Michael On Everything

Africans, With or Without a Hyphen

Daring music from native Africans and their American and British descendents rule this month’s installment, and damned if their paler−skinned competition isn’t peddling music markedly less adventurous — if not necessarily less accomplished. Sorry all you dads out there, that includes Wilco. Though come to think of it, if Jeff Tweedy pandered as ebulliently as Yard Act’s conman−in−chief James Smith, maybe I’d feel different. Anyway. See you next month.

Beyoncé: Cowboy Carter (Parkway⁄Columbia) As with many records riding social media tsunamis, this was initially hard for me to hear. There was that high school acquaintance of mine who posted a doctored clip from It's a Wonderful Life of Donna Reed breaking the “Buffalo Gals” ’78 as the strains of “Texas Hold ’Em” bounced in the background — inarguably, stupid. But at the other extreme we had saucer−eyed boosters zealously posting complex thinkpieces ten minutes after the record dropped on Spotify, replete with copious annotations and hyperlinks, usually punctuated with a declaration that any resistance to its virtues was tantamount to a write−in presidential vote for David Duke. Couldn’t there be a reasonable medium, in which I as a giant fan of Renaissance and Lemonade might find this Country−inspired mélange a little unfocused and weird? And, you know, not be labeled a reactionary anti−miscegenist fearful of his corn and peas mixing together on his plate? Except as it turns out, “unfocused” meant I wasn’t squinting hard enough, and “weird” is one of this mind−boggling achievement’s innumerable selling points. By now you’ve familiarized yourself with Bey’s impressive parade of guest stars, slyly embedded references, and overarching theme of “fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.” But consider the absolutely bonkers “Ya Ya,” which interpolates Nancy Sinatra, the Beach Boys, and line dancing calls in service of a sharp−witted lyric that touches upon racial injustice and unscrupulous insurance practices while still finding time to twerk in Mike Love’s face — who amongst us could pull this off, let alone have the vision to conceive it in the first place? Who else has a comparable capacity for resources, a hundred plus musicians and vocalists on call, dogged copyright lawyers, and the burning incentive to clap back against an entire recording industry hellbent on cramming her into the R&B lockbox? Rapacious capitalism underwriting a pomo critque⁄celebration of the U.S. of A. that perfected rapacious capitalism in the first place — what could be more American than that? AGrade: A

album cover, Humble as the Sun, by Bob Vylan

Bob Vylan: Humble as the Sun (Ghost Theatre) Shrug if you want at the derivative Limp Bizkit−esque crunch of 2022’s Bob Vylan Presents the Price of Life — I say this mischievously named duo hits harder than more conventional UK grime merchants by the simple concession of enunciating. But with Bobby muscling into the music (not Bobbie — he seems to have evaporated from the credits) they rock so convincingly this time around they no longer need to mooch classic Public Enemy verses to inspire rapturous fist pumps. True, they do feel obligated to blow kisses to the crossover audience on a moist scone of a faux−inspirational title track, the scattershot lyric of which culminates feebly with a confused mixed metaphor about “melting glass ceilings.” From there however, with crucial production assistance from pinkpatheress point man Jonny Breakwell, it’s one hand grenade lobbed in the ruling class trench after another, from the self−explanatory “He’s a Man” (“The G−Spot don’t exist mate, that’s just feminist propaganda”) to the rabble−rousing “GYAG (Get Yourself a Gun)” (“Police turned thieves and burglars⁄Tryna steal our lives and murder us”), peaking with the brutal reality check “Dream Big,” in which Bobby hectors a wide−eyed kiddie choir about how dealing drugs will put food in your mouth a lot more handily than thumbing through The Communist Manifesto. What would Chuck D say? How about reminding Bobby the Mercury Prize is for suckers — even if in 2024 he’s a far more deserving recipient? A–Grade: A–

album cover, Light Over Darkness, by Fox Green

Fox Green: Light Over Darkness (self−released) Given that I once declined to unreservedly praise a family member’s novel in an anonymously written Amazon review, I should mention I’m a good friend of half of the Fox Green brain trust, guitarist−songwriter Cam Patterson, who when I wrote for his blog Odyshape, encouraged me to write candidly about my bipolar disorder. Fortunately, this is one case in which I can indulge conflict of interest without guilt — you won’t be disappointed with his Arkansas−based Southern rock quintet’s first two longplayers, but even without the benefit of The Longest April’s “The Day Marc Bolan Went to Nashville” or Holy Souls’ “Sweet Rims,” this collection stands as their finest. Patterson has such a reputation as an Allmans obsessive it would be unthinkable not to bring them up as a reference point, but the horns and backup femmes also suggest Exile on Main Street without the, shall we say, “complications.” And while I admit it was “complications” that made that album great, Patterson and singer-songwriting partner Wade Derden compensate with a disarming compassion, as when a trans girl takes the soccer field, the referee plays fair, and the kids concentrate on simply enjoying themselves. But while inspired flights of fancy have always been their strong point — the one where Sleepy John Estes and Patterson’s mom dabble in Hinduism, pilot light aircraft, and dance to Joan Jett songs gets me every time — my one reservation is that they occasionally employ metaphor as a means of obfuscation rather than for poetic clarity. “Malice in the Palace” is way too unspecific at this late date, and given their complicated if sincere relationship with Jesus Christ (the redeemer as opposed to the deity) figures into several songs here, I’m curious as to what lurks behind that ambivalence. Perhaps when they figure that out, the duo can script a song for backing vocalists Genine Perez and Sara Thomas, who always get my attention. And when they do, I’m sure I’ll crank that, too. A–Grade: A–

album cover, Iboto Ngenge, by Ngwaka Son Systeme

Ngwaka Son Systéme: Iboto Ngenge (Eck Echo EP) Useful exegesis of this DRC collective is frustratingly scant — their lone interview in English, for the not exactly august website It’s Psychedelic Baby, lifts the line summing up their stylistic influences (“a potent mixture of techno, rumba, soukous, zagué, and dancehall with the unique ‘Kinoise’ brand”) directly from their Bandcamp page. Unfamiliar with the penultimate genre on that list, research informs me that it’s a clipped compound of the French expression être aux aguets — “to be on the lookout” — the implication being that while you’re watching these street kids banging percussion fashioned from discarded trash, watch your pockets. In other words, the next wave of Congotronics, that grafting of electronic beeps and buzzes onto the cacophonous clamor of found objects, that in terms of Western consumption began in the early aughts with the glorious Konono N°1. By this point, bandleader−vocalist Love Lokombe and guitarist Bom’s Bomolo have been conditioned to playing less sketchy venues than a congested intersection in Ngiri−Ngiri — in their last incarnation, the artier Kokoko!, they stormed NPR’s Tiny Desk set sporting yellow jumpsuits suggesting sanitation workers moonlighting as Kraftwerk’s lighting crew. This time around, tweaked in the studio with “synths and FX” by producer Levy David and further refined in Colombia by Diego Gomez, their approach is more affable, outgoing, and beholden to classic Afropop forms, but with batteur Jonas Steroy banging on a makeshift kit assembled from an upturned stool, trashcan lids, an antiquated drum pad, and Lord knows what else, no less adventurous sonically. And though these guys merit an investment in the physical product, make sure your streamable version includes the single “Lakala,” a 4:41 fever dream of wild ululations and impassioned thwacking that makes the more universal opener “Okokok” seem tame by comparison. A–Grade: A–

album cover, Silence is Loud, by Nia Archives

Nia Archives: Silence is Loud (Hijinxx⁄Island) Good or bad, the original drum and bass practitioners of the early ’90s — predominantly male, of course — leaned toward pretension whether drawing their main inspiration from On the Corner or Henryk Górecki, but this ambitious Jamaican−Brit aims squarely for unabashed raveups and lets the art take care of itself, in turn whomping the shit out of Goldie, Roni Size, and whatever Noel Gallagher⁄big beat collab is still dragging its hairy knuckles around your memory bank. Dispensing with the Brazilian choir, guest singers, and atmospheric detours of her debut, the former Dehaney Nia Lishahn Hunt asserts she mined inspiration for this audacious debut from classic Britpop, which one assumes would imply a studied faithfulness to “classic” songwriting forms, but this is less verse−chorus−verse than it is “stuff that repeats a bunch” surrounded by “more stuff that repeats a bunch.” Unless you’re more of a structure fiend than me however, you won’t care — this isn’t just catchy, it’s incredibly catchy, one breakneck rhythm tumbling, vaulting, or tailspinning over another, boasting more earworms than are currently partying in RFK Jr.’s frontal lobe. What's more, the deconstructed forms are the perfect medium for a headstrong young woman who expresses herself best in fits and starts, whether putting her cards on the table for that strapping lad she chilled with at the Temple Bar or griping about the “F.A.M.I.L.Y.” she prefers out of sight and out of mind. And though producer Ethan J. Flynn deserves a small bit of credit for midwifing this triumph, note the inclusion of two heretofore uncollected first−rate singles, neither of which he had a hand in and one an early knockout Nia masterminded herself. Glad someone misses Peter Falk as much as I do. AGrade: A

album cover, Hummingbird, by Carly Pearce

Carly Pearce: Hummingbird (Big Machine) With pop pros Shane McNally and John Osborne behind the boards and Pearce a deserving superstar in the making, that this is a quality country album should surprise no one. Yet surprise is exactly what this solid if unspectacular effort cries out for — something a little more than the knowledge that this mildly clever pun or that expertly crafted melody will elicit the desired reaction, in the manner of a leg jerking as the reflex hammer hits the kneecap. Not to say there aren’t good songs here — I’m particular to the spunky “Rock Paper Scissors,” in which Carly calls out a (ro)sham beau, and the gorgeous “Oklahoma” (that exquisite major seventh chord, rare for country music, on “Got one hand out the window and one thing on my mind,” gets me every time). But the perfunctory loyalty pledge “Country Music Made Me Do It,” and particularly the overwrought Chris Stapleton feature “We Don’t Fight Anymore” (I imagined Carly with someone a little less shaggy, like maybe a minor league shortstop, but okay) remind me that the artiste and her buttinsky record company watered down the perfect digital−only 29 with eight decidedly sub−stellar tracks for the physical edition, including a couple of pointless duets. Yeah, I’m aware that one of those duets won a Grammy — that’s what worries me. A–Grade: A–

album cover, Santa Cruz, by Pedro the Lion

Pedro the Lion: Santa Cruz (Polyvinyl) Originally Bazan had plotted a quinquepartite series of records chronicling his formative years in five cities, but given that 2021’s Havasu dragged a bit more than 2019’s Phoenix, and perhaps observing Brother Sufjan never got out of Illinois, he sagely condensed his adventures in Santa Cruz−Paradise−Seattle to this excellent set. Less a bildungsromancatholic than a portrait of the artist as a sexually and emotionally repressed basket case, Bazan’s teenage angst stemmed from a different place than Janis Ian and the basketball team or Lil Wayne and the prom queen — more like terror over eternal damnation after he unclasped his older girlfriend’s bra in the upstairs room. Notably, Bazan’s ongoing existential struggle reflects the influence of his thoughtful, decent parents, who at least in song come off as less rigid and dogmatic than the Assemblies of God, the Pentecostal sect to which they tethered themselves — his youth pastor dad objected to a superior’s unnamed discretion so strongly it forced the family to uproot themselves, while his mom offered encouragement for Bazan to embrace his musical ambitions long after she must have realized he had zero interest in becoming the next Michael W. Smith. Though for our purposes he was “saved” after summoning the courage to play The White Album forward rather than backward, his only limitation with his boxy one−man band approach is a disinclination for catharsis or wild abandon — as even he must know, it’s hard to rock out when you’re continually gazing at your navel. But this time he wisely provides himself an irresistible escape route: the penultimate rocker in which he breaks out of his inhibitions by electing to “spend time with the enemy.” Hey man, I’ve been to the Crocodile — the crowd’s not that bad. A–Grade: A–

album cover, Nonetheless, by Pet Shop Boys

Pet Shop Boys: Nonetheless (x2⁄Parlophone) Initially, this bugged me — a perfect simulacrum of their vaunted “Imperial Phase” sans any of the glorious hits that made that period possible. If this be the good old days, where’s the “West End Girls,” the “Domino Dancing?” Hell, the “Home and Dry?” Recapturing the spirit and sound of your younger incarnation can be a tricky task even for a wag like Neil Tennant, but co−producer James Ford has an impressive knack for precisely that, aiding Depeche Mode to achieve a similar reclamation on last year’s Memento Mori. But where in that dire case neither David Gahan nor Martin Gore possesses the voice to be the other’s effective wingman, Tennant has a more modest ambition: looking back to his halcyon days as a “New London Boy” who worshipped Roxy and Bowie, toted a brick to defend himself against confrontational skinheads, and shot meaningful looks to a crush wandering aimlessly “like Ringo walking by a canal.” That last reference couldn’t help but remind me of Wilfrid Brambell, fifty−one (!!) when he played Paul’s “clean” grandfather in A Hard Day's Night, mocking the dolorous drummer for putting his nose in “that book.” In real life, in an England that wouldn’t decriminalize homosexuality until 1967, the alcoholic Brambell was arrested in 1962 for so−called “cottaging,” a charge that was likely entrapment. At the time, he vehemently disparaged same−sex attraction, but a decade later was living a private life with his “valet,” eventually appearing in Terence Davies’s 1982 film Death and Transfiguration, portraying a dying gay man finally embracing who he is, a role in which he didn’t utter a word. He died three years later, at seventy−two. Tennant is sixty−nine, a product of a different era, and perhaps because of that, as he once boasted, remains “a teenager since before you were born.” Maybe Ringo will put down his book and start falling in love just yet. B+Grade: B+

album cover, Little Rope, by Sleater-Kinney

Sleater-Kinney: Little Rope (Loma Vista) News of Annie Clark’s involvement in 2019’s The Center Won’t Hold didn’t alarm me as much as drummer Janet Weiss’s departure after that album’s release. Yet while that shakeup led to the remaining duo’s impressive 2021 Path of Wellness, partnering with Clark’s former producer John Congleton is a different matter altogether. Where once Carrie Brownstein often overdubbed the simple but effective keyboard parts herself, here the buzzy synth bass and mechanical rhythms of Congleton’s industrial lite approach overpower rather than augment the band’s innate emotional intensity. This holds especially true for Corin Tucker’s more personal songs, though it’s hard to imagine a hands−off type like John Goodmanson rescuing the bombastic “Hell” or “Untidy Creatures,” possibly their two weakest tracks, from the lyrical or musical sludge. Meanwhile, Brownstein’s songs succeed better on average because they’re less demanding and more straightforward, rock for rock’s sake, particularly “Needlessly Wild” and “Don’t Feel Right,” both of which dispose with fancy words in favor of repetition and are stronger for it. Sometimes saying it “like you mean it” isn’t enough. B+Grade: B+

Tyla: Tyla (Fax⁄Epic) I still think that for a crossover bid to take South African Amapiano beats to the international audience, this is far too subtle. Granted, those rhythms are inherently more insinuating than galvanic anyway, but compare what Tyla Seethal does here to her nuttier compatriot Uncle Waffles, or to Seethal herself on her spirited 2019 breakthrough “Getting Late,” both of which are much more idiosyncratic than anything on this otherwise pleasant debut. If you’re going to be understated, best to mitigate that with a grainy voice, a memorable bit of language, or an odd melodic element accenting the music where it’s not anticipated — really, anything to upset one’s natural bodily equilibrium will suffice. What does it say when you parlay your comely mezzo−soprano and considerable charisma into a worldwide smash — and a heavily Auto−Tuned Travis Fucking Scott is still your principal draw? Oh well, what do I know. Cue the video. B+Grade: B+

album cover, Hot Sun Cool Shroud EP by Wilco

Wilco: Hot Sun Cool Shroud (Nonesuch EP) Jesus Etc. Christ − who crushed a half tab of Viagra into Jeff Tweedy’s vegan and gluten−free cinnamon cereal? The venerable institution’s ashen American flags have been flapping at half−mast for so long I skipped his last few efforts, which number not only three with his primary outfit (including, lord, one double) but a whopping four solo records since 2017 (personal to Malcolm Gladwell — it’s about quality, not quantity). This was unfortunate on my part — last year’s Cate LeBon−produced Cousins doesn’t quite rank with “classic” Wilco (a much rarer phenomenon than Sound Opinions disciples claim) but exhibited more attention to musical care than any Tweedy release in about a decade — inconsistent, as is only to be expected from a man who’s registered a fucking hundred plus new copyrights in the last seven years, but graced with several standout cuts, including a numb response to a school shooting in which for once his obtuse metaphors and inarticulate aloofness serve the subject at hand. This time the interlocking guitars and foreboding synths of the opener immediately command your attention, the perfect soundtrack for a heatwave or an imminent political catastrophe, so much so the hopeful key change in the chorus feels less like respite than an evasion. No matter — by then they’ve struck such a mood even the two pace−changing instrumentals are compelling, particularly the exhilarating sixty−nine second “Livid,” which cleans the enamel so efficiently it suggests the chronically underused Nels Cline has a future as a dental hygienist should this guitar hero gig dry up. And though I wish the moony ballads were a little wiser about long−term relationships, they're more nakedly vulnerable — and beautiful — than anything on Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. No flabby doggerel about American aquarium drinkers, that’s for sure. A–Grade: A–

album cover, Where's My Utopia, by Yard Act

Yard Act: Where’s My Utopia? (Island) Critics compare them to Gang of Four because they hail from Leeds, began with their feet firmly planted in indie before sashaying out to the dancefloor, and eschew love songs and sincerity for political tracts and cynicism, but there are a few salient differences. Where Jon King and Andy Gill cleverly interwove their vocals so that they conducted two sides of an argument neither half appeared interested in hearing, James Smith and company design their sardonic anti−anthems as haranguing verses mounting into football chant choruses, a perfect schema given their mission: throwing a late stage capitalist bachanal their improved financial position guarantees they don’t have to worry about cleaning up the next morning. With help from Gorrilaz confederate Remi Kubaki, Jr., they pull off their blatant Italo disco moves much more daringly than late period Go4, and knowing they couldn’t have gotten away with shit this brash in 1982, are more caustically ironic about their position as “post−punk’s latest poster boys,” “signed to a subsidiary of Universal, Inc.,” “[riding] on the coattails of thе dead” into an unsuspecting parliamentary democracy’s top ten. That’s a paraphrase from the outrageous barnburner “We Make Hits,” a wry “Tenth Avenue Freeze−Out”−style origin story in which an ironic wink justifies their transparent lust for riches, fame, and brazen chart−toppers. Not Nile Rodgers good — they know their limitations. But if they want to regurgitate old Snap! hooks to commemorate their righteous business class upgrade, they’ve earned that right. A–Grade: A–

album cover, Maisha, by The Zawose Queens

The Zawose Queens: Maisha (Real World) Hailing from the Dodoma region of central Tanzania, sisters Pendo and Leah Zawose are part of a musical dynasty of which I’ve yet to do any proper research, but don’t you haters even think about crying nepo baby — these women deserve as much of Peter Gabriel’s “Sledgehammer” slush fund as they can get. Neither purely traditional nor avant garde, they’re the freshest Afropop crossover since Amadou & Mariam, and despite their Glastonbury dreams or association with Real World, they don’t overplay the synths — each vinyl half (sorry) begins with comparatively “commercial” exploits before moving on to tracks more nakedly showcasing achizeze fiddle, illimba thumb piano, ngoma drums, and in one moment I treasure, what sounds like a chair being casually dragged across the stereo channel. If you ever marvelled at Brad Delp’s tenor seguing into Tom Scholz’s piercing guitar on “More Than a Feeling,” you have no excuse for missing this team’s similar vocal pyrotechnics — some enterprising raver needs to sample their exultant whoops and hollers, and I wish my cursory YouTube inquiry provided a clue as to which queen sings what. And while I could do without the climactic percussion extravaganza toward the end and wish they had risked a cash grab with someone like Damon Albarn, non−vinyl consumers will be rewarded for their loyalty to digital formats: a delightful throwaway hoedown with the Wamwiduka Band which features nary an electronic gizmo at all. A–Grade: A–

Honorable Mentions

Katie Pruitt: Mantras (Rounder) She has a story to tell, but theraputic clichés and coffeehouse folk are probably a lot more novel for her than they are for us (“Jealous of the Boys,” “White Lies, White Jesus, and You”) ★★★

Africatown, AL: Ancestor Sounds (PM Press) In which producer Ian Brennan weaves together the voices of descendants of the unwilling travelers on the Clotilda, “the last ship to bring enslaved people across the Atlantic to America,” though he doesn’t always transform his source material, sometimes should leave it alone, and in all artistic endeavors keep his filthy mitts off of “Amazing Grace” (“Sent to Vietnam, but Never Been to Africa,” “First Thing He Did When Freed Was Build a Drum”) ★★★

Swamp Dogg: Blackgrass: From West Virginia to 125th St (Oh! Boy) More convincing as a dirty old man or a white racist awaiting his execution than the mourning widower he is in real life (“Mess Under That Dress,” “Ugly Man's Wife,” “Murder Ballad”) ★★★

Four Tet: Three (Text) Has never been as ambitious or as willing to sell out as some of his peers, for which we should be…grateful? (“31 Bloom,” “Daydream Repeat”) ★★

Duds

album cover, Always Centered at Night, by Moby

Moby: Always Centered at Night (Always Centered At Night/Mute) Like DJ Shadow or Johnny Marr, Moby’s gifts are circumscribed to a very narrow skill set that in his case does not include memoir writing, irony, or self−awareness, and like the aforementioned he’s not keen to repeat past glories lest anyone accuse him of being “limited” as an artist, stooping to sub−classical “reinterpretations” of his greatest hits for Deutsche Grammophone notwithstanding. Which is what makes this disappointing collection doubly frustrating — where in the past even his lesser records were unified by his personal quirks if not necessarily by musical coherence, here he squanders what might have been most arresting music since 2011’s Destroyed by turning this into a veritable audition reel for collaborating hopefuls, not one of whom gets called back for an encore, and not one of whom you’ll remember without consulting Wikipedia for a page they may or may not have — or deserve. Come back Mimi Goese, all is forgiven. C+ Grade: C+

album cover, Proxy Music, by Linda Thompson

Linda Thompson: Proxy Music (Storysound) To give credit where it is due, I should probably mention that smashing cover parody — Kari−Ann Moller, you haven’t aged a day. About the music, I’m admittedly less enthusiastic — where the classic albums Linda made with ex Richard were recorded quick and dirty, it’s a bit hard to take seriously a song about a “mudlark” (a riverside scavenger in 18th−century London) when the aseptic production values remind you neither half of the changeling folk duo The Rails worries too much about contracting cholera from bathing in the polluted Thames. Even chalking that protestation up to my peculiar biases however, this record’s central conceit suffers from a fatal flaw. There’s a certain heroism and humility at work when you’re forced to outsource vocalists because spasmodic dysphonia prevents you from singing your newest batch of songs yourself, but why in the world would you cede something as specific in its wistfulness as “I Used to be Pretty” to a perky chorine half your age? Why not bring in Anna McGarrigle or the surviving Roches, both mentioned by name in the finale, who may no longer be able to sing as “beautifully” as inheritors Kami and Martha, but might better replicate the tenderness that Linda herself did on 2013’s Won't Be Long Now, not a timeless masterwork to be sure, but certainly more touched with grace than most everything here? The two exceptions lean pop: Rufus Wainwright’s playful Cole Porter homage “Darling This Will Never Do” and sister Martha’s startlingly gorgeous ballad “Or Nothing at All.” Not that name−dropping finale though, which reminds me that of all the potential producers in the extended Thompson family talent pool, Linda chose her goddamn neatnik son Teddy. B–Grade: B–

Michael On Everything

A Downloader’s Diary (53)

July 2024

Africans, With or Without a Hyphen

Honorable Mentions

Duds