Animal Collective - Merriweather Post Pavilion

The album begins with sound of a jet engine fading into the distance. Liftoff, I suppose, which on the opening track of an album, you might expect to lead to something with umph. Rather as the engine fades away, in comes a subtle, eerie guitar line reminiscent of Wall-era Pink Floyd. In fact, you can half imagine Roger Waters singing the opening lines.

A dancer who was high in a field from a moment
Caught my breath on my way home
Couldn’t stop that spinning force

Yet like most of this album, you're never quite where you think you are and you're almost certainly not headed where you thought you might be going. Soon, the song takes on a marching bounce and the Floyd nod is long forgotten.

This is the enigma that is Animal Collective's Merriweather Post Pavilion, an album that took me a full week of steady listening just to begin to crack. The problem is, this album is so dense and precise that you feel the songwriters go to great pains to imply destinations at which you'll never arrive. The crescendos never quite reach the pinnacles you imagine. When you expect a heavy bass line, it never comes. When you expect a peak, you get a drop and a breakdown. It never quite lets you get comfortable enough to anticipate.

And yet, despite all that, you keep listening. You don't dare stop, because there's so much going on, that there's always something new you haven't yet heard. You haven't noticed it. That is the type of fascinating work we're discussing.

Now, I'm a listener that likes to interact with music. I like to sing along. I like to drum along. I've been known to play air guitar, keyboards, sax and even violin. On Merriweather Post Pavilion, it wasn't until after I accepted that my karaoke and air skills weren't needed that I began to enjoy the music. Frankly, it wasn't until I stop trying to think through the music and relate it to everything I've ever heard before, that I could begin to understand that I was hearing that rarest of creations: something new.

The fact is, the only way you can break this code is to just let it wash over you. There are so many competing sounds, wooshing, churning, screaming and whizzing by you at all times. On top of that, Panda Bear and Avey Tare's singing serves more as a lead instrument than a means to deliver a message. Their lyrics are fine, don't get me wrong, but the the way they play off each other, singing in tandem and in trade is a key factor in what keeps this album interesting. Neither has a killer voice, but like everything else on this album, their notes always seem perfectly in place. They'll bridge notes and fade in and out, but never haphazardly. Always with purpose.

So after all of that, I'm still a bit unsure what I think of this album. It is an excellent creation of music. I can say that without hesitation. But I can't say I love it. It's just not my style. I'm impressed by it and I've enjoyed listening to it, but I don't feel the type of connection to it that I look for in my favorite music. But that's merely my impression. I can't tell you what you'll think of it, but I do encourage you to find out. And when you do, come back and tell us in the comments section.

Blitzen Trapper - Furr

Anyone who knows me knows that I’m rarely short on opinions. Those who know me well know that I usually form my opinions with speed, if not haste. That’s why it was all the more alarming for me that I took me nearly a week to piece together my feelings on Blitzen Trapper’s newest album, Furr.

Now, let’s lay it all out. I could have written a negative review on this album Friday morning, were I so inclined. The problem, of course, is that I have too much respect for Marc and Rory, which each independently recommended I check these guys out. You see, I had too much respect for their judgment to dismiss this album out-of-hand. No, I reasoned, there must be something I’m missing.

So I listened and I listened some more. What was it? What was it that kept me coming back? What was it that put me off. I’m not sure I quite have the formula down yet, to be honest, but here are some of my thoughts.

One, they listen to a whole lot of Dylan. All music is derivative, so I’m not going to hold it against them to have listened to a lot of great music, but it really comes through. Two, they do (or should) listen to a lot of The Jayhawks. I say this because they come across, to me, as Jayhawks-light (lite?). The melody’s aren’t as tight. The lyrics aren’t as good. But they’re definitely in that vein. Frankly, they fail where Band of Horses succeed.

Now, some of their songs really work for me. “Black River Killer” is among the better songs I’ve heard this year. It’s well written and puts me inside the head of a compulsive killer. Rather than writing about the crimes, he writes about the characters headspace. It’s a neat concept and they pull it off.

Other songs don’t fair as well. “Saturday Night” loses me in the first line. When he starts “Jump down, turn around…” I’m picking bails of cotton and trying to ignore what I find to be a grating melody. “Fire & Fast Bullets” distracts equally, as my mind wonders to “Masters of War,” Dylan’s epic indictment of the military industrial complex.

I don’t think it’s my job to sit here and tell people what to listen to. Certainly not when two men I respect for their musical tastes seem to disagree with me. Maybe I’m wrong. Still, my high hopes for this album were not satisfied.

I’ll listen to Blitzen Trapper’s next album. They’re not a bad band. I just think they need to find a voice.

Bruce Springsteen - "The Wrestler"

Disclaimer: I love Bruce Springsteen. His songs and albums have determined several paths in my life. Therefore, if you are looking for objective criticism of his work, this may not be the place.

So, it's a crappy weather night and I'm spending the night at home, watching the Knicks suck and nursing the beginnings of a cold. On the walk home, I managed to fully submerge both of my feet in the type of Manhattan cocktail that involves plenty of liquid and ice, but not a drop of booze. My jeans currently hang from my deadbolt, my shoes reside in the shower and the best thing I had to look forward to was an old HBO special featuring some young comedians named Jon Stewart and Drew Carrey.

Not much of a night.

That changed rather fortunately when I checked my Hotmail and found a little pre-Hanukkah miracle. Bruce Springsteen released his song The Wrestler on iTunes. He wrote the song for the movie of the same name. Here’s what Mickey Rourke had to say about it:

"I wrote Bruce a letter, because we've known each other over twenty years, and he knows what I used to be, or whatever. Where I went. What I'd been reduced to. I told him how I felt lucky now and didn't have to end up being this guy, being Randy (character from The Wrestler). A while later, I got a call in the middle of the night: he said he'd written a little song, for nothing. It's fucking beautiful, right? I was honoured he took the time, because he's a busy cat. I mean, I'm so goddamn proud of this magical movie and to have Bruce's input… ain't nobody in Hollywood with all their millions can just ring the man and he'll do a song, y'know?"
— Mickey Rourke

Well here’s what I have to say about it. Sometimes artists write songs for movies that attempt to tell the story. Sometimes, a movie just grabs onto a song with a similar enough theme. In “The Wrestler,” Springsteen speaks to the very soul of Rourke’s character. It’s as simple a song as you can find; a basic structure with rather forthright imagery. Yet, there’s an earnestness to the narrator. His life hasn’t quite worked out how he’d envisioned and soon, he will no longer even be welcome in the place he’s called his home. He’s broken down, but knows fully that he’d offered his best and had the scars to prove it. He’d offered up his body and his life, but retained his pride.

The song begins with haunting strings and light piano, before Springsteen counts in and brings his acoustic guitar and voice to the fore. In recent albums, we’re heard Springsteen experiment with his singing style. On “The Wrestler,” there’s no falsetto or western twang, just simply acoustic Bruce, like you’d expect on Tom Joad, Nebraska or any of his recent Obama performances of “The Promised Land.”

He never ceases to amaze and this time he even made it look easy. One more month until Working on a Dream.

Fleet Foxes – Fleet Foxes

If I want to oversimplify this band, I can tell you that they sound like Jim James singing The Shins. But then I’d have to start throwing in references to Crosby, Stills and Nash, the Band and maybe the Decemberists. It kind of falls apart, you know?

The truth of the matter, is that it didn’t take me half the album before I started to feel silly trying to make analogies. Fleet Foxes are their own band. They have their own sound, their own voice and they are damn good at what they do.

Voice is probably what stuck me most on this album. Gorgeously recorded in what sounds like a marble-lined room… frontman Robin Pecknold’s voice resounds with power and an appropriately understated echo. This dude can sing. I like the James comparison, but frankly, My Morning Jacket is more gritty, more southern, but not nearly as beautiful. Pecknold’s voice is big. It fills the air and steals attention from nearly everything else. It’s almost as if the rest of the band just throws up their hands in conceit during the albums final song, “Oliver James,” when they drop out and allow Pecknold to close it out a capella.

Now, to just discuss the singing would be to miss the point. Josh Groban has a beautiful voice, but you won’t find me popping in his collection of Christmas tunes this solstice. The Fleet Foxes write beautiful songs. Their lyrics are strong, the structures and harmonies are interesting and they have a Band-like ability to blend without needing to prove how talented the individual performers are. Most notable among their songs: “Oliver James,” “White Winter Hymnal” and “Meadowlarks.” They seem to really enjoy singing about nature, which is kind of cool. I can’t think of anyone else who does it as frequently or as well.

Side note: I’ve always kind of dug Belle & Sebastian’s “Fox in the Snow.” And honestly, who can top “Hungry Like the Wolf,” by Duran Duran? But neither of them have nature both in their song titles and band names. Right?

Back to the topic at hand. This is a really good album. I didn’t bother to pick it up, despite Pirooz telling me to do so, until I saw it topping several Best Of 2008 lists. I could have been at the forefront, but rather, I’m just a late-in-the-game follower. Pirooz, you were right. I should have listened to you months ago.

Marnie Stern - This Is It and I Am It and You Are It and So Is That and He Is It and She Is It and It Is It and That Is That

Where do you start with this album? I guess you have to start with the title. I don't know why, but I really like it. It just makes me smile and I kind want to get people on video trying to say it over and over as fast as they can. Don't you?

So ok, past the title. How about the person? Marnie Stern's story is well documented, you can find it here. In short, she's the Upper East Side girl who started performing late in the game and (it turns out) she's a ridiculous guitarist. Her speed-metal technique and punk sensibilities make for an interesting listen. But I've got to tell you, with this album, it takes quite a few listens before it starts to come together.

I guess the problem is that there's just way too much going on. When Coltrane rips off a solo his drums and bass knew how to stay out of the way. But here, you've got a drummer who's hammering out these bizarrely syncopated rhythms that don't at first, seem to mesh with Stern's high-speed fingering. It's like a case of dueling virtuosity.

So I listened through this album once and I laughed a lot. I had that "holy shit" laugh that comes out when you're impressed enough that words fail. I also had that "what the fuck?" laugh when the music started to sound like the motorcyclists who drive around the sphere at high speeds and barely manage to miss each other. And of course, I had the laugh of recognition when it finally sunk in that this album, which I first described as "a mess," actually works at a level that took me some time to see.

The fact is, I just didn't get it. There's some very cool music going on here and it works. At the same time, I do hold on to some of my criticisms. While her talent is unquestionable, I'd like to be more convinced of her creativity. She lays down textures, but nary a solo. It's a Guitar Hero nightmare, but I'm not sure it'd be fun to play.

Also, when she sings, she sometimes sounds like Sarah Silverman in that kind-of-annoying sort of way. TIIIAIYAISITHIISIIIIITIT is a really interesting listen, but I don't know that it's an album I'd tell all of my friends to buy. Maybe just Dubs.

I'll tell you this, though, her next album's going to be sick.

Neil Young - Sugar Mountain - Live At Canterbury House 1968

It's hard to give an opinion on this album, because there are two ways to look at it. As an historical document, this collection is precious. A nervous, youthful Young relates the tales of the drugs and diners brought his career to life. He even discusses the tuning of his guitar, calling his demodal tuning a bit of a fad. He's funny, thoughtful and unguarded, making the disc a fun listen.

That said, from a pure musical perspective, this disc falls way short of it's older brother, Live at Massey Hall. The setlist features far fewer of the songs that made Young famous, for starters. While that's not necessarily a bad thing, it does make the album a bit less accessible. There's a reason many of these songs have become forgotten to history. Frankly, from one of folk-rock's greatest writers, these songs illustrate how far he grew in just a few years.

The notable exception, of course, is the title track. Sugar Mountain is one of Young's finest songs. Still in his early 20's when he wrote it, Young demonstrated for the first time is uncanny ability to observe the fleeting nature of youth. In 1968, he predicted the many aging hippies that would come to define the Peter Pan nature of his generation. It was this very perspective that allowed him to later write "Old Man," one of the highlights of his cannon.

Finally, there is also an annoying tape hiss; a constant reminder that this is a document, rather than an album.

The Ting Tings - We Started Nothing

I've been hearing The Ting Tings on the radio for a month or so, now. WRXP was playing them to drum up interest in their holiday concert. To be honest, they didn't do much for me and I wasn't really looking forward to the show. Let this be a lesson in why it's important to keep an open mind.

I'm not one for too much showmanship at concerts. I guess my feeling is that in 60 years of rock 'n roll, there just isn't much left that hasn't been done. So when I see a guy play guitar behind his back, I can't help but think of the fact that I'm not watching Hendrix or Page, so who cares?

There are exceptions, however. A few years back, I saw Los Lonely Boys play the WBOS Earthfest show in Boston. When they decided the show off, the two Garcias who don't play drums stood at the edge of the stage, arms outstretched, holding and playing their guitar and bass with one hand.

I had a similar experience watching The Ting Tings. Just two (and a half) performers in the band, I watch Jules De Martino sit at his drum kit, playing guitar with his hands and the set with his feet. Meanwhile, Katie White played her Korg synthesizer with a guitar strapped behind her back and a microphone in front of her. Now, granted, it was pretty clear that a third member of the band was helping out behind the scenes, but these artists clearly know how to multitask. Regardless, this British electro-pop duo more than impressed.

It wasn't until after their super high-energy show that I went home and downloaded their album. I'm glad I waited. The Ting Tings are fun. It's as simple as that. White sings with an attitude and sexuality like she might be about to tear your shirt off, but she'd be just as likely to throw you down and step over you in her boots.

You may have heard their iPhone commercial song, "Shut Up and Let Me Go." It's a good song, but there's plenty more. "That's Not My Name" is probably the highlight, with a mix of attitude and great producing. The longer the song goes, the more you get pulled into its emotional urgency. It's a song about empowerment and mattering as an individual and as a woman.

Perhaps the most surprising element of the album and the live show is that beneath all of that nearly spoken-word attitude lies a beautiful voice. In "Traffic Light," for instance, you hear a delicate, but assured vocal performance. I wouldn't be surprised to see her further expand her vocal horizons on future albums.

Jamey Johnson - That Lonesome Song

I'll admit, I'd never heard of this guy until I saw him on Letterman the other night. Considering his album has been lauded from Nashville to New York, I guess I'm a little late to the game. Anyway, I've got to tell you, this is easily the best of the four albums I've picked up this week.

Once upon a time, there were a lot of country singers who sounded like this. His voice is deep and grizzled. Like Jennings and Jones before him (as he references in one song), he doesn't sound like a guy who set out to be a star. He sounds like an outlaw from the road with war stories to tell. In his case, these are the stories of drug abuse, a dissolved marriage being dropped by his first label.

So what is it about this guy that hits me just right? I think it's that his traditional sound and familiar stories actually sound legitimate. This isn't some guy approximating the old-time country sound. Rather, he's an actual old-soul who knows intimately of the pain he sings. When he tells me "the high cost of living ain't nothing like the cost of living high," I don't imagine him smiling at his desk for having turned a clever phrase. Rather, I see a man lamenting his life and hoping that the act of bearing his soul might unburden his heart. Or at least open the door for better days ahead.