Swim To Reach Those Pretty Tunes

Surfer Blood -- Astro Coast

"If you're moving out to the West, then you'd better learn how to surf," advise the members of Surfer Blood in "Floating Vibes," the opening track of their debut album, Astro Coast. It's probably an analogy for some kind of life challenge, but I like interpreting it in a Weezerish sense, like, literally, you should probably learn how to surf if you want to live out here. It's pleasant and refreshing simplicity. The song dances through a lighthearted series of verses and guitar hooks, and when it ends, it catches you a little off guard -- it's content to end and declare itself a complete song without any tricks, curveballs, or lofty aims. Half expecting something along those lines, I was surprised to find myself quite satisfied at its end.

That's the beautiful thing about this album -- each song is succinct and structured, making its point and then shutting up. Even the longer-winded ones towards the end achieve some sort of shrewd economic balance of inputs and components that keeps them within the realm of the clear and concise. The six-minute-plus "Slow Jabroni" never sounds dragging nor drawn-out, and its buildup, climax, and denouement effectively summarize all of what Albert Hammond, Jr. has and hasn't accomplished in his solo career. Abounding in guitars but sparse on solos, these newcomers rely on good old honest songwriting, and the occasional crank of the reverb knob, to hit their groove. It works.



It's almost pointless to discuss influences or who the group sounds like, these are simply too broad and general; but since you asked, a couple prominent groups from the early 2000s with names of the form "The S____s" come to mind. In spite of such no-brainer comparisons, there's assuredly a Nineties twang -- a handful of the songs recollect the likes of early Weezer and Fountains of Wayne (suppress your laughter until listening to their first album), and even, I hoped I'd never be saying this, pre-emo pop-punk (Blink, etc -- no shit, right?!) on closer "Catholic Pagans." But the range of sound gets wider yet, and, wouldn'tcha know, they even take a crack at a few contemporary indie styles, most notably on the baroque-poppy "Take It Easy;" heck, sharpen the production and bring Ezra Koenig in to do the vocals, and you've practically got a Contra b- -- fuck that, a- -- side. Now, there's always a fine line between disciplined experiment with a variety of musical styles and slavish, insulting mimicry. Surfer Blood stay within their comfort zone for the most part on Astro Coast, but when they do take the occasional experimental step outside, it's always done with a "personal touch," delivered through the lens of the group's prevailing musical disposition.

While this has the effect of making Astro Coast an engaging listen, and a pretty friggin' good album, it also makes me very interested in their future. As much as it's necessarily a product of intelligent songwriting, I'm wondering if the concise and straightforward economy of their songs is also, in part, some kind of inherent newcomers' tentativeness: fresh-faced and unproven, they've got 40-odd minutes to make an impact, so they'd better make an impact and shut up. In the cases of Surfer Blood's S-noun forebears (Strokes and Shins if you haven't caught on), impact was made early on with such strict adherence to specific methods of songwriting and delivery; when each group took a jab at more complex and experimental song structures on their respective third albums, the outcomes failed to deliver on the levels the previous albums had. The opportunity for risk was endorsed only halfway, rendering the results awkward and, for the most part, disappointing fans and critics alike. When Surfer Blood reach that crucial third album, and their establishment affords them greater appetite for risk, will they remember the intelligent songwriting that brought us Astro Coast? Only time will tell. For now, we've got this solid debut to enjoy, while these guys revel in the exciting newness of where they are now -- which happens to be a live radio spot on KEXP in Seattle. Enjoy!

TSJKYA #1: Twin Falls + Some (Built to Spill)

This Song Just Kicked Your Ass, TSJKYA for short, is a new installment I'm going to be running periodically. To explain further, I'm going to be posting/discussing songs that have recently kicked my ass and will soon kick yours. Our first guest is this suite of "Twin Falls" into "Some," courtesy of this-guitar-just-kicked-your-ass veteran-facemeltsman Doug Martsch and the rest of our boys down at Built to Spill. Caught them out on Coney Island over the summer --- brilliant show! Enjoy this snippet from a show back in '99.

Acts To Watch: 2010

OK, so if you follow this blog at all you know I'm not so much about the hype-quest of finding the "next big thing." I prefer a more conservative approach. However, I think it is the responsibility of any music blog to introduce people to new music, and to occasionally make outlandish statements and predictions for no other purpose than making outlandish statements and predictions. I apologize, everyone, for neglecting this duty. Take, for instance, the quote from Mr. Anton Ego, to the right of this page, that I slapped up there as a nice little credo for a nice little blogger. It's an evocative quote, yes, but I'm a nice little blogger in a sea of a million and a half nice little bloggers, and I think it's about time I do my fair share of the "discovery and defense of the new," huh?

So check this, I'm going to push my chips and defend a few newbies, and lay down my official "Acts To Watch for 2010" list. Since this site loosely revolves around the concept of the album as a distinct and concrete form of art, even when I don't really talk about albums, I've picked out a few acts below that have not yet released full-lengths to shine the spotlight on. Sure, they've been buzzed about aplenty; maybe they've dropped an EP here or there, maybe their myspace hit count has broken six digits, maybe they've been in and out of rehab for thirty-odd years -- but none have yet hit us with that full-length knowledge. So grab a stack of Post-It notes real quick and jot down some notes to remind yourself to remember to remind yourself of these names in the upcoming year.

Suckers
These cool cats dropped a self-titled EP this year whose cover featured a dude wearing a gold coat and a masquerade mask. The standout song is "It Gets Your Body Movin'," which is really not like anything you would expect from a song of that title, but is very good nonetheless. Underneath glam-prog and afropop textures there are obvious Talking Heads influences; I don't want to throw them into the Vampire Weekend/TV on the Radio bucket just yet, Suckers have more of a theatrical touch -- but we'll see what happens when they drop an LP.
Suckers myspace

Best Coast
Now here is an artist I find so promising that this isn't even the first time she's been mentioned on this site. Bethany Cosentino, recording under the aforementioned alias, starts with a slate of 60s summertime pop, throws in a few ragged guitars, and tops it all off with a beautifully confident voice that evades the cliches of many female singers. It's a fine line one must walk in order to achieve fauvist legitimacy with lyrics like "Yeah, when I'm with you, I have fun," but she pulls it off, and pulls it off well. I am really looking forward to the full-length album.
Best Coast myspace

Sleigh Bells
OK, if you haven't heard of Sleigh Bells yet -- well then clearly you don't live in Brooklyn. These guys have been blowing up the web with their powerfuck-electrorock dance party jams "Infinity Guitars" and "Crown On The Ground," the latter of which is sure to make you cringe on first listen at its fuzzed-out speaker-blowing overdrive. But once you accept that that's what's hot on the streets these days, you realize that it's actually an amazingly catchy and fun song. They've got a promising groove -- I personally like the Blur-meets-TLC-ish "Ring Ring," which can be found on the group's myspace page. Plus, leadwoman Alexis Krauss ----- total FOX!!
Sleigh Bells myspace


Small Black
These guys dropped a single earlier this year, "Despicable Dogs," that has attracted a lot of attention. You might be able to classify them as some form of Neo-Goth, other sources might throw the "tape loops" memes around -- either way, it's definitely some kind of cool, deconstructed pop; each song is a fuzzy bath of ambiguous waves of sound and delicate, thoughtful vocals and lyrics. Plus, they are selling some cool t-shirts on the myspace page.
Small Black myspace

Steven Tyler
Are the rumors true? Is he done with Aerosmith? Is he back on the drugs? Is Kyra Sedgewick his secret alter persona (the chick from that show "The Closer," look how much alike they look!!)? Who knows, but I think the most believable one at this point is that he is working on a solo album. My man is like sixty years old -- but shoot, if Brett Favre can strap on his pads and go out there and get pummeled each week at forty years of age, I think Steven can pull off a solo shot. In fact, if any of those other rumors are true, I think it's a must.

...And you can quote me on that. Also, with the close of the year, I want to get sentimental for a second and say thanks to everyone who has followed Album of the Week and has supported me thus far. It's been a good run and who knows what 2010 will hold? Happy New Year everyone!

I Bought It Because Of The Album Cover

No, seriously, the only reason I bought King Crimson's In the Court of the Crimson King was because of the cover. I mean, look at it! Here is the back story: there was this used book store in the town where I grew up on the sidewalk mall downtown, a blatant economically-unsound exercise in favoritism of local business. But I was glad for that. In the basement, they had this ram-shamble, overflowing collection of vinyls. I don't think many people really went down there: the light was usually off as I entered and there was a sign pointing to where the switch was. I loved going down there and flipping through the decaying records, pulling them out and inspecting the back covers, humbled in the atmosphere of half-forgotten history and relics of the not-too-distant-but-forever-gone past. I would usually end up buying some old Genesis album or just plain wandering around for awhile.

On one such occasion of aimless wandering and non-purchasing I was on my way back towards the stairway when something caused me to turn around. There, staring back at me, was the horrid face shown above. There were no words on the cover. The way it filled up the whole cover of the album made the record seem bigger in some way; I could really hear this poor guy crying out from the deepest depths of his hell-tormented soul. "King Crimson" the back said, "In the Court of the Crimson King." I deduced the former to be the group's name. $2.00. Why the hell not? It was in the rock section, so it had to be palatable to a burgeoning 17-year-old, clawing at every played-out method of expressing independence, this time in the form of "being cool because I'm listening to obscure 70s music." Perfect. There was a turntable in the basement, but I had never been able to get it to work, so I truly had to place faith in the instincts that had drawn me to the album's visual appeal that the music itself would be worth listening to. And you know what? That shit turned out to be right up my alley: creepy medieval 70s prog, all drenched in mellotrons and whatnot -- a practical foil for early Genesis. "Confusion will be my epitaph," sang the lyrics of the harrowing closer to Side A, "Epitaph." Fucking PERFECT, I tell you!

The point is, that kind of stuff just doesn't happen anymore. I am all for progress and advances in digital media, etc etc etc, but music is just so damn accessible these days. No chance we drop a dime on an album of which we don't sample thirty seconds of every track on the iTunes music store (unless you're a total Thom Yorkophile and the album in question is In Rainbows); no chance we give an artist a chance without first reading about him, her, or them on our favorite blog (*wink*). I won't get too "back in the good old days" on you, but consider the value of taking a musical risk once in awhile. Who knows, whatever slice of randomness you manage to unearth might be the new cool thing to be listening to tomorrow, and then shoot -- you'll already be one step ahead of the game. I mean, how cool would you be right now if you had already been listening to Biz Markie when those Heineken commercials first dropped? Believe me, this is coming from the guy who brought back Wayfarers.

This song doesn't really have anything to do directly with the topics we've just discussed, but it's so incredibly cheesy that I think you could tack it onto any shard of sentiment and get away with it. Sorry, folks -- must be the Perrier talking!

Thinkin' Bout That High School Dance

The Strokes -- Room on Fire

The summer before my freshman year of college I worked in an administrative department of my soon-to-be university, alongside a guy I had gone to high school with and who was entering his sophomore year at the same school. To get us through the long stretches of producing the university identification cards for the incoming class of freshmen we'd listen to our CDs. I guess at some point I had cycled through all of mine, so my colleague let me peruse his collection for some new material. My selection of The Strokes' debut album Is This It?, which I did not own and had not heard in its entirety, was met with a sneer of disapproval. "The Strokes? Please," he reprimanded, "maybe if you're a screaming sixteen-year-old girl" (apparently he had grown sick of the CD). Of course, by that point, in mid-2004, his criticism did carry legitimacy. The Strokes had long since eclipsed the up-and-coming garage-revivalist coolness that had "saved rock-n-roll," and were now a fixture of mainstream anti-mainstreamism, latched onto by pop culture as an ironic exercise in subculture hipness (think MGMT or any band that's ever been featured in an iPod commercial). But that didn't make them any less good.

By the time the next summer had rolled around and my old coworker had moved on to a different summer activity, I found myself working the same job, and this time The Strokes' follow-up album, Room on Fire, was most often my work-music of choice. The opening "I wanna be forgotten/and I don't wanna be reminded" whisked me away from my desk chair to crowded post-half-past-midnight college bars and hazy fraternity basements; into laughing crowds when you steal a look towards the girl you caught eyes with on the way in -- but then also through the crowded halls of high school and the parking lot after school on a Friday and the bored weekends. The songs struck a chord somewhere amongst the sometimes thick, sometimes acute nostalgia of my then-life's "coming-of-age" moments, however cheesy they seemed: moments that were encompassed by both high school and college timeframes. I was a starry-eyed rising sophomore with high school behind me, but with its taste still in my mouth. And I'd gone through a damn lot of riveting and momentous social situations, you'd better believe it. Julian Casablancas' ineptitude for writing lyrics worth their weight in anything more valuable than empty beer bottles, a perennial favorite target of critics' jeers and sneers, turned out to be The Strokes' most endearing quality.



But let's not forget about the music itself. It is, in fact, nothing short of brilliant. Love them or hate them, The Strokes changed modern rock -- they were the original postpunk revivalists, or at least the ones that brought the movement to national attention. They were good at it, and they knew it. Much like their scrappy, perpetually-recovering-from-the-night-before image, every note of these songs is carefully thought out and placed strategically amongst the others. They are musical whizkids and are probably kind of nerdy about it. They get a lot of comparisons to Television, which I partially agree with. The Strokes are a little less dramatic; they attack and execute the songs all business-like, without the exuberance or drama-queenism of Television. No, they definitely wrote songs that could only have been written by kids who grew up in the eighties and nineties.

It's an interesting contrast -- the obsessive detail of the instrumentation and song construction, and the lazy, half-drunk lyrics. Like I said, it's nothing short of brilliant. Listen to "Automatic Stop," the robot-reggae third track on Room On Fire, and you'll know exactly what I'm talking about. Get lost in your own memories of those high school dances, those late nights in your favorite dim-lit local establishment, that end of the relationship that was either never a relationship in the first place or isn't really ending (see "The End has no End," track 10). It's a fun, fanciful album, and it remains one of my favorites. Call me a doting sixteen-year-old girl.

You Can't Break Up With Me, I Fucking Love You

Let's face it -- breaking up sucks, no matter how much you despise the person. You just can't shake that "what if" feeling that inevitably creeps up after any major decision; you just can't get the person out of your mind. "What the hell am I doing with my life?" you ask yourself on many a sleepless night. But we should take a queue from breakups. More so than in all of life's other trying situations, during breakups we look towards music to save us. Whilst deep in the throes of one of those self-loathing sessions of sorrow and solidarity, there is nothing like a powerful, uplifting tune to pull our spirits up, to give us hope for the vague and idealistic future. "O, but what is a song?" you might ask. "A three- to six-minute recording of some scattered thoughts, some whimsical product of an artistic fantasy -- how could it possibly help me?" But then you find yourself listening to the damn thing on repeat.

Here is my appeal -- take what you learn from a breakup and use music to help get you through other shitty situations! Below you'll find a few shameless guilty pleasures that are probably breakups songs, but can really be applied with a healthy glob of neosporin to all of life's trials, large and small. Enjoy --







Doesn't sound very happy at first...but it is just listen to it!

Is That That New Androgyny You've Got On?

Girls - Album

I suppose that with a band name like Girls, I really shouldn't have been caught too off guard when a male voice opens the album with the lyric "Oo I wish I had a boyfriend!" And seriously, how P-in-C to be caught off guard, right? It's a moot point anyway, cause check this, he's not talking about a GAY boyfriend, bro, he just means, like, a boy that's a friend. That's not a bad summary of the entire album: leadman Christopher Owens, suppressed as a child growing up in the Children of God cult, is really just looking for somebody -- any gender, race, sexual identity, etc -- to be "friends forever" with.

But before I get ahead of myself. This album was getting some convincing reviews, each and every one harping Owens' endearing personal story, so I decided it would be worth checking out. I found it difficult to classify. It's big these days, since being retro is all the shit, to talk about influences -- but Girls seem to have no influences. Either that, or they're a master collage of the last half-century of music. You'll probably hear the usual Pet Sounds callouts thrown into reviews, but it's kind of a load of crap -- I mean, people have been peddling that comparison since Sgt. Pepper's. Let's see, where to start? The vocals are a goofy combination of Bryan Ferry and pre-White Album George Harrison, the lyrics are loose caricatures of middle-market Morrissey poetics, the music is a song I made up on my guitar last weekend. The latter point should be highlighted -- when you listen to 'em real good, when you really turn them inside-out, these songs are nothing earth-shatteringly innovating. It's kind of one of those things where they are just novel because Girls came up with them first, and everyone else slaps their heads and says, "duh." It seems so obvious when you hear it. But see, Album is all of what I just said in a good way. It's the kind of stuff you listen to and try to declare predictable, until you realize that it was only predictable in hindsight, which makes it not predictable at all.

All that nonsense aside, this is a very solid album, and a very palatable artistic effort. In order to be successful, a piece of art must fall somewhere in a specific region on the grand spectrum of substance of content and aesthetic of presentation. Listening to Album has helped me to solidify -- and it thus makes an excellent example of -- my theory of Substance vs. Aesthetic. Turn your attention to the graph at right: you'll notice we've plotted the two-dimensional relationship between the aforementioned qualities. As you can see, there is a critical boundary (blue arc) in the planar relationship past which artists must attain in order for consumers to classify their efforts as "that fresh shit" (or similarly laudatory phrases). Note that the arc-edness of the boundary allows for achievement of fresh shit without much of one of the two qualities -- providing that the other proliferates in the work. But as you sacrifice bits of the proliferous quality, you must compensate with disproportionate additions of the other in order to maintain freshness.

The crux of this model is that when an artist does reach one of those extremes, the excessive quality in fact becomes, in part, the other -- extremely poignant substance of content becomes the aesthetic of presentation; most beauteously crafted presentation aesthetics become the substance. I couldn't figure out the best way to demonstrate that graphically, but you get the idea. What Girls have done is taken such crude, pristine emotion, and thrown it straight at us, without subjecting it to the industrial refinement of said emotion known as, well, artistic expression. Christopher Owens' confused and simplistic complaints, as if coming from a little kid who doesn't understand why none of the other kids want to play with him, move you to simultaneous sympathy and delight. It is pure, unadulterated substance. And in its disregard for the esoterics of subtlety it achieves the aesthetic of presentation required of all art that is captivating and pleasuring.

And it's a veritable exercise in androgyny, which, if you haven't heard, is the new black.