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Archive for January, 2008

Charlotte Gainsbourg: 5:55 (2007)-Michael Tenzer

Thursday, January 31st, 2008

Charlotte Gainsbourg: 5:55

By Michael Tenzer

If you happened to be the daughter of the most influential singer-songwriter and composer in French pop music history, you’d have a lot to live up to as well. Lucky for us Charlotte Gainbourg exceeds her father, Serge Gainsbourg, with a decidedly diminutive grace. Being the whisp-voiced kin of papa Serge, Charlotte could certainly be seen as a French Julian Lennon, where the shadow of their parents may forever loom over any projects they may endeavor to work on. If this is the case, it is very much a shame, because Charlotte has a mouse-like charm and a delicate, understated singing voice, traits which belie her star-studded family’s brazen reputation.

5:55 is her second proper record, an album that sighs lethargic discontent with music that is both nocturnal and punctuated. Collaboration seemed to be the order of the day on 5:55. The music is composed by the French electronic duo, Air, and the lyrics are penned by none other then former Pulp frontman, Jarvis Cocker and the Divine Comedy’s Neil Hannon. This pool of talent served to make 5:55 an outstanding effort from every conceivable angle. The words of Cocker and Hannon tend to have an even greater sardonic quality when Gainsbourg sings them in her yielding, rocking chair whisper. “You think you know me, that’s your trouble/Never fall in love with a body double, jamais/ I stick with the script and I go with the plan/ And frankly my dear I never gave a damn, jamais” sings Gainsbourg on “Jamais” a delicious tongue-in-cheek prodding of the decadent whims of Hollywood, while a chiding piano figure does cart wheels over the words.

The album isn’t all a satirical romp, however. Songs like “Beauty Mark” and “Morning Song” outline a very intimate and reflective tone that is matched by the measured rise and fall of acoustic guitar plucks. Sleeplessness also finds itself at home on 5:55. The album opens to the title track, where Charlotte sings of getting “no sleep tonight” as an undulating piano dominates over thin drum punches.

5:55 is an enthralling mixture of nighttime leisure and pithy observation, where the music itself more then matches the lyrics. Hypnotic piano figures, sparse synthesizer touches and succinct, paper drums pull 5:55 into a delicate balance of dreams, humor and contemplation. It will no doubt be largely forgotten as the subcultures to normally embrace such an effort will likely find it relevant to their tastes for the millisecond it takes for such individual’s apathy to set in. That is the true shame of it all, as 5:55 is an album that asks to be embraced and held close during an evening of sleepless reflection.

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Cary Brothers: Who You Are (2007)-Amber Vilate

Thursday, January 31st, 2008

Cary Brothers: Who You Are (2007)

By Amber Vilate

I “discovered” Cary Brothers two years ago, when he toured with The Fray and Mat Kearney. Although I ended up missing a good portion of his set, I bought both of the EP’s he had and I’ve been in love with his music ever since.

This full-length album has been a long time coming. Fans have been waiting – going to concerts and buying soundtracks to movies like Sky High (which they might not have otherwise bought) to get music from Cary. But one or two songs on a movie soundtrack just hasn’t been enough. Luckily, he finally gave fans what they wanted.

Mellow, but addictive music, encourages multiple listens and multiple concert experiences. Cary Brothers produces consistently addictive music and fans can expect to enjoy all of the songs given on this record. The new album is a mixture of the new wave vibe like that of Straylight Run and old school folk that Joshua Radin does so well. Combining those elements with well-penned lyrics and an odd echoey recording of vocals gives a unique sound to this indie production.

The album starts off strong with “Jealousy.” The song sets the tone with the sweeping instrumentals and, what I call, tragic love lyrics. Then comes “Ride” that, although I prefer the version on the Waiting for Your Letter EP, almost convinces a listener to drop everything and go out on an adventure of some kind. “Who You Are” quickens the pace, adding even more to the beachy feel of the album.

A notable song in its wonderful simplicity is “Honestly” which was also on the Waiting for Your Letter EP. While on the EP it had less accompaniment, the addition of the violins lends more to the melancholy of the piece without overdoing it.

The one thing I would have liked to hear more was the fabulous female vocals that are on “If You Were Here” and “Precious Lie.” Even though it is Cary’s music, beautiful harmonies found on those songs would have been welcome on “Glass Parade” and even “The Last One.” I think one of the pitfalls of many indie-guitar-pop vocalists is that they don’t utilize back-up vocals enough. Regardless of who the artist is, it’s important to remember that the voice is an instrument and an extremely versatile one. A good harmony can do more for a song than adding several other instruments.

Even with that small critique, this music is wonderful. Whether a song has a quick tempo or a slower one, it adds onto the mood and enhances the experience for the listener. By the end of the album, we feel like we know Cary and his music and we want to hear more. That’s all I can ask for from an artist. Do I want more from Cary Brothers? Absolutely.

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Wintersleep: Welcome To The Night Sky (2007)-Adam Fisch

Thursday, January 31st, 2008

Wintersleep: Welcome to the Night Sky (2007)

By Adam Fisch

Final tracks are often throwaways at best (The Beatles’ "Her Majesty" on Abbey Road) and extended wankfests at worst (Nirvana’s "Endless, Nameless" on an otherwise perfect Nevermind). Sometimes, though, the best place to start is the end. With the last song on Welcome to the Night Sky, "Miasmal Smoke & the Yellow Bellied Freaks", Wintersleep bucks the trend and provides as good a place as any to begin deconstructing the stellar third record from the eastern Canadian group.

For those unfamiliar with the band’s sound, the track represents all that is good and pure in the world of Wintersleep. Combining lilting melodies and uplifting chord changes with the crash of distorted guitars and the Keith Moon-inspired drumming of Loel Campbell, the newly minted quintet has created a natural progression of sound that proves an evolution from their first two self titled records.

The album’s first single, "Weighty Ghost", already receiving heavy airplay in their native Canada, is one of the weakest songs on the record, and a rather lackluster introduction to a band whose sound is more often fit for a shivery, quiet drive in a midnight snowstorm than the pleasant, nonconfrontational realm of pop radio. Otherwise, the record moves easily, with songs that have just enough structure to stay on course but enough looseness to create perfect background to a long trip. The leadoff, "Drunk on Aluminum", consists mostly of singer Paul Murphy and an acoustic guitar, as the band’s fans have come to expect, before building into a frenzy of cryptic lyrics and pounding beat. While in itself as strong a song as any they’ve had, many of the songs progress this way, and the pattern does begin to become predictable over the course of the record.

Still, their weak spots are stronger than most bands at their peak, and whether it’s Paul’s lyrics on "Search Party" (I used to dream about saving the world/ Now I just dream about the holidays) or the straightforward rock of "Astronaut" and "Oblivion", there are few indie rock fans who couldn’t find something to love about this record. Their first record is still their best, but this reviewer hasn’t heard a better new album than Welcome to the Night Sky this year, from beginning to end.

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We Have Seen Her Dismantling-Nancy Ames

Thursday, January 31st, 2008

We Have Seen Her Dismantling

By Nancy Ames

We have seen her dismantling, with

quick, precise fingers, piece by piece,

the ugly metallic structures that are

lurking here, you know, on every single

side-street, thrusting their obscene,

crooked challange up at the blue and

domed expanse of bright prairie sky.

I get the impression that the crooked

metal things are secretly hoping to

attract some balloons, at least, with

their ugly art, but really they only prohibit

the balloons from landing on the real

estate at all.

She is almost certain now that the metal

must be growing after midnight because

it is so very black, oddly unreflective under

the inflated moon… but she has to sleep

some time, doesn’t she?

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In The City-U.V. Ray

Thursday, January 31st, 2008

In The City

By U.V. Ray

the monochrome

blast

of white city lights

strung out

like diamonds

a swirling morass

glittering on the apex

of amphetamine fuelled

night

with senses burning

like gasoline through veins

frozen on the wire

shot to pieces

and images shift

in cinemascope video clips

as we hit the street

full frequency

at 100 miles an hour

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Insomnia-U.V. Ray

Thursday, January 31st, 2008

Insomnia

By U.V. Ray

Opening a tin

of peach halves in sweet syrup

(net weight 14 Oz).

I’m waiting for the holocaust

with eyes dilated.

Staring through the window

these myriad stars

I’ve so laboriously counted,

as the TV strobes the room

bathing the walls in neon blue

and telegraphing more bland news

at 3 O clock

in a lost and fragmented morning.

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Cygnet Rising-Lee Uhen

Thursday, January 31st, 2008

Cygnet Rising

By Lee Uhen

I couldn’t sleep for the sirens that failed to sound,

neither disturbing his slumber nor alerting me

to his calamity. I could smell his corpse by 2 a.m.

His left calf was wriggling, a breeding ground for

bottom-feeders that had come up for air. The entire

lake was a wake for him, geese the only attendees

save a single graceless cygnet circling the moon.

All along the shore conspiratorial tones dripped

from the lips of petals—a nepenthe that weighted

the limbs of every tree, that seared the veins

of every leaf fluttering through our city to share

drunken tales with street lamps that soon became

drowsy and dull. And there was a knock on the door.

There was suddenly ticking. Everywhere ticking

and discord lifting from his spine and Vulcan beating

his tympanis and irises of tin and watch gears

and it occurred to me that he had always been this

clockwork, this machination. And on the lawn

was the same cygnet from the lake, awkward but

dancing, metamorphosing to the steady stops

and starts of his heart. And when the cygnet’s wings

had blossomed he gnawed them off, fixed them

to his shoulders like dumb tongues, vanished,

leaving the swan with nothing but the song: who

was that youth seducing me? A fantasy, a tyrant,

a phantom reconstructing his trysts with the junior

quarterback, the knowledge that it hurts more

when no one tells you the love affair is over.

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Sometimes The Killing Blow Does Not End-Lee Uhen

Thursday, January 31st, 2008

Sometimes The Killing Blow Does Not End

By Lee Uhen

Father discovered my excellent arms

when I was thirteen, when I was shattering

crows’ beaks with the perfection of years

devoted to stone’s subtle arc, its lethal spin.

He led me to a cell in the corner of our

barn; it was cold but for the meat that stood

before us. "You watch careful, son,"

father rumbled. I watched them: goaded in,

beaten, hung from tangled chains, hauled

out. I watched them crumple one by one,

watched them for hours—until I wasn’t

sure they’d been alive at all. I scried every

hollow, learned every curve of the skull,

and where to strike it, and how as my sympathy

twisted into a snarl as thick and unforgiving

as the fists that gripped the hammer that I wield

now. Father would be proud. "The killing blow

don’t blink. It don’t think one second ’bout

what’s behind those eyes cuz it knows ain’t

gonna be’s as good as never was." He

mumbled to the wall to avoid my shame

collecting in pools of crimson and saline.

I still hear it. The first time I was too hesitant,

the hammer too dense with what I thought

was sorrow—I know now it was indifference.

At the final moment my heart twitched. There

was a wet thud. A groan. It was down on two

knees. Leaning. "Again boy, quickly." I swing

and I swing and its bone splinters and its skin

splits and still it is groaning. Again. And again.

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Here There Is No Home-Lee Uhen

Thursday, January 31st, 2008

Here There Is No Home

By Lee Uhen

Every day locks were

switched and rooms were lost

and mothers beat unrelenting doors,

cursed in bursts of primary colors

and pleaded, please,

I just want my food stamps.

Every eve I thanked no one

in particular for our light

bulb, the water that walked

from our faucet, the mattress,

the magnum whose

barrel I’d tasted; Saul too

often gone for me to miss, his

sweat on the pillow

as good as a kiss but I cannot

describe how difficult it is to make

love to a phantom

beneath the feet of domestic

disputes, with piss in the halls

and the baying of strays,

their cracked tongues and clammy

paws probing bolts and knobs for

enough dust to sate

them. So when I was told the Robert

Taylor homes had been renovated,

I truly was heartened:

the silence was an apology

to the girl in the Cadillac, to her

half-born child wrapped

in plastic bags and tossed out

the window, whom I found spine

bent and head

soft and viscous in my hands,

whom I buried as deep as fourteen

years allows and

who now, I fear, has been torn

from the ground, her bones

thrown out like refuse

with the dogs.

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Vegetable Korma-Frank Orvalle

Thursday, January 31st, 2008

Vegetable Korma

By Frank Ovalle

"We’re broadening our cultural horizons."

I knew it sounded stupid

before it left my mouth.

To my surprise my two friends nodded,

hungrily embracing another culture

and glad to receive validation

from an ethnic minority.

In our alienation,

we are devoid of traditions,

we are devoid of pride

and of history.

I realized something as I shoveled

curry and potatoes into my mouth

to shut myself up.

We were cultural vampires,

feeding on the robust Indians,

just as we’d done to the

Guatemalans and the Japanese

the week before.

I didn’t want to think about it,

so I shoveled more korma onto my plate

and complimented the spectacular

naan.

The two girls clutched mojaris

and cholis and cooed over pricey saris.

I watched in agony as the shopkeep

threw murderous glances without shame.

She could tell what we were.

She could smell it in the money

that the girls handed to her

in exchange for her hundreds of years

of hard-earned culture.

It was hers. It belonged to her

and no amount of money

would ever change that.

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Archive for January, 2008

Charlotte Gainsbourg: 5:55 (2007)-Michael Tenzer

Cary Brothers: Who You Are (2007)-Amber Vilate

Wintersleep: Welcome To The Night Sky (2007)-Adam Fisch

We Have Seen Her Dismantling-Nancy Ames

In The City-U.V. Ray

Insomnia-U.V. Ray

Cygnet Rising-Lee Uhen

Sometimes The Killing Blow Does Not End-Lee Uhen

Here There Is No Home-Lee Uhen

Vegetable Korma-Frank Orvalle

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