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.
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.
Let’s take care of the bottom line, first — Hanadairo is a welcome return from Hajime Chitose, and it’s an album just as good as the first two she released at the turn of the decade.
That said, the creative contribution of Ueda Gen is sorely missed (at least by me.)
Ueda was the main songwriting contributor on Hainumikaze and Nomad Soul. He crafted that other-worldly mix of traditional music and pop that suited Hajime’s singular voice, mixing in dub and other musical styles while doing so.
As a result, Hajime set herself further apart from pop stars chirping over a techno beat. The music was appealing and just this side of bizarre.
On Hanadairo, Ueda contributes only three songs. The rest of the album is handled by an army of other writers, and the resulting album leans more to a mainstream pop sound.
It takes a long time for the charms of Hatakeyama Miyuki’s third studio album of original music, Reflection, to reveal themselves.
A very, very long time.
In other words, this album is pretty boring.
Hatakeyama has a beautiful croon. When she sings really strong material, it’s some of the most moving performances ever recorded. When the material isn’t up to par, her voice is the only reason to keep listening.
The pre-release single, "Ai ni Melody", hinted Hatakeyama was paired with some promisingly strong material. Reflection, unfortunately, reveals all that strong material was squandered on the single.
Don’t read this review expecting Morrissey punditry.
I’m probably one of the few aging hipsters who never listened to the Smiths during his formative years, so I’m pretty new to canon of Steven Patrick M.
That said, I actually like Ringleader of the Tormentors.
Even without knowing Morrissey’s previous work — I’ve only ever listened to The Queen Is Dead, and that was just five months ago — it’s pretty clear a forcefulness and clarity drives the album.
I’ve gone on record a number of times with my terrible presumption about rock music by gay musicians. Simply put, lesbians have all the good rock bands.
The gay male stereotype is rooted in fabulousness, and the likes of Rufus Wainwright, Elton John and the gay contingent of Scissor Sisters are nothing if not fabulous.
So the nitty-gritty of rock ‘n’ roll is best handled by lesbians — the Butchies, Le Tigre, portions of Sleater-Kinney and Luscious Jackson. The most visible gay male rockers are the guys in Pansy Division, but some of their stuff gets perilously close to the Dead Milkmen.
Thank diety for Ex-Boyfriends. The 2/3-gay trio gets tagged as emo, but these guys rock hard, and their songwriting is biting and smart.
OK. This is what Franz Ferdinand should sound like.
Vola & the Oriental Machine have succeeded where countless ’80s revivalists and the Back Horn (Ikiru Sainou?) have failed. They’ve taken the dance rhythms of New Wave but maintained the urgency of punk.
It’s a conundrum — do you dance or do you mosh? Fucking hell, do both.
I’ll admit — I blame Nakao Kentaro for busting up Number Girl.
He was the guy who wanted to leave, and recognizing a spell would be broken if any one member of Number Girl were to depart, the band called it quits.
I miss Number Girl on the days when Mukai Shuutoku thinks he’s something he’s not. (Avant-garde improviser? Um. No.) I miss Number Girl on the days when Tabuchi Hisako gets lost in the bloodthirsty butchers mix. (Helloooo, birdy!)
So of all the members who have the most to prove, I was expecting Nakao to knock my fucking socks off. And secretly, I was hoping he would.