ALEX REVIEWS MUSIC (ARM): ALBUMS OF THE YEAR 2021 | 2021-12-22

RYAN ADAMSWEDNESDAYS & BIG COLORS (PAXAM RECORD COMPANY)

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PAUL MCCARTNEY — MCCARTNEY III & IMAGINED (CAPITOL RECORDS)

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BUY IT HERE.

WEEZER — OK HUMAN & VAN WEEZER (ATLANTIC RECORDING CORP)

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JOHN THE GHOST — I ONLY WANT TO LIVE ONCE (8123)

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KINGS OF LEON — WHEN YOU SEE YOURSELF (RCA RECORDS)

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GENESIS OWUSUSMILING WITH NO TEETH (HOUSE ANXIETY)

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BROCKHAMPTON — ROADRUNNER: NEW LIGHT, NEW MACHINE (RCA RECORDS)

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J. COLE — THE OFF-SEASON (DREAMVILLE)

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TYLER, THE CREATOR — CALL ME IF YOU GET LOST (COLUMBIA RECORDS)

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BLEACHERS — TAKE THE SADNESS OUT OF SATURDAY NIGHT (RCA RECORDS)

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THE KILLERS — PRESSURE MACHINE (ISLAND RECORDS)

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TURNSTILE — GLOW ON (ROADRUNNER RECORDS)

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KANYE WEST — DONDA (DEF JAM RECORDINGS)

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ANGELS & AIRWAVESLIFEFORMS (RISE RECORDS)

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THIRD EYE BLIND — OUR BANDE APART (MEGACOLLIDER RECORDS)

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SAM FENDER — SEVENTEEN GOING UNDER (POLYDOR RECORDS)

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EVERY TIME I DIE — RADICAL (EPITAPH RECORDS)

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THE WAR ON DRUGS — I DON’T LIVE HERE ANYMORE (ATLANTIC RECORDING)

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ABBA — VOYAGE (POLAR MUSIC)

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MAKAYA MCCRAVEN — DECIPHERING THE MESSAGE (BLUE NOTE RECORDS)

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I’d like to thank you sincerely for taking the time to read this and I hope to feel your interest again next time. And happy holidays this time around.

AV

A BARN’S CRAZY OLD HORSE | 2021-12-13

No Interweb argonaut under the sun needs any further thinkpiece or featured essay on anything to do with legendary and God-like status singer/songwriter Neil Young. The 76-year-old Canadian-American Grammy and Juno Awards winner has successfully been conducting a prolific and accomplished recorded musical career for over fifty years now, has put out around fifty studio albums depending on how one counts, and can probably tally up articles, reviews, and profiles about him in the thousands at this point. Gentleman’s got content under his cowboy belt—whether that’s auditory wavelengths captured, fixated to medium, and dished out first-handedly by Young himself, or shelled by the wider “villain” media and entertainment lunar system, the sheer critical mass of information readily available about the glorious Crazy Horse bandleader is pretty much countless.

What’s certain is that this is not the right place to find an objective, lineage-faithful, enduring, or even chronicling literary pièce de résistance on the former Crosby, Stills & Nash-affiliate. Instead, much like previous instalments hitting this neck of the webwood, the presently unfolding before your very eyes sets out to be a rather short, straightforward, passionate, and biased two cents-container attempting at making head or tails of yet another sublimely mesmerizing and thoroughly compelling late-into-the-calendar-year, early December alt-folk outing for the ages. Whilst admittedly being taken aback and left disarmed by the whole notion of a new Neil Young & Crazy Horse collection of original tracks to begin with, the rootsy collective’s fourteenth studio album to date Barn materialized as a low-key two for two for the Ontario-native musician, following in the outstanding spiritual footsteps of last year’s re-exhumed Homegrown.

While clearly ontologically fungible from the above hypothetical continuing field of comparison on account of the not-so-insignificant addition of Young’s iconic and larger-than-life backing band Crazy Horse—which after inordinate amounts of line up changes both imposed and by design, in 2021 responds to the names of Billy Talbot on bass, Ralph Molina on drums, and former E Street Band six-string fixture Nils Lofgren—barring a few live re-issues in-between the two projects, Barn represents the official successor to Homegrown for all intents and purposes (which in turn, mind you, was actually recorded in the mid 1970s). In many ways akin to the latter in its nonchalant low-fidelity woven into straight up memorable songwriting immediacy, this latest Volume Dealers-produced LP came out on Warner Music’s Reprise Records on 10th December, and can be further unpacked, dissected, and experienced on the folk rock heavyweight’s brilliant digital Archives service.

At the risk of sounding microwaved and self-evident, a communal musical undercurrent to all ten cuts on this thing is their off-the-cuff, pulsating, (other)wordly, if haphazard ethos: admittedly not always working to the record’s presentation and packaging favour (one can’t but irritatedly fret at how unsanitized, butchered, and abrupt the fade out outros on “Canerican” and “Shape of You” ring), there is a sharp ‘in the moment’ sewing through the album’s tapestry. Much of this sweaty and stoic oomph could undoubtedly be attributed to the rustic and rural recording sessions and their live take approach, taking place in, well, a barn skewed deep into the soil in Colorado’s Rocky Mountains. Reflecting the very edifice’s rudimentary, leaky, and perforated architectural layout, these songs sound simultaneously like the best version possible of a rough draft demo and as polished and glossy a taping round could get in such a dusty and austere environment. If there ever was an album in 2021 for which overused and gentrified attributes such as earthy and organic could be stitched to, then it’s Barn.

In spite of his best efforts to balance it all out for the heretic master compressions required by skimpy contemporary digital streaming services, Young’s voice is barely audible when buried in the EQ and mixing on fierce rockier standout “Heading West” or even the defiant blues-soaked “Change Ain’t Never Gonna“, giving listeners the impression they oughta move closer to the stereo PAs funnelling the vocals to properly make out what’s being sung. Modern sound engineering 101 breaches notwithstanding, such an idiosyncrasy directly adds to the record’s charm, mystique, and charisma, poetically annulling sterilized barriers of gatekeeping control exercised by today’s means of music distribution. The fact of the matter remains: this album—and above all its recording—is flawed, spotty, but grand, looking a little too sonically obfuscated and muffled to lure in casual Zoomer listeners, but emanating too much intention and earnestness to be written off by musical savants. Not unlike the very wooden angular barn depicted on the project’s front cover.

There exists lots on this full length that is perhaps purposefully left to mystical imagination, such as a subdued yet clearly registerable nod to Young’s storied creative kinship with Pearl Jam (the aforementioned “Canerican”‘s clawed opening riff tastefully recalls that of the grunge giants’ smash hit single “Alive“). Meanwhile, the record’s tail end is a pure sight for romantic eyes, with “Tumblin’ Thru The Years“, “Welcome Back“, and “Don’t Forget Love” all supplying boundless degrees of unconditional tender and elliptical daydreaming, one after another, rarely dared to display in the mainstream. It’s genuinely hard to imagine a seasoned and surly old man pushing eighty—of Young’s caliber, no less—melt like Swiss cheese over lyrics such as: “When you’re angry and you’re lashing out, don’t forget love / You don’t know what you’re talking about, don’t forget love / When the wind blows through the crime scene and the TV man starts talking fast, don’t forget love“.

Lest this goes unnoticed: pretty much every composition on Barn sports but a handful of chord changes throughout itself, and any additional bell and whistle fleshing out the necessary meat on each song’s bone clocks in as nothing more than instinctive and captivating instrumental improvisation (case in point, the beautiful intermezzos of the formidable “Welcome Back”). They say growing old bestows perspective, wisdom, and tranquility upon the bearer, and in Neil Young’s case—and crucially on Barn—such a rite-of-passage appeared to have translated into a confident back to basics approach. Everything from the songwriting, to the innocent topical focus, through to the undeniable stickiness of some of the hooks, sounds dated, evergreen, and entropic in nature at the same time. Mr Young might be an old man by now, but he sure has been first and last, nimble enough to look at how the time goes past, ascertaining that he might still be all alone at last: ultimately rolling home to his true inner self.

I’d like to thank you sincerely for taking the time to read this and I hope to feel your interest again next time.

AV

ALEX REVIEWS MUSIC (ARM): STEREOPHONICS – OOCHYA! SINGLES | 2021-11-14

Oochya!, the title of the forthcoming twelfth studio album by legendary Welsh alt rock fixture Stereophonics, does not really amount to much, according to the quartet’s frontman Kelly Jones. Yet unbeknownst to him at the time of naming the 15-track project due out in March next year, it also just so happens to coincide with an Urban Dictionary definition of the ASMR-esque onomatopoeia of “the sensation of being snapped on the buttocks by a towel“—clearly a discovery not quite bothersome enough for Jones to take the title of the first Phonics studio LP in three years back to the drawing board. On second thought, the inadvertent semantic spanking alignment might in fact fit the underlying ethos currently being dispensed by the band’s camp like a glove, for it’s touting how “people who’ve heard ‘Oochya!’ say it sounds like a ‘Best Of’ album, just of songs you’ve never heard before”.

What’s particularly interesting about this upcoming collection of songs is that it began as a curatorial embryo for a, well, collection of songs. As a matter of fact, the 1992-formed post brit-pop sensation was initially looking to sculpt a tribute compilation including unreleased B-sides and rarities to celebrate their 25th anniversary as a band since issuing their first debut single in the mid Nineties. However, Kelly and co. quickly realized that building a whole new album of original material around a core batch of long-lost drafts sounded like a more compelling plan instead. Next thing they knew, the creative impetus unearthed from those earlier sessions gestated as many as fifteen gritty new cuts, which according to the British outfit’s key songwriter are “90 per cent uptempo […]. [Oochya!] is like a mixtape, with a lot of different styles on there.”

Such a high-octane and oomph-laden stylistic trajectory turn—conveyed by a raft of everything-but-the-kitchen-sink sonics, if one’s to go by the aforementioned mixtape comparison—might not come as a gargantuan back-to-basics surprise, considering the mostly acoustic and unplugged detouring affairs dished out as part of the Stereophonics canon as of late: 2019’s enchanting and delicate full-band Kind LP, as well as Jones’ live solo album Don’t Let The Devil Take Another Day, scoring the sensational accompanying documentary of the same name the following year. Come to think of it from a bird’s eye view, with the marginal exception of their hit or miss 2017 effort Scream Above the Sounds, one could argue that it’s been over eleven years since the Cwmaman-natives last churned out an outright bona fide rock & roll, guitar-first bundle, as they released the spotless, catchy, and cohesive uppercut of Keep Calm and Carry On at the turn of this millennium’s first decade (2009).

When Oochya!’s rowdy and tongue-in-cheek lead single and album opener “Hanging On Your Hinges” hit the interweb airwaves in early September, it took less than a minute into the record for the world to fathom that old proto-garage, sleazy, and swaggerish Phonics were back in the saddle. “You got love on your side / But you think it’s gone away / You got the devil on your back / And who’s the sinner? Who’s the saint?” croons Jones in its opening chorus, atop of sampled percussive slaps as well as a set of dried out and deep fried guitar riffs that would instantly turn on both motorcycles and young studs alike. The whole near-three-minute of runtime is made of the type of badassery one would expect Danzig coasting on top of, preferably tied into late 2010s Queens of the Stone Age tapes—yet it’s Stereophonics and it progresses into an even more revelatory and mischievous curtailing refrain: “You got time on your side / But you think it’s all a race / You got me hanging on your hinges / Slamming doors right in your face“.

If “Hanging On Your Hinges” brought the riffs, the black leather vibing, and all of the girls, then Oochya!’s second teaser in anticipation to the full length project out on 4th March next year, “Do Ya Feel My Love?“, took care of songwriting prowess and emotional captivation. Without compromising on wall of sound density or even immediate melodic attack, the tune exhumes a certain deal of Pull the Pin leanings and sensibilities—distilling some of the more quality elements off the superb, raw, and sensual 2007 Stereophonics outing, one that has proved to have aged best in their whole discography no less. “Do Ya Feel My Love?” comes armed with a ripe and robust writing at the core of its track, introspectively yet charismatically ridden by Jones on lead vocals and guitar, co-founding member Richard Jones on bass, Adam Zindani on rhythm guitar and backing vocals, as well as newest addition Jamie Morrison behind the drums.

Lyrically, the musical work tastefully dabbles in the fleeting realization that one’s cornerstones in life are only as meaningful as one is willing to stoically hang on to them, as well as the process of coming to terms with it: “The time that we shared was the time that we cared / But some things change, nothing stays the same / So now, what now? / You left me falling down and walked away / But that’s okay“. Musically, aside from a fairly straightforward and watertight backbone, the variation on the second chorus’ outro kicking in at 2:30 into the record is of highest artistic features, with the Zindani-led BVs pristinely harmonizing in contrast to the angular and filthy electric guitar laments underneath them—seamlessly and compellingly shepherding the song into its third and final refrain amidst gelid tensions and climactic releases.

So far so good—it’s two for two from the Phonics. Fans of the the Welsh stalwarts can keep calm and carry on with their high anticipation of Oochya!. It’s safe to say they can hang onto their kind and encouraging hinges for the time being, for these two sonic teasers are proof that they can still feel their love. This, at the very least, will get them all through until Kelly, Richard, Adam, and Jamie eventually pull the pin on the whole project in early March next year.

I’d like to thank you sincerely for taking the time to read this and I hope to feel your interest again next time.

AV

STEREOPHONICS

OOCHYA!

2022, Ignition Records

https://stereophonics.com

TWELVE GOING OVER | 2021-10-14

The idea of bonus tracks in recorded music has always been both an intriguing and polarising one, historically affording somewhat uncalled for opinions coming from a plethora of stakeholders and contributors in the wider music space. Everyone from fans to critics and artists themselves seem to hold moderately loaded mixed bag stances on the notion of bundling non-album cuts as part of deluxe, or expanded, versions of studio LPs. Their modes of employment might just be as varied and versatile as the opinions they go sprout, as both songs originally left on the cutting room floor, as well as alternate versions of tracks included in the main full length tracklist (spearheaded by acoustic and live re-takes), have habitually found themselves getting second lives breathed as part of single B-sides, territorially-bound album versions, celebratory anniversary reissues, and more recently optimised digital streaming economy unit economics.

Despite quite literally ‘not making the cut’ on whatever final incarnation a full body of work translated into, artists old and new (and, crucially, their sly record labels) have long been known to be stoking alternate ways of stitching superfluous bonus tracks on top of some physical or digital variation of packaging for their official projects. English singer/songwriter Sam Fender, who recently unveiled his second studio album Seventeen Going Under on Polydor Records, saw fit to dilute his nominal 11-track album version through five additional records, sequenced on the so-called 16-cut Deluxe version of his critically acclaimed Bramwell Bronte-produced outing. This is per se nothing under the sun new for the 27-year-old North Shields native, who had hitherto widely flirted with both intra-LP-cycles non-album tracks (see 2018’s EP Dead Boys, or singles such as “Millennial“, “Greasy Spoon“, and “Hold Out“) as well as bonus offerings on fully fledged studio LPs (case in point, the live rendition of “Use” on his debut LP Hypersonic Missiles).

However, Fender’s latest curatorial choice in time affords us the weird and wonderful opportunity to decouple the faux-embedded five-track EP stacked across tracks 12 and 16 on top of the sonic gesamtkunstwerk represented by the Seventeen Going Under Deluxe version. Instead of embarking onto the conventional highway of reviewing the real record Sam intended listeners and year end’s list to appraise, we’re shifting gears to zero in on the throwaways; the fat that was supposed to be cut. Starting with the mystically hypnotising glazed tenderness of “Better Of Me“, sequenced at number twelve on the revamped tracklist, a softly blistering cry of monolithic matter-of-fact earnestness espoused with unambitious allegoric poetry: “And I hated you / I was so jealous of your standin’ / And I envied your happy family / Oh, I looked like shit / Stuck in all my vice rotations / Tryna’ find light in every broken soul“. Easily one of Fender’s most out-there ‘experimental’ outings to date, the song dabbles in both sampled loop tapestry and one-dimensional syncopated drumming, to render a bona fide moment of cathartic implosion.

The following careless and lighthearted “Pretending That You’re Dead” is a successful exercise in pure The River-era Springsteen-meets-Smiths worship, complete with unadulterated ‘end of the world’ lyrics and seas of chorus-effected guitar licks that don’t quite seem to want to give the tune any melodic respite. Meanwhile, the sheer forlorn weight of the brilliant “Angel In Lothian” sits at number fourteen on the deluxe project, fiercely distributing heart-wrenching accounts on awarding the number one prize for the most ruthless sabotage to one’s very self: “And I claw at the door every bad night / But somehow it’s blocked from thе other side / I claw ’til my skin comes apart / Until I feel something“. Out of all five bonus tracks making up this crop, this is hands down the one that should have made the official record—both for reasons of focused thematic addressability and watertight musical delivery.

Penultimate offering “Good Company” aptly showcases the barer and starker nuance of the widespread acclaimed heartland rock artist, conveyed through a relatively impressive lullaby-esque handpicked arpeggio, sped up to such an extent where one can’t but admire the awe-inspiring muscular elasticity of the performer’s fingers. Although a tad underdeveloped—lest we forget, these are records Fender did not find worthy of his main course offering—lyrically the song sticks out for its emotional and assertive ambivalence, with Sam caught drowning under the blank bullets of the existential crossfire that comes with some degree of acceptance of the duality of man. If anything, it acts as a necessary wind down from the prior aguishly dense full hour of music, segueing into the conclusive piano-led “Poltergeist“, an introspective ballad pulling the curtains over the roller coasting one-man ethics errands show that just preceded it, with some of the most evocative and poignant vocal passages on the whole record: “I haven’t been the best of men / Morality is an evolving thing / I can blame the times, I can blame the weeks / I can blame the things that we saw as kids / I’m a waster darling, and I’ll tell it straight / With all my failures on a platе / She picks at them and doesn’t chеw / And spits them out for me to view“.

Be it the darlings that were never properly killed, file them under a philosophical approach on the quantum physics notion of God’s particle, or lace them into a Lacan’ian theory of inverse psychoanalysis—some might argue that aside from allowing and affording the true enjoyment of the main musical oeuvre to begin with, Fender’s ‘hidden’ EP within Seventeen Going Under inherently stands as a significantly deserving little project of its own. These renegade cuts, more than ever before in the English act’s still relatively infant discography, stand to signify the wide-reaching and holistic songcraft prowess of one of the UK’s biggest musical prodigal sons. By creating a superalbum of sorts, Fender managed to turn his sophomore full length into a meta ‘project of projects’, simultaneously upholding and defining the curtailing confines of conventional music release formats. Much like Erwing Schrödinger’s cat experiment in quantum mechanics, Seventeen Going Under is both eleven and sixteen tracks long, and its boundless enjoyment (or distaste) ought not be attained in spite of the five extra bonus tracks, but precisely because of the inclusion of the excessive bells and whistles.

I’d like to thank you sincerely for taking the time to read this and I hope to feel your interest again next time.

AV

ALEX REVIEWS MUSIC (ARM): ANGELS & AIRWAVES TIER LIST | 2021-09-25

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I’d like to thank you sincerely for taking the time to read this and I hope to feel your interest again next time.

AV

RATHER THAN NEBRASKA, PRESSURE MACHINE IS THE KILLERS’ TUNNEL OF LOVE | 2021-09-10

As first reactions and reviews of The Killers’ seventh studio LP Pressure Machine started to reel in, shortly after the record’s release date in mid August, many a critics and fans were quick to draw uncompromising parallels between said project and Bruce Springsteen‘s Nebraska. One would be doomed to fault them—the creative and spiritual surface-level similitudes between the two albums abound in spades. For starters, both full-lengths sound bare, dour, and austere, and sit adjacently to one of each respective act’s bigger, louder, and more mainstream outings to date—that is, 1984’s Born in the USA for Springsteen and last year’s Imploding the Mirage as far as the Las Vegas quartet is concerned.

Moreover, on a thematic level, apparent bona fide heartland rock and its derived blue-collar sensibilities permeate both projects’ lyrical menageries from cradle to grave, and while this is not anything new for either artist, the executional earnestness and intention of both Nebraska and Pressure Machine are peak career-level for both. Notwithstanding a creative je ne sais quois ethos pledging allegiance to full blown electric arena rock instrumentation as their trademark modus operandi, these two records and their wall-to-wall unplugged, reverberated, and acoustic tapestries seem to stick out like sore thumbs in each artist’s wider discography.

Pernickety and rambunctious thinkpiecers and fact-diggers need little time to push parallels even further, to the point of stressing out how both 1982’s storied Nebraska and this year’s Pressure Machine saw the light of day at the dawn of what would be poised to be a volatile and erratic decade to come: without clear winners or losers, and soaked amidst new technological frontiers enthralling and deranging folks in equal measure. Not to mention the comparisons drawn between both records being—loosely speaking—’concept albums’ about the good, the bad, and the evil of modern ordinary, down-on-their-luck working class anti-heroes, sparing no mention of sins and unredeemable qualities.

Now for the juicy bit, ladies and gentlemen—contrary to public opinion, we instead maintain that rather than Nebraska, Pressure Machine is The Killers’ very own Tunnel of Love, aka the Boss’ cherished eight studio album (1987). We stand to defend such assertion through a multitude of deductions and derivative clues, ranging from face-value chassis to low-level musical dissections and presumptions. At the risk of overthinking and exceedingly intellectualise the creative process engraved at the heart of both albums, we’ll go as far as to unpack each single record sequenced on the Las Vegas quartet’s bundle, and bring forward educated hypotheses as to what their companion spiritual Tunnel of Love pieces are.

Humour us on some documentarist archival trivia first. For Christ’s sake: look no further than the two album’s front covers (reported below) and the evident color scheming and wireframing they share. Would the communal traits start and end here, this would obviously be a non-starter on account of how many other albums sleeves share similar flairs and iconographies. Let us look at both records’ runtimes then—a field of comparison that should win over the curiosity of most. Springsteen’s Tunnel of Love clocks in at exactly 46:25 minutes, while the abridged (i.e. the non-spoken interludes and skits version) duration of Pressure Machine comes eerily close at 46:19 (!). We’re talking negligible differences of a mere six seconds across full length projects featuring twelve and eleven tracks, respectively (Nebraska instead only plays for 40 minutes).

Speaking of which—delving into the collections of songs laced into both LPs, the non-inclusion of the New Jersey prodigal son’s “Ain’t Got You” as part of this pound-for-pound creative appraisal is the sole concession we’re humbly asking from our dear readers, which we’re sure you’ll oblige. With its humorous and faux-bragging a cappella demeanour, coasting atop of a minimalistic and one-dimensional analogue tapestry, not only does the Tunnel of Love sound like a fish out of water amidst the sincerity and heart-on-sleeve vulnerability of the subsequent eleven numbers, but the songwriting at the core of its tune is nothing to write home about either, frankly.

We’ll cut to the chase: Pressure Machine’s first track “West Hills“‘s sombre, waltzy, and granite appeal could easily be equated to “Tougher Than the Rest“, incidentally the opening cut on an analytical Tunnel of Love minus “Ain’t Got You” too. Conversely, the jollier and softer stylistic undertones of subsequent album lead single “Quiet Town” are not too far removed from the incisive impact of Springsteen’s “Brilliant Disguise“, especially as both songs wrestle with darker and more dour lyrical textures juxtaposed to the easier on the ear instrumentation. Meanwhile, the stark and naked acoustic strumming of the unplugged “Terrible Thing” has got to make it Pressure Machine’s very own “Cautious Man“—easily the most bare bone stripped back offering on Tunnel of Love.

Bear with us, as we continue to ask for a certain degree of mental elasticity and artistic openness. Are the vocal cadences, angular sonic dynamics, and overall compositional structures of “Cody” not somewhat reminiscent of those in “Walk Like a Man“? The similitudes here are not the uncanniest under the sun, but they’re definitely there when listening closely enough. Even more striking are the percussive and harmonic parallels between “Sleepwalker” and the title track on the Boss’s album though. Beyond the subtle mutual melodic nods, try to pay specific attention to the rhythmic pockets between 1:09-1:43 on the former and 0:58-1:35 on the latter. Not talking about actual beats and rudiments, but rather grooves, patterns, and tightness.

Elsewhere on Pressure Machine, the Phoebe Bridgers-assisted folklore troubadour lullaby “Runaway Horses” and its shtick would in many ways sit quite at home placed back-to-back to the inflections and cadences heard on “When You’re Alone“, would it not? Moving on from there; absent the just ever so slightly increased BPM rate, track seven on Pressure Machine “In the Car Outside“—undoubtedly one of the stickier and melodically riper tunes this side of the heartland fence—is not necessarily miles away from the gelid synth tapestries, melancholic paratexts, and exaggeratedly lingering instrumental outro similarly sported by “Two Faces“. What we mean is that these two tracks sound like they just shine the same light.

By a similar token, the Las Vegas band’s frontman Brandon Flowers’ verse delivery and intonations on album standout “In Another Life“, sequenced at number eight on Pressure Machine, seem to recall in large parts the auditory rendering of the moral voluptuousness of “All That Heaven Will Allow“—both deep cuts’ unclothed and one-dimensional simplicity underline more than one lowest common denominator. Meanwhile, when decoupled from their apparent musical shells and boiled down to the narrating arc of their inertia-driven linear storytelling ethos, The Killers’ incredible “Desperate Things” (incidentally the most Nebraska-esque Killers helping to date) and Springsteen’s “Spare Parts” ring as if they could have genuinely sprouted from the same writing session.

Next thing we know, we’re nearing the end of Pressure Machine’s side B and runtime as a whole, as a result of our ambitious and pretentious intellectualisation. One could say we reserved the best for last, as The Killers’ gentle, tender, and pretty title track, with its soft and cradling arpeggio and elliptical trajectory, is nothing if not The Boss’ “One Step Up“s legitimate and groomed daughter. Closing number “The Getting By” (NB: clocking in at 5:10) represents the ultimate grand finale of references, both on a musical and empirical level. When paired up with Tunnel of Love’s own curtain call “Valentine’s Day” (NB: 5:12 minutes long), their dialled-down groove and idyllic six-string work are almost too close for comfort, making both tunes mutually interchangeable without impacting either album’s flow.

Listen, we’re in no way suggesting The Killers did this on purpose. We’re fully aware that some of the analogies presented above are more reliable and valid than others. Some of them certainly come off as a bit of a stretch. But most of the facts and figures illustrated above speak for themselves. Forget not, this has got to be seen as part of a creative continuum where musicians are constantly borrowing from each other’s work. Where they’re getting inspired and influenced by previous musical references and artistic milestones. One where they’re often, consciously or unconsciously, paying both tribute and worship to past beacons of theirs. Brandon Flowers and his band are no strangers to admitting to adoring and borrowing from the generous sounds of The Boss: after several albums on which their Nevada glittery gloss lent them a glamorous façade, the pressure of their American songwriting machine finally caught up on them.

I’d like to thank you sincerely for taking the time to read this and I hope to feel your interest again next time.

AV

IN DEFENSE OF CHRIS LORD-ALGE’S MIX OF THE REPLACEMENTS’ DON’T TELL A SOUL | 2021-08-15

Minneapolis, MN alternative rock giants The Replacements released seven studio albums during their active lifetime as a band throughout the Eighties. It comes probably as no surprise that the front end of their discography—culminating with their legendary back-to-back triplet that transitioned them onto major label stardom, Let It Be (1984), Tim (1985), and Pleased to Meet Me (1987)—is commonly and widely considered to be their musical and creative apex, by both high and low-brow listeners alike. There is also little denying of the fact that a specular widespread fan consensus over their last two full length outings, 1989’s Don’t Tell a Soul and the following year’s swan song All Shook Down (basically a proto-Paul Westerberg solo helping), is somewhat lukewarm and nothing to write home about, at best.

Here’s the catch: hoarding broad-brush critical agreement never pushed the envelope of stoked human progress. However, speaking of broad brushes, more than revisiting and reclaiming entire parts of The Mats’ overall recorded studio output—which incidentally is completed a raft of additional live albums, compilation bundles, and EPs—this piece looks to rewrite history for on one particular project. Or rather still, its hitherto tainted, jagged, and misunderstood legacy.

Such zeroed-in record answers to the name of the aforementioned Don’t Tell a Soul: an 11-track album initially released on 1st February 1989 on Warner Music’s Sire Records. It’s The Replacements’ sixth, and the first ever featuring lead guitarist Bob “Slim” Dunlap on tape, who was called up in lieu of late and disgraced founding member Bob Stinson in early 1987. Now, before delving irreparably into the nooks and crannies of the argumentation here, at this stage it should probably be mentioned how this album did in actuality fare largely favourably with both music critics and the mainstream at the time.

For Christ’s sake—according to trusted sources including the documentary The Replacements: Color Me Obsessed, Don’t Tell a Soul still stands as the band’s biggest selling LP to date. Which is something that makes a featured thinkpiece set out to defend it and its glossy sound engineering such as this one all the more logically frail. Yet anytime The Replacements, their commitment to self-derangement, and their larger-than-life looming indie lore come into the foray, logic and rationality always kind of seem to default to getting thrown out of a conceptual window.

Remember the raft of additional live albums, compilation bundles, and EPs that help beef up and ornament The Mats’ lauded discography on top of their seven studio LPs? Well, glad you do—for it turns out that one of the most recent issues as part of said catalogue is an ambitious four-disc, 60-track box set filed under the title Dead Man’s Pop. It was earmarked, manufactured, and distributed in 2019 by Rhino Entertainment, under the careful curatorial supervision of the band’s biographer Bob Mehr as well as a slew of syrupy Warner execs. Crucially, the collection’s first disc is entirely comprised of a remixed, re-arranged, and re-sequenced version of Don’t Tell a Soul.

Colloquially dubbed the Don’t Tell a Soul Redux, this overhauled and reimagined collection of tracks both sprouted and harvested from raw session mixes by the album’s original producer (albeit not final mixing engineer) Matt Wallace—who was pretty much a nameless, faceless indie bloke at the time. These stood in sharp contrast to the subsequent major label-endorsed mixing work and production carried out by 80s engineering royalty and multi-Grammy Awards-winning Chris Lord-Alge, whose pedigree and portfolio read like a greatest hits list of names of that decade (Tina Turner, Carly Simon, Bruce Springsteen, Madonna).

Therefore, far from a nostalgic and self-indulgent collector’s item, Dead Man’s Pop’s inherent revisiting flair ended up pulling out all the archival stops, except becoming an actual 30th-year anniversary reissue of Don’t Tell a Soul. For one, it’s completed by a slate of additional bundles, starting with a second disc of rarities and non-album cuts billed We Know the Night: Rare and Unreleased, collating early versions of rough drafts from the group’s Don’t Tell a Soul studio sessions, as well as late-night drunken collaborations recorded with storied singer/songwriter Tom Waits. Two final batches of tracks attached to the box set combine to form a full live album titled The Complete Inconcerated Live, expanding on the quartet’s eponymous 1989 promotional EP.

Now for the aggravating bit, ladies and gentlemen: multiple sources (as well as the horse’s very own mouth) claim that such a rush of new-found curatorial blood to the head was motivated by principal songwriter, co-founder, and creative mastermind Paul Westerberg’s fundamental dissatisfaction with their original product released thirty years ago. A reckoning that translates into the epiphany that Paul himself, bassist Tommy Stinson, stickman Chris Mars, and Slim Dunlap—in addition to countless fans around the globe—had had to coexist and wrestle with such a profound juxtapositional ethos as they looked back on their best selling album for over three decades. Pretty on brand for The Mats, if you ask us. Let that sink in for a moment.

This still leaves us at the mercy of a discursive place acknowledging how the band, its closest entourage, its devoted and diehard fans, as well as most of the critical ivory tower leagues rallied together in solidarity begging for ‘another chance’. They all convened and called for The Replacements to take another stab at the true work of art that lurked beneath Don’t Tell a Soul’s surface level polish and uptight elegance. In this respect, look no further than group’s frontman Paul Westerberg going as far as stating that “[the record] sounded good until the label brought in people to mix it to make it sound like everything else on the radio”. Elsewhere, so Wallace in retrospect: “At the time, when the mixing […] was completed, I had numerous musician friends who were rabid fans of The Replacements and each one […] accused me of ‘ruining The Replacements’”.

Yet again on the other side of this raison d’être inquisition lie folks such as yours truly—evidently allied with hundreds of thousands of disposable income-owners and unit-movers—who are struggling to make heads or tails of such a tardive and, frankly, spoilt creative undoing. This is done while hastily pointing at selected stems (requesting exhibit ”Asking Me Lies“), flat out superior songwriting-to-tape on key tunes (requesting exhibits “They’re Blind” and “Anywhere’s Better Than Here“), a more cohesive overall listen and tracklisting (requesting exhibit “I Won’t“), as well as BVs that actually enhance a composition rather than jeopardise it (requesting exhibit “We’ll Inherit the Earth“), to humbly will-whisper into existence a trialling accompanied by the following sentence: the original 1989 Don’t Tell a Soul is a better album. Period.

Your honours, isn’t this the part where we would take it upon ourselves to analyse and dissect individual clues to further cement and corroborate similar claims? Should we, though? Instead, one could surely begin with stressing out how no one involved in the conception of the record, from Paul himself to higher-ups at the label, was or is a foolish impulsive decision-maker actively pursuing a high-budget product’s kneecapping. Certainly, one has got to surrender their self-centrism and loosen their tie and trust the process here—yet perhaps more importantly embrace the notion that the band, its management, and the underlying business that supports and profits from it must’ve arrived at the decision to enrol Chris Lord-Alge on mixing duties carefully and considerably.

Yes, of course the irony of lining up signifiers such as management, business, and profit next to a band like The Replacements all in one sentence is not lost on us. Yet we humbly ask: has a sly and red herring-y knack for a dorky and naive smoke and mirrors facade not always been The Mats’ divisive modus operandi all along their blistering career? What if Dead Man’s Pop and its apparent long-overdue redemptive fanfare—finally cancelling alleged wrongs committed at the height of the group’s major label career—were all yet another sublime con-job sculpted by Paul and co. to mock industry and fanbase alike? What if we all chose to believe that the original version of this album is The Replacements’ second career act’s pièce de résistance? No matter the real answer—Mr Westerberg would not want us to tell a single soul anyway.

I’d like to thank you sincerely for taking the time to read this and I hope to feel your interest again next time.

AV

SWISS INTERMISSION | 2021-07-18

Ceresio Lake water the best. 45.9863° N, 8.9700° E.

Create your own travel license here. Listen to Call Me If You Get Lost by Tyler, The Creator here.

I’d like to thank you sincerely for taking the time to read this and I hope to feel your interest again next time.

AV

ALEX REVIEWS MUSIC (ARM): RYAN ADAMS – BIG COLORS | 2021-06-12

It’s late July and the sky is so grey / Everyone’s in bed for a month in LA / The house is so quiet, it’s barely making a sound / My hands are shaking, my heart is beatin’ so loud“: this snapshot sourced from Ryan Adams‘ latest standout record “In It For the Pleasure” might just be ultimate living proof that the singer/songwriter has finally come to realise his definitive “soundtrack to a movie from 1984 that exists only in [his] soul“. A strict Ultracolor VCR motion picture, mind you. Bundled and contextualised as the North Carolina native’s eighteenth solo studio outing, the picturesque 12-track Big Colors station is for all intents and purposes Adams’ own shelved and obscure OST version of the show Moonlighting. Released on the heartland rocker’s very own PaxAm Recording label a mere six months after his surprise return on the scene with the bleak and dour Wednesdays, this project is reportedly billed the second in an ambitious trilogy of LPs unveiled over the course of twelve months.

This body of work is largely produced by Ryan at the helm with the support from previous collaborators Beatriz Artola and legendary Blue Note Records president Don Was. It reads as an early-to-mid 80s power pop score that clocks in at just 39 minutes of runtime, for what is the 46-year old shortest solo album to date. Notwithstanding the scantier playback experience offered here, this collection of tracks cruises by listeners like ducks to water, effortlessly translating into a renewed cohesive and layered auditory session. Not afraid, faltering, or too shy to borrow heavy-handedly from his adjacent “watercolor painting of neon blue smoke rising up off summer streets in the night“, on this thing Adams again succeeds at transcending space and time, dishing out a unified sunny season solstice affresco composed of its more dejected and understated traits.

The Big Colors’ tape was teased and anticipated by the surprise-release of the hypnotic, hammering, and introspective lead single “Do Not Disturb“, followed by the sweet free-form composition of the falsetto’ed title track in mid May. Both tasters clearly tapped into dreamlike sonic lighthouses, coasting on seas of chorus and reverb-effects—a formidably executed formula one first saw the seven-time Grammy nominee pitilessly adopt on his flawless 2014 eponymous studio album. Incidentally, both cuts double as the first two songs sequenced on the overall project, whose subsequent Smiths-onian helping “It’s So Quiet, It’s Loud” is one sure to appeal to listeners of all stripes, by way of its apex technicolor and cinematic flairs: “And the night drags on / We finish drinks sideways / Telephone rings, rattles once and stops / It hangs up while you’re dreaming / My eyes are open now / Outside it’s pouring / I daydream your voice / It echoes through the halls / In my mind, racing through the crowd / I hear your voice say mine“.

The 2019 relict “F**k the Rain” picks up both mood and steam at number four on the album’s tracklist, betraying the former Whiskeytown and Cardinals mastermind’s supreme and refined songwriting erudition, condensed into the definition of a modern radio-ripe alt rock tune. “Manchester“, another pre-hiatus broadcast media leak from three years ago, follows suit in the shape of warm synths and embracing string arrangements, fiercely exhibiting once again how pivotal and inestimable keyboards have come to be as part of the late 2010s Ryan Adams sound pantheon. The record’s side A pulls its curtains close with what might be the first real showstopper and jaw-dropper of the crop: “What Am I” is not only idyllic, earnest, and stoic folk storytelling (and a cut that could have easily sat on Wednesdays’ sequencing), but also sports one of the singers’ most crushing and shattering choruses in recent memory: “What am I? / What are we? / When we’re not you and me? / When it’s not happening / When we’re asleep at the movies / Canary in the coal mine / The poison is slow, nobody dies / I forgot to let go under the moon“.

The career and catalogue-retrospective auto-referencing is less self-indulgent than purposeful here. Cue the filmic inside-job that progresses on with the swaggerish razzmatazz of “Power“, a corky show of faux-badassery with loads and loads of guitars, sounding almost as if 2014’s austere “I Just Might” had one too many drinks and suddenly got told the way its blue jeans fit elevates the chassis of its musical silhouette. By winning contrast, “I Surrender” at number eight packs in more vibrancy, stickiness, and life-affirming ethos in just over two minutes and a half than most self-proclaimed ‘anthemic’ five-dollar cuts around today. Despite its evident semantic innuendo, the audiovisual soundtrack takes a bit of a figurative blow on “Showtime“, which for all its lush and lavish arrangements and sincere performance might have sounded better on 2017’s Prisoner album, falling short of matching the otherworldly transmissions of some of the strongest numbers on here.

The concluding trio of tunes reaffirms Ryan’s pursuit of “shamanic visions of the future when the destination is dream zone 3000“, by accurately illustrating a gnarly coda to whatever detective dramedy plot kept re-running in his mystical mind. “Operator’s on the phone, says I can’t be trusted / It’s how you left me alone, it was broke and now it’s busted / A little sunshine will do, but outside it’s disgusting / It’s barely making a sound, my heart is beatin’ so loud“: in complimentary fashion to this piece’s opening stanza, the 12-string guitar strummings of “In It For the Pleasure” coasting atop of such poetry ring as evergreen and timeless as ever. Meanwhile, this station’s swan song “Summer Rain“—soaked as it is in VCR throughput processing and water-dense compression—sums up this album’s abstract in the most striking and spiritual fashion possible. Similarly, the kooky and playful “Middle of the Line“, sandwiched in-between the latter two cuts at number eleven, provides this score’s right amount of respite and comic relief, all without compromising its throwback melodramatic knack.

Ryan was right: Big Colors is a zenith point dream time. An equinox leading to a portal that shepherds the lost like a lighthouse does for ships at sea. After brutally essaying decay and ethics on Wednesdays in the deeps of winter, this kaleidoscopic and densely chromatic multitrack unearths the boundless possibilities of the movie of our lives. It minutely focuses on aquatic framing. For a proper frame not only draws a third eye into a picture, but keeps it there longer, dissolving the liminal barrier between the subject and the outside of the shot. Provided the depth, expressionism, and total gesamtkunstwerk of Big Colors—in conjunction to its righteous honesty—our only hope as end credits roll is that the director commits to breaking the fourth wall once more in the future: “while I won’t be able to match this album for its depth and broad color forms in the future, this is the sound of my soul and a door to a place I’ll be returning to again”.

I’d like to thank you sincerely for taking the time to read this and I hope to feel your interest again next time.

AV

RYAN ADAMS

BIG COLORS

2021, PaxAm Recording

https://ryanadamsofficial.com

BIG WHATEVER | 2021-05-02

By the looks of it, this next one ahead of us is set to be a kaleidoscopic and densely chromatic summer. At the very least, as far as our musical forecast is concerned. You ask both alt-psych rock supergroup Fuckin Whatever and singer/songwriter Ryan Adams. Amidst recent notable music unveilings, including but not limited to Sir Paul McCartney, The Offspring, and The Blossom, it has emerged that the self-billed “Beach Boys for the nihilist TikTok generation” as well as the Pax Americana Recording Company-founder both saw fit to time the release of their respective highly anticipated forthcoming projects within a week-span from one another, dating early June. Incidentally, both the Taking Back Sunday, Circa Survive, and Grouplove-distilled quartet—composed of selected key members from each of the aforementioned original outfits and responding to a somewhat questionable name—and the American heartland rocker opted for an artistic inclination veered to design and portray their soon-to-be-unwrapped sonic tapestries through tints and tinges aplenty.

Counting Circa Survive’s and Saosin’s Anthony Green, Taking Back Sunday‘s Adam Lazzara and John Nolan, as well as additional percussion from Benjamin Homola of Grouplove amongst its ranks, Fuckin Whatever is a postmodern and analogue side-project gestated throughout longstanding kinships minted as part of the alternative/emo rock scene over the past two decades. The group’s debut self-titled five-cut extended play is out on 4th June on Philadelphia-based boutique imprint Born Losers Records, and features zero—yes, zero—electric or amplified instruments on tape. Co-frontman and Taking Back Sunday vocalist Lazzara clarifies how the record is instead made up of “[…] pretty much 80% mouth noises and 20% Ben slapping things around the house”, hence banking on rudimentary a cappella arrangements and visceral percussive rhythms to paint collective mental and spiritual landscapes made of rainbow-shaded rays and holographic skies.

It thus probably comes as no surprise that all three teasers dropped in anticipation to the full mind-bending gesamtkunstwerk dabble in pretty strong abstract, deconstructed, and psychedelic territory. This is perhaps best exemplified by their trippy and hallucinating lead single “Trash“—revealed to the public under purposefully elusive and mysterious circumstances in early February as part of a decisively understated roll out. Facts started to become clearer around the drop of the band’s second preview cut, coming by way of the funkier and more immediate groove-pop of “I’m Waiting On You“, about a month later. Fastforward to just weeks ago, the rather hippie and free-experimentation quartet—whose inception can be traced as far back as a remote USA parking lot during the 2016 Taste of Chaos tour—released what is poised to be the final taster before the full collection of tracks sees the multicoloured light of day: “Original Sin“. The record also marks the rated-R outfit’s official debut on licensed digital outlets (their first two songs were only made available through DIY platform Bandcamp in alignment to its Bandcamp Fridays initiative), showcasing an even more heightened songwriting sensibility in the guise of arguably the stickiest tune of the three.

On his part, former Whiskeytown-frontman and alt-rock prodigy Ryan Adams seems to have chosen to stick to dropping the reported trilogy of full length LPs he initially announced back in 2019 after all, albeit with a re-tooled roll out sequence. The first in the series, the unplugged-affine Wednesdays, whilst initially slated to be the second one after Big Colors, was actually already surprise-released this past December as the first instalment. Big Colors on the other hand, which was supposed to inaugurate the triplet body of work two years ago, has now officially been recycled and repurposed as what appears to be the principal creative statement of intent for the 46-year old poet, scheduled as second chapter with a worldwide street date pencilled in for 11th June (a third and final double album titled Chris is reported to drop later in the year). Clocking in at just below forty minutes of runtime and spanning twelve cuts in total, the project is shy of three songs that were initially announced to be sequenced on Big Colors when Adams first announced the saga (two of which, “Dreaming You Backwards” and “I’m Sorry and I Love You“, ended up making the cut on Wednesdays, which in turn saw its own tracklisting shrink from the original seventeen to just eleven).

On 23rd April, the hypnotic and ethereal “Do Not Disturb” got lifted from its second tracklisting position and used as first single off the upcoming studio full length by Adams and Pax Am. Standing as the eighteenth solo LP from the singer, the record is fiercely shaping up to employ a host of hazy, sun-soaked, and hollow color schemes in order to refract its outgoing tinctures through the lighthouse it was meant to act as in the first place. In the words of Ryan himself:

Big Colors is the soundtrack to a movie from 1984 that exists only in my soul. It’s a cliché inside a watercolor painting of neon blue smoke rising up off summer streets in the night.

It’s the most New York California album I could cut loose from my musical soul, and for me as both a guitar player and songwriter, this is the zenith point dream time.

While I won’t be able to match this album for its depth and broad color forms in the future, this is the sound of my soul and a door to a place I’ll be returning to again.

The treasures in our past are the shamanic visions of the future when the destination is dream zone 3000. This is that.

I’m only dreaming in Big Colors now.

The above excerpt is clearly paining a broad illustrative brush, though one can’t but rejoice over the blissful electric alignment of summer pigments and tones that both Big Colors and Fuckin Whatever are presently affording us to worship and adore. A radiant, glowing, and iridescent portal through which, all of a sudden, tracking the right mapping to one’s life wholesomeness does not seem too arduous and impenetrable anymore. These are budding creative fragments teaching us that colouring outside the lines is a purpose’s ultimate defiance—the only heightened and levitating cosmic field where black and white are declassed to archaic ends of a continuously superseded dialectic spectrum of movement, light, and electromagnetism. One that, instead, embraces the ultraviolet and the infrared as its lowest common denominators, and transfuses a brave new proto-sphere made of decaying palm trees, dour neon signs, and ephemeral sunsets culminating into a… big whatever one wants it to be.

I’d like to thank you sincerely for taking the time to read this and I hope to feel your interest again next time.

AV