Sunday, April 12, 2015

Underoath - They're Only Chasing Safety


            Until I entered my junior year of high school, my chances of accessing new forms of music were remarkably slim. Unless one of my friends brought home a new CD or I was sneaky enough to watch VH1 in the early mornings when my parents weren’t around, it was quite unlikely that I would hear anything outside of a radio-friendly format. But when I was fourteen, the gods of music took pity on me, and my family received a free promotional DVD in the mail loaded with alternative music. Amongst a pile other alternative and indie tunes, this disc included the video for “Reinventing Your Exit” by Underoath, my first ever exposure to screamed vocals.
            Though I didn’t quite get the style of music at the time, the catchy yet abrasive chorus held fast to my memory until I couldn’t get it out of my head. My love for that song has remained since, but until very recently, I had somehow failed to get my hands on any of Underoath’s full records or further explore their catalogue. Yet after seeing their long history as labelmates with Norma Jean (not to mention Timothy McTague’s writing credit on Redeemer), I finally picked up a copy of They’re Only Chasing Safety to determine whether Underoath was as intense and interesting as my first impression had left me believing.
            As I would soon come to find, They’re Only Chasing Safety is hardly representative of this band’s overall sound, largely because of its foray into the territories of pop-punk and alternative rock. But regardless of genre labels, Underoath throws a lot of power into the ten songs on this record. The energetic and noisy riffing of guitarists Timothy McTague and James Smith drives every song into a ferocious whirlpool that is controlled only by the expert drumming of Aaron Gillespie. Lead vocalist Spencer Chamberlain, who makes his Underoath debut on this album, definitively marks his territory with throaty, desperate screams, a terrifying counterpoint to Gillespie’s soaring vocals. Although much of their sound is focused through a lighter lens, a product of what Spencer sheepishly labels “what we were into at that time,”[1] there is no shortage of the gritty, dissonant tone that previously defined Underoath either—Aaron rides the double-bass in “The Impact of Reason,” while both “I Don’t Feel Very Receptive Today” and “It’s Dangerous Business Walking Out Your Front Door” are built around darkly-colored chord progressions and palm mutes.


            There is no shortage to vivacious performance on this record, but where Underoath really shines is in their songwriting. They’re Only Chasing Safety is spilling over with cool decisions and technical prowess, all of which is perfectly blended under catchy hooks and infectious grooves. “Down, Set, Go” features seamless transitions between 6/4 and 4/4 time, while in “The Impact of Reason,” the band alternates between 6/4, 4/4, and even 7/4 without blinking. Many of the songs also feature intricately crafted structures that opt against the standard verse-chorus-verse feel for a more fluid shape. Songs like “It’s Dangerous Business Walking out Your Front Door” and “A Boy Brushed Red…Living in Black and White” alternate between multiple hooks without settling on one, while “Young and Aspiring” and “I Don’t Feel Very Receptive Today” avoid a repeated chorus completely. And when the hook seems too good to ignore, like in “I’m Content with Losing,” Underoath makes sure you’ll be singing it for weeks.


            From the opening noise of “Young and Aspiring” to the fading harmonics of “Some WillSeek Forgiveness, Others Escape,” it’s very clear that Underoath has invested more than just time into making They’re Only Chasing Safety sound incredible. Their bolder choices, such as slipping electronic beats and samples in against heavy guitar riffing, mark them as an audacious bunch and give the record some real character; however, these also make those compromising or weak decisions painfully apparent. The mix of the record pushes the guitars to the very front of the mix, leaving Grant Brandell’s bass all but drowned in the treble, and unless the keys are taking the lead, Christopher Dudley receives much the same treatment.
            In comparison to the awesome arrangements, much of the lyrical content feels largely like an afterthought. Although good ideas from a writer’s standpoint do appear, such as using similar images across multiple songs, the execution leaves the overall expressions feeling contrived. Many songs feature imagery of suicidal thoughts or actions, but lines like “I feel like cutting it open tonight…and falling on the floor” from “I Don’t Feel Very Receptive Today” are so blatant that any cry for help is lost in a whine.[2] Similarly, the massive range of emotion locked in the idea of a break-up is hardly even approached in the chorus line of “It’s Dangerous Business Walking Out Your Front Door:” “My knuckles have turned to white / There’s no turning back tonight / Kiss me one last time.”[3] And when a meaningful image or idea does somehow find its way to completion, like the line “Feeling free is our modern disease / You’re a classic disaster” from the album’s opening track,[4] it is quickly surrounded by pithy or faulty writing which prevents any interesting idea from fully taking root.
            Lyrically, They’re Only Chasing Safety misses much more than it hits, but the emphatic, intermixing vocals of Spencer and Aaron give even their frail writing a ton of vitality. The nature of Underoath’s vocal performance relies on the fact that they “[put] so many vocals in the songs that there’s no way for one person to have the breath to do it.”[5] This juxtaposition of vocals sung and screamed is what initially pulled me in, and no tune provides a better example than “Reinventing Your Exit.” Aaron’s emotive verse melodies wind the song’s energy up, giving Spencer a pent-up ball of fervor to detonate as he hits the chorus. Despite being Dallas Taylor’s final writing credit with the band, Spencer unequivocally conquers the song with his violent shout of “You’ve got me up against a wall.”[6] The way both vocalists intertwine their parts to the point of sharing sentences is already extraordinary, yet somehow they find room to intermingle with the countermelodies and flourishes of Chris Dudley’s keys, weaving “Reinventing Your Exit” into a treble tapestry that leaves me in awe after each listen.


            Ups and downs aside, to me, it is very evident that They’re Only Chasing Safety is an honest creation of a band still reeling from lineup changes and new directions. As Tim McTague puts it, the goal has always been to “do things right [and] do things honestly;”[7] for this record, the decisions that work do so exceptionally, because they are rooted in the pure intentions of a band trying to do what they love. In an interview with EuroPunk, Spencer remarks of the simplicity of their writing process: “We lock ourselves in a room and [Underoath is] what happens,”[8] and for all the pressures against Underoath at the time, the things that happen on They’re Only Chasing Safety are pretty damn impressive. Though I am not intellectually stunned, the sheer energy and catchiness of these ten tunes have already hooked me, and get me beyond excited to dive headfirst into the rest of their catalogue.

Tunes to Check Out:
1) Reinventing Your Exit
2) I'm Content with Losing
3) Down, Set, Go

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Tuesday, March 24, 2015

Harvey Danger - Little Round Mirrors EP



            Though the bass has always been my passion, like every other cocky musician, I have occasionally attempted to widen my musical horizons via other instruments. During my senior year of high school, I once climbed behind a drum kit onstage to accompany a friend in covering “Little Round Mirrors” by Harvey Danger. I was able to hold a steady beat through to the end of the song, and my friend killed it on the piano, but a lack of monitors (and practice) made our performance rather unlistenable. Needless to say, I have since avoided drumming for an audience.
            Although I may have butchered it in the past, “Little Round Mirrors” remains an incredible song in my mind (when Harvey Danger is performing it, of course), and my favorite tune off of their final LP, Little by Little....[1] When I discovered the band had previously assembled an EP around that very track, I roamed the internet until I could purchase a physical copy. Three weeks later, I popped the disc into my car’s CD player and began exploring this small collection of music that speaks volumes about one of my favorite artists.
            Unlike most EPs, the tracks that make up Little Round Mirrors have been collected from multiple recording sessions and live performances, forming a sort of Harvey Danger collage. Rather than a single image, this record presents a larger impression of Harvey Danger during the time period of recording their final LP, Little By Little… As well as the title track, Little Round Mirrors includes a live David Bowie cover, an original composition with a reorganized lineup, and two live cuts of songs from Where Have the Merrymakers Gone? which feature reimagined arrangements and altered lyrics. 

            On paper, the track list looks like a pile of tunes thrown together at the last minute, but as one spin will tell you, there is method infused in the maddening shape of Little Round Mirrors.  Every piece is focused in a soft light, letting the energy flow from emotion rather than performance, a fact complemented by the prominent presence of keys in every song. Unifying the sound in such a manner lets each tune stand apart, giving its own view of Harvey Danger through a different lens: “We Drew the Maps” focuses on the contributions of bassist Aaron Huffman outside of his usual role, while “Oh! You Pretty Things” shows us the band working in the frame of another artist’s songwriting while spotlighting their newly-added organist, Rob Knop (who ostensibly does Bowie’s piece justice). Similarly, the last two tracks are old HD tunes reinterpreted by the band at a more mature moment in their timeline, fearlessly filtering the past into the present.
            Obviously, Harvey Danger grabs a whole handful of risk in releasing such a collection of music, but as Nelson puts it, “The only reason to be in Harvey Danger is for the pleasure we ourselves derive from it.”[2] Indeed, their audacity presents us with some exciting new perspectives, especially on the penultimate track “Wrecking Ball.” Although the song remains as quiet as its initial release on Where Have All the Merrymakers Gone?, the instrumentation has been completely rearranged. Drums and bass have been swapped for a full but simple piano, and the cello dominates the atmosphere, sweeping through harmonies that bring the sadness in the song to life. This new instrumental background lets Sean Nelson’s vocal tap into the deepest reaches of sorrow, so that his lamentation of “Liberties I’ve taken take me nowhere” rings like the very voice of Grief itself.[3] This version of “Wrecking Ball” takes the ideas of a young, brash Harvey Danger and imbues it with the trials, mistakes, and lessons of their years as a band, giving the song both new meaning and new life.
            There are a ton of aspects to explore on this record, but no song stands more multifaceted than the opening track. Emphatically kicking off the EP, “Little Round Mirrors” is a dynamo of sound and sentiment that Nelson calls “one of the best things [Harvey Danger] ever did.”[4] Jeff Lin’s piano rolls like quiet waves over Michael Welke’s driving drums, while Aaron and a complementary horn section texture the piece with harmony and countermelodies against Nelson’s emphatic vocal. The lyrics of the song are deftly descriptive, as Nelson dissects the ideas of celebrity and worship in the music scene. He bites at the idea of fame, marking those “shooting star[s]” we fixate on as “hardly even worth footnotes in your memoir.” His opening image of a teenaged fan lying “all alone on the floor,” simply listening to “bands practicing” without ever being part of one, resonates as a reminder to avoid the “surrogate connection” to music and instead take part in it, or otherwise the floor is “where you’re going to stay.”[5] As both centerpiece and namesake, “Little Round Mirrors” sets the tone for this EP in instrumentation and emotion, and with one spin, I think you will understand why I was willing to embarrass myself behind the drum kit just to be part of it. 

            Whatever you take from it, there is no denying that Little Round Mirrors is a record with character. It offers to the listener an unusual approach to the band’s music, presenting a group of songs originally set to stand apart and unifying them through dynamic, instrumentation, and passion. The boldness of such a decision borders on impudence, but as Nelson points out, “there’s a conscience in our music,”[6] and one listen will prove that humanity to be an essential ingredient in the sound of Harvey Danger. So whether you’re a long-time fan or hold but a vague appreciation for “FlagpoleSitta,” consider each resonating note of this EP as an invitation to view the world of Harvey Danger from a perspective few artists are willing to acknowledge, and even fewer willing to share. 

Tunes to Check Out: 
1) Little Round Mirrors
2) Radio Silence (live)
3) Oh! You Pretty Things (live)
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Sunday, March 15, 2015

Song Spotlight: The Beatles' "I Want You (She's So Heavy)"



            There are only a few songs that give me “the shakes,” whose melodies or riffs literally cause me to involuntarily shiver in delight. These songs demand my complete attention when I listen to them, forcing their way to the forefront of my consciousness and remaining there from the first tone to the last. Most of the tunes on that short list have some emotional or nostalgic connection to my life, and it is likely that those “shakes” are derived from a younger self internally knocking to the beat of the tune. But on the rare occasion, a song I’ve never given a second thought to will just pop up and slap me in the face. One such song is “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” by The Beatles, which over the past two months has repeatedly emerged from the ether, demanding to be heard, and I find that I cannot help but heed its call. 
            Though I’d been aware of the song for years, the tolling guitars and punchy bass that define “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” hadn’t really caught my attention until recently, when the song insisted on appearing in my shuffle almost daily. The thundering 6/8 section that is the centerpiece marches like a funeral procession; the strings meld into one dark portrait of a chord progression that defines the “heavy” in the song’s title. Betwixt these stomping choruses is inserted a gentle grooving verse, which strolls along a blues feel before stomping into Paul McCartney’s aggressive bassline. The band alternates between soft and loud, relaxed and heavy, until John Lennon’s final, throat-cracking scream of “Yeah!” drives the band into the perpetual loop of the main theme, continually adding noise and insanity before abruptly cutting off, denying the listener any semblance of resolve or finality.


            After repeatedly hearing it, I am baffled as to how I hadn’t noticed sooner the sheer force of this tune. With “I Want You (She’s So Heavy),” the band wrecks of every definition the public has since attempted to mold over them, making it everything The Beatles are usually not. The most immediate difference lies in the instrumentation; the rampant elements of freeform jazz stand as the focus of the song, while the fourteen words that form the lyrics feel more like another instrument than any language at all. Secondly, this tune is damn long, with the original master reaching just over 8 minutes.[1] But the most blatant difference is how unrepentantly dark it is, embodying a feeling that, at the time, music had yet to really touch upon. There is a remarkable contrast between the A and B sections, a haunting trudge placed against a bluesy jaunt, and the seamless way they slip into one another is almost disturbing.
            The shadow leaking from between the notes in this song douses the lyrics as well. Written by John Lennon about his love for Yoko Ono,[2] the song’s minimal lyrics somehow manage to grasp the entire spectrum inherent in the idea of love. His simple statement of “I want you / I want you so bad / It’s driving me mad” is simultaneously romantic, sexual, and creepy—the words of a husband, a lover, and a stalker all at once. And as for the line “she’s so heavy,” Lennon cryptically told Rolling Stone: “When you're drowning, you don't say, 'I would be incredibly pleased if someone would have the foresight to notice me drowning and come and help me.' You just scream."[3] With only fourteen words, John Lennon completely encompasses the ups and downs, rapture and suffering inherent in a relationship, saying the bare minimum in words so that the poignant A-B structure of the instrumentation can nail his message home.[4]
            To attack such a world-pervading concept with such complexity is a feat in itself, but what is more remarkable is how little The Beatles do to reach that echelon of consciousness in “I Want You (She’s So Heavy).” Other than a few bass flourishes marking the changes, there really is very little to the tune. Ringo Starr’s drumming is hardly more than the basics, and George’s accompaniment on guitar and synth amounts to the chord progression. Even John’s leads are little more than an embellished echo of his vocal melody. There is so little to this tune, yet it manages to encompass endless interpretations and implications, a fact that simultaneously pisses me off and leaves me in awe.
            “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” is not a song that just slinks into my ears—it possesses me, drooling through my veins in a delightfully unsettling manner. There is a weight to every note, every whispered word, that makes my consciousness stand at attention. “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” breaks my understanding of the world’s most well-known band, forcing me to consider them in a newer, dimmer light with every listen, and reminding me just why they, to this day, continue to command the respect of millions.
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Thursday, February 26, 2015

The Smashing Pumpkins - Gish




            If Billy Corgan’s massive reissue project is any hint, the Smashing Pumpkins have always been a profusely prolific act. There are literally hundreds of tunes in their back catalog, and Billy Corgan and Jeff Schroeder are still adding to that legacy. Since the first time they captured my imagination in high school, this band’s music consistently and relentlessly pulls me back in. Almost seasonally, I am compelled to return to their records, not just to bathe in nostalgia, but also that I might discover some new nuance or flourish that I had missed.  Recently, I got back into the swing of Gish, the Smashing Pumpkins’ debut LP. This time, however, I attempted to listen to it with fresh ears, to let it impress itself upon me in the same way it did years ago, and I was not disappointed.
            Despite a relatively small budget at the time of recording,[1] the direction and drive of both Billy Corgan and producer Butch Vig makes Gish sound twice as huge and ten times more expensive. The instrumentation on this record, which features multiple overdubs, textures, and interlocking harmonies, is impeccable and airtight. The eclectic arrangement of tunes that make up its ten tracks, from stomping rockers like “I Am One” and “Tristessa” to the whisper of “Crush,” gives the record a remarkably wide range of feel and emotion. However, the honed tones and prolific energy that tie them together brand each song as an irreplaceable part of the whole. 


            Gish is loaded with more and spirit than an orchestra, and it is remarkable to think that something so comprehensive was perfected in only a few months.[2] As was recently confirmed by Butch Vig, Billy Corgan was responsible for playing most of the strings during the sessions,[3] and would spend “hours on a guitar tone…or working on harmonies and textural things.”[4] While his focus certainly makes for some incredible moments on Gish, unfortunately, it also prevents anything from being definitively attributed to guitarist James Iha and bassist D’Arcy Wretzky. For instance, the punchy and violent intro to “Bury Me” remains one of my favorite bass grooves, but I remain unsure as to who is truly responsible for breathing life into it. In the same vein, being that Billy was the main songwriter and regularly assembled entire songs before bringing them to the band,[5] it is hard to hear past his signature style for any voice or influence from his bandmates.


            Billy Corgan’s dominance of the instrumentation naturally reaches into the arrangements as well. Though his bass riffs feel natural and his guitar licks are explosive, his tendency to overlap multiple solos (in the spirit of Tony Iommi) gets to feel somewhat excessive after happening in almost every song. This hedonistic layering extends itself into the rhythm guitar, which can add to the confusion, especially in the quieter songs: the myriad riffs in “Rhinoceros” meld together without standing out, and the atmospheric feel of “Crush” gets squashed due to the pile of guitar sounds, including one remarkably close to the squeal of a kazoo. Being his de facto brainchild, Gish leans heavily against the distinct style of Billy Corgan, and though I am a true fan of his skill and taste, it occasionally leaves me wanting for the sound of a more dynamic band.
            The string section is certainly exciting, but my favorite aspect of this record has to be the drumming of Jimmy Chamberlin. As the sole proprietor of the throne, Jimmy brings absolutely everything he has to his drum kit, flaunting his control of dynamic and feel and practically stealing the show from the rest of the band. As he constructs beat after unique beat, he finds ways to utilize virtually his entire kit, while every single fill he flashes carries the distinct relaxation of an improvisation. He even finds ways to squeeze in his jazz influences,[6] comping on an open snare in “Suffer” and rolling at ridiculous speeds in “Snail.” As he drums across Gish, Jimmy Chamberlin leaves nothing of himself behind, loading each composition with soul and wrath while asserting his own authority as drummer of the Smashing Pumpkins.'
 

            The instrumentation on Gish is so complex and multifaceted, a discussion of it could easily be turned into a dissertation, and the lyrics are hardly different. According to Billy, many of the songs went through twenty to thirty rewrites before recording,[7] being distilled to their best possible form. Throughout the album, Billy avoids verbose or pretentious language, yet manages to fill his songs with intricate references and ideas: “Tristessa” (named after a Jack Kerouac novella of the same name) explores the ambiguities of love,[8] while “Window Paine” is driven by the Beat-Zen message of “Do what you gotta do / Say what you gotta say / Do what you gotta do / Yeah, start today.”[9] And unlike with the instrumentation, Billy has the foresight to open up the compositions by letting D’Arcy perform some vocals as well. Her soulful, mourning performance on “Daydream,” the record’s simplistic closer, is laden with emotion and a quiet power that resonates with me long after the song has ended.
            Though many themes abound in the lyrics of Gish, none is more perfectly expounded upon than those of religion and philosophy. Many of the songs mix simple language with key religious or philosophical phrases, thereby infusing the tunes with a more existential meaning. In “I Am One,” Corgan introduces a Christian tone with the lines “I am one as you are three / Try to find messiah in your trinity,” while simultaneously questioning its validity: “Am I as I seem?”[10] Similarly, the language in “Suffer” holds similarities to Buddhist beliefs on enlightenment, especially in the line “rise from the mounds of desire.”[11] Even the words in “Siva,” a direct reference to the Hindu god,[12] find ways to flirt with the destruction / creation cycle that Shiva represents. Billy Corgan’s artful yet cohesive exploration of the soul affirms his assertion that Gish “is about pain and spiritual ascension,”[13] a transcendence that the very fabric of the music only reinforces.


            In a 1991 interview, Billy Corgan describes writing Gish as “the deepest into my guts I’ve ever reached,”[14] and regardless of the drama behind its creation, not one part of this record is lacking in genuine and deep humanity. Every second of music exudes a passion and integrity that feels neither cheap nor contrived, and each time I spin it, I find that sinking into that truth is as natural as breathing. Gish is the mission statement of the Smashing Pumpkins, a heartfelt vow to throw themselves wholly into their art, to make each musical moment an “honest interpretation”[15] of who they are. I can only hope that as I continue my own musical journey, I am able to maintain the same level of devotion and veracity, to shape my art as a reflection of myself and imbue it with the meaning and thought it deserves.

Tunes to Check Out:
1) Bury Me
2) I Am One
3) Daydream 


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