I've been spending on music again, such is my wont. For reasons I can't adequately explain, This Mortal Coil leaped into my head about a week or so ago. I'm not sure why. Their main hit was a version of Tim Buckley's "Song to the Siren", which The Cocteau Twins' Liz Fraser warbles forth with her usual hyper-produced gloss. The first time I heard it was probably back around 1990 or so; my brother and I were getting into all of that stuff at the time. We taped most of Triple J's Hot 100 for that year, which was an attempt to collate the listeners' favourite songs ever. The list was peppered with plenty of alt-rock gems from the eighties, most of which rounded out the top ten. Joy Division's "Love Will Tear Us Apart" took the top spot, but the video tape spooled out its final millimetre three songs before it aired. We never got to catch it.
Seventeen years later (ah crap, it's been that long) I'm drawn back to it. Unsurprisingly it holds up. TMC were ahead of their time, just as were the bands from which the members were drawn.
Right now track 9, Barramundi, is concluding. Lisa Gerrard is belting the notes out of her considerable pipes and my ears are loving it.
I've missed you, This Mortal Coil. Let's slip on our gothiest outfits, blot out the sun and talk about spiders in a dark corner. It's good to have you back.
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Monday, January 21, 2008
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
I Can Has Balls?
Emasculated, androgynous wuss-pop? I love it. I put mustard on it and eat the shit. See how I love it.
Good news, mopesters, the navel-gazing quartet from Brooklyn, Dirty on Purpose, have dropped the bioavailability of their SSRIs to the point that has allowed them to spit forth a new slit-your-wrists worthy ditty. And they'll take absolutely none of your cash money for the pleasure.
Check it: http://www.rcrdlbl.com/artists/Dirty_On_Purpose/download/Leaving
Yep, hop on over to the oh-so-hip www.rcrdlbl.com (dropping vowels = tres hip) for your helping of corner-cringing slow-pop.
Early impressions: The crushed-scrotum vocals complement the morose melody like a stout cabernet sauvignon complements a slab of rare porterhouse. Deeelicious.
Good news, mopesters, the navel-gazing quartet from Brooklyn, Dirty on Purpose, have dropped the bioavailability of their SSRIs to the point that has allowed them to spit forth a new slit-your-wrists worthy ditty. And they'll take absolutely none of your cash money for the pleasure.
Check it: http://www.rcrdlbl.com/artists/Dirty_On_Purpose/download/Leaving
Yep, hop on over to the oh-so-hip www.rcrdlbl.com (dropping vowels = tres hip) for your helping of corner-cringing slow-pop.
Early impressions: The crushed-scrotum vocals complement the morose melody like a stout cabernet sauvignon complements a slab of rare porterhouse. Deeelicious.
Monday, July 23, 2007
New Tunes - Van She and The Field
The music collection has swelled by a whopping two discs. Here are the initial impressions...
The Field - From Here We Go Sublime
The proverbial punching bag of the electronic music scene is trance. Produce music that vaguely approximates a drone set to a steady yet subterranean beat and it is likely to attract heaping mounds of derision from the loftier and more cultured minds of the house and breaks set. And in most cases it's well deserved. There's a lot of shit out there and there's a lot of shit trance out there. Rightly stated, The Field is undeserving of being saddled with the trance albatross. Skirting close to the minimalist school of bleep, The Field—apparently a one man act from Sweden—deliberately toys with repetition, paving an aural pathway that seems to promise a lively journey towards a clearly defined location, only to loop back on itself a few metres from where it all started. It's mildly infuriating but oddly enough it works. A week or two into the purchase it's found its way into regular rotation.
Van She - Van She
What are we to make of the eighties? At the time they seemed like an improvement over the cultural missteps of the seventies, but now that we're a generation clear of the era, the status of the decade is looking kind of shaky. The cinema was kind of naff, the clothes actually got worse, but at least we got The Smiths. So why is everyone trying their gosh-darned hardest to evoke the crappest parts of the ten years that gave us Bros., Milli Vanilli and Martika? Van She, in their defence, seem to be taking the piss—sort of. On one hand they're winking at the audience while they belt out a few thinly veiled retreads of early Depeche Mode, but on the other hand their blatant channelling of old synthesiser sounds from 1982 hints at a belief that they're transcending something more than musical; to them it's an ironic fashion statement. Played within the framework of kitsch, Van She get away with it, but they're seriously deluded if their high school variety of irony is anything more than a flash in the pan. But I'm listening to it right now and it ain't half bad.
The Field - From Here We Go SublimeThe proverbial punching bag of the electronic music scene is trance. Produce music that vaguely approximates a drone set to a steady yet subterranean beat and it is likely to attract heaping mounds of derision from the loftier and more cultured minds of the house and breaks set. And in most cases it's well deserved. There's a lot of shit out there and there's a lot of shit trance out there. Rightly stated, The Field is undeserving of being saddled with the trance albatross. Skirting close to the minimalist school of bleep, The Field—apparently a one man act from Sweden—deliberately toys with repetition, paving an aural pathway that seems to promise a lively journey towards a clearly defined location, only to loop back on itself a few metres from where it all started. It's mildly infuriating but oddly enough it works. A week or two into the purchase it's found its way into regular rotation.
Van She - Van SheWhat are we to make of the eighties? At the time they seemed like an improvement over the cultural missteps of the seventies, but now that we're a generation clear of the era, the status of the decade is looking kind of shaky. The cinema was kind of naff, the clothes actually got worse, but at least we got The Smiths. So why is everyone trying their gosh-darned hardest to evoke the crappest parts of the ten years that gave us Bros., Milli Vanilli and Martika? Van She, in their defence, seem to be taking the piss—sort of. On one hand they're winking at the audience while they belt out a few thinly veiled retreads of early Depeche Mode, but on the other hand their blatant channelling of old synthesiser sounds from 1982 hints at a belief that they're transcending something more than musical; to them it's an ironic fashion statement. Played within the framework of kitsch, Van She get away with it, but they're seriously deluded if their high school variety of irony is anything more than a flash in the pan. But I'm listening to it right now and it ain't half bad.
Friday, April 20, 2007
New Tunes
Add the following new tunes to the collection...
Guns & Drums — Low
Noumena — The Drift
Loney, Noir — Loney, Dear
Mosaic — Love of Diagrams
Here are the early impressions.
Guns & Drums - Low
Everyone's favourite Mormon snorecore band step away from their The Great Destroyer signature-sound departure and return—sorta—to whence they came: expansive, wankst-ridden, introspective songs peppered with Alan and Mimi's distinctive harmonizing croon. But this time it comes with bleep. I guess Low got the indietronic memo and have now added a layer of circa-1994 ambient synth sound to their product. This one's going to take some listening, as Low usually does.
Noumena - The Drift
They're a local act who were brought to my attention by one of Julia's colleagues at the LAB gallery. Their brand of post-rock/freeform-jazz crossover is wafting out of the speakers as I type. Unlike most of the post-rock ilk—throw the likes of Mogwai and their stable-mates, Explosions in the Sky, into this category—they're given over to heavy use of brass, especially trumpet, which has the effect of distinguishing them from the rest of the pack. Still, they've evidently spent long enough swapping song writing tips with their more guitar-crazed peers; tracks clocking in over a healthy ten minutes are more the norm than the exception. That's fine with me, there's a lot of layered complexity in their music—more than enough to keep me engaged for the next week.
Loney, Noir - Loney, Dear
This one's the crowd-pleaser. The first few bars of the disc reveal Loney, Dear to be ear-candy: a kind of aural confection that is so easy to enjoy so quickly that you're left feeling slightly cheap for being persuaded by its charms without so much as a fight. I'm waiting for an internal backlash to start but so far there's no sign. Despite near-constant rotation in the car CD player, the shelf life of Loney, Noir seems to be getting extended with each listen. That's what I suppose anyone should expect from an act that sounds like a helium-huffing Simon & Garfunkel.
Mosaic - Love of Diagrams
I caught them the other night at Slim's and they put on a good show. Perfect it wasn't, but in the context of the environment and where they were listed on the bill I thought they performed more than admirably. Mosaic picks up where their debut Matador EP left off, even promoting two of the EP's tracks to fully-fledged album status. Love of Diagrams wear their influences on their sleeves and I'm cautiously waiting for it to become a tiresome shtick; so far they're holding on. Early listens of the album haven't hit me square in the face with raw energy the way the EP did. For whatever reason the album seems more restrained, and that acts as a detriment. A few more spins are required here before final judgment falls, but at this stage my position remains neutral.
Guns & Drums — Low
Noumena — The Drift
Loney, Noir — Loney, Dear
Mosaic — Love of Diagrams
Here are the early impressions.
Guns & Drums - Low
Everyone's favourite Mormon snorecore band step away from their The Great Destroyer signature-sound departure and return—sorta—to whence they came: expansive, wankst-ridden, introspective songs peppered with Alan and Mimi's distinctive harmonizing croon. But this time it comes with bleep. I guess Low got the indietronic memo and have now added a layer of circa-1994 ambient synth sound to their product. This one's going to take some listening, as Low usually does.
Noumena - The Drift
They're a local act who were brought to my attention by one of Julia's colleagues at the LAB gallery. Their brand of post-rock/freeform-jazz crossover is wafting out of the speakers as I type. Unlike most of the post-rock ilk—throw the likes of Mogwai and their stable-mates, Explosions in the Sky, into this category—they're given over to heavy use of brass, especially trumpet, which has the effect of distinguishing them from the rest of the pack. Still, they've evidently spent long enough swapping song writing tips with their more guitar-crazed peers; tracks clocking in over a healthy ten minutes are more the norm than the exception. That's fine with me, there's a lot of layered complexity in their music—more than enough to keep me engaged for the next week.
Loney, Noir - Loney, Dear
This one's the crowd-pleaser. The first few bars of the disc reveal Loney, Dear to be ear-candy: a kind of aural confection that is so easy to enjoy so quickly that you're left feeling slightly cheap for being persuaded by its charms without so much as a fight. I'm waiting for an internal backlash to start but so far there's no sign. Despite near-constant rotation in the car CD player, the shelf life of Loney, Noir seems to be getting extended with each listen. That's what I suppose anyone should expect from an act that sounds like a helium-huffing Simon & Garfunkel.
Mosaic - Love of Diagrams
I caught them the other night at Slim's and they put on a good show. Perfect it wasn't, but in the context of the environment and where they were listed on the bill I thought they performed more than admirably. Mosaic picks up where their debut Matador EP left off, even promoting two of the EP's tracks to fully-fledged album status. Love of Diagrams wear their influences on their sleeves and I'm cautiously waiting for it to become a tiresome shtick; so far they're holding on. Early listens of the album haven't hit me square in the face with raw energy the way the EP did. For whatever reason the album seems more restrained, and that acts as a detriment. A few more spins are required here before final judgment falls, but at this stage my position remains neutral.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Love of Diagrams at Slim's
Smile a smug grin of self-satisfaction if you're hip enough to be at the venue for the warm-up band. Last night Ted Leo and the Pharmacists played at Slim's, but I was there for the backup act, Love of Diagrams. Any of my cooler-than-thou hipster credentials weren't really all that well earned since I've never heard any song by Ted Leo and Pharmacists in my life; I wasn't snubbing them; I just don't know about them.
Our arrival was timed perfectly. Not more than twenty minutes after we had our tickets checked and hands stamped in verification of our age did Love of Diagrams take the stage. "We're from Melbourne," the lone male member of the group, Luke, called to the crowd eliciting a small chorus of acknowledging cheers. Those were probably the other Aussies.
Scruffy hipsters, scruffy hipsters—the group looked typically ramshackle, sporting the kind of urban-trendy look you'd find anywhere on Brunswick Street: unkempt, greasy hair and recycled boutique clothes. They fit the mold. But when they opened with the first few bars things fell into place. You could accuse them of being too aware of their image and you'd probably be right, but they've even got a woman beating the skins and that wins big extra points. Rarely do you see a woman behind the kit belting out the rhythm. There are too many male drummers in this world and it's time that changed.
So what about the music? Love of Diagrams do a great knockoff of early eighties post-punk—all heavy bass riffs, discordant guitars and half-screeched vocals. It's clearly a conscious effort on their behalf to resurrect one the superior musical eras of the past and for the better part it works. On stage the approximation to their recorded material more or less hits the mark, they're more raw and more energetic. Notes get missed, the balance on the vocals is off kilter—probably more a function of the cruddy acoustics at Slim's than anything else—and they fumble a couple of songs. None of it really mattered all that much and the now-full venue seemed to side more with acceptance rather than rejection. The set was short at around forty minutes, leaving barely enough time to rip through a catalog that really could use a longer airing on stage. Perhaps their best song, No Way Out, remained inexplicably absent from the playlist and that's a loss. It would have made the perfect closer.
There was no point sticking around for the headlining act; I'd got what I came for and besides, the Great Organiser was about to fall over from tiredness. Getting older will make you do things that your twenty year old self would hate you for: stand at the back of the venue and admire the band from afar; have only one beer; leave early. If that's what being a 30+ attendee at a rock gig is all about then I can live with myself.
Our arrival was timed perfectly. Not more than twenty minutes after we had our tickets checked and hands stamped in verification of our age did Love of Diagrams take the stage. "We're from Melbourne," the lone male member of the group, Luke, called to the crowd eliciting a small chorus of acknowledging cheers. Those were probably the other Aussies.
Scruffy hipsters, scruffy hipsters—the group looked typically ramshackle, sporting the kind of urban-trendy look you'd find anywhere on Brunswick Street: unkempt, greasy hair and recycled boutique clothes. They fit the mold. But when they opened with the first few bars things fell into place. You could accuse them of being too aware of their image and you'd probably be right, but they've even got a woman beating the skins and that wins big extra points. Rarely do you see a woman behind the kit belting out the rhythm. There are too many male drummers in this world and it's time that changed.
So what about the music? Love of Diagrams do a great knockoff of early eighties post-punk—all heavy bass riffs, discordant guitars and half-screeched vocals. It's clearly a conscious effort on their behalf to resurrect one the superior musical eras of the past and for the better part it works. On stage the approximation to their recorded material more or less hits the mark, they're more raw and more energetic. Notes get missed, the balance on the vocals is off kilter—probably more a function of the cruddy acoustics at Slim's than anything else—and they fumble a couple of songs. None of it really mattered all that much and the now-full venue seemed to side more with acceptance rather than rejection. The set was short at around forty minutes, leaving barely enough time to rip through a catalog that really could use a longer airing on stage. Perhaps their best song, No Way Out, remained inexplicably absent from the playlist and that's a loss. It would have made the perfect closer.
There was no point sticking around for the headlining act; I'd got what I came for and besides, the Great Organiser was about to fall over from tiredness. Getting older will make you do things that your twenty year old self would hate you for: stand at the back of the venue and admire the band from afar; have only one beer; leave early. If that's what being a 30+ attendee at a rock gig is all about then I can live with myself.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Art Brut Is Good Stuff
Every now and then there comes along a band or an act or a performer that really knows how to command the limelight and entertain the crowds amassed. Last night Art Brut flooded the stage at the Bottom of the Hill with an aural assualt of ramshackle, punk-infused British brattiness and it was simply lovely. Forget for now the two barely-dressed men whose sausage-sharing antics and programmed rhythms passed as a support act, Art Brut were the stars of the night and they shined. The set was short, as described, but sufficiently energetic and earnest to leave the audience anticipating the next song even if it was one of their newer efforts and not one of the polished and well-rehearsed moments off the album.
Thanks for a good time, and on a school night too.
Thanks for a good time, and on a school night too.
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