[review 2008: half-measures and quiet victories]

The last time most of the world had seen Portishead, it was with the backing of a full orchestra at the Roseland Ballroom in New York City back in 1997. That performance, immortalized on CD and DVD, was excellent, but also seemed to signal a sort of apex for the traditional Portishead sound. Trip-hop, as a term, was well on its way to becoming a punchline. And though bands like Portishead and Massive Attack have successfully outlived the term, there was still a sense that the next albums would require a more overt evolution towards a different sound.

Fast forward a decade, and the memory of Portishead had loomed larger than the band itself for years. Whispers of new material and a reunion would occasionally surface, only to disappear without a trace or be revealed as a hoax. There was at least one fake album release rumour; Alien, the supposed 2003 return of Portishead, turned out to be the product of another band entirely. When finally Portishead resurfaced last year at All Tomorrow’s Parties—and with new songs, no less—it seemed almost like a hallucination. That’s not actually Beth Gibbons belting out a song I’ve never heard before, is it?

But the performance that will mark Third for me, the way Roseland marks Portishead for so many others, is a live internet performance called Portishead in Portishead. Recorded in Geoff Barrow’s old school, the performance evokes claustrophobia and cool sterility, a marked change from the Roseland performance. So it is with Third, an album that manages the amazing feat of reviving a long-missing band, forever associated with a dated genre they never quite embraced, and makes them sound fresh and current.

The big change is a renewed embrace of dissonance and noise. First single “Machine Gun,” arguably the least successful track on the album, takes this new element to an extreme, stripping everything down to a few harsh percussion samples, a vague electronic tone, and Beth Gibbons’ voice as the only human anchor in a sea of jagged edges and sharp points. Of course, my dislike of “Machine Gun” is personal; you might find it one of the best songs they’ve ever done, admiring its direct approach and clarity of purpose. It’s a purpose-built song intended to evoke a very specific feeling of dread and tension; considering the band’s past forays into cinematic grandeur, “Machine Gun” may actually be one of the tracks that comes closest to Portishead’s old modus operandi, even if the attack comes from a completely different vector than before.

Elsewhere, though, the additional grit works wonders. Most of Third maintains a creeping, sinister tension. “Deep Water” and perhaps “The Rip” are the notable exceptions, two well-placed ballads that offer time to breathe before returning to the relentless claustrophobia of the other tracks. If you’re game for it, Third is one of the best albums of the year. Myself, I find it easier to admire than to love; it requires a certain mood and setting for best results, but when you’re there it’s hard not to marvel at Portishead’s magnificent renaissance.

[review 2008: half-measures and quiet victories]

The saving grace of Seventh Tree is that it’s not another Supernature. That album felt like a second disc of Black Cherry in many ways—it sounded similar, but with less conviction and effort. When it did break from its predecessor, Supernature tended to suffer as a result; throwing away Black Cherry’s sinister cool in favour of a more cabaret-inspired sound was not a good idea, even if that sinister cool had since become cannon fodder for television commercials and CSI scenes involving furry orgies. (I can never hear “Slippage” in quite the same way again.) A third go-around probably would’ve been doomed to repeat the same mistakes more severely.

Seventh Tree starts out strong by running in the opposite direction. “Clowns” and “Little Bird” evoke celestial orbits rather than the seductive underworld of previous releases. They’re also completely free of dancefloor beats, which I think has to take some credit for why the opening salvo is so successful. “Happiness” is a sort of return to the old formula, but it maintains the same general atmosphere nonetheless: the glossy synths and cabaret beat march sprightly to an altogether more upbeat harmony than we’re used to hearing.

It’s when Seventh Tree tries to take a middle road between the electoclash dance pop of Supernature and the new direction from the first few tracks that the results are less convincing. “A & E” and “Caravan Girl” should be the most successful songs on the album, but the beats create inoffensive, middle-of-the-road rhythms that commit the same cardinal sin as Supernature did: they sound like the product of artists who aren’t really trying. “A & E” awakens only during the bridge, but then peters out after a final chorus. Meanwhile, “Caravan Girl” attempts to dazzle with sparkly keyboard effects and a driving beat, but there’s absolutely nothing about the track that inspires any strong feelings. It basically sounds pretty, and not much more.

Goldfrapp’s fourth album is not a failure, exactly, but it feels like one that missed the target. Had Alison and Will stuck to their guns and taken the sound of “Little Bird” and “Clowns” a few steps further, we’d be looking at a great headphones album to sink into. Instead, I’m just waiting to see what Goldfrapp’s next step will be.

Having read as many reviews as I can stand about Goldfrapp’s latest album, I have still not come any closer to figuring out if I actually like it or not. I’ve only heard bits and bobs of Felt Mountain and started listening to Goldfrapp in earnest with 2002’s Black Cherry, so maybe I expect a bit more edge and a bit more weirdness from Alison and Will—fewer sunkissed glamour photo shoots like the ones commissioned for Seventh Tree, and more half-horse electroglam cutouts. When your overriding vision of Goldfrapp involves Alison Goldfrapp on stage at Glastonbury wearing tall leather boots and a horse’s tail, abusing a portable theremin as though she were wearing a strap-on, readjusting to Seventh Tree’s far less carnivalesque atmosphere can take some time.

About that cover: it looks like someone took the same aesthetic from Beth Orton’s Daybreaker and recast it in Sherwood Forest. Somewhat fitting in that Orton took a similar low-key chillout approach to her most recent album, 2006’s Comfort of Strangers, though Orton threw away the electronics completely. Goldfrapp is infinitely more successful in that Seventh Tree remains interesting even in its most serene moments. It even approaches the electro sound perfected on Black Cherry and revisited on Supernature at times, though Alison’s old seductive persona never makes an appearance even on relatively bleep-heavy tracks like “Happiness.”

But for the most part, Seventh Tree remains a bit of a cipher—I’m still on the fence. Goldfrapp’s previous formula had worn thin after just two albums, so at least it’s not an even duller version of Supernature. And so far, the new album has proven difficult to dismiss outright. It just requires a lot of my attention to appreciate some aspects of the album; otherwise critic favourites like “A & E” and “Caravan Girl” go in one ear and out the other to little effect.

I guess it’s kind of an internet joke now that if you are at all associated with anime, there’s a devoted group of followers waiting to worship you. And so it is with Yoko Kanno, a Japanese composer that you’ve probably never heard of unless you love Ghost in the Shell, Escaflowne, Macross Plus, or any of a dizzying array of anime and video game works she’s composed music for, in which case you’ll almost certainly recognize a song or two of hers. Though she’s worked on several non-soundtrack music projects and even played in a couple of pop bands, Kanno continues to be known best for her soundtrack work.

“Cyberbird,” from the second Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex soundtrack, is one of her better known tracks, and served as my introduction to Kanno’s work. Gorgeous strings backed by a propulsive backbeat serve as a launching pad for the angelic female vocals of Gabriela Robin, a frequent Kanno collaborator (or doppelganger, depending on who you talk to). As an aural backdrop to a action-packed helicopter chase scene, it’s an inspired choice. As an original composition, it’s perhaps a bit too inspired.

The second season of Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex, for which “Cyberbird” was composed, first aired in 2004. Back in 1998, Hooverphonic put out their breakthrough second album, Blue Wonder Power Milk. The wonderful lead-off track is a little number called “Battersea,” a spirited drum’n'bass ride through the stratosphere. And if you Google the terms “battersea” and “cyberbird”, like I did on a whim, you’ll find a bunch of people who’ve all noticed the exact same thing I have: the two songs sound similar. Very similar. (I’ve reposted “Battersea” for comparison.)

It turns out Kanno begs, borrows and steals from a lot of sources, at least in the eyes of some; this forum thread lists a number of similarities, inspirations, and possibly outright thefts of other people’s material. I haven’t heard most of the songs mentioned, but at least a few of the similarities check out: “Where Does This Ocean Go?” definitely shares a certain resemblance to Bjork’s “Hyperballad”, and “Face On” sounds like a rock-inflected remix of Craig Armstrong’s “Finding Beauty”.

What’s it all mean? Not sure, exactly—it doesn’t seem like anyone’s bothered to sue her for plagiarism, though some of these cases sound worse than, say, Elastica’s “Connection” versus Wire’s “Three Girl Rhumba.” (Elastica narrowly avoided the courts by settling with Wire’s publishers in that case; they also had to settle a case with the Stranglers for another song on their debut.) And some of the songs on the list don’t seem to match up particularly well to their supposed sources, like “Call Me, Call Me” versus the Verve’s “Bittersweet Symphony.” I suppose the best likely outcome is curious individuals discover the source material upon which some of Kanno’s work is based, and appreciate the new artists they find as a result. In which case, if you liked “Cyberbird,” may I humbly suggest you pick up a couple of Hooverphonic CDs?

Another left-field track: as far as anyone seems to know, Shimpei doesn’t exist except as the creator of this single track. There are a couple of Japanese artists who happen to have the word Shimpei in their name, but I don’t think they’re the same. Whoever Shimpei is, they created this one track for a music rhythm game called Pop’n Music that seems to have only been released in Japan, but must be wildly popular because there are sixteen versions of it so far. Really the only other hint available to you in the music file is the presence of farm animals—a strangely reassuring and recurring theme when it comes to Japanese game music (also see We Love Katamari’s “Scorching Savanna“).

Um, so that’s it for today. I have no idea where to point you if you want more of the same, or more information on the artist, or even how you can get more barnyard beats. If anyone DOES know where to get more barnyard beats, though, I’m thinking we could kickstart this genre, put out a compilation, get the kids riled up. The Saturday-morning cartoon meets utopian grassroots agriculture aesthetic is one that could use more hit singles, no?

Some things simply fall into your lap unbidden, and make an impression even without the benefit of context. “Pitch Control” is one of those songs for me. Perhaps because of the not-too-recent resurgence of teutonic influences in electronic music, “Pitch Control” sounds pretty current to these ears—which is why it was surprising to discover the track was actually produced in 1982 by some of krautrock’s lesser-known godfathers.

Zero Set saw Dieter Moebius and Conny Plank, both associated with seminal krautrock band Cluster, collaborate with drummer Mani Neumeier of the band Guru Guru. Apparently inspired by African music, “Pitch Control” basically sounds like Kraftwerk if you took it out for a couple of drinks and gave it dance lessons. It skitters and skips all over the place, the gears of the musical machinery drenched in luxurious curtains of satin-finish lubricating oil. In short, it’s one of the sexier krautrock songs out there—which, admittedly, probably won’t replace big gay disco anthems or top 40 hip-hop remixes in the clubs any time soon. But if you like a little funk in your groove, this might be a good place to start.

Chiptunes are often so tied to their 8-bit origins that no one ever really tries to separate the two—references to old school video games and MIDI banks run rampant, and pixelated imagery dominates. Japanese trio YMCK are no different; if anything they take the retro-binary aesthetic to an extreme, refashioning their entire identity around pixels.

Thanks to the wonders of the internet, I happened to be watching the live feed from Tokyo FM’s television network one late night at the beginning of the year. Every week or so TFMi airs a countdown of all the upcoming releases in the next couple of months, along with short interviews of the artists. It’s the sort of thing you probably used to be able to watch on MTV or MuchMusic, except that neither of them really bother to pay lip service to anything but the biggest musical acts and thus have no need to maintain anything resembling a complete release calendar, let alone devote half an hour of television a week to one. And even if they did, you’d never, ever, ever see the likes of YMCK on such a program; chiptune music is too cultish and too hard to fit into a prefab mainstream category to bother with. But there it was on Japanese television, complete with quirky 8-bit-esque music video.

My favourite part, though, was the artist interview. In the music video for “Starlight,” each YMCK member (identified by first name only, of course) has a specific duty, one of them being “video.” Having one dude handle all your video duties would be kind of a waste if all you did was produce music videos, so instead YMCK have him concoct the group’s entire public identity. So when it came to the artist interview, Tokyo FM’s audience didn’t see three beautifully-coiffed Japanese popstars; instead they saw three little 8-bit avatars without mouths, just like in the video, only they were talking up their album and acting as though they were real. It was like the Japanese version of Gorillaz, only instead of aggressively disproportional cartoon avatars they had little Super Mario Brothers-esque sprites. YMCK doesn’t actually go as far as to hide themselves at live shows or anything like that, but their virtual manifestations definitely get around.

As for the music, it sounds like what you’d expect—the soundtrack to some imaginary video game. Only in this particular case, it reminds me of a very particular video game: Katamari Damacy. The breathy female vocals, the layered, slightly jazzy music and the relaxed atmosphere sounds like the logical extension of the 8-bit Katamari Damacy theme song someone made a while back. YMCK have only released a single album in the States—debut album Family Music—so tracking down a copy of Family Genesis might be tough for those of us on the wrong side of the Pacific, but if you’re in Washington, D.C. in the next couple of days, the band will be in town to play the Japan! Culture + Hyperculture Festival on the 10th.

[review 2007: odds and ends]

Sometimes you can write entire screeds about an album. And sometimes you can barely write a sentence. For whatever reason, here’s some of the albums this year that had me fresh out of new perspectives.

Luke Vibert – Chicago, Detroit, Redruth. Not bad, but it’s no Wagon Christ, and “God” is annoying as hell. When Vibert gets into a good groove, though, like album closer “Swet,” you forget the bad tracks for a little while.

[review 2007: odds and ends]

Sometimes you can write entire screeds about an album. And sometimes you can barely write a sentence. For whatever reason, here’s some of the albums this year that had me fresh out of new perspectives.

Freezepop – Future Future Future Perfect. Freezepop expand their entourage of electronic instruments on their latest album, which is both a blessing and a curse; getting away from using just the Yamaha qy70 means the sound is richer and slicker than before, but one wonders if the band lost a bit of catchiness with the new setup; there are no bubbly pop numbers like “Stakeout” or “I Am Not Your Gameboy,” and the jury’s still out on whether more club-friendly numbers like “Pop Music is Not a Crime” and “Ninja of Love” are improvements. Whatever the case, though, it’s still a pretty catchy album, and current fans probably won’t be disappointed—especially if you’ve been a fan of the quirky lyrics, which are back in full force.

Massively prolific producer Luke Vibert’s latest release, Chicago, Detroit, Redruth, is only my second taste of his work, the first being an inspired purchase of 2004’s Sorry I Make You Lush under the Wagon Christ banner. In the past, Vibert’s many aliases have also served as neat containers for different modus operandi—Wagon Christ, for example, finds its roots in hip-hop and ambient, while Plug leans towards drum ‘n bass, and that’s just two of his better known identities. The man has suffered from split personalities for more than a decade now, though I’m sure his fan base is suffering through the extended instability rather well, thank you.

Even “Luke Vibert,” ostensibly his real name, is an alias of sorts; acid house and techno is the name of the game for Luke Vibert releases. An interesting choice, given that Vibert’s first love was apparently hip-hop. (Wagon Christ is a good name, though, so let’s not look a gift horse in the mouth.) Chicago, Detroit, Redruth is Vibert’s third album as “himself,” and comparing it to my only other frame of reference, I’d say that the elements I loved about Wagon Christ are still there, but muted—namely the sense of humour, the creative use of samples and the ability to lay down a solid groove. The sampling, in this case, hurts Vibert a bit—”God” is a decent chillout track that’s completely overwhelmed by loud and, frankly, annoying vocal samples. Luckily we get “Breakbeat Metal Music” and a machine MC to pick up the slack.

While we don’t get anything quite as uplifting as “Shadows” or outright goofy as “The Funnies,” the two tendencies fuse together to give us opener “Comfycozy,” a sprightly opener that doesn’t much resemble the rest of the album’s darker territory. Luckily, Vibert does remember to bring the solid beats, especially with the one-two closing punch of “Chicago, Detroit, Redruth” and “Swet.” Sorry I Make You Lush was good enough to get me to consider buying more of Vibert’s work; Chicago, Detroit, Redruth isn’t quite good enough to convince me I made the right decision, but I probably wouldn’t turn down the chance to buy his next major release. Or, I guess, his fifth next major release, since I’ve probably missed about five between 2004 and now.