Music
Section By Jeb D.
BAND OF JOY
Robert Plant
It’s not Raising Sand Part Two, and not just because the album misses Krauss’ vocal contributions; Plant’s years screeching in front of one of the most massive noise machines in rock history didn’t prompt him to cultivate much subtlety, and while his voice is still strong, it doesn’t have as much character when he drops the decibels, something that Krauss supplied on their Grammy machine. When he does duet with Patty Griffin, though, on songs like “Harm’s Swift Way,” Plant manages to supply a rasping urgency that recalls the glory days. He even manages some nostalgic arena-size squeals on “Cindy I’ll Marry You Someday.” Producer/guitarist Buddy Miller has a nice bag of post-Burnett instrumental tricks, and he puts Plant through paces that range from roots to Radiohead and back again. The material covers bases from trad to Low, and while not every song fits Plant’s instrument as well as you’d hope (on the opener, Los Lobos’ “Angel Dance,” Plant sounds surprised that the song’s in English), most of them are good-to-excellent fits, with “Central Two-O-Nine,” Richard Thompson’s “House of Cards,” and the ominous “Monkey” among the standouts. In the end, if Band of Joy is less convincingly contemplative than Raising Sand, it’s faster, livelier, and more varied, to compensate. It would be funny to imagine that “Satan Your Kingdom Must Come Down” is an ironic dig at an old partner, but my guess is that it just means that Miller played Plant an old Louvin Brothers album.
GRINDERMAN 2
Grinderman
In contrast to the relative polish of Dig!!! Lazarus Dig!!!, this is Cave and Ellis at their loosest and most raucous, with expertly-placed distortion, shrieking guitars, deep dark swamp sound, shoes for industry, and that damned electric bouzouki that’ll give you nightmares. There’s even the odd touch of subtlety, and the enterprise peaks with the epic final pairing of “Palaces of Montezuma” and “Bellringer Blues.” Cave’s lyrics have always gotten a bit of a pass because he wrote a book (Dude! Just like Jim Morrison!), but for all his wild allusions to JFK and the devil, his thought process rarely coheres when he ventures past “Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em;” in other words, he’s most convincing when he sings about his cock. On t’other hand, he never fails to make you believe that he actually might go out and do something about that, so give him credit for honesty. And I’m certainly not the only writer who’s going to single out “My baby calls me the Loch Ness monster / Two great big humps and I’m gone” as my favorite line of the week.
MAJESTY SHREDDING
Superchunk
Having spent the better part of the last decade springing bands like Arcade Fire and Neutral Milk Hotel on an unsuspecting public, McCaughan and Ballance decide to see if they can still stretch their own musical muscles; and even if they’re not veterans on the order of, say, Jerry Lee Lewis or Mavis Staples, it is nice to hear that they’ve still got it going: nine years is a lifetime in today’s indie rock scene. Someone once said that this is what Husker Du would have sounded like if either Mould or Hart could sing; not really fair to either band, but they both do share the breathless thrill of a sheer wall of guitar sound, and the ability to craft harmonies that skew from the expected in a way that wakes up and refreshes the ear. The playing is sharp and joyous; song after song becomes an instant anthem, with inescapable choruses, and moments like the “one moooore tiiiime” of “Slow Drip” or the “oh-ooohh-oooohhhh!” of “Digging For Something” will lodge in your brain like a happy summer memory. Maybe most impressive is the way that Superchunk is able to acknowledge the passage of time without either losing a step or sounding hopelessly arrested: “My Gap Feels Weird” is a dead-on perfect narrative of the maturing of the band and their fans, and a celebration of the amazing discovery that having kids of your own doesn’t mean you can’t rock those “kids on the corner” anymore. Go on, pump your fist a bit. You know you want to.
HARLEM RIVER BLUES
Justin Townes Earle
Dad was the fighter: he was white trash, a musician that scared the Nashville establishment that couldn’t pigeonhole him. So, while Justin played some ambitious “like father, like son” (became a musician and drug addict even younger than Steve did!), he wound up as more of an observer: if his songs feel more personally detached than Steve’s best, they’re every bit as immediate because of Justin’s sympathetic eye for his fellow man (and woman, to a degree, anyway). Like Ryan Bingham, Earle deploys the music of the past to show us a portrait of today: less stark and scary than Bingham, but also more musically varied, with Earle leavening the alt-country sound with a bit of gospel, some light lashings of rockabilly, and a touch of the folk tradition. His lyrics paint a clear picture of the modern American world of love, life, work, and heartbreak. Is the narrator of the title song going “to the Harlem River to drown” so as to commit suicide or to be baptized? On the leadoff track, it’s pretty ambiguous; by the time it’s reprised at the end, the meaning seems clearer: salvation may lie ahead, but there’s a lifetime of tears and heartache along the way, and frankly, not everyone’s going to get there: you can live with pain, Earle says… but living without hope is a whole different matter.
Other Noteworthy 9/14 Releases
Mavis Staples, You Are Not Alone. Her recent live album, exciting as it was, showed the strain of trying too hard to compensate for the ravages of time. The control that a studio recording permits allows her to deploy her still-amazing voice with just the right blend of passion and control. With production from Jeff Tweedy, stark bluesy guitar from Rick Holmstrom that recalls Duane Allman’s Aretha sessions, and song choices that range from Jesus to John Fogerty and back again, this is an album that your soul needs.
Of Montreal, False Priest. The affected offhandedness of songs like “Crazy Girl” can get a little grating, but the band’s cheerful delivery– and the genuinely laugh-out-loud silliness– puts it across. Listening to this album is the rough equivalent of having your ADD-addled best friend changing radio stations every two minutes while you’re driving through 1985.
Junip, Fields. Buzzy, distorted acoustic guitar, hints of Afrobeat and Beatles harmonies, supple percussion, well-deployed synth, and a lyrical worldview that traces an arc from the outward-facing “In Every Direction” and “Without You” to the darker introspection of “Howl” and “Tide.” While I’ve heard some of Gonzalez’ solo stuff before, this is the first time that he’s recorded with this particular group of musicians; evidently, though, they’ve been playing together for over a decade, and it shows in the amazing sure-footedness of the ensemble. This blend of end-of-summer dusk and autumnal repose is the real sleeper of the week.
Blonde Redhead, Penny Sparkle. I’d probably be more inclined to pay attention to Makino’s musings on life and love if the music didn’t sound as though it was drifting away on the wind before it got as far as my ears.
Bostich And Fussible, Bulevar 2000. I will gladly admit that I had no idea that there was such a thing as a “Nortec Collective,” whose goal seems to be to play Euro-style acid jazz with a Tex-Mex lilt. Works for me.
Leonard Cohen, Songs From The Road. On the one hand, four of the twelve songs were also on last year’s Live in London (though the actual performances are different). On the other hand, that leaves eight songs of the caliber of “Chelsea Hotel” and “Famous Blue Raincoat” to be presented here in pretty much definitive performances. Plus you get a live DVD. Caveat: if you swore you’d never again buy an album with “Hallelujah” on it, well…
Weezer, Hurley. Up until fairly recently, I had no idea these guys had prompted such strong, divisive debate among partisans, detractors, and lapsed believers; I just thought they were kinda goofy, developmentally arrested, and occasionally entertaining… and, with that, I ju