8/11

The first time I saw these guys was at one of those hip Todd P extravaganzas, down with the rats and the poor audio equipment and stinging Majorska shots that really made me feel apart of something progressive and substantial and moving. I was primed with a punk fever to go bash on some indie bands decked down in faded flower dresses – nothing more progressive than the abundance of dull but fashionable crooners to really get the excitement flowing through the blood veins – when suddenly the hollow and rattling ripple from the guitar hit my eardrums and I nearly wet my drawers. Reverb. Chilling echoes. Sweet, haunting riffs: The surf guitar, without all that Beach Boy weirdness, is making an astonishing comeback in the underground… and it is wonderful!

The singer, with her fragile yet powerful voice, seemed a bit on edge for the show, perhaps from the rats, but somehow it only helped to build on the intimacy. The three-piece was huddled close together, and the crowd huddling closer to catch the cool vibes. The guitarist was brilliant: nothing extreme or bashful, just wicked surf riffs, letting the singer work her vocal ranges in-between the waves. 

On this record, a handful of months later and their debut full-length, Widowspeak nails the sound of the pop-wave, indie aesthetic, perfectly: clean; fragile but full; humble but hip. Pitchfork will go nuts over this one, giving it maybe a 7.4, maybe a 7.2, taking off points for unoriginality. Judging at how well their music hits upon that indie aesthetic, you would think there were hundreds of these bands in Brooklyn, but for some reason there aren’t, and Widowspeak will be garnishing a fresh supply of fans with the release of the album (August 2). Nothing like a Brooklyn band to capture the Brooklyn sound.

Widowspeak features a young seductress on the lead vocals, with the surf guitarist and a very simple, vintage drummer. They are a stripped down Raveonettes on major downers, continuing down the path built by the Young Marble Giants. They are a grittier Best Coast; a better xx. The 30 minute debut album features some gnarly stuff.

After beginning with the only real upbeat number, “Puritan,” a true “catch a wave” track with a drum beat from the Ventures, the album takes a slow turn into the doldrums of despair and heartache. It will dwell there for the majority of the ten tracks. The guitar leads the way through, a very 50s vintage style: dark and slow, and reverb heavy. In the highlights of the album, like “Nightcrawler” and “Halfawake,” the guitar is done perfectly, rattling to the core of the bones, rippling with eerie, blue smoke, and harking upon clear and cool, moonlit nights. It reeks of heroin. Instead of jamming the songs with extraneous noises, he sticks with a subtle but stinging attack. He leaves space to the songs, creating a rich and full sound. But key to the uniqueness of Widowspeak, the guitar serves as a sort of blank canvas for the singer to really let her voice radiate and take off.

The singer, on songs like “In the Pines,” has a yearning voice, like Reponsil in her tower – waiting, seductive and out of reach. Her voice is teasing yet innocent; lazy and shy yet invigorating. Often the vocals are layered or she will fill in with some backing tracks, protruding her voice over the cool guitar fills. The vocal tracks are mixed very smoothly, her voice standing out and booming. She, respectfully so, does not hide in effects or reverb, like many lo-fi bands that lose their potency in the chaos.

The only downfall to the album is that it’s been done before. The British band xx did it a few years back with their debut self-titled album. There isn’t a song on Widowspeak that is as catchy as “Crystalized,” the xx big hit. However, Widowspeak’s scope on the album stretches a much wider spectrum of concepts and is therefore more entertaining to listen to. It isn’t boring, and while it may be less catchy, it is rawer and more powerful. There are moments that pack a punch, like a 1:27 into “Ghost Boy,” that transcend catchy and linger around brilliant. That being said, there are moments in the album when things certainly drag. Most of “Ghost Boy,” until it reaches these great, wrenching clashes of drum and guitar, are sort of dull. But, when all is said and done, this is an impressive debut and will definitely put Widowspeak on a map. 

Widowspeak - "Nightcrawlers" by forcefieldpr

Those Darlins is a musical trio comprised of Jessi Darlin (guitar), Kelley Darlin (electric bass), and Nikki Darlin (baritone ukulele). They hail from the small Tennessee town of Murfreesboro but record in New York City with Jeff Curtin (known for helping Vampire Weekend break out).

Engineer by Ed Rawls (Black Lips), Screws Get Loose [Oh Wow Dang - 2011] is the title of their sophomore release. Listeners can expect an assembly of rough-and-tumble, rollicking country-punkified garage rock. The album’s premise, according to The Darlins themselves, is said to show that "life on the road is no place for the faint of heart".

I am drawn to the honesty found in the music of Those Darlins. In a world of euphemisms, metaphors and innuendos, it's refreshing to hear an album with tongue-in-cheek songs like "Be Your Bro", a song about the struggles of men and women trying to be only friends and nothing more.

A "trademark" trait of Those Darlins is the (often) gritty nature of their music and lyrics. Most of their music discusses living near, at, or below the poverty line.  All three Darlin's have first-hand experience with the hardships associated with poverty, which adds a layer of realism to their music and to this album.

The first six tracks of Screws is the perfect mix of rock and roll, southern style. Filled with unique beats and catchy lyrics, it would be surprising to find anyone not toe-tapping by the end of "Tina Said." The first half of the album showcases each member's strengths; the listener can easily hear how Those Darlins have grown artistically. The tracks are focused and cohesive.

But where the first half succeeds, the second half of the album falls flat. While "Waste Away" is the perfect slowdown track from the first portion of the album, "Fatty Needs a Fix" seems forced and juvenile. Several of the songs that appear later on the album have the same musical wit or entertaining quality as earlier tracks. "BUMD" starts off strong, with heavy drum beats and exciting vocals, but ends abruptly.

Since their formation in 2006, Those Darlins have graced stages at Bonnaroo and SxSW. They have played alongside musical acts such as Boss Hog, Ida Maria, O'Death, Deer Tick and Heartless Bastards. The band took shape when Jessi and Kelley met at Southern Girls Rock & Roll Camp. The camp, formed by Kelley, encourages girls (and young women) to express themselves artistically through music. Jessi was one of the first to enroll in the program and instantly connected with Kelley. They decided to become musical partners and later added Nikki (originally from Virginia) to their group. This new LP showcases the talents of group newcomer Linwood Regensburg (also known as "Sheriff Lin" on stage). He is both a singer and a drummer. Regensburg lends his vocal talent on several tracks ("Let U Down") adding another layer of depth to their second release. This release is the first time male vocals mix with the Darlins and the octave change is surprising, fun and intriguing.

All in all, Those Darlins stay true to their southern roots with their sophomore release and continue to entertain us with witty lyrics and exciting musical arrangements. I enjoyed blasting "Tina Said" and "Be Your Bro" through my Klipsch home theater systems on repeat. I am not disappointed with the second album and look forward to listening to their next release.

Words by Ross Edwards

Sweater Set's new album Goldmine expands the songwriting genre as it seems, paradoxically, to take a step backward in time.  It is the leading ladies who stand out here as brilliant and original, the multi-instrumentalists and vocalists Maureen Andary and Sara Curtin, each songwriter represented by seven songs on the album throughout. It is a markedly consistent album, in sound and in songwriting, mostly lyrically concerned with the many aspects of love.  The album explores the hearts, desires, sorrows, apologies, and warm kinships of Sara and Maureen.

Firstly, the production of the album is sparklingly clean, allowing the female protagonists to paint their personalities on the songwriting canvas with absolute clarity and accuracy.  The ukulele-laden sequences are simple while the melodies familiar, shining through in snarky idiosyncrasies, as when Maureen Andary sings earnestly "health is sexy," on “Happy.”  They can express a range of emotions effortlessly, from ethereal escapism on "Downstream," to eager (yet contained) bitterness on "The Breaker."  Though multi-themed, Goldmine congeals with ideas of pulling through hardships however possible, together, not through denial or ignorance but appreciation and realization of love, however "imperfect."

Curtin sings sorrowfully on "Who's Sorry:" "No matter how you wear it/ The heart is bound to break in time."  This stanza underlines perhaps the saddest and most pervasive realities ever contemplated, yet here it is, approached delicately, serenely, and without any attempt to dilute or cover the problems of heartbreak.  Who hasn't been anxiously struck by the thought that a great love, however protected, will at some point in time end in turmoil, whether by human decision or nature?  Yet the beautiful musical presentation of this idea is more revealing because these voices harmonized and intertwined is profoundly compelling in itself. It is beautiful and pure and capable of synthesizing human lives into concise song-poems far greater than the sum of its parts and its players. That is the power of the two. And like many great albums, Goldmine grows on the listener. 

The Sweater Set is playing at Rockwood Music Hall on Saturday, May 14th, $5 suggested

words by Eliza Coolidge

Pink and brown was never a color combination I enjoyed. Brown always futilely attempted to neutralize or “man up” the girlish vanity of pink, while pink was contemptuous and nagging at the moroseness of Brown.  Luckily, this color-war analogy doesn’t apply to the Brooklyn-based trio PinkBrown. Each member of the group, Xander Naylor on guitar, Max Jaffe on drums, and Johan Andersson on saxophones, symbiotically contributes their own compositions and voice blending, giving the group a sound that is intricate yet unassailably united. 

 The three song EP, released in February, opens with "Octagon”, a barbed stuttering of distorted neuroses. The distortion is a bit unnerving, but it's a hell of a way to grab the listeners’ doubts and throw them to the ground. The guitar and tenor become quiet, letting the drummer establish a groove. Long horizons of feedback and extended technique wash overhead while the drums pocket their groove, cementing the heady psychedelic effusions. The trio sounds big, yet at other moments anemically stark. I’m assuming this is a crime of recording, though a relative misdemeanor. I've had the privilege to hear PinkBrown live several times and have never found their sound to be flat. Nevertheless, the sax and guitar hasten to a King Crimson approved hook, giving the drums permission to rage with bionic precision. The arrangement has a great arc with an energetic ending, playing with the listener and challenging her with swift meter and dynamic changes. After this dynamic thrust, they effortlessly slither into a soft drift of reversed feedback and airy susurrations. In the last two minutes of this eleven-minute piece the sound begins to meander, unnecessarily revisiting the same sections and textures heard before.

"According To Taste" bustles with alluring tiny movements and gestures, like the inside workings of a strikingly demented clock.  It's a clock that perhaps opens to other portals of time and dimension, being run by tiny little people. Their heads are down. They're working communally towards some obscure occult goal, possibly in monastic robes. With a perfect combination of stridence and staccato, they pass the foreground amongst themselves, shifting in 1 to 2 note figures. What results is a complex fabric of polyrhythmic melody. The agitations settle into a desolate melancholy – sparse, mournful and daring. This is not music for musicians who are afraid of sound or (considering the EP cover is a serious glance and nod towards Guston) painters who are afraid of paint for that matter. Surreal infrastructures and small societies churn listlessly amongst themselves. They return to the beginning themes but with greater aggression and impatience. Suddenly, there is the strange feeling of exiting a dream. A pugnacious two-second line swiftly brings us back to reality like a hostile vestige.

"Undisemboweled", aside from probably being the greatest track name, is also their catchiest tune. Here we hear more of PinkBrown's progressive rock influence, the marriage of grunge and glory.  Unfortunately, after the first minute they soon flip off into another feedback-smeared section much like the first track. The sound becomes too familiar, especially since there are only three tracks on the album. It works because the improvisations are cohesive and the written material is solid, both blending well together. Still, it lacks originality.

Though brief, the content here is indisputably forward-looking. It provokes the usually immovable monoliths of improvisation and scripted rock, forcing them to work side by side. The EP is available for download online at www.pinkbrown.bandcamp.com. They will also soon be on a tour, playing clubs and DIY spaces from Brooklyn to Minneapolis. Check out there website www.pinkbrownmusic.com for further details on tour dates.

As it turns out, PinkBrown is my new favorite color. 

Rating: 8/11

When I received Mr. Soffiato's freshly released album Just Add Water, I couldn't help but be impressed and lightly miffed by the origami-like sleeve construction. What seemed like a perfectly mundane unwrapping blossomed into a course of peeling, fanning folds. Finally, the CD offered itself, tucked cavalierly between two creased sides.

The album opens with Soffiato's solemn invocation on guitar in "Alexander". Without much development, the drums and bass impatiently drop their groove, stifling the guitar and brushing it to the background. The alto sax joins in on the conclusion, foisting a melody. The line is repetitive and indolent, like crawling on a treadmill and moving your legs tirelessly, but not arriving anywhere new. The dynamics swiftly drop in a retributive change-up, the alto supporting with a two-note polyrhythmic stutter. The guitar brilliantly transmutes into a bubbling cascade of effects, spreading the sonic canvas with interest and imagination. The drums underpin with momentous skittering and rattling and a composed conviction and confidence. And then the alto pardons its earlier dullness by developing into a rapid neurotic exchange with Soffiato. Excitement and direction propel forward, then suddenly and organically they break like waves washing over the shore into the opening theme. As soon as the head of the tune was lost, there was finally space to hear the elegance of the responsive musical communication flowing in the quartet. 

The next track, "Tens of Us", leads with the drummer’s tender conversation, as if he were whispering small obsequious coos. He is dynamic yet sensitive, almost painterly. Letting his rhythmic choices develop melodically, he sustains swells or cuts them, creating a field of lively shapes and colors. The bass listens commendably, off-setting the drums and providing an even surface for the melody to stretch over. The alto sounds as if he swallowed an entire bottle of baby oil and consequently all of his musical excretions are slippery and bottom-smooth. I would like him to dirty himself up a bit, or just not wash his hands so compulsively.

As the song moves along, the drums increase in volume and intensify their attack without overpowering the quieter instruments’ integrity. Most drummers fail to exercise subtlety while playing loudly. Not here.

Title track "Just Add Water" kindles an awakening of sorts, speeding forward while the guitar and sax trade-off in a paced race, a guns un-slung showdown. The initial excitement thins with the many meter and groove changes, the continuity diffracted and agonized. The sin is redeemed with "Fanfare", a track with a patient and earnest opening. It is reserved in the best sense of the word, not unlike finding intrigue in staring at the same square foot of ground for 2 hours and discovering little worlds in and of themselves. Though beautiful, the melody is mono-dimensional, the guitar and alto playing in unison for its entirety. This is the arranging for most of the songs- the guitar and sax continually hold hands and walk over the same melody. Briefly, in the intro of "Il Rabdomante", we hear Soffiato's skill fully. Fluidly traversing all registers, Soffiato deftly builds and transfigures the temporal and harmonic line, making me wish this track was a solo guitar piece. What follows doesn't seem worth the intelligence and profundity of its prologue.

The last quarter of the album contain the true beginnings of invention. "The Giant, Intro" welcomes refreshing textures from the entirety of the CD. Machines fuss and music boxes tinker. It transports. We are somewhere playful, imaginative and lost.  The idea is taken for a ride and expelled all too quickly— a question half asked in fear of its answer.

The musical skill on this album is its most impressive feature. These are talented technicians with great group rapport. I only question their orthodox. They are working with very familiar sounds, lines and procedures from the modern jazz lexicon, and what results is a detrimental facelessness. I look forward to hearing this quartet's next project, in hopes that they expound on the flashes of invention that freckle this album. 

There once was a young musician named Hudson Eakin, who lived in the Portland, Maine area and met an early demise, killed by the horrible music of local bands. Shortly thereafter, his corpse was stolen from his grave and brought to a laboratory, where a mysterious entity infused his soul into a robot. The robot was programmed to save the human race through the power of hip hop, starting with its debut album Sermons Vol. 1: Infinite Capacity. 

This is the story of The Reverend Robot, a very intriguing artist with an obvious abundance of imagination and a strong disliking for the current trends in both music and society. Infinite Capacity is the result of these traits: ten hard-hitting and almost overwhelming tracks of alternative hip hop that somehow combine a rebellious, underground attitude with a positive vibe of unity. In format, it’s more like a mixtape, borrowing beats from other artists. In content, however, it is unlike any mixtape that has ever come before it. Even in the choices of the music utilized (from artists like The Gorillaz and Sleigh Bells), this is a unique experience. The Reverend Robot strays far from mainstream clichés, packing a lot of knowledge and insight into his lyrics. And in between thought-provoking rhymes and calls for action, he (excuse me, it) infuses fantastic horrorcore imagery and sound clips, painting the picture of the inhuman vessel carrying these messages. 

Though, there are two issues with the tracks on Infinite Capacity that take a little away from the album‘s greatness. The lo-fi sound quality of the vocals doesn’t always blend well with the jacked beats, which are mostly of professional production. It also seems that a little more time spent on practicing the rhymes would have probably resulted in more solid songs, particularly to avoid the sometimes sloppy overdubs. Then again, have you ever tried telling a robot to perfect something? They just look at you crazy like “don’t try to program MY mind.” 

A couple production quirks aside, The Reverend Robot was apparently created to create something awesome. The amount of creativity behind Infinite Capacity is astounding and makes for some very refreshing music that stretches its chosen genre to the limits. It is rare that music can be both entertaining and enlightening, but The Reverend Robot is obviously a rare kind of artist. “When I open my eyes, I lose the words to speak/ because I can’t even believe that they are coming out of me.” So rare, the Robot even surprises itself.

There are not many men who dare to bare their nipples through the trials of a New York winter. One, who you can always count on, is Rex. The barefooted, overalls-only frontman of The Rex Complex is a might unreckoned.  Though crunk, experimental and roots music are noted as the band's aesthetic posts, The Rex Complex charmingly darts and diverts through a tremendous variety of sounds, forming a new generation's book of Americana.

Their 11 track album, A Delicious Victory, does not presuppose the virtue of its title but charismatically charges its self-given prophecy. The album begins, no short of an extraordinary entrance, with "Debutante Brawl." Theatrical and warped, a short-legged polka hobbles center. Beckoning us in, two wailing voices lament "oh no, debutante brawl," inciting curiosity in the listener. Soon following, a woman begins to tell her story of the famed debutante bitch-bash. As her stately narration unravels into a ruction of screeches and accusations, we sense that The Rex Complex is slowly peeling back the curtain, unearthing a Bushwick Fantasy Freakshow, luring us and our unabashed hankering for the outre and entropic. Whispering in the eager ear, step right on up, step right on up…

Continuing to conduct their circus of debaucheries and delights, "Mafia Landlord" erupts with a Pulp Fiction-like guitar intro. The vocals retain the raw, uninhibitedness of a live performance. Growling, howling and screaming, Rex entices the listener to find a pit to mosh. Though, even Rex's animation finds itself jockeyed by the guitar solo—a feral scramble of a beast unfed, all the shred and distortion you would ever want (or need) trailing behind an unidentifiable carcass of wreckage. Brilliant.

Though counting their proclivities for bedlam, The Rex Complex also endears with more narrational songs. "Refuge on a Front Porch" reveals a more pastel side of the group. The guitar, drums and percussion tightly blend in a polyrhythmic fuse, sourcing an alloy of back porch banjo and West African traditional guitar. Rex's lyrics deepen the lightness of the groove with terrific storytelling. At times when the clarity of Rex's lyrics are sacrificed in place of his sensational mania, it is refreshing to be able to understand what he's actually talking about.  

As virtuous to their live performance as A Delicious Victory may be, this band deserves to be heard while on the stage. All said, you would be hard-pressed to find a more exhilarating live performance in New York. One cautionary note, be sure to tie your boots tight. You will dance. You will rage. 

Chase Desire, the third and most recent LP released by singer/songwriter Jeanne Marie Boes, is a complex amalgam of tastes. Indifferently, Boes juggles mild affectations of cabaret, blues, jazz, and a pinch of 60s Nashville pop. Though incorporating different styles, what incontrovertibly sounds is a muddled, flavorless palette. Within the ten-track album, there are a few shadowed peeks into Boes' potential, mainly in the title-track "Chase Desire," where she sultrily showcases the rich and luxurious tones of her voice. The production is, plainly put, strange — pop cabaret with a plinky piano, programmed drums, and synthesized horns (still waiting on the 30-second automated tap dance interlude). Painfully following is "The Closer We Got" which, if the title isn't already an attestation, is the composted waste of all love songs from the past two decades. At the turn of the second verse, the song transforms into a deficient 80s power ballad with all the victorious trimmings of synth drums and organ patches. And while "The Closer We Got" leaves the vestiges of power pop ailing in a small, ashamed corner,  "And Paris Too" goes further to disrupt its grievous mourning with the likes of a Hallmark card commercial. 

The amateur production of "Chase Desire" (which has me running rather than chasing) truly obfuscates the integrity of Miss Boes' talent. Her voice, smoky and deep throated, impressively coalesces a vast range. While the emotional munificence of her phrasing can at times border tacky, she possesses a truly unheard, singular sound.

Never fear, Brooklyn. The indie music scene is bringing in reinforcements and they go by the name of Brit & the Cavalry. 

Last summer, Brit & the Cavalry put out their first EP Chapter One to critical acclaim. Recently, the Cavalry did it again, releasing its second EP Hiker. Fan-funded through Kickstarter, Hiker is a gallant effort, a follow-up that exceeds its predecessor by delivering more of the band’s matchless sound.  

The Cavalry threw out the rule book years ago. Instead it blends the standard rock setup — guitar, bass, drums — with a veritable monkey-wrench of lilting strings and horns. What’s more, it works, seamless as it is unique and somehow satisfying to listen to. Maybe it’s because, despite how the combination looks on paper, there is nothing forced or jarring about it. Distinct but well-executed, it fits the alternative rock definition and listening satisfies both folk and rock cravings. 

The head of the troop, Brit Boras has a swooning vocal range that emotes with the best of them. She is alternately tender and empowered, melodious and strong willed, all without missing a note, more of an instrument herself than anything else. Violinist Amanda Lo is also of note, her strings standing at the forefront of every song and often claiming the spotlight over lyrics, or rather, getting the point across without the need for lyrics at all. 

Even with only four songs, the Hiker EP does not repeat itself. “The Great Forest Divide” is an excellent example of the band’s accomplished horn section. “Breathing Under Water” has the opening bars of a gentle, romantic sea shanty followed by the slicing lyrics of a ghost. The title track “Hiker” is an instant favorite. Putting that mysterious combination of violin and heavy rock guitar chords to its greatest extent, it’s a multi-depth encounter that, after only one listen, won’t be easy to forget. The combination is smoldering.  The Cavalry signs off this EP with “The Sun,” where plucked strings and smooth electric guitar make a sweet send off. If the song “Hiker” shows the band’s intensity, “The Sun” brings out its gentle side, proving just the many ways this group can deliver.  

Short and sweet, “Hiker” does exactly what an EP should — give a taste of what this band can do and show us why we should be listening; makes us anticipate a full-length album. Although technically a follow up to Chapter One, the first was mostly a solo endeavor by Boras. This time there’s a full brigade, made up of Brit Boras (guitar, vocals), Alex Beckmann (drums), Dan Krysa (bass), Kevin Birk (trombone), Jas Walton (sax), Aaron Rockers (trumpet) and Amanda Lo (violin). 

Ready to call them in and make your own judgments? Tomorrow, Brit & the Cavalry will be celebrating Hiker with a release show at Pianos Friday at 8pm, $10 cover charge.