What's a Listening Log? Well, the idea is quite simple. It's a weekly segment that consolidates all the mini-reviews Dozens Of Donuts has given on RateYourMusic over the past week, split between the Past and Present. A straightforward grading scale has been put in place, ranging from A+ to F-, with C acting as the baseline average. There is no set amount of reviews per week, just however many I get around to reviewing. And don't expect week-of reviews. I wait one month - with at least three listens under my belt - before I rate and review an album. Enjoy!
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If you could swallow the first minute of 'Daisy' without gagging on the profuse of sugar-coated tastes and textures, you'll probably come away loving Collider's debut -><- i="">. For myself however, the staggering sensory overdose, which doesn't dissipate whatsoever in the ensuing 45 minutes, is enough to look the other way, before its saccharine grip condemns me to fabricated pleasures. -><- i=""> feels like a drug-infused form of escapism, seeking greener pastures because everyday life rues with morose. The intense combination of Shoegaze, Math Rock, and even Brutal Prog at times ('Just Start It,' 'Axis'), all under the false pretense of light, flamboyant Jangle Pop, desensitizes any level of nuance Collider aimed to achieve. The maximalist agenda degrades whatever talented musicianship lingers under the swarm of paralyzing noise, as noted points become difficult to discern and nearly impossible to register long-term.
I will say, kudos to Collider's ability to merge these genres in such a way that one doesn't even notice that hardcore, borderline shrill elements on display. The sheen acts like a rushing waterfall, gentle and harmless from a distance, strident and cacophonous up close. Think Sonic Youth and Hüsker Dü infecting Pinkshinyultrablast.
D
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2019 | Progressive Electronic | Listen
THE ASSEMBLY LINE TRANSFORMING HUMANS TO MACHINES
If you like to be challenged by music, look no further than sonder's magnum opus Plainsongs For Bunmak Interim. Simply enduring the 109 minutes of cerebral uniformity and vast strokes is exhausting enough. Imagining sonder laboring over every airless crevice, cobbling together a schizophrenic array of Electronic music is almost unfathomable. There exists a 40-minute song, 'Hate & Fear Bore Death,' that distends 'Little Drummer Boy' to its absolute limit, for example. An album within an album if you will, 'Hate & Fear' assimilates every facet of sonder's parable into one eloquently-paced epic. It never teeters, never totters, it only expands, much like an Orb or Mikko Joensuu saga. Otherworldliness would be downplaying the inscrutability of Plainsongs, a work that unleashes Pandora's box for one last hooray.
Is it too long? One could say so, given that every song escapes five minutes with seven of the ten outlasting the seven-minute mark. In spite of this, enjoyment and mere fascination never wear thin, as each song exteriorizes a strong, visceral edge. Whether it's 'Give Me A Kiss & Forget The World' and its hyperactive House, 'Sugar & Opium' and its Fuck Buttons-like Uplifting Trance, or the macabre Post-Industrial of 'Bastard Property' (that bears passing resemblance to Uniform or HEALTH), Plainsongs can never be criticized for a lack of ambitious ideas. There will be something for everyone here. Perhaps not the entirety, as overwhelming and draining go hand-in-hand when it comes to sonder. But versatility, much akin to Lil Ugly Mane or Xiu Xiu, is not only prominent but the signaling calling card.
Also, while it makes sense as Plainsongs' final, necessary repose, no one should miss bonus track 'Megan Dragonfly.' After 'Hate & Fear Bore Death' finally succumbs to the black hole it's being pulled into, the quiet, Ambient House tranquility of 'Megan Dragonfly' is near required listening. Take The Caretaker (prior to his demise on Everywhere At The End Of Time) and transport his acquiescing emptiness to a tropical island. It's magical, and so is this album.
B
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2019 | Post-Punk | Listen
STUDYING REBELLIOUS YOUTHS IN A CONSERVATIVE COMMUNITY
We can now safely add Fontaines D.C. to the list of British Isles outcasts intent on reviving Post-Punk with rebellious flair. Unlike the oft-compared IDLES, who've ascended in popularity due to their visceral, but astute inversion of the norm, Fontaines D.C. take a more tame, cogitative, but equally as fun approach. Think good cop, bad cop. IDLES and The Fall. On Dogrel, Grian Chatten takes the form of raconteur, spinning tales that depict the divide between Ireland's jaded youth and their petulant faithful. Of course, Chatten's bias for all the right reasons, siding with revolution whilst maintaining a level of decorum and indebted respect to Ireland's rich culture. His songwriting, which borders on unpronounced Spoken Word at times, is lovely and enhanced by his thick Irish accent. The confidence in tone and delivery, be it on the more aggressive cuts like 'Too Real' and 'Hurricane Laughter,' or the softer, considerate tracks like 'Roy's Tune' and 'Dublin City Sky,' is consistently defined with a cocksure demeanor.
While one could criticize Dogrel for its lack of originality, joining yet another Post-Punk revival in high demand, the versatility within the LP itself sets it apart from trailing competitors like Protomartyr or The Twilight Sad. There's only two lackluster cuts here and that's 'Sha Sha Sha' and 'The Lotts,' for they both feel like inferior remixes to the songs they follow; 'Big' and 'Roy's Tune' respectively. Everything else, including a stellar three-track run to close Dogrel out, is rife with catchy hooks ("Hurricane laughter, tearing down the plaster"), adroit instrumental savoir faire ('Liberty Belle'), and emancipating lyrics ("If you're a rockstar, pornstar, superstar, doesn't matter what you are / Get yourself a good car, get outta here"). Fontaines D.C.'s debut is just a blast from start to finish, proving alongside, or perhaps in response to IDLES, that smart, electric, political progressiveness can coincide with a gruff exterior and rasp pizzazz.
B+
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Demonstrating depression in an artistic form is something executed often but rarely, in my opinion, done effectively. After three strained, thought-provoking listens I'm still unsure if Uboa's breakout project The Origin Of My Depression succeeds in its analogous representation. Concerns arise primarily around the theatrics of it all, laying waste to the extremities of a panic attack without introducing the breadth of respite where the real torment resides. Only 'Misspent Youth' introduces discomfited passages of immobility, using Musique Concrète (in the form of one's nightly dish duty) to supply an unsettling aura of nonvocal tension and malice. Ironically, excluding the forgettable 'Epilation Joy,' it's my least favorite song due to that paralysis, despite being the one I eulogize the most. Which is to say, is true depression in art even possible? Or, rather, possible to be enjoyed.
As far as misanthropy and self-hatred is concerned, Origin Of My Depression doesn't hold back. Uboa invasively assails herself, and the listener to some extent, with suicidal thoughts and surmounting venom, reflecting only occasionally ('The Origin Of My Depression') on what caused such malignity in the first place. Oftentimes, be it during her quivering periods of unease or the belts of bloodcurdling screams (that draw comparison to Pharmakon), Uboa's lyrics become overwhelmed by the external forces, unintelligible to the naked ear. The suffocation, cleverly, done on purpose to showcase the disinterest around her and the unstoppable breakdown within.
In that sense, the production plays the strongest role on Origin, dawdling between two extremes just waiting for the next to erupt out of nowhere. Uboa expresses panic attacks in a very straightforward, yet undeniably brutal way. This can be seen on two of Origin's best, 'Lay Down & Rot' and 'Please Don't Leave Me,' where submerged attrition releases itself like a combustible water pipe exploding everything it contains outward. Ultimate, instantaneous Noise. The tug-of-war between sedative and strident may cause Origin to stray from its original goal of realism, but the end result makes 'An Angel Of Great & Terrible Light,' the album's standout cut, all the more fascinating. The leveraging pace acts as a heartbeat curtailed by the thought of ceasing its palpitation, droning onwards with oppressive, militaristic certainty despite the looming thought forever present. A daunting piece on a daunting album that I'm not sure I'd ever want to listen to again.
C
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Perhaps it's harsh to say but who's anticipating a Pixies release in 2019? After an extended absence marred by Kim Deal's omission and two, quite pathetic and prosaic Alternative Rock releases in Indie Cindy and Head Carrier, expectations were at a bare minimum for Beneath The Eyrie. And lo and behold, it's Pixies' best work since Trompe Le Monde, all thanks to a rejuvenated passion that can best be heard in Black Francis' topical lyrics and Joey Santiago's still-legendary guitar work. Both were best seen on 'On Graveyard Hill,' the album's lead single and best track. The nimble riff Santiago carries, culminating in a frenetic bridge, and Black Francis' occult insinuations shoot right up Pixies' vintage alley. Others, like 'Long Rider' and 'Death Horizon,' also don't stray from their reclaiming of the Pixies catalogue, the latter in particular not shameful of its 'Havalina' ancestry.
Likely nothing more than a coincidence, mere days prior to hearing Beneath The Eyrie I had seen the Broadway musical Hadestown, and let me tell you the similarities - with Francis' theatrical take on updated folklore - were robust. 'Catfish Kate,' 'Bird Of Prey,' and especially 'This Is My Fate' all sound plucked from the Hadestown soundtrack. Only the former really succeeds in crafting that sound though, even if the aesthetic throughout is what keeps the Pixies in check.
Don't get me wrong, at the end of the day Beneath The Eyrie is worse than any LP from the Pixies' first incarnation, but certain songs (shoutout to 'Daniel Boone,' a lovely deep cut about a mysterious pioneer) have no trouble competing with the flock. Others, like 'Ready For Love,' 'Los Surfers Muertos,' and 'Bird Of Prey' struggle to separate themselves from the pedestrian Alternative Rock rampant on Head Carrier. A mixed bag but one I'm still pleasantly surprised by.
C
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2019 | Ambient | Listen
TRANSMITTING FROM A REMOTE TOWN IN A PARALLEL DIMENSION
Most Ambient, either by design or a result of failed execution, leaves me unchanged, much akin to the surrounding noise subtly amplifying the Tuesday afternoon in which I type this. That's a rather sad admission for the expansiveness and sheer freedom of Ambient basically begs for curiosities to be explored, not denied for sake of modesty. The success of Lilien Rosarian's debut project A Day In Bel Bruit comes as a direct result of this anomalous prodding, as she effectively world-builds a town on the edge of reality filled with curio exoticism and retro-futuristic zest. It feels as though, having limited experience in the artistic realm of D&D, Day In Bel Bruit is Rosarian's take on scene setting. Except in this case it's done through the minutia of audible textures rather than labyrinthian text.
Inside that bell tower on the cover sits The Caretaker, Tim Hecker, and Biosphere, uploading and broadcasting their mental crackling and signal flow to another world. Rosarian's delicate treatment of an abandoned town teeming with past life could not have been handled better, especially given the perceived lack of organic sound she'd be benefited from using. Only ''Moss Hugs All Walls' and 'The Marketplace,' the album's clear standout and only song with a semblance of melody and earthly instrumentation, strays from Bel Bruit's norm, incorporating the channeled Tape Music as a secondary layer to a lone acoustic desolately strumming on. Though the rest of the album would've improved with sparks of human touch like 'The Marketplace,' Rosarian's tactile and handy form of Glitch keeps interest high. Take the contorted chimes of 'Ghosts Yell Out From Gemstone Homes,' the twinkling brood of 'The Bell Tower,' or the relayed vocal samples on 'Lull' as a couple examples setting their sights for singularity.
With all that being said, Day In Bel Bruit is still Ambient, and for that reason it's difficult to appreciate in any other concept but the one imparted by Rosarian. No song can be separated from the flock, apart from 'The Marketplace,' and the song's lack of ambition (a necessary evil given Rosarian's aesthetic of absentee) causes the project to oftentimes disintegrate into the background, as seen best on 'Dead Flowers Still Seem To Smile,' 'Every Evening Sounds The Same,' and 'Singalong In The Village Square' where expressionless crackles, pops, and drones leave the portrait unchanged. These dull passages assimilate with Tim Hecker's early work (think Radio Amor, Mirages). Thankfully Rosarian doesn't go that route with the bulk of Day In Bel Bruit, as Hecker's content doing.
B-
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House Of Sugar, Alex G's ninth album, feels more like a debut for an artist exploring his boundaries, unsure of the identity he wishes to associate with. He's convinced of his songwriting merits and vocal fragility - both clearly inspired by Elliott Smith and, perhaps to some degree, Jeff Tweedy of Wilco - and that comes out swimmingly on the famous, three-track run of 'Hope,' 'Southern Sky,' and 'Gretel.' Each one - with a slight leniency towards 'Southern Sky' personally, thanks to its jaunty Americana - posits Alex G as a above-average Indie Folk composer, capable of adjusting to the modern edge whilst keeping tabs on traditional modes of sentimental expression.
However, things take a turn for the ambiguous once 'Taking' hits, as there's five straight songs of varying quality that all stray from ideal structuring and eloquent lyricism. I feel Alex G's intent of lost identity was stronger in his mind than the final results show, as tracks like 'Project 2' and 'Sugar' are sloppy, cheaply-produced, and scattershot with their incoherent Electronica. Even 'Bad Man' aspires to be a poor man's WHY?. It doesn't help that the best two are 'Taking' and 'Near' which, coupled with the equally as successful and undefined opener 'Walk Away,' cause House Of Sugar's first half to be vastly superior to its second. It has the better Indie Folk and the better explorative ideas, as once Alex G gathers himself on 'In My Arms' the Singer/Songwriter charm is largely lost. At times this attempted unification of earnest rumination and colorful Folktronica bears resemblance to The Postal Service's Give Up, those the result is expectedly less impactful.
All this goes without mentioning 'Sugarhouse (Live)' though, a closer that distances itself from the squabbling of internal conflict on the past dozen tracks and, in the process, thrives in its newfound spotlight. It is House Of Sugar's best track, with a gorgeous, high-fidelity performance that pays sonic homage to Destroyer and his Sophisti-Pop. I'm not typically a fan of live recordings invading studio albums, but 'Sugarhouse' is done extremely well and, in a way, the connection between artist and fan sweetens House Of Sugar's aspirations for acceptance.
B-
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