focus: bon iver by bon iver

When Justin Vernon retreated to the confines of his father's wooded Wisconsin cabin during the winter of 2006/2007, something truly magical happened. Stricken with Mono and sinking in the tumultuous wake of a failed band and relationship, Vernon found inspiration in the surrounding ice and isolation. For Emma, Forever Ago, the 2007 album that resulted from his excursion, was deeply affecting. The circumstances and surroundings of its origins were captured and conveyed in haunting, hibernal hues. Somehow, in vexing his demons, Vernon managed to crystallize the essence of his emotion and implant it, perfectly intact, into each individual track. The process proved so therapeutic that he dubbed the project Bon Iver, an easier-to-pronounce simplification of Bon Hiver, French for "Good Winter."

The acclaim and accolades, all very much deserved, accelerated Vernon's ascent to notoriety and earned him all the typical marquees of indie stardom: sweeping tour schedules, collaborations with Kanye, and a track on the New Moon Motion Picture Soundtrack. As time passed, the whispers of doubt regarding Bon Iver's ability to follow-up with the same manner of success grew increasingly audible. This time there were expectations. Fans, budgets, and studios added variables to the simple equation of a vintage drop-tuned guitar in an inconsequential rural retreat. How would the man (now the band, for one thing) manage to rekindle that magic and avoid the common "sophomore slump" that befalls so many promising artists in similar situations?

Luckily for everyone, Vernon found the answer. To wind up at the same musical destination, he headed off in the totally opposite direction. Seven of the 10 track titles on Bon Iver's self-titled follow-up refer to cities, and an eighth, "Towers," was written about the high-rise, communal living dorms dotting the University of Wisconsin, Eau Claire campus. In terms of setting, Bon Iver couldn't have picked a more disparate motif.

Remarkably, though, the sound still exudes the vulnerability and genuineness so beautifully imbued in its predecessor. Listening to Emma, one envisions Vernon's face bathed in light next to a roaring fire, guitar in lap, as he reflects upon the flames reflected in his eyes. Troubling emotions slowly emerge as specters of himself, wailing in empathetic harmony as they are evoked and exorcised into the surrounding darkness. On Bon Iver, Vernon strolls down each city's dimly lit streets and serenades its sleeping citizens. Gradually, they awaken and accompany him through the boulevards with a rousing, ever-enhancing array of instrumentation that echoes for miles and miles. So much of the band's success is attributable to mastery of mood, and somehow, using entirely different methodologies, it's managed to replicate that feat.

Few albums are truly perfect, though, and this one is not without its flaw. For 9 songs, Bon Iver builds the type of tension and expectation typically released in some gloriously eargasmic final track. However, when the big moment arrives on closer "Beth/Rest," the result is probably not what you're hoping for or expecting. Instead of some breathtaking symphonic climax, Phil Collins busts out of the town hall with a fog-emitting keytar and marches through the city square as he overzealously plunks out a piano line dripping with his trademark synth effects. I applaud the willingness of Vernan to take a risk and go for the jugular, but this sound is too blunt an instrument for that.

Taken as a 9-track LP, Bon Iver embarks on a sustainable new direction for the band and is evidence of a successful transition from one-off wonder to durable outfit. Assuredly, when the third album drops, more people will be listening than ever before.

focus: sorry for party rocking by LMFAO

Los Angeles-based duo LMFAO first introduced the world to their brand of club-pop with the 2008 EP Party Rock. Consisting of DJ/Rapper/Producers Redfoo and SkyBlu, the group’s familial ties (as uncle and nephew, respectively) are rooted in their common relation (as son and grandson) to Berry Gordy, Jr., founder of Motown Records. The Party Rock EP was expanded to an LP of the same name in 2009, which received mixed reviews praising its feel-good frivolity and panning its distinguishable motivation: profit, not passion. “Party Rock” isn’t music that happens to be conducive to clubbing, it’s a product made explicitly to cash in on it. In that sense, it’s no different than Bacardi, glow sticks, and perilously short miniskirts.

Listening to the band’s new album, Sorry for Party Rocking, does nothing but reaffirm those points. The bigger problem, though, is that this latest offering shifts what was a tenable (if unremarkable) balance into decidedly negative territory.

The most conspicuous indicator of this trend is the album’s production. If it was, or already is, popular, LMFAO will give it a go. The vocals on "All Night Long," for example, are awash in Auto-Tune, and the majority of tracks rely upon it to a debilitating degree. Cher scored innovative points for busting it out on Believe, but that was 1998. T-Pain gets some kudos as well for sparking its proliferation in the mid-2000s, but its resurgence has already infiltrated the industry to such a nauseating extent that Jay-Z released "D.O.A (Death of Autotune)" as a single in 2009, Time declared it one of their “50 Worst Inventions” in 2010, and Wikipedia’s article on the proprietary vocoder suggests that visitors “See Also: Overproduction.” Album opener "Rock the Beat II" even devolves into dubstep. No, LMFAO, not even in jest. The whole album has been spit-shined to the point that it should be sold with tweezers for hygienic handling, and a health advisory should be prominently displayed next to its Parental counterpart.

Further magnifying its case for caution are the lyrics, which prompt a frenetic search for the nearest hazmat suit. “I’m gonna get you wet,” SkyBlu croons (through a vocoder, I might add) on "Champagne Showers," “I’m gonna make you sweat…a night you won’t forget.” As a veteran party rocker, SkyBlu should know that one, if only out of common courtesy, offers a drink before making such assertions. Elsewhere, he boasts that he’s “running through these hos like Drano,” which elicits all sorts of cringe-worthy implications and makes me wonder if the same chemical could be used to unclog his neural pathways. When the lyrics aren’t sexual, they’re stupid. On "Hot Dog," a bonus track from the iTunes Deluxe album, he spends 2:27 telling the world that if his late night drunk dog isn’t bacon-wrapped, well, by golly, he won’t pay for it. Without major label backing, LMFAO would undoubtedly be forced to take their own advice and "Put that A$$ to Work" in a 9 to 5.

The album does have one redeeming aspect preventing its plunge into epic echelons of suck, and that’s lead single "Party Rock Anthem." Lyrics aside, this song is proof of concept for their brand, proof that it can be just as infectious and blissfully brainless as the post-apartyrockalyptic zombies in the Thriller-inspired music video (which, true to form, includes blatant product placement for Dr. Dre's Beats earbuds). The drums are tight, the pulsing synth right on time, and the flow isn’t stemmed by Auto-Tune. In fact, the beats throughout the album are serviceable and may even spawn some enjoyable remixes ("One Day" comes to mind here). Still, situations like this are the reason iTunes offers singles purchases.

Sorry for Party Rocking incorporates what industry boardrooms deem marketable and manufactures it for the masses, but at least they got the anthem right. Without it, I doubt if even God himself would grant the forgiveness half-heartedly sought in its begrudging title.

3/10

spotlight: the tallest man on earth

If someone were to sneak a few of Kristian Matsson's songs onto your iPod, you probably wouldn't recognize exactly what you were getting. The first reason is that the artist would be listed as his stage name, The Tallest Man on Earth. The second is that, despite the Dylan-esque sound, sublime lyricism, and feverish finger plucking of his well-worn acoustic guitar, English isn't even his first language.

This wouldn't be the first instance of an indie outfit trying to justify its sound by suppressing its origins. Take Mumford and Sons as a comparative example. Listening to the rolling banjo, countryish harmonies, and unmistakable southern drawl flavoring lead singer Marcus Mumford's vocals, you'd assume he'd grown up down south playing on front porches in a rocking chair. My Momma always said, "Never assume, lest you make an ass out of u and me," and she'd be right. Born in California, Mumford moved to the UK when he was 6 years old and rose to prominence as part of the West London folk scene. I don't even know what that is, but color me skeptical. What's next? German country? And Mumford is all of 24 years old. His backing band (thankfully) aren't his sons. He simply tacked the last bit on as a tribute to the nepotism of small-time American business. I like the band's sound, I really do, but it lacks the authenticity to be truly great. If I want to hear that kind of music, I'll bring a jug of sweet tea through the screen door and offer a glass to someone whose tunes actually reflect local culture and life experience.

At a cursory listen, you'd assume Matsson's employing the same trick. He readily admits that his musical ambitions were fueled by his love of Dylan, and it's easy to dismiss his work as a Swedish fanboy's take on that well-worn genre. But remember what my Momma said. Look closely at the album cover for his most recent EP, Sometimes the Blues is Just a Passing Bird. That half-liter can of beer is undeniably a Carlsberg, Swedish kroner lay atop the table, and all the electrical sockets are European. If he's trying to conceal his origins, he's doing a damn poor job.

So what accounts for all the pastoral imagery evoked by his tattered voice? Surpisingly, it's his Swedish upbringing. Matsson hails from the small town of Dalarna, and the surrounding landscape probably looks remarkably like that seen through the open window behind his coffee table. Photographed from a more picturesque perspective, it's easy to imagine how life in Dalarna could make one attuned to the great outdoors. It also explains how he could have put in the practice required to become an astonishingly proficient acoustic guitarist (among other instruments): there doesn't appear to be anything else to do.



The best thing about Matsson, though, is his ability to meld talent and experience into a soft, shimmering sonic alloy. The instrumental minimalism is beautifully counterbalanced by the complexity of his arrangements. It's a musical paradox: effortless and impossible at the same time. Nowhere is this better displayed than on "Drying of the Lawns," a track from his second LP, The Wild Hunt. Upon close listen, you'll notice an alternating bass line kept in perfect tempo while higher-pitched triads are plucked on the top strings. I've tried to play along with it, and I'm convinced my hands will decay before they acquire the coordination required to replicate his patterns.

Then there's the lyrics. Scandinavians are notoriously good at English, but I don't know too many native speakers capable of crafting such emotive concepts. Take another song from The Wild Hunt, "Thousand Ways." "I have lived for ages I'm a thousand turns of tides," Matsson sings. "I'm a thousand wakes of springtime and a thousand infant cries." How many people write from God's perspective? How many could better articulate that perspective? "I'll always be blamed for the sun going down on us all," he continues. "But I'm the light in the middle of every man's fall." I could espouse an entire entry detailing the metaphysical implications of that statement. To be fair, some of his phrases occasionally delve into incoherent realms of abstraction, but his ability to cram mountains of meaning into melancholy melodies is, well, monumental.

What Matsson has done here is take the simplest of songwriting, pair it with a geriatric genre, and come out with something that is somehow new and engaging. Rather than mask his background and go faux-folk (I'm looking at you, Mumford), Matsson has integrated his experiences and created an innovative product. Even if his success somehow spawns a "West Sweden folk scene," he'll always be its forefather. As the Tallest Man on Earth, he'll simply peer outward over imitators and off to the mountains beyond.