I’d love to write about Give Out. I’d love to write about the way the song builds quietly, internally like a low grade anxiety attack. Treading the same ground over and over, convincing herself one minute, full of doubt the next. She wanted to let go this time, but it doesn’t sound like she did. You can hear the musicians quietly keeping their distance — they’re strong enough to support her if she needs it but gentle enough to let her stand on her own. Under different circumstances this could’ve dissolved into a weepy nightmare, but instead it’s this delicate thing that grows stronger every day.
But jagjaguwar has left that one on the album, so we’re listening to Serpents today. It’s a fine song, too, but you should get the record and hear the whole thing.
Now, Now used to be called Now Now Every Children, and I vastly prefer their new, shorter name. Their sound, too, is more condensed–there’s a rawness from their debut Cars missing from their latest, Threads, but in its place is a thick, polished darkness that I’m liking nonetheless. It’s a very good record, one that will remind you that good music is all about balance: singer Cacie Dalager’s voice is both vulnerable and strong, and the surrounding guitars, drums, and keyboards (by bandmates Brad Hale and Jess Abbott) are at once precise and dangerously off-kilter. It’s as if the songs could spin off their axes at any time, held back only by some serious gravity.
Here’s something I don’t say often enough: I love this song. That’s why we’re all here, isn’t it? I’m glad bands like Now, Now are around to make us say so.
This one’s just lovely. I can’t think of many other words for it, or much else to say about it. It makes itself known right from the start, without getting ahead of itself. It’s gentle without being dull, and Falconberry’s voice is the perfect mixture of certainty and vulnerability. It’s gears in motion, each doing their job for the whole. It’s lovely.
You can find this song on Falconberry’s EP Though I Didn’t Call It Came, which was recorded in an Austin, Texas church. It’s available from all the usual digitaloutlets.
One of the few good things that came from our forced hiatus was a stockpile of good music. Sure, a lot of what you see from us in the coming weeks may be a bit outdated, but hopefully it will still be under the radar enough that you haven’t heard it.
For example, Doomtree. These guys are huge in the Twin Cities, both individually and collectively, but I don’t hear about them much elsewhere. Along with Summit Beer, the Walker Art Center and pancakes at Victor’s, Doomtree is one of the things I miss most about Minneapolis. In Boston, as far as I know, there is no gregarious hip-hop collective that throws an annual “blowout”.
Featuring, among other awesome MCs, the fantastic P.O.S., the seven-piece Doomtree collective recently released their second full-length, No Kings (buy it; it’s good), and they’re very likely coming to your town. Go see ‘em.
You may have noticed that we were out of commission for a minute, due to a nasty piece of malware that had embedded itself all up in our code. But fret not, because we found the little bastard and everything should be up and running like normal. Feel free to let us know if you notice anything else suspicious. Thanks!
I’m sure my eight-month-old daughter can’t really differentiate between kids’ music and, say, NWA, but we’ve been trying to keep it light on recent car trips. So far, that’s meant Peter, Paul & Mommy and Free To Be … You and Me, both of which definitely have their moments (don’t get me started on Mel Brooks’s “I’m a baby!” sketch from the latter … no really, it’s amazing).
But now Laura Veirs has put out Tumble Bee, a record of kids’ folks songs, and I can’t recommend it highly enough. It not only has Veirs’s great voice and guitar playing but intricate arrangements and song choices that are both fun (“King Kong Kitchie Kitchie Ki-Me-O”) and somewhat somber (“All The Pretty Little Horses”). Woody Guthrie even makes an appearance when Veirs covers his sweetly funny “Why Oh Why,” and Colin Meloy pops up on “Soldier’s Joy” (perhaps returning the favor for Veirs’s appearance on The Crane Wife).
There’s something about bands that wear influences on their sleeves while sounding like themselves. Girl In A Coma not only cops the Smiths’ jangle but adapts one of Moz’s song titles for their band name. But this is no imitation; this is just a band that likes what it likes.
Girl In A Coma has even opened for Morrissey, as well as Tegan and Sara, Sia, and the Pogues. Not many bands could cover that range, but these women can. Their fourth record Exits & All The Rest, out November 1 on Joan Jett’s Blackheart Records, is pop and rock, pseudo-punk and new wave. It’s awash in reverb but sharp as a tack. I think you’ll like it.
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