Joseph's Picks Of The Week 4/13/12 - Robert Pollard and Screaming Females

In a year that’s going to see (at least) two releases by the reformed “classic lineup” of Guided by Voices, it might seem feasible that Robert Pollard would relent just a little bit in his efforts to singlehandedly keep the nation’s record pressing plants in business. Nope. Mouseman Cloud is the latest entry in his solo discography, and with producer/multi-instrumentalist Todd Tobias in tow, it’s a strong if inessential effort.

Lots has been made of Robert Pollard’s gobsmacking level of prolificacy and his seeming disregard for what’s been called quality control, but in my view it all ultimately shapes up as the workaday method of a musician determined to avoid answering the question “when are you going to come up with another Bee Thousand?” The constant flow of Pollard-related discs essentially cuts off that line of inquiry before it’s even asked; he’s obviously disinterested in recapturing the specificity of past glories (which are very much caught up in the particulars of long gone times and places, natch), instead being single-mindedly devoted to documenting his uncanny ability to soak up song ideas like a sponge and then spit them back out as if he’s being squeezed by some invisible godlike pop-obsessed hand.

This is not to say that Pollard is opposed to looking back and reengaging with the energies of former cohorts. Far from it; the “classic lineup” of GBV has indeed reunited and knocked out the appealing if by now typically expectations-defying Let’s Go Eat the Factory. And defying anticipations seems to be the underlying raison d’être of Pollard’s work over the last few years, in some way informing every release that bears his name. It seems the only expectation he’ll indulge is the one that accepts his prodigious output on its own terms. And Guided by Voices have another record scheduled for May, just five months after the appearance of the last one, so it seems this attitude has extended to the reemergence of the most-lauded lineup of the band that for many will always constitute his/their legacy.

And good for them, for with a few exceptions (like Dinosaur Jr. and especially Mission of Burma) indie rock reunions (and the phenomenon of playing albums in sequence live) holds an aura that’s decidedly more Branson than badass. That Mouseman Cloud pops up on the release schedule between two of the reconstituted GBV’s studio efforts only emphasizes their interest in (along with drinking copious amounts of beer) making records that first and foremost please themselves. And this will only serve to exacerbate the complaints that Pollard is profoundly screwing his frustrated fans.

But this situation has been going on for a while, so maybe his base of support has largely accepted that the glory days of Scat and Matador are very likely never coming back. I don’t haunt the GBV-related message boards and fan sites, and haven’t been to a Pollard-related live show since the booze-soaked victory lap that that brought Guided by Voices to a temporary close back in ’04. But somebody’s still buying the albums, and as long as that’s the case it seems very clear they will keep on hitting the racks.

Among the stream of Pollard’s recent efforts Mouseman Cloud is distinguished by its consistency, and in fact it’s more successful overall than the peaks and valleys of Let’s Go Eat the Factory. I’d rate Mouseman with Space City Kicks and the Boston Spaceships stuff as the guy’s strongest material to see release in the last four years or so. This doesn’t mean it’s perfect. But it shows enough inspiration and cohesion across its seventeen songs to be of possible interest to those listeners that have long given up on keeping track of every nook and cranny of Pollard’s output. And if not a must have (but there hasn’t really been one of those since ‘04’s Half Smiles of the Decomposed) it does make a good case for the general batting average of his “jewels amongst the pleasant ephemera” tactic.

Mouseman Cloud finds Pollard indulging the more rocking side of his personality and peppering the proceedings with some appealing psych-pop touches, though nothing here develops into the bold foofery of Let’s Go Eat the Factory’s “Doughnut for a Snowman”. Opener “Obvious #1” is a stripped down piece of classic guitar pop that establishes the tone of what’s to follow, not only from an instrumental standpoint but from a lyrical one as well; after forty odd seconds of his typically skewed wordplay, it finds him repeating variations on the phrase “it’s obvious” for the second half of the tune. This motif recurs occasionally throughout the album, most effectively on “Mother’s Milk and Magnets”, where he repeats the song’s title with the dispassionate air of a vocalist under mild hypnosis, and on “Continue to Break”, where the nifty bit of phraseology “grandfather blues continues to shoot up the six o’clock news” is chanted until it almost begs for an accompanying sing-along. On first listen, even.

This lyric strategy will surely be fodder for those that think Pollard’s output has far exceeded the proliferation of his ideas. And that would make sense if it didn’t feel so premeditated. For all of the truth in the assessment of the man as a highly-skilled if somewhat eccentric surgeon applying his scalpel to classic rock forms, the blade extracting the choice bits and then stitching them together into concise melodic nuggets that seem halfway between college radio and the long gone crackle of the AM dial, the oddness of Pollard’s stanzas have always been the thing that’s distinguished him from being simply another artist of savvy reassemblage. Sure, many of his words certainly derive from a Beatles-inspired pop-psyche precedent, but partly due to his proclivity for writing songs of such fleeting duration his lyrics lack the vivid descriptiveness and occasional grandiosity of those models. Instead, they often flow like stream-of-consciousness that’s been scribbled into and then torn out of a battered notebook, and Mouseman Cloud is a solid continuation of this method, repeated lyrics and all.

No, not every tune is up to the standard of his best stuff, but the record is also unsurprisingly rife with those brief songs, so the lesser ones don’t linger around for too long. In many ways (and like many of Pollard’s strongest efforts), Mouseman Cloud feels like one long tapestry, and this fact only helps in making the occasional dips in quality easier to swallow. When he chooses to stretch out it’s to fine effect; “Picnic Drums” and particularly closer “Chief Meteorologist” provide two of the record’s best moments. And please add to the album’s sum a few selections of truly tweaked disposition; “Smacks of Euphoria” finds Pollard barking out an acoustic number that’s halfway between addled folk-rock and regal, almost glam-like pomp. And the cheap keyboard wheezing of “Half-Strained” sets up an eerie psyche opening that gives way to a little bit of riffing and  some very twisted lyricism. And then it’s over.

Mouseman Cloud is ultimately a flawed record, but its problems are relatively minor. It’s surely not the finest entry in Pollard’s vast discography, but it’s much farther away from the shoulder-shrugging aura of his least inspired material. While all of his records are to some extent indicative of their creator’s fallibility as an artist that abjures the typical standards of restraint and refinement, it’s also true that within this context certain Pollard releases do a better job than others in cluing in the listener to what the fuss is all about. It’s not earth-shattering, but Mouseman Cloud falls into that category quite nicely.

Through the course of four albums, New Brunswick NJ’s Screaming Females has grown into one of the most interesting and promising young rock bands on the scene. Heavy, distinctive and featuring a legitimate guitar-hero in Marissa Paternoster, their latest record is called Ugly. Not only does it lack any signs of creative fatigue, it’s easily their best one yet.

The profile of Screaming Females has increased significantly in the last few years, and that’s almost completely down to the band’s hard work; they’ve played hundreds of shows since 2005, the majority naturally taking place in the expected locales of clubs, halls and music spaces. But quite a few of these gigs have also occurred in the basements of houses, their hometown lacking in the required amount of venues conducive to the Females’ ground-level punk-inspired sensibility. If your town doesn’t have enough stages to hold the presentation and growth of your thing, taking it to the basement is just what you do. And with the release of Ugly the group now has five full-lengths under their collective belt in just a smidge over six years, a circumstance that pretty much paints them as shameless busybodies, at least in contemporary rock terms. For some icing on the cake, Screaming Females are a trio, a power trio in fact; they excel in an environment where hard work is very much a given.

But from within the confines of their sound, it’s the galvanizing combo of Marissa Paternoster’s vocals and guitar that is clearly responsible for the band’s increased following. Once heard, she’s not likely to be soon forgotten. This is not a knock on bassist King Mike or drummer Jarrett Dougherty (there’s only one actual female in Screaming Females); both are a far sight more than just capable on their instruments, the pair quite adept at transcending the standards of a mere rhythm section, which is another element of the power trio that’s an absolute necessity. But with this said Paternoster is essentially the focal point of the band’s attack; her vocal delivery has been likened to that of Sleater-Kinney’s Corin Tucker and her guitar playing has drawn comparisons to J Mascis. To put it mildly these are big shoes to fill, and Paternoster does so not through calculated imitation but by forging ahead with nerve and impressive dedication to her craft.

Screaming Females have been called a punk band, and while that’s not a terribly inapt description, I do think they’re most appropriately described by the above nomenclature of punk-inspired. To put it another way, the band is definitely descended from the aggressive template of punk rock. What’s more their dedication to those basement gigs and allegiance to their local “scene” in lieu of moving to a more rock-centric city (New York is just a hop, skip and train ride away), when coupled with a tireless if appealingly offhand work ethic is easily identifiable as punk in attitude. But to simply call Screaming Females a punk band might erroneously suggest a focus on the rudimentary, and while not a overly complex unit inclined toward flash for flash’s sake, they are frankly too accomplished as a group to be comfortably labeled with the potentially misleading descriptor of unhyphenated punk.

Instead, Screaming Females are in league with the distinctive (and yes quite punk-informed) underground rock of the 1980s, a place where power trios flourished; think Minutemen, Hüsker Dü and indeed Dinosaur Jr. The Females don’t sound like the ‘men or Dü, but they share with those bands an anti-generic non-simplicity that was a step beyond the “anybody can do it” back-to-square-one ethos of punk rock. And if Paternoster’s guitar brings Mascis to mind (and it does, though she’s just as remindful of Eddie Van Halen), the music as a whole isn’t very suggestive of ol’ Dino. It’s really in the comparison to Corin Tucker that we cozy up to a direct point of reference for Screaming Females, specifically a heavy, liberating post-Riot Grrl vibe. It’s not a bit of a stretch to say the band’s entire discography could’ve easily fit into the release schedule of the fledgling Kill Rock Stars label.

Ugly was recorded with Steve Albini, a connection that’s almost become a rite of passage for bands specializing in this type of unabashed rock action. And since Ugly shapes up as Screaming Females best platter, it’s tempting to credit Albini as a large factor in the album’s success. That is, if the previous four discs hadn’t already established an uncommonly astute hand at record making. For many bands (particularly of this heavy inclination), a succession of releases can risk becoming something of an indistinguishable or interchangeable blur, which might be okey-dokey for fans satisfied with hearing one thing done extremely well, but it’s also undeniable that more casual listeners will be far less inclined to go back for a double dip. But in the case of the Females, each record holds traits that clearly define their stylistic progression; Baby Teeth is their strong if modest debut, What if Someone is Watching Their TV? finds them at their angriest and most shredding, Power Move displays real songwriting growth, and Castle Talk finds them nodding at times toward pop-punk.   

Ugly continues this practice of stylistic development, not only flaunting their boldest production sound but also finding them branching out in both song-length (“Doom 84” clocks in at 7:38) and album running time. These admirable aspects aside, Ugly’s success can almost entirely be credited to the uniformly high level of songwriting and the seamless rapport between the players. Paternoster is indeed the focal point, but her talents are surely greatly enhanced by the fluid familiarity that’s bloomed between all three principals.

The one aspect of Screaming Females’ sound that is undeniably punk in both intent and execution is the sheer hugeness of Paternoster’s vocals. Punk in intent because she possesses a tough take-it-or-leave-it quality, and punk in execution due to the sheer lack of prettification in her delivery; she’s not trying to sooth or tempt. Instead, she’s interested in shaking and stirring things up. As Ugly plays for the umpteenth time, I can’t help but think of her as a modern disciple of Patti Smith, and that’s because she’s so thoroughly invested in doing her own thing.

If there’s anything troubling in Ugly, it’s in the likelihood that it’s going to be a hard act to follow. However, closing track “It’s Nice” features Paternoster’s vocals and acoustic guitar accompanied by a string section that alternates between sinewy and lush. The sheer unexpectedness of this finale is quite welcome, and it’s a possible harbinger of rewarding developments in the band’s future. Here’s hoping.

With Ugly, Screaming Females have not only set themselves a lofty standard, but they’ve also placed the bar quite high for contemporary-minded power trio rock in general. Anybody curious over the current rock scene’s state of health should lend them an ear.



Joseph's Picks Of The Week 4/6/12 - Gentleman Jesse and Lee Ranaldo



In theory, the idea of a band playing unadulterated throwback power pop in 2012 might not seem all that promising. On Leaving Atlanta that’s just what Gentlemen Jesse does, and through a combination of impressive songs and an obvious love and understanding of the style, he manages to pull it off. And then some.

While power pop’s heyday is generally considered to be mid-‘70s through the early-‘80s, it has managed to make a dent on the charts in every decade since its decline, with Weezer and Matthew Sweet scoring hits with the stripped-down formula in the ‘90s and OK Go doing likewise in the ‘00s. But “Buddy Holly”, “Girlfriend” and “Here It Goes Again” were very contemporaneous appropriations of power pop tradition, extending that framework into the mainstream by sounding up to date, i.e. nobody was confusing any these bands with The Raspberries.

In the indie/underground scene, power pop hasn’t fared so well, particularly in contrast to its stylistic cousin garage rock.  This could be due to its generally upbeat disposition, for it’s a sub-genre not noted for being overtly angry or angsty. Or maybe it’s just preferable to be seen as not trying hard enough instead of trying too hard; no knock on the garage impulse, but it’s difficult to throw a rock and not hit a underachieving (or downright lazy) band of that stripe. And for every great garage act like The Mummies, The Gories or The Oblivians there are hundreds (each!) that barely qualify as also-rans. If garage often breeds a certain nonchalance, then power pop oozes commitment to a standard far beyond attitude (though attitude was something many great power pop bands did have in spades) and elevated competence. It’s about the patience of songwriting, especially the judicious crafting of hooks, and it very much concerns extensive practice and allegiance to the band dynamic. To display this sort of dedication only to be confronted with the crossed-arms of apathy or the catcalls of derision (what a bunch of posers) honestly isn’t something most humans wish to endure.

Thankfully, Jesse Smith isn’t concerned with the opprobrium of those that would deride him as being slavishly devoted to a sound that’s far beyond its sell expiration. Or it just might be that he resides in a large enough berg to avoid the harassment of wet-blanket brigade. Formerly of the rather slept on Atlanta garage punks Carbonas, Smith formed Gentleman Jesse and His Men and released a fine debut to almost no fanfare back in 2008. Since that time he’s suffered an uncommon level of personal strife, namely a physical assault and the death of five loved ones, so rather than feeling delayed, the appearance of Leaving Atlanta instead serves as the grand testament of one downtrodden survivor and the healing properties of his art.

Given Smith’s history in Carbonas, it might seem that his work as Gentleman Jesse would retain some of his former band’s ’77-ish firepower. But no, both the album with His Men and Leaving Atlanta (credited to Gentleman Jesse alone) collectively possess nary a trace of punk grit. Instead, they openly fondle the splendidly direct pop-rock spirit that thrived alongside punk as an alternative to the conceptual bloat of the 1970s rock scene; bands like The Nerves, The Real Kids, The Beat (Paul Collins’ L.A. band) and The Records serve as the direct precedent for Smith’s sensibility, as do more obvious sources such as early Cheap Trick and Costello and the Attractions circa This Year’s Model.

While many power pop bands released LPs, the era is best remembered retrospectively for certain highpoints in specific songs that feel custom designed for killer mix-tapes. Or for that matter compilations; anybody looking for a fix on the style should search out any of the four pop volumes of Rhino’s excellent DIY series or the Numero Group single disc dandy Yellow Pills: Prefill. In plain truth many of the records these bands issued were faulty, revealing weaknesses that can be chalked up in large part to commercial aspirations. Through engaging with the album format Gentlemen Jesse may be swimming against the tide of power pop’s lingering historical resonance, but his work refreshingly lacks any unfortunate marketplace maneuvers (in a word: sappiness) to inevitably gum up the works.

This shouldn’t infer that Leaving Atlanta isn’t completely conversant with its models. It’s just that Smith understands that repeating past mistakes is to be avoided when appropriating a form to his own ends. It’s the difference between shallow homage and the relevance of true stylistic extension. And happily Jesse shoots for a full-bodied, radio ready atmosphere, not being content to replicate the scaled-down studio traits of many modest, often self-released power pop obscurities. Everything here could’ve easily ended up on commercial radio playlists back in the late-‘70s without any sense of discord regarding production value. It’s not slick, it’s vivid.

And Leaving Atlanta greatly extends this Carter Administration radio-friendliness by grappling with a few of the era’s bigger and not immediately power pop taggable properties; “Take It Easy On Me” smartly splits the difference between Petty and Springsteen, particularly through the use of organ and a mildly Spector-esque bass line. Analogous to this are hints of a ‘50s jones that really steps up to the plate on penultimate track “Rooting For the Underdog”, its wickedly trim 1:39 sounding like something Rick Nielsen might’ve penned after being bowled over by a rerun of The Girl Can’t Help It on late-night Illinois TV.

A huge part of the record’s success derives from its top flight instrumentation. Milton Chapman’s keyboards add just the right amount of tonal color to the tunes, the rhythm section never lays a note wrong, and a dual guitar attack allows for ripping, Berry-descended solos without any loss of overall power. They even scored garage heavyweight King Louie Bankston (Royal Pendletons, The Persuaders, Bad Times) to contribute a little harmonica. Maybe the band’s best collective tactic is invigorating the up-tempo numbers with just enough hyperactivity to possibly inspire a live crowd mass pogo (or a big ol’ dogpile on the living room carpet), but not so much as to undermine the music’s essential power pop circuitry. Again, what really drives Leaving Atlanta home is that it’s never conflicted about what kind of record it wants to be; if the garage punk cats don’t “get” it, that’s just means there’s more room on the dance floor.

If anything punk-informed slips in here, it might be in the dark lyrical undercurrent to many of the record’s thirteen tracks. The relationship songs lack the la-la sweetness that undermined a lot of power pop (those commercial aspirations again, a quality that found many of the style’s purveyors labeled as “wimps”), and much of the material is focused instead on uncertainty and (as its title indicates) the desire to get away. This obviously has roots in Smith’s aforementioned personal struggles, but it never feels overly autobiographical; the love song’s words display common ground with The Ramones, and album closer “We Got to Get Out Of Here” is in the fine tradition of a similarly titled tuned by The Animals. Smith really seems to understand that great party music should always be leavened with undercurrents of emotional dissent in order to distinguish it from mere escapism. And he acquits himself as a fine lyricist here; “I saw an old friend yesterday/but I couldn’t recall his name/he told me that I have not changed” easily nails the nagging sense of loss that comes from time and distance, and “at night I sit in TV glow/watching reruns of the Popeye show”…well, that just speaks for itself.

The music on Leaving Atlanta is the stuff of great sweaty gigs in hole-in-the-wall dives and spirited, lease-breaking revelry. It’s also so successful in the recalibration of its chosen glories that an obvious temptation to overrate it creeps in. But no wheels are being reinvented here, and that shouldn’t be forgotten.

But the on the other hand, that won’t really be germane to the issue when three dozen people are up in your digs and another quick clean party platter is the only situational recourse. Cue this up and don’t be shocked if next morning some lout is sprawled out on the floor with the gatefold sleeve of Nick Lowe’s Jesus of Cool hovering over his slumbering mug like a tent. At least the dude has good taste.





After over three decades as one half of Sonic Youth’s estimable guitar tag-team, Lee Ranaldo finally delivers a traditional song-based solo album. While quite strong melodically and displaying the assurance and wisdom of a veteran musician, it also can’t help but register as a somewhat reserved affair.

Upon first seeing the cover of Between the Times and Tides, I couldn’t help being reminded of New York Eye and Ear Control, the wild and wooly free jazz soundtrack to Canadian multi-media artist Michael Snow’s experimental film released by the legendary ESP-Disk label way back in ’64, a record that features august avant-garde improvisers Albert Ayler, Don Cherry and Sunny Murray amongst others. But beside the use of black and white (frankly underutilized in album sleeve design), the images aren’t that much alike; yes they both feature human bodies and symbolic representations of same, but that’s really where the mild similarity ends. And yet I couldn’t help but be reminded of one by the other, and my thoughts on why have turned to the similarities between Snow and Ranaldo that just might’ve been residing in my subconscious.

For amongst other pursuits Michael Snow is involved with painting, film/video, photography, books and music. And so is Ranaldo. Unlike Thurston Moore, his prolific cohort in the currently on-hiatus Sonic Youth, Ranaldo is far less easily categorized as simply a guitarist with a few additional creative outlets. Yes, he’s been involved in a fair share of solo and collaborative music endeavors since the release of From Here to Infinity, a drone/loop/locked-groove project first issued by SST in 1987, but since that time his extracurricular concerns have been pretty evenly divided between music, visual art (often with his wife Leah Singer) and writing; he’s slowly acquired a reputation as a multi-media artist whose highest profile gig happens to be membership in what’s arguably the finest New York city rock ensemble since The Velvet Underground. By contrast, Moore can’t help being identified as a maddeningly prolific and indefatigably networking guitar slinger who just happens to dabble in small-press post-Beat poetry, music journalism and the running of the Ecstatic Peace! record label.

So it’s really no surprise that Between the Times and Tides is being touted by Matador as Ranaldo’s first “proper, song-oriented studio album”. That’s just simple truth in advertising. Up to now his recorded output has included grand drone statements like ‘93’s Scriptures of the Golden Eternity and 2000’s Amarillo Ramp (for Robert Smithson), some avant-improvisational splatter with drummer William Hooker and auto-harpist Zeena Parkins (‘95’s The Gift of Tongues), and the experimental film music project Text of Light. While Ranaldo has included honest-to-goodness songs on some of his solo outings (I particularly value his cover of Lennon’s “Isolation” from Amarillo Ramp), twenty-five years is a long time to deny the prospects of a full-fledged rock solo work, particularly when it’s been established through Sonic Youth’s proper albums that the guy can really deliver the goods in the style (e.g. “Hey Joni” from Daydream Nation, “Mote” from Goo and “Rats” from Rather Ripped).

In deciding that now’s the time to indulge his latent solo rock side, Ranaldo’s held nothing back in assembling an all-star cast; the core unit includes Wilco’s Nels Cline, bandmate Steve Shelley, Text of Light collaborator and former Love Child/Run On member Alan Licht, Medeski, Martin and Wood’s John Medeski and bassist Irwin Menken, with appearances by ex-SY members Bob Bert and Jim O’Rourke. But the work Ranaldo has signed is far from an indie-experimental jam session, indeed being far more song-oriented than expected from its measured promotional description.

Much of what’s here could easily fit onto any of the LPs that comprise Sonic Youth’s late work. But due to Ranaldo’s appealingly direct, almost conversational vocal delivery and his rather individual (if ultimately very accessible, even popish at times) approach to songwriting, the results are quite distinct from the feel of Sonic Youth’s work proper. Due to the limited exposure (some would say neglect) that his songs receive in the context of SY proper (he’s been described as the band’s George Harrison), Between the Times and Tides can give the impression of a solo record by absolute necessity; if he’d saved these tracks for upcoming Sonic Youth albums it would’ve taken ten more releases to actually hear them all. But the record lacks the aura of having something to prove, instead feeling assured and very relaxed. It did take this long to appear after all. This feeling of casualness comes to define the record, even when it occasionally starts to drift outward.

Opener “Waiting on a Dream” sets the course with a solid mid-tempo, the tune slowly building in forcefulness until it settles into an appealing (and familiar) pulse/chug rhythmic pattern meticulously layered with gliding string textures and the immediately welcoming tones of Ranaldo’s voice. From there the album is front-loaded with two of its standout tracks. The first is “Off the Wall”, an especially pretty and concise piece of guitar pop that succeeds through sheer melodic simplicity and a nice dynamic shift in the chorus. If Between the Times and Tides features a “single” (and why not?), “Off the Wall” is it. The second is “Xtina as I Knew Her”, a lengthy groove again in the mid-tempo (which honestly seems to be something of a songwriting comfort zone for Ranaldo) that’s simultaneously a multi-guitar showcase and a ample vehicle for some loose, imagery-laden storytelling.

And from there the album displays a consistency that is at once impressive and a slight bit disappointing. Impressive because of its clarity and variety, with the psych-inflected “Fire Island (Phases)” being quite a pleasant surprise, just for starters. And a bit disappointing due to a nagging sense that Ranaldo is playing it somewhat safe in crafting his first trad rock solo work. Naturally, “playing it safe” = my own mildly flouted expectations; all this firepower in one studio at the same time and they never manage even once to really let it fly. I understand that Between the Times and Tides is a collection of the guy’s very good, at times even exceptional melodic material and not an out-rock free for all, but I can’t deny thinking these songs could’ve benefited from some more chance taking, a few rougher edges and a greater helping of Ranaldo’s proven potential for general idiosyncrasy.

But I shouldn’t protest too strongly, for “safe” or not after a few listens it becomes clear that Ranaldo has made the album that he wanted. And touches of essential difference do sporadically assert themselves, with “Hammer Blows” skeletal acoustic structure serving as the platform for some nicely tweaked (if too brief) vocal action. And the use of Leah Singer’s spoken words in “Shouts” really adds to the songs already affecting Occupy-inspired atmosphere, forming what will likely remain the record’s finest track.

Between the Times and Tides is an admirable effort by an artist of distinction. Those who enjoy Sonic Youth purely for their more grounded inclinations will find much to like here. And if it doesn’t scratch the itch of those favorably disposed to the clime of outward-bound experimental exploration, well there’s always New York Eye and Ear Control.

Joseph's Picks Of The Week 3/30/12 - The Decemberists and Lambchop

After returning to relatively humble ambitions with their last studio album, The Decemberists have went triple-live gonzo with We All Raise Our Voices to the Air (Live Songs 04.11–08.11), and the results should easily meet their fans expectations. And while its contents may not convert the dubious, it might at least provide them with a clue to what the fuss is about.

A great many live records have been issued over the years by a diversity of pop and rock artists, and with a few notable exceptions, these documents generally serve two purposes. One, they stand as a commentary on the success of an act and a gift to those consumers who made that success possible. Second, they can provide proof that a performer or band can indeed put their thing across on the performance platform.

If pop and rock after the Beatles has largely been a phenomenon of greatness judged through studio albums, there has also been a persnickety attitude that those deemed great must also be able to exhibit their talent on the stage, the nude environment that doesn’t lie. This contrasts rather strongly with jazz, where it’s essentially considered a given that the players on a studio LP have made it there by already displaying their skill on the bandstand.

In rock in particular, those aforementioned exceptions to the standard of live albums as templates of success and proof have risen to some of the form’s most vital moments. For example, James Brown’s Live at the Apollo made it plain that the essence of soul music wasn’t located in the mind of a record label entrepreneur seeking chart success but in the mastery of one man and his crack band captured making history in front of a few hundred people in a jam-packed auditorium.

And if Jerry Lee Lewis’ Live at the Star Club was recorded with the intention of proving its leader could still bowl over a crowd and incinerate a club with reckless abandon, it was also a statement of defiance delivered to a public that had kicked him to the curb as unseemly and unworthy of their attention and respect.

Likewise, 1969: The Velvet Underground Live amplifies the achievement of a group very few people cared about while they actually existed, an apathy that doubtlessly shaped their status as rock’s greatest outsiders. And The Grateful Dead’s Live/Dead captures a single-minded and expansive band on a grand night making music that the confines of a studio simply couldn’t inspire or contain.

It should come as no great surprise that The Decemberists’ We All Raise Our Voices to the Air (Live Songs 04.11–08.11) doesn’t endeavor to the heights of the previous four examples. If its two plus hours spread over two compact discs or three vinyl LPs seems like a grandiose collection by a band that’s never been afraid of engaging with the maximal, the release is appealingly modest in its aims, the most immediate one being a condensed account of the band’s well-earned and somewhat unlikely success.

I say unlikely because their non-confessional, highly literary sensibility is frankly the stuff that cult status is made of. And I say well-earned because The Decemberists’ claimed their success through the traditional modes of high quality (and in their case, often thematically elaborate) albums and extensive touring, graduating from small clubs to larger halls and then to amphitheatres and multi-day outdoor festivals. So as an unabashed album band that can do it on the road, We All Raise Our Voices to the Air’s sheer length lacks arrogance or self-indulgence and instead testifies to the nature of a fan base where favorite songs are numerous and no one release has emerged as the consensus best.

We All Raise Our Voices to the Air also stands as a gesture of goodwill to the group’s devoted fans. But on closer inspection, it might have something more than just a statement on success and a thank you in mind, for its track listing, taken from a tour supporting their last studio album The King is Dead, insinuates that The Decemberists might have a little something to prove.

In this age of camera phones and copious YouTube clips, proving it as a live band is nowhere near as difficult as it used to be. And bands of their ilk don’t pull off shows playing in-sequence renderings of high-concept albums like ‘09’s The Hazards of Love via smoke and mirrors. But The King is Dead, while garnering its share of praise also seemed to divide critics and listeners over the perception of playing it safe and staking out the middle of a road paved with mere folk and Americana. ‘Tis true that King may have won back some folks put off by Hazards’ hints of prog-rock and metal, but for many listeners their last effort felt like The Decemberists minus the creative chutzpah.

Seven of We All Raise Our Voices to the Air’s songs originate from The King is Dead, and if that doesn’t seem surprising considering the shows partially included here were in support of that record, it also seems possible that The Decemberists are looking to integrate its less ambitious goals into the larger weave of their discography and maybe soften the expectation (a band instigated one, true) that in terms of scope every new release must equal or top the last one.

If the choice of seven songs from The King is Dead does contain a potential element of attempted validation regarding their most recent direction, their inclusion also simultaneously possesses an atmosphere of preaching to the choir. And this is okay. Actually it’s much more than okay, since We All Raise Our Voices to the Air’s surface unwieldiness is actually quite thoughtfully sequenced to deliver a pair of sets that build to very impressive climaxes.

If The Hazards of Love’s lofty concept is given an almost token acknowledgement via “The Rake’s Song”, that slight is softened (and immediately followed in the track order) by the inclusion of “The Crane Wife 1, 2 and 3”. While Colin Meloy partakes in a fair share of banter, crowd interaction and many humorous asides, it’s the sixteen minutes of “The Crane Wife” (which closes disc one, or side three of the vinyl) and the appropriately escalated grandeur of the already debonair “I Was Meant For the Stage” replete with an extended culminating orchestral skronk-fest (which ends disc two or side six) that provides ample evidence of the band’s ability to get right down to the business of playing live music.

And the band’s performances vary enough from their studio origins to make them worth the investment, but they also don’t lose the qualities that made them so appealing in the first place. This is particularly relevant to “The Soldiering Song” and obviously to “The Mariner’s Revenge Song”, which retains much of its splendor even after becoming a by now inevitable audience participation melee.

“Calamity Song” is also given a fine reading, and the concise pop of “O Valencia!” really shines in this atmosphere. Of course certain tunes are absent. I especially miss “Odalisque”, a track that would doubtlessly shine in the concert setting (and one I’ve unfortunately never heard them play), but if frustrated expectations are a part of the nature of seeing a band play live, this circumstance is certainly extended to live records.

We All Raise Our Voices to the Air is a very impressive document of some quite seamlessly selected (and sequenced) performances, but in the end it’s really no game-changer, which is to say The Decemberists are still largely the same band they were before its release. But if they keep on trucking, this 3LP set might end up becoming their Europe ’72. Its contents already provide a fine alternative to the underwhelming obviousness of a standard Greatest Hits collection.



After a wait of over three years, Kurt Wagner and his band of astute conspirators have delivered yet another highly distinguished album. Lambchop’s Mr. M unwinds as just one more example of Wagner and Co’s unfussy brilliance, and it adds to the oeuvre of one of the finest acts American music has produced in the last quarter century.   

Due to the nature of their early musical inclination, a rustic sound that held uneasy relationships with the comforts of both contemporaneousness and tradition, Lambchop has been frequently identified as one of the more eclectic examples of the alt-country genre, a circumstance that’s only been amplified by the group’s residence in Nashville, TN.  It’s a tag that Kurt Wagner and Co has never really bristled against, even after moving considerably beyond the template established by their first few albums, mainly because there really isn’t another genre that can comfortably house them.

However, Wagner can be grouped with Will Oldham, David Berman and Bill Callahan, all artists that charted paths out of the early ‘90s US indie boom to their own uniquely expressive ends. But of this foursome, Berman is no longer musically active, riding out on a high note, Oldham is a heavily collaborative and highly prolific operator continually shifting between on-again off-again bands and projects, and Callahan is most accurately sized-up as a solo artist. In this group it’s in Wagner alone that we find an artist so inclined to explore the possibilities of a gradually shifting (in membership as well as sound) long term collective.

Mr. M opens with “If Not I’ll Just Die”, four and a half minutes of lush, symphonic lounge, a song that if used as an introduction to Lambchop would surely bypass any alt-country connections and instead inspire an association with neo-easy listening. But for longtime listeners this development is par for the course, the use of strings being a longstanding component of the band’s arsenal asserting itself as far back as their second album How I Quit Smoking. If on “If Not I’ll Just Die” Lambchop are shooting for a Tormé /Sinatra vibe instead of the chamber-country of Smoking’s “We Never Argue” or the deep soul excavation of What Another Man Spills’ Curtis Mayfield cover “Give Me Your Love” (Love Song)”, well, that’s just gravy. And the song does feature the sterling piano of Tony Crow, traces of gentle noise adding brief and familiar commentary, and of course the immediately recognizable properties of Wagner’s voice and lyrics, all three casually establishing the group’s aural signature.

“If Not I’ll Just Die” is a study in contrast, another example of how Lambchop’s gorgeous arrangements and impeccable instrumentation sugar the pill of Wagner’s examinations of loss, dysfunction, alienation and despair. With the notable exception of some of their country-soul inflected stuff that sprung up on Thriller and What Another Man Spills (see the covers of Mayfield, Frederick Knight’s Stax nugget “I’ve Been Lonely For So Long” and even their vamping up of East River Pipe’s “Hey, Where’s Your Girl?”), this has largely been the band’s default mode. And while this mixture of beauty and darkness wisely avoids the maudlin, it’s also not exactly a barrel of laughs, which is one probable explanation for Lambchop’s small yet devoted core following stateside.

And Mr. M is an even darker album than usual for the band. For starters, it’s dedicated to the memory of Vic Chesnutt, a gifted musician stricken with long-term health problems who took his own life on Xmas day in 2009. Listening to the album with this tribute to a departed friend in mind (Lambchop backed Chesnutt on the outstanding 1998 LP The Salesman and Bernadette) only deepens this record’s moods of frustration, particularly those of emotional and physical separation examined on “2B2”. The song’s stripped down yet sturdy musical bed slowly grows into a sweet melancholy ache while Wagner’s loose yet resonant imagery and a muffled, troubled answering machine recording intensify the aura of isolation and the accumulation of otherwise insubstantial activity (taking down Xmas lights, watching TV, cooking a meal) that accompany it.

But there are moments on Mr. M that if not necessarily upbeat, at least provide a crucial sense of moderate uplift that helps shape the record into another smartly delivered tapestry of expressiveness. “Gone Tomorrow” and particularly both of the disc’s exceptional instrumentals “Gar” and “Betty’s Overture” prove that while not a band of astounding sonic diversity, Lambchop do possess impressive range within the confines of their well-established sound. And while a wealth of diversity can be admirable (if focused, natch), the sort of disciplined range this band has made a habit of displaying is perhaps a greater achievement.

Like most of Lambchop’s albums, the quality of the tracks and their relationship to each other makes it difficult to locate a high point. It certainly could be found in the expert tonal shifts of “Mr. Met”, a song where the Tosca String Quartet’s tough chamber feel contrasts with the lush contributions of the London String Ensemble on tracks like “If Not I’ll Just Die” or “Gone Tomorrow”. And like “2B2”, “Nice Without Mercy” foregoes strings, adapting a spare forcefulness that accents some of the album’s more liner storytelling. However, Wagner’s most straightforward lyrics come on “The Good Life (is wasted)”, the tune flaunting some of the C&W feel that he’s largely sidestepped on recent Lambchop releases in favor of a sort of Southern Leonard Cohen-ist vibe. If in the past he could come off like moodier Tom T. Hall, on “The Good Life” he sounds like a mixture of Don Williams and Lee Hazelwood.

That C&W feel was given a much more thorough examination on KORT: Invariable Heartache, Wagner’s collaboration with singer Courtney Tidwell that came out last year. It featured members of Lambchop in the band and found the vocalists paying tribute to obscure Nashville label Chart Records by indulging in some sly duets that recalled the prime discourse of George and Tammy. While Mr. M eschews this sensibility, Tidwell does appear in a backup role, and her turn on the instrumental “Gar” brings a subtle exotica flavor to what’s already a pleasant, airy tune. She’s also briefly on “Betty’s Overture”, lending a noirish feel to what sounds like a Shorty Rogers or Johnny Mandel composed theme for a TV show about a kickass yet emotionally troubled lady secret agent.

But everybody on the record contributes in top form, and in a way that resists singling out individuals for specific praise. Lambchop’s is an ensemble sound after all, low on flash and high on interaction. The group’s masterful maturity elevates Mr. M’s 11 songs into a simply superb document, the record denoting the third installment in a loose triumvirate of late-works with ‘06’s Damaged and ‘08’s OH (Ohio). For fans of the band it’s an indispensable purchase, but I can’t imagine there are many Lambchop partisans that haven’t already picked it up.

Please note that the 2LP edition includes four bonus tracks, three of them remixes, one a top-notch cover of Glen Campbell’s (Brian Wilson-penned) “Guess I’m Dumb”. All the extra stuff is located on side four, which smartly allows the album’s thematic integrity to remain intact. And along with the download coupon, the whole package clearly shows why Merge continues to thrive creatively after growing into one of the music scene’s bigger true indies. As does the fact that they’ve stuck with Lambchop’s stately accomplishments for nearly twenty years.