The proceeding live performance easily explained the pre-show excitement, as powerhouse vocals and rocking guitar chords ripped through the café’s stained glass windows. OHMME has steadily made a name for themselves from buzzy collabs like the one with Wilco’s Jeff Tweedy and the successful, anthemic single “Icon.”

Their established song catalog is already impressive, but OHMME proved to be even better live. The vocal elasticity and intricate harmonization ping pong between Cunningham and Stewart served as an electrifying game of musical pinball. 

The standout song performance of the afternoon was “Fingerprints” from their 2017 debut album. Building up to the chorus, the duo broke into a chorus of alternating wordless vocalizations that climbed to harmonious heights and were flawlessly executed. The vocal feat was so impressive that audience members turned to each other with wide eyes as if to say, “How did they do that?” 

As the dizzying harmonies ebbed and flowed against dynamic guitar rhythms, the song culminated in the final repeated lyric, “I want to be better,” which gradually increased from a whisper to a roar with each repetition. In the crowded lineup of Mission Creek, OHMME made a single song stand out and stick with me days later. 

The duo showed incredible dynamism and range with some songs beginning with hushed instrumentals and isolated, soulful vocals while others fully dove into full, wailing guitar. They basked in the strength of vocal runs as much as they leaned into rocking the stage. OHMME demonstrated standout musical ability in their live set, fully sealing the duo’s exciting future in the indie space as talented musicians and badass rockers. 

The post OHMME brings jams and harmonies to Mission Creek appeared first on KRUI Radio.

The man behind the band moniker, Joe Stevens—tends to have a rotating cast of musicians filling out the group—brought on drummer Brian Alvarez and dual bassists and vocalists Harmony Index and Marina Aguerre and they melted seamlessly into the sonic landscape of Peel Dream Magazine. 

Much of the performance centered around creating atmospheric dream-pop of breezy drumbeats and heavy 90s-influenced synth, which was cut with a certain lightness and effortlessness from the use of dual male-female harmonies. Harmonies during the set were less lyric-driven and more dependent on instrumentation to complete the sonic soundscape in a perfect, deeply vibey blend. Sometimes the singing transformed into perfectly timed and beautiful, rhythmic vocal beats.

Even with the influence of heavier college rock in the performance’s drowsy synth, there was also a playful whimsy to the band’s percussion that broke through the wall of glittering keyboard and bass lines. Peak whimsy hit whenever Stevens would break out staccato notes on the keyboard in the midst of steady sound, reminiscent of an ice cream truck jingle—crisp and delicious. 

Currently on tour with fellow Mission Creek performer Soccer Mommy, Peel Dream Magazine filled the festival’s smallest venue with warmth fit for a space triple the size. The biggest rush of every song was once the guitar and drum melodies delivered their final notes and Stevens remained, holding the final chords on the keyboard. With the haunting remnants of the last song’s essence still hanging in the air, Stevens stood like a solemn organist, basking in drawn-out chords. 

The lasting echoes and vibrations made each performance, from the bouncy, sunny synth tracks to the gloomy grunge pieces, linger with the audience and created a sonic experience of a rolling atmosphere, rather than a set of bite-sized tracks. This choice greatly aided the compact set-length and intimate setting of Trumpet Blossom. The concert setting itself and the laidback style of Peel Dream Magazine’s performance set the show apart from the majority of Mission Creek, feeling more like a jam session with old friends. 

With little time to talk between tracks, the audience got the best sense of the band as they stood in the audience supporting and watching the rest of the afternoon’s sets. Their spirit of camaraderie made it clear—everyone was just happy to be there. 

The post Peel Dream Magazine floods Trumpet Blossom with synth escapism at Mission Creek appeared first on KRUI Radio.

Two albums deep, the band began as the solo project of Joe Stevens, self-released and recorded in his apartment. Once Stevens signed with a label off of the success of his debut Modern Meta Physic, Stevens brought in a fuller band lineup for the 2020 release Agitprop Alterna. Instrumentalist Kelly Winrich, vocalist Jo-Anne Hyun, and drummer Brian Alvarez fill out the lineup. 

The recent release 2021 Moral Panics continues the additions of Agitprop Alterna—the dual male and female vocals call to mind The Pixies or The Magnetic Fields, fused with the soundscapes of Ultravox and The Cocteau Twins. Peel Dream Magazine’s music invites the listener to take a trip through sunny synth and intimate drum machine beats. Currently touring with fellow Mission Creek artist, Soccer Mommy, Peel Dream Machine offers retro sounds that fit in well with the heyday of 90s college rock—fitting with the band name’s homage to BBC Radio DJ and indie music promoter John Peel.

Peel Dream Magazine will perform April 9th at Trumpet Blossom Cafe as a part of Mission Creek Festival.

The post Mission Creek Preview: Peel Dream Magazine dreamily lands in Iowa City appeared first on KRUI Radio.

Deeply grounded in the Chicago avant-garde jazz and rock community, both Cunningham and Stewart co-founded and performed with numerous local bands pre-OHMME, including Kids These Days and Marrow. The duo are frequent collaborators in the larger indie scene and can be heard singing backup vocals for Twin Peaks and instrumentation for Whitney. The indie-rock track Icon of OHMME’s 2018 release Parts has proven to be the band’s most successful song to date with a breezy, anthemic chorus. Capitalizing on that success, the duo’s most recent release is their pandemic era record Fantasize Your Ghost, which takes increased musical risks. One minute underground jangle pop and the next orchestral string soundscape—OHMME continues to impress as a group not reliant on their strong harmonies and incapable of being genre-defined.

OHMME will perform April 9th at Trumpet Blossom Cafe as a part of Mission Creek Festival.

The post Mission Creek Preview: OHMME harmonizes as a dynamic duo appeared first on KRUI Radio.

For Rainey, the art that connects him to others is through music. More specifically, the music of language—how it escapes the tongue with rhythmic abilities, how it hides fascinating duality, how shouting a word holds as much emotion as a whisper. In short, Rainey plunges himself into the delicate art of spoken word. 

Rainey comfortably leans against a stool, looking out and preparing to tell something lost from the whirlwind of news clips and frantic headlines: a story. A University of Iowa graduate and author of two poetry books, Rainey is a magnetic storyteller. The story of the moment functions under the title, “The Making.” The making, in particular, of an identity—one that had been muffled and torn down by others. Rainey describes the piece as his “experiences as a black man in the Midwest, what it was like growing up black, and my interactions, specifically with the N-word.”

At first, Rainey gently eases the audience into a personal and intimate tale of grappling with an identity imposed by others, surrounding a word with jarring constrictions and massive layers of demeaning history attached. Rainey wonders what such a label can mean for him by delving into the family around him—although not the most glamorous or fortunate, the poet fights to show their humanness, not the labels they fought against. The gentle rhythm of rhyme patters through his voice steadily: “and some of my cousins yell and can’t spell and seen the inside of a cell, but when they see me, they always wish me well.”

But then, the downpour of staccato shouts detailing moments of hatred course through Rainey—there are bullets and death and racist fathers and lingering police presence. A captivating play on words stands out in the thick of it all that could break hearts and batter souls. Rainey says of the cop’s parting words, that “only criminals like the light of the moon. And that’s when I knew he was afraid of the dark.” Children may start afraid of the initial, literal dark that envelops their rooms, but they may soon learn to fear the dark of another’s skin from the racism that drenches the world. These words pour out of Rainey until he looks defeated. 

This place of defeat is how Rainey has learned to become strong. His full stage name reads Caleb “The Negro Artist” Rainey, tying back to a Langston Hughes piece titled “The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain.” The famed poet sorrowfully examined the very identity struggle and tendencies to not embrace black heritage that Rainey echoes. Langston writes, “One of the most promising of the young Negro poets said to me once, ‘I want to be a poet—not a Negro poet,’ meaning, I believe, ‘I want to write like a white poet;’ meaning subconsciously, ‘I would like to be a white poet;’ meaning behind that, ‘I would like to be white.’”

Rainey knows his chosen name is controversial and makes many uncomfortable, but that’s part of the reason it was chosen—to eliminate discomfort and claim it as a triumphant identifier instead. As Rainey puts it, an integral part of his “unapologetic blackness.” Through spoken word, Rainey allows such an attitude to be accessible to all through the musicality of his words. One could easily sit and listen to someone who has a lot to say with good intentions, but the words could drift over their heads. When you add a melodic aspect to language—an everyday human object that is begging to be explored for its fragrant sounds of sharp t’s and smooth s’s— words become hypnotic as the viewer gets swept away in its natural flow.

That’s what also makes Rainey’s feat more vulnerable and impressive—the music has nowhere to hide. Lackluster sentiments and lyrics can’t be hidden under overbearing synths or atmosphere; the words assume center stage, Rainey’s hands the only musical accompaniment. He also recognizes that silence is music too, as he takes intentional pauses for necessary impact and suspense that cuts deeper. 

Speaking of Rainey’s hands, they’re a pivotal and theatrical aspect of his performance, particularly as he flowed to the next piece, “What You Need to Hear.” The audience finds the poet to be expressive, filled with a brighter enthusiasm revolving around five points. As the viewer prepares for point one, Rainey takes the word “you” and stretches it to dynamic proportions. His voice continues to rise as the air fills up his lungs and his shoulders tense. Then, in an instant, the word is released into the world, and Rainey completes the thought: “You matter.” The theatrics perfectly highlight the joyous nature and meticulous craft Rainey brings. Every inflection and hand movement is intentional. 

This is where the body language bleeds through the screen with uproarious fun. As the wordsmith compare strands of spider webs to human connection, Rainey stretches out his arms while fingers dance and twinkle. After allowing his language to expand, he also utilizes his sole instrument to show the world in its claustrophobic features: “They say the history haunting you or the system shackled around your ankles or the trauma noose tightened around your neck should direct your every step.” Rainey acts as the aforementioned “history,” grasping at his neck and self-inflicting a chokehold in the name of visual poetry. 

The fifth and final point is simple: “I love you,” said with plenty of suspense and thematic delivery. Rainey lets his hands drop to his sides, signaling the end of the show—his instrument’s been put down and laid to rest. 

Rainey introduced the second piece by simply saying, “It’s about what we all need to hear and I think that explains it.” And it does; Rainey recognizes that it’s in uncertain times that the world needs grounded encouragement—you matter, you have power, you are not finished. At the same time, there’s also a need for heightened, unexpected levels of creativity. In the world of spoken word, there are no concrete sentences or periods. As with a lot of activities at the moment, conventionality has to be suspended, as the viewer must surrender to the natural rhythm of speaking and fill in the instrumentation themselves. 

Watch the full performance below:

Mission Creek’s Underground Festival may be over, but you can still watch the performances from April 1-4, 2020 on their Website, Facebook, and Instagram . The rescheduled Mission Creek Festival is currently set for September 17-19, 2020.

The post Mission Creek Underground: Caleb Rainey 10/4 appeared first on KRUI Radio.

Moen, a jewel of the Iowa City music scene, kicked off the offbeat festivities premiering on Facebook and YouTube with a lovingly crafted 15-minute set. “Music is definitely the primary way we as people tend to process our emotions, whether it be creating it, listening to it, or both. I think right now, a lot of people’s feelings, including mine, are pretty jumbled and a little erratic,” Moen said during the set’s video introduction. “I’ve found that writing songs have helped me kind of calm those waves down.”

Just as songwriting calms Moen, the set offered up for her Mission Creek performance was similarly comforting. Clad in her signature blazing red lipstick, Moen’s voice took on an ethereal and meditative quality thanks in part by the echoes of the empty theatre—a natural reverb for her delicately booming voice. 

Joined only by her guitar, Moen began with “Where’s My Bike?,” a track, along with the other performed songs, off her upcoming album partially funded by Kickstarter supporters. As Moen deeply processes every lyric and note, it seems to the viewer that she’s playing with her voice—a wild, raw entity ranging in volume and intonation. Moen molds its dynamism, taming it with effortless control, until, with a sly smile, she lets her grasp slip revealing surprise playful adjustments at the end of her musical thought. 

Going from soft and silky to rough and rioting, Moen abandons all control as she wails: “I’m sick of singing songs about my exes.” In emotional bursts like these, Moen shines throughout the performance, making her fascinating to watch. Even on a constricting computer screen, Moen comes across as expressive and warm; it’s impossible to look away from her emotionally-etched facial expressions and all the better, because this time, all 2,000 Facebook viewers have a front-row seat. 

The final, ringing guitar chords transition quickly to “What’s the Rush?,” a track where Moen employs a soft, Billy Holiday-esque growl. The track feels especially comforting as Moen’s emotion intensity is palpable as she sways. This emotional commitment that trickles through her honeyed voice extends into Moen’s ending track: “Headgear.” 

Her performance opens with fluttering guitar and intense concentration. Moen leans into herself with eyes closed, utterly connected to each breath of music. This track, in particular, feels like a welcome treat for those holed up in their own homes as Moen’s presence expands to fill the stage— occupying the role of drum rhythms and responsive audience approval. The gaps of silence instead create a unique concert experience; Moen nods along to imaginary downbeats along with her handcrafted jam session. The fact that Moen is able to project all energy solely to her audience rather than out to an audience creates a more full-bodied power to her delivery. 

The lyrics of her three-song set, though not intended for these unique times, fit nicely into a collective yearning for calm felt throughout the world. “Where’s My Bike?” goes beyond an individual whose stuck in a rut not progressing with ambition left behind, along with her bike, at an ex’s garage. Now, its lyrics feel like a wakeup call for all who are caught up with pandemic-caused inconveniences: “I could keep wallowing all afternoon / And only think about my own problems…But now I’ll put my feet back on the ground.” “What’s the Rush?” leaps off its bars of music with a beautifully personified characterization of loss, who “sits at the table / In tattered silks and sulking eyes / too tired to dance to even speak.” “Headgear” acts as an anthem to fight the anxiousness of historic times: “I thought my mind was out to get me / Much faster than my body,” Moen quietly sings. “My mind is faster than it thinks to run / to where it doesn’t need to be.” All of her selected song’s lyrics seem to resonant more than ever, speaking toward uncertainty and not the loss of exes, but loved ones. 

Mission Creek Festival is here to comfort its audience during “weird and challenging quarantimes,” as they put it. So far, the festival is already delivering with Moen’s lowkey but refreshing performance and video production that is thoughtfully executed. Although brief, Moen’s act is intimate in the best of ways, even in the least ideal of circumstances. Moen ended her enrapturing set with a simple and endearing sign off: “Cool, thanks.” The humanness of the moment felt like the perfect way to end the start of Mission Creek, with Moen bringing life to Iowa City like she always has. 

Watch the full performance below:

Mission Creek’s Underground Festival continues April 1-4, 2020 and will air on their Website, Facebook, and Instagram .

The post Mission Creek Underground: Elizabeth Moen 10/1 appeared first on KRUI Radio.

It’s certainly hard to ignore the buzz surrounding Tame Impala’s first album in five years. Pitchfork hailed it “the work of a true perfectionist.” Consequence of Sound called it “a beautiful collage.” Our own KRUI gave it a 9/10. 

So, it came as a surprise to me when, as I sat listening to its 57-minute runtime, three things happened:

1) I completely forgot what song I was on.

2) I had to start songs over because I zoned out or completely forgot the essence behind the track.

3) I got bored. 

That’s not to say that no praise is warranted towards The Slow Rush—each song features lush production and contributes to a consistent soundscape throughout. The grandiosity presented in each composition’s countless layers is impressive, especially when imagining Parker lovingly crafting each atmospheric soundbite as vocalist, songwriter, producer, and mixer primarily in his home studio. Consistent with Parker’s previous projects under the Tame Impala name, the passion is deeply felt; the creator’s intent and grit to fully immerse the listener in Tame Impala’s glossy packaging is commendable.

Although buzzwords like atmospheric and sound consistency are important for an album’s durability, it’s easy to take the same aspirations too far. Past Tame Impala albums Lonerism and Currents effortlessly plunged the listener into a unique world of psychedelia from beginning to end. And while The Slow Rush checks off these boxes, it feels like overkill with an album where song titles feel gratuitous; the tracklist, ranging from three to seven minutes, melt together. That’s not to say that every masterful album needs stand-out tracks—there are plenty of albums that need to be taken in as a whole for true appraisal. That approach, however, becomes dangerous when tracks blend together to such an extent that the music itself fades into the background. 

To really understand where any amount of disappointment comes from upon the release of such a long-awaited album, it’s important to look at previous Tame Impala efforts. Lonerism and InnerSpeaker showcase Tame Impala at its purest—a pursuit to recreate the psychedelic sound of the 60s and the 70s while using the newest technology to do so. The idea of taking an often-overlooked but influential genre of the past while putting an authentic spin on it made both albums incredibly enjoyable from a listener standpoint, as each track strove for peak quirk. Each track from Tame Impala’s sound circa 2010 and 2012 could easily nestle between misfit tracks like “Sun King” and “Mean Mr. Mustard” off of the Beatles’ otherwise commercial Abbey Road without any objection. 

Then came 2015’s Currents, signaling Tame Impala’s rise into mainstream, debuting at number four on US Billboard charts. The buzz and overall success of the album can be attributed to Parker’s transition to a more dance-infused ambiance over psychedelic rock. Although not as musically exciting as past releases, with the album teetering into monotonous territory, Currents was still ripe with the unexpected. In its opening track, “Let It Happen,” the underlying beat propelling the nearly eight-minute track along feels as if the listener owns a skipping CD. As the beat continues pulsing, stuck on a loop, rich orchestration sweeps through, overtaking the song in a surprising, magical direction at the halfway mark. The beat is still stuck, cursed to forever repeat, but it doesn’t matter—the track just entered a cosmic realm. 

Five years later,  The Slow Rush enters the conversation. The problem? It can’t contribute to any conversation when it fundamentally has nothing to say. It doesn’t have any fresh takes on a musical niche. It doesn’t have any soaring moments. All that’s left is an unconvincing, muted atmosphere. 

And that truly is all that this Tame Impala album has: atmosphere. It’s a type of atmosphere that distracting to the point that you can reach a track’s end and entirely forget how it began. The Slow Rush’s atmosphere is distracting for good reason—if it’s stripped away, what remains are shallow lyrics. In one of the most baffling lyrical choices that contributes to the album’s monotony, ALL 12 songs center around Parker asking questions. The line of questioning that each song’s message revolves around feels dangerously reminiscent of a teenager insecure after a rejection. Compiled below is just a short sample of the kind of questions that could easily be found on that same lovesick teenager’s phone:

• “Will I be known and loved? / Is there one that I trust?” (Borderline)
• “So why do I go wrong on repeat? “ (Tomorrow’s Dust)
• “Does it help to get lost in yesterday?… So what was I afraid of? Why did I worry?” (Lost in Yesterday)
• “Was I being immature?” (Is it True)
• “How could I love again? / How could I ever ask for more?” (One More Hour)

The questioning Parker uses so predominantly only fuels the repetitive and uninspired nature of almost every track’s content—the only exception being “Posthumous Forgiveness” where Tame Impala’s lyrics shine and glisten under the backdrop of Parker’s relationship with his deceased father. The lyrics here feel authentic compared to the rest of the album, coming from an emotional depth that Parker hesitantly reveals: “Wanna tell you ‘bout my life / Wanna play you all my songs / And hear your voice sing along.” Without the breathless honesty of “Posthumous Forgiveness,” the lyrics are forgettable and contribute to the album’s drag. 

From Parker’s writing, it’s apparent that he still holds the Beatles in high regard, as he references both Abbey Road and Abbey Road track “Here Comes the Sun” in different tracks. When Tame Impala alludes to “The Fab Four,” however, one wishes that he would deftly inject that psychedelic Beatlesque energy from previous releases, rather than existing as simplistic allusions on an album that exudes “department store playlist” energy instead. 

The post Album Review: “The Slow Rush” by Tame Impala appeared first on KRUI Radio.

In line with the victim’s wishes, the band canceled the upcoming tour and vowed not to release music for a year as Hall turned to therapy. After the whirlwind that was 2017, it became difficult to know what to do with those accused on all levels of magnitude—whether anyone was allowed to come back from the wreckage, or if the particular individual’s body of work could ever again be enjoyed. Regardless of your opinion on the matter, this particular band decided to pick up their instruments again. Comeback? Redemption? An unwelcome return?  Whatever you may call it, it masquerades under the title Marigold. 

Unlike the angst-filled, gut-wrenching tracks that saturated Pinegrove’s 2016 release, Cardinal, Marigold is a hesitant musical work. The album opens on “Dotted Line,” a song that lightly echoes the band’s former songs to some degree of success. The band seems to plead with its fanbase to simply “ignore the wreckage on the shoulder” of 2017 in the track’s opening line—to harken back to another time in the band’s discography. 

When it comes to the album’s high points, it would have to be consecutive tracks “The Alarmist” and “No Drugs.” Similar to the rest of the album, the tracks are delicate in its arrangements and lyrics compared to Pinegrove’s past output. This doesn’t make the album bad, and it’s important to support and guide artists towards change. But in Pinegrove’s case, the change feels too safe, a step backward with its muted messages and monotonous sound. “The Alarmist” and “No Drugs” provide the listener with a glimpse of the familiar honesty and emotions that lay bare through Hall’s expressive vocals with powerful uses of repetition: “Can I believe in the me before I knew you beautifully? / Can I believe in the me before I’m lost on yesterday?” 

But separate from brief, heartwrenching moments found in Marigold, many moments throughout the album in both its sound and lyrics feel tired and tedious. This is first evident during the track “Spiral”—with a runtime just under one minute and consisting of fragmented commands and phrases:

“Drink water

Good posture

Good lighting

Good evening

Good morning”

It’s easy to tell what it’s trying to be: a quirky unconventional song to provide a bridge between the opening track.

Instead, it feels impersonal, as Hall essentially throws generic phrases into the void. And that’s the main problem with Marigold—it doesn’t lack emotion; it lacks a personal connection with the listener. The narration throughout each song presents someone who is brimming of emotions, but they’re not dynamic, each spelling out defeat. The majority of the release’s lyrics present an individual who’s going through the day mindlessly­—“I wake up and feel totally the same / I woke up the same as yesterday” (“Endless”),  “Just another day in the polar vortex” (“Dotted Line”), “Nowadays I usually just get up / Put on a sweater from the day before” (“Phase”). The bottom line is that no song on Marigold is particularly bad or offensive; it just seems that while Pinegrove opted for a more polished production, they also polished over raw emotions.

Listening back to Cardinal, especially “Old Friends”—the song that unequivocally put the band on the critics’ radar—there’s something magical and chilling about the honesty and personal message it delivers. With a more garage rock production style and a focus on simple harmonies over instrumentation, Pinegrove wasn’t singing about the drudgery of daily life and typical romantic narratives present on Marigold. Conversely, the lyrics that cut through represented a thought that lingers at the back of everyone’s minds but is rarely expressed: tell your loved ones you love them before they’re gone. It’s unsettling and disrupting to hear such a dismal truth relayed through headphones and speakers. Cardinal utilizes this initial momentum to keep the listener on edge with jarring moments of complete despair.

Halfway through “Aphasia,” Hall unexpectedly wails, “But if I don’t have you by me then I’ll go underground,” amidst the track’s otherwise tame chord progression. Pinegrove expertly demonstrates how a small moment can display pure desperation that feels unabashedly human. 

Fast forward four years to Pinegrove ending their “comeback” album on a quiet note with the titular song “Marigold.” Clocking in at six minutes, the band opts for an instrumental ending that’s as quiet and cautious as its beginning. It’s undoubtedly a beautiful piece with loads of peaceful ambiance, but it’s just not Pinegrove. 

The post Album Review: “Marigold” by Pinegrove appeared first on KRUI Radio.

But what’s so confusing about this mindset is that these bands are still here—they don’t merely exist in 70s rocker garb and sepia tones. The reluctance to provide space for artists once hailed as the greatest songwriters and musicians of their generation has led to a lot of different responses from these same artists. Billy Joel decided to quit on a high point (why bother when you can sell out Madison Square Garden over 100 times with the music you’ve already recorded), while Paul McCartney made a surprise leap back into popular relevancy with Egypt Station (an album I didn’t find remarkable, though you can’t deny numbers). But the majority of artists—Paul Simon, Bob Dylan, and Neil Young—to name a few, have desperately tried to hold on with muddled efforts and unremarkable songs. The Who’s first release in thirteen years, WHO, doesn’t fall into this category. 

It certainly won’t join the ranks of the albums that brought the band notoriety, but it works as tasteful fan service that’s much more self-aware than most. After both the tragic deaths of Keith Moon and John Entwistle, the remaining half of the English rock band never quite found its way back to its initial genius. WHO, however, delivers an impressive amount of familiar sound from a distant band that put out innovative rock operas and a sizeable amount of smashed guitars.

Despite songs that provide loyal fans with some comfort, echoing back to hit songs, the album isn’t able to fully deliver the same musical highs from their past. And they probably can’t. They’re older—the years are catching up and The Who just isn’t as relevant as they used to be. That’s also why it works far better than most artists from the same slice of music history—Roger Daltrey and Pete Townsend are fully aware of it. 

The first words that burst out from a still rocking Daltrey vocal performance are both refreshingly and unexpectedly self-aware:

“I don’t care / I know you’re gonna hate this song / And that’s it / We never really got along / It’s not new, not diverse.”

The opening track, “All the Music Must Fade,” is the anti-comeback song, discussing how anything the band releases will never be completely unique or revolutionary, there’s too much content and too much overlap in the music industry. The instrumentation, ironically, sounds an awful lot like past Who songs, but in this setting, it’s a welcome surprise. The age argument is fitting when it comes to discussing The Who’s unexpected return—full tour stretches have been postponed due to health concerns in recent years; instead of sticking to talks of rebelling against older generations and pinball champions, the music duo is tackling age head-on. There are talks of tumors (“Ball and Chain”), wistfully looking back “on being twenty-four” (“Break the News”), with a healthy dose of self-criticisms of being “snotty young kids” and “trying hard to stay young” (“We Don’t Want to Get Wise”). 

Nothing truly matches the unmistakable rock-and-roll energy of “All the Music Must Fade,” but “I Don’t Want to Get Wise” and “Detour” are strong entries when it comes to the overall sound, with enjoyable harmonies and self-commentary that proves captivating. There’s nothing quite like hearing Roger Daltrey and Pete Townsend talk about their past screw-ups and the qualms they had with each other over their tumultuous relationship (“he was drunk…he was late”). 

Though this album can easily be considered a worthy effort when it comes to the subset of matured bands, there are definitely some misses. “She Rocked My World” adopts Latin musical influences that feel misplaced for the band and is frankly, an uncomfortable song with its growling vocals and creepy intonations. “Danny and the Ponies” is a less than stellar end to an otherwise respectable release with an inexplicable amount of obvious and unenjoyable autotune. Painful dips into ill-fitting genres and someone who got a little too excited about voice correcting technology aside, when this album sounds like The Who famous in the 60s and 70s, there’s nothing better. 

“Got Nothing to Prove,” which should have been the closing track, belongs firmly in the 60s with eery sound replication—classic doses of reverb are utilized, and 60s Britpop vocals dominate with a soaring horns section. You would sincerely have a hard time convincing me that this song wasn’t recorded in the 60s, unearthed and thrown in as an unreleased song. When a listener gets a rare song that so closely echoes a lost era, there’s something to be said for a band not trying to stay relevant with current culture, but rather encapsulating a part of music history that only those who helped create it have the means to recreate it. 

I had the pleasure of seeing The Who in concert a couple of years back; although the crowd was certainly far from young, Daltrey was absolutely wailing, hitting all the expected vocal highs, and Townsend was energetic as ever on full-length guitar solos. It’s certainly easy to be skeptical about aging talent, but in that moment, it was clear that age wasn’t slowing them down one bit. Although age inevitably dims the stars of many musical careers, that doesn’t mean it’s game over. There’s no harm in allowing space for past artists, silencing remaining genius might lead to a world of missed surprises.

The post Album Review: “WHO” by The Who appeared first on KRUI Radio.

A cross between the dark and brooding vocals of Morrissey, the nostalgic arrangements of Randy Newman, and the twee stylings of Belle and Sebastian, British singer-songwriter Matt Maltese offers a darkly funny commentary of love absent from mainstream airwaves. In his debut album, Bad Contestant, Maltese had similar undertones of tortured love and dark humor, accompanied by darker instrumentation for its corresponding lyrical material. This time around, Maltese has truly gone through the wringer, as each song slowly spirals to unhealthy and obsessive attachment—but this time, the music only got dreamier. 

Krystal marks Maltese’s first foray into self-produced music—almost entirely recorded and produced in his bedroom studio within a four-month period. The title track, although treated as a woman’s name within the lyrics, was fittingly derived from the name of a mobile repair shop within sight of Maltese’s bedroom window as he wrote and recorded the album, “barely leaving the house.” The album’s humble origins and DIY production seem appropriate, as its contents are jarringly honest and personal. Each track grabs hold of the listener, persuading them to descend deeper into someone else’s tormented, lovesick heart.

The descent begins its dreary romp with “Rom-Com Gone Wrong,” providing a strong opener and gentle introduction to Maltese’s sardonic sense of humor. Maltese’s critical humor particularly touches on classically millennial lifestyles during the opening track, as Maltese deadpans, “Long baths, podcasts / I’m crying when I’m smashed / Haha, welcome to grieving” (Maltese later quips the devastating zinger, “I love my pets more than you,” in “Human Remains”).  

The harmonies particularly soar in this track as he laments his disillusioned love through the surface level lens of popular media. Maltese continues this more playful tone through “Tall Buildings” with simplistic, charming piano chords and gentle percussion. Followed by a sunny, surf rock style addition to the album, “Tokyo” provides an artful juxtaposition between romantic and brutal views of love. The verses follow a rhythmic, fragmented structure that allows the chorus and its harmonies to pleasantly overtake the listener during the breeziest point of the album. 

As satisfying as the album is as a whole in atmosphere and tone, a lull lacking dynamic choices and unique composition briefly affects the middle portion of the tracklist with “Wish You’d Ask Me,” “Jupiter,” and “Intolewd.” While still strong entries in Maltese’s overall body of work, the songs lack the inventiveness felt throughout the rest of the album. “Wish You’d Ask Me” and “Intolewd” in particular feel relatively straightforward compared to neighboring tracks with their monotonous delivery. “Jupiter” also misses Maltese’s signature witty self-deprecation and lyrical creativity, instead overladen with similes to illustrate the singer’s codependency on the respective love interest. Even so, when viewed cohesively rather than track-by-track, the album artfully juxtaposes its romantic atmosphere with every mention of polluted city air and doomed digital relations.

The stand-out track here comes in the form of “Curl Up and Die,” a song filled with lush harmonies and memorable lyrics. This track provides the thesis of the singer’s melancholic narrative: it’s either fierce love or death. “Curl Up and Die” presents an individual so entranced by another that he would do the unthinkable; Maltese blissfully croons that there was a time when “I’d kill all my friends for you.” However, such infatuation has faded, and now the individual’s romantic ties make him want to, quite simply, die. Instead of promoting a Valentine’s Day-style, commercialized version of love, Maltese presents a new perspective rarely seen in the vast collection of love songs—love is, at its core, violent and gritty. 

Another strong entry is the album’s closing track “When You Wash Your Hair.” Gone are the synths. Gone are the layered vocals. Gone are the production bells and whistles. What’s left is Maltese’s vulnerable vocals accompanied by unadorned piano. It feels incredibly intimate, allowing the listener to feel as if they were sitting in Maltese’s bedroom turned recording studio. This tonal shift feels appropriate as the song centers around the deeply personal act of cleansing. This time around, the singer is witnessing someone else’s torments and insecurities, rather than admitting his own through emotionally-charged lyrics:

“Your calm and naked crying / Washing off Chanel…You tried to be someone you are not.”

The track is perfectly melancholic and provides a surprisingly tender close to an album primarily driven by a maniacal narrator.

The pessimistic perspective and complicated view of love in Maltese’s album allows it to feel inventive and novel compared to other genre offerings. But, it admittedly may not be for everyone. When the lead singles for the album slowly released throughout the autumn months, I enthusiastically added “Curl Up and Die” to the communal playlist for my dorm room. As I settled into a night of studying, the beginning lines of the stunner track filled the space; while I got lost in the chorus’ rich instrumentation, my roommate bolted upright and asked with alarm: “Did he just say curl up and die?!” And although my roommate is probably hastily adding her name to the room change waiting list, for those who enjoy the darker side of things, Krystal delivers such pessimism and humor in spades. 

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