Bayouland Activities
May 31, 2013
Luke lands at Riverside
June 4, 2013
America likes to pretend at times that its class distinctions are minor and impermanent, and certainly that’s true when the comparison’s made with the crusty caste systems of British or Indian societies. But we have them, and they’re not all that transferable or changeable. You can make a pile of money, or you can lose it, but education and upbringing mark a person almost as surely as the ink on your average NBA team’s front line or your sister’s ankle.
Music is as democratic an art form as we have. Put aside the subsidized gated communities of classical and jazz (thanks, NPR) – pop music can be made and shared by all with nary an eyebrow raised or admittance refused. But our Class Light society can still be sussed out in the musical world without too much effort. That added awareness can enhance enjoyment; or you can stay blissfully in the dark.
That’s an Oxford comma (look it up – I had to) in the title of this column, and that was the subject of an infamous question posed by VAMPIRE WEEKEND on their first album. The quartet of Columbia grads were privileged sons of wealthy families and they flaunted their Ivy League learning with allusions not only to obscure grammatical controversies but ancient architecture and literature. Their songs were bright peppy affairs lifted straight from African pop by way of Paul Simon’s “Graceland,” and their success brought a not-unexpected backlash in certain hipster circles. And while they were good, they were a bit too twee and preppy, especially over the course of an entire album.
Their second effort, “Contra,” was more of the same. But with their third, MODERN VAMPIRES OF THE CITY, the band has grown into young adulthood. Their melodies are still hummable, but now the arrangements are more experimental without straining for effect. Everything about the new record exudes confidence, starting with the opener, “Obvious Bicycle,” a stately-paced conversation between friends. “Unbelievers” gets the album off and running with a galloping ode to love and devotion and what might take the place of conventional belief. A pumping organ dominates in a two-chord structure. “Step” shows the group’s swagger, incorporating hip-hop slang, harpsichord and all kinds of crazy references culminating in the chorus: “The gloves are off, the wisdom teeth are out, what you on about? I feel it in my bones…”
“Diane Young” features lead singer Ezra Koenig channeling Elvis Presley in a furiously paced romp about premature death (think of the title sung). He tells a drunk Irish girl she’s got the “luck of a Kennedy,” and one can imagine the girl not getting the reference – it’s been a while since tragedy’s struck the clan. Living and dying early also crop up in “Don’t Lie” and “Hannah Hunt,” letting you know their maturity embraces the ultimate question. “Everlasting Arms” is as close as they get to Afro-pop here, and it’s a welcome reminder of their past. It’s a yearning plea for acceptance. “Finger Back” and “Worship You” are breathless sprints that leave the listener winded, so it’s a relief when the reggae lope of “Ya Hey” comes next. But the song’s message of questioning doubt and nagging repeating motif (A synthesized voice? A kazoo?) temper the music’s joy. “Hudson” is a sepulchral march with veiled political overtones (“the lines are drawn, the map is such a drag, all you who’ve changed your stripes can wrap me in the flag.”). “Young Lion” bookends the album with another meditation, again exploring age and the passage of time.
The rich boys have grown up. Their true adulthoods beckon, and I bet they’ll have interesting things to say about what comes next.
Moving from the caffeinated ivory towers of NYC to the streets of Philly, we focus next on the working-class languor of KURT VILE. His dad gave him a banjo when he was child, and that’s the sum total of his musical education outside of his own inner muse. He crunched out self-produced bedroom cassettes and CD-Rs since his early teens and busked at street corners and clubs without a lot of success. He worked several manual labor jobs, the longest as a forklift driver. Collaborating with other musicians brought him to a real band, The War on Drugs, and they parted ways a couple of years ago so he could pursue his solo career.
After two albums of Tom Petty and Springsteen-inspired blue-collar material, his “Smoke Ring for My Halo” (from a year and a half ago) represented a commercial and critical breakthrough. Its hazy, drugged-out surface only partially obscured the sharp songwriting undergirding the album. Now, with WAKIN ON A PRETTY DAZE, Vile ups the ante on all the things that made its predecessor so good.
Vile’s singing voice is extremely limited and is often more talk than actual notes. But it serves its purpose once you accept it. The songs themselves are the stars here – those and the guitar lines. Most of the cuts top the six-minute mark and yet they don’t feel padded. Their length is necessary to set and hold the mood created by the layered guitars and straight-talking lyrics. And a couple of punchier, shorter songs (“Shame Chamber” especially) come as welcome tonics to the dominant mood.
Vile’s soporific delivery has often been described as drug-influenced, so he sets the record straight (at least his current state) in “Goldtone,” where he says dismissively that he “never touches the stuff, as they say.” It doesn’t matter where his inspiration comes from, though, as long as the finished product is this invigorating.
RANDALL BRAMBLETT got himself educated and also has been through his share of soul-deadening jobs (having once been in charge of watering all the plants in some Atlanta high-rise office buildings). He’s played with The Allmans, Sea Level, Stevie Winwood and the group, and is one of the most criminally overlooked and underrated musicians on the planet. Bonnie Raitt regularly records his songs, and hers is the Greenwich Meantime of taste. His soul, R&B and roots rock are elevated by his empathetic sheer smarts.
All of his solo efforts are most worthy, and his new one, THE BRIGHT SPOTS, finds him shot through with renewed vigor. He took some of the songs to Nashville and recorded them with a new collaborator. They sport some different touches, like loops and samples but never get gimmicky. His regular band seems inspired by this infusion of new blood on the rest of the songs, too.
Standout tracks include “My Darling One,” “You Bring Me Down,” “John the Baptist” and “Whatever That Is”, but this album is devoid of filler and plays like one beautifully paced live show. I can‘t recommend it highly enough.
Class doesn’t define us here in America, and we tend to celebrate our differences rather than use them as wedges. Music flows over and through any such barriers like an airborne contagion. Let yourself be infected.
– Dave Norman is a local attorney who has been smitten with music since he could hear his first transistor radio turned to WTIX, and is thankful for his ability to share his love with you.
Modern Vampires of the City
“Waking on a Pretty Daze”
“The Bright Spots”
