The best songs on Julian Casablancas’ solo debut are the ones in which he sounds just like himself but not much at all like the Strokes, forcing us to reckon with the notion that the two things are not as synonymous as we’d previously thought. This is a bit like playing dress-up, and for the most part, Casablancas has sense enough to only indulge in drag that flatters his features. I’m not sure what exactly you call a song like “4 Chords of the Apocalypse” — Rec room balladry?
All songs are essentially sensory illusions, but there is something particularly chimerical about this composition. It curves and folds in on itself without seeming to break a single straight line like some kind of musical Möbius strip, but there’s also a hint at multiple layers of depth that are not immediately apparent. There’s a sense of physical space at every moment, but it’s difficult to suss out the shape of that space, or your position in it. Nevertheless, the piece does not evoke discomfort or vertigo — on the contrary, the confusion is a pleasurable thing, kinda like the way we go on amusement park rides to simulate sensations we rarely encounter in normal life.
Listening to this song on repeat — I know, how appropriate! — and trying to come up with some way to write about it, I realized that the best way to describe it was probably the cheapest, i.e., this sounds like Merry Post Pavvy era Animal Collective attempting to write their own Gary Glitter song. It’s got the simple repetitive hooks, but its stomp and momentum is muted and washed out with quasi-Beach Boys vocalizing and hazy synthesizer washes. The more I hear this song, the more I focus on the oscillating synth tone at the center of the piece, and its odd chilling effect on the arrangement. The composition is dynamic, but that hum makes everything seem frozen and out of time, much in the way a strobe light can make any movement seem slow and choppy.
“Convinced of the Hex” bleeps and thuds uncomfortably like a malfunctioning Silver Apples tune, but as mechanical as it sounds, it makes me think of the brain as a wet, throbbing organ running on sparks and jolts. The song’s textures suggest a splitting headache in the bits of grey matter that make you feel lonely, isolated, and trapped, but it also evokes the image of zapped, squishy flesh stuck in the tight, claustrophobic space of a skull. It’s gross, but also sorta groovy.
I am starting to think that my problem lately may be that I have become convinced of the hex. When I hear Wayne Coyne utters that phrase in this context, it sounds damning and vague but entirely correct. I focus on the worst, and make myself believe it. My mind is fogged with bad logic, and I poison myself with misdirected anger. I may be cursed, but increasingly, it seems self-inflicted. How do you become un-convinced of the hex? Wayne isn’t offering any clues here.
The lyrics sound like something your boss might tell you, or any other authority in a position to give you a compliment without any emotional value. The voice and the sentiment is neutral, but the music is tense and uneasy, and as the song plays out, the words seem increasing condescending and insincere.
It’s probably difficult to watch a Handsome Furs show without feeling a bit of envy for Dan Boeckner and Alexei Perry: They are clearly doing their favorite thing with their favorite person, throwing themselves fully into the moment and enjoying every second of it. Boeckner’s body language is loose and relaxed, contrasting with the nervous energy in his voice. Perry is restless and spazzy, kicking and falling dramatically through the set, and being about 400% more physical than her task as a keyboard player and drum machine operator requires. The songs and the performances are intense, but in watching the show, your mind doesn’t go to a dark and desperate place. Instead, you just marvel at this couple’s wonderful chemistry, laugh at their banter, and smile when they display a deep gratitude for the very fact that you showed up to see them play in a city with a myriad entertainment options. Not everyone gets to live the dream like these two, but it’s pretty obvious that they deserve it.
I’m pretty sure Amazing Baby do not want you to think too much while listening to this song. If they did, they probably would’ve at least spell-checked the word the singer is spelling out in the chorus. But really, why bother when the hook is so catchy and every other line is entirely inscrutable? It’s all surface and sensation, and that doesn’t have to be a problem. It’s sexy without being skeevy; it’s somehow rather smart about being very, very dumb. The song is like a very attractive person who could say anything at all, and you’d just nod along, smiling just to have their attention in the moment.
This “classic rock” sounds works well for Kim Deal. Her voice and persona slips so well into the sort of raw, groovy rock and roll that barely holds together as its performers attempt to get across some vague yet highly potent desire. Deal sounds sweet, wounded, wonderful, and bewildered as she shouts it out over this music, which sways and staggers with an awkward, drunken version of grace. It sounds like the moment before something or other — it could be some kind of victory for her, or maybe she just passes out.
of Montreal @ Music Hall of Williamsburg 4/17/2009
The Past Is A Grotesque Animal / Nonpareil Of Favor / Gronlandic Edit / For Our Elegant Caste / She’s A Rejecter / I Was A Landscape In Your Dreams / Sink The Seine / Cato As A Pun / Labyrinthian Pomp / Beware Our Nubile Miscreants / The Wet Butcher’s Fist aka Coquet Coquet / Faberge Falls For Shuggie / October Is Eternal / Mingusings / An Eluardian Instance / Id Engager // Requiem For OMM2 / A Sentence Of Sorts In Kongsvinger / Moonage Daydream (with Janelle Monae)
The current version of the of Montreal concert spectacular: Fewer costume changes/much less nudity from Kevin; fewer musicians/more drum machine songs; brand new skits; greater emphasis on screens. There were three very large screens behind the band, and it had a somewhat immersive effect, akin to being up very close in a movie theater and losing your peripheral vision. This was particularly effective during “The Past Is A Grotesque Animal,” which felt a bit like being trapped with the band inside of an early 80s music video. I was also very fond of the inexplicable Christmas theme for “Nonpareil Of Favor.” Even with so much imagery, a lot of this is a blur in my memory — I mostly remember dancing and singing, and the enthusiasm of the girl I went with, who makes some of the best happy/wow faces anyone will ever see.
I believe that on a fundamental level, all forms of creative expression are communicative in nature, and that most of my interest in art and music comes out of my desire to understand and relate to other people. This is probably part of why I love James Rabbit so much — this notion of writing music to communicate what we cannot convey in everyday human interactions is foregrounded in the majority of Tyler Martin’s songs. At least half of the songs on his band’s new album Perfect Waves are concerned with not only expressing emotions and ideas in music, but in revealing his desire to communicate with total clarity, and for the songs to have utility in the lives of his listeners. (The opening song, for example, is “If You Can’t Talk About It, Sing About It!,” which may as well be the band’s mission statement.)
Writing about writing can often result in a tedious strain of postmodernism, but Martin is like a reverse Charlie Kaufman, using his self-awareness as a way of directly expressing his wish to fully overcome shyness and dysfunction, and his verbal prowess to plainly articulate his unambiguous love for his partners and friends, and his goodwill toward total strangers. Despite the anxieties at the core of Martin’s writing, James Rabbit make some of the most optimistic and ecstatic music you will ever hear.
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