Music of 2009

Well, we’re about halfway through 2009 and there has been a lot of music streaming down the pipeline already. Some of it has been utter crap (no real surprises) and some of it has been notably awesome. So I decided to share with you my five favorite albums of the first half of 2009. There is no real rhyme or reason to the order they are listed in below because it’s nearly impossible for me to pick one single favorite. Also, I’m not saying these are unequivocally the best albums thus far, but they are the ones I’ve been spinning most. If you haven’t heard any of them yet, do yourself a favor and get down with some of this year’s most awesome tunes.

 

Manchester Orchestra: “Mean Everything to Nothing” – The few tidbits of Manchester Orchestra I had heard before this most recent album were thoroughly unimpressive, hence my initial trepidation about downloading their 2009 effort “Mean Everything to Nothing.” But that’s the beauty of free music: There’s pretty much zero risk involved. Well, not only did I download this album for free, I actually ended up purchasing a physical copy of it. Crazy… I know. Largely classifiable as indie rock, this album does seem to lean more towards the rock direction. It isn’t overtly weird or experimental, but it does manage to come off as wholly original. I’ve definitely heard a few people talk about Andy Hull’s lead vocals in a less than positive way, but I truly think it’s a perfect fit for the music—emotional, flexible and somewhat unhinged. And the music itself isn’t overly complex or technical, but the arrangement and song composition, combined with unique and thoughtful lyrics that can offer a versatile array of interpretations, come together to offer tracks that are pensive yet hooky. From the energetic and catchy opening track “The Only One” to the soulful and sad “I Can Feel a Hot One” to the strikingly poignant yet rocky closing tracks “Everything to Nothing” and “The River,” this album is a pleasure to listen to all the way through. It’s dynamic as hell, invoking everything from smiles to head nods to heartache to nostalgia. So open your ears to these rockers from Atlanta… at least this album anyway. You won’t be disappointed. And if you are… well… that sounds like a personal problem.

 

Gomez: “A New Tide” – I’d never heard of Gomez before this year, but apparently they’ve been around for quite some time. Their first album was recorded in 1998 and they’ve put out five more studio albums since then, along with a live record. They’re a British five-piece and apparently have quite a following over there, but I’m pretty sure their popularity on this side of the pond pales in comparison. Anyway, this was another gamble of a download that paid dividends. It’s also an extremely dynamic record with tunes ranging from electronic-infused acoustic to rockier indie with effects-leaden electric guitar. Gomez has three “lead” vocalists, each one offering a totally different (but completely impressive) style of singing. It’s pretty easy to make some comparisons to Rusted Root, old Coldplay or Dave Matthews Band (Gomez was actually signed to Dave Matthews’ label in 2005), but frankly, Gomez covers more genre-bending ground over the course of an album. I’ll be honest, since acquiring “A New Tide,” I’ve picked up some other Gomez albums and don’t find them nearly as impressive. Their good songs are really, really good, but they’re bad songs are pretty damn bad. Fortunately, “A New Tide” does not have a single bad track. Poppier tracks like “Little Pieces” and “Airstream Driver” really make you wonder why Gomez isn’t more of a household name in the mainstream market, while “Lost Track” and “Bone Tired” offer a deeper and more wistful sound. The subtly technical aspect of their music is also pretty striking. It’s not so easy to work odd time signatures into songs and still have them be plainly catchy, but Gomez incorporates consummate musicianship masterfully. Listeners who require more aggression may not find this album as awe-inspiring as me, but I still recommend giving it a try. Especially in terms of quality summer listening, this one’s definitely a winner.

 

Phoenix: “Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix” – So those of you who really know me may be surprised that I dig this album, but I really do. It’s poppy, dancey and frankly just mood elevating. I LOVE throwing on this record when I’m leaving the office on Friday or before I go out on the weekends. It really just puts a smile on my face. The band’s from France and I had never heard of them before “Wolfgang” and was actually under the impression that it was their debut full-length for some time. Well, it’s actually their fourth studio album. Although something about the band sounds familiar and inspired, it doesn’t take away from their overall originality. And the musicianship isn’t really flooring, but it takes some real talent to write good pop like this. It does offer some of that retro-80s-turned-new-wave dance/pop feel that has become popular again with bands like We Are Scientists and The Killers, but this album doesn’t really beat you over the head with it. It manages to incorporate some of the same sensibilities, but still establish itself as something totally different and unique. As a side note, I saw these cats on David Letterman performing their single “1901” and it was the best I’ve heard a band I like sound on television. Their popularity has exploded in America since performing on SNL. They’ve sold out three NYC shows in the course of two months, one of which was a Central Park show (which I will be attending). They even added a second show in Central Park. Anyway, this album is great fun. Check it out! I expect you’ll be hearing a lot more from these frogs in the near future. 

 

Closure in Moscow: “First Temple” – “First Temple” is the debut full-length from progressive rock Aussies Closure in Moscow. This is probably the most impressive debut full-length I’ve heard from a previously unknown band in recent memory. I’d say The Mars Volta’s “Comatorium” was equally impressive, but members of Volta had certainly established themselves on the music scene with At The Drive-In. Ironically (or not so ironically), “First Temple” reminds me A LOT of The Mars Volta’s first release. In fact, if you had just played this album for me without telling me who it was, I would have said, “Wow, so The Mars Volta have returned to actually writing awesome songs as opposed to just doing drugs and recording a veritable cluster-fuck of semi-musical but mostly sonic attacks.” But don’t let the striking similarities to their prog-rock predecessors dissuade you. Closure in Moscow is still exceedingly original. Their musicianship is beyond exceptional, seamlessly fusing technical mastery and song composition. For those seeking a remarkable combination of energy, technical prowess and general listenability, don’t miss this record.

 

Passenger Action: “Self-Titled” – It’s a shame that most of you have probably never heard of Canadian punk rockers Choke. They were a pretty big fucking deal up north, but that popularity never really reached the states. Their studio releases became increasingly progressive, experimental and generally awesome, reaching an apex with their masterpiece “Slow Fade Or: How I learned to Disappear.” I was pretty upset when I heard Choke broke up… until I found out ex-members had formed Passenger Action. In truth, this album pretty much picks up right where Choke left off: a brand of experimental post-punk that’s technical and really like nothing else out there. However, Passenger Action takes it to the next level with more effects-driven guitar work and more atmospheric context. The older melodic punk sensibilities are still hidden somewhere in the music, but just enough to add a completely unique flavor. It’s also not as fast or aggressive as anything Choke had put out over the course of their career, but it definitely is more mature. And haven’t we all matured a little since those speedy, hard-hitting punk days? I mean… maybe not. But in this case I really think the Passenger Action record is one of the most flatteringly original albums I’ve heard in a while. It’s enough to call to mind all the genres Choke had explored along the way, all while asserting a more cohesive and polished sound. This album may be tough to find, so if you’re looking for it and having difficulty acquiring it, let me know and I’ll take care of you.

 

Much love,

J.

Waiting

Hello all! Guten tag! Ciao! Insert other multi-lingual sentiments of greeting here.

Damn... I'm so worldly.

So here's a quick little piece for you kids at the office on this dreary Friday. I hope you're all bored and just dying for something to kill a little time. Well stop checking your facebook homepages and do a little reading! It'll be quick and painless... cuz I know that's how you like it you kinky little...

Whoa! Sorry about that. It's Friday and I'm chomping at the bit to get the eff outta here (shitty weather or not). So take a little time and read a little something from your good friend in the blogosphere (God, I'm a fucking tool). Enjoy!

It’s the whiteness that’s truly maddening—the sterile, buzzing fluorescence of it all. It’s like a million radioactive fireflies are trying to console you and their only allies are crinkly, old magazines locked in a perpetual state of impertinence—the past littered before you in obsolete still frames of the most forgettable “current events.” It’s like tracing a timeline of obscurity between seemingly arbitrary start and end points. Withered, discolored faces well past their fifteen minutes in the spotlight stare up with expressions perfectly contradictory to every thought meandering through your brain. After only minutes of staring at light-hearted and self-satisfied features, a strong desire for violence builds, like it’s within your power to ram a fist through their papery faces and have the pain felt across the boundaries of distance and time. 

Of course there’s the loneliness too. It’s not just about the waiting.

Sure, there are other poor souls anxiously spoiling the pure, incandescent barrenness of the room. But there’s no real camaraderie. Almost everyone is too enveloped in their own grief and worry to provide any kind of consolation or even commiseration. Still, there is always one or two that just can’t keep their concern and apprehension to themselves. I’d imagine for these people it isn’t even a conscious decision. It’s a defense mechanism—one that has probably been with them most of their lives—and they can’t control it anymore than an obsessive-compulsive locking and unlocking the door eight times before actually exiting the house.      

But these really aren’t times for conversation. Well… maybe they are. But reversing this particular tradition of silence holds all the futility of a Catholic telling his excessively devout brethren that going to church is unnecessary. All you need to do is listen to one of these nervous attempts at therapeutic empathy to realize there’s a reason people in this situation would rather keep their problems internalized. 

“So… who are you waiting for?” 

“What’s wrong with them?” 

“What are their chances?” 

It’s like being in a holding cell with other criminals waiting for sentencing. “So… what are you in for?” It’s a desperate grab for comfort; an attempt to reassure yourself that you’re not the only one in this unfortunate situation. But it doesn’t change the fact that you are in this situation. It doesn’t ensure the nurse or doctor will come strolling through that door with you in their sights, their practiced poker face melting away to good news, those words you’ve been aching to hear rolling over their lips in cinematic slow-mo. 

No. It just makes you wonder why some humans feel this incessant compulsion to exchange drama with other humans. As if your own burdens weren’t troublesome enough. 

I breathe a sigh of relief as the extroverted loudmouth targets a slightly more approachable participant. This is no accident. I do my best to emit the coldest aura I can manage. Everything about my body language says “leave me the fuck alone.” In case this isn’t clear enough, I even offer an expression of outward disgust as the loudmouth’s nasally voice cuts through the near-silence in an attempt to strike up a conversation. His target is more willing than I, but the tone of forced politeness in her voice is unmistakable. 

I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes, letting the fluorescent ceiling lights offer a luminous hint to my own private darkness. I breathe slowly, allowing the cold, medicinal smell of the room to remind me of her on that frigid steel table, gloved hands poking and prodding at her motionless body, heart struggling to circulate the precious remaining blood. I can practically feel the temperature of her pale skin as it hovers around an unacceptable point, her flesh fading into the white operating lights like vapor into darkness. 

My eyes snap open. Somehow the image of her vanishing into brightness is less than reassuring. As my vision readjusts to the room I notice a new body sitting in the row of hard, plastic chairs across from me. Either her entry was completely silent, or I was too immersed in my own thoughts to notice her sneak in. Her complexion is mildly ethereal, but her expression says it’s not a result of her present circumstances, like so many of the others in here. On the contrary, she looks almost reassured… confident even. The rumored power of positive thinking I suppose. 

But something about her looks so familiar. This isn’t really a mystery to me. It’s not a face I’m searching for buried deep in the recesses of my mind. It’s not some visage from the distant past that I expect to place in an hour or a day or a week. No, her resemblance is almost uncanny and strikes me immediately. 

She catches me looking at her and accepts my gaze with open and recognizable affection. She employs a familiar pseudo-shy mannerism and smiles with warmth that is literally tangible—I can actually feel my face brighten with the sensation of sincerity and feel my lips begin to elevate in the form of a faint but noticeable smile.  

Suddenly I hear the doors leading to the waiting area open. She nods in the direction of the doors, gives me a playful little wink then blows me a kiss. 

A strong hand touches my shoulder and pulls my eyes away from the now-empty seat. I look up at the doctor who looks back with a practiced poker face that shows no sign of melting. His mouth opens and I can hear the words clearly before they even roll past his lips.