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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Oh Sees have been morphing themselves like a chameleon the past decade or so, all under the thin veil of in-your-face Garage Rock. Orc fancied a psychedelic bend, while Smote Reverser went all in on Progressive Rock and Face Stabber incorporated some kooky Krautrock tendencies. Protean Threat continues this evolution, adding more flair and panache to the parade in the form of Zolo. This conglomeration of 70's-inspired Rock has worn on John Dwyer and company, reducing polish and restraint in favor of abundance and bloat. There's no artistic ingenuity when all facets previously covered are strewn haphazardly into a pot. That's largely what we get on Protean Threat, an album whose primary point of celebration is in regards to its terse length. Thankfully, songs never stay beyond their welcomed duration, coming and going without even the slightest bit of acknowledgement. The frantic pacing helps Protean Threat's testosterone-driven aura build, so much as it slashes the wait time before it's over.
There isn't much to say beyond the helpless energy and frenzied motion. Apart from some modest tracks like 'Said The Shovel' and 'Gong Of Catastrophe,' the majority remaining act out as minions of a deranged conductor sending his locomotive off the rails. You, sole passenger, strapped, gagged, and bound to your seat. The opening trio of 'Scramble Suit II,' 'Dreary Nonsense,' and 'Upbeat Ritual' paint this picture without any interest in subtlety. Even the song names pontificate such outlandishness. Out of this brute force engagements, 'Terminal Jape' is definitely the best, finding itself comparable to Ty Segall at his most unhinged. If you're a fan of such hectic structuring that relies more on in-the-moment extrication than well-thought-out planning, then Protean Threat will be for you. Unfortunately I treat my inspection of art with care, even more so than Oh Sees do with their own. That's not a compliment of myself or a criticism of them, by the way, merely an acceptance of differing approaches.
D
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Typically, Folk music doesn't garner much camaraderie. It is, after all, rooted in natural essentials and humbling perspectives, two things that don't exactly get the hype machine revving. Fleet Foxes are a different enigma, existing as the de facto Indie Folk band since their incarnation in 2006. This largely has to do with their cerebral splendor, brought on by Robin Pecknold's rich vocals and weaving tapestry of ancestral lyrics. The mellifluous production never hurts too, with malleable structuring techniques - typically a no-no for Folk - and garish polish that radiates like the piercing sun. All things considered, Shore is their least anticipatory to date, with no marketing build-up and a general collection of songs that rarely aspires to the heights of Helplessness Blues or Crack-Up. Though it's lacking in epochal desires, Shore still succeeds for the command of those at the helm has never wavered.
There is no overarching plot here, nor an undulating pattern that captures crashing waves giving way to calm seas. The most variation we receive comes in the form of 'For A Week Or Two,' 'I'm Not My Season,' and 'Thymia,' and their brief, Singer/Songwriter intermittence. Think of these moments like the receding tide, using the current, instead of your doggy paddle, to comfortably reach your destination. The rest of Shore dares to dive, to race, to weave through obstacles with ardent force, while at the same time being Fleet Foxes' most accessible collection of songs to date. There's a great deal of Pop crossover appeal here, as tracks like 'Can I Believe You' and 'Young Man's Game' delve handedly into Chamber Pop, while others like 'Cradling Mother, Cradling Woman' tickle the fancy of Baroque Pop with its lavish envelopment of romanticism. Let it be known; Shore is a gorgeous album, from head to toe. A sterling statue of elegance, refinement, and grace.
Unlike Fleet Foxes' past efforts, Shore does lack illustrious standouts like 'Third Of May' or 'Battery Kinzie.' Pecknold's consistent strife and the band's pressing resonance over a modestly-lengthy 54 minutes helps alleviate the clear-cut standout, though I struggle to see how 'Sunblind' or 'Can I Believe You' weren't considered as obvious singles. What allows yet another success to arrive in Fleet Foxes' discography is the embellishment of every Shore moment. Never once are you excused from the idealized proceedings, be it the spellbinding boom of 'A Long Way Past The Past's' climax, 'Quiet Air / Gioia's' rolling thunder percussion, or even 'Shore's' subtle communal eulogy. There's a vibrant and expressive aura surrounding Shore, and as long as Fleet Foxes never neglect that necessity, they'll continue to win hearts over.
B
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2020 | Plunderphonics | Listen
CONVERTING EARTH INTO A GIGANTIC TILT-A-WHIRL
To be wholly original in this day and age - with a breadth of influence, current and decades-old, immediately accessible with the click of a mouse - deserves to be revered, off rarity alone. With evidence attributed to Stolen Car and its anagrammatic state, this truly feels like Carl Stone's self-titled opus. A declarative statement to make at age 67, with forty years of musicianship under his belt. A weary world traveler, no one sounds like Stone but Stone himself. Stolen Car, and previous LP's like Baroo and bits of Himalaya, could argumentatively form a genre all their own. Think Glitch, but rather than instrumentation falling in on itself, it's instead the wide range of human aberration. Yes, it's Plunderphonics as well, but the profuse of discordant delirium falls more in line with Glitch's asymmetrical structuring and less the typical, Dance-centric avenues Plunderphonics artists take. Stolen Car is his best work since 1992's Mom's; an art installation on the merits of ingesting excess.
There is so much to consume, here and at large. It's why Stone's late-era renaissance has worked so well, with his not-so subtle commentary on our staggering content corrosion. Stolen Car takes this ideology to extremes, filling every possible space with stuff. If a stray fray is found amidst the clamor, Stone smatters more impenetrable vocals into the mix. Take 'Au Jus' or 'Figli' as prime examples of this tactic, with their searing Pop that, quite honestly, puts the whole aesthetic of Futurepop to shame. Only Blanck Mass has come close, with efforts off World Eater and Animated Violence Mild. There is not one fraction of a second that goes unaccounted for, not one sound neglected, as these beacons of orchestrated noise work as a hive mind, like the highest functioning bee's nest. At times it becomes nauseating, as one would expect from enduring a 69-minute carnival ride like the Tilt-A-Whirl or Scrambler. Prepare to puke. Eat cotton candy. Then ride it again.
In Stone's world, pacing is negligible. Again, comparing it to society's osmosis at large, subtlety has long been a dead concept when one can bob and weave between assiduous, years-long art endeavors with just a few fervent stabs at the keyboard. Stolen Car is a reflection of that gobbling constancy, as the only measures that undulate are those which build with unrelenting valor ('Rinka,' 'Saaris'). All the others, sans Stolen Car's weakest, most languid efforts 'Ganci' and 'Xiomara,' commence with an anvil firmly planted on the gas. All are maniacal blasts of fun, be it 'Auburn's' unhinged vocal calisthenics, 'The Jugged Hare's' world-spanning conglomeration, or 'Bojuk's' bewildering multi-layering which sounds like a hundred Pop songs fighting in battle royale. Organized chaos, Stolen Car is that to a tee. And to think, a senior citizen - not a gender-fluid, future-proof prodigy - made it all possible.
B+
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