The Only Place - Best Coast

Borderline Bad

Best Coast, the surf-pop duo from the Golden State, jumped to critical acclaim and built a strong following two years ago with its debut album, Crazy for You. A fuzzed-out, lo-fi tribute to surf rock, someone must have pulled the album out of a Santa Barbara time capsule. Guitarist and singer Bethany Consentio, in particular, brought to mind a sense of warmth and levity that many community have been loath to emulate since the early '70s. The West-Coast attitude of pop, with sweet and innocent themes almost of the sake of pop, died with early Rock 'n' Roll. Crazy for You was a memento of a period when appreciation for a mundane life of lounging around was enough to keep a listener's attention.

On The Only Place, the album that attempts to follow its predecessor's success, that sense of nostalgia is gone. Producer Jon Brion has taken out all the affection the debut captured so effectively by removing the lo-fi mix. The end result proves to be too revealing, and any number of Best Coast's failings are presented outright. If less is more, here is an argument that proves the opposite. Song compositions once rich and profound are now simple and repetitive, and the group's gilding of praise as songwriters wash away like sandcastles in on the Pacific shoreline.

The eponymous ode to California starts the album off, and it seems like things are going places (or, the only place). The up-beat argument through song to live on the "best coast" seems spot on with a string of catchy lyrics and a jovial chord progression. This changes quickly. As if the light bulb goes off within the first few seconds, the listener can sense a song-structure formula that differs only in key as "Why I Cry" finishes its intro. Only after the fifth song, it seems that Best Coast tries to change up a delivery; but, by then, it is too late. It is a sloppy, amateurish collection lacking imagination.

There is some endearing quality about Consentio's voice that makes this album less of a swing-and-a-miss. "How They Want Me to Be" seems to be Consentio's time to shine vocally as she sings over an understated backing melody. However, these tracks lack the dynamism and fullness from Crazy for You, and her voice can only do much to right a sinking ship.  Her omnipresent and carefree attitude skillfully moves from indie to the verge of pop-punk, but without the mystique of the mono engineering, it causes her power chords and arpeggios on guitar to clunk ignominiously in the spotlight. Add to this, her quirky lyrics about cats and sitting on the couch lessen the album's efficacy.

Aside from several songs of note, there isn't much you're missing on The Only Place, and without the reverberation effects of its past works, Best Coast sounds hollow and vapid. The band needs to find a way to recapture the feeling of the past or try harder to connect lyrically when working in the present. Pop songs should allow one to escape, not draw one in to criticize.

For Your Consideration: "The Only Place," "How They Want Me to Be."

For Next Time: No ideas yet.

Born and Raised - John Mayer

Noteworthy

I've made no secret that I think John Mayer is one of the most enigmatic artists working today. Some readers might remember my review of his last album, Battle Studies, when I wrote at school. I am not really a big fan, although I have 15 of his songs on my iPod ... a fact for which I loathe myself.

Does he have a screw lose? You bet. Does he not know when to keep his mouth shut? Uh ... yeah. Still, I think Mayer is one of the most incredible talents on guitar that no one knows about.

I can see what you're thinking:

Jim, you've said some dumb shiz. Your taste is mainstream, the grammar on your reviews is somewhat laughable and you stretch overly simplified analogies in order to make yourself sound somewhat cogent ... but the fact that you said John Mayer is the most incredible guitar player that no one knows about takes the cake and then smashes it in my face.

Well, if you're not a die-hard J. Mays fan, you'd be right. Everyone knows "Your Body is a Wonderland." If that's all that this that guy has up his sleeve, I must have lost my mind.

Wrong-o! All you need to do is just take a look at this clip to see just how adroit this bro's fingers really are:



And this is that song "Gravity" off of Continuum, yo. You know that's the blandest of the bland — Kenny G on guitar!

So if you haven't been to one of his concerts, there would be no way to know that Mayer has been possessed by the ghost of Stevie Ray Vaughan. Mayer is good, and he knows it — he matriculated at Berklee (that's the prestigious music college with two e's in Boston, not Berkley, Calif.), won seven Grammys and became an immortal on Chappelle's Show by showing how white people dance funny.

However, in remarks to Rolling Stone and Playboy during his press tour for Battle Studies, we catch glimpses of Mayer's utter tom-douche-ery that makes us feel almost sorry for him, especially now knowing the fallout it ultimately caused. John could've done two things after these displays of whining, TMI concerning his famous ex's and those always-hilarious jokes about his penis being a racist — go Charlie Sheen on everyone's ass or get out of the spotlight for a while. Because this is his first album in almost three years, we know which road he chose.

Mayer returns to the fray with a haggard look, a drab wardrobe, long hair and an off-white Panama hat. It is as if, in his exile, he found Neil Young nirvana under the Harvest tree. It's worth mentioning because even this contributes to the overall feel of this album, Born and Raised, a work shaded under the umbrella of Southern Americana native to Mayer's adopted home of Georgia. Even the album cover looks like long-lost art from the Allman Brothers' secret record vault. His rock-bottom has turned out to be our gain. While the majority of Mayer's recent albums have been vehicles for hits, with the remainder serving as steady easy-listening filler, Mayer benefits from a musical shift.

"Queen of California, "Speak for Me," and "Born and Raised - Reprise" showcase varying degrees of Southern musical influence, such as acoustic fingerpicking, vocal harmonies and syncopation, demonstrating emotion that Yankees and most carpetbaggers have no hope of possessing. Connecticut-born Mayer is the exception — and he feels right at home implementing these techniques effortlessly into Born and Raised's songs.

Those looking for the standard Mayer tracks might also be satisfied, if they are willing to sacrifice quantity for quality. The bluesy "Something Like Olivia" is a fantastic twelve-bar variation that showcases Mayer's penchant for the blues without compromising on the ballads he's known for, with this one dedicated to a taken (probably married) woman. The other is "Whiskey, Whiskey, Whiskey," on which he admits life in the spotlight seems to have changed him into a carnally gluttonous human being and when he realizes he has regressed in his maturity. There is little doubt this contains some of the most profound lyrics Mayer has written and shows he still has a heart even after the high-profile break-ups and publicized faux pas.

The finished product is not a perfect album, but it's undoubtedly polished as Mayer's best work to date. There are still a couple of songs like "The Age of Worry" and "A Face to Call Home" that have an unimaginative Mayer repeating a chord progression on which nothing really changes until the bridge. Still, this album's heights exceed the flaws. The versatility of Born and Raised serves as the return Mayer needed both musically and lyrically ... and it also gives me hope that I may some day hear an amazing, chunky blues guitar solo like the one in the video above.

For Your Consideration: "Queen of California," "Speak for Me," "Something Like Olivia," "Whiskey, Whiskey, Whiskey," "Born and Raised - Reprise."

For Next Time: The Only Place by Best Coast.

Bloom - Beach House

Meh ...

Something must be in the waters of Baltimore. It seems every band based in Charm City seems to have this incredible dream pop sound. It turns out another band I reviewed recently, Lower Dens, is from the area. Do yourself a favor and check them out.

The Maryland-based duo Beach House, with keyboardist/vocalist Victoria Legrand and guitarist Alex Scalley, creates sounds seemingly impossible in size and scope. The group's simple riffs often rise up, growing and stretching toward heights above the clouds.

However, the pair's fourth album, Bloom, serves to be nothing short of ironic. While the melodies are enchantingly beautiful, there is nothing for listeners to do but sit and wait for the 10 songs to have some kind of climax only to be rewarded with sounds that die readily without sprouting any petals.

The result of which is an unrewarding effort. Legrand's wispy voice floats on; Scalley's guitar prowess reminds one of Band of Horses in its reverberation on intimate simplicity. Even so, the general sentimental movement is noticeably missing. While certainly good for meditation, it is not an album designed to keep one's attention. In fact, the more care one takes to decipher the tracks, the more one can see the myriad of repetitions built off of a distinct theme or riff. Pick a song on Bloom, and one can preordain exactly how it will sound in after one minute passes. The result of which is an unchanging, rather banal product. The band, more than efficient in its abilities, cannot piece together songs that either inspire or invoke emotion other than drowsiness.

The only song worth mentioning is "Myth," on which Scalley takes the main riff and overlays chorus-laden solos and bridges while Legrand sings a lush, bellowing vocal. However, on following track "Wild," the listener can figure out the formula used in "Myth" too easily. There is nothing left to do but to wait for the song to be over or to be wowed with a spark of ingenuity. Unfortunately, the spark never comes. This happens another eight times.

As was the case with Silversun Pickups, Beach House is a band with a lot to offer. It's a shame that this offering doesn't demonstrate as such. This is, in a way, more detrimental than it is for Silversun Pickups, which is a group that at least throws a change-up now and then. Without something to shock the listeners out of their dream-pop stupors, they're going to fall asleep before the album plays its way through.

For Your Consideration: "Myth."

For Next Time: Great. So Nas's new album isn't coming out until July. How about the new one from that b-hole John Mayer? That sounds good.

Neck of the Woods - Silversun Pickups

Meh ...

I'm going to start this review off by saying I have not always been a fan of this group. When "Lazy Eye" started getting some attention in 2007, they were on my radar. That chick in that Silversun Pickups band has an interesting voice, I thought. Lolz.

I don't know why, but it took a while to take the band seriously after I figured out that was a dude singing. This must be exactly what it felt like after watching The Crying Game in the '90s. If this was just another Coheed and Cambria, whose voice is nothing more than a gimmick, then that would be that (ugh. They suck). But after listening to Silversun Pickups a few times on the radio and taking time to soak it in, I actually liked how much singer/guitarist Brian Aubert sounds like a rock castrato with a bad addiction to cigarettes or something. I eventually realized what makes it special: this band doesn't give a rat's ass if it's popular or not, it's going to crank up the distortion while refusing to sing like grunting pigs or shrieking Tasmanian devils.

However, there is a very problematic method in the way this band approaches an album. If you listen to Neck of the Woods, then listen to the band's debut, Carnavass, you would not hear too much of a difference. It's as if Silversun Pickups is a panic switch itself — in the on position, it's a mess of rage-filled noise rock; in the off position, it's a catchy combination of power pop and shoegazing. But these albums sound remarkably similar. This demonstrates little growth or substantial exploration since the band first appeared. Even though it has a fantastic sound, it needs to step outside of the comfort zone in order to become something better.

The only thing that sounds close to an attempt at trying new things is "Make Believe," a tune with pop-punk flair more in line with New Found Glory or Silversun's fellow Californians, Blink-182. This leads into the best song, "Bloody Mary (Nerve Endings)," which is not a departure from the usual offerings, but dynamic in that it is rather successful in combining both the angrier and gentler spirits of the band.

Everything else sounds like melodic auto-pilot. No matter how hard it tries on Neck of the Woods, Silversun Pickups cannot escape the neo-alt aura for the sake of creativity. Even "The Pit," a lyrically sound track despite cliched title, is not immune from the air of trendy pseudo-psychedelia the radiates from its performers.

In summation, what makes this band so memorable is also its Achilles' heel. The attentive listener wants to pay attention, but can't help nodding off, especially because the songs are about :30 longer on average on this EP when compared to the other two. Neck of the Woods serves as an example for bands everywhere unwilling to take a leap into the unknown. These groups are good at the music they play, but they will not be remembered as those who tried to move on to greener pastures.

For Your Consideration: "Make Believe," "Bloody Mary (Nerve Endings)."

For Next Time: Expect the new Nas sometime this week.

Nootropics - Lower Dens

Noteworthy

Sorry for the delay. I got held up a lot this week. I'll get it right eventually. And hey, if things go well, you'll get to double down when I post a review tomorrow ... just like my favorite sandwich.

Because I am going to try to write two reviews whenever I can manage, I'll give you something familiar and something a little bit less "mainstream." This is one of the latter.

Lower Dens, based in Baltimore, is a dream rock quartet fronted by the deep-voiced Texan femme Jana Hunter. Hunter, a rising figure in new folk, adapted her talents to this electronic outfit specializing in ambient stylings. This sophomore album, Nootropics, provides a wide range of alternative rock elements as listeners seem to journey through this work like a well-lit mist. Although rather clouded, things seem strangely familiar — it's almost as if David Bowie's Goblin King dropped you off in the movie Labyrinth's namesake after you've seen it 40 times, just as one tends to do.

This seems like an apt analogy due to the fact that Hunter is a rabid musical admirer of the Thin White Duke. And while she says in Vulture she always tries to sound like the Starman, there are many other forces at work here. Hunter's sound definitely resembles the Bowie of the early '80s, but it's the band's stereophonic homages to that time period that conjure spirits more on the lines of Joy Division and Eurythmics.

The guitar-centric instrumental "Stem" shows a post-punk angst that launches right into "Propagation," in which the tempo slams on the brakes and the melody takes on a more goth-like tone. While the tracks on Nootropics can change rapidly, Hunter's clear, tenor voice resounds above the atmospheric noise. On "Candy," her crooning conveys a sense of listless with effortless professionalism. Hunter does not range too far out of the register, and that is just the way she intends it, working to put the right amount of trill on every note.

Nootropics's magnum opus, both parts of "Lion in Winter," begins with a long synth introduction that moves into a subdued new-wave ballad. As the song winds its way through, Hunter's backing band enters and exits the frame as soon as the listener knows they're there. Only a pleasantly catchy bass tone is constant. It's sheer vastness alone makes it a great listen.

The only problem with Lower Dens's new album wonderful drabness is the noticeable aversion to everything gaudy. If the listeners are waiting for Lower Dens to cut loose, then they have picked the wrong LP. Even so, there is a lot to love on Nootropics. Everything on this work is a meticulous rush at less than light speeds.

For Your Consideration: "Stem," "Propagation," "Lion in Winter Pt. 1," "Lion in Winter Pt. 2."

For Next Time: Neck of the Woods by Silversun Pickups.

Little Broken Hearts - Norah Jones

Noteworthy

The Sultana of Soft Rock, Norah Jones, is back and seems eager to offer some heavier fare.

Teaming up with producer Danger Mouse (the other half of Gnarls Barkley, Black Keys' El Camino technician) and fueled by recent break-up, Ms. Jones's new album, Little Broken Hearts, dismisses the usual lightness of her earlier works to dive introspectively into the aftermath of a relationship.

Harnessing both anger and sorrow, Jones creates a convincing album dealing with the subject of a break-up, which has had its fill of late over the past year or so. For example, Adele's 21 is becoming the modern paragon for the jilted everywhere after it won the Grammy for Best Album and is now inching closer and closer to Diamond certification. Because so many of these albums are floating around, this motif is starting to become cliche.

Likewise, Danger Mouse does not really lend too much to the instrumentals. Many of the songs have the same fuzz-guitar vibe as El Camino; there's not much of an effort to distance himself from his latest project.

What makes this album stick to become something more than a copy is Jones herself, who handles her emotions with such grace and alacrity while keeping her own qualities. The result of which is an experiment concerning how far she can push her own exceptional talents.

"After the Fall" is a track is a track on which Jones shines in particular. Reminiscent of R&B and soul from the early '70s, she pines over her broken relationship, reflecting if it was worth the pain she feels now.

Jones also branches out into country, something she regularly plays outside of her solo career. In an attempt to get away from thinking about her ex, Jones decides to head out on a aimless highway journey on "Out on the Road." An Americana tune mixed in with some surf, it's easy to see this song on the soundtrack of some long-lost Tarantino film. This is a good track for the producer as well. When Danger Mouse tries a different path on instrumental, it just sounds more genuine.

The thing to take away from Little Broken Hearts is that, even though some things are banal, Jones once again breaks through and forces the public to take notice. Her old soul and artistry makes even the most precarious projects a beautiful listen.

For Your Consideration: "After the Fall," "Out on the Road."

For Next Time: Sorry. Dunno. My apologies for the short review. I got held up unexpectedly tonight, and I thought better short than never.

The Money Store - Death Grips

Noteworthy

 Judge an album by its cover on this one — on the right is a woman with a muffin-top and pocked legs wearing a leather biker hat and cut-off overalls, and on the left is some freakish male creature in a gimp mask, a thong, a bag holding a rubber chicken and bolted-on tits (covered up, of course. This is a family blog).

As if discovered in the basement of the pawn shop in Pulp Fiction, the experimental hip-hop group Death Grips captures a rather unsettling and intensely visceral mood on its debut album, The Money Store.

The Sacramento trio — consisting of MC Ride, drummer Zach Hill and producer Flatlander — has created some of the strangest, most otherworldly music imaginable. There is something to Death Grips that conveys both a futuristic quality as well as a primal spirit. This group's melodies are probably what those four-limbed, indigenous aliens from John Carter danced to while they smoked space peyote.

MC Ride, the mad witchdoctor of the crew, delivers his occult incantations with echoes and alacrity, even though his vocabulary shows little penchant for wordplay. It's Ride's voice, so omnipresent and bombastic but also so empty and inscrutable, that drives this LP in terms of its combination of trip-hop and noise rock.

To carry the tremendous beat of the latter is Hill, who on "Hustle Bones" demonstrates how he was born as an 808 machine. The kinds of rhythms Hill produces cannot be a human playing on a Tama kit. Even though there is considerable syncopation in Flatlander's instrumentation (which can come out of nowhere as either samples or phasers or sirens), Hill can always be counted on to keep the listener on the same page as the producer and Ride provide a controlled chaos.

It's hard to make out if The Money Store is some sign of a devilish nightmare come to life or the likely chants of hunters from a desolate world where life is little more than a place to live out sick fancies. Half way through "The Cage," it is evident how humans, without order, can become incensed, jittery marauders who dance in the light of a blood red moon on top of the rubble of civilization. Despite Death Grip's evident disregard, a side of the listener cannot help but embrace the strange attractiveness of this unbridled beat. Strangely rabid and grossly wild, such rare and rebellious vitality should be worthy of the bored and the adventurous


For Your Consideration: "Hustle Bones," "The Cage."

For Next Time: Not sure yet, but see you Thursday.