Old Music: Natalie Merchant's Ophelia (1998)

Ok, let's just get this out of the way right now: I love Natalie Merchant. And if you had guessed that I'm on a NatMer (the nickname I've lovingly given her — only because she's earned it!) kick lately, you'd be absolutely correct.

Leave Your Sleep has left me completely mesmerized.

And because of that, I'm (perhaps a bit obsessively) going back through her catalogue and reassessing why I loved her in the first place.

Well, let's get to the heart of the matter here: way back in high school, I had girl friend (note: not "my" "girlfriend" — though I'm sure I would have liked for that to have happened at the time; and undoubtedly it has more than a little to do with my involvement with this album in the first place) who was rather keen on this album. I liked and respected her enough to the point that I would ditch everything else I was into at the time —that would be OutKast and Blackstar, in case you were wondering— to check an album that not only wasn't even on my radar; it was the sort of thing I actively avoided.

And, yeah, I hated it.

But why?

I had fallen neither in nor out of love... yet.

Besides the fact that it was nothing musically like anything else I was into at the time, there was nothing in the subject matter for me to grasp onto.

Why all the gloom? Why all the downtrodden, sadbastard moods? Why the general Eeyore-like nature of the whole thing?

It depressed the hell out of me, honestly.

I traded it in when that particular acquaintance exited my sphere of association, bought up all the latest indie hip hop 12" singles and I never looked back.

Of course.

When you're 17, this just isn't the sort of music that's rewarding; not to mention, sounds 'cool' coming out of your car in the parking lot before first period.

So, a year or so back when I was in the middle of a serious jangle pop kick, 10,000 Maniacs fell onto my radar. They made some seriously great music, but even through my re-evaluation of a band that I skipped over, one thing stood out to me above everything else, regardless of how much I enjoyed the music: that voice.

Yes, she was —and still is— awesome. Right up there with Morrissey, Otis Redding and Maxwell.

Truly, Natalie Merchant is one of my favorite vocalists ever.

And her performance on Ophelia is what I base a lot of that on.

But let's just get this out there right now: Ophelia is a bummer of an album. If you actually sit and listen to the words, it's downright gloomy. In retrospect, I find it a bit odd that the album is Natalie's most introspective and confrontationally personal that preceded a group of no less heartfelt works that were noticeably more about genre exercising than they were about the songwriter's experience.

She dodges the issue right away with the title track, supposing that the group of personal recollections that follows is nothing more than the memories of characters, but the performances are too specific, too passionate for any astute listener to fall for it.

No, I think, indeed, these are, for better or for worse, the pages of Natalie Merchant's diary being put into song form.

And I say 'for better or for worse' because not everything here is a wonderfully pretty little jangle floatabout; like she's just a Maniac forever. Nope. If Tigerlily implied a bit more of a serious slant and a matured melancholy approach to her music, Ophelia is that approach and philosophy taken to its absolute extreme.

Sure, 'Kind and Generous' was a huge hit. And it's definitely a rather jumpy little pop tune that supposes a lighthearted mood, but one listen to the lyrics and it's obviously that it's about a very intense breakup.

For all its minor keys and dissonant, sad turns, Ophelia has a quality of triumph to it. An aspect of jubilation amongst the emotional chaos. To put it simply: Ophelia is the ultimate breakup album.

Just have a look at the lyrics from 'My Skin':
"O, I need
The darkness
The sweetness
The sadness
The weakness
I need this

I need
A lullaby
A kiss goodnight
Angel sweet
Love of my life
O, I need this

Do you remember the way
That you touched me before
All the trembling sweetness
I loved and adored?"

All of that hindsight 'I know I shouldn't but I want it so badly' is gorgeously sung atop a piano and brushstroke drumbeat of the type that has become the ultimate cliche on adult contempo radio by this point. But back then, it wasn't anything more than a really great revival of Carole King's best moments. But it's a bit deeper than that even.

'Frozen Charlotte,' —worthy of its own analytical post on its own— to me, is one of the most amazingly poignant and beautifully heartbroken songs ever written. It's the sort of song where you can just feel the emotional weight pulling down on the musicians as they play it. It's completely unclear to me what it's about. An indefinite departure or perhaps even death itself; it doesn't really matter. It's the sort of deeply meaningful and perfectly articulated song you hear and just know that it will only get better and more beautiful and profound with each passing listen. Probably Natalie's best song, Maniacs or otherwise.

Of its eleven tracks, not one rises above the seeming super fast tempo of 'Kind and Generous' (which can now perhaps be viewed as one of the most misleading singles in pop music history). Indeed, nothing here is as it appears, as on one track in the latter half of the album, Natalie declares herself to be "an effigy, a parody of who I appear to be." Only to conclude, "Put your flaming torches under me."

But, on the very next tune: "I don't care to stay with the living. No, I don't care to stay."

What in the world is going here?

A rootsy little tune that can now be looked at as her first proper foray into folksiness ('When They Ring the Golden Bells') and a passionate symphonic reprise of the title track (as a hidden track) and then it's all over.

So, here's some images from the album liners (make of them what you will):





Speaking through characters or not, Ophelia is NatMer's big artistic difficult second album triumph. The sort of which I seem to love. She was so bummed on this material, the live album documenting its tour only featured one song from the proper album (and not even the hit!).

Of course, I've grown to love this album and it has become easily my favorite NatMer album. Considering her direction into what has been a glorified research into perceived 'simpler' musical times ever since this album, I can't help but think it was the document of a personal experience so painful and personal that she has avoided anything of the sort ever since then, in an attempt at recapturing emotional innocence.

Hard to conjure a smile even this big for a seal of approval for an album that is so perpetually heart wrenching, but the appreciation comes with age.


Here's to hoping we get a sequel to the best one day.

Because it is her best.

~Austin

Old Music: Wire Train's ...in a chamber (1983)

You know, when most folks think of 'new wave', they think of something like this, this, this, this or maybe if you're really astute, this. And while all of those are mostly fine selections, new wave, for me, always signified a much more naive, emotional, darker and moody reassessment of guitar rock. I remember hearing a friend once say that the reason most new wave bands played so fast was because the attention of the onlooking crowd made them nervous and they wanted to play their songs as quickly as possible and get off the stage. That sums it up perfectly in my mind.

Enter Wire Train.

A group of four unassuming, not very charismatic guys who came together and formed a band. They were, for a little while anyway, the zeitgeist of what a new wave band was in my mind. Guys that maybe liked a few punk bands, but who also had a love for classic guitar pop and got a chance to present their music because of the DIY punk ideology of the day.

The band was given its initial chance by the seminal American independent label, 415 Records. But by the time Wire Train was ready to release their first album, their label mates Romeo Void had a hit which interested Columbia Records so much, the major bought up the indie's entire catalogue.

So, before they even had a chance to get some minor league practice, the band's first album was distributed nationally and scored some minor hits that remained college radio favorites. Three quarters of the original lineup had one more hit with their next album (original drummer Federico Gil-Sola left after the world tour for ...in a chamber and was replaced by Brian MacLeod) and broke up. Frontman Kevin Hunter kept the band name intact and soldiered on through the 80's with less successful results.

(check out this great fan site for the entire story).

But what about that dreamy, perfectly executed and wonderfully nervous first album?
Well, it's a misleading album, that's for sure. On the surface, it just appears to be a stock guitar rock record from 1983. Fast tempos, throbbing stuttery bass lines and a singer who sounds like he's afraid of the mic. Listen again, though, and the songs will reveal themselves to be a surprisingly united set of tightly constructed and layered pop songs that are catchy, sometimes despite a melancholy tone and minor chord changes, sometimes because of it.

A two note bass stomp right out of Gang of Four's first album starts things off on 'I'll Do You' and when you hear the first hint of delay-laden electric guitar, you might think of the Cure. Except this is about two or three years before Robert Smith discovered his favorite guitar sound. The song is a wonderful introduction to the breezy, sunny sound offered up on this album.

From there, things go into a darker rock mode, with the noisy, cymbal heavy intro vamp of 'Everything's Turning Up Down Again.' Seriously good stuff and it's one instance of Kevin Hunter actually trying to sound like a balls out rock and roll singer. Of course, atop a somewhat wimpy jangle, it sounds hilarious, but the surprisingly affecting lyrics make it quite genuine.

Two wonderfully moody and even more Cure-ish tunes ('Never' and 'Like') and a heartfelt love song ('I Forget it All (When I See You)') and a flip of the vinyl later, you'll be greeted by the album's title track, epic centerpiece and flat out, one of the best 'lost' classics of the new wave era, 'Chamber of Hellos.'

An intricate, maze-like arpeggio and enough evolutions and layers to match build up an atmosphere of suspense and tension and it's one case where the whole thing has to break in order for their to be any resolution. When the perfectly anthemic chorus hits, it's a magical moment. A brief, sudden release that is about as effective as a chorus can be. The truly exceptional moment of the song is the nearly dub reggae breakdown of the chorus at almost three minutes into the tune, which builds and builds back up to the hook's full grandiose exposure. Exquisite.

Although I love when an album's highlight is smack dab in the middle of everything, I especially like the way 'Chamber of Hellos' foreshadows the dark, blurry, paranoia-filled climate of the remainder of side two. 'Slow Down', it seems, is another lesson in how to make a redemptive chorus, as the verses are all nervous build-up and the hook is appropriately soothing. 'She's on Fire' is a ringing rocker that finds Kevin Hunter in a particularly crass mood, while 'I Gotta Go' is nearly a goth tune with an almost heavy metal distortion riff and tribal thud of a drum intro. All the tension of side two is released with the deceivingly sunny, perfectly jangly 'Love Against Me.' And like that, the album's ten tracks are over in thirty five short, but well used minutes.

The above cover photo is from the original vinyl on 415/Columbia. Here's the back cover:


And the labels:



As mentioned above, the band was able to make one more album in this vein. Between Two Worlds was perhaps a bit more produced in the bigger picture — especially when you consider that ...in a chamber was tracked, mixed and mastered in just about two weeks for around $20,000— but it certainly is not a bad album. While the rest of the 80's was fairly unkind to the band's direction, they had one opportunity to make a perfect first impression album and they came pretty damn close with ...in a chamber.

I initially checked out the band because they were on 415 Records and I've followed that label for years. At first, I thought ...in a chamber was pretty mediocre. In fact, it went into my 'for trade' pile and it was on a whim that I chose to reevaluate it one last time before it was traded. Although it didn't make an immediate impression, it was better with each subsequent listen. I've played it every few days for the last year and a half and it now sounds like a stone cold classic of its era.

As a huge Cure fan, I won't even pretend that this album isn't the next best thing after the Cure's early stuff. It captures so well that dreamy, minimal, but perfectly executed bleakness of those wonderful early 80's new wave days. It also nails that existential, removed feeling of those early Cure albums. As a kid who cuts his new wave teeth on that stuff, it has sort of been in the back of my mind that, through my constant research and seeking out of records from that time period, I was wanting something that replicated the absolutely wonderful moodiness of those particular Cure albums.

And, to say that ...in a chamber does that feels a little silly at this point. Because it isn't a replication; it's a genuine interpretation of that mood.

Seal of approval long overdue:
~Austin

Old music: The Ocean Blue's Beneath the Rhythm and Sound (1993)

This one is about as classic as they come.

Speaking, of course, in terms of ‘cult’ or perhaps ‘fan favorite’ classic status.

The Ocean Blue drew immediate comparisons to the Smiths when they first emerged; in fact, some outlets even referred to them as America’s answer to the Manchester foursome. The comparisons, I’ve always felt, are a compliment to both sides of the equation as the Ocean Blue rarely wrote songs as resonating and the Smiths rarely wrote songs as outright beautiful. But, through both groups’ love of likeable guitar pop, a croony, introspective lead singer and concise, dreamy melodies that seem deceptively obvious and simultaneously effortless, they both successfully transcended and achieved longevity.

After two unimpeachably strong albums —1989’s self-titled album and 1991’s gorgeously dreamy Cerulean— on which the band blended its textured and heavily effected guitars with keyboard and saxophone harmonies from kitchen sink man Steve Lau, they seemed to focus for their third album on a more guitar-centric, pop-oriented direction that both retained the integrity of their early releases and squeezed them down into a bite size morsel of unbelievably good and heartfelt music.



I must stress that when this following term is applied to this music, it is a very exact interpretation of what the band created and one of the finest examples of the term ever conjured up: the album is, quite literally, jangle pop.

The band is credited as having self-produced the album, but with multiple engineering and mixing credits, the sound of the record is varied and never one-dimensional. To be completely honest, it’s one of the warmest albums I ever heard.

(A very insightful interview places where the band was at around when this album came out.)

The album starts on a random and unexpected note: a busy solo bass riff from Bobby Mittan. From there, ‘Peace of Mind’ introduces the album when the rest of the band swoops in and the song just builds layers upon layers; David Schelzel’s guitar never content to just play one chord progression or arpeggio for more than a few bars. It’s something to marvel at… and the fact that it’s kind of a second-tier track on the album is even more impressive.

The follow-up, the album’s first single —and the song that contained the lyrics from which the album took its title— was the appropriately named ‘Sublime.’ Alternating acoustic chords and electric arpeggios provide the base for what can only be described as power jangle pop. Not a dirty hint of distortion or dissonance is to be found, and though it did crack the pop charts a bit, it was the group’s only —and very brief— flirtation with commercial success.

After a mournfully melancholy ballad (‘Listen, It’s Gone’) and a would be near-rocker were it not for the lowly mixed vocals (‘Either/Or’), the album’s amazing centerpiece is up.

‘Bliss is Unaware’ is nearly perfection. Holy christ, is it amazing. With the inclusion of Steve Lau’s sax and perfect keyboard accents, you’d think it would be the most reminiscent of the band’s previous material, but that seems like an insult. I usually consider myself not a fan of the blatantly over the top pop songs, but in cases like this, the song is so good, so well-executed and so universal that it would be denying my basic human rights to not enjoy the heck out of it. A simple, catchy riff, a maddeningly addictive chorus, topped off with some perfectly understated congas and one of the single weirdest pseudo-funky middle eight breaks in recorded music and you get easily the album’s highlight, the Blue’s best song and one of the true injustices in the annals of pop music singles that should have been massively popular. I can listen to it on repeat for extended periods of time and still love it as much as the first listen. Two and a half minutes of absolute heaven.

At which point, the album’s bar —which, in preceding moments, seemed to be collectively raised as each track passed— coolly maintains its level like nothing all that special is happening.

‘Ice Skating At Night’ is slow and dreamy and sounds like something from Cerulean while ‘Don’t Believe Everything You Hear’ is about as rockin’ as the album gets. The near-shoegaze of ‘Cathedral Bells’ and the unfolding melodicism of ‘The Relatives’ keep things peppy while ‘Crash’ and ‘Emotions Ring’ illustrate perfectly why the band was favorably compared to the Smiths in the first place and, at the same time, put up a fine argument for their skills as cohesive and resonating balladeers.

This was the final full-length the original lineup of the band made. And even though the recent releases by a revamped lineup are quite good and rewarding, Beneath the Rhythm and Sound remains the apex of those first three albums.

It seems strange. Bands used to be given several years and multiple albums to grow and mature into this sort of record. And the Ocean Blue took advantage of that scenario. And that’s not to discount those first two albums; they are both roughly four to four-and-a-half star albums in their own right. Beneath the Rhythm and Sound, however, is the perfect third album: a concise restatement of what earned the band a following in the first place and a colorful, eye-opening expansion of every aspect of the palette from which they were drawing their initial inspiration.

Where the band’s previous singles (like ‘Drifting, Falling’ and ‘Ballerina Out of Control’) had been pop without the intention of being so, with their third album, the Ocean Blue created Between the Rhythm and Sound as a seeming intentional masterwork of likeable songs aimed directly at a wider audience. The charge of sellout seems a rather inappropriate one — on the contrary, the songs on this album are just that good. If they were to gain the band new fans by the stadium load, so be it.

But they didn’t. And the band’s fan base remained respectable, but modest.

I was in eighth grade when it was released and I remember briefly hearing ‘Sublime’ and maybe seeing the clip for it on 120 Minutes, but besides that, this was something I didn’t truly discover until I was a senior in high school — a full six years after the fact. At the time, it sounded timeless. Like something that had just existed my entire life and was just sitting there waiting for me to discover it. I can say, in one of the truest statements you’ll ever see from me, that in the ten or so years since I first soaked this album in, it has slowly but surely grown in stature with me every single time I listen to it.

It was the first album I listened to while driving in my car by myself the afternoon after I passed my driver’s test and officially had my license to drive. I had nowhere to go; I just wanted to hear this album outside of my bedroom. And it sounded fantastic. It still does.

It can now be listened to with a nostalgic ear and it’s a wonderfully happy reminder for me. One of the few things outside of hip hop that I enjoyed in high school, it is a pleasant reminder of that carefree Clinton-era of the mid-90’s when things were serious, but not outright bad.

Truly, for me, it stands right there with Loveless, Wish, Pygmalion, OK Computer and Your Arsenal as one of the best rock albums of the 1990’s.

Thirty-seven minutes of pure magnificence.

I’d be dumb if it didn’t get the seal of approval.



~Austin

I Had No Idea: 10,000 Maniacs' Hope Chest (1982-1983)

I guess consider this an 'old music' style post but, keep in mind that I literally just picked up this album this past week, so where I know all those other albums front to back, this one is extremely fresh to me in comparison.

As a kid who came of age as a music fan in the early 90's, all I knew of 10,000 Maniacs was their hit cover of 'Because the Night' and it wasn't my cup of tea. A few years later, I recognized that voice on another modern rock radio staple and while it was a nice little melodic ditty, I still wasn't sold.

So, when I really dove into rock music and my preferred sound of the late 1970's and 1980's new wave era, I kind of skipped over 10,000 Maniacs because I figured they were not of the style that I knew I liked. I can honestly say that I don't know what prompted me to re-investigate them. I have been on somewhat of a jangle kick recently so, in my constant search for whatever I'm liking, I did a random search about the Maniacs on AMG, previewed some tracks on Amazon and decided I had unfairly passed them over.

So, I thought, start at the beginning...




I picked up the Hope Chest album because it compiles the band's first EP (Human Conflict Number 5) and full length (Secrets of the I Ching) onto one disc and is much more easily available than finding the originals.

Imagine Johnny Marr playing guitar on the first Throwing Muses album and throw a sort of sporadic reggae slant into the mix and you have the first recordings of 10,000 Maniacs. It's your basic new wave formula for something that, by all reasonable logic, shouldn't work, but does because of the simplicity of the arrangements and tunes.

Unfortunately, it is one of those albums where the first song is so outstanding and unique and what follows is just not as good. But what a track that first one is. 'Planned Obsolescence' is standard new wave bassline and simple drumbeat dominated greatness. Robert Buck's strangely effected guitar warbles and squabbles its way through the song, acting as little more than a confusion while Natalie Merchant's dominating voice takes the lead melody. She sings in these strange sentence fragments and never seems content to stay on one note for more than two words. The entire thing comes to a brilliant head when she finally blurts out in the second half of the tune that 'Any modern man can see that religion is obsolete' and the tune's true melody comes out from behind the shadows. A wonderful slice of seemingly subtle atheist rock.

The rest of the album is much more along the lines of what the Maniacs would end up sounding like. They were still a little faster and a bit more freewheeling at this point, but, for the most part, there's a little bit of softly strummed guitars and a whole lot of Natalie Merchant's captivating voice. She's clearly the star of the show, but she's never overbearing or intrusive to the rest of the band. Instead, they both compliment each other exceptionally well.

Take a song like 'Poor De Chirico' where the band goes back and forth between a lovely jangle and an organ-laced roots reggae groove, but atop it all is Natalie's swooping vocals. When the thing explodes into an honest-to-goodness guitar solo, you'd be hard pressed to to call the band middle of the road or unwilling to take chances.

Other highlights for me are the wonderful jangle of 'Grey Victory,' the original less-floaty version of 'Tension' (which would be revived later on as 'Tension Makes A Tangle'), the great rant on 'Daktari' and pseudo-funk of 'Pit Viper.'

Overall, this material has a genuine charm to it because it has shades of where the band would go afterwords, but there is something entirely unique about them. Kind of like the same vibe I get from R.E.M.'s Chronic Town EP, as it's clear that the band is not really a new wave group. But they came about in the period that punk and new wave was the dominant cutting edge rock movement and their primary influences all came from those kinds of bands. So, even though the urge to play something else was there, they still couldn't push past that new wave influence quite yet and subsequently made something completely remarkable.

I mentioned earlier about how the band, at this point seemed anything but middle of the road or unwilling to take chances, but it seems like the more records they made, the more they became of both of those things. Not that that's a bad thing. If you find something that works, why change it?

I went back a few days later and picked up The Wishing Chair, the band's second full length and first album on a major label. There is definitely a more pronounced slant towards the folk rock and jangle pop that they would become known for. The reggae influence is gone and there are plenty of interweaving riffs; so it's basically the album where they became an alt-rock band. Fine and good for that sound, but simply nowhere near as engaging as the earlier material.

Maybe I will delve further into the band's catalogue after a full digestion of Hope Chest and The Wishing Chair, but right now, I'm basking in a really great (re?)discovery.

Seal of approval? Why not! It's certainly a great album!


~Austin

Old Music: Modern English's After the Snow (1982)

In a strange paradox, I feel like, most of the time, this album is underrated or forgotten about because of its one huge song. Forgotten because of popularity and perhaps a bit of over saturation. Of course, 'I Melt With You' is the definition of classic. One of those perfect pop singles that defined an era and, through its universally articulate lyrics, simultaneously transcended that era for generations to come. Wonderful stuff. And one of those rare moments where a song is so good it feels, in retrospect, like a poetic victory for truly creative and genuine music.

But what about the album that that fantastic slice of pure pop magic came from?

Well, my friend, I'm glad you asked.

Originally released in 1982 on the British 4AD label, it must have sounded like an epic masterpiece at that point. Foreshadowing where fellow post-punkers-turned-pop bands like the Cure and New Order would go in the near future, it can now be asserted as the most perfect mashup of arty post-punk dissonances and pop catchiness. Its closest contemporaries were probably similarly minded albums like the Sound's All Fall Down or Echo and the Bunnymen's Heaven Up Here (and this one makes the most sense because it was magnificently produced by Hugh Jones, who handles production duties on After the Snow just a year after his work with the Bunnymen).

But we're a bit ahead of ourselves.

Allow me to indulge the Bunnymen comparison for just a bit more...

It's fitting that Hugh Jones worked with Echo on Heaven Up Here —perhaps the darkest and artiest album of their catalogue— in the same year that Modern English made their first album; itself a strange and drugged out affair that was certainly more goth than anyone would have guessed if they were working backwards through the band's discography.

I mean, just have a look at the cover.

The music isn't excessively weird, it's just much more psychedelic and downright trippy than most people would imagine for what is essentially a new wave album. A single (which can now be appropriately viewed as somewhat of a proto-shoegaze tune) was released and promptly ignored. After the band released Mesh and Lace, they were dubbed competent Joy Division knockoffs and nothing more was thought of the issue.

A year or so later, in a turn of events nobody in the most astute of logic would have foreseen, they re-emerged with 'I Melt With You' and had a minor British hit.

Its accompanying album was a fantastic mish mash of uber-pop, lushly layered arrangements, reflective melancholy and a toned-down but still present experimental edge.

Seriously, as rock albums go, this one is as about as diverse as they come.

The albums starts off with the wonderful second single 'Someone's Calling' and its excellent opening simile: 'Turning round as if in flight.' That's a descriptive lyric for this album, as well. The whole thing has the feeling of changing direction, slowly and methodically, as to not miss anything in the process.

From there, the rest of side one presents the band at their boundary-pushing best. If you just hear the songs on the surface, there will be plenty to latch onto: hooky vocals, catchy riffs, a dynamite rhythm section. But if you really sit down with these songs, there are layers upon layers of things about them that will reward repeated diligent listens. The best argument for that is that one-two punch of the stuttery and poignant 'Life in the Gladhouse' which is followed by the big epic and album spiritual centerpiece 'Face of Wood.' Sounding like the Cure before they even managed to get there, it's an absolutely beautiful song that finds a balance between the first album's artsy ambiance and the band's newly discovered sense of melody and songcraft.

(Check out an early run-through of the tune the band did for John Peel — definitely leaning more towards the artsy side here)

Side two kicks off with 'I Melt With You' and, I'll just say it right now: it's the poppiest thing on the album, by far. Anyone who bought After the Snow anticipating another seven or eight songs like 'I Melt With You' got ripped off, plain and simple.

It's funny that they chose to start side two off with the most accessible thing on the album because the rest of the songs are much more subdued and meditative. The title track and 'Carry Me Down' seem to mirror the initial sentiment of change that started with 'Someone's Calling.' Even the more paranoid and darker 'Tables Turning' that closes the album retains a specific vibe started by the title track. It's amazing how much ground this album covers in just eight songs and that it does that so convincingly is even more impressive.

It took about a year for the album to be picked up for North American release on the Sire label. It was the band's first American release. Here's the original vinyl issue on Sire/4AD:


And the back cover, which some otherwise loving previous collector neglected in the bottom left corner (which is strange because my copy of the band's follow-up Ricochet Days has a similar tear in the same spot, but on the front cover; must've been a spill that wasn't discovered right away):


The front of the inner sleeve:

The back of the inner sleeve:

And the labels:

When the album was reissued on CD by 4AD in the early 90's, they changed the cover:
But the great thing about the reissue is the bonus tracks that were added. Despite somewhat superfluous single edits of 'I Melt With You' and 'Someone's Calling', the rest of the bonus tracks are great and well worthwhile. Besides the longer (and superior) version of 'Life in the Gladhouse,' you get the two b-sides from the After the Snow sessions: the amazing should've been a-side 'The Prize' and the atmospheric eleven minute epic 'The Choicest View' which is just about as weird and willfully inaccessible as the band ever got.

It was a grassroots hit in the US until 'I Melt With You' was included on the soundtrack for Valley Girl. At which point, the popularity became too much for the young band and they inevitably pulled in different directions.

The follow-up to After the Snow was the also not to be missed, but not quite as great Ricochet Days (which may receive its own highlight in this column at some point in the future). The album had nothing as distinguishable and uniquely appealing as 'I Melt With You' and subsequent albums found frontman Robbie Grey trying to carry on the band himself and recapture the popularity that 'I Melt With You' brought him earlier on. He never was able to.

After the Snow is one of the best albums in the entire post-punk cannon. Easily one of my favorite albums ever, I still get a little annoyed when I bring up Modern English and all most people know is 'I Melt With You.'

Any self-respecting new wave fan should know this album front to back.

It should go without saying that it gets the seal of approval:


~Austin

Old music: Aztec Camera's Knife (1984)

Whoo boy, talk about misunderstood.

Well, Roddy Frame has to be given some slack because he was only twenty years young when he was reacting to a wealth of buzz and popularity in the aftermath of his band's Britain-captivating debut album.

And who wouldn't freak out and just make one of the most personal and fun albums of their career — especially when you were thrown into the studio with ridiculous expectations, a nearly bottomless budget and an established, certified 'rock and roll god' completely out of touch with where you were coming from (hi, Mark Knopfler) acting as producer?

Well, let's just get this out of the way right now: unlike my previous highlights in this context, this album is not an amazing five star-worthy affair that will please all audiences across the board.

Nope. That's just not this album.

But is it an irreproachably strong record that received an unfair critical beat down at the time of its release and has yet to receive a true reassessment that removes the hype?

Yes. Wholeheartedly.

If I were to grade the album on my usual scale of one to five stars, it would probably receive an incredibly strong:
...or a solid:
But, leaving grades aside, this album is just downright enjoyable. It's pure pop. Produced, overwrought, slickly played and cooked to perfection with one or two too many chefs in the kitchen. But the songs are absolutely stunning, despite presentation.

So, what really matters here is the presentation.

And it is flawed.

Bottom line.

It just is.

It certainly wouldn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that — HEY, WAIT A SECOND, MARK KNOPFLER IS A TERRIBLE CHOICE AS A PRODUCER FOR AN AZTEC CAMERA RECORD!

But, despite that completely mismatched big overproduced slickness and high profile reputation that Knopfler brought to the studio with him, Roddy Frame plays these songs like he's absolutely sure they're the best he's ever written — and, indeed, some of them really are.

'Still on Fire' kicks things off and with it's pseudo-funky rhythm guitar and accentuated percussion, it's obviously an attempt to rewrite 'Oblivious' but that doesn't matter because it's easily one of the great lost classics of the new wave singles. Moving into an obtuse simile, 'Just Like the USA' is one point where I think the Roddy/Elvis Costello comparisons are valid. But even that seems unfair because the song tackles something so personal and so universal and is ultimately all heart, even though it puts up the façade of being the opposite. And that is a strangely foreshadowing dynamic that is explored in great detail with 'Head is Happy (Heart's Insane).' A horn-accented strummer explores the extremely human struggle between the mind's message and the heart's wants. Really fantastic stuff.

Side two kicks off with 'All I Need is Everything' (video edit, album version)and the song itself is practically a microcosm of the overproduction of the album trying to drown out the eccentricities of the band's songs. Starting with an admittedly cheesy synth buildup, when the song actually gets going, it's extremely hard to dislike. The perfectly descriptive lyrics unfold into the incredible (and nearly anthemic) chorus. While the keyboards could have been left out and the song's effect would have been equal, the last two minutes is a showcase for the band to expose the musical qualities that are lurking beneath the tunes. All mood and ambience, it's a moment for Roddy to take a rare solo that is equal parts expressive and complimentary and the thing that sticks out the most about it is how well it balances with the rest of the song. It almost feels like the band was saying, 'Hey this was a great pop song, but how about we end it sounding like the Durutti Column?' Wondrous.

'Backwards and Forwards' and 'The Birth of the True' are the two songs most like any previous Aztec Camera material. And they are appropriately excellent. The album closes with the nine-minute title track that streches itself out into a meditative epic. It's gotten a bad rap over the years, but if you remove the expectation of Aztec Camera as a three or four minute pop song band, it's surpsringly effecting and well-done. Imagine the same song on a Modern English album and you might start to see my point.

It had pretty standard cartoony new wave era cover art (this is the American issue on Sire):


And the back:

The inner sleeve was well done, with full photos of the band and complete reprinted lyrics (which, with this album, you'll want to follow along with; it's worth it):


And the back of the inner sleeve:


And finally, the labels. Notice the guitar sketch thing on side one; a larger scale version of that same sketch appears on top of a white background for the 'Oblivious' 12" single:




The British papers tore it to shreds. Roddy Frame was supposed to use keyboards sparingly, if at all. He was not supposed to have any songs that were longer than four-and-a-half minutes (at the absolute most) and his arrangements were supposed to be cutting edge DIY spareness, not this moody MOR crap.

Maybe if I were there at the time and had considered him to be one of the saviours of pop music, I'd have been upset as well. But that seems unlikely because the songs are just that good. Sure, High Land Hard Rain is (deservedly) everyone's favorite Aztec Camera album and it (again, deservedly) gets five stars across the board.

But I've seen way too many recommendations for just the first album and nothing else. And furthermore, way too many collections that have the first album and nothing else.

Is Knife better than High Land Hard Rain? No.

Is it Aztec Camera's second best album? Without question.

I've always been of the opinion that, while Knife isn't Roddy Frame's best work, it is his most representative. When you consider the MOR, white boy lite soul that would dominate their secondary post-High Land catalogue (a/k/a the rest of Roddy Frame's career), Knife seems to be the best album Aztec Camera made in that mode. And I would definitely say you'd like it if you liked High Land Hard Rain.

It definitely deserves a reassessment, because even though I haven't been listening to it since 1984, in the relatively short time that I've been familiar with it, it just seems to get better with each listen.

And that easily earns it a seal of approval:


Good stuff. And a perfect example of how something can sound totally of its time, but its content and subject matter can push it outside of those limitations.

~Austin

Old music: OMD's Dazzle Ships (1983)

I've been a rather big fan of this album since I initially heard it a little over a year ago. I was just discovering Orchestral Manouevres in the Dark's early work and I recall being somewhat annoyed at this album because it was the only one of the band's first five that I couldn't get out of the dollar bin. I had to pay full price ($5) for a pristine vinyl, worn cover copy. And I was genuinely miffed.

That was before I had heard it.

Had I known what I was actually getting, there is now way that I would've had anything resembling apprehension or annoyance about the whole deal. I should have been smiling uncontrollably.

It's cool to now remark about how Dazzle Ships was poorly received after the band's big breakthrough with their previous album, Architecture and Morality and its classic new wave-era defining love song 'Souvenir', but I would instead like to look in retrospect at what came before the album and declare everyone who proposed to not 'get it' or pretended they didn't see it coming in 1983 to be a complete fucking moron.

The album that Dazzle Ships most closely resembles musically in the OMD catalogue is 1980's Oragnisation. If you go back and play these two records one after the other, they will practically be musically synced. At the time cutting edge keyboards, synthesizers and drum machines bump heads with traditional rock band live instruments like live drums, electric bass and electric guitar. It all combines for a sound that must've been like music from outer space at the time and now sounds like the vintage sound of a classic era in rock music that will never be recreated (no matter how hard some folks may try). This musical territory was unique, even at this point, with only fellow northerners New Order being the closest musical relation.

But that's all well and good, you say. What about those weird 'musique concrete' seemingly free form sound collage tracks that took up nearly half the album, you ask?

To which I say that high concepts like this had always been a staple of OMD's material. From the early tracks like 'Electricity' and 'Enola Gay,' which were based on themes, to Architecture and Morality's loose running-theme based around the life of Joan of Arc; these boys always had something that was on their mind and that would want to put into the context of a wonderful pop song.

Now, as for the concept of Dazzle Ships itself, it seems to be based on post-war Britain, the rise of technology in the Cold War and how that same technology that is supposedly advancing the society in social terms is actually making the world a more desolate and isolated place to be. But that is entirely unclear and blurred when you consider that the album was named after something whose purpose was 'confusion rather than concealment.'

Heavy.

And the music fits. It's appropriately 80's sounding. It's new wave. It's of its time. Synth pop. Fantastically played and perfected by a band that was perhaps getting a little smug and sprawling in their enormous success; but through it all, they were always just as concerned with the art side as they were with the pop side.

And Dazzle Ships is one of the finest examples of that, perhaps ever.

The five sound collages scattered amongst the seven actual songs are actually not as confrontational as some reviews may suggest. For the most part, they are like between song interludes or skits; and, in the case of something like 'This is Helena,' it could be argued that it is an actual song. The genuinely weirdest of the bunch is 'Dazzle Ships (Parts II, III & VII).' It is just a mish mash of random blurts and shouts if noise. But as the introduction to the second half of the album, and that forthcoming material's emotional weight, it is a good preview of the depths to which this album wishes to plunge. Call these interludes obnoxious, in the way or dull indulgence, but whatever you do, don't call them unnecessary.

As for the actual songs on the album, they are all among OMD's best. Starting off with the brilliantly bouncy 'Genetic Engineering' all the way through the mournfully profound closer 'Of All the Things We've Made,' there isn't one song here that isn't top notch. I've always had a soft spot for 'Telegraph,' which bounces along at 'Enola Gay' levels of dancibility and condemns mass communication simultaneously ('We've got telegraphs all over this land. It doesn't mean a damn thing,' sings McClusky atop an irresistibly catchy synth line). Wonderful. Also of note is the song 'Silent Running,' whose seemingly carefree musical mood is betrayed by the unsure lyrics ('We're walking on air, we're taking our time. But god only knows, this isn't reason or rhyme.'). It's unclear whether this song is inspired by the 1970's Douglas Trumbull movie, but it would make sense if it were. Lastly, the album's final moment of brilliance is also its last song; the aforementioned 'Of All the Things We've Made.' The song is fine and stands incredibly well on its own, but at the end of this heavily conceptual dystopianism, it comes alight and breathes a previously unheard resonance into the material. Absolutely stunning.

Of course, no one at the time paid any attention to the two top flight singles, 'Genetic Engineering' and 'Telegraph', they all focused on the between song bits and the album was a notorious flop for years to come. Shame, that.

When it was first released, it was one of the first albums to have different cover art across different formats. Peter Saville designed both, of course. Here's the CD cover; gotta love that electric blue:

And the vinyl cover:


I've never seen a cassette copy, but I would imagine it's just a scaled down version of the LP cover.

Well, I guess a good way to wrap this up is to point out that a kid who got into new wave in his early 20's, twenty years after the fact, still had a tough time getting hipped to anything by this band. Maybe it was because all I knew was that 'If You Leave' was their biggest hit and just (foolishly) assumed that that was the kind of music they played. Or maybe it was because of my opinion that, outside of Britain, they are completely and utterly underrated; perhaps to the point of being relegated to second or third tier status. But that's just not the case.

And all of that applies to this album especially.

And it definitely gets my seal of approval:


Check it out. Even if it's not in the dollar bin.

~Austin

Old music: Chad & Jeremy's 'Distant Shores' (1966)

So, maybe it's the summer heat spell and the endless high desert 100°+ Fahrenheit temperatures that's done it to me.

But, whatever it is, I've just been wanting to hear some of that melancholy sunshine pop lately.

You know, that sort of music that is totally overproduced, overtly pretty and just downright melodic, great and timeless.

Chad and Jeremy initially came to mind because of their perennial classic 'A Summer Song' and how it managed to capture the dynamic of that brilliant moment that we all experience at the end of summer where we realize that it's done... the warmness, the simple meals, the long days, the extended walks that venture off into dusk past the point when the street lamps illuminate, the basketball game that somehow lasts until the middle of the eleven o'clock news, the video game match that sees the beginning of the sunset and the overall feeling of camaraderie and community that just seems to take up a comfortable residence from the middle of May until the middle of September. A fantastic song from a couple of Brits that somehow managed to resonate more here than they did there.

But that was their early stuff.

What happened after that?

Well, according to Chad, the duo's British label had them working like slaves and they didn't really feel like the material they were recording was fully representative of what they were as musicians at the time.

Fair enough.

A temporary move from London to Los Angeles and a committed move to Columbia records produced a couple good, but predictable albums that showed a lot of potential but not a lot of willingness to branch out.

Well, nobody sees the truly good ones coming.

Because, a year later, Chad and Jeremy released one of the most underrated (to this day) and most well-rounded pop albums of the 1960's the very next year.



Truly, Distant Shores is amazing. Easily as good as any other acknowledged pop classic of the mid 1960's.

The whole thing is absolutely lush. I guess, for most people, it would be most accurate to say that the music on this album is most closely related to a sort of folk and vocal pop hybrid. The string arrangements, the lush 'now sound' leanings, the irresistible duo harmonies all mixed with a strumming, acoustic melancholy base makes for a transitional album that is absolute magic. They were perhaps a little too restrained before this and maybe not restrained enough afterwords, but for this moment, they were at their peak.

Starting with the wonderful title track and venturing through the longing 'When Your Love Has Gone', the Paul Simon pre-fame composition 'Homeward Bound', the amazing harpsichord-laced original 'You Are She', through the amazingly lush highlight 'Everyone's Gone to the Moon' and ending up at the accepting breakup anthem 'Don't Make Me Do It', this album is one of the most well-rounded, cohesive and solid albums of its era. The songs take minor turns, effectively use woodwind and string accompaniments and ultimately end up as Chad and Jeremy's most repeat-worthy album that still stands up today.

Truly, the influence this album has had on the C-86 and twee pop scenes cannot be understated. I'm sure most of the kids affiliated with those scenes would classify this as a guilty pleasure, but the truth is: Bob Wratten and Jim and William Reid have all thoroughly enjoyed this album at one point in time. Don't think they haven't.

For fun, here's the original back cover on Columbia:
The labels:

The great thing about this album is that, despite its amazing deluxe edition on the unbelievably cool Sundazed label, it's an incredibly easy find on used vinyl. And the original eleven track album is definitely worth hearing. Sure, the expanded edition will be of interest later on, but as an album, released on a major label in 1966, it stands up incredibly well.

It's been on constant rotation for me over the last month or so and I highly reccommend it.

It gets the official Austin seal of approval:

Check it out, if you can. Satisfaction guaranteed. Especially in summertime.

~Austin