This is the first installment of the 2006 Shmoo Poll Results which will run from today through Sunday. This time, there was a
three-way tie for #19 so there is no #20 (or #21 for that matter).
Thanks to everyone who contributed blurbs for these albums.
19a. Silversun Pickups - Carnavas
FT:
Outside of The Cranberries (merely typing their name is instantaneously sending my brain into "ZO-OM-BIE-IE-IE-IE"-induced convulsions), there probably wasn't a single "alternative" band I enjoyed less back in the '90s than Smashing Pumpkins. So, when word began circulating about a band called Silversun Pickups sounding like the second coming of Corgan and Co., I was overcome with disinterest. In fact, I probably would have been more open to the resurrection of Jesus Jones. In my book, "Disarm" is infinitely more deserving of crucifixion than "Right Here Right Now," which is really worthy of nothing more than a public stoning. But finally, after enough people whose opinions I respect raved about them (and having my interest piqued by being under the mistaken impression that their album was named after Chipotle's pork-stuffed burrito), I decided to give
Carnavas a chance . And though I could definitely hear the Smashing Pumpkins similarities, I realized my beef had been almost exclusively with Corgan's shrill whiney voice. This is what Smashing Pumpkins would sound like with a decent singer. This is a more melodic brand of noise rock.
tentoze:
I’ll start out with a disclaimer here- this one falls into my “Never Heard Before” category. The following should be considered an initial impression only, and not any kind of in-depth review born of repeated listens.
1) Melatonin- Fuzzy, semi-grungy guitar riffs and fairly one- dimensional vocals. Not getting a good feeling here.
2) Well Thought Out Twinkle- By the 2 minute mark in cut 2, I’m convinced that the lead singer’s balls haven’t dropped yet.
3) Checkered Floor- Droning, but a bit better than the first 2 tracks.
4) Little Lovers so Polite- It’s all starting to sound the same. The music tries to drag the vocals along faster than they’re willing to travel.
5) Future Foe Scenarios- By now, I’m desperately wanting someone to smash the fuzzbox.
6) Waste It On- O dear.
7) Lazy Eye- At around the mid-point of this 7:27 minute cut, demons are unleashed. By the 6 minute mark, I’m praying for death.
8) Rusted Wheel- apt description.
9) Dream At Tempo 119- disintegrates at about 3minutes in, but inexplicably goes on for another 2 minutes.
10) Three Seed- 4 too many.
11) Common Reactor- Singer needs to learn rudimentary breath control. The ending sounds like a minute’s worth of unused sound effects from a bad war movie.
For me, the songs are all at least 2 minutes longer than they have any need to be, are lyrically uninteresting, and there’s a general lack of focus in any of it.
Obviously, this one must have garnered enough votes to make the final cut, so I hope no one is too offended by my impressions, but this isn’t anywhere close to the style of music I normally listen to, and it gives me no burning desire to explore further. Maybe if I was 30 years younger, it would have more appeal.
19b. The Format - Dog Problems
paladisiac:
I remember seeing Wilco at Summerfest in 2003, gazing from the outskirts of the crowd with my fiancée and good friend beside me, catching part of the performance from a nearby ferris wheel, wrapped in a cool breeze and serene, dark sky, laid back but having a blast.
This is how I feel when listening to The Format’s “Dog Problems”. Replace “Wilco” with “Says Pop”-era Roman Candle and you’ve trapped cotton candy in a bottle ruminating on friends, relationships and life in general in between spurts on your favorite carnival ride. The keyboard intro to the brief “Matches” beckons all who listen to enter. Nate Ruess then wants to “take the next hour to talk about me” on “I’m actual” where you can feel the gate opening and the hot dogs heating up. He seems tentative to enter, but ends in a flourish to “talk about me” in a scene conjuring holding hands with mary poppins and penguins on entering. “Time Bomb” already has him asking “was it worth it?” Starting over, he’s ready to “sleep with the first person” he meets in one of the most catchy numbers “tick tock”ing down the fun. Fully-charged, he observes his chick “doesn’t get it” wanting to take her home after the festivities have concluded. The rest of the album marches along the concession stands and water-pistol games of life – dig the playful horns on the momentum-building title track, the hope for happiness on “oceans”, the breezy simplistic envy of “snails”. By the time they reach “the compromise” he wants to meet his absent lover the next morning and enjoy life all over again professing “he loves being in love” in “inches and falling” returning to the fair “if work permits”, rocking out the album’s experience. Lazy summer days never felt better.
Sleepytime Tea:
This album has nothing to do with dogs or their problems. Nearest I can tell, there isn't mention of dogs anywhere. It's poppy, and happy, and while I can't deny some of the tunes they come up with, the layers of frosting applied here just sort of deliver a really, really clean vanilla cake. There's all sorts of instrumentation here (I think I heard a harpsichord in there, and violins), and it sounds lovely in spots. But it just sounds so damned chipper.
And this is a breakup album! Are you fucking kidding me? Did he break up with a goddamned Oompa Loompa? Breakups are supposed to be devastating. Breakup albums are supposed to be raw nerve endings and desperation. I mean look what one did to Beck, and normally you can’t get that guy out of his Prince pants. This sounds like something white people listen to on their way to pick up frozen yogurt. Actually, this album should be called "mini-golf and frozen yogurt". It’s probably not fair that I review this, though, considering how much all pop sounds the same to me. I actually had to check twice in my first listen to make sure that these guys aren’t from Sweden. I got all excited just to head a fuzzy-toned guitar, but then they started in with the backing vocals and I gave up.
It just dawned on me that I got this far without mentioning at all how the album sounds, so I should clear that up: Elton John, raping the Apples in Stereo in the musical instrument department of a Sears. That makes a much better review anyway.
19c. The Thermals - The Body, the Blood, the Machine
BIG DICK McGEE:
Maybe a basic familiarity with Christian scripture would offer some more insight into the inspiration behind “The Body, The Blood, The Machine” — the third batch of fitful fuzz and fuss from Portland’s The Thermals — but even as a total heathen I think I get the picture. It’s right there on the album cover; a blinded Jesus opening his arms to an Earth dwarfed by a junkyard with lots of TV sets, aka the altars of secular society. Then there’s the lyrics: God bleeding on the land and bringing a flood to Noah; Jesus getting mankind out of spiritual hock; locusts, tornadoes and Nazi halos. And that’s just the first three minutes.
So have The Thermals gotten religion? Not exactly, but the trio is clearly (to quote “Pulp Fiction”’s possibly soulless Marcellus Wallace) “contemplating the ifs.” What if we can’t turn the yoke hard enough to the left (we presume) and keep society from collectively crashing into the mountain? What if we’ve really got to pay for all this? And — in a blast of temerity — what if all this worry is needless and the result of some grand ruse?
Solemn questions all. And as would be the case of any bunch still sniffing 30, the only reasonable answer is to summon the joyous noise of the holy trinity of electric guitar, bass and drums. Ditching the holy artifice for a second to focus on sonics, “The Body...” is the fullest and most hefty The Thermals have ever sounded. Not bloated or grandiose, just that everything’s turned up and buffed out just the way it should be. It’s there in the thunderous drum opening of “An Ear For Baby,” and the jangly effected guitar of “St. Rosa And The Swallows.” And it’s all there on the absolutely perfect “Pillar of Salt,” a bounding tale of a couple outrunning their carnal nature while hoping, of course, that Jesus really does save.
Sketch:
Before first listen, the Thermals'
The Body, The Blood, The Machine emits a punk vibe solely on its political name and DIY (and even more political) album cover. While the punk influence is strong on the Portland group's third offering, the total package comes out a bit more polished. One senses an ambition to create the quintessential indie power-pop record: dorkier than Franz Intermonkeys but slightly cooler than Pavement, more accessible than Built to Spill but not as saccharine as the Elephant 6 crew (or even Guided by Voices). It's a balance many bands achieve on the occasional track, but maintaining it through the course of an entire LP is a huge challenge.
Body/Blood/Machine may not meet said aspirations, but it still has a lot of appeal. Hutch Harris' vocals evoke Ted Leo's style and urgency, especially in minor-key romps "Here's Your Future" and "Power Doesn't Run on Nothing." The other tracks' upbeat power-chord progressions lighten the overly serious lyrics. Some song transitions give a nod to shoegaze by adding feedback or a delay-loop. While the Thermals haven't totally abandoned their lo-fi ethos, this album reflects a sense of maturity, especially compared to snippets from their prior records. That sense of growth alone shows a lot of promise for their next release.
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