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CITIZINE REVIEWS by Micah J. Hunt ---
Please don’t buy this album unless you’re already a Frames fan. It truly pains me to write that, because I really love this little-known-in-the-states Irish band and I want you to love them too. I just don’t think that’s likely to happen if Burn The Maps is your first exposure to their work. Their catalog is full of great songs -- big, passionate rocking ones that should be all over American radio (or at least are in some alternate universe), gently melodic songs, quirkily humorous and sad songs about stray dogs, angry ones about Mom that aren’t juvenile thumbsucking. Glen Hansard (singer / songwriter/ guitarist and founder of the band) has a talent for writing unique songs that have the potential to appeal to a broad audience without resorting to pandering, and that is nothing to sniff at. But here, he has sublimated his instinct to go for the big chorus and the beautiful melody, which might be okay if he replaced it with something else of note, but alas... such is not the case. The Frames are a great band of very nice guys who have created a nice album -- nice sonic experiments, nice melodies, nice playing, nice production -- nice everything. But after three spins I don’t particularly care to listen to it again any time soon. There are a couple of good songs, but even those don’t match up to much of their past work, and the rest is just missing anything that would make it stand out. So if you aren’t familiar with The Frames, please rush out and buy their 1999 album Dance The Devil or 2003’s excellent live Set List, and if you ever have the chance to see them live, take it! And after you’ve become a fan, and have the rest of their releases, you may want to pick this one up. Just don’t plan on loving it. Doubtless by now you’ve heard of this rising star of the Los Angeles singer-songwriter scene -- the standing ovations from sold-out crowds at the hippest venues, the rapturous reviews from the most forward-looking cultural tastemakers, the fawning NPR pieces, the record label bidding wars, the incessant radio play, the outlandish stage costumes, the legendary after-parties, the hair. But here at CITIZINE, we’re all about the music, so let’s get down to it -- does this “Buddy” (if that is indeed his real name) live up to the hype? Or is he a poof in the wind, soon to be forgotten among the swirling dusts of Kansas or some other American prairie state? And are his legions of rabid followers simply wearing soft-rose tinted beer goggles? Well, on his debut EP, cleverly titled “Buddy”, the music ably speaks for itself. He combines the kind of wistful regret that is Emmylou Harris’ stock in trade with a natural melodicism recalling Elliot Smith, Radiohead’s more tuneful moments, and The Smiths, and the combination is tremendously beguiling. His lyrics are subtle, rich, and charming; he seduces the listener into his world, rather than forcing one to wonder why they should care about the mundane details of some self-absorbed wannabe’s life, which is so often the case with artists who are stylistically similar. Buddy’s melancholy vocals, sung in his high register, are strangely affecting and they work in concert with his whispy, sighing melodies and arrangements to present an unforced vulnerability that many only dream of achieving. And neither does his guitar work fail to impress -- where so often singers of this ilk seem to strum aimlessly between vocal lines, because, well, ‘cause they’re not singing and they have to do something, Buddy’s deft and purposeful fretwork eloquently communicates in its own right and consistently moves the songs forward and at times even, dare I say it? I do ... sometimes he even rocks a bit! Whenever someone asks me what I think about iTunes and the decline of the album as the standard form of delivery for recorded music, I reply that, despite my sadness over it, I think it’s bound to have an upside. Far too many albums seem to be created only because it’s time to put out an album; if the artists who are better suited to making singles would simply focus on making their individual songs as good as possible and then released them as they were completed, and left the album making to those who are artistically driven and suited to the form, that would only be a good thing for both the artist and the consumer. LCD Soundsystem’s self-titled debut is a perfect example of all this. I’ve been a fan of the band and their production group alter ego, The DFA, for some time and I’ve been consistently impressed with their singles and the production and remixes they’ve done for other artists, and their two compilations of the same. Now they’ve finally put out this eagerly awaited 9-track album of new material (packaged with a 7-track collection of their past single releases), and I’m very sorry to report my disappointment with the main disc. It does have some fun moments, such as opener “Daft Punk Is Playing At My House” and the similarly self explanatory “Disco Infiltrator,” and they also manage to branch out considerably from LCD’s previous, mostly eminently danceable output, notably on the rather folk-rock-with-a-brittle-post-punk-sheen “Never As Tired As When I’m Waking Up” and “Great Release”, which nails Brian Eno’s vocal works’ decidedly off-kilter melodicism (a not inconsiderable feat), and this is all very well and good. But even these highlights don’t stand up to the concentrated brilliance of 95% of their past work, and most of the rest of the tracks are a little lackluster (quite in keeping with their not being highlights). As a whole, the album, as an album, isn’t really a whole, or that great of an album. On the other hand, the second disc, which contains their earlier singles, is nothing short of excellent. From the hilarious hipster-skewering of “Losing My Edge” to the dare-you-not-to-dance “Yeah”, the songs are uniformly great, and strangely enough, when the songs are all great… wow! It’s a great album without even being an album! Maybe there’s a lesson to be learned here, both for LCD Soundsystem and the music industry.
Ils voudraient être Rancid. I don’t know anything about this band except for what’s contained in the CD and it’s packaging. So here are the main facts one can glean from it: 1. They are punks. 2. They are French. 3. They love Rancid. Really, really, really love Rancid. They play their instruments well, at least well enough to do an uncanny imitation of Rancid, and little riffs here and there are catchy. But they can’t extend the catchiness to whole songs -- I can’t remember any of them now that I’ve turned off the CD player -- and they don’t exude the vulnerability and soul that makes Rancid, Rancid. And while it’s très amusing to hear someone (and a French someone, no less!) painstakingly imitate the inimitable vocal style that Tim Armstrong obviously can’t help, they’re obviously not trying to be amusing. I enjoyed this one time through, and even though
I’ll probably play a couple of tracks for friends who like
Rancid for a chuckle, other than that I’m pretty sure I’ll
never listen to it again. But that’s no reason not to wish
The Gerbs well. It’s probably hard to be a punker in France,
and I’d say that as punkers go, Rancid are pretty good role
models. ---- Reader Comments No Comments. |
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