Record #361: Emmylou Harris – Evangeline (1981)

To paraphrase Arrested Development, if you’re picking through discarded collections, “you’re gonna get some [Emmylou Harris].”
The legendary country starlet has an absolutely massive catalogue of solo records on top of frequent collaborations and guest appearances (in the ‘00s, she supplied guest vocals for both Ryan Adams and Bright Eyes), and as one of the more popular country singers in the business, her records aren’t hard to come by.

This, her eighth album in twelve years, is made up of outtakes from previous recording sessions that didn’t quite fit on previous records. The result is as disjointed and splintered as you’d imagine. Especially considering how her regular studio albums aren’t exactly the most cohesive projects put to tape.

Emmylou made a career out of her masterfully arranged covers of other artists’ work (which is somehow much more forgivable in country music), and this album is no exception. Moodwise, she has always been the most successful singing mournful, midtempo ballads, and the ballads on this disc are truly spectacular. Opener “I Don’t Have to Crawl,” with its minor key and phased guitars is among the most affecting things she’s done, and closer “Ashes By Now” (both penned by Rodney Crowell) is almost apocalyptic.

But between them sits a number of uptempo numbers–some of them deftly executed “(How High the Moon,” which I know from Les Paul; “Mr. Sandman,” featuring Dolly Parton and Linda Ronstadt; “Hot Burrito #2,” by her late duet partner Gram Parsons), and some of them clumsier (CCR’s “Bad Moon Rising”; Bill Payne’s “Oh Atlanta”). This makes for an uneven record that nevertheless has a few shining moments.

Record #359: David Bowie – Blackstar (2016)

black star

Death has a funny way or altering an artist’s work. Often when a musician dies close to the release of an album, listeners pore over the lyric sheets as if with a magnifying glass, instilling even the most circumstantial phrases with a sense of gravitas the artist didn’t intend. Joy Division’s Closer will forever be heard through the filter of Ian Curtis’ suicide. Johnny Cash’s American V: Hundred Highways will forever feel like a sage elder handing down his last piece of wisdom.

In the same way, it is impossible to separate Blackstar from Bowie’s death.
 In this case, however, that’s by design. David Bowie knew he was dying. He knew this would be his last album. And it is just as mercurial and forward thinking an album as the man was himself. Nearly fifty years after releasing his debut, it would have been perfectly acceptable to release a sort of retrospective sounding disk, echoing any of his past versions: Major Tom, Ziggy Stardust, The Thin White Duke, The Man Who Fell to Earth, or even the blue-suited dancefloor master that dominated the 80s. But Bowie has always been one to sidestep expectations, and releasing a genre-stretching magnum opus two days before his death is the perfect Bowie move.
The sounds on here run the gamut from dark jazz with ominous saxophones and skittering drums to to frenetic rock and roll, coated with the occasional Broadway dramaticism. Girl Loves Me pairs industrial bass thuds with one of the strangest melodies Bowie has ever sung (and the most surreal lyrics–“where the fuck did Monday go?”). I Can’t Give Everything Away waxes melodramatic over an electronic pop beat. There are shades of Berlin’s fierce adventurism and Ziggy’s theatricality, but this is largely new territory for Bowie. And if anyone can use their impending death to usher in a new period of their work, it’s David Bowie.

Record #358: Ali Akbar Khan – Two Ragas for Sarod (1967)

Man, the sixties were weird, right? I’m trying to think through pop music history to find a more left-field cultural obsession than the sudden popularity of Indian raga in the later half of the 1960s, and I’m coming up short (maybe the bubble of whisper-quiet singer-songwriters in the mid 2000s, a-la Iron & Wine and his disciples?).

The ubiquity of raga in the ‘60s is perhaps best demonstrated in the discarded record collection I picked this out of: abandoned in a trunk on the side of the road between Emmylou Harris and Barry Manillow records (there was some Grateful Dead in there too). But you get the picture–everyone was listening to raga. It was so popular that it infiltrated even the most vanilla of record collections (to be fair, they also had a Pharoah Sanders record. I have a feeling it may have actually been a mixture of a parent and child’s collections). 

It’s not unexplainable though–in the (pseudo?) spiritual awakening of the hippie movement, scores of bands were already looking to India for philosophy and musical inspiration. And I’m talking the major players: The Byrds, Rolling Stones, and of course the Beatles, who spent months in India under the tutelage of Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. Even before the visit, George Harrison (who had a proper revival experience in India) added Indian flavors to his work without much diluting (see: “Within You Without You”). So naturally, in the same way that I started listening to Sunny Day Real Estate because all of my favorite bands cited them as an influence, many music fans in the 1960s went right to the source.

And to unaccustomed Western ears, the source can be a little strong. This album features two instrumental pieces, each an entire side in length, performed only on sarod (an instrument I just heard about today—it’s like a small sitar) and the tamla (Indian hand percussion). Both start out slowly and quietly in meditative drones, building and accelerating through their runtimes to almost manic conclusions (pity that tamla players hands). The later sections are writhe with rhythm changes and shifting strong beats, slowly building in tempo until you’re not sure there’s anywhere left to build to. And when it reaches a breaking point, it crashes to conclusion, leaving nothing but a few seconds of the drone strings ringing out. The album is both contemplative and exciting, but if I’m going to listen to it more regularly, I’m going to need a lot more incense.

Record #356: David Bazan – Curse Your Branches (2009)

David Bazan has always made sad music. He cut his teeth as Pedro the Lion, the Christian slowcore band that made a name for themselves by being the sort of band that wasn’t afraid to confront the brutal honesty of their doubt or use harsh language in the Tooth and Nail crowd (though never while signed to T&N). But within that scene, his droopy eyed cynicism was always cut with a hint of redemption, knowing that, despite everything, God was still (at least mostly) good. Even on Control, Pedro the Lion’s most despondent release, there was solace in knowing that the godless main character was fictional.
Curse Your Branches, however, is David Bazan’s first full length released after publicly recanting his faith. Predictably, his already depressing brand of doubtful and self-deprecating lyricism is even more cutting when divorced from trust in God. On about half of the tracks, the weight is only lifted by pairing his words with upbeat pop songs. For instance, “When We Fell,” which asks God, “when you set the table and when you set the scale / did you write a riddle that you knew they would fail,” sung over a major keyed rock riff. The music can be a little disarming, until you listen to the lyrics a little more closely and have your heart drop out of your chest. 

The downtempo tracks are far less deceptive, but despite their minor keyed signifiers, they still catch you off guard. “Hard to Be” most directly refers to the aftermath of his fallout with God, challenging his Creator on putting us in that garden in the first place and mourning the divide between his family and himself that his doubt (or rather their continued faithfulness) has caused. “Lost My Shape” is a pointed fall-from-grace tale that is directed at no one in particular, but with lines like “you used to feel like the forest fire burning, but now you feel like a child throwing tantrums for your turn,” it’s hard to read it as a little autobiographical. After all, between disappointing his family (“Hard to Be,” “When We Fell”), failing his daughter (“Bless This Mess,” “Please Baby Please,” “In Stitches”), and heaping suspicion and anger on God (the whole album), he has pretty hard feelings toward himself. And with that in mind, while it is a deftly crafted and honestly written album, it is not one to be entered into lightly.

​One sidenote: I saw David Bazan play a house show shortly after his wife gave birth to their second child at home. He played Hard to Be, and after singing, “childbirth is painful,” shook his head and whispered “oh shit” before continuing to the next line.

Record #354: The Association – Greatest Hits (1968)

Despite revisionist history, the Beatles didn’t completely dominate 1960s pop music. Their influence had an undeniably long arm, but certain parts of California were too far for them to grasp. The Association, for example, seems to exist in an alternate universe where the British Invasion never happened and the Beach Boys took on the Beatles’ mantel as Biggest Band in the World. 
Which isn’t to say the Association is just a Pet Sounds-alike at all. Rather, they are a respectable contemporary, like The Who to the Beatles. This compilation is woven with beautiful sunshine pop colors like melodic bass lines, warm swells of strings, bright guitars, and, of course, enormous vocal harmonies. For someone who often yearns for more chamber pop as beautiful as the Zombies’ Odessey and Oracle, this pick out of a curbed collection is a godsend. 

Record #353: Bruce Hornsby and the Range – The Way It Is (1986)

By this point in history, we should all know that genre classifications are by no means a precise art, and that every artist’s work is an amalgam of often disparate inspirations and that compartrmentalizing music is often pointless and sometimes even dangerous. For instance: I have completely ignored Bruce Hornsby most of my life (I was unaware of what the song was Pierce ripped off for his Greendale anthem), until some Pitchfork article brought up his influence on indie darling Justin Vernon of Bon Iver.
 
Record scratch.
So I went back and dug into his work, and let me tell you. When I set aside the “cheesy, Middle of the Road 80s soft rock” label, this album is rich. Hornsby effortlessly pairs interesting jazz chords with heartland rock, which is all wrapped up in a gauzy layer of soft synthesizers. While the most affecting tracks are certainly the title track and “Mandolin Rain,” there’s not a bad track on here. Call it dated if you must, but this album is excellent.

​Especially for a debut.

Record #352: Alcest – Kodama (2016)

kodama

French Blackgaze pioneers Alcest have been mixing their black metal with generous helpings of shoegaze and post rock since before Deafheaven was even a twinkly in George and Kerry’s eyes…
2012′s Les Voyages de L’Ame was an absolute masterpiece that blended the most emotive elements of each palette into one hard hitting work.
​2014′s Shelter, however, seemed content to glide along in shoegaze territory without shifting gears very often. It was a decent album, but the lack of teeth was a little bit of a disappointment. After all–can you really call it blackgaze if there’s nothing black metal about it?
“Mais non!” said Alcest, unleashing upon us Kodama, a concept album based on the works of Hayao Miyazaki (so they say–the lyrics are in French so I can’t verify. That is, when the lyrics aren’t Sigur Ros style ad libs).
And it. is. heavy.
From the opening strains, Kodama plants its feet firmly on the bedrock and refuses to give way. Don’t go in expecting all double bass and chugged guitars–there’s still plenty of post rock prettiness and clean vocals. But its heft is often more emotional than dynamic, relying more on the strength of its composition and atmosphere than just playing fast and loud.
But for all of this, its forty-two minutes seem to fly by in a breeze, demanding repeat listens (a quality even Les Voyages lacked). And it will certainly get those from me.