[Indie pop]
Death Cab For Cutie
Narrow Stairs
****
Imagine if Ben Gibbard suddenly stopped writing syrupy love songs. Would couples everywhere break their embraces? Would the Earth spin off its axis? Would Adam Brody have to find a real job?
Such thoughts filled my head as I initially made my way through “I Will Possess Your Heart,” the first leaked track off new Death Cab For Cutie album Narrow Stairs—specifically the long, throbbing instrumental intro that veers closer to the Kraut rock of Neu! than the mawkish balladeering of “Transatlanticism,” the tune that caused teenagers to weep openly the last time I saw Death Cab in concert.
Until, after four and a half dire minutes, Gibbard arrives, singing, “How I wish you could see the potential/The potential of you and me.” Ahhhhhhh. All is right with the universe. Except that the more I play Narrow Stairs, the more I realize something’s not. Like any heartsick fool, Gibbard has long composed with one hand on his melancholy dispenser, but this time his frustrations seem to have coalesced into a layer of true despair.
Just check these song titles: “No Sunlight,” “You Can Do Better Than Me,” “Grapevine Fires,” “Pity and Fear,” “The Ice Is Getting Thinner.” Or this lyric from “Your New Twin Sized Bed”: “You used to think that someone would come along/And lay beside you in a space that they belong/But the other side of the mattress and box springs stayed like new/What’s the point of holding on to what never gets used?/Other than a sick desire for self-abuse.” Whoa. Better hide Ben’s shoelaces.
If your ears can adjust to the bleak surroundings, you’re left, basically, with a fairly typical Death Cab outing—an enticing opener (“Bixby Canyon Bridge”), a few other standouts (the Pet Sounds-y “You Can Do Better Than Me,” superbly told narrative “Grapevine Fires,” the hyper-poppy “Long Division”) and a couple of clunkers (“No Sunlight,” “Talking Bird”). Melodically, there’s still plenty of pleasant catchiness to be found; just be prepared for some serious rumination as you sway.
–Spencer Patterson
[Singer-songwriter]
Neil Diamond
Home Before Dark
***
Producer Rick Rubin’s back, yet the result is wildly different from 2005’s 12 Songs. While that album served as a defiant comeback directed at those who had written the singer-songwriter off as a ’70s hitmaker-turned-hipster punchline, Home Before Dark—with titles like “Don’t Go There”—aims to establish Diamond as a continuously relevant pop artist of the aughts (see his recent performance on American Idol for further proof).
The duo’s method, then, for standing out in an industry of glorified karaoke-ists is to stick with the “less is more” adage. The dozen tracks contain absolutely none of the over-the-top bombast post-ironically venerated in the likes of the 2001 flick Saving Silverman, instead relying on little more than an acoustic guitar and Diamond’s husky croon to emphasize a highly personal approach. Mike Campbell and Benmont from Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers appear, as does Natalie Maines of the Dixie Chicks, but the outlook is that of a stubbornly Solitary Man, pondering love, the passage of time and the choices he’s made. “Whose Hands Are These,” “The Power of Two” and “Slow It Down” stray dangerously close to schlock territory, but the slight errors are forgivable. Bound to happen when you’ve made it this far and are still willing to lay it all bare. –Julie Seabaugh
[Side project]
Foxboro Hot Tubs
Stop Drop and Roll!!!
***
Perhaps feeling the pressure of following up their mega-successful 2004 rock opera American Idiot, the members of Green Day have retreated to the safer confines of this relatively under-the-radar pseudonymous release, christening themselves Foxboro Hot Tubs and putting together an album of Nuggets-style garage rock that will probably baffle most Green Day fans. Dedicated listeners of Little Steven’s Underground Garage, however, may enjoy the brief, simple album, which exudes a love of classic sounds and invites comparisons to contemporaries like The Strokes and The Hives.
The best songs are the most Green Day-like, though, including “The Pedestrian,” “She’s a Saint Not a Celebrity” and the extremely catchy “Mother Mary,” which has gotten a decent amount of radio airplay. It’s not hard to imagine these tunes at home on a more traditional Green Day album, and indeed the garage-rock influence and focus on simplicity would be welcome changes of pace after American Idiot’s bombast.
The further the band gets from its well-established punk-pop sound, the less successful the album turns out to be. It’s a lark, and meant as such, but the pastiche sometimes sounds a little forced and fake. As a bit of dabbling, this is a fun album, but no one’s going to be clamoring for a Foxboro Hot Tubs follow-up. –Josh Bell
[R&B]
Estelle
Shine
** 1/2
A year or so from now, when I (inevitably) start compiling a list of my favorite songs of the decade, Estelle’s 2004 single “1980” will surely figure in there somewhere. A smash hit in her native U.K. that did zilch stateside, “1980” is less notable for its neat autobiographical details (titled after the singer’s birthdate) than for its swirling, panoramic soundscape, a straight-out-of-left-field headbutt to contemporary hip-hop that ranks right up there with Missy Elliott’s “Work It” or Ciara’s “Oh!” Really—it’s that good.
That’s a tall order to live up to, granted, but the relative ordinariness of Shine, Estelle’s first North American release, is disappointing regardless. There’s no lack of finesse in the beats here, no lack of production smarts, but nothing startles the ears or the imagination. The whole thing feels utterly contemporary in a way that makes the very idea of “contemporary” feel like an affectation, if not a pejorative (given the rather blah state of recent hip-hop and R&B, this shouldn’t be a huge surprise).
The singles are good. “Wait A Minute (Just a Touch)” is swing-hop replete with banjo beats and sax bleats; it contains the most withering retort to penile chicanery I’ve heard in some time: “I ain’t carryin’ your embry-yo!” “American Boy” is rock ’n’ B-via-filter-disco—a decent Daft Punk rip with a cameo by Kanye West that sounds more or less like every other cameo by Kanye West. –Scott Woods
[Retro]
Duffy
Rockferry
***
Duffy earns endless comparisons to Dusty Springfield, and well she should. Both are pond-hopping bottle-blond belters with husky, soul-seared sounds. Both perform music that is optimistic on the verge of naïve. And both have razor voices that rip down the spine like an easy-open pull tag. But when Dusty Springfield did it, her “white soul” sound was an innovation. When Duffy does it, the music is imitation.
Duffy throws back songs the way most people throw back drinks: mindlessly, with an explicit goal of getting blasted. She revives the swirling rainbow melodies of the ’60s right down to the synths (“Serious”) and tinny distortion (“Distant Dreamer”), and some of her trilly runs mimic Petula Clark to the fermata (“Warwick Avenue”). While these luscious sounds deserve revisiting—and truly, Duffy does it to a T—there is no raison d’être, no update for the aughts.
And therein lies the problem. Duffy’s sound is so authentically retro that her present emergence seems unnecessary. But when she tries to contemporize—like when she weaves Motown with a throaty monologue on her hit single “Mercy”—the music becomes murky. Duffy’s talent is incontestable, and her vision is respectable, but she needs to reconcile her influences with her peers. Until then, kick back those suede go-go boots and enjoy the pitch-perfect nostalgia. –Kristyn Pomranz