Ricardo Villalobos, "Fizheuer Zieheuer"

Villalobos has been routinely pumping out ten-minute tracks and remixes right from the beginning of his career, so it was only a matter of time before he started putting out four track "albums" . But why stop there? After all, the logical conclusion to these inflating track lengths is to produce a one track "album" ... hence, he gives us the 37-minute "Fizheuer Zieheuer".

This track doesn't have much to say that we didn't already hear more than ten years ago from Basic Channel's "Octagon/Octaedre" and especially BC's "Phylyps Trak II (side B)". He plays around a little more with delay, echo, and irregular, syncopated percussion (the latter of these being very similar to the tricks he used on "Ichso") but I mainly find myself longing for another thirty minutes of those BC records rather than multiple listens to the whole of "Fizheuer Zieheuer".

It's overly long for the sake of being overly long, not because it needs to be. It makes for remarkable listening for the first fifteen minutes (all of side A) but the saturation point comes a few minutes into side B, after which it becomes something of a curiousity, i.e. "how long does he really want to continue like this?" That said, this little experiment is rewarding enough that I won't mind if Villalobos releases nothing other than 40-minute tracks for the rest of his career. Sooner or later he'll hit upon an uberclassic, where every single second of it is essential.

Compression Triumphs

I recently started reading up on the issue of compression in modern audio recordings/remasterings. Now that my mind is on the subject, it's been informing nearly all the music I've been listening to lately. I always knew about the concept of compression, even though I didn't know it by name -- noticing that some albums sound very loud, noticing that certain recordings could be grating on my ears (and not in a "dense" way, i.e. the new Flaming Lips album vs, say, peak era shoegazing albums), mentally noting how some artists sounded louder than their musical style would warrant (hello, KEANE). I've been asking myself "does this sound compressed?" no matter if I'm hearing the song for the first time or the 50th time. I've been marvelling at the fantastic sound on Audion's records, particularly his newest EP "Mouth To Mouth", where you can easily hear quiet clicks and purrs way down in the mix, even on top of the cavernous beats that anchor the EP's two tracks. I'm remembering the stories about how Basic Channel insisted on mastering their vinyl at special facilities, and how much better those recordings sound on vinyl compared to CD. I remember being amazed at the power of the first two Oasis records, decibel-wise, and my dislike for Verve's "A Northern Soul" (also produced by Owen Morris) because it sounded so much like "(What's the Story) Morning Glory?", in dramatic contrast to their gentler, more atmospheric debut.

I recommend articles from Austin360, Stylus, and Wikipedia as an introduction to the subject. But all those articles are quck to point out that compression isn't always a bad thing. Full-on tracks that require almost zero subtlety are likely improved by sloppy, slap-in-the-face compression. Audion's "Mouth To Mouth" EP demands for it's gentler, percussive elements to heard amongst the beats, particularly when the volume is turned up. Other tracks probably wouldn't benefit at all from such subtlety ...

Ladytron, "Destroy Everything You Touch". It's hard to sit through the entire "Witching Hour" album in one sitting (you know why), but this track, with it's stomping beats, wild sirens, and caveman lyrics (perfect for shouting over the din) is just about perfect the way it is.

Depeche Mode, "John the Revelator". It builds up in layers, and Dave Gahan's voice pierces into the red from the very start. By the time the choir joins in during the chorus, there isn't anywhere in the mix left to put them. All the song's vocals feature the collective enunciation of a swarm of bees from this point onward, but who cares? It's Depeche Mode rocking the "Numbers" beat and blowing your speakers apart in the process.

Roots Manuva, "Chin High". All of the "Awfully Deep" album has been banned from my iPod until I figure out how to optimize its volume levelling capabilities. Roots Manuva's baritone does manage to stand out quite clearly, but otherwise the whole album is like one big, thudding bassline and that's OK because they're the best parts of RM albums. "Chin High" adds a bunch of clanking in order to increase the assault on the ears.

Charlotte Gainsbourg, "5 55"

Songs from this album have been cycling through my iPod, rubbing shoulders with songs by famous actress (and occasional singer) Charlotte's even more famous father. When one of her songs comes up on shuffle, I usually find myself clamouring through my short-term memory, trying to recall which early 70's album I chose to upload to my iPod. Since the early 70's are pretty much a black hole as far as my music collection goes, my confusion tends to last until her voice appears in the song. So she's got the authenticity thing downpat, effortlessly apeing the sweeping exotica of albums such as "Histoire de Melody Nelson". The string arrangements are highly reliable ear-candy, they practically write themselves. Elsewhere, she slips easily between English and French lyrics, and even makes forays into Travis-esque grandma-indie ("The Song That We Sing" is a dead ringer for "Flowers in the Window"). Her breathy, half-bored, half-sex kitten vocals sound completely effortless, you get the feeling that she could churn them out all day long without breaking a sweat.

On the other hand, the lack of variety in her singing style likely indicates that she did spend many days in the studio, purring out the same semi-spoken lines on song after song. You get the cynical feeling that if she simply wanted to sing on autopilot while recreating the sounds of her father's most fertile period, then why bother in the first place? Does such an album need to exist? So let's put all that baggage aside and judge the album more straightforwardly -- are the tunes any good? Fortunately, many of them are. In particular, the title track is as good as anything Serge did in that style circa "Melody Nelson". The album's easygoing, pastoral feel isn't too far from what Rachel Goswell was aiming for on her dreadfully boring (save for one track, "Coastline", which is several shades of awesome) solo record "Waves Are Universal". Over the course of forty minutes, the album's tranquility gradually turns it into easily ignorable background music, sweet and pleasant but nothing too notable overall. A mini-album might have been a better idea, either that, or let the listener beware: only listen to three or four tracks at a time, lest you start to forget that the album is even playing.

The many talents of Paris Hilton

I formed an opinion on this record (more or less) over a month ago, but decided to wait until I heard the actual music before writing something up. I figured I owed it to myself to hear the album first, as a matter of intellectual honesty. A lot of reviewers probably didn't give this album that chance, for instance, all the jokes in this review were probably written before the "play" button was pressed.

I don't have much to say about the album that hasn't already been said. It's perfectly passable music. It's a vehicle for the talents of its producer (Scott Storch) far more so than it is for Paris herself, who is the easily-replaceable window dressing of the record. It's compressed as all hell. All the same tricks that are used to sweeten Britney Spears' vocals (and those of a million other singers) are in full effect -- swarming background vocals, double tracking, liberal use of whispering and purring, etc.

Paris' album might represent the apex of the ongoing popism debates. She's the latest in a line of "artists" who made an album for the teen-oriented market, not for any reason in particular but only because she could (Lohan, Duff et al). The debate is only mildly interesting to me, discussions such as this one are notable for confirming everyone's preconceived opinions about Paris than for any truly new criticism (i.e. every "Paris" review in a nutshell, as I already pointed out). Jerry the Nipper's comment stands out though, and I fully agree with it. Tracks like "Turn It Up" come across as silly as Paris implores you to muse about getting down with her and what might happen when her clothes come off -- we already know what happens, we've all seen the famous video, thank you. As JtN states (and I haven't read his complete Uncut review), Paris' wealth is her most noteworthy asset, not her body. A sassy, confident, "like me or not, but I can buy you if I want" Material Girl for the 00's would have made for a far more appealing and unique record.

Still, the most unappealing thing about "Paris" (besides, perhaps, sticking her on a reggae track -- "Stars Are Blind" and releasing it as a single, who could have possibly thought this was a good idea?) is that I'm completely unconvinced that Paris Hilton gives a flying fuck about music. I can't imagine her having a taste in music beyond what her personal assistants buy for her or the songs played in the clubs that her publicists tell her she should be seen at. She released an album because she has the money to hire whoever she wants to write/produce a good record and let her sing along with it. Knowing all these things ruins most of the fun for me. Now hang on, I know the counter-arguments. Lots of people have released superficial novelty/comedy albums just for the money. Still, William Hung cares about music more than Paris Hilton does. Lots of bands hated each others guts, half-assed it in the recording studio, and still implored us to spend money on their product. If those bands were able to harness their full talents on earlier albums, or if I have reason to believe that they'll get their act together on subsequent albums (together or solo) then I have more time for them than I do for Paris Hilton.

Now watch me write something about Charlotte Gainsbourg's new album while completely ignoring everything I wrote in this post ...

Peeking In on Techno and DJ's

Philip Sherburne's latest "Month In Techno" column for Pitchfork is more of his typical brilliance -- new trends and contextual techno history, profoundly readable for both novices and experts, all in less than 2000 words. Reading his columns and blog posts actually makes me a bit sad because I come to realize how far I've receded from the contemporary techno scene. The producers fled Toronto for friendlier environments (Montreal, Berlin), the availability of good vinyl naturally started decreasing (as did my disposable income, although I can't claim that these two things are related) (I never bought enough vinyl for any correlation to exist), good parties and tolerable crowds became ever more scarce. There is absolutely no replacement for flipping through vinyl in shops, it's the musical equivalent of learning a new language by immersing yourself among speakers of that language. It's also the best possible way to keep up to speed with new releases and new trends.

I can comfort myself with the notion that even though I am spiralling out of date, it's mitigated by how far ahead of my time I used to be. For the most part, my vinyl purchases were centred on the hardest, densest tracks (e.g. Cari Lekebusch, Petar Dundov, Kai Randy Michel), and stripped-down, plinky tracks (e.g. Richie Hawtin's m_nus-era stuff, the audio.nl label, Thomas Brinkmann). The latter group now encompass the world-beating "minimal" tag, but I always thought of the former group as minimal as well. Minimal, to me, didn't mean "quiet" or "not banging", it meant "very little variation".

However, when practicing my spinning, I easily became restless. I didn't like to play any one track for too long, after a couple of minutes I started itching to hear something else. I favoured long mixes between tracks, beatmatching them for two or three minutes if possible, and playing around with filters and effects to combine elements of the tracks in real time. I quickly discovered the problem with my style of choice -- it was damn hard work. I'd race through 15-20 tracks each hour. The continuing need to cue up and segue into the next track meant there was very little time for standing back and admiring whatever song I was playing at that moment. In my head, I wanted to hear all twenty minutes of Starfish Pool's "Offday", but my hands wouldn't listen. Considering I cut my electronic music teeth on epic ambient music, "mixing" tracks together using tape recorders, you'd think I'd have calmed down and let the music stretch out a bit more.

I remember watching Mutek founder Alain Mongeau DJ in the opening slot on the festival's final night (I think it was in 2002), he was playing every record from groove to groove, with tight (but simple) segues between them. Granted, this was a 9PM set and hardly anybody had showed up yet, so it's not like he needed to pull out all the stops and impress people. But was his style indicative of a lack of skill, i.e. is that how he played because that's all he was capable of doing? Or was he a little bit ahead of his time? Michael Mayer plays tracks nearly from start to finish, and his Immer and Fabric mixes are considered classics. Mayer has helped bring the club DJ closer in style to the radio DJ, playing songs you actually know rather than being an obsessive trainspotter whose cred is based around digging up the most obscure records that nobody could possibly recognize. This attitude (I hesitate to call it a "problem" because I'm not sure that it actually was one) was very common in techno during the 1990s, and it was perfectly suited to Jeff Mills' "techno gangbang" sets (dozens of tracks per hour, no time to think about song recognition) and Richie Hawtin's banging, percussive marathons (stuffed full of white labels). As Sherburne points out, the "stretched out" style leaves more room for the tracks and clubgoers to breathe, but it also conserves the DJ's energies. So which is the chicken and which is the egg? Were DJ's becoming less skilled, thus leading to longer and longer parties featuring fewer and fewer tracks, or are knowledgeable partygoers demanding epic sets with more proper hits and forcing the DJ's to adapt to these wants?

Too many issues here ... "hard techno" isn't dead, at least not in Berlin. Otherwise, one could simplistically dismiss all this as a matter of fans' tastes changing -- people are tired of hard stuff, they want less banging "minimal" tracks, along with the DJ styles, drugs, hours, etc. that are conducive to them. I think there's more to it than that. Also, the notion of "DJ's becoming less skilled" is a bit too harsh, it smacks of virtuoso snobbery. You know the kind -- if you can't play 20-minute guitar solos in 15/8 time, then you aren't playing anything worth listening to. Spinning records can be sweaty, backbreaking work (as I discovered) and there's no reason why this absolutely must be the case (which I should have realized back then).

Annals of the Completely Unneccessary (Part One in an Infinite Part Series): Westlife

Exclusive! Live! Performance!! Their new single, tonight, on the Miss World 2006 telecast!

In fact, they got to perform two songs, meaning that in total, they were onstage for roughly twice as much time as the finalists in this pageant. But that's another matter, because thanks to the efforts of boy band svengali Louis Walsh (conveniently one of the pageant judges) their hard work and boundless popularity, we're treated to a world premiere performance of their new single, "The Rose".

Was the world clamouring for a cover of "The Rose"? Even the Backstreet Boys rocked out a bit on their most recent album, getting all gritty and dusty in the video for "Incomplete". But "The Rose"? Will the British public ever grow tired of shmaltzy ballads covered by boy bands? What's their next single, "Unchained Melody"? Oh hang on, Boyzone already went there in 1999, but I think there's a seven-year statute of limitations on this sort of thing. Once seven years have passed, pillage away. BTW, Westlife aren't looking so boyish these days, I suppose that's what happens when real life, i.e. kids, marriage, and coming out of the closet entrenches on a career of selling aural molasses to ten year old girls.

Yeah, their cover of "Mandy" was one of my favourite singles of 2003 ... what about it?

I'd be remiss if I didn't mention Robin Gibb's sloppy performance at the very end of the show, singing "Jive Talkin'" as the credits rolled and the girls tried to get down and party in the most ladylike way possible. The sight of Gibb (easily the shortest person on stage), surrounded by international beauties, looking extremely distracted, warbling in and out of tune and rhythm, brought obvious comparisons to the man, the myth, the legend, Michael Sandecki -- far more so than any ressemblance to a member of a legendary chart-topping band (but let's face it, Robin Gibb is as relevant to the Bee Gees as the non-Joe Perry/Stephen Tyler members of Aerosmith).

Random Play Disasters (Part One in an Infinite Part Series): The Art of Noise

The iPod era is just the latest chapter in my never-ending fascination with random play. Lately, I haven't even been queuing up entire albums, preferring to sample just a few songs from them instead. But there are a lot of albums (or more commonly, artists) that defy the random play format, usually because some or most of the tracks flow together (Spiritualized, Tim Hecker, many more).

The Art of Noise recently released a four-CD box set of material from their time on the ZTT label from 1983-1985, entitled "And What Have You Done With My Body, God?". I have been a huge fan of this band since high school, so naturally I was excited about the prospect of such a collection. Although their most well-known tracks all stem from this period ("Moments In Love", "Beatbox", "Close To The Edit", all of which have been sampled more than just about any songs from the past twenty years or so -- if you're not sure if you've ever heard these songs, don't worry, you probably have), they arguably reached their prime during the China Records era that followed. It was a more prolific time for the band, for one thing, stuffed with experimental oddities ("Instruments of Darkness", "Opus 4"), proto-ambient ("Camilla"), and Yello-ish minor chart hits ("Paranoimia", "Kiss"). "(Who's Afraid of) The Art of Noise" is their most fascinating, twisted, and iconic album by far, but 1990's "The Ambient Collection" (a pseudo-remixed collection assembled and sequenced by Youth) is their best record. Long before "ambient" became a buzzword, this was a landmark chillout album filled with years worth of album tracks that were eons ahead of their time, anticipating just about every piece of downtempo dance music released during the 90's. I wore out my cassette during 1990, listening to it for hours upon end, second only to the Stone Roses debut (yes, ahead of Depeche Mode's "Violator", which I didn't even own until late 1991, but that's another story).

The problem occurred when I put this box set -- unheard -- on random play with a bunch of other stuff. One sitting later, I'd heard maybe a quarter of the total set but was completely baffled as to what I had or hadn't already heard, thereby complicating subsequent listening sessions. This is what happens when a band throws six or eight versions of "Beatbox" onto a box set. Although the concept of a "Pet Sounds" Box for the AON makes for an interesting prospect, I have to question whether anybody (even this band's most devoted fans) (even ANY band's most devoted fans) needs to hear the same four or five tracks being jammed out over and over and over again. I'm lost as to which versions are the best ones, and the working/alternate titles don't help matters.

Of course, it's always wonderful to revisit this stuff, and by putting the whole box on random play for about 45 minutes, you too can create your very own alternate mix of "(Who's Afraid Of) The Art of Noise" -- one of a kind, every time! There are plenty of previously unheard gems, such as "Diversions 3", a greasy, funky take on "Beatbox" that distinguishes itself from the other versions by stripping away nearly all elements of the track other the backbeat. Ditto "Close (To Being Compiled), which does the same to "Close (To the Edit)". The title track and "The Long Hello" pile even more drama onto their source track "How To Kill", adding church organs and choirs to the heartbreaking and unsettling original. A twenty minute version of "Close (To the Edit)", charmingly entitled "That Was Close [Diversion Eight / Diversion Two / Closest / Close-Up / Close (To The Edit) / Closed]", somehow flies right by, psychedelically bumping and grinding its way through several linked variations on the original song.

All in all, there's plenty to like here -- a little too much, in fact. Consume in rationed doses!

Tim Hecker, "Harmony In Ultraviolet"

Tim Hecker likes to stick to a formula. Sometimes that's shorthand for "stuck in a rut" but this particular rut (whoops, I'm not calling it that) is one that I never get tired of. Sure, he broke from the formula on my favourite release of his, "My Love Is Rotten To the Core", i.e. the sound of hair metal riffs shattered into a thousand pieces, swept up, and reassembled hastily (and sloppily). The typical formula rarely fails to awe me with its beauty, in which he goes from sparkly, fuzzed-out noise (perfect for stargazing) to darker, fuzzed-out noise (perfect for stargazing ... IN HELL). It's fascinating how those dark endings just keep getting darker with each new album. This time around, it seems as though Hecker's been listening to the likes of Sunn0))), judging by the quaking, rumbling, bass-heavy distorted tones that fill up the latter third of "Harmony In Ultraviolet". This album is typically great for Hecker, but here's hoping for something a little different next time. My personal choice: an entire album of pitch black darkness, featuring one long, slowly shifting deathdrone piece with perhaps a slight peek of happiness to alleviate the mood at the very end.

Strange voices in my head

It had been a while since I'd heard REM's "Automatic For the People", but three songs into the album I could effortlessly remember the main reasons why I love(d) it so much. Sometimes you can look at just one photograph taken during a two-week vacation, and even though you haven't looked at or thought about that picture for months, you suddenly remember everything you did that day, what you did immediately before and immediately after it was taken, or what you were thinking about that compelled you to make that goofy face. I think that's the mark of a fun, memorable vacation.

I never thought much of Michael Stipe as a vocalist before this album came out, to me he was always the nasally geek from "Superman" and "Shiny Happy People". I was awed to hear his voice carry nearly all of "AFTP", dominating and conducting nearly every track like few albums I've heard before or since. Make no mistake about it -- Stipe's weathered, gravelly voice is the lead instrument throughout the record, making 100X more of an impact than any guitar lick or bassline on every one of its twelve tracks. Fourteen years on, all this jumps out at me immediately, far removed from the spectre of grunge-era seriousness (when for a split second, it seemed as though mopey, depressing albums might be 10M sellers on a routine basis) and all the "REM aren't touring, ergo, Michael Stipe has AIDS" faux-poignancy rumours that made headlines at the time.

In a similar way, I found it easy to write off Daniel Johnston's voice as a gimmicky curiosity. He was the guy who sang the demos that other artists would polish up and sing properly. Johnston sings like a twelve year old pubescent kid, so there's a sizeable adjustment period when first hearing him, during which his voice progressively grates less and less. It's one thing to hum along to his pained thoughts about love, but learning something about love from Daniel Johnston is another thing entirely. He had to complicate matters by writing and singing one of the most beautiful love songs ever. "True Love Will Find You In the End" neatly sums up most of what you need to know about the subject (in less than two minutes, amazingly enough) by confidently assuring you that Your Special Someone needs you as much as you need them, so get off your ass and go find that person before it's too late. A song with such simple, childlike words could only be sung by someone with a simple, childlike voice; which is why the cover versions (e.g. Spectrum) get it completely wrong. Johnston's characteristically sloppy musicianship is entirely appropriate here, because what is the search for true love if not sloppy, disorienting, and occasionally fruitless?

A moment of clarity with Flowchart's "Cumulus Mood Twang"

Somehow I managed to not listen to this album for about six weeks, probably since my last plane ride. It is far and away the best Flowchart album, nestled gently between the Stereolab mimicry of "Multi-Personality Tabletop Vacation" and the semi-deep house junk they'd do later on. The album's first few tracks play around with some two-dollar beats (they upgraded them to more expensive models on later records, to detrimental effect) while adding all the coos and "aaahh"s and "whoa"s you can handle. But in the middle, it makes its push into greatness by settling into a woozy sort of eazy listening shoegaze (in the Tim Hecker/M83 stargazing sense of the word, not in the decibel-crunching guitar attack sense. It peaks, as all albums should, in its final 20 minutes, starting with "Rust a la Glare", a kind of Fila Brazilia/Jimpster late-90's downtempo-d'n'b thing filled with flutes and shit, and yes, you have to namedrop when talking about Flowchart because all their stuff is so ridiculously derivative but it WORKS, in this case spectacularly. The final two tracks, "Icicles and Clipboards" and its intro (more or less) "Grain of Apology", might as well have been titled "To Here Knows When Part II" because that's obviously what they're trying to recreate+remodel, and it's eight minutes of foggy beauty, of holding hands in the rain, of not worrying about anything, and it has to be one of the best dozen or so album closers ever.

Near the end of "Rust a la Glare", at around 8:30 AM on Monday morning, I realized that we have the tendency to be angry at people or upset with them when they don't act the way you want or expect. Sometimes these feelings last for one day and are quickly forgotten (because you never see that person again) and sometimes they last for weeks or months or years. There are people in Israel that I've only known for a few weeks and they're wonderful guys and gals but part of me is already starting to resent them for things they have or haven't done (things that don't necessarily have anything to do with me). And for what? For stupid reasons, that's what.

I feel better now. This music is good for that.