Imagine a world where music is free: Where struggling bands can survive without charging fans for their albums. It's not a socialist society, and it's not a utopia. It's already happening.
Album review: Eagles of Death Metal - "Heart On"
The CD spine says Lady GaGa, but music for "The Fame" was actually co-written by Bilal Hajji, Josh Schwartz and a handful of other less attractive, more talented songwriters who churn out star-making cuts for the likes of Britney Spears and Nick Carter. You won't see the funnily-named song writer Brian Kierulf on "The Hills," but GaGa, a Factory Girl in training, hit up an Audrina party on said program thanks in large part to catchy, beat-heavy club cuts like "Paparazzi" and "Money Honey." Don't equate GaGa with fluff. She flourishes lyrically - "Let's have some fun, this beat is sick." And she pulls her weight in marketing: Rob Fusari can't rock jet-black spandex, and Martin Kierszenbaum doesn't sell records.
Alert the accent authorities. Joining a long list of faux pond-hoppers - Madonna, Johnny Ramone - On "Not Only … But Also," The 88 take their sunny, So-Cal pop tunes and cake them with a heavy layer of English inflection. You can't blame these lads for wanting to sound like the Beatles, but fact is, their talents lie elsewhere. For instance, Keith Slettedahl manages some Blind Melon-esque notes on uptempo ballad "Sons and Daughters." "Save Your Breath" fits the heart-on-sleeve, crooner mold, though impressively displays powers of ESP with the line "I don't want this anymore." Mind reader! Still, bogus Brit-pop influences undercut melodies like, "I'm gonna run through the door/ talk to the floor/ it must be true." A word of advice: Lock the door. The British are coming, sort of.
Lots of chatter coming out of Montreal these days. With Arcade Fire on hiatus and Of Montreal not actually of Montreal, Land of Talk now generate the most noise in this ice-cold indie hotbed with dense, groove-oriented music evocative of Neil Young in all his "Ragged Glory." On "Some Are Lakes," atop layers of distortion and heavy-handed drumming, Elizabeth Powell offers up cryptic poetry about the perils of darkness in a gentle, inflection-free tone. Perhaps her singing lacks emotional resonance, or maybe the pounding rhythms simply drown her out. In this case, it lacks volume, though she does speak up on "Young Bridge." Chiming guitars and harmony galore give way to the line "There's no light underneath you," another mystery phrase that deserves a follow-up question: Is Land of Talk in fact saying anything?
Tall and bulky under a mess of red hair, Brett Dennen looks like the guy who used to stuff you in your locker in the sixth grade- and then serenade you with gentle, acoustic lullabies. On "Hope for the Hopeless," the former camp counselor and current Bay Area folkie uses his powers - expressive wordplay, hippie guitar - to spread West Coast peace and love. He claims this record was inspired by "Exile on Main St." Yes, and this review was inspired by "The Grapes of Wrath." Not buying it: "San Francisco" and "Heaven" are breezy, Stones-free odes to diversity. "Hope" works as a sermon to the converted - music for sandaled peaceniks. As for lingering misconceptions, Dennen clears things up on the effortless "Wrong About Me." He's a lover, not a fighter.
Crammed into Nick Greene's sound-proof bedroom, Boss Lady and the Company played a few of their original tracks Thursday night. Instead of awkwardly standing around explaining what they're about, the band members decided to show it.
Via a lucrative contract, "Black Ice" sells exclusively through Wal-Mart and Sam's Club. No big deal - we already knew AC/DC was in tight with Satan. Of more importance, after an eight-year sabbatical, the Australian metal titans still rest their laurels on a time-tested principle as fundamental to rock 'n' roll as the band itself: play three chords and let the truth do the rest. "Rock 'N Roll Train" sounds like the classic here, aiming for and achieving a big thrills, no frills anthem best played loud. Likewise, the power-chord manifestos "War Machine" and "Rock N Roll Dream" reaffirm the Young brothers' status atop the riff-rock hierarchy. There are no variations, no pointless detours and, really, no need. The Highway to Hell is a one-way street.
Earlier this year, Rehab's "Bartender Song (Sittin' At a Bar)" made the leap from jukebox phenomenon to Hot 100 entry. Now Danny Boone, mastermind of the honky hip-hoppers, finds himself on the cusp of fame. On Nov. 8, Rehab will play alongside bands such as Hinder and Red Jumpsuit Apparatus at the Planetfest, a music festival in Jacksonville. Has life changed? How could it not? Says Boone, "We've got more beer than we've ever had in our life."
Bravado by any other name is Electric Six. The opening cut from "Flashy" not only self-references a past "classic" but actually features the a cappella chorus "Gay Bar Part Two," which gives you some idea of how unabashedly cheeky this band really is. Amidst a barrage of guitar fire and trumpet riffs, Detroit's "Full Monty" punk troupe dishes an unending slew of one-liners in preparation for showtime at The Apollo. There's a little Chris Rock - "In the event of a water landing / you can use my body as a flotation device." There's a lot of Krusty the Clown - "You never want to find yourself trapped in heavy woman's thighs." So bust out your best heckle routine and a box of tomatoes. If you don't think it's funny, then the joke's on them.
Fresh off a full Canadian Tour, Less Than Jake drummer Vinnie Fiorello talked to the Alligator about life on the road and returning home to play a special Halloween show at The Fest. First stop Gainesville, and then it's onto Europe for a six-week tour.
I always play it safe with a simple "Hello" because the rare few misinterpret "Hi, how you doing?" as "Hi, tell me how crappy your day was in the context of your life story." Lucinda Williams - a.k.a. Debbie Downer - is one of these people. With "Little Honey," the aging country maven spills her guts with songs about stalling Chevys and drunken lovers, all in a self-ingratiating attempt to fulfill a patience-trying time quota. Williams has a cheese grater for a voice, and on the inebriated "Jailhouse Tears," she sings in down-home Southernisms that twist the life out of unsuspecting vowels. It briefly occurred to me this record could be collaborated to sound perfectly tuneful if you're actually hung over, so start drinking or just nod your head and pretend like you're listening.
Economy in crisis. Russia flexing military muscle. Metallica kicking ass. Yeah baby, it's the 80s all over again. Keane's look could use a perm and spandex, but their neon-flecked sound is already primped for the Jazzercise age. On "Perfect Symmetry," the British three-piece swaps their emo-piano fetish for synth-spiked, Ric Ocasek-approved retro goodness. The way-back machine takes full effect on the shockingly melodic "You Haven't Told Me Anything," which floats on breezy harmonies and hip-shaking new wave guitar. "Again & Again" only ups the pop ante with an absolutely explosive chorus. The bridge alone could erase the memory of "Is It Any Wonder?" Hell, it could single-handedly take down the Berlin Wall and vindicate Reaganomics: the good-idea trickle-down effect at last reaches Keane.
English singer-songwriter Damon Albarn obviously has an affinity for primates. In his new incarnation as Monkey, the Gorillaz mastermind combines his love of hairy apes and the Far East in "Journey to the West," an ambient document that completely rationalizes stifling imagination at a young age. It's creative if nothing else, melding oriental instrumentation, electronic beats and the lyrical musings of geishas and dragon kings. "Monkey Bee," a hypnotic, synthesized rocker, arrives about twenty tracks too late and proves one of few passages to translate cleverness into actual appeal. The spastic chalk-board screech "Battle in Heaven," on the other hand, is payback enough for years of tainted crayons and chemically activated toys. As the opera progresses, the cultural connections emerge. You hit a great wall halfway through. The rest is like water torture.
The comparisons between the Secret Machines and Joe the Plumber are all but unavoidable with said band's self-titled third album. Both phenomena receive way more attention than they deserve, have prominent direct articles in their names and now specialize in releasing crap. Things weren't always this way for the once-promising New York space-rockers. "Last Believer, Drop Dead" - addressed to their fan, perhaps? - showcases a fleeting bit of potential with appropriate grandiosity built by big, fuzzy guitar lines and a truly exhilarating chorus. "Have I Run Out" is more typical fare, as it sets psychedelic Dungeons-and-Dragons-styled ramblings to blunt-riffed agro-noise. The song mercifully ends at around eight minutes; the band's fame at fifteen.
Where would democracy be without the third party? Exactly where it is today, but don't tell that to Murs. With "Murs for President," the L.A. rapper throws his hat into the political ring with a free-styling beat-fest that's both wordy and repetitive - he would make a great stump speech. His everyman message: "You might think that you know me / You know where I'm coming from." Actually no, Murs, we don't know you, so let's begin the vetting process. His stance on immigration, from "Lookin' Fly": "My Brazilian / She worth a few million / Beauty and brains / Might let her have my children." Surprisingly tolerant! Foreign policy experience, from "Soo Comfortable": "Moved away from Maui to European valleys." Hell, he's probably pals with Sarkozy. But can he pull the female vote? From guitar-riff laden "Road Is My Religion": "Every night different women want to please me." I think we have ourselves a contender.
Cows coming home, days in the sun, cold Budweiser - it's the finer things in life that concern country collective The Weight. While "Are Men" ruminates lyrically on simple pleasures and equally simple pains, the music relies heavily on intricacy. The cowboys' equation: Silver Jews, minus smart-ass irony and plus an extra shot of twang. "Hillbilly Highway" is pretty much exactly what you'd expect - a beer-soaked love song for hicks, fleshed out with organ fills and yeehaw fiddle. It's a somber affair for the most part, but "Had It Made" shakes off the Jack and Coke haze with a Tweedy-esque melody and stomping guitar interplay. The tune cuts to the barbecued heart of The Weight - these "Men" are really just a bunch of good ol' boys.
Kevin Barnes lost his marbles a long time ago. Now his pants must go. Of Montreal's "Skeletal Lamping" uncovers the brainchild's most outrageous fantasies in a series of wildly uninhibited hallucinations - each deceptively catchy, each bat-shit freaky. The track titles -"An Eluardian Instance," "Nonpareil Of Favor" - baffle as much as the actual music, which shuns conventional song structures for whimsical snippets blended indiscriminately into a faux-disco smoothie. Prince says it goes down easy. And it does - the slinky R&B, the electro-pop excursions, the noise jams. It's an orgy of a record that takes us to the bottom of Barnes's rabbit hole where he buried his two most cherished readings - Webster's Dictionary and the Kama Sutra.
Rachael Yamagata, the singer, songwriter and pianist, has released her second full-length album called "Elephants … Teeth Sinking Into Heart," and she's hopping on the bus for the Hotel Café Tour, which also features folk-rock singers Ingrid Michaelson and Meiko.
Dow, Pacman - it sucks to be a Jones these days. So to ward off any negative surname karma, Norah has officially changed her name to Rachael Yamagata, piano-crooner extraordinaire. On "Elephants…Teeth Sinking Into Heart," Yamagata - if that's really her name - makes understated, acoustic music for coffee houses. For all of their nuance and organic instrumentation, "What If I Leave" - answer: I probably wouldn't notice because I fell asleep half an hour ago - and "Over and Over" match herbal tea for sheer excitement. It comes as a kick in the stomach when, for the love of PJ Harvey, disc two erupts with three vicious, melodic rockers. Maybe the Norah comparisons are off, but that's what she gets for making me suffer through the "Elephant" tranquilizer.
Solutions by The State News
