MANIC STREET PREACHERS: 'Journal for Plague Lovers' (Columbia)
When news first broke that the 2008 incarnation of Manic Street Preachers were about to put former band member and cultural icon Richey Edwards’s unused lyrics to music, and release said project as their ninth studio album, an entire nation took a sudden gasp of air. For a split second, there was a palpable apprehension in the glorious world of indie-rock; Edwards’s place in the pantheon of British rock history is assured and the reverence bestowed upon his lyrical works is almost unprecedented. The last thing any of us needed was to have this iconoclastic pedestal demolished from within by a band whose past four or five years have been patchy at best. Sure, ‘Send Away the Tigers’ was a solid effort, but it was a retread, a largely successful attempt to recapture the success of 1996’s ‘Everything Must Go’, the one sublime (mostly) non-Richey album. When they’ve attempted to channel their ‘former glories’ this decade, as in 2001’s ‘Know Your Enemy’, the results have been somewhat lacking. A similar effort in 2009 would’ve been catastrophic for everyone. And then, of course, there was the risk that Edwards’s final words simply wouldn’t be good enough, that they’d tarnish his legacy through their ‘rambling’ nature, something that Sean Moore had hinted at in interviews in the aftermath of his disappearance. The stakes were high, the pressure most definitely on… could this most maligned of trios really succeed?
We needn’t have worried. The Manics have clearly approached ‘Journal for Plague Lovers’ with the clarity needed to do its litany of masterful and beguiling lyrics every justice in the world. This is as faithful a record as we could possibly have hoped for, perfectly capturing the essence of Richey’s words while managing to avoid stylistic repetition or, worse, musical nostalgia. A great number of critics expected this project to be ‘The Holy Bible, part 2’ and while there are similarities, this is less of a sequel and more of a sister record, reflecting some of the thematic concerns of its predecessor but taking them in new directions, finding some solutions to the problems and quandaries posed within its palate. This is the sound of a more resigned Edwards, a man who has drawn his own conclusions about his issues, made decisions about how best to deal with them and while they may not always be the most positive or pleasing, they are nevertheless his. Ultimately, however, it proves somewhat fruitless to fixate on the lyrics – as fantastically evocative as they are (‘Riderless horses on Chomsky’s Camelot’, ‘transgenic milk containing human protein’, ‘this beauty here dripping neophobia’ – where else do you get such vivid imagery? Certainly not in Pigeon Detectives albums, that’s for sure) – because their author isn’t around to clarify them. We can only speculate, and at times be completely baffled (just what is ‘Jackie Collins’ Existential Question Time’ actually about, huh?!), which is why the music arguably takes such a central role. And boy, what music.
‘The Holy Bible’ may be one of the most accomplished records of the last two decades, but it certainly cannot boast the diversity of sound on display here. Its monolithic, unrelenting brusqueness, the abrasion of its taut, clipped guitars and militaristic, gothic production gives it the cohesion it needs to work as an essay on all the most horrific of man’s creations and proclivities. It perfectly reflects the prose, the motifs. ‘Journal’ does the same; its range of sounds and styles capture the scattershot nature of the lyrics, allowing the listener to experience the range of emotions they depict, from the bittersweet resignation of ‘William’s Last Words’, with its quiet collision of unusual orchestral parts and uncomfortable vocals from a Mark E Smith-esque Nicky Wire, to the wonderfully celebratory ‘Marlon J.D.’, with a dance backbeat that’s so rhythmic, it would be a crime if it never cropped up in the nation’s indie clubs. It’s a fantastic move, putting Richey’s hero-worshipping prose to such catchy noise, peppered with quotes from its namesake.
‘Jackie Collins’ is similarly jaunty, a delightfully oblique lyric asking questions about what constitutes fidelity, worked around the most addictive guitar riff of the decade. The moment when the guitars crank up a notch mid-song and James screams about ‘situationist sisterhoods’ (whatever they are) is so exciting, you practically shit your pants with glee. ‘All Is Vanity’s irresistible punchline – ‘it’s the facts of life, sunshine!’ – is probably the only thing that comes close to matching it for sheer, reckless enjoyment. That isn’t to say that the other tracks are at all lacking, mind. ‘Facing Page: Top Left’ is the Manics’ best acoustic moment in years, James managing to weave something sonically beautiful around an incredibly ungainly lyric. ‘She Bathed Herself in a Bath of Bleach’, despite a rather clunky title, is a wonderfully punchy number; ‘Pretension/Repulsion’s blizzard of guitar riffs are practically orgasmic (and as is the Ingres-referencing chorus); ‘Me and Stephen Hawking’ jerks, jitters and jolts so much it feels like you’re being given a series of electric shocks while on LSD: yes, you will most certainly do a double take when you hear that opening couplet (‘Herman the bull and Tracey the sheep?’ What?); and ‘Peeled Apples’, the opening track, is just fucking sinister, sneering out of the starting block like the sow-faced behemoth that it is. That bass line, man… just, wow.
It seems almost clichéd to suggest it, and doubtless there will be those who claim that it’s just a load of smoke being blown further up the arse of a man who has practically achieved God-like status in the fourteen years since his disappearance, but fuck me, ‘Journal for Plague lovers’ is fantastic. Somehow, some way, James Dean Bradfield, Nicky Wire and Sean Moore have done their lost friend all the justice they could, and then some. The music matches the lyrics so wonderfully, evoking exactly what the oft-beguiling words seem to suggest, that it appears almost effortless, as if they were intrinsically aware of what was needed without having to consciously think about it, like the interpretation just tumbled out of them, ready made and bloody marvellous. ‘Journal’ works both as a testament to a hugely talented man and as a thrill-packed rock record, full of beautiful melodies, gorgeous guitar wizardry and air-punching intensity. At times, it feels prudent to cast aside all thoughts of Richey altogether; as Christian Bale says in the first ten seconds of the album, ‘we know so little about [him]’, after all. But it doesn’t matter; Manic Street Preachers have made a record that surpasses these concerns, cutting past the distractions in trying to seem authentic and simply allowing the words to stand on their own.
For ‘Journal for Plague Lovers’, MSP are musicians first and foremost and it’s given them a clarity that has perhaps been lacking in their other releases this decade. We really couldn’t have asked for anything more; for now, once again, Wire, Bradfield, Moore and Edwards are the most important fucking band in the world. (9.5/10)
Thursday 30 July 2009
Wednesday 29 July 2009
Album review: Future of the Left: 'Travels with Myself and Another'
FUTURE OF THE LEFT: 'Travels with Myself and Another' (4AD)
Jack Egglestone is an angry man. Quite what he’s angry about, however, is anyone’s guess. The latest batch of aggressive, scuzzy noise rock to come out of the Future of the Left camp is as deliciously oblique and frustratingly nonsensical as always; traversing a minefield of guttural rants without really explaining just what on Earth’s got the boys so incredibly riled. Listening to ‘Travels with Myself and Another’ is sort of like wandering into a blistering domestic row halfway through, and not knowing anything about any of the parties involved. The lyrics are replete with didactic, accusatory exclamations, often directed at specific individuals (the stingingly pinpointed Nick of ‘Arming Eritrea’, ‘Throwing Bricks at Trains’’ Reginald J. Trucksfield) and contain frankly bizarre concepts: ‘Drink Nike’? You what? ‘He’s one of a kind/He’s got chin music’? Excuse me? Would someone mind explaining to me just what the fudge is going on?
Of course, we wouldn’t really want them to. Part of the delectable fun of listening to a Future of the Left record is the chance to lose yourself in absurdity, to wallow in a quagmire of unqualified frustration without needing to find some sort of empathetic connection to the lyrics. It certainly helps that each track is a purely visceral slice of white hot musical dissonance, the perfect soundtrack for Egglestone’s anger. The guitars are distorted, uncontrolled and messy, gloriously bereft of the polish that usually characterises such genre staples. And then there’s the ace up their sleeve – the casually interspersed keyboard parts, which amplify the intensity of the tracks and produce some of the album’s most wickedly addictive moments.
Oh sure, there’s unquestionable genius in the more straightforward guitar/bass/drums set-up – ‘Arming Eritrea’ is a fantastic rollercoaster of cacophonous noise, threatening to unravel at any moment, and ‘The Hope that House Built’ is the year’s most ridiculously catchy non-pop song – but just check out that rolling piano/Casio combination in ‘Yin/Post-Yin’, or, even better, all two minutes forty three seconds of ‘You Need Satan More Than He Needs You’, a song so evil, you feel sinful just pressing play. The lyrics are dodgy enough (‘what kind of orgy leaves a sense of deeper love?’/’Clean up, fetch the goat!’ etc.) but it’s the bleak keyboard underscore that makes the track, accentuating its fiendishness. And then Egglestone opines that ‘it doesn’t smell like a man/It doesn’t taste like a man' and asks, ‘but does it fuck like a man?’, and the listener’s complete devotion to his peculiar brand of preaching is complete. This is what rock music is all about; hell, this is what rock music was made for.
‘Travels with Myself and Another’ is a stunningly ridiculous, utterly bizarre record that manages to avoid completely confusing the listener by simply rocking like one hell of a bastard. Within the space of thirty five blistering minutes, Future of the Left effectively spunk all over your poor, unsuspecting stereo and you will love every dirty, thrilling, exciting and beguiling minute of it. Freaking orgasmic. (9/10)
Jack Egglestone is an angry man. Quite what he’s angry about, however, is anyone’s guess. The latest batch of aggressive, scuzzy noise rock to come out of the Future of the Left camp is as deliciously oblique and frustratingly nonsensical as always; traversing a minefield of guttural rants without really explaining just what on Earth’s got the boys so incredibly riled. Listening to ‘Travels with Myself and Another’ is sort of like wandering into a blistering domestic row halfway through, and not knowing anything about any of the parties involved. The lyrics are replete with didactic, accusatory exclamations, often directed at specific individuals (the stingingly pinpointed Nick of ‘Arming Eritrea’, ‘Throwing Bricks at Trains’’ Reginald J. Trucksfield) and contain frankly bizarre concepts: ‘Drink Nike’? You what? ‘He’s one of a kind/He’s got chin music’? Excuse me? Would someone mind explaining to me just what the fudge is going on?
Of course, we wouldn’t really want them to. Part of the delectable fun of listening to a Future of the Left record is the chance to lose yourself in absurdity, to wallow in a quagmire of unqualified frustration without needing to find some sort of empathetic connection to the lyrics. It certainly helps that each track is a purely visceral slice of white hot musical dissonance, the perfect soundtrack for Egglestone’s anger. The guitars are distorted, uncontrolled and messy, gloriously bereft of the polish that usually characterises such genre staples. And then there’s the ace up their sleeve – the casually interspersed keyboard parts, which amplify the intensity of the tracks and produce some of the album’s most wickedly addictive moments.
Oh sure, there’s unquestionable genius in the more straightforward guitar/bass/drums set-up – ‘Arming Eritrea’ is a fantastic rollercoaster of cacophonous noise, threatening to unravel at any moment, and ‘The Hope that House Built’ is the year’s most ridiculously catchy non-pop song – but just check out that rolling piano/Casio combination in ‘Yin/Post-Yin’, or, even better, all two minutes forty three seconds of ‘You Need Satan More Than He Needs You’, a song so evil, you feel sinful just pressing play. The lyrics are dodgy enough (‘what kind of orgy leaves a sense of deeper love?’/’Clean up, fetch the goat!’ etc.) but it’s the bleak keyboard underscore that makes the track, accentuating its fiendishness. And then Egglestone opines that ‘it doesn’t smell like a man/It doesn’t taste like a man' and asks, ‘but does it fuck like a man?’, and the listener’s complete devotion to his peculiar brand of preaching is complete. This is what rock music is all about; hell, this is what rock music was made for.
‘Travels with Myself and Another’ is a stunningly ridiculous, utterly bizarre record that manages to avoid completely confusing the listener by simply rocking like one hell of a bastard. Within the space of thirty five blistering minutes, Future of the Left effectively spunk all over your poor, unsuspecting stereo and you will love every dirty, thrilling, exciting and beguiling minute of it. Freaking orgasmic. (9/10)
Tuesday 28 July 2009
Album review: The Stupids: 'The Kids Don't Like It'
THE STUPIDS: 'The Kids Don't Like It' (Boss Tuneage)
Calling your band ‘The Stupids’ is either a very foolish or very brave move; critics across the land will jump at the chance to work wonders with the pun, describing you as a ‘self-fulfilling prophecy’, more than living up to the name. Of course, the eighties skate punks know this; in fact, they positively encourage it. On the evidence of ‘The Kids Don’t Like It’, their sixteen track, thirty minute reunion LP, they still wear their imbecilic personalities on their sleeves, proudly showing the world just how brain dead they remain.
As is standard, the album is a series of lowest common denominator punk blasts, generally no more than two minutes in length, that trawl the spectrum of adolescent woes in an effort to cobble together some of the most pointless lyrics this side of a Hollywood Undead record. So we have ‘Drumshop Arsehole’, a brief hissy fit about, you guessed it, someone who wronged the band in a drum shop. Then there’s the delightful ‘I Was Sexually Harassed’, a boring, one note thrash-out that’s as sincere as your average Bloodhound Gang LP and about 1/10th as funny. ‘Middle Aged Punk’, meanwhile, actually deviates from the heads-down, full throttle racket of the remaining tracks by including – shock horror – a riff and a pace change, but, sure enough, it descends into the usual unlistenable drivel within about twenty seconds.
It doesn’t help that Tom Withers delivers his vocals in the style of a drowning rat, choosing to annihilate any semblance of melody in the process. He’s also downplayed in the mix, as if the producer realised just how patently awful he was and tried desperately to reduce the listener’s pain. Unfortunately, this also makes the lyrics virtually indecipherable, so Withers is left seeming like a tone-deaf, shrieking madman, twittering on about God knows what.
Of course, none of this is new ground for The Stupids. They’ve always been this awful, typifying all that went hopelessly wrong with punk. The movement’s essential point – that anyone could do the whole rock star thing – began to overshadow the impetus behind it, the kick to not simply stand for an oppressive, conservative establishment. Consequently, idiocy and machismo overtook insight and intellect, and bands like this began equating punk with getting pissed down the pub and throwing curse words around a lot. ‘The Kids Don’t Like It’, regrettably, is no different; it’s mindless, derivative bollocks, the antithesis of all that punk was and still is. Give it up, guys. Just stop it. Now. (1/10)
Calling your band ‘The Stupids’ is either a very foolish or very brave move; critics across the land will jump at the chance to work wonders with the pun, describing you as a ‘self-fulfilling prophecy’, more than living up to the name. Of course, the eighties skate punks know this; in fact, they positively encourage it. On the evidence of ‘The Kids Don’t Like It’, their sixteen track, thirty minute reunion LP, they still wear their imbecilic personalities on their sleeves, proudly showing the world just how brain dead they remain.
As is standard, the album is a series of lowest common denominator punk blasts, generally no more than two minutes in length, that trawl the spectrum of adolescent woes in an effort to cobble together some of the most pointless lyrics this side of a Hollywood Undead record. So we have ‘Drumshop Arsehole’, a brief hissy fit about, you guessed it, someone who wronged the band in a drum shop. Then there’s the delightful ‘I Was Sexually Harassed’, a boring, one note thrash-out that’s as sincere as your average Bloodhound Gang LP and about 1/10th as funny. ‘Middle Aged Punk’, meanwhile, actually deviates from the heads-down, full throttle racket of the remaining tracks by including – shock horror – a riff and a pace change, but, sure enough, it descends into the usual unlistenable drivel within about twenty seconds.
It doesn’t help that Tom Withers delivers his vocals in the style of a drowning rat, choosing to annihilate any semblance of melody in the process. He’s also downplayed in the mix, as if the producer realised just how patently awful he was and tried desperately to reduce the listener’s pain. Unfortunately, this also makes the lyrics virtually indecipherable, so Withers is left seeming like a tone-deaf, shrieking madman, twittering on about God knows what.
Of course, none of this is new ground for The Stupids. They’ve always been this awful, typifying all that went hopelessly wrong with punk. The movement’s essential point – that anyone could do the whole rock star thing – began to overshadow the impetus behind it, the kick to not simply stand for an oppressive, conservative establishment. Consequently, idiocy and machismo overtook insight and intellect, and bands like this began equating punk with getting pissed down the pub and throwing curse words around a lot. ‘The Kids Don’t Like It’, regrettably, is no different; it’s mindless, derivative bollocks, the antithesis of all that punk was and still is. Give it up, guys. Just stop it. Now. (1/10)
Monday 27 July 2009
Album review: Thrice: 'Beggars'
THRICE: 'Beggars' (Vagrant)
Thrice are certainly a difficult bunch. In 2005, they bamboozled fans and critics alike with the hugely experimental 'Vheissu', and then followed it up with the colossally diverse 'The Alchemy Index', a concept record in four parts that made for far from easy listening. Now, the band seem to want to distance themselves from both, describing them as a 'giant headgame', and lambasting their 'sleepy feeling.' With 'Beggars', their sixth effort, Thrice want to deliver a record that is 'a little more upbeat and energetic'; only problem is, they’re just too damn accomplished to do so.
While 'Beggars' certainly doesn’t demand as much patience as their previous three records, it is far from an immediate experience. The album oscillates between aggression and resolution, counterpointing the heavy and sinister ('Talking Through Glass', 'The Weight') with the lilting and delicate ('Wood and Wire', 'The Great Exchange'), but every moment is struck through with a world-weary melancholy that betrays the band's defeatism. Dustin's vocals are solemn and refined, even in his more visceral moments, and the lyrics themselves are no different; superlative opening track ‘All the World is Mad' works around the repeated refrain 'something's gone terribly wrong with everyone', and goes on to feature such delightful lines as 'darkness brings terrible things' and 'the blind lead the blind into bottomless pits/Still we smile and deny that we're cursed.' If this is Thrice's idea of 'uplifting', then heaven help us all.
Of course, we really wouldn't want it any other way. The band are all the better for their flirtations with the oblique and while 'Beggars' may take a little work, it ultimately pays dividends. Multiple listens reveal a wonderfully rich record, loaded with passion and bursting with ideas. ‘Doublespeak' is a delectable cacophony of weirdness, marrying pant-wetting piano stabs with intense bursts of guitar; 'Circles' moves with the grace and charm of a lullaby; and the title track is fantastically evocative, with a ninety second guitar cascade that sends shivers down the spine.
'Beggars'' only major flaw is the somewhat dreary nature of its mid-section, which at times is a little slow, but thankfully, the impact is minimal. On the whole, this is a highly engaging and inventive record that grabs you by the scruff of the neck and simply refuses to let go... just like 'The Alchemy Index' and 'Vheissu' before it. Thrice may want to break free of the 'shackles' of their previous records, but on the evidence of this, let's hope they never do. (8/10)
Thrice are certainly a difficult bunch. In 2005, they bamboozled fans and critics alike with the hugely experimental 'Vheissu', and then followed it up with the colossally diverse 'The Alchemy Index', a concept record in four parts that made for far from easy listening. Now, the band seem to want to distance themselves from both, describing them as a 'giant headgame', and lambasting their 'sleepy feeling.' With 'Beggars', their sixth effort, Thrice want to deliver a record that is 'a little more upbeat and energetic'; only problem is, they’re just too damn accomplished to do so.
While 'Beggars' certainly doesn’t demand as much patience as their previous three records, it is far from an immediate experience. The album oscillates between aggression and resolution, counterpointing the heavy and sinister ('Talking Through Glass', 'The Weight') with the lilting and delicate ('Wood and Wire', 'The Great Exchange'), but every moment is struck through with a world-weary melancholy that betrays the band's defeatism. Dustin's vocals are solemn and refined, even in his more visceral moments, and the lyrics themselves are no different; superlative opening track ‘All the World is Mad' works around the repeated refrain 'something's gone terribly wrong with everyone', and goes on to feature such delightful lines as 'darkness brings terrible things' and 'the blind lead the blind into bottomless pits/Still we smile and deny that we're cursed.' If this is Thrice's idea of 'uplifting', then heaven help us all.
Of course, we really wouldn't want it any other way. The band are all the better for their flirtations with the oblique and while 'Beggars' may take a little work, it ultimately pays dividends. Multiple listens reveal a wonderfully rich record, loaded with passion and bursting with ideas. ‘Doublespeak' is a delectable cacophony of weirdness, marrying pant-wetting piano stabs with intense bursts of guitar; 'Circles' moves with the grace and charm of a lullaby; and the title track is fantastically evocative, with a ninety second guitar cascade that sends shivers down the spine.
'Beggars'' only major flaw is the somewhat dreary nature of its mid-section, which at times is a little slow, but thankfully, the impact is minimal. On the whole, this is a highly engaging and inventive record that grabs you by the scruff of the neck and simply refuses to let go... just like 'The Alchemy Index' and 'Vheissu' before it. Thrice may want to break free of the 'shackles' of their previous records, but on the evidence of this, let's hope they never do. (8/10)
Sunday 26 July 2009
Intellectual integrity
Hmm. This blog appears to have gone a little off-topic of late (not to mention become sporadically updated.) I feel it's about time we returned to the point; restored Screenaged Kicks' essence, if you will. So, without further ado...
There. That's better.
There. That's better.
Wednesday 15 July 2009
Album review: Four Year Strong: 'Explains It All'
FOUR YEAR STRONG: 'Explains It All' (Decaydance)
Everyone loves a good punk cover. The popularity of the ‘Punk Goes…’ compilation albums is practically unrivalled within the genre, leading every two-bit gang of baby-faced stadium wannabes to try their hand at transforming some God-awful smash hit by the latest demon child to grace the top end of the singles chart into a bouncy punk classic. Would we give a rat’s about A Day to Remember if they hadn’t covered Kelly Clarkson? Do Goldfinger have a track that makes audiences go quite as mental as ’99 Red Balloons?’ And does anyone know anything at all by Save Ferris apart from ‘Come on Eileen?’ The answer is a resounding no; pop punk covers are a goldmine and Four Year Strong desperately want to tap into it, giving us versions of eleven tracks from the nineties that ‘inspired [them] to form a band.’
Only problem is, ‘Explains it All’ feels rather pointless. The concept immediately cripples the record, since most of the songs are staples of the band’s own genre. They attempt ‘Bullet with Butterfly Wings’, a career highlight for the Smashing Pumpkins, and it falls hopelessly flat. They rob Nirvana’s ‘In Bloom’ of all its magic, washing it away in a sea of over-polished guitars and whiny vocals. They destroy Everclear’s outstanding ‘So Much for the Afterglow’, loading it with interchangeable vocals and boring guitars. And then there’s Third Eye Blind’s ‘Semi-Charmed Life’ and No Doubt’s ‘Spiderwebs’, which they add nothing to apart from a few ill-advised hardcore breakdowns. When the originals are this good, you have to bristle with talent to produce faithful covers and frankly, Four Year Strong just don’t have it in them.
Predictably, when they turn their hand to tracks outside of their genre comfort zone, they meet with more success. The Dawson’s Creek MOR of Nine Days’ ‘Absolutely’ benefits greatly from the thundering punk beat that now rattles through it, and, remarkably, Alanis Morissette sounds vaguely respectable following their hilarious, but infectious, version of ‘Ironic.’ It’s no surprise: pop punk covers were designed to make the truly dreadful sound enjoyable, to give alternative music fans the chance to give their guilty pleasures a modicum of credibility. At this, Four Year Strong actually prove quite adept, and an album full of such treasures would’ve been a far stronger effort. Unfortunately, in trying to pay their respects to the artists who inspired them, they manage to besmirch a number of truly outstanding records, and for that, they will struggle to be forgiven. (4/10)
Everyone loves a good punk cover. The popularity of the ‘Punk Goes…’ compilation albums is practically unrivalled within the genre, leading every two-bit gang of baby-faced stadium wannabes to try their hand at transforming some God-awful smash hit by the latest demon child to grace the top end of the singles chart into a bouncy punk classic. Would we give a rat’s about A Day to Remember if they hadn’t covered Kelly Clarkson? Do Goldfinger have a track that makes audiences go quite as mental as ’99 Red Balloons?’ And does anyone know anything at all by Save Ferris apart from ‘Come on Eileen?’ The answer is a resounding no; pop punk covers are a goldmine and Four Year Strong desperately want to tap into it, giving us versions of eleven tracks from the nineties that ‘inspired [them] to form a band.’
Only problem is, ‘Explains it All’ feels rather pointless. The concept immediately cripples the record, since most of the songs are staples of the band’s own genre. They attempt ‘Bullet with Butterfly Wings’, a career highlight for the Smashing Pumpkins, and it falls hopelessly flat. They rob Nirvana’s ‘In Bloom’ of all its magic, washing it away in a sea of over-polished guitars and whiny vocals. They destroy Everclear’s outstanding ‘So Much for the Afterglow’, loading it with interchangeable vocals and boring guitars. And then there’s Third Eye Blind’s ‘Semi-Charmed Life’ and No Doubt’s ‘Spiderwebs’, which they add nothing to apart from a few ill-advised hardcore breakdowns. When the originals are this good, you have to bristle with talent to produce faithful covers and frankly, Four Year Strong just don’t have it in them.
Predictably, when they turn their hand to tracks outside of their genre comfort zone, they meet with more success. The Dawson’s Creek MOR of Nine Days’ ‘Absolutely’ benefits greatly from the thundering punk beat that now rattles through it, and, remarkably, Alanis Morissette sounds vaguely respectable following their hilarious, but infectious, version of ‘Ironic.’ It’s no surprise: pop punk covers were designed to make the truly dreadful sound enjoyable, to give alternative music fans the chance to give their guilty pleasures a modicum of credibility. At this, Four Year Strong actually prove quite adept, and an album full of such treasures would’ve been a far stronger effort. Unfortunately, in trying to pay their respects to the artists who inspired them, they manage to besmirch a number of truly outstanding records, and for that, they will struggle to be forgiven. (4/10)
Album review: All Time Low: 'Nothing Personal'
ALL TIME LOW: 'Nothing Personal' (Hopeless)
The five steps to being in a successful pop punk band: 1. Learn chords A, E and G. 2. Find three fresh-faced friends to play basic rhythm guitar, bass and drums. 3. Write some lyrics about your perpetual struggles with the opposite sex. 4. Harmonise said lyrics. 5. Straighten your band’s hair, and don’t forget to take your shirts off at every possible opportunity to get your teenage audience wet.
All Time Low have clearly taken this formula as gospel; ‘Nothing Personal’, their third effort, ticks every last box needed to produce a smash hit. This is a ridiculously infectious record, with hooks that come thick and fast, catching you unawares with their simplicity. The swaggering jaunt of ‘Stella’ and the superlative melodies in ‘Lost in Stereo’ seem gloriously familiar, their drum solo breakdowns and stadium handclaps working effortlessly to make you feel like you’re in the company of old friends. The record never really veers from this recipe, moving from one note perfect pop jamboree to the next, reassuring its youthful target audience that they’ll never be without a huge chorus to bellow their little lungs out to.
This is decidedly polished stuff, coated with a sparkling post-production sheen that ensures that no note is out of place, or vocal off key. Unfortunately, this is a double-edged sword: on the one hand, the gloss makes the album bold, like a series of primary colours photographed in stark close-up. ‘Weightless’ and ‘Walls’ are pop writ large, full of the sort of memorable melodies that made labels like Drive-Thru so successful. However, the polish is so sugar sweet that it becomes rather sickly. ‘Nothing Personal’ is a monochrome album, rarely breaking away from its clean-cut, no frills formula. The perfectly in sync, auto-tuned harmonies and inoffensively predictable guitar chops struggle to retain your interest after a while, and when the band attempt to mix things up with the occasional ballad, it feels like they’re trying too hard, overloading us with hyperbolic heartbreak.
All Time Low could do with being a little rougher around the edges. ‘Nothing Personal’ is undoubtedly a well-written, carefully crafted record with a strong ear for melody. However, its biggest strength is also its principal weakness. It is essentially a ‘how to’ of contemporary pop punk, containing twelve identikit hookfests that rob the band of an identity of their own. Sure, it has a whole hell of a lot of style, but sadly, not a great deal of substance. (6/10)
The five steps to being in a successful pop punk band: 1. Learn chords A, E and G. 2. Find three fresh-faced friends to play basic rhythm guitar, bass and drums. 3. Write some lyrics about your perpetual struggles with the opposite sex. 4. Harmonise said lyrics. 5. Straighten your band’s hair, and don’t forget to take your shirts off at every possible opportunity to get your teenage audience wet.
All Time Low have clearly taken this formula as gospel; ‘Nothing Personal’, their third effort, ticks every last box needed to produce a smash hit. This is a ridiculously infectious record, with hooks that come thick and fast, catching you unawares with their simplicity. The swaggering jaunt of ‘Stella’ and the superlative melodies in ‘Lost in Stereo’ seem gloriously familiar, their drum solo breakdowns and stadium handclaps working effortlessly to make you feel like you’re in the company of old friends. The record never really veers from this recipe, moving from one note perfect pop jamboree to the next, reassuring its youthful target audience that they’ll never be without a huge chorus to bellow their little lungs out to.
This is decidedly polished stuff, coated with a sparkling post-production sheen that ensures that no note is out of place, or vocal off key. Unfortunately, this is a double-edged sword: on the one hand, the gloss makes the album bold, like a series of primary colours photographed in stark close-up. ‘Weightless’ and ‘Walls’ are pop writ large, full of the sort of memorable melodies that made labels like Drive-Thru so successful. However, the polish is so sugar sweet that it becomes rather sickly. ‘Nothing Personal’ is a monochrome album, rarely breaking away from its clean-cut, no frills formula. The perfectly in sync, auto-tuned harmonies and inoffensively predictable guitar chops struggle to retain your interest after a while, and when the band attempt to mix things up with the occasional ballad, it feels like they’re trying too hard, overloading us with hyperbolic heartbreak.
All Time Low could do with being a little rougher around the edges. ‘Nothing Personal’ is undoubtedly a well-written, carefully crafted record with a strong ear for melody. However, its biggest strength is also its principal weakness. It is essentially a ‘how to’ of contemporary pop punk, containing twelve identikit hookfests that rob the band of an identity of their own. Sure, it has a whole hell of a lot of style, but sadly, not a great deal of substance. (6/10)
Wednesday 8 July 2009
Album review: We Were Promised Jetpacks: 'These Four Walls'
WE WERE PROMISED JETPACKS: 'These Four Walls' (FatCat)
As well has having probably the coolest name on the planet, Glasgow’s We Were Promised Jetpacks make one hell of a fantastic racket. ‘These Four Walls’ sounds absolutely monumental, a towering inferno of cacophonous instrument rape built on a penchant for the most intense sort of crescendo known to man. Virtually all of the album’s eleven tracks are addictively restless, starting out quiet but curiously sporadic, goading the listener into keeping a spasmodic sort of time when there is none being kept within the song. This lends a raw flavour to the music, augmented by a smattering of jagged, scattershot guitars and unusual timbre, upon which the band add layer after layer of sound with each passing minute, before finally reaching a sort of cathartic apex; the auditory orgasm, if you will. It’s the same tactic that’s allowed The Arcade Fire to become such critical stalwarts, except enhanced tenfold by the sheer bombast of the noise that the band make. They’re more like a comprehendible Die! Die! Die! or pretenders to Biffy Clyro’s throne, using the less radio-friendly song structures of their earlier material.
The Biffy comparison cuts to the heart of WWPJ’s other strength: their preoccupation with domestic ubiquity. The album’s lyrics are very much in the tradition of the kitchen sink, relating tales of urban isolation and quirky melodrama, and it works beautifully. ‘Roll Up Your Sleeves’ worms its tale of love teetering on the brink around a seasonal metaphor, but ensures that the story remains grounded with the use of stark verisimilitude, while ‘This Is My House, This Is My Home’ has a deliciously dark mystery at its core, predicated on the anaphoric line ‘something’s happened in the attic/There’s no way I am going up there.’ Interestingly, while the songs often feature intense instrument battering, there is a sort of potent beauty running throughout, sustained by a masterful grasp of melody. Just listen to the xylophone-led melancholy of ‘The Conductor’ or the weather-beaten ‘Short Bursts’; you can’t help but be stunned by the elegiac wonder of it all. And then there’s the otherworldly ‘Keeping Warm’, a track so epic, it threatens to swallow the entire solar system.
At times, We Were Promised Jetpacks open themselves up to accusations of self-indulgence, but the unquestionable joy of the band’s extravagantly intense sound should quickly silence any critics. ‘These Four Walls’ is an absolute gem, a record dripping with visceral delights that demand you return again and again, seeking the same thrills but all the while discovering spectacular new ones. It claws its way out of its own four walls, restlessly hammering at your eardrums until you just can’t help but fall hopelessly in love with it. You can have your jetpacks guys; we’ll take your music. (9/10)
As well has having probably the coolest name on the planet, Glasgow’s We Were Promised Jetpacks make one hell of a fantastic racket. ‘These Four Walls’ sounds absolutely monumental, a towering inferno of cacophonous instrument rape built on a penchant for the most intense sort of crescendo known to man. Virtually all of the album’s eleven tracks are addictively restless, starting out quiet but curiously sporadic, goading the listener into keeping a spasmodic sort of time when there is none being kept within the song. This lends a raw flavour to the music, augmented by a smattering of jagged, scattershot guitars and unusual timbre, upon which the band add layer after layer of sound with each passing minute, before finally reaching a sort of cathartic apex; the auditory orgasm, if you will. It’s the same tactic that’s allowed The Arcade Fire to become such critical stalwarts, except enhanced tenfold by the sheer bombast of the noise that the band make. They’re more like a comprehendible Die! Die! Die! or pretenders to Biffy Clyro’s throne, using the less radio-friendly song structures of their earlier material.
The Biffy comparison cuts to the heart of WWPJ’s other strength: their preoccupation with domestic ubiquity. The album’s lyrics are very much in the tradition of the kitchen sink, relating tales of urban isolation and quirky melodrama, and it works beautifully. ‘Roll Up Your Sleeves’ worms its tale of love teetering on the brink around a seasonal metaphor, but ensures that the story remains grounded with the use of stark verisimilitude, while ‘This Is My House, This Is My Home’ has a deliciously dark mystery at its core, predicated on the anaphoric line ‘something’s happened in the attic/There’s no way I am going up there.’ Interestingly, while the songs often feature intense instrument battering, there is a sort of potent beauty running throughout, sustained by a masterful grasp of melody. Just listen to the xylophone-led melancholy of ‘The Conductor’ or the weather-beaten ‘Short Bursts’; you can’t help but be stunned by the elegiac wonder of it all. And then there’s the otherworldly ‘Keeping Warm’, a track so epic, it threatens to swallow the entire solar system.
At times, We Were Promised Jetpacks open themselves up to accusations of self-indulgence, but the unquestionable joy of the band’s extravagantly intense sound should quickly silence any critics. ‘These Four Walls’ is an absolute gem, a record dripping with visceral delights that demand you return again and again, seeking the same thrills but all the while discovering spectacular new ones. It claws its way out of its own four walls, restlessly hammering at your eardrums until you just can’t help but fall hopelessly in love with it. You can have your jetpacks guys; we’ll take your music. (9/10)
Monday 6 July 2009
Album review: Killswitch Engage: 'Killswitch Engage'
Killswitch Engage desperately want to be taken seriously. Only problem is, they’re purveyors of a genre of music that’s so intrinsically hyperbolic that every move they make seems forced. Metal and hardcore both straddle the fine line between respectability and discomfiture as separate genres; fusing the two only causes the likelihood of getting it right to significantly diminish, as evidenced on this, their self-titled latest effort.
The album is coated with the most cringe worthily ‘sincere’ lyricism known to man, delivered in bouts of anguished screaming that sound like lead singer Howard Jones is about to successfully evacuate the world’s largest turd from his bowels. He sets the tone with opener ‘Never Again’, yelling ‘this is a war of attrition!’ and promising that some unnamed target ‘will never be forgiven!’, while wishing them life-long suffering. While this is likely to be a cathartic experience for Jones, for the rest of us, it’s just excruciating, coming on like the sort of unnecessarily dramatic blog post written by an emotionally affected fourteen year old. The predictably basic militarism of the music doesn’t help either; it’s pedestrian rather than exciting, ridiculous rather than intense.
Unfortunately, this is all that’s on the menu. The album moves from one pre-pubescent temper tantrum to the next. When Jones sings ‘I want no more of you! Watch me walk away!’ on the atrocious ‘The Forgotten’, your response is more likely to be a shrug of the shoulders than solidarity. And then when he cries out for someone to save him on, you guessed it, ‘Save Me’, you look around for some other sucker to do the job. It’s all hopelessly ‘woe is me’, which is both frustrating and disappointing in the extreme, especially when one considers the lengths the band go to disguise it. The album is filled with catch-all song titles like ‘The Return’ and ‘The Reckoning’ which seem to promise something epic but ultimately turn out to be a load of self-indulgent twaddle.
Musically, Engage have at least a modicum of talent dripping from their nail-painted fingertips but sadly, they choose to put it to use making bloated metalcore that sounded tired and lacklustre the moment the genre was conceived. This album is no different, plodding along aimlessly, crushing you under the weight of its adolescent hyperbole. Three songs in, you’re twiddling your thumbs; five songs in, you’re listening to something else. Probably best not to bother at all then. (2/10)
The album is coated with the most cringe worthily ‘sincere’ lyricism known to man, delivered in bouts of anguished screaming that sound like lead singer Howard Jones is about to successfully evacuate the world’s largest turd from his bowels. He sets the tone with opener ‘Never Again’, yelling ‘this is a war of attrition!’ and promising that some unnamed target ‘will never be forgiven!’, while wishing them life-long suffering. While this is likely to be a cathartic experience for Jones, for the rest of us, it’s just excruciating, coming on like the sort of unnecessarily dramatic blog post written by an emotionally affected fourteen year old. The predictably basic militarism of the music doesn’t help either; it’s pedestrian rather than exciting, ridiculous rather than intense.
Unfortunately, this is all that’s on the menu. The album moves from one pre-pubescent temper tantrum to the next. When Jones sings ‘I want no more of you! Watch me walk away!’ on the atrocious ‘The Forgotten’, your response is more likely to be a shrug of the shoulders than solidarity. And then when he cries out for someone to save him on, you guessed it, ‘Save Me’, you look around for some other sucker to do the job. It’s all hopelessly ‘woe is me’, which is both frustrating and disappointing in the extreme, especially when one considers the lengths the band go to disguise it. The album is filled with catch-all song titles like ‘The Return’ and ‘The Reckoning’ which seem to promise something epic but ultimately turn out to be a load of self-indulgent twaddle.
Musically, Engage have at least a modicum of talent dripping from their nail-painted fingertips but sadly, they choose to put it to use making bloated metalcore that sounded tired and lacklustre the moment the genre was conceived. This album is no different, plodding along aimlessly, crushing you under the weight of its adolescent hyperbole. Three songs in, you’re twiddling your thumbs; five songs in, you’re listening to something else. Probably best not to bother at all then. (2/10)
Album review: Billy Talent: 'Billy Talent III'
BILLY TALENT: 'Billy Talent III' (Atlantic)
Popular belief has it that bands need time to mature; that it takes around three or four albums before they truly hit pay dirt. Occasionally, however, a band pops out of the creative womb with a sound so completely polished, and so utterly their own, that the concept of progress is rendered redundant – if the music’s already this good, why change?
Billy Talent are one of these rare commodities. With their stupendous debut album, Canada’s finest stamped their splenetic seal on contemporary punk rock, with Ben Kowalewicz’s agitated vocals and Ian D’Sa’s scattershot riffs providing a match made in auditory heaven. It’s a format that proved massively successful and thankfully, it largely dominates this, their third record in six years. The musical marriage is still going strong, creating a series of fantastically intense tracks that worm their way into your head with the greatest of ease. The highlights are the most venomous moments, such as the ridiculously catchy ‘Sweet Veronica’ and the invective ‘Pocketful of Dreams’, where Ben’s vocals spit aggression, while the whirlwind of calamitous guitars provide the most delectable soundtrack. And then there’s ‘Turn Your Back’, a song in such a rage that it threatens to burst out of your speakers and bash your brains in.
Unusually, however, there are a number of pedestrian moments too. Instead of opening with the energetic sprint of a ‘This Is How It Goes’ or a ‘Devil in a Midnight Mass’, the album crawls out of the gates with the crushingly repetitive ‘Devil on my Shoulder’, and then continues with the disappointing trudge of comeback single ‘Rusted by the Rain’. And when momentum does build, there are several lumbering, proggy numbers waiting in the wings to kill it; ‘White Sparrows’ takes a great big dump all over the fire and fury created by the excellent ‘Tears Into Wine’, while the one chord monotony of ‘Sudden Movements’ is so far removed from the unquestionable genius of ‘Turn Your Back’ that it’s almost painful.
For the most part, ‘Billy Talent III’ sticks to the band’s well-worn formula and this is what proves to be its saving grace. There are just enough powerfully visceral slabs of belligerent punk rock to forgive its occasional flirtations with the monochrome, but sadly, not enough to make this as stunning and thrilling an effort as ‘I’ or ‘II’. Solid by anyone else’s standards, but maybe just a little disappointing by Billy Talent’s. (6/10)
Popular belief has it that bands need time to mature; that it takes around three or four albums before they truly hit pay dirt. Occasionally, however, a band pops out of the creative womb with a sound so completely polished, and so utterly their own, that the concept of progress is rendered redundant – if the music’s already this good, why change?
Billy Talent are one of these rare commodities. With their stupendous debut album, Canada’s finest stamped their splenetic seal on contemporary punk rock, with Ben Kowalewicz’s agitated vocals and Ian D’Sa’s scattershot riffs providing a match made in auditory heaven. It’s a format that proved massively successful and thankfully, it largely dominates this, their third record in six years. The musical marriage is still going strong, creating a series of fantastically intense tracks that worm their way into your head with the greatest of ease. The highlights are the most venomous moments, such as the ridiculously catchy ‘Sweet Veronica’ and the invective ‘Pocketful of Dreams’, where Ben’s vocals spit aggression, while the whirlwind of calamitous guitars provide the most delectable soundtrack. And then there’s ‘Turn Your Back’, a song in such a rage that it threatens to burst out of your speakers and bash your brains in.
Unusually, however, there are a number of pedestrian moments too. Instead of opening with the energetic sprint of a ‘This Is How It Goes’ or a ‘Devil in a Midnight Mass’, the album crawls out of the gates with the crushingly repetitive ‘Devil on my Shoulder’, and then continues with the disappointing trudge of comeback single ‘Rusted by the Rain’. And when momentum does build, there are several lumbering, proggy numbers waiting in the wings to kill it; ‘White Sparrows’ takes a great big dump all over the fire and fury created by the excellent ‘Tears Into Wine’, while the one chord monotony of ‘Sudden Movements’ is so far removed from the unquestionable genius of ‘Turn Your Back’ that it’s almost painful.
For the most part, ‘Billy Talent III’ sticks to the band’s well-worn formula and this is what proves to be its saving grace. There are just enough powerfully visceral slabs of belligerent punk rock to forgive its occasional flirtations with the monochrome, but sadly, not enough to make this as stunning and thrilling an effort as ‘I’ or ‘II’. Solid by anyone else’s standards, but maybe just a little disappointing by Billy Talent’s. (6/10)
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