REVIEW: Broken Social Scene "Broken Social Scene"

Rating: 7

Broken Social Scene's new self titled disc is a vivid example of everything that was right with avant-rock twelve years ago (Sonic Youth, Pavement) and how it is being abused today.  You could appropriately add an "overly" to anything used to describe their breakout 2003 album "You Forgot it in People" and be pretty spot-on here - (overly) dense, (overly) ambitious, (overly) rocking/atmospheric, (overly) symphonic, (overly) noisy, (overly) etc.

The collective that is Canada's Broken Social Scene (seriously, is everyone Canadian now?) has balooned up to seventeen odd members and the amount if not always the quality of sound all these people make together has multiplied accordingly.  Still fronted by Kevin Drew (Do Make Say Think) the propulsive gang of indie worshipers lets female singer Leslie Feist carry the lead from time to time and to great reward.  Drew's vocals are routinely ensconced behind layers of reverb and washed out by waves of droning guitars and keyboards, rendering most lyrics pointlessly lost and his voice a backing instrument without an obvious lead to repelace him.  But Feist cuts through the din on sparer, percusion and loop driven tracks providing some breathable air amidst the largely high-altitude, high-art constructivism in which the group seems prone to revel.

But all is not lost.  That's really just describing the first half of the album.  "Major Label Debut" quells the ruckus gently.  By track six ("Fire Eye'd Boy") a sort of clarity is achieved.  Not quite a parting of the clouds but providing a means of soaring among them.  There is never an "oh, now I get it" moment or radio-ready single, but the dense and swirling wall of sound becomes soulful, complex, and layered.  Grooves are sustained long enough to enjoy rather than being repeated and distorted into oblivion.  Shop quickly and you'll get the limited edition two disc set which includes the easily more listenable seven song EP.

REVIEW: Wolf Parade "Apologies to the Queen Mary"

Rating: 8

I pursued this disc under the impression that it was the new Arcade Fire side project I had read about.  After listening I was glad to hear them sticking to what makes their other band so great – a balanced blend of gushing emotion and the noisy abandon of joyous, collective play.  Plus it seems they’ve stitched more than a few patches from the Modest Mouse quilt onto their fabric, adding a crisp little edge of psychosis and a few bigger guitars, so yeaa!  Call it Arcade Mouse.

Turns out I had my hip Canadian bands all mixed up.  Wolf Parade may share the occasional hometown venue and borscht recipe with their pals in the Arcade Fire, but no personnel (I was thinking of Bell Orchestre - oops).  It also turns out that the Modest Mouse connection I was hearing is real since this parade is brought to you courtesy of the band’s indie-noise champion Isaac Brock who recorded some of the album (a-ha!).  I like to think of it as breaking even.

Tandem band leaders / vocalists Dan Boeckner and Spencer Krug are a good if interchangeable compliment to one another and their songs mingle well throughout the album.  The singing style splices Bowie’s high crooning wail less the less his sex appeal with mentor Brock minus much of the bile.  However at their broiling and barely intelligible peaks the closest immediate reference might be the high-pitched, antiphonal waivering chants of Native American choral singing.  And it works.  Seriously.  The playing is a little more loosely hinged than the obvious touchstones already mentioned, but they make up for fewer dynamic shifts and a more narrow dramatic range with consistently controlled cacophony and lyrical hints of wide-eyed weirdness.  Definitely recommended for fans of the Arcade Fire, Modest Mouse, Neutral Milk Hotel, etc.  Like these artists Wolf Parade came to shake and move listeners both literally and figuratively, just don't expect to be completely swept away.

NEWS: HARDLY STRICTLY BLUEGRASS 2005

Golden Gate Park, San Francisco
October 1st & 2nd

This weekend marked the 5th annual Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festisval, arguably the greatest music festival going and easiliy the best free one.  I attended last year and was treated to great seats for even better music with plenty of elbow room at Golden Gate Park's Speedway Meadows.  Apparently word has spread because the crowds showed up by the tens of thousands for another stellar line up of artists representing the full spectrum of americana, rock-a-billy, country, old timey, traditional and roots music.  Oh yeah, and bluegrass.

Hardly Strictly is one of those events that forces fans to make difficult choices or figure out a way around the laws of physics.  Last year you could see John Prine or Steve Earle - but not both.  This year I passed on Jimmie Dale Gilmore to see The Knitters, missed Steve Earle to see Gillian Welch & David Rawlings.  Granted it is somewhat easier to skip a set by Dolly Parton or Peter Rowan & Tony Rice when the alternative is an hour and a half with Emmylou Harris, but I'm sure you can see the problem.  After several failed attempts to be in more than one place at the same time here's what I saw...

We arrived in San Francisco a little later Saturday afternoon than expected after a necessary stop for burritos and bottled water.  Parking was crazy, our first sign that the show might be better attended than last year, but we caught a break and ended up just five blocks away.  We headed straight for the Star Stage and caught the Dry Branch Fire Squad's last bit of top-notch jug band shtick before they cleared out.  Buddy Miller was up next, sporting his usual ball cap, bushy white hair and wide array of guitars.  He played a solid set including lots of material from "Universal United House of Prayer" and was backed by drums, organ or accordion, bass and two female backing vocalists.  The relatively small crowd was then treated to a special guest appearance by Emmylou Harris who added harmony on two songs, then left the stage as casually as she had joined it.  At one point Miller bashfully admitted that it was "against [his] religion to play at the same time as Doc Watson," who was performing on another stage.  I was struck by the strength of Miller's singing voice, and of course by his playing - a balance of brute force and soulful grace.

After Buddy had taken his bow I started noticing a younger crowd filling the spaces between blankets and lawn chairs.  Lots of tattoos and greased up hair.  They've come to see The Knitters!  For those of you who don't know, The Knitters are a grass-a-billy deviation from the norm for iconic 80s punks X (John Doe, Exene Cervenka, DJ Bonebreak) with sometimes X-er and fulltime Blaster Dave Alvin.  They played an A+ set that ranged from "Rank Stranger" to "Born to Be Wild" along with songs from their eight-year-old debut as well as the new album.  John and Exene chatted on stage like an old vaudeville couple, gamefully acknowledging an over-publicized history and setting up songs with jokes.  The real revelation was Dave Alvin, who stole most of the songs with scorching riffs and an air about him that bespoke true greatness.  The guy was wearing a red neckerchief like an ascot.  Awesome.

We then attempted to change venues in order to slow things down for the night and see Gillian Welch and David Rawlings on the Arrow Stage.  The place was packed.  We ended up a few hundred yards from stage left where the noise of the crowd’s casual conversation was about equal to the amplified volume of the show.  It was hard to get into Gil’s intimate performance from that distance and the kids were getting restless so I followed Hazel to a clearing where she could chase dogs and I caught a few bars of Steve Earle and his Bluegrass Dukes from the next stage over.  Gil invited Rawlings to take lead on a song which turned out to be a charmingly languid cover of Cindy Lauper’s “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.”  Everyone laughed.  Everyone went home.  Everyone came back the next day with at least ten of their best friends.

We got to the park Sunday around 2:30pm and heard a note or two from Guy Clark on our way in.  Tempting.  But we had learned our lesson the night before and decided to pick our closing act of choice first and set up camp there to beat the crowd.  So we proceeded to the Banjo Stage to await Ms. Emmylou.  Clearly a few other people had the same idea.  We carved out a spot on the grass for a couple blankets, stashed the strollers under the bleachers and settled in for the day.  First up was Ricky Skaggs and Kentucky Thunder who brought the traditional full-band bluegrass heat with a fair helping of doughy aw-shucks – he dedicated a song to his dearly departed Mom and thanked the good Lord a few times.

We stuck around for Ralph Stanley and his Clinch Mountain Boys, whose set was nearly identical to their performance last year right down to his band introductions and self-promotional O Brother back-patting.  But the man is an institution and I like my institutions solid if predictable.  He was in good voice and brought out all the favorites including “Man of Constant Sorrow” “O Death” and “Pretty Polly.”  Afterwards I bought a $5 t-shirt from last year's event and waited in line for Dr. Stanley to autograph it.  Up close he’s more like your grandpa than a music legend.

Amy and our friends ventured over to sneak a peak at Dolly Parton.  But by that point in the day the place was mobbed and Dolly fans weren’t budging, so they came back for Emmylou Harris.  She started about fifteen minutes late but it was more than worth the wait.  I suspected something special when I saw Buddy Miller tuning his guitar on stage before the show.  Finally the festival’s host Warren Hellman made his thank yous to the crowd and introduced the final act of the year.   Emmylou sang for more than an hour and a half, playing rhythm guitar while Buddy Miller added texture and subtle solos on lead while singing harmony for all but two songs which she performed solo.  She brought Gillian Welch and David Rawlings on for the last few songs plus an encore.  Having seen her play live it’s easy to see why so many other artists want her on their records.  Her voice is effortlessly moving and perfectly human, and her presence so captivating that I easily forgot I was missing three other great acts just a stage away.  She alone was worth the trip and the long breezy days.  I’m already looking forward to next year!

REVIEW: The Robot Ate Me "Carousel Waltz"

Rating: 9

Forget what you might imagine about bands with “robot” in their name or the implied, detached violence of mechanized chewing, swallowing, etc.  There are no cliché synthesized bleeps and burbles or industrial gnashing, grinding, chunking or clanking sounds on this record, or even any sci-fi imagery of spaceships or robots, much less robots that eat people.  There are really only two indications of what you will hear on this disc based on the band's name.

The first is derived from the matter of fact acceptance of deep personal surrender held in the words “ate me.”  While the phrase "eat me" aggressively asserts itself and seems intimately related to all things middle finger, the past tense "ate me" turns the idea on itself; it is resigned to having already happened.  It’s as if, having just been captured and consumed, the band's progenitor Ryland Bouchard is able to be reached for comment and rather than begging for a hasty and safe expulsion or describing the horror of it all or wondering at the incredible odds of there even being such a thing as a robot interested in eating people he shrugs and says “The robot ate me.”

To belabor a tedious and probably meaningless point, the second clue comes from The Flaming Lips "Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots."   On the title track Wayne Coyne sings, "Oh Yoshimi, they don't believe me but you won't let those robots eat me. "  Catch that?  "Yoshimi" was released in July 2002.  Less than a year later Bouchard's band Bedroom Heroes, a more apt if obvious title for his brand of dreamy DIY pop, was replaced by The Robot Ate Me.  Coincidence?  Fifty bonus points to anyone who already guessed the Flaming Lips / Robot Ate Me comparisons don't end there.

***

The Robot Ate Me is Ryland Bouchard with help from RJ Hoffman and David Greenberg.  As is the case with so many other arty little bands this is primarily a one-man show.  Bouchard shares what seems to be a quiet but deeply intrinsic weirdness with indie icons like Jeff Mangum (Neutral Milk Hotel), Phil Elvrum (Microphones, Mt. Eerie) and the man who mixed the Kool-Aid, Wayne Coyne (Flaming Lips).  Having recently moved from sunny San Diego to not quite as sunny Anacortes, WA Bouchard has also aligned himself geographically with Elvrum, where the two even put on a “Recording Day Camp” last December at Department of Safety recording studios - where it might also be noted that Bouchard prints his own t-shirts (available for sale on their website. If you order directly from his label he's likely to include quirky extras and hand written notes.  I got a free poster and a little green army man with my order.)  I’m trying to stifle my enthusiasm for the possibility of future collaborations between the two (The Robot Ate The Microphones?  Mt. Eerie Ate Me?).  Like other things that exist only in my mind, we’ll just have to wait and see.

“Carousel Waltz” is oddly sweet and sweetly odd.  It lives in a space between the revelatory and the insular, lyrically balancing worldly if gentle proclamations and private musings in the artist’s unique short hand.  Bouchard’s lyrics invoke less overt imagery than a general sense of movement and emotion – and like so many memorable works of art, the subtle but pervasive theme is Love.

The music also moves between a simplified populist sensibility and the more quirky and introspective, allowing straightforward percussion to anchor frequent interjections by horns, accordion and Bouchard’s own tenor, which manages to be both buoyant and deadpanned throughout.  Songs glide along in playful hops and skips, lulls and lilts, giving the impression of wistful ambivalence while accumulating then diminishing momentum without letting the ride stop.  Some songs – in fact the whole album - ends up feeling a bit too short, as if, having made his point, Bouchard simply pulls the plug and lets things wind down under their own power rather than manually applying some sort of brake.

To me, this want for prolonged or more developed endings – the desire for the song or album to keep going – is either evidence of its greatest success or a source of dire frustration. Within the simple context of the music and its wealth of stripped down sentimentality any mild frustration is forgiven and ultimately outweighed by what becomes an intrinsic need to play it again.  And with songs thoughtfully sweet without being saccharine, meaningful without seeming bottomless, and light but not weightless you might as well give it another spin.  For instance I am certain that at any given moment I could eat four or five entire thin crust wood-fired tomato, basil, mozzarella pizzas with a light tomato sauce without getting bored, full, or sick.  Maybe for you it’s popcorn.  It’s the same way with “Carousel Waltz,” rewarding, enjoyable and surprisingly captivating – worthy of if not begging for repeat listening.