Pitchfork Reviews 4/21/08

The Teenagers
Reality Check
[Merok; 2008]

Pitchfork gave it a 6.8.

"We're vapid, disaffected youth" only works as a joke for so long until it's not a joke, and then it becomes boring and sad. These guys hit it pretty hard. It's not just the words, it's the music too. It's a grab bag of French new wave and radio-ready cliches.

If not for the one dude's French accent and inspired faux-misogynist spoken lines about not believing you're gonna eat that pizza (had me LOLing), the joke would only last about 30 seconds. As it is, it still lasts less long than this album.

That said, I am glad that there's still some synthesis between "French" and "casual pervy" in music. I feel like casual pervy is to the French what the blues is to America. It's their roots.


The Replacements
Sorry Ma, Forgot to Take Out the Trash
Stink
Hootenanny
Let It Be
[Rhino; 2008]

Pitchfork gave these a 9.4/7.0/7.4/10.0.

Do other people have music prejudices that keep them from listening to things they know they would like? Because I never went through a Replacements phase. It's just sitting there, waiting for me. I know it's there. I'll get to it. Maybe. You wanna know why I haven't? Because my first exposure to The Replacements was through Paul Westerberg's solo stuff, that's why.

If you're so smart, you try being curious after 12 year old you subjects yourself to repeated listens of "Dyslexic Heart" and "Waiting for Somebody" on the Singles Soundtrack. I don't know about 12 year old you, but 12 year old me just wanted to rock, and those coupla turkeys didn't cut the mustard. Even though to real me in 1990-now (better said out loud) they are probably the best tracks on that piece of shit. I'll never know. You try being curious about the Singles Soundtrack.

So anyway, MTV-programmed 12 year old me just heard those two tunes as being a combination of Tom Cochrane and... well, just Tom Cochrane is enough. I didn't know about tongue-in-cheek or "decades of context" back then. I just knew that raspy voice = probably bad news. To my credit. Look at what I had to deal with as example of raspy voices in popular music at the time. No wonder I was gun shy. Plus: I was 12. I hadn't even heard there was such a thing as a record shop that wasn't Nobody Beats the Wiz, Waxie Maxie, or Sam Goody.

Later when I "discovered" hardcore, there was more than enough punk history right there in the DC area for my sneering pompous ignorant teenage ass to want to claim regional ownership of. "The guys from Jawbox live in a house right across the street from F-porch, man. I saw them at 5B lunch. So, you know: I am AWESOME. Hardcore from Minnesota? Yeah, right. I bet it sucks." It's just the way teenagers are in DC. It's not our fault. Our parents are professional know-it-alls who work at some think tank somewhere, and we inherit the family biz.

So: I never got into the Replacements.

And then not being into The Replacements was fun. I live in the Midwest now, and people are protective of The Replacements and Naked Raygun. "Saying I'm not really into that stuff" and then getting an eyeroll (or better: full blown indignation) feels like a link to my DC teenager past, even though it's willfully ignorant and immature.

Still: I know I'm going to come around to The Replacements sooner or later. I was in Washington recently and was struck by how incredibly fucking rude everybody is. So maybe the Midwest is rubbing off on me. Sure feels like it (masturbation joke).

Anyway: The Replacements. Great band. Glad their earlier independent stuff got the deluxe reissue treatment. I'll be along soon enough. Probably.


Various Artists
Don't Stop: Recording Tap
[Numero Group; 2008]

Pitchfork gave it a 7.4.

I got this when it came out and it felt like a total fuck you. Numero Group reissues, or in many cases simply issues, hyper-obscure regional recordings that have to be unearthed, cataloged, and extensively researched before even approximating a legit release. Their results are sometimes long on backstory and packaging and short on content, to the point where you can get upset if you allow yourself to be suckered in by the fool's gold of total obscurity = total ownership = good. You're not even the one doing the discovering. These guys are doing the work for you. They're very good at it and it's a worthy mission, but they're not doing it for free. They've got a product to sell you. And by the time they're done with all that work, that product is as much about the unearthing process as it is about the music.

Cut away the packaging and the backstory here and what you have is largely incompetent but very well-produced early 80's disco/soul with a couple of early rap tracks. "Largely incompetent" is a key, because that quality can make music either better or worse. If it's off-key, limited-range but raw singing or inconsistent but hugely intense drumming, then incompetence is charming. Some degree of incompetence, hence immediacy and urgency (we don't know exactly what we're doing, but we're doing this now with all of our hearts), is necessary for anything to be truly great. But, as it is here: if it's off-key, limited-range but crystal clear and mild-mannered singing over meticulously recorded string arrangements and top-flight session musicians, so it comes off embarrassed and ashamed (we know we're not quite ready but we hope you don't mind). It's kind of a bummer. To me. To me.

Maybe I'm just not a huge fan of überrare disco deeeeep cuts, and that's the only fault to find here. Disco is glossy by nature, and that's kind of the point of it. I get it. And I'm not a crate-digging rare soul 45 night DJ.

Let me see if this scenario makes any sense: you're a reissue label that goes around looking for so-rare-they-were-D.O.A. now-defunct regional record labels that you are tipped off about by some incredibly thorough and/or adventurous record collecting pal. You end up finding out about a local proto-metal label called "Dong Records" some dude ran out of his kitchen in Topeka, Kansas in 1973 through some dude who found a 45 at an estate sale. You investigate. You track the dude down. You drive to Topeka, Kansas and talk to him.

It turns out he's a very intense guy who seems to actually believe he's from Mars. You offer him money for the rights to his tapes. He agrees. You pour over the tapes, which are not labeled and make almost no sense. Some of them have a pretty decent song buried in them. You track down the artists. You ask them about the dude. They tell you funny stories. You drive back and forth to Topeka about a dozen times. At one point, the Martian dude pulls a spear gun on you. The next time you see him, he has no memory of the incident, chuckles about it, and gives you a handful of expired Hardee's gift certificates as a peace offering.

You find more tapes, you identify enough songs to put together a compilation. You take them to be remastered. You're on the phone constantly about which bass-track version to use, etc. The whole thing takes you two years, and it's totally exhausting. At the end, you just want to share everything you went through with the rest of the world. The music is kind of an afterthought at this point, but not in a bad way: it's good enough, and the important thing is unearthing it and sharing it.

You listen to it. It's good enough. Right? You already spent all this time and money. You can't be thinking about whether or not it's good enough. You have no choice. You're going to put out "Dong's Song: Messages From Mars." Right? Of course you are. And to your credit, you're going to use deluxe packaging full of photos and crazy "guy from Mars pulled a spear gun on us" stories, and it's going to be a great product. If the music's good. Which it probably is, right? You can't even tell at this point.

That seems like it's what's going on here, and it's fine. It's not a total fuck you. It's more like a fuck me.


Idol Fodder
Bäbytalk
[Slender Means Society / States Rights; 2008]

Pitchfork gave it a 7.7.

There was a band I saw once in DC in the late 90's called Tarot Bolero. They were one of these goofy theatrical "ensemble" bands that's kidding unless/until they cash in. Kind of a gypsyfied Marilyn Manson thing. I remember they sang a song called "Words." "WORDS. What do they mean? WORDS, with a space in between." Actual lyrics. I'll give credit where credit is due and say that they gave me such a giggle fit that I still remember them, even if derisively. And that's probably all they wanted.

These guys are better and therefore less memorable than Tarot Bolero.

OMG, flashback city: remember Rasuptina?


Fancey
Schmancey
[What Are; 2007]

Pitchfork gave it a 6.9.

I think it's great. See for yourself. There's 14 tracks on this.

1. Witches Night
2. Lost in Twilight
3. Call
4. Gulf Breeze
5. Bitter Life
6. Blue Star
7. Fader
8. Karma's Out To Get Me
9. Whoa
10. Feels Like Dawn
11. Heaven's Way
12. Downtown II
13. Let The Breeze In
14. Cross O' Gold