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.