Saxophone. In the context of rock or pop music, it is largely presumed to be a thing of the past. When we hear “saxophone,” we think Bruce Springsteen, Kenny G, or, most damningly, “the ‘80s.” (It’s easy to blame the ‘80s for crimes of bad taste, but I beg you to remember that Dave Matthews made spectacular use of the saxophone all through the ‘90s.) These days, anytime saxophone wanders too far outside the (admittedly fluid) confines of jazz, it is at best hopelessly retro, at worst unbearably cheesy. To whit:
Truthfully, saxophone kind of belongs in that song. I can’t imagine it any other way. But it’s still hard to take seriously, and whenever someone tries, I want to grab them by the collar and shout, “What are you thinking??! DON’T YOU KNOW YOU’RE PLAYING WITH FIRE?!” This will sound like sacrilege to my fellow banjo-lovers, but Béla Fleck might be the worst. As far as I can tell, the Flecktones are just playing really complicated Weather Channel music.
But I didn’t bring this up just to rip on the saxophone (only the Flecktones). No, I am here to say that I have CHANGED MY TUNE (pun intended!). Sax is back, and I’m kind of loving it.
The recent surge of saxophone ardor is, I think, partly a symptom of the ‘80s nostalgia that lingers persistently in popular culture, despite a generation of twenty-somethings who are a little too young to remember that decade clearly. On their recent albums, both Lady Gaga (who was born in ’86) and Katy Perry (’84) invoke the soaring, unabashedly corny sax solos of yore. Gaga tapped Clarence Clemons, of the E Street Band, to perform on the lovingly-crafted, Springsteen-esque “The Edge of Glory,” and Perry, in a slightly more farcical gesture, cast Kenny G as a wayward, white-suited saxophonist in the music video for “Last Friday Night (T.G.I.F.),” itself an affectionate send-up of ‘80s teen movies.
But it’s more than just arch, self-referential saxophone that has made a comeback. The sax seems to be a pretty popular instrument with indie-rockers these days, and two of my favorite records from last year make admirable use of the saxophone. It’s all over the tUnE-yArDs album w h o k i l l, and a force to be reckoned with. On the fierce, percussive “Gangsta,” two saxes enter in unison with a low, menacing drone, and then veer apart, honking and squawking through a series of unsettling melodic leaps towards the song’s chaotic conclusion.
Bon Iver also makes great use of saxophone on his self-titled new album, which is a bit of an ode to unusual instruments of all kinds. Banjo and pedal steel guitar feature prominently in a lush sonic landscape so deep you could almost drown in it. Unless you listen closely, you might not even notice the saxophone, a warm echo straining to be heard above the roiling undercurrent of percussion and synth. But it’s there.
This year, along with all the other writers at indie music blog kevchino.com, I was charged with compiling a list of my 15 favorite albums of 2011. Ordinarily I like making lists, a.k.a. arbitrarily ranking things. But it seemed unjust to pit my favorite artists against each other, especially since I love them all for different reasons. So, inspired by this New York Times list of unforgettable moments in theater, I decided to present each of my ten favorite albums from 2011 with its own unique award.
“Best Of” lists can have a wonderfully democratizing effect on the very things they aim to rank; total unknowns might rub shoulders with the likes of Beyoncé and Wilco, while folk and indie music experience an unexpected surge in popularity. I was pleased and amused at the peculiarities of my own list, which I think gives a pretty good picture of the sounds that filled my ears, my head, and my heart in 2011.
BEST MICHAEL JACKSON IMPRESSION
Beyoncé4 (Columbia) “Love On Top”
This song is best known as the backdrop to Beyoncé’s dramatic baby-bump reveal at the 2011 VMAs, when she uttered those immortal words, “I want you to feel the love that is growing inside of me.” Leave it to Beyoncé to say something totally creepy and be completely sincere at the same time. But VMA antics aside, “Love On Top” is arguably the best track on what is arguably her best album to date. Each song is intricately and masterfully produced, all while placing the pop singer’s voice front and center. “Love On Top” is a perky R&B number in which Beyoncé, belting her way through a vocally virtuosic chorus and four key changes, brilliantly channels MJ in his prime.
BEST DEBUT ALBUM/BEST UNREQUITED LOVE SONG
You Won’tSkeptic Goodbye (Self-released)“Who Knew”
On “Who Knew,” lead singer and songwriter Josh Arnoudse perfects the art of setting melancholy lyrics to cheerful melodies. He and multi-instrumentalist Raky Sastri released their debut, Skeptic Goodbye, under the moniker You Won’t, combining pop-minded songwriting with do-it-yourself production; they’re one of the best indie acts to come out of Boston in recent years.
BEST LIVE ALBUM/CONCERT FILM
Lake Street Dive Live at the Lizard Lounge (Self-released)
I was actually at the show where they filmed this, and I have to say, the recorded version is almost better—all those pesky drunks (myself included) are a lot quieter on the video, for one thing. I’ve already waxed poetic a number of times about Lake Street Dive; back in September, I wrote: “This is a band with the heart of a poet, a soul full of soul, and a very big vocabulary… They can write a hook worthy of Michael Jackson’s hiccupping falsetto, the Beatles’ Liverpudlian-tinged harmonies, and Stevie Wonder’s silky wail.” I couldn’t have said it better myself.
BEST FOLK MUSIC REFERENCE IN A POP/ROCK SONG
The DecemberistsThe King Is Dead (Capitol) “Rox in the Box”
For those of you who aren’t extreme folk nerds, it will come as a (not-so-interesting) surprise to learn that the fiddle melody in “Rox in the Box” was pilfered from the vast archives of traditional British folk music. In many ways, though, The King Is Dead owes more to American music than any of the Decemberists’ previous records. It’s more notable, perhaps, for its restraint; lead singer and songwriter Colin Meloy refrains from the epic sweep that characterized The Crane Wife and The Hazards of Love, delivering instead ten simple, elegant songs.
BIGGEST BREAKOUT
tUnE-yArDsw h o k i l l (4AD)
I don’t think there is a single “best albums of 2011” list that doesn’t include w h o k i l l. It has all my favorite things: sweet basslines, badass polyrhythms, ukulele, a saxophone section, and non-pretentious socio-political awareness. Merrill Garbus, the mind behind tUnE-yArDs, is this year’s indie darling, and has managed the improbable feat of getting piped through the speakers at Urban Outfitters without losing her indie cred.
PRETTIEST ACOUSTIC ALBUM
Joy Kills SorrowThis Unknown Science (Signature Sounds)
Joy Kills Sorrow takes all the best parts of bluegrass—expert musicianship, powerful vocals, and a dark, pulsing energy—and plays some of the sweetest pop tunes you’ve ever heard. Acoustic music has taken a fascinating turn in recent years, with innovators like Béla Fleck and the Punch Brothers using bluegrass as a jumping-off point to explore genres as diverse as classical and jazz. Joy Kills Sorrow is by far my favorite band to emerge from the melting pot of acoustic Americana, writing modern, accessible music while remaining a string band at heart.
MOST POLYRHYTHMIC
The DodosNo Color (Frenchkiss)
The Dodos give tUnE-yArDs’ Merrill Garbus a run for her money on No Color, which has too many time changes to count. This relentlessly percussive album starts out with a bang and never lets up.
BEST POP ANTHEM
Kelly Clarkson Stronger (RCA, 19) “What Doesn’t Kill You (Stronger)”
It’s a bit of a mischaracterization to call “What Doesn’t Kill You (Stronger)” the best pop anthem on Kelly Clarkson’s Stronger, since the album is chock full of quintessential pop anthems, each more anthemic and quintessential than the last. I have to give Clarkson the award for cathartic scorned-woman songs, and I have to hand it to her producers—Stronger is a pretty near-perfect pop album. Every song is catchy without seeming cliché, and Clarkson’s voice, flawless as always, has gained a maturity that imbues even her most frivolous numbers with gravitas.
SASSIEST COUNTRY SONG
The Sweetback SistersLooking for a Fight (Signature Sounds)“Looking for a Fight”
The Sweetback Sisters recorded their second album, Looking for a Fight, straight to tape on a vintage RCA ribbon microphone, which imbues the record with a singularly old-school sound and makes it even harder to tell which songs are covers and which are originals. The Sisters might be the countriest band to ever come out of Brooklyn, and judging from the title track, you wouldn’t want to mess with them, either.
MOST LIKE THEMSELVES
WilcoThe Whole Love (dBpm)
Die-hard Wilco fans will find little to complain about in The Whole Love, which sounds like a mellow Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. It’s always nice when some things stay the same.
It seems fitting that my first blogpost in three-and-a-half months should have a shocking confession. I’d hate to let my nonexistent readership down, so here it is:
I love country music.
Country music, as a general category, gets a bad rap from a lot of people for a lot of different reasons—too twangy, too whiny, too unsophisticated—complaints that drive die-hard country fans crazy. “What about Hank Williams?” we ask, spittle flying. “Loretta Lynn? George Jones? DOLLY PARTON?? She has her own theme park!”
But I’m not here to defend the good name of so many Grammy winners and Country Music Hall of Famers. They don’t need my help. No, I’m writing to defend the oft-maligned sub-category of current, popular country music, the stuff that’s celebrated in all its non-ironic glory every year at the CMAs, that gave birth to the Dixie Chicks and now lays claim to Taylor Swift. The genre of music where songs with titles like “Honky Tonk Badonkadonk” regularly top the country charts, and which many country music devotees reject outright.
Now, I’m not about to argue that country music in its current incarnation has a whole lot in common with the pedal steel-pickin’, acoustic guitar-strumming music of yore. (Although, I do believe that, despite its vast differences, it still qualifies as country music—but that’s for another blog.) Aesthetically speaking, major-label country is much more similar to its equally slick, slightly bassier brethren on the Top Forty stations—which is why I think, when assessing musical merit, it’s far more relevant to compare the two. As a genuine fan of pop of all kinds, I can’t help but notice that mainstream country music has way better songwriting than mainstream pop. Consider the lyrics to “You and Tequila,” by Deana Carter and Matraca Berg, and popularized by Kenny Chesney:
The only current Top Forty song that explores a metaphor with anything like Carter and Berg’s commitment is “Stereo Heart,” performed by Gym Class Heroes, featuring Adam Levine. (“My heart’s a stereo/It beats for you, so listen close,” etc.) For me, “Stereo Heart” pales in comparison to “You and Tequila,” not least because it has some of the most vanilla rapping you’ve ever heard. More than that, “Stereo Heart,” with its thundering bassline and relentless good mood, lacks the soul—nay, the heart!—of Chesney’s mid-tempo lament. “You and Tequila” conveys a far more complex, and therefore troubling, idea. And we all know that, for better or for worse, sad songs are more fun to listen to than happy songs.
I think that’s all I can muster for serious country music analysis. Here are some videos for your enjoyment (The Kenny Chesney video is at once absurd and boring. But the song is pretty):
We’ve all heard it said, at some time or another, about a great bar, or a vintage clothing store, or a hole-in-the-wall diner that serves the best nachos in town: “this city’s best-kept secret.” You might think it’s a good thing in the case of the bar, because you like quiet bars, or the nacho restaurant, if you believe the quality of nachos is inversely proportional to the number of people who eat them. But I’ve come to believe that most of the time, secrets are bad, and people should stop keeping them.
Especially in the case of Lake Street Dive, Boston’s—and now New York’s—most stupidly-kept secret.
I say this not to gripe but to urge you to listen to, to get to know, to learn to love, Lake Street Dive. This is a band with the heart of a poet, a soul full of soul, and a very big vocabulary. They sing songs with lines like “Feels good to be over you/But it felt good to be under you/So maybe it’s just you that feels good.” They have a trumpet and a double bass. They can write a hook worthy of Michael Jackson’s hiccupping falsetto, the Beatles’ Liverpudlian-tinged harmonies, and Stevie Wonder’s silky wail. They are sexy and a little bit nerdy. They make me want to dance—and I don’t dance.
They’ve also, incidentally, just released Lake Street Dive Live at the Lizard Lounge, a live album and concert film (filmed and produced by my buddy Greg Liszt). It’s fifty-two minutes and thirty-four seconds of the most exquisite unpopular pop music you’ve ever heard. Lake Street Dive has two previously-released studio albums, and both suffered from a lack of adequate funding and the inevitable problem of not-living-up-to-the-live-shows. Now, finally, there’s Live at the Lizard Lounge, which not only captures the raw energy of a Lake Street Dive concert, but sounds phenomenal. Bridget Kearney’s bass comes through full and sonorous, Mike Olson’s trumpet purrs like it’s alive, Mike Calabrese sounds like the ten drummers he always does, and Rachael Price’s voice, powerful and close, will make you wonder why Adele is getting all the attention.
So check out the trailer, and then do yourself a favor and download the real thing. (For $9.99 you get the mp3s for your iTunes and videos for your computer and your iPhone.) Trust me, it goes down real smooth.
In a city like Boston, where aspiring singer/songwriters are a dime a dozen, it’s hard to stand out. For every Joan Baez or John Mayer, there must be thousands who never make it past the open mic circuit, and as many truly talented artists who never make it to the big time. Have you heard of Lake Street Dive? How about Margaret Glaspy? Joy Kills Sorrow?
Well you should. But it’s a sad truth that many of my favorite musicians, no matter how many move to New York—a city even more saturated than Boston with starving artists, and yet offering the promise of success—will labor in relative anonymity forever.
It’s worth looking, though. Because the deeper you sift through the striving, brimming pool of aspiring talent, the more likely you’ll be to stumble upon a true gem: a lovingly assembled record by a band that no one’s ever heard of, but that nevertheless distinguishes itself amidst all the crooning and guitar-strumming and confessing. Skeptic Goodbye, the first release for Boston-area duo You Won’t, is just such an album.
You Won’t do their share of crooning and guitar-strumming, to be sure. The group’s frontman, Josh Arnoudse, is a singer/songwriter in the most traditional sense, and his songs are the focal point of Skeptic Goodbye. Arnoudse writes with a knitted brow and a wry smile, and sings with nasal, Dylan-esque conviction. He and producer Raky Sastri follow in a grand tradition of do-it-yourselfers, crediting themselves on a litany of real and invented instruments, from guitars and drums to stolen road signs and clapping hands—an element of whimsy that runs counter to Arnoudse’s sharp-witted melancholy.
The do-it-yourself aesthetic, a sound now cultivated in studios as often as in basements, is no mere shtick for You Won’t, and unlike so many home-grown projects that fall prey to preciousness or self-indulgence, Skeptic Goodbye displays a clear, well-executed vision. Arnoudse and Sastri resist the urge to ramble, creating succinct, detailed arrangements around hummable melodies. Sastri, aided by a multitude of unconventional drumming surfaces, provides a backdrop of rich, rattling percussion behind Arnoudse’s keening vocals and layers of jangling guitar. At times, the songs reach epic, rock n’ roll proportions, thrumming with bass and distortion; at others, a gentler touch reigns, and Sastri and Arnoudse reach for mandolin and accordion instead. Perhaps most importantly, they know when to lay back. The standout track “Television” is an exercise in restraint, with piano, vocals, handclaps, and the merest touch of bass drum built slowly and deliberately towards a spare, powerful conclusion.
Skeptic Goodbye might seem like a modest achievement, but for a first release by an unknown artist, it shows startling maturity. Arnoudse and Sastri may be green, but they obviously have what it takes. With any luck, You Won’t will be around a long time, blithely ignoring the pessimism implicit in their name, and making lovely, meticulous records with as much ingenuity and eloquence as ever.
(A version of this review appears on kevchino.com.)
Buke and Gass: Riposte
When you pop the new album from Buke and Gass into your CD player—or, more likely, upload it onto your iTunes—don’t be afraid to crank it.
The members of Buke and Gass certainly aren’t. The Brooklyn duo’s first full-length effort, Riposte, is best turned up a little too loud. Riposte is as relentless as it is eccentric, a booming, anthemic album with anger on its face and whimsy in its heart.
Buke and Gass take their name from the two improvised instruments that bandmates Arone Dyer and Aron Sanchez strum whilst singing and manipulating various pedals and percussion pieces with their feet. Dyer, whose reedy vocals form the centerpiece of the album, plays a modified baritone ukelele, called a buke, while Sanchez hammers away on a gass (rhymes with “base”), a guitar-bass hybrid of his own creation. This DIY aesthetic is most apparent in the duo’s live performances, oft-lauded for the sheer volume and complexity made possible by the two musicians’ unorthodox setup. If it weren’t for their reputation—or their name, for that matter—you’d hardly guess the group’s made-from-scratch origins from Riposte. The album is crisp and unwavering, its jagged edges wielded with restraint, its many instrumental and percussive layers compiled with an eye towards power and precision. The only evidence of the idiosyncrasies at Riposte’s core can be heard in occasional snippets of conversation and musical noodling taken from the band’s recording sessions, a subtle nod to their peculiar process.
Like many of their contemporaries—the Dodos and tUnE-yArDs come to mind—Buke and Gass are enamored with polyrhythms, reveling in the jarring pulse of mismatched beats. They’re made of harder stuff, though, than many of their fellow avant-folkies, an indebtedness to post-punk evident in the music’s uncompromising demeanor and the undercurrent of menace that runs throughout. Dyer writes with dark, paranoid imagery, delivering manic lyrics in a nimble voice capable of jumping from shout to whisper in an instant. The group eschews traditional song structure, unafraid of odd time signatures, abrupt changes in tempo, or long forms. At their best, they reveal a knack for writing hooks that pull at your gut.
Riposte hits its peak somewhere around track 7, when it becomes apparent that Buke & Gass have only one speed. Dyer and Sanchez’s unrelenting energy can wear thin; Dyer’s lyrics, too, can be opaque and hard to grasp. Riposte is nevertheless a remarkable effort, one that grabs you by the collar and demands a second listen. And a third, and a fourth. So go on—turn it up.
(A version of this review appears on kevchino.com.)
Timber Timbre: Creep On Creepin’ On
In a musical landscape throbbing with the nostalgic pulse of synthesizer and other lovingly reappropriated pieces of pop—think Lady Gaga’s homage to Madonna on “Born This Way,” or Adele’s debt to 1960s soul—Canadian trio Timber Timbre stand out for their twisted take on the mainstream’s ardor for all things retro. On their new album Creep On Creepin’ On, the group playfully evokes the blithe strains of doo-wop and early rock n’ roll, but they do so with the gleeful morbidity of a slasher film, eager to watch the good vibes turn sour. It’s pop music taken to a ghoulish extreme, made expressly to get under your skin.
Creep On opens with the heavy backbeat and bluesy bass line of “Bad Ritual,” an eerie ode to romantic dysfunction. Singer Taylor Kirk sounds like he was recorded at the bottom of a well, his voice awash in a shuddering reverb reminiscent of early Elvis recordings. There are echoes of the King, too, in Kirk’s delivery, although his sneering baritone is weighted by a certain moroseness. It’s not surprising, considering his gloomy surroundings. The slinky groove at the top of “Bad Ritual” doesn’t stand alone for long, sinking quickly into a thick sonic murk marked by the deep thump of the bass drum and, occasionally, the creak of an opening door. There is a certain filmic sweep to these lush orchestrations, which swell and retreat throughout Creep On, as though the album were the score to a movie that follows Kirk as he wanders through an empty house, bumping up against things in the dark.
You can only stretch a shtick so far, and the members of Timber Timbre seem to know it. Creep On is a mere ten tracks long, three of which are instrumental. A penchant for goofy puns, demonstrated in the band’s name and the album’s title, reveals the group’s apparent wish to inject a little levity into their music, which features an almost comical use of stock horror movie sounds—a high-pitched whine like the howling wind, the heavy chiming of funeral bells. Kirk is a smart songwriter who describes heartbreak with chillingly sinister imagery, his love songs populated by monsters and touched by the phantasmagorical. But the band seems bored by his moody meditations, lapsing too often into spasms of orchestral madness which do little to illuminate Kirk’s words. In the end, Creep On Creepin’ On is like a dark, beautiful dream, rife with a sense of import but fading quickly upon waking.
Merrill Garbus, the singular voice behind tUnE-yArDs, is never in better company than with herself. On the band’s latest album, w h o k i l l, Garbus is by turns a chorus, a conversation, and about half the instruments on the record, her voice squeezed and cut and looped over itself again and again. Set to a clamorous, snare-drum-heavy beat, the songs are striking in their directness; Garbus, for all her talkativeness, never wastes a breath.
Until recently, tUnE-yArDs was a one-woman band, complete with delay pedal, ukulele, drums, and Garbus’ own elastic vocals. Add bassist Nate Brenner, a horn section, and a whole lot of editing, and you’ve got w h o k i l l, a noisily intricate record pulsing with African polyrhythms and the clatter of sticks against drumhead. Garbus’ 2009 debut, BiRd-BrAiNs, was a feat of lo-fi, DIY resourcefulness, and w h o k i l l revels in the possibilities opened up in the studio with a few fellow musicians. Garbus—whose music borrows much from her time spent in Kenya as a college student—yelps, bellows, and croons her way across a rich soundscape that owes as much to clever production as it does to African rhythms and singing styles. Like rising scaffold towers, the songs assemble themselves piece by piece, Garbus’ throaty vocalizations flitting through layers of jumpy percussion and tripping over the crackling shards of themselves, fractured and reintegrated into the vibrating sonic milieu. Despite the music’s complexity, Garbus never seems to get lost in it; even with all that detail, she still has space to play.
On w h o k i l l, Garbus draws you in but never lets you get too comfortable. She has a penchant for catchy tunes punctuated by jarring melodic movements, and for lyrics that surprise and disturb. The opening track, “My Country,” begins with the familiar strains of “My Country ‘Tis of Thee,” the sing-songy first lines set to an insistent, syncopated beat. The lyrics then abruptly change tack, as Garbus sings, “How come I cannot see/My future within your arms?”, and the song spirals into a thundering, disaffected anthem. Throughout the album Garbus grapples with such heavy subjects as identity, body image, violence, and oppression, but she somehow manages to do this without preaching, letting poetry and the complexity of her feelings speak for themselves. Like the title of the album, Garbus’ songs sound as though they were yanked out of the middle of a sentence, a menacing imprint all that’s left of a fully-articulated idea. The lasting impression, though, is not one of anger but of exhilaration—more than anything, Garbus knows the raw, joyous power of her own voice.
The Starry Mountain Singers are not your typical a cappella group. Instead of beat-box-heavy vocal arrangements of Top 40 hits, the eight-piece ensemble—whose members hail from states as far afield as Vermont and North Carolina—specializes in singing traditions from the United States, Bulgaria, Corsica, and Georgia. They eschew virtuosic soloing as well as any pretension of hipness, reveling in lush, complex harmonies and the power of many voices combined.
I went to see the Starry Mountain Singers last Wednesday at the Unity Church of God in Somerville, MA, where a small but enthusiastic crowd gathered in a narrow, brightly-lit hall. There was no one taking money at the door, only a little collection bucket with a sign denoting the fare. It was an appropriately wholesome gesture from a group that sang with such warmth and intimacy, and who addressed the audience in kind.
The eight singers, three women and five men, fresh-faced and casually dressed, opened with the toe-tapping gospel number “Working On A Building,” and then proceeded to blaze their way through an extensive set list that included shape-note songs, Corsican chants, Bulgarian folk songs, Georgian liturgical hymns, American country and bluegrass songs, and one original number. Though the material was anything but showy, it was nevertheless executed with exquisite precision, a multitude of voices swelling and ebbing in a series of perfectly-pitched waves. A stately Corsican chant, spreading slowly with chilly, minor-key beauty, gave way to the upright stride of an intricate shape-note song, followed by the delicate melancholy of a Bulgarian lament and rounded out in a big gospel finale, ringing through the hall with blithe, eager delight.
Though much of the Starry Mountain Singers’ repertoire is overtly religious, the spirit that binds them is far more mundane. It is, quite simply, the joy of singing together, and the Starry Mountain Singers prove that this is an activity worth witnessing as much as it is doing. After all, there is a special vicarious pleasure to be found in hearing groups of people sing, unadorned by instruments and unfiltered by audio equipment. It’s the voice, the most human of instruments, multiplied and expanded—a giant, harmonious organism with many mouths, and one killer set of lungs.
* * *
The ladies of the Starry Mountain Singers. They did this one in Somerville and it kicked ass:
Lake Street Dive knows how to make noise. Armed with only a standup bass, drums, a trumpet, the occasional guitar, and three sets of lungs, the Boston-born, Brooklyn-based indie outfit puts on an electrifying live show, a big, joyful racket that defies their sparse instrumentation.
Despite having a devoted, almost rabid, following, the group has failed to generate buzz on a national scale. Its fans obviously recognize what the rest of the country has not: Lake Street Dive is one of those rare collaborations that is greater than the sum of its few parts.
The band’s four members met as students at Boston’s New England Conservatory, so naturally their music showcases some serious chops. What’s surprising is how easily they channel this jazz-inflected precision into their particular brand of songwriting-driven, R&B-influenced indie-pop. Bassist Bridget Kearney, drummer Mike Calabrese, and trumpet player/guitarist Mike Olson all write songs with irresistible hooks and clever lyrics, leaving vocalist Rachael Price, a singer of extraordinary depth and ability, to breathe full-throated life into their lovelorn musical ruminations.
Lake Street Dive’s self-titled third album was released in 2010 on Signature Sounds and nicely captures the band’s natural, stripped-down sound. What it doesn’t quite do is deliver the in-your-face energy of their live shows; the album was recorded on a tight budget and the band’s life-sized loudness seems to have shrunk to fit the smallness of the packaging. That said, Lake Street Dive is an infinitely listenable record, full of catchy riffs, tasty grooves, and well-chosen words. There are several references to the Beatles—the first song is titled “Hello? Goodbye!”—and Lake Street Dive more than lives up to the inevitable comparison, with tightly-written pop tunes about the travails of twenty-something urban romance. Though it delves deep into well-worn pop territory, the material never falls flat, colored as it is with biting humor and a disarming openness that belies its darker undercurrents.
Equally impressive is the facility with which the group fuses so many musical influences, from classic rock to jazz to pop to soul, all with an eye towards concise, lyric-driven songwriting. From the jangling, Beatles-esque guitar intro to “Henriette,” to the sultry trumpet solo on the ballad “My Heart’s In Its Right Place,” to the Motown-inspired hook on “Miss Disregard,” Lake Street Dive deftly combines these disparate elements into a complete, compelling package, which they offer up with such skill and obvious joy it’s impossible not to get swept up, too.
