An Acute Case: 7 October 2022
Four albums kind of about solidarity, one of which is kind of called solidarity. Plus Loudon Wainwright III, whose album is about Loudon Wainwright III
Al-Qasar: Who Are We?
Eight uncomplicated compositions delivering the uncomplicated message that fusion is a redundant concept in a multicultural world. Led by Thomas Attar Bellier’s electric saz, mostly North African/Arabian instruments are plucked, blown, shaken, tapped and dinged to a thrusting groove. They know their shortcomings well enough to invite female guests whose melisma expands the vocal range beyond shamanistic grrrs and gahs. They also enlist a sonic youth for micro-distortions and a dead kennedy for an English recitation of the Ahmed Fouad Negm poem that gives the album its title—sample: “They are the emirs and they are the sultans. They wear the latest fashions. But we live seven in a single room.” Polyphonic and intense but wound a little too tight to transgress musical borders the way they hope. Not enough friction and too much, well, fusion. B PLUS
Gogol Bordello: Solidaritine
Always longer on personal philosophy than personal politics (so far as that can be said of any artist with Israel on their touring schedule) Eugene Hutz isn’t about to change his cri de couer just because this war is happening in his closest-thing-to-a-homeland, and he certainly isn’t wasting words on Putin. His focus is on rousing the self-determination and solidarity that sleep in “deep deep deep obscurity” in anyone with a better nature. Variously imploring and hectoring you to follow your gut guidance, get yer mitts on an out-of-print knack for life and reconsider whether it’s “them” who’s selling or you who’s buying, his twenty-ninth-member-and-counting band of merry mongrels hurtle through the first half like battered stock cars. Executing all their ideas at once, tubthumping village jigs, furious violin-sawing swing and rough-hewn funk are matched to sturm and drang dynamics and some of their most danceable tunes. The stumbles—somewhat counterproductive, given the theme—are collabs with Ukrainian synth-poppers KAZKA and Nobel-nominated punk-poet Serhiy Zhadan. Before those, Hutz permits himself a love song to his “life affiliate,” and in between gifts one to his imaginary son, carrying him on his shoulders so he can spray “STOOGES” on a police car. A touching moment in the era of the end of eras. Humanity, it’s still salvageable. A
JID: The Forever Story
Marginally differentiated trappy drum patterns might appear problematic to those of us who like beats that go bump, but stick with them and not only does the production reveal understated soulfulness, it gives Atlanta’s Destin Route room to flex his more than marginally differentiated flow, plus words words words. To hear him tell it, “I’m the shit with the flow” and I’ll brook no argument. Only a handful of rappers could pull off the beatin’-ass-as-a-family-thing tale on “Crack Sandwich”. Still, he might refrain from inverting every phrase—“it's gettin' weird”/“nah, shit is weird", “stop the press”/“press stop”, “crackin' the whip”/“whippin' the crack.” But mic skills are only a means to an end. If there’s a conceptual arc here (and he certainly seems the type) it’s giving his sista and bruddanem the chance to swang on, swang on. They represent his best connection to a past he’s too smart to fret about being flawed—though he really ought to figure out if he’d kill for or for being given the bologna sandwiches that remind him of childhood. People’s lives are at stake. Warm-hearted and articulate, he’s adept at “agitating the white guilt and explaining the black burden.” He’s also happy to rhyme “fuck Hulk Hogan and fuck Joe Rogan because it flows.” Plus a few more reasons besides, I bet. A MINUS
Kiwi Jr: Chopper
In which arch jangle is replaced with ambitious melodicism and know-it-all Jeremy Gaudet starts sounding sincere. An interesting foray into something like classic rock, but not always a catchy one. *** (“The Extra Sees the Film” “The Sound of Music” “Downtown Area Blues” “The Masked Singer”)
Leikeli47: Shape Up
Sweetens the menace of her anonymity and low-slung delivery with dinky beats, sing-song rapping, rappy sing-song and just, like, singing. ** (“Chitty Bang” “LL Cool J” “Free To Love” “Baseball”)
Momma: Household Name
Fast songs about getting nowhere fast. Slow songs about getting nowhere slow. Both punctuated by ruminative guitar and hum-a-long vocals. Possibly also about being in band. Don’t ask me, I was too busy humming. * (“Rockstar” “Tall Home” “Callin Me”)
The Paranoyds: Talk Talk Talk
"They tried to sell me back my own appearance", "Consumerism is social recognition" and plenty of other probably good lyrics I can't make out through the vocal muzz. Shame, the guitars are good. ** (“Lizzie” “Single Origin Experience” “Sunburn”)
Amanda Shires: Take It Like a Man
Surprisingly gripping marital melodrama. Better when she rags the fiddle than when she drags the beat. And when her phrasing isn’t contrived. “I can take it like a man” contains multitudes. Now someone explain “The octaves of consequence.” ** (“Take It Like A Man” “Here He Comes” “Everything Has Its Time”)
THICK: Happy Now
Neither felled by the self-destruction of first-wave punk or impelled to the self-actualisation of first-wave riot grrrl, these three New Yorkers met through guitarist Nikki Sisti’s “Two girls, one drummer” Craigslist ad and bond over their unvarnished honesty about female self-doubt. The opener presents a toss-up between happiness from the outside in or from the inside out (they’re equally flawed), after which they blame themselves for being lied to, make peace with being overlooked, feel all alone in their big bed (“even though you were right there”) and walk around with eyes in the back of their heads because “no matter what I’m thinking, I’m yours for the taking.” They judge themselves for laughing/crying/loving/lying/breathing and feel it doesn't matter what they say/want/think/need or who they are/were/will be—any way up, “It’s all my fault.” If that sounds defeatist, it’s only because you’re not hearing their sweet and sour confection of chirpy harmonies, taut riffs and spirited takes on quietish-verse-louder-chorus dynamics. I believe the name for what they’re rebelling against is toxic positivity, think it’s a noble cause, and hope one day they find someone who’ll take them from Queens to Montreal. In their world, there’s no surer sign you’ve found the one. A MINUS
Loudon Wainwright III: Lifetime Achievement
After a well-intentioned but ultimately pro forma shot at big band, he’s scaled back. Plangent voice and precise playing hold up well with the man plus guitar plus maybe another string set-up, while on “Town & Country” he shows he can still pump out tunes groovy enough to recall John Prine banger (yeah, you heard me) “Mexican Home”. Where he gets shaky is with lyrics that reveal how tough lockdown was on his muse. “I’m walking around” is deemed a viable lyric on successive songs. “I’m crossing the road” and “I’m in the city” on two others. But observations on mundanity aren’t necessarily mundane observations, and there’s a familiar glint in his eye as he chews over life’s quirks—like why daughter Lucy chose “hat” as her first word. And come to think of it, aren’t there a lot of uses for a hat? Let’s list them. He opens with forty-nine ways to live one more day, closes with the dictum that the only reason to do this is for “fun and free.” Here he’s the devil welcoming a sinner back to hell by signing him up to a soft ball team featuring Hitler pitching, Stalin catching, Pol Pot on third and Milosevic at short; there a pet dog torn between exes: “Why don’t they just lick and make up?” Other than when he wants a family vacation alone, relationships see him through. I suspect that’s also lockdown-related. “When things get rough, one’s not enough / These days it takes two.” Dead skunk, new tricks. A MINUS