Architecture in Helsinki: Rebuilding the 80s

Review from College Times.

The way you feel about the current influx of ‘80s synth-pop sounds into the indie enclave likely depends on the way you felt about the music back then, assuming you were around. If you think the righteous fire of punk rock guitar was watered down and/or forever doused by effete electronic noodling, you probably curse the day rakish indie rock types stumbled on the Moog mother lode. If you feel a New Wave of warm nostalgia when you hear Human League on your local “we play what we want, or at least that’s what the company tells us to say” radio station, you’re probably glad a new generation of bands is enthusiastically experimenting with keyboards like giddy 14-year-olds discovering heavy petting. If it’s all relatively new to you, then maybe you’re somewhat torn about accepting the synth-tastic nature of it all. Me, I’m in touch with my inner Alphaville. I’ve always loved synth-pop, allowing for the fact that the really good stuff is heavily outnumbered by the crap, but isn’t that the case for just about any genre?

So it’s mostly fun to hear a group like Architecture in Helsinki (http://www.architectureinhelsinki.com). They may not be Finnish, but they have spent years building musical structures from ‘80s pop blueprints. Hailing from the suburbs of Melbourne in decidedly non-Fin Australia, the five-piece has cut the ribbon on their fourth full-length album, “Moment Bends,” and it’s a more sophisticated and streamlined step in construction of their musical identity, with New Wave moving even more to the forefront and indie taking its place in the back seat. Judging from some photos on their website, there’s also some kind of a Lindsey Buckingham fixation, though his type of dark romanticism seems in short supply.

The first single, “Contact High,” opens with a syncopated electronic sound reminiscent of Depeche Mode. If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, then DM should be very flattered by what AIH is doing. A Prince-like falsetto from vocalist Cameron Byrd chimes in, offering a fresh spin on the synth recipe. The tune floats along on a percolating rhythm, with generous strains of ABC, OMD, Thompson Twins and other ‘80s synth-pop outfits. In fact, Byrd even looks a bit like Twins frontman Tom Bailey, but with a less sculptured hairdo. It’s an extremely catchy bit of decadent fluff.

Like any band worth its digital salt, Architecture in Helsinki is big on visuals and “Contact High” is accompanied by a video (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IxjcszKEcHE) with a modern, sleek, overly clean Hi-Def feel. Set in an apartment that looks like it was furnished at an IKEA white sale, the clips focuses on an apparently uptight but androgynous-looking businessman – really more like a jeans model who scored an Armani gig. Mr. Good Cheekbones is slowly seduced by arms and legs that ooze forth from chairs, walls and floors to massage and probe him, with plenty of billowing dry ice for atmosphere. Meanwhile, the band members gaze down from a wall hanging, looking like a group of disheveled hospital orderlies moonlighting as members of the Talking Heads (with one mountain man beard, of course, ‘cause this is 2011 after all).

Other tracks on “Moment Bends” follow similar musical paths, but the work of co-lead vocalist Kellie Sutherland offers a nice counterpoint to Byrd. “W.O.W.” opens with a simple spiraling keyboard line and offers the kind of swoony synth-ballad dreamscape that made many a new romantic’s heart go a-flutter. Sutherland’s vocals lack the kind of soulful grit supplied by such synth-pop sirens as Annie Lennox or Alison Moyet. She’s in the more ethereal and girlishly angelic camp a la Kylie Minogue or Sarah Cracknell of St. Etienne. On the rolling “That Beep,” Sutherland’s singing angles toward Kim Wilde tough-girl territory but only partially compensate for a too-cute chorus and somewhat by-the-book construction. The song’s video (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hmieVoMeqZM&playnext=1&list=PL4AA9D8BC2FBC8567) is a colorfully offbeat attempt to transport Blue Man Group imagery to a Roman after-hours gathering with mixed results.  “Escapee” churns forward via funky guitar jangle and pumping keyboards balanced with exuberant synthesizer washes.

Overall, it’s bouncy, quirky, fast food pop that wears its influences and (sometimes superficial) emotions on its sleeve and never strays far from matters of the flesh. If some 21^st century John Hughes is looking to remake “Pretty in Pink,” I think we’ve found the right band for the soundtrack.

As for why such a Scandinavian-sounding name for an Aussie group, bassist Sam Perry once explained, “To us, the name means having to answer many questions and inquiries about the name, which is entirely understandable.” Thanks for the insight. We could just blame it on global warming and leave it at that. Still, in the wake of Architecture in Helsinki, one has to wonder what the ‘80s revival will bring us next: Social Studies in Stockholm? Antiquing in Oslo? Osama Bin Laden Asleep in Copenhagen? It’s a heavy burden to bear, even with padded shoulders.

 

ENO gets his "Glitch" on

Have you heard the news? They’re eatin' good in Mr. Eno's neighborhood! Brian Eno, the avant-garde's best known former glam-rocker / ambient musician / producer to the stars / random philosopher / sound sculptor / sexologist / video auteur / man who cured polio (I'm not sure about that last one), has a new album on the way.

Due on the Fourth of July (which apparently they don't bother to celebrate in the U.K.), "Drums Between the Bells" is a collaboration with poet Rick Holland, who's been among Eno's stable of co-conspirators since 2003. Based on the first available track, "Glitch," it will be another solid entry in Eno's crazily diverse artistic canon.

Brian Eno - "Glitch" audio

"Glitch" begins with a rubbery, pulsating electronic rhythm and clicking tribal percussion. Then a very Kraftwerk-like man/machine voice begins reciting some of Holland's digital non sequitur verse.  Like any good humanoid, the voice has a vaguely indefinable hybrid accent, somewhere between Udo Kier and one of those James Bond Euro-trash evil genius super villains. Just past the halfway mark, some wailing, heavily treated keyboards kick their jagged way in, adding an even greater sense of bit-rate overload urgency, until the whole thing zaps to an abrupt close.

If you want to spend time dissecting lines like "There is a glitch in the system, outside the brain flow" and "Death is not the end, it’s a place to search through night with," be my guest. I prefer to just lose myself in the arty, edgy Eno-ness of it all.

The cover image, apparently Eno's own creation, resembles a full color Spin-Art version of a hard drive soundboard, if the palette moved up and down rather than in a circle. Or maybe the computer's face is just melting. Either way, I've got an itch for "Glitch" and Eno is my back scratcher.

Green Lady Killers: Danger and Deliciousness

"Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just glad to see us?"

Let’s hear it for blood ‘n guts ‘n beauty ‘n brains ‘n beer ‘n bangs! There’s nothing like the sight, sound and (dare we say it) smell of rock chicks dressed in form-fitting black in 100-degree heat to get sweat pouring and hormones racing, not necessarily in that order.  The Green Lady Killers, a female punk/psychobilly power trio from the sun-baked environs of Phoenix, come on like the stars of a high-def camcorder update of “Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!” Their mix of Runaways attitude, Cramps horror-Goth fashion ethos and metallic punk riffs equal three chords and a cloud of tail pipe exhaust. Singer/guitarist Lady Van Buren is a hellacious frontwoman, with fire-breathing, no-nonsense vocals and more than a touch of menace behind that dark eye shadow, combined with some gut-punching garage rock riffage. Bassist/vocalist Annie Venom ably sports an “I Love Zombies” sticker on her axe that suggests she’d probably bring an Uzi to a knife fight; and drummer Cherrybomb manages a propulsive backbeat while wearing stiletto leopard skin heels, no mean trick.

The Green Lady Killers debuted with a self-titled EP in 2007 that included their calling card, "Psycho Ellen," a frenzied rocker in the finest crazy-bitch-from-hell tradition (“something’s wrong with her brain”) featuring a short but satisfyingly spastic and yes, psycho, guitar solo. That was followed in 2009 with their debut album, “Just Fine,” also released on the Rusty Knuckles label. They offer plenty of three-minute blasts of loud, fast, dangerous, sexy fun and games. “Snake Eyes” features a slinky and cool come-hither growl, backed with churning guitars and power riffs. “Whips Chains” is a leather come-on that asserts “you need it more than you know.” “Dance Floor” combines GLK’s signature sounds with catchy pop elements in a dialed-down fashion that demonstrates the ability to avoid pigeonholing (okay, maybe more like raven-holing in their case).

The video for “My .45” is a slick-yet-dusty showcase for GLK’s talents. The no-nonsense playing and dangerous goings-on deliver the oh-so-tender message “don’t mess with us or you’ll wind up dead in the desert.” Speaking of forty-fives, the gals in Green Lady Killers seem to have a real fascination with weaponry, posing with various gats and guns in their publicity photos. Maybe they’re just looking for men with real…um…firepower. Either way, we wouldn’t suggest challenging them to any duels. Not with a group whose DNA samples probably spell out “Take No Prisoners.”

PJ Harvey - Shake it Up, England, Twist and Shoot

A girl and her zither

Hell yes, war is hell. Polly Jean Harvey knows it, and has produced a bitter bone that Great Britain’s military bulldog might just choke out, mushy dentures and all. PJ Harvey’s new album, “Let England Shake,” is a mournful, haunting song cycle about the futility of war that’s downright startling in its emotional resonance and hypnotic in its high-end tune-age. Like a Londoner reading the Daily Telegraph’s weather page, the songs battle against dreary, spirit-crushing conditions in hopes of achieving a meaningful life, or a couple pints down at the pub, whichever comes first. 

Referencing any number of English military campaigns but maintaining a very World War I in-the-trenches feel, the album’s war poetry always circles back to a central theme: the wasteful sacrifice of young lives and its effect on a nation with an upper lip stiffer than schoolboys ogling Page Three girls. If titles like “The Words that Maketh Murder,” “The Last Living Rose” and “The Bitter Branches” don’t paint a mental picture, lyrics like “arms and legs were in the trees” and “death was everywhere” bring the blood, despair, mud and grime home, most likely in a body bag.

But by no means is “Let England Shake” a soundtrack for some thrash-metal video game kill factory. It’s an acoustic-based collection of memorable, subtle and oddly-inspiring-in-a-melancholy-way mood pieces that stick in your gut like yesterday’s eel pie. Harvey is in amazing voice throughout, whether she’s making like a cabaret pop chanteuse on the title track/first single, combing briny sea shanty and speaking-in-tongues babbling (“England”) or residing in a folk ballad echo chamber (“On Battleship Hill”). Harvey is backed by strummed acoustic guitars and muted horns, accenting by the occasional vibraphone, reserved electric guitar distortion or, in the case of “The Glorious Land,” a bugle charge. Tally-ho and let’s take one in the forehead for the Queen!

If there was any justice in the world and true artistry was rewarded (no, “Glee” doesn’t count), Ms. Harvey would be the biggest British export since low-cost pharmaceuticals. But at least we can say this: Polly Jean, you’ve done it again. 

Saint Motel: Concierge is King

Four guys with mustaches walk into a bar...

To paraphrase the late Frank Zappa, progressive rock is not dead, it just smells funny. No particular reason to get it out of mothballs, either, unless you have a hankering for a Bill Bruford drum solo. Who? Exactly. Still, it’s fun to hear a band not afraid to channel its inner Ambrosia from time to time, and such is the case with the adventurous indie power-pop outfit Saint Motel. One of the hotter tickets on the sizzling platter that is L.A. indie rock these days, the foursome of singer/guitarist A/J Jackson, lead guitarist Aaron Sharp, bassist Dak (just Dak, you know, like Cher) and drummer Greg Erwin offer a guitar-heavy, mini-operatic attack like Queen fronted by the man-love child of Rivers Cuomo and Brandon Flowers.

Their new single, “Puzzle Pieces,” begins with a bouncy piano figure and segues into exuberant indie rock with glam flourishes and Franz Ferdinand influence. Along the way there’s a pulsating guitar undercurrent, a wash of electronics and a soaring, slightly off-kilter chorus featuring a sing-along “Fuh-fuh-face of puzzle pieces” refrain. It’s an approach that’s crisp, humorous and, at least in this case, somewhat wholesome. Finally, a band that goes well with whiskey AND low-fat milk!

The guys in Saint Motel met in film school and that cinematic flair is apparent in every twist and turn of their musical merry-go-round. Their six-song debut EP, “ForePlay,” also contains imaginative and slickly produced videos for each song that showcase an OK Go-like whimsy, though with less choreography (and for just $5, the EP is a real bargain in this recession that’s over but really isn’t). In the clip for “Butch,” the band members spring to life out of a school yearbook and Polaroid picture, like “Buddy Holly” holograms from a post-modern indie-preppy almanac.

Saint Motel’s visual and theatrical tendencies extend to their live shows, which have drawn rave reviews from people whose reviews read like raves. The band tends toward the “event” motif, having staged concerts which monikers such as “The Kaleidoscopic Mind Explosion in 3D” and “Make Contact,” and annually hosts a Valentine’s Zombie Prom. Nobody in the audience throws toast at them just yet, but the night is young.

Still, it’s the music that grabs your attention. Jackson owns an expressive modern rock croon that can and often does slip into a pleasant falsetto (not a dry seat in the house), and secret weapon Sharp’s guitar playing offers all manner of sonic rave-up and whiplash roar. With “Puzzle Pieces” racking up impressive download numbers and airplay on a World Famous radio station or two, Saint Motel might soon be upgraded to four-star status.

Lykke Li - What Rhymes with 'Wound'?

Just a couple of cymbals from a one-woman band

In the world of Swedish music vehicles, ABBA would be like a Volvo: steady and solid, yet luxurious, a name brand that states, “Show me your extended service and I’ll show you my drive shaft.” Robyn and Ace of Bass are more like a Saab: youthful and sporty, made for androgynous close-cropped hair that can survive a good wind-whipping.  Then there’s The Hives and Soundtrack of Our Lives, the rock equivalent of muscular models like Koenigsegg and Jösse Car. So what to make of Lykke Li, the otherworldly electro-indie muse who just released her second full-length album, “Wounded Rhymes”? Maybe more like GOX Teknik, a high-performance kit car replica, with a touch of oddball industrial development and just a hint of Teen Spirit. 

Again produced by Björn Yttling of fellow Swedes Peter, Björn and John, “Wounded Rhymes” retains Li’s skewed pop leanings but slinks into darker territory, a place she calls "hypnotic, psychotic and more primal" (ma, I think I’ve found the girl I want to marry!) For writing and recording purposes, she fled the gloomy confines of Stockholm and relocated to one of the few places that rival Sweden in existential psychological mind-warping. Yes, Los Angeles. Darkness, light and “CSI”-meets-the Black Dahlia dread – it’s all there on the new disc, as is Li’s uniquely displaced Scandi-Goth sensibility. Remember, this is a gal who spent ages six to 11 living on a mountaintop in Portugal.  She literally had her head in the clouds, and the skies were probably threatening.

Tribal percussion resonates throughout, especially on tracks like “Get Some,” in which Li sings like a gene-splice hybrid of Bjork, Shakira, Tori Amos and Lady GaGa starring in “I Walked with a Zombie.” In “I Follow Rivers” Li chases her man through a spooky, indie-winter version of the Olympic cross-country ski pursuit, her echo-laden vocals somewhere between girl group optimism and Stockholm whore house realism. “Silent My Song” offers a dirge-like procession appropriate for both a funeral and a “Twilight” vampire spin-the-bottle party. The ominous sounds of “Love Out of Lust” swell to ethereal chamber pop, while “Rich Kids Blues” features spiraling keyboards that would make Vanilla Fudge proud (odd, considering the only place Li has likely encountered vanilla fudge in her life is at the Stockholm Baskin Robbins). 

Best of all are Li’s vocals, which wrap around your head like deep-tissue massage. Lykee Li is well on her way to being the artist that all the weird kids can agree on, and if that’s not a name brand in the making, what is?