Chronicle 2022: The Highlights #3
"I want it all, so I tell them." More to discuss about this truly diverse year.
Well, we’re still quite taken aback by so many things. I hope art is still one of them. I always aim to celebrate the scope of what happened, and a little bit of distance always helps. All these albums were released from January to March of this year, and taking my time with them has been a rewarding experience. I get to grow with them, and viceversa, as the year continues to move on with its ups and downs. So much on our plate, we should be able to rejoice. Alas, we all have our motives.
Charlotte Adigéry & Bolis Pupul - Topical Dancer (tech house, synthpop)
In a way, this can and should work as an exercise in social unrest. When we’ve become so immensely jaded towards the very notions of ‘ideals’, ‘beliefs’ and ‘values’ since said notions have been trumped over and over by systems dedicated to destroying history, past and present and future, stating things the way they are as blunt, uncaring, unpolished statements as a way to fight is often looked at as cliché. Trying to reshift major political theories and lifestyles to, not even mantras, but slogans, is what mainstream culture has been successfully achieving by incorporating anti-capitalist movements into capitalism. For people on the outside, it’s liberating; for those who are still suffering, their common sense is sharpened. And so, when you’re quick-witted and do believe in what you stand for, but you know bluntness will send you back to nowhere land, trying to flip that mindset, coming up with a message by way of a direct anti-message? You can try to find power there.
The notion of erasing history is something Charlotte Adigéry very much has in mind, considering her Nigerian heritage while being raised in Belgium by parents from islands in French territory. She’s aware of her own country’s attempts at colonization, and the whitewashing that never stopped, it just devolved into shadier, less open parts of the culture. And her aim is to decry all of that, recognize those in powers and show them their true colors - because she doesn’t intent to focus solely on the malevolent perpetrators of harm, her focus is that of those equal perpetrators deluding themselves into thinking they’re ‘one of the good ones’, in their heads exempt from criticism because they say the right buzzwords with seemingly the right intentions. Alongside Chinese/Belgium producer Bobis Pupul, they seek to musically strip down those who attempt to do good for their own peace of mind.
That way, Topical Dancer is constantly at odds with the listener, it’s at confrontation with them. Once they set themselves as opposites, they can mold a picture of the listener and one is forced to see how well they fit into that shape, but how concerned they should feel about that… that’s up to the individuals. The first proper track, “Esperanto”, settles the album as well as any opener could. Musically, sharp techno with small colors and brushes, as it shapes Charlotte’s voice into this vibrancy that resonates around the room. Meanwhile, she’s asking questions with a sense of literacy that aids the message. Instead of churning in affirmative slogans or contrarian righteousness, she gives you the ball: “Are you polite or political? / Are you correct or cynical? / Are you as open-minded behind closed doors?”. Screwing hypocrisy and #activism all at once, the most damning line in her questioning is the last one: “Do you see this guilt as leverage?”. Naturally, in the spirit of a pop song, this doesn’t go the same, exhausting route an essay would, but as a thesis statement that takes pleasure in making no statement at all, it’s a proper catch-22. Virtue signaling turned on its head. As the bridge sums it up, “Empty empathy”.
Not content with that (and we’re still in the album opener), the second half of “Esperanto” takes it to itself to bring the snark, snark that will characterize the rest of the album, by giving bigots (both oblivious and aware) ways to express their close mindedness in more refined, polite ways. If they’re going to not change their mind at all, they might as well do it with more tact; that’s a ‘fuck you’ if I’ve heard one. “Don’t say, “But where are you really from?” / Say… “I don’t see color!””. That’s the basics. “Don’t say “You speak my language surprisingly well!” / Say… “Do you speak Esperanto?””; digging even deeper. “Don’t say, “I would like a black Americano” / Say… “I’ll have an African American, please” - well, by this point, it’s just absurd. And Charlotte takes so much glee with her; disarming people in such a distressed, calmed down way. You gotta not scare your target right out of the gate, especially if they think they’re your friend.
The rest of Topical Dancer remains the directness of the message, but it also never sacrifices the musicality in order to convey what it wants to say. It’s thankfully aware of how sounds communicate ideals as well. Charlotte and Bobis use vocal compression as a tool for uncanny voices, in order to place Charlotte’s voice in different parts of the aural space, as different characters. As confrontational as this album is, it uses the idea of house music and techno music as something to reappropriate, but also not as a tool for dancing: it’s techno as examination, as well as filling up a dancefloor, although a particular type of dancefloor.
In that sense, the best songs are the ones that combine the biting text with either good melodies or Charlotte’s voice taking over the mix and getting by on personality alone. My personal favorite, “Ceci n’est pas un cliché”, based entirely on mindless lyrical tropes (“I was walkin’ down the street”, “Hey, Mr. DJ!”, “I’m on my knees, beggin’ you please”, “Let’s dance thе night away”, and so forth), gives said tropes meaning simply by having an incredible bass strut, one where the pickup lets the air around the sound not be filtered out, and layering Charlotte’s voice in a way that feels cornering; when “You’re cold as ice!” drops, alongside the distant strings and the spare beat, as minimal as it is, it still feels like something’s shimmering. It does sound real familiar; why would I wish to go back to it?
Other highlights naturally include “Blenda”, a rough foundation fitting for an affirmation of character (although, “Siri, can you tell me where I belong?” is one of the few moments that unintentionally reach the point of cliché, and not for the right reasons), and Charlotte’s shifting of words to form different statements are especially delicate, in the middle of sounds this overt. The verses of “Mantra” are a bit too meandering, and somewhat ugly for no real reason, but then the song does a sharp shift to the driving chorus, where the most direct principle of not giving in to the overthinking nature of the self; sometimes, mantras can be reassuring, within specific contexts.
With that in mind, while it aims to criticize those in power, it does lend a hand and wants to support those struggling. Charlotte and Bolis look at those suffering with kind eyes, and treat them as more than merely concepts or ideas. “Hey” is a welcoming of ideals like “Equality, Unity, Variety, Harmony” and proceeds to describe them as regular people; the sentiment could be too trite, but the swooshing keys make it have a sense of buoyancy that is very welcome, and Charlotte’s voice projects a lot of warmth. That warmth is found much better expressed in “Reappropriate”, a song backed up by a vocal choir not out of place next to a modern suspense trailer soundtrack (but done well), followed by spaced out pan flutes that see Charlotte speaking, not only to others, but to herself. Reappropriating sexuality after so much stigma, and femininity being something to celebrate after being put through the mood for so long, those are personal aspirations that aim towards something grander.
“It Hit Me” is a very telling song in that regard; spoken word over dorky synths that explores Charlotte and Bolis’ relationship, and how they relate to one another. The first time something “hit them”; for Charlotte, it was the first time she realized she was being stared at sexually, from afar, by men, at the age of 13; for Bolis (who has his own verse), the moment his standards of beauty changed and realized he was following structures led by generations before him. The moment they broke. And so, the song breaks. Their voices are pitched up to reflect their immaturity, and slowly, they go down, as if reality had knocked them down a peg or two. The sounds are alienating, the melodies feel incidental, the buildups for the drop are disquieting, with this mushy tom being bonged over and over, and the ‘drop’ proper is one of no clarity; for a moment that’s meant to feel like a realization, if there is one, it isn’t pretty at all.
So after all, if they feel the need to be obnoxious in order to question the order of things, so be it. Closer of this album, “Thank You”, is also a list of clichés, this time being normal responses to the cloying, patronizing opinion of others, as Charlotte herself becomes the one to patronize (“Yes, I prefer my first EP too!”), and still pulls the hard ones forward (“Exposure shouldn’t have a price, right? ‘Cause money doesn’t rhyme with creativity!”), with the usual wink-and-nod to all those underappreciated. This may not feel like it’s doing a lot, taking the more passive role of the accuser and having the ball land on your hands instead of its own. But that’s part of the challenge, that’s part of pushing the other one to see things the way Charlotte and Bolis do. They have compassion, but also a lot of well-earned historical resentment. They’ve played their part their whole lives. “Enough, enough, enough, enough, enough, enough, enough about me / How about you?”
Che Noir - Food for Thought (boom bap)
Absolute bravado paired up with lush sounds and scattered sounds that get to create an atmosphere of pleasure and luxury, while also reflecting on how it is they got there. Che Noir is worth her dues by this point, and having the discography that she has, there’s enough to amass a critical and cult following similar to that of Griselda’s members (which she has worked with plenty of times). And, if I were to take my pick, I’d say she’s the real deal when it comes to gangsta-influenced waxing lyrical about the enjoyment of wealth, demons still being at one’s front door, and realizing your enormous talent. What she brings to the table, besides producing most of her own material (she’s not Alchemist level, but she can work up the air around the instrumentation), is a broader and more stated sense of humor, and better hooks! She’s got it all!
Her air of slight melodrama in her sonics that she uses to demonstrate a higher sense of bravado is a constant. A highlight is “Praises”, with rainy-day keys masquerading as accordions, so that, on top of that, Che Noir describes most of her life story in a way that almost feels romanticizing, but she always goes back to the moments of true fear she’s had to endure. She always goes back to those times she felt helpless, so when she boasts, “When I'm finished, I'm goin' down as the greaaatest”, it feels like a mission she has to accomplish for her own sake. The allegory that comes through most of this album established in the title, the ideal of her skills as ‘food for thought’, something that helps and enlightens many, something to be grateful for, is wonderful boasting, a boost to the ego that she earns. Opener “Split the Bread” is filled with woozy pianos and an unembellished children’s choir, and she combines tragedy with humor: “The rap game left blood on my hands, so bitch, I’m finger-paintin’”, with enough theatricality to her performance that it feels like an assertion.
The aid she gets from her own peers (in production and in features) makes her become something even greater. Ransom and 38 Spesh show up on “Table for 3”, the kind of song where they pass each other the mic, and Che is still the one to rise: “My life consists of gettin' money and good sex / So between both I could never get any good rest” - for music this usually impressed with itself, it really feels she earns her title. Similarly, highlight “Ladies Brunch” is one where all people involved (Che, 7xvethegenius and Armani Caesar) puff it up, and they’re backed by sreechy, classical strings, that give the vibe one of slightly cold menace. When she gets producer JR Swiftz to enhance “Brains for Dinner”, that revels in its casualty of living; winning after so long, and now avenging your past self. Playful like the best of horrorcore.
Early on, she states her influences, and the direction in which she takes them: “Biggie lyrics, but in the mirror, it's Pac's reflection”. Naturally, some HOV is in the mix as well (and she does share the painful grinding posture that he boasts about nowadays). But the lack of paranoia is what sets her apart, and what makes this album so enjoyable. She’s eager to give advice and share her experiences - naturally, after she’s done destroying her haters. A little bit of both is healthy! She can reach even greater heights, but she’s already established a hell of a voice, and a hell of a presence.
Mondo Grosso - BIG WORLD (deep house, synth funk)
Japanese producer Shinchi Osawa used to have a band in the 90s called Mondo Grosso. Eventually, it didn’t work, and, since he was the main and sole producer, he took over the group on his own with a full revival in the late 2010s. His working on the J-pop scene for years certainly helped him aid some important contacts, a lot of which appear on BIG WORLD. A house producer who can also take cues from the bursting pop scene in Japan, and how that can translate to a sound that’s a tad more Western; polished and professional, incredibly eager to try new ideas, yet always taking it step by step. Mondo Grosso is not one to rush into any kind of musical process without knowing the way to go forward. Therefore, his music is subdued, concentrated, very much not flying off the rails.
As good as most of this album is, since each song has a different guest artist, usually contributing their own lyrics and musical ideas, this feels like a project with one consistent edge that’s being surrounded by different guests with each song. Not a bad thing whatsoever, but Mondo Grosso is happy to stay behind the boards and let other, flashier personalities take over the stage; so, when someone shows up not exactly in the party mood, it can feel a tad disjointed. In fact, the songs that go in the latter direction are most of the highlights here, since they allow Mondo Grosso to go through a cleaning of sounds, deep-seethed house pianos and bass, that align with the vocalist in question. But even when that’s not the case, this feels like the ups-and-downs of people with a lot on their mind, finding a way to go through them.
The defiant attitude within the music can be found within the stabs of funk and house, and how those are augmented by anxious performers, and when they lock a groove, it feels bigger than it probably is. The team-up with rapper DONGURIZU, “B.S.M.F.”, is one where the seething keys meet a bass ready to focus on instrumental tones and give its guest enough room to speak up, and it feels thrilling. “(Everything’s alright) / Bullshit, motherfucker!”, only to be aided by screaming “Motherfucker!” and letting it be captured by aural, spacey synths on top of a sticky hook. “CRYPT” meets some true 90s acid jazz tones (the origin of Mondo Grosso’s music, after all) with an EDM bass and forces them to mix with each other, as singer PORIN moves alongside the tempo that never feels too out of place or uncomfortable for either performer. Naturally, bringing in indie pop girl group CHAI for “OH NO!” is a match made in heaven, as their brattiness is an excellent match for the brash synths trying to counterpoint clean funk touches (and when drummer Yuna brings in the drum break from Michael Jackson’s “Rock with You”, it’s entirely natural too!).
The proper high points occur when all that energy can be matched with calmer tones, even though the defeat never shows up immediately. “FORGOTTEN” shows vocalist ermhoi going through (admittedly pretty silly) lyrics about society ‘forgetting’ how to live, and breathe, and dance, and, while typically this should go with some kind of urgency, here it’s merely stated as fact. The sampled strings and sinking pianos at such a fast tempo are enough to make the confusion at the state of the world feel palpable. Similarly, the more midtempo “最後の心臓” (“LAST HEART”) features suis from group Yorushika going through constant tempo changes; sometimes, surrounded by noisy sound effects and a reverberating piano, other times, nothing but her own voice and some drums. The effort in trying to find the balance is palpable and worthwhile.
In that sense, giving way to the serene within so much noise is an admirable feat of this album. The one deviation from the formula, an attempt at noise pop in the shape of “STRANGER”, featuring Asuka Saito, is a bit too compromised, since her vocals are way too in front of everything, and the instrumentation feels too programmed, but the tone found in the noisey guitar is addictive, and there’s a gentle pop tune being sung. Similarly, the album places it main bets on the proper opener “IN THIS WORLD”, written by Japanese singer UA, with a vocal feature from singer/actress Hikari Mitsushima (who previously featured on 2017’s “Labyrinth”, Mondo Grosso’s one true hit, aided by an acclaimed music video) and none other than legend Ryuichi Sakamoto on piano duties, and the bets are worth your time. The piano line feels simple, but it seems to unravel at its own pace, never knowing when to stop. Slowly, the song incorporates elements of house through muddy percussion, but it keeps going back to the piano line, and Mitsushima’s ethereal voice brings the song a quiet amount of comfort, even if the main melody feels aimless. It wants to trust it’ll find its way out.
There are many things to value here. The respect for legends (I didn’t even mention the songs featuring Takao Tajima and Mika Nakashima, but they’re not that noteworthy), the appreciation of those wanting to aid Osawa’s goal of uniting his funk beginnings with his downtempo house inclinations, the goal of loving the idea of making music to reflect to, while not settling into conformity. Sometimes, it can be something more histrionic and loud; other times, it’s easier, spacier, to recollect thoughts.
Rokia Koné & Jacknife Lee - BAMANAN (mande music, ambient pop)
We’re going to give the proper artist her due before we discuss the elephant in the room, because context matters first and foremost. Gaining notoriety for being on Les Amazones d’Afrique, an all-women group from Mali, Rokia Koné releases her debut album as a solo artist. She comes from a lineage of national music that sprawls, like just about every culture does, and has unfairly gotten marginalized and thrown together with the rest of the country’s continent as ‘world music’ or, if we’re getting more specific, ‘African music’ (ugh), for many years, in particular the 80s, to the point where there aren’t even proper genre names within Western journalists (‘mande music’, this is we came up with!). Not only that, but Mali in particular has been propelled to expand upon its origins and express itself to the world after a coup d’etat in 2012 banned making or playing any kind of music. There’s a further need to let this kind of culture out into the world.
With that kind of urgency in her hands, a wonderful voice, and some good connections, Rokia Koné was able to record with… Jacknife Lee? That’s not particularly a guy you’d expect, or even want, to be near this kind of sound and instrumentation; complete ‘apples and oranges’ situation here. Jacknife Lee is a well-respected, rock music producer who’s been behind many of the biggest alternative rock bands of the 2000s. He took over U2’s reigns once Brian Eno was out, he produced R.E.M’s farewell albums (which are far better than their reputation suggests); other names include Bloc Party, The Hives, Jake Bugg, The Killers, and, his most extensive collaborators, Snow Patrol. Some of the names here are good - most aren’t, though - but this man (representative of Anglosaxon sterility) and Rokia Koné are worlds apart, and not only physically (in the sense that they never were in the same room). Then again, he was the mixer and executive producer of Open Mike Eagle’s excellent Anime, Trauma and Divorce from 2020, but he wasn’t taking on an active role of producer, let alone main instrumentalist, like he does here.
Nuts thing is, he’s excellent. BANAMAN is a truly beautiful record, with a characteristic ambiance that shines a light on Rokia’s sprawling voice that lets in light and darkness in equal amounts, and is also dedicated to finding so many different colors in different settings, and said colors aren’t only restrained to the instrumental. It’s a wonderful palette. Its one main drawback (or maybe appeal to some people) is that, at times, its ambient leanings can go into the new age-y ‘world music’ stereotypes of the late 80s; these synth tones have been used by Sting and especially Peter Gabriel at their most pseudo-spiritual. But they were used well then, and are used well here, and the spotlight goes to Rokia instead.
The songs really sink into their time spans. Long compositions that don’t stay still. You take the centerpiece of the album, “Awn Tile”, and the wah-wah guitar (courtesy of Salif Koné) is met by striking percussion, murking in between the margins of the production. Rokia, even with the aid of a chorus and backing vocals, trudges through, not sticking to any particular cadence or rhythm. She flows in and out, reaching spectacular highs, but her middle range demonstrates a steadiness that persists. Personal favorite of mine, “Shezita”, goes for similar tones but finds them with a much richer melodic composition, with some added organ swell that makes this feel like an ethereal fight song. Rokia conveys a moment of spite and resilience, as she’s surrounded by rugged soundscapes. The aural bass around the 3-minute mark is incredible detail making.
Then again, the moments where Jacknife decides to take a proper step back, and let Rokia shine completely, with no distraction, only some spare accompaniment, less is very much more. The opening stances of “N'yanyan” alone are breathtaking: slow chords with this pink hue to them, and Rokia establishing a core melody like laying something down to rest. As the song goes on, said melody keeps growing, but Rokia stays with those same ideals of inviting, of letting others in, like a lullaby about mortality. Similarly, the first half of opener “Bi Ye Tulonba Ye” is 5 minutes of a digital sunshine, and Rokia establishes melodic patterns that she keeps coming back to, and her delivery strikes a chord between anguished and ecstatic, and trying to figure out how much those seemingly opposite feelings have in common.
One thing I’ve discovered about BAMANAN is that it serves incredibly well both as daytime music and nighttime music. During the day, you can revel in the sunnier, more revealing tones and light percussion, especially found in the more ambient-leaning tracks like “Soyi N'galanba”. During the night, you can get lost in Rokia’s own voice, painting through the night sky with a broken brush, so the cracks feel like entering a new world, like on the a capella sections of “Dunden”, before she’s aided back by the wonderful backing vocals.
The main connecting tissue is realizing the beauty of the Bambara language, and how Rokia’s musings can serve to both reap and sow the workings of her culture, and also present it to the rest of the world. Bringing it forward with an efficient man who seems to be growing tired of the ‘cool’ facade around the artists he works with, he demonstrates himself as far more than merely efficient, or serviceable Although I think even he would agree his name shouldn’t be credited as a lead artist in order to give this more international buzz, there is no gimmick here. This is true craftsmanship and love for other ways of looking at the world, and expressing that vision. If there was ever an open, explicit, intentional attempt at an expansion of the frontiers this year, here we have it.
Destroyer - LABYRINTHITIS (art rock)
Well, if it isn’t one of our favorite literary assholes back with yet another record (their 13th album!). 2 years after Have We Met, a great album following a consistent decade of musicianship, regarding the ambiance of 80s sophisti-pop and seeing just how much poetry you could take out of it, there needed to be a shift, one way or the other. Destroyer, at least since the mid-2000s, could be categorized as the solo project of Dan Bejar, with John Collins in production, and some other guys in the back for extra instrumentation. They were always great at setting up an atmosphere and serving up a look - the rusty, bohemian poet and his allies into the fog - but, especially when synths became the primary source of sound making, the anonymity of the band started to plague them. Have We Met had to be the end-point for that, delving into ambient sounds so much, it often would get locked in its own world of mazes. There had to be a proper shift.
The shift in question is, we’ve stopped simply thinking about what Bejar’s words and Bejar’s delivery have to tell us; now we’re thinking of what the rest of the band has to say, through their playing. The backing band is one that, after growing somewhat complacent for years, now takes near-total control of the organization and amalgamation of sounds. Suddenly, you can hear everyone trying to step up and stand out, and organizing themselves on behalf of Bejar’s musings. The sounds themselves are a commanding mix of the rusty bass of the Cure (a lot of Simon Gallup love on this album), new wave synths that go past the glossy mid-80s and focus on the rustier bands like Depeche Mode, the gated yet dry drums nearing the Pet Shop Boys, guitars that aim for the artsy Talking Heads motifs from their first albums (before the Eno and Afrobeats influences) and the baggy English tones of the Stone Roses (so, bookending a decade). If we make believe Destroyer never listened to obscure 80s mystery Lewis (who permeates their 2010s output), the band hasn’t been this sonically committed to trying out different styles and sounds since their glam rock loving days of 2001’s Streethawk: A Seduction; this time swapping out the early 70s for the early 80s.
It’s quite weird to think of a band ‘reinventing’ themselves by trying out different sides of 80s nostalgia, but, if there was a way to go, this was probably it. They capture the sound of a culture reemerging, reentering a new world, and so, it’s bound to sound more primitive. And with that in its head, LABYRINTHITIS becomes a listen of plague and worry. Discomfort that doesn’t tie itself to any particular era or time. One of their most lonesome releases, Dan Bejar sings, “I'm sorry, but / Our time together's coming to a close” in “All My Pretty Dresses”, and the agony that comes when the guitar tries to shimmer and instead finds itself with a lonesome riff, followed by a restricted trumpet, is palpable. When it’s followed by a long instrumental break, one of false passivity and modesty, that can’t shrug off the impossibility of the now, you feel they’re as attached to their emotions as they’ve ever been.
Most of the songs here, in that regard, are extended vignettes. Little ideas, thoughts or moments, stretched out into song mode, and often pretty long ones, too. Going over stories again and again. “The States”, one of the 3 songs on this album (out of 10) that pass the 6-minute mark, is one where Dan repeats the same thoughts, the set-up for a story that doesn’t happen: “You abandon your luggage at the abandoned bus station / You lose your umbrella to the sideways rain / You go over your story again and again”, and it really is all about having a story, less about what that story is, or what it could do. Somewhat hopeless, but mostly frightened: the track’s intro and elongated outro are him singing “Hide, hide” over and over, and the band looks for places to hide. The jangle of a guitar, the twinkling of keyboards, the melodrama of sound effects, the fantasy of the glitches, but nothing can quite make it right.
As such, it’s interesting when you get moments of chaos - as organized as they are. You get the noisier tones on “Suffer” that show one of the most defensive attitudes Dan’s had in a while, simplistic in a way he’s never been, but backed up by something with proper weight. But there’s also “Tintoretto, It’s for You”, a real paranoid track. Bejar’s monologue is infused by a piano playing off-key, a barricade of words, only to lead to the title line… and what’s supposed to explode turns into a bass-less track, similar to MIDI tones, that come upon a dreaded moment of neglect and death that Bejar keeps coming back to; a lost narrator. “Death’s got three words: ding, ding ding / Now, repeat after me”, except that’s the last line. Some humming here and there, but he’s mostly replaced by shady saxes and trumpets. The tune holding what they once had is broken.
Therefore, LABYRINTHITIS shines brightest when it deals with that sense of loss and digs deeper within it. I remember being absolutely amazed by “It’s in Your Heart Now” the first time I heard it; a collision of worlds, like Avalon-era Roxy Music without the romance, this time only desolate and confused. Whooshing synths that accompany a Dan that can only repeat some key phrases, “You want to go home”, “You want to know the way”, but he can only reach the conclusion of the title: it’s in your heart now. Whatever that ‘it’ is, it’s something to keep to yourself; the rest of the world won’t hear it. Only the galloping guitars can lead you through the desert drums. Said drums can also get a deeper pulse on the intro of “Eat the Wine, Drink the Bread”, where the jamming guitars feel more at the forefront, with a roughed-up bass, and Dan feels that sense of abstract confusion that he can’t even properly tie up with religious confusion. “It’s insane in here, it’s lunacy out there”; no way out?
The most revealing song, and the one to best sum up this project, is “June”. A bit too long for its own good (don’t care for the elongated outro, where an album’s worth of lyrics are just tossed off), but it’s the one where the art pop pleasantries match with deeper, electronic tendencies, and Bejar gets to let out proper statements, aware of their status as statements, in a spirit of seeing how they might react. Us lovers of the wit and the turns of phrase can empathize with and relate to “Fancy language dies / And everyone's happy to see it go”, but then he follows it up with “A snow angel's a fucking idiot somebody made in the snow”, and drags it out too, as a big, important moment. Ain’t that too coarse for a band like this, too banal? “Everyone’s happy to strike for more pay”... yeah. What seems to be the problem? And then, it becomes clear: by this point, Bejar believes the point of saying things is gone, no one actually listens, we’re content with getting a point across rather than the way we do so. For a man of words, that’s basically death itself. The first half of “June” is a plea for attention that gets unresolved. Like the whole world has a hearing disorder.
But also, the second half of “June” is one of some form of revelation. “It’s June! And you are improved / Yes, you, are renewed”, and the instruments take off in a brief moment of respite before diving back into the lyrical and the off-mantras. There’s that constant interplay: begging for the finer arts to not be doomed, forgotten and neglected; and indulging in them, through more playful sounds, and lyrical ideas less openly impressed with themselves. On “It Takes a Thief”, Bejar goes, “Well, the band don't need a singer / The band needs a helping hand”, and that’s as far as Bejar can go. This is a project of mutual aid and help, since the rest of the world won’t get them anymore. Collaboration in order to keep renewing themselves. You have to stop yourself and others from going crazy nowadays.
Ian Noe - River Fools & Mountain Saints (country)
Within those in the know, there’s a lot that’s been said about Ian Noe. With 2 albums alone, he’s barricaded his way through the forgotten parts of America, with grace, dignity and a good amount of tunes along the way. His lyrical eye is one with grace and empathy, his interest in telling stories of misfortune and tragedy never veer towards fetishism, his musical accompaniment is one that subtly displays the dry loneliness of the highway, and he’s been a beacon of true poetry and musicianship within the genre. All of that’s absolutely true, and all of his wonderful attributes from 2019’s Between the Country translate in this year’s River Fools & Mountain Saints. What does need to be clarified, though, is that that’s not all that he is.
Ian Noe is a commanding storyteller, with a lot of baggage in his sounds to bring forward a heartful vision of what he’s experienced, or heard others experience. The way in which he does it, though, doesn’t get restricted to good poetry, or even good melody-making either. That vision is also translated in the terrific musicianship that he offers, both with his backup band and himself as a singer. He’s a limited one: he can hit notes better than Dylan, but can’t emote as well, and his nasal tone can sometimes get in the way of harder emotions. But that means he allows himself to be a lot more playful and a lot looser, less serious, with the topics he’s embracing (loneliness, heartbreak, trauma, war, homelessness, drug addiction) and not make you feel like he’s lecturing you about them. In other words, if his songwriting template is Dylan’s The Times They Are A-Changin’, he doesn’t reach the same romantic heights, but he also doesn’t hit the self-servient, self-pleased smugness in the political, which is a terrific improvement.
It’s not hard to see just how much of Ian’s characters are rooted in the Appalachian lands, which brings this album a deeper sense of community within its own characters, like they were all watching the same sunset. Evident on the track “Appalachia Haze”, describing many characters in different situations that all led them to the same place, and even if some of them want out, they’re still brought back to that revealing microcosm. The haze is portrayed with a stunning steel guitar that doesn’t aim for the ambiguity it’s often used for, this time with a sharp mindset. But it’s not just the tragic ones, it’s the buffoons too that he doesn’t brush off as easy to understand. He paints a “River Fool” with enough musical dignity, so much to the lingering banjo and strung guitar, that his description of the title character feels like one living his best life, while others may consider it a wasted one.
Even with his looseness and his inviting aura, he can still be a somewhat vicious performer when he wants to. The main core often resides in the compositions themselves, the chord progressions he chooses, which often don’t stray away from the angrier blues staples. He shows that in the impatient “POW Blues”, a prisoner’s longing, as he doesn’t seem to hold out much hope, and the blues guitars lead him to go somewhere else. “So I close my eyes to roam”, Ian sings, to take the protagonist someplace else, as a way of respite; “Just strolling over memories trying to catch a glimpse of home”, in an exhausted tone. If the reality won’t change, his state of mind must forcefully adapt. It makes sense it’s followed up by “Burning Down the Prairie”, a tried-and-true blues tune, and while Ian’s voice doesn’t have the spontaneity to make it fully pop, his playing is sinister and the kick is muffled enough that there’s a constant sense of menace. When the band finally pops, it almost explodes, but instead, it stays merely “raving mad and wild-eyed”, and it feels as though the prairie hasn’t gotten its comeuppance. The anger stays within.
Of course, if we’re discussing river fools, we must also dive into the “Mountain Saint”, and Ian’s slightly gothic sense comes into focus, and it’s a sharp moment. A description of striking nature surrounding a woman being brought down by said nature, trying to muscle her way through the hustle, and Ian focuses on how the consequences of the hedonistic ‘river fool’ tie back to her way out of that seemingly never-ending haze. Similarly decadent, though much more humorous, is “Strip Job Blues 1984”, where the ‘strip job’ in question is one of coal mining, and the decay of the mountains that shaped the main character. “They say what you gain don't compare to what you lose” can be applied as a potent political sentiment, within the right context. This kind of degradation is also echoed back in “One More Night”, a striking ballad regarding nomads (could be immigrants, could be jobless, could be anyone who’s lost their belonging) realizing the littleness of their work, and how there seems to be no easy answer, no right place for them in the world, so they might as well appreciate the night time. There’s not only a great melody, but what seems like a trombone solo humming, a wolf’s call recalling the times they had, and reminding them of what’s to come.
Naturally, Ian finds himself at its most, not cheerful but settled in, when he’s apparently singing about himself and his own experiences. He opens the album with “Pine Grove (Madhouse)”, and as he describes many ludicrous characters in a no-good bar, it always goes back to his own drunkenness and the gone old days. It’s possibly the ‘fullest’-sounding song on the album, with a proper rock sound to it, and he brushes off everything with enough self-assurance you can find a place within his realms. But the real highlight is “Lonesome As It Gets”, a sad sack ballad of Ian reminiscing about everything she used to say and do within their house, and now it’s all quiet. It’s a heartbreaking song, mostly because of how Ian feels resigned and never sulking, just sort of staring at his surroundings, asking the rhetorical question, “Ain't that about as lonesome as it gets?” Probably! Probably not. All I know is, “I got drunk on Christmas night / And had an epiphany / Let's end the day in a holy way / And set fire to the Christmas tree” is a comical fuck-all, sung so casually, like the pain was a given, so let’s not focus on that. I want more of that attitude.
And naturally, we can’t brush off the centerpieces of the album: “Tom Barrett” and “Ballad of a Retired Man”. Both songs about men of war (could be even the same character if it wasn’t for some specific lyrical indications), one of them in the early stages of his life, the other one just as it’s about to end. The latter is less strong from a musical standpoint, a bit melodically stiff, but the opening lines say a lot about the character’s view of the world: “He retired on a Wednesday / When the call came through”. It’s all, always, duty. As it draws back to a close, the man is described with a picturesque soul, and as the light fades in on him, there’s both humor (“He said, “That old clock's ticking… better learn to dance””) and reality checks (“I'm still the same old baby / Stuck in Vietnam”), and his death being described as riding “the waves and the static of their first T.V” is meticulous and revealing: a life through a lens.
The former, “Tom Barrett”, is a striking song in all senses. This might be a tiny thing, but it’s the one song on the album where the use of synthesizers, being used as an artificial choir, is earned and adds to the song’s ambiance. Ian describes Tom as a man of honor, of enough awareness to not tell his lover he’s leaving on a rainy night, of enough knowledge to realize the pointlessness of war (and his lack of purpose and use in it), all for it to be punished with enough useless work coming after him, and still plummeting his way through it. So destroyed by war, he can no longer recognize it from real life, like it will haunt him from town to town. To that extent, the drums in the middle part of the song play out like driving wheels, reluctantly pushing through, and the organs paint a near-religious event happening inside his head, even when that’s obviously not the case. It’s one of Ian’s most striking and humble portrayals of human resilience yet, one of understanding and not underestimating neither his characters nor the audience that will listen. That’s one of his main virtues.
The final interpretation of the classic “It’s a Heartache” is one that makes more thematic sense than musical sense - here’s hoping Ian doesn’t get trapped in pseudo-conceptual explorations - but it pays off as a closer, and within this context, the eternal classic comes out differently: a portrayal of heartache that feels both eternal and casual, bound to be there forever. Ian lets the bleakness within his music stand still and be put aside, because that’s not what’s important to focus on. The air his characters breathe is much more than just pain and sorrow. There are hopes and illusions, and people along the way; those may not be great indicators, and may end up leaving with nothing but a heartbreak, but as long as they live, that’s what matters in the day-to-day. Ian Noe still has a lot to learn, but his characters will show him the way, and his voice will transmit it with enough traces of realism matched with true belief. A little bit of both is always the right combination.
caroline - caroline (slowcore, folk)
Dealing with memory will always mean stepping into patterns. Whether you indulge in them in the present day or not is irrelevant, but if you’ve taken part in them at some point in your life, you’re bound to meet them again once you look back. That way, when you go back and look at what you’ve done, some old habits will have to resurface. The quote above is from Daniel Knox’s “Fool in the Heart”, only a snippet of the most devastating lyrical passage of last year. A memory that stumbles upon the fact that it’s a memory, and therefore, it can’t find its way back. Once you become an abstract presence, the notion of time gets swiftly swept away, and the reliving is eternal - or at least, it appears to be.
caroline (band and album) are slow. Scrap that, they’re still. They’ve been classified by many outlets as ‘post-rock’, in the sense that they’re a rock band with aspirations to classical music, with a strong string section and everything. I’m going to chalk that up to critics not really knowing how to classify this - not because it’s ‘unclassifiable’ or anything like that, but because, if there’s even the slightest interest from a third party in selling this band, enticing people to listen to them, how else could you do it? This is music not only utterly devoid of joy, but unwilling and unable to even perform some form of catharsis. It doesn’t look at the ground, it doesn’t stare at the ceiling, it doesn’t look at your face; it’s a blank expression. This doesn’t sulk, or pout, or sigh, let alone groan. This goes beyond ‘merely’ showcasing a depressive mindset; this is catatonic.
Most of what you’ll find here is repeated stances, trudged through with enough wind in the music’s sail to keep this listen afloat, but it’s dangerous to fall into this kind of territory. Being forced to wait can always be a good thing, but not when the resolution is this point blank, this ideologically colorless. Funny enough, that’s at odds with the music, which is full of color and grace and vibrancy to it. It’s just, that kind of potency is placed on a negative note, with a negative intent. There’s a strange synergy to all the sounds in here, orbiting around dead air. Many passages on here involve a certain, nasal British voice I often don’t care for (especially nowadays, where the market for British rock bands is flooded), but here, they’re sung with enough accentuation and proper gravitas that they lend themselves to something that’s not pleasant to hear, but still gives out a sign of an attempt. I never hear this music and think that it’s this way because it wants to be this way.
The first two tracks show you some of the main ideas this music is willing to cover, and caroline’s notion of time. Opening with “Dark Blue” was only fitting, since the repeated guitar phrase that invites fuzzy strings, as they attempt to go for a crescendo together, seems like the perfect stock ‘post-rock’ kind of music that would seem enticing. But the climax never comes. Instead, the violins play themselves out like striking violas, the drumming and bass playing shimmer instead of exploding. More crucially, the small choir of voices that comes in singing, “I want it all / So I tell them / I want it all”, is reluctant to even be there. Whatever exorcism is here feels muted and gone; placing yourself within a sad memory of a happy time, knowing what comes next (as the violin plucks its way through the final minute… time escaping, indeed).
The second track, “Good morning (red)” starts out outright gorgeous: the opening strings are warm yellow, reminiscent of the best of American folk music. Only again, the composition is at odds with itself: clean singing juxtaposed by angry yelling in the background, the main line of the song being, “Good morning / It’s that time again”. Again, the idea of time as a constant thing, circular not linear, that goes a long way to evoke so much beauty and then passively ignore it… if not, outright reject it. The final 2 minutes leave the whistling guitars in the past, the main foundation of the song is what’s left, and sudden bursts of strings and guitars pass through, like jumpscares. Then, mutating into notes and bits of harmony. Meanwhile, the tempo keeps at it. An idyllic situation being stripped away, like a forgotten house where gusts of wind pass through the shady cracks.
Most of the heavy songs linger in those final moments of “Good morning (red)”, except they go even further. When they dive into the stunted attempts at recreating the effort of machines as they go into flight, as the title “Engine (eavesdropping)” should tell you, they focus on breaking down those barriers, with their folk influences on their sleeve. They connect a strumming acoustic guitar, aimless and helpless, with strings that barely get to settle in before a forgotten march record comes in (distant vocal choir and trumpets), and what little tempo there was is gone, all before the outro comes along, with riffless guitars and drums aiming to never settle on a beat (you gotta be really good at playing to make that feel natural). caroline melt themselves into vague memories, recollections of sentiments that they can’t get back, and can’t snap out of. All that they’re left with is the running engine, now suffocated by dashes of sound.
“Somehow, I was right, all along” is a line that’s been messing with my head since the first time I heard it. “IWR” represents the record at its most openly downbeat and destroyed. The choir of men sing it over and over, and the melody is that of remembrance: tuning down at the end of “somehow”, a hint of surprise and anger in “right”, helplessness in “along”; repeat. The texture of the voices is that of tired resignation, reluctantly feeling this way. The line itself is one of sad reaffirmation, confirming the worst. More guitars join in, but it feels like joining the damned. Once said voices take a backseat, the strings continue to meander around, sort of reflecting on what was repeated over and over. Nothing ever intends to stand out, and it feels like all these strong motifs and sounds are stepping on recycled air. Circling back to the same feeling that reduces itself to a glimpse; once you turn to look, it’s gone.
These are most of the main pieces, but something must be said about the many miniatures that surround this album. They don’t evolve into fully-formed works, but they serve as foundation for what will be carried through on the bigger moments. “messen #7” might be my favorite: a guitar, out-of-tune, playing in what seems to be a cave, almost as if it was played by nobody, before being caught up by fuzzes of something beyond it (“zilch” attempts a similar thing, but it feels too rehearsed to be off-the-cuff). “desperately” is a minute-long pop song, where a member of the endless choir describes the main feeling of the album in plain lyricism: “This isn't the first time / You're not feeling what you want to feel”, highlighting the uncomfortable truth - they’re used to it, and don’t know how to break away. And “hurtle” feels distant and disappearing, as if it was tape fading out right after being played.
What caroline lack in literacy, they make up for in constant building of something too disgraced to bubble up. The same member of the endless choir sings on “Skydiving into the library roof” very plainly, how he pushes people away in order to get them to stay. He can’t communicate with other people, and so lets the implications and the music be what guide him. That’s the first minute. The remaining 6 minutes are the crushing part. As the strings, trumpets, guitars and drums are singing different tunes, they have nothing to fall back on; it’s all separate and isolated. Occasionally, they’ll match, but it’s not often. caroline get to slow down time by decreasing the way we look at it. Instead of a narrow path, different elements of life happen at different speeds at the same time, including the past. The aching chamber sentiments display a desperate attempt to break out of said past that turns out to be futile. These sounds barely match, the same way our emotions and sentiments don’t match according to what goes on in our lives. caroline’s aim is to display that plurality of thought, the best and worst aspects of our psyche colliding, and taking us to a numb state. As such, it feels like all the time in the world has passed all at once, and it overwhelms us so much that we get past our initial apprehension. As much as we hate it, we end up on the ground.
The album’s ending, the 9-minute long “Natural death”, matches again the uncanny elements of striking violins with a singable melody, and nothing to tie them together (at least, at first). Mild musings on the difference between “natural death” and “actual death”, once it’s almost done ruminating on the first idea, there’s a collapse in the instrumentation that’s neither scary nor thrilling - again, reaching a numb point. It’s the closest thing the album gets to a proper catharsis climax, but it’s one of absolute disconnect with themselves. Before a shiny guitar comes along in the 5-minute mark, everything’s raw and open, and then, you slowly have to back it all up. Surprisingly, caroline is always cohesive, and its final sentiment - “The word for world is forеst” - might indicate some form of answer lies within oneself and into the rest, maybe nature. It’s an outdoors-y album after all, but one where, even when you’re led into beauty, it feels like physically being somewhere else, somewhere prior, somewhere you don’t want to be anymore. It’s awfully, madly transportative, it goes so far beyond itself it turns itself and you into something abstract, dumbfounded, gone, stuck. I wish I had a proper resolution for this, but even if I did, thoughts tend to disappear. Now, where was I?