That Sweet, Sweet Indie Rag

If anyone doubts that the greatest music is to be found, not in the mainstream, but in the cricks and creeks of independent artists, two recent albums ought to give them sufficient pause.




I was not a Shins fan. Their quiet, understated, and demoniacally ubiquitous track from the "Garden State" soundtrack merely grated on my nerves despite the adoration poured upon it by thousands of lost, romantic teens and twenty-somethings. I could trawl from it no redeeming value, and thus gathered no interest in the album of which it was a part.

But after this latest album, sign me up for conversion. I bought their newest effort, Wincing the Night Away, on a hunch at my beloved Rasputin's (love that 'Used' section). Dear audience, these gentlemen are on their game. With Wincing, The Shins have given me a strong example to use in my argument for the album experience (versus the download-that-one-song-you-heard-on-the-radio-experience encouraged by mp3's), something which appears to be rapidly fading as iPods increasingly dominate our modes of listening; the ever-enlarging population of Ninety-Nine Cent Sippers will probably nip onto the iTunes store and snap up the single, "Phantom Limb" (actually one of the album's weaker tracks) and stuff it onto their hopelessly shuffled lists, which is too bad, since they will remain blithely ignorant of the finer flavors their musical taste buds are missing.

The album's opener, "Sleeping Lessons," hooks the audience in slowly, then powers up into catchy, engaging indie-pop awesome-sauce--which in turn segues seamlessly into "Australia," one of the most fun songs I have ever had the privilege of listening to. Then, the one-minute-long "Pam Berry" reigns in the foot-tapping, and sparks a titillating introspective vibe that jives well with its follow-up "Phantom Limb" which, while not without its appeal, failed to draw me in as completely as its cohorts--the track never seems to transcend the "white girls of the north" with "sprayed-on tans" which are its subjects. That's all right, because "Sea Legs" is exotic enough to make up for it, and "Red Rabbits" is downright enjoyable.

From there on out, it's a cakewalk. Every track is fresh; Mercer modulates his beach-pop voice with disturbing perfection--every time you think a song couldn't get any better, he hits a new note and bewilders you all over again.

Personal Favourites
Sleeping Lessons
Austrailia
Red Rabbits
Turn On Me
Girl Sailor





Having been an avid fan of Austin, Texas-based indie folk-rockers Okkervil River since their previous two efforts, the touching and raw Black Sheep Boy and its accompanying EP, Black Sheep Boy Appendix, I was thrilled beyond measure when I heard that August 2007 would witness the release of a new album. And this new one, my friends, is darned good. It's different--more produced, more pop, but undeniably Okkervil.

Entitled The Stage Names, the entire album seems to be an autobiographical meditation on the pains of show business. The first track, "Our Life is Not a Movie or Maybe," stretches Will Sheff's ragged voice a little thin and never quite seems to click, but number two, "Unless It's Kicks" takes off with jam and aplomb. The honesty with which Sheff takes on the trials and glories of touring soars right along with the fiery pace of the song, and the whole thing dissolves into breathtaking climax during the last thirty seconds, while Sheff's trademark wail flails up with the guitars. Gorgeous.

"A Hand to Take Hold of the Scene" keeps up the rock'n'rollin' tempo, bringing in some of Okkervil's trademark horns. I could listen to this song all day. The next one, "Savannah Smiles," brings Okkervil out of their self-created folkverse (which their music has inhabited for several albums), and Sheff's lyrics, the everyman edge to his voice, suddenly become poignantly modern and relevant.

The next two tracks flag painfully, however, and lose too much momentum in maudlin sentimentality. "You Can't Hold the Hand of a Rock and Roll Man" comes right back, though--good ol' fashioned rock and roll style. Something about it makes you want to grab your woman and give her a boot-steppin' twirl. "Title Track" is slow, inevitable, dirge-like in its gut-wrenching progression.

And then comes "John Allyn Smith Sails," the plot of which I have yet to understand. It grooves well enough, until the end opens into a bizarre cover of the Beach Boys' "Sloop John B," which works even as it makes you pause in confusion. I'll need more time for that one.

Another fine offering from Okkervil--relentlessly unique, and better than anything you'll find on KROQ these days. Deselect the shuffle button, and go buy an album. Listen to it, track by track, and see if you don't just love it.

Regret and Admiration - Interpol's "Our Love to Admire"

Through the years a mighty multitude of bands and tastes have ascended or faded amid the stars of my musical cosmology . Few groups withstand the withering hormonal blasts of adolescence, and still fewer remain after the tempests of youth are past and the ear begins to mellow. Yet the wily, enigmatic rockers of Interpol have long since proven their lasting appeal to the passionate little djinn who so daintily dances on my eardrums and dictates my aural delights. The New York-based outfit's previous two outings, "Turn on the Bright Lights" and "Antics," have continually recycled through my otherwise Darwinian playlists with laudable tenacity for years, making it thus possible for me to claim, without reserve, that I dig 'em.

Which is why my initial attempts to swallow their recent third release, "Our Love to Admire," proved so bilious. I chewed my figurative fingernails to metaphorical stumps waiting for this long-awaited Disc of Holiness to come out (on the day of its unleashing, after a twelve-hour shoot and a two-hour commute, I burst into Target armed with gift card and drool cup, knowing that the Red Bullseye's savvy moguls could not fail to see the fiscal benefits of offering Interpol's newest opus on its prophesied Day of Arrival. They did not have it, and I swore aloud to pillage their women, raze their crops, and sew their fields with salt, after which I bought it across the street at Rasputin). But something about this newest album proved to be off: it took me several attempts to even struggle through the entire affair.

Having finally done so, I can sigh with relief that the album is no dud, but my relief comes at a price.

The trouble with "Our Love" is its inconsistency; it's a CD in three unofficial acts. The album's first act is strong, but unremarkable: "Pioneer to the Falls," "No I in Threesome," and "The Scale" are all solid tracks, but break little new ground for the band--worse, there's something disturbingly narcissistic at work throughout, as though singer/writer Paul Banks were mumbling each "you" into a mirror. "No I in Threesome" in particular seems like a bad joke; as Pitchfork magazine's Ryan Dombal points out, its either an incredibly subtle dig at loose sexuality, or the most embarrassingly sincere disregard for fidelity ever expressed in song--unfortunately, it comes off more as the latter.

The album's second act amps back up with the single "The Heinrich Maneuver," which sounds suspiciously like a band imitating Interpol. "Mammoth" is a bore, and "All Fired Up" has nothing to say. "Pace is the Trick" is the middle's most likeable contribution, but there's no hiding its blatant sexual overtones--a great deal of Interpol's irresistible sensuality was owed to vague hints at sexuality, but "Our Love" bludgeons the audience without submitting any insightful commentary on the subject.

Luckily, the climactic third act steps up to rescue an outing seemingly doomed to mediocrity. "Rest My Chemistry," while unsubtle, cranks in with assurance and panache; my heart began to palpitate the moment the song began. And from there, it's smooth sailing. The next three tracks are Interpol at their finest, introducing broader instrumentation that expands the band's sonic landscape, wrapping up with "The Lighthouse," which gave back to me every reason I listen to Interpol in the first place.

Tough love with this one, but in the end, you'll admire.