by Samuel Tekani

Born To Die is a poor-little-rich-girl montage of loveless fathers and celluloid weekends, strictly first world pressures given Shakespearean scale and shameless melodrama. Is this meant to be endearing? It’s the more heart-felt soundtrack to Bret Easton Ellis’ territory, extended adolescence combined with obscene wealth and emotional immaturity, resulting in phony sentiment and tortured posturing. Speaking of which, this album in a word? Pretty posturing.

Admittedly the sound is gorgeous, perfectly produced (more key words, cough) and toeing that line between indie-interesting and pop-blah. But the sorrow is maddeningly posed. Despite an elegant sonic signature Del Ray fails to transcend generic songstress, by having disproportionately empty lyrics. It’s like Ke$ha doing vocal track for Sigur Ros, Del Ray’s voice is nowhere near big enough to mask inadequacy, perhaps especially against such sweeping composition.

And it’s so frustrating because everything else is as it should be, it’s just the myopic breadth of her writing that holds this back from being phenomenal. Sure, the hooks will give it staying power (for the summer anyway), but ‘classic’ is an adjective she’s already shooed. Now having said that, this is pretty damn catchy stuff and manages to shrug off inane lyrics for some soaring moments, exemplars of which are title track ‘Born to Die’ and ‘Radio’ (my personal favourite).

Perhaps Ms. Del Ray should feel the most cheated, because it’s her silken siren voice that’s muddied and betrayed, a voice that really haunts with something implacably guttural, velvety and even funereal. Sacrilege that such a voice should toil to spit out flat, familiar tales of ‘bitch gonna marry rich’ followed by over-the-top lovelorn remorse (next time on Gossip Girl), etcetera. Perhaps if daddy’s plastic had had less to do with her career (mere speculation), something real could have emerged from the no doubt orgiastic revelries of her pampered existence, none of this LV toting poolside glamour but the cash drenched recklessness of a no-holds-barred adolescence. Now there’s something worth chronicling!

In spite of incongruous songwriting Born To Die will no doubt find success, crested overlong by inexplicable hype and armed-to-the-teeth with over-produced nubile charm. I expect most tracks will find a viral Greys Anatomy-esque coolness through spots on similarly exploitive t-v dramas, which is exactly where Ms Del Ray belongs (ooh, burn).

by Samuel Tekani

Ten seconds in and it’s apparent what kind of ride Belle is going to be, Bic Runga’s neurotically sunny follow up to 2005’s Birds. Runga’s point of difference with Birds was her refusal to join ranks with the milieu of radio-friendly kiwi songstresses, whose manufacturer’s line of generic pop-hook and wannabe-endearing love themes have been  staple fare for an otherwise innovative kiwi music scene (no naming of artists from either camp . . . all one nation and that). What’s more, there was an accompanying image of Bic as velvet-refined and Joni-Mitchell-esque imbuing Miss Runga’s ‘kiwi gal’ self-presentation with a darkly textured sex appeal, a refreshing diversion from the down-to-earth innocence some New Zealand song writers try so painfully to convince their audiences (and themselves?) of.

And so it was with opening tracks “Tiny Little Piece of My Heart” and admittedly uplifting single-track “Hello Hello”, that my gut cinched disappointedly, for surely such linear fodder signalled a decline from established greatness. However, though never revisiting the silken moodiness of Birds, the rest of the album proves substantially meatier. There are some forgettable tracks, but this reviewer thinks the essence of superficially breezy songs will reveal themselves on regular revisitations.  In fact as this reviewer played it through a third and fourth time, overlooked gems unfurled like little flowers, and the wunderkind production value expected of Kody Nielson finally revealed itself as a subdued exploration of pop-sensibilities. It’s kind of like Nielson’s inner-punk mourning the death of a muse, turning to Runga’s soft-pop charms for solace, and subsequently reformed joins the choir! Through his ex-punk eyes Runga’s sound is taken back to basics, which is where the diaphanous melancholy nuances of Birds get stripped back. What remains is lightweight but ethereal, closest comparison being the second-half of Moon Safari by French Band ‘Air’. As with Air, Belle makes for great background music, but offers nothing beyond pop-platitudes to the casual listener.

There is real romantic ache to be mined here, but the prize is equal solely to the effort. Perhaps the Nielson/Runga duo have planted deliberate enigma here. The result’s still a pained question mark, to which the aforementioned revisitations will no doubt serve as remedy.

 

by Samuel Tekani

Nine Types of Light is a significant departure from TV on the Radio’s previous record Dear Science, and a toning down of their signature hectic-eclectic marks them as ‘in-development’. The album sounds like downtime; the kind that bands with an otherwise remarkable output take for the ultimate longevity of their ‘groove’. However, the payoffs are muted, and it seems a maturation of sound has been bought at the cost of much of their raw, pot-o-gold enthusiasm.

The root cause of Light’s muted tone? Well, it’s lovelorn a-hundredfold, making for a slower, headier tempo of post-funk brooding as opposed to post-funk partying. But don’t get me wrong, there are upbeat tracks that demand as much shuffle and jive as they do pregnant silence, in which the ache of songs like ‘Keep Your Heart’ can take root. The aforementioned track is indeed a standout, one of those raise-a-candle pop-ballads whose hooks make the hairs on the back of your neck and arms stand upright. Opener ‘Second Song’ is as much about clubby stamina as it is about staying in ‘The Light’, the (hackneyed?) motif of the album. Third track ‘You’ threatens at first to be a dud to the last, but picks up a swagger to enliven its dour heartbreak, before ‘No Future Shock’ pulls the slack tight in a toe-tapper of winning simplicity, designed to get you hating on the depersonalising automata of technology. It works. ‘Killer Crane’ is nice enough, but in its precious whimsy seems a mere prelude to standout neighbour ‘Will Do’. ‘New Cannonball Blues’ is not a dud track, but certainly the weakest on the album. I can see it growing on me, but my initial response is snore. ‘Repetition’ is classic TV on the Radio (that is to say bombastically life-affirming), while ‘Forgotten’ relieves after its prosaic and overlong intro. with a nicely layered guitar-crescendo. Penultimate sucker-punch ‘Caffeinated Consciousness’ is hellagood, with ‘All Falls Down’ a gentler wind-down, trickling seamlessly into the tailend remixes, a veritable fade-to-black.

The composition of these songs as an album will be a critical determinant for listeners. Personally, between standout tracks there is too much sag, which repeat listens has me thinking might be a reflexive function of Light’s message; some mystic’s vagary about staying in ‘The Light‘, fighting the modern neurotic’s tendency to exacerbate the negative and count our curses only. For those ready to disentangle these pearls from the sawn-off angles of this benign album, satisfaction is guaranteed. Everyone else will find its too few gems utterly maddening.

But I’m too big a fan to send-off with a negative. If this is a necessary turn in TV on the Radio’s sonic exploration, then so be it.

 

by Kirsten Wagstaff

I find it very hard to respect a lot of bands these days. I don’t know whether it is the cynicism bred into me from growing up in the 90’s or whether it is due to that fact that I am just a hateful person in general. But this is beside the point because one band that has been given my prized respect is ‘To Kill A King’. Which is no easy feat for a band in the over-descriptive soft cock rock genre that the likes of Mumford and Sons did good work to bastardise.

So how did ‘To Kill A King’ get such a pretentious name well according to frontman Ralph Pelleymounter, “It came from a line in Hamlet. I liked the idea of Claudius killing King Hamlet by pouring poison into his ear – and how that relates to music.”

The redeeming feature of ‘To Kill A King’ is simply great song writing. ‘Fictional State’, their debut single has the same eerie quality of listening to something and being taken back to your childhood similar to the same existential experience I had when I listen to Neutral Milk Hotel but not as good.  (nothing’s ever as good as the first time)

The themes dealt with in their songs are the usual big ones but put through the lens of everyday observance that hits you straight to the emotional core without you realising it. After listening to my now favourite of their songs ‘Bones’ and as much as I hate to admit I was won over. Anyone who mentions syphilis, Pringles and Volkswagens oddly enough gets my seal of approval.

To Kill A King – “Fictional State” by To Kill A King

Check out the video for ‘Cold Skin’  below, which will be on their debut E.P entitled ‘My Crooked Saint E.P’ out 17^th October 2011.

by Manisha Anjali

There is a slick new band turning heads all over Melbourne’s house parties and music venues. They are a little bit Radiohead, a little bit Yeah Yeah Yeahs, a little bit ribbon and lace, a little bit S&M and heart attacks. They are as polished as they are wolfish, as original as they are fashionable. And yes, they are all Kiwis. This band is Lashes to Lashes.

We are all sitting in this charming little Collingwood home, where three of the members reside. There is a ginger cat sprawled on the floor and a fluffy white bunny hopping around, and we are drinking four-dollar red wine in a feeble attempt to combat the cruel Melbourne winter. Suki, her brother Zac Barkway and her lover Alijoscha Felber are as relaxed as can be, and there are jokes about incest, Die Antward and somebody’s 12-inch black penis. One band member is absent, Ross Walker, ex-bassist for Conan and the Moccasins.

Initially originating as a feminine vision, lead singer and keyboardist Suki had her own ideas for the band when she was writing alone. “My vision soon got warped by obscene amounts of testosterone obscuring my femininity,” Suki says.

All four members have at different points evacuated from their motherland, Aotearoa, chasing what Alijoscha describes as the “Melbourne myth”, and began collaborating together in a sublime twist of fate. Melbourne is perceived as the imagined opus of musical creativity in this part of the world, bringing forth an influx of migrants from New Zealand and other parts of Australia all looking to pursue the same musical dream.

“What came first, the myth or the artist?” Suki remarks.

Lashes to Lashes are succeeding in finding the perfect balance between complicated technical song composition and pop sensibility – the time signatures are weird, but its music you can still get down to. They are gaining more and more fans with every live show, but they insist that they are still a work in progress. Having only been around for 8 months, Zac describes the band as being like a “film in a canister”, waiting to be fully developed. Lets not fail to mention that this is a group made up of notorious perfectionists.

The sound is ethereal and heavy, and their performances are tight and sexy. Ross dances around erratically, Alijoscha’s drumming is like an exorcism and Zac has been described as a “tasteful craftsman” of a guitarist. Suki, coated in glitter, curves elegantly over her keyboard and delivers agonisingly beautiful vocals, leaving onlookers speechless with her phenomenal range.

When asked why Suki has never performed with shoes on, she says, “We were brought up by hippies in the middle of nowhere and I just never learnt to sing in shoes. Singing Fleetwood Mac doesn’t sound the same without feeling the soles of your feet on the ground.”

“Playing live is stimulating, like afternoon masturbation,” Suki laughs.  The kids cannot help but dance.

www.facebook.com/lashestolashesmusic

www.myspace.com/lashestolashes

album review by Liam Dargaville

I don’t care what you say, Joseph Mount, the brain behind metronomy, is a f***ing genius. ‘The English Riviera’ is based on Joseph’s hometown Devon – not in a literal way, more in a sense if Devon was a magestic floating isle of purple crystals. In an interview, Mount paints a picture of his ‘English Riviera’ as being a fantastical and affluent paradise of golden beaches and beautiful women. A paradise is a more than ideal way of describing this album, a harmonious and timeless place in existance where one can escape human misery. The third Mount masterpiece finds a beautiful balance between emotion and groove, however don’t expect anything too upbeat compared to their last.

‘The English Riviera’ introduces and eases you into the album with the sedating sound of the seaside, reproduced by faint sounds of seagulls and a string quartet: a satisfyingly fitting pair. ‘Everything Goes My Way’ caught my attention instantly with the addition of lead vocals from drummer Anna Prior. As Metronomy have never incorporated female vocals into their prior pieces, it was refreshingly sweet and serene to accompany Metronomy’s already melodious charm. ‘The Look’, ‘She Wants’ and ‘The Bay’ are all equally deserving of spots as singles with their hypnotic and almost drone like catchiness. ‘The Look’ is especially alluring with it’s cheekily simple guitar riffs and the seductively resonating ‘croaking’ of frog guiros. Mount described ‘Trouble’ as a breather. I would call it anything but that as I practically held my breath through the entirety of this dream-like track. ‘Some Written’ is a more jazzy number if you’re looking for where Mount suggests in an interview their sound will be heading in the future. The track i enjoyed most was ‘Love Underlined’, that simply grabs hold of you, shakes, and repeats.

Where ‘Nights Out’ keeps you on the edge of your seat wanting to leap up and dance, ‘The English Riviera’ is more blissfully sedative, and I mean that in the most beautifully bed ridden way, where you are confined to listen, think, brood and smile.