recordsandrambling

[recordsandrambling]

2018: A Year in Musical Review

As another year comes to a close, so does another year of great music. My five favorites from the year were chosen because of how much they spoke to me on a personal level, as well as my distinction of each as artistically worthy of merit compared to the rest of 2018′s releases. As such, there is definitely a more opinionated focus this year rather than in previous years where I tried to single out more broadly important records. 

Without further ado, I present what I believe to be the five best albums of 2018. 

5. Breaking English - Rafiq Bhatia

Rafiq Bhatia is a guitarist and composer best known for his work in the electronica group Son Lux. He steps away from the electronica approach to put forth an experimental album that’s hard to pin down to one genre. 

Though very much a guitar-driven album, the 30-year-old songwriter fills the rest of the air on his debut full-length for Anti-Records with glitchy soundscapes of jazzy drums, squelching electronics, and soaring Middle Eastern-inspired string sections. Bhatia is able to conjure up such an emotional power in these songs that it would be almost overkill to include vocals--in fact, the one instance of singing on the whole record is on the title track, and it takes a backseat to the lead guitar lick that fronts the arrangement. Breaking English proves that a songwriter doesn’t need to rely on lyrics to convey strong feelings if they find their voice in their instrument. 

Key Tracks: Hoods Up, Breaking English, Perihelion I - I Tried to Scream

4. Mark Kozelek - Mark Kozelek

Mark Kozelek’s self-titled record proves the exact opposite point Breaking English does--great songs don’t need intricate arrangements to leave lasting impressions. Kozelek is in the third iteration of his long career, first as guitarist/singer of slowcore giants Red House Painters, then as sad crooning folk singer with Sun Kil Moon, and now as a rambling storyteller across multiple albums either solo, with a collaborator, or still as Sun Kil Moon. This particular release finds a melancholy-as-ever Mark recording guitar loops in hotels across his travels in the US and playing them out for upwards of 12 minutes as he sing-talks stories from his youth, gripes with the modern world, and funny everyday interactions with other people. It’s a daunting project, reaching 90 minutes in length over just 11 songs, but its dreamy and beautiful soundscapes hide nuggets of relatable realism across its dozens of sheets of lyrics that an intensive listener will dig up and savor.

I came to appreciate just how funny much of this album truly is after seeing Mark live in Philadelphia earlier this year. He manages to supply moments of absurd silliness like the chanting of “diarrhea” in the background of highlight The Mark Kozelek Museum along with humurous observations such as the back-and-forth between him and a barista who doesn’t recognize Mark despite Sun Kil Moon playing in the background of the coffeeshop on Weed Whacker. Kozelek himself even laughs on record after the umpteenth rhyme of “overanalyzing” on My Love For You Is Undying. 

Give this one a listen, even if just for the experience. 

Key Tracks: The Mark Kozelek Museum, Weed Whacker, My Love For You Is Undying

3. God’s Favorite Customer - Father John Misty

Singer-songwriter Josh Tillman returns for his second album is as many years, abandoning the grandiose critiques on modern society of 2017′s Pure Comedy in favor of much more personal tunes that were born out of a six-week stint of alcoholism and depression spent in a New York hotel. 

God’s Favorite Customer is a deeply reflective folk-rock album, touching on drunken conversations with hotel attendants on Mr. Tillman, dealing with outside criticism during times of serious personal turmoil on Hangout at the Gallows, and even reciting terrified pleas from his wife to quit his destructive behavior on Please Don’t Die. As usual, Tillman’s sharp, witty lyricism soften the emotional blows a bit, while his soulful voice and knack for melody make his pain extremely catchy. 

However, this is the most direct and vulnerable Tillman has ever appeared on an album, allowing two tracks to strip away the larger-than-life instrumentation to showcase simplistic voice-and-piano balladry on The Palace and The Songwriter. This newfound versatility shows that the enigmatic character of Father John Misty has many more tricks up his sleeve to grace future releases. 

Key Tracks: Mr. Tillman, Hangout at the Gallows, Please Don’t Die

2. Year of the Snitch - Death Grips

Just when I thought the genre-bending experimental trio couldn’t push their sound any further, Death Grips found a way to combine the bravado and flair of hip-hop with fist-pumping dance rhythms and the raw strength of heavy rock, all the while somehow still managing to have it sound cohesive. Year of the Snitch plays out like a rave held at a warped circus thanks to the outlandish production of Andy Morin and the sputtering drumming of Zach Hill. Vocalist Ride acts as the ringmaster to centralize the shitshow, shouting oblique references to demons and satanic urges at the top of his lungs into your horrified and confused face. 

Thematically, this record is deeply connected to two entities: Charles Manson and the Rolling Stones. Death Grips utilized Manson quotes and references on previous albums directly, whereas Year of the Snitch keeps the influence one person removed. The “snitch” in the album’s title is Linda Kasbian, the key witness who testified against Manson. She is referred to multiple times in the album. On the song Hahaha, Ride roars “69′s and the bitches shout,” referring to her age and the act of testifying. Another is the more pointed song title Linda’s In Custody. 

The Rolling Stones’ reference are also more overt. The album’s cover is an homage to the classic Stones logo and the song Black Paint is a clear attempt to update the rock classic Paint It Black. 

These ideas meld into the central theme of this album: fear. Death Grips has always played with darkness and death, but it is on Year of the Snitch where they face it head on. Ride paints portraits of his dead body getting feasted on by insects on Flies, chants “I’m always thinking finally” on the aforementioned Black Paint, and even titles the jazzy, spastic ode to suicide The Fear after his inner monologue while on the verge of jumping to his demise. 

More curiously, the mentioning of satanism, murder, suicide, darkness and fear parallels how blatantly self-referential this record is. The lead track is titled Death Grips is Online. Andrew Adamson, the director of Shrek, makes an appearance on a spoken word intro to Dilemma about how the trio has quite literally run into a dilemma in the middle of recording. Finally, they tack one more song onto the record after the supposed Outro, and name it Disappointed in preparation for the assumed critical response to the record. 

This dichotomy between fear and self-reference leads me to conclude that Death Grips recognize that their art will be better appreciated after their mortal existence. While they are certainly an experimental force in modern music, they aren’t viewed under the same era-defining lens that other critically-lauded artists are. Instead, the men of Death Grips are content to remain ever mysterious in the shadows of popular music, putting out album after album of mind-bending masterpiece until the music world realizes too late that the artist of their generation was hiding in the snarky corners of the dark web the whole time. 

Key Tracks: Black Paint, The Fear, Dilemma

1. Some Rap Songs - Earl Sweatshirt

Music critics lauded Earl Sweatshirt as a rap savant of sorts back in the early 2010s when he was just a teen, before his abrupt disappearance from Odd Future’s output spawned proclamations of “Free Earl” that could be heard from every corner of the internet. Upon returning to the spotlight in 2012 on OF posse-cut-turned-swan-song Oldie, it was apparent that the young lyrical phenom was no longer fitting in with the quirky, obnoxious LA group anymore. His debut album Doris tried to keep up appearances, but the introspection that always laid the foundation for his passages eventually came completely out on 2015′s appropriately named I Don’t Like Shit I Don’t Go Outside. Turned out that young shock rapper Earl was sent to a school for at-risk youth during his absence half a decade earlier, and it altered his perspective on the world around him. 

In 2018, three years after the world’s first introduction to his darker side, Earl gives us Some Rap Songs, a 25-minute fifteen track masterstroke of lo-fi hip-hop. Less angry and outspoken this time around, Earl instead finds himself professing morose reflections about the death of his father, the stresses of the spotlight, getting high to unsuccessfully fight depression, and how money has changed him and his friends. He gets some help from underground New York City rappers and producers to create a gritty soundscape not unlike the city they hail from.

It never feels like Earl is rapping above the music. He’s rapping with the music, forgoing big room reverb and instead burying his introspective lyrics beneath crackling soul samples in hopes of letting the production take the reins. Thanks to the short song lengths and seamless transitions, the album flows more like one whole piece rather than fifteen individual tracks. The popping vinyl records that make up the samples make the beats feel alive, a welcome contrast to the synthetic trap that underlines pop culture today. It’s this organic sound that reveals that Earl isn’t professing his grief at you. He’s sharing it with you, hoping to relate his experience to any listener going through similar troubles.

“Peace to every crease on your brain,” he spits on Veins. “Bend we don’t break, we not the bank,” he hopes out loud on The Bends. These aren’t just lyrics, they’re mantras he’s hoping will replace any leftover Free Earl’s that thrust him into the unforgiving limelight. 

The album hits its emotional peak over the final three tracks. Playing Possum overlays a powerful recording of his recently deceased father Keorapetse Kgositsile reciting his poem Anguish Longer Than Sorrow alongside a keynote speech performed by his mother, UCLA law professor Cheryl Harris. It’s a touching nod to where he came from, and upon discovering the root of his existence, it makes sense that he’s blossomed into the influential artist he is today. 

But then the sweet sentiment fades into the abrasive Peanut. Its claustrophobic beat projects the image of Earl stuck in an air conditioning unit, anxiously describing burying a father that felt like a stranger to him until only recently. At the end of its 74-second run time, he directly references the final cut with the last line on the album: “my Uncle Hugh.” It is within the upbeat jazz instrumental performed by his late father’s friend Hugh Masekela titled Riot! where I realize that even though Earl can’t get out of this pit of despair, he’s attempting to find hope within the one thing he finds solace in: music. 

Key Tracks: Veins, The Bends, Playing Possum

Thanks for reading, and Happy New Year!

--CHRIS

PS: Be the Cowboy is overrated as heck.

Honorable Mentions (in no particular order):

Veteran - Jpegmafia

POST- - Jeff Rosenstock

boygenius (EP) - boygenius

What Happens When I Try to Relax - Open Mike Eagle

Time ‘n’ Place - Kero Kero Bonito

iridescence - Brockhampton

ye - Kanye West

DAYTONA - Pusha T

Wide Awake! - Parquet Courts

Twin Fantasy - Car Seat Headrest

[recordsandrambling]

Kozelek Brings Beauty, Humor to Dreary Philadelphia Evening

--9 September 2018

Heat exhausted Philadelphians were undoubtably soothed by the cooling touch of this week's rain in response to seemingly unending weeks of blistering temperatures, but for me it simply meant that getting to the Theatre of Living Arts-hosted An Evening With Mark Kozelek would be slightly more difficult. Left without an umbrella due to forgetfulness, I trudged in shorts and a light jacket to Queen Lane Station, glided through Twitter updates over the course of the slower-than-usual ride, and hopped off at Suburban Station to meet a friend and begin our long wet walk to the venue.

Though I much dislike the inevitable sloshing in soaked shoes and hazy overhang of gray clouds, it seemed appropriate for the musical performance we were about to view.

Singer-songwriter Mark Kozelek first stamped his name on the music industry by producing album after album of emotionally-charged rock with Red House Painters in the 90s, where the burning emotions etched in his soft crooning were coupled with slow, airy guitar leads in songs that could last upwards of 15 minutes.

In the nearly two decades since Red House Painters broke up, Mark has become more and more curmudgeonly, trading in ballads of romantic loss for fist-shaking anthems about how Donald Trump's election was a result of our obsession with social media (he's not far off, really). Although this makes it sound like he has simply followed the path of every digital age dad out there, Mark manages to make his now-a-bit-gravelly voice erupt words of poignancy rather than preachiness.

Yet the music was only half of what I was looking forward to that night. Mark has been known to behave obnoxiously on stage, famously calling a Pitchfork blogger a “spoiled b***h” and in another instance telling the band War on Drugs to “suck his c**k.” Call it morbid curiosity, but I was more than slightly interested to see what sort of trouble he could get himself into on a dreary Sunday evening in Philadelphia, especially because the theatre was near empty when we arrived.

He had been scheduled to start playing at 9, but people were still trickling in off the puddle-covered streets. So when 9:15 rolled around, Kozelek, dressed in a black suit over a t-shirt, and his two backing musicians took to their instruments, seemingly satisfied enough with the half-covered floor below them. The keyboardist to his right, guitarist to his left.

Brief, quiet applause, then the music started. The opening notes of “Night Talks” off of his recent EP of the same name rung out. A spacey arpeggiated guitar riff peppered the air while lyrics describing Mark's favorite part of the day, small bouts of chatter before bed with his girlfriend, laid themselves smoothly on top of the mix. Any moment he wasn't holding an arm outstretched during each rambling stanza of his newly signature sing-rapping vocal delivery, Mark would sway in the middle of the stage with a pout-lipped-closed-eyed facial expression and snapping fingers

The venue remained equally quelled during his next song, a cut from the collaborative record he put out with Sean Yeaton of rock group Parquet Courts fame. Though I am very clearly a fan of Kozelek's, after it crossed the 10 minute mark I couldn't wait for it to end. The band seemed out of sync, the singing became too yelpy, and the keyboardist was hitting his chords so loud that it drowned out everything else. After the show was over, my friend (who had barely listened to Mark's music before), admitted that he was extremely worried he was going to be in for a rough one if the rest of the set continued along that trajectory.

But Mark's greatest strength is his self-awareness. After what felt like an eternity (but was more likely 17 minutes), he broke the crowd's still awkwardly quiet applause with a wisecrack.

“I can't figure you guys out,” he muttered with a smile, “each crowd has a different personality. Can I get a little energy?”

The illusion that we needed to stand there in stoic silence for a lauded musical figure melted away. We're here to enjoy ourselves, not stand around humming along in reverence like we're at Sunday morning service.

Post-breaking the silence, Mark kept quipping, “One time I made a joke that I was glad 25 people showed up to a show a few years back. The next day I wake up to an article titled 25 People Show Up to Mark Kozelek Show.” He urged with a slightly

crooked-toothed smile that 267 tickets were sold to this one, so if any journalists were in the audience they should take that down to get the facts straight. The place erupted in laughter as if we were transported to a comedy show.

After that, the jokes got better, the music got prettier, and the collective whole that was us the audience became a group of friends rather than strangers. We would look at each other and shake heads at a silly lyric, or grin meekly to one another if Mark made a groaner remark.

A well-known boxing fan, Mark broke into a seemingly textbook-recited lecture about Philadelphia boxing history, from Joe Frasier to Bernard Hopkins to Rocky, with occasional hoots and hollers from fellow fans in the audience. Though I know nothing about boxing, I appreciated the sentiment of connecting with the city he was performing in. It made Mark come off as just another guy like us rather than a non-relatable critically acclaimed musician. He went on to describe his experience in Philadelphia during tours over his almost three decades of musicianship, fondly recalling neighborhoods and small towns in the surrounding area that he spent time in, and brought it all together by performing a new song he wrote on the plane ride here, exhaustingly tentatively titled “1983 MTV Era Music is the Soundtrack of Outcasts Being Bullied by Jocks.” Lyrically starting off with his endearing memories of Philly, it delved over its 13 minutes into what the title literally related to: him as a youngster getting bullied for listening to different music than his peers, to which he turns around with biting cold humor by comparing his exciting, well-traveled life as a musician to the shoddy jobs those jocks probably have now, managing Home Depots and Wal-Marts. Mark:1, Bullies: 0.

One of the more absurd parts of the evening came during the song “The Mark Kozelek Museum” (which I shouted a request for earlier in the night). In the recorded version, there is a ludicrous background chant of the word “diarrhea,” a callback to a line somewhere else in the track, so needless to say when the live performance finally reached said part, Mark leaned wholeheartedly into the absurdity, conducting all of us in a ridiculous singalong of one of the more disgusting words in the English language.

As the show wound down, the dichotomy of the Mark Kozelek persona came out. Enraged at the bartenders making too much noise during their clean-up (more Mark's fault, as he played for an indulgent two hours at that point and the venue was technically closing), he changed the lyrics of the sweet, down-to-earth song “My Love For You Is Undying” to sarcastically belt, “Bartenders, thanks for the added percussion/it's really doing a lot for this song/I really appreciate you helping us out.” We received the crack with much delight, as previously we repeatedly looked back in hopes the workers would notice that, after all, we paid to watch this man play music, not to listen to them change trash bags.

In finality (mainly because the stage hands were forcing him off by tapping loudly on their watches from afar) Mark kindly brought up a 20-year-old from the audience to sing with him on fan-favorite “I Can't Live Without My Mother's Love.” The kid mentioned his band played their first show the previous night which upon hearing caused Mark to brighten up, as if he was looking at an echo of himself from 30 years ago, young and eager to prove to one of his favorite artists that hey, I make music too. And it's pretty damn good.

As it turned out, the kid was good. He and Mark traded off verses and parts of the chorus, culminating in an impressive vocal harmonization of the final refrain. My friend and I looked at each other in awe, struck by how truly incredible their voices melded together, the audio equivalent of peanut butter and jelly: sticky and sweet to the ears. The most authentically loud applause of the night ensued as the two performers, old and young, hugged. High fives and handshakes were given as the kid left the alternate reality of the stage and stepped back into the everyday life of an audience member. We were rooting for him, and as a result were all proud to see one of our own make it up there and perform like a champion.

We funneled out the doors quickly and orderly, as small crowds do, and went our separate ways. Such is the unfortunate end to concerts, the crowd joins together to form one whole body with ebbing and flowing emotions that disappear once the artist-turned-puppeteer leaves the stage. In the Uber I was forced to take because Mark played so long that I missed the last train, my friend shot me a text that cemented how wildly enjoyable the experience was, even to a foreigner of Mark's outlandish musical history:

“Definitely converted to a fan tonight.”

Looks like next time Mark Kozelek is in town, we'll be there.

--Chris Hatler

[recordsandrambling]

2017: A Year in Musical Review

2018. Four numbers I never thought I'd ever see in sequence. 2017 was a long year for me, and for good reason. It was a year I didn't want to end, a year with seemingly endless joy, new experiences, and personal growth. Therefore it's only fitting that the year that I graduated college, moved away, started a new life, and changed so much as a person would contain some of the most forward-thinking and genre-bending albums I've ever heard.

As such I present: my top 5 albums of 2017.

5. Dirty Projectors – Dirty Projectors

After the monumental breakup of Dirty Projector's figurehead David Longstreth's relationship with the band's vocalist/guitarist Amber Coffman, an album of grand proportions was expected for the Brooklyn-based indie rock group. Longstreth decided to cut out the band and turn a full 180 on musical style, putting a heartbreak album together with the help of electronic music producers and R&B influences, essentially making a soulful PBR&B solo album under the moniker of his old group. While style changes can often be messy failures (cough cough Kid Cudi), Longstreth pulls off a heartstrings-tugging combination of his indie rock quirks and modern R&B flair.

Tracks like “Little Bubble,” “Keep Your Name,” and “Up In Hudson” span 5-minute-plus lengths of clapping beats and swelling orchestral melodies to compliment melancholy crooning about love lost to paint the picture of a relationship that failed for complex reasons such as artistic differences on top of simple causes such as the geographical distance spent apart. But the album doesn't feel tiresome with long songs, the run time isn’t long enough to wear out its welcome. There are a few shorter cuts like “Cool Your Heart” and “Winner Take Nothing” that function as more straightforward R&B grooves that the Weeknd or James Blake could easily mesh with, keeping the record from pointing its head too far skyward.

Despite some weaknesses (the too-formulaic banger “Work Together” and awkward-sounding autotune epic “Ascent Through Clouds”), Dirty Projectors masterfully blurs the line between indie and R&B, creating a fresh sound that will undoubtably spawn imitation from other indie rockers trying to cash in on the booming popularity of modern R&B.

Key Tracks: Up in Hudson, Little Bubble, Cool Your Heart

4. SZA – CTRL

2017 was career-changing for Top Dawg Entertainment resident Solana Imani Rowe, better known by her stage name SZA. After releasing three EPs over the last few years, the R&B singer stopped the music world in its tracks with her first full-length album CTRL. Conceptually following two paths, one a phone chat with her mother that's sporadically sprinkled throughout the track list and the other a loosely connected story in lyrics of a side chick realizing her self-worth sans the men in her life, SZA belts out banger after banger of love, lust, self-realization, and growth.

Almost every song has a catchy chorus that sticks to the brain like glue, but rather than pandering to pop listeners, the album takes twists that make it the one of the most interesting R&B projects of this decade. Included in those alternative turns are the offbeat guitar line that SZA glides over on the lead song “Supermodel,” the drum-chant outro at the end of “The Weekend,” and the teasing “Wavy (Interlude),” where the listener is led to believe that SZA and feature James Fauntleroy will continue to trade off lines, but just as soon as the song begins it wisps away into the desperate cries for averageness on “Normal Girl.” The features on the album are skillfully implemented, playing perfectly to the strengths of big names such as Travis Scott and Kendrick Lamar.

There's not much more to say about this record other than just go listen to it. It has that “little bit of everything” to appeal to pop listeners, indie kids, and hip-hop heads alike.

Key Tracks: Supermodel, Love Galore, The Weekend, Broken Clocks

3. Brockhampton – Saturation I, II, & III

Realistically if I didn't place all three of the South Central LA-based boyband's albums into one spot, the two lower ranking albums on this list wouldn’t even get a mention. Brockhampton owned 2017 in every sense of the word. Not only did they release three fantastic records, but they embarked on a sold-out first tour, dropped numerous music videos, posted a short film to YouTube, and even filmed a full-length movie.

But to also be fair to the rest of my list, these albums play out more as one big project rather than three separate albums, so it makes a lot of sense to group them together. They each follow a similar format: three skit tracks on each that connect to tell a story, a one minute interlude fourth in the track list, a pop rock ending song performed by the group’s resident crooner Bearface. Adding to the concept was that there were 17 four letter name tracks on the first Saturation, 16 five letter name tracks on the second, and 15 six letter name tracks on the third. Despite being recorded in different sessions across the year, the boyband hold to the concept and their core sound remarkably well while simultaneously taking different creative risks with each release, clearly showing that they have a natural ability for making fantastic music.

Simply saying they have a knack is a cop-out, however. It's clear that Brockhampton puts their heart and soul into everything they do. The performances of each vocal member (Kevin Abstract, Ameer Vann, Merlyn Wood, Matt Champion, Joba, Dom McLennon and Bearface) are inspired and varied. No one sounds the same in every track, often times thanks to beautifully implemented pitch shifting by the producers behind it all (Jabari Parker, Romil Hemnani and Kiko Merley). The beats are impeccable, the choruses are sticky, the lyrics are memorable. And it all sounds so new and interesting. Not since Odd Future has there been a rap collective as exciting as Brockhampton, but even that comparison doesn’t give them enough credit. Their future is looking even brighter than those who came before.

Key Tracks:

Saturation: Heat, Gold, Star, Milk, Waste

Saturation II: Gummy, Junky, Fight, Sweet

Saturation III: Johnny, Stupid, Bleach, Sister/Nation

2. Tyler the Creator – Flower Boy

I wrote an entire piece this past summer on Tyler, the Creator because of his significant place in my musical journey. Bastard, Goblin and Wolf were three CD's that were perpetually in rotation in the car to school every morning. I was obsessed. But as I grew older and my tastes changed, I grew to realize that what I thought was genius on those three records was just the hubris of a talented artist who wanted to make outrageously long albums that were more like pet projects than commercial releases (the horrendous Cherry Bomb cemented that thought in my mind).

Enter the summer of 2017, where Tyler began to drop singles of lovely soulful rap in “Boredom” and “911/Mr. Lonely,” where he traded the hyper-masculine bravado for sensitive, introspective songs about isolation and unrequited love. To my pleasant astonishment, the foul-mouthed wild child of modern rap grew up, leading that aforementioned hubris to transform into the desire to become better at his craft. This meant a tighter track list, more focused song structures, and better-placed features (no more Jasper and Taco yelling about bitches sucking dick or perming weaves). On top of that, the concept that tied the album together was better. Rather than a therapist leading an aimless session, Tyler turned to cars as metaphors for his life. The revving of engines and skrrrting placed within the songs parallel the unbridled speed of his career. Though he has these sexy McLarens and Teslas at his disposal, he's starting to realize that it's not about proving his worth anymore, whether through fame or possessions. He just wants someone to ride shotgun to appreciate it all with.

The music is extremely well produced too. Soulful horns and wonky OF-style synths are still present, but they fit better into the throwback soul feel of most of the tracks. It's a style that favors the features he brings, including veterans Pharrell and Frank Ocean as well as newcomers Kali Uchis, Steve Lacy and Rex Orange County. In addition, Tyler marries this more laid-back style with a few fantastic bangers in the track list, including the A$AP Rocky-heavy ”Who Dat Boy” and “I Ain't Got Time!”.

This is the album I always wanted Tyler to make. Something that would make him proud as well as critics and fans. It was the culmination of all the promise he's shown since he was an 18-year-old kid spitting horrorcore on the Odd Future Tape. But with all the praise I'm bestowing on this record (my personal favorite of the year) how come it's only number 2?

Because the number 1 album of 2017 is a project so undeniably powerful that it commands the listener to rethink everything they've ever understood about life.

Key Tracks: Where This Flower Blooms, See You Again, Who Dat Boy, I Ain’t Got Time!, November

1. Mount Eerie – A Crow Looked At Me

I only listened to Mount Eerie’s devastatingly sad masterpiece twice this year. Only twice, compared to the countless times I bumped Flower Boy and the Saturation series, but it tops this list. Because after I heard it the first time, it made me so damn depressed that there was no way I could touch it again for a very long time (it was released in March). And I didn't, until a few days before the new year, only to remind myself of why I found it so hauntingly moving.

This album is about death. Or, as the lead track puts it, Real Death. The creative lead behind Mount Eerie, Phil Elverum, wrote and recorded the entire record in mere months after the passing of his wife in August of 2016. There was no time for recovery. Each song on the album is dipped in the tangible pain of a man who doesn't know where his life will lead without the love of his life by his side. The quiet, almost whispered vocals unveil a man in suffering, and coupled with minimalistic acoustic guitars, pianos, and soft drum beats form an excruciating insight into the mind of a man overtaken by grief.

There are songs about the confusing implications of death, comparing it to large-scale disasters and natural destructions such as forest fires and earthquakes (”Forest Fire”). But the more powerful moments are buried in the simple lyrics relating to having to throw out the garbage in the bathroom a month after Elverum's wife death, the mundane action of throwing out the toothbrush she'll never use again and seeing the bloody tissues in the wastebasket, thrown there during her bout with cancer. Tissues that in retrospect spelled the omen of death, but at the time were just gross pieces of paper to toss away (”Toothbrush / Trash”).

It's wonderfully poetic, tying in images of birds and nature to compare the feeling of fleeting life to things the listener can understand. The record is a powerful experience, leading many reviewers and even Elverum himself to refer to the work as “barely music” because it's so sonically sparse and lyrically revealing.  

You're gonna cry listening to this. You're going to want to meet Elverum and give him a hug in futile hopes that it would ease his suffering. You're gonna want to call the important people in your life and tell them how much they mean to you. But most of all, you're going to learn something that is incredibly difficult to grasp as a living being:

Death is real.

So make sure to live every moment as if it was your last.

Key Tracks: Real Death, Forest Fire, Soria Moria

Thanks for reading and happy 2018!

--Chris Hatler

Honorable Mentions:

Alex Cameron – Forced Witness

Algiers – The Underside of Power

Father John Misty – Pure Comedy

Jay IDK - IWasVeryBad

Kendrick Lamar – DAMN.

Open Mike Eagle – Brick Body Kids Still Daydream

Princess Nokia – 1992 Deluxe

St. Vincent – MASSEDUCTION

Vince Staples – Big Fish Theory

[recordsandrambling]

The Problem of Sexual Assault in Modern Rock

Sex has been an integral part in rock music ever since the sexual revolution of the 1960s, put into recognizable terms when Ian Dury of the Blockheads released the single “Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll” in 1977, cementing those four words as the catchphrase of the popular guitar-drums-bass driven genre for decades to come. 

Unfortunately, that combination comes with dangerous results. Sexual assault has undoubtably been prevalent in rock music for a long time, but has only recently come to a bubbling over following the constant stream of allegations reaching the public eye. 

Earlier today, Evan Stephens Hall released a statement on Facebook apologizing for sexually coercing someone he had been intimate with and canceling all upcoming Pinegrove tour dates. The statement came seemingly out of nowhere, with no allegations put forth in the media beforehand. It seemed the singer/guitarist put the message out of his own accord to try to remedy a problem before it rolled too far along to fix. While deeply regretful and seemingly sincere, it is yet another blemish on the face of 2017, with many sexual assaulters being outed across all forms of media.

Specifically in rock music, the first major outing of this year came in May with a Facebook post accusing Ben Hopkins of PWR BTTM of being a known sexual predator. The post quickly went viral, leading artists set to join them on their upcoming tour to pull out and Polyvinyl Records to stop selling all of their music and merchandise, offering full refunds to people who pre-ordered their upcoming record Pageant. Despite the band’s denial of the claims, most streaming services removed the PWR BTTM discography and concert venues cancelled their tour dates.

Yet there were more impactful allegations to come. More recently, Jesse Lacey of Long Island emo giant Brand New came under speculation for sexual misconduct after multiple women claimed he mistreated them during the height of the band’s popularity in the mid-2000s. The reactions to this outing were much more personal, as highlighted by both a fantastic Pitchfork piece and a well-written blog post by a friend. The people who connected most with Brand New’s music felt betrayed, struggling to fit into their mental schema how the lyrics that they yelped along to in their cars or at concerts or in their rooms for catharsis from the angst of their raging youth came from a man who very likely stripped that same youthfulness away from the victims of his careless actions.

While I didn’t have a personal connection to either of those bands, I have a connection to Pinegrove. I listened to their record Cardinal damn near every day of 2016 after its release, revisiting it many times this year as well. After reading Hall’s statement this morning, I reacted very similar to how I imagine Brand New fans did. I was shocked, scared, betrayed, self-reflective. I sang his lyrics myself, wrote them down in journals, read them aloud to friends in profound amazement. I related to this man, I felt like I knew him personally through his songs.

I’m a songwriter myself, and I (like most) write about their own personal experiences. If I related so strongly to the music of someone who sexually assaulted another person, does that make me just as likely to do so?

That’s an incredibly tough and scary question to ask. I would like to think that I’m not capable of behaving in a similar manner, but despite admitting his wrongdoing in hindsight, if not accused at all, would Jesse Lacey ever even recognize he executed such a misconduct? Clearly Ben Hopkins still doesn’t think he was a predator at all, as he's denied every accusation against him.

Hall’s statement details the true problem behind these scandals: the power dynamics at play of being both a man and being a known performer. He documents that he "could sense who from the crowd would be interested in sleeping with [him] based on how they watched [him] perform,” a telling idea that makes it hard to believe that other artists aren’t thinking the same thing on stage. Like Louis CK said in response to the accusations against him for sexual assault, "when you have power over another person, asking them to look at your dick isn’t a question. It’s a predicament for them. The power I had over these women is that they admired me. And I wielded that power irresponsibly.”

Upon closer reading of Hall’s post, his actions appear less harmful as most. He claims to have misread a situation with someone he was in love with, and in only one instance. Yet it raises another significant point: even in a loving partnership, it is possible to take advantage of a significant other. Just because the relationship holds the label of love doesn’t excuse sexual misconduct of any kind.

I appreciate that Evan Stephens Hall was able to recognize his wrongful behavior, speak very transparently about the situation on an open forum like Facebook, and take steps to better himself as a result. While an apology in no way can rectify the wrongs he’s done, Hall’s unjust actions can push all of us to question and put to action what we can do to make society a safer equality-driven space.

As a man and avid music fan, I have a few personal points that I’m taking away from these occurrences that I wish to share:

Firstly, idolization can be toxic. Putting another human being on a pedestal creates an unhealthy dynamic where their word is law. I can admire their work and appreciate their artistry, but no longer can I accept the things they say blindly because I like the way they sound and because I can relate to it.

Secondly, it is important to notice any power I might have over people based on age, leadership roles, or admiration, and I cannot take any of those for granted. I must foster a healthy, mutually respectful relationship, not a dictatorship of ideals.

Thirdly, as a man I need to realize the inherent historical privilege I have because of my gender. I need to put myself in women’s shoes before I say or do anything that could be considered harmful, and realize I have an advantage from the get-go by simply being born male. 

And finally, I need to go back and reevaluate how I may have treated people in the past and find a way to remedy any negative situations that I may have created based on my actions. The only way to truly learn from mistakes is to analyze them and ensure to never make them again.

Though terribly tragic and horrifying, these instances of sexual assault in rock music will hopefully allow for a greater good to emerge. The best things each of us can do are to speak out, take action, and look in the mirror and ask ourselves: how can I make this world a safer, more inclusive place? 

My conclusions here are obviously based on my own experience. I encourage anyone reading to question your life, your behavior, your preconceptions and find a way to make a better person out of yourself if you don’t like what you see. If there are any questions or points that you would like to take up with me, I’m more than happy to continue the discussion, as it is something that needs to be talked about in the open air in order to spark a positive change.  

[recordsandrambling]

Now 23, A Million: Bon Iver’s Glitch-Folk Masterpiece Revisited

“It might be over soon Where you gonna look for confirmation? And if it's ever gonna happen So as I'm standing at the station It might be over soon“

I first heard the droning sound of Justin Vernon’s heavily computer-edited voice echoing those words of finality on the song “22 (OVER S∞∞N)” when the album 22, A Million was released on September 30, 2016, roughly two weeks before my 22nd birthday. Turning 22 seemed like a big deal at the time. It was during my senior year of college, and struck me as the end of the era of birthday milestones. 

13? Finally a teenager.

16? Finally drove a car. 

18? Finally considered a legal adult. 

19? Finally able to buy tobacco products.

21? Finally able to buy alcohol. 

But 22? 22 meant it might be over soon. No more big birthdays to hit. Just an end to life with a safety net. Every step of life’s journey thus far had come with a look for confirmation. To parents, to guidance counselors, to coaches, to professors. But in a fleeting year, that would all be over. Now, at 23 years old, I’m standing at the station without anyone else leading me by hand to the next stage. I have to buy my own ticket there and board the train alone. 

My thoughts on Bon Iver’s 22, A Million are no secret. I loved it at first, then disliked it after many listens. But after a full year removed from listening to it for the first time, my opinion once again flipped. 

The initial positives still ring true: the album is gorgeously produced. Atmospheric, purposeful, glitchy. Every sound--vocal, instrument or synthesizer--has wide room to breathe, but could wisp away at a moment’s instance. A vocal line could cut out abruptly or a piano could evaporate into nothingness, playing into the lyrical themes of the frailty of being human.  

In addition, the album is certainly ambitious for an artist whose breakout first record was minimal and acoustic, seemingly recorded on a different planet from 22, A Million.  

However, I found many negatives after repeated listens. The lyrical imagery seemed hollow and less personal. Replacing the concrete sadness of the lonely guitar ballads with cold, mechanical electronics took away from the emotional authenticity of the music. But what I first believed to be issues with the album became strengths as the context of my life changed.

Just as For Emma, Forever Ago was the quiet outburst of the melancholy solitude of a woodland cabin during a cold winter, 22, A Million evokes the painful aloneness that gnaws at the heart constantly in an isolated bedroom despite the overwhelming presence of social media and the digital neighborhood. Vernon found a way to transfer his knack for emotional connection into the age where scrolling Instagram only brings about the fear of missing out on life’s bountiful experience.

At 22, I was still in college, constantly surrounded by experiences waiting to happen every day with many different friends that I had built steel-strong connections with. I didn’t rely on the Internet to keep my relationships going. 

At 23, I graduated and moved. My closest friendships are multiple hours away. The most I can do to feel that personal connection is by initiating phone call or sending a text, but because of busy schedules my method of relation ends up being refreshing Facebook repeatedly in hopes for notifications. I can only philosophize your figure, what I haven’t held, as Vernon croons on “8 (circle).” 

Vernon’s persistent use of numbers, vocal effects and electronics speak to the digitalization of life and relationships in the modern world, something I only came to realize after it began to happen to me.

My favorite track on the album, “#29 Strafford APTS,” an elegant melding of the acoustic vulnerability of old Bon Iver and the skittish electronic fragility of the new, sums up the only way to escape the clutches of online forlornness. I’ll fold the map and not let geographical separation get in the way of my personal growth. I’ll mend the gap and try harder to keep ties with those who matter most. And most importantly, I’ll tow the word companion by remembering those whose influence has shaped me into the person I am today.  I am not as alone as I seem. I am everything I have ever done and a little piece of everyone I have ever met. Thanks to Bon Iver’s glitch-folk masterpiece 22, A Million, I finally realize that life isn’t the photos and texts that scroll down my phone screen. It is everything real that comes always off the page. 

[recordsandrambling]

Alex Cameron: The Tommy Wiseau of Indie Pop?

On June 27, 2003, the best bad movie of all-time, The Room, forever changed the landscape of cult cinema. Due to its plot holes, abandoned story lines, and inexplicable wardrobe changes, the film is an enigma to most viewers. But to writer, director and actor Tommy Wiseau, it was a masterpiece. (Or rather, according to James Franco’s upcoming adaption of The Room’s background story and filming, a disasterpiece). 

Yet what the film failed to deliver in coherent narrative, it made up for in ridiculous dialogue and a memorably puzzling lead performance by Wiseau himself. The man became an slow burning icon, reaching peak notoriety thanks to Adult Swim April Fool’s viewings and YouTube hits. As of now, he is the face of the cult following of bad films. 

Wiseau’s character, Johnny, is noticeably an extension of how he sees himself: “handsome,” successful, and loved. But as a consequence of this, its hard to distinguish where Johnny ends and Wiseau begins. In interviews, Wiseau speaks with the same inflection and uncomfortable cheesiness as his film counterpart, to the point where you’re not so sure whether or not Johnny is just a character anymore. 

Enter Alex Cameron, a singer and songwriter from Sydney, Australia with a penchant for over-the-top musical creations. His album Forced Witness was recently released on September 8, 2017 and consists of 10 crisp, to-the-point pop tunes chock full of lyrical and musical cliches reminiscent of the 1980s. 

Thumping bass propels many of the songs as synthesizers, keyboards and guitars pepper the air around his smooth voice with vibrant melodies to the driving beat of powerful drum leads. The occasional sexy saxophone line cements Cameron as a genius of nostalgia; each song feels like what being young and in love was like when my parents were in high school. 

Except with a twist. 

The songs are rarely as rosy as I’m making them sound. In the destined-to-be-hit-single “Runnin’ Outta Luck,” Cameron croons about being in love again, a simple enough concept. But the chorus reveals that the character is actually on the road with a former stripper, blood dripping from his knuckles and he tries to escape from some sort of questionable past. The title suddenly seems more literal. The unlikely pair are running from something, and presumably will not see positive things on the road head (especially after the chorus’s revelation that they have stolen money in the trunk). 

The lyrical topics become more ridiculous as the tracklist fist-pumps and head-bobs forward. Cameron despairs over a woman he met on the Internet that might be a Nigerian guy (”True Lies”). He laments about waiting for a teenager to turn 17 so she’ll be the legal Australian age of consent so they can be together (”Studmuffin 96″). The most anthemic song in the tracklist, “Marlon Brando,” comes near the end, where he describes being called a “faggot” by a girl’s boyfriend at the bar, spurring a knock-out punch.

Yet somehow, the song structure is impeccable and the lyrics are hilariously well-written. Case in point, “The Chihuahua.” Lines like “heartache is for the ugly,” or “chasing pussy online cause the dog’s feeling fine and he needs it,” and even, “love’s a diabetic sweetness/love’s a fistful of bronze jewelry” come at opportune times in the song’s narrative, ripping away initial sincerity to set off a scream of humor like a band-aid that you want to tear off. 

The parallels with Tommy Wiseau then rear their heads outside the music. In an interview with The Guardian from November 2016 Alex Cameron claims that his stage persona is different than his actual self, “I write about the outlier, the table-for-one guy, the guy whose life is a constellation of microscopic tragedies.” But the man visible in the music videos and on the album covers doesn’t look like he’s playing a part. He looks the part. 

Cameron’s face remains in a stiff pout throughout each video, not unlike Wiseau’s stone-face in most scenes in The Room. Each man’s should-be-ironic-but-clearly-isn’t fashion sense outlines the personalities they portray: Wiseau’s sportscoat over a black v-neck, Cameron’s leather jacket, wife beater and whitewashed jeans. Even Cameron’s socially-awkward-Michael-Jackson dancing reinvokes PTSD of Wiseau trying to toss a football around. 

The similarities even go deeper than appearances. 

Alex Cameron and Tommy Wiseau both had the same goal: to be taken seriously in their respective creative fields. But holding them back is the pure comedy at the forefront of their tragedy-driven art pieces. Inescapable hilarity is found in every nook and cranny of their overblown dramas. And unfortunately for Cameron, like the fate of Wiseau and the character Johnny, he will be forever cast into the role of “online cowboy in the wild-west days of the World Wide Web,” as his Bandcamp bio states. 

However unlike Wiseau, Cameron has a sliver of light at the end of the tunnel. His music is undoubtably self-aware. Could you picture someone dancing the way he does or writing the phrases he sings un-ironically? 

But many great pieces of art are initially misunderstood. Maybe The Room is a truly excellent satirical film, and audiences are the butt of its joke. Or (more likely) it’s simply a mess of a film that came from a brain not wired for filmmaking. 

Cameron himself croons: “I don’t care if they’re just beautiful lies.” Regardless of whether or not he and Wiseau are sincere in their artistic intent or are pulling a fast one on audiences everywhere, we’re gonna keep watching and listening to their absurd creations anyway. 

[recordsandrambling]

On Flower Boy: Tyler's Growth as an Artist and Its Effect on a Long Time Fan

Tyler, the Creator released his fourth full-length studio album Flower Boy on July 21. It went on to hit number two on the Billboard charts despite Tyler's best efforts to push for the number one spot. Since then, the record has garnered critical acclaim and has been referred to as Tyler's best work to date.

To many critics, the new record was a culmination of all the potential that Tyler has shown on his previous mixtapes and albums. From Bastard to Goblin to Wolf to Cherry Bomb, there were seeds of genius that were waiting to be watered, and only finally in 2017 did "Flower boy T ... bloom into a tree."

This post isn't meant to be a review of the album. It’s hard to pin down a definitive score for an album mere weeks or months after its release. I simply want to reflect on Flower Boy's place in Tyler's career and where the album fits into the narrative of my Tyler experience.

I first heard Tyler, the Creator's music in February of 2012, about a year after Goblin came out. I was fussing through YouTube after coming home from high school and stumbled upon the now-famous "Yonkers" music video. Hoo boy. It was a lot.

Yet I found it intriguing. Back in those days, I didn't bother listening to rap music because I thought it wasn't an artistically or musically significant genre (granted I was snobby about music back then.. scrolling back through young me's pointlessly angry Facebook posts about Justin Bieber might give that away). Somehow though Tyler's rebellious attitude and lashing out against rap blogs and pop stars aligned with my 17-year-old view on the world at the time. Grrr! No one gets me so I'm gonna be angry at the establishment!

So I allowed myself to bypass the whole "no rap" thing because as far as I was concerned, Tyler was more indie rockstar than rapper. I fell in love with Bastard because it renounced much of the bling-era lyricism of rap at the time (2009): "I created O.F. cause I feel we're more talented than 40 year old rappers talking about Gucci." On top of that, it had an emo vibe to it. Much of his lyrics questioned his place in the world, his upbringing, and his future. All problems that a teenager could relate to.

At the time Tyler resorted to shock value in most of his songs. When his lyrics weren't introspective, they were about rape and misogyny. It was edgy, and a young teenager like myself thought it was cool, kind of like seeing an R-rated movie when you're underage. The horrorcore sound certainly turned heads and put Tyler on the musical map, but it wasn't gonna be enough to maintain an audience. By the time Wolf came out, I found it hard to listen to his old tracks without cringing or feeling uncomfortable.

Luckily, Wolf was a turning point of sorts. It came out during my senior year of high school. I kid you not, I listened to that thing every day on the car ride to school from its release until my graduation. The jazzy piano chords, crisp production, and wild synth runs from his old projects were still there, but on top of that came more mature song topics and a more coherent story.

Yet Wolf had shortcomings, just as Bastard and Goblin did before. The amount of well-thought out, coherently good songs was too small to justify the long run times of the projects. I would find myself skipping more songs than I would actually listen to. And while Tyler wasn't afraid to spar with experimentation on tracks towards the end like "Trashwang" and "Treehome95," his punches didn't quite land.

In addition, Wolf continued to meld Tyler's real personality with fabricated characters. Sam, Wolf, Salem. Who was the REAL Tyler, and why was he hiding behind characters he invented? Thankfully Wolf's best tracks unveiled him. "Answer," "Awkward," and "Lone" all showed his vulnerable side. Tyler Okonma himself.  Not Tron Cat, not Samuel, not Doctor TC, but TYLER himself. Those three songs paved the way for Tyler to be comfortable enough to record something like Flower Boy.

But before Flower Boy could come into fruition, there had to be the bombastic, left-field Cherry Bomb. It makes sense to me that before an artist's most successful and powerful art piece can be made, the artist must create something so insanely unique that it becomes polarizing.

I did not like Cherry Bomb. So much so that I haven't revisited a single track besides "Smuckers" since its release. The N.E.R.D. influenced "Deathcamp" started the album off on a good enough foot, but as the vocals got more drowned in fuzz, the production became more cluttered, and Tyler began rapping more materialistically than he ever had, the album became more and more daunting to me and I never came back to it.

I appreciate experimentation. But songs like the title track "Cherry Bomb" were too much, with its extensively fuzzy beat and near incoherent vocal part. The excitement I had following Tyler's career up to that point began to dwindle. His upward trajectory shot downwards, and after seeing some critics pan Cherry Bomb and having friends hate it, I wrote him off as an immature kid who would never realize his true abilities as a songwriter, rapper, and producer. Also at the time of Cherry Bomb's release I started listening to hip-hop music more, discovering its roots and enjoying modern artists. Tyler's new stuff just paled in comparison to many rap albums that came out in 2015.

Fast forward two years later. I've graduated college, unsure of where exactly I'm going to end up or what I'm going to do with my life. So I take a road trip with two friends to see the country as a way to soul search, to find what I really want out of life and how I'm going to get there. While scrolling the Internet in the backseat of our red Prius as it rolled over the South Dakota landscape, I stumbled upon the album announcement. History told me to be skeptical, but the singles initiated a bubbling excitement deep down inside me. "Who Dat Boy" was a classic Odd Future banger that traded throwaway lyrics for a smooth guest spot from A$AP Rocky. "911/Mr. Lonely" was a head bopping sing-a-long that was too infectious to ignore.

I grew more and more excited as the weeks went by, and when it came out I immediately purchased it on iTunes (and allowed an extra 20 something bucks to leave my pocket for the limited vinyl run).

It felt like meeting an old friend who I hadn't spoken to in years, one that I've grown up with and apart from over the previous half decade and finally have the maturity to reconnect. I'm out of college, questioning what's next on the journey of life, dealing with isolation and longing for stability. Tyler is not only questioning his sexuality, but opening up his personal life behind the green masks and the characters for the world to see. My love for Tyler's music hit its highs and lows, much like a friendship typically does.

And that's why I believe Flower Boy had such an impact on me. Over the past half decade I had the pleasure of watching Tyler, the Creator grow as an artist and a person as I was reaching adulthood myself. It's an incredible phenomenon to connect with an artist through their art. Tyler fostered a relationship with me, and although he'll probably never know it, shaped much of my appetite for music and art into what it is now. He redefined the possible; who says you can't produce your own music and release it for free? Why can't you make your own fashion line? Is it impossible to create your own TV show?  Find your wings and fly.

I'll forever be grateful for Tyler, the Creator's influence. With Flower Boy, I can be proud of the old friend that I foolishly neglected when I was wading knee deep in through my college years. He created an emotionally powerful album that removed the cheesiness and tore down the character facade in favor of transparency and sincerity. The cluttered, fuzzy production of Cherry Bomb melted into lush, well-layered instrumentals with lyrics dipped in loneliness and end-of-summer nostalgia (similar to another Odd Future member's 2016 masterpiece).

Thanks to Flower Boy, I finally get to see my old friend Tyler for who he truly is. Another person trying to do the best he can with his passions. And luckily for us listeners, he's really damn good at it.