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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2009 | Experimental | Listen
BASKING IN THE AMUSEMENT OF AN INSIDE JOKE
In the conventional sense this is Tonstartssbandht's most Experimental release, and that's saying something. Especially coming off the heels of An When, a triumph in grounding Neo-Psychedelia in tangible aesthetics that don't rely on the fantastical. There, despite the experimental tendencies (they did pair the gargantuan Noise Rock of 'Black Country' with a Tribal Dub remix of 'Little April Showers' after all), coherency threaded a yarn through adolescent nonchalance that, in the most intangible of ways, could be felt through universal nostalgia. Dick Nights doesn't have that so much, feeling more like a sophisticated version that capriciously darts from each perplexing idea Andy Boay and Eola toss from the right side of their brain. At times, like 'Sarajevo Preadub' and 'Seriously,' familiarity can be felt. While I've never been one to outright compare Tonstartssbandht with Animal Collective - despite the obvious influence - 'Seriously' diminishes that notion as it's easily their most similar to the seminal Neo-Psychedelia group with looping and layered vocals, hymnic percussion, and a dithyrambic build.
Elsewhere, Tonstartssbandht travel into the unknown for Indie artists, with multiple shredded A cappella tracks Eola based his solo career off of ('The Lake,' 'Mimi Vari'), along with South Pacific Folk music ('Tahiti Nui'), Free Improvised Jam Band ('Haughty Deb'), and desultory Sound Collage ('Yo A. J. J. Hess'). Dick Nights is indecipherable by nature, but also contains that classic Tonstartssbandht playfulness and spontaneous knack for memorable anecdotes. The former comes out in songs like 'Turkey Bones,' 'Konig,' and 'High Roller' that are beyond genre classification with their palpitating Noise skewered by repetitive one-liners. That style, unheard anywhere else, should really just be coined Tonstartssbandht. The latter, those infectious moments one can't help but be giddy over, happen 'Sarajevo Preadub,' 'Seriously,' and the album's best cut 'Preston Great-Ass Imfat.' The latter feels born from the acoustic exoticism of Andy Boay's SO SO SO WE SEE, with karaoke-like vocals prancing across a hallucinatory soiree. This is exasperated by the duplicating detour of sobering campfire hymns, echoing the phrase "do you wanna go home tonight?" It's Dick Nights most proverbial track, one that isn't entirely masqueraded behind folds of inside jokes and nonsensical insouciance.
C
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1998 | Indie Rock | Listen
CHASING THE ICE CREAM TRUCK'S BLARING HORN
It needs to be stated upfront so expectations remain in check: Nothing in the remaining eleven songs approaches 'Dry The Rain.' It is a masterpiece of divine intervention, culling every facet of insatiable 90's Indie Rock into one, six-minute ascension. I'm shocked it's not widely considered one of the decade's most iconic songs, even if the competition is stiff. Steve Mason's abstract imagery with a Western tinge, coupled with an effortless build and numerous, life-affirming chicaneries, has shot up my list with febrile passion. Unfortunately for The Three EP's, 'Dry The Rain' screams closer and would've been far, far better suited for those final credits. But alas, The Beta Band needed its benchmark status on Champion Versions to draw a crowd and I get that too.
Some say, errantly so, that The Three EP's isn't worth the investment beyond 'Dry The Rain,' or Champion Versions' four songs (the aforementioned, along with 'I Know,' 'B + A,' and 'Dogs Got A Bone'). I'm here to disparage such a notion, because while yes, The Beta Band never achieve enlightenment on the scale of 'Dry The Rain,' The Three EP's second and third best songs - each epochal in their own right - hidden deep in the recesses beyond 'The Monolith's' repellent 15 minutes. First up, 'She's The One' could be seen as 'Dry The Rain's' companion, using a similar technique of raised furor through unexpected additions. At this height, taking the Neo-Psychedelia dazzle into account, comparisons to Spiritualized and Mercury Rev are evident. But then there's the easy listening congeniality of 'Needles In My Eyes,' with its carnival drone and downtempo pace, that draw similarities to Yo La Tengo, a band whose presence can be felt elsewhere on 'I Know' and 'It's Over' as well.
Amidst the offbeat Indie Rock there's also detours into conflicting genres, some executed better than others. Despite the initial curiosity that lasts until an intruding bass comes in, 'The House Song's' seven minutes with limited evolution fails to bridge the gap between artsy Indie Rock and Tribal House. Then there's 'The Monolith,' a constantly-shifting, 15-minute Sound Collage piece that's equal parts esoteric and comforting. There's numerous callbacks to past songs, fizzled out by Field Recordings that sound as distant from the cover's cold, Russian winter as possible. In terms of lengthy Sound Collages go, the pleasantries make it tolerable, just not in the middle of the LP. Lastly, 'Dr. Baker,' a purist Psychedelic Pop cut that bridges the gap between Beach Boys and Animal Collective. Panda Bear in particular has clearly taken influence from this song, thus extending The Beta Band's circumstance beyond 90's Indie Rock. The Three EP's is an uplifting album defined by comfortable, but euphoric highs, and risky, but bitter lows.
B
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1988 | Gothic Rock | Listen
USING THE ELECTRIC CHAIR AS PERFORMANCE ART
The first critically-acclaimed Bad Seeds album, and while I won't question Tender Prey's status in the upper echelon of their discography, I struggle to see how it separates itself from Your Funeral ... My Trial or, dare I say, Kicking Against The Pricks. Here, Nick Cave seems more concerned with refining the ideas implanted by The Bad Seeds early on, including but not limited to: Begging forgiveness from one's sins ('Mercy Seat,' 'Mercy'), racking romance ('Watching Alice,' 'Sugar Sugar Sugar'), and outlaw culture ('Up Jumped The Devil,' 'City Of Refuge'). There aren't many, or any, new ideas on Tender Prey, as Cave's clearly settling into a safe zone of, ironically, jailbird peril. For now such a state is forgiven as the quality maintains, with 'The Mercy Seat' obviously taking the reign with its laborious descent to Hell. It's The Bad Seeds' most ambitious work to date and, despite some clunky measures that dilute the claustrophobic feeling rather than consecrate it, stands tall as Tender Prey's high watermark.
While nothing on the remaining nine songs competes, there's enough appeal elsewhere to bear. 'Up Jumped The Devil' takes the wicked carnival aesthetic of 'The Carny' and compartmentalizes it, providing a marvelous romp of theatrical proportions for Cave to flaunt his buccaneering ways. 'Deanna' totally juxtaposes that for Tender Prey's most errant cut, though not for lack of quality. The skewered ballroom Blues, reminiscent of Kicking Against The Pricks' crooked jaunts 'Sleeping Annaleah' and 'Long Black Veil,' brightens Tender Prey's derelict atmosphere. It's the jukebox to the bar fight. From there on out though we receive half a dozen songs that range from fine ('Mercy,' 'Slowly Goes The Night') to forgettable ('Watching Alice,' 'Sunday's Slave'), with adequacy being the most apt descriptor. 'New Morning' helps shine a light on the night of vice, bearing the weight of Cave's brand of repentant Gospel, and works as a satisfying closer to Tender Prey, an album wrought with iniquity.
B-
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For many, this is point of no return for Pink Floyd. The moment where their luster, ambition, and drive wore off. The moment where 80's schmaltz won over 70's mettle, with the only cosigned benefactor - Roger Waters - lording over contentious bandmates Nick Mason and David Gilmour. Richard Wright, having already left following The Wall's quarrelsome genesis, sensed Waters' dogged desire to attenuate Pink Floyd's boundary-pushing Progressive Rock to an era devoid of verve and drowning in pageantry. Despite the overwhelming success of The Wall - which no doubt played a definitive role in Waters' eagerness to capitalize on the ostentatious Rock Opera - it was that LP which inadvertently sent Pink Floyd to their graves. The talent, as seen on tracks like 'Another Brick In The Wall' and 'Comfortably Numb,' was still there, but all it took was a misfire for the whole regime to come crashing down. That is The Final Cut. An album monopolized by an amateur vaudevillian with nothing more than mocking hints at what Pink Floyd used to be.
Others have pointed it out but it bears repeating: The Final Cut is if you took The Wall's countless interludes and aberrant cuts ('The Trial,' anyone?) and released that as a finished product. It is the killer of the concept album, one so inundated with narrative and stagecraft that the actual musical caliber gets swept by the wayside. Proposed as a soundtrack to 1982's film adaption of The Wall, it's easy to see why The Final Cut suffered, like any musical soundtrack stripped from the relation to its visuals. The emphasis is tilted dramatically, like a seesaw sparring an overweight child with his gaunt counterpart. On tracks like 'Your Possible Pasts' and 'The Fletcher Memorial Home,' the production acts as nothing more than a splashy background swaying with Waters' volatile prose. This, above all else, is the biggest slap in the face to Pink Floyd's past, given their position atop the Rock scene was due to Mason's drumming, Gilmour's guitar, and Wright's bass. On The Final Cut the movements are weak and frail, reluctant and modest, predictable and prosaic. Even 'The Final Cut,' the album's go-to song, acts as nothing more than an impuissant reenactment of 'Comfortably Numb.'
And that's the standout. Only 'Two Suns In The Sunset' could be seen as above-average, but that's of no surprise given its status as Final Cut's coup de grâce. An album driven entirely by narration - that of anti-war propaganda (a belief I agree with, mind you) - should have a rousing closing anthem, and while 'Two Suns' pull out decent sections, the concluding horns being my favorite, it's hardly comparative to their past material. When we flip to the negative angles of The Final Cut things become grotesque, none more distinctly so than 'Not Now John.' I would do anything to not hear Waters' paltry Rap and ensuing hackneyed Blue-Eyed Soul again. Honestly, it's one of the worst songs I've ever heard, representing everything wrong with popularized 80's music. Performed by out-of-touch, out-of-fashion veterans, no less. Other tracks, like 'The Hero's Return,' 'Paranoid Eyes,' and 'Southampton Dock' struggle as well, especially the latter two as Waters purposely exiles himself into Singer/Songwriter territory with zero payoff. Overall, The Final Cut disappoints, expectedly so, given Pink Floyd's tumultuous relationship finally catching up with them and an awkward transition into a new decade marred by passé trends forever rooted in the annals of time.
D
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