Moby: “Wait for Me”
The cover of Moby’s latest album, Wait for Me, is quite unlike any of his previous album covers. It differs from most of his album artwork in that it’s one of the rare Moby cover images that doesn’t prominently feature the artist’s own bald, bespectacled head. In that regard, it bears a superficial similarity to the image adorning Last Night, but in most other respects it’s entirely different from that one, as well; gone are the glitzy, Photoshopped glamor models and garish colors of that album sleeve, and in their place is a simple, mostly black-and-white doodle that the artist drew himself.
Within those two observations you can essentially find the heart of Wait for Me: An abandonment of ego, a return to simplicity, a certain spiritual purity and childlike sense of contentment. Those elements not only make this his richest and most sophisticated work since Play, but also the most striking and different. It’s quiet, leisurely in tempo, gradual in its steady-handed unfolding. In other words, this is a Moby album that probably won’t serve as the soundtrack to any car commercials or action movies: This is a mournful and somber work, more appropriate for reflection and meditation.
Sad though it may be, however, this music isn’t gloomy. Actually, there’s a certain cleansing, cathartic quality to it, embodying a quality of spiritual renewal that just might reflect the artist’s own coming to contentment. It’s been ten years since Play went multiplatinum, and that decade has seen every single track from that album licensed to commercials or movies, while Moby himself continues to labor over relatively aimless, creatively dry records that neither sold as well nor spoke so vividly as Play. And maybe he’s finally okay with that: With Wait for Me, he’s abandoned any aims to replicate past successes, instead making an album of artistic and spiritual purity that finds serenity and peace even in its darkest moments.
Ironically, settling down and making music that’s as contemplative and honest as this results in Moby returning to a few of the characteristics that made Play so alluring. The title of that album summed up its spirit of curiosity perfectly, and it fits this record, too; it may not be “playful” in the same way that Play was, but it certainly carries itself with a sense of wonderment and wide-eyed joy, even if it is a joy in the midst of grieving. The bluesy samples that gave Play its heart and its spirituality are back, as well: Snippets of gospel songs and spirituals are repeated throughout the album, not only giving it its roots but also illuminating the themes born in the music, with universal signifiers of journeying and overcoming serving as verbal expressions of the music’s sense of perseverance, its hope in the face of turmoil.
But what makes it stick– and indeed, what characterizes the very best of Moby’s music– is that the samples aren’t tacked on to hammer home his philosophical point of view, but rather to enrich and enhance the music, which speaks loudly and clearly on its own, samples or no. (Indeed, over half of the album is totally wordless.) As a composer, Moby has grown substantially without losing his hunger; the tracks here are almost as indebted to classical music as to techno in the strictest sense, and the whole record feels much more immersive and natural than most of what’s played in clubs. But of course, making music for the clubs wasn’t Moby’s ambition, at least not this time, and the result is an album that’s not just very fine, but moving and meaningful as well.
Wilco: “Wilco (The Album)”
When a fifteen year-old band decides to make their seventh studio LP a self-titled affair, it’s time to sit up and pay attention: They’re trying to tell you something. Often, the self-titled album is meant to serve as a sort of statement of identity, a way for the band to say, “This is who we are now.” At times, it marks a fresh start– a back-to-basics approach after a period of aimlessness or excess. Other times, it’s simply a consolidation of strengths, an effort on the band’s part to highlight what they’re good at and smooth over their weak spots.
Wilco’s seventh album isn’t quite self-titled, however; the name of the record is Wilco (The Album), a goofy but fun moniker that kinda-sorta falls into the self-titled camp, but not really. Fittingly, then, the album is kinda-sorta a statement of purpose and identity for Wilco, but not really.
Certainly, it’s a reflection of who the band is and where they’re at in 2009, fifteen years after they founded in the wake of the late Uncle Tupelo. But to say that it’s a deliberate effort on Jeff Tweedy and Co.’s part to sum up the essence of Wilco for us suggests that Wilco has an essence, an identity, which is just about the one thing they’ve never quite had. The number of stylistic shifts the band has gone through is exceeded only by the number of incarnations the band’s line-up has had– I’m pretty sure this is the first Wilco album to bear the same roster as its predecessor– so to say that The Album is a statement of purpose or vision suggests a level of self-awareness and focus that has always seemed just beyond their reach.
The album, then, is less a statement than a revelation– a testimony to just how all-over-the-map the group really is, and just how scatterbrained their music can be. And honestly, that’s a little refreshing: Chicago music critic Jim DeRogatis has already pointed out that this is the first Wilco album that isn’t driven by some sort of narrative– it’s simply a collection of songs– and so while it may be a hodgepodge, it’s also the band’s most modest and unassuming record ever, and as such it has more than a few small, simple pleasures.
But a hodgepodge it remains: Rather than sounding like Wilco’s manifesto, it sounds like what happens when Wilco isn’t quite sure where to go next, and so it incorporates many familiar sounds from the band’s past. There’s some of the laid-back, classic-rock jamming of Sky Blue Sky, a bit of noodling weirdness that recalls A Ghost is Born, and some of the more straightforward pop of the band’s early days. Ultimately, what the record reveals is not what Wilco is, but what they could be; they’ve always wanted to be a pop band at heart– those instincts creep through even amidst the murk of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot and A Ghost is Born, via the direct melody of “Kamera” and the soulful swagger of “Hummingbird”– and The Album is their most populist record yet, something that is, in theory, fun to simply put on and play.
It doesn’t always work out that way: “You and I,” Tweedy’s duet with Leslie Feist, is a boring folk ditty that’s destined to be a big hit in Starbucks locations everywhere; “Country Disappeared” tries to be rousing but is instead flat and sleepy; “I’ll Fight” is a by-the-numbers classic-rock joint that justifies the “Dad-rock” label some critics have slapped on the band.
At times, the band strikes out for more adventurous ground, but even that seems indicative of the album’s problems. “Wilco (The Song)” opens the album with crunching power pop chords, and proves that the band doesn’t know when to let a good joke die. Its self-referential lyrics are meant to serve as a sort of lighthearted theme song for the band, and for the album, but it’s goofy and repetitive, and its jokey mood doesn’t square well with the rest of the record. Speaking of which, Tweedy’s lyrics are all over the place: I think “Country Disappeared” is supposed to be a political song, but it’s too lethargic to amount to much. Most of the lyrics are more personal, and some of them are really good– “One Wing” and “Deeper Down” both display a knack for storytelling and metaphor,” for example. “You Never Know,” however, boasts one of Tweedy’s all-time clunkiest opening lines: “Come on, children, you’re acting like children!”
Make no mistake: There are some real gems here. “One Wing” builds gradually from a quiet folk song to a soaring, arena-ready anthem, and it’s a terrific showcase of Wilco’s strengths in composition and musicality. “Bull Black Nova,” meanwhile, is bizarro art-rock with a side of kraut– its tension and nervous, shifting energy make it a standout, so much so that critics and fans alike seem to agree that it’s the album’s finest song. But that in itself is oddly problematic: It’s also the record’s strangest, most experimental song, and the fact that it works so much more effectively than the more straightforward pop offerings the band seems to favor shows just what sort of a corner they’re backed into. What should have been a summary of their ambitions turns out to be a summary of their record collection– a fractured, messy album that’s big on variety and not lacking in fine moments, but a mess nevertheless, with no sense of self present to help these songs congeal into The Album they might wish it to be.
The King of Pop
“If you remember Michael Jackson as a weirdo you didn’t know him. There was a long, beautiful, groundbreaking career before all that.” –Journalist Toure, via Twitter
“May we stop making idols of and then destroying our celebrities soon.” –Beth Maynard, via Twitter
My friend Gavin Breeden has an eloquent tribute, saying it as well as I ever could.
On Repeat: Mos Def
It may turn out that Mos Def is only capable of releasing one really great album every ten years– and I’d almost be okay with that. As it stands, he’s already released two of ‘em, and that’s two more great albums than most artists release in their entire career. In 1999, just a year after his appearance as one-half of the compassionate, back-to-basics rap duo Black Star (which I guess could technically bump our count up to three great albums), Mos released Black on Both Sides, a pinnacle of late-90s hip-hop by anyone’s standard. Then he spent a solid decade puttering around in various movies, occasionally returning to recording only to release increasingly mediocre , self-indulgent material that suggested movie stardom had become more important to him than his music. And then, in 2009– almost ten years exactly since Black on Both Sides– he hit with The Ecstatic, an album that’s almost entirely different from Both Sides yet no less mercurial or brilliant. In fact, I’m not sure that you could find a better two albums to represent the best in socially aware, artistically volatile hip-hop.
That Mos Def struck brilliance with two wildly different albums is, I’d propose, a testament to his own creative restlessness and determined eclecticism. Even on his lesser albums, he always seems like an artist who insists on making music on his own terms and never repeating himself, which explains how his two pinnacles can stand as two unique sides to a singular talent. Black on Both Sides, of course, remains an epic, a marathon-length hip-hop album that, remarkably, never loses its steam or relents in its pursuit of excellence and diversity. It’s also an album that’s rich in thoughtful and compassionate lyrics about race, class, love, and hip-hop– not even Public Enemy wrote such eloquent and sharp arguments, and they were certainly never as warm– so it makes sense that the album is very much structured as a big, ambitious statement: It’s a manifesto, full and complete and sweeping in its scope.
The Ecstatic, meanwhile, is not a manifesto. In fact, I’m still not entirely sure what it is, even though I’ve played it nearly every day for the past few weeks. It’s a flight of fancy, but it’s meant to be taken seriously. It’s a weird, rambling album that abandons typical verse-chorus structures in favor of a seamless, suite-like flow, but it’s never self-indulgent. It’s filled with loose ends and rabbit trails– Mos sings in Spanish, writes a weird love song that could be to either a girl or a fun, incorporates Bollywood chorus lines, and half-mumbles through a couple of tracks like he’s making it up as he goes along– yet it’s also very complete, its ragged charm and rough edges enhancing the fact that it’s meant to be taken as a piece.
But above all else, it’s an anomaly in hip-hop, and indeed pop music in general, in that it’s an album that’s born from a place of real, genuine curiosity: Mos raps about signs and wonders, miracles and answered prayers, and the joy of living life in marvelous times, even as the winds of time and war and poverty rattle through some of the album’s corridors. Even when he’s singing about unemployment or war in Iraq, the artist never drops his stance of wide-eyed wonderment and childlike optimism.
That makes it personal. It makes it inspiring. And it even reminds me a bit of my favorite record of all time, Joe Henry’s Tiny Voices. What I mean by that is: It seems to recreate itself every time I play it, as though I’m listening not just to music being played, but to an actual act of spontaneous creativity. I’m thankful for that– a minor miracle, indeed.
Regina Spektor: “Far”
At this point, there’s probably not much point trying to tie Regina Spektor’s career to a strict, straightforward narrative arc. On the surface, hers might seem like a common enough story: The artist cranks out a few cult records in relative obscurity, attracts major label attention with her breakthrough Soviet Kitsch, then steps into the big-time with Begin to Hope, a bigger-budget album that made enough pop concessions to draw in a few new fans but not so many that she lost many of her old ones.
The thing is, nothing’s quite as simple as it first seems with Regina Spektor: Her music has always been pop at heart, and Begin to Hope didn’t reject her quirkier tendencies so much as it smoothed them out a bit. And now, Far muddies things even more; at once the most commercial and accessible album of her career as well as a more sophisticated and deceptive album than Begin to Hope, it’s nothing if not a careful and competent demonstration of how to make a play for the mainstream without selling your soul.
Read the rest at Stereo Subversion.
The Eels: “Hombre Lobo: 12 Songs of Desire”
The titles say it all. In 2005, Mark Everett—or E, as he prefers being called—released an album under his Eels banner called Blinking Lights and Other Revelations, and it was exactly what its grandiose title suggested: An album that was both epic and revelatory, a sprawling double-discer in which our grizzled hero confronted head-on the death of his parents, by means of childhood reflection and sober-minded acceptance of life’s fragility. Four years later, he’s back with a set called Hombre Lobo: 12 Songs of Desire, and if the title is just as long, it’s also stranger and funnier and a bit less sweeping. The album itself is much the same way: It’s shorter—just one disc this time—and more concerned with matters primal and carnal. Blinking Lights was epic pop, but Hombre, with its werewolf-referencing title, is a dirty, raucous garage sound, pitching its tent closer to gothic blues than to Thriller-styled kitsch but maintaining a winking sense of humor nevertheless.
Read the rest at Stereo Subversion.
Dinosaur Jr.: “Farm”
When Dinosaur Jr. released Beyond in 2007, it may not have qualified as a full-fledged event, but it was at least a pretty big deal– one of those rare albums that is automatically something special for the mere fact that it exists, to say nothing of the actual music. After all, when the band split in the early 90s, it wasn’t exactly amicable; plus, the group had always exemplified slacker-rock, writing anthems of apathy and approaching their records with a certain kind of detachment. And yet, there they were again, in their original line-up, playing together not only with amiability, not even with enthusiasm, but– for the first time ever– with real, honest-to-goodness engagement. Like a band with something to prove.
That goes pretty far in explaining why Beyond was a truly great album– almost spectacularly so– but also why its 2009 follow-up, Farm, is merely very good. Two years ago, Dinosaur Jr. was declaring that they were back with a vengeance, ready to bang out what was arguably their finest album yet; and, given how well everything gelled on that album, it’s considerably less surprising to find them forging ahead, settling into a comfortable groove that suggests they’re simply glad to be playing together again.
And that’s the big thing that makes Farm a bit less thrilling than Beyond: A new level of comfort. Two years ago, they sounded hungry, whereas here they sound content. As a result, they don’t quite push themselves on Farm the way they did on Beyond, and so there’s nothing here that rocks with quite as much abandon as “Almost Ready,” struts with quite as much swagger as “Back to Your Heart,” or glistens with the same depth and texture as “Crumble.”
But with all that said, it’s still worth noting that even a slightly less than great Dinosaur Jr. album is still something to celebrate, because Dinosaur Jr. is still one of the great American bands. And if they want to crank out an album of sturdy, thoroughly enjoyable guitar rock of this caliber, I’m not going to complain too much, as it really is a joy to hear them play together, particularly when they lock into a groove, as they do here. And if Farm doesn’t hit the highs of Beyond, it must also be said that it’s a consistent album with no bad songs or filler.
J. Mascis has said in the past that Dinosaur Jr.’s songs are basically country songs cranked up really loud, which has the ring of truth to it: It certainly explains how these songs can sound so simple yet also be so visceral and addicting, which they certainly are. “Ocean in the Way” is a sad-sack ballad cranked up to heavy-metal volumes and turned into a true head-banger, particularly when the guitar solo kicks in, and “Over There” is a careening rocker that employs wah-wah effects to sound more complicated than it really is. The band still bangs out quick, hard-hitting punk-ish rock songs like nobody else, and they do stretch themselves a bit on the long, dense ballad “Places,” but the heart of the album lies in a couple of sprawling, no-frills jam sessions.
And that, of course, shows where the heart of the band is as well. They’re stretching out and digging in, finding their groove and settling in. They’ve got no one to impress, and they seem perfectly happy just to be jamming together. I’m okay with that. Not many bands can rock like Dinosaur Jr. can, and even fewer can play with this kind of chemistry and off-the-cutt interplay. So even if Farm is a minor achievement, it’s still majorly enjoyable.
Joe Lovano: “Folk Art”
Jazz music is essentially an African-American folk art form– or at least that’s what Joe Lovano says, explaining the title and concept behind his latest Blue Note release. Truthfully, you can enjoy the music perfectly well without giving its thematic thrust a second thought, but if you’re curious, I think what Lovano means is something like this: That jazz music is a particularly communal and communicative art form, wherein different members of the culture share the same common elements– the same building blocks, as it were– and put them together in new and varied ways. A jazz song, then, becomes something like a folk tale– even when the basic plot is the same, the details are different from one teller to the next, and any given story might be built from pieces of other stories that have been passed around in similar ways.
Given the thematic framework he’s working in, it is perhaps a touch ironic that Lovano writes every track on Folk Art; after close to two dozen recordings for Blue Note, this is his first of all-original material. That said, his compositions here reflect a certain pliability. I’m not sure if Lovano hopes that some of these songs become folk standards in their own right or if he’s simply trying to prove his point, but the songs here are all simple, primal– the kinds of songs that are open-ended and invite all sorts of interpretation and embellishment, seemingly written for the purpose of being passed around and explored in different ways by different performers.
Lovano himself is particularly restless on this outing, both as a composer and a musician; perhaps he’s rejuvenated by his brand new band, called Us Five, a quintet of young players that includes a pair of drummers– Francisco Mela and Otis Brown III– as well as the celebrated bassist Esperanza Spalding and the pianist James Weidman. These musicians light a mighty fire on these songs, playing with an elemental passion; the drummers, in particular, give the music a feeling of returning to its roots, mixing ethnic hand percussion with the traditional jazz drum kit. And Lovano sounds youthful and adventurous, even forgoing his usual saxophone in favor of other reed instruments on a few songs.
If there’s any song here that stands as the set’s definitive piece– perhaps the definitive piece of Lovano’s entire, storied career– it’s the title cut, which represents something of a deconstructionist take on jazz. It begins as a sort of primal blues and gradually morphs into classic modalism, only to unravel in its episodic middle section, giving way to exploratory and totally unhinged playing from the ensemble; then, steadily, they build it back up and return to where they started. The song’s mirror image is “Drum Song,” another tune that shuffles around the building blocks of jazz by starting with open-ended, tribal drumming before gradually building into a more traditional jazz composition.
But Lovano has more on his mind than simply playing with jazz’ fundamental components; he also seems bent on showing its range, and as a composer he’s positively aglow with different possibilities. “Wild Beauty,” for example, is a ballad that lives up to its name, achingly melodic even as its edges seem frayed by the eccentricities of the performers and the combustible spirit of their interplay. “Dibango,” on the other hand, is something else altogether, an almost cartoonishly fun and funky piece in which Lovano squawks like some exotic bird on his taragato. “Page 4″ is a deep blues, and album-closing “Etterno” is a wild bit of improvisation.
But if there’s one piece that summarizes the album’s remarkable achievement, it’s the opener, the aptly-named “Powerhouse.” Clocking in at just four minutes, it’s a concise but wildly-swinging tune that’s firmly rooted in bop; its tropes are ones that anyone who’s at all familiar with jazz has heard a million times before, and yet there’s a fire to the performances and an elasticity to the composition that bring the familiar sounds to astonishing new places. And that’s the implicit lesson of Folk Art: That with music as boldly elemental and open-ended as jazz, the spirit of invention is never far off. And here, Joe Lovano has it in spades.
The Best So Far (2009 at the Halfway Point)
I’ve reviewed a lot of records this year– maybe more than in any previous year– and we’re just about halfway to the listmaking season, so now seems like as good a time as any to reflect on the finest albums of the year– or at least, the ones that have spent the most time in my player. I’ve written about most of these records at some length already, so I’ll skip the big, elaborate fanfare and just say that these are my ten favorite albums of 2009 (so far):
1. Joe Henry, Blood from Stars. The master outdoes himself again: This is as rich and sophisticated as Civilians, almost as edgy as Tiny Voices, and filled with more left-turns than Scar. His best yet? Very possible. Not out until August, and I can’t wait for you all to hear it.
2. Allen Toussaint, The Bright Mississippi. Pure joy: Jazz and blues traditions are re-imagined and reinvigorated through sheer invention and playful whimsy. I could listen to this all day and not be tired of it.
3. U2, No Line on the Horizon. This one’ll lose me some music critic cred in some circles, but I don’t care: I still think it’s exhilarating. The biggest band in the world creates their most complex and refined album yet, a work of deep spiritual meditation and inspired musical synthesis.
4. Mos Def, The Ecstatic. Hip-hop borne not from thuggish boasting, but wide-eyed wonder and curiosity at the marvelous times in which we live. It seems to grow more addictive every time I play it.
5. Jarvis Cocker, Further Complications. Sex songs as jumping-off points for contemplations of neuroses personal, political, romantic, and metaphysical. His words are just as sharp and striking as Steve Albini’s production.
6. Buddy and Julie Miller, Written in Chalk. Making the case that country music is really just soul music with cowboy boots and a twang.
7. Darcy James Argue’s Secret Society, Infernal Machines. I love this guy: It’s 2009, and he’s making big band music. Plus, his big band music sounds like no other music you’ve ever heard.
8. Paolo Nutini, Sunny Side Up. A low-key gem that sounds as old as the hills– or at least a good bit older than its 22-year-old auteur.
9. Dirty Projectors, Bitte Orca. A weird, left-field pop delight that fuses classical, world, and pop impulses into something alluring and downright fun.
10. Dave Matthews Band, Big Whiskey and the GrooGrux King. Winner of this year’s I Didn’t Think They Had it In Them award. Dave brings the rock, the band brings the funk, and the late LeRoi Moore’s spirit brings out the best in all parties.
Dirty Projectors: “Bitte Orca”
This isn’t the first we’ve heard from the Dirty Projectors in 2009: Earlier this year, Dave Longstreth’s art-pop trio appeared with David Byrne on a selection from the Dark was the Night compilation. Now, just days after the release of full-length Bitte Orca, the band is once again gearing up for an appearance with Byrne, this time for a full set on his own personal Bonaroo stage. Byrne, it’s safe to say, is quite the fan of these guys, and it’s easy to see why: If nothing else, Bitte Orca establishes Longstreth as the heir to the Talking Heads’ legacy– specifically, of compressing complex, sophisticated music into tight and (relatively) accessible pop packaging.
In fact, the Dirty Projectors’ music is so deeply rooted in a particular classic rock tradition– the geeky one– that it’s almost hard to believe they’ve become 2009′s It Band in indie rock circles. Almost. They’re certainly a different beast than Grizzly Bear, a similarly historically-minded and pop-savvy band who recently broke out in a big way with the hipster set. Grizzly Bear, for all the obvious pop smarts evident in songs like “Two Weeks,” are essentially interested in sound more than anything else, in capturing a particularly haunting, nostalgic haze. The Dirty Projectors, on the other hand, record songs that sound crisp and clean, albeit complicated and at times downright convoluted. Their music is less about the depth of the recording or the mood of the production, more about the twists and turns, the dynamic ebb and flow, of the songs themselves. Keenly interested in form and structure, they’re a closer match for Animal Collective, but with a sound that’s considerably heftier and more concrete than AC’s bright and shiny art-pop.
Of course, I’ve spent half of this review talking about other bands, which hints at the biggest problem facing the Projectors: With a career as strange and as varied as theirs has been, it’s difficult to say anything specific about who the band is or what they’re about. Their identity is somehow elusive, their intentions tough to ascertain. That doesn’t mean that their music is bad; at its worst, it’s unfocused and indulgent, but at its best, it’s simply elusive. And that might be the best way to describe the artsy pop of Bitte Orca, an expertly-constructed pop album that shifts tones and tempos, styles and sounds so frequently that it never seems to land on anything resembling a foundation, but instead maintains a rather mysterious kind of movement.
Which, of course, makes it enthralling, not just because its shifts are so numerous, but because its construction is so ingenius. This is pop music made with a composer’s sense of dynamics, where the multi-part epic “Useful Chamber” adheres to its own peculiar logic even as the irresistibly off-kilter R&B groover “Stillness is the Move” masterfully creates and maintains tension and dynamic variance throughout its five-minute run. “Remade Horizon” is a composition so odd that it initially sounds random but then suddenly clicks and sounds brilliant; “Temecula Sunrise,” meanwhile, is a sunny and bright guitar song that betrays a deep knowledge of classic rock and power pop alike.
The more berserk tracks orchestrate noise into something that sounds perfectly logical and even beautiful, and Longstreth’s voice– falling somewhere between Dan Bejar and Wayne Coyone– brings a certain mania to the proceedings. When the album slows down– on the psychedelic swirl of “Two Doves,” the R&B slow-jam “No Intention,” and the epic closer “Fluorescent Half Dome”– you can see its foundation a bit clearer, but that makes it no less impressive or beguiling: This is music constructed from bits and pieces of the last, oh, fifty years of pop music, and its careful arrangement reveals not only a freewheeling imagination, but also a strong sense of roots.
Lyrically, the album is a riddle, or, rather, a series of riddles; they even quote the German film Wings of Desire at one point. Longstreth seems to invoke a journey, both in the narrative sense and in the sense of moving beyond borders and boundaries, and as such the album could be about either love or the creative life, but is probably intended to be a bit of both. Not that I’d wager any money on any interpretations of these songs: Like the music, the lyrics are pleasantly elusive and shrouded in mystery, and their construction is at times quite impressive, but they keep the band’s true motives at a distance, never quite letting us know who they are or what they stand for. Which reminds me: In scanning reviews of this record, I’ve seen a full three songs compared to Led Zeppelin, and two to Mariah Carey. In truth, the band sounds like neither, yet, somehow, both comparisons seem strangely apt, for this is a record cut from the cloth of pop classicism and rock populism, filtered through a vision that turns the familiar upside down while leaving it both utterly recognizable and totally novel– and that’s enough to make the album a minor triumph, and a major blast.
