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Observe the unrivaled cuteness of Zooey Deschanel in contrast with the odd, staid charm of her bandmate, M. Ward.
hen so many people adore one person's public persona, their growing approbation and presence in our collective cultural awareness, what can one nameless individual say to add to the conundrum? What could I possibly write here that would in any way influence the gargantuan and instantly appreciable cuteness of Zooey Deschanel? What words can be printed that will pat that snowball on the back as it torridly grows and speeds down the slope of popularity? As the writer, I am voided by the sheer cultural presence of someone like that. I am rendered pointless, a buzzing, darting insectile commenter, shrilly singing my hallelujahs behind the beat in the ears of an immense choir already singing her praises. Who on the internet cares one bit if I add my two cents?
It's hard to say. Maybe you. Perhaps you are the reason it matters if I write about Zooey Deschanel. If I mention that she added her drop-dead gorgeous charm and charisma to the flawless perfectionist musicianship of M. Ward, and created not one but now two volumes of some of the most delectable sweet iced tea ever to be recorded in music form - would you be impressed? Would you go out and make Volume Two, by She & Him, your next purchase? Would you then drive around with it in your stereo for weeks at a time, drinking in Zooey's optimistic cuteness as the weather warms and the fingertips of all plantlife bloom into pinks and greens?
Perhaps that's why it matters that I write. So that one person (you) is a little more likely to enjoy some music they might not have noticed before, I will keep typing.
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A L B U M R E V I E W • • •
Volume Two She & Him Merge Records March 23, 2010
M. Ward is a prolific dude. He's not just a great guitarist, he's a stylistic maverick, a guru in all things oddly retro-fresh. If it sounds like it could be simultaneously Dick Dale and Motown, full of warm washes of harmony and reverb, then it sounds like M. Ward's work. He has a knack for finding a strong yet simple guitar hook, stretching it to the utmost limits of its capacity, milking it for a wistful, blissful pop track in the process. Nobody does Americana with the perfectionism with which Ward approaches his work. That's why the most tasteful moguls of anticonformist pop like to collaborate with him. The reason we care: Ward's knack for choosing his collaborators is as sharp as his way with the guitar.
Well, anyone who likes to keep tabs on one of the most can-do-no-wrong actresses of our time, Zooey Deschanel, knows that Ward enlisted her to record a tiny little blip on the indie rock music scene a couple years ago. It was an unassuming, neatly packaged set of simplistic songs written and performed in sympathetic tones and optimistic shades, and it curried no small following for the new act. Many Deschanel fans had already hoped she would sing more, and Ward was as proud to deliver Zooey as she was exuberant to be involved. Now, and almost as unassumingly, She & Him has returned with another disc of commonplace magic, but this time with a knowing wink of triumph. It's uncomplicated, full of church chimes, layered oohs and aahs, and bounding major refrains, the predictable, reverb-laden guitar noodling, and the occasional off note or awkward lyric. It's charming, if transparent.
But Volume Two, like Ward and Deschanel's Volume One, is also sophisticated, in that it is ingeniously likeable. Listeners can feel a sense of belonging in her voice; like she's your best friend from a former life. Here, in music form, this act has provided listeners a safe place to go and relax in the smiles and sighs of sincerely intoned lines like, "I wanna be where your heart is home." Ward's production tact is so smooth and shiny that every song becomes that little sunny spot on the old rug, tempting the most dignified soul to sprawl in its warmth like a housecat.
There's no doubt the songs are sugary, even to a point of corny kitsch that will drive some rock fans up the wall after a few tracks. It all depends on how sweet you like your cup o' bittersweet sentiment. Some folks doctor it till it's light brown and sweeter than sugar itself, some like it black - undiluted wistfulness. You'll find Volume Two is somewhere in the middle, and a bit closer to a doctored foo foo drink than a straight styrofoam cup of truck-stop coffee. But it's naturally sweetened, without heavy syrups or whipped cream. It's just warm and pleasant, with hints of sadnesses balanced against optimism, happiness cut with life lessons. Listeners looking for an original message other than a general positive vibe, and feeling of fun, will come away with common truisms. There's no place like home. Heartbreak lingers. Try harder, do better. Lullabies are pretty. There's nothing to it. "It's just what you told me it'd be," Zooey appealingly lilts, "it's nothing, nothing, nothing at all."
Want to be a critic? Go ahead. Criticize Zooey's songwriting. Say it's trite, weak, simplistic, only bordering on clever. Point out that the strongest tracks on the album are the covers, particularly the Skeeter Davis number, "Gonna Get Along Without You Now," and one close to my heart, the Ronettes' "I Can Hear Music." But you'd be wrong. You're missing what makes these songs stick. They feel personal and professional at the same time. But if you're being a critic, you may not appreciate that, because coming from Deschanel and Ward it's not surprising. Also, spurn them with all your might. Please don't come to any She & Him shows. I am going to be there (again), enjoying these new tracks by this once-in-a-generation collaboration of flawless production ethic and vocal charisma, and I don't want you there frowning it up for me. 81%.
The Way of the World Mose Allison Anti/Epitaph March 23, 2010
One track into Mose Allison's latest release and it's clear I'm in old-timer territory. It is rare when a purist of any kind, in this case a boogie-woogie pianist purist, can throw down a song collection sounding so fresh. Only part of the credit goes to Joe Henry's crystal-clear production quality, but the rest is in Allison's compositional acuity: sparkling piano figures surrounded by tastefully spare arrangements paired with a distinctly world-weary vocal delivery just as often joyous with a breath of rhythm, and lyrics infused with a dark and agitated humor.
I am not familiar with Allison's back-catalog (spanning over fifty years and dozens of recordings), likely to the detriment of my own, personal rockness rating (although if rockness could be substituted for FICO I'd be in pretty good shape right now). Allison was born in 1927 and comes straight out of the Mississippi Delta blues tradition, a true child of the blues. Considered a songwriter's songwriter, his tunes have been covered by a Hall of Fame roster – from Blue Cheer and the Yardbirds to the Clash and Elvis Costello.
With this new release, Allison's prestigious legacy has been dusted off after twelve years away from recording. Even if I can't tell you much about how this disc compares to his past work, I can attest to the vitality of his present.
The Way of the World is a cohesive collection, but each song is distinct. Played through in order, the tracks are sequenced and paced in a way that allow my mind's ears to breathe along with.
The disc kicks off with "My Brain," a playful romp that instantly lets me know what I'm in for, and where the man is coming from. There's a punchy rhythmic sensibility that will return again and again in one form or another. A bright tonality is pervasive, never allowing even the slow tunes to dim into morosity, never succumbing to lyrical themes often bitter. Allison's sure-handed craft rather lifts every song into a timeless realm of accessibility, regardless of where the words want to roam.
Most memorable track for me, the one I find myself singing in between troubles, is "Everybody Thinks You're an Angel," a rolling, testy blues concerning someone I knew, too. Everybody thinks you're an angel/ But you're a devil/ You can't fool me. Close on the heels of that tune is "I'm Alright." This is a woke up this morning didn't have the blues blues – defiance with classic appeal, including a very personal keys solo. Some of you may appreciate a bit about dental floss to complete a stanza rhyme.
I'm always game for a dental floss lyric.
Not everyone will thrill to this album. It's definitely in an old-fashioned style – no tricks, no technological bells and whistles, no fancy mash-ups, overdubs nor experimental structures. There are some timpani drums at the beginning of "Let It Come Down," but that's about it. Mostly keys and vocals, sax, guitar, trap drums, traditional stuff. Some songs are on the slow, schmaltzy side. In my notes for the track "Once In A While" I wrote, "A little lazy for this young brain. Never picks up."
On the other hand if you can't resist an old dude performing perfectly fresh, pristine old time piano blues, this album cannot be missed. For sharing my birthday I give him a high-pitched hoot'n holler. For being 83 years old and looking and sounding better than most dudes in their 20s he gets a "Hell yeah!" All the sour wisdom in his words elicits a string of affirmative cussing and swearing. No accordion: 5 bonus points. For some predictable snoozers I have to refrain from any "Baby-babies." For being blues I have to slap the table with an enthusiastic palm. And the score is: 80%.
Tap a guitar string next time you get a chance. No, don't pluck it really, or strum. Just tap on it, like you're drumming your fingers. You'll notice a little note comes out of it, albeit softly. If you tap on it really hard, you might hear two notes play. Most people use one hand to hold down the strings at certain points to make notes, and then use the other hand to strum or pluck the strings. Even the greatest guitarists primarily stick to these two ways of eliciting music from the guitar. Then there's Kaki King. She's one of those kids who just played around with the guitar, putting her hands on it in weird, creative ways, and making different sorts of sounds. Then she made all of those sounds into music - beautiful, often contemplative, rhythmical music. And people noticed. Rolling Stone calls her one of the new school of guitar gods, listing her among the likes of Jack White, Tom Morello, John Frusciante, Derek Trucks, John Mayer and Omar Rodriguez-Lopez. I have always thought she is beautiful, with her thick lips, dark eyes and serious brow, and her guitar work is intimidating, hence, attractive! I was more than a little disappointed when I found out she bats for the other team. Well I don't care if she would turn me down in real life. It doesn't keep me from having a crush on her.
I heard of Marnie when she emerged from the New York scene with her first major LP on Kill Rock Stars records (a major player among indie labels), In Advance of the Broken Arm. I liked her sound pretty well; she has a tendency to mash together a lot of guitar work and rhythm changes into short spaces. The demands of an insatiable guitar talent are great. But her songs really are pretty good, and the musical art clearly has a lot of thought behind it. Marnie made a big splash with a great disc and a big album title in 2008, the longest album title I've ever heard: This Is It and I Am It and You Are It and So Is That and He Is It and She Is It and It Is It and That Is That. Her sophomore effort lander her in Pitchfork's top-50 of 2008, and got her a lot of attention among fans of crazy, experimental, noisy rock guitar. All talent and accomplishments aside, she's not that hard on the eyes either.
So if Michael Jackson was working on a major project, back when he was alive, with which major guitarist would he collaborate? Would it be Tom Morello? Eric Clapton? Jack White? Maybe John Mayer? You'd think Michael would choose the best. In his opinion, maybe he did. Before his untimely passing, the great performer hand-selected this young Aussie beauty, not so much for her striking looks, but for her face-melting solos. That's right, this girl got to be Michael Jackson's last major lead guitarist before she even turned 25. That's how talented she is. I am not a huge fan of her songwriting style, but make no mistake: she absolutely wails. Not many other 20-something girls get to spend their time honing their chops in guitar duels with BB King, Steve Vai, or Carlos Santana.
Hidden These New Puritans Angular Recording Co./Domino Records January 18, 2010 (UK) / March 2, 2010 (US)
There’s not much background can I give you on These New Puritans. Hidden is the British quartet’s second release. Since it’s my first encounter with the band, I have no better reference point than the editor’s curiosity.
The band is led by twin brothers, which is probably a good thing – who knows – and one of the members is a very attractive girl – always a plus. All the guys in the band have that emaciated Londoner smack-addict look – I guess girls really go for that these days. But who cares what anybody’s twin looks like – it’s about the music. Right?
Actually, I do care since this is about rock. And as far as looks go they have that starved, haunted cosmopolitan druggie look going for them, with the hot chick for extra measure. I can relate to this. [word count:137]
After cursory listens to the several releases elgabarino suggested I might review, I chose Hidden for its oddly immediate accessibility. I write “oddly” here because inventive compositional structures composited with rich mix of acoustic and electric timbres do not make for casual, relaxed listening. But their genius transcends their artistic peculiarities. There is immediacy in these tracks, like a midnight highway traffic accident between earnest musical curiosity and brash poetic urgency wrapped in plush moss.
These New Puritans, they draw me in. And they push me away – but never completely. Just when I think I’ve heard enough, they drop the tension and pour on the beauty. For example, I’ve never been a fan of brass, but I’m a sucker for broad, crisp drum sounds. Hidden makes brilliant use of these and many other sounds: oboe and other woodwinds, a grand piano and some shadowy guitar’s relative, a children’s choir, impossibly vague electronica, cracking percussion and whomping bass drums in great halls of reverberation. Never once do they resort to the accordion.
The accursed, awful accordion. We’ll get more into that later. Thankfully, These New Puritans, gluttons for sonic eccentricity that they are, did not feel the need to subject me to the thrice-blamed accordion. [word count (counting previous word count editorial note): 344]
I’m always curious how bands are categorized. It used to be that we had some general, broad categories – you had your rock, your rap, your R&B, your jazz, etc. But these days it’s an absurd pursuit. It seems like there’s some sort of sub-sub-category for every single recording artist. It’s really just a marketing thing, you know, to help us figure out where we want to drop our dimes. But all the same, I wondered how a band as strange as These New Puritans was being pigeonholed. On lala.com they call it “alternative.” Hmm. Now there’s a lame, indistinct category. On Wikipedia they call it “art rock.”
Well, I can go with art rock, since that’s where I’m coming from in general. Hell, I didn’t know they even did that anymore. But, does Hidden rock? I’d rather say this is experimental music.
It’s rockness is in question.
First of all, after an off-puttingly droll orchestral yawn-fest of an intro, they kick into “We Want War,” one of the best tracks on the disc. This is a serious, driving dirge-like march with dramatic starts and stops. One thing this band does especially well is use big, fat rests. Using space is what we call it, and by space we mean silence. This is a technique that inhabits all powerful music.
The lyrics throughout are mostly unimportant. The critical measure is how songs are delivered. These New Puritans make songs sound important, even if they’re singing about a fairy tale – this is how Peter Gabriel launched his career.
My favorite track is “Hologram,” an improbable piano ballad that ventures deep into Joe Jackson territory without trespass.
Now I’ve spent my projected word count after all and I haven’t even rated the disc. I give it a demerit for not having one funky beat – even with all of these great drum sounds they resemble more a collegiate drum corps than U2 ever did, and not at all like anything remotely groovey. I give it three Baby-baby-babies for taking the best of New Wave sensibilities without any unfortunate cheese involvement. For impeccable use of silence I have to throw down 81 dB “Yeah!” Relentless experimentalism without use of accordion always makes me show my tits. Toss it all in the mega-onanator and the grand total comes out to be [word count (counting previous word count editorial notes): 739]: 70%.
Editor's Note: Please rec this post and comment at the link above.Please welcome DB, our new staff writer here at The Whole Brevity Thing. He will be writing a semi-weekly album review column entitled Tha Rockness, based on his own highly scientific algorithm for measuring how much things "rock." We at TWBT are excited to have DB on board, and hope you'll read'n'rec his posts and listen to the music. Best, g
I was quite happy to be in a nice old part of town, with its trees, quiet surface roads and main-street bustle, so I stopped at 'bucks for the Americano I felt I deserved. I didn't have to be anyplace at any time just yet. After being sick and the morning doctor appointment, I could spare five minutes.
Workers were tearing up the street outside the Starbucks by Eye-Med, but I managed to park. The upside of the work was a little four-year-old kid who was completely distracted from begging his father for candy. He was held captive by the mysterious workings, out the window, of the huge yellow machines and men in orange hats. We grown-ups, half-distracted, watched the new asphalt with all of the enthusiasm of lazy house-cats. Each adult was just queued for his or her respective cup of joe. But the kid was alive facing that window, putting down roots there.
When he blared his excitement "LOOK DADDY THEY'RE MOVING!" I wondered why I was annoyed at his father's reaction. I was just as bored with the construction as any adult would be, and felt there was nothing particularly momentous about their movement. And the father didn't ignore his son, and validated him with an affirmative comment.
But for some reason it was tacky and common that "Daddy" just softly murmured a, "uuhh-huuuhhh, looka thaaat, buddy!" - WITHOUT LOOKING - while attentively lightening his coffee. Dammit, was there really anything more important than those moving yellow masses just then? If I ever have kids I hope don't get so bogged down in being a parent that I can't drop everything and drink in moments like that with my kids. Does adulthood REALLY have to be like the film Hook? Does the Peter Pan in us always really grow up, and forget everything?
I am sometimes afraid, when the time comes, I won't remember.
True
hen so many people adore one person's public persona, their growing approbation and presence in our collective cultural awareness, what can one nameless individual say to add to the conundrum? What could I possibly write here that would in any way influence the gargantuan and instantly appreciable cuteness of Zooey Deschanel? What words can be printed that will pat that snowball on the back as it torridly grows and speeds down the slope of popularity? As the writer, I am voided by the sheer cultural presence of someone like that. I am rendered pointless, a buzzing, darting insectile commenter, shrilly singing my hallelujahs behind the beat in the ears of an immense choir already singing her praises. Who on the internet cares one bit if I add my two cents?
