the magnetic fields will sheff

mar 2012
#3
byvolume
lana del rey
say anything
the
magnetic
fields
richard youngs
a retrospective
john k. samson
craig finn
tennis
schoolboy q
white rabbits
cursive
islands
casa del mirto
will
sheff
an appreciation
wilco
plus / mixtape / recommended / review?
/contents/
byvolume #3
first line
adam knott
Hi! Welcome to ByVolume’s third issue; by
now, you might think we’d be getting settled, but the truth is, exciting times are
ahead. On top of this new issue, our website is currently undergoing a revamp and
before long this magazine won’t be the
only way you can find reviews of the best
recent music.
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6
7
8
9
10
12
13
14
15
amplified: lana del rey
john k. samson
richard youngs
say anything
live: wilco
amplified: will sheff
islands
mixtape
schoolboy q
amplified:
the magnetic fields
20 ? review ?: on genre
22 white rabbits
23 craig finn
24 recommendedbyvolume
26 cursive
28 casa del mirto
29 tennis
30 aboutbyvolume
The magazine will be continuing in this
form but you’ll also be able to access all
the content you currently see here - and
much more again - at byvolume.co.uk.
For the time being,though, kick back and
use the contents menu over there to find
your way to some great reviews of the last
month’s music.
byvolume #3
3
/amplified/
/amplified/
lana del rey
channing freeman explores the internet sensation's new record in all of its... depth?
As an idea, Lana Del Rey is perfect. She hits all the
right notes to appeal to a rather large demographic
– there is the classical appeal of her look (the bright
red lipstick, the massive curls, the pout), the modern
appeal of her sound that filters Americana through
hip-hop and modern pop, and the appeal to carefree
youth in her lyrics that can be appreciated by both
young and old. Unfortunately, the execution has been
less than stellar, and one has to wonder if perhaps she
was not the proper vessel for this particular potential pop revolution. Or else she was simply not given
enough time to become the proper vessel. Because of
all the controversy she has garnered lately with a few
lackluster performances on high-profile television
shows – before Born To Die had even been released –
a lot of people have rightly been wondering whether
Del Rey is even worth caring about.
All I can offer in her defense is the feeling I got
when I heard ‘Video Games’ for the first time last
summer, before I knew anything about her – her real
name or the existence of her first album or even
what she looked like. It was before she exploded in
popularity, and because of that, ‘Video Games’ was
not a song by Lana Del Rey the construct of recent
trends. It was just a song – one of the genuine best
I had heard in a long time. Understated when others would go for bombast, it made me nostalgic, a
feeling that admittedly is a dime a dozen in music
these days, but this was different. It was a song that
looked to both the future and the past with equal
delicacy, not of the zeitgeist at all but completely separate from it, taking it and morphing it into
something so much better, so much more welcome.
It also made me curious – who was Lana Del Rey?
4
A singer-songwriter? Just a singer? Was she even
American? I regret the curiosity now and I miss that
mystery. I wish she had released “Video Games” and
then disappeared, leaving us to forever wonder what
could have been.
Because in the context of Born To Die , ‘Video Games’
is woefully out of place. There is nothing else like
it on the album, and it is sandwiched in between
the overly earnest ‘Blue Jeans’ and the now-terrible
‘Diet Mtn. Dew’. It is the shy kid at the talent show,
outperforming its peers but overshadowed by their
volume and audacity. It is just the first in a number
of missteps made by Del Rey and her handlers. Most
tellingly, there is the short amount of time between
the release of ‘Video Games’ – then not a part of an
album – and the release of Born To Die . The album
feels rushed – full of good ideas that were not given
enough time to blossom into great ones, much like
Del Rey herself. Lyrics feel like working drafts, beats
are recycled and arguably shouldn’t have been used
in the first place (“Video Games,” for example, lacks
the overbearing hip-hop style drums of the other
songs), and every song deals with the same concepts
in mostly the same ways.
But fortunately, the genius thinking behind Lana’s image shines through enough to give the album some
merit. In spite of its aforementioned shunting, ‘Video Games’ still stands as a shining example of just
what they wanted to accomplish with this album, and
those finding it hard to care about her should at least
give that song a chance. Opener ‘Off To The Races’
at first confounds with its almost toneless first verse
but soon redeems itself with the album’s best chorus
byvolume #3
as well as the double-tracked vocals in the second
pre-chorus, a flair of songwriting ingenuity that everyone thought would be commonplace on this album.
Lana’s line delivery is also inspired, with her squeaky
little-girl voice while delivering the decidedly mature
line, “I’m your little harlot.” The song also benefits
from being the first track on the album; it gets to
make its good impression before the listener realizes
they will be hearing beats comprised
of the same elements for the whole
album – processed strings, hip-hop
drums, and weirdly recurring distorted samples.
The worst thing about Born To Die
is that even its great songs contain
problems. Yes, “Off To The Races” is
a highlight, but it also serves as an
introduction to the prevailing image
of Lana Del Rey on the album – an
innocent playing the part of an experienced, worldly woman to appeal
to bad boys in the best of cases and
all-out scumbags in the worst. As
pleasantly catchy as it is, the movie
playing in my head during its runtime isn’t a pleasant one: I can see
Lana in the garden, singing this song
at a party hosted by her “cocainehearted” boyfriend – a song she
spent a lot of time writing just for
him – in which she depicts him as just
as needy as she is, something someone of his character would surely
balk at. I can see him grow surlier
and surlier as she proceeds all the way to, “You are
my one true love,” after which he loses his temper
and plans a particularly rough, humiliating sexual encounter followed by an unceremonious dumping. And
I get the feeling that it wouldn’t be the first time for
poor, doe-eyed Lana.
It’s not that such a story can’t be compelling. It’s that
I can’t be led to believe that it’s what was intended.
Where I’m supposed to hear charm, I hear pandering. When Lana sings – very seriously – “Money is the
reason we exist/Everybody knows it/it’s a fact” (and
then adds a “kiss kiss” onto it, Gaga-style, just because there is a brief space that needs filling), is she
saying it wryly, as a negative? If so, her materialistic
image makes no sense. And if not, isn’t there some
better way to express that, if only her and the cadre of songwriters had given it a little more thought?
byvolume #3
Much of this boils down to the fact that Lana Del
Rey needs to be left alone to her own devices fora
little while. Some handling isn’t necessarily a bad
thing – what pop star hasn’t been prodded to make
changes in sound, image, or both? – but she should
hopefully now be able to take what she’s learned
and make an album free from the tinkering that
so obviously took place on Born To Die . ‘Diet Mtn.
Dew’ in its initial, perfectly fine
form, was a song that rivaled ‘Video Games’ by striking the same
general notes while sounding completely distinct. But the Born To Die
version inexplicably absolves the
song of these parts while quickening the tempo and adding an intrusive drumbeat reminiscent of some
of Girl Talk’s more grating splices.
And ‘Blue Jeans’ omits the soundbite that used to open the song –
“Our Father, who aren’t in heaven,
hollow be thy name.” It’s a shame,
because that could have been one
of the album’s major themes – that
as vapid as money and love and attraction can be, they are seemingly
the things that matter most in our
world because they are real and immediate, and heavy pondering about
other things is just a waste of time.
It’s not something I would particularly agree with, but at least it’s some
form of mission statement, which
desperately needs.
Born To Die
It’ll
take
some
work
for
Del
Rey to overcome the stigma she has accrued, to be
sure, but it won’t be impossible. Born To Die will
mostly likely be popular with the masses despite
what critics may say, and the money she brings
in will give her some padding against any jeers.
The great moments on this album – the gorgeous,
interwoven vocal harmonies at the end of the otherwise directionless ‘Summertime Sadness’, the
dreamy chorus of ‘Radio’, and the relative lyrical
brilliance of ‘Million Dollar Man’ (“You look like a
million dollar man, so why is my heart broke?”)
– show that her career is by no means hopeless.
Modern audiences are fickle, but not heartless.
Born To Die will allow Lana Del Rey to buy some
diamonds for herself for once. And if we’re lucky,
it will also help her realize the merit of some old
phrase about glitter, gold, and the nature of worth.
5
/review/
/review/
keelan harkin reviews the weakerthans...
we mean, john k. samson
an elusive but engaging journey
through the mind of an anomaly
john k. samson
provincial
richard youngs
core to the
brave
keelan harkin
berkay erkan
The problem with Provincial is the same problem that plagues a lot of solo albums
by otherwise accomplished artists: there is just no escaping the interminable associations with the parent act. This problem seems amplified on John K. Samson’s
solo album. The Weakerthans themselves have always held that special something
that edges them beyond mediocre indie-rockers to a class act - and that special
something is Samson. His quirky and witty lyrics at once place Canadiana into
personal narratives without ever delving too much into Tragically Hip-isms. With
this in mind, Provincial should be another superb effort from the frontman. But
it’s not. Instead, the album comes off as a collection of Reunion Tour B-sides with
a more acoustic flavour.
Having made music for over two decades, Richard Youngs is still an anomaly
in experimental music - he does not cheapen his style by simplying pushing it
to various extremes, yet still manages to be relevant and produce interesting
music that challenges us and the rest of his work. Most well known for his melancholic folk record Sapphie, which was dedicated to his canine companion of
the same name, the ‘breakthrough’ success of that record did two things for
Youngs - it greatly popularised his eclectic style but it also cast shadows over
his other material. Thus, it’s unlikely that a good portion of Sapphie fans like or
have even heard any of his other records.
Even the melodies feel awfully recycled here. With some notable exceptions,
mainly the wonderfully poised ‘Heart of the Continent’ with its bouncing guitar
line and ponderously sparse drumming, a great majority of the record falls flat
in comparison to the best The Weakerthans have to offer. And maybe it’s unfair
to draw such direct comparison between this album and those of Samson’s main
project. They are different things altogether, right? Well, that’s exactly the problem. I think too much of Samson as an artist to go as far as labelling this a vanity project, but it does feel unnecessary. It’s mostly unnecessary in nam - it’s a
struggle to call any artistic work unnecessary in the strictest sense. To all intents
and purposes this is a Weakerthans’ album, which isn’t itself a bad thing, but, as
aforementioned, it’s hard to place this very high in that band’s catalogue.
Even Samson’s trademark lyrical touch struggles with its own quirkiness too often
here. ‘www.ipetitions.com/petition/rivertonrifle/’ is an example of what I called
Tragically Hip-ism - plus, it has a terribly stupid name. Some of the lyrics just feel
forced: “we, the undersigned put forth his name” as a chorus just feels gaudy
against the, at times quite wonderful, lyrics about race relations in small town
Canada. But then the lonely winter laments of ‘The Last And’ might just make up
for any past lyrical grievances on the album. And that’s exactly the strangeness of
Provincial. It’s an uneven album that never escapes the problem of being a B-side
Weakerthans project, but which also hints a number of times at why John K. Samson is one of the great front-men in Canadian music and the unyielding realm of
indie - an honest engine in a land full of pretenders. So we can forgive him for the
mis-steps, I guess, and bask in the better songs offered here, which don’t number
too many, but are worth their weight in wheat. And maybe Samson is aware of all
this: “I am just your little ampersand.”
6
in short
Weakerthans frontman
samson struggles to define himself outside his
brilliant band's silhouette but still finds ways
to impress.
if you like
Witticisms
The Weakerthans
Canada
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byvolume #3
This leaves us in a possibly troublesome position; having Sapphie as an indicator
of Youngs’ style sets many up for disappointment. A lot of his music, particularly
records such as Autumn Response or Beyond the Valley of the Ultrahits are initially cold and unaffecting, perhaps even dispassionate. Of course, these early
perceptions of the records are entirely wrong, but it is important to recognise
that Youngs does not cater for short attention spans. Core to the Brave adheres
rather strongly to the typical Youngs method - the record has a constant feeling of tumultuousness, a sense that everything could give way at any second.
Even when the songs dip into pensive moods, Youngs keeps his listeners on the
absolute edge.
Core to the Brave is essentially a very simple album. It consists of mostly frenetic and noisy bass and drum rhythm work, with guitar fuzz interspersed amongst
the general clatter. Youngs sings contemplatively over said music, creating a
really weird juxtaposition which at first seems almost incompatible. The closest
comparison that I could make would be the early works of groups like Suicide,
though while sounding aesthetically similar one would not really call Core to
the Brave a minimal synth or synth punk record. Its inability to be categorised
definitely helps create a unique niche for the record in my listening rotation.
and having lost myself in the album for over a month, you can be assured that
its simple formula is not only strangely addictive but also emotionally engaging.
byvolume #3
in short
Richard Youngs errs on
the synth-punk side of
things and crafts an enigmatic yet emotional
record as a result.
if you like
Noise
Swirls
Taking your time
website
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7
/review/
/live/
a record with no bite which leaves us
confused, disappointed and empty
say anything
anarchy, my
dear
+ white denim
at the hollywood palladium
rudy klapper
adam knott
Back in 2009, I reviewed Say Anything’s self-titled record, and opened with the
theory that context was absolutely essential to forming a connection with Max
Bemis’ lyricism there; here was a man, I said, that released songs as cynical as
‘Every Man Has A Molly’, now penning choruses like: “I have a total crush on
you!” Bemis’ work on ...Is A Real Boy depended on its own set of assumptions
and then proceeded to create its own, of a man with so many sides to his personality that he could choose which to hate and which to celebrate.
So if Bemis’ work on Say Anything three years ago toed the line but ultimately
fell the right side of the ridiculous/ironic divide, possibly the worst thing about
Anarchy, My Dear is that it calls into question the legitimacy of that call by being
so unbelievably lightweight and uninspired that it’s hard to see Bemis’ personality, the one on which his music so often rested, at all. And what’s worse, actually, is the confused and disastrous decision to posture deliberately to his past,
even while he has no tangible qualities to make him sound a part of it.
‘Admit It Again’ is the leading culprit and a microcosm of the record’s most glaring issues. Heaven knows what possessed Bemis in the moment he decided to
extend a song as complete as ...Is A Real Boy’s closer, but here’s to hoping it gets
exorcised pretty damn soon; the sequel is toothless and insipid, and its refrain
of “And the shit rains down!” neither feels clever nor deliberately unclever.
And that’s the thing about Anarchy, My Dear on the whole: it has no edge to it,
no double meaning to get your head around, no intrigue whatsoever. It’s Max
Bemis, wiped clean of all his intricacies, listening to ...Is A Real Boy and trying
to recreate it.
There are worthwhile tracks here, but even the best of them in ‘Burn A Miracle’
doesn’t come close to incision, rather benefiting from being the only blunt tooth
in a mouth full of gums. Everything else is either a vapid attempt to recapture
old fury or an inane, charmless ode to his wife, Sherri DuPree of pop band Eisley.
Perhaps what feels most upsetting about the way those two sides play out on
Anarchy, My Dear is the lack of friction between them; simply put, not only does
it sound like Bemis has lost his spark, it also doesn’t bode very well for getting
it back again. And so, while we still have songs like ‘Admit It!!!’, I fear that one
more album in this vein could even start calling that into question. And that’s a
pretty hard thing to admit.
8
wilco
in short
Max Bemis has always
toed the line between
genius and insanity;
here, he falls down the
gap between known as
the inane, and damages
his legacy in the process.
if you like
Star Wars Episodes I,
II & III
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byvolume #3
Eight albums, Grammy accolades, and the kind of endless critical admiration that leads to labels like “the
American Radiohead” - at this point, Jeff Tweedy and
company could spend the rest of their career cashing
cheques for car commercials and they’d still go down
as one of the rock bands of their era. Perhaps that’s
why I was so intrigued to see Wilco when they came
to town late this January for the first of a three-night
stand in Los Angeles. For a band with literally nothing
to prove, they could do the half-assed professional
bit, play the hits, and the majority of the sold-out
crowd at the historic Hollywood Palladium would love
every second of it. Given Wilco’s extensive back catalogue, I had to admit even that wouldn’t have been
so bad.
From the choice of opener to the psychedelic stage
décor, however, it quickly became obvious that Wilco
don’t do anything half-assed. As an opener, Austin
four-piece White Denim seemed like an odd pick. The
up-and-coming group, whose 2011 record, D, is finally
beginning to pick up steam after being released last
year, turn the jam-band trope on its head by playing
a hectic blend of jazz, prog and experimental rock.
Their emphasis on intense loops and unpredictable
song structures gave the set a decidedly loose feel,
an improvisational environment that made perfect
sense once Wilco took the stage and begin a freewheeling performance of their own.
With a stage design that focused primarily on hundreds of suspended sheets and clothed lanterns, and
a light show that cast a kaleidoscope of designs over
them, Wilco’s set seemed tailor-made for the psychedelic crowd. Opening with The Whole Love’s sevenminute noise freakout ‘Art of Almost’, the band made
a point to never stray for too long on one particular album, indulging in earlier cuts as well as more
freeform expansions of their newer material. It was
a technique that worked well, bolstering the spontaneity and jam-worthiness of cuts like ‘Bull Black
Nova’ and ‘Handshake Drugs’ while enhancing the
contrasts within their discography. Take the segue
between the cataclysmic drumming and off-the-cuff
byvolume #3
guitar work that closed out ‘At Least That’s What You
Said’ and proceeded into the straightforward pop of
‘Kamera’. a sequence that left the audience happily guessing. It was a running theme throughout the
show, Wilco maintaining their pulse on the audience’s
energy and then abruptly switching things up when
they least expected it. It was exhilarating, and it was
that eye-popping dexterity with the song structures
as well as their own instruments that immediately set
them apart from previous jam bands I had seen.
While Tweedy was his usual self-deprecating self,
decked-out in a Canadian tuxedo and cracking jokes
about his first-ever use of the word “pussy” in a live
setting and watching Sammy Hagar documentaries,
it was relatively recent Wilco addition Nels Cline
that really defined the show. Much has been made of
Cline’s jazz background and virtuoso skills, but it’s
hard to appreciate what he brings to the table until
you see Wilco live. Whether it was on the rock ‘n roll
chug of Being There barnburner ‘I Got You (At The End
of the Century)’ or the transcendent solo of noise he
ripped out on ‘Art of Almost’, Cline’s guitar was the
driving force behind every muscular melody or cynical Tweedy line. At times it felt like he was more peacocking than playing, like on his flawless, minuteslong solo through ‘Impossible Germany’, but there’s
something to be said for impeccable note-picking, no
matter how embarrassingly masterful. Cline’s guitar
also helped to dispel any notion of Wilco as a “dadrock” band, a label unfairly heaped on them thanks
to some of their newer albums. I’ll be the first to criticize Sky Blue Sky or Wilco (The Album) for sounding
uninspired, but hearing those songs in a live setting,
with the entire band nailing time changes, solos and
improvised codas with ease, transforms them into an
altogether different beast.
At the end of it all, though, Wilco came across like
a band of seamless interlocking parts, one that is
as indebted to Cheap Trick and Big Star as they are
to Gram Parsons and the ghost of Uncle Tupelo. The
five-song encore was relentless and swift, including a
schizophrenic rendition of ‘Via Chicago’ that spliced
seconds of shock-to-the-system black metal riffs and
drumming into the otherwise contemplative murder
fantasy, and a breathless run-through of Being There
favorites ‘Monday’ and ‘Outtasite (Outta Mind)’. After the audience still refused to leave, they came out
for a final tune, a wistful acoustic rendition of ‘The
Lonely 1’. It was a change from the printed setlist,
but it was just the kind of adroit shift Wilco had
been making the entire show – reacting to the audience, and producing just what was needed to give
the crowd that perfect sense of closure. For a band
as accomplished as Wilco, it was lovely to see that
the fans still remain the defining barometer of their
success.
9
/review/
/review/
Rather, Sheff is just endlessly fascinated with what a
conventional rock song means, if anything at all. The
ending is emotionally ruining, in that annoyingly gorgeous way: Sheff knows that a song relates to something, and for him, it’s usually to do with that tricky
love thing. Which is why ‘A Girl In Port’ follows as a
moment of viciousness turned seriously romantic.
the most
beautiful
poems
Arcade Fire wrote a song as blissfully simplistic as
“Rococo” just to point out how flimsy and shitty the
interaction they have with their fans has become.
The Kinks wrote an album I could listen to for hours,
that one that sported “Lola,” but the rest of the album is fascinating just for kicking out so bitterly at a
music industry they were so wholly a part of.
These are musicians writing music about just that,
the talk of the process and the transformation of
the song by a hundred different factors, from the
wholly unmusical things that go with music, like
funding your recording sessions with a way less romantic job, to the artful and supposed existential
10
So what fascinates me on Black Sheep Boy is Sheff’s
ability to write about music- what it means to be a
folk musician, a loner, the black sheep boy himselfand this justifies covering his hero, because hearing
these words again is, in its own way, like an unearthing of Hardin when sung by someone else: this guy
was a loner, and this song said so. But what Sheff
really seems to do on ‘Black Sheep Boy’ is hold his
break-up to a lense and reflect something about
music into it. And that something is fucking huge: it
doesn’t soften the album to add this philosophy of
music to its themes. It gives it an even nastier kick.
Robin Smith expresses his ample admiration
for Okkervil River frontman Will Sheff
and the manner in which the songwriter explores his status as a musician
This article was originally going to collect a lot of
pointless babble on how the songwriter reacts to the
environment they write in and the cost of suffering
for art. In short, why do musicians write about music?
Why do Blue Scholars use their songs to reinforce rap
as poetry? Is there a reason other than laughs that
Pavement slagged off bands who were supposed to be
their peers? And while we run these examples down,
why is being a musician so confusing? Young hip-hop
duo G-Side rap about the trials of pumping gas all day
to feed music, worded as much with scorn for being a
habit as it is for being a passion.
crisis that comes with being part of an industry or
being part of a band. The most important crisis, of
course, is what it’s like to be responsible for a song. .
And I do wonder if musicians want nothing more than
to sing about why they do so- of course these dudes
are going to scream why at the face of their passion.
I would rather write about Okkervil River’s Will Sheff,
though, because he has written so much about other
musicians that I really need not bother. The Stage
Names and its younger sibling, The Stand-Ins, go handin-hand in digging deeper into people we’ve done little more than glamorise and talk about, from the storytelling of John Berryman’s suicide to the constant
fascination with porn-star Savannah, but rock music
lies at the heart of both of these albums, and hangs
from every backhanded remark Sheff makes.
I want to point, mainly, to ‘Plus Ones’, which does
what the entire album does but in a beautiful and
obvious way. It responds to every damn rock idiom
there is, sadly apologising for the words of rockers
like R.E.M. and Tom Jones, and says doing it one better with a song is doing it wrong: these songs, they
“leave scars.” I don’t want to call ‘Plus Ones’, or the
album project it comes from, a deconstruction of
popular music, nor a simple parody of it.
byvolume #3
Hardin is certainly being written about on Sheff’s
album, but this isn’t a rockumentary: his horribletragedy is so very evident on all of these songs, the
deathly cries of “come into the den,” so definitely
his declaration through Sheff, but even if a hundred
comments on Songmeanings.com will say “this song
is about drugs!!!!!,” Sheff seems to be comparing the
amount this musician means to him to the amount
romance has fucked him up.
There’s another line on The Stand-Ins that celebrates
Sheff’s cynicism for how a lyric is made: “he’s that
liar who lied his pop song / and you’re lying when you
sing along!” We’d roll our eyes at this contradiction of
terms- to call for the death of pop music in pop music, how silly!- if Sheff wasn’t writing in layers. ‘Pop
Lie’ has to be twofold, because there’s more to this
story than simply flipping off what makes the charts.
This makes me wonder whether Sheff is great just for
writing songs about writing songs. On Black Sheep Boy
I feel almost disorientated by its conflicting themes,
both of which meet somewhere between Sheff’s violent lashing and the murky music he pairs himself
with. Inside that record, Sheff is writing his very own
love letter to Tim Hardin, a folk musician with a tragic rock ‘n’ roll, heroin death, but anyone who listened
past the cover of Hardin’s that opens the album would
know there’s a second remorseful story being told on
this album- it’s also a messy, devastating break-up album, so crushing at its apex (‘So Come Back, I Am
Waiting’) that all the desperation for a lover has to be
reeled back for the final word on Hardin on ‘A Glow’.
byvolume #3
I have no qualms with calling Will Sheff a hero of
mine, a sad fact he’d definitely reject somewhere
down the line. There’s a lyric for that, too: “and they
wish they were me? What a dumb thing to do.” I’ve
read a lot, looked into his admirable, journalistic
stance on outsider music that challenges what we
do and don’t take seriously in music, and what truly
gets me about Sheff is an absolute dedication to his
craft that seems to relate perfectly what it’s like just
to be human, distressed, sad and lovesick, whatever.
We think of music as an outlet and as a passion, but
doesn’t it kinda suck sometimes too?
Songs about the music often seem frustrated and resigned to the bullshit, and the Kinks said it like that
to their producers: “I thought they were my friends.”
But I think Sheff places the painful theme of music a
little closer to the chest, another thing that rankles
him after a bad day of struggling friendships and failing to make ends meet. There’s ‘On Tour With Zykos’,
on which his character literally lives that life by coming home to music and not knowing what to do with
it: “I was supposed to be writing, the most beautiful
poems / and completely revealing divine mysteries
up close.” The problem? “I can’t say that I’m feeling
that much at all.” Music is a walk of life, so Sheff
treats it like one. And so he sings about that rock ‘n’
roll man.
11
/review/
/review/
nick thorburn evolves to find himself
amid pianos and searching for redemption
islands
a sleep & a
forgetting
A track-by-track of our recommended listening this issue.
CLICK HERE TO LISTEN TO THIS ISSUE'S MIXTAPE ON YOUTUBE
dylan siniscalchi
Nick Thorburn has undergone one of the more elegant evolutions in modern indie-rock; how far his patience and concision have grown since he popped up on
folk’s periphery with The Unicorns is admirable and extremely impressive. Curious as it was that The Unicorns debuted asking us: “Who will cut our hair when
we’re gone?” I am sure few expected to be earnestly asking the question until
their prompt implosion. Even his work as Islands at first was nearly as chaotic
with Return To The Sea (2006) and follow-up Arm’s Way (2008) presenting not
only Thorburn’s unique brand of jangle-pop but similarly hectic band line-ups.
Nick changed Islands’ line-up completely before he began recording their third
record Vapours, a piece which was decidedly electronic while strangely tame.
And since he hooked up with Man Man’s Honus, and subsequently formed Mister
Heavenly with Modest Mouse’s Joe Plummer, Thorburn has taken yet another
charming turn of character - he is attempting to become a crooner.
“Doom Wop” is how Mister Heavenly’s music has been described from the mouth
of the man himself as a bastardized take on Fifties American Do-Wop layered
above brooding waves of low-frequency piano-rock. This venture of Thorburn’s
has moseyed its way into his other projects, ultimately for the better. Out Of
Love (2011) was a touching take on various A.M. radio mash-ups and A Sleep &
a Forgetting possesses a similar spirit yet is a much moodier affair. Thorburn referred to Islands’ fourth record as supposedly “far more personal than any I’ve
made before,” presenting a down-trodden narrative via the Anti-Records’ blog
of a recently separated Thorburn migrating from his home in NYC to Los Angeles
and sinking into a secluded lifestyle inhabited only by himself and a piano. The
rolling keys, tape crackles and sliding guitars behoove his imagery as the record
is packed sufficiently with uplifting melodies, shimmering production and introspective lyricism. He is searching for redemption within and translates that
into piano-driven anthems with a serene patience but very direct nature. With
hooks in droves, Islands shed their former aesthetic and come back reconfigured
in style.
in short
A personal and introspective struggle to find
answers which toes the
line between direct and
patient; Nick Thorburn
continues to charm.
if you like
Vulnerability
Piano-driven anthems
Doom wop
twitter
website
youtube
12
mixtapebyvolume
byvolume #3
THE MENZINGERS - GATES
*
SLEIGH BELLS - COMEBACK KID
*
BURIAL - LONER
*
CRAIG FINN - RENTED ROOM
*
THE TWILIGHT SAD - NIL
*
THE MAGNETIC FIELDS - THE MACHINE IN YOUR HAND
*
SHEARWATER - YOU AS YOU WERE
*
THE MEN - OSCILLATION
*
SCHOOL OF SEVEN BELLS - LAFAYE
*
CLOUD NOTHINGS - NO FUTURE, NO PAST
*
ANDREW BIRD - SIFTERS
*
FIRST AID KIT - THE LION'S ROAR
byvolume #3
13
/review/
/amplified/
inside habits and contradictions is a
boldness and a poise which tells its own story
schoolboy q
habits and
contradictions
dylan siniscalchi
Though you can never define an artist by a single track or specific moment in their
career, it’s not always the worst place to start when trying to relay their successes. So I might say something along the lines of: “Listen to ‘Gangsta In Designer (No
Concept)’ and you will find basically everything excellent SchoolBoy Q has to offer,
and if you enjoy it, the chances are his music is worth further investigation.” Not
that this is a make-or-break suggestion; Q is only twenty-five and Habits and Contradictions is merely his second album proper and fourth full-length overall—he
has plenty of time to represent himself differently. Why he ever would, though, I
could not say; the militaristic snares postured behind subtle horns fit his attention
deficit persona perfectly. And while thematically Q is not exploring particularly
revolutionary ideals (“Life for me/Is just weed and brews”) his exciting personality and dynamic flow generally outweigh any questionable artistic decisions. It
doesn’t hurt that he been surrounded by a great crop of seasoned and up-andcoming producers that are all seemingly ablaze. Q is happy to oblige.
“Satisfaction at the highest point/I set the stakes” he states on the airy ‘My Hatin’
Joint’ a surprisingly endearing coo for a woman to leave her boring man and move
on over to Q. The year is young, but at this point it is hard to foresee a more endearing, filthy, brooding, exhilarating, or - simply - interesting hip-hop record any
time soon. I sit here firm in the belief I will be proven wrong, of course, but what
is important is how much Q makes you believe this hyperbole while you’re inside
of Habits and Contradictions. For a record that has had nearly no publicity, from a
guy whose current biggest claim to fame is that he rolls with Kendrick Lamar, this
album possesses a distinct gravitas that simply demands your attention.
Dark as it may be, Q never allows his project to lull. The pacing of the record is
superb, shifting between confrontational bangers (‘There He Go’, ‘Gangster In
Designer’) to laid back cruisers (‘Grooveline pt. 1’, ‘How We Livin’) to drug-addled
electro-typhoons (‘Drugs With Hoes’, ‘Sexting’) with impressive ease. The man
who recently touted his own aspirations to never allow his flow to stagnate constantly experiments from verse to verse - his effort is palpable. Similar to a moulding of 50, Murs, and Danny Brown, Q rarely stands still as a rapper, continually
changing pitch and inflection, and smashing attempts at negative space. Utilizing
silence as a pace-changer, hooks deconstruct around him and songs are held up by
his gusto. Beyond Q’s diary page expulsions exploring his own fractured past - time
split between the local Crips, his 3.3 high school GPA, jail, and the four colleges
he attended playing football - and past his odes to sex, drugs and money, there is
a genuinely engaging human. Q fancies himself “born” to rap and similar to only a
handful of his peers. He has very comparable things to say, but such a special way
of articulating it, one which makes it hard not believe the hell out of him.
14
in short
An exciting personality shifting between dynamics with such ease
as to pull you into the
vortex of applause.
if you like
Gravitas
Exciting slants on
tired themes
Dark edges
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twitter
website
youtube
byvolume #3
THE MAGNETIC
FIELDS
Stephin Merritt has been gracing the ears
of would-be depressives for over two decades now, and with the release of his milestone 10th studio album under the Magnetic Fields name it feels only suitable to
retrace his footsteps and look at how he
has evolved as a musician. Love At
at the
The Bot
Bottom of the Sea is an impressive take on the
ever-endearing Magnetic Fields formula, and thus Berkay, Dylan and Robin have taken it
upon themselves to provide not only an analysis of the record itself, but also a glimpse
at how Merritt’s previous work stands as a foundation for the music he is making today.
For all the flak this record and its follow up The Wayward Bus have caught over the years since Magnetic
Fields became exclusively Stephin Merritt’s pet, Distant Plastic Trees and its spiritual partner sound so
similar to Merritt’s later work. I would still assume
he is not going to plug in four minutes and change
of silence to offset a record in honor of John Cage
again any time soon. And maybe the avant-pop of
‘Kings’ and ‘Babies Falling’ are not the best examples, either, even as they successfully showcase the
gravitas present in Susan Anway’s vocal ability while
highlighting Stephin’s long-standing adoration for
inverse melody. They do not exactly reflect where
The Magnetics were going quite like ‘Railroad Boy’, a
melodic yet sweeping orchestral synth track pointing
towards Merritt’s fascination and ultimate dedication for the dramatic and theatrical. ‘Tar-Heel Boy’
and ‘Plant White Roses’ examine his obsession with
Americana and country music (not to mention rolereversal) filtered through a veil of chamber-pop. Or
‘Josephine’; a gorgeous performance on the part of
Anway aside, the tune is a gracious ballad rife with
tender imagery and a longing for recognition - themes
Merritt will never leave behind - backed by the familiar simplistically infatuating riff. Then there’s
‘100,000 Fireflies’ which could seemingly fit anywhere amongst 69 Love Songs’ plentiful tracks with
ease. It is a shame Anway ultimately parted ways
with Magnetic Fields as with Distant Plastic Trees we
have a number of things: a nice niche in a spirited
musician’s career, the formation of Merritt’s musical
ideology and proof Susan never should have left. -DS
byvolume #3
distant
plastic trees
(1991)
the wayward
bus
(1991)
The Wayward Bus, grouped together with Distant Plastic Trees, is firmly rooted in synth/twee pop, a style
which Merritt would later elaborate upon in a grandiose way. Criticism has been thrown around quite a
bit, but in most cases any negativity towards the Wayward Bus is merely a result of it not living up to the
expectations later records have set. Susan Anway, the
primary vocalist on both said records, brings a level of
despondency to Merritt’s chirpy tunes, and while it is
obvious that this record does not display the thematic
consistency of albums like Holiday or 69 Love Songs,
it is undoubtedly an enjoyable piece of music. Even
for the die-hard Fields fans such as myself, the Wayward Bus is a lesser played record, but it firmly insists
on a certain appreciation as the bedrock and foundation for the albums Merritt had not yet written. - BE
15
/amplified/
/amplified/
In the decade long build up to Stephen Merritt’s monumental 69 Love Songs the name Holiday sticks out from
the Magnetic Field’s discography as the pinnacle of its
rise. Merritt’s brand of catchy and lo-fi indie rock is
impeccable as an enhancer of mood, and with Holiday
he perfectly encapsulates the sound of the summer
holiday, with its glaring heat and glowing afternoons.
What is beautiful about Merritt’s music is that beneath
its quirky and cheery exterior, multitudes of subtle depressive undertones lurk – any voyage through the Magnetic Fields on a bright and promising summer’s day
will descend into wistful thought and pining for those
who aren’t lying together with you out on the deckchairs while the setting sun turns the sky red. Merritt’s
deep voice makes its own gloomy contribution, and the
mere fact that his performance voices a ‘I don’t give a
fuck what you think here are my songs listen to them
or don’t I don’t care’ proposition makes the album all
the more worthwhile. Holiday is really the quintessential indie pop album, taking pride in its eccentricity
and affecting the individual on a plethora of levels. -BE
the charm of the
highway strip
(1994)
holiday
(1994)
Stephin Merritt is a drunk, and by this I do not mean
to colour him violent or irresponsible. He is drunk like
Dylan Thomas was drunk: the intriguing tramp who reveals more to their inner workings than the whiskey
sheen may have led one to believe. It never defined
him but thematically alcohol has played a considerable role in his music and probably peaked with The
Charm Of The Highway Strip, an homage of sorts to
the American sprawl projected through Merritt’s synthesized songwriting. Minimalistic in nature but extremely lush and expansive in practice, the record
is probably the Magnetic Fields’ barest as far as the
bells and whistles go. Holiday’s inherent bassy backbone is a not to be found but Charm consistently creates a sense of motion to fit its lyrical analogies to
lost highways and your soul, their firey past and your
distant future. “You have the Sun/I have the Moon,”
he croons in his brassy baritone assuring you of all
that you have to gain and lose from The Charm of The
Highway Strip, in the end imploring one to take to
the pavement and follow the dotted yellow lines. -DS
Following the near-perfection witnessed on his Holiday record, Stephin Merritt dropped all his notions
of idealism and proclaimed bluntly: get lost. Arguably his darkest record to date, Get Lost may be inconsistent thematically but contains some of the most
malevolent words Merritt has penned - lines such as
“you don’t even like anything you like or the people
you know / and all of your reasons to stay alive died”
(from ‘The Desperate Things You Made Me Do) are remarkably acerbic and set the tone for Get Lost. Nonetheless, his handle on the “parody” that defines the
Magnetic Fields is still most apparent; ‘Why I Cry’ epitomises Merritt’s extraordinarily obtuse wit, the irony
of his music and how he can still maintain affection
through parady. While the record’s continuity is perhaps lacking in comparison to both earlier and later
Magnetic Fields albums, Get Lost is still both a hilarious and poignant expression of Merritt’s talent. Any fan
of his work will undoubtedly find something to grasp
onto within the record, and like any Magnetic Fields
album, will have its layers peeled away indefinitely. -BE
16
get
lost
(1995)
byvolume #3
the magnetic
fields
love at the
bottom of
the sea
dylan siniscalchi
Since Stephin Merritt penned his sixty-nine love songs his work with the Magnetic Fields has adapted a theatrically kitschy undertone. Save his homage to the Jesus and Mary Chain that was Distortion, most of the Magnetics’ music is dramatic in nature. Nothing’s wrong with this appreciation on the part of the band - they have
always written orchestral pop and after 69 Love Songs it has been pretty evident they can tackle over-saturated
themes and clichés with the utmost elegant class. Love At The Bottom Of The Sea follows in similar footsteps to
69: the record’s title reflects another study by the band on romanticism, except this time, rather than crafting
an enormous amount of content, they focus on particularly taxing instances that force the utmost dedication
to - or reveal our lack of desire for - a love connection with another. Along with a lyrical concept, we have a diverse revamp in instrumentation once more, except this time the Magnetic Fields have returned to their origins
and dive deep into synthesizers once more. It is a welcome return and hopefully a concrete assertion to Merritt
himself that the band should nestle back in to where they started.
“But I won’t mind/if you just take me home,” Merritt assures us on the wonderfully ethereal ‘Made For Love’
amongst swooning synthesizers and bassy rumbles in an attempt at an appealingly desperate pick up; the line
fits Love…’s innermost workings. While songs like ‘Andrew In Drag’, ‘Machine In Your Hand’, or ‘The Only Boy In
Town’ lyrically tackle more unique romantic situations Merritt once more crafts true love songs that transcend
their cynical nature. If nothing else are more endearing for their idolization of generally misinterpreted relationships. ‘Andrew…’ is an elegant homage to a rich man’s one true love in a local drag queen; while ‘Machine…’
is an expression of desire to connect with one’s partner in the same way their object of desire attaches to their
piece of hip technology. This would not be the first time The Magnetic Fields have opined on their favourite
four-letter word - or its unique expressions (see: ‘Let’s Pretend We’re Bunny Rabbits’) - but Love At The Bottom Of The Sea still provides a unique glimpse of this emotion we all probably invest too much time into [ed:
stopped reading here.]
Skeptical in nature, the Magnetic Fields - and more importantly Merritt - are rife in the ironic. Though irony
plays only a bit part in this piece, Merritt directs with patience and selflessness to assert his complete control.
There is no mistake to be made; this is still very much a post-69 Love Songs Magnetics album in that it lives and
dies by how much Merritt decides to over-extend himself. Songs like ‘My Husband’s Pied-a-Terre’ and ‘All She
Cares About Is Mariachi’ cleverly balance the electro-pop with the chamber-orchestral – or, in the case of ‘…
Mariachi’, the tequila soaked “horns” - and reflect a Magnetics at full charge. Alternatively, ‘The Horrible Party’
and ‘Your Girlfriend’s Face’ come off as strange pastiches of former Magnetics trappings: goofy-half-rapped
verses, corny bass-heavy synth lines, awkward social observations, all stuffed into a sub two-minute package.
By the time Shirley Simms is forcing a “y’all” out of her throat in hyper-literate fashion - a futile attempt at
rhyme by Merritt: she later brings it back around with “small” - it is evident themes are not assured to mesh
here. The successes of Love At The Bottom Of The Sea for the most part are up front and easily identifiable:
Merritt and the Magnetic Fields can still deliver knock-out hooks and his time away from synthesizers has not
hampered him in the slightest. While not a sweeping success, Love… provides you a comfortable little home to
cosy up in on the sea bed.
byvolume #3
17
/amplified/
If the designs Merritt had for 69 Love
Songs had really come true, and we
were watching it unravel as musical
numbers lit up by bright lights and a
stage of drag queens, then disc 2 of the
project ain’t no interval. This batch
of twenty-three, they’re love songs as
theatrics, songs about stagethesizer
hands and cheerleaders, with
the twinkle-eyed romance at
the core of this play’s dialogue.
There are pantomime problems
sung in utterly unconvincing
but wonderfully predictable
tones: every time “Papa Was
a Rodeo” hits that sweet spot,
that moment where Claudia
Gonson reads Merritt his lines
back, I gain a little faith in this
funny little man called Merritt. These are big, theatrical
jokes, and the signoff line here
is groan-inducing, but Merritt
is nevertheless treating the
melodramatic troupes of love
with the sincerity we assign
them. 69 Love Songs is like
watching a schmaltzy movie
or a soap opera, but this disc
suggests that its big, broad
nature doesn’t strip away its
importance. Between piano
mopes and simple syn jams,
69
Love Songs is about lovers
69 Love Songs caused no international splash
who
shrug before they mope,
of obscene proportions, but for American
indie-rock it was an absolute behemoth or mope before they shrug: all
at the time. Beyond its length and full-on the time, though, it’s a rather
lavish presentation, it seemed to erupt a love-sick ordeal. And on disc
surge amid those with ears to the ground two, the show must go on. -RS
It begins the similarly to previous
Magnetics endeavors save the slight
Sondheim bend, but Merritt had intended the theatrics of ‘Absolutely Cuckoo’ and ‘Reno Dakota’ to be
something of enthralling homages
before the band opened up behind
the Synthesizer trappings they were so
proud of with their first few
albums. And, beyond that,
Merritt brings in a handful of
other vocalists to assist with
what he and Claudia Gonson
had built with Get Lost. The
laundry list of instruments
wielded throughout 69 Love
Songs is as impressive as it is
enamoring. ‘Nothing Matters
When We’re Dancing’ holds
ukelele strums and surfy vocal-harmonies. The bouncytwang of ‘Chicken With It’s
Head Cut Off’ and ‘The Cactus
Where Your Heart Should Be’
reflect Merritt’s constant dedication to country Americana.
The first disc is the perfect
start to what I now look back
on as a bit of a career record
for The Magnetic Fields. -DS
1
2
69 love
songs
Many people claim to like one
particular disc of this album
more than the other two, and
I’ve always struggled to see
how they would pick one. For
me, 69 Love Songs sits together as one piece, and while
some of the songs get played
far more than the others,
the record needs to be taken as a whole. The one track from disc 3 that I will single out is easily one
of the best Merritt has written? ‘Bitter Tears’. This is a purely acoustic song, something which Merritt did a lot of on this record in contrast to earlier material, and it takes on an almost country vibe. At
its core however, ‘Bitter Tears’ is an intensely depressing song - “bitter tears keep me going
/ through the years freely flowin’ / what have you done / only a gun could stop these bitter
tears.” There are only one or two other songs on 69 Love Songs that reach this level of almost
surreal bleakness, and it stands as the pivotal moment of the third disc. The tracks before it
toy with elements of melancholy after disc 2’s stunning closer ‘I Shatter’, while the ones that
follow wind the listener down with light-heartedness and wistful reflection. Any of the three
discs could be stand-alone records, simply through their own little conceptual flows. You’ve
now finished reading the three blurbs for 69 Love Songs, so I’ll just say this: if you believe
in love, if you have ever loved, if you ever plan to love, then hear these 69 love songs. -BE
3
18
/amplified/
robin smith
byvolume #3
i
distortion
realism
(2004)
(2007)
(2010)
Merritt is some sort of genius, certainly, but a twee pop genius, and
a twee pop genius hides in plain
sight. 69 Love Songs, extensive in
its parody of romance and music,
began Merritt’s only sincere love
affair: with the conceptual format, one he has since squeezed
nonsense out of on every release.
It began here, with self-imposed
restrictions, none bigger than the
band depriving themselves of what
was once their grandest trademark: the synthesizer. It used to
be the sparkly, sugary antithesis
to that bitter baritone of Merritt’s,
but on i he divorced his keyboards
and moved in with, uh, himself. i
is hilariously self-indulgent - note
the absence of Claudia Gonson’s
coo, the country twang that comforted Merritt’s funny lil’ woes and continues to boo love off the
stage. In fact, this album is still
carrying the cruel humour of 69
Love Songs on its back, but with
Merritt pushed closer to the centre once more. In a way, it kind of
feels like appendix to that grand
project; songs like ‘If There’s Such
a Thing as Love’ laughing at love
with scorn for its trifling waste
of time, ‘Infinitely Late at Night’
using xylophone, but not bloody
happy about it. This album is still
conceptual, and perhaps no less
stringently; as i arrived, though,
it became obvious that Merritt’s
big bold motifs were to be limited rather than expanded. As
long as we’re talking sarcasm and
sincerity, though, it may well be
the same stuff: it’s the blurred
line in between that i speaks the
truth for and takes the piss out of.
It’s funny to think that Distortion
may have been the first time Merritt looked explicitly at the music;
i was part of a musical restriction,
but a record that was interested
once more in semantics, in extending 69 Love Songs from its conclusion to its self-interested explanation. i was in some ways a poetic
exposition even if it was composed
and arranged differently; Distortion, on the other hand, shows an
interest to experiment melodically
with restrictions, to wrap another
layer around big intentions without
so much dedication to the raunchy
poetry that goes with the pop.
Merritt puts it in simpler terms: an
album about his love for The Jesus
and Mary Chain, focused on zoning out with noise and ripping off
a huge influence. These are more
simplistic songs as a result, and
while they remain focused on humour, it can be as simple as one
word under the amplifiers, as the
unexplainable hilarity of ‘Threeway’ proves. In a way, this is stuff
wholly different from the rest of
their catalogue, disconnected
from the stylistic musts of the
Magnetic Fields’ past and somehow, as a result, more in the business of making actual songs. This
is a record without snippets, with
no-bullshit, loudly arranged, raucous songs comprising it. On tracks
like ‘Too Drunk To Dream’ and ‘Old
Fools’, Merritt still has the chance
to slap us over the face with irony,
but this time each song is born
equal, and never do the band stray
from the distortion of a guitar. Distortion, essentially, benefits from
Merritt relishing his restriction.
byvolume #3
I guess one of the most delightful
things about The Magnetic Fields’
discography is that it transcends
“the big record.” This is, on the
face of it, a fucking ridiculous
statement, considering the huge
gaping hole 69 Love Songs left in
indie pop. But I’d argue we all hold
a Magnetic Fields album to be special beyond the big statement that
Love Songs was; Dylan will preach
to the choir about the greatness of
Highway Strip, and Berkay probably
knows ‘Take Ecstasy With Me’ word
for word. For me, it was Realism,
his and Claudia’s quaint no-synth
finale, that eclipsed everything in
the band’s discography. This is Distortion’s simple twin, stripped to
its bare minimum and interested in
folk stupor and a Grateful Dead in
their country bumpkin heyday. It
plays its cards rather plaintively,
moving from its colourful moment
‘You Must Be Out Of Your Mind’ to
a moment drained of the laughing
picnic going on in ‘From A Sinking
Boat’. Really, Realism is another
69 Love Songs afterthought, twee
to begin and fed up to end. And
so, this isn’t a cool record, it won’t
save indie - it’s a 6/10 record if
ever there was one - but to me,
it’s Merritt perfected, and not
just in principle. He’s the furthest
he could be from synths, the most
“organic”, but this is him at the
core; heartbreaking and hilarious,
playing acoustic songs I connect
with out of nothing but chance and
ill humour. Realism is Merritt as he
always is, at times devastating and
“born for better things.” Most of
the time, though, he’s just dancing. I know the moves this time.
19
/? review ?/
/? review ?/
on genre
the human element
keelan harkin examines how we categorise the music we love
A question about genres, with two possible
answers: should a genre be based on conventions or on axioms? The question responds
to an idea I have thought about previously,
touching on it briefly in other articles. It
comes down to the way we relate new music to others, and, possibly, how we may be
slighting the artist by doing so. I’m reminded
of André Bazin’s ideas regarding film and the
removal of genre labels to simply argue for
“objective” films, such as documentaries or
realist movements, and the “invisible,” such
as Classic Hollywood Cinema. Bazin’s genres
are axiomatic - built on core supposed truths
from which to build in any direction whilst
still adhering to the foundations. On the contrary, we can see genres as a set of conventions; for example, Western films are set with
the conventions of ten-gallon hats, law versus
lawlessness, and the frontier. Even modern
adaptations of Western films, which tend to
eschew from the conventions of thegenre’s
golden era (circa 1950s), maintain their own
set of conventions, usually relying on antiheroes. The question has a bearing on the
current circulatory nature of online (and offline, for that matter) music criticism.
I know, I know: reading about music criticism
can be quite tedious, but instead of answering questions like “why do we write about
music?” - an entirely valid question - my
question is “how do we write about music?”
The current blogosphere seems mired in the
conventional side of my film 101 introduction. I say mired because, a lot like certain
circles of academia, critics have created
their own labyrinthine world of genre labels
and tags that are ever shifting and vague.
20
Genre labels are certainly useful. They provide signposts for critics because describing
what music sounds like with writing is often
vague and downright useless. Ezra Pound’s
A Retrospect put it best: “don’t be descriptive; remember that the painter can describe
a landscape much better than you can, and
that he has to know a deal more about it.”
Although, I have never myself produced a
notable work, so perhaps Pound wouldn’t approve of my reference. But the idea remains
the same; an idea that genre tags make music criticism a lot easier and less tedious. The
problem, however, arises when the conventional lines are blurred.
last.fm attempts to draw listeners together using genre tags, but how effective is the system when genres are
so ill-defined?
The best and most recent example I can think
of for the semantic and frustrating problem of
genre labels is the rather stupid term “postdubstep.” The term is most often associated
with James Blake, and it’s rather derogatory to the artist. Dubstep has been around
for, what, less than a decade? Certainly the
prominence of dubstep, or at least “brostep”
(I shudder), has been so high for only a few
years at most. Yet we already deem it necessary to label something “post-dubstep.” That,
my friends, is just laziness. After all, Blake is
hardly difficult to pin down in description—
one part bar-room crooner, one part electronic, three parts silence (ah, see, I’ve used two
genre labels in one sentence). So we start to
see the problem I’m hinting at; it’s a matter
of devaluation.
byvolume #3
Will music criticism simply go the way of a series
of “tags” on any number of blogs? It isn’t a matter of subjectivity versus objectivity, either. Both
sides of that dichotomy fall into the same problem;
go the way of Eliot’s objective correlative and you
fall into meaningless value determination based
on no human experience, but go the way of wishywashy Romanticism or personalism and you get
equally meaningless and vague “personal feelings.”
Nobody reading a review cares how the reviewer really feels about an album. I love this album becauseit reminds me of my first love. No one cares. Once
again, though, this is not taking subjectivity out of
the equation all together, I’m actually advocating a
human element, where you know, to a certain extent, who the reviewer is by their writing, without
the pedantic and boring allusions to personal reactions to the album - unless it sets up a greater
point about the work itself. This album reminds me
of my first love, and that’s the artists point. It’s an
album shooting for the nostalgic gut - of first loves
and midnight backyard parties. Yuck’s 2011 release
might be a perfect example of how this works.
Perhaps, then, we can go the way of axioms. To this
extent we can certainly limit the number of genres. Goodbye post-hardcore, perhaps even hardcore
Do you really need the genre labels when pop
and rock are built on the same principles?
- these all just fall into the same axioms of aggression and rebellion that all rock and roll is based on.
When rock ‘n’ roll came about it was certainly different from anything else because of that aggression,
that sense of dissonance and angularity. In a similar
way, jazz is entirely its own in the way it removes
itself from the axioms of classical music (and all its
various sub-genres). Pop and rock interconnect in
many ways, but pop’s ideal of mass appeal and going with the grain, built entirely on hooks, is perhaps
different enough from rock. But they are also very
close. Think about it, do you really need the genre
labels when they are built on the same principles;
to be slightly simplistic, it’s all catchy. Mainstream
metal relies on riffs, just like the blues and rock, and
pop sugars up those riffs into hooks. How are they all
that different? You may immediately snub the idea,
and I’m not suggesting that all metal is equated to
sugary pop, but in terms of axioms, they are fairly
similar. Looking at certain sub-streams of metal and
rock and pop, however, leads us to the avant-garde.
byvolume #3
If we are to take Bazin’s outlook, then genre labels
for music could simply be classical, jazz, popular, and
avant-garde (and possibly folk, though that could fall
in the popular category). Of course, as I have stated
before, this narrows things and perhaps leads to an
over-reliance on describing the music. Music as language is interesting in a creative aspect, but not in
an informative one. Now, I’m afraid I’m seeming pedantic - that I’m writing a how-to on reviewing music,
which is not my point. The point is to comment on
the devolving scene of contemporary music criticism
The best reviewers may describe Fucked
Up as hardcore, but he or she will also describe the way the band managed to craft
such an accessible and wonderful album.
taking away the experience of not only listening, but
writing as well. So the answer to my original question
is, frustratingly, neither. But the point of this article is a call to think about the way we think about
music. Though seemingly tautological, my point is
vitally human. If we fall directly into the camp of
Bazin we are becoming too vague; if we fall directly
into the camp of conventions, we become totally unnecessary and unimaginative. And it seems as though,
increasingly, we are falling into the latter trap.
Perhaps this is a quasi-New Critical revival, but I
promise no doctrines. Rather I should think we need
to limit our out-pouring of pseudo-inkhorn terms
that pervade the internet like some vague cloak of
false interest and creativity. And it is problematic. It
takes away from the desire to even read about music. That may be an okay option for some - there really is no need to read about music - but if that’s
how a lot of bands get noticed, we are doing them
a terrible disservice by pigeonholing. The labyrinth
of terminology creates very fine areas of interest to
the readers who subscribe to the pigeonholing of music. Someone who loves all things twee pop may see
someone simply describe Fucked Up’s David Comes
to Life as hardcore, or punk, or whatever, and that
listener may ignore it entirely. That is the narrowing
that the reliance on genre tags enables if we overrely on them, that twee-pop loving hipster would
have missed out on one of 2011’s best releases. The
best reviewers may describe Fucked Up as hardcore
or what-have-you, but he or she will also describe
the way the band managed to craft such an accessible and wonderful album. You know, the human element; not wishy-washy new-age personalism. Just
letting the reader know of the person behind the veil.
21
/review/
/review/
white rabbits still ape phoenix but
suggest they have another brilliant album in them
a religious antidote to the hold steady's
inimitable brand of sin
white rabbits
milk famous
craig finn
clear heart
full eyes
dylan siniscalchi
robin smith
Ever run into those particular album titles that seem so deprecatingly self-aware
you cannot help but believe the artist has to be reclining, grin beaming, and
engulfed in subtle irony without a care to be found? Maybe this is not the case
concerning White Rabbits - and truthfully, I would venture to say it is not - but
one cannot help but feeling like Milk Famous is a “serious” attempt at incidental
parody. Though not, it seems, incidental in the sense that they were aiming
away from a spirited leaching of an early-career Phoenix, Spoon or Ted Leo and
The Pharmacists; more that it’s just who White Rabbits are to the extent that
they likely never recorded these songs in the vein of their idols - they just sound
a whole hell of a lot like them. Strange, still, considering how uniquely exhilarating their debut Fort Nightly was but that record’s ska, filtered through a
sepia-tinged lense with a Depression-era air to it, gave the Rabbits this austere
essence about their music for being so young - It’s Frightening (2009) did not
exactly follow suit. Spoon front man Britt Daniels took over production duties
for that sophomore outing and these New Yorkers began to sound distinctly like
their Texan forebears.
I guess there are plenty of reasons for this being of Craig Finn and not of his band:
personal pronouns and declarations, rather than John Berryman and a cast of
characters; a warped, avant-garde moment to go with that “Springsteen” rock
about kids shooting drugs; a different kind of Americana, maybe. For me, though,
the main distinction is that Clear Heart Full Eyes is sort of a religious album - or,
at least, it’s about Jesus, and a lot. He’s in the buddy-buddy rock band on ‘New
Friend Jesus’, he’s sentencing and executing on ‘Western Pier’, he chills on a
ruined Hawaiian beach on ‘Honolulu Blues’. It’s easy to write this all off as ironic
- Finn is writing lines as unbelievably enlightened as “I wish I was with Jesus when
you loved me / I would have been a better man,” so it’s easy to call it a joke and
move on - but it pops up here like a seriously healthy antidote. It’s not finding
God and getting high on life, it’s losing the girlfriend and walking through a living
nightmare. Somehow this Jesus isn’t a character as much as an excuse, a justification, and sometimes just a presence on a story about an overfilling. There’s a lot
of overfilling on this album.
Here, Mike McCarthy creates and eerie bounce to White Rabbit’s more pianodriven return to funkier songwriting. Many of Milk Famous’ tracks are built on
looping melodies which at times produce exceptional results. The wiry guitars
and driving snare-crashes on ‘Holding it to the Fire’ or the curiously titled ‘It’s
Frightening’ with its lazy synths and rumbling piano are perfect examples where
this key-based White Rabbits works exceptionally. And yes, this band has always been very piano-heavy, but Milk Famous from its onset with the infectious
‘Heavy Metal’ establishes a tone: this is a very synthesizer-packed record. Save
moments such as ‘I’m Not Me,’ ‘Everyone Can’t Be Confused,’ ‘Temporary’ and
‘The Day You Won The War,’ where the band sound identical to a poor man’s
Phoenix-Spoon-TLRx (you choose), Milk Famous reads like a strange step forward
then sideways. The band’s return to dance-oriented rock is a welcome move but
their continuing tendency to only play it so far outside their new comfort zone is
still discouraging. “I had it coming/I had it coming,” Stephen Patterson laments
on the album closer of the same name. While it would be easy to assume White
Rabbits are just another band who got lucky with a piping-hot debut, there is
enough promise present on Milk Famous to believe beyond the title’s cynicism
that there’s another exceptional record in these guys.
22
in short
Synths and piano spark
off an enjoyable dancerock record which bodes
well for White Rabbits’
future. These looping
melodies allow for progress.
if you like
Phoenix
Synthz
Optimism
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byvolume #3
What I really mean to say is that this album is more than a Hold Steady record,
an album reaching to the sky, even at its most deliberately confined. Writing for
Tiny Mix Tapes recently, J. Arthur Bloom attached the term “Cosmic American”
to it, and it perfectly describes the division; these are still the same national
problems, if for nothing more than Finn’s accent and the occasional landscaping,
but Finn is looking up to the sky as if it’s gonna solve or at least fucking relate to
his problems. Using Jesus makes the little moments more spatial and out there,
and so on the Jesus-less ‘Rented Room’, a slow burning rocker’s jam, Finn is still
this oddly mindful man, reflecting on the confines of his own room but circling
the same short guitar riffs over and over like he can cause a rift in space and
time amongst these four walls. It’s on Clear Heart Full Eyes that Finn begins to
transcend the dancefloors and the drugs in favour of giving it up to the heavens
above, or just an alternative world where things are a bit less grounded and yet
still totally American.
in short
The Hold Steady songwriter
elevates
his
themes to find a grander narrative, absolving
himself in the process.
if you like
Gritty characters
Americana
Hangovers
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On ‘Jackson’, a crucial point cuts through the silly organs and badass rockery:
youtube
“why you asking about Jackson?” is the question for which there’s no real answer,
and in its place there are a lot of devastating answers: he went nuts, he moved
town and we never saw him again, the usual shrugs of the shoulder. These dead ends have been travelled by
Finn before: my favourite Hold Steady songs end tragically and ambiguously, with Finn almost stopping short of
terrifying himself. Clear Heart Full Eyes is a spiritual extension of ‘One For The Cutters’, in which a lost girl gets
more lost and then we lose her too. But, while she’s clamouring through parties and disappearing into a druggy
haze, a song like ‘Jackson’ looks for some crazy metaphor to explain the loose ends. It’s a more conscious effort
for a man to align himself with his songs, and to reveal the spiritual side of him that wanders off from the party.
Okay, so it’s not all about Jesus, but it’s an emotional overfilling, an album of moments that are too much like
turning up on your ex’s porch. And so Finn’s characters stare up, into the sky, and use it in their own grand way.
byvolume #3
23
/recommended/
/recommended/
porcelain
raft
byvolume
recommend
strange
weekend
While we had something a little different
with Boy Friend, Porcelain Raft is more of the
same - dream pop that sounds like a multitude
of other imitators and replicators. That being
said, Strange Weekend is a well constructed
dream pop record, with a great sound and a
casual relationship with pop structures. This
hasn’t stuck with me as much as it could
have, probably due to its ‘keeping within the
bounds’ approach, as well as the fact that
there are only a couple of ‘those’ dream pop
songs on here, the ones you play repeatedly
for months. Still, this is worth hearing for
fans of the genre.
Berkay Erkan flicks through the back pages
marrow &
soot
hearth
Weird noise and downtempo come together
in this highly experimental record by Marrow
& Soot, resulting in an eclectic mixture of
pure sound manipulation and a more palatable brand of rhythm. Each song brings something new to the table, constantly refreshing
what the listener takes to be Marrow & Soots
defining ‘sound’. The best tracks on Hearth
are the ones that employ a sense of solemnity and emotion, such as ‘Often Alone’ but
most of all ‘Hide All Promises’, which plays
out like a minimal synth track. This duo is
a newcomer to the style, but they show remarkable promise on Hearth.
24
boy friend
egyptian
wrinkle
Egyptian Wrinkle is one of those records that
I know I will write off in a review as being dull
and ineffective, but then revisit later on in
the year and fall in love. Thus, I will restrain
my instincts and retain a sense of neutrality.
Boy Friend is a female duo from Texas, who
wring out a somewhat unique take on the
oversaturated dream pop/shoegaze sound.
The record displays a strong ambient influence in the way the songs are constructed,
but the typical dream pop elements can be
heard. The singing is nothing short of fantastic, and it seems these two ladies know
exactly what they’re doing. If you’re well
into dream pop and shoegaze, Boy Friend is
essential 2012 listening.
byvolume #3
daniel
menche
leonard
cohen
guts
old ideas
Well established in the noise and drone genre, Daniel Menche has released what is arguably the record of his career with Guts. Doing
what is generally considered remarkably difficult to do, Menche has taken the piano as
the basis for his noise and deconstructed the
instrument into four tracks of ominous drones
and harsh, feedback-imbued noise. The four
songs on here represent four different manipulations of the piano, and also make up what
is so far the best noise record in 2012.
byvolume #3
Having been a musician for half a century,
and still managing to release relevant, wellwritten records, is somethin to be lauded. But
would you expect any less from Cohen? He’ll
probably live until 120 and release another
discography’s worth of material. Old Ideas is
a generally slow-paced album, at times taking on a lounge aesthetic. The darkness and
negativity of earlier works has well and truly
disappeared, and Cohen instills good-feeling
and a sense of hope into his new work. Fans
of Cohen should not miss this.
25
/review/
/review/
a stage play with shallow characters that
pulls the rug from underneath far too often
cursive
i am gemini
robin smith
The concept may be impossible to follow, the stage directions all well and good,
Kasher’s metaphors bizarre and full of disconnect, but there’s nothing more
misleading than the three words that declare this album a concept. I Am Gemini. It’s impossible to be that forward on an album of such weird ideas, one that
talks of twins separated at birth, ying and yang style, caught under house arrest
in a “struggle for the soul.” What do you say to that? Exit stage left?
What poor sucker could direct this album, could declare anything of it? In designing such a mischievous title, Cursive are telling us there’s nothing to do
when presented with I Am Gemini except sit back and watch. Unfortunately,
you’ve just sat down to a play straight out of hell, with no meaning or purpose,
like a shitty thought experiment with loads of loopholes that don’t matter.
You’re going to need to do further reading. Essentially, I Am Gemini is a collection of liner notes; the album that accompanies it is optional.
I admire, at least, Kasher’s lack of compromise in making an album of such
ridiculous contradictions, in saying this stage play needs no introduction but
still having so much to tell you at every turn. This album is so into the little
stage-play built around it (for it? More on that later...) that it plays with all the
gimmicks and none of the dialogue. It stops and starts like a pantomime, all
giddy and happy to trip over itself, adoring the dramatic irony of a narrator that
speaks every part yet knows fucking nothing. It’s just that such self-awareness
- or should we call it lack of awareness? Is it both? I’m fucking confused - only
works in Kasher’s favour when we’re falling into his trap and indulging ourselves
as much as he does.
The way ‘The Sun And Moon’ pauses for afterthoughts feels like the guitar chugging is second to footnotes Kasher is inserting for himself: “no, I’m like the sun,
and you’re like the moon... nah, you’re the sun, and I’m the moon” It’s like a
total Chekov’s Gemini situation there for a moment, but Kasher isn’t content
on I Am Gemini unless he pulls the rug from under our feet every time we find
one to walk on. I Am Gemini, then, is an album that never gets going and has
nowhere grand to go. It’s a diversion in concept-album form, the ugliest of ‘70s
generation prog-rock, and Christ, is it disorientating.
26
in short
All exposition and no
implications, no subtleties; Cursive construct
an empty narrative
which behaves like a
coin on a string.
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byvolume #3
Of course, Kasher has written these
mad little plays and stage directions before - ‘Butcher The Song’ and
‘Driftwood’ were little violent fairy
tales that dramatised an album of
angry self-service - but if anything,
The Ugly Organ proved that a concept won’t get in the way of a songwriter and his songs. There were no
footnotes with ‘A Gentlemen Caller’,
no pausing for a moment of trickery,
rather a moment of clarity among a
song of aggressive climaxes.
The Ugly Organ only had an appendix
in ‘Staying Alive’, and so instead of
stopping for an explanation, it let the
story play out in real-time. It made
catharsis a double-edged sword, both
the horror and the sweetness recognised in its “characters” and their
constitution at all times.
Note: all of these characters were actually Kasher. Right? On I Am Gemini,
I’m not really sure if Kasher is writing
himself in, but that thing that we all
wished would come true for so long less mid-thirties anxiety, please, Tim
- is wasted when an album so impersonal is still kept so close to his chest.
All these characters are Kasher, sans
the experiences. And so, at risk of
seeming simple, I say: I don’t get it.
The talk of the liner notes for I Am
Gemini places an unfair weight on an
album we’re at pains to understand,
but it also points to the frustrating
surrealism Kasher has his heart set
on for this otherwise pretty standard post-hardcore album. It’s abrupt,
and like most emo-punk tinged indie,
it reveals most at its most melodic.
byvolume #3
The problem is that I Am Gemini is all exposition and no
implications, no subtleties, no character interactions. I admired and was disturbed by ‘Domestica’ as much as I was
because Kasher played all the parts and played his own the
most monstrously of all.
Here, I know none of the characters until those last chants
in a stand-out track we wait twelve other songs for. The
song is nearly entirely an explanation to the album that it
follows, concerning birth certificates of characters and that
final declaration: “give yourself a name / I am Gemini.”
There’s nothing disturbing about Cursive here, but then
there’s nothing much at all. I don’t squirm at the abrasiveness of I Am Gemini. When the guitars clamber against the
drums on ‘Double Dead’, I feel lost in the chaos of a story
that doesn’t want to be understood. When Kasher asks for a
chance to explain on ‘Twin Dragon’... I don’t want to know.
27
/review/
/review/
a coherent and calming ode to
steady pop and summer beats
that whole let's-fucking-sail aesthetic
casa del mirto
1979
tennis
young and old
berkay erkan
dylan siniscalchi
The ‘in’ thing this year seems to lie in 90s revivalism, particularly in the shoegaze/dream-pop realm of music - last year’s Wild Nothing is probably one of
the better recent examples, and 2011 has given us a horde of other bands and
projects replicating the washed out and melancholic sounds of the past. Some
reviewers - including myself - have criticised bands within this wave of lacking
innovation or originality, which is not untrue. What we fail to realise is that
there really isn’t much else one can do to a shoegaze record without it becoming something else entirely.
Banality can have an upside if wielded correctly. Take, for example, the gushy
guitars, crisp female vocals, driving percussion, and greasy synth lines of Denver’s
wife-and-husband duo Tennis and their second proper record Young and Old. And
with a nod to Black Key Patrick Carney’s production, which rids the band of their
key airiness, and adds some needed girth in dynamics, while simultaneously helping Tennis carve out a new identity for themselves. Somewhat new, anyway, as
Tennis are still an indie-pop band without much veering into other facets of expression. To their credit, though, they are good at what they do, and know exactly
where to plant their focus musically. Album opener ‘It All Feels The Same’ reeks
of the rare A-Class Best Coast tune where Costentino’s dainty, elegant voice is
moulded perfectly to her beachy melodies: imagine that, minus all of her asinine
lyrical imagery. ‘My Better Self’ is a piano-driven mid-tempo gem whose backbone
is a thick, sticky hand-clap-beat via drum machine that would fit nicely on any of
Saint Etienne’s early career knockouts. ‘Petition’ and its wonky vocal harmonies
echo equally the likes of a slightly tempered St. Vincent or much less angry Lily
Allen taking a crack at Lounge Music.
However, one thing I have noticed across records over the last few years is that
some of the musicians who would otherwise be considered electronic artists
have been making crossroads in and out of shoegaze and dream pop, creating
what some people call ‘chillwave’. It’s not an entirely new label, but it does
well to describe downtempo electronic music with tones of blissful exuberance.
As much as I love dream pop and shoegaze, I can’t say that I’m entirely comfortable with reinterpretating elements from those styles within an electronic
context, but Caso del Mirto could very well be a turning point for me.
Casa del Mirto is the project of Marco Ricci, an Italian artist who has been recording under the moniker for several years. 1979 is his first LP, and it has unfortunately been largely ignored over the year (it was released in January 2011,
and even I only first heard it a month or two ago). The record is awash with
catchy summer beats, steady tempos and pop sensibilities, making it ideal for
hot, idle afternoons. Balance is important when it comes to this sort of thing,
and Ricci has definitely found the right midpoint between a pop record and a
piece of atmospheric music.
What is perhaps most striking about 1979, as an electronic record, is how coherent it is when taken as a whole. Some songs are naturally better than others,
but this is an album that I have only ever listened to from start to finish. It does
not overstay its welcome, and offers enough variety to maintain its appeal over
its playing time. If the genre of chillwave is in your interests, 1979 should not
be missed. If you’re the type of person who’s gushing over the new M83 record
or still haven’t realised the crock that is Animal Collective, shut the fuck up and
listen to Casa del Mirto.
28
in short
Dream-pop which sways
and bubbles with steady
tempos and lush atmospheres.
if you like
Chillwave
M83
Bliss
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byvolume #3
Young and Old is not without its drawbacks though; for how much Patrick Riley
(guitar,) Alaina Moore (voice & keyboads) and James Barone (drums) have improved between their first two records there is nearly always a direct line to be
found between influenced and influential. Tennis had successfully sidestepped a
lot of their debuts one-note criticism by simply welding themselves to that whole
Let’s-Fucking-Sail aesthetic and never looking back. While Cape Dory (2011) was
cute and endearing, a great album it was not - finding itself a bit monotonous in
all its airy, sun-shiny escapism. And while they do not exactly rectify the issue with
Young and Old it seems Carney is pushing them in the right direction with his focus
on cleaner production and a broader sound—Tennis this time around feel like a
band as opposed to a couple making music. Though this record may suffer from being derivative and at times slightly prosaic, for the most part it is pretty successful
pop music that would work equally as well in a simple social setting, driving to the
beach or playing in a fresh snow. And that, for Tennis, should be more than enough
for celebration. For the rest of us? Trim the fat, enjoy the choice cuts and expect
them to improve the next go-around—they probably will.
byvolume #3
in short
Husband/wife
duo
strengthen their sound
slightly and are charming enough, but struggle
to sound original. Soon,
though.
if you like
Harmonies
Fuckin’ sailing
Progress
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29
about
byvolume
Somebody - we’re not entirely sure who - once said
that writing about music is like dancing about architecture. Does he have a point? Well, we have a
counterpoint.
This Issue’s Contributors
Adam Knott (editor, design)
Because it’s not so much that our penning thoughts
on the art form ever hopes to even emulate it,
much less to replace it - but it can, in the right
ways, dare to explore it.
Christian Harrop (illustrations)
ByVolume’s definition of music doesn’t stretch to
the band’s promo photos, popstars’ wardrobes or
troubled artists’ latest court appearances - we’re
quite satisfied, instead, with melodies and harmonies, rhythms and hooks. We toyed, in fact, with an
introductory headline of “f**k the image”, but we
decided that was kind of uncivilised. It was true,
though.
Dylan Siniscalchi
So we call ourselves a blind publication, instead,
one whose other senses (notably: hearing) are
made more acute by that refusal to take in our
surroundings. In our pages you’ll find us rambling,
ranting and reviewing, but always with one key
goal in mind: never to let anything get in the way
of the music.
We think there’s room for a discussion about music
which knows the value of a CD but not the price,
which appreciates the people behind it without
becoming obsessed with their lives beyond their
songs and their records, and which just wants to
kick back, listen to an album, and talk about how
it makes us feel.
Robin Smith
Berkay Erkan
Keelan Harkin
Channing Freeman
Rudy Klapper
Contact
http://www.byvolume.co.uk
[email protected]
We sort of hope you agree.
30
byvolume #3