His second album Citalo-pop is out on 10th June, but he’s already released and two brilliant tracks and videos online – “Cassini” and “Anti-them.” Visually, his videos are vintage ’90s harking back to when MTV used to show actual rock music videos.

The tunes are both sing along and introspective, and miles away from his debut album Camomile which dealt with Ewan’s issues with extreme anxiety disorder.

Algernon Doll burns a hole straight through the shallow nonsense and Citalo-pop is the sound of something real—Ewan Grant is a proper alt-rock talent who sounds wise beyond his years.

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Peals are composed of William Cashion and Bruce Willen, their individual résumés each essaying prior musical successes which sprang from the fertile environs of the Charm City. And while not at odds, the dissimilar genres of their past achievements sorta predicted that a stylistic merger of their extant work was highly unlikely.

However, it would still be understandable for those familiar, either in part or in full, with the pair’s previous activities to expect some sort of overtly digestible progression from either the brainy synth-pop Cashion deals out as part of Future Islands or the aggressively arty post-hardcore (think McLusky or Wire’s recent output) that was Willen’s specialty via the now defunct Double Dagger.

But interestingly, Peals essentially registers as a clean break from what both of the participants have been up to in the recent past. The biggest surprise isn’t the lack of vocals, for neither Cashion nor Willen were the singing members of the combos listed above. For Willen, the lack of bass is a considerably bigger change in tactics, for he swung the four-stringer rather mightily in a group that lacked any other guitars.

Also notable in the aural scheme of Peals’ debut is the absence of drums or even any percussion devices at all save for a modest tambourine. Both members are credited with guitars, and their shared duties on the instrument provide the biggest portion of Walking Field’s thrust, though the record also employs the utilization of keyboards, field recordings, walkie-talkies, feedback, cello, toy piano, and microphones to complete the totality of its sound.

Thrill Jockey’s press materials for the LP mention both Robin Guthrie of the Cocteau Twins and “the minimalist recordings from the sonic pioneers of the 1970s German scene” as directly inspiring the creation of Walking Field, but the resulting album, while not without moments that mildly recall these associations, is revealed as far less beholden to either influence than might be assumed from a simple perusal of that description.

To tackle the Germanic side of the scenario first, while Peals certainly share in a minimalist outlook that’s similar to the early motions of such groups as Tangerine Dream, Cluster, and Harmonia, there is also an immediately noticeable difference, specifically a missing desire for frequently prog-like, and often ominous, audio sprawl.

In its place comes a considerably tidier orientation coupled with an outlook that while never cloying, can nevertheless be accurately described as engagingly pretty. And this approachability is where the nod to Guthrie is most properly assessed, but in the end Peals’ debut connects much differently from the lush post-Goth spillage of the Cocteau Twins.

If Peals don’t directly rip any pages from that 4AD group’s hefty textbook, or for that matter ransack the multi-volume encyclopedia of Musik Kosmische (i.e. the more abstract, less rhythmically-focused groups corralled under the Krautrock designation) for obvious form moves, they are ultimately much better for it. However, a loose comparison perhaps can be made between Walking Field and Evening Star, the 1976 collaboration between Brian Eno and guitarist Robert Fripp, particularly that LP’s title cut.

It’s surely possible that I’m guilty of awarding a disproportionate level of influence to Evening Star, for I made the same connection regarding last year’s excellent Dreams Say, View, Create, Shadow Leads from Peals’ city/label cohort Dustin Wong. But if so, I can’t shake the reliably glistening lack of abrasion found in the guitar playing of both records.

Not that they sound very much alike. Wong is far more intricate and cyclical, merging the cleanliness of his Fripp-like tone with a method similar to Steve Reich, and if his work contains flashes of Evening Star’s beauty, he instead shapes it into a maximal string-based zone that’s comparable to the personality of yet another Baltimore guy, namely Dan Deacon.

The music presented by Peals does feel more aligned to the actual effects produced by that enduringly stimulating (to these ears, anyway) Fripp-Eno disc, though the two records are actually quite unique. A listener would definitely never mistake one for the other. What they do seem to share is operational undercurrents. And Walking Field actually holds the greater stylistic diversity of the two records.

For right off the bat, “Floating Leaf” formulates a lovely passage of Americana-styled guitar, though it eschews an especially rustic vibe for a shimmering studio-enhanced depth, at least in the cut’s first half. The latter section engages with a drifting abstraction that while never actually ambient, does come within striking distance of Mr. Eno’s aesthetic.

Topping the eight minute mark, “Floating Leaf” is also Walking Field’s longest track, though its change of direction midway through allows it to easily retain conciseness. A rhythmic and indeed drum-like element is a major component of the following piece “Blue Elvis,” and if that appears to be a bait-and-switch from the description detailed above, it’s explained that all percussion sounds on the LP were made through contact with guitars and microphones, and this tactic imbues the music with a unique and rewarding flavor.

While the cadence unwinds with the steady, methodical clack of a machine, due to the objects utilized it can’t escape the aura of a very old, though well-maintained and still quite sturdy piece of equipment. As string-glisten infuses “Blue Elvis” with threads of gorgeous atmosphere, the rhythm’s aged warmth lends a sense of the organic to a work of meticulous studio conception.

Make that studio craftiness, for “Belle Air” contains what at first seems like a duet for wind-chimes and glockenspiel, but is probably toy piano and field recordings. Waves of additional sound also rise and subside as the track unwinds, steadily increasing in assertiveness until the piece becomes a thick, gradually expanding mass of complimentary tones.

“Belle Air” is the farthest that Walking Field travels into the deep weeds of abstraction, but the gesture toward more “outside” terrain does little to derail the record’s momentum. Instead, it provides some agreeable breadth amongst the more graspable facets on display. And “Pendelles,” featuring the resonant, closely-recorded tones of guest Kate Barutha’s cello, manages a further increase in variety while also giving the LP its deepest passage of emotional expressiveness.

“Tiptoes in the Parlor” is a likable though quite brief (under two minutes) tapestry for dual guitar that leads into “Lonestar,” another piece structured around a rhythmic pattern. This time it’s a deliberate loop holding the precision and warmth of a healthy beating heart. Along with judicious injections of keyboard, the melodious guitar lines of the song are the closet Walking Field comes to a low-key post-rock. From there, “Believers” shapes up as an intriguing cloud of minimal Kraut-like expanse that in its final couple minutes gets progressively overtaken by non-disruptive amplifier noise.

With its precisely delivered lines of string splendor and methodically rising intensity (and also featuring Barutha’s second cello guest-spot), “Koan 1” is securely situated as the album’s closer. And it’s a great tune, but its grandeur comes a little too early. With the understandable exception of “Tiptoes in the Parlor,” none of Walking Field’s selections feel individually slight, but the record’s cumulative effect does produce a lingering hunger for additional sustenance.

In pop and rock terms, saying that a LP “leaves ‘em wanting more” is often really just identifying the band’s good sense to not wear out the welcome. That’s not the case here. But Cashion and Willen have both arrived at this very promising new juncture from a pop/rock sphere, so perhaps they have just cautiously elected to not weaken their debut with the padding of lesser material.

And that’s cool. Walking Field can thusly be best described as a delicious appetizer, and hopefully they’ll be bringing a satisfying second course to the turntable in the not too distant future.

GRADED ON A CURVE:
B+

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Over the course of eight studio albums—none of which, to be honest, I like from beginning to end—The Dandy Warhols have bequeathed us scads of cool, Britpop-influenced grooves like the beautiful “Good Morning,” “Smoke It” (best song about weed EVER), the positively hypnotic “Godless,” the catchy “Big Indian,” and “Holding Me Up,” which may just be the most ecstatically propulsive song to come our way since, well, The Dandy Warhol’s “The Creep Out.” And like I always say, “Hard on For Jesus” should be America’s National Anthem, if only because I’d love to hear that turd in a ten-gallon hat Toby Keith sing it.

In short, The Dandy Warhols are a great band with great songs, and I’m not saying that just because I’ve had a decade-plus crush on keyboardist Zia McCabe, which certainly has nothing to do with her going topless in the “Boys Better” video. And The Dandys have range: their songs run the gamut from pop (“Boys Better,” “Bohemian Like You”) to more experimental tunes (“A Loan Tonight,” “Pete International Airport”). They sing, “Everyday Should Be a Holiday.” Well, every day IS a holiday with The Dandy Warhols around. We should all stay home from work and listen to “Godless” and take “Horse Pills” and go into a trance. It sure beats watching Antique Roadshow, that’s for damn certain.

I’m not crazy about The Dandy’s latest LP, 2012’s This Machine, but it doesn’t matter much; they’re not touring to play it. Instead they’re doing the latest “thing,” namely playing a classic Dandys’ album in its entirety, in this case the Millenium Year’s Thirteen Tales from Urban Bohemia. I would have preferred 1997’s …The Dandy Warhol’s Come Down, but since when do these prima donna rock star types let the “little guy” like me make their major decisions for them?

Anyway, be sure to be at the 9:30 Club on Saturday May 29 to hear The Dandy Warhols play songs like “Get Off” and “Shakin’,” not to mention whatever songs they may throw in after they’ve finished playing Thirteen Tales From Urban Bohemia. I’m praying for “Lou Weed” and “Holding Me Up,” which I intend to dance to, wooden leg or no. Like Mike says in Dazed and Confused, “I wanna dance!” And I don’t care if I have to be flat on the floor to do it.

Enter to win a pair of tickets for next Thursday’s show (5/29) by regaling us in the comments below with the Dandy’s song you’d most want to hear outside of anything on 13 Tales—because you’re going to hear all of those. We’ll choose one winner for the pair this Friday, 5/24!

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When discussing an interstellar spaceship manned only by modern electronic music’s musical elite, there’s no guesswork involved with what voice would be heard over the intercom saying “This is your captain speaking.” Of course it’d be none other than the funky vocoder stylings of Daft Punk.

The duo who pioneered digital disco are back yet again with today’s release of their highly anticipated 4th record, Random Access Memories. They’ve released a teaser video for the packaging, causing every lover of their catchy rhythms to drool uncontrollably.

Random Access Memories has been highly buzzed about through the past few months, and for good reason. Sans their original soundtrack to Disney’s Tron, it’s their first major effort in eight years, with 2005′s Human After All hitting store shelves well before the Kanye West Grammy appearance and the blogosphere’s more or less unanimous acceptance of Daft Punk as the electronic overlords. Not only that, the record is packed with collaborations, some relatively predictable like house producer Todd Edwards, and some way out of left field like Animal Collective’s Panda Bear.

The past few weeks have seen several of these mini-docs about the collaborative process of working with the Punks, as well as the full release of the first single “Get Lucky” (ft. Pharrell Williams).

With the album looming overhead, there have been a lot of expectations to meet that Daft Punk will predictably tackle with ease. The vinyl is on store shelves now.

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The Doors were big for me when I was a teenager. They’re still big with teenagers and it’s not difficult to figure out why—they sing about death and love and sex and the death of love and sex. They talk about little gateways to bliss, about politics, and Oedipal conflicts, and booze and drugs and the city and the night. When you’re young you feel the Doors music.

The Doors are still big for me. I’m prone to going on long listening jags as an elixir to boredom or depression, even writing rambling diatribes about such things. I still feel the Doors music, but that’s because I felt it when I was young. Some of it has been watered down from the pulverized horse-corpse of classic rock rotations and bar bands toasting at the altar of “I woke up this morning and I got myself a beer.” And whatever to that. It’s all part of the legacy. Morrison as the drunken buffoon is certainly a large asterisk in their history as are the two post-Jim records, Other Voices and Full Circle.

But as much as it was/is Morrison on the magazines and t-shirts and covers of endless re-packaged Greatest Hits releases, it was also very much Ray’s band. Hunched over his Vox Continental like a man quietly possessed while keeping the bass with his right hand on a Fender Rhodes, he was the steady line throughout the songs while the rest of the band smashed, and screamed, and screeched over his foundation.

When I was going through my First Great Golden Era of the Doors during the second half of my high school years, I went through a stretch of buying interview discs, mostly alleged “imports” with jacked up prices. Many of these featured clips of Morrison interviews coupled with more recent interviews with the rest of the band reflecting on their history. The track and time listing on one read as follows:

Jim Morrison Interview – 5:13
Robby Krieger Interview – 11:47
John Densmore Interview – 19:01
Ray Manzarek Interview – 33:52

Ray could talk. He was enthusiastic. He was philosophical. Spiritual. He may have even been a little nuts. He dabbled in epic levels of hyperbole when he’d talk about Morrison as an “electric shaman” who “re-invented the gods.” He’d describe parts of songs with words like “oogga-dunt-dunt” and “chunka-dunka.” In his book Light My Fire he talked about how he separated Jim Morrison, the sensitive poet who was his friend, from “Jimbo” Morrison’s persona when he was drunk. Also in that book he railed against the accuracy of Oliver Stone’s film about the group where he and the rest of the band were essentially depicted as being along for the ride on Morrison’s death march towards Rock-God enshrinement.

That might be the reason why in the last 15 to 20 years there has been an enormous amount of output from a band that was only together for 7 years. There’ve been feature-length documentaries narrated by Johnny Depp, and smaller ones for TV about the making of their eponymous debut album, and L.A. Woman their final album with Morrison, live recordings of full shows in Vancouver, Boston, and Pittsburgh just to name a few, as well as a performance from their early days at the Matrix in San Francisco, vinyl-box sets, rarities discs, and the list goes on. Ray himself even directed videos for “The Crystal Ship” and “L.A. Woman.” People are still into the Doors and Ray was a driving force in keeping the people interested.

But in the last decade things got a little, well, um strange. Ray and Robby started the Doors of the 21st Century with Ian Astbury from the Cult. No Densmore. Stuart Copeland from the Police was going to play drums for them. But then he wasn’t. Lawsuits with Densmore and Copeland followed. The band eventually became Manzarek-Krieger, and after a revolving door (pun intended) of singers, was fronted by Dave Brock who previously sung for a Doors tribute band. One of the lawsuits Densmore brought against Ray and Robby was about using the name “The Doors.” Morrison’s estate joined Densmore in the suit which was ruled in their favor. Densmore also sued Ray and Robby to block using “Break on Through” in a Cadillac commercial after they were offered $15 million. He released a book last month about these legal battles with his former band mates.

And whatever to all of that. It’s all epilogue to what was a great American rock band. The Doors made eight albums in seven years. Whether they contributed to tearing some of their legacy down by continuing without Morrison, touring with replacement singers, and entertaining commercial offers for their music is debatable. They remain a band people want to know about. For all of Manzarek’s eagerness to wax poetically nostalgic they continue to be mysterious.

It’s true a lot of that is the allure of Morrison’s dead-Adonis persona forever popping up in the ether as a poster boy for the good-looking-corpse crowd, but at the end of the day it’s the music. That beautiful dark music, floating on the thick night air or the sleazy blues kick-starters that make you drive a little faster in the summer. All that romantic nonsense.

Ray Manzarek was the spine of the Doors and though he did other things in his life—solo albums, collaborations with jazz musicians and beat poets, producing material for Iggy Pop and X, that’s the reason why I’m awake at 1 a.m. writing about him.

I can’t imagine it not getting frustrating talking about a 6 or 7 year stretch of your life from 40+ years ago, over and over again, and I’m not sure what I would have asked him on the phone that day if I’d gotten the chance but I’m sure he would have had a nice, long answer.

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Here at TVD HQ, music arrives daily. By the minute, by the hour, perhaps too much. So, when asked to premiere a track, the thinking is well, this really needs to be outstanding. Which is why we’re delighted to premiere “The Salt” from San Francisco’s There’s Talk. Because it is. Outstanding.—Ed.

“The first time I heard a record on vinyl wasn’t a fidelity explosion or an old classic that I’d grown up listening to with my parents. It was at a friend’s house, on a small plastic turntable with a built in speaker. I stared at the spinning, proceeding to listen until the repetition of silence snapped me out of my entrancement by the sorcery of it all. I thought then that I’d been doing it wrong all along.”

“In fact, I probably listened to music the backwards way growing up—mostly highly compressed singles and samples until a band intrigued me into exploring their catalog properly. Death Cab for Cutie was probably one of the first to get me to practice otherwise. That band got me through some shit. I remember closing my child eyes to Transatlanticism, thinking, “This is what heartbreak must feel like.”

Had I’d known of future heart-wrenching to punch me in the throat from For Emma, Forever Ago, I’d have warmed up with some Elliot Smith and a tub of ice cream. I’m convinced Justin Vernon sings on the borderline inaudible with intent, as if to make it an option for you—that if you cared to listen deeply enough you could take him in steps when ready, allowing yourself eventually to become fully disarmed. That and he probably wouldn’t want to scare you away so soon.

I also remember Bjork (circa swan dress days) really opening my eyes to the power of honest eccentricity. It’s as if every beat, shout, and stutter is a feeling spoken in tongues. As did Sufjan Stevens. Illinois was one of the first records I had the pleasure to revisit on vinyl and it blew my mind.

I had this dream of pressing my first release on vinyl. It’s hard to say exactly why. It’s probably not a smart investment. I just thought it would be important and I wanted to allow someone that ritualistic experience and encourage listening all the way through.

I don’t know, if it doesn’t work out at least I’ll have a couple boxes of records to remind me that I dared to dream, once.”
—Olivia Lee, There’s Talk

There’s Talk debut EP, “Tiny Strands” will be released in July 2013.

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“My mother recounts growing up in the 60s and 70s in the Cayman Islands where the rest of the world seemed like a distant dream and records were a rare treasure, brought home by the men at sea and visitors from far away. She danced to the sounds of Harry Belafonte, The Beach Boys, and Bob Marley.

Meanwhile, my father was a teenager in war-torn Lebanon, saving up for his first record player. He couldn’t afford to purchase the whole thing at once, so he bought it in pieces. First came an Akai turntable which sat there for nearly a month while he and his brother saved up for the amplifier and speakers. Abba, The Bee Gees, and Baccara were among his best-loved records, as well as Boney M.’s hit single “Rasputin” which he adored, partly because it was banned in Russia. He and his brother would play their favorite tracks over and over again until my grandmother yelled at them to change the song.

At home, in a small mountain village overlooking Beirut, my father sought peace and refuge between fighting at the front line. It’s painful to imagine him at fifteen, a child soldier caught in the midst of a civil war. But during periods of ceasefire he would return home and join his friends at a house party. With a disco ball setting the scene, kids would bring bags of their favorite records to play. Once the Walkman came out they could bring the disco with them to the frontline. While my father waited behind sandbags with the other boys, he listened to mix-tapes of Tom Jones, The Bee Gees, Charles Aznavour, Chris de Burgh, and Fairuz. “When you put the Walkman in your ears you went to another world…” he says with a smile.

When I listen to his stories I am reminded of the immense power music has to lift the soul from suffering. I imagine those young boys bobbing their heads to “Stayin’ Alive” on their Walkmans as they envisioned themselves elsewhere; perhaps at a disco party.

My parents met at university in Texas, and afterwards they moved back to the Cayman Islands where I was raised. Although it had changed dramatically from when my mother was young, it was still “the Island that time forgot” in so many ways. I played on the beach and immersed myself in music. Throughout high school, I dreamed of travel and music was my ticket through which I discovered the world. I remember finding a few dusty records my parents had but never had a way to play them.

Instead, I spent hours playing classical piano and listening through my CDs and cassette tapes. When I graduated, my wanderlust and desire to learn took me far from home and I haven’t stopped moving since. I spent the first couple years studying theatre in New York City, and then I went on to Cardiff University in Wales where I got my Bachelor of Arts degree in Music. After traveling and living on “the old continent” I moved to San Diego, California where the adventure continues.

The years I spent abroad gave me an enormous appreciation for my parents and the peaceful childhood I had in Cayman. Those old records, which perplexed me as a child, now hold an entirely different meaning. It’s easy to take for granted the music on an endless play-list, which mindlessly plays in the background as I go through my day to day. But I’m grateful to have rediscovered an art to listening.

The ceremony of playing a record now is a beautiful thing. When I gather with friends to place the needle on the vinyl, I remember my mother and my father and their music. As the record spins in the fast pace-motion of today’s technology, we slow down and lose ourselves in the music and the great escape.”
—Natasha Kozaily

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Australia’s been a major hub of unkempt rock action for decades. Obviously there was AC/DC and before that The Easybeats, but the continent also produced two of the finest bands in first generation ‘70s punk in Radio Birdman and The Saints, both forming in ’74 and helping to make the movement much more than just a US/UK phenomenon.

Not long after, word began spreading over The Birthday Party and The Scientists, those groups simply being the breakout representatives of an impressive wave of post-punk activity that was occurring in their home locale. It became clear rather quickly that anybody desiring global knowledge over the entirety of the rock impulse needed to keep an ear open to happenings taking place down Oz way.

As the ‘80s progressed, such a massive spurt of Aussie records were given coverage in the era’s burgeoning fanzine press that it became impossible for anyone save the most indefatigable consumers to keep track of it all. A few of those groups, The Lime Spiders, Died Pretty, and Exploding White Mice to name but three, ended up distributed or signed to US or UK labels, but for anyone not residing in the land Down Under the vast majority remained import-only affairs. Unsurprisingly, some of the period’s best Australian noise remained solidly underground.

While the ‘90s saw a massive increase in bands and scenes from all over this spinning green orb, those once overwhelming streams of Oz punk/garage/scuzz slowed to a trickle. Things were likely still taking place on the home shores, but the country’s exports were almost completely defined by mainstream or Alternative sensibilities. Yes, there was the Dirty Three, but while an exceptional instrumental combo, they don’t really fall into the style/tradition detailed above.

And that condition spread right into the new millennium, with the lack of Aussie-sourced sonic grunt being enough to inspire recollections of that whole ‘80s deluge as considerably more than just maddening prolificacy, but instead as a real lost era. However, around ’07 or so came word of a young band named Eddy Current Suppression Ring, and seeking them out made it clear that Australia’s urge for unruly rock wasn’t dormant.

Eddy Current Suppression Ring found a US home in Goner Records of Memphis, and it wasn’t long before two more Oz acts, Naked on the Vague and Circle Pit, were given stateside releases via Philadelphia’s Siltbreeze label. Things were indeed looking up. And just last year the same imprint issued Go Easy from Brisbane’s Blank Realm.

If you missed out on that record at the time, please trust me that you weren’t alone. But don’t fret, for the fine UK label Fire Records has saw fit to provide it with a fresh vinyl pressing and a substantial increase in visibility. Blank Realm has actually been around for quite a while, entering their sixth year of existence with a slew of cassettes, CD-Rs, and LPs to their credit, but non-Aussies not attuned to the Not Not Fun label very likely missed out on most or all of the band’s progressions up ‘til recently.

The group is composed of two brothers and a sister, Daniel (vocals/drums), Luke (bass), and Sarah (synths/vocals) Spencer, with Luke Walsh (guitar/engineering) completing the lineup. Based on a casual first impression, the foursome seems to be tapping into a definite ‘90s indie vibe, a circumstance that’s only deepened by the comparisons between the band and the early/mid-‘90’s recordings issued by Royal Trux, notably ‘92’s Untitled, ‘93’s Cats and Dogs and perhaps even ‘95’s Thank You.

This connection is certainly evident in Blank Realm’s sound, most immediately through the disheveled, at times heavy-lidded orientation of their delivery. But it’s also tangible in the vocals of Sarah Spencer, her voice nudging toward the inflection of Royal Trux’s Jennifer Herrema. Interestingly, this isn’t the first instance of a Trux-like similarity to come wafting out of Oz in the recent past, for Sydney’s Circle Pit have also brought the sound of Herrema and Neil Haggerty to mind.

There are substantive differences between the two, however. On Bruise Constellation, Circle Pit often idled at a whacked-out intersection of punk and glam, but Blank Realm are again far more attuned to the ‘90s. They even conjure the thrust of Sonic Youth on Go Easy’s opener “Acting Strange,” with Sarah’s singing just as remindful of Kim Gordon as it is Herrema.

It’s far from any kind of brazen form cop, though. The song quickly locates a menacing tone that’s similar to what San Fran’s Thee Oh See’s have been up to lately, and the synth-lines even managed to bring pleasant thoughts of Pere Ubu’s Allen Ravenstine to mind. And if they score big points right out of the gate for subtle erudition, then considerable extra credit is awarded for following it up with “Cleaning up My Mess,” a superb slab of messy pop that sprawls out to over seven minutes in length.

It’s a fantastic tune that never wears out its welcome. To the contrary, after well over a dozen listens, it actually feels too short. And when heard in succession with the scrappy “Working on Love,” the band really begins to inhabit a territory that’s congruent with the more ambitious side of contemporary garage-rock. Not just Thee Oh Sees, but Ty Segall and White Fence even.

“Growing Inside” (and a fair amount of Go Easy overall) can maybe be summed up as what Royal Trux might’ve sounded like if they’d ever actually attempted a pop-phase; in a nutshell, catchy and messed-up. But what Blank Realm share most with Royal Trux is a real savvy underneath the addled surface. For starters, the way “Cleaning up My Mess” flows so smoothly out of the antsy rocking of “Acting Strange” is far from merely luck or accident.

Furthermore, the two parts of “The Crackle,” easily the most “out” passages on the record, are far from unfocused flailing. Observing the track listing on the back cover before playing the record, I casually wondered why the sections weren’t divided on the LP’s opposing sides. But after digesting them, the reasoning became obvious.

“The Crackle, Part 2” only really works when heard as an uninterrupted continuation of its first portion, and soaking up their combined strangeness reinforced just how much thought, talent, and effort actually went into the making of Go Easy. Following this is “Pendulum Swing,” which combines the band’s grasp of catchy songwriting with their penchant for garage-based atmospheres while simultaneously providing a showcase for some frazzled guitar dynamics and wicked dollops of synth residue.

The expertly executed Stonesian slouch of the title track, the song brimming with an attitude of cool resignation, closes out an excellent record. And due to the low press-run scarcity of Blank Realm’s earlier material, Go Easy will likely impact many observers as an unusually impressive debut, but scouring the internet for evidence of their prior work, specifically the Heartless Ark LP, the Dirty Ark cassette, and the “Déjà What?” EP (which is available on Spotify), has revealed some real developmental strides in the group’s background.

Those prior motions can be assessed as very worthy u-ground murk with digressions into off-center pop, but Go Easy is a confident step onto a larger plateau, the advance achieved without sacrificing the verve that made such an interesting proposition in the first place. So it’s no surprise the record’s been attached to three different labels in just two years (its domestic release was handled by Aussie imprint Bedroom Suck).

Very frequently when listening to a record, a song will arise and immediately reveal its destiny as the consensus “hit” of the platter. That’s not the case here. Understandably, lots of folks are currently celebrating the odd pop of “Cleaning up My Mess,” but from where I’m listening, Go Easy has four more cuts out of a grand total of eight that are just as strong.

And that’s a downright impressive feat. Due to the surface familiarity of their sound, Blank Realm is likely to be underrated a bit, but with this LP they’ve charted a fresh entry in the annals of Australia’s rocking history, and that’s a circumstance deserving of generous praise.

GRADED ON A CURVE:
A-

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The five-piece band is composed of Thomas Johnson, Carter King, Dennis Love, Brannen Miles, and Daniel Womack. Formed in 2008, Futurebirds gained a fan following and a record deal through their first, self-titled EP released the following year. The next couple of years saw a few more releases for the up-and-coming quartet, ultimately leading to the release of their full-length album, Baba Yaga.

Futurebirds has constantly been on tour, expanding their fan base and earning the cache to create and release albums. It’s 2013, and they just kicked off a new tour to promote the long-awaited, second full-length album, the aforementioned Baba Yaga. As part of their cross-country tour, the psychedelic five-piece is making a stop at the 9:30 Club on May 23, and we’ve got a pair of tickets to give away!

“It was a long and painstaking process trying to get this album out…” —Carter King

Recorded in 45 days of studio time, spread over a seven month period, Baba Yaga has indeed been long-awaited. From recording and selecting thirteen out of the thirty recorded songs to put onto the record, to deciding on the record’s name, Futurebirds’ release was far from easy. The tough experience, however, proved to be a good thing for the band, helping them develop creatively and musically.

The band named their newest album after a child-eating witch from Slavic folklore. Creepy. 

To win tickets to see Futurebirds at the 9:30 Club on May 23, leave a comment below naming a folklore/fairy tale character that gave/gives you the creeps. Mine would have to be the old hag from Snow White. Yes, I’m talking about the one in the Disney movie. She was straight-up terrifying!

The winner will be chosen at noon on Wednesday, May 22. If you don’t win them from us, you can still purchase tickets.

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“Mix tapes were what was happening and that was way more work than just flipping a record! I do remember that stack of vinyl hidden away in the cabinet though. I think it went something like Van Morrison, Bread, and maybe CSNY. I’m not known for my sharp memory, but now, if you come to my house you’ll see a turntable and a pretty sizable collection of vinyl. So when did that happen?

In college, my boyfriend had come into a huge collection of vinyl that belonged to a DJ, but whose angry girlfriend threw out on the street when they broke up. Somehow that DJ didn’t come and claim it and we got to keep it. It must have been hundreds of 12”s and even more 45s with stuff like Linda Rondstadt and Billy Joel, a lot of hip hop, and more music than I ever got to listen to.

He had one of those beautiful furniture piece record players that, of course, didn’t work, but he had a record player set up on top of it. Listening to vinyl was a special thing. Taking the time to pick something out, take it out of its cover, carefully place it on the player, and put the needle on it was like a ceremony. Then, hearing that crackle and pop. These may not have been the first times I listened to vinyl, but these were what got me started going to record stores and buying vinyl.

Picking up and holding vinyl was so much cooler than a CD and even the beloved cassette tape. It was this big beautiful piece of artwork that made listening to music a tangible thing, an experience. Vinyl makes sharing music with your friends so much more special too, well, if you have the kinds of friends that I do. I have a friend who actually holds vinyl listening parties where everyone brings their own vinyl and then, we take turns putting on song after song. We sit there and we listen to each song carefully and then we talk about the music that we just listened to. That kind of party turns vinyl into a religion.

The most special occasion I remember purchasing vinyl was at a record store in Portland, Oregon whose name I sadly can’t recall. Go figure. Anyway, I was on tour with my band Balthrop, Alabama and I was writing a lot of songs on the road for my girl group to be The Bandana Splits.

We had already worked out a cover of this song by a ’60s British girl group called The Caravelles. The song was “You Don’t Have to Be a Baby to Cry,” and it was perfect. So, after brunch one day, we were strolling around, and we popped into this record store. I had been on the hunt for a Ronettes record, which I didn’t find until much much later. I was flipping through the girl group 45s section when I came upon not just one but three copies of The Caravelles’ single, “You Don’t Have to Be Baby to Cry.”

Who knows what they were doing there, but I believe that “religion” I call vinyl, sent them there for me to find.”
—Lauren Balthrop

Dear Georgiana’s debut record is released today, May 20th, on Tummy Touch Records.

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