Fleet Foxes: Helplessness Blues or yet another inexact album review

Most songs on Helplessness Blues sway like trees bending before a gathering storm. There is an elegantly organic sense of momentum and meaning conveyed within the earnest and open harmonies and bare and urgent strumming of acoustic guitars.

All of the expected noises are present, you already know what Fleet Foxes sounds like, and it is comforting to hear the same sound grown into new and more reaching songs. Some are saying the arrangements are more ambitious, maybe they are, but it is safe to ignore those kinds of thoughts and just press play.

I adore the echoey drum sound that plonks through the whole album like an asthmatic child running after his friends. And of course the harmonies, and melodies that surge and retreat like waves. But what I’m really loving right about now is an unexpected existential strangled trumpet freak out. I like those but don’t worry there is only one on the whole album and it doesn’t interfere with the gentle posturing of the album as a whole.

You might need to put on your earnestness hat to properly listen to Helplessness Blues, it will help. It is also best to leave a respectable distance between you and your speakers when you are playing this album. If you sit too close you’ll be listening wrong. This album requires space, distance and a kind of pottering activity to be heard at its best. I suggest tidying the kitchen and then baking a cake, with love.

People keep mentioning the beautiful lyrics on this album but so far I have allowed the sound to wash around unsullied by literary critique. That is a rare and important gift. The only other album I listen to like that is Unhalfbricking by Fairport Convention, which led me to miss the point entirely on most of the songs but I don’t really mind. Sometimes an album is just for listening to and its best to bow down and be grateful for the invention of sound.

First published on RHUM...

All in a golden afternoon

I’ve been going to see Caitlin play gigs for years. I go for one reason, her music. I am never disappointed. I remember seeing her for the first time. I was just walking through the room to get to the bar. She was about fourteen years old, standing on stage with a huge guitar slung high and her right shoulder raised towards her ear. She was playing a Paul McCartney cover, it stopped me dead in my tracks. Ever since that first minute I’ve been listening to Caitlin Harnett every chance I get.

Her sound is earnest and wonderfully simple, like a straight answer in a sea of bullshit. It is post-dreamy and threaded through with the good elements of country. If I had to choose one reason to listen to her it would be this, when she lifts you follow.

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EP available now through itunes and on Caitlin's Big Cartel.

ARIAballs

Shitballs! The ARIAs was a disjointed and discombobulating exercise in waiting around being bored, having no idea what was happening and trying to stay upright in the dense thicket of a champagne-swilling crowd of wannabes eating miniature ice cream cones.

I have no idea who won any of the awards. My night was spent scrambling through the bowels of the Opera House trying to figure out which was the correct hallway to walk down.

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Neil! Get a haircut or at least stop staring so strangely

Sugar Mountain: Live at Canterbury House 1968 made me travel back in time and who doesn’t want to travel back in time? There is no excuse for not listening to this album. Blah blah album reviewing words, Neil is good etc


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Strange Tourist

Gareth Liddiard must be possessed. If there isn’t a sudden screaming need of the collective unconscious to hear what Liddiard needs to play I’ll eat my hat. Brace for this music, or you will come undone. From the first hissed syllable there ain’t no shaking the spell.

Strange Tourist is the kind of album you will play for the rest of your life, every lived year adding poignancy, dropping you down further into the bones of each song. This album, like a point of light, will throw shadows against your walls.

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Changing Lanes In Newtown

Photograph by Ben Campbell

Got your hair slicked back or pushed forward? Got your tortoiseshell Ray Bans on? Good, now roll up the cuffs of your trousers cause it’s time to change lanes.

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SOOFyahn

You might think Sufjan Stevens is getting his Radiohead and Bjork on in The Age of Adz but you’d be wrong about that. The Age of Adz sounds precisely like Stevens is standing on a tall pile of everything he has already recorded. The strong melody and phrasing, struck through with symphonic arrangements and joyful cacophony of horns, from albums like Sufjan Stevens Invites You To: Come On Feel the Illinoise and Michigan are still here, they are just wrapped in a layer of beats, bleeps and squelches.


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SLAMMATOWN - No Guns For You

Four years ago two things happened, I moved to Sydney and my friend Spencer banned me from owning a gun. Spencer's announcement came out of the blue. We'd been sitting in his lounge room, which was on the front lawn at the time, drinking bad red wine and talking about nothing at all when he announced, 'out of all the people I know you are the one person who should never own a gun'.

Spencer's announcement puzzled me exceedingly. I have never wanted to buy a gun. I don't even know how to get a gun, apart obviously from joining Team Zissou on the Belafonte where all team members are supplied with uniforms, wetsuits and glocks.

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A band made out of horses!

If Frankie magazine was a band it would sound like Band of Horses. I’ve never seen or heard anything so indie in my entire life. They were uplifting but ill-defined. Individual songs fell victim to an overriding feel and a wide sound that oscillated between being spacious and hideously overcrowded, with three guitars. They made a big hopeful golden noise that any hopeful melody didn’t stand a chance to hook up over the top of it, in the way that melodies do.

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The Boring Group

The Beautiful Girls make music for tanned people. I say take it to the beach and leave it there. Some things need to be shat on by seagulls.

Never before have I felt the urge to scream the name of a record label but I have tell you, ‘Die!Boredom’ was definitely on my mind. When frontman Mat McHugh started singing My Mind is an Echo Chamber, I thought what a coincidence, so is mine, this is the effect you are having on me. The complete absence of engaging music provided me with ample opportunity to focus on other things, like the large number of pork pie hats perched on audience members and how DJ Dizzy D has lovely bouncing hair that ripples like a field of barley when he dances.

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SLAMMATOWN - now an actual thing outside of my head and on someone else's website or hello RHUM

I have a column. I am allowing myself exactly half an hour to be excited by this followed by precisely two hours of fervent hoping that Sonia Zadro will never read it.

SLAMMATOWN: Sink a belle down a mineshaft and see what she sounds like; an excerpt with link

Sonia was crouched on a milk crate and howling through a detached gramophone horn outside Newtown station. She looked like the opposite of a bombshell, like something beautiful exploded and she walked out of the cloud of dust. Her voice sounds like a bell sunk down a mineshaft.
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I'm not really sure what an albumarathon is

Sometimes the best way to find out about something is to just close your eyes and do it so here it is, my very first ever albumarathon.

65 Days of Static – We Were Exploding AnywayListening to the nine tracks on this album is like having nine glass splinters and being locked in a tweazerless house.
1/5

Audio Bullys – Higher than the Eiffel
I love this album ten years ago, I want to go back in time. Perfect pop schlock with beats, it is possible I might bring this one back to the future with me.
3/5

Black Gold – Rush
Haven’t heard anything this boring since my neighbour’s grandmother lectured me on the correct method of pegging out socks on the clothesline. This one is for the mainstream people who wash their cars once a week in their driveways.
1/5

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The bastards were all wearing trousers

And now from the interesting world of marching bands comes a Dale Slamma exclusive.

Don’t bother sending me flowers, I am always going to love marching bands more than I love you and I don’t care who knows about it. If there’s one day of the year it is good to be a fan of marching bands it is ANZAC Day. The city goes mad with them, traffic is stopped, old men rock up in suits and nannas drink beer in the gutter. I declare it to be the best day of the year.

Syncopated drumbeats echo off the skyscrapers and everybody is drunk from sunrise. All ordinary business is suspended and the city points itself at the parade like furniture around a television. If there’s something better than rock it’s got to be marching bands. If you ever wondered why music was harnessed as a weapon of war then you’ve never seen a band on parade.

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A definite line in the sand

I have a definite streak of the ridiculous running through me. I’m  prone to bouts joyful uncoordinated dancing in public places, like supermarkets or cafes, I enjoy the occasional listen to Van Halen but I 'm drawing the line at Har Mar Superstar.

Har Mar Superstar used to vaguely amusing and even a little bit good, in his own special way, but not this time. Dark Touches is a shambolic mess of a pastiche. It wanders through strange territory from tasteless dance music for the masses to early Jackson Five with just a touch of Gloria Estefan.

Spencer once saw Har Mar Superstar have a tantrum and storm off stage, in his underpants. Spencer says it was hilarious and well worth watching but if you take a moment to think about it it’s really not ideal when the best thing about a show is watching the artist leave the stage earlier than he should.

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New Young Pony Club has shockingly little to do with ponies - Dale Slamma reports her disappointment at this news

If you want to know what I think about The Optimist then you are going to have to ask me in twenty years time. Right now my opinion is oscillating wildly. Taken in isolation New Young Pony Club now sound like an acceptable blend of post-punk pop and the new new wave. Their sound is mildly pleasant with a dark pop sensibility. It is interesting at first listen and in no way offensive but if you think about the album in context with the world my opinion begins to change.  We all know the UK is suffering from a bad bout of Joy Divisionitis, I believe this can be traced back to the death of Ian Curtis via one movie and a couple of good albums.

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Pavement - not the kind you walk on

I walked in halfway through the first song to find a joyful crowd shaking their manes like horses. There were pockets of genuine dancing all over the Enmore Theatre. I like those original Indie boys − silly, gentle artistic souls in t-shirts who threw off the shackles and redefined what it was to be a man. They’re all grown up now but they’re still tall, angular and dangerous. They seemed always to dance with their elbows pointed in my direction.

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The Big Pink Stink or Dale Slamma spends a night at The Metro

Brisbane indie duo An Horse are competent, pleasant and just a tiny bit boring. Kate Cooper has an orange guitar with interesting red stripes and Damon Cox has clean sticking patterns, they harmonise well and sound distinctly like music that might be played during a poignant moment in a television show. Despite the tinge of boring An Horse are infinitely preferable to the band they were supporting, The Big Pink.

The Big Pink think they are awesome, in fact I would say they rate themselves quite highly. I watched with a mixture of horror and amusement as they played track after track of bog standard contemporary rock with added synth drones, seriousness and posing.

Frontman Robbie Furze looks like he was beamed out of an Oz Rock film clip from the 80’s, there’s no possible way I could take seriously a man who appears on stage to Cypress Hill, jumps straight on the foldback before tossing off his jacket to reveal a Metallica tattoo. You have to earn the right to jump on the foldback and take charge of the crowd, it’s not an endearing first move. The crowd looked sceptical, for a little while, but one by one most of them fell victim to The Big Pink’s terribly serious indie fake doom rock. Shame on them.

The Big Pink make underground music for a mainstream crowd. Their sound is grandiose, overblown and made for commercial radio. Have a listen to Dominos or Count Backwards From Ten, kids with emo tendencies and a love of anthems are going to lap this up. Imagine a U2 covers band playing an unfamiliar mashup of Placebo and Nine Inch Nails, now you’re getting close to what The Big Pink sounds like and I can tell you it’s not good.

The keyboard player looked like a smacked-out Cousin It impersonator, his constant posing took a turn for the hilarious when it appeared as though he was dusting the keys with his hair. Drummer Akiko Matsuura looks incredible and drums with an admirably inefficient and theatrical style. Overall they played a polished and competent set, they nailed every song. Good band, shame about the music.

The Big Pink are going to be huge, with or without my good opinion. If you want to say you were listening to them way back when then now is the time, jump on board or you’ll be just another face in the crowd.

Let's bite the hand that feeds, hard

I haven't laughed that hard in ages, at first I kind of spluttered out of a grin into strange noises but before I knew it Madam Squeeze and I were holding our bellies and laughing as hard as we could. We were laughing at The Big Pink. They stormed the stage and proceeded, very seriously, to stand on the foldback with fists in the air. They tried to be serious rock stars but they failed. They are the worst band I've seen in ages, even the stupid banjo busker guy from outside the Enmore IGA is better than The Big Pink and I really hate that guy.

I was at The Metro laughing at The Big Pink on behalf of RHUM, who sent me to write a review of the show. I was thinking, this is a gift, a band hasn't given me so many outstanding and hilarious bad points in a very long time. I was thinking that until I got home and noticed that the RHUM website is covered in 'RHUM loves The Big Pink' hype. This is going to be interesting.


Note:
The excellent editor of RHUM has in no way ever tried to influence my reviews, not ever.

Goddamnit Maverick Slamma fails to step up to the plate...

I was tired, I was rushed, but those are stupid excuses. Unless David Young has lost his mind and submits his review in wingdings I suspect I am going to lose the 'review off'. Come on David Young, if you were ever going to lose your mind and submit a review written in wingdings today is the day. Read my probably losing review entry below:


Stop Speaking In Tongues

It’s official, Gareth Liddiard has become incomprehensible. It’s been coming on for a while now and it’s a damn shame. Liddiard’s songs are great stories, or they used to be until it all turned into one long ocker snarl with rhythmic pauses for breathing and noise.

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Fake rock journalist breaks solo streak by busting in on The Drones

The life of a fake rock journalist is lonely sometimes. I've been rattling from gig to gig alone, just me, my cigarettes and my notebook but not tonight. By the time Pavement came out for their encore I'd had enough of solo time so I split, flagged down a taxi and made it over to The Annandale in time to see the end of The Drones' set. I didn't have a ticket so I just marched straight through the doors, around the bar and through the black curtain to side of stage. Spencer was standing there leaning against a partition and grinning like a goon. Lyndal was shooting the band and The rest of The Holy Soul were standing in line nodding their heads in unison, Madam Squeeze was out dancing with the crowd.

Spencer cheered when he saw me, held up his arms and made room for me beside him. I don't think I would have gotten away with such a spectacular level of sneaking in if Spencer hadn't just played support for The Drones about an hour ago. Luke from The Laurels was there and Loene Carmen looked like she had just snuck in too. I stuffed my earplugs back into my ears and let my eyes wander over the crowd. The Drones were cranking out their new version of stadium rock and the crowd was going just a little mental right down at front of stage. The huge speaker stacks were moving the air in my lungs for me and for the first time in months I thought now this is really something. After the show we all headed upstairs to drink, smoke, talk and watch that crazy old man named Doc stand on his head in front of a giant mirror. I forget sometimes how unbelievably lucky I am not just to see all these bands but to be there, right there, side of stage, front of stage, backstage, just there.