Sharon Van Etten – I Wish I Knew

The wonderful thing about lurking in the background as a wayward, traffic-oblivious music website is the freedom to idolize lingering obsessions some six months or more after their initial discovery.

Sharon Van Etten’s forlorn ruminations spent the better part of winter idly swinging their legs from the speakers and turntables of everyone who’d managed to get their hands on them. Etten’s collection of melancholy folk songs, candidly titled Because I Was In Love, comes across as the ultimate exercise in self-preservation.

“I Wish I Knew” has no home, no shoes, is frayed cuffs and stems; the subdued strumming and doleful timbre do well to paint it as the type of inward reflection born of dissipation. As such, it comes as little surprise when, just shy of the finish line, Etten’s voice starts to teeter, the warbled melody aimless, the integrity of the track suddenly compromised.

“Haunting” may be as overused an adjective in music journalism as “chanteuse” is as a noun. As much as I’d like to ascribe these titles to Etten, her music leaps between both too often to truly be either, pitting the ghostly, multilayered vocals of “For You” against the unwavering clarity of “I Wish I Knew,” respectively.

Regardless, Etten’s shortcomings are minimal. Yes, even a year later.

[Myspace]

Land Of Talk – Corner Phone

Nestled among contemporary music journalism’s gravest shortcomings lies an inability to discuss distortion-loving female singer-songwriters unapologetically.

In lieu of objective criticism, we dedicate hours to justifying the shortcomings of popular female acts while relegating others to digital obscurity. Praise comes easily enough when we strike upon women releasing one devastating song after another, and we happily fete those who excel at the uncommon, say by straddling harps or by boasting perpetually bewildered, doe-eyed expressions. Now granted, some of these performers occasionally walk the musical middle ground between tempestuous and demure, but even then, it’s only a smattering of women actively sidestepping the pop/electro/acoustic-train-to-Sad-Town.

Despite the rash of lauded lo-fi records released by women of late, how often do these artists actually manage to breach their devoted niche audiences? Some would say very. People are ravenous for Best Coast; Dum Dum Girls are opening for Beach House and Vampire Weekend; Coasting, Brooklyn’s latest insufferable girl duo, even opened for The Clean. I get it, really. Fuzzy women are A-OK. But is that it? Is an opening slot the most one can aspire to these days as a non-major frontwoman with inclinations toward the raucous?

Two years have passed since insightful reviews championing the efforts of guitar behemoth Marnie Stern flooded the Internet. Perhaps the dearth I lament is only a temporary lull. Or perhaps I should resign myself to a likely correlation between diminishing opportunities for nurturing artists with an ever-fragmenting critical landscape.

An overall waning interest in rock remains as much a culprit as the lack of coverage of its proponents. After all, a few of the latter admittedly continue to exist, though it would appear we’ve sacrificed our interest in discussing the content produced by today’s women of rock in favor of discussing the context in which it appears, either visually or temporally.

Canada’s Land Of Talk is a band who would have owned college radio back in its heyday. As you may have noticed, they’re loud. And catchy. And technically capable. The founding members met in a jazz program (note to jazz musicians: you, too, can start a successful indie rock band). And yes, while lead singer Elizabeth Powell’s attractiveness certainly isn’t hindering the band, I’d never cite it as the primary cause for the considerable admiration and respect Land Of Talk have garnered over the past few years.

For others, the throwbacks will have to do. The bland harmonies under repetitive power chords? Well, they’ll have to do as well, I guess. But please, someone tell me when a woman who’d actually pick up an electric guitar and play it — one who’d sing into a microphone and ultimately do her best to craft a quality song that was, above all else, hers — morphed into some nonexistent mythical figure. What confluence of events could have possibly brought us here, where the most we seem capable of asking female rockers is a glimpse at the past and a set of cute bangs?

I can understand how decades’ worth of undocumented female jazz instrumentalists may have led to the current lack of renown female performers within that genre; everyone needs someone of their likeness to admire. With rock, however, somewhere along the way things just died.

Rock had The Slits. It had Sleater-Kinney and Electrelane. It had Kim Gordon of Sonic Youth.

Not to mention the non-white female guitarists.

Despite what Elle may have led you to believe with its recent, all-pasty edition of The 12 Greatest Female Electric Guitarists, there have been countless rocking women of color who, unsurprisingly, remain largely unknown. If you’ve never heard Sister Rosetta Tharpe, I highly suggest viewing the video below.

It’s difficult to avoid feeling as though a new, critically-imposed/hype-driven glass ceiling has formed for musicians of all backgrounds, one kept in place by authoritative sources repeatedly failing to discern spectacle from substance.

That said, at the end of the day, thank God for Blonde Redhead. And Marnie Stern. And Brilliant Colors. And Shannon and the Clams. And for others I’m not partial to but respect (e.g. Screaming Females). And for all the unknowns who deserve better than our ignorance of them.

And, yes, obviously for Land of Talk.

Say what you will about the charming nature of the Vivian Girls, Dum Dum Girls, and, hey, even Brooklyn’s burgeoning Girls at Dawn, I have a hard time imagining anyone caring to debate the matter of these bands’ authenticity. Shannon and the Clams may harp on the sixties as well, but if you can’t hear the difference between Shannon’s “The Warlock In The Woods” and 90% of her contemporaries’ material we’ve likely reached an impasse.

Here We Go Magic – Collector

How would it sound if Broken Social Scene and The New Pornographers didn’t spend half their albums jerking off? Like the start of the new Here We Go Magic album, which, I’m sorry to report, proceeds to spend seven-tenths of its total running time jerking off. “Collector” remains a standout track. “Land Of Feeling” would as well were it not for a synth-induced identity crisis encountered at its halfway mark.

Well, OK, Brooklyn.

[Here We Go Magic on Myspace]

(Some track intros are too long. This one, for example, but the rest is gold.)

A Weather – Spiders, Snakes

It comes with the rain, usually. Or from the motel tap. Your gas station coffee. The sneeze on your shoulder. The mud on your boots. Socks inverted, reverted, tossed in the trunk. There, on the holes in the linens. Against the hum of lights. Between the pushpins in your office. On your neighbor’s squeaking mattress. Under your mother’s missed call. Even on the floss half-hanging from the rubbish, not yours.

There, near the highway, by the gravel, times to think are the worst times to think; one should never stare idly at their own front door, either of them. Tonight a plastic keyring. Free porn on the television set. The motel tap. Again. The mud on your boots. Your gas station coffee. That slipping of things, when it comes. Sometimes with the rain. Today in the post. A key and a doormat. A note: I hated none of you, I loved you all at the time.

[Myspace]

Francis And The Lights – A Modern Promise

Francis And The Lights are set to seduce several hundred people play New York City’s Bowery Ballroom this Thursday, May 13th. There may be rioting. Going off previous concerts, there will be squealing (and lots of it).

Bringing the camera, though I doubt it will capture anything as spectacular as the video above.

Push play, buy tickets.

[Francis and the Lights, Twitter]

Idiot Glee – All Packed Up

See the man with the keyboards? That man is Idiot Glee — hands down the most promising act I saw at this year’s SXSW .

Which probably means he, one James Friley of Kentucky, is DOOMED, destined to be buried under the weight of Panda Bear/Grizzly Bear/BrianBearWilson comparisons for the remainder of his “post-doo wop” career.

For those of you who were lucky enough to grab tickets to the Chris Knox benefit tonight, congratulations. I highly encourage everyone else to visit Cake Shop and enjoy one of the best $3-shows this year has to offer.

If “All Packed Up” is any indication of what’s to come, what have you got to lose?

Note: OK. You could lose $3, but the chances are slim, friend. Very.

[Buy Idiot Glee's 7" EP on Hop Hop, Myspace]

Thomas Function – Snake In The Grass

The voluminous praise for Huntsville, Alabama’s Thomas Function dwelling on this site sports nods of approval hailing from indisputably reputable zines (Dusted and All Music Guide, to name but a few).

I finally had the pleasure of watching Thomas Function at New York City’s Cake Shop last Thursday. Overall? Enjoyable. Are they talented? Yes. Fun? Sure. Anthemic? Occasionally. Though from what I gathered speaking with other bloggers, the band’s played better shows, the recent departure of their keyboardist notwithstanding.

“Snake In The Grass,” from 2008′s wont-you-please-stop-calling-this-a-punk-record Celebration LP, represents everything that’s right with Thomas Function: Beer + Women + Energetic Yelps wrapped in southern goodness.

Trust me, this one you’ll enjoy.

[Buy Celebration, Myspace]

No Monster Club – A Morbid Fascination

It is after noon. Hours past, in fact. It may even be night by most standards; at the very least let us agree to call this not-day, not by much, anyway. The sun could also be setting, though of this I am less certain than of the nightness of the hour. Who can say? Surely not you. You could be night, wherever you are. Or, as the case may be, regrettably morning.

I will leave work shortly. I may grab charcoal for the grill once the cats are fed. You may bring something simple home. Chicken? I should like to shower first. You may want to bathe after the groceries are sorted away and dated. If, by some slim chance, I shower and then you bathe, the water may be too cold, again, like that one time. Of the things you’ve made clear? The water should always be warm.

Though you may opt to not bathe beforehand, after you get home and before I grill, which seems unlikely, but a possibility nonetheless. I may reconsider this chicken situation altogether should you choose to bathe later. After all, we could always order in. You might be up for Chinese, even if, as you say, “This isn’t fucking Toronto.”

I am nearer Toronto than you, and as one here, now, in almost-not-day/could-very-well-be-night, I wouldn’t mind Chinese.

Breakfast seems a safe bet. I could make waffles. A waffle feast, though it appears I’ve only batter enough for four squares. Rubbish. What feast is four for two unless burritos are involved? Will you bring chicken home from the grocery? We could have both, you know. Chicken and waffles. I could grab the charcoal for the grill. This may prove too much. Things could spiral out of control, maple syrup chicken skin in places one would least expect.

It might be better if you picked something up. Is there still time? I should probably turn the waffle iron off. What’s on your way home nowadays? I could place an order at the diner down the street. I could pick it up myself, the water would be warm, and you could bathe after feeding the cats. You may have arrived before my return, however. Of the things you’ve made clear? This one we both know well. We could go together, if you wanted, if I waited a few hours for it to be night here, really night, so that you may grab something if there’s a diner near where you live, where it’s also night, I think, or at least it should be for us both for a time.

Things could be good. You could always be almost here in not-day, again, if you wanted that is; I know, trust me, I can feel it. That goodness. A little bit. At least for a while.

It’s always for a little while, anyhow.

[No Monster Club Myspace, Blog]

A new series dedicated to the artists I consider particularly salient. They’re the reason I began writing about music in the first place; with any luck, they’ll be why I start writing about it again.

So Cow – Shut Eye

I once described So Cow as lo-fi, punk-rooted pop deeply devoted to infectious vocal melodies and earnest lyrics. The man, Brian Kelly, also happens to play guitar well enough.

But the reason why so many of my music-loving peers and I have sung Kelly’s praises for the past year (or longer) lies in his inexhaustible ability to make quality music about chasing, and having, and losing, and falling for girls sound so unbelievably far removed from juvenile rumination.

While pining isn’t the sole focus of Kelly’s work, his interactions (or lack thereof) with women clearly acts as a recurring theme across his two recent LPs, 2009′s excellent So Cow and this year’s Meaningless Friendly.

This entry does not serve to criticize either of these efforts. Suffice it to say So Cow’s musical aesthetic resonates with my personal philosophy of what music, exceptional or mediocre, should be first and foremost. That songs were meant to be played. That, when recorded, even awkward would-be romances and recapped defeats should be cause for jubilation on the strength of their having existed at all.

I can respect a multi-instrumentalist who sits in his room, jumping from pick, to sticks, to pencil in an attempt to arrange himself before a microphone and belt out a dry mix of the noteworthy events in his life. In truth, I’m perplexed by an emotionally-driven musician who appears to have no need for metaphor, musically or lyrically, despite an earlier track suggesting otherwise.

Ultimately, So Cow is noisy, bashful vivacity. It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest to discover each of his songs started as a hum on a street corner on some ordinary, rain-soaked afternoon.

[Myspace]

The Mint Chicks – Hot On Your Heels

Something unprecedented happened over the past five years to significantly alter the way we consume music. End of story.

Music journalist Chris Dahlen sums it up best:

“[My friend and I] love to fight about new music. I’ll condense his argument for the sake of space: he hates it. It’s too hyped and too derivative, there are too many artists choking the stuff out and slapping it on MySpace, and the Internet – and especially publications like Pitchfork – are aiding and abetting the glut, because they need something to write about.”

Music enthusiasts have discussed these culprits ad infinitum: the lamentable segue from critical music journalism to obligatory database upkeep across authoritative sources; a decrease in production value; low barriers to entry for people who want to make music, high barriers to entry for musicians who want to make money.

Adverts as the new radio; pop as 21st century heroin for jazz.

I am making a documentary about the state of music and our relationship to it — not the industry, not the musicians — just you + music and what that equals these days, where it takes you, what the new variables are, and what this means for music as art as well as commodity.

On March 10th I embark on a 15-day road trip to this end. The documentary will focus primarily on the “indie music scene,” but before you balk, consider that our inability to coin a phrase capable of better describing the environment we inhabit is only one of many issues.

Chris Miller and Tom Williams, both music journalists, as well as Sarah Mulligan, a photojournalist, will join me on this expedition. Tom and Sarah are drafting a novel and coffee table book of photographs, respectively. Chris will assist with the documentary and pursue his own jazz-related research.

Our itinerary includes New York City, Richmond, Chapel Hill, Athens (GA), New Orleans, Austin, Monterrey (Mexico), and Nashville; we are attending the SXSW and MtyMx festivals.

Further information about the trip can be found on the project’s Tumblr page, which the four of us will update regularly over the coming weeks.

Stay tuned, and thanks for your support.

RH

PS Don’t worry. “Indie Means I’d Rather Have My Songs Played In Commercials, Making Money, Than On The Radio Making Squat” won’t be the documentary’s actual title.