I don’t want to dub Nick Lachey’s second solo album, What’s Left of Me, with the distinction of being so bad, it’s good.
Because it is bad. In so many innumerable ways.
I know I’ve been entertained by the album, but to call it "good" because of its badness? That’s a line I can’t cross.
But the badness of What’s Left of Me is an amazing feat, something at the very least to be appreciated.
I caught Eluvium at SXSW 2005 when I showed up early for mono’s set at the Temporary Residence showcase.
Sole member Matt Cooper alternately performed on electric guitar and piano. Although the long, fuzzy pieces he created with his pedal effects screamed "post-rock", it was his piano pieces that caught my attention.
They aren’t anything complex or technically challenging, and they’re really only a few steps above Enya in terms of harmonic adventurousness.
But I still like listening to them anyway.
Back when I worked at a record store, the news of an artist’s death made my coworkers and me speculate on how much a spike we’d get in selling that artist’s CDs.
György Ligeti passed away on June 12, 2006, and I contributed to that spike a few days afterward. I asked the classical expert at the store where I worked for some recommendations, and I ended up with a Sony disc of string quartets and duets and a disc of piano etudes.
With 20th Century classical music, it’s far too easy for living composers to wank in the guise of dissonance. I listened to a lot of modern classical music back in college, and as high-minded as that art world can be, it’s no more immune to mediocrity than rock music.
Ligeti is the real thing.
My brother and sisters took an instant disliking to Tears for Fears back in 1985, and at first, I agreed with them. I think it was "Shout", however, that made me break ranks and earn their pre-adolescent scorn.
Songs from the Big Chair ended up influencing me as a musician. I was taking my first steps as a songwriter in 1986, and "The Working Hour" seemed to leak its way into the stuff I wrote.
Rolling Stone magazine once described Tears for Fears as the missing link between Sade and the Cure. "The Working Hour" is perhaps emblematic of that bridge — there’s the requisite ’80s saxophone and that DX-7 piano. But at its heart, it’s still post-punk.
It was easier being a mono fan back in 2000. The band was just starting out, and their earth-shaking sound held so much potential.
Six years and numerous releases later, it’s easy to anticipate to course of a mono piece. Slow, quiet start. Slow, gradual build. Big, destructive climax. Repeat. Conclude.
As expansive as the group’s pieces are, they’re certainly confined to a very specific set of parameters. So how can the band make one album distinctive from the other? The easiest answer is not to.
Bleach — or Bleach03 or Bleachmobile — has the odd distinction of being one of my favorites bands whom I can’t listen to for very long.
The band’s music reaches a level of intensity requiring a very specific mindset to properly appreciate. In other words, that shit goes to a dark place, and I can’t go there often.
Bleach albums have historically clocked in at the half-hour mark — short by any other standard, but a perfect length for music as punishing as theirs. So the fact the band’s fourth album, Migi mo Hidari mo Shihaisuru wa Kyoo mo Niku wo Kui Yodare wo Tarasu, clocks in at 41 minutes feels more like eternity.
I had such ambitions for June. I was going to write a bunch of reviews for Gay Pride Month, and I was going to make a big deal about it. But then I got distracted first by Eponymous 4, then by a visit to the emergency room which revealed stones in my gallbladder.
(That’s the other reason my updates for July have been scarce — I’ve been recovering from surgery for the past few weeks.)
I did manage to write about Dylan Rice, Sacha Sacket, Ex-Boyfriends, Antony and the Johnsons and Morrissey, who won’t even confirm what kind of sex he has (but he’s gay enough.)
This round-up features other artists, mostly culled from music coverage in the Advocate and Out magazines, of whom I was going to write.
One of the reasons I haven’t been posting much is because I’ve been working on my bedroom studio project, Eponymous 4. I like to think everything I listen to — from Duran Duran to Number Girl — influences what I do with Eponymous 4, but if I had to make a direct parallel between it and other bands, I’d have to namedrop Tears for Fears and Do As Infinity.
Rolling Stone once described Tears for Fears as the missing link between the Cure and Sade, which would be something of an apt description for Do As Infinity. The duo could rock out, but not at the expense of a chart-friendly pop hook.
Do As Infinity disbanded in 2005, and it’s members have gone on to separate projects, round up here for your convenience.
From a creative perspective, Utada Hikaru hasn’t produced a steady, consistent output. And that’s not a bad thing.
Utada released her debut album First Love at the age of 17, and from the start, she was described as "mature". She established a high mark that even she has had trouble surpassing.
Her second album Distance threw in some clever experiments while not alienating her fan base, all the while hinting at some hidden depths.
Utada’s third album, Deep River, was rushed to keep the momentum of career afloat, while her English-language debut, Exodus, boxed her into an incongruous, American sound, absolutely at odds with her writing.
Without the missteps of those last two albums, her fourth Japanese-language album, Ultra Blue, wouldn’t be the definitive creative statement it is. Seven years into an incredibly successful and lucrative career, Utada Hikaru has recorded the album she always had in her.
Ultra Blue is the sound of Utada coming of age, and it’s her strongest work so far.
There’s no need for me to write this review because Keikaku said everything I want to say about Zansaian. That’s what I get for snoozing on the job — I get scooped.
If you don’t want to click on the link, here’s an excerpt which sums up the album nicely:
Cocco’s purportedly tumultuous psyche may have brought her career to a halt, but it was clearly fertile material for her to draw upon. Without it, the ensuing placidity has ushered in an album of blandness.
That’s better than what I would have said. I still, however, would like to posit about the psyche of Cocco.