Travis Barker, Give The Drummer Some (2011): Album Review

I’ve never liked Blink-182, The Aquabats, or The Transplants. But I’ve always thought Travis Barker was a very cool drummer. So while I’ve never really been into the bands he’s backed, I have always enjoyed his drumming and can understand why he would want to make a solo album displaying his talents. Unfortunately, his recent drum-infused rap remixes were wearing thin by time he decided to crank out Give The Drummer Some, an album made up entirely of percussion heavy rap tracks. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing however, and the CD highlights some of the best elements from the Rap-Rock genre.

For those of you that thought Rap-Rock met the same fate as backward fitted caps, Dungaroos, and good Tony Hawk games, you were wrong. Because like a mighty Phoenix ascending from a smoldering plane crash, Travis Barker is here to remind us why the genre was awesome (and also a little about why it isn’t).

Despite Jada Pinkett Smith’s efforts, kids are still interested in music that dates back to a time when Steven Tyler was kicking holes through Run Dmc’s walls. And while Barker’s album is specifically drum-focused, it is is a classic example of that genre. Unfortunately, most tracks sound like drum-infused remixes, and not bona fide songs. For every song that is clearly built around Travis’s presence, there are five more where his drumming sounds like an unnecessary layer atop a fully developed track. The many guest rappers featured on the album probably realized this and drop occasional shout-outs as reminders to the fact that the album is centered around a drummer. In fact, both Rick Ross and Lil’ Wayne lazily drop the line “Travis on the drums,” in the same song. Without such reference lines it’s easy to hear the album as a compilation of sessions of Travis playing his drums while listening to a mix of songs his friend sent him.

The lack of vocal coordination highlights the absence of focus and purpose of the album. Many lyrics are lazy and seem more like 1^st-draft verses that didn’t make the cut for other work. This is especially true for artists that are already established and currently hot. Other rappers, like Twista, Raekwon, Bun B, and E-40(!) are clearly trying harder, and their verses are generally much better than their track mates. The same cannot be said for Cypress Hill, who close out the album with a terribly boring song full of cliche rhymes and verses that only highlight their age and irrelevance.

With that said, the album does have its strong points. Songs that incorporate rhyme schemes built around Travis’s drumming and work within the established parameters of the Rap-Rock genre are generally the best. “Carry It,” which features 90’s all-stars RZA, Raekwon, and Tom Morello (of Rage Against the Machine) is one such song. The Tech N9ne and Bun B featured track, “Raw ****,” is another. The other top songs are ironically the same one’s were Travis’s drumming is less at the forefront. “Knockin” is one such example. The speed rap showcase track featuring Busta Ryhmes, Twista, Yelawolf, and Lil John, “Let’s Go,” is another. Travis’s drumming is undoubtedly impressive throughout the entire album, and its nice to hear him incorporate all the sounds available on his expansive drum set. Unfortunately, without a real sense of collaboration between drummer-producer-rapper, many tracks fail to highlight the talents of those involved. In the end however, I actually enjoyed this more than I thought I would. If you move beyond some of the cheesiness and accept the CD as a collection of tracks, and not a comprehensive album, Give The Drummer Some is actually a lot of fun.

Album Review: The Flaming Lips - Embryonic

I'm surprised Warner Bros. let this album see the light of day--who listened to this and decided that, despite its complete and utter disregard for Top 40 polish, Auto-Tune shine, and concise songwriting, this was music that would make the record label lots of money? Wayne Coyne and co. have never cared much for convention, sure, but Embryonic takes the band completely out of their familiar environment and gives us an idea of what Can might have sounded like if they found out they liked the sound of Vivian Girls.

On one hand, we have the sound of The Flaming Lips that is familiar to anyone who's heard any of their work after 1997. Punchy drumloops propel all manner of synthesizers and guitars through striking, beautifully rendered chords, as well as Wayne Coyne's own strangely in-tune voice. And with their carefully perfected bag of tools, the band shows off their artistic mastery of their instruments, sailing through tender slowness akin to The Soft Bulletin and rocking out like they'd only started touring yesterday in support of Clouds Taste Metallic.

And yet, there's this new side of The Flaming Lips that we haven't seen before--their experimental side. Avant garde? Maybe. It's arguable that Embryonic is that motivated to be so abstract when so much of the album focuses on melodic and rhythmic elements, as opposed to pure noise or arrhythmic pieces. Time signatures? Check. Key signature? Check. Melody? Check. The real avant garde masters would be offended. Lightning Bolt wouldn't let Embryonic into the same room as their material. Even listeners new to any Flaming Lips work at all would be able to tell that there are recurring elements that might constitute their repertoire--the drum loops, the voice (of Wayne Coyne), the slow, throbbing brainwave-stimulating synth loops, the dreamy atmosphere. If you were hoping that the band would venture into Throbbing Gristle sounds, you would be wrong. This is definitely tonal.

The result is the musical equivalent of half and half: half old material, half new modes of expressing that old material. Part of me feels like I'm simply hearing the sappy parts of The Soft Bulletin fed through a guitar amplifier. Is that a bad thing? If you don't mind lo-fi, you won't mind the new modus operandi. If you demand that classic Flaming Lips audial polish, this record will both appeal to you and annoy you to death. You will hear echoes of previous album At War with the Mystics (think "The Sound of Failure/It's Dark... Is It Always this Dark??") and some more. Get ready for pinging delays with deep reverb ("Powerless"), what may be called way too much vocoder saturation ("The Impulse"), freakouts! ("Silver Trembling Hands," "Virgo Self-Esteem Broadcast," "Scorpio Sword"), some random dude doing some poetry recital or something like that ("Sagittarius Silver Announcement"), glitch-style rhythmic noise ("Convinced of the Hex," "Worm Mountain"), and just about every freaky trick in Wayne Coyne's playbook.

In a way, Embryonic is the natural evolution of The Flaming Lips. Their earliest albums were noisy, wretched, and wild. Then the band matured and smoothed out the edges. Then they found nostalgia for their youth and merged their two worlds. We are at that last point. And as I listen to the songs again and again, I realize how much this style suits the band--so weird, but so beautiful. It's like The Album Leaf got drunk with TV on the Radio. Even as Wayne Coyne croons high and slow in "If" and a lazy bass strums along and all manner of amplification and synthesizer crash together for static jam "Worm Mountain," the twin paths are never more apparent. If you're left wondering why the hell The Flaming Lips would bother to do something so different, the answer is that it's really the same thing they've always done. Perhaps we're in familiar territory after all. But with The Flaming Lips, who can tell?

Album Review: The Luxury - In the Wake of What Won't Change

Back when I reviewed albums for 91.3 KXCI Tucson ("real people, real radio"), I had the luck to stumble upon Boston-based britpop group The Luxury's debut album, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things. A piece of emotive, sharply cornered pop/rock that was remarkably recorded in singer/producer Jason Dunn's apartment/bedroom (I can't remember which). The band back then (2006? 2007?) showed great promise in their songwriting, even if they couldn't afford studio time.

Now that 2009 has borne our universe most of the way through the fruits of her many months--when September is the month--I admit I'm a little surprised to find that The Luxury have followed me to Tempe, sending a CD to The Blaze. Well, this is my chance to follow their progress.

As it turns out, The Luxury have been busy, finishing first in a Boston-area band battle and recording their second album with the free studio time they won. For the large part, In the Wake of What Won't Change is bigger, more elaborate, and an improvement on what the band probably wanted to make on their first effort. Gone are the rough edges of their first record; their sophomore work hones in on the type of anthemic, alt-influenced britpop that defined the band's debut. In the Wake has two "sides" (but you don't have to flip over the disc), both with short, abstract "intros," which feels like self-indulgent bloat until you realize that the first side is definitely different from the second.

"Getaway Car," which starts the record proper after the first intro, steps nimbly over the beat, bouncing on the usual rock band standard plus an arpeggiating synth. I compliment "Take It Back" for the way it mixes throwbacks to classic rock with studio trickery, at once both heavy and soft. The first side even comes to resemble power pop at times. The Luxury does some of the best harmonies I've heard from recent bands, especially on "'Til Your Last Year" and "The Mirror Fogs."

The second side, begun by "El Jefe Y Su Burro (intro)," represents The Luxury's foray into production indulgence. I can't imagine what could have inspired the band to find not one, but two trumpeters for the aforementioned track and its follow-up, "Straitjacket," which sounds like David Terry of Aqueduct ditched the synthesizers and got major studio backing. While I am biased against extravagant arrangements without cause, I cannot deny that the trumpet blares and Jason Dunn's ridiculous energy make my foot tap hopelessly. The rest of the side finds the five-member band building U2-style anthems, heard best on "Sing for the Last Train" and "Closer."

It is also on the second side that the band makes a big misstep--criticizing President George W. Bush. My political views aside, I remember the last KASC Music Director, Owen, remarking that that no one wants to hear outdated political commentary in song form (or something like that--sorry, Owen). And yet, "012009" (referring to January 20, 2009, when Bush left office) spends three minutes to this very subject. Songs like this one, with thinly-veiled lyrics about a specific person, can quickly date a band or mark a group's amateurishness.

Misguided political statements aside, The Luxury has made an album that should get them national attention (should being the key word). If you can make it past track 11, The Luxury are a band that you need to hear. In the Wake of What Won't Change has carved out the space between power britpop and big indie rock and filled it. I just hope that these guys can resist the allure of overproduction so common to mainstream rock and pop.

Album Review: Youth Group - The Night Is Ours

This it: a haunting, beautiful excursion into anthemic alternative rock. Australian quartet Youth Group holds a modest profile, and this is potential evidence for the absence or nonexistence of God. They are known better in native Australia than in the States, but if Architecture in Helsinki and The Avalanches can both successfully make the leap to North America, then Youth Group deserves similar acclaim. Their blend of emotional catchphrases, alternately sparse and milky arrangements, and sometimes downright (or, rather, upright) masterful song structures triumphs over the CD that holds The Night Is Ours. Every song more or less drips with overflowing emotion, unrestrained. Perhaps it is this fully owned and embraced romanticism that distinguishes Youth Group from some weird Morrissey-cum-Gang-of-Four-cum-Cure Frankenband.

While the casual listener might gag at the sound of horns or strings (notably at the approach of the synthesized varieties), such textures are common to this disc, as are the delicate presses of piano keys; where electric guitars fail to convey doldrums or pluck away your reservations for the music one by one--like a sharpshooter--these sounds amplify the intensity or cake the soundscape in moodiness. It's the musical equivalent of Edgar Allen Poe melted together with Shakespeare (King Lear and The Tempest especially come to mind) à la Henrik Ibsen.

Intellectual delusions of grandeur massaged, I am forced by the necessity of clarity in my articulations to further my review by (sigh) talking about the music. I am struck and stricken by the conflict between minimalism and ornamentation orchestrated throughout the album. In a way, the structure of the CD reflects this. The Night Is Ours begins with "Good Time," a reflection on alienation that starts with nothing but a murmuring synth note, hung in the air like wind chimes. The tone is soon joined by a pensive bass note repeated over and over, followed by Toby Martin's soft baritone vox. As he begins to question his identity, he is joined in time by plodding piano keys and drum hits until he reaches an epiphany--represented both vocally and melodically. Though slow and containing little rock substance, this short tune evokes a kind of symbolic texture I rarely have the pleasure to hear.

From here Youth Group ventures into "One for Another," which recalls the subtle energy of God Is an Astronaut, but with excursions into the kind of bass-guitar interplay that the Futureheads use to great effect and all the lush trappings of the Human League. The ending switches gears entirely, shifting into a horn blowout that almost quotes Broken Social Scene's "Ibi Dreams of Pavement (A Better Day)." "Two Sides" is equally appreciated, as much a salute to self-conscious indie pop rock as to 80's synthpop. "Dying At Your Own Party" is purely channeled Morrissey with a backing band that explores the narrator's underlying emotions even as Martin sings abjectedly. The first half of the disc ends with the full-bodied "All This Will Pass."

Most memorable is "Friedrichstrasse," a single tune that reveals itself to be a microcosm of the rest of the 38-minute effort. A ballad of escape and fulfillment, Martin croons, "I'm never gonna leave/ The possibilities/ I'm blowing through my mind./ Can I leave this behind?/ I'll make it on my own./ I'm never going home." The reason the song is unsuitable for airplay in its original form is its usage of a single curse word. But the song, with its ringing ambience, steadily drawn rising action, and majestic peak, all flesh out the musical soul of Youth Group: bright and dew-eyed, longing for all the grace and innocence of a doe with a weary, forelorn expression. "Friedrichstrasse" more fully probes the idea of layering of instrumentation to achieve climax, with great results. The song progresses confidently, rendering each successive transition transparently and comfortably.

As "In My Dreams" and "What Is a Life?" close out the album with charm and sophistication, I wonder why Youth Group has failed to achieve widespread fame as other, less deserving artists have captured. Unless my musical instincts are vehemently misguided, Youth Group has put out a stunning fourth LP. Good show, lads, good show.

Album Review: Abe Vigoda - Reviver

Abe Vigoda is still alive, believe it or not. So is the veritable punk rock band of the same name. Or, perhaps not. Perhaps they are no longer alive as a punk band? Based on their EP Reviver, I think it might be safer to call Abe Vigoda an experimental post-punk outfit. I admit, I was caught completely off-guard the first time this punk-cum-shoegaze record.

If Reviver sounds inaccessible, it's because shoegaze is not often produced today, and not with the passion that Abe Vigoda throws in. Admitedly, some elements echo their 2008 LP Skeleton, particularly the band's penchant for walls of dissonance, but in a comparison Skeleton is gritty asphalt to the treble brightness of Reviver. "Don't Lie" sums up all the different elements of the CD within the first minute. Choral echoes fade in to the stroke of a buzzing guitar and idiosyncratic drum patterns with a sparse rhythm. Michael Vidal's quivering voice stalks through the forest of electric noise with the air ofMorrissey, punctuated with Juan Velazquez's harmonizing falsetto. Abe Vigoda straddles the line between opaque and accessible, with one foot in each camp. On the one hand, that 4/4 bass and whirling thunder are rarely exposed to radio, but then again the vocal harmonies are earnest and beautiful.

The rest of the EP continues in variations of aspects of the first song, "House" making do with syncopated rhythms and plucks razor sharp lead guitarzig-zagging across the soundscape . The harmonies here still resonate, but with a tone more baritone than the tenor of the first track. "Wild Heart" is an off-beat interpretation of StevieNicks's song of the same name, stripped down to the essentials: no percussion, Vidal's miserable drone, guitar pricks (and feedback), a pulsing bass keeping time, and a grating wall of sound that will pull at your heart with all the natural emotion of aXiu Xiu song; "The Reaper" finishes off the record with less variation than I would like (compared to the previous two songs), but it makes use of distinctly AbeVigoda sounds: vocals buried deep in noise. But Reaper sounds the most post-punk of the five-track EP. (Track 3, "Endless Sleeper," is more of an interlude than a serious song.) Between flashes of feedback, the guitars fret away in little snitches of melody that you must observe with care in order to catch.

Abe Vigoda brings their unique, almost asynchronous shoegaze post-punk to fruition, succeeding at drowning the sonic landscape the band caresses. If you lose focus, the album will become noise. But if you focus, you can make out sounds maddening, glamorous, and melancholy.

Abe Vigoda's Reviver will be released on February 17th by PPM.

Album Review: Sweet Water - Clear the Tarmac

Sweet Water used to be a post-grunge band in the 90s, combining grunge with pop elements. They were from Seattle and everything. The key phrase is "used to be." (Well, they're still from Seattle, but some things can't be helped.) Their latest album, Clear the Tarmac, is as much grunge as Buddy Holly was emo, and Sweet Water is proud to admit it. I really can't imagine what the transition from half-grunge to pop rock must have been like. Is there an organization called Grungers Anonymous? Are there 12 steps involved?

Whatever the case may be, Sweet Water makes every effort to convince the listener that they are relevant after their self-imposed hiatus, and I have to say I'm impressed. It's sugar sweet, energetic and peppy, a real guilty pleasure. I listen to the lyrics and I think, Well, those aren't very good lyrics, but I don't care. It doesn't matter that "Grass Is Green," the album opener, begins Hey/Oh/I found shelter/Under your hair's soft canopy/Time passes slowly/When I'm with you/I can't believe the grass is green. What makes the song special is the tremendous emotion that's put into the song and the catchy rhythm. Adam Czeisler has a great voice for the music his band makes. It's like Hamilton Leithauser of The Walkmen (the guy with his voice stuck in his sinuses) listened to Mick Jagger and decided to reconsider his style. And then the band decided to back up Adam with some Weezer-style background falsettos. And then they do it for an entire album.

Should they tone it down? Telling Sweet Water to tone it down would be like telling James Brown to stop being so funky. That would be going against their respective modi operandi. Also, James Brown is dead so you can't tell him what to do. But the point stands. Czeisler's tenor voice deserves adequate backing, and the other three band members oblige, with some faux power pop. You can hear the best parts of U2--the uncompromising guitar, the drawn-out cries in the upper register--and some spiritual channeling of Boston's bright eyed vocal choruses. The acoustic guitar strums that reinforce the rhythm heighten the action, never letting a song sit and stutter. Props also go to Paul Uhlier, whose agile drumwork propels the album into the stratosphere.

I hope it never comes down.

Clear the Tarmac was released by Golden City on February 7.

Album Review: Owl - Owl

Leave it to the new guy to review the band nobody's ever heard of. While the COTMA regulars get to chew on AC Newman and Los Campesinos, I must, whimpering and shivering for want of food and clothes, accept the self-titled release of Los Angeles band Owl. Then I cry myself to sleep, dreaming of revenge.

I kid, I kid.

Some of the most unexpected joys can be found in listening to a band that neither your nor anyone else on Earth has heard of but still kicks ass. I should know. During my junior and senior years at high school, I reviewed 100 CDs for community radio station KXCI down in Tucson, and some of my favorite artists I discovered in that time. So I'm used to it. That is, I'm used to the beatings and whippings.

Again, I kid.

The first time I listened through Owl, I wasn't quite sure what to make of it. It was only after subsequent listens that I decided this one thing: Owl refuses to cement its music in one category. While this trio uses hard rock as their base of operations, ignoring the other components of their artistry would do them a disservice, as the band does their best to show off their versatility. From the opening bars of "Charmed," I can hear Owl's roots in Black Sabbath, but the verses give way to a chorus that would sound more at home in a Staind song than a tune by Alice in Chains. Owl muddles in new wave vocals and trials the kind of bratty guitar tones that fill pop-punk refrains in songs like "Alive" and "More on Drugs." The rhythm guitar line that rounds the verses "No Light" recalls Horrorpops on top of the lite metal filler. I'm honestly a bit puzzled by Owl's intentions. Are they trying to push the bar, or merely trying to introduce themselves to the rock world?

What's clear is that Owl tries hard to rock, although I never felt the urge to throw up the horns at any time. (Note: I usually never do.)The press release that came in the mail with the CD did its best to embellish Owl's musical style, because I can tell you that Owl is very certainly not "progressive alternative rockers" as the mailer claims. If Owl is prog rock (pardon me, "alt prog") then Korn is also prog rock and Enon are shoegaze. Nearly every song on the record follows a verse-chorus structure ad infinitum with solos and bridges and whatnot smashed between. Owl just doesn't do any of the theatrics or unusual instrumentation that Yes or Jethro Tull toyed with. Maybe I just don't get this "progressive alternative" rock, but the only thing that seems prog about it are the static swirls and feedback sprinkled sparingly around only a few of the tracks. Owl could be described as Goo Goo Dolls gone Ozzy Osbourne after taking a songwriting class taught by Kaiser Chiefs.

Chris Wyse is the man behind this band. He's a bassist who's established himself by working with The Cult, playing alongside Ozzy Osbourne, and auditioning for Metallica. He wrote almost all of the songs. Sometimes, this album works. Other times, it just annoys me with its self-indulgent "alternative" style. The strings heard on "Alive" just don't fit in with the rest of the CD, and the nonsensical lyrics that run through "More on Drugs" just don't help a song that only rocks half the time and the other half merely acts tough. Honestly, the distorted guitars are the most metal thing about Owl. Wyse's voice, which could be described as Robby Takac's sans nasal passages, or Liam Gallagher with a cigarette habit.

If you love grunge, then Owl will alienate you for half the record. Alt rock fans will feel vaguely uncomfortable for the other half. Indie kids will run away. If you like solid, hard rock then I can recommend this record with extreme caution. It's a good effort by musicians with talent, skill, and experience in the music industry. Unfortunately, Owl makes too many concessions to sound accessible to a greater audience, so they never really flesh out their style. The closest Owl ever gets to hardcore is on the last song, "Waves," when flashes of miscreant tension flirt with primal screams and an alternating pattern of whiny guitar blares and deep guitar grinds. But Owl just can't stay with it, ultimately watering down their debut, making it unpalatable to fans of all the genres they try to bring together. It's unfortunate--this CD could have been a real pleasure if the songwriting had just gone all the way in one direction.

Owl will be released on February 10 by Overit Records.