The first time I saw Bradford Cox play a drunken night in San Francisco, he was hardly capable of standing up,let alone keeping a song together. Suffice to say, we got off to a rocky start, but I’ve since been made quite a believer. If anything his substance abuse that particular evening stuck with me when reading his statement on the decision for the new album’s name, Halcyon Digest (4AD), “The album’s title is a reference to a collection of fond memories and even invented ones… The way that we write and rewrite and edit our memories to be a digest version of what we want to remember, and how that’s kind of sad.” We all have memories we’d prefer to forget, and worth drinking past. Deerhunter isn’t without their fare share of tragedies. The record runs the gamut from blissfully nostalgic to a soft sadness regarding the irreversibility of time. There’s particular attention to aging and loneliness, though mostly paired with a sunny backdrop. The self-produced album got an assist from Ben Allen, who produced Animal Collective’s MPP and Fall Be Kind EP, which should set the stage for the album’s tasteful expansiveness.
Beneath the noisy yet ethereal atmosphere lays a bedrock of straight pop. Bradford Cox and Joshua Pundt let memorable hooks spin and spin amidst a nebulous sound, like pinwheels in the swirling wind. Despite it’s content getting heavy here and there, Halcyon Digest, moreso than prior releases, feels sun blistered and bright. “Revival” is a perfectly relaxed beach-soaked pop number, which drives hard and keeps you slapping your knees. Cox, now more than ever, displays a magnificent range and angelic purity to his tone, reminiscent to the indie favorites, Grizzly Bear. “Basement Scene” plays bittersweet in its distinct end-of-summer tones, but its lyrics suggest the occasionally somber theme of the record, “It could be the death of me/knowing that my friends will not remember me/I don’t want to get old.” This bittersweetness hits best on the back half of the record with the single, “Helicopter,” which drips with an echoing drum machine, chiming bells and psychedelic effects with a bright yet lonely melody in the canopy above it all, “Nobody cares for me/I keep no company/I have minimum needs/And now they are through with me.”
However, there are a handful of songs that lean away from sunny atmospheres, getting groovier and shoegazey. “Earthquake,” features a downpour of multi-tracking, the seemingly 20 some-odd acoustic guitars rippling like a flock of scattering birds. “Desire Lines,” opens up into a lengthy, entrancing breakdown, carried by bass and straight ahead drums, and steered by shimmering guitar licks on repeat. Similarly, “Fountain Stairs” hammers like a great 90s rock groove, complete with sax accompaniment, though the true sax number on this record is “Coronado”. “Sailing,” while more of a folk ballad, lyrically embodies the inverted drive behind the typical shoegaze song, “Wind in my sails/I live for days/No water, no food/It was good/I didn’t mine, no/Nowhere to be/Nothing to see/Except me.”
Final track, “He Would Have Laughed” is a tribute to Jay Reatard, and was recorded by Cox alone at Notown Sound in Marietta, Georgia. This track serves as testimony to Cox’s impressive composition capabilities, tasteful choice of effects, and a monster on the loop pedal; not to mention a touching dedication to a shooting star musician that burnt out bright if but far too early. The intimacy and sincere intensity of the track at times feels like songs from Thom Yorke’s The Eraser.
The production level throughout the album is a great mid-level, big enough to reach expansive levels, but not hesitant to strip down to bare, gritty essentials. Combined with increasing accessibility, their opening spot in Spoon’s tour becomes an easy line to connect. The songs build wonderfully, starting from stutter steps and reaching elegant strides. They hit moments of golden glory, but are steeped in loneliness. Halcyon Digest proves a truly dynamic, transporting listen and a satisfying volley from a band held with considerable expectations.
I tried to warn you. Nick Cave and his crew of miscreants WILL STOP AT NOTHING! Let me make this abundantly clear: this album comes nearly 40 years into Nick Cave’s career and these old wolves are still foaming at the mouth to rip off your limbs and party in your blood. Though the rock legend requires little if any introduction, this Aussie’s prolific career ranges from early days as a murder ballad songwriter, to score composer (The Assassination of Jesse James), to novelist (The Death of Bunny Munro), and now… in what should be the twilight of their careers… Nick Cave, Warren Ellis, Martyn Casey and Jim Sclavunos, weighing in at an average age of about 50, give us their most psychedelic and hard hitting work, period.
Grinderman 2 plays somewhat like an extension of the original effort which was a pivotal turn for the foursome, so its worth delineating how it arose. The members, all originally Bad Seeds, began Grinderman in 2006 as a side project with a distinctly rawer sound, supposedly due to Cave’s rudimentary guitar capabilities (traditionally a piano player). Grinderman, released in 2007, was a runaway train- trippier than the Seeds, and down right ridiculous in its loose approach, while maintaining a commanding aggression. The album’s focal point, “No Pussy Blues,” was a declaration from Cave, “It is the child standing goggle-eyed at the cake shop window, as the shop-owner, in his plastic sleeves, barricades the door and turns the sign to “CLOSED”. It is the howl in the dark of the Everyman.” Watch their performance of ” Honey Bee (Let’s Fly to Mars)” on Later… With Jools Holland for visual digestion of this concept.
Now Cave returns as the psych rock master of twisted, unsatiated, Nabokovian desires. He sizes up a tiny hellion on the single, “Heathen Child,” detailing, “She’s got a little powder/She’s got a little gun/She’s got a little poison, got a little gun/She’s sitting in the bathtub sucker her thumb” (hilariously literal interpretation above). We’ve heard him discuss a similarly destructive nymphet on his better known, “The Curse of Millhaven.”
Perhaps the only real divergence of Grinderman 2 is it’s more troubled, warped, longing approach to getting busy, where Grinderman used testosterone-driven outrage to make its demands for sexuality. The first album felt like a battle cry for all muted carnality, and now Cave has raided the sealed cages. On “When My Baby Comes,” Cave begs from the perspective of a psych ward patient for his lover to visit, “Just how long you gonna be my baby? Til you come.” The grunge groove that hits is soaring, fueled and entrancing, winding out while the full band repeats, “Where did you go in my house?” On earlier track, “Worm Tamer,” Cave tastes the lustful poison of a serpent-like lover on his tongue, and concludes with the lamentation, “I guess I’ve loved you far too long (far too long!).” These are twisted tales of passion. Though no longer banging on the doors for entry, his torment persists pungently in fresh confusion, as Cave continues to take on the impossible and unbearable power of nubile temptresses. He’s the wolf in the decadent chambers; the beast in the deceitful gardens; the Grinderman.
Thanks to a slew of support from Future Sounds, The Owl Mag, Noise Pop, BAGeL Radio, and SonicLiving, Milk recently hosted a free monthly Rumble featuring the growingly recognized Dale Earnhardt Jr. Jr. The night kicked off with a unique performance by Oona, Oakland’s own magnetic front girl. Oona brings a mix of soul, rock, R&B and stage presence that, as for contemporaries, can really only be likened to Bad Boy’s recent megastar Janelle Monae. Oona brandished singular vocal capabilities, which can were backed by a shiningly polished band. The set was best summed later by Taxes front-man Robby Cronholm who said, “How about Oona, huh? I want what she’s having! What a performer.”
Headliner, Dale Earnhardt Jr. Jr. arrived in their emblematic Nascar uniforms, touting Detroit pride and the most American flags SF has seen since election year. What followed was a set of rich vocal harmonies and pure pop energy. The trio was a cheerful bunch, expressing that this being their first tour, they are still managing to not hate each other. Given their spirit and knack for complex pop harmonies, their cover of the Beach Boys’ “God Only Knows” seemed to fit well into a set of originals. They’ll be spraying champagne from the winner’s podium by the time their LP debuts later this year/early next.
Lastly, San Francisco locals Taxes rounded out the oddly mixed bill. Though Cronholm began their set stating “its be a rough week,” implying some personal challenges, they certainly weren’t showing any signs of down-trodden attitude in their enthused performance. Emotional lyrics met hard rocking bridges and the occaisional scream, equating to something like an angsty Ben Gibbard. Though their music isn’t all that aligned with this publication’s direction, I have to esteem these guys as a rehearsed act who are plenty impressive for their genre.
As a purveyor of grey t-shirts, budget jeans, and flip flops, I wouldn’t portray myself with a fashionable sense by any means. But finding an appreciation for How to Dress Well’s Love Remains, out later this month from our friends at Lefse, at least helps me feel like a man with some style. These guys are making some seriously sexy night jams. Basically, if you were playing this disc with my sister around, I’d knock you out. The gauzy, drifty synth textures lay a honeymoon-suite bed for the Justin Vernon-ish falsetto vocals across the album. The lo-fi approach to rhythm and bass allots for loads of space. You’ve heard similar stylings recently from bands like the xx and more recently Gayngs. Tension and desire hit you with levels that range from gentle warming to absolutely-need-it-now. Analogies only partly aside, the whole work is a release.
The project is put together by Tom Krell, a philosophy research fellow in Cologne, Germany whose moonlighting as a 90’s R&B revivalist comes much to our approval. Though there’s plenty of lyrics, the work seems to be mostly a textural, ambient experience. The vocals act more as an instrument, such as on “Lover’s Start,” bouncing with a rhythm familiar of Justin Timberlake. That’s right, THAT sexy. Perhaps the most lyrically present and stand-out track on the album is “You Won’t Need Me Where I’m Goin’” in which Krell confesses “Girl/you won’t ever have to worry about me no more/You don’t ever have think that I’ll be gone for/ You won’t need me where I’m goin’…” Other favorites include the early tone-setter, “Ready for the World” and the most pressing track on the album, “Walking This Dumb (Live).”
Imagining Tom in an apartment, finishing up reading some intense German existential reading and wailing in these high pitches alone over an 808 in a little room does seem a little hilarious to me; Kant inspired boot-knocking. But of course its more than that. The music is carnal and as serious as what you’ll catch if you start playing this too liberally. The unity of direction and loneliness of the album certainly comes across pretty clearly as a solo effort; a pretty heavy task. But then again, so is studying German philosophy, so kudos to Krell all around.
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