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.

 

Top 5 Albums of 2011

1. David Comes to Life– Fucked Up

It’s July 18, 2009, and I’m at the Pitchfork Music Festival watching an obese, shirtless, incredibly hairy man bite into a beach ball while screaming into a microphone incoherently. After about five minutes of this, I decide that I’ve had enough, and move on to another stage. If you had told me then that this band would produce my favorite album of 2011, I would have laughed before completely dismissing and likely forgetting your insane prediction. Yet here I am two years later, proclaiming Fucked Up’s latest, David Comes to Life, the best album released over the past twelve months.

After garnering critical acclaim for their first two LPs (Hidden World and The Chemistry of Common Life) Toronto hardcore-punk outfit Fucked Up upped the ante with David Comes to Life, a 78-minute rock opera that towered above everything else released this year.

The first thing that draws my attention when I listen to David Comes to Life is lead “singer” Damian Abraham’s vocals. I put singer in quotations because what he does cannot in any way be described as singing. Rather, he emits a primal growl that simply demands attention. While it took me a while to adjust to it, I cannot imagine any of Fucked Up’s songs without it.

Yet the record’s main draw is the the blistering guitars. The interplay between the group’s three guitarists prevents the songs from becoming tiring or monotonous, while keeping the energy at frenzy-inducing levels. While the mixing is a bit sloppy, the guitarists play with such enthusiasm that I can overlook the flawed production. Jonah Falco’s drumming only adds to the blissful cacophony, providing a frenetic backbeat to the chaos caused by Abraham and company.

And while Fucked Up are surprisingly proficient from a technical standpoint, their technique is not what sets them apart. Rather, it’s their insatiable ambition. Not content to merely be an enormously entertaining punk band, Fucked Up continue to push themselves to their limits. At eighteen songs, one would expect at least a handful of subpar tracks on David Comes to Life. Yet remarkably, there is no filler on the album. Every song is an absolutely necessary component of what is one of the most audacious records in recent years.

When artists in any medium swing for the fences, the results are usually either classics or colossal failures. For every Stankonia, there’s a Lulu fading into ignominy and irrelevance. David Comes to Life falls squarely with the former, a towering testament to the benefits of fearless ambition. While there were other great albums released in 2011, David Comes to Life was bigger, bolder, and rocked harder than anything else.

 

2. Kaputt– Destroyer

This album should be terrible. With songs containing hints of Kenny G and Michael Bolton, one would expect a migraine-inducingly awful record of no discernible benefit whatsoever. But Destoyer mastermind Dan Bejar is not like most musicians. Instead of injecting Kaputt with a heavy dose of irony, he fully commits to the 80s soft rock aesthetic, creating an album that is mysterious and seductive rather than cheesy and insincere. By taking an often-ridiculed genre seriously, Bejar gives himself the room to explore its full potential.

And what results is quite unlike anything else released this year. Bejar’s mellow, wispy vocals, paired with abstract, often nonsensical lyrics create an aura of mystery that perfectly complements the spacey instrumentation. Featuring a heavy use of saxophones and drums that feel like they’re lifted directly from a Peter Gabriel record, the instrumentation on Kaputt is distinctive, to say the least.

Yet no verbal description can do justice to this album. It must be experienced to be understood. There’s something that keeps drawing me back to it that I can’t quite explain but is so uniquely its own. Then again, that’s what makes Kaputt such a great listen, you might not understand why you like it so much, but you do, and in the end, that’s all that matters.

 

3. Bon Iver– Bon Iver

Despite having released his debut album a mere four years ago, the mythology of Justin Vernon is well-documented. After breaking up with his band and girlfriend, and suffering a bout of mononucleosis, Vernon retreated to his father’s cabin in Wisconsin, during which time he recorded his debut, For Emma, Forever Ago. Released to near-universal acclaim, For Emma established Vernon as an incredibly promising new talent and drew the attention of other musicians. Over the next three years, he would collaborate with St. Vincent and Kanye West, among others, raising his profile substantially.

When it came time for his follow-up, many thought they had Vernon pegged. The stripped-down ballads consisting of little more than an acoustic guitar, drums, and Vernon’s distinctive falsetto had come to define the Bon Iver sound, but when lead-off single “Calgary” was released last May, it was Vernon who had the last laugh. Nowhere was Vernon’s trademark acoustic guitar to be found. Rather, “Calgary” was an airy array of synths and electric guitars, with the one constant being Vernon’s singular voice.

The rest of the album is similarly surprising. While For Emma proved Vernon an adept songwriter, his sophomore effort shows marked improvement in his compositional skills. Where For Emma was intimate, Bon Iver is expansive, the work of a musician willing to challenge himself. An impressive selection of instruments are used on the record, with everything from the aforementioned electric guitars and synths to trumpets and French horns featured at some point. In using such an expansive palette, Vernon makes the album about textures and moods rather than words. A daring move for such a young musician, but one that pays off completely.

Bon Iver’s one glaring flaw is the divisive final track, “Beth/Rest”. Unlike Dan Bejar, Vernon is too blunt with his 80s influences, ending an otherwise excellent album with a bit of a thud. Otherwise, Bon Iver is a standout record that appears to be just the beginning for a musician destined for greatness.

 

4. Helplessness Blues– Fleet Foxes

Fleet Foxes burst onto the scene in 2008 with their well-regarded self-titled debut. Critics and fans alike were impressed by their impeccable harmonies and warm, 60s-folk inspired sound. Three years later, they returned with their highly anticipated follow-up, Helplessness Blues.

The years between these records were not wasted, as Helplessness Blues is the work of a more worldly and confident band. Lead singer and songwriter Robin Pecknold in particular personifies the band’s maturity. His lyrics, once concerned with idyllic stories of escaping the industrialized world for the natural world, turned inwards, as he struggled to make sense of the world around him and his place in it. The first song on the album, “Montezuma”, begins with a recognition of the fact that Pecknold is now older than his parents were when they had their children, and he proceeds to ask if he can finally, “wash my hands of just looking out for me.” It is this reflectiveness that makes Helplessness Blues incredibly relatable. We all ponder the purpose of our lives at some point, yet rarely with the gracefulness and brutal honesty of Pecknold.

The songwriting also shows improvement, if less so than the lyrics. While their debut showed impressive song craft, the tracks on Helplessness Blues are, with a few exceptions, a bit leaner and more purposeful without sacrificing the sublime harmonies that have become Fleet Foxes’ calling card. Yet the longer cuts (“The Plains/Bitter Dancer” and “The Shrine/An Argument”) speak to a greater ambition that may be a hint of things to come. Robin Pecknold may not know his place in the world, but Helplessness Blues places Fleet Foxes firmly among the indie elite.

 

5. The King of Limbs– Radiohead

Well-received at the time of its February release, Radiohead’s eighth studio album, The King of Limbs, garnered little attention on critic year-end lists. Perhaps it was the unreasonable expectations that arise when a band has a reputation as daunting as Radiohead’s, or maybe it didn’t fare well on repeated listens, but for whatever reason, The King of Limbs has been unfairly overlooked.

Radiohead has amassed a body of work like no other in the past two decades, largely due to the fact that they are continually willing to test their limits and refine their sound. The King of Limbs is no different, with a heavy dubstep influence that is unlike anything Radiohead has attempted before. Yet what remains constant is Radiohead’s impeccable craftsmanship. Their incredible chemistry is apparent from beginning to end, as they never sound even the slightest bit uncertain. When they really hit the mark, the effect is almost otherworldly, as if each member of the band is completely in tune with both each other and the listener. While they don’t reach those highs here as often as they have in the past, Radiohead still manage to produce a record that holds its own within their impressive discography.

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.

The Whole Love

Over the past decade, Wilco has become a model of dependability and consistency. After beginning the 21st-century with a five-year, three-album run (Summerteeth, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, and A Ghost Is Born) that could compete with any from the past quarter century, Wilco managed to propel themselves into the upper echelon of the music world. While it is apparent that they are now past their prime, they have managed to stay relevant by subtly shifting their sound while maintaining their identity. From the mutli-layered, guitar-driven experimentation of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot to the stripped-down Americana of Sky Blue Sky, Wilco has explored a wide variety of sounds without ever overreaching. By now, one generally knows what to expect from a Wilco album, and their latest effort, The Whole Love, is no exception.

At this point in their career, Wilco do not have much new to say, and they instead focus on playing within and refining an established sound. As has been the case with the rest of their post-Summerteeth output, The Whole Love boasts very clean and professional production that gives all of the band members a chance to shine. Their sound has an excellent depth to it, as nearly every instrument can be heard in each song. This has long been a staple of their work, allowing their albums to improve on repeat listens. Unfortunately, the stellar production here is not always fully utilized, as some of the songs are shallow and one-dimensional. The album bookends nicely with two standout tracks at the beginning (“Art of Almost” and “I Might”) and end (“Whole Love” and “One Sunday Morning”). The middle tracks, while pleasant, are not particularly revelatory. Yet frontman Jeff Tweedy’s songwriting experience assures that few of them ever lose focus, compensating for their lack of originality. The sequencing follows a fairly conventional structure, alternating between upbeat to deliberate. This makes the album feel more like a collection of songs than a cohesive whole, though the songs are, for the most part, strong enough to prevent this from becoming a major problem. Ideally, I would have liked if they had kept with the somewhat experimental disposition of the first track, “Art of Almost”. Wilco has always shown a surprising ability to maintain momentum in longer songs, which often become the highlights of their respective albums (“Impossible Germany” and “Bull Black Nova” being prominent examples). Yet the strongest cut here is the irresistibly catch “I Might”. Four minutes of straightforward, indie-pop bliss, it is the type of song Wilco have mastered over the course of their career. Tweedy’s vocals and lyrics, while still competent, are not as strong as they were in their heyday. The haunting imagery and emotional vulnerability found in “Via Chicago” and “I Am Trying to Break Your Heart” is instead replaced with half-baked abstractions.

While it is apparent that they are no longer at the top of their game, Wilco can still hold their own in the indie rock world. The Whole Love may not be the place to start for those unfamiliar with Wilco, but it is a worthy addition to their impressive discography nonetheless.

Relax

Alternative hip-hop duo Das Racist burst onto the scene three years ago with their novelty single, “Combination Pizza Hut and Taco Bell”. Despite becoming something of an underground hit, no one knew what to make of the song. Was it a satire of commercialism and product placement, an indictment of hip-hop, a joke, a combination of all three? The release of two critically-acclaimed mixtapes (Shut Up, Dude and Sit Down, Man) shed some light on the group’s intentions, proving that Victor Vazquez (aka Kool A.D.) and Himanshu Suri (aka Heems) possessed legitimate talent, as their deceptively intricate lyrics and conversational rapping styles were unique for a genre obsessed with extravagance. Praise from music blogs led to a meteoric rise in popularity, landing them slots at prominent music festivals such as SXSW, Pitchfork, and Primavera Sound. This, along with endlessly amusing interviews (when asked by the New Yorker if they saw their work as a critique of white America, Heems deadpanned, “I think it is solely a critique of John Boehner. As our bandmate Ashok Kondabolu would say, John Boehner represents the utmost in white demonry.”) and music videos, built anticipation for their first proper album, Relax.

Aside from a handful of missteps, Relax is an impressive debut and worthwhile addition to their brief catalog, though admittedly a step down from Sit Down, Man. On the positive side, the production is sharper and more focused than on either of their mixtapes, where meandering, sometimes unpleasant beats undercut their witty verses. This is especially evident on standout track, “Power”, which marks the first time Victor and Heems have been overshadowed by a beat. Even the lesser tracks are aurally pleasing, providing a distraction from their surprisingly uninspired lyrics.

These improvements are complemented by labyrinthine wordplay, which is brimming with the pop-culture references and surrealist touches that made the verses on Shut Up, Dude and Sit Down, Man so memorable. Whether they’re blending references to Indian poetry and Chris Farley, or slyly recalling lines from their previous tracks, Das Racist’s dense lyrics are some of the most ingenious in hip-hop today. Their cultural literacy is astounding, and provides a compelling contrast to their slacker image.  As rappers, Victor and Heems are more polished, while still retaining their playful vibe and droll sense of humor.

At fifty-one minutes, Relax is a couple of tracks too long, and it would have benefitted from the removal of a few of the weaker cuts (“The Trick”, “Girl”, and “Celebration” being the most egregious offenders). Even on the stronger tracks, the sharp verses are sometimes undercut by unmemorable and monotonous choruses. Stylistically, Das Racist make an effort to widen their range at times, though it only confirms their one-dimensionality. Their attempt at R&B (“Girl”), while surprisingly inoffensive, has nothing worthwhile to offer. I appreciate their efforts to branch out, but Victor and Heems are so proficient as rappers that they would be best served sticking to their strengths.

In what has been a disappointing year for major label hip-hop, independent alternatives such as Shabazz Palaces and Das Racist have stepped up to fill the void. Das Racist may not be for all tastes, but those looking for a change of pace from the stagnancy of mainstream hip-hop will find plenty to like.

Watch the Throne

The rise of file-sharing and iTunes has debilitated the relevance of the album format, relegating it to audiophiles and die-hard fans. Consequently, the “event” album, one that provokes breathless anticipation for the entire product, rather than merely a single or two, has become an increasingly rare occurrence. Thus, when two of the biggest names in music announced they would be recording an album together, it immediately took its place among my most anticipated albums of the year. Fresh off of his most recent effort and one of my favorite albums of last year, My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, Kanye West is at the top of his game, and the prospect of another full-length release, this time with mentor and hip-hop titan Jay-Z, was incredibly tantalizing, to say the least. Throw in rising R&B star Frank Ocean and production from Q-Tip, Swizz Beatz, The RZA, and West himself, and I was chomping at the bit for what would surely be an instant classic. The first song released from the recording sessions, “H.A.M.”, was met with a lukewarm response, tempering expectations for the full release. After presumably gauging and reacting to the song’s tepid response, West and Jay announced that it would not make the final album, instead being released as a bonus track on the deluxe edition. Six months later, the first track from the album, “Otis”, was met with much greater acclaim, reviving hopes that Watch the Throne would be one of the year’s best hip-hop releases.

And while it doesn’t measure up with West or Jay’s best, Watch the Throne is still a very enjoyable listen. As is the case with most of Yeezy and Hova’s work, the production is without doubt the highlight of the album. As brash and bold as West and Jay themselves, the beats force the listener to take notice, and seeing that they’re crafted by some of the most accomplished producers in hip-hop today, the results are mesmerizing rather than irritating. The brazenness of the production is appropriate considering the self-congratulatory nature of Yeezy and Hova’s lyrics, though it’s very much in line with what both have accomplished with their previous work. It would have been nice to see them venture out of their respective comfort zones, as West did to great effect with Jon Brion on his sophomore effort, Late Registration. Abstract hip-hop virtuoso Madlib, whom West had previously indicated would be involved with the album, would have fit this role perfectly. Regardless, it’s difficult to take issue with the bevy of  talent on display.

While West and Jay exude confidence at every turn, neither sound as hungry as they have on their best releases, giving the album an air of complacency. Yet Yeezy and Hova possess such immense talent that their lesser efforts are considerably more interesting than most rappers’ best. Their lyrics here are often clever, though they sometimes fall prey to self-pity. I’ll give them a pass on bragging about their luxurious lifestyles, but when they bemoan the difficulties they face as a result of their opulence, I’m not buying it. From a purely aesthetic standpoint, West’s flow sounds sharp as ever, though the same cannot be said for Jay, who is clearly in decline.

The album contains some standout tracks (“Lift Off” and “Otis” the best among them), and while there aren’t any real duds, there aren’t any true show-stoppers either. No one is pushing any boundaries here, and while that makes the record accessible, it inhibits it from fulfilling it’s potential. The same is true for Frank Ocean, Beyonce, and Ben Hudson. All three are talented and turn in respectable performances, but none of them are able to fully utilize their talents. Watch the Throne is worth a listen or two for fans of West and Jay, but those looking for the type of transcendent masterpiece that both are capable of producing will be left wanting more.

The Tree of Life

A written review cannot do justice to reclusive auteur Terrence Malick’s latest effort, The Tree of Life. This is a film that truly must be experienced to be understood on any level. An operatic, lyrical amalgam of images and emotions, Tree of Life boldly defies narrative convention at every turn. Malick has never been one to adhere to traditional storytelling methods, but his latest takes his experimentation to a new level. In the most basic sense, Tree of Life follows Jack O’Brien, a young boy struggling to understand both himself and the world around him as he reaches adolescence. While this premise is certainly rife with pretension, Malick understands the language of cinema like few of his peers, and avoids many of the story’s potential pitfalls by focusing on emotions rather than events. This gives the film a very fluid structure that will likely engage Malick’s fans while irritating his detractors. Personally, it felt like a breath of fresh air for a medium obsessed with tidy, three-act structures. Yet the narrative experimentation hurts the film in an unnecessary sequence that chronicles the creation of the universe. While impressive visually, it is better suited for a National Geographic documentary than a feature film. The same can be said for the sequence involving a grown-up Jack (played by Sean Penn). It works well on its own but in the context of the film, does not fit with young Jack’s emotional development. The film hits its stride in its middle segment, which focuses solely on the O’Brien family as the children grow up and relationships between the family members become strained. This segment packs a considerable emotional punch, and I would have preferred if it were expanded to the comprise the entire film.

Malick’s visual artistry is unparalleled in the world of film, and with the help of talented cinematographer Emanuel Lubezki (Children of Men) he creates what will surely be the most beautiful film of the year. Nearly every frame feels like a piece of art itself and together with a sparse use of dialogue, Malick creates a cinematic experience that is uniquely visual. Like 2001: A Space Odyssey, Tree of Life has a sense of mystery and elusiveness that makes its visual prowess all the more dazzling. Considering the length of the editing process and the number of editors involved, the editing is surprisingly brisk. While less adept filmmakers would force the audience to marvel at their visual proficiency, Malick isn’t one to show off, and few shots feel superfluous.

The acting is commendable all around, though Brad Pitt and newcomer Hunter McCracken give especially strong performances. Pitt has never been a favorite of mine, as his acting is often painfully obvious and wildly unrestrained. Fortunately, Malick manages to rein him in here, resulting in what is possibly the best performance of his career as Jack’s stern father, who struggles to navigate the myriad challenges of parenthood. McCracken is remarkably naturalistic for such a young age, giving the type of subtle, emotionally-charged performance rarely seen from child actors.

Lyrical, lush, and poetic, Tree of Life is exactly what one would expect from a Terrence Malick film. Some will love it, others will hate it, but no one can deny its uncompromisingly ambitious nature. While there will be louder, more expensive, and more bombastic films this summer, none will be able to match the epic scope of Tree of Life.

Bridesmaids

No, it’s not a “chick-flick”, The Hangover with women, or a gross-out comedy, as the marketing team behind Bridesmaids would have you believe. Rather, it is one of the smartest and funniest films in recent years, and certainly superior to both The Hangover and its astoundingly lazy sequel. Boasting a clever script and sharp direction, Bridesmaids is the type of comedy that rarely gets made in Hollywood, one that will hopefully  teach ignorant studio executives that comedies don’t always need to appeal to the lowest common denominator to be creatively and commercially successful.

Though some would contest otherwise (I’ll get back to that later), this is clearly Kristen Wiig’s film, as she demonstrates her considerable talents as both an actress and screenwriter. Her performance is far more nuanced and restrained than most lead performances in comedy films, and she remarkably manages to be both the funniest and most dynamic character in the film, effortlessly conveying an impressive range of emotions without ever straining for sympathy or a laugh. The rest of the performances are very strong as well, but Maya Rudolph deserves special mention for her particularly unassuming turn as Annie’s best friend Lillian. Her close real-life relationship with Wiig lends their on-screen relationship tremendous chemistry. Every moment they share is enjoyable, even when they’re not uproariously funny or poignant.

Wiig and Annie Mumolo’s script is refreshingly subtle, deriving humor from tension and awkwardness rather than the raunchy, infantile jokes that dominate the cinematic comedy landscape today. The film, as a result, feels closer to the work of producer Judd Apatow than Todd Phillips or Adam McKay (not that Phillips and McKay aren’t talented in their own right). The laughs come quickly and easily, especially in the first half, but both the script and film run into some problems in the latter half, as they fall prey to cliches that make the film feel more like a standard Hollywood comedy. Yet even though it’s not as strong as the first half, the second half is still certainly enjoyable to watch and without doubt better than most films, but I would have liked to see a bit more creativity as the primary conflicts are addressed. The characters are, for the most part, very well-written with one glaring exception. Melissa McCarthy’s character, Megan, is painfully obvious, as it is made clear from the start that she is the “raunchy”, “funny” character. While McCarthy does her best to inject some honesty into her one-dimensional role, she still feels out of place. I have yet to understand why she is being praised as the film’s “scene-stealer”, when Wiig and Chris O’Dowd (Officer Rhodes) are considerably funnier throughout. Also, I would have liked to spend more time with Helen (Rose Byrne) and Officer Rhodes, as they are given a short shrift in the character development department. And while the ending is a bit too tidy, overall, the script is worthy of considerable praise.

Paul Feig proves to be a superb choice to direct the film, as his deft comedic touch fully utilizes the script’s breezy naturalism and authenticity. When most directors would cut from an uncomfortable moment, Feig lingers just a second longer, reveling in the awkwardness of the moment in a manner reminiscent of his work on the brilliant televisions show Arrested Development. After an undistinguished start to his film career, Feig finally has material that matches his considerable talents, and the results are immensely satisfying. He has clearly taken notes on Apatow’s naturalistic style, which brings out the best in the material without forcing it on the audience. Many of the scenes between Wiig and Rudolph have the same laid-back vibe of those of Rogen and company in Knocked Up, and while Bridesmaids is not quite as good as Knocked Up (Apatow’s best), it is certainly measures up with The 40 Year Old Virgin or Funny People.

Apatow has come to define comedy in the 21st century in much the same way John Hughes did in the 80s and Woody Allen did in the 70s. His keen eye for talent and willingness to assist projects he produces without taking them over has assured the quality of most of his ventures, and I am sure there will be more great things to come. For now, though, we can be grateful that smart, subtle comedy lives on, and forever will as long as Apatow is around.

Helplessness Blues

After Fleet Foxes’ magnificent self-titled debut album, it was difficult to imagine how they could get much better. With enormous expectations to fulfill, anything less than a stellar follow-up would be considered a disappointment. Lead singer Robin Pecknold, aware of these expectations, labored intensively over the new album, at times coming close to scrapping it altogether. Thankfully, he did not, and what ensued not only matches, but surpasses their much-revered debut.

Helplessness Blues essentially follows the same formula as Fleet Foxes: delicately arranged instrumentals complemented by soaring vocal harmonies, held together by Pecknold’s commanding voice. What results is a more mature and refined effort by a band firing on all cylinders. Not a shred of uncertainty can be found at any point throughout the album, with Pecknold in particular teeming with confidence. He is clearly the most talented member of the group, and takes control of the album with assurance, displaying his prodigious musicianship at every turn. He reminds one of Brian Wilson, with his perfectionist tendencies (“I really had trouble letting go of the record,” he admitted in an interview in Spin Magazine) and his remarkable ability to create exquisite combinations of vocal melody and instrumental composition. Pecknold’s lyrics also show improvement, fearlessly contemplating the problems that arose due to his obsession with the album and confronting the consuming nature of art with surprising maturity. Where his lyrics could previously feel vague and impersonal, they now have greater sense of immediacy and intimacy.

Like Fleet Foxes, Helplessness Blues is a testament to the album format, with the songs becoming richer and more rewarding when experienced as a whole. And there is not a bad song on the album, as Fleet Foxes’ ability to create an expansive sound with a fairly limited amount of instruments is on full display. This is especially apparent on some of the longer tracks, the eight-minute “The Shrine/An Argument” in particular, which reveals an ability to craft songs with broader scopes and hints at grander ambitions that will hopefully be fulfilled in the future. Strong influences from the likes of Simon and Garfunkel, Neil Young, and The Beach Boys are readily apparent throughout, giving the album the feel of an instant classic.

With Helplessness Blues, Fleet Foxes have themselves one of the best releases of the year thus far, managing to live up to the hype while establishing themselves as one of indie rock’s elite bands. With such a promising start to their young career, it is exciting to think of what the future holds for them.

Angles

Five years after the release of their previous album, the unfairly-maligned First Impressions of Earth, the Strokes are back with Angles, their most disappointing effort to date. For the first time, the entire band is involved in the songwriting process (previously, it was dominated by lead singer Julian Casablancas), and the music suffers as a result. The presence of a single dominant songwriter gave the band a distinct artistic vision, which created a sense of cohesiveness that is sorely lacking here. All too often, the band members sound as if they are on completely different pages, especially Casablancas, who recorded his vocals separately, sending them to the rest of the band via email.

Easily the weak link on the album, the edge in Casablancas’ lyrics is nowhere to be found, replaced by an air of resignation. Often, he sounds bored, a far cry from the swagger he displayed on The Strokes’ best songs, New York City Cops and Last Nite. Guitarists Nick Valensi and Albert Hammond Jr. are left to pick up the slack, with their contributions being the highlight of the album, containing a definition and enthusiasm lacking in the other band members. At times, it actually sounds as if they are enjoying themselves, yet at not point do they match the rawness of their earlier work. Fabrizio Moretti’s drumming is too stiff and mechanized, lacking any sense of spontaneity, and Nikolai Fraiture’s efforts on bass are a little less effective than they have previously been, though he’s usually relegated to the background.

The product of such inconsistency is an album that is disjointed and schizophrenic, dabbling in a variety of genres (reggae, New Wave, electronic, synthpop) with little success. Never do they re-capture the joy of the straightforward garage rock sound of their first two albums. I appreciate their desire to experiment, but ultimately, The Strokes are not a terribly diverse band. They have a very limited sound, albeit one they can do better than almost anyone else. Even after multiple listens, I am still not sure what the album is going for, but there are isolated bright spots. Under Cover of Darkness and Gratisfaction capture some of the magic of their earlier work, but ultimately, none of the songs are up to par with their best.

Age has taken its toll on The Strokes, and I doubt they will ever be able to recreate the youthful fervor that made them so endearing. Where Is This It was an adrenaline shot reaffirming the virtues of rock and roll, Angles is uninspired, the product of a band on the decline, a fact even Casablancas is willing to admit when he offered a surprisingly candid take on the album to Pitchfork, “Seventy-five percent of this album felt like it was done together and the rest of it was left hanging, like some of us were picking up the scraps and trying to finish a puzzle together.” For those who have eagerly awaited their return, Angles is worth a listen to quell curiosity, but to those unfamiliar with The Strokes, start with their debut, Is This It.