Bradford Cox of last year's lauded experimental psych-rock quintet Deerhunter has never been accused of conformity. A sufferer of Marfan syndrome — a genetic disorder of the connective tissue that gives him unnaturally long and spindly limbs — the front-man's stage performance echoes of post-modern art as much as his music. From old-maid dresses as fashion statements to deep-throating the microphone to performing acts of self-abasement in true Iggy Pop form, Cox has subscribed to the philosophy of rock as spectator sport with his shock-worthy show aesthetics.
Despite his loud personality, his distinctive sound has had a more shaking reverberation within the blogosphere. Deerhunter — and Cox — are no gimmick or sideshow stop on the road to prog-pop paradise (I think it's somewhere in Seattle) as was proven by their May 2007 Fluorescent Grey EP. A follow-up to February 2007's Cryptograms, the EP glows as their tightest, most focused endeavor to date while still harboring the echoing, exploratory drone that has become a trademark tone. Where Cryptograms was impeded by an immature feel bred by an obsession with the unconventional — an obsession that resulted in the release resembling mundanity — Fluorescent Grey gained a grounded-sound from those growing pains with its attention to melody and structure instead of layering and pretentious guitar loops. And while some of the transformation has to be credited to Kranky — one of the mixing masterminds behind Montreal's God Speed You Black Emperor who helped out on the disc — it is apparent that Cox takes his music much more seriously than his Victorian party frocks may suggest. So it's not surprising that Cox ditched the drummer all together and decided to march completely to his own tune with his life-long solo project Atlas Sound.
Atlas Sound's first full-length release, Let the Blind Lead Those Who Can See but Cannot Feel, picks up where the Fluorescent Grey EP leaves off. Leaning more towards ambience-induced-soundscapes, the Feb. 19 release abandons the grunge undertones that Cox endorsed earlier in his career. Just because he is currently flirting with a composed sound does not mean that Cox is trying to cozy up to the mainstream. From the opening track, "Ghost Story," featuring the voice of a small boy haltingly retelling a story over the disjointed hum of a sampled glockenspiel, to the wordless closing title-track, Let the Blind betrays that the avant-garde is still Cox's preferred bed-partner. The only cut that even closely resembles an A-side is "River Card." But even its catchy drums and ethereal harps cannot mask the ominous, amphibious whisperings.
Unlike the Fluorescent Grey EP, many tracks lack lyrics, and those that are ornamented with Cox's Meredith Monk-esque vocal experimentation loop the same couple of lines - increasing the trancelike tone of the album as a whole. The simplicity of the songs' structures adds a sense of plaintive honesty and intimacy, allowing this record to succeed where Cryptograms failed. On "After Class," Cox commands, "Strip down, strip down" — which is exactly what he did on his solo endeavor. He stripped away ostentatious instrumentation, superfluous swells and eight-minute sprawling tracks to reveal a record that is as exceedingly experimental as it is nakedly simple.
While he has been recording under the moniker Atlas Sound since the sixth grade, Let The Blind Lead Those Who Can See but Cannot Feel not only showcases Cox's transformation into indie-icon, but it will also force the hot-spot Georgia scene to open its mind large enough to accept the musician's uncommon appearance and even more unique sound.
"River Card" Atlas Sound
"After Class" Atlas Sound
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Thursday, February 14, 2008
V-Day Disease
Today is the 14th of February — a marked day designed to make the middle of the month as whimsical and just about as uplifting as dirty snow. Those charming enough to corner the elusive on-campus relationship will bring dates to the retirement-inspired ambience of Proctor, while those secure enough to brave the long-distance love-affair search for misplaced Norton Shakespeares in the pursuit of the perfect handwritten edition to their Hallmark greetings. Not hot enough a cup-of-tea for you? There is always the jewelry option — but where is the creativity in that? Using the deductive reasoning that singles Middlebury students out as the pink flamingos and sunset oranges of the metaphorical Crayola box, you can give your heartthrob one better than a Chanel necklace — the face of it. Karl Lagerfeld recently unveiled plans to transform Chan Marshall, better known under the moniker Cat Power, as the face of Chanel jewelry. But her omnipresent cigarette and sixties-inspired hair aren't the only things of Marshall's that are smoking — her newest release Jukebox is perhaps her most seductive yet.
Reworking the voices of Joni, Billie and Sinatra, Marshall plays with decades, genres and gender in her eighth release. Her second covers album, Jukebox, languidly lingers over Hank Williams' "Ramblin[Wo]Man," wrings restlessness from The Highwaymen's "Silver Stallion" and develops despondency paired with the tinkling of piano keys on Billie Holiday's "Don't Explain." Unfortunately, her feminine prowess falls flat on her predictable and tame version of the show-tune "New York," and despite her slinky sultriness, "I Lost Someone" fails to follow the flame embodied by the Godfather of Soul.
While Jukebox remains faithful to Cat Power's typical bare-bones fashion — her heartachingly exposed voice is often stretched taunt over the skeletal frame of minimalist piano and acoustic chords, a surprisingly number of musicians have slid onto the disc. With the help of the Dirty Three's drummer Jim White, Jon Spencer Blues Explosion's Judah Baer, Chaver's Matt Sweeney and Spooner Oldham, who was a major player on her critically acclaimed The Greatest, Marshall's covers album is quietly creative and peacefully personal — even if it risks bordering on boring.
Not surprisingly, the album's greatest moments are the original ones. Her remodeling of "Metal Heart" from her 1998 Moon Pix comes off cleaner and tighter the second time around with the exchange of piano for guitar while "Song to Bobby" — Marshall's tribute to Dylan — plays like an entry from a 15-year-old girl's diary in its simplicity and acoustic fondness. And even though this high school dropout from Georgia deserves commendation for her spunk in tackling and attempting to conquer the folk greats, Jukebox skips a beat in comparison to her wholly original releases. While the overall effect is secretively sexy and smokier than California in the summertime, it lacks the patient passion and wrenching rawness of You are Free and Myra Lee.
So pull the plug on Barry White and pass over the Marvin Gaye this Valentine's Day and slip under the covers to Cat Power's earthily constructed album. Whether you're searching for arousingly raw, inexplicably intimate or modest comfort, Jukebox delivers. And most importantly, it's one of the most thoughtful releases this year — and isn't attentiveness supposed to be at the heart of this whole day?
Reworking the voices of Joni, Billie and Sinatra, Marshall plays with decades, genres and gender in her eighth release. Her second covers album, Jukebox, languidly lingers over Hank Williams' "Ramblin[Wo]Man," wrings restlessness from The Highwaymen's "Silver Stallion" and develops despondency paired with the tinkling of piano keys on Billie Holiday's "Don't Explain." Unfortunately, her feminine prowess falls flat on her predictable and tame version of the show-tune "New York," and despite her slinky sultriness, "I Lost Someone" fails to follow the flame embodied by the Godfather of Soul.
While Jukebox remains faithful to Cat Power's typical bare-bones fashion — her heartachingly exposed voice is often stretched taunt over the skeletal frame of minimalist piano and acoustic chords, a surprisingly number of musicians have slid onto the disc. With the help of the Dirty Three's drummer Jim White, Jon Spencer Blues Explosion's Judah Baer, Chaver's Matt Sweeney and Spooner Oldham, who was a major player on her critically acclaimed The Greatest, Marshall's covers album is quietly creative and peacefully personal — even if it risks bordering on boring.
Not surprisingly, the album's greatest moments are the original ones. Her remodeling of "Metal Heart" from her 1998 Moon Pix comes off cleaner and tighter the second time around with the exchange of piano for guitar while "Song to Bobby" — Marshall's tribute to Dylan — plays like an entry from a 15-year-old girl's diary in its simplicity and acoustic fondness. And even though this high school dropout from Georgia deserves commendation for her spunk in tackling and attempting to conquer the folk greats, Jukebox skips a beat in comparison to her wholly original releases. While the overall effect is secretively sexy and smokier than California in the summertime, it lacks the patient passion and wrenching rawness of You are Free and Myra Lee.
So pull the plug on Barry White and pass over the Marvin Gaye this Valentine's Day and slip under the covers to Cat Power's earthily constructed album. Whether you're searching for arousingly raw, inexplicably intimate or modest comfort, Jukebox delivers. And most importantly, it's one of the most thoughtful releases this year — and isn't attentiveness supposed to be at the heart of this whole day?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
