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 - Wax Fang, The Astronaut (2014)

Expanding a stoner masterpiece

The psychoactive duo behind Wax Fang, Scott Carney and Jacob Heustis, laid the groundwork for this concept album when they released the nearly 17 minute mind-expanding excursion of "The Astronaut: Part 1" back in 2010. While not completely idle since then, I get the sense that they may have thought the song was sufficient on its own. It's a stoner masterpiece that takes liberal inspiration from the Pink Floyd catalog and alloys it with a neo-psychedelic expansiveness. Still, while the band passed the time releasing an EP in 2012 and some digital singles last year, this project was percolating in their brains. Their two prong approach builds on the original vision, but refuses to limit the musical sources they draw upon. The net result is a three movement headspace opera with instrumental bridge tracks that contribute to the story. By not putting all of their day-glo eggs in a single basket, Wax Fang makes an artistic impact well beyond mere trippiness. Still, big fans of the first track might pine for a little more of that headiness by the time they get near the end of the album.

The Astronaut should come with a warning sticker, "Warning, that first step is a big one." The track opens with a simple preface that sets up an epic theme, full of art rock pomp. After asserting that motif, the band shows off one of their showpiece moves: a sharp dynamic drop, this time setting up the preface riff again along with the vocals. The quiet setting creates the mood for Carney to begin his story, "The stars don't want to shine on me/ It's just a waste of time and energy." Broken up by short, heavy crunches, it doesn't take long to get straight to the point, "Here I am in space/ I don't want to be here." Carney's voice is brittle and vulnerable as his reluctant astronaut pleas for help. The processional starting riff is back and it evolves into long, singing vibrato notes. The warm distortion creates a nice psychedelic edge. When the inevitable drop-off comes, we're deposited into a staccato bass tension, with spots of anoxia darkness encoded as wisps of backmasked guitar hum. This uneasy calm cues us that we're at cusp of a truly bad trip; disquieting sounds creep in from all directions. Wave after wave hits and the tension rises ever higher. It's like the meltdown section of Pink Floyd's "One of These Days", right before the single distorted line and following scream, but here the moment is prolonged and never hits that cathartic release. Eventually, as the drums pound out an irregular pulse of terror and the fearful thoughts circle, a descending thread of guitar meanders like the drone melody of "The End" by The Doors. It finds a thin reserve of strength and rises into looping raga line. Order is asserted at some level and a plan is coalescing. As we wonder if there is still a chance of success, of escape, the knife edge suspense breaks and a wild tsunami of acid-soaked lead guitar surfs forward. The guitar is overtaken by a wailing sax solo that cuts through the heavy drive. The tune hits warp speed and faces unfathomable mystery. The song finally runs into a choppy close that suggests dominoes falling before grinding to a halt. Yeah, it's epic.

The second track, "The Event Horizon", is a brief bit of experimental noise that sets up the next act, "The Astronaut: Part 2". Instead of falling back into the same headspace as the opening, this track showcases percussion, anchored with a tribal beat of tom and kick. The insistent rhythm partners with a distorted bass and Carney tosses out words as vocal jabs, "Time/ Does/ Not/ Exist." The choppy verses alternate with choruses that are packed with histrionic emotion. The message here is a mix of confrontation and suffering. This sounds much more modern than the initial track; the neo-psychedelic arrangement and busy rhythm foster a more dance-centric form of ego surrender.

If Act II was about pain and defiance, the final installment is all about transcendence. Introduced by the electronic gypsy idyll of "The Singularity", "The Astronaut: Part 3" is not necessarily cheerful, but our astronaut has become astral. "Across the plane of no escape/ Forces of gravity, I've come apart" leads to "Is this really happening/ I feel my body reassembling." The music offers yet another flavor, relying on a solid groove that reminds me of "Del Shannon's "Runaway" dressed up in paisley. As the track builds to its conclusion, our narrator may have been transformed and lifted into a new state, but his sense of loss undercuts his initial wonder. With this finale for The Astronaut, Wax Fang provides a partial resolution that satisfies without trivializing their tale.

All told, the band has done a good job of reinterpreting "2001: A Space Odyssey", adding their own twists. While "The Astronaut: Part 1" hit my sweet spot, I've come to appreciate the band's musical decision not to plow that same ground over. Just as the story evolves, Wax Fang lets the music find the right connection points to support their narrative. It's a worthy ride to infinity and beyond!

Recording review, The Indelicates, Diseases of England (2013)

Provocative attitude and dystopian snark

Julia and Simon Indelicate follow a capricious muse, one less concerned with musical consistency than with attitude. Their projects may not sound alike beyond a love for the theatrical, but each one trolls for audience response and hopes for a certain degree of outrage. 2011's David Koresh Superstar introduced me to The Indelicates, impressing me with their surprisingly nuanced perspective and strong narrative voice. It was a provocative work, which seems to be the band's forte. Diseases of England has a similar musical theatre vibe, but it differs in a couple of key ways. DKS tells an American story and the music reflects that nationalistic sound. The new album fittingly jumps the pond back to the band's home turf and samples a wide swath of British music, ranging from Morrissey to Mumford and Sons. And rather than taking DKS's soundtrack approach, Diseases of England drops the constraint of a story, serving more as a melodramatic concept album. The Indelicates dish up a jaundiced view of modern England, highlighting cynicism, vulgarity, and disconnection as the titular diseases. Fortunately, it's no whining, petulant screed; they dodge that sin with their clever, satirical lyrics and solid musical execution.

The album opens with a great electro-rock track, "Bitterness is the Appropriate Response". Like a modern dance remix of Bauhaus, Gothic synth-pop vocals float over a beat-heavy rock mix. The band excessively packs the track with ear-catching flair: DJ-style transformer chops, grungy guitar, and shimmery keyboard layers. This sonic rejection of DKS's aesthetic makes it clear that they aren't concerned about consistency between the two albums. With that point out of the way, they really hit their stride on the second track, "Pubes", a cynical run-down of temptation and vice:

The places you'll go, the things you'll get
For a couple of pubes on the internet

The message is nothing new, everybody knows sex sells, but the tune catchy as hell. Updated power pop seasoned with a taste of David Bowie, the music holds you captive to the crass lyrics. The breakdown bridge serves up a wicked descending bass and dial-up modem chirps. I have to wonder, though, whether people even recognize that sound any more.

A couple of songs later, the Indelicates have dropped their harder musical edge to channel an emotional Morrissey vibe on "Le Godemiché Royal". The piano and bassoon initially cast the piece as a reverie, albeit one of obsessive love:

How can they hate you when you're beautiful?
And make a sewer from your scent?
How sour, how loveless these people are
How cruel, disfigured, and unspent

The track develops a lush layered sound, but the love curdles as the obsession darkens and takes on a disturbed edge. Think of this as the flip side of "Pubes". Both songs deal with allure's shadow, although the lyrics here are more circumspect (despite the title, which translates to "The Royal Dildo"). If "Pubes" warns the audience that they're being played, this piece's voyeuristic stalker perspective and his slipping control sketch out how sexual power games can go wrong.

The band continues their catalog of societal disease with a drag blues take on class warfare ("Class") and a moody gypsy blues story of ill use, packed with jaded cliches and bitter irony ("All You Need Is Love"). Their dystopian view finds its nadir with "Everything Is Just Disgusting". It starts out with a blues organ playing a saturated descending riff. The stark, echoed vocals remind me of a host of Brit-wave bands. They sound detached, loaded with ennui and a touch of contempt. As the song expands, the singing picks up intensity until the raging disdain comes to dominate. As Simon Indelicate spits out his loathing, the accompanying sweetness of the strings is like a fake smile that never reaches the eyes.

The last two tracks, "Not Alone" and "Dovahkiin", close out the album with the same kind of unsubtle earnestness that Mumford and Sons are prone to. Showing better judgement, the Indelicates show some moderation and the tunes form a nice wrap-up. "Dovahkiin" is the stronger of the two, painting its portrait of Britain as a pathetic loser in the unkindest terms. The ringing guitar solo transforms the mood into a redemptive ending that sounds beautiful, but I'm not so sure their subject deserves that closure.

Ultimately, Diseases of England is a simpler artistic statement than David Koresh Superstar, taking fewer chances. Koresh may be a bit obscure for the Indelicate's British audience, but their send-up was fairly transgressive for most Americans. Railing against modern culture, even with vulgarity and wit, is inherently less challenging. Still, it's an enjoyable romp across a wide variety of styles, with plenty of memorable songs.

History Lesson - David Bowie, The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars (1972)

Bowie's transcendent concept album rippled into the real world

While David Bowie had achieved some commercial success with Space Oddity, The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars transformed Bowie into a larger than life character. It's important to understand that Ziggy was not just music; it was a full blown persona, a story, and a fashion palette. Along with Marc Bolan (T. Rex), Bowie used this platform to define the androgynous look of glam rock. Ziggy also proved to be the first step in David Bowie's serial self-reinvention. Without Bowie-as-Ziggy, it's hard to imagine Madonna or Lady Gaga.

Ziggy was Bowie's first attempt at a concept album. The loose storyline sets up Ziggy as a Christ like figure, complete with a fall if not a resurrection. Compared to more fully realized works like the Who's Tommy or Pink Floyd's The Wall, Bowie's mirage-like structure doesn't stand up to focused attention largely because the story is barely sketched in. But Bowie's instinctive theatrical sense accented by the production makes Ziggy connect on an emotional level. The lack of coherent detail in the narrative leaves room for interpretation, allowing an impression of completeness. As Bowie assumed Ziggy's persona off stage, he imbued the character with more depth, adding to the fascination.

Despite the flawed storyline, the musical flow has an unconscious perfection. The drum beat fade-in of Five Years invites us into a story already in progress. The sparse arrangement is dominated by the drum beat and bass line. Bowie's lyrics paint an end-of-the-world scenario, but it's heavy with sentimentality. The maudlin sense thickens as the string backing fills in later. The arrangement subtly moves the song through a grieving process as the news sinks in. The treacly strings lose power to chaotic elements of denial and fear. Then the darkness fades, allowing a hint of acceptance before we fade out on the same drum beat of the beginning.

Soul Love paints a mixed picture of life after the news, with a narrator caught up in his own solitude. The horn solo foreshadows Bowie's later work on Young Americans. The soft ending provides no warning for the opening punch of Moonage Daydream. Ken Scott's psychedelic production shifts the tone of the album into its science fiction comfort zone. Mick Ronson's guitar work subtly colors the track. His tone howls, but it's applied with restraint to get maximum effect. Then, in the final section, Ronson slips free and lets it wail, surfing on some of the rage missing from Five Years.

We get our first real taste of Ziggy and his message through Starman. This is followed by the sole cover on the album, Ron Davies' It Ain't Easy. Within the Ziggy's context, the simple blues song becomes a key step in the story, indicating Ziggy's self discovery and hinting at his preordained fall: "it ain't easy to get to heaven when you're going down."

On vinyl, the Beatlesque coda of It Ain't Easy meant it was time to turn the record. That pause was important. The ritualistic record flip gave you time to consider that it wasn't easy, not to get to heaven or even get ahead. The break was a chance to appreciate that the first half of Ziggy is the set up, an inhale to drive the quick power of the second half.

Lady Stardust gives us the first clear look at our androgynous hero in his initial perfection. The measured pace captures the magic of gazing on Ziggy, transfixed. This is followed by Star. The doo-wop tinged rocker reflects Ziggy's impact on his fans, pushing them to aspire to rock and roll themselves. Then the pace kicks up with Hang On To Yourself. The beat is all over the place, with fast intervals between slower paced verses. The tempo speeds up to a breakneck pace for an orgiastic finish (Come on, come on).

Next is the glam masterpiece of Ziggy Stardust. Ronson's guitar is perfect. The repetition of his opening line tells a story all by itself. Bowie begins the meat of Ziggy's story with the simplest of statements, "Ziggy played guitar". The verses reminisce sweetly, but the picture isn't always pretty, contrasting Ziggy's charisma with his ego. The breaks are darker, sharing the jealousy of the Spiders and Ziggy's eventual end. It all wraps up where it started: "Ziggy played guitar"

After this, we get the slightly out of place, but rocking Suffragette City and the perfect ending of Rock & Roll Suicide. This closer brings back the deliberate pace and darkness from Five Years. But despite the heavy mood, it's the antithesis of Soul Love. Where the former sadly notes that "love is not loving", Rock & Roll Suicide stages a full scale intervention: "you're not alone/you're watching yourself but you're too unfair". It's theatrically grand and it ends with an echo of It Ain't Easy's Beatlesque finish.

It's a small loss when things we loved in our youth don't stand up to more experienced minds or our fond memories. An album that seemed like perfection at 14 may still be beloved at 40 while it's slipped from our listening rotation. But Ziggy remains strong for me in large part because I never left it; it became one of my musical homes during my teens that I still regularly visit.

CD review - The Indelicates, David Koresh Superstar (2011)

The Indelicates seem to have an affinity for provocation. Their latest album, David Koresh Superstar, had its roots in an earlier project: The Book of Job: The Musical. The actor playing Job joked, "What's next? Waco: The Musical?" and that planted the seed. Simon Indelicate and the band have captured the '70s rock musical sound of shows like Hair and Jesus Christ Superstar to create a wonderfully shocking novelty...

Well, not quite.

Sure, the subject is audacious, but the songs themselves are solid and the story they tell is nuanced and interesting. This makes David Koresh Superstar a clever concept album masquerading as novelty fluff. Like any concept album, the effect is wasted if the CD is used for mere background listening.

The tale begins with Remember the Alamo, which evokes the mythology of the Alamo as a symbol of ideological freedom and martyrdom. The dark folk feel of the acoustic guitar underlies the clear vocals and forms the overture for the album.

The Road From Houston to Waco outlines the roots of Koresh's life encompassing both the formative events that shaped him and his religious delusions of grandeur. As David Koresh Superstar continues, it parallels Jesus Christ Superstar, building to the inevitable conflict. These parallels come as much from Koresh's biography as they do from the Indelicate's artistic license.

There are big differences between the two narratives, of course. Where Jesus in JCS is conflicted and human, Koresh is more arrogant and sure. I am Koresh illustrates this, showing Koresh's first overt step in creating the cult of personality that he tied to Jesus' path. David Koresh Superstar captures the complexity of the real story. Koresh is treated with the skepticism he deserves, but neither the ATF and the media are given a pass.

Beyond the storyline, the songs are well written, using a clear, direct voice to make the lyrics stand out. The music is also quite interesting, jumping from acoustic folk to layered instrumental to rock. A Book of the Seven Seals marries elements from Hair's The Flesh Failures (Let the Sunshine In) and JSC's The Temple to create tense, allegorical reprise of the story.

The Indelicates best summarize Koresh's arc in A Single Thrown Grenade:

I will know for certain if He's up there
And I will know for certain if He's not
Either will be balm for this aching
For the things I want and haven't got
I'll know the scorching hearts of our evil
And I'll know the simple nature of my fear
I'll be a single thrown grenade into air so still
That the shockwave forms a perfect sphere

The quiet certainty of the words and the simple country folk music make a powerful pair. Likewise, the attention grabbing theme for this album and its serious execution take Kool-Aid and spin it into Bordeux.

Another single: Something's Goin' Down in Waco (on SoundCloud)

CD review - Alain Johannes, Spark (2010)

Albums can have a depth that goes beyond individual songs. Sometimes it comes from an underlying concept that ties the tunes together. Other times, it's the continuity and progression of musical elements that build a movement. On the surface, Spark falls into the concept album category, since it deals with Alain Johannes' loss of his musical and life partner, Natasha Schneider. But Spark is more compelling for its musical approach. Still, it's a bit counter intuitive because the album goes through wild mood swings from song to song. Rather than blunting its message or sabotaging its flow, these shifts create a roller coaster ride, where each song drags you into the next section.

Or maybe a better analogy is a great multi course meal. Each track balances the previous one and offers something new, as the album unfolds. The opener, Endless Eyes, starts off frenetically. Looped and layered guitars create a driving tension that the chorus can only slightly relieve. This ends with a small flourish, allowing the simple, retro sound of Return to You to cleanse the palate.

The courses continue: haunted (Speechless), reminiscent (Spider), barely controlled anxiety (Gentle Ghosts), and regret (Unfinished Plan). While each song contrasts, the order has been well crafted. Musically, Johannes shows a lot of depth as well. His vocals and rhythmic structure evoke Barenaked Ladies, but I can hear Emerson, Lake, and Palmer, Ian Anderson (Jethro Tull), and some of King Crimson's harmonic complexity.

Although Spark is of a piece, one track deserves special mention. Make Gods Jealous sounds like John Fahey drifting into an Indian raga sound. It's fast and exciting, with exotic harmonies. The extended instrumental introduction creates a hypnotic, expansive feel. The music is ecstatic, but the languid vocals are detached. The clash creates a tension to savor. This is one of my favorite songs of the year. Here's a live version.

Alain Johannes' musical career has tendrils that reach some very interesting corners. Early on, he played with Flea and Hillel Slovak before they became the Red Hot Chili Peppers. He started the indie rock band, Eleven, which led to playing with and producing Queens of the Stoneage. He's also worked with artists from Chris Cornell (Soundgarden) to Kelly Clarkson. More recently, he's toured with Them Crooked Vultures.

Spark is his solo debut. It reminds me of a complex metheglin (spiced honey wine), where a host of flavors clamor for attention while staying in balance.

CD review - And You Will Know Us By The Trail of Dead, The Century of Self (2009)

I saw Trail of Dead earlier this year and was quite impressed. I don't often do a separate CD review when I've just covered the show, but, in this case, it's been overdue. The Century of Self has a classic concept album feel, where the songs all fit together into a greater whole. The album has a complex, rich theme. It deals with having no control over the fates and the loss that it entails, then covers the idea of moving past all of that -- and what effect your choices will have on the person you become. Maybe I'm reading more into this than I should, but it's a moving collection of songs. Don't get the wrong idea, though, This isn't a pity party. There's plenty of frustration and rage, all in service to the album as a whole.

Musically, it's quite interesting. There are two main thrusts. On the one hand, the songs mostly follow a progressive rock aesthetic, ignoring simple chord progressions and tight repetition. On the other hand, the vocals and instrumentation assert a punk/hard rock vibe that is emotional and cathartic. It's a bit like Green Day forming a supergroup with Jane's Addiction, playing Porcupine Tree material. There's also a strong element of Who's Next era Who, which seems to be a common prog rock influence.

The songs themselves are all fairly strong. Favorite standout moments include Bells of Creation, Pictures of an Only Child, and Ascending. Each has their own role and strengths.
The lyrics on Bells of Creation are beautiful; there's a sense of dawning opportunity. Musically, it's a bit like a slower version of Oceansize by Jane's Addiction, with a nice percussive groove and a huge sense of openness.

Pictures of an Only Child is a deeply biographical song, sad with a sense of loss. They build the energy perfectly, dropping out to underscore the impact of the lyrics.

Finally, Ascending is amazing. The song is a hard rocker, with some of that Green Day feel. The vocals interlock and relate, but neither quite echoes or leads. What should be the background voice often precedes the narrative voice. Driving and bombastic, this song whipsaws the ears, but it's not noise...

Warm a little brandy by the fire and visit The Century of Self.