Earn This

Chain Gang of Love (2003) – 4 stars

Pretty in Black (2005) – 2 stars

Lust, Lust, Lust (2008) – 5 stars

In and Out of Control (2009) – 4 stars

Formed in Copenhagen, of all places, the boy-girl duo The Raveonettes re-envisions rock and roll’s past into one endlessly entertaining vision of the present.  Named after the Buddy Holly song “Rave On,” guitarist Sune Rose Wagner and Sharin Foo combine distorted washes of guitar sounds with stellar melodies, a concoction that’s a lot of The Jesus and Mary Chain, a little My Bloody Valentine, a little girl-group pop, and a hell of a lot of fun.

JAMC’s debut album Psychocandy is all over Chain Gang of Love, but that hardly makes the Raves’ version a boring retread.  The album is, however, noisy, tuneful, and vivacious—everything that has come to define them.  The opening bars of “Remember” sound like pure MBV- or Lush-inspired shoegaze, but other tracks, like “That Great Love Sound” and “Heartbreak Stroll,” sizzle with reverb and distortion that keep up with breakneck melodies.  It doesn’t get much sexier than Wagner singing “Get it all straight / ‘Cause you’re whistle-bait / Come on, baby, right now” over the chiming guitars and runaway-train pace of “Heartbreak”; or winking, “Let’s rave on ‘cause I know that you want it / Let’s make out ‘cause I know that you want it” on “Let’s Rave On.”

After such a promising beginning, Pretty in Black provokes just one question: What the hell happened?  For reasons passing understanding, the band turns it back on what it does best; gone are the heavy reverb, the dense washes of sound, the layers of guitar coating sugary melodies.  Somehow, in the search to write a pure pop album—lacking the white-noise guitar parts that would, apparently, turn off the masses—they forget how to be catchy, and this, combined with the vanishing guitars, leaves them with bland, acoustic-heavy songs possessing nary a hint of the grand beauty that defines the rest of their work.

A couple songs (“Sleepwalking,” “Ode to L.A.”) almost break free, almost hit that level of majesty, but you can hear the contradictions within the band, hear them too concerned with playing it safe.  The former starts off well, the line “Think you look good today / Pretty in black, you got it down“ married to that warm, cavernous bass and piquant guitar, but then, frustratingly, it pulls back.  Similarly, “Ode” thinks about digging in, before sticking with a forgettable chorus and Ronnie Spector (of the Ronettes) providing out-of-place backing vocals.

Newcomers to the band should essentially forget about Pretty in Black (though while noting its wonderful title, which describes a lot of what the Raves are all about) and move on to the career-defining Lust, Lust, Lust.  Exceptionally produced, Lust takes the formula of Chain Gang to new heights, with even sharper melodies, more meaningful lyrics, and sweeter washes of sound.  Full of dark and dirty undertones, especially in the lyrics, it’s still exceedingly colorful, with pristine melodies floating above druggy distortion and those thick riffs.  The guitar climaxes of “Hallucinations,” “Blitzed,” and “Blush” match up with anything written by their influences.

“Dead Sound” combines self- and partner-loathing lyrics (“And now you go through a million girls and try to pick what’s right / When nightfall comes and you’re still alone, do you feel it deep inside?”) with a beat so insistent and absorbing that it compelled multiple critics to write that the song was “anything but” its title.  “The Beat Dies” re-writes JAMC’s “Something’s Wrong” with a Slowdive-amount of lie-back-and-dream beauty; but, amidst all this excellence, it’s the incomparable “Blush” that supersedes everything else they’ve done, before or since.

Given the arrows pointed at unworthy partners throughout the album, it may actually be the hated perpetrator being channeled in the rather arrogant chorus, “I can’t keep you / I can’t hold you down / I can’t love you still… /  But I can still make you blush.”  The band phrases this question by way of the devastatingly cruel line “All I want from you is all I took,” before launching into the coda with their prettiest, Explosions in the Sky-esque guitar melody sliding in and out of that infinitely warm backing guitar.  A perfect song.

2009’s In and Out of Control proves, thankfully, that the Raves aren’t going anywhere near Pretty in Black again.  Though not quite so noisy (or flawless) as Lust, Lust, Lust, it’s nevertheless another winning effort, wherein the best songs—”Bang!”, “Last Dance,” “Suicide”—sound romantic and glorious.  The production is a tad looser than on Lust (occasional oddities like glockenspiels and fewer oceanic washes of sound) and the songs aren’t quite as consistently excellent, but—despite a preponderance of amateurish song titles—they’re just as dramatic.  The Raves kick down the doors with the devilishly inviting opening line “Bang!  You’re so vicious baby” and maintain that level of visceral excitement throughout.

On Lust, a song called “Suicide” might have been morbidly depressing, but here, they demonstrate the capability to get past their wounds; “Run, run, run away, little girl / Get your fun in this trashy world / Empty-hearted boys by your side/ Lick your lips and fuck suicide,” sings Foo over an irresistibly lilting haze.  “Wine” approaches “The Beat Dies” for album-closing, sleepy quietude, but the real winner is “Last Dance,” a joyous, unashamedly sentimental paean to simplicity.  As long as it doesn’t refer to themselves.

Emancipator’s “Soon It Will Be Cold Enough” goes down smooth much the same way albums like Metallica’s “Saint Anger” and Nirvana’s “In Utero” don’t.  Perhaps the only aspect of the piece that makes it hard to digest, certainly for casual music listeners, is a lack of context surrounding the experience.  The not-quite-techno, not-quite-electronica, not-quite-experimental rock album is the vanguard of a relatively new genre of music being called “organic ambient.”  Listening to this release will, for most, be unlike anything you have experienced before.  That could simultaneously be its biggest strength and its biggest weakness.

Don’t let the term “ambient” fool you, though.  “Soon It Will Be Cold Enough” does not have to be background music.  The 14 tracks provide plenty of climax, beats, and dynamics to keep the ear occupied.  Do not expect the up and down, structured nature of most main-stream music being made today, however.  Emancipator derives his own formula in “Soon It Will Be Cold Enough.”

Just like the esoteric nature of the track titles like “Periscope Up” and “Father King,” the sounds of the album will take the listener on an experimental adventure that challenges conventional understanding. Even progressive works such as “Dark Side of the Moon” and fringe artists like the Gorillaz can’t quite prepare one for Emancipator. “Dark Side of the Moon” challenges a listener’s intellect, attacking a fan’s cerebrum with deep and prophetic lyrics and asking questions whose answers seem to be just out of reach.  The Gorillaz, meanwhile, try to break the mold with in your face social commentary, harsh beats and sounds, and a bizarre fusion of several mainstream genres.

But “Soon It Will Be Cold Enough” is not intellectual at all.  It is emotional.  The elemental sounds are raw.  It doesn’t make you think, it makes you feel.   It is those feelings that transform “Soon It Will Be Cold Enough” into a concept album.  Whereas most concept albums are traditionally linked by thematic lyrics and psychological ideas, Emancipator unites his music with sonic motifs.

“With Rainy Eyes” resonates with sadness and mourning, as its creator was inspired by the loss of one of his mentors and musical influences. “First Snow” falls across the ear softly and sweetly, while “Anthem” resonates with the death and darkness that comes with a cold winter. “Good Knight” provides the most mainstream track amidst songs that are slightly inaccessible on first listen.

Douglas Appling, the man behind the name Emancipator, put this album out just three years ago, at the tender age of 19.  Such an age seems young in the context as a piece of a larger band, but the genius required in solely developing a piece such as “Soon It Will Be Cold Enough” in its entirety is quite astounding.  Appling incorporates both synthetic and authentic sounds, using instruments ranging from the guitar and vocals to the piano and glockenspiel, to say nothing of the percussive sounds that permeate the piece, dichotic in their subtlety and ubiquity.

Emancipator’s debut album will certainly provide most listeners with a trip off the beaten path.  Don’t expect to be stimulated mentally—just sit back, turn your brain off, meditate, and let it happen.  If your emotions aren’t completely evoked by Emancipator’s first try, just try playing it during the first snowfall of the winter.

[out of four stars]

Toy Story (1995) – 4 stars
A Bug’s Life (1998) – 3.5 stars
Toy Story 2 (1999) – 4 stars
Monsters, Inc. (2001) – 4 stars
Finding Nemo (2003) – 4 stars
The Incredibles (2004) – 4 stars
Cars (2006) – 2.5 stars
Ratatouille (2007) – 4 stars
WALL•E (2008) – 4 stars
Up (2009) – 4 stars

Many, many thoughts on the first decade and a half of my favorite film studio of all time, after the jump.

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13 Songs (1990) – 5 stars

Repeater +3 Songs (1990) – 4 stars

Steady Diet of Nothing (1991) – 4 stars

In on the Kill Taker (1993) – 5 stars

Red Medicine (1995) – 5 stars

End Hits (1998) – 3.5 stars

The Argument (2001) – 4 stars

A “staggeringly powerful combination,” as Rolling Stone has called them, a supergroup to some, the culmination of increasingly impressive work done by two lead singers earlier in their careers, the immensely influential Fugazi always did things their way.  They rocked harder than most, thought more deeply than most, veered in unpredictable directions whenever the hell they felt like it, and in the process created some of the most visceral, thrilling, intelligent, and demanding rock music in existence.  Headed by the incomparable duo of Ian Mackaye (best known up to that point for Minor Threat, the prime example of hardcore punk) and Guy Picciotto (leader of the incredible Rites of Spring), they balanced rock with brains more cogently than just about anyone and should thus be required listening for all fans of modern rock music.  

A compilation of two early EPs (which has sadly provided a moderate level of obscurity to help keep it out of public consumption), 13 Songs remains one of music’s most thrilling debuts.  Coherent but not overly similar, dueling lead guitars pushing and pulling for your attention, it takes your emotions to the extreme—the faint of heart need not apply.  Fan favorite “Waiting Room” delivers a pulse-pounding bass line and exceptional use of dynamics and build-up—and that’s all in the first 21 seconds before that unforgettable drop into silence. (I’m serious—you’ll remember the first time you got to that part.) Few songs accelerate more smoothly, few hiss more bitterly, few make you want to get up off your feet any more persuasively.  Though not quite their best song, it’s a mind-blowing start.

On tracks like that one, “Bulldog Front,” and “Promises,” the band announces how little time it has for self-deception, for facades, for laziness, for bullshit.  Guy and Ian each take lead vocals on several songs, providing lyrics right at home to anyone feeling pulled in several directions at once.  On the spectacular “Give Me the Cure,” Guy wonders, “I never walked the side of dying before / And now I feel like I’m…” as the song patiently builds to a climax that’s danceable and disturbing all at once.

A hard debut to top, but on Repeater, Fugazi proves how much they don’t give a shit what anyone expects from them.  It’s remarkable how much this album sounds similar to 13 Songs—avoiding the you-must-branch-out-for-your-second-album cliché—and yet never feels like contentedly milking of a formula.  The songwriting has slipped just a touch, but that’s it; opener “Turnover” succeeds in more ambitious and shifty ways than anything before, and Guy’s “I’m not playing with you!” screams on “Blueprint” feel like they could shake the Earth from its core.  Tracks like that one and “Merchandise” find Fugazi beginning their trend of criticizing corporate society for anything and everything; with Repeater, they moved less personal and more political.  (Note: the album has subsequently been re-issued with 3 additional tracks; a bonus, since “Song #1” is one of its best.)

Steady Diet of Nothing is anything but, though it’s Fugazi with the first of their many twists.  Here they slow down the tempos, moderate the altitudinal changes, and add noticeable dub influences.  They make it work on tracks like “Reclamation” and “Nice New Outfit” with guitars a little less teeth-grinding and bass lines that often create their own melody.  The only problem is the diminished intensity; it’s hard to say whether that’s inherent in the changes or simply because they didn’t write the same top-notch batch of songs as before.  Still, it’s a compelling listen all the way through, a real grower that sounds better the more attention you give it. 

Released back-to-back, Fugazi firing on all cylinders in their mid-career peak, In on the Kill Taker and Red Medicine stake out their boldest claim to being 90s rock saviors.  Wildly different but both recognizably Fugazi, they find the band embracing the extreme, even more so than on 13 Songs.  Kill Taker makes ear candy out of harsh, grating, shaving-with-sandpaper guitar noises, like on the ending of “Walken’s Syndrome” and beginning of “Facet Squared.”  It’s probably their most stripped-down album, leaving room for nothing but their hardest, enhanced-punk melodies, Guy and Ian’s fiercest yowls, and breathless songs like “Facet,” “Great Cop,” and “Public Witness Program.” 

On ace track “Rend It,” Guy wants to feel raw pain—“I don’t care what you use / Just don’t ask me to choose”—and the seemingly sadistic tendencies serve as a metaphor for emotional nakedness and vulnerability.  “A light comes into my room,” he sings on the verses, with little instrumentation to save him, “Some shade of bruise-colored blue.”  Then Ian comes in during the chorus and the band explodes; over the ferocious ending of “My…love…song…went…wrong!” each pound of the drums sounds like it’s scraping another piece of skin off your face. 

Stopping then wouldn’t have damaged Fugazi’s Rock Pantheon credentials; instead, Red Medicine is even better.  Far removed from Kill Taker, Fugazi experimented in all kinds of directions—piano, clarinets, spontaneous bursts of laughter, no guitars on “Version”—bringing a dazzling array of color and depth that underscores their strongest batch of songs.  They lead off with three of their top five all-time songs, step back for a groovy midsection, and then, starting with the excellent “Target,” bring things back to old-school Fugazi.

Few albums hold together so coherently while still containing an almost embarrassing number of individual pleasures.  “Downed City” contains no wasted energy whatsoever, a punk song angrier and more resonant than any punk song ever written.  “Do You Like Me” opens with thick industrial noise, suddenly revealing all slashing, hurtling guitar lines that almost overpower Guy’s “I’ve got a question…” supplication.  “Latest Disgrace” channels the theme of “Rend It” over a slow burn, Joe Lally’s dominant, catchy bass line paving the way for the thunderous climax to which most other songs’ climaxes merely aspire.  

At this point, they’d figured everything out, taking advantage of both sides of every equation.  That’s true musically (“Bed for the Scraping” combines Lally’s thick bass line with Ian’s high-pitched yowls, producing a rallying cry even more persuasive than “Waiting Room”), lyrically (finding room to attack the modern music biz on “Target” and providing more get-off-your-ass cries as they did on 13 Songs), and vocally (Guy sounds ready to break apart when he screams, “downed CITY!” and the quieter moments are nearly as affecting).

Like a pitching change in the middle of a baseball rally, End Hits inevitably stops the roller coaster for just a moment, although the excitement still festers below the surface.  This is their what-the-fuck album and the one with the least cohesive theme.  On curious near-failures like “No Surprise” and  “Floating Boy,” Fugazi bring back those non rock-like bass lines from Steady Diet of Nothing, but they pair them with overly sparse and texture-like guitar and melodies that veer in all kinds of directions, few of them memorable or necessary.  And I have no idea what “Pink Frosty” was supposed to do for anyone.

Nonetheless, there’s about 2/3 of a great album here, namely in the back-to-back duo of “Five Corporations” and “Caustic Acrostic,” which would have fit well on Repeater.  Picking up where “Target” left off, lyrically, the former is one endless mind-fuck (in a good way), blending its verses and choruses together with jarring tempo changes, eccentric and entertaining instrumentation, anguished screams, piercing guitar—the Fugazi that we know and love.  “Acrostic” and “Place Position” prove just how impossible it is to listen to this band without wanting to move, to dance, to hit something, to fire back in some way.  Those parts of the album are like a golfer finding his swing after hitting a few bad shots on the range.

By the time of 2001’s The Argument, the band had nothing left to prove to anyone, and in some ways, it shows.  Here, they present perhaps their most diverse record from start to finish—in the songs that alternate between uncompromisingly harsh verses and lovely choruses (“Full Disclosure”), in the closed-fist punch of some (“Epic Problem”) and the brightness and openness of others (“Oh”), in the additional instruments ranging from a cello to a second drummer (on the phenomenal “Ex-Spectator”).  “Disclosure” updates “Margin Walker,” musically and lyrically, for the 21^st century; and when they grind everything to a halt, (“Life and Limb,” “Strangelight,” “The Argument”), they rejoin the party with some of their strongest melodies and sense of cohesion.  The critics who called The Argument the band’s best work went a little overboard, but this is a fascinating listen from a band at this point of their career.

All told, in the 87 songs contained on these 7 albums, Fugazi hit an astonishing success rate both in their exceptional peaks and avoidance of filler.  During its career, the band became a polarizing entity—for the perception that it was overly self-righteous, for charging $5 for concerts and kicking out patrons who were obnoxious, for maintaining its own record label and reminding everyone of their disdain for the corporate music business.  Despite their insistence on remaining untouched by “the man” and focusing on nothing but the tunes, these non-musical feelings that some felt threatened to overshadow the material they actually wrote. 

But you can hear their influence everywhere, from Jawbox to The Dismemberment Plan, from Cursive to other neo-emo bands.  Go back and find videos of them playing “Waiting Room” to a dingy club of feverish 20something devotees singing along to every word.  Note the impossibility of a song as ferocious as “Smallpox Champion” being only the fifth best on its album.  Listen to Red Medicine and wonder all the way through if there’s ever going to be a song that rates below excellent.  They’ll never be a household name to the general public, but whatever; Fugazi, I’ve found the cure, and it’s you.

There are lots of reasons I love NBC’s sitcom Community. After last night, there’s one more. One of the subplots of the episode was Chevy Chase’s out-of-touch character Pierce trying to coin the term “streets ahead” as a synonym for “much cooler than.”  On its own, it was a pretty funny and bizarre thread. But the origin story makes it legendary.

First, the backstory: Hulu.com had a fan-voted “best of TV” bracket along the lines of March Madness that had fans vote for which TV shows they like more. Community pulled out some big early upsets, toppling the more popular Glee and Modern Family. The former win was especially unexpected considering the show has received some media attention for its “Gleek” hardcore fans, the type who might troll online polls.

Anyways, not long after these first and second round wins, Community creator and writer Dan Harmon made this tweet from his account, @danharmon:

• RT @amyfairycakes both Modern Family and Glee are streets ahead of your meta bullshit
• ~ this tweet’s theme song: http://bit.ly/c3XUSh

He then spent the rest of the day — and week and month — mocking “amyfairycakes” (and the Botti video) for using the term “streets ahead”.

• “Streets ahead! [trumpet] Get your lingo out of the bed! [tambourine] You don’t have to say miles, you can use the word streets instead!”
• “Streets ahead! [twang] Light years and leagues are dead! [trumpet] use a word that makes your measurements sweeter than cinnamon bread!”
• “They call me Streets, last name Ahead, and I’m the longest distance you ever said!” #StreetsAhead

The joke was elevated into absurdity (worthy of the creator of a show as absurd as Community) with this:

• An important message! http://bit.ly/9C1vaj #StreetsAhead

And he just w0uldn’t let it go:

• Office and P&R are TIED in that Hulu thing 50/50 right now. Hate to see them fight so I’m glad neither is losing. #WeAreStreetsAheadOfMF
• Also, I’m working 24/7 to get the phrase “Streets Ahead” into common parlance. The PSA if you missed it: http://bit.ly/bIJzVe

Fan Tim Stoltz suggested that Harmon bring “streets ahead” into the world of Community, but it seems Harmon was one step ahead of him.

• @tim_stoltz : @danharmon Your hatred of “Glee” has made its way into “Community;” how long till your new favorite phrase makes it?
• @danharmon : @tim_stotz I’m putting it in the current script, so it’ll be a few weeks. But I have to get the world understanding it by then!

He occasionally used the term out the next few weeks on his Twitter, but the real payoff came last night when the (quite excellent) episode finally aired. Phenomenal work, Harmon.

Moral of the story: If you want your stupid slang to be immortalized, make fun of a slightly vengeful, hilarious TV writer.

–

EDIT: Claimed by amyfairycakes and a commenter, and verified by a friend who lives over there, “streets ahead” is a British/Irish term that’s relatively common over there. Fair enough. Harmon was evidently aware of this but continued unfazed with the mocking anyways.

• @amyfairycakes – @danharmon streets ahead is already in common parlance in ireland & UK, it’s not a wacky phrase I just conjured up.
• @danharmon – @amyfairycakes You’re telling me the only two words you put together that moved me aren’t yours? But aren’t you a writer? You said “meta.”

Last night, the Goo Goo Dolls played the NorVa, a music club in downtown Norfolk, VA. I’ve grown up listening to the band on the radio, but never knew anything more about them. That is the perspective from which I will review their show. Names of band members have been fabricated based solely on their appearances because I don’t know their names.

**********

Sound check was all wrapped up. The lights were suddenly turned down low. To the tune of hundreds of screaming, drunk 30-somethings, the black curtain behind the stage fell to the floor, revealing… a large gray textured sheet! Truly, the Goo Goo Doll’s backdrop reminded me of a pebble or a thread viewed through a microscope at 10,000X magnification.

But the dingy, vacant wall was either forgiven or forgotten as the band rolled out into the light. Oh, the light! An imposing brightness filled the main stage and overflowed, washing over the audience to a level that I — perhaps uniquely on account of my youth — found disconcerting; and I found that I could look down and distinguish the colors on the shoes surrounding my own. Of course, there was no time for pondering footwear. One of the greatest bands of the 90′s had begun to play!

I didn’t recognize the first song, but that didn’t matter much. Thinking ahead, I had expected to hear about four perfectly familiar songs. This moderate-rocking opener gave me an opportunity to survey the characters prancing and posing before me.

The frontman, whose bronze wrinkles recalled a young Keith Richards, exuded comfort in his stardom. Clad in the manner of light, snap-button jacket that I imagine must be sold with a matching canteen, he flaunted his practiced smile and strut from the very start.

To the left of A Young Keith Richards, cackling and convulsing, was a creature the 1980′s had nightmares about. I’m sure they call him Freak. Stringy black emo hair covered Freak’s face which, since such a style is most commonly worn by stick figures in skinny jeans and tight black tees, recast his “medium build” as “pudgy.” Freak smacked his bass and jetted around like a fireball, criss-crossing with A Young Keith Richards in their mutual excitement.

In the background were three more consummate musicians. On the keyboard, but with a guitar slung over his shoulder and a mic stand nearby, was the spitting image of the singer from the FreeCreditReport.com commercials. Elevated in the center of the group was, I believe, Dr. Gregory House, no doubt taking a short vacation from the medical practice to lay down some drumwork for this national tour. And finally, rising out of the shadow of the kit to display his operatic lead guitar skills, there was Fabio.

Stone-faced and svelte, Fabio had parted his neck-length golden hair directly down the middle. He left unbottoned the top of his black flared-sleeve shirt. From his blank eyes, Fabio could stare into your soul, or at least in its general direction, so well as he could see you from his cool, dim realm where he stood slightly hunched over his beautiful white guitar.

I processed the imagery that is the Goo Goo Dolls lineup just in time to be ready for one of those songs that I had known I’d hear: Slide. Here the crowd got its first taste of responsibility. A Young Keith Richards could not support the beloved chorus with his vestigial octave-and-a-half range, so he spent half the song with the microphone held out toward the audience. Happy to oblige were the reveling working-class adults who had learned the song by heart through countless roadtrips and high school dances.

Following the sonic festival of Slide were a string of songs I had forgotten I even knew, including Here Is Gone and Everything You Are.  As A Young Keith Richards slyly substituted increases in volume for what were once high pitches in the melodies, I am pleased to say that his friend Free Credit Report Guy showed notable vocal prowess on the harmonies.

Then, between songs, Freak started chatting with the audience. He tossed a Rubik’s Cube into the crowd in hopes that someone could solve it for him before the end of the show.  As he trailed off, drums started to pulse and guitars started to pound. But A Young Keith Richards was strumming away on the side of the stage, so…. Oh no. No.

Yes. Freak started to sing a song.

The sounds of late-80′s punk started to emerge from the stage as that rocky voice crunched out lyrics about goodness-knows-what. I was far too absorbed in the visual flare of the nightmarish creature who had taken over the Goo Goo Dolls concert. Rote song structures and heavy rhythms on simple chords accompanied windmill strokes as Freak galloped back and forth in delight. The horror lasted for only two songs — departing, as it arrived, without explanation — but it may haunt me for weeks.

A slew of satisfying songs followed to quell my fears. Four black balloons were tossed into the crowd to be batted around during Black Balloon. Worry might have arisen around me, though, when A Young Keith Richards announced that they would be playing new songs from a forthcoming album. It’s always a danger to be declared a legend in your own time; people just want to hear the classics over and over. Undaunted, the Goo Goo Dolls pressed through a block of strong, catchy rockers that might portent yet more great successes on the charts.

In the middle of the new material, the boys pulled out Name, challenging the audience by asking how many of those in attendance were old enough to remember when that song first came out. As the cheers of assent echoed, A Young Keith Richards made sweet music with his fourth different acoustic guitar of the evening. Dr. House kept time.  Fabio spent the song slightly hunched, looking blankly at the audience. It was the same expression seen on Keanu Reeves when he first learned to stop bullets.

Shortly thereafter, Freak returned to the microphone, threatening to drive my heart to palpitation. I won’t review the two songs he spewed forth: they were much like the first pair. I waited, trembling, for A Young Keith Richards to reclaim power from the beast.

Once he did, I knew we had reached the home stretch of the set. A Young Keith Richards was handed his forty-seventh different acoustic guitar of the evening while Dr. House led Freak off stage, presumably to feed him. A ballad introduced as “terribly depressing” followed which featured, shockingly, the transposition of the spotlight onto Fabio for a ten-second slide guitar solo. Any longer and I presume the artificial light would have either damaged his complexion or turned him to dust.

At long last, it was time for Iris. This time the lion’s share of the song was left to the audience to perform. The bridge blew my mind as Fabio stepped to the very front of the stage for a wickedly sick shredding solo that lasted all of six seconds. On his heels, Free Credit Report Guy appeared out of nowhere with a tenor saxophone and absolutely busted loose for about twice as long. Then the toys were put away, the song was drawn to a close, and before long the band was filing off the stage.

The encore opened with a sweet little ditty named Sympathy and closed with a truly awe-inspiring performance of Broadway. The happiness on stage reflected the crowd and could be heard clearly in the soaring harmonies. With that bit of high majesty, the Goo Goo Dolls left us for the evening, retiring backstage to put Freak back in his pen.

Rating: 5 stars (out of 5)

With War, U2 build skyscrapers upon the foundation of their debut album Boy.  If the startling cover art—the same young boy staring at the viewer, only with a face of righteous anger replacing innocence—wasn’t enough of an indication, these men, just 23 at the time of release, expand upon the sound they had already established while incorporating new, striking elements.  The first of a holy trilogy of U2 albums, War begat the vastly different Unforgettable Fire, and it would be the last time U2 would reside in the realm of such crunching hard rock.

War, in standard U2 fashion, opens with a heavyweight, “Sunday Bloody Sunday,” which has only improved with time.  Larry Mullen Jr.’s propulsive drum beat is the best thing he’s ever done, and Bono’s anti-war lyrics (“And the battle’s just begun / There’s many lost, but tell me, Who has won?”) have never before or since sounded so revelatory.  The band shrewdly places the calmer “Seconds” afterwards, but don’t let the acoustic guitar and groovy bass line fool you, for Bono is still fiery as ever—“London, New York, Peking / Yes, the puppets pull the strings.”  But it’s the next two tracks that announce War as an album to withstand the test of time, not because either is better than “Sunday,” but because they reassure the cautious listener expecting a one-song album, worried that nothing else would resonate in a similar way.

“New Year’s Day” was the band’s first U.S. hit, and it remains a concert favorite to this day.  Adam Clayton’s instantly recognizable bass line, mixing well with the piano, underscore the Edge’s penetrating guitar, which seems to fill up vacuums of space, be they in an arena or in your head.  Then, on “Like a Song…” the band revives the punkish energy of Boy while cranking up the volume, resulting in a delightful mash-up that’s a more political and slightly smoother version of The Unforgettable Fire’s “Wire.”  Bono never forgets his purpose, but his voice is so beautiful that one would be forgiven for allowing it to take him away.  When he cries, “Angry words won’t stop my fight / Two wrongs won’t make it right / A new heart is what I need / Oh, God, make it bleed,” it’s pretty damn impossible to deny his sentiments.

If the latter six songs of War were as good as the first four, we’d be talking about one of the eight or ten best albums ever made, but they’re nevertheless able to change the tone while still maintaining the feel of the entire album.  The lovely “The Drowning Man” and quirky “The Refugee” are U2 originals that feel at home here.  Every song is worthy in its own right, from the dance-rock of “Two Hearts Beat as One” to the glorious breathy vocals on “Surrender.”  It all rocks, and it all works.

What helps make the album so successful is the way Bono delivers his messages passionately, but not in a way that overwhelms the listener.  I have gotten just as much pleasure out of quietly listening to the album at night, paying more attention to softer songs like “The Drowning Man,” “Red Light,” and “40,” than in those times when I want to revel in the music’s rage and unbridled power.   Of course, the band behind the frontman makes it easy to take him seriously, as every member contributes and no song is underdeveloped.

Rolling Stone avowed that the songs on War match up, pound for pound, with those on London Calling (an obvious influence), at least in terms of sheer impact.  That may have sounded like hyperbole in 1983, but time has proven RS right—and then some.  Though U2 were still getting better, War, with its coherent theme, consistency, and commitment to excellence, defines them as much as anything else.  Even at their young age, U2 had long since proved that they wanted to be in the big leagues.

Rating: 1 and a half stars (out of 5)

The most disappointing thing about Narrow Stairs is how unsurprising its failure is.  The indie band that broke out with the monster Transatlanticism and some “O.C.” love followed with the safe but appreciable Plans, and now release Narrow Stairs, which constitutes a dramatic step backward.  Plans tapped into the critics’ affinity for the so-called “mature” album bands like to release well into their career to expand their audience, but that was only staving off the decline.  Narrow Stairs merges all the worst aspects of Death Cab in one record and leaves us wondering whether we should even anticipate future recordings.

This album is filled with uniform and comatose songs in which lead singer Ben Gibbard, always the band’s heart and soul, is afraid to sing four words without stopping.  On “Bixby Canyon Bridge,” “Cath,” “You Can Do Better Than Me,” “The Ice is Getting Thinner,” and others, the verses are so choppy and broken up that Gibbard isn’t conveying a melody, he’s singing as though he’s reading the words in front of him for the first time and improvising a tune.  The band contentedly stays the course behind him, unable to infuse the songs with any kind of life.  On “No Sunlight” and “Long Division,” you can hear them trying to recreate the glory of “Title and Registration” and “Expo ’86,” but to quote a lyric from The Cure, the fire is almost out.

That said, trying is better than nothing, and unfortunately, those two songs stand out because the rest don’t even make it that far.  In Rolling Stone’s review of Plans, they commented that on “Crooked Teeth” everything—from the production to the melody to the words—“all goes ass,” but that’s endlessly preferable to songs in which there’s not enough going on to say that.  Hardly any of the songs here merit such a harsh criticism because they don’t provoke anything in the listener—a feeling that ultimately does more to indicate an inferior product.  “I Will Possess Your Heart” begins with a lazy instrumental preamble, and “Better Than Me” and “Ice” barely have the melodies to pass themselves off as pop songs.  “Your New Twin Sized bed” is better, but it stops just when it should be hitting its stride.  The only song above it all is “Long Division,” but it still takes too long to get going; Trans-era Death Cab didn’t need two minutes to fire up.

Even when the music pulls its weight (“Cath”), Gibbard does not; but most of the time, neither does.  The failure lies primarily on Gibbard’s shoulders, especially considering that his lyrics, once a strong point, deserve little attention.  The worst offender is the chorus of “Better Than Me”—one of the worst songs they’ve ever recorded—which highlights the distinction between sadness and weakness, between insecurity and worthlessness.  Again, recall Trans: “I’ll sit and wonder / of every love that could have been / If I’d only thought of something charming to say” implies a lack of game, the disappointment that creeps up when a refusal to mold oneself into another’s rules leads to failure; “You can do better than me / But I can’t do better than you” implies a lack of self-worth.  Come on, Ben—that’s Pinkerton bad, and no man in particular at his age should be trying to sell us on his profound inferiority.

The most damning evidence against Narrow Stairs is that I felt nothing at all after I’d played it.  I didn’t even replay the songs in my head against my will (as has happened with some albums)—they’re so unremarkable I can’t remember them.  And that’s why I wonder whether Death Cab is still relevant.  With the exception of the first half of Transatlanticism, they’ve always had the tendency to write soft, inoffensive ballads, the success of which varied with Gibbard’s ability to hold your attention.  Narrow Stairs recalls the underwhelming We Have the Facts and We’re Voting Yes in its emptiness, but now they’ve even lost the occasional awkward energy that always kept them afloat.  We didn’t mind Plans because Gibbard constructed a solid set of tunes, but the warning signs for an album like this were there.  This album proves that when he has an off day, the rest of the band isn’t strong enough to support him.  If Death Cab ever want to become great, he’ll have to provide a lot more good days.

Common courtesy! Here I’ve been yammering for months before properly introducing myself. Without a handshake or a how’s-your-father, I would have soapboxed myself to sleep while you smiled kindly. Please pardon me, good fellows and fellowesses.

This site’s authors have set a precedent of revealing their bias to their readers up front. I have not been so upfront. It’s time to pull back the curtain and subject myself to your personal evaluation. It’s time to be proper, if not punctual.

For your consideration, I present my top ten favorite albums:

1. Spock’s Beard – Snow (2002)

What follows will prove that only the magnum opus of a progressive rock genius could suitably head my list. Although Neal Morse has maintained a dedicated following in his post-Beard years churning out autobiographical and soteriological concept albums as a solo artist, this last of his efforts as the frontman of America’s uncontested lords of modern prog remains his most engaging. For nearly two hours, an organic and thoroughly melodic stream of hard rock, orchestras, and jazz fusion accompanies the operatic story of a mystically gifted albino in search of purpose. I would direct your focus to the extensive range of genres that are perfected over the course of the album and to the number of memorable climaxes achieved en route.

2. Gatsby’s American Dream – Volcano (2005)

In order to give everything away as fast as possible, my #2 is also a concept album. However, It is not a rock opera and it barely exceeds half an hour in playtime. Gatsby’s defining motive was a bitter urge to flip off the recording industry in everything they did. Their abrasive demeanor and standard-fare equipment belie musicality that is beyond daring: it’s more like they don’t even care. They rush like fools into a world of metric modulations, 30-second songs, and 3-minute songs that rewrite themselves every 30 seconds, usually rejecting the suggestion of a chorus. This is the kind of music whitewater rapids would listen to. On Volcano, Gatsby’s loads that style with interconnected lyrics that spend the 13 tracks integrating Lord of the Flies with the story of Pompeii, with myriad easter-egg references sprinkled on top spanning at least literature, gaming culture, and, of course, the big bad music industry.

3. Liquid Tension Experiment – s/t (1998)

If you’re still wondering what I meant by “progressive rock” earlier, I don’t have space to explain it now. Think Pink Floyd or Kansas. If you only know one modern prog group, it’s probably Dream Theater. Magna Carta records offered Dream Theater’s drummer, Mike Portnoy, the chance to construct his very own dream-team supergroup. The result, Liquid Tension Experiment, is simply the most dense collection of virtuosity our planet could support. While indulgent jams dominate the follow-up, this initial release primarily features fully composed and arranged works… all worked up from scratch to final product in less than two weeks. LTE is purely instrumental. And if instruments can speak, then this is Ciceronian oration.

4. Pelican – Australasia (2003)

Another genre I must leave unexplained is post-rock. If you’ve heard of Tortoise, Mogwai, or Godspeed You! Black Emperor, think of them; if not, look up Sigur Rós or Explosions in the Sky. Sift out any remaining vocals and stir in the heaviness of drone metal, then stick it in the oven and let it bake your brain for about 11 minutes. Regroup for track 2. Pelican has received criticism for deficient drumming and is commonly held to be a lesser version of their niche’s fairy godfathers, Isis. But I find that Pelican’s simple and direct approach lends them a purity that makes it look like other bands are just trying too hard. Australasia seems comfortable in its emotions, as though these guitars are on a first name basis with calmness and tension alike.

5. The Rocket Summer – Hello, Good Friend (2005)

Surprise! A departure from the experimental and exploratory artists above, The Rocket Summer is one kid from Texas with a backpack full of jangly pop tunes about how wonderful life is. It’s true! So what am I, an apparent artsy progger, doing cheering for Island Def Jam’s premier church-going heartthrob for preteen girls? Bryce Avary is a musician of no suspect merit who performed every instrument in studio for his first two albums. When a band’s primary songwriter is a bassist, they tend to have sick bass features. When a band’s primary songwriter plays everything, every musical line gets infused with motion and intent. Layering of concurrently meaningful harmonies elevates The Rocket Summer beyond fields of alt-rock peers, and the undiluted joy in Avary’s still-maturing voice sends me to heaven.

6. Junction 18 – This Vicious Cycle (2000)

If you check the band’s extant MySpace, you might find this to be another stumper. More likely, you’re going to identify Junction 18 as my prized pet band, and I won’t dissuade you. Here we have four guys who never made a second full-length and barely toured outside of Massachusetts. They sound like any emo band from the recent peak of that insult’s popularity. My devotion is tied to their execution of a linear songwriting ethic in a genre that never heard of such a thing. By linear, I mean that choruses, when used, demarcate verses that each have their own character. Putting a different lyrical stanza to the same tune is common. Changing the underlying melodies, chord progressions, and structures of the song with each passing minute creates an experience of continued forward motion that sweeps out a coherent musical story arc.

7. Rx Bandits – …And the Battle Begun (2006)

“Ska” is a term I pray you’ve already met in some form. By convention, ska is analyzed into three waves (so far), and the Rx Bandits have a few toes dipped in each with two arms reaching for the sky. Reggae and jazz pervade the savvy rhythms of these impassioned rockers. …And the Battle Begun has its finest moments accentuated by horns, which were sadly absent from their more recent sixth release. A live recording process here ensured two things: that all of the Bandits’ energy would survive production; and that said energy would be multiplied through positive feedback between bandmates, all in one room, letting loose on jams and shout choruses. Recurrent themes and deadeye transitions add a transcendent character to this thoroughly visceral masterpiece.

8. The Cardigans – First Band on the Moon (1996)

I’m a sucker for Nina Persson’s voice. But I don’t follow The Cardigans just because that coy alto purr sends me into a fanboy daydream. Guitarist Peter Svensson has bona fide songwriting chops – and an appetite for metal, wonderfully enough, which is why a cover of Iron Man comes two tracks after Lovefool. (Lovefool is the one song you know by the Cardigans: “Love me, love me, say that you love me….”)  Later absorbed into Universal Music Group, Stockholm Records released First Band on the Moon while still an independent label willing to give some future notables from Sweden the chance to do their own thing. Amidst the gamut run by the Cardigans discography, First Band on the Moon ranks as the most oddball (in a cute way) of the pop. The arrangements are unexpected and full of zest, with bunches of instruments used, only a few at any given time, and not a single one out of place.

9. The Dissociatives – s/t (2004)

The irradiated rock generated by this assembly of quasi-famous Australians features all the harmony and vibrance you could want. It also features the “surreal for the kidz” choir, a handful of “dub freakouts,” and a guy credited on one track for playing “ice bucket.” Vocals that are both warbly and choppy blend in with an alien soundscape of blips, whirrs, and crashes. And yet the organic whole punctually plots out verses and choruses like beaten paths in a foreign land. If you’re scared, know that all the creatures surrounding you in the world The Dissociatives create are smiling and singing along. Evidently, the originality of this album defies description. More shocking still is the extreme catchiness of the melody that is the fallout.

10. Guster – Lost and Gone Forever (1999)

More than any other artist on this list, Guster might come off as plain. One of many indie success stories, another college rock band that outgrew the underground, these eco-friendly Jews now float along the mainstream between the sloping coasts of “alternative” and “adult contemporary.” But I would blindly recommend Guster to anybody seeking good music. Their consistent aesthetic appeals equally to fans of bubblegum pop, who get dominant hooks thickened by vocal harmonizing, and seekers of invention, who get uncommon teflon rhythms from Brian Rosenworcel. Universal appeal is as indisputable a reason as any to be ranked among the best.

(Get it? They’re “teflon” rhythms because they’re “stick-free!”)

Rating: 3 and a half stars (out of 4)

There are times — especially when I watch a movie with the intent of studying its “greatness” or writing a review — when I forget why I love movies so much. Reading movies closely can be a chore. An enjoyable chore that I have a passion for, but a chore nonetheless.

And then there are times when I walk out of a theater with a grin across my face as wide as the silver screen. A movie can be far from perfect, yet be so overflowing with the unquantifiable — things like adventure and joy and energy — that I remember why it is I love this medium in the first place. How To Train Your Dragon, my favorite non-Pixar animated film since at least 2001′s Shrek, is one such movie. It has enough flaws and formulaic elements for me to (begrudgingly) knock off a half star. But know that this movie has my unconditional recommendation, not because it’s perfect, but because it’s something better than perfect: It’s magical.

Dragon is at its strongest when it’s not rushing the plot ahead and when it’s focusing on the bond between main character Hiccup and his dragon, Toothless. These scenes unfolds like the greatest human-pet stories: Hiccup and Toothless come to understand each other more and more, until they — and the audience — realize the relationship is less between beast and master, and more between two equals. There’s also a great comic timing to Toothless — who channels a dog, a cat, a bird, and a chipmunk all at once — that seems inspired in part by the vibrant visual comedy of WALL-E.

Visually, the most inspired moments — and the ones that really mandate this movie be seen on the biggest screen possible in 3D — are the flying sequences. They give a true sensation of flying through the air, almost like you’re on a roller coaster. There’s a stunning depth and and smoothness that really transmits a wide-open world. The clouds, mountains, oceans, vistas, beaches: they’re all lifelike and beautiful. I’m getting chills right now just thinking of the romantic flight that separates the second and third act of the film.

There’s also a surprisingly good script at the heart of Dragon. It makes extensive (and effective) use of recurring conversation structures throughout the film. “That’s for everything else” — a “Here’s looking at you, kid”-type line — works in particularly cute and funny ways.

Jay Baruchel’s Hiccup would’ve come across as annoying or unlikeable with any other voice actor. (Thank God they didn’t go for biggest-name-possible casting with the main characters the way DreamWorks has a tendency to.) With Baruchel, though, the voice matches the personality in the same way Ellen Page matched Juno; it just works and wouldn’t with anybody else.

The dramatization in the script is pretty well-realized, particularly between Hiccup and his father Stoick. It’s not anything too complex, but it’s effective. Stoick is stern but exudes strength and caring, courtesy voice actor Gerard Butler. I thought Baruchel and Astrid’s America Farrera also had pretty good chemistry, even though I think Farrera wasn’t the best pick for the romantic role; someone spunkier would’ve fit the character more.

The special sauce of the whole experience is the movie’s phenomenal score. I’ve had the soundtrack on loop for most of the week. It’s not quite into classic Williams or Zimmer territory, but its darn close. There are two or three recurring themes that are just sensational. To me, the score is a major part of the feeling of adventure and magic that this film has. If it had gone with snarky pop tunes a la the Shreks, I think the film wouldn’t have been so entrancing or felt so instantly classic.

The movie does have its flaws. First is the pacing of the film. The end of the second act and the beginning of the third act rush furiously. There’s two hours of story here packed into ninety minutes in order to fit into the “kids movie” mold when a Pixar-esque expansion for the sake of storytelling would’ve behooved the movie.

In particular, Astrid’s transformation is rushed. It’s a shame, because an added level of poignancy would’ve elevated this film up with the all-time great animated adventures: Lion King, Beauty and the Beast, Aladdin, Pinocchio, etc. I also think the tension in the father-son conflict should’ve been a little bit more balanced by making it even easier to empathize with Stoick and the community with elaboration on why the Vikings hate dragons.

Next, I’m not sure I like where the film settles thematically. It’s hard to tell since we only get a few seconds of seeing the town post-climax, but the solution seems to be that the dragons become pets whereas partners would’ve fit better. With this ending, it seems like the lesson is “that which you don’t understand, domesticate” when I think a deeper respect for the uncontrollable nature of the dragons would’ve worked. A lesson that emphasized our ability to symbiotically cooperate with nature would’ve been a little bit more effective. This simplistic, easily digestible solution works, but would’ve benefited another layer of quality and complexity (Pixar-style).

Furthermore, no consideration is given to whether destroying the queen-hive relationship might in fact put the dragons in a worse-off situation. It felt a little bit short-sighted in a movie whose overriding theme is about opening your horizons and tolerating “the other” for their home to be blindly destroyed and abandoned.

Two more minor complaints, then I’m done: Compared to the dynamic, crisp writing that pervades the rest of the film, the writing for the other teens — Jonah Hill and co. — is forgettable. Lastly, I think the character designs could’ve used a little bit more flair. Hiccup himself is extremely plain and even the most interesting designs, Stoick and Toothless, aren’t as iconic as other great computer-animated characters like Wall-E or Shrek.

I want to stress, though, that these complaints are peripheral to the entire experience.  This movie is about making the formula exciting, which Dragon does extraordinarily well. It has that rare type of magic where I actively want to forgive the movie for the times it’s simplistic and imperfect. Truly, How to Train Your Dragon soars with the  highest animated films of the past decade. It will take a darn good slate of movies for it not to receive a prominent placement in my end-of-year top ten.