An epically distracted pigeon rising from the ashes

Given the decidedly pharmaceutical bent of the Mars Volta's output (their first two full-lengths were both concept albums inspired by the separate overdose deaths of two of the band's associates), it's a wonder that no one at their record label has tried to slip them some Adderall. Alternatively, maybe they're just taking wayyy too much of America's favorite amphetamine. In either case, the song remains the same: If any band ever cried out for focus, blessed focus, it's this one. The differences between the Mars Volta and its magesterial, seminal predecessor, At the Drive-In, from whose ashes they rose like some sort of epically distracted pigeon, have been documented to death, but that doesn't make them easier to get past. It's no longer news that where ATDI rocked, Mars Volta wanks, but that's no reason to stop with the ridicule.

You can read the rest of my review of The Mars Volta's The Bedlam in Goliath at Slant Magazine.

Worn-in, comfortable blues

The one criticism that might be accurately leveled at Chan Marshall's second album of covers (after 2000's Covers Record) is that it's just a bit too well put together; the arrangements are coy and crisp, the productions are by measures spare and lush in a way that makes contextual sense, and the song choices, from classics like Joni Mitchell's "Blue" and Sinatra's "New York, New York" to also-rans drawn mostly from country and soul, are all pitched perfectly down the center of Marshall's vocal strike zone, allowing her to strut through these brief versions in full consciousness of command. There's little sense of the strain and struggle that are at the heart of the songs' general concern with longing and loss, which makes the collection seem a little too Starbucks-ready for uncomplicated appreciation. Nic Harcourt will likely play the ever-loving crap out of this record, which is either a blessing or a curse depending on your perspective.

You can read the rest of my review of Cat Power's Jukebox at Slant Magazine.

Warm chameleons and rigid threats

One of the most curious things about the commodification of art, music in particular, is the way in which certain kinds of sounds are assigned utility, cast in the role of aural furniture to accomplish mental décor. To wit: elevator music, "lite" radio, and, y'know, atmospheric British street music, which is best known in America as the perfect beats to boutique by. Though it would probably pain him to no end, enigmatic dubstep producer Burial (he's still otherwise anonymous—paging Banksy) fits comfortably into the tradition established by his fellow moody, drum-machine-wielding countrymen like Tricky and Geoff Barrow of Portishead.

The rest of my review of Burial's difficult and excellent record Untrue can be found at Slant Magazine.

Ferraris on cruise control

About halfway through Ghostface Killah's latest album, rap's most loved mad culinary professional takes a most earned moment to reflect on his place in the zeitgeist by throwing himself a party. Framed as it is by the ambient noises of red-carpet door policy enforcement ("You guys smell like weed, forget it" being a notable sample) and featuring Ghostface in the guise of an awards-show host spieling off a list of the current stars of contemporary black music, pausing for witty commercial breaks instead of choruses, "White Linen Affair (Toney Awards)" is marvelous fun — and a nifty metatextual trick as well.


The rest of my take on Ghostface Killah's The Big Doe Rehab can be found at Slant Magazine.