New Music Reviews................................Staff

New Music Reviews

Pond - Man It Feels Like Space Again

by Cyrus Deloye Whenever I recommend Pond to my friends, I invariably find myself with the slippery task of explaining how this group is different from Tame Impala. In every practical sense, Pond = Live Tame Impala - Kevin Parker. So what does Pond leave us with? Let’s talk about their latest release, Man It Feels Like Space Again. The first track begins with a minute-long introduction featuring synths that sound like violins being played in the radioactive light of a UFO’s tractor beam and vocals that were left out in the sun to bake, desperate and thirsty. This melodramatic beginning sets a goofy tone that the rest of the album actually embraces. With track titles like “Heroic Shart” and “Medicine Hat,” it takes quite a stretch of the imagination to guess what these songs might sound like before listening. Unfortunately, these might be the two weakest songs on the album. In “Heroic Shart,” the endless fuzz is overbearing, and it obscures anything interesting about the structure of the song. To be sure, there isn’t much going on structurally in the first place. My mind conjures images of stomping through a decrepit graveyard on mind-numbing painkillers, haunted by mutant killer squirrels and stifled by filthy air. I might also suggest that “Shart” is a lazy knock-off of Halcyon Digest-era Deerhunter. “Medicine Hat” itself isn’t so bad, but it’s slow and they throw it at the end of the album, leaving the listener in a more subdued state than a Pond album should. I will admit, however, that arguably the best two minutes of music appears in the final song on the album, between 3:15 and 5:30 minutes. If you listen to this section of the title track and stare at the album cover, you will gather a sense of cohesion that might not have been apparent before. In much the same way Tame Impala does, Pond recalls a 1960s consciousness of the corporate-industrial complex taking over, and they are just trying to add a bit of color to your end-of-the-world get-together. Fortunately, the over-the-topness of this record seems to temper the balance between form and message. Perhaps Pond has discovered what is fundamentally goofy about psychedelic rock, and they are now working to perfect it. In any case, they seem to be very self-aware of how they go about their business. Don’t bother sending them your complaints.

Jessica Pratt - On Your Own Love Again

by Jackson Hudgins Jessica Pratt writes nimble, circular songs that are probably as good as any that will ever be released in this vein. Not to be unrealistically hyperbolic, but she is Karen Dalton good and writes her own songs. It is music for the windows and fire escapes of brick buildings that look onto alleyways. It’s also winter music in general. The recordings are intimate. Tape hiss pervades. Comparisons to late ‘60s female folk singers are unavoidable. Slight turns of phrase and little idiosyncratic pronunciations writhe around in your head until you’re saying can’t like “ke-ynt” in a hushed, high pitched voice over and over while you eat dinner alone. Pratt possesses the melodic experimentalism of Joanna Newsom (which is to say the melodic experimentalism of Van Dyke Parks) but shuns theatricality in favor of a soulful naturalism that invokes Karen Dalton and Joan Baez, among the others. Her vocal range is astounding and almost comical if deployed all at once. The truth is that she has access to a very special American something; something you only hear in the music of someone like John Fahey or Randy Newman (although Robert Wyatt has it?). It’s a synthesis, a refraction of history, and it’s also a very specific feeling. Listen to “Poor Boy A Long Way From Home” by Fahey and then “I’ve Got A Feeling” off of this album and you will know what I mean. Anyway, if that seems insular, what I mean to say is that people will be listening to this album for the next 50 years and it will always sound like what it sounds like right now: inevitable, timeless, peculiar.

Mount Eerie - Sauna

by Lucas Rossi A few days ago, I went over to Central Park, dropped facedown in the snow, and listened to the entirety of the album Sauna by the band Mount Eerie. I didn’t have my headphones with me or any sort of digital music player or any sort of analog music player, but that didn’t really matter. The warmth in my throat hummed up like an organ; the roughness of the snow on my face made my blood pound like drums; the alternating whisper and roar of the wind brushed by my ears like nylon strings or distorted noise. The world outside was cold, but there was music in the hot, safe, damp room of my brain. Sauna is the latest collection of musical utterances by Anacortes, Washington-based artist Phil Elverum, a folk-based composer operating in the experimental, lo-fi, and DIY modes. Sauna touches on almost all of the important Elverum sonic modes, fleshing out an impressive array of styles that matches and at times even exceeds the diversity on Elverum’s most celebrated releases (namely The Glow Pt. 2 by The Microphones from 2001). It’s got soothing, acoustic folk tracks (“Dragon”), super-distorted lo-fi rock jams (“Boat”), emotive, atmospheric drone epics (“Sauna”), in addition to some deft blending of these styles and a number of new touches and expected doses of experimentation that keep the record from simply treading old ground. It is one of Elverum’s most complete collections of sounds since those earlier releases and remains compelling throughout, though it certainly does take its time in building mood. The other half of the Sauna equation is Elverum’s lyrical contribution. Elverum is possibly at his best here, funneling simple and, at times, mundane observations of the natural and manmade world through a thoughtful, philosophical filter. This is one of those rare music releases where the lyrics hold up all by themselves as legitimately good pieces of writing. Most importantly, Sauna stays faithful to that pervasive Phil Elverum mystique and aesthetic that defines all of his creative projects, from music to visual art to writing. It treasures the daily walks down the road to the gas station, coldness and electric heat. It stops to think about the whimper of wind, the smashed pumpkin shell on the rocks by the water. It sees the mind as a warm, steam-filled room huddled in the snow drifts. It is meant to be carried around like a small fire.

Charli XCX - SUCKER

by Bobby Volpendesta I’m going to make this review as simple, totally vague, and easy to digest as possible. Charli XCX is hip. Charli XCX is cool. Charli XCX does not fuck around. Like True Romance except improved in every way, Sucker (stylized as SUCKER, you FUCKER), the latest in XCX’s postmodern juice-box pop repertoire, is just fucking epic. Predictably enough, Charli is joined by a literal greatest hits collection of producers, with familiar faces such as Rostam Batmanglij (because of course they’re best friends) and Rivers Cuomo (because WHY THE FUCK NOT) “taking the reins on this one,” to invoke a lame fucking cliché that I’m not even sure exists. I hate to say it, but there’s something to be said about this weird fucking musical “all-but-era” we live in right now. Even as most genres sort of die and become shitty off-brand satirical caricatures of themselves without possessing the self-awareness to notice, pop (pure fucking patriarchal tittie-twisting load-blowing top-40-ass pop) is thriving AS FUCK right now for whatever reason. It might be the irony - the classic “I don’t even notice I’m being ironic” mentality that is usually loathe-worthy unless done by people who are smart (whom, while I admittedly still hate, I also immensely envy and respect) - that makes this otherwise “sheeplike” music so damn musical. Look at the way Charli responds to accusations of “selling out” via Twitter. I don’t remember what she said, but it was something along the lines of “FUCKKKKK YOU” or some other cool bullshit. Call it kitschy or even camp if you will. But honestly, it’s not ironic. It’s P0NX. And being p0nx in spirit will never be lame. My only gripe? Where the fuck is Ariel Rechtshaid? That’s literally it. Charli, I love you. Marry me, Charli. 5

Juan Wauters & Carmelle - Wearing Leather, Wearing Fur

by Gisell Calderón Wearing Leather, Wearing Fur is a 13-minute EP featuring Uruguayan-born musician Juan Wauters and long-time collaborator Carmelle. A departure from Wauters’ insanely cool garage-folk band, The Beets, this collaboration is a quieter musical project, where a series of duets seamlessly flow together to create one composition on sincerity and insecurity. In this internal monologue of an EP, the two clamber through themes of honesty and external identity, creating one of the most honest works I’ve heard in a while. The EP begins confrontationally (“Hey what’s all that powder on your face? / Did you think that it would slow down the pace of your age? / Here’s some soap and water - wash it off!) but melts into a defeated introspection (“Don’t want to slowly give in / And lonely living, a world that is not mine”). The two prod notions of growing up but conclude that they would “rather go down / Keep on bound to lose.” Their clumsy voices are endearingly inelegant, a trait that elevates the candor of the piece, but may turn some people away. Their simplicity, however, is poignant, frank, and conjures a feeling of loneliness: something Wauters is not unfamiliar with. Just over a decade ago, Wauters left Uruguay to join his father in Queens, New York, where the two worked in factories and pooled money in hopes of bringing over the rest of their family. An outsider wishing for distraction, Wauters turned to music and quickly made a name for himself with a fusion of gritty garage rock and folk stylings. In WLWF, these international musicians ironically utilize simple folk melodies tinged with rock & roll tendencies - two of the most iconic American musical styles - to illuminate the world of the outsider. It is hard to say whether or not the EP is a musical feat for the two; however, it is definitely a journey worth listening to. by A Noah Harrison Last month, Calgary-based Viet Cong submitted their second, self-titled album to the growing throng of more imaginative projects we might describe as punk. Think Thee Oh Sees or Ought. The album takes distinct cues from early-’80s No Wave, unapologetically harsh, but also from drone music of the last decades. While at times Viet Cong may come across as derivative, the band is undoubtedly considerate of the diverse influence it draws. Bands that may come to mind include The Velvet Underground, This Heat, The Cure, or Echo and the Bunnymen for their gothic touch. But fuck the comparisons. The record kicks off with “Newspaper Spoons,” a track that includes thunderous percussion and off-to-war chanting. Eventually, the clouds part to reveal a delicate, repeated synth line that subsumes the incessant pounding. The highlight, “March of Progress,” begins with a post-y, GY!BE-like atmosphere, but halfway through the six-minute track, the vocals arrive, turning the whole thing into a baroque pop number. Viet Cong is a lean album: 7 songs, 38 minutes. Its tone is one of desolation and suffocation, an acceptance of gravity and inertia. The lyrics do not present a call to action or a challenge to the status quo; they add to the bleakness, intent on keeping the listener close. Often uttered in second person, they resolve to send us on a distinctly personal trek through the marsh. That said, the vocals have a tendency to become oppressive (in a bad way), compounded by singer Matt Flegel’s limited use of vocal range. And the frequency of double-tracking feels more like a crutch than a textural choice. The production style is noteworthy - its lo-fi aesthetic enshrouded in technical precision of timbre and timing. Cong’s stereophonic trickery - constant panning across channels, abrupt instrument entrances and exits - is meant to crush your pristine body and compact it into a cube of twisted metal. The album closes with the eleven-minute “Death,” a reflection on the passing of Christopher Reimer, guitarist of Flegel’s and drummer Mike Wallace’s former band, Women. With ostensible aspirations to be Viet Cong’s “Sister Ray,” the picaresque song ultimately lacks the sense of climax I would expect from such a heavy (in all senses) album. Despite its colossal peaks, the whole structure feels off and could use some rearranging for maximum impact. Ultimately, Viet Cong demonstrates a great knack for building tension and layering sonic elements, and they’ve got great riffs to boot. These musicians possess the uncanny power to jam out, space out, and pulverize the living shit out of you. Rating: Four Whole John Cales

Viet Cong - Viet Cong