Pre-Polaris, Day two: Metric, METZ

Day two our my annual pre-Polaris Prize round-up. Day one is here. The gala is next Monday, Sept. 23.

The shortlisted: 

Metric – Synthetica (Metric Music)

The album:

The oldest album on this list, Synthetica came out in June 2012. I love it as much as I did back then; songs like “Clone,” “Breathing Underwater” and “Dreams So Real” still sound like perfect pop music to me (unlike, I don’t know, Tegan and Sara), and hearing them in the middle of a crushingly dull modern rock radio playlist is a breath of fresh air. I’ve said this a thousand times before, but I hated Metric’s music with a passion before 2009’s Fantasies, which I loved, and this one is even better. They managed to convert this extremely skeptical detractor, so more power to them.

I wrote the following review 15 months ago, but I still stand by it.

You know that great pop album that U2 have been trying to make for the past 20 years, since Achtung Baby? Metric just did it. And, unlike U2, they achieved it without sounding like they’re trying impossibly hard to do it.

The soaring melodies, the anthemic songs, the epic scope inside a five-minute song, the Edge-influenced guitars that bleed into synth textures, the slightly clever platitudes and one-liners that straddle the line between profound and pointless—all you could ever want in a rock’n’roll record that sets its sights for the back rows of stadiums.

It’s instrumentally that Synthetica really shines: Shaw’s guitar sounds are increasingly textural, while Haines’s synth sounds are harsher than ever; it’s hard to tell who’s playing the lead on the fuzzed-out, droning “Dreams So Real,” but the buzzing, dirty sound is a perfect counterpart to Haines’s sweet and sour vocals.

The rock songs are divine, but the Robyn-ish bubblegum of “Lost Kitten” and “The Void” work just as well without distracting from the po-faced seriousness pervading the rest of the record, which seems set to score a sci-fi film about, you know, the alienation of modern life and such. (Much of it, in fact, is not unlike the Arcade Fire contribution to The Hunger Games soundtrack—and for two bands that once had nothing in common, there’s a lot of Synthetica that sounds like it’s trying to one-up The Suburbs.)

Haines is writing about lives in stasis, lives once full of promise now facing defeat and monotony: “Is this my life? Breathing underwater?” The power of songs and the power of girls are two apparently ancient concepts to the idealistic narrator of “Dreams So Real,” who resigns herself to singing: “I’ll shut up and carry on / a scream becomes a yawn.”

It’s funny, then, that after singing “we should never meet our heroes,” that Haines invites Lou Reed to appear on “Wanderlust.” On one hand, it’s an inspired nod to the counterculture icon who was central to Andy Warhol’s Factory, the birth of glam rock and punk, all key influences for Metric. On the other hand, when you invite the Lou Reed of 2012 to be a backup vocalist, it essentially amounts to an old man muttering in the background. Even U2, for all their Lou Reed worship, has never done that.

Maybe Metric shouldn’t meet their heroes, then, and instead focus on making albums as good as this one for the modern age. (June 21)

The chances:

Slim. I won’t lie: people hate this band. They always have, of course, but now they’re also bored of them. (Which is why my late-blooming love seems all the more curious to most people to whom I confess.) Oh, Canada, what would award season be without some tall-poppy syndrome? People who like to bash Polaris will immediately point to Metric and say, “What the hell are those rock stars doing there? Who’s giving them a free pass?” I wonder if they also complain that David Bowie is competing for the Mercury Prize with a bunch of artists who could be his grandchildren. Despite the fact that Arcade Fire and Feist successfully buried Polaris’s reputation for neglecting popular choices in favour of left-field weirdos, Metric does not have the same kind of critical traction those two artists do. They have enough to land on the shortlist, of course, but I’d be downright shocked if they won the prize. Even though I think they’re one of the few nominees who deserve it.

Metz – s/t (Sub Pop)

The album:

THE COPY EDITOR IN ME STILL REFUSES TO UNDERSTAND WHY THIS BAND USES ALL CAPS ALL THE TIME.

But I’m trying to get over that and give them a fair shot. It’s hard.

Years ago, the year Fucked Up won the Polaris, I heard that one juror defiantly declared to the room that he didn’t consider hardcore punk (and hip-hop, apparently) to be music. I laughed at his ignorance. Now, listening to METZ—a band with a fraction of the imagination of Fucked Up—I feel like I would be the grandpa in the room complaining about these kids making too much gosh-darn racket that all sounds the same.

It’s true, I’ve never liked hardcore: too macho, too much repressed sexuality, too much posturing, too doctrinaire and little imagination. But at its best, at least it has some sense of dynamics and release, two vital elements METZ is lacking entirely. My copy editing concern turns out to be an accurate metaphor: there’s nothing remotely subtle about this band. Like rubbing salt in my wound after spending half an hour with this album, a glance at the song titles confirms all my worst suspicions: “Headache,” “Sad Pricks,” “Nausea,” “Negative Space”—and, most apt, “Wasted.”

To their credit, yes, they play well together. The drummer is amazing, and he drives the band like a runaway train. Yes, it sounds like In Utero-era Nirvana, which is perhaps central to its appeal—but it’s devoid of any hooks, riffs or melodies. No, I honestly can’t tell any two tracks here apart, and I don’t think it’s because I’m over 40. Humbug!

The chances:

Part of the reason this year is so tough to call is that it’s so tribal. I can’t see someone considering a vote for Tegan and Sara being pulled over to Godspeed instead, for example. Unless you grew up with hardcore or still listen to your Jesus Lizard records, I can’t see METZ converting newbies in the way that, say, Fucked Up can. (I don’t enjoy that band either, but I can at least appreciate why people do.)

Yet people who love this band love them to death. So at least one person in the jury room will be extremely passionate about this album and will be crying tears of frustration when they can’t convince everyone else to be on board.

OR MAYBE THEY WILL SHOUT AT THE TOP OF THEIR LUNGS AND PUMMEL FELLOW JURORS INTO SUBMISSION UNTIL THEY HAVE THE ENTIRE ROOM CHANTING, “METZ! METZ! METZ!” AS THEY CAST THEIR BALLOTS.

Stranger things have happened, right?

Two of the could've/should've beens:

Headstones – Love and Fury (FrostByte/Maple)

The album:

I never expected to love a Headstones record, or even really to like one a lot. Which is why I was totally shocked to find myself completely taken with this reunion record. My review from May 2013:

Dear dudes. Hugh here. It’s 2012 and look, I’m itchy. Flashpoint is about to wrap up. It was a blast. And, honestly, a sweet paycheque. But let’s be fucking frank here. Even an action-packed TV show involves standing around for inordinate periods of time in a monkey suit waiting for action to actually begin. I did that for five years. Five fucking years! People kissed my ass. It was great, though. Now I’m sitting around waiting for voice-over work for insurance company ads. So like I said, I’m itchy. Twitchy, even. I miss you fuckers. Those reunion gigs were a good time. Got the blood pumping. Got the juices flowing.

So let’s bottle that shit. Let’s kick over some chairs. It’s been 20 years since the first album. It’s been 10 since we called it quits. Let’s show these whiny, pampered emo kids what’s the what. I’ve got some tunes. I’ve got some shit to get off my chest. I’m old. I’m cranky. But I’m ready to rumble and I can still kick the ass of punks half my age.

And you know what? I ain’t got time to waste. This will be 10 songs, all under four minutes long, recorded as live as possible. No studio tricks. No artistic maturity, whatever that is. No grunged-to-death Nickelback bullshit. If radio doesn’t want it, fuck ’em. I want those guitar solos to be breathless and last no more than eight bars. We can drop the tempo here and there, but Jesus Christ, no fucking ballads. (Note: I may break that rule once. And the four-minute one, too. So that will make 11 tracks. Sue me.) And—now hear me out—I want to cover ABBA’s “SOS,” because that song makes me fucking weep, and we’re going to do it like the Ramones on amphetamine. Don’t worry, though, my new songs are as good or better, so nobody’s going to think it’s a cheap novelty trick to get on the radio.

Yeah, this might be like a fool’s game and we’ll still end up playing shitholes called Cowboy Ranch and Toronto critics will think we’re nothing more than a soundtrack to a bar fight. But you know what? We’ve been written off before. We can do this. I’m ready. I’m fucking ready. I’m hungry. Are you? Fuck yeah.

Love, Hugh.

Why it didn’t make even the long list:

Love and Fury should have been what this year's Japandroids' Celebration Rock was to last year's contest. The Headstones have never been a critics’ band, and that’s not about to change now, even if Hugh Dillon’s enduring performance in Hard Core Logo alone should land him in some kind of CanRock hall of fame. Also, this came out weeks before the Polaris cutoff date, leaving little time for an underdog rally from the two or three jurors who actually love this album as much as I do. Not that I can imagine anyone at Headstones HQ giving a shit about their shot at Polaris.

Curious? There’s actually an amazing backstory to the album’s inception. Listen to this great interview Hugh Dillon did on Q.

Hilotrons – At Least There’s a Commotion (Kelp)

The album:

I’m sure I love this album primarily because, as a keyboardist myself, I have mad respect for the ways in which main man Michael Dubue is a keyboard wizard who’s made a wallop of a rock record with barely any guitars in sight. He’s also pulled off the incredibly rare feat of making an electric, vibrant rock record without a live band. The production here is all-around brilliant; I’d love to hear him put in charge of a Spoon record, for example, and bring an already excellent band to a whole other level.

Here’s an abridged version of my original review:

"I know he's got the hooks!" are the first words you hear on this record, over a whip-tight smackdown of a drum beat, and emitted from a jerky, strangulated vocalist who sounds like he's confessing under torture; almost immediately, a staccato synth starts oscillating in ways not heard since Bernie Worrell in Talking Heads' Stop Making Sense. No, the Hilotrons have never heard of you either, which is why they open their first record in five years with all guns blazing and demanding to be heard.

Kelp Records' head honcho, Jon Bartlett, sent me the new record by this Ottawa band and claimed it was one of the best records ever made in that town. Obviously he's biased. But he's also right. 

Dubue is the rare frontman who is also the keyboardist, and so his records are full of synth sounds and pianos of every timbre, roped into a rock'n'roll context by killer drummer Philip Shaw Bova, the only other musician on this record (though there is vocal assistance from Ottawa's who's who: Bryson, Jeremy Fisher, Lynn Miles, Snailhouse's Mike Feuerstack). 

There are obvious influences from late '70s fidgety new wave: Devo, Joe Jackson, XTC, Talking Heads. But with the exception of the outright Kate Bush homage “Emergency” (itself a cover of local Ottawa artist Yellow Jacket Avenger), this album carves its own path: heartbreaking, space-age country balladry (“Not There Tonight”), punk rock with AC/DC riffage (“Modern Way Woman”), '50s soul played on '70s synths (“My Number”), the Cure-like “She Knows My Condition,” all transcending their origins and ultimately sounding like no one else but the Hilotrons. The key is Dubue's vocals, capable of operatic heights and delivered with a Freddie Mercury gusto that precious few male vocalists in this country attempt (unless their name is Hawksley Workman).

Amazing singer, great band (all two of them), incredible sound and some killer songs: the Hilotrons will not be Ottawa's secret any more. (Ed note: Except that they still are. Whoops.)

Why it didn’t make the shortlist:

I honestly thought it might, because the few jurors I know who love this record spoke passionately about it, and it ranked high on my ballot. But the simple fact is that this band rarely tours, their profile is negligible and their rep as musicians’ musicians doesn’t extend far outside the Toronto-Ottawa-Montreal axis. Also: terrible album cover.

June '12 reviews

The following reviews ran in the Kitchener-Waterloo Record and Guelph Mercury in June.

Cadence Weapon – Hope in Dirt City (Upper Class)

The former poet laureate of Edmonton resumes his rap career after moving to Montreal, and delivers a tour de force of storytelling and genre-jumping. He’s no longer the 19-year-old outlier overachiever he was on his debut album; now he’s an album artist at the ripe old 26, having relocated to a bohemian paradise where he “walks down St. Laurent avec les filles de roi.” The MC born Rollie Pemberton has little competition in Canadian hip-hop—outside of Drake, with whom he shares a default position of a laid-back, laconic flow. Except unlike Drake, Cadence Weapon is in love with language rather than just himself, spitting more lyrical head-turners in one verse than most MCs’ entire tracks.

Pemberton’s skills as an MC were never in doubt; here, he proves to be an impressive singer as well, and a rapper with more varied flow than he’s shown before. Cadence Weapon is no longer just an abstract MC: he’s a punk rock howler on the climax of “Jukebox”; he’s a soul singer and shouter on “Conditioning”; he’s a slow-jam crooner on “No More Names.” He’s also an effective character actor, as on “Hype Man,” a comical role-playing narrative about the fractious relationship between an MC and a member of his entourage; it’s funny not just for its skewering of a well-worn convention in hip-hop culture, but because it applies to all sorts of power dynamics (think Michael Scott and Dwight Schrute on The Office).

That’s not even the most compelling part of Hope in Dirt City. Musically, Pemberton pays homage here to go-go funk, punk rock, Southern bounce, icy electro, R&B balladry and anything else he can find. Several tracks are constructed as rock songs, with killer bass lines and intense climaxes, and yet never veer into dreaded rap-rock crossover territory. "There We Go" is an intoxicating, icy electro ballad with a lurching, sparse beat and ominous synths, suggesting Pemberton has been hanging out with some Mutek festival folk in his newly adopted city of Montreal; the title track, on the other hand, sounds like a whole other Montreal influence: Corey Hart. Seriously, this is some Boy in the Box shit—and even more seriously, trust me when I say I’m probably one of the few people who mean that as a compliment.

The only time any one recognizable genre during the course of a whole track is the dub reggae vibe of "Small Deaths." Otherwise, anything and everything is fair game and filtered through pitched snare drums, old synths and—in a stint of seemingly stunt casting—the wailing tenor saxophone of Pemberton’s uncle Brett Miles, an Edmonton session player who lets loose in ways that haven’t been heard in hip-hop since the trumpet solo in LL Cool J’s "Going Back to Cali." Miles isn’t interested in jazzy interludes; this saxophone is out to steal the entire show, which he almost does.

For a record with broad reach, Hope in Dirt City is remarkably concise, clocking in at 11 tracks in under 40 minutes. Cadence Weapon is going for the gold and makes every sonic second here count. (June 14)

Download: "Jukebox," "No More Names (Aditi)," "Conditioning"

Neneh Cherry – The Cherry Thing (Smalltown Supersound)

Take a tough lady known for both hip-hop singles and smooth pop and stick her in front of a free-jazz band to sing covers—it sounds like a terrible idea, but Neneh Cherry pulls it off with aplomb.

Best known for her ’80s hit "Buffalo Stance" and her 1996 #1 single "Seven Seconds," Cherry has been largely silent, staying at home in Sweden, for the past 16 years. Here, she teams up with her fellow countrymen The Thing, featuring abrasive tenor saxophonist Mats Gustafsson, drummer Paal Nilssen-Love and bassist Ingebrigt Haker Flaten—three guys you wouldn’t expect to make a pop record. Which this isn’t.

The Cherry Thing sounds like neither side of the pop/jazz divide; instead, it’s a perfect meeting of the two. Cherry is an astounding, compelling and charismatic singer who always toyed with inflections in pitch, which suits a jazz context perfectly. The rhythm section here is impeccable and can do anything; it’s Gustafsson you would think would be the odd man out here, but the powerhouse player is incredibly sensitive to Cherry’s leads, cedes the spotlight easily, and never bullies any of his bandmates, though it’s his presence that provides the welcome tension driving the whole project.

The choice of material is almost incidental; this combination of players is fascinating in and of itself, no matter what they get up to. There are two originals—one by Cherry, one by Gustafsson—and covers of MF Doom, the Stooges, Ornette Coleman and Cherry’s stepfather, Don Cherry. An interpretation of “Dream Baby Dream,” a song by early electro-punk pioneers Suicide, and later covered by Bruce Springsteen, they take what was originally a monotonous, trancelike, ominous dirge and turn it into a swinging, almost inspirational number without making it hokey—no small feat. On the other hand, they maintain all of the menace of the Stooges’ song “Dirt,” where Gustafsson’s solo absolutely slays. (June 21)

Download: “Cashback,” “Dream Baby Dream,” “Dirt”

The Magic – Ragged Gold (Half Machine)

Magic doesn’t happen overnight. So even if this Guelph group sounded fully formed right from their first gigs five long years ago, it’s taken that long for their debut album to gestate. Long-frustrated fans will be happy to know that it was worth the wait.

The Magic is the brothers Gordon, Geordie and Evan—sons of folk singer James, members of Islands, and members of at least a dozen Guelph bands between them, including Geordie’s teenage years in the Barmitzvah Brothers. Anyone who saw that delightfully amateurish thrift-store band will be amazed at Geordie’s transformation into a crooning pop idol—the confidence was always there, but his vocals have improved tenfold and are now delivered with swagger and strut. His falsetto on “No Sound” is priceless—as is Evan’s baritone and the judicious use of vibraslap.

Ragged Gold shows no sign of the scruffy indie rock, noisy punk or folk music the brothers have been involved with before: The Magic is now a clean-scrubbed, ready-for-the-world international pop sensation on par with Robyn, Santigold or their old friend Diamond Rings. The sound owes much to the 1980s, though not in the way most youngsters grab an old keyboard and start hitting preset buttons.

The Gordon brothers’ fascination with the ’80s (their birth decade) involves a time when schooled studio musicians made simple pop songs much more complex than needed be. If you’ve ever played in a cover band and had to, for example, learn an entire set of Michael Jackson covers—as the Gordons did as part of Guelph’s “prom band,” King Neptune and his Tridents—or analyzed the work of Hall & Oates or Toto, you’d know that even though breezy pop melodies were always front and centre during that era, the instrumentalists compensated for the lack of showboating solos by executing tasty little tricky bits in the background. Ragged Gold is full of those tasty bits, as well as bona fide potential hit pop songs, impeccable production, solid grooves and backing vocals by Sylvie Smith, who takes a lead turn on “Call Me Up.”

Usually when a band takes five years to make an album, the end result is overcooked and bloated. But Ragged Gold is stripped down to its essence, like every good pop record should be: every synth zap, every clipped backing vocal, every sax break, every funky 16^th-note rhythm guitar track is perfectly in place.

It’s going to be a Magic summer. (June 28)

Download: “No Sound,” “Night School,” “Door to Door”

Men Without Hats – Love in the Age of War (Curbside)

It’s been over 20 years since Men Without Hats had a hit single (the grungy, long-forgotten “Sideways”); about 30 years since they were catapulted out of Montreal’s electro/punk underground onto radios around the world with “The Safety Dance.” Singer Ivan Doroschuk is now leading a new trio under the old name; no doubt he’s using equipment acquired in recent decades, though there’s nothing here that would sound out of place on 1982’s Rhythm of Youth—and yet nothing about the songs here or Ivan’s own vocals sounds remotely stale. (With one exception, that is: “The Girl With the Silicon Eyes.” Enough said.) His commanding baritone still oozes charisma, and he writes direct, no-nonsense pop songs with the energy of a young punk, filtered through electronics beefed up by producer Dave “Rave” Ogilvie, best known for his work with Skinny Puppy and Nine Inch Nails.

Men Without Hats are often treated as a punchline, remembered as a one-hit wonder with a silly video involving a dancing dwarf. Behind the scenes, however, they eschewed the excesses of the ’80s starmaking machine and helped develop their hometown music scene into the artistic mecca it is today. More importantly to the everyday listener, their records, though certainly guilty of some dated filler, nonetheless featured a string of strong songs that rival any other hitmaker of the day.

Here, Ivan goes for all killer, no filler. It sounds like he’s been hoarding 11 hidden hits, waiting for the appropriate time to make a momentous comeback. The truth is that he spent most of the last 10 years raising a child in Victoria, and he wrote this album on the back of a bus with the Human League last year on an ’80s oldies tour, on his first outing as Men Without Hats since their heyday. Maybe that spontaneity and being on the road inspired these songs’ directness. Or maybe, sitting on that bus, he realized that he didn’t just want to be an oldies act—and Love in the Age of War is far, far better than anyone would ever expect. He’ll never shake the shadow of “The Safety Dance,” but Ivan is not going to stop trying. (June 7)

Download: “This War,” “Head Above Water,” “Live and Learn”

Metric – Synthetica (Metric Music)

You know that great pop album that U2 have been trying to make for the past 20 years, since Achtung Baby? Metric just did it. And, unlike U2, they achieved it without sounding like they’re trying impossibly hard to do it.

The soaring melodies, the anthemic songs, the epic scope inside a five-minute song, the Edge-influenced guitars that bleed into synth textures, the slightly clever platitudes and one-liners that straddle the line between profound and pointless—all you could ever want in a rock’n’roll record that sets its sights for the back rows of stadiums.

For the songwriting team of vocalist Emily Haines and guitarist James Shaw, their long-promising chemistry was finally firing on all cylinders by the time of 2009’s Fantasies. They’re still on a roll here, where every track is a potential hit or future classic. It’s instrumentally that Synthetica really shines: Shaw’s guitar sounds are increasingly textural, while Haines’s synth sounds are harsher than ever; it’s hard to tell who’s playing the lead on the fuzzed-out, droning “Dreams So Real,” but the buzzing, dirty sound is a perfect counterpart to Haines’s sweet and sour vocals.

The rock songs are divine, but the Robyn-ish bubblegum of “Lost Kitten” and “The Void” work just as well without distracting from the po-faced seriousness pervading the rest of the record, which seems set to score a sci-fi film about, you know, the alienation of modern life and such. (Much of it, in fact, is not unlike the Arcade Fire contribution to The Hunger Games soundtrack—and for two bands that once had nothing in common, there’s a lot of Synthetica that sounds like it’s trying to one-up The Suburbs.)

Haines is writing about lives in stasis, lives once full of promise now facing defeat and monotony: “Is this my life? Breathing underwater?” The power of songs and the power of girls are two apparently ancient concepts to the idealistic narrator of “Dreams So Real,” who resigns herself to singing: “I’ll shut up and carry on / a scream becomes a yawn.”

It’s funny, then, that after singing “we should never meet our heroes,” that Haines invites Lou Reed to appear on “Wanderlust.” On one hand, it’s an inspired nod to the counterculture icon who was central to Andy Warhol’s Factory, the birth of glam rock and punk, all key influences for Metric. On the other hand, when you invite the Lou Reed of today to be a backup vocalist, it essentially amounts to an old man muttering in the background. Even U2, for all their Lou Reed worship, has never done that.

Maybe Metric shouldn’t meet their heroes, then, and instead focus on making albums as good as this one for the modern age. (June 21)

Download: "Breathing Underwater," "Clone," "Synthetica"

Scissor Sisters – Magic Hour (Universal)

Disco legends Donna Summer and the Bee Gees’ Robin Gibb passed away within days of each other last month, prompting much nostalgia for the genre they helped define.

But disco itself is not dead—or if it is, no one had dare break that news to Scissor Sisters. On their fourth album, Scissor Sisters still specialize in falsetto harmonies, lush strings and synths and a sworn allegiance to late-’70s R&B and disco. Modern techno elements sneak through but don’t strangle the soul out of the source material; unlike, say, Madonna’s desperate attempts to sound current, Scissor Sisters bridge generations of hedonistic dance pop with ease. They’ve also got the songwriting skills to transcend the nightclub: they can dumb down one moment with a song called “Fuck Yeah,” then switch to cabaret mode and try and outdo Rufus Wainwright (not hard to do lately) on “The Secret Life of Letters”—a task the band pulls off, though bandleader Jake Shears is clearly trying to cop Wainwright’s vocal style as well; he pulls it off, but he’s always far better in falsetto. (June 7)

Download: “Baby Come Home,” “Self-Control,” “Only the Horses”

Patti Smith – Banga (Sony)

Ever since her 1996 comeback album Gone Again—written after the death of her husband, guitarist and co-writer Fred Smith, and which also included an eulogy for Kurt Cobain—Patti Smith has been the High Mistress of Mourning. At first glance, that hasn’t changed on Banga, where the subject matter includes Amy Winehouse, the Japanese tsunami and recently departed Last Tango in Paris actress Maria Schneider. Seeing as how her recent records have been more admirable for their intentions than the actual music, Banga should be approached cautiously.

Except that this, Smith’s seventh post-comeback album, is frankly the first since Gone Again that isn’t a chore to sit through. Indeed, Banga is anything but a funereal experience. Instead, Smith writes powerful anthems, touching ballads, wickedly weird detours, and retains her rep as one of the few true poets working in a rock format.

Who else would improvise a 10-minute track about a blind Italian painter, Saint Francis of Assisi, and Columbus’s discovery of the New World? Okay, admittedly, that one is for diehard fans only, although it works far better than it should. But who else opens her album with a dramatic piano chord and the opening line: “We were going to see the world”? And who else reads 19^th-century Russian novels while on a Mediterranean cruise with avant-garde filmmaking icon Jean-Luc Godard and ends up writing punk rock songs about dogs that sound as vital and stirring as anything on her 1976 debut album?

As evidenced by her detailed liner notes, Smith doesn’t put pen to paper unless she’s been inspired by a particular event, person or serendipitous encounter with an antiquated cultural artifact. That makes Banga sound like it’s going to be little more than an academic exercise, which it most definitely is not. Smith and her band—who have been with her for 35 years now—still tap into the visceral inspiration that first drew them together, and play with the experience of veterans who only ever try to act their age, drawing from jazz and folk textures to fuel their vision of rock’n’roll. On top of that, her voice sounds fantastic.

Coming on the heels of her award-winning memoir Just Kids, Banga shows Patti Smith to be not a diminished legend in danger of being taken for granted by even her own fans: she is still a powerful, vital artist who shows no sign of fading away. (June 14)

Download: “Amerigo,” “April Fool,” “This is the Girl”

Cassandra Wilson – Another Country (EOne)

In case skronky sax underneath jazz vocals is not your thing (no pun intended), Cassandra Wilson has returned with a butter-smooth collection of laid-back, sultry songs she co-wrote with Italian guitarist Fabrizio Sotti. Recorded largely in Florence (which explains the cover of “O Sole Mio”), and driven largely by Sotti’s flamenco and bossa nova stylings—and with accordionist Julien Labro hovering gently in the background—Another Country has an old-world charm to it that suits Wilson perfectly. This is her 18th album, and though she’s faced plenty of competition from younger jazz singers in the last 10 years, she sounds better than ever. (June 21)

Download: “No More Blues,” “Almost Twelve,” “When Will I See You Again”

Bobby Womack – The Bravest Man in the Universe (XL)

When Damon Albarn assembles a Gorillaz album, there is usually such a dizzying array of guests that they get lost in the shuffle. Which hip-hop icon or ’70s punk pioneer or African superstar is going to show up now? It’s easy to forget Albarn not only enlisted veteran soul singer Bobby Womack for 2010’s Plastic Beach, but he also took him out on the road for an arena tour. While other Gorillaz have viable careers to turn to, Womack could use another break at the age of 68. Albarn gave him one.

Womack’s voice is weathered and world-weary—30 years of cocaine addiction will do that—but the man has got soul to spare and he’s ready to share: “Gather round me, boys and girls / I once was lost, but now I’m found.” Womack, for those that don’t know, has a CV that reads like a history of soul music, including gigs with Sam Cooke, Aretha Franklin, Ray Charles, James Brown, Jimi Hendrix, Sly Stone and Marvin Gaye. He also wrote for the Rolling Stones and played on Elvis Presley’s “Suspicious Minds.”

But this album isn’t a retro revival or a history lesson: instead, Albarn sends Womack floating in space, an earthly anchor to synthy sci-fi dub, chillwave and psychedelic hip-hop instrumentals. The effect is entrancing, not unlike reggae great Horace Andy’s work with Massive Attack—and a lot better than what co-producer (and XL CEO) Richard Russell achieved on Gil Scott-Heron’s 2010 album I’m New Here. Unlike that misfire, nothing here sounds like oil and water.

And yet there are times when Albarn and Russell aim low: a potential pop song like “Love is Going to Lift You Up” could easily have been given a techno boost or transformed into a George Michael inspirational anthem, but they keep it spare and simple—perhaps too simple, because the drum machine’s basic rhythm doesn’t do the song justice, and there’s not much more to the arrangement than that and the hook. Conversely, “Jubilee (Don’t Let Nobody Turn You Around)” mines Womack’s rich gospel past and sets it to a similarly rinky-dink synth backing, though this time it sounds more like the inspired music that Third World musicians create with cheap electronics (like the compilation of shangaan music Albarn’s label, Honest Jon’s, put out), rather than just a deficit of creativity.

The only other minor misfire is “Dayglo Reflection,” a duet with Lana Del Rey—and it’s not her fault. The song features a recurring sample of an old man discussing the depth an elder singer brings to material, “Because he lives life and he understands what he’s trying to say a little more.” This is offensive for two reasons: a) we already know that—we’re listening to a Bobby Womack album, for cryin’ out loud!; and b), it sounds like an unnecessary slap to Womack’s considerably less experienced duet partner, forcibly reminding us of all those ridiculous authenticity arguments that surrounded the release of her debut album. Can’t we just sit back and enjoy the song?

It’s been a good summer for the senior citizens, as the Dr. John/Black Keys collaboration proved last month. But even that was about recreating past glories, where The Bravest Man in the Universe purposely portrays a man out of time and place. (June 28)

Download: “Stupid,” “Whatever Happened to the Times,” “Nothin’ Can Save Ya”

Neil Young – Americana (Warner)

Young feels compelled to release an album a year, whether or not he has any songs worthy of releasing. On the surface, this looks like a cheap and easy, crowd-pleasing move: dipping into old chestnuts from folk traditions like “Oh Susanna,” “Oh My Darling Clementine,” “Tom Dooley,” etc., and jamming them out with Crazy Horse, his self-described “third-best garage band in the world.” What could go wrong?

Young being the contrarian he is, he doesn’t give us the pleasure of hearing traditional melodies from our childhood: in a longstanding folk tradition, he takes most of these well-worn rhymes and sings almost entirely new songs. Sometimes it’s entirely incongruous: surely “Gallows’ Pole” should not sound like a jaunty country romp. Occasionally, it’s inspired: he takes “She’ll Be Coming ’Round the Mountain” back to its roots as an African-American spiritual, and renames it “Jesus’ Chariot.” Often it’s innocuous—does the world need another version of Woody Guthrie’s “This Land is Your Land”? In at least one instance, it’s downright awful, as when he butchers the ’50s doo-wop classic “Get a Job.”

It can also be so weird that it works: Young apparently got swept up in Queen Elizabeth II’s Diamond Jubilee fever—why else, other than as a cheeky way to close an album called Americana, would he give a garage-band workout to “God Save the Queen”? (Note: not the Sex Pistols’ song, but the actual British national anthem.) (June 7)

Download: “God Save the Queen,” “Jesus’ Chariot,” “Wayfarin’ Stranger”

Post-Polaris hangover, 2009 Edition

Continuing our interrupted not-very-traditional annual post-Polaris kvetching, I turn this post over to the lovely lady Helen Spitzer as we discuss the gala of the night before, which brought many of Canada's finest musicians and professional music fans together. Over to you, Miss Spitz:

’Tis the morning after Polaris Music Prize gala chez Barclay/Spitzer. I should note that we got home well after the morning paper had arrived, and neither of us have a voice to speak with. An impossibly optimistic idea of set-times meant that the gala went on longer than anticipated, which led to the after-party starting very close to last-call, which necessitated an after-after party in a hotel room crammed with rock critics and Patrick Watson and well, you understand my drift. [MB: The after-after-after party consisted of us downing 4L of water each before going to bed.] I'll avoid any less than savoury 30Rock jokes and get to the rock talk.

HS: Don’t you think we’re in remarkably better shape than the last time we did this? For example, this year I am able to eat your incredible breakfast!

MB: No barfy-barf? Jon Bartlett will be so disappointed. Although I almost lost it last night in Steve Jordan’s hotel room with the smell of those open scotch bottles floating around Patrick Watson, Ken Beattie, Brendan Murphy and Ben Rayner.

HS: What's with the babytalk! For the record, I only saw you drink one scotch.

MB: One sip, actually. I poured the rest into Beattie's glass.

HS: I should inform the listeners at home that Mr. Barclay has just put on one of those new-fangled “vinyls” and we are now considering our fate in “being barred from the Temple.” (Thank you Destroyer for giving old rock critics a reason to live.) This was my first twitter of the day yesterday and I was sad that no one got it. But I am pleased that Fucked Up weren’t barred from the Masonic Temple last night, where the Polaris gala was held; I found out only this morning about their security troubles.

MB: Really? Because they mentioned that in their acceptance speech about being frisked every five minutes.

HS: I thought it was hardcore hyperbole.

MB: Patrick Watson and Malajube were almost barred for starting a food fight. It was quite hilarious, as my Quebecois colleague sitting beside me sighed and the TV cameras stayed glued on co-host Grant Lawrence, who was more than prepared to start his sportscasting career with some colourful play-by-play.

HS: I am looking forward to Grant’s sportscasting career. The flying cups et al looked absolutely incredible from above. It was as if the made-for-television barricades fell away at that particular moment. The perimeter was breached and the room erupted in joy. Juvenilia aside (is that even the right word?) it was just exquisite, visually. The shambly rock and roll equivalent of a Busby Berkeley dance sequence.

MB: I was sad that there was only a threat of a thrown chair, with no follow-through.

HS: Oh, Grant’s face at that moment. His deadpan is underappreciated. We should start at the beginning, though. Since there is no getting around the fact we are a hundred years old, how did it feel to have Polaris in the Venue Formerly Known as The Concert Hall?

MB: If I was 100 years old, I’d remember it when it was the Rockpile. [For the record, I don't.] I had so many great memories in that room, from my teenage Toronto: Midnight Oil, Fishbone, Beastie Boys, Pogues, Billy Bragg with Michelle Shocked and Michael Franti (I think you were there as well), and later some great Exclaim parties (including one with Joel Plaskett’s Thrush Hermit). I hadn’t set foot in there since CTV took it over. I don’t know if it’s to the venue’s credit or the evolution of the prize, but the room felt really comfortable—in spite of the studio-like environs—and the crowd was far less staid and shackled by Canadian restraint (see: food fight). Even though lots of people seemed ho-hum about the short list when it was announced, there was real joy and excitement in the room—perhaps in part because the contest seemed wide open, and everybody there thought someone different would win. Myself, I had Fucked Up in the “slim chance” category—shows you what I know.

HS: I think it was Michelle Shocked and Billy Bragg, an incredible double bill “back in the day” - and at another time, Billy Bragg and the Disposable Heroes of HipHoprosy (Franti’s band). Two gigs. I also recall going to early Exclaim! parties there – long before I wrote for them or even was their papergirl. And also my last Tragically Hip show before a 17-year intermission. I loved the room! When I got there, people on the second floor were visibly agitated by being told where to stand and where to walk. I do feel for the steadicam operators by the way. Eventually the staff and security just gave in to the general anarchy. It was the rock and roll spirit.

MB: Which brings us to Fucked Up. Your thoughts?

HS: Loved it! Their show was hugely entertaining. I’m glad we had a moment last night where there was that huge transformative power that music has, where the people on stage went apeshit and everyone in the audience was swept along with them. The only other time I felt that unified giddiness and joy and abandon was with K’naan, though it was quite another vibe. K’naan -> international superstar-in-waiting, by the way. I thought my heart might burst. Really felt it in the ol’ ribcage for both of those performances.

MB: What made Fucked Up’s performance for me was actually the guests. Kat and Justin from Lullabye Arkestra shrieked their essential parts on the chorus of “Son the Father” (the only track the band had time to play—no matter, as it’s their best song and they certainly made the most of it), and Owen Pallett started the song with distorted violin loops. I loved all five minutes of their performance, but I also felt like that’s all I needed to see. I feel the same way about the record as well. As an album I don’t feel it deserves the prize, but you can’t knock the band’s attitude and hard work and how much they mean to a lot of people, and how important this win is for a community long ignored by any institutions in this country. On a different note, I was relieved that Pink Eyes didn’t go totally starkers.

HS: I couldn’t make out who was onstage from where I was upstairs, but I heard this incredible sound and then I looked down and recognized Owen by the way his hair was swinging and he was just—forgive the expression—giv’n ’er (spelling?), and it just broke open any confusion I’d had previously about how to understand Fucked Up’s music. That’s one of the great things about the band, something that the believers point out and can’t be apprehended from the album alone: they reach out and they bring in locals wherever they go and it’s how they built their audience, one audience at a time. But I think I’d have to actually go back and listen to that album again; I just don’t think I had the tools to approach that music before seeing them last night. I know enough people out there whose critical opinions I respect who love it. And this happened for me with Kathleen Edwards last year: It took a whole year for me to get what was so powerful about that album—I got it on an aesthetic level—but it took a year to get hold of my soul.

MB: People had that same reaction to K’naan; I talked to a couple of people who knew very little about him before (insert conspiracy theory about hip-hop’s invisible role in Canadian culture) but who were totally taken with his performance. And I thought he didn’t even perform his best songs. I have to say that I was also impressed that his blue scarf matched not only his shoes, but the electric guitar in his band. I got a chance to compliment him on this. “Thanks, man, I’m really glad you noticed that.”

HS: I like that guy a lot. I remember the first year (when I was on the final jury; K’naan’s first album was nominated) he just had such incredible poise at the meet & greet with the jury before. He was so Ready. Like really, truly ready to be a star and not in a presumptuous or pompous way: just that he takes this shit seriously. This is what he’s going to do, and he’s just very patiently waiting for Canada to wake up and notice.

MB: Okay, my morning’s about to run out and I have to drag myself to work. Surprises? For me it was how smooth the show ran—I had great fear after witnessing some of the four-and-a-half-hour rehearsal in the afternoon—and there were some truly amazing performances. Patrick Watson wandering through the crowd with his traveling Christmas tree of megaphones (and Jian Ghomeshi on percussion) stole the show, I thought; if anyone was still baffled by his win two years ago, they couldn’t deny that this is an incredibly creative and interesting band. I was also impressed by Elliott Brood; in part because Amanda Putz’s eloquent introduction will make me reconsider them, and in part because they were really alive to the spirit in the room.

HS: My other heavy moment, besides Joel Plaskett walking onstage with his dad, was watching Malajube. They are so damn good! I was standing I think next to Carl Wilson and we were both marveling and he said something to the effect that if those songs were in English they’d be the biggest band in Canada. Not that I want them to start singing in English, not at all. I just want them to be bigger (as soon as I’m upright, I’m doing my part and going to the record store to buy Malajube on vinyl). Oh, and I also loved that the punchlines to all of Evelyn Cote’s jokes were delivered in French. That is one classy lady.

MB: She is a class act; I was lucky to sit beside her at the presenters’ table. I also finally met Rob Bowman (who introduced Patrick Watson); he’s a real mensch and a great raconteur. I thought Malajube were okay. I loved Plaskett’s open-tuned guitar solo; I think the K’naan table did too, because they all perked up when that happened. How was the night in fashion for you?

HS: I will not mince words; I’m very gratified that my exhortations to the boys to "wear ties, goddammit" had a visible effect. Did you see Colin Medley! He’s really quite handsome.

MB: You sound surprised!

HS: Not at all, I’m just over indie kid fashion. I’m a grown woman, after all. Rebecca Webster was rocking an off-the-shoulder situation and was bringing the hot with a double-T. Jill Barber was surprisingly gritty-glam rock and roll, good sequins. But, be still my heart – I wanted to take Caitlin Veitch and Sofi Papamarko and put one in each pocket and go home. They really are the two hottest women in Toronto. Honestly, everyone looked so good this year it’s hard to single them out. My work is done.

MB: K’naan was definitely the most dapper. Tony Dekker, sharp dressed man. Worst dressed? That’s easy: Pink Eyes. Dude, we all knew you were going to strip down to your underwear. Why not invest in some lingerie for the occasion?

HS: Do men wear lingerie?

MB: Prince would. Every awards ceremony needs a bit of Purple Rain.

HS: I am enjoying that fact that I’m talking about the hot ladies and you’re all about the dapper gents. Oh! Actually, do you know who looked fabulous—Josh Ostroff and his new hat! He said he bought it, fearing retribution from yours truly. But the urbane Andy Capp situation really works for new papa Ostroff. But back to the music. Metric: woof.

MB: As a surprised, recent convert to Metric, I thought they were fine. It was definitely a low-key beginning to the evening. Best speech of the evening: Patrick Watson, K’naan, Pink Eyes, all of whom articulated the occasion wonderfully in their own way. And Chad Van Gaalen's acceptance was brilliantly loopy.

HS: Speaking of nice articulation, splendid job on the Chad VanGaalen intro there, Barclay. I know I’m not an objective third party by any means, but you really raised the bar. Good on ya.

MB: Thanks, babe. I enjoyed Chad following up my heartfelt introduction by declaring, “Okay, I’m just going to call bullshit on that.” I also think veteran host Grant Lawrence and newbie VJ Sarah Taylor were a surprisingly successful oil-and-water combo; Grant always performs better with a foil. I loved his crack: “I look old enough to be your dad and small enough to be your baby.” Her heels were kind of out of control.

HS: She met Grant beforehand, right? That was unnecessary.

MB: But, as we’re sitting here typing to Bob Wiseman sing “We Got Time” and the line about the boss asking, “why you so late?” I’m realizing that I really have to haul ass to work. I’m also realizing how much this album meant to me 20 years ago, and I’m glad it got some attention with the recent Blocks re-release. Is there some kind of retroactive Polaris hall of fame award?

HS: We should let the listeners know that the 1989 Polaris-winning album In Her Dream by Bob Wiseman is now available, with bonus tracks, from finer record stores everywhere! And Barclay is now standing, hat in hand, by the door asking “where are my shoes?”

(more, possibly, to come)

Polaris 09: Metric, Patrick Watson

Day four of pre-Polaris pondering, following days one, two and three.

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Metric – Fantasies (Last Gang)

The album: Metric are every indie snob’s favourite whipping post, and Fantasies’ nomination was one of the most contentious topics of this year’s pre-Polaris discussion. But don’t hate them because they’re popular, or because you—and everyone else—have trouble navigating their indier-than-thou talk versus their careerism. Instead, give Fantasies a fair shake—you might be as pleasantly surprised as I was.

I won’t mince words: I used to hate Metric, for musical reasons alone. I’d heard all the albums. I’d seen them live several times. I’d walk into situations where their music was playing, and not knowing what it was would ask, “What is this shit?” I recognized that Emily Haines was a compelling band leader, but couldn’t help but notice that most critics talked more about that than Metric’s actual music. It seemed to be all posture, no pop.

One listen to Fantasies caused a complete 180. From the opening track and lead-off single “Help I’m Alive,” it’s obvious that Metric has matured in leaps and bounds. Nothing feels forced, everything can breathe, and yet they’re not taking anything for granted: it still sounds like they’re going for the gold.

Every track—even a relentless rocker like “Gold Guns Girls”—has canyons of space for the melodies to soar over top. And what melodies they are! Who knows what Haines and James Shaw were up to during the three years they spent working on these songs, but it sounds like they spent most of it woodshedding until they were left with 10 untouchable tracks that make their peers Feist and Stars sound like atonal flounderers.

Sure, part of me would rather see the Polaris go to an underdog. But this band has worked their ass off through thick and thin and have made what is hands-down the best record of their career, and the best Canadian pop album of 2009 that wasn’t made by Handsome Furs.

A small part of me can’t believe I just said all that.

The chances: Strong. If this album could win me over, anything can happen. Unless the jury wants to punish success—and hey, this is Canada.

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Patrick Watson – Wooden Arms (Secret City)

The album: There was some consternation when the nominees were announced about the number of repeat nominees from previous years. But here we have not only a previous nominee, but a previous Polaris winner, and one that I would argue has made a better album than the one they won for. Should that be held against them?

I’ve always thought the four guys who comprise Patrick Watson (the band, not the eponymous leader) were immensely talented, but on Closer to Paradise they seemed to be aiming to make bombastic pop music when they should really be scoring art films.

On Wooden Arms, they lean more toward the latter. Watson himself doesn’t feel he has to show off his astounding vocal instrument every time he opens his mouth; it’s simply another tool, along with those deflating balloons that Simon Angell somehow uses to coax bizarre sounds from his guitar. With the exception of “Beijing” and “Big Bird in a Small Cage” (the latter is an unfortunate title that’s hard to mention without visualizing Sesame Street), the songwriting takes a back seat to mood and texture here. Which is not a problem with a band as in love with abstractions as this one is, but it means that much of Wooden Arms sounds merely inconsequential.

Even when listening alone in a room with no other distractions, it somehow becomes background music.

The chances: Who knows? No one expected them to win last time, either, did they?! This is first time a nominee will have the albatross of a previous win circling around the jury room. And a bird in the house means…

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The could’ve-beens:

Snailhouse – Lies on the Prize (Unfamiliar)

The album: I remember seeing Mike Feuerstack play Snailhouse shows around the time he released his 2005 album The Silence Show. Every time he’d play a killer song, I’d heckle—hoping to help him sell some new CDs—“Is that on the new album?” And every time, he’d have to chuckle and say that no, in fact that’s an even newer one.

All those “newer ones” make Lies on the Prize the best album he’s ever been associated with—that includes four others as Snailhouse, and six with the Wooden Stars (and one of the latter was a collaboration with Julie Doiron; this trumps even that indie classic).

There was also no better singer/songwriter record released in Canada during the Polaris qualification period, which is why this landed at number one on my ballot.

Recorded with the able help of Arcade Fire drummer Jeremy Gara, there’s nothing particularly special about this album, other than the sheer strength of the songwriting and solid performances from Feuerstack’s enviable circle of regular collaborators. That doesn’t make for a flashy sales job, admittedly, nor does a previous review of mine that praised Feuerstack’s “mature voice where pessimism and harsh realism never surrender entirely to cynicism.”

But if you don’t believe me, ask all of Feuerstack’s (somewhat) famous fans and collaborators: Arcade Fire, Bell Orchestre, Constantines, Islands, The Acorn, Bruce Peninsula, Julie Doiron, Gordon Downie, Angela Desveaux.

Why it struck out: Mike Feuerstack is the nicest guy in the world. Mike Feuerstack is the humblest guy in the world. Mike Feuerstack has been around forever and put out plenty of records. Mike Feuerstack is a guy who is only hitting his stride in his late 30s. Ergo, Mike Feuerstack’s Snailhouse is not a media buzz band.

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Charles Spearin – The Happiness Project
(Arts and Crafts)

The album: By recording his neighbours’ ruminations on happiness and setting it to music—literally, transposing the cadence of their speech into musical notes—Charles Spearin was inspired to create The Happiness Project, which turned out to be much more than a good NPR story: it’s an intriguing, imaginative and powerful piece of music.
It’s playful and poetic, it’s upbeat and jazzy and esoterically calming all at once. It’s sensual in the true sense of the word, and I know from first hand experience that it can brighten the darkest winter days when it seems like springtime will never come.

“Happiness is love,” says Mrs. Morris, in the opening track named after her. Both live and on record, The Happiness Project is love.

Why it struck out: It could be Broken Social Scene fatigue, even though this is drastically different than the Kevin Drew and Brendan Canning albums released in the last 18 months. More likely, however, it could have been a split vote between this and Bell Orchestre among the art rock crowd (admittedly, this happened on my ballot—and then neither made the shortlist).

Tomorrow: Joel Plaskett, Chad Van Gaalen