Economical Ear Worms

Review: Royal Headache, Royal Headache

A glut of Australian bands—Twerps, Super Wild Horses, the UV Race, and Straight Arrows—are converting the Sydney and Melbourne underground circuits into a hotbed for garage rock revivalists. As the scene continues to thrive, many of these groups risk the pigeonholing that accompanies geographical and collaborative ties. Royal Headache, flag-bearers of the scene, avoids categorization by straddling the DIY pop punk zeitgeist and offering a glimpse of the future. The members of the Sydney-based quartet—singer Shogun, guitarist Law, bassist Joe, and drummer Shorrty—mix their Motown and garage-rock influences for the ultimate retro attitude. The band really triumphs because their nostalgic sensibilities do not trump their abilities; they dismiss lip-curling nonchalance in favor of soulful musicianship. The 12 economical ear worms on Royal Headache’s self-titled debut exude the frankness of great rock n’ roll while reveling in a wash of DIY fuzziness.

Royal Headache album clocks in at just under a half hour and manages to constrain its volatile lo-fi with well-structured songwriting and solid production. Royal Headache worked with Mikey Young, guitarist of Eddy Current Suppression Ring and master of the emotionally damaged punk aesthetic, to produce a record that sounds like it was made 40 years ago during the sepia-tinged era of heartbroken rockers. At the same time, the noisiness and rawness of the production captures the DIY snottiness of the group (their first rehearsals commenced in a boatshed in the suburbs of Sydney). This balancing act of R&B sentimentality and punk bravado demonstrates why Royal Headache is unique among their peers.

The boys recorded the bulk of the album with Young in one and a half days, but the vocals would later become an eight month process. And righteously so: Shogun’s pipes are Royal Headache’s x-factor. The singer’s versatile voice encapsulates the group’s influences (everyone from the Four Tops to the Buzzcocks) with a trebly quality that marvelously compliments the lo-fi production. He musters the libido of Rod Stewart, growls like Otis Redding, and is more rebellious than Julian Casablancas as he fervidly howls about unrequited love. On “Psychotic Episode” his voice approaches a low warble reminiscent of Morrissey. He adapts John Lennon’s grit in “Distant and Vague” as he skeptically wails, “Distant and vague/Every time I try to talk to you/Don’t know what to say/Tell me what my heart is supposed to do.” Royal Headache avoids monotony through Shogun’s impressive range, melodic curveballs, and unabashed emoting.

However, Royal Headache owes its infectious energy and durability to the talents of the group as a whole. Shogun’s voice is proficiently supported by the distinctive jangly of Law’s Rickenbacker, reckless-yet-focused bass lines by Joe, and Shorrty’s frenetic drumming. Together these gentlemen rise to the soul-crushing zenith and nadir of each song without killing the party. A peppy-yet-melancholy bass line precedes Shogun’s lamentations on “Distant and Vague” while “Honey Joy” flaunts a throbbing percussion reminiscent of hit by the Supremes until it evolves into clamoring jukebox rave. The climax of the poppy “Down the Lane” is particularly earth-shattering as the band thrashes like a captured eel and Shogun belts, “Love, love, love, love, love/Try to be her steady/But I don’t think she’s ready enough.” Royal Headache’s two instrumentals, “2 Kinds of Love” and “Wilson Street,” detract from the lyrical momentum of the record, but prove the band can sustain the hip-shaking while bringing it down a notch or two.

While any garage-rock outfit can espouse nihilism alongside their salmonella-tinged rawness, Royal Headache shrewdly avoids aloofness or whininess. They conjure up images of dashing, blue-eyed crooners but blend such images with a greasy, subversive din. But they also realize this dirty curtain of noise can be complemented by a gutsy, humanized performance and hooky songwriting that both pummel and uplift the listener. This is the key to great garage rock, and Royal Headache will continue to be iconic in the garage rock scene with this mesh of self-loathing and charm.

Kids In Buses

Last night I lay awake in bed listening to my roommate and her friends watching Drive. I had previously seen the movie so the sounds emanating from the television weren’t giving anything away, but it reminded of me when I was little and could overhear my parents watching a movie after I’d been tucked in. Sometimes the ominous music or unmistakable sounds of violence would lure me downstairs to find out why exactly I wasn’t allowed to watch such movies. Well, I was never brave enough to watch; I would huddle just outside the threshold attempting to gather the courage to peep around the corner. Mom and Dad always found me out and sent me back to bed where I would continue to lie awake and wonder what kind of grown-up stuff they were trying to protect me from.

Now that I am grown-up enough to watch movies like Drive I know how scary brain smashing, artery slicing, and eyeball forking can be. What might be scarier, however, is the fact that I graduate from graduate school in about a week and I have to find a big girl job. I could be paralyzed by my phobia of moving once again (a bizarre fear I won’t attempt to explain) in order to find said job. I might have to leave behind my friends and family in search of greater opportunity and my dreams.

At the conclusion of this crazy year, I’m listening to the remnants of a thunderstorm and this song by the Arcade Fire and realizing that it is complacency that is truly scary. I know it seems like such a sad bastard song, but to me it represents that feeling of not wanting to be “In the Backseat” any longer. The inherent safeness of being driven by someone else will always be comforting, and I’ll always crave the luxury of teenage laziness, but as the Peter Pan syndrome wears off my wasted hours adopt a more positive hue. Daydreams are morphing into the present/future and I’d waste every moment again since they brought me here.

Why shouldn’t blowing in the wind be synonymous with the freedom adulthood brings? Through such liberation comes much-desired change but there is also a pleasure in waiting. Anticipation bleeds into acceptance as stages shift and transform seeming monotony into something monumental–a life that we could live.

Fighting Animals

Review: Of Monsters and Men, My Head is An Animal

The 2010 eruptions of Eyjafjallajökull captured the attention of the world when a cloud of ash nearly circumnavigated the Northern Hemisphere and subsequently forced the cancellation of flights across Western and Eastern Europe. Icelandic six pack Of Monsters and Men have invaded the indie radar in similar manner as the volcano. They first gained notoriety when they emerged as winners of Músiktilraunir, a nationwide battle of the bands, the same year Eyjafjallajökull exploded. KEXP discovered the group during Iceland Airwaves later that year and videotaped the band playing “Little Talks.” The video garnered international attention as the song saturated airwaves and the blogosphere. When the song became a number one hit in Iceland in 2011 they were invited back to Iceland Airwaves and ultimately landed a record deal with Universal. When Of Monsters and Men announced their 2012 U.S. tour almost every show was immediately sold out the same day (nevermind the fact that they had never set foot on American soil). Their EP, Into the Woods, exceeded sales of 22k within the month of its release. Their tent at SXSW 2012 overflowed with critics, reporters, and fans. It seems Iceland could not contain the group’s whimsical appeal.

It’s impossible to ignore the Internet-hive-mind factor in considering Of Monsters and Men’s ability to sustain their buzz. It is without question that the efforts of avid bloggers, frenzied social networkers, Google analytics, and YouTube hits propelled the sextet’s popularity. Perhaps it is sheer luck that Of Monsters and Men surfaced in a digital age where bands like Arcade Fire and other sprawling, anthemic indie acts have popularized “heroic” rock. The choral jubilation, male/female harmonies, and underlying sadness emanating from Of Monsters and Men is hardly novel; in fact, the first track off their full-length record, My Head is An Animal, shares many attributes with “Home,” surprise hit by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros, right down to the chord changes and punctuating “Hey’s!” The chorus of “King and Lionheart,” the album’s second track, bears a strong resemblance to Mumford and Son’s “The Cave.” The eccentricity of an Icelandic accent imbued with folksy musical hues doesn’t aid any differentiation.

Of Monsters and Men distinguish themselves from such bands with anthropomorphic howls, whimsical fables, and an inimitable sense of isolation that can only be derived from their homeland. It is through these idiosyncrasies that the sextet substantiates their rise to indie royalty. The loneliness permeating My Head is An Animal is particularly well executed as it is juxtaposed with lyrics describing uprooted runaways and the undeniable power of chamber pop. “Six Weeks” illustrates the full effect as singer/guitarist Nanna Bryndís Hilmarsdóttir and co-singer/guitarist Ragnar “Raggi” Þórhallsson trade lyrics featuring a prodigal subject. When the rest of the band chimes in at the cacophonous final chorus (guitarist Brynjar Leifsson, drummer Arnar Rósenkranz Hilmarsson, piano/accordion player Árni Guðjónsson, and bassist Kristján Páll Kristjánsson) the brawny impact is cathartic and enchanting in its echoing universality. This poetic togetherness supplies a silver lining for any moroseness; the group earnestly chants “we are far, far from home/but we’re so happy” in “From Finner” and their elation is believable.

Similar tracks that utilize the full power and abilities of the outfit are where My Head is An Animal is particularly lustrous. Songs such as the fable-like “Dirty Paws,” the tribal “Mountain Sound,” and the enchanting “Love Love Love” provide vitality and dynamism when numbers like “Slow and Steady” drag on a bit too long. Hilmarsson’s flourishes on crash cymbals and soaring trumpet notes briefly rescue “Your Bones” from monotony. Consistent raconteuring provide muscle to the album’s duller moments. The ethereal voices of Hilmarsdóttir and Þórhallsson emulate the owls, wolves, bears, and other critters that populate the lyrics. Combined with Celtic-tinged anthems and the versatility a six-member band can provide, My Head is An Animal shows promise for the group as long as they don’t fall victim to formulaic climaxes.

Sure, why not? I’ll blog about Lana Del Rey, too.

I first heard Lana Del Rey’s “Video Games” sometime last August. I was driving and listening to Sirius XMU when it came on. I suppose it says something that I remember what intersection I was crossing as it was playing, but I still feel the same way as I felt about it then: sort of haunting but monotonous, too prolonged, needs some polishing, weird title. Next song, please.

So, now the internet is exploding with backlash against this chick. I’ll admit I’ve followed it pretty ravenously because I’m fascinated by the indie torch singer/pop star dichotomy.

Anyway, as far as I knew her father was a millionaire who hired marketers and producers to manufacture an image for her. I thought that was pretty gross. Her live performances (not just SNL) established she was not an entertaining performer (doesn’t bode well for aspiring pop stars). I thought her shtick was a little played out (commentary on Hollywood and fame? Yawn) but I appreciated the Lolita references. And I didn’t particularly care for her voice; it’s undeniably sexy with a decent range but ultimately emotionless.

Then there was the question of her “authenticity.” I found this question tricky  until I listened to her album. Born to Die is undeniably pop music. Pop music is all about altercations and blurred reality and packaging. But there is also a formula artists must follow. The popularization of “Video Games” is an odd phenomenon because it was almost a cult sensation. The video uploaded to YouTube is homemade and kitschy, not the anticipatory “world premiere” of most pop artists (I’m thinking Lady Gaga, Beyonce, Kesha, Rihanna, etc.). I didn’t first hear “Video Games” on the local Top 40 station; I heard it on Sirius XMU. I think this conundrum of “is she indie” and “is she pop” is what is generating so much flack.

Anyway, I was curious to see what the internet would reveal. Unfortunately, most of it has been speculation about the size of her lips, the amount of skin she reveals and the “authenticity” thing. Thankfully some chose the more constructively critical route and focused on her music, like Sasha Frere-Jones and Rob Harvilla at SPIN and (dare I say it) Pitchfork.

I thought the most insightful article by far was by Jessica Hopper. It a fine example of journalism which clears up any dispute about her pop categorization. It rightfully condemns the sexism saturating the critiques against her while commenting on her agency:

“For critics and anonymous commenters alike, the prospect of an attractive female artist who sings plainly about her desire because she has it, with a vision that is personal and not manufactured by others, who writes her own songs and makes her own videos, who understands what it takes to be a viable pop product and is capable of guiding herself to those perilous heights, this is an unsolvable equation.”

In any case, Lana Del Rey has generated some interesting discussion. Her badly timed publicity (the time lapse between the “Video Games” video and her SNL performance) was unfortunate. What do I think of the album? Sort of haunting but monotonous, too prolonged, needs some polishing, weird title. Next controversial artist, please.

One last thing: I’m gonna call Glee releases some versions of Born To Die tracks within the next month. You know it’s going to happen.

 

 

Lentils, Kale, Etc.

2012 marks my seventh year of vegetarian but perhaps my first year of being a good one. By “good” I mean eating balanced meals and taking the proper supplemental vitamins. Eating healthy is rewarding for all sorts of reasons I won’t blather on about except for one: creative expression. I wouldn’t call myself a foodie but I might be getting there. While cooking hasn’t completely taken the place of other avenues of creative expression (drawing or playing the saxophone/piano, in my case), it’s a sensory way to roll up my sleeves and de-stress.

For example, this is what I made tonight:

It was super easy to make. I cooked cumin seeds in sesame oil for 1 minute, threw in chopped leek and carrots and sauteed for 3 minutes. Then I added lentils and vegetable broth and simmered until tender then mixed in three cloves of garlic (I like garlic a little bit too much). Yum.

One food item I’ve become obsessed with (and was actually the first food I ate this year) is kale. It’s packed with nutrients and antioxidants and it tastes delicious. You can seriously do anything with it: eat it like a salad, saute it with some beans or dried fruit, throw it in a pasta, etc.

Other culinary discoveries include Otarian in NYC which could potentially be a vegetarian chain-restaurant. I am personally in love with this idea as getting food during the drive from Michigan to New York can be a challenge. Heck, finding good vegetarian options anywhere is a challenge so I know I’ll be visiting Otarian often during my time spent in the City. They had a great selection of vegetarian salads, wraps, burgers and entrees.

Sort of related is my recently published article about new restaurants that have opened in Syracuse. Give it a read!

 

Quartets and Communication

Review: Juilliard Quartet at (le) Poisson Rouge

The Juilliard Quartet garnered world renown by keeping performance fresh. The legendary ensemble presented muscular, sumptuous and even masculine interpretations of Beethoven, Mendelssohn and Shostakovich while propagating contemporary works. This signature sound has since faded with the phasing out of the original roster. Yet this shift in membership—Joseph Lin, first violinist, is the newest member as of 2011—reaffirms the Quartet’s freshness with an energetic continuation of its legacy. The Quartet upheld its reputation with gusto and exhilarating newness Thursday night, January 12 during their performance at Greenwich Village’s swanky fusion cabaret, (le) Poisson Rouge.

Much of the Juilliard Quartet’s success is owed to their vast understanding of each musician’s role within a string quartet. Goethe described the string quartet as a stimulating conversation between four intelligent people. In performance, each musician is expected to not only respond with appropriate alacrity but to contribute with earnestness and individual flair. Cellist Joel Krosnick recapitulated this idea to the (le) Poisson Rouge audience between pieces while adding that each musician is a character within the conversation.

The repertoire was suitable for a tribute to the form. They began with Quartet No. 43 in G major, Op. 54, No. 1 by the “Father of the String Quartet,” Joseph Hayden. The Juilliard Quartet’s interpretation flaunted their muscular DNA while capturing Haydn’s ardor for medium and his sense of humor. The musicians seamlessly yet gruffly attacked entrances in the first movement and featured individual voices and biting harmonies in the second. As the first phrase of the third movement is passed from first violin, to viola and to cello it lurches and bends playfully. This mischievousness continued in the finale in addition to drawn out pauses for dramatic effect.

The second piece was a tribute to another string quartet master, Elliot Carter, who recently turned 103. Although Krosnick introduced the piece by saying “don’t even try to understand [it],” the Quartet made the atonality and polyrhythms accessible through an enthusiastic infusion of character. The piece itself is an exploration of human behavior and communication as it mimics musicians in rehearsal discussing how to improve. The Juilliard Quartet immediately grasped this concept with the short introduction in which the musicians respond in turn with unconventional sounds: brusque pizzicato, groaning low notes and squealing harmonics. Lin burnished an assertive virtuosity, especially in the fifth movement, while second violinist Ronald Copes instilled both humor and order with steady rhythms. Violist Samuel Rhodes was at times doleful with whining moments while Krosnik was both impulsive as he furiously flaunted the range of his instrument.

The Juilliard Quartet received a standing ovation at the completion of the Carter piece and sandwiched it with an encore performance of a Mozart favorite. The performance may not have been completely true to the sound that made the Quartet famous. Rather, it exemplified their longstanding dedication to the understanding of the form and creating conversation.

Strangers and Hanging Orbs

Review: “It’s Always Right Now, Until It’s Later” by Daniel Kitson

I find observing others in mass humanity a guiltless exercise. The chance of a brief street encounter reoccurring is extremely slim. Even in the improbable circumstance that two lives cross again it is almost certain they won’t recognize each other.

“It’s Always Right Now, Until It’s Later” by Daniel Kitson, is about the moment when lives almost make contact. Kitson himself was the sole performer at St. Ann’s Warehouse in Brooklyn. His presence was captivating from the moment he occupied the stage and began to tell a story about two ordinary people–William and Caroline–who never know each other. Their lives barely intersect; the moment is not even enough to fill the space between two light bulbs hanging from the Warehouse stage.

Kitson uses the light bulbs to celebrate the big moments in the two character’s lives (births, deaths, declarations of love, definitive haircuts, etc.) although each light bulb individually represents the mundane and miniscule fractions of time William and Caroline spend laughing, crying, suspended in air or staring at what is seemingly nothing. He gestures to each orb while weaving together vignettes and anecdotes. At times he even climbs a step-ladder to envelope the light with cradling hands making each unremarkable nanosecond of their lives endearing and achingly real.

These “gaps,” as Kitson calls them, exist in all our lives and we are not usually aware of them. Normally we think of time spent “doing nothing” as unproductive or boring; Kitson’s 90 minute monologue put “doing nothing” in an almost transcendental context. Speaking in terms of matter, the nothing on the stage (space between the lights) surpasses the something on the stage (the light bulbs, Kitson, his chair, his step-ladder and his mug of water). I instantly thought of the cosmos while watching Kitson travel from light to light and how there is so much more nothing than something in our universe. In physics nothing is seen as an impossible idea, as such spaces are measurable and particles are said to sporadically emit energy then disappear within these spaces. In other words, nothing may be a void but it is always a receptacle.

“It’s Always Right Now, Until It’s Later” embraces the notion of nothing in the most comforting way imaginable by transforming the nothing in our lives into something precious, complex and exquisite. Kitson brilliantly avoids sentimentality and pretentiousness with his own distinct and delightful language–equal parts existentialist and crass–enhanced by his Yorkshire accent and stutter. There were moments when he stepped outside his lengthy monologue to explain to the audience that his sock needed adjusting or to question whether an audience member was licking their companion’s face. Yet these moments were not jolting and warmly illustrated his individuality. Kitson humbly reminds us that we are a mere drop in the ocean but also assures us that we are all connected.