...Full of Sound and Fury, Signifying Nothing: "Embryonic" Review

Album: Embryonic

Artist: The Flaming Lips

Genre: Alternative / Indie Rock

Length: 70:17

Release Date: October 13^th, 2009

Label: Warner Bros.

Producer: The Flaming Lips, Dave Fridmann, Scott Booker

Double albums are a rare sight in the musical landscape, and with good reason. A certain set of associations and expectations are usually attached to works that get the double album “label”; we expect the long road to the album’s completion to be riddled with variety, spontaneity, and epic might, as to compensate for the many hours they extract from our lives. As far as my knowledge extends, no double album has ever reached these proverbial stars, and in fact they tend to almost always come crashing back into the ground; the band’s attempts to fit this mold are almost always the hurdles that make the album tedious or even unlistenable. To this day I still don’t know the ingredients necessary to craft a truly compelling double album, but at least I know that The Flaming Lips are just as clueless as I am.

…which isn’t to say that they don’t try, of course. Notable attempts have been clearly been made to alter the signature sound of this psychedelic indie rock band into something different for their latest opus, Embryonic. It is perhaps the “busiest” work they’ve performed, not in terms of technicality but in the stacked layers of various samples, keyboard drones, and other sci-fi miscellany compiled within each track. This, compacted together with unorthodox drum and guitar production values, does indeed craft something different; the problem is that it also comes across as over-produced and over-done. Explaining the cacophonous sounds portrayed by such songs as “See the Leaves” and “Watching the Planets” is difficult, and may need to be experienced first-hand. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, after all, but in my eyes there is really no beauty here. Rather, when all of the various elements in each song collide, they most often react negatively and combust, destroying any chance at attaining the simplicity that might have been.

The complex, multi-layered style of the album almost seems to be compensating for the lack of actual dynamics within; strip away the random beep-boops, bells, and whistles, and you’ll find rather basic indie rock songwriting, with endlessly looped melodies and lyrics. This isn’t inherently a problem, mind you; many bands of this irk do not strive for detailed song-writing, but instead succeed in luring listeners into a sense of tranquility before enveloping them into a haunting, black void of calm. Unfortunately, The Flaming Lips spoil their chances at this form of success, too; even the most stripped-down, beautifully simple songs like “Evil” are poisoned by unnecessary sound bites haphazardly scattered into the mix, and by the end the listener is left with the distressing feeling that nothing was ultimately accomplished. With no chance to get lost in the music, nor much reward for paying close attention, there is little to reap from listening to Embryonic.

This missteps may have been forgivable if the album were a decent length, properly paced so that one could soak in the most memorable moments and have them still pulsing through the brain by the time the album accelerated to its climactic end. Here, my friends, is where the hideous double album demons rear their ugly heads, because the “epic” length utterly destroys this album. Without much in the way of variety or story progression to spice up the album or give it a theatrical punch, it devolves into what is essentially a marathon of tedium…and keep in mind that 70 minutes is actually pretty short for a double album! It begs the question, “Why didn’t they just cut out half the tracks and market it as a standard release?”

Well according to the band itself, the record was created in an attempt to solve their “dilemma” of what to include on each preceding album. They furthermore assert that the album’s creation was in debt older classics like The Beatles whose albums were decidedly “un-focused” and attempted a wide variety of styles.

This, handily, explains most of the issues I’ve pointed out up to now. Essentially, then, there is no over-arching theme or story to the songs at hand, but rather just a jumbled compilation of ideas, smashed together then split into two discs. Such is not the proper way to create an epic; such creations demand structure and coherence, something Embryonic clearly lacks. Even as a “variety sampler” I feel that it fails upright in the face of the band’s ambition. Not only do I not feel a sense of variety and open-endedness running through the album, but I also feel that its inability to strive for and achieve a certain goal dooms it from the beginning. As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing wrong with being “focused”; it’s what has allowed many a band to become associated with certain emotions or themes. Embryonic, to me, leaves no lasting emotional impression of this sort; it’s as bland as un-buttered bread, and not nearly as delicious.

The Cold Places of the Universe: "The Moon and Antarctica" Review

Album: The Moon and Antarctica
Artist: Modest Mouse
Genre: Alternative / “Indie” Rock
Length: 59:43 (72:02 reissue)
Release Date: June 13, 2000 (March 9, 2004 reissue) (2008-09-12)
Label: Epic
Producer: Brain Deck (Simon Askew reissue)

Somewhere in the life of every successful and long-lived group of musicians comes a time when they must make a crucial choice; to vegetate in the same style they have developed and loved from the beginning, or to take the deep risk of mending and experimenting with it. By the former path, bands may stagnate to the point of irrelevancy; by the latter, they risk alienating the fans of all that had come before and thus put their reputations on the line. And by the excessive degree to which fans can take hold of a particular band, seeing them either change or rot away is often an unbearable transition. Such results in a polarized following, one side composed of former disciples who swear by the old works battling against another of those who jumped on the bandwagon with the new. And in the process, it’s the band themselves who end up in the crossfire.

Enter Modest Mouse, the indie darling sextet that has earned accolades and praise amongst underground critics since 1993. In recent years, the band has begun to stir up fury within the more experienced loyalists as they have made the transition into mainstream attention (if somewhat limited in scope). Suddenly the band who had once recorded an EP in a garage had hit #1 on the Billboard 200 with 2007’s We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank, and those who felt the band had sold its soul were out for blood. Its such massive transitions that make one question the nature of past albums, as its sometimes possible to trace the gradual evolution of the band into the states they finally arrive in. Such was the purpose when I – a veteran of perhaps the most heated fan-war stalemate of all time, the on-going In Flames debate (though that it is a story for another time) – was parachuted deep into the strife to review Modest Mouse’s supposed magnum opus, The Moon and Antarctica, to see how it held up outside of a fan perspective.

Now as far as I can understand, The Moon and Antarctica was the band’s attempt to expand off the broad base cemented by their previous breakthrough release, The Lonesome Crowded West. Blame the experimentation on either a desire for greater variety or Isaac Brock’s broken jaw if you will, but ultimately for every critic who showered the album in gold stars there was another who thought Modest Mouse was edging into commercial territory; quite frankly, when a band starts licensing songs to Nissan Quest minivan commercials it can be difficult to think otherwise. Yet I can’t help but feel like the commercialization argument has gone the way of a horse that has been beaten one too many times; the glossier production values and major label status aren’t necessarily strikes against TMaA, merely differences. In fact, they often help amplify the more spacious, spacey sound the album develops, which in the land of the Indie City resides on the corner of Mature Street and Engaging Avenue, only occasionally striding into Pretentious Lane to pick up its groceries. To put it in a much less metaphor-laden way, it’s as good a representation of the indie scene as your going to find this side of the decade.

Indeed, the band’s attempts to tinker with their formula resulted in making it much more distinct. The blend of classic folk, alternative song structure and delightful synthesizing in a powerful one indeed that will usually leave the listener immersed up to his or her eyeballs. Though it doesn’t offer too much room for technical chops, that’s hardly what the record is about. Instead, it’s quite keen to manipulate this mellow, laid-back foundation into a variety of different moods throughout the setlist, from sullen and plodding (Perfect Disguise) to bouncy and joyful (Life Like Weeds), and even moments where these moods are exchanged frequently (3rd Planet). The twangy guitar-sound does, however, remain roughly the same throughout, which makes most songs blend together. It also makes the longer tracks like The Stars Are Projectors outlast their welcome, even if the addition of some moderate tempo changes does manage to shake things up. Fortunately, plenty of other moments, like the swooping keyboard dips and dives in Dark Center of the Universe and the surprisingly aggressive opening to A Different City, stand out.

Strangely, the member of the group whose contributions I am least enthusiastic for is the one who practically drives the band, Isaac Brock. His singing style is very unique, for sure, but it sometimes stands in stark contrast to everything else in a song, and eventually becomes rather grating as the album wears on. He’s more of an acquired taste than anything, and due to the aforementioned broken jaw his appearances are actually somewhat limited by alternative standards, so for most it won’t even be a factor. Yet I also have a bone to pick with the lyrics; a lot of people cite them as being exceptionally clever and insightful, and I would agree to an extent, but simply can’t muster the same enthusiasm. Most are open to interpretation – hardly an issue on its own – but without some kind of binding context, many of them could be about…well, anything. Not to mention that many tracks take it into themselves to repeat the same redundant lines several times over; if you don’t know what it means the first time, the next few times will only be bound to reinforce that notion. With enough studying, however, some personal meaning for each song should fall right into place (*winkwink*) for you. Oh, and a special shout-out has to be made to Wild Packs of Family Dogs, which put the dainty little images of dogs eating people and “crying dust blood” into my mind’s eye. A happy album, this is not.

By this token, TMaA personally falls into the little niche of strong, yet sometimes flawed, curiosities. While there are plenty of nitpicks to be made, the overall sound of the album is powerful enough to warrant praise without trespassing previously tread territory – the very definition of a successful experiment. This was certainly not a diversion to be forgotten, either, as traces of the more airy, calmer sound still exist in the songs of newer fare from the band. And for those out there hooked on the atmosphere but not the presence of Mr. Brock, this album will likely provide your best escape. Respectable lyrics and a moody environment combine to make TMaA worthy of attention, both back in 2000 and now.

So what have I now to say to the fanboys of each faction of the Modest Mouse debate? Well to be honest, I probably didn’t even need to hear the album to tell all of them to stop their futile actions before they all give themselves brain hemorrhages. To the newer recruits, I sayeth now that TMaA is a fine album that needs no disrespect, even if you prefer the more widely known, two most recent releases. I have even less comforting things to say to the other group, who will simply have to deal with whatever changes the band has felt are best for them, be it for reasons of nobility or greed. In either case, the past is irreparable, and in this case for the better.


P.S. : Apologies about the delay. My computer seems to have attained some kind of nasty Adware virus that’s slowing down my entire computer, and even preventing me from using some programs whatsoever. I’ve been trying to work my way around it, and hopefully my computer will be clean and running at full speed again by next week.

Daysed and Kunfoozed: "Midnite Vultures" Review

Album: Midnite Vultures
Artist: Beck
Genre: Alternative / “Indie”
Length: 58:24
Release Date: November 23, 1999
Label: DGC
Producer: Beck Hansen, Tony Hoffer, Mickey Petralia, The Dust Brothers

A stage name. Intentional misspellings. More oversaturated neon colors than a 80’s nightclub. And worst of all, the prominent depiction of tight leather pants…pink ones, I might add. Yep, I think it’s safe to say this album’s cover art couldn’t make me want to listen to the music less if it were covered in thorns and had a shrieking, carnivorous maw. But by no means was that going to prevent me from giving it a decent and equitable shake to the best of my ability. Turns out, however, the cover’s aesthetic actually does point to an attribute of the music that I so greatly fear: overt pretentiousness.

Now, before you decide to force-feed me my own words, I should note that this is my first exploration into the musical enigma known as Beck. From what I could initially gather, the man is some sort of alt-rock idol, and he clearly possesses the eccentricity to receive such a nomination. Alas, idiosyncrasy does not a great musician make, at least not by itself. So I walked into Midnite Vultures, purportedly one the most upbeat Beck releases, expecting bizarre genre transfusions, liberal sampling, and lots of electronica influences. What I didn’t expect was for all of this to be true, but not at all more engaging for the efforts. In fact, for all this man does to keep the wool over my eyes from start to finish, Midnite Vultures is unbelievably shallow.

Many would claim Beck’s style isn’t too readily defined, but I’ve got one word to do just that: schizophrenic. Indeed, so insistent is he to mix so many different genres and instruments under a single album that whatever magical recipe he could have created is quickly soured. Ironically, the core traits of each track – tempo, tone, and even length – don’t vary much at all, so we are forced to rely on his cheap tricks and gimmicks just to keep pace. Take the starting track Sexx Laws for instance; it kicks off in a much more engaging manner than most of the other songs by mixing together repeating keyboards with a soul-flavored jazz ensemble, but repetition already starts to sink in by the bridge and my attention starts to wane off accordingly. That’s when, from seemingly no logical location in space or time, a full-blown banjo riff kicks in. Raised eyebrows not-withstanding, the cocktail of soul and bluegrass just doesn’t flow or make sense…but it’s here anyway, because Beck said so. And it’s only one of many “WTF?” moments that randomly pepper the album, from the laugh-worthy beat-boxing in Pressure Zone to the sudden appearance of below-average hip-hop in Hollywood Freaks. Yeah, it’s great to be diverse, but such a trait must be managed and controlled, not splattered all about like the paint on a monkey’s self-portrait.

And on the subject of inconsistency and incompetence, we come to Beck’s lyrical capabilities, which is indeed where the aforementioned pretentiousness is showcased to a spit-shine polish. I truly went into this album perceiving Beck as a potentially intelligent individual, but from his music I would guess that he’s either very confused about the way the English language works or he advertently has his face crammed right up where-the-sun-don’t-shine. To put it bluntly, they defy reason and intellect in favor of a working rhyme scheme, something that is usually associated with much more mainstream acts than this guy. The result is that any chance of comprehending them from a listener’s point of view is locked up, caged away, and sealed within a cube of building bricks bathed in cement. The first verse from Nicotine and Gravy, for example, sounds like it could be the arrangement of lines from other random songs that in no way relate: “I'll be your chauffeur on a midnight drive / It takes a miracle just to survive / Buried animals call your name / You keep on sleeping through the poignant rain”. What?! Please, someone inform me if you can find any lucid meaning to that jargon. Then, by contrast, you have a song like Mixed Bizness (what did I say about intentional misspellings, huh?), that has “linear” and “dull” written all over it. In other words, it’s a single, and you’ve actually probably heard it before; I know I did. Sadly, it’s also a syrupy, mindless rant about dancing and sex, which is hardly new. Between these two extremes, it’s hard to walk away from this album feeling any sort of emotion, almost like an hour-long elevator ride.

Suffice it to say – and this really should go without saying at all – there will always be an audience for that sort of thing, who will find what I see as superficial to be brilliance instead. And indeed, if you’re looking for an album that carries such a multitude of styles under one roof, you might just have the key that unlocks this album’s potential. Sadly, I couldn’t even lockpick the frickin’ door to said potential because I was too distracted by generic song structures dotted with conceptual and lyrical inconsistencies. I’m sure that in between his song-writing sessions that involve a combination of liberal drug-use and smashing his head against a brick wall, he’d like to refute some of these harsh and perhaps rashly made lashes against his work, but rest assured that if he speaks anything like he writes poetry then he’d probably be better off communicating to me by drawing on an Etch-a-Sketch with his toes.