VA - Brazil Bossa Beat! Bossa Nova and the Story of Elenco Records, Brazil

A perfect little label is what Elenco Records was, and in its short lifetime from 1963 to 1966 it produced a massively influential body of work that set new standards for bossa nova and the movements that would follow in its wake. Run by Aloysio de Oliveira, a former A&R man for Odeon and Philips, he started Elenco in direct opposition to the multinationals who despite having amazing artists stopped short of the breathtaking majesty that would set his records apart from theirs. 

After producing 60 records, many of them stone classics of Brazilian music, the label folded after helping launch the careers of Nara Leão, Edu Lobo, MPB-4, Quareto Em Cy, Baden Powell, and others. Because of its relatively finite catalog and remarkably high batting average in terms of quality, it should be recognized as one of the great indie labels, right up there with Studio One, Stax, and Rough Trade.  Unfortunately, Elenco has been largely unknown outside of Brazil. Hopefully this collection by Soul Jazz (the sister set to their equally tremendous and previously-reviewed Bossa Nova and the Rise of Brazilian Music in the 1960s) will help shed light on this criminally overlooked label.

Elenco first caught my eye in the late '90s, when their iconic black/red/white cover art caught my eye via two albums: Quarteto Em Cy’s self-titled 1966 album and Nara Leao’s 1964 debut. Both albums saw endless airplay at my house and set me off on a years-long obsession with the label (when my wife and I got engaged, we got a high-contrast photo of us and gave it to the designer of our invitation along with a half-dozen of our favourite Elenco covers for him to emulate!).

The care that went into the album covers, designed by Cesar Villela and photographer Francisco Pereira, is echoed in the music on each record. Oliveira’s team of arrangers were retro-modernists, not afraid to use an orchestra regularly but getting them to produce bold and at times outré arrangements. Elenco recordings are also marked by their flawless warmth of production.

The aforementioned albums by Nara Leão and Quarteto Em Cy are represented here. The latter’s "Amaralina" (incorrectly listed as "Amoralina"), with its unforgettable "shkin-deng-deng shkin-deng-dong" refrain, jazzily outdoes The Chordettes with an unexpected and otherworldly midpoint a capella re-harmonization of the first two lines that will blow your mind. Their version of "Canto de Ossanha" is pure harmony vocal heaven—fans of The Free Design, The Beach Boys, and The Beatles need to listen up. Nara Leão, the so-called "Muse of Bossa Nova" (see our review of Bossa Nova And The Rise Of Brazilian Music below), has three tunes from her debut here, including the first version of "Nana", which she snagged before Bola Sete even got a chance to write lyrics for it (she scats the melody instead).

The Brazilians are well known for their love of vocalese refrains, and Edu Lobo, a true giant of Brazilian music for so many reasons, was one of the greatest in this respect. His three featured songs are all part of the canon of '60s Brazilian music (“Reza”, “Upa Neguinho” and “Zanzibar”), and all include famous scat hooks.

This could have easily been a double-disc collection to accommodate more from MPB4 (their version of "Cravo e Canela" is arguably the best ever recorded), Baden Powell (proof that 'guitar virtuoso' and 'tasteful' are not mutually exclusive terms), Sylvia Telles (who established herself as a great singer before marrying Oliveira), and those throwbacks to a previous era who transitioned to the bossa era quite nicely (Lucio Alves, Sergio Ricardo). Then there are those who, probably due to licensing issues, recorded for the label but are not included here (hello, Antonio Carlos Jobim, Dorival Caymmi, Maysa, Maria Bethania, and Sergio Mendez).

This is a flawless set, though, and one that brilliantly follows up on an already great collection of Brazilian bossa nova. An early contender for my top spot for 2011 reissues; do your spirits a favour and pick this one up.

SNOWBLINK - Long Live

Dedicated followers of this space will know that the world of Soundscapes has been rather obsessed with this record as of late. The truth is, it's been with us for a lot longer than that. Although it's just recently celebrated its worldwide release, Long Live has been a consignment and merch table treasure for nearly three years now, and it's been very gently rocking our world (in a cradled-by-your-mom sort of way) ever since.

To say that this admirable little album has lost none of its lustre in the ensuing time is an understatement. Rather, its soft glow has only grown more entrancing and beguiling. In many ways, this slow build to prominence suits the act perfectly—this is a record that clearly has no issues with taking its time to make acquaintances.

Singer/songwriter Daniela Gesundheit is the person at the core of Snowblink. Her meandering journey to this point is one that has seen her come from California to Toronto (Seriously! In your face, L.A. music scene!), and share both the stage and studio with an impressive list of American and Canadian indie talent, including members of Dirty Projectors, Deerhoof, Vetiver, Ryan Driver, Owen Pallett and Broken Social Scene. But, lest that last name give you the impression that Long Live is some sort of everything-and-the-kitchen-sink indie love-in, guess again. Every ounce of this patient, luminous album feels as though it has been distilled like rose water from thousands of petals, leaving behind only the purest of moments.

Its take on folk and pastoral pop is hardly without precedent, but Gesundheit always comes across as though she's presenting her most honest side available. Nothing feels put-on and she is entirely unfamiliar with overstatement, with many tracks acting more as interludes that don’t even crack a minute in length. Even the most immediate and memorable parts of the album—like the rising, swirling coda of "Ambergris"—are less big moments than simply a longer, lingering assertion of Gesundheit’s comforting voice and relaxed way with a song.

Perhaps nowhere is this relaxed approach more evident than in how the album ends. Whereas most albums build to some sort of definitive conclusion, Long Live continues to catch me off-guard in how it just sort of stops without warning—even as the lovely echo of final track “The Haunt” pleads its strong case to stick around. It’s a funny, arty gambit, but if such an unexpected approach to rounding off her debut is meant to jar the listener into an immediate repeat visit to her world, then it's an astute move, for while Long Live may be an easy album to immerse oneself in, it’s far more difficult to walk away from.

SHOTGUN JIMMIE - Transistor Sister

Jim Kilpatrick, as he's known to his friends and family, has been at it a while now, and with the delivery of his fourth solo record he's taken all that he's learned over the last decade and distilled it down to make his most compact and impressive record to date. Clocking in at exactly 30 minutes, over the course of 16 tracks the Sackville, New Brunswick resident covers a lot of ground in not a lot of time. Granted, some of those tracks are nothing more than the sound of someone running up a flight of stairs (the aptly named "Confidence Lodge Stairwell Recording #1") or a recording of a beautiful, but very short, few bars of piano playing ("Piano"). The rest of the album, however, is made up of actual songs, including some of his best work yet.

Fans will be happy to hear the same Jimmie they've come to love—you could say he's still Jimmie—but there are a few treats in store for those who listen closely. He's cleaned up his sound since his last album, 2009's aforementioned excellent but scrappy Still Jimmie, moving from a lo-fi basement approach to Confidence Lodge Studio in Riverport, Nova Scotia. As he did on his first three records, on Transistor Sister Jimmie hooks up with a different group of musicians to help flesh out his one-man-band sound. This time around he's joined by Ryan Peters of Ladyhawk and Jay Baird, who moonlights in everything from Do Make Say Think to Feist's live band. Taking inspiration from his Sackville surroundings ("Too Many Flowers" and "Swamp Magic) to a recent European tour ("The King of Kreuzberg") and memories of his youth ("The Hazy" and "Suzy," with its delicious verse, "I used to walk Suzy home from school/she painted my portrait in a red vest/her parents always had lots to eat in the fridge/it was where I first saw Stop Making Sense"), Transistor Sister contains some of Shotgun Jimmie's best songs.

LYKKE LI - Wounded Rhymes

Every time my three year-old daughter hears distinct drumming, she turns to me and asks, "Daddy, can you hear the drums?" Consequently, I'm hearing that question a lot when I listen to the new Lykke Li in her presence. For her second release, the Swedish singer has decided to add some muscle to her frame in the form of frequently thumping, tribal percussion—call it "Pounded Rhymes." Nearly half of the tracks—and most of the immediate ones—are driven by Spector-esque patterns of deep echoing toms. Add on a healthy dose of organ and classic vocal hooks, and it starts to get tempting to slot Li alongside the many contemporary garage/girl-group revival acts like Best Coast or Dum Dum Girls.

Except, she’s not very garage-rock. Unlike those bands—and thanks in no small part to the skilled production of Bjorn Yttling (of Peter, Bjorn & John)—her approach is far more honed and set on the big time. It's not so much that Wounded Rhymes feels like a sellout, but rather than play up the "shy, shy, shy" persona of her debut Youth Novels, Li is now full of bravado. This newfound cocksureness does occasionally lead her to questionable places—the much talked about "I'm your prostitute" line from first single, "Get Some", only really works if you don't think about it too much—but overall, it's easy to get swept up in her eager exuberance. There's a thrill to be had in the more energetic parts of the record that speaks directly to one's early 20s.

Even more importantly, she has wisely not abandoned her vulnerability altogether. Instead, her swagger works to provide a sharp repose to the more tender moments of the album. Tracks like "Unrequited Love" and "Love Out of Lust" are gorgeous and ache with a feeling that Li wasn't quite able to conjure before. Taken as a whole, the songs on this record work together to communicate a confidence that tries to hide fragility, while making it clear that ultimately, it's the more delicate impulses that still drive her. When it’s all delivered through such strong pop songs, her internal power struggle—between reckless libido and emotional dedication—is a fascinating one to track. All of which suggests that in twenty years’ time, this album might mean a lot more to my daughter than just a bunch of great drumming.

THE RADIO DEPT. - Passive Aggressive: Singles 2002-2010

It was only last year that this Swedish pop act released one of the best records of the year—the gorgeous Clinging To A Scheme. That album introduced them to a slightly wider audience, which of course makes the timing of this release an easy thing to be cynical about: "Time to cash in boys, it's probably the best chance you'll get!"

Fair enough. But as someone who is admittedly one of those people who only came onside to the band last year—and, not to mention, also becoming increasingly less judgmental of such things as I get older—I say "Thanks!", because Passive Aggressive: Singles 2002-2010 makes an excellently concise 14-song argument for loving these guys, all while throwing in another 14 more B-sides to help reward the more loyal patrons of their brand.

And The Radio Dept.'s brand is one that has attracted such loyalty for good reason. The first disc here never once loses stride, opening with the gleefully fuzzed-out "Why Won't You Talk About It?" and skipping into the crisp basement gem "Where Damage Isn't Already Done" with effortless ease. What really stands out listening to these singles all in a row is how the band has found a way to grow in subtle ways despite working within an awfully narrow paradigm. All of these tracks bear similar trademarks, but where earlier statements tend to the simpler side (the delicate "Annie Laurie", the direct "Ewan"), later tracks gradually become more sinewy and layered, climaxing in the brilliant double shot of "David" and "Heaven's On Fire" off of last year's triumphant release. The shift isn’t dramatic by any means, but it’s there and a real testament to the way this band continues to improve.

At a whopping 28 tracks all together, hearing the two CDs in one sitting does risk the disservice of making The Radio Dept. seem more effete than they are. But what they lack in guts or daring, they've more than made up in startling consistency. Even the second disc of supposed ‘throwaways’ contains enough winners to make a great debut for some as-yet-unformed Slumberland act. Buy this and take notes accordingly, young popsters.

THE DEARS - Degeneration Street

Even though they once enjoyed a solid spell as the next-big-things of Canadian indie rock, Montreal's The Dears have always been underdogs at heart. The band is keenly aware of this. After taking forever to tweak with what should've made their coronation, they released their second LP (2003’s No Cities Left) and found that much of the world had moved on without them, never giving them the same accolades enjoyed by similar then-up-and-comers Broken Social Scene and Stars. The title of their next record? Gang of Losers.

If the band was trying to move forward by having a good laugh at their own expense, real life decided there was a little more life in the joke yet. By the time of 2008’s quite underrated Missiles, a full-scale mutiny had taken place, temporarily leaving behind only husband-and-wife founders Murray Lightburn and Natalia Yanchuk to guide the ship. In some ways, this played right into the band’s hands. For a group so steeped in a Morrissey-style brand of self-pity and grandiose malaise, tragedies such as this could seem to have fallen like manna from heaven. But the total lack of cohesion within their ranks and a listening public that was continually drifting away from them had many feeling that this latest setback would be the one to break the band.

So it’s rather impressive just how inspired and uplifting a record Degeneration Street is. While hardly without its moments of introspection and even heavy-handed worry and woe, the record is full of tunes that are brisk and compelling. The Dears have never had a problem writing a catchy song and then playing it with complete abandon. This album is falling all over itself with examples of this: "Blood", "Thrones", "5 Chords" and "Yesteryear" all fit the bill. Similarly, the moments where things do get weepy ("Lamentation", "Galactic Tides") are bloody gorgeous and never overstay their welcome (even if the 11-minute closer off Missiles, "Saviour", is one of the best things the band has ever done, they wisely do not try to repeat that feat here). What the album lacks in signature tension-building jams and psychedelic washes of noise, it makes up for in what pound-for-pound has to be the best bunch of tunes they’ve ever put together on an LP.

It also brings the focus back squarely to the two assets that had people falling over themselves about The Dears initially. The first is shit-hot musicianship—even when they dip into a cliched blues-rock lick here or there, the band plays these tunes with euphoric vigour and an endless variety of feel. The second, of course, is Lightburn’s voice. The man is a frighteningly capable and committed singer. And if, as certain websites have been overly eager to point out, you think he’s guilty of bringing it too much, all the time, well, so be it. But for my dollar, you could gag the man and he’d still find a way to sing with more guts and heart than 95% of singers out there. That’s because both Lightburn and The Dears in general are indeed a street gang of losers, a rabid pack of underdogs chewing in every direction for the scraps from the world’s table. Are their enemies real or imagined? Are their plights really as horrible as perceived? Are they just a bunch of maudlin babies?

Really, who cares? This is passionate, human rock music. That’s worth something. It’s worth quite a lot, actually. 

PJ HARVEY - Let England Shake

For ten years now, there have been a great many people waiting for PJ Harvey to follow up her breakthrough 2000 LP, Stories From The City, Stories From The Sea (an album that Harrison Ford bought here at Soundscapes...true story!!) with another release of similar disposition. Good luck.

As anyone who has followed Harvey's career prior to that record (as well as since) can tell you, this gifted, determined artist rarely does the same thing twice. After she dismantled the garage-blues trio format of her first two albums to emerge as the vibrant torch singer of 1995's To Bring You My Love, there was no turning back. Unlike the commercial peaks of so many other musicians, Stories wasn't the desired culmination of years of refining her process—it was just another act in a much larger life-spanning production; one of many costume changes.

With all of that out of the way, however, it's not just a cruel tease to those who loved Stories to say that Let England Shake is the most immediate and poppy album Harvey has done since. It's an honest appraisal of what is a truly excellent LP. The record moves with a briskness and sings with a welcoming appeal that we've not seen from her for years. Few songs linger overly long, but all of them are presented with great openness—something missing on her last few more cryptic releases. The jaunty horns of "The Last Living Rose", the bouncy vibes of the title track, and especially the awesome Niney The Observer-sampling "Written on the Forehead" all sparkle on first listen—yet none compromise in terms of invention or theme, remaining true to the obvious high standards Harvey keeps for herself.

What's perhaps most remarkable here is that this record is so inviting, given its subject matter. Both a post-mortem of England's involvement in world wars past and an examination of its present, the album is unflinching in its focus on the horrors of war, the casualties of imperialism, and the fading of a nation that Harvey loves. Even when discussing these subjects, she sings with the kind of consistently clear and open tones than made her so many new fans on Stories. 

The entire record is relaxed and warm—this is especially true when she harmonizes with the accompanying vocals of her male musicians on tracks like "The Words That Maketh Murder", "On Battleship Hill" and the lovely closer, "The Colour of the Earth". It's the kind of group hug/pub shanty moment that would've been unthinkable on either the toothy, greasy Uh Huh Her or the pristine and desolate White Chalk. And so convincing are the performances, I'm sure a few people might wonder what took her so long to come back to this seemingly more agreeable place.

But her long road back here (as much as here is still its own unique place, and by no means an exact return) makes sense. Harvey openly admitted in interviews following Stories that that record was made as a personal challenge and that the end product left her dissatisfied—a feeling consolidated by admissions from respected fellow musicians such as the late Captain Beefheart that they did not enjoy the album much either. It makes sense. As beautiful as it is, Stories felt odd in the PJ catalogue when it arrived and still does today. England, on the other hand, tackles an embraceable (for her) vein of writing in a way that is more in sync with the rest of her catalogue. This is a pop album, yes, but one made on her distinct terms, not as per a traditional rock blueprint. 

This wonderful result is almost enough to fool you into thinking that Let England Shake represents a place PJ has always been searching for her whole career, but I doubt it. Rather, it's just where she finds herself today—and as a convenient by-product, we get to hear the best record she's made in many years. Enjoy how it sounds now, folks: there's no telling where she's headed next.

VA - Bossa Nova and the Rise of Brazilian Music in the 1960s

There have been a million bossa nova compilations released since the toned-down samba form came into existence in the late 1950s. Through the years, it has not been able to shake its perception as a cute and frivolously breezy soundtrack for cocktail parties. This is largely thanks to the disproportionate attention given to one song, "The Girl From Ipanema", and the moderately talented Astrud Gilberto, who happened to be in the studio when her husband was recording the tune with Stan Getz. From there, bossa as we know it became a very west coast cool jazz sound, codified into a 3-3-4-3-3 rhythmic pattern that was never indigenous to bossa in the first place and represented on collections by the same old five songs—you know them well: "Desafinado", "One Note Samba", "Wave", "Chega De Saudade", and of course, that darned "Girl From Ipanema". 

The scene in the 1960s was a lot more interesting than conservative compilers allowed us to know about, until the Acid Jazz scene really started to dig for obscurities in the '80s and '90s, before finally leading to a massive deluge of reissues in the late '90s and early 2000s.  During this time, collections of Brazilian rare grooves focused on the impossibly obscure, often, again, missing out on the narrative of bossa nova as it actually developed in Brazil. 

John Kong, label boss of Do Right Records, referred to this as a "bossa nova 101" collection, while browsing in our shop on one of his regular visits, and he’s right. What is most interesting is how this is, in my mind, the first of its kind to get it right by avoiding the false clichés of the genre while staying clear of the pitfalls of steering too heavily toward the hopelessly obscure. Having spent hundreds of dollars on this stuff before downloading put an end to the goldrush, most of this is familiar to me, but the sequencing, in-depth liner notes, and impeccable tracklisting from Gilles Peterson and Stuart Baker make this an essential reissue for collectors and newcomers alike.

One of the key indicators that this would be a solid set was the inclusion of the criminally overlooked Nara Leão, the beautifully fragile singer who arguably invented MPB (the rich open-minded popular music of Brazil of the past 40 years), and was so beloved by the tropicalistas for her forward-looking musical vision that they adopted it as a model for their progressive movement. (In fact, that’s her on the cover of Tropicalia: Ou Panis A Circenis, in a framed portrait held by Caetano Veloso.) Following her 1964 debut on the Elenco label (whose black, white and red iconography predates Jack White's by decades), she never stood still, constantly developing her style and always having the best choice of tunes; after all, her role as the 'muse of bossa nova' (her bourgeois background and spacious Copacabana apartment allowed her to regularly host most of the major figures of the second wave of bossa, where they would workshop their latest compositions and guitar tricks) put her in a position in which she could be the auteur of her artistic development. The same could never be said about Astrud Gilberto. 

Leão’s "Berimbau (Ritmo De Capoeira)" is her only track included, but her influence is all over it, a slightly darker and moodier version of bossa than you might be used to. Edu Lobo, who supported Leão when the bossa scene fractured into a politically progressive wing (represented by Leão and others) and another, more conservative one, shows up here with a version of "Ponteio" that is happily new to me.  He’s also got "Aguaverde", one of his many vocalese tracks. The Technicolor arrangements of Roberto Menescal light up the 5/4 "Inverno", while another track in 5, Wanda Sã’s delicious "Adriana", is a surprising but savvy inclusion. 

Goodness, I could go on and on about this stuff, but I’ll leave you to dig in yourself. I can only hope that this will set off a rash of reissues of originals that are patiently awaiting a second go at it. For now, please enjoy this absolutely essential 2CD package (alternatively available as two separate double-vinyl volumes), made even better if you pick up the eponymous companion oversize book, which documents the fabulous album art that gave a face to the rise of Brazilian music in the 1960s. Once again, Soul Jazz has set the bar high on this one, making this an early contender for best international reissue of the year.  

(Ed. note: We've also just received stock of the single-disc follow-up that supplements/accompanies this set, this time focusing solely on the Elenco roster, titled Brazil Bossa Beat! Bossa Nova and the Story of Elenco Records, Brazil.)

WILLIE WRIGHT - Telling the Truth

For Willie Wright to have recorded a spare soul-drenched folk album in a single-day session in 1977 New York, it’s hard to imagine he was hoping for renown stretching beyond the night spots and Nantucket yacht clubs where the travelling musician played at and sold this, his second album. 

Like many singers of his generation, Wright got his start in doo-wop groups before falling into the folk scene and recording an album in 1963 on Argo Folk, a subsidiary of Chess Records. In the intervening years between that album and Telling The Truth, he seemed to have developed a taste for faux island rhythms to add zest to his often meditative atmospheric folk. The arrangements here are super-lean, usually boasting little more than guitar commentary from The Jimmy Castor Bunch’s Harry Jensen, hippy-dippy flute, and light percussion with the occasional funky rhythm section on the more swinging tunes. Call it spiritual folk jazz, an unusual descriptor for sure, but one that only applies to a few 1970s artists, including Terry Callier, Jon Lucien, John Martyn, Eugene McDaniels, and Gil Scott-Heron. 

Not all is on the esoteric end of things: "I’m So Happy Now" swings nicely with the help of his daughter Sheila on vocals, while "Nantucket Island" ends up slightly more Caribbean than it should considering its subject, but so what? "Love is Expensive" brings a touch of reggae bounce, and on "Lady of the Year" and "Son, Don’t Let Life Pass You By", he’s a dead ringer for Lou Rawls. But it was his take on Curtis Mayfield’s “Right On For Darkness” that first caught attention of collectors. Not only is it included here on disc, but it’s also thrown in as a bonus functional 5" (!) vinyl single, backed with the self-identity-probing "Africa". 

Of course, this sold like hotcakes at dinnertime—a nice idea, but a bit on the later side of timing. Wright disappeared further into obscurity, never to record again, although the opportunity did arise in 1981 for another New York City session. (He never bothered to show up.) Diagnosed with Parkinson’s, he still writes today, but is long retired from live performance, so don’t hold your breath for a comeback.

DEERHOOF - Deerhoof vs. Evil

Sometimes, it's just not honest to play the role of the sober, objective reviewer. For as much as drooling fandom can be a disservice to a reader looking for a fair indicator of something new to listen to, feigning a neutral position often gets in the way of displaying the true emotion certain music can spark within us. So it is with the following disclaimer that I review the new album by this San Francisco quartet: I LOVE Deerhoof. I'm talking like 'how peanut butter loves chocolate' love: entirely and fully immersed in my candy-coated dedication.

Why the love? Read the title, man: they fight EVIL. They're a noble band.

The "evil" that Deerhoof are fighting this time around is the same villain they've successfully pit themselves against their whole career: predictability. No matter how each has differed in approach, every Deerhoof album (and indeed each individual tune) strives to be one step ahead of its listener. While a little more reliant on electronic beats and blurbs than before, Deerhoof vs. Evil hods true to that aim. 

As always, what makes this relentless bobbing and weaving so compelling (rather than just exhausting) comes down to two things. Firstly, this quirky group always manages to be extremely catchy, albeit in unorthodox ways. Satomi's childlike chirp of a voice isn't for everybody, but its simplicity and direct approach to melody acts as a life raft amongst the ever-shifting backdrop of their music. No matter the maelstrom, she's there keeping things steady. (And if any singer is likely to have you walking down the street humming lines like "People need a gorilla" to yourself, it's her). 

Secondly, it really helps Deerhoof's cause that like other iconoclastic art-rockers such as Frank Zappa, they can really play their instruments. This isn't just bratty punk destruction of songcraft—it's a gleeful picking at conventional structures by a group of musicians who have the chops to do it. So just when you feel the band may be a little too willful in their self-sabotage of form, moments like the gorgeously fluttering Spanish guitar of "No One Asked To Dance" or the rollercoaster shifts of "Behold a Marvel in the Darkness" carry a confidence that reminds you that their is indeed a firm, experienced hand on the wheel.

If Deerhoof vs. Evil is a creative shade below past high-water marks like 2007's Friend Opportunity or the wild 20-song ride of 2005's The Runners Four, it is also one of the more direct and pleasing albums that they've made. That's a relative statement—their meat-and-potatoes is most other bands' haute fusion cuisine—but with über-pop candy like "Super Rescue Heads!" and the tight groove of "Secret Mobilization" leading the charge, now just might be the time for a few curious onlookers to join Deerhoof's gallant fight.

MOGWAI - Hardcore Will Never Die, But You Will

Remember the days when Mogwai was supposed to save music?

In case that sounds like the setup for a snide, derisive takedown of the now somewhat veteran Scots, it's not. Back in the late '90s, Stephen Malkmus' famous prediction that Mogwai were the "best band of the 21st Century" felt in no way an exaggeration. Everything about the mostly instrumental group's sound was primed to launch indie rock into some new plane of existence—taking the haunted minimalism and starkness of what was becoming post-rock and marrying it to both a simple melodiousness and—in particular—moments of destructive heaviosity. With ear-crushing live shows of legendary import, Mogwai's music changed how half of indie rock was being played, to the point where every second new band bore very distinct traces of their sound (if not a wholesale lifting of it).

After Mogwai finished pushing themselves to the absolute limits their style dictated (climaxing in the 20-minute brutality of "My Father, My King", a hallowed set-closer that bore witness to a forceful peak worthy of its title), the group began to explore songs that were shorter and that revolved more completely around melody. The first result of this shift, 2003's Happy Songs For Happy People, has endured to be (in my opinion, at least) one of the finest in the band's catalogue. Tracks like the vocoder-fueled ballad "Hunted By A Freak" revealed how Mogwai had evolved to write highly immediate, yet oddly expressed pop songs, while the massive middle of "Ratts Of The Capital" reminded us that their raw power was still present when they chose to exploit it.

But following this small victory, the band displayed a kind of cruise control. Neither Mr. Beast (2006) nor The Hawk Is Howling (2008) are especially bad albums, but they both found Mogwai a little aimless—more efficient than inspired, more competent than memorable. Now after moving to a new North American label (to Sub Pop from Matador), the brilliantly-titled Hardcore Will Never Die, But You Will certainly sounds like a defining statement, if a little tongue-in-cheek.

Just as the title implies both an iron endurance and a winking surrender to the inevitable, Mogwai's latest gains great strength by playing entirely within their known sonic boundaries, rather than trying to break through them. "Rano Pano"'s endlessly restated riff is a stirling example of how well they can be heavy and robotic, yet still convey crackling feeling. And whether quick and to the point ("San Pedro"), languid and drifting ("Letters To The Metro"), or playing their unique strain of cyborg motorik pop ("Mexican Grand Prix"), there's just something about the record that feels far more at ease than on their past two studio albums.

Of course, maybe it's just me as a listener, too. While the band's output has not slowed down any (last year also saw a very good live album and film released by the group), the belief that they are the future of music has clearly waned. As much as getting over that can be a pain, by seeing themselves through to the other side, a new kind of appreciation has set in. New label. New record. In 2011, Mogwai are now just another band. They may no longer change the world, but they and their music are all the better for it. 

JAMES BLAKE - S/T

In the world of sports, there's a term for young players whose raw potential balances out their often naively bad decisions and one-dimensional play. It's known as having an "upside". A good upside is why a general manager will seemingly risk a team's future on a slight kid with no defensive skills but a devastatingly quick snapshot and an unflappable go-to deke. The bet is that with proper nurturing, the kid could become a superstar. But he could also remain a nifty shot and little else.

Right now, the blogosphere is seeing the upside to young Brit James Blake, and everyone wants in on the action. With good reason. Over the course of a few EPs and singles, Blake's approach to the cavernous, patiently shuddering world of dubstep has grown in leaps and bounds—each new release suggesting an impressive understanding of how to manipulate technology, while also displaying sound and daringly naked skills as a singer. After teasing with his confidently abridged slo-mo version of Feist's "Limit To Your Love" late last year, bets were on for his debut full-length to be this year's The xx—a chilled-out, dark and moody Anglo urban pop hybrid that reached listeners across the public spectrum.

For the most part, it is: numerous reviews have already and will continue to praise the record's confidently eloquent composure, dazzlingly gorgeous production, and overall refusal to bend to common notions of what a 'song' is. And yet, it's with that last point that I think the hype surrounding Blake must be taken soberly: for his sake as much as our own. 

The guy is a total wunderkind and his debut sounds fantastic. It pushes dubstep into intriguing and—for some of the young genre's purists—controversial places. But he’s not much of a songwriter.
Of the 11 tracks on James Blake, less than half have anything resembling a verse/chorus structure, often choosing to follow Blake’s rule of thumb: find a sentence or two that you like, and repeat it forever. Fine, you say? That's the point?

I suppose. After all, only last year Four Tet's excellent There Is Love In You featured numerous tracks very successfully based around cutting and splicing a single vocal hook. And from Jim O'Rourke to LCD Soundsystem to old Delta blues singers, plenty of artists have the played the game of getting a lot out of very few words. But when the words in question are a couplet as maudlin as "My brother and my sister don’t speak to me/but I don’t blame them", it takes a certain kind of patience to get through a song that repeats them nine times in a row. 

By focusing so much on vocals on his debut, Blake is opening himself to this sort of scrutiny. To his credit, he works very hard to assure the listener that it's the technique with which he delivers his minimal text that is most important. The song in question above, "I Never Learnt To Share", is introduced with an ever-building set of harmonies that would make most neo-soul singers weep with jealousy. "Lindisfarne I & II" pitch-shifts and roboticizes its vocals to a blissful binary oblivion—like a haunting ballad for the garbage-sorting robot from Wall-E. On "I Mind" he samples himself into alluring aural knots, wriggling his way free at the tightest moments with the ease of a magician. Again and again, Blake subjects his rather beautiful voice to a digital bruising, and these sounds convey emotion a hell of lot better than the words themselves. 

None of these quibbles can hide the fact that this record is quite unbelievably beautiful and inventive. I love it immensely. But still, like a 20-year-old hotshot winger with a lethal shot, it pays in the long run to analyze a rookie's shortcomings while acknowledging his natural talent. Perhaps a savvy 'vet' like Caribou holds an example of how an electronic artist can improve as a songwriter without ever becoming stagnant and bending fully to its rules. James Blake's upside is huge. He could be the Antony or Jeff Buckley of dubstep. But if he's not careful, he could just as easily be its James Blunt.

CUT COPY - Zonoscope

You know what's old news? The '80s are back. Heck, given what young bands like Smith Westerns are doing (along with numerous reunions from Polvo and Pavement to Archers Of Loaf), it's kind of even old news to say that the '90s are back. But while the '80s' once-ghettoized electronic drums and arpeggiated synths have become so completely reabsorbed into our musical culture as to feel permanently redeemed, not all touchstones of the Reagan era have been so evenly reinstated. Singer Dan Whitford of Melbourne, Australia natives Cut Copy is an embodiment of one of those touchstones: the impassioned white-guy yelp.

I’m talking Andy McCluskey of OMD on "If You Leave" styles—the cry of the hopelessly romantic Caucasian male, so completely devoid of grit, dirt or guts that it practically cleans your bathroom mirror as it sings. For the most part, the '80s revivalists of the aughts preferred to stay to the more deadpan, wailing or sneering sides of vocalization. After all, as long as this was the case, those with colder feet could still make a case for irony or punk iconoclasm.

Not Whitford. This guy’s purely populist pop pleas echo without a trace of a wink—he means it like Bono or Chris Martin mean it, except over music that neither of those artists are especially good at making (anyone remember Pop?). Fortunately for Whitford, he and his bandmates are very, very good at making that type of music. Which brings us to their third album, Zonoscope. Even though this record closes with a shimmering 15-minute throwdown ("Sun God") and features an instrumental interlude of twinkling beauty ("Strange Nostalgia For The Future"), most of it rides on the back of Whitford’s performance.

While highly danceable, his presence and vibrant emoting is never anywhere but front and centre. In other words, no matter what the songs are doing, if you don’t buy him, there’s no getting around it.
As such, I feel albums like this represents a key point in our culture revisiting the '80s. It’s clearly no longer about picking and choosing the coolest parts of the time period anymore. Zonoscope hones in on the most flagrant aspects of that decade’s dance-pop and revels in them with total abandon. Its production style and overall oomph may be a bit more modern, but its spirit is entirely borrowed. And what’s more, it’s a spirit that, for the most part, led to a following movement in music that was based on guitars, sloppiness and sarcasm (please see: grunge/4-track indie)—a wholesale renouncing of all of the traits that make Zonoscope such a buoyant and optimistic listen. So the question is: now that we’re back here, are we here to stay? Can the Cut Copys of the world co-exist with the next Sebadohs and Mudhoneys in our collections?

Only time is going to tell how cool it’ll be to sound like these guys in 2018, but for now, can I just say, "Yes!!"? Because all over this album—the opening one-two punch of "Need You Now" and "Take Me Over", the perfect final ascension of "Pharaohs & Pyramids", the almost indie-rock bliss of "Alisa"—are moments whose instant enjoyability belie the skill it takes to craft them. This is a great record, and in the same way that listening to OMD’s "So In Love" or Pet Shop Boys’ "Heart" should now leave you a little agog, these Aussies are making pop music that sounds terrific today, and, hopefully, classic in the future. 

WIRE - Red Barked Tree

"Who are your influences?"

That, the most hated and rudimentary of rock band interview questions, is also one of the most difficult ones to answer honestly. That's because the same cross-pollination that has led us to increasingly broad record collections has greatly muddied and blurred whole paths of rock's family tree. Do young bands that model themselves after Radiohead know that much about Neu! or Autechre? Let's call it indirect inspiration.

In this case, few bands can claim to be as unknowingly pickpocketed by the present as Wire. Sure, that whole Elastica thing was pretty blatant, but nearly two decades after that incident, it's telling that you don't even need to sound much like Wire to borrow from their playbook. Their clipped song lengths and nervous guitar riffs; their synth explorations and mood-setting slabs of atmosphere; their moments of minimalist rhythms—artists can pick up on any one of these characteristics and run with them in any direction they choose (see Guided By Voices' Robert Pollard's assertion that Wire were his favourite band, bringing tiny song lengths to his otherwise Beatles/Who/prog inspired records).

Thankfully, you can add to that list Wire themselves. Because even though 1976 was thirty-five years ago, the band has—intermittently at least—continued to build from and expand on their ground-breaking sound. With Red Barked Tree, their twelfth album, Wire continue to make music that sounds both completely at home in their back catalogue and thoroughly contemporary. 

Despite the mileage, the group is anything but tentative. The lock-step "Moreover" and accurately-titled "Two Minutes" are full of singer Colin Newman's heavily enunciated English vigour, and find Wire in pretty admirable fighting shape. On their own, these noisier tunes would feel a touch forced for a bunch of men pushing 60. Fortunately, these gents were never as simple a concept as many of their contemporaries turned out to be. An ability to construct affectingly reflective pop songs provides Red Barked Tree with the balance that makes it tick. "Adapt" swirls and spins around a beautiful drifting melody, while the acoustically-powered title track is a stately closer that glides home on its repeated quest "to find the healing red-barked trees". And it's not all just about ping-ponging sonically between extremes. "Smash" is the best of both worlds, merging sheets of feedback with a total ear-candy chorus.

For a band that built their rep on playing unpredictably with all of the best elements of punk, underground pop, and experimental music, it makes complete sense that Wire have aged so well—they're never really in one spot long enough for anything to get stale.



DESTROYER - Kaputt

I was participating in a playful little internet discussion the other day that centered around a friend's query about when, if ever, there would come a day that he could listen to Al Stewart—the Scottish folkie turned highly literate purveyor of soft-rock—without apology. Based on the rapturous response to Dan Bejar's latest as Destroyer, a shameless tribute to smooth vibes called Kaputt, I'd say that time is now.

As with most things, this wave of appreciation began with a blast of irony. A cheeky DJ playing Hall & Oates' "Private Eyes" here; an episode of "Yacht Rock" there. But with that door open a crack, the last few years have seen a far more naked brand of affection for soft-rock: Michael MacDonald was asked by Grizzly Bear to track vocals for them, Bon Iver is heading up a group (Gayngs) whose sole mission in life is to bestow greater appreciation upon Godley and Creme's "Cry", and Gerry Rafferty's passing is met with more tearful postings of links to "Right Down The Line" than one would've ever anticipated.

So what gives? Did we all just have copies of Breakfast In America and Year Of The Cat hidden in our sock drawers, waiting for a moment like this? While listening to Kaputt, it's not hard to imagine just how different the reaction to it would've been in 1995. But now in 2011, there's a sense that we've gotten over the giggles and self-conscious embarrassment to simply return to the heart of the matter of any genre: are the songs any good? After all, isn't that why—no matter prevailing trends—it was never really gauche to love "I'm Not In Love"? 

By that measure, no amount of saxophone solos can muck up the great songs that fill Kaputt. More to the point, they quite enhance them. The entire record—both sonically and lyrically—walks a line between winking silliness and genuine pathos. As characters chase after parties and cocaine, deny themselves love, have spats with the press, sing songs for America, and just generally carry on in indulgent, self-destructive ways, they do so to a soundtrack that evokes a faded decadence—a false front of elegant composure that we all know hides a decaying structure behind. 

While not a concept record per se, first track "Chinatown" plays more like the opener to a suite than a single track, its extended instrumental breaks and concise, image-laden lyrics setting the scene beautifully. From there, Bejar's gentle but smirking croon proves the ideal narrator—soothing when it's required, telling a joke to ease the tension. He guides us through a rich, yet casual record of soft-pop that, aside from the New Order-ish turn of "Savage Night at the Opera", sits in the same sonic strike zone throughout. Even 11-minute closer "Bay of Pigs", a previously released piece of prog-pop, doesn't break the spell, its lengthy ambient passages capping the album perfectly.

Bejar is restless enough as an artist for one to surmise that Kaputt is more of a lark than anything else, but while often funny, it's no joke. This is easily one of the best records Destroyer has ever done and a boon to soft-rock champions everywhere. Keep it smoooooth, people.

THE WHITE WIRES - WWII

Though we've yet to see it firsthand, we've been hearing reports over the last while of a great movement happening right now in our nation's capitol, with a network of groups making the type of catchy garage-punk that our own city is so starved for. Bands with names like The White Wires and labels like Going Gaga Records (with their slogan "the power poppe shoppe") releasing a steady stream of 7" singles and limited edition LPs. It all seemed to good to be true, but we now have the new White Wires album WWII in our hands as proof, and let's just say we're going a little gaga ourselves.

"There's a little place that I want to go/I could take you there if you let me so/Come on, pretty baby/Run away with me tonight" is the album's first line, and a good indicator of what to expect: simple but great lyrics that you can sing along to, a basic guitar/drums/bass setup playings songs with so many hooks that you'll be anchored to your stereo. This Ottawa three-piece writes catchy tunes with such ease, they've almost got it down to a science. Released by Dirtnap Records, The White Wires have much in common with another band on that label, the sorely-missed Exploding Hearts. They both tattoo their influences on their arms, while still coming up with enough fresh ideas to be worth listening to. On "Popularity", frontman Ian Manhire sings about listening "to the sound of the bands today/and you wonder what it takes to make the grade". It's a question worth asking, but with WWII, The White Wires have crafted an album that definitely makes the grade.

VA - Angola Soundtrack: The Unique Sound Of Luanda 1968-1976

Much in the same way that the Next Stop...Soweto series re-shifted emphasis to the pre-'80s era of South African compilations, Angola Soundtrack seeks to redress the near-complete absence of any form of survey of the former Portuguese colony’s music scene in over a decade. Sure, Luaka Bop put out the respectable Afropea: Telling Stories To The Sea in 1995, which helped to spread the word about artists like Bonga, Waldemar Bastos, and the 'barefoot diva' Cesaria Evora, but in the years since then, collectors of African music have become less interested in the slick studio productions of the '90s and more drawn to the sounds of the classic period of the late '60s and early '70s. No surprise, then, that Analog Africa has stepped up with another platter, holding an edge over their competition by revealing an underrepresented corner of the continent, and not simply cranking out yet another Nigerian or Ghanaian comp (though that’s not necessarily a bad thing!).

Similar to what was happening elsewhere in Africa, Angolans in the period covered by this set were concerned with gaining independence from their colonizers, asserting their African-ness while showing their with-it-ness by taking traditional sounds and instruments and combining them with electric guitars, as well as rhythms from both Cuba (“Mi Cantando Para Ti” by N’Goma Jazz being an obvious example) and their colonial Lusophone cousins in Brazil. The influence of the latter can be felt in the near-batucada breakdown on Os Bongos’ “Kazucuta,” a floor-shaker that proves there is more to Angola than the morna (most closely comparable to the Portuguese fado in its minor-key anguish). Os Korimbas also go for the pounding percussion workout with their “Semba Braguez,” semba being an antecedent of the Brazilian samba.

Many of these musicians recorded in local languages instead of Portuguese, describing everyday life while not delving too heavily into politics, even though the country was embroiled in a guerilla war that did not let up until independence was won in 1975. No, the key here is to induce dancing, and in that respect this collection is a total success. As a bonus, compiler Samy Ben Redjeb was able to secure full licensing for all tracks and had access to master tapes, guaranteeing gorgeous fidelity from bassy bottom to shekere-rattling top. The liner notes are among the best the label has penned, combining crate-digging travelogues from Redjeb with historical context from academic Marissa Moorman, along with detailed track-by-track analyses filled with first-hand accounts from the musicians, many of whom contacted Redjeb to tell their stories.

Of all of the African collections put out in 2010, this latecomer is quite possibly the best of the lot!

ANIKA - S/T

Like another moody, no-frills, B&W-bedecked jewel case released two years back to little initial acclaim but slowly-grown consensus (I'm thinking of Actress' Hazyville, released back in late '08/early '09), Anika's debut stood out upon its release last month not only through its unique take on past styles (more on that later), but also in part due to its December date; the flipside of this was that that very timing put it out of contention for a spot on most listeners' and critics' best-of-year lists (this writer's included!).

Produced by Geoff Barrow of Portishead (credited as a full-band production by Beak>), Anika couldn't be a better candidate for co-release between Barrow's Invada Records and L.A.'s Stones Throw—the latter have spent the last five or so years occasionally spanning out from hip hop to stamp their imprimatur on disparate electronic, experimental pop, dance, and outsider/outlier acts like Gary Wilson, James Pants, Koushik, DāM-FunK and Bruce Haack (as well as countless compiled and podcasted minimal wave artists), and Anika's personality comes off as strong and steely as any of the above, an impressive feat considering the degree to which this record makes a point of showing its influences on its tattered/tailored sleeve, whether interpreting the songs of Skeeter Davis, Yoko Ono, Bob Dylan and Ray Davies or eerily echoing the early-'80s productions and spirit of such staunchly individual acts as The Flying Lizards, Vivien Goldman, ESG, The Slits and PiL.

JIM SULLIVAN - U.F.O.

There is a lot of confusion over Jim Sullivan, the most banal being that he is not Big Jim Sullivan, the British session guitarist extraordinaire who played on around 1,000 hit singles (and also dabbled in some go-go sitar albums in the late '60s).  No, this is the American Jim Sullivan, who moved to L.A. with his wife in 1968, recorded his private-press debut LP U.F.O., and then, with his marriage on the verge of collapse in 1975, headed out to Nashville and simply disappeared. His abandoned VW was found on a desert road; his guitar, wallet, and other belongings were left behind in a hotel.

Like Connie Converse, another enigmatic songwriter who also disappeared without a trace after driving off in a Volkswagen (just a year before he did!), Sullivan remains one of those musicians who really deserved greater renown but simply got lost in the shuffle in the deluge of incredible music made during that goldmine time for rock. Stylistically, he shares similarities with Tim Hardin, especially vocally, and would typically accompany himself with only guitar whenever he played live. The difference, though (and this may be the power of suggestion at play here, considering his probable demise), is that there is an understatedly ominous vibe that colours this record with the sort of unease that accompanies ghost stories told in the dark.

On the U.F.O. sessions, his distinctively deep voice and guitar playing were augmented by Wrecking Crew players Jimmy Bond (bass), Earl Palmer (who drummed on Little Richard’s “Tutti Frutti” and The Righteous Brothers' “You’ve Lost that Lovin’ Feelin’”), and Don Randi (who played keys for Phil Spector and on The Beach Boys’ “Good Vibrations”). It’s this combo of killer playing and Bond’s orchestrations that place this album in similar territory as such genre-defying works of psych-folk orch-funk as David Axelrod's Song Of Innocence and Songs Of Experience (on both of which Earl Palmer also drummed!), as well as Jean Claude Vannier’s arrangements for Serge Gainsbourg; folkies and beat-diggers alike therefore have much to sink their teeth into with this one.

Every year lost albums are unearthed, though few of them merit much airplay. This past year, impossibly obscure albums by Ted Lucas, Robert Lester Folsom, and Pastor T.L. Barrett were all saved from oblivion by intrepid reissue labels.  Sullivan's only effort is pretty near tops in that category, and deserves the scant but fervent attention it has received since resurfacing. In the meantime, the mystery of its author’s fate remains unsolved.

SURF CITY - Kudos

Even in the age of the internet, you never really know what's going on in a particular music scene until you actually take a trip there. I was reminded of this first-hand when, in 2004, I came back from Melbourne with an armful of terrific local bands about which I'd never even heard a whisper in this part of the world. A similar thing happened a few years back, when our shop's owner Greg came back from New Zealand with a few surprising chestnuts for the staff. Foremost among these was the first EP by Surf City—a noisy combo playing wildly fuzzed-out indie pop in the vein of Clinic, The Jesus And Mary Chain and that proud lineage of undersung Kiwi pop like The Chills and The Clean. It was a succinctly perfect little six-song debut—a total gem.

Now, after a little longer than we'd have expected (or liked), the band has finally put together Kudos, their first full-length. Coming off an EP that so well paired the brevity of the format to the band's uptempo style, it was always going to be interesting to see how they faired over the course of an LP, and Kudos does have a few tunes that reveal a more languid side. Tempos are more to the middle rather than the breakneck rush of EP standouts like "Headin' Inside". One track, the swirly, motorik workout "Icy Lakes", even runs just shy of eight minutes. But even on more drawn-out songs, the spirit of the band remains intact: all clangy and reverberated, Surf City make a most beautiful type of nonsense. Their music is not about any real literal meaning, but instead the thrill of playing primal and primitive pop music at really loud volumes in a basement—one where the PA system isn't quite loud enough to really make out the vocals, so the singer resorts to shouting non-sequitur mantras and catchy "oo-oo-oos" over and over just for the experience of letting it out.

And if you take the basement metaphor one step further as a comment on the overall isolation a New Zealand group has from any scene but their local one, it says something terrific about Surf City's approach: they're pure. This is honest pop music played by people in love with the feeling it brings them. That's it. Sometimes that says and means more to a listener than even the most well-crafted lyrics. Underrated and well worth your ears.