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Though I’m well accustomed to hip-hop crowds, it seems Cut Chemist really brings out the stereotypes: everyone from American frat boys on tour (moving the brim of their baseballs caps back and forth as if they were scratchin’ vinyl) to our own home-grown supplies of wiggas – some of whom seem to think they’ve just been released from San Quentin – were present. As we stand together up the front, Cut Chemist’s sound is raining out on top of us all at g-force, making sure every single hair on the body feels like it’s moving, the sternum vibrating unhealthily in time with the bass.

Eventually, for the sake of my hearing if not for a better enjoyment of the gig, I retreat back to a safer distance and take in the shots of floating clouds, the Grand Canyon, L.A. freeways, car parks, dirty alleyways, city skylines, imploding buildings, and New York city traffic projected overhead. It’s all footage from the 70s, and beneath it, Cut Chemist dishes out beats that go hand in hand with the retro broadcast: vintage funk is inter-spliced with obscure 50s public service announcements. While drawing heavily from the “Funky 16 Corners” compilation on Stone Throw Records, the set includes breakbeat mainstays such as “Rapper’s Delight,” Jackie Robinson’s “Pussyfooter,” and a few numbers from counterpart and collaborator DJ Shadow. However, aside from dipping into an electro juncture, and the use of CD players (?), everything is more or less as expected: Lucas MacFadden’s trademark Jurassic sound is stamped on everything throughout, seeing some exemplary mixing, and the odd blitz of cheer-inducing scratching.

That is, until the very last song is prepared for: taking the mic for the first time in the night, Cut Chemist chats freely to the crowd with the smoothness of a primetime, top-40 radio DJ (quite a contrast to the quiet guy who nodded at me humbly when his taxi pulled up alongside me earlier in the evening). After joking that Bono was supposed to drop by for a guest appearance, MacFadden noted that he was, hopefully, “a pretty good consolation prize” for those not attending the U2 gig across town, and thanked the crowd for their liveliness “through the whole A to Z,” which, he admitted, was “a challenging listen.” Calling for some audience participation, he asked three spectators to introduce themselves, and then asked us all for a minute to himself to prepare something, shuffling about behind his decks mysteriously.

When proceedings resumed, unbelievably, Cut Chemist was scratching the sample of everything he had just said only a minute earlier into the mix – including the three introductions – by way of a “virtual” CD turntable set-up. It was a brilliant and unexpected Matthew Herbert-esque exclamation to end things on (though somewhat prematurely, it could be argued). Yes – unfortunately, set times continue to fall victim once again to The Village’s ridiculous policy of letting their nightclub’s opening time dictate the length of the concerts held there – when will it end? The up-shot, however, is it means that there’s plenty of time for me to skip down to Temple Bar and catch The Almos Funk Band kick off a brilliant midnight show in The Mezz.

Popularity: 1% [?]

          Can you see it coming? The epic on the horizon, headed your way like the looming inevitability of homework on a Friday afternoon: 22 tracks, 74 minutes, luscious genre-crossing arrangements, sweeping choirs, a procession of over thirty different vaudevillian instruments and musicians, all sneaking in somewhere to play their part in creating a colourful children’s pop-up history book. Blending together meticulous research gathered from friends’ memories and anecdotes, dusty libraries, industrial age poetry, and a little bit of good ol’ firsthand experience, “Illinois” is just the second step (after “Greetings from Michigan”) of Sufjan Steven’s long route towards churning out 50 albums – one for each American state. “The album of the year,” they say, “No, the best album of the last five years!” – Perhaps it’s best to take a nap both before and after attempting to undertake the digestion of such an operatic mammoth for the first time.

             Understandably, such an ambitious project, done properly, will always mean that there’s a lot to take in – just have a look at the expansive tracklisting (shown below), and note some of the longest and most brilliant song titles ever written, including: “The Black Hawk War, Or, How To Demolish An Entire Civilization And Still Feel Good About Yourself In The Morning, Or, We Apologize For The Inconvenience But You’re Going To Have To Leave Now, Or, ‘I Have Fought The Big Knives And Will Continue To Fight Them Until They Are Off Our Lands!,’” “A Conjunction Of Drones Simulating The Way In Which Sufjan Stevens Has An Existential Crisis In The Great Godfrey Maze,” and “Out Of Egypt, Into The Great Laugh of Mankind, And I Shake The Dirt From My Sandals As I Run.” Fortunately, things aren’t as messy as they threaten to be, and with an outstanding amount of focus, Stevens brings together all of these little chapters of Illinois life, from public heritage to private anguish, keeping an impeccable conductor’s hold over production duties all the while.

             The first of many highlights, the second part of “Come On! Feel the Illinoise!” sees the spirit of poet Carl Sandburg appear to pose the question: “Are you writing from the heart?” while a polka-like orchestra playfully builds around a moment from The Cure’s “Close to Me.” My personal favourite, “Jacksonville” sees the crossing of funk with bluegrass and everything in between, while we’re taken past a parade of applauding, flag-waving patriots. “Decatur,” rhyming with “hate her,” tries to make amends with the memory of a stepmother, “Casimir Pulaski Day” deals with the vain attempt of prayer to heal a young girl whose time is running out in her battle with cancer, and the lovely “The Man Of Metropolis Steals Our Hearts” is an intricate ode to Superman that runs away with itself brilliantly. Stealing plenty of attention all for itself, however, is the harrowing “John Wayne Gacy, Jr,” which retraces the origin of the serial killer’s descent, reconstructing somewhat sympathetically the scene of his childhood before climaxing with a particularly powerful yet simple: “Oh my god.”

             “Illinois” is all these things and more; as difficult as it may be to get one’s head around everything that it contains, the sum of its parts flushes out together cohesively and manages to remain surprisingly accessible. While it’s a far cry from the understated, folkish set-up of “Seven Swans,” Stevens has pulled off somewhat of a coup on this release, calling the bluff of all those who have doubted his ability to fulfil that unbelievable 50-album project.

Popularity: 1% [?]

            Having just released an album that fits squarely under the “world music” bracket, it was a little bit of surprise (although perhaps there were the faintest pangs of relief present too, it has to be said) not to see the stage decked out with row upon row of African instruments for the Culture Musical Club of Zanzibar to squeeze behind. Having successfully recorded their journey to trade lines with the East African islanders with “Mkutano,” it’s clear the Taj Mahal Trio were more than content to give the audience what they’re looking for: the chance to see a living blues legend do what he does best. Accordingly, no punches were pulled: it’s standard blues done really, really well.

            While Taj Mahal isn’t going to set the fretboard on fire anytime soon, his ability to precisely pick just the right notes streams out freely in line upon line of clean-sounding guitar, fleshed out by a lively stage presence – a distinct personality that’s nowhere to be found on the aforementioned release. There’s a certain sexual energy swaggering about behind the guitar too; aside from singing longingly of sisters, mamas, aunties, and grandmas, there’s plenty of ass wiggling going on as Mahal’s croaky, Beefheart-like voice dedicates a number to all the “big black mamas in Walkinstown,” proud to shake their big ol’ behind in the vicinity of red-blooded males. Obviously knowing something we don’t about Walkinstown, such Irish namedropping is also plentiful, with “Whiskey in the Jar,” the Chieftains, Taj’s Irish grandmothers, and the opening notes of “Toora, loora, loora” all getting a playful look in.

            Needless to say, although Mahal avoided adhering to requests for “Everybody Is Somebody” and “She Caught the Katy”, the likes of “Gonna Move Up Country (to Paint my Mailbox Blue)” raised whoops and hollers from the very outset, with faint plumes of grass smoke illegaly billowing up from the back seats. However, despite the fact that the 63-year-old veteran shows no sign of slowing down, blues enthusiasts will have noted that the eye-ball rollings and outstretched tongue are a pale remnant of the vibrancy he was once known for during his creative peak. Even still, there were occasional reminders of Mahal’s trademark flair for diversity with a countrified “Fishin’ Blues,” a dip into a Cajun Hank Williams with “My Creole Belle” (for a very brief moment, we were all in New Orleans), a tender “Lovin’ in My Baby’s Eyes” (a definite highlight), and the roots manoeuvre “Zanzibar” – the latter being a disappointing instrumental that rarely deviated from merely floating around the harmonics.

            In the end, some parts certainly worked better than others – namely, the riding blues that require absolutely no pre-knowledge or familiarity from the crowd, but, saying that, when the audience wasn’t being involved with call-and-response opportunities, they often slid into attention deficit mode. These distracted periods of unabashed, open conversation amongst the crowd were arguably a symptom of Taj Mahal’s failure to build on the initial excitement by working the atmosphere up into a frenzy, instead of settling into matters and comfortably running through similar outings. Apart from that relatively minor criticism (and the overly-tight sound of the bass, which would be more suited to Mahal’s world music rather than blues classics), Mahal made an admirable attempt to outline the difference between the hoards of anonymous bluesmen and women that work up a sweat in pubs and clubs around the world on the weekends, and seeing one of the genre’s icons in the flesh, past his prime or not.

Popularity: unranked [?]

           The Evens’ eponymous debut has really been a pleasant surprise; from the opening minute of “Shelter Two,” its brilliant, digging riff uncovering a well of sound that we all thought had dried up ten years ago, the musical taste buds are set alight. It’s re-assuring to know that these kind of riffs are refreshingly plentiful on the album; the fat, gritty sound of MacKaye’s baritone’s guitar spreading out to make things nice and dirty, creating some paradoxically smooth grooves to turn through, and rendering the presence of a bass obsolete.

            ”The Evens” is a new outlet for Fugazi’s Ian MacKaye, shelving his trademark guttural bark and instead distilling the same fiery discontent that drove the post-punk unit into an all-singing male/female guitar/drums outfit. It’s not often that a mogul of hardcore decides to take his deft hand for political commentaries and sit down crossed-legged with his lover to try out a more folksy set-up, creating an end-product that re-crosses the heights once attained by sparse “grunge” song-writing at its cutting best. Fortunately, this mix of punk/folk/grunge/pop works a charm, and ex-Warmers Amy Farina not only brings a smatter of exquisite percussion to the fold, but her soft, silky smooth vocals compliment MacKaye’s previously unheard nasally intonations (though hints of this sound were outlined on the quieter moments of Fugazi’s “The Argument”). When they weaver together, we get moments of flower-power-like bliss (the stretching out of “crude bomb” at the end of said song), and when Farina largely goes it alone, definite highlights are immediately delivered (such as the bouncing “Around The Corner”).

            Indeed, MacKaye is certainly onto a winner with this combination (one that would make Jack White swoon with envy); just listening to the interplay between the guitar rebounding from speaker to speaker while Farina’s drums spill tidily under the duo’s harmony make the few trickles of praise that The Evens have struggled to accumulate since the album’s release seem criminally stingy. Although the lyrics don’t waste time in getting straight to the point, such accessibility is spent almost solely on issuing edgy political content (unsurprising to those familiar with MacKaye) – corrupt politicians, police brutality, legislation, and an onslaught of propaganda all get a look in.

            It’s quite likely that those eagerly awaiting an end to Fugazi’s hiatus will be disappointed that the roaring vocals and full-bodied, amplified thrashing presence of a band are nowhere to be found, but one feels that this album (certainly among Dischord’s best) will work the other way: listeners unfamiliar with Fugazi, Minor Threat, and The Warmers will begin to retread the steps of the pair’s former glories with keen interest.

Artist / Group:
The Evens
Album:
The Evens
Label:
Dischord
Released:
8th March 2005

Popularity: 1% [?]

           I can’t help but picture a really tired Robert Smith when I hear Sam Prekop’s breathy voice, even though I know full-well what the Sea and Cake member looks like. And it should be understandable that such a thing plays on my mind, because those sleepy, just-out-of-bed vocals are the signature of Prekop’s sound, always ensuring that the mood never strays too far from that regulatory sense of a gentle, dreamy haze at every song’s centre. They even manage to consistently steal the attention from Prekop’s other trademark feature: the bossanova-like movements that thread through such reveries. Just listen to the way the opening “Something” is brought together – despite a bongo rhythm that’s left too high in the mix (as are all of Chad Taylor and John McEntire’s percussion on the album), Prekop’s vocals float out effortlessly over a sleight timbre of instrumentation that claws away restlessly.

            You’d be forgiven for thinking that you’re in store for a repeat of this template over and over, but “Magic Step” is the first of a number of instrumental pieces interspersed throughout “Who’s Your Professor,” giving the band (featuring co-Sea and Cake players Archer Prewitt and John McEntire) a chance to shine, racing swiftly through a Latin-infused shake-up. That feel continues into “Dot Eye” as the vocals resume once again, trying to ensure that the melody proves enough change to prevent Prekop’s air from letting things grow stale, the lead guitar still matching every syllable note for note.

            The latter half of “Dot Eye” transforms into an instrumental that works as an admirable venture into Crazy Horse territory, Taylor’s feather-light drums keeping things jazzy before “Two Dedications” arrives with a descending synth sweep in the middle, seeming to retain an effective individuality… until you notice that you’ve already begun to award brownie points for anything that distinguishes the track from its vocalised predecessors. The suspicion that arose earlier regarding template riding may now be gain some credibility here – and deliberately done or not, Prekop’s singing is chiefly responsible.

            ”Chicago People” restores a little faith in matters, offering itself up as a highlight midway through “Who’s Your Professor,” scorning you for even thinking about giving up so early. However, the addition of a wah pedal does little to help the cause on “Little Bridges” and “Density,” and while “A Splendid Hollow” ends as wonderfully as “C + F” begins, Prekop’s voice is once again the reliable culprit, letting things down yet again. Prekop is continuously calm, universally soothing, but samey and underwhelming at the same time – and more’s the pity, as some of these songs have the potential to be truly fine cuts.

            Ultimately, fans of Prekop and the Sea and Cake will most likely find no wrong here, but those troubled by the current of his unremarkable, almost mono-tone voice will feel that “Who’s Your Professor” becomes a case of trying to pick out one standalone track that sums up everything and speaks adequately for its kin. So which is the best song? “Something”? “Chicago People”? “C + F”? “Between Outside”? Truth is, it’s too hard to tell… Short running times and the use of instrumentals to try and cushion things out simply fail to cover up for the effect of a love it or sleep on it voice.

Artist / Group:
Sam Prekop
Album:
Who’s Your New Professor
Label:
Thrill Jockey
Released:
8th March 2005

Popularity: 1% [?]