February 7th, 2008
The Green Room backstage at the Jimmy Kimmel Show is one of the more supremely wonderful places on earth. It’s Xanadu–a place specifically designed to hit all the pleasure receptors of the male mind. No matter how refined or cultured you think you might be, it’s impossible not to get a little jangled when thrown smack dab into world of miniature cheesecake-filled buffets, an open bar, leggy blondes sipping Cabernet in corners , a string of vintage video games like Ms. Pacman and Galaga and walls plastered with big-screen plasma televisions beaming Pau Gasol’s successful attempt to integrate into the framework of the triangle offense.
Of course, you’d expect nothing less from a guy who made his name hosting something called “The Man Show” but still, this is sort of the place where time stops. I mean Tuesday was a pretty big deal and all, but nary a single screen had election returns on. This was just as well because it would’ve been incredibly annoying to have had to deal with a bunch of dudes in fedoras waxing fauxlosophic on the nuances of Obama’s health plan.
Moreover, that’s besides the point of the Kimmel Green Room. It’s escapism at its finest, one of those LA fantasies that you always suspect is going on the entire time right under your nose. Y’know, turn the fake candlestick, the walls spin around and you find yourself face to face with a bevy of beautiful women, a tomato quiche and Alexis Taylor, the lead singer of Hot Chip shooting pool wearing a electric yellow “Where’s the Beef” hat and a pair of argyle MC Hammer pants. Due to programmer Felix Martin’s illness, the band had missed its lone LA gig at the El Rey the night prior but they’d wrangled a replacement for the Kimmel show and the next thing I knew was several drinks deep, hypnotized by this temple of the Id. (Though to be fair, the hypnosis may have been caused by the dazzling combination of argyle and Zubaz .)
Jimmy Kimmel: The Talk Shows he’s created over the years, I don’t really watch them, but the fact that he’s making them, I respect that.
The promotional blitz has to do with Hot Chip’s, Made in the Dark. You’ve probably heard of it, after all, this is a blog. It’s a solid record with some spectacular moments and some middling ones. Truth be told, I stand somewhere between the 7.0 Pitchfork review and LA Weekly editor, Randall Roberts’ break-down of why Hot Chip should be your new favorite band. Made in the Dark is definitely good but as the ‘Fork review points out it lacks anything as poignant as “And I Was a Boy From School” or as buoyant as “Over and Over” (though it comes close several times). Plus, its last two songs are pretty useless with Hot Chip suddenly abandoning song-craft for boring piano-man ballads that suggest Elton John with a fixation for Kraftwerk and Prince.
The live show is a different story altogether. At last year’s Bonnaroo and Coachella, both times Hot Chip blew me away and certainly not through charisma or stage presence. They barely acknowledge the crowd and rarely show emotion. It doesn’t matter. They bring the funk like Redman despite looking more Red Buttons. Songs that float lazily on the record are gutted and re-constituted into anthems. As Randall’s feature pointed out, it’s hard not to dance and this poses massive logistical problems for their heavily Caucasian fan base. The average Hot Chip show can get ugly, think awkward hipsters performing whooping crane-like thrusts that look more suited to an attack strategy from The Karate Kid.
On Kimmel, Hot Chip played just two songs, first single, “Ready for the Floor,” and “Hold On,” the latter a seemingly odd choice considering at nearly six and a half minutes it’s the albums longest track. It’s also its best and I imagine its selection means Hot Chip must be aware of exactly how great it is. It’s the sort of song that actually sounds like what Craig Mack thought “Flavor in Your Ear” sounded like: “some robotic futuristic George Jetson” shit. It’s space disco with bongos sung by a tiny British guy channeling Prince in argyles and a chartreuse hat. And it’s brilliant. Weird, I know. Even more impressive was that “Ready for the Floor,” was the only tune that aired, which means that Hot Chip played “Hold On” strictly for just 100 or so people that swarmed Kimmel’s stage. But the way they played it, you’d have thought they were headlining a festival. It was about the only way to end a very bizarre and very fun endeavor. And how about that Pau Gasol?
Buy Made in the Dark
MP3: Hot Chip-”Ready for the Floor”
MP3: Hot Chip-”Hold On”
Posted in Beards, Blazers, & Glasses | 5 Comments »
January 29th, 2008
Yeasayer are a jam band, they just aren’t aware of it yet. At one point during the Brooklyn four-piece’s set Saturday night at the Echoplex, lead singer Chris Keating even paused to extemporaneously inform the crowd that “people call us hippies, but that’s just not true. We’re from Baltimore.” This is arguably the worst ever defense of someone’s lack of hippiness. C’mon, Yeasayer, you guys aren’t fooling anyone. You went to the same private school as Animal Collective and granted, those guys might not be hippies in the classical sense, but they’ve clearly popped enough peyote to join several Native American tribes.
Moreover, take a look at the picture above and tell me that you disagree with Ian Cohen’s assessment that Yeasayer look like they tried to dress as the Spin Doctors for Halloween but couldn’t quite pull it off. Not to mention the fact that for the first fifteen minutes of their show, I was standing next to a greasy, dull-eyed, dead-ringer for Devendra Banhart. The guy smelled like he’d been guzzling rancid soy milk and rolling around in a patch of pachouli all afternoon. Fucking hippies.
Not like I blame Yeasayer for traveling the indie route, it’s probably a smart move. Hell, the hippies and hipsters have been on a collision course since Phish broke up in 2004 and at last year’s Bonnaroo, (the Wimbledon of the hippie jam circuit), over half the bands could’ve been classified as “indie rock.” So maybe it shouldn’t come as a surprise that Yeasayer rep for the ever-growing sub-strata of indie bands that do drugs or at least look like they do (see also, Brightblack Morning Light, Black Mountain, Comets on Fire, and of course, the entire open-toed shoe freak-folk scene.)
Well, I Was Going To Make A “Two Princes” Joke Here, But Instead I Think We Should All Just Gaze In Awe and Horror At The Guy On the Left’s Red Nipple Shirt
On record, Yeasayer’s loopy, writhing, polyrhythmic jams work out quite well. Clocking in at just 46 minutes, the band’s ‘07 debut, All Hour Rhythms conjures a sort of compressed majesty, an ephemeral opium-dream full of nervous Far East sitars, African drums, and wispy, choral harmonies. It’s a big, epic-sounding record. The sort of thing you’d expect to hear at a yoga studio in Williamsburg. Take that how you will. Keating’s lyrics blur into an almost unintelligible chant and you pretty much forget the fact that what’s he’s saying is some real hippy-dippy gibberish. Truth be told, these guys make The Klaxons sound like Aldous Huxley.
In person, these weak spots are hard to ignore. Songs that float like a lazy, sun-baked river on wax perpetually find their momentum halted by Keating’s between-song rambles. At one point, the guy even hurled something into the audience, sparking a brief unenthusiastic war between the stage and the unimpressed crowd. The problem is that while the album shrouds the band in mystery, their live show reveals them to be a bunch of kids on their first national tour, who have neither mastered their instruments nor figured out how to work the crowd. Stripped of their studio wizardry, their Pro-Tools wall of sound felt attenuated and two-dimensional. Occasionally, it felt like watching Jethro Tull try to perform Phil Collins songs. Or Animal Collective doing songs for a Queen covers compilation. Or any number of the mediocre Robert Plant albums from the 80s.
Ultimately, it’s this occupation of the middle ground that makes Yeasayer remind me most of The Spin Doctors. If you think about it, The Spin Doctors were the ultimate tweener band, hippie enough to get invited to the first H.O.R.D.E. Festival, , alternative enough to get played on 120 Minutes, and poppy enough to filter down to the Junior High set. And rest assured, “2080″ is every bit as catchy as “Two Princes” or “Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong.” (I think the statute of limitations has passed long enough for us to accept that these are great songs). But for them to move past being just another indie band riding the world music wave, Yeasayer are going to have to decide which direction they want to go in. Do they want to cultivate their inner weirdo and de-construct melodies to the point where no one likes them but music critics and art kids? Or will they retain their penchant for exploration while simultaneously finding their inner Garcia and letting their sound breathe? C’mon guys, go for it, there’s no shame, add a second guitarist who can shred, be willing to embrace your inner…gasp…hippie. Because honestly, as lame as tie die is, it’s still a thousand times cooler than red nipple shirts.
Download:
MP3: Yeasayer-”2080″
MP3: Yeasayer-”Sunrise”
Posted in Beards, Blazers, & Glasses | 8 Comments »
November 29th, 2007
Granted, the twee-leaning indie pop made by the Welsh seven-piece, Los Campesinos! might not be your cup of Earl Grey, but if you hate them there is a high probability that you might be an asshole. These kids are hater-proof. Hating them is like hating the easter bunny, or wearing coats made of greyhound, or booing people at the Special Olympics. Trust me. I interviewed them before the show Tuesday night and you probably won’t find a nicer, more self-deprecating and unpretentious band existing anywhere on earth.
The band spoke with the dazed exuberance of NCAA Tournament #15 seeds finding themselves in the Sweet 16 for the first time in school history. A sort of shell shocked surrealism engendered by being in strange sunny Los Angeles, staying at a fancy hotel down the street from the Scientology Celebrity Centre, being brought complimentary platters of hummus and pita before their initial West Coast performance. It must’ve been weird.
The thing is, these guys aren’t supposed to be here. Well, technically they probably are. They’re a talented group of kids, all in their early 20’s, and they released a pretty killer first EP, Sticking Fingers in Sockets. But about a year Los Campesinos! were just a bunch of British kids away at school in Cardiff, doing what normal college kids do, drinking, studying, obsessing over music, taking gargantuan bong rips from 3-foot water pipes (maybe). One day on a whim, they decided to form a band with fame and fortune the absolute last things on their mind. Things progressed, a rough demo was cut, uploaded to Myspace and Drowned in Sound. And the next thing they knew, Los Campesinos! turned into the latest Internet’s latest darlings, called everything from the last “great indie band” to superbly crafted indie pop in practically every online music magazine.
Actual Campesinos: Huge Fans of Los Campesinos!
You get the gist, these kids are indie-to-the-core, which on paper makes them sound extraordinarily irritating. And if you listen with a cynical ear its easy to point out the possibility that Los Campesinos! may merely have stumbled onto the secret formula to winning online music crit hearts: a touch of Arcade Fire, a pinch of Architecture in Helsinki, a dash of Pavement, mixed with wry wit and a keen sense of irony . Heat. Serve.
But watching them live, any sense of resistance you have to their ADD-addled twee skronk melts away. The seven of them bash at their instruments with wiry punk-rock energy, pogo-ing across the stage in a drunken youthful stagger. Sure, they wield the by-now predictably odd array of varied instrumentation: glockenspiels, xylophones, melodicas, violin, but the thing about these guys is that they’re just trying to have fun and it’s hard not to get swept away in their sense of enthusiasm and exuberance. Of course, they do the little things right. Clever lyrics belie their inexperience, Gareth and Aleksandra Campesinos! sing some melting, gorgeous two-part harmonies and shirtless drummer Ollie Campesinos! bashes his drum kit with an electric mayhem-type abandon. Plus, they have a few really cute girls in the band and let’s be honest with ourselves, that never hurts.
On “We Throw Parties, You Throw Knives!” Gareth Campesino! sings about “a balance between pretentious and pop” with a British marble-mouthed yell. Indeed, it’s this blend of self-awareness without inhibition, intelligence without self-righteous snark that makes Los Campesinos! so likeable. They’re the underdogs and they know it, but rather than worry, they’re laughing at their miraculous fortune and just trying to have a good time. Change is good for bands. Everyone needs to evolve. But I hope that no matter how big Los Campesinos! get they maintain their sense of innocence and wonder at actually getting paid to make music for a living. Their first full-length drops on Arts and Crafts in February and it’ll be interesting to see whether or not, they’re able to build on their impressive debut. Either way, I’ll be rooting for them. Way more than that fraud the Easter Bunny.
Buy Sticking Fingers Into Sockets EP
Download:
MP3: Los Campesinos!-”We Throw Parties, You Throw Knives”
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November 16th, 2007
I wrote this for the LA Weekly last month. Unfortunately, it didn’t run due to space constraints. I know it isn’t timely and I know most of you don’t like Sunset Rubdown. Deal with it.
It’s barely halfway through Sunset Rubdown’s hour-long set and Spencer Krug is already drenched, sweat flinging from his finger-tips as he flails at a beat-up Yamaha keyboard with a deranged phantom fury. This isn’t the opera though (I believe that’s reserved for Joanna Newsom next month at the Disney Concert Hall), instead the band is transposing the haunting Maurice Sendak fantasia of their most recent record, Random Spirit Lover, to a three-quarters full El Rey Theater.
Before vaulting into the bleeding synths and myth-rock of “Winged/Wicked Things” Krug pauses for as second, boyishly smirking into the microphone. His face is partially lit-up by the pale light of a desktop lamp perched just to his left, a lamp he’s lugged across the country, night after night as Sunset Rubdown has canvassed the country non-stop over the past 12 months, first behind last year’s brilliant Shut Up I Am Dreaming and now for the recently released and similarly great, Random Spirit Lover. Speaking for the first time beyond a few cursory thank you’s, Krug timidly declares “we’ve never played in such a fancy venue before.” Without missing a beat, the band’s keyboardist/melodica player/self-described lone female on a bus with 11 other guys, Camilla Wynn Ingr playfully teases him: “well, you have.”
All Sunset, No Rubdown
Ingr’s addressing the 800 lb. elephant, er…. wolf in the room, the fact that it was only a month ago when Krug played to a much fuller house with his other band, Canadiandie royalty, Wolf Parade, with a crowd that included more than a few suds-swilling frat boys sucked in by the acclaimed Montreal band’s Sub Pop pedigree and much more democratic guitar rock. But there is little overlap tonight, with the demographics even less diverse, unless diversity counts as being split even between graduates of Otis, Cal Arts, and the Art Center. It’s just as well. Sunset Rubdown is probably too raw and weird to cross-over, with Krug’s lyrics a dizzying jag of surrealist animal imagery. The sort of uncomfortable honesty that only makes sense drunk, rambling, stoned in the ashy delirium of 3:00 a.m (which ostensibly, would make it perfect for frat boys.)
Most striking about this band is their ability to transpose the feverish revelation and atavistic urgency of their albums into the live setting. Whereas first, it merely appeared to be Spencer Krug’s vanity project, Sunset Rubdown have congealed into a tight working unit capable of rendering obscure EP cuts (“Three Colours”) into sprawling quasi-psychedelic three-guitar heavy jams or letting loose into a two drummer freak out that was almost danceable were it actually possible to dance with a straight face to a song called ““The Taming of the Hands That Came Back to Life.” Most importantly, the band did so without compromising the behind-closed-doors emotionalism and off-kilter instrumentation that makes them so unique in the first place. Despite this being their fist time in fancier digs, Sunset Rubdown seemed at home, channeling the early morning desperation and private confessionals presumably composed in the pale and lonely light that lingered in the background.
Download:
MP3: Sunset Rubdown-”Winged/Wicked Things”
MP3: Sunset Rubdown-”Up On Your Leopard, Upon The End Of Your Feral Days”
Posted in Beards, Blazers, & Glasses | 1 Comment »
October 30th, 2007
I never got into Caribou prior to Andorra, mainly because of a natural aversion to animal-named bands. Yeah, yeah, I like the Wolf Parade and I’d probably give the Panda Bear record 8.6 bamboo shoots, but as a general rule, naming oneself after a furry four-legged creature usually means that you’ll end up as a bad indie-rock punchline faster than you can say AIDS Wolf.
Of course, Caribou actually used to be called Manitoba. A slightly better moniker but one unfortunately claimed by the former lead singer of the Dictators, Handsome Dick Manitoba, who presumably won the rights solely based off the fact that Handsome Dick Manitoba is the second greatest name in the history of the world (behind Handsome Dan).
On wax, Caribou is Daniel Snaith, an unassuming curly haired Canadian with a receding hairline and a Math PHD, who reportedly thought of the name Caribou while tripping on acid in the Canadian wilderness (I imagine this was right before purchasing the god-awful shirt he’s wearing in the above photo). But for his live set, the band is a four-piece with two drummers (including Snaith) and two guitarists capable of producing furious eardrum popping walls of sound.
Dan Snaith Taking It Back to His Roots, And Eating Them
Backed by a large LCD screen flashing colorful splinters of light, Caribou’s live show is pretty much what you’d expect from a bunch of guys who like to take acid and stare for hours at esoteric Canadian wildlife: psychedelic and pretty damned awesome. Their latest effort, Andorra is a deceptively sad record once you peel away all the layered guitars and electronic wizardry, but live, the band was locked in with a sweat-dripping intensity, all violent drums, serrated guitars and eerie psychedelic vocals.
It was one of the better shows I’ve been to this year and I know I say that like four times a week but really, it was. If you’ve never listened to Caribou, because you mistakenly conflated them with We Are Wolves, or Frog Eyes or Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer (they’re like Broken Social Scene meets The Annuals Meets Afro-Pop) then you should definitely check them out. I’d give them at least 8.6 bamboo shoots.
Download:
From Andorra
MP3: Caribou-”Melody Day”
MP3: Caribou-”Irene”
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October 24th, 2007
Jess Harvell’s thought-provoking Idolator piece on the nature of the hype machine beast has left me a little wary (at least today) of contributing to the instant deification (followed by the subsequent de-construction) of yet another promising young band. So I’ll keep it simple. Besides, I’ve written about the Parson Redheads before once or twice or thrice.
I’ve probably seen the Parsons six times in the last 12 months and during that time frame they’ve gone from virtual unknowns playing the Derby on a Wednesday night to getting the coveted Spaceland residency this coming January. It’s a much deserved promotion. Last Thursday night, the Parsons did what they always seem to do: put on a ridiculously fun set, packing the Spaceland stage full of people dancing, writhing and rocking out to their Byrdsian/Beachwood Sparks throwback rock. They aren’t on some Arcade Fire “let’s pretend we’re a indie rock church choir” shit. They aren’t trying to be deep and change the world. They’re just trying to make you have a good time. And I’ve yet to see them fail. They’re currently on their biggest tour yet, a nearly month-long swing through the West Coast. I can’ t promise that they’ll be your new favorite band, but at least they’ll be better the Black Kids. Whoever they are.
Also, I’ve been remiss in not talking about openers Le Switch before. Granted, I’m a little biased because I’ve known Aaron Kyle, the band’s front man since before I even knew he was in a band. (I think I figured he was a graphic designer or something like 89.2 percent of Silverlake) However, Le Switch are rightfully starting to build some buzz around these parts. Duke’s a fan and the Aquarium Drunkard recently signed them to his Autumn Tone label and in truth, I’ve rarely disagreed with both of those guys’ tastes before, so I don’t see a point now (y’know how us hive-mind thinking bloggers do). Accordingly, Le Switch put on a very solid set, one that left me excited to hear their upcoming Autumn Tone debut.
Download:
MP3: The Parson Redheads-”Punctual As Usual”
MP3: The Parson Redheads-”Full Moon”
MP3: Le Switch-”Tongue Tied”
MP3: Le Switch-”Living in Another World”
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October 18th, 2007
The Grateful Dead are my favorite band. A lot of people scoff when I tell them that. It’s not like I’m not well aware that it would sound much cooler and impressive if I said it was Can or Brian Eno, or Yoko Ono, or possibly their top-secret love child, Yoko Eno Jr. (she’s in an obscure Japanese noise rock band that only communicates by clicks and triangle chimes. They kick ass).
But the truth, I really don’t care. The Grateful Dead were/are awesome and I say that with the zeal of the converted. Truth is, I used to loath the Dead, finding them long-winded and boring, with the exception of the video for “Touch of Grey.” Which was obviously awesome. In fact, it was only four years ago when I got past by the hippie-burnout baggage and finally learned to appreciate them.
However, it has only been in the last year and a half, after delving into the band’s endless array of bootlegs and Dick’s Picks compilations, when I started to seriously entertain the thought that maybe they might be my favorite band ever. And even then, it still seemed like awfully high praise for a band with only two objectively great studio albums. But last weekend was a stark reminder why I eventually decided to take this long and strange trip in the first place, a journey that indirectly took me to Tennessee (where I did not play a game of horseshoes) and more recently the El Rey on Saturday night, to see the world’s greatest Grateful Dead cover band, the Dark Star Orchestra. But as strong as the band’s ability to channel the Dead was, the minor epiphany actually occurred during a conversation that I had between sets.
Admit It: Skulls And Lightning Look Cool
While waiting in line lamenting the fact that none of us had remembered to sneak a J in, my friends and I ended up talking with an amiable hippie seeing DSO for his second night in a row. The night previous, he’d gone with his father for what he described as “therapy” and the show had been so good he decided to drive the hour-plus from Orange County just to see the band again. And despite how how peace, love & harmony he made his love of the Dead sound, I have to admit that I completely understood where he was coming from. Watching the Dark Star Orchestra, one felt a a sort of catharsis as the band re-animated the Dead’s October 12th, 1984 show in Augusta, Ga., warts, synths and all, complete with a devastating show-stopping rendition of “Morning Dew.”
Bonded by our shared ardor for the Dead, my friends and our new hippie pal, starting arguing about our favorite era of the Dead (this is apparently, what Deadheads do in the interim stretches between doing drugs). I’m partial to the electric blues and orange sunshine-laced shows from the late 60s. While my friend dismissed the period as “not having enough good songs in the set list yet,” instead opting for the shiny disco-funk of the late 70s. New hippy friend (who thankfully came more suitably prepared to the show than us), had high praise for the Europe ‘72 era. We all nodded our heads with mutual respect at the difference of opinion, when my friend pointed out the obvious fact that what makes the Dead so special is their ability to get three seemingly normal people to turn out to see a Dead cover band, despite appreciating vastly different era.
The exchange served as yet another reminder of the sheer breadth of the body of work that the Dead left behind, with each show unique in its own right, preserved and cataloged thanks to the good people at the Internet Archive. As for the DSO, it’s been said before, but the orchestra portion of their name is certainly apt. More than just a cover band, they’re curators of the Dead’s musical legacy, allowing those of us who never had the chance to see the Dead to view the closest approximation possible. I’ve written about these guys before and I’ll probably write about them again, so I’ll spare the specifics. But if you like the Dead, you should most certainly check out the DSO the next time they come through your city. It’s a lot cheaper than therapy.
Download:
From Ithaca: 30 Years Later
MP3: Dark Star Orchestra-”Loser”
MP3: Dark Star Orchestra-”Brown-Eyed Woman”
Stream:
The Grateful Dead: Live at Augusta Civic Center-10/12-84
Posted in Beards, Blazers, & Glasses | 5 Comments »
October 17th, 2007
I’ll try to keep this short. God knows at this point, it probably looks like Def Jux has been paying my rent for the last 36 weeks (in actuality, it’s only been 12). But the truth is, in a year where “underground” hip-hop has produced more good albums than at any point since its glory days of 97-02, no indie rap label around has produced anything close to I’ll Sleep When You’re Dead and None Shall Pass.
The weird thing is, no one really seems to care. Of course, I understand the reasons why. This is 2007 and in a way, the Jukies have already missed their window of opportunity. What they’ve done this year should’ve really gone down in 2003, but instead Aesop followed up Labor Days with the really bad until you listen to it 50 times and it becomes really great, Bazooka Tooth. El-P followed up Fantastic Damage by going completely AWOL for the next half-decade and Cannibal Ox are apparently trapped in some strange shadowy netherworld with Kevin Shields and Jeff Mangum.
Instead of striking while the iron galaxy was hot, the label put out a bunch of mostly mediocre releases before re-gaining its footing with Cage’s Hell’s Winter in late ‘05. But in the five years since ‘02, a lot changed: Aesop, El-P and Lif all hit 30, Murs decided he wanted to be a major label hyphy rapper, RJD2 fancied himself the third member of Steely Dan, and the majority of the label’s fan base graduated college, swapped their backpacks for a beard and blazers and suddenly Aesop Rock and The Shins found themselves drawing from the same demographics.
Aesop Rock: Beards, Blazers But No More Backpackers
But as I wrote in my review of None Shall Pass, you can’t blame an artist for their fan-base (but you can blame Zach Braff), and I certainly understand why Aesop’s detractors mock the legions of white kids with M.F.A’s. that hang onto his every word, yet had never heard Camp Lo until Bazooka Tooth. But rather than pander to his bearded and bespectacled acolytes, Aesop has consistently straggled the line between erudite dense wordplay and prodigious mic skills that owe a heavy debt to the holy Golden Age trinity of KRS, Rakim, & Kane.
Last Friday night at the Henry Fonda was no different. No gimmicky ham-fisted live backing band. No obnoxious hype men (just Rob Sonic who seems to look more like Jonah Hill from Superbad with each day). Just a DJ, a mic cord, some baggy tees and backwards fitted Yankees caps. In addition, frequent Aesop collaborator, Bay Area artist Jeremy Fish, constructed a series of dazzling background visuals that synchronized with the songs themselves. As for the set list, it understandably hewed closely to the stuff from None Shall Pass, but Aesop did manage to bust out an impressive rendition of “Nickle Plated Pockets,” “Holy Smokes” from the Fast Cars EP and a show-stopping acapella performance of “Puff Tuff,” the B-side from the 7″ release of “None Shall Pass.”
I understand I’m probably blinded in a sense because Aesop has long been and continues to be one of my favorite rappers. But I’ve continued to hold him in such high esteem because unlike many artists (I see you, Talib Kweli) he’s never disappointed. A decade into his career, this show might’ve been his best that I’ve seen and None Shall Pass remains a lock for my top 10 best records of the year list. If you get the chance to catch Aesop on this tour, I highly recommend it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a check from a Mr. Jaime Meline to cash.
Download:
From None Shall Pass
MP3: Aesop Rock-”39 Thieves”
From “None Shall Pass 7″”
MP3: Aesop Rock-”Puff Tuff”
From Daylight EP
MP3: Aesop Rock-”Nickle Plated Pockets”
Posted in Beards, Blazers, & Glasses | 6 Comments »
October 4th, 2007
My problems with Slug have never had anything to do with his rapping ability. In the course of his ten year career, the man born Sean Daley has been frequently brilliant, turning in three very good albums, (the first three), one of which, Overcast!. I consider to be one of the greatest hip-hop albums ever made.
But to loosely paraphrase J.D. Salinger, my favorite rappers have always been the dudes that you’d want to call up on the phone to invite over to smoke a blunt. This is why I’ve always vastly preferred Jay-Z to Nas. While vintage Jay was the sort of dude you’d go out with and end up surrounded by models, popping Crystal on a yacht in St. Tropez, Nas was the sort of guy who’d still be on the model-strewn yacht, but would perpetually be fucking things up by lecturing the models for not knowing who Mansa Musa was.
The point is, I’ve never really wanted to smoke a blunt with Slug. Ok, well maybe I did at one point, but I was about 20 years old and would’ve probably smoked a blunt with Satan himself then (provided that it was good chronic). But this all went out the window when I caught a lackluster Atmosphere show in late 2002, wherein Slug took a thong thrown from the audience and shoved it into his mouth like it was thanksgiving dinner. Nothing against guys that don’t see the several dozen hygenic problems posed by that situation, but ultimately, I wouldn’t want to be the next guy to hit the blunt either.
Listerine Anyone?
I’d seen Atmosphere three times since the infamous thong-eating fiasco and each time I walked away impressed. The thing is, Slug can rap really really well and when he’s not trying to make dull and overly simplistic 808-heavy beats, Ant remains one of the finest producers in the underground (despite looking identical to Norm McDonald playing Burt Reynolds on SNL Celebrity Jeopardy.) But you sort of have to accept the fact that the guy who wrote “Scapegoat” is the same one whose idea of a joke is writing a line like “open invitation/ to catch today’s ejaculation /all across the front of your pretty little apron.”
But Wednesday night at the Henry Fonda brought me back the infamous “naked lunch” of 2002 and it had nothing to do with it being a bad show (it wasn’t). The thing is, Slug now sports a creepy mustache, which coupled with Ant’s sinister upper lip, makes the duo look a pair 70’s porn stars going to a costume party dressed as Snidely Whiplash and Boris of Boris and Natasha. It’s weird and it’s hard to take Atmosphere’s brand of hip-hop melodrama seriously when the guys look like they’re trying to invent Nambla rap. I respect Slug. The guy’s talented and has built up a die-hard underground fan base, started one of the best labels around, and created some great music, thanks to a relentless work ethic and DIY approach. But the mustache just isn’t a good look, particularly coupled with his newfound penchant for wearing different hats during the course of the performance, including a police officer’s cap which convinced me that he was going to launch into a cover of “YMCA.”
By all conventional standards, it was a good show. Slug is a charismatic (if not overly cocky) front-man and he rocked the sold-out crowd with a mic presence that reflected the hundreds of thousands of miles and performances he’s logged perfecting his craft. But between the mustache (really, you just can’t trust anyone with a mustache) and his live band’s insistence on re-interpreting Ant’s beats as though played by Average White Band, I just couldn’t get into it. Thing is, I sort of miss the days before it became de rigeur for every conscious/indie-leaning rapper to play with a full band. I can’t even remember the last time a rapper came on-stage with just a rapper and a DJ, no hypeman, no wank-prone backing band, just some vinyl and some microphone cords. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll still check for Atmosphere’s records (this summer’s EP, Sad Clown Bad Summer No. 9 was a welcome return to form), but it might be the last time I ever see them in concert. Unless they decide to shave.
Download:
MP3: Atmosphere-”Sunshine”
MP3: Atmosphere-”Say Hey There”
Posted in Beards, Blazers, & Glasses | 5 Comments »
September 27th, 2007
If I were the Besnard Lakes I’d probably be convinced that Los Angeles was cursed. It’s bad enough that the city of Angels spawned the celebutante Cerberus of Hilton, Richie, & Lohan. But to add insult to injury (or as we say in LA, to fake tan on top of a sunburn) my hometown has failed each time that The Lakes have decamped from the Canadian tundra to bring us their brand of Beach Boys meets Pink Floyd psychedelia.
In March, when the five-piece made their initial LA bow in support of their Polaris Prize-nominated and frighteningly good sophomore record, The Besnard Lakes are the Dark Horse, the band started brilliantly, blazing through scorched-earth renditions of “Disaster” and “For Agent 13,” before being cut off by the Echoplex sound man after just four songs. Fine for a small-time local outfit, but not for one of 07’s most promising and critically acclaimed outfits, a group that traveled thousands and thousands of kilometers from Montreal home to remind Americans that decades after critics predicted its demise, fog machines still look really really awesome at rock shows.
But their show last Friday night at the Troubadour should’ve been different. Surely word had gotten out about the sheer awesomeness of the Lake’s live set, or at the very least checked out an album that one stoner-rock loving soul named the 4th best of the half-year. Sadly, the Besnard Lakes were up against something bigger than just notorious Angeleno apathy: namely God. Specifically, the fact that not only did the show occur on one of LA’s five yearly rain days, but happened to conflict with the opening night of Yom Kippur. Of course, that might’ve played out fine in Silverlake or Echo Park. But this is the Westside., a place 87.4 percent of the populace is Jewish (maybe), a place where even the dogs are named Murray.
The Besnard Lakes: Better Than Lake Michigan, Lake Erie, & Land O’ Lakes
But despite the fact that the Troubadour was almost eerily empty, The Lakes turned in absolutely stellar performance. As Duke pointed out, “They completely immersed the audience in sound. They’re masters of the loud-soft dynamic. The show reminded me of one of those great Spiritualized or Sigur Ros shows. It was one of those shows where people rush over to the merch table for albums and autographed posters…The fans were just stunned that these guys haven’t blown up yet.”
And it was the only show I’ve been to that forced me to buy ear plugs mid-way through. At times, the band lets loose a four guitar blizzard of sound so violently loud that the walls of the Troubadour quivered. Unlike their first local performance where the band seemed slightly nervous and unsure, they displayed few jitters this time, with front-man Jace Lasek good-naturedly bantering with the crowd about being baffled by the popularity of college football in Omaha, while his wife, bassist/co-lead singer, Olga Goreas playfully badgered someone to buy her a whiskey on the rocks (successfully convincing one dude to buy her a glass of Maker’s Mark).
Displaying a sense of consummate professionalism, the band roared on for an hour and 20 minutes, closing with a headscratchingly good cover of Fleetwood Mac’s “You Make Loving Fun.” Weirdly enough, drummer Kevin Laing does a damn good Christine McVie. It was a great show from a great band, one that figures to be around for a very long time. So whether you were in temple trying not to be bored by God, recovering from Thursday’s Arcade Fire/LCD Soundsystem show where you probably temporarily thought you had found God , or watching the TMZ television show (god help us all), you missed out on an incredible performance. At the Troubadour last Friday night, the Besnard Lakes proved that they aren’t the dark horses any longer, they’re the ones to bet on. Even if they are cursed.
Buy the Besnard Lakes are the Dark Horse (highly recc’d)
See also:
Surfing on Steam’s Interview with Jace Lasek (Part 1) (Part 2)
Eric Harvey’s Besnard Lakes Story in the AZ Republic
Download:
MP3: Besnard Lakes-”And You Lied to Me”
MP3: Besnard Lakes-”Thomasina”
Posted in Beards, Blazers, & Glasses | 2 Comments »
