|
 The
Major Lift
By
Erik Hage
Arctic
Monkeys came rolling out of Sheffield, in the north of England,
a few years back with a sound that seemed to have no clear
ancestors or influences—dizzying, raw little guitar skirmishes;
discordance and beauty dueling for tight space within a song;
sharp but seamless shifts of feel; unerring guitar-pop chops.
And of course there was the lyricism of Alex Turner, who at
a painfully young age seemed to write about affairs of the
heart (and pubs) with the blunt poetical precision of Raymond
Carver or Martin Amis.
It’s
hard to forget the first time I heard the brawling, punchy,
and infectious “I’ll Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor”
(2006) or the pummeling and spastic (but razor-sharp) “Brianstorm”
(2007). The band seemed to have similar mastery over more
accessible moments: the bouncing pop of “Fluorescent Adolescent,”
which was spun out in the Monkeys’ skewed but tight manner;
the dreamy, timeless pop beauty of “Only Ones Who Know.” Turner
subsequently chose to more fully explore the latter kind of
moments with the noir-ish, ’60s Euro-balladry of side-project
the Last Shadow Puppets.
 Now,
back in the fold with Humbug, Turner shows that all
of the polished edges of the Last Shadow Puppets didn’t dull
his incisive meter. “Cornerstone,” one of the better tracks
here, possesses this little turn of events: “I thought I saw
you in the rusty hook/Huddled up in wicker chair/I wandered
up for a closer look/And kissed whoever was sitting there/She
was close, and she held me very tightly/Till I asked awfully
politely/Please, can I call you her name?”
But though the album is strong in parts, musically and lyrically,
it lacks the lightning-in-a-bottle flashes that characterized
previous LPs. Producer Josh Homme (Queens of the Stone Age)
dragged their pale, scrawny, English asses out into the Mojave
Desert to beef up the sound (based on their recent affinity
for such fare as Black Sabbath), but while there is more bottom-heaviness
here and there—and a slinky ominousness where there was once
more cheek and suggestiveness— altogether there is nothing
as exciting as on the band’s first two LPs. And what was sort
of careening and compelling about the Arctic Monkeys seems
more controlled.
Sure, this is a decent album, but in their finest moments
the Arctic Monkeys have made Oasis and the Libertines seem
leaden and posturing by comparison (and the mighty Blur seem
a slightly hunched shadow-shape to the Arctic Monkeys upright
evolutionary posture). This album is not representative of
their best, but I’ve far from given up on Turner and company.
A wonderfully unique and powerful band.
 There’s
no graceful way to segue into the Whitney Houston album,
so forgive me while I audibly grind gears. I have a theory
about Whitney—that even when she’s really messed up on drugs
and lathered up in a sickly sweat and barely coherent . .
. she’s not that bad. I mean, she does what she does; she’s
got a golden set of pipes, and the record company throws millions
at songwriters and production to make her shine. So this idea
of a “comeback” doesn’t really wash for me. I’m glad for her
sake and her kids’ sake that she’s healthy, but my attitude
toward I Look to You, her first new album in seven
years is, “Hey, pretty good . . . again.”
I do get a little nauseous listening to her big comeback whirlpool
of a tune, “I Didn’t Know My Own Strength,” because most of
us know plenty of people without millions of dollars and fame
who have struggled and overcome similar shit. Therefore, her
sweeping, epic “meme” is completely lost on me. (I also can’t
help but notice that there is an brassy Ethel Merman edge
to her once silky pipes at times in the tune; that’s the downside
of drug abuse, or aging, or . . . something.) In other places,
though, this is a sharp and timeless little soul album, with
“Million Dollar Bill” showing a wonderful upbeat side and
some nice quiet- storming on “Call You Tonight.” Not bad,
Whitney—lots of sappy stuff here, but some high moments too.
Glad you’re awake to enjoy it.
I’m going to end this month with what have to be the two sentimental
favorites of recent releases. I’ll start with the Black
Crowes. The first half of Before the Frost . . .Until
the Freeze was recorded live at Levon Helm’s barn studio
down in Woodstock. “Good Morning Captain” channels the Americana
funk of the Band, while “Apaloosa” takes a page from early-’70s
country-rock. At other times, they just sound like the Black
Crowes, a sort of Southern-boy funk mixed with Sticky Fingers
and Faces (“Kept My Soul,” “A Train Makes a Lonely
Sound”). The second half of the album is a mellow acoustic
set that you can download once you purchase the disc. (Buying
music has become so freaking complicated these days.) That
set is a worthy ride too, and the whole album is a strong
set of rustic, rootsy music from a band that’s always interesting,
at the very least.
 The
other sentimental favorite is the new Yo La Tengo album.
This is one of those bands that, once I latched onto them
(1997), I felt like I needed to own every record. (And I do.)
And it’s because married couple Ira Kaplan and Georgia Hubley
have managed, in the long career of the band, to explore so
much damn intriguing terrain and funnel it through their unique
sensibilities. On Popular Songs, they manage to explore
countless realms on one album. “Avalon or Someone Similar”
is mysterious, pretty, twee-pop at some kind of conjunction
between the Velvet Underground and the Byrds, while elsewhere
they get downright slow-burning and ambient (“Here to Fall,”
“More Stars Than There Are in Heaven”). But their perfect
guitar-buzzy, hooky pop song—you know they always have one
in them—comes in the form of “Nothing to Hide,” which is replete
with skronky and wobbly guitar solo, handclaps, and farfisa.
Perfect.
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