Tepoztlan, Morelas, Mexico is a place known for Aztec magic and extra-terrestrial sightings — so it only seems natural that Conor Oberst would head down there to record his latest album, his first solo effort in 13 years. After all, Oberst called the last Bright Eyes album Cassadega, which is the name of a Florida town well known for its community of psychics and seers. While we’re talking about mysticism, it’s a little hard to interpret the reason that Conor Oberst (Merge Records) is called a solo album. As far as I know, and please correct me if I’m wrong, Bright Eyes was (is?) Oberst’s solo project. If he wants to put out an album under his own name, that’s understandable, but let’s not be deluded into thinking that this represents a new direction for the one time wunderkind.

Yesterday was Vinyl Record Day. I missed it, but better late than never, I suppose. So for my homage to vinyl I will remind you of the words of the legendary Berry Gordy, who used to make sure that the words “It’s What’s In The Grooves That Counts” appeared on all of his Motown releases. True ‘dat. The point is, CDs may not have grooves, but the fact remains that it doesn’t matter one whit what an album is called, or who it is credited to. In the end, all the really matters is what’s in the grooves.

Oberst has created an album of solid if unspectacular songs, played and sung tastefully. But if you’re going to promote the fact that you traveled to a magical place to make an album, shouldn’t the album have some magic? I’m not feeling it, and just as I don’t know why this is a solo album and the Bright Eyes albums aren’t, I don’t understand why this couldn’t have been recorded in Topeka or Tacoma as easily as Tepoztlan. Again, I don’t begrudge him the trip to Mexico, but the trip is mentioned on the back cover of the CD as if it was an important element in the creation of this album.

The best tracks on the album are those that feature Oberst on acoustic guitar with minimal accompaniment. If it’s something different that he’s looking for, he might consider a completely acoustic album the next time out. Consider “Milk Thistle,” the album’s closing song. It’s a lovely and lonely meditation on mortality. Elsewhere, Oberst manages to bring a raucous sensibility to a deadly serious matter on “I Don’t Want to Die (in a hospital).”

This isn’t a bad album, but it’s not enough to talk about magic. Last year, Bruce Springsteen called his album Magic, and in the opinion of many, he delivered it. The world needs all the magic it can get right now. Talk is cheap.

Randy Newman will be 65 years old in November. On his first album of new material since 1999’s Bad Love, he emphatically demonstrates that he has not lost one bit of his rather unique gift for wrapping devastating social commentary inside of bright and sunny melodies. He remains an equal-opportunity offender, and we are all the better for it.

There is a short list of great modern day American pop songwriters, and Newman’s name is near the top of that list, which includes masters like Jimmy Webb, and Burt Bacharach. Unlike many of his peers though, his songs are, for the most part, character driven, and that’s the way he likes it. “My favorite (of my own) songs are ones with characters, a cast, a narrator,” says Newman.

Not every song on Harps And Angels is new. In 2007, Newman released the digital single “A Few Words In Defense of Our Country” (download), and Rolling Stone called it the number two song of the year, “right behind Jay-Z, and ahead of Rihanna,” Newman says sardonically. Typically, the astringent lyrical commentary on the state of the nation is wrapped within a lovely country waltz. The august New York Times caught wind of the song and offered Newman space on its op-ed page to print the lyrics, though they felt the need to censor one of the verses, which I will proudly include for you here:

“You know it pisses me off a little
That this Supreme Court is gonna outlive me
A couple of young Italian fellas and a brother on the Court now too
But I defy you, anywhere in the world
To find me two Italians as tight-ass as the two Italians we got
And as for the brother
Well, Pluto’s not a planet anymore either.”

(more…)

The final entry in Ry Cooder’s California trilogy, I, Flathead finds Cooder exploring the Southern California drag-racing culture that centered on the state’s salt flats. Much like the first entry in the series, 2005’s Chavez Ravine, the album is an elegiac look at a part of California life that has vanished in the mists of time.

As is his wont, Cooder explores a myriad of musical genres, all of which serve to provide context for the stories that the songs tell. “Johnny Cash” finds Cooder in full rockabilly mode as he fetes the Man in Black. There’s western swing on “Steel Guitar Heaven,” country on “5000 Country Songs,” the lounge music of the wonderfully titled “My Dwarf Is Getting Tired,” a sort of Tom Waits noir growl “Flathead, One More Time,” and even doo-wop on the closing “Little Trona Girl.” The glue that holds all of these disparate elements together is Cooder’s impeccable guitar playing.

It wouldn’t be a Ry Cooder album without a variety of Latin music influences present, and they’re here on the hysterically funny “Fernando Sez,” and “Filipino Dance Hall Girl.” Not to worry, straight up rock ‘n’ roll is in evidence on songs like “Waiting for Some Girl.”

Most of this is accomplished with a simple guitar, bass (Rene Camacho), and drums (Joachim Cooder, Jim Keltner, and Martin Pradler), but there are lovely moments when guests like accordion legend Flaco Jimenez get involved.

The album gives you the feeling that there’s a wonderful story being told, and so there is. The deluxe edition of the album is encased in a book that houses a novella. Much like the album the book is a series of stories written by Cooder, and is also called I, Flathead. The album can certainly be enjoyed without the book, but if the music interests you, spend a few extra bucks for the book. It’s a worthwhile read, and provides a deeper insight into the subject matter.

Ry Cooder has completed a wonderful American story. Sadly the second installment in the trilogy, last year’s My Name Is Buddy, doesn’t quite measure up to the other two, but all in all, it’s been a story worth telling, and worth hearing.

Brian Vogan - Little Songs (2008)
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I didn’t mean for it to be this way — and every time I review one of these, I grow more afraid that Mrs. Davis is going to kneecap me for horning in on her territory — but I seem to have become the kids’ music guy at Popdose. It’s hard to complain about this too much, though, because I keep ending up with free copies of CDs that my daughter loves — and the latest, Brian Vogan’s Little Songs, is the best yet.

Seriously, you guys. Seriously. Even if you don’t have kids, don’t want kids, hate kids, you might want to pick yourself up a copy of Little Songs — it’s smart, funny, well-produced, and charming as all get-out. Vogan, a former pre-K teacher, used his job as an early childhood music educator to craft the songs on the album, introducing them to his classes as projects that they all worked on together, week by week. You wouldn’t think that songwriting with a committee of toddlers would result in songs as immediately appealing as “Racecar” or “Animal ABCs” (download), but the evidence suggests otherwise.

The album isn’t without its low points — “Chess” aims for TMBG-style whimsy, but will leave you aiming for the “skip” button, and “Spring” lacks the irresistible energy of the rest of the record — but trust me when I tell you that the young ones in your life will be won over immediately by Brian Vogan’s Little Songs, and listening to it repeatedly (as I’ve done for the last week and a half or so) won’t drive you crazy either. What else could you ask for?

It was either Soren Kierkegaard or Wayne Campbell from Wayne’s World who said: “Once you label me, you negate me.” And so it goes with Sia – whose latest release, Some People Have Real Problems, was filed in the electronica section of my local record store. Sia’s career veered into the electronica territory when she did some vocals for Zero 7, and her musical contribution to Six Feet Under’s series finale (“Breathe Me”) demonstrated she can be a rather intense singer.

Flash forward to 2008, and Sia sounds like she’s ditched electronica to dabble in jazz, show tunes stylings, and straight-ahead pop. The most radio-friendly tunes on Some People Have Real Problems being “The Girl You Lost to Cocaine” (download) and the hidden track at the end of “Lullaby.” Sia even does a cover of the Pretenders’ “I Go to Sleep” that is quite lovely — and almost surpasses the original.

Perhaps it’s my penchant for odd songs that made me warm up to “Academia” (download), but I found that the semi-robotic style of Sia’s vocals (with additional vocals by Beck) helped make it one of the strongest cuts on the CD. I don’t quite know how to classify this CD other than to say, that at times it has “Featured at Starbucks” written all over it. The first five songs are pleasant and thoughtful pop tunes for the furrowed-brow crowd who enjoy sipping coffee combinations at a certain famed coffeehouse behemoth. After “Academia,” however, the songs sound a little less conventional and a little more interesting, with some compositions inviting comparisons to Fiona Apple.

If you still buy CDs, you may find Sia’s Some People Have Real Problems in the electronica section. But get ready for a collection of songs that defy labeling.

Andrew Ripp - Fifty Miles to Chicago (2008)
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Name an album Fifty Miles to Chicago — or pose for a cover shot while you’re walking in the desert in a porkpie hat — and you’re pretty much begging people to assume it’s chock full of bluesy vocals, ripping guitar solos, and maybe some brass and/or harmonica. In this respect, Andrew Ripp’s debut is a total disappointment — far from bluesy, he sounds a lot like Rob Thomas’ not-annoying cousin — but leaving misplaced expectations aside, this is an exceedingly well-crafted little pop/rock record.

Ripp actually does have a little of the Chicago sound in his music, but most of it’s been bleached out of these performances, which is about what you’d expect from an album that was produced by a former member of Tonic. Not that there’s anything wrong with Tonic, or these recordings — it’s just that, like most everything else that’s being released these days, Fifty Miles is all crisp lines and sharp edges, from Ripp’s way-out-in-front vocals to the bright-as-sunshine instrumental tracks behind him. Ripp’s a soulful vocalist, and at least a moderately charming songwriter; these qualities beg for warmth in their interpretation, and they don’t get it here. You get the impression that Ripp — or whoever was calling the shots here — was angling for some kind of commercial “in” instead of putting together a truly timeless album.

The end result is a fine debut, but that’s all — and to listen to tracks like “Get Your Smile On” (download) is to wonder what it might be like if someone set up Ripp in a warehouse with a drummer, a bassist, an organist, and some tube amps, and let ‘em rip. (No pun intended.) On future outings, he’d do well to strip back the gloss and leave a few hairs out of place; in the meantime, he’s delivered a strong shot against the bow of the Starbucks set. Something tells me he’s much more entertaining live.

Brandon Schott - Golden State (2007)
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Brandon Schott is a patient man. As those of you who read Jefitoblog might recall, I assembled a “staff” of writers at one point, in an effort to expand the site’s coverage of independent artists. Unfortunately, I didn’t do a very good job of cracking down on those writers if they dragged their asses getting their posts in — something Schott discovered when he sent his second CD, Golden State, in for review. The writer who requested it never submitted his review, and then the site disappeared, and here we are, a year later, and poor Golden State still hasn’t been given the coverage it deserves.

That all ends today, because I’ve been spending the weekend listening to nothing but this album, and I’m ready to tell you that fans of wistful, laid-back California pop need look no further for their next fix. Schott describes the record as “Neil Finn meets Neil Young meets Michael Penn meets Gram Parsons, with a shade of Brian Wilson,” and that pretty much hits the nail right on the head — the entire album is shot through with gossamer guitars, gentle vocals, stacks of harmonies, and the occasional tasteful extra production touch. Those prone to napping should probably avoid listening to Golden State while operating heavy machinery, but anyone with a deep appreciation for ’70s West Coast pop will instantly fall into deep and abiding love for these songs the first time they hear them.

Records this beautifully ethereal tend to work better as a whole than parsed out into single tracks, but start yourself off with the title track (download) and Schott’s slowed-down cover of David Mead’s “Everyone Knows It But You” (download) to get an idea of what Golden State has to offer.

Stylistically, Love as Laughter have jumped around a fair amount over 14 years of existence. Holy, the sixth release from frontman and founding member Sam Jayne (who seems to be the only consistent name attached, though drummer Zeke Howard has been around for the last three albums or so), finds his style no more grounded than in the past.

Holy centers around three genres influencing Jayne’s sound: a simple, singer-songwriter style folk, some sort of island calypso, and a heavy hitting garage rock revival. Instead of gently flowing from one into the next, which could actually be possible, ludicrous as it sounds in theory, the track listing jumps around, leaving the listener a little unsure of where they’re being lead.

It starts off rather basic with the title track, which begins with a strummed acoustic guitar, and Jayne’s affinity for absurd lyrics: “Holy’s never out of reach / I heard that demons don’t hit the beach.” One minute in, a ton of instruments and singers jump in, and it sounds like chaos. Beautiful chaos, but still chaos.

Most of the exotic island feel comes from the percussion, which incorporates conga drums or bongos. Occasionally they stand out almost too much, but at their most effective, they add an unusual pick-me-up to an otherwise relatively standard formula, like in “Crosseyed Beautiful Youngunz.” They also fit in well with the album’s most psychedelic moment, “All Parts of Me.” (more…)

Looking at the six years between The Devil, You + Me, the newest release from the Notwist, and Neon Golden, the release that threw them into American ears, leaves a deceiving impression. Markus Acher and Michael Acher have been working. Not for the Notwist, exactly, but for projects that are deceptively similar to their ambient electronic pop. There was 2004’s Faking the Books from Lali Puna, Markus’ side project, 2005’s 13 & God, a Notwist collaboration with Anticon rappers Themselves, and 2006’s Notes and the Like from Ms. John Soda, Michael’s side project. But these releases increased the appetite for a new Notwist album more often than they satisfied it.

It’s with much delight, then, that The Devil, You + Me easily picks up where Neon Golden left off. Some of the melodies even sound pieced together from remainders of the album that came before it; not in a lazy, “we’ve heard this all before” fashion, but like a fragmented memory nagging you to complete it.

The Notwist don’t really break from what worked so well last time. The Devil, You + Me features the same sort of smudged, smushed, scraping electronics, at times soft and warm, at others industrial and cold. The lyrical themes are somewhat similar, as well, bouncing back and forth between isolation (”I’m alone at last / with every other me”) and endearment (”the sun was up all night / and I put my arms around you / to hold you tight / on and on and on and on”). (more…)

We’ve been hearing the “rock is dead” pronouncements for so many years now that we don’t even listen anymore. “It is what it is,” we blithely proclaim, pretending not to care. But if you’re like me, in private moments you sometimes find yourself in despair thinking that it might really be true this time. These moments usually come after hearing the new Paris Hilton single, or the latest hip-hop sensation, or some hot emo band with bad haircuts and too much eye makeup.

Fear not: as long as Alejandro Escovedo draws breath, there is rock ‘n’ roll. It should be mentioned, however, that in 2003, Escovedo nearly stopped drawing said breath. He collapsed on a stage in Tempe during a performance of his theater piece By the Hand of the Father. He had been living in denial about the Hepatitis C that had been dogging him for seven years. At St. Luke’s Hospital he was diagnosed with varices of the esophagus, cirrhosis of the liver and tumors in his abdomen. When he was admitted a nurse told him that he didn’t have long to live.

A long hospital stay was followed by a month of recuperation in Arizona before Escovedo was strong enough to return to his home in Wimberley, Tx., near Austin. But even then he was so heavily medicated that he could barely walk around and certainly couldn’t play music. All that was left for him was songwriting, and so he began to craft some new material. The first song he wrote, reflecting his newfound but hard-won sobriety, was called “Arizona.”

“Have another drink on me
I’ve been empty since Arizona” (more…)