6.7

I’ve been putting off this review for a couple of weeks now. I was thinking, all of this time, that Jenni would turn out to be bland – another pretty girl with a bad habit of playing guitar. 1.76 songs into The Fourth EP, her debut out on Clickpop Records, Jenni convinced me that she is not talentless or boring. A mere 20 or so years old, Jenni Potts makes music that proves to be much more elegant and sincere than her years display. The Fourth does it all right – it’s pensive and pertinent; it’s slightly ambient, but jagged with rock girl mentality. Jenni has been through a lot, and you feel it in every croon of her voice. It seems as if all her anger, frustration, past tragedies, and depression are the fabric of this heartfelt unveiling.

The first track, “The Fourth”, alludes to the date of her first suicide attempt and the due date of a baby she miscarried. It is clear that she isn’t trying this music thing on for size, but is groping for some clarity and peace, and this music is a product of that. She tells her tales with the power of Neko Case and the sensitivity of Cat Power. Complimented on this EP by pedal steel, vibraphone and cello, among other instruments, Jenni swoops in telling her tales of misery, mistakes and what could have been. Though she is young, her yearning message is universal. Just as Michael Stipe so knowingly said, “Everybody hurts sometimes”. Channeling the sometimes cerebral and always angry Ani Difranco on the second track, “Friends”, Jenni talks about the painful result of a friendship turned relationship, and the ruin that follows. Her voice, and the absolute control she has over it, holds so much promise. The accompanying vibraphone adds a lot to this slow piano-driven track, conjuring a chilly Fiona Apple. “See Home” starts very similarly as “Friends” but is backed by simplistic, and slightly radio-rockish, percussion. This track is just a bit too short, and the shortest on the EP at 2:36. It feels like filler, or like an intro to a song that sounds just like it. Jenni plays an unaccompanied acoustic guitar on “Goodnos”. Her vocals are lilting and sparse, like Chan Marshall, but more authentic in their despair. A sparkling pop sensibility isn’t what Jenni specializes in. She is sad, angry, bitter and she’s showing it. “April” and “Tunnel City” follow in suit, with Michael Harris jumping in duet-style on vocals for “Tunnel City”. Sometimes the poppy drums and tawdry fills make it seem like a fitting favorite on your Mom’s radio station back home, but the intensity in her voice betrays that genre all together. There is more going on here, her heart is breaking in every song. Jenni is definitely consistent in her sound… maybe too consistent. The songs all flow together and her delivery is silky smooth, but in an album of work, even one as short as an EP, you have to have a bit of variety. A high to the low, some sugar and some spice. Through all this Jenni uses her music as a tool to hash things out, and in the process reveals to us what is sometimes the hardest thing to let people see - who we really are. Jenni Potts will have a career in music, just as long as she is still feeling, hurting, searching and singing.

Fall has finally come to D.C. after weeks of the summer heat pussy-footing around in an unwelcome nag. Unfortunately, the brisk breezes and crisp air translate into chilly nights and the 40-minute wait outside the venue during soundcheck wasn’t the most pleasant. During this dead time I was surrounded by a battalion of under-21s flirting by pushing and talking about sex like it was the holy grail. It was clear that the majority there were either college students who didn’t have to get up before 9:00 on Monday or high school kids who simply didn’t give a shit that they had to. After finally being admitted by a ponytailed dude wearing a Hot Topic gauntlet fit for eviscerating lions in the Coliseum, I headed up to the ever-reliable bar.

The opening band took stage shortly after my first drink was ordered, but watching the Sox mop up the Series won my time in a rather foregone conclusion. Manchester Orchestra, the second-billed act that took the stage after the opener (whose name I can’t recall) has been touring with The Annuals since August. I didn’t catch all that much of their thunderous guitar attack, so I can’t comment on the band beyond a cursory appraisal. The rhythms were tight, the energy was high, and the guitarist and bassist looked curiously like Stone Gossard and Mike McCready circa Pearl Jam’s 1992 performance on SNL. After hearing a song that sounded like a crushing, distorted rendition of “The Thin Ice” by Pink Floyd, I opted for giving continued attention to the Boys from Beantown before the main act took the stage.

Finally, The Annuals took their place below the lights. Skin deep, the band is a hodgepodge of glove-fit indie elements. Singer/keyboardist Adam Baker fits the lit-rock bill down to the wire with the 3-week facial hair and suede vest. Pianist/keyboardist Anna Spence, who strikes first impressions as a talented version of Donna from That 70s Show towered over the other male members of the band, while a likely-teenaged Zack Oden flitted between strumming and acting as the band’s second drummer. A young band with a critically-acclaimed debut album, The Annuals are ripe for skyrocketing out of college airwaves and into a wider audience.

Musically, the band is hard to nail down, but what is undeniable is the North Carolina sextet’s energy. Baker frequently flew into wild-eyed frenzies of yowling vocals, looking like a stomped-on cat in plaid. His neck tendon vocal attack on “Carry Arround” flew in and out of Spence’s swoosh of Flaming Lips-esque phaser effects with reckless abandon. In the course of the bubbling jabber of a great song from Be He Me, the band rocked out under Baker’s unlikely rallying call of “I got lots of pills in my pocket.”

From the rollicking circus swells of “Complete or Completing” to the unhinged mix of campfire sing-along and Queen contained in “Dry Clothes,” The Annuals put on a furious parade of sights and sounds. Much of the set had more of a feel of a relay race than a traditional performance, with multiple band members trading instruments either between or during songs. Deftly maneuvering on the stage packed to the floorboards with gear, Baker hammered on a snare in between keyboard lines and two drum sets used to their full and mighty potential.

Flutters of Atari-sounding midi formed the segues between the band’s songs, originating from some curious device on the side of Baker’s keyboard. It could have been an iPod for all I know, but the mysterious object made for some great opening builds in the band’s songs. Preferring to let the songs do the talking, the band had minimal interaction with the crowd, with a few wry interjections here and there. The standout was guitarist Kenny Florence murmuring, “if we can see some movement in the crowd, things gonna get a little honky tonk.” They did indeed.

The band capitalized on the fury of its propulsive songs for the one-hour set, gathering the strength of its members like the Planeteers summoning forth the sum of their powers to fuck up the looters and polluters. The Be He Me single “Brother” dropped an A-bomb of sound after the subdued opening of brooding vocals and chirping synth fanfare that whipped the modest crowd up into headbangs. Andy Hull of Manchester Orchestra took the stage to add ammunition to the already wall-busting furor of four Annuals vocalists.

After ending on a crushing mesh of funk and power chords that rippled through the tiny venue, the night was over. Another satisfying night at the R&R kept my mind occupied on the irritatingly long trek back to the nearest metro station. Keep on rocking, North Carolina.

-MATT WENDUS

Rating: 8.0

Ambient electronica, as the name implies, is a genre that demands scale over scope. Brian Eno’s gift to music has had a rather uneven history, mostly owing to the fact that it’s extremely difficult to get right without tottering into either instrumental overload or the dubious lure of world music. Furthermore, as technology advances with the times, the detail demanded during the analog days of electronica is often passed over in favor of letting the machines just do their thing.

Nicolas Fromageau and Anthony Gonzales, better known as M83, are able to incorporate the souls of woeful balladeers into a highly micro-analyzed take on ambient electronica. On their fourth album, Digital Shades [Vol. 1], the band unleashes a swirling sensory experience of futuristic sights and sounds rather than an exercise in virtuosity. M83 is more shoegaze than conventional electronica, incorporating a marriage of distorted instrumental effects with ripe artificial foundations of tones. The tempos are slowed and the mood is reigned into atmospherics over energy, much like Mogwai pioneered ten years ago with their groundbreaking album, Young Team. There are answers in the ambience, if one knows where to look, and M83 paints a vivid connect-the-dots on this disc.

The album’s most potent punch is the duo’s ability to evoke feeling and imagery without reliance on words. The timeless themes of uncertainty and loss undeniably seep through the tempered layers and give Digital Shades [Vol. 1] a gravity that envelopes the ears. Whether or not M83 intends it, each song draws sorrow out of the listener’s body, like venom from a ripped wound. It’s a morose catharsis that reflects the cold chemical answers that our current and future civilizations look to for aid. From the grave-digging piano on “Dancing Mountains” to the quavering, string-like synthesizer on “My Own Strange Path,” each addition to the shadowy whole is worth its weight in gold.

The album rises in towering crests and each track functions as its own wavelength from start to finish. “Waves” begins with…well, waves. Simple chords, simple swells of digital organ sound. It works. The reflective, repetitive, yet impossibly deep quality of the ocean is mirrored in this song. “Sister [Part 1]” sounds like an extension of the celestial opening from U2’s “Where The Streets Have No Name” and is an effective prequel to its saddened successor later in the disc. The encroaching wash of static over the church choir melodies of “Coloring The Void” energizes the tear-stained dynamics with electric white noise. Static is a sonic weapon that M83 has a keen handle on, and the crackling discharges of noise also work to great effect on the undulating “By The Kiss.”

The keys on the closing “The Highest Journey” seem to shove harder after each bar as the funeral parade of ambience starts to invade the soundscape. During the course of what sounds like a polished extension of Sonic Youth’s “Providence,” scathing flares of static carry the ghostly voices forward in their dirge. Hauntingly gorgeous in its simplicity, and emotionally direct as a dying friend, it’s a summation of the album’s triumph of mood. Digital Shades [Vol. 1], like Caribou’s Andorra, demonstrates that there are still worlds yet to be uncovered in the cold architecture of electronic music. Let’s hope there’s a volume 2.

-MATT WENDUS

Rating: 6.0

In 1990, His Name is Alive released their first album on the prestigious 4AD label in England. The Livonia, Michigan group established itself as an experimental and sometimes ethereal pop band throughout their tenure with 4AD, which ended in 2002. Last year’s critically acclaimed Detrola was their first release for the Silver Mountain label, and Xmmer now follows in very much the same vein.

His Name is Alive have developed a reputation creating diverse sounding records and the new release sustains their reputation as such. Three songs in the middle of the album demonstrate this point well. One of the more experimental tracks on the album, “Sangaree,” uses crunchy fuzz guitar and sharp snare drumming as the main musical drive. The soft vocals, somewhat reminiscent of Stereolab, hover ever so slightly over the music, countering the discord. The song that follows is “Intra Ultra,” a mellow and lazy acoustic song that only lasts for one minute. The tracking is soothing, but all too brief. Next on Xmmer is “Come Out the Wilderness.” This song features some jangly, almost jazz/funk guitar playing and some rapid snare drum playing that is based on drumrolls for the entirety of the track. When the funk guitar morphs into a pleasantly strummed chorus, the drums also slow down and the song somehow builds in tension as the tempo decreases.

The airy vocals on Xmmer are provided by Andrea Francesca Morici, who sings in hushed tones throughout the album. The songs explore the realms of pop, jazz, folk, funk and experimental territory. “Come to me,” the closing track, is one that incorporates horns and analogue keyboards. The vocals float upon the waves of the musical accompaniment, which manages to be a little bit erratic and unsettling, yet they alone somehow give the song a serene quality. Even though this album has just been released, it has been reported that His Name is Alive are already set to release another new recording in November entitled Sweet Earth Flower: A Tribute to Marion Brown. With Brown being an avant-garde jazz saxophonist, this should be another interesting release from this ever so prolific group.

-Andrew Boe

Rating: 8.5

I have an oddly unironic obsession with playing solitaire. My fancy little PDA-cell phone has a built-in solitaire game, and I play it endlessly on the bus. I’ve been going at this for a couple of months now on my commute to and from work, keeping a little note with my high scores (I know, I use my PDA to it’s fullest capability. No internet plan, but I’ll play the shit out of the built in solitaire game.) Anyway, I’ve found an interesting dynamic with the music that I choose to listen to while I play solitaire. I want it to be upbeat, but not obnoxious. Not background music, per se… more motivational, but not motivational like “Gonna Fly Now.” I’ve found that proper music gives me the best possible solitaire form.

Two Gallants may be the best solitaire band currently on my iPod. Them or Radiohead, but there is never really a situation where Radiohead isn’t a good choice, as far as I’m concerned. Two Gallants’ self-titled 2007 release, their 3rd full-length and 2nd on Saddle Creek Records, is one of the oddly catchiest albums I’ve heard this year. My initial reaction was neutral, but that lasted all of 2 minutes or so, and then I found myself completely enraptured. The vocals on the album are quite unique, but they’re equally catchy, and add a dimension that’s hard to define, but impossible to miss.

I think Two Gallants can probably best be described as folk-pop, but to be entirely honest, I’m awful with labels. I’m not really comfortable giving them, because I always feel like somebody is going to tell me they’re wrong. Irrational? Probably. There is definitely a folksy sound with the guitar and vocals, but I think a folk label alone is too limiting. When it all boils down to it, these are just extremely well-written pop tunes. Taking away any labels, when it’s all boiled down, what’s really here are tight, hooky, well-written pop tunes. The songs on the album vary from slow, acoustic-guitar driven near-ballads (’Fly Low Carrion Crow” and “Trembling Of The Rose”) to the almost-country folksy sound of “Despite What You’ve Been Told.” To be honest, I can’t really pick a favorite. The whole disc flows relatively seemlessly, and, most importantly, has taken my solitaire scores to a level I never though possible.

Thank you, Two Gallants. I couldn’t have done it without you

-Logan Vessey

Rating: 8.0

Rural Southwest England is where Polly Jean Harvey is originally from and it is where she has returned to after living abroad for several years. Her new album, White Chalk, is a stripped down, piano based recording that reflects the pastoral and remote setting where she once again resides. It is also the saddest thing that she has ever recorded. The songs are as bare as the chalkboard that the title suggests and her vocals lack much of their characteristic angst, howl and swagger. What’s more, they rarely gain any more volume than a low defeated whimper. However, Harvey has once again managed to cover ground that is unlike anything that she has previously done and her album, although at times painfully melancholy, is at the same time quite beautiful.

Almost all of the songs, with only a few exceptions, are performed on piano. Additionally, the arrangements on the album are kept at an absolute minimum. Moving back to England also gave her the opportunity to work with long time friend and collaborator John Parish once again, a multi-instrumentalist, who is incredibly talented. Other notable appearances are the Magic Band’s Eric Drew Feldman and the Dirty Three’s Jim White on drums and percussion.

White Chalk opens with an emerald of a song called “The Devil.” Simple piano chords and uniform drums chug along as Polly’s vocals are almost whispered until she explodes in the chorus with what turns out to be the sharpest vocal on the whole record, with the lines “Come/Come/Come at once/Come on a night with no moon, after which she reverts back to a quiet singing level and closes the song with the line, “What formerly cheered me now seems insignificant.” Next comes “Dear Darkness,” where the listener suddenly realizes that this is not just a different musical platform for Harvey, but an appropriate medium for what appears to be some serious depression. The song is as soft as a lullaby, but it carries with it a theme of abject misery. In fact, the very sound of her voice sounds as though it was recorded while tears were being choked back in her throat.

There is some familiar Harvey wailing in “Grow Grow Grow” that sounds similar in style to something off of Rid of Me or To Bring You My Love. In this track she sounds like she is struggling with day to day existence. Harvey says “Teach me mummy how to grow, how to catch someone’s fancy/Underneath the twisted oak grove.” From the written lyrics, Harvey comes across as being lovesick, but the mood of the album delves much deeper than that. The single, “When Under Ether,” is a fantastic track too. In addition to piano, it features some rather muffled percussion that sounds like feet tapping on a cardboard box or perhaps carpet.

The title track is the first one on the record that features guitar and it is a gently strummed acoustic. There are also banjo and percussion as accompaniment to the lonely lyrics, which include lines such as “I know these chalk hills will rot my bones.” The song is about returning to Dorset, the town where she grew up. She also mentions an unborn child that she once carried with her. If this allusion is true, maybe the somber mood of the album can be further explained. “Broken Harp” follows and, as the liner notes reference, it is performed on a broken harp. “Please don’t reproach me for how empty my life has become” is how the song opens and the eerie line “Can you forgive me” is so full of heartache that it is almost difficult to ponder how Harvey has sunk to such a state of hopelessness since her last album.

“Silence” sees a return to piano along with some ever so soft, but rapid percussion. It is one of the best songs on the album. It has a lovely, bare melody that is moving in itself and the vocals are delivered with more confidence. “The Piano” is another album highlight where Harvey doesn’t come across as being devastatingly despondent, although she still sounds far from content. The lyrics are dark and violent, reflecting either homicide or rejection. The song is also one of the few to feature a full drum kit, not just percussive elements.

This is a morose, melancholy and gorgeous record. The songs flow together in harmony. The lyrics and vocal delivery are full of loss, longing and abandonment, but it seems like a step forward for Harvey. White Chalk may take a few listens to grow, but it gets better all of the time. There are certain to be many people who will renounce it for being too miserable, for not being a rock record and perhaps foremost, for not featuring any electric rock guitar, but those types might not care much for PJ Harvey in the first place. It will be interesting to see what she does next.

—Andrew Boe

Walking into a fairly empty venue on Sunday evening, I was surprised to see only about fifty people in attendance at what turned out to be a great show. I had missed the opening act and Nina Nastasia was already on the stage accompanied by one of the greatest drummers that I have ever seen, Jim White. The crowd, although small, was appreciative and more importantly, was quiet and respectful during the entire show, which is an absolute anomaly in Seattle.

They performed a lot of material from their new LP, the excellent You Follow Me. Nina Nastasia is a good songwriter and is talented at playing the acoustic guitar with her adept fingers, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off of Jim White. His drumming is simply phenomenal. He has such a unique and non-traditional way of playing. He often uses brushes instead of drumsticks and he doesn’t play any mundane 4/4 bass drum and snare stuff. He has been a member of the Dirty Three since their inception and has performed with a multitude of artists over the years including Nick Cave.

Nina and Jim mostly performed together, but there were a few songs that she did solo. In between songs, the banter was pretty interesting as well. Apparently, she lived in Seattle at some point for about a year. She claimed that she liked the city quite a lot, but left for some undisclosed reason. Among her memories of living in the city were skinny dipping in the water at Gasworks park in the middle of the night and buying a futon and subsequently dating the guy who sold it to her, whom she ended up befriending years later in Chicago. She has no recollection of going out with him, but he never forgot about their date.

I will never understand why acts such as a reformed Van Halen can sell out massive venues and why quality artists like Nina Nastasia can’t even fill up a small venue. I guess that there is no hope for humanity after all.

-Andrew Boe

The Rock and Roll Hotel is nestled on H Street in D.C., quite inconveniently placed more than a mile from the nearest metro.  The upstairs bar is a cozy little abode, with three amputated mannequins overhanging the bar.  Instead of heads, the mannequins sport cow skulls that leer over your drink like overbearing relatives.  There were winged Stratocasters on the ceiling and some kind of ridiculous anime show on Cartoon Network playing on the tube.  After a couple of drinks and a few minutes of pondering what the hell the deal is with girls and Blue Moon, I headed back downstairs for the show.

The main stage area faces out to the street, and with the doors open, it’s an enticing bazaar of music.  The theme to the Charlie Brown Christmas special was playing in the idle minutes before the opening act in the small, red-lit room.  Two bands were billed for the night, Temple and The Good Life, so I was a little surprised that there was even an opener.  I didn’t catch the identity of the young rock/ska band other than that they were from Fredericksburg, Virginia.  They knew how to rock out, starting their charge with a screaming array of trem and groovy bass.  Building their sound around thick trumpet and spanking guitar treble, they were a good first leg of the modestly-attended night.

More people began to filter into the venue following that band’s appearance.  Although many of the audience members had no idea who was headlining the show, it was clear that all were potential fans of Temple’s music.  Standard-issue hipsters abounded.  Throughout the course of the night, I spotted at least five girls sporting a Ringo Star haircut circa 1967 and an endless number of dudes who looked like the illegitimate child of Ben Gibbard and Rivers Cuomo.  Temple’s sound check took abnormally long, with the band members meticulously haggling with the sound guy over volume level and frequency cutoffs so to avoid feedback.  However, the perfect mix of instrumental sound that followed made the dull lull well worth the endurance.

Temple, slathered with sweat before the show even started, looked like he stepped off the set of Trainspotting with his glazed stare, white t-shirt, and sparse tats.  His haunting cascade of falsetto started the show, quivering around the room like sonar.  A western saunter with tapped-out acoustic beats led the performance under Temple’s warbles.  His band provided the meat to the plate and buoyant backing vocals.  The rollicking carnival verses of Temple’s album Snowbeast were readily apparent throughout the show and gave the show a dreamy quality under the subtle stage lights.

As a girl next to me was complaining about the decibels, Temple launched into the sparse stomp of “Serious.”  Since the mostly folked-down show was tame by noise-level standards, I could only imagine what would happen if a wasp buzzed by the poor girl’s head.  The crowd gave its most spirited applause following the best song on Snowbeast, “The Owl Song.”  Temple thwacked a rusted cowbell dangling from his neck as his barking vocal delivery kept pace.  The band each contributed their part to the rolling polka noir that swirled and dipped like a tilt-a-whirl.  About three times during the show, Temple had to repeat who he was to inquisitive patrons and the band’s need for a place to stay in D.C.

Temple traded his guitar for a banjo for the second half of the show, adding rustic levity to songs like “Where Is Away” and the cotton candy ramparts of “Saturday People.”  Temple’s band ended on a dusky note of the mythical western road.  Simple fingerpicks mixed with oscillating keyboards that dogged not far behind.  As Temple sang “I see a wide open space,” one couldn’t help but agree.  The man’s got a bright future ahead of him with that delicate songbird voice and his knack for folksy psychedelia.

After Temple and his band left the stage, it was getting on 11:30.  Not having heard The Good Life, I decided it was time to make the trek back to Union Station to recharge my buzz elsewhere on the Red Line.  Hopefully I’ll be back later in the month when The Annuals return to D.C.

-Matt Wendus

Rating: 6.0

British Columbia native, Carolyn Mark, has been active in the country music world since the early 1990s. She established herself by performing all over Canada and frequently tours the West coast of the United States. In 2000, she released a CD with Neko Case under the band name the Corn Sisters before wandering off to begin a solo career. She has been prolific as she has recorded five albums on her own now and the recently released Nothing is Free is an album that continues in her usual poignant style of roots country a la Tammy Wynette and the Carter Family.

There is a traditional country sound on Nothing is Free and there is frequent use of mandolin and violin to assist the mainly acoustic guitar led music. The songs do not just feature the usual country self-pity and ever forlorn lyrical themes though. “Happy 2B Flying Away” has some cool electric tremolo guitar and “Destination: You” is by far the strangest and best song on the album. It is mainly an almost psychedelic electric piano on this song and untraditional drumming. It is the only non-country sounding song on the record and also the most successful in terms of connecting with the listener. Her vocals sound like they are being sung from a mile away. Hopefully, the song hints at a new direction for her to follow.

Some of the lyrics are actually quite funny, such as the ones in “Pictures at 5″ and “Honest Woman.” Excepting the last song, there is nothing particularly innovative here, but fans of modern real country music and Neko Case will be pleased, especially since the two have a past connection. Carolyn Mark has a sweet, down to earth voice that will certainly help to soothe the lost and the lonely out there and if she doesn’t succeed in doing that, maybe she will at least make you laugh.

-Andrew Boe

Rating: 8.5

While Sunset Rubdown may be referred to as Spencer Krug’s (Wolf Parade) side-project, their third album, Random Spirit Lover, sounds less like a side-project and more like a swan song. Through the album’s lengthy fifty-eight and a half minutes, Krug is able to manipulate the poetic chaos in a seemingly effortless way, giving equal time to both the frenetic and more sedated sides of his songwriting.

The opener, “The Mending of the Gown”, surges ahead with unbalanced tension, pitting a spiky, distorted guitar against a choppy, ascending keyboard part. The anxiety is eventually quelled by Krug’s vocals – which are chaotic themselves – but slightly less so than the instrumentation. Riding a tall wave of inertia, the song crashes through any semblance of recognizable rock song progressions before finally dying down, letting a pretty guitar and accordion duet tug it gently into the next track. Well executed transitions between songs abound on this record, helping add definition to what could otherwise be far-flung ideas.

Minor keys and sinisterly affected instruments are utilized by Krug and Co. with reckless abandon, but it never feels heavy-handed. High-pitched, chromatic-stepping keyboards swirl through the songs in an unintelligible ether of hisses and moans. The effect is especially menacing on “Colt Stands Up, Grows Horns.” What starts as a cinematic, futuristic space-duet with Krug and keyboardist Camilla Wynne Ingr ends in a demented cacophony of screechy, frenzied keyboards and reverb. The ability of the band to stretch the tension tight is a key component of their sound, and on songs like “Colt Stands Up…” they prove their competence.

If the album does suffer one consistent weakness, it is excess. Too often a solid three minutes of song is clouded by an overzealous outro; a key-change that simply won’t be denied. Of the nine songs (!) that clock in at around five minutes or longer, most of them could be squeezed down considerably. On “For The Pier (And Dead Shimmering)”, one of the album’s few hooks is murdered and buried by prog-rock explosions at the two minute mark. The problem gets exasperated when cathartic, long-winded climaxes – such as the one that occurs on “Stallions” – are flattened and lifeless due to the album’s thin, low-fi production. What might be a triumphant, ‘Arcade Fire’ spectacle is instead beating a dead stallion.

Taken in soundbytes, Krug’s lyrics are obtuse and nonsensical. Because he sings about crazy things with a crazy conviction, it would be easy to dismiss his writing as unserious (at best). But seen from a wider angle, Krug’s poetry coalesces into something deceivingly coherent, bubbling with urgency and a heartfelt cogency. A theme that jumps out again and again is the competing and contradicting notions of science and faith, history and myth, as in “Winged/Wicked Things”: “I say it’s just smoke/So you say it’s the hair of ghosts.”

As a vehicle for displaying Krug’s unique craft, Sunset Rubdown is a remarkably beautiful creature, and Random Spirit Lover is its long-winded child. At an hour long with no discernible hooks, the album will never infringe on Apologies to the Queen Mary territory, but then again, Krug wouldn’t even have a Myspace profile for the band if it were up to him. The following verse from “Courtesan Has Sung” shows Krug’s penchant for knocking down the fourth-wall with ambiguous bravado:

Five actors have arrived
They are good looking but they’re hungry
They start cooking with the trash found on the safety of the stage
And you see a crowd is forming
But the winged things are swarming
Yelling “Stop! It’s fucking poison!”
But the deaf
They hear no warning

Of course it would be going too far to say that those five actors were anyone in particular (cough, cough, Wolf Parade, cough), right?

-Scott Roots