The National: Ranked

6. The National

Proof that even the best bands need time to find their footing, The National’s self-titled debut is a tedious, frustrating listen. For 45 minutes, the band trudges through a batch of half-baked alt-country tunes so tepid, I doubt any label other than the Dessner’s own Brassland Records would release them.

But first, the lyrics. Wow, are they terrible. I usually don’t pay much attention to lyrics; if everything sounds alright, I can deal with the most incoherent psychobabble known to man. But everything does not sound alright on The National, so I searched through the lyrics for something, anything, that would hold my interest. Bad decision.

Lacking the ambition to be pretentious, or the willful incoherence to qualify as vapid, they linger awkwardly in prose purgatory, evoking winces with lines such as, “Don’t be a nightingale for anyone’s space to fill,” and “If I were a spy in the world inside your head, would I be your wife in the better life you led?” While Matt Berninger would eventually learn to conjure haunting images, here he writes with all the elegance of a lazy high schooler scrambling to complete a creative writing project ten minutes before class.

His singing is similarly uncertain. Though he would later develop into one of indie rock’s best frontmen, he constantly struggles to hit his marks on his first go-round. The rest of the band fails to achieve anything of note, but at least they’re relatively anonymous. Berninger turns in what can only be described as an ungainly performance, dragging each song down with his off-key warbles.

From start to finish, it’s clear The National are still working things out. At times, it sounds as if they wrote and recorded each of their parts separately and pasted them together. They clearly don’t know how to play off of each other yet, and the sloppiness that results is anything but endearing. The National are at their best when they sound like they’re in control, which creates a fascinating counterpoint to the uncertainty conveyed by their lyrics. Here, they come across as clumsy on all fronts, stumbling through each song with a striking lack of conviction.

The National is an anonymous and forgettable record that works best as an historical document of the band’s humble beginnings. Other than their basic personnel, The National give very little indication of the world-beating act they would soon become. For die-hards and completists, it’s worth a listen for novelty’s sake, but everyone else can stick to their next five albums. Things would get much, much better from here on out.

 

5. Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers

For all intents and purposes, Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers is The National’s true debut. Sure, their official discography may begin with the lifeless dud of an album they released two years prior, but the band that made that record bore little resemblance to the National we’ve come to know and love. On Sad Songs, The National begin to stake their claim as rock’s resident agents of despair. The pieces—Berninger’s melancholy yet slyly seductive vocals, the Dessner brother’s dense guitar work, heartbreaking pianos and strings—are there, but the band has yet to sand off the edges.

As on Alligator, this lack of polish lends the record an urgency that was sorely missing from their debut, but their songwriting is not as sleek and purposeful as it would soon become. Though these songs carry far more emotional weight than anything on The National, they don’t reach into the darkest corners of your soul. Sad Songs tugs at the heartstrings, but it can’t ruin you in the same way Boxer or High Violet can. Compared to the masterpieces the band would later release, Sad Songs can’t help but feel like a relatively minor work.

Still, this represents an astounding album-to-album leap, by far the greatest The National have made. Some of the best songs here, such as “Slipping Husband” and “Available,” crackle with nervous energy, as Berninger’s vocal performance devolves into a series of frenzied screams. When he’s not howling, Berninger displays more control over his voice, settling into the smoky baritone that would become an essential component of The National’s sound.

And that’s the story of Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers. Everything The National attempt on this album would be executed with more panache on subsequent efforts, but the pieces were finally in place for their ascension to indie royalty. It’s almost as if their fumbling debacle of a debut never happened.

 

4. Alligator

The National’s first album represented the band’s awkward teen years, the musical equivalent of that horrifying middle-school yearbook photo you dig up years later that serves as both a humbling reminder of where you came from and a triumphant indicator of the progress you’ve made since. Their second and third LPs captured the band in their restless twenties, bursting with ideas and energy they couldn’t completely harness. With albums three through six, the band would settle comfortably into adulthood with a style all their own.

Alligator finds the band at a critical juncture, stuck between the raw, heart-on-the-sleeve urgency of Sad Song’s most boisterous cuts and the meticulous craftsmanship they would display on their next three records. Sure, it’s a bit rough around the edges, but this lack of luster only augments the restlessness that marks every song on this record. In stark contrast to The National’s next three albums, Alligator features decidedly unglamorous production; it sounds almost as if it were recorded live so the band could capture its ideas before they spun off into the ether. In retrospect, it’s fascinating to hear The National at a time when they didn’t project unflappable confidence (at least in regard to their musicianship), when they were still rounding into shape as one of rock’s most reliable acts.

This uncertainty produced some of The National’s most exhilarating tracks. Never again would they rock as hard as they did on “Mr. November.” Never again would Berninger howl as he does on “Abel’s” frantic chorus, a moment that’s sure to jar fans who came to the band after they broke out with Boxer. But amidst the ruckus, it’s clear that these were the tightest, most purposeful songs The National had produced up to this point. They build and sustain mood to devastating effect, the verses and choruses complementing each other in ways they hadn’t before

At its heart, Alligator is an album of conflicting dynamics, tempos, and moods. The push and pull evident on many of these songs makes Alligator The National’s most visceral offering, the product of a band bursting with creativity, but still unable to fully develop their ideas. But what Alligator lacks in refinement, it makes up for in a sense of immediacy the band would never again approach. But despite the quantum leaps the band had made since their debut, better things awaited on what would become their first masterpiece, 2007’s Boxer.

 

3. Trouble Will Find Me

After High Violet, The National found themselves in an unenviable position, tasked with following two of the 21^st century’s best albums. Where many bands would crack under the pressure or simply coast off of their past success, The National found a way to stay true to themselves without falling prey to complacency. Other than a warmer, clearer sound, Trouble Will Find Me follows a blueprint similar to that of High Violet: dense textures punctuated by horns, strings, and pianos; masterful use of backing and double-tracked vocals; nimble drumming; and a general air of despondency.

Six albums in, The National have refined their craft to the point where they can take your breath away with a single swelling violin or simple, seven-note piano melody (as on the gorgeous “Exile Vilify,” released between High Violet and Trouble Will Find Me). They sound comfortable in the way master songwriters do after they have nothing left to prove, able to write for themselves and their fans with the knowledge that—barring a disaster of epic proportions—their legacy is safe. And Trouble Will Find Me proves that not only is The National’s legacy safe, it continues to flourish in ways most bands could only dream of.

That being said, Trouble Will Find Me can’t quite measure up to its predecessors in terms of visceral impact. Perhaps this has to do with a relatively painless songwriting process or a lack of intra-band conflict, but this album doesn’t carry the same emotional weight as Boxer and High Violet. Now, those albums hit with the force of a freight train, so this isn’t to say that The National have lost their touch, but the beginning of their decline is evident, however slight it may be.

And that’s what’s the most disheartening about Trouble Will Find Me. While The National have proven their staying power beyond a shadow of a doubt, even the most talented artists can’t sustain such a fertile creative streak forever. They could very well prove me wrong, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Trouble Will Find Me is the last truly great National album. Berninger has already hinted that the band may be nearing the end of its run, and that’s probably for the best. Barring a major stylistic makeover, I don’t know how much longer The National can return to the well. They may be aging gracefully, but they’re aging nonetheless, and sooner or later, the reaper’s going to rear his ugly head.

 

2.  High Violet

After the career-defining masterpiece that was Boxer, expectations were sky-high for The National’s fifth studio album. But instead of taking the arena rock route with soaring ballads and fist-pumping anthems, The National turned further inward and made an album that, while not as immediate as its predecessor, delivers with exquisite songcraft. The clean, almost sleek sound of Boxer is muddied up considerably, piling layers of distortion until you’re just as lost and confused as the protagonists of Berninger’s moribund tales.

The Dessners have never been ones to show off their technical virtuosity, but here, they recede even further into the mix, cloaking their riffs with more effects-pedal wizardry than they utilized on their first four albums combined. This team-first spirit is not lost on the rest of the band, who are more than willing to cede the spotlight in the service of mood.

At this point, many of the members of The National were fathers, and thus had felt the pressure of dependence, whether financial or emotional. They’re adults with adult problems, and High Violet bears the weight of profound, unshakable responsibility. These guys can’t simply pack up and leave if the going gets rough. Whether they like it or not, they’re stuck for the rest of their lives with the ones they love, a prospect that is equal parts comforting and terrifying.

The band has admitted High Violet arose from considerable strife, particularly in the constant conflict between simplicity and complexity, and that tension is what makes the album such a vital, emotionally resonant effort. Each song is a struggle between the band’s elegant, understated melodies and the desire to heighten atmosphere through suffocating production. Earlier in their career, the band would not have been able to pull off such a precarious balance, but here they manage it with apparent ease, effectively fending off challengers for their title as New York’s definitive band.

Whether it’s needing drugs to keep your life in order or owing money to the money to the money you owe, The National capture the existential despair of a mid-life crisis with astounding efficacy. Consequently, High Violet is not the type of record that grabs you on first listen. Give it enough time though, and it will reveal its fragile beauty.

 

1. Boxer

As someone who is uncomfortable with the notion of deeming any work of art “perfect,” I can safely say Boxer is about as close to perfect as an album can get. From start to finish, every second hangs heavy with the weight of regret and insecurity, accessing every instance of emotional hardship you’ve experienced at once. Boxer’s great accomplishment is its ability to recreate the perverse comfort we find in sadness, to find the sense of inevitability that marks profound anguish and gracefully submit to it. I’m not going to lie, listening to Boxer hurts. But it achieves a kind of catharsis only the best art can manage. Needless to say, every ounce of promise The National showed is not only met, but surpassed in ways even their most optimistic fans could not have thought possible.

Shirking the scruff from Alligator, each instrument on Boxer sounds impeccable, crisp and clear, while retaining a warmth that keeps this album from feeling like an attempt at superstardom. Not that The National would fit comfortably into Top 40 radio anyways. Their songs are too densely textured, too willing to address the doubts that plague us to find a place next to Kings of Leon and Green Day. The National are the type of band that can shatter your soul, that will leave you both awestruck and devastated.

While just about everything here is executed with tremendous conviction and precision, Berninger and Bryce Devendorf deserve special mention for their contributions. Nothing against the Dessners, but their best guitar-work has always been in the service of mood and texture. Their contributions are absolutely essential to this album’s success, but they often don’t dominate the mix with quite the same authority as Berninger and Devendorf, whose drumming improved tremendously in the six years since the band’s debut. Both propulsive and nimble, he keeps many of the songs moving at a steady clip without overwhelming the careful dynamic between the rest of the group. He certainly brings technical prowess to The National’s rhythm section, but his true calling card is his ability to keep his playing loose and natural even on the album’s most tightly structured songs.

Berninger likewise finds his sweet spot, striking just the right balance between silky smooth and perpetually uncertain. He sounds like a man who has everything he needs, who should be satisfied, but nonetheless remains mired in doubt. Communicating such nuance is no easy task, but Berninger makes it look easy.

I’ve heard The National likened to elevator music or “dad rock,” but an album like Boxer dispels any notions of mediocrity. This is an album borne of the fear that this would be The National’s best, and perhaps final, opportunity to break out. Where many bands would crumble under these enormous expectations, The National manage to channel their fears into an exquisitely realized portrait of profound unease. It’s not an easy listen, but one stays with you long after you take off your headphones.

 

Modern Vampires of the City

What a difference a studio makes. My first exposure to most of Vampire Weekend’s third LP, Modern Vampires of the City, came through low-quality YouTube concert videos and their recent BBC session. In a live setting, many of the these songs sounded precious and over-worked, leading me to worry that the three-year break following Contra would serve to the band’s detriment. But what the videos failed to capture were the subtle details that make each song on Modern Vampires of the City a worthy and surprising entry into Vampire Weekend’s discography.

Vampire Weekend have always been more adventurous than many of their indie pop counterparts, especially on their last album, 2010’s Contra. While Contra contained a number of perky pop tunes akin to those on their self-titled debut, much of the album displayed notable growth in the songwriting department. Songs such as “Taxi Cab” and “I Think Ur A Contra” didn’t strike me in the same way that “A-Punk” did. They required patience and attention, qualities not necessary to appreciate their debut. That’s not to say that Vampire Weekend isn’t an excellent album. In fact, it may be the band’s most enjoyable record, a collection of endlessly charming songs executed with effortless precision. Yet Contra proved Vampire Weekend would not fade away as unceremoniously as many early 21^st-century buzz bands (The Libertines, Hives, etc.). Modern Vampires of the City, the band’s weirdest, albeit prettiest offering to date, provides further evidence of Vampire Weekend’s staying power.

What most listeners will immediately notice is a dearth of obvious singles. Barring the bouncy “Diane Young” and its pitch-modulated vocals, none of the songs are as radio-ready as much of Vampire Weekend’s past work. But what these songs lack in immediacy, they more than compensate for in craftsmanship. At times, Modern Vampires of the City is both Vampire Weekend’s most stripped-down and ornate effort. The insistent percussion that dominated their first two albums has been slowed and softened considerably, while their staccato guitar riffs have been replaced almost entirely by an array of organs, strings, pianos, and synths. But Vampire Weekend do not mistake compositional depth and unconventional instrumentation for artistic growth; it’s their discipline that speaks to their maturity as songwriters.

The album’s best song, “Hannah Hunt,” encapsulates Vampire Weekend’s remarkable progression. Beginning with a bass line that evokes Lou Reed’s “Walk on the Wild Side,” “Hannah Hunt” takes its sweet time building around Ezra Koenig’s delicate, almost hushed vocals. First, it’s the bass, followed by a wistful piano melody and a lone bongo, then a strung-out guitar, and finally an organ and theremin as everything combines to beautiful effect, forming the apex on an album full of great moments. But before this blissful harmony has a chance to wear out its welcome, the song ends as softly as it began. The restraint Vampire Weekend show here is indicative of their tremendous confidence. There are plenty of highlights yet to come and they know it, allowing them to pull back when other bands would attack.

Modern Vampires of the City is yet another step forward for a band that’s as restless as any of its peers. Though it’s Vampire Weekend’s least accessible album, at its best, Modern Vampires of the City is absolutely gorgeous, shining with the polish of a band that knows its way around a studio. While Vampire Weekend may never shed their preppy image, they’ve proven to be much more than precocious Ivy Leaguers with an affinity for Afropop. They’re first-rate songsmiths in their own right, outclassing the competition one harpsichord at a time.

**** (out of 5)

The Idler Wheel

I’m rarely blown away the first time I listen to an artist. Often, I need repeated listens to fully absorb the intricacies present in the work of the best songsmiths. Fiona Apple is a rare exception.

Despite being aware of her reputation as a prodigious talent, I wasn’t compelled to take the plunge until her most recent album (The Idler Wheel) continued her streak of rapturous critical praise. I began with Extraordinary Machine, and instantly regretted my decision to ignore her in the years since its release. Captivated from start to finish, I was unable to escape the magnetic pull of  her highly emotional songwriting. A Fiona Apple album is not a passive experience, it’s an aural douse of cold water, immediately bringing you to attention. The Idler Wheel continues that tradition, making it abundantly clear that Fiona has not grown rusty during her seven year hiatus.

Just as good, if not better than Extraordinary Machine, The Idler Wheel is another stunner, an equally gut-wrenching and mesmerizing look into Apple’s damaged psyche. From the first song, Apple sounds like she’s on the verge of mental collapse. “Every single night’s a fight/with my brain,” she cries on “Every Single Night,” her voice echoing in an unnervingly triumphant manner. Despite the seemingly placid surface indicated by her hushed, music box-esque piano, something’s wrong with our narrator. Exactly what that is we will continue to explore over the course of the next nine songs.

The next track, “Daredevil”, peels back another layer of Fiona’s persona, as she reveals, “I don’t feel anything until I smash it up,” and pleads, “…don’t let me ruin me/I may need a chaperone.” The contrast between the skittering percussion and terse piano chords creates a nervous, unsettling mood while expertly illustrating the paradox between her self-destructive tendencies and her desperate attempts to keep her life from spinning out of control.

The highly confessional tone continues for the rest of the album’s duration, leaving the listener uncomfortably aware of Fiona’s faults. While many artists would lack the nerve to subject themselves to this type of emotional exposure, Apple shows no such hesitation, laying herself bare to be judged and scrutinized. Any songwriter  can write about personal experiences, it takes true dedication to one’s craft to show what lies beneath the exterior, to divulge the thoughts most would be too embarrassed to reveal. This fearless ambition is what sets Fiona Apple apart from her contemporaries.

Perfectly mirroring her bare, revealing lyrics is the economical instrumentation. Where most artists would need ornate arrangements to convey such a bewildering web of emotions, Apple thrives with little more than a piano and her haunting voice. She’s clearly an expert on the keys, using them to brilliantly punctuate her thoughts. The piano is more than a mere instrument, it’s an extension of her soul. As for her voice, it may not be beautiful by conventional standards, but it’s more effective than that of the most glamorous pop starlets, burrowing into the deepest, darkest corners of your brain. It demands attention; it refuses to be ignored.

While I’m fully convinced she could make do with just a piano and her voice, the inventive percussion adds a welcome layer of dynamism, making the songs a bit more robust. From kettledrums to marimbas, Apple covers the full spectrum, setting each track apart from every other. The masterful interplay between her voice, piano and percussion reaches its apex on  “Left Alone,” the record’s jazziest number, in which an off-tempo piano, upright bass, and jittery drum provide a downright sinister backdrop for Apple’s disconcertingly playful vocals. The idea of paradox in Apple’s life is explored once again, this time concerning her desire for love and companionship despite her antisocial behavior.

Fiona Apple does nothing half-way; it’s either all or nothing. While she may only make an album or two every decade, when she does, we’re almost guaranteed a towering testament to her artistic prowess. Hopefully, she won’t need seven more years to release another record, but if she does, we know it’ll be worth the wait.

Celebration Rock

Japandroids are not concerned about longevity. Their 2009 debut, Post-Nothing, was a welcome jolt of garage and noise rock, a very enjoyable, if not terribly consequential record; the joyously vapid lyrics and reckless abandon with which Brian King and David Prowse played didn’t exactly lay the foundation for a long, storied career. While Post-Nothing was well-received by critics and independent music fans alike, the simplicity and similarity of its songs seemed to set Japandroids up for the dreaded sophomore slump.

And frankly, when the first reviews of their follow-up (Celebration Rock) began to trickle in, I was a bit skeptical. Could it really be that much better? Surely Polyvinyl (their label) were only letting out the most positive reviews in an effort to build positive buzz. But from the first searing guitar chords on “The Nights of Wine and Roses” (the record’s first and best track), I knew I was wrong.

The most aptly titled album of the year, Celebration Rock is exactly that, a celebration of life, youth, and living in the moment. The qualities that made Post-Nothing such a fun listen: the carefree attitude, brash, boisterous drumming, guitar work ready for both clubs and arenas, are turned up to 11 the second time around. If Post-Nothing was a caffeine rush, Celebration Rock is an adrenaline shot, racing along at full speed for 35 minutes. It’s exciting, life-affirming stuff, full of rousing, fist-pumping anthems that will undoubtedly leave you with a smile on your face.

When the album’s first single (“The House That Heaven Built”) was released in May, some worried Japandroids were merely retracing their steps. And while Celebration Rock will certainly sound familiar to Japandroids fans, it marks enough of a progression to feel like more than a retread. The guitars and vocals are sharper this time around, giving the album a welcome bit of punk edge, while the triumphant “whoa oh’s,” a staple of Post-Nothing,  manage to be even more buoyant.

As one can tell within seconds, Japandroids are not a subtle band. They’re big, heartfelt, and most of all fun. Do most of their songs sound fairly similar? Yes, but they’re such a blast that you don’t really care. Admittedly, barring some major, unexpected changes, they probably won’t be relevant five years from now, as they have one very specific sound and have done just about everything they can with it. But, like the subjects of their songs, they don’t need to think about tomorrow until today’s over. They’ve accomplished more than most bands ever will, and that’s something they can always hang their hats on.

While Japandroids may not have the longest shelf life, Celebration Rock will, serving as the soundtrack for the countless sweaty, reckless nights of irresponsible twentysomethings. Joy has no expiration date, instead its meant to be cherished, experienced, and fondly remembered. It may only be July, but when the end of the year rolls around, I’m almost certain the buzz from Celebration Rock will not have faded.

Heaven

Despite a discography as dynamic and varied as any in the 21st century, The Walkmen have never gotten their due. Rather, they’ve always seemed to be on the verge of breaking out, yet for one reason or another, they never truly have. Sure, they’re well-respected in the indie community, but they’ve never reached that top tier, never had the album sales of The Black Keys or Arcade Fire. This would be understandable if their style was highly experimental, but it’s not. Not to say they’re boring or predictable, quite the opposite in fact, but their sound seems accessible enough to reach beyond the Pitchfork crowd. They have the catchy, anthemic singles (“The Rat,” “Angela Surf City,” “The New Year”), critical respect, an acclaimed live show, a handful of television appearances. All of the pieces for a breakout have been in place for years. But for reasons neither they nor I will ever understand, they never “made it” to the extent their impressive body of work merits. While their newest release (Heaven) is their most easily digestible yet, the band is probably too far into their career to finally get the break they deserve.

Heaven maintains The Walkmen’s consistent excellence, just not at the level of their previous album, 2010’s Lisbon. Like all Walkmen albums, Heaven is a grower; it takes about 3-4 listens to truly reveal all of it’s intricacies. While that might be frustrating for some, for me it’s a mark of excellent craftsmanship. The Walkmen create music that is built to last, and last it does.

Twelve years without a lineup change has left The Walkmen as cohesive as ever. These guys clearly know each other inside and out, their tics, their stylistic flourishes. Each member of the band plays an important role, as one could easily make the case for at least three of them being the band’s MVP. It’s this type of depth that makes The Walkmen consistently compelling. Everyone plays off each other perfectly, each element complementing every other. Whether it be a drum pattern providing forceful emphasis for a bass line, or Hamilton Leithauser’s voice momentarily matching Paul Maroon’s guitar note, Heaven is full of those little moments that only great bands can produce.

While they’re relatively minor, the album does have its problems. First and foremost, much of the creative tension that characterized The Walkmen’s previous work is gone. Yes, the chemistry is there, but it’s a more comfortable chemistry. This makes for a somewhat relaxed vibe, at the expense of the raw emotion on their previous records. The nervous energy and sense of despair of Bows and Arrows, and the overwhelming feelings of longing on Lisbon have been softened by the band’s more orderly approach. Where each member of the band used to feel a bit off, they’re now more in sync. This would be a positive for just about any band, but The Walkmen thrived off of that messiness. Producer Phil Ek, whose credits include indie rock staples such as Chutes Too Narrow and Helplessness Blues, bears most of the blame for this shift. To his credit, The Walkmen sound remarkably clean and crisp, and maybe their ramshackle sensibilities would have grown stale, but Heaven doesn’t quite resonate with me as much as their previous work.

Minor quibbles aside, Heaven does have some knockout tracks.  “The Love You Love” and “The Witch”  harken back to their earlier days in the best way possible, but the title track and “Song for Leigh” are the album’s standouts, each providing The Walkmen an excellent blueprint for using their new sound in the future. The tighter, more focused style is brilliantly utilized, giving the songs a momentum that keeps them chugging along at a steady clip. But they also pack the type of emotional punch that makes their best songs so special. When Leithauser bemoans an unnamed acquaintance, “Don’t leave me/Oh you’re my best friend,” on “Heaven,” he means it, and that sincerity transfers to the listener.

No, it’s not The Walkmen’s best, but Heaven is still one hell of an album, one that I’ll surely return to time and again. As Leithauser fittingly croons on the first track, “The world is ours/we can’t be beat,” Heaven keeps the Walkmen’s six-album winning streak intact, leading me to wonder: will they ever be beat? If their career thus far is any indication, probably not.

Bloom

Each year, there are one or two records that stand apart from everything else released during the past twelve months. These records possess a sense of otherness, almost as if they exist in an entirely different universe than every other piece of music released during that year. In 2011, Fucked Up’s David Comes to Life and Destroyer’s Kaputt towered above their competition. In 2010, Kanye West’s My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy and Arcade Fire’s The Suburbs followed likewise. This year was lacking such a record until May 15, when Beach House’s masterful fourth album, Bloom, was released.

Beach House’s previous LP, Teen Dream, was deemed by many their breakout, introducing their hazy dream-pop sound to a much wider audience. While it doesn’t quite reach the dizzying heights of Teen Dream, Bloom proves it was certainly not a fluke, establishing Beach House as one of the finest bands working today.

In an interview with Pitchfork, lead singer Victoria Legrand recounted some of the concerns she and guitarist Alex Scally had when recording Bloom, “How do you describe a feeling without saying ‘this is the feeling’? How do you take something completely natural, that will eventually transfer to the listener, but not just settle for that instant feeling of ‘you hurt me,’ and go to an imaginary landscape instead?”

This type of transcendence is enormously difficult to achieve in any medium of art, yet Beach House manage to pull it off completely. Bloom has a wonderfully ethereal quality that makes the listener feel as if he is being transported to another world, an “imaginary landscape,” if you will. This is due largely to the incredible synergy between Legrand and Scally, which has progressed to such an extent that it is almost impossible to imagine they cannot communicate telepathically. Scally’s lush slide-guitar riffs complement Legrand’s smoky vocals in a manner that can only be described as otherworldly. The effect is hypnotic, making the album’s fifty-minute runtime feel much shorter. By the time it ends, you don’t want to leave their rich, breathtaking world. The only remedy is to play it again, and again, and again.

While not as accessible as Teen Dream, Bloom has an air of mystery about it. The hooks are not as obvious, the song structures a bit less conventional. But every time I listen to it, I get the feeling that I’m that much closer to solving the puzzle. That if I listen just one more time, I’ll have it figured out. But I never do, and probably never will. Yet it’s that tantalizing possibility, the feeling that I’m this close. Like Charlie Brown’s futile efforts to finally kick that football. Both he and I know Lucy will always, always pull it away at the last second. But we both know that won’t keep him from trying, because he’s too close. And that’s the beauty of Bloom, it keeps you in its orbit, but just far enough that you’ll never figure it out. It’s a puzzle wrapped in a riddle, nestled in an enigma, and an enchanting one at that. A siren, making you forget everything except that impossibly beautiful, utterly captivating sound.

Blunderbuss

Jack White’s better than this, and he knows it. Having spent the last decade as the leader of The White Stripes, White established himself as one of the premier guitarists of his generation. Following The White Stripes’ breakup last year, he moved on to start his own record company (Third Man Records) and produce an almost comically diverse collection of artists. From Stephen Colbert to Insane Clown Posse, White made clear he has no boundaries. In between production gigs, he found time to mess around in the studio himself, eventually deciding to record his first solo effort. Many wondered how he would fare without Meg (his former wife and White Stripes drummer), despite the fact that he wrote all of The White Stripes’ songs himself. His previous side projects (The Racontuers and The Dead Weather) indicated he would be able to make do regardless of who he worked with, but neither band ever approached the White Stripes’ pure blues-rock bliss. Perhaps Meg forced him to simplify his approach, but he never seemed to fare better with more talented musicians. The same holds true for Blunderbuss, a surprisingly mediocre record for such a bold, enigmatic artist.

While White’s bluesy style is still present, Blunderbuss bears the imprint of the Nashville country scene (home of Third Man Records) more than anything he has recorded, and suffers as a result. White is most comfortable and successful when working within the blues/garage rock paradigm, where he can show off his prodigious guitar skills. Even the White Stripes’ least guitar-centric record (the underrated Get Behind Me Satan) felt exciting and vital due to White’s restless energy. Blunderbuss, on the other hand, is a rather pedestrian effort. Most of the songs are simply good, no more, no less. And while that would be acceptable for most artists, I’ve come to expect better things from Jack White. This is the man who gave us “Seven Nation Army” and “Fell in Love with a Girl,” mere adequacy is no longer acceptable.

The underlying problem with White as a solo artist is that he simply has too many options. Consequently, he tries a little bit of everything, creating a watery mixture of mediocrity. When it comes to arranging a broad array of instruments, White is competent, but he’s no Sufjan Stevens. Rather, he’s at his best when he’s front and center, able to show off his considerable talents. Many have criticized White throughout his career for being a control freak, but the truth is he’s more talented than just about any potential collaborator. And who could argue with the results? From their self-titled debut to Icky Thump (their final record), The White Stripes were one of the most exhilarating bands around. Taking the spotlight off of himself is only a waste of his abilities. For such an idiosyncratic, driven musician, I’m surprised he was excited enough about the material on Blunderbuss to release it.

Jack White will more than likely make music for the rest of his life. Inevitably, there will be missteps, even for someone as talented as him. Bob Dylan himself has a fair amount of duds in his discography, an unfortunate reality of the law of averages. But rest assured, Jack White will be back, hopefully with better material.

Summer Music Festival Preview

 

Summer is almost here, and that means music festival season is just around the corner. Chicago is home to not one, but two excellent festivals: Lollapalooza and Pitchfork. Lolla is the bigger and more established of the two, the brainchild of Jane’s Addiction lead singer Perry Farrell. While it began as a touring festival in 1991, it found a permanent home in Chicago after it was reestablished in 2005 following a two year break. SInce then, it has featured some of the biggest names in rock and pop, including Kanye West, Radiohead, Arcade Fire, and Lady Gaga among others. Last year’s headliners were uncharacteristically weak, leading me to hope that Farrell would atone for his sins this year.

But after looking at this year’s lineup, I was once again underwhelmed. The Black Keys and Jack White will certainly be able to command the main stages, and Black Sabbath was unquestionably a big draw (though they’re at least 30-40 years past their prime). But the other three headliners (Red Hot Chili Peppers, Avicii, and Justice) are rather uninspired. Red Hot Chili Peppers would have been an excellent choice in the mid-90s, but their output since 1999’s Californication has been boring at best, and needlessly over-indulgent at worst. You can almost hear lead singer Anthony Kiedis checking his watch as he delivers some of the sleepiest vocals I’ve ever heard on snoozefests such as “Snow” and “The Adventures of Rain Dance Maggie”.

As far as the electronic acts are concerned, I appreciate Farrell’s efforts to make Lolla more diverse, but few electronic artists have the clout and stage presence to headline a main stage. Justice’s high energy style would have been a perfect fit for Perry’s (the predominantly electronic stage), where the atmosphere is more frenzied and intimate. Avicii, on the other hand, represents the bland techno that has come to dominate the electronic music scene. The undercard, while not quite as deep as I would have hoped, is more exciting, featuring a healthy array of established acts and promising up and comers.

Though it debuted the same year Lolla found its current home, Pitchfork has always been seen as Lolla’s younger brother, featuring smaller, often more experimental acts. Run by the highly-influential indie taste-making website of the same name, Pitchfork has always had a knack for finding bands just as they break out. The festival really hit its stride during the past two years, grabbing some of the biggest names in independent music (Fleet Foxes, LCD Soundsystem, TV on the Radio, Pavement), and arguably surpassing Lolla in terms of quality. This year seemed like the year Pitchfork would establish itself as a world-class festival, as some very big names circulated on the rumor mill. Pulp? Jeff Mangum? Bon Iver? Maybe (fingers crossed) a full-fledged Neutral Milk Hotel reunion? But my lofty hopes came crashing down in a fiery heap of disappointment when the actual headliners were announced.

Vampire Weekend were a satisfying, if not enthralling pick, but the other two (Feist and Godspeed You! Black Emperor) do not have the type of live shows that warrant a prime slot. Especially considering that there is at least one other band on the lineup (Beach House) who could have easily replaced either Feist or Godspeed. Frankly, I’m confused as to why Pitchfork did not choose The Walkmen (who are playing Lolla instead) to headline, since they’re half-way down the bill for Lolla, and will likely land a mid-afternoon slot unreflective of their considerable talents.

But as has been the case in recent years, Pitchfork’s non-headlining acts are as strong as ever, eclipsing Lolla in terms of quality and depth. From the aforementioned Beach House to Sleigh Bells, Cloud Nothings, and Wild Flag, Pitchfork has proven it can consistently stay on the cutting edge. This is especially true in regard to the hip-hop and electronic acts. Where Lolla’s hip-hop and electronic slate is often more commercially viable (while consistently mediocre), Pitchfork has always been more willing to book more adventurous and ambitious artists. This year alone boasts the likes of Flying Lotus, The Field, Danny Brown, A$AP Rocky, and Nicolas Jaar. Due to the depth of the lineup, I’ll give Pitchfork a pass (this year) for their weak headliners, and a slight edge over Lolla for the second year in a row.

For those of you who choose to attend either or both festivals (and both are certainly worth attending), here are my top four non-headlining acts to check out at each festival (for the record, The Black Keys, Jack White, and Vampire Weekend are far and away my favorite headliners).

 

Lollapalooza

 

1. The Walkmen

 

Easily one of the most under-appreciated bands of the past decade, The Walkmen have maintained a consistency most bands would envy. Their sound, a Smithsesque mixture of 80s alternative and surf rock, feels familiar, but is in reality very distinctive. The interplay between the band members is deceptively skillful, as their messy rapport would indicate otherwise. This could be a recipe for disaster for many bands, yet The Walkmen make it look easy, creating a loose vibe that highlights their incredible chemistry. But what makes them special above all is the unmistakable sense of longing and regret so successfully conveyed on their records.

Take the piano riff on the breakout single from their debut LP, “We’ve Been Had”. Evoking an ice cream truck, carousel, and music box all at once, the sound of that piano not only recalls, but embodies the concept of nostalgia, calling to mind just about every childhood memory you’ve ever had. While technical prowess can certainly bolster a band’s effectiveness, the ability to forge an emotional connection with their audience is what separates good bands from great bands. And The Walkmen are a great band.

 

2. tUnE-yArDs

 

Arguably the breakout artist of last year, Merrill Garbus (who works under the moniker tUnE-yArDs) is one of the most exiting young musicians working today. Her kinetic, exuberant second album, Whokill, garnered significant critical acclaim, pulling a significant upset over Bon Iver and PJ Harvey to take the top spot in the 2011 Pazz and Jop Critics’ Poll. Melding Afropop, folk, and hip-hop, while drawing from influences as diverse as Beck, M.I.A., and Talking Heads, Garbus’ sound is nevertheless uniquely her own, due in no small part to her contagious enthusiasm. She clearly loves making music, and you can hear that joy in her booming yet pliable voice. She received rave reviews for her live shows last year, even being named the best act at last year’s Pitchfork Festival by Tribune music critic Greg Kot. If you’re looking for something a bit off the beaten path this summer, look no further.

 

3. At the Drive-In

 

Texas based post-hardcore outfit At the Drive-In broke up at the height of their powers in 2001, fresh off of their landmark album Relationships of Command. Members Cedric Bixler-Zalava and Omar Rodriguez-Lopez split off and formed The Mars Volta while the other members became Sparta. And while both bands achieved some measure of success, neither achieved the acclaim of At the Drive-In. Rumors of a reunion had been floating around for the past few years, though they appeared to be shot down by Rodriguez-Lopez and guitarist Jim Ward in 2009. But the rumors were proven true when ATDI announced a tour at the beginning of this year, including some very high-profile dates at Coachella and Reading.

Their propulsive, high octane, chaotic sound has had a significant impact on the punk and emo scenes since their breakup, though few bands have been able to recreate ATDI’s high wire balancing act with as much finesse and ferocity. Their final two releases (Relationships of Command and Vaya) were particularly successful at recreating the energy of their famed live shows without sounding sloppy or unprofessional. Their Lolla date may be the last time they play in Chicago, so catch them while you still can.

 

4. Twin Shadow

 

Evoking the likes of 80s stalwarts Prince and New Order, Twin Shadow mastermind George Lewis Jr’s style is firmly rooted in the past with an unmistakably modern spin. His 2010 debut Forget could serve as a spiritual companion to Destroyer’s masterful 2011 album Kaputt, as it skillfully incorporates components of new wave and synth pop without the cheesiness that plagued many of the artists who inspired him. This guy means business, and his dance-floor ready sound pulls no punches. The seductiveness of his songs makes them alluring and magnetic, drawing you further and further in until you can’t escape their pull. In a lineup heavy with faceless techno and dubstep artists, Twin Shadow should provide a danceable, yet more substantive respite.

 

Pitchfork

 

1. Beach House

 

Brooklyn dream-pop duo Beach House have a remarkable ability to get more with less. Using just a slide guitar, drums, an organ, and Victoria Legrand’s smoky voice, Beach House’s sound is as lush and melodic as any today. This is due to the incredible synergy between Legrand and guitarist Alex Scally. The feeling produced by this combination is similar to what I would imagine it would be like to walk on a cloud. It feels both weightless and triumphant transcending reality for something deeper and more soulful. Simply put (and I don’t use this descriptor lightly) their music is beautiful, a feat accomplished by very few artists in any medium. Their 2010 record Teen Dream is one of the most mesmerizing records of the past decade, and their follow-up Bloom (set to be released May 15, though it has already been leaked online) proves a worthy successor. While their live show is fairly low-key, it should provide the perfect soundtrack to a warm July afternoon.

 

2. Cloud Nothings

 

Dylan Baldi’s first two records consisted of pleasant, if forgettable lo-fi garage pop. His goals were fairly modest, and consequently, the results were as well. But in 2011, Baldi felt as if he had hit a creative wall. He wanted a sound that would allow him to experiment and improvise, and he enlisted legendary producer Steve Albini (In Utero, Surfer Rosa) to facilitate this shift. What resulted (Attack on Memory) is a sharper, more abrasive record that still manages to utilize Baldi’s pop tendencies. Though the album is relatively brief (eight songs in thirty-three minutes) its conciseness serves it well; all eight songs are necessary pieces in a greater whole. Baldi’s bold move was one of the biggest surprises of this year, and with such a willingness to reinvent himself, it will be exciting to see where he goes next.

 

3. Sleigh Bells

 

For many, Sleigh Bells were the “it” band of 2010. Their hard-hitting debut Treats combined metal, hip-hop, and pop in ways rarely seen before. Reign of Terror, their highly anticipated follow-up dropped in February of this year, to somewhat less enthusiastic reviews. Personally, I prefer Reign of Terror to Treats, as it has a greater sense of craftsmanship and cohesiveness, the work of a more mature band. While Treats was louder and more exciting, there were times when guitarist Derek Miller and lead singer Alexis Krauss sounded as if they were on completely different pages. Reign of Terror flows far better and is more consistent than Treats without sacrificing Sleigh Bells’ genre-bending style. Considering the ear-splitting amounts of noise Sleigh Bells produce, their set at Pitchfork should provide a stark contrast to some of the more mellow acts at the festival.

 

4. Cults

 

New York indie-pop duo Cults were responsible for one of the catchiest, most infectious records of last year with their self-titled debut. Full of xylophones, synths, and sunny vocals (courtesy of Madeline Follin), Cults was light enough to be easily digested on first listen, but dynamic enough to warrant repeated visits. The depth of the production fully utilized the diverse instrumentation, giving them an edge over other indie pop acts such as Foster the People. For such a cheery band, Cults are a surprisingly aggressive in a live setting, adding an edge to their easygoing sound. Two near-consecutive years of touring have given Cults a confidence that should allow them to hold their own against some of the more experienced acts on Pitchfork’s bill.

Mr. M

Self-described as, “Nashville’s most [messed] up country band,” Lambchop has spent the better part of two decades artfully combining elements of country, chamber pop, and even lounge music. While they experienced something of a breakout with 2000’s Nixon, the band has nonetheless stayed under the radar throughout its career, even among the indie crowd. Admittedly, I hadn’t heard of them myself until this year, when I came across the standout track (“Gone Tomorrow”) on their excellent eleventh album, Mr. M. There have been few truly memorable records this year, with Mr. M being a rare exception.

Great art often arises from adversity, as is the case with Mr. M. Dedicated to the memory of late songwriter Vic Chestnutt (who was a good friend of Lambchop lead singer Kurt Wagner), the specter of death looms over the album like a shadow from which Wagner struggles to escape. Wagner’s vocals have always been understated, but age and emotional turmoil lend them a weariness and resignation that gives the record a greater emotional heft. Wagner often sounds exhausted, as if the loss of Chestnutt has left him pondering the futility of his own existence. This vocal approach suits him well, as he has a severely limited range that hamstrung him at times on Lambchop’s earlier releases. Now, his tired whisper of a voice allows the finely-crafted instrumentation to take center stage, while giving his somber lyrics their full emotional impact.

Lambchop has always managed to skillfully incorporate pianos and strings into their songs, but the arrangements on Mr. M are particularly elegant, perfectly complementing the unmistakable air of sadness. The songs themselves amble along at a leisurely pace, in no hurry to get anywhere, yet never wasting time. While this approach would prove dull in the hands of a lesser band, Lambchop have the chops (pun absolutely intended) to pull it off. Each moment is carefully considered and completely necessary, even on the instrumental tracks, which still manage to be essential components of the album rather than mere interludes.

Most bands that last eleven albums eventually run out of ideas and resort to spinning their wheels. Lambchop is not that type of band. Instead, they have spent the years subtly tweaking and refining their sound as they have matured. Mr. M still sounds like a Lamchop album, but it packs more of an emotional punch than much of their previous work, ensuring that it will stay relevant for years to come.

In an age of instant gratification, when we expect everything and anything to be available immediately, it’s nice to have something that reveals itself slowly, forcing you to listen in and pay attention. This lack of accessibility may scare some away, but those who spend time with it will reap the benefits.

2012 Grammy Recap

Another year, another wasted opportunity. The Grammys have deservedly faced criticism for eschewing artistic merit in favor of commercial appeal, and this year was no exception. With the best-selling album of 2011, Adele swept the major categories (Album, Record, and Song of the Year) to the surprise of no one. While she is a more worthy recipient of these awards than some recent winners, Kanye West seemed the obvious choice for his 2010 instant-classic, My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, which inexplicably was shut out of the Album and Record of the Year categories (it received a Song of the Year nom for “All of the Lights”) despite massive critical and commercial success. Maybe the voters at the National Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences have become sick of Kanye’s brash personality (though it didn’t seem to bother them on his first three albums), or maybe they’re simply idiots, but for whatever reason, Kanye was snubbed.

The absence of My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy left the Album of the Year category embarrassingly thin. In addition to Adele’s 21, Foo Fighters’ Wasting Light, Lady Gaga’s Born This Way, Bruno Mars’ Doo-Wops & Hooligans, and Rihanna’s Loud received nominations. I’m sorry, but for a ceremony claiming to reward artistic excellence, one simply cannot make the argument that it is doing so. Looking at the  2010 and 2011 Pazz and Jop Critics’ Polls (the most definitive barometer of critical opinion), only one of the five albums (21) placed in the top 25 in either year. Arcade Fire’s massive upset last year had me hoping that the Grammys were beginning to change, but alas, it seems that it was more an anomaly than a burgeoning trend.

On the positive side, Bon Iver won for Best Alternative Album and Best New Artist, providing a fitting cap to an incredibly successful year. They also managed to score Record and Song of the Year nominations for “Holocene”. And while Kanye didn’t receive much recognition in the major categories, he still ended up with an impressive four wins.

On the negative side, Grammy voters, desperate to prove they were in touch with current musical trends, awarded Best Dance Recording and Best Dance/Electronica Album to Skrillex over the far more deserving Cut Copy and Robyn. In addition, the consistently mediocre Foo Fighters dominated the rock categories, prevailing over Radiohead, The Decemberists, and Wilco. Personally, I’ve never had any major problems with Foo Fighters, but they’re in no way superior to the three aforementioned bands.

Unlike cinema, music does not have a credible large-scale event where its best artists are celebrated. If they could get their act together, the Grammys could be that event, which is why I become incredibly frustrated every year when countless deserving artists are ignored in favor of more popular alternatives. While I’ll continue to hope that Grammy voters will come to their senses, I’m not holding my breath.