Everyday, music fans are hit with claims about how piracy is killing the music industry. Everyday, as this dying industry scrambles to find a solution, music fans have to live with the consequences. I can only imagine it’s this scrambling that somehow explains why Amy Winehouse’s fabulous new record, Back to Black, ended up with three release dates and three different track listings.
Across the pond, in October of last year, this record was unleashed to an impressive amount of fanfare. Apparently, it hit Canadian shelves in December, although with a rather lacklustre publicity campaign behind it, you’d be forgiven if you didn’t notice. While the brain trust over at Universal Canada were busy figuring out ways to push the new Hedley record, Winehouse’s profile was elsewhere growing by leaps and bounds, filling pages of both the NME and English tabloids, her album skipping its way up the charts. Since the majors are always ready to strike when the iron is hot, a US release was quickly slated for the middle of March, a full five months after its UK release date, eight weeks after the record hit #1 in Britain, and after anyone in America who had got wind of the initial hype had grabbed it off of LimeWire. But enough nitpicking, we music fans should just be happy that we can finally purchase this stunning follow-up to Winehouse’s spotty but endearing debut, Frank, right?
Just one question lingers—what version of the disc are you going to end up with if you can find it at your local record shop? The UK release comes with eleven tracks, starting with the soulful stomp of “Rehab” and ending as Winehouse blows over the Impressions-inspired strut of “Addicted.” The initial Canadian pressing weighs in at a slight ten tracks, leaving off the latter and finishing with the Motown shuffle of “He Can Only Hold Her.” But according to Amazon.ca, the domestic release now features the same number of tracks that our Commonwealth cousins enjoy. Of course, we both get screwed out of the beautifully stripped-down, acoustic take of “Love is a Losing Game.” The bonus track that rounds out the US version of the record brings the tracklist that our Yankee neighbours enjoy up to a full dozen tunes.
Confused? So am I.
You’ll want to get a hold of Back to Black somehow, but I’m a bit hesitant to suggest that you pick it up at the store, since who knows what you’re going to end up with. I’m sure you have “other” ways of getting music nowadays, anyhow. You can make up your illicit downloading and quasi-legal home taping to Winehouse if she comes to town by buying her a Rickstasy (her favourite cocktail). Or, if you don’t want to encourage her drinking habit, maybe just toss a wadded up twenty on stage. I guarantee that it’s about twenty-five times what she gets from an album sale anyhow.
Category Archives: March 2007
Amy Winehouse
Back to Black Universal
Review By Quinn Omori
Secret Mommy
Plays Ache Records
Review By Greg McMullen
Secret Mommy, AKA Vancouver’s Andy Dixon, is not afraid to tackle a big concept. The idea guiding Plays was “to create the most anti-electronic electronic album,” using the patched-together analog sounds recorded from non-electrified instruments. Guided by these Herbert-esque restrictions on recording and a blip-bloop glitchy aesthetic, Plays delivers on the promise of the big concept with an album that bridges the gaps between mechanical and human, digital and analog. It’s folk music for robots.
Ironically, because of this strict set of rules and limitations, Dixon has provided a much richer soundset than is found in most electronic music. Drawing on the skills of a wide range of Vancouver talent, Plays escapes drum machine purgatory with a selection of traditional instrumentation and found/made instruments. From the bass clarinet to the autoharp, from bicycle wheels to bubble wrap, there are sounds here that I’ve never heard in music before.
Plays is not without its faults, which are mostly found in the vocal experimentation on a few of the later tracks. The vocals on “Kool Aid River” sound like Aphex Twin and Fall Out Boy had very ugly children. The positive hip-hop verses in “I Can’t Get Down,” with lines like “I’m a part of this world / like the trees of the earth,” seem out of place in a project like this one.
These small flaws are not enough to befoul the album and its playful assembly of musical weirdness. This is one of the most interesting cut-up, glitchy albums I’ve heard in the past year, and in a year that includes releases from Coldcut and Squarepusher, this is no small praise. Secret Mommy has created an album that is interesting, engaging, and, defying convention for the glitch genre, listenable and fun. Plays will be in heavy rotation, for me, for some time to come.
Peter Bjorn and John
Writer’s Block Wichita/V2
Review By Erika Holt
To an unfamiliar listener, the first few moments of Writer’s Block could lead them to believe they are about to embark upon a wispy, pretty, easylistening, electronic‑experimental something‑or‑other. Such expectations are immediately and vehemently confounded by a roaring, rhythmic assertion to the contrary—the epic has begun and it is unclear whether the listener will be laughing or crying by the end. This is a sound that rolls, soars, chugs along, rolls over again, never stopping, never wavering, if perhaps only for a moment. Such a moment merely hints at an assured sadness just below the surface, tricking you into believing you’re about to be let down, however willingly, only for the motion to be reborn yet again. Okay, fine: it is springtime incarnate, slapping you firmly on the back and allowing you to breathe again as though you had forgotten how.
There is a lot going on here: deep and chunky bass-lines, catchy yet unexpected melodies, cascading tonalities. Vocal harmonies sound sharp and soft at the same time, subtly echoing into the background and enveloping the multitude of sounds around them. Layers build upon themselves without ever reaching a pinnacle, without ever exploding and dispensing their energy completely, preferring to stop short, leaving the listener in want of more. Funny, then, the sense of satisfaction derived from it all, this constant motion, these highs and lows, this exercise in opposites. Full and gracious, this is no lazy optimism.
Third time around, Peter Bjorn and John have found their epic in the ordinary, and this is simply and superbly a well-crafted pop album. This is music for keeping stride down the street on a sunny day, gliding down the hill on your bicycle en route to the beach, having a whistle-along with your morning cuppa joe, and everything in between. Refreshing and uplifting, Writer’s Block, of course, demonstrates anything but.
Oh No
Exodus into Unheard Rhythms Stones Throw
Review By Andrew Webster
I am a full believer in the talent of the Jackson family. No, not the Gary, Indiana Jacksons, but the Oxnard, California Jacksons. Oh No, née Michael Jackson, is the latest family member to drop an album with Exodus into Unheard Rhythms. Oh No is the younger brother of underground beat maestro Madlib and son of 70s soul singer Otis Jackson.
Oh No’s Exodus into Unheard Rhythms smacks of the tireless crate-digging his older brother is famous for. Many of Oh No’s beats bring a kind of laid back, smoke-a-blunt atmosphere to the forefront, heavy on subdued piano riffs and bopping funk drumming. For the most part Oh No’s beats on this album come from Galt MacDermot, the composer of the score for the Broadway musical Hair and a renowned jazz musician. The infusion of jazz and funk on Oh No’s tracks are, no doubt, a by-product of being around his older brother and soaking in some of his influence.
The rhymes on the album are pretty much on par with any west coast underground compilation. Nothing that will have you silently spitting bars to yourself while taking a piss. Still, it is nice to hear Murs, Cali Agents, Wildchild and Wordsworth drop their contributions. LMNO is on the album, but his track doesn’t hold a candle to the verses that he used to spit on the Beat Junkies mixes. Buckshot’s track, “Get Yours”, is probably the best on the album in terms of lyrics, while Vast Aire’s opportunity to bring some credibility is severely missed—skip that track. Oh No himself gets on the mic only three times over the whole album but he holds his own; he doesn’t need any gimmicks like his older brother to keep your attention.
LaToya, Jermaine, Tito, Michael and Janet step back. The real Jacksons are making noise.
Malajube
Étienne D’août / Dare to Care
Review By Mono Brown
I just. You know. Wanted to. Like. This one. So much. And that way I could have spelled out for you the proper term, neither French nor English, for the practice of making music good through good music-making practices. The word, my friends, was (and admittedly, to some degree still sounds like) M-A-L-A-J-U-B-E. That definition, though, fits either of their preceding LPs, Le Compte complet or Trompe l’Oeil, better than it does their most recent release for Dare to Care Records, a four-song EP entitled Étienne D’août.
Remember Trompe l’oeil, the little album that could and did see Montréal’s Malajube onto more short lists than the Rankins have Junos? Well, if the most celebrated release by this French Canadian pop-rock quartet was (at least an eponymous) trick of the eye, their Étienne D’août stands out on a first listen as some sort of trick of the ear. Like the reproductive motifs that ornament its cardboard sleeve, this baby seems, uh, hastily birthed. Perhaps to say so might be overstating the case, seeing as only four songs populate the EP, two of them being reproductions of the EP title track, “Étienne D’août.” Both the version radio and the remix maman “Elton D’août” redeem the release’s wane in whimsy from earlier albums, and “M Pupille” manages to be both energetic and reflective without being too much of either. Remix or not, “Fille à Plumes” sounds like the soundtrack to a racing video game where you have to drive a cloud along a magical skyline, shooting rainbow lasers at cackling gorilla puppets.
And then. You go back. To “Étienne D’août.” Only softer. And longer. Than the first time around. I hardly think, despite my disappointment, that the rift in tone that makes Étienne D’août less than what Malajube has been in the past means the band saw the EP as an attempt to rebirth themselves in the way that some artists do in the wake of success. I guess, though, we will have to see with what sort of trick they will come up with next.
Deerhoof / Hot Loins / blackblack
February 2 @ Richard’s on Richards
Review By Mike Fodor
Deerhoof beamed into Vancouver on February 2nd to play a set for a sold-out crowd at Richard’s on Richards. Locals Hot Loins christened the proceedings, ripping into an impressive set of damaged synth-punk and noise. Alternating between terse and restrained passages with emotive drunken caterwauls, and then releasing the tension with crashing, combative guitars and keys laden over powerful drum fills, the boys made a lovely racket. Perhaps a step or two out of their comfort zone, they’re probably best seen in an East Van dive where they can preach to the converted, but a strong set nonetheless. (Banter – Crowd member: “Where’s your lead singer?” / Donruss [Vocals/Guitar]: “Wow, I don’t even have a comeback for that. [pause] I killed him.”) Good guys.
Los Angeles’s blackblack hit second and offered juxtaposition to the anger and catharsis of Hot Loins. After they set up, I thought the trio were too good-looking to be any sort of credible noise band (the bassist/vocalist and drummer might as well have been Mischa Barton). They returned dressed as a tiger, an African Sikh, and Jeff Daniels’ character in The Purple Rose of Cairo (a safari theme) ready to show up my prejudice. Turned out they weren’t really a noise band, (I didn’t hear any “black metal” as advertised on their MySpace page) instead playing gentle, child-like pop. The set was fairly lacklustre, the band a bit restrained by their own whimsical pretense. Often when bands employ that sort of pageantry it’s to accent some eccentric dynamic residing within. Here it didn’t quite ring true and came off a bit like a school play. I’m being a bit hard on the fresh-faced starlets, likely out of jealousy. They did have charm, and the occasional bright chorus, but the performance wasn’t great.
Deerhoof did not disappoint, delivering an astonishing performance. Their set was made up of songs from nearly all their albums, showcasing the many facets of their dynamic music. The highlights were numerous, but the seamless opening salvo of “The Eyebright Bugler”, the new single “+81”, and particularly “This Magnificent Bird Will Rise” was sensational. The power trio format played to their strengths as performers, and keyboard parts from the records were filled in aptly, either by guitar or drums. Satomi Matsusaki anchored the performance with sturdy bass, her distinctive vocal style, and expressive hand gestures to match the lyrics. It was appropriately cute, but never cloying. In fact, Matsusaki’s vocal styling and the band’s overall pop craft provide the perfect framework for Dietrich and especially Saunier to lay out their explosive, improvisational attack.
Deerhoof live is the work of three musicians pulling in different directions until it sounds like they’re about to fall apart, only to come crashing together at the band’s poppiest moments. What masks as chaos is undeniable synergy. This, coupled with their infectious exuberance, make them a premier live act.
Explosions in the Sky
All of a Sudden I Miss Everyone Constellation
Review By Patricia Matos
Explosions in the Sky certainly start off its latest effort with, appropriately enough, an explosion of sound. All of a Sudden I Miss Everyone begins with an ascending surge of grinding guitars, before dissolving into the familiar soundscape of albums past. “The Birth and Death of the Day” and the 13-minute “What Do You Go Home To?” appear to have personalities, despite being mere arrangements of chords. Each song feels like part of a greater continuous whole, and the band stays true to form with their epic storytelling formula, bleeding each track into the next.
It’s the kind of music that makes it feel okay to daydream about ethereal scenes like unicorns prancing in fields or deep-sea adventures. That is, if you’re into that kind of thing.All of a sudden, the memory of what it feels like to hear a solid, optimistic and unpretentious album returns since The Earth is Not a Cold Dead Place came out more than three years ago. Instrumental albums have a tendency to fall by the wayside, victims of monotony, but these crashing cymbals and layered walls of sound won’t let Explosions in the Sky’s name rest.
Phil Minton’s Feral Choir
February 7 @ Carnegie Centre & February 8 - 10 @ Time Flies Festival, Ironworks
Review By Allan MacInnis
One of the primary exponents of an eccentric school of free vocalisation, British improviser Phil Minton has a range of clicks, pops, tweets, gurgles and cries at his disposal sufficient to bewilder the most devoted phonetician. In his mid 60s, Minton performs at a compelling level of physical intensity, his feet twitching and head jerking as, seated, he uses his whole body to produce the desired sounds. Minton came to Vancouver to perform at Coastal Jazz and Blues’ Time Flies festival, alongside fellow UK improviser and saxophonist John Butcher, Toronto drummer Harris Eisenstadt, and locals Peggy Lee and Torsten Muller. For three nights, the musicians played in rotating combinations, often pushing their instruments beyond normal boundaries. Danish guitarist Hasse Poulsen occasionally played his guitar with a bow—or a Slinky. Butcher produced effects with his horn that often didn’t require him to blow into the instrument. Seattle-based violinist Eyvind Kang impressed me in particular; he was extremely gifted at treading a line between free playing and almost folk-like themes, passionately stated.
There were moments that didn’t work. Poulsen seemed off the third night, and Dutch pianist Cor Fuhler, though clearly gifted, appears not to have mastered whatever skill it is that allowed his fellows to sense when a piece is ending. These are small things compared to the exquisite beauty of the music; it can be a revelatory experience, to be present as improvisers craft organic and unique compositions out of little more than their attentiveness to each other and their craft.
The high point, though, occurred before the festival proper started, at a sparsely-attended free show at Main and Hastings’ Carnegie Center. Wearing a floral shirt and spectacles, Minton led and performed alongside a “Feral Choir” of six Vancouverites, including a man in his 50s in a bandana, reminiscent of Jodorowsky in full beard, and an instantly likable older woman with a turquoise scarf around her head and a bright pink one around her neck. As the seven produced an unclassifiable and ever-changing tapestry of sound, a few of the Carnegie’s more downtrodden regulars ventured in, and then back out, stirring free coffee and scratching their heads. A gruff male attendee skeptically muttered to his buddy that the people on stage were a “bunch of cuckoos”—but stayed to watch. Toward the end, Minton led his choir in a little dance. As things quieted, I briefly mistook the gurgle of the coffee machine behind me for part of the performance.
As the applause died down (surprisingly loud for a crowd of perhaps 20), a middle-aged woman in the row ahead turned to me and looked up, looking not at all like an art geek. “I liked it,” she said, with just enough emphasis on the word to suggest that you could call her crazy if you wanted to, “but…” Then she smiled, looking somewhat puzzled. And that was the best part of the night.
Grizzly Bear / Papercuts
February 17 @ The Plaza
Review By Brock Thiessen
I’ve never been real big on Grizzly Bear. I mean, Yellow House received a few listens around the house, but it never really struck me as transcendental or anything—a fact that left me questioning whether I was the right Discordian for this review. I feared my cynical, old-man tendencies would get the better of me, causing an onslaught of scathing remarks to litter this review—and my mailbox. But after cuddling up to the stage at the band’s second appearance in Vancouver, I can safely say I now “get” Grizzly Bear and have no need to bring any hostility into this write-up.
So let me explain why last month’s show converted me into a bit of a gushing fanboy. First off, Grizzly Bear dispelled my preconceived notion that their live show would become some self-indulgent, free-form exercise. They kept things to the point during the evening, giving room for a bit of experimentation but never straying too far off course. For this I have to give the band high fives. Second, instead of relying on a bunch of vocal effects, these guys actually sang, and sang quite well—a reminder that Grizzly Bear’s four-way harmonies outdo the vocal loops some other bears use in their collectives. Third, the band turned up the rock, maybe not to 11, but, for my wussy ears, that’s fine. As the four players worked through a set mainly taken from Yellow House, they often turned the album’s strings and production tricks into crunchy guitar tones and some mighty big drum sounds, which brings me to my last piece of praise: Grizzly Bear’s man behind the kit, Christopher Bear (not sure if that’s his Christian name or a rock pseudonym). Bear drummed like he’s been studying under Michael Karoli for years, repeatedly pushing the band’s songs into a much more intense, rock ‘n’ roll territory than heard on recordings, such as during the concert’s climatic closer, “On a Neck, On a Spit”.
However, I do have a few minor grumbles about the night. The band’s take on my favourite Phil Spector song, “He Hit Me,” came out a bit too sludgy for my tastes, and the weird electronic bits could have been pushed up in the mix more. Also, the show hit somewhat of a lull at the three-quarter mark, causing loud chatter to rise in the club, but maybe the high quotient of weirdos in the crowd were talking for completely different reasons; I have no idea. With all the strangeness I witnessed that night, anything is possible. Numerous make-out sessions, violent rock fists and some maestros who conducted not the band but an unmoving crowd were at all sides. Then again, Grizzly Bear does make drug music, right?
So as I peddled home after the show, I contemplated how all my negativity towards the band had been flipped on its head, and a thought came to me: maybe first impressions aren’t that important after all.
Youth Group
Casino Twilight Dogs / Ivy League Records
Review By Jackie Wong
“I’m so sorry. So sorry. I’m so terribly, terribly sorry. I’m so sorry. So sorry. I’m so terribly, terribly, sorry! I’m so sorry. So sorry. So terribly, terribly…”
If you blanked out after the second “sorry” back there, you might find yourself a little worse for wear in choking down all the “sorries” that make up Youth Group’s “Sorry”, the second track on their latest album, Casino Twilight Dogs. Despite—and perhaps because of—the song’s mammoth reams of apology, I happen to be playing “Sorry” on a loop as I write this review.
Granted, I am feeling a little droopy about love at the moment, so I’m technically in a prime position to review a band as canonically emo as Youth Group. The Sydney-based quartet grew out of Canberra’s indie scene, and has since gained mainstream success with their support of Death Cab for Cutie on a 2005 North American tour (sorry, Discorder cred, but I’m sweeping any remaining shards of you away by openly admitting that I attended and enjoyed the Vancouver show on this tour). To ice the cake, Youth Group’s cover of Alphaville’s “Forever Young” appeared on the 2005 O.C. Soundtrack, slow-dancing them to mainstream success.
I’m neither a fan of covers nor The O.C., so I’d argue that “Forever Young” is one of the weakest tracks on Casino Twilight Dogs. Overall, it’s a well-produced, thoughtfully-crafted record, but it lacks that layer of acerbity necessary for music of this genre to really fly. The album is at its best with the playground hum of “Daisychains,” the cuddly squish of “Under the Underpass,” and, yes, the Gilgamesh lament of “Sorry,” but the rest of the record is too gentle in its delivery of heartbreak to make any memorable statements. Maybe it’s hard for the shy kids in Youth Group to, like, talk too loudly about their feelings, and stuff. Still, I’d give this record bigger ups if it helped me cry so good, but its radio-rock grooming has neutered the possibility of attaching strong emotion to the music.