Author: Joshua Paul Greene

I have, for a long time, had a slight personal issue with the concept of ‘reviewing’ music because of music’s inherent nature of self-expression and my personal belief that no one should be able to tell another that their art is ‘wrong.’  That said, there are some albums; some bands; some genres; etc, which – by their very nature – tend to step outside of what’s considered to be ‘regular music.’  Bill Orcutt, former guitarist of influential experimental group, Harry Pussy, has always existed on the more questionable side of that line.

Free of vocals (save Orcutt’s orgasmic groans) and sounding as though it was recorded using a single microphone in someone’s hallway, his most recent, How the Thing Sings is a standing ovation to the purely expressional, raw approach to music – and more broadly, art.  Sporadically spaced bursts of note clusters in conjunction with vivaciously performed melodic patterns result in an emotional-if-not-frenetic exhibition of Orcutt’s talent.  Here, though, the concept in question is not whether it’s difficult to play in such primal form but rather one of artistic merit vs. purely self-indulgent musical masturbation. And perhaps more importantly, whether or not those two ideas are mutually exclusive.

The answer to that debate – in my opinion – is no.  Though this record is, without a doubt a clear example of self-satisfying musical gluttony, it also exists as a testament to the power of emotion when combined with musical talent.  When examined for it’s underlying emotional themes, there is much to be admired about this album: Nothing is watered down, nothing goes to waste for the sake of general palatability and there’s not a single thought given to ensuring the audience understands the intention at the risk of sacrificing honesty.

I won’t pretend that this is a great artistic feat, nor will I say it’s an essential addition of any music-lover’s collection, but it’s certainly a record worthy of a listen if for no other reason than to hear something different and possibly even find some bizarre fascination with abstract acoustic guitar music.

Throughout a career-long tendency for lineup and label changes, Chicago-based alt rock band, Wilco have released a wide variety of albums in terms of feel, approach and execution and with their post-A.M catalog ranging from the highly experimental Being There to the surprisingly unthreatening Sky Blue Sky, it would be easy to expect their most recent, The Whole Love to be either characteristically edgy or approachably bland.  Surprisingly, this release is somehow neither.

Out of familiarity and confidence rather than compromise Wilco have managed to release a record that is at once rife with the experimentation of earlier releases and cohesively palatable.  Featuring a track list dominated by effortless and subdued songs interrupted by the occasional attention-grabbing cathartic experiment, The Whole Love is unique.  It contains enough of the old Wilco’s knack for shaking things up to satisfy those bored stiff by the normalcy of the band’s mid-career releases while simultaneously standing as a more cohesive effort than even a ghost is born, successfully placing it on par with Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.

As silence is ripped apart with the noisy, distorted sound of someone fumbling with a microphone on album-opener, “The Art of Almost,” it seems clear that Wilco have once again returned to the experimental leanings of their past.  But once you endure the 7-minute-long saga of instrumental and vocal indulgence, it also becomes clear that there’s a depth on this album to be appreciated.

Plodding, steel guitar-laced, “Black Moon” and bouncy narrative, “Capitol City” offer two vastly different incarnations for the band, yet neither breaks the overall tone or flow of the album.  That artistic diversity devoid of unfavorable frenetic disorganization is a masterful achievement by what finally sounds like a veteran band.

A commendable effort from a seasoned and accomplished group of musicians, The Whole Love is an indication of a stronger, more resolute Wilco.  Secure in a tenacious lineup and finally on their own label, there’s nothing to keep this band from securing their already lofty spot as one of the greatest bands of this generation.

For a band that has enjoyed international success due largely to their own brand of British rock characterized by high-energy and uber-catchy melodic and lyrical hooks, their third full-length, Junk of the Heart (Happy) is surprisingly mellow.  Or maybe we’ve sold them short with this expectation.  More and more, bands tend to be pigeonholed within a specific niche while they are, in reality, quite capable of exceeding those boundaries.  And though some fans may look at this album as an indication that this once-angsty group is now settling down and, stated begrudgingly, “finding their more mature side,” I would encourage a more positive perspective.

Though this album is certainly mellower and more mature than past releases, it also serves as a more varied listening experience with more to offer.  I would also argue that energy isn’t lost on this record but rather re-directed.  Both in terms of artistic restraint and lyrical precision this is a luminary release for both this band and this genre.

Take album interlude, “Time Above the Earth” for example.  Comprised solely of an orchestral backdrop and Pritchard’s unmistakable vocal quality, this song steps outside of anything this band has done before. That musical restraint – that patience – mirrors other tracks on the record as well; throughout each of these songs, lack of instrumental distraction and tasteful execution results in a uniquely intimate experience.

Further adding to the refined nature of this release are the lyrics.  Song after song on this record is – stated simply – poetic.  “Rosie,” “Killing Me” and “Eskimo Kiss” are all heartfelt love songs written with a rarely surpassed elegance while “Is It Me” and “Petulia” achieve a similarly profound effect through more poignant and gruesome devices.

I’ll agree that this isn’t the same record they released in ’06 or even ‘08, but instead of indicating decline in terms of both appeal and relevance, I think this is a step towards a more adaptable and enticing band – a band not easily dismissed after one or two weeks – that has the potential to stick around for a long, long time.

Following a decade-long hiatus and the subsequent reunion spearheaded by front man, Gavin Rossdale, British rockers, Bush have released a sparkly new album.  The Sea of Memories is not quite what old fans may expect, though it seems to me that it’s the right step towards a hearty and forceful comeback that might actually give them a few more years in the business.

The first indication of discrepancy between this release and those prior is Rossdale’s choice of producer.  This time around, rock and roll legend, Bob Rock (Aerosmith, Metallica) took the helm and the result is a record immensely more palatable to a much larger audience. More grandiose than previous releases, it also seems as though the band have set out to make something new rather than re-hashing old attempts at Sixteen Stone-era success.  Original fans fear not, this is still the same heavy-hitting group of Brits, though it seems they’ve gained a matured sense of perspective in their time apart.

For the first time in the band’s history, Bush – by way of Rock – have given in to their natural tendency for arena rock hooks and catchy (if not slightly cheeky) melodies.  As for their grungier side, it’s still present in impeccable form (as illustrated by disgusting guitar tone on album opener, “The Mirror of the Signs”) only now it’s laced with enticing, guilty pleasure riffs and an ever-so-slightly mellowed attack.  For example, power ballad, “All Night Doctors” opens with piano (?!) and a vocal melody reminiscent of 90’s pop-rock (dare I say Goo Goo Dolls?) that caught even me, a still-in-the-closet pop fanatic off guard.

Is this the next big thing in the world of the grunge rock comeback?  Is it even the next big thing in the world of the UK’s music scene?  Probably not, but it undoubtedly marks a powerful return for a band that’s seen it’s share of success and failure.  A well-crafted effort and an exhibition of a new sound that has the potential to lead a veteran band into a new market, The Sea of Memories is well worth your time and attention.

Music, when executed with acute fervor and subtle restraint has the ability to take a listener on a journey more vivid and efficacious than words or even cinema could ever achieve.  In my opinion, this concept, though unquestionably oldfangled is not antiquated despite an apparently overwhelming consensus and as proof, I call upon the sophomore release from Swedish analog electronic duo, Roll The Dice.  Entitled In Dust, the 11-song full-length reads more like bizarre aural cinema than simple music.

Composed in a span of only a few months, the album meanders through the increasingly common theme of a nearly apocalyptic communion between man and machine.  And though it’s an interesting concept for a music album, the real gold lies in the duo’s meticulous attention to detail.  The way they have used aspects of classical approach by building and recapitulating themes throughout the album to better convey meaning and development is a fresh and welcomed approach.

Prime example lies in album opener as Iron Bridge” drones a patient and hesitant intro leading in to a throbbing and claustrophobic pulse serving to introduce the tone of the narrative.  Further into the song a warm yet cacophonic acoustic piano strikes monotonous singular notes seemingly pointing at some sort of organic life while the original industrial drone and rhythmic pattern soldier on under piles of synths.

Equally representative is “The Way Out” in which a helicopter-esque rendition of the original pulse found in “Iron Bridge” opens the song and leads us to nearly dissonant synth elements evocative of those from both “Maelstrom” and “Cause And Effect.”  As this dissonance builds we’re reintroduced to a double-time electrical-sounding percussive element found in more esoteric form in “Dark Thirty.”  The track thickens and eventually gives way to an airy, major-sounding passage indicative of redemption from the bleak fragility indicated elsewhere on the album.

Consider this review a cinematic trailer – a very brief overview – of an incredible sonic adventure unlike anything I’ve so far encountered.  I urge you to listen with an open mind and be ready for the unexpected.  You won’t be disappointed.