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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2017 | Singer/Songwriter | Listen
TORN PASSAGES FROM A SODDEN DIARY
What separates Phoebe Bridgers from the flock of pensive Singer/Songwriters inundating the extended branch of flower child Indie? Nothing really. Her style, like a train chugging undeviatingly down the tracks, abides by the sonic and moral compass of modern day Indie Folk, much akin to her boygenius contemporaries Lucy Dacus and Julien Baker. Throw in Big Thief, Waxahatchee, Mitski, and more, and the aesthetic meant to be personal and affectionate has suddenly become overcrowded and exposed. However, that doesn't affect quality in Bridgers' case, as her debut album Stranger In The Alps tip-toes that line between frailty and expulsion, the two necessary ingredients to any respectable Singer/Songwriter album about strife, pain, and death.
At times, Stranger In The Alps is a fair bit predictable, lurching back-and-forth like kids on a seesaw, between acoustic-driven ballads about death ('Funeral,' 'Killer') and unstable bouts of relational hysteria ('Motion Sickness,' 'Scott Street'). To no one's surprise, the latter - when Indie Rock isn't shied away from - happens to be my favorite moments, 'Scott Street' being a particular edifice of majesty and idealism. Though ordinary by Singer/Songwriter standards, Bridgers' lyrics throughout don't conceal personal experience with abstractions, seen most prominently on 'Funeral' and 'You Missed My Heart.' These help personify the individual in a genre meant to be particular, succumbed to by generalization. Only a handful of songs miss the mark, barely, as the purely acoustic pieces like 'Killer' and 'Chelsea' seem to exist as foundational, complementary pieces to the larger arrangements, while something like 'Would You Rather' veers too acutely into Elliott Smith territory. Conor Oberst's vocals being alarmingly similar to the deceased songwriter doesn't help matters. But overall, Bridgers' debut is strong, delicate, and endowed with what one should seek in Singer/Songwriter. It's not entirely a bore like 90% of the genre, so that alone is a win.
B
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After hearing The Way Out, all my previous Books reviews seem a bit disingenuous. See, I always enjoyed the Sound Collage curators for their alternative form of eclectic artistry - giving moderate praise where it was due - but returning due to outright enjoyment never seemed on the radar. Sure there were songs like 'Take Time' and 'Motherless Bastard' that excel on their own merits, but consistency came and went on Thought For Food, Lemon Of Pink, and Lost And Safe just as frequency as the spliced samples juxtaposed between Nick Zammuto and Paul de Jong's Folktronica work.
Not on The Way Out though, which stands stoic as the band's greatest, most steadfast effort. Perhaps the 2010's didn't welcome Sound Collage as freely as the decade before it, for there's no greater example of The Books' curious craft than here. It features every aspect of their technique; Meditative dialogue on existentialism ('Group Autogenics I,' 'Group Autogenics II'), innocuous displays of sprightly mischief ('A Cold Freezing Night,' 'Story Of Hip-Hop'), warped Americana ('All You Need Is A Wall,' 'Free Translator'), and aberrant psychedelia for opportunists ('Beautiful People,' 'Thirty Incoming'). None of these in particular is what makes The Way Out great though, for predictable as it is relative to previous Books endeavors, the level of quality has never been this grand. Personality shines with the childhood bullies in 'Cold Freezing Night,' arousing curiosity through parlance alone, while 'Story Of Hip-Hop' accomplishes much of the same, but amplifies it with integrated, tactile sound design. It's brilliant, fun, and engaging.
Their Folk elements even entice, sans The Way Out's only subpar song; 'We Bought The Flood,' which lingers for far too long. However, the subtle pacing and bridge building of 'Thirty Incoming's' borderline Post-Rock is fascinating, much like how the shifty, vocal dance of 'I Didn't Know That' or 'I Am Who I Am' help vivify The Books' textbook format. Unlike the previous albums, all of these songs have their own identity. After a few listens, all one needs to do to recall each song's aural topography is look at the title. Their each so original, so distinct, so adorable. The perfect Books album, and the perfect way to close out such an unconventional, novel career.
A-
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2018 | Hardcore Hip-Hop | Listen
CONCEALING GRIME WITH A CIVILIZED EXTERIOR
Perhaps two of Hip-Hop's most authentic voices, Billy Woods and Elucid, who, despite their tendency to overindulge, still act like a breathe of fresh air from those who flaunt style over substance. Like all their solo records, and those under Armand Hammer, Paraffin clutches to this ideology with gripping candor. Like two latchkey kids still abiding by that same scofflaw independence, Woods and Elucid's lyrics remain integrated to the disgruntled vibration of the streets. Stories of depravity, desperation, and destitution riddle Paraffin, exposing the livelihood of inner-city America better than most, like Freddie Gibbs or Danny Brown or Pusha T, who were quick to skirt their upbringing for a comfortable lifestyle. That isn't a criticism of those seeking greener pastures mind you, but rather an endorsement of Armand Hammer as purveyors of the people.
As far as artistry goes, Paraffin lags behind like many projects released from these two. Whereas Woods' ultimate success, Hiding Places, came as a result of Kenny Segal's gentrified agro-aggression, everything else tends to reduce itself to the norm. Evolution over 2017's Rome is negligible, but perhaps, in their quest for complete integrity, that's the point? Nothing's changed. Both in the style of Armand Hammer's music, and the streets in which they abide. There are a couple moments of explosive impulse though; namely 'Fuhrman Tapes' and 'Alternate Side Parking.' The former features a raucous beat switch which invigorates Billy Woods like I've never seen before, whereas the latter tempers his festering rage with a slick, laid-back Jazz Rap beat. These fluctuations help counterpose the rather stale elements elsewhere. A flurry of average tracks compose Paraffin, with only a few, namely 'No Days Off' and 'Sudden Death,' trailing behind due to klutzy beats intent on irritation.
C
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