Animal Collective - Summertime Clothes (Domino 2009)

Animal Collective - Merriweather Post Pavilion / Domino

It seems both obvious and appropriate that Animal Collective's ninth album is being released on the day of Barack Obama's inauguration, especially considering the fever pitch of excitement currently surrounding both the Collective and our newly minted 44th president... But something about this release has been bothering me since I was awaken to its immense hype by both Pitchfork and The Chicago Sun-Times after a deep autumnal slumber. It was a vague resentment, an uneasy awareness that for all of the positive press being lobbed like happy hand grenades in its direction, something was off.

I listened anyway. I played it at work, I played it at home, I played it in the background of countless GChats, I played it on the CTA, I suggested it to people, I talked about it with those who had already heard. All of the pieces seemed in place for a praiseworthy post-millennial indie archetype. And after a ton of listens, I reckoned it was a good thing that it had already garnered a 9.6 and kids were hailing it as the album of the year after less than a full week. Part of me wanted - wants - to believe that this is the hope Obama's been relentlessly invoking in a very marginal context: Indie kid stereotypes who used to confine themselves to Built to Spill or The Boy Least Likely To are opening their eyes to an album that draws a direct line to West African tribal music and avant-garde noise records (and not just, y'know, Daft Punk). If a college radio freshman thinks Merriweather Post Pavilion is great, how much greater the chance that they will follow the Paw Tracks to Repo in April and believe in that, too? This is supposed to be what makes the Internet essential: It shrinks this - our, everybody's - world enough to make it relatable for even the most hopeless xenophobic (The best commentary to this end vis-à-vis the Collective has, shockingly, been on Hipster Runoff).

Yet despite those astute observations, the real discomfort I experienced with Merriweather stems from Hua Hsu's feature article for the January/February edition of The Atlantic Monthly. The gist: Hsu explores the elimination of "whiteness" in American culture through a rough timeline that starts with minorities mimicking whites to "fit in" at the top of the 20th century and ends where we are now as a society paying post-racial lip service that, he posits, has reversed itself. Of particular interest is "the identity crisis plaguing well-meaning, well-off white kids in a post-white world:" Hsu says a vacuum has formed where white self-denial is a path both to acceptance and authenticity.

Merriweather Post Pavilion is the soundtrack of that self-denial. All of these songs drown themselves with needlessly dense sonic tricks in a dramatic effort to move away from the pleasant psych-folk of earlier, less ambitious works like Hollinndagain or Sung Tongs. That in itself would not be a problem, except that their bid for post-everythingness is so transparent. There is a deep current of desperation running through songs like "My Girls" and "Brother Sport" that begs for a listener to hear the hip-hop rhythms, the unending samplers, the universal synth sounds, the musical melting pot this thing is supposed to represent. Drop any continent on earth and it wouldn't matter: Stripped of the bells and whistles, this is still an indie-pop album. A very average, white-guy indie-pop album that will reject listeners who came expecting a transcendent experience and got mere assimilation instead. It assimilates with the current indie landscape, an exercise in deception: This sounds like something you would want to like in the interest of furthering minority forms of music, but you don't because it's the same old thing. It's no closer to post-racial harmony than Death Cab for Cutie or, worse, Pavement.

It's only fair at this point to acknowledge the obvious ad hominem argument: The reason I point it out in the first place is because I myself am a white male. It's logical to assume that, because I have a blog and gave a fuck enough about Animal Collective to write about them, I would feel vulnerable. Further, by rejecting the idea that I am a part of this indie kid stereotype, I am instead personifying it. And how many essays have you read indicting the very act of rock criticism as culturally white?

But my discomfort doesn't merely come from identifying with three white guys (it used to be four) or its fans; my discomfort comes from the fact that people are pledging their blind allegiance to this album for what it is not rather than for what it is. The band projects an image of artful dodgers bent on bringing transcontinental hipsterdom right to your hard drive; several have taken the bait, proclaiming Merriweather as a product and paladin of the self-congratulating online community and, by proxy, the new cultural mainstream. It isn't. It is still a sonic defense mechanism meant to shield itself from a lack of culture.

As with most things culture terrorism-related, a word should be spared for Diplo. Great question from a fellow Audiversitarian: "If Animal Collective are racist, what does that make Diplo? Hitler?" Given that he singlehandedly imported baile funk and helped bring new meaning to the worthlessly nebulous "world music" tag in the early aughts, it follows that Diplo should carry the weight of this white rejection as he delves further into DJ Benzi mixtapes or another MIA collaboration in an effort to disguise how much of a pasty white Brit he is. The difference is that Diplo lived these subcultures: He went to Brazil, he went to West Africa, he met the sources, he inhabited the environment to the best of his ability - which isn't to say that going somewhere is a one-up for authenticity ( See also: sheltered study abroad students), but AnCo never say in their liner notes that this was culled straight from a coupé decallé cut or open themselves up to Angolan mini-tours. They are armchair globalists, content to rip the sounds of the world from the safety of Williamsburg. They are a reflection of their wired-in, zoned-out audience. Diplo spins real vinyl and plays to the crowds he stole from and has used urumee drums. He engages these cultures on a personal level and never worries about where the references are because they speak for themselves. Animal Collective make no such effort; devoid even of TV on the Radio's soul chants or LCD Soundsystem's winking funk grooves, AnCo dress songs about girls and seasons and hanging out - boring topics that don't even strive for unidentifiable weirdness like, say, food (Strawberry Jam) - in sounds that imply worldliness but demonstrate none and, furthermore, have zero staying power. That's not a testament to influence, that's an insult.

In other words, it's not that this album is bad. It's good, I guess... And that's the whole point: Instead of creating some kind of new beat thriving on kwaito and The Neptunes, Animal Collective disguise nothing as something in their quest for greatness. Like Panda Bear's Person Pitch, this is not especially remarkable on a more annoyingly grand scale. On past efforts, the group ventured well into the freak-folk forests; at least there, they sounded secure in their embrace of 60s British psych and folk. All they seem like they're trying to do now is embrace anything else, but they can't escape (even when their fans can).

So really, are Animal Collective racist? Perhaps not explicitly (or even consciously), but there is a definite anxiety about being a minority that resonates in their music and in their fans. Despite their urge for reinvention, they come off as second-rate pan-ethnic appropriators. If I haven't already, I'll probably contradict myself in a future review. There are more coherent critiques for how boring this is, sharper wit to pierce through the dense reverb that permeates every single song... But I wonder how much enthusiasm people will have for this album in four months, nevermind four years. Is it post-racial? Is it that permanent? Is it four stars, 9.6, 5/5? I guess we'll have to wait and see. It's only been official for a day.

He Speaks in Your Voice, American President

Thought this corner was dead, right? We almost did too. But if Two Thousand Great was the year we stopped making this an enterprise and started making it a hobby (which really means we just stopped), O'Fine is the year we bring Blogger back. For all four of you following: Thanks. It's been a while.

Capillary Action - "So Embarrassing"

Capillary Action - Paperweights (Natural Selection 2008)

Capillary Action - So Embarrassing / Natural Selection

After posting a review on Capsule's Blue a few weeks back, I was contacted by Jonathan Pfeffer regarding the new Capillary Action album you see here. I was sure I had remembered the name, but So Embarrassing was not an album I had heard. "I thought our album would be right up your alley," he said. "We've been touring up a storm behind this record so any press we can garner would be greatly appreciated."

I'm suspicious of groups that ask for any press, but I was willing to give Capillary Action a try because I had remembered missing them when they played Columbia in January of 2006. A quick look around will also show you that Capillary Action has a lot of friends out on the road, and I was fans of a number of these bands. That reputation is at last starting to catch up with them in the press, and with good reason: So Embarrassing is a jarring listen, rarely letting you settle into any kind of comfortable mindframe. There is always something else happening.

"Gambit" sets the tone straight away, and though comparisons have been garnered to Kayo Dot, The Dirty Projectors, Battles, and Xiu Xiu (all of whom are on some level warranted), a Capillary Action listening experience is essentially listening to three groups rolled into one. The first is your Type A technically adept hardcore band. The furious bit that opens "Bloody Nose" is a good example of this, where double bass drumming and a heavy riff rock the middle and very end of the track. These kinds of moments are not quite as dominant on the record as you'd expect considering the whole reason this review exists is Capsule, but Pfeffer is smart enough not to overplay his hand. That metal growl doesn't really suit him anyway.

The second is an orchestra-backed bossa nova group. When I said that double bass drumming and heavy riffage rock the middle of "Bloody Nose," I didn't tell you how jazzy and calm the in-betweens were. The bossa nova really comes out on "Placebo or Panacea," which sounds as tropically relaxed as any song on the album. Horns and strings sound unhinged right at the start, but Pfeffer switches the sound just 22 seconds in and right away you're taken into a Rio nightclub from the 70s. The guitar noodling plays over boisterous brass toward the end, and it kind of sounds like The Mars Volta, but in a good way. Sergio Mendes this definitely ain't. "Badlands" is sort of like that too, very jazzy feeling with those poignant plucks lending sadness to an otherwise emotionally buoyant record.

"Paperweights" is the sound of that third group. That group is, er, Oceansize. Pfeffer's competent vocal abilities secretly hold this album together, but his croon is eerily comparable to the Mancunian band's frontman, Mike Vennart. Maybe it's that element Capillary Action has listed on the MySpace page as "melodramatic popular song," but thinking of some of Oceansize's more operatic moments comes immediately to mind on "The Chaperone." Weird connections aside, Pfeffer does for vocals what many of his friends can not: He tries to sing and succeeds.

So Embarrassing is more than just an Oceansized bossa nova-core record, though. I mean, read any review (positive or negative) and you'll see that everybody has a different angle, everybody hears something different, and it's likely you won't hear the same record the same way in subsequent listens. This is the Achilles Heel of the album, that you can never pin it down... But it's also Capillary Action's greatest asset: By deftly switching between recognizable sounds, the band forms its own. And by marking his own sonic territory, Pfeffer has won half the battle for the attention he deserves. Those 300 shows a year should take care of the other half.

Singleversity #65

Audiversity’s weekly column on music we stumble across during our sonic adventures. No random numbers, just straight audio goodness.

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We've heralded the brilliance of Over the Atlantic's "Fly to the States" (from their 2006 debut Junica) before , but recently I was cruising YouTube on a slow night and stumbled upon a mercifully full version of the way they played it live on their last U.S. tour. This is a very different approach from the recorded take: The bass sounds more New Order than hypnotically dubbed-out anchor. Given that Nik Brinkman and Bevan Smith are New Zealanders, it's also perhaps no surprise that the guitars are more jangly than they are awash in reverb and fuzz. I still like the recorded version best, but this is an enthusiast ic live rendition worth checking out. Stay tuned to see what their next step is: Sophomore release Dimensions is out on Carpark sometime before the end of the year.

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So I interviewed Hans-Peter Lindstrøm (Yeah, that Lindstrøm) on the phone today. After spending around an hour just chatting about his new album Where You Go I Go Too, I feel like I know the guy well enough to at least say that his confidence in talking about his work isn't arrogance at all; it's like he knows how good he is and he just says it flat out. The sounds he makes come as second nature to him, and he is mercifully straightforward about not overthinking the actual music itself. When this thing drops, I expect it will be huge... So enjoy the simple delights of "Take Me to the Metro" (from 2006's Another Side of Lindstrøm) for a few more weeks before your life is changed forever. Hey, if he won't overthink the music, somebody else has to. That's what we're here for.

Singleversity #64

Audiversity’s weekly column on music we stumble across during our sonic adventures. No random numbers, just straight audio goodness.

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I haven't been doing much reading around the Internet lately, so I have no idea what the cool kids are listening to. I just know that Spaniard Ilya Santana has produced a hell of a space-disco slab on his EP Arcanus which came out in May on Ukrainian(?!) label Manuscript . Perhaps best known for a Human League remix of "The Things That Dreams Are Made Of" (from 1981's Dare!), Santana continues his ever-improving work in the Canary Islands . Maybe we'll see a full-length someday, but in the meantime, here is b-side "From Uranus to Mercurius."

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Space-disco tends to put you to sleep when it's not captivating you, so to balance this out, I'm still using old school emocore from the mid-90s to help me. Indian Summer is an excellent example of the genre. The Oakland-based band only existed for three years or so, and they made things especially difficult by not actually naming any of their songs. Tracking their stuff down was difficult for a long time because they stuck primarily to split 7s with contemporaries such as Current and Ordination of Aaron . Future Recordings made things easier by reissuing their two LPs and one of the highlights is "I Think Your Train is Leaving," which first appeared on a split with Embassy (Good luck finding anything else on them). The most well known addendum to this story: Marc Bianchi went on to front Her Space Holiday .