I always considered Dolby an interesting artist, albeit one who'd mostly slipped beneath my radar. I remember hearing a few of his more well known singles on the TV and radio growing up, 'Blinded Me With Science', 'Close But No Cigar' and 'Airhead' being notable examples, but he continued to pass me by for a long time. Some years later, I came across this album and from the plastic electro-funk of opener 'Dissidents', I knew wanted to hear more.
With only 7 songs, 'The Flat Earth' is a very short album, but one that manages to cover a lot of ground. What I love about it is the way it sounds very much a product of the early 80s in which it was produced, whilst also sounding ahead of its time. I credit this in part to the production which is crisp and defined in a manner you would not typically associate with the era.
Of course, it's not just about production, TFE also has some damn fine songs. Dolby combines an idiosyncratic approach to pop with remarkable musicianship throughout, and every time I play this album, I am always amazed at just how well put together it is.
With some albums, you can tell almost straight away that they will stay with you forever.
I first discovered Janelle Monae via last.fm sometime around 2009. The first song was 'Violet Stars Happy Hunting' from her 'Metropolis' EP, and I was immediately hooked. Monae's music was a million miles away from the saccharine pop stylings of the R'n'B she is sometimes lazily cateogrised as. This was fresh, daring, and boldly experimental; an artist, not an entertainer.
So a year later, I was very pleased to hear that she had just released a new album, so without hesitating, I grabbed a copy. As suggested above, it was love at first listen: the album begins with a theatrical classical suite that's followed by a foot tapping psychedelic pop ditty, that's followed by a bouncy new-wave number, that's followed by a Stevie Wonder inspired neo soul tune... well, you get the idea. This freewheeling and seemingly effortless experimentalism and flamboyance never lets up for the entire album, all held together by unifying musical motifs and Monae's powerful voice.
What struck me was the sheer genius of this woman. When listening to this album, you simply cannot escape the fact that is was created by someone who really knows, understands and, above all, loves music. To me, it's a level of genius that approaches the likes of Prince or the aforementioned Stevie Wonder which, in itself tells you just how special this album is.
This musical vivacity has unfortunately not yielded commercial dividends for Monae, who is criticised by some for not conforming to a more obvious pop-friendly formula, but these criticisms miss the point: that "market" is more than catered for. There are legions of entertainers in that ballpark churning out endless streams of tacky, autotuned pop with factory-like precision, and for Monae to toe that line would be an extraordinary waste of talent. (Her unnecessary attempt to appeal to that audience with the cringeworthy standalone single 'Yoga' ably proves that point.)
In 2011, I took my fiance to a Janelle Monae gig which today remains one of my favourite live experiences. The music from the album was married to a wonderful stage performance featuring Monae's sharply attired backing band and dancers (decked in the characteristic black and white suits), mysterious hooded figures, zombies (during 'Sincerely, Jane' from the EP) and a stentorian witch doctor. The gig was also a first for my fiance who'd previously never been to a live show, so this album, and the gig itself also carry some sentimental weight.
I honestly cannot enthuse about this album enough. I'm even listening to it as I type this entry! I make a point of encouraging people to listen to this album, so if you haven't heard it, then get the hell off this blog and listen to it NOW. Maybe then you'll discover exactly why I number it as an all-time favourite.
I first heard about CocoRosie on a forum I frequented back in 2005 or so, thanks to a guy raving about them in a thread. He'd recently purchased 'Noah's Ark' and posted a link to a song he liked from the album. I clicked it and was immediately drawn into a very strange new world.
The song he linked to was 'Beautiful Boyz', a tragic tale of an ill-fated boy turned ruined prison inmate. It began with understated, melancholy piano chords, the lilting croon of guest vocalist Anthony Hegarty and the ghostly wails of Sierra Cassidy, one half of the sibling duo that is the band itself. I didn't quite know what to expect when I clicked the link, but it wasn't this. The intro made way for some filtered, lo-fi beatboxing accompanying younger sibling Bianca Cassidy's strident vocal. It was a complete and utter headfuck, but incredibly powerful and compelling.
He later posted another link, this time it was 'South 2nd', another tragic tale, this time of a mother's son lost to inner city gang violence, rendered as a gentle, haunting acoustic number with the digital sqwarks of children's toys and miniature pianos providing the unlikely accompaniment. The lo-fi aesthetic immediately made me think of the likes of early Sebadoh and Beck even though musically, it didn't sound anything like them. However, it was enough to pique my interest and I knew I needed to own this album. So I picked it up.
I later found out that CocoRosie had been lumped in with one of those contrived musical fads music journalists occasionally dream up to draw attention to themselves; in this case, "freak folk" or "New Weird America". Predictably, after a bit of research, I discovered that many of the artists thrown into this category had little in common and I went back to not caring. Nevertheless, I could not shake this band or this album.
What did it for me was CocoRosie's boundless, unfettered approach to music. The unlikely blending of unlikely styles in unlikely ways (a technique normally the preserve of Japanese artists approaching "western" music). It was never quite knowing where each new song was going to go, and the way their songs inspired so many feelings; a sense of childlike wonder, haunting melancholy, euphoria and mystery, approaching topics like religion, sexuality, mythology and death with colourful abandon. I also loved the enigma they projected: were they really sisters or lesbian lovers? Is one of them actually a boy? And were the tales of their past and upbringing actually true or just fanciful stories designed to wrong-foot their audience? I wanted to know, but I also loved not really knowing or for that matter caring. So yes, 'Noah's Ark' definitely blew me away. The cover (looking like a piece of art homework that would land a schoolkid a week's detention) is every bit as odd as the music and does a fantastic job of visually summing up the album.
After this, I went backwards and picked up 'La Maison De Mon Reve' which was decent but for me, not quite as fully realised as this album. I also went to see them live in 2007 which today remains one of my favourite ever gigs. The albums that followed this are a mixed bag; as you'd expect, their sound becomes more and more polished and refined, but whilst the same creative spark remains, these follow up records never really recaptured that magic that initially drew me in.
'Noah's Ark', then, very much an acquired taste, but definitely something that appealed to me in a big way.
I will never ever forget the first time I heard this album, and in particular, the effect it had on me.
Around 1999, I had a pen pal whom I'd found on a DIY tape trading website I frequented. For the benefit of any younger readers, it bears pointing out that the web of the mid to late 90s was a very different place to the web today. Back then, there was no social media of any kind, so any online correspondence with people was mostly limited to email or AIM and its many variants. When it came to music, there was no YouTube, Bandcamp or SoundCloud, so if you wanted other people to hear your music, you had to send a physical copy of that music to them in the post. Prior to the exchange, all people had to go on was a written description of what your music sounded like so your descriptions had to be compelling enough to attract attention.
Based on what this guy had written about his music, I wanted to hear it, so I got in touch, requesting a CD and sent him one of my own tapes in exchange. From that, we started writing to each other regularly and would swap music back on forth, be it music we liked or our own. It also helped that we had a shared interest not only in experimental music, but in video games (we also swapped copied PS1 games) and anime.
One late September evening, I returned from work to a package from my online friend which contained along with the usual letter, a CD-R from a band called 'Jack or Jive' whom I'd never heard of before. I put the CD straight into my stereo and hit 'Play', not having any idea what to expect. The album began with a pulsing, electronic darkwave beat and moody synths. Siren-esque vocals weaved like smoke patterns across the soundscape and the affecting chorus immediately struck something within my inner being, right in a place I didn't even know was there. I continued listening, and the way this music made me feel was unlike anything I'd ever experienced before.
Strangely, the music spoke to a part of me I don't recognise as the person I am now. It had a strange sense of familiarity I could not explain, and as whimsical or trite as this might sound, it was as though I was suddenly remembering the existence of a former self, a self that existed in a previous life. Yes, it sounds weird, maybe even laughable to you, but that is how the music made me feel.
The mood of Jack or Jive's music is definitely nocturnal, recalling moonlight, spirit entities and rituals. Vocalist Chako doesn't sing any recognisable language, choosing instead to form utterances from a personal tongue. To be reductive or lazy, one might describe Jack or Jive as a Japanese Cocteau Twins, but that doesn't even tell half the story. Other than the made up language and otherwordly atmosphere, they don't really have that much in common. Cocteau Twins' music feels much more structured compared to Jack or Jive's whose songs are more free-form, typically built up around a singular theme that loosely informs the flow of the music.
Jack or Jive's music for me seems to exist in a world that is both completely alien and entirely familiar. It is a world of darkness, the beautiful darkness of the selenophile. It speaks to a place within my very being where such darkness is sacred and necessary, not to be feared, but embraced. As you might expect, the mood is quite downbeat and sometimes melancholic, but as per an earlier entry, I often find myself drawn to such sounds and find them comforting.
I went on to find as much of their music as I could get my hands on (some of which came from my online friend) and pretty much have everything they've put out including the limited run 'Towards the Event Horizon' CD and the ISSIN box set.
I'm not in touch with my old pen pal anymore (we stopped writing each other around 2001) and he will never know the impact he made when he sent me that unassuming CD-R that September, but I am beyond grateful that he did.
Yet another well loved classic that needs no introduction.
I was aware of J&MC long before I got into them in earnest, be it though songs I heard on the radio as a kid or elsewhere. Some years later, when beginning on my own journeys into creating music, someone recommended this album, owing to the penchant I had for feedback and noise which featured prominently in a lot of my early, lo-fi excursions.
There's not really much to say about this album that hasn't already been said a million times. Throw 50s bubblegum pop, garage rock (by way of Velvet Underground's 'White Light White Heat' of course), and Phil Spector-esque production into a blender, and this is the end result.
Simply put, Psychocandy is a masterpiece of an album and one that has definitely stayed with me ever since I first heard it.
You see, sometime back in the mid noughties (circa 05), I started using Amazon to purchase new music. Back then, it was a godsend; considerably cheaper than the high street shops, with everything and anything I could possibly want obtainable with a few clicks.
Then Amazon became like that stereotypical, villainous "drug pusher" they warn you about when you're a kid. You know, the ones that entice you with a few cheap and easy samples to get you going, then once you're hooked, they keep finding new ways of reeling you in. And so, after buying a few CDs from Amazon, it would start throwing recommendations my way. I'd click on the ones I found interesting, read the blurbs and customer reviews, and if I liked the sound of them, I'd take that blind leap of faith and hit the 'Buy' button; and with such cheap prices, it seemed rude not to.
I discovered many fantastic albums that way: Efterklang's 'Tripper' and '...And the Glass Handed Kites' by Mew (the album that got me into them, in fact), to name two notable examples, and then of course there is this; the unassuming cover and nonsensical band name (what the hell is a 'devic'?) were enough to intrigue me enough to want to find out more, and specifically why Amazon thought this might be something I'd like.
'Push the Heart' dropped through my letterbox on a grey, drizzly weekday. It came just before I left for work that morning, so I grabbed the CD and played it on the way into work. Don't believe what they tell you about first impressions; they don't always last. As such, I can't remember much about the first time I played this album as it drifted in one ear and out the other. It's not that I didn't like it, it just wasn't what I was in the mood for hearing at that point in time, so I didn't play it again for a while.
A year later, sometime in the summer, I decided to revisit the album. I'd play it on balmy summer evenings whilst reading, and its languid melancholia somehow made sense in that context, (more so than that rainy weekday). Hearing it brings me back to those moments, and the things that occupied my mind then, in particular, reading the phenomenal 'House of Leaves' (as I was), and the crush I had on an old friend from school I'd recently started seeing again after many years (nothing came of it which, in hindsight was for the best).
However, all of these nebulous triflings pale when compared to the music. There's nothing groundbreaking about this album at all; with PTH you have a collection of inoffensive, yet well written and accessible songs. However, what compels is the emotional gravity those songs possess, imbuing them with far more vitality than first seems apparent. It's a heady concoction of lilting choruses, beautifully haunting melodies and bittersweet lyrics. Each song seems like the musical embodiment of a person, and it feels like you have somehow possessed their being and can anticipate everything they're feeling, as captured in the mood and tone of the music. I can think of few albums that have ever made me feel this way before, which is why this has stayed with me so much.
If you've read this blog in chronological order, you would've already observed a number of patterns. A lot of my all time favourites have become such through personal circumstances, and many have also come about through certain individuals who've introduced me to certain bands or albums. If you were expecting something different with this entry, then I'm afraid I'm about to disappoint you. If you're reading this backwards (latest to earliest entry), then some of the following may not make sense straight away.
Around 1999-ish, the friend who'd introduced me to me to the music of Suicide (yes, him again) also introduced me to a friend of his, with whom I eventually started making music. He lived with his girlfriend in a small seaside town very close to me, and on a Sunday, I'd take a half hour bus ride to his place where we'd record experimental lo-fi weirdness on a digital 4-track he had. That lasted for the best part of a year before other commitments on his end halted our project. We still kept in touch, however and I would still go to see him from time to time. Not only was this guy an incredibly adept musician in his own right, he listened to a lot of interesting music, and would often play some of it for me whenever I visited him. And this was how I first heard of Grandaddy.
For my birthday that year, and I went out with him and his mates for a few drinks in town before gathering on the beach at night to smoke under the stars. At some point over that weekend, he played me some Grandaddy. He knew I'd like them, owing largely to their fondness for playing around with toy keyboards (a fondness I also shared) and their lo-fi indie pop aesthetic.
'Under the Western Freeway' became an album I liked pretty much straight away. When my friend introduced this, I recall him forewarning me that they could "be a bit maudlin at times"; I didn't mind that at all though, given that I often find myself drawn to sadness in music (paradoxically, I find that indulging such emotions helps keep me centered). In the case of UTWF, the album largely came to me during a fantastic birthday weekend at the height of summer. As such, even its sadder songs strangely worked by virtue of their contextual association, even if they may not have fit the overall mood. Either way, it was hard to deny that it was an incredible album for me.
From this, I started digging into the band's back catalogue and found myself enamoured with their lo-fi, experimental indie-pop that placed them in the same family as many other bands that I enjoyed (Pavement being an obvious example). In fact 'Levitz', a track from one of their earlier EPs is actually one of my all time favoruite songs.
A year later, they released their commercial breakthrough 'The Sophtware Slump' which is largely considered their best album. And yes, it is a great record (albeit tidier and cleaner), but 'Western Freeway' is the one that's stayed with me. Unfortunately, they did lose me after that with the largely forgettable 'Sumday' (shorn of the experimental quirkiness of before, many of its songs are quite MOR to these ears), but I will always remember 'Under the Western Freeway' for introducing me to a band I later came to cherish and laud in equal measure.
