Fountains of Wayne - Sky Full of Holes: C

"Someone's Gonna Break Your Heart"

You are presented with a book, titled How To Be Happy. In it, you find countless diagrams and painstaking depictions of the history of happiness, its many forms, its advantages, its alchemy, its boundaries and potency. The phrasing is eloquent, the characterization inspiring. It makes you feel like you have the secret weapon to a fulfilling life, the current one feeling all the more dismal as you read fluttery page after page. After studying the book for quite some time, you put to practice all the learned happiness that was so meticulously described… and promptly fail at every turn. While what you had read was perfection on paper, it was a one-size-fits-all template for generic happiness. It fails, because learned, objective happiness is just as unfeasible as its sadness counterpart, which I’m sure one book purports to achieve just a few rows down the library shelf.

Fountains of Wayne’s fifth album sounds like the product of a group making music to every detail of How to Make Power Pop. The album is as successful at making affecting music as someone would be good at science if they could say the word in sixteen different languages. After fifteen years of doing this stuff, FOW know exactly how to make a record technically their own. But listening to Sky Full of Holes makes you feel like all time has done is eroded the group’s character until all that’s left are hollow concepts. There’s nothing on the album that wouldn’t be found on the group’s other records; buoyant hooks and dated pop culture references. The only difference is the references are even less memorable (only the Will Ferrell line in “A Road Song” really sticks) and not a single musical idea the group throws at you doesn’t feel tired the moment it lurches through your speakers. If sterile pop is all you expect from Fountains of Wayne, then Sky Full of Holes will be the spackle for your musical drywall. But if you’re looking for anything, and I mean anything, different from this group, then I cannot innumerate how many shits with which you will be out of luck.  

Fountains of Wayne - Sky Full of Holes: C

Yes - Fly From Here: B

"Into the Storm"

At what point are Yes in their career? The long-running prog rock group has not quite become the triumphant stalwarts of their genre like Rush, nor have they become a parody of themselves through embarrassing late-career albums. The mark that Yes has left on the musical landscape is just as unsure; not quite the “dinosaur rock” that has become the ire of many a modern music maker, but it’s not like you’ve heard an artist cite Closer to the Edge as a major influence in the past five years. Perhaps the best place to look for Yes’s influence is in metal, but, if that is so, the genre only takes the general idea of the group’s music seriously; the subtle and more poppy elements that came to define the group’s best work has all but been forgotten. As far as modern music is concerned, it’s difficult to see whether the sway of one of the greatest bands of all time spans beyond just an ace catalogue.

It is for this and many other reasons why Yes’s first album in ten years, Fly From Here, sits so awkwardly with me. While I fully embrace the idea of a comeback from this technical pioneer, in practice, the advantage/disadvantage spread in the album’s layout is just as contradictory as those aforementioned qualities. Fly From Here’s central concept comes from a song that Rick Wakeman replacement Geoff Downes and producer Trevor Horn had been working on before each joined Yes the first time around for 1980’s Drama. Here, it is presented as a twenty-minute song split into five parts, a presentation that would befit a classic Yes mentality. However, Yes frontman up to this point, Jon Anderson, has bowed out due to vocal complications and has been replaced in the dubious Journey style of recruiting a singer from a Yes cover band by watching YouTube videos. While Fly From Here would indicate a return to form of sorts for the group, it also seems like it’s setting the stage for some serious musical stagnation.

And, unsurprisingly, the album’s quality ends up somewhere in the middle. For however interesting the first five “Fly From Here” tracks are, they do begin to sound like they’re going through the motions with only one familiar vocal melody to draw the listener in. While I appreciate the sentiment of these four tracks, much of them could have been spaced out across the album or just omitted entirely. Luckily, though, the album also features a second half of better, standard Yes songs. Benoît David, the new singer, sounds how you’d expect him to: an eerie Anderson copy who brings no new musical ideas to the table. Nevertheless he’s competent, especially in the group harmonies, which are dead ringers for the ones on 1983’s excellent 90125. Remaining members Steve Howe, Chris Squire and Alan White all have their moments. White’s percussion is nimble and fresh throughout, Squire’s bass is particularly lush on “Life on a Film Set” and Squire puts in a moving acoustic performance on penultimate track “Solitaire”.

In terms of great, complete statements, though, Fly From Here is seriously lacking. It’s a very uneven album, so for every time you have a genuinely interesting vocal melody in last track “Into the Sun”, you’ve got David singing about riding a tiger on “Life on a Film Set”. The five-part “Fly From Here” series may center on a catchy hook, but I doubt you’ll walk away from the album remembering anything other than it. From the die-hard Yes fans to the ones that have never heard of them, Fly From Here will invariably come off as a disappointment, which again makes me ponder its existence. Hardly a comeback album, but hardly a debacle, Fly From Here shows a Yes that is giving it a harder try than most of its peers, but only coming up with just slightly better results. 

Yes - Fly From Here: B

SBTRKT - SBTRKT: B+

"Ready Set Loop"

Two months after the second wave of post-dubstep artists inspired debate within the electronic music community, out of nowhere comes lumbering Aaron Jerome, the man behind electronic outfit, SBTRKT. Listening to Jerome’s self-titled debut, it’s clear that the man is operating on the same plane as the purported Holy Trinity of dubstep dilution: James Blake’s self titled, Jamie Woon’s Mirrorwriting and Katy B’s On A Mission. It seems unfair to analyze SBTRKT in constant reference to those three records, but I’m just tactless and hypocritical enough to do so!

SBTRKT, more so than James Blake, Mirrorwriting or On a Mission, tapers to the traditional qualities of dubstep; music not quite made for the mainstream clubs like Katy B’s, but still capable of some pretty affecting grooves. Jerome often features female singers to carry catchy vocal lines and even recruits lauded hip-hop moper Drake to grunt on the “Barbara Streisand”-like “Ready Set Loop”. However, what you will mostly hear on SBTRKT when you are not listening to just straight up instrumental dance music will be Jerome’s voice, which sounds quite a bit like James Blake’s.

Like I mean A LOT like James Blake’s. So much so that it is often distracting. SBTRKT is a very good album; it delivers on many of its clearly identified goals. But the fact that Jerome’s voice has an almost identical tone to James Blake’s throws comparisons by the wayside to make way for debates as to whether or not SBTRKT is simply a more beat-oriented JB offshoot, even worse a mash up record.

Simplified, SBTRKT is just what I described: James Blake’s voice superimposed onto some traditional if tempered dubstep. Its harshness is watered down to suit a more streamlined listening experience, but not so much that it loses its dark edge. The album’s instrumentation is more in line with a sort of downtempo dubstep, like the recent work of artists like Guido, but artists like them tend to make the best music of that genre, so it is very possible that the combination of all these elements will make SBTRKT your favorite of the four records I have mentioned.

Taken as a whole, though, a part of me wants to dismiss SBTRKT because it is very much an album that’s context constantly gets in its way. Regardless, it is a very good product, not as rewarding as James Blake or On A Mission but still worthy of some interest. Perhaps the greatest value in SBTRKT is an indication of the movement from which it was spawned to be sputtering out, because, if artists are going to continue to make music that borrows so liberally from already established artists (or perhaps just James Blake), it’s going to become deformed from inbreeding very, very quickly. But premonition aside, SBTRKT doesn’t quite cross that line, so it’s still OK by me. 

SBTRKT - SBTRKT: B+

Pure X - Pleasure: B

"You're In It Now"

Get it? X? Pleasure? Ecstacy? Oh man that’s rich.

Music made to be ignored. Don’t bother.             

Pure X - Pleasure: B

Gucci Mane - Writing on the Wall 2: B+

"Brrrr (Supa Cold)"

Give it time, give it time. I know I said that Gucci Mane’s last release, Return of Mr. Zone 6 was the death knell of the Atlanta rapper’s career, and I still believe that. The fact that the man has followed up that atrocity with his best mixtape to date does not deter me. Just as Rome wasn’t built in a day, Gucci won’t go away with one album. Writing on the Wall 2 will regardless be a reassurance to longtime Gucci fans, and, in some sick way, I feel a little bit of goodness knowing that he can still pump out a considerable amount of above average tunes.           

The album, it should be noted though, is not a vast improvement on Return of Mr. Zone 6 because of anything on Gucci Mane’s part. Rounding up, I’d say that the man comes away with one solid line on the entire mixtape; one line that made me think, “Oh man, maybe I’ve been wrong about this guy all along.” In actuality, what helps Writing on the Wall 2 is that Mane’s presence is relegated to the textural or the background entirely. On the album, Gucci steps aside so that the real talents that have gotten him to this point can shine through.

In this manner, almost all the best parts of Writing on the Wall 2 are the beats. Where Return of Mr. Zone 6 and the majority of Gucci’s 2010 mixtapes were attempts at establishing the now hackneyed Drumma Boy/Lex Lugar constant barrage of sound, Writing shows these beat makers agreeing on a style and then branching them out into more tuneful arenas. On “Guilty” and “Tax Free”, Drumma Boy incorporates piano and synths to add more depth to his regular assault of mindless hooliganism. On “Recently”, he even opts for a smooth bassline to make the track flow like an excellent Curren$y song, all the bells and whistles dropping out to fantastic effect when 50 Cent takes the mic for a surprisingly memorable verse. Needless to say, when “MVP” emerges with a sung hook, it’s an unbridled success, making it an immediate album highlight. 

Drumma Boy’s not the only producer here who takes chances with excellent results. Writing is teeming with subtle risks that consistently impress. Many of the tracks surprise with the inclusion of boisterous horn parts. Their presence on “Hard On A Bitch” is a nice, silly touch on an otherwise tame track. They turn “Play Your Cards” into a veritable epic, with a malicious chorus from YC and a ¾ bass on the verses that adds welcome tension. However, it’s “Brrrr (Supa Cold)” that takes the cake on Writing on the Wall 2. Frequent Gucci collaborator Fat Boy creates a rather buoyant hook that’s harmonized vocals borrow as much from The Beach Boys as Waka Flocka Flame. The verses’ light and playful brass make the track sound like the most streamlined thing Gucci’s ever rapped over. Coupled with characteristically unrelenting bass, I’d say it’s the best track Gucci Mane has ever put his name on. The guy sounds so lively in this environment, it’s a wonder he hasn’t made more songs like it.

Although Writing on the Wall 2 will likely satiate Gucci Mane fanatics, it has many obstacles that will inhibit the uninitiated. While many of the record’s beats deserve praise, songs such as the Fat Boy-helmed “Camera Ready” and Lex Lugar’s “Lil Friends” sound like boring, grating Gucci by numbers. And, of course, considering this is a Gucci Mane release, the man is bound to surface from the background to deliver some truly crass, humorless lines. If you can look beyond terribly derivative couplets like “Pussy, pussy, I smell pussy,” then you’re pretty much in the clear for Writing’s enjoyment. However, if you’re looking for a good rap record in the traditional, lyrically brilliant sense, you’ve been barking up the wrong tree for far too long. Writing on the Wall 2’s positives may override its negatives, but, if you’re expecting more from Gucci Mane than cheap thrills, I’m tempted to ask why you’re reading this review in the first place. 

Gucci Mane - Writing on the Wall 2: B+

Gang Gang Dance - Eye Contact: A

"Adult Goth"

“I can hear everything. It’s everything time.”

I’m kicking myself right now for opening this review with that line, because I know that so many other publications will quote it to begin their own reviews. Despite this, I have made a concerted effort to have it lead into my review, because there is nothing that I could say about Gang Gang Dance’s newest album, Eye Contact, that isn’t already encapsulated by those seven words that begin the group’s fifth release. At once emotionally cold and uncomfortably intimate, Eye Contact is the most jarringly eclectic dance music you are bound to hear this year.

That line comes to introduce first single, “Glass Jar”, a sprawling, eleven-minute behemoth that, like Destroyer’s recent “Bay of Pigs (Detail)”, begins with a cavernous atmosphere of reverberating synthesizers before getting into a groove that is all the more worth the time waited. The guy who utters those words reappears throughout the song’s six-minute build up. He lets out a passionate “Yes” as a musical palette slowly materializes, comforts with a “Don’t worry” and informs us it’s “Dream time” at various points in the song. The aura in which this guy says these things is so precious, it almost feels as if he’s commenting on your lovemaking while he’s in the same room as you. And while that is a radical way to look at “Glass Jar”, it is representative of the song’s humor and its willingness to drop all pretenses, like only the best modern hippies can.

And this is not even with the mention of Liz Bougatsos, the actual lead singer of Gang Gang Dance, whose inimitable coo appears when the beat to “Glass Jar” finally drops. While I could probably count the number of lines she sings on Eye Contact that I understand on one hand, her voice is so emotive that she is just as rapturous as a foreign ingénue as she is as a comprehensible frontwoman. Her indecipherable squeals on tracks like “Chinese High” and “Sacer” sound like an extra instrument, imbuing each track with a new, valued layer of depth. Her vocal presence tends to ground Eye Contact’s songs firmly in the realm of dance music, tying the gleefully disparate ends of “Mind Killa” with the utterance of the song’s title for example. Despite that clear hurdle of comprehension, you will find yourself singing her notes back to her, adding nonsensical words to reconcile their meaning within each song.

But Eye Contact, as that guy so well explains, is a time for everything, and, if you’re getting the impression the album is just some hipster electroclash, it’s far from it. “Glass Jar” does sound like the work of a high-minded outfit of Brooklynites, but it fades into the subversive refrain of a recording of an Italian singer, an intriguing choice of transition into the slippery Eastern guitar melodies of “Adult Goth”. The entire album flows like a DJ set, three interludes giving listeners context before another glorious dance track erupts through their speakers. This dense style of songwriting is most evident in “Mind Killa”, a veritable microcosm of chaos and creativity. It surges seamlessly through about five musical movements, all unique and all infectious. If the song were remixed to about an hour’s length, you wouldn’t need another song to play for a crowded dance floor. Elsewhere, Eye Contact wonderfully contradicts itself from track to track, experimenting with Caribbean jams on “Chinese High”, a spooky organ that would soundtrack a Nikki Minaj-hosted haunted house on “Thru and Thru” and the voice of Hot Chip’s Alex Taylor on the soft rock of “Romance Layers”.

Eye Contact may sound strange on first listen, but its many talents grow stronger with time. The album may very well be a time for everything, but it’s surprisingly manageable, the group very professional in making sure its innumerable elements are all kept in check. The album is very dense and its styles always fascinate and keep the senses sharp with wonder. It’s not as difficult to digest Eye Contact as you may think from this description, but, even if you find that it is, it’s all the more better. Sometimes the senses need to be overwhelmed. Keeps ’em fresh.

Gang Gang Dance - Eye Contact: A

Beastie Boys - Hot Sauce Committee Pt. 2: A-

"Make Some Noise"

Hot Sauce Committee Pt. 2 is such a return to form for Beastie Boys that it almost works against them. After releasing the middling To the Five Boroughs and the questionable instrumental The Mix-Up, in addition to postponing Hot Sauce Committee for a year due to MCA’s diagnosis of throat cancer, it seemed like the pioneering rap trio was aging in the exact opposite way longtime fans were hoping. But Hot Sauce Committee Part 2 hits so hard with the traditional sounds that made Beastie Boys so unique that it often goes over the nostalgia deep end, making it open game for naysayers who believe the group has long lost its potency. Hot Sauce Committee has a muddy production that can often make the group’s rhymes difficult to hear and the Boys bask in numerous lyrical clichés. As evidenced by “Funky Donkey”, perhaps the most unsurprising Beastie Boys song name of all time, if you were planning on hating Hot Sauce Committee, you’re going to hate it. If you weren’t, then this shit’s gonna be tight.

Despite Hot Sauce Committee’s muddy production, the musical ideas apparent here are positively fantastic and, for me, more of a draw to the album than the lyrical presence of the Beastie Boys, themselves. The skuzzy keyboard riff of “Make Some Noise” is perfect for silly two-steppin’. “OK” combines riffage and wonky synths with ease, consolidating its melodic prowess with a robotic voice that goes “Yeah yeah right right.” “Long Burn the Fire” similarly slays with organ and wah-wah pedal and “Say It” gets its inventive hook from the harmonics of feedbacking guitars. The bass is uncompromising, filling up any available space even when the group opts for full-on punk rock in the “Sabotage”-like “Lee Majors Come Again”.

Admittedly, the Beasties aren’t as memorable lyrically on Hot Sauce Committee. The album has about a dozen total outstanding lines, and they’re more notable for their silliness than their specificity. The album is highly self-referential and revels in throwback hip-hop clichés, so if you’re looking for something to rag on, you won’t have to look very far. The group goes on and on ‘til break of dawn on two tracks and Ad-Rock comes off as a curmudgeon in “OK”’s second verse (“I don’t give a fuck who the Hell you are / Please stop shouting in your cellular/ I never asked to be part of your day / So please stop shouting in your phone, OK?”). The best lyrical work on Hot Sauce Committee doesn’t even come from any member of the group. Nas’s surprisingly skillful verse on “Too Many Rappers” slays from the moment he bursts onto the track with “I have carte blanche.” When he’s finished, you can’t help but wish Beastie Boys were more dynamic on Hot Sauce Committee than just the funny voices they don for “The Larry Routine”.

So, although Hot Sauce Committee is not technically up to par with Beastie Boys’ greatest achievements, it definitely feels like a Beastie Boys album, which is more than enough reason to give it an excellent rating. When the album ends by cutting off the group while they’re yelling over each other, it shows they still have the vigor to be fun and absurd well into their forties. Hot Sauce Committee may lean significantly on spirit, but, man, if you were going to go with one spirit to lean on, you’re not going to find many livelier than the Beasties. The album is an outlier in terms of production and style in the context of where both hip-hop and electronic music are currently going. While we do have a Santigold collaboration here and a Wolf Blitzer reference there, in a way, Hot Sauce Committee brings the old school underground, and I don’t think I’ve ever danced so idiotically to an album so defiant of the mainstream.

Beastie Boys - Hot Sauce Committee Pt. 2: A-

Unknown Mortal Orchestra - Unknown Mortal Orchestra: A-

"Thought Ballune"

Well, at least they’re being honest. There have been a lot of bands come out recently from relative obscurity with only excellent music to speak for them, but it’s not like Unknown Mortal Orchestra ever attempted to deceive people when they first mysteriously appeared with nothing but a Bandcamp page. They’re obscure, they’re of this Earth, and they have the songwriting chops of a philharmonic. On their debut album, Unknown Mortal Orchestra don’t attempt to mask the listener with elaborate stories. Instead, they just play catchy vintage pop, and for that we should be grateful.           

Unknown Mortal Orchestra is cut from the same cloth of many lo-fi garage rock bands that thought 70’s fuzzy pop was just the bee’s knees. At times, some clear luminaries of the revisionist genre come to mind like Ariel Pink on the muffled “Nerve Damage!”. The group’s style is very much pop oriented, but their songs are shrouded in low rent technology. While vocals are almost always present, the only actual word that can be safely deciphered is “alligator” in the chorus of “Thought Ballune”, which probably tells you less about the song’s meaning. However, don’t lump Unknown Mortal Orchestra in with unremarkable groups such as Dum Dum Girls or Hippies. The group’s use of tracks for recording may resemble the visual of only a few pixels on a computer screen, but, if each of those pixels is vivid and electrifying, it shouldn’t really matter. The production may sound amateurish, but the group adds a variety of sounds to their tracks to make them sound complete, such as the emotive backup singing in “FFunny FFriends” and the oddball guitar introduction to “Nerve Damage!”. The drums on the album are so muted, the fills sound like they’re performed on the backs of rubber buckets, but each “thud” is endearing, giving an “aw shucks” quality to the group’s innocent pop.

So it’s a fun experience throughout Unknown Mortal Orchestra to listen to the group transcend their medium. The harmonies in “Thought Ballune” are intricate and well arranged. “How Can U Luv Me” grooves like some of the best pop songs of the 1960’s; I can imagine it being performed by The Jackson 5. “ Little Blue House” even features some clear vocals to place the song in a more modern context, both hinting that the potential of UMO reaches much farther than this record and that perhaps this whole lo-fi act is a put-on. It may sound rudimentary, but there are so many moments on Unknown Mortal Orchestra that signify a long and fruitful career for this group. As far as I’m concerned, they can stay as obscure as they like. I just hope this isn’t the last of them. 

Unknown Mortal Orchestra - Unknown Mortal Orchestra: A-

Brian Eno - Drums Between the Bells: A-

"Sounds Alien"

U2 and Coldplay albums notwithstanding, you got to hand it to Brian Eno for being the OG oddball. The man’s been releasing albums nonstop for the past forty years, and has always maintained an air of strangeness to his tunes that would betray all of the mass acclaim he has received (the best track off MGMT’s newest album name checks him, so at least you know he’s good with the kids). He has often been labeled as the originator of ambient music, one the most confounding musical genres I have ever heard. And, for what its worth, from 1974’s Here Come the Warm Jets to this year’s Drums Between the Bells, you’d think nothing had changed.

Drums Between the Bells bristles with warped bass and mechanical noises, presenting a dystopian soundscape on which various vocalists can recite the poetry of Rick Holland. “Multimedia” undulates with wonky bass, “Cloud” features some spectral keyboards and “The Airman” is off-putting with its heavily reverbed bass drum. Eno makes these arrangements slightly off-kilter in order to keep the listener hinged on the range of topics Holland covers. When the vocalist on "Fierce Aisles of Light” passively mentions, “It’s a train again,” Eno accompanies it with the phased sounds of a moving train, adding literal drama to the otherwise spacious track.

The vocalists on Drums Between the Bells are all virtual unknowns. They range from people who work at the laundromat Eno goes to to his doorman, and the “recognizable” names will only be relevant to those already inclined to this genre of music. Nevertheless, all the performances on the album are well placed despite seemingly being plucked from anonymity. Male and female vocals share equal space and only a few times do they combine. Each seems to own the terrain Eno draws out for them, and they successfully add zest to Holland’s verses. A young, soft British female voice grounds Eno’s bouncy electronics on “Seedpods”. The male monotone on “Breath of Crows” envelops its ambience to create a dramatic if not show stopping album closer and the croak of the old British woman who graces many of the album’s tracks always gives a bookish nod and wink to the high-minded proceedings.

The voices of Drums Between the Bells seem recur in equal measure, so it often feels episodic. Eno spaces out his arrangements well so that when, for example, the old British woman comes back into the mix, she is welcomed by the listener’s familiarity. This is observed best on “A Title”, in which feral electronics swoop around the listener and that woman comes back in to regulate on the arrangement. As a side note, that old lady is a BAMF. She has a regal tone that sounds authoritative on the more ambient tracks and hilariously ironic on the more aggressive ones. Despite Eno being the main draw to Drums, it is clear that she emerges as the MVP, taking control on every track she appears.

The only deterrent from Drums Between the Bells is that it is, in essence, a spoken word album. There have been some great spoken word releases this decade, the late Gil Scott-Heron’s I’m New Here and Laurie Anderson’s Homeland to name a few, but there is something about speaking over music that will always give people the feeling that they are literally being talked down to. If that kind of stuff skives you out, then Drums Between the Bells will not be much help. Holland’s verses are standard poetic rumination. “The Real” talks about the perception of what is real (yep, that kind of poem) and “Glitch” and “A Title” explore the nuance of diction in a few minutes of sweeping generalizations. The minute of silence (entitled “Silence”) that comes at the end of the album would seem to confirm this high-minded disposition, but I would disagree. After all those delicious swarms of electronics and vocals have bombarded the listener for more than an hour, it feels like an appropriate respite. You could even say Eno’s earned it. 

Brian Eno - Drums Between the Bells: A-

Curren$y - Weekend At Burnie's: B

"This Is The Life"

All you will ever need to know about New Orleans rapper Curren$y and his array of albums released in the last few years is embodied in the first line of his newest full-length, Weekend at Burnie’s: “Ain’t nothin’ changed.” The man says it on the very good Pilot Talk as well as its improved sequel. He has a natural laid back flow and the kinds of songs that put him in the best light are the ones of Ski Beatz, where light jazz floats through the mist seemingly conjured by Curren$y’s THC-addled recording sessions. The man loves to talk about sports, women and pot. And ain’t nothing changed. If you’re looking for evolution, variance, it ain’t here. Curren$y enlists producer Masta Beatz to lay down the tracks, but it’s all the same. It’s even more monochromatic without the occasional pseudo-aggressive jam like “The Day” was to the first Pilot Talk. And ain’t nothin’ changed. Address, the weather, the music, the man. Ain’t nothin’ changed, ain’t nothin’ changed. 

Curren$y - Weekend At Burnie's: B