The one that's worth a dissertation or two: Atlas, Battles Unique isn't a word to be tossed around lightly in the realm of critical reviews, but, just perhaps, it is deserved when tossed in the direction of the New York-based outfit Battles. They are four musicians - formed from the fallout of an array of bands including Tomahawk and the Mark of Cain - who appear to achieve their hellfire sound by playing not so much as a band but as a single entity, giving the impression that the unpredictable sound they make would fall apart if Jon Stanier stopped thumping the drums or if Tyondai Braxton stopped attacking his keyboard. That description may sound a little dry or academic, but with this track and its distorted vocoder in lieu of a spotlight-grabbing lead singer, and each band member pummelling their respective instruments in erratic unison, Battles have achieved a remarkable record that is worthy of scholarly recognition.
The one that raises consciousness, hackles: Four WInds, Bright Eyes What marks out Conor Oberst, Bright Eyes' frontman, from the rest of the alt-folk crowd are his persistently visceral lyrics. Whether they are directed at the President of the US of A or some young lady who's broken his heart, he is a man who often makes the listener wince with recognition. From the opening lines of Four Winds, however, Oberst overdoes it a bit on the political invective.
"Your class, your caste, your country, sect, your name or your tribe," he sings, "there's people always dying trying to keep them alive," and it feels as though Oberst is force-feeding you his views on the world. Musically, Four Winds is well crafted and pleasantly derivative of Neil Young et al, but Oberst appears to have spent most of his creative energy in crafting a lyric that is so crammed with ideas it doesn't have half the impact on the listener Oberst probably hopes it will. The one you've heard before, but don't stop: Stop Me, Mark Ronson Mark Ronson is a hero, for he is emancipating the cover version from the clutches of those odious chart urchins, otherwise known as reality TV contestants, and reclaims them for the righteous lovers of pop music.
Morrissey wailed Stop Me (If You Think You've Heard This One Before) as only Morrissey can wail, bleakly documenting violence and unrequited love, but what Ronson heard was the opportunity to layer up the pathos with trumpet-dominant production and take the Smiths' mordant indie in a glamourous, funky, direction. Which, in theory, sounds dreadful of course, but with Australian R B singer Daniel Merriweather- a more than adequate beneficiary of the great man's lyrics - applying silky emotion in place of Morrissey's aloofness and the aforementioned brilliance of Ronson's dextrous production, Stop Me is given a new lease on life. The one that's, you know, for kids: I Don't Love You, My Chemical Romance My Chemical Romance are fast becoming one of those bands you hear about on prime-time telly or read about in the Daily Mail, as opposed to actually hearing their music.
They are a pro-am Marilyn Manson for the iPod generation; teenagers hang on their every word, but much of the world thinks arriving on stage in a coffin is a bit, um, gimmicky. The truth is, away from the hype, Gerard Way has a decent enough voice (there's more than a shade of Billy Corgan to him) and the band make decent enough songs that, importantly, they seem to believe wholeheartedly in. All of which makes their US alt rock, here sounding quite a lot like Snow Patrol and a little less like Smashing Pumpkins, a tad more digestible.
But still best left for the kids to get pie-eyed over.
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