Joseph's Picks Of The Week 4/29/11 - Mogwai and N.W.A.

The biggest impulse behind my budding interest in jazz was simply an unquenchable curiosity for new sounds. But a smaller additional factor did relate to my growing impatience with the supremacy of vocal music. Singing was quite simply every freaking place I cocked an ear, and it was very often the weakest element in the overall equation. The dominance of music with vocalists delivering lyrics is very much a phenomenon of the last century, but it seems to me that it really didn’t assert itself into borderline tyranny until the 1960s, when jazz and classical lost their status as viable commercial forms and slowly became the passion of dedicated specialists. Early rock had a fine tradition of instrumental bands, many of them scoring memorable chart hits, Booker T & the MGs and the Surfaris among them, but as the form gained widespread acceptance this reality largely subsided, with bands mostly celebrated for their instrumental prowess utilizing vocals as an integral part of their attack, The Jimi Hendrix Experience and especially The Grateful Dead being just two examples. Instrumental rock became the playground for serious heads, an often experimental zone that hung out on the fringes of the genre. Brian Eno, maybe the most celebrated instrumental musician to grow from rock’s fertile soil, essentially divorced himself from the style and entered a neighborhood that was roughly equal to if stylistically distinct from the avant-classical work of Phillip Glass and Steve Reich. But there never ceased to be strong pockets of instrumental activity taking place, and the emergence of post-rock in the ‘90s saw a real uptick in well-conceived non-vocal action, much of it informed by the precedent of Krautrock or modal jazz. The work of Mogwai falls somewhat to the Germanic side of the post-rock spectrum, though that’s by no means the appropriate way to describe the way in which they excel. And it should be noted that the band do occasionally employ the human voice into their creative landscape, often from found or pre-recorded sources but also sometimes via guest vocalists or even from the band members themselves. Rather than taking a hard-line stance against the voice, they were instead just refusing to be hamstringed into reshaping their collective ideas around this one aspect, electing for the freedom to choose how to build each individual piece instead of forcing each tune to fit the same template, an avenue that I frankly wish more bands would employ. Early on Mogwai were a bit saddled with their similarity to the legendary Lexington KY band Slint, and while this comparison wasn’t off the mark it often ignored the fact that other influences did rise out of the mix; a bit of Godspeed You! Black Emperor or Sonic Youth here, some My Bloody Valentine or Fugazi there, and as the albums and EPs stacked up there was an increasing frequency of instances that couldn’t really be tagged as anything other than Mogwai. And while I was once perfectly comfortable describing them as a guitar band, as they’ve grown it’s getting much harder to accurately make that claim. Keyboards and synthesizers were always there, but they gradually became far more central to the scheme of things, a progression that really started to become overt to my ears with their 2003 release HAPPY SONGS FOR HAPPY PEOPLE. It’s not that the guitar playing slackened or lost importance, it’s just that the weapons in the group’s quiver were more consistently interweaved. This mode of operation is still very much in evidence on their excellent new one, the nicely titled HARDCORE WILL NEVER DIE, BUT YOU WILL, the band’s first for the Sub Pop label. While Mogwai are predominantly about the architecture of soundscapes and the shifting of dynamics, they can at times also be quite crafty at mixing in bits of concise, almost traditional melodic songwriting. One of the first things that really grabbed me on HARDCORE was “Death Rays”, an extremely pretty six minute tune that alternates between solid contemplative keyboard work and waves of bombastic release. It flies by quite quickly, feeling like half its actual time and it’s hard to not imagine it edited down and adjusted into an environment more in touch with mainstream sensibilities. This hypothetical disinterest in sweetening the stew for a potential wider audience says much about Mogwai’s attitude regarding their established musical goals. Elsewhere they wade into less travelled waters. “Mexican Grand Prix” engages with Krautrock tradition and ends up in the ballpark of a more aggressive Stereolab. “San Pedro” is a very direct mid-tempo rocker, very unusual for them, so unlike their other material that if tested in a game of Guess The Band by a catty associate I’d certainly have been stumped. “George Square Thatcher Death Party”’s aggressive bass feels like late-‘80s indie rock, the keyboards and effect-laden vocals unabashedly recall the new wave, and the grouchy guitar holds these opposing sides together like wallpaper glue.  “How To Be a Werewolf” hits all sorts of unlikely spots, percolating a bit like long-and-sadly-gone fellow Brits Ganger before a cascade of guitars heads into almost Wedding Present (!) territory and from there launches into a flurry of very atypical, nearly Mascis-like soloing. Holy smokes. The other cuts simply radiate like Mogwai, a band that’s running up on fifteen years of existence with nary a trace of fatigue. I didn’t really start getting into their stuff in earnest until roughly two years ago, so I’m still too fresh to really pick a favorite. But I don’t know if the concept of personal faves is really conducive to their discography. Their development has been spread so well across the LPs and the general quality realized on such an even keel that it almost feels like each album is a natural extension of those before or after, one long sequence with an equality of rewards across the whole span (this shouldn’t be read as the records sounding the same. This album and 2008’s THE HAWK IS HOWLING are markedly different). So for a person curious about Mogwai’s achievement, HARDCORE WILL NEVER DIE, BUT YOU WILL is as fine an entry point as any and it comes with the satisfaction that there is much more from whence it originates. How bonus.



By the time I first heard N.W.A.’s STRAIGHT OUTTA COMPTON, I was already a hip-hop convert. That didn’t really prepare me for the unbridled onslaught of the record, though. While there was already precedent for the gangsta rap style, notably Schoolly D and Boogie Down Productions’ essential CRIMINAL MINDED, it was COMPTON that really put the form on the map, taking obscenity drenched street anger to the well-scrubbed suburbs where masses of young minds were positively starved for something raw, unstable and ideologically dangerous. It was 1988. The end of the horrid beast that was the Reagan-era, but it sadly looked like nothing new was under the sun. Up to that point, I was severely under the sway of much of the Def Jam roster, Public Enemy in particular, in addition to the smooth science of Eric B and Rakim, Biz Markie’s inspired pranksterism, and assorted cuts from such worthies as Rob Base and DJ Easy Roc and Tone-Loc (I maintain that “Wild Thing” is one of the ’80s best singles). Rap was past its embryonic stage and had spread nationwide due in large part to Run DMC and LL Cool J, but it was still very much about studied, casual braggadocio and the intricate science of rocking the party. Public Enemy’s masterful second album erupted with anger and introduced a new wrinkle into the hip-hop spectrum, but it was cloaked in righteousness and an intellectual sensibility, and Rick Rubin’s comment that it was like black punk rock was very much on the money. N.W.A. differed wildly in their approach, documenting and exalting the grim circumstance of ghetto life with no apologies. They also differed musically from PE’s shrill, razor sharp, siren laden atmosphere, which while hard as nails was also very dexterous and complex. Instead, STRAIGHT OUTTA COMPTON’s driving, sample-heavy tactic eschewed subtlety in favor of a blunt attack that was like being hit with a rhythmic barrage of fists. The cumulative effect resulted in an explosion that’s still being felt to this day. Extremely controversial, particularly with alarmist types, N.W.A helped usher in a shift in the mainstream miscomprehension of hip-hop, which for many was disdained but tolerated as a lingering fad. Folks generally confused or annoyed by the music could now act scared. Parents disliked The Beastie Boys because they paraded around like ill-behaved cretins. N.W.A made them afraid they’d come home to find Ice Cube with an Uzi forcing their daughter to smoke a bag full of crack. And this points to one of COMPTON’s deepest, most effective elements. It exposed and exploited the unease of a large segment of the populace, taking a big hunk of urban reality and then turning it on its head to produce a caustic theatre of those people’s worst fears/fantasies. They sell drugs. They rob and kill people. They mistreat women. Actually, they’re a group of musicians, and they survived the harsh environment of their city to create an album that shed much light not only on the circumstances of their difficult background but also on the divide of class and race in the late ‘80s and the repugnant nature of many people’s misconceptions. Of course, this mingling of reality and perception is curiously in the largely cinematic tradition of Americans rooting for the bad guy: Bonnie & Clyde, the Corleone Family, pick yr favorite Scarface (mine’s Paul Muni). And it also just happens to sound great when bumping from overtaxed speakers while driving around on an aimless Saturday night. Just don’t let the fuzz pull you over while blasting “Fuck the Police”. If vulgarities directed at law enforcement worries you, well don’t let it. This sort of thing happens a lot. Hell, if I had a buck for every time someone spit a blue streak of expletives over the cops handing them a ticket, I’d go buy my own country. N.W.A. just got it down on tape, adding another song to the long list of anti-authoritarian classics. The double-LP 20th Anniversary Edition of STRAIGHT OUTTA COMPTON is a fine thing to hear, featuring a whole slab of bonus tracks and remixes, and any serious hip-hop collection basically requires it. Right from the massive opening title track the course is set, Dr. Dre and DJ Yella scientifically crafting the sound and Ice Cube, MC Ren and Easy E talking vast mouthfuls of smack like the stuff was going extinct. It stands as a scathing, vital document of its period, and while its relevance has shifted, its quality remains solidly intact.

Joseph's Picks Of The Week 4/22/11 - Glenn Jones/The Black Twig Pickers with Charlie Parr and Big Black

One of the happiest surprises to manifest itself in vinyl form on this recently passed Record Store Day is the split LP featuring the guitar talents of Glenn Jones and the grand Old Time shadings of Virginia’s own Black Twig Pickers in collaboration with Piedmont-style country blues specialist Charlie Parr. This lovingly crafted disc sheds a wealth of illumination upon the deep allure of various North American root forms that continue to provide valuable insight and inspiration for all sorts of contemporary players, essentially the spark that’s spurred an inexhaustible fire, and the only reason I can formulate as to why the Jones/Twig LP survived the consumer plunder of Record Store Day is simply lack of name recognition. So let me get right down to rectifying that situation. Glenn Jones burst onto the underground music scene way back in 1989 as a member of the amazing New England avant-garage group Cul de Sac. That band majestically weaved an assortment of disparate out-rock influences (Pere Ubu, Can, Neu!, Girls, Tim Buckley) into a discerning and uncompromising blend that stretched out over the landscape of nine albums, including two that were collabs with such formidable figures as the late John Fahey and Can’s Damo Suzuki. This bit of background is especially noteworthy in the case of Fahey, for his groundbreaking and frequently dazzling American Primitive guitar work is a huge influence on Jones’ own exceptional guitar style, and the vast yawp of Fahey’s Takoma Records roster (Leo Kottke, Robbie Basho. Peter Lang, Max Ochs, Harry Taussig) has been the center of affairs for Jones’ upstart solo work. While there are numerous worthy disciples to the American Primitive tradition picking and plundering all over the globe, Steffen Basho-Junghans, James Blackshaw and Sir Richard Bishop among them, the loss of Jack Rose to a heart attack in 2009 sort of left this micro movement without a clear leader. By the evidence on Jones’ side of this split, it’s looking like he’s stepping up to the head of the class. Titled EVEN TO WIN IS TO FAIL, its mixture of guitar and banjo instrumentals finds him simultaneously deep in the throes of American Primitive science and at the forefront of the style’s endless possibilities, extending them well beyond the present. The opener “Anchor Chain Blues” is so indebted to the gorgeous luminosity of Fahey’s early work that it would easily be mistaken for the maestro himself in a blindfold test. If this was the full extent of Jones’ exploration here, he’d be valued as a particularly inspired and adept copyist but not much more. Thankfully, this powerful channeling of Fahey’s exquisite gifts is instead a launching pad/ground base for some rich and multifaceted string construction. “The Great Pacific Northwest” begins as a continuation of the more contemplative side of Fahey’s youngish mode, a gesture that seems far less frequent in the new generation of American Primitive players, but by the end of the tune Jones has asserted himself into the full on post-John Hurt zone that makes all those Vanguard-era Fahey recordings so eternally rewarding. It’s on track three that the proceedings take an unlikely turn, landing smack dab in the wide open territory of a beautifully nude banjo. My first thought upon hearing this sly twist spanned all the way back to BANJO, Billy Faier’s sweet and neglected 1973 Takoma solo joint, but upon reflection this connection is only accurate in spirit. Faier’s crisp, ramshackle, rollicking style was very much about dexterity and Jones’ ruminations on the instrument are far more about mood. In this case one of sadness and melancholy. The track’s title, “On the Massachusetts Virginia Border” is I think indicative of Jones’ relationship with the Richmond-born Jack Rose and possibly serves as a tribute to that departed titans’ legacy. If I’m correct on these counts the tune’s contemplative air is an unmitigated success. And if I’m wrong, well, Jones’ artistry is strong enough to withstand the misinterpretation. Track four provides Jones’ side of the disc with its title, and it takes another fine detour, this time into realm of the steel string guitar. It’s here where Jones shines at his most original, still clearly American Primitive in outlook but reaching into largely uncharted waters. He does conjure up thoughts of Ry Cooder at his least commercially minded, but this is undoubtedly an associative leap on my part. Where many steel string new jacks are very much under the spell of the gigantic power of Son House’s stuff (the ‘60s-era work, to put a fine point on it), Jones instead utilizes the instrument for far more foreboding and personal ends. Side one’s final track “Tinka Marie” finds the banjo back in his sturdy hands, and once again it’s very much about texture. Easily the most relaxed and pretty tune of the bunch, it’s a fabulous denouement and summation of all that came before and points to the vast number of cards Jones has up his sleeve. He has a record set for release soon on Thrill Jockey and a joint DVD on deck from Strange Attractors Audio House, and my interest is seriously peaked. EASTMONT SYRUP, the Black Twig Pickers side of the disc finds us squarely in the middle of string band sensibilities, and while their seven tracks unwind that’s a fine place to be. Opener “Forky Deer” is loaded with much welcome fiddle action, but it’s the following cut, “Warming By the Devil’s Fire” that finds them really loosening up and melding with guest Parr, the whole crew throwing down a shithot batch of wound-up hunch that’s worthy of the ghost of Blind Willie McTell. The fiddle returns for the excellent if brief “Falls of Richmond” and that’s the mode that continues through the more upbeat “Horseshoe”. “Barnswallow” switches to an excellent solo turn for banjo, and “Wednesday Night Waltz” is an achy, forlorn lament, with loads of keening bow scraping to spare. Only on the final track “Death of Jerry Damron” do we get vocals courtesy of Parr, and his singing is in fine, mournful form. If it appears that I’m giving short shrift to the Twigs and Parr in comparison to Jones’ side of the disc, well that’s not at all the case. It’s just that the rich Old Time tradition of the Pickers is in far less need of deep description than the vast solo complexity of Jones. And when it comes to string band style, I’ll admit that my love of the genre finds me desiring my mustard uncut. With the exception of The New Lost City Ramblers and especially The Unholy Modal Rounders (one of my all time favorite bands of any stripe), I must fess up that any attempts at stylistic hybridization leave me chilly to downright cold. So the rough, raw textures of The Black Twig Pickers are right up my personal alley. Call me a purist if you must, but the front porch wrangling and wiggling of EASTMONT SYRUP is in no need of updating or sophistication. Just grab a jar, take a deep snort and huff. Then huff again. For it’s all right here.

In regards to the ‘80s rock underground, by this late date, only the stodgiest of moldy figs still obstinately refuse to acknowledge the importance and greatness of such bands as Black Flag, Sonic Youth, Mission of Burma and Minutemen. When it comes to the thornier presence of Big Black however, many minds are still deeply opposed to their entry in the hallowed halls of historical rock esteem. Frankly, I find this to be a very deep drag, but it’s hard to deny that the root of the unfortunate circumstance comes directly from the prickly personality of the band’s main honcho Steve Albini. Out of all the folks that populated indie rock Mk 1, Albini was easily the most confrontational, and his acerbic, abrasive attitude was matched with music that possessed an uncompromising, blunt causticity. It’s debatable just how well most of his youthful nihilism has dated, but that’s the risk of growing up in public. Albini eschewed politics and penned lyrics that were alternately obsessed with tabloid violence, lurid sexual themes, misogyny and general misanthropy, all while sauntering over the scene with the demeanor of a contemptuous, bookish smart aleck. Many people hated it (him), while others ate the whole thing up like it was a gourmet dessert. Now many urbane observers from the aboveground music press took a detached stance toward the guy’s persona, instead faulting him for crafting music of inferior quality, but in my mind that’s largely just a bunch of phony baloney, a tactic masking their disdain for his hard-line stance. For while I’ve never really had any guff with Albini’s attitude/beliefs, and in fact agree with certain aspects (particularly regarding commerce and art), it was still relatively easy to identify much of his swagger as shtick back when Big Black was a thriving entity. And if there is one thing that skinny bespectacled dude knows inside and out and top to bottom, it’s music. Complaining that his stuff is one dimensional or lacks subtlety simply makes no sense to me. Is a jackhammer one dimensional? Sure, but it gets the job done. Is a pile driver subtle? No, and by design. Long after most of the world had turned their back on the form, Big Black grabbed the dripping vitriol that was punk rock at its best, combined it with the icy alienation of post-punk before it went all soft at the center and then crossed it with that severe outlook that throbbed like the sordid contents of an extremely pulpy true crime magazine on bad blotter and rotgut liquor. It certainly did take a while for Albini to perfect the project (by his own admittance), his early EPs (LUNGS, BULLDOZER) being largely solo affairs that while aggressive and worthy were less heavy than gnawingly post-punk. The classic Big Black lineup was the trio of Dave Riley on bass, Santiago Durango on guitar and Albini on guitar and vocals enlisting the trusty thump and thwack of a stressed out Roland drum machine, and while many consider 1986’s ATOMIZER album to be their definitive statement (it does include their two best tunes), I feel their overall strongest disc was the last one, 1988’s SONGS ABOUT FUCKING. For starters, SONGS was the first Big Black full length to spread the songic quality more equitably over both sides of the vinyl. ATOMIZER’s first side is an absolute doozy; the second not so much. While it’s certainly arguable, I’m tempted to credit SONGS’ overall best cut as the second side’s acidic sex murder chronicle “Fish Fry”. The deck is still slightly stacked in Side One’s favor, but that’s to be expected with music of this style, pounding fast and hard right out of the gate. Another reason I value SONGS so highly is how unlikely roots start to peak through; for one example the scorching cover of Kraftwerk’s “The Model”, for another the stylistic similarity to The Ramones on “L Dopa”, and for one more “Columbian Necktie”, which underneath its caterwauling thunder and distortion is ultimately a surf tune. A further example of SONGS superiority for me exists in the cut “Precious Thing”. If ATOMIZER’s “Kerosene” personified the stultifying atmosphere of ‘80s small town boredom, standing as a blistering update on Eddie Cochran’s “Summertime Blues”, then “Precious Thing” details emotional obsession with the explicit desperation that feels like the bastard child of the Delta Blues at its most lyrically extreme. In addition; “Bad Penny” is a first person tale of a passively sadistic life ruining lout, “Kasimir S. Pulaski Day” contains much of the band’s occasional abrasive funkiness and “Pavement Saw” holds some of Albini’s most direct and least affected vocals. Overall, SONGS ABOUT FUCKING is a smashing success, and if it’s not as great as DAMAGED, DAYDREAM NATION, VS., or DOUBLE NICKLES ON THE DIME, well it’s not behind by much. Is it dated? Yeah, somewhat. But I don’t really think that’s a fault. I do think Albini’s current band Shellac, along with his vast credits as engineer will ultimately vindicate his legacy.  But what Big Black lacked in maturity it more than made up for with youthful vigor. They were a thrilling, highly influential band, and it’s high time they got their due.



Joseph's Picks Of The Week 4/15/11 - J Mascis and The Sea and Cake

Dinosaur Jr. was one of the first groups to combine two distinctly different kinds of heavy. By the band’s second album, 1987’s YOU’RE LIVING ALL OVER ME, they’d essentially perfected their mixture of punk and hard rock, paving the way for Nirvana and the whole grunge explosion. Dino’s achievement was unique in the specificity of its makeup however, drawing upon the density of hardcore, the aggressive sludginess of early Sabbath and the bruising melodic dynamic of Crazy Horse. Yes, there were also small flashes of softer acoustic based stuff, but this largely took a back seat to Mascis’ dual roles as laconic vocalist and scorching guitar hero, particularly after bassist Lou Barlow exited the picture and initiated the long prickly journey of his often unplugged solo work. But it was apparent to anybody who stuck with J’s work post-GREEN MIND that he could work quite satisfactorily in a more acoustic context, though the guy defiantly, determinedly remained plugged in; with the righteous regrouping of the original Dinosaur a few years ago, it appeared that the chances for a quieter, stripped down Mascis to assert himself were suddenly slimmer than ever. Well, my personal odds have been defied, for that wily longhair has just kicked out SEVERAL SHADES OF WHY, a collection of ten mostly acoustic songs that find a lesser explored side of the man’s work opening up like a fresh blossom. What’s nice is how the set has been methodically crafted as a fully fleshed out group of tunes, completely eschewing any “unfinished’ or “demo-ish” qualities. Much of the reason for this is due to his splendid supporting cast. Yes, this is a “solo” record in name only, with contributions from such esteemed names as Kurt Vile, Matt Valentine, Kurt Fedora, Kevin Drew (Broken Social Scene), Ben Bridwell (Band of Horses), Pall Jenkins (Black Heart Procession), Suzanne Thorpe (Mercury Rev/Wounded Knees) and Sophie Trudeau (Godspeed You Black Emperor/A Silver Mt. Zion). Everybody conspires to craft a superb early morning listen, the kind that inspires the busting open of springtime windows, letting the sunshine and crisp air flood in, the music mingling with the gleeful freedom of chirping birds and the delicious scent of brewing coffee. Pour a cup, sit back and let the day unwind. Sneaky electricity doesn’t really assert itself until track 5 “Is It Done” and then in the form of a typically loose and lazily gorgeous solo from the fingers of J, and that’s essentially the dominant mode of the LP’s amped accents (though closer “What Happened” does work up a bit of crunch muscle). But there are other joys to be had. The layering of Trudeau’s violin with J’s crisp picking on the title track is likely to please partisans of Nick Drake, the dark country singalong strum of “Not Enough” feels like a campfire readymade, and Thorpe’s wispy flute on “Make It Right” recalls the maypole-cavorting lightness of Brit-psyche-folk and is the closest this record gets to the blessed-out sweetness of fellow New Englander's Damon & Naomi. “Where Are You” feels like tough ‘60s New York streetcorner folk ala John Sebastian or Fred Neil, and it contrasts well with the fragile indie minimalism (think Mountain Goats or Bright Eyes) of “Too Deep”. The album’s penultimate track “Can I” is a dusty sun-baked western shamble, and its stretched-out atmosphere really points to the understated diversity of the whole record. SEVERAL SHADES OF WHY is simply an outstanding album from a reliable, sturdy hand. Hopefully he’ll grace us with a follow-up before too long.

The Sea and Cake started way back in the mid-‘90s as a sort of Chicago supergroup, with members Sam Prekop and Eric Claridge hailing from the still confoundingly underappreciated Shrimp Boat, Archer Prewitt arriving from the very fine and somewhat misunderstood Coctails and John McEntire being known most prominently as a member of Tortoise. The connection with Tortoise and the Thrill Jockey label found the band lumped into the whole post-rock thing, which made sense back then due to the fresh direction they and their cohorts were taking, essentially avoiding the standard indie trappings of loud, distorted guitars and well worn song structures. This isn’t to imply that The Sea and Cake lacked precedent; it’s just that their forbearers were largely quite neglected. The Scene is Now, Mofungo, Fish & Roses and late-era Talk Talk all figure as stylistic antecedents to what The Sea and Cake were doing, and I think it’s safe to throw the Minutemen in there (more for ideology than overt sonic similarities) as well. Initially, The Sea and Cake provided a fresh, smart alternative to a bunch of indie-rock dead ends, a quality they shared with such diverse ‘90s artists/acts as Gastr Del Sol, Jim O’Rourke, Rodan, Slint, Shipping News, Ui, Labradford, Stereolab, Mogwai and Don Caballero. Now that most of those names have faded away and post-rock has become an accepted if still debated form of underground musical affairs, it’s time to laud The Sea and Cake for sticking it out. They have a new album set to arrive next month, but first things first: 2008’s fantastic CAR ALARM is an excellent entry point for the uninitiated, full of what’s become a trademark sound. Specifically, the area in which they excel is in delivering a deceptively light/airy twin guitar attack propelling pop songwriting that’s tough as diamonds. People often speak of jazz in relation to this the band, and that’s fitting but not in the expected way. Their proclivity for Brazilian/Caribbean strains and rhythms finds them closer to the relaxed attractiveness of Stan “Samba” Getz than the muscular dynamism of Coltrane, though there is also the modal thing (sort of a post-rock Chicago thing), so Miles is all up in there too. The rhythmic thrust courtesy of McEntire and Claridge is crisp and propulsive, never far away from Krautrock motorik, that Autobahn inspired ceaseless simplicity that’s proven so influential to post-punk, post-rock and general indie/u-ground affairs. The band’s use of electronics is non-gimmicky and perfectly integrated into their attack, balanced with the traditional instrumentation so that no one element overwhelms the other. As far as contemporary references go, I feel safe in recommending this to folks that dig Broken Social Scene (with whom The Sea and Cake toured), the Godspeed/Silver Mt. Zion Constellation Records crew and even the techy-instrumental prog of Battles, but it’ll also likely go down a storm with anybody swayed by the recent work from Scottish guitar popsters The Clientele. That’s what’s called diversity. With that said CAR ALARM is very much its own thing. The Sea and Cake have eight full albums to their credit, which points to their position as survivors from the fertile ‘90s indie scene, and they seem poised for a fresh round of activity. I look forward to where they're headed.