Author: Retro Chicken

You’re not going to buy that 50th anniversary reissue of Sgt. Pepper’s because you’re feeling nostalgic

Keith Richards, in his memoir, Life, said the following about the fortieth anniversary edition of the Stones’ 1971 release, Exile on Main St.:

“[Exile on Main St.] was recorded in 1971, nearly forty years ago as I write. If I had been listening to music that was forty years old in 1971, I would have been listening to stuff that was barely recordable. Maybe some early Louis Armstrong, Jelly Roll Morton.”

Richards is overstating his case—Armstrong’s seminal Hot Five and Hot Seven recordings from the late 1920’s are a far cry from “barely recordable.” That goes for Jelly Roll Morton’s output (and a lot of other music from that era), too. But he has a point. You didn’t see big commemorative re-releases at the time of Exile’s release like you do today.

It’s not just the Stones or other Boomer-approved music getting the commemorative celebratory treatment either (like the massive fiftieth anniversary release of the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s slated for June 1). U2 re-released The Joshua Tree—a generation-defining album for many Generation X-ers—for its twentieth anniversary and hit the road to commemorate its thirtieth. Metallica re-released their Megaforce-era catalog last year (and it’s probably more influential now than it was at the time). I mean, heck, think how many millennials lost their shit when Nirvana’s Nevermind turned 25.

What happened? Continue reading You’re not going to buy that 50th anniversary reissue of Sgt. Pepper’s because you’re feeling nostalgic

The Best Albums of 2016

2016 was a great year for new music and I got to listen to a lot of it. I missed even more, but I enjoyed what I heard. Below is my Top 10. It isn’t in order—that would be too hard to figure out—but it does represent a diverse selection of the music I liked.

For the most part, the music on this list is music I wrote about—or pitched if I didn’t—and kept on listening to even after my assignments were completed or pitches rejected. It is diverse, but I wish it was more diverse. In 2017, in addition to the styles represented here, I hope to get exposed to new musics and genres I didn’t get to explore this year.

I also want to listen to more jazz.  Continue reading The Best Albums of 2016

Canaries in the Coal Mine: Punk icon East Bay Ray talks about artists being exploited online and why that is just the tip of the iceberg

east_bay_rayI interviewed punk legend and Dead Kennedys guitarist East Bay Ray for the August issue of Premier Guitar. For the most part, we talked about guitar playing, recording, and songwriting—as you’d expect. However, our conversation went off on a fascinating tangent when I asked Ray about his work as an artist advocate. The material wasn’t appropriate for Premier Guitar, so I am posting it here.

Two points to keep in mind when reading this interview:

  1. Obviously, the opinions expressed by Ray are his own and not necessarily the opinions of the Retro Chicken blog.
  2. I did not fact check the assertions Ray made about sources of funding, motivations, or quotes attributed to various corporations/institutions. Do your homework before accepting them as fact.

What projects are you working on now?

Right now I am mostly doing artist advocacy stuff. I am talking about how Google has turned artists into sharecroppers. Music is making money on the internet, movies are making money on the internet, books are making money on the internet, but that money is going to the middleman—the new bossman—which is Amazon, Google, Facebook. I live in the Bay Area—and there are 30-year-old billionaires here—and meanwhile independent artists can’t pay their rent.

And the billionaires are living on the backs of the independent artists?

Yeah. It’s a plantation system. Think about the 1890s, sharecropping got you cheap cotton, but it was based on exploitation.

The problem is they’ve also eliminated real journalism. Now what we have are opinion pieces and things paid for by corporations—like climate change and that stuff. I am real concerned about how we are going to have a democracy if people aren’t informed. Everybody has an opinion, but if the opinion is not based on facts and reality then it’s insanity. The University of California Berkeley Law School just put out, quote, “A study,” on the take-down notice system, which is where Google profits from. And guess who financed that study.  Continue reading Canaries in the Coal Mine: Punk icon East Bay Ray talks about artists being exploited online and why that is just the tip of the iceberg

Thinking Differently: An Interview With Harvey Valdes

Harvey_Valdes_by_Peter_Gannushkin-06Harvey Valdes likes pushing limits. He challenges conventions, breaks rules, innovates new concepts, and is on the lookout for alternatives. But don’t consider him an oddball iconoclast inventing systems to mask his limitations—he’s the opposite of that. He boasts prodigious chops on guitar and oud, is a master player in a variety of genres, has first rate compositional skills, and collaborates with many of NYC’s most progressive and innovative thinkers.

A New Jersey native, Valdes’ first exposure to music—aside from the salsa and cumbia in his Columbian household—was ‘80s MTV. “One of the first cassettes I bought was Guns N’ Roses’ Appetite for Destruction,” he says. “That got me hooked right away. MTV at that time was a big product of metal and hair metal, so there was a lot of guitar that I was being exposed to. I wanted to know everything about it. And once I discovered Metallica I thought, ‘Oh my God, this is guitar music.’”

But Valdes didn’t join a metal band or wear spandex; he broadened his horizons, discovered new styles of music, and eventually earned a degree from New York’s New School in Jazz and Contemporary Music. Post-college he joined the ranks of the City’s progressive music scene and worked on notable projects like Karl Berger’s Improvisers Orchestra, Butch Morris’ Luck Cheng’s Orchestra and Nublu Orchestra, Harel Shachal’s Anistar, and toured as part of the Wooster Group’s production of Francesco Cavalli’s 1641 baroque opera, La Didone. His trio—featuring Sana Nagano on violin and Joe Hertenstein on drums—released PointCounterPoint in April and that was preceded last fall by Roundabout, his collection of recomposed jazz standards for solo guitar.

We spoke with Valdes about his influences, his experiences on oud, the parallels between baroque music and jazz, odd meters and polyrhythms, his idiosyncratic approach to composition, and ergonomic guitar design. Continue reading Thinking Differently: An Interview With Harvey Valdes

Twin Peaks: Down In Heaven

TwinPeaks_DownInHeavenI love the Rolling Stones. Who doesn’t? And it surprises me how few new bands cite them as influences. But that seems to be changing. Down In Heaven, the third release from Twin Peaks—a young Chicago band whose members were born when the Stones were already old—owes an obvious debt to the crusty masters. Big time. True, at times Down In Heaven languishes in that mid-70s period from Goats Head Soup until the early days of Ron Wood. But that’s cool. It’s still a great sound. Plus, Twin Peaks continue to draw from a host of other influences and haven’t lost sight of their Chicago-area DIY punk roots—the album offers plenty of that as well.

Twin Peaks are a great band. They are anything but one-dimensional. They have depth, creative songwriting, cool unexpected quirks, interesting chord choices, subtle textures, and enough humor to keep their music interesting, catchy, and begging for another listen.

Down In Heaven opens with “Walk To The One You Love.” It oozes a Stones-y vibe, although it’s less aggressive and the rhythm guitar part is borrowed from T. Rex’s “Get It On.” It grooves, has interesting lead lines, creative horn parts, and enough variation to keep you listening and boogying. It sets a great tone for the album as well and it’s spirit is revived on songs like “Butterfly” and “Keep It Together.”

But Down In Heaven is not a party album. If anything, the only real downer—if you can call it that—is that it has an abundance of slow and mid-tempo songs that veer into that dark Goats Head Soup vibe of songs like “Winter” and “Can You Hear the Music.” That isn’t bad, but it is low-energy and I wonder how many of those songs they’ll play live. And despite that criticism, the songs are strong and have enough meat to keep you engaged and listening. You don’t space out. Check out “Cold Lips,” “Holding Roses,” and “Wanted You” and dig the quirks—like slick ‘70s-style falsetto, oddball guitar modulation, and cool keyboard sounds—that grab your attention.

Twin Peaks added a keyboardist, Colin Croom, and Down In Heaven is his first album with them. Keys add another dimension and the cool piano plonking, B-3 sounds, and occasional weirdness flesh our their sound and enhance the vibe. Cool horns are another plus, especially the 60’s-era-TV-sounding arrangements and the Beatle-esque psychedelics on songs like “Lolisa.” The bluesy acoustics on a few songs are great as well.

Those sonic variations and colors are a huge plus, mainly because the guitar sounds are so unvaried. I am being super-anal here and this is something I only noticed after multiple listens with headphones, but for the most part, song after song is built around the same basic clean guitar sound without much tonal variation. That could get annoying if you fixate on the guitar parts, but the album has a lot more going on, which keeps your attention.

But I can’t help wondering how much better Down In Heaven would be if they paid more attention to that. For example, the second Black Crowes’ album, the Southern Harmony and Musical Companion, draws from the same period Twin Peaks draws from here. Listening to that album, it is obvious the Black Crowes spent hours sculpting tones and sweating the details. That obsessive attention pays off and makes for an amazing experience. The Black Crowes and Twin Peaks are very different bands, but with Down In Heaven, that could be the reason why it is a really good album but not a really great one. The songs are solid and the vibe is there, but at times I found myself hoping for a bigger kick in the ass that never seemed to materialize.

But I am not bitching. Songs like “Keep It Together” are amazing and the final song, “Have You Ever?” is a tour de force—it’s awash in reverb and psychedelic touches that send the album off on a strong note.

Down In Heaven is a really good album. It has a great vibe and solid songs. It isn’t perfect, but those imperfections don’t detract from its strong points. I liked it. I downloaded onto my phone for long car rides. I will rock out to it at loud volumes and annoy my kids.

I Don’t Want To Read About Lyrics, And Neither Should You

I love reading about music, but I find some music writing frustrating. Too many writers overstate the importance of lyrics, but pay lip service—if that—to the music. Lyrics are important, but they only tell part of the story.

Bad lyrics can ruin a song (although really bad lyrics can make a song—who doesn’t love Kiss’ “Calling Dr. Love?”), and great lyrics are in a league of their own. But usually, lyrics are just something for the singer to say. The listener doesn’t focus on the words—anthemic choruses and catchy phrases being obvious exceptions—the listener absorbs them as part of the overall experience. That experience includes things like the natural tensions and release so integral to music; the grooves and melodies; the mix and production; and how well the music is played. You probably have a favorite song that you sing along to, even though you don’t know most of the words.

Who doesn’t?

That’s how most people listen to music, the words are important in that they contribute to the experience, but they’re not more than that. You can argue about the visceral power of punk poetry, authenticity, storytelling, imagery, and politicking—and many people do—but once words cross that line from poetry to lyrics, you have to consider the whole package. Lyrics aren’t poetry—lyrics are the words to the song—and the whole song is important.

But music writers don’t write like that. Their reviews, essays, and interviews are often hyper-focused on lyrics. They praise mediocre talents and lousy musicians who happen to write quality poetry, but ignore true craftsmen and sometimes entire genres. They usually miss the point, misunderstand the creative process, ascribe significance to things that aren’t important, and ask silly questions in interviews.

My hunch—and it’s just a hunch—is that many music writers don’t know much about music. They listen to a lot of it. They go to a lot of shows. They know a lot of musicians and spend a lot of time thinking, talking, and writing about it. But how much do they really know? If you haven’t killed yourself trying to learn an instrument, or spent hours going deaf in rehearsals, or had your brilliant ideas rejected by your bandmates, or played the 1:00 AM slot on a Monday night to an empty house, or agonized over a mix, or done the myriad other things that go into the learning, mastery, and creation of music—do you really know what you’re talking about?

Probably not.

And that’s why they focus on lyrics. Lyrics are familiar ground—they’re in a writer’s wheelhouse—and the writer sounds intelligent analyzing lyrics, probing for deeper meanings, and theorizing about countercultural statements. But that rarely has anything to do with the statement the artist is making. Chino Moreno, the lead singer and principle lyricist for Deftones recently told me in an interview for Premier Guitar, “Being a singer and the lyricist of a band, the difficult part is trying to communicate what it is I am trying to say. But a lot of times I don’t know what I am trying to say. I really honestly don’t.” That’s why he also plays guitar. “The guitar has always been a way to express emotion without really understanding what you are doing, or trying to do, or trying to say.”

KeithKeith Richards said this about songwriting in his book, Life. “That’s one of the great things about songwriting; it’s not an intellectual experience. One might have to apply the brain here and there, but basically it’s capturing moments.”*

And that makes intuitive sense. Listening isn’t intellectual, it’s emotional—or spiritual, or something transcendent—it’s encountering that captured moment. Overanalyzing lyrics misses the point. Music isn’t designed to be intellectualized. It’s designed to be experienced. The writer’s job is to talk about that experience. You have to focus on the details, too—and sometimes that includes the words—but those details are ultimately secondary to the experience.

Richards also said this about writing lyrics: “We also composed using what we called vowel movement—very important for songwriters. The sounds that work. Many times you don’t know what the word is, but you know the word has got to contain this vowel, this sound. You can write something that’ll look really good on paper, but it doesn’t contain the right sound. You start to build the consonants around the vowels. There’s a place to goo ooh and there’s a place to go daah. And if you get it wrong, it sounds like crap.”* It sounds like crap because the words’  musical function is paramount—their meaning is of lesser importance.

Don’t get me wrong, lyrics aren’t unimportant, they’re just not that important. Even Bob Dylan—who was a great lyricist—wasn’t always so careful with the words he chose. As Mark Richardson noted in his review of Dylan’s The Cutting Edge 1965-1966: The Bootleg Series Volume 12. “One of the things [Dylan] inherited from the Beats was a belief in spontaneous writing and trying to take lyrics more as dictation. Which is not to say he didn’t revise—he did, and often. But it’s always been a mistake to put too much emphasis on the details of these words and what they might ‘mean.’ Sometimes they were selected because a turn of phrase was funny, or because Dylan couldn’t think of a better rhyme, or sometimes simply because that’s what came out. Later on in his writing, he’d have discipline, but this is what he sounded like when he was free.”

But too many writers don’t understand that—instead, they just talk about lyrics (sometimes I wonder if they even bother listening to the music, maybe they just read the lyric sheet?). That’s lazy writing and makes everyone dumber. It emphasizes something that shouldn’t necessarily be emphasized, but worse, it pushes the conversation into dangerous waters. Musicians are experts in music, let them talk about that—they probably have something intelligent to say. Musicians are not experts in social movements, politics, and religion—at least, not usually—and I am not interested in their ill-informed, misguided ramblings. Interviews and reviews shouldn’t be places to reinforce dangerous misconceptions. They should be places to teach about music—to learn about the craft, the artistry, its impact and importance; and to discover new worlds, artists, genres, and experiences.

Teach me something—I’m interested, I want to know more—heck, that’s why I am reading.

*Keith Richards, Life, page 277
*Keith Richards, Life, page 267

Neil Michael Hagerty & The Howling Hex: Denver

COVEREXACTYXI didn’t know what to expect when Denver, the new album from Neil Michael Hagerty and the Howling Hex, arrived in my inbox. I didn’t know about Hagerty’s stint in the ‘80s as noise terrorist with underground icons Pussy Galore. I didn’t know about his reign as a ‘90s alternative icon in Royal Trux either. I didn’t even know about his 15-years-and-counting string of solo and Howling Hex releases. Where have I been? Good question. But I was able to approach Denver with fresh ears.

And—hot dog—that was fortuitous.

Denver is a whacked-out, gonzo, gobsmacked tour de force. It’s weird enough to alienate your square friends, yet somehow assessable, enjoyable, and goofy. The album isn’t an experimental art piece you’ll listen to once, appreciate, and then discuss over an expensive cup of coffee. It’s an angular mashup of waltzes, polkas, oompah grooves, garage noise, punk, grunge, and ‘90s-era guitar fun. It’s weird, but in a good way, and is strangely addictive in spite of itself.

Denver opens with “City Song,” a raunchy waltz that feels like a demented merry-go-round. It’s as if the evil clowns took over—they’re all smiles, but something is horribly wrong. That’s followed by “Colfax West,” which has a quasi-polka, oompah feel (and lyrics about coconut latte). Those two songs set the rhythmic tone for the album—an alternating assortment of waltzes and oompahs. Some will complain about the relentless repetition, but I think it’s great. It’s like a theme and variations for the seriously deranged. Sometimes it’s a waltz. Sometimes it’s punk polka gone wrong. And that’s ok.

The album moves at a quick pace—most of the songs are only about two or three minutes long—until you reach “Lookout.” “Lookout” clocks in at six minutes and harkens back to those glorious modulated guitar sounds reminiscent of Hagerty’s ‘90s Royal Trux work (I explored his earlier work once I realized his awesomeness—how could I not?). The dissonant guitar leads skirt the edge of weird and the song builds in layers and intensity. It grows in a way that doesn’t sacrifice the mood or crush the vibe. “Lookout” at first seems incongruous amidst the otherwise manic energy of Denver, yet it’s the song’s imperfect tambourine hits—an odd element to focus on, I know—that best define it. While ostensibly on the backbeat, the tambourine’s vibe is somewhat uncertain. It wasn’t quantized or cleaned up in the studio and retains it’s imperfections. And that is true for the rest of the record as well. In a world of perfect releases, Pro Tools edits, studio plugins, autotune, and endless tweaks, Denver lets the cards fall where they may. It’s quirky, offbeat, and messy, but it’s also real. And that’s why—in spite of it’s faults—it’s so strangely inviting. There’s something seductive about it, especially since it doesn’t take itself too seriously.

Denver has other quirks, too. There is the nod to Black Sabbath—with xylophone accompaniment as an added bonus—on “300 Days of Sunshine.” There are the ‘50s-style doo-wop chord progressions on songs like “Guided Missiles” and the opener, “City Song.” There’s even an oddball a cappella introduction on “Mountain.” And in spite of the quirks, the musicianship is top notch and the guitar playing is superb, especially on songs like “Colfax West” and “Mountain.”

Add those elements up and Denver is an addictive feast of weird. It isn’t bizarro, outlandish weird. It’s an assessable weird. A weird a Eugene Chadbourne-influenced alchemist—sans Shockabilly and the electric rake—might have produced. It’s virtuosic slop. It’s mundane with a twist. And it’s a lot of fun. Your pretentious friends will hate it. Your mainstream friends won’t understand it. The critics will ignore it.

And that’s ok. Denver is a litmus test—use it to weed out the nerds and ward off the dorks.

Parquet Courts: Human Performance

RTRAD810LPjkt_ntParquet Courts have racked up a lot of critical acclaim since forming in 2010. Their albums—like 2014’s Sunbathing Animal and 2012’s Light Up Gold—received glowing reviews and Sunbathing Animal even sold well, peaking at Number 55 on the Billboard 200. They toured the world, played many of the major festivals, and performed on a number of big talk shows. Now they are back with their latest, Human Performance, and the insular indie world is breathless with anticipation.

And—I’ll be honest—I don’t get it.

In a way, Parquet Courts represent everything wrong with indie rock. They have attitude. They have swagger. They write clever lyrics. But attitude, swagger, and clever lyrics don’t compensate for lousy musicianship, inferior vocal performances, and shoddy songwriting. Music—like all art—requires skills. At some point, you have to hunker down and master your craft, something Parquet Courts seem unwilling to do.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not saying you need to be a virtuoso. The music world is filled with incredible, unschooled, self-taught non-virtuosos. But Parquet Courts are not in that league. Too often on Human Performance, they try to obfuscate their limitations with cool—but cool doesn’t make for great music.

For example, on “Dust,” the album’s opener, and for about a third of the album’s material, they sit on a one chord vamp and mouth intelligent poetry in an emotionless monotone. Sticking to a monotone does mask their inability to sing, but the effect gets old fast. They try interesting tricks, like on “Dust” and “I Was Just Here” the monotone is doubled with a second voice an octave lower. It sounds great, but only goes so far—cool effects aren’t a substitute for mediocrity.

Andrew Savage and Austin Brown split the vocal duties on Human Performance and Brown is the weaker of the two. Savage can at least get worked up and sound like a real punk rocker when the song’s energy is intense enough. He sounds good on the 60’s-ish title track, on the song “Outside,” and pulls off a solid performance on “Berlin Got Blurry” as well. But Brown—at least I think it’s Brown—on songs like “Keep It Even” and “It’s Gonna Happen,” is downright painful. His voice is weak, uncommitted, and out of tune—and it’s that way because he doesn’t know how to sing.

The guitar playing isn’t much better. To be fair, there are moments of brilliance: the dual interlocking parts on “I Was Just Here” imitate the off-kilter genius of Captain Beefheart and sound fantastic. The Spaghetti Western lead on “Berlin Got Blurry” is effective and catchy. But those flashes of what-could-be are mostly obscured by an embarrassing lack of skill, the most glaring example being the Indian-inflected extended jam that ends “One Man, No City.” It’s difficult to listen to—it’s that horrible—and at best sounds like an excited 15-year-old first discovering his instrument (I’m being charitable). The rinky-dink noodling on “Berlin Got Blurry” isn’t much better, which is unfortunate because it’s an otherwise solid song.

Look. I understand. The DIY punk aesthetic is a rejection of bombastic, self-indulgent wank. It eschews formal study, which inhibits creativity and self-expression. That’s the theory. I disagree, but I understand why some refuse to nosedive down the rabbit hole of music nerditude. But there is a huge difference between nerding out on obscure modes and complex chord substitutions versus acquiring the basic dexterity necessary to play your instrument. Parquet Courts need to focus on basics: things like holding a guitar pick, singing in tune, fingering single notes, and vibrato. Those aren’t difficult skills, but they take practice and discipline.

And for my money, that is the tragedy of Human Performance. It isn’t a terrible album. It has some good songs on it. Parquet Courts have their hearts in the right place and an intuitive sense of what should be great music.

But Parquet Courts are severely limited, they get stuck too easily and I doubt they are able to execute the music they hear in their heads. And that’s because they can’t really sing or play their instruments. The album sounds good—they hired pros to do the engineering, mixing, and mastering. The layout and artwork looks good—that wasn’t left to a beginner either. But the music—what the album is supposed to be about—never fulfills its potential and at points is unlistenable. In my opinion, that’s because the musicians never made the effort to do just that—become musicians.

Black Mountain: IV

Black Mountain IVBlack Mountain IV—the fourth album (obviously) from Northwestern stoners, Black Mountain—proves that the whole is greater than the parts. Black Mountain grabs your attention with fantastic songwriting, arranging, and orchestration and those qualities overshadow—in a good way—what are often stellar individual performances. IV leans heavy on contrasts, dynamics, and textures to create an overall mood that permeates the entire album. It’s a mood that adds cohesion throughout a varied—but not too varied—selection of songs.

Critics love to talk about Black Mountain’s obvious influences, but they’re missing the point. Black Mountain is not a ‘70s tribute band. Despite vintage gear and analog tones, they manage to carve out a sound that is fresh, modern, and uniquely theirs.

Not that those influences aren’t important. It might be lazy to compare Black Mountain to Black Sabbath (sorry, heavy riffs don’t mean you sound like Sabbath—heavy riffs are rock n roll), but other influences are more apparent. On IV, the big one is ‘70s Pink Floyd, which is thick in some places. Songs like “(Over and Over) The Chain” and “Space to Bakersfield” would be at home on Animals or Wish You Were Here. “Defector’s” chorus sounds a lot like “Young Lust” from The Wall. But comparisons to Floyd are only skin deep. While Floyd can get boring or whinny, Black Mountain have a brooding and depth that gets under your skin and makes their long jams strangely addictive.

But Black Mountain doesn’t jam per se—they aren’t the Dead. Black Mountain’s jams are compositional—they brood, build, and draw you in. IV’s few solos are compositional as well, they add additional layers and contribute to the oeuvre. And for the most part it works. The eight minute epics on the album—and there are a few of them—are wonderful hypnotic jams. They are great driving songs—great for staring out the window at the dotted lines passing by on the highway. Shorter songs break up those long pieces and give a nod to—of all things—‘80s alternative pop. Examples include the anthemic unison vocals and early punk guitar chords on “Florian Saucer Attack” and the Thomas Dolby-style synth stabs over the very ‘80s guitar ostinato on “Constellations.” But again, talking about influences obscures what is really Black Mountain’s secret sauce: careful arrangements and powerful orchestration.

The members of Black Mountain know when not to play. That’s a big deal. Guitarists and keyboardists often noodle for the sake of doing something. In Black Mountain, they sit out until needed—an extremely musical approach to arranging that makes each instrument’s impact more effective. The few guitar solos are a case in point. There aren’t many, but when they hit—like on “Mothers of the Sun”—they allow a brooding groove to climax and for the song’s tensions to resolve. It is a minimalist approach and shows unusual restraint for the sake of the song.

IV’s weakest link are its lyrics. “Ain’t no foolin’, we’re back in school. Ain’t no foolin’, when you’ve been fooled.” I mean, that’s some trite shit—but I am not sure if it matters. You don’t listen to Black Mountain for deep or clever lyrics. Black Mountain is a vibe. It’s a dark mood. You stare at the highway and forget about time. The vocals are another color and the words are something for the singer to do. (Although the lyrics in “Cemetery Breeding” are pretty funny.)

Sonically, IV is a tour de force. The guitar tones—from the opening riff on “Mothers of the Sun” to the end of the album—are meaty and ballsy. The synths and funky oscillations are awesome. The acoustics on “Line Them All Up” give Amber Webber a platform for a standout vocal performance. But ultimately, it’s the composition as a whole—the whole package—that makes IV stand out. It’s an album that sounds great on first listen, but even better as it grows on you. Has Black Mountain evolved since their 2005 eponymous release? I am not sure.

But I am not sure if that matters.

Bibio: A Mineral Love

Bibio A Mineral Love is the new album from Bibio, the moniker of producer, musician, and songwriter Stephen Wilkinson. Wilkinson—similar to Ruban Nielson (Unknown Mortal Orchestra) and Kevin Parker (Tame Impala)—is a lone wolf and works from home. He has the funding and time to hone sounds, refine arrangements, and fiddle with production until he’s crafted a near-perfect pop masterpiece. But unlike Nielson and Parker, Wilkinson doesn’t have a band or hit the road—he never leaves home—and being a homebody affords him the luxury to be prolific. A Mineral Love is his eighth full length release, in addition to three EPs and a small pile of remixes.

Wilkinson has a fascination with danceable pop from the late ‘70s and early ‘80s. His music exudes the feel and melodic sensibilities of artists like Prince, Hall and Oats, and Michael Jackson. Sly Stone’s influence is strong as well and on A Mineral Love is most apparent on the track, “Feeling” (the opening guitar jabs, sax line, and bass groove ooze Sly with abandon).

But Wilkinson’s real calling card is the gritty, crackling world of lo-fi. It’s an aesthetic he pushes to an extreme. He loves warbles—microtonal fluctuations that sound like a malfunctioning tape machine or dying turntable—they are a hallmark of his sound and are in abundance on A Mineral Love. “Petals,” the album’s opener, starts with a warbled guitar and is enhanced by a reversed melody line—also played on guitar. The effect is stunning. It sets a mellow yet slightly off-kilter tone that permeates throughout the album. From start to finish, A Mineral Love is awash in swoony oscillations, trippy textures, and crackling lo-fi noise, which compliment the clean guitar tones, synths, and timbre of his vocals.

The guitar playing is excellent on A Mineral Love as well. Wilkinson’s lines, although somewhat predictable, are song-appropriate—he isn’t a shredder—and his timbral choices are impeccable. The lone exception is the overdriven guitar sound on “Town & Country.” It over-emphasizes the diatonic nature of the guitar line and adds an unnecessary layer of cheese, which is unfortunate. But it’s a solitary glitch sampled from an otherwise rich and tasteful tonal pallet.

A Mineral Love has a subtle, low-key vibe, which deemphasizes some of the album’s extreme rhythmic play. “C’est La Vie,” for example, sits over a super-exaggerated swung eighth feel and gives the groove a stringy-stretchy bounce—a refreshing break from the metronome tight programed drum patches so common in mainstream pop. The drum and bass interaction on “Feeling” is another example. Their jerky interaction—particularly in relation to the faux snare backbeat—creates a push/pull that makes it difficult to find your footing. It’s subtle, but those surprises make A Mineral Love enjoyable. A few songs are without drums and again, that’s cool. The loopy guitar lines and backwards leads on “Petals” are driving and dynamic. The tight rhythmic interplay on “Saint Thomas” is almost edgy—proof you don’t need an obvious snare hit to create tension and propel a song forward.

But it isn’t all crunchy lo-fi and jerky rhythms, some songs are downright slick. “Why So Serious,” featuring Olivier Daysoul, with it’s period-correct ‘80s-style synth bass, could be an ode to the glory days of MTV. The guitars have that cool active Strat sound and bring to mind Adam Hann from the 1975. “Gasoline & Mirrors,” with Wax Stag, also boasts superior production—clean tones, a propelling groove, and handclaps as the song’s sole percussion.

A few songs, like “Raxeira,” (my favorite hook on the album) and “The Way You Talk,” have abrupt endings that sound incongruous in relation to the rest of the song. It’s a cool effect—the Beatles did it at the end of “Glass Onion” for example—but it’s overdone. Wilkinson uses it to change gears. Maybe he feels stuck—he doesn’t want to come up with a bridge or stick in a guitar solo—but a better arrangement would serve the song better.

But that’s a minor complaint—and I don’t know if it’s much of a complaint. A Mineral Love is a fantastic experience. It drops you in a trippy mellow world, challenges you in subtle ways, and rewards you if you make the effort to listen carefully.