Recording review - The Fierce and the Dead, Magnet

The total package of physical and mental gymnastics

^4.0/5.0

One of the things I love about Matt Steven's music is that he doesn't just alternate between visceral guitar expression and intellectually satisfying geometric balance. Instead, he blends them together into a spicy melange that milks excitement and intensity from that dichotomy. Even in a short 1:41 piece like "Magnet in Your Face", he can find the space to surprise. That tune jump starts The Fierce and the Dead’s Magnet EP with a furious assault of thick, head-banging guitar. The simple thrashy vamp sinks straight into your reptile brain like some kind of insistent, metal-flaked drug. While the rhythm obsessively circles this compelling focal point, the lead comes in and prods the song forward with an angular pentatonic line. The song is a third of the way into its brief run and if it were any other band, that Neanderthal DNA would make the song as predictable as a simple mathematical series. Sure enough, the one-two of the opening leads to the obvious three of a slightly introspective bridge, but then that bridge melts away, leaving a clean, disarming interlude that suggests fractal reflections with a playful bounce. While the tune does settle back into the adrenal punch of the main riff, that post-rock side trip colors the rest of the song. It makes you wonder how far afield the band would take it if they gave themselves the luxury of five or six minutes to develop it further.

The following track, ''Palm Trees", takes the opposite tack, starting with a crystalline guitar that feels like a Cubist sketch: a static scene visualized from different angles. But Kevin Feazy's throbbing bass joins in and triggers more rambunctious play. Relatively soon, though, the two approaches reach a detente of coexistence , each complementing the other. The song still has some tricks though, with a final Gothic crescendo that collapses into the chaotic echoes of a hornets nest.

Magnet gets off to a strong start with these two new pieces, but the band also mixes in a retrospective set of tunes. Two of these are rehearsal recordings of songs from their last release, Spooky Action (review): "Let's Start a Cult" and the title track. It's not immediately clear whether these were demos or if the band was working out how to perform them live. I'd guess the latter because the arrangements seem fairly clearly planned out. Neither of these enjoy the sweet production of the album versions, but the Stuart Marshall's drumming is expressive and vibrant, and each gives a sense of how TFatD's songs are built from sections to form a coherent whole.

They round out the reissued tunes with a version of "Flint", originally from 2011's If It Carries on Like This We Are Moving to Morecambe (review). This take is more focused, dropping the original's extended space echo intro. Without that trippy start or the edgier production choices, Magnet's version shifts the perspective from a tentative search for solid ground that grows in confidence to one that starts with a clearer sense of self-possession and hidden resources. That feels right because it reflects how much TFatD have evolved.

EPs are usually stopgap moves to tide fans over between meatier releases, seldom turning out to be essential listening, but between the solid new material and the revisited songs, Magnet is a good snapshot of TFatD's development as well as their enduring talent. They cram a lot into 20 minutes and it's a treat to bask in that yin yang of delicate crunch, of distorted introspection, of The Fierce and the Dead.

Magnet is available from the group's Bandcamp page.

Recording review - Atomga, Black Belt (2015)

Razor sharp arrangements that find balance between the booty and the brain

^4.0/5.0

The sad truth is that studio tricks have leveled the playing field between barely capable musical clods and their more talented competition. A good engineer can make almost any band sound tight, with every pitch perfect note placed precisely on beat. That kind of work, though, leaves its fingerprints on the music. But listening to the interwoven horn parts and the hand-in-glove coordination between the bass and drums on Atomga’s full-length release, Black Belt, it’s clear that the recording engineers didn’t have sweeten these tracks; they just needed to capture the tightest of takes and focus on the mix. Their top-notch production brought the clarity to showcase everyone’s talent. Atomga has such a strong team ear for the groove that, even as they push themselves technically, the album never turns into a parade of egos. Instead, the album is packed with quiet epiphanies where you notice just how spot-on a particular part is.

Black Belt starts out appropriately enough with a brief musical kata that lets Atomga show off their Afrobeat form. Compared to any of Fela Kuti’s tracks, the instrumental “Salt and Pepper” is quite abbreviated, but it demonstrates the tight horn arrangements that the band is known for. The song starts out with a call and response between the horns and Casey Hrdlicka’s guitar exclamation points, but the verse changes gears and pits Alice Hansen’s trumpet against Frank Roddy’s and Leah Concialdi’s saxes. Then the tune takes it even higher with Concialdi locking into a hypnotic baritone sax riff that Hansen surfs cleanly over.

That introduction sets up a strong start to the album, where each track raises the bar. The second song, “Sly Devil”, is quite a bit moodier than the opener, with reggae and Latin influences creeping in. A simple guitar loop begins the tune, but it’s really all about the drums and percussion; they’re locked into the beat, but they never settle for simple repetition. The bass fits right in: relatively busy, but steady on. The horns contrast with the rhythmic complexity by holding longer tones -- the raspy caress of baritone sax is just about perfect. Kendra Kreie’s vocal is soulful and warm, even as her knowing tone makes it clear that she’s not buying the sly devil’s line. Peter Mouser’s organ solo is another treat as it slips into a beautifully retro Ray Manzarek style jam, reminiscent of the middle section of “Riders on the Storm”.

If “Sly Devil” is laid back with a bit of weary cynicism, my favorite track, “Cressidation”, is altogether heavier with powerful soul-gospel roots. Right from the start it’s more insistent, taking an anxious edge from the crisp, funky guitar chords, but the horns soften some of that tension. Concialdi swaggers through her solo with braggadocio, as if reassuring the nervous guitar. At first, Kreie's relaxed vocal seems a bit disengaged, but by the chorus, she picks up a righteous tone that closes the energy gap. Hrdlicka's jazzy solo is exquisitely phrased and I love how he plays just outside the lines. That sets up a dreamy interlude, where Samual Lafalce takes a richly melodic turn on bass before dropping some speedy funk runs. Hrlicka responds with a more aggressive second shot that ushers in the soulful chorus to take it home.

The rest of Black Belt carries on following the basic Afrobeat aesthetic that balances between the booty and brain. The feel-good music is danceable and blurs the lines between funk and jazz, but it’s also the medium for the songs’ socially conscious messages. Tracks like “Alaskan Pipeline” take advantage of that to provide cultural commentary, but the grooves defuse any risk of a hectoring tone.

If Black Belt has a flaw at all, it's that the clean production and razor sharp arrangements are almost too perfect. Not because of studio sleight of hand -- the songs are quite lively -- but more because the flow of smooth takes encourages the listener to take it all for granted. Without the risk of failure, the album misses some of the magical chaos that the band often finds onstage. Still, it’s a rare studio that can capture that kind of lightning. All in all, it's a fair trade.

Recording review, Ozric Tentacles, Technicians of the Sacred (2015)

Contemplate the infinite through electronica and progressive guitar shred

^4.5/5.0

It’s a short attention span musical world,where the emphasis is usually on tight pop expressions. But while mere gestures are enough to satisfy most consumers, there are still some genres that need the maneuvering room of a full album to develop their ideas. In the four years since Paper Monkeys came out, space rock stalwarts Ozric Tentacles apparently had so many inviting trails to explore that even that was too confining . Their latest release, Technicians of the Sacred, sprawls out over two full CDs. Despite the obvious excess, there's not much in the way of fluff: while the songs take their time to find their target trancelike moods, they never fall into monotony. Longtime fans will find plenty of familiar ground, but the emphasis is on electronica punctuated by Ed Wynn’s shred-tastic guitar.

Disc 1 leads off with “The High Pass”, which takes an eight and a half minute nomadic trek through many of the sonic environments that the Ozrics enjoy the most: underwater dives, expansive vistas, evocative action zones, and spelunking trips deep down into the heart of the machine. The dynamic flow accommodates both incremental transitions and freefall plunges that reset the context. The tune wanders from chill electronic grooves to mind-warpingly intense prog-rock guitar, but the anxious rhythm and pensive funk bass line remain more or less constant. The restless electro energy may form the foundation, but there are plenty of distractions that provide ear-catching details that vie for the listener's attention, from blooming synth melodies that shift and grow to a robotic interlude that would be perfect for popping.

The music that follows could be soundtrack excerpts from a randomized set of dreamscapes. The Krautrock infused “Far Memory” seems fit for an underwater world, full of echo and frequency shifted shimmers, while the electro-pop “Changa Masala” has an infectious syncopated rhythm that suggests sleepwalking through a Bollywood set as it melts away into space. The imagination can run wild in these intriguing snow-globe worlds. The band dives into each with enthusiasm and little worry for how the songs might evolve. So a cheery electronic piece like “Zingbong” might start with an uptempo New Age feel, propelled by a busy gamelan synth run and terse bass line, but the Ozrics are content to let a Zappa-esque guitar periodically warp the piece into an off-kilter jumble, knowing that they can always nonchalantly slip back into the clarity of the main riff.

The second half of the album gives freer rein to the band’s progressive rock side, with plenty of energetic guitar mutation and distortion. This disc begins with my favorite track on the album, “Epiphlioy”. The Beats Antique style world-tronica groove is built on a galloping Middle Eastern dervish rhythm that’s intricately tied to a synthesized sonic palette. Like the evocative pieces on the first CD, the song suggests a series of images: a tense chase with an undercurrent of excitement, a visit to a nomadic camp in the desert, a spaced-out psychedelic trip in the middle of an oasis. It’s easy to get lost in the drawn out narrative of the piece, but the exotic tone, along with the touchstone rhythm guitar part, provide grounding enough for the extensive 12 minute sojourn.

By the time we reach the final cut, “Zenlike Creature”, it’s been a long disorienting trip. We’re ready for the centering focus of looped interlocking patterns, but even here, the meditative flow gives way to a more progressive groove. The track see-saws from thoughtful to assertive, eventually picking up an Alan Parsons style momentum. Despite the dynamic give and take, though, there is still a kind of imperturbability at the root of the song. It's as though the band is saying, "Ignore the illusion (māyā) and just settle into the moment." The macrocosm of Technicians of the Sacred reflects this message as well. It never delivers a clear mythology or answers. Instead, it just offers a hypnotic zone to contemplate the infinite. Or not, as you see fit.

Recording review - Bohannons, Black Cross, Black Shield (2015)

Missed connections and missing links

^2.25/5.0

Did you ever have one of those first dates that started out so promising, but then left you checking your watch, waiting for it to be over? It's like the person could hold it together for the first five or six minutes, but no matter how intriguing and cool they seemed then, the rest of the evening had them unraveling until you wondered if that first impression was just a fluke. Maybe you even began to question your earlier enthusiasm. That's exactly where I find myself with Bohannons' Black Cross, Black Shield.

The title track starts out awesome, opening with a heavily compressed guitar riff joined shortly afterwards by a harmonized guitar in the foreground. The tone has the visceral slam of AC/DC, but with a mellower retro blues rock pace. The reverberating vocals line up quite nicely with that, giving me a good idea of what it might sound like if Mick Fleetwood fronted a Black Sabbath tribute band. The droning guitars and thick pentatonic riffs conjure up a raw intensity. The bridge turns to old school psychedelia, reminding me of Status Quo's "Pictures of Matchstick Men", and I'm caught up in the hypnotic swirl of distorted guitars. The best part is that it keeps showing kaleidoscope flashes of almost recognizable riffs: a touch of "Iron Man" here, a smear of "Sister Ray" there.

So, six minutes in, I'm thinking this could be the start of something great and I settle in for more. The Bohannon brothers' twin guitar assault continues on "White Widow". The classic rock vamp at the start isn't as catchy as the first track, but the band still plows into the full sound with enthusiasm. The music is pretty decent and the lead near the end throws in some speedier runs, but the initial attraction is starting to fade, in large part because the lyrics can't hold the song together. They sing the lines with gusto, but it's hard to pull a linear theme from lines like, "Who's to say you're out of touch/ Just because you feel so much/ I just got born/ And then I died."

From here, the die is cast: the solid guitar work can never quite overcome the vague or repetitive lyrics. Bohannons slog through a string of hard hitting garage rock, but they never find the momentum that seemed so natural on the title track. Songs like "Dias de Los Muertos" or "Lightning and Thunder" plod along and never really deliver any satisfaction. The best of the lot, "Death and Texas", has a righteous Neil Young shred (in fact it's fairly derivative), but the platitudes about illness and loss offer little insight: "To watch you fade / Day by day / Has got me a little down on God / And his mysterious ways."

I toughed it out to the end, hoping I could salvage some of the magic of that initial taste. The final tune, "Red, White, Black and Pale",  is a doom-filled, apocalyptic vision but it doesn't measure up to anything Mike Doughty wrote for his recent ambitious musical, Revelation: A Rock Opera. So, no magic miracles to save the day. It's rare to turn so sharply from hot to cold on an album like this, and I began to doubt my memory. Was I suckered in somehow at the start or did Bohannons lead with an uncharacteristically strong tune? Unlike a disastrous date, there was an easy way to check the facts. I steeled myself, hit replay, and dove back into "Black Cross, Black Shield".

On the second listen, I still enjoyed the song's classic metal grind and dynamic pacing, but I also noticed some cracks in the facade. In particular, the similarity between the chorus and Harry Chapin's "Cat's in the Cradle", became impossible to ignore, even though the band cloaks it in wailing guitar tone. That revisit makes it easier for me to send Black Cross, Black Shield on its way with no regrets. It's not fundamentally flawed, but we're just not compatible after all.

Recording review - Steven Wilson, Hand. Cannot. Erase. (2015)

Music vs. narrative: take your pick

^3.5/5.0

Context is often the key to appreciation. I prefer to approach new music with as little baggage as possible, so I came to Steven Wilson's Hand. Cannot. Erase. as a blank slate, ready to see where it led me. His music usually has an ambiance that is best experienced without any preconceived notions. This time, though, I had a hard time getting a grasp on the album; I couldn't find the context. The bigger, more progressive moments were beautiful and moving, but the first two tracks seemed emblematic of the project as a whole. There was a discontinuity between the slow fade-in amorphousness of the first piece and the dynamic expansion of the song that followed.

Normally, Wilson helps his listeners keep that tabula rasa mindset by offering little commentary about his music. Even though he isn't too fond of putting his work under a microscope, this time he’s had several interviews where he’s discussed the story of Joyce Carol Vincent that inspired Hand. Cannot. Erase. She was a young woman who dropped away from her friends and family sometime around 2000. What made this newsworthy is that she died in her London apartment in 2003, but her body wasn't discovered until 2006. Wilson came across the documentary/drama, Dreams of a Life and found both the movie and the real story compelling.

It's a good starting point for a concept album: aside from the poignant ending, there's a fundamental mystery that gives an artist room to speculate and expand upon. Fittingly, the songs on Hand. Cannot. Erase. are fairly indirect, offering their own oblique signals as they outline the woman's gradual abdication from her community, punctuated by kernels of loss and pain. Wilson doesn’t tie himself to the details, but steps into his own parallel narrative. For example, his ending expands on a minor factual detail to suggest a final hope for reconnection that comes too late. With a freer hand, he positions his character at the center of a self-imposed conflict. The songs are full of ambivalence, sometimes repurposing or reframing the same words to offer cross meanings. The music is similarly hard to pin down. Sparse simplicity lurches into stormy surges of emotion, and electronic elements are juxtaposed against warm analog instruments.

Knowing the inspiration clarifies things a bit, but ultimately, it’s not quite enough.The larger musical gestures like “Ancestral” fall outside the project's conceptual arc because their scale dwarfs the delicacy of the story. It’s a tough trap for Wilson to avoid. The indirect approach lets him leave room for interpretation, but that subtlety can't compete with the scope of his musical expressiveness. If that’s the downside, the upside is that he is continuing his creative growth and expanding his palette by integrating more sampling and electronic sounds as well as bringing in a female singer, Ninet Tayeb, to represent his lead character.

The album starts slow and thoughtful, but the second, longer track, “Three Years Older”, picks up the pace with the energy of The Who spliced with flashes of Rush. The instrumental section spins out for a solid three minutes before the first words come in. The song is effectively an overture prologue that sets the stage for the album’s story. Wilson sings with a gentle sympathy, sketching out a chain of disengagement that, by the end, suggests a suicidal solution. Once the vocals are out of the way, the remaining three minutes launch into a series of diverse themes that range from pensive introspection to a frantic King Crimson style break. These sections try to bridge the polar ends of his character’s solitude and her seething social anxiety.

The music is a good reflection of Wilson’s usual style, and the.loneliness is clear, but the roiling emotion feels out of proportion. Later, “Home Invasion” and “Ancestral” will evoke a similar reaction: the music is among his strongest writing, but they seem tied to his own perspective rather than relating to the tale he’s trying to tell. Despite the tenuous connection to the album’s narrative arc, “Ancestral” turned out to be my favorite track on Hand. Cannot. Erase. The rich textures swing through extremes, from the sparse beat and brooding guitar at the start, accented by a jazzy flute, to the fluid, expressive post-rock shred on the solo. A mix of old and contemporary influences adds to the melange, creating a blend of Radiohead with Gentle Giant.

Even if the album has trouble balancing its song arrangements with the narrative, Wilson has done a good job of echoing the unknowns of Vincent’s life with lyrics that hinge on ambiguity. On the title track, “Hand cannot erase this love,” is an assertion of connectedness, but there’s also an undertone of co-dependence and a hint of domestic violence. On “Transience”, the line, “It’s only the start” initially seems optimistic, but then it turns around to represent the dark fate that’s coming. If there’s a moral here at all, it’s tied to how we should understand Vincent’s life choices. There’s a fundamental paradox: it seems she chose this path as a coping mechanism in reaction to social pressure and disappointment, but ultimately it led to her destruction as she faded from life and memory.

Wilson succeeds at using the bare bones of Vincent’s story to explore the nuances of this conflict. At the same time, his music writing and performance are as strong as ever. I just wish I didn’t have to pick between the two when I listen to Hand. Cannot. Erase.

Recording review - The Underground Railroad to Candyland, The People Are Home (2015)

DIY thrash in bittersweet little doses

^3.0/5.0

The biggest promise of punk rock was how it challenged the excesses of progressive rock. By reasserting music's folk roots, punk sucker-punched master musicians and their egos to assert that anyone could try their hand at it. It needn't take talent to start a band and there were no record executives to impress. Audiences rewarded the bands that created the most enthusiastic shows or vented the most spleen or had the most outrageous songs. The downside was that there was plenty of mediocre crap to wade through, but it was worth it to come across a group that had captured something special.

Of course, it couldn’t last; new wave and synthpop soon softened out the rough edges. Years later, pop punk resurrected the ideals of DIY thrashy fun, but raised the musical standards to favor a stronger degree of technical skill. Harmonies were encouraged and the songs were less likely to become train wrecks. Still, some acts like Green Day showed larger flashes of artistic ambition. The Underground Railroad to Candyland is no Green Day, but they hold true to an old school appreciation for simple garage rock structure seasoned with a solid anarchistic streak. Their new release, The People Are Home, favors short songs that step up, make their point, and move on. The playing is fairly competent, but the band shifts their perspectives like changing tee shirts, all the while keeping one foot in the garage.

The album leads off with “Dead Leg”, which digs up some found sound from an old Tom Vu real estate infomercial. The tight beat drives the cheery contrast between Vu’s hype (“You don’t have to ask your boss for a raise anymore, you can give yourself the best raise of your life: come to my seminar”) and the band’s biting response (“Look at the lids, how they don’t blink/ See how he’s dead inside.”). These wordy verses set the stage for the next sarcastic missile, “The Grownups Will Have Their Say”, which steamrolls through a sneering send up of adult advice and condescension. And like a teenager tuning out his parents’ lecture, it’s hard to really pay that much attention to the details.

By the time you get to “In Case You Dunno”, though, the spaces get wider and the lyrics get more repetitive as they turn from sarcasm to more visceral forms of expression. But frustration and worry are just passing phases, too. Like a set of vignettes from Short Attention Span Theatre, the ideas The People Are Home are a bit underdeveloped, and the Underground Railroad to Candyland relies on premature endings to salvage some pieces that barely get going, like the utterly simplistic, “You Don’t Like the Summer”.

The album closes on its strongest track, “Th Ppl R Hm”. The rhythm is compelling, some of the imagery clicks nicely, and it has some unexpected little treats like toy piano fills and subtle horn accompaniment. If all of these songs summon the chaotic rush of teenage existence, then this tune is summer vacation. Because The People Are Home captures that mixed up sense of angst and exploration, it serves as a good descendant of punk’s initial promise.

Recording review - Chui Wan, Chui Wan (2015)

Fringe music from the Middle Kingdom

^3.75/5.0

From skewed savants like Roky Erickson and Syd Barrett to modern mystics like Jim James and Wayne Coyne, psychedelic artists thrive out in the borderlands where the rules are flexibly vague and no one expects explanations. Beijing's Chui Wan has set up their own camp out in the fringes and, listening to their latest self-titled release, they've been raiding the ruins and scavenging from a host of influences to create their unique blend of experimental, new wave neo-psychedelia. Call it crypto-psych, where bits of avant garde Pere Ubu coexist with the Velvet Underground and Beatlesque musing drifts past Gothic new wave moodiness. Like steampunk fashion, it’s intriguing to encounter familiar things in unusual settings, but this album digs deeper than mere aesthetics. Psychedelic music is often invested in capturing a mood and Chui Wan’s music seems to reflect the uneasiness of change in their native country.

At its most positive, that nervous energy can be tied to opportunity and the most upbeat track, “Vision”, seems intent on grasping the chance even as it continually mutates and slips away. The tight rhythm and jungle beat drums are fixtures, along with the guitar pushing simple melodies to the forefront, but the song evolves in several directions. Initially, despite the guitar, it has an electronic feel that reminds me of the programmed rhythm on the.Clash’s "Overpowered By Funk". By the time the vocals come in, the tone has shifted into a Bauhaus cum Krautrock groove. Chameleon-like, the focal riffs come and go in waves, until the piece transcends the relentless reinvention to reveal that the true answer can be found in the hypnotically syncopated drum jam. It seems to say that, faced with constant change, the best thing to do is move with it. It would be easy to imagine a 20 minute extended version rattling the walls in a dark, trippy basement club, but the four minutes on Chui Wan is merely a tease.

After this restless drive of “Vision”, the band shifts gears for “On the Other Ocean”. If the former was strongly directed, the latter offers fun house reflections of a hallucinogenic expedition. The jangling new age start suggests a spacy milieu somewhere between Star Trek and music from the “Hearts of Space”. Once the vocals come in, the context becomes more overtly psychedelic but retains the unanchored feel. Chiming melodic harmonies suggest a more traditional Chinese influence, but the detuned and watery, off-kilter vibe adds a spacious decadence. If this is the start of a journey, it’s hard to tell what it might be in search of. Ultimately, the track slips into an even looser jazz interlude before faltering and melting into a puddle. That ending isn't a disappointment, though. Rather, it’s just a natural waking from the dream.

The rest of the tracks on Chui Wan find still stranger worlds to visit, from the off-balanced Pere Ubu carnival of “Seven Chances” to the nervous new wave tension of “Only” or the Velvet Underground folk-psych pop of “Silence” (think of Nico singing, “I’ll Be Your Mirror”). The weirdest is the hot mess that closes out the album, “Beijing is Sinking”. The metal flake guitar intro gives way to an odd poppish bounce. Imagine bits of Pink Floyd's "San Tropez", John Lennon's "Number 9 Dream ", and maybe a touch of OK Go coming together in a mulligatawny stew. Some three minutes in, there’s a solo section that develops a nice meandering riff. Enjoy it while it lasts, because, all too soon, it’s overwhelmed by chaotic guitar and transitions into an extended psychedelic outro that’s longer than the initial structured interval.

But the stylistic mashups and nomadic song development are hardly detrimental to Chui Wan’s mission. Out where they play, landmarks shift -- Beijing is still sinking, after all -- and the point is to step beyond the maps.

Here's a taste from the album:

Recording review - Tori Amos, Little Earthquakes/Under the Pink reissues (2015)

Who's that girl? Tori Amos reveals her assertive vulnerability

^4.25/5.0

How does the advice go? If you want to be successful, just be yourself. If anyone can attest to that, it’s Tori Amos. She got her start fronting a synth-pop group, Y Kant Tori Read, that never made much of an impression. For better or worse with that band, she let the record company call the shots and dress up her image, and none of that connected with a larger audience. Rather than give up, though, she turned around and came back with two solo albums that overturned everyone’s assumptions.

It's no coincidence that the cover of Little Earthquakes (1992) shows her emerging from her box. The airbrushed redhead from Y Kant Tori Read returned to her classical piano roots and found her sound, but more importantly found her voice. At first glance, she may have seemed like a normal singer-songwriter with solid vocal chops and pretty keyboard riffs, but she turned out to be a feminist poet with a talent for strong imagery and a yen to draw back the curtain on her own experiences. The piano and backing string arrangements reminded people of Joni Mitchell or Kate Bush, but her lyrics had a touch of Patti Smith and Lou Reed, yielding songs that flowed fluidly between ethereal beauty and self-aware grit. On Little Earthquakes, she processed and rejected a lifetime of repression, especially seen through lenses of gender and religion. Her authenticity was as honest as punk rock, but its strength came from its assertive vulnerability: she embraced her emotions but had the distance to put them into perspective.

That honesty actually increases the impact of her more confrontational songs. The provocative religious imagery in “Crucify” or righteous anger on “Precious Things” (“So you can make me cum/ That doesn’t make you Jesus”) are more shocking because they’re woven from her own life and frustrations. Amos also demonstrates a good sense of emotional dynamics. For example, the curdled fury of “Precious Things” gives way to crystalline calm on “Winter”, which stays with the theme of self-discovery, but dresses it in metaphor. The culmination, though, is the a capella lament, “Me and a Gun”, which recounts a rape experience with stark and ugly brutality.

Despite those challenges to gentle sensibilities, though, Little Earthquakes is also stunningly musical. String flourishes occasionally add some orchestral depth, the melodies develop rich complexity over time, and Amos repositions her classical origins into a pop context. She also introduces her idiosyncratic phrasing, both on the keyboard and in her singing. Like Frank Sinatra, Bob Dylan, or Elvis Costello, she instinctively knows how to stretch time and then catch up to color the meaning of her lines.

If that first solo album tried to erase the bitter memory of Y Kant Tori Read, two years later, she had become confident enough to integrate more of her rock and pop side into her music. Under the Pink still had the piano foundation, but Amos was willing to tap into a stronger rock feel on some songs, adding fuzzed guitar and harder edges. The richer stylistic palette gave the collection a more immediate feel. Like Little Earthquakes, though, these songs were the opposite of pop fluff. Even when she followed a verse-chorus structure, her progressions offered nice surprises and she gave her artier side free rein on songs like "Bells For Her".

The opening salvo of Under the Pink whipsaws between extremes of texture and emotion. The wistful piano line of "Pretty Good Year" provides sonic continuity to Little Earthquakes, but it incorporates a trigger moment accented with a gut punch of bombastic guitar before settling again. Then, Amos begins the album in earnest with "God", where she breaks loose from her past with spiky cactus guitar riffs, a funky rhythmic groove, and the cleansing fire of sarcasm. She had appropriated religious imagery on "Crucify" to make her point, but now she challenges the whole order, offering heretical condescension for the Patriarchy. The chaotic guitar noise seems symbolic of both the outraged reaction she expects and her own childhood conscience. Either way, it's unable to break her cool rationality, "Tell me you're crazy, maybe then I'll understand." It's a powerful moment, and Amos wisely leaves room for it to digest by changing gears with the dreamy "Bells for Her", which features a softly chiming prepared piano.

Both "God" and the catchy "Cornflake Girl" were rock hits, but Amos hadn't ignored her lusher musical side. The sprawling "Yes, Anastasia" revels in rich piano expression as it references both Joni Mitchell and Aaron Copland. But rather than a sharp divide in her musical persona, these two extremes were now integrated and gave a truer sense of who Tori Amos was as person, performer, and composer.

These two reissues celebrate that milestone, not only by cleaning up the mix -- Little Earthquakes sounds quite a bit crisper now -- but also by collecting most of Amos' early B-sides and several live versions. Many of the bonus tracks on Little Earthquakes were rejected songs from the recording sessions and demos she did for Atlantic Records. Some of these, while good, don't fit the mood she established on that album, but others like "Upside Down" and "Take to the Sky" would have been right at home. The peak is her stark performance of "Smells Like Teen Spirit", which is as far from grunge as possible, but it captures Kurt Cobain's intent better than any other band has managed to do. The concert takes that round out the bonus material are all fairly good; in particular, her arrangements of "Mother" and "Little Earthquakes" are both quite intense.

The Under the Pink extras include "Honey", which was cut late from the album for "The Wrong Band". It's a tough trade-off and Amos has publicly regretted it. Head to head, "Honey" is a stronger song, but "The Wrong Band" lightens the mood between the introspective "Baker Baker" and the bitterness of "The Waitress". Some of the other bonus tracks for Pink feature Amos' improvisational skills, including the Gershwin-esque "All the Girls Hate Her", and the live material gives a great sense of how confident she got playing with the rhythms of her phrasing.

With so much extra music, there are a few misfits -- C.J. Bolland's remix of "God" doesn't do it any favors, "Humpty Dumpty" and "Home on the Range" are both fairly weak -- but these deluxe editions do a great job of showing how Amos recovered and reclaimed her Self and found her path towards becoming such an iconic musician.

Recording review - Colin Stetson and Sarah Neufeld, Never Were the Way She Was (2015)

Violin and saxophone circle like perfectly paired dancers

^4.25/5.0

Surrounded by inorganic synthesizer tones, it's good to be reminded of not just analog sounds, but traditional instruments as well. Woodwind music is rooted in the raw physicality of breath. Strings, on the other hand, can sing with the expressiveness of an unchained voice that transcends mere respiration and can also slant into otherworldly realms. On Never Were the Way She Was saxophonist Colin Stetson and violinist Sarah Neufeld blend their unique sonic fingerprints to find a magic in that meld that yields a yin-yang of cooperation and conflict. Of course, they've had plenty of time to learn each other’s style, working together in Arcade Fire and Bell Orchestre. This album of duets finds them gracefully connecting like perfectly matched dancers; the interplay sounds effortless, but closer attention reveals the complexity.

While Stetson’s side work is always impressive, his solo trilogy series, New History Warfare shows off his development as a master of his instruments. In particular, he’s learned how to harness a variety of techniques -- growls, vocalizations, and creative recording tricks -- to create stunning soundscapes. Over the course of these albums, he’s evolved his vocabulary and expanded the boundaries of the instrument. In his hands, the sax moves beyond breathy riffs and warps into experimental electronic tones and dark rumblings.

Neufeld is perhaps less inclined to play at the outside edges that Stetson enjoys, but her own solo work, 2013’s Hero Brother, demonstrates her stylistic and melodic range. She has a good sense of dynamics and how to build just the right mood. Her playing has a fluidity that accommodates sudden shifts from anxious obsession to angelic soaring, from ethereal reverie to passionate engagement.

Never Were the Way She Was feels like a continuation of Stetson’s recent work, but Neufeld pushes him into dialog with melodic parts that accentuate his ideas even as they offer a counterpoint. As in any conversation, the lead can shift from one speaker to another, and Neufeld and Stetson are comfortable circling one another in this way. But the real treat comes in those rare moments when their playing doesn’t change roles overtly, but the context shifts and, like figure and ground reversing in an optical illusion, suddenly the supporting instrument is standing at center stage. “In the Vespers” is a fine example of this. Neufeld’s staccato violin sets up Stetson’s rolling minimalist line as the focus. While the arpeggiated riff seethes with impatience and ambition, the violin maintains order as it relentlessly slices out its measured pace. In a subtle move, Neufeld modulates the tonal base and Stetson follows, acquiescing the lead to her. The tension builds and Stetson adds an anguished vocalization to his part and the tune becomes a battle of wills. Neufeld disengages and the sax twists in on itself. As the busy notes percolate, the violin returns with longer tones that calm the track down into resolution. Stetson is adept at creating that sense of roiling conflict, so Neufeld’s sense of harmony, both on violin and wordless vocals, provides a nice counterbalance.

Following the model of Stetson’s New History Warfare albums, this collaboration was recorded live, with no studio overdubs. While I’m sure the pieces were largely worked out, these songs have an immediacy that heightens their impact. Thus the anticipation and nervous excitement of “The Sun Roars into View” is visceral as it builds from predawn calm and a rising glow to a fast-motion blur once the day is truly underway. It’s a good start, but my favorite track is the spooky “With the Dark Hug of Time”. It starts off with rattling bass notes and sweeping strings, emphasizing the contrast between the instruments. The bass takes over and builds a plodding rhythm, part elephant and part lurching Frankenstein’s Monster. Stetson’s sax vocalizations creep in, as if the monster were moaning its lament. All the while, Neufeld contributes to the tension with fearful sawing tones. It finally reaches a shimmering pause as the beat drops away. The night calms, fading down to a low rumble and Neufeld’s cooing vocals, both wrapped in a rough distortion that adds a sweet surreal quality.

It’s so nice to hear Neufeld and Stetson circle and build on one another. Never Were the Way She Was is certainly less structured than what they do with Arcade Fire, but this collaboration reflects wild internal worlds without sliding into self-indulgence. And the sound? It's probably like nothing else you've been listening to lately.

Recording review - Ambrosia Parsley, Weeping Cherry (2013/2015)

Pervasive sadness is softened into dreamy surrender

^3.75/5.0

The timeless, unanchored feel of Ambrosia Parsley’s music reflects the narrative for the reissue of her 2013 solo album Weeping Cherry: both are hard to pin down to a particular moment or linear progression. The former lead singer for the moody Shivaree had plans to release a solo album as far back as 2008, but it never came together. Eventually, she released the tune “Rubble” in 2010, sparking renewed interest, but the album took another three years before it came out on France’s Fargo Records label. Now, another year and a half later, it’s finally getting an American release on Barbes Records.

Parsley has said that Weeping Cherry is rooted in a hard year of loss, which comes strongest in her lyrics. There is a pervasive sense of sadness in these songs, but her arrangements and singing soften the songs into dreamy surrender, rather than outright depression. Even when the undercurrent of loss rises to the the surface, like her line in “Catalina”, “Another tear/ Salt the butter on our daily bread,” the music keeps the emotions from overwhelming the songs.

There’s a lot of her former band’s retro sound in these songs, above and beyond the continuity of Parsley’s ethereal voice. But her writing shows other strong influences, particularly Radiohead and Elvis Costello. Like those artists, she’s more than just a talented singer/songwriter; each of these tracks feature arrangements that add depth and complexity. It’s interesting to hear her swing from retro pop to more modern styles, but she maintains a kind of languid delivery that creates a siren-like seductiveness. At the same time, her voice reminds me of Jill Sobule, with a vulnerable surface around a strongly grounded center.

That Jill Sobule comparison shines on “My Hindenberg”. Part of it is the simple, restrained acoustic guitar that complements the clear, folky vocal. It has a similar historical perspective to Sobule’s “Vrbana Bridge”, but rather than a snapshot story reminiscence, Parsley builds a moving metaphor for her own loss. She ties the iconic images of the Hindenberg disaster, full of helpless impotence, to her lyrics and makes them deeply persona. The bridge is particularly poignant, “On the ground, we almost can’t believe it/ You were out of time and we were all out of place.”

Most the music on Weeping Cherry is more layered than "My Hindenberg". Parsley’s Radiohead side turns up on that first single, “Rubble”. The warm bassline and guitar interjections are tethered to a deliberate drag beat rhythm. Think “Creep” mixed with a stripped down version of “Airbag” from OK Computer. Like “Creep”, Parsley locks into a low sense of self-esteem and fear that is drained of direct emotional weight. The arrangement leaves plenty of space to fit in a host of details. The guitar textures are especially sweet, rawly expressing the feelings that her vocals seem too scared to voice.

The Costello influence is more pervasive. Often, it’s her thoughtful phrasing, like on the title track, or a similarly handled chord run on “Only Just Fine.” But it’s most obvious in the dark, moody music and sardonic lyrics of “Make Me Laugh”. From the very start, the tune is unsettled, with stark percussion and eerie echoed tones. The mood abruptly shifts context, though, when the vocals come in with the evocative lines, “Make me laugh / When it's 'goodbye'/ With a bill and a body count so high." The verses match Costello at his introspective best, full of musing defiance, but the walking bass and Parsley’s breathy delivery cut the creepiness and make it more like a disoriented dream. I love the jazz standard feel to the progression with its tremolo guitar accents. On the original release, this was a perfect ending for the album. This 2015 reissue tacks on “The Answer (Tim and Becky’s Wedding)”, which is more of a love song, albeit with hint of a 'beautiful disaster' vibe. While this bonus is a pretty song, it’s not as powerful an ending for Weeping Cherry.

While most of these songs would be at home on a Shivaree release, they do cover a wide sonic range. "My Hindenberg", "Rubble", and "Make Me Laugh" each show different facets of Parsley's writing style. Fortunately, her voice provides the common thread to tie these disparate pieces together.