Tag: Youth Lagoon

LIVE REVIEW: The National @ Barclays

The NationalFive years ago I was depressed. I was going through my first real breakup, I was drinking too much (the kind of drinking where you justify having vodka with breakfast) and I was taking a lot of two-hour long walks. It was during those walks along Lake Superior that I first fell in love with The National. Matt Berninger’s forlorn voice was the perfect companion for my sorry state; he didn’t judge me as I drank by myself watching ‘How I met Your Mother’, he sat right along side me, laughing with that gravely voice of his.

When I imagined seeing The National live, I pictured sitting next to Berninger at Club Saratoga (a strip club/music venue in Duluth) while he serenaded me sweetly across glasses of whiskey & rye. Instead I entered the belly of Barclays center, clutching my Stella as I looked around the auditorium thinking, “Is this really where I want to see The National?” The arena seemed imposing and the stage looked liked a child’s dollhouse in comparison; the amount of sound & stage presence needed to fill such a venue was not something that I would normally attribute to The National.

Opening act, Youth Lagoon, seemed determined to prepare the audience for the night’s melancholy orgy. Standing in a straight line across the stage, the bands music as well as its style was strangely uniform. It took me a good four songs to figure out who was the lead singer, and by that point my beer glass was empty so I quickly vacated to the booze line. Overall, the Boise, Idaho band, fronted by singer Trevor Powers, gives off the feeling of listening to music under water: pleasant, calming, easy to ignore.

The National, from the moment they stepped on stage, gave off the confidence of a band well seasoned. “This is where it all started. We’re so happy to be back at Barclays, “ Berninger quipped with an uncomfortable laugh. “Don’t Swallow the Cap”, from their most recent album Trouble Will Find Me, lead off the night, but the third song “Mistaken for Strangers” was what got audience attention. The most interesting part of the night was watching the band’s nervous, excited energy shift throughout their set as they reacted to the crowd. The audience was practically a member of the band: encouraging, singing backup, quick to clap at the slightest inference of a beat.

“We know this song better than any of our other songs right now. We’re well rehearsed,” Berninger joked of the song “Sorrow” from 2010’s High Violet, which the band recently performed at MoMa Ps1. Created by Icelandic artist Ragnar Kjartansson, the installation was titled “A lot of Sorrow”; the band performed the song for six hours, a total of 105 times. The joke was lost on me at the time, but after the show I was able to watch the exhausting repetition. Similar to their Barclay show, fans drove the music, raising their voices in unison to the memorized words.

St. Vincent’s Annie Clarke joined them on stage for their performance of ‘This is the Last Time’; her voice was airy and barely floated in the background. It would have been an interesting song to do a different take on, but as it was, it felt like Clarke wasn’t even there. Another aspect that didn’t quite hit was the inclusion of stock video in the background; it wasn’t until I saw video of smoke billowing up behind a tree line that I once again became aware of my lack of beer.

While I would still have preferred to sit close up at a bar or a tavern, breathing in the moody gloom, I was duly impressed with the energy The National conveyed on stage; the space they were able to easily fill. After a three-song encore, the band played an unamplified performance of “Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks,” from 2011’s High Violet; the performance was sparse, raw. As my date for the night noted, “I think that was the most honest moment of this whole show”.

 

 

 

 

Baby’s First SXSW: Saturday

Holing up in a bungalow down the street from a yuppie mall had its decided advantages. There was a pool (though it was a bit chilly for swiming, we stuck our sore, swollen feet in more than a few evenings) a decent amount of peace & quiet, a sleepy looking orange cat who was feral but friendly enough to come say hello in the mornings, and proximity to Waterloo Records, where Boise dream pop darlings Youth Lagoon played to packed parking lot. The ephemeral tracks on debut album Year of Hibernation were recorded by 22-year-old Trevor Powers, who on stage hunches over a keyboard and wails earnestly into a microphone, while friends from the bands he’s played in his whole life back him up. Youth Lagoon have played a few NYC shows to much acclaim but I’d been hesitant to check them out, worried that all the bleary wonder of Hibernation would would dissipate, eroded by the boys’ precociousness, but I’m happy to say that it was in no way a detriment. While Hibernation is imbued with a huge but lonely sound, it doesn’t suffer at all in a live setting as I had feared it would. In fact, their faithful renditions and impassioned delivery were a great reminder of what makes Youth Lagoon’s slow-building, languid anthems so fresh and immediate. Maybe all my misgivings were indicative of my disdain for growing older (or feeling older, really), and let’s be real – in New York, I’d probably be surrounded by college undergrads still suffering from acne. Instead, I had the unusual pleasure of being encircled by a diverse audience that even included families with children, illustrating Youth Lagoon’s wide appeal and accessibility. It was a lovely afternoon treat, to be sure.

I headed downtown for the Village Voice showcase at Red Eyed Fly, a bar setup I was now becoming familiar with for its typical Austinness – divey hunting-lodge interior, dusty patio with scraggly trees, cheap Lone Star tallboys. Outside, L.A.-based babes Bleached were setting up. Last October they’d taken CMJ by storm but I hadn’t yet had the pleasure of taking in their fiery, in-your-face garage rock. They blazed through a rollicking set, slaying hearts and eardrums. Fronted by sisters Jessica and Jenn Calvin, Bleached fully satisfies all my riot grrl leanings of years past – they play fun, fast, and loose, in a nonchalantly sexy kind of way, snaring you with their trashed-up brand of eye candy but then proceeding to melt faces.
After a few songs I moseyed inside to see Pyschic Ills. The band’s 2011 release on Sacred Bones, Hazed Dream, sees the band’s culmination as blues-infused stoned-out psych droners. Before a backdrop of thick, raggedy velvet curtains, Brandon Davis’ sprawling keys, and the thudding bass of gothy-romantic Elizabeth Hart, backed the heavily glazed drawl and meandering guitarwork of Tres Warren, clad in grungy denim. By now I was convinced that everything is just louder in Texas. Psychic Ills’ normally mellow vibe was here amped up high enough to blast through concrete, though that wasn’t a huge loss. The highlight for me was sexy slow-burner “I’ll Follow You Through The Floor”, which got treated with a little extra jamming out. Between Bleached and Psychic Ills it was great to get a healthy dose of rock-n-roll from some bands with a more traditional set-up, since it seemed that this year’s acts were largely favoring tables of electronics to actual instruments.
Class Actress also played the showcase, and falls squarely into the former category. While they did have a drummer instead of a machine that played drum sounds, the line-up still hinges on the guy-with-gadgets/charismatic-girl-with-mic dynamic. When I’d first seen them it was just after their inception, opening for Yeasayer. In that time I would say that though their sound has not diverged much from their initial vision they’ve certainly come into their own. Elizabeth Harper’s carefully honed stage persona is nothing short of rock star – she wore mirrored shades the whole time, flitting across the stage, shimmying before the swooning audience as if it were one of her first SXSW performances rather than, by her count, the ninth in five days. She performs as if born to do so; in watching Harper’s flirtatious stage moves you could just as well be watching her do a photo shoot in a fashion magazine. This is a quality she’s always possessed, but she’s grown even more bold in her role not just as singer but as entertainer, never content to be relegated to a position behind the keyboard she mostly ignored throughout the set. The glamour-infused party jams from 2011’s Rapprocher were incredibly well-received by the crowd; it was hard to tell if these folks had just happened onto the scene and become instant converts or if they were long-term fans seeking out the chance to dance along with their idols.
Because Saturday was not just the final day of SXSW but also St. Patrick’s Day, the streets were flooded with a hoard of idiots dressed in green clothing, so I’d had enough of that scene for a while. Besides, Sun Araw and Cloudland Canyon were playing a so-unofficial-it’s-practically-secret gig with some electronic drone and psych bands at the Monofonus Press compound, a crust-punk utopia four miles outside the downtown area in a remote sector of far East Austin. In a maze of salvaged vintage trailers and corrugated tin sculpture was situated a grassy stage. The trees were decorated with blown glass ornaments and rusting basketball hoops. There was an inexplicable pit of abandoned bowling balls, next to which some middle-aged hippies had spread a comfy patchwork blanket on which to mind their unwashed children. Colorful DIY merch was spread on those over-sized spools, as were a pile of free zines, one of which was entitled Cool Magic Tricks for Teens (I snapped that one up immediately). Say what you will about a scene such as this, but after unwittingly absorbing the barrage of marketing campaigns being hurled at me by every corporation with a stake in SXSW, it was nice to be in a space free of advertisements. Not to mention, I got to enjoy the sedated set offered by Cloudland Canyon, whose droning, drowned psych rock I’ve loved since the release of their stunning Requiems Der Natur, a compilation of the Krautrock-influenced vibes they’d explored in the early part of the decade. It had been my plan to arrive in time to catch Sun Araw’s set, but I’d somehow confused the set-times and so only caught the last brilliant moments of a few of their submerged, tropicalia-laced jams.
Cloudland Canyon’s furious knob-twisting resulted in a woozy wave of noise most informed by the sounds on their 2010 release Fin Eaves. The crunchy, skittering synth effects and dense, distorted guitar melodies melded thickly in the balmy air, cascading through the leafy heights of attendant elms. Up in the farthest reaches, Kip Uhlhorn’s insistent moan arced through these saturated compositions, acting more as instrumental component than sonic focus. Uhlhorn’s wife, Kelly, was welcome addition to the band after the departure of longtime collaborator Simon Wojan, her stoic electronic manipulations melding everything together in a terrific wave of lush squall. I was so blissed on their performance I didn’t even whip out my iPhone to snap pics or capture video, as I am often wont to do; the kaleidoscopic magic of the Monofonus compound, bathed in the bubbling, staticky lull provided by Cloudland Canyon, hardly seemed the place for such obtrusive, new-fangled machinations.
A friend of mine I’d not seen in ages suggested we meet at House of Commons, a DIY showspace in a huge house on the University of Texas campus, so I eventually peeled myself from my grassy slumber and headed Northwest. The campus area is pretty revolting even with all the pledges out of town for Spring Break, although not unlike my own experience of the sprawling OSU campus in Columbus. Added to my deja vu and general disgust, the fact that this friend of mine was a no show made me want to get the hell out of there, but I figured I might as well grab some food that wasn’t made in a truck (also a big mistake; I had the most desultory bahn mi I’ve ever eaten)so I started wandering around. I was hearing music coming from somewhere, and it didn’t take so long to figure out it was coming from the back of an Urban Outfitters and the performer was none other my girl Grimes. It was obviously packed to capacity so I grabbed a chair from a nearby patio and craned my neck over the fence with a few others who had been denied at the door. She seemed to have slept in the clothes I’d seen her in last night and was still suffering from vocal strain but as I now KNOW I’ve mentioned before I’m in love with Claire Boucher, so it didn’t matter.
Afterwards, I did poke around HoC a bit, as Cleveland’s HotChaCha was playing. This is a band I’ve already seen far more times necessary, due to the fact that they’re from Ohio and we have some mutual friends. By the time and Jovanna Batkovic and Co. had started bringing their YeahYeahYeahs-esque brand of dance punk around Columbus I was kind of over that scene, but had still admired the talented all-girl line-up for their bravado as well as their skilled playing. Unfortunately, like most things coming out of Cleveland, HotChaCha has deteriorated from their former gloried state as I remember it from my youth. In this somewhat pitiful and desperate incarnation of the band, Jovanna dramatically burned herself with cigarettes and her friend took over the mic at one point to perform an impromptu rap about hipsters. Weird times are still good times, but I’d had enough of both, so it was back to civilization for me.

I decided to do a second round Cheer Up Charlie’s, where Javelin and Teengirl Fantasy were on the bill. To start, I’m not sure what Javelin were doing at SXSW this year; the showcase they’d played two years ago to the day in the exact same location made a lot more sense as that’s when Javelin was really on the rise, making a name for themselves as partytime sound collagists who blend every style from disco to R&B to funk to pop. But they’ve since established quite a reputation for themselves and as far as I know don’t have a new release coming out anytime soon. That’s not to say their presence wasn’t much enjoyed; their live shows are infused with the kind of energy usually seen in daycares where the charges are provided with espresso shots. Cousins George Langford and Tom van Buskirk know how to throw a party, and it’s nice to see them branching out and expanding their talents as musicians (Tom had a guitar on stage, which he told the crowd he was learning to play) while staying true to their DIY junk-shop pop ethos. Shortly into the set, one of the speakers blew, but a quick change-up gave the dudes new life and new excuses to bring the noise. All the improvisational elements of Javelin’s live shows were here as well, from made-up-on-spot verses to a cover of “Sabotage” that Nite Jewel tweeted was the “whitest” thing she’s ever heard, possibly because she forgot that the Beastie Boys, too, are white.

Following up such an animated performance with the same gusto was no small challenge. Oberlin grads Logan Takahashi and Nick Weiss are beatsmiths of the finest order, and though their delivery of tracks from 2010’s 7am was a bit more scaled back it still had the crowd dancing. Like a bottle of cheapish champagne chilled to just the right temperature, TGF popped off tracks like “Cheaters” and “Portofino” with at synths and samples at once glistening and fuzzy. The highlight of the set featured an appearance from vocalist Kilela Mizankristos who brought some serious soul to TGF’s disco pop flourishes.

After the set, I headed to Longbranch Inn to check out Impose Magazine’s final showcase. The venue was running behind schedule, so I walked in on the last of Xander Harris’s droney electronic set. He was followed by Sapphire Slows, a Tokyo-based electronic composer who effectively hides behind a tiny set-up of gadgets and keyboards and shifts around listlessly while reproducing her submerged but polished beats by pushing a bevy of buttons. Layering laconic vocals over her sultry compositions proved an effective means of winning over the audience; I heard one guy repeatedly gushing over how stoked he was to see a female truly deliver on an electronic performance (apparently he didn’t get a chance to see Grimes?). While Sapphire Slows’ rhythms are moody and honed to perfection, there wasn’t much to see in terms of her delivery. She remained pretty stiff, her stare a bit blank, as if trying to remember which knob to twist. It didn’t help that I was surrounded by the tallest audience ever, including a dude well over 6’5” in a Kevin-Arnold style Jets jacket that Paul and Winnie could have also climbed into to camp out in. Every time I thought I’d secured a spot with some decent visibility, some overgrown Austinite would lurch in front of me. I was finally jostled into a corner between a jukebox and the edge of the stage where I could perch while Tearist delivered the most mind-blowing performance I saw all week.

Not knowing much about L.A. band Tearist prior to SXSW, my only expectations were based on a glowing review of a set a friend had caught earlier in the week. Vocalist/feral child Yasmine Kittles stood on stage, tiny in an oversized camouflaged hunting parka with her brown tresses done up in a huge top knot. She carried a large, rusting table fan onto the stage and set it to blowing, tugging her hair down around her face and removing the jacket to reveal a tiny frame clad in black lacy top, leather shorts, and ripped tights. The fan whipped her wildly around wide black eyes lined with black mascara. She howled over a sludgy backdrop of insistent beats and grinding synths produced by her cohort, William Strangeland-Menchaca, her voice deep and resonant. She writhed across the stage as if performing some ritual, lifting her arms up and sweeping them to the floor in one gracious motion. At one moment she was kneeling, at another attempting to climb the Impose-bannered curtains. Throughout the set, Kittles maintained an intensity in her faraway gaze as if the seething masses worshipping her at the foot of the stage were no present, but was also acutely aware of her surroundings, like a caged animal searching for an escape route. The visceral, almost autistic urgency in Kittles’ performance is consistently anchored by the stoic presence of Strangeland-Menchaca, whose rhythms sizzle and pop. They are punctuated by Kittles’ occasional swings at hammered metal box she holds in one hand and attacks with a metallic receiver she holds in the other, the sound coming out somewhere between a clashing clap and electronic thunderbolt. I obviously see a lot of live music, and I’ve seen performances of this nature more than a few times, but there’s simply something about Tearist that is specifically mesmerizing, exciting, and electrifying. With Kittles’ unabashed lack of self control, you’re left to wonder what she’ll do next; its as though she’s suffering some intense rite of passage and every shred of intensity is both turned inward and focused on deliverance outward, like lava flowing from an erupting volcano.

Peaking Lights offered a mellowed change of pace, providing the perfect comedown. While 2009’s Imaginary Falcons was a sublime piece of psych drone, it was last year’s widely acclaimed 936 that broke the band to larger audiences. Hailing from Wisconsin, married couple Indra Dunis and Aaron Coyes meld together swirling, heady notes with dubby 8-tracked beats, forming a narcotic poetry. Looking ever part the opium-den goddess, Indra swayed back and forth, alternately shaking maracas, tickling the keys of a tiny vintage piano, and crooning into her mic, clothed in yellow silks depicting peacocks. Coyes was a more unassuming entity in his jean jacket, manning drum machines and samples with an occasional shake or nod of his head. The set was shortened by the closing of the bar, the show having run way past its 2am end time. While doped-up devotional “Amazing and Wonderful” was sadly missing, the set was an interesting look into what we can expect from upcoming release “Lucifer”, likely to be a bit more playful and perhaps even disco inspired, as their most recent mixtape indicates.
Though Longbranch had let the band keep playing beyond last call, once the last beats faded the lights came up and the bartender shouted, “That’s it, folks… South by Southwest is over, thank fucking God!” I’m guessing it gets pretty grating on locals to have thousands of hard-drinking, heavy-partying music fans descend on your otherwise quiet, quirky little patch of dirt, even if they are stimulating your local economy and putting you on the map in the most innovative tech, music and film circles.

I had to go meet up with my posse, who were at that time witnessing the now infamous Vice party in which Trash Talk prepped their wily fans to turn A$AP Rocky’s set into an all-out brawl. I waited patiently while a throng of disbelieving revelers trudged out of the venue and into the dust, likely as exhausted from all the insanity as I was. Nothing lasts forever, as they say, and though I’d missed my opportunity to see more than a handful of acts I’d really been looking forward to catching, I was walking away having seen over thirty bands in the space of four days. My phone had no remaining memory for photos or videos. I’d earned eight badges in fourSquare. Including transportation and lodging, I’d spent less that $400 bucks. And I’d be back to do it all again next year, no doubt.

An introduction to me and the music I love

Before I start describing to you my impression of the past year in music and what I’m looking forward to in the coming months (a succinct way to give you a glimpse into what you, our reader, can expect from me), I’ll tell you a wee bit about myself.

I was born and raised in a small Midwesterntown like so many other Brooklyn transplants. My parents placed my hands onthe keys of a piano at the age of three, and the bow of a cello in my fingersat the age of nine. I’d like to think that music is in my blood, but I knowbetter—for instance, that the early influence of Handel’s “Water Music” inshaping my perception of the world, or the memory of watching,atop shoulders, my dad play reggae at a local summertime concert, has more todo with my love for music than what my blood may contain. Still, I get afunny feeling in my heart when I hear certain songs, as if something mightbe waking up…

Though I never became aspectacular musician, by anyone’s standard, I still play occasionally. Moreimportantly, however, I learned in playing music for my whole life, to keepopen ears to whatever might waft through the airwaves. Subsequently, music hasbecome sine qua non to the diversity of my experience in the world, especiallyas a young city dweller. Without live music (even if the sound sucks, or thevenue is sub par), without the excitement of anticipating the newest album fromone of my current favorites, and without the joy of stumbling upon someundiscovered new treasure of a band (or DJ, or subway busker for that matter),life would just sparkle so much less vibrantly. New York would be such a drag.

What you can expect from me, with that said, is straightforward descriptive musings about the things that move me, namely good music (and sometimes not so good music too). If what you want though, is pretentious self-impressed sounding pseudo-journalism, then, well, I can direct you toward a few good music blogs for that too. Oh, and I have a degree in International Economics…So you may get a few tangential rants here and there about the security of oil supplies pumped throughout the Caucasus and Middle East, blah blah blah…

Anyway please read-on and (hopefully) enjoy a few personal highlights from the past year in music along with forthcoming shows and albums that I’m anticipating will be amazing. Organized categorically of course–because who doesn’t love lists?

Best new band of 2011: Beacon

My favorite newbie from 2011 is by far the band Beacon, whom I discovered at the Brooklyn Electronic Music Festival thanks to my friend Jakub, who runs the label Moodgadget, to which they are signed. Comprised of Thomas Mullarney and Jacob Gossett, Beacon sounds like an amalgam of what I consider to be the best elements of R&B and electronic, respectively, with mellow, synthy keys, smooth falsetto vocals and layers upon layers of textured beats. Before you check out their newest EP, No Body–a luscious soundscape of tunes about life and love–, listen to their cover of “The Rip”, by Portishead. You can find it Here. And if you like it, check them out live on February 4th with Tycho, at Music Hall. Ms. Rhoades and I would love to see you there.

The album of 2011 I was most surprised I like: Suck It and See

When I heard the first song off the album Suck It and See, I thought to myself “I really like this. It must be some sort of new wave I don’t know of…Yeah, definitely from the 80’s…Is it House Of Love? Hmmm…No…”. I then glanced over the album cover, nearly falling off my chair in surprise, to find that it was the irascible gang of drunken, juvenile Brits themselves: The Arctic Monkeys.  They seem to have inexorably matured about ten years since, say, Favourite Worst Nightmare in 2007 (we all remember “Fluorescent Adolescent’s” jabby opening chorus line “you used to get it in your fishnets/ now you only get it in your nightdress”). And I like what they’ve become: still raucous, but a bit less self-pitying and a bit more circumspect, both sonically and emotionally (if the two can even be disentangled when it comes to music). Self-possession really does suit them, for instance in the “Black Treacle” lyric “now I’m out of place, and I’m not getting any wiser/ I feel like the Sundance Kid behind a synthesizer”. It sounds like a conundrum I’ve found myself in too, these days. And bravo, Arctic Monkeys, for being all the more perspicacious in actually admitting to it.

Best girl anthem of 2011 that feels like a throwback: “Sadness Is A Blessing”

Lykke Li’s “Sadness Is A Blessing”, from Wounded Rhymes pretty much sums up my teenage years. And I’m sure had she been around in the 90’s, I would have most certainly been dressing and acting just like her. The opening chords are an immediate reference to all the 60’s girl groups whom I love, with a catchy I-IV-V key progression. Then comes Lykke’s raspy, unapologetic plea to some heartbreaker out there, to come back to her, in spite of her . Alas to no avail, she resolves herself to the infinite sorrow that awaits her in his absence. It’s a  beautifully haunting song that seems to capture every decade of pop since the 50’s. It shows that women creating incredible music about how much it sucks to be love-sick is a motif that transcends space and time.

Best Album of 2011 by a girl-led band, that can even begin to compete with Body Talk by Robyn: Ritual Union, Little Dragon

All of those who know me know that I would cross the street to tell a stranger how much I love Robyn. Body Talk may actually be one of my favorite albums of all time. With that said, when I heard Ritual Union–the newest  from Little Dragon, I was pretty damn excited to have found what I consider to be a futuristic iteration of everything I like about everything Robyn’s ever done. Whew. Ok, enough hyperbole for you? Yeah, me too. Anyway, Ritual Union is an album full of pulsating dance beats featuring heavy snare, combined with smooth synthetic bass lines and of course, Yukimi Nagano’s beautiful, sultry voice. And while I don’t have it on repeat or anything, it’s perfect to play at the end of the night, when all your dinner guests have had a bit too much to drink, and some of them want to get stoned at sit on the couch while others just really need to have a freaky dance party .

Best album of 2011 that almost makes me like Bob Dylan: Slave Ambient, The War On Drugs

I had heard Slave Ambient several times over the past months and didn’t think too much of it, considering all the attendant hype. However, after listening to a few of their terrific live performances on NPR’s “Sound Check”, I decided to revisit it and see if there was something I had been missing. And ok, fair enough, they’re pretty damn good. The songs do accompany arcane, poetic lyrics sung by a raspy-voiced front man, with a shit-ton of folky guitar melodies. This in and of itself makes them (to me) start to sound an awful lot like Bob Dylan tunes. I can’t really help it. And for those of you who know me know I would cross the street to tell some girl’s expensively-groomed chihuahua that I don’t like Bob Dylan.  But here’s the difference: each instrument including the vocals has reverb applied, as well as any handful of cool effects. This little aspect manages to transform each track from derivative (at best) into luscious, ambient and original. Amazing what a bit of creative thinking can do, no?

Best Album of 2011, Period: Year of Hibernation, (Youth Lagoon), tied with  Father, Son, Holy Ghost, (Girls)

So this was really, really challenging. It’s basically like having to choose your favorite kid (not that I have any, but I imagine it would be an equally difficult task ). Anyway, upon much deliberation I decided to narrow it down to two. And I challenge any music lover to try and do better than that.

Ok, so first, Youth Lagoon: Who knew that some kid making songs in his bedroom would have such a substantial impact on the world of indie rock. And what makes these songs great is not that they are innovative, as is the case with much of the incredible Garage Band-made music these days, but rather the ways in which they sound like something you’ve heard a million times but can’t quite pin down. They’re nostalgically psychedelic, but simple and quiet at the same time. Trevor Powers’ voice is thin but powerfully resonate. The melodies are pedestrian but unique. The lyrics are about a childhood we can all relate to; yet somehow his words still give me pause. Every time I listen to Year Of Hibernation, I discover something new about the songs. They will put me simultaneously in a good and bad mood. And that, my dear friends, is one illustrious feat.

It’s rare that a band’s sophomore album actually surpasses their debut, but Father, Son, Holy Ghost manages it somehow, although I’m sure there are plenty of folks out there who would disagree with me. The songs range from excruciatingly slow guitar ballads to Beatles-esque jingles, which is a wide spectrum to cover, and speaks loudly to the band’s versatility. Christopher Owens is a pretty self-aware dude (being a Children Of God escapee and all), and he wears is heart on his sleeve, evident in lyrics such as “They don’t like my boney body/ They don’t like my dirty hair/ Or the stuff that I say, or the stuff that I’m on”, from “Honey Bunny”, which is a track that perfectly encapsulates the band’s sound: upbeat classic rock ‘n roll, underpinned by dark moody intimations (think Beck’s “Sun Eyed Girl”).  And this little fact alone will keep me coming back to these songs again and again, probably forever.

Runners up: Unluck (James Blake),  Hurry Up We’re Dreaming (M83)

 

Well, clearly I could go on ad infinitum about  2011, but I figured I should leave the past where it belongs, and instead look toward what awaits us right around the proverbial corner. I’ll list a few albums about which I’m “stoked” (as they say in left coast vernacular), and then sign off, for now, with a lineup of shows I hope to attend. Who knows, maybe we can catch a few together…
xxo
Annie

Albums I can’t wait for:
Mark Lanegan Band, February 6

Die Antwoord, February 7

Sleigh Bells, February 21

School Of Seven Bells, February 28

Bruce Springsteen, March 5

Spiritualized, March 19

Choir of Young Believers, March 20

Where to track us down these days:

01.25 Lucinda Black Bear, Union Pool
01.31 Blouse, 285 Kent
02.02 Thurston Moore, Lincoln Center, Allen Room
02.04 Tycho, Beacon, Music Hall Of Williamsburg
02.07 Mark Lanegan Band, Bowery Ballroom
02.11 Dum Dum Girls, Maxwell’s
02.11 The Kills, Terminal 5
02.14 Lily and the Parlour Tricks, The Bowery Electric
02.25 Sharon Van Etten, Bowery Ballroom