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TREY ANASTASIO: PLASMA (Elektra)
In the end, it’s all about “Inner Tube,” a studio/concert hybrid composition that changes pace frenetically over 22 minutes. Phish honcho Trey Anastasio and his nine-piece orchestra have thrown together a crazy enough bouillabaisse in “Inner Tube” to beat Medeski Martin and Wood at their own jazz-funk-electronica game.
If it weren’t stashed near the end of the second disc of the double-live release Plasma, “Inner Tube” might have even had the chance to preach to someone other than the jam-band choir. Since the whole point of Plasma is to hit you with the highlights of Anastasio’s solo work in 2002—the other tracks come from various concert and soundcheck performances—“Inner Tube” really cuts to the chase in one sense with its cut-andpasted style, though in the more literal sense, it takes over 20 minutes to cut to the chase.
While Phish has done well simply to maintain their exploratory mojo since their hiatus ended in December, Anastasio’s solo progress has richly rewarded anyone who’s been paying attention. Compare the Plasmaversion of the Cubanboppy “Mozambique” to one from just a year earlier: Anastasio has fleshed out the horn section’s role and added extra sections with more nuances in tone, energy, and volume. Plasma is really just a benchmark in the ongoing development of the sounds in Anastasio’s head.
The biggest drawback to Plasma is also the
most obvious: there’s no visual aspect. Anastasio is a joy to watch onstage, using all kinds of sign language to direct his players (a keyboardist, percussionist, drummer, bassist, and five horn blowers). It’s one thing to listen to the lengthy jam in “Night Speaks to a Woman” and dismiss it as self-indulgent noodling, but it’s something else to realize that virtually every twist and turn comes on the spur of the moment from Anastasio’s direction. That’s self-indulgence on a whole ’nother level, but infinitely more engrossing, too.
As with all worthwhile works of improvisation, there are the inevitable missteps: “First Tube” and “Sand” pale in comparison to their Phish incarnations, and no matter what your fancy, Anastasio’s spotlight-hogging guitar style can wear thin after two hours. That’s why the instrumental arrangements of Bob Marley’s “Small Axe” and Phish’s “Magilla” make Plasma a winner by themselves: they’re short and understated, a most welcome change of pace. When Anastasio does take his hands off the guitar for even a few moments, the focus shifts to his songwriting and compositional skills. That shift is becoming more and more welcome as the years go by. —Taylor Upchurch
ARAB STRAP: MONDAY AT THE HUG & PINT (Matador)
It would be bad form to write off Arab Strap as just another musical export in the so-called Scottish invasion. Like their cohorts Mogwai and Belle & Sebastian, they write lyrical, melodycharged pop songs with tongue firmly in cheek, although the Straps are a bit more mischievous.
Malcolm Middleton and Aiden Moffat are crafty buggers.
After seven years, they are misanthropic storytellers with no shame. Many of their lyrics center around the world of relationships: good, bad, and disastrous. They also write about drug hazes, gloom, and Scottish locales. They throw it all at you: cellos, bagpipes, distorted beats, doors slamming, and floods of tears. This is especially true with their new CD, Monday at the Hug & Pint. Named after a pub in their native Falkirk, the disc melds all of these things into a well-crafted, but sometimes non-contiguous, unit.
The album attempts to create the pub feeling. You enter on a euphoria, then you drink, think, drink, mingle, talk, mingle, and drink some more. Somewhere along the line, you’re at the barstool being sad and miserable, but still reveling in it all. Arab Strap have made a record that is lyrically frank. They are honest and on point. However, after a few rounds, they begin to spiral into sadness and decay as they banter on about bastards and evil women.
“The Shy Retirer” encapsulates the euphoria and is a brilliant beginning to the album. It features a beat that slashes calmly along, melded with great hooks and lyrics. “Meanwhile at the Bar, a Drunkard Muses” is tinged with darkness; it has dark lyrics and weeping melodies as a backdrop. “There are rules to follow,/just a big black gaping hollow.” That about sums up the dreariness here. “Loch Leven” is introduced by a nicely distorted bagpipe solo. The song itself is a
homage to the loch in Falkirk, draped in the hopes and aspirations of dealing with somebody. “Flirt” is also one of the album’s best moments.
This also is a record that is honest, genuine, and real. Arab Strap are heartfelt songsters with an uncanny knack for making great hooks. This is most evident with “Glue” and “Act Of War,” two really solid tracks that, along with “The Shy Retirer,” may be the best on the record.
Arab Strap never craft the same song twice. But they have made another record with no rules or boundaries. They are captivating because they don’t care; they are relevant because they simply wear emotions on their sleeves. Stylistically, they have always been all over the place. This is OK, though, because they craft exhilarating pop. They devise great songs out of twisted lives and bitterness.
Arab Strap are not for everyone. You have to be down on your luck to really appreciate them, as they wallow in sadness. However, when they break out of it, it is joyous. Hug & Pintoffers sentimentality, irony, melancholy, and hope amid all of its muddled sounds and diverse melodies. —Rob Levy
BLUE OCTOBER: HISTORY FOR SALE (Rainmaker)
“The rain always brings our heroes.”
Leave it to Justin Furstenfeld to write the nontraditional love song. From his lyrics, you quickly understand him to be a man who’s seen despair and self-destruction, who continues to battle his demons—yet who rejoices in the sunshine, the beauty of life.
With Blue October’s History for Sale, Furstenfeld gives us just that: a glimpse into his past, into the depths of his memories, for the price of a CD—and he’s selling himself short at that. History is the Texas quintet’s third album, their first since the underpromoted effort at Universal, 2001’s Consent to Treatment. And there’s so much to this disc: even aside from the tough, poetic lyrics—more than worth the price of admission alone, in my book—there’s a tremendous pop sensibility, a flow between 12 songs that will burrow into your heart and take
up residence. Lush instrumentation abounds, as well, aided by C.B. Hudson’s carefully plucked guitar and Ryan Delahoussaye’s polished and piercing stringwork.
Opening the disc is “Ugly Side,” a beautiful, string-drenched love song in which Furstenfeld yearns to show his betrothed only his good side. His voice is absolutely dreamy as he croons, “I’m in between the moon and where you are.” “Clumsy Card House” is backed by light, playful guitar and drums (the latter courtesy of Justin’s younger brother, Jeremy; incidentally, the CD booklet is littered with photos of the Furstenfelds as children—truly, history for sale). This song truly highlights Furstenfeld’s range and command of his voice; his voice truly soars as he admits, “Here I am standing up/to say I want to fall in love…” “Calling You” is another delicate song of love, a single ready to happen with its singalong-ability: “I will keep calling you to see/If you’re sleeping or you’re dreaming/If you’re dreaming, are you dreaming of me?”
Mandolin, strings, and a soft beat define “A Quiet Mind,” as Furstenfeld shows his hand and his heart’s desires. “Still hearing voices…from front…from behind/They’re the reason I choose…when to live…how to die,” he admits, wanting only to quiet those voices and still his mind. Blink and you’ll miss “3 Weeks, She Sleeps,” a gorgeous duet with Furstenfeld singing lead and Delahoussaye background; the strings start slow and then swell, adding simple Irish influence to the song.
“Inner Glow” is Furstenfeld’s credo: it’s him embracing life, affirming his individuality and the importance of us each singing our own song. You’ll be singing along by the end: “Yeah, we only want to sing when we want to./Yeah, we only want a dream we can flaunt to./Yeah, we only want to fly by the side, making love to the rhythm, be a Jeckyl and a Hyde.” “Come in Closer,” while a beautiful song in and of itself, is the one that just doesn’t seem to fit; there’s too much soul, too much pop. Still, it succeeds in showing the diversity and skill of Blue October, as Furstenfeld’s dreamy, screamy voice somehow fills with soul, backed by the smooth vocals of Zayra.
As fully as Furstenfeld embraces his vulnerability to love and life, he just as completely shows us his ugly side, as on “Razorblade.” As it should be, the music is harsher, louder, more in-yourface along with the message; sounds of struggle climax at the end with Furstenfeld’s shouts. On “Chameleon Boy,” the message is one of internal struggle; Delahoussaye’s violin weeps softly as Furstenfeld meekly asks for help as he laments his ever-changing façade: “Is this the chameleon boy I swore I wouldn’t become?” The next song, “Sexual Powertrip,” is just that: an admission of becoming a monster to get what he wants. “Don’t trust my words when I’m in bed with you,” Furstenfeld warns. “Yeah, you opened your legs and maybe I promised you…/You didn’t notice that my ankles were crossed.” “Somebody” is pure retribution, as Furstenfeld vents his anger against undeserving authority.
The most painfully beautiful song is saved for last. It opens with a bleak, simple guitar and Furstenfeld asking in disbelief, “How am I supposed to breathe?” As he does on so many other tracks, Furstenfeld backs himself vocally; because of “Amazing”’s sparseness, it’s stronger on this song, somehow making it seem even continued on next page
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more isolated.
“You can’t know…yet you have to know.”
Don’t misunderstand; truly, Justin Furstenfeld is the defining force in Blue October, with his intensely personal and opinionated lyrics and his beautiful voice, alternating between the stuff that dreams are made on and all that goes into your nightmares. But the rest of the band are accomplished musicians and songwriters, as well, and they play with a cohesion and a passion that is too often lacking in other groups. If the band’s first two discs were breathtakingly talented, History for Sale is nothing short of a masterpiece, as close to perfect as an admittedly imperfect man like Justin Furstenfeld can get.
Blue October have just announced they’ve resigned with Universal Records. Look for a Universal/Brando release of History for Sale August 5; until then, the CD is available from the band’s Web site (www.blueoctober.com) or direct from Brando Records (www.brandorecords.com). —Laura Hamlett
BLUR: THINK TANK (Virgin)
When a jumbo greatest hits album comes out (as with The Best of Blurin 2000), nothing good will come of it. Bands do this for one reason: they have reached a critical juncture and have nothing left in the gas tank but some fumes. Damon Albarn, Blur’s lead singer, reaffirmed it by spending gobs of time in Mali and then helping to launch Gorillaz on an unsuspecting planet. The band’s hurt feelings finally surfaced with the departure of founding member Graham Coxon. Blur recorded what eventually became Think Tank with the aid of studio musicians, then enlisted ex-Verve Simon Tong for their live show. (Recently, NMEreported that Albarn said Coxon’s departure will not be permanent.) All of this did not make for the best atmosphere to record their first new album in four years.
Think Tank delivers, though. It rethinks the sound that is Blur and is more dependent on Albarn’s vocals, heavier production, and a few
gimmicks that a band of this stature doesn’t really need. For the most part, though, it is the sound of a band with their eyes open, ready for action.
The album appears to have a clearer demarcation between the manic and the somber Blur than previous releases. There are sweet, almost melancholy songs, like “Good Song” (rumored to have been written by Coxon), and “Sweet Song.” The brooding “Ambulance” is a haunting song which brilliantly builds into this album’s sweetest number, “Out of Time.” Like several of the other really good songs on the disc, it crafts an airy, almost melancholy mood, fitting nicely with the quality of Albarn’s voice. He sounds a bit like a weary rock ’n’ roller with lyrics that lament life in the spotlight: “I’m a darkened soul,/My streets all pop music and gold,/Our lives are on TV,/You switch off and try to sleep,/People get so lonely.” Perhaps it comes from a realization that Blur is now officially an aging band, having been together 13 years.
The fast and funky songs are all words on a jag on Think Tank. They include the Fat Boy Slim–coproduced “Crazy Beat,” which is a bit irritating. The truly noxious, synthesized Damon voice wasn’t very cool in the ’70s and should not be allowed out of the box now. Much better is “Brothers and Sisters,” in which Albarn recites a list of drugs and their users. Perhaps this is his call for addiction recovery (though in “Crazy,” he is offering the president Ecstasy). “Brothers” is truly one of the best songs the band has done in years, heavy on Albarn and the funky beat. If the band had reached back into its bag of tricks in an attempt to re-create previous successes, “We’ve Got a File on You” would certainly be “Song 2” all over again. However, clocking in at just 1:01, it is an awful lot of fun, so who can deny them the opportunity?
Think Tank finds Blur with a fresh start. They are a band that can still rock, but they are also growing into their maturity with some dignity. Bands at this point can go off and try reliving their earlier years, or they can mine their skill and depth. I am hoping for the latter. Blur is a band
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with substantial talent and should not sell themselves short for only a hit or two more…that’s what the greatest hits disc was for. —Jim Dunn
B OOMKAT: BOOMKATALOG ONE (Dreamworks)
I’m worried about Kellin Manning, the beat maker and brother, from brother-sister duo Boomkat. Taryn, the sister and singer, has a day job to fall back on when the siblings are—and for the love of ears should be—told not to quit their day jobs. Taryn Manning is an actress, and though I missed Crossroads, White Oleander, and Crazy/ Beautiful, the 45 seconds she was in 8 Mile was enough to prove acting rather than singing. Quite honestly, she should pursue anything rather than singing; her grating vocals sound like an 11-year-old Gwen Stefani whining for her mother to buy her some checkered Vans.
But back to my concern for Kellin; the poor fellow doesn’t appear to be able to hold a job. Reading the sordid Behind the Music–like press bio reveals the suffering of this troubled soul’s past. While Taryn was excelling at dance, Kellin was put on academic probation. It gets devastatingly worse, Kellin confides: “I’d gotten fired from three jobs.” That tragic story makes me pour out some of a 40 oz. for the homie’s lost jobs. As tough as it is to criticize music spawned from such emotional wreckage, I will still try.
The music on Boomkatalog One runs the gamut from used bubble gum hip-hop to electrofunk lite to uninspired pop minus the hooks that make pop enjoyable. If you don’t turn the CD off when the singing begins, you will hear the lyrics co-written by the siblings. Bad vocals can sometimes be overlooked if they are singing quality lyrics (Jello Biafra or Bob Dylan, for example),
