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. 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. Mitski Miyawaki’s fourth album “Puberty 2” exemplifies longing without moving, a diagnosis with no relief, and a goal without a plan. However, the 11 tracks identify crystal-clear revelations, serving as a testament to her razor-sharp self-awareness. Recognition is the first step in catalyzing change, but a stronger force keeps her paralyzed.
Having lived in 13 countries due to her father’s traveling job, the Japanese-American singer-songwriter is no stranger to fleeting hellos and goodbyes or feeling like an outsider looking in. A life of constant impermanence inevitably leads her to approach positive emotions with reluctance and skepticism, not out of mere pessimism, but as an act of guarding herself. Why accept happiness at face-value given its unreliable and fleeting nature, just to leave you high and dry? Why rise just to fall harder from a higher distance? By utilizing astute metaphors, rich multi-layered instrumentation and gut punching vocal delivery, Mitski proves that she is up or down but never in between. The 2016 record paints heightened grandiosity and unrelenting depressive episodes in full color. Embarking on such a diversified and dynamic sound palette is nothing short of ambitious, yet Mitski and sole producer Patrick Hyland managed to rise above the challenge in two weeks flat at a studio in Westchester, New York. Swiftly transitioning from erratic breakdowns into medicated confessionals, she assigns her raw emotion as the record’s creative director, sending each instrument, melody, tempo and chord progression to their rightful place. Entering an effect-heavy, multi-instrumental sphere of production can easily result in muddy final mixes, yet Mitski and Hyland’s pristine editing ears caused for a beautiful symphony of controlled chaos. In “Happy,” an electronic kickdrum is stuck on loop, lulled organ synths waver, and live drum patterns grow in complexity as Mitski cleverly personifies happiness as a one-night stand. The subject visits her with cookies and lays her down only to make a mess in her apartment and disappear while she is cleaning up in the bathroom. She likens depression to a man hanging off a cliff with his arms overstretched in "Dan the Dancer." Pursuing a love interest would demand Dan to let go with one hand in order to hold his partner's, illustrating a life-risking, endangering love. "Once back in his room/He'd return his waving hand back to its cliff/He liked her more than life itself/I'm sure," she sings over wailing guitar feedback, spacey synths and punchy punk drums. Throughout much of the 31-minute LP, Mitski fantasizes about a life unimpeded by depression and anxiety. Intangible inner peace is illustrated by a routine jog and wearing a white button-down. These mundane depictions are later juxtaposed with great intensity, such as in “Crack Baby,” where she likens the pursuit of happiness to a child born addicted to cocaine, needing another fix without understanding the innate desire. “Puberty 2” also addresses the blurred lines between requited love and monomania: Mitski screams her lover’s name from the rooftops, willfully places her bets on the losing player, and stays up all night in case he calls. She knows she is playing a losing game but cannot escape the cycle. “You’re the one/You’re all I ever wanted,” she sings before immediately following up with, “I think I’ll regret this.” Tapping into sonic layers of ‘90s fuzzy distortion, her thin telephone vocals cut through: “Your mother wouldn't approve of how my mother raised me/But I do, I think I do.” By the end of the “Your Best American Girl,” she resists the pressure to conform, unapologetically singing, “But I do, I finally do.” We all crave a sense of belonging and acceptance, and sometimes that means diluting ourselves down to appear as desirable. We take steps both forward and backwards, as stepping into our identity is an ongoing journey. Mitski has been on both sides of compliance and resistance, but out of pure exhaustion, she cries out repeatedly in "Thursday Girl:" "Somebody, please, tell me no." Over hi-hats, a poised bassline, and a floating synth, she desperately surrenders to the night, acknowledging how its shroud of darkness fuels her self-destructive behaviors. In a manic fit of rage, Mitski delivers her stream-of-consciousness over volatile, screeching instrumentation in “My Body’s Made of Crushed Little Stars.” Pinballing from concerns over a job interview and affording rent to her desire of seeing the whole world and going down in history as a martyr, she sings, “Would you kill me, Jerusalem?/Come find me.” By combining unrelenting existentialism with quotidian responsibilities, she acknowledges the disconnects between her mind, body, dreams and reality. This is contrasted by melancholy finale “A Burning Hill” where Mitski sings to herself, “I've been a forest fire/I am a forest fire/And I am the fire, and I am the forest/And I am a witness watching it,” piecing together the forensics of her self-destructive tendencies. The puzzle of “Puberty 2,” in all its density, feels intentionally incomplete. Some of the pieces are missing, and Mitski doesn’t care to know whether they were stolen or hidden from her; she will close the box, shove it under her bed and try again later. |
authorHallie Newnam studied journalism at Columbia College Chicago. You can find her archived journalistic work here. |