[Moody]
Portishead
Third
****
They say that art is meant to elicit a reaction. That’s why Damien Hirst is famous, why Michael Haneke is renowned and why I can never listen to Portishead’s Third again. Grossly accomplished in affectation, this album is a successful piece of art and an innovative work of music, but hardly pleasure listening.
It’s been nine years since Portishead released its eponymous sophomore album, arguably one of the defining discs of trip-hop. And though there remain hints of that grainy, acid-tinged signature, Third takes the sound from slightly unsettling to wholly unhinged.
The album opens with the noirish noise of “Silence,” a precursor to the psychological assault about to be unleashed. “Hunter” haunts with Beth Gibbons’ mournful cabaret interjected with jarring seizure synths. “Nylon Smile” pumps a heartbeat bass line that kindles anxiety, while “The Rip” oozes “oohs” so long, they sound like suffocation.
But “Plastic” is where the trouble really starts. The dominant, disconcerting sound effect—rusty, grinding gears like a helicopter propeller or roller-coaster chains—plays on aural associations and boosts blood pressure. “We Carry On” doesn’t relent. Static white-noise bleats and rapidly bouncing pocket change make this track the industrial equivalent of an urgent pursuit.
Stepping away from the synths, “Deep Water” pairs vocalist Beth Gibbons with a ukulele, which, after the preceding noise, presents a porcelain-doll effect: independently innocent, but contextually creepy. “Machine Gun,” even without the title’s tip-off, doesn’t disguise its trigger-happy inspiration. The tinny percussion mirrors the titular weapon, eventually coalescing a synthesized war cry warped enough to put any rational person on edge.
Closer “Threads” is the closest the album comes to the Portishead of yore, with hints of trippy jazz giving way to an electronic groan. Its skulking, dark wail harkens to a simpler time, almost as a nudge of encouragement to toss on Dummy and unwind. –Kristyn Pomranz
[Pop]
Ashlee Simpson
Bittersweet World
** 1/2
Hold on to your hats: Ashlee Simpson has discovered the ’80s. The singer’s much-delayed third album tones down the rock-based sound that dominated her first two releases in favor of a sunny, dance-oriented throwback approach courtesy of producers Timbaland and Chad Hugo of The Neptunes, who between them are responsible for all but two of the album’s 11 tracks. Simpson has cited Missing Persons as a heavy influence on these songs, and their keyboard-heavy New Wave sound is easy to spot, along with other ’80s touchstones from Blondie to Debbie Gibson.
It’s refreshing after 2005’s dark, self-serious I Am Me to hear Simpson lighten up; empty, upbeat pop is certainly her ideal environment, and Timbaland effectively marries his trademark stuttery beats to a throwback aesthetic that still includes plenty of guitars. But the songs are never quite as enjoyable as they ought to be, and Simpson’s thin, indistinct voice doesn’t have the power needed to make them work. Her sister Jessica’s flirtation with retro sounds on parts of her last album was much more successful.
It’s hard to hate this album, though, with its goofy, inconsequential lyrics and carefully crafted sense of fun. Hugo productions “Boys” and “Hot Stuff” are more than up to the Debbie Gibson standard, and almost all of the songs go down smoothly. Sure, Simpson whines about the paparazzi on “What I’ve Become” and doles out adult-contemporary slop on “Little Miss Obsessive” and “Never Dream Alone,” but when she’s having a good time, she turns out to be a blast. –Josh Bell
[Folkish]
Billy Bragg
Mr. Love & Justice
***
In these unstable political and economic times, music needs Billy Bragg more than ever to be a voice of wisdom, skepticism and observation.
Over the past 25 years, the sharp-tongued lyricist has penned enough liberal screeds and heartfelt love songs to earn near-universal admiration from scholars and musicians alike. After exploring the societal ramifications of racism and immigration on his home country on 2002’s England, Half English, Bragg largely brings his lyrics back to smaller, more personal concerns on Mr. Love & Justice. “I Keep Faith” and “M for Me”—which comfortingly intones, “Your problems baby, make ’em our problems now”—encourage fidelity and trust within the confines of a relationship, while the anti-war “Sing Their Souls Back Home” harnesses the communal power of a gospel choir’s spirituality to call the troops home.
Accordingly, Justice’s songs aren’t as busy-sounding or adorned as those on English. Mellow tempos and purposeful acoustic guitars dominate, although well-placed flourishes—cushioned organ, blustery harmonica, spidery mandolin or pub-rock piano—make Bragg’s music blossom into a genteel blues/soul/folk hybrid. Still, this same lush instrumentation and monotonous tempo often causes Justice to fade into the background. More songs exhibiting Bragg’s trademark bite—like the plugged-in, hard-country jag “Something Happened,” a concise but barbed comparison between love and lust—would keep listeners focused on his thoughtful message. –Annie Zaleski
[Psych-Rock]
The Black Angels
Directions to See a Ghost
** 1/2
Look alive, conspiracy theorists! Jim Morrison is alive and well and singing again.
Or so it would seem, listening to Alex Maas, singer for The Black Angels, work his way through his psychedelic rock troupe’s second album, Directions to See a Ghost. Though Maas called upon his inner Lizard King for parts of the band’s 2006 debut, Passover, the vocal similarity between the two seems so pronounced this time that Ray Manzarek might want to have his lawyers go over those naming rights one more time in case Jim, er, Alex comes calling.
Regardless of whether Maas’ Morrison likeness is pure or affected, Ghost provides a surreal wormhole into an alternate dimension—where the Doors frontman survived 1971, ditched the poetic lyricism of his youth and founded a bleak-spirited rock outfit draped with a veil of multi-guitar distortion. Druggy opener “You on the Run” epitomizes the music to come, droning in place in a foreboding—but not un-melodic—manner as Maas imparts the apparent grim tale of a law-breaker at odds with the FBI.
From there, the Angels mix in an occasional mood-shifter—Eastern flair for “Deer-Ree-Shee”; airy chanting, then dissonant noise in “Never/Ever”—but by and large, it all sounds like something one needs to be ridiculously stoned to enjoy. Aha! Even more evidence Morrison might have had a hand in it. –Spencer Patterson
[Indie Rock]
We Are Scientists
Brain Thrust Mastery
**
Just goes to show, when you achieve a measure of (moderate) success, you’re still going to have problems … even if they’re merely invented for commercial gain. Where 2006’s With Love and Squalor was a piece of dance-rock confectionary effortlessly poppy and shallower than a kiddie pool, the faux-British duo here aims to set itself apart from the horde of flash-in-the-pan blogosphere darlings with something seemingly deeper: relentless self-doubt.
The question is, however, just how true lines like “I am naturally inclined to let you down” (“Let’s See It”) and “The last thing I want is understanding” (“Tonight”) ring. The arrangements are as up-tempo as ever, but the pity party at the album’s core seems just as calculated as the synth landslide that buries each track. By the time closer “That’s What Counts” puts the fear of Kenny G into the hearts of hipsters everywhere, dances have been danced, glossiness has trumped anything resembling authenticity and a thousand indie hopefuls have already stepped up to take the place of another casualty of the music-industry machine. Finally, the real problems can begin. –Julie Seabaugh