Cults were formed last year by New York University students Brian Oblivion and Madeline Folli. They released a three-song EP that generated positive press, leading to this year’s eponymous debut album, an engaging mix of 1960s girl-group vocal stylings and modern indie-rock sensibilities.
Opening track Abduction introduces the record’s reoccurring themes: floaty atmospherics, ghostly spoken word sound snippets, Folli’s girlish crooning and lots of glockenspiel. As the song hits its stride, a razor-sharp, made-for-speed bassline cuts out a melody above which Folli belts out a tale of destined heartbreak: “I knew right then that I’d been abducted/I knew right then that he would be taking my heart.”
Sometimes the band’s references are incredibly obvious, as on You Know What I Mean, which features a vocal melody that is a dead ringer for The Supremes’ hit Where Did Our Love Go. Still, it’s tough to find much fault in this. Replete with huge, heavily reverbed snare hits and finger snap accents, the song is an unabashed ode to
old R ’n’ B.
Never Saw the Point is another track that has clear ties to the 1960s: blushing, sugary vocals, a bouncy bassline and a strong double-snare backbeat. Catchy and fun, it dares you not to like it — as does the entire album.
In light of a recent surge in the number of indie rock bands clearly influenced by 1960s girl-groups, it’s hard to categorize the Cults sound as “fresh.” They do what they do very well, however, and they do it with enough personality to carry them further than most of their peers.
Beyonce Knowles is one of the most successful pop artists of all time, having sold over 75 million albums worldwide and taken home 16 Grammy awards. Her fourth studio album, 4, is also her fourth straight to debut at the top of the charts. Said to take inspiration from legendary R ’n’ B acts such as Michael Jackson and Prince, the album is a significant departure from Beyonce’s recent works. Unfortunately, she seems to have taken a turn for the worse.
1+1 opens the album with a painfully simple yet sloppily played arpeggiated guitar figure that features truly vile tone. It sounds a little like a pimply teen awkwardly plucking away on his very first practice amp. What follows is a selection of the very worst sounds from 1980s R ’n’ B ballads: crystalline chimes, melodramatic piano chords, and limp, “funky” bass-lines. Against this pastiche of banalities, Beyonce delivers some truly cringe-worthy lines: “I don’t know much about guns but I’ve been shot by you.” The guitar solo near the end sounds like a brick of Wisconsin cheese, completing the song’s downward spiral; if this was meant to resemble Prince, it has failed miserably.
The Best Thing I Never Had is better, but still not very good. Built around a traipsing little piano figure without any meat on its bones, the song falls flat on its face at the chorus, which, for all its desire to be a life-affirming sing-along, lacks the punch it needs to really cut through.
It is, however, very difficult to find any fault in Beyonce’s singing. Her voice is a wondrous instrument with incredible range, but even it cannot save a record as uninspired and sluggish as this one. There are those who will praise 4’s relatively tame production value, and I admit it was an admirable risk to take in a world where studio tricks move units. But once these songs are stripped bare, there simply isn’t much left worth listening to.
The Men are a noise-punk band hailing from Brooklyn, New York. Their second LP, Leave Home, is a blast-furnace of thick, noxious guitars and unbridled aggression — a sonic punch to the kidneys.
The album’s most ambitious track is opener If You Leave …, on which ambient noises swirl about for several minutes before finally exploding into a monstrous riff that sounds half-Led Zeppelin, half-My Bloody Valentine. The song’s only lyric, “Die, I would die,” completes the thought begun by the song’s title.
Bataille is another highlight, and proves that even the most playful of melodies can sound positively demented when played on searing, distorted guitars within the context of a noise-punk song. Deceptively simple in its arrangement, the song seamlessly deconstructs itself midway through, keying in on tensions only hinted at early on, before returning to its central melodic theme, which is even more powerful the second time around.
There is also plenty of sludge to be found here. L.A.D.O.C.H sounds a little bit like Flipper on steroids, with squealing feedback and bottomed-out bass. The drum break halfway through provides a haunting backdrop for some truly pitiless screaming. Definitely not for the faint of heart.
Leave Home, despite its lo-fi production values, or perhaps because of them, sounds absolutely huge throughout. Imagine No Age’s debut record with a little less melody and a lot more snarl, and you have a close approximation of Leave Home. Highly recommended for anyone in need of a good record to bash around to.
Idaho has been around for almost 20 years. Begun as a duo, it has since become a vehicle for songwriter Jeff Martin’s solo efforts. You Were a Dick is his first release under the Idaho name in over four years.
Given its name, it might surprise you to learn that You Were a Dick is a very elegantly wrought, melancholic album. Built upon dreamy acoustic guitar passages, the title track describes a falling out between friends: “Hope you don’t take it personally that I disappeared like that/But the sparks began to burn instead of shimmer.”
Martin is no vocal virtuoso, but he does have his charms, in particular the subtle cracks in his voice that so effectively communicate an unaffected vulnerability.
Reminder’s delicate, finger-picked guitar and sparse piano arrangement create a feeling of free-falling, atop which Martin sings, “Beating down the path that leads nowhere/what’s that water falling down your face?” This tension is brought to a halt as the tempo drops and Martin reminds us that there is more to life than our own private anxieties. “Need a reminder that you’re not alone/Open your eyes and you’ll see that there are trees and their branches reach out in every way.”
There are also some rather peppy numbers on the record. The Space Between is a fairly lively track with sparkly delayed electric guitar and loud, emotive vocals. Delicious feedback-flavored drones add intrigue and show another side to Idaho’s music, one that’s full of verve.
You Were a Dick is a solid record throughout, and also more accessible than much of Martin’s prior work, which was often uncompromising in its doom and gloom moods. Here, sporadic bursts of energy balance the record in a way that many will appreciate.
Last week Joseph Nye, the well-known China scholar, wrote on the Australian Strategic Policy Institute’s website about how war over Taiwan might be averted. He noted that years ago he was on a team that met with then-president Chen Shui-bian (陳水扁), “whose previous ‘unofficial’ visit to the US had caused a crisis in which China fired missiles into the sea and the US deployed carriers off the coast of Taiwan.” Yes, that’s right, mighty Chen caused that crisis all by himself. Neither the US nor the People’s Republic of China (PRC) exercised any agency. Nye then nostalgically invoked the comical specter
April 15 to April 21 Yang Kui (楊逵) was horrified as he drove past trucks, oxcarts and trolleys loaded with coffins on his way to Tuntzechiao (屯子腳), which he heard had been completely destroyed. The friend he came to check on was safe, but most residents were suffering in the town hit the hardest by the 7.1-magnitude Hsinchu-Taichung Earthquake on April 21, 1935. It remains the deadliest in Taiwan’s recorded history, claiming around 3,300 lives and injuring nearly 12,000. The disaster completely flattened roughly 18,000 houses and damaged countless more. The social activist and
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Approaching her mid-30s, Xiong Yidan reckons that most of her friends are on to their second or even third babies. But Xiong has more than a dozen. There is Lucky, the street dog from Bangkok who jumped into a taxi with her and never left. There is Sophie and Ben, sibling geese, who honk from morning to night. Boop and Pan, both goats, are romantically involved. Dumpling the hedgehog enjoys a belly rub from time to time. The list goes on. Xiong nurtures her brood from her 8,000 square meter farm in Chiang Dao, a mountainous district in northern Thailand’s