review round-up XV: 2011 second half, vol. 2 [singer-songwriters and indie rock bands]

Devon Sproule: I Love You, Go Easy review

Devon Sproule's sixth album opens in typically bucolic fashion, with the limber-voiced songwriter musing mellifluously on the mossy, terrapin-filled pond of her childhood commune (perhaps the very same "goose-poop pond" referenced at the start of her previous album), but the record on the whole finds Sproule -- an Ontario-born lifelong Virginian, freshly transplanted to Berlin, who's probably best beloved in the U.K. -- traveling musically and thematically further afield from her rustic roots. I Love You, Go Easy, which feels every bit as warm, thoughtful, and generously gentle as the twofold sentiment contained in its title, was recorded in her native Canada with a fresh batch of collaborators -- free-thinking Toronto producer Sandro Perri (Polmo Polpo) and experimental folk-pop trio the Silt -- who work some small wonders with the album's breezily expansive textural palette, making tasteful use of flutes, clarinets, saxophones, brass, and a few unobtrusively burbling synthesizers alongside Sproule's trusty Gibson. The result is considerably removed from the country-informed folk that dominated (but never completely encapsulated) her earlier work; it's both her subtlest and jazziest effort to date, certainly sonically but also in its songwriting, which tends more than ever toward long, fluid melodic lines and loose, open-ended structures. And the songs, if not necessarily her most immediately captivating or endearingly winsome, are as artful, personable, elegant, and finely crafted as ever, revealing abundant charms and quirks with familiarity. They're also frankly, unapologetically personal, vehicles for Sproule to explore the nuances of her relationships and emotions but also to sort through her life and career goals (though the two tend to intersect, particularly when it comes -- as it often does -- to her husband, fellow singer/songwriter Paul Curreri).

Twin Sister: In Heaven review

Twin Sister's most singular asset – and, apart from a general sonic softness which could be described as "twee," In Heaven's only really consistent attribute – is Andrea Estella's singing voice: a supple, adorable coo that's got a soupçon of Lætitia Sadier, a playful pinch of Judy Garland – by way of Nellie McKay, and, particularly when layered and harmonized, a warm, velvety mellifluence akin to underrated California popsters Simone Rubi and Terri Loewenthal (Rubies/Call and Response.) True, the band's carved out a distinctive, likable, retro-indebted yet minty-fresh baseline sound: dappled, spacey lounge-pop which calls to mind Baudelaire's "luxe, calme et volupté" (also, incidentally, the mantra of romanticist Canadian lushes Stars), and is perhaps best exemplified by opening ditty "Daniel," with its glowing, drifting Tortoise-shell veneer of vibraphone and organ and its gently zippy beatbox bossa. (Call it The Sea and Cupcake – with Estella as the gooey frosting – or, alternatively: Coctail Twins.) But In Heaven, if anything, only ramps up the genre-hopping of Twin Sister's early EPs, rendering it a rather diffuse, perplexing miscellany. Viz., infectious funk-slice "Bad Street" struts into kewpie disco territory (somewhere in the suburbs of "Funkytown"); aptly-named "Space Babe" ushers in the synth-washed and ponderous dream-pop of "Kimmi in a Ricefield" and "Luna," whose gauzy solemnity is then undercut by a spate of campy weirdness: "Spain" (torchy spy-theme pastiche), "Gene Ciampi" (Spaghetti Western clip-clop) and "Saturday Sunday" (easy-listening bubblegum? Petula Clark takes on Rebecca Black?), which largely dial back the synths in favor of screwball guitar. So: Heaven? or Las Vegas? or, more probably, (c. late 90s) Chicago? Hard to predict quite where Twin Sister will end up, but it's a lovely, leisurely, labile journey all the same.

Kathryn Calder: Bright & Vivid review

For an album titled Bright and Vivid, Kathryn Calder's sophomore solo effort sure starts out pretty murky. With its thick, squalling guitars, thudding drumbeat, and smeared, muffled vocals, "One Two Three" initially suggests that Calder is taking a page from the voguish, lo-fi girl group playbook (Dum Dum Girls, Vivian Girls, et al), but that soon turns out to be a bit of a miscue. There's a sense of polish and deliberateness in spite of all the hazy, swirling sonics; what emerges here, and throughout the album, is indeed quite vivid and bright -- but on the order of a lush, richly saturated Impressionist painting (or, perhaps, the album's autumnal-hued cover), an aesthetic far removed from the crisp, neatly delineated formalism of her work with the New Pornographers and Immaculate Machine. While Calder's relatively intimate, understated solo debut demonstrated a keen awareness of texture and a solid understanding of arrangement, those impulses come to the fore here in a considerably fuller and more conspicuous way, becoming as much of a focus as the songs themselves, if not more; take for instance the epically evolving, almost suite-like "All the Things," which is instrumental for more than half of its six-minute run time, and features Calder's voice, when it does come in, positively drowned in reverb. That voice -- warm, confident, girlishly pure, more richly developed than ever --still serves as the sublime vehicle for melody it has long been, rising brilliantly above the gentle haze on "Right Book," or tenderly harmonizing on "City of Sounds," but it's also sometimes treated as just one more, albeit integral, element in the album's lavish, layered tapestry of texture. For all the considerable volume of sound on the album -- which Calder recorded in her living room with her producer-engineer husband Colin Stewart (head of Vancouver's Hive Creative Labs), working at a leisurely pace and enlisting a generous cast of collaborators -- it never feels overstuffed. And while the songs, in general, tend not to announce themselves loudly, but rather blossom gradually, taking time to reveal their ample hooks and charms, they show just as much care and craft as the album's expansive soundscape. Even at their most immediately, infectiously accessible -- the glorious, electro-poppy earworm "Who Are You?," which has all the makings of an indie-night dance anthem, or the catchy, rocking "Walking in My Sleep" (the closest the album comes to New Pornos-style power pop) -- these are thoughtful, complex pieces of songwriting. A firm step forward on all fronts, Bright and Vivid is a thoroughly engaging listen and establishes Calder as a creative force and pop craftsperson every bit as worthy as her big-deal bandmates.

Darren Hayman: Essex Arms review

For the second installment in his planned "Essex Trilogy," Darren Hayman shifts his focus from the suburban, middle-class "new town" Harlow – the subject and setting of 2009's Pram Town – to a broader view of the East Anglian county's rural, working-class communities. Like its predecessor, Essex Arms is full of highly specific geographic and cultural references which effectively function as a backdrop to Hayman's usual assortment of love songs, character sketches and wistful ruminations. This time there's no attempt to cement the album's concept through a grand connecting narrative (or even a modest one), but the songs still hang together nicely to evoke a clear sense of place, with linchpins including "Dagenham Ford" – a touchingly bittersweet eulogy to a shuttered auto plant (and perennial football underdogs West Ham United) – and the languorous "Two Tree Island" (an ode to a former sewage works and landfill, now partially a nature reserve), with its vision of the countryside commingled with litter and waste. Sweetness and decadence run hand and hand throughout these songs, with references to semi-public sex and reckless (and sometimes fatal) joyriding intermingling with heartfelt declarations of love (none more pure and guileless than "Super Kings"' earnest refrain.) Perhaps the most winning moment (which is reprised en passant throughout the album, for good measure) comes with "Winter Makes You Want Me More," whose central sentiment is as poetic as it is self-evident; a cold-weather love song that's as universal as pawprints in the snow, shivering smokers and candy-striped flannelette sheets. Throughout, Hayman and a particularly strong incarnation of the Secondary Modern (including contributions from Fanfarlo, The Wave Pictures and – on the scene-setting "Calling Out Your Name Again," a duet with Emmy the Great) infuse the proceedings with a loose but decidedly folksy, countrified air, flush with pedal steel, harmonica, fiddle, mandolin and more. That musical modus may or may not be strictly relevant to the countryside in question, but it works marvelously well with Hayman's increasingly soulful songwriting, both on the hushed, melancholic tunes which make up the majority of this collection (starting right off the bat with the sad-sack "Be Lonely") and the handful of upbeat offerings, including the atypically rocky scrabble-playing closer "Nothing You Can Do About It." While it's not quite the uniquely charming statement Pram Town was, Essex Arms is yet another excellent addition to Hayman's ever-expanding discography.

Jeffrey Lewis: A Turn In The Dream-Songs review

Following the splendid career highlight Em Are I, and after a couple of collaborative detours – the uneven-at-best The Bundles with Kimya Dawson, and the delightfully loopy Come On Board with weirdo-folk icon Peter Stampfel – lovably quirky New York songwriter/cartoonist Jeffrey Lewis returns with a highly likable sixth album full of his characteristic wit, whimsy, sardonic self-deprecation and transcendental musings. Lewis' regular backing band the Junkyard are absent here (under that billing, at least), as are the occasional bursts of electrified rowdiness they've provided in the past. In their place are a clutch of mostly British indie-folk players (including the Wave Pictures' Franic Rozycki, who provides some fine mandolin work throughout), and a bevy of guests – members of The Vaselines, Dr. Dog, Au Revoir Simone, Misty’s Big Adventure and Schwervon – who help flesh out the album's pleasantly loose, vaguely psych-folky vibe, particularly on the tone-setting "To Go And Return," whose spacey, surreal lyric (a somewhat Seussian nonsense rhyme about the cosmic metaphysics of wish-making) is the source of the album's peculiar title. Despite all the friends he's amassed here, Lewis remains an archetypal loner, a condition which informs many of the album's sharpest numbers, from the lovelorn lambast "How Can It Be?" (featuring peppy, '60s-style backing vocals by the Dr. Dog boys) and the goofy "Cult Boyfriend" (which likens Lewis' romantic boom-and-bust cycles to a rapid-fire list of pop-culture obscurities) to "I Got Lost"'s gentle, plain-spoken disquisition on disconnection and "When You're By Yourself"'s wryly tender dissection of the practical logistics of loneliness – not to mention the hyperbolic shaggy-dog suicide saga "So What If I Couldn't Take It Anymore." (As usual – though still impressively – these songs rarely if ever come across as bitter or overly self-pitying; Lewis hasn't lost his knack for balancing depressed and depressing subject matter with insightfulness, sincerity, levity and charm.) All that time alone must give Lewis plenty of opportunity for deep thinking, which might explain the homespun, slightly stoned philosophizing of songs like the de facto centerpiece "Krongu Green Slime" – which uses the odd conceit of a pre-historic novelty manufacturing corporation to reimagine the entirety of evolution, over six protracted minutes of spare acoustic picking – and, perhaps more cogently, the touching "Time Trades," which moves beyond theorizing to offer some practical advice about long-term life planning. Songs like this – imaginative, contemplative, densely wordy, slightly silly but unflinchingly earnest – are arguably Lewis' strongest suit, especially in his recent work, and if the instances on A Turn In The Dream-Songs aren't quite as striking as those on its predecessor, the album still ranks right up there among his best.

Wu Lyf: Go Tell Fire To The Mountain review

British foursome World Unite Lucifer Youth Foundation – amusingly tempting to confuse with their rather distant Stateside counterparts World/Inferno Friendship Society (both bands are, at least, similarly fervent, unruly and rabble-rousing) – craft music that's every bit as elemental, emphatic and willfully enigmatic as their album's title. On its own terms, stripped of the hyped-to-hell/anti-hype vortex of its appealingly mythic but all-too-familiar backstory, Go Tell Fire offers both considerable beauty – lots of chiming, churchy organ, lots of gorgeously liquid, lucid guitar – and considerable ugliness (including some brutish, pounding grooves, but especially Ellery Roberts' instantly divisive choked, guttural caterwaul, which is potent in chunks – especially in exhortative chant mode – but dreadfully wearisome at unremitting album-length full-throttle), neither of which feel like ends in themselves (nor a purpose-driven juxtaposition) so much as value-neutral vehicles striving, straining, yearning toward pure, pummeling visceral emotion. And, to the (inconsistent) extent that they keep things abstract (read: post-rock-ish), and avoid sounding like any other bunch of dull, drudgy indie-rock also-rans (most of the bits invoking their self-conception as "heavy pop," a rather sour, chore-like description), it mostly works.

Zee Avi: Ghostbird review

A pint-sized, ukulele-strumming, vintage dress-wearing Malaysian-born songbird who rose to prominence via YouTube videos, Zee Avi fairly screams cute, quirky whimsy. If that description raises any warning flags or cynical twitches, ghostbird might just not be your glass of agave-sweetened hibiscus tea. (Should it be held against her that both she and her music are the stuff of marketing directors' dreams? It's an open question...) But you'd have to be at least a little cold-hearted not to be pleasantly lulled by the warm, gentle breeziness of Avi's music; its evident charm, predictably familiar though it might be, is modest enough never to feel cloying. If nothing else, the album consistently sounds wonderful: helmed by longtime Beastie Boys associate Mario Caldato Jr. (Bebel Gilberto, Jack Johnson) with a genially eclectic textural expansiveness – drawing freely from folk, swing jazz and soundtrack-friendly pop, with a twist of South Pacific tropicalia – it boasts a particularly vivid variety of percussion elements (shakers, fingersnaps, crisply mic'd congas, brushed snare drums, bullfrogs, rhythmic vocal chanting and discreet turntable scratches.) As for Avi herself, her personality often takes a comfortable backseat to the sound – and her lyrics, save for the occasional pithy sun-dappled observation ("every good fisherman has a pelican watching over him") tend to stand out for vague syntactic awkwardness ("even my lover's no longer enamored by me") or blatant factual inaccuracy ("thirty-one days in June" – from a song whose refrain also asserts "my love will pay the rent") if at all – but her voice, a gorgeously honeyed, legitimately jazzy warble (recalling The Bird and the Bee's Inara George) that belies her 25 years, is simply beyond reproach.

philadelphia city paper reviews:

Jens Lekman: Having An Argument With Myself EP review

Oh so silent oh so long (four years!), Mr. Jens Lekman reminds us just what we've been missing with the delectably dense An Argument With Myself EP (Secretly Canadian.) Over some of the sparkliest, most lovingly detailed grooves of his career – effervescent Afro-pop, plasticine twee-funk, soupy yacht-reggae – the gallant Göthenburger peruses and ponders the debatably ethical society of his hometown (and this world over: Melbourne; Santiago) via personal anecdotes, romantic professions, driving directions, absent-minded small talk, socio-political critique and – of course – plenty of jokes.

Gillian Welch The Harrow and the Harvest review

It's been a long, dry spell since last we heard from Gillian Welch – eight years; though the ten sterling originals comprising The Harrow and the Harvest feel, characteristically, far far older than that. If anything, Welch and her indispensable partner (in songwriting, harmonizing, and stunningly meticulous picking) David Rawlings sound more artlessly natural than ever inhabiting these deeply bluesy (and sometimes gothically gloomy) Appalachian folk strains, any of which could slot right in at your next backwoods campfire.

Tom Waits: Bad As Me review

Saying someone sounds like Tom Waits has become a lazy rock critic cliché trotted out for any singer who's a bit growly or guttural. Bad As Me (Anti-), the man's seventeenth album, besides being an all-around marvelous return after the longest recording gap of his career, is a spectacular reminder that, in actuality, nobody sings like Ol' Tom, whose larynx unleashes everything from weary, warbled moans to feral, splenetically spluttering yowls to an eerily husky falsetto croon across a tight set of his inimitable juke-joint rumbles, junkyard blues and bleary, beery ballads.

Steve Malkmus + The Jicks: Mirror Traffic review

Sorta a shame he didn't stick with the wry working title Madonna in Love, but otherwise it's hard to fathom a legit complaint against Mirror Traffic (Matador), Stephen Malkmus's fifth album with the Jicks, first since last year's world-conquering victory lap with that other band of his, and most instantly, consistently approachable in ages. Spanning gorgeously warm countryfied lopes, smirking spazz-outs, and bulls-eye riff-fests, these fifteen cuts are spry, tuneful, funny and touching: nothing but gold, gold sounds.

Laura Marling: A Creature I Once Knew review

Third time out and the spryest, most striking work yet from the fiercely prodigious Laura Marling, A Creature I Don't Know (Virgin) finds the steely-eyed, still-implausibly-youthful songstress toughening up her nimble, classically refined folk with hard-boiled jazz, blues and (surprisingly bruising) rock inflections; following her increasingly inimitable voice (both literary and literal) into ever more dramatic, elementally mythic themes and haunting, heart-wrenching idiosyncrasies; and also — just showing off — penning her most immediate, ear-catching batch of tunes yet.

Kate Bush: 50 Words for Snow review

Kate Bush – art-pop's high priestess; iconoclast icon who's the inspiration for at least one generation of would-be "eccentrics" – returns to show 'em all how it's done. Except, it's never been done quite like this: 50 Words for Snow (Fish People), her second album this year (but only third this century!) tackles its titular promise with zestful aplomb (and a little assist from Stephen Fry) – "phlegm de neige"..."whippoccino"...psychohail" – but also achieves subtler, equally prodigious feats of imagination and expressiveness throughout its seven mesmerizing, glistening-gentle, white-flurried powder-puffs of song.

The Dø: Both Ways Open Jaws review

There's much that's curious about Franco-Finnish twosome The Dø: the baffling bandname (pronounced "dough," incidentally); the ineffable charisma of Olivia Merilahti's potent, versatile soprano; the way their simple-seeming but naggingly elusive folky/poppy/bluesy tinker-toy tunes flit from gypsy jazz to junkyard electronica and somehow feel at once sparse and texturally teeming. Both Ways Open Jaws (Six Degrees), their modest, ambitious second effort, dances its bohemian dances with a Feist-y, casually effortless sophistication that seems primed to court mainstream attention, but without sacrificing a quark of their subtle, innate quirk.

Brite Futures: Dark Past review

Maybe Seattle electro-popsters Brite Futures' named Dark Past (Turnout), their debut-as-such, in reference to their somewhat notorious, decidedly dubious original moniker, about which the less said the better. It certainly couldn't be about the music, which is as day-glo bright as all get-out: glamtastic party-rocking power-pop with mirrorball glimmers of everybody from Queen and The Cars to Weezer, Phoenix and Daft Punk. It's blatantly mindless fun that, for once, is genuinely fun. Not bad for a buncha goofs who used to call themselves Natalie Portman's Shaved Head. Oh, wait, whoops.

Beirut: The Rip Tide review

Zach Condon's toponym fixation is alive and well in the tracklist of The Rip Tide (Pompeii), Beirut's quietly assured third full-length, but his old-world musical wanderlust is far less dominant than it once was: the defining Balkan, French chanson and Mexican folk currents of past efforts are synthesized here into a broader, more refined aesthetic; the characteristic barrage of trumpets, accordions, string bands and martial snares is more than ever in the service of these nine compact, comfortable songs.

Björk: Biophilia review

She may never recapture the synthesis of uncompromising artiness and pop accessibility which blessed her peerless '90s peak, but the music on Biophilia (One Little Indian), Björk's often arresting, occasionally impenetrable sixth (proper) full-length – in non-trivial danger of being overshadowed by the album's truly ambitious accessorizing (app-based interactivity, exhaustive conceptual exegesis, multi-media overload) – reveals that, when she wants to, she's still able to engage as well as merely dazzle, through concise melodicism, sheer sonic prettiness, and the occasional bad-ass drill'n'bass freakout.

Sam Phillips: Solid State review

Of the increasingly many industry-dispossesed critics-darling songsmiths to go the self-released, fan-financed route (see also: Jill Sobule, Juliana Hatfield), smart-pop lifer Sam Phillips must be among the more ambitious – Solid State: Songs from the Long Play is merely a compact, physical distillation of a long-running subscription-based online project which yielded, in full, forty-three new tunes. The ones compiled here should amply satisfy more casual fans that her rich, Beatles-indebted songcraft and wryly bittersweet vocals (often distinctively close-harmonized) remain as singular and effective as ever.

Feist: Metals review

Metals (Interscope) is Leslie Feist's calmest, plainest record yet; despite the occasional string-laden swelling of sound, group-chanted refrain, or Colin Stetson saxophone murmuration, it basically never deviates from her mossy-soft luxe pop métier, and it will serve comfortably as more-than-adequate background music for just about any demographic. Listen closer, though, and it's rarely if ever dull: Feist may have grown complacent but she's still a smart, thoughtful songcrafter whose subtle way with mood and melody are as meticulous as they come.

The Bees: Every Step's A Yes review

As though still stuck in a starry-eyed, pastoral post-Brit-Pop groove the rest of us have rudely tumbled out of, A Band of Bees (just The Bees to their fellow Britons) have been churning out sunny, amorphously Sixties-referencing psych-pop (and the odd samba detour) for nearly a decade now. The lovely, leisurely Every Step's A Yes (Fiction/ATO), which reaches our shores a year late, is their gentlest, folkiest excursion yet, recalling forgotten soft-pop sophisticates like the Mamas and the Papas (covered quite faithfully here) and The Association.

Baby Dee: Goes Down To Amsterdam review

For anyone who caught up with her classy, largely instrumental suite Regifted Light earlier this year, or the far-too-many who haven't had the pleasure, Baby Dee Goes Down To Amsterdam (Tin Angel) offers a quick and dirty tromp through the highlights of the big-hearted, crazy-voiced harpist/pianist's songwriting oeuvre, sampling both the unabashed tenderness and the chillingly dark, twisted recesses of her catalog, with lots of gleeful cackling along the way. Make a date with one of the most utterly singular talents of our times...and go Dutch.

Bon Iver: Bon Iver review

Superficially, the eponymous second Bon Iver album (Jagjaguwar) is a radically different beast from Justin Vernon's rapturously admired debut – texturally expansive and opulent where its predecessor was solitary and sparse; trading wispy folk for gooey, Oldenburgian Soft Pop. But the music's fundamental allure remains conspicuously unchanged: in a word, vibe. Befitting his work's preoccupation with environments (here, a litany of real and surreal place-names), and extrapolating from an ineffable voice which conveys (or evokes) reams more in sound than it ever does in actual sense, Vernon is, essentially, indiedom's preeminent purveyor of ambience.

AMG review round-up, volume XIV: erm, lovably scruffy indie blokes

ye gods, my output around here has slowed to about one post per month lately, but that don't mean i haven't been writing about music. not hardly. got a lotta rounding up to do. so: apropos of the mountain goats (who, onstage the other night, described himself as "a purist of the '90s indie pure"), here are some writings, spanning from nearly a year ago until last night, on a bunch of indie rock guys, singly and in groups, most of whom offer conspicuously 90s roots.

first up, four-ish records by darren "ex-hefner" hayman, who's made great strides in the past twelvemonth towards becoming one of my absolute fave indie songwriter guys, alongside mr. goats, and particularly in terms of my last.fm playcount. then two more i like a lot (even if one put out his best album this year and the other his worst.) then, while we're on the subject, 90s-indie-pure-weirdo julian koster, who otter have called his band weird tapes, but hey at least that singing saw record is seasonable (again). and finally a couple of mediocre indie rock records by bands. oh, ok, the records are fine, it's indie rock itself that's mediocre. why do they still have indie rock bands again? ugh. (except, and there always seems to be an exception, i am really digging on that real estate jawn.) and, oh yeah, i still think the dandy warhols rule ok, plus i got to include some fun topical nerdiness in the intro there. i guess this is as good a place to mention that i wasn't all that jazzed about the lou barlow record, although he seems like a really nice person.

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Darren Hayman: bio; Secondary Modern, Great British Holiday EPs, and Pram Town reviews

Between 2005 and 2007, Darren Hayman issued a series of four limited-run four-song 7"s written and recorded at various English seaside vacation spots. Initiated as a small-scale, one-off project to distract him from the stress and creative constraints of a protracted legal battle with his former label, the results of the undertaking, collected here in a handsome edition with bonus tracks and a DVD of videos, stand not only as a touching tribute to the fading institution of the Great British Holiday, but as a testament to Hayman's status as one of pop's finest chroniclers of quintessential Englishness, in the tradition of Davies, Partridge, Haines, and Albarn. The whole package has a refreshingly off-the-cuff, homemade charm, from the rudimentary (though perfectly adequate) recordings, which rely primarily on ukuleles, drum machines, and the occasional cheap keyboard, to the simply shot videos, which offer a handy visual complement to the world evoked so touchingly in the songs. And the songs here are some of Hayman's best: most of them engaged with his familiar lyrical themes of the tenderly bittersweet love affairs of ordinary folks, but with a distinctly personal touch notable even in his idiosyncratic oeuvre, and shaded with a particular sense of poignancy and nostalgia. Several of the standouts focus specifically on the bygone era of Hayman's boyhood, including the technological regressionism of the peppy "8-Bit World," the wistful longing of "1976" (which rhymes "turquoise Formica" with "Twiggy or someone just like her"), and "Future Song"'s wry lament that "the future's not what they said it would be in the Sunday papers in the '70s/Where's my monorail, where's my hovercar, where's my robot slave?" For some tastes, the trio of covers added to the collection (of holiday-themed numbers by Connie Francis, Lindsey Buckingham, and Chas & Dave) may perhaps push things too far over the line into whimsy, though they capture a certain legitimate quaintness that's undeniably fitting. On the whole, though, it's hard not to be won over by the sweetness and intimacy of this project, which was clearly a labor of great love for its creator, and is one of the most delightful and illuminating ways to encounter his work.

Pram Town feels, in many ways, like the logical culmination of all that has come before in Darren Hayman's career. He considers it to be his tenth album, which means he's counting the four he made with Hefner, one each with the synth-pop duo the French and the bluegrass outfit Hayman, Watkins, Trout and Lee, and the compiled Great British Holiday EPs, in addition to the two "proper" full-lengths under his own name. That's only fitting, since this album has stylistic echoes of all of those projects, and features musicians from most of them. Lyrically, it's also very much an extension of his past work, which has frequently focused on specific British locales (most notably London, as for instance on Hefner's We Love the City, but also the seaside vacation towns depicted on the Holiday EPs), and typically involves sentimental character vignettes and keenly observed meditations on love and nostalgia, youth and maturity, ambition and ambivalence, and disillusionment in the everyday lives of ordinary people. Those themes are at the heart of this modest concept album, a song cycle set in the "New Town" of Harlow, Essex, which was established in 1947 and affectionately nicknamed "Pram Town" due to the influx of young postwar families. Neither an outright condemnation of this type of now-obsolescent planned community nor a rose-tinted eulogy for a bygone heyday, the album presents a nuanced, bittersweet view of the town (located not far from Hayman's native Brentwood) through the eyes of a narrator who is at times sarcastic, and even scornful (as on "High Rise Towers in Medium-Sized Town"), but at other times genuinely proud (the title track; "Our Favorite Motorway").

The central narrative played out against this backdrop of suburban contradictions is, naturally enough, a love story: boy meets girl (in the utterly delightful, ukulele-led "Compilation Cassette," destined to be a meta-mixtape favorite) and dreams of romantic bliss (the jaunty, bluegrass-based "Losing My Glue"), but grows resentful of the class differences straining their relationship ("Out of My League"), leading to his inevitable heartbreak (the sweetly resigned "Leaves on the Line") and departure. It's a familiar story rich enough to let Hayman explore a decent range of timeless romantic themes, but not so complex that following it ever becomes a chore: crucially, any of these songs could stand perfectly well on its own. Indeed, Pram Town feels, if anything, less specifically character-driven than the majority of Hayman's work. Apart from the lovers, who remain nameless and archetypal, the only other significant characters listeners meet are (typically enough) a couple of musicians: going-nowhere local heros Amy and Rachel, who "mix R&B and death metal," though needless to say their ode here doesn't sound anything like that. Clearly, the character that Hayman is most interested in is Harlow itself; his treatment of the town, and its inhabitants' generalized love/hate relationship toward their home, is genuine, well thought-out, and entirely compelling. And while the album may not strike much new ground musically, the songs are uniformly strong and intriguingly diverse, featuring lush and varied folk-pop arrangements with an abundance of brass, banjo, and burbling vintage electronics. This is easily Hayman's most consistent and cohesive solo effort to date, and one of the most successful and satisfying records of his entire career.

Hayman, Watkins, Trout and Lee: bio and Hayman, Watkins, Trout & Lee review

Hayman, Watkins, Trout & Lee describe their music as East London bluegrass -- not to be confused, perhaps, with the North London variety pioneered by the Kinks on Muswell Hillbillies -- and while they might not pass muster for strict traditionalists, they do make an impressive showing for a ragtag band of Anglo amateurs. Actually, although the most noteworthy names in this laid-back supergroup are a couple of indie rockers (Hefner's Darren Hayman and the Wave Pictures' Dave Tattersall), they've got an ace in the hole in "proper folky" Dan Mayfield, whose fiddle work adds some assured authenticity to instrumental breakdowns like the traditional "Buckdancer's Choice" and passable original "Beulah Crossing the Marshes." Dave Watkins' banjo playing's not bad either, but virtuosity clearly isn't nearly as relevant here as energy and enthusiasm, which this gang have got in spades. The group's chief priority to date has been nothing more ambitious than playing around Hayman's kitchen table, and the album has the light-hearted, infectious feel of an impromptu jam session. That low-stakes looseness can also make it feel fairly dispensable, although it's hard to imagine not enjoying it at least somewhat. Certainly, your patience for these affable but slight renditions of "Hesitation Blues," and especially Huey Smith's goofy "High Blood Pressure," will depend a good deal on your tolerance for Hayman's scruffy, less-than-mellifluous vocals (or Tattersall's -- they're tough to tell apart.) The pay-off, though, is in the originals which make up about half the record, particularly Tattersall's sweet waltz-time come-on "Fine Young Cannibals" (nothing to do with Roland Gift), and several of Hayman's contributions, including the sprightly, saucy "Dirty Tube Train" and the superb low-rent love song "Sly & the Family Stone" (nothing to do with Sylvester Stewart), which should gratify his fans considerably. The countrified cover of the Mountain Goats obscurity "Jam-Eater Blues" is also an inspired performance and an inspired choice, featuring a lyrical mantra -- "life is too short to refrain from eating out of the jar" -- which aptly sums up the kind of gusto that Hayman et al. bring to this singular, endearing little record.

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Jeffrey Lewis [& The Junkyard]: 'Em Are I review [City & Eastern Songs review forthcoming]

The bandaged-head cover cartoon and cutesy title wordplay of Jeffrey Lewis' fifth album provide a decent indication, for the uninitiated, of the N.Y.C. songwriter/illustrator's goofiness and droll wit, qualities that are evident in many of the songs contained within. But they also hint, cleverly and somewhat obliquely, at the album's surprisingly weighty subject matter: though not specifically medical in focus, most of these songs are concerned with death, existential pain, and the otherwise more corporeal aspects of the human experience. Actually, "concerned" may be the wrong word -- far from morbid, Lewis often sounds insouciant and practically gleeful in his perspectives on mortality, especially on the screwy bluegrass stomper "Whistle Past the Graveyard" and the jaunty "Good Old Pig, Gone to Avalon," a fond eulogy to a beloved porker (with some suitably unhinged soloing courtesy of J Mascis). The tone-setting two-chord talking blues "If Life Exists(?)" and the wistful "To Be Objectified," with its hippie-dippie philosophizing, are more pensive and brooding, but they maintain a generous and optimistic outlook, with Lewis' affably nasal delivery dotted with jokey self-reference and the occasional groan-worthy one-liner. Best of all is "Bugs and Flowers," a mellow ramble that finds Lewis out walking along the tracks, ruminating on growth, decay, and universal oneness, in a touchingly quirky and unaffected fashion. It's not all mortality and metaphysics: "Roll Bus Roll" is a sweet if world-weary ode to bus travel; scrappy opener "Slogans" offers a series of motivational affirmations, more or less literalizing the album's titular pun along the way ("Everyone you meet is you/Divided by what they've been through"); and the self-castigating "Broken Broken Broken Heart" is an endearingly honest take on good old-fashioned lovesickness (complete with a bouncy singalong chorus). All of these are very good tunes, but it's the heartfelt content at the album's thematic core that makes 'Em Are I not just Lewis' most consistent album, but also his most truly affecting and easily his most successful outing to date.

John Vanderslice: Romanian Names review

John Vanderslice is nothing if not consistent. He's never made a bad record, and although his idiosyncratic songwriting and production have only grown more confident and compelling with his last several releases, neither has he made one that is truly, unabashedly great. Romanian Names does little to change any of that, news that should be at once heartening, slightly disappointing, and ultimately entirely unsurprising to his followers. A couple of minor, outward things are different this time around. After six albums on Barsuk, Vanderslice has jumped ship to the increasingly eminent Dead Oceans imprint. He's also decided to shake up his writing process by hammering the songs out in a new basement studio at home before fleshing them out at Tiny Telephone, his usual HQ. Songwise, the results are subtle and few: save perhaps the sprightly, hummable "C&O Canal" and a pair of lovely ballads, "Too Much Time" and "Hard Times," these numbers aren't discernibly more direct or immediate than prior efforts. The album's sound is a typically Vanderslicean mix of inventive chamber orchestration, dappled electronic overtones, and scruffy acoustic indie pop guitars, a step back from the mildly more organic orientation of Emerald City to the variegated textures of Pixel Revolt, though in keeping with both of those albums' gentle, accessible veneer. In terms of the lyrics -- always a crucial factor with Vanderslice -- this may rank as his most oblique work, and not merely because the liners, atypically, lack a lyric sheet (although that could be taken as a clue to his intent). His familiar character-driven approach is largely intact, but the details are sketchier than usual, with few clear narratives emerging despite recurrent references to fraught romantic exploits, loss, violence, memories of summertime, and isolation in wilderness settings. The lack of specificity can be refreshing, with simple chorus phrases and potent, isolated images (notably, of fetal horses galloping in the womb) taking the place of involved story lines. Too often, though, the songs just feel enigmatic and empty. Aside from "Fetal Horses" and the several standouts mentioned earlier, there's strangely little here to hold on to, lyrically or otherwise, making Names an oddly evasive, impenetrable listen. Not great then, though not bad, Romanian Names holds the unfortunate and surprising distinction of being the very first John Vanderslice album to feel like just another John Vanderslice album.

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The Music Tapes: Music Tapes For Clouds and Tornadoes review

From the sound of things, not all that much has changed for Julian Koster in the nine years since his Music Tapes project made its somewhat perplexing initial appearance with First Imaginary Symphony for Nomad. Music Tapes for Clouds and Tornadoes finds the elusive, eccentric Koster still fixated on homemade and otherwise unconventional instruments (including such creations as a "fun machine" and "the Seven Foot Tall Metronome," along with his trusty banjos and otherworldly singing saws); still futzing around with archaic recording methods (no Edison cylinders this time around, but the credits do list a record lathe, a wire recorder and ribbon microphone from the 1930s, and several pieces of equipment from the '50s and '60s); and still warbling dreamily to, for, and about insentient entities and natural forces (in this case, as the title suggests, mainly meteorological phenomena, and also reindeer). There are some definite musical developments here, most notably a shift away from the jumbled sound collage aesthetic to a more direct and melodic song-based approach, but the most striking change may be one of context. Whereas Nomad was released at the height of the Elephant 6 Recording Company's prolificacy and success, and got somewhat overlooked in the shuffle, the intervening years have seen the E6 collective's output dwindle and then essentially halt altogether, while its stature and the cult fascination with its works (most prominently Neutral Milk Hotel's In the Aeroplane Over the Sea, to which Koster was a significant contributor) have continued to increase; the upshot being that considerable attention was paid to this new offering.

That attention turns out to be absolutely warranted, for Clouds and Tornadoes is a fascinating and often compelling creation that effectively constitutes a vigorous and unexpected resuscitation of the long-dormant Elephant 6 spirit -- particularly when taken in conjunction with the Apples in Stereo's entirely different New Magnetic Wonder (the only other major record since 2002 to bear the E6 insignia, and in some ways this album's polar opposite, although both feature an extensive list of contributions from many of the collective's musicians). Specifically, Clouds marks the return of E6's more idiosyncratic and less directly pop-oriented tendencies -- it does, indeed, evoke the sepia-toned antiquarianism and fragile intimacy of NMH, and to a lesser extent the fractured, surrealist fuzzy warbles of the Olivia Tremor Control axis. All that said, this is incontrovertibly Koster's record, the product of his singular vision, which can only really be taken on its own unique terms. Many listeners are likely to be put off by his unapologetically wailing bleat of a voice, which he strains to the point of maximum expressive poignancy (or vexation, depending on your take); similarly, his quaintly whimsical lyrics are liable to come off to less charitable listeners as hokey, insipid babble. But those either charmed by or willing to indulge these excesses enough to engage with the strange music contained here will find much to marvel at, both in the album's songs -- which gesture intriguingly at fusty folk forms, bygone back-porch balladry, golden-age silver-screen pop, marching band music, and more without really coming close to anything recognizable, or certainly anything remotely like conventional indie rock -- and in its sounds themselves, which are at least equally important in conveying you off to its curious, self-contained little world.

Julian Koster: The Singing Saw at Christmastime review

Julian Koster, quirky frontman of the Music Tapes, Neutral Milk Hotel member, and go-to singing sawman for the Elephant 6 collective in general, steps out on his own here with a holiday album that makes a stunning showcase for his prodigious saw-playing talents. Or rather -- as his whimsical liner notes would have it -- his talent for encouraging saws to sing, which they actually do all by themselves. ("Hark! The Herald Angels Sing," the only selection hear to feature a sound -- copious clanging bells -- other than saws, purports to be a field recording from a traditional Christmas Eve saw gathering.) The saws here, singing both alone and in gloriously harmonized duos and groups, offer up renditions of a dozen well-known Christmas songs and carols, and the results are entirely magical; at once wonderfully eerie and strangely comforting. Rendered in the high, lonesome, otherworldly wobble of the saws' voices, even the most frolicsome of holiday tunes ("Frosty the Snowman," "Jingle Bells") become haunting and solemn, but Koster wisely devotes much of the album to the season's more poignant, plaintive melodies ("Silent Night," "O Little Town of Bethlehem") which here feel utterly serene and angelic. As evocative as it is impressive, The Singing Saw at Christmastime is a refreshingly different and eminently listenable offering that should easily become a yuletide favorite.

Throw Me The Statue: Creaturesque review

In the two years or so since their debut's initial self-release, Throw Me the Statue have grown from a one-man home-recording project to a full-fledged rock band. But don't expect a radically revamped sound with album number two: Creaturesque might be slightly more assured and fuller-sounding than the amiably scrappy Moonbeams (credit in part the contributions of Northwest indie rock super-producer Phil Ek), but TMTS have hardly lost their meandering mid-fi charms. Their sunny, lushly layered off-kilter pop songs still boast plenty of tinny drum machines, synth organs, jangly acoustic strumming, occasional bits of trumpet and glockenspiel, and of course Scott Reitherman's blithely casual singing and obliquely evocative lyrics. So it's essentially more of very welcome same. That said, the pop thrills aren't nearly as immediate this time out -- there's nothing here to rival the instantly grabby hooks of first album standouts like "About to Walk," "Yucatan Gold," and (especially) "Lolita." The closest thing might be "Hi-Fi Goon," a somewhat uncharacteristic rocker that recalls prime Built to Spill (with shades of Weezer's "Sweater Song"), though the bouncy "Dizzy from the Fall" and mellower "Noises" scratch that indie pop itch reasonably well, too. Elsewhere, the brief "Baby You're Bored" (is that an Evan Dando reference?) is nearly hummable and inscrutable enough to pass for a Guided by Voices cut, albeit far too well recorded, while "Tag"'s dense rhythms and falsetto harmonies are undeniably Shins-ish. In general, the brightest spots here come through fleeting individual moments -- like the sudden influx of barreling gospel-style backups toward the end of the gradually cresting opener, "Waving at the Shore" -- and more subdued numbers like the shambling, gently glowing closer, "The Outer Folds." Creaturesque's subtler pleasures may require more time to sink in than the impulsive skinny-dip plunge of its predecessor, but fans of classic-styled melodic indie rock will find it every bit as summery and inviting as the backyard swimming pool on the cover, and well worth the wade.

Fanfarlo: Reservoir review

For anyone who's paid the least attention to the tasteful, tuneful, nebulously rootsy strain of indie rock that was in ascendance throughout the mid-to-late 2000s, Fanfarlo's debut album will sound instantly and inescapably familiar. The London-based quintet favor a genial affect, moderate tempos and blend of orchestral (violin, trumpet) and folksy (mandolin, accordion, harmonica, saw) instrumentation akin to acts such as The National and Grizzly Bear, while vocalist Simon Balthazar's broad, heartfelt crooning invites immediate comparisons to Beirut's Zach Condon. Most of all, it must be said, the band display an undeniable similarity to The Arcade Fire, with whom they share all of the above-mentioned qualities as well as a distinctly earnest, quietly dramatic emotional fervor. If anything, the imitation is a slightly pale one – even at its most impassioned, their brand of chamber-pop bombast is never as potent and unrestrained as that Montreal outfit – but if they're unlikely to inspire unbridled passion in most listeners, the familiarity of their sound should breed plenty of contentment. Fanfarlo are at their best when their lush but occasionally dreary instrumental efforts are focused around a strong, simple melody, as is frequently the case here – on slightly pop-leaning cuts like "Fire Escape," "The Walls Are Coming Down" and "Harold T. Wilkins," and particularly on the sweet piano-led ballad "If It Is Growing." That said, the most striking thing here may be the opener, "I'm A Pilot," which impresses as much with its hypnotically slow, chugging rhythm (provided by footstomps and sleigh bells) as with Balthazar's typically wailed (and particularly Win Butler-ish) vocal turn.

The Dandy Warhols: The Dandy Warhols Are Sound review

The Dandy Warhols opened their 2003 album, Welcome to the Monkey House, with a brief, snide dig at record industry greed and illogic that ran, in part: "When Michael Jackson dies, we're covering 'Blackbird.'" The line was obviously intended as a flip reference to Jacko's control of the Beatles' publishing rights -- of course, "Blackbird" is a rather fitting song to record as a eulogy, though it's doubtful that the Dandys considered that at the time. But fate had some amusingly ironic, if insignificant, tricks in store when, six years later, Jackson's unexpected death occurred mere weeks before the release of an alternate version of that same album -- a version whose initial release had been prevented by the Dandys' own industry woes, and which featured all of the same songs except for the sadly newly relevant titular ditty. The story is that the bandmembers took the tracks (which they had co-produced with Duran Duran's Nick Rhodes) to be mixed in New York by Russell Elavedo (D'Angelo, Common, the Roots), but the results were rejected by Capitol Records and shelved in favor of a new version mixed (apparently without the band's involvement) by British pop engineer Peter Wheatley (Sugababes, Girls Aloud, Sophie Ellis-Bextor), which was released to mild but vaguely disappointing success and ended up as their second to last album for the label. The differences between the two versions, as fans heard once the Elavedo mix (dubbed The Dandy Warhols Are Sound) was self-released by the band in 2009, are roughly what one would expect after comparing the two engineers' prior clientele rosters. Not that these mixes make the Dandys sound like a grittily organic hip-hop/soul outfit on the one hand, or a glistening chart-pop act on the other -- this is essentially a rock & roll album either way -- but Sound is notably more stripped-down and spacious, with fewer of the synthesizers and electronic underpinnings that gave several Monkey House tracks their noted (and arguably prescient) new wave/synth pop vibe.

This helps to bring the songs closer to the rootsier, dirtier, and somewhat dubby approach of their previous albums, although it's hardly comparable to the gloriously noisy dronefests of their first two -- even if shifting "(You Come In) Burned" up, to open the album with a slow-building epic, is a nice nod to Dandys tradition. But yes, in a word, Elavedo's version is less poppy, even if in some ways it actually feels cleaner and more direct, since fewer layers of sound allow the songs to stand more fully on their own merits. (This is particularly true of easily overlooked numbers like "Heavenly" and "Rock Bottom," though it's not always necessarily to their benefit.) The big pop numbers -- which are now mostly slotted in a clump at the beginning of the record -- lose almost none of their tight, hooky appeal. Listening to both mixes side by side, song for song, the differences are readily evident and fairly striking -- though there are no substantive changes to the actual songs themselves. Oddly, though, listening to either version in full makes it much harder to notice any prominent differences, perhaps because of how well the tracks are incorporated into each version's distinct sound-world. Ultimately, the differences between the two are not all that great. Sound may have a slight edge over the originally released version of this material, if only because it's truer to the band's initial intentions, and Dandy diehards will certainly find it worth checking out, but more casual fans who already own Monkey House can probably skip it unless they're looking for an intriguing lesson in the nuances of mixing. (The "new song," "Pete Int'l Spaceport," is merely four minutes of ambient effects washes, and should hardly be considered a selling point.)