Recording review - Bad Luck, Cold Bones (2014)

In praise of angst and attitude, thrash and crunch 

Long before I had heard of the label pop punk, I had my own name for it: snotty boys with guitars. The SBWG label might encompass more than just pop punk, but thrashing guitars, tight harmonies, and a lyrical mix of angst and sarcastic attitude occupy the sweet spot. While it's nowhere near as intricate as my other favorite styles - psychedelia, post-rock, and modal jazz - there's something compelling about the primal energy that bands like Bad Luck tap into. For me, it's intimately tied to the feeling of being 14, an age where the stakes are unimaginably high and a roiling mess of thoughts and emotions always lurk below the surface. One moment can embrace the camaraderie of close formation harmonies, but the next soars off alone in a furious scream. It's a reminder of when I was partly formed, when anything was possible but I didn't have enough perspective to know what I even wanted.

The best examples, like Green Day's American Idiot, Team Spirit, or Colorado's Convalescents, can somehow blend a search for meaning and an emotional truth into a rallying cry. At their worst, SBWGs can be self-indulgent and immature. Even then, though, the risk seems worthwhile, because there's a pretty good chance at catharsis if nothing else. On Cold Bones, Bad Luck mostly beats the odds and delivers a satisfying collection of songs.

It didn't seem like a slam dunk at first, though. The loaded pathos in the opening lines of "Willoughby" aren't promising, "Oh, nobody wants me back home/ Nobody loves me at all," but Bad Luck doesn't take long to rush headlong into defiance. The tempo kicks up and the guys run through a hoarse autobiography of neglect and self-reliance. As the vocals trade back and forth, they strain a bit on some awkward phrasing, but that initial bit of self-pity transforms into a badge of honor. Ultimately, the technical execution is trumped by the power of their obstinate fatalism.

The next run of songs harness grinding guitars and solid uptempo drumming to set a relentless pace. Highlights along the way include the inevitable Green Day tribute ("King of the Ring '98") and a satisfying mix of ringing feedback and punk rage on "I Wish the World Would End (Every Jan. 10th)".

The band surprised me, though, with a strong change-up on "Lantern Park", which is a bittersweet breakup ballad. Bad Luck wisely abandons the distortion for a simple acoustic guitar and delivers the song with a tenderness that accentuates the pain and loss. The first verse is incredibly well written:

And it's overcast in the back of this van Mental photographs are flooding my head So I strike a match and set fire to my brain Just to burn away every image of you And that's only cause I know it's what you want me to do But still I'm stuck I dwell in your ashy remains 

Aside from the great imagery - who hasn't found themselves stuck in the ashy remains of a lost love? - the vocal delivery is perfect,from the rough edge of sexual frustration in the second verse to the little shrug and half laugh as he acknowledges his ex moving on while he's still trapped. Rather than get too caught up in the morose mood, the band eases back into crunchy catharsis on the next song, "Graphic Novel(s)", which balances soft and loud sections.

Throughout Cold Bones, brothers Dominick and Joseph Fox trade vocals in a one-two punch. The whipsaw shifts build a nervous energy that permeates even slow-burn tracks like “Ex-Friends”, where their paired voice of conscience becomes a straight-edge rant at a user (ex-)friend. The theme may be a bit mature for my inner 14 year old, but it resonates with the static that filled my head at that age.

Maybe that’s what I’m still looking for from all of these SBWGs: raw passion, a calm eye in the middle of a distortion storm, and a belief in an order that’s both reassuring and something to fight against. Cold Bones does a fine job delivering on those needs.

Recording review - Chrissie Hynde, Stockholm (2014)

Vulnerability and strength, doubt and inspiration

It’s kind of fitting that the best Pretenders album of the last decade is Chrissie Hynde’s new solo album, Stockholm. That’s not a cheap shot at 2008’s Break Up the Concrete, the sole competition for that award, but where Concrete dug deep into blues, rockabilly and early rock, Stockholm largely returns to the Pretenders’ classic sound. Back in the day, Hynde and the group infused the radio with a refreshing mix of rock, new wave, and power pop. They paired her expressive voice with the tight chop of a Stratocaster to create a string of hits that could rouse rebellion, slink into a sultry mood or move hearts. Although she always emphasized that the Pretenders was not just a backing band, her singing was always ascendant over the music. While that remains the case on Stockholm, releasing this as solo album may just be an acknowledgment of the tensions between Hynde and the band. That last Pretenders album notably did not include long-time drummer Martin Chambers, although he toured with them afterwards. A solo release provides some distance from the politics and personality conflicts and, ironically, lets Hynde sink deeper into her strengths as a performer.

The best thing about Stockholm is that it proves that Hynde still has the same vocal and emotional power she had in her prime. Those early releases built on the unique ground she claimed, somewhere between Blondie’s new wave coquettishness, Joan Jett’s tough girl snarl, and Patti Smith’s poetic depth. The new album works a lot of those facets with a set of fairly short, focused tracks that get their punches in and then step aside for the next song to take a turn. The 11 tracks don’t quite make it to 38 minutes, so the time passes quickly, but most of the tunes have something worthwhile to impart.

Stockholm opens with a nod to Break Up the Concrete’s retro sound with a slow burn, Phil Spector-style ballad, “You Or No One”, but it really begins with the second song, “Dark Sunglasses”. The pensive, new wave verses take elements of early tunes like “Private Life” (Pretenders, 1980) and “My City Was Gone” (Learning to Crawl, 1984). Hynde is sharp and sarcastic, dissecting her target with clinical precision, “And you’ll remember/ How good it tasted/ Inside the ruling classes/ Wasted, behind your dark sunglasses.” The backing vocals and the R&B pop edge to the chorus remind me a little of Annie Lennox and the Eurythmics, but the layers of guitar – staccato slashes against a relentless arpeggio riff – resurrect fine memories of Hynde and Pretenders’ guitarist Robbie McIntosh in tight formation.

A couple of songs later, “Down the Wrong Way” takes the gloves off and lunges forward with a raw wrench of electric guitar. I hadn’t read the liner notes in advance, so it was particularly sweet to immediately recognize Neil Young’s distinctive playing. The warm fuzz of his Fender Deluxe and his ringing tone fit perfectly into the low-fi grind of the tune. The sound is ragged, but Hynde effortlessly slides from sneering post-punk to power pop. The opening line, “I’ve become what I criticized/ The porn queen in my deck of lies,” is an uncompromising bit of self-analysis, but her taut innuendo opens into a weary sigh of jaded experience that tempers a defiant streak of bruised yearning. This is what she does best: project a deep vulnerability that lurks behind a tough protective shell. It’s the strongest track on the album in large part because of Young’s contribution, which adds the undercurrent of desperation that drives the tune. It ends with a thick cloud of reverberations that rolls away like fading thunder or the repercussions of a string of bad decisions

While nothing else gets as down and dirty, Stockholm still has a couple more tricks to play. “In a Miracle” contrasts moody musing delivered in a lush Karen Carpenter vocal tone with a bridge that soars with hopeful highs. The see-saw between doubt and inspiration provides the album’s emotional heart, even as it ends in a question that offers no resolution.

The other standout is a dark outlier, “Tourniquet”. This is more like a theatrical tune from a musical; think Streisand or Midler, but more restrained, or perhaps an introspective Patti Smith piece. It’s a kind of opium dream, where each line or couplet could serve as a panel in a graphic novel, and, fittingly, the instrumentation is completely different, with classical guitar, music box chimes and a faint whistle accompaniment. Hynde’s voice is captivated by obsession and she infuses the two and a half minutes with a rich web of darkness and codependent themes. That tourniquet could be bandage or bondage – both are implied. She takes a big chance by including this song; it’s stark and revealing in a unique way. That risk almost pays off. Unfortunately, the hypnotic power is sabotaged by the track order. If it had been followed by “Adding the Blue”, the lazy beat and heartfelt poetic lyrics would have melded smoothly to close the album. Instead, Hynde splits the two with “Sweet Nuthin’”, which breaks the mood like a splash of cold water and comes across as more lightweight than it deserves.

That’s not a fatal error; it’s easy enough to swap “Tourniquet” and “Sweet Nuthin’” in the play order and salvage the moment. Once that distraction is removed, Stockholm accomplishes its purpose and shows off Hynde’s skills as a timeless performer.

(This review first appeared on Spectrum Culture)

Video pick: Team Spirit, Teenage Heart

A bloody wonderful video from the thrash pop savants

First off, I need to offer a full disclosure: I am in the employ of Team Spirit and have been for some time. It's a loose arrangement; they pay me in killer recorded music, great videos, and amazing shows. Oh and the occasional interview. Every critic has their favorite bands and Team Spirit is one of mine. Aside from their joyous, irreverent thrash pop sound, they're genuinely friendly guys. Now, after waiting for more than a year, they're very close to releasing a new album, Killing Time, scheduled for the end of September.

Their latest video is a teaser single for the project, featuring front man Ayad Al Adhamy and his "Teenage Heart". It's less weird than the animated videos from the Team Spirit EP and less irreverent than some of their earlier videos, too, but it's every bit as intense. It also encapsulates much of what I love about the band: it's simultaneously over-the-top with theatrical cheesiness and it's deeply committed. The plot is as sketchy as the song is simple - there's a motorcycle accident and Al Adhamy plays both patient and surgeon in the Grand Guignol tradition. But that simplicity strips the song down to its roots as a sincere plea for mercy, sung straight from the doghouse: "Come on, baby, give me another second chance."

Recording review - The Clientele, Suburban Light (2000 / Reissue: 2014)

Dreamy surrealism shines through

Where many bands can take years to discover their voice, Alasdair MacLean and The Clientele seem to have effortlessly nailed that down from the beginning. Although their 2000 “debut”, Suburban Light was largely just a loose collection of previously released singles, it held together as a coherent statement of gently drifting introspection. This new reissue combines the original U.K. release with a second disc that contains the alternate songs from the U.S. version and a number of additional tunes. Bonus content is generally a treat, but when tracks are shoe-horned in, they can end up diluting the experience of the main album. But rather than defocusing their sound, this expanded set flows smoothly, with each song falling into place. The only bit of distraction comes at track 21 of 23, “Monday’s Rain (Portastadio Version),” which triggers a déjà vu moment, as it reprises the album version from back at the fifth track of the first disc.

In this case, though, the extra material makes this reissue particularly attractive because it includes some very well crafted songs. For example, “Driving South” begins with a ’70s easy listening vibe that invites a musing detachment. The chorus picks up energy even as it turns more melancholy, “Me and Mr. Jones / So, so speechless and alone.” Then they borrow the descending riff from the Beatles’ “Dear Prudence” for the next lines to recover the earlier dreaminess and set up the next verse. Although the progression is fairly sophisticated, the band makes it feel loose and inviting. Later, “Tracy Had a Hard Day Sunday” effortlessly blends a casual jazz vamp with the band’s trademark mid-’60s psychedelic pop. The lyrics seem both mundane and profound, “People are papier mâché/ People and the games they play.” But even if MacLean slips into non-sequitur, it all fits because the music weaves a dream logic spell that’s irresistible.

Suburban Light takes all of The Clientele’s influences – especially the Beatles, but also the Byrds, Love and the Hollies – and filters them through a dreamy surrealism. They fall into a reverie of sun-dappled pop; they’re turned inward, but hopeful. At times, the thickly reverbed vocals and guitar jangle can seem a bit precious, but their sincerity is strong enough to overcome jaded ears. Even so, there’s an intriguing skew that keeps them from falling into predictability. In “Joseph Cornell”, they get esoteric with a cryptic line, “151 or 145 or twice times 123,” and it’s not clear what that or any of the other lyrics have to do with the surrealist artist of the title. The meaning may be obscure, but it still just sounds right. Then, too, relatively straightforward songs, like “Monday’s Rain”, can turn up evocative poetry like, “Is the lamplight curling from your fingers to your face/ Leaning out into the wind with fear?” Those creative sparks keep the music far from falling into a pastiche of their inspirations.

Over time, with better budgets and nicer recording equipment, The Clientele would polish their sound, but that sonic clarity never fundamentally changed their aesthetic. The band may be more or less defunct now (although they've announced a few appearances in honor of the reissue), but it’s a joy to sink into this extended bit of elevated pop that still feels as fresh as it did a decade and a half ago.

(This review first appeared in Spectrum Culture)