Pitchfork Reviews 4/9/08

Sun City Girls
Piasa...Devourer of Men / Juggernaut / Jack's Creek
[Abduction; 1994/2007 / Abduction; 1995/2007]

Pitchfork gave it a 7.0/5.5/2.0 and then talked about how important it is to name-check Sun City Girls without necessarily listening to Sun City Girls.

I guess I agree. These three are very "let's hang out in this bookstore and/or coffeeshop and pretend we're the smartest motherfuckers on the face of the planet because we're listening to this stuff and not, like, leaving or turning it off or switching it to JJ Cale, which would also be wholly appropriate for the occasion." But they're pleasant in that way too. That's a solid musical tradition, dating back to The Fugs, Godz, Sun Ra, and Holy Modal Rounders, if not even further back to Bartók. See how I name-checked those guys and made it sound like I'm smart? Thanks for the help, art-losers of America (and Hungary). I'm smart now.

I've been hearing a lot about people rediscovering Sun City Girls recently, which is maybe due to the fact that I'm getting my music from noise-lovers. It's not a bad thing, I don't think. Mike Powell of Pitchfork says it has a lot to do with the death of Sun City Girls drummer Charles Gocher in 2007. Makes sense. I'm not afraid to admit that I'd never heard of them while they were extant. I guess I was... whatever things you would be to have not heard of Sun City Girls until now-ish. Busy? I'll go with busy.

But for the future of pretentious noisy shit, which will always be welcome in a soft spot in my heart (the one that secretly just wants to wear a scarf and drink tea and read Moby Dick at some cafe in New England where smart chicks hang out because I like the idea of it, and then comes to find out that Moby Dick is unreadable, scarfs are unwieldy, and tea is too expensive for what it is: flavored hot water, and further I already have a girlfriend, so there's no real point in trying to appear impressive, so then after like 20 minutes I decide I want to leave, but stubbornly stay another uncomfortable 20 just to teach myself a lesson; this soft spot in my heart can be a real fucking twat sometimes); for the immediate future of pretentious noisy shit which I often enjoy as a guilty "I'm so smart" pleasure, it's good that the massive (so I've been told) home-recorded output of Sun City Girls is being dredged up (in some circles more drug-addled and adventurous than you and I need to be) and examined.

There's some kind of theory that bescarved me has about the nature of recorded music, about how there's so much of it and it's cumulative, and how the MP3 is capable of spreading faster than any other medium, and we're getting closer and closer to cataloging as much of human recorded music as we possibly can, and how what we're rediscovering and declaring fit for distribution at any given point in history is now as much of the creative/reflexive process of unfolding culture as actually playing music--in a shitty way where new bands all sound like other older better bands, but also in a fuck-that-noise Andy Warhol way where you have ownership of an idea if you just sign a soup can--and that's great, that's really really groovy. But I'll spare you the details. I'll just say that it bodes well for all of us that some of the shittier, more pointless Sun City Girls records are being reissued in 2007. And then reviewed in 2008. And again now in 2010, two years later.

But no: you don't have to listen. In fact, I wouldn't recommend it. Unless you're a fucking twat, which you are. I am too, though. It's no biggie.


Peter Morén
The Last Tycoon
[Wichita / Quarterstick; 2008]

Pitchfork gave it a 5.4.

You're not going to believe this, but the guy from Peter, Bjorn and John put out a solo album in 2008 and it's almost completely tasteless. Who woulda guessed? I mean, I like "Young Folks" as much as anybody who likes a good pop tune, but let's not forget that it's a pop tune. It's maybe the defining pop tune of the "we can't call it 'indie' if it sounds like this anymore, this is just what pop music sounds like now" era, which is still ongoing (anybody have a better explanation for Vampire Weekend? Anyone?). And like any great pop tune, it's there when you need it, whistling its way sideways into your skull bone whenever it comes on the ownership-appointed satellite radio station they play at the Cold Stone Creamery. And now guess what: not only does your ice cream suck, but good luck not whistling for the rest of the day.

This would be more annoying if it was somehow not okay to whistle every once in a while. It's an agreeable song. It's about nothing. Or, rather, it's about talking about me and you. Communicating about the relationship, if you will. God bless those Swedish bastards. There must be a phase of learning English with a Swedish background when the only words you understand how to use are a perfect pop hook. And then later you learn how to conjugate and make concept albums about unfinished Fitzgerald novels, which doesn't work as well, but what are you gonna do? Sweden. If you change your mind, they're the first in line.

So Peter Morén's solo work is the Sting to Peter, Bjorn and John's Police. Instead of endlessly repeating the drinking game words "Roxanne" and "Red Light," he's warbling something about fog and faith and how much he likes walking his dog in the winter and fucking his wife for seven straight hours in the castle he lives in. I'm speaking metaphorically. This album's not really like that. It's a lot more restrained on the James-Taylor-diarrhea-of-the-soul front. But still. You get the idea. The guy's trying to break out of his little Swedish jail of "millennial Cardigans," and be "respected" as an "artist" and pulling out all the stops (concept album, literary references, etc.) he knows. It's adorable.

There's really no point in my saying all of this, though, because all you need to know about this album is encapsulated in the phrase "plaintive, vulnerable voice" posted in Tim Sendra's Allmusic review of the album. Literally translated to English from Swedish, that means "ignore, ignore ignore."


The Breeders
Mountain Battles
[4AD; 2008]

Pitchfork gave it a 7.5.

Here's a question: have the Pixies outlived their usefulness? Like do you ever need to listen to the Pixies ever again? Like, really? I'm getting pretty close to a solid no at this point. Not a good sign for the Breeders. Or the dealer of the Deals.


Kathleen Edwards
Asking for Flowers
[Zoë / Rounder; 2008]

Pitchfork gave it a 7.9.

I will never, never, never ever want to listen to this. I don't think it's a shortcoming. I don't want to listen to Sarah Mclaughlin either.


Arp
In Light
[Smalltown Supersound; 2007]

Pitchfork gave it a 7.6.

Based on title and cover, I thought "there's a good chance that this is worthless electronic music from now that sounds like early worthless electronic music from that exciting period back in Germany when music first started being electronic and worthless." And I was right! What do I get?

There's even a song on here called "Potentialities." Doing anything and calling it "Potentialities," especially if it's something that's already been done 40 years ago, is hilarious. So hilarious, in fact, that I'm going to put it in my brain's afterburner in case I ever need to make fun of anything shitty. "I call it... POTENTIALITIES" is a surefire hit for daydrunk art museum goofaroonies. Thanks, Arp.