Showing posts with label Song Spotlight. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Song Spotlight. Show all posts

Friday, December 14, 2018

Song Spotlight: "Collective Thoughts" by From Elsewhere




Emo and punk music have a tendency to thrash and to smash—not that there’s anything wrong there. Cut beat drums, searing power chords, and shouted vocals lead to the mosh pits we know and love. Yet they leave very little room for anything else. One weapon left almost untouched by such music is groove: dynamic shifts and attentive writing that add a fluidity to the music, an energy that moves the listener even as it moves the song. Groove gets largely ignored by emo and punk, but not with Indiana’s From Elsewhere, whose latest single “Collective Thoughts” functions on the very principal that punk can sway as hard as it can slam. 

“Collective Thoughts” is a swirl of interlocking guitar riffs and drum beats, every instrument seamlessly intertwined in an emotive dance. The bass treads playfully along its own melody as the band dips between dynamic breaks, the composition undulating like ocean waves. The band hangs back for the verses, letting the soft rasped vocals float at the surface until the explosive chorus crashes into existence. 



The chorus poses the question “Would you tell them all your secrets / when they don’t give a fuck about them?” almost like a challenge, kicking the chorus to life with profanity that invites the gritty chords and chugging rhythm section to carry the tune along. “Collective Thoughts” is a tune that evolves as it goes, the intelligent compositional choices creating momentum for a band locked into a powerful and particularly unique groove. 

The indie-punk riffs and casually emotional lyrics of “Collective Thoughts” coalesce into a tune that is too danceable for its own good, and yet as introspective as a dream journal. From Elsewhere approach their songs with an intensity that is both powerful and restrained; they crank the energy up slowly as they go, letting their drum fills and catchy rhythms sink their teeth in before dragging the listener down into the depths of the song. This is a band that understands the importance of thought in music, and how it relays feeling; so I wouldn’t be surprised to see From Elsewhere making big waves in the near future. 

You can find more info on From Elsewhere on their Facebook page. They just dropped their debut EP, Just Like the Sun, featuring “Collective Thoughts” on Spotify. You can also download the single from their Bandcamp page.

Friday, August 17, 2018

Song Spotlight: Will Grayson's "I was Born with a Caulfield"

Artwork by Andrea Hellwig
“Be bold.”

Perhaps the most important advice ever given to me concerning art. It takes more than a little nerve to create something, even more to make something honest and true. Hard advice, but invaluable.

So much music today is born from swamps of compromise, but CT’s singer-songwriter Will Grayson has never shied away from bold decisions; rather, sprawling compositions, multifaceted arrangements, and sonic exploration are well-honed weapons in his arsenal. And lucky for us, he’s just returned with a new single, “I Was Born with a Caulfield,” one of his most ambitious and powerful takes yet.

Opening with plucky guitar chords, Will Grayson spits some quickfire spoken-word before bursting into lilting vocals as the instrumentation takes off beneath. Multiple guitars converge beneath his singing, mixing twangy clean tones with a vibrant acoustic and a wild fuzz. “I Was Born with a Caulfield” takes sharp turns between elements, the rhythm section slipping in and out to let the vocal shine and the guitars drive. A swell of reverb begins to overtake the tune as it dives into a coda bursting with handclaps, driving bass, and dolorous melodics.



“I Was Born with a Caulfield” is rich with texture and color, and beneath this vibrant landscape of fuzzy guitars and energetic grooves lies a dynamic and lively composition. The vocals lead the tune along a winding path that never circles back; rather, the song continually evolves as it goes, beginning with a soft, jubilant progression and culminating in a full-band explosion. Yet despite the lack of a chorus or verse structure, Will Grayson’s melodies and harmonic chord progressions keep me locked in as I journey with him to the final fading piano notes.

The gentle yet undeniable surge of energy that grows across the length of “I Was Born with a Caulfield” is reflected in the song’s lyrics. The opening poetics are calm, delivered in an almost sarcastic voice, until Will Grayson slips into singing with the line “A silence rallies around the room.” Yet that silence splits immediately, blooming into splashes of guitar work led by the statement “You already know what comes next.” The final suite of the single launches like a bullet with the line “The first to the door is the first to get shot,” pushing the tune’s headbanging groove to completion in a gentle collapse. Grayson’s lyrics lead this odyssey along, his writing as fearless as the composition evolving beneath his words.

“I Was Born with a Caulfield” is a beautiful balance of intelligent writing and unabashedly fun instrumentation. As a precursor to Will Grayson’s upcoming album Yet What Else After All, its fun melodies and expansive arrangements stand as good omens for this new release. Will Grayson is an artist who understands the importance of being bold in his music, a fact that sets him apart from other singer/songwriters. If “I Was Born with a Caulfield” is any indication, Yet What Else After All may be his boldest release yet, and I for one cannot wait for it.

You can find more from Will Grayson, including live shows and updates, by following him on Instagram: @willgraysonmusician. Then head over to his Bandcamp and/or Spotify and stream the new single "I was Born with a Caulfield" off his upcoming full-length, Yet What Else After All, releasing September 21st.

Tuesday, May 16, 2017

Song Spotlight: "May 16" by Lagwagon


As I've been saying across the entire existence of this blog, I could go on and on about how the soundtracks to the Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater series seriously informed my musical tastes. They were my first exposure to alternative music, to punk and ska and metal, genres which I would hasten to explore more thoroughly as I grew older. And while I’m sure I could write at length about every single tune from those games (and probably will someday), there are few I’ve connected with as fully as Lagwagon’s “May 16,” a ripping punk rock tune with a very emotional backbone, and one that holds a very important place in my heart.

Winding up with a few hectic guitar chords in the intro, “May 16” quickly reaches full velocity, a mess of power chords and rumbling bass taking off at high speed. Dave Ruan smashes complicated fills in between slash beats while Joey Cape croons his mournful vocal. The structure of the song avoids standard verse/chorus form, instead following a long and complex chord progression that runs head-on at a blistering tempo throughout the piece. The band also peppers small sections of 12/8 time in between the onslaught of 4/4, a theme they more deeply explore in a melodic outro stilted with syncopation and a soulful yet simple guitar solo.



Lagwagon creates a wonderfully chaotic masterpiece in their composition, but the vocals are what drive the emotion home. There is a subtle presence to Joey’s singing as he avoids flash, flair, or even significant volume, instead focusing on delivering the feeling of the tune. Joey’s voice is laden with introspection, holding a deep sadness at bay with words of numb nostalgia: “I can paint a picture in a moment / of memories, and there aren’t many left.” His sparseness, his general noninvolvement in both the story and the song itself, gives a serious weight to every word.

Lagwagon as a group delivers the depth of sound, but it is Joey’s execution that makes “May 16” a song you can feel. This stems from the emotional and very personal situation in which the song was written. “May 16” describes a very real “turning point” in Joey’s life: his waking up in a strange apartment after a one-night stand, only to watch from the window as two former friends—people with whom he was very close at one point—get married in a park next door. Turning to a nearby acoustic guitar, Joey immediately began processing his feelings on this situation real-time, staring out the window at the ceremony and writing the song stream-of-consciousness as a reaction to a very personal scene from which he had been excluded.



Through his lyrics, Joey expertly captures the painful realization of his situation in that moment. The chorus line of “It’s just another Saturday” acts as a sort of denial, an initial refusal to acknowledge that he is being left behind, until he finally gives into the hurt of his rejection (“I am extradited, uninvited”). Yet even so, there is eventual acknowledgement that this moment is beyond him and more important than his pettiness, so that he comes to terms with that rejection, allowing himself to be proud of this couples’ milestone “from afar” as they “take a step to freedom.” Through “May 16,” Joey uses introspection to analyze an extremely emotional moment in his life and alter his perspective, during a time when his life was “off the rails.”

May 16 was the date of Joey’s realization, and thus the song acts as an eternal reminder of that day for him, a sonic monument to a very emotional moment in his life. So too does this date hold significance for me, albeit a little differently. On May 16, 2010, I awoke very early in the morning to find my mother had suffered a debilitating stroke, which put her in the ICU for a long while and scrambled the speech center of her brain. While she fortunately made a relatively speedy recovery, to this day she still deals with the aftereffects, including visits to multiple doctors and a very occasional speech impediment.

Thus, just as the song serves to remind Joey Cape of this turning point in his life, so does Lagwagon’s “May 16” remind me of how I almost lost my mother. But every time that song slips into my shuffle, I do not lament, but instead celebrate, because I didn’t lose her. She survived then and continues to now, and so hearing this punk banger brings me great joy, because I still get to spend time with my mother, and (hopefully) will get to share many more May 16ths with her.

Thursday, February 9, 2017

Song Spotlight: "If It's Bad News, It Can Wait" by Empire! Empire! (I Was a Lonely Estate)

The arts of song composition and storytelling have been bedfellows about as long as humans have had spoken language. Just as the words we choose communicate the details of our narrative, so does the musicality of our language allow those details to stick in our minds and hearts. Rhyme, cadence, rhythm, and meter all play their roles in both speech and song, and it is hardly surprising to hear musicians use their instruments to reinforce these devices. Yet few other songs so perfectly intertwine tune and tale than “If It’s Bad News, It Can Wait” by Empire! Empire! (I Was a Lonely Estate).

For You Will Eventually Be Forgotten, the parent record of this tune, lead singer Keith Latinen decided to “write [his] songs like short stories more than anything else,” and the lyrics of “If It’s Bad News, It Can Wait” completely reflect this. There is a distinct lack of rhyme, meter, repetition, or really anything that could define the piece as poetry. Keith instead focuses on the narrative, doing his utmost to give the listener a true and uncut account.



With “If It’s Bad News, It Can Wait,” Keith tells us of a trip he took with friends during spring break of his senior year, when they were still “untethered and free and grown.” He and his hopeful friends, excited to be out on their own, revel in their new surroundings on Virginia Beach: “The boardwalk was teeming with youth / brashly claiming adulthood like it was the last day on earth.” Yet just as they are beginning to feel free and invincible, the trip is suddenly cut short by a late night phone call “when only bad things are on the other end,” informing Keith’s friend Danny that his brother has died. The group then packs up and heads home, making it back “just in time for the funeral.”

The musical backdrop for this story is just as vibrant and emotional as the text. Keith begins his tale just as the song launches, the whole of Empire! moving through a slow, melancholy groove spaced out over five measures. Jon Steinhoff’s drums stutter right before each gentle guitar chord is plucked, while Keith sets his memories to melody. This A-section is gentle and somber, soaked in a bittersweet nostalgia that is reflected in hopelessly intertwined guitars and booming bass notes.

Yet as the B-section blooms in our ears, so do the story and the emotion. The band picks up the energy and the excitement, bringing the song into a more major key. Keith’s vocals take on the tone of the invincible youth, only looking ahead. There is hope resting between the notes of the song, ringing in the cymbals and in the guitars’ strings, a hope that is suddenly squashed as the song returns to the A-section, louder this time, more insistent, before coming to an abrupt and jarring end just as the news of the death is passed onto us.



To my ears, the lyrics and instrumentation of “If It’s Bad News, It Can Wait” are not just connected, but wholly reliant on each other. Though the music is completely finalized before lyrics are even written, both are combed through by Keith with an extreme attention to detail. Every piece, played or penned, must prove its worth, because “if it’s not serving a purpose it needs to go.” Both the instruments and Keith’s mourning vocal are two inseparable parts of this tale, and a closer listening only accentuates this.

The opening A-section is tentative, expectant, just like the four boys looking forward to their trip. When the B-section arrives, laden with joy and energy, so do the friends reach their destination, delighting in their first foray into adulthood as they “[venture] out into the world.” The hope and enthusiasm of their youth peaks in this part, until the A-section returns, the energy now hectic and quickened, carrying back the weight of the worst news a person can receive. Both elements of the song are so fleeting and fickle, heavy reminders of the Keith’s theme that “anything can be taken away from you at any time.”

Between the emotional performances of the four musicians in Empire! Empire! and Keith’s haunting, dolorous tale of crushed youth, “If It’s Bad News, It Can Wait” is a tune that truly affects me with each listen. There is so much intention written into every facet of the song: not a millisecond has been left to chance, and every syllable is uttered with the weight of sincere truth. Empire! Empire! (I Was a Lonely Estate) brings the listener along with them on that car ride, imparting the real emotions of that experience without any pomp or frill, and I can only hope that someday my own creative endeavors might attain that level of sincerity.

Tuesday, May 26, 2015

Song Spotlight: The Promise Ring's "Red and Blue Jeans"



            Because I am a pretentious jerk, I've always defined myself as someone who is drawn to songs steeped in intelligent writing. Of course, I thoroughly enjoy simplicity of a thrashing punk riff or a straightforward blues, but the tunes with lyrics that are wrapped in layers of metaphor or that spin unique and vivid images tend to take precedence in my shuffles. However, if a song manages to take the basic pieces and push them to their limits, squeezing every drop of emotion and meaning from each note or word, I cannot but help playing them incessantly, listening until I am sick and then still again. These songs prove that significance doesn't require anything complex or even thorough, and the most recent such tune to overcome my senses is "Red and Blue Jeans" by The Promise Ring.
            From the first time it appeared on my Pandora playlist, my ears were instantly glued to the speakers, and my obsession with "Red and Blue Jeans" has only grown since. With nary a second of drum fill, the whole band launches into the song’s tender, almost self-conscious main riff. Davey von Bohlen quietly croons his single line of lyrics over gentle chords, while Jason Gnewikow’s accented lead knits itself into a counterpoint for the vocals. Scott Beschta's intricate bassline ushers the band out of the first section and into a spacious prelude to the song's apex, a loud and thrashing reprise of the main theme. From there the song essentially repeats one more time, except that instead of rehashing or mimicking his initial verse, von Bohlen eschews language entirely, favoring punctual, nonlexical vocals which lead "Red and Blue Jeans" into its driving instrumental coda.


            "Red and Blue Jeans" rings in my ears as amazing, sonorous, and complete, but it is perhaps one of the most structurally unadorned songs ever written. The Promise Ring utilizes only a few chords and fourteen total words to assemble "Red and Blue Jeans," yet every second feels like a sprawling odyssey of energy and emotion, part of which stems from their expert application of dynamics. From open to close, the band maintains their essential musical theme defined by the interlocking guitar work of von Bohlen and Gnewikow, creating variation by alternating the feel and attack of the theme between a stroll, a saunter, and a sprint. Similarly, von Bohlen's decision to sing lyrics at the beginning and wordless vocalization towards the end pushes to the forefront the melody rather than the message, diffusing the spotlight among the entire band instead of focusing it on the vocal.
            The Promise Ring uses some very basic principles of music and songwriting in their composition of "Red and Blue Jeans," assembling a modest but poignant foundation in which the listener can cultivate meaning and significance. The band makes its choices in line with an austere aesthetic, following a "less is more" ethic and applying it like adepts. Rather than writing another verse or repeating the opening and only line, von Bohlen slips into his humble "doo doo"s, leaving his sentiment only as defined as the first line allows. In the same vein, the band chooses to rely on dynamics alone for complexity, but never once draws out a riff or progression too long at one energy level, always giving their theme room to breathe and evolve without making it redundant.

 
            Despite the plain ambiguity of the lyrics and the subjective feel of the instrumentation, "Red and Blue Jeans" is a song laden with emotion, but the straightforward and plain presentation provides a ton of room for the listener to interpret and evoke that emotion. Davey von Bohlen's simple statement of "Nothing feels good like you in red and blue jeans and your white and night things" is simultaneously broad and inclusive; PunkNews remarks the lyric can be read "as sensual, longing, romantic, desperate; it can be all these things because of what it implies,” based upon how the listener connects with it.[1] On one side, von Bohlen's statement of "nothing feels good like you" can be seen as a celebration, a declaration so definitive that no other words can improve it and thus leaving him simply speechless in the second half of the song. Conversely, his lyric can be viewed as mournful longing, a realization that "nothing feels good" without the presence of his lover, and that her absence inevitably leaves him wanting more from his life.[2]
            For all its space and simplicity, "Red and Blue Jeans" is loaded with a quiet significance that is as malleable as the listener needs it to be, and therein lies its brilliance. With this song, The Promise Ring takes the idea of repetition and molds it into a tune that is both intricate and inviting. Because of its sparing shape, there is no limit to the connections and connotations that "Red and Blue Jeans" can carry, and effectively, no barrier between song and listener. "Red and Blue Jeans" is truly unlike any song I've ever heard, and I don't doubt that I will be uncovering new meanings and moods within these two-and-a-half minutes for years to come.

Saturday, January 3, 2015

Silversun Pickups - Carnavas



            All too often, artists who attempt to redefine music fall short of true innovation, as their focus on the technical, you’ve-never-heard-this-before aspects invariably leaves no room for true, human connection with the medium. The acts that revolutionize music are those who converge on pure expression, and since my first listen, I’ve always found Silversun Pickups’ Carnavas to be such an endeavor. Their choice to equalize the sound of their music with the “feeling” of it imbues the record with a sense of connection and humanity I have rarely encountered since.  
            Much of the composition on this album is relatively simplistic, with general dynamics and only one song outside of 4/4 time, but Silversun Pickups layers much complex thinking over this modest foundation. Chris Guanlao’s drums and Nikki Monninger’s bass form a rhythmic template of sorts, over which Brian Aubert and Joe Lester layer gritty, atmospheric chords and voluminous melodies. Both these players seem to blend and interchange, a fact that is driven by Aubert’s penchant for using his guitar “as a texture and less as a guitar in itself.” Indeed, the combination of guitar and keyboards is so thick and vibrant that, according to Aubert, “on Carnavas…sometimes we didn’t know quite what was happening.”[1] Mixed with its simplistic roots, this focus on making the instruments come together as one cohesive, amalgamated sound gives this record a very unique and unified feel that many acts reach for but few attain.
            The sound of Carnavas is at once empty and full; at times a colossus of sound storms through the speakers, while at others the ears must strain to hear the faintest notes. Unlike most other bands I’ve heard, Silversun Pickups relies often on the idea of negative space in music, and this record is no exception. Songs like “Checkered Floor” and “Rusted Wheel” feature sparse composition and quiet dynamics, allowing the spaces between notes to speak as loudly as the notes themselves. Similarly, “Three Seed” (a song that has me so enamored I had written a spotlight piece on it), despite featuring all four musicians, is void of complicated riffing or even a raised voice. This center on silence in a record is both unique and fascinating, and allows us to access the heavy emotions dripping from Silversun Pickups’ music by filling that space with our own meaning and experience.


            While Silversun Pickups is ostensibly solid as a unit, one member takes the music of this band to a higher level. Joe Lester seems to have an almost omniscient understanding of his instrument and the millions of ways in which it can be employed. His rhythmic chords create layers of environment in each song, and his manipulation of samples and sounds completes the spacey, shoegaze-y feel that Carnavas explores. Though most of the time his keys maintain the ambience of the song, Lester is hardly afraid to tear through intricate solos and poignant melodies when given the chance. In tunes like “Future Foe Scenarios,” his pieces drive the song forward, complementing Aubert’s vocals and filling the ear when they drop out, and soaking each piece in waves of emotion and honesty.
            Just as Joe Lester stands out as the most colorful contributor to Silversun’s sound, in my opinion, there is one member whose involvement really holds that sound back. While drummer Chris Guanlao’s beats are loaded with syncopation, he seems to fulfill his rhythmic role in the most basic manner possible. His performances on Carnavas lack either energy or life, and his complete avoidance of variation, improvisation, or enthusiasm makes his percussion as effective and meaningful as a drum machine. The only moment where he comes to life lies at the end of “Melatonin” when he slams his foot down on the kick drum, a moment that makes that song explode and proves he is capable of bringing intensity and innovation to his instrument. While Chris Guanlao certainly fulfills his obligation as drummer for Silversun Pickups, his lackadaisical and uninventive execution of that obligation leaves him as the weakest link on this record.


            The simple but sensitive sound of Silversun Pickups is pervaded by honesty and emotion, creating a reflective backdrop for Brian Aubert’s vocals. Aubert takes vivid imagery and expels it in alternating screams and whispers, soaking every syllable in the rage, the sadness, and the excitement roiling inside him. He takes on a sinister tone in “Waste It On” as he declares “Let’s start making / Maps out of all the dead skin,”[2] while in “Lazy Eye,” he wraps both excitement and trepidation around the line “I’ve been waiting for this silence all night long / It’s just a matter of time.”[3] Much of his lyrics read like poetry, such as the lines “motorcade of ‘meant-to-be’s” and “present tense…strangled in the mire / Made of our cozy decomposing wires” from “Future Foe Scenarios.”[4] Aubert’s writing prowess leads each tune on Carnavas to victory while translating the humanity in the composition into something we can digest with our minds as well as our hearts.
            Though some songs are inherently sturdier than others (“Little Lover’s So Polite” was apparently abandoned twice before being haphazardly assembled in the studio[5]), Carnavas as a whole is a record both delightful and insightful. Silversun Pickups’ exploration of textures in the treble range is fascinating and fun, and they present tunes that are heartfelt in almost every manner possible. Their focus on the “feeling” of music, both emotional and physical, is one of the inspirations for the music of Hiss the Villain, and continues to lead me in my own sonic explorations.  


Tunes to Check Out:
1) Three Seed
2) Melatonin
3) Checkered Floor

Monday, October 27, 2014

Song Spotlight: The Smashing Pumpkins' "Infinite Sadness"


           For whatever reason, the season of autumn is synonymous in my head with the music of the Smashing Pumpkins.  As the air begins to cool and the fading foliage takes its leave, my deep-seated love for the Pumpkins’ music once again blooms, and one by one, their albums begin to cycle through my car’s CD player. However, none lingers so long as their explosive double album, Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness. To me, the somber yet melodious sound of that record, laden with longing and dread and exaltation and everything in between, is the very voice of the season, a voice the Pumpkins have flawlessly captured with their songs. 
           This fall, while exploring the colossal pile of music the Smashing Pumpkins have offered with their new rerelease series,[1] my research led me to an alternate track listing for the vinyl pressing of Mellon Collie, which features two tracks not included on the CD version: “Tonite Reprise” and “Infinite Sadness.”[2] With obvious excitement, I tracked these two songs down, and while I found “Tonite Reprise,” an acoustic rendition of “Tonight, Tonight,” to be interesting and appropriate, I was absolutely blown away by “Infinite Sadness,” the closer of the reimagined album.
           Itself a reprise of the symphonic title track from Mellon Collie, “Infinite Sadness” is an instrumental B-side, one of many recorded during the band’s sessions for the album.[3] Opening with deceptively gentle acoustic chords, the track suddenly explodes into movement as the keys and drums enter, all but shoving the guitar to the wayside. The symphonic arrangement is reminiscent of the opening track, yet both the choice to emulate that arrangement through synthesizers and the thundering presence of Jimmy Chamberlin’s peppy drums allow “Infinite Sadness” to draw the album to a close from a unique and powerful perspective. The vigorous and airy path on which the tune expands and evolves feels triumphant, a cumulative celebration of the many life experiences, thrilling and tragic, that Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness captures in its music. 


           The sound of this recording absolutely feels like a live take (which it very well may be), and as such, each member of the Smashing Pumpkins leaves out not a drop of energy or enthusiasm from their performances; however, there is only one star of this tune: bassist D’Arcy Wretzky. From the moment the beat drops, her bass booms through the speakers, each growling tone insisting on being heard. Rather than take the backseat as most bassists are wont to do, D’Arcy wrenches notes from every inch of her fretboard, marking the end of each phrase with flourishing lines. She plays her instrument with courage and fervor, letting her fills grow longer and more intricate as the song progresses, all without ever relinquishing her rhythmic duties.
           D’Arcy manages to turn the bass guitar in “Infinite Sadness” into the center of the song, squeezing beautiful and complex melodies from her instrument that both interlock with the whole of the piece and highlight her abilities as a musician. The musical moment she creates is monumental, as it represents one of the first times since the band gained fame that D’Arcy can truly express herself through her instrument. In an interview with SongFacts, Butch Vig, producer of the Pumpkins’ first two records, confirmed the long-running rumor that Billy Corgan recorded virtually all the strings in the early days, because he was “just technically better.”[4] While that made for two very solid and groundbreaking records, it left D’Arcy’s bass skills without a voice.
           However, with the new writing and recording processes introduced during the Mellon Collie sessions,[5] D’Arcy was able to take back the bass with full force, while the more dynamic sound the band was exploring gave her an outlet for her classical training. She blends grand orchestral arrangements and hard rocking thumps in elegant unity, giving us pieces like “Infinite Sadness” that transcend the normal bassline into realms uncharted by most rock bassists.[6] D’Arcy gives voice to the understated grandeur inherent in her instrument and so scrawls her distinct and vital signature across the Pumpkins’ music for all to experience.
           Despite its dreary name, “Infinite Sadness” is hardly a lamentation; rather, it is a monument to an instrument that rarely receives recognition, and to a player who finally found an opportunity to flaunt her skills while the tapes are rolling. In this song, D’Arcy takes a sonic opportunity and squeezes every last drop from it, subtly demanding that she be heard because her contribution is as vital as anyone else’s. With such a message at the core, “Infinite Sadness” is a song both driven and inspired, and one that I highly recommend for casual listeners and hardcore fans.