album review: SONIC YOUTH - The Eternal (Matador)

When it was announced that Sonic Youth, having honoured their contract with Geffen Records, had signed with much-admired independent label Matador, many of us came to the same conclusion: after the concise, streamlined accessibility of 2006’s Rather Ripped, it was time for the Youth to renew their love affair with the underground and pursue the avant-garde aesthetic that first inspired them.

Well, you know what they say about assumptions. If anything, new album The Eternal is even more direct and straight-rocking than its predecessor, although it’s also scuzzier and more rough-edged: it’s what 1992’s Dirty might have sounded like without Butch Vig’s polished production.

Which mightn’t be the kind of thing many Youth fans want to hear: one of the most divisive moves they ever made was following their masterpiece Daydream Nation (a sprawling combination of avant-garde noise and hardcore punk) with the more succint Goo and Dirty, albums that stripped their tunes back and smoothed them out in an attempt to infiltrate the mainstream. Granted, the excellent Rather Ripped was a delightful reminder that these godfathers of alternative rock can write a killer tune when the mood takes them, but most of us were hoping that their next move would be a little more unconventional: after all, albums like Murray Street and Sonic Nurse had shown that, even in their third decade, the band could still write expansive, celestial guitar jams like no other.

Still, a Youth album is a Youth album, so let’s take it on its own terms. Opening track ‘Sacred Trickster’ should already be familiar: a short, sharp blast of brattish, Kim-fronted punk aggro propelled by a chugging rhythm and guitars set to stun, it pretty much lays down the blueprint for what’s to follow. The guttural, grinding ‘Anti-Orgasm’ sees all three vocalists pitching in, with Thurston and Kim groaning together in suggestive unison, while ‘Calming The Snake’ is a sinister mix of screeching, discordant guitars and Kim’s pleading, echoing vocals. All three tracks are impressive, with a level of vitality and aggression that belies the group’s collective age, and they’re distinguished by the kind of superb drumming that reminds you how much of a relief it must be for Steve Shelley when the Youth decide to rock out. Similarly, Lee Ranaldo has often excelled with more conventional approaches to songcraft, and the tracks he takes lead on here – ‘What We Know’ and ‘Walkin Blue’ – reflect this, providing the album with a subtle but much needed dynamic shift.

Unfortunately, the formula wears mighty thin on other tracks, such as ‘Thunderclap (For Bobby Pyn)’ or ‘No Way’: there’s no shortage of energy, yet you still can’t shake the feeling that the band are going through the motions, knocking out tunes without really pushing themselves. The Eternal was apparently the result of short, sporadic sessions of writing and recording, and this no doubt contributes to the offhand feel of much of the material. Of course, that approach to recording has much to do with the fact that the Youth all have families and live in separate states, but one wonders how things could turn out if they got together and jammed out ideas in the studio as they did with 2002’s Murray Street.

It’s telling that the two best tracks on the album are marked by a slower, more considered tempo. ‘Antenna’ is a moody, stately reverie in the vein of ‘Unmade Bed’ or ‘The Diamond Sea’; while closing track ‘Massage The History’ is reminiscent of ‘Sympathy For The Strawberry’, an eerie, windswept soundscape framing Kim’s elegiac crooning (“Come with me to the other side/Not everyone makes it out alive”), interrupted midway through by a passage of vintage dissonant guitar squall.

On the whole though, there’s no mistaking the sense of anti-climax that surrounds The Eternal. Even the Youth’s more maligned albums had some sort of aesthetic or purpose, be it the fragmentary, lo-fi sound of Experimental Jet Set, Trash and No Star or the NYC/Beat tributes of NYC Ghosts & Flowers. This is arguably the first one that feels, well, unoriginal. And while there’s plenty of people who’d contend that they actually prefer the band in their more accessible guise, even they’d have to admit that there’s nothing here that packs the same sonic punch as a ‘100%’ or a ‘Sugar Kane’. A good album, not a great one, and it’s only because of the impeccable standards they’ve set that we expect greatness.


7/10

Deerhunter - Andrew's Lane Theatre, Dublin. May 22

(This article was originally written for the website Muso's Guide, http://mymusos.com/)

Considering their position as alt-rock figureheads du jour as well as their ever-growing fanatical following, it’s slightly odd to witness Deerhunter performing in the relatively quaint surroundings of Andrew’s Lane Theatre. Odder still is the gnawing sense of anti-climax that I can’t seem to shake after the last echoes of feedback have dispersed; then again, expectation levels tend to be raised when you’re dealing with a band whose gigs Karen O has described as being akin to ‘religious experiences’.

It’s not all that, but it’s still mighty impressive. As the Atlanta, Georgia four-piece take the stage, enigmatic lead singer and main creative force Bradford Cox politely asks if they can begin with a new song, and so we’re treated to a rendition of the title track of Deerhunter’s brand new EP, Rainwater Cassette Exchange. The lyrics are a continuation of the themes that have so far dominated Cox’s considerable output (disease, dread, erotic obsession), while stylistically it sees the band further develop the classic pop influences that became more evident on last year’s double set Microcastle/Weird Era Cont., with a waltz-like rhythm and Cox’s woozy crooning. A spectacularly malevolent-sounding ‘Cryptograms’ follows. Much of the beauty of Deerhunter stems from the way their often poignant, desperate melodies and themes of dislocation are frequently buried under waves of guitar dissonance and enveloping drones. It’s a heady brew that they recreate well live. Having said that, Microcastle saw them taking a less impressionistic, more anthemic route at times; an enthusiastically-received ‘Nothing Ever Happened’ is one such example, a tight, spirited performance giving way to a thrilling extended jam. On the other side of the coin, ‘White Ink’ smothers the audience with a loud, disorientating swell of noise that plays hell with your senses. In a good way, of course.

It’s not the only thing it plays hell with. Already slightly concerned by the partial deafness in one ear I’ve suffered for the last couple of weeks, and mindful that I’ve got a date with My Bloody Valentine in less than a week, I decide to spare my eardrums from unnecessary damage and move back a safer distance from the stage. Perhaps due to less-than-ideal sound quality within the venue, there’s a loss of intensity from this vantage point, despite renditions of ‘Hazel Street’ and ‘Never Stops’ that showcase the group’s knack for rousing melodies. After some bizarre rambling from Cox on the subject of ‘dead babies’, the gently chiming ‘Agoraphobia’ follows, it’s “come for me, comfort me, cover me” refrain making for a slightly uneasy singalong. They round things off with the closing track from Weird Era Cont., ‘Calvary Scars II/Aux. Out’ (unfortunately the only track to feature from said album tonight), it’s disturbingly self-immolating lyric eventually drowned out by a grandstanding, frenetic climax that ultimately collapses, leaving a hazy trail in its wake. With Deerhunter, it’s hard to know sometimes whether you’re being immersed in a transcendental dream state or being plunged into the deepest nightmarish recesses (it may well be a bit of both), but whatever, it’s a compelling experience all the same. If not quite a religious experience. Maybe next time...

Lyric Of The Day

"Like your smile
And your fingertips
Like the way that you move your lips.
I like the cool way you look at me,
Everything about you is bringing me
Misery."

BOB DYLAN - 'Buckets of Rain'
Blood on the Tracks (1975)

OXEGEN: PROPS

The Oxegen festival has come in for some amount of flak in recent years. Much of this can be put down to the tales of tent-burning and other anti-social behaviour that dominated media coverage, while the rise of the more chilled-out Electric Picnic won the hearts and minds of the 'discerning' music fan (which is a pretty elitist concept, let's face it).

However, MCD deserve some massive credit for the way they've turned things around of late. This year's line-up is, quite simply, sensational: ignoring the usual Kings of RazorSnowKillers suspects, there's Blur's comeback, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, Elbow, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, The Specials, Nine Inch Nails, Mogwai, TV On The Radio, Of Montreal, and Foals. You can talk about drunken kids in GAA shirts all you want, but you just can't argue with quality like that. Although i wouldn't deny the unique spirit and atmosphere of the Electric Picnic, their line-up this year doesn't hold a candle to Oxegen's, and as a music fan, music should be what matters most at a festival. Yet still there seems to be a grudging reluctance on the part of mainstream media outlets to acknowledge what a fantastic line-up it is. I guarantee that if the Electric Picnic had even half of those acts, we wouldn't hear the end of the gushing and fawning. What's more, Oxegen seems to be snapping up the more left-field acts you'd expect to see at the Picnic - Fever Ray being one notable example.

Their have been concerted attempts to make the festival more environmentally friendly, with public transport being encouraged, recycling points dotted around the site, and of course the good old 'eco-cup'. It's also worth pointing out that anti-social incidents dropped considerably last year. Overall, major praise is due. And I for one can't wait for this year's experience to roll around. See you up the front at Nick Cave!

SPECK MOUNTAIN - Some Sweet Relief (Carrot Top)

(This article was originally written for the website Muso's Guide, http://mymusos.com/)

Chicago-based trio Speck Mountain first came to attention with their 2007 debut Summer Above, and Some Sweet Relief mostly sticks to the same formula they first made their name with. All measured tempos, tasteful minimalism, slow-burning arrangements and narcotic, reverbed vocals, it’s a sound that recalls Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Albatross’ or Mazzy Star; an intriguing mixture of evocative Americana and airy dream-pop.

Opening track ‘Shame on the Soul’ sets the predominantly unhurried tone, creating a drowsily atmospheric mood-piece out of its core constituents: a gentle, quietly repetitive chord progression; unobtrusive clock-like percussion; sporadic blues licks and, perhaps most importantly, the soothing, country-influenced vocals of Marie-Claire Balabanian. In a strange sort of way, her impressive pipes tend to enhance the soporific tone of much of this record, yet simultaneously prevent the album from descending into mere background music: her vocals seem somehow both numbed-out and infused with feeling. This is particularly evident on a track like ‘I Feel Eternal’, which combines a descending chord progression, melodic guitar arpeggios and sparingly used horns in what is arguably the standout track here. The interplay between scorched, echoing guitar licks and Balabanian’s relatively (and we stress the word ‘relatively’) urgent vocals on ‘Fidelity Shake’ provides another highlight.

It’s hard to see the generally unimaginative lyrics as anything other than tools used to enhance the mood and atmosphere of the music, dealing as they do mostly in vague imagery. Indeed, the hypnotic ‘Angela’ features no lyrics at all apart from wordless, ethereal harmonies and the repetition of the title, backed by a vaguely trip-hop rhythm and ambient guitar work.

Unfortunately, the second half of the album may well test the patience of anyone initially drawn in. It’s tempting to blame this on the consistently mid-tempo pace and lack of fire in the arrangements, but such a criticism is overly simplistic: by the same token, you could criticise Never Mind the Bollocks for lacking restraint, which is sort of missing the point. With Speck Mountain, a lack of urgency is part of the deal, and the second-half slump is more a case of a drop in standards. ‘Backsliding’ and closing track ‘Sister Water’ are unremarkable, pallid affairs that run the risk of inducing boredom in the listener, rather than the entrancement they evidently aim for.

Nevertheless, Speck Mountain’s aesthetic is frequently very effective: at its best, this is music that conjures images of wide, sun-baked open spaces, creating a dreamy sense of tranquillity as well as a sense of ever-so-slight movement. The next album may well be the deal-breaker.

6/10