More autumnal housecleaning.
These reviews ran in the mainstream daily newspapers the Kitchener-Waterloo Record and the Guelph Mercury in October.
Azeda Booth – In Flesh Tones (Absolutely Kosher/Sonic Unyon)
Chad Van Gaalen isn't the only Calgarian hoarding vintage synthesizers, though it's safe to say that Azeda Booth has the bigger collection. This quintet play planetarium pop music heavily influenced by the likes of Mum, Four Tet and the more abstract corners of Radiohead's discography, with androgynous vocals that make Sigur Ros sound downright butch, especially when they whisper lines about being "face down in the middle of the parking lot"—sounding like they were actually recorded in said state. Rhythms are occasionally scattershot, while the warm synth sounds and dream-like vocals provide a comforting cushion throughout even the most discombobulated moments—of which there are a few. This being a debut album, Azeda Booth are more in love with sounds than songs, but their sonic landscapes are intriguing enough—and unique in this country—to keep an eye on. (October 30, 2008)
Laura Barrett – Victory Garden (Paper Bag/Universal)
Perhaps I’ve been too easily charmed by Laura Barrett from the beginning: anyone venturing into the world as a singer/songwriter armed with only a kalimba (African thumb piano) and somehow making it work must surely have many other hidden talents. On her first full-length album, Barrett goes for broke, decorating her songs in all sorts of oddball orchestrations. Though the instruments may sound familiar, none of it sounds remotely conventional—and her lyrics follow suit, detailing hippopotamus and marsupials that get up to souped-up shenanigans.
There many isolated moments of beauty and brilliance here, and yet Victory Garden is totally confounding at almost every turn. Barrett is either an absolute genius or she’s completely bonkers; this is not an album that anyone will feel ambivalent about. If anything, it’s her lyrics and careening melodies that are the most distracting; much of the backing music, when left to its own dense devices, is playful and fascinating. Placing it alongside surrealist lyrics chains it to folk/pop expectations that do it a disservice. If anything, Barrett should take this even further and trust her instrumentals to tell entire stories.
However, even when Barrett stumbles in her songwriting, producer and co-arranger Paul Aucoin (the Hylozoists) ensures that there’s always a fascinating background behind her to fill in all the blanks. (October 2, 2008)
Bloc Party – Intimacy (Warner)
"This is the not the time to start a new love/ this is not the time to sign a lease, " sings Kele Okereke on Bloc Party's third album. When writing that line, he couldn't have known about global financial insecurity, and nor was he anticipating the Canadian electorate's decision to stick with the devil they know. But for Okereke and his bandmates, it sounds like they're not afraid to try on as many new clothes as possible.
And more power to them; they were always an interesting band with latent greatness, but now that they’ve thrown most of their formulas out the window, anything goes. There are still more than a few hints here of what U2 would sound like in 2008 if they had any cojones, and some updated 80s influences alongside newer nods to recent Radiohead and neo-prog rock such as Deerhoof and Battles. Squealing guitars, cascading brass and even Balkan choirs compete with scattershot drum programming, icy synths and Okereke’s plaintive uber-Brit yelping. Rather than a band exploring its identity crisis, Bloc Party are well on their way to developing their own sound, and moving leaps and bounds beyond the
Though drummer Matt Tong is still the main star here, increasingly inventive guitarist Russell Lissack threatens to steal the spotlight; vocalist Okereke is still the weak link, though thankfully his lyrics don’t sink to the self-absorbed depths they did last time out. Back then, he was jaded about the rock star lifestyle; this time he’s no doubt reinvigorated enough by his bandmates’ inventions to step us his own game. (October 23, 2008)
Buena Vista Social Club – At Carnegie Hall (Nonesuch/Warner)
Most long-lost live albums now seeing the light of day are from at least 30 years ago. But with the Cuban supergroup Buena Vista Social Club, it’s been a mere 10 years since this landmark performance; many of them were in their 80s then, and many of them are no longer with us. The cynic would argue that because the members are dying off, this release is an attempt to keep a flagging franchise going.
But who’s complaining? This documents a historic occasion, a victory lap for once-forgotten musicians who were retired or shining shoes when their Social Club became an international phenomenon. And when players like pianist Ruben Gonzalez are ignited by the outpouring of emotion from the crowd, the band embarks on captivating improvisatory flights that the studio albums only hinted at. The impassioned duets between Ibrahim Ferrer and Omara Portuondo are highlights, but mostly the singers take a backseat to the electricity of the band. This live album features all eight tracks from the original album and eight more from the various solo albums, assembled in a beautiful package that makes it equally worthwhile for collectors and newcomers. (October 23, 2008)
Calexico – Carried To Dust (Quarterstick/FAB)
Calexico have always been a band willing to try anything that suits the mood of their surrounding Arizona landscape: Mexican mariachi, cinematic desert-driven soundscapes, covers of classic rock and bleak British new wave, sparse instrumentals and lush pop songs. For all their many successes, there are occasionally times when it sounds like they're trying a bit too hard—as it did on 2006's Garden Ruin, where they tackled straight-up rock songs for the first time.
Carried To Dust finds them retreating to a mellower mood, and in the process they distill many of their strengths. They've made albums as good as this one before, but years of touring with an expanded band has made them that much more confident in every move. The mariachi flourishes coalesce with sunstroked, slow-burning country torch songs and traces of dub reggae into a cohesive new direction. Singer Joey Burns sticks to his lower register—sounding more and more like his previous employer, Giant Sand's Howe Gelb—whispering mysterious melodies as just another instrument in the mix, maintaining all focus on the meticulously arranged musical backdrop.
Calexico's last three albums have often been sidetracked by detours, for better and worse; here, they've settled on a single route—albeit the most scenic one possible. (October 30, 2008)
Calexico play the Phoenix in Toronto this Tuesday, November 18, with Cuff the Duke.
The Dears – Missiles (Maple/Universal)
If destruction and rebirth are common themes on this Dears album, there are literal reasons for this. Singer Murray Lightburn and keyboardist Natalia Yanchak had a baby before recording began, and by the time the process finished they were the only remaining band members. All of this factors directly into the subdued tone of Missiles, which strips away the guitars and modern rock bombast heard on 2006's disappointing Gang of Losers; in their place are eerie organs, subtle soul licks, acoustic guitars, synthetic strings, drunk drum machines and more than a few shades of Pink Floyd—including the tenor sax on the opening track, and the David Gilmour-esque guitar solo on "Lights Off." The high gloss of recent Dears recordings has also been scaled back; Missiles is a raw and intimate document of tumultuous times, both personally and politically. Lyrically, Lightburn still sees life-and-death issues everywhere he turns, and—as always—the lines between melodramatic and maudlin are very fine indeed ("Gotta get milk for the baby!"), especially when the children's choir and funereal brass show up on the ten-minute, brooding closing track "Saviour." By that point, however, Missiles proves to be such a record of redemption that that the Dears can be forgiven the occasional indulgence. (October 30, 2008)
Final Fantasy – Spectrum 14th Century EP; Plays to Please EP (Blocks Recording Club/ Sonic Unyon)
Owen Pallett can sell you almost anything. The man won the inaugural Polaris Prize with a concept album about Dungeons and Dragons titled He Poos Clouds; he is also a darling of CBC's Vinyl Café, has been invited to curate his own European festival, and has built his reputation for a stunning live performance involving only a violin and a loop pedal.
These two EPs pose their own challenges: one is another concept piece, this time set in a 14th century village, and the other orchestrates one of Toronto's most difficult and underappreciated songwriters.
Spectrum 14th Century finds Pallett's songwriting continue to evolve and move well beyond pop music constraints without sacrificing any of his melodic gifts; his instrumentation is also getting more diverse, with steel pans, trumpets, and contributions from his occasional employers in Arcade Fire and Beirut.
Plays to Please finds him reinventing the songs of Deep Dark United's Alex Lukashevsky, whose own albums are often impenetrable—and yet Pallett finds beauty and coherence in these songs by setting them to live and lush orchestration, liberating them from the expectations that come from Lukashevsky's usual rock/folk settings.
Each EP clocks in at less than 20 minutes; each is equally satisfying and indicative of Pallett's many talents. And as stopgaps before his long-delayed new full-length, they'll help us forgive him for taking his sweet time. (October 16, 2008)
Ben Folds – Way to Normal (Sony BMG)
Smart-ass, or sensitive guy? Ben Folds has always been a balance of both, especially on the three fine albums he made with Ben Folds Five in the last half of the 90s. But his last album, Songs for Silverman, showed him mellowing into a boring balladeer with little of the personality heard on earlier works. Way to Normal, on the other hand, finds him pounding on his piano again with glee, relishing in the rock'n'roll release of it all.
Unfortunately, his lyrics are often downright juvenile and unbefitting a writer who's capable of much better. The opening track is about falling on his ass on-stage in Hiroshima; the humour doesn't develop much further from there. "Effington" is about a town where Folds fantasizes about starting "a new effing life." The four-times-wed Folds revels in the word "bitch" and profane asides that suggest a mid-life crisis and/or regression is going on—which is sad, because much of the music here is what longtime Folds fans have been waiting for since 2001's Rockin' the Suburbs. There's a fantastically furious piano solo in "Dr. Yang"; "Free Coffee" finds him mining Radiohead rhythms to an oddly wonderful effect; "Cologne" is one his finer ballads.
Most of this album finds Folds trying to figure out who he was, who he is and who he should be—searching for his own "way to normal," if you will. (October 16, 2008)
Fucked Up – The Chemistry of Common Life (Matador/Beggars Banquet)
There are easy reasons why this Toronto hardcore punk band have been making international headlines, starting with their name. There’s also the reputation of their live show, where singer Pink Eyes is known to be the most self-lacerating singer since early Iggy Pop. And they’ve gone on the record in several articles musing about their own self-destruction.
But what makes Fucked Up more than just obnoxious drama queens is the ambition of their music. They open their album with a solo flute, and include two tracks of ambient instrumentals; in the hands of a lesser band, these would be cheap signifiers of “musical maturity.” But throughout The Chemistry of Common Life, Fucked Up show that they’re just as much recording studio sticklers as they are a chaotic live act. There’s more than a few plodding punk rock numbers here, and the proceedings get infinitely more interesting when guests show up, such as vocalists Dallas Green (City and Colour, Alexisonfire) and Katie Stelmanis. But on tracks like the opening "Son The Father" show in spades, Fucked Up are far more multidimensional than their media image might portray.
While this isn’t the masterpiece it’s being made out to be, it’s obvious that this band does have such a work in them—if they stay together long enough to write and record it. (October 23, 2008)
Girl Talk – Feed the Animals (Illegal Art)
Years ago now, the mash-up was king—for about a month. Take the vocals of a bubblegum pop song and set it to a hardcore hip-hop beat, or vice versa—it wasn’t rocket science, there were hundreds of them floating around the net, and the appeal wore off quickly.
And yet Girl Talk is a mash-up DJ who is one of the hottest live acts in the States right now. He’s also getting tons of press—mostly revolving around the mystery as to why no one has sued him for every penny he’s ever made, considering the brazen copyright lawbreaking going on here. That is part of the reason he’s offering it as a pay-what-you-can download from his website.
Each track here contains dozens of samples drawn from every corner of the pop music map, mixing up Metallica with Lil Mama, Flo-Rida with the Velvet Underground, and plenty of 80s one-hit wonders with today’s gangsta rap. There’s something to be said for the “poptimism” of it all, playing to the omnivorous tastes of a new generation for whom nothing is uncool or off-limits. Girl Talk makes it work in all its ADD glory, and there’s a reason why he’s the only mash-up artist anyone’s still talking about: he’s that good.
But is Girl Talk the innovative artist he’s made out to be, or is he simply a great party DJ? There’s very little here that isn’t instantly recognizable and meant to play to a crowd, so it’s not like the guy is bringing obscurities to life. He’s also using full verses and choruses, not recontextualizing small snippets. This music only works because we know (most of) it so well already—so why should we care about who Girl Talk is as an artist? And, by extension, should he or anyone else be paid for it?
Of course, no one will be arguing about any of this when you put Feed the Animals on at a party—which you will, and which you should. Let the academics debate and leave the geeks to trainspot every sample; everyone else will revel in the exhilaration of these cheap thrills that are, ultimately, even more disposable than the one-hit wonders he pilfers at will. (October 9, 2008)
Hanggai – Introducing Hanggai (Introducing)
When it comes to “world music” fads, Chinese and East Asian music is usually at the bottom of the list. There’s never been an act from that corner of the world that’s even approached mainstream success in the west—but if anyone could, it’s Hanggai.
This is a group of Mongolian musicians living in Beijing, playing traditional Chinese string instruments and incorporating some of the throat singing technique of their native land. The frog-like vocals, minimal percussion and droning melodies of the ehru (a two-stringed violin-like instrument) are utterly entrancing on the slower numbers; the more upbeat tunes here have an unexpectedly Celtic lilt to them. This is a string band, after all, and at some point a fiddle tune is still a fiddle tune—only Hanggai don’t sound like they fit easily into either eastern or western traditions.
The surf guitar that shows up in "Five Heroes" throws the listener for a loop, as does the relentless chugging rhythm of Wuji—which could pass for an acoustic metal song, complete with guttural vocals.
Introducing Hanggai is a world unto itself—which is maybe what “world music” should be about in the first place. (October 16, 2008)
Koushik – Out My Window (Stones Throw/Koch)
Until now, Koushik was known—if he was known at all—as a sidekick to Caribou, the psychedelic electronic artist who snapped up the 2008 Polaris Prize last month. And it’s very obvious what the two have in common, other than a childhood spent in Dundas, Ontario: a love of reverb, ghostly sounds, and hints of 60s pop. But where Caribou relies of propulsive percussion and duelling drum kits, Koushik prefers much more laconic sonics.
Out My Window is a dreamy and deconstructionist pop album that, though melodic, takes a carefree and unhurried approach to its hooks. There are hints of hip-hop production in the beats and loops, and it’s easy to see why Koushik caught the ear of Stones Throw, the label that is home to the left-field jazzy grooves of Madlib.
Yet Koushik is ultimately about melody or beats, just mood and abstractions. Some may find it slight, but it’s hard not to get swept up in the sun-baked atmospherics and rumbling reverb that envelopes everything. Just don’t consume while operating heavy machinery. (October 9, 2008)
Lyrics Born – Everywhere At Once (Anti/Epitaph)
The man they call Lyrics Born has one of the finest flows in hip-hop, with a laid-back, charismatic and clever Californian drawl that suits his every move, from electro funk to pop to Barry White balladry, with plenty of live instrumentation shaking up his sample-based approach of the past. And while he has no problem adapting his flow to his expanded musical palette, many of the tracks here don’t measure up to his own mic skills. For a guy whose last record was an entirely engaging and successful remix album that mostly regurgitated his debut, it’s a bit shocking that most of this album comes off as mere filler. When he’s on point, he’s capable of some of the year’s finest party tracks ("Don’t Change," "Hott 2 Deff"); those are definitely worth a download. Lyrics Born has it in him to be an album artist; unfortunately, this is not that album. (October 9, 2008)
Monkey – Journey to the West (XL/Beggars Banquet)
Damon Albarn is never dull, even if he falls flat on his face. The one-time frontman of Britpop sensation Blur has done plenty of globetrotting in the past ten years, both with his animated supergroup of sorts, Gorillaz, and a quickly-forgotten band that brought together members of The Clash, The Verve and Fela Kuti's band.
Monkey is another project with his Gorillaz collaborator Jamie Hewlett; this time they take on Chinese opera. Not the classical kind heard in Farewell My Concubine (one of my favourite movies of all time) nor the type heard recently in Stephin Merritt's Showtunes project, which was equally as inspired by Gilbert and Sullivan.
Monkey is a mix of all of this and more, a cross-cultural carnival with nary a nod to pop convention, despite the occasional drum machine or electric guitar. With Mandarin lyrics, there's no hint here for English speakers what sort of narrative is taking place; the music is cinematic enough to make its own suggestions, with equal nods to classical traditions from both east and west, and elements of sci-fi bachelor pad music, prog rock and electronic pop.
What could be a frantic trainwreck of good intentions and bad directions is instead a captivating aural journey, aided by the ADD effect of having 22 tracks that rarely clock in at over two minutes. Surprising at every turn, the sound of Albarn and Hewlett monkey-ing around is more rewarding than anyone might have imagined. (October 30, 2008)
Krista Muir – Accidental Railway (Indica)
This Montreal chanteuse once liked to play dress-up in a character called Lederhosen Lucil, an act that took her touring around the world. This, however, is her second solo album playing it straight, and Muir proves that she has the emotional depth to outlast her cartoonish alter-ego.
She’s mostly abandoned the kitschy synths in favour of ukuleles and omnichords—thrift store instruments that could be just as campy, but in Muir’s hands they attain the perfect level of melancholy. Singing in English, French and Greek, Muir almost always hits the right emotional chords, especially on "Leave Alight" and "Concrete Lovesong," two of the most haunting songs you’ll hear this season. Muir also likes a good left turn when she finds one; a song like "Officer" moves through several moods successfully, including some minor key British folk motifs. Her attempts to rock out Jonathan Richman-style don’t work as well, but they’re by no means overstated nor distracting. (October 16, 2008)
Raphael Saadiq – The Way I See It (Sony BMG)
It must be hard for a veteran American R&B singer watch a new crew of Brits steal their sound and storm the airwaves. Raphael Saadiq plans to beat Amy, Duffy and Jamie and join them at the same time, by mining Motown and other vintage soul grooves to launch what should be a surefire comeback. Saadiq has had commercial success before—first in the late 80s with Tony! Toni! Toné!, and then in the late 90s with Lucy Pearl; he’s also been behind the boards for benchmarks of the neo-soul movement, such as D’Angelo.
With The Way I See It, Saadiq doesn’t go for an entirely retro recording ala Sharon Jones and the Daptones: this is still very modern, but it’s full of string sections, glockenspiels, guitar licks and big brass. Saadiq is a phenomenal singer, smooth like Smokey Robinson and seductive like Marvin Gaye. And most importantly, he’s got the songs to match the sound, each one delivered around the three-minute mark and leaving no room for wasted notes. Even when he calls in Joss Stone for a duet on "Just One Kiss," she only sticks around for two verses and two choruses before they fade out, deftly avoiding any soul-singer ego showdown. Inviting Jay-Z to rap over the slow jam "Oh Girl" is a significantly less successful move—thankfully that’s relegated to “bonus track” status.
When Stevie Wonder shows up to play harmonica on "Never Give You Up," it’s not just a gimmicky cameo—it’s a reminder that talents of that calibre are few and far between, and Saadiq has all the right stuff. (October 2, 2008)
Santogold – s/t (Downtown/Warner)
Genre-hopping polyglot pop is increasingly common, but few have the songcraft to pull it off effortlessly. On her debut album, Santogold jumps from MIA-influenced ragga pop to surf rock, with lo-fi electronics, nods to 80s new wave, reggae grooves and pop hooks to spare—especially when she plays it comparatively straight on the Fleetwood Mac-ish "Lights Out," or on "I'm a Lady," where the guitars sound remarkably like the Pixies' "Where is My Mind?". Santogold's solid choice of collaborators, including DJ Diplo, pull everything together, but Santogold herself—despite strong vocal performances—doesn't seem particularly invested in anything she's singing, often coming off like a robotic automaton told to try on a new set of clothes on every song. The grooves and the hooks make this easy to overlook; expect even better things when she sinks into her own skin. (October 30, 2008)
Rob Szabo – Life and Limb (robszabo.com)
One of the strangest aspects of the current financial crisis is that it comes as a surprise to anyone. Mountains of debt and high-risk mortgages are bound to come crashing down eventually—something that K-W songwriter Rob Szabo certainly knew when he wrote "That Cold Hard Sell": “There’s nothing like that cold hard sell/ they’re getting away with murder/ there’s nothing like no money down/ and don’t pay ‘til next December.” What he surely didn’t know was that he would be releasing the song within weeks of the collapse, rendering it a much more visceral listen.
He’s not as topical—or as rollicking—on the rest of Life and Limb, though it is once again a fine showcase for this underrated singer/songwriter and his well-crafted acoustic pop and country leanings. Longtime collaborator/co-producer/co-writer Steve Strongman helps Szabo keep things simple, which works well: his melodic gifts and vocal talents require very little ornamentation at all. That’s why the album’s one major misstep is when they call in a children’s choir on "He Loves You," a waltz where Szabo pleads with a friend not to leave her husband; the children merely make everything that much more mawkish. It’s a strange move for a man who exercises considerable taste and restraint on the rest of this album. (October 2, 2008)
Lucinda Williams – Little Honey (Lost Highway/Universal)
Lucinda Williams' car wheels have been spinning for the better part of the last decade, after releasing three of the finest roots rock albums of the 90s. "Come on and give me another chance," she can be heard moaning halfway through Little Honey, but there's little here to give us reason to do that.
She woke up from the crippling depression that defined much of her 2007 album West, an album that stood out from her recent work on the strength of its lyrics alone. This time out, she ups the tempo occasionally, but resorts to silly metaphors and cheap rhymes, with nary a trace of the character writing that defines her best work. Her increasingly laconic vocal stylings don't help matters any; she often sounds like she's being propped up in front of the microphone. Her delivery is most effective when she strips everything down to primal, raw blues on “Heaven Blues”—too bad the lyrical content unintentionally reinforces David Byrne's notion that "heaven is a place where nothing ever happens."
There's a new album out by a devout Lucinda disciple, Montreal's Angela Desveaux; you'd be much better off buying that record to get your Lucinda fix. (October 23, 2008)
Showing posts with label Laura Barrett. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Laura Barrett. Show all posts
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Springtime 08: New Life, Live Shows
This blog may have been inactive over the last month, but there's been plenty of live action in Toronto that I've had the pleasure to be privy to. As noted here and here and finally here (with my retort in the comments), Destroyer was not one of them. Here's a brief recap.
March 27
Burnt Sugar at Lula Lounge.
This is an arkestra conducted by guitarist and cultural theorist Greg Tate, featuring fine funk and jazz players, yet it never really coalesced in the unexpected ways I expected—if that makes any sense. I was hoping for more sense of rhythmic and harmonic freedom, but instead the band seemed content to ride rather simple grooves that one sympathetic colleague uncharitably described as "jam band territory." The much-ballyhooed "conduction" employed by Tate and his band members didn't seem any different than what every jazz band on the planet does: communicate through eye and hand gestures on stage, with or without a baton in your hand.
There were definitely inspired moments, mostly courtesy of the alien-like MIDI saxophonist and the punchy baritone player. But overall, I much prefer the wilder and more inclusive antics of Toronto's own Dave Clark and the Woodchoppers Association, who have been conducting improv sessions for the better part of ten years now. Anyone who's witnessed the Woodchoppers at the Tranzac, at the old Ted's Wrecking Yard, or Clark's annual Hillside Festival workshops knows exactly what I'm talking about. Clark pushes his players—and often the audience—in every possible direction and isn't afraid to rip everything apart before pulling it back together, making Burnt Sugar seem downright safe in comparison.
March 28
Kalimba Summit: Kahil El'Zabar, Njacko Backo, Laura Barrett, Nifty at Tranzac.
As one can tell from hyper-self-conscious articles like this one, Toronto's indie rock community suffers from a load of white guilt when it comes to building bridges to the rich world music community here. But thanks to the valiant efforts of people like David Dacks of The Abstract Index and, more specifically, Jonny Dovercourt of The Music Gallery and Wavelength, events like this are starting to become more commonplace. And hopefully they become less stilted than much of this evening ended up being.
Nifty is Matt Smith, who formed Les Mouches with Final Fantasy's Owen Pallett back in the early days of Torontopia. His debut album, A Sparrow! A Sparrow!, was one of the most pleasant surprises of 2007, involving sound collage, metallic percussion pieces, aquatic techno and avant-garde folk songs. In many ways, Nifty is everything I always hope Sandro Perri's various projects (Polmo Polpo, Glissandro 70, his self-titled folk material) will be but rarely are to these ears.
Live, however, Smith is stuck behind his sampler, loop pedals and mixing board, with nothing much to focus the eyes on other than his highly questionable 80s fashion choices. And while the reverb-drenched recording rarely gets stuck in a swamp, the live set does exactly that all too often. As for his use of kalimba, it was obviously inspired in part by Congotronics, but he didn't take it far enough in that direction to hold the interest of the audience faction who came to hear the headliners.
Laura Barrett has single-handedly brought the kalimba to the attention of Toronto's indie community, and it's safe to say that she was the impetus for this evening's programming. Her two EPs to date don't do proper justice to what she does and where she's going: her crazy busy kalimba playing is the perfect complement to her abstract sense of melodics that recalls late-period Joni Mitchell—in a good way—and the new material, due out this fall, showed her continuing to grow away from her cutesy beginnings.
Barrett claims to have felt a bit out of place on a bill with Njacko Backo, an African-Canadian from Cameroon who fronts a band called Kalimba Kalimba—obviously not a newcomer to the instrument. Backo also spends part of his time performing and teaching for school children, a trait that came across all too well at this performance. His lyrics were simplistic and sadly often cloying. He appeared to be having some rhythmic difficulty perhaps due to a bad monitor mix, and the way he joked about bullying the audience into crowd participation had the counterintuitive effect of feeling uncomfortable.
The evening took a total shift when Kahil El'Zabar took the stage. A tall, cool and commanding figure, he took a markedly different approach than everyone on stage before him. El'Zabar plays the blues, sparse and full of soul, and without the busy rhythms that mark most kalimba playing. He has the demeanour of a seasoned jazz dude, the kind who can casually remind you that he's played with everyone from Paul Simon to Nina Simone to Pharoah Sanders without seeming like a total jackass. He works himself into a trance, to the point where he's humming gutturally and practically twisting his head around Stevie-style, lost in the moment and pulling us in with him. It had been a long night at that point, but there wasn't any question of anyone bailing early once El'Zabar cast his spell.
He made a great speech (among many) that gave Laura Barrett some props and then invited everyone on stage for a final jam. The collaboration was less remarkable than we'd hoped, and perhaps a visibly unimpressed Njacko Backo did the right thing by curtailing it early on. But it was worth trying—as was this bill, which if nothing else introduced Barrett and El'Zabar to new audiences and each other. More culture clash, please.
March 31
Sunset Rubdown at Lee's Palace.
I've seen Sunset Rubdown plenty of times, including very early band incarnations at tiny gigs in Montreal. I've even seen them plenty of times at Lee's Palace; this would be my third time. And because I somehow postponed spending any serious time with the latest album—Random Spirit Lover, which came out last fall—this gig wasn't on my radar at all. Until, that is, my old friend Mark "The Nooch" Nichol wrote and asked if I was coming; he's the latest addition to his Mile End Sunday soccer mates in Sunset Rubdown, playing kalimba, bass, and percussion, and I had yet to see him in the band.
The Nooch did not disappoint, and neither did the rest of his new crew. They're packing more muscle now that there's a bass being traded about on stage. Camille Wynn-Ingr still sounds magical harmonizing with Spencer Krug, who remains one of the more endearingly awkward men currently fronting a powerhouse band. And the two dudes trading guitar and drum duties take an inventive approach to both instruments that elevates the arrangements far above the realm of rote rock bands.
The new material is better than I remembered the album sounding, especially the song that Helen Spitzer always thinks sounds like Big Country. And I'm still baffled at the sight of people holding hands, singing and swooning to "Us Ones In Between," though it's a lovely sight.
April 8
Jens Lekman, Final Fantasy at Great Hall
Hearing brand new Final Fantasy material was reason enough to go to this show. Seeing Jens Lekman live for the first time was another. And I'd be lying if I said that the fact that I live about a 30-second walk away from the beautiful, hallowed venue wasn't yet another still.
Despite its beauty, the Great Hall has some serious acoustic problems, which plagued much of the Final Fantasy set. It put off Owen Pallett somewhat and didn't help his nerves about debuting new material that he didn't consider finished works. Not that it mattered: the new songs sound great, punctuated with lots of staccato rhythms he creates by bouncing his bow on the strings, sounding not unlike Japanese kotos. The new album will be called Homeland, due out in the fall, and Pallett described it as being set in a "fictional world where I am the supreme deity." Um, isn't that the case with all narrative fiction, in song lyrics or otherwise?
Jens Lekman had a lot of love from the crowd for his Swedish Jonathan Richman schtick, which would fall flat on its face were he not such a charmer. He's as deadpan as the Flight of the Conchords, and yet because of his ESL lyrics it's not always clear when he's conning you and when he actually thinks he's nicked an awesome rhyme. Either way, his charisma outweighs the cheese, and his way with classic melodies supercedes any other shortcomings. Plus, for this performance he was joined by Final Fantasy's projectionist Steph Comilang, who added visual splendour to the stripped-down set that otherwise featured only a percussionist and the occasional backing tape.
Lekman wrapped up the evening by performing in the park beside the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health (I was in bed by that point); something he'd obviously planned from the beginning of the set, and seemed itchy to ditch the formality of the stage show to get to it.
April 10
Hilotrons, Andy Swan at Horseshoe
Ottawa's Kelp Records crew rolled into Toronto with a couple of well-kept secrets, a niche that Kelp seems to have nailed down. It's a specialty that no label aspires to, and while Kelp may be a sensation in their hometown—witness their ability to throw massive weekend-long parties at the city's major venues every April to celebrate their anniversary—they're far under the radar in Toronto.
That's true even of their only Toronto act, singer/songwriter Andy Swan. Changing the name of his long-running band Detective Kalita to The Michael Parks doesn't help, nor does the fact that he just released a solo album under his own name (Andy Swan's Ottawa).
He's got some critics in his corner, he has the undying loyalty of his Kelp peers who talk him up every chance they get, and he has Polmo Polpo's Sandro Perri playing slide guitar for him occasionally. He also has an arsenal of great songs, but not the kind that make an immediate impression or that his modest stage persona is about to give you a major sales job on. Swan is so subtle that it's taken me years to cotton on to what a talent he is; every time I've seen him I fall further under his spell, and this performance sealed the deal. Without a major hustle behind him, Swan can only hope for a Ron Sexsmith-esque career revival a few more albums down the road.
The Hilotrons are major stars in Ottawa, yet rarely play outside the city limits. That should change with the release of Happymatic, a fine pop album that makes you instantly forget about all those other herky-jerky Devo-tees who are giving art-damaged early 80s pop music a bad name.
The Hilotrons boast a bouncy rhythm section capable of twisting beats upside down and around, while vocalist Mike Dubue unleashes synth squiggles in between a pitch perfect vocal performance. We expect so little from male singers in rock band these days, leaving the operatic performances to melodramatic drama queens in moody art rock bands or sensitive folkie acts. Dubue is having none of that. He's a belter who doesn't need multiple takes to get it right; he nails it every time, as does every instrumentalist standing behind him on stage.
I'd heard earlier recordings by this band and found them mildly interesting at best; Happymatic was a pleasant surprise. But nothing prepared me for how jaw-droppingly awesome the Hilotrons' live show is—miss them at your peril. They certainly don't deserve to be relegated to "well-kept secret" status.
April 14: Man Man, Yeasayer at Lee's Palace
Man Man has always sounded insane. Lead singer Honus Honus howls to a point well beyond hoarse while attacking his keyboard; drummer Pow Pow looks like he'd be sequestered in a straitjacket had he chosen any profession other than percussion; the rest of the band look like a ragtag crew of salty sailors with a questionable grip on sanity. And yet the music has always worked: their strange mash-up of klezmer, cabaret, barrelhouse piano, kitchen sink percussion and raunchy blues managed to never get completely unhinged. Until now.
Maybe they've been playing these songs too long on the road and are bored by now, but there was a perverse desire to play everything twice as fast. The manic marimba player looked like he was ready to lose some limbs. As if to compensate, cracks started to show in their collective stamina by set's end, allowing them to play the until-now rare live treat "Van Helsing's Boombox," a track that's as tender as Man Man ever gets.
Not that anyone in the crowd seemed to mind. Word of mouth has built up over the past three years, thanks in part to the fact they now share a label with Tom Waits and Nick Cave, and there were no doubt many newbies who came out to witness the spectacle. The band seemed all to eager to please, pushing everything over the top and barely able to stay in one spot for more than two bars. Honus Honus in particular had trouble focusing on his piano, because he had a perverse desire to smash yet another piece of percussive metal every two bars or so, while the other Men Men pushed their already-ridiculous falsettos well beyond the breaking point.
Man Man on a bad day are still infinitely more entertaining than most of what builds a buzz on the blogosphere these days—which brings us to opening act Yeasayer. This Brooklyn band might be one of the hippest things among those born after 1980, but anyone a bit older than that will be forced to recall Oingo Boingo for the first time in over 20 years. Individually they're amazing players, but that doesn't for a second excuse the monotonous mess they get into. As soon as they took the stage, I realized that I had actually seen them before once, in NYC, and had made a point of forgetting about them. Visually, they're a motley crew, with a preppy vocalist that looks like a young John Linnell from They Might Be Giants, bookended by a Latvian mafia bassist gyrating his hips and a noodly guitarist focusing on his effects. One song with a First Nations vocal feel managed to cut the mustard, but the rest of the set felt downright punishing.
So did Man Man, I'm sure, for some people. Even this day-one fan found them a bit much on this outing, like they were trying to hard to impress the larger audience that had suddenly shown up to see them. Just be yourselves, Men.
March 27
Burnt Sugar at Lula Lounge.
This is an arkestra conducted by guitarist and cultural theorist Greg Tate, featuring fine funk and jazz players, yet it never really coalesced in the unexpected ways I expected—if that makes any sense. I was hoping for more sense of rhythmic and harmonic freedom, but instead the band seemed content to ride rather simple grooves that one sympathetic colleague uncharitably described as "jam band territory." The much-ballyhooed "conduction" employed by Tate and his band members didn't seem any different than what every jazz band on the planet does: communicate through eye and hand gestures on stage, with or without a baton in your hand.
There were definitely inspired moments, mostly courtesy of the alien-like MIDI saxophonist and the punchy baritone player. But overall, I much prefer the wilder and more inclusive antics of Toronto's own Dave Clark and the Woodchoppers Association, who have been conducting improv sessions for the better part of ten years now. Anyone who's witnessed the Woodchoppers at the Tranzac, at the old Ted's Wrecking Yard, or Clark's annual Hillside Festival workshops knows exactly what I'm talking about. Clark pushes his players—and often the audience—in every possible direction and isn't afraid to rip everything apart before pulling it back together, making Burnt Sugar seem downright safe in comparison.
March 28
Kalimba Summit: Kahil El'Zabar, Njacko Backo, Laura Barrett, Nifty at Tranzac.
As one can tell from hyper-self-conscious articles like this one, Toronto's indie rock community suffers from a load of white guilt when it comes to building bridges to the rich world music community here. But thanks to the valiant efforts of people like David Dacks of The Abstract Index and, more specifically, Jonny Dovercourt of The Music Gallery and Wavelength, events like this are starting to become more commonplace. And hopefully they become less stilted than much of this evening ended up being.
Nifty is Matt Smith, who formed Les Mouches with Final Fantasy's Owen Pallett back in the early days of Torontopia. His debut album, A Sparrow! A Sparrow!, was one of the most pleasant surprises of 2007, involving sound collage, metallic percussion pieces, aquatic techno and avant-garde folk songs. In many ways, Nifty is everything I always hope Sandro Perri's various projects (Polmo Polpo, Glissandro 70, his self-titled folk material) will be but rarely are to these ears.
Live, however, Smith is stuck behind his sampler, loop pedals and mixing board, with nothing much to focus the eyes on other than his highly questionable 80s fashion choices. And while the reverb-drenched recording rarely gets stuck in a swamp, the live set does exactly that all too often. As for his use of kalimba, it was obviously inspired in part by Congotronics, but he didn't take it far enough in that direction to hold the interest of the audience faction who came to hear the headliners.
Laura Barrett has single-handedly brought the kalimba to the attention of Toronto's indie community, and it's safe to say that she was the impetus for this evening's programming. Her two EPs to date don't do proper justice to what she does and where she's going: her crazy busy kalimba playing is the perfect complement to her abstract sense of melodics that recalls late-period Joni Mitchell—in a good way—and the new material, due out this fall, showed her continuing to grow away from her cutesy beginnings.
Barrett claims to have felt a bit out of place on a bill with Njacko Backo, an African-Canadian from Cameroon who fronts a band called Kalimba Kalimba—obviously not a newcomer to the instrument. Backo also spends part of his time performing and teaching for school children, a trait that came across all too well at this performance. His lyrics were simplistic and sadly often cloying. He appeared to be having some rhythmic difficulty perhaps due to a bad monitor mix, and the way he joked about bullying the audience into crowd participation had the counterintuitive effect of feeling uncomfortable.
The evening took a total shift when Kahil El'Zabar took the stage. A tall, cool and commanding figure, he took a markedly different approach than everyone on stage before him. El'Zabar plays the blues, sparse and full of soul, and without the busy rhythms that mark most kalimba playing. He has the demeanour of a seasoned jazz dude, the kind who can casually remind you that he's played with everyone from Paul Simon to Nina Simone to Pharoah Sanders without seeming like a total jackass. He works himself into a trance, to the point where he's humming gutturally and practically twisting his head around Stevie-style, lost in the moment and pulling us in with him. It had been a long night at that point, but there wasn't any question of anyone bailing early once El'Zabar cast his spell.
He made a great speech (among many) that gave Laura Barrett some props and then invited everyone on stage for a final jam. The collaboration was less remarkable than we'd hoped, and perhaps a visibly unimpressed Njacko Backo did the right thing by curtailing it early on. But it was worth trying—as was this bill, which if nothing else introduced Barrett and El'Zabar to new audiences and each other. More culture clash, please.
March 31
Sunset Rubdown at Lee's Palace.
I've seen Sunset Rubdown plenty of times, including very early band incarnations at tiny gigs in Montreal. I've even seen them plenty of times at Lee's Palace; this would be my third time. And because I somehow postponed spending any serious time with the latest album—Random Spirit Lover, which came out last fall—this gig wasn't on my radar at all. Until, that is, my old friend Mark "The Nooch" Nichol wrote and asked if I was coming; he's the latest addition to his Mile End Sunday soccer mates in Sunset Rubdown, playing kalimba, bass, and percussion, and I had yet to see him in the band.
The Nooch did not disappoint, and neither did the rest of his new crew. They're packing more muscle now that there's a bass being traded about on stage. Camille Wynn-Ingr still sounds magical harmonizing with Spencer Krug, who remains one of the more endearingly awkward men currently fronting a powerhouse band. And the two dudes trading guitar and drum duties take an inventive approach to both instruments that elevates the arrangements far above the realm of rote rock bands.
The new material is better than I remembered the album sounding, especially the song that Helen Spitzer always thinks sounds like Big Country. And I'm still baffled at the sight of people holding hands, singing and swooning to "Us Ones In Between," though it's a lovely sight.
April 8
Jens Lekman, Final Fantasy at Great Hall
Hearing brand new Final Fantasy material was reason enough to go to this show. Seeing Jens Lekman live for the first time was another. And I'd be lying if I said that the fact that I live about a 30-second walk away from the beautiful, hallowed venue wasn't yet another still.
Despite its beauty, the Great Hall has some serious acoustic problems, which plagued much of the Final Fantasy set. It put off Owen Pallett somewhat and didn't help his nerves about debuting new material that he didn't consider finished works. Not that it mattered: the new songs sound great, punctuated with lots of staccato rhythms he creates by bouncing his bow on the strings, sounding not unlike Japanese kotos. The new album will be called Homeland, due out in the fall, and Pallett described it as being set in a "fictional world where I am the supreme deity." Um, isn't that the case with all narrative fiction, in song lyrics or otherwise?
Jens Lekman had a lot of love from the crowd for his Swedish Jonathan Richman schtick, which would fall flat on its face were he not such a charmer. He's as deadpan as the Flight of the Conchords, and yet because of his ESL lyrics it's not always clear when he's conning you and when he actually thinks he's nicked an awesome rhyme. Either way, his charisma outweighs the cheese, and his way with classic melodies supercedes any other shortcomings. Plus, for this performance he was joined by Final Fantasy's projectionist Steph Comilang, who added visual splendour to the stripped-down set that otherwise featured only a percussionist and the occasional backing tape.
Lekman wrapped up the evening by performing in the park beside the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health (I was in bed by that point); something he'd obviously planned from the beginning of the set, and seemed itchy to ditch the formality of the stage show to get to it.
April 10
Hilotrons, Andy Swan at Horseshoe
Ottawa's Kelp Records crew rolled into Toronto with a couple of well-kept secrets, a niche that Kelp seems to have nailed down. It's a specialty that no label aspires to, and while Kelp may be a sensation in their hometown—witness their ability to throw massive weekend-long parties at the city's major venues every April to celebrate their anniversary—they're far under the radar in Toronto.
That's true even of their only Toronto act, singer/songwriter Andy Swan. Changing the name of his long-running band Detective Kalita to The Michael Parks doesn't help, nor does the fact that he just released a solo album under his own name (Andy Swan's Ottawa).
He's got some critics in his corner, he has the undying loyalty of his Kelp peers who talk him up every chance they get, and he has Polmo Polpo's Sandro Perri playing slide guitar for him occasionally. He also has an arsenal of great songs, but not the kind that make an immediate impression or that his modest stage persona is about to give you a major sales job on. Swan is so subtle that it's taken me years to cotton on to what a talent he is; every time I've seen him I fall further under his spell, and this performance sealed the deal. Without a major hustle behind him, Swan can only hope for a Ron Sexsmith-esque career revival a few more albums down the road.
The Hilotrons are major stars in Ottawa, yet rarely play outside the city limits. That should change with the release of Happymatic, a fine pop album that makes you instantly forget about all those other herky-jerky Devo-tees who are giving art-damaged early 80s pop music a bad name.
The Hilotrons boast a bouncy rhythm section capable of twisting beats upside down and around, while vocalist Mike Dubue unleashes synth squiggles in between a pitch perfect vocal performance. We expect so little from male singers in rock band these days, leaving the operatic performances to melodramatic drama queens in moody art rock bands or sensitive folkie acts. Dubue is having none of that. He's a belter who doesn't need multiple takes to get it right; he nails it every time, as does every instrumentalist standing behind him on stage.
I'd heard earlier recordings by this band and found them mildly interesting at best; Happymatic was a pleasant surprise. But nothing prepared me for how jaw-droppingly awesome the Hilotrons' live show is—miss them at your peril. They certainly don't deserve to be relegated to "well-kept secret" status.
April 14: Man Man, Yeasayer at Lee's Palace
Man Man has always sounded insane. Lead singer Honus Honus howls to a point well beyond hoarse while attacking his keyboard; drummer Pow Pow looks like he'd be sequestered in a straitjacket had he chosen any profession other than percussion; the rest of the band look like a ragtag crew of salty sailors with a questionable grip on sanity. And yet the music has always worked: their strange mash-up of klezmer, cabaret, barrelhouse piano, kitchen sink percussion and raunchy blues managed to never get completely unhinged. Until now.
Maybe they've been playing these songs too long on the road and are bored by now, but there was a perverse desire to play everything twice as fast. The manic marimba player looked like he was ready to lose some limbs. As if to compensate, cracks started to show in their collective stamina by set's end, allowing them to play the until-now rare live treat "Van Helsing's Boombox," a track that's as tender as Man Man ever gets.
Not that anyone in the crowd seemed to mind. Word of mouth has built up over the past three years, thanks in part to the fact they now share a label with Tom Waits and Nick Cave, and there were no doubt many newbies who came out to witness the spectacle. The band seemed all to eager to please, pushing everything over the top and barely able to stay in one spot for more than two bars. Honus Honus in particular had trouble focusing on his piano, because he had a perverse desire to smash yet another piece of percussive metal every two bars or so, while the other Men Men pushed their already-ridiculous falsettos well beyond the breaking point.
Man Man on a bad day are still infinitely more entertaining than most of what builds a buzz on the blogosphere these days—which brings us to opening act Yeasayer. This Brooklyn band might be one of the hippest things among those born after 1980, but anyone a bit older than that will be forced to recall Oingo Boingo for the first time in over 20 years. Individually they're amazing players, but that doesn't for a second excuse the monotonous mess they get into. As soon as they took the stage, I realized that I had actually seen them before once, in NYC, and had made a point of forgetting about them. Visually, they're a motley crew, with a preppy vocalist that looks like a young John Linnell from They Might Be Giants, bookended by a Latvian mafia bassist gyrating his hips and a noodly guitarist focusing on his effects. One song with a First Nations vocal feel managed to cut the mustard, but the rest of the set felt downright punishing.
So did Man Man, I'm sure, for some people. Even this day-one fan found them a bit much on this outing, like they were trying to hard to impress the larger audience that had suddenly shown up to see them. Just be yourselves, Men.
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