The Strokes: Angles (2011)

(RCA)

RECOMMENDED

Read my review at Metro Times.

Miles Davis: Birth of the Cool (1950)

(Capitol)

!!! A+ RECORDING !!!

Cool jazz begins here -- the immediate decisive reaction to bebop that backgrounded its freshness and off-the-wall instrumentation with traditional big band or even classical (some would say stuffy) arrangements. But this roadmap for the subgenre belies the arm's-length ennui implied by its title. Miles Davis, even at the first stages of his grand career, couldn't have fallen for anything so safe -- if anything, it's unmitigated joy that lurks behind the adventurous jumping and tempo trickery of "Israel." The songs recorded by Davis' short-lived Nonet, who had enjoyed a couple of residencies before reconvening to lay down twelve songs for a series of Capitol 78s, never stop at being purely cerebral. By the admission of arranger Gil Evans, who deserves a large share of credit for the sound of Birth of the Cool, Davis is the playful driving force of this music that was actually the work of a large collective. And it's only through great care and ingenuity that a nine-man lineup could sound so streamlined, so specific and simple. Long after the bebop reactionary politics are forgotten, as they already are in most quarters, that simplicity remains startlingly ingratiating, and even if that weren't the case, the balancing of skittering, impassioned bop with conservative songcraft feels far more subversive than was probably intended.

Birth of the Cool arrived at a crossroads of enough far-flung historical interest that it stands as a fine jazz introduction, and in that regard it is an absolute prize, endlessly fun and involving to listen to, and its length and pace are breakneck enough (the consequence of being derived from 78s) that even the novice will never lose patience, the hooks lingering long after the individual songs. And although the range of material is eclectic, the songs fall together as a single, infinitely pleasing performance. Far from Davis' best work it may be, but it has a case as his most immediate -- even if much of its greatness can't entirely be pinned down to his trumpet.

But the loveliest moment does belong almost exclusively to Davis -- "Boplicity" may be his first masterful cut as bandleader. Considered with or without the rest of Birth of the Cool, it positively yearns, every note a powerhouse -- and most interestingly (and foretellingly), it owns up to and toys with the conservative roots of cool jazz like nothing else here, amounting at moments to nightclub big band twisted into a celebration, a sampling of pleasures and their emotional applications -- life as music and the opposite, or wherever those notes might lead.

This wasn't technically designed as an album -- the long-playing compilation of the first eleven sides first appeared in 1957 -- but it deserves consideration as one; in a sense, it gives birth to not just the genre of the title but to the concept that a series of session materials might prove a further greatness when set to play off one another, parallel entitles that reveal more when lined up. I am normally a stickler for the album / compilation divide, but this is my sole exception; I can't imagine these songs separated. However, be careful if you're seeking out the old 1957 LP -- until 1971, all copies omitted the flip of the final 78, "Darn That Dream," an odd selection sung (the only vocal track the Nonet released) by Kenny Hagood. Typically derided in jazz books, I find its weird distance intriguing and vaguely ghostly, almost antiquated, and the most fitting conclusion to the deceptively simple, secretly forward-thinking material collected on the rest of the record. However little it relates to the larger context of Miles Davis' output, Birth of the Cool is the real starting point of a career that would soon enough set music on its ear forever.

James Blake (2011)

(A&M)

RECOMMENDED

James Blake's minimalistic, electronic but oddly raw R&B isn't quite as new as it's cracked up to be. Sure, unless you count Radiohead's experiments on The King of Limbs, this is the most mainstream-friendly the dubstep subgenre has gotten thus far, but an extra listen to the more far-flung material Prince was throwing out in the Sign o' the Times era reveals the same sense of another world's underbelly, the processed vocals symphonically backing up against one another to create actual disorientation. Still, as a producer, Blake is a master at creating that out-of-mind feeling and fusing it with almost eagerly heavy emotion.

Blake's EPs were more firmly in the cult mode, with half-formed ideas aplenty. He gets it together fast for this major-label full-length; the first three songs all vibrate and shimmer with bursting invention and drive, marvelously tricky and fun to listen to while carrying just the proper introspective weight. The jewel of the record is "Wilhelm Scream," a parade of paranoid tics and aching beauties -- "Unluck" and "I Never Learnt to Share" build themselves up nicely but end up coming off as bookends.

The problem is that until its finale, the explosively direct and complete "Measurements," Blake's record doesn't expand on the offerings of its first ten minutes. The sounds that throttle you then are more or less what you live with for the rest of the album, which would be fine if it offered real songs in a more persuasive sense, but only the flimsy but funky "To Care (Like You)" and the Feist cover "Limit to Your Love" (which fails to uncover much that its composer didn't on The Reminder) don't seem as incomplete as linking material from Smile.

There is also the sense that indie rock's interpretation of soul and funk is all too brittle, airy, cerebral. The beats titter and tease but never release; that is probably the point, I grant you, but the same way I miss a nice blast of guitar on some folk-indie records that seem to be begging for it, I miss the actual body response when nice boys attempt soulful dance music.

But this is a fascinating album all the same, never overstaying its welcome at just under forty minutes -- one worth multiple investigations, and the sideways beauty of "Wilhelm Scream" and primal sway of "Measurements" are enough to make it noteworthy. "Measurements" escorts Blake out into the night with the transformation of an inward-looking chant into some kind of communal celebration, all excruciating pauses and thrilling explosions. It doesn't matter if this is the future of music when it can feel this present.

[SEE ALSO:]
CMYK EP (2010)

Oasis: The Masterplan (1994-97)

(Epic)

RECOMMENDED

The inimitable, glorious blast of Definitely Maybe aside, Oasis never really fulfilled their promise. Of course they had their commercial moment with (What's the Story) Morning Glory and the beautiful misfire Be Here Now, just the kind of oddball creative idiocy that is the true mark of greatness. But the Great Band narrative they wrote for themselves became, perhaps, too restrictive. It would seem that a b-sides collection could afford an opportunity to witness the band loosening up a little fucking bit for once, and better yet to present some oddities from the brief but unforgettable period when Noel Gallagher was writing one classic after another. It turns out that The Masterplan is worth the Oasis canon, but not at all for the expected reasons.

An Oasis fanatic and tireless defender when this was issued in 1998, I nevertheless did not pick it up, in large part because when I heard the single "Acquiesce" (originally the flipside of "Roll with It"), I thought it was too much like a Bryan Adams record. Hearing it for the first time in thirteen years yesterday, that impulse hasn't changed. The big secret of The Masterplan, the great hidden truth that these discards reveal, is Noel Gallagher's fixation with the FM radio orthodoxy. Three of the first four tracks on this compilation possess traditional and fairly grand low-key Oasis verses then fall into shameless pop-automatic choruses that could make even a diehard cringe.

But there's plenty special in the exceptions. The title track is something of a miracle, a delicate, considered jangle-pop chamber piece that easily goes down as one of the band's most completely realized, lively songs, its lilting melody and building chorus stunningly persuasive. Like it, "Talk Tonight" features Noel on lead vocals, and it provides the same sort of relief that the flooring "Don't Look Back in Anger" did on Morning Glory; it's easy to understand why Liam's personality placed him as the ideal frontman, but does anyone doubt that his brother destroyed him as a singer? On "Talk" and the less defensible "Going Nowhere," he gives vent to worlds of nuance that are never even approached on something like "Champagne Supernova." As ever, one wishes for more like it; there isn't the catharsis and euphoria of "Anger" but there's a knocking at the door. And only Noel could sell a lyric as dubious as that of "Half the World Away" ("This old town don't smell too pretty") but he nails it.

Still, what's remarkable about the live cover of "I Am the Walrus" is not how bizarre the blissed-out arrangement is, or the hilarity of Liam's curious pronunciation ("sittin' on a conn-flayake") and scat singing ("goo goo goo jah / choo choo choo bah")... it's the sheer sincerity of the boys' Beatles fandom, and it's how capable Liam is of slipping in and out of a near-perfect pitch John Lennon impression. This is something beyond Britpop -- this is a strange and semi-wonderful magnification of a memory.

So Liam was always best on the sheer snottiness of "Married with Children" or the reluctant emotion of "Wonderwall," and he seldom gets to wrap his tongue around anything of the kind here (at one point he has to sing "It's the little things that make me feel happy" with a straight face) because, of course, all his shining bits made the albums. "Fade Away," reaching back to the band's shoegaze period, is a notable exception, a hard-hitting track that could easily have made any of the first three albums without any serious compromise, and "Listen Up" gets close to towering (hampered by throaty strain), but the lion's share of these are rarities and b-sides and unheard cuts for rather obvious reasons.

If you dug the first three or four Oasis albums like I did but never sought this out, do so; in part because the first record remained by far their best, it's easy to find it a difficult sell. Were the band more consistent for longer, no one would need persuading to track down their esoteric material. But this isn't noodling; if anything, it has more immediacy than the sometimes labored chugging along of albums two and three. Even Definitely Maybe, great as it is, is never as charming as the goofily sweet "Rockin' Chair." Better yet, The Masterplan is a surprisingly pleasing rush of nostalgia that makes that weird moment last just a tiny bit longer; the rapid-fire, unfettered "Headshrinker" is worth the trouble all by itself. Just don't expect it to have the lasting power of Definitely Maybe or even the addictive curiosity of Be Here Now and you're all set.

[SEE ALSO:]
The Early Years (1992-95)
Definitely Maybe (1994)

Over the Rhine: The Long Surrender (2011)

(Great Speckled Dog)

RECOMMENDED

Read my review at Metro Times.

Read my interview with the band at Metro Times Blogs.

10,000 Maniacs: Our Time in Eden (1992)

(Elektra)

!! CAUTION !!

Try to forget for just a second that it's 2011 and pretend you feel optimistic about our government, our collective humanity, our bright future. Isn't there something to those premature proclamations Natalie Merchant lets loose in "These Are Days"? She says the world is warm, and it's there -- nearly tangible -- a feeling of being on the cusp of halcyon days, golden years, the Revolution. It's like that awful Jesus Jones song only it feels actually good to believe in it. Close your eyes and you're there, back to wide-eyed naivete. That's a difficult and powerful thing to record, and 10,000 Maniacs absolutely nail it on this track. Nearly two decades later, it still leaps out, even from supermarket intercoms, even from telephone company hold music -- which are the primary ways 10,000 Maniacs are now listened to.

Don't let that, or the unexpected delicacy and subtlety of opener "Noah's Dove" -- the band's second-best song behind "Eat for Two" -- fool you: 10,000 Maniacs are as toothless and boring as ever on the majority of this album. The difference between this and Blind Man's Zoo is that the slickness is now claustrophobic. Witness the lifeless brassiness of "Candy Everybody Wants," which sounds like an economics student's vision of funk, and it's just about the liveliest thing here apart from the first two tracks. The others revisit the acceptable meandering of Blind Man's Zoo ("Gold Rush Brides," "Stockton Gala Days," "I'm Not the Man") and the claustrophobic PC dirges of In My Tribe ("Tolerance," the antiseptic, cringeworthy "How You've Grown"). Even the typically reliable Natalie Merchant sounds bored -- "Noah's Dove" and "These Are Days" notwithstanding, she only comes to life in her passionate vocal performance on "Jezebel," which is better heard on the Maniacs' Unplugged album.

Producer Paul Fox lays on so much sweetness you wonder how so many self-respecting adult alterna-rockers put up with this back in 1992 -- the other bands they were listening to were actually doing fairly bold things at the time: U2 reinventing their entire conception with dance beats while investigating ever slower, sadder material; R.E.M. wallowing in Appalachia and self-pity with the exceptionally lovely double threat of Out of Time and Automatic for the People; and the Pixies breaking the hell up. It is, alas, this last lesson that 10KM failed even in duress to adopt. The sole virtue of much of 10,000 Maniacs' music is Natalie Merchant and her sometimes shrill but often wonderfully expressive voice. When Merchant announced an impending departure before this album's release, the band chose to soldier on, leaving time for a surprisingly ethereal Unplugged performance that stands as the band's best recorded moment.

The result wasn't terribly surprising. Though her solo career ended up copping to the same Sting-like blandness and Enya-like boredom that she seemed to be driving at with 10KM, Merchant's first single out of the gate was "Carnival," one of the most tremendously wise and beautiful singles of the '90s, a low-key treasure and her biggest hit ever. 10,000 Maniacs laid low for a couple of years and returned with the anonymous Mary Ramsey, who cooed and chirped her way through an embarrassing cover of Roxy Music's "More Than This," after which we never heard from the band again -- although they do still exist in some odd incarnation, now without even their late guitarist, Rob Buck. You can mark your calendars for their 30th anniversary tour, but I doubt very much any kind of a hip resurgence for this very strange band. Even by the standards of the modern chillwave scene that's renovated music lovers' perception of soft rock, their interest in remarkably bland, bloodless music makes their critical cachet and cult incomprehensible, a reevaluation too boring to conclude.

[SEE ALSO:]
In My Tribe (1987)
Blind Man's Zoo (1989)
MTV Unplugged (1993)

Editorial Note: You might be wondering two things. First, why did I just review the bulk of the discography of a band I don't even like? Answer: I don't know, thought it would be interesting, wasn't even sure I didn't like them until I investigated, etc., sorry if it was lame but it was a fun exercise for me. There will be more stuff like it in the future, so sit yourself down and relax. Second, why did I just disappear for like twelve days? Well, when I'm gone for long periods it's because I'm probably tied up with a combination of my actual day job and my side gig writing rock reviews professionally as a freelancer, which does take up more time than these blog posts even though the reviews are shorter. (I will not write up an album I'm getting paid to review after hearing it just a couple of times, which I sometimes do here.) And also, we went out of town last night to see the Mountain Goats, who I already loved and after seeing the show am now enamored with and I don't think I can talk about anything else for a little while. But I'll try.

Lupe Fiasco: Lasers (2011)

(Atlantic)

!!!!! AVOID !!!!!

One expects the damage-control compromise required by Lupe Fiasco’s painfully protracted third release -- and the many concessions made to get Atlantic to put it out -- to be depressing, so the first few tracks on Lasers come as a bit of a relief: he survives “Letting Go” and the suspiciously catchy “Till I Get There” with his dignity largely intact, his flow still hard-hitting and intelligent.

But then all hell breaks loose: MDMA and Trey Songz invade with already-dated club R&B that’s ill-fitting for Lupe. It gets worse yet, with the brain-melting rap rock of “Break the Chain,” the pandering incongruity of John Legend’s “Never Forget You,” and the total WTF that is the Modest Mouse-sampling “The Show Goes On.” It’s all rather disturbing, and with the artist’s radicalism intact (sometimes comically so), it’s hard to imagine he doesn’t see the irony, suggested by media comments that he “loves and hates” the record and that he contemplated suicide during the battles over it.

Occasionally his wit shines through (there's even a Leonard Cohen reference), but this music is completely unworthy of such a talent -- and it's a pity to hear the mediocre leveling-off of a performer who could potentially be as good as Kanye if allowed. In the end, Lasers plays out less as a downturn for Lupe than as an accidentally searing indictment of the corporate record industry.