THE WEATHER STATION - All Of It Was Mine

The latest issue of Uncut has a long article profiling Gillian Welch and Dave Rawlings, going into great depths detailing the recording process behind her new album The Harrow & The Harvest. Several paragraphs of the piece describe Welch and Rawlings' obsession with sound, particularly their efforts to recreate an exact replica of RCA Studio B, a studio in Nashville where they recorded 2001's Time (The Revelator), within their own Woodland Studios. The story mentions that though they took years to perfect their space, when they finally sat down to record, everything was done in one or two takes. It's a pretty standard article, the type you get after an acclaimed career spanning 15 years and half a dozen records. However, it illustrates that even with all their success, Welch and Rawling aren't satisfied to just go into any old studio with some hot-shot producer in hopes of cashing in on their names. For them, the end result, the sound of the record, how and with whom it was made (on their own turf, by themselves), is where they get their satisfaction.

At this point in her career, it's highly unlikely that any major music publication would write a four-page spread on Tamara Lindeman (a.k.a. The Weather Station), but that doesn't mean there isn't a story worth telling. All Of It Was Mine, her new album, seems to have been created under similar circumstances to those surrounding Gillian Welch's latest disc. When attempting to record a follow up to 2008's The Line, Tamara found herself bouncing between various studios around Toronto without being able to find her desired sound. It wasn't until an offer came from fellow folk singer Daniel Romano to come record at his studio in Welland that things started to fall into place. Originally envisioned as demos to be 'properly' recorded later, the final result is a raw and devastatingly honest record. Stripped down to only guitar, banjo, some drums and backing vocals (provided by Romano and Bruce Peninsula's Misha Bower), the record successfully showcases Tamara's understated vocals and descriptive lyrics. All in all, All Of It Was Mine is a stunning achievement.

(The Weather Station will be playing an in-store at the shop on Tue. Aug 30 at 7pm)

PRURIENT - Bermuda Drain

If you’ve read any article on Bermuda Drain, Prurient's new album, you’ll probably have read that Dominick Fernow’s approach for this record has been severely influenced by his time spent working with Cold Cave, especially on their latest release Cherish the Light Years. Let's just address that now—while yes, they do share similar qualities initially, the end products could not be more different from each other.

If you’re at all familiar with Prurient’s previous efforts, this one might throw you for a curve. While most of his records are very in tune with groups like Whitehouse or The Sodality, Bermuda Drain strays from Fernow’s power electronics roots and takes on a dark wave approach. If you’ve ever fancied yourself a fan of early Ministry or Black Celebration-era Depeche Mode, this album should strike a chord with you. There’s nothing pop about this. Musically, this album just piles the melancholy on more and more, until closing track "Sugar Cane Chapel." Fenrow has maintained the ferocity in his vocal approach for most of this record, but takes breaks from screaming and shouting to deliver spoken passages, sometimes barely above a whisper.

Industrial leanings remain, with a harsh wall sometimes washing over the melody. The songs themselves have been restricted to no longer than three or four minutes each, and the feeling of endlessness found on records like Pleasure Ground is gone. Everything just feels more focused. His lyrics, while still touching on sexuality and other taboo subjects, feel more thought out and poetic, and we might have his Mother to thank for that (no, really—she’s credited in the liner notes!).

Dominick Fernow is a king of multitasking. Besides performing as Prurient and with Cold Cave, he's a member of many other groups (Ash Pool, Vegas Marytrs, Vatican Shadow...), and also runs his own label and record store (Hospital Productions). You would think that by this point exhaustion would diminish the quality of his work, but thankfully it’s only getting better.

THE HORRORS - Skying

The fact that I'm even discussing a record by The Horrors in 2011, never mind endorsing it heavily, is kind of remarkable. The band that arrived on the NME's underground star-making scene back around 2006 was so noxiously contrived and tepidly edgy, one's only comfort in having to see their faces was that all things (especially of that ilk) must pass.

But after an EP and a 2007 LP, Strange House, these five kids pretending to be The Ramones dressed as extras from the Addams Family did something even more grating and naive: they reinvented themselves and released another record. And of course, they now ditched the outfits and turned predictably serious. Groan.

That they had so easily bailed on their thin, joyless gimmick after one cycle of releases felt like the final confirmation of The Horrors' artistic bankruptcy. As such, 2009's Primary Colours was an album I had no intention of even listening to—it was only after repeated pleas from friends (and the knowledge that Portishead's awesome sonic architect, Geoff Barrow, produced it) that I relented.

As it turned out, though, that record was quite the lesson in humility for me. Not only did it sound like some lost album of My Bloody Valentine jamming with Ian Curtis, it was really, really good. So it is that Skying miraculously arrives with not even a whiff of the once-so-wretched stink that accompanied anything with the name "The Horrors".

If the band needed to nail this record to prove that their unbelievable turnaround on Primary Colours was no fluke (and they did), then consider Skying mission accomplished. This record is easily as broad and grand in its gestures, but is also considerably more romantic and warm. Where Primary Colours used in-the-red layering and angry, tense vocals to build a bridge from their goth garage origins to a new place, Skying now leaves behind nary a trace of bitter tension in the band's sound. Seeing as that seething angst was actually a big part of what made Primary Colours such a great listen, this isn't as safe a gamble as it might sound. But once again, the band proves they are not to be underestimated. Skying is more mature, sure, but it's also a better album—surprisingly eloquent in its textures, it's unified and patient without ever be dull or rote.

Certainly, detractors of the band will still find fuel for their distaste here—at every stage of their young career, The Horrors have borrowed (ie. stolen) liberally from their predecessors, and Skying is no exception. But for the first time, the question surrounding these guys has shifted from "When will they pack it in?" to "I wonder what their next record will sound like?" It's a shift in our expectations that, mistakes and all, these guys have worked hard to earn.

DOG DAY - Deformer

When a band loses half its members, the usual course of action is to either replace the departed members or break up. Halifax's Dog Day have chosen instead to continue on as a two-piece, and the first recordings of their new lineup prove they made the right choice. Sharing the duties of guitar and drums (an instrument neither of them had played before), Seth Smith and Nancy Urich make the most of their new setup, taking a lo-fi home-recorded approach that's perfectly suited for their music, at times recalling the oeuvre of Rick White (who produced 2010's Elder Schoolhouse EP, the last recordings of their former incarnation).

While this album is still unquestionably Dog Day, anyone who is familiar with their previous efforts (2007's Night Group and 2009's Concentration) will notice a much darker and self-referential lyrical approach this time around. The subject matter of these songs often speak to the band's new situation in brutally honest terms. On "Part Girl," when Seth sings, "We should jam together, not like the others, pictures in my grey skull still wanna come out and be coloured," and on "Positive," when he sings "I'm optimistic for us, not holding my hopes that high, we're running out of things to fight about, keep practicing 'til we're tight," you get the sense that while Dog Day has been dealt a few bad hands, they're not giving up.

HANDSOME FURS - Sound Kapital

With the arrival of Sound Kapital, their third LP in five years, Montreal's Handsome Furs have refined and redefined their sound, proving once again that the duo (consisting of husband and wife Dan Boeckner and Alexei Perry) can do no wrong. This record also has more riding on it than past efforts, as it's Dan Boeckner's first outing after the demise of his other band Wolf Parade, who in the past have always taken priority over the Furs (with 2008's At Mount Zoomer and 2010's Expo 86 both following quickly on the heels of previous Handsome Furs albums, 2007's Plague Park and 2009's Face Control).

If you trace the progress in their sound between their three albums, you'll hear a newfound sense of urgency on Sound Kapital that was there before, but just not as apparent. Gone are the slower guitar-driven numbers, replaced almost entirely by layers of keyboards and a driving beat that never lets up. The Furs have always had great lyrics, but the subject matter and images painted on this album have never been clearer or more poignant. Written while on a tour across Asia, each song tackles another issue head-on, from government censorship in countries like Myanmar to youths fighting oppression through music. Surprisingly, despite the heavy subject matter, the record's overall tone is quite hopeful. Clearly, with Sound Kapital, the pride of Montreal have created an album to make you dance and think.

NINO TEMPO & APRIL STEVENS - Hey Baby! Anthology

As far as magical pop music moments go, the story of Nino Tempo and April Stevens' almost-never-was hit "Deep Purple" is a swell one. It’s a classic tale of in-studio goofing off gone right; Nino couldn’t remember the lyrics to the second half of the Tin Pan Alley tune, so sister April gently cooed them to him. The charming improvisation was captured in two poorly rehearsed takes, and a number one hit was born.

The success of Nino Tempo and April Stevens (née Tempo) was indeed not overnight, in spite of the fluke of their massive hit. As children they moved to California to pursue their musical and theatrical dreams, with April cutting a saucy single "Warm Soft Lips" in 1953 (included in this compilation and the reason for the 'Stevens' surname change; gushingly singing about warm, soft lips had the potential to ruin young April’s reputation and any chance of a wholesome career)! Nino dabbled in film but got his true break as a jazz musician turned sought-after session player, becoming a favourite of Atlantic Records head honcho Ahmet Ertegun which led to Nino and his sister signing to Atlantic’s subsidiary label Atco.

This new Ace compilation is a full retrospective of Nino and April’s careers that includes numerous solo efforts by both. Their efforts as a duo initially took inspiration from the success of "Deep Purple" with Nino and April singing sweet sound-alike tunes featuring Nino's signature imperfect harmonica and April's spoken interludes.  A 'don't mess with success' attitude meant that there was a definite emphasis on reinventing 1920s and 30s classics (dig on their organ-anchored and sibling-harmonized take on "Honeysuckle Rose") and love songs of a more recent vintage such as "Hey! Baby." One's enjoyment of the duo's polarizing version of the Paris Sisters' "I Love How You Love Me" (recently heard on the stellar Nuggets: Where the Action Is! box set) depends on how much heavily panned bagpipe one can handle (this writer is planted firmly in the pro-bagpipe camp). As their follow-up singles struggled to find an audience, Nino and April left Atco to land at White Whale records, home of The Turtles.

White Whale gave Nino carte blanche in the studio, leading to 1966’s All Strung Out LP, a gorgeous more-Phil-Spector-than-Spector production that used the Wrecking Crew musicians as well as Gold Star Studios. It yielded two stunningly lush singles, "All Strung Out" and "I Can’t Go On Living Baby Without You’" (the latter song becoming a bit of an obsession for this writer in the weeks since this compilation was released). 

It’s evident in the variety of the material on this compilation that Nino and April had difficulty developing a marketable niche for themselves in the competitive pop landscape, and it’s a definite bummer that they never sustained their initial success, especially considering the easy charm of their early recordings and the killer playing and production on their later work. The sequencing of this compilation is thankfully not chronological, giving each track the opportunity to shine outside of any contextual confines. All in all, it’s one of the year’s most satisfying reissues—let’s give Nino and April their due!

ELEANOR FRIEDBERGER - Last Summer

"You know I do my best thinking when I'm flying down the bridge," declares Eleanor Friedberger immediately within the first few seconds of her first solo LP, Last Summer. In the speedy delivery and curious content of that one line, she tells you a lot about what to expect over the next 40 minutes. Her voice is never far from the listener, pausing only briefly for instrumentation—cerebral, yet charmingly human, she speaks in apparent non-sequiturs that still manage true feeling, if not precise meaning.

On the surface, this sounds like par for the course for her time with brother Matthew in the always-left-turning Fiery Furnaces. The FF have built a reputation on two things: a truly stunning, see-it-to-believe-it live show; and some of the most divisive records of the past decade. I'll admit to being entirely charmed by the former and somewhat at arm's length about the latter. Try as I might, the fact of the matter is that I rarely go back to Furnaces albums like 2004's Blueberry Boat or 2006's Bitter Tea. The band have certainly always worn their contrarian, convoluted nature on their collective sleeve, so fair enough. But for me, this stridency came at the cost of sacrificing what were some exceptional melodies—moments that were rarely allowed to settle. This was especially frustrating when I was so enamoured with their 2003 debut Gallowsbird's Bark, and the killer longer-than-your-normal-EP EP, from 2005. On these albums, the band found the temperament to leave some of their more willful wanderings behind, focusing instead on their more tuneful gifts.

Maybe it's a little too easy to lay all the blame for this on Matthew, the sibling whose proudly abrasive nature has led to many quotable moments and a particularly indulgent solo effort, 2006's double-disc Winter Women and Holy Ghost Language School. But with Last Summer as evidence, I feel we can lay this debate to rest. Eleanor's the friendly Friedberger, and her new album is exceptional—one that revels in the peculiar personalties cultivated by FF without treating the whole affair like some puzzle unlocked by codewords you'll never guess. Eleanor's still the same talkative, edgy wallflower we've always loved on past albums. But freed from the exhausting prog-pop posedowns of her brother's arrangements, she finally reveals herself in a fashion that was simply not possible before.

And so it is that an album that was barely on my radar leading up to its release has turned out to be one of the best things I've heard in 2011. Concise, unassuming, but wickedly smart, this is a great little record that deserves your ear—whether you count yourself a Fiery Furnaces fan or not.

(Eleanor Friedberger will be performing live in our shop tonight [Tue. Jul 19] at 5:30pm.)

VA - Delta Swamp Rock – Sounds From The South: At The Crossroads Of Rock, Country And Soul

Swamp rock is a distinctively southern white U.S. phenomenon, an overlap of many musical Venn Diagram circles. And though the title of this comp suggests that a Mississippi birth certificate is a prerequisite, that is also not necessary. One of its key exponents, John Fogerty, for all of his southern-isms, was born in Berkeley, California, far from Bayou Country to be sure. Geographical authenticity, however, was less important with swamp rock than sounding southern. After all, when you’re drawing from country, blues, gospel, soul, rock, and Cajun music, chances are you probably absorbed at least some of these sounds while doing a degree in university. No matter, the music produced during the thick of the swamp rock period (roughly 1968 to 1973) is some of the best soul music of the time, eschewing uptown slick and going for the dirt and grit associated with swamps, wetlands and such. 

One of the definitive swamp rock songs, "Polk Salad Annie" by Tony Joe White, was recorded in 1968 and celebrates the southern way of life which may have included eating polk salad (polk being a weed that grows in the swamps of the south). Elvis picked up on the song and spent most of the rest of his career wading through similar musical terrain.

One of the swampiest records ever recorded, Dr. John’s Gris-Gris, is a pure masterwork, and while The Night Tripper does not preside here, his "I Walk On Guilded Splinters" makes an appearance respectfully tackled by Cher. Dan Penn, one of the greatest white songwriters to blur the racial lines of southern music, is here with his mighty "If Love Was Money". Linda Ronstadt pulls one of the best numbers in the set with the outstanding country gospel waltz of "I Won’t Be Hangin’ Round". This wouldn’t be southern rock without the Allmans, Skynyrd, Bobbie Gentry, Leon Russell, and Boz Scaggs. Then, there are surprise turns from Big Star (definitely the most southern-sounding power pop band of the era), Cowboy (never heard of them before, but "Please Be With Me" is beautiful slice of country rock), Waylon Jennings, Johnny Cash, and Link Wray (whose early '70s output fits the genre quite nicely).

It’s a wonderful document of an underappreciated sub-genre of rock, and once again Soul Jazz delivers. Everyone needs a summer soundtrack, and this one would be perfect for your next road trip, fishing trip, or cottage weekend. 

UNKNOWN MORTAL ORCHESTRA - S/T

One of my most favourite feelings in listening to music is that moment when, without any expectations, I press play and the connection is immediate. Like some unsolicited audio eHarmony date, I get it and it gets me: Ssssh, don't speak. Let's just dance, OK?

That's about all you need to know about me and these guys...and there's very little else that you can know about them, really. As the name suggests, much of Unknown Mortal Orchestra's bio is cryptic and slight. What we do know (if you take their bio at face value) is that it's the brainchild of a New Zealander named Ruban Nielson who transplanted himself to Portland, Oregon and made this home-recorded little gem. 

The album's sound matches this description—it has clearly been realized in a quick and dirty fashion, but it also features the kind of cohesion that tends to come from a single mind. Instant hits like "Ffunny Ffriends" and "Thought Ballune" have more in common than poor spelling. A little psych, a little pop, and a ton of reimagined funk, the songs are catchy, chunky and dripping with syrupy fuzz. And these dudes are tight. The drumming, courtesy of some teen whizkid, Julien Ehrich, is insidiously groovy and rich, while Nielson is one heck of a guitar player. 

Altogether, Nielson's creation kind of does for funky indie-pop what fellow Antipodeans Tame Impala already did for psych-rock with their exceptional Innerspeaker LP—the record may borrow shamelessly from other artists, but it does so with great panache, intuition, and joy. And, also like that band, UMO is cunning enough to be able to wriggle away from a clear definition just as you think you have them pegged.

A prime example of this is one of the shortest (and best) tracks on the record, "Nerve Damage!" After a sequence of tunes that all tow the party line of boxy breakbeats and foxy pop hooks, "Nerve Damage!" slams a heavily effected, giddily dexterous flurry of solo guitar headlong into a slice of druggy punk that sounds ripped from the lost demos of Sebadoh's original loon, Eric Gaffney. It as unexpected as it is exhilarating and it packs everything it can into its 2:15 running time. Most impressively, it manages to blend into the rest of record despite being a bit of ugly duckling.

You can ultimately chalk this up to the overall sound of Unknown Mortal Orchestra, which is a great reminder of the benefits of a good lo-fi recording. The record is hazy, but purposefully done. Whether these guys had very little money or not, make no mistake: it is very intelligently constructed and clearly sounds they way they intended it to.

So, will Unknown Mortal Orchestra end up being a fun little fling or a more lasting relationship? It's still a little up in the air. But right now, I'm having too much fun reveling in that kind of excitement that can only come from the surprise of the new. Just when I least expected it, I think I'm in love.

BON IVER - Bon Iver, Bon Iver

The story (at least as much as we all care to know of it) starts with a relatively unknown American indie musician with a voice self-described as sounding "like Hootie". After playing in and out of several different acts, he retreats to a cabin in the woods, resorts to a falsetto, and records a self-released album of hushed, introverted folk tunes. It could have ended up like this, people. Instead, it not only resulted in a breakthrough LP (2007/08's For Emma, Forever Ago), but then sent one Justin Vernon onto a myriad of other projects, including the playful indie R&B of Gayngs and, most famously, recording in the studio with Kanye West.

OK, I know—you guys know all of this already. But do you know what really happened in that cabin in the woods? Did Vernon manage to slay his inner Hootie to become the mighty Bon Iver? Or did he actually just morph that trait into a form more pleasing—and deceiving—to our confidently discerning ears? Maybe I'm being a touch facetious in saying so, but the new self-titled release, Bon Iver, Bon Iver, kind of suggests the latter.

In the midst of a period of debate that is seeing the album become one of the year's more divisive releases, it's not unfair to state that Bon Iver is really just adult-contemporary music for hipsters. And furthermore, that's not actually a bad thing; it just is what it is—and after a lifetime of pooping all over major-label MOR balladry, we should really take our lumps and own up to it.

When I listen to Bon Iver, Bon Iver—and especially the already much-maligned Hornsby/Marx-ian ballad, "Beth/Rest"—I'm reminded of Carl Wilson's exceptional 33 1/3 book, A Journey To The End Of Taste. Among other things, that book was about attempting to get to heart of what informs people's musical taste—especially concerning critics. Why is "My Heart Will Go On" so insufferable? What buttons does it push that, say, Scott Walker's 4 doesn't (and vice versa)? And would we be better off at least attempting to accept Dion's popularity (if not embrace it)?

Clearly, many critics already feel that Bon Iver is well worth the uninitiated embracing. I mean, c'mon! Listen to the guy's voice, for chrissakes: It's gorgeous!! And it is. But even beyond the rather distasteful Korg keyboards of "Beth/Rest", Bon Iver, Bon Iver is loaded with many instrumental tones (especially on guitar) that frankly sound thin and weak. Lyrically, its sentiments are so lost in oblique imagery (you can read them all here), that they potentially become as grating as the obvious platitudes of a Diane Warren hit. Ultimately, both styles fail to achieve that magical intersection of immediate resonance and evolving, transferrable meaning that characterize truly great song lyrics.

This isn't an attempt to discredit what is a quite lovely album with which I'm deeply entranced. I absolutely recommend this record. Rather—and hopefully in the spirit of Wilson's book—it's a reminder to us so-called serious music fans that we also like crap, too. It's just that instead of being clearly constructed of blatant greeting card sentiments and chest-thumping orchestral crescendoes, our "crap" is just harder to understand. It's full of ridiculously muddled words littered with emotional signposts that really lead nowhere. It features instrumentation often unnecessarily strangulated of bright colours and definition, as though to assure us that our emotional states are more poignant, mysterious, hard-fought and honest.

Of course, they're not. But when we listen to a record like Bon Iver, we truly do believe that they are. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the power of music.

THE LEFT BANKE - Walk Away Renée/Pretty Ballerina / The Left Banke Too

Pop began going for broke, or, should I say, baroque (pun definitely intended), in 1965, when The Beatles and Rolling Stones began incorporating classical music influences into songs like "In My Life" and "As Tears Go By".  Violins, harpsichords and brass were now added to the standard guitars/bass/organ/drums-oriented arrangements that had generally been favoured by groups up to that time. By the following year, the chamber-pop floodgates opened with a delightful deluge of ornately orchestrated pop/rock such as Bob Lind's lovely baroque/folk Top 40 smash "Elusive Butterfly", and The Beach Boys' immortal masterpiece, Pet Sounds.

A young band from New York City, The Left Banke also threw their hats into the baroque-pop ring and scored with not one, but two big Beatles/Zombies-flavoured hits, "Walk Away Renée" and "Pretty Ballerina". Their wonderful debut album from '67, titled after those tunes, as well as their almost equally sublime 1968 follow-up The Left Banke Too, have been unavailable for almost twenty years. Now, thanks to the fine folks at Sundazed, these LPs have been reissued in both CD and vinyl formats, and what a treat it is to delve into them!

Walk Away Renée/Pretty Ballerina is the more consistently satisfying album thanks to the uniformly high quality of its eleven cuts, ranging from the haunting ballads "Shadows Breaking Over My Head" and "Barterers And Their Wives", to such irresistibly uptempo tracks as "She May Call You Up Tonight" and "I Haven't Got The Nerve". Lead singer Steve Martin (no, not that Steve Martin) and teenaged keyboardist Michael Brown were mainly responsible for penning these yearningly romantic songs, stunningly conveyed by Martin's near-falsetto singing and the group's superb harmonizing. And while most of Walk Away Renée/Pretty Ballerina is made up of classically-influenced material, the fuzzed-out guitar on "Lazy Day" and the countrified twang of "What Do You Know" add some variety to the mix.  

By late '68, when the group's second  and final album was released, The Left Banke had seen the unfortunate departure of Michael Brown. Nevertheless, the group carried on without him, and, with future Aerosmith frontman Steven Tyler (!) contributing backing vocals on a few songs, came up with a strongly melodic follow-up to their debut. Although I can't say it quite reaches the heights of Walk Away Renée/Pretty Ballerina, The Left Banke Too contains one of the band's most essential numbers, "Desirée", my choice for one of the most gorgeous pop compositions ever put to disc. Other excellent cuts include the McCartney-like "There's Gonna Be A Storm" and "Bryant Hotel", and the dreamy "My Friend Today", which closes off the album beautifully with its orchestral sense of drama.

Despite its strengths, The Left Banke Too flopped commercially, and the group broke up shortly afterward. Over the years, though, their two albums began to attract many new fans who discovered and fell in love with The Left Banke's astonishingly high levels of singing, songwriting and musicianship. You can count Matthew Sweet and Belle And Sebastian's Stuart Murdoch among them, and you couldn't go wrong at all by lending your ears to the magical charms of both of these Left Banke records, finally hearing what all their baroque-pop fuss was—and is—all about.

JEFF THE BROTHERHOOD - We Are The Champions

"I've been thinking about your mom." The first line of JEFF the Brotherhood's new LP We Are The Champions pretty much sums up what you're going to get from this album: light-hearted, straight-ahead tunes from a couple of awkward young men. Crushing on your friend's mom is just one of many teenage situations Nashville brothers Jake and Jamin Orrall sing about on this album. There are also songs about having a crush on the girl of your dreams ("Cool Out"), drinking too much on the weekend ("Bummer"), wanting a space to call your own (so you can display your records, obviously, on "Mellow Out"), and many other common slacker-type problems. It's very much a continuation of their last record, 2009's Heavy Days, so if you liked that one you'll be happy with this one too. However, if you're new to the band or couldn't get into their last album, it's worth giving We Are The Champions a try. They've cut out some of the jamming and increased the poppiness tenfold, all without compromising their trademark sound. In fact, it's been brought up while spinning it at the shop (and in other reviews) that, both vocally and musically, some of these cuts could be lost Pinkerton-era Weezer B-sides (think "You Gave Your Love to Me Softly"). So, if you're part of the overwhelming majority that fell out of love with Weezer around the turn of the century, make sure to pick up JEFF the Brotherhood's We Are The Champions.

CULTS - S/T

In an age when most of us will abandon watching a 30-second YouTube clip if it takes too long to upload, this NYC buzz band (is there any other kind these days? Moving on...) is perfectly built for our times. Brandishing a well-pruned clutch of short, immediate, and brisk pop songs, they leap forth to quicken your pulse with arrow after heart-winning arrow. A few seconds of its sunshine-channeling exuberance is literally all it takes. 

It makes sense then that their most obvious source of inspiration—'60s girl groups—was forged in an era of singles that lived or died on the success of their first few spins on radio. Get to the hook or get the hook. Given that recently everyone from Dum Dum Girls to Best Coast have been going to this same well and with resounding success suggests some similarities in the flighty relationship between artist and audience both then and now (minus that whole "paying for music" thing—is that a bad thing to talk about on a record store's website? Continuing to move on...). 

Which then begs the question: How exactly does Cults' take on this trend differ? Far less prevalent guitars, for one. And as much as this is Madeline Follin's show vocally (she's full-on and quite irresistible throughout), bandmate Brian Oblivion makes a pleasing male foil to her at key points such as on opener "Abducted" and "Bumper". But perhaps their best trait (especially in comparison to those aforementioned acts) is that they wear their modernity on their sleeve more proudly than some of their contemporaries. The tracks on this debut lean heavily on various samples and drum machine concoctions—it's an approach that adds muscle and a more current aesthetic to save things from just being a trip down a memory lane that neither Follin nor Oblivion have an actual living memory of. So, in short, if Dum Dum Girls are too retro, and Sleigh Bells are too "I liked the paint fine on the walls, thank you", then Cults = your new favourite band.

As it turns out, they = a lot of people's new favourite band. And why not? Cults is certainly one very agreeable debut. It's even really well done and suggests a lot of potential in the pair. But it should be said: for now, there's not an awful lot to chew on here past one's first impressions. And as a side note, I can't help but wonder how the Raveonettes—a band who was a good decade ahead of the curve on this trend—feel about all of this attention being paid to Cults and the like. Oh well—as the final track on Cults says: "Rave On".

FUCKED UP - David Comes To Life

"1-2-3-4!" So goes the rallying cry of the punk rocker, just prior to his or her bandmates launching into their latest one-and-a-half minute, neck-snapping nugget of snot-flicking challenges. Blink and you'll miss it, or as the first CD compilation of early singles by Toronto's Fucked Up proclaimed: Epics in Minutes.

Of course, it's well documented that since that compilation, Fucked Up's recorded output has made a point of ignoring this template in favour of whatever other idea crossed their transom. Collaborations with folk singers and violinists; 18-minute singles; huge pop choruses sung by radio idols—it's all good. And if it angers the same fanbase that once championed them as our city's greatest hardcore hope, all the better. After all, in an era where the term "punk rock" has basically been demoted to Green Day and hair dye for most people, what's more punk than pissing off so-called real punks (and winning government-sponsored awards in the process)? Uh, nothing? Sure.

This has been the main angle behind most of Fucked Up's writing to date, and while I essentially disagree with none of it, I'd prefer to focus on a slightly different on take on their brand of music. For rather than seeing their obsession with toying with punk protocol as just another giant middle finger, I view it as a continuation of Toronto's musical group hug—one that started with Broken Social Scene, Three Gut Records, Wavelength, Blocks Recording Club, and many more about ten years ago. This may be easy for a cynic to mock, but as I'm not one, I see a great correlation between their approach and BSS's vigourous courting of unexpected artists on their albums; or the kitchen-sink experience of a typical night out at Wavelength; or the all-for-one grassroots gang of Blocks. Even further, both BSS's Kevin Drew and FU's Mike Haliechuk have worked hard to establish themselves as finders and promoters of local unsung talent, starting labels as well as managing and producing albums by unsung comrades.

In this respect, 2008's incredible Chemistry of Common Life played like their own You Forgot It In People: a breakthrough album that acknowledged not only the importance of a musical community at large, but the multiplicity of modern listening tastes. Like peanut butter and chocolate, we've long since discovered that different flavours often taste better together, and that part of the joy of listening to music is discovering a new blend for the first time—even if the end result turns out to be unpalatable.

Fucked Up—and the city of Toronto, in general—are far from inventors of this approach. But I think it is fair to say that in a scene as musically disparate as Toronto's, this is as close to an identity as we can claim. Sure, rivalries exist. But years of being the laughing stock of the English-speaking world's music scene meant that we learned to gain strength from each other. Now, David Comes To Life officially designates the band as the new standard bearers of Hogtown to the world. It's hooky (the "Dying on the inside" refrain of "The Other Shoe" is a particularly tenacious earworm), relentless in its length and momentum, full of head-turning guest spots (especially from the honeyed pipes of local folkie Jennifer Castle), and arrogantly confident. For every track beaten bloody by the ferocity of Damian Abraham's feral bark (and most of them are), they all stand tall with moments that directly recall the signatures of both '90s indie (the dizzy climax of "Remember My Name") and classic rock (the chorus of "Running On Nothing").

Then there is, of course, the fact that this record is not only a concept album, but a rock opera, firmly catapulting the band into conversations that involve one of rock's greatest ever groups, The Who. And to be honest, it's here that Fucked Up's reach slightly exceeds their grasp. Tommy is a lot more than just a bunch of songs that lyrically tell a connected story—it's also (most importantly) full of recurring musical motifs that contribute greatly to the overall arc of the entire album. Aside from a slow tremolo noise section that opens David and reappears here and there, the writing here cannot lay claim to such moments—at least not ones that resonate as immediately and deeply as the riff of "Pinball Wizard" or the "See Me, Feel Me" refrain. But hey, if we chastised every band for not being The Beatles, life would be awfully dull.

And so, David Comes To Life is a flawed album, but it's only so because it tries to do more in a single release than most bands attempt in a career. That naked ambition—as well as the contribution it makes to keeping Toronto a relevant and inspiring part of the global music scene—makes it a terrific achievement and one of the year's better albums thus far. A lot of people in this town—and many without knowing it or ever receiving praise—have worked long and hard to make a scene that could foster a band as composed and iconoclastic as Fucked Up. They honour that privilege by continuing to push the local benchmark even further.

FREDERICK SQUIRE - Sings Shenandoah and Other Popular Hits

Late last year we were treated to March 12, the debut album from Sackville, NB's Frederick Squire. If you were a fan of that album then be sure to grab Fred's just-released follow-up Frederick Squire Sings Shenandoah and Other Popular Hits. The title of the album does a good job of showcasing this talented singer's trademark wit: none of these songs are 'popular' or 'hits', no matter which way you look at them. However, taken together, these nine songs will further cement Fred as one of Canada's best singers and songwriters, definitely deserving of some popularity.

Running less than 30 minutes with each song flowing quickly into the next, it would be easy for this record to pass by unnoticed. Luckily, from the second Fred picks up his guitar (one of the many sounds left on the tape, alongside the odd creaky floorboard and bird chirp) and starts singing, you won't be able to ignore the beautiful music coming from your speakers.

The album starts and ends with two anomalies. The first track is the traditional song "Shenandoah", which sets the tone of the whole album, while the last song is "Theme From a Small Town", an instrumental that ties the album in with March 12's "Theme From a Northern Movie". In between, you'll find seven original compositions that explore very similar terrain. Pouring over the lyrics, there are a few words that show up over and over: 'dream', 'forgive', 'heaven' (and 'hell'). Don't let the heavy, often spiritual subject matter scare you away, though—while Fred obviously has a lot on his mind, he has a knack for creating utterly captivating melodies out of despair. Always careful with his words, Fred can start a song with a line like "Each mistake you make when you are young will be forgiven" and have it be the hook of the year. This is thanks in large part to his gift of a voice. Often singing at barely above a whisper, you'll surely get shivers each time he sings a little louder or draws out the end of a sentence (when his voice sounds like it's instantly aged 40 years).

With two impressive albums in such a short amount of time, you'll forgive us if we greedily hope Fred starts work on album #3 right away. Even if he doesn't, we're eternally grateful for all the great music he's already delivered, and we're confident we'll be satisfied for a while. You can take your time, Fred: we'll be waiting.

SLOAN - The Double Cross

There was a time in my life when Sloan meant as much to me as The Beatles—to whom they're so often compared—did to their fans. You could say that the band falling out of favour with me was an inevitability, but let's be frank; they didn't exactly help their cause. Even in the best possible light, albums like 2001's Pretty Together, 2003's Action Pact, and the obviously rock-solid (but unnecessary to a fan) singles comp A-Sides Win seemed to signify that this quartet had lost their songwriting mojo, and with it, my attention.

As such, I wasn't even looking in their general direction when 2006 brought the massive double album Never Hear The End of It—the thought of 30 tracks of the kind of cluttered, confused, rock-star-aping music they'd been making recently was, to say the least, unpalatable. But when I finally got around to giving it a chance, I very nearly made its title my literal mandate. It was in my stereo endlessly. Today, I'd say it may be their finest hour—not only for the fact that it's possiblly their best album, but because its brilliance, variety, and seemingly bottomless tunefulness immediately sent me back into a state of giddy fandom. I called up friends, breathlessly telling them that, in case they'd not yet heard, Sloan was back, baby!

Since that time, the band has entered a new and more lasting stage of love with me—the kind that you don't turn you back on with the same fickleness that accompanies youth. The Double Cross is getting all sorts of notice for the wordplay of its title, which coincides with the group's twentieth year. But the real story here is how, since NHTEOI, the band has tapped into a new comfort with their sound that manages to never be complacent. So much of the first half of the 2000s was about clinging to their inevitably fading "Money City Maniacs"/"Sensory Deprivation" beer commercial/radio dominance—it sounded like Sloan, but a cloying, anxious version, flashing its listener with riffs and cliches like a guy in a trench coat with Rolexes. Today's Sloan is far more at ease with their collective strengths. 

Like the two terrific albums that proceeded it, nothing on The Double Cross sounds unnatural, out-of-place or overthought. Once again, songs flow from one to the other like the second half of Abbey Road—early album highlight "Shadow of Love" even gets reprised at the end of "Beverly Terrace" in such a seamless way, it takes a couple listens to notice what the band has done. By this time, the roles of each member have been clearly defined—Ferguson is the pop classisist; Pentland the ball of pithy riff rock angst; Scott the basement-dwelling Dylan-loving sage; Murphy the wordy prankster—and they truly understand how to play off each other's tendencies to make a complete experience. The ebb and flow of this album is simply note-perfect.

When considering the band's legacy—as so many are apt to do right now in a series of band-produced YouTube clips—that's maybe what resonates the most. That for a group that have been considered one of Canada's greatest singles bands of the past twenty years, what they really do well (especially lately) is make perfect albums. And for all of the groups from whom they draw obvious influence, today, they only sound like one band: Sloan.

HOWLIN' WOLF - The Howlin' Wolf Album

The full name of this album is This is Howlin' Wolf’s new album. He doesn’t like it. He didn’t like his electric guitar at first either—hardly a ringing endorsement for this record, recorded in November 1968 by the Chess subsidiary Cadet, which was attempting to bring its roster of classic bluesmen a new audience that may have been weaned on the blues but was moving into psychedelia and heavier blues-rock territory.

A month before Howlin' Wolf recorded this album, Muddy Waters released Electric Mud, convinced by Marshall Chess to capitalize on the new sounds emerging from England and the American west coast.  Though reception was mixed, Marshall went ahead and produced a similar record with Howlin’ Wolf with many of the same players.

For my money, compared to Electric Mud, this is the better album. Sure, Muddy had the mighty "Tomcat" on his side, but taken as a whole Wolf’s edgier approach was better suited to the 'heavy' treatment. He had already recorded these tunes numerous times before, including "Back Door Man", which he opens with a statement saying "the thing that’s going on today is not the blues—it’s just a good beat the people just carry, but now when you come down to the blues, I’m gonna show you how to play the blues". Aside from the fuzz tone, it’s the most traditional sounding tune on the record. Great as it is, it’s the rest of the album that points to a direction that the blues could have taken instead of the dead-end path electric blues followed instead.

"Smokestack Lightning" is built around an evil three-bar loping riff, while preserving the original tune’s eccentric yodel.  It’s one of many songs in which fuzz guitar and bass pummel the kind of unison lines that were becoming the common language of artists as disparate as The Meters, Sly Stone, Black Sabbath, Parliament/Funkadelic and Led Zeppelin. "Spoonful" is given an eerie effect when a muted spectral guitar lead plays in lieu of his vocal intonation of the title word. "Built for Speed" loses its shuffle and slows it down to a dirgier groove. From the juke joint to the marijuana joint, this was no longer Chicago boozecan blues, speaking instead to the deeply stoned spirit of the times. Check out the difference between the choogling "Moanin' at Midnight" original compared to the percussion-less drone found here to get a sense of how with-it the whole concept was.

We already know Wolf disowned the record, and the flippant cover statement didn’t help matters either.  In retrospect, though, it’s an amazing statement from one of the masters showing the young turks that he was still boss. 

GRUFF RHYS - Hotel Shampoo

In his band of Welsh weirdos, Super Furry Animals, Gruff Rhys regularly leads the charge through a vast smorgasbord of psych, rock, electro and pop music—all seasoned with liberal dashes of metal, Latin, calypso and whatever else is lying around. Like the Creole dish gumbo, beyond the basic structure, the remaining contents in the pot are an equal case of whim and what's within arm's reach. His solo efforts, however—while still generally off-kilter—have tended to have a more narrow focus. Whether the all-Welsh song sketches of 2005's Yr Atal Genhedlaeth, or the acoustically powered folkpop of 2007's Candylion, these albums are more sharply defined. At least for someone as restless as Rhys.

Hotel Shampoo bridges the gap somewhat between these two worlds, and is easily the most SFA-ish solo effort by the man. If it lacks the guitar muscle or dance-club thud of his day job, it still boasts a tempting array of flavours. In keeping with being a solo release, it also manages to convey them in a fashion less schizo than a full-band effort. So even though we get the lush and lugubrious "Honey All Over", the briskly frank "Conservation Conversation", the sing-song "Sophie Softly", and the gorgeous horn-driven ballad "Take A Sentence", everything speaks fluently from tune to tune. Rhys' gorgeous tenor anchors the record in this respect, guiding the proceedings with a relaxed, casual hand while never dipping into the crazed scream of which he's more than capable. It's just not the right time, y'know?

After some twenty years at this, Rhys is well-skilled at making an album that is equally breezy and rich, consistent and varied. He's a highly underrated popsmith, and Hotel Shampoo is yet another beautiful day at the office.

tUnE-yArDs - w h o k i l l

We’ve been fans of tUnE-yArDs since their debut came out in 2009.  We wrote a glowing review of BiRd-BrAiNs, put it into a listening post, and we (and leader Merrill Garbus) don’t think there was another tUnE-yArDs window display until we made it so. We had a hard time keeping BiRd-BrAiNs in stock for a couple of reasons, but not because it was flying off the shelves: the disc was originally a limited edition after tUnE-yArDs signed to 4AD, but reception to it was initially muted. 

That was, until a couple of things happened. tUnE-yArDs hooked up with Dirty Projectors on a leg of their Bitte Orca tour, wowing crowds with their big sound and Garbus’ giant voice. Then, when Zach Galifianakis tweeted his love for the band, linking a video of their Soundscapes in-store appearance, things started to go a bit crazy online and, yes, here in the shop too. Now approaching 90,000 views, the performance of lead-off single "Bizness" has done its little part in helping to help garner w h o k i l l enough ink and sales to place it in the running for one of the top indie discs of the year. 

This time around, Garbus has chosen to use more than her handheld recording device to produce her tunes. She still uses found sounds and drum loops, and plucks her beloved baritone uke on occasion, but her sound is now bolstered by the addition of bassist Nate Brenner, lots of blaring sax, and a much beefier sound. Normally a switch from lo-fi to bigger production can have an alienating effect on an existing fanbase, but for tUnE-yArDs it makes perfect sense. Much the same way that Beck needed to put out Odelay after Mellow Gold, the sounds reverberating in Garbus’ head clearly needed the treatment they have received here. 

On "Bizness", for example, Garbus has given us one of the fiercest vocal performances of our time with its bombastic chorus and ping-pong weave of ooh’s, ka-ka’s, and ta-ta’s clearly influenced by the Projectors' "Remade Horizon". It’s a triumph that would not have been as great under more DIY production values. Garbus is a natural experimenter in the production chair (she gets a credit for the latest Thao & Mirah album); you can see her pulling a Prince-ly studio hermit act, poring over every tiny detail to ensure maximum effect. Indeed, "Powa" cribs nicely from the Purple One in the falsetto yelp department in delightful homage. 

The centre of all the interest in tUnE-yArDs is Garbus’ audacious singing voice. It’s pretty at times, but never afraid of taking massive risks and even sounding ugly when necessary. She’s the indie-rock Missy Elliot ("Killa" and "You Yes You"), both for pure quirk value and for taking an utterly unique and stylized approach and serving it up for a potentially much larger audience. Whatever form her mass appeal takes (yet another Facebook friend posted the wildly popular "Bizness" video while I was writing this), at least her discs and tickets sell much faster here in the shop than they used to!

WILD BEASTS - Smother

These gents have acquired taste written all over them—quirky pads of dark synths; herky-jerky beats that never settle on straight 4/4 rock groove; and, most contentiously, a near-sexual obsession with highly-dramatic falsetto and operatic preening. When this site reviewed their last effort, 2009's exceptional Two Dancers, these were all attributes that we pointed to in illustrating the brave conviction of this band. While this trait remains, Smother finds Wild Beasts less concerned with being bold and a little more focused on being quietly strange. Where Two Dancers often wailed and shouted its peculiarities to the world, Smother is delicate in its expressions.

Opener "Lion's Share" doesn't even introduce a beat into the proceedings, instead allowing singers Tom Flemming and Hayden Thrope to trade lines loaded with oblique ferocity: "I wait until you're woozy/I wait until you're lame/I take you in my mouth like a lion takes its game"; "Boy, what you running from?"; "I took the lion's share/not 'cause I didn't care/but just because it was there". It's a subtle, voyeuristic intro to a record that commits itself to the observation that "people are the strangest things".

Throughout, their characteristically shadowy sound ebbs and flows around the always thoughtful drumming of Chris Talbot. His signature approach to time-keeping sets itself on Smother as possibly their greatest asset—never taking a direct route through the tune, but always remaining immediate and embraceable. For a band as off-kilter as Wild Beasts are, it becomes the compass that keeps the album navigable and stable—from the stark stomp of "Plaything", the gently tumbling "Deeper", the bouncing "Reach a Bit Further" and all points in between, his drumming is an understated star.

As for the other 3/4 of the group, they show more than ever a desire to stay in the margins. Even their trademark breathy vocals are rarely overstated. Is this a tentativeness? Hardly. Smother has a coy elusiveness about it, for sure, but it's also supremely confident. On just their third album, Wild Beasts' bitter romanticism is making a case for them being one of the most special young bands working today. A taste not for everyone's palette, but one that is an indispensably heady indulgence once embraced.