Prior to a few weeks ago, if you had asked me when was the last time I had either seen a Whoopee cushion or eaten Pop Rocks, I would have guessed 1996. I was 8 then, and that seems like it was probably about the time when boys in my class would have outgrown slipping one onto girls’ chairs and finally tired of trying to prove that the other could be mixed with Coca-Cola without any lethal side effects.
But one Friday afternoon last summer while I was interning at music mag Paste, the press kits that came through the office were particularly playful; one included Whoopee cushions with a group’s name stamped across the front and another had several packages of Pop Rocks.
So when Simon Felice (of previous Playlist band The Felice Brothers and now also of The Duke & The King) wandered into the office looking for our studio, he found me with my elbow propped up next to a Whoopie cushion while Pop Rocks crackled in my mouth. He shook my hand while I attempted to swallow the candy and stammer my name.
I shouldn’t have been too concerned about what kind of first impression I made. Felice and the rest of The Duke & The King are as unpretentious as they come, and the group’s debut album, Nothing Gold Can Stay, certainly reflects of this. Its 10 folksy tracks jump from charming looks at love (“Water Spider,” “Summer Morning Rain”) to more poignant subjects. “If You Ever Get Famous” is a warning to always remember what’s important in life regardless of what may get in the way. The band shows its darker side on “Union Street,” a fond yet pointed look at growing up that blends into the grating music of “Lose My Self,” which features the echoing, repeated line, “It makes me want to lose myself.”
Despite the various tones embodied by the group’s songs, Felice’s voice is always smooth and clear and his lyrics are straightforward. The band’s name pays homage to the con men in Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and this is a fitting tribute, as each of its songs have a comforting, old-fashioned feel with just the right amount of creativity and adventure to make it a classic.
New York City’s Guggenheim Museum is recognized for its diverse collection of fine art, running the gamut from traditional Impressionist paintings to more eclectic contemporary pieces. The Guggenheim Foundation has museums across the globe, each boasting works at least as varied as those in New York, nearly making the Foundation’s name a metonymy for myriad artistic influences and styles.
Dublin-based folk-pop duo The Guggenheim Grotto, made up of Kevin May and Mick Lynch, has taken the ideology of its namesake to heart. At times, May and Lynch sound like they are channeling a thoughtful, “The Sounds of Silence”-era Simon and Garfunkel. At other points on its sophomore album, Happy the Man, the duo relies on bubbly, foot-tapping-inducing pop beats. And every now and then, TGG adds an element of surprise, like the a tinge of electronica and female harmony that appear on “Fa Da Da Dee.”
Even TGG’s fun, seemingly mindless songs boast philosophical lyrics, setting the duo apart from the more superficial pop outfits circulating radio airwaves. “Her Beautiful Thoughts” could fall into the trap of a trite song about post-break-up depression (toward the end of the song, the repeated lines of, “She used to say / ‘Let’s get naked and get under the sheets’” is directly followed by, “I just can’t seem to get out of bed anymore”), draws upon some deeper ideas. The song’s protagonist recounts what he misses about his ex, which, in addition to the aforementioned naked bed time, includes her titular “beautiful ideas.” “She used to say that magic was the edge / And science and God, they were the sides of a copper penny piece,” May and Lynch sing.
On the other end of the aural spectrum is “Philosophia,” a folksy and aptly titled look at life. Velvety vocals croon lines such as, “Perhaps no perfect way exists at all, just many different kinds.” Musically, the song has an ethereal feel and includes the distant sound of running water, as if the singers are sitting in the woods next to a babbling brook, contemplating ancient thinkers.
The one-line chorus of “Philosophia” reflects the sound and ideology of TGG: “Oh, to be a work of art.”
Sometimes when musicians try to look intelligent by making literary references, the attempt has the exact opposite effect. The first song that comes to mind is Taylor Swift’s crossover mega-hit “Love Story.” Somewhere along the line, it seems as if Swift failed to learn that Romeo and Juliet are star-crossed lovers, meaning their lives are a string of tragedies, not happy endings. Unlike the uplifting tale told by the poppy country tune, the play ends with a lot of blood and tears. And for the record, Miss Swift, your line “You were Romeo, I was a scarlet letter” makes no sense. Hester Prynne – who, last I checked, was absent from Shakespeare’s classic – was an adulterous woman with a slightly demonic child, and that has very little to do with the message you’re trying to convey.
Enter Company of Thieves, a trio from Chicago that has a better grip on the literary world. “Oscar Wilde,” the single from the group’s debut album, Ordinary Riches, makes muted references to some of the same themes – including the inescapability of time and shallowness – as the author’s works. But lines about “porcelain teacups” and waltzing on front porches, especially when paired with singer Genevieve Schatz’s breathy, emotive voice, balance out the heavy tones and brighten the repeated line, “We are all our own devil and we make this world our hell.”
But this darkness doesn’t pervade everything by the group. “New Letters” gives a heart-wrenching account of someone who refuses to give up on a relationship, relishing its most simplistic elements. “I fell in love when you were brushing your teeth / Over my kitchen sink,” Schatz nearly whispers as the song opens. The track crescendos until its final note, when Schatz sounds as if her own determination might break her.
It’s the backing from guitarist Marc Walloch and drummer Mike Ortiz that really adds dimension to what could otherwise be classified as simple ditties. Just when you think you’ve figured out Company of Thieves, the band refuses to concede to your expectations. After a long pause in “Under the Umbrella” that seems to signal the end of the song, a rock riff on the guitar starts the whole thing up again and takes it in a brand new direction. The album includes three acoustic versions of songs, on which the group successfully experiments with soulful piano chords and violins instead of the traditionally rock-friendly guitar and drums.
Although Schatz usually sounds like a sweeter, less guttural Regina Spektor, she boasts a wide variety of vocal talent, nearly wailing over the drum fills and minor chords of “Old Letters.” Company of Thieves isn’t afraid to ignore the unwritten rule that the folk-pop-rock set should start out with short-and-sweet tunes. These shifts in vocals, instrumentation and tempo work to make each song an expansive landscape, and nearly half of the album’s tracks run past the five-minute mark.
The Windy City has become a sort of mecca for outstanding, intelligent people. Actor/director/producer/wonderman Zach Braff graduated from the city’s Northwestern University; Oprah Winfrey and President Obama call the place home. Schatz and co. may not be as well-known as any of these folks, but they certainly have the talent and intellect to someday join these prestigious ranks.
Generally speaking, I’m not a particularly sensitive person. I laughed my way through “P.S. I Love You,” only a handful of people has ever seen me cry and, in my opinion, the only redeeming quality of Valentine’s Day is the extraordinary amount of chocolate consumption. And as a rule, I prefer that the music I listen to reflects this side of me. It doesn’t need to be an extreme representation of this — screamo and death metal don’t really float my boat — but something a little on the dark side usually catches my attention. Some minor chords and lyrics that reflect disdain of any kind — for love, capitalism or whatever the complaint du jour seems to be — fit the bill.
And this is why I find it so bizarre that I have such a soft spot for the Submarines. The majority of the songs by married couple John Dragonetti and Blake Hazard are as sweet as the title of their sophomore album, Honeysuckle Weeks, would indicate.
Musically, the songs are sometimes bouncy (“Submarine Symphonika” and “Swimming Pool,” for example) and sometimes dream-like (“Xavia”), but they are always bright, with basic, steady beats that could easily sound at home on a children’s record if they were paired with lyrics about fairy tale characters.
And admittedly, many of the Submarines’ lyrics, mostly delivered by Hazard’s pure, clear voice, are simple and innocent. But the duo also boasts clever songwriting that gives its songs a distinctly adult feel. “You, Me and the Bourgeoisie,” with its juxtaposition of manufactured and pure love, would impress any Marx scholar.
Even on “Swimming Pool,” one of the duo’s sweetest and most playful tunes, Hazard and Dragonetti show off their writing chops with creative imagery (“When I asked you to throw me a line / That’s when you pulled me out by the heart strings”) and personification (“Never mind what logic says / I say logic’s a guy who oughta empty his pockets”).
By making music that is both smart and a peppy guilty pleasure, the Submarines can brighten up pretty much anyone’s day. Who knows — I might even give “P.S. I Love You” another chance one of these days.
Any young start-up band that still needs a role model should look no further than the Spinto Band. The group originally formed as Free Beer – the six bored pre-teens who made up the group thought the name was simply hilarious – in a Wilmington, Del. basement. Now, the group’s fresh take on indie rock makes the Spinto Band’s humble – and immature – beginnings almost unthinkable.
Although most of the group’s songs could be boiled down to the steady-rock-background-and-slightly-bizarre-lyrics combination, each song incorporates various instrumental and vocal techniques that make it unique and creative. Despite this similar foundation, every track on the group’s 2006 release, Nice and Nicely Done, has something distinctive, and the individual songs works together to create an intricate and quirky musical tableau.
On “Japan is an Island,” the Spinto Band pairs electronic beeping noises with heavy rock ‘n’ roll guitar riffs; “Brown Boxes” opens with a static-y chord progression before the music gives way to the tinny sound of a xylophone. Lead singer Nick Krill delivers most of the seemingly nonsensical lyrics of “So Kind, Stacy” in a staccato, almost breathless fashion, reminiscent of a secret whispered conversation made up of inside jokes. On other tracks, his voice ranges from borderline-whiney (“Oh Mandy”) to borderline-gravelly (“Late”).
The Spinto Band keeps up the trend of innovation on its most recent album, Moonwink, released in September. Consequently, the group’s listeners are kept on their toes, and are always rewarded with some distinctive tunes. It might not be the free alcohol that the band seemed to promise at its inception, but it’s still a damn good deal.
Singer-songwriter Jamie Seerman — who performs under the name Jaymay — cites Bob Dylan as her primary musical influence. After listening to her music rather carefully, this begins to make sense: Songs from her debut full-length, Autumn Fallin’, and EP, Sea Green, Sea Blue, have a contemplative, sprawling folk sound that pays homage to the 1960s icon.
But it’s clear that Jaymay simply sees Dylan as an important influence rather than as a person to try to emulate. Her guitar is warmer, her voice is sweeter and clearer and her lyrics almost always make perfect sense.
Jaymay moves away from classic vintage folk by forgoing political statements and focusing more on personal issues. Her lyrics often include realistic tidbits of conversation, even some that include her name, such as on “You Are the Only One I Love.” These touches invite listeners to experience, even if fleetingly, her life firsthand. Yet remarkably, even the most confessional lyrics paired with melancholy music are never whiney or trite; in fact, songs like “Ill Willed Person,” about trying not to feel animosity toward an ex, are refreshingly honest.
Although Jaymay’s simple guitar-based ditties have many of the characteristics commonly associated with folk, she certainly isn’t the most traditional representation of the genre.
But as Dylan himself said: “The times, they are a-changin’.”
A couple weeks ago, as I was sitting in the library, completely engrossed in both my iPod and my studying, the guy next to me tapped me on the shoulder and asked what I was listening to. I began to apologize profusely for having the sound turned up too loud when he cut me off and explained that from the little bit that he could hear, he thought it sounded awesome and needed to know the name of the band immediately.
Yes, The Little Ones are just that infectious. Even when heard secondhand, muffled by someone else’s earphones, their bouncy beats are irresistible.
The quintet’s EP, Sing Song, and debut full-length, Morning Tide, both have a summery, laid-back feel. With hand claps and harmonicas as prevalent as the standard lineup of drums and guitars, the group has a unique sound that is simultaneously peppy and relaxing.
The album’s title track boasts lines like, “The touch of midday sun broke from the sky at once and echoed my own cheer” that showcase the sense of optimism that pervades the album. The bridge of “do-do-do-do-do” certainly doesn’t hurt either.
A few of the band’s other tunes, like “Let Them Ring the Bells” and “Cha Cha Cha,” are still positive, but are far less over-the-top on the happiness front due to more mellow instrumentation.
After I told that guy what I was listening to, he scribbled “The Little Ones” and an album name on a scrap of homework. He thanked me as if I had just surprised him with some kind of wonderful gift. And in a way, I guess I had. We all need a little dose of musical optimism from time to time, especially in the library.
Even in its hometown of London, Barefoot Confessor remains underground — literally. I saw the group perform over the summer at an underground bar and have followed it ever since.
The self-proclaimed “scruffy but poignant indie rock” sound of Barefoot Confessor can’t really be classified. These guys aren’t trying to be the Arctic Monkeys or any other band that has crossed the pond in recent years. They seem perfectly happy to just do their own thing, playing guitar-heavy songs with simple-yet-clever lyrics about life — and a little bit of love — in London.
“Camden Road,” named after the area which houses the city’s most eclectic and punk-friendly street markets, shows disdain for society and counter-culture with lines like, “He ain’t got no credit / He put it up his nose.” With mournful, folky guitar chords and words like “shagger” and “bloke” sprinkled throughout, the song captures the vibe of a rainy English afternoon perfectly.
But songs like “Isabella” and “Urgency” are far peppier, with the music alternating between a slow, lyrical sound and a more frantic, near-whirlwind instrumental build-up.
These guys are just starting out, but with the buzz about them soon being signed to a record label, we can only hope that they’ll come to the surface — preferably on this side of the Atlantic — soon.
On the MySpace page for Get Cape. Wear Cape. Fly., the stage name for British singer Sam Duckworth, the only description of the sound is “the ba ba guy.” This seems like it would be an appropriate description of a simplistic, sunny pop group, but GC.WC.F. mixes pensive lyrics and diverse instrumentation with just enough “ba bas” to create a sound that is always complex and often mournful.
This melancholy sound usually comes from the hollow wails of the brass section that supports Duckworth’s singing. The band boasts the sounds of a trumpet, cornet and saxophone in addition to a xylophone, keyboard, synthesizer and piccolo.
Duckworth tackles subjects that give his music enough substance to exclude him from the overtly poppy category, but still make GC.WC.F. enjoyable and easy to listen to. Many of the songs focus on the importance of actually experiencing life rather than giving too much priority to responsibilities. On “Find the Time,” from GC.WC.F.’s latest album, Searching for the Hows and Whys, explores this idea with lines like, “I know it’s hard and the good things never last / And yet there’s no point in waiting for a miracle to save your life.” Similarly, “Call Me Ishmael” from GC.WC.F.’s 2006 debut, The Chronicles of a Bohemian Teenager, deals with the idea of trying to escape a dead-end life.
It’s refreshing to hear an artist — especially one as young as Duckworth, who is only 22 — frequently broach subjects that stray from the love-and-heartbreak that seem to inundate the airwaves today. But then again, convention isn’t really what you would expect from a guy who got his name from a magazine’s suggestion on how to beat a Batman video game. GC.WC.F. may not be saving the world, but it does provide some impressive indie rock, especially for someone whose only self-proclaimed interesting trait is being “the ba ba guy.”
Although Hey Mercedes released Loses Control two years before its demise, the album seems to eerily foreshadow the end. Sure, it’s probably a coincidence. After all, pretty much every other musical group has waxed about things being over: Some kind of era or relationship always seems to be coming to a close. But in this case, knowing the fate of Hey Mercedes gives the album’s already bittersweet sound a little extra bite.
With closing lines such as, “We are all done now” (“Go On Drone”); the repetition of the phrase “It’s over” throughout “Unorchestrated”; and tracks with titles including “Knowing When to Stop” and “It’s Been a Blast,” Hey Mercedes’ songs have a definite sense of finality. But don’t write it off as a group of emo kings. Despite all the negativity, the quartet produces tracks that are pleasant, danceable and even suitable for some air-guitar shredding. With steady drum beats, driving guitar riffs and vocals that crescendo to a low roar, Hey Mercedes captures the ideal rock sound.
It’s highly unlikely — OK, nearly impossible — that the band will grace the stage of a local dive bar or release a new album again. But just because something isn’t brand new doesn’t make it any less relevant or enjoyable. Would you ever think of swearing off episodes of your favorite TV show in syndication, wearing vintage clothing or not passing along your favorite story books to your children?
Editors at The Emory Wheel, Emory University's student newspaper, sound off on their favorite albums and artists of the moment. You can find more info here.
