1. art and entertainment
2. music

indie paper dolls by kristen windmuller
cover art by sara holdren
I had this huge fucking crush on
vol. 1 / issue 4 So
Conor Oberst (of the now-ubiquitous Bright Eyes) when I was
january 2004
[email protected]
table of contents
from the editor.............................................................................3
album reviews:
annie..............................................................................5
big business....................................................................................6
jason anderson..............................................................................7
m83........................................................................8
bonnie “prince” billy and matt sweeney....................................9
visqueen..................................................................10
turing machine...........................................................................11
paul fidalgo...................................................................................12
show reviews:
broken social scene...................................................................14
the pixies.....................................................................................15
features:
interview with paul fidalgo......................................................................17
on hardcore.................................................................................................19
winners and losers of 2004....................................................................21
gunslinger. top 5’s of 2004........................................................................23
e-z guitar tabs for the aspiring hipster...................................................28
hipster paper dolls......................................................back cover (32)
*february show list on page 30
gunslingers
editor: anne nguyen
staff writers: liam andrew, alex benenson, mona elsayed,
ted gordon, sara holdren, matt humphreys, alex sassaroli, violet
woodard pu, kristen windmuller
graphic design: sara holdren / joseph luna
yale university is not responsible for gunslinger.’s content
or the opinions of its writers (or for how much it rocks).
sixteen and still thought emo was legitimate indie rock. From
his melodramatic lyrics to his perfectly tousled hair, Conor was
the embodiment of the emo ideal, the kind of sad-eyed boy you’d
find slouching in the corner of the Bowery Ballroom and take
home to comfort (and molest). It helped that he was ridiculously
young compared to my other crushes, Travis Morrison from the
Dismemberment Plan and the vulnerably nerdy Rivers Cuomo.
In my dreams, I’d meet Conor after a show, and the line “I’m as
old as you want me to be,” combined with my killer shoes and
haunted eyes, actually worked in dismissing the five-year difference
between us. He would then take me to his dingy apartment, where
we would get drunk on red wine, and then we’d endure a tragic
separation so that he could write songs about me and I could listen
to them in my darkened bedroom and cry. I’m still not sure why I
couldn’t just hop on a plane to Omaha in this particular fantasy, but
there you have it.
Celebrity crushes for the indie rock subset were always
somewhat different, I think. Saddle Creek never put out huge,
glossy posters of Conor Oberst in provocative poses, so I had to
settle for printing out fuzzy pictures of various shitty venues across
the country taken by equally-obsessive fan-girls. The DIY ethic,
though, only meant that I spent hours and hours Googling “conor +
oberst + interview,” hoping that he would mention a) working on
a new album, b) being single, and c) searching for his sixteen-yearold soulmate from Columbia, SC. I sighed over Fevers and Mirrors
extensively; I even attempted to enjoy Commander
Venus, his
cacophonous
early attempts
at home-recording.
It’s sort of strange now to see
his face everywhere; I remember being shocked and heart-broken
when a friend called me to tell me he had seen Conor on MTV2 at
three in the morning a few years ago, much less the front page of
the Arts section of the NYT. Although I moved on from my intense,
one-sided love affair quite a while ago, vestiges of affection, as with
any breakup, still remain. I blatantly stalked him through a chain-link
fence after his set at Coachella last year, despite having flown myself
out to California to see cred-worthy bands like Broken Social Scene
and the Pixies, and I never really crushed on anyone quite as
editorial
anne nguyen
3
4
annie
anniemal
alex benenson
“Depending on
album reviews
hard after my ill-fated passion fizzled and was finally killed by Lifted.
See, Conor Oberst (or Julian Casablanca, or Corin Tucker, etc.) are
collectors’ items; their appeal is in fitting just the right niche on
your trophy shelf. It’s not a question of taste or type – whether or
not you’re a fan of the greasy-haired, tight suit-wearing retro rocker
or the badass punk girl, there’s always a sense of admiration on
seeing a living stereotype that makes you find them hot anyway. It’s
the sort of appreciation that technical skill merits; you’re impressed
by the sheer virtuosity of getting all the details right. When the
stereotype just so happens to be the one that you fall for every
time (please don’t ask me how many evenings I’ve spent at clubs
and shows wistfully gazing at the unapproachable hipster standing
on the side), you get full-fledged obsession. This is a precarious
position, however; as soon as they change, it’s over. I was actually
somewhat disappointed when I read that Conor had gotten over
the depression that informed his tortured albums, and Lifted ended
everything once and for all because it was upbeat and folk-y. Gone
were the drowned
brothers in bathtubs,
the suicide letters,
the angst that made me
long to console him,
replaced by shallow
political complaints and
songs about graduating
from high school. It’s
like when the upright
citizen you married
turns out to be a beer
swigging couch slob –
Conor turned out to be
conor oberst... happy?
happy. I dumped him.
We had grown too far apart.
It’s all right, though; both of us have moved on. He’s found
countless other devoted 16-year-olds and I’ve had dalliances with
Nic Offer and Annie (although she’s more of my roommate’s type).
He’s making millions on Sony and I’m writing cranky editorials;
he’s making out with Winona Ryder in public and I, uh, think about
making out with Winona Ryder in public. But hey, it’s cool, and I
bet the Saddle Creek groupies can’t possibly compare with the
gunslingers.
Welcome to 2005 with your favorite hipsters.
whom you ask – and even in
which country you live – ‘pop’
can mean a lot of different
things...” So begins Pitchfork’s
review of Anniemal. What the
fuck, since when did Pitchfork
become a fourth-grade Social
Studies class? The review’s “clincher”doesn’t even make it
back to a fourth-grade level of coherency, ending with the
sentence fragment, “The culture of life.” Granted, it’s easy to
see how this Scandinavian pop-star could reduce even the
most esoteric indie-rock critic to a stuttering fourteen-yearold.
There is one track I can’t stand on this album,
“Always Too Late.” Looking at what’s wrong with this song is
the easiest way to explain why I think, overall, the album is an
incredible success. The track opens with a canned pizzicato
strings riff and that low-pass-filter bass that makes you hate
the suite below you every Saturday night (just kidding, BC21,
keep pumping the jams!) Its mundanity is so frustrating
because the rest of the album has almost flawless production;
the glossy euro-club feel is in full effect with no shortage of
ridiculous sound effects (on the track “Me Plus One,” I still
can’t figure out if it’s a dog barking or a whip cracking). Unlike
the obvious analogs (Kylie Minogue, et al), however, almost
all the tracks feature infusions of analog instruments with
influences ranging from Air to the Rapture. Annie’s vocals also
help evoke a more vintage feel, equal parts Donna Summers
and Madonna.
The lyrics on the ill-fated “Always Too Late” fall
somewhere between Lindsay Lohan and JoJo; Annie loses
every bit of her foreign-exchange student innocence here.
Besides this four-minute slip-up, though, her album manages
to do what a generations worth of pop-divas this side of
the Atlantic couldn’t; it stays sexy and provocative without
slipping into a slutty abyss.Yale’s own Catherine Brobeck
thinks Annie’s lyrics are trite and derivative, and for the most
part I couldn’t agree more, but seriously, I don’t care. They are
delicious; I think at one point in “Helpless For Love” she says
“abso-cute-ly.”
5
Luckily, “Always Too Late” comes early enough in the album to be quickly
brushed off. Unfortunately, it’s the longest song on the album, clocking in
at almost four-and-a-half minutes, but its insipid lyrics and nauseating riffs
aren’t enough to overpower the rest of the album.
(As a side note, this album was apparently started a while ago and
postponed when Annie’s lover and producer died from a heart attack,
and I am pretty sure I am the first person to pick up on the morose irony
of her track titled “Heartbeat.” Sorry, I couldn’t resist.)
Rating: Four out of Five Cute Northern European Girlfriends
big business
head for the shallow
violet woodard pu
Big Business’ Head for the
Shallow is not music for relaxation. In
fact, it may actually be physically
impossible to remain calm as you listen
to each of the fast-tempo, bass-driven
screamings (“songs” doesn’t quite cover
it) of the disc. The band is comprised
of Karp’s Jared Warren (also of The
Tight Bros.) and Murder City Devils’ Coady Willis (also of Dead Low
Tide). The limitedness of this arrangement — that is, the paucity of both
instruments and actual band members — shows through in the eight
tracks of Head for the Shallow, in that most of the songs sound thin,
making up for lack of nuance with relentless bass.
The songs boast modestly interesting titles that hint at the
treatment of unexpected subject matter, like “Off Off Broadway” and
“Easter Romantic.” The lyrics aren’t a disaster, either; though substantial
decipherment of every verse eluded this reviewer, one can at least pick
out hints of intelligent life and expressive colloquialisms such as the oftrepeated “this is a one-horse town” in “Technically Electrified.” However,
even the occasional moments of reprieve from the eardrum-pounding
of the disc as a whole combined with better-than-expected lyrics do not
save the album. These positive elements mitigate, but cannot outweigh
the fact that “Head for the Shallow” is, sadly, an aural doozy.
On a Fahrenheit scale from a blustery 10 to an ideal 75, “Head for the
Shallow” is a cool 45 degrees.
6
Jason Anderson
The Wreath
Kristen Windmuller
The first thing you notice is
the voice: a strong, unfaltering tenor
with just a hint of warble, sweet and
slightly broken from time to time by a
roughly strained note. Moving from
the album’s strong opening track, “Oh,
Jac!” to the high-energy “If I’m Waiting”
to the contemplative pauses of the call-and-answer “My Balancing
Act,” The Wreath progresses into a simple, guitar and pianodominated album, a spare exercise in indie folk-rock as sung by a
man whose lyrics seem to genuinely yearn for the resolution, or at
least understanding, of something.
Simple patterns of repeated chords and plodding notes give
Anderson’s second album (in addition to the three he put out
as a member of Wolf Colonel) a sense of the progression, if not
repetition, of cycles of time and space. Not to say that this album
is all quiet and calm and meditation—there is indeed a good dose
of serenity, but the punctuation of tracks like “Our Winter” brings
a wave of joyfulness and even triumph to the album. As the K
Records website says, “The Wreath brings us to a more serene
place while chronicling the struggle it took to get there. Love is
in this place, and love lost, and a restless searching haunts the
subconscious.”
Guest work by Rachael Jensen, Karen MacDonald, and Jeremy
Jensen evoke the spirit of the concept of you as a ghost of the lost
love, perhaps. As on previous albums, Anderson plays almost all of
his own instruments, and his performance is especially captivating
on “Theory and Practice.” More rock-oriented than new indie-folk
gods like Devendra Banhart and Sufjan Stevens, Jason Anderson
still fits best in this category for his flashes of introspection and
stripped-down melodies. The Wreath plays as a celebration of desire,
its 37 minutes testifying to the ups and downs and the wonder of
both.
Top tracks—“Oh, Jac!”, “If I’m Waiting”
Rating—Love is in this place, and it is beautiful.
7
m83
before the dawn
heals us
alex sassaroli
“Suddenly a voice told me / ‘Keep
on singing little boy, then raise your arms to
the big, black sky/ Raise your arms the highest you can/ So the whole universe will glow.’”
Kate Moran’s wistful voice on
“Moonchild” begins M83’s newest
album, Before the Dawn Heals Us, before down-tempo drumbeats and
atmospheric production take hold. Our entire aural universe glows.
The January 2005 release marks a turning point in M83’s relatively
short but acclaimed career. Robert Gonzalez goes solo on this album, as
longtime collaborator Nicolas Fromageau, who worked with Gonzalez
on the breakout album Dead Cities, Red Seas & Lost Ghosts, takes a break
from the French group. Alone, Gonzalez has taken M83’s sound in a
totally new direction. Rather than using samples of wildlife and rivers
to produce the impression of musing by a scenic lakeside, Gonzalez has
heightened the emotional spectacle, recreating an intensely dramatic and
alarming existence. “Car Chase Terror!” features samples of cars passing
by and highly, even comically, artificial dialogue between a mother and
child as they are being chased in a car by a supernatural demon. The high
point of the album, however, comes with “Teen Angst,” a truly epic track
and the climax of Before the Dawn. The breathy, echoed, and affected
singing and choir are perfect foils for the urgent, high-tempo rhythm of
the song, with its layered percussion and synth-y backdrop.
M83’s maturation is clearly evident on this release, as Gonzalez
has dumped the old, almost amateurish synth production of Dead
Cities, which many times sounded like a Casio keyboard sample. The
improvement in the percussion and overall production of this album is
especially evident on “Don’t Save Us From the Flames,” which features
layered choir noir, exceptional drum production, and brilliant breakdowns,
and the succinctly-titled “*,” a spastic, start-and-stop romp through
Gonzalez’s vision of the urban rollercoaster. Furthermore, Gonzalez has
proven his skill at creating ambience, and songs like “I Guess I’m Floating,”
with its minimalist, swirling synth and muffled children’s dialogue, recall
Squarepusher and other likeminded electro-shoegaze revivalists.
Before the Dawn Heals Us lets us gaze into the mind of Gonzalez,
which seems more conflicted than ever. While super-affected
dialogue and choir noir mesh with rich and melodramatic synth
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backdrops, all is held together by grounded, tangible percussion. This
album often sounds ready to spin out of control and destroy itself with
its own speed and magnitude, but never quite does. Gonzalez’s vision is
one that never should work, but somehow he manages to pull it off.
Rating: 9 Frenchmen out of 10.
bonnie “prince” billy & matt sweeney
superwolf
liam andrew
My first few listens to Superwolf, on high-energy afternoons
and postprandial study sessions, did not yield much. Finding the songs
repetitive and uninteresting, I nearly dismissed the album as a failed
project. But very late one night, with an extensive Econ problem set on
my plate, I gave it one last chance, and it hit me: alone in my quiet room,
with a cup of tea and graphs full of supplies and demands, Superwolf’s
numerous virtues showed themselves.
A collaboration between Will Oldham (under his usual moniker of Bonnie
“Prince” Billy) and Matt Sweeney (formely
of Guided by Voices and Chavez), this album was allegedly made by the artists
challenging each other to write songs, but
honestly, I would have had no idea that
this was a collaboration at all; either Matt
Sweeney’s music sounds exactly like Will
Oldham’s, or Oldham locked Sweeney in
a cage and refused to feed him until he
wrote the songs the way Oldham wanted
him to. In either case, the product is excellent; the folk and bluesinfluenced songs are quiet and bare, centered around a lone guitar
backed by few, if any, instruments. The guitar work tends to focus on
sparse, naked riffs and arpeggios, with occasional standard chords to
give it substance. But even given the quiet nature of Superwolf, it is filled
with conviction; this is partially a result of Oldham’s absolutely gorgeous
voice assisted by Sweeney’s vocal harmonizing. The opener “My Home is
the Sea” is a clear standout, beginning the album with the chilling lyrics,
“I have often said/ That I would like to be dead/ In a shark’s mouth.”
The song’s most captivating moment arrives 3 minutes into it, when all
the instruments fade out and leave two muted guitars interplaying in
understated glory. The next few tracks are quiet and fluid, sounding like
what might happen if Devendra Banhart plugged his guitar in, but the
listener is woken from this 10-minute trance by an explosion of power
chords at the end of “Goat and Ram” that work tremendously.
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Superwolf’s weaknesses begin to rear their head with “Rudy
Foolish” and “Death in the Sea,” which both feature a passable but
unspectacular guitar riff that is played to death, without enough variation
to keep it fresh. The second half of the disc sheds the fluidity of the
guitar, replacing it with lonely, vacant riffs and giving it a more pensive
atmosphere. “Blood Embrasse” is the best of this half, with a lone, gritty
guitar under Oldham’s and Sweeney’s vulnerable croons. Flourishes of
piano and a questionable-but-forgivable movie sample emerge halfway
through the eight-minute song, and it closes out as primally as it began.
Some albums beg to be listened to at a particular time and in a
particular mood. Superwolf is for a rainy day alone, a long pensive drive
through open countryside, or a late night with a a book, a hot beverage,
and a cat. It is a delicate, vulnerable, but at times celebratory album that
demands a lot of attention and usually rewards the listener for it.
On a scale of Nicole Kidman to Lindsay Lohan, this album is a Scarlett
Johansson – young, but a classic beauty.
visqueen
sunset on dateland
anne nguyen
So I’ve just picked up Visqueen’s
sophomore album Sunset on Dateland, and
I have yet to listen to it, but it’s already
got a lot to overcome. For one thing,
“Visqueen” has to be one of the worst
band names I’ve ever heard. Named
after the plastic sheeting Tom Ridge
exhorted loyal Americans to buy to keep
anthrax out of their houses, the band is a Seattle trio who until very
recently, boasted Kim Warnick from the Fastbacks as their bassist. I’m
not sure whether it was Warnick, singer/ guitarist Rachel Flotard, or
drummer Ben Hooker who decided “Sunset on Dateland” was a good
album title, or that a photo of a sunset on the plains inside the silhouette
of an owl on a wood grain background was a good cover graphic, but
regardless, I just want to put this album down.
It’s shallow, but I fear the formulaic power-pop-claiming-punkinfluences the CD case seems to suggest – the back features a photo of
the band members, Flotard wearing a vintage tee and pointy-toed pumps
and Warnick in cuffed jeans and Converse high-tops, both pouting from
strollers, while Hooker stands over them with an open mouth and an
unidentifiable brown object in his hands. I’m going to take a wild guess
and assume that Visqueen strives to be a fun-loving, hook-filled, melodicand-yet-bass-driven pop outfit that’s catchy enough to appeal to
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preteens but quirky enough to seem new (hence the picture in the liner
notes – full of trite lines like “you’re sinking like a stone as he hangs up
the phone” – of Flotard pretending to spank a coy Hooker who looks
mischievously at the camera, a finger over his lips).
The problem is that even when this formula works, it’s inherently
limited. Really good power-pop is still generic power-pop, because
part of its appeal is its adherence to tried-and-true models of song
construction. To this extent, then,Visqueen largely succeeds; opening
track “Look Alive” is exactly what you’d expect – highly polished power
chords top a driving bass, while Flotard sings typically bubblegum-punk
lyrics. Although “Friends in Love” is a little more interesting, the pattern
is pretty much set for the rest of the album – this effort is yet another
exercise in forgettable up-tempo post-girl-punk (I suddenly have the
urge to blame Liz Phair for making it okay to replace punk’s edge with
pop and a cute blonde singer). To be fair, Flotard’s lyrics are often cute,
but the sheer gloss on this album makes it hard to pay attention to
any of the individual components. On “Crush on Radio,” for example,
she sings “you’ll hit record and you’re out the door anyway/ our whole
relationship is a CD skipping away,” but ultimately, I’d still go to the
Carpenter’s classic “Superstar” for the same story. For a hipster too selfconscious to share music on iTunes, that’s a big admission. Finally, closer
“Houston” slows down the formula and the distorted bass and muffled
drums create a pretty solid song, suggesting that if Visqueen scaled down
the sugar content, they’d be much more engaging.
Rating: on a scale of the bulk candy at Durfee’s, Sunset on Dateland is 4.5
ounces of those sugar-encrusted Sunkist Fruit Gems.
turing machine
zwei
ted gordon
Logically, the music that
bands produce ought to be limited by
their instrumentation. How could a 3piece band sound like a 13-piece? Rock
music, though, has taught us a thing or
two about what a 3-piece band can do—
Cream, Blind Faith, and other power trios
of the 70s proved that small bands could
produce huge sounds, and on Zwei, Turing Machine’s new album, the band
repeats the logic-defying task of producing a whole greater than the sum
of its parts.
Turing Machine borrow their name from an early 20th century
primitive computer, which is fitting for the math-rockers. Entirely
instrumental, the album is a collective of pulsating, repetitive, highly
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technical riffs and solos accompanied by metronomic drumbeats. That
is not to say, of course, that the rhythm of the album is impersonal;
the drums actually provide a solid base for grooving bass lines, and
sometimes they even groove themselves (especially on “Rock. Paper.
Rock.”).
So what differentiates Turing Machine from their myriad math
rock counterparts? The band’s name is a good hint: a Turing Machine,
unlike other computers, deduces what is computable— a self-aware,
(dare I say it?) meta-computer. Likewise, on about half of the tracks on
Zwei, Turing Machine do not simply produce boring, plodding instrumental
songs; their music takes on a personal edge, an incessant driving force
that keeps the listener engaged.
Zwei is not an album for the masses. Without vocals, the songs
could easily be used as background music, or filler music for television
shows (in fact, some of Turing Machine’s earlier material has been used
on MTV’s Cribs). The 13-minute “Bitte, Baby, Bitte” is downright painful to
sit through. Unlike other instrumental music, the tracks on Zwei offer no
definite key center, harmony, or chord progression. Without these things
or vocals, the listener is forced to focus on the technical skill of the
musicians and the repetitive drum beats.
Turing Machine detach their listeners from their music, making
them aware of the lack of aesthetic value. This is an album full of complex,
instrumental, technical music, and listeners can appreciate them without
becoming too involved. Often, though, the music on Zwei simply becomes
repetitive and can lead to boredom.
Rating: On a scale from a “1984 Macintosh” to a “17-inch G4 Powerbook,”
Zwei rates a “Mac Mini”—interesting for the most part, but lacking the
peripherals that make an album (or a computer) whole.
his first record, and hey. It’s really great.
Professional actor, D&D enthusiast, and all-around rock-star, Paul
Fidalgo (interviewed on page 17) has created a first album that’s equal
parts catchy and contemplative. Paul Is Making Me Nervous is colorful,
clever, pretension-free rock from beginning to end, and just to make
things more impressive, there’s a remarkable amount of variety within
this already-promising framework. In the witty, neurotic opener “Running
Gag,” a fun, upbeat rock song, Fidalgo realizes that being “a punch line,
a solid bit, an easy laugh” maybe isn’t so bad after all. There’s also the
beautifully delicate love song “Sing You To Sleep (Road Lullaby),” while
“Stabbed In The Throat” is a self-aware, alt-country-tinged melody,
and both “Five Billion Years” and “Selfless” are powerful comments on
this country’s depressing status quo. The grungy, garage-rock “Grain of
Salt,” the addictive and bright-guitared “What’s Good For Me,” and the
quirky, pop-in-a-good-way “Information Desk Girl” all contrast and yet
complement each other. Paul Is Making Me Nervous is one of those rare,
fantastic albums that grow on you with every listen, the kind where your
favorite song keeps changing because each one is fascinating and unique.
Paul Fidalgo’s first record is entirely self-produced, and the
attitude such an endeavor must have taken really shows. There’s a
confident, free-spirited feeling to this album; it’s smart, it’s personal, and
it’s refreshingly free of all that self-conscious indie elitism. Paul may be
making someone nervous, but he’s definitely making me happy.
[For gunslinger.’s exclusive interview with Paul, see page 17!]
This album roles an 18 in Charisma and Intelligence. It’s a Critical Hit! (err… 5
out of 5.)
paul fidalgo
paul is making me
nervous
sara holdren
The first time I listened to
Paul Is Making Me Nervous, I thought,
“Hey, this is pretty good.” The second
time, I caught myself humming along and
thinking, “Heyyy, this is pretty great.” The
fourteenth time, my roommates became
nervous.
Okay, so that’s a slight exaggeration (it was really more like the
twelfth), but I am going somewhere with all this. Point being:
independent singer/songwriter Paul Fidalgo has come out with
12
13
show reviews
broken social scene
the bowery ballroom 12/15/04
14
ted gordon
The trend in indie rock today is the opposite of
the ideal of the 70’s: instead of cutting the schmaltz and
producing the vital, raw sound of a couple guys strung out
on heroin, bands are getting larger and larger, churning out
brilliantly-produced albums whose credits lists usually go
into the double digits. The Arcade Fire, for instance, add
strings, synthesizers, and even glockenspiel to their recent
hit Funeral. Broken Social Scene, however, have already been
layering and diversifying for years. (Yes, they were a big
band before big bands were hip). Regardless, when I went
to see them at the Bowery Ballroom, I expected at least
a simplified, touring version of this Canadian post-rock
collective; instead, I was greeted by the whole band on stage.
All seventeen of them.
There
were guitarists,
singers, bassists,
keyboardists,
percussionists,
and a full brass
section— cornet, trombone,
tenor saxophone and two
trumpets. And
that’s not to
say that everyone only played
one instrument
—depending on
the song, a
bassist would
broken social scene at the bowery
play guitar, or
the cornet player would play rhythm guitar. Onstage, they
looked like quintessential hipsters: they were all vaguely
in their late 20’s, had ironic haircuts (one even sported a
moustache), and brought with them an undercurrent of rock
‘n roll nihilism. Acutely self-aware, the brass section held
their instruments above their heads, smiling and nodding,
before they played their solos or riffs. There were usually 12
or so members on stage for each song, except for “Pacific
Theme,” when those not playing guitar, bass, or brass picked up a
tambourine or a vibraslap.
However, despite their sheer size, Broken Social Scene somehow
managed to pull off the vital, organic sound of 70’s punk. Rather than
angst or anger, however, their music evokes more of a mellow emotion—
much like their stage presence, it is slightly detached and pensive. That
cold December night, Broken Social Scene managed to produce an
amazing two-hour set, the
close of a two-year American tour. They played almost
every song from You Forgot
It in People, including ambi-
“We’re just going to
keep on playing
ent jams like “Shampoo
Suicide” and the über-emo- until they kick us
tional “Anthems for a
off,”
taunted
singer
Seventeen Year-Old Girl.”
After this set, the band played
encore after encore, surprising for a
Kevin Drew.
band that once never played them. “We’re just going to keep on playing
until they kick us off,” taunted singer Kevin Drew, and play they did—
songs from members’ side-projects (Metric, Do Make Say Think, and
Stars) and even a short cover of “L.A. Woman” (cut off because only two
of the band members actually knew the song).
As the clock neared 1 AM, the band slowly started disappearing
from the stage. At the end, it was just Kevin Drew and the drummer on
stage, and both of then knew it was time to stop playing. I stepped out
of the Bowery Ballroom, lit up a Parliament Light (“when on the Lower
East Side…”) and started walking towards the F train. I felt an urge to
keep listening to You Forgot It in People, so I put on my headphones, and at
that moment I realized what a great concert I had witnessed that night:
the collaboration of 17 musical geniuses on stage, playing flawlessly, neatly
wrapping up their tour, just as I neatly wrapped up my night.
the pixies
the tweeter center (camden, nj)
liam andrew
After waiting for one of our compatriots for over an hour, only to
discover that he had been arrested, then getting lost in the South Bronx
after a food break, our New Haven contingent of Pixies devotees reached
Camden, New Jersey, very relieved – not the usual reaction to entering
the city with the highest crime rate in the US. I had been aware from the
start that our tickets were far from great, and having been to very few
concerts that involve seats, I wasn’t sure what to expect.
Upon finding our seats, we watched openers the Datsuns,
15
hair out of 8
the pixies
16
the gospel according to paul
exclusive interview with
paul fidalgo
sara holdren
Now and then it’s good to remember that our
ubiquitous adjective “indie” comes from “independent.” No
matter how many images of ultra-hip hoodie-clad teenagers
the term conjures up, its root word is still unaffected and
liberated: a bunch of guys sitting around someone’s living
room making distinctive, personal, independent music.
Actually, in this case, it’s just one guy: Paul Fidalgo.
Never heard of him? Exactly! He’s just that indie. But
seriously, Paul Fidalgo is an incredibly gifted singer/songwriter
who has just released his first record, Paul Is Making Me
Nervous. Of course, where his personal style is concerned,
Paul’s own explanations are much better than mine. I
interviewed him recently, and here’s what this truly indie
rocker had to say…
Sara Holdren: Let’s start at the beginning. Musical
influences? Favorite bands?
Paul Fidalgo: My first real influence in music was “Weird
Al” Yankovic. When I was in elementary school, I thought
popular music was all pretty stupid. I couldn’t understand
what all the fuss was about over girls and love and this
person people kept referring to as “baby.” So while the rest
of the world was enjoying what music had to offer, I was
only interested in the music that mocked it. As I got older…
Phil Collins and Genesis and Billy Joel (who I think is an
enormously brilliant songwriter) led me to a taste for hookfilled melodies and intensity of feeling without being overly
aggressive or jaded. High school jaded me just fine, and I, like
everyone else, started getting into Pearl Jam and Nirvana and
that whole scene, but it was artists like REM, Peter Gabriel,
and Sting that really started to inform what I would be
writing. Then, of course, came They Might Be Giants and King
Missile and [they] redefined what I thought of as songwriting.
Thinking about it now, there seems to be a very cerebral
quality that all these artists share that I know I appreciate.
My most recent influences are artists like Semisonic,
Toad the Wet Sprocket, Marshall Crenshaw, and Matthew
Sweet, and most importantly Ben Folds (maybe the best
songwriter ever), excellent crafters of songs with real wit and
intelligence and wonderful ways of framing their thoughts. I
special features
who operated on all the clichés: long hair, uninspired vocals, and forced solos
right and left; I was glad to see them leave. It did, however, add a dash of irony
to the evening when the utterly hairless Frank Black took the stage soon after,
to much greater fanfare (obviously). Introducing themselves by playing the
opening riff of “Velouria,” the band sent the crowd wild. While it was hard for
me to get into it at first, unused to the distance from the band, by the end of
their second number, “Wave of Mutilation,” I was enjoying myself thoroughly.
The band avoided the majority of Bossanova and Trompe Le Monde, but this
allowed them to hit nearly every moment of awesomeness from their early
career. The opening of “Caribou” must have gone on for at least a minute,
capturing its essence perfectly. Kim Deal’s siren-like wails in the background
of “Where Is My Mind?” were executed wonderfully and came out almost
otherworldly. Frank Black’s screams during “Tame” proved that he is as good a
vocalist as ever, and during “Vamos,” Joey Santiago put his guitar on a stand and
played only with its pickups and effects to produce a wall of glorious feedback.
The most transcendent experience of the night was undoubtedly
“No. 13 Baby,” when the lights on the stage were completely turned off and
the audience was treated to the pure, beautiful monotony of one of Santiago’s
trademark riffs above Deal’s steady, off-kilter bass line. All of this playing did not
stop the band from having fun, though; in the middle of one song Black’s guitar
broke, provoking rare verbal banter as the crew attempted to fix it. Drummer
Dave Lovering told a terrible joke about bestiality, and the band even convinced
the ever-soft-spoken Santiago to say hi. After the encore of “Gigantic,” the
band walked around the stage waving goodbye to the crowd, seeming to have
genuinely loved playing their set.
Besides learning that one should not get arrested on one’s way to a
show, that day I discovered that watching a concert in a faraway seat means that
one’s level of fun is more proportional to the quality of the show itself, rather
than one’s actual experience at the show. Though the atmosphere was a little
dull in the back, I was able to focus on the band’s performance. Unsurprisingly,
the Pixies rocked our respective socks off, ripping out tune after tune of pure
glory, and had plenty of fun while doing
so, too.
Rating: 7 strands of
17
18
PF: Indie rock? A few things come to mind: low-fi, rebellious, sometimestoo-good-for-the-masses. But also I think “pretentious.” [Just because] a
big label hasn’t signed you, it doesn’t mean you’re necessarily too good
for them... but very often that is the case. One other thing that comes to
mind: freedom.
Check out the review of Paul’s album on page 17. Or go see Paul
himself in all his online glory at www.paulfidalgo.com. Or, if you’re
truly awesome, go buy his record at www.cdbaby.com/paulfidalgo!
And just to top it all off, Paul’s music is now available for download at the
iTunes store. Now that’s the big leagues.
on hardcore
matt humphreys
In a conversation
tonight, I claimed that “I Been
Gone a Long Time” off Every
Time I Die’s 2003 release Hot
Damn! is perhaps one of the
best modern blues songs ever.
An audacious claim, certainly
– especially to those who
consider themselves fans of
classic rock and blues – but
the idea that the blistering
guitars, machine-gun staccato
drums, and viciously strained
vocals could be considered
blues isn’t far-fetched. To
my ear, there hasn’t been
as potent a blues song in
recent memory; undiluted by
cheeseball guitar solos and the
drudgery of your standardized
blues chord progression, the
song burns like a flaming line
of gasoline from the first
flickering guitar lines and
parking-lot brawl screams.
photo from returntothepit.com
paul fidalgo
also listen to and am impressed by the New Pornographers, the Shins,
and a little-known band called Bishop Allen.
SH: A lot of the songs [on Paul Is Making Me Nervous] seem to have
stories behind them. Could you tell one or two? [Go read the review on
page 12 for more on Paul’s record.]
PF: I can tell you that the [girl in “Information Desk Girl”] was a girl
from college who I never met or spoke to in any way but simply admired
from afar while passing in the halls. I thought the phrase “information
desk girl” sounded kind of musical. “What’s Good For Me,” I think it
is important to know, is written from the perspective of a 16-year-old
girl. More specifically, the main riff of the song was one I had used for
background music in a production of The Merry Wives of Windsor [NB:
Paul is also a Shakespearean actor—now that’s punk rock!], and I
expanded it into
a song from the
perspective of
[the play’s young
heroine] Anne
Page.
SH: What was it
like producing
your own album?
Are you working
on another?
PF: It was hard
but addictive.
I recorded the
entire record on
personal
computers
using relatively cheap software (Cakewalk Home Studio 2002 [and]
Garageband), mostly in a very small room in a house full of other
actors. If you happened to wander in to this room, you would see
miles of tangled black wires, boxes and pedals in all sorts of places, and
instruments placed in precarious positions. I don’t have the money for
studios or even high-end software, so I made do with what I had and
stubbornly decided that this would be enough to make a record that
people would (in theory) pay money for. I do mean to make a second
album in the near future, but it’s impossible to say when I could get it
done. I have tons of material, though, so it’s all a matter of the really hard
part: the recording.
SH: One word that comes to mind when I say “indie rock.”
every time i die:
the new blues?
19
This is not traditional blues, no. But listen to “I Been Gone a Long Time”
next to some of the great, original bluesman Robert Johnson. The song’s
vocals seem to channel the visceral emotion and madness of Johnson’s
“Hell Hound on My Trail,” the fear that serves as the impetus for Johnson
to cry that he’s “got to keep movin’,” that the “days keep worryin’ [him],
there’s a hell hound on [his] trail.” The desperation, the bleakness that
Johnson sings with that thick, almost unintelligible slur—is it really so
different from the rawness in Keith Buckley’s voice? The ETID frontman’s
voice is primal, urgent, and yet as powerfully slick as Johnson’s, coating
the dark underbelly of fear with a gloss of sleaze and haze.
Buckley’s lyrics themselves
hearken back to the blues;
the self-admitted lust of a drifter
who knows that “what [he’s]
doing is so wrong, but what
[she’s] wearing is so right”
unleashes an entirely solipsistic
desire since “there’s nothing
left to lose.” Buckley’s
protagonist, as well as Johnson’s
in “Me and the Devil Blues,” is
full of this self-knowledge and
complete lack of hope. Johnson
greets the Devil at his door,
declaring, “Hello, Satan, I believe it’s time to go…me and the devil was
walking side by side.” As Johnson’s story unfolds, we learn he’s on his way
to kill his woman, and when he’s dead, his “old evil spirit… [will] get [on]
a Greyhound bus and ride.” In listening, we realize that thematically, the
two songs are brothers in their nihilistic acceptance of their inherent evil.
But the parallels are not just in the lyrics and themes raised—the
guitar line from “I Been Gone a Long Time” is reminiscent of the manic
energy of Johnson’s guitar in “Preaching Blues (Up Jumped the Devil).”
Of course, a lot has changed—one can hear as much of Led Zeppelin’s
“Black Dog” as Johnson in it. This song is an informed, brilliant homage to
the great blues guitarists who reinvented the genre untold times. Now,
hardcore music has taken up the mantle of innovation. “I Been Gone”
is the best song on Hot Damn!, full of the fury and speed of the hardest
street-punk, as blues as Johnson, as rock as Zeppelin, the band tipping
their heads to the past masters as they re-direct the course of rock and
roll.
I have long believed that the combination of technical brilliance and
pure, unadulterated violence of hardcore / metalcore is the future of
The love of selfdestruction that
infuses rock and roll,
the anger and pain
from which it was
born, has found a
voice in hardcore.
20
rock and roll, where genius is rendered through pure sound, a
thunderstorm of drums, a wall of spiking vocals, the fuzz and grind of
speedy guitars. Crackling like lightning, ETID unleash a furious, nihilistic,
pill-induced and hazy vision of love, highways, and sadism. The love of
self-destruction that infuses rock and roll, the anger and pain from
which it was born, has found a voice in hardcore that renders all other
attempts juvenile, even ridiculous. What power does an Usher or an
Eamon have to explore the darkest reaches of the subconscious, with
their ornamental, cliché deliveries over computer-born synths and
electric drumkits, when organic, human decay unravels like intestines,
drunk on self-pity and hopelessness, yet alive and fighting for something
in the void? No, forget R&B and its danceable beats. It’s too resolved,
too complete. Too perfect. The blues, by contrast, are imperfect, evil and
human. Hardcore and metalcore revel in a Bacchanalian brutality born
of the blues and nihilism, but bathed in a certain, youthful hope—that
somewhere in this hell of nightmarish, garish neon lights, closed bars,
and broken car windows, there’s something worth saving. That’s what I
hear when I listen to “I Been Gone a Long Time”: the blues, timeless and
primal as the darkness which birthed them.
winners and losers of 2004
a year of indie ups and downs
mona elsayed
Looking at the year in review is a messy job, and terribly hard to do
well. What was fresh in March seems kind of tired in retrospect, and who
am I to judge anyway? Nonetheless, I offer some thoughts on the year’s
winners and losers…as well as I could call them, anyway. the arcade
fire’s funeral Í
We’ll start with the year’s winners; Renaissance Man 2004 goes to Zach Braff because
if you can craft something so good and yet so
low-budget that it only takes seven people to
watch it for you to turn a profit – Game, Set,
Match, kid; you win. On the music end of things,
I’d venture to say the Arcade Fire came out on
top, going from virtual anonymity to one of the
hardest indie concert tickets to get off eBay in
the matter of one release. And they actually deserve it. Hmm.
Other winners include Anne Nguyen (this magazine launched
and operational in a month? holy bejesus…),Yale volleyball team, and
of course, UOFC ‘cause they’re soooo lucky to be funding our sorry
asses…mwahaha. [Editor’s Note: I had nothing to do with that shameless
21
Happy 2005!
Love,
anne nguyen
5. Annie, Anniemal
I have a huge crush on Annie and I
don’t even usually go for blondes.
Plus, “Heartbeat” is absolute
perfection.
4. Les Savy Fav, Inches
Inches reminded me that LSF, along
with a few other choice bands, were
the ones to get me into indie in the
first place.
3. Joanna Newsom, The MilkEyed Mender
This is my endorsement for a brilliant
album without any lame disclaimers
about Joanna’s voice. Am I the only
one who actually likes it?
2. Xiu Xiu, Fabulous Muscles
Jamie Stewart deserves a place on any
top-five list for “I Luv the Valley OH”
mona elsayed
alone, but all the other tracks on
5. Air, Talkie Walkie
this album are also amazing.
French pop duo + Miss Scarlett is not
1. The Arcade Fire,
a bad combination at all.
Funeral
4. Max Richter, The Blue Notebooks
Of course.
Umm, Kafka over the sound of typewriters?
Yes please. And “On the Nature of
Daylight” may be the most beautiful
string composition I’ve ever heard.
3. The Blood Brothers, Crimes
12 words: love love love, love love
love, love love love – love love love.
2. Devendra Banhart,
Rejoicing in the Hands
Is anyone else charmed by the fact that
there is nothing ironic, sarcastic, or
tongue-in-cheek about this at all?
1. The Arcade Fire, Funeral
Bordering on spiritual.
Tremendous, really.
devendra
banhart
gunslinger.
the year’s top 5’s
the gunslinger. staff’s favorite
albums of 2004
xiu xiu’s jamie stewart also loves kittens
plug. Except for plying Mona with a Stella. Or eight. – AN]
Naming losers is no fun, but one of us cynical assholes has to do it.
I have to say, to the dismay of every walking billboard of wit outfitted by
URBN, that slogan t-shirts have overstayed their welcome. As Slim Nasty
so eloquently pointed out to me over the blare of some terrible Ywngie
Malmstein song, “Sincerity is the new sarcasm.” I’ve also just about had
it with scenesters and the dissection of them as a topic – really, enough
already. Also absolutely losing their edge in 2004 were shows in general.
They’re hot, sweaty, and gross; the openers always suck; and we hate
standing for extended periods of time. Queens, NY, also took a hit in
the coolest-borough competition, having to give the MOMA back to
Manhattan upon completion of the collection’s new home in Midtown
(finally!!).
I couldn’t in good faith leave out any of the following from 2004’s
list of the less-fortunate: George W. Bush (still a loser), IM sports, and
Cosby sweaters (un-hip no matter how far your tongue is in your cheek;
sorry). Finally, rounding out the 2004 shit-heap were the poor schmucks
who had the misfortune of having their iTunes libraries reviewed by the
savage staffer Liam…he’s a teddy bear in real life, we swear.
22
23
matt humphreys
5. Death from Above 1979, You’re A Woman, I’m A Machine
Heavy rock that somehow manages to still be poppy and fun. Extremely
danceable.
4. Max Richter, The Blue Notebooks
Melancholic, film-score-esque classical infused with some delightful Kafka
quotes. Although a bit cliché, a good excuse to brood.
3. The Blood Brothers, Crimes
A slower version of the Blood Brothers we all love.
2. DJ Signify, Sleep No More
A hallucinogenic trip through the world of nightmare. Signify lays down
dark, dirty electronic beats that
mix beautifully with the esoteric
rappers Sage Francis and Buck 65’s
dark stories.
Á1. Pinback, Summer In
Abaddon
A rockier evolution, maturation
even, of their old lo-fi sound,
without sacrificing the soft
ambience that the old album
excelled at.
ted gordon
5. Devendra Banhart, Rejoicing
in the Hands
Gaining popularity by pop culture’s
recent obsession with folk music,
Banhart delivers memorable melodies
and charming folksiness that really is
original.
4. MF Doom, Mm…Food?
If you don’t like rap, or say you don’t
rap just to maintain some sort of “cred,” buy this album. Its originality,
playfulness, and virtuosity will leave you hungry for more.
3. Joanna Newsom, The Milk-Eyed Mender È
I’m so happy that Joanna Newsom’s popularity is skyrocketing (she even
made it to a NY Times top 10 list). Just buy the album. I can’t do it justice
with words.
2. Plush, Underfed
In two words, amazing songwriting.
1. Electric Masada, 50^4
Intense, insane, ridiculously good avant-jazz: John Zorn leads an 8piece electric band to new heights of “radical jewish culture.
24
kristen windmuller
5. Franz Ferdinand, Franz
Ferdinand
Oh come the fuck on, it rocks…
admit it. Tight, snapping beats, and
vocals just dripping with disinterested lust or boredom make for
amazing driving/drinking/dancing/etc.
music. Admit it.
4. The Arcade Fire, Funeral
As a fan of their 2003 S/T, I have to
give them some due applause;
they’ve only gotten better in the
past year. Complex melodies sometimes evocative of early 1950s rock
set over beautiful violins and steady guitars make the album both classic
and decidedly modern.
3. Bauer, Baueresque
Funky, sometimes Nintendo/synthesizer-reminiscent beats coexist
with Sonja van Hamel’s sometimes-mournful lyrics (underscored by
Berend Dubbe’s quiet gruffness) to give an overall feeling of whimsical
persistence.
2. Iron and Wine, Our Endless Numbered Days
Absolutely beautiful; the purity of sound, intent, and lyrics in this album
couldn’t be crisper. Indie folk at its best.
1. AC Newman, The Slow Wonder È
The New Pornographers front man has made the most solid, catchy,
danceable, swoonable album of the year: count on plaintive observations
and NP style up-tempos.
alex sassaroli
sonic youth
5. Stars,
Set Yourself
on Fire
4. Joanna
Newsom,
The Milk-Eyed
Mender
3. Sufjan
Stevens,
Seven Swans
2. Sonic Youth
Sonic Nurse
1. Interpol,
Antics
25
sara holdren
5. Flogging Molly, Within A
Mile From Home
Um, if I drank, it would be
Guinness. With crazy, tattooed,
nearing-40 Irish punk rockers.
Á4. Camera Obscura,
Underachievers, Please Try
Harder
I like wistful-sounding intellectual
Scottish girls. Uh, and boys. This
album just makes me happy in a
wonderful, quiet way (plus the title
rules).
3. Damien Rice, O
The first time I heard Damien Rice I was standing in a soggy band tent up
to my ankles in mud and it was so, SO worth it. This CD is heartbreaking
and beautiful; I listened to it on repeat for about a month. Really.
2. The Decemberists, The Tain
Okay, so it’s an EP. BUT IT’S THE DECEMBERISTS. Also, it’s so awesome. I
kind of hope their new album has some of The Tain’s harder edge. (Woo!
Slightly-metal-tinged-semi-mythic-musical-narrative-rock!)
1. The Magnetic Fields, I
It seems I like albums with single letters as titles. But that aside, I’m
so glad Stephen Merrit is pretty much the most prolific man alive.Yet
another (concept!) album of deliciously dour synth/strings concoctions
from my favorite minstrel of melancholy.
[then, of course,
there were those
gunslinger.s who
just couldn’t list
the best of 2004
without giving us
the worst too...]
liam andrew
best:
5. The Blood Brothers, Crimes
Amazing band, amazing vocalists, and
hardcore music that bends genre
effortlessly.
4. Modest Mouse, Good News
For People Who Love Bad News
The bad news: it’s not as good as The Moon and
Antarctica. The good news: it still rocks really hard.
3. The Go! Team,Thunder, Lightning, Strike
Party album of the year: innovative and lots of fun.
2. Animal Collective, Sung Tones
Unique, gorgeous, freewheeling, drugged-out, childlike folk music.
1. The Arcade Fire, Funeral
came close - proof that pop music can be more that
26 Nothing
just entertainment.
worst:
5. Iron & Wine, Our Endless
Numbered Days
I only liked one song on this CD;
otherwise I thought it was pretty
uninspired.
4. The Beta Band, Heroes
to Zeroes Ë
This was really boring; completely
absent of what made their other
CDs so good.
3. Morrissey, You Are the
Quarry
Sorry, I just thought this, uh, totally sucked.
2. Comets on Fire, Blue Cathedral
Everyone loves this CD, but I don’t see any of its merits. At all.
1. Pedro the Lion, Achilles Heel
Horrible, soulless crap.
+
-
alex benenson
best of 2004:
Death of Dimebag Darrell
The Blood Brothers’ new album, Crimes
Ratatat’s self-titled debut LP
Falling in love with all the members of La
Laque
worst of 2004:
Death of Dimebag Darrell
People who wear tiny shirts
Pitchfork
People who step on my toes at shows
when I am wearing sandals
? should of 2004:
Don’t-care-but-probablyThe Arcade Fire
“Garden State” and its soundtrack
The Pixies reunion
The new Cure album
The difference between Franz Ferdinand
and Modest Mouse
27
e-z guitar tabs
for the aspiring
hipster
faithful gunslinger. staffer
ted gordon boils down indie
rock’s biggest hits for you
so that you can rock just
as hard as this guy!Ë
1. “King of the Carrot Flowers, Part I” /
Neutral Milk Hotel
2. “Float On” / Modest Mouse
28
29
february
show list
mandatory
show:
Le Tigre Toad’s Place, March 2, $17.50 advance, $20 door.
So the show they were going to play in December was cancelled,
but thankfully they’ll be back and ready to rock Toad’s this time around.
recommended
shows:
Dresden Dolls Toad’s Place, February 3, $15.
Original cabaret-inspired punk music that breathes a lot of life into
the genre. I have never seen them before, but given their love of theatrics,
I imagine they will put on quite an exceptional live performance.
Sage Francis Toad’s Place, February 10, $15.
Witty and talented underground hip-hop star supporting his forthcoming
album, A Healthy Distrust.
The Natural History BAR, February 20, Free, 21+.
A fun indie rock band reminiscent of the Pixies, Spoon, and similar acts.
other
shows:
Streelight Manifesto/MU330/Voodoo Glow Skulls
Empress Ballroom in Danbury, February 7.
The only Connecticut stop on the annual Ska Is Dead tour, these are
three of the most talented bands in the genre.
Avoid One Thing Wallingford American Legion, February 11.
Power-pop band from Boston, backed by some of the best local acts
around.
The Slackers Webster Theater in Hartford, February 19.
A traditional ska band from LA that focuses more on the rootsy
Jamaican side of the genre than the punk-influence.
Atreyu Toad’s Place, February 26.
Playing with other metalcore heroes, Atreyu is sure to rock
Toad’s Place quite hard.
Six Organs of Admittance/The Sunburned Hand of the
Man BAR, February 27, 21+.
Two experimental post-rock acts that have garnered their fair share of
critical praise.
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(Directions, questions, comments, or requests for the addition
of a show in next month’s issue can be directed to our email address.)
this page
left blank
for
paper doll
awesomeness.
(or it WOULD be if you had
the actual magazine...)
(‹)
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