Clock Opera fit into this picture because they are very hard to define. Set and setting first, producer and multi-instrumentalist Guy Connelly based in London, England started this band with like-minded musicians in the hope of creating some sort of post-Radiohead pop project; you’d be hard pressed no to dismiss this as a poor art project. His “scene” credentials have been acquired before the debut was even released. Contributing a remix each for some very believable artists like Marina & the Diamonds and Au Revoir Simone, touring England alongside Chapel Club in November of last year; all this has built up some expectation among the music community as to what Ways to Forget would sound like. Not to make myself to have been biased from the beginning but, there you go.

Well, it sounds like quite a few things. It’s one of the most in-between records I’ve ever heard. You could say it’s M.O.R. but there a little bit more to the story here, think of Elbow’s newer albums, you can play it to anyone if you want to show off your sound system or just to play something nice. There’s no easy way of putting it without sounding a little mean to them, I would hate to take away from the production merit Connelly deserves. It goes off in so many directions it’s hard to figure out where it’s all headed. I tried to get some idea of the bands credo, but the bio I found on one popular social network only goes to confuse me even more. I guess if you asked the band what they are about you’d get four different answers. There’s a lack of focus that can bore at times, but that’s easily overlooked when the anthemic choruses kick in.

This might also stem from their unusual approach to songwriting. “Chop pop” it’s called, because most of the sounds on the record are very carefully chopped and cropped samples of instruments, all strings being pulled by Guy Connelly. So it’s hard to call this a full on rehearsing and performing band. The cut and paste technique is also applied to the lyrics, Most are parts of stories Guy reads in newspapers and puts together to form songs. Like “Man Made” which came from a magazine article about beauty pageant in a women’s prison in Siberia, the song itself is a heavier more bass oriented moment on the record. Sure to be a live highlight.

Man Made

It’s pushing the boundaries of pop while walking the fine line between hipster fodder and credible music. Compare it to “Strawberry Fields,” even though infinitely more meaningful, Ways to Forget is something from that world of inverted vocals and new and strange structures. One memorable track is “A Piece of String”, it’s strumming ukulele riff that blends so nicely amongs the layers of guitars and explodes in 8-bit colours into the chorus. “11th Hour” is pure Talk Talk on Spirit of Eden scale crossed with New Order anthemic synth / guitar dynamic. “Belongings” soars and soars until you can see Chris Martin’s house! Coldplay wish they wrote that song.

Clock Opera make commercial music that would appeal to fans of Cut Copy rather than Bodyrockers, which gets me thinking. Citing so many other artists in a review is not always a good thing, but trust me Clock Opera want you to like what they like. They want to challenge you to think of similarities with other artists in their music, it’s that familiar feeling that makes this record a good release.

Clock Opera’s debut album Ways to Forget is a bold and ambitious one. It stands up for what it believes in and dances all the way to the end, even though the last few tracks like “Move to the Mountains” start sounding like Arcade Fire to the point where you feel like checking the record you‘re playing. I see this band next to Animal Collective, Zulu Winter, Zammuto, as part of new psychedelic pop movement. They are signed to Island and that could mean a lot for their future, with the potential of worldwide exposure they seem competent enough to climb bigger stages.

—Horea M.

While these days there’s no shortage of synth-friendly bands that have a clear ‘80s influence, what makes Lazerhawk different is that they are just so overtly ‘80s sounding that it’s impossible to tell that this album was made in 2012. To put in perspective how ‘80s this album sounds, listening to it for the first time the only thing that could come to mind was the Scarface soundtrack. I feel like this album is best suited for cruising down the club strip of Miami with a hooker riding shotgun and a briefcase full of cocaine in the trunk. As a good example of this I would point to the song “Shoulder of Orion.” The song starts with a pulsating drum beat and when the bassline hits you can just feel. However it’s when the main synth riff hits a minute or so in—most likely played by a key-tar—that the song explodes in neon nostalgia. Listening to the track you can’t tell me that you don’t picture Tony Montana counting money to this song. And if you haven’t seen Scarface, substitute that reference for any ‘80s film with a montage sequence.

Shoulder of Orion

Overall, this is an absolutely fun record and I haven’t heard any electro album like this in quite some time. And as a random side note I also really enjoy the song names on this album. Each track is laid out as a chronological journey, and the vehicle of choice is some type of spacecraft. From the opening tracks “Visitors” and “Distant Signal 001” all the way to “Star Hustler” and “Arrival” in the album’s conclusion, Visitors is nicely structured as one consistent journey, through space, probably in an intergalactic Lamborghini Countach or Flying Delorean.

—Brian K.-S.

But—you guessed it!—there are exceptions. And Ketman is one.

The best bands are the ones that are impossible to categorize or easily describe. Ketman, a now-defunct three-piece from Boston, fits the bill. This indescribability is a general sign that something’s going on with an act—a desire to get it out, whatever it happens to be, outweighing any discussion of demographics or marketability or image. The conversation, when such bands come up, inevitably gets steered towards a few bands kindred in spirit (if not sound): Mission of Burma, the Minutemen. Ketman had this in spades. And they promoted themselves the old fashion way—touring their asses off, releasing records—before falling, exhausted to the mat. Their stuff was available largely on vinyl, targeting one rabid audience who loved them, alienating, whether they intended it or not, the casual digital song-oriented listener.

Hideout From the Sun

This is a band singular in their vision, lauded by their peers, who easily could have caught lightning in a bottle. That’s the thing, isn’t it? All these bands, all these bottles, not enough catches.

Ketman’s chops granted them stylistic variance—they were easily able to switch gears, from angular rock to yeh-yeh to Zeppelin something resembling sea chanty swing (they adapted a horn section towards the end of the career, did I mention that? And better: it had nothing to do with ska. It was tastefully done, in other words). Eric Penna, guitarist, and Joe Marrett, bass, wrap their vocals in the divots left by their respective instruments as drummer Mora Precarious (who now plays drums for OG punk cabaret act World / Inferno Friendship Society) bashes away, seemingly with more better limbs than she was born with—is she a cyborg back there, half woman and half multilimbed metronome?

Celia Cooney

Straight ragers are on the docket, such as the herky-jerky “Bulletproof Molly,” but the band knows their dynamics, as well. “Hideout From the Sun” showcases the two-vocal attack, taking a page from “In the Light” as it swells and retreats before yielding an insanely catchy main riff. “Celia Cooney” finds the horn section filling out the band’s sound like the grout between tiles.

So why the retrospective? Because, honestly, retrospectives are usually just cash grabs. You never heard this band. And what’s present on 2005-2011 is awesome, but is just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. Get in, dig it, and track the rest of Ketman’s stuff down.

—Mike F.

Kerosene

The strength of most punk bands is in making a definite science out of a relatively simply concoction. A lack of musical and vocally melodic complexity or diversity seems to set alarm bells ringing for fans of other alternative music, while the punk hardcore carried over from the 1980s would have been first in the queue to fling hostilities the way of this album in some cases, but Green Day in all cases when they “went political” with an album hardly far removed from one like Recipe For Hate, and in each and every respect at that. Nonetheless, behold the opening title track and the righteousness with which it burns both musically and lyrically, fully satisfying the niche audience. On the subject of burning, “Kerosene” is the same sort of fast-tempo marriage of tombstoning chord sequences and rabble-rousing sermon, which makes for a thrilling riot anthem. There are plenty of sonic flourishes around each corner however, not least in the sparkly outro to the latter and the similar dollops of guitar soup which comprise “Man with a Mission,” which hangs like storm clouds gathering, more evocative of the Mid-West than the outfit’s California homeland. Regularly, a Sunny Delight-flavored guitar solo over which the state of California may well hold copyright will, however, sputter into action.

Watch it Die

“Man with a Mission” is in fact one track where Graffin’s vocals come off as entirely sweet; they pull like magnets to a fridge. Throughout the album they swirl with a twin air of triumph and desperation, loaded with the very DNA which made pop punk a perennial of the buddy movie once the American Pie generation grew old enough to appreciate the genre. Often, as on that track and an effort such as the positively hymnal, drunken shanty-like “Don’t Pray On Me,” they are purely irresistible, although typically speaking of social ills and life compromised from some angle by the inconvenience of politics. Such is the case on “Watch It Die,” a timely anthem for the 99% nation in which a soaking wet warhead of a riff provides the backdrop for yet another sing-a-long and an obscured but nonetheless WTF cameo from Eddie Vedder. As with Occupy, no answers are tendered, but in this case we don’t mind when a riff glows and throbs quite this fervently. Recipe For Hate is a pick ‘n’ mix of thrills in these regards; if you’re not stood in awe of the punk bushfire that is “My Poor Friend Me,” then you’ll be admiring the sneering, super-sarcastic venom which Graffin smears all over the slithering anti-militarist twist of “All Good Soldiers.”

Modern Day Catastrophists

Plus, how about “American Jesus,” the zeitgeist-scaling lament on red, white and blue demagoguery which, admittedly, beat Green Day to the “American Idiot” template by eight years and stands as one of the finest pop punk tracks of all time? Or, the deliciously septic “Modern Day Catastrophists,” another sarky (and self-deprecating?) scattershot against a riptide of shifting riffs (like everything here)? Or, the bittersweet closer “Skyscraper,” in which Graffin’s vocals seem at their most trembling, making this a fitting and somehow tragic closer? Recipe For Hate is mostly certainly chainsawed to the bone of any fat it once wore and plays all of the 90s punk stand-outs, most of them Californian, whom Bad Religion birthed in the first place at their own game of super-accessible fury and moshpit-approved pop punk. This Recipe comes with plenty of secret aural ingredients to sweeten the pill for any more cynical political observers who prefer their diatribes a little fleshier, but also in order to comprise a hearty meal for those who enjoy music written from the heart and with a highly agreeable passion. This record drips with the stuff.

—Michael J.

Rx Bandits are first and foremost a live band. They chose to demonstrate this by recording all the rhythm section parts for …And the Battle Begun live, which is pretty mind-blowing considering the high-intensity grooves and absolutely clinical tightness of this record. Even in their most chaotic moments, the drums and bass are absolutely locked in. The album opens with a gorgeous a cappella theme leading into the title track, which smoothly progresses from silver-tongued crooning to spaced-out jamming to pounding punk over the course of five minutes. This displays the diversity of the album right out of the gate, showing that the Bandits aren’t here to make just another rock record, but to reinvent their sound and the conventions of progressive rock.

…And The Battle Begun

Let me put one thing out there before I get carried away; this band is fucking good. The drummer Christopher Tsagakis absolutely mashes the drum kit and plays complex patterns at tempos that would terrify most. The transfers between punk slamming and reggae-salsa-dance grooves are seamless, which only adds to the range of the songs within. The guitars alternate between heavy chugging, spindly melodies, and atmospheric layers, balanced between dissonance and beauty. This album could have fallen into the ranks of progressive rock records if it weren’t for a couple things. One is the Bandits’ polished horn section, which brings a huge dose of reggae soul and acoustic warmth during this barrage of electric music. While it’s hard to call this a ska record, the horn section certainly anchors them outside of the typical rock scene.

The other compelling piece is the sweet yet urgent singing of vocalist Matthew Embree. Lyrically, he tackles big topics over the big riffs of the band. The title track dwells on the prescription culture of America, how we “never leave the house without a pocket of pills.” The call of “Won’t you put your guns in the ground?” on “In Her Drawer” manages to be political in a righteous roots reggae sense, which at the time, was very different from the droves of anti-Bush punk bands whining without real inspiration. It also helps that there are killer background vocals and harmonies all over this record, another nod to classic Jamaican music. On “Only For The Night,” Embree is examining lust as a form of sanity, as a cathartic release of loneliness during times of uncertainty, that even a person who may not be the best for you can be a rock during the storm. The movie starlet who offers this shelter for the night seems to be the emotionless reflection of American superficiality, but she will always be there for the instantaneous comfort of fast love. I’ve always felt that this is a sexy record, as many of the songs seem to meditate on love in these crazy, violent, greedy, and confusing times. When there is “nothing to believe in” as Embree points out on the title track, it becomes much more complicated to find ways to hold on to others.

1980

This record truly has it all. The combo of “1980” into “One Million Miles An Hour, Fast Asleep” is punk rock fury refined into a tightly focused form. The refrain that eased us into the album is brought back, forcing the listener to take this record in as a big-picture event instead of a collection of songs. The false start between the two songs shows the complex relationships of this band as live entity, which is sometimes hard to believe due to the convolution and controlled chaos of their music. Immediately after these punk rock workouts is “Apparition,” a reggae-fied ode to the beauties that seem to float in and out of our lives. On “Epoxi-Lips,” the band turns from frantic calls of “It’s too late!” to a spacious choral breakdown and a virtuosic accelerando which resolves to the call of “It’s not too late!”

While the band has changed forms and styles slightly since this record, I believe that this will be hailed as their classic. The soulfulness, the intensity of both song and lyric, and the gorgeous production set this record far apart from its potential peers. The idea that this is a band that can set up in a room together and create such technical, emotional, earnest, and unique music blows my mind.

—Bryan L.

9Th Wonder began with the highly celebrated underground hip hop crew, Little Brother. Shortly after the release of Little Brother’s debut he received a chance to work with living hip-hop legend Jay-Z producing the track, “Threat” on the renowned Black Album. This single collaboration thrust 9th Wonder into the forefront of the hip hop scene, and from that point he was able to bring his smooth-n-classy style to anyone and everyone in hip hop music.
The Wonder Years is an impressive collection of tracks that form 9th Wonder’s fourth full solo album. Many of the rappers featured on The Wonder Years are familiar collaborators that have worked with 9th Wonder in the past. Phonte, a fellow member of Little Brother, alone appears on two of the 16 effervescent songs. Other notable underground rhymers featured on (but not limited to) The Wonder Years include: Talib Kweli, Murs, Warren G, Median, Blu, and Raekwon.

Standout tracks on The Wonder Years include:

“Now I’m Being Cool,” a nice mix of hip hop and R&B.

“Your Smile,” not your typical hip hop love song.

“No Pretending,” a biting track reminiscent of the work of RZA.

9th Wonder sticks to his strengths on The Wonder Years by adhering to a laid back groove approach and plenty of soulful samples. The whole album exudes a chill vibe with majority of songs borrowing heavily from the R&B soul genre. With a veritable dream roster creating supporting cast there is surely more than one track that will leave an impact on the listener, which makes The Wonder Years well worth a playthrough.

—Drew L.

There’s a major visual element to Torche’s music here, I find it hard to imagine anything other than epic battles, intergalactic laser fights or a mass of invading aliens landing down on earth District 9 style, but all in good fun and nothing else. They manage to fulfill many rock fans’ dreams of escape and fantasy. Evolution is key, to them as a band, and us as listeners getting used to the idea that even doom bands are a bit sick of the gloom. “Letting Go” is a manifest, time for new Torche, shedding old skin to make way for new ambitions. “Kicking” feels familiar, reminds me of “Mentor” from their debut. Swooshing guitar effects, stop start pre-chorus and a climatic chorus. Already the tags feel stupid, you just want to punch the air and shout. The pace is relentless after this, things ahem… kicking off from this point onward.

One could say it’s camp, but isn’t all, loud in your face rock camp? They are a bit on the fence there, ever so slightly going a bit too much in the direction of The Darkness, all wailing Brian May solos and thundering drums, the vocals get a bit lost in the mix. The first highlight of the album is “Reverse Inverted,” rock at its grimy bassy best. Mastodon are the other band to have material this heavy and this accessible these days.

Reverse Inverted

Torche seem motivated to break through to the mainstream, the hooks on “In pieces” are catchy enough to catch any purist off guard. By purists I mean the people who followed the band in their HydraHead days, when Isis where touring with Tool and it seemed like aggressive rock / metal would rule for decades to come like an evil axe wielding emperor. That was not the case, and that crowd has remained in damp obscurity. No, Torche deserve a bigger stage now.
A song like “Roaming” can only be fully exploited in front of 20,000 people or more. The sound is not perfect or polished, but simple enough to imagine it being played live without the help of any gimmicks. It’s massive and operatic with a crescendo of guitars and bass that peaks right near the end, right into “Skin Moth.”

Where Harmonicraft falters slightly is consistency, it’s TOO consistent. Clocking in at 38 minutes it’s remarkable how much music they crammed into such a tiny space, but this is to be viewed as quality control. Had it been longer I don’t think it would’ve sounded as cohesive and hard-hitting. What this album leaves you with is hope for a new generation of bands that could just save guitar music for everyone.

—Horea M.

Kill For Love really starts off on a high note with about six of its best songs all at the beginning. In this respect it is a little top heavy, and the mood is certainly more upbeat during the first half. My favorite pick out of this section of the album would have to be “Back From the Grave.” The third track of this album probably features some of the most crisp and resonate vocals from Ruth Radelet. The song starts off with her voice as the dominant instrument, backed only by a high-filtered synth, and then enjoys a quick progression as the pulsating kick and bass come in, followed by a light guitar melody in the chorus. It’s a pop song so naturally it’s pretty “happy” sounding, but the vocals certainly bring out more color on this track. Most of the album does feature airy vocals, which is a pretty dominant aesthetic in this type of music. Sometimes this can lead to the singer’s voice just sort of blending into the ambient noise, however on “Back From the Grave” Radelet’s voice is brought right to the forefront.

Back From the Grave

The latter half of this album drifts into more progressive tunes. Where the album starts off with some interesting synth-pop, the middle part of this record contains much slower ballad type of songs, which feature pianos and guitar a lot more prominently than the synths. I find the change of pace welcoming and really helps give the album variety after 30 minutes of synth-pop tunes that do sound pretty similar. During the middle tracks on Kill For Love the use of silence and elongated intros and outros is a lot more prominent, and these elements work to flesh out a darker atmosphere. Towards the end the album picks back up again with a couple of more upbeat songs to sort of come full circle and make for a really cohesive album. All in all, Kill For Love is among the best indie pop albums I’ve heard this year and a can’t miss if this is your type of music.

—Brian K.-S.

Ever since Mr. Cash has been on my mind, in my headphones, and blaring in my stereo. He is truly a man like no other. And the American recording series proves that he did make one hell of a comeback, testifying that he is not just an artist for the country fans and for ol’ cowboys and the like. Metal and hardcore kids along with hip hoppers and anyone in between play homage to the Man in Black, spinning his records every once in a while.

For the Good Times

The last American CD in the collection, released on February 23rd of 2010, is of course not to be compared with the first two discs and / or even latter ones, because Johnny was not the man he used to be. Recorded after the death of his beloved June, the record bears overtones of Johnny’s own approaching death, but he does not fear it, he embraces it with “a satisfied mind”—he is truly ready to meet his Savior and his beloved soulmate.

Every song is simple yet strong –“acoustic, downbeat, almost wholly devoid of percussion, Cash’s voice a wracked, whispery drawl, every note an effort,” as BBC’s reviewer Andrew Mueller puts it, thus making the record a beautifully haunting heritage, who marked the 20th century with his persona, his voice and his honesty. “There ain’t no grave can hold my body down, therefore we’ll meet again. Hello, I’m Johnny Cash…”

—Serghei B.

There’s this parlor game that my friends and I have played for years: which celebrity, when s/he dies, would cause people to spill out onto the street, weeping? It’s harder than you think. Like we didn’t get Michael Jackson.
MCA—and the Beastie Boys—are so engrained in the psyches of everyone of a certain wide-sweeping age that his contributions are barely even noticed, so fundamental are they. The Beastie Boys were always impressive to me because not only did they have depth of reference—the Bad Brains AND the Ramones were sampled into their music with a winking cool, like “if you get the joke you’re okay with us”—but breadth, too. They paid attention to pop culture so widely that their references transcended genre and social groups equally. Go out, be curious, and dig what you dig, they seemed to be saying. It’s cool. It’s all cool.

With that said, I didn’t get Paul’s Boutique at all when it was released. It didn’t sound anything like Licensed to Ill. It was in 1993, after Check Your Head came out, that I got into it. My buddy John played the record every day of our summer camp employ at Wah-Tut-Ca, it seemed, so I learned the album through his gesticulations and pantomimes of the songs.

Paul’s Boutique (Full Album)

Of course, I didn’t get the record fully then. I probably still don’t now, to be honest. Almost twenty years ago, when I first dove in, I was too punk to acknowledge that there had been a band called the Beatles, much less that they were, and are, the best band of all time. So “The Sounds of Science” went right over my head. It was only years later that I caught the references. Public Enemy? Got it. But Trouble Funk? Curtis Mayfield? Funkadelic? I found all of ‘em years apart. They recontextualized the album, again and again. I’m sure that there’s still tons that I’m missing, that scholars haven’t been able to find or decipher yet. Like the Beastie Boys themselves, Paul’s Boutique was, and is, the Rosetta Stone of effortless cool.

The thought of the Beastie Boys not happening any more is unfathomable to me. I went out onto the street myself Friday in tribute. That was part of the magic: their music, with its references, is deeply personal, yet uniting. It’s this duality which makes Paul’s Boutique so rewarding: it’s a party record with depth, always rewarding because of its sonic and referential density. I can’t imagine that there will ever be a band able to simultaneously connect and transcend ever again.

—Mike F.