The Perishers – Victorious

Frequent musical and cultural sage Frank Zappa once said, “writing about music is like dancing about architecture.” No more does that truth appear evident when one is faced with the prospect of pontificating on something that inspires nothing. There is little that taunts a music writer quite like an album for which he or she has neither decided affection nor venom. A creation so seemingly unconvinced of its own existence, but at the same time wholly competent and sporadically compelling, that the minor negative and minor positive seem to cancel each other out. It’s a strangely off-putting dichotomy, though that dissolves quickly when it becomes apparent that it’s hard to be truly pissed with something so starry-eyed and harmless. 

Such is the case with Victorious, the latest full-length from Umea, Sweden’s The Perishers, which while immaculate in its construction and execution, lacks a certain joie de vivre, a critical, crippling absence of both spontaneity and nigh, any musical emotion, that its attempts to emote purely through lyrical channels relegates it to little more than prime wallpapering tuneage. And there is so much better music out there you can hang wallpaper to, settling for something so inconsequential seems unnecessary. Approximate Snow Patrol without the occasional muscular anthem (at least songs like “Run” and “Hands Open” had an awareness that the volume knob did indeed go past ‘4’, even if the former was aping Coldplay’s “Yellow” and the latter almost any Stereophonics rocker), and you’re poking around the right neighborhood.

There are moments on Victorious where it feels as if lead singer Ola Klüft is pulling the words out of his lungs on a string, barely reaching the microphone before dissolving into thin air. Turn the air conditioning on and he’s bound to disappear. The previously mentioned dichotomy comes into full focus on “Carefree,” an uptempo jape so meek you could fit it into a teaspoon. When Klüft sings, “carefree, why cannot we not be, forever you and me,” the nine meandering, sedate tracks that follow it seem to render his plea disingenuous. The banjo in the second verse feels like an attempt for the group to be loose and playful, when it really just feels like Nickel Creek were the last ones in the studio and left it behind. The title track is appropriately soaring, but nothing elsewhere approaches its attempt at musical grandeur. Even the closing number, “Get Well,” spurns the epic tendencies and lingering potential of that final track slot, and the record whimpers to a close while the bandmates make a beeline for the door. 

In a world where a hookless wonder like “Chasing Cars” can bowl over acolytes of a soapy primetime hospital hyper-melodrama, it’s likely that you’ll see The Perishers’ songs continue to pop up on soundtracks to TV shows and marginal romantic comedies. Just don’t expect them to crash the fickle American charts like Snow Patrol yet. They’ve got the stock sensitivities down pat. All they need now is the songs to make them stick.

(Nettwerk)

Matt Nathanson – Some Mad Hope

Heralding from San Francisco, California, Matt Nathanson is one of those musicians you just can’t help but love, and respect. He’s been releasing good album after good album for years now; gaining a fan or two here, and a fan or two there, along the way. The fruit of his unscrupulous labors paid off about two albums ago, when he was picked up by Universal for the release of his major label debut Beneath These Fireworks. That disc was stellar in it’s own right, taking the route many songwriters do by combining a few of his better songs from past releases, and rerecording them, and peppering them in with some great new tunes. When it was released, I labeled Beneath These Fireworks Nathanson’s career defining album. At the time, I didn’t think he could get any better.

Luckily, I was wrong.

Flash forward a few years, with an insatiably delicious live album tossed in for good measure to fill the void, and we’ve found the present, and with it the release of Nathanson’s latest masterpiece: Some Mad Hope. Never has he made an album as complete as Hope. He touched at this type of cohesiveness with Fireworks, but looking back at it in comparison to this it’s easy to see that he still had a small ways to go. Some Mad Hope is like the great records of yore that just mesh and live together—so much so that it’d be easy to imagine that one song almost couldn’t exist at all without the others by it’s side; to give it context, and to give it depth.

The first single from the disc is the album opener “Car Crash,” and I couldn’t think of a better introduction to Nathanson’s signature full-band, singer-songwriter brand of tuneage. Things really pick up with the song-song “Come On Get Higher,” which employs an old gospel vibe in the chorus that will stick in your head for years to come. To continue on to my favorite diamond in the diamond bag, “Bulletproof Weeks” is one of the greatest songs Nathanson has ever written—period. Poignant closer “All We Are” ends the trip perfectly with the golden line, “Everyday is the start of something beautiful, beautiful.”

Indeed it is Matt, indeed it is.

(Vanguard Records)

Eisley – Combinations

It’s not immediately apparent upon first glance of the cover art for Eisley’s sophomore record, Combinations. It’s still not apparent as you open the record and put it into your record player of choice (computer/stereo). But, around the 45-second mark of “Many Funerals,” it hits you: Eisley is fucking with you.

On their first record, Room Noises (plus their two pervious EP’s, Laughing City and Marvelous Things) Eisley perfected their sound. The whimsical, lazy melodies of lead singers Sherri and Stacy Dupree entwined their vocals over dark pop songs that were as inspired by Coldplay, as they were C.S. Lewis. Having honed a distinct sound over several records, you could safely assume Combinations wouldn’t sound much different. “Many Funerals” starts Combinations with the Dupree’s swapping airy melodies over a building tempo—nothing out of the ordinary. But at the 45-second mark, Eisley’s not walking you along the same path they’ve created already; they’re walking you into a storm. It’s a jarring, abrupt and heavy-handed transition (you get the feeling that they’re not comfortable with this much noise) from the verse to the chorus, but it serves its purpose: to disorient you.

However, your bearings are only lost temporarily. After “Many Funerals” has you reeling, Eisley settles back into familiar territory. “Invasions” corals the power of the opening track, while “Taking Control” and “Go Away” are breezy tunes that, along with “Come Clean” and “Ten Cent Blues,” reinforce Eisley’s ability to write great pop hooks—catchy, yet not too sweet; more pineapple than ice cream; the kind of sweet that’s addicting and good for you.

Yet, as talented as Eisley is at crafting pop songs, it’s the songs where Eisley steps out of their comfort zone that are the most rewarding; and none more so than “A Sight to Behold.” The song is more Led Zeppelin than Coldplay, thanks to Drummer Weston Dupree’s pounding tribal beat and the guitar-riffs of Chauntelle and Sherri Dupree that would please Jimmy Page. Where “A Sight to Behold” excels in its primal energy, the title-track excels in its meticulous layering of melodies. “Combinations” is a baroque, dreamy song that’s the perfect soundtrack for laying in the grass and staring at the sky on a warm summer day.

After the final note of “If You’re Wondering,” you realize Eisley wasn’t fucking with you in a mean way. They were teasing you. They teased you like the kid in the cafeteria who would take something from your lunch, and at the exact moment you were about to get mad or upset, they handed it back to you, ultimately wanting not to hurt you, but just to see how you’d react. After Combinations sinks in, you wish Eisley would have taken your lunch for a little longer.

(Reprise Records)

Film Review: Superbad

I never thought I would see the day that 1980s-style teen sex comedies would return to theatres. Movies like Porky’s and Bachelor Party, or even Meatballs(you’ve come a long way, Bill Murray) exemplified Reagan-era excess, the sort of self-centered pleasure seeking that spawned yuppies, coke binges, and the economic recession. Not only were the characters in those movies hell-bent on having a mindless good time, but also the audiences. They were comedies for the monkey in all of us, that feces flinging fornicating inner primate. As the me-decade passed away, so did the me-comedies. Indulgent teen comedies today primarily take the form of the post-modern pastiche, such as the Scary Movie franchise or any of its bastard offspring, referencing so many other movies that they play like a sit-com “clips episode.”

It takes someone like Seth Rogen to bring back the 1980s teen sex comedy. Apatow’s recent films have proven him the fastest pop-culture slinger east of the Mississippi, and funny to boot. Putting that knowledge to use in Superbad, his first self-penned film (along with childhood friend and co-writer Evan Goldberg), Rogen pays tribute to the teen sex romp not through eyebrow arching, wink-wink references, but by building his own from scratch. If you were to take the standard formula that yielded, say, Weird Science, season liberally with Generation X pop-culture, add a dash of Scorsese’s After Hourstransplanted to suburbia, and garnish with Michael Cera you would have Superbad. It is an all-inclusive inventory of one of American cinema’s strangest genres: alcohol? Check. Sex? Check. Dick jokes? Check. Belligerent homeless man? Check (trust me, it’s a common paradigm). And don’t forget all of that madcap tomfoolery! The only thing missing is a stripper or a mud-wrestling match. Though there is a painfully awkward scene involving menstruation.

Normally this type of comedy only succeeds if you are already a fan. A perhaps not-so-shocking admission is that I am not, yet I still enjoyed Superbad. I’ve never liked 1980’s sex comedies. I didn’t even like American Pie. But Superbad is different. One difference is in the atmosphere of the films. In Porky’s, the excess and animalistic indulgence seems like a product of debauched nihilism. In Superbad it is the product of teenage stupidity and experimentation, which takes some of the shaming sting out of it. Another major difference is in the heart. Rogen seems to have learned a bit from working with Apatow, because hidden beneath the motley, hormonally charged exterior of Superbad is a real and in many ways sentimental story, and it works as a film both on its surface (jokes) and at its core (story)—a tack that Apotow has worked magic with twice already.

The MacGuffins that drive Superbad are oh so familiar: get alcohol, get laid. But it is really about friendship and growing up. The focal point of the movie is the relationship between Seth (Jonah Hill) and Evan (Michael Cera). As their names indicate, they are in fact based on Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg. Their friendship has reached that awkward point when one has matured, and the other has yet to catch up. Seth exemplifies adolescent obsessions, talking constantly about porn, sex, and … well, that’s mostly what he talks about. In the meantime, Evan has rapidly become a sensitive, caring young man, quietly rebuffing Seth’s sexist comments or consoling their nerdy friend Fogell.

Evan may sound more mature (and in many ways he is) but both have something to learn. Seth, of course, needs a reality check in regards to sex, but Evan has yet to learn the value and meaning of his friendship with Seth. All of this caring and learning is carefully secreted behind a veil of populist humor (quickly becoming a trademark trick of Rogen’s colleague Apatow). An example is when Fogle (or, by this point, McLovin) is drunkenly making out and he offers the complement, “well… I have a boner.” Some will laugh because they remember being so awkward and naïve about sex and their own bodies. Others will laugh because he said “boner.”

This illustrates how Rogen and Goldberg’s writing is just as adept at hitting you in the heart as kicking you in the groin, thanks in no small part to some very talented young actors, perhaps the most capable of all being Michael Cera. By now best known for his role as George-Michael Bluth on the ill-fated Arrested Development, Cera has already proven his comic chops further via his web-sitcom Clark and Michael. He’s in top form in Superbad, possessing a sort of graceless intelligence that comes in stutters and one-liners muttered between innocent grins. He provides the right mixture of naïveté, awkwardness, and subtle wit for the subject matter at hand.

In the end, Superbad is admirable, if only for its dual aims of creating the best teen sex comedy ever, and telling an honest story about coming of age, but it is not perfect. The movie is less polished than Knocked Up, or even The 40-Year-Old Virgin, and it is dangerously overloaded with lowbrow jokes and non sequitur profanity that goes for the crotch level laughs (sure, this is about teenagers, but I’ve never known a kid who used the word “vagina” and permutations thereof so many times in a single day.) But while this element of Superbad gives the distinct impression of hedged bets, its heart is in the right place and somewhere beneath all of the pituitary excretions there is a rough but promising sense of compassion and sense of humor.

SUPERBAD
Directed by: Greg Mottola
Cast: Michael Cena, Jonah Hill, Seth Rogen
Distributed by: Sony Pictures

Garbage – Absolute Garbage

Garbage had the good fortune, or luck, of landing in that post-Cobain gray area where no one was quite sure what “alternative” meant anymore. Along with a handful of esoteric company, including Beck and Smashing Pumpkins (whose Siamese Dream album Garbage drummer/producer/svengali Butch Vig produced, in addition to Nirvana’s Nevermind), Garbage helped bridge the gap in the second half of the 1990s between the waning flannel days of grunge and the neuron-numbing rise of nu-metal. One would think that compiling a Best Of collection of one of ’90s alternative’s bellwether groups would be easier than one for, say, Norman Greenbaum or Ugly Kid Joe, but while Absolute Garbage does hit on the obvious high points, those rascally minor quibbles do tend to crop up more than they should. 

With groups who have enough well known hits to fill out a true Greatest Hits compilation (a phenomenon becoming increasingly rare by the minute), the self-imposed rules for what is included are usually pre-determined. The standard angle that is traditionally explored is a group’s chart entries. Of course, in the most worthwhile cases, this is only possible primarily with major label groups who can funnel their singles directly into the mainstream without much resistance. Garbage had the exposure and the touring pull of a major group, but their singles were largely relegated to the alternative realm in America rather than the pop charts. “Stupid Girl”, their highest charting pop single in the U.S., peaked at only #24. By comparison, their major charting activity came elsewhere, especially in Australia and the U.K., where their singles landed in the pop charts with much greater frequency. 

Taken strictly as a collection of radio hits, Absolute Garbage doesn’t commit any major crimes for the uninitiated (to whom the single-disc Standard Edition is presumably targeted), but when it begins to change the rules in the middle of the game, you start to wonder how they thought their choices improved on conventional wisdom. 

The first disc of the Deluxe Edition collects the band’s singles in chronological order, with five tracks each from both their self-titled debut and Version 2.0, almost all essential, and a pair of non-album charters, “#1 Crush” from the Romeo & Juliet soundtrack, and their Bond theme, “The World Is Not Enough.” Once you get past the band’s heyday, the set’s momentum begins to flag, and the exclusions after this point don’t help at all either. 

“Androgyny” and “Breaking Up the Girl”, off of their third record beautifulgarbage, were non-factors on the U.S. charts, but did make a dent overseas after the turn of the millennium. Unfortunately, they both get left off here. In their place we get the disposable new track “Tell Me Where It Hurts” and an extra-disposable remix of “It’s All Over But the Crying”, which for some reason isn’t included on the second disc, which is dedicated entirely to…  remixes. You do get two tracks from beautifulgarbage, “Cherry Lips (Go Baby Go!)” and “Shut Your Mouth”, as well as a pair from their most recent LP Bleed Like Me, which while necessary for the requisite “”complete snapshot” of their career, feel foreign to Garbage’s established sound, with their colorless, Dave Grohl-stoked hard rock bent. 

The second disc is even more baffling, less for its content than its mere presence. It does feature an impressive cast of remixers, including U.N.K.L.E., Massive Attack, Timo Maas, and Crystal Method. But dedicating an entire extra disc to reworkings more intended to emphasize the deconstruction of the material diminishes the work of the original performer, especially on a group’s Best Of compilation. This would be less of an issue on a random 7 or 12-inch built upon a catchy, obscure sample, but Garbage was always a rock band first, writing conventional pop-based songs, even if they were often danceable. The grooves and electronics on Garbage’s first three albums were no mystery to anyone who lent them even the slightest critical ear; having that fact flanged into your skull for the length of a whole disc is just too much to ask for even the hardest of hardcore fans.  

With only four albums and a handful of non-album tracks to nick from, Absolute Garbage (the Deluxe Edition in particular) as it is feels either indulgent, poorly conceived, or just plain gratuitous. The group’s future is up in the air, but at this point it would still seem too early to try and capitalize on a wave of nostalgia. With a DVD of the group’s music videos being released as a separate item, one wonders why the inferior remix concept wasn’t ditched in favor of a Deluxe Edition with the videos on a second disc. True, all of Shirley Manson and company’s best moments, “Only Happy When It Rains”, “Stupid Girl”, “Push It”, they’re all here, next to their other major singles. Only when the second-tier tracks begin to not show up does the listener wonder if just picking up secondhand copies of the albums might be a more prudent idea.

(Geffen Records)