The most notable Le Bon in music since Simon. His last name was pure fashion; Cate might not consider herself The Good, but she certainly comes across as musically devout.
Thought experiment: What if Weekend was the first band you’d ever heard?
How can ghosts have gravitational pull?
Concealer is one of those exercises in minimalist aesthetics that betrays a deeper well of talent, an understanding of the process of subtraction and the importance of what’s left out.
Being mostly a comparison of the two versions of “Stephen.”
The In Heaven we have, not the one we dreamed, ends up more likely than Screamadelica to head for inner space, more eager to come down than to come together.
We always hope that a band will have the inherent gravity needed to overcome the fracturing of its individual parts, but not all bands are as committed as The Rosebuds.
“What’s more popular here these days, ice sculpture or butter sculpture?”
This collection of twelve songs, culled from a theatrical folk concert first staged in 2009, is all interiority and bed-ridden body-pondering, rarely suggesting a dramatic component and cohering beautifully without it.
Suddenly, it’s as if Bill Callahan belongs to us on some cosmic level.
His description of the genesis of Zen Arcade led to a sort of heartbreaking admission that the album means more to others than it does to him, that he had outgrown the feelings it documents by the time they’d been written down and recorded.
Confuse your contemporaries.
All art is abstract art. The Cars are fairly artful and surprisingly abstract.
Williams’ magnificent 2009 single “Sufferer” becomes Euphoria’s centerpiece, unchanged but even more potent amidst eleven more songs of the same shaky, yearning flush.
Jay is a strummer of great intensity, but I think it requires some extended attentive listening to hear the unaccountable heaviness of his playing, muted scratching between full blooms of pure, unchased electric guitar.
He emerged like a half-remembered American nightmare: striped tights over black Speedo, leather jacket, cap and bowtie, “Hunx” scrawled in pink lipstick across his chest, penciled-on mustache à la John Waters and pitch-black hair…
A perfectly balanced double bill, almost too much for the strongly beating heart.
Fun fact: Kim Deal mentioned she has a sister who lived in St. Paul for nine years, on Grand Avenue. Could she have meant equally rad sis Kelley?
A sound with no extra fat, and its embodiment in the frighteningly muscled arms of Robert Grey (formerly Gotobed), the Clint Eastwood of drummers.
Something transcendent was implied, I believe, in the night’s most interesting visual element, more transfixing even than all the bright lights: the slow soaking with sweat of Dan Whitford’s button-down shirt, turning dark outward from the armpits until no dry spot remained.
Five men, three acts, the cold north, and the Friendship Principle.
I suppose it was inevitable that I would someday soon witness the iPad keyboard app used live in concert, and now I have, the Trash Can Sinatras being the unlikely conjurers of the winds of change.
Gosh, he even took an early break, in lieu of a break before the encore, for his explicitly stated “need to pee,” and then came back to the stage and continued to play with a purity that had no memory of bodily functions.
In the realm of back-catalog-heavy concerts by veteran artists, this definitely fell under the category of “nostalgia trip,” but some unresolved questions linger.
Lonely Scientist arrives as silvery and hushed as its evocative cover art, peering through the windshield and wondering which came first, the big empty landscape or man’s bemused and lonely reaction to it via acoustic guitar.
Superchunk make music about the pleasures of hard work, and they wouldn’t have returned for any other reason.
Martin Devaney, The Mad Ripple, Sons of Gloria, Ryan Paul, glorious things of ragged rock ‘n’ roll beauty and the spirit of ’85.
She’ll take you there, and you’ll know what that means when she does.
Rock ‘n’ roll laid claim to the vertical, and allowed its audience to look heavenward.
A merely good album that still manages to put me in greater awe of its creators, as it makes more apparent than ever the slippery and mercurial nature of their writing and recording process.
Does Write About Love promise not just the status quo, does it slyly allude to a degree of revelation we’ve never seen in the work of Belle & Sebastian before?
A remarkable debut from a woman who is just beginning to discover how much she has to say.
He stopped frequently to smell his armpits and channel their rock ‘n’ roll energy, shouting “Fuck yeah!” before starting the next song.
More praiseful prose and phlattering photographs: the Teenage Fanclub lovefest continues.
She can really play it, she can really lay it down. Not a household name, but she’s been in your head all day. It would be so cool to be like Laura, Laura Veirs.
A ten-song album with five (mostly) unqualified successes, Hurley is, by this math, at least half fresh, maybe better.
A big, big rock ‘n’ roll show, just the right size in fact, not so big that the band’s personality diffuses in the arena air before it reaches the back row.
A second consideration of the Pavement reunion tour, but mostly an excuse for some excellent photos.
Mark Kozelek’s fourth album under the Sun Kil Moon moniker is by far the most sparsely arranged, but to call it simply a guitar-and-voice album is misleading, given the fullness of his singing and playing.
You can always expect a sing-along at a show by any musician who recorded a great song in the year 1984, but this one’s opening lines (“I was 21 years when I wrote this song / I’m 22 now but I won’t be for long”), and simple, permanent arrangement made it quite a bit more transcendent than the average.
Lou was Lou, Wye Oak killed, and Young Man are on their way.
This new noise pop duo may have been raised in a boarding school secretly operated by Slumberland Records, where the only classes are rudimentary music lessons and the only homework is the complete recordings of Black Tambourine.
I spent a somber week falling under this album’s melancholy spell, and then found reason to rejoice. Melody, human emotion, a finely wrought story: all is right with the world.
Deerhunter and their friend Panda Bear release lovely new singles in advance of forthcoming albums. They dub these “7-inches,” though both are available digitally.