vampire weekend spoon tim barry johnny cash brian

Spoon
Transference
Merge 2010
Vampire Weekend
Contra
XL 2010
Piddle away the normal and stick it in a pot where it can blossom into a
beige-colored flower. Then you’ll have a foliage of routine, or proof of a set
formula. Given a task, a challenge to overcome, perform the exact same operation and find yourself
with the exact same result. Sometimes this outcome is sufficient for the assignment — sometimes it
continually falls short, and eventually the collateral adds up to a bigger problem: disinterest.
It has to be said short and fast — Vampire Weekend is a very good band. They have accolades and
recognition, a community of privileged youth lifting them high above the banquet room floor. And
Contra, their much-anticipated sophomore album, is fabulous. So I’m left in a bit of a catch — what
should I think of a wonderful second release from fellows who were guaranteed to produce a wonderful
second release? No surprise visits, no scandals, no overdoses or letdowns. What do I want from my
bands? Destroy a suite or a motel room? Or keep surrounding yourselves with babes in pastel-colored
polos, basking among them like a Persian warlord with his spoils of conquer?
I’ve listened to Contra fourteen times now, and it is spot on. But it sounds exactly like Vampire
Weekend’s self-titled debut. In my mind, Vampire Weekend is the representative of a childhood friend
who has more money, better toys, tastier snacks, a bigger playroom, and a hotter mom. Ezra Koenig,
Rostam Batmanglij, Chris Tomson, and Chris Baio have produced two wonderful albums so similar that
I conducted an experiment, where I played both consecutively for two groups of people multiple times.
Result? “This album is so good!” Never once were the two albums separated by my peers’ ears. So
guys — pastel pop is something you can always come back to. Something you can always crush the
college charts with. Trying something slightly different in the future, though, might allow you to build a
mansion where you can house all the gorgeous women who love you. By Will Tunstall
On their new album, Transference, Austin, TX, indie rockers Spoon get back
to what they do best. Now, I wouldn’t go telling Dylan not to go electric, or
The Beatles not to try acid and a string section, but some bands — great
bands even — need to stick with what they know. Some bands get bored
and go into the studio and fall ass over elbows into gimmicky production and
apocryphal lyrics. For a couple albums there I thought that might be Spoon’s fate, but with Transference
they’ve found a hunky-dory portion of studio to go with their raucous songwriting. In short, this is good,
plain rock ‘n’ roll.
Lead singer Britt Daniel’s voice is a sovereign and instantly recognizable entity. A moaning, mumbling,
entirely comprehensible if not sensible lyric spews forth on Spoon’s sixth album. It’s at times annoying,
yet there’s something about it. The band’s sound when done right is simple, with driving, punk-ish
guitar and bass and some very danceable high-hats. The sound on Transference is something you’ve
heard before, but roll your eyes if you will: the voice is something you haven’t.
What the studio — often the fifth member of Spoon’s band — does on this album by stepping back is
let the group’s simple catchiness capture the ear. On the past couple of albums, singular songs have
jumped out and thrown the entire record out of whack. But that’s not the case here. Simplicity drives
cohesion, as on the catchy, driving “Is Love Forever?”, where basic variations of the same chord make
this song and the listener’s head bob. “Who Makes Your Money” showcases Spoon’s evolving maturity
in production, and proves especially ironic as they produced the album themselves. The effect is layer
upon layer upon layer, but the production manages to not supersede the structure. You know a rock
album is good when you don’t have to skip a track. And that’s just what you get on Transference: a
good, solid rock album, one best enjoyed really, really loud. By Taylor Angert
Brian Jonestown Massacre
Who Killed Sgt. Pepper?
Tim Barry
28th & Stonewall
Suburban Home 2010
Everything you need to know in life you can learn from a Tim Barry record.
Yes, that’s Tim Barry of the legendary and now indefinitely on-hiatus melodic
hardcore band, Avail. So after three full-lengths and a few seven-inches on
Suburban Home, do the words “of Avail” still need to follow Tim’s name?
The answer is yes and no. Yes, because all the independent-minded, raw
emotional truth that surged from Avail’s records is still the backbone of
Barry’s themes. And no, because he’s leading a new recession-era folk movement of former
punk rock frontmen finding new work with acoustic guitars. 28th & Stonewall doesn’t offer much
stylistic departure from Rivanna Junction and Manchester — Barry’s wasted no time in releasing
three full-lengths in three years — with similar songs of jumping trains and denouncing stagnation.
Except of course for “Will Travel,” his first foray into ragtime. What?
Yet the ballads on 28th & Stonewall are more melancholy, the attacks on wealth and greed more
scathing, and his collar a deeper shade of blue. This effort climbs metaphoric hills with the upbeat
and bluesy “Thing Of The Past,” before descending into pedal-steel valleys on “Bozeman” and
launching into the tale of Gabriel Prossor, a heroic rebel slave from Barry’s hometown of Richmond,
VA. Tim Barry is quite possibly the only white Southerner with a sweat-stained cap, bad tattoos,
and sleeveless T-shirt who could deliver such a long-lost history lesson. And if songs like “Wait
At Milano” tugged at your heartstrings, “Moving Blue” will break that heart when Barry smashes
you in the back of the head with truth while letting his sister Caitlin Hunt comfort you with violin:
“Some may have a mask or two/And base their lives on making more than you/Man that life must
be lonely as fuck.” Just listen to Tim Barry and you’ll be all right. By Jon Coen
A. Records 2010
Who Killed Sgt. Pepper?, the latest incarnation from psychedelic outfit Brian
Jonestown Massacre, is not only a departure from the band’s previous releases
but also serves as an exploration into the psychosis of frontman Anton Newcombe.
Since the inception of Brian Jonestown Massacre in 1990, Newcombe has been
regarded as a musical genius and also dismissed as a drug-addicted mental case. In
fact, Dig!, a 2004 documentary, chronicled Anton and his escapades with then-rival
band The Dandy Warhols, along with his enigmatic and disturbing yet prolific nuances.
Who Killed Sgt. Pepper?, a schizophrenic mélange of music, explores a wide array of genres and
instrumentation, from ambient electro trip-hop to Eastern European gypsy music to scathing industrial and
acid rock, all while maintaining a lo-fi shoegaze vibe that somehow manages to end up serving as the perfect
example of neo-psychedelia. Featuring vocalists from Russia and Iceland singing in their native tongue while
Eastern chants chug along, a post-apocalyptic industrial sound emanates throughout, creating a stark contrast
to BJM’s earlier ‘60s-influenced mellow garage rock. Yet this strange mix of genres and languages actually has
a cohesive, danceable world-beat groove to it. One can only imagine the amount of acid that would need to
be taken to produce a record such as this, and as Anton continues to amass his collective of global musicians
and followers, his unhealthy interest in Charles Manson becomes downright scary.
While influences can be drawn from later The Beatles albums, Velvet Underground, The Jesus And Mary Chain,
or even ‘90s trip-hoppers Morcheeba, Brian Jonestown Massacre maintains an incomparable dichotic sound.
Who Killed Sgt. Pepper? could prove to be a breakthrough record for the group, and for each of the album’s
flaws, there is an equalizing redemptive quality. It’s a contradiction of sorts; dark undertones and menacing
lyrics contrasted with the danceable grooves, it becomes apparent that it could be easily interpreted as either
brilliant or manically insane. Not too dissimilar to Anton himself. By Pete Viele
Strong Arm Steady & Madlib
In Search Of Stoney Jackson
Johnny Cash
American VI: Ain’t No Grave
Stones Throw 2010
If American VI: Ain’t No Grave is the last recorded testament from legendary American
icon Johnny Cash, fans of The Man In Black can die happy. The sixth in a series of
collaborations Cash undertook late in life with esteemed producer Rick Rubin, Ain’t
No Grave is stark, succinct, and sparse, the sound of Cash embracing for one last time the mighty baritone
and ominous acoustic guitar that first made him famous nearly 60 years ago.
The 52nd Annual Grammy Awards heaped hip-hop praise on Black Eyed Peas, Jay-Z,
and Eminem in late January, only days after Los Angeles trio Strong Arm Steady
released their excellent collaboration with Madlib, In Search Of Stoney Jackson. It’s an
interesting paradox to consider — SAS formed in the shadows of Southern California’s
once-prominent Death Row umbrella, but eschewed that label’s gangsta profile for the
underground mixtape scene. Meanwhile, the aforementioned mainstream artists, who all started from scratch,
have built mighty empires on the backs of platinum albums and high-profile paparazzi exposure.
At 32 minutes total, Ain’t No Grave is barely an album by critical standards, yet its impact is immediate and
throbbing. The booming title track opens the set, Cash’s frail vocals straining and stretching over a gloomy
drumbeat while The Avett Brothers provide subtle piano and banjo flourishes. That song and a moving
rendition of Sheryl Crow’s “Redemption Day” represent Cash’s spiritual dichotomy: devastated by the loss
of his wife June mere months before recording these songs in 2003, yet fully aware of the fact that death
awaited him also. Cash taps the fertile songwriting vein of longtime friend Kris Kristofferson on the tender
“For The Good Times,” lightening Ain’t No Grave’s mood in two minutes flat. The straight-ahead gospel
number “I Corinthians 15:55” is the only Cash original on the album, but Tom Paxton’s “Can’t Help But
Wonder Where I’m Bound” feels like a better fit, its affable nature allowing The Man In Black to stretch out.
Strong Arm Steady’s three MCs — Krondon, Phil Da Agony, and Mitchy Slick — prove deft at alternating
between complex and languid rhyme schemes. In Search Of Stoney Jackson opens with the effervescent “Best
Of Times,” a soulful number that cross-references “Cosby sweaters/And pimp hats with feathers” and regularguy raps like “I’m black, I was born of financial crisis/So no eulogies/I’ll survive because being broke ain’t new
to me.” And Madlib’s Midas touch production is perfectly embodied on the spooky “Questions,” which features
a crackly batch of endearing samples that sound dredged up from a crate digger’s dusty record-store heaven.
The choppy, record-skipping confusion of “New Love” features an intense and even threatening guest spot from
Chace Infinite, but that deep moment is followed by the lackadaisical street report “Get Started,” a breezy leftfield slow-burner featuring worldwide star Talib Kweli.
Yet “Satisfied Mind” hearkens back to Cash’s early days, a lone guitar and his beautifully creaky voice
sounding like they were recorded on shellac in the early 1950s. And “Last Night I Had The Strangest Dream”
is perhaps Johnny’s last great anti-war statement, recorded in the summer of 2003 shortly after the Iraq War
started. But the final track on Ain’t No Grave? The final entry in the overflowing Johnny Cash canon? “Aloha
Oe,” a traditional farewell ballad written by Queen Liliuokalani, the last sovereign monarch of Hawaii. Ironic
yet fitting coming from an Arkansas native who grew up on a farm, revolutionized the relationship between
country and rock ‘n’ roll, and became perhaps the greatest musical icon of the 20th Century. Apparently
even Johnny Cash had saltwater in his blood. By Nick McGregor
But In Search Of Stoney Jackson’s disorientation returns on “Pressure,” three startlingly different beats morphing
into a singular stutter-step. Further mind-blowing brilliance ensues: dubbed-out snare drums on “True Champs,”
haunted-house laugh tracks on the madcap “Needle In A Haystack,” and guttural Wu-Tang ghetto tales on
“Ambassadors.” The album ends with the resounding survival story “Two Pistols,” all puffed-up gunplay talk
sobered to stone by weeping gospel samples. It’s hard to tell where SAS stands after the ironic combination; are
they reformed Death Row gangstas atoning for their past sins, or adept rappers flexing their satirical muscle?
Either way, the match-up of Strong Arm Steady and Madlib has produced one of the most intriguing and
underrated hip-hop albums of 2010. Maybe it’ll even earn a Grammy nod or two next year. By Nick McGregor
American Recordings/Lost Highway 2010