“Why D’ya Do It?”—jealous and wrathful—stole the show, suiting her better now than when she recorded it back in 1979. Maybe it was the contrast of seeing Faithfull dressed so quaintly and poised while shouting out, “Whyd ya do it, she said, whyd you let that trash get a hold of your cock, get stoned on my hash ?” That did it. The evening came into miraculous focus during this song. Her fierce snarl danced around the ska-inflected guitar and tore down any notions of artistic comfort to take refuge in. In just a matter of minutes, the whole being of Faithfull was on display—the delicate flaxen-haired flower girl of the ’60s, the homeless tramp of the ’70s, the drug addict, the smoky-voiced cabaret singer, the Weimar-era reenactor, the Shakespeare interpreter—all her incarnations summoned up at once.

[Read more →]

That’s the weakness here: there are no surprises, lyrically or musically. Some well-placed vocal harmonies rise above the musical textures especially in the title track, but fangless feedback and keyboard fills only take up space. Anonymity becomes too familiar, too genre-bound; later songs begin to inhabit a similar tempo and feel, especially once the piano gets replaced by the guitar. There is still a definably Los Angeles sound in this album, and Orendy shows a lot of promise on his sophomore Frankel effort—but he needs to show some bite, too.

[Read more →]

One appreciated the Echo for finally living up to its name with Tillman’s seasoned voice filling up the entire room and the walls sending its best approximation back to our grateful ears. And what a voice, an uncanny combination of Jason Molina and Will Oldham’s vocal timbres, it’s probably at its most effective when Tillman would simply, wordlessly hum. Maybe it was all that hair covering his face that made some of his cries resound like a lone wolf howling in the darkness.

[Read more →]

This was an over two-hour show, alternately exhilarating and draining, but altogether satisfying. The concert ended with an encore performance of “Eid Ma Clack Shaw,” a hilarious, self-deflating account of the creative process that details how Callahan found all the answers in life and summed them up in the most brilliant line ever concocted, only to find out later he wrote the complete gibberish of the song title. It’s about as good a summation of Callahan you’ll get. No matter how bleak and down he gets, he always has a cathartic card up his sleeve to show there’s something to smile about if you have the right perspective, or a good night’s sleep.

[Read more →]

The only time there was break in the music was when he’d stand back for a second with his hand on his chest as if to remind himself to breathe, look at his creation, and give the sly smile of a completely satisfied artist. When a performer is so completely into his own creation, it’s easy to overlook any faults—you see how much he loves it and you love it too. What’s special about Daedelus, though, is that there aren’t any faults to overlook.

[Read more →]

This time around, they sounded kinda pissed, aggressive even (?), on a lot of the new songs from the ex-Pixies, Frank-Black-produced album, Art Brut Vs. Satan. If we took their first two albums and pitted them against the king of the underworld, I’d wager Art Brut might have had to run off to their bedrooms, lock the doors, and write more teenage break-up songs or cleverly reference Brian Eno.

[Read more →]

Did he really think we came to hear the fine guitar dynamics or the clarity of his subtle voice? Hell, it took about 3 minutes before “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue” became recognizable as a Dylan cover. 30 crushing minutes of music was short, but maybe just sweet enough to keep the old eardrums intact. If you want to hear the ”subtler” parts of the band, buy Tentacles. If you want to have some fun, see Crystal Antlers rock a concert.

[Read more →]

The Nocturnes are quick to demolish ideas of Chopin and wistful pianos—by the end of the first song “I Love the Lighthouse Keeper,” 1970s prog rock is clearly a better fit than the 19th century. Non-standard time signatures and abrupt shifts and some unexpected use of synthesizers are all constants on this album, but their aesthetic extends beyond that genre, too. For a duo consisting of Emma Ruth Rundle and Daniel Yasmin, they pack a lot of different sounds into A Year of Spring. Think Sonic Youth, Zeppelin, and maybe even a dirtier, less classical-minded My Brightest Diamond, and you wouldn’t be too far off the mark.

[Read more →]