It being a rainy, blustery day here in my beloved city of wind, I thought it fitting to do a little tidying up — not of the apartment (though we’ll maybe get to that a little later if the weather keeps up), but of the numerous open tabs on my iPad and phone. There are dozens that’ve stacked up over the punishing past few weeks, so we’ll pick the choicest cuts and give you something good to listen to/read in the coming days. Before we get to that, though, there’s one discovery to share, that of a San Francisco quartet I recently stumbled on in the Spots. Contrary to most recent discoveries, this wasn’t a spillover situation for whatever album or playlist I’d been listening to, but rather a selection from the “recommended for today” spool that pops up once in a while.
The striking cover art is what got me to choose it — a bright, lovely sketch of halved fruits that reminded me of a Wes Anderson drawing. It was the cover for the band’s second album, Rolodex, which was released in 2020 (their only other outing, Gold Youth, came out seven years prior) and it belonged to a similarly Andersonesque-named outfit, the French Cassettes. Shout out to whoever the artist that got me to click is because it’s a great little album — with its eight songs clocking in at a scant 26 minutes, it’s a brisk, bright blast, one that definitely leaves you wanting more.
Lead singer Scott Huerta’s voice reminds me of a cross between the Shins’ James Mercer and Passion Pit’s Michael Angelakos, toggling between the former’s melodic croon and the latter’s at times thinly contained exuberance. Guitarist Mackenzie Bunch’s riffs have the elegance of early Vampire Weekend tracks (check out “Dixie Lane” for one such example) while bassist Thomas Huerta and drummer Rob Mills throw down some killer grooves to round things out. (Their work on “City Kitty” being one irresistible example.) The band also sprinkles a healthy dose of Local Natives style harmonization across the tracks, such as on “Santa Cruz Tomorrow” and the lovely gem “Utah,” my current fave. Give it a listen here and soak up the sun radiating from your speakers:
Shifting to the Reading Rainbow section of the post, there were a TON of great albums celebrating anniversaries recently, which have been commemorated with solid retrospectives/history lessons (almost all on the Gum). Each of the albums are really good listens and the articles do a good job explaining either their origins, significance, or both and they’re good invitations to go back and revisit the music. Here’s a quick rundown of some personal faves, with their age in parens:
- The Libertines’ Up the Bracket (20) — we’ll start with the brash, sloppy blast from the boys in the band, whose debut somehow turned 20 this year. If memory serves (and it’s increasingly faulty these days) this was the first show I saw on my first night in DC and it was a fitting introduction to what life would be like in that godforsaken town. I’d just driven from my favorite place on earth with a truck full of stuff, cautiously excited about grad school and the path beyond, and the literal instant I pulled in front of my house it started pouring. Like biblical monsoon, batten down the hatches and make sure the levees are still standing, which meant I and every item I frantically pulled from the truck was soaked by the time I could run it up the steps and get it inside. My roommates, feeling bad for not wanting to help (I didn’t really blame them) meekly mentioned heading to a show that night after I’d gotten everything unloaded and sat in an exhausted puddle on the floor. It was to see this band and not wanting to sit on a wet chair/sleep on a wet bed, I decided to go along. (I had also already discovered this album and loved its snotty mix of the Kinks and the Clash.)
The show was at what would turn out to be my favorite venue in town, the Black Cat (itself a brash, sloppy blast), and despite the day’s events (or the fight we nearly got in with someone after the show, or my roommate turning out to be a pompous knob, or the lion’s share of every subsequent interaction/day in that town) it was a great show and start of that chapter. I remember Carl and Pete being the exhilarating, shabby messes they’d forever be and drummer Gary Powell just pulverizing the drums, whipping the crowd into a frenzy in those cramped, cozy confines. To this day songs like the title track, “Boys in the Band,” and the opening trio still sizzle, taking me back to that sweaty, glorious room — one of the only places I could consistently count on to not be a disappointment and/or aggravation. Long live the Cat and flawed yet thrilling debuts like this.
- The Chili Peppers’ By the Way (20) — this was the Peps at their prettiest, their second album since the return of exiled guitar wizard John Frusciante, and as the article ably explains it forms the near-perfect midsection between the harmonies dabbled with on Californication and the more eclectic experimentation on the sprawling Stadium Arcadium. The band had always been able to tug on the heartstrings when they wanted to (reluctant though they may be to set aside their vintage funk and ham-handed machismo), but the songs here are unapologetically pretty. Tracks like “Dosed,” “I Could Die For You,” and “The Zephyr Song” are just three of several examples where Frusciante’s (and Flea’s, despite the article reminding how alienated he felt by this outing) harmonies are just knee-bucklers. They may have fallen off in recent years (to start what will be a trend for this section), in spite of yet another reunion with Frusciante and fabled producer Rick Rubin, but that’s ok — this stretch is still pretty wonderful. Close your eyes and you can almost feel the warm summer breeze in your hair while those harmonies waft out around you…
- Spoon’s Kill the Moonlight (20) — coming out a mere year after what has long remained my favorite album from the band (although this year’s outing has posed a serious challenge to that title) this one saw the band stripping back almost everything and beginning their long, winding path away from the guitar-heavy rawness of their first few albums towards their more adventurous experimentations found on recent albums. It still exudes frontman Britt Daniels’ characteristically cool indifference and sports a handful of tracks that could easily have fit on their predecessor (“Someone Something,” “Something to Look Forward To,” “All the Pretty Girls Go To the City”), but you can hear the seeds of the later sounds that the band would explore more fully here too.
The subdued “Vittorio E.,” the off-kilter dissonance of “Paper Tiger,” the instant classic marketer’s dream “The Way We Get By” — they all show the band flexing new muscles and seeing how it goes. (Report: it goes well.) Two of the most spartan, weird tracks are also two of my favorites — the panting “Stay Don’t Go” and the massive, distorted hand claps on “Back to the Life” are undeniably urgent winners. One of many solid albums from one of the country’s most reliable, underrated bands. (A title I think they share with Wilco, actually.)
- Grizzly Bear’s Shields (10) — similar to the author, this remains my favorite of the Brooklyn band (it landed at number 3 on my 2012 year-end list) and what I wrote back then still applies: “Chock full of beautiful melodies, sing-along harmonies, and all-around stellar songs — but that is not to say this is an easy album to delve into. The band remains an experimental, non-traditional outfit, weaving an intricate web of skittish, jazzy rhythms, rich harmonies, and moody reverb into songs that are the equivalent of Russian nesting dolls — ornate, precious affairs that take time to reveal their full beauty.”
That image of the nesting dolls is fitting because in spite of the immediate loveliness that confronts you on so many of the songs (“Sleeping Ute,” “Speak in Rounds,” and “Half Gate” remain powerhouses of prettiness) there’s so many other layers to enjoy wrapped around them. Singers Ed Droste and Daniel Rossen’s voices are still wonderfully delicate gems and this one remains a lovely listen. Pop it on and bliss out.
- Beck’s Sea Change (20) — lovely in a slightly different way is this one from Beck, which is pure, unadulterated heartbreak (but no less melodic and pretty). As the article discusses, this was written in the wake of a long-term relationship’s demise and it manages to pull off a pretty mean trick. Not only did it eschew his normal hipster doofus schtick and bounty of trademark samples (his previous album was the hyper-sexxxed (and hilarious) Midnite Vultures), it went to the complete opposite end of the spectrum, opting instead for strings, solitude, and sadness, which could have alienated his entire audience.
Over its 12 songs Beck obsessively examines every piece of emotional wreckage he finds, like an inspector combing the beach after a plane crash. And while pain this unvarnished and honest could have gone horribly, horribly wrong, veering into maudlin, cornball territory, he manages to mostly steer clear of that fate and repeatedly plunge a dagger into your heart instead. Tracks like “The Golden Age” and “Lonesome Tears” are symphonies of sorrow, while “End of the Day” and “It’s All in Your Mind” are more spartan, solitary affairs (but no less effective). “Guess I’m Doing Fine” and “Lost Cause” remain utterly wrenching gems, ones that have soundtracked my own sobs in years past. Beautiful stuff…
- Coldplay’s A Rush of Blood to the Head (20) — we’ll stay in the land of the lovely for one more turn, this time for the sophomore outing from the British giants. This might be a surprise appearance for some of you (those who like to jab at me for my “fussiness” or “snobbery” when it comes to music), and while these guys have gotten obnoxiously huge (and largely unlistenable) the past decade or two, they used to make some really good music. Their debut remains a perfect little beauty and this one isn’t far behind in terms of quality, sporting a number of really good tracks. (Just try not to get caught up by the driving pull of “God Put a Smile Upon my Face” — I dare ya.)
Unfortunately it also marks the last time they kept their worst tendencies in check — the maudlin and cornball criteria we discussed for the previous album — and didn’t blow one or both of those past Pluto in outer space. Thankfully everything’s still in balance here — frontman Chris Martin is sincerely (instead of cloyingly) sweet here on tracks like “In My Place,” “The Scientist,” and “Green Eyes,” while the swells in songs like the opening “Politik” and “Clocks” are absolutely massive, rightly helping propel their rocket ship to stardom. We’d only get glimpses of this kind of quality on subsequent albums (and in far shorter supply), which only makes their first two that much better.
- Wu-Tang’s Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers) (30) — another outfit whose quality and consistency decreased rather markedly over the years is the legendary Wu. Yes, this one is a classic. (A perfect 10 from the notorious gang of grouches at Pitchfork!) And their follow-up was pretty good (but not great — it could have lost about half the songs and been another banger). And then there’s that initial string of solo albums, which is pretty killer as well. (Also true, but only for a handful of the guys and then even they mostly fall off a cliff beyond that.) After that, it’s a hit or miss parade, with most of the balance falling on the latter side of the fence. Yet as with the last band (possibly the first/only time Wu-tang has ever been compared to Coldplay) that only makes those early outings hit that much harder — which is saying something for this one, as it’s already a taut, enthralling affair.
I still remember how head-scrambling this was to hear for the first time — I’d heard “Protect Ya Neck” first (still probably my favorite song here), but then quickly succumbed to the onslaught of noises, sound effects, and devastating verses packed in this album’s suffocating frame. It’s just bursting with classics (“and more deadly than the stroke of an axe, I’m choppin’ thru your back (swish swish) givin’ bystanders heart attacks”) and the article does a nice job giving some context and history to the affair. This one will never get old, no matter how many times you listen to it (or how far from its potency the guys ultimately ended up). The Wu is comin’ thru!
- Parquet Courts’ Light up Gold (10) — we’ll keep the string of fantastic debuts going with one from one of my favorite bands from the past ten years, the bratty lads from Brooklyn. As I wrote ten years ago when this captured the top spot on my year-end list, this was an instant obsession — one that’s remained despite numerous listens in the intervening years. I remember listening to the album early on when I was at the gym with wifey and blazing through it while we both worked out. I completely lost myself in it, so much so that it wasn’t until she somewhat impatiently came and tracked me down that I realized I’d listened to it twice already and we’d been there for well over an hour. I just remember the infectious energy of the songs — from the flawless opening salvo of the first two to the stretchy epic bookend at the back (the one they only recently started adding back to their sets as noted in the article) — and getting completely consumed.
My words back then still apply — “Trashy, funny, and flat out fun, at thirty-four minutes this [is] the sonic equivalent of a meteor streaking across the sky.” Seeing the guys live while three of their four heads are thrashing in completely different directions when they’re in a groove — one up and down, one side to side, one back and forth — remains a delight every time I see them and unlike the previous few acts, their new stuff holds up great against the stellar songs in here. “These guys represent all the joy and charm of a killer garage band — sharp, quick songs, snarled lip attitude, and lots and lots of energy.” Here’s to ten more years…
- Interpol’s Turn on the Bright Lights (20) — we’ll close with a final classic debut and another album that remains almost as intoxicating now as it did when I first found it. (Despite two decades of heavy, heavy use.) Similar to so many acts on this list (the Courts and Spoon being the noteworthy exceptions) the band would never again attain this level of perfection, showing only glimpses of their former glory on each subsequent album. Like those other slow fades, though, that falloff does nothing to tarnish the shine of this debut, which is pure, instant atmosphere and filled with killer tracks.
The article calls out the appropriate touchstones — Joy Division, Echo and the Bunnymen, the Cure — and while it savages the lyrics (while I’ve never understood exactly what frontman Paul Banks was getting at on some of the songs, I’ve never really cared and still don’t) the music is unassailable. It didn’t matter if he was shouting about 200 couches or bad girls who could read, this stuff was dark, moody, and oh so bewitching. It also was surgically sharp — while fellow scenesters the Strokes were known for their tight, interlocking guitar parts and clinical performances, Interpol took it to a whole other level. Listening to scorchers like “Say Hello to the Angels,” “PDA,” or “Obstacle 1” you’d expect them to struggle to deliver the same performance night after night, but you can look up almost any live version and the difference between that and the studio version is negligible at best. Even slower, more expansive tracks like the opening “Untitled,” “Hands Away,” and “The New” let in just the right amount of oxygen, like those doctors precisely controlling the amount of anesthesia for a patient.
I remember seeing them perform this album here in Chicago on my birthday (along with criminally unknown closet fave Calla as openers) and it was a perfect show (and remains in my top ten of all time). It was one of my favorite albums at the time, a head wrecker I obsessively listened to reproduced with pinpoint precision live, along with another favorite band who also killed. Hell of a birthday present to myself, hell of an album. This one is flawless…
Until next time, amici…
–BS