|
 The
Sound of the City
Interpol
Turn
on the Bright Lights
(Matador)
While hipsters like the Strokes and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs remain
entrenched in some endless garagey tribute to the late ’70s
Bowery, fellow NYC group Interpol have debuted with an album
swamped in the postindustrial gloom of early-’80s Manchester
(England, that is). Turn on the Bright Lights is littered
with brittle postpunk volleys of melody, shakily aggressive
guitars, synth touches and a keening baritone that has already
prompted a battery of comparisons to Joy Division’s Ian Curtis.
(And one can’t help but sense the anxiety of the Smiths’ influence
on “Say Hello to the Angels.”) Nevertheless, beyond the surface
comparisons, Interpol’s debut holds ups sturdily outside of
history. Like fellow New Yorkers Longwave (and a few lesser-known
others), Interpol glory in guitar atmosphere, and the songs
often jet off into enchanting guitarscapes that alternately
drone, skitter or lock into nervy, aggressive strumming. It’s
all about mood rather than histrionics, however, and the guitars
are at the service of the song, not vice versa.
In fact, few albums in recent memory (off the top of my head,
I’d have to go back to Galaxie 500’s On Fire in 1987)
have so stridently picked up the postpunk guitar mantle. And
Interpol prove once again that sometimes when guys with short
hair, a great record collection and a primitive understanding
of the instrument are allowed to develop along their own lines,
cool things happen. If folks want to play the CBGB game and
try to lock emerging NYC bands into prototypes of yore, Interpol
are more in the spirit of Television than anyone else. That
comparison won’t get you very far, but one thing is for sure:
With “NYC,” Interpol may have written one of the best, most
succinct lines about the love/antagonism relationship between
the city and its struggling-artist inhabitants. “Subway, she
is a porno/Pavements, they are a mess/I know you’ve supported
me for a long time/Somehow I’m not impressed.” Having lived
in downtown Manhattan for a better part of the last decade
and grinded out an existence that moved from an embattled
copy desk to the gaunt tunnels of the F train (and back again),
the song just plain gives me chicken skin. The four well-dressed
men of Interpol have made a moody and beautiful album; it’s
my favorite guitar album in a long time, and I’ll be under
the headphones with it for a while.
—Erik
Hage
They
Might Be Giants
Dial-a-Song:
20 Years of They Might Be Giants
(Rhino)
This double-disc retrospective offers a hefty 52 songs. That’s
the same as the number of weeks in a year, and, while there’s
no indication that the band used the calendar as a blueprint,
I have no doubt they took note of the two totals being in
agreement. The pair of Johns, Flansburgh and Linnell, have
succeeded in wedding their innate smarts and cleverness to
songs that allow a range of common human emotions (from melancholy
to glee) to take center stage. The set is named for their
long-running musical outlet, originally born of a quest to
find alternative ways into the forbidding monolith of music
and show business; it continues uninterrupted to this day
(call 718-387-6962; as their slogan says, “It’s a free call
from work”). The package—two discs and a book in a slipcase—celebrates
the enterprise with a staggering array of brilliant design
concepts, including fanciful doodles that are a hallmark of
the mindlessly drawing telephone talker. The songs are drawn
from the entirety of their discography, including the semi-hits
and fan favorites (but where-oh-where are “Metal Detector”
and “Subliminal,” favorites from this corner of their audience?).
And, having tested it fully, I can say with confidence that
last year’s overlooked “Bangs” loses none of it’s heart-tugging
allure from constant replays.
—David
Greenberger
Queens
of the Stone Age
Songs
for the Deaf
(Interscope)
“Here
is something you should drop to your knees for and worship,”
says the radio DJ before the smoldering title track explodes
into your feeble ears. “But you are too stupid to realize
yourselves.” Indeed, Queens of the Stone Age are hard men
for hard times, purveyors of hard truths. From the face-melting
opener “You Think I Ain’t Worth a Dollar But I Feel Like a
Millionaire” to the frank and ambient “No One Knows” to the
road anthem “God Is on the Radio,” QOTSA’s le dérèglement
de tous les sens offers both a challenge and a redemption
for even the most crotchety audiophile.
More than any outfit in recent history, Queens of the Stone
Age have the ability to incorporate just about any musical
influence into their continuously unfurling slipstream of
hypnotic virulence. While theirs is typically categorized
as “stoner rock,” the discerning listener soon understands
that the attention duly paid to the physical and emotional
texture of every track on Songs for the Deaf transcends
the pigeonhole, offering something far beyond a product of
any urban hardship, suburban angst or rural poverty. You get
the cosmos. And you get riff after riff after riff after riff
after Mesa Boogie riff, too.
Its ever-capricious family tree of contributors prefer works-in-progress
over progressive works. The songwriting has a living, breathing
history, some derived from Josh Homme’s infamous and continuously
evolving Desert Sessions, others created spontaneously in
the studio, each spun from the desolation of a tribe left
to its own devices with fire as its sole source of comfort.
Founders Homme and Nick Oliveri are like two Michelangelos
sneaking into the Sistine Chapel after hours to touch up Adam’s
foreskin 10 years after its completion. While this may or
may not help explain the band’s ever-increasing popularity,
to have Foo Fighter Dave Grohl literally beating the crap
out of the drum kit, and former Screaming Trees vocalist Mark
Lanegan adding hauntingly rich and familiar melodies, can’t
hurt either. This is fortitude at its most brazen, and yet
perhaps even the nemesis of such fortitude. It lives.
—Bill
Ketzer
Tony
Monaco
Intimately Live At The 501
(Summit)
In terms or skill and aesthetics, organist Tony Monaco had
become the equal of his mentors by the time of his first album.
He belongs in the company of Jimmy McGriff and that pair of
Smiths, Jimmy and Lonnie (and not just because they all have
first names that end with a “y” sound). Organ trios have a
characteristic to them like no other combination of instruments.
Monaco and his trio hew to the genre’s common musical language,
but it is as soloists, and via choices of material, that each
musician’s individuality truly flourishes. That Monaco has
also overcome daunting health obstacles (he survived neuralgic
amyotrophy) is a testament both to his personal drive and
the magical lure of music.
Recorded live in Columbus, Ohio, this set is a marvel. Monaco,
drummer Louis Tsamous and guitarist Robert Kraut make a perfect
triangle. Where his previous release (Master Chops T)
was divided between originals and covers, this one focuses
almost entirely on the latter. “Mellow Mood” by the sorely
overlooked Dodo Marmarosa is a spectacular display of the
emotive voicings Monaco can bring forth from his Hammond B3.
This trio have the skills and taste to give shapely force
to everything from Harburg & Arlen’s “It’s Only a Paper
Moon” to Wayne Shorter’s “Footprints.”
—D.G.
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