I have yet to scribe my definitive best films of 2009 list (a favorite ritual of mine) because here in the Midwest, we're late to the late-season flick parade. I can rightfully put Role Models, Inglorious Basterds, Drag Me To Hell, Up, and Antichrist on there, but I've yet to take in the Hurt Locker or Fantastic Mr. Fox or Knowing for that matter. Knowing? Yes. Thanks to Werner Herzog, I'm back on a Nicholas Cage kick. Herzog let him run loose in New Orleans and the results are hilarious, intriguing, and as maniacal as any film in Herzog's oeuvre -- and it's all set against the canvas of a cliched made-for-tv cop movie. One thing I'm sure of, I won't see a better film from 2009 than Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans. "His soul is still dancing."
A few years ago I had the good fortune of seeing one of Lindstrøm's first ever U.S. performances in Austin, TX. Of course the frenzy of SXSW had him spinning in an ill-equipped, douche-ridden, cowboy bar directly on 6th St. and of course his mostly chill yet undeniably psychedelic-house rhythms, were too abbreviated to really get lost in -- the fully lit, wood-paneled environs, splayed with televisions airing March Madness games didn't help -- but I got the gist. He has a gift. The Norse DJ is a cut above his peers with a vision for craft that transcends beyond the electronique boutique.
That brings us to the now. The 2010. I'm not going to prognosticate all Indie Rock Nostradamus, because after all, what do we have to look forward to in the dawn of this new decade? Vampire Weekend? Spoon? Well, I am intrigued to hear how James Murphy has morphed LCD Soundsytem for a new era, but for now, the only release I'm genuinely excited for is Lindstrøm's collaboration with siren-singer Christabelle. Real Life is No Cool might actually supplant LCD as the party record of the near future. This LP is ripe with jams veering between the malleable parameters of Prince/Suicide/ELO/Moroder -- zig-zagging from fully disco-balled Italo skin-brands to spacey specked minimalist melodies that ravage the subconscious in sleep. I've listened to this multiple times since discovering it and have yet to find a clunker. Album of the Year? We still get the Pantha du Prince album any day now, so hold your Merriweather Post Pavilion applause until all the chips are counted.
Fan made vid here for "Music in My Mind" -- spliced with scenes from Vicky Christina Barcelona. I can't complain...it's not as if my adoration for Penelope Cruz is a secret.
It happens every year. I whittle down top twenty lists and still have tons left over that I want to purge about. Then the holidays roll around and you end up consuming even more music and things get itchy. Here's my personal page on the Agit-Reader, and what keeps intriguing me are the albums I suggested that I was pretty sure nobody heard. Please take the time to re-visit. Especially that Odawas record and the Night Control. Then's there's the case of Circulatory System making a welcome and dense return, while my fav idol runner-up, Alison Iraheta head straight to the cut-out bin though her debut is one of the best pop records of the decade. Seriously, "Beat Me Up" ? Please go read some of this, then go listen. I'm still calculating film lists and (gasp) decade lists (am I late?), so look for more soon.
I'm always amazed how iconic a song so utterly "British" is among the classic songs of Christmas. My ubiquitous mandatory workplace Christmas selections are heavy on the "christ" side of the holiday spectrum, but every four hours or so the sound of Paul Young's voice permeates the stale air. For that matter so does George Micheal's who dominates parts of "Do They Know It's Christmas?" and has the second best British Christmas single in "Last Christmas." The voices on "Do They Know It's Christmas" are penetrating -- Bono, Sting, Boy George, Bananarama. This song is the regal Christmas we all see in provincial dreams of a snow covered London -- the bells, the swells, the choir of bad teeth.
Little did the rest of the world know there was Band Aid II (see if you can name more than five artists here, BROS.) Or that there was a Band Aid 20, with Chris Coldplay no less, and a repeat performance from Bono. Still, nothing touches the original.
Sade hasn't released an album in a decade. Somehow, after looking over her astounding statistics as a platinum artist (every one of her five studio records was a top ten), I doubt the prolonged absence will steal her thunder. Who hasn't been enraptured by "Smooth Operator" once in their life? She is the ultimate quiet storm, but also a force on the pop charts, and bigger than life outside of the states. Why has it taken so long for me to realize the power of this luxury music. It may be the preferred luxury music for luxury people (imagine Tiger Wood's lover's suite), a smooth jazz staple, bourgeois exotica, but the force of her voice and the function of that voice to transport any listener to North African opium cabanas and Bangkok moonlight is something we need to reconsider as a cultural touchstone. Especially considering she's survived for decades and doesn't seem to age. I'll admit the "Soldier of Love" single is a tad out of touch, but I likely thought that the first time I heard "No Ordinary Love" (shit's like Tricky for your dad). Enjoy a tiny retrospective.
And now I've discovered her videos were as ambitious as Bjork's. W.O.W.
Could I be somewhat bored with rock music, or just infatuated enough with the entire dubstep universe that I'm digging into 12"s and hour-long mixtapes more than I ever had before? A bit of both. Still just dipping my toes in this pool for now, but with each passing day I'm finding myself researching more and more, falling further down the rabbit hole. Pictured above is Joker --- and I heard a recent live show in Austin was nothing but his own material for two hours plus. That's something I can get behind. Is this the new psychedelic? Well, it's the warmest, most introspective and personal version of electronic music I've heard since....what....the Krauts.
So, I'll have to admit my base knowledge when it comes to "who" is the best -- I'm preferring Guido, the aforementioned Joker, the "legend" Burial, Gemmy, Zomby, Cooly G, Subeena, Rustie....and the list goes on. I'll have to admit I'm not sure how the sub-genres of dubstep are distinguished from one another yet -- I'm preferring "wonky." And, unfortunately, I've yet to see someone build these beautiful nightmares in a live setting. Don't think Columbus will ever be a magnet for the circuit. Maybe I'll try? For now, I'll have to trust things like the excellent Passion of the Weiss (an excellent L.A. writer who seems to have a grasp on all the up and comers), Resident Advisor (the global source for all things electronic), and staying up late with Mary Anne Hobbs on her BBC 1 Program, where she reports on the pulse of dubstep's epicenter in Bristol. Below is a primer, made by Hobbs, proliferating this "movement." We are on the brink.
Every 'round here keeps talking about the best local albums -- if we parcel off records by TNV and the Psych-Horse as "national" then it's really slim pickings. Despite those on the peripheries "trying" to save the slump -- besides the gold mine that is Columbus Discount Records and a few stray releases from their roster (Cheater Slicks, Cheater Slicks) -- it's really slim pickings. I thought I liked Karate Coyote, but what have they given men in return? Love the Lindsay, but want some vinyl guys. Anyone else? Waiting for a Flu Faker record. A Nick Tolford record. Mike Rep bluegrass. Nudge UFO concept album. Tommy Jay two-fer. With the bounty of new bands that have propped up in the last 12 months, how come you kids can't start your own label? Where is the vinyl?
By default, but that would be an insult really, the greatest band in the land right now, and currently winding down their best year ever -- is El Jesus De Magico. With three excellent releases, Scalping the Guru LP, Unclean Ghost 7" and the recently released Klip Aught EP they kind of swept the "local" grammys. If there's one pile of records you want to surprise your sweetie with this x-mas, go with these -- you won't find better in this town.
Here's video of the boys and girls playing the Agit-Reader one-year anniversary back in June. Recognize.
Notice "Box Seats" is a tag herein. I've changed my stance on seasonal highs -- it's no longer Opening Day, it's now Reds Fest. I felt maybe I was in St. Louis for a day. A place where the fans show up even in early December, even when the Cincinnati Bearcats can maneuver a National Championship bid, even when the streets of downtown Queen City are as barren as.....well, the streets of downtown Queen City is on Saturdays in early December. You've wasted your city, so let's not waste the team. Optimism seemed at an all time high. Even when getting photos and autographs with Drew Stubbs and Chris Dickerson.
While I'm a long-time supporter, I can honestly say these cardboard heroes are the closest I got to a team. All kidding aside, I have hope. Seeing Edison Volquez, broken as he may be, strutting through the promenade as the franchise, gave me hope. We missed quite a few legends (Tom Browning, GLENN BRAGGS (take that Wavves), and Joe Oliver) due to autograph hounds virtually clogging the lines (who needs an autograph these days? Adam just wanted to stare), but fortunately got within ear-shot of others.......
Like Eric "The Red" Davis, who looked as if he could still easily play CF in place of Willy Tavares. In all actuality, though I saw Brandon Phillips hamming it up in the Kid's Line, could have been named "Most Genial" Red of the entire day. Then there was George Foster -- the Redleg's HR King, who we glimpsed giving autographs through the entire Convention Center. The whole spectacle was kind of overwhelming. I can't imagine what it was like for a 10-yr old with a Beckett waiting to meet 1B Hal Morris for the first time.
The only bad karma that flooded the place was Bronson Arroyo's Stained covers (seriously, doesn't Arthur Rhodes make ghetto country, or something?) and the overwhelming buzz that Chris Sabo was total "dick" on Friday. The whole celebration was a little overwhelming, really. 'Specially when we heard the Bearcat's triumphant/lucky comeback on the "flat" drive home. At least Adam got his picture taken in front of the "biggest Reds jersey in the world."
The day was somewhat teetotal by the extremes of when the sun went down and I attended my first ever Rock Potluck. As a patron of the Columbus arts I am ashamed of my absence for those that came before this one. I've been invited to participate a few times before, but something (mostly work and/or Brazil came up) kept me from creeping. I will admit that one of those years I worked, got off early, and found a completely empty (and haunted) Milo, only to find out the "thing" was canceled. This one though? This town always finds ways to surprise me. As much of an old codger as I sound, re: the local scene, something like this is inspiring. Still, I'm intrigued more by the pieces of the scene being thrown together at a wall than the pieces real bands.
As the night wore on, and more packed, I was unable to hear the names of said assembled, off-the-cuff, day-of bands. Above though, is a pic of the monstrously towering Dusty, in the middle of his jam with Golden Nugg. The stage was flanked by guitarists who were ultimately "feeling it." Headbands, bell bottoms, and vintage gear in tow. I loved how this psychedelic love-fest started the evening off.
Besides some excellent highlights provided by David Holm (his ode to Columbus was spot-on) and a cover of "Mama Said Knock You Out" by Nick Tolford, the best memory of this year's Potluck came from Party Room -- Joe Peppercorn, Nick Shuld, Melanie Holm, Eve Searles, and one extremely talented participant who I was unfamiliar with. They started their set with a monolithic shoegaze rager complete with lyrics from the instructions from a Candyland board game -- then headed straight into a cover of Wilson Phillips "Hold On." Yes. That's true, and it was wonderful. I wish we could have Potlucks and Redsfests once a month/quarter, but then, what fun would that be?
There’s always something unimaginably comforting about heading home for Thanksgiving (or for that matter heading home on any number of select weekends throughout the year). But the gluttony and relaxation that persists on this particular holiday can not be overlooked. As soon as I turn right off of I-75 and roll past the Waffle House and "hillbilly rifle outlet," I feel like I’ve entered a virtual safe zone, a hermetically sealed environment filled with naps by the fire and limitless liquor – all with none of the annoyances and stress inducers of “real” life. I could honestly do it every weekend if allowed. For me, it’s my wind-back. It’s not getting older or lazier or becoming less of a patron of the arts. It’s the opposite – naturally removing the over-stimulation of bustling “city” life from my horizon line. So arriving at Peters and High (Elliott Manor) for this year’s turkey trough was met with hesitation, as we’d be hosting four lads from New Zealand known as Axemen. I wasn’t as much worried about their settling into to a quintessential suburban ritual, as I was anxious how my parents might react to having America’s collector scum wet-dream tour (add one drummer from TNV to the mix) make a two-day stop in Troy. I shouldn’t have had any reservations. Patti and Jeff should get a medal for their hosting abilities. I never knew how liberal my parents actually are (now only if they’d align that mentality with their politics) until I saw them nurturing a gluten free meal for ol’ Dragan. But I digress. If you’re looking for tragic tales of drunken tirades and streaking through the town square or foul-mouthed kiwis looting the curio cabinet and tagging the doilies with pen knives – you aren’t going to find it here. Axemen are gentlemen. And though they may not be used to our ultra-consumer, warm and fuzzy, football coma shenanigans, they fit right in as adopted Elliotts.
If so anti-climatic, then why the post? Well, it was the well of anomaly that occurred at Troy, Ohio’s pre-eminent 18-35 yr. old hangout, The Brewery, the night before, which prompted this rant. Beyond simply wanting to tie one on in downtown Troy, beyond meeting up with an absent Justin Smith, beyond even the slightest want of nostalgic conversation with past peers whom I have nothing to converse, was a triple bill of Miami County’s finest “music.” Even then, the event of the week at the bar “everyone” goes to was pretty much split between dated booty music (first floor) and townie hard-lucks (second floor) and hardly a soul in the room with the stage, and the real instruments, and the performers. Still, it was a oddly intriguing trio of bands, going from karaoke rural gangsta’ rap to two-man Ween influenced mayhem, to standard issue thrash-emo-speed metal sludge.
Low Budget was first, featuring some kid who used to play basketball with my bro at the Lincoln Center back in the early ‘90s, replete with two hype men. They wore t-shirts emblazoned with Low Budget (were those made at the Troy Sports Center?) and hats reading the same. I thought the name was clever and their rhymes mighty inventive for what seemed like freestyle over the Ipod. In fact it reminded me most of another swang "low" duo from Cali, Low Profile, who went on to become W.C. and the Maad Circlen (a personal favorite). It did get tiresome, overwrought, and something I was happy stopped before it was too late. While I encourage all hip-hop troupes trying to make it in small town America (Teenage Soldiers R.I.P.), I would have liked to have seen them add some regional flavor to their oeuvre. I don’t know exactly what that would entail. In Columbus it’s a working-man, blue-collar, everyone’s invited atmosphere – so would this be sub-Columbus, or even sub-Springfield? I bet the gangsters thrive in Piqua. Explore there. Where’s Shane Darner when you need him?
Next up was the biggest surprise of the night. Electric Banana hail from Dayton, but seem to play most of their gigs at various submarine houses around Troy. Like the Weens, Chromeos, and Party Dreams that have come before them – most of what they do is borne of goofing and can only elicit good times, no heavy-handed criticism here. I’m sure if I were privy to the inane lyrics (I’m sure I heard “pussy” mentioned more than thrice) I wouldn’t have been as thrilled, and if they weren’t serving up PBR tallboys (just like home) I probably wouldn’t be expounding about their simple genius – but both factors were in place and the antics of Jimmy Spade, the mohawk-clad frontman of the two, made for a stellar evening. It was rudimentary funk worship and novel hip-hop in a stoner metal package, but they played it to perfection, knew how to work the “crowd” and had catchy melodies to off-set any whiff of scatology. I want them to come to Columbus, soon.
The last band of the evening could be wrapped up in one song. Through an Ocean of Plagues do what they do well, do it tight, and do it frenetic…..but I wasn’t in any kind of mood after the insanity of Electric Banana. I mean, c’mon, how you can take a band like this seriously? From their one sheet:
The phrase “Through an Ocean of Plagues” metaphorically describes the route humanity takes on its journey to self-destruction. Civilization evolves by consuming and destroying, usurping its power through the contamination and eventual erasure of its competitors. Rather than coexisting, Nature is enslaved, dissolved, and forgotten. Such is the legacy of future generations, once humankind has siphoned the last of the Earth’s resources. Without a target for destruction, we turn our sights to our own demise.
This rural Ohio quintet addresses these issues, translating the impending onslaught of disease, war, and social deconstruction into a medium by which they may express their opinions. The music is brutal, though it still retains a melodious quality meant to remind the listener that social harmony is lost but not forgotten. The live performance of the music parallels its subject matter, brutally portraying the bands frustration and outrage.
I did overhear the lead singer at 3 AM telling his friend he was headed home to “get fucked and fucked,” which I can only assume means he was continuing his quest for drugs and sex. So that was entertaining. But with all of this music, the highlight of the evening? --- HUGH KELLY, smartest man on earth.
But this was all about Axemen, right? Goodness. They played the Friday after the gorging in Columbus. I’m a bit out of words to go on and describe them, but it’s likely they showed a few “shitgaze” (sic) signifiers throughout their entire set of crust blues and the purest of kiwi protest/prank garage rock – but it all had the guise of a professional band playing like it was the last show of the tour. This is how you do it. Release the Three Virgins already. I don’t have it yet. Four of the most delightful men I’ve ever had the chance to meet. Here’s hoping it gets this hopping over Christmas.
Another lab test. This time with Home Blitz's Out of Phase. This one's simple. I was stunned by it back when I reviewed it on the Agit-Reader and now I can't stop listening to it -- and kind of ashamed I couldn't squeeze onto our year-end list in time. Richie Records is doing it up on vinyl soon, so I would wait it out until then. And the above video is the most recent I could find on the band, so please, if you go see him play, record it.
We should probably take the title, Through the Magical Door, literally. In one glorious debut concept record, Miami's Electric Bunnies have laid waste to a decade of Black Lips backwash and defined an entirely new era of infected nuggets garage punk. I raved about it -- Primitive Futures style -- last week and it's become something of a staple since I got myself a copy on vinyl. Then you find out they constructed a board game on the gate-fold and went and made this video. This band deserves your attention.
I've written exhaustively about Brainiac. They shaped who I am in many ways. I still don't think music has caught up to what they were doing in the '90s, in Dayton, and eventually all over the world. Many bands have tried and most of them have failed. I always like to think about what would have happened if Brainiac survived past Y2K. Hypothetical I know.
The Braniac Live Archive is one man's project to keep it all alive and kicking. So far he's done an amazing job posting shows/set lists/videos -- all Brainiac, all the time. This is stuff you should be paying for.
Someone in my Facebook universe stated that yesterday was a "Kate Bush kind of day." And though I couldn't quite put my finger on what made that quote correct, it was. A nice, semi-gray afternoon, that would be perfect for "running up that hill," splitting time between primal screams and earth-bound coos, circumventing English castles and graveyards. My usual indie-rock Nostradamus said a few years ago that the future would be made up of imitators of Beat Happening and Kate Bush -- I think by now I was half-right. While here, I've always been a champion of the globe-hopping, genre-toppling urbanized neon of artists in Diplo's stable (see former posts), I'm also a big supporter of the more Euro-centric, dance-club, electro-divas that have been sprouting up at a surprisingly fast clip (La Roux, Little Boots, Annie). Though many of those artist's singles were solid gold, full-length albums by them have had diminishing returns. Perhaps because they aren't sticking close enough to the Kate Bush mold. None of them seem as wildly eclectic as the woman who wrote a song called "Wuthering Heights" and turned it into a smash.
Ellie Goulding, probably best known these days (at least in the states) for remixing a Passion Pit (sic!) song -- this new singles, "Under the Sheets" is the perfect combination of that weird streak adopted from Bush and the blinking neon circuit sophistication want from those electro-pixies. Dig deeper and you'll see that Ellie is quite an accomplished musician, not just a cuddly prop in front of a phalanx of synthesizers. The first thing I had heard from her was mostly acoustic, her delicate voice the only thing fluctuating throughout. It's worth it to seek out "Guns and Horses" and "Starry Eyed." Amazing songs. High Hopes. Pop Park. Giving Lykke Li a formidable opponent.
I'm not exactly sure about the first time I heard Fela Kuti, but it was life-changing. There are few titans in music and he is one of them. After that initial contact I pretty much drowned myself in Kuti's life work and scoured for every scrap of information on his career and his politics. I even started working on a screenplay about him -- hashed out on a long inebriated walk back to downtown Austin from the Peacock. Someone beat me to the punch. His story on the screen should be epic. As for this recently opened Broadway show? I'm not sure. I'm not a big Broadway fan, so I hope it doesn't dilute his legacy, and especially his jams.
Still, the reviews coming in for this are nothing short of revelatory. So I suppose this is the closest I'll ever come to a wild night at the Shrine. Can't wait to see this.
I don't know much about the Scrotum Poles. I'm pretty sure I heard one of their songs on a Messthetics comp. some time ago? Did I? Well, seeing them compared to the Television Personalities and the Desperate Bicycles sparked my interest beyond belief. And since the DB aren't close to re-issuing the gold them mined way back when, the Scrotum Poles are quick to oblige. The above video is pretty much all you need to see to get the drift. I do know you can now find all of their recorded material on this recently released Dulc-i-tone compilation. Thanks to my brother for spotting this.
See. Here's where hype gets completely out of control. I actually feel a bit bad for Sleigh Bells, as they're about to get eaten and spit out by the blog-machine. (I'm entirely to blame) but it's kinda hard to ignore the ephemeral rush of their demo. And that's the point. This is a demo. I remember back at the dawn of the internet, when a group called the Yeah Yeah Yeahs sent their self-produced demo my way, and I tucked it aside as a personal treasure. It wasn't exactly something I sang the praises of immediately, but it was infectious and trashy enough to keep it like a secret. I've been getting the same feeling from this overly fresh and tragically hip duo from (where else?) BKLYN. They stormed CMJ, have been mentioned on all the sites "fit to print," and currently rule my playlists (at least "Crown on the Ground" does)-- but they likely don't even have a dozen songs to play at a live show. And by the looks of their recent appearances, that live show is little more than hellish guitar riffs, a few off-key chants, and loads of sequenced background music blared through the speakers. Pretty, pretty, flimsy after a song or two. Still, it's hard to resist the candy.
With the seasonal closure of the Poolside clubhouse, it's time to move on to Late Night -- the imagined soundtrack of a 2 A.M. rendezvous in the penthouse jacuzzi. This might pertain to smooth jazz or adult contemporary deemed too "fatherly" for the hipster contingent, but I assure you, there are some gems Late Night. Just give me a minute to find them.
Recently I was fortunate enough to find Maxi Priest's "Close to You" 12" for a mere $.50. A bargain for the dub mix alone. Maxi started his career as the "king of lover's rock" -- and lover's rock is to reggae as smooth jazz is to jazz. Basically it's reggae completely stripped of sunshine and replaced with moonlight, gentler rhythms, and endless proclamations of midnight booty calls. Maxi has taken the lover's rock one step further, stripping it of any remnant of reggae and injecting it with a soaring and catchy chorus -- a little infectious rap and this thing's a number one hit (no lie). This was a ubiquitous single in the summer of 1990, a period in music when any fringe genre could be compartmentalized into a pop song. Keep in mind this was a year when Glen Medeiros, Wilson Phillips, Tommy Page and Nelson all had number one hits. So in comparison, "Close to You" was golden in it's purity. For some reason I can't relate this to any scorching sunlight, only suburban darkness and island breezes. I'm sure I had this on a mixtape en route to Clearwater Beach.
Between the time a friend of mine shot me a link to this wonderful video and today, Bangs has already become an internet/pop culture sensation. By far the best Sudanese import since....??? There could be question as to if this is elaborate put-on in a world of intense irony and quick gimmick or as genuine as they come -- a earnest artist emulating the bling and machismo of American pop-hop. I'm sticking with the later. "Take U To Da Movies" is not all that extreme when it comes to jokesters mocking rap, and for that I'd have to say Bangs means all of this from the bottom of his heart.
The Lindsay’s micro-psychedelic masterpiece, Dragged Out, was quickly regarded as one of the finest homegrown records Columbus had heard in a long stretch of time. The stars seemed to start aligning for the fairly unassuming quartet – they had a stunning debut, a searing live show, and a label that appeared to be doing things right. I don’t know all the facts as to why Man Up dissolved, but it did, and with that, slowly it felt the Lindsay were crumbling molecule by molecule. Nothing happened. The logical next step was to get the rights to Dragged Out (as it will likely be reissued years from now as a one-off classic – damn, someone needs to press it on vinyl immediately, but I’ve been screaming that from the beginning) and tour, record, tour, record, release delectable sophomore album to critical acclaim and crowds across the country. Nothing happened. Sure, the band would play the occasional live show, and the songs from Dragged Out stood the test of time, survived on the stage past expiration, which is indicative of the group’s dedication to playing and the quality of their hooks. But truly, nothing was happening. They were the one band in town that didn’t seem to hew close to the burgeoning lo-fi movement who were actually worth venturing out to see (but also wholly embraced by the TNV/PHS/CDR/BOBO mafia). So it was almost depressing, at least extremely frustrating, to see it all squandered away.
Nearly three years later we get an explanation in the form of Syrup Bag. In that time the Lindsay have, for better or for worse, become a staple in the bars – no real progress when it comes to topping the tunes on Dragged Out, but raging in synchronicity and genuine energy. When I first heard about the Syrup Bag release show, I was already underwhelmed, thinking maybe it was a joke as the band is known to have an acerbic wit about them. But in seeing them on stage for the first time in months and subsequently going straight home to hear the seven songs that make up Syrup Bag – I realized they have been growing. Not exactly sure if they’re growing in revolt of their recent stasis, or if the growth is borne of anger and indifference – but this was certainly not expected.
The first thing you’ll notice is that Syrup Bag sounds as if it’s come from directly off the stage. Gone are all the effects and extra layers that glazed Dragged Out – intricacies that lent the songs an aura befitting the album cover’s paisley wonder illustration. But that’s fine when a scorcher like “Change My Oil” and “Thurston Moore Sez” piles on the guitar squalor till there’s little room to breath. The similarities to Sonic Youth continue unabated and unashamed. Just check out that last title, they’ve got a god and they’re going to use him – more like abuse him. I actually think what the Lindsay crib from Sonic Youth they put to great use. The lead “It’s Not Easy” is just as ferocious as anything on Daydream Nation, cut with the melodic sensibilities SY has found in recent years. I’m just imagining guitarists John Olexovitch and Tom Schmidt as a Moore/Renaldo destructo unit twenty years younger, with plenty more fire in their souls and hooks in their head. I may be in the minority here, but I never thought SY had that many hooks – intriguing atonal intangibles and hipster ooze sure, but hooks? No.
Look, this isn’t a competition, but right now I can’t hum you one song from this year’s Eternal LP. The seven songs from Syrup Bag? Won’t leave. I suppose it’s that the Lindsay add everything to their angular thrash that I’d wished Thurston Moore would add. Plus the Lindsay have that worn-in, homegrown, humility to them. That’s especially with bassist Gretchen Tepper bobbing, weaving, and shouting through all the boyz noise. She’s somewhat the Flavor Flav joy to Olexovitch’s Chuck D glum – and packed within the words are tales about why this all took so damn long. Local meta-indie rock about the little band that could, then couldn’t get it up. Too bad the life cycle of a band is so short. The Lindsay have only been around for a little over three years and I was already prepared to write their eulogy. Thanks for changing my mind…..kids.
By the way…..you can fetch the entire Syrup Bag digitally, right here.
