HowNearHowFar

Two Gallants- What The Toll Tells

2008-10-16T04:21:00.000-07:00

Named after a story by Ireland's own literary extraordinaire James Joyce, Two Gallants first broke onto the scene with the haunting melodies and dark wit of Steady Rollin, their first single of this latest release, "What The Toll Tells". The San Franciscan two-piece, fronted by Adam Stevens and Tyson Vogel, take the stripped-down art of story-telling that permeated The Pogues at their best, and add a provocative edge to their jangling blues-rife, folk-rock. With a quite magnificent blend of grit and attitude, Two Gallants have produced again, with quite exemplary precision. With that loveable old concoction of whiskey-soaked rock n roll, mixed with a dousing of country-blues and a dash of punk roots , their songs, steeped in rasping, lyrical narrative, unfurl like the whisperings of great novels, unravelling the hidden truths of the vast American sprawls.

Released on Conor Oberst's (Bright Eyes) Saddle Creak label, this latest offering, much like its predecessor, sews the threads of folk with punk, serving up a quite brilliant manifestation of quirky rock-a-long jigs and sing-along satires. We're briskly shunted into the cold wisps of wind and the desperation of the lone whistle with the album's opening track, Las Cruces Jail, a brash, satirical narrative of imprisonment that touches upon the lyrical execution of the great folk luminaries such as Dylan and John Prine. The album's beauty lies within the manipulation of its sounds, punctuated with a lyrical tenacity that stokes hilarity as well as deep emotional provocation. Steady Rollin, the album's first single, which provided the two-piece with their first foray into the demonic trappings of the limelight, is a quite exceptional brooding coming together of tough, poetic narration ( "if you've got a throat, I've got a knife") and the gentle, yet rasped delicacies of acoustic guitar and drums. Racial injustice is prodded at in Long Summer Day, where the white men 'laughed in my face’, and the summer day's making the 'white man lazy'.

Amongst the quirks, the ghostly tales, and the jerks from soft melody to punk-fused rock-a-billy, there's a certain dreamy-like quality to this latest offering. 16th Dozen Street is almost schizoid in its approach.-from grungy overtones to the slow trudge of intricate electric guitar, it is, quite probably, the album's finest track. Its retreat back into a noisy affair, orchestrated by the spasmodic cacophony of trumpet and incessant, glorious feedback, is a quite triumphant five minutes best played loudly. The grit lies in its juxtaposition- from the eerie wails of despondency illuminated by the chill of fading harmonics (Waves Of Grain) to the up-beat whisks of bar-fly anthems and bedraggled angst-ridden tales of yore.

And so we drift off with slow, sombre harmonics and a damning diatribe on the selfishness of humanity,- a philosophical, pain-staking, but utterly inspirational outlook on the world in which we live. And it's this craft, this profound beauty attached to the honesty, the brevity, of story-telling that defines the true essence, and indeed beauty of the music of Two Gallants. Because in a time where the voice is needed in it's most prominent form, in a world devoid of a true voice in music, we need artists like this- who'll go that extra step, original in sound, provocative in words, thought-provoking as a magnificent whole. Buy this album and learn of hope.

The Cribs- Men's Needs, Women's Needs, Whatever

2008-09-24T13:47:00.000-07:00

A strong tidal-wave of the newness roars towards my beach of overused cynicism, and I’m running, desperate not to be drowned by mediocrity once more. Ah yes, it’s easier to recoil in the past, no need for change, sir! But then out of nowhere, like that old phoenix rising triumphantly, roaring up through the ashes, comes an electric current of optimism, and finally we have some hope running through our old withered veins. And for this writer, that sense of renewed hope came in the form of a set of three brothers from Wakefield, West Yorkshire. Thrown under the oft scorned at “British Indie act,” it would, of course, have been easy to fling The Cribs aside with all the others, safe-guard our ears from the merciless horror with pressed thumbs and reside in our own habitual heap of music that has come, gone and stayed for a reason, but when something stirs before you, it would be rude not to further prod and poke. And so I did, and, quite surprisingly enough, I found myself slowly waltzing into the future. To the sounds of pristine frenetic indie-pop with an edge, I was becoming someone totally different, and I liked it.

In the modern musical landscape, more often not, we’re showered with one-trick-ponies, deploying their talent in one burst of hits, only to fizzle out into a mass of infinite blandness. No such worries here, though, refreshingly enough. Like its predecessors opening track “Hey Scenesters”, “Men’s needs, women’s needs, whatever,” (produced by Franz Ferdinand supreme, Alex Kapranos) starts off with a lashing of satire with “Our Bovine Public,” a quirky, fast-paced slice of indie-rock coupled with a rip-roaring tirade against “To those who'd never exist without being generic”. The quirks and delicious helpings of jarring guitar lines continue in the same vein with “Girls Like Mystery,“ a tenacious elegy of frustrating love- (leave me alone/ I’m just your enemy/ I’ve seen it all/ I’ve seen your jealousy) and “Men’s Needs, the album’s first single. Where your Kaiser Chiefs and Bloc Parties saunter off into a tiresome and predictable abyss, The Cribs retain their profuse energy throughout, a trait that sets them apart from the boredom thrown upon us incessantly with newer acts.

“I’m A Realist” sees the group at their strongest. It’s different, yet catchy. Clean, yet edgy. “I’m a realist/ I’m a romantic/I’m an indecisive piece of shit,” admits lead singer, Ryan Jarman, and one can only be thankful that he’s “up to his old tricks,“ which such a delicately cut slice of gleaming indie-pop. Flung in towards the depths of the album is a quite brilliant surprise, a guest vocal appearance by Sonic Youth guitar maestro, Lee Ranaldo. Ghostly poetic as always, his spoken-word images of “Beer drinkers” and “rain of the windshield” paint pictures of desolate desperation, fuelled by a fusion of noise that the art-rocker would have been profoundly proud of himself. It’s a perfect marriage and an impressive addition to an already well-solid album.

Of course they’ll most probably go out and disappoint with their next album. Such is modern music, it’s hard to get excited about pretty much anything, and when you do, it’s hard not to be cynical about what is going to come next. But lets soak in the future for a bit, lets leave the past forgotten for the time being, and the future a distant worry. The Cribs have raised a bar for themselves, one which the majority of modern bands haven’t even come close to picking up. This is an album of indie-pop precision, not utterly flawless, but consistent in it’s sound, offering something rather than throwing it in our faces, and, whether we like it or not, has our foot tapping and wanting to go for walk in the future. Remove your fingers from your ears for the time being, get up off your lazy arse and be sure not to forget your coat.

Sonic Youth- Rather Ripped

2008-09-21T14:45:00.000-07:00

It's a sun-soaked, mesmeric July's eve, and all around are swarms of pill-poppin', air-fisting, hip-swinging, beer-swigging loveable types. They're lost in a frenzied mess of summer-soakage and stomping beats. Illuminating the skies are the kind of strobe lights that should come with a public-health warning, This is The Chemical Brothers, and this was about to make a lasting impression on a naive, impressionable young man. Not that I was there to lose myself in a hedonistic haze of euphoria, mind. I traveled the long voyage to take in a band that supplied the soundtrack to my later teenage years. Bizarrely enough, it wasn't an act that would have me sauntering into the collective mass of bodies grabbing at my glow-stick and bouncing on in. It was Sonic Youth, the noisy pioneers of experimental rock. And nosily rocked, they did. Quite magnificently, I might add.

And so to the release of "Rather Ripped," the last in a long line of Geffen offerings, described as an album of "rockers and ballads" by lead singer, Thurston Moore. With the impetus for experimental noise still as frequent as ever, The Youth produce again. Such is their style, this is music suited to the best of dreams and worst of nightmares. They've grown older, but the exuberance is brimming wonderfully as ever before. The band that so many tried to be, but never even came close, the godfathers of art-rock; cut them open and they'll ooze cool. And they ooze their entrails all over this. "You keep me coming home again" sings Gordon on the album's opener "Reena", with a voice that wouldn't sound out of place for a girl 30 years her senior. And they do keep us coming home. It's a chirpy introduction, taking in the distinct melodic pang SY uniquely carved out for themselves all those years ago, still sounding as fresh and aloof as always.

We carry on in the same vein with "Incinerate," -Thurston on vocals this time- "You doused my soul in gasoline, You flicked a match into my brain". Following the conformity is suicide ethos, SY, as always, conjure up another arsenic attack on the conventional with devastating nihilistic aplomb. As always, the contorted and the serene blend quite beautifully, the rapidity and fuzz intertwines with the slow, soft whispers and gentle breeze of melody. The album's first single "Do You Believe In Rapture" could have nestled cosily into "Washing Machine", with it's soothing lull of atmospheric undertones and distant bashing of symbols. "Pink Steam" is classic SY, trudging slowly to a jagged riff. Succinctly suave in its dynamism, distinctly eerie in its swerving approach, it lies as the albums best track.

The dissonant spits of feedback and gobs of frenetic noise are set in motion throughout, exemplified by the heavily-distorted sleepy "Rats"- Ranaldo, as always, illuminating the "city streets" and "fractured sunshine" longingly in a splendid marriage of desperation and cracked noise. "The Neutral" blends Gordon's soft tones with wavy melody, her presence, as always, an unwavering essence of infinite cool. "Jams Run Free" follows in similar vein with its saunter from pop precision to noisy nether-regions. Each new song a shooting of explosive jet-streams of distortion fused swagger-riffs, eerie ghost-narratives and

rock in its finest form.

In their 28th year, it's somewhat baffling to gauge the fact that they're still blitzing their way through the musical landscapes with the same ferociousness and guile that set them on their way all those years ago. The music is still as experimentalist as ever; a quite incredible achievement, given their astronomical back-catalogue. The rear-guard is old, matured and well-traveled, but the tunes are frenetically original, the live-shows still a frenzied collaboration of sheer-mayhem and bliss. One wonders if they'll ever grow old. Indeed, it's Gordon who quite aptly sings "You are a legend in a lovely game" on Turquoise Blue. I'll leave it at that.

65daysofstatic - The Destruction of Small Ideas

2008-09-16T05:03:00.000-07:00

Citing "Threads,"- a 1984 BBC once-off television show depicting the barbaric effects of a nuclear war on Britain and the ensuing horrific aftermath, as their most prominent influence, it wouldn't be unfair to suggest that noise-terrorists 65daysofstatic are a band unlike any other. Hailing from Sheffield, the shows epicentral location, the industrialized "post-rock" (*sigh*-what an awful term of genre) quartet first came to this writers attention in the early hours of a Sunday morning when a splurge of white-noise emanating from the tv erupted the comfort of slumber. Rearing my head somewhat wearily, the silence of my humble abode was intermittently obliterated with a mass scale of cranked-up geeetars and wave upon wave of searing apocalyptic noise. Suffice to say, I couldn't find the remote quickly enough."We will not retreat, this band is unstoppable!," so the introduction went.One would think what followed would perhaps have had a certain Mr. Bush briefing his troops to take a gallant wander around greatest Yorkshire, for it would seem a weapon of mass destruction was being profusely projected through the wailing trajectory of distortion induced amplifiers and inebriating walls of manic sound. It was a long Sunday.

Typically, we're coaxed into "The Destruction Of Small Ideals," with a frittering stutter, amounting to a marriage of piano melody and electrified bliss. Given the genre of music that music-cohorts lazily throw them under, we could be forgiven for conducting a collective sigh of exhaustion, expecting that yes, again, we know what to expect, it has gotten boring at this stage! Not with 65DOS, though- no, no, no! We're never dragged into a slow-trudging exhaustive build-up only to fade into a tiresome charade of nothing much at all. We're chewed up and spat out. This verges from the subtle to the quite wondrously epic, purified by animalistic smashing of drums, and spectacular splatters of sonic soundscapes. " A Failsafe" is the next song to zoom in on the horizon, stealthing through the ears like a jet-fighter on a nihilistic crusade. The music is hyperactive in the extreme, shifting from lulling melodies to frenetic fusions of spasmodic electronica and rock. With "Don't Go Down To Sorrow," we're shifted into a mesmeric jaunt of atmosphere-enhancing piano, laying down the foundations of a stomping noise overload. And oh, how we revel!

There is, however, a certain air of repetitiveness that becomes more apparent as the album wains on. The energy never curtails; in fact, it increases, if anything- but the surprises, the moments of sheer frenzied attacks on the system become less frequent, the panache less obvious. The schizoid exuberance, as with the previous two albums, flails throughout, but we get the distinct feeling that yes, we've heard this, or something very similar before. Not that it's bad, mind. Such cataclysmic tracks such as "Wax Futures" and -breathes in- "The Distant & Mechanised Glow of Eastern European Dance Parties"-breathes out- will have you welcoming the apocalypse in the form of juddering tribal sound. It's consistency in spraying soporific swirls, rising to the airwaves before crashing down into a gargantuan heap impresses delightfully, even if we're left slightly perplexed as to just what has gone on.

In the past few years, I've seen 65DOS perform on two occasions. After the first, I considered suing for damages- my eardrums, my poor, tender eardrums may as well have been prodded at with Satan's poker, such was the horrific after-affect of the show. The second, no such worries- I had nothing left for harm to unravel its self upon. On top of all this, I rate the two shows as two of the most breathtakingly surreal experiences of my life, as do those who I ventured to them with. An experience, I might add, that takes on a myriad of conflicting emotions, each drenched in pulsating emotional undertones. At certain stages, one deliberated over whether to leave the venue itself, or get closer to the stage. The body mixes with the music, energy intertwines, and the walls are ruptured with celebrated blissful noise.It hurts, but we shall dare not complain, because when the pain stops, there's nothing left, and why would we ever want that?

Interpol- Our Love To Admire

2008-09-14T15:10:00.000-07:00

I read recently of a woman who when first introduced to Interpol, was distinctly unimpressed with their music and perplexed with the notion that they were about to become a band who would demolish the musical landscapes with their gargantuan sounds of eerie isolation mixed with a quite splendid infusion of British-soaked indie influence, with a whippet of home-grown New York sexual fervour added for good measure. Ah yes, it really was a long-streamed concoction best served nosily. And so the story continues - when the second plane hit tower two, sharking in over the New York skyline, and defining the most momentous occasion in our lifetime's history, this woman, initially not at all bowled over by the music, now saw it as a searingly haunting soundtrack to the devastation of the attack. Profound and relevant, Interpol supplied a music quite aptly adjustable to the times.It was a stunning display of production, churning something new out of something old.

Critics oft suggest that their sound suffers from an extreme case of invariability, and, admittedly, it would be hard to venture on a counter-argument. Again, this album, like the last, offers no shocks. We're not taken down any road of musical peculiarity, we're not ushered into any notion of experimentalism. It's a constant. It's reverberated. It's Interpol. It still impresses. However, whilst it may not pack too many surprises, it is a continuation- of consistency and sound.

With 2002's debut "Turn On The Bright Lights," and it's much celebrated predecessor " Antics" shoehorning the uber-suave four-piece into the trappings of the mainstream, "Our Love To Admire" pulls the same bleak-pop punches. And bleak it is! We're coldly lulled into the albums opener with a harrowing guitar line. Slow, ominous and ostensibly harrowing, Banks achingly yearns "Show me the dirt pile and I will pray that the soul can take three stowaways". A mere 30 seconds in and we're already dimming the lights, closing the curtains and turning up the sound. Just to throw us off course for a bit, we're flung a line of satire with the proceeding track, the brilliant "No I In Threesome". Born out of that are "Scale", a jagged swoon, and "Heinrich Maneuver", the beat-stomping, full-blitzed first single. Suddenly, the curtains have delicately edged open and cascaded a glimmer of light upon the initial gloom. We're up off the floor and we're tapping our foot.

"Pace Is The Track," a brooding elegy of love, is, quite possibly, the albums standout track. Reminiscent of the albums opener, "Pioneer Of The Falls", in its laboring slow trudge towards electrified spurges of protruding echo outbursts and angst, this is Interpol at their finest- "you don't hold a candle," Banks laments. On this showing, it would be quite difficult to digress. We're fed delicious distorted-ridden helpings of cutting-edge rock next with "All Fired Up" and "Rest My Chemistry", before sauntering off to slam open the curtains and rip them off the wall for a spasmodic dance around the room with "Who Do You Think?". They have us by the neck now, and finish us off on the floor with a desperation-induced wrecking ball to the head, and the soft grumblings of "Lighthouse," a seeping stutter of flailing musical life. And then we're asleep. Or dead. Who knows?

And so, just like that plane sharking ominously in over the skyline of the landscape, determining the most defining moment in each of our own histories, Interpol with their overwhelming, yet distinctly workable ominousness, and already widely-celebrated musical soundscapes, landed in a world of musical of ghastly overbearing mediocrities, blitzed them with something new, something welcomed, and defined a musical generation all of their own doing. Shocking? Perhaps not, but reliable in excellence? Most certainly.Anyways, Toodle-pips, I'm off to buy some curtains.

Primal Scream- Beautiful Future

2008-09-07T16:40:00.000-07:00

If ever there was an epitome of timeless music, it's the eclectic, fervent collection of hits by Old boy Gillespie and his accompanying well-traveled chums. Consistent in churning out classic upon classic , they may not be, but it's a testament to their sound that when listening to the likes of Screamadelica and Evil Heat, the music still seems fresh, still coming across as new in its manifestation. Impregnated with layer upon layer of endless eclecticism, taking in a whole host of many differing and juxtaposed influences and incorporating them into something entirely unique and refreshing, Primal Scream can be credited with defining a much cherished genre, all of their own doing- music to get blitzed, dance and shag to!

However, that aside, the Scream have never made things easy for us, and one thinks that is just the very way they like it! This album, like the 2006 release "Riot City Blues," will divide. Following on from the aforementioned title, " Beautiful Future" rides the crest of en edgy, stomping-rock wave- sonic in its sound, elegantly soaked in floor-fillers and enough sexy swerve to shake a rhythm stick at. Coupled with the numerous belting hits, come fleeting, niggling flaws. Still, through all the years hanging on their peak in an acid trip of unbridled and unmatched unpredictability, they've impressively managed to fend off any unwanted air of inevitability that may have found itself wanting to intrude upon their music. However, that said, where once we were treated with the not knowing what was next; the everything and anything, we now know to expect a very different brand of music to the one we originally fell in love with. The music is still as solid as ever, but the songs are , staunch fans will argue, well, just not as exciting, not as fresh, not as impressive. As said, it's a niggling divider, this one.

After several chaotic years during which the band became everything from retro rockers to noise terrorists to country troubadours, Primal scream have spat out pop music to the baying masses. We open with the fluent ringing of church bells and up-beat prediction that a beautiful future lies ahead of us all, albeit in a grotesquely distorted world. Who better than to supply the soundtrack, eh? "Can't Go Back" follows nicely after, zooming in with raunchy, zip-lined rock n roll, packing enough punch to flatten all young pretenders. "Suicide Bomb" sharks in next, and here's where we slow things down- Ah yes, sludgy, garage rawk throw your stranglehold over us, obliterate us with sexual noise and leave us in a dizzy heap. "Zombie Man" and "Beautiful Summer" aptly follow suit. Yes, this is certainly looking up. And Then we're brought back down to earth with a shuddering blow. Now we really are strewn in a heap. A disappointing sign of things to come.

Lovefoxx duets with Gillespie on " I love to Hurt ( you love to be hurt)," an electronic fusion of sounds seemingly thrown in to stir things up, to veer off the rocking road into a ditch of despondency - never could a song-title seem more ironically apt. Unexpectedly, we're, um, "treated" with a Fleetwood Mac cover next. They actually do quite a nice job of it, but it's lost on this record, unfortunately. It's starting to become bizarre at this stage. From rock-stompers and snake-sliding grooves, to a crawling dose of duetted electronica and the slow covering of slide-guitars, "Beautiful Future,", for some bizarre reason or another, finds itself meandering from a solid collection of searing jigs into a manifestation of mediocrity falling on the floor.When it finds itself on its feet once again, last order has long since passed. A few decent numbers lie slack at the albums close, but the cruel intersection through its belly has made it all but impossible for things to be made up.

If this was a release by any new band permeating through the soundscapes of our modern times, one would like to think that it would be celebrated with the appreciation that it would deserve. This being Primal Scream, this means something totally different. As music lovers, we are, at times, too fierce in clinging to the past, too damn stubborn to take something for what it is, not what it isn't, and only too eager to openly criticise and pick holes, instead of commending and praising a beauty that lies lurking deep neath the surface of anything in question. But who can blame us? It's hard to shake off something we choose to hold tight, just like it's only too easy to throw away something we were already reluctant to take. Ultimately, "Beautiful Future" isn't a bad album at all. Indeed, you'd be hard-pushed to hear a better record all year. Perhaps we're all just too lazy to move our arses out of a beautiful past........

Gone Baby Gone

2008-09-04T17:26:00.000-07:00

Given the controversy surrounding this film, any critical in-depth analysis was to be undertaken meticulously. Simply put, Ben Affleck's first foray into film direction is a remarkable achievement- an accomplished, triumphant thriller stoked with a keen sense of moral complexity, perfectly executed with a plot that should be commended for it's daring bravery, acted out with impressive style by Affleck's younger sibling, Casey ( The Assassination Of Jesse James) alongside his partner and co-private detective Michelle Monaghan. Morgan Freeman, as always, illuminates the picture with a grace we've all become accustomed to and loved.

An adapted novel by Dennis Lehane, whose Mystic River was brilliantly brought to the big-screen By Clint Eastwood, the story-line of "Gone Baby Gone" takes place in the leafy suburbs of Dorchester, South Boston, where the child of a drug-addled alcoholic disappears, culminating in a hysterical media frenzy. Within the ensuing investigation lies a labyrinthine maze of corruption and negligence, youthful innocence and brutal drama. Given the task of discovering the whereabouts of the missing child, Patrick Kenzie and Angie Gennaro ( Affleck & Monaghan) find themselves in the midst of the gloomy Bostonian underworld, built on deceit, fraudulence and deviousness, populated by drug-barrens, bar-flies and Paedophiles. Seemingly a hopeless investigation, a multitude of dead-ends, nightmarish discoveries and false leads perplex the case.

As the plot unfolds, and more questions than answers prop up, the case, seemingly, becomes an impossible task.Rather flippantly, the attention turns to the disappearance of another child, which brings about a tense, intriguing, somewhat grim climax, that leaves the the viewer shuddering in a frenzied maelstrom of differing emotions. And then, rather surprisingly, we return to case one. Each new lie and cover-up unfurls scene-by-scene, ensuring that that the film retains a prolonged and welcomed feeling of suspense and intensity throughout.

A friend of mine recently told me that whilst he enjoyed this film, he found it all too predictable. I whole-heartedly beg to differ.This films twist, a fusion of the battling inner sanctums of the consciousness, where the divine roots of right and wrong become blurred, supplies a richly ingrained ending to this story of life's make-up. Gently stirring at the seams, before talking the head and heart on a prolonged emotional rollercoaster, "Gone Baby Gone" has bravely stood up to the critics and delivered with aplomb. Watch it. Immerse yourself in it. Ride the storm.

British Sea Power- Do You LIke Rock Music?

2008-09-04T08:27:00.000-07:00

On "The Decline Of British Sea Power," the Brighton acts debut album, there is a song called "Something Wicked"- an eerie contortion of atmospheric and obliterated brilliance. With it's tribal beating drum and half-whispered vocals, the listener was treated to something new, something different, something better. "I'm not waiting for you, I'm not waiting for you" billowed Scott Wilkinson- aimed, presumably, one would like to think, at the new wave of mundanity lagging behind in the oppressive music world we've come to know and promptly gotten bored of. Indeed, the title of that song leads us quite aptly into the mix of their latest offering, " Do You Like Rock Music? " a refreshing blend of sing-along anthems in their full-blooded splendor and atmospheric waves of blissful noise.

The attraction, and indeed refreshing quality in BSP's music is their refusal to follow the rudimentary bland standardisation route that too many British Indie acts have taken over the years. Where quite a lot of bands choose to lie static in their own comfortable surroundings, BSP are ambitious to the point where even on first listening, the listener is under no illusions as to what creates the uniquely lovable sound searing through their eardrums- Simply put, they couldn't give a damn whether their sound is accepted by the masses or not, this is what they want to do!. The albums opener "All In It" is a haunting collaboration of a melody obliterated by sheer noise, fueled by a funeral march of sounds, backed up by a slow, yet fantastically harrowing sing-along chorus. And we're off!

Following the opener, we're served a treat with "Lights Out For Darkier Skies". Stuttering into life with a stomping, electrified intro, before gently gliding into an utterly impressive, catchy rock anthem. This is the BSP we've known and come to love- a feeling generously reciprocated by the albums second first and second singles- "Waving Flags" and "Canvey Island" respectively- two songs which make up the true and raw essence of the bands make-up, with their definitive, noisy soundscapes and lush approach to a new and celebrated musical craft.

From then on in, our eyes want more and more, and beautifully, we get just that. "Down On The Ground" is, quite possibly, the albums standout track. Penetrated with lyrical wit and catchy pop-melody, it is, perhaps, the song to break their sound into a larger, warranted audience of potential followers. Thrown quite bizarrely into the mix is the gloomy instrumental "The Great Skua," which, though seemingly sounding out of place given what has come before it, can be seen as a welcome initiation to a more relaxed interval. The rest of the albums takes on the feeling of the fading smoke after the initial apocalypse. Slow, and gently traipsing towards the finish line, "No Need To Cry" wouldn't find itself out of place on Primal Screams "Screamadelica", its beauty lying within the darkness of it's repetitive closing lines.."No need to cry at all, no need to cry at all....". And Before we know it, we're done- its close brought about with the return of fading voices of "All in It".

There is a vibrant air of meticulous eccentricity to the music of British Sea Power. This album is a grand testament to their willingness in offering something wholly different in a musical climate populated by stagnate and unimpressive sounds. To offer a sound that the listener cannot help but find themselves immersed and reveling in , as well as creating a fresh niche of beautiful soundscapes and a generated hope of things to come, is certainly not be scoffed at, but is to be applauded widely.Do we like rock music? after hearing this, we may just have fallen madly in love with it.....

Weezer- The Red Album

2008-09-03T17:18:00.000-07:00

For all their sheer brilliance in churning out summer-soaked pop-tune after pop-tune, it's quite hard to think of a band more infuriatingly frustrating than our favourite Los Angelans Weezer. It seems like only yesterday when a summers morning brought along their blue album- an utterly flawless collection of pop-grunge tunes, still soaked in the heart of all who've heard it. With their follow-up album, Pinkerton, we were shown the darker side of Weezer. Saturated in delightful feedback and walls of noise, it's rawness blended quite beautifully with lashings of pop prowess and unbridled genius. The Beach Boys had returned, it seemed, this time fully loaded with electric guitars and power. Then.......nothing. Well, not exactly nothing- in the years following, we were treated with The Green Album, Maladroit and Make Believe. All fine albums in their own right, admittedly, but not quite what we were all hoping for. To be the blunt, given the sonic-boom of brilliance served up to us with the first two albums, everything that followed, bar a few quirky hits here and there, was a disappointment. Such promise, followed by such let-downs. Summer it was no more.

"The Red Album," their latest offering produced by Rick Rubin, predictably falls in with those that proceeded the brilliance of the debut and Pinkerton and ultimately left us with our head in our hands, asking "why, why, why ?" over and over again. No, actually that's unfair. In comparison with the static music-world of today, subjected upon us by trendy Neanderthals, it's a triumph, but the Weezer of old offered so much more than just beating off the opposition. They brought music to a new and higher level, whereas this just leaves us on a par with those that followed their early excellence.

The Red Albums strengths lie within its start and finish. "Troublemaker," the hard-edged, amplified opener, is a frenetic introduction that teases the listener into the hope that maybe yes!, at last, here's what we've been waiting for all these years. This is Weezer touching upon their past greatness, carving open catchy-pop with rock, blending melody with fast-paced vocals to the point where you find yourself singing along to the point where you hope there is no end. It's a triumphant moment of pop-perfection- quite possibly ( and somewhat depressingly) the albums finest moment. Sadly, after the up-beat intro, the heart of the record fizzles and dies in a heap of blandness and mediocrity. After such promise, this is where the fury and frustration kick to life. We've known all this before, despite past records where opening tracks have flung upon us a renewed optimism, we've come to expect things to flounder and fall. Here, we're, er, served up a "treat" with the utterly bizarre "The Greatest Man That Ever Lived".....Oh Rivers, for all your genius, why subject us to this?

It's followed by "Pork And Beans" the quirky first single- an anthem fueled by a collaboration of humorous lyrics and a archetypal, distorted jack-hammer of a riff. File alongside the fun offerings of "Hash Pipe" and "Keep Fishin" but please keep away from the more celebrated brilliance of the genius that makes up the true essence of everything that once made Weezer what we remember them to be- "Say It Ain't so," "Tired Of Sex," and the like..... From then on in, a concoction of oddities (Heart Songs-a bizarre ode to a odd maelstrom of artists), let-downs ( "Thought I knew"- "um, so did I, Rivers") and songs that may be good for some bands, but strike as mediocre for Weezer ( "Cold Dark World"- a pretty ironic title, one thinks!). Underneath the murky layers, though, a few rays of light shine through- "Dreamin" is a welcome rekindling of past ventures. The Weezer we used to know and still, above all, love.

It's hard to pin-point just what went wrong with Weezer. Perhaps the passing of time, and the subsequent shrugging off of youthful rebelliousness and adolescence took it's toll. The rashness has disappeared with the raw, brutal tour-de-force of feedback, noise and beautiful walls of distortion, and given way for a more gleamed, yet undoubted draw-back in quality, band who despite supplying consistency in their ability to churn out one pop-rock tune after another, have left us all with our hands open, hope in our eyes, expectant, but with a consistent and unfortunate air of disappointment languishing in our predictions.

In Bruges- * * * *

2008-09-03T03:17:00.000-07:00

In Bruges "Only the Irish" , a famous saying goes. After watching this, I couldn't help but chuckle at it's aptness. When viewing your own, one cannot help but be more critical in their analysis, one cannot help but look closer and inspect, prod and hope that when the credits roll and you've time to think about what you've just seen, you can say "Thank heavens we've produced, and produced well". In Bruges quite brilliantly produces, it's plot and performance of acting, littered with mishaps, bewildering fascination, and a uniquely lovable humour, slot everything that's right about the Irish film industry neatly into place.

I've always had mixed perceptions on Colin Farrell.Refreshingly, In this particular role, one half of a hitman double, he excels with great aplomb. Cast alongside the old-guard of recognisable Irish faces, Brendan Gleeson, Farrell plays the part of Ray, an obtuse, if not slightly schizophrenic hitman, hiding out in Bruges alongside his more intelligent and less flippant sidekick, Gleeson. What follows their arrival in the Belgian city is a series of unearthly comical events. Following orders from their psychotic boss, Harry, played by the well-traveled Ralph Fiennes, Ray and Ken ( Gleeson) find themselves in the midst of emotional turmoil to the point where the viewer is uncertain whether to laugh or cry. Or do both.

The playing off one another's characters is a joy to be hold. Ray takes on the roll of the gloomy teenager situated in the exact place he'd never choose to be, his immaturity and petulance an infuriating burden on Kens enjoyment of the Cities mythological buildings and surroundings. One would be forgiven for not thinking they were a father and son comedic act. Farrell, who shows his undoubted swooning prowess in charming the tantalising Chloe ( played by Clemence Poesy), as expected, is the central figure to the films hilarity- From insulting a traveling pack of obese tourists, to karate chopping a dwarf in a hotel room in the company of prostitutes, we are subjected to endless laughs in between the more grim, action-packed scenes. And so we're paid a visit by the ferociously short-tempered Harry, as the series of mishaps, muck-ups and laughs dry up in a spilling pool of blood. In it's ending, we are finally shown the darker side of the story, shot in a pristine chapel square at the heart of West Flanders. It's uniqueness lies within its unconventional manner of endings, a testament to the films consistency to touch upon the bizarre and profound. And we're left with the whirling of sirens and flashing of lights, carving open the tranquility of a peaceful Belgian town abruptly transformed into a quite manic setting of criminality, ruthlessness and comedy by two Irishmen with an A+ grading for making a mess of things. Oh will they ever forgive us? Oh who gives a damn......

4/5

Conor Oberst- Conor Oberst

2008-09-02T07:42:00.000-07:00

For many a moon, and many a whining, wincing and softly-spoken little melody, we've been grabbed, shoved and hurried into the notion that finally, after a prolonged search, Bob Dylan's early years of unbridled genius has returned in the form of Nebraskan song-smith, Conor Oberst- Aka Bright Eyes. An unfair tag to label anyone with, but over the years, Oberst has shown in glimpses of what he is capable, most prominently in his widely-acclaimed, country-soaked "I'm Wide Awake It's Morning".

His latest offering, going under the title of his own name, strips bare any experimentation that languished in albums gone-by, instead sticking to good ol' folk and country-blues. It's beauty lies within its simplicity, laced with his story-telling brilliance, as evident in the quite brilliant sing-along " Get-well-cards", where Oberst journeys us through many different emotion, and images of summer stoked by love "Saw a bleach-blonde boy put his longboard down, help his girl get her sunscreen on".

This is Oberst scratching at the surface, locked deep within his roots, and it pays off quite miraculously well. By and large, it's upbeat, something which carries the album to where exactly is supposed to go, rather than fading off into an abyss of rudimentary boredom and blandness, which so many of these offerings can undertake.Not this one, thankfully, which is a grand testament to Oberst and his unrivaled ability to provide album after album of consistency year after year.Recorded in Mexico, one cannot help but feel the setting at times aptly creeps into moments throughout the album. "Danny Callahan" a factual account of a sickness suffered by an acquaintance of Obersts, stands out in it's somberness, a theme we've all come to expect from Oberst and Bright Eyes.

While some fans of his more obscure works ( Digital Ash In A Digital Urn) may feel a tad disappointed at his latest offering, where rather than traipsing down the road of the unconventional, Oberst provides a stream of tunes that will one minute have your eyes closed, locked in your own stories, the next grabbing your grandmother by the hand, kicking her zimmerframe through the window, and converting your front-room into a barn for an impromptu jig! -( for reference, fling on "NYC-gone, gone".

And so, Oberst, unsurprisingly, produces again. As distinctly immersed in something as quite as unique as a Dylan or a Springsteen, he may not be, but be thankful that in age over-run with a static world of musical mediocrity, someone is still willing to pull aside away from all the hyperbole and tell us a story to give us hope. So as the summer draws to a close, and your mind becomes permeated by a wind-swept and rain-soaked Ireland, Chuck this on, sit back, close your eyes and dream of the sun pouring over a mexican solace......

Brian Eno & David Byrne-Everything That Happens Will Happen Today

2008-09-02T07:35:00.000-07:00

I first came across the music of Brian Eno during a time when I had discovered a bizarre infatuation with Cosmology. For a short-lived but utterly enjoyable period, Enos manipulation of ambiance, blended into swooning tunes supplied a soundtrack to a mindset whereby one felt close to the edges of a cosmic zone free of life's havoc. Byrne's music followed soon after, bringing about a change in this writers perception of what makes music. Here were two guys pushing the boundaries, and making something out of nothing.

"My Life In The Bush Of Ghosts", the pairs first collaboration, still finds itself touted as a peripheral influence by many artists-It's rhythms of funk still swirling brilliantly around the musical landscapes of today.

Despite the years that have passed since it's production, this latest offering shows that their level of understanding of each others worlds still stands as firm as ever. The albums practicality is it's defining beauty- the opener, "home", marries beautifully harmonized vocals with intricate acoustics, with Byrne longingly yearns for a sense of placement and peace, in spite of the "neighbors fighting" and the "cameras watching".

"Strange Overtones", nostalgic in its sounds, traces the listener back to the days of dance-floor grooves and shaking it like a stick.

The albums juxtaposition of sounds is welcomed by the listener, it's schizophrenic trail of songs bringing about many soundscapes, twisting and churning and putting your mind a deep yet intriguing place. "My Big Nurse" finds the album steadily concentrated in a country theme, the narrator escaping and dancing "in this lazy afternoon".

" A change is gonna come/Like Sam Cooke sang in '63" quips Bryne on "The River" and given this albums flair and ability once again to stoke the minds of those who dare say the music world of today is lacking a radiance, who would bet against it?