Album of the Week: Apoligies to the Queen Mary by Wolf Parade

 

 

 

The other day, I was in a comic shop, getting a copy of Daytripper for my ever amassing collection, when I heard Wolf Parade’s first album put on the speaker. I own this album, and love it more than is sane or reasonable, but I had primarily neglected to listen to it recently, with the exception of their glorious anthem “I’ll Believe in Anything”. After making my purchase, I went and gave that album a solid re-listen, and I found it held up as gloriously as it always had.

Now, I’m not going to lie: Apologies to the Queen Mary is a weird album. There are two different vocalists (Spencer Krug and Dan Boeckner), both sing radically differently, with Krug having a low, varying warble and Boeckner having a more traditional voice. They play traditional instruments (Awesomly, I might add), but also use a synthesizer. Their subjects are unclear, occasionally profound, and there are far too many references to 18^th century literature for the average person. But, almost none of that matters because this album is cussing AWESOME and you should go get it right now. Go, I’m ordering you. From the power guitar that both Krug and Boeckner deliver, to the videogame style synths, all produced by Isaac Brock (himself a great artist as the frontman of Modest Mouse). What I’m really stressing here is that you really need to get this album, because as of November, Wolf Parade is on hiatus (Given that they’re a super-group, this is no surprise). Their sound, simultaneously lonesome and crowded, can define any moment.

Rating: 9.4 out of 10.

PROS:

Kick-ass songwriting.

“I’ll Believe in Anything”, seriously, listen to that song a dozen times

Isaac Brock’s production.

CONS:

Spencer Krug’s voice takes a while to get used to.

Some songs can breeze by even after repeated listens.

Haters Gonna Hate: Lady Gaga and the Infinite Un-Weirdness.

Lady Gaga is not weird or unusual or different at all. Look, she’s not, alright? Stephani Germaotta is not weird, and she’s wasting her talent. You want to see weird? THIS is Weird. Go on, watch these videos, I’ll wait:

 

 

 

Yeah. I know. That was insane. Anyway, moving on, the problem I have with her is that she claims to be this bold original artist… when she’s not.

 Not at all.

 She pushes no envelopes: An envelope would move more if you put it in front of a toothpick that was being moved by a glacier.  As seen above, much, much weirder artists exist in the world.

She wasn’t even very weird to begin with. It’s a label-created image. Take a look at this:

 

Yeah, that’s actually Gaga. And you know what? I prefer this. Sure it’s basically Norah Jones Lite, but its better than what she does now. I mean, when Akon finds you, is impressed, and then offers you success at the cost of changing everything about your previous style, and you take it, that is NOT unleshing your true originality, that is SELLING OUT. Then there’s the David Bowie blasphemy she commits, by claiming that she’s so influenced by him, and really loves his music, Wheeeeennnnn that “Influence” is never shown, and the closest we get is a weak attempt at an Aladdin Sane style Lighting bolt.

Now, I’m going to do the same thing I said with Talyor Swift in that I DON’T think she’s untalented. I was very impressed by that video, and the fact that she got into NYU and a pretty prestigious music academy speaks volumes, but If you’re going to do Dance music, Gaga, do dance music like THIS.

 

Next: The most controversial article yet!

Undertow: A Short Story (part 1 of 3).

Date: (March Seven, Year  2012, A sandbar in the middle of the Missouri River, near a Dam).

It’s been exactly three weeks since Belle Smith was laid in the ground. Exactly three weeks since her corpse was put in an ash wood casket stained dark brown, which was laid in a white stone vault to prevent the worms from feasting on her flesh, which was then lowered into the ground and covered up with dirt. 

Daniel took it hard, of course. She WAS his wife, admittedly one that was 9 years older than him and had a pretty lengthy and passionate affair. He’s alright now, I think. I haven’t seen him in about two weeks. I left that horrid little town and I’m not going back, not until I make sure I’m safe.

NO, I did not kill her. I worry, though, that I, Trevor Olin, number six of the artistic collective known as GreenStar, (As characterized by my tattoo signifying membership, located on my right shoulder of a manta ray with a red number six in the middle) is responsible for her demise. Paranoid? Perhaps, but I have grounds. I saw the whole thing, her entire tragic saga; unfold in that small seaside village that is Pelican.

I’m not there. I took a vacation, I said. Let everyone know I was leaving and wouldn’t be back for a while. Told them I was off visiting relatives and gave them my cell number.  With that, I fled from the town and headed to a small town near the Missouri river in South Dakota. I bought a jet-ski and a small barge to carry things and hauled it all over to a sandbar in the middle of the river. Then, I set to work building a small grotto, about 20 by 20 feet. I attached large steel tubes to the bottom of the base, so that even if the spot I had built it on flooded, I would still be able to float on the water. I put in hardwood floors, a generator, a water purifier so I could get water from the river straight into my sink, and a futon. The whole process took less than forty eight hours, thanks to some hired help. Now that I had built a fortified enough hiding place, I could concentrate on what I had left Pelican for: Belle’s diaries.

I stole them. I admit it.  I had to know, I needed to know, that what I did caused her death. It can’t be because of me. I can’t live with myself without knowing the truth.

I take the first diary, labeled with a poorly drawn Roman numeral I, and crack it open, hearing the crinkling of paper as  I pull the cover back. This is an old journal, definitely older than I am (I'm 25, Belle Smith was 34, meaning she might have gotten it when she was 16 or so). I flip through it, checking the dates. Nothing close to the time period where she was in Pelican, but perhaps I can find out information on her past.

A few hours of reading later, I’ve gotten the basic information. Belle Smith was born in Nevada in 1982. Her parents were both in Reno’s gambling business, though they didn’t live in Reno. Both of them died in 1998 in a plane crash over Russia, the only ones who died. Belle went to Oregon University, double majored in sociology and English, graduating near the top of her class and chosen to speak at graduation. From there, she took two years off working, traveling around Eastern Europe, where she met a man named Nikolai in Romania. Despite being a major focus of her six months there, his last name is never given and she talks about him rarely afterwards. I’ve determined the probability of them being lovers is 46%, seeing as no romance is talked about in the diary, but affection for him obviously leaks through her prose. I won’t copy any onto this document, as I have no intention of leaving a paper trail behind me. 

Continuing onwards, she returns to work after the end of her trip. She gets a job as an editor of a magazine, and she finds a friend in one of her writers, a blonde girl named Rose who looks a bit like Charlize Theron (at least, she wrote that, didn’t bother to go the extra step and add in pictures). Rose and Belle spent a lot of time together, going through periods of lots of activity before not doing anything at all. Still, during these inactive periods, Belle still writes about Rose. Apparently their friendship’s intensity lessened. Odds of something more under the surface: 65%.

I’ve stopped reading the journal for a bit, as I’ve gotten halfway through. I’m going into town now, restocking on food.

Album of the Week: Wowee Zowee by Pavement

So, in a new feature that I’ve decided to put on here, I’m going to write a review of an album I’m listening to. It need not be current, just that I’ve listened to the whole thing at least once. Please note that I am reviewing ALBUMS, not singles collections that most mainstream artists make (Kanye, you get a pass).

So, Pavement. There’s a very good chance you’ve never heard of them. They were active in the 90’s, and they were the equivalent of The Velvet Underground: Not a lot of people bought their records, but anyone who did was inspired to make their own music. Bands like Blur (whose frontman, Damon Albarn, created Gorillaz), Interpol, and pretty much any good band today exists because of Pavement.

Wowee Zowee is the third album from Pavement, and without question the weirdest. Here, Pavement’s singer, second lead guitarist, and songwriter Stephen Malkmus experiments with a number of styles Pavement hadn’t done on the previous two albums, from Kinks-esque dreamy ballads:

 

To Nirvana-styled light grunge:

 

Still , it’s a testament to the band’s genius just to see how well they’ve pulled this off. In other hands, such odd music would come off as gimmicky, even embarrassing. Malkmus, however, makes it work through clever lyrics and sheer force of personality. His voice, breathy and shuffling, sounds as if he could fall to the ground and die at any moment.  His bandmates don’t slack either. Bassist Mark Ibold creates jazzy rhythms, while drummer Steve West pushes his fantastic drumming to the forefront, occasionally eclipsing Malkmus and Scott Kanberg’s guitar in sheer innovation.

Wowee Zowee is not a record you will instantly understand. It’s a deep piece of work, worthy of countless analyzations and breathless admiration. It’s the kind of album you can play in one go and get more out of than the greatest mix CD.

Rating: 9.2 out of 10.

PROS: Fantastic songwriting, great lyrics, intensely creative.

CONS: May be a little “Out There” for some people. The harder rocking numbers are a little underwhelming.