By Arye Dworken

The Artist and Their Forthcoming Release: Marina and the Diamonds, The Family Jewels (due out 5/25 on Atlantic)

What’s Been Said: “Whereas Lady GaGa and Katy Perry’s ’80s throwback looks seem ironic and snarky, it’s obvious that Marina’s is for real. Her cruise-ship glamour pitches her as a gladiatorial Joan Collins infused with a healthy dose of Dolly Parton homebody charm. Her hectic cover of Gwen Stefani’s ‘What You Waiting For?’ opens a window on to the Kate Bush comparisons that have been heaped on the London-based singer—her luminous vocals swoop and soar with blissful eccentricity while her arms flamboyantly tick-tock around an imaginary clock face.” – NME

“Among British music critics’ top picks for the year ahead (she came second on the BBC Sound of 2010 poll), Marina seems determined to set her own pop agenda. She already has a larger-than-life quality, coming on like a drama queen using her personal neuroses as a prism through which to view the world. Self-references abound, as if the ingénue has already mentally established her own third-person brand.” – Telegraph

“In pop terms Marina Diamandis is rather unusual. Not because she lacks the genuine weirdness and fearless invention of Micachu (although she does), or the songwriting ability of Florence Welch (although she does). No. She’s strange because she appears to have based her entire singing style on the odd rhythms and insane lurches of Sparks’ ‘This Town Ain’t Big Enough for the Both Of Us’.” – BBC

Our Take: Honestly, the first thing we noticed at Marina Diamandis’ (Le) Poisson Rouge performance was her looks. But that’s probably because the British songwriter—masquerading as Marina and the Diamonds despite her lack of a proper backing band—sticks to rather superficial music. In fact, her lyrics made us cringe a couple times, especially this series of non sequiturs: “As soon as I touch down in, oh, L.A., he said/Oh my god, you look just like Shakira/No no, you’re Catherine Zeta/Actually, my name’s Marina.” As our colleagues at Drowned In Sound put it, “The Family Jewels seems to be to be symptomatic of a broader trend at the moment to demand our female artists be both credible and commercial at the expense of achieving anything great in either camp.” The difference here? Diamandis isn’t trying to be profound. She’s trying to be a pop star.

Hypeworthy? One reputable music journalist friend of ours recently dismissed Marina & the Diamonds with “I’ve had enough of quirky British girls.” And while the Florence & the Machine comparisons are inevitable, they’re also a disservice. Welch is a natural, uber-talented heir to Kate Bush, but Diamandis seems to shun artiness in favor of ambition. And while her Monday night set was, as Randy would say, “pitchy, dawg,” it was also disarming and undeniably mainstream. Songs like “Hollywood” or “I Am Not A Robot” could easily soundtrack a revolving door of romantic comedies. Meanwhile, Diamandis could talk about ex-boyfriends and sex in Teen Vogue and Seventeen. This isn’t an effort to belittle the young ingenue and her forthcoming debut The Family Jewels; rather, this is an opportunity to temper snobbish expectations. Granted we were certainly smitten by this hot British import, but we also had a funny feeling that our younger siblings would go even more GaGa over her.

[Photos from John Holland's Flickr account]

The Artist and Their Latest Single: Salem, Frost/Legend 7-inch (Audraglint)

What’s Been Said: “Songs like the dreamy and haunting ‘Whenusleep’ are where those Cocteau Twins/the Knife comparisons are coming from; this one’s almost pensively sweet in a bizarre way, until you listen to the lyrics. I love this band.” — Gorilla Vs. Bear

“Salem have always been great at making music that is fully immersive. It could be 90 degrees and crystal clear out, and as soon as one of their songs comes on, we instantly feel like curling up in a corner and not moving for days. Sounds fun!” — FADER

“Listening to Salem is like listening to beautiful songs being sung in foreign languages. The emotion and gist of the meaning are there, but the details are fleeting.” — V

“Where Burial finds romance in the darkest night, Salem’s dubstep-drenched electro exists in a world of prostitution, violence and abuse, employing bizarre half-tempo rap sections that growl like burst exhausts.” — NME

Our Take: The limited singles that’ve trickled out of Salem’s camp are as queasy and creepy as their suggestive record sleeves, as if a CD-R of scuzzy hip-hop instrumentals was dusted in ‘ludes and ran through sheets of dry ice. And since the vocals are stuck in an alternate dimension between the Dirty South and 4AD’s back catalog, it’s nearly impossible to tell where one track ends and another begins.

This is a good and a bad thing. On one hand, it’s easy to get swept up in Salem’s masterful moods, which come across like Enya for mental patients and sizzurp-sipping darkwave fans (i.e. us). With that in mind, Salem could also be looked at as nothing but a smoke-and-mirrors act, running a couple woozy formulas into the ground while baiting writers with their sordid backstory.

That’s a really cynical way of looking at things, though; after all, Salem have generally avoided the press and anything resembling a proper tour for a couple years now. This Butt magazine Q&A is pretty revealing, though.

Hypeworthy? Musically, yes. Having just devoured their digital oeuvre, we finally ‘get’ why fellow tastemakers like the FADER have flipped their shit over Salem. Unlike most ‘troubled artists’, they’re onto a truly-fresh sound and seem like the real deal. Hell, we wanted to give them a hug and a high-five at Glasslands last night…when we weren’t falling asleep.

Here’s the thing: Much like Washed Out’s Santos premiere late last year, Salem clearly aren’t ready to translate their tranquilized tracks in a live setting, especially one that draws Michael Stipe, Terence Koh and The New Yorker out to the middle of bumfuck Brooklyn on a Tuesday night. Which makes sense. After all, frontman John Holland once told NME,  “We don’t like showing our faces, because we don’t like what we look like. And we’ve never played live, it seems dull.”

Here’s an idea, then: let’s lay off the Salem criticism until they whittle around 50 tracks—so we’re told—down to their LP debut for Iamsound. Until then, no more live shows; no more know-it-all industry eggheads; no more interviews about John’s past as a male prostitute; nothing. Let these crazy kids do what they do best: craft skin-crawling cuts in a roach-infested studio until they feel fully cleansed. We’ll be here to pick up the pieces later.

—

BONUS MIXES:

1. alkuholiks by PSYCHO DRAMA
2. pig fucker – SALEM
3. the end of the world (drag rmx) – SKEETER DAVIS
4. seaw – oOoOoo
5. party animal dirge – AIDS 3D
6. round one (SALEM rmx) – SALEM ft. GUCCI MANE
7. hoodrych – SALEM
8. whispering winds (drag rmx) – THE BEACH BOYS
9. szxc – SINISTAS
10. mumbia – oOoOoo
11. water – SALEM
12. hey lover boy – TWISTA
13. track 41 – THA POPE
14. shallow tears (drag rmx) – LIGHT ASYLUM

1-PEARL – Pearl’s Dream
2-NEOPHYTE – I will have that power
3-DJ NATE – I’m a Burn
4-DJ NATE – Ghostmix
5-YOUNG CREAM – Angie Juke
6-AiDS 3D – Back Once Again (Forever)
7-THA POPE – Track 41
8-UNKNOWN – Track 20 Chicago Juke
9-NEOPHYTE – Catastrophe
10-THREAT MISSES – Juke that Girl

Words and Photos by Andrew Parks

The Artist and Their Latest Release: Washed Out, Life of Leisure (Mexican Summer)

What’s Been Said: “Leave the slippery musicology behind. ‘Feel It All Around’ is a deliciously unbalanced track, starting into the groove right off the bat and unexpectedly fading out at the end. The unusual compositional style is tailor-made to entice you to spin it again, and [Ernest] Greene’s little gem does little to convince you otherwise.” — Pitchfork (Best New Music)

“Impossibly gorgeous pop that mixes up woozy synthesizers, droney shoegaze textures and funky, sometimes danceable beats. [Ernest] Greene has only released one 12-inch and a cassette on small independent labels but he’s already getting solid buzz in the music blogosphere, thanks to killer tunes like ‘You’ll See It,’ which evokes French synth-pop group M83 and ‘Feel It All Around,’ which features soaring, angelic vocal chorales.” — Rolling Stone

“Not sure if this genre is ‘emerging’ or if it is only just becoming ‘properly monetized’ now that there is a ‘demand for it.’ Do yall prefer ‘Neon Indian’ or ‘Memory Cassette’ or some other chillwave band? I feel like Washed Out might be my favourite chill wave artist, so far, but Neon Indian might have the ’strongest brand’/'highest possibility of becoming a legacy indie artist.’” — Hipster Runoff

Our Take: Remember how songs used to simmer in MTV’s ‘Buzz Bin’? Washed Out is a prime example of how the game’s changed; how an unassuming guy from Georgia can pack a mid-sized club based solely on loosely-shared MP3s from a digital EP and a 200-copy cassette. At 1 a.m. on a Monday night, no less. And what do you know? The songs are actually good, a barbiturate-popping mix of bleached beats, morose melodies, and synth lines that fill the room like a Festival of Lights. No doubt about it: We’ll be snagging Mexican Summer’s limited vinyl version later this month, although it’d be nice if the guy could learn how to SPEAK UP when he’s singing. (What’s with all these ‘glo-fi’ people hiding behind a purple haze in their songs? See also: Nite Jewel. It’s like they don’t want us to hear how lame their lyrics are.)

As for Washed Out’s live show…

Hypeworthy? You’ve probably heard how off-key Ernest Greene was throughout his Santos set, a matter that was not helped by a backing track or an unnecessary sideman that simply sang the same limp lines. The other problem with the early part of Washed Out’s performance was his decision to front load the set list with sleepy shoegaze numbers. If you’d never heard his music before, you might think he was trying to be a mid-fi version of Ulrich Schnauss—gorgeous and grandiose, but a bit, well, boring. We somehow managed to avoid hearing Washed Out before Monday night, so it was hard not to think, “Have these kids—i.e. the Facebook Generation around us—ever even heard of the following: Boards of Canada, Air, Brian Eno, the Cocteau Twins, Slowdive…hell, even My Bloody Valentine?” Because elements of them all creep into this music, and in a way that’s much more confident and creative.

But then Greene’s buddy left and we were suddenly plunged his version of dance music, which seems to be inspired by minor-keyed IDM compilations, Knight Rider reruns, and the instrumental version of “Thriller.” Very neon, indeed, but haven’t people compared this emerging glo-fi ’scene’ to a low budget take on Daft Punk? Bloggers, please. As trendy as Daft Punk appear to be these days, they’re responsible for several undeniably classic albums—music that’ll stand the test of time. Artists like Washed Out have years to go before they’ll be able to deliver killer singles and genuine anthems.

And that’s okay—we don’t expect them to blow us away just yet. And you shouldn’t either.

Words and Photos by Andrew Parks

The Artist and Their Latest Album: Mayer Hawthorne, A Strange Arrangement (Stones Throw)

What’s Been Said: “Mr. Hawthorne is deadly serious. He’s an able singer, a gifted mimic and an arranger of astonishing precision. Working largely alone in his Los Angeles studio, he’s pieced together some stunning simulacra—not just in lyric and sound, which are unremittingly loyal to the classic soul that serves as his template, but also in tone. Most songs here emerge through fog, slightly distant and slightly obscured.” — The New York Times

“Hawthorne (né Andrew Cohen) is trapped in a time-stop circa 1976, and his immaculate debut is replica music, constructed and buffed to a high sheen. Drawing on Holland-Dozier- Holland’s crisp, 180-second soul classics, the Michigan-born Hawthorne gorgeously apes the Temptations on ‘I Wish It Would Rain’ and ‘Just Ain’t Gonna Work Out.’ There’s hardly an original thought here, but with arrangements so expertly composed, who’s complaining?” — SPIN

“They call it neo-soul these days, and for once, the label is exactly right. Neo-soul is exactly what Cohen does. And he does it in stunning style. His debut album as Mayer Hawthorne, A Strange Arrangement, is a wonderful, joyous delight from start to finish, managing to be both a nostalgic-sounding soul facsimile and a fresh urban retro dance listen all in one package.” — Allmusic.com

“It’s Tuesday: You are feeling tranquil and a little bit loose. You’re looking for a song that reminds you of 1950s soul on Sundays appropriate for cooking waffles with strawberries with the fam (or friends you consider family.) Even if that never really happened. The perfect song? Mayer Hawthorne—’Just Ain’t Gonna Work Out.’” — Justin Timberlake

Our Take: We were shocked when self-titled’s very own J. Bennett—the writer of this award-winning Jay Reatard story—proclaimed his passion for Mayer Hawthorne’s R&B revivalism. “I listen to his album everyday, twice a day, while singing along.” Here’s the thing: J. looks like Jesus and really likes shooting ranges and Norwegian black metal. In other words, he’s a scary motherfucker. Mayer Hawthorne is not a scary motherfucker. He’s a smooth operator version of Carlton from The Fresh Prince of Bell-Air, a DJ/producer/MC who decided to give the soul singer thing a shot after moving from Michigan to L.A. And since he spent years digging for dusty samples like his hero J Dilla, he already had an ear for arrangements that’s lacking in the more streamlined work of, say, Jamie Lidell.

That said, we were obsessed with Lidell’s sudden Motown Philly direction on Multiply; Hawthorne’s A Strange Arrangement, on the other hand, came off corny the first couple times we spun it on the office stereo. One detail tickled our ears, though: Hawthorne’s love of oldies music, the very same radio stations we grew up absorbing back home in Buffalo, a blue-collar city much like Hawthorne’s hometown of Ann Arbor, MI. Maybe this guy’s onto something after all…

Hypeworthy? Slight cheese factor aside, it’s hard to hate on Mayer Hawthorne’s live show. Backed by “the baddest band in the whole land”—the County, a groove-riding quartet that barely misses a beat in what are essentially solo songs—Hawthorne immediately establishes himself as an entertainer, not just an ‘artist’ who’s reprising their buzz bin record from intro to out. More importantly, he’s a natural onstage, an incredibly confident frontman who sees nothing wrong with saying that “tonight’s all about the love because love’s all right.” Or wearing an argyle sweater Kanye wouldn’t be caught dead in. Or telling us all to “put some L’s in the air for love.”

Gag me, right? Not really, actually. While we could do without Hawthorne’s “baby-making” material—we’ll take the xx in that department—Hawthorne’s position as a hopeful romantic and hip-hop-schooled retro act is a refreshing, welcome break from the dire times we’re currently living in.

Words by Arye Dworken

The Artist and Their Latest Album: Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros, Up From Below (Community)

What’s Been Said: “Ask anyone who’s held hands with a stranger or danced barefoot in the front row at an Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros gig: The 10-piece folk-rock ensemble’s shows are more like shamanistic tent revivals than rock concerts.” — Rolling Stone

“Even the Babylonians probably wouldn’t have grokked singer Alex Ebert’s math theory: ‘0 is magnetic, and 4 + 3 might equal 1 or 2.5, depending on the magnitude of 0.’ Lucky for Ebert, the absolute value of his psychedelic folk pop is much easier to calculate. Filled out by musicians, including trumpet and conga players, the 13 songs on the troupe’s effervescent debut Up From Below add up to |a|wesome.” — Wired

“Alex Ebert and his band hark back to a carefree age of patchouli and bell-bottoms on their debut. This is intoxicating psych-indie for heady days in unbroken sunshine.” — Guardian UK

“There is also something unmistakably now about Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. If you threw Kings of Leon, Scissor Sisters and Arcade Fire into a blender, this—with an obligatory shot of wheatgrass—is exactly what you would get in your musical glass.” — The Independent

Our Take: This past Sunday night, Alex Ebert brought his alter ego Edward Sharpe to town along with a dozen Magnetic Zeros to promote their hopelessly retro debut Up From Below. Standing at the forefront of the stage throughout the performance—bearded, shirtless and shoeless—Ebert led his brigade of merrymen boasting an otherworldly charisma, an amalgamation of George Harrison’s zen disposition and Charles Manson’s maniacal energy. It’s not hard to see the similarities between this band and the hippie cults of yore, harmlessly happy and almost out of date in their warmth. Half-way through the show, Ebert even lamented that the Music Hall’s stage was too high thus distancing himself from the audience. “I used to be into this rock and roll stuff,” he said, “but now I just want to be down there with you.”

The Jesus-lookalike was referencing his old band Ima Robot, an L.A.-based new wave act who released two records to mainstream indifference. The new stuff could not be further from sounding like scenester rock. Edward Sharpe’s songs are euphoric and celebratory, schtick-free and old-fashioned. There have been comparisons made online to Polyphonic Spree or Arcade Fire, but while those bands feel epic, Sharpe’s Zeros are inherently Laurel Canyon-centric, embracing the late 60’s free love sentiment in a way so convincingly that this could almost be their reunion tour.

Hypeworthy? Can I get a witness? Yes you can. To some, Sharpe and the band may smell of novelty—is Ebert’s straight from a yoga session-enthusiasm patronizing or for real? The chanting “Om Nashi Me” may inspire an eye-roll or two, but the dynamics between Ebert and his girlfriend/occasional co-singer Jade Castrinos is the most sincere display of on-stage romanticism I’ve seen in years. Their duet, “Home,” is a love song that actually inspired a pogo/hoedown on the venue floor. During the rousing “40 Day Dream,” the hippie collective peppers the bohemian atmosphere with some T. Rex swagger. At this point, Ebert nearly came across as a rock and roll messiah.

Words and Photos by Andrew Parks

The Artist and Her Latest Album: Ebony Bones, Bones of My Bones (available as a Japanese import; U.S. version due through an undetermined label)

What’s Been Said: “With a truly wild wardrobe, a rocking band, and a raw sound somewhere in between M.I.A. and Talking Heads (just listen for yourself—Harry Potter fans should beware that MySpace profile is slightly NSFW), Ebony’s definitely someone to keep an eye on. Just don’t go blind staring at the slightly seizure-inducing video for ‘Don’t Fart on My Heart,’ which looks more suited for the Tate Modern than MTV.” — Entertainment Weekly

“Ebony Bones is the difference between Steve Coogan and Jason Alexander if Steve Coogan was a band and Jason Alexander was a band. This is why ESG are from the US and wear sweatpants and Ebony Bones is from the UK and she wears clown make up and gigantic couture chain link necklaces.” — FADER

“…pretty damn thrilling, a skronking ten or so piece band backing the woman herself (dressed like something out of The Fifth Element, possibly), lashing us with chaotic slews of er…  dunno, what do you call this? DIY funk oddness will probably do me.” — Drowned In Sound

“An Internet favorite, Ms Bones is a hardworking independent British artist whose attention to detail and daring, uncompromising image matches her colorful, genre-smashing sounds. A cultural sponge, absorbing the multi-faceted world of modern day London, Ebony has graced the pages of Dazed and Confused and even wowed the socks off of Timbaland.” — Clash

“Perhaps thee most chattered about act in London right now, Miss Ebony Bones is a one of a kind producer, songwriter, multi-instrumentalist, and all-round femme fatale who mixes up post-punk stylings, with pure girl sass. Enlisting her crew of rhythm section and backing vocalists, the Ebony Bones live experience is one part punk rock show, one part Mardi Gras carnival parade.” — Time Out

Our Take: Ebony’s attitude about all of the above is best summed up by an MTV interview from earlier this year, where she said, “The one thing about taking my time and not rushing into anything is I’ve been able to have so much more control creatively of the whole project, and that’s the real magic for me. I love bands like Funkadelic who made their costumes in their own van and put them on the same night—very DIY.”

No kidding. While she could have worked with just about anyone on her debut album—M.I.A. and Grace Jones are both major fans—Ebony decided to do nearly everything herself, from B.O.M.B.’s art direction, arrangements and overall production to lead bits of percussion, guitar, bass, strings, organ and synths. Considering she got her start as a beloved soap star, earning “Sexiest Female” nominations in the British Soap Awards three times, this is essentially the equivalent of someone from All My Children dropping the Daytime Emmy circuit for DayGlo-dipped clothes and manic dance music.

Such a brash decision would be career suicide in the hands of most. Ebony’s aware of it, too. As she admits in a MySpace posting, “Making the decision to produce, arrange and write this collective of work I guess was a brave one. Brave or dumb. But its a reflection of my personality…as fragmented as it might be. This debut album is about Audacity. Having the Audacity to step outside the circumferences of what you’ve been expected to be in life, despite the rules, or what the book says. Chances are I’ll only have this audacity whilst I’m young, so I might as well use it.”

Hypeworthy? Absolutely, but the girl’s gotta get on with it already. After all, most of the initial Ebony Bones buzz happened last year, which explains why her Bowery Ballroom show was far from sold-out—populated by nothing but hardcore fans and itchy A&R folks. Oh, and a handful of curious onlookers like us, who were immediately pulled into Ebony’s stylized world of blinding off-Broadway costumes and ballsy party music that transcends genres and trends. Quite organically, too, as Ebony and her seven-piece live band (including backup singers who slap soda bottles and dance like someone’s unloading a pistol at their feet) are all natural born performers, people who won’t rest until an entire crowd’s losing themselves like a gang of uncoordinated fools.

Here’s hoping the record that just cracked Japan’s Top 10 doesn’t disappoint when it arrives here this fall. If nothing else, the clanging chords and percussion-splattered melodies of “Warrior,” and the wobbly bass lines and restless, synth-driven rhythms of “In G.O.D. We Trust (God, Oil &  Drugs),” will make for some killer singles.

Download audio file (weknow.mp3)

“We Know All About You”

Words and Photos by Aaron Richter

Latest Album: Bitte Orca (Domino)

What’s Been Said: “Much ink will likely be spilled on 2009 being the year that Brooklyn’s experimental class finally went ‘pop,’ and—with apologies to Animal Collective and Grizzly Bear—it’d be hard to find a better thesis statement.” — The A.V. Club

“A similar sense of accidental discovery governs the band’s fifth disc—jagged riffs, distortion and fragrant folk melodies ride curveball beats that evoke TV on the Radio or doo-wop or Afro pop. Add Dave Longstreth’s and Amber Coffman’s chamber-chorale-on-Red Bull vocals and you have ample art-rock zaniness. It’s at once attention-deficient and micromanaged, exhilarating and aggravating.” — Rolling Stone

“Lead single ‘Stillness Is the Move,’ in particular, deserves a permanent place in the barbecue playlists of those who like their summertime jams 
a little—well, a lot—weird.” — Entertainment Weekly

“At a time when even fans note that much indie rock is essentially conservative, juggling a handful of retro signifiers—Pixies meet Pavement, Spacemen 3 meet Kraftwerk, and so on—Dirty Projectors’ music defies easy categorization and is anything but safe.” — The New York Times

Our Take: Dirty Projectors are good at what they do. David Longstreth is, no doubt, immensely talented—as a composer, a creative visionary and a band leader. This isn’t the argument. These facts are undeniable. Just ask Björk. What’s taken self-titled to task in the months we’ve been examining the group’s latest studio record, Bitte Orca, is whether all that talent and big ideas can cloud the blueprint for, well, quality rock music. The obvious answer is yes, of course. But the Dirtys make such a verdict difficult simply because they’re so hard to love and impossible to hate, entirely.

At this past Sunday’s JellyNYC Pool Parties at the Williamsburg Waterfront, self-titled watched from the photo pit as Longstreth, Angel Deradoorian and company inadvertently whipped up a crew of front-row-planted college-age boys into a emotional frenzy filled with an odd mix of teary-eyed screams and bro-hugging. The response was so strong and defined that we felt as if we were missing something big as the songs proceeded to lull around in awkward, jerky syncopation, seemingly Wayne’s World-inspired guitar solos (“diddle-le-do, diddle-le-do”), uncomfortable stage shimmying and exactly one instance of jaw-dropping vocal acrobatics. Removed from the studio, the songs, stripped of their sweeping dynamics, strained for impact and gradually lost momentum. And without all the intricacies, Dirty Projectors are really just R.Kelly-fetishizing R&B dressed up for an indie-rock audience that gets wet over any band that’s seen Stop Making Sense enough times to get the moves right.

Hypeworthy? Read enough reviews of Bitte Orca, and it seems like critics feel a certain responsibility to like, or at least humor, Dirty Projectors. But as clumps of praise pile up, we’ve yet to take in a single convincing co-sign. Now why is that? Maybe—and let’s be honest, we’re totally projecting—because Bitte Orca, though technically impressive, strips the fun out of listening, sucks the joy from the group’s influences and reference touchstones, leaving a clinical core of unapproachable experimentation dry with awkward high-brow stuffiness. We’ll give the group “Two Doves,” which is absolutely beautiful and a perfect opener to the Pool Parties outdoor set, if only because Longstreth and Deradoorian give full cues too “These Days” without feeling the need muss the mood with unnecessary adornment. But otherwise, listening to Bitte Orca is like walking into a museum and being warned not to touch the art. Though it’s not as if you’d know exactly how to interact with it were you given permission to get your mitts dirty.

[Photos/Text by Andrew Parks]

The Artist and Their Current Single: Boy Crisis, “Dressed to Digress” 7-inch

What’s Been Said: “RIGHT from its title to its plippy ending, we just love everything about Boy Crisis. ‘Dressed To Digress’ (apart from being our new motto in life) is a fabulous electro ramble, a funky, pulsating, urgent slice of New York cool.” — City Life

“It has a definite G.A.Y. edge to it with its strong disco flavour, so much so it’s a bit like a camped up Kylie track, yes. Kylie camped up. The lyrics include ‘You can do me up like Woodrow Wilson’ and ‘You can do me like Bruce Springsteen’. Now I think he is talking to a woman, hence ‘I’m just a tiger and looking for a tigress’ but the sound of the track coupled with the look of the band makes you think otherwise and also I’m not totally hip with current terms on the gay scene, so it may actually be me who is confused and not Boy Crisis.” — Contactmusic.com

“Good fun, fizzing funk-ridden efforts like ‘1981,’ debut single ‘L’Homme’ and ‘Dressed To Digress’ make for killer listening, their juddering basslines, smart playful lyrics and falsetto combining beautifully with the fivesome’s charmingly geeky, jerky dance-offs—but it’s all tragically lost on tonight’s crowd. You’ve got to hand it to the boys, though: they soldier on admirably, laughing and joking between songs, grinning from ear to ear throughout and putting their all into a show that falls tragically flat reception-wise…These people are fools. Boy Crisis will be huge.” — The Fly

“Although drawn to the Brooklyn breeding ground for buzz bands, Boy Crisis actually hail from Wesleyan University—whose alumni include cosmic crusaders MGMT and Amazing Baby. However, this quintent have chosen the sleazy electro path, and worked out a way to make desperate future sex sounds danceable and enduring. They say: “a computer having sex with a beautiful bird or something”. We say: next year’s brightest hopes.” — NME

Our Take: British people—and their obsession with all things Brooklyn—are funny. So funny in fact that they’ve driven a major label to pour mounting piles of money into a band that’s figuring it all out as they go along.

The Verdict: We’re still not sure what we witnessed at Glasslands on Tuesday night, aside from backup dancers who don’t really dance and some seriously determined boys-just-want-to-have-fun behavior. One other observation: whoever’s steering the band’s wardrobe ought to be self-titled’s personal stylist. (Flower costumes and spandex pants? Why, yes!) Just saying.

Download audio file (Lhomme)

“L’homme”

[Text/Photos by Andrew Parks]

The Artist and Their Current Album: Phoenix, Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix (Glassnote)

What’s Been Said: “Though the album trips lightly from slinky roller-skate jams (‘Fences’) to near Brit-rocky rave-ups (‘Lasso’), the underlying vibe is both retro and somehow outside of time—like a memory made 
sweeter than the real thing it recalls.” — Entertainment Weekly, A- rating

“Its unflappable sonic sheen gives Wolfgang some winsome 80s nostalgia, but smart modern touches—a constant near-Auto-Tune vocal effect, Justice-lite keyboard stabs on ‘1901′—ensure its of-the-moment-ness…They’re pleasure-pushers, filling tunes with riffs, phrases, and beats a five-year-old could love.” — Pitchfork, Best New Music

“The group has polished its ’60s-rock-revivalist sound to near perfection, but keeps expanding its aural palette, experimenting with layered rhythms and sonic textures. Opener ‘Lisztomania’ captures the group at its peak: Sprightly rock rhythms and shimmering guitar licks intertwine beautifully with Thomas Mars’ lead vocals, which ruminate on musical fame throughout raucous verses and spare, keyboard-plinking choruses.” — Billboard

“Phoenix are what architects should dance to. Sleek minimalism. Clean lines. A propensity to wear white. Emotionally neutral but texturally rich—they’re the sound of Richard Rogers’ utopian future. If Brian Eno wanted to do Music For Airports Two, he’d just tape a Phoenix album with a bunch of gate announcements over it and spend the time he saved thinking up more policy proposals for the Lib Dems.” — NME

Our Take: As much as self-titled loves Of Montreal’s Ziggy Stardust turn as of late, we can understand why Kevin Barnes’ stage antics and gender politics can turn many people off. That’s why we’re going to make the claim no one else has dared utter—that Phoenix ‘09 is like a neutered, French-fried Of Montreal, driven by hooks not histrionics.

Aside from that, you’re right, Billboard. “Lisztomania” is Phoenix’s shining moment, a fitting start to their live sets and the breakthrough LP they took nearly a decade to make.

The Verdict: It’s hard enough trying to pull off a decent set in the cavernous confines of Terminal 5, so the fact that Phoenix did just that with a lean indie pop approach is commendable indeed. Their touring drummer—whoever he is—also played his heart out, hammering the band’s steely beats home like an animatronic monkey. Hire and haze that guy, stat. Bonus points for the ambient passages and steady build of “Love Like a Sunset,” one of Wolfgang’s rare sugar-free moments.

Words and Photos by Aaron Richter

The Band: Woods

The Album: Songs of Shame (Woodsist)

What’s Been Said: “Woods can evoke any number of their lo-fi ancestors, from early Guided by Voices to the murkier depths of the Siltbreeze or Flying Nun back catalogs, but they’re still able to retain their own immediately recognizable off-kilter character.” — Pitchfork, Best New Music

“To say that Woods sound like a lot of bands before them isn’t exactly exposing the man behind the curtain, as they don’t try to hide behind much except arguably their lo-fi production and halfway-feigned ruralism. Woods’s surprisingly wide and presumably indie-literate audience must like them exactly because they are so familiar and fit so nicely into parameters set years ago, back when bands reclaiming folk and psych for a generation of alienated white kids had social and political resonance.” — Tiny Mix Tapes

“These guys are hype darlings with some backbone, content to quietly perfect their craft and let the rest work itself out.” — The Decibel Tolls

“Charmingly dilapidated and strangely poignant.” — us

Our Take: Scouring the Googlenet, self-titled found critical response to Woods as a mixed bag, with countless negative reviews littered about and Pitchfork emerging as the main (if only) outlet leading the charge of support for the lo-fi psych-folk troupe. Their Saturday-evening gig at bootleg Brooklyn venue The Shank saw a sizable, diverse crowd—much of which was likely swayed by the group’s Best New Music honors. Crouching near squeaky-voiced singer/guitarist Jeremy Earl, we were trilled by the down-home warmth Woods locked into and chilled by a few out-of-nowhere Malkmus-style guitar freak-outs, even if the set’s pacing began to drag halfway through. Songs of Shame projects an aura of isolation and loneliness—bedroom music for the anti-social 4-tracker, the found secret you keep from your friends and want only for yourself—but reaching a similar vibe was a rough sell live considering the relentless Colt 45-infused audience chatter.

The Verdict: OK, we get it. We understand the whole DIY warehouse-show gas. But holy hell, sometimes it would sure be dandy to hear a quality mix and not sweat away our souls in a window-, stage-, light-less loft, slowly saturating with cigarette smoke. Case in point: Singing backup into a headphone pickup channel, Woods’ C. Lucas Crane knelt before a clutter of cassette tapes and effects pedals. Not that you could hear any of Crane’s noodling. Guess that’s what you get when you set up the soundboard in the dark, with flashlights, only 20 minutes prior to set time. But self-titled favors indulging the emerging hiss-and-crackle tape culture, so we’ll reserve our Songs of Shame listening to stormy nights alone with the office hi-fi and a bottle of whisky.