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Taylor Swift - 2017 - Reputation [4/10]

“My reputation’s never been worse,” she croons. 

After marinating in her high-profile feuds and devolved maturity, it’s difficult to view Taylor Swift as a sympathetic or relatable character. However, it is this unfortunate truth that inspired the young singer-songwriter to examine her public persona and how it is received, and she uses this concept as a vehicle for her interest in more conventional pop music. Although not entirely as void of content as one might expect from a post-1989 Taylor Swift record, Reputation is an album that only offers the illusion of intelligence and clever introspection. At its core, the album is hollow, leaving listeners only with fragments of Swift’s weak songwriting glued together and performed by a brat pushing thirty.

Taylor Swift does not handle celebrity so much as it handles her, and now, she is defined by it. It has steered her to release questionable material once before (see “Bad Blood,” a hypocritical and tone-deaf battle cry for the pettiest of teenagers), and it seems she is now quite happy to let it take full control over her musical output. Leading the Reputation campaign is the kitschy, Right Said Fred—sampling “Look What You Made Me Do,” a sad and woefully under-baked attempt at being ironic and witty: “I got a list of names and yours is in red underlined; I check it once, and then I check it twice! Oh!” The self-absorbed message in this song, which loses all of its irony in Swift’s calculated and serious presentation, is not effective when sung by a mediocre vocalist. Its repetitive refrain and state-of-the-art production are irritating, giving the song no replay value. Thankfully, this song is not quite as indicative of the rest of the material on Reputation as one might think. It sits merely as the record’s disappointing centerpiece, drawing away from attention from more effective material like the R&B-soaked “Delicate” or even the album’s second-single, the admittedly highly conventional “…Ready For It?”

Unfortunately, the quality of material on the bulk of Reputation is ultimately irrelevant, as the cloud of Max Martin and Shellback’s production stink has ensured that the record in its canon state will age very poorly regardless. At the tail end of 2017, Reputation does not push mainstream music into any new directions. Rather, it epitomizes all the trends on the American pop charts heard up until its release. When this sound is coupled with Swift’s brighter moments, the songs play as merely competent and non-committal (“Gorgeous”); when coupled with Swift’s weaker moments, the results are damn near unlistenable (“Look What You Made Me Do” and the Future and Ed Sheeran—assisted “End Game”). When Jack Antonoff is in the driver’s seat behind the mixer, his influence gives Swift’s efforts a decidedly Melodrama-esque feel. However, as evidenced by her awkward attempt at a sex-jam (“Dress,” with its spaced-out synth strings and slow percussion), Swift does not wear the sound well. Only “New Year’s Day,” a piano-driven and quiet effort, eludes to the musical heights Swift could reach if she were to stop letting radio dictate her creative direction.

The now complete transition from country-tinted pop to electronic dance music has entirely perverted Swift’s once keen talent for lyricism, leaving it laying somewhere in the middle of a dirt road. It was also this talent that gave Taylor’s music its initial bite. Sadly, that is the element missing from this effort. It’s clear that Swift does not write well to beats and tracks of this nature, and Reputation, for all its aloof and pretentious posturing, needs its tooled and tweaked production to mask its underwritten libretto and stale melodies. Without consistent message and insightful commentary, the record topples over from the heights of its ambitions and leaves its initial concept in ruin.

Buy Reputation here.

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Neufundland - Wir werden niemals fertig sein [9/10]

The title of Cologne-based rock band Neufundland’s debut record Wir werden niemals fertig sein can be translated in two ways: “We will never be ready”; or “We will never be finished.” Given the supreme musical acumen and professionalism displayed by this hungry band of young men (once a quartet and now a quintet), the first interpretation of this title would be quite ironic. The latter interpretation, however, would be appropriate, as the wait between their debut single and this project lasted a good four years. With attentions diverted for their admittedly stellar eponymous EP in 2015, it was clear that this record would not be reaching listeners for a while. That being said, good things normally come to those who wait. So, was the four-year wait for Neufundland’s debut worth it? The short answer is yes. With biting lyrics, thick production, and feverish drama, Neufundland has crafted one hell of a long-player for themselves.

The sound that Neufundland had initially crafted on their debut EP was the musical embodiment of human tension and frustration—a perfect interpretation of the space between chaos and restraint. Although it would not have been unappreciated had the band mirrored that stated effort for this record, the nuanced pop and new wave flourishes present here add a pleasant twist to a band that had otherwise taken itself rather seriously. Beneath its experimental surface, Wir werden niemals fertig sein coyly drifts off to more accessible shores. One need not search for evidence of this duality beyond the singles lifted from this project. Over the summer, “Eiskugel” (Scoop of Ice Cream) appeared seemingly out of thin-air. Although this song finds the band in a similar work mode as when they recorded their EP, it is its tongue-in-cheek set of lyrics (painting a grotesque scene at a beach shore) that indicated Neufundland was busy making moves in new directions. “Alles was bleibt” (All That Remains), a jarring and rare moment of uncomplicated clarity, followed at the turn of the season and gained some noticeable traction outside of their inner circle. However, it is perhaps “Sag was du willst” (Say What You Want) that provides the listener with the most easily pop-friendly moment on this record, at times bordering on mainstream.

Armed with these three very eclectic glimpses into the future, I still felt as though I was going into this record with blinders on. Although this band has yet to disappoint me, they have not been in existence long enough to have nailed down strong trust between listener and musician. Thankfully, that is exactly what this debut record manages to do. Everything that makes Neufundland such an incredible musical force is present here. Although they never color too far outside of the guidelines they’ve laid for themselves, they are still willing to experiment from inside their own context. This means that although some are more dance-floor friendly than others, every track works together and contributes to the record and its own sonic cohesion. In short, everything on Wir werden niemals fertig sein sounds like a product only this band could create—only these five men together could produce this particular brand of restrained energy. This does not, however, mean that every song necessarily fits together in a seamless package. Thus, it is the production and presentation on this album that distracts the listener from its minor flaws in overarching thematics.

It is the tension and frustration in Neufundland’s music that makes previously released works so captivating. Thankfully, that sense of caution is not lacking on this set of songs either. Still, the spicier ingredients in the music draw a clear distinction between the old and the new. Songs like the title-track, “Trink aus” (Drink Up), and “Bis es stimmt” (Until It’s Right) display a masculine swagger previously unheard from this band; when combined with impeccable production and almost Queen-esque theatrics, Neufundland sounds downright sexy. Elsewhere, nods to 1980s R&B and mid-2000s indie rock blend on songs like “Oase aus Beton” (Oasis Made of Concrete) and “Kopf in den Wolken” (Head in the Clouds). Between the near-funky bass lines, the urgent percussive elements and dramatic synthesizer and guitar work, this album’s weight is further supported by the sarcastic and somewhat aloof vocals. One clearly hears the influence of trend starters like Chic, David Bowie, and Duran Duran present in the underlying heartbeat of this record.

Neufundland seems to subscribe to the same theory employed by the best fashion commentators: wear something that would have looked good 10 years ago and will look good 10 years from today. The same can apply to sound. And thankfully, Neufundland has accomplished exactly this feat without breaking a sweat. Their high level of taste will ensure that this album ages well. As Wir werden niemals fertig sein brazenly follows its own rules, it does not break its back catering to 2017’s plethora of played out sonic attributes. As such, its confidence is what defines it. This is a refreshing effort from a band with quite possibly the sharpest teeth of those in their field.

Buy Wir werden niemals fertig sein here.

[waxontape-blog]

Beth Ditto - 2017 - Fake Sugar [8/10]

As the years go by, I find myself apathetic towards consuming the latest and greatest from even my favorite artists. For the past fifteen or so years, I have amassed quite a sprawling collection of records and tapes, CDs, and 8-track cartridges. However, for every record shop haul I do and every 45-minute record I buy, I give myself less and less time to truly allow the works to ruminate in my mind. There are discs sitting on my shelves purchased over a decade ago that I have still not given a full listen to. And yet, as I wander up and down the aisles in records stores from Berlin to Boston, my fingers feel the itch to pick up more and more little jewels. I’ve seen curbed this appetite for media indulgence, although it still rears its head from time to time like a drug addiction. While standing in front of a long display case of 2017’s most recent releases in Milan, Italy, I felt the pull again. Already in my left hand were two records by Italian pop singer Nek, and my right hands were stretching its fingers out towards Fake Sugar, the unexpected full-length debut record from former Gossip frontwoman Beth Ditto.

After testing each and every listening station (each with its own defects) at the record store, I managed to briefly sample a few of the tracks housed inside the purple cardboard sleeve. After the naked, icy house sounds and electro beats on her self-titled EP (produced by Simian Mobile Disco), the rock and roll and folk influences present in the previews were jarring to my ear, in all the best ways possible. And so, at glorious full retail price, Fake Sugar came home with me.

After the dissolution of Gossip, a band known for its catchy pop melodies and bombastic production, there were many directions in which Ditto’s newfound freedom could push her. Both camp and unapologetic queerness had always been at the forefront of singles and records past. It was that big city sound (from a country-bred band) that made Beth Ditto such a wonder to listen to—in fact, the idea that a queer woman would create music accepted by and large by an underground gay male crowd is, in and of itself, quite groundbreaking. Fake Sugar is, however, not necessarily defined by the sounds previously found in Ditto’s work. It begged the question: would Ditto have the same punch and effect when shifting across genres so brazenly? The answer to that question is yes.

It would have, perhaps, been easy for Beth Ditto to Xerox the efforts made during her tenure in Gossip. However, the bells and whistles bubbling on the surface of albums like A Joyful Noise and Music for Men have been severely stripped back on this effort. In fact, the strong 80s influences that defined said records takes a backseat to a softer, slower sound not dissimilar to that of early Stevie Nicks, Dolly Parton, and Carly Simon. Although she puts away the glitter and haute couture sound for this record, she does not abandon all that which makes her great. Despite being known for her Tina Turner—esque vocals and powerful presence, Ditto is fine form while performing in a far more vulnerable state. And it is what Ditto does with the space and room on these songs that allows the entire record to stretch itself out completely. Somber moments with acoustic guitar and muted percussion are allowed to complete their turns without the added distraction of slick studio doctoring. This also helps the more aggressive pieces on Fake Sugar (such as “Ooh La La” and “Fire”) to feel more grandiose than they are, perhaps a musical attempt at forced perspective.

It is perhaps not the shuffling of musical cues that makes Fake Sugar such a remarkable feat; rather, it is the shift in mood and vocal styling. Beth Ditto will always be Beth Ditto, but that is not to say that she is a one-trick pony. With this record, she adds to her own definition by showing of her ability to play a variety of roles. Fake Sugar is, however, not an album free of flaws. As one ventures through to the end of the long-player, its somewhat lopsided track list becomes more apparent. Side A of this record, defined by its perfect blend of palatable pop melody and haunting production, gives way to a more difficult second half. But such spotty moments are few, and when they show up, they are minor—in comparison to the absolute genius of songs like the bittersweet title-track and the pithy “Savoir Faire,” just about anything would sound lesser.

In maturing as an artist, Beth Ditto has found a way to reconcile her southern roots with her metropolitan celebrity; the marriage of these two important ingredients has produced what it is perhaps Ditto’s strongest moment as a singer/songwriter. Although her self-titled EP is a perfect, delicious slice of synth-pop, it is instantly eclipsed by the progressive, professional grace she displays on Fake Sugar. Ditto’s restraint shows a musical curiosity indicative of an artist on a creative upswing, and she’s looking damn “good in that sugar coat.”

Buy Fake Sugar here.

Banner photo: Steven J. Horowitz of www.out.com

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Not Fade Away: A Look Back at Buddy Holly and The Crickets

The relevance of musical aptitude has waxed and waned with what the general public has decided is in fashion. As a result, one could argue that the mainstream musical landscape has seen yearlong talent droughts more than once or twice before, and it would not be a difficult point to argue. Coinciding with the explosion of MTV, artist and band members had to present evocative visuals and in no uncertain terms be physically attractive-- talent was an added bonus. In the 1990s, feelings were "in," and it became trend to be introspective; in 2017, it is social media which dictates an artist's commercial successes. However, at the earliest on-set of rock and roll, the rules for pop music presentation were still developing, with racial politics and an icy reception from the jazz industry playing an important role. 

Just shortly before four unknown young men from Liverpool, England would take the world by force with their accessible sound and rebellious creativity, another four young men from Lubbock, Texas were busy laying down the foundation for what would become the rock and roll revolution. Niki Sullivan, Jerry Allison, Joe B. Maudlin, and Charles Holley were studio musicians merely dabbling in the only type of true indulgence teenagers had at that time. Blues and rockabilly, country and folk-- already established genres in their own right-- would be used as raw clay for the four boys, who would craft a concoction that would revolutionize the adolescent's very place in society.

But before then, a landmark invention would have to hit shelves in order to get their unique blend to the masses.

With the end of World War II came the advent of the personal radio, the forefather of the Walkman, Discman, Minidisc Player, the iPod, and now the smartphone and streaming services. These small, compact radios were a far cry away from the larger beasts installed in parlors and dens across the world. Which program to listen to on which evening was no longer decided upon by democracy; rather, the sole owner and operator had control over what he or she filled her ears with. This practice had only ever been seen before with the mass production of books. In a world where America had been the heroes in Europe (and the ogres in Asia), life for the average teenager meant being bombarded with omnipresent, brightly painted advertisements, new technology, the promises of travel with family-sized camper vans, the sweet tastes of new candies and ice cream from hamburger joints, and all of it still very much constricted by the need to be "one of us." Regardless, it was the first time in American history that the standard, family-centric paradigm was broken-- the average teenager no longer needed to "share," so to speak.

The personal radio, merely an empty vessel, would soon work its way into the hands of every child and teenager and became a revolution, but it needed the content to propel it forward. And rock and roll, blues, country, and danceable R&B became the software needed to break the mold. The days of jazz pop were slowly being eclipsed, its subversive counter culture once perceived as dangerous was more common place than ever before. The hot, new thing by the middle of the 1950s became records with an electric edge to them. Although tame by today's standards, the melodies and guitar riffs (often adapted and retooled from blues and country-folk origins),present on these recordings were integral to music evolution and still hold their own today.

The combination of Sullivan, Allison, Maudlin, and Holley proved to be reactive, and lucrative. Charles Holley, a charismatic front man with boy-next-door looks, was quick to show his licks from the word go. The boys formed as The Crickets, following the natural dissolution of another band, The Three Tones, and released The Chirping Crickets in 1957, a mixture of original material and blues/R&B covers featuring tight musicianship and impressive performance. 1958's almost immediate follow-up would be the result of a slick marketing ploy, catapulting the front man into the realm of supreme celebrity. The record would bear his now-iconic stage name: Buddy Holly.

Albums were an entirely different beast in the 1950s in comparison to today, and thus these two projects cannot be analyzed separately. Although thematic projects had been ushered into the mainstream music canon by Frank Sinatra, who is often credited with creating the earliest examples of concept albums, rock and roll was a newborn baby rapidly stumbling towards the age of growing pains. As such, Buddy Holly is not an album that was assembled with any great attention to detail. In reality, it is the second slice of the Crickets pie, released under Holly's name in order to capitalize on the band's signature sound and Holly's ever-growing popularity. Also, it was a clever way around contractual obligations by signing the band as two separate acts. The Chirping Crickets and Buddy Holly are two sides of the very same coin, the former a slightly more distant affair in comparison to the latter's more targeted presentation. Whereas The Chirping Crickets is far more general in its approach, the songs on Buddy Holly seem to be directing themselves at a teenage audience while simultaneously marketing the man for whom the record is named.

The two albums are neck and neck in terms of their quality, which stand out as arguably the best survived recordings of the whole of the 1950s. The range of fidelity on these records is astounding for the time period, with raw experimentation placed  right at the forefront. Although the songs seem to draw their inspirations from a myriad of sources (from classical to lullaby to rhythm and blues), they are defined by the band's willingness to push forth into unknown territory. This is perhaps best evinced by the simplistic and sweet "Everyday," which perfectly encapsulates Holly's charisma and ability to adapt his voice to particular song styles. This evergreen is defined by the rather interesting combination of certain elements:  acoustic and bass guitars, a typewriter, Holly's voice, and the gentle slapping of hands on Jerry Allison's knees. Its lack of decoration is strong evidence that less is, in many cases, more. It is also at stark contrast to the up-tempo rendition of "Ready Teddy," on which Buddy snarls with the gusto and experienced snap of a man thirty years his senior.

Despite not being the most artistic of albums, Buddy Holly is a non-stop disc of action, collecting within its short half-hour run time some of Holly and The Crickets' most important material. The classic (albeit rather overrated musically) "Peggy Sue" defines golden oldies in today's society, and the definitive reading of  Sonny West's "Rave On" is a compact rock bullet to the ears. But elsewhere on this album, the deeper cuts ruminate and delight with their slick production and perfectly crafted melodies. From the jazzy, bass and piano--driven "Look at Me" to the rather sensual "Words of Love," the material present here is nothing if not far more advanced than the average pop songs on radio of the day. Whereas much of the standard fair was uncompromisingly pop or uncompromisingly rock, The Crickets managed to marry the genres, creating the blueprint for those who came after them.

The influence from black musicians of the era is full and complete on both The Chirping Crickets and Buddy Holly, which (as opposed to later-era acts like The Beach Boys and at times The Beatles) do not rob-- they contribute to the sound of the day. These four men were deep in the trenches, their youthful energy spilling over across two marvelous pieces of wax. Unfortunately, both of these records are meager when taken on the whole. Due to the nature of the recording industry at that time, much of Holly's best work (both with and without The Crickets) is not present on these two canon albums. Neither houses the spectacularly sexy "Well, All Right," the signature "That'll Be the Day," or "Blue Days, Black Nights," that last of which John Fogerty would later lift for his Blue Moon Swamp album in 1997.

There is a wealth of fantastic material to discover when searching through demos and one-off singles, in addition to Decca Records's That'll Be the Day, the unofficial third LP in Holly's canon, released only in response to The Crickets' later success on Coral and Brunswick. There's the downright sassy, almost baroque-pop "It Doesn't Marry Anymore," the  near tropical stylings of "Heartbeat," and the bittersweet sequel "Peggy Sue Got Married" tucked in between all the flash and sizzle of Holly's biggest hits. They are also important clues for where Holly would have taken his musical adeptness into the 1960s, had he lived to help define them. His final recordings, unfortunately dubbed after his death, serve as our last glimpses into what the future could have been. At times, they are difficult to listen to.

Many of Holly's hits would be defined by the long shadow cast by his untimely death during the Winter Dance Party Tour in 1959, with "True Love Ways," an unreleased ballad from 1958 written for Holly's wife, perhaps the most heart-breaking of them all: "Sometimes we'll sigh / Sometimes we'll cry / And we'll know why just you and I know true love ways." These posthumous hits, along with some of his most experimental and/or forgotten material, would be collected and released on various compilations, the best of which being Decca Records's comprehensive triple-disc set The Very Best of Buddy Holly & The Crickets and the rare but complete Not Fade Away. 

Today, Holly is regarded as one of the great grand-fathers of modern rock and roll, and nobody would be wrong in this declaration. However, it is important to note the important songwriting contributions from Jerry Allison and record producer Norman Petty. Between the three of them, they are responsible for the band's most iconic and important works. With Holly's tragic and untimely death (now coined "The Day the Music Died") we, as listeners, lost the original trajectory for pop music in forms we can only imagine. Would there be a The Beatles? A Duran Duran? A Madonna? A Janet Jackson? A Radiohead? Would disco have risen to power in the 1970s, and would synthesizers had taken the 1980s by storm? We cannot say, but one thing is for sure-- Buddy Holly and his bandmates had a lot more to offer the world that we could ever fathom. Although his career began and ended during the most embryonic phase of rock and roll’s fairly short existence, The Crickets ushered the genre towards excellence and informed every act who came after them.

Click here to buy material from Buddy Holly and The Crickets.

[waxontape-blog]

Une carrière pas légère: Michel Delpech's Le roi de rien turns 20.

I was at Père Lachaise in the 20th Arrondissement in Paris, perhaps the most prolific cemetery in all of France. Tucked away between rotting free-standing family mausoleums and squeezed between freshly laid slabs of concrete and marble, weeds peered up at those of us passing by. An overwhelming amount of us were not visiting loved ones or paying their respects to friends who have moved on, at least not in the traditional sense. Almost every person in my company (or at least within eye line from where I was standing) was a tourist, some from other regions in France and others from half-way around the world. We were there to visit the final resting places and memorials for celebrities who in some way had affected our lives.

I had gone there today specifically to pay my respects to Monsieur Michel Delpech, one of the more prolific stars and talents in French music.

His burial at Père Lachaise, for which burial terms are strict, is fitting for a man so very much in love with his native Paris. The sounds and attitudes of the city are heavily reflected in Delpech's work, which keeps a tight grip on itself. Delpech's better known works were uncompromisingly accessible, skirting the line between traditional "chanson" and mainstream radio-pop. The more experimental moments in his discography, such as Album Delpech and Comme vous, are defined by the times in which they were written and recorded, with his foray into Brazilian jazz from 1991, Les voix du Brésil, a notable win for artistic integrity. What Delpech did best was craft sweet, delicate, and emotional pop for a specific crowd, with whom he continued to grow.  As an artist, he stands somewhere between Udo Jürgens and Paul Simon for his presentation style and cultural significance; that being said, Delpech was also very much his own artist, defined not only by his incredibly smooth and powerful voice, but by his songwriting ability.

In 1997, legacy acts like Michel Delpech, known best for their somewhat corny style and overly sentimental lyrics, were no longer the media darlings they once were. Thusly, released thirty-four years into a career full of ups and downs both personal and commercial, Le roi de rien (The King of Nothing) was an album whispered into a void. Even positive reviews make note that the extreme heights of his popularity had significantly rotted by the end of the nineties. 

Pubic history and cultural significance taken into account, this album's release seems to be nothing that ought be commemorated: it's not a challenging or difficult musical experience; it is not drastically different, structurally, from some of Delpech's other work; and this record is not perfect from start to finish. However, Le roi de rien marks a clear return to the radio-friendly pop that made Delpech a household name, and it is also an important stepping stone in a chronology starting with 1986's Oubliez tout ce-que je vous ai dit, the aforementioned Les voix du Brésil, 2004's Comme vous and ending with 2009′s Sexa. Strung together, these four records offer listeners insight into his slow burning fall to rock bottom and his eventual return to grace. Also, they fashion Michel Delpech as an adult man working openly and unabashedly within a pop framework without sacrifice. Le roi de rien is one of Delpech's most consistent and enjoyable works, one which was unfairly overlooked at the end of a decade swallowed by drum and bass, house, and the uprising of alternative rock.

Six years had passed between album releases, and Delpech found himself without the certainty of success-- he had a core fanbase, and was still pulling in a humble audience of varied age, but the days of his celebrity may have been over. However, this seems not to have disturbed the man too much, who was quoted as saying that "celebrity is fleeting, and in the end, not very important." Le roi de rien is an album created in collaboration with many other established acts like Pascal Obispo and the en vogue Jean-Louis Murat, and it aims to display the introspective dimension of a singer who was just as beloved by the French public as he was disrespected. European media was ruthless in the 1980s and 1990s, and Delpech was victim to rumors of personal turmoil. 

During a large portion of his career, Delpech's private life was marred by addictions to alcohol and drugs, symptoms of a biting depression which would push him to the brink of his sanity. 1990 would be the beginning of a very long healing process; along the way, he would find a soulmate and eventual wife, he would develop a strong connection with religion, and he would address his ailing mental health in his work. Le roi de rien, is the sound of a man who had been confronting his demons with aplomb and silence. The material on this record ranges from metaphorical and subtly personal to narrative and objective. Regardless, the album is very patient and contemplative, as though Delpech were simply thinking these lyrics as he sat out on his balcony, inhaling a drag of his cigarette and counting the clouds. 

It is Delpech's rather understated delivery which allows Le roi de rien to take a subtle and unassuming position. The flash and flair of more chart-destined singles is traded in for subtle melodies and hushed vocals. That being said, the production on this 1997 album is almost so muted and synth-driven that it might as well have been produced at the same time as Phil Collins's Both Sides. But whereas that album is a dark and difficult listen, Le roi de rien is less cryptic and bleak. Regardless of the way the synthesizers on this album were used, Delpech stays in one rather chilled mode throughout the entire project, which offers a copacetic experience for the listener.

Delpech took a backseat position in regards to the songwriting on this album, contributing to only three tracks: "Mon ami est ridicule," an obvious, bouncy track overlooked as a potential pop hit; "Les salauds," a biting, moodier song which carries with it a thick sense of drama; and the disgracefully ignored title-track. This would mean that Le roi de rien lives and dies by two components: the curation of the material which he agreed to record and his performance as a vocalist. And boy, do he and his team ever live up to expectations.

The LP begins with the aforementioned title-track, which sulks over a stark clap-beat and well-paced synthesizer accompaniment. This style was once perfectly employed by Bruce Springsteen on 1993's somber "Streets of Philadelphia." Here, Delpech comes to terms with his flaws (such as having "the wild ego of a hippopotamus") and comes to an ultimate conclusion that he does have self-worth in spite of them. It is the lyrics here which stand out, especially when coupled with Delpech's self-directed vocal take: "Libre aujourd'hui / je suis enfin le roi de rien / N'importe qui, mais tellement quelqu'un" ("Free today / I am in the end the king of nothing / just anybody, yet wholly somebody.") It is the song which, for this listener, defines Michel Delpech as an artist and an actor. "Le roi de rien" is one of four singles from this album, although little in the way of record keeping for this era has survived time. 

Although Le roi de rien suffers from a fairly neutered production typical of the decade, the material on the record has aged remarkably well. On this record, Delpech is an interpreter of emotion, and he navigates the songs with grace and restraint. Unfortunately, none of the singles succeeded in making waves on the French charts, and where France goes, the rest of the Francophone world tends to follow close behind. Le roi de rien was also not a success in Canada, Belgium, or Switzerland-- granted his chart success in those territories was never as strong as on his home territory. In many ways, the performance and organization of this album mirror Frank Sinatra's 1970 masterpiece Watertown, another heartfelt record disgracefully ignored by the general public. And yet, whereas Watertown eventually found an audience with strong thanks to hindsight, Le roi de rien, even after Delpech's death, has not. 

Housed in a white jewel case beneath a design clearly reminiscent of the nineties in Europe, Le roi de rien is a product of its time: of where the artist was in his life, and of what the French public was not expecting to hear on airwaves. The type of chanson-style pop Michel Delpech traded in was simply not in large demand anymore, and the large gap between his last radio-friendly album (a good eleven years) sealed this project's fate. In some ways, it was a necessary failure, a stepping stone which would lead him back to the public. Years removed from the commercial indifference to Le roi de rien, just as he had made peace with his status as an icon, he passed away of cancer. 2016, a month not kind to our beloved public figures, claimed Delpech as one of the first of its victims. He was laid to rest in the heart of his beloved city, whose culture he had significantly impacted.

For me, Delpech is an interesting figure in pop; but for those who grew up with his music, he was much more. And yet, it feels as though his riskier efforts, defined by his maturation as a human being, are factions of his career forgotten in lieu of hits from the 45rpm era. Although songs like "Chez Laurette" and "Le chasseur" have worked their way into the canon for impeccable French compositions, the depths of Delpech's discography have unfairly not been given the attention they so deserve.

At Père Lachaise, it is a toss-up between the site of Jim Morrison's grave and the monument built for Oscar Wilde as to which receives the most attention out of thousands. Wilde's marker is shielded by a thick plexiglass sheath, which is peppered with red lip marks left behind by his followers and fans; Morrison's is blocked off entirely by a fence and is overrun with decaying plant life and decorated by a few beer bottles. I, of course, desired to find these sites in addition to the surprisingly non-surveilled grave for Edith Piaf and the somewhat hidden location of Chopin. But really, I knew specifically for whom I had made the trip.

On the edge of a path that cuts through much of the cemetery in the forty-ninth sector of the sprawling estate is the site of Michel Delpech's memorial. Much like the others, his grave is marked by a large white tomb laying flat as though it were the coffin itself. However, unlike many of the other tombs, that of Monsieur Delpech shines a pearly white amongst a sea of greying and yellowing stone, like a false, uncolored tooth.

I was standing before it, taking pictures with his melodies floating cautiously through my head. Behind me, a small group of French women in their sixties noticed me and asked one another, "Who is that?" They aren't talking about me, but of the person whose memorial I am quite enthusiastically photographing. "Oh! It's Michel Delpech," one says, and I step to the side as they flock around the edges of the cobblestoned path. They continued on, taking photos and reminiscing in a jovial dialect I could barely understand, and I strolled along, humming "Le roi de rien" to myself.

Buy Le roi de rien here.

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Photos: Purepeople, Le Point

[waxontape-blog]

Allie X - 2017 - Collxtion II [9/10]

In an era where former Disney stars and their manufactured contemporaries are suddenly producing thick, well-produced pop music with a bit of edge, anything is game. I never thought I would see the day where myself and those around me openly label ourselves fans of acts like Selena Gomez or Carly Rae Jepsen. But for whatever reason, the musical youth (Aleissa Cara, Lorde, MØ, Adam Lambert, Kesha, at times even Justin Bieber and Rihanna) is hungrier than it has been in years, and they are collectively working to raise a bar lowered to the ground by the turn of the decade—a decade rendered homogenous by the likes of Timbaland and Pharrell Williams. Despite an onslaught of insipid European club bangers making their way onto mainstream radio, it’s becoming less of a chore to sift through the padding and the real content. The line which defines mainstream pop safe enough for the indie crowd has been so obscured that it’s difficult to truly see where it once was. The intelligence and playfulness on albums like Lorde’s Melodrama and Jepsen’s Emotion are helping to define a 2017 as a year when full-length albums are still important within the context of The Streaming Age.

And on no other album released this year will one experience such catchy material that comfortably and effortlessly skirts the line between the pop underground once ruled by M.I.A. and V.V. Brown and the top of the charts than on Allie X (Alexandra Hughes)’s first proper album Collxtion II. This album is a non-stop race through every credible pop trope of the past thirty years mixed with a somewhat robotic and bratty vocal styling of the very talented songwriter. These are Max Martin—level hooks prominently featured on an independent record, albeit a record with a much smarter employment of said hooks. Allie X and her team wax nostalgia for 1980s disco, flirt with late-noughties electronica, and still wink at the modern day club scene with a heavy dose of humor and self-awareness.

As the title implies, Collxtion II is the sequel to Collxtion, a highly experimental and far more sonically challenging extended play released two years prior. The album was somewhat of a difficult birth and risked falling into development hell until Hughes decided to release a collection of demos and ideas on another extended play Collxtion II: Unsolved. Despite a strong showing, only two of the songs on that release found their way onto Collxtion II proper: “That’s So Us,” a sugary sweet and somewhat silly love song; and a supped-up, improved re-imagination of “Casanova,” which serves as Collxtion II’s true pop masterpiece. “Casanova / fuck me over / left me dying for your love,” coos Hughes, unapologetically calm and clear as she struts through the chorus like a seasoned pro. Although I could lament the loss of “Too Much to Dream” and “All the Rage” (more of Unsolved’s perfect moments), it meant that there was more room for newer material. And in true Allie X fashion, the rest of the album does not disappoint.

Between the cold, distant reading of “Need You” and the club-ready “Vintage,” Hughes proves herself as an unstoppable force armed with songs her contemporaries would give an arm and a leg to record. While Collxtion II is not a perfect album from start to finish, the lower points (the somewhat awkward “Lifted,” for example) are all of such a high caliber that said lower points are not blemishes on what is truly a landmark album for 2017. While one could easily argue that Hughes’s debut album is a step away from the oblique and difficult presentation of her previous work, she certainly does not sacrifice intelligence and quality for the sake of making more accessible pop music. Pop needs Alexandra Hughes.

Buy Collxtion II here. For fans of: Carly Rae Jepsen’s Emotion; Ladyhawke’s Ladyhawke; Lorde’s Melodrama

[waxontape-blog]

MUSIC IN MMXV: A RETROSPECTIVE AND COUNTDOWN

It seems like everywhere I turn, music is just falling from the trees, wafting from the heating vents, pulsating out of car windows as the drivers pass by. By now, as the year draws to a close, and the cold season is now in full swing, the soundtrack of today has become as colorful as the foliage dusting the city streets in golden red leaves. Despite being somewhat of a slow burn at the start, two thousand and fifteen, MMXV, has been hell-bent on overloading me with information. Many of my favorite musical acts all came back this year, releasing LPs, EPs, singles, music videos, and heading out on the road. The middle of September marked a change in the weather, and what followed was a cavalcade of good music that quickly made up for lost time. MMXIII was the year of “do what-the-fuck-ever,” MMXIV was the year of hidden gems discovered late, and MMXV, I say, is the year of confidence. With that I give you a retrospect of the music I heard this year, the good, the bad, and the ugly.

All releases are ranked according to my feelings on the records at the time of this piece’s publication. As I’ve been able to sit with some previously reviewed releases for a bit more time, scores may not represent their initial standings. Each album’s numerical score is tallied by adding together the scores for each individual song (out of 5) and then averaged out. Any score with a (+X) integer means that the score has been rounded according to its success as a record.

I hope you enjoy.

Before we begin, here is a list of honorable mentions that unfortunately did not make the cut for various reasons (listed on their banners), but they are all very much worth a listen.

The Albums:

With the unexpected dramatic Eastern sample at the start of Fan of a Fan, the producers trick the listener into thinking this album is going to be somewhat good. Well, that’s unfair. For the most part, the producers do a pretty good job with the material on this album—the issue is clearly the two idiot headlining stars, who have penned some of the laziest, dumbest, and most sexist lyrics to be found in an age where sexism generally isn’t selling very well. Between Chris Brown over-singing about sex (or potential date rape, on some of these songs—“I’m about to get up on that ass right now…”) and Tyga’s horrible rhyming skills, Fan of a Fan is a true travesty. Something akin to typhus. Lyrically, the album is 85% bad pick-up lines and 25% blatant crassness. The issue with Brown and Tyga’s approach to sexuality is that it’s entirely negative. It’s about them and their pleasure, their needs, their unbridled libido regardless of how it is received: “You should have left her in the kitchen.” It’s wholly classless and lame. Despite some catchy hooks and thick beats here and there, the lyrics of this thing just totally destroy any potential it had. Nearly every song has the same theme and formula—but the two still had the audacity to put a love song amidst the sexist trash. A good friend of mine who’s passionate about equal rights and gender equality made a lovely observation about this album—it is soaked from head to toe in generic hip-hop, the kind of music that proves people right about its musical integrity: “I will give this hypothetical woman 1,000 compliments about her beauty and sexuality, but only on my terms.” It’s sad that this is ruining the legacy of an otherwise complicated and diverse genre. If you’re going to rap about sex and how super-cool-fly-awesome-dope-and-whatever you are, do it with some finesse and skill. Go talk to Angel Haze and learn about the genre you’re dealing in. I cared so little for this record that I don’t even care about the banner’s spelling error. Meh.

With mainstream pop music in such a confused state that it’s the human equivalent of a dim-witted young child continually eating baker’s chocolate, it’s difficult not to outright despise a good deal of it. Despite standards of audio quality and production at an all-time low, at least MMXV’s pop scene has started asking the talent in question to actually be able to sing, or at least have something to say. Both can be said for Meghan Trainor, whose big hit “All About That Bass” became the most overplayed song of the last two years. Trainor followed up that song’s success with Title, an album that does not just pay homage to its 1960s influences, but downright rips them off. Title suffers from a lack of charm and class. The annoying, loudmouthed personality found on “Bass” is found on almost every other song of this record, and is in rare form on garbage like “Lips Keep Movin’” and “Dear Future Husband.” Trainor, a self-confessed non-feminist, has certainly done a lot to make women in pop music look like bimbos, and even if she has a lovely singing voice, it’s not enough to save Title from being stuck within the confines of her gimmicks. The songs are bad, the hooks are lame, and Meghan Trainor is the annoying girl at the party that nobody actually invited. And she brought her fucking guitar with her.

Once Björk began writing nonsense lyrics in order to pander to the artsy-fartsy crowd, I knew it was over. Once she decided to create an entire album made of a cappella throat noises, I knew she was jumping the shark. And once she worked with Timbaland, I gave up hope. Which is why Vulnicura, in particular, angers me. When I heard a part of the album’s opener, the orchestral and somber “Stonemilker,” I thought Björk was coming back, stepping away from the pretentious heights of Medùlla, Volta, and the abysmal Biophilia. Unfortunately, I was wrong. Very wrong. Although she doesn’t dabble too much in her usual cut-and-paste approach to music production on this album, Vulnicura just proves to me that Björk is out of ideas. This is her big divorce album, its narrative telling the story of the break-up with long-time romantic and professional partner Matthew Barney, beginning with the moments leading up to the end. With a smaller tracklist and an album cover featuring a chest wound modeled into the shape of a molten vagina, Vulnicura is supposed to be fantastic, and her label very much wants you to think so, too. It is supposed to be amazing. It is supposed to be Björk. But, unfortunately for me, this album is what Tori Amos’s Unrepentant Geraldines was in MMXIV: so bad that it pushes beyond the borders of merely being disappointing. The songs lack melody, cohesion, focus, and artistry. They play randomly, and they drip like a collection of leftover material from previous works. Björk’s material post-2004 is best left in the trash bin.

Woof. This album is an old dirty mutt with rabies. Just shoot it and put it out of its misery. All of the potential Imagine Dragons has as a rock band—and that potential is there—is drowned out by the effect that studio polish and mainstream success can have on newly successful bands. This is something that tends to happen to acts who can offer something new to the pop music scene and are picked up by a major label. This is also why somebody like Alanis Morissette was met with confused reactions when she released the sprawling mess that was Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie—and it’s also why manufactured pop stars and singers end up doing more interesting music once they step outside the confines of their label’s stranglehold. So really, the over-production on Smoke + Mirrors implies that Imagine Dragons is a good band caught up in their celebrity at the moment, suffering under the weight of massive pressure set by the need to perform well—for themselves, for the fans, and for their record label. Unfortunately for those who enjoyed the lean, smart, and slick pop of Night Visions, this is merely a consolation prize, as Smoke + Mirrors is still overblown, poorly executed, and exhausting to listen to. Most of the good ideas on this album are drowned out by the noise, compression, and studio gimmicks running amok. And to think people are listening to an album like this through Apple iPhone earbuds, transcoded from a YouTube video clip. This is the future of mainstream music production,  people, and it’s not pretty…

I’m not sure I know enough about Will Young to understand 85% Proof. Or maybe it’s just that I find the material on this album nowhere near as inspired or interesting as what one will find on his previous effort Echoes. But what really irks me about this album is the way it is presented. All of the worst material is right up front. The triple punch of “Brave Man,” “Promise Me,” and the vintage-soul-inspired “Love Revolution” left me unsatisfied—shocked, in fact, at how unfinished these songs sounded. It’s not that there aren’t good ideas here—it’s just that the album feels rather under-baked. It rides on the coattails of its production—British soul music blended with modern boy-band pop—and that’s actually a very nice combination of sounds. Young’s voice is in nice form, and he emotes and performs the songs very well. Unfortunately, much of the album’s content is flat and missing a memorable hook to keep it in my mind. There’s an argument that not every good song needs to have a hook, but every good pop song will, and Will Young sings pop music. The slower songs on this LP hit harder than most of the upbeat stuff, and while not all is lost on 85% Proof, it’s really nowhere close to being a good record.

I refrained from writing a full review of this album because I know my boys can do better. Never fearing the unknown, having already experimented with acoustic rock, grunge, rap, and disco, Duran Duran don’t need to try anymore. With highly palatable albums like All You Need is Now, Astronaut, the misunderstood Red Carpet Massacre, and the dark Pop Trash, their limitless lack of fear is what has allowed the band to endure for over thirty years. But with Paper Gods, Duran Duran lost the ground beneath them and stumbled head-on into a brick wall. The boys are no stranger to funk and nu-disco, two genres they’ve done very well with in the past, which makes this album all the more confusing. While I can forgive bad production—and believe me, it is a brickwalled, compressed mess—I cannot forgive bad songwriting, and much of the material on this album is faceless and dull. “Last Night in the City” may be one of the absolute worst songs I’ve ever heard, nonetheless on this album, and “You Kill Me with Silence” Xeroxes its melody from The Script’s “Falling to Pieces.” While there are some nice moments—like the lead single “Pressure Off,” which features the album’s only decent production work—Paper Gods is this year’s unexpected bomb.

Madonna. The name just stirs up so many feelings in me: joy, love, respect, excitement… frustration. Throughout her thirty-year career, Madonna has had her peaks and brief lows, but she’s always pulled it off at the end of the day. The way she navigates the pop scene has made her a median that separates the good from the bad. But beginning in 2012 with the unfinished and poorly-received  album MDNA, the cracks in her confident façade have begun to fall away. Many would argue this truly began with 2008’s Hard Candy. With MDNA and Rebel Heart, Madonna proved she could put in little effort and still get a big payoff—in terms of both positive reviews from music professionals and the adoration of fans. But while I enjoy a great deal of the fun pop jams on this thing—“Devil Pray,” “Rebel Heart,” “Wash All Over Me”—Rebel Heart still spells trouble in Madonna-land for anybody who really knows her career inside and out. The confidence and self-awareness she had during her Bedtime Stories era, the professional attitude on Confessions on a Dance Floor, the creativity of her Erotica album—all of that has been tossed out the window on Rebel Heart, which very openly and honestly panders to the people who long for the return of Blond Ambition: crucifixes, sex, soft-core pornography, and swearing. All the energy and creativity she put into her Rebel Heart Tour—which features dancers on flexible stilts, a murder sequence, a Parisian night club with one dancer dressed as Josephine Baker, and a recreation of the Last Supper—should have been put into making this record a stunner. Sadly, it’s all bad production and some truly embarrassing musical mistakes that should have been deleted in the studio (“Bitch I’m Madonna,” “Illuminati”). Although Rebel Heart is enjoyable for what it is, I hope she never releases another album like this one or MDNA again.

What Hilary Duff lacks in artistry she makes up for in simplicity. Her music is a great example of how far one can take sincerity and a positive attitude. She first caught my attention with her previous LP Dignity, to which she contributed a lot of the songwriting, so it was only natural for me to anxiously await Breathe In. Breathe Out.—the return of a pop singer who I feel is quite underrated. There was good news and bad news to be had with this album, though. The bad news? Duff wrote very little of this album herself, and as a result, it plays as a less personal effort in comparison to the angry, sassy, sexy cuts on Dignity (“Danger,” “Gypsy Woman,” “Stranger”). The good news? Duff is an excellent pop curator, and she has assembled a list of studio tracks that fit her overall narrative: surviving a divorce. While she has some no-boys-girls-only moments on this album, the record attempts to focus more on Duff’s recovery after heartbreak. “Sparks,” which some have called the sleeper hit of the year and her best single overall, is the perfect summer jam, one that epitomizes the good vibes from a girls’ night out. This is followed by rebound anthem “My Kind” before we get into some sadder territory. “Arms Around a Memory” and the title track push Duff into a more somber space, her voice accurately playing the part of sad (but not that sad) pop princess. Duff is a mom now. She’s an actress focusing on her career, and she’s an Instagram superstar. The joy in her music reflects that, and Breathe In. Breathe Out. is pop music made for pop lovers who aren’t satisfied by what Justin Bieber and will.i.am have to offer.

It’s difficult to discuss Marilyn Manson as a band, because its namesake and creative energy lives and dies with their charismatic frontman. The love child of David Bowie and Madonna, Manson made quite a name for himself in the 1990s. He’s been simultaneously hailed as a genius and as the worst thing to happen to American youth since the draft. But amongst all the noise and controversy, Manson and his Spooky Kids released some of the most interesting art-rock ever recorded with Mechanical Animals, Holy Wood, and The Golden Age of Grotesque. But then came the greatest hits collection Lest We Forget, and it signaled a shift in musical direction and confidence for the group, as retrospectives often do.  Just as The Immaculate Collection draws a very clear line between Madonna in the 1980s and Madonna post-cone-bra, Lest We Forget was the end of Manson: Stage 2, the sleek and rebellious outfit who actually had something interesting to say. What followed were three miserable albums that rested on their laurels: Nazi imagery for funsies, loud industrial beats, and lame lyrics. It was mostly a collection of songs packaged for the Hot Topic crowd. The Pale Emperor had all the makings of being the fourth album in a row to disappoint me, but for some reason it did just the opposite. Instead, it became an album of hope: hope that anybody can come back, no matter how far gone they may be. If Manson can scale back and cut out the bullshit, anybody can. And this album is thoroughly decent. Unlike Born Villain, there are not just glimpses of good ideas; no, these ideas were expertly executed. The troubling guitar work on “Third Day of a Seven Binge” and the drama of “Warship My Wrack” blend with poignant social commentary like “Killing Strangers,” and add up to the return of Marilyn Manson: The Observer, the Conscience, the Social Mirror.

I encountered James McMurtry’s latest LP Complicated Game purely by chance. By using the music aggregator website Album of the Year’s music rating system, I have been exposed daily to new albums to put on my “to-hear” list. And for some reason, the “Americana” tag attached to this album piqued my interest, particularly when combined with the record’s very modern and subtle graphic design. What I was treated to was thoroughly decent, an album full of narrative poetry inspired by John Fogerty, Warren Zevon, and Bruce Springsteen. McMurtry, normally a very politically charged songwriter, got a bit more polished and less direct with Complicated Game. The melodies here are allowed to shine organically thanks to a lack of overproduction. While this album took longer to grow on me than some of the others on this list, Complicated Game has some lovely moments worthy of praise: in particular, the quiet “Long Island Sound.” The brief moments of pop on this album are interesting, although it’s clear McMurtry fares best when he allows himself the time to breathe. As a result, the opening track, “Copper Canteen,” soars to heights that his simpler material does not. Overall, this is a competent, professional album that proves one can step back from the ledge and still enjoy artistic success.

Singer-songwriter John Grant’s third LP is a grower. It did not hit my ears as skillfully as his previous effort Pale Green Ghosts, which is as close to perfect as perfect can get. That said, Grey Tickles, Black Pressure is a project that has grown on me considerably, its subtle pop hooks slowly finding their legs. This album does suffer from lack of focus, with the ever-moody Grant at odds with the sense of peace he’s finding in his personal life, and as a result, the angrier moments of this album don’t feel as sincere or potent. There are also some ideas on this record that Grant has previously done better (“Snug Slacks” is a very odd do-over of “Black Belt” from his last record). But the songs are still good at the end of the day. “Black Blizzard” and “Guess How I Know” marinate in their drama, their presentation and production bombastic, and “Down Here” shows that Grant still works well when working on a slower, calmer, and more atmospheric plane. Judged on its own merit, Grey Tickles is a collection of clever kiss-off tracks and tales from the middle of a mid-life crisis—but unlike many mid-life crisis albums, on Grey Tickles, John Grant remains John Grant: humbled, ready to claw some eyes out, a bit giggly, and terribly sexy.

Of all the LPs on this list, Unbreakable, which marks the triumphant return of Janet Jackson, is the only one that rivals Richard Hawley’s Hollow Meadows in regards to its self-awareness. Over time, Unbreakable has proven itself to be an album best listened to when one has the time to focus on the music. While there are some good party jams to be had (“Dammn Baby” and “Burnitup!”), Unbreakable also wades in deeper waters, drawing lyrical inspiration from Jackson’s Rhythm Nation 1814 period, the plight of today’s social climate, the death of her brother, and where the singer finds herself today. Even this far into her career, Jackson not only serves fans with a collection of welcomed, expected R&B and pop-inspired songs, but still finds the time to dabble and experiment. This is something she hasn’t truly done musically since 1997’s The Velvet Rope, as her work between 2001 and 2008 stands huddled together under the same thematic and artistic umbrella. The thick urban production of “Dammn Baby” and the Minneapolis throwback “Night” sit next to sexier cuts like “No Sleeep” and more somber, acoustic moments like “After the Fall.” While the album sprawls uncomfortably at times, the positive sides to Unbreakable far overshadow the brief missteps, and with this album, Jackson took herself out of the pop race Madonna is still trying to win. This is simply Janet Jackson, the singer, the songwriter, the R&B songstress, the dancer, the artist, the pop star. Take her or leave her.

The reemergence of new wave apostle Joe Jackson is something that can never truly be predicted. While he has steadily been releasing records with his name on them, it’s a crapshoot as to whether any given release will be a classical composition, pop music, a film soundtrack, or a covers album. Although it was his signature piano-pop sound that made him a superstar, it is his musical curiosity and love of sound that established him as a dark horse on the new wave scene. From the pop-punk sarcasm on Look Sharp! to his tribute to wartime-era jazz club tunes on Joe Jackson’s Jumpin’ Jive, he always keeps his fans guessing, and it makes his album releases true events. With this year’s Fast Forward, Jackson has written and assembled some of the most accessible and artistically successful pop tunes in over a decade. While he winks at the landmark 1982 album Night & Day, he jumps across genres in such a way that Fast Forward mirrors not only his hits, but also his more experimental work. Aside from one very unfortunate misstep in the anti-extremist protest song “If I Could See Your Face,” the entirety of Fast Forward is a musical time machine accompanied by an incredible ear for melody. The center of the show is Jackson’s voice, which hasn’t aged a day, and he equips it to convey humor, romance, and interesting storytelling. It is a very welcome return for a man who truly has no need to prove himself.

The icy-wet sound of British singer-songwriter Seal is a far cry from the UK house scene he crawled out of. Much like Peter Gabriel, Seal’s discography is mostly self-titled, which means the spotlight is always on him and what he can do. These albums are, as Gabriel says, like magazine issues that focus on where the artist is at a given time in his or her life. After dabbling with cover albums, Seal is looking back in his broken mirror again, and it seems he’s gluing the pieces back together. 7, Seal’s ninth studio album (seventh of all his original material), gets to the core of what makes music fun without relying on gimmick to distract the listener. 7 is oddly as grandiose as it is small and humbled as Trevor Horn and Seal make their magic yet again. Even lesser material—such as “Life on the Dancefloor,” which tricks the listener into thinking it’s catchy—is carried by the fantastic production and vocal performance. But aside from a little smoke and mirrors, 7 is an album of songs that would mostly work even without the fancy studio time: “Daylight Saving” is certainly helped by the dramatic vocal layering and banjo (yes, I hear it, Seal), but the lyrics and delivery are passionate enough to push the song from the tedious to the extraordinary, which is the same story with the dark “Padded Cell” and sweet “Every Time I’m With You.” But one of the best moments comes in the shape of “Let Yourself,” the only song on the album Seal wrote entirely by himself. The album sags and mopes at times with some maudlin lyricism (“Love,” “The Big Love Has Died”), but over all, it’s a worthy contender in a sea of self-assured albums that follow suit in not over-asserting their presence. Imagine Dragons could learn a thing or two from this.

With the mainstream music empire slowly eroding at the hands of iTunes, YouTube, and the many splintered branches of Napster’s dead stump, the market has never been so open and wide. Although this state of affairs has made the art of good musicianship go the way of the hand-written letter, it has also made it easier for people to discover something outside of what the radio plays. I began exploring Mika in the interest of gay visibility, a search for fun pop music made by somebody who has had to deal with things I’ve dealt with as well. John Grant, Will Young, and others also join the ranks with Mika, but this year, Mika outdid them all with No Place in Heaven, his mature fourth record. With each album, this Lebanese-British singer-songwriter has experimented, but remained true to himself and his artistry. This means that we are lightyears away from the uncontrolled garishness of Life in Cartoon Motion, but still somewhere within the same universe. His work is consistent, which is the mark of security and self-awareness, two things any good musician and songwriter will have. On this record, many of the issues on his first three albums have been ironed out. The maturity he displayed on The Origin of Love is expanded on, and even when he does get cartoonish (“Girl You’re the Devil” and “Good Wife”), he does so in a subtle way that does not belie the intention of the heavier moments on this record, like “Ordinary Man” and “Hurts.” Any artist who can get better and better with each album is one worthy of our attention.

Lianne La Havas has her work cut out for her. In a world where Solange Knowles and India.Arie are overlooked in favor of Adele, I’m not entirely sure La Havas will ever get the due she deserves. One spin of her sophomore record Blood and I knew she had something—two spins and I fell in love. Three spins in, and with each revolution, she kept quietly making her case, climbing up the list higher and higher—even though she entered the running rather late, at the recommendation of Quentin Harrison. The soft, somber melodies of “Good Goodbye” and “Wonderful” are drenched in drama, employing only La Havas’s silky voice and airy guitar strings to create the mood. The album’s more up-tempo moments are just as thick and rich with content, but Blood feels no need to stomp its feet and scream from the top of its lungs. It lets the music do all the talking, from the soul licks to the indie-rock production and presentation, and La Havas walks the line separating the sides of the racial music divide with ease. Apart from a few odd moments, nothing on this LP feels out of place or unworthy of attention. This girl has the chops.

The line that divides Mylène Farmer’s career is only discernible in the clear difference between 1995’s Anamorphosee and 1997’s Innamoramento, two albums created in the wake of Farmer’s self-exploration and extensive foreign travel (the United States, China, India). If Farmer must constantly be compared to Madonna, then Innamoramento is her Ray of Light, and much of the work after that album also mirrors Madonna’s in that a great deal of it, although enjoyable, follows a very specific pattern and rarely reached the heights of her earlier work. This is something that happens with many established pop artists, and Farmer is no exception. But unlike Madonna, Farmer doesn’t go so far off the deep end as to royally embarrass herself musically, and there are no “Bitch I’m Madonna” moments present in her work. After 2012’s dated Monkey Me, the palate cleanser that is Interstellaires is a welcomed, fresh return to form, and the material is presented in such a way that reminds us that Farmer is a seasoned pro. While she doesn’t reach the artistic bar she set for herself with albums like L’autre and Ainsi soit je, her latest offering still brings the goods, from the dramatic, club-ready “Stolen Car” to the thoughtful, melancholy “Insondables” to the pure fun of “C’est pas moi.”

If you, dear reader, were to look at my Last.FM profile statistics, you might scratch your head and wonder why it is that Cry Baby, the debut album from Melanie Martinez, was not named Album of the Year. And you would be very correct in your confusion, as it is my most-played of MMXV. The dark humor and raw, unbridled imagination on Cry Baby made for what is the most interesting pop album I’ve heard in a very, very long time. But this album does suffer from a lack of seasoned professionalism and standards, and Martinez has been allowed to draw all over the walls as she sees fit. As a result, this album wanders a bit over the line between clever writing and riding-the-theme-until-the-wheels-fall-off. But I will not deny that she’s fun, daring, and creative. Between the allegories for sexual assault, parental infidelity, loss of innocence, and murder, it’s hard to imagine that Cry Baby is also a pop album with hip-hop beats, fun hooks, and really catchy melodies. But that’s exactly what it is. And what Martinez managed to do was fill the void left by Madonna’s Rebel Heart. Normally, Madonna occupies a good 80% of my listening time in any given year that she releases a new LP. This is what Cry Baby did for me this year, and I listened to it on almost every walk I took, on every drive, and in every minute of down time.

British singer-songwriter Richard Hawley has a very natural, somber, and painful approach to music distinctly inspired by early soul and rock ’n’ roll. He distills these influences through the lens of bittersweet memories, and the resulting music often results in tangible chills. For me, Hollow Meadows quickly set the standard for all albums released in MMXV, both before and after it. Although there is absolutely nothing new on this album for Hawley, who was just coming off the heels of experimenting outside of folk rock for the first time with his previous LP, this album is the mark of a seasoned professional who is very much in control of his art. Now, this is something more easily achieved when you’re surrounded by the right people, and the intrinsic nature of Hawley’s musical style almost ensures the chance to grow as an artist, more so than a pop star. But that does not mean that Hollow Meadows is any less incredible for its confidence and lack of showboating. The music on this record whispers to the listen, and, as a result, it is my pick for Album of the Year.

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Other Albums Discovered in MMXV

Warren Zevon 

Warren Zevon (1976) √+

Warren Zevon

Bad Luck Streak in Dancing School (1980) √+

Richard Hawley

Truelove’s Gutter (2010) √+

John Fogerty

Hoodoo (1976 – Unreleased) √+

Semisonic

All About Chemistry (2001) √+

Carly Simon

Boys in the Trees (1978) √+

Alizée

Une enfant du siècle (2010) √

Toni Braxton

More Than a Woman (2002) √

V V Brown

Lollipops & Politics (2010 – Unreleased) √

[waxontape-blog]

Since 1989: A Look at Deborah Gibson and Tiffany

When the names of singer-songwriters Tiffany Darwish and Deborah Gibson are mentioned, it’s usually somewhere within the context of what I refer to as a nostalgic 1980s purgatory—not actually the 1980s, just a very strange facsimile of the 1980s as romanticized by people who can either barely remember the period or never experienced it in the first place. While neither women has ever publicly shunned their 1980s stigma, this reputation the two of them share has been solely responsible for their being maligned by music critics as musicians and artists.

In the late winter of 1987, a spunky blonde with messy hair and a denim ensemble set the standard for teen pop princesses—a standard that has rarely been reached by any of the pop girls who came after her. With her debut single “Only In My Dreams,” Debbie Gibson changed the face of pop music forever. She is far from the world’s first songwriter, or the world’s first successful female songwriter. She has to contend with bit hitters like Carly Simon, Nina Simone, Deborah Harry, Carole King, Joni Mitchell, and Judee Sill. Where Gibson changed the game lay within both her demographic and her age. Gibson is a truly self-made woman. She began illegally performing in dance clubs around New York City, peddling her demo tapes in the hopes that somebody would notice her. And this tactic worked. By the summer, “Only In My Dreams” became Gibson’s breakthrough success. A blend of Whitney, Janet, Madonna, Jody, and every other woman in pop at the time, Gibson separated herself from the rest of the competition with one very short sentenced printed on the inside of her debut LP Out of the Blue: All songs written by Debbie Gibson. It would take the United States well over a decade before the public mainstream paid attention to another teeny-bopper with songwriting ability: Vanessa Carlton in 2002 and Taylor Swift in 2006. She defined “pop princess,” and although she is oft compared to Britney, Christina, and the like, they could not be more different from Deborah.

Out of the Blue and its follow-up Electric Youth (1989) are two albums entrenched in downtown dance club sound taking cues from the freestyle scene. They set on the shelf with Shannon’s Do You Wanna Get Away and Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam’s Spanish Fly. And they are the two Gibson albums that managed to stay relevant beyond the confines of the 1980s. With the start of the 1990s, Gibson’s popularity in the western world dwindled quite rapidly. While this is partly due to Gibson’s growing disinterest in stardom, later focusing on her acting and Broadway career, it is quite clear to see the important role a pop-star’s image can play when it comes to matters of success or failure. It is no secret that 1990’s Anything is Possible was a major commercial disappointment for Atlantic Records, one of their biggest acts no longer bringing in the bacon on home turf, although Gibson’s popularity endured in Japan.

Despite numerous television performances and a semi-successful leading single (“Anything is Possible”), Gibson’s popularity was eroding. Is this solely because Gibson’s heart wasn’t in it? Absolutely not. And it would not be difficult to argue that Gibson’s disinterest in stardom was affected by Anything is Possible’s relative failure when compared to the major success of Electric Youth. I was just discovering her music when I ran across a promotional performance of “One Step Ahead,” the song that in my opinion should have been the album’s lead single. It was catchy, it was fun, it was upbeat, and it right in line with the stuff Madonna and company were doing. The house beats straddled the line between what would become the Euro-dance scene in 1995 and what the pop landscape was in 1987. Her hair cut short, her make-up fresh, her outfits tight, Gibson carried herself with grace as she belted her heart out. Imagine my surprise when I checked online and saw that the song was a total flop outside of the American dance charts. I thought: what was it that she did wrong here? The answer is nothing. Gibson did nothing wrong that this song wasn’t a major hit.

And that’s a theory further proven by her Possibilities Tour, her performance of “Anything is Possible” on the Arsenio Hall Show, and the way she promoted the album. The world had simply had enough of her. Of Debbie Mania? No. Of her positive vibes? Maybe. It seems that the public did not trust the girl to grow up, and in the racy early 1990s with material like “Justify My Love” and “Love Will Never Do (Without You)” lighting up the charts, Gibson’s material may have come off a little watered down in comparison. Whatever the reason, the progression Gibson showed as an artist and songwriter between 1987 and 1993 is impressive.

As previously stated, Out of the Blue and Electric Youth share too many common traits to be evaluated on their own. The only obvious difference is that Gibson was spilling out of the extremely tight pop image the label had crafted for her, both literally and metaphorically. Her figure fully developed, her face womanized and less juvenile, Gibson’s Electric Youth-era is one she out-grew very quickly. With Anything is Possible, Gibson made a mark, and one can clearly draw the line in the sand with this album serving as her career’s first era ender (and opener). Although much of the album still dabbles in the turn-that-frown-upside-down tricks that made her famous, the music has much more of an adult edge. The nods to R&B and house on this album would later imprint the album’s follow-up, but they are still used to great effect on pieces like “Another Brick Falls” and “Lead Them Home My Dreams,” on which the Motown-inspiration soar. The former song is a perfect glimpse into Gibson’s general attitude and demeanor during this difficult time in her career, that wrestling between wanting to say famous and popular and turning your back on it all.

Anything is Possible also marks the first time in Gibson’s career that she let others into the studio, allowing them to co-write on the record. And Gibson very much benefits from having a co-writer to help rein her in and direct her. She had proven time and time that she’s competent on her own, at times striking magic sparks like “Foolish Beat” and “Only In My Dreams”—but the addition of other people in the writers’ booth means new dimensions for an artist often accused of lacking depth. Anything is Possible is not entirely successful as a complete LP for Gibson’s confused ambitions overshadowing many of her better ideas, but it is certainly her most interesting chronologically. And thankfully, the relative failure of Anything is Possible did not slow Gibson down, and her next album would continue the creative flow, where her best qualities would eventually culminate better than they ever had before: 1993’s Body, Mind, Soul.

By 1993, the question of whether or not Debbie Gibson was going to reclaim her pop princess crown had been answered, both by Gibson and the general public. She was not necessarily interested in winning people over, and they weren’t quick to receive an adult Gibson, now going under her full first name Deborah. Smartly, Gibson didn’t chase after the pop spotlight, nor did she jump at a dangling carrot that didn’t actually exist. She set her sights on Broadway, which gave her career an entirely new layer of credibility. Although pop critics see Broadway as the penultimate stop before has-been city, Gibson rode that wave through an impressive number of productions from Cabaret to Funny Girl to Grease, all to great reviews. During her time on stage, Gibson kept releasing records, once again on her own terms. While Gibson can’t control how people receive her records or how many people actually go out and buy them, she always had a firm grip on the way she presented herself. And that’s to be admired. The confidence she had in herself as a new woman and a seasoned performer are best displayed on the Body, Mind, Soul album for a number of reasons.

Firstly, the sound of the album is consistent from start to finish. Unlike the sprawling, oddly divided Anything is Possible or the teenaged Out of the Blue and Electric Youth, this album stays lean and short. The sonics on the record stay in short range from new-jack swing to sultry R&B-laced pop, and as a result, everything feels copacetic. From the second the record opens with “Love or Money,” it’s quite clear that this album was going to be something special. Of course, if we go by chart success, this album is a failure—but artistically speaking, this album aptly displays all the things that Gibson great in the first place: songwriting, melody, and presentation. The concentration on hook and pop sensibility hadn’t been felt so sharply since her debut, and they are tuned to the sharpest degree on this album, as evidenced by “Little Birdie,” “Goodbye,” “Losin’ Myself,” and the oft-misunderstood and ironic “Shock Your Mama.” It’s difficult discussing what today’s generation refer to as “flops,” because there’s a assumption that the artist did something bad and deserves to be ridiculed. But as both Ms. Gibson and Ms. Darwish have proven is that the politics of pop greatly have a hand in commercial success, and if anything, can have an adverse effect on artistic growth. Luckily, neither woman fell into this trap.

Gibson went on to release four more albums and some one-off singles including the slick, ballad-driven Think With Your Heart in 1995, the adult-contemporary Deborah in 1997, the “return to pop” M.Y.O.B. in 2001, and her Broadway standards record Colored Lights in 2003, the latter two receiving the perhaps the most mainstream attention. Then came the Memory Lane demo albums and the greatest outlier of her discography, Ms. Vocalist, which features covers of Japanese pop songs all originally written or performed by men. Gibson isn’t afraid of shaking things up, even if her experiments don’t always work. I personally feel Deborah found her voice on Body Mind Soul, which combined many facets of her personality rather than boxing her into one; that said, there are little gems and treasures across her entire discography, particularly when she doesn’t try to outdo the material. The title-track from M.Y.O.B. might serve as the greatest single she’s ever released; unfortunately, it was regulated to promotional single status, and never received its glory day outside of a performance on Good Morning America. That record sits next to Body Mind Soul and Anything is Possible in that their modest successes can solely be attributed to preconceived notions of Gibson and her music, and the teeny-bopper reputation she has had to endure.

Today, Gibson is still performing, mostly doing small tours and gigs for activist rallies—she’s a frequent flyer at American gay pride parades and festivals, where she always seems to have a blast. Her performance in Chicago, in particular, showcased a side of Gibson which toned down the faux, unnecessary 80s gimmicks and theatrics and just had fun. Although these performances are normally quite limited in what she can perform and how much time she has on stage, she brings lots of energy and sincerity to the party. It’s the one venue where “Shake Your Love” and “Only In My Dreams” aren’t going to play off as dated, and she uses that to her advantage, although I’d still love to her some deeper cuts. Most recently, Gibson has been diagnosed by Lyme disease, an illness that had ravished her momentum for a minute, but she has slowly been coming back out from under, even dragging “Losin’ Myself” out from the shadows with her.

To me, Deborah Ann Gibson is a singer-songwriter better when she steps out from under the “80s” banner, away from the expected, away from what it wanted from her. Those moments where she is fearless are the times I admire her the most.

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Tiffany, a name that a carriers as many preconceived notions as the singer herself. Billed as the bad girl to Debbie Gibson’s sunshine-soaked optimism, Ms. Darwish struggled far more than any teenage pop star should need to. From day one she was betrayed by the very people who helped make her a star, her spotlight lost not due to passing trends but by politics and the record industry’s financial goals. Her debut record, Tiffany, was released a mere month after Gibson’s Out of the Blue, and the records are as similar as they are different. Where Tiffany shone from the very first second she entered the studio was in her strong vocal performance. Then, Tiffany was a mousy little girl with a mop of gorgeous red hair, little make-up, and a tomboy-ish look. She walked the line between playing the bratty little sister and Peppermint Patty. And out of this little girl came a voice far beyond its years—the depth she had and control over her range at that age is something that took Beyoncè Knowles well over a decade to learn.

Whereas Gibson’s first single was slowburner in terms of chart success, Tiffany’s debut “Danny” was a flop from the get-go, and only over got its due after becoming a fan favorite. The summer of 1987 was high stakes for Darwish when her famous cover of “I Think We’re Alone Now” became one of the biggest hits of not only the year, but the decade. The full record was released one month later and would earn Tiffany two more Top 10 hits with “Could’ve Been” and another cover, “I Saw Him Standing There.” But for all intents and purposes, Tiffany’s debut record proved something about the state of pop music at the time. Unlike Gibson had on Out of the Blue, Tiffany did not write a single word or compose a single note on her eponymous LP—on its surface, it’s difficult to call this album Tiffany if you aren’t actually introducing a new artist to the mainstream, right? Well, that’s somewhat wrong. With the fanfare around Darwish already passed, it’s far easier to listen to Tiffany with fresh ears and, aside from some truly dated production gimmicks, this album is solid. The curation of songs is fantastic, but it is Tiffany’s voice and acting performance that makes the sappy stuff like “Feelings of Forever” work. Also unlike Out of the Blue, which takes a very coming-of-age approach, Tiffany is shockingly adult and sober: “Spanish Eyes” is special kind of sex jam that doesn’t ever approach the line of crass gimmicks, and the urgency on “Danny” isn’t anything ever expected from a singer who is really only a kid. This has allowed the material to grow and age remarkably well, all things considered.

But the chaos surrounding Tiffany Darwish is what engulfed her mainstream success. With almost no control over her career, Tiffany found herself coping with a reputation for drama, performing in shopping malls, which sealed her fate as a teeny bopper pop princess. Whereas Gibson wore the crown of her own volition, her lyrics written from the point of view of a teenage girl and designed for her peers, Tiffany had the same label thrust upon her. Her sophomore record, Hold an Old Friend’s Hand, was released only one year later amidst controversy that Darwish was fighting to legally emancipate herself from her parents. The album garnered one hit on American radio, “All This Time,” and it signified the end of Tiffany’s presence in the mainstream. On tour with the New Kids on Block, Darwish found herself now standing in the shadow of American’s new golden children. Darwish found herself standing on the outside, looking in on all the fun. In the meantime, Gibson was still having chart success with “Electric Youth,” “No More Rhyme,” and “Lost In Your Eyes.” In regards to the music on Tiffany’s second album, it’s nothing to write home about in comparison to her debut, nor would it hold up to what followed.

1990’s New Inside, Tiffany’s third album and first away from her original producer George Tobin, is what Impossible Princess would be to Kylie Minogue. After so much controversy swirling around the singer, Tiffany came out on the other side with an album that wasn’t just slightly mature—no, she slapped listeners in the face with a record that took no prisoners. It holds the distinction of being the first time Darwish not only co-wrote material, but the first time she did something that wasn’t unexpected of her, a motif that would continue throughout the rest of her discography. Unlike the even-then-dated Hold an Old Friend’s Hand, this new album was quite ambitious and proud in its state-of-the-art production and presence. The sexy new image, the new jack swing influence, the house sounds, and the truly raw vocals Tiffany belted out on this record— it quite honestly gives me shivers. The way her voice bleeds on “Our Love” and “Life Affair” display what got Darwish in the door. So much emphasis was placed on both Gibson’s and Darwish’s image— what was expected of them. And when they do anything different musically, it largely goes unnoticed in lieu of further criticism of their visual presence. Darwish, somewhat unwilling to play the game by this point, let New Inside fade into oblivion after its lukewarm reception. But her material released post 1990 is just as interesting as what she did on New Inside. Barring 1993’s fan service Dreams Never Die, her final record with George Tobin, Tiffany has released some pretty shocking material in the latter half of her career.

The album on which Darwish finally found her voice would not come until 2000 with The Color of Silence, that once raspy voice honed into something subtly sensual and sexy. For the first time since her debut, Tiffany was garnering rave reviews from music professionals, although the album went largely unnoticed. Musically, Silence follows similar patterns to the LPs released by Alanis Morissette and Tori Amos, the then reigning queens of alternative rock. But Darwish came to bat, writing much of the record herself and taking the material by the horns. “Open My Eyes” has become somewhat of a cult classic, whereas “I’m Not Sleeping” and “Piss U Off” stand out as some of Tiffany’s greatest work. There’s also something professional about Darwish’s work around this time. The production is classy, fresh, and it has held up quite well—better than any of her other albums released up to that point. In 2015, this album still sounds as crisp as the day it came out fifteen years ago, checking Edie Brickell and Natalie Merchant as further influences.

Tiffany followed The Color of Silence five years later with what would be her biggest success since 1988 with Dust Off and Dance, a house record that became a major hit on the club scene. The album, released independently, was intended to be a love letter for her gay audiences, and boy did we eat it up. Despite some somewhat dated production, there’s some really fun and sexy material to be had on Dust Off and Dance, including fan-favorite “Ride It” and “Kama Sutra.” The album rides the line between latter-era Madonna and early-era Spice Girls.

Ignoring the odd 80s covers album I Think We’re Alone Now in 2007, Darwish further pushed herself into a more confident space with Just Me and 2011’s lean and professional Rose Tattoo, her first country studio LP. These two records continue where Silence last left us, and puts us squarely in the middle of where Tiffany is at this stage in her career. Rose Tattoo, though very much a modern country album, steers clear of many of the undesirable tropes expected of a typical country perfomer. Aside from the 80s-nostaligia tours with good friends Gibson and Rick Astley, aside from her film projects, Darwish has always shined best behind the microphone. And with her rock trilogy, one gets a beautiful depiction of the things this lovely woman can do. Quiet and subtle, Darwish is not going to try to convince you of anything she is not: she’s not Madonna, she’s not Janet Jackson, she’s not even Debbie Gibson. She’s just-me Tiffany from the thick of America, and she knows how to write and perform a damn good record. Today, Darwish is back in the studio working on her next album, and whatever it is, I’m sure she’ll do it with class and grace.

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Debbie Gibson Deep-Cuts:

“We Could Be Together” (Campfire Mix) from Electric Youth/We Could Be Together 7″

“Anything is Possible” from Anything is Possible

“One Step Ahead” from Anything is Possible

“Lead Them Home My Dreams” from Anything is Possible

“Losin’ Myself” from Body Mind Soul

“Little Birdie” from Body Mind Soul

“Didn’t Have the Heart” from Think With Your Heart

“Only Words” from Deborah

“M.Y.O.B.” from M.Y.O.B.

“What You Want” from M.Y.O.B.

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Tiffany Deep-Cuts:

“Spanish Eyes” from Tiffany

“Life Affair” from New Inside

“Our Love” from New Inside

“Piss U Off” from The Color of Silence

“I’m Not Sleeping” (feat. Krayzie Bone) from The Color of Silence

“Christening” from The Color of Silence

“Ride It” from Dust Off and Dance

“Feels Like Love” from Just Me

“He Won’t Miss Me” from Rose Tattoo

“Feel the Music” from Rose Tattoo

Buy Debbie Gibson & Buy Tiffany albums here.

[waxontape-blog]

Imagine Dragons - 2015 - Smoke + Mirrors [5/10]

Imagine Dragons’s sophomore album Smoke + Mirrors polarized professional critics from the get go, and its short time on this Earth has been met with as many hugs as icy cold slaps. Although they are only now getting their dues, Imagine Dragons has existed for quite some time now, and they have a decent discography of EPs behind them. They’ve also been around long enough to have endured a few different incarnations. But it wasn’t until the It’s Time and Continued Silence EPs that Imagine Dragons became radio darlings, solidifying their arena-rock success with their debut LP Night Visions. It was only a matter of time before we heard the next release from this band, whose music was too catchy not to be picked up by the mainstream. But unlike contemporaries, Imagine Dragons focused on great melody and production, their musicianship always tight and pleasing to the ear. They wore the sheen of success quite well, which is what makes Smoke + Mirrors so sad.

In a world where Maroon 5 can fart into a microphone and reach number one, Imagine Dragons represent pop music with a bit more thought and care. However, all of the lean pop sensibility on their debut album has been cashed in for some wild and unrestrained sonic experimentation shoehorned into very basic, simple pop arrangements. All the inflamed guitars, thick synthesizer trains, and 808s hip-hop beats are all thrown together onto the album without any sort of caution. As a result, the album plays as schizoid and unsure of itself, not being able to focus on just one cohesive sound. Where “I Bet My Life” apes the country slightly-Celtic-y trends of Mumford & Songs, “Shots” sounds like something left off of a The Killers album. While there is still a knack for pop hooks on this record, they get buried beneath an incredibly unsatisfying amount of overproduction. This does not mix well with the repetitive, child-like presentation of “Polaroid,” which is then followed by a truly awkward and uncomfortable attempt at xeroxing “Down with the Sickness” by industrial metal band Disturbed (“Friction”).

While some of these songs are good and could thrive in the right circumstance, some are unnecessarily difficult for the sake of being difficult. It sounds a bit like Imagine Dragons is just trying to out do themselves rather than create naturally. Whereas they could push themselves progressively, they stay stuck in the ditch like a driver gunning his or her car further into the dirt. Whether Imagine Dragons or Alex da Kid is responsible for the mess is quite unclear, but it’s a damn shame for a band with so much talent. This is an album easy to loathe, and within the definition of “album,” it is a total failure: it lacks cohesion, it lacks a common thread, it lacks focus. But that is not to say that I dislike all the songs on this LP. “I’m So Sorry,” a prime example of overproduction, is at least a bit interesting with its edgier, sea-shanty-style sense of drama. “It Comes Back to You,” which seriously dials it back in terms of knobs and buttons and toys and gimmicks is proof that this band still has something to offer pop lovers. This album simply lacks the finesse a band of this caliber should have—particularly with as much experience as they have. I’m not sure what the moody, sultry “Summer” is doing on the same album as the monotonously stupid “Hopeless Opus,” which strays into Train territory.

Smoke + Mirrors could easily kill their mainstream momentum, but this is not necessarily indicative of where they could go musically. Within the thick of this album’s messy and uncontrolled experimentation are, at the very least, glimpses of some styles this band could successfully further explore with some depth, rather than just doing it for the sake of trying to be loud. It’s almost as though they thought they could mask bland songwriting with lots of money and studio time. Unfortunately for Imagine Dragons, this is not how ears work.

Buy Smoke + Mirrors here.

[waxontape-blog]

Melanie Martinez - 2015 - Cry Baby [9/10]

In a musical landscape of uninspired, corporation-driven pop music, the few acts of any substance and quality suffer one of a few limited fates. The safest outcome, as was the case with Alanis Morissette, is that the artist in question simply falls out of favor with the general public. After the insane heights of fame spurred on by her groundbreaking Jagged Little Pill LP, Alanis herself found comfort in smaller successes. Her core fan base has followed her throughout her career, and it seems the ever curious songwriter has found her own peace of mind in more humble surroundings. The worst possible outcome, as is the case with Nicki Minaj, is that the soul is sucked out from anything interesting, making it digestible for radio listeners. Sacrificing your talents for fame and success is a sure-fire way to please record executives—and who cares about those pesky people who supported you in the beginning? You’ll get new fans who like the drivel your label pressures you into releasing. Lorde is at the crossroads of her career, as is Adele, Hozier, Ed Sheeran, and Taylor Swift. And the next big thing to blow up? Melanie Martinez.

Martinez, known for her appearances on reality trash TV, recently released her debut record Cry Baby, and it is damn good, far better than anybody would expect from a singing contest contestant. Though the record lacks finesse and class at times, Martinez has shown herself to be a gifted songwriter, inspired by her theme in a way that makes Cry Baby remarkably cohesive for a modern-day pop album. A dash of Lana Del Rey, a sprinkle of FKA Twigs, and a big helping of inspiration from 1960s and 1970s soul, Cry Baby’s sonics have been distilled through the lens of her label to the point where they do nothing to advance the witty lyricism in the music. Although Cry Baby fails to progress pop music musically, meaning the listener may quickly suffer from fatigue, its presentation and interesting subject matter, as tense as it is, definitely help it stand out from the crowd. Comprised of mostly material relating to child abuse, depression, consumerism, and sexual assault, the album is a far cry away from typical make-up/break-up party music.

The record is presented in fairy-tale form, with characters and dialogue hidden beneath the bouncy production. The story follows titular character Cry Baby as she grows up, her innocence consistently shattered by all the negative experiences the world has to offer her. From witnessing her parents’ infidelity (“Dollhouse”), to physical abuse and alcoholism (“Sippy Cup”), to depression (“Soap”), and ultimately rape (“Tag You’re It”) and substance abuse (“Mad Hatter”). There are brief moments of quiet that help the listener along, but only “Training Wheels,” a song representing the consensual loss of virginity, truly steps outside the dark and twisted world Martinez has created to house the songs. The thick, bald, and open presentation of the matter is abrasive at times, as Martinez and her co-writers have found a way to include every (quasi-) innocent childhood-motif possible in one record: toys and dolls, Eenie-Meenie, birthday cake, cursive handwriting, two-wheelers, The Big Bad Wolf, Alice in Wonderland, washing one’s mouth out with soap as a punishment, the game of tag, and alphabet magnets. The sheer amount of lyrical content more than makes up for its uninspired musical production, even if the lyrics will surely rub some people the wrong way. She dabbles into some tricky territories, exploiting the difficult subjects rather petulantly, and there are times she could have chosen her words a bit better. In particular, “Mrs. Potato Head” straddles the line between empowering and sexist.

With each track on Cry Baby, Martinez’s imagination remains unconstrained, angry, and passionate. The music does not push her voice outside of its comfort zone, and the overall sound is confident. I worry that Martinez will be swallowed up by the pop music machine and spit back out without any soul. What makes Cry Baby so successful is the odd juxtaposition of raw creative material combined with sonics no different from Lana Del Rey or Lorde’s work. Regardless, I’m excited to see how Martinez handles her success, and whether or not fame and critical success will hurt her creative process over time. For now, I’m enjoying the album, which is something akin to a piece of Halloween candy spiked with a razor blade.

Buy Cry Baby here.

[waxontape-blog]

Lucky Girl: Why Patti Scialfa and Her Music Are Important

Public perception is a dangerous weapon unfairly wielded against anybody who deviates from the collective’s desires. It’s called a social degradation, and it’s common. Ask any initial murder suspect who is later acquitted of wrong-doing. Nobody embodies this theory within the contexts of modern music better than Yoko Ono, a woman as passionately hated as Eve. Her only obvious comparison would not come until the 1990s when Courtney Love became a household name. But are they the only ones? No. Women are easy targets in rock music, and it is fact that they are harshly judged by the media based on a set of standards that often do not hit men. This paradigm makes it easy to judge Madonna for her age, Janet Jackson for her race, and Azealia Banks for being outspoken. I’ve been particularly interested in the women whose careers are tainted due to some external factor that acts as a perceived glass ceiling. A good example of this would be the problem of the famous sibling. Many younger siblings (or at least those who enter show business at a later date) find it difficult to escape the shadow of their most famous relative— regardless of the quality of their own output, as is the case with Jermaine Jackson or Solange Knowles.

In my personal record collection, one of the greater injustices I have noted has been the maligning of singer-songwriter Patti Scialfa. She is, in some circles, referred to as Mrs. Bruce Springsteen, a man rightfully regarded as a U.S. American national treasure. Amongst some of the most hardcore of Springsteen’s fans, she is not well regarded. In the 1980s, Scialfa was picked to join the E Street Band during their promotion of the blockbuster Born in the U.S.A. album, but left after the tour was finished. According to those around at the time, love was in the air, the two on the verge of a blossoming romance. But not long after the end of the tour, Springsteen married another woman, an actress named Julianne Philips. But a mere few years later, Scialfa was recruited for the Tunnel of Love Express Tour, a tour linked to what is now referred to as Springsteen’s divorce record. His romance was Scialfa reignited, and the two have been together ever since. Their decades-long relationship and marriage have proven to critics than their love was genuine, regardless of their stop-and-go behavior at the on-set. Scialfa herself would later lyrically allude to this time on her debut album. So what is it that makes her so popular? Some people just don’t enjoy her music, but that’s difficult to put into words as it’s a matter of personal preference, one likely affected by my theory. It is my belief that many of her detractors fall into specific categories: those who feel she has shattered the illusion of Springsteen, the romantic interest; those who feel she is a harlot, responsible for the break-up of Springsteen’s first marriage; those who just cannot stand having a woman in the E Street Band, a perceived boys’ club.

And this is what makes Scialfa so important. One does not understand the full panorama of Springsteen’s musical arc without becoming acquainted with Scialfa’s work. Her sound, clearly influenced by years of touring with the E Street Band, is not as distinct as it perhaps could be. What separates her from her husband is the seasoning of 1960’s girl-group inspiration. Scialfa’s melodies often harken back to the days of Lesley Gore, Nancy Sinatra, The Supremes, and The Chiffons, albeit it is still filtered through the lens of the E Street Band. Scialfa’s debut record Rumble Doll was released in 1993, produced by her husband, and his stamp is present all over it. It feels like an off-shoot to Springsteen’s Tunnel of Love in its sonics— the hollow percussion, the icy guitars. Scialfa brings along her sexy rasp, a keen knack for pop hooks, and a confidence that focuses the record. As a result, the album stays focused in its imagery. It’s not hard to see how a Springsteen die-hard would not be rubbed the wrong way by her bratty honesty— “Come Tomorrow,” “Baby Don’t,” and “Rumble Doll” in particular seem to have developed from a same origin, presented here as sweet as candy can be.

Springsteen and Scialfa are musical soul mates— to people whose music seemingly cannot float without the other’s undercurrent. What Springsteen offers her in progression, Scialfa offers him in consistency. But what about Scialfa outside the context of her famous husband and successful band? Questions about her own musical merits, as nice as Rumble Doll was and still is, would not be answered for a whole decade. Her life fully changed forever, what was Scialfa going to offer listeners other than shiny production and uninspired slop, right? Wrong. Instead of pandering to faux-jadedness and a twenty-something sense of wanderlust, and without telling us about her fabulous life with the man of her dreams, as one reviewer from Amazon wrote of Scialfa’s second record 23rd Street Lullaby, she gave us the prequel. It’s true. She went back in time, singing songs of her life before the insanity, before the stadiums, before becoming a pariah for the media. “Rose,” a narrative seemingly inspired by her time in the E Street Band, dates back to the 1980s, not long enough for them to have had any substantial influence on her. Although the music features many of the same bells and whistles of Springsteen’s later work, 23rd Street Lullaby is a work only Patti could have written. It is as honest as Rumble Doll, but far more mature and self-assured. Unlike that debut, nothing only this album will rub the listener the wrong way. It appears to be that, while Scialfa is clearly influenced by The E Street Band, the two acts were a match made in heaven long before the she and the charismatic frontman became tabloid fodder.

The album features some of her best work, as is the case with the worrisome “Stumbling to Bethlehem,” “You Can’t Go Back,” and the album’s poetic titular track. The album whispers beneath a misty, rainy bittersweet atmosphere: “Underneath the swirling lights of jasmine tea and smoke, you trace my face up on the barroom wall / And you tried to intimidate me as you drank your drinks and joked, saying it takes more than clean hands to catch angels when they fall / Well, I’ll keep that in mind.” The album jumps between narrative storytelling and the relaying of more abstract feelings that describe the passing of time. She is calmer on this record, with the material never surpassing a quiet roar, although she stays as present on the opening song as she does on the closer. This is where Scialfa separates herself from her husband. It’s easy to intertwine the two artists— and as I’ve previously stated, they often are the ying to each other’s yang— but that does not mean they are not their own artists. They just happen to have a similar methodology behind the results. Much like her debut, the album was not a commercial success, although it received rave reviews from critics. The swagger she possesses is smart, chic, and classy. She manages to deliver the material in such a way that she need not belt or scream to get the point across. As much as I don’t want to say it, it is Patti’s Born to Run.

Of the three of Scialfa’s LPs, 23rd Street Lullaby stands as the middle ground between the accessible and the difficult. If Rumble Doll is a pop record, it is 2007’s Play It As It Lays that will challenge the listener the most. The album takes a raw, unfiltered look at the work required for a stable, long-term relationship. As a result, it would be easy to draw insight into her relationship with Mr. Springsteen. And if that’s what you’re hoping to get from the album, you might have better luck looking at yourself. That tabloid thinking is what pollutes the air around Scialfa’s body of work, and the material on Play It As It Lays will relate to anybody whose been in love with the same person for more than a year. The album is hotter, scratchy, and rougher than her previous two, but it substantiates Scialfa’s talents, even if it not necessarily progress them to new heights. Between the snap in her guitar or the weathered quality to her voice— seemingly built for bluesy R&B and rock— Patti Scialfa has a small, but respectable discography deserving of a lot more praise than it has received. Although she falls beneath the umbrella of Springsteen’s inner circle musically, her talent for melody and lyricism are unmatched within the camp, at times surpassing her husband in terms of restraint.

She has described herself as the underdog, or at least have relayed that information to us via her children. But with Play It As It Lays, Patti took herself out of the running, such as Janet Jackson’s most recent LP Unbreakable. There’s no longer a need to prove herself. Whether or not people are willing to give her a fair chance is not something she nor I could ever force at will. She is the redwood in the tree that people are not around to hear as it falls, proving that it still exists regardless of its audience. In time, Scialfa will quietly continue to ensnare people willing to turn away from the current of Springsteen fans who hurl abuse at her without any degree of sanity or logic. If you remove her from her surroundings, cut out the bullshit, and focus on the music, she has always delivered. Rumble Doll was bursting at the seems with great melody; 23rd Street Lullaby musically marked her as a woman; Play It As It Lays puts her in a class of women unsung for any old stupid reason. She sits with Daphne Rubin-Vega and Judee Sill, with Mandy Moore, June Christy, Lesley Gore, and most akin to Edie Brickell of New Bohemians fame. While she should be proud of her work with the E Street Band, it is her solo work that made me a fan of hers. Apparently Linda Ronstadt is a fan as well, covering Scialfa’s “Valerie” ten years after its release.

Patti Scialfa has proven herself from day one to be a true talent, the undercurrent to many of the singer-songwriters who came along after her. She is important, not only for what she represents, but for the refined talent she put so much work into perfecting.

Buy Patti Scialfa’s albums here.

[waxontape-blog]

Joe Jackson - 2015 - Fast Forward [9/10]

Things are coming to a head for 2015. After a remarkably slow start in the world of music, the fall season is proving itself worthy with a hoard of new records from Duran Duran, Richard Hawley, Mylène Farmer, V V Brown, Vanessa Carlton, Janet Jackson, and John Grant. But wait! There’s more, you say? Yes! My ears are currently being serenading from all corners of the musical spectrum, from dance to pop, from balladry and crooning to new wave and avant grade. Never has a season been so perfectly defined by such an impressive new show of musical aptitude. Usually, for me, fall is defined by records like the somber and moody Tori Amos’s Scarlet’s Walk, or by albums I happened to hear for the first time as the leaves begin to change (Tina Turner’s Break Every Rule). But fall 2015 will go down as one of the most perfect times in pop music. And the return of British singer-songwriter Joe Jackson, a seasoned 61 years old at the time of this review.

I recently made a big fuss about Frank Sinatra, who released some of the most daring and interesting work of his career well into the greyer years of his life. By comparison, Joe Jackson has always been daring— composing for film, blending jazz with new wave, being blunt and harsh with his lyricism. For an artist of his sort, it’s far more daring to be perhaps a bit accessible, and that’s what his latest LP, Fast Forward, offers long-time listeners. Initially set to be released as a series of four EPs dedicated to four different cities (New York City, Berlin, Amsterdam, and New Orleans), the collective album was a happy accident, as the creative juices just kept flowing. For Jackson, who has been immortalized by his landmark 1982 album Night And Day, this album is a combination of his past and present influences, colored by shades of his earliest works. The smooth jazz Jackson has traded in for decades now has been carefully mixed together with some more s-punky uptempo tracks that wink back to the days of Look Sharp! and I’m the Man.

The first thing one may notice about Fast Forward is just how young and fresh Jackson sounds at 61. Joni Mitchell, Deborah Harry, and Bruce Springsteen have all experienced a noticeable change in voice throughout their expansive careers. Jackson stands out as an anomaly to this rule. A notorious smoker, Jackson impressively sounds exactly the same as he did in the mid-1980s, his voice never showing any traces of age. What is different is his delivery, although only slightly. His passionate vocals can be an acquired taste for some, but Jackson seems to smooth out the edges on this album, even on louder moments like the single-ready “A Little Smile.” With age should come experience, and Jackson’s extensive touring have made him a far better vocalist, even if his voice hasn’t changed a bit.

To anybody clued in, Fast Forward plays as the soundtrack to post-survival of a midlife crisis. It feels adult, comfortable in its own skin, and yet still remarkably curious. The lyrics to the title-track, intentionally full of anachronisms, paradoxes, and oxymorons, are heartfelt and sweet: “I’m going back to the age of gold or the age of sin / Fast forward ’til I understand the age I’m in.” Jackson has offered blurred the lines when it comes to romance and sexuality, singing to and about women— and yet throwing listeners for a loop with 1982’s “Real Men,” in which he confidently spat out the line “Don’t call me a faggot / Not unless you are a friend.” But on Fast Forward, seven years after publicly revealing his bisexuality, Jackson has written one of his most romantic tunes yet, casually addressing it to a man: “Kings of the City” is quietly beautiful, bittersweet, and nostalgic in its presentation. It rivals only “A Slow Song” in its sincerity. As if Jackson needed a their record dedicated to the American metropolis, the first segment is some of Jackson’s most accessible work in years.

After leaving New York City, we slip into a series of songs inspired by the colorful Amsterdam. “Far Away” is an awkward ballad that sprawls across the troubling piano loop, its melody playing more like theater. It is then followed by a brooding, bongo-driven kiss-off track in “So You Say.” Clearly, Jackson has not lost any of his talent for drama. And we tour the Western world with Jackson, we’re treating to painfully romantic ballads, sarcastic rock songs, and one very playful German cabaret song. If Fast Forward suffers from anything, it is only from its sixteen-track length. As each set of four songs were recorded with a separate batch of musicians, listening from start to finish can be a bit trying. In that regard, it plays a bit like a Broadway musical whose synopsis we are unfamiliar with. These songs are strong enough to have withstood individual EP releases. Perhaps in a similar method to Robyn’s Body Talk series, which culminated in a compilation of the strongest from each record. But in the long run (heh, heh, heh), it’s a minor gripe.

Songs like “The Blue Time” and “If It Wasn’t For You” are Jackson’s easiest since 1991’s Laughter & Lust. There’s a playful joy in Jackson’s performance, even on some of the more dramatic numbers, except perhaps on “If I Could See Your Face,” a je-suis-charlie moment that was better suited for the trash with the intention its lyrics unclear and bordering on offensive. As the man has dabbled in so many different genres from jazz to new wave to punk to dance to classical composing, it might be difficult to retain a consistent fan base which can appreciate more than just one aspect of his talent. I admit I’m partial to his more “fun” work (Look Sharp!), and this may be why Fast Forward hits me so deeply. It is Jackson embracing his knack for pop hooks, embracing simplicity, and appreciating his sharply honed skill set with absolutely nothing to prove. Long story short, if you liked Night and Day, you will definitely like Fast Forward. It’s not as pander-heavy as Duran Duran’s admittedly triumphant All You Need is Now in its attempts to reach back to the past, but it does sound inspired by Jackson’s own nostalgia. Luckily, like Simon and the gang, Jackson wears nostalgia well, if not better.

Although Fast Forward does not reinvent the wheel musically, it’s a powerful return for a man who has certainly came a long-ass way. From England to America to Germany to the Netherlands and back again.

Buy Fast Forward here.

[waxontape-blog]

The Train: Reflections on Sinatra (1966 - 1970)

In my record collection, there are very few entries from performers who don’t write their own material. Amongst the two most respected are Tina Turner and Frank Sinatra, both of whom have had very minor relationships to pen and paper. That said, it is their ability to act and emote that have made them the stars and legends they are today. As a result, over twenty of Ol’ Blue Eyes’ albums sit on my shelf, a mere letter away from my Tina Turner collection. But within each career, there are moments of success and failure. Sinatra’s output between 1966 and 1970 marks a period of professional turmoil, highs and lows  that make it his most interesting epoch.

Frank Sinatra’s peak successes in the early-to-mid 1960s directly mirror a series of sharp (relative) failures towards end of the decade. But by this point in his career, the man was fifty. He had been through just about everything— tabloid rumors, label changes, chart-topping hits, and commercial flops. To many, Sinatra represents the first true teen idol singer. But after reinventing himself as more than a mere pop star with 1955’s In the Wee Small Hours, often called the first proper concept album, there was no need for Sinatra to prove anything. He was already a legend. But he intelligently shifted his audience from teenage girls to a quieter, mature crowd, and did so with agility. This always didn’t stop him from attempting to push the boundaries of his genre. He did not rest on his laurels, and this is quite evident across the scope of records released towards the end of the 1960s. The man was at the top of his game, his voice matured and his skill set at its very peak. Unfortunately, much of the material met a cruel fate.

In a bid to garner control over his recording output, Sinatra started his own record label 1960, Reprise Records—a true diva moment that paved the way for future pop stars like Madonna, who would go on to do the same thing. Ring-a-Ding-Ding!, released in 1961, could therefore be called the proto-Control. The goal was that all artists signed to this label would retain all rights to their work, something essentially unheard of in an era of music where singers were mere vehicles for the songs themselves. By 1976, thirteen years after selling the label to Warner Bros. Records, Sinatra would be the only artist still carrying the Reprise Records insignia. In the long run, for him, the deal paid off. And between 1960 and 1971, Sinatra recorded some of his most peculiar material, much of it overshadowed by the seven hundred cheap compilations released in the 1990s and 2000s. Sinatra’s typical output, jazz pop and swing, had become old hat. During this period in his career, there was a greater focus on combining the black sound from jazz with the most established tropes found in European classical pieces and chamber music.

The problem with analyzing Sinatra’s work is that it lives and dies by his ability to curate music, and nowhere is this as obvious as during his Capitol Records years. He was, in all honesty, little more than an attractive man who could hold a tune. It wasn’t until he hit middle-age that the man had attained enough live experience to be able to emote properly. And as a result, many of the songs he released in the 1960s are assembled with perhaps bit more care—and are all performed better. Because he is not a songwriter, Sinatra’s records didn’t exactly take a lot of time to create and perform. It’s one reason why he was able to release the sheer amount of material that he did, and why there’s incredible crossover between him and his contemporaries (Nina Simone, Dean Martin, Perry Como, Bing Crosby). 1966’s Strangers in the Night was pure pop music, an album of sugary songs performed with a slight wink and nod to the simple and unassuming presentation. His rendition of “Downtown” is downright flamboyant, and the title-cut, notoriously disliked by the singer, is sung with an arrogance that makes the song larger than life. “Summer Wind” and “Call Me” further helped to make the record an instant classic. The album was followed by Sinatra’s first official live release, the commercial knock-out Sinatra at the Sands. It is a definitive look at the power of his stage presence, although this reviewer is partial to the The Main Event, released in 1974, which benefited tremendously from the relative failure of his most emotionally demanding works.

However, despite a remarkably successful comeback, the assurance that Strangers in the Night provided would not last forever, as evidenced by a series of moderately successful attempts thereafter. It marks the beginning of a very troubled era in Sinatra’s career; it also marks the beginning of his most interesting, with his signature hit “That’s Life” marking the last time Sinatra managed to push back so firmly in an era where rock music had taken away spotlight from the jazz club.

If Strangers in the Night signaled both the end and beginning of a new era in Sinatra’s career, The World We Knew would become the blueprint for future efforts. Its biggest hit, a duet with daughter Nancy, was “Somethin’ Stupid,” an it trades purely within a pop space rather than jazz or classical. It pushes Sinatra very far outside his comfort zone, allowing his cool persona to blend with his daughter’s “too-cool-for-school” attitude. It was proof that Sinatra had more tricks up his sleeve. The World We Knew was released in the summer of 1967 to moderate success both commercially and critically. Although this album relies on old tricks as it slinks towards the middle and end, The World We Knew features some very choice sounds one may not have excepted, especially giving the traditional album sleeve. Aside from “Somethin’ Stupid,” the title track stands out as one of Sinatra’s most artistically successful and most overlooked performances. The hot, shredded opening makes a very clear statement that Sinatra was moving on with the times. The rest of the record dabbles with state-of-the-art trends, but doesn’t start too far away from the dreamy-eyed Hollywood sound that made him a star. The chorus of girls are loud and obvious, and would be of better use in the future. The album would proceed a collaboration with Duke Ellington, Francis A. & Edward K. in 1968.

With record sales beginning to stall, Sinatra was clinging to the walls for deal life, attempting to strike a chord with the public that would keep his name afloat. In 1968, Sinatra released three records, and it is Cycles, released at the start of winter, that cuts the deepest in its attempts to distance itself from Sinatra’s early work (as in, blend in with an entirely different crowd). For all intents and purposes, this album pushes back from dated arrangements from the 1950s and replaces them with a collection of modern folk-pop songs as filtered through the lens of a jazz professional. Although the album does not entirely succeed in making its mark, perhaps due to its extremely rushed production, his renditions of “Gentle On My Mind” (Glen Campbell) and “Both Sides Now” (Joni Mitchell) are interesting in their ballsiness. “My Way of Life” is grandiose in its presentation, loud and bombastic with Sinatra singing in a manner that is both angry and sorrowful. The record’s presentation is purely autumn, cut from a similar cloth as Sinatra’s 1967 LP The World We Knew— but the sheer willingness to embrace current trends is what makes Cycles stick out, perhaps a bit too much like a sore thumb at times. It was a moderate chart success, although, in retrospect, it feels a bit as though he were lucky to have gotten away with it.

The album would be followed in 1969 with My Way, an album merely remembered for its title-track, and A Man Alone, a relative failure both musically and commercially. The only thing that makes A Man Alone, a tribute to unsung songwriter and poet Rod McKuen, stand out is Sinatra’s performance. His sincere affinity for McKuen’s work shines through. Unfortunately, the material doesn’t really say much, and the results are rarely enjoyable if not entirely dull and forgettable. This may be the consequence of the record’s short, monotone arc, which lay-lows until its somewhat edgier ending. But the performance Sinatra gives on A Man Alone would be perfected with its follow-up, the woefully misunderstood Watertown, released in 1970 as a tie-in to a proposed film that never materialized, in part due to the LP’s devastating commercial failure. It would also lead to Sinatra’s first retirement.

Watertown was composed entirely by Bob Gaudio and Jake Holmes and was presented to Sinatra in its complete form. All Sinatra had to do was show up and record it. This could have been a creative failure for Sinatra. But in contrast, Watertown is, for better or worse, the man’s greatest full-length record. By performing a concept record written solely by one team duo, Sinatra is able to allow his performances to bleed over from track to track. This is in sharp contrast to previous records where his tone changes based on what the song calls for. The overall narrative of Watertown gave Sinatra the perfect opportunity to act on a record as a opposed to merely sing it. Even in the running against his classic concept records Only the Lonely, Where Are You, and In the Wee Small Hours, it is Watertown that that hits the bull’s eye so cleanly and modestly. It is a landmark that proves Sinatra was more actor than vocalist.

The Hollywood sheen of Sinatra’s entire image was starkly stripped away for this LP, even in its album jacket, which is a dirty shade of grey and brown and features jacket-art of a train station. Just as the 1970s began, an era later known for its maudlin soft-rock, Watertown is a sobering wet blanket that threatens to ruin everybody’s fun. And this is what makes it so powerful. The bitter, sour moments wrestle with the smooth and the somber, and harmonicas blend with strings, all totaling the most quintessential divorce record. The album tells the tale of a nameless male character chronicling the stages of a fresh separation from his wife, a beautiful and quirky woman who has set off on a journey to find herself in the big city. The story takes place in the aforementioned Watertown, New Jersey, and follows the narrator as he goes through a variety of mood swings. At times, he is reflective and grateful, as on “Elizabeth” and “I Would Be In Love (Anyway)”; other times, he is spiteful, as with “What a Funny Girl (You Used to Be).” These songs have to blend with desperation on “What’s Now Is Now,” which musically apes the jazz standard “Goin’ Out of My Head,” also previously recorded by Sinatra.

Although each track offers a different flavor and perception, there are some songs that stand out from the others. “Michael & Peter,” written in the form of a hand-wrought letter, is the album’s stand-out in musical achievement, while “For A While” could have been a major hit single if released a few years prior. The song would later be recorded by Nina Simone. As we go through the motions with the narrator, it is Sinatra’s delivery of the words that sticks with us the most. His talent here is dulled, and he is secondary to the power of the material. He does not try to outshine it or over-exaggerate it. There are moments on this record where the intended emotion is placed above Sinatra’s need for perfection. As a result, his voice is gruff and unpolished. Even on the hopeful album closer, “The Train,” Sinatra remains in the present and in character, his excitement subdued and heartbreaking as he realizes the mess that he is still in. As the record explores themes of guilt and heartbreak, it also nods its head to grand delusion, as it is implied that the titular character never actually communicates with his former lover, and has tricked himself into thinking that she is coming home. The album closes on the lines “The passengers for Allentown are gone / The train is slowly moving on / But I can’t see you anyplace / And I know for sure I’d recognize your face.”

The collaboration between these three men gave Frank Sinatra the album of a lifetime, and it met such a cruel, cruel fate. The album is Sinatra’s greatest flop. A real flop. Unlike previous failures, which had merely kept his brand above water, Watertown was seen as damaging. For some reason, the record just did not connect to his audience in 1970, who probably had had enough thinking and misery, not only from Sinatra (A Man Alone), but also from the trends of rock music, which were making The Doors and The Rolling Stones mighty popular. Whatever the case, Watertown left a very ugly mark on an otherwise impressive discography. It lead to Sinatra’s first (brief) retirement, returning in 1973 with Ol’ Blues Eyes is Back. But between those three years, Sinatra had changed. And suddenly, he was comfortable in his legacy. The following records would dabble in experimentation, particularly on 1980’s Trilogy, but there was less musical curiosity after Watertown’s failure.

Hindsight is always 20/20, and Watertown has managed to become somewhat of a cult classic amongst Sinatra’s fans, at least amongst those who are dissatisfied with an ocean of generic swing songs. For as out-of-fashion as the project proved to be, is it not wondrous that fifty years into a well-established career did Frank Sinatra put out a record that he did not need to. The man’s legacy will forever be for his image, his suave public persona, his collection of standards. But Sinatra is rarely spoken of in terms of his music, which is usually overshadowed by “the voice,” his alleged ties to the Mafia, his attempts to sidestep the draft, and his Rat Pack attitude. But there is true musical merit to the rhythm of Sinatra’s discography that one ought to spend a little more time researching.

Buy Frank Sinatra’s records here.

[waxontape-blog]

Vanessa Carlton - 2015 - Blue Pool EP [7.5/10]

When I think of singer-songwriter Vanessa Carlton, I think of unsung glory. Once it became painfully aware that Ms. Carlton was not here to play studio games, her presence disappeared from American airwaves and quickly as it breezed in. Although her landmark debut record Be Not Nobody was as close to a pop sensation as one could get, it has not become the remember millennial equivalent of Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill, something I think her label was desperately pushing for. Carlton’s quest to suss out new musical ground and push herself as an artist is apparent on latter releases Harmonium and Heroes and Thieves; unfortunately, the oppressive hand of studio wizard stunted the potential of both of those releases, leaving Carlton with a confused back catalog not entirely indicative of her talents and potential. It wasn’t until her forth studio record, Rabbits on the Run, that Carlton managed to experiment wildly and without the influence of corporate house rules. The album, which went down quietly without making a splash, was a critical success and artistic triumph. Inspired by lo-fi techniques, Stevie Nicks, and Joni Mitchell, Rabbits feels no need to stomp its feet to make itself be heard. Rather, Carlton allows the album to represent her general demeanor in that she seriously gives zero fucks about how she is received.

And that is because she is good. Damn good. And as Rabbits set the standard for Carlton to continue on in her ambitions, it’s nice to see that her latest release, the Blue Pool EP, is serving as a bridge between where she was and where she is going.

The spacey, 1970s-inspired record techniques still play a heavy hand on the Blue Pool EP, but they are accompanied by some indie-pop tricks often employed by Canadian bands Broken Social Scene, Stars, and Metric. The guitar and piano work wears its duality well, simultaneously as icy as it is warm and cozy. The four songs, all taken from her upcoming record Liberman, sit nicely on the shelf next to material by Vampire Weekend. Her voice has changed little since her debut record, although she is far more relaxed than she used to be. The urgency in her voice has dulled to quiet roar, complementing her lyrics and melodies. Whereas “Take It Easy” sets itself apart from her last record in its warmth, the title-cut “Blue Pool” is starkly trapped within the chilly confines of Rabbits on the Run. The song that hits the sweet spot between the two styles is “Nothing Where Something Used to Be,” hear presented as a live rendition, and it is a stunner. Melodically, the song ranks with some of her best material, like “White Houses” and “Twilight,” whereas her voice has a sexy confidence and swagger on it— the results of motherhood, perhaps? The EP closes with “Operator,” also live, and it unfortunately doesn’t quite hold up as the rest of the material. That said, her angry delivery is interesting for somebody whose range has long been somewhere between lollipop sweet and hauntingly sorrowful. While the new material on Blue Pool does not deviate too far away from Rabbits on the Run, it does manage to set itself apart from that record in its willingly to take a step back away from the edge. It’s not as drastic.

Carlton, no longer bound by the confines of her radio hits “Pretty Baby” and “Ordinary Day,” has proven herself a serious contender as the next great American songwriter. She is painfully maligned, despite the fact that she has picked up the torch from where Tori Amos left it sitting in the dirt. Blue Pool is excellent and it has only further awakened my hunger for Liberman.

Buy the Blue Pool EP here.

[waxontape-blog]

Taylor Swift - 2014 - 1989 [4/10]

Oh, Tay-Tay. T. Swizzle. Ms. Taylor Swift.

Her complete dominance over all other pop starlets on the scene today has been clumsy and awkward but shockingly effective. Her girl-next-door act got her a foot in the door of the American public’s hearts, similar to Anne Hathaway or Jennifer Lawrence. But it is her intelligence that has kept her there. I say this because it certainly isn’t her music keeping her in the spotlight at this point. Her trajectory has been a shock to me, with early critics comparing her to this generation’s Deborah Gibson. And history had predicted that Ms. Swift’s time in the sun wasn’t going to last beyond her third effort. But her transition from country-bubble-gum songwriting protege to full-on pop star has been solidified with her fifth studio LP 1989. Taylor Swift is an interesting case, as 1989 represents a change in her music that exceeds beyond its own borders. It is simply not enough to critique the production, lyrics, or vocal presence; instead, it is necessary to speak of 1989’s place in Swift’s discography and what sort of consequences have come as a result of its release. So, I will touch on both. And although I’m trying to focus mostly on records that I have enjoyed recently, I cannot ignore 1989 the same way I have ignored other albums— this because I considered myself a fan of Taylor Swift’s music and style. Something I’m not sure I can say anymore.

As Swift has musically progressed away from her country roots a little more with each passing record, it is quite fitting that, five albums in, she would be making tried and true pop music. The country-pop grooves in her previous work would likely not hold as much water as they did back in 2008, and many would accuse Taylor of being a one-trick pony. Whereas Speak Now is Taylor at her thickest and bluntest, the follow-up, 2012’s Red, marked the clearest divide between country and pop, leaving the record uneven and confused of its own identity— partly because Swift wrote most of the album alone, but still enlisted hit makers for all the singles. Well, 1989 addresses those issues, and opts to stick with just one general mood. Sonically, it is a stark departure from her roots, comprised of modern synth-beats and licks that recall Madonna’s Confessions on a Dance Floor more than the work of Swift’s initial influences like Carly Simon. From a musical standpoint, 1989 trades in smart pop hooks for tawdry, rehashed melodies that we’ve all heard before, and this is what makes the record Swift’s most disappointing effort to date. The intelligence of songs like “Back to December” and earnest performances on “Innocent,” “Begin Again,” and “You Belong to Me” have been bartered away for some rather cold material.

What made and makes Taylor Swift so interesting is her musical ability and talent, which stand head and shoulders above most of her contemporaries. Her songwriting ability, particularly in the realm of pop, made Speak Now her Thriller-moment. It put her on the same level as predecessor Vanessa Carlton. Swift had all the makings of the next big female singer-songwriter. But time has proven that Swift is going through a celebrity-phase where lyricism and musical curiosity take a back-seat to the quest for continued radio presence and glory. And despite some of the catchiest hooks of her career, courtesy of her collaboration with hit-makers Max Martin and Shellback, 1989 is shockingly predictable in its sound. Although this record sticks out like a sore thumb in Swift’s discography, it feels, unfortunately, quite at home on today’s pop radio landscape. Despite the name, this album says very little in common with the year 1989 musically, something Kimbra managed with The Golden Echo and Carly Rae Jepsen achieved with E-MO-TION. Swift’s voice is buried beneath bad production on songs like “Style,” which attempts a sad appropriation of Robyn’s “Dancing on My Own,” and “Bad Blood” stands as Swift’s worst single to date. A better title for this record would have been 2015, because that is exactly what it sounds like: all the current pop trends spun onto one convenient disc: a bit of Nicki, a bit of Britney, a bit of Iggy, a bit of Ed Sheeran, a bit of Justin Timberlake, a bit of One Direction— and a very small bit of Taylor Swift.

That said, 1989 doesn’t deserve a remarkably low rating as far as the music is concerned. Although they are complete hacks, Max Martin and Shellback always deliver at least a catchy result, and 1989 brings a plethora of ear worms for anybody looking for a quick fix of sugary pop tunes. You know you tap you foot when “Shake It Off” comes on, just as we did with Avril’s “What the Hell,” and Taylor’s own “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together” (which, for the record, should have been their last collaboration together). What really annoys me about 1989 is that Taylor Swift can do so much better. Had she written this album alone in her room listening to true classics of the 1980s, it would have been more of a musical success rather than bordering on musically bankrupt. “I Wish You Would” seems more inspired by the adult contemporary in the mid-1990s, and outside of “Out of the Woods,” none of the production manages to acknowledge the late-1980s at all. The edge that Swift offered pop lovers over Rihanna or Britney Spears was her intelligence and her daring attempts at writing albums alone. This isn’t seen in the mainstream anymore. It set her on a path similar to some of the greatest singer-songwriters modern music has ever seen. Given a few more tries, Swift could have been the next Carly Simon or the next Carole King. She had the musical palette and class to take her game that far.

As it stands, 1989 feels like a major step backwards. This same girl who wrote surprisingly good narratives and cutesy pop tracks about bullying is now on her very public platform fighting with Katy Perry and Nicki Minaj. Ironically, 1989 could have been Katy’s follow-up to Prism, and that would have made a bit more sense. “Bad Blood” is not only Swift’s worst single from a musical standpoint— and believe me when I say the song is lifeless, uninspired, and bland, relying on a single hook that overstays its welcome after only thirty seconds— but also for what it represents. Girls fighting with girls, being popular, and being shallow. But despite the millions of fans, both in the general public and celebrity scene, Swift comes across as remarkably self-unaware and insecure singing lines like “You know we used to be mad love.” Thankfully, nothing else on the album is quite as bad as “Bad Blood,” and Swift displays a bit more more attitude on material like “Welcome to New York.”

But “Bad Blood” is still indicative of most issues that plague 1989, which is that the melodies are often repetitive and hollow. Whereas “Blank Space” might be Swift’s most introspective song lyrically (and the album’s standout), the production doesn’t don’t do her any favors, again burying her vocals. On slower material like “I Know Places” and the piano-driven “All You Had to Do Was Stay,” Swift shines, but these moments are so far and few between on 1989. As this is Swift’s second collaboration with the Max Martin and Shellback hit machine, the results are, of course, aping current trends rather than any particular trademark sound. As a result, 1989 draws inspiration from Lana Del Rey and Lorde (“Wildest Dreams”), a style that isn’t fully baked enough here to make it stand out from anything else. This record is smoke and mirrors. Despite the shift in sound, which has blinded many, 1989 is not a hungry album. It’s not pushing Swift forward as a songwriter or musician. It’s a glossy, glam album for a celebrity. A pop star. I always thought Swift had the chops to transcend this genre, which is what makes this album so disappointing to me. I will stand up for Speak Now any day of the week for the sincerity and class that Swift exuded. As time has gone by, the melodies on that album have aged beautifully. It was the natural, pure progression from teeny bopper to a young adult still coming of age. 1989 has thrown away this plot in exchange for popularity. For being the beauty queen. I can’t detect a difference in “How You Get the Girl” and most of Martin’s other work, and Swift, unfortunately, doesn’t perform the songs any differently than her contemporaries do.

I plan to continue watching Swift’s career, as I believe that innate talent Taylor has is still in her and is fighting to get out. And I think Swift is still good enough to release a damn good synth-pop record. But this Night Time, My Time knock-off is not that record. If you’re reading this, Taylor, as I know you have a Tumblr, I hope you realize how talented you are. And how much better you are than this album. Fire Martin and Shellback, because they ruined the potential this album had and sucked out your personality.

Buy 1989 here.

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Richard Hawley - 2015 - Hollow Meadows [9.5/10]

Presented atop an ice-blue color palette and beside the texture of broken glass resembling a black widow spider stands the track list for British singer-songwriter Richard Hawley’s eighth solo studio album Hallow Meadows. With titles like “Heart of Oak” and “Serenade of Blue,” the album makes its vulnerable nature known before even the first play. The front cover features a semi-profile shot of Mr. Hawley, also distorted beneath spiderweb cracks in thick glass. For an artist who has rarely deviated from his signature, melancholy sound, Hawley doesn’t run out of material to translate into his own language. Armed with a swagger reminiscent of Johnny Cash during the later stages of his career, he allows a cold passion to sprawl and extend its limbs across previous albums Lady’s Bridge and Truelove’s Gutter, two masterpieces that solidified Hawley’s reputation for making thoughtful music. Following a brief excursion into psychedelic on his last album, Hollow Meadows finds Richard Hawley back to his roots, albeit with a bit more self-awareness rather than self-criticism.

The lush instrumentation Hawley is well known for has been beefed up a notch on Hollows Meadows, which features some of the greatest musicianship and production work of 2015. The man is a master of spatial awareness, and on the occasions where he increases the volume level on his material, it never feels cluttered. The record is also home to some of his most challenging material and most accessible— a splendid marriage between his breakout single “Tonight the Streets Are Ours” and the difficult brilliance of “Remorse Code.” If Hollow Meadows suffers from anything, it is perhaps its slight paint-by-number approach. Long story short, there is nothing on this album one would not already expect of Hawley given his consistent back catalogue. But this is not necessarily a bad thing. Rather than allow the gloomy, 1950s soul and American country inspirations overshadow his talent, Hawley has found a way to take command of his suave style and use it to his advantage. He is what Bryan Ferry is to dance music: sexy, confident, near silent. This leaves fans with a better musician, a better Richard Hawley, but a somewhat simpler record— at least in the context of previous albums.

The pop tracks have been thrown into the mix with the deeper cuts, which can be a bit jarring. But given Hawley’s consistent sound, most bumps in the pavement go over smoother than one might expect. The record really picks up towards the middle before finishing off with the one-two punch of “Heart of Oak”— his most accessible song since “Tonight”— and “What Love Means,” a quick, sweet love letter to his daughter. When Hawley dabbles in optimism, it is, of course, shelled in a candy-coated shell of bittersweet guitar chords. His signature dreariness is, however, now little more than a vehicle to drive more ambitious pieces like “Serenade of Blue.” He can suddenly turn it on and off. His music is the soundtrack to a pale February day and bitterly cold night. The smells of freshly cut wood burning in a fireplace mixing with an open bottle of red wine: he is wholly romantic, and the material on Hollow Meadows is absolutely no exception. “Tuesday PM” and “I Still Want You” finds Hawley pushing himself vocally, displaying a grit rarely seen on his previously work. Is it just me, or does he seem to be a bit more content nowadays? Barring a few flat misses, this record’s melodies and lyrics only get better upon repeated listens.

With experience comes wisdom. With age, that wisdom is sharpened and applied. It’s something Janet Jackson has been honing since 2004, making her a far more confident person on stage and off. Although Hollow Meadows is not a game-changing effort for Richard Hawley or for music, it is the mark of a man comfortable in his skin.

Buy Hollow Meadows here.