Show Review: Cymbals Eat Guitars @ BU Central, Boston, MA (10/17/09)

by Dave "Scout" Tafoya

If you had given me the Cymbals Eat Guitars record after their show last Saturday at Boston University Central, I probably would have laughed and said you'd made some sort of mistake. Don't take offense just yet, their record Why Are There Mountains is a heavily produced, oft serenely languorous, oft slackerish and crunchy rock record that strikes a near-perfect balance between its disparate elements. The show that I and a few dozen others saw on Saturday, however, was quite a bit different from that. Throwing their dynamics almost entirely to the wind, the Staten Island band came out screaming and left in a hale of distortion. It was all fury and dizzying guitar athletics, and I know I wasn't the only one who was blown out of the front row. Rock this intense requires a break.

Perhaps it was my proximity to the band but I simply wasn't prepared for the sheer volume and energy from a band whose debut was so calmly assured. Singer Joseph D'Agostino told me beforehand that this was effectively their 'melting faces' tour. They were making a short stint around the country to hook fans in little venues like BU Central (a pool hall and game room when not hosting bands) before embarking on a more serious headlining tour that will start with their impending trip to Europe; hittin' em hard and low, as it were. Their all-out aural attack was quite a surprise. D'Agostino roared like a lion for most of the show, turning songs like "...And the Hazy Sea" from psych-gaze into a song Dinosaur Jr. might have written in their heyday; blistering yet lackadaisical. D'Agostino's guitar playing, incidentally, is absolutely stunning; he has the chops of James Iha and the inventiveness of Jonny Greenwood or Will Sergeant. His shredding and screaming were the two definitive features of that night's show. And powerful though they were (he was like a one-man metal band), they did occasionally undercut the brilliance of his songwriting, drawing the audience away from the little things that make Why Are There Mountains such a powerhouse. Take for example "Wind Phoenix." On the record, it's a playful and slightly noisy Pavement-esque track with skipping guitar lines and an overall pleasing feel; live the song became their raucous, solo-laden closer, the one meant to keep the ringing in your ears long after you've gone home.

After getting used to the volume I started to focus on the rest of the band. The volume was, of course, helped by Matt Miller's assured drumming and together with new bassist Matt Whipple, they make quite an impressive rhythm section. Whipple's fingers were almost as taxed as D'Agostinos, constantly running Specials-style ska riffs, and Whipple and Miller did a most excellent job supplying the fast-and-furious changes in volume and speed to keep up with D'Agostino's ear-splitting charge. Each band member had his own personality on stage and it's both awe-inspiring and more than a little overwhelming. With everyone essentially playing lead even as they anchor the song, the group projects enough energy and ferocity to power an entire town (D'Agostino doesn't call himself Joseph Ferocious, for nothing, I guess). But it can be hard to keep up with them. I had to take myself away from the PA and hang back for a bit to avoid hearing loss and whiplash. Consider my face melted.

(CEGs is currently on tour and heading to Europe in November. Tour dates can be seen here)

Earotica: The Hidden Cameras-Origin:Orphan

by Dave "Scout" Tafoya

Welcome to the cabaret of Joel Gibb. The Berlin-based frontman of the Toronto-based musical collective, The Hidden Cameras, has found what he likes best and made a highly efficient machine out of it. What does he like? Hooks. Hooks so theatrical they border on kitsch. Switching between showmanship mixed with operatic presentation of otherwise ordinary (if splendid) tunes, soft inward-looking balladeering, and Pleasure Principle-inspired new wave, Origin:Orphan, The Cameras' fifth album, finds them delivering non-stop niceties, whether you want them or not. The songs seem like they were calculated by a computer, as if Gibb plugged his melodies and choruses in, and out came the formula for his songs. That means that many lines are repeated many more times than they need to be, but luckily that's my only complaint. Otherwise the record is pop gold with enough depth to transcend its time, place, and peers, but not enough to prevent you being able to enjoy any song on the album whatever your mood.

We start with an unusual choice for a pop-record, a crescendo before the curtain is raised and Gibb and his band are revealed: two and a half minutes of build-up. They go from the wonderfully dramatic "Ratify The New," which sees Gibb exploring the full capacity of his voice and the awesome power of his mock-orchestral arrangements. It recalls Berlin-era Bowie in the best possible way (pitched between "A New Career In A New Town" and "Heroes"), and the repetition brings the best production work of Brian Eno to mind. Grounded by Lex Vaughn's brilliantly underplayed-yet-relentless drumming, the band is in fine form with "In The NA," its most catchy song to date. Gibb plays with the notion of pop music by making his lyrics nonsensical enough to get you to concentrate solely on his delivery and the production, while violin's screech and a male chorus deliver their ubiquitous volley of "Hey," around him, all of it essentially a novelty. Gibb is taking pop songs apart and giving you the barest elements without any of pop's shallow content; the frills of pop minus the vacuous personality of most purveyors of the form. It takes a few listens to figure out how brilliant the song really is but the best part is you don't need to understand it to have it stuck in your head. The whole album is full of these brilliant explorations-beneath-lovely-pop moments.

The simple but wonderful "He Falls To Me" comes next, reveling a bit much in the verse for my taste (but wow, what a chorus). Then "Colour of a Man" which, with its swooning strings, "ooh ooh" refrain, and staccato piano mickey-mousing of Gibb's words, is like an Arcade Fire song without the apocalyptic gravity. Gibb communicates his Canadian songwriting via German musical history, everything from Wiemar-era musicals to Kraut rock, pretty much with every flourish. "Walk On" is a great example of this, with each instrument transporting you to a different era. Elsewhere, we get Gibb's appreciation of post-punk on "Do I Belong?," which wavers between a regimented Human League backbeat and impassioned XTC-style overlays. "Kingdom Come" sounds like Orange Juice playing The Chameleons.

I realize how obnoxiously reference-laden this has become, but look at it this way: nerds can enjoy Origin:Orphan because it's so rich in history and takes a deconstructionist approach to pop music. And everyone else can enjoy it because it's so epically catchy and Gibb's (authorial and physical) voice is so endearing. What have you got to lose?

In The NA - The Hidden Cameras

Color Me Impressed: MSTRKRFT

("Color Me Impressed" is a segment that addresses the question, "What's so great about those guys?")

by Dave "Scout" Tafoya

At first listen, or even second or third, MSTRKRFT (pronounced "Master-craft") appears to be an unremarkable techno act. Some things may catch the ear, like their rubbery bass sound that nicely brings out their rhythm. And, if you're willing to pay attention to some of their remixes, you can see something a little different about them as opposed to the myriad of other DJs in the electronic music world. But ask anyone who's seen them live and you'll see where their genius lies, as there's something indefinably amazing about watching those guys do their thing. I detest the idea of clubbing but when I saw them live at the recent Rothbury Festival, it was an amazing, relentless assault of bass and pop hooks that were ground up like sausage and spat out like magma from the mouth of a volcano. If you watch the two men at the helm (Alex Puodziukas, or Al-P, and Jesse F. Keeler), they're just as mesmerized by the sounds they make as the many hundreds who show up to lose control to their music. They shake, bounce, smoke, and drink, all in time with their music, exhilarated by merely being there and unleashing their set on the crowd. Just before they went on at Rothbury, Keeler leaned over to me and told me giddily the song they'd be starting with; it was obvious that they were just dying to get on stage. I was happy to hear his secret, even if only for the three minutes that it was one, and I was even happier to dance like an idiot for the duration of their set.

Give a Listen: Zero (MSTRKRFT remix)-MSTRKRFT
Buy: here

(MSTRKRFT is touring throughout Europe, Canada, and Australia this fall, and doing two US shows, the Monolith Festival in Denver, CO and the Treasure Island Festival in San Francisco...see specific dates here.)

Rothbury Festival, Day 1: The Beginning

by Dave "Scout" Tafoya

13 hours is a long drive anywhere. But by yourself, through three states, with breaks only to get gas, and you're looking at one looong day. That's what my drive to Rothbury, MI was like for the Rothbury Festival. It takes determination (or maybe craziness) to do a thing like this alone but that's really all I and a lot of the other press people at Rothbury had, determination. With the exception of the few people who could afford the VIP packages, those who made the pilgrimage to Rothbury have to be called dedicated because it's in the middle of nowhere and the majority of the people I spoke to didn't come from Detroit, they were from Colorado, Los Angeles, New York, and Texas. But Rothbury’s press, bands and festival goers alike were lifers in terms of music. That’s why when they come together for events like this, there's a sort of synergy that makes the whole thing run. And that’s why I was thrilled to be there, even with a late arrival and an embarrassing amount of checkpoint confusion; it just didn’t matter.

Rothbury was unlike any other festival I've been to, one where the only thing keeping everybody sane was the sense of community. After getting my bearings, I wandered by Keller Williams and, though the production was cool, his music didn't really do it for me. He hopped around stage from one instrument to the next, running them through looping pedals, while bubbles and colorful lights and all kinds of other weird hippie stuff went on. Take away the millions of dollars worth of gimmicky stage show and anyone could do what he does. I left after about 15 minutes.

Night fell and I found the band Future Rock. This was my first taste of the downside and the upside of drug culture in the festival experience. Future Rock was good, playing electronic music with bass, drums, and keyboards, but all around, people were hardly paying attention. Glowsticks were wrapped around every finger, people danced, and a girl vomited while her friend unconcernedly held her hair. The dancers were blissfully tuned out to the specifics of the music and the band could literally have been anyone, thanks to the light and the incredibly loud PA system. But you know what? They were all in it together. That girl who got sick, she had a friend nearby. Everyone was of one mindset and suddenly Future Rock's music came into focus. And though we had different reasons, I, like everyone else present, had a great time.

Jonnie Russell and Matt Maust from Cold War Kids

The Cold War Kids set got pushed back to roughly 2 in the morning which made for a cool show. The fog machines were at full blast and the crowd was sleepy but the band made sure to end things on a solid note, pounding out a great 1:15 of rock.

Cold War Kids rock the socks off the nightowls

The band moves were dictated by jagged drums and razor-like guitar with the bass filling out the sound. Nathan Willett, the singer with an unrelenting wail, moved from piano to guitar and kept his odd Elvis-inspired dancing at a constant rate. Though there's no real soloing and Cold War Kids’ songs are simple, their rocking is relentless and they are one of the few acts with more distortion and grit than virtuosity, which I always like to see. Solid and somber rock makes for a lot of impassioned sing-alongs.

Nathan Willett, singer of Cold War Kids

Show Review: Handsome Furs @ The Music Hall of Williamsburg, Brooklyn, NY (7-8-09)

by Dave "Scout" Tarfoya

I love Brooklyn. Drink terrible sample soda off the sidewalk, browse through over-priced records, mope around hoping to run in to Ed Droste of Grizzly Bear. Perhaps it’s because I've seen some of my best shows there, but everything I do there just feels more artistic somehow. With that in mind, it's not hard to see why I thought the husband-and-wife team known as Handsome Furs put on one of the best shows I've ever seen Wednesday night at The Music Hall of Williamsburg. One thing’s for sure, it was definitely the sexiest.

I had some expectations about what the Furs live show would be like. I’d seen Dan Boeckner play before with Wolf Parade, and the Furs, on record, are moody and spacey; a little New Order, a little Gary Neuman, and a lot of intense, Eastern bloc sexual tension (which from the front row on Wednesday was palpable). But within eight seconds of the Furs hitting the stage, with their shotgun blast of spastic movements, blistering volume, and unparalleled energy, these expectations were blown clear away. Somehow Boeckner, on a guitar run through a plethora of pedals and a vox amplifier, and Perry, on a drum machine, and the two sharing a little keyboard between them, managed to sound like an airplane after a gunshot tore its hull open. The beauty of Furs' songs is that they're comprised of simple yet sublime chord changes, the kind that rock and roll has been made of for 50+ years. But Perry's processed beats, blips, and buzzes create an ambient blanket over which Boeckner’s guitar just soars, making it more. And live, this guitar became an all-out aural assault.



It also triggered the lovers onstage to dance. Perry bounced up and down wildly, sometimes on one foot, driven by the music produced by their collective hands. Between particularly harsh bursts from the six-string, the two would wildly throw themselves at each other. Knowing that they love each other, that they share everything as man and wife, made this not only a deafening show, but also the most erotic performance I've ever witnessed. It was like Boeckner was channeling Joe Strummer, Elvis Presley, and Mick Jagger all at the same time, howling madly and making his Telecaster beg for mercy, a towering, swaggering warrior in tight black jeans, laceless boots, and a black muscle shirt.



He ripped from one song to the next, confident because the feisty firebrand in the glow-in-the-dark bra next to him was not only his drummer, but the other half of his life. The two moved crazily about the stage every second of every minute of the show, turning tight songs like "Thy Will Be Done" and "Dead + Rural" into flashfloods, forces of nature that were impossible to escape. When they ended with the astoundingly powerful "Radio Kaliningrad," everyone in the Music Hall started jumping along to the beat. Perry and Boeckner put every ounce of their beings into their instruments. It was like sonic foreplay, and it was impossible to tear your eyes (or ears) from the stage.

Give a Listen: Radio Kaliningrad-Handsome Furs

The opening act(s) were many. A two piece from Staunton, VA, (The Cinnamon Band), played laid back country rock, coming somewhere between Phosphorescent and Pete Yorn. Then there was Dri, a four-piece who made sunbaked psych rock band mixed with mock dub. Dri shared little sonically with their predecessor or Handsome Furs, but they kept the crowd pleased none the less. If you'd asked me before if white people could play dub music from scratch and not only sound authentic but vital, I'd have said no. But low and behold, Dri showed me otherwise. Their rhythm section was formidable as well, capable of switching from Yardbirds-style blues to Wailers-style reggae in seconds. THEN, there was a stand-up comedian, no joke (heh). He was funny enough, but I don't quite get why venues feel the need to prolong the headliner with a comedian for eight minutes, especially when there were two opening bands. Sure, it’s more bang for the buck but cmon…

Rothbury Festival 2009 Happening This Weekend

by Dave "Scout" Tafoya

The Rothbury Festival is this weekend and were it not for a few names, it could almost be called "Bonnaroo North." Sun and jam bands abound, but the reason I'm interested in covering the event is the little bands, the folk rockers with no marquee value. To make it to a festival like this on the bottom half of a bill that includes Bob Dylan and Willie Nelson is no small feat, and I'm curious to know who we'll look to for our smoldering acoustic indictments of society in the future. With a handful of Canadian indie rock bands and some little guys with big hearts, the festival promises to be one of unforgettably intimate performances, even to standing crowds of a few thousand people.

Some of my favorites include...

--2020 Soundsystem: Anglo-Argentine electro rock thats half Daft Punk and half Happy Mondays. They've been filling Europe with satisfied club-goers and have recently migrated to the states to see if their drug-addled magic is transcontinental.

--Underground Orchestra: Not your average jam band, pulling from the distortion heavy, latin-tinged tradition of bands like The Mars Volta, Underground Orchestra can play 20 minute songs. But unlike the competition, they fill every corner with something interesting and rarely rest on their laurels. They can shake up a groove and they know how to use it once its alive.

--White Buffalo: Jake Smith, White Buffalo's singer/songwriter, looks he fell out of a George Romero film and sings with a voice that suggests that Eddie Vedder and Robert Fisher had a secret lovechild. His achy ballads, southern bar rock and slow-burning arrangements break hearts and make fans daily.

--Wendy Darling: Led by singer Cori Rush, San Diego's Wendy Darling play sun-baked indie country like nobody's business. Rush, whose a little bit June Carter, a little Natalie Merchant, and a lot of attitude, sounds just as capable over lazy guitar arrangements and plucky country tunes. Endearing to say the least.

--Parlor Mob: If The Veils had listened to The Guess Who instead of Madchester bands, they might sound like Parlor Mob. Kickass blues rock a la Wolfmother (but with a touch more staying power, not to mention some killer guitar solos), Parlor Mob kick and scream like few other bands as youthful. There's some Led in there, some Allman Brothers, but mostly they're a rock band I don't feel bad about liking.

--Man Man: We now arrive at the hometown pride portion of this piece. Philadelphia's zany-as-all-get-out Man Man have been charming audiences and indie rock arbiters with their quirky, baroque indie music for three or four years now. There's gypsy jazz in there, there's archaic literary references, there's a feeling I can only describe as slapstick. A unique band to be sure.

--Guster: Boston-based Guster is the one thing that hippies and I tend to agree on. They like their laid back sound and pro-environmental stance; I like that their pop songs don't last for hours on end. One of the first bands that ever made an impression on me (their third album Lost & Gone Forever = 5th grade birthday present), I've seen them when they were small, and seen them now that they're big, and I'll keep seeing them just to see what directions they head. An infinitely capable live act, Guster ensures a good time is had, but I'll be stopping by to make sure they're still doing their best.

Cold War Kids: A California band that sounds less like Brian Wilson and more like they've spent the last ten years in the brig of a 17th century pirate ship, Cold War Kids' tortured, percussive rock sound caught my attention with their three now-forgotten EPs, more so than with their debut album, 2006's Robbers & Cowards. Everything, the guitar, the bass, even Nathan Willet's voice, resemble their jagged percussion sounds, and their live shows are triumphs of atmospherics and energy.

Sam Roberts: The closest thing we have to a modern day Dylan or Lennon, Sam Roberts has been preaching positivity and love in apocalyptic times for a few years now, and his mightily impressive band have made sure that he's at the proper decibel level to be heard. Old psych rock from an old soul with very modern angst, Roberts wants everyone to drop what they're doing and question whether our hatred is worth whatever its buying us now. And if that's too much, he's got this infectious rock music you might be interested in. (Read our review on his latest here)

--MSTRKRFT: One of the more prolific DJ teams working today, MSTRKRFT have touched everything from John Legend to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. I missed their live set at Coachella a few years ago, but I'm hoping their pulsing electronic set will make up for the fact that Jesse Keeler's tenure in this band means Death From Above 1979 won't be making new records anymore.

--Broken Social Scene: If you've spoken to me about music in the last six years, chances are I've brought up Broken Social Scene. The Canadian indie collective that has featured everyone from Feist to Isaac Brock at some time or another, features some impressive guitar riffs, an effective use of 'noise', and lyrics that deal with social politcs more adeptly than just about any other band to date. The only band that can examine sexuality without artifice or pride and still end in a blistering guitar solo (or two...or three).

--Willie Nelson: After I saw Phosphorescent go to town on some of Willie's better tunes, I'd been dying to catch the old master live again to compare. I've seen Willie once before, but I was too drained and distracted to give him my full attention. That won't be the case this time around, I'll be sure of it.

--Toots and the Maytals: Reggae's living legends. If you don't know them, go buy as many early Maytals records as you can. While Damian Marley seems content to sink into hippie hip-hop oblivion, Toots, the old guard, stays true to reggae's transformative power after all these years. I've been a fan since I saw Perry Henzel's reggae film The Harder They Come when I was 11; to finally see them live will be an honor and a privilege.

--Femi Kuti: Fela's son, Femi captures that same group ethos and funky music for change that his father did so well, except without the extremist undercurrent. With slick production and massive stage presence, Femi's been charming stadium crowds with his unique afro-beat sound globally since 1991.

--Bob Dylan: It's Bob Dylan, do I need a reason? I know people who don't like him who'd still like to see him live. I'm not a committed fan or anything, but a legend is a legend.

Earotica: Love at the End of the World-Sam Roberts Review

Sam Roberts is a committed songwriter, someone who understands that timelessness isn't something you strive for, it's something you achieve through forward thinking, championing human beings, and using art to do good. Roberts latest release, Love at the End of the World, is perhaps more memorable lyrically than musically, with songs that transcend the moment they were recorded in and in doing so, achieve a sort of timeless quality. And you get the feeling that Roberts is grappling with his exterior and interior worlds at the same time.

The tracks on LATEOTW feel like the product of an old soul with a decidedly modern production style. On tracks like "Sundance," "Detroit '67," and "Words and Fire," there is an urge, a longing to have been part of times when the struggles of the people became songs that meant something. Like Bob Dylan and John Lennon before him, Sam Roberts is a man who puts the politics of the soul and of the human condition into his music.

But LATEOTW also feels like the diary of a man alone. Try as he might to convince other people of love's healing power, he himself is more adrift. Gone are the third person declarations of hope and hippy sentimentality of his previous two records, this is Roberts alone and speaking straight from the heart. Dylan paraphrases like "Before I was your man/Now look at me I'm just young and old" on "Oh, Maria" lead to the general conclusion throughout LATEOTW that things could be better, but the answers to life's questions are maddeningly out of reach. "Life is for the taking" sings Roberts at barely a whisper, as if those words belong to long gone idealism of love and living that no one now seems willing to accept, the real world being too much in the way. You can see it with his denunciation of materialism on the record's title track and on "Stripmall Religion." Sad and hopeful all at once are most of the songs on LATEOTW, summed up in this phrase from "Them Kids": "The golden years are under attack/We're taking them back."

If I could level one criticism at this record, it would be that Roberts needs to let his band turn up to 11. His isn't a band with a history of being particularly loud, but 2006's Chemical City feels like Led Zeppelin II in comparison to this one. Thanks to the efforts of the Roberts' band, LATEOTW comes close to really rocking. On what is arguably the hardest song of the album, "Them Kids," Roberts becomes a prophet of rock's power to change: "We were apostles/They were the high priests/We lived the hustle/The keepers of the back beat." If that isn't rock's rallying cry, I don't know what is. He just needs to turn the guitars up a little louder, let his message reach more ears.

Granted, Roberts has his reasons for the subdued production. LATEOTW's message is more introverted and personal than raucous, almost as if to say "If you have something worth saying, you shouldn't need to dress it in distortion." But just the same, I would have liked a solo or two. By comparison, LATEOTW's quieter moments do work. Roberts' duet with Angela Desveaux is the sweetest moment on the album.

Overall, LATEOTW is practically ego-less, which helps its message work on the soul of every listener. The muted-rock feel slows down the album's second half, but it's worth sticking it out because it means hearing some of the record's most memorable lines ("I was too afraid to read the newspaper/Working in the basement of a skyscraper," from "The Pilgrim," as well as the album's apex, "Detroit '67" springs to mind.) If the rest of songs in Robert's catalog sound like a tribute to the music of the 60s and 70s, "Detroit" sounds like it fell out of a time capsule. With a driving dance piano, beat, and chord progression, it rings like the harbinger of positive change that kids must have felt in their garages in 1967, when real rock arrived to pick them up and give them some hope. "I'm just looking for some sounds/To ease the vice that squeezes us every day," sings Roberts. LATEOTW truly has a way with words and Roberts' music will change some lives for the better....the way music used to.

Earotica: Hold Time-M. Ward Review

M. Ward may be one of the few artists who truly understands the potential of a studio recording. Having long been regarded as something of a sonic loner – both in spite of and because of his friendship with Conor Oberst – Ward’s recordings started off sounding like bedroom angst recorded through a tin can. But with 2005’s Transistor Radio, the world at large began to see Ward had more to offer than his mournful crooning and virtuosic acoustic guitar picking. Finally on 2006’s Post-War, Ward burst from his shell with a collection of Jim James-produced pageantry, all production tricks and Roy Orbison-esque swagger. Last year’s release with Zooey Deschanel under the name She & Him had me almost convinced I was never going to get a proper M. Ward record again (Post War was great, but it sounded unevenly like the work of its producer more than Ward himself). And then Hold Time arrived and it all became clear. M. Ward hasn’t changed, he’s simply taken control.

On Hold Time, Ward and engineer/sideman Mike Mogis have figured out where to strike the balance between the glitz of Post War, the full band sound of She & Him, the lonesome sound of his first albums, and as always, Ward's truly inspired guitar playing. Hold Time feels like a man with total awareness of his powers, and it shows in his arrangements, his most endearing to date. The songs go from fast-paced feasts of layered guitars and thunderous percussion (“To Save Me”) to the quiet numbers that sound like they’re perpetually drifting down a lazy, autumn river (“One Hundred Million Years”). Like the perfect director, Ward makes a song feel like it sounds, complete with scratches, the compression, and the right amount of reverb. Listening to him trade guitar licks with himself on “Oh Lonesome Me," it sounds as assured and calming as a sunset, and he knows it. He can make a song sound 40 years old, like on “Stars of Leo," then melt the quiet and assure the song’s modernity. But the true power of Hold Time came through for me when “Fisher of Men” came on. Though “Fisher” sounds like a combination of every kind of song Ward has ever written, somehow it still sounds new and vital – post-punk meets the Grand Ole Opry.

He’s asked some heroes and friends to join him; Lucinda Williams gives a rousing ‘n raspy contribution to “Oh Lonesome Me”; so impassioned and fitting is her performance that it’s tough to decide who does the better job. His collaboration with Jason Lytle on “To Save Me” is just about the coolest damn thing a Grandaddy fan could ask for, and is, frankly, my favorite song of the last three months. Rachel Blumberg of the Decemberists and Norfolk & Western sits in again on drums (she played on Post War), giving things a backbone in that spunky way that only she can. I admit that I was prepared to dislike Hold Time based solely on Zooey Deschanel’s presence, but her collaborations do make two of his best songs ("Never Had Nobody Like You" and "Rave On") even better. Using Deschanel’s voice as backing instead of having it front and center was a wise decision; her voice sounds flawless behind Ward’s.

M. Ward albums have always been decently paced, but Hold Time goes by in the blink of an eye. Moving deftly from style to style, song to song, electric to acoustic, the 14 songs bleed into one another and pass through your eardrums like the soundtrack to a fleeting, idyllic daydream. Hold Time feels like the statement that Bright Eyes’ Cassadaga was supposed to be: the record of today, yesterday and tomorrow.

Show Review: The Heartless Bastards/Hoots and Hellmouth @ Great Scott, Boston, MA (2-3-09)

A new soundman every night. The members of Hoots and Hellmouth are drinking away the stress of the van ride from Philadelphia, preparing to take the stage at any moment as snow continues to pile up outside when Sean Hoots, one fourth of Hoots and Hellmouth and one third of its vocal harmony, tells me about the interesting sensation of baring one's sound (and soul) every night, not just once but twice. Once being to an audience obviously, but before that, before the audience even arrives, you have to do it for an audience of one, an inevitably surly soundman. The presence of a stompboard (a flat piece of wood with tambourines taped to it, providing the bands only percussive sounds) seems to make everyone slightly wary of what the man behind the soundboard here at Great Scott, will think of them, but this wariness didn't last long. Eschewing pop hooks or ordinary country music sounds, Hoots and Hellmouth have stompboarded their way into the hearts of fans one show at a time. Hoots, and later the headliner, Kentucky's Heartless Bastards will thank the restless crowd for making it there on such a cold night. Hoots and Hellmouth might not have known it then, but they were about to play before a crowd about to become ruthlessly loyal.

It did the heart of a Doylestown boy like me good to see an "I Heart XPN" button" on Sean Hoots' guitar strap, XPN being a radio station in the Philadelphia area. The bearded Hoots, guitarist Andrew Gray, bassist Tim Celfo, and wizard of the mandolin Robert Berliner, play that sort of music that makes a cold bar in a Boston winter feel like a hot West Texas barn-raising in August. An eastern PA drawl coupled with uncomplicated progressions and incredible speeds, their set replete with wildly flailing arms and legs, made this a show that was hard to wear a frown at. The fact that their new album doesn't come out until May didn't really register with anyone in the audience, and soon, you could see the few who started out as complete strangers to their music converted, clapping along with everyone else. This is a band that's unafraid of strange looks from a rock venue soundman, or anyone else for that matter, and it shows.

Thus, the audience was geared up and ready when Erika Wennerstrom and her newly designed Heartless Bastards took the stage, all smiles between small sips at their whiskey and dark ale, and a good time seemed guaranteed. A recent lineup change and a great third album, The Mountain, released not 24 hours prior, made this a very important show for Wennerstrom, and the crowd couldn't have been more sympathetic to her cause. The Mountain is a bit different from the heady garage sound of their first two albums, and is a bold move into a sound that's more Folkways than The Black Keys. Rowdy cries from the front row were ceaseless from start to finish, even when the band didn't give 100%. Wennerstrom kicked the show off with a loud, but reigned in delivery of "No Pointing Arrows" from the band's sophomore record, 2006's All This Time. Wennerstrom's voice, that sensual country-fried howl, did most of the work and the band struggled to keep up. Though unquestionably louder than hell, The Bastards' sound felt rather reserved for a good portion of their set. Readings of "Done Got Old" and "New Resolution" off their first album, Stairs and Elevators, were rather sober, but soon the new material began to rear its head. The titular "The Mountain," "Sway," and "Out At Sea" felt more like interchangeable bar blues when stacked against the timeless production they receive on the latest album. Whereas "The Mountain" feels like the contents of an old soul given new life, their simple electric guitar dressing live made the songs seem more generic than they are at heart.

After a flat delivery of one of their better and more unique rockers, "I Swallowed A Dragonfly", I began to wonder whether they were planning to bring the rock vibe they capture so flawlessly on their records at all. For a band with maybe the greatest name in contemporary rock music, things seemed mighty slow; they were behaving more like gentleman than Heartless Bastards. Many of Wennerstrom's compositions, their jazzy augmented minor chords and drums comparable only to the fists of a boxer against a punching bag, sound tremendous and gutwrenching when blasting through car speakers. But for whatever reason, they couldn't get off the ground when they were three feet in front of me. There was hardly a guitar solo worthy of the name. Finally, toward the end of a crowd favorite, "Swamp Song", the aggressiveness began to match the volume, and the mostly static backing band (drummer Dave Colvin, bassist and pedal steel player Jesse Ebaugh, and guitarist Mark Nathan of Knife in the Water) came to life.

Three songs shy of the encore isn't an ideal place for the rocking to start, but better late than never. "Nothing Seems the Same" and "Early In The Morning" came stomping out of the previous song's feedback, and the swagger I'd been expecting all night came out in earnest. Furious blues rock, the sort the Bastards had built their reputation on, began assaulting the ears of all present. The first song of the encore brought things back down though, and Wennerstrom and Ebaugh returned to the stage with acoustic guitars to do "So Quiet", almost as if to tease the patient crowd. They finally earned their name for the night with a roaring rendition of "Into The Open", a song that seems to erupt from Wennerstrom's soul everytime she sings the chorus. Straining her already strained voice, she stepped up to take the rocker's crown from Ann Wilson, Janis Joplin, and Wendy O. Williams, her gold Les Paul glinting like a sword under the red lights of Great Scott. By the time they reached "Gray," the whole crowd, bar dregs and all, were paying rapt attention. The malaise of the first 3/4 of the set was by now a faint memory and the Heartless Bastards left a satisfied crowd behind. If they had started with "Into The Open" and kept the energy level at the peak they reach during its refrain, the show might have been one of the most awesome rock shows I've ever seen.

Listen: Sway-The Heartless Bastards

(The Heartless Bastards are currently on tour and will have their network tv debut tonight on the Late Show with David Letterman. They are also performing at this year's SXSW.)

Earotica: Dear Science-TV on the Radio Review

(Editors Note: Recently, Between Love and Like added a new writer, Dave 'Scout' Tafoya, to our crew. This review is Scout's first contribution to us, the first, we hope, of many. Welcome Scout!)

When an established band changes its sound – the size of the shift notwithstanding – they take a risk. They risk alienating an existing fanbase, they risk not finding an audience for their new sounds, they risk opening themselves up to new pressures, and they risk criticism from everyone with a voice loud enough to whisper. With this in mind, when a band decides on a 180 degree shift, to go where it’s never gone before, they must possess many qualities, the foremost among those being boldness.

TV on the Radio is a band with a blend of sonic components so particular that not even veteran critics have been able to appropriately classify them. Elements of doo-wop, R&B, drone rock, post-punk, soul, and avant-garde are utilized in their records, often in the same song. Little surprise then that TVotR's latest release, the musically accessible, Dear Science, takes ground elsewhere, in unambiguous political fury and whiplash-inducing stylistic transformations.

This transformation isn’t immediately evident from the first track on Dear Science, the stomping, fuzzy “Halfway Home,” but the fury is. Lead singer Tunde Adebimpe’s lyrics are cryptic and seem to place blame for some natural catastrophe on every individual who had knowledge of it but did nothing to stop it. The production subtly betrays a firmer presence of every member of the band – the bass crawls around behind the layers and layers of guitar and synth, while the drums sound like a mixture of programming and live kit. When “Home” draws to its phase-heavy close, the first real evidence of change arrives in the form of guitarist Kyp Malone’s sultry and soulful “Crying.” Malone’s voice, long lost behind Adebimpe’s commanding multi-octave range, is loud, clear, and shows a personality akin to Curtis Mayfield. Guitarist (and TVotR producer) David Sitek’s sound is discernible here in that time-honored tradition of lightly-distorted funk guitar, the notes being plucked, rather than that beautiful, Godspeed You! Black Emperor scraping he typically favors. Sitek’s guitar remains reigned in throughout the record, and compliments the arrival of the playful sounding synth and horn section funk (and what an entrance they make). Malone’s lyrics hint strongly at a corrupt figurehead not unlike the one recently dethroned by Barack Obama (mention is made of “coke in the nose of the nobles” and “tanks with no red light in sight”). It is here where the album’s strongest lyrical theme comes into play, that of a progressive era just around the corner. Just before the song’s many complimentary instrumental licks weave in between each other to form the closing measures, Malone calls for change: “Time to take the wheel and the road from the masters. Take this car, drive it straight into the wall, build it back up from the floor and stop our crying.” His voice shaking the rafters, Malone wants us to reach out and grab that power to change, as it is mere inches from our hands.

"Dancing Choose," a rocker with gangsta rap coursing through its veins, breaks with the band's normal stylistic boundaries. Four notes of distorted bass and then Adebimpe coming out swinging, his deft enunciation is backed by subdued rhythm section and saxophone, the whole scene reminiscent of an Ali one-two punch. This is TV on the Radio encapsulating post-punk as a whole, as it’s never been done before. “Stork and Owl” has Malone harmonizing quite beautifully with himself about death, love, and birth, sounding like an early-TVOTR tune with cinematic production. Its break-in pace seems somewhat out of step though when following “Choose” and coming before the album's strutting peak, “Golden Age.” “Golden Age,” is a song as catchy as it is poignant, and seems to capture all the best elements of 1970s music. Malone’s fluid rhythm and his assurance of that progressive era’s proximity just in time is enough to make the last eight years in America feel like just a bad dream. When the horns, layered vocals, dizzying violins, and simple but undeniable bass line come in, the song gives the illusion of waking from one dream (of decay and darkness) into another one (of euphoria and of the horns of seraphs). Sitek’s production is never better than on this minor miracle track. And he doesn’t stop there.

Sitek nearly outdoes himself on “Family Tree.” A combination of a hauntingly gorgeous piano riff steeped in delay and reverb and Adebimpe’s words are a testament to the pleasures of the now and the joy of life out of the shadows of legacy. With the help of Malone’s high harmonies and those swooning strings, “Family Tree” forms an unforgettable breath of life. It is the most uncharacteristic song in the TVOTR canon and their sweetest, most aurally pleasing effort to date. They then drop-kick us back into strife, hypocrisy, and political piracy, lest we get too comfortable, with “Red Dress.” Jagged guitar playing by Sitek and Malone, coupled with drummer Jaleel Bunton’s relentless afrobeat percussion, leads this tale of slavery and lost identity. As different from early TVOTR as “Fear of Music” was from “Talking Heads: 77,” “Red Dress” brims with anger and the fire of life.

Sitek’s mixing and producing creativity shines bright on the next three tracks. He pulls out all the stops and fills every second with production tricks on “Love Dog, each one as captivating as the next. But this quiet, brooding post-punk slow-burner is best suited to headphones as it exudes more atmosphere than hooks. “Shout Me Out” features acrobatic melodies and a chorus that sticks in the head, and “DLZ,” an indictment of death erasing one’s legacy on earth, becomes better with every repeat listen.

To say that Dear Science finishes strongly is putting it mildly. “Lover’s Day,” boldest of the album’s rebellion and genre-bending madness, is the most vivid and impassioned depiction of two bodies intertwined outside of the misogynistic confines of modern Hip-Hop, or the exaggerated naughty world of Prince. The music starts calm, military drums and soft tambourine, and builds. The music of “Lover’s Day” never reaches the same climax as Malone’s words do, but the song is still as lasting a testament to intimacy as there ever was.

Dear Science may be different from TV on the Radio's earliest efforts but this difference is genuine, emotional, demanding, captivating, exciting, and vital. It's got some definitive high points and while each of those points may not be the same height, Dear Science absolutely proves that TV on the Radio has the balls to switch things up, to vary from the tried and true. These changes were well worth the risk.