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.

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.

Bangarang

Honestly, I tried to come into this with an open mind, but I couldn’t. While I’m not particularly well-versed in his work, I have disliked everything I have heard from Skrillex. Maybe it’s because he’s the unofficial leader of the “brostep” movement, a crass, commercialized misrepresentation of the dubstep genre. Or perhaps he simply has a very limited understanding of musical composition. Either way, I don’t like Skrillex, and his fourth EP, Bangarang, did little to convince me otherwise.

Bangarang is no different than anything Skrillex has done before. Above all else, it follows his overriding musical philosophy: louder is better. What Skrillex doesn’t realize is that there must be something behind a song other than noise to justify its existence. Seriously, this guy has about two ideas per song, which he repeats over, and over, and over until they have become cemented into the deepest, darkest recesses of your brain. As you might imagine, it’s not pleasant by any means. I was hoping he would have shown even the slightest hints of evolution at this point in his career, but unfortunately, he has made absolutely no progress, reinforcing my conviction that he is simply not a talented musician.

It is abundantly clear that Skrillex does not have a strong background in electronic music, as he has a very poor grasp on mood and song structure. From the pop-culture cut-and-paste frenzy of Girl Talk, to Flying Lotus’ playful jazz and hip-hop fusion, mood and song structure are essential components of any successful electronic artist. What we get from Skrillex is a handful of sounds repeated ad nauseam, on each and every song.

Incessantly repetitive, dull, irritating, sloppy, and lacking in any artistry whatsoever, Bangarang is a painful listen. Even the title is obnoxious. Bangarang? Really? What does that even mean? The first two tracks were a slog, but the third song, “Breakn’ a Sweat”, bothered me on such a profound level, I began to wonder if it was some sort of sick joke. An early contender for the worst song of the year, “Breakn’ a Sweat” tries to merge two artists (Skrillex and The Doors) with absolutely nothing in common, with horrifying results.

I understand that many view The Doors as overrated, but for my money, few lead singers had the personality or swagger of Jim Morrison. And for his band to collaborate with a man of such little talent is simply appalling. Literally urinating on Morrison’s grave would have been a more fitting tribute.

But I digress, the rest of the EP is equally unpleasant, ending with a six-minute orchestral tribute to Skrillex because…I don’t know, my brain had stopped working by that point, and frankly I don’t really care. When it was finally over, I was left with nothing but the hope that Skrillex will fade into irrelevance after brostep wears out its welcome. While Skrillex fans have probably heard Bangarang already, I advise everyone else to stay far, far away.

 

The Smile Sessions

While not a commercial or critical success at the time of its release, The Beach Boys’ landmark 1966 album Pet Sounds has gained a rabid following in the years since. Lead songwriter Brian Wilson’s use of orchestral arrangements and innovative song structures had not been seen in American pop music before, and its impact cannot be overstated, as its influence can be heard in everyone from The Beatles to Animal Collective. Wilson’s planned follow-up to Pet Sounds, Smile, sought to take the innovation even further. Designed as a concept album consisting of a musical journey across America, Smile would have been arguably the most ambitious pop album of its time. The project ultimately proved too much for Wilson, as pressure from both his label and band, combined with deteriorating mental health, forced him to move on to the less sprawling, poorly received Smiley Smile. Over the years, recordings from the Smile sessions were bootlegged, and Smile gained a reputation as the greatest album never released. Not until 2004 would Wilson complete the record, albeit with a new band, and release it to critical acclaim. Rumors that the original sessions would be released circulated for the next seven years, until Capitol Records announced their official release earlier this year. After missing three planned release dates, The Smile Sessions finally saw the light of day on November 1.

Having already listened to (and loved) the Smile bootlegs, I knew what to expect from the official release. Even then, I could not help but be astounded by its sheer genius. It is difficult to put into words how jaw-droppingly brilliant this album is, so much so that I have no hesitations placing it among the greatest pieces of recorded music ever released. After multiple listens, I still feel the same sense of awe I experienced the first time through, as I continue to marvel at its effortless fusion of ambition and accessibility. Wilson has an uncanny ability to choose instruments which evoke the exact emotion conveyed by a song, whether it be an organ, cello, ukulele or any of the seemingly infinite variety of instruments used on the album. The instrumental arrangements are equally impressive, as seemingly diverse and incompatible parts always manage to come together to form a perfect whole. The Beach Boys have always been known for their remarkable vocal harmonies, but the vocal arrangements on Smile are impeccable. While the arrangements on Pet Sounds were considered innovative and experimental at the time, they pale in comparison to those found here. What could have been chaotic and aimless in the hands of a less talented musician is crystal clear with Wilson at the helm. The song structure is even more ambitious than that found on Pet Sounds, featuring frequent abrupt and unexpected turns that manage to never feel jarring or sloppy. This sense of unpredictability gives the album a chaotic energy that is maintained throughout its duration.

The pure joy conveyed by 60s pop has become lost in the soulless synth and bass-heavy pop that dominates the airwaves today, and The Smile Sessions give us a rare opportunity to revisit pop’s golden age. After years of being built up to mythic proportions, Smile had unreasonable expectations to fulfill. Amazingly, it manages to surpass the hopes of even the most optimistic Beach Boys fans. The only thing about Smile that bothers me is the fact that it took 44 years to get the release it deserved. Run, don’t walk, to your nearest music retailer to pick up this long-awaited masterpiece; it will certainly be worth your time.