SXSW 2012: Thursday

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review round-up XV: 2011 second half, vol. 3 [soul/r&b, hiphop, world, ambient/xprmntl, etc.]

Mayer Hawthorne: Impressions EP and How Do You Do? reviews

Detroit retro-soul MVP Mayer Hawthorne has been a busy man lately, popping up on tracks by Chi-town rappers Cool Kids, Parisian techno bro SebastiAn and funk legend Dennis Coffey. He's also found time to cut a digital covers EP, Impressions (free at stonesthrow.com) offering his impeccable takes on some predictably awesome soul obscurities plus tunes from such less likely sources as Chromeo, John Brion and Electric Light Orchestra. Still, with album number two on the horizon, Hawthorne better not start resting yet. As he sings here in his best swoon-worthy Isley Brothers croon: he's got work to do.

When your out-of-nowhere debut was a stone-cold modern classic that managed to be both an uncannily convincing recreation of prime 1960s soul and Motown and also perhaps the most distinctive, freshest-sounding soul platter to emerge in ages, what do you do for an encore? No need to reintroduce himself: Mayer Hawthorne's wholly worthy sophomore set keeps things grooving with plenty more of the same – typically tasty, apparently effortless fun (if occasionally under-written) fare like "Hooked," strutting single "The Walk," the irresistibly buoyant "You Called Me" and the Tempts-ish "Stick Around" – while also dipping a big toe into the sultry, string-laden '70s (and plying his best Barry White come-ons) with the plush Philly slow-burn "Get To Know You" and the gaudy, bawdy Snoop duet "Can't Stop." If covering Jon Brion and ELO on this summer's Impressions EP tipped his pure-pop-loving hand, similarly blue-eyed influences come to the fore here with trace levels of the Doobies and Steely Dan (particularly on the Rhodes-aided "Finally Falling" and "A Long Time," a dynamite, heartfelt tribute to his Detroit roots) and an emphasis on tight, bright, crisply poppy arrangements throughout.

Beyoncé: 4 review

A new Beyoncé record is, by definition, an event, but after her last album's sprawling, unwieldy embarrassment of riches (and vaguely contrived stylistic segregation), 4 feels almost casual: a plain dozen unfussy tunes with (mostly) refreshingly minimal, understated productions, custom-devised for Ms. Knowles to sing the bejeezus out of them, which she graciously, gracefully does. That's a tremendous treat in itself – as always, though she's rarely been quite this artlessly affecting; authoritative yet unforced (breezily pyrotechnic, even.) And, shrugging off negligible missteps like "Party"'s pointless Kanye West intrusion, there are comparable musical pleasures all across the tracklist, from "I Miss You"'s warmly brooding slow-mo electro and "Love On Top"'s grin-inducing throwback R&B gush to the euphorically scattershot, Boyz II Men-sampling "Countdown." Even the album's unorthodox bluesiness-in-front, party-in-back sequencing (flip the track order – nipping the overblown "I Was Here" – and you've got a much more conventional, arguably more effective LP, not unlike B'Day with an inverted ballads:bangers ratio) helps it feel an appealingly low-key, off-the-cuff lark. As though B could really just sneak up on us like that.

The Throne: Watch The Throne review [expanded edition]

Nobody's coming to Watch the Throne cold. Whatever opinions you may have about Jay-Z and Kanye West, this album will likely affirm if not reinforce them – unless, say, you somehow believe either to be humbly self-effacing or blandly conventional. Throne is many things: an idiosyncratic showcase for two uniquely complex personas, a gleeful celebration of ostentatious excess (Hov's words: "Black excellence, opulence, decadence..." – also: "new watch alert!"), an overstuffed hodge-podge of bold and occasionally dodgy experiments, and, not least, a literally gilded monument consecrated to Ego. Some things it's not: predictable, pedestrian, a mindless victory lap or a rote cash-grab – nor, for that matter, is it a consummately crafted album for the ages. But it's certainly never boring. Notwithstanding their long and storied history together (which itself provides some fertile lyrical grist), Jay and 'Ye seem like a potential mismatch for a full-length collab; they have equally recognizable but markedly dissimilar flows and, increasingly, musical wheelhouses, and each is utterly confirmed in his own particular strain of solipsism. But – along with their obvious, infectious camaraderie – they turn out to be pretty good influences on one another: Jay sounds generally reinvigorated: good-humored, full of nimble, intricate wit, and uncharacteristically emotionally revealing, and if Kanye's rhymes often remain as clumsy and crass as his personal life choices ("sophisticated ignorance/write my curses in cursive" sums it up well – and in Pig Latin, too, we learn), he drops far fewer boners than usual. The discrepancy is marked on "That's My Bitch" – a clumsy, ersatz "old school joint" whose Amen breaks and P.E. scratches jut against ponderous synths and blue-eyed throwaway hooks (crooned, randomly, by fake Frenchies La Roux et Bon Iver) – wherein Ye patronizingly mocks his latest hook-up for mispronouncing "Basquiat" while Jay ponders white-washed beauty standards (and, amusingly, proposes that Picasso could have painted Beyoncé.) (Oh yes, both parties go to considerable lengths here to demonstrate their familiarity with art as well as haute couture.) On the touching "New Day" (whose dappled synth burbles and woozy, auto-tuned Nina sample are considerably more artful and, arguably, "respectful" than the album's blunt Otis and James flips), both rappers rectify their life's mistakes vicariously through their purported sons; Kanye envisions himself as neurotically overprotective ("I might even make him be Republican/so everybody know he love white people," he ironically/moronically quips), while a particularly big-hearted Jay, apart from indulging his weirdly persistent Judaism fetish, just sounds like the coolest dad ever. Credit both for executing an effective late-album swerve into social consciousness, via the incisive socio-political-cum-musical diptych "Murder to Excellence" and raptly exultant coming-up anthem "Made In America," which shouts out the patriarchs and matriarchs of the civil rights movement, along with the holy family – another notch for rookie of the year Frank Ocean (as is the stark, anti-clerical/pro-polyamory blues "No Church in the Wild." As full of complications and contradictions as My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy – its nearest and easiest reference point – Throne is at least as musically adventurous and wide-ranging, if not always as successful – the convincingly potent, tough-as-nails dubstep curveball "Who Gon Stop Me," for instance (a pretty wholesale Flux Pavilion recasting), is pretty much the polar opposite of "Liftoff"'s stale day-glo puff paint triumphalism. Between the misfires and the winners, through all the smoke and spectacle, our heroes come off perhaps only intermittently regal, but always resoundingly, royally human.

Mariachi El Bronx: [II] review

If there was any doubt that the gringo Angeleno hardcore punks in the Bronx were dead serious about their Mexican folk alter ego -- and for anyone who's spent time with Mariachi El Bronx's 2009 self-titled debut (or caught the twin bands' rollicking, identity-shifting live shows) there certainly was not -- the outfit's second album offers ironclad reassurance that this is no novelty act. Not messing with a good thing, the group takes essentially the same approach this time around -- even the album title's the same -- but the results exhibit a subtle yet significant improvement in almost every respect: both the production and the performances are notably crisper and punchier; the arrangements are richer and more complex, full of swirling, soaring strings; the stylistic range is successfully broadened (to encompass cumbia, norteño, and bolero), and the passion and fire on display are simply undeniable. And the songs, in particular, are uniformly strong and memorable, with highlights including the raucous, tempo-shifting instrumental "Mariachi El Bronx," the fun, flirtatious "Norteño Lights," and especially the tremendous, white-hot single "48 Roses," a philanderer's furiously impassioned plea for dubiously deserved forgiveness ("With four different lovers and 48 roses/I need a confessional that never closes"). The effect of Matt Caughthran's heartfelt but distinctly non-Hispanophone vocals (toned down though still discernibly punk-informed) atop resolutely traditionally styled instrumentation (give or take the not strictly conventional presence of a drum set) recalls the slightly uncanny effectiveness of David Byrne singing with Brazilian musicians on Rei Momo or Paul Simon with South Africans on Graceland (the Pogues' use of traditional Irish music is another, perhaps more apposite comparison) -- a major difference, however, is that Caughthran's lyrical and emotional approach cleaves far closer to the conventions of the genre in question, focusing mainly on affairs of the heart (though he doesn't shy away from more somber philosophical musings on death, poverty, and religion). Purists may, of course, have their qualms, but it would be hard to deny the combination of reverence, proficiency, and sheer exuberance in evidence here -- indeed, it's difficult to imagine any serious limits of this band's appeal. ¡Viva El Bronx!

Buraka Som Sistema: Komba review

Komba, as a voice-over early in Buraka Som Sistema's so-titled sophomore album helpfully explains, is an Angolan religious tradition that's roughly the equivalent of an Irish wake: a massive party held a week after a death, celebrating the life of the deceased. The accordingly spooky and festive title track, which is primarily sung in English (and, in part, as though from beyond the grave), together with several references to Bantu tribal rituals in the opening "Eskeleto" (Skeleton), sets up the notion that the album will be something of a cultural guided tour. But save, perhaps, for the ominous, drum-driven instrumental "Macumba" (whose title refers to Afro-Brazilian folk religion), there's no other indication here (at least to Anglophones) that Portugal's Kuduro champions have any such edificatory intentions in mind: for all practical purposes, Komba is "conceptual" only in that -- as could only be expected -- it's just one hell of a party. Not tampering too much with the formula that made 2008's Black Diamond such an undeniable, explosive experience, Komba essentially delivers more of the same: fierce, hard-hitting, yet decidedly playful, fully polyglot electronic gutter-funk. The average intensity of these new tracks may have come down a notch (though they're still plenty fiery), and there's an uptick in what might seem like crossover pop concessions (not that there's anything wrong with that) -- incorporating elements from R&B ("Voodoo Love") and blandly populist dance-pop (first single "[We Stay] Up All Night" is something like the African tech-funk version of Kesha), as well as the self-explanatory reggaeton hybrid "Burakaton" -- basically, it's just the group indulging its omnivorous and well-established pan-global pop wanderlust. (See also the nutty "LOL & POP," which combines childlike taunts, Clipse-referencing raps, and shout-outs to past BSS tracks with a frenetic, vaguely surf-punky riff.) There aren't quite as many standout tracks this time around, but there are no real low points to speak of (although the dopey ghetto-tech vocal sampling of the incessantly blip-happy "Hypnotized" comes close), and there's plenty to enjoy, especially from a beat programming standpoint -- or, even more especially, from the center of a crowded, sweat-soaked dancefloor. Not at all a bad way to go.

A Winged Victory for the Sullen: A Winged Victory For The Sullen review

By comparison with your typical Stars of the Lid output – like 2007's epochal And Their Refinement of the Decline, whose languorously protracted tones and drones might still not have finished reverberating four years after its release – this new collaboration pairing Adam Wiltzie (half of that Texan duo) with "post-classical" composer/pianist Dustin O'Halloran offers something a little more lively. By any other measure, though, A Winged Victory For The Sullen could hardly be more utterly, ineffably tranquil. Building from Refinement's graceful, majestic swells of sound, and expanding on that album's orchestral inclinations with an even broader symphonic palette – encompassing strings, organ, harp, and O'Halloran's sturdy, meditative piano – articulating a carefully selected compass of harmonic and melodic information, these seven pieces feel at once structurally minimal – almost formless, albeit deliberately controlled – and sonically maximal. Where much ambient drone, and Stars' in particular, seems to take form from residue and a near-spectral suggestion of absence, Wiltzie and O'Halloran's richly sonorous clusters rise toward an emotive power that can only stem from engaged, emphatic presence.

Oneohtrix Point Never: Replica review

Replica, retro-synth drone maven Daniel Lopatin's return as Oneohtrix Point Never following his critically adored, profile-rocketing 2010 album Returnal (and his equally estimable work with Ford & Lopatin), offers repeat customers both familiarity and surprise in roughly equal measure. In the former column, Lopatin still grounds his creations in conspicuously beautiful, buzzing, humming, and twinkling Kosmiche synthscapes; once again, everything feels draped in a syrupy, soft-focus analog glaze. But only one track, the aptly titled "Submersible," sustains itself on warmly drifting, rhythmically unfettered synthetic sound washes alone. Elsewhere, gentle waves of gauziness give way, more or less gradually, to more dynamic elements: on "Remember," an intertwined pair of looped vocal snippets (one speaking the track's title, the other a muffled, mutilated moan) slowly emerges from the amniotic haze; dappled pace-setter "Andro"'s undercurrent of murmuring, garbled sound scraps flips in the final 30 seconds into a stuttered, ritualistic outburst of hand percussion and jungle screeches. By and large, though, rhythm is not merely appended to but fully foregrounded in these compositions, in a way that's essentially new for Oneohtrix -- rarely in the conventional guise of drum tracks and "beats" (though there is a stark, rudimentary one anchoring the first two minutes of "Up," which might be approximately danceable if it weren't in 7/8), but often in the form of sampled loops, creating a definite rhythmic structure without (in most cases) the use of "percussion" per se, a much calmer variation of the micro-sampling methods of Akufen and Matthew Herbert. "Power of Persuasion" introduces this approach with a shifting series of classical-sounding (acoustic) piano figures stuck on short-circuit repeat, to placid, gently numbing effect, while the rather less somnolent "Sleep Dealer" lassoes in a wider array of thuds, groans, and whirrs along with a perky keyboard fillip, indecipherable spoken bits, and a satisfied-sounding exhalation to form a pleasantly cheery little jaunt, and the gently erratic "Nassau" adds some rustling, shuffling footsteps that sound a bit like soft-shoe tap dancing. Even the lovely, lulling title track, which combines static buzzes and fluid, meandering melodic tones with no regular rhythmic matrix to speak of, creates a sense of gentle groove and motion in its soft, patient new age piano chords. Apart from his usual battery of analog keyboards (and a considerable amount of actual acoustic piano), Lopatin apparently culled much of the sound for this album from a DVD compilation of TV commercials dating from 1985 to 1993. Though it makes for an intriguing compositional back-story -- and it clearly provided him a rich sound palette from which to draw -- it's rare that that source material is specifically evident while listening; at best it functions on a more energetic, subconscious level, making the typically nebulous sonic nostalgia of the chillwave/hypnagogic pop movement -- with which these productions bear some strong commonalities -- more literally (if still somewhat imperceptibly) manifest.

Das Racist: Relax review

Having turned heads internet-wide (and beyond) in 2009 with "Combination Pizza Hut and Taco Bell," their unlikely but undeniable, out of nowhere breakthrough hit/joke/meme, and having established their no-joke chops -- validating that seeming one-off as no fluke even while revealing its unmitigated goofiness as something of a red herring -- with a pair of improbably solid, seriously skilled (but still impishly playful) 2010 free-download mixtapes, the smarty-pants Brooklyn rap squad Das Racist arrive at their first legit, purchasable album with goodwill (and talent, and charisma) to burn, and little to prove except their ability to keep a very good, emphatically original thing going. Relax -- the title's a logical extension of the mixtapes' enjoinders to "Sit Down and Shut Up," though an odd handle for such a manically wired, hyper-functioning affair -- makes that much readily clear, delivering in spades the blend of dense, reference-strewn, culture-jamming jokey (not jokey) rhymes, absurdist non-sequiturs ("I'm DJ Khaled/I'm a daikon radish"), cannily irreverent racial critique, eggheaded egg-tossing ("Rapgenius.com is white devil sophistry"), fake patois, and gleeful gibberish that made their name. If there's a discernible new development here, it may be an increased sense of toughness, both musically and lyrically. At least intermittently, Relax seems geared toward beefing up Das Racist's hip-hop bona fides; i.e., basically, their sincerity; no mean feat for such unrepentant trickster-hipster satirists. So we get rampant (largely unconvincing) drug hustling references; the basically self-explanatory (evidently unironic) "club banger" "Booty in the Air," and, on the pace-setting title track, a rare moment of personal introspection -- Heems rapping about his immigrant parents in 1980s Queens ("from holding me to bagging groceries at the Pathmark") -- juxtaposed with the uncharacteristically straight-faced boast "these days I mostly focus on my bank account/I ain't backing out til I own a bank to brag about." Indie rap-wise, it doesn't get much tougher or more soberly serious than El-P, who both produces and guests on "Shut Up, Man" with characteristic chilly digi-funk steeliness, Das Racist following suit impeccably (but with poop jokes.) On the other hand, there's the bubbly synth pop of "Girl," a clear, tongue in cheek, pop-rap piss-take; the lite electro-bhangra fusion "Punjabi Song," and the frothy, fun-loving "The Trick" (produced by Vampire Weekend's Rostam Batmanglij, with a heavy nod to Tom Tom Club). Their range is impressive, for sure, but nobody's gonna mistake these guys for remotely conventional rappers -- nor, presumably, would they want that. One quibble: while "Combination Pizza Hut" is referenced twice (once in "Rainbow in the Dark," the well-selected lone mixtape holdover; once -- in ludicrously crude fashion -- in Danny Brown's delightfully loopy "Power" guest verse), there's nothing here approaching the catchiness of that song's indelible hook. Granted, they're not fishing for another viral earworm here, but you'd think they could come up with something better -- for the lead single, no less -- than "Michael Jackson"'s feeble placeholder of a refrain.

DRC Music: Kinshasa One Two review

At the dawn of the 2000s, Damon Albarn traveled to Mali and made some recordings with a handful of local musicians, later shaped into Mali Music, a curious, casual, satisfyingly undefined collaborative foray that marked the starting point of his continued public fascination with the music of Africa. Ten years later -- following a decade that found the incessantly networking Albarn joining forces with many more African musicians through his myriad musical guises (Gorillaz, Blur, the Good, the Bad & the Queen), not to mention releasing the work of several others via his Honest Jon's label -- he returned to the continent for a similar project with a considerably grander scope, descending on metropolis of Kinshasa, in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, with a veritable army of British and American producers (ten of them, including Actress, Dan the Automator, Jneiro Jarel, and XL Recordings head Richard Russell) to interface with a much larger number of Congolese players and vocalists. What's more, the whole recording process lasted a mere five days. The resulting album (which, like Mali Music, was released as a benefit for Oxfam charities) is as sprawling, messy, and multifarious as you would imagine, a bustling, urban contrast to the sleepy, subdued village feel that prevailed on Mali Music. The difference can be ascribed to the energy of both the Kinshasan musicians and the cutting-edge electronic and hip-hop-oriented Western producers involved, as well as the frenzied, on-the-fly, street-level spirit of the recording experience itself. Strands of funk, house, hip-hop, dub, and techno intertwine freely and loosely with dense, polyrhythmic percussion grooves played on all manner of hand drums, bells, whistles, and scavenged scrap metal instruments (often performed by Bokatola System, who turn up four times) as well as sparser textures featuring thrumming likembes and twangy guitars, and a dizzying array of vocalists who sing, speak, rap, toast, and chant atop it all. (Arguably the most striking track here, a minute-long singsong entitled "Love" and performed by a lightning-tongued rapper/singer of the same name, is entirely a cappella.) Although little if anything here fits neatly into any specific Western genre (the Gorillaz-ish, gently poppy trip-hop of opener "Hallo" -- the only track to feature Albarn's vocals, and coincidentally the dullest thing here -- comes closest), this is definitely much more of a thorough cultural fusion than any sort of reverent "field recording" project -- both Western and African elements are readily audible on every cut, with a somewhat varying but generally quite equal balance of prominence. But that doesn't necessarily mean it's any less respectful of the local musicians and their contributions, nor any less of a resonant depiction of a globalized but nevertheless specific cultural environment. In the increasingly prevalent spirit of similar trans-cultural musical interminglings in recent years, what we get never feels carefully curated, explicated, or tamed but rather refreshingly, bewilderingly alive -- an explosive flurry of rhythms, sounds, and voices.

Fool's Gold: Leave No Trace review

By the time of their second album, L.A.'s Fool's Gold solidified their lineup from an expansive and somewhat amorphous eight-to-twelve-person collective into a condensed five-member band. Correspondingly, perhaps, Leave No Trace largely reins in the freely flowing pan-global jams of the group's debut in favor of a more tightly structured set of songs, a change that turns out to somewhat diminish their music's singularity, if not its fundamental charm. It's not that the defining African and Middle Eastern strains which predominated throughout Fool's Gold -- the layered polyrhythms and, in particular, the gleaming, liquid Afro-pop guitar lines -- are wholly absent here; indeed, they're all right there in opening cut "The Dive," which also gestures toward Brazilian samba in its percussion (and whose central guitar riff is a kissing cousin to first album stand-out "Surprise Hotel.") But the international influences are noticeably toned down and made to share space with more familiar, pedestrian Western rock and pop elements, bringing the group's sound closer to the more generically "tropical-inflected" indie rock of artists like Foreign Born (two of whose members overlap with Fool's Gold) and Vampire Weekend. The band also experiment with adding some squelchy synthesizers and electronic textures, most prominently on "Street Clothes," which veers unexpectedly into full-on '80s art-funk territory, complete with sproingy drum triggers, clavinet, and a chaotically skronking sax. Further diluting the group's multi-cultural spirit, singer Luke Top largely forgoes his native Hebrew this time out to sing in English (save on the bilingual "Tel Aviv.") All of this is fine as far as it goes: the global stew may be watered down, but it hasn't entirely lost its flavor. Leave No Trace still sounds great; the playing is marvelously light and breezy, and these tunes are still enjoyably summery, simmering, and infectiously danceable (if not, on the whole, terribly memorable.) Still, it's hard not to wish Fool's Gold had figured out how to develop and expand their approach without compromising so much of what made their debut so delightfully unique.

Kitty Daisy & Lewis: Smoking In Heaven review

There's a lot to love about Kitty, Daisy & Lewis Durham, a trio of British youngsters (aged 18, 22, and 20, respectively, at the time of this recording) whose enthusiasm for the American roots music of the 1950s is undeniably sincere, impressively zealous, and absolutely infectious. It's easy to imagine a project like theirs smacking unbearably of gimmicky novelty, especially given the ambitious measures the Durham siblings undertake in the interest of authenticity -- including amassing enough vintage recording gear to build a complete home setup modeled after the Sun Records studio -- but these kids make it all feel breezily natural, and for them it really is: after all, they were raised on this stuff by their hipster music industry parents (mastering engineer Graeme Durham and Raincoats drummer Ingrid Weiss, who also sit in with the band on occasion.) While Smoking in Heaven, the group's second proper full-length, doesn't tamper with the charmingly loose, deliberately homespun energy of their 2009 debut, it does find them branching out in several ways: exploring bluebeat ska ("Tomorrow," "So Sorry") and coarse, strutting funk ("Don't Make a Fool out of Me") in addition to plenty of their usual jump-blues, R&B, and swingin' rockabilly (no Hawaiian jaunts this time, though); trying out some more ambitious (if not always wholly convincing) musicianship -- check the rough but still rollicking boogie-woogie piano solo that kicks off the instrumental "Paan Man Boogie" -- and, notably, penning all their own material for the first time. The writing is nothing earth-shattering; in fact, it's rudimentary and formulaic almost without exception, although they still come up with a couple of winners ("I'm Coming Home"), and lots of tunes that would easily pass for understandably forgotten oldies (not among them is "Messing with My Life," whose trebly, cod-funk guitar and atypically contemporary-sounding vocal stylings make it sound incongruously like an especially amateurish cover of a faceless, 2010s Top 40 R&B hit.) But as with their playing and singing (Lewis sometimes calls to mind a young, inelegant Eric Burdon -- an apt reminder of how much these guys have in common with Ameriphile '60s beat groups like the Animals and the Yardbirds), the sisters have a tendency to sound a bit congested, but their charm and passion take them a long way. That charm can run pretty thin, though, when it comes to extended "jams" like the seven-and-a-half-minute "What Quid," and harmonica-riddled, nine-minute title-track, neither of which offer nearly enough variation or interest to justify their length.

Goldmund: All Will Prosper review

None of the music Keith Kenniff makes under any of his guises -- as Helios, or as half of the duo Mint Julep -- is really the least bit difficult or demanding, but the solo piano-oriented Goldmund is probably the most anodyne of all of his projects, and this fifth release under that name may well be his most pleasantly unchallenging yet -- unless you're the sort of person who's easily riled up by hearing the melody of "Dixie." All Will Prosper is a collection of 14 Civil War-era folk songs (plus one more recently composed dead ringer, "Ashoken Farewell") rendered in sparse, minimalist arrangements featuring only delicate, close-miked acoustic guitar and reverberant upper-register piano. There's the occasional hint of simple, organic ambient techniques (such as one of these instruments being used in an atmospheric, drone-like or gently percussive fashion) but the focus is squarely, unabashedly on presenting these almost innately familiar melodies as simply and as beautifully as possible. And if anything can be said to be truly remarkable about this recording, it is precisely that sense of focus, with every detail of the sound carefully deployed and calibrated to maintain a sense of pure, unruffled calm. Kenniff is a past master of prettiness, and he certainly hasn't lost his touch here. At the same time, there's a thin line between tranquil aesthetic purity and emotionally empty sterility, and while this music makes a fine blank canvas for whatever you want to project onto it, it's ultimately pretty faceless stuff. For all the emotional potential of this source material, Kenniff does little to make it resonate more than literally; he certainly doesn't present the era in any sort of new, freshly relevant way (like, for instance Titus Andronicus on their similarly artworked The Monitor), but neither is there much palpable sense of nostalgia, except perhaps on the mournfully slow, somber closing rendition of "When Johnny Comes Marching Home." Something about these simple old-fashioned melodies and the gently chiming quality of the sound makes this feel vaguely like a generic collection of instrumental Christmas carols (or perhaps it's that "All Quiet on the Potomac" bears a passing melodic similarity to "Greensleeves"). More to the point, it sounds like a souvenir CD you might pick up at the gift shop of a historic battlefield site. Actually, Kenniff should look into that -- it might be a great marketing opportunity.

Philadelphia City Paper reviews:
Active Child: You Are All I See review

The word "ethereal" gets thrown around a lot in reference to voices that are merely high, but Active Child's Pat Grossi, on his spiritually ecstatic debut LP You Are All I See (Vagrant), unleashes a falsetto that's veritably angelic (an attribute enhanced by the album's copious, gossamer harp cascades) and also lavishly, deliriously dense enough to spread like velvety putty across these synthetic cathedrals of gleaming, electrified new age crunk.

Escort: Escort review

There's been no shortage of disco revivalists recently, but few latter-day practitioners have managed to recognize and replicate the joyous, sexy, soulful spirit – and the magnificently playful excesses – of the music's 1970s origins quite like Escort. The seventeen-piece New York orchestra took their sweet time perfecting their eponymous debut LP – they started dropping singles (all included here, most in tight new re-recordings) way back in 2006 – but there's no denying that the fifty solid-gold groove-strutting, synth-twinkling, string-swirling minutes making up Escort (Escort) were worth every second of the wait.

The Caretaker: An Empty Bliss Beyond This World review

Fascinating, elegantly evocative and rather delightfully eerie, An Empty Bliss Beyond This World by The Caretaker (British sound-collage artist James Kirby) is a sort of allegorical aural portrait, an attempt to emulate the experience of Alzheimer's disease via deconstructions of crackly old prewar shellacs: syrupy ballroom jazz, languid piano waltzes, weepy orchestral serenades, cloaked in reverb and static and manipulated into gently drifting loops and fragments to create a pleasantly bewildering, hypnotic jumble of disorientation and free-floating nostalgia.

Mark McGuire: Get Lost review

Even more than the spacey, synthy drones of his well-loved band, Emeralds, the music that Ohioan guitarist/tone-sculptor Mark McGuire makes on his lonesome is ideally suited to soundtrack any variety of bliss, be it heady or wistful, wide-eyed or pleasantly drowsy. Get Lost (Editions Mego), his latest in a continuous stream of releases, offers five fairly brief, breezily fluid, warmly melodic and layered acoustic/electric pop-ambient excursions, plus the perfectly-titled "Firefly Constellations" – twenty minutes of flittering, saturated sound-shards and patient, placid strums.

Glenn Jones: The Wanting review

Boston's Glenn Jones – a collaborator and pal of our own dearly departed Jack Rose, who plays in a similarly dense, deft, folk-derived finger-picking style (so-called "American primitive," though it's really anything but) – is an immensely skilled guitarist, something that's evident from any given few seconds of The Wanting, his Thrill Jockey debut. But it's his spirit, grace, and subtle, sure compositional style, not mere technical wizardry, that makes these eleven songs without words such an uncommonly warm, welcoming and immersive listening experience.

Drake: Take Care review

Eighty minutes of anybody ego tripping out (maybe emo tripping would be a more apt description) is a lot to take, but Drake, ever the mopey charmer, makes it a typically nuanced and pleasurable ride on Take Care (Universal Republic), not that it'll convince the haters. Subtler and smoother but also more monochromatic than his debut, it's an icier listen but a bolder aesthetic statement; all free-floating nocturnal, money-drunk, earnestly world-weary malaise.

Van Dyke Parks: Arrangements, Vol. 1 review

Van Dyke Parks' Arrangements, Vol. 1 (Bananastan), a hand-picked collection of little-heard '60s and '70s chestnuts, is a fittingly spectacular showcase for a legend who's worked with everyone from Brian Wilson to U2 to Joanna Newsom to, apparently, Skrillex – but it's also just a totally cracking mixtape: consistently entertaining, delightfully eclectic – a truly pan-American patchwork of styles – and full of surprises (psychedelic country-gospel from Arlo Guthrie, off-color calypso from Bonnie Raitt, stone-cold funk from Little Feat), all with Parks' playful, colorful, jauntily baroque orchestrations.

Gem Club: Breakers review

Emanating wintry calm and sober, classically restrained elegance; using a palette that feels even more spare and restricted than it actually is – glacially patient, cavernously reverberant piano; spartan, poignant cello; judiciously sparing percussion, and achingly delicate, boyishly whispered vocals, often harmonized and layered to exquisite effect – Somerville, MA's Gem Club have birthed a starkly simple but deeply affecting debut LP in Breakers (Hardly Art), one which bears an almost uncanny likeness to Sufjan Stevens at his softest and most heartbreakingly sincere.

Little Dragon: Ritual Union review

"Ritual Union," the sparky title tune of Little Dragon's third full-length (Peacefrog), is a meditation on matrimony, but the phrase could also describe the seamless, deep-vibing pocket the Swedish foursome inhabit so magnetically whenever they take the stage. Recordings still aren't a patch on that uncanny live allure, but this may be their most satisfying yet, progressing beyond effortlessly moody grooves toward brighter, snappier territory without losing their jazzy machine-soul elasticity or Yukimi Nagano's endlessly enrapturing, enigmatic coo.

El Rego: El Rego review

When not occupied with latter-day simulacra (Sharon Jones, The Budos Band), the soul and Afrobeat specialists at Daptone records work an occasional sideline in unearthed vintage goodies such as El Rego, an impressively wide-ranging collection of 60s and 70s sides from the eponymous Beninese funkateer. Besides the usual rampant James Brown-isms and limber, percolating grooves, we get smoky sub-Saharan blues, vague Arabic inflections, plenty of melody, and some intriguingly soulful accordion work.

Yelawolf: Radioactive review

It's no surprise that celeb cameos, splashy Euro-crunk productions, and blandly inspirational rent-a-diva choruses don't suit scrappy skate-rat rapper Yelawolf's Southern trailer-park gutter talk and neck-snapping double-time flow nearly as well as the sparse, steely, deliciously sinister beats peppering his galvanizing mixtape work. The intermittent moments of the sprawling, overstuffed Radioactive (Shady/Interscope) which allow the Alabaman's "ugly boy swag" to shine through tantalizingly confirm that he remains one of hip-hop's most charismatic and technically compelling new voices; if only this was the proper showcase that voice deserves.

AMG review round-up, volume XI: 2008's greatest hits

Years are queers, m'dears, but this here's just my gears grindin' too slow, i fear: some leftovers, mostly published in oh-great oh-eight, of albs that came out in that year at least somewhere in the world, though a couple are older or newer if you wanna go by "actual" release date. anyway garsh i'm slow but here you go, midway thru oh-fine oh-nine... these were/are for realz some of my very favorite "2008 albums."

some'n nordic guitar pop (yawn...), some'n ethno-tekno and even (snrfl?!) hip-hop, but kick it off with a couple o that good ol weirdolectronica... they may not be scandinaviites, but at least they've got some frosty surnames:

Kelley Polar: I Need You To Hold On While The Sky Is Falling review

Kelley Polar's second album builds on the already rarefied majesty of his debut and expands outward in all directions: more plush neo-classical elegance, more crackling precision-disco euphoria, more dashing, gooey sentimentality, more meandering harmonic intricacy and dizzying structural invention, more pop and more fizz. I Need You to Hold on While the Sky Is Falling is an exercise in controlled excess, a lavishly calibrated and articulately decadent statement from an utterly singular artist. In compositional terms, the Juilliard-trained Kelley strikes a skillful balance between dense, dazzling chordal complexity and melodic accessibility. With some assistance from longtime consort and nu-disco guru Morgan Geist (credited with mixing and additional production), he coaxes an almost uncanny crispness and visceral presence from his limited instrumental palette of strings, synthesizers, digital beats, and vocals (sampled, spliced, and layered or simply, soulfully sung), creating a sense of sonic purity and cohesion-out-of-chaos that dovetails perfectly with his lyrical themes.

This cohesiveness of conceptual content is the album's most unique and endearing quality, but also its biggest potential sticking point: I Need You to Hold On traffics in a sort of epic hodgepodge mysticism, using references to Greco-Roman mythology, new agey spiritual philosophy, and pop astrophysics to evoke a grandiose vision of universal interconnectivity. It's the kind of thing that can be nearly to impossible to stomach if presented with more than a whiff of self-seriousness, but can also feel like distasteful mockery if treated too lightly. But Kelley Polar is both smart and sensitive enough to pull it off: his delivery is straight-faced and earnest throughout, but while he clearly intends these sentiments quite sincerely, there's also a slightly ambiguous undercurrent of levity that comes through in both his nimble, nuanced musicality and occasional moments of parodic excess. Surely, the over the top, vocodered, and time-delayed guided meditation that opens "A Feeling of the All-Thing" carries a winking sense of its own ridiculousness, yet it's too bold and striking a gesture to be dismissed as mere novelty, especially given the magnificently rapturous disco fantasia that emerges out of that esoteric invocation. Metaphysical concerns aside, it's hard to argue with the exceptional beauty and powerful strangeness this music conjures up: the searing, intimate romanticism of the diaphanous "Dream in Three Parts (On Themes by Enesco)," the ruminative, infinitely self-refracting curiosity of "Zeno of Elea," the kicky kinetic energy of "Sea of Sine Waves," and, especially, the immaculate single "Entropy Reigns (In the Celestial City)," a duetted ode to hedonistic indulgence with ambrosial electro-pop hooks to match. As ambitious, idiosyncratic, and satisfying as his music is in its own right, it's Kelley's virtuosity with the interplay between sounds and ideas, on a larger scale, that makes him a true visionary.

Max Tundra: bio and Parallax Error Beheads You review

Max Tundra's painstakingly constructed, impossibly intricate 2008 follow-up to his 2002 opus Mastered by Guy at the Exchange, Parallax Error Beheads You is the sound of those six intervening years whizzing by in just over 40 minutes. A giddy rush of convoluted melodies, hyper-precise sonic detail, and dazzling Day-Glo unpredictability, combining the meticulous luster of a big-budget pop production and the infectious idiosyncrasy of a chintzy vintage home recording (sequenced, like all of Tundra's work, on an antiquated Commodore Amiga computer), it's initially overwhelming and not a little bit disorienting, occasionally creating the sensation that one's head is about to explode. Given time, though, this emerges as easily the most infectious, engaging, and approachable of Tundra's albums so far, generally shoehorning his manic creativity into reasonable approximations of conventional pop song structures, framed around abundant, quirky hooks and appealingly restrained pop-soul vocals. As though to reassure hesitant listeners, the album opens on a particularly gentle note, with a simple, cheery harpsichord ushering in the breezy lilt of "Gum Chimes," before it unleashes two of Tundra's most buoyant pop confections to date: the herky-jerky "Will Get Fooled Again," whose fractured arcade-game bleeps and rock guitars (!) underscore typically absurd lyrics concerning a series of unorthodox Internet dating adventures ("I found a girl on Google image search/She was in the background of a picture of a church"), and the even more exuberant "Which Song," which almost sounds like it could be a massive radio hit, in spite of its gleefully unhinged musical accompaniment. Things get even stranger later on -- with "Orphaned"'s barrage of madcap micro-sampling (like Akufen on Adderall); the jittery lo-fi candy-thrash of "Nord Lead Three"; and the largely instrumental closer, "Until We Die," stretching out somewhat indulgently into a fragmented synth-prog epic -- but the vibe always remains persistently, even perversely, tuneful. Mannered English eccentricity never sounded so deliriously thrilling.

Buraka Som Sistema: Black Diamond review

Black Diamond, the exhilarating debut full-length from Lisbon's Buraka Som Sistema, will mark many listeners' first exposure to Kuduro, an Angolan style of dance music that's attracted international attention only recently despite roots dating back to the mid-'90s. The bandmembers are more than happy to serve as musical ambassadors: after an insistent warm-up track paying homage to the genre's two capital cities ("Luanda-Lisboa"), they enlist go-to global beat superstar M.I.A., along with the pioneering DJ Znobia and a few guest MCs, for "Sound of Kuduro," an unruly but unambiguous statement of purpose whose inanely effective nursery-rhyme refrain spells out, for the benefit of bewildered Anglophones, exactly what is going on here. To judge from the evidence of this album, the sound of Kuduro overlaps liberally with almost every other globalized, urban-based 21st century sound blending elements of hip-hop and techno with regional ethnic infusions, from ragga and soca to kwaito to funk carioca and even grime. (Brazilian bailé funk is an especially pertinent reference point, given the shared language and a comparable aggressively playful vocal approach; world-traveling ghetto-funk hype man Diplo's interest in the group is another relevant clue.) To get specific, though, it's not as if BSS are purists. As originators of Kuduro's heavily electronic "progressive" strain, their cross-pollinated hybrid grooves are as restlessly varied as they are relentlessly energetic, rife with unpredictable sonic shifts and dense with all manner of aural debris (sirens, bird calls, tribal percussion, industrial splutters and squelches, vocal cut-ups) flitting through their adrenalized, hard-assed beat concoctions. Hence listeners get tracks like "IC19," which swells from a skeletal dubstep throb to full-on glowstick-ready rave keyboards to a propulsive, percussive equatorial jump-up that even slips at one point into Baltimore club-styled electro breakbeats. Or "General," which is built around a scintillating Afro-pop guitar line but somehow wends its way into gleaming filter-house territory. And the less brazenly exploratory tracks are by no means less thrilling: the bouncy "Kalemba (Wegue Wegue)," featuring Angolan MC Pongolove, and the carioca-styled "Aqui Para Vocês," with Rio's Deize Tigrona, are two of the more rousing dance cuts in recent memory. Indeed, the same could be said for the entire album. One hell of an all-embracing, boundary-defying, ghetto-blasting dance party.

The Bug: London Zoo review

Kevin Martin's previous album as the Bug, 2003's Pressure, was a vital, visceral blast of digital dancehall and exploratory dub; 2008's London Zoo is darker, grittier, tougher, and all the more exhilarating for it. The basic template is similar: rough-hewn electronic productions that are rooted in dancehall and hip-hop but don't feel remotely conventional, laced with hard-hitting toasts and vocals from a bevy of sharp-tongued guests. But Zoo ratchets up the intensity in both sound and substance, creating a striking symbiosis of sense and sonics wherein the dread and righteous rage expressed by the vocalists are equally evident in Martin's furious, foreboding beats and basslines. In both regards, London Zoo is an extremely potent, relevant record for its time, capturing an energetic spark that feels tied to the creative renewal of dubstep (a genre that Martin may have helped to germinate, and which in any case scarcely existed at the time of the last Bug album) as well as the tormented spirit of a city ground down and galvanized by recent socio-political developments, both local and global. Look no further than the opening lyrical salvo -- "So many things that get me "angry"" -- from veteran British reggae MC Tippa Irie, who rails about everything from suicide bombers to global warming to Hurricane Katrina over a kinetic ragga thump. As insistent as it is, "Angry" feels practically mild (and certainly peppy) in comparison to much of what follows: the ferocity of Warrior Queen (the doggedly propulsive "Insane," the hypnotic, bass-blasted "Poison Dart"), the apocalyptic, steely-eyed R&B of Ricky Ranking (ominously funky "Murder We" and solemnly soulful closer "Judgement") and, especially, the grim, severe tracks which feature Flowdan of the grime collective Roll Deep -- the dread sermonizing of "Jah War," the industrial menace of "Warning," and the utterly bone-chilling "Skeng." Such is the album's strength -- the power and inventiveness of Martin's productions, the astuteness and aptness of his guest selections -- that any one of these tracks could be singled out as a highlight. (And the remainder aren't far behind; the washed-out calm of "You & Me" and lone instrumental "Freak Freak" do offer a respite of sorts, as they're merely spooky rather than gut-wrenchingly tense.) Taken as a whole, London Zoo is simply a masterful statement, and one that cries out to be heard: as intense as it is, it's hardly inaccessible -- hooks abound in the vocal contributions and Martin's grooves, while sometimes discordant and oppressive, are never less than riveting.

Tittsworth: Twelve Steps review

Like many a great party album, Twelve Steps is a gleeful hodge-podge; rooted in the inherently hybrid-friendly Baltimore club music for which Tittsworth is generally known, but flirting heavily with hip-hop, R&B, and straight-up pop, as well as slightly more abstract synthesizer electro. Notably, it may be the first actual artist album to be released by a Baltimore-associated producer in the style's 20-year history (albeit by an interloper -- the D.C.-based, half-white half-Asian Tittsworth is a self-described outsider and hardly a genre purist), arriving at a moment when the sound has been steadily bubbling into wider consciousness for several years. Fittingly, flagrantly, the guest-studded Twelve Steps is tailored for maximal crossover appeal -- not that that's much of a stretch for a genre based around readily danceable breakbeats and frivolous novelty hooks. The challenge in adapting it to the album format is keeping that focus on fun and immediacy while crafting a sufficient variety of songs that are at least interesting enough to merit repeated listens. Tittsworth succeeds on most counts, relying on his considerable production skills to keep things buoyant even when the songs themselves come up short. Which a handful definitely do: the gimmicks wear thin on the predictable "Drunk as Fuck" (featuring Bay area hyphy stars the Federation) and "Bumpin," (featuring the sound of a drunk partier bumping into the turntables), while the vaguely R&B-tinged "Almond Joy" and formulaic shout-out track "B-Rockin" commit the mortal sin of being boring. Thankfully, the pacing is peppy enough and the highlights high enough to overshadow these dull patches: dumb-dumb lead single "WTF," with raps by Kid Sister and Pase Rock, is insipid but enjoyably spunky; "Broke Ass Nigga" compensates for its obviously questionable taste with irresistible stuttered electro breaks and some of the most absurd nutty one-liners since the Pharcyde's "Ya Mama"; best of all, though, is the surprisingly gorgeous "Here He Comes," a pure pop love jam which cops a hook from Hall & Oates and sports the silky vocals of Nina Sky (of "Move Ya Body" fame), along with Miami rapper Pitbull. Though the record was obviously a party to make as much as it is to listen to, some of the most intriguing and satisfying moments come when the guests clear out and Tittsworth is left to work his electronic magic alone, as on the majestically moody opener "Haiku" and the floaty, meandering "4.21." All told, there's a little something for everyone, plenty of fun and games, and it doesn't overstay its welcome -- even if nothing here is truly stunning, it still makes for a great party.

Sway: bio, This Is My Demo and The Signature LP reviews

The ever-ambitious Sway DaSafo, who worked his way up from the underground to become one of the most visible rappers in the U.K., while remaining smugly unsigned, now has his sights set on the world. At least, that's the impression one gets from his sophomore full-length, The Signature LP, so named partly in reference to his recently inked international record deal with worldwide superstar (and fellow West African) Akon's Kon Live label (he's still technically independent in the U.K.), a move that may or may not succeed in spreading his fame beyond Britain's borders. "Let's take music all around the world/I can't do this by myself," he sings on the globetrotting, vaguely tropical-flavored "Special Place," but Sway's far too enterprising to be satisfied with utopian daydreams, so he's concocted a handful of flagrant crossover bids, with a parade of known and unknown guest artists, to put those words into action. These include the inevitable humdrum Akon collab "Silver and Gold" (moral of the story: strippers will steal your money); the smooth R&B/pop of "Saturday Night Hustle," an '80s throwback featuring British neo-soul crooner Lemar (best bit: Sway raps his clothing sizes, in case you want to give him any clothes); and the treacly "End of the Road" with Sting's daughter Coco Sumner. There's nothing horribly wrong with any of this, but none of it particularly plays to Sway's strengths either -- and he's always been likable and engaging enough on his own to make watered-down, overtly attention-grabbing tracks like these feel doubly unnecessary.

While his rapid-fire flow remains as impressive as ever, and his charisma is largely undimmed, Signature displays too little of the irreverent, happy-go-lucky spirit that made early singles like "Little Derek" so delightful. With a couple of exceptions -- including the bouncy highlight "Say It Twice" (which he does, clever-cleverly, with every line, at least for the first verse and hook) and the jokey "Jason Waste," an intermittently amusing character number relating the zany misadventures of a jobless loser -- this is a surprisingly serious-minded album, at least for the impish Sway. But then, he's always been more than just a jokester; he's as much a swaggering, boastful battle-rapper (a persona that crops up here on "Stereo" and the enjoyably epic, overblown opener, "Fit for a King") as he is a big softie -- indeed, it may be his sentimental side that makes the greatest strides here, most notably in the emotional middle section that includes "Pray 4 Kaya," a legitimately poignant homage to a departed friend, and the affecting anti-violence plea "Walk Away." Ultimately, despite its pop moves and world-conquering aspirations, The Signature LP may still be too idiosyncratic, too British, and too gloriously scattershot to succeed on the mass scale Sway seems to envision. It's hard to imagine, for instance, the U.K. single "F UR X," a jittery, grime-ish txt-message battle of the sexes, playing to an American audience. But that doesn't stop it from being a readily enjoyable listen -- its eclecticism practically ensures that you'll find something to like here -- and Sway's fans, once they get used to some of his more excessive departures, will realize that he truly hasn't changed all that much.

Lil Mama: VYP: Voice of the Young People review

Lil Mama (née Niatia Kirkland) broke out in a big way in spring 2007 with "Lip Gloss," a Top Ten novelty single built around an astoundingly simple but effective beat and some legitimately impressive rapping about an unabashedly frivolous subject. Despite that track's earworm resilience and Kirkland's guest turns on high-profile remixes for several of the year's biggest singles (Avril Lavigne's "Girlfriend" and Rihanna's "Umbrella"), it took almost a year for her debut album to appear, by which time her rising star had lost a good deal of momentum. That's a shame because VYP: Voice of the Young People presents Lil Mama as one of the most promising female rappers in years; a likable and amply talented performer with a refreshingly open-ended, still-developing approach that lets her flit convincingly from goofy, hook-heavy pop to heavier, more introspective material, although all the stylistic and thematic hopscotch results in a somewhat unwieldy album and a persona that's complex but a little naggingly undefined. The album's also over-long, even if it has little truly weak material, but -- aptly suited to the iTunes age -- it's helpfully compartmentalized, with brief explanatory skits serving to separate the opening set of upbeat, crossover-ready tunes from segments focused on socially conscious story-telling ("Gotta Go Deeper") and relationship issues ("Emotional Rollercoaster"), before a final pair of club jams cap it all off.

The opening section is easily the breeziest, featuring the lighthearted but infectiously cocky swagger that earned Lil Mama her fame, though its pop-happy attitude is occasionally complicated by confusing grasps at an ambiguously defined credibility. Perhaps to shore up the hip-hop realness she asserts on the intro, the album version of "Lip Gloss" is bizarrely interrupted partway through by the bare-bones, out of tempo "No Music" freestyle, while the belatedly preemptive hater-baiting "One Hit Wonder" awkwardly (if accurately) asserts her status as "one of the fewest female MCs of the century." On the other hand, she beefs up the youth-repping claim of the album title with the very silly "Wheels on the Bus"-quoting "G-Slide (Tour Bus)" and a recording of some cute tykes requesting "Shawty Get Loose," the infectious lite-R&B/dance banger which saved her from one-hit-wonder status by going Top Ten in early 2008 (thanks in part to the presence of guaranteed chart-greasers T-Pain and Chris Brown.) Later album standouts include "L.I.F.E.," an inspirational anthem of hope in the face of ghetto-life adversity, the emotional "College," about a four-year-old visiting her father in prison, and, on a different tip entirely, the jaunty duet "Truly in Love." Over the course of the proceedings a bevy of 2000s production heavyweights (among them Luke Gottwald, Cool & Dre, the Runners, and Scott Storch) contribute dependable if rarely revelatory beats that ensure Lil Mama's lips aren't the only thing that's popping. Although she deftly and admirably captures much of the struggle and contradiction that accompanies young adulthood, Lil Mama is a little too old, at 18, to bill herself as "the voice of young people" for too much longer -- but it hardly matters, as she's clearly well on her way to developing a strikingly original and versatile voice of her own.

Ida Maria: Fortress Round My Heart review

"Oh My God" was one of 2008's most explosive and ear-catching singles, a burst of punky guitar pop propelled by an electric vocal performance from 23-year-old Norwegian breakout star Ida Maria Sivertsen. "Oh, you think I'm in control," she taunts, her voice teasing out the tension between commanding authority and unhinged chaos -- she sounds at once powerful and vulnerable, ready to collapse or destroy at any moment. If the rest of Fortress Round My Heart can't hope to match the searing intensity of its calling card, much of it is nearly as engaging, both musically and emotionally. Sivertsen turns out to be as generous with hooks as she is vocally captivating, and although her loud-mouthed, liquored-up confessionals can sometimes grow grating, they're more often than not genuinely affecting. Wisely, she keeps things pretty peppy, with plenty of giddy rave-ups (the best being "Louie," "Queen of the World," and the cheeky "I Like You So Much Better When You're Naked") and only a few (less memorable) moments of downtempo tenderness (the ballad "Keep Me Warm," addressed to her coffee and cigarettes). Throughout, she offers an endearing mixture of pop sweetness and punky toughness, writing with honesty and humor on a prototypically rock & roll slate of subjects: lust, loneliness, desperation, booze, and God. That last, obliquely invoked in the opener, crops up again in the curious allegory-song "Stella," which imagines Him falling for an aging hooker and offering her the world (literally) for her affections. In the album's so-so, overly sober finale, "See Me Through," she addresses the deity directly, asking "When's the time for me?" Listeners will have to wait and see on that score, whether she grows up and calms down or if age only sharpens her rage, but for all her all-too-human flaws, with a set of songs this strong, it's safe to say her time has already arrived.

Per Gessle: Party Crasher review

The English-speaking world has more or less forgotten about Per Gessle since Roxette's dissolution in the mid-'90s. But the Swedish songsmith -- a major star in his native country -- never stopped churning out hummable, hooky pop, both solo and with the eventually re-formed Roxette. Party Crasher is his third English-language solo album and seventh overall, and it's about as solid as they come. The sheeny, synth-kissed production feels dated (circa the original Roxette era) in a way that could almost be hip...well, almost. (If the title's supposed to suggest that Gessle's crashing the late '00s' perpetual retro-'80s borrowed-nostalgia party, it's mostly a failure on that count.) But well-crafted melodies never go out of style, or at least they always come back around, and there is certainly no shortage here. The fizzy electro-pop single "Silly Really" sets the tone, musically and conceptually (it's a perfect frivolous Gessle song title, blithely devoid of any discernible meaning) and it's a blast. The supremely Cars-esque "Gut Feeling" and the goofy, surf-tinged "Thai with a Twist" (complete with sax solo, crowd noise, and vocoder breakdown, and no, the title doesn't make any more sense in context) may be even better. But the best stuff on here is the actually the mellower material: lush slow jams like "Hey, I Died and Went to Heaven" and "Perfect Excuse" (two of several tracks that benefit greatly from the vocal contributions of Helena Josefsson) and especially the breezy, buoyant, Caribbean-flavored "Breathe Life into Me" and "I Didn't Mean to Turn You On." All told, an impressive showing and a splendidly enjoyable album.

Alphabeat: Alphabeat review

Before taking the U.K. charts and the pop-loving blogosphere by storm when it was rejiggered and reissued in 2008, with a clarifying "This is" appended to the title, Alphabeat's debut, originally eponymous and released only in their native Denmark, was one of the most sterling and undersung power pop records of 2007. The differences between the two editions of the album seem, at first blush, fairly cosmetic. Although three perfectly lovely songs ("Ocean Blue," "Into the Jungle," and "The Hours") were swapped out altogether, most of the six which were re-recorded (the indelible "Fascination" was left untouched) bear relatively superficial changes: some additional keyboards here, a tacked-on string section there, and a generally beefed-up, plusher sound. But the cumulative effect is definitely evident, and it's not necessarily for the best. It's hardly enough of a transformation to render the album unrecognizable -- after all, the Danish version had plenty of '80s-inspired excess to begin with, and its undeniable pop thrills are, for the most part, undiminished. But some of the delirious scrappiness of the more guitar-oriented original version does get lost beneath the layers of synth pop gloss. The spunky "Boyfriend" turns full-on Euro-dance, while the charming choral oddity "Rubber Boots/Mackintosh," which distinctly recalls the New Pornographers at their most beautifully idiosyncratic, is reborn as a far more pedestrian synthesizer slow jam, simply titled "Rubber Boots." Though these qualms shouldn't deter the curious from checking out the more widely available This Is Alphabeat -- which is, indeed, nearly as glorious -- avowed fans will definitely want to seek out this version, for the three jettisoned tracks if nothing else.

Fredrik: Na Na Ni review

The core of Fredrik is the duo of Fredrik Hultin and Ola Lindefelt, a pair of Malmö-based musicians who also happened to form the band the LK. The music they create on Na Na Ni, however, is quite a different animal from that group's buzzy electronic pop, applying the same ear for sonic detail and an unerring penchant for melody to a more folk-inflected and more resolutely understated set of compositions. The results are nothing short of enchanting, using a consistent, gently evocative sound palette -- Hultin's acoustic guitars, voice, and accordion, and Lindefelt's bells, drums, cello, and delicately wheezy electronics -- to balance deceptively complex, layered arrangements with a charming, lo-fi intimacy. March-like singalong "Black Fur" opens the album on an especially cheery note, which is taken up more modestly on the calmer but amply catchy "Alina's Place" (whose poetically cryptic lyrics make it somewhat less reassuring) -- no less winsome, though, are the more abstract instrumental pieces which make up half of the track list. The title of one, "Angora Sleepwalking," succinctly captures the softness and sweet, dreamlike strangeness of the prevailing mood; another, "Morr," intentionally or not provides a clue to Hultin's musical aesthetic, suggesting their similarities to the less overtly electronic end of that German label's output, and the work of Múm in particular. One might also draw comparisons to the gentle, textural experiments of Silje Nes, or, to name some non-Scandinavians, the fractured folk of Animal Collective, Tunng's woodsy whimsy, and even Sufjan Stevens' antiquarian-minded indie pop. Fans of any of these artists would do well to investigate Hultin's fine debut; they will discover not just a handful of hummable songs, but a curious and comforting sound world that's at once familiar and unique unto itself. Also worth noting is the Kora Records' elegant package design, which makes Na Na Ni a joy of a thing to hold, and the appropriately intriguing booklet etchings by Warren Hilt.