Hockey, Quentin Tarantino, and Things that Bother Me

If you’re a little confused, let me clear it up: Bollocks! has not become a sports blog (that won’t happen until hurling invective becomes an Olympic event). Hockey is a band from Portland (!) that might remind astute listeners (or even not-that-astute listeners) of LCD Soundsystem or the last Yeah Yeah Yeahs record. By itself, that’s not an entirely bad thing – Hockey’s debut album, Mind Chaos is an enjoyable enough listen that doesn’t take itself too seriously. I rate it about on the level of the Killers’ first album, except the dudes in Hockey are far better musicians than the Killers.

No, Mind Chaos is not really a problem for me except that, when I listen to it, I get this feeling – a feeling a get when I watch Quentin Tarantino movies now, by the way -  well, it’s hard to explain. Let me try, by way of meandering analogy.

When I watch Tarantino movies, I sense two things: 1) Quentin Tarantino has a vast knowledge of cinematic history and is able to cobble together a usually-interesting pastiche out of that and 2) Quentin Tarantino clearly thinks that Quentin Tarantino is the coolest motherfucker who ever lived. I watched Inglourious Basterds the other night and it was filmed well, and fine as far as it goes, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that Tarantino probably jerked off while watching the dailies from this thing. Tarantino’s ego is obscuring his art for me at this point, and I’m no longer compelled to reward him for it. You might think that’s a terrible reason to stop watching Tarantino movies, but cultural preference being entirely subjective, I’ll offer you my usual follow-up reason for why I do or don’t like something: Fuck you, I don’t need to justify my likes or dislikes to anyone (and neither do you).

Now, Ben Grubin (whose voice is actually pretty awesome) and company may not believe themselves to be geniuses – in fact, the lyrics on much of Mind Chaos suggest that they think quite the opposite. They’re just out for a dance-rocky good time, and I’m  not gonna dump on them for that. But Hockey’s music is so hyper-stylized (I may be damning myself by saying so, but Pitchfork was right to point out Hockey’s mostly agreeable cut-and-paste job of LCD Soundsystem and the second Strokes album) that it runs the risk of devolving into a shallow aestheticism – one song is the dance hit of the summer, one (“Four Holy Photos”) is the Dylan-esque song full of seemingly random imagery and strident harmonica bits. What I fear, is that Hockey’s triumph, if achieved, is the triumph of style over substance. I feel a similar discomfort about liking the Dandy Warhols’ 13 Tales from Urban Bohemia and Black Rebel Motorcycle Club’s Howl album. Both are fine albums from a musical perspective, but both are also indicative of two bands playing dress-up (it’s sadly telling to me that Howl remains Black Rebel Motorcycle Club’s finest hour. And 13 Tales is pretty much the only Dandies album that shouldn’t go fuck itself). To Hockey’s credit, I think they’re playing dress-up to a much smaller degree than the Dandy Warhols, but I’ve always been a fan of balance, and even in the age of Lady Gaga, I think we can balance style and substance (the first person who attempts, with any seriousness of purpose, to argue to me that Lady Gaga’s music is in any way substantive will win a lifetime supply of scorn from yours truly).

I suppose some pretentious wanker who took a class in post-modernism might be compelled to suggest that maybe Hockey is striking such a large dance-rock pose to comment on poserdom itself. After all, the opening track on the album is called “Too Fake.” Surely, this wanker might suggest, that song is Grubin calling posers out as much as he’s labeling himself one, yes? My answer is a solid maybe. I know you can be in a rock band that comments on the nature of being in a rock band, but I also know that, to make it work, you have to be precisely as awesome as the Velvet Underground. But there’s nothing on Mind Chaos to suggest to me that Hockey is operating on any deeper level than the good-time music that litters the album. So I like them, but I’m careful not to like them too much until they prove that they are worth taking seriously.

And, lest I be accused of being humorless, let me clarify what I mean when I say, “worth taking seriously.” I don’t mean I want Hockey to start ingesting heavy doses of Joy Division and losing the quite-welcome spring in their step. I mean I want to hear something from them that suggests they’re doing something other than proving that any idiot can make a rock record (of course any idiot can make a rock record. How many albums does Kid Rock have? The problem is, I have no time for bands that exist to prove this point. That dead horse has been beaten enough, kids. Leave it alone). I’m certainly not asking Hockey to make a second album as colossally misguided as the Killers’ Sam’s Town, an album that crawled so far up Bruce Springsteen’s ass that I believe the Boss had to have Brandon Flowers surgically removed. I just want to know that they’re not laughing all the way to the bank. I’ll give you a for instance: “All My Friends” by LCD Soundsystem, probably my favorite song of the last decade (that, right there, is all the counting down of the best of the decade that I’m willing to do, folks. Take it or leave it), is an excellent dance/pop song but it resonates much deeper than that. There isn’t a happy moment that I’ve had in the last ten years that couldn’t be adequately soundtracked by that song, and I guarantee you I won’t be saying that about anything from Mind Chaos in ten years. Now, if Hockey’s second album is more Sound of Silver and less Sam’s Town, well… it probably won’t be. But I’m willing to be pleasantly surprised.

Chinese Dumb-ocracy: The Bollocks! Review, Part Fucking III

A palate cleanse is required while I let my Ommegang Abbey Ale settle. Also, in the interest of full disclosure, I need to piss (gee, I wonder why so few people read this blog – this is quality shit, yeah?). Again with the water while I sniff the fruity and earthy notes that make up the head of an Ommegang Abbey Ale. This beer ain’t for amateurs – it’s a full on Belgian-style Dubbel that didn’t come to make small talk. I first heard of Ommegang Brewery (Belgian style brewery in Cooperstown, NY) in Beer magazine (you don’t subscribe? What the hell is wrong with you?) and I keep meaning to try their Hennepin Ale, but I always end up with the Abbey Ale. It’s win-win. Starting to feel the buzz now, and I’m wiping my sonic palate clean with Sonic Youth’s “Total Trash.” Hooah.

10:00PM: Free Association Songwriting: “I.R.S” makes no fucking sense. Axl makes references to various government offices but doesn’t really say what it is he wants them to do. Gee, maybe he’s a Republican (buh-dum tish). He also asks, “Would it even mattered/ The things that I’d say”. Well,  I think he asks that. That’s a question, right?

Here’s the thing. My band (Radical Edward – we had our first gig last night, but enough about me) has seven original songs right now. I’ve written or contributed lyrics to all of them. I recognize that you fuck with syllables to make the meter work, but I’m pretty goddamn diligent about making the lines make sense. You know, so people can comprehend them?  Axl is wandering around in a grammatical wasteland on Chinese Democracy and he took a decade and a half to cough up the shittiest lyrics this side of My Chemical Romance (who can at least string together a coherent line – it’s just gonna suck when they do it).

10:09PM: Jesus Monkeyfucking Christ: I know I just said “I.R.S.” makes no fucking sense, but then I heard “Madagascar.” Axl, waxing Jesus-like, sings “Forgive them that tear down my soul.” And then there’s a bunch of mismatched samples, including the one from Cool Hand Luke that famously introduced “Civil War,” a song I thought was Axl’s biggest descent into Bullshit until I heard “Madagascar.” Axl Rose samples Martin Luther King, Jr’s “I have a dream” speech on this song. Why? Is Axl worried about his civil rights as a white man with corn rows? Does he even realize that King was fighting for the rights of black people (from whom Axl didn’t wanna by a gold chain when he sang “One in a Million” – if you ask me how I know that song, I will scream like a girl and run away from you so fucking fast it will make your head spin) and that he fucking died for it? It seems beyond outrageous to me that Axl “My Engrish is So Suck” Rose would compare his struggle for… whatever the fuck he’s struggling for… to MLK’s struggle for racial goddamn equality. Christ, Axl, have you left no sense of decency, sir? At long last, have you left no sense of decency?

Wow. I got so pissed off during “Madagascar” that I missed half of “This I Love.” Let’s start it over, shall we? Here we go: “This I Love” is a piano-y ballad where Axl whines, “Please God you must believe me/ I’ve searched the universe/ and found myself in her eyes.” It might be Rose’s best lyrical turn of the album (yes, folks, it’s that fucking bad), but still: please, God, don’t believe him.  “This I Love” is a schmaltzy ballad and yet, there still seems to be room for an annoying guitar solo. Anyone who knows me knows I have nothing against guitar solos, by the way. I just compare most of them to Tad Kubler’s solo on “Most People Are DJ’s” and find them sorely lacking.

The last song on Chinese Democracy is called “Prostitute” and I’m confused why it doesn’t include a parenthetical “I Am a”.  Axl sings, “I’ve done all I should,” with which I must immediately disagree – you, Mr. Rose, should go into a state of hiding that makes J.D. Salinger look like Ryan Seacrest.

Rose also asks, “Why would they/ tell me to please/ those that laugh in my face?” and I don’t know the answer, but I’m one of those who would definitely laugh in his face. The dude has lived in this country his whole life and speaks English like an aphasia patient. Axl kinda sounds like a hair metal Peter Cetera when he sings, “Ask yourself/ why I would choose/ to prostitute myself/ to live with fortune and shame” and while I’m not gonna take time out of my busy drinking schedule to ask myself why Axl Rose is a whore, I’ll concede that he is one. Also, the thought of a hair metal Peter Cetera is really fucking terrifying.

10:26PM: In summary… Chinese Democracy is actually about what I’d expect from an egomaniac locking himself in a studio for 15ish years – it’s a fucking mess. Overproduced, underwritten, and overperformed, it’s a testament to a man who crawled really far up his own ass and decided to make a home there. There are so many half-assed musical ideas on Chinese Democracy that it comes off as schizophrenic and, lyrically, it should be considered an act of literary (if not auditory) terrorism. I hereby authorize anyone in my band (or anyone who hears my band) to kill me (fucking kill me) if I ever write anything as fuck-awful as what Axl Rose has penned (in his own feces, as I understand it) on Chinese Democracy.

Final Palate Cleanse: I recommend more beer (I’m still working on the Ommegang Abbey Ale, and I have a dry Irish stout in reserve – it only took me three beers to get through Chinese Democracy, which I guess makes it slightly better than Chris Cornell’s Scream. That, for the record, is like saying you like the shit sandwich when the chef had corn the previous day as compared to when he or she had asparagus. It’s still a shit sandwich) and listening to Joe Strummer’s cover of “Redemption Song.” Twice.

Well, folks, I’m drunk. I’m gonna listen to something good and play video games. You’ve got a lot of choices when it comes to your music, and I’d like leave you with this bit of advice: none of them should be Chinese Democracy.

Coachella Recap: Friday

So I went to Coachella last weekend, which is why I didn’t post anything until the end of the day Tuesday – I came home sunburned and ass-tired. In fact, I’m still ass-tired, so if you don’t see this post until Wednesday, that’s why. I’ll assume my usual prolific postage in the days ahead (been listening to the Thermals – yay!- and The Boy Least Likely To – boo! – but more of that later).

My esteemed colleague and awesome drummer, Tim, accompanied me on the wild-ass adventure that was Coachella 2009. We had tickets to camp all weekend and festival tickets for Saturday and Sunday, so alas, I cannot tell you how awesome The Hold Steady was on Friday. You’ll just have to trust that they were awesome. Because when is The Hold Steady not awesome? I’ll tell you when: never. Exactly never.

There are two music-related things I can tell you about Friday. When Tim and I finally got into the campground (more on that in a second), we set up our tent to Paul McCartney ending, or so we thought, his set with a bunch of Beatles tunes. Pleasant enough and then some. But McCartney played until nearly 1:30 in the morning, after taking the stage at 10pm. His set was motherfucking epic, and a pretty nice treat for  Beatles fans who are too young to have had a chance to see them live back when, you know, they were all alive. Although “Helter Skelter” came off as pretty weak. But still – McCartney really gave the people what they paid for, and I tip my hat to him. Would’ve raised a frosty brew in his honor, too, but that was against the rules.

The other musical thing I know about Friday is something I read on the interweb today – that Morrissey, the all-high King of the Whiny Cunts, actually walked off the stage during his set because he was upset by the smell of meat cooking. He came back on and finished his set but whined about how he was sickened by the smell of cooking animal flesh. Because that’s the kind of whiny cunt Morrissey is – presumably, if he was so concerned that meat might be eaten while his Royal Whineness was performing, he could’ve called ahead to see if there was any possibility of meat being cooked and consumed at a massive, outdoor, springtime event. Or, he could’ve used common sense and realized that, yeah, probably some cows and chickens and pigs were gonna be eaten at Coachella. But Borrissey, in an act of douchebaggery that should make the boys in Metallica take notice, waited to be upset about the charred (and delicious!) flesh of those precious wittle animals until he could punish his fucking fans for something they couldn’t possibly have controlled. Let’s be clear – my beef (delicious pun intended) isn’t with Morrissey’s vegetarianism. My fiance is a vegetarian and she’s the love of my life. But, unlike Morrissey, however, she’s not a whiny cunt (Dr. Phil will never tell you this, but not being a whiny cunt is the key to success in romantic relationships and, indeed, in all of life). I’m fine with people not eating meat – it leaves more for me. My problem is that Morrissey, unless he’s even dumber than I think (unlikely), was fully fucking aware that animals were being cooked and served (I had a great pulled-pork sandwich on Sunday) at Coachella and he decided to punish his fans (as if playing his boring-ass music wasn’t punishment enough, har har) who had already paid a shitload of money to come out to the desert and see his humorless, whining ass.

Looks like the Friday Recap is gonna be my complainy post: Coachella was hamstrung a bit by lack of organization and, more offensively, patently stupid fucking rules. First off – the lack of organization. When you get into Indio for Coachella, you follow the signs until you hear the music. Tim and I rolled in a little before 11pm on Friday, and we cruised in to the sounds of Paul McCartney. All was pretty right with the world.

Until we tried to get into the fucking campground.

We drove up to a traffic cop and asked him where to go and he pointed down the street. So we went down the street to a driveway where a cop informed us that, no, we actually had to use another entrance down the street, turn right at the stop sign. I repeated this pattern about four times before I finally told one of the cops, “Look, I paid to fucking camp here – one of those camp spots is mine and intend to have it.” I even showed this poor cop my ticket, as if he knew what the fuck it was all about, and he finally let me through. See, the thing is, simple walkie-talkies could have prevented all of this. The cops could have radioed back and forth, keeping each other informed of which lots were full, et cetera et cetera. But there was simply no communication. One cop suggested I leave and come back to check in at 3AM. Of course, the guy didn’t know the campground check-in ended at midnight because none of the event people seem to have told any of the cops any of that shit. You know, the shit people who were trying to get in might need to know. For their part, most of the cops didn’t seem to be inclined to do anything other than motion with their flashlights and tell me to “keep it movin’,” which is the last thing you want to hear when nobody will tell you how to get to where you’re fucking going.

We thought we’d save a bit of money on food by packing in some sandwiches and stuff, but that was a no-go. Coachella says you have to buy their overpriced foodstuffs because 1) you can’t bring in outside food and 2) you can’t leave the fucking festival once you’ve gone in, even to go back to your tent in the adjacent fucking campground. But surely we could bring in some water, right? Wrong. The rules state that you can’t bring in bottled water and you can only bring in empty nalgene bottles. That was a relief, because I happened to have a nalgene bottle and was sure I could fill it up for free. Technically, this is true, if you wait in line at the only working water fountain on the festival grounds. Otherwise, you have to pay a dollar to fill up at a booth or buy a five dollar Coachella water bottle that you can fill up for free. What this amounts to is Coachella forcing you to pay to stay hydrated. In hundred degree heat. In the fucking desert. Dick Move.

The last rule I’m gonna bitch about has to do with the beer garden. There are two problems: First, Heineken was the main sponsor of the event so it was the only “beer” you could get at any of the beer gardens. Isn’t that fun? Heineken apparently fears competition, but I’ll tell you what Coachella should do. They should have two Heineken beer gardens and then, because Coachella is supposed to be this big indie-artsy thing, let’s have a Ninkasi Brewery beer garden. Just one. Hear me now, Coachella people, if you let Ninkasi come to Coachella next year, I will not only attend all three days, ne’er complaining even once about your shitty rules, but I will also start a grass roots fundraiser – now, today- to help them transport themselves and their delicious, delicious brew to the Coachella Valley. If you, my readers, think I’m not going to suggest this to the Coachella people in a lengthy email, you obviously haven’t been reading Bollocks! very long. The other shitty beer rule involves something I call Massive Drug Hypocrisy. You see, I bought some water to fill up my nalgene bottle and then Tim and I hit the beer garden for food, shade, and a reluctantly consumed Heinie. As I was leaving, an event staffer, whom I’ll refer to as Fucking Fascist Dickhead, told me, “You can’t leave hear with that.” As the “that” to which he was referring was snug in its holder in my backpack, I wasn’t sure what he meant at first. I asked him and Fucking Fascist Dickhead (FFD, his friends call him) said, “Your water bottle.” I was incredulous. “I just paid four fucking dollars to fill it up!” I protested. “Why can’t I take it out?” “Because I don’t know what’s in there,” Fucking Fascist Dickhead said. “There’s water in there!” I shouted, quite exasperated at this point. “I don’t know that,” replied Fucking Fascist Dickhead, a man who doesn’t know much, I suspect. “Taste it,” I said, holding it out to him. “I’m not gonna taste it,” he said, recoiling as if I’d just offered him a cocktail of menstrual blood and anthrax. So Tim and I had to pound all 32 ounces of my water bottle before FFD would let us out.

Are you confused? Me too. The thing is, they were trying to make sure no one smuggled booze out of the beer gardens and distributed it to the kiddies. Who would’ve refused it anyway because of all the readily available drugs that were fucking everywhere at the festival. You see, while I couldn’t take a beer out of the beer garden to enjoy while a band played, I also couldn’t avoid the smell of weed at every single show I went to (every. single. show.) nor could I avoid offers of adderall from every other person I bumped into. So the festival staff was very concerned about me sneaking vodka in my water bottle but completely indifferent to underage kids smoking weed and popping pills on the festival grounds.

Don’t worry, kids – the Saturday and Sunday recaps are filled with enough musical awesomeness to wipe away the memory of Morrissey’s utter cuntiness and FFD’s utter stupidity. Stay tuned to find out how hard Dave Sitek thinks I rock and how Henry Rollins spoke for an hour and solved all the world’s problems. I’ll give you a hint: it involves funk music and The Ramones. Now that is fucking awesome.

A Conversation with Mahmoud Ahmadinejad About Iran’s Dissolver Album

Mahmoud Ahmadinejad was elected President of Iran after serving only two years as mayor of Tehran following four years as a provinical governor, making him Iran’s equivalent of Sarah Palin. We here at Bollocks! are peace-loving folks and we like to do what we can to improve international relations. So, when a copy of Iran’s Dissolver album crossed my desk last month, I decided that it would be a unique opportunity to extend an olive branch to the nation of Iran and discuss this album with none other than the President himself, Mr. Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.

Bollocks!: Welcome to the Imaginary Office, President Ahmadinejad. I hope you’re ready to have a respectful dialogue with us about Iran’s Dissolver album.

Mahmoud Ahmadinejad: “Our nation is ready to hold talks based on mutual respect and in a fair atmosphere.”

B: Well, in as much as I’m familiar with Iran’s music scene,  I must say I respect it. And I think the Imaginary Office is a perfectly fair atmosphere.

MA: “How can you prove you’re not a bad person? You can’t prove that.”

B: Fair enough. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?

MA: “Certainly”

B: Which one? Coffee?

MA: “We want to have the right to peaceful…energy.”

B: Coffee it is, then. No energy more peaceful than that, eh, Mr. President? I’ll have my imaginary secretary put a pot on. Now, have you listened to Iran’s Dissolver album?

MA: “Last night – while I was spending time with my family, I had the opportunity…”

B: You listened to it with your family? That’s awesome. I mostly listened to it in my car. What are your initial impressions?

MA: “I will tell you what I have to say: by…utilizing… the gifts of intellect and human nature, they are guided in the right path.”

B: I can dig that. Yeah, it seems like Aaron Aites is a pretty smart dude, very into the technology. Some of the songs are straight rock tunes, but they wander into folk and soul, like on “Airport ’79″ and “Baby, Let’s Get High One Last Time.” But do you think some of the songs are a little too self-indulgent?

MA: “Unfortunately, during the history, some egoistic and tryant individuals have…stood against the convocations and sermons of the Divine Prophets.  And these tyrants…were the causation…of…animosities.”

B: Well, with all due respect, President Ahmadinejad, I think that’s a bit harsh. Wait. You must be talking about “Digital Clock and Phone.”

MA: “Certainly.”

B: Oh. Well, yeah, that “song” pissed me off too. I mean, it’s not even a song. I hate that shit.

MA: “Frankly, if Jesus Christ – the Messiah (Peace be upon Him) was present today, how would he react?”

B: I honestly don’t know. But I’m glad you share my strong feelings against masturbatory blips and bleeps in songs. The rest of the album is pretty good, yeah? It’s definitely grown on me, and I like the Dave Sitek-Kyp Malone connection; those two guys have a good ear for unconventional song structures.

MA: “They are frontiers in righteousness.”

B: Word! So you must like TV on the Radio too, huh? I’d heard all this stuff about how your government wasn’t too keen on the music and dancing and whatnot.

MA: “Then, there would have been little urgency to have a dialogue with you.”

B: Good. We have a religious fundamentalist problem here in the U.S., but it’s by no means representative of all of our religious peoples. I thought you guys might have a similar thing going on. Anyway, back to Iran…uh… the band, not, you know, your country. As a whole, the album kinda washes over me, it’s never quite blowing my mind or anything, but each song has its little melodic moments and I dig the squirrelly guitar bits in the background of songs like “Can I Feel What?” and “Where I’m Going.”

MA: “I had a feeling of joy.”

B: So overall, Dissolver is pleasing to you?

MA: “I believe that I am an academic, myself. So I speak with you from an academic point of view.”

B: That’s fine. People approach music differently. I think Iran is a really interesting band, for instance, but I don’t see myself listening to this album over and over again, you know? I really dig one or two songs, but I’m not coming back for, say, “Buddy” or its obnoxious reprise.

MA: “A lot of time was taken from me.”

B: I know what you mean. For a ten song album, Dissolver can feel a bit long.

MA: “For 30 years, we’ve faced these problems…”

B: Wow. You have pretentious music in Iran too? Although, I have to say, I feel like Iran’s – uh, again, the band- I feel like their pretensions are somewhat organic, if that makes any sense. Like Aites is just making the music he has to make, and I can respect that.

MA: “Whatever they choose… everybody should accept and respect.”

B: Right on, Mr. President. So let’s summarize for the folks at home: Dissolver is a complex album, with some moments of real beauty, like “Airport ’79″ and “Evil Summer”, but its pretensions and indulgences might be a bit much for some people. Is that a fair assessment of our two opinions?

MA: “What I’m saying, I’m saying with full clarity.”

B: I’ll assume that’s a yes. You know, President Ahmadinejad, I think this has been a useful diplomatic moment between our two nations and I’d like to thank you for stopping by today.

MA: “Well, thank you for your cooperation.”

B: You’re most welcome. Anything you’d like to say in closing?

MA: “The ultimate goal is to achieve God’s approval and ‎satisfaction in the way of serving His servants, implementing justice and expanding ‎spirituality. This goal cannot be achieved unless fully devoting yourself to Almighty God, ‎and thus even sacrificing your life and reputation for its achievement becomes sweet.”

B: That’s nice, I suppose. But we here at Bollocks! are secular humanists. Is that okay?

MA: “In Iran, we don’t have homosexuals, like in your country.”

B: I didn’t say “homosexuals,” Mr. President. I said “secular humanists.”

MA: “We don’t have that in our country.”

We here at Bollocks! would like to thank Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad for his thoughts on Iran’s Dissolver album. We do not endorse President Ahmadinejad’s opinions on anything, although we seem to have come to some agreement about Dissolver.

You can read President Ahmadinejad’s blog at http://www.ahmadinejad.ir

(Sigh) The Pains of Being Pure At Heart

I am known, where I am known, for being about as anti-emo as a person can get. I’ll not be marching in any black parades, I think this resembles a scene much more than an arms race, thank you very much, and I don’t give a fuck about whatever it is Dashboard Confessional sings about (I’m guessing it’s to do with crying and self-mutilating in your car whilst the girl of your dreams is out on a date with the captain of the football team or maybe walking through the rain thinking about how your ex girl was totally right about your faults)

So you might imagine I was drawn to The Pains of Being Pure At Heart like a guy who slaughters lambs is drawn to lambs. Who are then slaughtered. Metaphor = broken. At any rate, a name like The Pains of Being Pure At Heart deserves all the scorn you can heap upon it. So heap away. If it helps, their lead singer is named, I shit you not, Kip.

But a funny thing happens when you listen to their eponymous debut. Where you expect to find My Chemical Fall-Out-esque banshee wailing bullshit, you find instead that, despite the claims on their crapspace page, these guys are more like Modern English than like Kurt Cobain. They also list The Ramones among their influences and I can kinda see it – the album is the picture of brevity and bounce. Kip’s vocals are buried under noisy guitars and occasionally surface to belt out a chorus with the help of keyboardist Peggy (aren’t they precious? None of them have last names!).

So what’s in a name, right? I mean, a good band by any shitty name is still a good band. But I can’t think of too many bands with terrible names that are really good, can you? The Pains of Being Pure At Heart are to 80s pop and shoegaze (I think it’s shoegaze – it’s music that’s fuzzy and noisy and would probably sound a lot better if you did a bunch of heroin all the time – think The Jesus Mary Chain or My Bloody Valentine) what the Black Keys and White Stripes are to the blues, meaning that they’re absolutely unoriginal and yet, on balance, completely enjoyable.

The Pains, as I’ll call them for short (because their name really is unbearable), don’t wait long to throw you off the emo scent, opening their album with a one-two punch of “Contender” and “Come Saturday,” both of which are jangly, pop songs, with Kip’s voice not even really rising to a shout (much less a banshee wail) when he sneers, “You never were/ you never were a contender” or whatever it is he says on “Come Saturday”, which also features a  nifty guitar lick that wouldn’t be out of place on an early 90s Cure album. Kip’s voice is so soft and buried in the mix (someone in the control room was sleeping on the knobs marked “bass” and “guitar” because you mostly hear those two things really well and the other things slightly less well) that it’s often hard to make out what he’s saying, but when I can, it’s definitely not emo. It’s usually something fairly harmless like “you’re my sister/ and this love is fucking right.” I’m sure he means “sister” in a spiritual sense, right? Right?

A lot of critics have gone all gooey over The Pains, and that’s due in large part, I think, to their hook-laden, melodic poppiness. The ten tracks that make up The Pains of Being Pure At Heart are catchy as hell, to the point that it might start to feel a little formulaic by the end. So whether or not you like this album will depend largely on how soon the formula starts to wear thin with you. I’ve been through the album about a dozen times and can still find it fairly pleasant – it’s probably not gonna top my year-end list or anything, but it’s an enjoyable listen and it’s fun to tell my friends that I like a band called The Pains of Being Pure At Heart and wait for them to search my medicine cabinet for guyliner.

The Pitchfork reviewer turned in a fairly defensive endorsement of the Pains that basically shot its load on the premise that you’re just being a big old meany (I think their word was “asshole”) if you think that only old bands from Way Back When should be allowed to dabble in the fuzzy, melodic pop that is all over The Pains’ debut. I chuckled when I read that becuase I don’t know anyone who thinks that way. Of course the Pains are allowed to do What Has Been Done Before; lots of bands do it and some do it incredibly well (cough *Hold Steady* cough) while some do it incredibly poorly (vomit *Brian Jonestown Massacre* more vomit). All rock music, hell all music, is built on what came before it (yes, Pitchfork, even your precious Radiohead; where are your rock gods now?) but there’s something to be said for making something feel new and interesting, you know, for putting your own stamp on the thing. If someone doesn’t like The Pains because they find Kip & Co. too derivative, that’s perfectly fine with me. It doesn’t diminish my enjoyment of the album in the slightest, and it’s a valid criticism (much like when people don’t like Stephen Malkmus, whom I adore, because they find him pretentious – it’s a valid criticism and it just so happens that I’m able to forgive him for it). You’re not an asshole if you don’t like The Pains, you’re an asshole if you dictate to people the grounds upon which they may or may not like an album.

The Pains of Being Pure at Heart is a good listen, it’s brief, and I suggest this little experiment when you get to the end of the album: picture this band covering Modern English’s “Melt With You”. I can imagine this so clearly that if I ever see them live, I will shout a request for this song so loudly and so frequently that they’ll have to fucking play it.

I Try to Rationalize Liking The Bird and The Bee

From the desk of renowned musical pathologist Rebecca Mellor:

The Patient attempted to visit me at my office but, as it was 3 in the morning, he found me at home. Sleeping. Patient was clearly distraught, though probably not a danger to anyone. Well, not to anyone except someone named Diamond Dave, to whom The Patient made repeated reference during our session. It should be stated for the record that I have an unfortunately ongoing professional relationship with The Patient, who runs a not-at-all popular music blog called Bollocks! The patient and I spoke at length, I fixed him a cup of Ovaltine, and allowed him to sleep on my couch. In the morning, he was gone but left a note that read: “Thanks, Doc. I feel a lot better now. Hey, can you send me a transcript of our conversation? I know you taped it.” I consented and was told that our conversation was going to serve as a review of an album by The Bird and The Bee, a group of which I am actually quite fond. I have labeled myself in this interview as Dr. M and The Patient as “Psychocandy.” The Patient’s nickname was given at The Patient’s request. I would’ve gone for something a little more professional, but anyone who reads Bollocks! can understand the lack of professionalism on the part of its chief contributor. If I may speak bluntly, the man is a mess.

Dr. M: Hello, Chor…. er… Psychocandy. What brings you to my home at this hour?

Psychocandy (PC): You’ve gotta help me, Doc. Something’s wrong with me.

Dr. M: Clearly. You’ve somehow found my address and decided to visit me at 3 in the morning.

PC: Is it that early? Shit, I’m sorry. (He pauses here) Do you have any beer?

Dr. M: I doubt it. Now please answer my question.

PC: Have you ever heard of The Bird and The Bee, Doc?

Dr. M: I have. I’m quite fond of their music.

PC: I thought you might be. You have a boyfriend, right?

Dr. M: Where are you going with this?

PC: Well, I have this theory about The Bird and The Bee: I think that everyone’s girlfriend loves The Bird and The Bee. For a long time, I thought everyone’s girlfriend loved Coldplay, but…

Dr. M: Coldplay sucks.

PC: Yeah, I know. See, you’re the proof that not everyone’s girlfriend loves Coldplay. But, almost everyone’s girlfriend loves them.

Dr. M: And you felt compelled to come and impart this theory to me at 3 in the morning?

PC: No, no, that’s not the problem. Here’s the problem: see, I got the new Bird and the Bee album, Ray Guns Are Not Just the Future, because my girlfriend – naturally – loves them. And I thought, well, I’ve been being pretty kind in my reviews lately, so I’ll vent a little on this Grey’s Anatomy-ready pop band, kinda get in a few practice shots before I take on Chinese Democracy. So I put the album on and… Doc, I kinda like it.

Dr. M: So you’re experiencing some sort of cognitive dissonance because you feel that you should hate The Bird and The Bee?

PC: Well… yeah. I mean, I’m nobody’s girlfriend. I shouldn’t like The Bird and The Bee. Sure, their melodies are okay, and Inara George’s voice is actually really good, but the music is kinda schmaltzy; their stuff makes me feel like I should be drinking an Apple-tini and talking knowingly about astrology while waiting to buy tickets for He’s Just Not That Into You, a movie whose very existence propels me into an uncontrollable rage . It’s like indie-pop for people who hate indie music.

Dr. M: And yet…

PC: Ray Guns Are Not Just the Future starts off irritatingly enough with a 28 second throw-away intro but then “My Love” starts with the stomping and clapping and then she starts singing and before I know it, I’m nodding along. I listened to this CD in my car, Doc! Where I listen to Sonic Youth and The Clash and The Hold Steady and Tom Waits and things with substance and meaning. I listened to Inara George sing about David Lee Motherfucking Roth in my car! I hate David Lee Roth.

Dr. M: It’s perfectly natural to hate David Lee Roth.

PC: And I should hate “Diamond Dave,” too, but it’s catchy. God help me, it’s catchy. Am I losing my edge, Doc?

Dr. M: I wasn’t aware you had one.

PC: I used to think I did. Maybe I never did, though. Looking back, I really dug “Fucking Boyfriend” off of The Bird and The Bee’s first album too. Deep down, maybe I am somebody’s girlfriend after all.

Dr. M: I realize that it’s kind of what you do, but I think you might be making a mountain out of a molehill here. The things you like about The Bird and the Bee are things that you like about other bands as well.

PC: That’s true. I like a good melody, and Ray Guns Are Not Just the Future is piled high with ‘em, even on “Diamond Dave”. The songs are not all that substantive but, for modern pop, there’s nothing nearly as infuriating as “I Kissed A Girl.” And I love unique female voices and Inara George certainly has one of those. She’s no Neko Case, but she’s got a lovely voice nonetheless.

Dr. M: Well, there you are. You see, it’s perfectly all right to like Ray Guns Are Not Just the Future.

PC: I guess it is. I mean, the album only really bogs down around “Ray Gun,” the title-ish track. Oh, and there’s the fact that they’ve repackaged “Polite Dance Song,” and I hate it when bands try to make you buy something twice.

Dr M: But it’s a good song.

PC: It’s all right. Overall, I guess I would say the whole album is all right. Not life changing, but all right. Maybe The Bird and The Bee are trying to expand their audience beyond girlfriends. After all, Ray Guns Are Not Just the Future is an anagram for “Everybody Likes Us A Little Bit.”

Dr. M: No, it isn’t.

At this point, the patient seemed tired and I gave him the afore-mentioned cup of Ovaltine and sent him to bed.  The next morning I found his note and the following scrawled across the bottom:

Actual anagrams for Ray Guns Are Not Just the Future:

Aren’t You Guys Her Jar Fest?

You’re Just Not Fresh, Gray Tea

Aunt Shatner, Your Gut Juts Free

No Fun, Just Gray Uterus Theatre

One Fart, Jesus; Nurture that Guy

Truer Joy: U.S. Ate Nugent, Shat Fur

Uruguay  Just Hates To Rent Nerf

Tutus On Frat Guys – Just Near Her

Guess, or Just Eat Furry Tehran Tune

The Little Honey EP

It’s interesting to note that Elvis Costello has now done two duets with Lucinda Williams (first on “There’s a Story” on his Delivery Man album and now “Jailhouse Tears” on her new Little Honey album) because the two artists have exhibited similar behavioral patterns over the last few years – namely, releasing some of their best and worst work, sometimes within a single album.

Anyone who heard West, Lucinda’s last album, was wise to just throw it out after the cringe-inducing “Come On” (the song is a dis to some ex-lover and rather than simply stating, “You couldn’t even make me come”, Ms. Williams tried to make it all cute and punny. Given the strength of her voice and songwriting, it should’ve been easy for her to be so boldly graphic, but what can you do? The song took the whole album down with it) and then you were probably stuffed up with trepidation upon the release of Little Honey. Well, like Elvis Costello’s most recent offering (Momofuku), Little Honey has both reasons to be encouraged and reasons to shake your head in disapproval.

The album starts off nothing short of awesome. The first 8 tracks of the album are really great, some of Williams’ finest work to date, not overwrought or given to her any of her worst excesses. And that’s when you get to “Knowing,” which starts off a long, steep plummet into the meandering, overlong stuff that sunk West. Literally every song after “Jailhouse Tears” is a stinker, especially the ill-advised (and slowed down! Why the fuck would you slow down a cover of an AC/DC song?) finale: a cover of AC/DC’s “It’s a Long Way to the Top”.

But there’s kind of encouraging news here: you can just pretend the album ends with “Jailhouse Tears,” making Little Honey an 8-song EP instead of the bloated 13 track half-monstrosity it is.  In which case, Little Honey is transformed from a mostly good album brought down to mediocrity by its last 5 songs into one of the best EPs of the year and a real return to form for Lucinda Williams. Well done!

“I’ve found the love I’ve been looking for,” she sings on EP-opener “Real Love.” And she found it “standing behind an electric guitar.” Now, anyone who has ever held an electric guitar and played one (assuming it was of any quality at all) knows exactly what she’s talking about here.  “Real Love” incorporates Lucinda Williams’ tendency to see no line separating country and rock, which is why her best stuff sounds a lot like early Rolling Stones stuff.  And, much like the Stones themselves, Williams would perhaps be best served by making sure she starts off every day listening to Exile on Main Street and then saying, “Oh yeah. I should sound like that.”

You can’t blame Lucinda Williams (or Elvis Costello for that matter) for wanting to expand her sound and try new sonic experiments but you also shouldn’t have to pay for the experiments when they go horribly awry. Perhaps the answer is for Williams and Costello to team up and just record an album together. They could check and balance one another into producing something of enormous quality. Or… they could enable each other into producing one of the most unlistenable pieces of shit in modern history (second only to whatever the Dandy Warhols do next).

It’s always more frustrating when an artist who has blown your fucking mind in the past produces embarrassingly crappy work. For example, when Fall Out Boy produces a shitty album (and they’ve produced nothing but shitty albums), I don’t sweat it. That’s a band that has never done anything but making infuriatingly awful music. But Lucinda Williams made Carwheels on a Gravel Road. That’s one of the best albums of the last twenty years. So when she makes stuff like West and the back end of Little Honey, it’s way worse than knowing that Fall Out Boy is going to release another album soon. I expect them to suck and I expect Lucinda Williams to rock. She still mostly does, especially if you ignore everything on Little Honey after “Jailhouse Tears.”

Red Letter Year

There are a few unenlightened individuals out there who think that, if you’re a straight white guy, Ani DiFranco albums will know who you are when you pick them up, leap from their packaging, and chop off your naughty bits.

Let me assure you that this is not the case.

Let me further assure you that there is no line for the men’s room at an Ani DiFranco concert. You have time to pee a little bit in each lonely urinal, if you’re so inclined. I mention this because I took my girlfriend to see Ani DiFranco at the Oprheum for our anniversary this year and that’s where I first heard the bulk of the songs that make up Red Letter Year, Ani DiFranco’s millionth album (possibly an exaggeration, but the woman has been nothing if not prolific since she started back in the 1990s).

Red Letter Year is, right out of the box, a sunnier album than you might be used to from Ani DiFranco, assuming you’re used to Ani DiFranco albums. The same woman who brought us, “Fuck you/ and your untouchable face” is now singing about how she’d be smiling if she were stuck in traffic with her new guy (the father of her baby, and we’ll get to that later) with a flaming Christmas wreath around her neck.

DiFranco has been one of the most staunchly and truly independent artists in music for nearly 20 years – her stuff is out on a label she started (Righteous Babe) and she does not seem to have ever been tempted to make a serious bid for Top 40-type success (although some chick covered “32 Flavors” back in ’98, I still have never heard Ani’s voice on the radio). Instead, she’s earned a loyal base of fans by consistently releasing albums and touring her ass off.

Red Letter Year, in fact, is DiFranco’s poppiest album to date (this is kinda like saying something is Tom Waits’ poppiest album or Gavin Bryars’ poppiest or… you get the idea), which I largely attribute to her self-declared new mantra: “Don’t forget to have a good time.”  DiFranco’s critics (and there are many; like Bruce Springsteen, DiFranco has both rabid fans who think you’re awful if you don’t like her music and rabid detractors who think that liking her music makes you some sort of brainwashed leftist wacko. Neither case is the truth – DiFranco can be strident and even obnoxious with her politics at times, but I like that -  I’m a Billy Bragg fan, remember – however, I’m still a reasonable person. In short, liking or not liking Ani DiFranco’s music is okay; hating people for how they feel about her music is fucking stupid) have, in the past dinged her for being too angry, and while I could write you an entire essay on that topic (entitled “Ani DiFranco is Probably, At the Very Least, Appropriately Angry”) , suffice it to say that outrage has caused some (not all) of her albums to come off as a little one-dimensional. Like all good artists, her best work transcends whatever political statements it’s trying to make and is good art first. In short, I like Ani DiFranco because I like her voice, she plays guitar like no one I’ve ever heard, and she writes intelligently even if you don’t always agree with her.

But enough about her. Let’s talk about the music: Red Letter Year opens with its title track, a rather typical song for DiFranco: down-tempo, cautiously optimistic, and contrasting personal joy and optimism with social worry.  The album doesn’t really throw a curveball in the first couple of tracks, but “Present/Infant” comes along and outs itself as DiFranco’s poppiest song to date: it’s concise, melodic, and features the biggest ray-of-sunshine lyric I’ve ever heard Ani sing: “Love is all over the place.” The other impressive trick that “Present/Infant” turns is that it is, ostensibly, a song about Ani’s daughter (born earlier this year or late last year, I forget) that manages not to piss me off. If you’re one of my 6 to 9 (on average) readers, you know that this is no mean feat. This is largely because Ani is reflecting on the fact that she, Ani Di-Fucking-Franco, sometimes feels bad when she looks in the mirror; rather than a saccharine celebration of parenthood, the song becomes a solemn vow not to pass on the stupid societal ideas about the female form to her daughter.

As if “Present/Infant”‘s resolute optimism isn’t shocking enough, DiFranco follows it right up with “Smiling Underneath”, the afore-mentioned “I love you so much I can’t even be annoyed by the TSA at the airport” song. (I love my girlfriend more than anything, but I still find time to be irritated by the TSA.) That sugar-plum of a song is followed by “Way Tight,” a very very sweet tune that is nonetheless an honest look at the complications and contradictions of actually bothering with love and relationships. “Way Tight” is bluesy, sultry, and one of the more compelling reasons to enjoy Ani DiFranco for her voice – while the teen pop chicks are out there burying their botched notes in digital effects, DiFranco’s voice has the naked honesty that really good folk music requires.

But my favorite song on Red Letter Year is “The Atom,” Ani’s little love note to science and perspective. Advocating for reason in the U.S. these days is like putting a “Kick Me” sign on your back (or a “Brand Me as an America-Hating Liberal” sign, if you prefer) and “The Atom” is an appeal for reason and activism. Might make a good addition to Brian Greene’s I-Pod. Sure, the science is over-simplified and poeticized, but remember: there are people who think the Large Hadron Collider will end the universe, that being homosexual is a choice, and that you should have to have babies that were put in you by rapists. Contrasted with that, “The Atom,” is pretty fucking soothing.

Overall, if you didn’t like Ani DiFranco before, you might like one or two songs here, but Red Letter Year isn’t going to convert you. If you were/are an Ani fan, you’ll be surprised by a few tracks and probably really dig this album. I was talking to my old boss last night about Red Letter Year and she exclaimed that this album is “so happy!” This statement was made, of course, in the context of a question: “Will hardcore Ani fans like this album?” They should – you can love an artist’s anger all you want, but you shouldn’t begrudge them their happiness. We tend to think that artists get worse as they get happier and you can rattle off a ton of pretty good examples, but I’ve got a battery of counter-examples ready for you: Tom Waits has been happily married for most of my life and still makes the best broken-ass music in the business. The Flaming Lips’ Wayne Coyne has a happy, stable marriage, and is one of the most compelling artists in music. Tad Kubler, guitarist for The Hold Steady (and best rock guitarist in the world right now), has kids! In other words, the best artists are good artists and it’s only a sign that they’re slipping creatively when the happiness of their home-lives leads them to write shitty songs. This means you, Elvis Costello.

David Byrne and Billy Bragg: How Well Are My Heroes Aging?

I used to get a lot of shit when I worked at Tower Records in Boston for liking Billy Bragg. Some of my co-workers would ridicule Mr. Bragg’s snotty British snarl on songs like “Help Save the Youth of America.” I had a few allies there, but for the most part, I was content to ambush people with Billy Bragg in the from Mermaid Avenue, his incredibly awesome recording of some lost Woody Guthrie lyrics (he did the album with Wilco and if you don’t own it, you’re missing one of the most amazing albums recorded in my lifetime, I shit you not). Every time I had Mermaid Avenue on in the store, someone would buy a copy.

Shortly before I left the East Coast (which was, sadly, shortly before Tower Records was wiped out), Billy Bragg reissued a bunch of his early stuff and put out a boxed set, which prompted me to wonder if a new Billy Bragg album wasn’t also in the works. Turns out it was and turns out it’s called Mr. Love and Justice and turns out it arrived earlier this year. It’s Billy Bragg’s least abrasive work to date, which might win him new fans and lose him some old ones. He’s at his most melodic and romantic on Mr. Love and Justice, which is to say he is at his most adult-contemporary.  The album is more about the love than the justice, which is not a criticism necessarily, but it does grind on one a bit to know that Billy Bragg posseses the razor-sharp wit we need here in 2008 to cut some of our more egregiously awful elected officials down to size but uses it only sparingly. But look: if Bragg spent 12 songs saying, “Man, the world is fucked up and the blame can be squarely laid upon corrupt leadership and apathetic citizenry,” you’d shoot yourself by the end of the set. Billy Bragg’s wide-eyed idealism is itself a romantic venture, so it only makes sense that he would ache for love as much as social change. Hence, the standout tracks on Mr. Love & Justice are, in descending order, “O Freedom,” (political – duh), “The Beach is Free” (political and romantic) and album opener “I Keep Faith” (romantic). The rest of the album is pretty good too – for those who long for the old days when Bragg was the only folk singer who eschewed the strummy acoustic vibe for the jangly solo electric guitar, you can check out the deluxe edition of Mr. Love and Justice which features “solo” versions of all the tracks, just the way Billy did it when he wasn’t looking for a new England.

Yeah, Mr. Love and Justice is Billy Bragg’s most FM-Radio album ever, but that’s not really hanging the sellout tag on him; you’re still not gonna see him on the red carpet at the fucking VMA’s. Dude’s still on solid ideological ground and, after three decades of fighting the good fight, I’ll give him a little break to wax romantic. It still beats the shit out of whatever Springsteen is doing now and Billy Bragg has aged better by far than, say, Eric Clapton. The important question here is: who’s gonna pick up the mantle when Billy Bragg is (god forbid) gone? There is one other ex-military Brit singer, but he’s James Fucking Blunt and that guy is not ever (ever!) gonna sing a song that would rock the Grey’s Anatomy soundtrack boat. So who’s left? Bloc Party might walk a similar path, so long as they can avoid another Weekend in the City (look for a review of Intimacy later this week).

David Byrne, one of the other great oddballs of all time, is back this year too, with another Brian Eno collaboration called Everything That Happens Will Happen Today. It’s like a gospel album for agnostics (how many gospel albums do you own that mention “when the angel fucks the whore”? Go on and count ‘em up. I’ll wait. Oh? You don’t have any? Odd.); it’s hopeful but not entirely innocent, melodic but not cloyingly grandiose. Byrne’s voice is a multi-faceted instrument and he uses it to great effect on Everything That Happens, keeping the overwhelmingly positive outlook of most of the lyrics from coming off like the score from a Disney flick.

The album opens with “Home,” which lets you know exactly what you’re in for: lots of harmonies, lilting instruments in the background, and Byrne waxing optimistic and world-weary within the same line: “Home/ with the neighbors fighting/ Home/ always so exciting”. You get the sense that Bryne doesn’t wish he was homeward bound quite as enthusiastically as Simon and Garfunkel did, but he’s still glad to be going.

Like Billy Bragg’s Mr. Love and Justice, Everything That Happens Will Happen Today can skirt the line of adult-contemporary radio rock, but its players (Eno’s music, for which Byrne wrote and performed the lyrics) usually hold it to the correct side of that line. Everything That Happens does feature some slow tunes that, at first listen, can sound awful similar, but Misters Eno and Byrne deliver them with an impressively earnest beauty for two guys who’ve been around as long as they have and, upon repeated listening, they kinda wash over you like a Gavin Bryars record.

Neither album is apt to make my best of 2008 list, but they’ve got some great songs between the pair of them that show an ability to age gracefully. Neither album feels like a last gasp before dying by either Byrne or Bragg – in fact, both albums feel like a new breath of life for each artist. Here’s hoping Bragg knocks one out of the park on his next outing, though I won’t suffer a McCain presidency to inspire it.

Am I Too Happy to Like Death Cab For Cutie?

If you were single and bummin’ even slightly when Death Cab for Cutie released Transatlanticism in 2003 (is that the right year? I don’t care), you probably got a bit of a thrill out of hearing Ben Gibbard sullenly sing, “So this is the new year/ And I don’t feel any different.” And if you liked good music at all when Death Cab released Plans in 2006 (and the incomprehensible single “Soul Meets Body” along with it – ugh), you probably went home and gave Transatlanticism another couple of spins.

My friend Zac has opined to me on many an occasion that now that he’s in a happy, long-term, committed relationship, he just has no need to listen to Death Cab for Cutie. I can see his point – I don’t really listen to their good old stuff anymore, despite the fact that I know the music is good. I certainly never consciously reached a decision: “Wow. I’m satisfied enough with my romantic situation that I will no longer listen to Death Cab for Cutie.” It didn’t help that Plans, Death Cab’s major-label debut, was a phoned in affair with one of the worst radio singles ever. I didn’t need Plans to serve the same purpose that Transatlanticism did (and Transatlanticism is one of my all-time lonely-guy albums) so I could look at it for the music without having to ride any emotional ebbs and flows that might come along with it. Good thing, too. Apart from “I Will Follow You Into the Dark” (great song, dumb premise), there’s not much to remember about Plans.

So when I found out that Narrow Stairs was coming from Gibbard and company this year, I really had to wonder if I was going to bother with the thing. I heard that their first single was 8 minutes long and I was actually encouraged by this – Plans was a safe record, way too safe. The fact that Death Cab was leading off with an 8 minute single (their longest song ever for those of you keeping score at home) signaled to me that they may have gotten some of their balls back. Early Death Cab (listen to it) is a quirky affair; Plans was a Coldplay album. Narrow Stairs doesn’t completely undo the adult contemporary feel of Plans but it’s not the tepid listen that Plans was either.

So let’s talk about that 8 minute single, “I Will Possess Your Heart.” I’m gonna go out on a limb and predict that this song, should it become a hit (is it a hit? I don’t listen to the radio), will join R.E.M.’s “The One I Love” (not a love song) and “Losing My Religion” (not about religion) as one of the most misunderstood hits in the history of modern radio. It’s a stalker anthem, building around a menacing bass-line and sung by Gibbard in a cold, detached, “I’ve got something for you in my van, little girl” kind of way. I’m serious, ladies – if a dude calls your local top 40 station and dedicates this song to you, fucking run.

The rest of Narrow Stairs is leaner than “I Will Possess Your Heart,” and reflects the fact that for this album, Death Cab tried to record as much as possible as a live and entire band. It’s a good way to go and the music thrives because of it. I’m not really gonna go into a whole track-by-track thing because it’s a Death Cab album and the songs are all about love and death and empty beds and et cetera. You know, the shit that kid on The OC was all about or whatever.

Narrow Stairs is Death Cab for Cutie realizing that they can be the same band on a big label and it’s an enjoyable listen, which I actually did not expect. I’m not even going to bother with the new Coldplay album but I will arbitrarily declare Narrow Stairs better than it. So there!