Canadian Audiophile’s Mishaps and Misadventures

For deeply introspective and powerful instrumental post-rock/metal, Russian Circles are tough to beat. Alternating cogently between jarring slow passages and thundering heavy metal textures, the Chicago-based trio formed in 2004 and has since been releasing expansive soundscapes with incredible consistency.

Station marks the group’s second full-length album. It is constructed with intense care and attention to detail. Each note unfolds like a petal on a dark rose, adding mood and ambience to the profoundly engaging compositions.

Fans of Russian Circles will likely find less heaviness on Station, which may be disappointing for fans who know what they want. Some may even find the record to be somewhat underwhelming. With expectations of mammoth metal violence, the light and calculated guitar found throughout Station will be unexpected.

The intensity of the compositions should not so easily be cast aside, however. This is one hell of a great record. Station is filled with enormous levels of texture, with some songs sounding like classic Tool and others flowing more like symphonic arrangements.

Regardless of the possible influences, Russian Circles have composed a series of seven masterpieces.

Station expands with steady intention and dispenses with “thundering for thundering’s sake” type metallurgy. Instead, the trio builds songs appropriately and efficiently.

The heavy metal bursts arrive as the innate expansion of dominant construction and not simply as an expected emblem of the band’s sound. When guitars rip through the shell, it’s because they belong there as a natural element and not because they simply exist in the genre as an accepted part of the madness.

It will certainly be said that there’s a bit too much substance here to go around and that will be a suitable appraisal for those who enjoy their music in certain containers. For the rest of us, however, the eagerness to follow the rabbit hole is a gratifying journey.

Russian Circles play with ambience and electronic pieces here, adding cement to tracks like the excellent “Youngblood” without sacrificing the essence. The turbulent guitar rips through the surface to provide an inconceivable experience.

Other tracks rise and crash down like massive waves, such as the ill-omened “Harper Lewis” or the Tool-esque “Station,” both of which hurtle and collide as though in the midst of a violent tempest.

That tempest controls Station, pushing and pulling the music in multiple directions for a serious sonic attack. The seven-song-squall is a post-rock lovers’ dream, a hazardous kaleidoscope of might and madness, and a damn good rock record worthy of several spins with speakers gutsy enough to handle it.

9/10

From the mind of Diddy or P. Diddy or Piddy D. or whatever the hell he’s calling himself these days comes Danity Kane, a quintet forged in the reality TV flames of his series Making the Band. The girls sprang out of the third installment of the show and signed to Bad Boy Records. Their first album, a self-titled 2006 “effort,” sold a million copies in the United States but didn’t chart well in other countries where consumers have ears.

March 2008 finally saw the release of Welcome to the Dollhouse, the long-awaited follow-up to the debut. Once again the record was released by Bad Boy and once again the record snapped to the top of the U.S. charts.

An overproduced mess, Welcome to the Dollhouse is a really dreadful experience. Using the regrettable hip-hop trend of focusing on the producers instead of the actual musical act, the girls in Danity Kane simply drift to the backdrop on the majority of the tracks. Instead, it seems as though this is an excuse to feature Timbaland protégé Danja, Mario Winans, Diddy, and a selection of other big money producers.

The quintet is as tasteless as paper plates, though, and the slick cabinet of production is actually rather apt over their featureless voices. Aided and abetted by computers whenever doable, the girls fall back on overproduction to collect a feeble facade of consistency. They’re just all over the map, though, and the record sounds unbelievably slipshod. It actually made me long for The Pussycat Dolls.

Nicole Scherzinger, save me now! (Trust me; I’ve had that dream before).

Welcome to the Dollhouse’s insipidness is only balanced by its qualified incompetence. A track like “Ecstasy,” for instance, is out-and-out unlistenable because of the heap of breathy attempts at sexiness filling up the showy backdrop to the song. It doesn’t help matters that the song is four-and-a-half minutes long, which is an eternity for this drivel.

Then there’s “Bad Girl,” the album’s second single behind the awful “Damaged,” features an apparent video featuring WWE Divas. The song is set against an aggravating beat and silly scale-singing that feels more clumsy than controlled. Imagining WWE Divas frolicking around to this nonsense was good for a preposterous mental image, though.

Other songs are just flat out off the wall, like the softheaded “Strip Tease” that opens with a huge breathing exercise or the dull “Lights Out” that again features breathing exercises. I have no idea if these girls were doing yoga during production, but it really becomes trying after exhalation is featured with such frequency. An alternative title for the album could have been Breathing Lessons.

Add to the forgettable songs a handful of pompously brash “interludes” and you’ve got one of the silliest efforts in recent memory. This album is a bag of excremental gibberish better suited to be set ablaze and set on Diddy’s porch.

Overall, Welcome to the Dollhouse is a contrived “effort” that should be avoided. Fans of Making the Band will likely herd to this record like famished buffalo, but the rest of us should be avoiding it at all costs.

1/10

British Music Rights, a group whose intention is to raise awareness of the value of British music on society, has put out research that reveals that 96% of the 1,100 14-24-year-olds admits to illegally copying music.

The poll also revealed that the average number of illegally downloaded songs in the music collections of those questioned was 842 – with a total average of 1,770 songs stored on their MP3 players. Those questioned in the research claimed to download about 5,000 songs a month.

With aging rockers KISS headlining the download festival, this rather obvious slice of news was met with more than a little pomp by bassist and resident tongue-wagger Gene Simmons. The rocker told anyone who would listen that the record industry is “dead” and that his band won’t be putting out any new material until the pesky downloaders stop doing what they’re doing and shove off.

The man who has more notches on his bedpost than most individuals throughout history suggested that downloading music was “uncivilized” and blamed fans for the death of the industry as he knows it.

Said Simmons: “They’ve decided to download and file-share. There is no record industry around so we’re going to wait until everybody settles down and becomes civilized. As soon as the record industry pops its head up we’ll record new material.”

With the world waiting on new KISS material that will doubtlessly sound like all of the old material (AC/DC anyone?), it’s only a matter of time before those filthy rotten downloaders stop trying to get something for nothing. After all, Simmons has swimming pools to build!

With a taste for the theatrical and heavy notes of Broadway-esque style, Jeremy Schonfeld has cracked open his mind and is sharing the results on 37 Notebooks. Fans of big, bold musical theatre will find a lot to like about Schonfeld’s record, as the songs play together like some kind of musical of the mind. There are boisterous numbers and poignant pieces here and Schonfeld’s sense for the “big song” is apparent from the outset.

It is important to note that Schonfeld is the songwriter here. He does not sing on each track and, in fact, he does not sing on most of them. It may be fair to suggest that this is a sort of “various artists” compilation, but Scholfeld’s heart is in the music and his art is the focal point of 37 Notebooks.

We’re first introduced to his sense of the grand story with the first track, “Storyteller.” Sung by Schonfeld, this little ditty introduces us to some of the tales on the record and serves as a sort of “gather round” moment.

From the warm introduction, Schonfeld’s 37 Notebooks are plunged through with emotional energy. Employing a host of different singers with different sensibilities, the record spins from delightful love songs to sad tales of loss while telling its great central story of the art of the song.

Some of the tunes on the album appeared elsewhere before finding their resting place on 37 Notebooks. “Song for New Orleans” was commissioned by the Winter Harbor Theatre Company for a Hurricane Katrina tribute record, for instance. Other songs were originally written for The A-Train Musicals (“Do You Want My Life?” and “A Simple Plan”).

Schonfeld’s songs feel right at home in the genre of musical theatre. The silly lyrics of “Greta” paint a picture of an overly scrupulous woman looking for an ideal mate. Singer Amy Spanger tells us “I’m not always this crazy / More of a laid-back and mellower chick / Smoke a few bongs / Read a book / Catch a flick / And I’m set for the night.”

It is Schonfeld’s ability to create such characters that makes his songwriting notable and creates such broad and enticing tapestries for the record.

To be honest, 37 Notebooks won’t be for everyone. The excitable and theatrical sense of the lyrics and of the songs is more suited to those with a keenness for musical theatre and Broadway, although there are many softer moments that will likely win Schonfeld some new converts to his brand of lyrical justice. The songwriting is strong and beautiful and Schonfeld’s ability to transform his headspace into a breeding ground for authentic characters is certainly worth checking out.

Overall, 37 Notebooks is a collection of quality songs built from the ground up. Jeremy Schonfeld proves himself to be a solid songwriter with the ability to legitimately take on different characters and formulate stories from the heart.

6/10

The best album of 2008 is Duffy’s Rockferry.

There I said it. You can stop reading now.

In all sincerity, it’s probably better to simply pick up the Welsh singer’s debut and bask in its brilliance. Duffy – that’s Aimee Anne Duffy – is part of a collective known loosely and rather garishly as “the new Amys” in an obvious reference to The Winehouse. In the business of comparisons, it’s not a bad one.

With speakers blaring in the living room and a gargantuan glass of wine on the table, Duffy’s Rockferry took flight much in the same way that Back to Black took flight for me. First, there’s a simple recognition along the lines of “Oh shit, that voice!” Second, the music sets in and forms a sort of snug cocoon around the listener as if to suggest there’s no escape. Third, the record ends a little over a half hour later with little by way of memory and an easy feeling of opaque elation remains.

A second listen demands a clearer head, which for me meant waiting until morning. Awake, I head for the stereo and throw a wink at Duffy’s blonde head on the cover of Rockferry. After pressing PLAY, the piano at the beginning of the title track jars me and the obscenely overwhelming voice, this fucking marvellous voice, begins to fiddle with my inner workings.

“Rockferry” is one of those songs that simply call out to be listened to. When Duffy ventures into the higher registry during the latter half of the song, one easily imagines Joss Stone looking on invidiously. Her power is incontestable and her vocal control is simply confounding.

The title track was a hell of a thing to live up to, but this Welsh Wonder doubles up and drives fervently and mightily through melodic ready-for-excessive-rotation hits like “Warwick Avenue” and the extraordinary “Delayed Devotion.”

Duffy’s song-writing – yeah she does that – is ballsy and persuasive. On “Syrup and Honey,” she implores the subject “Don’t you be wasting all your money on syrup and honey/Because I’m sweet enough.” And she courteously channels a bit of Dusty Springfield for the album’s final track, the gorgeous “Distant Dreamer.”

At the end of the day it doesn’t matter much if Duffy or The Winehouse winds up singing me to sleep, as both are seamlessly brilliant women. Duffy’s poignant intonations are hard to resist and Rockferry is the perfect debut album for a certain star.

In fact, she might have us saying “Amy who?” before we know it.

10/10

Some bands contain so much energy that it’s hard to imagine sitting still while listening to their music. The Futureheads match that description better than most alt-rock bands in recent memory, with the exception of perhaps Franz Ferdinand or The Hives.

The band cites Devo, The Jam, XTC, and Kate Bush among their influences and the impact those performers have had on this Sunderland band is perceptible from the first few rapid notes. This is express music, double-timed for your pleasure.

This Is Not The World marks the band’s first work on their own label, Nul Records. After being dropped from 679 for not selling enough records, The Futureheads decided to make their own label and get to work on selling how they want, when they want, where they want.

This defiant attitude plays out on the record in its speed and in its addiction to energy, but isn’t there in the structure or variety of the songs. Each one pounds through similar power-pop-rock melodies, which both helps and harms this album. Mostly harms.

The damage comes when each song unfolds in comparable fashion, much like most power-pop-punk stuff. Fist-pumping choruses follow somewhat downturned verses, with a bridge ripe for light guitar tinkering floats into the last third of the song. Each song follows a related pattern, which is great for predictable pop-rock but not so great for innovation or for a band that so daringly left the confines of familiar labels to revolt on their own. When that rebellion sounds like “Sale of the Century,” an underwhelming mechanical rock tune, it loses its sting.

The pacing helps in other places, though, and the certainty becomes easier to bear on the album’s catchiest tune, “Radio Heart.” Other songs walk the same scaffold, but lack the wallop.

Unfortunately, This Is Not The World lacks the quality of 2006’s great News & Tributes and features very little by way of forward-thinking rock. “Hard to Bear” is a moving enough track, but even its rigid dive takes the clout away from the song and degenerates it into a lukewarm power ballad.

And the similarities between “Sleet” and the album’s title track serve to drive home the sameness of the album in rather noticeable terms.

Overall, This Is Not The World is a sub-standard entry in the annals of The Futureheads. This is a step backward, in my view, and the band’s originality seems to have been left back at 679 somehow. Perhaps a follow-up effort will capture more intensity, but this one’s simply too much of the same to be very interesting.

3/10

There are bands which borrow so much from other sounds and acts that their own sound is hard to distinguish. Phantom Planet is one of those bands, melding tones from White Stripes, early Radiohead, and Muse to formulate a sound that gets less and less compelling by the second.

With the band’s debut, Phantom Planet Is Missing, the group toyed with redoing Beach Boys songs with infusions of (surprise!) surf rock. The follow-up contained the single “California” and brought the group some mainstream popularity c/o The OC and Mischa Barton.

With their latest, Raise the Dead, Phantom Planet heads right into the sphere of dull pop-rock humdrum in search of instant gratification and big radio hits.

Early on in the recording process, the band’s contract with their record label expired and they signed a new deal with Fueled by Ramen, the home of such boisterous characters as Fall Out Boy, Paramore, and Panic at the Disco. Having played on TV shows like Sabrina the Teenage Witch and appeared on the soundtrack for Not Another Teen Movie, one can easily get a sense for the audience Phantom Planet aims for.

Raise the Dead takes Phantom Planet’s evident influences and stuffs them in a whizzer for less-than-tempting results. Songs impersonate their influences outright, like the crusty White Stripes drive of “Geronimo” or the Muse-inspired-mania of “Dropped.” Eventually the influences all crowd each other out and it feels like a compilation album from better bands as opposed to bright new material from this Tony Berg-produced “effort.”

If one is able to get past the omnipresent copycat sound of the majority of the songs, Raise the Dead does aim somewhat at being a amusing little summer album. The funky Dave Gahan-esque “Too Much Too Often” is a respectable tune, as is the unusually conventional but satisfying “Do the Panic.”

Overall, however, Phantom Planet’s latest simply lacks the originality and ingenuity required to stand alone as a good rock album. The compositions are simply too rented to have any lasting meaning.

Raise the Dead might make the deceased flinch a little, but it won’t be raising any corpses any time soon. Too morbid? Nah.

3/10

“The absence of much advance notice or information might seem a little strange and perverse but the record was made so quickly that I didn’t even tell myself about it for a couple weeks,” Elvis Costello told Billboard back on April 22, 2008 as he marked the vinyl release date of his newest album Momofuku.

According to the Billboard interview, the songs on Momofuku were inspired by the work Elvis did on Jenny Lewis’ upcoming solo record.

Costello works with the Imposters on Momofuku and the tone is fresh and exciting while still maintaining the base of their sound. By adding the harmonies of Jenny Lewis, who stepped over to help Costello, Momofuku is full and unreserved. Packed with elegant melodies and lots of toe-tapping goodness, this may well be one of the best records of the year.

With the album title serving as a tribute to Momofuku Ando, the inventor of the Cup Noodle, Costello and the Imposters wanted the tone of “just add water” to infuse the record and create an raw sound. The speed of the recording and the untreated character of the players work wonders, as each tune unfolds naturally, rapidly and vigorously.

That vigour is the driving force of Momofuku. The wonder of the record is how it works with such ease to create such depth. Made in six days in Los Angeles, it is truly a work of Ramen-esque proportions.

Costello comes across as tranquil and pleased, even when he’s storming through convincing near-polemics like “American Gangster Time” and “Stella Hurt,” both of which serve as charming visions into the sort of “putdown rock” that he can do so well.

Originally set for a release purely on vinyl, Momofuku eventually saw its CD release at the beginning of May. By the time it hit compact disc, the record and Costello’s cheekiness had garnered the recording a great deal of attention. While the CD is a more than satisfactory way to listen to this record, I can only imagine how much more the music would come alive through the cracks of vinyl.

Costello’s moving glimpse inward on “My Three Sons” goes to show how much the man has changed through time and with fatherhood. At 53, he sounds worn but far from worn out as he runs the gamut of emotions and stands as strong as ever in front of the Imposters.

“Turpentine” has an addictive melody and its almost uncontrollable joy threatens to pop out of the speakers and instigate some sort of jubilant riot in the living room. Costello certainly has softened the edges a little bit and, as such, he comes across as more intuitive and less self-conscious.

And so it is that Costello’s finest work in quite some time is an invigorating revelation of what happens when a group of amazingly talented musicians gather in a room and “just add water.” Momofuku is inventive, sharp, lively, and potent. It is a gorgeous piece of work that deserves repeated spins, preferably on a favourite record player. But hey, we take what we can get!

9/10

Filled with contagious grooves and bouncy piano, Jukebox the Ghost’s Let Live and Let Ghosts is a sparkling 60s pop revival sort of record. The DC-born, Philly-based three-piece is skilled at conducting themselves with relentless glee, adding triple harmonies to songs and bounding around like a bunch of crazed preschoolers with immense musical talent and endless optimism.

Let Live and Let Ghosts sounds like a sort of amped-up Ben Folds record, with bouncier piano and more liberal doses of electric jubilation. Serving as an excellent introduction to an incredibly fun new group, this debut rekindles the joy of sing-along pop without sounding dorky or forced.

Pushing straight through the geek rock of bands like Weezer and into a more delicate sense of composition, Jukebox the Ghost is here to stay.

Featuring Ben Thornewill on piano/vocals, Tommy Siegel on guitar/vocals, and Jesse Kristin on drums/vocals, the setup for Jukebox the Ghost is humble and pleasant. Thornewill’s classical piano training is evident from the get-go, spicing up songs like the enchanting “Victoria” with tantalizing notes and scales.

Let Live and Let Ghosts bounces joyfully from miniature rock operas to dreamy multiple-movement pop songs, allowing Thornewill and Co. to really show their stuff.

The repetition of piano on “Good Day” imposes the band’s glee on the listener and the lyrics encase the song with a sense of cheerfulness, letting the chorus’ “Whoa-oh-oh-oh” backdrop take the listener to a happier time.

Composing music that soaks the soul in a balm of often-ridiculous merriment, Let Live and Let Ghosts is a peppy album that doesn’t lack depth. The compositions mosey through tempo changes on the stirring “Beady Eyes on the Horizon” to calm balladry on the affectionate and moving “My Heart’s the Same” with a gentle sense of control, giving the listener a continually developing experience.

All in all, Let Live and Let Ghosts is an exciting album filled with remarkably sunny and alluring sing-along-pop righteousness. Thornewill, Siegel, and Kristin are a taut unit who seem born to deliver records like this.

Set against a sea of comparisons to Queen and They Might Be Giants, Jukebox the Ghost might have a lot of living up to do, but I think they’ll fare rather well.

7.5/10