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By Simon Howell - The Listening Ear - 02/04/2008

I come here to praise Hot Chip, not to bury them. You see, there's a backlash going on. Many will have us thinking that these fine gentlemen are ironic hucksters, interpreting their infectious dance-pop songs as either perversions of "blue-eyed soul" or as obnoxious pranksters (depending on who you ask). I think there's a simpler explanation for Hot Chip's tendency to indulge every possible whim within -- and, occasionally, without -- the often sonically stifling realm of indie-dance; to these ears, the UK group are the closest thing we have to a new XTC. Where that group used new wave as a starting point for their flight-of-fancy explorations of the boundaries of pop and rock -- and some of the most inventive songwriting in pop history -- Hot Chip are taking their dance-based pop to places no one else will, or perhaps even can, dare.

Made in the Dark features the most dazzling opening tracks to grace an album yet this year, from the appropriately widescreen opener "Out at the Pictures," to the vaguely sinister, Todd Rundgren-assisted stomper "Shake a Fist," to the ridiculously good-natured single, "Ready for the Floor." The problems for many listeners begin with the admittedly eccentric "Bendable Poseable." The track delights in toying with rhythm and timbre in a way I can't recall hearing in a pop group for quite some time -- from Joe Goddard's deadpan pseudo-rap filling the rhythmic gaps (or "holes", as the lyrics would have it) in the first pre-"chorus," to a late key change accompanied by head-spinning synth slides. This deranged cacophony, while too much for some, actually sets the tone quite nicely for the album's best ballad, "We're Looking for a Lot of Love," which doesn't quite reach the seductive heights of The Warning's "Look After Me," but instead succeeds more generally as an RnB ballad so straightforward and flawlessly executed that's it's easy to imagine R. Kelly making a mega-hit out of it -- with melismatic embellishment, of course.

The album's second half, following the strangely under-produced but nevertheless effective title ballad, is more problematic. "One Pure Thought" is solid enough as the group's most "rock" song yet, but there's something off-putting about the opening minutes, where its opening riff gives way to a stuttering rhythm track and an insistent vocal chant. The track finds its footing eventually, but remains a bit of a slog compared to the confidently constructed pop tunes we've already heard. In fact, only the LCD Soundsystem swagger of "Hold On" and the off-kilter pop of "Wrestlers" (which recalls departed heroes The Beta Band) match the infectious energy of that opening run. Made in the Dark turns out to be the album equivalent of Spielberg's A.I. -- if you just pretend the thing ends when Haley Joel Osment is trapped on the bottom of the ocean (here represented by "Wrestlers"), you'll have a much more satisfying time. The funny thing is, though, that even if you hated A.I. you probably still remember it reasonably well. Hot Chip, too, manage to stay stuck in the minds of even their detractors. In the music world, at least, that's an asset anyone would be happy to possess.

Tune in to A Listening Ear with Simon every Tuesday from 1pm - 2pm

By Comma Chameleon - Semicolon Cancer; - 03/04/2008

The biggest frustration with Saturnalia is that it almost guarantees success on paper. The blueprint for the album appears to have been to establish an impressive atmospheric front, and up the ante with each step, or beat, as Mark Lanegan and Greg Dulli close in on the enemy, the listener, in a pincer movement. Most of the album is a brick wall of sound created by collaborators Joseph Arthur and Queens of the Stone Age member Troy van Leeuwen (among others) -- something that both vocalists try to break through as it surges higher and higher; but there is no contact, there is no attack, as if such force is beyond their control.

As there was in past efforts -- a subtly inoffensive yet passive-aggressive vocal effect in ancient Screaming Trees tunes by Lanegan, and a strained but confident heart-breaker’s wail of agony from former Afghan Whig and current Twilight Singer Greg Dulli -- these trademarks are gone, and the two lovely voices have awkwardly merged.

Regardless of other thoughts I’ve read concerning Saturnalia, the two voices do not perform well together, with the exception of the instances of Lanegan’s more substantive singing voice pushing to the fore, which it does quite often. You will not hear a meat grinder in Lanegan’s voice, nor Dulli’s raven shriek, but they both croon, and the voices merge as if they were handling a multi-tracker and pitch-shifter. The high production quality on the record, in muting the effectiveness of the finest talent and biggest selling point to every fan who has anticipated this recording, which is the screech and scrawl of vocal chords and collaborative instruments, has effectively ruined this album. The gloom is still there. But neither of these fine gentlemen was intended to sound so clean.

This does not sound like the Afghan Whigs, over a decade later, despite the vocal assistance from former Whig, Martina Topley-Bird; if any parallels must be made, then the groundwork for the tone of this album can be found in the rougher corners of Lanegan’s recent work, both solo and with acts such as QOTSA and Mondo Generator. Dulli’s voice has mellowed in tone, and if you can recall his screams in primo Whigs era, circa early nineties, forget it. He’s sunk with Lanegan to the dismal depths of a lightless sea, such as if their voices had been recorded underwater, or at least “seven stories underground.” The edges of both vocalists have been lost in the mix, something which previously had been a crucial element to each of these men in respective projects, in propelling their lyrics and expelling their emotion. The biggest and nicest surprise was found in Lanegan’s modernized worker’s song, the slightly groovy “Bete Noire.” Apart from that, the meat that these two feed off of, their penchant for choruses, is a feast of tattered remains.

Put simply, they sound like they’re not into it. They can’t enjoy the freedom of creativity that they have on their own, even recently, with Dulli’s Twilight Singers and Lanegan’s Soulsavers. Enjoy the atmosphere -- since the meal has lost its bite, you may not be asking for seconds. From this record, which is still good in many aspects, I can recognize the talent in these individuals whom I admire over almost all others in their own respects, and I will be anticipating the next releases by both, waiting on tenterhooks…or meat hooks.

Choice Tracks:"The Stations" and "Bete Noire"

Tune in to Semicolon Cancer; with Comma Chameleon every Sunday from 9am - 10:30am

By Jessica Valentine - The Incinerator - 12/29/2007

Hearing the sounds of howling wind and rainfall to introduce a black metal album is in no way unexpected. Being confronted a minute later with the growing sigh of an electric cello, however, is -- that is, unless you’ve already taken a peek at the insert art of Vhernen’s self-titled debut full-length album. I must say, the surprise is a pleasant one.

A one-man effort from the Faroe Islands, Vhernen is self-classified as “Funeral Black,” and the label fits. The album feels like black metal filtered through a snowfall that would do ice-loving Abbath of Immortal more than proud. Constant long-bowed strokes of the cello with very little vibrato cast the already misty guitars into a bleak near-monotone. The drum programming is conservative, and even where mid-paced blasts are used, they seem to create an eerie reverb effect that only adds to the hypnotic pulse of the music. Even the razor-sharp vocals are dulled by the oppressive ambience from which they only partially manage to emerge.

The structure of each song tends to be as ethereal as any other aspect of the music, the slow and largely unvaried progression communicating a sense of mournful tedium which has resulted in many sources describing Vhernen as “Black / Doom.” Nevertheless, guitar, cello, and synth-led melodies stretch rather than plod through the thick atmosphere; frequently, one instrument rises unhesitatingly to first seamlessly intertwine with, then subtly replace another for the lead. The result is a startling, face-forward plunge into apathetic coldness.

The album’s last track, “Lopransfjordur/Ende,” is an interesting denouement to such a charged musical experience. Nearly ten minutes of minimal ambience followed by five of a relatively tentative, classical-feeling, and repetitious yet in the end unresolved melody add a touch of poignancy to an otherwise uncompromising album.

In the end, what is so successful about Vhernen is its simplicity. With no one structural or compositional element prominent or easily graspable, he stops no short of and goes no further than creating an atmosphere of palpable bleakness. Maybe after years of living on a tiny island in the middle of the Norwegian Sea, mournful solitude becomes second nature; in any case, it certainly does sound good.

Tune in to The Incinerator with Jessica every Saturday from 8pm - 9pm

By Jessica Valentine - The Incinerator - 10/17/2007

If you're considering getting into Paths of Possession, chances are you're a fan of famed vocalist George "Corpsegrinder" Fisher's work with Cannibal Corpse. I'll say this now: If you're looking for your next "Hammer Smashed Face," inquire elsewhere.

The main problem with The End of the Hour is its composition, which is as lifeless and non-committal as the "concept" that ties the album together (a fuzzy, insipid tale of a man whose self-pity -- sorry, I mean suffering -- somehow turns him into a murderous demon who brings about the apocalypse. Or something.) Forgettable, repetitive riffs sloppily strung together by sporadic pointless breakdowns provide the groundwork for aimlessly floating and suspiciously Gothenburg-esque melodies that occasionally promise some satisfaction but fail to deliver. Even the album's guitar solos, such as the one in the opening track, "Memory Burn," seemingly rise out of nowhere and, in the end, effect more confusion than catharsis. George Fisher's otherwise decent vocal performance also tires quickly due to the lack of rhythmic variance, though he does manage to mix it up occasionally with some rasps and shrieks.

These problems aside, however, The End of the Hour does have some strengths. The overall musicianship is sturdy, if largely uninspiring. The melody in the beginning of "I Am Forever" almost succeeds in communicating the building sense of inevitability that I believe the band intended, and that in "Poisoned Promise Land" actually does succeed in being quite engaging overall. Furthermore, the album's production, courtesy of Hate Eternal's Erik Rutan, is extremely flattering, with chunky guitars and the prominent, fluid bass offering an overall smooth, pleasing sound.

While not without its redeeming qualities, the two most defining characteristics I can assign to Paths of Possession’s The End of the Hour are boring and directionless. With improved songwriting, this band could probably release a fairly decent album; until then, save it for background noise.

Tune in to The Incinerator with Jessica every Saturday from 8pm - 9pm