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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To frequent readers of mine, the incoming praise I'll be bestowing upon TV Girl's French Exit may sound as if it's coming from a place of hypocrisy. Why? Well, TV Girl's debut is one of the most honest, impassioned, fulfilled takes of the one-dimensional spirit I've heard. Normally, music as insular and inflexible as this draws criticism from me for lack of creativity and ambition. However, French Exit trumps that cavil by perfecting a sound so rich, so refined, so poetic that one can't help but fall in love. Nearly every song, apart from the minor deviation 'Talk To Strangers,' follows a rigid formula that highlight the ephemeral euphoria one experiences when falling in love. Delicately placed samples enhance the already vibrant verve of French Exit, seen best on the fantastic two-track opening of 'Pantyhose' and 'Birds Don't Sing.' For comparisons, imagine the crossroads between The Go! Team, Avalanches, and The Clientele. Bliss in the eyes of an adolescent leaving school for summer vacation. In other words, irresistible to anyone with sanguine in their heart.
Apart from the aforementioned 'Talk To Strangers,' there isn't an irredeemable moment on the LP. This is both a testament to TV Girl's ability to cultivate a niche aesthetic over a dozen tracks, and a faux pas for failing to achieve something greater. Think of a rollercoaster that's magnificent in construction and celerity, but lacks the anxious trek upwards and the ensuing plummet down. It's a blast, but exceptionally one-note with no highs or lows to speak of. Ask twelve different listeners and there's a decent chance you'll receive twelve different standouts. The preference lies in the nuance of each song's sample or message, of which Brad Petering (thankfully) diversifies enough to warrant allure ('Hate Yourself,' 'Daughter Of A Cop,' 'Her & Her Friend').
In this regard it's difficult to pinpoint specifics and why this particular mind latches to them, as the real charm of French Girl can only be seen when appreciating the whole, and not the sum of its parts. Petering's vocals are layered gorgeously, though engrained into the fabric of the production much like Julian Casablancas' vocoder with The Strokes. They're inseparable. The jaunty samples add textured nostalgia from an era of insatiable, European cinema where romance served as fantasy and not reality. And the hooks, executed through simplicity that either leave the sample bare ('Pantyhose,' 'Lovers Rock') or elicit the prominent motif with one line ('Daughter Of A Cop,' 'Anjela'), match the utopian purity TV Girl aspire to achieve. And boy do they ever.
B+
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What a jolt of salacious savagery Blondie unleash here. Unembellished Pop albums are defined by the quality and quantity of bonafide hits, and Parallel Lines have them in abundance. Straightforward, radio-ready singles eager to please during a generation made and broken through the linear communication device. Blondie, and especially Debbie Harry's arresting vocals and unyielding charisma, treat passion as a primal necessity. The confidence is brash, bold, and equip with the right amount of New York City flair, never forgetting to place universal forms of engagement in the foreground. Let it be known, these songs are a delight. The standouts - 'Hanging On The Telephone,' 'One Way Or Another,' and 'Heart Of Glass' - have been praised for nigh on forty years now for their vitality and cursory indispensability, treating a night on the town as if it were the last.
In fact, much of Parallel Lines adheres to that logic, even the songs that weren't a bellwether to such an experience. '11:59' is, quite literally, about that; The yearning of a never-ending night. 'Pretty Baby' and 'Sunday Girl,' each equip with polished Doo-wop harmonies and frivolity, offset the sophisticated demeanor of other party anthems like 'Picture This' and 'Will Anything Happen' with adorable naivety. Meaning, in theory, Parallel Lines can be appreciated by everyone, conservative socialite and bohemian raver alike. All of these are handled delicately, despite the apparent clash of impetuous Punk Rock and studious New Wave. The only song that misfires is 'I Know But I Don't Know,' for its overkill production and irritating chorus.
I can't finish this review without singling out 'Heart Of Glass' though, for it's arguably the greatest Pop song of all-time. It's nearing that mantle in my eyes. The fact it's the go-to representation for Disco, from a band known before for their Punk roots, is evidence enough. There is not a moment that's not perfect, as the effusing grooves almost meant to substitute a beating heart for a palpitating one infest cravingly as 'Heart Of Glass' parlays onwards. The bridge, tasteful use of intersecting instrumentation, Harry's ubiquitous lyrics, the bodacious background vocals, all of it. Just immaculate. The fact that the rest of Parallel Lines doesn't disappoint from that ludicrously high standard is astonishing.
A
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There's a fine line between pretension and resolute, especially in music that intends to satisfy a rich aesthetic. Valtari is one of those records, the final Sigur Rós project I've yet to infest in (excluding the ignorable debut Von). At a point, committing to an explicit atmosphere grows so strong that losing sight of what makes music approachable becomes all too common. That is Valtari's greatest fault; The general impassivity its restrained, serene Ambient Pop causes. Even applying Pop to such a descriptor seems ill-fated, as we rarely hear memorable hooks or emulative structures. Only standout 'Varúð' climaxes to grandiosity accessible for mass appeal, with its breaking point build that would fit comfortably at the apex of an emotionally-wrenching dramatic film.
The rest of Valtari teeters unsurely between past Sigur Rós mannerisms, like the familiar touch of gentile Post-Rock on 'Ekki Múkk,' and isolationist Ambient that uses Modern Classical to apply texture for insular, sentimental grief. Problem being, and this is thankfully improved by heaps and bounds on Kveikur, interest is minimal despite the rich and invasive atmosphere. For fans of texture both synthetic and natural, Sigur Rós offer a great deal that the band's recent expose in traditional, Scandinavian Dream Pop Með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust couldn't. As with most Ambient projects, an enriched background isn't balanced out appropriately with an attention-grabbing foreground. For a silent winter night, snow falling impartially towards the ground, Valtari is near perfect. Especially the final trifecta of 'Varðeldur,' 'Valtari,' and 'Fjögur Píanó.' Devoid of Jónsi's unintelligible vocals, the weary and withdrawn trio yearn for an age of innocence through soporific strings and a doleful piano.
Still, no matter the quality of tonality handed down - and believe me, there's plenty - I find little reason to return to Valtari. Especially when Kveikur achieves the same level of impassioned aura whilst sending chills with gorgeous maximalism one can never not love. For certain listeners acclimated to the beauty of using sparse, empty space to your advantage, you'll find allure here. For me, appreciation aside, not so much.
C
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