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Post-rock is one of the most contentious terms to emerge in the music scene in recent history. Musicians and critics alike still utter the term in quotation marks, preceding it with “dare I say” and “so-called” or suffixing it with “whatever that is”.

The earliest bands to be assigned the label rejected it vehemently, and nowadays there’s still an air of elitism and disdain for it from the emerging acts and from other areas of the music industry. In fact, there's so much confusion about this particular genre, it's worth asking, what the fuck is “post-rock” anyway?

Mac Nguyen is a senior writer for The Silent Ballet, an online publication covering the global instrumental music scene.

The term “post-rock” was coined by a British music journalist named Simon Reynolds who used it to describe the delicate, unconventional use of rock instrumentation to develop vast, enveloping soundscapes on Hex, an album released in 1994 by British experimentalists Bark Psychosis. The critique conceived not just a term, but a notion that largely revised the traditional utilisation of rock instrumentation. Glasgow’s Mogwai, one of the first “post-rock” bands, were spawn by the progressive, convention-defying mentality, and not surprisingly reacted strongly to the idea that they could possibly be pigeonholed by this label—something they, as non-traditionalists, were trying to avoid from the very outset. It was largely an ego thing, fuelled by the desire to be as unique and different and as difficult to define as possible, that way ensuring their isolation from anything else, especially that which resembled popular music.

Bands that emerged around the early stages of post-rock in the mid to late nineties sounded nothing alike, so it was somewhat bizarre that they could be referenced collectively by this one term. Montreal’s Godspeed You! Black Emperor were gloomy and highly textured, the aforementioned Mogwai tense and volatile, and Chicago’s Tortoise endowed with a jazzier, experimental edge. Recent and comparatively popular post-rock bands have expanded the scope of the genre further: Austin’s Explosions in the Sky employ Mogwai’s guitar-driven quiet-loud method of playing but emphasise the emotional dynamics through multiple layers of melody, while Reykjavik, Iceland’s Sigur Rós prefer an expansive and orchestral approach.

The fact that each band sounded worlds apart from the next says something about the term’s analogously unconventional application. It wasn’t about the stylistic factor; there was something else that united these bands: they were all essentially deconstructing the traditional form of rock and rock instrumentation and reapplying it to forms more closely resembling minimalist and classical composition. Post-rock has been said to be the conduit between the artistry of classical and the accessibility of rock. It was almost like using rock against itself, against the popular music doctrine.

The one other significant and defining facet was that bands assigned the post-rock label were generally instrumental, another characteristic that would further remove it from the grasps of convention. Lyrical exclusion wasn’t entirely a conscious decision for the most part, nor was it necessarily a coincidence. The minimalist and experimental compositional styles, which consisted of drawn out lengths (we’re talking ten to 20 minutes) to the point where some pieces were more considered “movements”, meant that an instrumental dominance seemed only natural. A point commonly stressed is that post-rock is not strictly instrumental, in that vocals can still be present, but not necessarily at the vanguard. Sigur Rós are the group arguably most notable for their instrumentalised vocals, as are Mogwai whose vocals are usually drowned in reverb.

Recent movements in post-rock have again slowly shifted the genre away from these initial defining characteristics. Bands are now writing pieces of shorter and more accessible length, and the drone-driven vocal presence is transforming back to proper lyrically-driven singing. The original breaking of rock convention has suddenly reverted back to rock convention, so how does it remain post-rock? The stylistic similarities have somewhat become the defining element now, contrary to the past. Testament to the genre’s refusal to adopt convention is its preference to turn back to conventional composition rather than allow trends in the genre itself to form new conventions.

As convoluted as fuck as that explanation is, this is not a result of any control over the term by musicians and critics, but more so the lack of. Its immaturity is a major cause for its nebulous nature. Even now, most people don’t really know what post-rock is exactly, this writer included. Two things I can say with a modest degree of certainty are that the genre is resultant of a common philosophical approach to music, rather than technical or aesthetics, and that it is definitely witnessing growth, not just in scope but geographically. Post-rock is growing in popularity amongst musicians, critics and listeners throughout all parts of the world. Even the cultural derivations of post-rock by region are evident: North America and the UK oversee a substantial rock influence, while the rest of Europe seems partial to electronica. Australia draws heavily on all aspects, and Melbourne especially is on the verge of an inundation of talented post-rock acts which draw their inspiration on a global scale. For the genre, it really is only just the beginning.

We Are The Night | The Chemical Brothers
Astralwerks | 19th June

Review by Jigantor

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Sounds like … The Chemical Brothers. If you don't know what the Chemical Brothers sound like, you need to stop redecorating your rock.

The Chemical Brothers are huge. Even if you don't like electronica and don't know your big beat from your trip-hop, you know the Chemical Brothers. You may know them because you took too much E and collapsed at Big Day Out. You may know them and claim they're 'too mainstream' because you're a self-respecting raver. You may know them because they were the token electronic track on the Triple J Hottest 100 album you bought in year ten. Point is, you know them.

So any new release from them is exciting. It's news. It's number one on the UK charts. Unfortunately, it's almost invariably disappointing. See, the Brothers create undeniably brilliant, compelling tracks. But since Surrender, they have created disjointed, underwhelming albums, which are always less than the sum of their parts. Who remembers anything except 'Galvanise' off Push The Button? Nonetheless, there's some killer tracks on this album: 'All Rights Reversed', featuring the Klaxons, is 4:33 of genius, 'Do It Again' is the obligatory infectious radio-friendly track, and the title track is utterly engrossing.

As a whole though, the album leaves you feeling somehow empty. Closing track 'The Pills Won't Help You Now' is a radical change in tempo from the rest of the album, and a wonderful track on its own, but rather than closing out the release it feels like an afterthought. 'The Salmon Dance' is an irritating Sesame Street novelty track that stops any mood or sense of continuity from building. Like their last few releases, this provides plenty of fodder for your best-of-the-Brothers iPod playlist. Just don't expect a unified listening experience.

7 out of 10

Release The Stars | Rufus Wainwright
Geffen Records | 15th May

Review by Yoshua Wakeham

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Sounds like … a soaring synthesis of country, big band, opera and Jeff Buckley.

‘I’m tired of writing elegies through boredom,’ Rufus Wainwright explains on ‘Sanssouci’, his voice hovering somewhere between Bernard Fanning and Matt Bellamy. ‘I’m tired of writing elegies in general.’ Perhaps that’s why Release the Stars is one of the brightest and most joyous albums of 2007.

I hadn’t listened to Wainwright before this album, and confess I was expecting something more indie – acoustic guitar, piano, melancholy, and little else. Instead, I was surprised by the lush, exuberant collection of songs, with nearly every track orchestrally underpinned. Whether it’s the horns on ‘Slideshow’ or the fantastic string canoodling on the awesome ‘Tulsa’, the orchestra adds genuine character to a set which occasionally veers towards boring.

Even when this tedium threatens though (‘Nobody’s Off the Hook’, ‘Rules and Regulations’, ‘Leaving for Paris No. 2’), every song manages to somehow kick off its earthly bonds and fly upwards into heavenly melodic reaches, if sometimes only fleetingly. These songs are not to be contained, and Wainwright goes with them, travelling breezily into the stratosphere and then back down again.

Wainwright’s cup of tunes seriously runneth over. Songs like ‘Between My Legs’ and the outstanding single ‘Going to a Town’ are positively brimming with beautiful harmonies and possess an appealing unhurriedness. Wainwright practically channels Jeff Buckley on ‘Not Ready to Love’, a smoky, faux-country ballad, and comes close to an alternative anthem with closer ‘Release the Stars’.

The only real weakness of the album is an intermittent tendency to repeat itself – but it’s hard to fault the album on that when there’s just so much to love. Release the Stars is food for the soul – and a nearly flawless piece of über-pop.

9 out of 10

Places Like This | Architecture In Helsinki
Polyvinyl Records | 5th June

Review by Tom Fairman

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Sounds like … a slightly-sexualised High-5

A Mess+Noise reviewer once described listening to Sarah Blasko’s music like “sucking on candy while thinking about diabetes.” In that case, listening to Architecture in Helsinki, the iconic Melbourne-based Indie group, is like sucking on candy while thinking about sugar.

This ultra-sweet aesthetic has been a common theme for the band. 2000’s ‘Finger’s Crossed’ sampled a garbling baby on the track ‘The Owl’s Go’, and 2004’s ‘In Case We Die’ featured ‘Maybe You Can Owe Me’, a primary-school love ballad for a pair of innocent, naïve schoolmates whose sleep-depriving attraction to one another was mixed equally with fear.

On Places Like This, they seem to be aiming for more maturity. Let’s call it the ‘early-high-school’ phase of their career. It’s that time of your life where you’re no longer afraid to dance, yet you have no real idea where those moves may lead you. A good example is ‘Hold Music’ - while at times reminiscent of a saucy R’n’B anthem, it ends up sounding something like a slightly-sexualised High-5. The sweet naivety of the ‘techture in ‘sinki pervades despite their desire to grow up, and with a record as enjoyable as this, you can’t really hold their saccharin sound against them.

Sadly, the album as a whole doesn’t have the stamina to make an indelible impression on your music collection. That said, opener ‘Red Turned White’ may, in some respects, be the most redeeming and impressive song on the album. The song evolves from a disjointed drum beat and seemingly out of key vocals before slowly, like an image coming into focus, twisting into a realised track you can damn well shake your booty to. From chaos to disco in 2:46 - How can one complain?

7 out of 10

Lies For The Liars | The Used
Reprise | 22nd May

Review by Tom Fairman

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Reprise Records
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Sounds like … masturbation

In my heady days as a young punk-rocker in the obligatory shitty band, my bandmates and I would often indulge a joke together – the “nu-emo-breakdown”. You know how it goes – the songs pacing along, all concentrated teenage angst, and then bam, it’s bridge time kids. The drumbeat is chopped in half, the guitars burst their bounds, a violin or some string arrangement comes out of fucking nowhere, and before you know it, you’re screaming your heart out at the crescendo of the music and accordingly your emotional investment. Game, Set, Match.

The Used’s new album makes clever use of this cunning emotional technique on tracks 1 through to 11 (for those playing along at home, ‘Earthquake’ employs it at precisely 0:36). It’s ashamedly easy to get caught up, similar to lingering a little too long on a Today/Tonight report. And the usual gothic themes are there – death, weakness (‘The Bird & The Worm’), death, religious indifference (‘The Ripper’), death, and of course, don’t forget the triumphant, acoustic-love-ballad sometime around track 9 (‘Find A Way’).

This music is designed to elicit emotional catharsis. There’s nothing wrong with that, but the manner of The Used is that it’s self-indulgent, repetitive and superficially addictive– a bit like masturbation. Sure, you’re blown away by the sheer pleasure of the mastering. You think you’re convinced of its sincerity after wave upon wave of intense sound, accentuated by Bert’s lead vocal screaming. But, there is no subtlety in the work, no hint of intelligence that even My Chemical Romance’s The Black Parade demonstrated, and there is no further reward on repeated listens. The depth and sincerity hinted at by the lyrical content and album art, upon closer inspection, is just like mascara - the shadows merely being painted on.

3 out of 10

Era Vulgaris | Queens Of The Stone Age
Interscope | 9th June

Review by Yoshua Wakeham

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Interscope Records
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Sounds like … industrial, deep-fried, desert lightning.

The Queens of the Stone Age underwent a somewhat seismic band reshuffle following the departure of band co-founder Nick Oliveri, so it’s understandable that 2005’s ‘Lullabies to Paralyze’ was creatively stagnant. It was business as usual for the sometime kings of hard rock, an overrated pastiche of mostly forgettable songs. What a pleasant surprise, then, to find the Queens innovating their arses off and all but reinventing themselves on their fifth studio record.

There’s a little of something for everyone on Era Vulgaris, whether it’s the balls-out headache-inducing thrash of first single ‘Sick, Sick, Sick’ or the laidback croon of Desert Sessions redo ‘Make It Wit Chu’. There’s more of lead singer Josh Homme than ever (honestly, try and pick up Julian Casablancas on ‘Sick, Sick, Sick’ or Mark Lanegan on ‘River in the Road’), but it still doesn't feel dictatorial, or at least no more so than any previous QOTSA effort. Homme has always been the creative engine of the band, and on Vulgaris he oils his joints and works like never before. The album is littered with creative highpoints, from riveting opener ‘Turnin’ on the Screw’, through ‘I’m Designer’ and the desert-rock gem ‘Into the Hollow’. It loses itself a bit with the one-two punch of the overcooked ‘Misfit Love’ and extremely aptly-named ‘Battery Acid’, but rights itself with ‘Make It Wit Chu’ and the sublime, brain-frying ‘3’s & 7’s’.

Era Vulgaris benefits from being distinctly leaner than the bloated Lullabies or even 2002’s Songs for the Deaf. Only the enjoyable but bizarre ‘Run, Pig, Run’ really feels self-indulgent; everything else has its place, and feels about the right length. The album ripples, flexes, shows off a bit, and then it’s over – it’s almost like QOTSA have undergone the ‘Buff Zone’ treatment. Absolutely recommended to any fan of blistering, brilliant hard rock.

8 out of 10

Carry On | Chris Cornell
Interscope | 5th June

Review by Jigantor

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Interscope Records
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Sounds like … Jeff Buckley after a really bad night.

Chris Cornell has an incredible voice. It’s full of longing and pain, like a beautiful, innocent child corrupted by booze and cigarettes and one night stands, now left with only a sense of stolen potential. He has been recorded at A above high C, but all the time he is cracking and howling and ragged edges. It is a beautiful voice, beautiful but poisoned. It is, I say again, incredible. And utterly compelling.

But listening to this album, I had a flashback to Audioslave's eponymous debut: a record of immense potential with moments of genius, but overwhelmingly unsatisfying. Songs which showed such potential for power and intensity dissolving into a mishmash of forgettable choruses and ill-conceived lyrics.

Carry On suffers from exactly the same problem. Take the example of the first single 'No Such Thing'. It begins with suitably rawk guitars, segues into a soft, tense verse, gradually builds to a killer bridge and you're waiting, you're gagging for the killer blow - but suddenly there's this stupid, shouty chorus that could have been written by two year ten dropkicks whose fondest hope is to one day feature on Russ Kellett's Melbourne. And that's one of the better songs.

The sole standout exception is, bizarrely, a cover of Michael Jackson's 'Billie Jean'. It is everything this album should have been – so tender, powerful and raw that you can almost taste his pain. Perhaps Cornell's real problem is that he needs a decent songwriter. His voice is so incredible, listening to it trapped in such a pathetic, lacklustre cage makes this one of the most frustrating releases of the year. Somebody, please, let him shine.

6 out of 10

Little Animals | Beasts Of Bourbon
Albert | 23rd April

Review by Jen Jewel Brown

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Sounds like … what every housewife’s locking herself in the bathroom over.

The Beasts burst out from Sydney’s underbelly with 1984’s The Axeman’s Jazz (Red Eye Records) and have just signed to the hardest-to-get label in Australia, Alberts. Founding Beasts Tex Perkins (vocals and front-man duties) and Spencer P. Jones (guitar) survive, and are joined by lead guitarist Charlie Owen, and Tony Pola (drums) and Brian Hooper (bass) of The Surrealists.

As far as albums go, ‘Little Animals’ is one live son-of-a-bitch. The lightning-fast 10 track set was recorded in three days at New Market Studios in North Melbourne, and was co-produced by the band’s live soundman Scritch. Spurning overdubs, it’s magnificent wrecked electric blues, raw and swaggering, shot-through with chaos theory solos and splattered with lyrics to stick in a censor’s craw. Drug mentions? Little Animals is more like a customs officer’s check list. Hell, these guys are even packing epidurals!

The Beasts’ are both catchy and classic, the Kinks and The Faces, only 50 times more malevolent. Opener ‘I Don’t Care about Nothing Anymore’ could have been written by the late Ian Rilen (Rose Tattoo, X) to whom this album is dedicated. The title track ‘Little Animals’ is a Kurt Weill-style lament for species deceased, showcasing the depth and sophistication of the band. Like something from a Tony Award-winning Broadway play, it is moving, ironic and extraordinary, the perfect vehicle for Perkins’ rich, growling croon.

The caged animals on this bleeding-rare and ready studio record remain a fearsome proposition live – Henry Rollins was raw with admiration when he introduced them at Big Day Out 2006. If they don’t drink or rouse each other to death on tour in Europe, I can’t wait to hear what they come up with on the Alberts label next.

8 out of 10

Baby 81 | Black Rebel Motorcycle Club
RCA Records | 1st May

Review by Jigantor

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RCA Records
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Sounds like … yet another garage-rock band.

The Black Rebel Motorcycle Club really only have one idea: a blues drawl over fuzzy rock guitar. Now, this is by no means a bad idea. It's just that, well, there's so much of it. Baby 81 goes for 60 minutes and, like everything Dallas Frasca has ever recorded, all their songs just blend into each other. To be fair, 'All You Do Is Talk' starts with extended string noodling, and 'Killing the Light' even uses compound time(!). But the rest of the songs are basically medium pace, fuzzy garage rock. Like every other pub band.

The lack of distinguishing features is made worse by the fact that half the songs remind me of other songs. Now don't get me wrong: they're not blatantly stealing riffs á la Jet. It's just that their songs all sound so similar, I think my mind starts wandering. So the opening riff of 'Took Out A Loan' becomes Metallica's 'Some Kind Of Monster', 'All You Do Is Talk' becomes Dido's 'See The Sun' and so on. The lyrics don't help: Baby 81 is full of unmemorable but vaguely pretentious lines like 'you wanna pick something up/you gotta lay it down', or 'your lucky words don't bleed/you tie the end of all we see'. Apparently they're supposed to be political or religious or something.

I want to emphasize that this is by no means a bad album. It's perfectly acceptable Triple J rock. It's pleasant enough listening for the most part, and on occasion they hit the mark ('Cold Wind', 'Weapon Of Choice'). But it's nothing that you haven't heard before. If you like rock music, or if you like to be kinda 'alt-trendy' (after all, BMRC do have the coolest logo in the world), Baby 81 will make you perfectly happy. Just don't set your expectations too high.

6 out of 10

Myth Takes | !!!
Warp Records | 5th June

Review by Jigantor

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Warp Records
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Sounds like … The Music with a turntable.

Rock music good. Dance music good. Dance-rock music? Dodgy at best. At least, that's what I thought until I heard !!!'s (you can call them Chk Chk Chk) new offering. Finally, someone has taken the best bits of rock and the best bits of dance and put them together. Praise the Lord.

So what happens when you slip this in your CD player? Within three seconds, the reverb-soaked title track grabs you and draws you in. One of the highlights of the album, ‘Myth Takes’ is less frenetic than most of the other tracks, but just as compelling. Before you know it you're dumped into the swirling dancefloor frenzy of 'All My Heroes Are Weirdos'. Then you're in the bedroom watching Nic Offer make a fool of himself – it 'Must Be The Moon' - and, boy, are you enjoying it. On the album travels, barely giving you a chance to draw breath.

Every track, with the possible exception of the weaker 'Sweet Life', has an infectious groove that won't leave you alone. The dead weight of their previous two releases has disappeared (hence the 48-minute running time), leaving you the diamonds without the rough. Even the longer tracks 'Bend Over Beethoven' and 'Heart of Hearts' hold your attention so well you lose track of the time. Basically, this album is a party from beginning to end.

Now, dear Reader, I am not a dancer. The last time I danced was at a house party in 2004 after spending far too much time with Comrade Smirnoff. Nevertheless, this album just made me want to jump around like a lunatic. And believe me, that's some feat. If you're still in your chair after hearing this album, it's time to call the undertaker.

8 out of 10

Sky Blue Sky | Wilco
Nonesuch | 15th May

Review by Thomas Mendelovits

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Nonesuch Records
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Sounds like … the world’s most sophisticated band of Americana coming to terms with their own greatness and perhaps, middle-age.

I’m not sure if Jeff Tweedy was joking at Wilco’s recent Palais show when he referred to ‘Heavy Metal Drummer’ from 2002’s Yankee Hotel Foxtrot as “our hit-song that you couldn’t go anywhere without hearing that summer”, but sadly, this newest record from one of pop’s most (un-)catchy institutions won’t bring them any instant financial riches.

Like many artists’ later releases, Sky Blue Sky sees Tweedy and the band moving into more reflective, even subdued, territory. The album follows some of the tendencies found on 2004’s A Ghost is Born, with soft-folk, soft-rock moments of post-punk. And much like that release, Sky Blue Sky rewards repeated plays, the melodies and lyrics worming their way deeper with every listen.

I have a theory that with each Wilco release their sound becomes more definitely their own just as it becomes more clearly indefinable. While Being There (1996), Summerteeth (1999) and even Yankee Hotel Foxtrot (2002) are unashamed pop, and A Ghost is Born more experimental, Wilco’s latest effort is restrained and on first listen can even seem deliberately obfuscating.

Many of the lyrics deal with Tweedy’s return to health, newfound optimism and apparent reflections on married life, while musically the album moves through plaintive country-folk steel, slide and twelve-string guitars and organs to more robust rock-outs and even Thin Lizzy-like duelling guitar lines. While closer ‘On and On and On’ could be described as a tepid rehash of earlier ideas (in this case Yankee Hotel Foxtrot’s ‘Reservations’), its minimalist piano refrain, like much of the album, is utterly compelling in its own intrinsic and unique way.

8 out of 10

Wilco | The Palais | April 18th-19th
Review by Thomas Mendelovits


Anything your favourite band can do, Wilco can do better. Well, almost… but death metal, hip-hop, and punk are lame anyway.

Over two nights at the Palais, lovers of ‘alt.country’ (or judging by the audience demographic, ‘contemporary adult indie’) were enthralled as songwriter-in-chief Jeff Tweedy sang his by turns earnest, sweet, and cheeky, lovelorn ballads aided by his famously accomplished band of five; including free-jazzguitarist Nels Cline and Glenn Kotche, a drummer who has released solo experimental records of his own. Clocking in at over two and a half hours with numerous encores, the Wilco experience was so awesome for this reviewer and evidently many others who snapped up the half-price offer for Wednesday ticket-stub holders and went again for the Thursday show.

The attention to detail shown over Wilco’s last three studio albums (Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, A Ghost is Born, and the yet to be released, though internet-leaked Sky Blue Sky) was equally matched by their live show, with each member adding their own poetic touch and constantly surprising even those fans who know every song note for note. Indeed, during a couple of songs, the whole band looked shocked by some unexpected deft work from Kotche, while the seemingly endless tones coming out of Cline’s guitar plus effects board (he seemed to control the entire mix at times) were a constant delight. The addition of Cline after Yankee Hotel Foxtrot was destined to pad out their live sound, but Tweedy showed himself a most fine player too, and the beautifully jagged lines on ‘At Least That’s What You Said’, which I thought heralded Cline’s coming on A Ghost is Born, turned out to be Tweedy’s doing.


To make such complex pop music takes a lot of work, but the members of Wilco must love music so much that it seems more like play. Just watch I am trying to break your heart, Sam Jones’ documentary about the process of recording Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. Jeff Tweedy’s jest: “we’ll bring it to you sitting down or standing up. We don’t even need an audience, we’re like this when we go home to practice alone”, repeated over both nights after some of the more excitable audience members tried to instigate a general rise from seats, does not seem in jest at all when you witness Tweedy and ex-member Jay Bennett’s ecstatic reaction to a single keyboard note while they listen to a playback in the documentary.

To my mind, there’s nothing like seeing a band you love charm the socks off the entire audience in witty repartee, and indeed it was great to see Jeff Tweedy prove he is not so self-serious as some of his lyrics may suggest. He answered almost every heckler and brought the house down on a number of occasions. A call for “A.M.!” (their first album) was answered with: “A.M.? You still listen to A.M. here? You think we’re so quaint, going to bed with transistor radios under our pillows, listening to the ball game”. (The request was granted, however, the band played one song from the 1995 album). On the Thursday, Tweedy came out strumming the intro to ‘Hesitating Beauty’ but after numerous requests started an impromptu ‘Reservations’. Seeming to be swayed by a plea from a woman in the front row (“C’mon Jeff, it’s romantic”) the heartbreaking simplicity of the song was only augmented by the band.

A close tie for most magical moment came with the ridiculously perfectly structured ‘A Shot in the Arm’, which hurtles on and on with the bare minimum of chords, seeming to go nowhere but yet constantly changing. The barometer for ‘most magical moment’ in this case proved accurate with a high proportion of audience members losing their shit to this number. The crowd fell dead silent during the final encore on Wednesday, when Tweedy, alone and unplugged, stood on the lip of the stage and sung an old song from his Uncle Tupelo back-catalogue. By now, the rapport generated couldn’t have been any higher, or the applause any louder, and it seemed both band and crowd left positively beaming.

The Best Damn Thing | Avril Lavigne
RCA NY | April 17th

Review by Mabel Kwong

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RCA Records
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Sounds like … Sum 41 and Blink 182, with a female lead vocalist.

Avril Lavige’s third album The Best Damn Thing is a collection of songs that sound like they were meant to be played live, and played loud. Lukasz Gottwald (Kelly Clarkson’s Since U Been Gone) produced the bulk of the songs here, and the album is emphatically upbeat and fast-paced.

The opening track and first single Girlfriend sets the tone for the rest of the album. Upbeat, sing-a-long and clappy, the track even features a cheerleader chorus - ‘Hey, hey, you, you’, a theme Avril revisits throughout the album. I Can Do Better has more ‘Hey heys’ and ends up sounding all too similar to Girlfriend. Likewise Everything Back But You and the title track. The other fast-tempo songs sound rather alike too, all laden with prominent drum beats and guitar riffs. Hot and One of Those Guys must have been separated at birth, their guitar riffs are so similar.

When You’re Gone and Innocence are the lone ballads. The former builds up nicely to a crescendo climax. The latter stands out more with splendid piano work and heartfelt lyrics. Speaking of lyrics, the album reeks of attitude ‘I wanna scream and lose control’ from mid-tempo Runaway and ‘I wear the pants!’ off I Don’t Have To Try. Avril lets angst rip with ‘Damn this guy’ in Contagious.

Overall, the songs sound too much alike for the album to bear repeated listens. The crash of drums and wild guitar playing serve as the basis for this, so it’s unsurprising that the ballads offer some relief. The last track, Keep Holding On from the movie Eragon, is the sore-thumb on the album, being a pop ballad. That said, it’s still comfortably The Best Damn Thing on the album.

6 out of 10

SideA/SideB

Cassadaga | Bright Eyes
Saddle Creek | April 10th

Reviews by Tom Fairman & Jigantor

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Saddle Creek Records
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In this regular feature, two of our writers review the same album, providing two perspectives on the same record. After all, when it comes to music, beauty really is in the ear of the beholder.

Review by Tom Fairman

Sounds like … the love child of Neil Young and Bob Dylan with a dash of M Ward.

Conor Oberst, the mind behind Bright Eyes, is not the new Bob Dylan. Oberst has been plagued by this comparison ever since his brand of semi-political folk-rock was brought to a wider audience with 2002’s Lifted. He is, however, an extremely prolific and dedicated songwriter. And Cassadaga is another chapter in his saga following 2004’s double heavyweight I’m Wide Awake It’s Morning and Digital Ash in a Digital Urn.

Of the divergent musical paths forged in the wake of his previous albums, Oberst seems to have pursued the Western-essence found on I’m Wide Awake. Opening ominously, Cassadaga crystallises the ills of modern society in a single sentence – “Corporate or colonial/the movement is unstoppable/like the body of the centrefold/it spreads." Four Winds follows, complete with a violin riff bizarrely reminiscent of Santa Clause is Coming to Town, which works surprisingly well.

The highlight of the album comes midway through, on Middleman - a potential rock song that has been oppressed and distilled into a suspiciously gentle acoustic piece, which works exceptionally well for Oberst. The song simmers, threatening to burst its mere musical constraints, listeners eagerly anticipating a slash of distorted guitar – or something loud - to break the tension. But this never comes, and by the conclusion, it’s not a track of wasted potential - rather, a cause to marvel at Oberst’s fine grasp of restraint and ability to weave boundless energy within every guitar chord and soft string pluck.

Oberst doesn’t always nail it - Make a Plan To Love Me takes the tempo of 2004’s single Lua, but holds none of its strength, beauty or potency. This sentiment pervades the album. Yet the mastery of Oberst’s work is that which initially appears to be mostly repetitious country ballads, with dedication, reveals a taciturn glow that refuses to be extinguised and compels you to return.

7 out of 10

The Adventures Of Ghosthorse and Stillborn | CocoRosie
Touch And Go Records | April 10th

Review by Yoshua Wakeham

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Touch And Go Records
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Sounds like … crystal light-infused bicycle bells to a Thom Yorke beat.

CocoRosie’s latest is most likely to divide and challenge listeners, largely thanks to Bianca Casady’s strange, almost wilfully inaccessible voice. While her sister Sierra, the band’s other half, has a powerful, professionally-trained voice, Bianca warbles in a strange, childish way, a sour warhead or two south of Joanna Newsom. On Ghosthorse, the sisters have chosen to foreground Bianca’s weirdness more than ever, with Sierra hovering around singing both sublime supporting parts (‘Sunshine’ and ‘Werewolf’), and creepy little operatic overtures (‘Japan’ and ‘Houses’).

I’m not saying that Bianca’s vocal contributions are bad; they’re just different. Her unusual style of folk rap is unique and successful on songs like ‘Animals’, ‘Raphael’, and the aforementioned (and excellent) ‘Werewolf’, but listening to her puzzling, artificial crooning on ‘Japan’, or her more exaggerated idiosyncrasy on the peculiar and unnecessary ‘Bloody Twins’ will be a trial for all but the most patient listeners.

All grumbles aside, I feel free to say that this is a very good album; even Bianca’s fake Jamaican patois isn’t enough to ruin the addictive ‘Japan’, and ‘Raphael’ remains a hypnotic cathedral of a song. CocoRosie’s instrumentation is weird and fascinating, with kazoos, bicycle bells, children’s toys, radios, coins, and sampled beats jostling for space with the more (or less) conventional piano and harp. The sisters have crafted something like an art gallery soundtrack - delicate, ethereal, and precious. Old Masters like ‘Raphael’ and ‘Sunshine’ hang alongside pieces far more modern, like ‘Rainbowarriors’ and ‘Japan’. As for ‘Girl and the Geese’, it’s anyone’s guess what the artists were thinking.

If you think you can stomach what occasionally sounds like a puckered child singing along to a music box, you might not be able to stop listening.

7 out of 10

Life Is A Grave And I Dig It | Nekromantix
Hellcat | April 10th

Review by Maria Swrydan

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Hellcat Records
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Sounds like … the Cramps if they took a lot speed and forgot about melody.

I wanted to like this album, really I did. A not-very-original but nonetheless-fun graveyard psychobilly riot? Even with the dodgy title walking the fine line between emo-satire and My Chemical Romance sincerity, I was sure I could learn to dig it. This boring, overproduced excuse for an album, however, is unforgivable, lacking as it does even one song I wouldn’t chuck straight into the bargain bin at Sanity.

I listened to the album in its entirety several times and nearly drove myself mad in the process. Life is a Grave and I Dig It goes for an excruciating 50 minutes. That someone thought this musically sterilised mish-mash of trite lyrics and charisma-less vocals would succeed borders on delusion. To multiply the formula 14 times is just sadism.

It’s even more tortuous because there are glimpses of something more than try-hard horror here. Some of the psycho country riffs and beats are cool, despite not being dirty enough for my taste. But without fail, just when a song wasn’t numbing my will to live, vocalist Kim Nekroman pipes up.

Amazingly, Nekroman’s back catalogue isn’t as bad as this record suggests. But here, Nekroman lacks even the vaguest smack of charm or originality. And when you’re singing mostly incoherent lyrics along the lines of “My girl, ooo ooo ooo, my girl, ooo ooo ooo” or “I hope you rot in hell ooo ooo ooo” you really can’t afford to sound strained and monotonous.

The main problem is that there are just no good hooks or interesting melodies. This is Nekromantix’ seventh studio album. I know their schtick is cemetery dead girl jokes but their first studio album came out in 1989. Maybe it’s time they moved on.

2 out of 10

The Best Of The V-Festival (Pixies, Jarvis Cocker, Phoenix, New York Dolls) | The Sidney Myer Music Bowl | April 4th
Review by Thomas Mendelovits


“Hey… been trying to meet you!” was a sentiment many fans could concur with when the recently reformed Pixies (the band broke up in 1993) announced they would be traveling to our shores for the first time ever as part of the V-Festival line-up.

However, for Melbourne fans, this meeting would prove more difficult to arrange as the V-Festival was only to be held in Sydney and Brisbane. For a long time, no-one knew what the hell was going on, but finally, two showcase ‘Best of V-Festivals’ were announced for the Sidney Myer Music Bowl featuring the Pet Shop Boys, Gnarls Barkley, Groove Armada, and The Rapture on one night and the Pixies, Jarvis Cocker, Phoenix, and the New York Dolls on the next night. Cynicism abounded regarding Virgin’s tactics to trick hordes of Melbourne music fans flying interstate for the Festival and to make matters worse, side-shows for all acts were announced seemingly deliberately at the last-minute and for the Pixies quickly sold out. Bottom line, for many of us this was probably the only chance ever to see the Pixies.

It may seem like I’m forgetting the other bands, it felt the same way on the night. Fans of the New York Dolls and Jarvis Cocker, seminal in their own right though not to the extent or the ‘nowness’ of the Pixies, probably enjoyed their side-shows, while the addition of Phoenix padded out a brilliantly diverse line-up yet one which favoured the kinds of fans attracted primarily to the Pixies. Anyway, here’s my gripe: festivals should make you feel insignificant and yet part of an epic and transcendent event. But, from the ridiculously far partition of General Admission from Reserved Seating and the stage as well as the long queues to get into the licensed section, and the general disinterest in three of the four acts, a damper was put on the ‘festiveness’ of the event from the very beginning. I guess they were right in naming it the ambiguous ‘Best of V-Festival’. “Must be a devil between us”, indeed.

Even if views of the stage were far from revealing, the sound was great and for the people in the Reserved section I’m sure the three acts prior to the Pixies put on a fantastic show. Being a fan of Phoenix I stayed for their whole set, and they quashed any doubts as to their out-of-studio legitimacy, but the lack of people and atmosphere in General Admission was a bummer. It seemed more people were busy socialising and quenching their thirsts in the overly corporate Jaeger and Red Bull tents, right up until the end of Jarvis Cocker’s set. Jarvis doesn’t do any Pulp songs (“That would just be wrong”) but his new solo material is strong enough and he is an expert charmer.

Before the Pixies were due out, the grassy knoll quickly filled and ironically now it was almost impossible for most people to see anything from General Admission. However, a chill went through the crowd from the very first bars of drums of ‘Bone Machine’ and by the time Black Francis and Kim Deal locked voices the whole vibe was immediately transformed. It was a bizarre experience to see and experience people coming together, singing along to the debauched and depraved science fiction, biblical and marine themed lyrics of Charles Thompson, but this only proved their cult and now-classic status. During ‘Hey!’, ‘Where is my mind?’ and ‘Here Comes Your Man’ especially it really did feel like a festival and they seemed to play nearly every song, or at least those which by now they realise are all but perfect.

From comparing reports of their side-shows it seems that the Pixies themselves felt like this gig was some kind of festival; indulging the crowd with some nice banter (that’s such a negative word, personality display?), on-stage antics, and an encore, none of which occurred at the Palace. Stopping dead in the middle of ‘Where Is My Mind?’ seemed like a ploy suited perfectly to the manic build-up of that song, however, it turned out that a beach-ball had landed on stage and Black quipped: “Pixies don’t do beach-balls”. It took bassist Deal a while to figure out where to come back in from, and aided by Francis it was nice to see the two, whose bumpy history has been so commented on, share a joke. During the final encore, ‘La La Love You’, each band member took the mic to sing “I love you” to each other and then left the stage with arms interlocked. Ah, it was pretty good after all.

Because Of The Times | Kings Of Leon
RCA Records | March 31st

Review by Jigantor

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RCA Records
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Sounds like ... the bastard spawn of the Pixies and Charlie Daniels, with extra filth.

The Kings Of Leon reek of knife fights in back alleys, flannel shirts and Louisiana dirt. They will not seduce you, make love to you and treat you nice like Ol' Blue Eyes or Mickey Bubble. They will take you behind the church shed, and you will like it, and you will beg for more. Now you're knocked up, but it's okay, because Caleb don' care 'bout nothin' and he's gonna stay with you, all down that long, lonely, open road.

Indie kids, be warned. This is not Aha Shake II. This is no collection of wham-bam-you're-fucked jumpalong garage scum rock with the occasional slower number so you can tell your Brunswick St trendster friends the band has 'depth'. This is a wild rodeo through the dark, a Southern ghost train, a sonic molestation that is at times jubilant, bitter, energetic and relaxed. There are discordant shrieks, 50's pop 'ooh's, mournful guitars, driving distortion, sparse arrangements and walls of noise. There is open-road cruising, traditional rock, sinister power ballads, honesty and heartbreak. There is alcoholism, rape, love and fast cars. There is Caleb Followill's voice. Knocked Up is a glorious road trip tinged with regret, Camaro is a reminder of the Kings of old, The Runner makes you cry. Black Thumbnail is arena rock for the Devil, Fans is perfection and Arizona takes you home.

The Kings may be sons of a preacher man, but they are not pure. They will rip your heart out and call it love because they know no better. They pick you up, knock you round, screw you over, beg your forgiveness and never let you go. The Kings of Leon thank God for this album. And so do we.

9 out of 10

I’ll Sleep When You’re Dead | El-P
Definitive Jux | March 20th

Review by Scotland

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Definitive Jux
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Sounds like … Hip-Hop without the marketing team

Aside from Hell Hath No Fury by The Clipse, some Dilla re-releases, and perhaps Security Screenings by Prefuse 73, the overall concentration of Hip-Hop in the 2006 release mix seemed to have been heavily diluted by a slurry of mediocrity. Fortunately for the heads out there, it seems that the tipping point has been reached in 2007, heralding the return of dense, intelligent, powerful Hip-Hop in the guise of the new El-P record, I’ll Sleep When You’re Dead (ISWYD).

From the seven-minute opening track it’s clear that ISWYD is going to be an intense ride, musically and lyrically deep, and breathtakingly ambitious. A Twin Peaks reference sets the tone for the rest of the album - a Lynch-inspired haunting realism lurking just below the façade of city living. With urgent guitar work by the Mars Volta and the desperate refrain “the whole design got my mind cryin’ and if I’m lyin’ I’m dyin’, shit” the track TPC, like the album it introduces, marches definitively to its own immensely powerful broken beat.

El-Producto took five years to craft this album, time well spent considering how listenable such a musically complex record is. Elements of experimental jazz find their way into the mix (Smithereens) and syncopated snare loops provide the sonic backdrop for venomous rebukes like “I might have been born yesterday Sir, but I stayed up all night” (Up All Night). The funk-inflected minimalism of EMG merges into the rock-fusion of Drive, with El-P’s darkly opaque rhymes covering war, drugs, secular religion, and fear of flying amongst other things.

By the time Cat Power helps flip the meaning of the album’s title from menacing threat to bitter rebuke on Poisonville Kids No Wins, the damage has been done. Make no mistake about it, Hip-Hop needed this album, and so do you.

9 out of 10

Strange Form Of Life | Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy
Domino | March 19th

Review by Jigantor

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Domino Records
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Sounds like … Nick Drake in the frail body of a mortal.

Will Oldham is hurt. Will Oldham is gentle. Will Oldham observes, and loves.

Will Oldham's voice cracks. He knows the notes, he's straining to get there, but he can't quite manage it. He's playing a broken guitar by the fire, as the rain comes down outside your hut. You don't know how you got here, and you don't care, you just know that you never want to leave. He looks like a biker when he lets his beard grow; he looks like a lost boy when he doesn't. He is singing his gentle songs that he's written for you. They are bare, free of distractions, just the music and words joining together in beauty. He is beautiful. He is captivating. He is perfect.

Thank god, this is not emo music. This is not the overproduced Emotion™ that EMI tries to sell you. This is music in its most pure form. This is music that goes straight for the heart and you can't help but respond. If you think that James Blunt is heartfelt, it may take you a few listens to appreciate this record. But do it. You will never look back.

8 out of 10

We Were Dead Before The Ship Even Sank | Modest Mouse
Epic | March 17th

Review by Tom Fairman

Website | Epic Records
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Sounds like … Franz Ferdinand with personality disorders.

Modest Mouse, fronted by the enigmatic Issac Brock, have returned with their first long player since 2004’s mainstream success, Good News For People Who Love Bad News, and have thus entered into an era of their career where they’ll find every Tom, Seth and Mischa scouring the tracks of We Were Dead Before The Ship Even Sank for the next foot-stomping Float On follow up.

We Were Dead opens strongly with March Into The Sea, a frenetic portrait of complex commercialised modern life that echoes the bands work on 1998’s The Moon & Antarctica –“We all stumbled round tangled up in the cords from our phones, V.C.R. and our worldly woes.” The track, which sets the tone for the rest of the album, builds to a crescendo that gives way to first single Dashboard, which seems to answer Float On’s “we’ll float on, good news is on the way” with “we scheme and we scheme but we always blow it.” James Mercer of The Shins provides back up vocals on the infectious We Have Everything, and the 8-minute Spitting Venom remains strong despite varying between sea-shanty, blistering rock and indie groove.

No artist deserves all of their post-‘hit’-art to be endlessly compared and graded against their ‘breakthrough’ work, yet this is unfortunately inevitable. We Were Dead, while perhaps being slightly overlong, not as intriguing as The Moon & Antarctica, or as easily accessible as Good News, should be seen for what it is, and that is a strong, intelligent album in the arc of Modest Mouse’s career. Here they have proven their ability to write irresistibly enjoyable dance-rock songs that bear a razors edge that quietly rips at modern life, only revealed when the lyric booklet is pried open – suitably mimicking the commercialized culture they so often criticize.

7 out of 10

Jarvis | Jarvis Cocker
Rough Trade | March 4th

Review by Tom Fairman

Website
Rough Trade Records
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Sounds like … a quiet evening, a good book, and a glass of red wine with the former front man of Pulp.

Before I delve into this review, there’s something you should know.

I had a little aurgasm the first time I heard Don’t Let Him Waste Your Time, the hip-rockin’, head-bobbin’ first single off Jarvis. So with my rock-sytocin levels going through the roof, the following review may be a little skewed.

With Pulp on hiatus, Jarvis Cocker found himself free to indulge in some unfettered song writing, the result being the ear-pleasing aforementioned first single, originally written for Lil’ Blue Eyes herself, Nancy Sinatra.

Jarvis rattles along with the infectious sardonic wit that was so representative of Pulp’s work, with Fat Children a pitch-perfect example. Yet, there are numerous departures from that Pulp-sound, with other tracks on the album employing softly played pianos and brushed drums, creating a solo record that is more synonymous with “intimate” than “personal.”

However, the real beauty of Jarvis is the urgency to the dryness, with Cocker pleading with fainéant youth on From Auschwitz to Ipswich, “can’t you please do something with your life?” The (unfortunately secret) track, Cunts are Still Running the World, is the most hilarious, brutally honest and perhaps only disco-protest-song of our generation. From beginning to end, it safely eludes falling into the Bob Geldof & co. preaching pit, Jarvis seeing that the problems of the world can’t be solved by a $2 white plastic wristband.

So as the album slowly stops spinning, and you’re left panting, staring lovingly at everyone’s favourite bespectacled hipster, I can only hope that it was as good for you as it was for me.

9 out of 10

Introducing Joss Stone | Joss Stone
Virgin Records | March 3rd

Review by Tarang Chawla

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Virgin Records
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Sounds like … the awkward silence that ensues when you can’t remember the name of the person who was just introduced to you.

Introducing Joss Stone showcases a nineteen-year old Brit with a huge voice whose songwriting prowess leaves something to be desired. As her third studio album it poses the question: Why introduce yourself now? According to Stone, her two previous efforts (2003’s debut Soul Sessions, and 2004’s Mind, Body & Soul) didn’t reveal the ‘real her’, yet given the freedom Stone purports to assert on Introducing it falls short of the nuanced, independent performance she is striving to achieve.

Introducing begins with a speech by former English Footballer Vinnie Jones that sounds decidedly irrelevant – less like a definition and more like an outtake from Snatch as he explains that ‘it takes balls to change’. Aside from the fact that Jones is starting to sound like a parody of himself, one other small detail becomes clearer and clearer as the album progresses - Joss Stone definitely lacks balls, and not much has changed.

While Stone’s voice packs a hefty punch, her natural talent is not enough to get her through 14 tracks. Introducing sounds like one long song with the occasional big-name collaboration. While these cameos provide this pop R&B record with some critical clout, at best the inclusion of Common and Lauryn Hill seems like an all-too-obvious marketing tactic.

There can be no disputing Stone’s ability to carry a tune but on Introducing it appears she amalgamates her influences with an overzealous approach to production and attempts to make up for constantly holding back with a new crimson red hair ‘do and flamboyant cover art. It’s not ‘nice to meet you’ with Introducing, rather a perplexed, ‘You’ve changed, man!’

5 out of 10