Pretty Goes with Pretty

My Listening Hours: The State of 2007 So Far

No, the albums here are not my tops of the year; they're just what I have to choose from. These are the nine albums made in 2007 that I've so far purchased or acquired, and/or completely processed as albums.

If I were pressed to make a top ten list, I'd stall at four. Here's my ranking:

1. Andrew Bird, Armchair Apocrypha
This one leads the pack, easily, as the most rewarding album of the year.

2. Peter Bjorn & John, Writer's Block
This album has remained in my iPod for a surprisingly long time. When I got a little burned on the record as a whole, the songs kept popping up on random plays and I never skipped 'em. Lately I've come back around to playing the record straight through again and I'm reminded of how layered and thought-out the album  is.

3. Feist, The Reminder
For now this occupies the number three spot. By the end of the year there's a good chance it will still be in the top ten, but I don't know how high. I'm just beginning to burn out the record and am ready to put it aside for awhile. The question by the end of the year will be whether it ever makes its way back into my rotation. Sometimes albums have a way of surprising you the second time around and all the nagging feelings you had just evaporate.

4. LCD Soundsystem, Sound of Silver
As I said earlier this week, this is an album that I'm only now realizing is better than I first gave it credit for. As with Feist I don't really know how I'll feel about six months from now. I don't really know how I'll feel about it six weeks from now! Sometimes I embrace the record, sometimes I'm exhausted by it.

The rest? None are truly bad but none are essential, either. The Sea & Cake committs the worst sin - it's boring. While the Shins, Arcade Fire, and Clap Your Hands Say Yeah all have their strong points but honestly I haven't consciously chosen to put them on since the last time I wrote about them - a good three months ago.

There are a few albums out now that I still intend to pick up--Battles and Rufus Wainwright, in particular. What about you? What's on your best-so-far list? Have I missed anything totally worthwhile? There was a lot of buzz around Panda Bear and the National, among others, in the last few months. Did you pick them up? Have they remained in your rotation? What has occupied your listening hours? Let me know in the comments.

Meanwhile I'll be looking ahead to the next three months of releases for albums I'm looking forward to. Check back here later today.

My Listening Hours: The Rest of April–June

Yesterday were the new purchases that really took up most my listening hours over the last few months. Today, all my other new purchases that just didn't stick or just plain stunk. When I surveyed "the rest" in January–March, the discs that wound up in this stable were disappointing or decent, but none were actually bad. Looking here, only Bjork really gets credit for making a record I simply wasn't in the mood for; the rest all make me wish I'd spent my money in smarter ways. I could've gone to Disneyland!

Sea & Cake, Everybody
I don't even know why I bought the Sea & Cake record (truthfully? because I found a promo on sale for a couple bucks). I haven't picked up a Sea & Cake album since The Fawn, though I do own (and like) both Sam Prekop solo albums. What I heard of the Sea & Cake in the intervening decade between The Fawn and Everybody was all just dandy; I just didn't feel impelled to buy it. For some ludicrous reason, though, I held out hope that maybe they'd try something new. But alas, no.

And why don't they try something new? John McEntire is an inventive guy. Archer Prewitt is a great songwriter and singer. Why is the Sea & Cake so much Sam Prekop's show? Prekop is fine, but he seems intent on destroying the very idea of variety in his music. So why not let Prewitt sing along every once in a while? Why not let McEntire experiment a little? There is so much potential in the individual members of the Sea & Cake that the fact that this sounds so little removed from—and lesser than—The Fawn is bewildering. Everybody is a bland record full of samey songs. It's pleasant, but that's a euphemism for boring.

Bjork, Volta
Meanwhile Bjork made a record that for the first time (to my ears) sounds like she took a step back rather than forward. I'm glad to hear that she's returned to using instruments, but she seems to have regressed to territory somewhere beyond the edgy pop of Post and sweeping gestures of Homogenic. That's not necessarily a bad thing, nor is Volta a bad album. All I can say is that it ultimately didn't grab me. Could be the album's fault, could be mine. Could be that I can't stop chanting "here's my wersion of this / eternal virlvind" and it's driving me crazy. I just don't seem to have been in the mood for Bjork this year, much as I'd like to be. When the album comes on I'm cool with it, but I haven't been making a point to put it on.

America, Hat Trick
And we come now to the three "blind spots" (today I use the term loosely) I regretted picking up this season. First up is probably the most embarrassing of all, America's third album, Hat Trick. I blame Midlake, of course. When I first fell in love with them back at the tail end of December I read an All Music review that compared that harmonies and 70s-ish sound to America. So I listened to snippets of America on Barnes & Noble's machiavellian listening stations that only allow you the smallest segment of a song at a time. What'd I hear? Harmonies and 70s-ish sound—kinda like Midlake! So more or less at random my wife and I chose this one. Again, trusting the bastards at All Music (it's no accident that B&N lets you read All Music reviews while using their listening stations), Hat Trick was described as "more ambitious but commercially unsuccessful." Sounds like the perfect candidate for an indie-hipster resusitation!

No such luck. Man, what a fucking turd. America is like the aural equivalent of those pictures where you can see two people looking at each other or a chalice. Sometimes they sound like direct descendents of the Byrds—which is great!—but if you turn your head slightly, suddenly all you can hear is a forerunner to the BeeGees—which is abominable!

Don McLean, The Best of Don McLean
We were at Amoeba one evening and my brilliant wife brought this one over to me, nostalgic for her young high school days, when she had this as a dubbed cassette and listened to it all the fucking time. Me, I was ambivalent at best, but more likely not into spending actual money a greatest hit plus nine other songs. I can truthfully say that I have never in my life actively listened to "American Pie." I can't count how many times the song has come on the radio and I have reached for the dial to change it, only to be stopped by my sister, my mother, my friends, my wife—"Hey, what are you doing? It's 'American Pie'!"—and then made to listen to anyone within earshot sing along to every goddamned word of this eight-minute folk epic. I don't hate the song--hate is a strong word, but I really really really don't like it, to quote the teenage geniuses on MTV right now, whatever they're called.

And now here I was, not actively participating as cash left my hand, to be replaced by The Best of Don McLean. I was optimistic though. I do like the folkies from that era, after all. Start singing "Cat's in the Cradle" or "Operator (That's Not the Way it Feels)" and I'm right there with you, singing loud and proud. The good news is that Don McLean's got some songs that fit that ilk. "American Pie" notwithstanding, there are probably three or four very nice songs here, plus two utterly inessential covers and a couple misfire originals. But even at his best, as in "Vincent," McLean lacks the laser-precise lyrics of Paul Simon, the dynamics and distinctive voice of Cat Stevens, or the emotive quality of Jim Croce. Croce in fact is probably the closest in sound, voice, and lyrical depth of McLean—and Croce's just better.

Van Morrison, Astral Weeks
So I can blame Midlake and All Music for America, and my wife for Don McLean—who's to blame for Van Morrison? What is with the critical praise for this album? It's a hot mess. It's a formless, stream-of-consciousness whining buzz of garbled idiocy. The pleasure to be found in this record is so far over my head, scientists are building a satalite to take pictures of it.

Cold War Kids, Robbers & Cowards
My brilliant wife actually had an innate distrust of Van Morrison; we both agreed she should have listened to her gut and barred us from making the purchase. I had a similar mistrust of the Cold War Kids. The only song I knew by them was "Hang Me Out to Dry," which invariably put that song "Possum King" by the Toadies in my head—do ya wanna die? Not a good sign. Yesterday I ate my own words regarding mp3 bloggers since they brought me Andrew Bird, but all I need to do is see the words "Cold War Kids" on screen and I remember all over again why blog hype is rarely to be trusted.

To both our credit, neither my brilliant wife nor I actually purchased this album; it just sort of made it's way into our house like a flu virus. We listened to it a little. There were some songs that were okay but I still couldn't shake a certain smarminess from their sound. Something about their brand of blues rock just didn't sound the least bit genuine. Jack White, for instance, can articulate the aesthetic choices he makes behind his sound; these guys, I'm pretty sure, just want to get laid and paid.

Then a couple of weeks ago we went to see the Little Ones play at the Echo here in Los Angeles. They were opening for the Cold War Kids. By then we'd seen their video for "Hang Me Out to Dry" and grasped that these dudes could care less whether Gorilla vs Bear or Avril4Eva.com is the reason for their success—they just wanna be famous. But we thought, optimistically, that that wasn't a de facto bad thing; that bands aspiring to arena rock levels might be worthy a fucking entertaining club gig. Then they came out, looking like a frat-boy bar band and dancing around like they were the Spin Doctors.

And that was the end of the Cold War Kids. They've officially left my sphere of awareness. They are now in the mythical land of mainstream rock, where curious chimera such as  Hinder and Rocco de Lucca roam the wilderness.

How Many Licks Does it Take to Get to the Center of Andrew Bird's Armchair Apocrypha?

One
Though Armchair Apocrypha is Andrew Bird’s seventh album, I’ve managed to never hear him before. My first exposure to him was while my brilliant wife and I were having breakfast at our friends’ house over Thanksgiving.  I liked what I heard but never did get around to picking up one of his albums.

Then a few weeks ago "Heretics" started popping up on the blogs [for that reason I'd post something else, but I'll respect Bird's wishes as indicated in this post]. Coincidentally I came across a new song from the Sea and Cake’s new album on the same day. They were a fitting pair, since both Bird and Sam Prekop share a similar ease of delivery. In fact that pairing colored my first few listens of Bird’s album once I made the purchase. Armchair Apocrypha sounds a bit like what Prekop might be up to these days if he had followed the template he set out with Shrimpboat and early Sea and Cake records—a looser, more acoustic variety of airy pop—rather than following the fork in the road that was the John McEntire–influenced electronics of The Fawn.

The Prekop comparison faded soon enough. For one, Bird’s got pipes. The first half of Bird’s album culminates in the one-two punch of “Armchairs” and “Darkmatter”—the first a mini-opus that stretches Bird’s voice into an emotional territory Prekop has never explored, the second a dynamic rocker of the sort Prekop has never attempted.

Two
By the time I’d picked up the actual album, I’d committed most of “Heretics” to memory. It makes sense that every blog I saw referenced the same song—it’s the most immediate, with its violin hook, catchy chorus, and half-spoken/sung lyrics. The rest of the album on first listen was a bit of a mush. Bird often mumbles his lyrics, and the songs don’t always follow a simple pop structure. Small motifs pop up throughout the album, too, making the whole feel pleasurable yet not quite tangible.

We bought the album just before my wife and I headed out of town for a drive from Los Angeles to Big Sur, most of which is the winding PCH, lush mountains on the left and the Pacific Ocean crashing on the right. Tooling up the coastline on a weekend afternoon may well have been the best way to take in Armchair Apocrypha. It’s not an album you can easily process while doing other things. Not because it’s dense, but because it will pass right by you if you’re not paying attention. Best to relax, enjoy the scenery, and let Bird soundtrack your life.

In fact a Sunday drive is the perfect metaphor for many of the songs and the album as a whole. Bird, without the slightest hint of self-consciousness, winds through his songs without much noticeable effort, not always feeling the need to repeat a melody or follow a standard song structure. The opener, “Fiery Crash,” is a good example. After an intro, verse, and chorus, the song pauses for an overlay of pop-syllables (ba ba ba, etc.); then some whistling—one melody, no repetition, for just a couple bars; too short to be a solo, too singular to be a motif. Then he returns to the verse and chorus. It’s just a little detour. Many other tracks follow a similar path, weaving this way and that without worry for pop structures. As a whole the album is structured with the same ease. The first four tracks are short shots of pop, followed by the emotional peaks of “Armchairs” and “Darkmatter”—either of which (especially “Armchairs”) could function as the album’s closer, if Bird was interested in making the whole thing a steady build to a dramatic climax. But instead we climb the tallest peaks at midpoint, take a break for a short string interlude, then wind back down with the second half, all of which is just a touch slower than the first.

Three
This structure, in the first few listens, makes the album feel longer than it actually is. Actually on one of my first intent listens my iPod malfunctioned and I thought the brief instrumental “The Supine” was the last track. I thought: short, concise album, perfectly plotted. It wasn’t until I returned from Big Sur and I listened to the album again while I took my morning ritual walk that I realized I’d missed four tracks. So I had to process the album all over again, knowing the first two-thirds much better than the last. Suddenly the album began to feel more exhausting. “Armchairs” alone swings up and down emotionally over the course of seven minutes that it really sweeps you up; by the time Bird laments “You never write, you never call / It never crossed your mind at all,” you’re drained. The remaining third of the album, quiet as it is, causes a small amount of discomfort considering how little it moves you compared to the middle of the record.

But that changes. Like the rest of the album, the songs simply take a few listens to reveal themselves to you. It wasn’t long before I found myself looking forward to the lovely chorus of “Scythian Empires,” but reticent to skip past anything lest I miss another lyric I hadn’t heard before.

Four
And that’s the final stage: the lyrics. Outside of sitting down and reading the lyric sheet while the CD plays on my bedroom boombox—frankly something I haven’t done since high school—it takes real concentration to follow Bird’s lines. Not every chorus repeats the same lyrics, not every verse the same melody, and enunciation is not Bird’s primary concern. But after enough of those morning walks with the full album, the content of “Imitosis” starts to come into view; “Plasticities” too, and the rest. You start to see that Bird is having fun with turns of phrase and that most songs wrestle with existential issues (“The fiery crash / is just a finality / or must I explain / it’s a nod to mortality” [“Fiery Crash”], or “Do you want to know where the self resides? / Is it in your head or between your sides?” [“Darkmatter”]).

After a week of listening—in my world, that’s about five to seven spins—the album has gotten fully through the processing stage and now I’m simply enjoying it the way a great pop album deserves to be enjoyed. I’m singing along, whistling along, imitating the violin sounds and nudging my wife every time a lyric comes up that I think is especially cherce. This album was the epitome of a “grower”—but it’s officially grown. Huge thumbs up. You’ll hear me go on about this album more in the future, I’m sure.

My Listening Hours: Looking Forward

The last few posts (here, here, here) have been concerned with January–March, but there’s a lot to look forward to in the coming months—just have a look at this list. Here are some thoughts on a few of them.

Blonde Redhead: 23 (4/10)
I’ve managed to own every Blonde Redhead album ever produced, while at the same time not really caring about them since Fake Can Be Just as Good. How that has happened, I’m not sure. That’s not to say I haven’t liked the albums that have come after them. If nothing else the band has grown into their own sound over the years and have remained interesting—so sue me if I liked them better when they were a cross between Sonic Youth and Unwound! Did I hear right that one of the brothers is no longer in the band? I remain curious.

Feist: The Reminder (5/1)
Of everything on the horizon, my hopes are highest for this album. My wife and I bought Let it Die while we were on vacation in Paris in 2004 and it has been on steady rotation in our house ever since. That album had its share of songs that crossed way over the line into Adult Contemporary, which has never really sat well with me. But Feist has redeemed herself on those counts for two reasons: first, she said in print that she sort of cobbled together this album, including a few “cheeky” moments, and she had no intention of or idea that it would blow up the way it did. Supposedly the new stuff is more like the good parts of Let it Die (you know which parts those are); second, in her not-to-be-missed fantastic wonderful live shows, she those same awful songs are the highlight of the concerts thanks to the way she reworked them. I have tremendous respect for her songwriting abilities so she better not let me down. Or else!

Bjork: Volta (5/8)
Talk about tremendous respect for songwriting ability. There’s no one that applies to more than Bjork. I wasn’t too fond of her last, Medulla, from the standpoint of wanting an enjoyable listening experience. But I have great respect and appreciation for what she set out to do. And the new one includes collaborations with Timbaland and Lightning Bolt? I wish it was all on the same song.

Mice Parade: s/t (5/8)
Elliott Smith: New Moon (2xCD rarities) (5/8)
Sea & Cake: Everybody (5/8)
Tarwater: Spider Smile (5/8)
Remind me on May 8th to great drunk and wax nostalgic for my senior year of college. If you’re wondering what I was listening to in 1999, this is a pretty good summary. I don’t know if I’ll actually purchase any of these records when they come out, but I will be paying attention to how they’re received and will check the mp3s as they come. If any of them represent a drastic creative resurgence, you’ll see me at Amoeba plunking down some bills.

Keren Ann: s/t (5/8)
I enjoyed most of Nolita, though it got a little somnambulant after a while. Has she grown?

Rufus Wainwright: Release the Stars (5/15)
Some time after Poses came out I had decided that I probably didn’t really need much more Rufus in my life. He does sort of sing the same melody all the time. In a state of supreme ambivalence I listened to Want One in a Virgin Megastore while waiting to meet up with my wife—and I had a conniption right then and there because “Oh What a World” was so wonderful. The whole of Want One, for me, still stands has Wainwright’s creative peak. Want Two, its companion, is his depth. There are some good songs there but that album just did not take. So I find myself back where I was in 2004, ambivalent. Will he surprise me again?

Battles: Mirrored (5/15)
I left the overly complicated mathy shit behind a long time ago, but Battles somehow strikes the right chord. I haven’t liked everything by then—sometimes it’s too techy for me—but their new song and video are great, so I’m getting stoked on this one.

Dungen: Tio Bitar (5/15)
Ta det Lugnt, surprise to me, really got a hold of me. In terms of my own reaction to them (not necessarily their own ability), it might have been a lightning-in-a-bottle moment, but I’ll be curious to hear this.

Wilco: Sky Blue Sky (5/15)
Word is Wilco has retreated from the more abstract direction they were headed on Ghost is Born. I have mixed feelings about that. Ghost is Born really didn’t sit well with me when it first came out but after seeing them on Austin City Limits I went back to it and it really started to grow on me (though it’s still not my favorite). Nels Cline’s guitarwork is just stupendous. But on the other hand they are apparently going back to a more rootsy sound, something closer to their first couple records. Summerteeth remains my favorite Wilco album, so if they could get in that vicinity again I sure wouldn’t complain.

Interpol: tba (6/5)
These guys are going to have to get really interesting for me to give two shits.

Shellac: Excellent Italian Greyhound (6/5)
I’m not a rabid Shellac fan—in fact I think I’ve never heard 1,000 Hurts—but I have a soft spot for At Action Park and the early 7”s, plus I used to really get off on the ten-minute opener to Terraform (but not so much the rest of the album—I was like the Bizarro Shellac Fan that year). I went through a phase from about ’98–’05 where loud records just didn’t do much for me. I’m out of that phase now, so perhaps I should return to Shellac.

Spoon: Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga (7/10)
These guys deliver every time. I’m looking forward to this the same way I’m looking forward to the next Spider-Man movie: I know what to expect, and I expect to enjoy it.

Tegan & Sara: The Con (7/24)
Who ever would have thought I’d be looking forward to a couple lesbians and an acoustic guitar? Yet here I am. I absolutely loathe everything I’ve heard by T&S that came before 2006’s So Jealous. But that album, even with all its whiny self-esteem issues, is inescapably tuneful.

New Pornographers: Challengers (late August)
“It is maybe slightly more epic,” says Carl Newman. I was late to the NP train and am currently in mad love with all three of their albums simultaneously. I’m in a sort of blind-love mode where I think that as long as it’s a new New Pornographers album, I’m going to think it’s brilliant. You’ll likely have to take everything I say with a grain of salt.