Album Review: Ought, Room Inside the World

The creative freedoms of art-punk make it an incredibly fascinating subgenre of punk rock, able to be highly intellectual, or raw, brooding, and volatile, or, if you’re lucky, a wonderful amalgamation of the two. Montreal band Ought have been the poster boys for the anomalous genre of art-punk since their debut album More Than Any Other Day back in 2014, which mostly had to do with their impressive grasp on the genre – in fact, some say they may have even invented it due to their fearless, cathartic delivery, something that critics still like to relate back to the Quebec student protests that may have had a hand in their creation. Even a year later with the release of sophomore album Sun Coming Down – which sounded lighter and more colorful tonally – the quartet still sound wonderfully earnest in the themes of isolation, alienation, and the constant struggle and frustration with the monotonous minutiae of everyday life, and in Room Inside the World, the group’s most ambitious release to date, they not only elevate those same signature themes, but finally emphasize something that, until now, has been subtly coursing underneath, yet simultaneously coiled like a snake, ready for the right moment to strike – vulnerability.

If you’ve been following us for a while, you’ll know that I’ve been a little (okay, very) biased towards Ought throughout the years, and that’s something that I’d like to expound before going into this album. When you’ve been in the creative sphere for the majority of your life like I have, there are many moments where you stop and think, with the utmost, unwavering conviction, that your words, your work, your creative pursuits, simply do not matter. I was a literature and creative writing major in college and started this blog around the same time, and while I was thrilled to finally be putting my entire being into what I was doing, even in my spare time, the thought that I would never find success with it lingered in my mind. It still lingers, to be honest. It’s frustrating – and even embarrassing at times – to be the one that repeatedly gets caught up in words and emotions to the point of over analyzation, to be the one that cares too much in a world where quick, lucrative thought and productive reason is repeatedly emphasized and rewarded. Bertrand Russell said years ago that “we think too much and feel too little,” and I have honestly never felt that more than today. When I first started listening to Ought, truly listening to the group’s smoldering, improvisational compositions, to Tim Darcy express to me his innermost thoughts and demons in such realized, poetic language despite the assertive manner in which he expelled them vocally, I realized just how important it was for me to continue what I was doing, to make sense of all the noise through varied forms of written word, and to do so as beautifully as one can despite it coming from a hollowed out place of strife.

Frontman Tim Darcy is no stranger to this process, nor is he a stranger to intense sensitivity and the vulnerability that comes along with it; his debut solo album Saturday Night touched on everything from the frustrations of the creative process to toxic masculinity, and in a lot of ways Room Inside the World seems to be a direct extension of those same themes, not to mention the amount of time spent on its creation due to the desire of it being a studio record rather than one that bordered more on being a live album. Sun Coming Down was recorded in two months and More Than Any Other Day was recorded in an unbelievable three days, Room Inside the World took the longest to record by far, at five months. However, that doesn’t mean that this album isn’t as raw and intensely improvisational than the last two – in fact, Darcy mentioned that with this project, they “didn’t want to lose that intensity, but really go deeper and think about craft.” As a result, the songs that appear on the album are patient and more drawn out, less in the way that sacrifices energy or intensity but more in the way in which they manage to appear even more thoughtful and respectful to their own work than ever before, existing as the well-ripened fruits of steady, consistent, collaborative labor.

Something that Ought has brilliantly managed to perfect is the delicate process of evolution as well as introducing it in a gradual manner, and the first three tracks are placed perfectly for a slow submersion into previously uncharted territory marked by varied compositional form. Opener “Into the Sea,” with its National-esque vocal and instrumental pacing, still sounds incredibly distinctive for the quartet the moment you hear Darcy’s frustrated, pained yell into the newfound expanse of echoed guitars and bass delivered by Ben Stidworthy, and the narrative is strangely synonymous with the pressures placed on the band (“these eyes that cling to you/ faked clean and washing through/ they seem to want something new/ fleeting, wanting, holding). “Disgraced in America” begins reminiscent of their Sun Coming Down days, especially with Tim Keen’s frantic drums and Darcy’s yelps (“What a blessing/ what an imitation/ what a blessing/ what an imitation), that is before he suddenly sinks into the melted pool of instrumentals halfway through and transforms his voice into the fluid instrument it always had the potential of being – also managing to make the word “demarcation” sound more sensual and poetic than it ever has, and perhaps ever will. With these two opening tracks they also give us a makeshift thesis statement for the album – that it will ultimately address intellectualism and creative, artistic desires and vulnerable emotions persevering and struggling to survive in a poisoned world stained with judgement and corruption.

One very important thing that you have probably already concluded for yourself – especially if you have been a fan of Ought since the beginning – is that it is near impossible to listen to them if you have an aversion to lyrical narrative. You cannot simply listen to these songs without at least glancing at the liner notes, without the burning desire to know exactly what Darcy is communicating, and they are especially piercing in Room Inside the World. The best tracks are the ones that tap into the frustrations of being soft in a world that rewards being stoic and detached, the ones where Darcy plays both the poet and the prophet.

“These 3 Things” has Darcy addressing the simultaneous passion and dread that comes with being easily susceptible to the fragile, excitable nature of inspiration and the creative process that spurns from it (“See your soul/ feel it sway/ hear the world screaming/ listen, your name”). He voices his frustrations with the process, wondering if he can be genuine (“Will I hear my soul?), but then calms down enough to explain the importance of letting inspiration flow freely, advising us before Tim Keen’s cinematic violin instrumentals “if you’re made of stone/ then turn into clay.” Stunner “Disaffectation” not only introduces the especially evocative 80’s inspiration the boys had this time around, but also solidifies their aggressive intellectual edge by the first mention of the philosophical term that is its namesake – the term suggesting that certain people are “psychologically separated from their emotions, and may have lost the capacity to be in touch with interior psychic reality.” It also brings to mind an affliction that simultaneous intellectuals and creatives may suffer from – the process of being so entranced by the pain and strife they endure and simultaneously actively seek out from other creatives to the point where their intense strength in being empathetic becomes a double edged sword, and soon it becomes harder and harder to escape from the feeling. In “Disaffectation” Darcy explains in a half-crazed, half-impassioned croon that he has “all these strange visions/ come to [him] at night” and he hears “with satisfaction” as they “sing the words [he] likes,” and with them he lays in bed, “high” on the feeling, afterwards bitterly saying that there is medication to get rid of this – “you can get it through the phone.” The anxious slew of bass and drums bounce up and down during these dense verses, providing enough bravado for Darcy to excitedly deliver an brilliant line, one where you can almost hear the satisfied smile that comes with it –  “disaffectation is holy/ it makes me feel alive!”

It is “Take Everything,” however, that most directly addresses this frustration of being too soft and too wrapped up in your own passions – those that are insidious in the way that they both bring pleasure as well as pain – as well as the track that houses some of the most beautiful lyrics Darcy has ever written. In a tired, lurching vocal delivery and inbetwixt snarling, growling guitars, he advises us once again that “when the feel of a flower/ keeps you at home for an hour/ throw it away/ there’s a garden there to be deep in.” He looks out for our well-being while perhaps at the same time reminding himself of his own creative flaws. It’s entirely possible to love something too much to the point of remaining inside yourself and showing utter disrespect to the object or concept you are admiring –  it is instead what results from that love, what is created as an extension of that love that should be rewarded.

Speaking of love, slow-burner “Desire” might be the most sensual song Ought has ever released, as well as the most self-aware. Beginning with dreamy flutters of synth and subtle distortion, we hear the most deliberate, softest vocal delivery from Darcy pour in before he resorts back to his signature, deep-throated drawl, delivering a narrative of equal parts romance and vitriol. He expounds a relationship that has long since deteriorated, repeating that “it was never gonna stay: throughout the track, and yet compares his love to a “moon in a basket of weeds,” remembers the “feel of [their] honey in the corner of [his] mouth.” Darcy, hurt but not broken implied by the immense inhumanity of this nameless person, “won’t accept the conceit any further,” promises to return it “in a fervor,” and like clockwork in comes the seventy piece choir that elevates his argument into the stratosphere.

Regardless of my own personal bias, Ought nevertheless remains as one of the most innovative, passionate, and intellectual bands currently working today, and it is simply because they prove that the written and spoken word, even in its most polarizing poetic and lyrical forms, still has meaning, importance, power. And now with Room Inside the World, they are more than willing to express the importance of drawing out as well as praising the feeling of vulnerability amidst a world of stoicism, indifference, and anger, expressing the sheer validity of the messier, more esoteric parts of the human condition when it is far easier to ignore them completely. The fact that they have again managed to tap deep into the inner workings of my soul – a place that I thought was impenetrable compared to my far more permeable heart – with those thoughts that I have had throughout my life as a writer but, ironically, could never put into words, is more than enough to make Room Inside the World among the few true works of art that I personally will not only consider a unarguable masterpiece, but one that I will cherish for the rest of my life.



photo courtesy of artist/ merge records

Album Review: Alvvays – Antisocialites

Through nostalgic, lo-fi dream pop and insanely clever lyrical wit, Alvvays’s self-titled debut album mostly explored the many details and nuances of a two-person relationship, touching on the serious as well as the more jocund. Though built on an aggressive and striking foundation, the debut still evoked the sun-drenched, bubbly mood of retro pop, as well as included unique instrumental flourishes to add moments of delicacy, the amalgamation of its contrasting tones of hard and soft being Molly Rankin’s breathy, and at times, beautifully dreary vocals. Following their signature style of hiding dark, visceral lyrics under the facade of bright, shimmering instrumentals, Alvvays’s sophomore album Antisocialites doesn’t stray too far from the path they’ve paved, but does change its lyrical tone. Mostly gone are the narratives that touch on dependence on another’s touch; instead, the Toronto four-piece explores the ideas of separation and escapism, at the same time fleshing out their jangly, colorful sound, resulting in a saccharine sweet, yet remarkably tenacious collection of tracks without the sugar crash.

The 60’s are still very much alive within Alvvays’s music, but the way in which they alter its components to fit their particular aesthetic almost seems like a parody on the genre itself; the fact that such somber topics lurk underneath shiny, bright instrumentals (see: the drowning of a loved one in the peppy tune “Next Of Kin” on Alvvays) is a brilliant reconstruction of a period of time where the music always seemed just a little too happy. Regardless, the ways in which they do evoke the style are wonderful – Kerri MacLellan’s fuzzy day-glo piano that introduces opener “In Undertow” beautifully swells and grows to provide ample room for Rankin’s velvet smooth voice and accompanying bass line to grab you by the shoulders and pull you into their world. The almost eerie doo-wop of “Not My Baby” house murky instrumentals and Rankin’s sinuous vocals weave around them, the flourishes of synth shimmering just underneath the surface, the bridge evoking a glimmering, refulgent light hovering under a pellucid body of water. “Plimsoll Punks” is more upbeat, cut up into equal moments of unrest and clarity, rebelliousness and frustration. Apparently, the track is about Rankin’s frustrations with being in the public eye and resisting the idea of authenticity in music, leading to the idea that we’re all just “punks” underneath our civilized disguises.

The most wonderful aspect of Molly Rankin and Alec O’Hanley’s lyrical narratives is the fact that they feel lost in time – they’re relatable to almost anyone, regardless of generation. Even though they have the tendency to occasionally reference items and ideas that irrevocably belong in the past (“Archie, Marry Me”’s mention of breadmakers, for instance), the seamless way it sits within the rest of the track only adds to their immense lyrical charm, which is even more pronounced in Antisocialites. “Lollipop (Ode to Jim)” reverts back to the the atmosphere of pinstriped, sherbet serving dance parlors of the 60’s, is one of the most effervescent, Rankin seemingly interrupting her own ebullient tone in her mile-a-minute vocals. “In Undertow” has Rankin exploring the feelings of doubt and insecurity in a relationship, but without really caring if they resolve it or not – the fact that she asks him “rhetorically” if they can be saved as well as the repeated epiphany of “there’s no turning back” during the chorus and the breakdown points to a woman that wishes to explore isolation for a while. “Dreams Tonite” is the experience of seeing someone you once thought you knew perfectly in a completely different light, its hazy, delicate tone making it one of the most earnest, unpretentious tracks in Alvvays’s career. “Not My Baby” provides a moment of epiphany for Rankin, where she explains that she “traded [her] rose colored shades for a wide lens,” focusing on more realistic ideas that include retreating back into her own subconscious instead of voicing her thoughts aloud in the past.

It’s true that Rankin spends more time emphasizing the feelings of separation, escapism, and isolation in this album – seemingly in that exact order – but the last two tracks gradually introduce another character, close to Alvvays’s infamous marriage-hating, alimony fearing “Archie.” in “Saved By A Waif,” Rankin criticizes a faceless “Adrian” among surf guitar and bombastic drums, claiming he “wanted to get it together” but doesn’t, and has no plans to do so in the future. And Rankin won’t wait for him either, apparently. However, it’s clear that Rankin still has a soft spot for whoever it was she was trying to cast aside for ninety percent of the album, because closer “Forget About Life” has her inviting him back to forget about their troubles for a while “under this flickering light,” going back to the youthful excursions introduced in the debut – images of sitting alone with someone that knew you well, drinking awful wine and talking deep into the night, but you can’t help feeling that the relationship that once was has since dwindled, resulting in a bittersweet, nostalgic tone that feels agonizingly tangible for those that can relate all too well.

If Alvvays‘s pragmatic, yet still carefree approach was made up of primary colors, the softness of everything in Antisocialites point to something more pastel in appearance – but don’t attribute the candy like color palette to something without substance; despite its initial sugary sensation, its earnest, unyielding aftertaste houses something fervid and tireless, something that can only continue to grow in strength as Alvvays continues to enhance their unique, unparalleled sound.



photo by Arden Wray

Album Review: Grizzly Bear – Painted Ruins

Grizzly Bear have always made the sort of stylistically complex music that’s been hard to place in any one genre or even accurately convey to another person – they’re just… Grizzly Bear. Sure, you could spend an hour explaining what exactly chamber and baroque pop are, but the only way to truly understand Grizzly Bear is to listen. Their true charm lies not in their individual talents, but the way in which they bring those talents together while writing, recording, and performing, as if they exist as four heads resting comfortably on top of a large, singular body, complete with a harpsichord under one arm and a guitar in the other. Having since evolved from the Ed Droste fronted debut Horn of Plenty in 2004 to a four member group, the band has played around with different aesthetics throughout the years, afterwards with each member taking the time to understand their own style and purpose in the band as well as society. And now, five years since 2012’s Shields, they’ve returned with a stunning and, as is their want, an amazingly complex, textured album flawlessly conveying the process of decay, epiphany, and, partly, the slow, grueling process of rebirth, projecting those concepts inward into the self as well as out into the world around it.

Forget for a moment that Painted Ruins’s opener “Wasted Acres” is about riding an all terrain vehicle through a field and instead focus on it’s haunting repeated lyric sung by Daniel Rossen: “Were you even listening?” Although the rest of the song feels awfully esoteric and unfamiliar to the point of uneasiness, it’s an incredible strategy for the overall flow of the album – Rossen’s hollow tone mixed with the sensation of brooding, fantastical drums is the invitation into another one of Grizzly Bear’s intricately designed, heavily textured worlds, and he proceeds to ask you if you’ve ever taken the time to listen to your own desires, if you’re listening to the voices within yourself in the midst of a changing environment, begging you to tell him what you need, to trust him. Rossen repeatedly acts as your direct link connecting their world with the one in which you are familiar, being for the most part direct, outspoken, and hopeful, while Droste acts as the constant, incessant internal noise, the one that you feel you’ve battled and dealt with time and time again, even if you’ve never had to endure the pain of a breakup, the pain of not fully understanding yourself, or even just the pain of existing in a morally corrupt society lead by an equally corrupt leader, the last bit unfortunately being more accurate today than ever.

Despite the emotional weight of Droste’s contribution, Painted Ruins nonetheless explores the idea of re-enamoring yourself after the process of breaking apart, and is repeatedly explored in the lyrics, and we hear Droste’s laments of decay at an almost equal par with Rossen’s hopes of rebirth. Subsequently, there’s a wonderful sense of tension as well as a sense of resilience from enduring that tension, each song sounding like a catalyst for some sort of meaningful epiphany. As a result, Painted Ruins feels warm to the touch, housing a smoldering, aggressive nature begging for the chance to be released. Their instrumentals ricochet off each other while Droste and Rossen act as a tag team vocally, “Mourning Sound” being a wonderful example of their powerful dynamic. Droste sets the tone with his deep drawl, lamenting his mistakes and the slow decay of his love (“Let love age/ And watch it burn out and die”) and Rossen meanders in afterwards, riding the wave of bright guitar strums and electric synth, awoken to sounds reminiscent of wartime chaos, including “dogs,” “distant shots,” and “passing trucks.” It’s the first of the songs mostly dealing with decay and ruin, followed by the somber “Four Cypresses” and the idea of slow deterioration, the cypresses themselves directly symbolizing death as well as the life that came before it. Rossen repeats twice within the track that “it’s chaos, but it works,” which seems to be a catch-all phrase for their entire discography, from the quiet calamity of Yellow House to the colorful, bombastic Veckatimest, to the textured, complex Shields and now to this aggressive, brooding masterpiece.

“Three Rings” is the first to question the emotions long since buried deep inside, Droste asking through the midst of experimental, industrial sounding instrumentals if this is “the way it is” before sinking into a somber, teary-eyed “Ready, Able”-esque bridge of desperation and anguish, begging his beloved “don’t you ever leave me,” promising he can “make it better,” to make himself better too, if he can fit it in. It’s one of the handful of tracks that address the concept of epiphany, and as a result, the instrumentals usually begin with Christopher Bear’s relatively minimal chunky percussions and Chris Taylor’s disjointed bass plucks, only to later be met with a wave of techniques and styles that wash over to fill the space. Another, “Cut-out,” one of our absolute favorites on the album, also addresses the idea of letting go, to carve away at the parts causing you pain and eviscerate that “invading spore” within your body, “inhale your older self,” and move on. Instrumentally, it’s also one of the most interesting, beginning with a beautiful, subtle guitar melody and Droste’s voice swelling and deflating with ease, Rossen later acting as the chorus to his lead narrative, the voice of reason and action.

“Neighbors”’s grandiose composition and heartbreaking narrative hints at the idea that pain and strife are everlasting and seemingly impossible to prevent despite the human ideal to move on, perhaps even claiming it as part of the process to rebirth. Droste lamenting in drawn out breaths that “face to face/ We’ll watch our bodies break,” while Rossen lurks underneath with his own lucid tone, agreeing that yes, they “left [him] broken” and “helpless.” Closer “Sky Took Hold” is also one of the most stunning on the album, as it utilizes the power of Droste’s voice in the context of soliloquy, arguably where he shines most. After a soft, gentle introduction, the metallic synth that follow resemble five concentrated lightning strikes, which Droste uses as fuel to propel his voice higher until it seems to dissolve into the ether. At the end, he confides in the listener in the battlefield of instrumentals: “Since I was a young boy it was always there/ Inside me growing none of it seems fair/ I’ve grown to accept it, let it take the stage/ And leave me helpless, watching far away.” It’s a moment of clarity despite the noise it unravels itself in, and serves as a brilliant conclusion to an already dense, beautifully esoteric work.

Although the album contains the feelings of self-doubt and unease, the sense of hope and the chance for rebirth always seems to sit idly by, even sometimes embedded in the fibers of its complex instrumentals. In this, the image of the title’s painted ruins comes to mind, in both its negative and positive connotations; on one hand, the process of painting over something that has shattered seems fruitless, but on the other, it also symbolizes the act of moving on, taking into account your pain and your flaws and using them as the foundation for something even more beautiful than it was before. And sometimes, internal noise and external noise has the ability to cancel each other out, leaving in its wake something calm and lovely, and Painted Ruins is a fine example of just that, perhaps even one of the finest of the year. 



photo by Tom Hines

Album Review: Fleet Foxes – Crack-Up

When I got my first car, Fleet Foxes and Helplessness Blues were two of the very first albums I bought, partly a side effect of my frantic attempts to absolve myself from succumbing to the toxic abyss of pre-teen pop music that still had a hold on me judging from my music library, but mostly because I had become infatuated with the music itself. I remember I wanted something more, something better from music at that time, and that I specifically wanted physical copies to put in my car’s driver’s side pocket even though during that time it seemed to me as if everyone was still drunk on digital downloads, still in the honeymoon era of marrying technology with, considering the state of affairs today, no divorce in sight. I listened to Robin Pecknold’s honeyed, passionate vocals and his guitar’s melancholic plucks mixed with the feeling of warmth due to the sunshine filtering through the windshield and the potent smell of my old volvo’s musty seats, and soon I began to equate Fleet Foxes with the ideas of freedom and independence, both of which I had to briefly set aside the moment I unbuckled my seatbelt and stepped onto the pavement. Pecknold’s commanding, intellectual songwriting and intricate, thoughtful compositions managed to rid my adolescent mind of any anguish I had compiled throughout the day, and I could focus on the road ahead of me, save for the occasional existential thought now and again.

With the gift of the car came a series of unavoidable events that come with growing older – graduation from high school, entrance into college, the required reading of what seemed like hundreds of poems and essays for my English degree, writing countless papers over the research of countless literary ideas, and finally, early graduation from college with said English degree – and afterwards, perhaps because I didn’t seize as much from the experience as I should have, I couldn’t help feeling as if I was ripped painfully down the middle, simultaneously reaching for the future while beckoning for the past to continue. Pecknold drew a similar conclusion for himself after touring for Helplessness Blues, and in turn, returned to college and took up several recreational classes to clear his mind, shortly afterwards returning to music once he realized those things didn’t help him return to a sense of peace as much as songwriting and composition did.

And now, six years after the release of Helplessness Blues and five years after sliding it into my car’s cd player throughout the stress of growing up and realizing personal responsibility, I know that if I tried to listen to Crack-Up while driving, it wouldn’t give me the same freeing feelings of independence, but hopeful wistfulness instead – Pecknold’s journey, while perhaps not able to be replicated or even fully understood by the next person, the emotions experienced throughout are at least, to some effect, relatable, and after a few trying years of my own I understand that due to living in a world so unforgiving and unfair, it seems necessary to indulge in one’s own thoughts and desires – while at the same time avoiding to some extent the pressures and recent events of society – in order to provide it with any form of worthwhile contribution. And, Crack-Up, beautifully cinematic and painfully thoughtful, might be Fleet Foxes most meaningful contribution yet.

Part of the reason why Fleet Foxes and Helplessness Blues (as well as their Sun Giant EP) were so highly regarded when they were released was due to their sheer accessibility while simultaneously expressing such intellectual and visually dense narratives; you could instantly be transported to the Blue Ridge Mountains where no one knows your name, or lost and starry-eyed on Mykonos, or be placed at the edge of the ocean with hope and wistfulness wound so tightly together you couldn’t tell which you were feeling. The music, pure indie folk at its core, evoked ‘60’s instrumentals and nostalgic tones, somehow managing to be soft and piercing in delivery. The lyrics were thoughtful, even prophetic at times, as Pecknold lamented his struggles so eloquently you’d think they were yours – and in a way, they were, for his writing addressed relatable topics, including growing older, pining after love, and the various idiosyncrasies that come with being a human being – one listen to “Montezuma” and you’ll notice they can nail all three within a few minutes.

Crack-Up, on the other hand, doesn’t seem geared towards immediately pleasing the masses, or inciting one same stirring feeling of warmth or acceptance for a packed festival crowd. Instead of being a prophetic voice, Pecknold takes the role of quiet (and at times not so quiet) observer, making his comments on the injustices of the world then stepping aside for someone of higher privilege to take command. And, when considering all that’s changed since the release of their sophomore album, listening to Crack-Up just makes sense, more if you consider the current state of affairs to be even a little bit askew, or if you find yourself pining for who you used to be. Even the title, which is taken from an F. Scott Fitzgerald essay of the same name, is a reference to the state of being broken, evaluating everything that has happened up to the point of breaking, and ultimately having to venture back inside yourself in order to come out whole, albeit shaken, on the other side.

Whether you take Pecknold himself, the world, or even your own experiences into consideration when listening is completely up to you – even just regarding Crack-Up as a purely aesthetic album filled with beautiful noise would surely be completely valid in Pecknold’s eyes – there’s that much happening all at once. Of course, there are moments where Pecknold addresses said social injustices – “Cassius, -” narrates his participation in protests following the murders of Alton Sterling and Philando Castile, and “If You Want To, Keep Time on Me” as well as the title track both address post-election anxiety. All three, however, sound so incredibly heavy in terms of instrumentation and emotion and not easily able to latch on to in terms of a set melody or vocal line, solidifying his desire to not be that higher voice that guides others, and be more of a supporter of those who can do so more eloquently. Gone are the soft, colorful images of working in orchards and sitting in ragged woods – Pecknold instead places you at the edge of the jagged cliffs that appear on the album’s cover, forcing you to think rather than sing along with the melody so comfortably.

Though Pecknold has stated he doesn’t quite understand the over-analyzation of lyrics in music criticism, it’s incredibly difficult not to at least address them in Crack-Up, for they are incredibly and unbelievably beautiful – the main subject of the medieval, rustic tinged “Kept Woman” is addressed as a “rose of the oceanside,” and she’s asked to “widow [her] soul for another mile,” perhaps worn after years of being someone else’s possession. Pecknold claims she is not broken, but instead stronger than he, and, insisting he’s changed, claims they’re bound to be reconciled at some point in the future, revisiting that half-hopeful, half-wistful character once again.

Crack-Up is best, however, when Pecknold is caught up in his own emotions and possessed by real-world nostalgia, so taken with what he’s communicating that the instrumentals all tend to blur together into euphoria. “Fool’s Errand,” perhaps the cleanest and most evocative in terms of composition, are the first of the cinematic tracks, as the jolted, piercing instrumentals simulate galloping horses or crashing waves, while Pecknold’s vocals soar and glide in betwixt them. He is both enchanted by and disgusted with his desire to remain in his current state until he sees a sign, until his “sight dream” comes to mind – the chorus sang and supported instrumentally with such simultaneous chaos and frustration that it begins to sound like divine catharsis. It’s even better when the track has a moment of sudden epiphany – “On Another Ocean (January / June)” begins, as the title says, in January, with Pecknold riddled with suspicion and hesitation, then suddenly transitions to June, where all those questions are treated with sense of self-reliance where Pecknold screams into the void amidst blossoming instrumentals that, in one of the most beautiful phrases of the album – “I won’t bleed out/ if I know me” – back to emphasising the importance of self-indulgence in order to survive in a continuously changing society.

And of course, there’s the nine minute epic “Third of May / Ōdaigahara,” the track that is nostalgia epitomized, the track that is more for Pecknold himself than anyone else – and that’s okay, given just how much honesty and genuine emotion oozes out of every second. It is essentially a track detailing the close friendship of Pecknold and band co-founder Skye Skjelset, and details of him are everywhere, including the title (Skjelset’s birthday falls on May 3rd). It’s an anthem for friendship as well as personal responsibility – Pecknold is “only owed this shape if [he] makes a line to hold” – and both seem to be needed today more than ever.

Crack-Up, though not as immediately warm and inviting as its predecessors, still succeeds in evoking that sense of breathless admiration and intellectual emotion Fleet Foxes began with, as well as the feeling of being lost in time. Even if you’re fortunate enough to have never experienced your own crack-up, the search for something bigger and bolder than yourself is, for the most part, universal.



photo by Sean Pecknold

Album Review: Alt-J – Relaxer

If there was a singular detail that separates Alt-J from their modern contemporaries, it would have to be the immense thought and care that goes into crafting their specific narratives, often times only immediately accessible to a certain few. Their music is not designed to be a fleeting, faded sound to be heard in the background, but exclusively reserved for those who wish to isolate themselves, peirce its thick, compact flesh, and let the juices freely flow down their chin. Relaxer, the trio’s third full length album, offers the chance for this savage practice tenfold, perhaps even more than their past work. But, true to its name, it also takes the time to release some of the pressure in order to tell wonderfully dense and detailed stories, most of which deal with how people perceive the idea of love and lust, satisfaction and sadness, either as individual concepts or how they interact simultaneously.

Relaxer might be the most obscure and experimental album Alt-J has ever released, as well as the most sensual; it’s almost as if it exists as a perfect amalgamation of their first two albums, taking the moody unpredictability of An Awesome Wave and the delicacy and romance of This Is All Yours. The sensuality, however, is at times placed not in a forgiving landscape, but instead an glitchy, savage wonderland where all rules go out the window, and somehow, Alt- J more than manage to get away with it. In fact, it’s the blatant, brilliant contradiction of their graphic, emotion soaked narratives to the fantastical, effect laden sounds that keeps the madness from gaining too much momentum – their thoughtful minds stabilize their feet that so desperately wish to float into the ether.  Of course, that doesn’t mean their more bizarre thoughts don’t bleed into their creations every now and again, and the ones they’ve chosen to include this time around are their most perplexing and arresting to date.

“In Cold Blood” begins with a slew of binary, arresting, piercing and esoteric, as is their want. While the track sounds bright and energetic, a deeper listen and glance at the lyrics reveals that a man has been killed during a pool party, and that same positive energy turns frantic and chaotic, the horns and glitchy keyboards mingling together in some sort of demented, violent menagerie – and it’s absolutely mesmerizing. “Adeline” is, literally, about a Tasmanian devil that falls in love with a woman after watching her swim, but from the amount of care and passion in both the smooth, milky guitar and piano instrumentals as well as Joe Newman’s vocal swells, you’d think the devil were a complicated being with a highly sensitive, bleeding heart, able to feel such complex emotions as mankind. Again, the listener sees and hears the contrast and concurrent communication between the savage and delicate as the creature must turn away from the object of his desire, for their lives are far too different. At the end of his journey through his emotions, he wishes her well as the urges in his head and heart battle each other, expressed through a thick, dense forest of vocal samples and grandiose instrumentals. The trio even messes around with the Animals’ 1964 hit “House of the Rising Sun,” where instead of a man chained to the world of gambling and alcohol, his father is chained instead, and his mother can’t help but sew jeans to pay for his addiction. As a result it sounds even darker, completely furloughing the miniscule shard of hope the original managed to secure.

The focus on differing perspectives on love and lust is also very much prominent throughout Relaxer, in both its blatant and subtle forms. “Hit Me Like That Snare” is very much in the former category, and exists not only as the British trio’s most bizarre and uncomfortable tracks, but perhaps one of the strangest tracks in the history of alt indie music. After what seems like a cowbell induced orgasm, Newman delivers a vocal line that resembles a drunken, hysteric drawl, with as many euphemisms for sex you can imagine. “Deadcrush” exists in the middle, where Newman and Gus Unger-Hamilton tell us about their “dead crushes,” photographer Elizabeth “Lee” Miller and Anna Bolina, referring to Anne Boleyn. It’s a narrative that hasn’t been touched on much in the past, but this as well as the long, drawn out “Last Year” and “Pleader” are tracks that will only immediately make sense to a certain few, and at first glance, may be far too overwhelming to fully embrace like the others.

The magnum opus of the album must be “3WW,” as it seems to utilize Alt-J’s unique composition style found in Relaxer the most eloquently. Much like the idea of love itself, it is multi-faceted, sounding like a love song one moment and a glitchy, eerie nightmare the next, as it focuses on two separate, but intertwining perspectives. The plucks of guitar simulate the “wayward lad’s” soft, anxious footsteps as he leaves the comfort of his pastoral life to discover love, or at least offer a love “in his own language.” He wishes for something more substantial, for the words “I love you” have become worn with overuse like the “rubbing hands of tourists in Verona,” referring to those who have ruined the patina of the statue of Juliet in Verona, wanting luck in love. The instrumentals become more industrial and sterile as he learns the hard way that others’ ideas of love are not as sincere and meaningful as his – the girls that take advantage of his purity leave him a note the morning after their encounter, asking him with a laugh if it was his “first time.” The instrumentals become quiet and ashamed, but the boy repeats his desire to love another the way he thinks is the most substantial, his morals remaining the last pure, quiet breath into the corrupt world he left everything to experience.

Relaxer is at the least a deep dive into the highly functioning minds of three incredibly talented musicians and songwriters, at the most a strange, yet rewarding third installment of a musical project that will never be replicated.



photo by Gabriel Green / big hassle

Album Review: Mac DeMarco – This Old Dog

Over the years, Mac DeMarco has become a series of contradictions; he’s either the talented slacker, the goofy sentimentalist, or the rich bum, titles so securely attached that even the mention of his name triggers the smell of cigarette smoke. Being the extremely confident, carefree person that he portrays himself to be, he finds ways to make his cartoonish media derived image work in his favor, or, even better, disqualify his so called “slacker” persona entirely through his skillful, complex melodies and genuine, poetic lyrics. His first three albums almost perfectly follow the growth and maturation of a human being, complete with the musings of young suburban life, the idea of newfound fame, and the concept of love as well as all of its derivatives. His newest full length This Old Dog follows that succession with the deeper thoughts and desires that come with growing older, and expresses in more muted tones what seems to be DeMarco’s final form – his inner self, free of outside opinion.

The first thing you’ll notice about This Old Dog is that it is considerably quieter than DeMarco’s past work, both in the technical sense as well as an appropriate extension of what the album represents – wistful emotion, steady maturation, and coming to terms with things you’d rather just forget. It’s also necessary to point out how much of the album utilizes acoustic instruments and simple composition rather than purely relying on complex guitar melodies and atmospheric synth. Each track feels unbelievably somber yet strangely hopeful, a combination of emotions that never quite existed in DeMarco’s repertoire until now. The giddy, frivolous demeanor he assumed throughout the years which brilliantly offset the hazy, languid sound of 2, Salad Days, and Another One now also appears to have been a wall he built to put off writing about the demons that haunted him, one of which being the strained relationship with his father.

“My Old Man” expresses DeMarco’s fear of becoming his father as he grows older, his voice hung in a surreal, dreamlike state that contradicts the nightmare he explains. Closer “Watching Him Fade Away” is perhaps the single most heartbreaking song DeMarco has ever written, and it’s incredibly difficult to listen to his voice sound pained and teary-eyed as he explains just how hard it is to watch his relationship with his father dissolve into nothing, though he assures us that they barely knew each other. He sounds tired more than anything, as if he faced reality far too late, which makes it the perfect closing track. We all have to face our innermost demons eventually, and DeMarco shows us that its better to do it now rather than later. “Still Beating” even proves to fans of his goofy demeanor, carefree antics, and wacky behavior that “honey, [he] cries too/ you better believe it.”

Needless to say, the honesty embedded DeMarco’s composition and songwriting is the highlight on This Old Dog, and it’s absolutely beautiful.  “Dreams from Yesterday” is tender and delicate with a strange familiarity, his voice expressing through muted guitar that no amount of sadness can bring back your youth, nor the dreams you once had. “One More Love Song” utilizes the crackling falsetto croon of “Still Together,” and “One Another” is Jim Croce like, with upbeat vocals and colorful guitar plucks.” The title track assures us that DeMarco, now 27, isn’t about to forget all the wonderful things that will happen in the future.

It’s a far cry from singing about cigarettes, that’s for sure.



photo by Coley Brown

Album Review: Hoops – Routines

More than anything, Indiana-based indie trio Hoops seem to understand the euphoric feeling of summer, considering their warm and addictive chillwave aesthetic perfected over the past few years. Their self-titled EP released just last summer featured moody, lo-fi guitar powered gems, all remarkably smooth and clear despite the fact that it was recorded primitively in their homes. Routines is the result of of that same aesthetic mixed with the wonders of a proper studio where that sun-drenched sound gets the depth and richness it deserves, and the boys get a chance to better flesh out their wistful narratives.

Considering that genres like chillwave pride themselves on being carefree and loose, Routines slyly attempts to sound perfectly imperfect at times. Even though being a perfectionist with a such a finicky genre might be detrimental with other groups, Hoops seems to pull it off mainly because its members are dedicated to constantly discovering their own sound through constant experimentation, with this group as well as their own projects – founder Drew Auscherman explores garage pop in his side project Permit, and bassist Kevin Krauter recently released one of the most gorgeous, delicate EPs we’ve heard in quite some time – allowing that time spent tinkering on their music to come off as charming rather than unnecessarily tedious.

Hoops are at their absolute best when a strong, vibrant guitar melody weaves itself through the rest of a track’s instrumentation and takes the helm by force, with electrifying opener “Rules” leaving the listener no time to think about anything other than the rambunctious medley of instrumentals that drive the sound. As if the echoed effect on the opening melody wasn’t enough for unyielding attention, the distorted, sour effect during the bridge triggers nostalgia, a feeling that’s always underrated in our book. “On Top” has its own delightful guitar morsel after the chorus, the bouncy guitars almost changing color as they play on. One main grievance, however, was the number of tracks that sounded like filler, a mere derivative of the ones that came before or after. Unfortunately, there’s only so much you can do before that same hazy sound can start to appear gratuitous, with the softer, more emotionally powered tracks rudely left in the minority. Tracks like “Underwater Theme” add to the band’s versatility, considering emotion is one of those concepts incredibly hard to fake – and the band does it so delicately that we wished there were more moments where that vulnerability was more potent. As if Hoops read our minds, closer “Worry” succeeds in being the most sincere track on Routines, based on the sultry, metallic sounding synth chimes as well as the guitar twangs reminiscent of dream-pop past. The deep throaty vocals offset the smoky vibe of the instrumentals, but also introduces the equally hazy saxophone shrieks that perfectly seals everything inside flawlessly.

Summer is often thought to be this euphoric, carefree time of the year, filled with nothing but sunshine, happiness, and the occasional fling, but many forget the lonely side – where the constant warmth, once exhilarating, can quickly turn commonplace. With Routines, Hoops do their part to soundtrack both of these phenomenons, and the result is wonderfully inviting.



photo courtesy of artist

Album Review: Tennis – Yours Conditionally

A few years after their whimsical, nautical inspired debut Cape Dory, Alaina Moore and Patrick Riley’s newest release as Tennis had them right back where they started, writing songs in between sailing the open seas. Their aesthetic began and slowly evolved with fast paced tunes loosely based on 60’s love songs, evoking a youthful glow that shone through Moore’s bright vocals and Riley’s addictive guitar melodies, and now that saltwater streaked sound is back, more passionate than ever. Yours Conditionally – their fourth full length album to date – has the husband-wife team sounding less like a quirky caricature of sunny guitar pop and instead more sincere, uninfluenced by outside forces, unafraid to fully embrace their real emotions.

Half of Yours Conditionally was written on dry land, and the other half was composed while Moore and Riley were sailing from San Diego to the Sea of Cortez, the journey perhaps contributing to the album’s themes of bittersweet loneliness and detachment from the outside world. The combination of the stress in constantly manning a boat as well as the divine romance of being alone with your significant other on the open seas made for ten absolutely gorgeous tracks. Of course, the isolation also made for some intense soul searching on Moore’s part, and she’s even made clear that “lyrically, it is a consideration of [her] relation to the world as a woman, as an artist whose work is transformed by another’s experience of it, and the conflicting needs that arise from these intersections.” Musically, Riley provides instrumentals that act as both stabilizers and enhancers, but Moore’s lyrics and vocals provide warmth and sincere introspection – they personify a body and the heart that powers it respectively.

The songs, a careful concoction of love and cynicism, explore the complexities and intricacies of feminism from a married standpoint, where you can experience conflicting feelings of devoting yourself to your husband and wanting to be a mother, while at the same time trying so desperately to be your own person and pursue your innermost desires. “Matrimony,” Moore’s childlike, lovesick account of her wedding day, contains fuzzy drums so distorted it’s hard not to associate it with a pulsating heart. “Fields of Blue,” our favorite track off the album, is inspired by their ship’s log, where, as Moore told NPR, she often accounted for her own mental state instead of the whereabouts of their location, and where she and Riley often took appointed shifts, where one would manage the boat while the other slept. The idea of being responsible for your partner’s well being while at their most vulnerable was what inspired the sugary sweet sound of the track, where Moore unashamedly coos in the midst of Riley’s reciprocal bright guitar that she “cannot help herself” in loving the one that she does – “what’s the use in living without?”

The album, both vocally and instrumentally, is also a subtle nod to the masters of the 60’s and 70’s – “Please Don’t Ruin This For Me” sounding especially ABBA-esque in its pastel-tinged composition – and the delicate nature of both “10 Minutes 10 Years” as well as “Island Music” are no exception, both tracks where Moore gives her best vocal performance to date. The muted aura and echoed vocal construction of the latter is absolutely magical, evoking the sort of tracks that would play in smoke filled bars with dimmed lighting, a hazy ballad that’s designed to latch onto the frayed bits of your soul. “In The Morning I’ll Be Better” also evokes that retro aesthetic but in a much more euphoric sense, while “Baby Don’t Believe” enters funk territory, Riley’s guitar slipping and sliding in between subdued piano tones.

There’s no one moment in Yours Conditionally where it truly matches the jangly, upbeat frill of their past albums – the sheer amount of emotion and passion that bleeds through each track requires some effort from the listener to really feel all this album has to offer. However, that’s what makes it such a unique album – that, as well as the refreshing notion that Moore, though happily married, is still very much her own person, one not afraid to analyze herself and her emotions repeatedly in order to figure out just how much of herself she is willing to share with the people in her life. We’re just thankful Tennis is sharing with us too.



photo via noisey

Album Review: Temples – Volcano

Temples’ debut album Sun Structures unleashed their personal brand of chunky, addictive psych-pop on the world, all performed in 70’s friendly haircuts and equally enamored uniforms. The release was a cognizant nod to their inspirations, but still managed to showcase their own little quirks and techniques, and as a result, the album was clean and inviting like a kaleidoscope, constantly changing its youthful color with a mere flick of a wrist. In the Kettering quartet’s sophomore album Volcano, that youth and color appears less like the main attraction and more like a background component to an edgier, more intriguing aesthetic.

The biggest difference between Sun Structures and Volcano is the increased amount of technical experimentation, as well as the unyielding focus in mastering those experimental flourishes. Not to say that the debut didn’t have its fair share of ambition – so much so critics accused frontman James Bagshaw of placing more effort in achieving that perfect ‘70’s sound rather than create something fresh and modern – but here, it sounds much more innovative, more representative of the band’s mixture of youth and skill. It’s chunky, with hazy walls of sound instead of relying on bright, cookie cutter melodies. It seems that over the years, the quartet figured out how to combine the exhilaration that comes with neo-psychedelia with the focus of the modern age, and the result is, at times, otherworldly and strangely evocative.

Each track tends to follow a highly fantastical and whimsical theme; “Born into the Sunset” has an intro reminiscent of retro animation sounds, offset by background shrieks and euphoric synth, while “How Would You Like to Go” is dark and ethereal, almost like part of an art exhibit where sheets are slowly pulled off the main attraction, yellow beams of light peeking out from underneath them. One small grievance with these tracks, however, is that Temples seem to have a set structure in their compositions, with them all being mostly middle-heavy; their most addictive melody or vocal track is sometimes a feat to reach due to the aforementioned walls of sound, which does tend to come complimentary with the desire to fire every piston in their technical repertoire. “Mystery of Pop” and “Open Air, however, are the outliers, both shimmering, spacey romps from beginning to end.

Opener and supersonic lead single “Certainty” has Bagshaw revisiting his signature elastic croon, the falsetto that erupts after the chorus appearing several more times throughout the album. In fact, Bagshaw is exponentially more transcendental and impassioned in his vocal performance this time around, not to mention versatile, allowing himself to be the starry-eyed dreamer in anthem “Strange or Be Forgotten” as well as the quirky romantic in the playful “In My Pocket.” However, no other track more brilliantly showcases the dual power and soft qualities of his vocals than “I Wanna Be Your Mirror,” where they intertwine seamlessly with the bouncy guitar and scuzzy bassline before dissolving into the flutes and chimes surrounding them.

Volcano matches the unpredictable, bubbling energy of its namesake, with all of the intrigue and none of the paralyzing fear. It’s looser yet somehow more focused, bubbly and playful but with a darker, insanely irresistible ulterior motive, like sunlight hiding behind a dark velvet cloak. Most of all, however, it shows Temples’ ability to grow and mature, as well as more efficiently use the fiery passion and tenacity that comes with youth to their advantage.



photo by Ed Miles

Album Review: Tim Darcy – Saturday Night

As the frontman of art punk band Ought, Tim Darcy is no stranger to vulnerability or sensitivity; in fact, his lyrics and the melodies that escape his guitar seem to feed off their presence. Ought, of course, being a band party born out of protest, perfectly rides the line of being intellectual but constantly pissed off, and Darcy’s contribution is similar; the music is anxious and jittery, filled with chunky guitars and meticulous basslines, and Darcy’s lyrics, yelped out with a tone existing somewhere between vitriol and inquisitiveness, touch on existentialism and human nature, as well as the monotony of everyday life. In Saturday Night, Darcy’s experimental debut solo album, he becomes a human conduit for emotion, and, as a result, the vulnerability appears less like divine annoyance and more like a lovesick serenade.

Saturday Night was recorded around the same time as Ought’s sophomore album Sun Coming Down, though some of the songs that appear on the solo album were materializing well before the creation of the group itself. Obviously, the songs are much more introspective, perhaps a result of allowing ideas to flow freely rather than attach them to any specific sentiment, politically charged or not, as was the case in Ought. Of course, there are a few overarching themes in Saturday Night – toxic masculinity, vulnerability, gender dynamics – expressed through half-fluid, half-disjointed instrumentals and more experimental effects. The title track begins with a bow across guitar strings, resulting in a just barely tolerable shriek before the splash of drums and deep, brooding vocals set in. It feels lost in time, as if it is the entirety of a performance art piece, especially when Darcy’s voice shouts into the void in a desperate attempt to make sense of his own existence. As a result, the album can sound self-indulgent at times, but then again, a debut solo album deserves no fault in that regard. “Found My Limit” follows that same hollowed out, eerie tone, its repeated phrase like a mantra learned over years of pain and slow realizations.

Some of the best tracks on the album, however, are the ones steeped in thick, chunky guitar and stark, confident vocals. “You Felt Comfort” is heavy, upbeat garage rock at its finest, while “Saint Germain” reads like an existential poem, and, almost appropriately, seems to unravel and stretch towards the edges of time the more it plays on. Darcy finds ways to explain his artistic process in this track as well, playing the philosopher and explaining that “creation is the loudest screech of escape/ which explains why mine sounds like a scream.”  “Tall Glass of Water,” the obvious stunner of the album, has Darcy’s voice so expertly nestled between rampant, electrified guitar, this time with lyrics analyzing his own abilities to muster on and understand himself, asking “if at then end of the river/there is more river/would you dare to swim again?,” then answering saying “surely I will stay, and I am not afraid/I went under once, I’ll go under once again.”

Needless to say, Darcy is as much a poet as he is a musician, and there are lyrics in Saturday Night that will stay with you long after the album is through, although it’s up to you to decide which to hold onto. Given Darcy’s unique voice, you might have to listen a number of times to truly grasp the essence of what he is communicating – one of the few grievances I have with the album – but once you do, the music becomes something else entirely. He  also dedicates three tracks to Joan of Arc, fascinated by her passion and constant destruction of the patriarchy, his most telling line of her personality being “Joan hasn’t got a gun/ but she’ll change the tide to bury you.”

Though he fulfills many roles – the intellectual protagonist, the enraptured existentialist, the hopeful cynic – there’s a part of me that wants to leave Saturday Night with  Tim Darcy being the lovesick, byronic hero he portrays himself to be in “Still Waking Up,” perhaps the most delicate track off the album. The saccharine sweet ballad is pure and unpretentious in both its Americana-esque instrumentation as well as the lyrics, and I still can’t get over the fact that he can sing the phrase “release the hounds” and still manage to sound like a hopeless romantic. It’s the simplest song off the album, but the most indicative of Darcy’s attempts to understand himself, and, by extension, the world in which he exists.



photo by Shawn Brackbill