Musicurious

Released on 5 November 2012
They’re from Brooklyn
Sounds like bright, happy sunshine playing garage rock.
Hear it at bandcamp.

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Another great band pops up as a submission! Automotive High School definitely aren’t a band I would have sought out on my own. Keep sending me stuff, dudes and dudettes.

This 3-song demo has a lot of promise. I’m hearing The Strokes, a little Indian School, and some Beatles, of course. It’s effortless, unadorned, optimistic indie rock, plain and simple. The big guitar line toward the end of the opener “Look. It’s Gone.” gave me a moment of pause— another band flashed in my mind for a moment.

Then “Wonder Sings” started. Fang Island! I shouted to nobody in particular. From one sunny, riffy indie rock band to another, Automotive High School are developing an easygoing, infectious, summer-album sort of sound.

This gets my stamp of approval, and I can’t wait to hear what they do next.

Released on: 16 March 2012
They’re from: Alexandria, Virginia / Boston, Massachusetts
Sounds like: Two doses of twinkly, mathy screamo recorded through a thick sheet of fog.
Hear it: http://sinatradc.bandcamp.com/album/sinatra-i-kill-giants-split

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I was pretty jazzed to finally hear Sinatra 2.0, which makes a lot of sense if you recall my review of Sinatra 1.0 and their EP Lost in Hyrule. After the first few seconds of the 6-minute-plus “I Had Three or a Lot of Beers,” however, it’s pretty apparent that we aren’t in Hyrule anymore.

New Sinatra isn’t leaner and meaner; it’s moodier, less crisp, and nimble as a tugboat— sweet, slow, and heavy like math-rock dunked in molasses— simultaneously more atmospheric and more noisy, sporting chunks of distressed feedback— yet still distantly dancey, especially during the piecey instrumental “Spectral Analysis” that seems to channel Pneu and Fang Island all at once.

What’s both exciting and worrisome about Sinatra’s half of the split is that I can’t get a handle on the band’s sound. They’re like a math-rockin’, noise-rockin’, 7-tentacled hentai beast, but I’ve only got a few available orifices. I know it’s only a two-song effort on their part, and I hesitate to call it unfocused, but fuck it, I’m calling it unfocused. As much promise as each of Sinatra’s many new phallic rape tentacles show, I miss the tighter songwriting of Lost in Hyrule. It’s not like I begrudge them for exploring their sound though— two songs on a split is probably the best place to do it.

On the other half of the split, we have I Kill Giants— a band I’m not entirely familiar with. Having put a few listens under my belt, they’re pretty fuckin’ cool. Think a screamier, jazzier, messier Ghost Cat. And that quintessential math-rock guitar tone! You’ll know it when you hear it in the first thirty seconds of “Sirens.” Poppier and more angular than their split-mates, I Kill Giants rock cleans and spoken word on top of their screams, and the combination’s quite refreshing.

“X’s” rings out punkier, looser, feels more like earlier Clair de Lune, maybe On the Might of Princes— with a turn-of-the-millennium sort of lo-fi production. The dancey midpoint that segues into a lengthy instrumental section is one of the better moments on the split. With their tireless guitar parts and frenetic rounds of scattered vocal deliveries, I Kill Giants are a neat counterpoint to Sinatra.

From the standpoint of a more casual listener, both bands could stand some cleaner production, but the respectable amount of new ideas packed into this split will give it some staying power with the cool kids. Keep your eyes peeled and your ears de-waxed for more offerings from Sinatra and I Kill Giants in the future.

Olde Pine! Twinkly and mathy as shit! I don’t even care that they’re aping the old school so hard, because fuck, I miss the old school. Listen to this post-haste if you dig on American Football, Mineral, nostalgia, etc.

stupidsongsthatmakemefeel:

Artist: Olde Pine

Album: Reservoir

Year: 2011

Genre: Emo, Indie

Download

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(via diostrio)

Released on: 5 May 2011
They’re from: Bridport, England
Sounds like: a rolling fire in a log cabin, under the placid dark of a winter night.
Hear it: http://bit.ly/stationsdot
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In an effort to finalize my top ten list for Decoy, I’ve been re-listening to a ton of albums in the order in which I received them. And when I hit July, I found Starts at Dot again. And shit, I’ll admit it: I let this EP slip through the cracks. I even vaguely remember liking it, but it only ever got one listen. Returning to it, though, I am floored.

The run-down on Stations in the Valley’s sound? At their heart, they’re an indie rock band infected with math-rock and old school emo sensibilities. I keep reiterating that math rock is my catnip, and “Finders Keepers” kicks the EP off with a folky take on math rock, complete with piano and a thick acoustic plucking— either on a banjo or a dreadnought. Either way, the result is warm and luscious indie rock the likes of which I have not heard done better all year. While the entire short effort isn’t tinged with math rock, “My Favourite View” flirts with it, carried along by a nimble drum beat.

Despite my mathy bias, however, the showstopper is “Everyone Moves to London.” A slower song with deep bass and piano, a brooding cello absolutely steals the show during the big chorus and the short, deconstructed solo. The song feels elegiac and groovy at the same time.

The final, titular track is built over a creeping piano line as male and female vocals harmonize and violins lilt. It’s a quiet opal among a few shining gems.

I am absolutely in love with Starts at Dot. I couldn’t recommend it any more highly, and it’s free! And to think I almost forgot about it entirely! I seriously listen to way too much music.

Indigo is an odd color, with an inexact definition of just what hue it is. Sometimes it’s rather blue, sometimes it’s pretty much purple. In the context of The Color Spectrum, Indigo falls somewhere between the electrics characteristic of Black, and the simplicity and melody of Blue. So, very literally, Crescenzo’s got it pegged as a darker blue. Good to know. In more concrete terms, Indigo is rather reminiscent of As Tall As Lions, albeit with a marked Dear Hunter flair.

“What Time Has Taught Us” is sort of a devious song. It awakens with cooly rippling electronic ambience, and an electric bassline that slowly surfaces. Crescenzo’s vocals enter amidst more violently churning electrics and chirping percussion, but the lyrics are at odds with themselves: “Love, you crawl. It’s all coming back now, but the thing of it is, that it never really was.” Led in by vocal harmonies, the chorus mixes together every sound heard in the track thus far into a wondrous explosion of clashing sounds, not unlike a Glowbug song. The lyrics and instrumentation then run on loop, just like Finnegan’s wake: “—be alive, ‘cos nothing lasts for good, or like you thought it would. Nothing’s as it seems, or what you thought it’d be, alive—” So what has time really taught us, if we are to believe the song’s title? That history is destined to repeat, endlessly, until our song eventually fades to silence? As I said, it’s a devious song that rings out pessimism, but there’s a granule of light in there: “Be alive, ‘cos nothing lasts for good.” Like so many of the songs that have come before this, Crescenzo continues to stress carpe diem. Above all, live. And this theme is carried into “Mandala.”

A mandala is often used to create a sacred space to aid in meditation, and the spare opening minute of “Mandala,” which combines lilting ambience, piano, and heavily filtered vocals, seems to fit the bill. The vocals speak of a man in meditation; he is lost, but not without hope: “I lost my place in the world, it left me behind, now my soul is undone, and my mind is free to roam around.” The song’s “kick” when the instrumentation opens up is subtle, but captivating: enter staccato choral flourishes, a groovy bassline and more pronounced waves of ambience. Crescenzo re-enters near a capella — his vocals still effect-laden — with a barely audible drum beat far in the background. And then, the effects are shed in favor of a full-bodied, dulcet delivery complimented by the earlier choral flourishes. The song builds as he sings “The veil can be lifted, and the well will overflow,” and hits its emotional fever pitch at “You’ve been here before.” The triumphant tone carries itself through the resolution: “You’ve seen it all, but your conscience won’t recall. And your eyes are barely wide enough to recognize what your heart keeps giving up. And someday it might win, if your mind’s giving in. Just try and love yourself, or do your best ‘til then.” It’s a similar speaker to “Tripping in Triplets” and “Trapdoor,” a man embroiled and discouraged, but ultimately aware that the only solution is to keep living, to keep pushing onward, “Be alive.”

“Progress” is another brooding, heavily-electronic song. And it’s another song revolving around hope. The scene is set: someone in love, petitioning the object of their desire, who is regrettably indifferent. “It’s such a passive motion, you cast a careless hand to the air. Give me something to hope for.” And the lover pines, “And the only thing that brings me back is love.” The second verse is the final plea: “Your mind is open but your mouth stays closed, enough to keep painful words from falling out. With every ounce of passion, I speak ‘til my lungs both billow out: I’ll give you something to hope for.” The longing is tangible, but there is no resolution; the song just rings out, repeating, “And the only thing that brings me back is love.” You can’t call this progress, but the lover is pressing on in the face of adversity, hoping desperately for his love. It’s another example of the songs of Indigo being at odds with themselves, and it’s a greater example of the songs of The Color Spectrum never offering real resolution. We’ll just have to listen on, and hope, as the speakers in Crescenzo’s lyrics seem to do.

“Therma” is, very simply, a beautiful and placid instrumental track. Lots of effect-laden electrics. It’s a pleasant, unburdened listen, especially after the emotional heaviness of the previous three tracks.

And that is Indigo, whose placid soundscapes belie conflicted and embattled lyrics. Having made our way through 7/9 of The Color Spectrum, though, its inherent themes are slowly coming to the surface, the most important of which are to live, to hope, and to love, against all odds.

Next up is Violet.

Red as a color is most typically associated with love, and often with life; it is the color of roses, and of fresh blood. But don’t expect the four songs that comprise Red to make it on many Valentine’s Day mixtapes. For Crescenzo and The Dear Hunter, Red is the color of grunge. It’s a rock record, but decidedly dirty, gritty, abrasive. When I listen to Red, I think of scratching blisters until they bleed, until they fester under a stream of serpentine midday heat. I feel overwrought and overpowered.

Opener “I Couldn’t Do It Alone” is a groove-laden track underscored by a chunky bassline with a chorus reminiscent of vintage Nirvana— complete with stacked vocals that don’t harmonize, but curdle. Red’s leitmotif is imbalance. Conflict. If we are to snatch the low-hanging fruit and relate the color red to love, let’s look at love as passion, and passion is imbalance, overwrought and overpowered. It’s a lack of control. The entirety of this first song is cacophonous and out of control: the bass is constantly bleeding out of the low end of the mix; the verses and choruses clash, as do the vocals; and the final minute rings out sourly with wailing, tortured guitar flourishes. Unlike later colors, Red is not meant to soothe; it’s inflamed.

“A Curse of Cynicism” is a song of desperation. Crescenzo’s lyrics (and Andy Hull’s, of Manchester Orchestra, who guests) are delivered with palpable strain. Spastic guitar, marching drumbeats, and repeating chants of “I am cynical, I am cynical. It’s a curse, it’s a curse!” offer no relief, just lament. The lyrics repeat, repeat, repeat, and the same drum build-up only prolongs it— the track seems stuck in a cyclical mire— until the drums build once more to start over again, but instead cede to an abrupt, stilted close. It seems there was no solution, just the release of the end.

An odd fit, “Deny It All,” ditches much of the grit and grime in favor of a straightforward, driving, almost surf-rock-leaning song with big, catchy hooks. But if the song is indeed driving, then the bridge slams on the brakes without much warning, then sits still, like bottlenecked traffic backed up for miles— and then it accelerates just as quickly for fleeting moments before the track fades for good. It is the lightest track on Red, with the least substance, and really, with its flippant chorus, “Deny! Deny it all, and it all will go away,” would you expect any different? No, “Deny It All” seems purposefully devoid of passion— dispassionate, to be exact. And maybe that’s why it doesn’t “fit” Red for me.

But any lightness of “Deny It All” is instantly offset by “We’ve Got a Score to Settle.” Heavy is not adequate. This track is downright grimy, soulful, steeped and slow-cooking. The tempo is set at funeral motorcade. The percussion explodes like distant bombs while Casey spits his lyrics as shrapnel. And the haunting chorus, “Someone’s got blood on their hands,” echoes with a roomful of stacked vocals. It’s a powerful closing track just dripping with gravity, and probably the strongest of the four on Red; when the final seconds fade into silence, you feel absence, a vacuum in your eardrums where a huge song used to be.

No, Red isn’t an EP full of power ballads, thankfully, but there’s a lot about it to love. A musical presentation of desperate strain and imbalance, Red captures fervent, destructive passion perfectly.

Next, Orange.

So if you didn’t know, The Dear Hunter has released The Color Spectrum: 9 EPs, each one focusing upon a color on the ROYGBIV scale, bookended by Black and White. For the following nine days, I’m going to be looking at each one in-depth. If you haven’t listened, I hope you’re inspired to check it out— if you’re a fan, I’d love to hear your thoughts.

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Black is an interesting choice for the first EP, as we typically associate the color black with endings; white with beginnings. In the case of The Color Spectrum, this can’t be insignificant, but I’ll save that discussion for White. ”Never Forgive Never Forget” is an equally interesting choice for the first song of the entire collection, because it’s easily the most abrasive.

Black opens with a weak pulse of electronic dun and rolling cymbal work before chugging to life and marching forth with an insidious air. Electrics are a key feature of Black, infusing its four tracks with a viscous, murky sort of ever-present sound pollution. Crescenzo utilizes these throbbing electrics and stuttering drums to capture a definitive mood within minutes, and the soaring chorus only strengthens it. The lines, “Oh, you wanna watch me crash, you wanna see me burn, just enough to fall apart. And then! You wanna see me crawl, you need to watch me beg and lose it all!” smolder with an acerbic bitterness, delivered with full-bodied vocals whose notes are shredding into screams.

And that’s the tone Crescenzo sets— unapologetically.

“Filth and Squalor” follows, a caustic, dark pop track steeped in electronics, with thick bass bubbling underneath the surface like boiling tar. It’s a catchy track, but dense and heavy, congested; it feels like a night drive through dimly lit back alleyways, neon lights flashing momentarily with every passing intersection. Crescenzo’s lyrics convey a deep sense of dissatisfaction with the state of the world around him.

“Take More Than You Need” features a Richter-tipping bassline complimented by cacophonic, electronic squeals set against a slick and driving chorus. The combination of jagged, off-balance verses and choruses heavy with harmonies adds a palpable sense of instability, only aggravated by the amelodic instrumental sections. Crescenzo’s own word describes it perfectly: this song is squalor, a feverish cyclone of black birds chirping. It is both engaging and off-putting, beauteous and chaotic.

The final track, “This Body,” is at first much lighter in feel, but familiar insidiousness and heavy bass unique to Black quickly return, as does the marked electric influence. Crescenzo sings of bodily decay, then laments, “This body’s not a temple; it’s a prison. And every wall inside here is on fire.” And the pre-chorus? A desperate stacked harmony wailing, “Oh my god…” The song is not melancholic or elegaic, however; it’s more active, more like suffering, regret, pain. And the bridge of the song is heavily distorted vocals over the sound of a flatline. When the chorus reprises, suddenly it’s much more meaningful.

And then, silence.

That’s Black. Electronic, heavy, abrasive, caustic, viscous, mired in suffering—dark. Weighty in concept and in mood, perfectly executed; it’s easily one of my favorite EPs on The Color Spectrum.

Tomorrow, Red.