The Arctic Monkeys were one of the first acts to be propelled to stardom on the strength of Internet buzz alone, enabling their debut record, Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not, to become the fastest-selling debut album in UK chart history, and earning the band critical acclaim from both sides of the Atlantic. Five years later, Suck It and See, the band’s fourth studio album, sees the group offering more of the carefully crafted classic rock that’s expected of it.
The album starts strong with She’s Thunderstorms, which features a winding arpeggiated guitar figure gliding along in a manner befitting the femme fatale the song’s lyrics describe: “In an unusual place/When you’re feeling far away/She does what the night does to the day.”
A great beginning, yes, but I question the adulation this band often inspires. True, Alex Turner’s voice, once you get past its striking resemblance to Jim Morrison’s, does exude a certain gritty charm all its own. And here and there the band even hits on some moments that could be called brilliant. The problem, however, is that these moments are often sandwiched between long periods of mediocrity.
Turner’s lyrics are, generally speaking, a significant step up from the average Top 40 rock band. But sometimes, as on the sludgy Brick by Brick, they get a little too cliche for their own good. Turner yelling “I wanna rock ’n’ roll/Brick by brick” atop a mish-mash of rock ’n’ roll conventions doesn’t make for a particularly compelling tune. I can see what they are doing here — I just don’t understand why they want to do it.
Still, it is unfair to judge The Arctic Monkeys by the massive hype they have generated. If you want to have your mind blown apart by new, fresh sounds, look elsewhere. But if you want to hear a band that would blow you away if you happened to catch it perform at a hole-in-the-wall bar, look no further. And you don’t even have to get up off the couch.
Fucked Up’s story makes for a stimulating read. Dotted as it is with tales of reckless abandon, endangerment of MTV television crews, and anti-mind-control political rants, it portrays a band firmly entrenched within its punk rock ethos. David Comes to Life is a punk rock opera in four acts, and a natural extension of the band’s colorful 10-year history.
Here the typical themes of love, loss and transcendence through struggle are all made strange by vocalist Damien Abraham’s fearsome growling atop what would otherwise pass for readily palatable punk pop.
If you find the vocals grating at first — and you probably will — stick it out for a few songs. Over time, what seems an awkward juxtaposition gradually evolves into a stylish pairing. It helps that the band’s sound is absolutely huge throughout. Walls of sound continually pummel the listener as hook after hook is unfurled through sheets of thick guitar fuzz.
Queen of Hearts, the song in which the protagonist David meets his lover, is propelled quickly along by multi-dubbed guitar riffing in synch with a crushing rhythm section, a feature it shares with nearly every other song on the record. It is here that we first hear the Cults’ Madeline Follin, who guests as the voice of David’s girlfriend, and the contrast between her sweet, girlish voice and Abraham’s barking lends the record a peculiar push-pull magnetism that is quite endearing.
Like any self-respecting rock opera, David Comes to Life clocks in at over an hour. This is a bit too long. The songs sound too alike, and at some point listening to them begins to feel like being beat over the head with sameness. Still, if you can match its stamina, it is an impressive effort.
Bon Iver is the musical project of Justin Vernon, who recorded its debut, For Emma, Forever Ago, by himself, alone in the woods during a Wisconsin winter, while recovering from a bout of mononucleosis. As you might guess of a record produced under such unusual circumstances, it was meditative, intimate, and melancholy to the extreme. The follow-up, Bon Iver, maintains much of the feel of the former while expanding the band’s palette of sounds, sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse.
Each song on Bon Iver is about a specific place — some real and some fictional — and Vernon has said the inspiration for each song began with a particular sound. One can certainly sense this, as every track seems to be mining its own unique emotional vein.
On Holocene, an elusive acoustic guitar figure that never seems to find the note it’s looking for sets off Vernon’s impenetrable soul-searching: “It’s on its head/It struck the street/You’re in Milwaukee off your feet/And at once I knew I was not magnificent.”
Another highlight is Michicant, a tale of young sexual exploration that employs a melody both sad and playful at the same time, punctuated by odd slapback-echoed percussive snaps. As it reaches its conclusion, delicate, dissonant horns blossom all around like fragile flowers, completing the scene.
There are also tracks that miss the mark completely. The final song, Beth/Rest, almost sounds like a bad karaoke remake of some long forgotten 1980s soft rock hit, replete with cringe-worthy electric guitar licks. Within this context, even Vernon’s oftentimes magical crooning loses nearly all of its emotional impact.
Still, make no mistake, this record is a good one. Bon Iver gets its name from the French bon hiver, which means “good winter.” It’s a fitting moniker for a band led by a man whose voice so readily channels feelings of isolation, even as it invites you to come ever nearer.
You’ve probably heard Fireflies, the surprise 2010 hit single from Owl City, multiple times by now. In retrospect, it’s easy to see why it caught on with the kids. A young man with boyish good looks singing cute yet vaguely angsty lyrics in a syrupy sweet voice atop a bubbling synth-pop melody definitely seems like a potential chart-topper. If this is your kind of swill, Owl City’s new album, All Things Bright and Beautiful, is made for you.
But for those with a more discerning ear, All Things Bright and Beautiful is everything that is good about music today after it has been stripped of its soul, robbed of its dignity, and dressed up in ill-fitting, garish clothing.
Owl City is the moniker for Adam Young, whose vocal stylings bear more than a passing resemblance to the Postal Service’s Ben Gibbard. But although Gibbard’s lyrics may leave something to be desired, they have never plumbed the depths that Young’s often sink to, as on Deer in the Headlights: “Met a girl in the parking lot/And all I did was say hello/Her pepper spray made it rather hard/For me to walk her home/I guess that’s the way it goes.” Really?
Alligator Sky represents Young’s vision of what constitutes modern genre-bending musical innovation. Into his trademark stew of sugary synths, flat beats and puerile lyrics, he adds a dollop of unimaginative hip-hop courtesy of rapper Shawn Chrystopher. The result is a track that will leave your ears wincing in pain, begging for the noise to stop. Unless, of course, you happen to be one of those aforementioned swill-drinking folks who are just looking for a happy song to bounce around to, in which case you may be quite pleased.
All Things Bright and Beautiful is an immaculately produced, boring, bloodless record. If synth-pop is your thing, you can find plenty of other acts that do it much, much better.
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