THE WALKMEN - Lisbon

When The Walkmen released You & Me two years ago, it signified a profound moment of freedom for the group. Freedom from what, you ask? Their hit song, 2004's "The Rat". Propulsive and pissed off, it registered with listeners immediately, slaying everything in its path—including, unfortunately, the band's own catalogue. While 2006's underrated One Hundred Miles Off played it sloppier and dirtier (even dipping into hardcore tempos for a couple tracks), its drunken bang and clatter fell victim to cries of "Where's 'The Rat II'?", and audiences fell away. Even if this was merely the inevitable process of shedding fairweather fans, it had to have hurt a little.

So the band did exactly what bands should (but rarely) do—they stuck to their guns and made a record that defiantly turned the other cheek. You & Me was the first album by The Walkmen to fully commit to their unsung counterpoint to the "The Rat"s careening brawler: the doomed but resilient romantic. Even that record's magnificently wailed single, "In The New Year", was more about tender hope than bitterness. With a slow burn that nicely matched You & Me's pacing, listeners of a different kind now flocked to the band—the kind well won over by a full album's merits rather rather than those of a single song.

All of this brings us to Lisbon, an album that is as sunny and at ease with itself as the vibe of its namesake city. The Walkmen may have worked very hard making this record (by some accounts around 30 songs were considered for the LP), but it sounds anything but laboured. I suspect that's because The Walkmen are now in a position where they truly understand how to best utilize their talents. The patience and atmosphere they mastered on You & Me blossoms here into a wonderfully concise set that is immediately worth revisiting as soon as it concludes. The band just sounds so in control, so expressive—even the wild rush of "Angela Surf City" is perfectly balanced, hurtled forward by Matt Barrick's humming engine of a drum part. And whether live or on record, singer Hamilton Leithauser has never sounded as good as over the last few years. For all of the hell-raising fury that he is capable of, he's often best wrapping his pipes around a whisky waltz or bleary group-hug of a shanty. Like a dropped ripe peach, he's tender and sweet, but sticky, bruised and prickly. When he and his formidable band are in the intoxicating throes of cataloguing their regrets, their dreams, their loves and their losses, it's a real treat.

S. CAREY - All We Grow

Let's get this out of the way—Sean Carey's choice of moniker comes off as one hell of a lame joke ("Boo!" Get it?). Shuffle around that groaner though, and you'll arrive at an album that is anything but dumb. But is it also too smart for its own good? After all, Carey (who got a leg in indie rock's door by landing a key role in Bon Iver's live band) is a trained percussionist with an ear for avant-classical heavyweights such as Glass, Riley and Reich. Adding these tendencies to the often self-important navel-gazing of indie-folk ain't always the best idea.

Fortunately, here he marries them superbly to a songwriting style that favours impressions and moods over verses and choruses. All We Grow seeps and bleeds like water from a split vase across a thick tablecloth. Its patterns are subtle and slightly random, and their borders are easily lost against the white-on-white of sighing vocals, folksy strumming, lightly shifting percussion and impressively nuanced orchestrations. As such, it works best when it is allowed to figure itself out—hands-off listening lets each of these tunes become something a little different every time you hear them. It's a beautiful little session.

Now, that said, one can't help but feel that with just a little more cohesion in the songwriting department (something his employer could really help foster), All We Grow could, well, grow into something more than just avant-garde. But as a debut, it signals a major talent that had previously been lurking in the shadows. Where he goes from here could be 'scarey' indeed.

THE GOLDEN DOGS - Coat Of Arms

Others get greater plaudits, but no other band in Canada have set themselves as heirs to power-popsters Sloan and The New Pornographers as The Golden Dogs have on this third album. And while their buddies in Zeus are currently seen as the relative heavyweights, I dare say that it’s The Golden Dogs who have upped the stakes in the game of thrill-ride pop/rock. Zeus’ Carlin Nicholson and Mike O’Brien produced Coat Of Arms, while Neil Quin played guitar on the Dogs’ last record, and this connection leads one to join the dots regarding their mutual love of ELO-esque texture, as well as the more prominent use of piano here, which helps drive songwriter Dave Azzolini’s increasingly rock-classicist tendencies. Much in the same way that Supergrass had recently opened themselves to a wider palette, Azzolini covers new ground for the band on Coat by working with a slapback reverbed vocal (“Dear Francis”), quoting Leonard Cohen (“Travel Time”), and channeling Split Enz (“Lester”), all without sacrificing the fervour that characterizes their hyper sound. 

The trademark shared vocal duties of Azzolini and not-so-secret weapon Jessica Grassia continue to cause the pair to push their throats into exhilarating wail range, particularly on “Permanent Record”. Grassia’s role as the band’s Neko Case (“Movie’s Over”) is a fairly obvious point of comparison, but make no mistake: in this writer's opinion, The New Pornographers have neither been as good, nor as consistent as this in a few years. 

(Get your copy of Coat Of Arms signed when The Golden Dogs play a free in-store here at Soundscapes on Thu. Sep 23 at 7pm!)

QUEST FOR FIRE - Lights From Paradise

Everything sounds better when you're stoned. It's a fact upon which far too many so-called stoner rock bands have lazily rested, whether they actually partook of the magic weed or not. Hey, when the central tenets of your style are lead-limbed repetition, fuzzed-out tones, and blurry vocalization, how much impetus would you have to break bold new ground?

So what makes Toronto's Quest For Fire more than just another pack of rockers slouching their way onto an already crowded wave? While it may not have been virgin territory, QFF's debut smartly balanced stoner rock’s need for bluesy lethargy with a sound that made the most of the band members' pedigree (one that covered everything from bar rockers The Deadly Snakes to the hardcore blitzkrieg of Cursed)—in other words, underneath the haze were well-written songs full of wounded heart, human tales and well-nuanced aggression. It was heavy for sure, but it was a lot more than that: it had real soul.

Lights From Paradise builds wisely on this formula with a similarly strong record that increases in meaning with each listen. Chad Ross’ half-awake croon in particular nails the group’s appeal, managing to sound casual, desperate, wise, and menacing, all in equal measure. And his subject matter benefits greatly from being rooted in the personal, rather than in realms of fantasy. Sure, sometimes smoking with dragons while bedding mysterious demon women is cool, but it’s nice to know that this kind of stuff can be used to explore themes not already covered by Fighting Fantasy gamebooks. So while fans of all manner of stoner rock—from Boris and Dead Meadow to even heavier fare like High On Fire—will find lots to like here, so will those who crave a little more meaning from their music. Stoned or not, this record sounds amazing.

VA - Califia: The Songs Of Lee Hazlewood

The late great Lee Hazlewood was one hell of an ornery contrarian. And, bless his soul, he also happened to be one multi-talented musical tour-de-force: eccentric singer, songwriter, record label owner, and producer. We’ve seen several sterling Hazlewood reissues crop up over the years, but Califia is a compilation with a twist, amassing twenty-five tantalizing tracks he wrote and produced for himself and others between 1956 and ’70.

And those “others” in question? Irrefutable talents like Duane Eddy (whose twangy instrumental hits initially made Hazelwood a record producer to be reckoned with), legendary session guitarist Al Casey, drummer extraordinaire Hal Blaine, blue-eyed soul belter Dusty Springfield, cinematic sex symbol Ann-Margret, and, of course, Nancy Sinatra, who hit the big-time when Hazlewood recommended that she ‘sing like a gal who goes out with 45-year old truckers’ on her immortal 1966 smash, “These Boots Are Made For Walkin’”.

Califia, the latest volume in Ace Records’ unbeatable songwriters and producers series, provides a fascinating sonic portrait of the early years of Hazlewood’s career. Bouncing back and forth chronologically, the disc’s many treasures include Sanford Clark’s bluesy 1956 rockabilly hit, “The Fool”, rhythm ‘n’ blues vocal group The Sharps’ raucous number, “Have Love, Will Travel”, Suzi Jane Hokom’s irresistibly infectious go-go groover, “Need All the Help I Can Get”, Dusty Springfield’s swingin’ “Sweet Ride”, and Lee’s own vocal turn on the creepy oddity, “The Girl on Death Row”, originally written for an obscure film.

In fact, by the late Sixties, Hazlewood had acquired quite a knack for giving his songs a dramatic and panoramic Technicolor big-screen feel. Listen to Ann-Margret’s “You Turned My Head Around” and its ferocious fuzz pedal-powered wall of sound (the teen-aged Phil Spector picked up many a production tip from Hazlewood, by the way), Duane and Miriam Eddy’s twang-a-delic “Guitar on My Mind”, and the album’s smokin’ title track, an undeservedly obscure 1969 duet between Lee and his then-girlfriend, Suzi Jane Hokum, that has all the epic qualities of the hits on which he and Nancy Sinatra shared vocal duties. 

Rockabilly, r‘n’b, country, novelty tunes, garage, stripped-down instrumentals, and orchestrated pop productions: Hazlewood wrote, recorded, and sang (with his inimitable baritone) ‘em all. Nearly everything he touched was imbued with his dry self-deprecating wit, and even if you already have one or more of his solo albums, Califia’s worth getting for the way it sums up his genius. Yes, genius, a word I generally don’t toss around very lightly, but one that pretty much describes up good ol’ ornery Lee to a “t”.

THE SWORD - Warp Riders

As someone who enjoyed a fair bit of metal as a teenager, the current so-called "hipster metal" trend has been both vindicating and a little strange. While it's amazing to have so many embrace the pleasures of bands like Mastodon, Baroness and High On Fire, it's not as though these bands are really doing anything all that different from the bands that preceded them. But if you can get beyond the "cart before the horse"-ness of having these bands on one's iPod and no Judas Priest or Iron Maiden, then it still adds up to metal being taken seriously—respect a whole host of these bands deserve.

Austin, Texas' The Sword are just such a current band, combining the modern evolution of stoner rock with a sound that pulls from all the best mid-tempo moments of Ozzy and Metallica. There's witches and weed and a loose concept about a man on a temporal dimension journey of some kind, but you don't really need to worry yourself about that. It's all just fantastical set-dressing for what The Sword do best: rock the hell out. This band is tight, fierce, and nicely melodic when it needs to be. But maybe its best attribute is the one thing that seems a little plain at first—its singer. J.D. Cronise's voice isn't much to look at until you realize what a nice change it is to hear a modern metal band with a guy who doesn't scream his way through every second line.

Mastodon's last album, the super-sick Crack The Skye, picked up on this virtue to great effect, and it's nice to say that The Sword have been way ahead of the curve on this one. The dude just sings in a laidback Texan drawl, suggesting that ZZ Top have as much of a role to play in their sound as Sabbath, Slayer, or Pantera. Aside from that small touch, The Sword play it straight and classic, and why not? It's metal, it's got an awesome van-worthy album cover, and it rocks. Public tastes may change, but this type of music has always worked for the same simple reasons.

WILLIAM ORBIT - Pieces In A Modern Style 2

The first volume of this series—whose wide release happened back in 2000—was an unexpected favourite of mine. Opinion often seemed split on whether it was an heir to Wendy Carlos or an entry-level muzak update of Hooked On Classics, but there was something about Orbit's unfussy electronic takes on classical pieces that really resonated with me (despite strong initial skepticism, I might add).

For starters, his love and reverence for the pieces was obvious—there was little attempt to add a throbbing techno pulse or glitchy hip hop break to the tracks. On some pieces, like the opener of Samuel Barber's "Adagio For Strings", it took a while to tell that it wasn't an orchestra. And even when he did go for a sound more obviously electro (as on Beethoven's "Triple Concerto"), the effect was tasteful and gorgeous in its own right. But that was Volume One...

This second time around, Orbit is much more comfortable with the idea of introducing elements from his own past as a storied house and dance producer (Madonna's Ray of Light, Blur's 13, the Strange Cargo series, etc.). Elgar's "Nimrod" bubbles and percolates like a pot on the edge of boil, driven forward by a gurgling bass line. Similarly, Grieg's "Peer Gynt" could easily be remixed to back a dark Kylie Minogue pop cut. Pieces such as Bach's "Arioso" and Faure's "Paradisum" hold truer to the original volume, but Orbit is definitely putting a heavier foot forward than previously. If Volume One was bringing modern technology into the past, Volume Two is much more about the album's titular ambition of bringing older pieces of music into a modern context.

If this sounds like something you'd hate, guess what? You probably will. I can't pretend for a second that what Orbit is doing here won't be seen by many as awful at best and sacrilege at worst. But again, despite the fact that I can see myself buying pants and drinking martinis to this album, I find myself inexplicably drawn to it. Perhaps it's because it so directly challenges the discrepancies between my pleasure centers and my taste centers (i.e. I like even though most of my 'critical' faculties tell me not to). Maybe it's because the more I listen to it, the better it gets. And besides, at its best, such as on Vaughan Williams' "Lark" or Tchaikovsky's "Swan Lake", Orbit offers a unique opportunity to see well-established pieces in an entirely new light—not to mention one that isn't solely based on making Nutcracker excerpts sound 'funky' to try and hawk cheesy Christmas gifts. Once again, Orbit dances on a knife's edge and manages to come out quite unscathed. Well played.

LAND OF TALK - Cloak And Cipher

For a while now, people have been betting on Liz Powell's excellent indie trio, Land Of Talk, to do the big blow-up. All the elements are there—great songs; a contract with a well-respected label, Saddle Creek; a terrific lead singer in Powell (not to mention a brief stint as Broken Social Scene's female vocalist); and, perhaps most importantly, an international musical community wherein Canadian success is not only possible, but seemingly expected.

Despite all of these factors, though, Land Of Talk haven't quite made the anticipated leap. (Powell's career-pausing vocal chord surgery in late 2008—coming just as their debut, Some Are Lakes, was released—certainly didn't help matters.) But as much as this could be viewed as a disappointment, listening to the new Cloak and Cipher, Land Of Talk's current position feels just right. It's not that they couldn't reach or don't deserve a larger audience, but missing in all of the hype surrounding the group has been an understanding of just how intimate their music is. So even though a song like the peppy "Swift Coin" has the immediate appeal to sound killer blasting over a festival crowd, the record is better understood over time. From the subtle ride cymbal flourishes in the choruses of "Goaltime Exposure" to the way that the gorgeous "Quarry Hymns" spins and revolves around itself, it takes a while for some of the best moments to come into their own.

Then there's Powell's reconstructed voice—surgery or not, it was never primed to blow anyone out of the water. Rather, it's soft, supple, graceful and expressive and it's at its best in the personal sphere. It's in fine form here, making Cloak and Cipher kind of like the best rock album Sarah Harmer never made. When you can nail that, taking over the world sorta pales in comparison.

PASTOR T.L. BARRETT - Like A Ship (Without A Sail)

When we reviewed Good God! Born Again Funk earlier this year, it was the opening cut, “Like A Ship (Without A Sail)”, that impressed us the most. Recorded in 1971 by Pastor T.L. Barrett & The Youth For Christ Choir, the track upped the stakes for standard gospel, which always made the effort to communicate directly with god, this time sonically approximating the sound of a congregation beamed down from heaven above. The gargantuan sound generated by Barrett’s 40-strong youth choir was bolstered by Gene Barge and Richard Evans (both session heavies for Chess Records), guitar giant Phil Upchurch, and Barrett’s own piano chops, which he developed during his time at Manhattan’s Village Gate in the '60s. Back in his hometown of Chicago, Barrett took over the pulpit at Mt. Zion Church and built up a massive flock, with Sun Ra, Phil Cohran, Donny Hathaway, and Earth Wind & Fire’s Maurice White and Philip Bailey all dropping by to dig the deep spiritual vibes. Add to that his involvement in Jesse Jackson’s black-empowerment Operation Breadbasket, and you can see why Barrett’s strong musical/religious influence in Chicago led to a street being named after him!

A serious rarity on the vinyl market, Like A Ship (Without A Sail) is also a rare work of inspiration in every sense of the word: gospel music so rarely sounds this groovy, updating Ray Charles’ sacred soul-jazz to suit the times (“Blessed Quietness”), and at times also showing the influence Hathaway had on Barrett (“Wonderful”). Honestly, as a hardened atheist, I’d join this choir nonetheless just to thrill in the pure oxytocin-induced joy of singing this music. My vote for most sublime reissue of the year!  

VA - Local Customs: Lone Star Lowlands

Venerated excavating reissue label the Numero Group rarely do rock (their power-pop sets notwithstanding), so it comes as an even bigger surprise that they would devote a 'numero' (034, to be precise) to demos from an obscure recording studio in Beaumont, Texas, two hours from Houston. 

Known for producing the Winter brothers, Barbara Lynn, and a lot of oil, Beaumont, from the sounds of this collection, had quite a lively and diverse scene. Local bands with their eyes on the big-time demoed material at the Lowland studios during the classic-rock era. Numero, in typical fashion, listened to every single tape in the studio’s archive, and after two years they assembled this impressive set of could-have-beens.

Of course, there's some southern blues-rock here, thanks to bands like Circus and their fitting-to-form cowbell. Most interestingly, though, the best material here avoids clichés. Insight Out are unmistakably country-tinged rock, and “It Makes You Feel So Bad” is a paean to friendship à la The Band’s “The Weight”, while Morning Sun do good takes on CSN (“Where’s Love Gone Today” features hilariously out-of-time cowbell) and Emitt Rhodes bubblegum (“Let’s Take A Walk In The Woods”). Meanwhile, “Dream Away” by Hope could have been in Neil Young’s ear just before penning his “Harvest Moon”. 

And who knew that Texas had a pub rock scene? The Next Exit go all Dr. Feelgood and proto-Television on “Take A Look At Your Friends.” Linda Crowe gives an unexpectedly fast piano-led waltz, channeling Dionne Warwick more than Janis Joplin, on “I Still Remember”, and the delightfully-named Sassy will break your heart with his Bobby Charles-esque “She’s My Daughter.”

On it goes over twenty-two tracks (twenty-eight if you fetch the double vinyl!); Lone Star Lowlands will easily sit among the top rock comps released this year.  

TAGES - Studio

Long before ABBA released their string of Seventies smashes and more than thirty years before The Hives burst out of their garage, Sweden was boasting some of the best bands to hail outside the U.K. and the U.S. Singing mainly in English, beat/mod combos such as The Shanes, The Lee Kings and The Namelosers put out records almost on par with what the finest Anglo/American groups had to offer. At the top of the Swedish pop crop was Tages, whose singles and albums reflected the evolution of English rock from the early to late '60s (and, might I add, bloody brilliantly at that!).

Tages' fifth and final LP was Studio, released in late 1967 and now finally available for the non-Swedish world to savour in all its melodic glory, especially if you're already partial to albums like The Zombies' Odessey And Oracle or even Sgt. Pepper. But no matter how much Swingin' London pop rubbed off on Tages' style, they still weren't afraid to psych things up with traditional Swedish classical and folk influences, instead of simply strumming a sitar.

With bonus tracks consisting of their last few singles, socially-conscious lyrics about then-taboo topics like unwed motherhood and transvestism, charming flower-power idealism, and more hooks than a meat locker, Tages' Studio is something that's worth checkin' out—a hard-to-beat pop-sike treat and one of the most impressive reissues I've heard this year. 

AUTOLUX - Transit Transit

Autolux are a strange case. On one hand, their aesthetic is the same sort of slick, perfectly manicured product as so many desperate-for-success major label also-rans. The fact that they're from Los Angeles—mecca for the overambitious and undertalented—only seems to seal the deal. But as meticulously crafted as their tunes may be, the group differs from the aforementioned pack by offering no easy answers. The result is that the trio's latest, Transit Transit, is finding itself being derided as elegant, but directionless; beautiful, but turgid; tidy, but, well, too tidy. You know: It all sounds nice—too bad they can’t write a hook.

I'm here to say that's all bunk. This band is in pursuit of a lot of things on Transit Transit, but if they wanted a tacklebox full of earcatchers, they’d write them. Autolux are a hell of a lot closer to, say, the Dirty Three re-imagined as a pop band from the future. And lest that seem like an overreaching, ignorant and/or unhelpful comparison, allow me to elaborate. The two keys to the music of the Dirty Three are patience—you’ve gotta stick with it in order for things to fully express themselves—and a slightly unconventional approach to each musician's role. And as different as the two bands’ overall styles are, the same applies to Autolux.

Guitarist Greg Edwards’ playing rarely chooses to stabilize or dictate, instead drifting in and out courtesy of sinewy lines and fuzzy punctuations. Bassist/singer Eugene Goreshter handles his two duties so casually, it seemingly borders on indifference—a decision that threatens to set each of these ten tracks on an irreversible drift. But instead, his approach keeps the songs beautifully away from the overstated vocals or hamfistedly obvious basslines of most pop-rock acts. Verse/chorus tunes stay liquid and pleasingly amorphous.

And then there’s the drummer, Carla Azar. One of my best friends and I both play the drums, and Azar possesses the most beguiling style either of us have heard in many years. Her accent placement and decision-making is mesmerizing, pulling out key bricks from the foundation, delighting in the tumble, and then pushing herself to rebuild it all over again in a newly refined structure.

Put all of this together, and you get a band successfully attaining the least rewarding of goals—a brand of pop/rock that is neither arty enough for critics, nor immediate enough for the average fan. It’s a near-suicidal limbo in which to place oneself, but I for one am very glad they feel compelled to do so.

VA - The World Ends: Afro Rock & Psychedelia In 1970s Nigeria

Just a few months after Soundway Records announced that the Nigeria Special series was coming to a close with the release of Nigeria Special Volume 2 and Nigeria Afrobeat Special, they've backtracked on that promise, sort of (not that any of us at the shop are disappointed!).

The World Ends continues on from that already-legendary series, though not in title, yet this could have easily been titled as the second volume to Nigeria Rock Special from a couple years back. That this one is a double CD (divided into two separate double-vinyl sets with bonus tracks for guaranteed deep grooves to shake floors with) adds to the question of why label boss Miles Cleret may have considered putting his Nigerian crates on ice. I, for one, am still hoping they will start focusing on single-artist collections and original album reissues. Until then, let’s dig into the music presented here, shall we?

Though virgin ears would never think of this as 'rock', Nigerian rock kept its African roots while happily taking in the sounds of Anglo-American youth culture, bringing the guitar to the fore at the expense of horns, which lessened in importance in the early '70s rock bands. The guitar increasingly became a lead instrument, in contrast to both the complex arpeggios of highlife rhythm patterns and the waka-waka comping role that the guitar played in Afrobeat. In post-Biafran War Nigeria, the youth were looking for something new, and this collection documents how young musicians sought a break from older modes associated with the past.

If you already have Nigeria Rock Special, you’ll have some idea of what to expect here, which, in Woodstock terms, is much more Santana and Sly Stone than, say, Canned Heat or Ten Years After—groove still rules here over heaviosity, hips and feet-shaking over headbanging. “Nwantinti/Die Die” by Ify Jerry Krusade opens with a Spector-esque teenbeat teaser before a drum comes in, sending the track into a much more rump-shaking direction. Many of the tracks here sung are in non-Pidjin English, and The Action 13, with their overt rock riffage replete with proto-Neil Hagerty near-free soloing, exemplify this.

I could keep going, but I’ll save it for the inevitable next installment of Nigerian music from the great people at Soundway. Trust me: there’ll be more to come.

HANOI JANES - Year Of Panic

At this point in music history, toying with stereotypes of Germans playing music that doesn’t sound, well, playful does come with a slight twinge of guilt and deserves a bit of a groan. But really, besides maybe Can’s “Turtles Have Short Legs,” how many songs can you name from Germany that send you into fits of teenage home-alone dancing like a giddy Molly Ringwald in her younger days? Or, for that matter, like Jane Fonda (nicknamesake of the band at hand) doing aerobics in one of her era-defining workout videos? Not too many, really, which is just part of what makes Hanoi Janes’ debut such a pleasure to listen (and jump around) to. 

After the pathetically early death of Jay Reatard this past New Year, fans were left wondering who would inherit the monumental task of continuing what he started, but along comes Sachsen's Oliver Scharf to pick up the Reatarded torch and show the Yanks how to have fun again, with the Janes' sunshininess filtered through home-recorded DIY fidelity and enough stop-starts and syncopation (as on “Good Bone”) to keep spirits up and the body moving for a whopping 31 minutes (and that’s 15 tracks too, like the way it used to be!). It’s the small sonic details, like the occasional frantically-strummed nylon-string guitar instead of an electric, frame-tapping as an alternative to keeping time with a hi-hat, and an aggressively frenetic approach to tempo and rhythm that further suggest that Stephen Pope and Billy Hayes would have been better off working for Sgt. Scharf instead.

Don’t make their mistake—choose Hanoi Janes!

DANGER MOUSE & SPARKLEHORSE - Dark Night Of The Soul

A line from opening track “Revenge” has Flaming Lip Wayne Coyne (continuing his current Pink Floyd aesthetic fixation) singing “I have shot you and stabbed you through your heart,” a lyric which, in light of the late Mark Linkous’ suicide by shooting himself in the heart this past March, could be read as a disturbing hint at his mental state when this album was put together in the last chapter of his life.

Then again, Mark Linkous never shied away from dark moods and themes in all his work leading Sparklehorse since 1995. That’s not going to stop a mini-industry from combing through the lyrics of this collaborative album between Linkous, producer Danger Mouse, director David Lynch, and a cast of singer-songwriter contributors, though, for hints of Linkous using this album as a proxy for the suicide letter he never left behind—the title itself refers to a spiritual crisis in Christian belief, albeit one that is meant to be temporary, not final.

Dissected as a musical whole, Dark Night is a triumph, if only for the fact that the voice of such a singular artist as Linkous is not lost to the other proverbial cooks in the kitchen (including Julian Casablancas, Iggy Pop, Gruff Rhys, Suzanne Vega, the late Vic Chesnutt, Granddaddy/Admiral Radley's Jason Lytle, and previous collaborators Nina Persson and Shin/Broken Bell James Mercer from Danger Mouse’s rolodex).

Barring Black Francis’ incongruously heavy-handed clunker, this is a cohesive statement, bound by David Lynch’s mastery of atmosphere and realized by the ubiquitous but absolutely vital Danger Mouse, who is increasingly becoming better known for his rock productions than his hip-hop. The individual performances are mostly stunning and show different facets of each artist, most surprisingly with an unrecognizable Suzanne Vega taking a potentially career-resuscitating turn on the whispered/sung “The Man Who Played God,” one of my favourite tracks from this summer and a far cry from “Luka,” to be sure.

Shame that this album was tied up in legal limbo at the time of Linkous’ death; it’s the first Sparklehorse album to firmly capture my imagination. Now that it is out, you can choose from a variety of formats, but make sure to get one with the 100-page collection of photographs by David Lynch, intended as a “visual narrative” accompaniment to the music. 

BABY EAGLE - Dog Weather

Toronto has had one of its hottest and most eventful summers in years. If you're looking for a break from the heat and excitment, Dog Weather might be just what you're looking for. It's the type of record you'll want to put on every day for a month, like a nice new pair of boots, wearing it in until it gets comfortable.

Steve Lambke is Baby Eagle. That's his face is on the grainy cover of Dog Weather, his third album and first full-length for You've Changed Records, following 2006's self-titled debut and 2007's No Blues. Each Baby Eagle record has found Steve paired up with a different group of musicans (including John K. Samson, Christine Fellows, and Shotgun & Jaybird), giving each group of songs its own flavour. This time around he's employed the talents of Shotgun Jimmie (again), Daniel Romano, and David Trenaman and Colleen Collins from east-coast rock duo Construction & Destruction. The band does a good job of adding their own flourishes, but when all is said and done, it's all about Steve.

The albums starts off with "Day of our Departing," the longest track here and also the perfect preview of things to come. With a laidback folk-rock framework, the songs mostly act as a showcase for Steve's wordy narratives. Once based in Toronto (where he played in a little band you might have heard of called The Constantines) but now living in Sackville, NB, his new settings certainly seem to have informed his lyrics. Song titles such as "Fisherman or Fish," "River Bank Sitter," and "Thistle in Bloom" give you a good idea of what to expect. However, this isn't the case of another city slicker putting on a fake drawl and singing about subjects they know nothing about—everything on this album feels natural. There are songs about dogs and songs about the weather, and songs about a whole lot more. Small moments in our lives that pass us over but make up who we are. This record is a moment in time worth revisiting. Get it.

LO BORGES - S/T

Over the years, I have not been able to get beyond a couple of songs on Milton Nascimento’s 1972 career-defining Clube Da Esquina. Blame the slick production and smooth baroque vibe, but I have avoided most of the other musicians associated with that album, including Lô Borges.

Well, more fool me. With 14 songs over 27 minutes, this is in many ways antithetical to Nascimento’s overblown album, though equally hard to define. Many songs are fragmentary yet fully realized, densely packed with quirkily muscular musicianship and atmosphere that could have only been produced in the '70s. Here, there are echoes of Paul Williams’ melancholy (“Faca Seu Jogo”), Serge Gainsbourg’s stoned funk (“Você Fica Melhor Assim”), and Pierre Barouh’s international bohemian folk-jazz Saravah label (“Pensa Você”); and, in this post-Tropicalista period, Borges even cleverly morphs a Nilsson-tinged ditty into a psychedelic forró (“Não Foi Nada”)!

This is a wonderfully odd, shape-shifting album that will have you scratching your head for years to come. 

PETE MOLINARI - A Train Bound For Glory

Now, I'm not exactly sure if Pete Molinari is indeed bound for glory à la Woody Guthrie, but hopefully he'll get as close to it as possible. Yes, this British troubadour's that talented, as his new album abundantly proves. From the moment my ears caught the strains of his 2008 release A Virtual Landslide, it was apparent that Molinari was successfully putting his own twist on the '60s singer-songwriters (Dylan, Phil Ochs, Tim Hardin, for starters) who had deeply inspired him, all the while sticking close to his chosen template.

But if Molinari's a traditionalist, he's a damned good one, as A Train Bound For Glory makes for an excellent follow-up to his previous recordings. Recorded in Nashville instead of the U.K. this time out, he and his bassist and drummer are accompanied by a large assortment of country and folk-rock musicians, including Elvis' backup singers, The Jordanaires. The end result is an irresistable batch of ballads and up-tempo tunes which evoke the restless life of a lonesome drifter, without resorting to timeworn clichés. Quite the opposite; Molinari's melodies, soul-searching lyrics, and somewhat androgynous tenor voice all add up to a pretty timeless disc.

My personal fave cut here is "New York City", and fittingly enough, this album's as close to capturing and updating that vintage Greenwich Village countryfied-folkie vibe as anything you're likely to hear these days.

ARCADE FIRE - The Suburbs

Is it OK to admit that you're not the target audience for an album? That's a silly question; of course it is. I have no issues shrugging off Lady Gaga or My Chemical Romance albums as Things That Were Not Made With Me In Mind. But what about when you actually really like the band in question? What about when it’s a pretty great record?

It may be early on in my time with the album, but regardless of how beautiful or catchy many of the songs are, or how skillfully and ambitiously rendered its concept may be, it is safe to say that as a 36-year-old dad, The Suburbs was not made for me. Because even though I did grow up in a subdivision (several, in fact), I have, to paraphrase Win Butler in the title track, “moved past the feeling”.

A true double album (i.e. not just a overlong CD that needs to be pressed on two slabs of vinyl), The Suburbs is easily Arcade Fire’s most contemplative and evenly-paced record. Its charms, much like the living spaces about which it is written, require some living in to detect their distinct features amongst the sameness. But that’s kind of the point. Distinct, affecting features do, in fact, exist—both in The Suburbs, the album, and in the actual suburbs in which many of us grew up.

This is the station at which I am at as a listener. I can drive through the spaces of my youth and see places of potent memory my friends and I forged amongst the cookie-cutter homes and endless strip malls. They do not exist as public landmarks. They are far more private than that. But they do exist and they reveal deep truths about how humans can circumvent the banality of that environment’s sameness. Indeed, it could be argued that it is this very sameness that pushes for greater development of imagination in those formative years—that the suburbs were not so much a cage, as an excellent crucible in which to develop a hungrier, more innovative adult mind.

But these are not the suburbs of The Suburbs. The characters of this record still haven’t broken free. They’re “moving past the feeling”, but they’ve not yet moved on. If that means that the lyrical side of this record is met with frustration by me—an annoyance that so much time is spent brewing on the topic without presenting the listener with real hope or ways forward—then so be it. My needs now are different than they once were. But if this record had come out in 1991, I think it just might have saved my life. Fortunately, I had other records at that time to fill that void. Here and now, in 2010, Arcade Fire’s third record is meant for someone else. That’s hardly a bad thing.

BEST COAST - Crazy For You

Oh man, did I ever have this record in the crosshairs. From the budget, kitsch-conscious cover to the surf-worthy wavves (sic) of hype that have been cascading forth ever since their singles first started to leak, I have been sure of one thing: Best Coast was bunch of hip hot air. And no way was I gonna get sucked into its undertow. I'll just have one listen, y'know, so that I actually know what I'm talking about rather than just being some reactionary jerk...

And that was all it took. One listen became two, became three, became the commute to and from work. Turns out Best Coast was just like John Locke when he becomes the Smoke Monster in the last season of Lost: you've got to stab them right in the heart fast before they can sing to you or you become powerless.

Which is precisely where I'm at with this record: powerless and entirely at its mercy. Sure, I can gain enough rational thought to assess that some tracks like "Bratty B" are somewhat lazy examples of noisy surf-pop—ones where the tendency toward simplicity produces something more inane than immediate. But for the most part, Crazy For You is as gorgeously gooey and instantly agreeable as a day at the beach with a bottomless rum punch. And the best part of Best Coast? Singer Bethany Cosentino can really sing. Her voice is dynamite, occasionally even mustering a headiness akin to Neko Case's little sister, all dizzy with reverb and sultriness. She takes an entire album of über-straightforward fuzzy indie pop and grounds it with personality and emotion—the highs kick higher, and ballads swoon heavier. And no amount of worldly cynicism that I can muster can deny her or her band's awesome record.

As Bethany herself sings two songs in: "You drive me crazy, but I love you." Exactly.