| CD Reviews | |||||
A record comprised of a singer and an acoustic guitar is a risky thing. There is nothing for the artist to hide behind. No way to place the blame on low production values, no overdubs, nothing. It’s a bare-bones affair and if not handled properly it can be a disaster. When it works, however, it is something that will stick with the listener for a long time. I can still remember what I thought the first time I heard John Fettes almost half a year ago. Plain and simple it was: “Holy crap, this is good.” Armed with an acoustic guitar and a fresh tenor voice the fresh-out-of-high school Fettes shows a knack for song writing and lyrics that you wouldn’t even expect from someone twice his age. “I want to wear the shoes they advertise and drink the beer that satisfies, wave the flags and be in big parades and never ever get old; just retro,” Fettes sings on “I Am Your Television,” an indignant commentary of pretty much everything that is wrong with the boob-tube and society in general. The already strong Tragedy and the Common Man is made that much better by the addition of John’s sister Echo playing the violin on a couple of the record’s songs, “A New Kind of Midnight” being the standout. The violin adds an extra layer that the acoustic can’t pull off by itself. If folk/acoustic music is your thing than John Fettes is a name that should be high on your “to watch” list. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was playing with the big-boys on the Folk Festival in a few years. by Kent Farago
When was about eight or nine I went to the town fair. Fairs and I have never got along well considering that my gut has all the stability of Andy Dick’s sexuality. Still, as a young boy I went to take in the joys of the fair. I hung out with my friends and proceeded to gorge on the wide array of grease-laden slabs of food. With a full and loaded belly it was decided that my friends and I would take in as many carnival rides as possible on this hot August day. As we bounced from ride to ride, the pasty white sack of lumps I unashamedly called my stomach began to turn violently. Under educated and overfed, I crowded in a ride with my friends called the “Hard Rock n Roll". It was shaped like a drum and the idea of the ride was to be flipped upside down as if you were in one constantly spinning rotating drum. We rode, we spun, I puked. For two solid minutes I vomitted like only my Scottish hangover DNA could program me to. I even managed to vomit midflip so that my airborne puke would exit my mouth, and then splash back on me at the end of the flip. Needless to say, I walked home that day alone, humiliated, covered in puke, and shirtless. What does this have to do with Staind’s new album? Well, I’d rather experience that long terrible, agonizing, vomitty acid-soaked walk home for sixty days straight than listen to Chapter V for one more miserable, dogshittingly, irritating neo-grunge bleating minute. by Dan MacRae
Does the world need another Coldplay? No, not really. Maybe a better Coldplay, but another Coldplay? Not with Keane, Embrace, and Hal all in the adult pop waiting room. Still, with the Top 40 as polite as ever (see: Jack Johnson, Daniel “Bad Day” Powter, and the most soulful act on heavy rotation–the soulless smear of grey that is Maroon 5), it’s never been an easier time for a turtleneck and Dockers band to strike. Enter The Fray. Armed with non-threatening piano ballads and earnest intentions, this Denver four-piece’s debut How To Save A Life is a gentle swoon of adult-contemporary pop. The excitement-level never notches past “McLachlan", as The Fray stay in their opaque little cubicle of diary-music. The album’s not necessary bad by any means, but it’s not necessarily memorable either. Guitars, pianos, drums are pampered and treated with a soft hand. It’s the kind of music at home in a mid-scale restaurant that plays in the background while newlyweds discuss their insurance options over a Heineken. Maybe with the exception of “Heaven Forbid” which sounds like the music that plays on “Scrubs” when each character learns a lesson. The Fray are a polite, edgeless proposition. They make music to ignore. And with How To Save A Life, they succeeded. Bravo. by Dan MacRae
A Collection of Short Stories, the debut record from Houston Calls, is an absolute toss-up. Lots will love it, some will hate it and the record company that released it will be sitting back watching their wallets get fat. Houston Calls deserves a sterling review for making an immensely catchy, instantly accessible half-hour of cheery power-pop. Most of the songs on the record would fit comfortably on an episode of “The O.C” (perhaps one where the people of Newport Beach find out that Caleb faked his own death to cash in on a huge life insurance policy, while Anna comes back to seduce Seth away from Summer. Oh! Marissa dies as well! That would be rich!), they have that vibe that just seems right. I dare you to listen to “Bob and Bonnie” and not be carried away by the chorus after just one listen. If you’re not entirely in love with the song by the time the bridge comes along you can kick me in the crotch. On the other hand, though, I find myself not wanting to recommend the record because you know that in three months people will be too busy with some half-assed Reggaeton revival to care about synthpop or Houston Calls. This is the record industry by-the-book: sign a band that has the popular sound of the day, pimp their release on every soundtrack and message board and then dump them when the craze is over. Can anyone say Shaggy? If I was a 15-year old kid I would be all over A Collection of Short Stories like stink on a monkey, pledging my allegiance to the band by saving up my allowance money for a Houston Calls tattoo. For now, though, I guess I’ll get my three months out of the record and then listen to it quietly in my room when it’s no longer cool. by Kent Farago
“ChchchchCheney stop being such a dick!" bangs and crashes the 10 second s long “Cheney". Ten seconds that get the job done better than Rock Against Bush ever did. Grrrr! Get ‘em Brakes. Frontman Eamon Hamilton (also percussionist/keyboardist for elegant indie weirdos British Sea Power) has given voice to the four or five voices living in his head on Brakes’ debut Give Blood. As an added bonus, the four or five voices are quite good, really. Full of booze, spite and red-hot catchiness, Give Blood punches and kicks its way noisely through down-home-country, indie-pop, punk-funk and gobby punk. Completely out of Ritalin, most songs clock in at the sub-two-minute range and that’s just enough to ensure that the bouncy melodies can burrow nice and deep into the brain. Girls with guitars group of the moment The Pipettes make time to stop in and contribute with the back and forth magic of “Sometimes Always," an album highlight only surpassed by the sneering hipster-baiting “Heard About Your Band." With the hinges right off, this Brighton, UK, outfit has taken the licence to be a deranged rule-eschewing carnival and put it to good use. In just under a half-hour Brakes comes to the party, entertains everyone there, trashes the place and leaves every guest with one fantastic story to tell. by Dan MacRae |