The Reatards, Teenage Hate

It is amazing how bottomless Jay Reatard's catalog is. Over the past few months, I have found myself plunging deeper and deeper into the late artist's recordings. An album that I have frequently circled back to is the 1998 LP Teenage Hate, recorded with Jay's first group, appropriately named The Reatards. The fifteen tracks amount to little more than thirty minutes, and exhibit a raw and relentless energy. The vocals, which at times approach a feverish scream, pair with the guitar work to deliver an abrasive, yet sculpted, rush as Jay and his band-mates hurtle from one song into the next. Teenage Hate, upon one's first listen, presents itself as an unabashed standard for garage rock.





I would contend that Teenage Hate exhibits as many signifiers of early rock n' roll as it does punk heritage. Dampening the distortion and slowing manic tempo for a moment, the guitar riffs illustrate the distinct impact of artists such as Chuck, Berry, Buddy Holly, Alex Chilton, and The Stooges. This strong undercurrent of early rock n' roll is further tempered by the lyrical sentiment and simplicity of several tracks, including "Outta My Head," "I Gotta Rock N Roll," and an interpretation of Holly's "Ollie Vee." Teenage Hate also offers passing glimpses of the direction that Jay Reatard's music would take over the next twelve or so years, during which time he recorded with maniacal frequency. As Jay howls "Well that's quite alright, baby if you wanna leave" again and again with such a despondent derision on "Quite All Right," it portends his future recordings for Matador Records, recording that were so full of reclusive isolation and gloomy disenchantment. 





The Reatards, like virtually all musicians, were indebted to their forebears and developed their own distinct Southern garage punk through an amalgamation of styles and acts, and through their own musical individuality. More recently, Alabama Shakes have been accused of being derivative, as if that word alone should be some type of indictment of their creativity and musical ingenuity. Certainly, Boys and Girls demonstrates how Southern rock n' roll, Robert Plant-esque vocals, and a hearty helping of Stax Records soul, all served to influence and inform the manner in which Alabama Shakes make music, and there should be nothing wrong with that. After all, classical music is built on a foundation which is centuries old, why should rock n' roll be any different?

Los Campesinos!: "By Your Hand"

I have an enduring fondness for British bands with a propensity for disclosing the travails of their personal lives in vivid and often melancholic detail. For me, there is simply no turning down Frightened Rabbit, The Twilight Sad, Glasvegas, and most recently Los Campesinos!, when one of their respective tunes turns up via my iTunes' shuffle. Los Campesinos! released their forth studio album, Hello Sadness, a few months back and it is bundled up with the quintessential droll wit and clever self-deprecation that listeners have come to expect from the seven-piece Welsh outfit. Nowhere else will you find choice lyrics such as: "I christen all the ships that sailed/On your little kisses saliva trails." Hello Sadness takes a step back from the roughness of the group's previous release Romance is Boring, which explored the fringes of noise rock, and instead favors crisper guitar work, melodic keyboards, and some intoxicating sing-along choruses. "By Your Hand," the introductory track, embodies these pop qualities and sets the tone for the remainder of the album.

It often seems that lead singer Gareth Campesinos! is beset at every turn of life with a tremendous emotional episode or burden. "By Your Hand" relates a relationship rife with uncertainties and desires, but showered in an ironical reversal of gender roles. Our narrator finds himself enrapt with an assertive and forceful woman described as having "eyes of doe and thighs of stallion," establishing an androgyny that imparts characteristics to this woman more generally associated with masculinity. Her designs are anything but romantic, and her actions reinforce the notion of a woman who is both androgynous and virile: "Cause we were kissing for hours/with her hands in my trousers/she could not contain herself/suggest we go back to her house/But here it comes/this is the crux/she vomits down my rental tux." Gareth Campesinos! delivers pointed verses, bemoaning what a cruel mistress fate is, and his foolish hope that this woman reciprocates the affections he feels: "By your hand is the only end I foresee/I have been dreaming you've been dreaming about me." The absence of sincere endearment and emotional unattainability of our narrator's consort lead to a lack of conviction ("I'm not sure if it's love anymore, but I've been thinking of you fondly for sure") and self-loathing ("Spitting cusses at my face, reflected in the window pane/Throwing insults and calling names").

Instead of treating these issues with the heavy gravitas that other artists might accord them, Los Campesinos! deliver the very same matters with a sardonic wryness and upbeat orchestration which in turn becomes more accessible and digestible.

Chatham County Line "The Carolinian"

I wholeheartedly enjoy bluegrass music. Having thoroughly surveyed the foggy nebulous of a genre that people categorize as alternative country, it was only a matter of time before the jangle of banjos and sweet swell of fiddles lured me in.

Chatham County Line is among my favorites when it comes to bluegrass. The quartet out of North Carolina possess a sound that does not seem to belong with this current generation. The banjo, fiddle or mandolin, and guitar meld and compliment each other in a fashion that is nothing short of anachronistic. That worn feel of years past is compounded by everything from their lyrical diction to their dress.

"The Carolinian" is a wistful recollection of a providential meeting upon a train, relating an unspoken, futile love and pensive pining for what might have been. The notion that the encounter occurs on a train itself seems out of place, and couplets such as "She smiled and said 'Richmond' when I asked where she was bound/I began to wish my life away to be born in that town" inflate the old fashioned, Americana sensation. Nowadays, bands like The Head and The Heart write with a nostalgic look at our country's past ("I wish I was a slave to an age old trade/Like ridin' around on railcars and workin' long days"), but Chatham County Line songs "The Carolinian," "Wildwood," "Crop Comes In," and "I Got Worry" illustrate something beyond ruminating nostalgia. It is that unpolished and unpretentious rusticity which Chatham County Line draw from the American folk tradition that make the group so endearing.

And one more for luck...

Okkervil River: Golden Opportunities 2, Overboard & Down...

At the end of November, Okkervil River released another free EP of covers titled Golden Opportunities 2, which included the wistful and buoyant "It Is Nice To Get Stoned." Since that time, I have been on a steady diet of Will Sheff and company. In my process of rediscovering Okkeril River's catalog, I sought out rarities I had previously missed, chiefly Overboard & Down EP, a small collection of tracks from the group's Australian tour in 2006. I marveled at the rawness of emotion and melancholy in "Love to a Monster," the sad jangle of the mandolin completing the tender wound. The song begins with a verse that is as stark and distressed as any: "Lover, now that you've left me, I'm glad you're unlovely/Because if you could take all the heat in your heart and just hang it from you/I wouldn't be able to bear the way you cannot love me/It's much easier of me to make a monster out of you."

Far and away, the album I enjoyed from start to finish and enjoyed time after time, was Black Sheep Boy. Those eleven tracks encapsulate what I find so captivating and appealing about Okkervil River. The album drifts between frantic, steep layers of vigor and more hushed moods in "Get Big" and "A King and A Queen." In each instance, however, Sheff's vocals are delivered with palpable feeling of distress and grief, hovering on the edge of hysterics. Simply put, it is the perfect introductory album to initiate your love affair with Okkervil River.

Sharon Van Etten "A Crime"

For whatever reason, when I hear Sharon Van Etten I am transfixed, straining forward to listen with a heightened inspection. With talents that stretch far beyond the cookie-cutter folk singer formula, Van Etten's lyrics are simultaneously robust, uncomplicated, and gut-wrenchingly personal. Her 2010 album Epic is filled with intimate narratives that are both remarkably beautiful and staggeringly heartbreaking. One can only hope that her upcoming album Tramp features more of the same.

Josh Ritter, "Lillian, Egypt"

Somehow, after more than a decade's worth of releases, Josh Ritter continues to fly under the mainstream radar. I simply cannot fathom why. Taken from Ritter's fourth studio album The Animal Years, "Lillian, Egypt" is an exemplary embodiment of Ritter's talents. The songwriting is clever and heartfelt, and when put to music it flows and blends with the measured percussion and slightly jagged, serrated electric guitar riff.

There is an old time feel to the lyrics and the song on the whole, as the music video will further illustrate. Ritter discusses the woman he pines for as being "The daughter of the biggest big town banker/He kept her like a princess/I stole her like the Fort Knox gold." In the last verse, a jangling piano solo that conjures images of silent films precedes a further bolstering the damsel in distress anecdote, with the line: "The last time I saw her she was tied to the train tracks."

With this song, Ritter reaches back into America's past in order to appropriately articulate his feelings in the present world. This is not unusual when considering that his self-designed major during college was titled "American History Through Narrative Folk Music."

My Morning Jacket, "Movin' Away"

Jim James' voice always gives me shivers. The atmospheric drifting of guitar only adds to this sensation on "Movin' Away," the closing track from their recent album Circuital. For most of the song, the piano chords are struck in regimented fashion, paralleled by soothing percussion, but towards the finish these notes spiral away into some sleepy melody. All this is fitting, as James dreamily coos about moving forward and yet wistfully holds on to his past. Two beautiful verses, punctuated by James' chilling vocals, define these sentiments: "Don't know quite why/But I was feeling unsatisfied/I had to get out now/Try to find it," and "Possessed by your love/Under the influence/And though there's a new lifeline/I won't forget the one I left behind."

No Age "Skinned"

We're going to start fresh, and we're going to start slowly and small.

Today's random track of the day, taken from my ever-expanding iTunes library is No Age's "Skinned," off their 2010 album Everything in Between. On this most recent album more than ever, the punk duo are a bit of a paradox. The guitars offer a distorted fizzle and twinge and the drums thump and pound away, often with abandon. The lyrics, delivered by drummer Dean Spunt, are commonly unadorned and direct, but not without substance. Yet, there is a measure of orchestration and purposeful direction in the way these tracks are laid out. These songs are at time both raw, and decadently layered and expansive.

There is quite a lot of sound coming from these two gents. Enjoy, and stay tuned.

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?

The First Annual William James Viti Awards

I put this off, time after time I could not bring myself to "rank" what I held to be the best albums of the year. It seems to me a terribly indulgent process to create such a list, especially when lacking the critical eloquence to communicate the motivations for my selections. Some songs, some albums simply resonate in a manner which cannot be completely, or perhaps accurately, appraised with words. Therefore, I decided to categorize these albums and songs based on fictitious awards. Music or sports analogies, those are the two vehicles that I turn to most when confronted with the difficulty of articulating my thoughts to others. So here are the 2010 William James Viti awards (Wijavis for short, if you're keeping track at home), and the proud recipients:

THE AWARD FOR: AS CLOSE TO PERFECT AS HUMANLY POSSIBLE, OR ROY HALLADAY'S 2010 SEASON goes to -

Sufjan Stevens: The Age of Adz; Kanye West: My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy; The National: High Violet

THE AWARDS FOR: MODEL OF CONSISTENCY AND NEAR GREATNESS,OR "KING" FELIX HERNANDEZ'S 2010 SEASON (he of thirty quality starts, six complete games, and an era of 2.27) goes to -

Vampire Weekend: Contra; Frightened Rabbit: The Winter of Mixed Drinks; Cee-Lo Green: The Lady Killer; Josh Ritter: So the World Runs Away; The Tallest Man on Earth: The Wild Hunt; Phosphorescent: Here's to Taking it Easy

THE AWARD FOR: JUST PLAIN FUN/GUILTY PLEASURE OR MY ROOMMATES WATCHED ALL OF "THE SING OFF" goes to -

She & Him: Volume 2; Gayngs: Relayted; Best Coast: Crazy for You; Crystal Castles: Crystal Castles; Tokyo Police Club: Champ

THE AWARD FOR: BEST ROOKIE/SOPHOMORE EFFORT OR JAY BILAS LOVES THEIR UPSIDE goes to -

The Morning Benders: Big Echo; O'Death: Broken Hymns, Limbs, and Skin; Delta Spirit: History from Below; Local Natives: Gorilla Manor; Girls: Broken Dreams Club

THE AWARD FOR: SO MUCH HONEY OR SMOOTHER SOUNDING THAN RAY ALLEN'S JUMPER LOOKS goes to -

Horse Feathers: Thistled Spring; Junip: Fields; Beach House: Teen Dream

THE AWARD FOR: VETERAN PERFORMANCE OR THE SHAQUILLE O'NEAL REQUISITE ALL-STAR VOTE goes to -

The Black Keys: Brothers; Deerhunter: Halcyon Digest; Dr. Dog: Shame, Shame; LCD Soundsystem: This is Happening; Deer Tick: The Black Dirt Sessions

THE AWARD FOR: BIGGEST SURPRISE AS I DISCOVER HOW MUCH FUN CONTEMPORARY BLUEGRASS/GRASS-ROOTS MUSIC IS OR THE DANNY WOODHEAD APPRECIATION MEDAL goes to -

Trampled by Turtles: Palomino; Chatham County Line: Wildwood; Carolina Chocolate Drops: Genuine Negro Jig

THE AWARD FOR: MOST PLAYED, ACCORDING TO MY ITUNES OR GOSH BRETT FAVRE, I JUST CAN'T QUIT YOU goes to -

Chatham County Line: "Crops Come In;" TV Girl: "If You Want It;" Gayngs: "No Sweat;" Megafaun: "Volunteers;" Phosphorescent: "It's Hard to be Humble When You're From Alabama;" Horse Feathers: "This Bed;" Deer Tick: "Twenty Miles;" Frightened Rabbit: "Nothing Like You;" Cee-Lo Green: "No One's Gonna Love You;" Kanye West: "Dark Fantasy;" Trampled by Turtles: "Wait So Long;" Sufjan Stevens: "I Walked."

The Rural Alberta Advantage

A week or so ago, my brother and I had a lengthy conversation about current Scottish groups and their musical similarities. Frightened Rabbit, The Twilight Sad, We Were Promised Jetpacks, Glasvegas, and Meursault share components, exhibit musical or lyrical parallels that are undeniable. Despondent verse coupled with swelling, intricate orchestration exudes from each of these five bands in a variety of forms. A shared musical tradition is the first, and most obvious, component to garner attention, and appropriately so. The local popularity of Idlewild during the mid to late nineties illustrates the subsequent influence that Edinburgh-bred quintet unmistakably had amongst Scots maturing and exploring their own musical taste in the ensuing years. Yet, what is it about the Scottish climate that inclines many toward such themes, yearning to rent open chest and skull alike so the audience can peer at crestfallen, beating heart and melancholic introspective thoughts? It is a subject that would require further, and more expansive scrutiny.

Enter The Rural Alberta Advantage, a trio based in Toronto, whose 2009 debut release Hometowns exhibited, in my opinion, a high degree of similarities with that distinct Scottish sound. Hometowns represents a phenomenal premiere performance. It's thirteen tracks are executed with seasoned precision, and reveal deeply beautiful harmonies between male and female voices. The woefully demoralized nature of the verse initially drew my attention, soliciting comparisons with Scott Hutchinson's weary and fragile disposition. There are interior, shielded insecurities and doubts exposed with a fatigued frankness, whether lamenting the slow decay of love ("So wipe the sleep from your eyes / And I'll wipe 'em out of mine too / If we try to hold on, then I'll try to hold on to you / Well I shouldn't sleep all day / But it's half past noon / 'Cause I know we're taking a break / And I know you're leaving me soon") or the painful self-examination of withdrawal ("What'll I do if you never find me again / Sittin' in a province a million miles from my friends / What'll I do if you never want me again / Come with me, come back we'll live again / What if I'm only satisfied when I'm at home / Sittin' in a city that'll never let me go / What if I'm only satisfied when I'm alone). As those passions are articulated with increasing yearning and the shroud of stoicism is pulled back, the vocal influence of Jeff Magnum is eerily recognizable, and to a similar degree the musical motifs of Neutral Milk Hotel manifest themselves on Hometowns as well.

There is a uniqueness, however, in the trio's sound. In a majority of songs, percussion is dominant, or at least adopts a more decisive presence. Rapid or smoothly pouring like the soothing, constant crash of a waterfall, the synchronization of drums and cymbals can drive a track in a remarkably unique manner. We are so used to a guitar riff or piano chord planting itself in the foreground, that a reliance upon percussion to do the same is quite refreshing. "Don't Haunt This Place" and "In The Summertime" are indicative of this trend at its most successful, a manner in which, to my mind, only Maps & Atlases and Local Natives have achieved of late. It will be most fascinating to determine whether Rural Alberta Advantage's sound and verse mature on their sophomore album due in March.