UKULA Music

October 2, Toronto: Kool Haus

“You be careful. People in masks cannot be trusted.”
-From The Princess Bride.

Everyone in Gotham wants to see Batman’s face. No one in Metropolis wants to see Superman’s face. Batman’s way cooler than Superman. That said, mask wearers aren’t always cooler than non-wearers (see Jason Vs. Freddy). Regardless, the moral to the above anecdote: if you wear a mask, people want to see your face (I think). Regardless, The Knife’s Karin Dreijer Andersson (aka Fever Ray) has temporarily eschewed masks to have cake and eat it too (or something like that). Incidentally, it’s hard to eat cake while you’re wearing a mask. (Well, depending on the mask.)

You can probably see Andersson’s face at Fever Ray’s Kool Haus gig on Friday, October 2nd. Will there be superheroes? Probably not. Still, you can’t dance to do-good-ing. You can definitely dance to Fever Ray’s dark, ethereal, atmo-drudge. Tangentially, when I grow up I want to wear a mask but not in that creepy we-need-a-safe-word way. More like The Knife.

Bonus: you can stalk UKULA; though, we’ll definitely be wearing masks. Good luck.

Post-script: I’m totally sober.

September 30th, 2009 | Tags: Batman, Fever Ray, Kool Haus, Superman, the Knife, Toronto | Category: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

August 24, London:. John Cazale: 1935 – 1978.

Words By Scott Tavener Photo By Lucia Graca

I racked my brain to find a fancy epigraph for this piece. I wanted a quote from The Deer Hunter (I know, it’s the obvious mov(i)e). I could remember De Niro and Walken – of course – but couldn’t pull a line from the recesses of my Labatt 50-addled mind. And then I came across John Cazale.

Cazale played Fredo in The Godfather and its sequels. He was also in The Conversation, Dog Day Afternoon, and The Deer Hunter. He finished shooting his scenes for the latter and promptly died. He was dating Meryl Streep at the time. To summarize: every flick Cazale was in was legendary and he almost married Meryl Streep (did I mention that?). Oh, and he was good friends with Al Pacino.

Few knew how deeply Cazale’s influence permeated. The man helped shape the tenor of a handful of classic 1970s films and he ran with a cadre of megastars. Still, he himself never became a household name. Back to The Deer Hunter: every one remembers De Niro, Walken, and Streep, but why does Cazale keep falling through the cracks? Or does he?

During my recent (circa twenty minutes ago) Cazale obsession, I stumbled upon a short documentary called I Knew It Was You: Rediscovering John Cazale which features actors like Gene Hackman, Richard Dreyfuss, Sam Rockwell, and Pacino, De Niro, and Streep, presumably talking about how great Cazale was. So, clearly, some people remember him, notably a group of talented actors.

Similarly, a lot of bands and other musical intelligentsia name-check Deerhunter (ta da). Like Cazale, who honed his chops in New York theatre, Deerhunter toiled near the limelight, playing countless support gigs and thriving in club slots. Luckily, unlike Cazale, the band didn’t die while standing on the edge of widespread adoration. Instead, it continued to tour, playing bigger and bigger venues, and eventually arriving at London’s stately Koko. The sticky-floor venues are evidently behind the band. It doesn’t hurt that it now has a stable of stadium-ready tunes (dress for the job you want, yada, yada…).

Occasional equipment glitches and ill-advised patter aside, Deerhunter played a frequently compelling, often stirring, and impressively diverse Koko set. “Saved By Old Times” kicked off with a dirty-ass blues riff. “Never Stops” jaunted with a doo-wop/early (aka good) Weezer influence. Writ large, “Nothing Ever Happened” evoked Sabbath. “Little Kids” showcased the power of repetition, dragging the chorus up a spaced-out sonic mountain. And “Rainwater Cassette Exchange” built suspense like an indie rock Alfred Hitchcock. The crowd looked like a well-dressed still life, but – and I’ll be the first to admit this – it’s hard to move in jeans that require oil to squeeze in to.

Dues paid and, more importantly, alive (sorry, Cazale), Deerhunter could explode (in the good way, not like Walken’s head at the end of The Deer Hunter (sorry, did I just ruin that for you?)).

September 1st, 2009 | Tags: Deerhunter, John Cazale, Koko, London, Meryl Streep | Category: Live | Leave a comment

August 22, Brighton: Sade and the Sea.

Words By Scott Tavener Photo By Lucia Graca

Like Sade and candlelight, the sea sets the mood, making almost anything aural instantly fulfilling. In that vein, At the Edge of the Sea’s curatorial team, David Gedge et al, aka The Wedding Present, took a disparate roster of acts and a pretty locale and turned the result into a one-day love fest fittingly highlighted by the hosts’ closing performance.

“Long walks on the beach.” Yup, the sentence reeks of triteness but waterfront strolls still make everything dreamy. At the Edge of the Sea’s halcyon title befit its tranquil milieu. Set in Brighton’s fantastically dive-y, darkly lit Concorde 2, the all-day shindig (yeah, I’m writing like a 1950s Levittown denizen) ended in a comber of man-hugs and male shirtless-ness.

Sun streamed through Jack Daniels emblazoned banners, waves crashed on the nearby pebbles, and beers (I think) made the floor sticky. Pristine and grubby touches comingled nicely. And The Wedding Present fused dirty guitars with Mr. Gedge’s crystalline, Robert Pollard-evoking vocals to create a paradoxically grimy and beautiful mix.

With the so-apropos it got a bit chilly “At the Edge of the Sea,” the band strutted out of the gate. Though the rhythm section carried the leadoff, it was Mr. Gedge, affable and quick-witted throughout, that made the gig memorable.

With over a decade of records to draw on, The Wedding Present incorporated a bevy of influences, from the Smiths (“Bewitched”) and the Cure (“Brassneck”) to a mélange of early punk acts (“Don’t Talk, Just Kiss”). Guitars alternated from buoyant (“Give My Love to Kevin”) to distorted (“Ringway to Seatac”) with dashes of post-punk bass lines thrown in for good measure.

Waves of muscular guitars eventually gave way to temporary tenderness via slow burner, “Model, Actress, Whatever,” which built gently and climaxed with crushing drums. After-glow closer, “Bewitched,” peeled off drunkards’ t-shirts and concluded with a pulsating, massive, fake-out coda. It was a sweaty affair, but, you know, in a romantic way.

August 27th, 2009 | Tags: At the Edge of the Sea, Brighton, Concorde 2, David Gedge, The Wedding Present | Category: Live | Leave a comment

August 20, London: What’s in a Room?

Words By Scott Tavener Photo By Lucia Graca

Animal Collective’s journey from horn-rimmed-glasses pack favourite to mainstream staple was unlikely. A collection of critically fawned-over experimental albums, a reputation for furry masks, and an insistence on continuous-song shows made the band a cool-cred allusion par excellence yet it hardly suited it for regular radio play. The three/sometimes four-piece seemed destined to forever remain the stuff of record-store-banter fellatio.

And then, over its past two LPs, Animal Collective became increasingly affable. Penultimate record, Strawberry Jam put a new emphasis on lyrics (they actually made some sense) and, gasp, hooks (see “Fireworks,” “For Reverend Green,” etc.) and most recent disc, Merriweather Post Pavilion, exponentially expanded upon the formula (see “My Girls,” “Summertime Clothes,” etc.). Renown followed, beginning in the typical indie infrastructure and then spreading outside normal bounds. Now, Animal Collective can fill Brixton Academy. That isn’t necessarily a good thing.

Despite what certain musos would have you believe, milieu matters to musical perception; for instance: “it’s a headphones record” or “it’s better on a car stereo.” You’ve heard both of those oft-repeated sentiments – in some form or another – countless times. Some records are great on an undergrad syllabus while others require stadium speakers. True, malleability is important. It’s nice to produce a record that’s good at a debutant cocktail party and in a pool hall. Despite large-scale embracement, the oft-fantastic Merriweather Post Pavilion is not a chameleonic effort.

Visually, Animal Collective gigs – especially in the post-masks days – are the musical equivalent of televised pinball: all lights and tiny movements. Symbiotically, the sound(s) are nuanced and opaque like a progressive symphony of blips. At the outset of Thursday’s gig, the band, stationed behind colourfully-lit white sheets, shimmied admirably, but the mix betrayed them. Rendering vocals shrill, the sound was initially dog-whistle high and standoffish.

A much-needed rhythm section (albeit, of the quasi variety) eventually arrived, thumping thunderously through de facto hit, “My Girls,” and righting the listing sound. From there, micro-managed bleeps, a cannon of a bass drum, and scattered Bone Thug-N-Harmony-indebted harmonies mixed things up. Sonic references ran a varied gamut, from Run DMC to the Beach Boys. Bonafide sing-along, “Summertime Clothes” took its Swine Flu-infectious vocal hook and, thankfully, burned/repeated it into the ground, only stepping back for massive, heavy metal-style guitar and rapid-fire noise bookends.

Writ large and tossed into a big sonic space, the singles shone. Still, Animal Collective isn’t Buddy Holly: hooks are in short supply. Given such spacious confines, subtle shading disappears into cracks and a feast of blips. While intellectually impressive the shtick eventually became exigent. And that’s where the show ultimately faltered. Excitement dwindled as the setlist progressed. Peaks still arrived but slowed in frequency and size. The lights were nice, though. Oh, and Gang Gang Dance killed in an opening slot.

August 26th, 2009 | Tags: Animal Collective, Brixton Academy, Gang Gang Dance, London | Category: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

August 19, London: Backpacks, T-Shirts, and “Casey at the Bat.”

Words By Scott Tavener Photo Courtesy of Vagrant Records

Preface
Throughout the suburbs, throughout the mid-1990s, in bedrooms, rec centres and church basements, punk and hardcore morphed into a new genre based on raw, guitar-prominent recordings with oft-romantic/sentimental lyrics. Yelling is a lyrical panacea. Regardless of lyrics’ syrupiness, a good scream makes them palatable. Besides, pained words should be shouted instead of moped over.

The new movement had punk’s DIY element and hardcore’s earnestness. It also had an extra few chords and mostly audible words. Arguably begun by Rites of Spring, it spread throughout much of North America, finding bases in the American Midwest and in other mostly non-urban areas.

Only a handful of these bands would gain mainstream traction but many of their warped, unintended progeny would end up on magazine covers and on stadium stages, name-checking them in the process. While bands like Sunny Day Real Estate, Braid, and The Get Up Kids never achieved the commercial success that their pseudo-heirs did, they did leave a marked influence on a segment of 1990s indie fans.

In the ensuing years, these bands would draw the ire of indie press in a comber of backlash. Said combos may not have broken many musical molds yet their novel mélange of self-aware, introspective lyrics and walls of distorted guitars (tuned down half a step, typically) resonated deeply, forming an indelible impression on many a teenager, even certain supposedly savvy, eventual music journalists. What follows is a case in point.

Brampton: Spring, 1998
Local-band journeyman and record store guru, Gee, queries, “what are you listening to these days?” Hopefully I said something cool (I can’t recall and I doubt it). Whatever my response, it leads him to the G section of the racks where he retrieves The Get Up Kids’ debut LP, Four Minute Mile. He escorts me to the listening post, plugs the disc into the compact disc player (remember those?) and hits “play.” Under a deluge of four-chord guitars, singers Matt Pryor and Jim Suptic yell into the dense sonic space, singing about regrets and longings. By the end of track two (“Don’t Hate Me”) I am counting out my cash at the till.
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August 21st, 2009 | Tags: Electric Ballroom, London, The Get Up Kids | Category: Feature, Live | Leave a comment

August 16, London: Crystal Sweat Box (aka One Topical Allusion and One Made-Up Word).

Words By Scott Tavener Photo By Lucia Graca
Lately supplanted by new gaze acts (see The Pains of Being Pure at Heart, Vivian Girls, etc.), post-post-punk (aka post punk revival) has lessened its grip on indie-dome. Lately supplanted by “Crystal” (see Crystal Antlers, Crystal Castles, etc.), “Wolf” (see Wolf Parade, AIDS Wolf, We are Wolves, etc.) has lessened its grip on indie-band nomenclature. Brooklyn five-piece, Crystal Stilts, brings together many of the above, albeit leaving the lupine aspect out, lessening its grip on nothing, and creating a strangely unique finished project.

Relocated from the Relentless Garage’s main level to its upstairs sweat box, Crystal Stilts’ Sunday night set started off inauspiciously with technical problems and douche-chill inducing stage patter. And then the backward-looking, ADD combo played a well-honed, perspiratory short-distance race.

As the intro paragraph suggested, Crystal Stilts’ constituent parts aren’t particularly original though there is a lot going on. Like a 48-bird roast, the sheer number and array of influences make the finished product ironically novel. The Fall, Ride, The Stooges, The Strokes, and a selection of ‘60s radio pop form the basic sonic template. From there the layout simplifies, mixing the above with Brad Hargett’s smoky, laissez-faire vocals (think Jim Morrison on a healthy dose of Ambien), occasional keys, and punchy guitars. (I told you there is a lot going on.)

Throughout the brief show, precise guitar lines and a He-Man-strong rhythm section exuded lichen-like symbiosis, rising above the constraints of a licked-candy-cane sticky room. Like a dusty suit (see Charlie Chaplin), the gig was refined yet shambolic, giving it an amiable polish. Swirling guitars, rodeo indie, and Ennio Morricone all coexisted peacefully.

Burning through familiar cuts and an obligatory new selection, Crystal Stilts managed to cram over a dozen tracks and an encore into under an hour of stage time (take that, Usain Bolt) without rushing (thank the aforementioned laissez-faire vocals). And, most impressively, it stayed sheveled (aka not disheveled) the entire time.

August 18th, 2009 | Tags: Crystal Stilts, London, Usain Bolt | Category: Live | Leave a comment

Fuck Frats.

Words By Lucas Atkin and Johnny Siera Photo By Lucia Graca

Lately, UKULA has fawned over The [motherfucking] DeathSet, giving out kudos for a London gig and a Secret Garden slot. Following the former, Lucas Atkin caught up with The DeathSet front-man, Johnny Siera, to discuss expat life, Southend girls, and cricket…sort of.

UKULA: What a set; I’m still sweating. How do you keep up that level of intensity?

JOHNNY: You and me alike; I don’t really know, to be honest. We just try to write songs that we would have fun listening to. Recently we’ve had to start having a break between songs to let everyone else have a breather.

UKULA: Believe me, we’re grateful.

JOHNNY: Ha! Man up! I just like to listen to fast music and I guess the people that come to our shows do too.

UKULA: The whole thing reminded me of an impromptu frat party, everyone swilling beer and throwing themselves around. Is that what you’re aiming to do?

JOHNNY: Gross. I hate frats. I hope it was the opposite of a frat party… but I see what you mean. It was more to do with writing a set in Baltimore that would light up the warehouse parties out there. Acting like a frat is something we’d never want to do. I think this is actually the opposite of what a frat party would be like. Obviously you’ve been to some good ones. It’s more to do with just having fun with the kids in the artists’ warehouse which we lived in. We love everyone being involved, experiencing the show as well as watching. But for the record, fuck frats.

UKULA: What inspired the move from Sydney to Baltimore? It’s not exactly a well-known punk pilgrimage.

JOHNNY: We did this tour in Australia, with this Brooklyn band called Japanther, playing the East Coast. It was really fucking inspiring. We just thought, “fuck it.” We grew up in this town called the Gold Coast which was really uninspirational [sic], a lot like Southend which we played last night.

UKULA: I’m going on a date with someone from Southend. Does this not bode well?

JOHNNY: I’ve never been anywhere more like the Gold Coast: so boring. As long as she’s an expat you’ll be fine. So we moved to Sydney but then thought, “fuck it, if we moved there why don’t we just move to Brooklyn?” We were just 100% positive about the whole thing and just did it. Then we found out about like-minded people in Baltimore. It’s been the best decision we’ve ever made.
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August 12th, 2009 | Tags: Johnny Siera, The DeathSet | Category: Interview | Leave a comment

August 4, London: Like Bill and Ted…or Not.

Words By Scott Tavener Photo By Lucia Graca

For an ascendant New York band, spending months and months on the worldwide indie rock circuit has a similar effect to struggling while in finger cuffs: it makes things tighter. Earlier this year, New Gaze upstarts, The Pains of Being Pure at Heart, arrived in Toronto just as a number of sacrosanct tastemakers heralded them as My Bloody Valentine (MBV) successors. What was to have been an intimate subterranean gig was quickly moved to a hallowed midsized venue (aka Lee’s Palace).

You’ve heard most of the following before but: sometime after Al Gore invented the internet, the music industry changed drastically, with old paradigms eschewed en masse. Bands no longer needed to follow the archaic model of playing countless bar gigs to build word of mouth, score a label signing, go into debt to a corporation, and find models for wives. Instead, acts from around the world can utilize the fruits of the technological revolution to self-record, build a little internet buzz, attract an indie label, and find models for wives.

Since the dawn of commercial radio, many an industry suit has endured the vitriol of the average record buyer (and myriad musicians). However, the old system had at least one positive offshoot: it incubated bands, letting them mature outside of the public eye. Though some acts seem to emerge fully formed and ready for the hordes (see oft-repeated Oasis mythos), others need time in the shadows to hone chops (see the legend of Joy Division).

In the fast-moving cycle of modern music, innumerable hype bands have received a set of good reviews for bedroom records but lacked the proficiency or mental stability to translate the acclaim into a successful tour (see Wavves). Said cases surely missed suit interference (well, probably, at least).

Lee’s Palace (you knew I was going somewhere with this) is a heavily-trodden Toronto institution. Its raised stage has welcomed a multitude of would-be luminaries like Oasis, Blur, the Verve, and Wheatus. A Lee’s booking inspires a set of expectations. When The Pains of Being Pure at Heart was granted a late ascension to the room, worries of impending douche chills arose (“are they ready?” I mused).

No DCs occurred. Instead, the five-piece played a gracious if occasionally shambolic set to a hugely appreciative vintage-wear crowd with singer, Kip Berman, smiling throughout and dotting the patter with “thank yous,” sporadically noting the size of the as-yet biggest show he’d ever played. Syntax was fine, the sound was only slightly dirty, and aural interaction was more than passable. Post-gig, the band milled about, greeting the crowd affably and selling stacks of gorgeous vinyl LPs (seriously, the record should hang on walls). The show was notable for infectious earnestness and unaffected charm.
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August 11th, 2009 | Tags: London, The Pains of Being Pure at Heart | Category: Live | Leave a comment

Living in a Polaroid.

Words by Chris Bilton and Alison Mosshart Photo by Lucia Graca

A collaboration between members of the White Stripes (Jack White), The Kills (Alison Mosshart), Queens of the Stone Age (Dean Fertita), and the Raconteurs (Jack Lawrence) is definitely the stuff of indie rock hypegasm. But when the band — The Dead Weather in case you hadn’t already guessed it — delivers on its potential, there is case to probe a little deeper into just what greases the gears of its creativity. UKULA spoke with singer Alison Mosshart before the band headed out on its North American tour.

UKULA: So the story goes that you got a call in Sheffield to go play in Nashville. Did you really go the next day?

ALISON: Yeah I did. That’s true. That first day that we did that recording right after the tour we kind of started writing a bunch of things so I was just going back to finish those. So I was going to come for a week and work on that. And then we just started writing again and it just sort of kept going. And we had a record, accidentally.

UKULA: It seems to be a pretty solid collaboration. What was the writing and recording process like?

ALISON: It was just jamming really. Everybody seems to just write everything. It was hard even to go back and try and write the credits out and remember; everyone was just playing all the time. Somebody would come up with something and we’d play and in an hour we’d have a song. And if I was just writing lyrics quick enough we’d just record it and that would be that. It was just really super fast. I was kind of the only one just doing what I do, which is just to write words really fucking fast and then sing. That’s kind of the way it’s always been.

UKULA: Who wrote “Treat Me Like Your Mother?”

ALISON: That was kind of a collaboration between Jack and I. He had that line and I helped fill in the verses. That was the hardest one for me because the music was so heavy and different from anything I’ve ever done. It was the only song on the record that I literally walked out of the studio and thought: I can’t do this. What the hell is going on? I couldn’t write anything for it, and Jack helped me out with some ideas.

UKULA: What’s the story behind the title? Did he reveal any of that?

ALISON: I don’t know what inspired it. It’s about manipulation. It’s kind of an argument, but it’s hard to tell if we’re arguing against each other or if we’re presenting ourselves as the people. It changes every time we perform it. Explaining lyrics is not my best thing…
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August 7th, 2009 | Tags: Alison Mosshart, Jack White, The Dead Weather | Category: Interview | Leave a comment