CD REVIEW Kaiser Chiefs-Yours Truly Angry Mob

What is happening to lad rock? Ten years ago the chances of a new album coming out of Britain two parts boozy arrogance to one part guitar pop classicism was as dependable as MTV subtitles on a Liam Gallagher interview. But those salad days are gone, and Britpop is suddenly finding itself mired in, out of all things, maturity. The standard bearers for this new development are the Leeds quintet The Kaiser Chiefs. With more an affinity for quirky melodies in the XTC and The Madness mold than your average Mancunian street urchin, the album sounds like art students trying their best to rock out like a garage band. The material is tastefully tuneful, each song with a playful melody courtesy of Ricky Smith, whose vocals split the difference between Morrissey and Damon Albarn. Suitably, the producer is Stephen Street who gives this album the radio ready sheen of Strangeways Here We Come and Parklife. But where those two albums jumped off the plastic with colorful tales of girlfriends in comas and bulldozing houses, too often the Kaiser Chiefs are content with beige. The lyrics are a studied attempt at ladisms like drinking and fighting and drinking and love and populism, which work for the most part. But the pseudo title track threatens to put the reputation of the British working class back a century with a chant of “we are the angry mob/we read the papers everyday/we like who we like/we hate who we hate/but we are so easily swayed.” The band is at it’s best when they drop all pretenses and masks and sound like they have no idea what they are doing. The first single, “Ruby” does it when the best stuttered chorus since Bachman Turner Overdrive explodes out the speakers, and single handedly drags the album to number 1 in England. That same ethos is there in the bridge of “Everything is Average Nowadays,” when Smith sloppily sings along with Andy White’s guitar. But the band still sounds more at home backed by a mellotron choir on the gentle ballad “Try Your Best” than their more ruckus raking excursions. Hopefully the future brings either a sloopy and boozy Kaiser Chiefs or an unabashedly arty Kaiser Chiefs, because the combination is already seeming cynical the second time around. At least I still have the Arctic Monkeys to give me wildly inconsistent albums to remind me why Britpop sucks and rules simultaneously.

7/10

CD REVIEW Black Lips-Good Bad Not Evil

Lots of bands practice a sort of primal and vital rock and roll these days, but they always seem to have a schtick. The Hives go on stage, play their balls off and outrageously claim to be the best band on the planet. You know that they know that they’re no such thing, but you also know that somewhere in the band’s mythology they have created characters so hip that they are above criticism or failure. Art Brut, too, have created a wall of irony so thick that I’m still not sure if they want to drink Hennessey with Morissey.

I’m not saying that these bands’ reworking of good old garage rock is a bad thing; sometimes image manipulation is necessary to add dimension to otherwise minimalist music. But every once in a while these bands need to realize that music can stand on its own without Karen O’s rockstar posing or Jack White’s red/white/black imagery. And music is what Atlanta’s Black Lips do best. At this year’s South by Southwest (SXSW) music showcase, they played 12 shows in three days. Word on the Lips had spread from lip to lip about their incredible live show, but many were seeing the band at their drum-burning, naked-band-member-kissing best for the first time.

Recognition is swinging in the Black Lips’ direction just in time for their breakout release. A gumbo of Nuggets-style garage blooze, country, warped pop and a flagrant disregard for political sensitivity, Good Bad Not Evil matches the swagger and the sound with enough rough ‘n ready riffs and sloppy hooks for three albums by lesser garage goblins.

I can imagine their creative process. “Hey guys, let’s write a song about Hurricane Katrina.” “Oh, okay.” Band jams for a little while, singer walks up to the microphone “O Katrina why you gotta be so mean / you broke my heart way down in New Orleans / I can’t believe what I saw on the TV screen / O Katrina why can’t you be serene / O Katrina why you gotta be so mean.” Band repeats the lone verse and then stops playing. “Do you wanna do another take?” “Not really.”

If the songs were classics but the production poor, the album would be in great danger of failure. Many a good punk band has fallen into lifeless, dull Pro-Tooled tripe that masquerades as “audio clarity” recently, just ask the Strokes about their last album. Instead, the sound is the sort of warts and all recording that only seasoned amateurs can pull off. For every instrument that gets lost in the mix and every word rendered unintelligible in the fray, there are nearly a dozen moments where the band transcends their limitations into something truly wonderful.

Highlights of this lo-fi gem of noisy rock include the earnest/sinister/hilarious “How Do You Tell a Child That Someone Has Died?” which includes spoken lyrics like “He was killed by a motorist in a drunken act of rage / let him live on in your heart / now we must turn the page.” But rather than the kind of tongue and cheek campfire sing-along a lesser band would put you through, the track is a thousand yard stare of malevolent Stones attitude that you can’t help but take a little seriously. On the opposing end of the spectrum, the band cops some pop smarts from Phil Spector on their tribute to juvenile delinquency, “Bad Kids,” which takes the famous “Be My Baby” drumbeat to the other side of the tracks. It’s hard not to like an album with such an effortless command of atmosphere.

Who knows, offstage these guys might be a bunch of well-adjusted accountants and clerks. And even if they are, it wouldn’t matter. They just put out one of the best surprises of the year.

8.5/10

http://www.myspace.com/theblacklips

CD REVIEW Black Francis-Bluefinger

As the id-addled vocalist of college rock favorites the Pixies, Black Francis (nee Charles Thompson) sang and screamed over arty punk that alternated between subdued verses and volcano eruption choruses. Inverting his stage name to Frank Black when the group broke up, the singer released two albums of visionary new wave inspired rock that anticipated the quirkfests and Brian Wilson fetishes of 90’s indie rock before releasing a series of weak, straightforward releases over the last ten years.

But even as the current Pixies reunion tours behind the same old songs, he is writing his most (un)conventionally “Pixies-like” material since the 80’s. With Bluefinger, Black is returning not only to his old stage name, but to the style, if not exactly the quality, of classics like “Debaser” and “Dig for Fire.” After a decade of contentment with bar punk clichés, the off kilter “Threshold Apprehension” is a pure joy to hear, revisiting the bull in a china shop aesthetics that made Doolittle so thrilling. “Lolita” contains a power pop hookfest pared down to bass and guitar monochrome while “Tight Black Rubber” recalls the menacing obsessions of Black’s early work, even down to the warped inclusion of “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” But as much as his guitar work has improved, Joey Santiago’s pyrotechnic leads, and the energy they brought to Black’s material, are still missed. Maybe that’s why it took so long for him to return to the kinetic sound of his old band: Black Francis has released his best solo album in 13 years and it is still in the Pixies’ long shadow.

7.5 Stars

www.blackfrancis.net

CD REVIEW Rilo Kiley-Under a Blacklight

I have a secret: I like it when bands sell out. Not all bands, but as a firm supporter of the alternative, I have a fascination with dismantling the system from within. Outkast found more envelopes to push and boundaries to step over on the hip-pop of Speakerboxxx/Love Below than on their previous material just as the white noise assault of Sonic Youth was more subversive once they reined in the song lengths in their major label years.
Yes, Rilo Kiley has always been an indie-pop re-imagining of the Laurel Canyon bunch, but this album finds their work polished to a Steely Dan sheen. Or should I say Nelly Furtado? This album isn't so much a cynical reach for the top-40 as it is a reimagining of the toppermost of the poppermost as how it should be. No, not that indie should be hitting the singles charts; but creativity, novelty, and fun should return in force. You can still hear the twang in Jenny Lewis' voice on song or two, but the Hollywood country vibe that permeated some of their earlier records is mostly ditched in favor of straight up universal pop. Yessir, the thrills are cheap on this disc, but love is even cheaper.
How many indie bands have admirable lack of self conscious restraint to write a giddy chorus of "ooo it feels so good to be free," as the Kileys do on "Breakin' Up"? Probably fewer would be willing to put out an album that owes as much to Abba as it does The Byrds. The zenith of the hunger for pop is the Latin come on of "Dejalo," which besides a barbed hook and great harmonies contains the immortal couplet, "my momma is an athiest/if you stay out late/she won't get pissed." The stickiest melody belongs to the album closing "Give a Little Love" in which Fleetwood Mac and the cheapest sounding hand claps since the halycon days of Lil Jon are combined in three minutes of the best advice I've ever heard.

8/10

www.rilokiley.com

CD REVIEW Talib Kweli-Eardrum

I very much like the idea of alternative rappers. They seem like a bunch of good guys, they aren't shooting anyone, or demeaning women or partaking in drug traffiking. With all that extra free time you'd think they would be recording smash singles. The genre has put out some incredible albums, Common's Be, Lupe Fiasco's Food and Liquor, and Mos Def/Talib Kweli's Black Star come to mind, but the only artist to find his way out of the backpacker ghetto into mainstream success has been Kanye West. With a larger than life personality, brash subject matter, and connections to die for, Mr. West has become one of rap's most influential figures, despite being a below average MC.
Like many a suburban Wonder Bread child the first time I heard Talib Kweli's reedy voice was on Kanye's "Get 'em High." While his career has been quietly gaining steam, I've developed the impression that he is to Alternative Rap what 50 Cent is to the mainstream: an almost too good to be true marketable commodity. "Talib" is Arabic for student, "Kwali" is Swahili for true. He has funded a center for education and culture in Brooklyn. He is close friends with Dave Chapelle. The biggest controversy of his career was his unauthorised sampling of a Ben Kweller song.
But also like 50 Cent is his tendency towards braggadocio can get a little draining. The opening song is peppered with recordings of fans remembering when they first heard Talib Kweli. In another track he refers to himself as destined for greatness. All throughout, he talks of how he brandishes his knowledge with the same attitude of how others talk of brandishing a piece.
Once you get past the superiority complex, the album is quite enjoyable. Talib's flow is bouncy and his beats enjoyable, even though his rhymes aren't nearly as colorful as those of Kanye or Lupe. "Country Cousins" has a fun jazzy beat and a guest appearance by Huston rap survivors UGK. Another highlight is the Will.I.Am produced "Hot Thing" where Talib serenades the titular woman with a soulful track. Will.I.Am's production work has gotten better and better over the last couple years, and this track is one of his finest. The album is a consistent one, but Talib Kweli can still do better. On his next album he should concentrate on not getting shown up by every guest star who appears. As Black Star is about to turn ten, the rapper is still trying to make good on the promise of that debut.

6.5/10

www.talibkweli.com

CD REVIEW Wilco-Sky Blue Sky

Jeff Tweedy has finally assembled the perfect cast of aural terrorists, coming out of the Yankee Hotel Foxtrot/Ghost is Born years having lost all but one of Wilco's founding member but emerging a stronger and more fearless band. Kicking Television, Wilco's live offering showed a wealth of possible futures as the singer/songwriter settled in with the Nels Cline/Glenn Kotche lineup.

I'll admit, I did not see a bare-bones return to Wilco's folk roots as one of those futures. Every single album since their 1995 debut had been a stylistic left turn, but after a live album of ferocious readings of their most experimental work, it was time for Tweedy to clear the decks.
The album begins with a gorgeously low key and ambivilent ballad "Either Way." Not since Nick Drake's "Fly" and Nico's version of "These Days" has there been a song this achingly beautiful. The rest of the album follows suit in which it is the songs, not the sonics, that impress. Tweedy turns out his best batch of compositions since the late 90's and the band tries as hard as possible to be inconspicuous, with sharp timekeeping favored over tribal beating and precise chord changes over feedback. This is no return to their No Depression days, however. A more accurate comparison would be the smooth textures of British folk and the plainspoken maturity of the best of the Beatles' late work. "Hate it Here" has shades of "Get Back"/"Don't Let Me Down" with its electric piano inflected guitar pop for grown ups.

The album is melodic, direct, and emotionally naked. Some might miss the impressionist lyrics of "She's a Jar" or "Ashes of American Flags," but the lyrics have found the same graceful simplicity as the songs. As Tweedy sings on "What Light," "if you feel like singing a song/and you want other people to sing along/just sing what you feel/don't let anyone say that you're wrong." I'm already excited to see what Wilco does next.

9/10

www.wilcoworld.net

CD REVIEW Jarvis Cocker-Jarvis

It's been 24 years since Pulp's first album and more than a decade since "Common People" was a Brit-Pop phenomonon, but Jarvis Cocker has finally released a solo album. Far from his art-damaged work with his old band, the man who mooned Michael Jackson on national television has found a second life as a pop craftsman. And this album might be his best. Different Class was a party of a record and This is Hardcore was a fascinatingly bottomless pit, but neither work balanced melody and wit so cunningly.
In short, this is the kind of record that Elvis Costello should be making. After a short piano introduction, the album proper begins with "Don't Let Him Waste Your Time" in which Jarvis offers biased advice with the help of a snappy slide guitar hook. On two off his catchiest tracks, he deconstructs pop history by tackling Spector on "Black Magic" and Motown on "Baby's Coming Back to Me." "From Auschwitz to Ipswhich" is a chilling track warning against the conservative paranoia of England's immigrant population. "Evil comes from I know not where," he sings "but if you take a look inside yourself maybe you'll find it there."
The quintessential track on the album though is the deceptively simple "I Will Kill Again," in which a narrator calmly describes being bored to death by a life of classical music and healthy living. You can almost see the glimmer in Jarvis' eye when he croons the title line. This aging rocker may not be a serial killer, but he has some interesting wrenches to toss in the works of the expectations of a middle age.


9/10

www.myspace.com/jarvspace

CD REVIEW Ryan Adams-Easy Tiger

I think a lot of the reason I like Ryan Adams was that he is/was a cocky motherfucker. For god sakes, what sane man titles their debut solo album Heartbreaker and puts themselves on the cover. But sort of like how perfectly normal, straight laced baby boomers get off on the druggiest acid rock they can find, I lived vicariously through his alcohol soaked alt-country tales of drifting and drinking.

Seven years of drugs and heartbreak must be pretty exhausting though. After his critical and commercial fortunes waned as he released three albums in 8 months, Adams kicked drugs and got focused. Abandoning the the grit and the ragged confessionals that made albums like Cold Roses and 29 unique, his new work focuses on mature, middle of the road schmalt-country.
Sure, Easy Tiger is melodic and The Cardinals (his backing band) are as competent as competent gets, but for every affecting track like "Off Broadway" there is a shot for the Starbucks stars like the ode to settling down, "Two." The most interesting songs are the two songs that Ryan writes by himself. So different from the songs co-written with his Cardinal cohorts, you get the feeling he snuck into the studio while they were asleep to cut these tracks. "Halloweenhead" is a truly bizarre track, but the album's highlight is the broken and barren "I Taught Myself How To Grow Old." In a lonely Neil Young-ish tenor he admits "I know I'm probably better off this way" in such a sad voice you can't help but believe him. I'm not saying Ryan Adams should be back on coke, but his albums were best with a little more mischief than a watch reading "4:20" on the cover.

7/10

www.ryan-adams.com