REVERBERATIONS NO. 1 (TIE) - JD McPherson - Signs and Signifiers (Histyle-Rounder Records)

In previous years Reverberations conducted a marathon, day by day, countdown of the top 25 albums from the waning year. This year we will take a bit less ambitious approach, chronicling only the top 10 releases of 2012.  In January, in addition to reviews of brand spanking new music, we will also make occasion to reflect on some of the year's other fine recordings.

For our top 10 countdown, many of these selections will have been covered previously in Reverberations, in which event we will simply link you to the earlier review. A few of these, however, will require new reviews. 

THIS IS A NEW REVIEW ... OF OUR NO 1 ALBUM (TIE)* FOR 2012. 

JD MCPHERSON - SIGNS AND SIGNIFIERS (HITSTYLE/ROUNDER RECORDS)

If JD McPherson didn’t exist it would be necessary to, as Voltaire suggested about the Almighty, invent him.

Bedrock rock ‘n’ roll was crying for an emissary brash and original, wild and devout.

JD is that guy.

Somehow this Oklahoma born newcomer manages to capture the essence of early rock ‘n’ roll, but without a slavish obedience to any particular performer, genre, or idiom, and without a hint of the precious or restorative. Even the best rockers with a fix on an idyllic past tend to lapse into moments of the arch that occasionally land the music in the mausoleum. The magic that McPherson manages is to evoke absolutely the full range of performers from Little Richard and Larry Williams, and Buddy Holly to Bo Diddley (as well as stellar, less known lights like Joe Liggins and Amos Milburn), without ever sounding like a mimic.

Recorded essentially live, with analog mics and equipment, Signs and Signifiers crackles with the immediacy of performance. There is no layered, processed studio glop standing between you and McPherson. Those voices, instruments and amps sound like they are in the damned room with you. That in 2012 such a record would sound so stunningly present is funny, really. For Cossimo Matassa, cutting tracks in New Orleans with Fat Domino or Little Richard, or Sam Philips harnessing the hysteria of Jerry Lee Lewis at Sun in Memphis, this was business as usual. They would say, well – that’s how you make a record. You get a good singer, good song, great players, and capture the best performance you can. Face palm!

So, the shock of the old, to paraphrase the noted fine arts observer, Robert Hughes (author of The Shock of the New) applies here. What was commonplace in1955 is revelation now.

But this talk of process diminishes McPherson’s achievement. There are plenty of clucks out there ready to emulate Chess sides from the late 50s. No shortage, whatsoever. McPherson triumphs because of the fine songs he brings to the table, the support of an awesome band, and the tenacity of his vision. Because rather than focus on any one artist, studio, or era for inspiration, on Signs and Signifiers McPherson presents a tableaux of primal rock, invigorated for the present.

Listening to Signs and Signifiers over the last several months my estimation has only deepened. With each listening its sheer entertainment value increases, at the same time my appreciation for McPherson’s mastery of his sources grows.

“North Side Gal” is the perfect introductory statement. Is it Little Richard? Is it Billy Lee Riley? The answer is yes, but there a host of other mystic chords of memory tugging at this one rock ‘n’ roll song. The tenor solo is pure Lee Allen, McPherson’s following solo is Chuck Berry city. But it’s beyond a catalog of influences. The pace is set with this song. The story is that producer Jimmy Sutton, a Chicago studio engineer who ‘discovered’ McPherson’s demo, walked the studio during rehearsal for each tracking, helping the band find the right dance tempo – not too fast, not too slow, but right in the groove. Sure as hell worked.

McPherson’s intuitive genius shows on “Country Boy,” a Felice and Boudleaux Bryant song popularized by Little Jimmy Dickens, which McPherson turns into something that sounds like a cross between Big Joe Turner and Eddie “Cleanhead” Vinson. Alex Hall’s piano captures that Pete Johnson thing nicely. Hall plays piano on certain tracks, while Scott Ligon covers the keys on six cuts, bringing his discreet sense of Jerry Lee Lewis, Little Richard, and Johnnie Johnson astutely to bear. 

 Signs and Signifiers balances the dance floor burners like “Fire Bug,” “Scratching Circles, ”B.G.M.O.S.R.N.R.” with moody pieces like the title cut and “A Gentle Awakening.” The latter is suffused with melancholy. Brimming with a modern poetic sensibility that is miles from retro-rock – hell, it’s closer to Rilke than Little Richard.

The former lurches forward with Bo Diddley tremolo, which younger listeners will undoubtedly mistake for Johnny Marr’s borrowing for “How Soon is Now.” Hell, McPherson may have heard it there first. He is an acknowledged aficionado of bands like Nirvana, the Ramones, Dead Boys, and the Pixies. Not that the originators of rock, who so clearly and primarily inspire McPherson’s work, didn’t have plenty of brash irreverence, but the channeling of later rock essences has, I think, an indefinable but real impact on McPherson’s music. It lends a vitality that makes the Blasters sound retro. And I like the Blasters, a lot.

“I Can’t Complain” features guitar work that evokes Lowman Pauling’s underrated work with the Five Royales; “Wolf Teeth” is singular proof that this guy is no Straycats mannerist. It follows the title tracks’ Bo Diddley infused guitar with another shot at Bo’s bough, but the song itself is performed with the manic intensity of Charlie Feathers. And man you don’t hear much that screams Charlie Feathers here in the age of Pitchfork.

Well, there it is. Signs and Signifiers is an instant classic, built for speed and comfort both. Refreshing at first listen. But I hardly knew then it would be my (co)-album of the year. That’s why I keep listening. Listening intently, deep, hard. Wait, that sounds dirty. But you know what I mean. It’s where satisfaction lies. And Signs and Signifiers is satisfying.

REVERBERATING: 9.3 

* - REVERBERATIONS 'OTHER' NO. 1 ALBUM ANNOUNCED JAN. 1, 2013.

Top Ten Countdown Continues with No. 2, Redd Kross - Researching the Blues (Merge)

In previous years Reverberations conducted a marathon, day by day, countdown of the top 25 albums from the waning year. This year, between today and the end of the month, we will take a bit less ambitious approach, chronicling only the top 10 releases of 2012.  In January, in addition to reviews of brand spanking new music, we will also make occasion to reflect on some of the year's other fine recordings. 

For our top 10 countdown, many of these selections will have been covered previously in Reverberations, in which event we will simply link you to the earlier review. A few of these, however, will require new reviews. 

Here, is an earlier review of our no. 2 title: 

Redd Kross - Researching the Blues (Merge)

 

I think I first heard them in about 1982. Guitarist Jeff McDonald and his bassist brother Steven were still in their teens. I was a fan of their early glam-trash-punk abrasions. Born Innocent, with killer tracks like “Linda Blair” – good stuff.  From 1984, Teen Babes from Monsanto was as kool as its title; purveying low culture thrills ala Sonic Youth, but the McDonald brothers offered melodic twists well beyond Sonic Youth’s sing to the chords school of songwriting. Neurotica, released in 1987 perfected their sensibility. Its glammy vision - freakbeat, drug through the gutter of the New York Dolls and put through the Back from the Crypt grinder – was Redd Kross fully realized. Even if only Jeff could buy a drink legally.

 I was even pretty thrilled through Third Eye, a chiming, pure pop distillation of their gnarlier selves, released on Atlantic in 1990. My crew played the shit out of it, turned people on to it, but then grunge came along. It was shitty timing for Redd Kross. Their sassy, suburban snarl, unafraid of androgyny, was anything but Eddie Vedder flannel. Their closest kinship by then may have been to bands like Dramarama (a fine, fine outfit indeed), who were still pretty burly by comparison. 

 Redd Kross’ other Nineties releases were fresh, melodic and rocking. But somehow their sound lost some of its distinction as the band shot for a little deeper commercial penetration. Somehow it seemed too safe, too Material Issue or something, after their Eighties stuff. Then, they disappeared.

Fifteen years disappeared.

They re-emerge on Merge Records with Researching the Blues. 

It is so good. 

It’s the kind of good – so rocking, so stacked with invention and turn of phrase – that its instantly classic songs hit you like a ton of  bricks (“Stay Away From Downtown”) first;  then give way to the subtle hooks of (at first) less arresting songs (“Winter Blues”).  

Title track, “Researching the Blues,” initially inspired by the scholarly, but gritty passions of John and Alan Lomax, is a fond, but scathing rebuke to a friend turning down every wrong street and dark alley (“You just can’t win, strung out on the devil again”).  “Researching” has a brooding, insistent edge that matches the lyric’s darkness. The devil appears again (“the devil inside your head”) in “Stay Away from Downtown.” This song is the embodiment of a power-pop performance, with no neglect in the power department. Jeff McDonald and Robert Hecker’s interlocking, riff off riff, guitar lines propel the song. Drummer Roy McDonald (no relation) holds it all together with rock-ribbed Ringo drive and occasional Moon bursts.  Jeff and Brother Steven’s harmony vocals remind how potent sibling harmonies can be (Everlys, Davies, … you get the picture)  At 2:40 the “yeah, you” vocals hit, the “sha la las” enter at 2:52. Shortly after, you knock yourself upside the head and realize – damn, this is in the same league with Cheap Trick’s “Surrender” – a kitchen sink of power moves and pop turns.

The down and dirty vibe persists with “Uglier” (co-written by the McDonald brothers, Anna Waronker, and Charlotte Caffey – of the Go Gos and Jeff McDonald’s missus),   a nightmare of psychic disintegration complete with “Sympathy for the Devil” style “whoo-whoos.” Here, Redd Kross sounds a little like Urge Overkill circa Saturation. A shift to the minor key and a Big Star vibe is well timed for “Dracula’s Daughter.” “Meet Frankenstein” is a charmer, clocking in at 1:45 that betrays an omnipresent Beatle influence (especially John Lennon).

The lurching syncopation of “One of the Good Ones” evokes  the Velvet Underground’s “Rock and Roll,” while there’s a punkier edge to “The Nu Temptations” that reminds that Redd Kross grew up in the era of the Zeros and Avengers, and with more than a little Black Flag and X ringing in their ears. Steve McDonald also play bass with Keith Morris’s (Circle Jerks) new hardcore outfit, Off. Much of the band’s genius is in the effortless way they synthesize Cali-punk aggression with Merseyside melody.

“Winter Blues” is psych-pop, reminiscent of the “Paisley Underground” era of L.A. rock. It has echoes of everything from ‘California Dreamin’” to “Rain” – beautiful, dream-like harmonies, a weeping, very George Harrison  slide guitar solo, and a “radiation wave” that evokes a kinship with Fountains of Wayne’s “Radiation Vibe.” 

Researching draws to a close with the Pete Townshend-like acoustic bash of “Hazel Eyes.” The subtle, yet soaring power-pop arrangement shares qualities with Tommy Keene and Teenage Fanclub.  A nicely placed breakdown to bass and drums, followed by a psychedelic guitar squall, leads back in to the choruses that fade the song, and the album out. 

Ten songs that clock in under thirty-three minutes, with more power, melody and intelligence than most bands summon in a career. Researching the Blues is a stunning return to form and beyond from Redd Kross. An album with more fresh authority than one would ordinarily expect from a veteran band after a long layoff. But then it’s no ordinary album.

Reverberating: 9.0

Top Ten Countdown Continues with No. 3, Cate Le Bon- Cyrk (The Control Group)

In previous years Reverberations conducted a marathon, day by day, countdown of the top 25 albums from the waning year. This year, between today and the end of the month, we will take a bit less ambitious approach, chronicling only the top 10 releases of 2012.  In January, in addition to reviews of brand spanking new music, we will also make occasion to reflect on some of the year's other fine recordings. 

For our top 10 countdown, many of these selections will have been covered previously in Reverberations, in which event we will simply link you to the earlier review. A few of these, however, will require new reviews. 

Here, is an earlier review of our no. 3 title:


Cate Le Bon - Cyrk (The Control Group) 

The palette of Me Oh My, the debut from Cate Le Bon, was stark and to the point. Its appealing, if rudimentary, production values allowed the songs to speak for themselves, and they ranged from the whimsical (“Sad Sad Feet”) to the apocalyptic (“Terror of the Man”). For her follow up, Cryk, the Welsh born singer-songwriter adds layers of instrumental texture and embellishment, making her austere and sturdy songs even more transfixing. Ultimately, though, it’s her sheer self-possession as a singer that makes it hard to divert your attention, rather like the aural equivalent of not being able to take your figurative eyes off of someone.

Much has been made of the Nico influence, so let’s consider that. First, Le Bon’s vocal range is higher; her dynamic range more extreme, and her reliance on and comfort with harmonization are greater (including plenty of self-harmonization). Where the comparison works is with respect to a shared melancholy affect, a certain precise diction (rooted in English perhaps being a second language – Le Bon is also a Welsh speaker), and a tendency to enter and accent just behind the beat. The specter of the Velvet Underground also extends to Le Bon’s musical sensibility. It’s the sound of loud, bright guitars and dissonant keyboards parts, as well as a certain rhythmic lurch, you can hear it in the galloping syncopation of the album’s opening track “Falcon Eyed,” with its “Sister Ray” lurch.

But this is a post-Velvet vision distinctly informed by Le Bon’s roots in Welsh music and culture (and after all, John Cale was a fellow Welshman). Her art just sounds rooted in the Welsh culture. You’d almost have to have visited Wales to understand. It’s something to do with their mixture of hospitality and reserve, welcoming and insularity, the way some greet you warmly in English one moment only to switch languages conspicuously when entering conversation with a nearby friend. I love the Welsh. Part of my bloodline is Welsh. It’s a fascinating place, and some of the best Welsh artists (Super Furry Animals, Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci … Cate Le Bon) have a natural Welsh aura that somehow conveys the country’s curious cross between the connected and the remote. Le Bon first came to prominence as Gruff Rhys’s collaborator on the Neon Neon project. Recorded in Wales and featuring an all, or almost all, Welsh cast, including Meilyr Jones and Gwion Llewellyn from the excellent, if little known, band Race Horses, Cyrk is a distillation of that national sensibility, told through the eyes of a very individual and bohemian female artist.

“Falcon Eyed,” beyond the Velvet touch, also sounds like Le Bon and crew draw from sounds that were ‘freak folk,’ before the genre had a name, the Incredible String Band in particular, and from a stack of Seventies Kraut-prog records that might have Faust at the top of the pile. “Puts Me to Work,” like most of Le Bon’s lyrics, suggests more than states, but seems to concern domestic dissatisfaction; it features bashing drums and stratospheric harmonies, stacked at one point into a “Twist and Shout” style build.

Sometimes Le Bon’s plain poesy recalls the reserved acquiescence of Nick Drake, as on the title track – Le Bon quietly insisting that “now is not a good time to leave me all alone,” a sentiment full of portent, delivered unsentimentally. The sweetly discordant guitar and keyboards, and those Mike-Robin-Rose-Licorice harmonies, all add to the quiet, but roiling delivery.

“Julia” and “Greta” both suggest a kinship with Elliott Smith, and more particularly with a shared Beatles (acid Lennon) fixation. These songs have a “Strawberry Fields Forever” vintage saturation, best evidenced in “Greta’s” blossoming orchestrations, as horn lines veer and sway between a bluesy take on Salvation Army Band mournfulness and free jazz ecstasy – all in support of lyrics like “you existed in moonlight before you were born.” Thanks to Le Bon’s exquisitely reserved delivery, the patchouli factor is present, but kept in check.

The sweet clash between musical elements runs throughout Le Bon’s sensibility. “Fold the Cloth,” starts with limpid guitar, slips into Stereolab sensuality before Syd Barrett-spitting guitar goes toe to toe with Le Bon’s angelic vocal, until the song bangs away into a sudden, abrupt, and Beatlesque conclusion. “Man I Wanted” sounds as much like warning as profession of affection. Le Bon glides from conversational delivery to an eerie soprano, professing her desire to be the beloved’s “greatest host.”

The slightly creepy mood continues with “Through the Mill,” a rather bestial tale embellished by what sounds like some mental patient playing scales on a piano that’s tumbling slowly down the stairs. In a good way.

 Cyrk (Polish, off all things, by the way, for circus) ends with a two-part extravaganza called “Ploughing Out.” Implicitly connecting to her rural roots, part one of “Ploughing” concerns melancholy and self-acceptance, as she compares her emotions (“on the last day of the year I’m just happy to be here”) to her beloved’s (“and on the worst day of his life, he’d still love more things than I like. Taping melodies of times in his mind”), contrasting his voracious appetite with her need for discretion. It commences with a beautiful guitar figure, reminiscent of the Velvets’ “I’ll Be Your Mirror,” sounding like something Wes Anderson might easily plumb for a future film; an inventory of small blessings and difference, it resonates charm. Part-two executes a barely detectable shift in downward fidelity for jarring and excellent effect. The refrain, defiant and resilient, repeats “when it goes off we’ll be the on the last boat out of here; you’ll be the ringing in my ear, still we never say die.” The jolly end-time mood extends to the instrumental coda that ends the song – a feast of dueling themes, rather like the fade to “All You Need is Love,” includes a saxophonist doing his best Albert Ayler against what sounds like Terry Riley arranging for crumhorns and sackbuts. And it’s all capped off with what sounds like the guitar chord that ends … well, “The End,” by the Doors. Nice touch. Like that chord, Cyrk lingers, compelling you to return.

Reverberating: 9.0 (originally 8.8)

Top Ten Countdown Continues with No. 4, Cat Power - Sun (Matador)

In previous years Reverberations conducted a marathon, day by day, countdown of the top 25 albums from the waning year. This year, between today and the end of the month, we will take a bit less ambitious approach, chronicling only the top 10 releases of 2012.  In January, in addition to reviews of brand spanking new music, we will also make occasion to reflect on some of the year's other fine recordings. 

For our top 10 countdown, many of these selections will have been covered previously in Reverberations, in which event we will simply link you to the earlier review. A few of these, however, will require new reviews. 

Here, however, is a new review of the No. 4 title:

 Cat Power - Sun (Matador)

Since it arrived in my mailbox I have listened to Sun almost daily. Always a fan, this Cat Power album especially touches me. Yet I had not been moved to write about it. It’s one of those albums that you “get” without necessarily having the capacity or inclination to explain. But then when you make it your No. 4 album of 2012 … well, say something you must.

Throughout her early career, Cat Power was painted into the corner of suffering female icon of indie rock. With 1998’s Moon Pix Chan Marshall’s (Cat Power’s given name) inchoate longing began to take on form. On her Covers Record she gave highly personal interpretations of familiar songs, including a quietly killing version of “Satisfaction,’ which bravely eschewed the song’s familiar chorus.

Marshall showed a wider range and quietly soulful touch on albums like The Greatest, recording with the same musicians Al Green used at Hi Studios in Memphis. Jukebox, her second ‘covers’ album, was a step back in terms of authority and consistency, but still had some winning interpretations, especially her Stones-y take on Dylan’s “I Believe in You.”

Throughout her journey, it was Marshall’s wounded, and deeply human voice that commanded attention. Sun turns those wounds into ecstasy and the embrace of our shared humanity. It was a long time in the making and not without travail.

Marshall tried using her live band to record these tunes, but felt the sessions didn’t click. In fact, she halted them to cut Jukebox instead. Then, personal issues intervened. Her record company Matador expressed frustration with her lack of progress and tried to assign her a producer. This irritated her, of course; she lamented "telling [a musician] they need a producer is like telling someone that they need a nose job. It activates something in you that makes you feel like a loser."

After some time away from the concept Marshall heard some Beastie Boys mixes by Philippe Zdar, a member of the band Cassius. On intuition she approached him to help her with these songs. Since she was paying for the sessions herself he worked on contingency, given his belief in the product. Long story short … it worked. Sun combines elements familiar to any Cat Power fan, but combines them with new splashes of electronic sound, creating a new kind of Cat Power music that is brazenly non-idiomatic and powerfully universal. 

For a song like “Ruin” Marshall combines a Latin piano riff with Keith Richard’s style guitar punctuations, all on top of a dance-rock groove, supporting a lyrical travelogue that says “we’re sittin’ on a ruin” but lamenting “bitchin’, complainin’,”  - making an implicit argument against Mayan Calendar catastrophe whining. The following track “3, 6, 9” rolls out easy funk, its piano and synthesizer lines sinewy and sensuous, the perfect complement to her tale of ravaged love.

Marshall’s existential credo is clear in “Real Life,” a series of character negations (“I met a doctor, he want to be a dancer/I met a mother, she want to be alone”) with the tough truth that “sometimes you gotta do what you don't’ wanna do, to get away with an unordinary life” – a bit Nietzschean, a bit dharma, all sexy conviction.

But while “Real Life” may flirt with homo superior assertions, “Human Being” asserts everyone’s need for fulfillment and identity. A downbeat cousin to the song of the same name by the New York Dolls, “Human Being” is a chanted claim to the availability of transcendence for all of us.

“All the friends there we used to know, ain’t comin’ back” Marshall coolly opines in “Manhattan.” A beat box rhythm framed by a repeated three chord figure circles through and around the “never leave Manhattan” phrase, insinuating an emotional abyss.

A bluesy riff insistently drives “Silent Machine,” as Marshall sings “you lie, you lie, you lie.” The bluesy wallop surrenders briefly to a bridge that sounds like electric aural cubism.

At 10:57 “Nothing But Time” shares some chords and communion with David Bowie’s “Heroes.” Another amalgam of acoustic piano and synth sounds, Marshall stretches out vowels and words into something like a mantra, culminating in a simple declaration of ‘you wanna live, your way of living.” Simple stuff, but powerful, even ecstatic as it builds; Marshall is joined by Iggy Pop, sounding like some avuncular Buddha. The song ends at about 8 minutes, fades out, then into a coda; all of it too long, but seductive, never feeling like a cheat.

On Sun Chan Marshall is a scarred celebrant, and not just of her own identity and vision, but of a common destiny. In locating her touch, Marshall also composes her most direct set of songs ever – accessible and highly personal at the same time. “Marry me, marry me to the sky” she sings on “Cherokee;” and it’s hard not to be swept away. It took a long time to deliver, but Sun does, making it Cat Power’s (and Chan Marshall’s) strongest song cycle ever. 

Reverberating: 9.0

Top Ten Countdown Continues with No. 5, King Tuff - s/t (Sub Pop)

In previous years Reverberations conducted a marathon, day by day, countdown of the top 25 albums from the waning year. This year, between today and the end of the month, we will take a bit less ambitious approach, chronicling only the top 10 releases of 2012.  In January, in addition to reviews of brand spanking new music, we will also make occasion to reflect on some of the year's other fine recordings. 

For our top 10 countdown, many of these selections will have been covered previously in Reverberations, in which event we will simply link you to the earlier review. A few of these, however, will require new reviews.

This a previous review of Reverberations No. 5 title ...

King Tuff - s/t (Sub Pop Records)

King Tuff’s self-titled sophomore release on Sub Pop is not what it appears to be. It appears to be some crude spoof on the stoner rock Kyle Thomas purveyed (w/ Jay Mascis on drums, no less) with the band Witch. On the cover a devil-bat wields what looks to be a Gibson SG in one claw and a five-pointed star wand in the other. Ooh – Wee – Ooh.

King Tuff’s debut record Was Dead, a mid-fi feast of sharp pop songs buried under de rigueur distortion, established an audience for Thomas’s trashed out recycling of classic rock moves. Was Dead got frequent, not unreasonable comparisons to similar works by garage like Ty Segall and Jay Reatard.

Of course with Melted and Watch Me Fall, Seagall and Reatard (respectively) made moves toward greater production clarity and songs bordering on pop-rock convention. With King Tuff, Thomas (with Magic Jake on bass and Kenny on drums) staggers past such peers, making a small rock ‘n’ roll masterpiece. This, of course, is bound to alienate some of the distortion is God crowd. Theirs’ are crocodile tears, really; this record sacrifices nothing whatsoever in energy or attitude. 

The Ramones weren’t trying to make shitty sounding records. The Clash weren’t trying to make shitty sounding records. I’m not sure when the sub-garage ethic became the currency for bratty bands, but it’s a fashion that’s run its course. 

Speaking of the Ramones, Thomas has Dee Dee Ramone’s deadpan ability to say what’s on his mind. The loser anthems on King Tuff make consistent reference to outsider status. On “Alone and Stoned” Thomas bluntly asserts that “all his friends” are just that. “Everywhere I Go I am a Stranger” laments “Stranger.” “Loser’s Wall” – okay, not a lot of explication required. For “Evergreen,” which bears more than a bit of resemblance to Deerhunter, Thomas presumes peace will find him “only when I die,” and sings with resignation that “I’m not really here.” A Bo Diddley throb is the foundation for “Unusual World’s” assertion of isolation and independence, the band sounding a little like the Sleepy Jackson. Get the picture? Yes, you see.

What prevents King Tuff from becoming a cartoon version of post-teen angst is the variety and deceptive depth of its music. At Detroit's Malcolm X Academy (nifty studio name), producer Bobby Harlow and Thomas crafted a rough, but sparkling diamond. The band is a classic rock magpie, and arrangement details abound; “Alone and Stoned” concludes with an acapella repeat of the song’s first line, capping off a satisfying T. Rex/Beach Boys hybrid. “Loser’s Wall” opens with chords borrowed from the Kinks’ “Till the End of the Day,” goes all “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” over the breaks, and Thomas’s vocal delivery is pure, laconic Thurston Moore. “Bad Thing” features close harmony vocals on the verse, transitioning to Daltrey screams on the chorus. “Loser’s” and “Bad” both have ingenious, beautifully developed guitar solos. Thomas is no slouch on the instrument he mythologizes (“when I play my Stratocaster”) on the latter song. 

“Baby Just Break” is a neat mash-up of Buddy Holly and Bob Dylan derivations. “Now I’m a criminal” Thomas forlornly insists. But hey, he’s been preaching the alienated loser lifestyle throughout King Tuff – at least he’s consistent. The outsider ethic extends to the music business itself on “Stupid Superstar.” The lush, languid and majestic Big Star emulation of the performance is expressive, as the band decries bands that “don’t make art, but they play the part.” The ultimate message, of course, being that it’s better to be a loser than a fake. 

King Tuff’s trump card is played with “Swamp of Love.” The title sounds like Cramps tribute; instead it’s a virtual banquet of Beatle elements. A raw testament to the glory and grit of love, “Swamp” is built on acoustic guitar and piano, building to a full band performance; then breaking down to a verse with just vocal and tremolo guitar, only to build back to a glorious finish, triggered by Kenny’s clear channeling of Ringo. Tucker’s Harrison-esque guitar lines are at once gnarly and gorgeous; his vocal has the lost wastrel quality of Johnny Thunders,  and the whole performance transcends homage. 

King Tuff is the sound of a band feeling its oats. While it strays from the limits of a certain garage-punk production aesthetic, it resolutely confirms the genre’s oppositional attitude and hard rocking conviction. 

Reverberating: 8.8 (originally 8.5)

Top Ten Countdown Continues with No. 6, Camera - Radiate (Bureau B)

In previous years Reverberations conducted a marathon, day by day, countdown of the top 25 albums from the waning year. This year, between today and the end of the month, we will take a bit less ambitious approach, chronicling only the top 10 releases of 2012.  In January, in addition to reviews of brand spanking new music, we will also make occasion to reflect on some of the year's other fine recordings. 

For our top 10 countdown, many of these selections will have been covered previously in Reverberations, in which event we will simply link you to the earlier review. A few of these, however, will require new reviews.

This a previous review of Reverberations No. 6 title ...

Camera - Radiate (Bureau B)

This is a review of a German instrumental rock band called Camera. 

 But allow me some set up.

First, about "electronic music." Trying to define “electronic music” as a genre is opening the door to a really messy room. And to parse it into infinities of sub-genres is only so helpful.

The origins of electronic music go back a century – to the Futurists, musique concrete, and a host of salon driven aesthetic movements, culminating in the post-WW2 flowering of the genre with composers like Stockhausen, Babbitt, Luening and Xenakis. Early experiments with tape manipulation evolved further with the introduction of the computer to composition and performance.

Of course the advent of computers in electronic music was relatively contemporary with the development of electronic amplification of the instruments central to blues, country, jazz and rock performance. This technically involved what academicians call “electromechanical sound,” a fancy way of describing what happens when you plug in guitars and keyboards. On the other hand, purely electronic sound is produced on devices like the theremin, synthesizer and computer, ‘instruments’ with less tangible acoustic predecessors.

These distinctions, while illustrative, don’t change what’s really a pretty blurry picture.

Nowhere is this more the case than with ‘Krautrock.” Once either an affectionate shorthand or dismissive epithet, Krautrock is now common language, describing a genre with origins in Germany in the very late Sixties and early Seventies. And it’s a genre that has proven durable. The core of artists who spearheaded the genre (Faust, Can, Ash Ra Tempel, Cluster, Neu, etc.) combined electric rock, electronic music, folk and classical influences, high art and pop, the atmospheric and the aggressive in fresh, influential ways.

Of course I pretty much eschewed it when it was first happening. I wasn’t wholly dismissive of the music by any means; it was just that the bits and pieces I heard by these artists didn’t grab me then. That and their hardcore fans were an annoying, proselytizing lot – that didn’t help. Sure, I got a kick out of Kraftwerk (can’t forget Kraftwerk), but not in the profound emotional or visceral way that I did from everything from Nick Drake to the New York Dolls.

I quite knowingly came to the music through the backdoor opened by David Bowie, His “Berlin Trilogy” (the albums Low, Heroes, and Lodger) from the late Seventies borrowed heavily from Teutonic inspirations. So, of course, did his productions for Iggy Pop – The Idiot and Lust for Life, especially the former. And Bowie was collaborating with Brian Eno, who recorded with Cluster and had immersed himself wholly in the idiom. Then British bands, including Wire, P.I.L., and Joy Division/New Order flew their Krautrock colors. Hell, it was everywhere and undeniable.

To be sure I’m still catching up. I Enjoyed the Neu! reissues on Astralwerks, released in 2001. Investigated Cluster a little more, dug a lot of what I heard. So, okay I’m no expert, but I’m learning.

I know enough to know that I dig Camera. 

Camera represents a new generation of Krautrock, endorsed and supported by guys like Michael Rother (Neu!, Harmonia) and Dieter Moebius (Cluster, Harmonia). They’ve developed a reputation in Germany for so-called “Krautrock Guerilla.” This means, basically, that they often show up in public spaces, unannounced and jam out. On their debut album Radiate you can hear how these compositions took root in improvisation. Their sonic approach essentially falls on one of two sides of a balance between driving, machine rock and serene, soundscapes; the latter sounding essentially like what that stuff on “Music for the Hearts of Space” would sound like if it wasn’t so soporific. 

Radiate more or less alternates the rockers and the sound scapes, but even the relative sleepers have their convulsive moments; “Rfid” breaks (at 4:45) from a soothing mix of synthesizer washes and peeling guitar into a “Venus in Furs” drone that powers the rest of the track. “Villon” evokes Talking Head’s “The Overload,” guitarist Franz Bargmann playing elegant, vaguely Arabic lines with a tone borrowed from the halcyon days of psychedelia (think: Country Joe and the Fish’s Barry Melton) while drummer Michael Drummer’s tautly tuned tom rolls and gong-like crashes offer a meditative alternative to album opener, “Ego,” with its driving rhythms, the band here as textured as Tangerine Dream, but as insistent as the Stooges. 

Camera has a deft way of mixing up sounds. Timm Brockmann’s keyboards are chiefly responsible for the band’s minimalist, but assertive themes. For every sheer electronic sound, he mixes in lots of other textures, like the harpsichord-like tones of “Ausland” or the Fender Rhodes style playing on “Utopia is.” Guitarist Bargmann rarely overplays. His lines are measured, sometimes reminding of the great Norwegian guitarist Terje Rypdal, other times of David Gilmour, Lou Reed, even the Edge (after all Brian Eno’s work with that band was firmly stamped with his Cluster/Connie Plank experiences). But Bargmann is also responsible for layer upon layer of textural distortion, harmonic, brash but lush, never stock in trade fuzzbox distortion.

“Soldat” pursues a frankly rock agenda, more blues based than the rest of Radiate or most music in the genre. Bargmann’s guitar sound is dirtier, the groove borders on something like Brooklyn’s Endless Boogie, even featuring a breakdown to drums, synth bass and handclaps.

The epic track on Radiate, at 10:57, is “Lynch,” a sound journey that moves from lumbering, atmospheric themes to “set the controls” (Pink Floyd) dramatic tension, then to a movement evocative of John Coltrane’s “Acknowledgement” from A Love Supreme, as Bargmann takes Trane’s place in his austere, but blistering fashion. “Lynch” is Camera’s tour de force, eleven minutes crammed with all of their signature motives.

I recommend Radiate generally, but especially for a late night drive. It’s combination of driving rock grooves and lunar atmospheres is perfect midnight ride music. Camera delivers everything that a band like Radiohead suggest, but fails to deliver – and without all that bobblehead warbling.

Reverberating: 8.8 (originally 8.6)

Top Ten Countdown Continues with No. 7, Lee Bains III and the Glory Fires - There is a Bomb in Gilead (Alive Records)

In previous years Reverberations conducted a marathon, day by day, countdown of the top 25 albums from the waning year. This year, between today and the end of the month, we will take a bit less ambitious approach, chronicling only the top 10 releases of 2012.  In January, in addition to reviews of brand spanking new music, we will also make occasion to reflect on some of the year's other fine recordings. 

For our top 10 countdown, many of these selections will have been covered previously in Reverberations, in which event we will simply link you to the earlier review. A few of these, however, will require new reviews.

This a previous review of Reverberations No. 7 title ...

Lee Bains III & The Glory Fires - There is a Bomb in Gilead (Alive Records)

Lee Bains III is the prodigal son, raised on the Good Book Jesus, corrupted by punk-rock and working out his own adult reconciliations between the two. It’s the blessing and curse of being Southern. From Jerry Lee Lewis to Tyler Keith (Preacher’s Kids), and all the way back to Robert Johnson, artists, black and white alike, have been torn between Saturday night and Sunday morning; ever since moonshine and lusty women first presented a challenge to the Christian life. Crap - that was probably in the fifth Century; in southern … France, or somewhere.  Hell, I’d have to get out my History books. Like I say, it’s nothing’ new. Bains and his Alabama boys, the Glory Fires, aren’t reinventing the wheel, just grinding the sucker. And it yields a great ride.

Even if there’s nothing new under the sun, each generation and every new artist has the opportunity to put its and his or her own spin on the eternal conflicts. On There is a Bomb in Gilead, the Glory Fires debut, Bains brings the sensibilities of a literary education to his talks with Jesus and his hallelujahs to Joey Ramone. I don’t say this just because he makes literary references, like the one to Walker Percy (“go ahead take my Walker Percy, go ahead and take the t-shirt by brother got when he saw the Ramones”), but because his melancholy and moral musings are offspring of Faulkner and O’Connor’s world. “Everything You Took,” the ditty with the Percy/Ramones lyric, establishes the artist’s lifestyle essentials: rock ‘n’ roll t-shirts and books. And essential they may as well be since he’s losing his gal. He’s clearly hanging on to a thread, clinging to “every little hope that you give me.” But the lady sounds to me like she’s moved on.

The singer’s wrestling with virtue resounds in “Ain’t No Stranger,” rhyming contrition and perdition, by God – and reminding the almighty that he may be prodigal, but he’ s “no stranger.” Bains and lead guitarist Matt Wurtele slash through the Willie Mitchell groove with guitars that are more Keith Richards and Ron Asheton than anything Memphis or Muscle Shoals. “Centreville” sustains the rocking pace. It’s Skynyrd after the Pistols (and Some Girls), Bains spitting out lyrics about guys who are “over educated and under-employed.” Perfect, it captures the new Birmingham, or hell – Boston, as the United States becomes the new Spain. Imagine Tony Joe White amped up and all pissed off. That’s what Bains sounds like on “Centreville.”

Bains works his connection to the lords of the garage in “Righteous, Ragged Songs” (‘say a prayer for punk rock, and say a prayer for me’) like a man who  believes that there just might be some soul saving potential in the  devil’s music, music, like gospel, that can surely be righteous and ragged. The Dixie-punk of “Red, Red Dirt of Home” neatly paraphrases country classic (you know, “Green, Green Grass of Home, the Curly Putnam Jr. warhorse recorded by Porter Wagoner, Bobby Bare, Tom Jones and your cousin Daryl); akin to a digital age version of “The  Letter,” Bains reflects on having his “momma and daddy on speed dial.” Wurtele’s “Honky Tonk Women” guitar carries him home. Here, Bains effortlessly strikes the Southern grit and groove that John Hiatt labors to achieve.

Simmering laments like “Reba” and “Choctaw Summer” rock country like country rocked before it became the fucking Eagles with fiddles. I hear the ghost of real, honest to God country singers like John Anderson in these tunes. But I also hear a band that sounds like they just might have listened to a Richard Thompson record or two. “Roebuck Parkway,” waxes nostalgic for a childhood idyll, and features some flat lovely acoustic picking. Wurtele breaks out some Wayne Perkins style licks for “Opelika,” Bains slyly referencing Johnny and June’s “Jackson” as he locates the boys position (‘3,000 miles east of L.A., 1,000 miles south of N.Y.C.’). 

“Magic City Stomp” is probably more fun live. It’s a chant wrapped in an instrumental workout that’s as much MC5 as it is M.G.’s. In the context of the album it sounds like filler, or a fun b-side.

The title cut references a youthful malapropism of Bains’ (he heard the gospel soother “Balm in Gilead” as “Bomb in Gilead” as a churchgoing kid). The Glory Fires strip things down to simplicity and soul. Bains stretches out phrases, wringing out nuance like the great soul stirring singers. There are some fine singers operating in the Southern (garage) rock idiom (the twin sons of the Oblivians, Jack Yarber and Greg Cartwright come to mind – Patterson Hood, too), but few make you think - damn, I could listen to this son of a gun sing James Carr and O.V. Wright songs.

Produced by Bains and Lynn Bridges in Water Valley, Mississippi, Gilead was mixed by the Jim Dickinson of Detroit garage-rock, Jim Diamond, at his Ghetto Recorders. In this instance, the locales speak volumes. This is rock ‘n’ roll from the South, dirty and distinguished, polished (but not too much) to a Motor City shine. Fresh, soulful, assured, There is a Bomb in Gilead is a damn fine debut from Lee Bains III and the Glory Fires.

Oh, I didn't work in references to bassist Justin Colburn and drummer Blake Williamson in graceful rock critic style. They kick ass.

Reverberating: 8.8 (originally 8.6)

Top Ten Countdown Continues with No. 8, First Aid Kit - The Lion's Roar (Wichita)

On their second full-length recording First Aid Kit don’t reinvent themselves. They don’t have to. But they do deepen and extend the sound from their revelatory debut, The Big Black & the Blue (included in Reverberation's 2010 Countdown ... http://stevemahoot.blogspot.com/2010/12/first-aid-kit-at-no-15-in-continuing.html). These Swedish sisters sing like they grew up in the Appalachian Mountains. Yet theirs is a sensibility at once pristine and robust, suggesting the beautiful, stark landscapes of their native Swede as much as the back roads of America. 

Now all of nineteen (Klara) and twenty-two (Johanna), the Soderberg sisters sound more in command of their harmonies, which were potent indeed already. They are beneficiaries of the YouTube age, to be sure. Attention for their debut was stirred by their stunning rendition of the Fleet Foxes’ “Tiger Mountain Peasant Song.” In the interim between Big Black and their new album The Lion’s Roar fans were treated to a mesmerizing version of Patti Smith’s “Dancing Barefoot.” If you’ve never seen it do so; it’s remarkable – soulful beyond the girls' tender age. Their own songs still aren’t as good as their best covers. But then, if First Aid Kit's songs equaled their stunning singing The Lion’s Roar would be incomparable.

And it’s pretty great as it is.

Because they really do write some fine songs. “Blue” is a charmer; it cries out for their hero Emmylou Harris to have a go. Few singers could make a line like “you’re just a shell of your former youth” sound so buoyant and telling at the same time. The Soderbergs can because they traffic comfortably in melancholy and uplift at the same time.

 “Emmylou” (speaking of Ms. Harris) is just plain gorgeous. Homage lyrically to Harris and Gram Parsons (‘You be my Gram, I’ll be your Emmylou”) as well as Johnny and June Cash, the song also is an anthem to the very idea of love as artistic fusion. And who won’t fall for that romance?

But even in “Emmylou” there’s a sweet sense of foreboding, a feeling made more express in the excoriating (and self-castigating) tone of the title track (“I’m a god damn coward, but then again so are you”). Indeed, for all the sweetness of these female-Everly (they remind me of the McGarrigle, Kate and Ann sometimes, too) harmonies, these ladies’ lyrics are hardly sweet and light. 

 Mike Mogis produces. As the arranger for Bright Eyes, Mogis has developed a strong ear for robust, primarily acoustic performances. His penchant for reverb on the Soderberg’s vocals is a wee bit excessive – sometimes I find myself preferring the relative austerity of Benkt Soderberg's production on The Big Black and Blue. 

But generally, give Mogis credit for putting together a lush, beautiful accompaniment to First Aid Kit’s stunning vocals. Of course, with Mogis at the helm and the album being recorded in Omaha, a Conor Oberst appearance was almost a guarantee. He pairs well with them, though, on the co-written “King of the World,” a lament from a heart alienated from self and estranged from love. The girls favor Oberst’s limited range and sing abidingly with him in a spirited tru-et. 

The Lion’s Roar seems to have solidified and accelerated the cult audience building around First Aid Kit. Their lovely songs and even more beautiful harmonies certainly deserve an enormous audience. 

Reverberating: 8.8