Left Home Virgins, Came Back Vampires

The Hold Steady

17 December 2008
The Roundhouse
London

Deeply rooted in America, there is perhaps no other band quite as versed in excess, its glories and failings, religiosity and damnation, as The Hold Steady. Strangely, though, they fitted in well here - a city warmed only by the pub light and the ritualistic actions of getting pissed. People brush up against each other on trains, chest-to-chest and eye-to-eye, but still manage to avoid eye-contact. There's barely a nod or a smile, just a stare at a map or your boots. But, given a pint of lager and a bag of crisps, things change.

It's the same kind of people Craig Finn concerns himself with. The narratives of Holly, Gideon and Charlemagne run through their albums, twisting through whiskey binges, hallucinations at festivals, visions of Mary and telling congregations How A Resurrection Really Feels the morning after. The stories are Kerouac (even the title of 2006's Boys and Girls in America is a nod to the lonesome traveller), transplanted using the kitsch of bar-room bands and squealing solos. They are told in a speak-sing poetic device, Finn spitting out verses like an eloquent drunk, telling you with impeccable recollection, the story of his heyday - but long after it's past. The Hold Steady verbalise my youth.

They draw an old crowd. And its the 'verbalise my youth' part, I think, that contributes to the middle-aged parents I see scattered around the bar-area. I don't really need my youth verbalised, as its still unfolding - but these people, clutching their plastic cups and adjusting their spectacles, they need reminding.

After the decent opening act (who's name I can't remember, but who cares?), the band turn up punctually, and apart from keyboardist Franz Nicolay, they look like nice, normal fellows. And I guess this agrees with the silent, bald-headed guy on my left, he taps his feet in an expression of unbridled excitement.

Hornets! Hornets!, a song about his high-school's deflowered cheerleaders, kicks into higher gear when Finn begins dancing about, like your secretly-gay uncle after a few too many fruity drinks. He's awkward and odd-looking, but completely without pretence or self-conciousness. He's infectious, and pretty soon the entire standing audience is jumping along, arms in the air, singing the easier-to-follow parts.

Most of Stay Positive, this year's critical success (as were their previous two efforts) is perfectly performed, each note in very dense compositions rings out, each syllable of every word is wrenched out. When, during the drawn-out coda of Southtown Girls, Finn recounts the "crazy year" (complete with pancreatitis!)and thanks us for "the biggest headlining gig we've ever done", he genuinely sounds grateful. The crowd applauds politely before the final shouts of "Boys and Girls in America!" are heard.

The band waves as they depart, but no-one (apart from the two blondes sitting to my right, who only cheered the older songs anyway) leaves. This was the last show of 2008, an encore was inevitable. They come back, less than five minutes after departing and reopen with Stuck Between Stations, a personal favourite (name checking both Jack Kerouac and John Berryman? Priceless). After the Biblically-epic Cattle and the Creeping things (in which living in suburbia is paralleled with the plagues), which contains the best lyric I wish I'd known when I was still at Catholic school ("I guess I heard about Original Sin/I heard the dude blamed the chick/I heard the chick blamed the snake/I heard they were naked when they got busted/ I heard things ain't been the same since") and finally Certain Songs, they leave for the last time.

There is no natural showman in the band, but Finn makes up for this with hardwork and enthusiasm (American ideals in action), shimmying around the stage during the solos and letting the crowd drown him out occassionally.
And I'm glad he's having a good time because, truth be told, I wouldn't be listening to The Hold Steady if it wasn't for him. The music is Thin Lizzy and Springsteen meets Billy Joel on piano. Not my cup of tea. But with him, bespectacled and receding hair, at the helm and singing these songs that glorify and commiserate with all that being young entails, I could sit through anything. There's no funk here. There's no pushing of an envelop. There isn't even a drum machine. But there is perhaps the best live show I've ever seen.

Shit. That last part rhymed.

Things Fall Together

The Roots
The Forum
London

5 December 2008

Out of the darkness steps a large figure, I assume, in fancy dress. A massive head-piece glints in the ambient light. The crowd is silent for a moment before the intake of breath and rapturous exhalation. The giant glint jumps to the front, a deep rumble ensues. The monster, the swamp creature is... A tuba.

This is The Roots, perhaps the world's best-know rap band. An actual band. Unlike most big hip-hop acts, there are no DJs acting as a glorified iTunes playlist. There is Damon Bryson instead, wearing what looks like the internal plumbing of an entire high-school on his shoulder, dancing as best he can while he fills the theatre with a deep, young shaking bellow. Behind him is F Knuckles, who dances behind a collection of electric-green bongos and drum pads, he wears a red cap with a giant "P" on it. I assume it has something to do with Philadelphia. On a little platform, stage-left, is the keyboardist Kamal Gray. Inbetween Kamal and Mr Knuckles are guitarist Captain Kirk and bassist Owen Biddle (the lone white boy). But its centre-stage, where MC Black Thought (dress, appropriately, in all-black) and drummer ?usetlove roam. Black Thought is built like a boxer, and wears a cap that gives hims a menacing, growling look. Behind him, though, is probably one of the world's most recognisable drummers. His massive, perfectly symmetrical afro and his world weary political musings have made him the celebrity drummer of note. He's like Ringo. But he can really drum, and he's not stupid-looking.

For me, and for the 1000 or so other people filling this hall, this had been a long time coming. The opening act, Master Shorty, was pretty terrible. The house DJ was pretty boring. We had waited outside in the rain and near freezing temperatures. The beer was expensive, and the more time one spends drinking Guinness the more one realises is smells a lot like mushrooms.

They began, I seem to remember, with Here I Come (off Game Theory) and played, basically without a break for the next two hours. It was a marathon, epic, Herculean performance. There was a drum vs percussion solo, bass freak-outs and sax virtuosity. At one stage, all musicians not confined to an immovable instrument, took to line dancing around the stage. Songs that featured guest collaborations, like You Got Me were reworked and revamped - less subtle but now more like a wall of sound and melody. Black Thought was stronger than his sizable biceps, and prowled the stage, demanding more from the audience, making sure every syllable was eeked out, word-perfect.

Do You Want More?!!!??! the cry for an encore, an inevitable build-up explodes (via the modestly simple lighting) and culminates with The Seed 2.0, arguably The Roots' biggest hit. Its actually better live. They are better live. ?uestlove is the coolest drummer in history. The Roots is the most fun, funny and silly hip-hop act I've ever seen.

Ok, they're the only one I've ever seen. But I'm fairly sure (thanks to Youtube) no one else comes close.

uɐɔ ı ǝsnɐɔǝq

That's all from the upside down-writing gremlins for now.

November 8
The Woods, Newtown

Moe Joe (Kid of Doom)
Future Records
Mankazam
Jacsharp Electro
Data Takashi

VJ: Flikerr
Ever get to a point in your life when you realise that the Woods is the most fun place in the history of the world? I got to that point. I also got to the point where I forgot where I was, but that is beside the point.

Things started slowly, trickles of kids found their way into the dark club like rain water down the back of your neck, and stuck around in the periphials, waiting for some light. Moe Joe, of kidofdoom infamy, showed that he could replace the Hulk that was his drumming persona with a more subtle, laid-back DJ style. LCD Soundsystem also featured heavily, which is always a good thing.

Slowly more people got up to appreciate Moe Joe's prowess, as did VJ flikerr, who's promise to "make your eyes bleed" is never left wanting. Transporting Space Invaders and boomboxes through suburban life at an astonishing speed, he made drying laundry both bad ass and strangely threatening. Yeah.

Through the slowly building crowds came Future Records. I have no recollection of this set.

But then came Jacsharp Electro, and I do recall this set. Firstly because the term "live house music" is an oxymoron. Emphasis on the "moron". But also the singer was super hot. This was not what I paid to see. Granted, entrance to the Woods is free, but all the same, I didn't enjoy whatever was going on up there. The music was smooth and "sensual", which as we all know is a word to describe something that isn't quite sexy enough in a vaguely positive sense. This wasn't right.

Mankazam, I think, came up next with a set that began with a darker, trip-hoppy feel. Like the inside of a sewerage tunnel, things slowly lightened up into... rave. Well, that was the word being thrown around at the time. I was like: "No, this can't be rave!". People assured me it was.

Finally though, we got Data Takashi. Harder and fiercer than ever, like an animal kept caged (lets remember his recent odd timeslots) and then suddenly released, things were stronger and better than ever. Driving electro and a dance floor populated by all manner of strange and wonderful people capped a very nice set. Although, be warned: Whiskey+Data Takashi+Flikerr = Overwhelmed nervous system. But in a good way.



*Thanks to Sam Hill for the photos, they're a lot better than my attempts!

The Face of a Killer, The Ass of a 17 Year-Old.

31 October
Pixel Pop Halloween

DJs: Commodore64, Marc Latilla, Data Takashi, Sassquatch, Kidofdoom, ManKaZam
VJs: Chinxxx, Flikerr, Sassquatch

For the past three years, Sovereign Academy has pwned Old Halllow’s Eve with an iron paw. Following July’s graduation, though, this Friday the thirty-first was wet and waiting for something – any dam thing – to sidle in there and spook it up, 2008 style. Other than the house party mayhem of Oh The Horror on Saturday, though, nothing sidled and nothing spooked. Pixel Pop, in fact, is organised by one part of SLY – the boys who brought you Sovereign. After a shitty day (it was a dry, dry weekend) and the customary failure to dress up properly, I was weepy, pissy, amped up on Neurofen – and ready to Get Down with all my might.

I arrived to the chart-topping sounds of Marc Latilla. Familiar favourites are a nice way to ease into a party and a few special tracks lifted the set from its otherwise mediocre fug. There’s not much to say about that kind of music; what’s unfortunate is that there’s not much to say about the way it was DJed either. It was pleasant, professional and fine. I sat at a booth and watched 17 year old asses in glitter and velvet shimmy by.

With a crack and a bounce around 9.30pm, Data Takashi hit the decks and coerced the burgeoning party into fruition. It was an unusually early set for the presiding ruler of the 2am crowd, but he adapted to the earlier slot with class and style – a little more boogy, a little less bass. Airy, sweet electro with more than a twist of disco and dirty swelled up from some fairly harsh opening tracks. As the dance floor (if you can call that space between the pillars a dance floor) gradually filled, the beats got sweeter and juicier, a rival to any one of those 17 year old asses. As well as great track selection, Takashi’s mixing for the most part was smooth, unobstrusive and even.

At the same time, Flikerr’s VJ set began (apologies to Chinxxx for missing hers). With his neons and cartoons and stop motion animations, Flicker’s visuals continue to improve and evolve. This Friday, though, a lack of communication between DJ and VJ left the epilepsy-inducing visuals at odds with the smooth sex of Data Takashi’s music. Luckily Sassquatch was next in line to play, also receiving VJ power from Flikerr. The tried and tested (maybe a little too tried at times) punchy pop made sense with Flikerr’s fine touch for the cute, comical and quirky. He may be the newest kid on the VJ block but he’s fast becoming the slickest too. His regular performances (with brother, Email Checkerr as part of Double Adapter) can’t hurt either, making Flickerr easily the most prominent VJ in the scene at the moment. If he can keep up the evolution and effort, we won’t be seeing Flikerr fade any time soon.

With a few transition tracks from DT while the Sass prepared his visuals, it was on to Kidofdoom, Star Trek style. Of course they were epic and amazing, of course Peter Rodda’s lighting was spectacular, of course Sassquatch’s visuals were a sci-fi wet dream.

After a few songs from ManKaZam and the perilous task of hugging the right zombie good-bye, I headed home with fake blood (which stains) on my favourite jersey and slightly sick feeling in my stomach. The illness, for once, was not gin-related. On this goriest of nights, not a drop of fresh blood was on offer. Data Takashi was the only DJ to explore new ground – even the Doomers disappointed! I wouldn’t give up seeing them all in Star Trek spandex (Spock especially) – but maybe space travel can get boring after all. That said, it was still a great party and the best turn out I’ve seen at The Woods so far. The spirit of the panda, it seems, lives on…

Look At Them Shine

24 October
Electric Affair
Sunningdale’s Hotel
Sassquatch, Marc Latilla, King of Town, Young Smuts & Richard Berold


If you have a problem with Sunningdale’s Hotel, now is about the time to get over it. My fellow poster quite eloquently described its general crust after GIFT’s farewell gig, and it’s a seediness that’s unlikely to change no matter how much glitter the Cool Kids threaten to drag in. However, that doesn’t change the Real Issue – nothing can change the Real Issue. And that’s because, the Real Issue is the music. Venues and visuals and flier designs are great, especially when they’re of the caliber that we’ve been seeing out of VJs like flikerr and artists like Ben Rausch and Jean De Wet (to name drop those names I actually know). When it really comes down to it, though, glossy posters don’t make you dance. King of Town does.

The combination of Sunningdale’s Hotel and the genre name ‘Italo Disco’ attracted a certain class of clientele the organizers probably weren’t expecting – think early (laydees) to late (okes) 30s Lusito Land. It may not necessarily have been the anticipated crowd, but it sure didn’t hurt to have more people through the door than at the first Secret and Sovereign combined. The venue was busy but not packed, smoky but not suffocating, and the disco lights illuminating the tiny dancefloor were doing their disco best.

When King of Town hit that mixing deck, though, I could have been at the fish counter in Pick n Pay and I still would have been dancing. 80s space disco isn’t a genre I was especially excited about; the whole concept of Electric Affair flew over my born-in-‘89 head – as I think it did for quite a few others, hence the puny turn out of Kids in the Scene. But, of course, genre isn’t the Real Issue either, now is it? With impeccable track selection, smooth mixes and the finest control of mood and tempo, King of Town rarely disappoints – but this was something entirely in its own class. Just as I was lamenting the end of one great track, and even sweeter, sexier one would come in. Man-nipples popped, skinny jeans flared and the universe exploded into infinite golden light with Tiga’s You Gonna Want Me. We gradually regained form, mass and tailoring, but that wallop of awesome would not be forgotten. Electric Affair went from dated and creepy to a vessel for fresh genius and the hope of a brand new strain of parties to pick up from where the death of Tokyo, Sovereign and Canned Applause left us.

I don’t think disco will be the new genre to end all genres; I don’t think Electric Affair will be the new party to end all parties. What I do hope, though, is that the spirit of friends getting together and throwing parties to play the music they want to play is back for good. And if the music they want to play is disco… I’ll meet you under the mirror ball baby.

-CB

Taking Time To Perfect The Beat (But They Still Have Love for the Street)

22 October
Berlin
Mario Marchisella, Marianne Halter, João Orrechia

After the late-term abortion that was the disbanding of Five Men Three Missing, the chance to see João (the one with the healthy hair) perform again was pretty exciting to begin with. Add in two Swiss artists with all the right buzz words (visuals, electro acoustic… uhm… Swiss.) and you’ve got yourself two space cadets eating some mushrooms and expecting some sparks. Sparks, however, were not on offer this sticky Wednesday at Melville’s Berlin.

What we did get was a slow, deep, amber Burn that turned our brains into ripe brie. Mario Marchisella along with visual artist Marianne Halter have been living in Johannesburg as part of Prohelvetia’s artist residency program, creating the piece “The Conductor’s Fear of The Soloist”. Using the multi-plugs and knobs made familiar to Joburg audiences by the looping genius of 5m3m shows, as well as “self made instruments” (including a wonky bell/cymbal type structure, two modified vuvuzelas and an empty 5l water bottle), Mario creates multi-layered though surprisingly light soundscapes. The songs are warm and easy, full of hazy lines and gentle slopes. With my modified brain I was right in there with the ebbs and sweeps immediately, but the shifting and speaking of my fellow audience members made it clear they were less engaged. The visuals (by Marianne, projected into a clever gold picture frame on the wall) were slick and attractive, but probably didn’t help to catch anyone’s attention either. As the performance grew and Mario became more animated, though, layers became more dense and recognizable and the room at large began to pay attention. Mario himself was the most concrete element of the performance. With his plastic specs, ill-fitting clothing, glossy mustache and that silver watch winking out against the Real Man black arm hair, Mario looked more like a 50s NASA technician than a Swiss musician. His attention was firmly entrenched in the sound, whether seated behind his desk full of gadgets or crouched over them in the semi squat that creased the toes of those well-polished Real Man shoes. From my seat next to the window, I was able to see every button-squeeze and bell-tinkle as it happened; the shapes and textures of the soundscapes were accessible and direct. For a while, probably in the middle third of the set, we Got It. The rounded corners and fuzzy covering were peaked with tension as the sounds grew deeper and richer. Every twiddle of Mario’s fingers held the promise of chaos and “Houston, we have a problem”.

We just never got to the problem. We never hit the spark. The Burn was good – the Burn was great. Its probably the best Burn I’ve had in a while, and I’m the kind of girl who goes looking. My dead academic brain couldn’t even begin to understand the kind of inspiration that bore such unique, innovative and exacting use of sound. It was genius; it embarrassed me. But by the last song most of the original audience had bailed. Those who hadn’t left were wasted, gossiping, lolling on the upstairs couches oblivious to the performance right below them – and my space cadet partner and I were trying a lot harder than we should have been to keep our mouths closed. Maybe we’re just not ready for this. We (the mass mind, royal We) are supposed to be going through a karmic cleansing for at least the next 90 years – Hitler, Apartheid, global warming, the inability to listen to more than 45 minutes of experimental music… With a few words about thank you for listening, we had a short break to try to recover our minds before Mario began his set with João.


-CB


I was late. Berlin was besieged by the overdressed and underfed (and, I guess, due to exams, not too much young blood), and the stage area (if that) was empty but for the dozens of little musical contraptions. Laid out on the tables were empty tomato-cans, bits of sandpaper, fancy looping equipment (including a very sweet looking Kaoss pad) and a vintage selection of guitars, amps and, uh, vuvuzelas. The squishy sofas were evacuated soon, and out of the crowd stepped João Orrechia and Mario Marchisella. Past a projector, which beamed images onto a makeshift frame of people walking across said frame. I'm sure it had a meaning of some kind, but I was busier watching the performers. Both carried themselves in an air befitting the groovy librarian you never knew. It was an aesthetic well suited to what we were about to witness.

First Mario, his giant retro spectacles testing the strength of his nose-bridge, sat down, leather boots turned up and gadgets turned on. With what looked like an ice-cream stick, he tapped a 4/4 on a tiny bit of tin-can architecture, then looped the beat. João whipped out a vintage Eko bass and recorded a short riff. Slowly, in a methodical, brick-laying sort of way, each element was tested, recorded and looped. Occasionally, beats and twitches were modified and edited. Like an exploded view of a skyscraper, everything suddenly clicked back into place, the building was complete and everything was in its right place. And then everything died.

The songs were built like one-off pieces of art, temporary and fleeting. Beautiful because they sounded amazing, but also because you knew that they would soon be gone and could never be the same.

I was happy, though, to be aware of the creation before me. Sure, I can't tell you today what I heard, and sure, you may never know, but the fact that I heard the music of these two men with a few strange instruments is enough to keep me happy. I was trying to find some reference point to describe what i heard ("Four Tet, but simpler and cleaner... or not like Four Tet at all..."), but I ran myself in circles and decided that there was no real point.

I couldn't start describing it even if I wanted to.



-DD



Big thanks to Sam Hill for the photos for the night - they were awesome.

The Last of the Centurion Playboys

9 October 2008

Commodore 64

Greenisforturbo

Sassquatch

Data Takashi

Sunningdale Hotel


The end of greensiforturbo is upon us. This is a sad moment. Having only seen them live twice, at Shut Up I'm Dancing parties, I'd forgotten just how good they were. They're really good. No, they were really good. They made the Gummy Bears' theme better that the original material. They took everything I like about Grandaddy and the Flaming Lips and added their own splash of pop-post-punk to it and ran with it. They ran so far and fast I even forgot they were from Centurion.

That was a brief epitaph.

Now, on with the show.

For those of you who do not know, all of you, I live near the venue. I walk on the otherside of the street when I need to pass. There are ladies of the night near the doors. The Sirloin special seems special for all the wrong reasons. Also, I'm a pussy. The bar-restaurant area was specially imported from 1972 Bloemfontein. It smelled of vomit and moldy carpeting. It smelled of the old and sickly. This was ok, I guess, because Commodore 64 was busting out some old favourites (Tokyo Police Club, Peter Bjorn & John, Modest Mouse et al.) and slowly people moved from the benched eating area toward the makeshift dancefloor. I like hearing old-ish indie songs. They make me happy and warm with recognition and nostalgia.

But soon, draped in a green glow and ironic t-shirts, arrived GIFT. Such an acronym has never been more accurate. Starting with the crowd pleasing Gummy Bears theme tune, warped into something completely different, soaked in synths and reverb, it gave the song some strange sense of pathos. Yes. Stitching together the pop-sense of Grandaddy and Lips recordings, plus the wistfulness of late-90s Death cab (you know, when they were good and not creepy) GIFT worked their way through a really good set. The keyboards and some inventive drumming set their sound apart from other indie-pop acts that we've seen recently. Sadly, however, the band is no more. Drummer Rod Roodt is leaving our shores, and the band (quite honourably) have decided not to attempt to replace him. So that's it. I'm glad I saw them one last time, and hope you've had your experience well documented too. If you weren't here, however, you would have missed all three DJs storm the modest stage and rock out with the band for the last time. It was truly heart-warming stuff. As is Rumba.


As people milled about after the show, Sassquatch moved things up a gear, with more electro-indie, with new remixes of song we know - which is also like the warm feeling we got before, just with added "wow, that's funky" in the mix.

And, as the candied cherry on top of an wicked-awesome chocolate sundae, Data Takashi rounded things off. Swinging from Beach Boys sing-a-longs to the awesome blending of "Crying " off the new TV on the Radio to "No Diggity" by Blackstreet (my personal favourite moment of the night, thank you).

It was a fitting goodbye.

Freeness is the Same as Awesomeness.

4 October 2008

The Alexander Theatre


easytiger vs. DJ Badly
King of Town vs. ManKaZam
Data Takashi vs. VEREVÜLFF

I don't know if you've heard. The world's money is falling apart. Its stuck inside vaults and no-one can lend or borrow it. House are soon to be repossessed and turned into Gulags. We're all doomed.

Through the smoky haze (caused by the burning of pension funds) comes a single piercing beam of light, one blinding vision of a better tomorrow. Julius Malema. Also, the End is Free. Malema, unfortunately, had a prior engagement and was unable to attend.

He missed out. There was a glorious sense of dignity I felt as I was frisked by the now familiar bouncers: I could have a night out, dance to awesome music, talk to my friends and be choked by a smoke machine, for free. This is what Lenin envisioned for the Soviets. One continuous frisking. Also, free parties.

I got there rather early (say 9.30), desperate not to miss out on my free entry to the free party and the free admission stamp thrown in. Slowly the place filled up, like rain in a bucket, and volume levels rose. Also, rain-into-bucket-style.

The dance floor was even dimmer than usual, only the bar and DJ stage were truly visible - the only important things one needs to see, of course. Added for tonight was a tiny dancing podium in front of the DJ-area. Girls flooded it before realising that 10 people could only stand and look silly, and not dance and look silly on it. Amateurs.

And indeed there should have been dancing, on the stage and on the floor - but not on the concrete balcony, according to the bouncers. The DJ battle-format employed was appreciated by the crowd (the largest here, I estimate, since the Desmond album launch), and put out electro, with odd splashes of pop favourites and old school hip hop novelties too keep us singing along. Particularly appreciated was the remix of Beirut's "Nantes" and Kris Kross' "Jump Jump", to which we all put our clothes on backwards.


Having been out to other venues in recent times, I've come to appreciate old Alex a bit more. The massive capacity, as well as the moderate temperatures are really welcome. 88 was a reminder that sweating like Bear Grylls in the Sahara is a look that only works for him.

This week, after the free-experiment (which, I hope, worked financially, for all our sakes) in social upliftment, we return to boring old capitalism with Greenisforturbo and The Horse Productions Launch Party bringing us back to poverty.

That's what happened in the USSR too, right?

The Best Band In The World Today

Is TV On The Radio.

This is not an outlandish statement. This is not hyperbole. This is just fact, and (like the phenomena of gravity or climate change) this fact is proved by mathematics and scientific reasoning. The mathematics and scientific reasoning involved is far too complex to explain here, but trust me: it exists. It proves the fact. Therefore it is fact.

Perhaps you're sitting at home reading this (as many thousands doubtless are), and wondering: "But hey, aren't, like U2 the best band in the world?". The which I respond "No", and also "Buy a new brain." There may be other pretenders to the throne, most of which are simply pretenders, and never The Pretenders. Radiohead, perhaps, come closest to the title of Best Band In The World Today. But they do not clinch it. They would win, hands-down, the title of Best Band Of Our Generation. But TV on The Radio pwn all others due to one simple reason: Dear Science,.

In the two or three weeks since I've, um, owned the album, I've listened to it with varying degrees of concentration. Firstly there was Golden Age - with its Thriller-esque vibe and promises of light at the end of the tunnel. Along with Dancing Choose, a fervent rap-soul combo underscored by urgent horns on high-alert, I found the immediate, primal dance to this album. But once you delve deeper, into a song like DLZ, with its slow build, barked chants and trip-hop feel, you begin to truly understand the genius behind this band. Cryptic lyrics, impassioned "ooohs" and "la's" from Kyp Malone and Tunde Adebimpe and moulded and crafted by bespectacled Dave Sitek. Sitek, producer and multi-instrumentalist has largely ditched the bombastic aural assault of TVOTR (also great) previous albums, instead clarifying and enhancing the tones from his guitar as well as giving bassist Gerard Smith and drummer Jaleel Bunton more of a platform than they've had before.

What is truly impressive, though, is that TVOTR have managed the transition from underground cult-act, to this major-label release with the dexterity other similar bands couldn't manage. Recently Interpol (also New Yorkers, also jumping from indie to major) put out the heavy, rather leaden Our Love to Admire, and the Shins' Wincing the Night Away just didn't work out as everyone hoped it would.

2008 and TVOTR is different. Everything that made Desperate Youth... and Return to Cookie Mountain great, but perhaps stopped those albums from being amazing, is still here. But a new sense of depth and an appreciation for structure is evident on Dear Science,, and that makes Dear Science,...better.

Simply put, no band has come close this year to matching TVOTR. Listen to Love Dog and then try and argue differently.

Far Out

Indie-psychedelic-hip-hop...has a ring to it.


Koushik works in creating hip-hop based downbeat tracks that guarantee head bobbing and/or slow swaying. Koushik is often compared to popular contemporaries such as Four tet(who released Koushik's first single on his Text label), RJD2, DJ Shadow and Caribou. Although similar, Koushik is the rebellious supernatural lab experiment that escaped and is spreading his own brand of rainbow-sunshine-happy goodness. Koushik incorperates melodious psychedelic tunes inspired from the 60s, old school regimented hip-hop beats and his soft spaced out vocals into his tracks. Koushik’s new album Out My Window (released on September 30, 2008) is the neatly presented example of his mad skills.