then we saw the stars again

It’s been months since I last updated things over here. I’m still around though, just busier than I thought I would be, and trying to get new sounds going on. And that, for some reason, is taking longer than expected.
But I’m still around. And will post more in the coming weeks. That’s what long Summer breaks are for, right?

Some time ago I was approached by Weehan Yeo for the rights to “there is a way” as a soundtrack to a timelapse video of Singapore’s urban landscapes. And this is the final product, entirely tracked to the song. I have to say, every time I listen to the record I can’t help but think of all the people, places and noises that inspired me to record it in the first place. And even though I am now literally on the other side of the world, I’ll always associate “Then We Saw The Stars Again” to Singapore, in the same way as “Raleigh” is a soundtrack to our first Winter around the Annex.

If you want to know more about Weehan you can visit tripeaksimagery.com

Talk soon.

- 7219 - from Weehan Yeo on Vimeo.

“Feminism in Russia is incompatible with Orthodox faith”
Larisa Pavlova, lawyer for the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour’s employees

“Our sudden musical appearance in the Cathedral of Christ the Savior with the song “Mother of God, Drive Putin Out” violated the integrity of the media image that the authorities had spent such a long time generating and maintaining, and revealed its falsity. In our performance we dared, without the Patriarch’s blessing, to unite the visual imagery of Orthodox culture with that of protest culture, thus suggesting that Orthodox culture belongs not only to the Russian Orthodox Church, the Patriarch, and Putin, but that it could also ally itself with civic rebellion and the spirit of protest in Russia.”
Yekaterina Samutsevich

“There is no “individual approach,” no study of culture, of philosophy, of basic knowledge about civic society. Officially, these subjects do exist, but they are still taught according to the Soviet model. And as a result, we see the marginalization of contemporary art in the public consciousness, a lack of motivation for philosophical thought, and gender stereotyping. The concept of the human being as a citizen gets swept away into a distant corner.
Today’s educational institutions teach people, from childhood, to live as automatons. Not to pose the crucial questions consistent with their age. They inculcate cruelty and intolerance of nonconformity. Beginning in childhood, we forget our freedom.”
Maria Alyokhina

“What was behind our performance at the Cathedral of Christ the Savior and the subsequent trial? Nothing other than the autocratic political system. Pussy Riot’s performances can either be called dissident art or political action that engages art forms. Either way, our performances are a kind of civic activity amidst the repressions of a corporate political system that directs its power against basic human rights and civil and political liberties. The young people who have been flayed by the systematic eradication of freedoms perpetrated through the aughts have now risen against the state. We were searching for real sincerity and simplicity, and we found these qualities in the yurodstvo [the holy foolishness] of punk.
Passion, total honesty, and naïveté are superior to the hypocrisy, mendacity, and false modesty that are used to disguise crime. The so-called leading figures of our state stand in the Cathedral with righteous faces on, but, in their cunning, their sin is greater than our own.”
Nadezhda Tolokonnikova

———————-

As I’m writing this, the three member of Pussy Riot are awaiting their verdict. In all likelihood, it will be delivered Friday. Tomorrow. In all likelihood, their sentence will be reduced from what the prosecution asked. But there will be a sentence. There has to be. An authoritarian regime, backed by a religious institution, cannot let the non violent action of three unarmed women go unpunished, for fear of showing weakness, compassion, common sense. Pussy Riot will serve time, and this after already five months of imprisonment, isolation and deprivation of the most basic needs of a person, such as sleep, proper food, and freedom.

The three members of Pussy Riot have given their closing statements, which read more like intelligent, articulate essays than mere pleas for clemency or admissions of guilt and regret. Read them carefully, and you will see that this is not the simple prank of some uneducated hooligans.
This is not hooliganism, or a call for hatred, as has been postulated by the prosecutors. This is definitely not a vicious attack on a State religion, an argument which is conveniently abused by Patriarch Kirill, the prosecution lawyers, and ultimately supported by the Russian government. Instead, their performance, along with their words, represent what the punk ideals have always been about and which have been lost along the way, once punk music became a valuable commodity in the eyes of multinational record companies, devoid of any political meaning or social impact.

———————-

Detractors of Pussy Riot simply fail to acknowledge the cultural and social relevance of a global musical movement, as crass as some critics might want to paint it. But the statements delivered by the three activists are far too eloquent to be dismissed as the incoherent ramblings of some attention-grabbing poseurs, who get what they deserve because they were just “looking for it”. And punk, in its conception, was a movement born out of a rejection of a ruling class, an oppressive institution, be it the dawn of the Thatcher era, the growing marginalization of American urban centres in the 70/80s, or just the defiance of the countless DIY centri sociali against the collusion of State and Church in Italy, a repressive police force in France, or the everyday absence of individual freedom in the Eastern Bloc. Social protest found in music an invaluable tool to carry an idea that would otherwise have been confined to pamphlets or political slogans. This is not to say that music is the only way that change can be effected, but it is a direct representation of a collective zeitgeist, an irrepressible energy that unites and galvanizes. And it cannot be dismissed, or ignored.

———————-

Detractors of Pussy Riot also blatantly misunderstand what anarchism and feminism truly mean. Which is doubly ironic, considering how both movements are inherently Russian in their origins and outcomes. Bakunin, Kropotkin, or more appropriately Emma Goldman in this case, saw the authoritarian regime of Tsarist Russia (and eventually its Soviet evolution) as the root of what they were fighting against, in its many forms. And whether we are talking about Nicholas II, Lenin or Putin, we really are talking about the same thing: Patriarchy, and the absolutism that derives from it. Anarchism, or more appropriately Feminism in this case, are vital arguments against the inheritance of power through traditional channels, be they religious or institutional. Or gender-based.

Gender is probably the underlying issue here, in the sense that Pussy Riot defy the traditional (ie inherited from our patriarchal system) view on women’s participation and representation in the public sphere. And this is not just a sexist construct found in Russia, of course. Just look at Italy, the inheritance of 20 years of Berlusconi-sanctioned machismo, and you have a country where women are expected to fit one of the following categories:
a) the compliant, nurturing, selflessly loving mother/wife/matron figure, or
b)the lascivious, vapid, young and inconsequential sexual object.
Women not exactly matching any of the above are met with suspicion, disdain, and mistrust. And fear, probably.

Or look at the way the patriarchy in the Vatican is censoring the brave efforts of a group of American nuns to advance Catholicism in order to serve their communities for what really matters to them, to put some common sense in a faith that has become stagnant under two millennia of rigid absolutism. The nuns, in this respect, are not entirely dissimilar to Pussy Riot, though the means to put their philosophy in action are radically different: both are trying to take back some agency in a male-dominated institution and change a system from within, however small that change may be. Historically, traditional monotheistic religions have never been too friendly towards women, and I don’t see how any of it will effectively overhaul an imbalance that has been surviving for so long. But the fact that their actions are getting so much coverage points to the possibility of a shift in the public consciousness, however slow it may be.
What seems to bother the rulers (Patriarchs, Popes, Presidents) is probably the fact that women are actually subverting the Law of Man, that their revolutions are quiet and peaceful, and that their actions are carried out with poetry rather than brutality. Is this also why Western male netizens seem to have a hard time dealing with this? Google just about any article on Pussy Riot or the US nuns and go to the comment sections: do you see what I mean?

———————-

Detractors of Pussy Riot argue that they are enjoying too much attention online from the Western media, quick to take their defense when the same mockery of Justice at home would be rightly condoned without anyone complaining. And maybe they are right here. Not enough is done to address the errors of Guantanamo, for instance.
And maybe a punk band would meet the same opprobrium if they barged in a synagogue or a Catholic church, or a mosque, in the Liberal West.
And maybe (probably) there is more at stake in the world right now than three girls waiting to go to jail because they had a beef with the Man. After all, this is no life-or-death situation. Let them serve time, that’ll teach them…
These are a few of the counterarguments that seem to make a lot of sense to the detractors, counterarguments that seem to make whatever ruling is pronounced tomorrow tolerable.
Maybe.

Or maybe if we tolerate this, then our children will be next…

———————-

“We all know the theory: the great European nations need colonies, for colonies send raw material–cotton fibre, unwashed wool, spices, etc., to the mother-land. And the mother-land, under pretence of sending them manufactured wares, gets rid of her burnt stuffs, her machine scrap-iron and every thing which she no longer has use for. It costs her little or nothing, and none the less the articles are sold at exorbitant prices.
Such was the theory–such was the practice for a long time. In London and Manchester fortunes were made while India was being ruined. In the India Museum in London unheard-of riches, collected in Calcutta and Bombay by English merchants, are to be seen.
But other English merchants and capitalists conceived the very simple idea that it would be more expedient to exploit the natives of India by making cotton-cloth in India itself, than to import from twenty to twenty-four million pounds’ worth of goods annually.”
Peter Kropotkin, 1892-1894.

“London calling, see we ain’t got no swing
‘Cept for the ring of that truncheon thing”
Joe Strummer, 1979

“A nation that has no music and no fairytales is a tragedy.”
Ai WeiWei, 2012.

——————-

I wasn’t going to write about the Olympics again, and definitely not twice in a row. In fact, I had planned to remain as disengaged from the issue as possible, and just go cycling and swimming a lot instead. But as much as I do not wish to take part in the proceedings, the event is playing out on such a global scale that it becomes almost impossible to avoid. And while it seems that the majority of the mainstream media has embraced Danny Boyle’s opening ceremony as the celebration of all the things quaint and quirky that have made Britain so idiosyncratically Great, very few mentions have been made about its historical omissions or its manipulated cultural context.
The three quotes above have a lot to do with what I found really disturbing in the dizzying display orchestrated by Danny Boyle, a spectacle that has more to do with a contemporary, corporation-approved interpretation of Imperialism than what much of the liberal press would like us to believe.

——————-

Take the hagiographic approach to Britain’s history and achievements. Granted, the variegated settings are meant to depict a multifaceted country, diverse in its origins and symbolic (perhaps more than any other nation) of the trajectory of Western Europe through 400 years of radical transformation, from bucolic green pastures to implacable mechanical inventions to gender emancipation and class struggle. This is fine, but this is children’s history book illustration material: it might be ingenious and wondrous to behold, but it lies by omission, and glosses over the nasty bits.
If Great Britain indeed embodies the destiny of a whole continent, no one can, or should, ignore that its progress came through the sacrifice of the people who made Europe what it became. But no mention was made of the Imperialist campaigns of Great Britain, its difficult relationships with its many colonies, the countless, faceless people it has exploited. I wouldn’t expect Danny Boyle to personally take the fall for it; it would be unfair to blame him entirely for 300 years of oppression, but for a spectacle that purported to honour so many social achievements, the least you would expect is an acknowledgement of the fact that progress and prosperity came largely at the expense of the countries Great Britain used to own.

Coming to terms with what makes one’s country great, being proud of one’s nation, advocating patriotism can only be sincere if we take a sincere look at the mirror and see what history has to teach us about ourselves. If we fail to do that, if we only keep the good stuff and conveniently discard or gloss over the uncomfortable truths, we are no better than the regime hagiographers that Western media love to chastise. Worse, if we celebrate one civil victory while we ignore some of its biggest defeats, we only give the audience what they want to hear or see, fearful that it might stir them the wrong way.

Of course, it would be naive to believe that the opening ceremony would ever be the theater of such subversion, that Danny Boyle would have taken the liberty to radically sabotage its 27 million Pound production with a dangerous subtext, or that the IOC would have vetted just about any storyboard just because he directed Slumdog Millionaire. But it is equally naive to believe that Boyle’s “leftist” credentials were on obvious display on the grounds that “real NHS nurses were used for the making of this show”, just as Slumdog Millionaire was a naive postcard-ready ode to beautiful exotic people living in picturesque garbage heaps. History, in its Hegelian sense, its narrative and its social impact, can’t stray from the official guidelines when events of such global magnitude are concerned. The uplifting appeal of the carefully selected vignettes, from green pastures to multiculturalism, is the Conservative response to the Liberals’ need for a good conscience. Boris Johnson is happy. The Guardian is happy. Thinking otherwise is simply disingenuous.

——————-

As an art form, the opening ceremony may be appreciated for its merits: a cultural slideshow of what the organisers thought the world should remember Great Britain by. And there is no denying the impact that British culture has had over the past 50 years globally. While popular music was not “invented” in Great Britain, it was the first wave of the British Invasion that successfully broke the new medium into people’s homes, generating an unprecedented movement of collective identification to a genre or a particular “scene”. Liverpool, Manchester, London: music shaped these cities as much as the Industrial Revolution did in the previous Century.
Music also shaped British society in its crucial moments. The East London punk movement of the late 1970s was a response to the growing malaise of a generation of baby boomers coming to grips with reality, which was followed by the bleakness of early new wave pioneers in the early 1980s. The music of The Clash, of Joy Division or The Cure spoke to the kids in ways that their parents could never have, not then anyway: it was confrontational, it was angular, it was not meant to be played in a stadium but rather shared intimately. In the “you and me against the world” narrative of adolescence, punk and new wave were an unexpected, almost illicit, breath of fresh air.

London Calling is as culturally relevant as ever. The pervasiveness of the economic crisis has only helped further more and more conservative measures globally, our civil rights are being diminished every day, and it has never been harder to trust the authority of those in power. We are every bit as disenfranchised and lost as the youth Joe Strummer sings about.
Which is why hearing the song out of its context makes little sense of what it originally meant. A general point could be made of the re-appropriation of punk music and underground subcultures as well.
These movements defined themselves in reaction against the mainstream, the norm, and posed a challenge to the limits of the authoritarian British society of the 1970s. Now they are part of the carefully-curated iPod playlist of the opening ceremony. Everyone gets their dose of agitation: the 20 year-olds who missed out 35 years ago can safely do so in their allotted seats or on their way home. What was born out of a rejection of middle class values has now become the corporation-friendly soundtrack of the middle-aged bourgeoisie.

Not that Danny Boyle’s musical choices are at fault. If anything, his song list is valid, if incomplete. Boyle has proved to be an astute filmmaker with a keen ear for cinematic soundscapes. The soundtrack to 28 Days Later plays a fundamental part in his dystopic cautionary tale, and the same could be said about the song choices in Trainspotting or Shallow Grave. The form served the substance in a slick, if slightly superficial, production. The cultural relevance of those movies comes from the fact that they are instantly identifiable to a period in time, a place, and a specific social group: yuppies, junkies, zombies. But the Olympic Games are not independently-funded movies. And Boyle’s vision, while ambitious and ingenious, must conform to the task at hand: give an account of the cultural relevance of Great Britain to the world through stories and music. And through a kaleidoscope of songs and movie references, the audience is meant to marvel ceaselessly at the global reach of all this art on display. Is it a “true” account? Can truth even be attained on a spectacle of such magnitude? Does it even matter?

——————-

The idea of cultural relevance is, of course, highly subjective. What resonates with the British audience might not necessarily mean as much to viewers from other countries. The Beatles probably got a few more nods of appreciation than Fuck Buttons, but that’s just a guess, and it may vary greatly given the appropriate demographics. That’s besides the point actually. Both songs, and the rest of the musical selections, were meant to support the historical vignettes as the “official” narrative of all things Great and all things British.
As Ai WeiWei would put it, this is Danny Boyle’s fairytale.
But is it any different than the Beijing fairytale, as he would like us to believe? Ai WeiWei makes valid points in his comparison of both shows: one was a behemoth, a machine of might and discipline. It was showing the world that China can go faster, higher, stronger than any other nation on Earth. Of course, the means to achieve these goals are debatable, and the Beijing Olympic Games were shrouded in secrecy regarding the official costs involved. Of course, rows of perfectly synchronised children inspire awe rather than create emotional attachment to their personal stories. That was not what Beijing was about. The spectacle was clear about that.

The London ceremony, however, was all about the people, as demonstrated by the abundant tweeting, instantly reverberated around the stadium. Ironically, the IOC has been extremely effective so far in blocking any Olympic-related content from getting on youtube. Cynicism, or market laws? Either way, Danny Boyle’s fairytale is as biased and distorted as Zhang Yimou’s. Taken as a 27 million Pound production (about a quarter of the estimated cost of the Beijing show), it had successful moments: it lifted the spirits, it gave the nation something to feel proud about, it gave them stories, and it gave them music.
The means and the form might have been obviously different, but both ceremonies are two sides of the same medal. They both aim to celebrate a nation, to raise it above all others, to exalt its “official” history while the rough edges are being carefully smoothed out. Chinese determination over British irreverence: these are incomplete strands of a much richer tapestry. It lives and breathes every day, it is found in the margins of the sanctioned vignettes, it defies easy categorization.
And no opening ceremony could ever do it justice.

One of my favourite moments everyday is the time I spend taking the kids to school. Luca has become a good rider, and the great thing about living in a quiet residential neighbourhood in the city is that he can take up some space on the sidewalk without having to fend off harried pedestrians on their way to work. Spring also means that more people are taking their bicycles after the Winter lull, and more riders on the road really helps to slow down traffic and force drivers to lift the gas pedal a bit. So, really, it’s a win-win.

The school is not far from our new house. Maybe one mile away, at most. But now that Luca rides independently, the 2-seat trailer has become more of a hindrance than anything else. So every morning Dante sits on my bike instead, feet resting on the lock holder, one hand on my shoulder and the other holding my backpack, and I half-jog/half-walk alongside Luca. Less than 15 minutes after, we are at school, just in time for the line-up.

What happens during those 15 minutes is, of course, the most rewarding reason to get up every morning. We’ve been closely monitoring the leaves growing on the trees, the blossoms change into full-blown flowers, each morning scent greeting us at precisely the same spot on our itinerary, only more intense each day.
We also talk, about everything and anything: which super-hero we’d rather be, rock band elimination contests, but also more carefully considered conversations about society, acceptance, what it means to be a good person.

The kids are growing up.

Of course, kids are kids. And one morning, Dante had a kid sort of idea, you know, the kind of idea that seems so natural that you don’t even think about questioning it.
What if Tom Waits sang When I’m 64? And how would that sound?
In the mind of an almost 5-year-old, it would sound like this:

I’m not sure what passers-by or other cyclists were making of his impersonations, but this is what happens when I sit Dante on my bicycle.

————

Luca, on the other hand, has almost finished his first year at the Conservatory. Learning an instrument happens on an exponential curve, and once you unlock that part of the brain that is able to make sense of what is going on between notes, what is written on the score and what your hands are supposed to play, there is very little stopping you.
And he’s steadily getting to that point. But most importantly, he’s having fun in the process.
He had his second recital yesterday. A bit of a marathon, really, and unfortunately he wasn’t among the first batch of children. So by the time his year group was up, most children had that I-need-my-nap expression.
Or maybe it’s just his game face…

—————–

I’m turning 35 tomorrow.
It’s one of those halfway numbers.
My Dad was 35 when his father passed away.
I lost a grand-Aunt over the weekend, and my Grandmother is not doing that great.
So, yes, this birthday really feels like the end of a first half of sorts.
But looking at these 2 little big guys, I know what happens next will be all right still.

I’ve debated for a while whether to write the traditional end-of-the-year round-up.
While we’ve all been making lists even before High Fidelity was published, the ubiquity of social media and comment threads has been steadily turning them into self-important web-feuds, pointless exercises of relatives vs. Absolutes. Not that I have any illusion that the ten albums i chose should in fact represent what the year did best in music, but seeing so many online readers whine about the specific ranking at which band should be, or how the omission of a particular act renders said list meaningless is enough for me to get weary of the whole Top 10 endeavor.

I think this column in the New Yorker brilliantly sums up the way I feel about lists and the simple fact that it has become impossible to listen to all the music the year has to offer. Do we go for the obvious choices? Do we follow the trends? Do we stick to our favourites or jump onto the new sensation bandwagons?
I’m not here to give any answer to any of these questions.
There’s a lot of music I’ve disliked this year, and there’s quite a bit of music I’ve really, really liked, too.
The following are the 10 albums that have made me the happiest about taking my bike and hitting the record stores.

——–

Battles – Gloss Drop

Superbands are, by definition, a sum of their parts, for better or for worse. What makes a superband work is the concentration of its individual voices into a cohesive whole, when you stop thinking about the different players but rather focus on their concerted effort as their new means of expression. And when you talk about Battles, the result is distinctively idiosyncratic: a little Helmet, a little Don Caballero, a little Bartok, a lot of Tom and Jerry. At least, that was Mirrored, and Tyondai Braxton’s playful use of samples, vocal lines, vocoders and warped autotune presets.
With Braxton gone, Williams, Konopka and Stanier had to come up with a new formula. With a debut album like Mirrored, there is no obvious next step: reproducing its sound would be out of the question, and going back to the EP templates would feel like a step back. And, miraculously, Gloss Drop is its own thing, a Braxton-less Battles that doesn’t feel like something is missing. Williams clearly steps forward in the record, as the live performances suggest, but the rhythm section feels also more present, more instinctual, and definitely more dance-oriented. The interplay between the core members feels more organic on tracks like “futura” or “wall street”, and when they let guests fill in as vocalists, the result is closer to a straight bona-fide Battles pop song than ever before (if you have not seen the Gary Numan cameo in My Machines, you’re missing out on one of the great videos of the year, too.)
With Gloss Drop Battles find a new breath and prove that they are as relevant and vital as ever.

——–

Elbow – Build A Rocket Boys!

I’ve learnt to lower my expectations this year. Bands that I’ve loved came out of hiding with diminishing returns, more often than not. But that’s the thing about relationships: sometimes you just drift apart, and there’s nothing you can do about it. And that’s the thing about expectations, too: never place them too high, or let anyone place them too high for you.
Fortunately for Elbow, the press never seemed to want to mythologize them more than they needed, at least outside of England. In fact, at this point they are becoming almost criminally underrated.
None of their releases are hailed as “events”, they don’t come with elaborate multimedia adventures. They come with great songs, though. I’m not sure Elbow ever felt the need to radically reinvent themselves, and I don’t think they would have to anyway. Their formula might not be groundbreaking, but their honesty as songwriters and musicians sets them apart from many of their peers, younger or not. Their music feels lived in, and sometimes that’s all you need.
Because I’ve always felt more comfortable in my worn-out shirt than in the emperor’s new clothes.

——–

Feist – Metals

I don’t mean to praise a record by criticizing another, but in a year marked by a certain disappointment with comeback albums, listening to Metals comes as a relief. While it is a departure from her breakthrough hit The Reminder, Feist’s new record still largely focuses on her most marketable gift. As far as I’m concerned, Feist has no rivals as a vocalist: honey-tinged rather than crystal clear, powerful but not owerpowering. It’s like Brandy Alexander in a song.
The arrangements, the production, and the careful mixing highlight the singer’s voice in ways that are reminiscent of Joni Mitchell’s 1970s period: she is not above the rest, but every other instrument complements her singing.
The recording itself is remarkable: dynamic, sparse yet spacious, and more restrained than its predecessor. This truly is an album to savour at night, on a good stereo with adequate speakers.
Not as obviously iPod-friendly, Metals ultimately rewards the listener for its cohesion and its subtle arrangements, and its overall darker tone doesn’t diminish its staying power. Quite the contrary.
Let’s hope we won’t have to wait another 4 years next time.

——–

Ben Frost/Daniel Bjarnason – Solaris

Readers of this blog will already know about my obsession with Ben Frost, and with Bedroom Community in general. As a label the Iceland-based collective has been delivering one stellar release after another, from neo-classical compositions to intriguing explorations of American Folk music to, well, Ben Frost.
Few artists in recent years have had such a powerful impact on how I feel about music, and what makes music. His visceral approach to sound manipulation, guitar textures and restrained instrumentation have an enormous visual potential without being overtly cinematic. and this is why Solaris works so well.
Of course it’s not just Frost’s doing. The orchestral arrangements and prepared piano parts are the unmistakable touches of Bjarnason, and both artists meet at the crossroad as it were, to re-create a soundtrack to one of the most enigmatic science fiction movies ever directed. But, as is the case for all great soundtracks, they exist on their own right. Sure, they are enhanced by the visual medium, but listening to them separately creates its own particular experience. Here, everything moves at a glacial pace, but the subtle changes and repetitions and inner motifs hint at the inner drama unfolding: drops of treated piano, plaintive strings, distant hums and sheets of white noise. And by the time the last chords ebb away, you realize how affecting the process has been without resorting to cheaper, Hollywood-style tricks.
If you ever wondered how lonely interstellar space travel can be, this record would be an accurate description. It would sound like this, and it would feel like winter.

——–

Mastodon – The Hunter

I’m not a metal purist. I’m not even that much into metal. But I love every single Mastodon album, from the early growling releases to the ambitious prog-driven Magnum Opus Crack The Skye. There is just so much raw energy, so much inventiveness in the rhythm structures of their songs. Of course, there’s enough riffage to choke a horse, but the way I see it, Mastodon truly shines thanks to Brann Dailor.
Too many mainstream bands play it straight to the point of boredom, or, to the opposite end of the spectrum, their use of odd time signatures feels so forced and contrived that you can’t help noticing they’re just trying too hard. But Dailor’s drumming is so effective that all his efforts seem effortless, and this has always been the strength and the backbone of Mastodon.
Of course, you can’t have a great album without great songs, and even though I can’t say The Hunter is the band at the height of their powers, as a mainstream heavy rock album it is the best of 2011. Never mind what the purists say: it isn’t metal, it isn’t pop, it isn’t crossover. It is bloody good fun, though. And in a musical decade that is distinguishing itself by the abysmal quality of its mainstream releases, The Hunter feels like a miracle.
Now, Josh Homme, hurry up and top this soon, yes?

——–

Mogwai – Hardcore Will Never Die But You Will

Ah, faith. Just when you think it’s over for good, the musical gods send you a reminder of their all-power.
I have to admit, I was disappointed by Mr Beast and the Hawk is Howling. The records seemed almost too loud for no real purpose and lost a lot of the dynamic outbursts that had cemented Mogwai among the luminaries of post-rock. Or maybe post-rock could only go so far without some game-changing retooling? And what is still considered post-rock, anyway?
Hardcore doesn’t try to answer the question. Instead, it takes the better elements of the previous recent albums and crystallizes them with more precise songwriting, more effective instrumentation and a heightened sense of purpose. The result is a very strong collection of tunes, instrumental or otherwise. “Rano Pano” and “You’re Lionel Richie” probably deserve spots in an all-career high, which is not a small feat considering the band’s longevity at this point. And if I have to sit through autotuned vocals, at least let Mogwai completely mess them up to show me how ridiculous a human can sound with excessive tweaking.
I wasn’t hoping for much, and I was thankfully proven wrong. Expectations, once again…

——–

Russian Circles – Empros

I was wondering where Russian Circles would go after Geneva: the songs had taken an expansive, mellower turn, and the inclusion of strings and horns gave the album its poised elegance. In short, Geneva had opened up new possibilities for the trio. Where they would decide to go could be anybody’s guess.
I guess I didn’t see Empros coming then. Not that it departs radically from the Russian Circles trademark sound (layered bass-heavy riffs, ingenious guitar looping, relentlessly inventive drumming), but it distills all these elements into perfect concoctions. Not a note is wasted, not a moment is lost. Every track is perfectly composed and nuanced, melodic but never too obvious. The heaviness of the record doesn’t come out as forced, but is actually necessary to reveal its inherent beauty.
Russian Circles have matured so much as a band that the interplay between them borders on the telepathic, something that becomes even more apparent when you see them live. Empros has a sense of direction and purpose that surpasses its predecessors, and sets the trio apart in their field.
I’ve probably listened to Empros more often than any other record since it came out, and every time my only complaint is that it almost feels too short.
But then I hit repeat, and the problem is solved.

——–

Colin Stetson – New History Warfare Volume II: Judges

I think there has been a “before/after” type of paradigm shift about Colin Stetson. And I’m not sure what else I can add to what I previously wrote here.
Except that I had written that blog before seeing him live, and nothing prepares you to that experience.
This is what music should be all about: total dedication to an idea, an instrument, a singular approach to making new forms with old things.
Without a doubt my favourite record of the year.

——–

Tom Waits – Bad As Me

Sometimes I wonder how to write about Tom Waits without resorting to the same old cliches: the bourbon-soaked voice, the bric-a-brac arrangements, the Brecht-meets-Bauhaus aesthetic… and then I realise that writing about Tom Waits is pointless. Because the cliches write themselves, the imagery is so idiosyncratic that it creates its own legend. And each release adds a facet to Tom Waits’s mythology.
In Bad as Me, it’s Elvis, for example, in “get lost”. Try not to shake your hips like it’s still 1957.
The first collection of originals since 2004’s Real Gone, Bad as Me is also an ideal entry point to discover Waits’s wonderful world: beautifully recorded, the album has more variety and dynamics than his work in the past decade, and even sounds as instantly accessible as any Tom Waits album could ever be since Rain Dogs .
Some artists should know when to call it quits before they dilute their work with unnecessary diversions. Others only get better, and more relevant. Tom Waits only becomes more Tom Waits. And I will always be thankful for having him.
This is a cliche, but it’s the only thing that’s true.

——–

Wilco – The Whole Love

Expectations, once again. I don’t think Wilco ever disappointed me as a music lover. I might not like all their albums as much, but there isn’t a single record in their discography that I never listen to. And The Whole Love seems to be getting really close to Yankee Foxtrot Hotel and Summerteeth in my personal favourites.
The new album finds the band in superlative form: from Glenn Kotche’s peerless drumming to Nels Cline’s spidery guitar lines, each song is beautifully crafted, wonderfully recorded, and always genuinely heartfelt. Jeff Tweedy has always had a way with the poetry of simple images, and The Whole Love is no exception: listen to “Rising red lung” or “one Sunday morning” for an example of honest-to-goodness songwriting.
At this point in their career, Wilco could do anything. They have been experimental, they have delved deeply into Americana, and they have done all this with a sense of wonder and excitement that has always prevented them from becoming too pretentious or self-indulgent. And as a listener, it is immensely rewarding to listen to an album of such levels of musicianship.
The Whole Love is not the best album in this list, but it is the most accomplished.
Then again, I would expect nothing less from Wilco…

——–
Bring it on, 2012!