Month: January 2016

174. Andrew W.K., I Get Wet (2001)

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Andrew W.K.’s debut album, I Get Wet, is either brilliant or idiotic, depending on your perspective. It’s a beautifully dumb pop-metal record, which takes the format of ’80s hair-rock anthems and simplifies the already dunderheaded medium, whittling the non-complexities into drums, power chords, glossy synth lines, and Sesame Street melodies. Is Andrew W.K. a satirical panderer to the lowest common denominator, or is he simply some sort of dumb-rock savant, blessed with the ability to spew forth an endless supply of bite-sized morsels of absurdly catchy?

The beautiful thing about I Get Wet is that it doesn’t matter.

As I scour the internet for critical takes on the album from its release, one thing is clear: this is one of the most overthought albums in rock history. I’m guilty too — as you can see, I’ve already dumped 100 words on it which, on the surface, is about 95 words more than I really need — but man, some of this stuff goes in-depth. Lengthy histories about AWK as an avant-garde pianist who corrected course after no one was interested in his smart music; postulating at length about 9/11 and the cultural need for escapism after the towers fell. Which is all valid when establishing context, sure, but I Get Wet is simplistic, single-minded party rock, insidiously catchy, boasting no fat content or added preservatives.

This is a dude peddling big dumb rock, about two minutes at a time, for a half-hour. It’s addictive, and it’s wonderful.

It’s the candied pop-rock of Def Leppard, sped up and doubled-down on the drums. It betrays no hint of self-awareness, of wink-nudge irony, or of anything deeper than what’s on the surface. W.K. doesn’t tip his hat. He sings about fun (“Fun Night”), New York City (“I Love NYC”), and, most of all, partying (“Party Hard”, “It’s Time To Party”, “Party Til You Puke”). He sings these in a full-bore rasp, the intensity belying the weightlessness of his lyrics; he also arranges them with the precision of a composer, each morsel genetically engineered for youthful exuberance and enthusiastic headbanging, each melody worming insidiously into the brain until the next so-dumb-it’s-brilliant track comes down the pike.

Andrew W.K. is the type of dude who will rhyme “ain’t no worry” with “in no hurry”, and you see it coming a mile away and can’t help but love it anyway, somehow. This is the type of record everyone needs to allow themselves to love; let your serious-minded snobbery drip away in the wake of the tasty synths and gang vocals and just enjoy.

Consider this: this album’s power ballad (and second single, after the miracle of pure energy “Party Hard”) is called “She Is Beautiful”. Andrew W.K. sings it without a hint of irony — the girl he’s singing about is beautiful, damn it, and he’ll shout it from the rafters — but he doesn’t let up one bit. With different lyrics, “She Is Beautiful” and its big, ascending guitar line could have been an alternate track called “Party Your Balls Off” or something like that. W.K. has no time to let a decreased tempo and a gentle piano intro let you know that he’s in love — he’s going to celebrate it the same way he celebrates his city and his mosh pits and his booze, and that’s by shouting it in your face over a headbanging instrumental. That might be all you need to know about I Get Wet, a tight, balls-catchy album that wields its brevity and single-mindedness so well it’s astonishing.

Playlist track: If your playlists don’t already feature “Party Hard”, I don’t know that I can help you.

175. Band of Horses, Everything All the Time (2006)

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I remember, in my days of rabidly devouring other people’s music reviews instead of writing my own, seeing a particularly dismissive writer flippantly refer to then-upstarts Band of Horses as “My Morning Jacketless”, both linking the band to Jim James’ more-respected group and taking the piss by writing BoH off as inferior also-rans. This would, perhaps, be a more legitimate position to take these days, in an alternate timeline where BoH’s first two records were stricken from memory and we were forced to judge them on their highly suspect latter-day output, which ranges from “sure, whatever” to downright bad. But in 2006 and 2007 — a pair of high-water years for American indie rock, for this writer’s money — Band of Horses managed to, at the very least, equal MMJ’s output, boasting a sound that implied that MMJ fans would enjoy them as well without slavishly aping the more successful band’s style.

The quartet’s debut record, Everything All the Time, certainly brings the comparison upon itself — the heavily reverbed vocals, the big guitars and bustling drums, the general sense of expanse, the haze of weed hanging lazily in the atmosphere — but it feels fresh on its own terms, too. I think the “jam band” tag MMJ so often draws may be the difference maker; Band of Horses, for whatever reason, aren’t very prone to lengthy instrumental flights of fancy, and so songs feel tight even as they meander. Which, in this instance, isn’t even a slight against them: BoH’s brand of “meandering” is actually quite endearing. They take their time with their vocals, let them lazily tumble out instead of spitting rapid-fire verses, and the reverb allows them to drift in the air; those languid, lovely chords that open up the first song — entitled, uh, “The First Song” — are, by and large, all you need to know to decide if you’ll like the record.

A textbook “mood record”, Everything All the Time gets a lot of traction out of its tighter numbers that lie beneath the shimmering guitars and reverbed vocals. The moment that “The Funeral” springs forth, announcing its arrival with a gentle arpeggiated guitar and a high, lilting Ben Bridwell vocal, it becomes clear that Band of Horses are an outfit that can accommodate the moods as well as the moments; that intro, the chorus, the senses of longing and sadness and weird insta-nostalgia… “The Funeral” is an A+ modern indie rock song. (Also, “on every occasion I’m ready for a funeral” is the best line Ben Bridwell has ever penned, bar none; what a sad, wry, potent lyric.)

And when BoH pare things back, as they do on closer “St. Augustine”, they prove themselves adept at a folksier style; their Southern charm and laid-back style make their rockers appealingly lackadaisical, but there’s an inherent beauty in a track like “Augustine”, an evocative, wistful lullaby with no designs on frills, bells or whistles.

Band of Horses would go on to make one more excellent record, one okay record, and one bad record; as they distance themselves further from the sound that defined them, the returns diminish, but Everything All the Time is a perfect encapsulation of what the indie-rock record sounded like in 2006. The tunes and the atmosphere make this one essential.

Playlist track: “The Funeral”

176. The Decemberists, Picaresque (2005)

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So let’s tackle The Decemberists. I’ll get it out of the way ahead of time: I like the Decemberists. I’m not rabid or even super passionate about them, but I like what they do. Their turn-of-the-century period drama meets art-rock as played by medieval troubadours speaks to something in me; perhaps the fact that I am a nerd, and The Decemberists make fabulous nerd music, plumped with purple prose, goosed with horns and dulcimers and all sorts of weird howdyado.

They’d later evolve (devolve? you decide) into a decidedly streamlined folk-pop-rock act, with all the literary ephemera turned back to like an 8. Still, Picaresque is the finest example of the Decemberists being, for lack of a better word, super-Decemberistsy. It’s verbose and (annoyingly, to lots of people that aren’t me) well-read and extra pompous. If all of this served to entice you rather than deter you, you are The Decemberists’ target audience and should enjoy Picaresque as such.

Lead Decemberist Colin Meloy knows his way around a hook and (clearly) a thesaurus. His tight little pop songs are often insidiously catchy, while still tossing about his multisyllabic, sometimes arcane vocabulary (see “16 Military Wives”, “The Sporting Life”); his headier, more literary numbers are simply epic — in the Homeric sense of the word, not in the way we abuse the word when something is simply large and/or cool (“dude, I just ate an epic breakfast burrito”). Picaresque‘s particular charm lies in Meloy’s ability to harness both sides of the divide; here, the tighter, catchier numbers alternate with long, winding bits of historical fiction. A nine-minute song about revenge and murder between sailors in the belly of a whale is at its most palatable when it’s the exception and not the rule.

So here, Meloy’s winding, literary epics are dispersed sparingly — notably, “The Bagman’s Gambit” in the first half and “The Mariner’s Revenge Song” in the second, but a few tunes track the five-minute mark — amongst some pretty tight pop nuggets. “We Both Go Down Together” plays like a dark torch song (with a fabulous hook); “The Sporting Life” swings like Motown over the same bass rhythm Okkervil River nicked for “Lost Coastlines”; “16 Military Wives” is pointed, satirical, with ebullient horns and Meloy’s idiosyncratic sermonizing reaching an apex. The ominous, galloping opener “The Infanta” is a good representation, in fact, of what much of Picaresque has in store; heady and somewhat theatrical, but innately catchy and digestible.

And while the sparse “The Bagman’s Gambit” is itself a fine example of Meloy’s prowess at epic narrative poetry, Picaresque‘s most sublime illustration of this brand of Decemberists song is handily “The Mariner’s Revenge Song”. The aforementioned tale of mariners in the belly of a whale is an absolute corker for every last one of its nine minutes, a Nick Cave-esque murder ballad delivered via a wobbly, ghostly sea shanty, all acoustic guitars and spectral vocals and woozy accordion and fire-eyed invective. It’s a beautiful, haunting, captivating piece of work, and might merit Picaresque‘s inclusion on the list all by itself.

Fortunately, it doesn’t need to. Meloy and company are firing on all cylinders with Picaresque, a sprawling and ambitious pop record assembled by theater nerds and reclusive poets.

Playlist track: As I imagine “Mariner’s Revenge Song” wouldn’t play well at parties, I’ll defer to “We Both Go Down Together”, which narrowly bests “16 Military Wives” on the strength of the strings that swell up as the chorus comes in.

177. A.C. Newman, The Slow Wonder (2004)

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“He was tied to the bed with a miracle drug in his hand.” So begins A.C. Newman’s first solo record, The Slow Wonder, and — true to form — the opening lyric is a Newman special, cryptic and alluring, delivered via a candy-coated power-pop melody too tasty to do anything but indulge in.

Newman — of course, the de facto bandleader of Canuck indie-pop supergroup The New Pornographers, they of the deliciously big hooks and annual “best of the year” lists — striking out on his own begs the question: how does Newman’s brand of power-pop differentiate itself from your average New Pornos record? The answer: it doesn’t, not really, because New Pornos records are fairly Newman-heavy as is. The Slow Wonder plays like a New Pornographers record minus Dan Bejar’s slightly loopy (usually brilliant) contributions and Neko Case’s honeyed harmonies; which ranks it just south of the best New Pornos albums, but not much, because Newman’s songs are too well-composed from jump street to fail.

The Slow Wonder is a brisk, nimble power-pop record; where New Pornographers records are thick with classic power-pop, they rarely shy away from frills, making them rather shiny affairs. The Slow Wonder is a little more simple, a little more streamlined, songs making their point within three minutes and then turning the floor over to the next jam. “Miracle Drug”, album opener and finest track — and an easily finalist for power-pop song of the decade, let the record show — rides angular guitars and a jaunty stop-start drumbeat to glory, the thesis statement of A.C. Newman 101. “Drink To Me, Babe, Then” is a prolonged breath after the jaunty, fast “Miracle Drug”, and sounds a lot like “Sing Me Spanish Techno”.

The Slow Wonder‘s real strength is in knowing when to deploy pop tricks. It all sounds rather uniform — not staid or monotonous or anything, just… similar, is all — until the album’s final third, when Newman metes out little flourishes to shake things up. Horns swell on the pleasant, Beirut-esque “Cloud Prayer”, while “The Town Halo” provides the album’s most memorable riff with a jagged cello line. Without touches like this, The Slow Wonder would still be a pleasant pop album — but Newman is as crafty a songwriter and arranger as there is, and he knows how to bust up the monotony with interesting, innately musical flights of fancy.

Playlist track: “Miracle Drug”. It should be on all of your playlists, honestly.

178. Barenaked Ladies, Maroon (2000)

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Pardon the tardiness, readers: I spent an inordinate amount of between-entries time trying to drum up a defense of an indie-rock record that will remain nameless, which I’d ranked strictly on the basis of like four good songs. That entry would be stamped on the Internet for life if it weren’t for a chance meeting with an old 200-disc CD booklet, wherein I was reminded that, right, I used to listen to the Barenaked Ladies; also, their turn-of-the-century record Maroon was every bit as good as I remembered it being, my dirty little secret during a time when I was attempting to be very cool and only like cool music. (I’ve always loved you, Pavement, but I just always had the Ladies on the side for a little fun. Please forgive me, I now know I can just like everyone I want openly.)

It’s an interesting record, coming as it did on the heels of the Canadian pop act’s 1998 record Stunt, wherein the Ladies became the kind of act that tweens voted for on “Total Request Live” on the strength of their nonsensical, rapid-fire hit single “One Week”; Maroon has “Pinch Me”, an omnipresent pop single in its own right and the logical extension of “One Week”‘s playful sing-rapped verses stapled to big, catchy choruses (if a little folksier and slightly less whimsical). But “Pinch Me” is also a bit of a bait-and-switch; there are heaping spoonfuls of gooey pop melodies on Maroon, to be sure, but it’s also a great deal darker than one might expect, with introspection and satire running rampant.

Of a piece with the Ladies’ vaunted pop chops are “Pinch Me” and its fellow singles “Falling For the First Time” and “Too Little Too Late”; “Too Late” ages wonderfully precisely by being so retro, a Joe Jackson lick and canned Boston handclaps hinting that it could have been released in 1979. “Never Do Anything” and “Go Home” find BNL giving the old acoustic guitars and four-part harmonies a familiar workout. The first half of Maroon sounds like a very good Barenaked Ladies record, which I’d argue is enough to warrant a place on this countdown. Say what you will about them being edge-less, but they’ve got a nigh-unparalelled way with a pop hook. (See also side two’s “Humour of the Situation”, a toothless but sinfully catchy breakup jam.)

And yet, there’s something else at play on Maroon; namely, it’s got a certain mature, fairly dark streak, particularly in its second half. “Conventioneers” signals the sea change, a muted lounge track about two co-workers who consummate office flirtations during the heady rush of a work retreat and never address it again. “Sell Sell Sell” is a different beast altogether, a one-liner packed indictment of consumerist and celebrity culture that rides cresting waves of martial drums and frilly operatic pomp; “in terms of Roman numerals, he’s I-V league with Roman Polanski” is one of my favorite soundbites on a pop record, for sure. Top ten material.

Maroon‘s finest stretch remains its final one, however. “Off the Hook” is as sobering and wistful as the Ladies have been, a breakup sifted through and excavated with maturity and painful nostalgia. It also feels uniquely ’90s, despite being released in 2000, performing in one chorus what a litany of Goo Goo Dolls and Sugar Ray mid-tempo hits couldn’t in an entire career; and, in the pantheon of lyrics I love, “something that you heard while you were sleeping left you shaken while he stirred” is the sort of beautiful wordplay that the Ladies can just dump into a serious number organically. “Helicopters” finds a narrator recalling the wreckage of a war-torn village; it’s mid-tempo and major-key, yet somehow poised and sad and lovely. (Lyric alert: “a world that loves its irony must hate the protest singer.”)

It’s all a prelude to “Tonight Is the Night I Fell Asleep At the Wheel”, one of the most profoundly unsettling songs I’ve ever heard; a lurching carnival’s waltz soundtracks the tale of a fatal car wreck, narrated with graphic stoicism by the deceased. Those multitracked, almost joyous-sounding harmonies on the line “I’ve never seen so much BLOOD!” chill my bones. Props, again, for the wordplay though– the inversion of the previously-stated “you’re the last thing on my mind” is a moment of nerdy delight.

It’s the Barenaked Ladies’ best record, is what I’m saying — it’s personal and mature and dark in all the right places, and when it’s not, it jettisons gimmickry for unassailable power-pop, and that’s great too.

Playlist track: I’m sure “Too Little Too Late” is more fun at parties, but “Off the Hook” is handily the best thing here.

Ten Songs at a Time 1.23.2016

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On my musical streaming app of choice, I’ve attempted to compile a master playlist of songs that I generally prefer to other songs. In a semi-weekly feature that will, as per usual, be worked on sporadically at best, I’m shuffling that playlist, and writing about ten songs at a time. This list is catch-all, so all genres and artists are in play. Nothing will be skipped over.

“Our Life Is Not A Movie Or Maybe,” Okkervil River
The whole Stage Names record is a masterwork, and other songs might hit a more poignant emotional sweet spot, but “Our Life” is the album’s opener and most exciting song: flurried guitars, big fat “Be My Baby” drums, and Will Sheff yawping the best big-rock melody he’s ever penned.

“It Goes On and On,” The Avett Brothers
Not my favorite Avetts tune, I must admit — it might even fall outside the top twenty if I think about it hard enough — but it’s their only moment of jaunty, Ben Folds-y piano-pop that I can think of, and the full-bore harmonies are way too fun to sing in the car, which is 90% of the reason why this playlist exists in the first place.

“Massive Nights,” The Hold Steady
Ugh, that lithe, skittering guitar line and the moment ’80s keyboard trills dance over it in the first verse… this, this is why people used to call The Hold Steady the best bar band in the world. The song’s hardly heady or high-concept, but that pogoing chorus makes me want to floor it and that’s why I have points on my license. Worth it, Hold Steady, even if only for those background vocals on “there’s usually one or two” or that glorious key change.

“Me and Jesus the Pimp in a ’79 Grenada Last Night,” The Coup
Perhaps Boots Riley’s finest moment as a rapper, “Jesus the Pimp” frames a cautionary tale of prostitution and misogyny around the moment the murderer of our narrator’s mother gets out of prison; it’s smart and sad, yes, but it’s also incredibly groovy and often extremely funny. I guess a seven-minute narrative rap song has the room to accommodate tonal changes.

“Dum Dum Ditty,” The Downbeat 5
Odd subgenre: I like pop songs that try, through onomatopoeia or instrumental, to describe what their heart feels for their significant other. Emiliana Torrini’s “Jungle Drum” proclaims that her “heart is beating like a jungle drum”, and then takes a bar to clumsily beatbox, while in “Kick Drum Heart”, the Avett Brothers claim to have a “heart like a kick drum”, and then pause to demonstrate (“BUM-BUM-BUM-BUM-BUM-BUM”). Point being, I only know “Dum Dum Ditty” from some Little Steven compilation but the chorus is “he makes my heart go dum-dum-ditty, whoa-whoa” and that’s silly enough for me to love it unconditionally.

“You Better You Bet,” The Who
If anything, “You Better You Bet” makes me lament the death of Keith Moon, because I can’t imagine the manic Keith would have stood for the anemic drumming on this track; all is forgiven when Roger Daltrey unleashes one of his best, funniest, wryest vocals upon that behemoth of a silly, background-vox-heavy, keyboard-drenched chorus.

“Sherry Darling,” Bruce Springsteen
Apparently we’re in the classic rock section. Whatever; I love The River for a lot of reasons, but the most fun track on it is handily the sunny, frivolous “Sherry Darling”, wherein Bruce faces tons of obstacles on the way to his beloved, including an overbearing (apparently unemployed) mother-in-law who can “take a subway back to the ghetto tonight”. I think my favorite part of this track (sax solo aside, of course) is the way it comes out of the instrumental break with a sincerely sung “let there be sunlight, let there be rain/ let the brokenhearted love again”, a moment of weird earnestness in a silly, kind of sarcastic jam. It fits nowhere in the song, but it fits everywhere, because Bruce.

“Dreaming Of You,” The Coral
I literally know nothing about The Coral — I don’t even know where I heard this song. I do know that it’s fantastic, a grubby little pop-rock song with a terrifically raw vocal and — and this is key — KILLER background singing. It’s all harmonized oohs and aahs, but take ’em out and the bolts are removed and the song clatters to the ground, defeated.

“Honey Bunny,” Girls
Father, Son, Holy Ghost was the first Girls record I listened to; were it not for a beaut of a track like “Honey Bunny”, I might not have investigated. It’s a perfect pop song and that’s all you need to know.

“Never Forget You,” Noisettes
Remember that one time I gushed at length about The Pipettes’ “Pull Shapes”, and how by “that one time” I mean “all the time because ‘Pull Shapes’ is literally perfect”? When I say that “Never Forget You” is, so far, the best girl-group throwback track of this millennium, please remember that it only falters in comparison to true bliss.