By Ashley Zimmerman
By Dana Krangel
By John Hood
By Ashley Zimmerman
By David Von Bader
By Sayre Berman
By Steve Brennan
By Ashley Zimmerman
Wall to Wall Moustache
"Welcome to the fucked-up chemical beats of Supersonic," announces this band's press kit, which means there's now more weight on the electronica bandwagon that was initially steered by the Chemical Brothers. Unlike that pioneering duo, however, Darren Pickles and Slapper Dave of Supersonic are a couple of twentysomethings who recently traded their guitars for turntables and scored a record deal after just two weeks of practicing together. They cite as influences Daft Punk and the Propellerheads: Those guys have been around for months.
Actually, Supersonic's major-label debut, Wall to Wall Moustache, is quite good: The beats are strong and the noises are nifty, which is about all one needs from club-oriented dance music. The true talent of Pickles and Slapper Dave is that they know the danger of letting a riff sit in a groove for too long. With one or two exceptions, the songs on this album move much too fast to wear out their welcome.
"Supercharger," the opening cut (and the band's original name, changed for copyright reasons), is certainly a blood-pumper: a crisp rhythm track, stuttering soul singers, plenty of yelling, and lots of menacing synthesizers. Pickles and Slapper Dave like to speed up and slow down their sound bites so that voices climb crazily, then go groaning into the lower registers. It's a nice trick, and one the duo uses to good effect on the house-style "Jim'll Fix It" and the downbeat "Boomer."
"Spacemaker Deluxe" and "Airport 77" concentrate less on beats and more on ear-tweaking effects such as jet engines, various bleeps 'n' blips, and layered voices. It's entertaining enough, but Wall to Wall Moustache has the same failing as most electronica albums: pacing. Halfway through this ten-song debut, the excitement wears off, and one's attention begins to wander. It doesn't help that the moodiest numbers ("Filters" and "Wall to Wall") appear at the end.
Supersonic -- and so many similar outfits -- beg the question: Is there any such thing as "bad" electronica? For all its supposed complexity, the music sometimes sounds suspiciously easy to manufacture. Still, this band's agile manipulation of found sounds and restless rhythms lifts it above the average knob-twirling outfit.
-- Rafer Guzman
Lets Get Killed
From Range Rovers with yammering car alarms to bridge-and-tunnel drunks still celebrating the Yankees' 1996 World Series victory, there's no shortage of noise in the city that never sleeps. In fact a recent New York Daily News cover story identified noise as the number-one quality-of-life complaint for residents. Who'd want to hear more of it?
David Holmes would. The Belfast DJ spent ten days last summer immersing himself in the noise of New York City, seeking out sound bites from the overall urban cacophony. The result is the thirteen-track Lets Get Killed, which mixes voices and stories with ambient and dance-oriented music.
A Seventies groove definitely runs through the album: rock-funk guitar, space-age synths, and unctuous jazz riffs. The title track documents the brutal events surrounding one man's grudge, while "Gritty Shaker" juxtaposes an astrologer's comical ranting with a funky soul vamp. With cuts like these two, and the NC-17-rated rap "Head Rush on Lafayette," Holmes almost achieves greatness.
The album's best songs, however, are its instrumentals. Holmes has said he composes as though he were scoring a movie, which is evident from the cool xylophone on "Rodney Yates," a moody version of the James Bond theme titled "Radio 7," and the dub-style "The Parcus & Madder Show." These are the songs that come closest to evoking the rawness and dynamism that makes New York City famous.
Overall Lets Get Killed falls just short of true innovation. As club music these tracks are fine, but they're not breaking any creative ground: Holmes' basic formula is to slap interviews on top of somewhat interesting lounge-funk. It makes for pleasant listening, but it's nothing that would keep a city-dweller awake at night.
-- Liesa Goins
There are records you come across every now and again that act as daydream catalysts. In other words you put on the music and, almost before you begin listening to it, your mind is shoved out into open thoughts like a boat into a stream. It's one of the best feelings you can have, and it's what you'll experience listening to JC Hopkins' debut, Athens by Night.
Hopkins is a fixture on San Francisco's music scene, and this record was made with the help of old friends like Barbara Manning and others from the legendary SF Seals. But if you've never heard Hopkins before, you're liable to feel as if you've landed on a new planet. It's a planet not much different from Earth, and yet Hopkins makes it feel alien and new again.
In that way Hopkins, who has been compared to Big Star and Tom Waits, sounds both fresh and familiar. His basic instruments are a guitar and his clear, midrange voice, though this album also includes piano, horns, and even a concertina. Some of the songs are lushly orchestrated wonders: The title song and "Diva Antipathy" feel like a lover's hand on your neck. Others songs, such as "Amsterdam" and "Lydia's Theme," sound like the kind of thing you might hear around a Hungarian Gypsy campfire.