Born To Die - Lana Del Rey

I knew this day would come. Born To Die was going to drop eventually and it was, unfortunately, going to be sub-par. Of course I’d review it, and I would no doubt spend most of my review contemplating, deliberating, and dissecting the very nature of Lana Del Rey. I knew this day would come, yet it’s not any easier.

Over the course of the last six months or so I, like the rest of the Internet music critiquing glitterati, have been writing about every move and moment of Lana Del Rey’s life. During that span there was one distinct difference between my coverage and that of the rest of my colleagues; I wasn’t a biased cynic intent on throwing dirt on a career that had, for all intent and purposes, not yet begun. I was actually kind of pulling for her, because I am just that kind of optimistic guy,the kind who wishes the best for all of us... That, and the fact that when people make great records it's good for both me as a critic and music as a whole.

By this point in the narrative the truth about Del Rey has been greatly obscured by the vitriol. She was born Lizzie Grant (one isn't allowed to write a serious piece about Del Rey without using her birth name), grew up in Lake Placid, New York, went to prep school in Connecticut, and moved to New York City at eighteen to attend Fordham University. Her father is millionaire investor Rob Grant, who numerous articles cite as the bankroller of her career. Grant dropped out of Fordham to chase her musical aspirations and in 2008 began to write songs and perform at venues in and around New York City. By the age of 20 she had signed a deal with the record label 5 Points, began working with some high profile producers, and released her first EP Kill, Kill. Grant’s tenure with 5 Points also produced a second record, though she was not pleased with the final product and asked for it to be shelved while working out a deal to buy her masters and get out of her contract (it was right around this time when the name change happened). After a couple years spent reworking material and reshaping her image, Lana Del Rey was born, complete with hit song,  new look, altered persona, and her new role as Queen of the hate prom.

So to recap: her name isn’t Lana Del Rey, her daddy is rich, she’s not a time traveling ingenue who lost her virginity to James Dean while listening to Biggie Smalls on her iPod, and her lips aren’t real (allegedly).

It would be impossible for me to count how many arguments I have had about Del Rey since Video Games went viral and her existence went polarizing. Just so we’re clear, my stances were simple: I enjoyed Video Games (it’s a great song, deal with it), and I felt that the immense amount of backlash she had engendered was unreasonable. Why does anyone care that a pop-star may or may not be phony? Katy Perry topped the charts with songs about Kissing Girls, yet her first album was a Christian-pop record released under the name Katy Hudson (*gasp*). Grammy-winning artist Norah Jones, who is widely respected in the music community, has a super rich daddy, but no one gave her any grief for that as she was coming up. Did we all forget that some of The Strokes come from big money? Nancy Sinatra (who many critics feel Del Rey tries to emulate) was fucking Frank Sinatra’s daughter, for Christ's sake! The arguments against Del Rey get much more irrational with young people, Internet detractors, and drunken idiots at parties. I have, for example, actually had people try to convince me that the Illuminati, or some other cabal, had a hand in making Del Rey what she is today. Let me reiterate a point from earlier in this paragraph... So what?

We all know that a vast percentage of entertainment is essentially a put-on, and in most cases we gladly disregard these factors due to the intrinsic complicity between art and its audience. Lady Gaga is allowed to be Lady Gaga without snarky bloggers referring to her as Stefani every chance they get. Marilyn Manson went around calling himself the Anti-Christ Superstar in the mid-90s, without having that claim debated, or even derided, for the most part (unless you were a sign-waving Westboro Church type). David Bowie was not Ziggy Stardust, and thus not from outer space, and neither is Ace Frehley... I’m sure you can see where I’m going. So the question needs to be asked: what makes Del Rey’s case different?

There are a multitude of answers for that question, but the simplest one also happens to ring the most true - the world is an awfully cynical place these days. The type of scrutiny that exists within the constant modern discourse that is the blogosphere, message boards, and twitter is so harsh that the only way an artist can make it  is with the appropriate amount of cred, and the correct combination of blessings from taste-makers. I don't see this circumstance changing any time soon, to be honest, I can only see it getting worse. Of course, none of that really matters if you have some great songs in your repertoire and, it turns out, Lana Del Rey does not.

This leads me to the review section of this review.

In all honesty, I wanted Born To Die to be great. It would have been a real treat to see Del Rey get the last laugh and make all of those who tried to take her down eat crow. Sadly, this is not the case. Instead, Born To Die is fifty minutes of Lana Del Rey failing to live up to any of the hype that surrounds her. Nearly every moment of this record comes off as horrendously contrived. No other song on this album even comes close to achieving the apparent lightning in a bottle-type excellence of Video Games.

From the moment I heard the orchestral schmaltz and ubiquitous dub accents of the the album’s opening and title-track, I found myself wincing in anticipation of where the song was going to take me. After sitting through the chorus and “hook” for the first time, my wincing had evolved to a cringe, and I began to be consumed with dread. Things only got worse with Born To Die’s second track, Off To The Races, which actually features Del Rey singing in what I can only assume is her natural octave, and some truly embarrassing lyrics which, I assure you, the Illuminati would never have any part in. Thankfully, the album’s quality does raise slightly over the next two tracks as Blue Jeans, a song that I never liked but did manage to chart, and Video Games, a song I do not hide my enjoyment of, manage to provide an intermission from the the well produced malaise. Of course, once Diet Mountain Dew and its insufferable bridge come through the speakers everything goes back to being horrible. The first half of the record ends with National Anthem, a song which is obviously meant to be a tongue-in-cheek swipe at the vapid and materialistic members of our society, but does such a horrible job of conveying its subtext that it already has people demonizing it as a song with a terrible message (bravo!).

The album's second half kicks off with Dark Paradise, an over-dramatic Euro club-thumper that sports a weak and over-used melody, while feeling twice as long as its listed runtime. Then, just when the air has all but leaked out of the album, Radio delivers a three and a half minute reprieve that actually helps to stabilize the record. In fact, I found that most of Born To Die’s stronger tracks were in the record’s second half, as Million Dollar Man, This Is What Makes Us Girls and the rest of the last four songs are actually quite serviceable at times... Though we all know that having one great song, one decent song, and a couple of serviceable songs are not the proper components for an adequate, let alone good, record.

"So," you ask, " where does this leave Lana Del Rey?" Well, I had a hard enough time believing that her career would ever be able to get any traction before I heard this record and, having experienced its shortcomings, I suppose it is improbable. But we already knew that, right? After all, even Brian Williams recently took a swipe at Del Rey after her horrific performances on SNL. Yeah, that’s right; TV news personality Brian Williams. That’s how mainstream it has become to disparage Lana Del Rey. Do you think Brian Williams would have had something glib to say if Robin Pecknold had had a tough performance on SNL? It is my belief that Lana Del Rey has become something of a cautionary tale of the modern world. A hype machine martyr, if you will. Future pop-stars should take note of her trials and learn from her mistakes, or they too can be hated because their daddies were rich, they were too pretty, or they dared to synthesize the wrong genres or fashions together.

Fallen Empires - Snow Patrol

Quick, answer this question honestly: Do you know anyone who actually likes Snow Patrol? If you answered yes here are some follow-ups: Are you British? Does said Snow Patrol fan generally have boring taste in music? Furthermore, are you sure this alleged fan is still even into Snow Patrol? After all, you haven't bothered calling in a while, and you did un-friend them on Facebook, right? Yeah. For all you know, your Snow Patrol-loving former-friend has seen the error of their ways and has put that ugly part of their past behind them. Who knows, they might even like cool bands, like (insert your favorite band, which I would probably judge, here)! You should try reconnecting; after all, most of us are guilty of liking at least one Snow Patrol song.

Snow Patrol was one of those bands which rose to prominence back in the early part of the century on the strength of their accents, the fact that they played guitars like guitars, and (somewhat) catchy (over-played) tunes like Spitting Games. There is a good chance you’ve heard their songs in the back of commercials, television shows, or video-games, and nodded your head along with it before it was forgotten. To put it simply, Snow Patrol is the kind of interchangeable band that makes Coldplay look like Pink Floyd. Well, anyway, the Scottish sextet is back (do they really need six dudes in this band?) and like most fading groups from the time before now, they're desperately trying to hold on to relevance, in an overall unbecoming way.

Fallen Empires is the sound of a band frantically trying to be everything that has been somewhat successful over the past decade, while not doing any of it particularly well. Sure, the voice of Gary Lightbody is still front and center; he sounds as Scottish and emotive as ever, but good pipes does not a good song make. As long as I am being rationally objective I would even admit that these songs are produced exquisitely, with all of the slickness and gloss you would expect from a signed band with some hit singles under their belt. But, good production also does not a good song make. The thing is, these songs aren’t even all that bad - they're just not all that good, either. In truth, this album exists in the gray desolate plane of artistic purgatory known as mediocrity which, while always an unenviable circumstance, is made so much worse when you can hear the band trying so hard.

This record is hamstrung by its own uninspired triteness. Take a song like This Isn’t Everything You Are, which is an obvious attempt at writing an anthem (to be played in arenas!) complete with string section, sing-along chorus, and choir outro. All the elements that a song of such a grand nature would need are in place... except for the spark, the soul, and the feeling. This complaint can be levied about every second of audio on Fallen Empire; whether it be an ode to New York City which comes off as cliche, numerous songs about relationships which come off as unneeded and banal, or down-tempo numbers about getting older, there is a not one revelatory moment on this record.

Unlike the aforementioned Coldplay, Snow Patrol has not amassed a legion of fans that will support them through whatever twists and turns their career takes. Instead, they will continue to be that band people only admit to liking during moments of intense inebriation and in the strictest of confidences.

Attack On Memory - Cloud Nothings

Ever since I started writing reviews of new albums in 2012 ( which, admittedly, has not been too long... oh, and Happy Year Of The Dragon everyone!), I began to consider how long it would take before a truly great record made its way to our ears. Being completely aware of the typically slow roll-out which accompanies the music industry's first month, I thought that I would easily have to wait until February before there was an album worth championing (Sleigh Bells maybe?). Fortunately for us all, I was wrong. Cloud Nothings’ Attack On Memory kills and absolutely saved the day/month.

Like a lot of other good but not quite great records, Cloud Nothings’ self-titled 2011 release made enough of a splash for them to be considered “artists with potential” within the ever changing indie-scene. At that point in their story, Cloud Nothings was just the bedroom solo project of one Dylan Baldi and possessed the expected restraint that accompanies all lo-fi, low-budget works. These days, Cloud Nothings is a full band with a vibrant rhythm section and a more dynamic spirit who have, frankly, released an album which exceeds most expectations.

Attack On Memory is a lean eight track, 34 minute salvo of arty pop-punk which channels an energy both propulsive and immediate, all while maintaining the era’s prerequisite amount of acerbity. The album’s opening track, No Future/No Past (yes, I know it sounds like a Pixies song), pulls double duty splendidly, as it casts off the sound of the band’s previous efforts while introducing their new, broader, more adventurous, sonic exploits. Baldi himself seems like a liberated artist within Cloud Nothings' new parameters, and spreads his wings in a fashion which brings his songwriting and vocal performances to new heights. It does not take very long for your ears to reap the rewards of Cloud Nothings' bolder incarnation. The album's great opener is followed by Wasted Days, a nine-minute gem of post-apocalyptic, psychedelic freak-out that has already carved out a safe-spot as one of the best songs of 2012. Once you have finished thoroughly enjoying Attack On Memory's awesome first two tracks, the rest of the record totally flies by as blast after blast of truly vivid music zooms through your head, coalescing in the form of tracks like Stay Useless, Our Plans, Cut You, and the bombastic instrumental Separation.

It is worth noting that the immortal Steve Albini engineered this record (he hates the term producer), and his presence  unquestionably contributes to the album's considerable merits. Albini’s trademark drum sound and spacious mix really help the music breathe, providing a clarity to the proceedings that conveys urgency. This comes as no surprise; although the man is by and large considered to be a misanthrope, he sure can "engineer" the hell out of a record.

I don’t think I have to go much further with this, do I? Go, now, get Attack On Memory. Oh, and do yourself a favor, listen to it through some headphones, while doing something really fast, like riding a bike or running from something.

Let's Go Eat The Factory - Guided By Voices

The first time I heard Guided By Voices I was laying on the floor of my friend's dormroom at a boarding school in Ithaca, New York. As the summer sun flowed through the window and lit the smoke-filled, Boris Vallejo covered living space my mind exploded with questions, leaving me in a stunned silence. How could something sound so poor, yet be so great? Where were all of these hooks coming from? Are these guys really almost forty? Why aren’t all paintings comprised of fantasy landscapes and nude wom- sorry, that was obviously about Vallejo.

Even as a young man, still years away from becoming the oracle of music that writes for you this day, I could tell that there was something special about Guided By Voices. Amidst the crackle and hiss of albums like Alien Lanes and the beyond incredible Bee Thousand, there was an effortless genius which manifested itself in lightning-quick blasts of indie-pop perfection. The Guided By Voices of the early and mid-nineties was as good and relevant as almost any another band from that same period who managed to outsell them and play massive arenas.

The thing is... that was a long time ago.

Much like the world, Guided By Voices did not fare too well during the Bush administration (Bush the second, in this case). By the turn of the century the lineup had undergone extensive (and unnecessary) overhauling. Robert Pollard had rescaled his ambitions and decided he wanted to chase the dragon, which ultimately led to the band and its legacy diminishing somewhat. Which brings us to the present, or to be more specific, 2012, and the not-at-all surprising reunion of the original Guided By Voices lineup. In an era where most bands spend 500 days a year on tour because it’s the only real way to earn a living in music, the Guided By Voices reunion is as predictable as Pavement’s, At The Drive In’s, or the inevitable LCD Soundsystem. Unlike Pavement, and most other reunion cash grabs, Guided By Voices has actually released new music in the form of their latest LP, Let’s Go Eat The Factory, the best Guided By Voices record to come out all century... Whatever that means.

Let’s Go Eat The Factory is exactly what you would expect from a record by the original Guided By Voices lineup, by which I mean 21 lo-fi songs clocking in at under 42 minutes. There are definitely instances when this record pulls on the strings of nostalgia sweetly enough for you to bob your head and smile as you remember what it was like back then. At other times, the record makes you furrow your brow as you try to come to terms with exactly why you don’t appreciate a particular vocal or guitar line’s blatant attempt at sentimentality. It’s almost like your mind would prefer if the record was good because of its own merits, not because the band would like to remind you of how good they once were.

This record does possess a couple of charming moments, and it would be wrong of me to not give out credit where it is due. Songs like Doughnut For A Snowman and The Unsinkable Fats Domino manage to find their place among some of the better memories you have of this band. So does Chocolate Boy to an extent, although there is a slight touch of triteness to it. Let’s Go Eat The Factory’s best moment is without question Waves, a track which manages to channel all the proper energies of the band without the faintest trace of cliche or pandering.

I suppose it’s pretty simple to determine whether or not you as a music fan will like this record. Do you spend most of your days reminiscing and longing for fashion that has long since been forgotten? If so, you should head on over to your local Tower Records, because you will be spinning this in your Discman nonstop. Everyone else can pass, not because this is a bad record, but because we’ve heard better, especially from Guided By Voices.

Purple Naked Ladies - The Internet

It may sound silly, but I kind of had a lot of eggs in this album’s basket. As a person who has obsessed over most things Odd Future (from a critical perspective, I assure you), I was dying to hear what their only female member, who is also openly gay, had to contribute to the band’s discourse. Syd The Kid’s release, Purple Naked Ladies, could have been a watershed moment for Odd Future, a chance for them to show the world that they are more than a bunch of immature rabble-rousers (minus Frank Ocean, whose work is actually better than decent). She could have put a new spin on the group’s overwhelming messages of hate and intolerance, providing the world at large with a different perspective of the band and their various “platforms.” Unfortunately, Syd The Kid didn’t do any of the things I  hoped she would do. All we got is yet another mediocre and uninspired Odd Future release.

The Internet is comprised of the aforementioned Syd (who usually DJ’s for Odd Future in concert and, from what I hear, is an integral part of their beat-making process), and her OF cohort Matt Martian. Their debut “record” (more like a mix tape, really) is a (believe it or not) neo-soul album with heavy modern-jazz influences. The album sounds unforgivably amateurish and has no real discernible place in the Odd Future catalogue. Sure, there are numerous allusions to drug-use and some scant glorification of violence, but in all honesty this album features a bevy of tracks that you would expect people like Tyler, The Creator to mock mercilessly. Sonically, this record tries SO HARD to be The Weeknd’s House Of Balloons that it’s both unbecoming and laughable. Half-way through any given song will warp and stretch into the kind of hazy patois that has made The Weeknd so popular. You can clearly hear the plagiarism cogs turning on nearly every track.

The most disappointing/important aspect of Purple Naked Ladies is that Syd The Kid says absolutely nothing over the course of this entire record. She goes on about the girls she likes, the fantasies she has, and all manner of things which don’t matter (or, frankly, which no one cares about), but she never delivers a single thought provoking, enlightening, or imaginative statement. You would figure that some of the Odd Future manifesto would be exposed to us with every subsequent release, but instead it's beginning to appear that all of this Odd Future nonsense is little more than branding.

This is usually the part of my review where I recommend some tracks, but for this record, such a task is pretty close to impossible. There is certainly nothing to highlight about the woozy and rudimentary instrumental sections which pop up far too often. If you are going to open up your record with an instrumental it should have something more going for it than the sparse and banal Violet Nude Women. There is also nothing good to say about a song like Ode To A Dream, which starts off like a SWV or Color Me Badd rejected b-side, before the inevitable Weeknd malaise sets in. I could go on and on, but you get the picture.

I kind of feel like this record is a scam being employed by Odd Future on all of us. A sort of affirmative action-based “look, we have a female and a homosexual in our little rap group and we even let her put out an album” move, made in order to mollify people who have demonized them. I would also like to point out that it seems a little convenient that their lone female is also their lone homosexual. I would have a hard time believing they would be so accepting of a gay male in their little club, or a heterosexual woman with even the slightest whiff of feminism and gender pride about her. Whatever, I am straying from the point. This record is awful... just awful.

Replica - Oneohtrix Point Never

Some of you may know Daniel Lopatin as half of the electronic music duo Ford & Lopatin, but the truth is the Brooklyn-based producer is a very busy and, thus far, prolific man. Oneohtrix Point Never is the name of Lopatin’s solo ambient project and his latest release, Replica, is the genre's best release in 2011 by leaps and bounds (sorry Tim Hecker). Replica is the type of record which rewards patience and devotion, taking listeners on a different journey into its soundscapes seemingly every time. Due to the nebulous characteristics of ambient music, it allows for elaborate interpretation, but the beauty of that process is a given individual’s interpretations- much like a musical Rorschach test. This is a record shrouded in dense mystery, as track after track draws you into the depths of cavernous reverbs punctuated by discordant pianos, and sounds that are as much texture as they are tones come out of nowhere and fade away into cloudy memory. Unfortunately, Replica is not represented very well on Youtube, with only two tracks legitimately available. One is Sleep Dealer, a composition built on loops, which only shows a sliver of this record's brilliance. Thankfully the other video is for the album's title track, which also happens to be one of the most exemplary and stunning works of aural art released this year. Listen to it now and enjoy your self-discovery.

Stone Rollin' - Raphael Saadiq

An artist always has to be careful when making what could be considered “retro” or “throwback” music. Because sentimentality and nostalgia possess such an effective way of distorting reality, it is easy to remember anything from the past as being better than it actually was (have you tried watching Voltron lately?). The chips stacked against an artist are much greater when they are being judged against fondly remembered masters, instead of their peers. Raphael Saadiq has been trying the retro thing ever since he left Tony Toni Tone (they were an R&B group back before you could read), and back in March he released Stone Rollin', which is not only his best effort to date, but also one of the year’s best records. The fact that it took me so long to write a review for this record actually shames me, because I have been listening to it relentlessly over the past month and never tire of its time machine-like qualities. From Stone Rollin’s opening track, Heart Attack, Saadiq channels the energy of mono recordings that used to make the world dance back when most of our parents still had their virtue. This album features a hefty roster of catchy tunes, with cuts like Day Dreams, Radio, and the title track being just a few worth checking out.

Days - Real Estate

Real Estate is one of those bands who make writing indie-rock classics seem effortless. Since their 2009 debut, the New Jersey born five piece have been showing off their penchant for memorable tune craft, with a sound both pristine and warm. Days is the band’s sophomore effort and represents a natural progression in musicianship, bringing their music to uncharted horizons (for Real Estate at least). Released back in October, this record still remains one of the year’s easiest and enjoyable listens as tracks like It’s Real, Easy, and Municipality all blend together amid the circuitous guitar lines, soft harmonies, faint echoes, and gentle phasers which serve as tasteful sonic palette. There is a good chance that Days may already rank as one of your favorite records of the year, and if that’s the case then you should give yourself a little pat on the back because it appears that you are as "with it" as you say you are.

Section.80 - Kendrick Lamar

As Lil’ Wayne slowly becomes Snoop Dogg and Jay-Z becomes Russell Simmons, the game is changing (we are going to leave Kanye out of this for simplicity's sake). In order for rap to survive the perilous waters which the record industry must navigate in the coming years, it needs some capable young captains at the helm. Along with the likes of Big K.R.I.T, Drake, and Tyler, The Creator, Kendrick Lamar represents the future of hip-hop, and that future looks pretty bright (we could throw J.Cole in there, but he is a little long in the tooth compared to the other emcees I listed). Lamar has Compton roots and, while that may conjure images of West Coast leans and now tired funk samples, he is the product of a modern age where Styrofoam cups and Playstations are the touchstones of his generation. Section.80 is Lamar’s first digital LP and was released via iTunes in July. Since it dropped back in the summer Lamar’s star has risen dramatically, largely due to the strength of tracks like Rigamortis, Hiiipower, No Makeup, and the ultra-popular A.D.H.D. At sixteen tracks the record does feel a little long at points, but there is nothing that seems like outright filler, and the weak-spots are not enough to detract from Section.80’s stellar grade.

The Magic Place - Julianna Barwick

The case could be made that, of all the records I have praised thus far, Juliana Barwick’s The Magic Place possesses the most unique sound. The only other record that could muster an argument is Replica, but it does exist quite firmly within the amorphous confines of ambient music, while Barwick’s sound floats somewhere between new age, ethereal, and ambient. Released all the way back in February, one of the main reasons I had not reviewed this record is that I was having a hard time describing it. Take a song like Keep Up The Good Work; anyone with taste and an open mind can tell that it’s a sublime composition, but how would you describe the heavenly choir of alien angels which Barwick manipulates her voice into via the use of modern technology? Then there’s Cloak, which sounds like a digital wind carrying siren songs from a distant sparkling plane. Last but not least there’s Prizewinning, which has a slightly more substantial arrangement than some of the other tracks on this record, and uses its inherent structure to build the album's finest and most dynamic song. Barwick seems to take a prolonged amount of time between releases, so there is a chance that The Magic Place may be the last artistic statement she makes for the foreseeable future- it would be wise of you to enjoy it now, because it might be all we get for a while.

Well there you have it kids, the last batch of reviews of the year. All in all I reviewed 94 different records this year, pretty impressive when you consider that I am also an international spy and infamous cat-burglar (I rue the day I get the mission to apprehend myself). Of course, the next new release I review will be in 2012, which means it will definitely have far too many Mayan jokes and I will be replaced by a robot. So what I'm saying is, it was a pleasure being your sonic Sherpa this year.

Lioness - Amy Winehouse

As I sat listening to Lioness, Amy Winehouse’s first posthumous release (though surely not her last), I considered the other albums I’ve heard which were released after the death of an artist, and I tried my best to determine what, if anything, they had in common (besides death, of course). The list of records that fit this description was by no means long, but surprisingly, it did possess a lot of quality :

MTV Unplugged In New York - Nirvana: Released a few months after the death of Kurt Cobain, Nirvana’s Unplugged is not only the best stripped-down performance the MTV series ever recorded, but there are people out there that consider this record to be Nirvana’s finest (they would be wrong, but the record is still amazing).

Life After Death - Notorious BIG: When Life After Death dropped two weeks after the death of Biggie Smalls, it was one of the most momentous occasions I had ever witnessed as a Brooklynite. Even though the record possessed quite a macabre album cover, and so closely followed the tragic loss of Wallace, this record felt more like a celebration of Big’s life than a reminder of his passing.

Pearl - Janis Joplin: Pearl was the first Janis Joplin record I ever heard. I still remember the summer days I spent in smoke-filled West Village basements awed by her unique voice, and delighted by compositions like Bobby McGee. Because Joplin had been dead for a while before I hit the scene I didn’t know it was a posthumous release when I was first exposed to it, and just thought it was a record from Rock’s antiquity like Zeppelin IV or Abbey Road.

Closer - Joy Division: I was only vaguely aware of what suicide actually meant when I heard Joy Division’s Closer for the first time. As I never listened to Joy Division when Ian Curtis was still alive it has always been hard for me to separate mystique from reality when it comes to this band. Nevertheless, this album is still as dark, complex, and beautiful as anything ever recorded.

From A Basement On A Hill & New Moon - Elliott Smith: King’s Crossing, the seventh track on From A Basement possesses some of the bleakest and most honest lyrics that have been written, especially considering how Elliott Smith took his own life. The song may very well be Smith’s finest composition but, sadly, he was not alive to see its release. New Moon was a compilation record released three years after Smith’s death and, although it was comprised of only unreleased tracks, the record is still a jewel full of worthwhile facets to discover.

Michael - Michael Jackson: Um... Let’s move on, shall we?

Aside from the Michael Jackson album (which admittedly was its own animal), I was not a renowned music critic when I first heard any of the previously mentioned posthumous releases. The last couple of years have given me a new perspective, not just on the music industry, but also the product it creates and the mind of the artist who does the creating. Due to the timing of my arrival to the music-journalist party I was not able to write about the rise of Amy Winehouse; instead, I only had the chance to write about her fall and eventual end. I wrote a eulogy for Winehouse, but the world continues to turn and the machine always needs to be fed... so here we are in December, and I am reviewing the latest Amy Winehouse release.

Like Elliot Smith’s New Moon, Lioness is a compilation album, and not the final studio album Winehouse was working on before her death (if there even is such a thing). As it's not a proper LP, there is very little holding Lioness together, other than Winehouse’s remarkable voice. I could be a cynic and spend some time ranting about how Lioness (like most posthumous releases) is nothing more than a blatant cash-grab contrived by a money-hungry record label and the family of the deceased artist, but we are all smart enough to know what’s up (besides, I kind of just did). Rather than delve into all that, I would like to discuss how the restrained, polite, and saccharine version of Winehouse captured on Lioness pales in comparison to the sauntering, hard-edged badass that became a pop sensation with the release of Back To Black.

Lioness features a Winehouse that your grandmother would love, as slightly above-decent covers of The Girl From Ipanema, and Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow showcase an artist who is still trying to find her way, and is content to sing jazz standards (BTW, Mark Ronson’s arrangement for Will You Still Love Me is, dare I say, awful). The majority of the record was compiled by Salaam Remi, the man who produced Winehouse’s debut, Frank, and most of the tracks seem to have originated from those 2002-03 recording sessions. Thus, we find a Winehouse who has very little in common with the woman we eventually became fascinated by.

There are only a few moments on this record which could be considered "highlights." Mark Ronson’s other contribution to Lioness is a swinging version of Valerie (‘68 version). Beyond that there is a great retro version of Tears Dry (a song that would later become a hit for Winehouse), and lastly there is the album’s final track, A Song For You, which is the only song that even comes close to hinting at the true lioness behind Lioness.

In the end, I would like to do a quick comparison to the other posthumous records I mentioned earlier in this review: Unlike Unplugged In New York, Lioness does not show off a different, or more vulnerable, aspect of Winehouse. Unlike Life After Death, Lioness can not truly be interpreted as a celebration of Winehouse’s life. Unlike Pearl, Lioness is not a proper studio record, and will not add to Winehouse’s legacy. Unlike Closer, Lioness does not possess any insight into the darkness that tortures the soul of an artist who is beyond help (in fact, Lioness makes no attempt at any statement whatsoever throughout its 12 tracks). Unlike either of the Elliot Smith releases, Lioness fails to capture the brilliance of Winehouse, nor does it provide the strange quasi-validation that is supplied by From A Basement. Unlike Michael... well, whatever, you get the picture.

Lioness is precisely what it is: a blatant cash grab, and not a loving tribute. Let's hope that the subsequent posthumous Winehouse releases bring more to the proceedings than this one did.

Parallax - Atlas Sound

Being a prolific artist is often a heavy burden. Like having an endlessly leaking faucet of inspiration within your brain; it drips whether or not you want it to, and it’s the artist’s job to do something about it. Throughout the history of music there have always been figures blessed with the sort of divine afflatus which shames their contemporaries and awes fans and critics alike, though it must be remembered that simply being prolific does not make an artist great (after all, Lil’ B has released, like, a trillion songs). That said, the most essential characteristics that a prolific artist must have to be truly considered exceptional are an expert sense of quality control and a very savvy filter. The quality control’s role is to defuse the artist's immense vanity, which supplies the necessary bravery and self-absorption to think that any sliver of a thought said artist has is the catalyst of marvels (Billy Corgan, for one, lost this quality when he decided to put on a dress and release Adore). The savvy filter comes into play right after the quality control has finished its inspection, and aids the artist in determining what purpose this aural delight has within the zeitgeist: Is this song going to be for the artist’s main band? Side project? Maybe it will be a hit for a different artist? Or perhaps posted on Tumblr? When trying to think of a solid example of an artist with a good filter to write about, my brain immediately went to Jack White. Then I recalled the song he released with the Insane Clown Posse, so, no.

Bradford Cox is a massively prolific artist. As the principal creative force behind the sublime Atlanta four-piece Deerhunter, Cox has released five LPs, three EPs (though one was a recording of a live show), and one whatever you want to consider Carve Your Initials Into The Wall Of The Night. When not fronting the aforementioned (extremely popular) indie band, Cox has been featured as guest musician on works by The Black Lips, Wet Dreams, and even the Karen O scored soundtrack for Where The Wild Things Are. Lastly there is Atlas Sound, Cox’s solo project, which has been dropping albums since 2008, with the most recent entry in it’s catalog being the blissfully murky and obscure Parallax.

Parallax is the third album that Cox has released as Atlas Sound and there is no doubt that it is his best solo work to date. Finally Cox has widened the horizons of his side project, to the point where there is now room for the inherent mystery and subtle grandeur in his music. Cox is a complicated man (the great ones often are); rarely do you find an artist with his dueling levels of confidence and doubt, and this inner conflict creates a tension in his creative process which manifests in his music in a most intriguing and satisfying way. It’s Cox’s ability to combine that tension with the wonderful sounds in his brain which gives birth to sonic delights like the opening 30 seconds of Parallax’s first track, The Shakes. From the depths of silence emerges a rustling and formless pops, which are followed by the oscillations of a Roland Space Echo. Guitars come into the mix to give it all some shape, a few random words are uttered, sneakily some synth notes float by, and finally, the bass and drums arrive with an angular guitar line providing all the familiarity needed to drive the song right into your subconscious. When listening to The Shakes it is easy to notice the similarities between Atlas Sound and Deerhunter, but it is vital that you don’t misinterpret the signals you are receiving. What you are recognizing is Cox’s panache;  it’s there in his voice, in his phrasing, in his arrangements. It is him.

Over 12 songs, which span nearly 49 minutes, Cox lets us into his world of circuitous twinkling-lead-lines (Te Amo), dense sprawling glows (Parallax), and whatever the opposite of a paeans is (My Angel Is Broken). Nearly every track on this record is a rewarding listen. Sure, there are moments when Cox’s heavily digi-verbed voice might start to grow a little monotonous, but this should not be a problem for fans, or those of you who are capable of listening to a song's actual instrumentation. Take a song like Modern Aquatic Nightsongs; Cox does a more than serviceable job laying down a vocal line, but if you strap on a decent pair a headphones and take in the tapestry woven by the song's arrangement, you will truly appreciate what wonders the track has to offer.

Parallax ends with two particularly strong cuts: Flagstaff is a song which takes some interesting twists and turns during its six minute run-time (I am a huge fan of the song’s middle break and ending), and Lightworks, a wonderful pop song masquerading as art-rock, which ends this record on a surprisingly uplifting note.

With the release of Parallax, Bradford Cox is forcing us to consider him as one of the brightest stars of his generation. This record is sure to be one of the last great releases of 2011 and, without question, deserves both your time and praise.

Talk That Talk - Rihanna

As I embark upon the third year of my Culture Blues tenure (I like calling it a "tenure," it makes me feel distinguished), I have begun to notice some of the circadian rhythms which govern the music world. Much as the Earth revolves around the Sun every year, and the swallows return to Capistrano, I have begun to expect, nay, anticipate, musical events like: Rivers Cuomo infuriating me, the inevitable clash of hip-hop and politics, and of course, Rihanna dropping her annual album. Obviously this precognitive perspective is both a blessing and a curse; on the one hand, it helps me win a near endless amount of bar bets, while on the other hand, I already know that next year Jared Leto is going to release a record, and I will have to enter the witness protection program- which is a shame, because I like my friends and local haunts. But enough about my mutant powers, let’s get (as Dr. Dre would say) back to the lecture at hand.

Talk That Talk is the third Rihanna record I have reviewed and, unfortunately, it’s the worst. This decline in quality comes as no surprise. Since the release of Rated R, Rihanna’s been trading away steak for sizzle to the point where now there in no substance left. Rated R was released during a point in Rihanna’s life when she was dealing with issues that (I am obviously assuming here) were among the most challenging she had ever experienced. Such hardship, as it often does, gave birth to some decent art, and made for Rihanna’s best record by leaps and bounds. It was with the release of Loud that Rihanna decided she needed to be more salacious, and thus the de-evolution began. The change in her song-writing content is just one factor to blame for Rihanna’s musical diminution; primary among those has to be that it takes a substantial level of genius and skill to be able to produce a quality record on an annual basis (a skill which, speaking frankly, most artists in the modern musical landscape do not possess).

When Talk That Talk was first being circulated, the early opinions from media outlets were that this was going to be the raunchiest record since Madonna’s Erotica. Such hyperbole conjured up the notion that this was the sort of album I would have to listen to with a condom on my ear, but in the end, all of the hype was nothing more than exaggeration. In reality, Talk That Talk’s most lascivious moments are also its most worthless tracks. The unforgivably juvenile Cockiness (I Love It), for example, is a track so devoid of subtlety it might as well be replaced by an audio clip of Rihanna’s bedroom on a Saturday night. Cockiness, possesses no single redeeming detail whatsoever, unlike the equally horrendous Birthday Cake which, since it's over in only 1:18, is only a minimal waste of time. The third member of this slut-core quartet is Roc Me Out, a song that is more developed than the others, but still much too mediocre to become Rihanna's twelfth number one single (It should be noted that having 11 number one singles before you are even 24 is staggeringly impressive). Finally there is Watch N’ Learn, a track that strips away some of the techno and David Guetta influences (which this record is drowning in) and replaces them with pop sensibilities which result in a tune sassy women will absolutely love to sing in their cars.

There are eleven tracks on Talk That Talk and, now that I have gone over the songs with the clumsy entendres and awkward moments, the remaining seven tracks showcase this record’s biggest flaw, which is that most of it is disjointed and under-polished filler. The opening three tracks are the strongest, but when you listen to this record in its entirety, the early cuts come off as distant echoes from some other Rihanna album. The rest of Talk That Talk is just painting by numbers: there are the ubiquitous ballads, the Jay-Z cameo, and the calculated left turns which try to prove that this bad girl just wants to be loved, but end up convincing no one.

I want to say that I am disappointed by this record, but that would imply that I lost those precognitive powers which I claimed to have earlier in this review. Instead, I will go back to the whole "spreading yourself too thin by putting out a record every year" point. Who does Rihanna think she is, The Beatles? The Rolling Stones? Led Zeppelin? This girl needs to cut herself a break! Rihanna has a decent enough combination of talent and “it” to be one of music's biggest stars (as I re-read this sentence my mind screams “She is one of music's biggest stars!”, and I politely request that it stops being difficult. You should do the same), she just needs to stop giving in to the demands of the machine, and take the time to craft a gem gleaming with thought and effort. Of course, this is just me being a critic. I am sure her fans will be more than happy to listen to Riahnna’s new record, and Rihanna herself will enjoy cashing the checks.

Take Care - Drake

Toronto’s greatest emcee (admittedly the list is pretty short), Drake had a lot to prove with the release of his second proper studio album. Ever since the former Degrassi: The Next Generation star left the small screen behind and started dropping mixtapes back in 2006, Drake’s star has been rising swiftly, thanks to a distinct combination of dexterous flow and sex appeal. Such stardom comes with a myriad of accoutrements; there’s the fame, the fortune, the incessant obsequiousness from an endless parade of strangers, and of course, the infinite number of haters. It is easy to see why so many want to see Drake fall; after all, he is an unrepentant narcissist (but what emcee isn’t?), he can steal your girlfriend with more alacrity and precision than Jarvis Cocker (it’s not the 90s anymore), and there’s the whole Young Money affiliation which comes complete with the accusations that he is nothing more than a more palatable version of Lil’ Wayne. Which brings me back to how I began this paragraph: Drake had a lot to prove, and many haters to silence with Take Care. This record was either going to cement his place as one of top artists in the industry, or make us forget who that Canadian was. After hearing it, I am left pondering only one thing...

What does the view from the top look like?

Take Care is, without a doubt, a red-light record which will surely be the soundtrack to a multitude of awkward intimate moments throughout the world. The album’s opening cut, Over My Dead Body, showcases the sonic patois that has become synonymous with the Toronto underground rap scene; low-muted musical ambiance with deep-bass, phased out synths, and slow tempos (think the Weeknd, a group that Drake has been lauding since they released House Of Balloons).

The aforementioned sound serves as the backbone of the record, and there is some iteration of it on practically every track. But, we all know Drake didn’t become famous for being a producer, so let’s get to the rhymes, shall we? The first two lines uttered on Take Care are: "I think I killed everybody in the game last year, man / Fuck it, I was on, though / And I thought I found the girl of my dreams at a strip club / Fuck it, I was wrong, though." On the surface it can seem like Drake has not changed much since he dropped Thank Me Later, but don’t let the ubiquitous opening line fool you; this is a new, “less jiggy” Drake who drinks Syrup, and isn’t as interested in commercial radio play. Today’s Drake has more in common with the type of candor  associated with Kanye West’s brand of confessional melodrama. Take a song like Headlines, whose opening lines slice through its bubbling arpeggio: "I might be too strung out on compliments / Overdosed on confidence / Started not to give a fuck and stop fearing the consequence / Drinking every night because we drink to my accomplishments / Faded way too long I’m floating in and out of consciousness." This braggadocio, while not completely foreign to Drake, has a different tenor to it than it had before.

The album’s best track by far is the drunk-dial magnum-opus Marvin’s Room, a track which was actually recorded in the same studio where Marvin Gaye recorded his most candid record (honesty is important in art, kids) Here, My Dear. Marvin’s Room is the record’s most ambitious and sophisticated composition, as The Weeknd’s influence helps push Drake into artistic territory that is both adventurous and worth the risk. The track that follows Marvin’s Room, Underground Kings, probably features some of the best pure rapping and flow that Drake has ever recorded, and serves as a nice change of pace from Take Care's heavy R&B feel. The same can be said about Make Me Proud, a track that also displays Drake's seemingly new found skills on the mic, though its greatness is diminished a touch by the contributions of Nikki Minaj.

As you would imagine, Take Care is packed with celebrity cameos. I have already mentioned the presence of Minaj (Drake’s twitter wife), and the record also features contributions from Rihanna (Drake’s ex-grilfreind), Birdman, Kendrick Lammer, Jamie XX (as a producer), Stevie Wonder (he plays harmonica on Doing It Wrong), The Weeknd (who didn’t see that one coming?), Andre 3000, and of course Lil’ Wayne. Such a list of all-star collaborations gives Take Care the feeling of a true blockbuster musical event.

If there is one flaw with Take Care it’s that, at 18 tracks and a 1.2 hour runtime, the record is definitely too long. Of course, a gripe of this type is not enough to truly take any luster off this record, but facts are facts.

All in all I would have to say that Drake has put out a great record, which proves he belongs. Though it probably won’t silence the haters, because they are a vociferous and irrational bunch.