Earn This

Americans today don’t give a hoot about progressive rock.  Our parents grew up on Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd; the lucky ones collected vinyl from Kansas, ELP, and King Crimson.  Those heirlooms have clearly not trickled down yet here the way they have in experimental music havens scattered around Japan and Northern and Western Europe.

That makes it hard for Spock’s Beard, the international superstars from L.A. now in their eighteenth year, left standing as the proverbial prophets not accepted in their homeland.  Things seemed even bleaker in 2002 when frontman and brainfather Neal Morse departed from the group after six albums.  But now, with the release of X, the stalwart boys look to reclaim their crown as kings of the formerly-and-elsewhere-beloved genre.

Naturally, as their tenth album, X references their fifth: V.  Having run out their record deal last year, the band opted not to re-sign with any label just yet.  Instead, they funded and produced the album themselves and with the help of established friends in the industry.  Most of the money for the endeavor came from hopelessly devoted faithfuls like me who willingly shelled out up to $200 for various pre-ordering options offered before any recording took place.  Now that the finished piece of work is in our hands – 10 months later – was it worth it?

Ha.  “Worth it” would be an understatement.  This is the first post-Neal album that merits favorable comparisons to the band’s earlier work.  And that is the highest praise available.

Understand that this brand of prog comes with intricate time signatures, some eccentric keyboards, and long songs.  (The 8 tracks on X add up to over 78 minutes, near the capacity of an audio CD.)  Neal Morse was primarily a singing keyboardist, so, upon his departure, resident Moog master Ryo Okumoto attempted to maintain the key-centric attitude of the band to mixed results.  Drummer-cum-replacement-lead-singer Nick D’Virgilio then spent an album pretending he was a rock star before the guys managed to find their feet post-reconstruction.  This new album shows them gelling like never before and finding excellence as a fundamentally bass-driven band.

Two featured 16-minute tracks on the record are subdivided into movements.  Both “From the Darkness” and “Jaws of Heaven” are odd in that they forego the sort of blazing introductions or overtures that the band has historically employed to signal an incoming epic.  They hop right into things, the former beginning with a hard rock feel and the latter as a mournful western ballad.  At four movements apiece, though, the songs have plenty of time to pass through various moods and genres.

“From the Darkness” suffers slightly from a cut-and-jump approach to transitions that, while not disorienting in execution, leaves one feeling that they have just listened to four disconnected songs.  The abstract and vague lyrics (arguably a problem on half of X‘s tracks) don’t imbue any greater sense of unity in the story D’Virgilio spins.  Vastly superior in this regard is “Jaws of Heaven,” whose segues are fluid and whose movements feel related by recurring motives while each exhibits a unique musical character.  The third movement is particularly compelling: stirring far-off drums complement sparse guitar strokes and a soft voice, all held together by the persistent and understated bass.

Both suites conclude in powerful fashion.  Either would have been perfectly suited to end the album, an honor granted to “Jaws of Heaven.”

Four-stringer Dave Meros contributes his writing talents to “Edge of the In-Between,” a modest tune at 10 minutes long.  While not demarcated into sections, the song moves through a progression of passages with entrancing continuity.  The listener is never jilted by the undercurrents moving from a rollicking 4/4 chorus to an expansive 7/4 jam to a slowed-down bridge that alternates between dainty piano and sludgy bass.  The recapitulation that follows is reminiscent of the grand effect captured in “At the End of the Day” on V, a compliment not to be taken lightly.

Meros on bass and D’Virgilio on drums click so well that it’s easy to get the impression they are featured in every song on the album.  Soaring keys and crunching guitars are thus enabled to reach their full potential on every lick.

A strong case can be made that the standout track is “The Emperor’s Clothes,” nearly the shortest at under 6 minutes, beating out only the shifting and dramatic instrumental romp “Kamikaze.”  Written by guitarist Alan Morse (with added touches by his brother Neal!), it is a perfect example of great lyrics perfectly matched by effective musical arrangement.  The song tells the first half of the well-known story from the point of view of the tailor who has never sewn but has a plan to cash in: “Well you’ve never seen clothes / Like you won’t see those… ‘Cause the fabric’s so fine / It’s like it’s not even there.”

Bursting and driving trombones ring in the song and are later joined by french horns, a string quartet, and a number of wonky synthesized sounds to complement the core rock instrumentation.  Besides all this, there is a cheery a cappella section in the middle ended by a frenetic xylophone run.  Tempo jumps add to the effect of a song that is thoroughly fun.  Even the basic beat seems to recreate a circus parade!

Finally, a nod must be given to “Their Names Escape Me.”  The perfectly eerie mood created, so befitting of a song whose lyrics tell of a judgment and inquisition (“Tell us the names of every traitor who / Took up arms against the nation…”), continues and grows in tension as the band first sings the song proper, then moves into a list of names.  D’Virgilio captures in the tune my name and the names of every other contributor to the recording fund, all the while keeping legitimate music going underneath.  As the names are sung, the key raises steadily and the arrangement thickens until the eventual unearthly fade-out.

Led by Meros and D’Virgilio, with all intellectualism and virtuosity intact, X is a highly melodic and engaging product.  Finally, Spock’s Beard has recreated epics better than past efforts penned by Neal such as “Flow” and “The Good Don’t Last.”  Attempts to do so have been made on every record since his departure; only here have they paid off.  It is thrilling, after eighteen years, to see the boys raise the question of whether their greatest work lies behind them or ahead.

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.

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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 that 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.

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!”)

Well I guess it began towards the end of 1996 when I received a call from [head of Magna Carta Records] Pete Morticelli and [head of Shrapnel Records] Mike Varney who wanted to put together a couple of “Super Groups” (for lack of a better term!).  One turned into the Black Light Syndrome project with [Frank Zappa drummer] Terry Bozzio and they asked me if I’d like to help construct the other….

So… They asked me to compile a “Wish List” of all the musicians I’ve always wanted to work with.  With Frank Zappa and John Lennon no longer being options, I came up with some other names.

These words were taken from the liner notes of the self-titled debut album by Liquid Tension Experiment, whose eventual lineup consisted of drummer Mike Portnoy (the author of the notes), bassist Tony Levin, guitarist John Petrucci, and Jordan Rudess on keys.  With no clear frontman and no vocalist in sight, this all-star prog rock dream team laid down some of the most fluid, engaging, virtuosic instrumentals ever unleashed.

They will be remembered as Mike Portnoy’s second-best supergroup.

Before the turn of the century, in fact, Portnoy worked with multi-instrumentalist Neal Morse to assemble Transatlantic: the contemporary equivalent of Asia, the grown-up future selves of A Perfect Circle, the prog rock version of… I don’t know, Chickenfoot.  Let me introduce the cast.

Mike Portnoy of Dream Theater is the premier living prog metal drummer.  What he lacks in jazz chops – and I say “lacks” only relative to the absolute greats – he proves unimportant through the inimitable crossover success of his primary project.

Neal Morse, now a solo Christian artist with a string of religious concept albums under his belt, rose to international fame as the mastermind behind Spock’s Beard, America’s answer to Genesis, founded in the 1990′s.

Roine Stolt, Sweden’s gift to prog, has achieved greatness foremost with The Flower Kings with his songwriting and lyrical prowess.  His work on guitar, no less, brings to mind a young Steve Howe.

Pete Trewavas has played bass for Marillion ever since Fish was there… which is a statement I encourage you to investigate on your own if its gravity is lost on you.

These accolades are leading somewhere, I assure you.  Transatlantic congregated for a week or two to throw together a brilliant masterpiece in each 2000 and 2001.  Almost a decade later, these musical giants of our day have graced us with one more taste of teamwork, entitled The Whirlwind.

As we should expect, Transatlantic used up just about every second of the 80 minutes a mass-produced cd can hold, filling that space with one continuous piece of music demarcated into twelve thematic tracks.  All four guys bring their own sounds to the table and everybody can be heard singing lead at some point or another.

A seven-minute instrumental overture gives way to the bookend motif “Whirlwind,” which lyrically sets the stage for tales of life’s oppressive confusion and how we can overcome it.  Soon after, “On the Prowl” lays down the sickest jam you ever did hear.  Killer drum licks pair with a genius jazz bassline to hold the ground while Stolt’s guitar and Morse’s keys take to the sky, cruising through a wild array of styles and rhythms with adept elegance.  That solo session stands as a clinic on how to show off technical ability while remaining genuinely melodic and engaging, all off the top of your head.

Expansive vocal harmonies draw your attention in “Out of the Night” while the striking guitar commands your toes to tap.  It is one of many tunes to evidently showcase team songwriting – in fact, this is true of every song on the disc.  Influences from Spock’s Beard and The Flower Kings take turns directing the overarching mood of each passage while Trewavas and Portnoy invent whatever ideal companion of an undercurrent they’d like to produce at any given time.

In truth, there isn’t much Dream Theater to be heard here.  Portnoy’s brand of rock is an outlier next to relative poppiness around him in Transatlantic.  However, in “Is This Really Happening?”, the metal beast is freed and a sonic onslaught of punishing rolls and blast beats coerces Stolt into some serious dark shredding.

Only one standalone instrumental was written for the album, “Pieces of Heaven,” and though it is shorter than one might have expected, each of the other songs contains a host of solos and constructed melodies enacted sans vocals.

Just before the reprise of the bookend motif, Neal Morse slips in some of his least obscured religious undertones in “Dancing with Eternal Glory.”  That man is a singing preacher at heart who has no reserves about his evangelical calling.

The Whirlwind closes with every bit of grand majesty becoming of a progressive concept album.  If anything, I was surprised that equal magnificence and pomp did not decorate the first few minutes of the overture, but the greatest swell was saved for last.

So as to provide some small facade of objectivism, let me critique the performance of all four musicians on this album in the department of vocal performance.  Neither Stolt nor Morse, who split the major part of the singing duties, will ever win an award for having a pretty voice.  Certainly both are capable, but with unspectacular ranges and what some might call an elderly tremolo to their sound.  Trewavas and Portnoy are nothing if not unremarkable vocally.

The music in The Whirlwind is at times technically extreme and often improvised or elaborated.  What will be far more salient to non-proggers is that the songs are long and, from a mainstream standpoint, circuitous.  Verses and choruses together make up only half of the 80 minutes, a fact which can leave unfocused listeners feeling lost.  This is all a matter of the target audience: some people find Transatlantic cumbersome in style while others see them as monoliths of ability.  Fortunately, those who have cause to stumble upon the group tend to fall into the latter set.

Mike Portnoy’s “Wish List” of musicians didn’t include a single vocalist.  Yet a couple of years down the road he and Pete Trewavas joined two frontmen to form a powerhouse collective of prog’s most famous standard bearers into the new millenium.  Any predictions for who will be part of his next collaboration?

Yesterday a package arrived.  By the Amazon logo printed on the side of the box, I knew it was finally time to crack open new material from Transatlantic, Buckethead, and Jupiter Sunrise.  That last one in particular excited me since an ad for the cd, May the Box Burn Down around You, was the first sign of life I’d seen from the “collective” once composed entirely of vegans since the noteworthy Under a Killer Blue Sky.

This morning I sat back and absorbed all 38 minutes of the new work, and I tell you what: I cannot wait for this record to be released!

As I listened to the ten original tracks, all fully mixed and produced, I foolishly began to think that the cd in my computer had been completed and advertised for sale.  The band themselves disagree.

On Tuesday, January 19, 2010, a blog post appeared on Jupiter Sunrise’s MySpace with the subject line “NEW Exclusive Music”.  Below was a Tunecore widget through which I could stream or purchase the songs from May the Box Burn Down around You and the line “Here is a convenient way to listen to and purchase some new tracks before everyone else does!”

Amazon posted the full album in mp3 format for track-by-track $0.99 downloads on November 6, 2009.  One month later, they began selling a hard copy, which I purchased without fully understanding the finely printed caveat:

“CD-R Note: This product is manufactured on demand when ordered from Amazon.com.”

Since a jewel case and liner were promised, I wasn’t sure what to make of the footnote.  The cd that arrived wasn’t labeled in sharpie – it was printed with artwork matching the liner, which displayed the picture you see at the top of this post (also seen on the band’s MySpace) and a tracklist.

By all rights, it looked like a legitimate product, albeit one with lackluster art direction.  And all of the songs were there!  Truly, your guess is as good as mine on this one.

If I may push your furrowed brow to a fully hanging head, note that the Jupiter Sunrise MySpace makes the following distinction:

UKBS Line-up: Mark Houlihan, Ben Karis, Chris Snykus, Aaron Case, Marshall Altman (producer)

Currently: Mark Malek, No’a Winter Lazerus (producer)

(If it concerns you that all of my information comes from MySpace, please find an active page on the jupitersunrise.com or .net domain and direct me to it.  Otherwise, there isn’t much information out there on our intrepid heroes.)

What is problematic about the line-ups, you ask?  All of the songs on May the Box Burn Down around You were written and sung by Mark Houlihan, who appears to no longer be a member of Jupiter Sunrise.  Curiouser and curiouser!

Indeed, the content is very much what one would expect if Ben Karis split and the rest of the “collective” carried on, though perhaps shy on variety.  The whole 38 minutes remind me of Cherry Wine, originally recorded on the prelude known by fans as the “Purple Demo” (2002).  Heaven and Endless, the desperate and anthemic closer from Under a Killer Blue Sky (2004), receives two sequels on this sophomore LP.  (Or will, I guess, once it comes out.)

There is an overriding acoustic spirit framing every song, though plugs are far from absent.  Houlihan seems to have a close, personal relationship with his nylon strings, one he cherishes aloud in My Guitar Is My Pillow.  For irony’s sake, this final song uniquely eschews picking for plunking as a grand piano takes center stage.

Styles and rhythms stave off monotony, as Jupiter Sunrise (or whatever Houlihan-based poseurs these are) ranges from Latin dance Fountain of Joy to the haunting coos of Primary Colors of Darkness.  Yet an overall lack of virtuosity across the instruments deprives each song of the full potential that is so easy to envision.

Since I credited Jupiter Sunrise with effective use of instrumentation on their previous album in an earlier post, this weakness leads me to question the current composition of the band.  With the confusion mentioned above, this question hasn’t much faith that its answer is in sight.

Under a Killer Blue Sky has long been a niche favorite of mine.  With the band far from stability, I had great hope but shaky confidence that a subsequent outing would ever be forthcoming, to say nothing of the quality I had expected.  Now I’ve taken a gut shot from the unexceptional grade of the album and I remain in the ring to suffer more until I can find some closure and put to rest the oddities surrounding the CD-R that I bought.

Jupiter Sunrise: whoever you are, whenever you are, I hope you find your way back home.

Historians tell us that the world’s first jingle was written by the minstrel Bartholomew the Profitable in 986 CE.  Hired by Percival of Shropshire to help sell chicken-bone dice, Bart traversed the countryside playing to captive audiences, replacing his traditional opener “The Tale of Sir Ywain the Bastard” with a ballad of 652 stanzas in praise of Percival’s dice.  The memorable chorus was permanently planted in the ears of all English men:

Across the streams and valleys
Of our flushing island home
Much finer dice you’ll narry find
Than Percival’s chicken-bone!

Subsequently, Percy’s sales increased to such an extent that he nearly altogether rid the British isles of barnyard fowl.  His example was adapted by all merchants who heard tell.  Soon the dales were swollen with contracted bards peddling epic commercials with the help of their road-worn lutes.

Moving forward a thousand years, we find that the jingle has blossomed into a virtual necessity for market-men in every market.  And while sing-along slogans have always adhered to the musical zeitgeist to ensure their memorability,  this continuity of spirit entails a critical divergence of form.  Advertisements measured in stanzas would naturally have been considered on par with the other merry tunes of a jongleur, but a modern critic would never lump catchy mercantile melodies in with radio pop.

Yet what is the difference between, say, the $5 Footlong song from Subway commercials and the latest Rihanna single?  The latter shows little novelty from one iteration to the next, just as the former is presented from spot to spot as variations on a theme, and neither one consists of more than ten seconds of original material.

I don’t mean to belittle the condition of the mainstream here; on the contrary, I wish to extol the substance of the modern jingle.  Chronically overlooked or perennially belittled, the songs that fill the gap between 7-minute stretches of primetime television are never given a chance, but gosh darn it if they aren’t music just the same as what plays between traffic reports on evening rush-hour radio.

Earworm moves product in any domain.  Miley Cyrus wants kids to keep singing her song until they can’t help but pay for her whole cd.  State Farm made their slogan (“Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there”) more memorable by putting it to a tune so that insurance shoppers will think of them first and check them out more often.  From an irregular perspective, we could say that mainstream songs are 200-second jingles advertising themselves as the product – and that notion has some merit!

It inspires me that we have reached a point in television advertising when some companies have abandoned mere sung slogans in favor of developed 30-second tunes that convey their message less succinctly, if at all.  Consider, for instance, this favorite Dunkin’ Donuts spot of mine.  Approachable melody, diverse percussion, thoughtful arrangement – a recipe for success! – and yet nothing in the lyrics pointing to breakfast.  Visuals and a voice-over draw your attention to the product.  If the song is part of the commercial but doesn’t advertise by itself, do you feel less dirty thinking of it both as a jingle and as music?

Let me focus now on a true paragon of melodic marketing: the Free Credit Report Band.  Their namesake website has elevated the art of music in advertisement by employing those rarest of performers, the live-action virtual band.  Honoring the tradition of Alvin and the Chipmunks and, more recently, Gorillaz and Dethklok, the Free Credit Report Band consists of characters not truly responsible for the sounds you hear.  When I search my trivia lobe for non-animated virtual bands, I can only offer Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, who would fit the bill if they ever played before an audience, or the Partridge Family, who maintained a thin veil between who its members were in fact and in fiction.

From their start in a pirate-themed restaurant, the Free Credit Report Band has managed to explore a dynamic set of rhythms and styles without reinventing their sound.  That is, the classic triumvirate of rock instrumentation appears across the boys’ takes on pop, 80′s synth, porch-front acoustic, western, and more.  Each of these genres is so firmly established as to allow a formulaic approach, of which these singing salesmen take shameless advantage.

As I implied earlier, cranking out a “new” hit need not require more than a chorus’s length of freshly-minted melodies.  When verses can be modified versions of the chorus or even three raw chords and a drum tick, it truly is that simple.  That much novel songwriting is regularly featured in FreeCreditReport.com ads.

I’ve said it enough, then: jingle artists who do a common thing well give us plentiful cause to label them musicians.

Beyond earning credit as artists, there is something more I hope to see commercial singers accomplish in the near future.  Just as Billy Mays earned America’s trust and spent a decade and a half coaching our purchases with his charismatic assurance, I want one marketing artist to perform their merchant ditties for a slew of reputable endorsers.

The Free Credit Report Band plays commercial-length songs that tell stories of misfortune that could be prevented by paying for the product at hand.  If only they would show up on a Sears commercial overriding my appliance price-comparison work!  How wonderful if they would caterwaul about a competitor’s weak 3G coverage!  That is my dream for the future.

If that goes through, only one step will remain for us to reach jingle perfection: imagine the Free Credit Report Band… then imagine Bartholomew… then imagine them together, backing the same company.  The jingle artist cross-over: coming by 2025.  Mark my words.

Twenty-five percent of the songs on Three Days Grace’s debut album ended up Top-5 singles.

Twenty-five percent of the songs on Three Days Grace’s sophomore album ended up Top-5 singles.

Do we understand each other?  There is no room to question the credentials of Three Days Grace.  As Canada’s premier alternative-metal missionaries, they bring the rasp in their voices, guitars, and outlook.

Last month saw the release of album number three: Life Starts Now.  The single “Break” is holding steady at #7 in its 6th week on the charts.  If it rises no higher, is that a letdown?  Would you say the guys are losing their touch?  To even ask the question reinforces how impressive their career has been from the very outset.  And no, it’s not a letdown.

Since Barry Stock was recruited in 2006 to relieve singer Adam Gontier of lead guitar duties, the band has been a quartet, and their increase in number has continued to represent an increase in sonic energy.  Life Starts Now shows not only meatier arrangements – the kind of rock music that expands to rattle every corner of a room – but also technical improvement on the part of each musician.  Focus on their craft has enabled more engaging drumwork and widened the range of pitch and timbre accessed during guitar solos.  Even the bass, normally the bands weakness, has advanced to a level of competence.

Minor deviations from the normal songwriting framework make themselves known without disrupting the consistency of the band’s corpus.  Odd meters are subtly present and there is a greater emphasis on solo work than on previous offerings.  Still, verses and bridges are right where you expect them to be, you can scream along to every chorus, and an iconic guitar hook remains the raging heart of every song.

Two probable attempts at ballads remind us (and hopefully remind Jive Records) why the self-titled album didn’t have any.  “Lost in You” simply isn’t believable, as an honest Gontier can’t hide the anger that composes his soul despite lyrics bordering on sensitive and clean guitars resolving suspended 6ths into warm-and-fuzzy major triads.  The listener is given more credit by “Last to Know” as unplugged strings and a piano lead us through a tale of depression springing from frustration without hope.

Three Days Grace has a formula that works.  Life Starts Now shows an increase in talent with no drop in raw appeal.  By this time next year the hard rockers may have another set of Top-5 singles for their collection.

At the moment, there is a peripheral matter that catches my interest.  Maybe the aging and unchanging sound of the band concerns Jive, maybe Three Days Grace is trying to compensate for the recession, or maybe the guys just had a cool idea and made it happen.  For whatever reason, the band’s website is advertising a colorful variety of options for purchasing their new record.

For the iTunes-fed, blossoming young gorger of all things mainstream, “exclusive behind the scenes video downloads” are packaged with the digital download to entice a purchase directly from the website rather than through, oh, I don’t know, BitTorrent, which tends to be cheaper.

For the collector who doesn’t roll with headphones growing out of his pocket and around his ears like ivy, a hard cd can be ordered – again, with bonus media as thanks for cutting out the middle man.

For real fans, the kind who come out to shows and tell their friends about Three Days Grace, a limited-edition t-shirt can be shipped along with the album.

Beyond that, things get interesting.  The “Deluxe Package” (now sold out) is priced at $60 and includes a pile of swag – half physical, half digital – compelling enough to merit serious consideration even from teenagers living on an allowance or fast-food wages.  Towering above at $100 is the “Super Deluxe Package,” replete with bonuses from a cd signed and numbered by the band to a “smashed piece of a Three Days Grace guitar.”  That’s as exclusive as it gets.

I recently saw a similar gradient of offers posted by progressive rock outfit Spock’s Beard.  In an attempt to raise funds for their self-released tenth album, they put the album on presale before going to studio to record it.  Merchandise options included packages similar to those marketed by Three Days Grace, headed by a $200 “Ultra Package” with an intangible premier benefit:

“…And finally, [you will get] your name written into the lyrics of a new Spock’s Beard song.  This track will include a vocal section where your name (or someone you choose) will be sung by the band.  This will be a full band, fully-produced song that requires a long list of names be sung as part of the lyric.”

Deals like these intrigue me.  Have other groups been making crazy offers and selling their new releases in such intense tiered packages?  Ten years from now, if the economy is back to prime form, will we still see offers like these for the most ravenous fans?

The answers likely depend on whether the music industry follows overall market fluctuations or diverges as the onward march of the digital age changes the game.  Personally, I’ve got my fingers crossed that this is a trend with some wings, ready to take off.

How many diehard synthpop fans do you think live in Canada?  Maybe enough to crowd one toronto club, plus a few enlightened Inuits and a caribou.  Yet this half-frozen nation has given birth to perhaps the genre’s greatest Myspace-to-riches story in Valerie Poxleitner, known to her friends and fans as Lights.

At least, riches seem certain as she now releases her first LP, The Listening.  The number of plays she enjoys on a daily basis give public approbation to her Juno Award and the various other acclaims she has racked up prior to pressing a record.

Beating The Listening to stores by a full month is Ocean Eyes, the major-label debut of Owl City (nee Adam Young).  Born even further from the equator in the little town of Owatonna, MN, Young has experienced similar popularity and growth in response to self-sustained synthpop efforts.  The two are seen by many as each other’s other-gendered counterpart.

Rumors of varying integrity have labeled Lights and Owl City friends, collaborators, sweethearts, and doppelgangers.  What we know is that their homegrown brand of electronic melodies with softened, bubble-pop percussion and smooth, coasting vocals is catching on with the kids in every neighborhood.

As far as anyone seems to remember, the last softcore electronic artist to break into the mainstream so summa cum laude was The Postal Service.  While their only LP, Give Up, was reported by Sub Pop to be their most successful release since Bleach (it has since been surpassed by Flight of the Conchords), a single supporting tour is all the wake it generated.  Some chatter has ensued, but passing years show further Postal Service tours and recordings to be dreams without wings.

There’s your overview.  Here’s my problem.

Our generation has never had a mainstream affinity for the buzzes and whirs and padsynth drums of adventurous electronic artists.  Naturally, the three crooners – or perhaps cooers – to break through are extensively sized up against each other.  But as adorable as Lights and Owl City are, they are not The Postal Service.

The Postal Service is commonly referred to as a side project of Ben Gibbard, the face of indie wunderband Death Cab for Cutie.  Despite the public’s impression, Gibbard is not Death Cab’s heart, soul, and guiding light.  In particular, guitarist-cum-producer Chris Walla plays a large part in their writing process.  And despite the fact that you hear Gibbard’s crystal pipes on every track of Give Up, it was not a solo effort.  As educated as he is in sonic development, Gibbard does not have the right skill set to take a chisel to a synthesizer and carve out such an wondrously glitchy album.

The first Postal Service song was released on two years before Give Up hit the shelves on an album called Life Is Full of Possibilities.  If you’re confused, check Wikipedia, I’ll wait.  Make sure you catch the artist name painted across the ambulance on the cover.  That’s the guy who wrote all the other songs on Life Is Full of Possibilities, so we’ve got good reason to interpolate that Dntel is also responsible for – did you catch it, next to Ben Gibbard’s name? – (This Is) The Dream of Evan and Chan.

Dntel is mastermind Jimmy Tamborello, a synthhead who sprang out of California in the early 1990′s.  Under that primary penname and a few others, Tamborello has accrued critical acclaim and a handful of adherents by spinning out imaginative records loaded with electronica candy.  His style is of his own design.

Through a serendipity of geographical coincidence, Gibbard got an invite from Tamborello to lay down vocals over a tune he had crafted.  While Dntel had collaborated with many others before, Gibbard’s cachet with hipsters and the approachable style that later took Death Cab to more widespread fame gave The Dream of Evan and Chan unprecedented motility.  The pair hardly hesitated before plunging into a more extensive tag-team project.

First, Tamborello built a full album of instrumental material from the ground up.  He put the tracks on tapes and shipped them to the great state of Washington, where Gibbard tagged in.  The bespectacled twenty-something was given free rein to reorganize the beats as necessary while he plotted lyrical melodies overtop.  From there, extra hands came into play: significantly, Chris Walla appeared on one of the finalized songs playing piano and handled the whole recording process at his Hall of Justice studio.  Female vocals were courtesy of Rilo Kiley frontwoman Jenny Lewis and little-known indie songstress Jen Wood.

You might glean from the above that Ben Gibbard acted in a greater capacity than any other single contributer to shape Give Up.  I won’t press the issue because it doesn’t matter whether you’re right or wrong.  Tamborello’s brilliant work is central to the spirit and polish of the album and his part in the partnership is chronically downplayed.

Returning to Lights and Owl City, take a test drive on each of their lead singles – Saviour and Fireflies, respectively.  Then play Such Great Heights, the first Postal Service single.  If you focus on the voices, you’ll notice that Adam Young and Ben Gibbard sound remarkably alike, while Valerie Poxleitner manipulates her vox with a touch of artifice.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

If you focus on the electronics underneath, you might come to see why I feel Tamborello dominates the newcomers.  His choice of sounds shows a greater willingness to take chances and a greater depth of experience from chances taken over an inventive career.  Subtly, he employs irregular three-measure phrases throughout Such Great Heights, even overlaying them with standard four-measure phrases in other instruments to create a drawn out polyrhythmic effect.

Dntel provided the fundaments of The Postal Service, and his influence on Give Up is still the element that sets that landmark album apart from young imitators.  Over time, I’m sure Lights and Owl City will grow their talents.  They may exchange their in-your-face rocktronica choruses for more adventuresome techniques, or they may diverge from Dntel-style beats rather than aspiring to them.  But at the moment, there is no comparison.

In closing: The Postal Service was Dntel’s side project.  His idea, his beats, his project.

I have no right to review Slippery When Wet.  I can’t break down Born to Run.  To me, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and Pet Sounds are beyond approach.  I lack the bona fides to critique such eternal landmarks, not least of all because I wasn’t there to experience them.  Awareness of the musical zeitgeist of a decade is no substitute for being a part of a movement.  I want to be there when the next album that defines its time drops.  Maybe, I thought, maybe Ursa Major will be that album.

This was wishful thinking from the start.  Third Eye Blind already had their breakout.  The self-titled debut sent fully a third of its tracks coasting into the Top 20, including Semi-Charmed Life, the No. 1 hit famous for the shock it creates when your sing-along is shattered by the realization of what the verses are describing.  Still, the six-year hiatus that followed their third release (throughout which there were no signs of a break-up) served to infuse the band with mystery and hype.  Maybe, I thought, maybe Ursa Major will be that album.

Available only by digital download, the Red Star EP heralded a return to the band’s true form.  Then a new website appeared, 3eb.com, that put community interaction at the forefront.  The fan-centric aesthetic and an “Assembly” full of blogs, along with claims from frontman Stephan Jenkins that the upcoming album would be their most political yet, steered the hype away from melody.  Why would a band whose cornerstone was a song with overlooked lyrics and a hook for the ages predicate their overdue return to the limelight on opinion and activism?  New grounds trembled in anticipation of breaking.  Maybe…

“I want a riot, yeah!”

The rallying cry of the lead-off track has my fist in the air!  The guitars are surging back with familiar energy.  The pitch is rising, so I crank the volume and get caught up in the rasp of passion in Stephan’s voice:

“Yes I am dying to be freaked!”

Yes, I am d– wait, what?

Instantly I’m back in 1997 reliving the shock.  So, what kind of riot was he talking about?  A quick check of the lyric liner tells me the whole song is open to at least two interpretations: grassroots firepower or a plea for sex.  Alright, Stephan Jenkins, you got me.

But the music goes on.  Brand-new hooks revive with full confidence the old Third Eye Blind swagger.  Rolling snares and bam-bam rhythms lead you in and carry you like a wave from verse to verse.  The slurred lilt of the vocals are so instantaneously familiar that I had little trouble singing along not just on the first listen, but even at the first iteration of a chorus.  Then again, I was a pretty big fan.

Weren’t we all?  Who among us, born on the far side of the great divide that is the year 1990, wouldn’t hop on board at the first chord of Jumper?  Thank your lucky red stars, because fully a third of Ursa Major could have coasted into the Top 20 at the end of the last millenium.  Not to delude you; without the full promotional force of a major label (they recorded on their own as Mega Collider Records), these singles won’t see multi-platinum sales.  Besides, kids today are much more taken by their angry Seethers and their dreamy Jason Mrazs.

But the punchline is missing.  The melodies are what we all want, but this was supposed to be an intellectual firestarter!  Members of the Assembly may dissent, but what I heard was less a call to action and more what I’ll label “forward-dating.”

Through lyrics that remain as fluid and deft as ever, Stephan Jenkins has attempted to emphasize that he is here and now.  Explicit references to online dating, flat screen tv, and mp3 players appear distinctly unromantic amidst the surrounding metaphors and emotional outpours.  An entire song about “trying to flip butch chicks” and (elsewhere) an isolated mention of “Africa where life is cheap” might equally elicit groans from apathetics who find vocal activists oppressive.  Opening the cd case, you run into an advertisement for Third Eye Blind ringtones before you find the cd itself.  But all of these prove to the listener when Ursa Major was written.  Right now.

The Assembly – in fact, the overall intent and form of 3eb.com – now makes perfect sense.  Third Eye Blind is not retrieving the roots of political rock and roll by emerging from their hiatus reborn as Bob Dylan in three persons.  Instead, they’re eschewing the traditional way in which musicians relate to the public.  This record wants to kick off a new era; not of what music is, but of how it is communicated.

Thoroughly modern issues feature alongside buzzwords that are neutral but strictly contemporary in order to engage the listener.  We are meant to feel that Ursa Major is our album.  And to leave posterity with no doubt as to the exact date of its release, Jenkins sings: “Wanna be hustler school M.I.A. / Make a paper plane and then you fly away,” a shout out to last year’s multi-platinum single.  He even slips in “I’m your mega collider” which, as I mentioned, is the band’s invented label.

Finally, notice that the website tries to use open membership and encourage blogging and forum posts in order to hand over the reins of Third Eye Blind’s web presence to the fans.  This is our album, because the focal points of our daily lives make guest appearances in the songs.  This is our website, because we provide 95% of the content, unedited.  This is our time, defined.

Maybe, I thought.

So – alright, stop me if you’ve heard this one – a German, an Israeli, a Chilean, an American, and a Japanese guy walk into the Royal Conservatory of the Hague in Holland. They all pull out experimental, one-of-a-kind electronic instruments and start jamming. Then after four years of touring and recording they come to Williamsburg, VA to play a badass show at my college.

The band’s name is NiCad. They bill themselves as a power rock band with homemade electronica instrumentation. They’re visiting my school for a three-day stay, culminating in a true concert. Tonight they presented a live demonstration of some of their toys.  Normally I would consider a review of an isolated live performance to be unfair or poorly informed, but in light of my recent exposition on the borders of music and the nature of this group, I couldn’t resist.

You see, the boys of NiCad didn’t play a single “song” tonight in the traditional sense. A brief introduction set the stage for Lyset Fra Nedenunder, a “tape piece” – a term they use to specify that it was pre-recorded and not interactive in nature.  Pause to process that.

The entire room was left dark and no musicians stood on stage while it played.  For fifteen minutes, we were treated to (in the artist’s words) “a thoroughly planned walk through the garden” of “sound materials originally generated for another of the composer’s electronic pieces.”  To my ear, it began with a robot breathing heavily, proceeded to electronic slurps and ribbits, then some harsh winds, a city-destroying robot laser battle, and continued with various other non-rhythmic, pitchless, otherworldly ambiences.  Listen to it here.

Several of the other pieces followed suit. In fact, the immediate follow-up was a one-man Study on Feedback. Here, and often elsewhere, interactivity was the heart and spirit of the work. Two microphones were pointed directly at the two speakers in the auditorium. The artist sat on stage at his computer – did I mention that most of the pieces tonight were presented by the individuals who made them rather than the band en masse?

The composer – or inventor – was Roberto Garreton, who used one hand to input occasional bips and whirrs via one of two handheld iPod-like devices and the other hand to control stereo volume knobs on a nearby hard electronics box. This, again, went on for what might have been 10 or 15 minutes. The variety of sounds produced in that time went beyond what your imagination is likely to conjure from my sketch.

Let me give one more example. There is a museum in The Hague that houses an exhibit of glowing neon tubes, installed there by Gilad Woltsovitch of NiCad. Each tube is damaged in some way: a wire may be frayed, a transformer may be malfunctioning, etc. The erratic electric signals due to the imperfections make noise, but that noise is far too faint for a person to ever hear, even if you held the source to your ear.

Gilad designed a device to pick up these “microsounds” and amplify them to an audible level. One of the pieces performed tonight was Hunting for Fireflies, a “tape piece” that was simply a 10-or-15-minute recording of sounds made by malfunctioning neon tubes in Holland.

To all the avant garde loonies out there (and I mean that lovingly) whose eyes are growing wide with thrills: I must now apologize.  There was a severe downside to this show.  Many of the pieces performed were concepted as both aurally and visually interactive, but the visual components were simply not available.  Hunting for Fireflies begs for the sensory stimulus of the crackling neon tubes themselves!

Watch Satoshi Shiraishi’s Hystere, featuring his invention, the e-Clambone, at work.  It’s “an aerophone supplied with haptic sensors and digital signal processing algorithms,” complemented in this piece by real-time video processing that “seeks moments of convergence and divergence.”  The entire visual component was absent at NiCad’s demonstration.

In short, this was a tragically incomplete presentation of novel and exploratory art.

See, NiCad makes albums filled with music that people can appreciate as such. But tonight was a demonstration of their deep personal interests, the sonic experiments they pursue voraciously in their free time. Clicks and bloops and buzzes and every manner of distortion came out tonight. These don’t add up to “music” by themselves the way we’re used to thinking about it. That’s not their point.

The guys don’t imagine a sound – or tune – and go try to make it; they imagine a source and go find out what sound it makes.

What they find leads, in turn, to inspiration. They take the sounds they discover and use them in their construction of (slightly) more traditional music.

I will add that, to end tonight’s demonstrations, three of the five guys got up on stage to play an improvised jam. One of them had a mic, one a drum set, and one a guitar, but goodness knows there was more to it.

The mic had a keypad on its stand and operated essentially as an advanced Yakkity Yak, the old toy voice recorder. The German would gasp, click his tongue, stutter frustrated growls, and so forth, using his mic to record and play back loops of a few seconds or so, perhaps with volume, tempo, or distortion effects added.

The guitar had pads and pedals and extra buttons (oh my!) and rarely made the sorts of noises you would expect, sticking mainly to pick scrapes across strings, warm string synths, clicks, etc. The drum set was played very quickly and in no consistent time signature.

The German would sometimes lean his mic over to the drums to start looping their sounds instead of his own. It was equally likely that the mic would be used to crash a cymbal or that a drumstick would be used to play the mic.

This all was so out of the ordinary that I can’t possibly describe all the action on stage or all the sounds that were achieved.  If this rough outline of the show intrigues you, seek more information at NiCad.org.