Alternative metal five-piece Deftones opts to extend from every angle in their fourth album. When thrashing, brutal “Bloody Cape” is cushioned between dark trip hop piece “Lucky You” and ambient “Anniversary of an Uninteresting Event,” the band uses their pain-ridden eponymous LP to resist their restless “nu-metal” association. “Deftones” proves that the band is more than their classic formula of sultry whispers, effect-heavy guitars, and cracking snares. “We told motherfuckers not to lump us in with nu-metal because when those bands go down, we aren't going to be with them,” lead singer Chino Moreno states in an interview.
The year is 2003, which the band marks as “the beginning of the dark days.” Coming up on 10 years of being a signed act while coming down from touring on their previous record, “White Pony,” the Sacramento band is burnt out and going through the motions. “Deftones” is recorded out of self-imposed obligation rather than authentic passion. For the first time, they feel like they have something to live up to given the commercial success of “White Pony.” However, this pressure is not enough to kill their vices. Moreno is admittedly “out of [his] mind" on drugs, bassist Chi Cheng is falling asleep mid-take, and there is hardly a time where the four are in the same room at the same time. If the group were a teenybopper bubblegum pop group, this would be a horrible situation to be in. Luckily, Deftones’s discography is already painted in darkness. Dysfunction and dissociation work in this record’s favor as the members sink deeper into the ocean, discovering uncharted territory along the way. Pain and frustration inject themselves across the whole record from Stephen Carpenter’s wailing guitar on opener “Hexagram,” Frank Delgado’s haunting bass synth on “Lucky You,” all the way to Abe Cunningham’s incomplete drums on closer “Moana.” In an interview, Cunningham states, “I didn’t even finish [my part], it just tumbles out, and that was the end. I cared, but I didn’t even complete that shit.” After missing deadline after deadline, the band finally deems the album finished. What was originally titled “Lovers” is swapped for “Deftones,” as the band considers this record to be a sort of rebirth. Moreno later admits that the irony of naming their career after a record that mirrors the band’s darkest days. Thematically, the LP tells the story of reaching out for a saving grace. In states of desperation and delusion, Moreno glorifies his toxic partner, falling to his knees and becoming numb at the sound of her voice in “Minerva” and refusing to leave her in a broken state while knowing she will soon break him in growling bass-led “Good Morning Beautiful.” “As soon as you came in/The agony, it went away” he sings over Carpenter’s downtempo sludging strums on “Deathblow.” Though his cravings subside at the beginning, he concludes with “Well, I should have known/It’s still the same song,” as his addiction finds its way back whenever she is absent. Darkness is channeled through rage until Moreno becomes too tired to scream, taking a left turn on track 10 “Anniversary of an Uninteresting Event.” Kick drums sound off like cannons and sanctified synths fill the space surrounding Moreno’s alluring melodies: “High on the waves you make for us/But not since you left have the waves come.” Reflecting on a turbulent drug-induced relationship, Moreno doesn’t realize her weight until he feels himself carrying it after she’s absent. Though given the green light to move on, Moreno relapses in closer “Moana” as the cold metal chain around his neck only grows tighter and heavier. His former lover has already “carved his heart,” and letting her rule his world is easier than shaping a new one without her. Despite the band’s state of disarray and detachment, “Deftones” evokes a feeling of suffocation, blurred vision, and blankly staring at the freshly broken glass after destroying everything in sight. In retrospect, Moreno is glad it happened: “The record is exactly what it is. It is a snapshot of that time in our lives…It’s genuine.” The record remains as one of their heaviest efforts to date both in terms of sound and songwriting. Though Deftones eventually made their way through the “dark days” some three years later, their self-titled perfectly encapsulates the sporadic destruction weathered by the whirlwind of sex, drugs, and their respective subgenre of rock ‘n’ roll.
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English gothic rock band’s 12th studio album “The Cure” ironically sticks out like a sore thumb in their discography. From the kindergarten scribbled cover art, grudging metal guitar chugs and stylized song titles such as “alt.end” and “(I Don’t Know What’s Going) On,” The Cure’s eponymous 2004 record is not a pitiful injury, but rather a cool one caused by attempting a badass skate trick.
Producer Ross Robinson (Slipknot, Glassjaw, Korn), known as “The God of Nu Metal,” drives the group out of the calm and directly into the eye of the storm. From this storm comes the emotional LP that frontman Robert Smith regards as being created with more passion than all of the others combined. After months spent locked in a studio with Robinson, the band ends up with 37 demos, 11 of which would make the final cut to be their first release on Geffen Records. Bubbly bass lines and squeaky-clean vocals fashioned on 1992’s “Friday I’m in Love” are shoveled with dirt on opener “Lost” as Smith uses his last breaths to repeatedly cry out, "I don’t know where I am” and “I can’t find myself.” Meanwhile, a left-panned feedbacking amp is moments away from bursting into flames. “Anniversary,” track four, is where Robinson’s dark and moody direction is kicked into full gear. Roger O’Donnell’s simple, off key piano melody sits low in the mix while thick flanging guitars sweep like a jet plane, leaving just enough space for Jason Cooper’s nightclub kick drum to cut through. Effect pedals are maxed out on “Us or Them” as Smith screams over the chorus: “I don’t want you anywhere near me/Get your fucking world out of my head.” The second half of the record slowly inches back to the Cure’s melodic pop sound until Robinson swerves them into “The Promise,” a 10-minute finale that combines ‘70s psychedelic rock, ‘90s power metal drums, ‘00s bright post-punk basslines, and a delusional Smith doing whatever the hell he wants to. After letting out an ungodly shriek that turns into a powerful scream, he mutters out repeated obscurities such as, “You promised me” and “Trying to forget,” growing in intensity after each passage. Songs with repetitive, arbitrary lyrics can accomplish one of two things: getting a record done as quickly with as little creativity possible or evoking the uttermost pain and catharsis until you finally feel a semblance of healing. This track is the latter: the song could have ended three minutes in, yet nobody was ready yet. The goal had not been met. Cooper’s drums grow in complexity, abruptly switching time signatures, Perry Bamonte makes sure he has showcased every effect pedal in his possession as loudly as possible, Smith is still waiting, waiting louder, waiting harder, and that’s the end. “The Promise” is the very essence of flow state, feeling every ounce of frustration, persevering through pain, all to snap back into reality in a moment’s notice. The Cure would resort back to its twinkly pop riffs in their following album, “4:13 Dream,” but this eponymous storm is felt in full: every explosive lightning strike and restrained roll of distorted thunder are just as intentional as the Cure’s decision to declare these 11 songs as their remedy. This year, in the midst of an indie rock sphere oversaturated with copy-paste lackluster noise, we receive a blessing from the sky that is Isle of Wight duo’s fully formed debut LP “Wet Leg.” Tongue in cheek at times and aggressively direct at others, best friends Rhian Teasdale (lead vocals, rhythm guitar) and Hester Chambers (lead guitar, backing vocals) come out of the gates armored with their humor, curiosity, and whimsical storytelling. They don’t care whether or not you wish to enter their world, because they’re sure as hell going to have fun creating it.
Written and recorded in lockdown last year, Teasdale and Chambers restore our faith in the idea that people are still making music for the mere sake of creation. “I think there’s more authenticity if you’re having fun,” Teasdale shares in an interview. After debuting with viral post-punk single “Chaise Longue” last year and intermittently following up with singles ranging from art pop, surf rock, glam rock to ‘90s garage punk, “Wet Leg” takes stock in countless genres to prove the duo’s cohesive versatility. Teasdale’s deadpan vocal delivery showcased in “Chaise Longue” elicits hints of Dry Cleaning’s 2021 debut “New Long Leg,” while Chambers takes the lead in “Convincing,” laying down vintage guitar hits and smoky vocals reminiscent of Angel Olsen. Also pulling from ‘90s indie rock acts such as Sonic Youth, Bikini Kill and Pixies, these influences makes Wet Leg exactly who they are – a unique, refined mural of their inspirations with an added dose of humor and feminism. “Wet Leg” displays the highest form of sophisticated angst. Graduating beyond the “I hate you’s” and “go to hell’s,” Teasdale lets out her aggression through clever, retrospective reflections, backed by the fuzzy echoes of Chambers’s lead guitar. Teasdale sets scenes that feel all too familiar: excessive drinking to cope with “that guy” at a party who won’t shut up about his band (“Angelica”), wasting too much time with an unmotivated partner (“Ur Mum”), and getting too high before grocery shopping (“Supermarket”). However, in Wet Leg fashion, the duo indulges their imagination by taking these mundane concepts a little further: Angelica shoots everyone with a ray-gun, Teasdale showcases her "longest and loudest scream” in “Ur Mum,” and security kicks her out in “Supermarket.” In nearly every woman’s life comes an awakening that hits her like a truck. She may be lying with her boyfriend, at her 9-5 corporate job, or bored to death at another crowded party. She can only nod and smile for so long before the voice in her head says, “What the hell are you doing? Wake up!” Through Chambers’s charged and wayward guitar style and Teasdale’s merciless lyrical stabs, the 12 songs in “Wet Leg” display those exact wake-up moments. “I do not have time to try to understand/Why you do what you like/But it never really turns out right/At least we are all going to die,” Teasdale sings in a floating fashion on “I Don’t Wanna Go Out.” In “Piece of Shit” Chambers lays out a bright, steady up-down rhythm for Teasdale to communicate to an ex: “Alright, I'm not enough/Alright, I fucked it up/Alright, I'm such a slut/Alright, whatever helps you sleep at night,” she smirks while holding in a laugh. After reflecting on how badly he treated her throughout the relationship, her guilty conscience creeps in as she concludes the track: “Yeah, technically, I know that I agreed/But it was unenthusiastically.” When viewed through a more fine-tuned lens, this simple confession is universally felt among women. Feeling like we always owe something to a male, we agree, comply, and keep up appearances until we wake up and reflect on the situation on hindsight. We feel the need to justify our feelings about it all: Teasdale spills about a toxic ex to immediately follow up with, “well, maybe this is all my fault because I agreed to it,” but this insecurity doesn’t last long as spirits are raised with Chambers’s warm plucking on “Supermarket.” “Wet Leg” is the exact embodiment of the duo’s dynamic: two best friends lifting each other up, laughing their way through each bad relationship, worry about the future, and regret of the past. Olaf Martens’s 2014 dystopic photograph “001 Liloba” showcases that even the most intimate and isolated moments of life may provoke a feeling of being watched, whether through egotistical fantasy or irrational suspicion. You go about your daily routine and as you are brushing your hair, you wonder how you would be acting if someone else were in the room. Would you brush your hair in a different way? Or, perhaps, would you go as far as to perform a certain way despite being alone? Maybe you are sharing a long awaited first kiss with a lover, yet you are beside yourself – the watcher of the movie you are acting in. Martens’s photograph refutes the question “Are we ever truly alone?” providing an answer that is comforting to the monophobic and terrifying to the paranoid.
The 58-year-old German photographer intentionally places arbitration in each of his works, exemplifying a perspective reminiscent of a quote from Paul Auster’s 1992 novel “Leviathan:” “A book [or in this case, a photograph] is a mysterious object. . .and once it floats out into the world, anything can happen.” The moment an artist lets go of their creation, intended reception can never be guaranteed. No matter how simple or profound the innate meaning, Martens plays with the idea that meaning is left up to interpretation through his hallucinatory, surrealist and saturated sharp-edged style. “001 Liloba” features a couple adorned in cherry red garments sitting closely in front of an illuminated television screen surrounded by an orchestra of vibrant aquamarine eyes, serving as another installment in Martens’s kaleidoscopic dreamworld. The photo sits alongside 14 other images on his website under a collection entitled “Liloba Music Project” and that’s about the only detail Martens provides. The rest is for us to figure out, stitching together meaning like a detective looping red string on their crazy wall. The couple’s body language is tense: the woman clutches tightly onto her black handbag with her other arm stiffly wrapped around her partner’s like a mannequin. She looks downward to the side ready to let out a sigh of despair. The man hunches over twiddling his thumbs. What could initially be mistaken for comfort, at a closer glance, evokes the chilling truth that the couple knows something we do not. The couple sits entrenched in anticipatory agony while an army of electronic eyes offer them little to no space to breathe. The eyes wear matching cream gowns, pale stockings and white leather handbags – the perfect characterization of an antagonist sitting in the corner of somebody’s acid trip gone awry. Some eyes sit turned away from the couple, digging their black heels into the beige shag carpet while others stand idly and poor postured, yet despite their positioning, their collective presence is obtrusive. Old box televisions are stacked atop one another embellishing the walls, and the only one turned on is the one in front of them, placed away from the viewer’s sight. The vivid color contrast and lighting compositions utilized by Martens opens up a world of senses, allowing the photo to be consumed through senses beyond sight. Despite being a still image, you can hear a buzzing white noise, feel a stagnant air sitting at approximately 71 degrees, smell dust-covered notes of an opened storage box stowed away in the attic some 20 years ago, and taste a dry tongue of dehydration. The illusive nature of this photograph, along with the rest of what Martens has captured, embodies his motivation, or rather druglike obsession with his craft. Describing photography as “an extension of consciousness” in a 2004 interview, his artistry is backed by “the desire and the chance, to open up another world for itself, to penetrate into another world. . .but also an escape from the world, which absolutely belongs to [Martens].” Leaving interpretation in the hands of the viewer, “Liloba 001” allows us to find our unique role in Martens’s world, or rather his role in ours. With eyes full of scintillating wonder and youth sitting comfortably in your hands, you lean your head out of the car window while the wind propels you past metallic skyscrapers. Under summer starlight, you feel perfectly positioned in the present, performing as both the actor and viewer. Any wistful widescreen needs a good soundtrack to match, and these cinematic scenes are perfectly backed by Baltimore-based dream pop duo Beach House’s eighth studio album “Once Twice Melody.”
Formed in 2004 upon meeting in Baltimore's DIY rock scene, French American singer/keyboardist Victoria LeGrand and American multi-instrumentalist Alex Scally continue to build a celestial world submerged in hypnagogia, and this time fully self-produced. When comparing “Once Twice Melody” to their 2006 debut self-titled record, it is evident that their world is expanding without straying too far from its roots. The duo’s signature sound palette of vintage drum machines, ethereal vocals, sustained organs, and twinkling synthesizers has not been abandoned, but rather married with their most sophisticated production to date. The musical arrangement of the record contains a live string ensemble, a first for Beach House, upgrading their thrifty, homespun sound to a more dramatic and mature atmosphere. Cheap white wine is replaced with top-shelf champagne, and though both sweet, one is consumed with more finesse. The wailing guitar lines featured in “Another Go Around” are reminiscent of the brooding crimson tones that make up their 2015 album “Depression Cherry” while the buzzing synths in “Many Nights” allude to their honey-dipped debut and 2008 “Devotion” records. The stripped-down acoustic lullaby, “Sunset,” and a potent live drum performance showcased in “Only You Know” mark newly charted territories for the duo. LeGrand and Scally also lean into a heavier, more distorted ‘90s shoegaze influence than ever before, complimenting their discography rather than contrasting it. “Through Me” is an explosion of glimmering textures: chugging overdrive guitars, warping arpeggiated synthesizers and ricocheting violins coalesce across the stereo line. The over-compressed drums and elongated vocal delivery featured in “ESP” evoke a strong influence of dream pop/shoegaze predecessors Cocteau Twins and Mazzy Star. With an ambitious runtime of 84 minutes, the 18 tracks were released in four chapters: “Chapter 1 / Pink Funeral” in November 2021, “Chapter 2 / New Romance” in December, “Chapter 3 / Masquerade” in January, and rounded out with “Chapter 4 / Modern Love Stories” on February 18. Each quarter stands alone beautifully yet works together to create a transcendent, fully realized vision. The tracks are bound with similar lyrical themes: star-crossed lovers, aimless longing, surrendering to one’s vices in the night, femininity and lustful obsession. In typical Beach House grandeur, LeGrand, the primary songwriter of the two, taps into divine imagery that is felt more than it is heard: tears through a white lace veil, a woman dressed like Sunday, or from “Illusion of Forever,” “Diamonds down her back/Sunshine in her lap/Centuries of light/Rubies in her hair/Moonlight in her stare.” LeGrand’s writing style is unmistakably her own, upholding a feeling of childlike innocence, starry-eyed sonder, and sunlight creeping into stained glass windows. However, at times, such imagery can either fall victim to cliché such as “Red sunglasses and a lollipop/See you dressed in the polka dot” in “Finale,” or fade into obscurity, such as the hook of “The Bells,” “The way the blue/She cuts right through/And so the stars are breaking hearts/Like the bells/They ring out all the same.” Fortunately, though, it ultimately doesn’t matter what LeGrand is saying, because no matter the subject content, her lilac-infused, entrancing voice may as well be closest thing to heaven we may experience in this lifetime. At any point where the lyrics lack substance or clarity, the tracks are undoubtedly compensated by the fullness of velvety instrumentation, sanctified vocal deliveries, and cinematic dreamscapes. Drenched in gold and adorned in pearls, “Once Twice Melody” reminds us to wish on fallen eyelashes, point our eyes upward and seek out shooting stars. |
authorHallie Newnam studied journalism at Columbia College Chicago. You can find her archived journalistic work here. |