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It’s true what they say. A good song can act as a sonic salve that nullifies the impediments which the daily grind can sometimes throw your way. It can, for just a brief moment, envelop you within its lingering melody and whisk you away for a few fleeting minutes of respite.
Yes, a finely crafted song, the kind we indelibly commit to memory and carry with us for years, can offer a sweet melody or lyric that compels us to remember when and summons forgotten faces and ghosts from the past. It can amplify your pain or even ameliorate it. It can put a spring in your step and a smile in your heart. It can be anything you want it to be but most importantly, it’s yours – from that moment on it belongs to you.
Calexico’s lushly textured soundscapes and resplendent horns can just about manage to do all of the above. They have been making achingly beautiful music long before they appeared on the hipsters’ music radar and their moody ballads and poetic prose have mended many a broken heart seeking solace in song.
However, after five albums you begin to question the point of crafting emotional outpourings of woe when there is no-one there to hear it. Yes, there’s the self-satisfaction of making music for music’s sake, as well as the ability to wield your artistic merit like a badge, but these days self satisfaction and artistic merit do naught to pay the bills.
So maybe Joey Burns and company have finally come to this realisation. Maybe they’ve heeded the call of the shiny dollar and the unrelenting pull of greater prominence. Every musician wishes to be lionised at some point in their career. Or maybe when you’ve been lauded for your distinctive sound, which has consequently revivified a stagnant genre, the only option left may be to change it. So, with Garden Ruin, Calexico have abandoned their trademark instrumentals and have muted those mariachi horns to deliver a rather mainstream collection of three minute long folk/rock ditties which left the older and crustier fans baulking. Who cares about them though?
The horns are still there in part but Garden Ruin offers us simple constructions which rely as heavily on the lyrics as they do on the music. The opener Cruel shows hints of Calexico of old. It’s a bittersweet folk song whose simple acoustic guitar and sonorous vocal belie the tale of despair ensconced within the lyrics. ‘Cruel, cruel grounds, leak truths never found’; Burns sings his invective against environmental corruption with a forlorn and world wearied tone that incongruously sits aside the resplendent horns.
There are elements of that typically South-western sound in Yours and Mine a rather subdued and simply structured folk/country hybrid that only clocks in at two and a half minutes and Bisbee Blues , a seemingly forgettable and nondescript song which is a tribute to the town the album was written in.
The one major change which Garden Ruin heralds is the development of Burns’ song lyrics from just a few vague and formless lines into a vivid narrative; he lucidly paints a picture of a post apocalyptic world wrought to destruction by environmental blunders. It’s vivid and evocative and maintains the argument that good song writing should dispense with the ambiguous in favour of prose that is teeming with imagery. It doesn’t always have to be literal or about semantics but the narrative should eloquently articulate its truth to the listener.
One of Garden Ruin’s biggest appeals is the interplay between the warm and jaunty melodies and the lyrics which are so often steeped in despair. At first Panic Open String appears to be a poignant love song which Burns delivers in a dreamy upper register vocal. That is, until you comprehend the words he is singing, ‘Oceans to the coast will cling to their host, The sun split in two, sink through an empty sky, It’s where we’ll go when we, Leave this place and die.’
Nom de Plume is a curious fusion of steel stringed guitar and spoken word lyrics which Burns drawls in French. It’s a hypnotically dark sound which could have been lifted from a dingy club in a Parisian arrondissement rather than the American heartland it was conceived in. Roka (Danza de la muerte) is one of the album’s standout tracks, an infectious duet with Amparo Sanchez who delivers a sultry vocal amidst the resounding horns and the haunting melody. It best encapsulates the divergent sounds which Calexico span; from their roots oriented foray into Americana to their excursion into jazz and Latino rhythms.
Perhaps the most striking song is the slow burning paean All Systems Red which is their most rock oriented track to date. The acoustic guitar and soft melody give way to a swirl of guitars and Burn’s imploring tone formed around his well crafted prose:
‘Everything you hear is distorted in your head,
Bouncing off the walls, unravelling the thread,
Staying up with the blue screen glow,
Forgetting everything you ever dreamed years ago,
When the dread is flowing down my veins,
I want to tear it all down and bring it up again,
It’s just your heart that’s breaking without choice’.
It feels like Calexico are holding your beating heart in their collective hands and you can almost feel it swell as Burns’ susurration melds into a grief laden howl. We can sit and argue that Garden Ruin is a more mainstream offering than what Calexico fans are used to – and it is – but it’s an accomplished release and there is something incredibly compelling, as well as gratifying, about music that makes you quite happy to wallow in your own misery. It’s safe to say that Calexico have crafted the most resplendently dark album for musical masochists, or those who are heavy of heart, to purge with.
‘Nothing changes and nothing improves’, Burns sings and somewhere deep down you know that it’s true. There will always be debilitating lows waiting just around the corner but Calexico’s sweet sounds, which make your soul soar and your heavy heart sigh for even just the briefest of interims, make you realise that the world ain’t such a bad place after all. It really isn’t – so perhaps someone should tell Joey Burns.
Even though the title of Taking Back Sunday's latest release Louder Now seems to be an affirmation of their changing sound they still appear to subscribe to the old adage of 'if it ain't broke don't fix it'.
Taking Back Sunday’s third release was always going to be a contentious undertaking. Whether the criticism centres on the similarity of their albums or their tenuous hardcore credentials they were never going to emerge unscathed. It’s enough to make Ian MacKaye turn to the bottle and honestly, who could blame him? Perhaps I was having a nap at the time but when did hardcore turn into the histrionic, uninspiring genre it has presently become.
What happened to the overt machismo of hardcore or the nihilistic sensibilities of the punk revivalists who maintained the primal punk rock sound brought to the fore by bands like The Stooges? What can our generation offer that would be remotely akin to Iggy Pop cutting himself open onstage, blood dribbling from the wound as he rubbed peanut butter across his torso?
It seems that the times of excess are well and truly gone and that jarring, raucous sound of musicians coming to terms with their instruments has been replaced by a vapid mediocrity parading under the guise of emo. Scores of trust fund teens have now been given an inflated sense of loss by lacklustre bands whose main endeavour is to hide their private school education.
The one main grievance with Louder Now centres on frontman Adam Lazzara’s vocals which at times tend to border on a limp whimper. The album opens with the guitar driven What it Feels Like to be a Ghost, which is a hardcore tinged affair and a welcome surprise from their previous work, but it subsequently descends into dreaded pop/punk territory with the re-emergence of that familiar mewling when Lazzara uses upper register vocals. The frantically urgent tone of Liar (It Takes One To Know One) vacillates between strong vocals and a muted undertone but it brings to mind The Rollins Band’s Liar which only highlights how lacking in commitment this song is.
There are moments when the album teeters towards the prosaic such as on MakeDamnSure and Up Against (Blackout) which are archetypal pop/punk confections with whining vocals and even whinier guitars. My Blue Heaven is a protracted offering but the soft harmonies and the obligatory string arrangement work well and should have the fanboys wetting their pants.
It’s only on Twenty-Twenty Surgery where they begin to tread on the right path with a great angular riff and guttural screamo vocals that regrettably last all of three seconds. It’s a shame because screamo seems like a more agreeable direction for them. It’s continued in Spin where Lazzara spits out his barbed lyrics with an abrasive vocal.
Even though they’ve advanced towards a darker sound they are at their best on the reflective Miami. It is a melodic anomaly with its wistful refrain that despite the frenetic guitar solo manages to impart a great sense of yearning. It’s sad and melancholic but it’s also warm and uplifting at the same time.
It’s safe to say that Taking Back Sunday’s back catalogue has shown them to be a poor representative of melodic hardcore. It always placed them in the same middle of the road punk bracket as Green Day, New Found Glory and all the other cookie cutter pop/punk bands floating out there. They’re good at what they do. The music is catchy and appealing but the problem is that it’s also ephemeral. A minute after listening to the album only one or two songs might stand out. Several minutes later, they are all forgotten. They give good vitriol and are at their best when Lazzara is spitting out an angry invective that is pure brooding hardcore or singing a delicate melody with a soft, refined vocal. However, they always tend to regress back into pop/punk by numbers that lies limply somewhere in between.
Those that are enamoured with Taking Back Sunday will be more than happy to continue the journey alongside them but for everyone else there’s always someone better looming around the corner that manages to maintain some semblance of post hardcore. The problem lies in the fact that they’ve aligned themselves with a new genre that is all smoke and mirrors whilst still claiming ownership of another that is a mere husk. Maybe it’s time for me to let go of the past, to dispense with my pompous diatribes and rash judgements and move on, but these guys haven’t yet given me the incentive to do so and the past still looks a whole lot more tempting than what’s on offer right now.
I could easily hate the Hell City Glamours for touting their derivative brand of rock ‘n’ roll, if it weren’t for the music they’re making. Yes, I could readily loathe them for their well-worn schtick, their overt cock sure swagger and those prosaic pseudonyms. But I don’t.
You see, rock n roll of this type – a brazen kind of trash rock – has been severely under-represented of late and it’s reassuring to see the Hell City Glamours as one of its most dogged proponents. And there’s nary a threadbare cardigan or scuffed chuck in sight.
Theirs is a dirty, bluesy rock, held up by equal parts bravado and damn good musicianship. Their self titled debut LP is a rather curious affair. The songs oscillate between great foot stomping anthems and hackneyed filler but the lower points are inconsequential because when they’re at their best, they’re remarkably good.
It begins with the brash One Night Only whose anthemic group chorus is more reminiscent of 80’s punk than the 90’s cock rock frequently attributed to them. Rock just hardened the fuck up in one sweet song and it doesn’t abate either. They push forward with the Southern porch rock of Flying Away, it’s a little bit honky tonk, a little bit rock & roll and it works remarkably well. It’s pure unadulterated rock and it continues with the rousing High Brow, the infectious sing along of Back to You and the ballsy Josephine which features a riff which sounds like a more rollicking, grittier version of The Animals' Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood.
Lead singer Oscar McBlack’s scratchy vocal works well within these songs and it’s never more apparent than in the rather nostalgic and slightly tender Worst Kinda Man. Well, it’s as tender as it’s gonna get with McBlack’s jagged tones imploring and beseeching amidst the obligatory guitar solos and kick arse riffs. Of course there’s guitars. And then some. Guitarist Mo Mayhem is quite an adept musician and his technical ability redeems the album for all its niggling inconsistencies. The archetypally rock Right My Wrongs is particularly noteworthy for McBlack’s protracted cadence which manages to extend the word ‘ear’ to three syllables long.
I’m Not Here has to be one of the strongest tracks on the album, if not their entire oeuvre. It contains one of the most interesting riffs to grace these weary ears in the longest of times and a wonderfully atonal group chorus which just implores you to sing along. Go on.
At times, the music does tend to sound a little contrived and the lyrics abound with far too many naff references to rock & roll. It’s too gimmicky and doesn’t bode well for longevity, after all you can only push the rock schtick – replete with babes and booze - so far before people start to nod off.
If truth be told, the majority of Sydney bands tend to bore me with their lacklustre tunes and affected manner. Our city’s best and brightest are only marginally better than the mediocrities it continually disgorges and there are very few bands I’d part with money to see live. This is one area in which Melbourne seems to fare better.
It would be just as easy to simply dismiss the Hell City Glamours as another paint by numbers revivalist band but they’re more than that. Maybe it’s because they unashamedly wear their influences on their sleeves without apology or pretext. Sure, an inordinate amount of fuss has been made about their 80’s cock rock leanings but I bet there’s just as much Motorhead and Misfits in their influences as there is Motley Crue and it’s precisely this which makes their music all the more refreshing.
Don’t be fooled by their bravado. Behind the distracting pseudonyms, the well manicured hair and devil may care ethic stand four astute musicians for whom music is king. They say that the Hell City Glamours brought back rock & roll. Don’t believe the hype - rock & roll of this type never really went away. It just needed a good kick in the pants and the Hell City Glamours have well and truly seen to that.
There are times when you randomly catch a fragment of a song, or chance upon a lingering melody which resonates within your being long after the moment has passed. A guitar line that plays itself over and over. A melancholic vocal which continues to sing inside your head. On some occasions, you may endeavour to uncover the artist in question but on the whole it remains just another one of those missed music moments which are inexorably consigned to the past
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I’m sure Jet have a place somewhere within the murky quagmire of Australian music. In fact, I’m quite certain of it. I just don’t know exactly where this place might be. Perhaps it’s better this way. It’s quite telling that despite their misappropriation of a genre, their hackneyed rock schtick and their oeuvre of vapid tunes they’ve deemed it necessary to assail us with yet another piece of derivative dross. They’re tenacious, if nothing else
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My Chemical Romance's third studio release is an epic concept album that toys with the idea of mortality but the first single off the album confirms that the only thing that's flat lining is their creativity.
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They’ve taken a back seat for long enough. They’re always the proverbial bridesmaid but maybe, just maybe, Rocket Science’s time has finally come.
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It comes as no surprise that the world is no Empyrean dream but Britpop's prodigal son, Damon Albarn, wants to remind you of this fact any way he can. His latest release is a rather sombre affair but despite its melancholic overtones it still manages to instill a little bit of hope in your heart.
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The punks and pompadoured masses convened on The Metro Theatre for psychobilly's prodigal son - Tiger Army.
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