An amazing month of music, highlighted by the welcome return of an underappreciated pop mastermind, a bevy of discs plumbing the catacombs of a band whose work set a blueprint for independents, and other assorted fun stuff. Sit back and enjoy!
REM
Complete Rarities, Warner Bros. 1988-2011
Warner Brothers
Packaged similar to the 2006 set collecting the early I.R.S. years, this mammoth (131 tracks!) set might not have the daring of the band’s blossoming years, but what it lacks in swagger it sure as heck compensates for in sheer overindulgence.
Despite it’s claim, it doesn’t quite include every oddity recorded during those years — it misses a handful of obscure instrumental versions available only on vinyl, as well as a few Record Store Day exclusives and live tracks given over to various charity collections. But such lapses are more evident of the band’s prodigious output than laziness on the part of Warner Brothers in putting this set together. It is of course aimed at the obsessed collector (guilty as charged!) but just looking at the set list brings back recollections of other times and places.
However, the Complete Warner Bros. 1988-2011is no mere trip down memory lane, but rather a stunning reclamation of the band’s reputation. REM bridged the gap between post punk and what later become known as college rock, and they did so with unswerving integrity, musical insight, and a sense of adventurous fun that I doubt we’ll ever see again. *****
REM
Complete Unplugged Sessions
Warner Brothers
When REM made their first unplugged appearance in 1991 they were on the outer edge of a creative and commercial peak, still riding the high wave of 1988’s Green,and promoting the recently released Out of Time. Fast forward to their second appearance — a scant decade later — and the entire landscape had changed. Drummer Bill Berry is retired, the band’s reputation as a critical favorite has been tarnished by a series of weak efforts and changing trends, as what was once cutting edge is now passé.
Yet even with that, the Complete Unplugged Sessions, which combines and expands the previous MTV release, is essential. Originally released as a quadruple-vinyl Record Store Day exclusive (then later a double-CD set) the two shows offer a glimpse at how nimbly REM was able to reinvent themselves. The earlier show, which adds half a dozen tracks to the original release, is most noted for the band’s willingness to toy with the set list, covering The Trogg’s lilting “Love Is All Around” with real affection while tossing in a pair of REM songs (“Fretless” and “Rotary 11”) that were initially regulated to “B” side status.
As for rediscovery, the band replaces the faux studio rap of “Radio Song” with a stripped down version carrying far more punch. The 2001 appearance is equally strong; with drummer Joey Waronker replacing Berry — and touring stalwarts Scott McCaughey and Ken Stringfellow on board — the sound is sturdy and rich, bringing new life to older gems such as “Cuyahoga” (a joyful highlight) and “South Central Rain.”
When Michael Stipe segues “Country Feedback” into a slowed-to-a-crawl-insertion of “Like a Rolling Stone” the moment becomes electrifying, evidencing the plucky go-for-broke attitude that typifies REM at their best. It’s another example of how REM consistently balanced their indy band creed with unparalleled commercial success. Like all great and enduring groups, they had their peaks and valleys, but as the Complete Unplugged Sessionsaptly demonstrates, when the occasion called for it they nearly always delivered the goods. ****
Tina and the B-Sides
Barricade
Movement Records
Longtime fixtures of the Minneapolis music scene, Tina and the B-Sides — aka Tina & the B-Side Movement — had a solid fifteen years that ended, oddly enough, with the 1998 release of their only major label effort. A one-off 2009 reunion gig seemed to have reignited the spark for band leader Tina Schlieskie. She’s brought back the band with a renewed passion and musical purpose.
Barricade is a solid 52 minutes of good old soulful rock, inspired by all the right influences (classic Stones, Sam Cooke, and Aretha all come quickly to mind), but able to stand easily on its own. Numbers like the straight ahead rocker “Call My Name” and the more experimental “More Than That” are the two obvious standouts, but with rare exception Barricadesstays its course and delivers a variety of sounds and textures.
The Dobro led “Let Me Make It Up to You” offers a welcome change of pace, while the Pink Floyd-like psychedelic passion of “Sweet Release” sounds entrenched in another era (which is, to my ears, a good thing). Bob Marley’s “Guava Jelly,” the album’s lone cover, features some lovely multilayered harmonies but does seem a bit miscast among the originals. Yet that’s a pretty minor quibble on my part, and more a matter of preference than a criticism.
Barricades is my first exposure to the band — one can only squeeze so much listening in a lifetime — but, based on its gusto, diversity, and solid songwriting, it certainly won’t be my last. ****
Bob Mould
Beauty & Ruin
Merge Records
There have always been three distinct aspects to Bob Mould’s career: the Midwestern punk Husker Du era, the blistering three piece power rock of Sugar, and his more subdued but no less penetrating solo work. While certain strands have run through all three, anyone familiar with Husker’s Zen Arcade might have a hard time believing the same artist could create the subdued ambience of Workbook. That stylistic tension has always sustained Mould’s career, and nowhere is it more evident than on Beauty & Ruin, his tenth, and quite possibly best, solo album.
Written and recorded following the death of his father — whose misfortunes and addictions have always weighed heavily on Mould (himself a recovering alcoholic) and the songs he writes — Beauty & Ruin is an emotional powerhouse, a record that can at times demand more than the listener might be able to give, but in the end is worth it.
While 2012’s Silver Age found Mould charging into his sixth decade with renewed vigor, here he sets aside such declarations and looks backwards toward the future. Anchored by his three piece band — bassist Jason Narducy, Superchunk drummer Jon Wurster, and Mould’s own powerful voice and thrashing if not discordant guitar playing, Beauty & Ruin is a wonderfully well-rounded effort, brimming with conviction, emotional force, and taut as wire songwriting.
The opening measured pulse of “Low Season” hearkens back to Mould’s earliest solo work, but for the most part, the songs here veer to the heavy, stringing together, the serpentine power punk of Sugar, with the scorching rapid fire of Husker Du. And while the material may be, by nature, grave, the ebullient force of Mould’s delivery — he’s here to ROCK dammit! — keep things on an even keel.
“Forgiveness,” in which Mould addresses his own mortality while recognizing how alike he and his father were, is as confessional a song as he’s ever written, and among his best. But, even the more upbeat numbers, especially “I Don’t Know You Anymore” and “Tomorrow Morning,” are couched in this new found self awareness. This is the true strength of this album, that Mould can lay bare his own emotional pain without ever wallowing in it.
In a career that has always been remarkably consistent and bereft of miscalculations, Beauty & Ruin stands tall, a potent link between the damage of his past and the yet to be determined promise of his future. ****
The Fresh & Onlys
House of Spirits
Mexican Summer Music
House of Spirits, the fourth album from The Fresh & Onlys, takes them further away from the joyful mayhem of their roots and closer to a more measured tempo, one that better suits their new material and focuses on essence over enthusiasm. That’s not to say it’s any less appealing, only that the band — whose membership seems to have settled on Tim Cohen (better known with Black Fiction), Shayde Shartin, Kyle Gibson, and Wymond Miles — have continued the evolution that began with 2012’s Long Slow Dance.
It’s a smart move on their part and one that should increase the band’s following. There’s still more than adequate jangle in the guitars, and while the quirky psychedelia that sustains their first two albums has been largely cast aside, House of Spirits can hardly be considered mainstream.
Cohen’s voice has never sounded better — he seems to have mastered harmonizing wistful longing with dreamlike serenity — and the band capably switches gears as needed. “Madness” is a near perfect snippet of Brian Wilson-like subliminal pop, while the lay about charms of “I’m Awake” and “Ballerina” seem ideal for a hazy summer afternoon. Match that with the more direct rock of the feedback driven “Hummingbird” and the exquisite delight of “April Fools” and you’ve got a 45-minute gem of well thought out psychedelic pop that engages both the head and heart with equal authority. ****
Liam Finn
The Nihilist
Yep Roc Records
Depending on your perspective, Liam Finn is either blessed or burdened with being the offspring of one of the finest song crafters of the past three decades. And, while he doesn’t quite share his father’s (Neil Finn of Crowded House and Split Enz fame) knack for insidiously catchy melodies attached to surprisingly deep lyrics, he, like his dad, is more than willing to ditch what comes easily and take a few risks. Or in this case, a lot of them.
The Nihilist, his third full-length album, is that rare bird in which high ambition compensates for the occasional failing. It’s by no means a seamless effort, but you have to give Finn props just for trying. Finn abandons his customary classic pop sound in favor of construction that is unexpectedly quirky and at times off putting.
Built over a series of bleary late night sessions, Finn produced, engineered, and mixed the album while playing a variety of instruments, ranging from bass, drums, various exotic guitars, keyboards, synthesizers, strings, and whatever else seemed to be laying around the Brooklyn studio he commandeered. The result is a stream of consciousness assemblage that lands somewhere between prime era Prince (The Nihilist almost feels like Finn’s tribute to the Purple One) and latter day Wilco.
The R&B ballad “Snug as F*ck” even evokes Prince’s trademark falsetto, as Finn coo coos his way back into the graces of a former paramour. “Helena Bonham Carter” pays tribute to the actress — herself no stranger to character hopping and artistic idiosyncrasy — with a torching dose of piano driven frenzy that comes closest to mimicking his dad’s pop sensibilities.
Not everything works so well; “Burn Up the Road” sounds like Coldplay light, while “Dreamy Droop” suffers from a weak melodic pulse and uncertain arrangement. But, while those slip-ups slightly derail the overall effect of the album, it’s almost charming to hear Finn shoot for the moon, even when he misses.
The Nihilist is clearly a studio album, as Finn meticulously piles on layers of sonic ambience, and in truth it’s more than a bit messy and unfocused. But it’s also the work of someone willing to take chances (in that regards it reminded me of Beck) and not be dragged down by his past work or familial heritage.
Flawed as it might be, in its own perverse way it establishes Liam Finn as his own man, and one whose career is, irrespective of the last name, worth paying attention to. ***
Roddy Frame
Seven Dials
AED Records
How great is it to have Roddy Frame back? Actually he never fully went away. Since the 1995 disbanding of my beloved Aztec Camera, he’s kept a low profile, releasing a handful of (deliberately) lacking in ambition albums via his website, composing soundtracks for exceedingly obscure film projects, and dabbling a bit towards reformatting the Aztec Camera catalog.
Following his last album by nearly eight years, Seven Dials is among the strongest collection of songs he’s ever assembled, matching the best of his former band, and demonstrating with startling clarity that, three decades into the game, his gift for intellectual pop is as keen and resourceful as ever.
Backed by Edwyn Collins and Sebastian Lewsley, Frame covers a lot of ground with an economy of effort. There’s the trademark pairing of melancholy sentiment and gorgeous melody (“From a Train” and “Rear View Mirror”), Frame’s primitive but engaging harmonica work (“Forty Days of Rain”), and plenty of the jangle pop and irresistible hooks that seem to roll off Frame’s tongue with disarming ease. “Postcard” veers perilously close to the world of cheeky pop (a not infrequent tendency for Frame), but the stunning guitar solo, recalling his masterwork song “Oblivious,” keeps things in check.
Throughout Seven Dials, Frame sounds as if he’s reflecting on the past, but he does so with gratitude, clarity, and not a hint of regret. In a fair and just world, Aztec Camera would have been huge, and Roddy Frame a wealthy man. But he purposefully opted to never fully engage the music industry, only occasionally touring and presenting Aztec Camera as a band whose line-up changed with the wind. As such, he’ll always have the respect of those of us who admire the iconoclast; artists who follow their muse and let the rest fall where it may.
Anyone who loves impossible to pigeonhole, guitar driven literate pop, delivered with passion, intelligence, and talent aplenty, would do well diving into the amazing work of Roddy Frame. ****1/2