and lovely.

When "Scenario" by A Tribe Called Quest came out in 1992, I was bowled over by then-new Busta Rhymes. "Who IS this guy?" I remember thinking. I mean, Q-Tip's got the husky, boyish sound on lock—his voice is already so stand-out—and along comes another equally unique, Chuck-D-level voice? It felt too good to be true. And now, with the release of "The Abstract and the Dragon," a retrospective of the Busta/Q-Tip rhyme relationship with some new tracks to boot, it's an embarrassment of riches. Much of this is their legendary collabs, but the new stuff—like "God Lives Through," an old track with new verses thrown on it—is just as good.

Here's the thing to know about the writing of Stephen Malkmus, whether with Pavement or his current band, the Jicks: it's mad Easter-eggy. You'll find plenty of surprises and delightful references if you look, and you won't have to look hard. On his latest, "Wig Out at Jagbags," it takes many forms. On the track "J Smoov," for instance, a sad trumpet plays what can be best referred to as the "nanny nanny boo boo song." This is what has always gotten me about Mr. Malkmus—he's able to throw so many jokes at you that you can barely keep up, and yet you find yourself marveling at how gorgeous and heart-string-pulling the guitar chord structures are.

Taryn Miller is an up-and-coming songwriter in the LFK (Lawrence, Kansas—can't imagine what that F is about). She goes by the name Your Friend and has a singular-sounding voice that's lilting, melancholy, clear as a bell...Bon-Iver-esque in the best possible ways. She pairs it with reverbed-out guitar and manages to get a lovely, much larger sound than your average solo performer. I definitely dig the effect of all that reverb on her voice, but I'm excited to hear what else she has to offer, because hers sounds like a voice that would sound great completely devoid of effects.

An aside: Elliott Smith.

While the intent of this blog is to feature new (and new-to-me) music that I like and recommend, I'd also love the opportunity to talk about the influence that a single artist has had on my life, at a very visceral level.

Most people know how it ended for Elliott Smith. He stabbed himself in the heart, or at least that's what's believed to be true, even though it sounds unbelievable. Another theory is that his girlfriend murdered him, but given his own history of suicidal tendencies, that seems less likely.

There are a lot of male singers whom I've loved dearly who have taken their own lives. Nick Drake. Jeff Buckley. Mark Linkous. And while I still get wrecked thinking about those particular musicians and all that potential squandered, with Elliott Smith, it's different. It's like he was a friend, because he kind of was.

I was late to his music, and when I finally took my friend Al's advice that yes, this was a person worth listening to and yes, it might be depressing and quiet but just do it anyway, I found myself starting out with XO—an album that's the perfect midpoint in his career between his lo-fi beginnings and his over-produced, overly-orchestrated later years.

I was in a crap relationship. The kind that's doomed from the start, where you're together for all the wrong reasons for way too long, the kind where all your friends are like, "Really?" But they don't say anything, even though they probably should. The kind where you don't act like yourself, which should be Clue Numero Uno that you are not, how you say, meant to be. The super-fighty kind. Being generally non-confrontational,  this left me in a constant state of discomfort and second-guessing. Not, "Why is this guy a dick?" but, "What's wrong with me that this guy doesn't love the heck out of me?"

There was a day when I was driving down to Said Ill-Fitting Boyfriend's house, and "Waltz #1" came on. And it stayed on, for about an hour, on repeat. Somehow, I'd started the drive to his house, and the song came on, and suddenly I was just bawling. Just driving and bawling and talking to myself. And making u-turns. I'd drive toward his place, I'd make a u-turn, like, "Fuck that guy." I'd drive away, I'd make another u-turn, like, "Stop being dramatic." The song would end, I'd hit the back button and restart it. Like I was looking for an answer.

With the music you love, you always make it about you. And right then, and for the four-ish years surrounding then, Elliott Smith was writing for me. Those words, and the way he set them perfectly to almost-whispered vocals and lush guitars, well...he might've written it, but it was about me. So basically, we were tight. And because we were tight, I figured, who better to look to for an answer?

"Every time the day darkens down and goes away
pictures open in my head of me and you.
Silent and cliche, all the things we did and didn't say,
covered up by what we did and didn't do.
Going through
every out I used to cop to make the repetition stop...
What was I supposed to say?

Now I never leave my zone, we're both alone
I'm going home
I wish I'd never seen your face."

Not many lyrics, but "Waltz #1" didn't need many lyrics. It said what it needed to say, lyrically and musically. And in doing so, it was the benchmark for bad relationships in my twenties. I figured that if any relationship was bad enough that it felt like this song, then I knew: must abort. Leave immediately. Or not so immediately, but dammit, eventually. Grow a pair and leave.

Many eventuallys later, I drove to that guy's house and dumped him. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, I'm certain—like in about a billion ways certain—that we're both better off. And I wish I could thank Elliott, but you know.