“Conspiracy” The record does begin with one of the weaker tracks, however. It’s full of energy and impressive vocal work, but it is a far cry from the rest of what’s here. While not bad, it sounds too much like something off of Yes’s Open Your Eyes. The “rapped” chorus gets old fast, and the guitar soloing is uninspired and unnecessarily long.

“Confess” Relying on acoustic guitar and rapid drumming, this song has a good melody and a strong chorus. Strangely enough, this song makes think of Collective Soul, as it’s easy to imagine Ed Roland singing lead vocals.

“New World” Chris Squire delivers powerful bass work on this uplifting track. The vocal arrangements are likewise good, since the listener can hear both Squire and Sherwood individually even though they sing together. The chorus lingers a tad too long, but doesn’t overstay its welcome. The final part of the song, which reminds me of “Leave It” from Yes’s 90125, doesn’t quite fit the rest of the song and should have been cut.

“1/2 A World Away” One of the few Squire sings lead vocals on, it ventures from lovely sentimentality to adventurous rock. Sherwood does an excellent job singing his part also, and the effects used on various parts of the refrain add more variety. The short guitar solo is a perfect fit, and moves back into the verse. This song actually has a special place in my mind since before we were married, my wife and I lived hundreds of miles away (even though the context of the song is likely much different given the bridge).

“There is No End” Kicking off with a funky, Country & Western-like guitar lick and some slide work, here we have a song that’s all right. The lyrics aren’t bad, but are a trifle campy.

“The Wheel” Decidedly the most solid song here, “The Wheel” is full of intriguing layers and musical textures. For once, the band is not playing as though they must get through the piece as soon as possible. The song has atmospheric keyboards and a warbling synthesizer in the introduction. The lyrics and vocal melody are excellent, and Squire does an outstanding job harmonizing. Furthermore, his bass really fills out the sound, making it thick and rich (instead of serving as more of a lead instrument). Sherwood’s guitar work is prime stuff (with a striking tone), particularly that leading up to the end, which comes down to galactic sounds and some clean guitar.

“Premonitions” An above-average track, this one has a funky acoustic guitar riff and some springy clean electric guitar. The vocals throughout the verse are rich and lovely, but the chorus is what makes this song a bit cringe-inducing; quite frankly, it’s goofy sounding, as is much of the instrumentation throughout.

“The Unknown” The longest track by far begins with strange vocal work and a little mandolin played over some guitar in the background. Initially, the singing is over acoustic guitar, drums, and various sounds. Joining the mandolin is a sitar, adding to the musical tapestry. Yes, the song is over eleven minutes long, but it’s loaded with lyrics, lyrics about the September 11th, 2001 US terrorist attacks: “Towers of life and dreams brought down.” The words undeniably show a strong feeling of vengeance, one perhaps even espousing the 2003 declaration of war in the Middle East (“Waking giant cannot be denied,” “You can run away, but now we’ve got you dead in our sights,” and “We’re bringing our toys, coming over to play”). The song is also above-average, but does run on much longer than it should.

“I Could” This song is an edgier and altogether different version of “Finally” from Yes’s The Ladder, which Sherwood and Squire both collaborated on. It starts off with a heavily distorted guitar, and like most of what came before, is played at an upbeat tempo. Sherwood uses another countrified guitar tone for his solos between verses. Not as good as or as colorful as “Finally,” but not at all bad either.

by Epignosis


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Upon first hearing the album, I was positively dazzled by Gobbledigook's quirky, slightly Animal Collective-esque rhythms and vocals. This was something entirely new for the icy chaps. A decidedly accessible pop song with clever structure. While fans of traditional Sigur Rós might be put off by its lack of overt sentimentalism, I maintain that it is their best work since Ágætis byrjun. Sadly, it's all downhill from there. Inní mér syngur vitleysingur stays within the pop-mold with good results - gone is the element of surprise though, we're back to more familiar soundscapes. What we do have, is a cheerful, well-written SR song, somewhat akin to Hoppípolla from Takk...

After that, it seems their will to experiment vanished, and they happily tread the oh-so-familiar grounds for the rest of the album. Slow, ambient-esque ballads with Jonsi's sleepy vocals, beautifully arranged strings & horns, some tasteful piano-pickings here and there - you know the drill... While there might not be anything particularly terrible about that (Sigur Rós certainly know their craft, the compositions are generally of acceptable quality) I have this weird tingling on my back that something is off here. For the first time in their respectable career, they sound just a 'tiny' bit insincere, in my opinion. The compositions are all a bit too obvious, designed to make you wallow in your misery. They only use chords they know to be effective - you'd be hard-pressed to find anything that doesn't fit into this equation.

Admittedly, when under right circumstances, they can be ridiculously soothing. Yet, most of the time I'm left cold, wondering where the passion went, wondering why Sigur Rós have opted to take the safe path home, reducing Með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust to a vaguely pleasant nostalgia trip.

by Jimbo


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WILD BEASTS
Limbo, Panto
(Domino)

By Todd Lavoie

I find myself flirting with hyperbole when I ponder the preening, careening chaos that is Limbo, Panto, the debut from Leeds, England's elegantly lurid Wild Beasts - and I fear I may give in.

Hearing the disc for the first time was a bit of a blindsiding experience, and successive listens have confirmed for me what I'd felt on that initial spin: these guys are clearly out on their own, hurling every idea in their lusty little hearts up against the wall, eager to see which ones stick. Mercifully, nearly every one of the quartet's fits of whimsy does stick - many of them, in fact, do so with spectacular results.

The oh-so-young band members - 21 is the median age - arrive fresh-faced but fully confident in their abilities, willfully weird and defiant of current musical trends and ready for a cult of devotees to wrap tightly around them, clinging to every word. Have I succumbed to hyperbole yet? Not quite, I suppose, but they aren't making it easy for me, either.

Regarding the ready-for-a-cult-following thing: I'm dead serious. Limbo, Panto is a bewitching and bizarre opening statement, gushing freely in a tongue of its own design, thus offering plenty of wiggle-room for multiple interpretations. Archaic colloquialisms, curious turns of phrase, and troubling metaphors abound - lovers of wordplay should rejoice, to be sure. In this sense, there's a touch of a linguistic kinship with another band of iconoclasts originally hailing from the same English Lake District village of Kendal as this fearsome, frolicsome foursome: the equally eccentric British Sea Power.

Then there's the manner in which Wild Beasts' dictionary-breaking rush of ideas is conveyed: time-signature changes sprout forth at the most unexpected moments, traditional verse/chorus/verse arrangements receive considerable tweaking, and the proceedings generally remain tantalizingly oblique even after repeated listens. No jukebox anthems here, but the band suffuses their oddball-pop with such power that it isn't too far-fetched to imagine these whirling, prancing slugfests as fist-pumpers in a decidedly more fey universe.

The focal point of their lean, jittery vibrations is one Hayden Thorpe, a vocalist with an astonishing range matched perhaps only by the defiance with which he delivers such operatics. Blessed with a falsetto comparable at times to that of Jimmy Somerville (of Bronski Beat and Communards fame, before taking his turn as a solo diva), Billy Mackenzie (the Associates), or early-career Russell Mael (Sparks), Thorpe can also just as easily slip into a velvety croon (echoes of Antony Hegarty from Antony and the Johnsons) or a rabid growl (insert foamy-mouthed mammal of choice here).

In many cases, such oscillations occur within the same line of the song. Occasionally, the sliding-and-diving appears to take place within the same note. The ins-and-outs of sexual orientation seem to be given be a good 'n' hard blurring-over as well: much of Limbo, Panto could be read with a gay-male sensitivity, but there are enough hetero-spirited lyrics found here to counter otherwise.

Ultimately, who cares? The disc, after all, celebrates sonic-exploration with enviable vim and vigor - perhaps it's fair to say that Wild Beasts could be serving up the same enthusiasm in regards to matters of the bedroom? Thinking long and hard over the history of British pop - a strain which has displayed a considerably greater level of comfort with matters of gender/sexual fluidity over the years than its American counterpart - I am reminded of an another startling, leave-the-questions-unanswered debut, albeit from many years ago. The album in question? Suede's self-titled Nude/Columbia debut, released in 1993. Wild Beasts might not be approaching similar subject matter with the same glam theatrics as Suede did back in the day, but they could very well be the most exciting voice since then to pick up the thread of conversation.

That said, it's hardly an understatement to claim that Wild Beasts are daring, divisive stuff: listeners are likely to either "get it" on the first few listens or abandon it entirely. This is a group, after all, which might dabble occasionally in camp, but never revels in it - and as much as they might strut out their radiant plumage and delicate features, I don't doubt for a minute that they couldn't spar with the best of 'em.

Morrissey would be proud: at the core of Limbo, Panto is a pugilist's heart, and it pounds away with discernible I-dare-ya throughout the disc. It is this juxtaposition of hard-and-soft which will likely confuse many. Glam might still remain our closest common antecedent for such striking contrasts, but there isn't a great deal here which could be described as glam music.

More often than not, Thorpe delivers frothing operatics over nervy, angular guitar-driven atmospheres that appear equally indebted to funk, disco, circus tunes, and '80s indie-pop. The foursome named themselves after the Fauvist art movement, after all - "Les Fauves" is French for "Wild Beasts" - and thus they pay homage to artists such as Henri Matisse and Andre Derain with their bold strokes and bursting colors.

Musically speaking, to find the most likely touchstones, you'll probably have to head as far back as the Reagan/Thatcher era - specifically, to the skewed disco-not-disco flamboyance of Mackenzie's Associates and the taut white-boy jitter-funk of Orange Juice. Throw in a gladiola-gilded sprinkle of the Smith's self-titled Rough Trade/Sire Records debut, while you're at it. Close your eyes, and you might even convince yourself that the '90s and '00s never happened.

Disc opener "Vigil for a Fuddy Duddy" is a statement of purpose/make-it-or-break-it/love-us-or-leave-us/you-name-it moment: starting off innocently enough with a slow-rolling martial rhythm, the track only takes eight seconds to announce the band's singularity, arriving in the form of a swooping multi-octave caterwaul from Thorpe. From there, the song manages to simultaneously stalk and soar; for every jungle-crawl exerted by drummer Chris Talbot and bassist Tom Fleming, Thorpe glides above it all with gorgeous flights of falsetto. Guitarist Benny Little provides the eloquent voice of the push-and-pull between the earthbound and the heaven-seeking, offering up nimble switch-offs between Afropop-recalling textures and rippling atmospherics.

And then there are the lyrics, tauntingly obtuse and groaned, howled, and battled out in equal measures: "Hug it to me, and the rubber raspberries/With wantingly wet mouth I suck…remind me of your gentle fuck." The printed page or computer screen hardly does them the justice served by Thorpe's confrontationally carnal vocal abandon.

The hints of sunny Afropop alluded to on "Vigil" are treated to a finer spotlight on the borderline-romantic "The Devil's Crayon," wherein perky summer-afternoon guitar funk is helped along by a thumping tribal-drum roll. Here, Fleming shows off his own suave, silky croon - a seductive instrument in its own right - only to be joined by Thorpe's unbridled yelp. It's an electrifying contrast - and hopefully one which the band will explore further in the future. "Woebegone Wanderers" slides deftly between rubbery-bass, nylon-string guitar disco - and here the Billy Mackenzie-meets-Orange Juice description feels particularly apt - and delirious circus oompah wobbles.

For all of the emphasis being given here and elsewhere in the press for Thorpe's vocal acrobatics, immeasurable praise must be given to his bandmates, for the agility with which they can switch from "Heart of Glass"-isms to carny-sounds is largely what keeps such daring enterprises from falling apart in the first place. Still, who could possibly overlook the riveting emptying of Thorpe's vocal trick bag on the song, particularly as he throws himself full-bodied into the following? "A slap on the arse from my baby/The hiss and the sting/and the mark of a ring/And the cold reality."

Check out the video for "The Devil's Crayon":

"The Old Dog" - with its too-perfect piano-and-handclaps breakdowns - offers Wild Beasts in one of their more comparably sedate moments, and there are a few guitar passages contained within which wouldn't feel at all out of place on the Smiths' eponymous debut. Lyrically sparse, the song does still manage to squeeze in a few infinitely quotable little pearls, one of which seems readymade for sloganeering from the fanboys and fangirls: "Darling I regret/there's life in the old dog yet." "Please, Sir" makes a twirling, pirouetting foray into Persuaders/Platters-styled soda-fountain melodrama - delivered, of course, in snarling, strutting fist-raised rock-opera vocal dramatics, and with lyrical content distanced about as far from the innocent 1950s as possible. Sample? "Please, Sir, let me return/if only for a term (How I yearn)/It's glee, Sir, with your hot breath upon me."

Wild Beasts' most ornately bedazzled double-platform arrives near the end of the disc; "She Purred, While I Grred" slaps itself silly with stop-on-a-dime switches from cowbell-clanging falsetto preens to nasty growling grinding rhythms. Meanwhile, Thorpe's libido is given a serious vocal let-go: "My fruit was ripe, she bit/My fruit was ripe, she bit/Huffing and puffing on the mattress stuffing/Upon the bunk a fervent funk." There's a Dr. Seuss aspect to the words on the page, but Thorpe yelps, coos, and roars considerable meaning into the rhymes.

Just in case you're looking for another tongue-twister, however: "Brave Bulging Buoyant Clairvoyants" peppers each and every syllable of the lip-tripping titular phrase with woodblock-clopping nerd-boy funk, ringing guitar textures, and one of the most rapturously unbridled falsetto tendrils since Tiny Tim. Thorpe - as expected - packs several literature degrees' worth of wordplay within the song's sweat-stained gallop, but ah the chorus! I may have to break my personal no-hyperbole edict, after all.

Here's the video for say-it-three-times-fast "Brave Bulging Buoyant Clairvoyants." Check out Thorpe's serious rocking of the Midge Ure moustache:

You're gonna be stuffed, you're going to be stressed, you're going to be tired of watching football... Then, you'll want to go out - and be among kindred spirits fleeing family and taking refuge in solid sounds.

LYRICS BORN
You like him, you love him. The Bay MC ushers in the holidaze. With Raashan Ahmad and Mavrik. Wed/26, 9 p.m., $25. Independent, 628 Divisadero, SF. (415) 771-1422.

SISTERS OF MERCY
The band that launched a jillion black dye jobs hasn't released new material since 1993. Wed/26, 8 p.m., $35. Warfield, 982 Market, SF. (415) 421-8497.

WALLPAPER
The East Bay bedroom popper proves grainy homemade music videos rule. Here he performs at the first Thanksgiving Orphans Ball. With Lovemakers and Hottub. Wed/26, 9 p.m., $10. Mezzanine, 444 Jessie, SF. (415) 820-9669.

M83
Saturdays = Youth - for reals? The Antibes, France, group took a decidedly synth-poppier turn with this year's Mute recording. Fri/28, 9 p.m., $21.50. Fillmore, 1805 Geary, SF. (415) 346-6000.

New nests: Finches' "The House Under the Hill."

PALMS
The former Finches singer-songwriter Carolyn Pennypacker cultivates a new project. With Skygreen Leopards and Dame Satan. Sat/29, 9:30 p.m., $10. Cafe du Nord, 2170 Market St., SF. (415) 861-5016.

THE HERBALISER
London's Jake Wherry and Ollie Teeba return to SF for the second time this year to do up Same as It Never Was (!K7) right - with a full band. With DJ Shortkut. Sun/30, 9 p.m., $15. Independent, 628 Divisadero, SF. (415) 771-1422.

Legendary New York band Boss Hog will be returning to the New York stage, at the Bowery Ballroom on Wednesday, December 17, 2008, headlining an incendiary evening of outrageously perverse rock’n'roll, degenerate burlesque, and chasm-like grooves.

Led by the wildly sexy and completely unpredictable punk chanteuse Cristina Martinez and her blues-exploding husband Jon Spencer, this will mark Boss Hog’s first hometown show since 2000.

Boss Hog’s 1989 debut as a last-minute fill in at CBGBs saw the beginning of a rotating line-up featuring members of New York’s noisiest gentry, Pussy Galore, the Honeymoon Killers, and the Unsane, before finally evolving into the classic team of Cristina Martinez, Jon Spencer, Hollis Queens, Jens Jurgensen, and Mark Boyce for the decidedly slinkier Boss Hog. The entire entourage will be on hand for this powerhouse return.

Over the years they have shocked and amazed with their sui generis cocktail of sugar-coated hooks and poisonous riffs, deliriously seductive stage show, and subversive, sweaty rhythms. For their newest salvo they will be drawing on their entire legacy.

Explaining their eight-year hiatus, Cristina says, “It’s been two torturous terms of Republican disease and culture death. Now that we’re free, it’s the perfect time for us to bring back our own brand of sick in celebration.”

Adds her live-in guitarist, Jon Spencer, “This whole ‘change’ thing isn’t new… Boss Hog represented change with every album we made!”

Joining Boss Hog at the Bowery Ballroom is a full compliment of rhythm and grind, featuring the country punk moxie of Tennessee’s Those Darlins, the titillating parade of burlesque goddesses Harvest Moon and Dirty Martini, and special guest DJ Nick Zinner of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.

Sponsered by the fabulous BUST magazine.

Boss Hog on Wikipedia