MONDOmagazine

Deerhunter
Microcastle
Kranky, 2008

By Bryan Hopton

Deerhunter’s third album Microcastle has been available, thanks to an extremely early leak online, for nearly half a year. I’ve had it since I first discovered this leak, and was later the recipient of a very nice promotional copy of the CD for reviewing. It was awfully nice of them to send it so far in advance, because I have listened to this album approximately 20 times, and am still at a loss for words. Even with countless reviews already hitting the Internet, and mountains of feedback piling up on message boards around the world, I’ve yet to find a suitable way to turn “Holy fucking shit, this is awesome” into a full review.

Now, it would be easy to sit there and say “Your reaction makes me think you’re some kind of Deerhunter/Bradford Cox fanboy who would give any of their releases a glowing review.” I say this because people have said this to me. However, I assure you, dear reader, that this is not the case. When Microcastle leaked, it had been barely more than a year since Cryptograms had come out, and I was already forgetting why I had loved that one so much. In addition to tiring of their second LP quickly, I will maintain to this day that Deerhunter’s debut, Turn It Up Faggot, is one of the worst albums I own. Microcastle, however, is a clear and more focused attempt to define “the Deerhunter sound” — that being hazy atmospherics, swells of guitar noise set against a pop background, and a grab-bag of vocal styles.

This music is the most straightforward and accessible that Deerhunter has released to date; it’s their first album to truly bare itself to the listener. Rather than taking their usual stabs at “indie-pop against a noise-rock backdrop”, we’re served the exact opposite: the band have made an indie-pop record that happens to dabble here and there with guitar noise and swells of feedback. The album is neither as stark and confrontational as Turn It Up Faggot, nor is it as hazy and skeletal as Cryptograms. Even comparing it to its predecessors borders on pointlessness.

Everything here feels more personal. Perhaps the departure of guitarist Colin Mee resulted in a more melancholic band, and thus a more subdued album. But, throughout its course, Microcastle plays out like some kind of murky, art-damaged, Beach Boys record (sans the sugar-sweet vocal melodies, of course). Guitarist Lockett Pundt opens things with “Agoraphobia”, in which he repeats the pleading mantra “Cover me, come for me, comfort me”; the rest of Microcastle follows suit. “Calvary Scars” tells the story of a boy’s public crucifixion; “Little Kids” equates age with dying. Deerhunter withdrew into themselves over 2008 only to emerge, baring their souls, toward the year’s end.

Ultimately, this is going to be one of the year’s most debated records. Individuals who endlessly compare it to Cryptograms will find themselves missing out on a release that is alternately emotional, skeletal, and beautiful in its frailty. Those who are quick to dismiss anything Pitchfork slaps a good review onto will be missing out on what is easily one of the year’s best indie-pop albums. And the people who simply don’t know about it need to be informed. Promptly.

My Bloody Valentine
with The Flowers of Hell and Gemma Hayes
at the Kool Haus
September 25, 2008

By Bryan Hopton

I should preface all of this by informing you, the reader, that this entire evening is a complete blur. With the subways out of commission due to a fallen signal wire, the complete chaos that ensued on the streets of downtown Toronto as a result, and then the borderline-painful noise levels of the actual concert, my mind has seemingly smashed the entire event into a gigantic pile of insanity.

First openers The Flowers of Hell started the evening with a rousing display of post-rock reminiscent of Canada’s own rockestra stalwarts Godspeed You! Black Emperor. The ten-piece band arranged themselves in a line across the front half of the stage and proceeded to alternately soothe and amaze the audience with sweeping pieces of music that often lasted in excess of ten minutes. It was a pleasant surprise when local indie hero Owen Pallett (Final Fantasy / The Arcade Fire) joined them onstage for a piece off their as-of-yet-unreleased (in North America) new album.

Following the Flowers’ remarkable performance, Irish folk songstress Gemma Hayes proceeded with a collection of sparse acoustic numbers, accompanied by a lone musician who helped flesh out the otherwise simple music with shoegaze-affected electric guitar. Where the Flowers were able to hold the audience’s attention with their grandiose mini-orchestrations, Hayes’ music fell mostly on deaf ears (a fitting irony, considering what was to come) as the crowd grew impatient for Kevin Shields and Co. to take the stage.

The anticipation for My Bloody Valentine was more intense than anything I have ever seen at a concert. The crowd would applaud every flicker of action: during the testing for the lighting rig, or whenever the psychedelic projections came on. It seemed like every single event taking place onstage, no matter how minute, pushed the audience closer and closer to an absolute frenzy. Shortly after 10 p.m., after what felt like forever, Shields, Belinda Butcher, Debbie Googe, and Colm Ó Cíosóig shuffled into position amidst a roar of approval from their anxious fanbase. No words were spoken before they tore into “I Only Said.” I can say, hopefully without shame, that I shed a single tear of complete joy the second those first notes (if you wish to call them that) were played. The lights were blinding, the visuals were a stunning accompaniment to the music, and the volume was punishing. This sensory overload would continue to assault the crowd for well over an hour.

While the instrumental pieces of the songs were striking both in volume and in their own distorted beauty, the vocals of Shields and Butcher were almost completely lost in the noise, barely emerging as if uttered by some ghostly presence in the room. After a false start a few songs in, Shields angrily addressed the technical crew, who rushed to replace his mic. He returned calmly, saying “Sorry… I just can’t hear anything up here.” Of course, someone in the audience responded with “NEITHER CAN WE!” What this man likely did not understand was that he was about to experience something like being stuck inside of a tornado during an atom bomb detonation. As “You Made Me Realise” came to its extended blast of guitar noise (four minutes long in its original form), I was borderline giddy. Of course, I was totally unaware that, among fans who have endured it during other stops on the tour, this section of music has become known as “The Holocaust.” People were forced out of the venue as even earplugs failed to keep out the eardrum-obliterating wall of horror. Accounts vary on just how long this brutal assault on the ears lasted at the Kool Haus, but my rough calculation is about a half-hour.

When the crushing brutality ceased and the song finally ended, the band calmly and quietly left the stage amongst the bewildered, enthusiastic cheering of the more-than-satisfied crowd that had remained to tough it out. This was My Bloody Valentine.

Ratatat
LP3
XL, 2008

By Bryan Hopton

With Ratatat’s third LP, the cleverly titled LP3, we were told that the music would be a little less reliant on riffing. For a lot of people that was like saying, “We’re not paying attention to the electronic music world right now and feel that we’d probably sell more albums if we sounded like Justice or something.” Thankfully for us, the boys seem to have forgotten about that little misstep. Or, at least, they’ve not yet walked away from the guitars entirely.

LP3 doesn’t use the guitar to the same effect that made songs like “Seventeen Years,” “Desert Eagle,” or “Loud Pipes” instant dance floor rockers. Instead, they employ quick bursts of noodling here and there to augment the music for a few seconds at a time. That isn’t to say that the album is without its fair share of awesome riffage, it’s just that the emphasis on said riffage seems to have been pushed back to make room for a more robust sound palette. This is all well and good, but the actual songs are what make this a good album, not the new sounds they were shooting for. The boys have moved on from their party-starting earlier work and are experimenting with more of their influences.

“Mirando” picks up with a jumpy dancehall beat, a plinking banjo, and ’80s-rooted licks backed by glittery, shimmering synths. The track stands out as one of the strongest on the album, and one of the best from their entire career. “Bird Priest” is classic Ratatat: with its thudding beat and dueling guitars, it’s another of the better songs on the album. “Shempi” is more or less guaranteed to find its way into DJ sets this year. It conjures up disco, French house and the current trends in dance music with its crisp percussion, heavily processed guitar, and glitzy keyboards.

“Flynn” is a short trip into reggae or ska territory that works well within its brief playtime, while the heavily Eastern-tinged “Mi Viejo” ends long before it has a chance to really pick up. There was room for something truly grandiose and epic; instead, they just kill it off.

I’ll stop here, but I could easily detail how good I think each track is. Ratatat has risen above the limitations of their past releases to produce what is easily the best album of their career so far. For those who were fearing that they were a one-trick pony with the release of Classics, here’s your evidence to the contrary. This is easily one of the best albums I’ve heard this year.

The B-52’s
Funplex
Astralwerks, 2008

Dear B-52’s:

Hi. How are you?

I’d like to preface what I am about to do to your horrible new album Funplex by stating that your first two albums were absolutely amazing. You were so seminal in ushering in the new wave era and proving that pop music could be quirky, fun and weird, that it is important to note how difficult this is for me. Hell, I’m even one of the few people who will argue in favour of the redeeming qualities found in your mostly-abysmal ’80s output. This, however, is unacceptable.

I know this whole “dance rock” or “dancepunk” or “post punk” (or whatever insane term they’ve started using for it) thing is popular again, but let’s be completely honest here. There was no reason for you to come back. At all. You could have remained tucked away in the annals of pop culture for the rest of your lives, and maybe we would have eventually forgiven you for that whole Flintstones thing. You know the thing. Tiger skin loincloths. Big plastic instruments made to look like wood and stones. That thing. We might have forgotten all about it. Instead, 16 years after your last full-length album — half the length of time you’ve been an actual band — you decide to waltz back into our lives and drop a giant black and white brick into the middle of the modern musical landscape. Why? Fred Scheider, your nasal caterwauling has officially stopped being funny. The sound of your voice has shifted from “quirky” to “infuriating.” But okay, look, I’m getting a bit off-track. Let’s focus on the actual content of the record, shall we?

“Pump” sounds like every other B-52’s song ever recorded. The big difference here is that the sound has transformed into a sort of frightening mix of Dead Kennedys and Bloc Party. In fact, the more I listen to the instrumental part of this song, the more I’m beginning to think you just put new vocals over “Juice Box” by the Strokes. Also, “Pump” is a stupid name for a song. By the time “Ultraviolet” kicks in, I start to feel like every single beat on the album is exactly the same. There’s almost no variation from track to track. Oh sure, we get a few fills tossed in to try and add some zing, but really, it’s still exactly the fucking same. But, oh wait, look. It’s “Juliet Of Spirits.” Some kind of ballad? Oh cute, there’s some synth effects in there. Parts of it sound like a Pat Benatar song. Neat vocal effects too, but I still could go my entire life without ever hearing this song again.

You know something, B-52’s? After that, I just can’t go any further. That’s as far as I can stand to listen to this album in great detail again. On my first listen I had really hoped that I was just in a bad mood and Funplex wasn’t up my listening alley. My second listen, however, has proven that we’re not dealing with a bad mood, or a desire to hear something a little different. No, B-52’s, what we have here is a shitty album. A shitty album that you released at the absolute peak of your irrelevancy.

Please, B-52’s, go away. I don’t mean that in a bad way. I just really wish you’d go away and let the legacy of your first two albums stand as your crowning achievement. I don’t want you to become “that band that just sort of, you know, came back for no real reason.” So just do me one little favour? Retire. Go hunker down with your rock lobsters on Planet Claire. Just please, for the love of all that was new wave, fucking stop.

Love / Kisses,

Bryan Hopton

Autechre
Quaristice
Warp, 2008

by Bryan Hopton

Listening to meandering eight-minute soundscapes was part of what made Autechre’s past work so exciting. It was like listening to your own acid trip. The haunted ghosts of synths crackle into sight and then fizzle away suddenly, drums clatter and clank away like a million broken robots, and mountains of unidentifiable noises mount up on the listener from every direction. These sounds were, at times, both strikingly beautiful and disturbingly morose. They always managed to set themselves apart from their IDM contemporaries by doing something different.

So, here’s why I don’t like the new album: It’s fucking BO-RING. I expected this kind of shit from Aphex Twin, but even that guy managed to deliver on that totally unnecessary Analord thing. Autechre were one of those acts that I always looked to for fresh sounds, genre-bending sound collages of clicks and rattles and bleeps and bloops. What we have here is… well, it’s exactly that, aside from one thing: There’s nothing interesting about this record. It sounds like Autechre have, for whatever reason, decided to follow up one of their best albums (2005’s Untilted) by playing it safe and sticking to their old tricks. It’s not enough to just shorten your songs and then include three times as many on the album. That’s not exciting. That’s lame.

Alas, Quaristice does, indeed, find Autechre sticking to their guns. Granted, that’s not always a bad thing, but, from a duo who made a name for themselves by throwing their past albums upside down with a whole new set of sounds, pulling out old tricks just doesn’t cut it. Opener “Altibzz” sounds like a lame throwaway from the last Squarepusher disc; “The Plc” is just boring and repetitive – which makes no sense in the context of a genre like IDM. “Perlence” is a piece of FruityLoops preset heaven that could be replicated by any number of aspiring laptop musicians who are bent on achieving utter mediocrity.

Really, the whole album just keeps going like this. It feels like some random demo that I’m sure the dudes at Warp have received thousands of times by now, something an 18-year-old bedroom IDM nut concocted in between English Lit classes at some community college. It just doesn’t sound like an album from a group that could potentially be referred to as one of the pioneers of an entire genre. It doesn’t feel like you’ve got the blazing new sounds from men that could be called two of the most influential electronic musicians of the past decade.

Based on the reactions I’ve seen so far, it could be said that my opinion here is an unpopular one. So be it, then: if it’s wrong to expect innovation from a band supposedly known for being innovative, then I guess I’m wrong. I suppose, then, that I’d also be wrong for feeling like this album is one of the biggest letdowns that I’ve heard in the past year or so. If you’re new to Autechre, do yourself a favour and check out their earlier stuff. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I recommended this to somebody with a straight face.