Album Review: Iggy Pop - Free

“To explain all this needs further explaining,” says the godfather of punk on his eighteenth studio album Free, and we’re all craning our necks to know what’s on his mind. Is he talking about the internet age? How does he feel about politics in 2019? Is there a solution to the ills of modern American society? Does it matter? The rest of the lyrics on ‘Glow In The Dark’ don’t deign to blame anyone in particular for the problems we face, and it looks good on him: “Everyone must play their part in this world/ servants will serve and kings will rule/ pretend we don't know but I bet that you do.” If he’s holding any of the solutions to our problems, he must not feel like sharing.

Iggy Pop’s last album, 2016’s Post Pop Depression, didn’t push his career forward as much as solidify it. The subsequent Live at Royal Albert Hall was proof enough that he gave all his classic energy to the performances. After this long tour (with a handful of much younger rock stars), it’s no surprise that Iggy needed a break from the grind: “I felt like I wanted to put on shades, turn my back, and walk away. I wanted to be free,” he explained at the album’s announcement. As a result, Free just kind of happened to him. It’s short and blunt, but not lazy or arduous; and that’s really the most we can ask for.

See, in 2016, Post Pop faced up against a lot of late career gems that proved to the world that you could make a classic at any point in your career. Iggy’s album wasn’t one of those records, and as such the stage was set for a kind of rebuttal. Free is in some ways a response to David Bowie’s Blackstar - however the two records don’t bear many sonic similarities. Blackstar’s bleak saxophones are traded out for a bolder, sharper set of trumpets on Free; and where Bowie obsessed and dissected his impending death, Iggy Pop is now lounging luxuriously in an Eno-inspired pool of peaceful noise. Despite all this, it’s hard not to compare the two.

The album opening title track, although the shortest, tells you all the great things about the record. Easygoing ambience flows like the seaside depicted on the cover, letting you know that this isn’t going to be the whack in the head that made classic Iggy so good. ‘Loves Missing’ shows up after, crawling along at the pace of a Low song and never conforming to pop music’s usual forms. What does change over its length is the intensity of Iggy’s voice, mutating from a low mumble in the beginning to a pained wail by the end.

This formlessness looks real good on Iggy. He’s more interested in reading poetry than writing hooks, and longtime fans will have no problem admiring the words like a kid listening to a parent read them JRR Tolkien. “Love and sex are gonna occur to you/ and neither one will solve the darkness,” he mutters on closer ‘The Dawn’. Notable here is his use of the word “solve.” He’s past the point of fighting off his demons tooth and nail, but is also quite aware of the good life can offer in spite of “the darkness.” Iggy’s found freedom in acceptance, and we’ve much to learn from him.

Incidentally, the vast majority of the words on Free weren’t written by Iggy Pop. From a reading of Dylan Thomas’s ‘Do Not Go Gentle Into That Goodnight’ to a handful of songs co-written by jazz auteur Leron Thomas, this could almost be considered someone else’s album. The collaborations with Noveller are particularly prescient, with Free bearing many similarities to Sarah Lipstate’s wonderful 2017 album A Pink Sunset for No One. “This is an album in which other artists speak for me, but I lend my voice,” Iggy explained ahead of release. It shouldn’t matter much to us whether or not he wrote the songs - if it’s poetry that he approves of, we ought to approve of it as well. Still, more original lyrics would have been welcome.

Things turn sour on second single ‘James Bond’, where a flatline bass dirge (especially dull compared to the incredible bass playing on ‘Sonali’) guides Iggy’s voice. The track isn’t all that bad, but serves as a bit of a slap in the face to the rest of the record’s sobriety. Iggy takes a dig on promiscuity-as-virtue on the following ‘Dirty Sanchez’, a song as nastily composed as the sex move itself. But, it doesn’t suffer the blandness of ‘James Bond’, instead showcasing a squealing Iggy Pop that we’ve heard little of since he collaborated with At the Drive-In in 1999. The song would work better if it wasn’t a constant onslaught of monstrous vocals on a record of soothing treatises on age and industry.

Though it’s not surprising that Iggy included a couple of left hooks, it hurts a little bit that the album doesn’t have more of the sing-speak poetry and post-rock dreaminess. He does it so well, but only about 22 minutes are dedicated to this sound. ‘James Bond’, in contrast, is a distraction from a compelling new direction.

Whatever the case, it’s good to listen to an album where you can feel Iggy taking it easy on himself. At this point, there’s no tour announcement, but it’s really your own damn fault if you haven’t caught him live yet - the man’s a workhorse. Still, I’d like to see him out there screaming onstage a few more times. If that means we get less content, albeit good content without a tour, then fine. At the very least, let’s revel in the fact that Iggy put out maybe his first album that goes well with red wine; and that it’s still punk as fuck.

Album Review: Purple Mountains - Purple Mountains

In 2009, David Berman, just a few years into his first shows with The Silver Jews, announced his retirement from music. It wasn’t too surprising. After all, it can’t be easy singing indie’s most introspective and anxious lyrics to a crowd of strangers night after night. However, it’s easy to forget that Berman didn’t inform indie rock like his buddy Stephen Malkmus did. Rather, The Jews are more aptly described as coming from a tradition instead of creating one. If it wasn’t clear that he was raised on country at the time, it certainly is now.

In 2018 Berman produced the glorious second album from Yonatan Gat, the criminally overlooked Universalists. Gat’s playing doesn’t mirror Berman’s style in any discernible way, but they made the collaboration work with bizarre combinations of recording and editing. A far cry from Berman’s traditional work, the record ebbs and flows with a fluid pace, never once letting you sink into a familiar songform.

In 2019, Purple Mountains was announced and released. Instead of feeling like he had to double down on Gat’s avant garde recordings, Berman made the most conventional record of his career. Following in a strictly country tradition, these songs continue to breathe fresh air into a genre that’s been revitalized around every corner in the last few years. Hell, a guy from Saskatchewan made the most authentic sounding country album of 2018.

But remember, Berman and the Jews made country cool in a time that was dominated by Garth Brooks, and Purple Mountains is a fabulous reminder of just how deeply we felt his every word in the 90s and 00s. The first three tracks are so strong, you wonder how long he’s been cooking them up. 'All My Happiness Is Gone' is the catchiest sad song this side of The Eels, and 'Darkness and Cold' has a haunting quality that’s only matched by a Nick Cave or Elliott Smith.

'Margaritas at The Mall' and 'Storyline Fever' showcase the cleverness we’ve been missing from Berman these last ten years. But if we were to discuss Purple Mountains strictly in its lyrical prowess, we’d be able to write a novel. It’s not that any lyric is particularly potent or individual, it’s just that he clearly writes his poetry from a deep understanding of what makes rock music work. “When you’re seller and commodity/You gotta sell yourself immodestly”' he rambles on 'Storyline Fever,' perhaps offering on a silver platter the exact reasons why he’s returned to the recording studio.

Whether he feels every emotion he’s describing or is putting on a mask, the songs remain enjoyable and lighthearted. 'Snow Is Falling In Manhattan' however is particularly honest. The observance of nature is a natural response to life’s difficulties, and Berman takes his time chewing the scenery. When a soft horn section enters in the choruses, you could dream away an afternoon as if Berman’s contemporaries Lambchop were arranging the tunes. It’s incredibly well done.

Although the songwriting is quality enough to make a lot of modern singers jealous, Purple Mountains is lacking in adventurism. You have to ask 'would I like it more if 2019 David Berman took more risks?' But, it’s more satisfying to have a comeback record that stands its ground instead of one that reaches beyond its limits.

The other nagging questions is that, despite the upbeat production, is David Berman still this upset with the world around him? Though he meditates so strongly on anxiety, heartache, and worthlessness, it’s hard to believe that things have been going so poorly for him. He’s been a married man for decades and has made quite the career for himself outside of music, so it’s more comforting (although potentially false) to assume that he sings about sadness because that’s what he’s good at. You’d hope his past is haunting him more than anything else these days.

In 2003, Berman attempted to kill himself with a combination of xanax and crack cocaine, demanding to get the New York hotel room where Al Gore had stayed before losing the 2000 presidential election - “I want to die where the presidency died!” he demanded at the time. You’d think a guy with such strong convictions about the state of society would lean all over the topic on a record in 2019, but Berman sticks to what he knows best. It’s another feather in the cap of Purple Mountains - that he knows his strengths and keeps to ‘em. Even though it’s been ten years since Silver Jews ended, Berman still sings with the flare and gusto of a classic, a term that’s much easier to pin on him after hearing this album.

Album Review: Yeasayer - Erotic Reruns

Yeasayer have made a sufficient pop album in the same way that Pizza Hut makes a sufficient meal. Each ingredient is identifiable as long as you don’t focus on it - there’s melodies, structure, and hooks. But the closer you squint at each piece of the recipe, the more saccharine and processed you realize those parts are.

There’s a lack of substance from the get go on the bands fifth album Erotic Reruns. ‘People I Loved’ is a one-size-fits-all intro, injecting pop tropes with a centimeter-wide needle. Just 18 seconds pass before a singalong chorus interrupts the funk: “why was I so hard on the people I loved?” A fair question for creatives and left-brainers alike, but it’s also a question that requires context to have meaning. Motivation and depth are further squashed by a “nah nah nah” bridge that cuts the track into bite-size pieces. Less than three minutes go by before a hard stop, which is a relief as much as it is a hindrance to the songs staying power. How do you ask is co-frontman Anand Wilder hard on the people he loved? Don’t look here for any answers.

The instrumentals turn more inspiring in the back half with the fat bass groove of ‘Ohm Death,’ the electropop sheen of ‘Fluttering in the Floodlights’, and the album’s best song, ‘Let Me Listen In On You’, which consistently takes interesting turns in the face of Erotic Rerun’s rigid verse-chorus forms. As the title suggests, the album is largely about reigniting a romance. ‘Listen’ is by far the most honest: “We don’t make love like we used to/ we don’t read by candlelight.” A stacked bridge follows orgasmically, and you remember a time where this band were so exciting you could barely contain yourself.

Yeasayer, for all their early career hype, never had that one perfect record. Debut All Hour Cymbals was immensely promising with its group vocals (‘2080’) and chaotic shifts of psychedelic brilliance (‘No Need to Worry’). The following Odd Blood proved that the band could pen some damn fine pop tunes as well, still hinting at a potential that was ready to burst. The records since then get more disappointing at a staggering pace. Even though there are several ingredients that work well together, Yeasayer are afraid to take chances in ways that once worked so well for them. Looking at the track times for this record is proof enough that they’ve opted to settle. Nothing passes the 4-minute mark, and there’s only 9 tracks. You’d think the band were ashamed of themselves.

Not to say there’s anything wrong with writing a concise album. The problem is that Yeasayer are in the middle of an identity crisis. They want to share a psychedelic experience but seldom write anything someone older than fourteen would find strange. They also want to compose hooks, but proved themselves long ago as being more adept at a spiritual singsong approach. As a result, these songs don’t live nicely in any genre, and suffer under the weight of attempting cross-pollination no matter how much they ape Prince on single ‘Ecstatic Baby’. This track is an absolute goof - too short to prove that Keating had something important to say but too out of step with the rest of the albums narrative to blend in.

“You want as many people to like your music as possible without having to compromise,” explained  Keating in a 2010 interview with Rolling Stone, just as the band were crossing into pop territory. They were doing it quite well, stacking multiple arpeggiators and glimmering song structures on top of one another. When there’s this much fun in the instrumentation, any simple phrase can be something of beauty (like on Odd Blood standout ‘O.N.E.’). Erotic Reruns is not a compromise in the way that Keating was weary of, but it forces you to have to weigh it against not living up to your potential.

At best Erotic Reruns is tolerable - at least in the sense that ‘Ecstatic Baby’ could squeeze itself into a top 40 playlist without notice. At worst it’s an insulting cash grab abomination and a confirmation of mediocrity. Indie rock has long since become a commodified descriptor that now lands in the same grey area as college rock, alternative, or even new wave, and Yeasayer’s is one of the genres saddest tales. Still, don’t let Erotic Reruns convince you that this band never had anything going for it. Crank ‘Ambling Alp’ at the next house party you attend and you’ll remember why you’d like to give this new record a shot, but you’ve been warned.

Album Review: Bibio - Ribbons

At this point, you know what you’re getting yourself into with Stephen Wilkinson. His work as Bibio has danced between 90’s house, lo-fi, breakbeat, and a litany of other tags across the length of single albums. This is a difficult thing to do well, but Bibio makes it work by maintaining a distinct recording style, the fidelity of which feels attainable, nostalgic, and rich - like a neighbor of yours has a home recording project that you’ve always admired. His music sounds like a secret, often accompanied by soft tape hiss, that has only ever been shared with a small handful of people.

Incidentally, there are millions of Bibio fans. 2009’s ambivalence avenue has achieved cult status despite the whispery softness of the production and the folktronica stew that details his songs. His latest, Ribbons, is still a distinctly Bibio-sounding record. Coming from someone with the ability to produce a solid club track like “fire ant,” this predictability is simultaneously disappointing and steadfast.

Still, Ribbons is his most complete record yet. Where older records lack concision in their genre, this album lacks it in the length. There are sixteen tracks, and Ribbons wears its weight too proudly. However, this is more of a freak folk album whereas all of his past work hasn’t been so defininable by a single tag. Wilkinson now has self-control under his belt.

Bibio plays freak folk with a grace and virtuosity we haven’t seen from him before. This guy can really shred on the guitar. The campfire classical of his playing is thoroughly flexed on “Watch The Flies,” complete with a bona fide solo section. Bibio rounds out his playing, also always acoustic in nature, with a litany of string instrument friends: “Ode to a Nuthatch” is a Pentangle-inspired guitar/mandolin dance, and “Patchouli May” provides a violin and Fender rhodes backdrop that could easily play in a backcountry Irish bar. Both of these tracks can easily make you forget how nice of a singing voice Bibio has underneath all his muscular guitar playing. The fact that he doesn’t oversaturate his records with it is an impressive exercise in self-restraint.

A lot of more recent freak folk greats use modern instrumentation to round out their sound, but Ribbons sounds like it could have been recorded at any time between the Britfolk revival 60s through the mid-00s freak folk craze. Still, Wilkinson carries his trusty keyboards and Toro y Moi-sounding electropop tags on two distinct tracks, “Before” and “Old Graffiti.” Like the rest of the record, these tracks could have been made in a Bibio song-generator, but stick the landing because they’re placed sparsely throughout a mostly instrumental record. Another departure and possibly Ribbons’s best track is “Pretty Ribbons and Lovely Flowers,” which is incidentally the bleakest piece on the album. The track plays with ghostly delayed vocals and overblown synths, but is still shot through Bibio’s restrained recording style. You’ll wish there more moments like it on the record.

The back half of tracks plays out like a rehashing of the first half more than an expansion on them, and Ribbons suffers from it. For a guy with so many talents up his sleeve, Bibio maintains a somewhat regimented and stiff sound. Still, the inviting nature of this record is well worth the time. It’s Wilkinson’s most picturesque and organic album, easily playing somewhere in the background on a summer day - perhaps coming from that neighbor of yours that’s secretly a classical guitar whiz.