Smith Westerns: "Weekend"

It's almost the weekend, and it so happens that Smith Westerns have just released a song called "Weekend." This track off the Chicago-bred quartet's sophomore effort, Dye It Blonde, is an absolute delight, with the fizzling echo of its guitar and boyish lovesickness. The album displays some noticeable growth over the past year, without sacrificing any of the 70's resounding retro influence and youthful eagerness that made Smith Westerns debut so captivating. Check out a review of the album on Pitchfork.

The Romany Rye: "Love Song"

Jagged and shrill guitar work that resonates with just a trace of feedback, culled with a revering nod from Neil Young's "Ohio." The Romany Rye churn that rough blend of country and rock in a manner that deserves a listen. The track "Love Song" will delight. The craftsmanship in the guitar solo is like a overly serrated knife, fingers flickering from fret to fret. The repetition of the line "Throw your arms around my neck, I won't be soon to forget" does not diminish its message, the emotion is sustained and urgent with each utterance. It is the organ, however, which forms the backbone of "Love Song." The organ provides a slow, oozing tone to balance and accentuate the cut of the guitar. Ushered into the spotlight, the organ delivers a solo filled with such lift and feeling that wipes away the past four minutes despondency and nostalgic lament. It is a solo that would make Garth Hudson smile.

Friday Links -- The Low Anthem Edition!

The Low Anthem have been busy. In preparation for the release of Smart Flesh on February 22, the quartet went on Letterman earlier this week (HearYa has the video). So I present to you a Friday Links post devoted to The Low Anthem, because I like them, and I think they deserve it, and it is my blog.

Brooklyn Vegan has some great photos and a recap from The Low Anthem's concert at Lincoln Center last night.

Soundcheck, at wnyc.org, has both an interview with the band and a some preview some tracks off Smart Flesh from its January 11 show.

Check out Visible Voice for a recap of The Low Anthem's intimate affair at Lily Pads in Rhode Island. As extra incentive, the whole show is available for streaming. Be certain to give "The God Damn House" a listen, when it was played at The Newport Folk Festival this summer, it flattened me.

Antony and The Johnsons: "Thank You For Your Love"

I have not been able to get this song by Antony and The Johnsons out of my head for the past couple of days. That slight flutter in Antony Hegarty's voice simply exudes such unadorned emotion, a sound which the horns deepen and intensify. Eloquently illustrating the old adage: it is not what you say, but how you say it, the track is lyrically straightforward and repetitive, but imparted with genuine earnestness and unabated passion. Hegarty can paradoxically sadden and uplift, as he does when delivering, with his faint quiver, this couplet: "When my mind was broken into a thousand pieces / Oh thank you for your love."

Remembering Jay Reatard

Commemorating the life of Jay Reatard on the anniversary of his, take a few minutes to read this piece from Pitchfork celebrating his life, his artistry, and his seemingly limitless passion for making music.

Jonesing for Some Bright Eyes?

I have been on a rather unique Bright Eyes diet lately. In part, because "Shell Games" leaked a few days before Christmas, rousing my anticipation of their forthcoming album The People's Key. My hankering for more Oberst and the rest of Bright Eyes only escalated further when I stumbled onto Monsters of Folk playing Austin City Limits, rather fortuitously while engaging in a rare bout with late night television. With little "fresh" material, I found myself listening to old favorites again. Chiefly, I have been occupied with Bright Eyes' release Lifted, or The Story is in the Soil, Keep Your Ear to the Ground, from which several of my personal favorites can be drawn such as "You Will You? Will. You? Will. You? Will." and "Lover I Don't Have to Love."

Turning Back the Clock: The Old 97's "Too Far to Care"

With the exception of Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, I credit The Old 97's Too Far to Care for widening my musical horizons during high school, forever dissolving the near-monopoly that Dave Matthews Band held over my stereo. Yes, there was Jeff Buckley and Idlewild, Beck and Radiohead, but more than any of these artists The Old 97's seemed to capture the dreams, the fears, and the anxieties, that wound their way around my brain.

By the time I stumbled over Too Far to Care, the album was more than five years old. Culled from a stack of declined donations to the public library, The Old 97's were utterly new to me. Worthy heirs, I remember musing, to Uncle Tupelo, who spawned my first flirtation with "alt-country" (a term I abhor, by the by). The album quite nearly catches fire, as a sharp and feverish guitar riff announces the churning, restless "Timebomb." A song that never ceases to rope you in with its crisp and spirited tempo, and apt depiction of that one girl you cannot put from your thoughts, but you know deep down is plain trouble, as a time bomb and a land mine. It is sprinkled with oversimplified declarations, but fitting nonetheless, such as: "Having her on my brain's like getting hit by a train" and "I need a doctor to extract her / I got a feeling she'd get right back in again." Something about Rhett Miller's sketch of love is refreshingly adolescent. Perhaps, it is that the music, the tempo, how the cymbals crash just so, finds apt reflection in the lyrical allusion to explosions.

If "Timebomb" captures the periodic reckless slant of love, "Melt Show" bespeaks the worry and angst that can conquer even the most self-assure. Displaying a tempo similarly stripped of restraint, tensions and apprehensions, predominantly suspicions of boredom (Now you're killing time, and it's killing me), are augmented by stirring, driving guitar riffs. The chorus fascinates and leaves little uncertainty as to the misgivings: "Is this more than some old summer fling? / And this thing we have will it mean anything? / When October rolls around will you sober up and let me down? / Will you sober up and let me?" After the first line, the progression on the guitar falls in three firm chords, and does so again against a busier musical backdrop, all of which imparts the chorus and track with a hint of doom, that this summer affair will indeed pass.

Some albums flow fluid and uncomplicated from track to track, a whole hour can pass and you may not be fully aware that you have just listened to ten songs and not three. Too Far to Care has that capacity. Often times, dreamy, pop-inclined groups whose work drips heavily with a wall of musical ambience that borders on inducing sleep (i.e. Beach House) tend to have this effect, so that The Old 97's have accomplished this with by balancing the steadfast thrust of whirlwind tempo as "Timebomb" and "Melt Show" with gentler tracks like "Salome" and "Curtain Calls" is laudable.

I regret that I did not give the rest of the album as much attention as I did with "Timebomb" and "Melt Show," but favorites always come first, and perhaps it is best if you explore the album for yourself.

Friday Tidbits and Links

Allow this flowchart to help you discover which country song should be the soundtrack to your life, from No Depression.

The Deep Dark Woods have quickly become a favorite of mine, their folk-speckled tones conveying a weighty influence from, and parallels to, the sound made popular by The Band. This HearYa session with the rootsy, Canadian quintet aptly displays the group's depth on a number of delightful traditional songs and covers.

Owl and Bear has a wonderful interview with the Los Angeles-based, noise punk duo No Age.

This documentary needs to be released, I want very much for this to happen, it would be a fascinating viewing.

Only recently exposed to the fluid rippling of the synth-driven debut album Forget from Twin Shadow, this Daytrotter session was a perfect compliment.

When Frightened Rabbit swept into town this past October, one of the opening acts was The Phantom Band, whose sophomore album The Wants was reviewed this week on Pitchfork. Also available is the group's 2009 debut Checkmate Savage.

Matt Vasquez of Delta Spirit, Taylor Goldsmith of Dawes, and Deer Tick’s John McCauley are Middle Brother. There is not all that much else to write about this teaming of talents, with the rustic artistry of the members' individual groups being quite discernible on recent albums. If the two tracks posted on Crawdaddy hold any indication of the trio's prospective, their forthcoming album should be rousing and foot-stomping, but not without equal parts rumination and wistful pining for the past.

Today's Track: Monsters of Folk "Temazcal"

Today, I went for an early morning run, at least what has passed for early morning this past few weeks. Running alongside the frigid January water in South Boston, sun shining down into my eyes, my laborious strides were eased by the eerie, fluid orchestration of Monsters of Folk's "Temazcal." Initially, I thought of the quartet's self-titled debut as merely a fair hold-me-over until Conor Oberst released new material with Bright Eyes or The Mystic Valley Band. And yet, it was foolish of me to ever suppose that a group consisting of consummate indie artists Jim James, M. Ward, Oberst, and Mike Mogis, were capable of anything less than a near peerless effort.

"Temazcal" trots forth a delightfully light and drifting aura, both in its instrumentation and vocal makeup. While the version included on the 2009 album is a graceful display of lyrical imagery from Oberst, I find that this version further underlines the haunting, serene nature of the track's words with M. Ward taking the lead. Ward's near monotone serenade stokes the beleaguered reflection of "Temazcal," and accentuates the dream-like, smoothly flowing riffs off Mogis and Ward's guitars as James lends his soft, spectral vocals in the background. With the acoustic guitars of Oberst and James forming the track's backbone, there are chilling drops of otherworldliness as Ward coos "I'm sweating out my secret in the Temazcal / They're screaming in the calle that a star's about to fall." In the first verse, "The love we made at gunpoint wasn't love at all" becomes a raw indictment when fortified by the measured emptiness that characterizes Ward brings in his delivery. Furthermore, the drifting undulation becomes enhanced with the track freed from the grounding constraint of percussion, coupled with Ward's vocals this freshens the hazing aura of "Temazcal."

Pick This Book Up: Sean Wilentz's "BOB DYLAN IN AMERICA"

For Christmas, for birthdays, I can count on receiving at least a few books as gifts. These are the hazards that come from having a librarian and an English professor as parents. Not that I mind most of my presents being books. Considering the great deal of pleasure that you can derive from a captivating read, I rather look forward to them, for they are typically gifts into which much thought has been put. About a half-hour ago, I finished Bob Dylan in America by Sean Wilentz, a gesture from parents who were obviously quite mindful of my fascination with Chronicles, Vol. 1 and No Direction Home.

Wilentz, a history professor at Princeton University, is supremely well-equipped to deliver a work that, "is chiefly concerned with placing Dylan's work in its wider historical and artistic contexts." It is a book that places prodigious amounts of evidence before its reader, all for the purpose of, "recognizing Dylan as an artist who is deeply attuned to American history as well as American culture." The degree to which Dylan's art is derived from a sweeping bevy of American cultural influences and homages has never before been so expansively supported and directly articulated. Wilentz illustrates that the depth of inspiration found throughout the tangled path of more than a half century of songwriting and recording runs far deeper, and is far more complex, than Dylan's oft-noted fascination with Woody Guthrie and the folk revival.

Sponge is a label that is quite regularly attached to Dylan and his penchant for drawing steadily from past performers and traditions, and it should come to no surprise Wilentz does nothing to dispel this notion. However, any negative connotations that the term carries are best swept aside when it becomes apparent that Dylan has borrowed from, and embellished upon, the rich expanse of traditional American music in a similar fashion to giants such as Pete Seeger and Blind Willie McTell. Here, Wilentz succeeds in portraying Dylan as not only America's greatest crafter of tune and verse, but also as a keen student of America's musical traditions and historical themes. Take away for a moment the name Bob Dylan from this book, and we are left with a musician whose genuine eagerness for knowledge spurs him to draw from the most obscure corners of our shared past, and through his artistry is able to forge that delicately forgotten kernel into a reimagined thread of Americana. Is that not something to marvel at?