Rocking the Pod

So I'm loving these on my iPod...

Klute, Song seller
Klute rocks. Or rather, he doesn't. He makes dark dnb and techno. The two releases I have of Klute's are a CD of each. Song seller is dnb but his techno is just as good. The tune centres on a big sample: a snatch of mideastern woman singer (stop sniggering, boy at the back, that word doesn't have quite the same resonance in UK English). The bass is heavy. When I'm doing the groceries at Coles emporium at Garden City, I enjoy knowing that the assorted chavs who shoulder past me in the aisles wouldn't like it if they heard it. They'd very much not like it. That's okay though. I very much not like them. That reminds me of the few days I spent in Khajuraho in India. I met a Korean guy who was having trouble with the natives: Indians in general are shocking to other Asians, particularly those from the East. So he went to have chai at the house of some guy he had befriended, and the guy came on to him. "I very not like homo," the Korean guy told me. He probably just didn't understand the situation, I said to him. The Korean guy furrowed his brow and said, more loudly: "I very NOT LIKE homo."

Calexico, The crooked road and the briar
I'm not a big fan of "story" songs, and particularly not of murder ballads, mostly because they suck (with a few obvious exceptions -- Country death song coming immediately to mind). But this is a beautifully made vignette. The story could not be simpler, but it captures an insight that, were it put into straightforward words, would seem banal. The beautiful phrasing of the singer makes it specially poignant.

Magic Dirt, Dirty jeans
As anyone who is subjected to Triple J knows, Australian music mostly sucks. Nearly entirely, actually. But there are high points, and this is one of them. It's a high point even for Magic Dirt, who are usually to be found banging out straight-ahead rock. Their magic ingredient is singer Adalita, who has a voice that is full of smirk. That's a good thing, in case you were wondering. Dirty jeans is a witty three minutes, with a great tune, and you cannot help singing along to it. Which perturbs the chavs in Coles, who have never had a song in their heart in their whole miserable existence.

New Order, Guilt is a useless emotion
New Order roxxorz. That's nonnegotiable on this blog. Even though their last album suxxored. Well, by their standards, it did. Guilt is the best song by far on it. It's insanely toetapping, singalong stuff, with a tune reminiscent of the best of Underworld's last outing. Look, sometimes music is all about finding the diamonds in the rough: the best song on a crap album can be better than the best on a good one. Not often though. Usually, dross lies with dross.

The Lilac Time, I went to the dance
There was a time I would have given "adult pop" a wide berth. I preferred passion to intelligence. Mostly, I still do. But I've developed a taste for literate songwriters, sufficiently so that I now enjoy Aimee Mann, who I would have laughed off the stereo ten years ago, and worship Grant McLennan, the late better half of the genius Go-Betweens, and Stephen Duffy, the driving force behind the Lilac Time (and, curiously, writer of Robbie Williams' latest). Duffy specialises in great melodies and witty, insightful lyrics. If you don't like this one, you're not a grownup. That's not necessarily a bad thing but it does mean you are missing out. With luck, you'll get over it sooner rather than later.

Mogwai, Friend of the night
Just fucking brilliant. Mogwai don't always hit the heights and most of Mr. Beast is thin, but Friend of the night repays the time spent on it every single play. It's a monster tune and there aren't many waltzes you can say that about. It's too short though, but I'd be saying that if it were 30 minutes long.

Explosions in the Sky, With tired eyes, tired minds, tired souls, we slept
At first glance, this seems a million miles from Klute. But look deeper and it strikes you that these are two approaches to redefining popular music. Klute takes dance music and stretches it very thin, while Explosions take rock and make it thunderous. With tired... takes a simple riff and, erm, explodes it into a shuddering, enormous car crash. This is the epitome of quiet-loud-quiet post-rock. It leaves me feeling inexpressibly moved. Mind you, so does curry.

The Cure, One hundred years
Okay, okay, I admit it. I love goff. I loved the Cure until they went all pop and Robert Smith decided singing was superior to whining. In his case, it isn't.

posted by Dr Zen @ 4:52 pm