Some Kind of Anger

This week marks the 10th anniversary of the release of, arguably, the most polarizing record in the Bay Area quartet's catalog--until Lulu [Warner Bros-2011] came along, of course--their first of the 21st century; first without long-time bassist Jason Newsted; last on Elektra records; and final installment of the Bob Rock era (1991-2003). Its recording also served as the backdrop for the controversial Some Kind of Monster documentary.

Although St. Anger's songs have completely disappeared from Metallica's set lists in the last 5 years--the lone exception being the 30th anniversary concerts in 2011--and critical rehabilitation has yet to set in, the most common complaints by old school, die-hard fans (ballads; four minute, radio friendly tunes; musical experimentation) are nowhere to be found on this one. Go figure. Guess that snare sound really pissed people off, huh?

Signed, Sealed, Delivered (redux)

The combination of widespread illegal downloading dealing a significant blow to the retail market, and the rise of the internet as a means of indiscriminate populist distribution, has been constantly bandied about by pundits and self-appointed wonks alike as the death knell of the traditional music industry. And, of course, the examples that support this and similar statements are everywhere.

But, curiously, an interesting phenomenon has been developing of late. Artists who established themselves via the 20th century model of "the Machine" and who count with the necessary name recognition, fanbase, and quite often, the infrastructure that would make it possible for them to take their careers into their own hands, are quietly signing with record companies, major labels in particular, when they are in a position to cut out the middleman.

In the last decade or so, Jane's Addiction moved from Warner Bros. to Capitol Records; Alice in Chains left Columbia for Virgin Records; and Dave Grohl has kept his Foo Fighters on the major label train, from RCA to Capitol Records, throughout the band's existence. These are a few but by no means lone examples of artists with means to control their recorded output on their own, opting to stay within the confines of the old-time industry womb, regardless of their options and opportunities. Surely there are favorable deals available to these veteran outfits that are not within the periphery of lesser acts. Granted. But when a tech-friendly artist like Trent Reznor, who made such an impassioned argument for his freedom to create and release his music without the interference of the allegedly cigar-chompin' guardians of "the Machine", non-chalantly announces the release of the upcoming Nine Inch Nails via Columbia Records, something is up.

Hmm...what gives?

Silver Star for Robot Boys

GUIDED BY VOICES
English Little League
[GBV Records - 2013]

Has there ever been a more prolific songwriter in the history of popular music than Robert Pollard? Forget about the GBV catalog, the solo output under his name and the numerous collaborations and other projects—if the three full length albums released in 2012 by the recently reunited ‘93-‘96 lineup of GBV are any indication, Uncle Bob ain’t letting moss gather on his badass senior citizen self. (As Matt Wild of the A.V. Club remarked in his review of the album, “Pollard recently installed a recording studio in his house [which would] suggest that it will now be even easier for Uncle Bob to wake up, shuffle out of bed, and record four new albums before lunch.” Ha!)

Nothing wrong with Pollard keeping up his decidedly superhuman pace since much this recent output is pretty cool; nothing stellar but certainly not disappointing. And definitely bearing some outstanding moments.

English Little League is certainly not the exception. Unfortunately, Pollard’s old collaborator Tobin Sprout is back on board and his contributions not only seem out of place but occasionally bring the flow of the album to a halt. For those who may have come late to the GBV party—circa 1997’s Mag Earwhig [Matador]—or simply did not care much for Sprout, it might be jarring to hear him on a new GBV album at his point. Oh, well.

With this newest chapter of the GBV saga we get an album that's a bit too long, with its share of duds, occasional filler and recordings of varying degrees of fidelity sharing space together. But few songwriters in indie rock, past or present, have the for knack for busting out choice tunes like Pollard so effortlessly seems to do time and again. So, it’s business as usual, then. We’ll take it.

Highlights: “Xeno Pariah”, “Trash Can Full of Nails”, “Send to Celeste (and the Cosmic Athletes)”, “Biographer Seahorse”, “Flunky Minnows”.

A Blizzard, A True Fart

TODD RUNDGREN
State
[Esoteric-2013]

The ‘80s teen movie classic Better Off Dead features a scene in which John Cusack’s dad, in an effort to connect with his teenage son, is cluelessly employing severely outdated slang.
After failing miserably Dad only becomes aware of his folly when Cusack throws him a bone towards the end of their awkward conversation.
Listening to Todd Rundgren’s latest album is a close approximation.
Except Rundgren doesn't care. No, he does not.


You see, aside from the misfire of an approach that alternates between seemingly appealing to what Rundgren thinks is the type of pop electronica today’s youth salivates over; revisiting the lesser moments of his otherwise solid Liars album [Sanctuary-2004]; and what can only be described as the remnants of a discarded electronica record circa 1989, it's not that Rundgren has lost the plot. No. It's that he is gleefully digging a deeper hole each time out. (And let's not dwell on the bitter irony of a legendary producer making records that sound like cheesy demos.)

More and more—as the All Music Guide’s Stephen Thomas Erlewine once pointed out—it seem like the Runt has decided to apply the old Bill Cosby joke of “I brought you into this world, I can take you out” to the last couple of decades or so of his recording career. If indeed that is the case he’s sure on track. The rest of us, or whoever else is left paying attention to his new releases, need to get off, tho.

[Album cover art courtesy of All Music Guide.]

Wishful Thinking

Michael Azzerad, best known as author of highly-acclaimed indie rock tome Our Band Could Be Your Life, has started a new website, The Talkhouse, which features essays on artists written by fellow artists, a concept which we could totally get behind since we're suckers for musicians talking about their heroes. Except that upon perusing the site's content we found ourselves uninterested by either the essayist or the object of their affection. And sometimes, neither one. [sigh] Your mileage may vary, of course. Check it out here.

The Tourists - "I Only Want to Be With You"

The Tourists never made much of an impression here in the US, although shortly after the band's breakup two of their members surely did: Annie Lennox and Dave Stewart. But in 1979 before Eurythmics was even a concept, the band had their lone US hit: a cover of an old Dusty Springfield tune which managed to scrape the lower reaches of the Billboard charts. This was a sign of the times, as catchy power pop tunes like "My Sharona" (The Knack), "I Want You to Want Me [live]" (Cheap Trick), and "Let's Go" (The Cars), were capturing the mainstream and The Tourists managed to ride that wave, albeit quite briefly.

The band never really capitalized on their modest success--they actually bore a strong dislike for "I Only Want to Be With You"--and broke up a year later amidst audience indifference, legal mishaps and internal tensions.
 

Death Knell Dictionary: "Dad Rock"

Labels can be helpful; they can be informative, clarify things and help save time. But sometimes they’re just plain stupid. Case in point: “dad rock”.

Supposedly, this is meant to be a snarky insult directed towards artists who follow rock tradition in their music. But here’s the thing: unless an artist is doing something incredibly new and original—which is terribly unlikely in the realm of popular music these days—it stands to reason they are operating within previously established guidelines. Therefore, these parameters were likely laid down by a prior generation. Hence, this leaves the “dad rock” designation devoid of substance and reducing it to just another vapid hipster epithet.

So, essentially, this derogatory term stems from the same group of people whose music and wardrobe fall mostly within the category of ‘80s retreads. Isn’t that ironic, Alanis?

Better Late...

The news of Pearl Jam's debut album Ten [Epic-1991] recently surpassing, appropriately enough, 10 million units sold in the US--which will be awarded Diamond status--via 4,000 copies sold the second week of February, brought about a couple of interesting tidbits. One is the fact that a 22 year old album from the so-called grunge era still sells a brisk amount of copies at this late date and at a time when free, mostly illegal downloads are how a wide swath of folks acquire their music; also, Ten is only one of 4 albums which have "gone Diamond" at this early point of 2013: Hybrid Theory (Linkin Park), Confessions (Usher), and 21 (Adele). Hmm...

20 Years Ago Today: 'Pablo Honey'

RADIOHEAD

Pablo Honey

[Parlophone-1993]

It's not surprising, given what has transpired since it was released on Feb. 22, 1993, that the band's latter day fanbase would shun a debut album which led the object of their undying and unwavering obsession to be nicknamed "the British Nirvana"--the record was produced by the renown "grunge" team of Sean Slade and Paul Q. Kolderie, of Pixies and Hole fame--and was named after a Jerky Boys skit. (Of course this tidbit is somewhat shocking proof that the Oxford quintet once had a sense of humor.)

But rather than a skeleton in their proverbial closet the band's uneven initial long player has its moments, including "You", "Anyone Can Play Guitar", "Ripcord", "I Can't" and--to Thom Yorke's everlasting chagrin, we imagine--their most famous song: the anthem of self loathing known as "Creep".

Although Pablo Honey held the title of Radiohead's weakest album until The King of Limbs showed up and blew it out of the water 2 years ago this week, it's not the filler-laden dud many would lead you to believe. In reality, it's always been a snapshot of a young band with a few decent songs attempting to find its footing. That their songwriting grew in leaps and bounds over the following two albums has sharply overshadowed Pablo Honey's simple charms in the two decades since its release. (Even Jonny Greenwood believes it's been underrated.) If nothing else, it hints at what was to come with The Bends two years later. And that's not a bad place to be, then or now.

Damned If You Do...

NATALY DAWN
How I Knew Her
[Nonesuch-2013]

Best known as half of YouTube sensation Pomplamoose--along with fellow multi-instrumentalist Jack Conte--Dawn's solo debut is a lush collection of singer/songwriter Americana which has earned mixed reviews and a Spin magazine "Worst New Music" designation despite fitting the profile of the type of album that passes for a critical favorite these days. Of course, critical faves tend to be measured by the music and/or the artist's relationship with a certain degree of authenticity and Dawn's viral past hinders that authenticity in the eyes and ears of quite a few reviewers. The same flip-flopping folks who deem it "rockist" to evaluate popular music artists by this standard, mind you.

Something is fishy here. Why aren't the folks at Spin and other like-minded critics praising her distinct and engaging voice, the well-crafted songs, the wistful Americana? We realized we're not really crazy about the album; a conclusion based on how the songs on How I Knew Her lack the necessary pull to drag themselves up from their frequent preciousness and occasional forced quirkiness, and nothing to do with her internet past. (The title track is stellar, tho.) But something did not add up. Hmm...
It was at this point that we arrived at a 'Eureka!' moment.

It seems as if fellow critics' main beef with Dawn and her album is that instead of following her band's cute Lady GaGa and Beyonce covers and going the Carmin route--gimmicky covers on YouTube leading to a trashy Black Eyed Peas/Top 40-type career--Dawn decided to cash in her viral chips as an earnest singer/songwrit­er instead of the abominable cheesy musical theatre geek fascinated with lowest common denominator hip hop and auto tuned bullshit that is Carmin. Truth is, if this album had been made by someone plucked out of obscurity and without the stigma of internet inauthenticity, Spin and Pitchfork would be all over it. But they want their viral sensations to stay in their place and continue being their pet monkeys; never attempt to rise above anything Bieber-esque. It's like a perverse variation on the indie rock elitism of not liking an artist as soon as they become popular. Jeez...

We don't care for Dawn's musical politics (her defense of Amanda Palmer's free musicians scam was deplorable) and Conte comes across in interviews like a soulless douchebag better suited for writing beer jingles, but this album should be judged on its own merits and not based on some bullshit 21st century bias engaged in by those who have the least amount of cred in the world of music criticism. You are the ones Frank Zappa was referring to, kids, when he famously said "Most rock journalism is people who can't write, interviewing people who can't talk, for people who can't read." Try to do better, will you? You too, Nataly.