One Kind Radio » ericm

Jewellery by Micachu & The Shapes

ericm — Sat, 29 Aug 2009 13:19:39 +0000

Jewellery by Micachu & The Shapes

The sound of pop music exploding and expanding, taking us quickly from once we began.

Micachu & The Shapes is Mica Levi, Rasia Kahn and Marc Pell. Behind Mica’s usually recumbent vocals and barely intelligible lyrics seemingly misused and abused instruments are plucked of their inherent tones, sampled and cut into a delightful wash of dancy beats and noise.

Check out Micachu & The Shapes here.

Check out Rough Trade Records here.

Glue Mill- You & Me

ericm — Mon, 02 Mar 2009 20:51:19 +0000

You & Me by Gluemill

Glue Mill is a hard project to pin down. Literally, I cannot find any information other than what is on their CD Baby blurb and the one or two reviews I came across. I know what they know. This guy, Ken Rothermich, used to play guitar in a punk band I have never heard of and is now making quirky acoustic guitar laptop pop. The record was released online. Apparently he never plays shows and has not updated his website since last June. All this is secondary to the music, of course, but sometimes having some background helps put the songs into a context. An artists history can dampen my appreciation for a record I already like or turn me around on a record I am not too keen on.

Unfortunately, Glue Mill falls into the latter category. I have nothing to go on but the music and it is just not quite doing it for me. I want to like it. I like the instrumentation, melody and mood. Even the computer generated synth and percussion are cool with me. I hate that it comes down to this but Ken Rothermich’s vocals are the obstacle of You & Me. On “I Try” it works, its a good song. Later in You & Me his half-yells and new-wavey syllable bops simply do not sell. Glue Mill would be great live. I hope to see it someday. There is a joy and fun in the music that works so well but I cannot get past the voice

DM Stith- Heavy Ghost

ericm — Mon, 02 Mar 2009 20:47:22 +0000

DM Stith- Heavy Ghost

Asthmatic Kitty

David Stith takes sounds from a basement room to the tops of neighborhood trees. Moistening the air, surrounding you until all you can do is look upward as if trying to catch the lightning that runs across the peripheral just before the rain begins to fall.

Eric’s Top Ten?

ericm — Thu, 08 Jan 2009 13:43:48 +0000

The year 2008 has been the most fucked up year of my life. It is also the only year I can say that music has not been it for me; the thing I do. Music got set on the back burner as the god damn stove exploded. Other things have kept me occupied this year.
1.Started working in a refrigerated warehouse in January, in Indiana.
2.Parents abandoned house my dad built
3.Moved to Alabama
4.Traveled around to Arkansas, Chicago, Indiana, Alabama
5.Moved to Arkansas
6.Almost got arrested at the Democratic Convention
7.Robbed and kidnapped
8.Car broke down for good
9.Roommate shot in the legs by the guy that robbed us the first time
10. Got hit by a car

Now as the week leans into the new year life is showing me its softer side. I have a good job and a new job coming soon that I am very excited about. My new band is going on tour and recording. I have a girlfriend now. Things are gong well and I am rightfully suspicious.

So a top ten list is truly a steep task for me. Most of the records released this year just failed to land in my yard. I am not going to call this a top ten list of the best records of the year but rather some records that I heard that I got into. It will in no way be comprehensive, nor in any particular order.

Man Man- Rabbit Habits
Why?- Alopecia
Headlights- Some Racing, Some stopping
Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds- Dig!!! Lazarus Dig!!!
Tu Fawning- Secessions ep – Archived Review
Girl Talk- Feed the Animals
Tobacco- Fucked Up Friends
Telephone Jim Jesus- Anywhere Out of the Everything (technically 2007, but I do not care)
Electric Wizard- Witchcult Today
Sigur Rós- Með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust
St. Vincent- Marry Me

Press play when the lion roars.

ericm — Sat, 22 Nov 2008 17:13:42 +0000

Seond To The Last Frontier by Feral Children

Just about nine minutes into Muppets From Space start playing Second to the Last Frontier by Feral Children. Not much is lining up in the first few minutes aside from the simultaneous spiral references. Then just as Gonzo is struck by the space bolt and carried off to conduct nimble asteroid maneuvers and to banter with space fish, Billionaires v Millionaires starts. A keenly well-suited score, I must say. “They love your skin, they love your yellow skin,” is without a doubt about Dr. Bunsen Honeydew. The tension of Ex-Blindman perfectly lifts the on-screen Kermit grimaces and mustachioed Rob Schneider fist clenches to pure poetry as Gonzo, in full-on government mind spy foil protection ensemble, follies onto the set of Ms. Piggy’s premier as a newscaster to announce something. I’m not sure what, I have the sound of the television off. Which at this point I am beginning to be more interested in the movie than this record. Not that its wholly without interesting moments, but it does draw from a small bucket of influences. Do you like Modest Mouse and Avey Tare? Yes? Well you may enjoy this, review over. Back to Muppets from Space, circa 1999. Me, Me, Just Me is now playing as Ms. Piggy and the guy from Aaron Sorkin’s Sports Night, not the guy from Six Feet Under- the other guy, are fighting and he gives her a noogy.

I do fear this record will end and leave me all alone with this movie. I also fear that this record will go the full 88 minutes. No, its not bad at all. A lot of it rocks quite a bit. But the guy’s voice is only pleasing 10% of the time. His half-yell talk distracts from any of the interesting melodies buried within the verses and the screamy barks more often than not sound forced and feel altogether dispensable. Though the last song seems to pull it all together. Zyghost is a good time. The barking is tolerable and the chorus is right on.

Hey, David Arquette and Jeffery Tambor! I love these Muppet movies but cannot stop myself from occasionally feeling a slight bit sorry for these actors that take acting seriously performing with a giant Muppet bear and Swedish Chef. I would love to be in on the call from his agent selling Ray Liota on how this is a reasonable career choice. I am not really sure what this is an analogy for…but I am just bored of reviewing these jejune indie rock records. There is not much to hate, nor love. They are indeed interesting enough while in the throws of listening but is my life better for knowing this record? No. Am I sad now that I have heard it? Am I worse off than I was 46 minutes and 29 seconds ago? No. I guess thats the analogy; the unneeded is necessary to fill the spaces between the peaks. It is not fair to expect everything to blow my mind. Nor can I sluice hate onto onto the decks. All I can do is do as I have always done and find the threads of moments of enjoyability; the sublime in the chaff.

The movie is not over yet. The space egg that landed on the beach has opened the beacon for the alien ship to land. Turns out Gonzo has been found by his alien brothers proving that he is really not alone in the universe. The extraterrestrial Gonzo race rejoice by immediately launching into Celebrate(good times, c’mon.)

Forest Fire- Survival

ericm — Thu, 25 Sep 2008 00:56:54 +0000

Survival by Forest Fire
Released on Cat Bird Records

Brooklyn/Portland’s neo-fuzz folkers Forest Fire’s Survival is the culmination of spontaneous home recording sessions with an open door to traveling friends willing to lay down tracks. Their website states “Homegrown hymns for those with no religion.” Loose and sometimes out of tune instrumentation, “vibrant bursts of guitar and layers of screeching electronics,” Mark Thresher’s dry but urgent vocal delivery and female backing vocals reminiscent of Mates of State all make me think that this is what it would sound like if The Velvet Underground spent a few months at the Elephant 6 commune in Georgia.

On the Catbirds Records site you can get the free download or name your price for the entire album. These are great songs with lines like, “don’t make an echo of my love” and melodies that stay with me when my brain wants to take a well earned moment to retreat into the ether.

It is easy for bands that take the bedroom theatre improvisational approach to songwriting and let it get so unwieldy and dense that the weight of their own songs threatens to collapse onto themselves. Forest Fire is excellent at the economics of organic composition. The creature can be as massive as its environment if the skeleton has evolved enough to maintain a solid frame.

Tu Fawning the Secessions EP

ericm — Mon, 15 Sep 2008 02:30:15 +0000

Secession by Tu Fawning
Released on July 2008 by Polyvinyl Record Co.

Now I am not sure which is harder; reviewing a record I somewhat like but have serious problems with or a record I love but am having difficulty qualifying why. Tu Fawning’s influences seemed pretty obvious at first but the direct comparisons soon felt empty and fell away. They succeed with what nearly every band attempts; making classic themes and instrumentation fresh and contemporary yet without evidence of intent.

Seemingly random esoteric unnatural elements plucked and placed into a scene. My body floats past the field, single artifacts lie in wait ready to be plucked out again and returned to present consciousness. The one bright orange flower , the child’s fort, the discarded tire, couch and glove , the little girl that watches me race by as I watch her sitting on her bike in the yard; all plot points folded into the lush expanse of green and gray. The Secessions EP is the auditory equivalent of this panorama. Sonic constituents of violin howls and clicks, bells, muted trumpet, quiet conversation and other delicately placed samples flesh out the depth of the moment.

Corrina Repp’s vocals soar, and then skim across the surface. The mood is cool and contemplative. This record rolls around in my ears as a delightful accompaniment to the rainy Missouri towns and abandoned telephone poles with useless power lines strung across their obsolete forged glass insulators that rise and fall across my peripheral. A long train ride is, in theory, a great place to get thoroughly into my own head and some real work done. Many hours and few distractions yet I still sit here staring out the window exactly as I always have. Trying to imagine the shoes that must have stepped in the remote areas I am now looking at. History exists in every place at some moment or another. Undocumented only imagined.

Related Links:
Tu Fawning
Polyvinyl Record Co.

Random electronic flourishes? Totally.

ericm — Tue, 26 Aug 2008 01:47:49 +0000

Boo Human by Joan of Arc
Release on Polyvinyl Record Co.

What is this indie rock clap-trap? That is what my roommate said while I was on my fifth of now eighteen listens to Boo Human. She is right. It slides right into place along any other middling indie group. Never have I been able to get into Joan of Arc. Nothing ever grabbed me enough to be a fan. They had always seemed good in theory. Noodley guitar parts that bubble and bounce around the fret board? I love it. Vaguely psychedelic? Right on. Random electronic flourishes? Totally. Dry vocal delivery and tight syncopated rhythms and phrasing? Yes, sigh me up. But the parts never seemed to add up to a palatable whole. This record is indeed more of the same. I was fully prepared to not like this record at all. “Shown and Told” and “So-and-so” sit on either end of Boo Human and consist of Tim Kinsella plus acoustic guitar. They are interestingly unremarkable. “There are corners of your heart you never noticed before,” is sung just above a whisper over two flat picked chords. Somehow he takes a pair of songs that would fit happily in the lap of a 15 year old boy at a Barnes & Noble open mic night to someplace better, some place I would rather be. “Laughter Reflected Back” is an excellent example of eccentric orchestration. Which is indeed what Joan of Arc does best and exceeds the model with “Just Pack Or Unpack.” It is genuine musical fun to try to pick and follow how the mass of instruments duck and hop around each other like they are running down a wet road after a rain; skipping over and running around puddles trying to not get too wet then abandoning regard to triumphantly stamp both feet in.

Now, when it comes to lyrics I am not the one to talk to. A friend of mine said, and I agree (to a point), that music is not the most efficient way to convey information. If one has something to say, a poem or novella can strike a vein much more effectively. I appreciate the greatness a qualified lyricist can achieve with just a few words. But, on a whole, I do not pay too much heed to the musings of much current musers. There are many, many exceptions. Folk music, for example, I am riveted to. In modern rock music however, I consider the vocalist just another instrument with infinite tonal and rhythmic qualities. So when I stumble across a song called “9/11 2″ I get out all of the tiniest of analytical instruments. Such a horrible premise forces me to put the scope on each phrase in hopes that it is not as bad as it sounds. The lyrics are so vague that it is hard to infer anything other than he is comparing his lover’s action to a premeditated terrorist attack. It is possible for one to make a romantic metaphor for the murders on September 11^th. But it will take an infinitely more clever group of people than Joan of Arc. I read in a few places that this song is meant as a joke. If so, bravo. I guess. Either way this song is the only exciting point in an otherwise delightful record that fits perfectly in the background, like an extra vintage wingback chair; kind of cool, sometimes useful but overall unnecessary and probably will not make the truck in the move to the next apartment.

I feel I have been somewhat harsh. This is one of my first record reviews but I have no desire to be bellicose just because I can. Honestly, I like this record. I just do not like it a lot. “If There Was A Time #1″ and #2 are all around good songs. Maybe I have yet to find the contexts this record falls into. There are summer records and winter records, driving records and raining records, party records and doing laundry records. So far Boo Human sits awkward in each of those places. It does not work hanging out after the bar closes. It does not work making breakfast for friends. It does not work while writing a record review for itself. I end up not paying attention to it while I am supposed to be paying attention to it. If you already consider yourself a fan of Joan of Arc then you would be correct in saying that I have missed the point and my opinions come from an uneducated place. Absolutely. This record does not make me want to investigate the merits of the Joan of Arc catalog. Boo Human can stay in my playlist. “9/11 2″ will get skipped every time but the rest of the songs can remain out in the garden collecting sun and rain. I will peek out the kitchen window occasionally and maybe one day they will mature into something I can love.

Buy the album here: Boo Human by Joan of Arc

Let’s go later. I don’t want to sit through the openers.

ericm — Wed, 13 Aug 2008 03:32:05 +0000

When it comes to attending musical performances I am as jaded and cynical as they come. To be honest, in the past few years I attended very few shows that did not feature myself as a participant. Even then only paying attention to the other bands when the mood struck me. One reason for that is the result of either the waning economy or genetics. Either of which is wholly responsible for the lack of ability to acquire income that is willing to be disposed to doormen and bartenders. Another is that it is more often the case than not my most beloved bands fail to deliver a show worthy of my presence. Whether I end up hating the audience, or it is too hot or the opener is some tired cliché of a band, or I worked all day and The House of Blues can never seem to start a show on time and why are we at the H.O.B. in the first place; each concert I go to reaffirms my desire to just stay at home. I nearly threw my bottle at a pair of guys singing over the band Why? at the Abbey Pub in Chicago, the entire show they were pushing girls around and for some absurd reason holding the band’s cds up in the air to the band throughout the set. As if to prove, beyond any reasonable doubt, that they were in fact the biggest Oaklandazulasylum fans in the room.

I also despise encores. Given the option, a smooth stride towards the exit will be in order when one is imminent. You can always tell too. The band finishes the supposed last song then quickly marches off stage. But the house lights stay dimmed. To illustrate the level of love I have of Icelandic merchants of all things slow – a Sigur Ros angel is tattooed on the back of my right arm but each performance of theirs I felt like running out before they could treat me to the songs that were jotted down on the set list after the implied ellipses. Dylan came to town last year. I wanted to leave WAY before he could get to the encore(s) but my ride felt compelled for some mysterious reason to stick around for the duration to witness seventeen or eighteen more unrecognizable roadhouse versions of classic Dylan songs. My problem is not the length of the show. The music can last for ever as far as I am concerned. It is the tired act of leaving the stage and the presumption that the audience has to jeer and cheer and beg the band to be given the gift of just a few more songs. The first song in the encore is usually the radio hit, if they had one. The one from the movie soundtrack or the commercial or was on Q101 back when it was cool that we all recognize and tingle over. If the band needs a break, have an intermission. I am all about that. But the encore for the sake of encore makes me sad for the state of live concert going.

Before I moved to Arkansas I spent a couple weeks there this spring visiting some friends; The American Princes, a fantastic band that I hope will be added to the playlist shortly. David, one of the members was my ambassador to the city of Little Rock. He took me to shows and introduced me to throngs of real honest people. Artists, musicians, bartenders and bums; the best the city has to offer. One evening he took me to the Whitewater. For you Chicagoans I can only describe the Whitewater as the Fireside of Little Rock. Though not nearly as decrepit it is definitively equally, if not more so- sweaty. It is about the size of the Darkroom but not decorated nearly as nice. This night we went and I knew absolutely nothing about who was playing, not even their names. I had no expectations. In no way was I prepared for what was to be seen.

Cory Branan and Ben Nichols. Cory is an intense, dense, hilarious and voracious songwriter out of Memphis. He plays an acoustic guitar like it’s a rental car, beating every last mile out of it. Ben is the singer of Lucero, one of the best examples of rock/punk/country bands available. If anyone can keep up with the room filling pulse of a Cory Branan song, it is Ben Nichols. Instead of playing consecutive sets they traded off songs. Battling one another, not for points but just for the sheer love of the game. If Cory felt like singing backup or playing a solo on one of Ben’s songs, he did, and the favor was returned in kind. I knew nothing, but it was immediately clear that these were old friends playing like they would some afternoon at one of their homes. The mass pressed against the tiny stage became the choir for the classic songs that were pulled out of their boots and unfolded for us. Cory and Ben would also hit us with something fresh. When one of them would trip up and forget the verse they admitted to just writing it made us fall in love with them even more.

If you have any tendency to be like me, sometimes you get tired of hearing songs of love and of loss, of the road, of life from the point of view of someone probably younger than you. That night in Little Rock it was all made fresh again. Ben and Cory both made us remember how perfect a song can be when a guitar is given to the right person.

The show seemed to go on forever. An endless series of encores fueled not by curtain calls and clapping but by ever arriving trays of shots of whiskey, and jagermeister (which anyone should know is never a good idea.) At one point David was taking me around and introducing me to his friends. The night was fuming with conversation. Never in my life was I so intimate with strangers. Drunk on personalities I inhaled their stories. I was and am in a monumental state of transition so our talks would turn to places we have lived and traveled to, bands we saw and the clubs we saw them in, “Oh man you saw them in 95?!?!, I saw them while getting drenched with torrential rain at, was It the second or third Warped Tour in Chicago?”

Cory and Ben kept banging away while this guy, Mike I think his name was, yelled and laughed to each other about something. The room was filling with the humid stench of rock music and the sweet burning smell of over driven transistors in the mixing board. We had to brush the chords away from our faces as Mike and I halted the instant we heard Cory and Ben both launch into a Misfits song. Simultaneously we looked at each other, mouthed “hold on one second” and joined the flood to the stage to sing along.

The night quickly swirled into a wet, shirtless, drunken mess. After what seemed like five hours of playing Ben had to be carried off stage and Cory timidly cased up his guitar in hopes of protecting it from the nonsensical, bear hugging sing along that was happening. At one point my guide, David ripped the Arkansas flag from the wall and had draped it around him, James Brown style, complete with the repeated theatrical dropping to his knees.

David and I walked the few blocks home. The next day David made a call to the owner of Whitewater, “uhh, do I owe you a flag?”

“No, David, we found it. It’s cool.”

This show single, or should I say double-handedly…no that’s a terrible line. Let’s just say the flood waters were sharply rising over my head. Cory and Ben loaned me a little something to stand on. At least now I am able to see and hear enough to find my way around.

**Thanks so much to Helena Price for lending her photographic eye to this piece. (photo creds to her!)