Matador

There's no denying that Matador took a bit of a punt when they signed Esben and The Witch last year on the back of a handful of recordings - in the process making the Brighton trio the first British act to join their ranks in over six years. Fast-forward six months, and the January release of this, the band's debut album, makes them among the first of the BBC Sound Of 2011-listed acts to face the verdict of the buying public. Look beyond the hype, the esteemed company they now find themselves in, and the promotional shock tactics of their videos, though, and what are we left with? Will Violet Cries see E&TW scale the same critical and commercial heights achieved by past Sound Of... tips like Foals (whom they've toured with) and Florence and The Machine (with whom they share certain similarities, not least in singer Rachel Davies' bottomless caterwaul)? Or will it make them lambs to the slaughter, destined to be forgotten about in twelve months after a stillborn rise to (non-)fame?
 
Sadly, for all the pre-game build-up, the reality is that precious few of these ten tracks are really worth getting worked up over. The blurbs and pull quotes surrounding the album's release would have us believe the band are peddling a uniquely atmospheric brand of goth-tinged 'nightmare pop': think Siouxsie Sioux babysitting The xx. The truth is less kind: yes, there are faint traces of both those acts' influence here, but even though things start out on the right path - opener 'Argyria' has a well-judged slow-build, while lead single 'Marching Song' gets the darkness-and-light mix just about right - it isn't long before it all becomes disconcertingly vague and unfocused. Comparisons to the likes of Portishead and Kate Bush seem patently ridiculous at this point; whereas those artists are masters of their game, locked into a set of musical gears that directs their every note, there's a looseness to much of Violet Cries that suggests - rightly or wrongly - that Esben aren't altogether sure of what it is they're trying to achieve. The middle third is particularly limp, songs like 'Light Streams' and the almost-laughably-bad 'Chorea' throwing a variety of forced, goth-lite shapes to unconvincing effect. The lyrics, meanwhile, are just plain embarrassing at times, Davies' excessively echoing voice spouting all manner of half-baked nonsense about rabbits' legs, "a terrible hex" and "cutting the sun from its moorings".
 
'Eumenides' and current single 'Warpath' offer some cause for hope towards the end: the former a rare example of restraint from the trio that rides out astride a thundering Warpaint-esque crescendo, the latter a claustrophobic mélange of swirling effects and defiant guitar - and the only time the band really approaches the "moody malevolence" the weekend supplements would have us believe they specialise in. Unfortunately it's a case of damage limitations too late in the day, and this relatively strong finish can't rescue what amounts to a majorly disappointing debut and grounds, perhaps, for a quality-control memo to be circulated at Matador HQ. Violet Cries ultimately comes off a bit like a big-budget school play: plenty of pomp and ceremony, but decidedly amateurish and lacking in conviction. Now where did I leave my copy of Daisy Dares You's album?...

How much you enjoy this, the fifth effort by charmingly off-kilter Canadian Power-Pop supremos, the New Pornographers, will depend greatly on how much you enjoyed their previous record. Challengers pared down the power-chords and trundling hooks from their first three LP’s in favour of a more muted feel that had stolen in during certain portions of Twin Cinema, but never outstayed its welcome. Given how many admirers the collective had amassed on the back of those giddy excesses, there was a predictably mixed reaction.

So the big question is have they ratcheted the amps back up to 11? The answer is no, with a caveat of “Well, maybe a little...” The record certainly couldn’t be accused of torpor, but those searching for another 'Letter From An Occupant' or 'Jackie Dressed In Cobras' had best look elsewhere; this is Saturday afternoon in tone. Friday night has been and gone. Even when the guitars are dusted off for 'Your Hands Together', they seem dutiful rather than truly essential. But what we’re left with, when all is said and done, is still a very fine record. The group might alter the presentation, but the meal remains the same; this is charmingly high-brow pop music. 'Silver Jenny Dollar' bounces along and lodges itself in the mind as if it’s somehow always been there – “It’s true to love her/is all I can do” is a lyric that might very well describe the song itself. 'If You Can’t See My Mirrors' picks up the pace, if not the volume, then 'Valkyrie In The Roller Disco' brings it right back down, and if the group initially perfected the closing track with penultimate effort 'Daughters of Sorrow', they thought better of it and really did a job on actual closer 'We End Up Together'.

Criticisms remain. This might be a fine low-key record, but their chunkier first two efforts remain their zenith. Neko Case could certainly have been used more too, but until her crotch-stirringly powerful lyrics adorn every track ever recorded by every group, then that will remain a gripe. The Pornographers may never be anything other than a band that churn out reliably endearing 4-star records every couple of years but it’s far from a rotten job, and hey, someone’s got to do it. 

When Pretty Girls Make Graves broke up, founding member and bass player Derek Fudesco formed The Cave Singers joined by vocalist Peter Quirk formly of Hint Hint and drummer Marty Lund. The Cave Singers, though marking a radical change in style of music for Fudesco – from indie rock fuzz to folk – hit the crest of a popular wave, fitting snuggly in with the present rash of folk bands and singer-songwriters alike.

Their first release Invitation Songs back in 2007 met with mostly exemplary reviews. Their sound belied originality at times but Quirk's uniquely reticent vocals and the combined song writing talents of the band overall enabled The Cave Singers to hold their own ground. This then, their sophomore release Welcome Joy, catches the airwaves perfectly at perhaps just the right time for festivals and radio. 

Quirk's voice is certainly special, it must be said. It plays out as the most pulsating instrument on show here. It sets aside the band in the way Janis Joplin's voice may have; it's gargling and hoarse. It lays low with tenderness at times and at other moments, howls on high with the jarring jingling guitars and pattering drums. The album cracks wide open with ‘Summer Light’, a beautifully guided sugar rush and continues in much the same vein until ‘Shrine’ which bursts with a raggedness reminiscent of the Rolling Stones. Actually, similar to the Rolling Stones, a lot of the material here skitters and ferries by in a typically up beat format. Which is a good thing. ‘Beach House’ leaves our singer pleading heart on sleeve while the drum and bass take off like a circulating heart beat. Though the emotions are evident from the get-go, intentions good, the formula does ebb considerably after track seven, VV. 

The musicianship is masterful all round. One cannot fault the flawlessness of the production. There is a delicate percussion throughout and the ambling guitars jump with unexpected chord changes shifting and moulding the songs expertly. There is a unified clarity here in the direction the band seeks. It all sounds very grown up and honest without sugar coating anything with any sort of commercial feel. But sadly, they should have. Just a little. The album lacks the bursting vibes or pop sensibilities that an Arcade Fire, Fleet Foxes or Band of Horses will do time and again. And this is what will, though critically lauded, inevitably bog the Cave Singers down. It's all too clunky and heavy. Later songs like ‘Townships’ and ‘Bramble’ try to reach out a little further but to no avail. The mood stays the same. Modern Joy makes for a nice Ipod walk in the countryside. Maybe even in a forest. Or sitting by the sea. 

So while not being an excellent album, it is certainly a very good album. Especially if the listener is new to the on-going folk/rock scene. But, sounding like Fleet Foxes without the really good singable bits; is this the death of post-modern folk?  

The voice is familiar, the layered guitars are familiar and the languid drum beat is familiar – separating Julian Plenti from Interpol may be more difficult than first suspected. The debut album by the alter ego of Interpol’s frontman Paul Banks might be a side project but it is by no means a vehicle of indulgence.

Julian Plenti is the pseudonym under which Banks performed in his pre-Interpol days and he has resurrected the project to put together this 11 track release. Banks/Plenti has recently indicated that he will soon tour under this guise, lending further weight to the claims that this is serious attempt to carve a distinct identity outside Interpol.

So, is it any good? Well, most people who listen to this album are bound to be familiar with Interpol’s work over the past number of years and it’s impossible to frame any critique without reference to what Banks has done in the “day job”. On that basis, he has put together a decent collection of songs but it never quite reaches the heights of “Antics” or “Turn on the Bright Lights”. In fact, if you were the other members of Interpol and Banks released a belter of an album, you’d wonder why these songs never came out in any previous recording sessions. In this case, some of these tracks may well have been attempted but never developed to see the light of day. And that’s not to say they’re no good, rather it’s difficult to see where they would have fitted in on an Interpol album. This is Julian Plenti, Interpol–lite.

The album opens with a couple of tracks which set the tone for the remainder of the album. The opener, “Only If You Run” has all the hallmarks of a great Interpol track – there’s a cracking guitar loop which underpins the unmistakable flat vocals. This is swiftly followed up by “Fun That We Have”, where good use is made of electronics behind a firm baseline and yet more layered guitars. It’s only by the third and title track, “Skyscraper”, that we hear something a bit different, more Julian Plenti than Interpol. The single repeated lyric “Shake me, shake me, Skyscraper” doesn’t kick in until half way through the 3 minutes and adds to a beautifully constructed otherwise instrumental track. This would have been an excellent opening track if Plenti wanted to distinguish his solo work more. The album continues in a similar vein - some bold “Antics”-esque tracks followed by more subtle acoustic and piano numbers. Good enough, but it borders on pedestrian too often for comfort. “No Chance Survival” is a typical example – it begins with good intentions but never reaches a destination.

There’s good and bad on this record. Any Interpol fan will find appealing elements within the 37 odd minutes but it doesn’t quite stand up to scrutiny. There’s a solo album in Plenti for certain but this isn’t it.

The critical consensus surrounding Sonic Youth's output this decade, various minor degrees of disagreement notwithstanding, places the band in the midst of a resurgence dating back to 2002's heralded Murray Street. Viewed through the prism of New York's traumatic previous year, that album was popularly seen as that year's most New York of albums, the sound of a band pushed prematurely, perhaps, to the status of contemplative cultural emblem. Though the merits and demerits of that particular interpretation are open to some vociferous debate, the immediate impact of its dominance, Sonic Youth's subsequent accession to a new career plateau, isn't. No longer the fallen darlings of alternative rock, forever to be remembered for a peak in output growing increasingly distant, they'd bridged the generational gap and become to many the venerable godfather-figures they'd always threatened to be. They had, in a phrase, become unimpeachably 'classic rock'... well, sort of.

Before the reflexive charges of snobbery and/or gross critical incompetence begin to pile up, I should point out that that's not meant all that disparagingly. It means, for one, that more and more people who missed them the first time around drift further into the back catalogue-not that recent output hasn't been strong- listening to Daydream Nation or Dirty (their relatively recent reissues proving a case in point). It also means, however, that Sonic Youth are drawn increasingly centreward in a way that proves incongruous and unsettling to many; witness the Sonic Youth/Starbuck's compilation record, or more innocuously, 2007's Rather Ripped, their most polished set to date. What all this sketches, rather messily, is the familiar push-pull dynamic of a band of outsiders commercially and creatively born again as popular representatives of the very same. Its safe negotiation is a uniquely postmodern conundrum, and one that Thurston and Co. are more equipped than most to appreciate. Stylistically, they've been resolving the irresolvable for decades now; the shabbiness of Thurston Moore's earnestness has been shadowed at every turn by Kim Gordon's satirical deflation of the same. They've always hinted that they're as aware of contradiction and incongruity as the most sensitive of their fans, but The Eternal poses the very real possibility that, perhaps, the lure of a peaceful autumn has proven stronger than the risk of its compromise in the name of experiment.

As album-opener Sacred Trickster, or the standout single What We Know neatly outline, Sonic Youth have accrued more than enough musical knowledge and studio trickery in their 20+ years to succeed in the fusion of the deadpan art squall of their peak with (whisper it) radio rock. Though hook-laden in a very conventional sense, these songs also succeed in carrying with them just enough of their creators' indelible brand. In short, they're the Sonic Youth songs you'd use to minister to the unconverted and chronically skeptical; smooth, accessible, catchy, they risk nothing in their vertiginous showcase of a well-drilled and confident rock act. This, obviously, is not by any stretch of the imagination a bad thing, but the cracks begin to show slightly over the course of an entire twelve-song cycle. Where the above or Thunderclap (for Bobby Pyn), carried by its infectious backing vocals, succeed in striking a fragile balance between the imperatives of deferential accessibility on the one hand and satisfyingly full aural experience on the other, too often lulls in musical or conceptual ingenuity yield an unsettling sense of sterility. Calming the Snake, for example, a breathless Kim Gordon number in the mode of Kissability, feels, for all its swagger, curiously lacking in bite. The same could easily be said of the dated Anti-Orgasm or Malibu Gas Station, which, at 5 and-a-half minutes, feels a good deal more bloated than it looks on paper. It's in these moments of ill-conceived drift that the album's sense of cohesion is lost. The signature bursts of feedback emerge as too placed, too predictable, too regulated, too polished, with the hooks and lyrics neutered in a calculated vacuum. They become, in short, the accumulated markers of a Sonic Youth-ness, rather than the genuine article itself. In its worst moments, therefore, it's a quasi-ersatz experience that can't help but announce itself on a background of lyrical aimlessness.

The Eternal isn't a bad album, not by a long shot, but its tragic flaw lies in the very comfort, the ease, of its delivery. It's a charge that wouldn't stick to a lesser band, and in many ways a lesser band wouldn't be forced to walk such an impossibly fine line between their natural instinct and their public role, but as closer Massage the History drifts out, taking with it a great share of the album's ambition and unpredictability, you can't help but feel slightly, if reverently, frustrated.