BARDO POND

Ticket Crystals

(ATP)

1/2

Isobel Sollenberger is quite the enchanting flutist. You never would've guessed this from the bulk of Bardo Pond's catalog, where ruthless guitar overdrive engulfs her woodwind contributions, along with everything else not feeding through a network of effects pedals. But since leaving Matador Records in 2003, the Philadelphia psych quintet have discovered an instrumental balance, broadening their sound by bringing those lost facets to the front. "Destroying Angel" opens Ticket Crystals with thunderous fuzz-box power chords and rumbles for three minutes until a medieval flute melody cracks the noise like sunbeams through storm clouds. For that beautiful moment, Bardo Pond cut through the fog. Then, in true Bardo form, they hold that note for seven more minutes. Later, "FC II" lasts 18. Nevertheless, nothing here is quite as punishing as the title-cut climax to 1995's Bufo Alvarius Amen 29:15. The note they hold is a good one. But now that their arrangements are no longer buried, it would be nice to see Bardo placing song on equal ground as sound. The band haven't crafted many moments in their 13 years capable of sticking with the listener once the records end, and the closest Crystals comes is "Isle." This epic multitracks Sollenberger's glorious alto to sound like a catatonic Sandy Denny, then adds flute and acoustic guitar. Gently, it beckons you forth with whispers of "I've found the door," before bringing the noise and pounding that sentiment into your head. It's a defining moment, and it's got the clarity that was once missing. But like much of Bardo Pond's output, it could stand to linger in our memories just a bit longer. JOHN VETTESE

FINAL FANTASY

He Poos Clouds

(Tomlab)

At the end of the first track of the new Final Fantasy album, He Poos Clouds, one-man-band Owen Pallett repeats the line "Your rock and roll has gone away," a fitting beginning to a difficult, rewarding album. The first time I listened to it, I was chopping broccoli in the kitchen and all I heard were melodramatic strings, fey vocals, and an almost Broadway-musical sensibility. Not exactly broccoli-chopping music. Later I sat down with the headphones, got serious, and was rewarded for my efforts. This remarkably literate album offers references to Japanese novelist and self-disemboweler Yukio Mishima and Flann O'Brien's hilarious, groundbreaking, and underappreciated novel At Swim-Two-Birds as it proceeds from one crescendo to the next, dangerously beautiful and unabashedly symphonic.

Pallett is a classically trained musician who's arranged strings for Canadian darlings the Arcade Fire and Hidden Cameras, adding daring texture to both groups' expansive pop. At times his lyrics sound like Stephin Merritt on a nasty espresso binge; at others he channels Sondheim at his most elaborate, using violin, loop pedal, and piano to accentuate, disrupt, and generally provide ominous background to tales of morphine, swimming pools, reincarnation, and seppuku. Pallett expands the boundaries of pop music so vigorously that it seems as though he's just seeing how far he can go.

Pallett's website describes the contents of He Poos Clouds as "an atheist explanation of magical phenomena, Yukio Mishima, Julia Kristeva, Galina Ustvolskaya and ragtime, love of video game characters, the dying, Pern and modern dating, the link between condominium retail and impotence, Bartok's second string quartet, Irish metafictional characters and baking." Um, yeah. Listen to this thing, though. Put on the headphones and give it some time. It just might change the way you think about pop music. CHRIS McCANN

JAPAN AIR TRANSFER

Spectacular Vernacular

(Not The Usual Shortcut Home)

1/2

While Spectacular Vernacular may sound like a self-released debut straight from the math-rock crest circa 1995, it's actually a 2006 release from three Seattleites. Intricately layered instrumental guitar rock doesn't often lend much material for a thorough critique, what with the lack of lyrics and tangible moods to identify. The guitars here are jaunty and clean, with lots of ups and downs, herks and jerks, and time changes and spot-on drumming. Quiet electronic accents creep in and out, adding little to the equation. Similarly, the egalitarian production job from Supply and Demand Studios adds little mystery, while also managing to avoid convoluting the instruments' detailed interplay. Think about an aspiring Don Caballero protégé, minus the troubling genius of Damon Che, and also nix the recording budget. This is not to say the musicianship here lacks skill—quite the contrary. Every instrument gets expert treatment. Japan Air Transfer lose a few points for said instruments almost always doing what you expect them to do, but that's not all that's important here. Vernacular sounds a lot like something we've heard before, maybe something unfinished, but it also doesn't sound like the product of a band that's trying to do more than that yet, and that's a very two-and-a-half-stars place to be. GRANT BRISSEY

CELTIC FROST

Monotheist

(Century Media)

In the 13 years since Swiss proto-black/death-metal trio Celtic Frost last released an album, we have seen the introduction of MP3s, CD burners, and online file sharing—all of which have prompted record labels (and bands) to institute various security measures to ensure that new music doesn't become available for free on the internet before it can be sold in stores. The thinking goes that if fans can download the album for free before it's even in the racks, there's a decent chance some of them won't bother spending the money when the shit actually comes out. Fine, we get it.

It boggles the mind, however, what with all the technology available to prevent Monotheist from being plastered all over the Inter-Hole before its release date, that Celtic Frost would condone (or Century Media would implement) the insertion of a high-frequency tone—a tone which occasionally corresponds with the timbre and tonal quality of the music itself (and then, suddenly, doesn't)—into review/promotional copies of Monotheist EVERY 30 SECONDS FOR THE DURATION OF THE CD. Thus, we have rumbling riff, ominous vocals, drum thunder, black-metal belch, BEEEEEEP!; operatic female vocal intro, plodding drum beat, charred electronic ambience, BEEEEEEP!, and so on, EVERY 30 SECONDS FOR THE DURATION OF THE CD. As a result, reviewing Monotheist in any conventional sense is not only pointless, it requires selective hearing and a willing suspension of disbelief. After all, what reviewers have been provided with is not representative of the work itself (i.e., what fans are potentially buying)—and apparently neither Celtic Frost nor Century Media care enough about the music to preserve its structural integrity. So why should we give a fuck? J. BENNETT

ROOTS TONIC MEETS BILL LASWELL

Roots Tonic Meets Bill Laswell

(ROIR)

1/2

For a while, you could hardly spit without hitting an ad or poster for Matisyahu, the Hasidic Jew reggae/rap go-getter from White Plains, New York, shown during his promotional blitzkrieg dressed in full traditional garb. Roots Tonic, then, is his backing band, which is how they hooked up with prolific bassist/producer Bill Laswell (who produced Matisyahu's heavily pushed album, Youth). You could write an encyclopedia based solely on Laswell's body of work, but lately he's increasingly tended toward reggae and dub structures, taking on projects like these and last year's Trojan Dub Massive: Chapter One and Chapter Two. Those releases found Laswell carefully and subtly remixing selections from the massive vaults of legendary dub label Trojan's back catalog. But Roots Tonic Meets Bill Laswell is very much contemporary dub, what with the exquisite production, crisp tones, and a notable presence in the room. The best dub transports you out of the room, with its ancient, otherworldly patterns. Those on Roots Tonic Meets Bill Laswell are fine humdrum melodies: Take "Employees Must Wash Your Hands," with its strutting guitar, fly-by sound effects, and ethereal keyboards. The band is tight, and the production intent, but the track would sound better all warped out, with some old, heavy-analog reverb, and grittier production. Because that's how dub is meant to be heard, from dust-covered loudspeakers, outside in the hot sun, when your senses aren't quite all there. Roots Tonic and Laswell have created an album of headphone dub, which is a very American thing to do. GRANT BRISSEY

NILS PETTER MOLVÆR

An American Compilation

(Thirsty Ear)

Norwegian trumpeter Nils Petter Molvær was one of the earliest established jazz musicians to dive headfirst into jazztronica, fusing an improviser's knowledge with cutting-edge technology. On 1998's Khmer and 2001's Solid Ether, he reached far beyond previous jazz-and-beat experiments, creating organic-sounding music that didn't rely on static drum patterns. But those CDs were made for the austere ECM label, a company known for its delicate mixture of classical production techniques and forward-thinking jazz, not electronic music. If Molvær wanted to get his new sound across to those outside of the jazz ghetto, which is filled with tight-asses who didn't accept it anyway, he'd have to take matters into his own hands. He signed a licensing deal with Universal for his subsequent albums, but that contract only extended to Europe.

Fast-forward to 2006, and Molvær not only has an American label, he has perhaps the best one to promote his music: Thirsty Ear's Blue Series has been a leading proponent of jazztronica, albeit with more New York City avant-garde leanings since pianist Matthew Shipp is the artistic director. Molvær's music is much more European, with frosty ambient keyboards nestling up to his effects-laden trumpet as drum 'n' bass-inspired rhythms fire in and out of the mix.

An American Compilation is constructed from ER, the live album Streamer, Recoloured: The Remix Album, and throws in a previously unreleased live version of "Vilderness." Three of the tracks—"Water," "Darker," and "Only These Things Count"—come from ER, which is scheduled for a September release, and two come from Steamer ("Kakonita" and "Solid Ether"), which Thirsty Ear also has on its slate. But as an appetizer until those CDs drop (or as an inspiration to locate an import of NP3), this compilation is a tasty snack. CHRISTOPHER PORTER

R. LUKE DUBOIS

Timelapse

(Cantaloupe)

DuBois is the latest in a long line of sound artists who treat electronic music as a kind of aural camera, zooming in, compressing, and magnifying sound. Decades ago, the now-forgotten Hal Freedman condensed Wagner's elephantine four-evening Ring cycle of operas into a four-minute piece for magnetic tape, "Ring Precis." Like Freedman, DuBois compacts an encyclopedic amount of material into a single work; in 36 minutes, "Billboard" devours and distills the 857 number-one hits on the Billboard Hot 100 from 1958 to 2000 into vaporous slabs of sound glazed with reverb––as if the original 45s were channeled through a massive network of subterranean aqueducts and emptied into an icy, cathedral-sized cavern. Some might find DuBois's unfunky, deliberately stilted rhythms tedious, but like Tom Johnson's The Chord Catalogue, what was boring for two minutes becomes fascinating after 20. Two good shorter pieces round out the album. "Clavier" speeds up snippets from J. S. Bach's Well-Tempered Clavier into shimmering organ-like textures. "...Time Goes By (Casablanca)" coagulates granulated segments from the movie Casablanca that spurt and roar like jets of steam. Timelapse flows from beginning to end as a coherent album; yet the disc's collective similarity of timbres and digital processing techniques—a byproduct of using one application, in this case Max/MSP––made me wish for what's missing in most experimental, electroacoustic music today: risky structures, breathtaking timbral variety, daring changes in tempo, and good old-fashioned polyphony. CHRISTOPHER DeLAURENTI

JOHN VANDERSLICE

Pixel Revolt

(Barsuk Records)

1/2

Suicide, serial killers, pet bunny rabbits lost on the mean city streets—the lyrical themes of Pixel Revolt, the fifth album in as many years from San Francisco singer-songwriter John Vanderslice, are not real "up." About half of these 14 originals were composed after the 2004 election; an American soldier's misadventures in Iraq anchor "Plymouth Rock." And the r emainder—such as the impressionist stroll through "New Zealand Pines"—sprang from the ashes of a painful breakup.

Yet in presenting these often-troublesome vignettes, Vanderslice (assisted by John Darnielle of the Mountain Goats) has crafted a slew of beguiling, imaginative arrangements that hold the ear delicately yet firmly. "Peacocks in the Video Rain" turns ever so slowly, a diamond on a dais, accented with vintage keyboards that evoke the Reagan-era MTV star its narrative suggests; the bells and gentle cymbals of "Trance Manual" twinkle gently like beacons on a distant shore.

It is a testament to Vanderslice's sly skills that clearly delineating between the personal and political in lines like "Ohh, dressed like that/you are the flag of a dangerous nation" is both difficult and, more importantly, unnecessary in order to appreciate these songs. Ultimately, that which doesn't make us reach for a straight razor (or the "off" button) makes us stronger, and on Pixel Revolt, Vanderslice wrestles thorny experiences and imaginings into new shapes that are a treat to unfold and scrutinize further. KURT B. REIGHLEY

THE TIME FLYS

Fly

(Birdman)

1/2

Aside from the asinine Top-40 phonies, what's left of punk-rock populi is plumped with 1979 wannabes whose main goal in life is to record one 7-inch single that'll be described as "Killed By Death style" on eBay 10 years from now. This was a revolution?

The Time Flys fly that fading flag, but step back further to the 1972–75 era, before punk was so codified, when a suburban jerk could sing of third-base conquests and end his day with a Dictators LP and a brown bag of model glue. It seems digging for first-wave arcana has gotten to the point where the Gizmos (the first lineup, of course) would be the best reference point here, and if that means anything to you, run out and buy this CD now, 'cause it's a good one.

Considering this crew is from Oakland, California, and one member is in the increasingly jammy Cuts, Time Flys are all bored beer swilling, Midwest blurt-out goofitude. Songs about dumb friends, dope gulping, and occasional lapses into caveman analogies harken to that pre-Pistols blip when "punks" would rather spend their rent money on comic books than haircuts. Stuttering on-the-fly guitar solos, snotty vocals, and that genetic ability to drop a tune at two minutes are the trashy traits. The woozy, obscure doo-wop cover, "Teenage Tears," is the kind of inspired touch lost on most retro raw punks these days. Plus Fly is spitballed with enough lyrical weirdness and explosive noisy bridges that the time travel isn't all backwards. ERIC DAVIDSON

AUGUST BORN

August Born

(Drag City)

Sometimes I wonder what sort of world it would be if Drag City, possessed of no profit motive, mailed Ben Chasny's records to everyone free of charge. Albums like Dark Noontide and School of the Flower inspire the listener to consider the river's current or contemplate a tree for an afternoon. Fitting then, that Chasny's latest effort is a postal-service collaborative with Hiroyuki Usui (AKA "L"), the man responsible for the spiritually rejuvenating (but criminally unheard) Holy Letters. Much like their respective solo work, Chasny and Usui make August Born an organic effort, layered with warm breezes of guitar, bells, feedback, and field recordings of a dead bird's burial.

Presumably because of linguistic barriers, the album is minimally vocal, forcing the listener to zero in on the Zen-like balance between ambience and melody. The two do moan together, however, on the more Far-Eastern numbers ("A Lot Like You," "Song of the Dead") and Chasny offers his wine-and-incense voice to the album's centerpiece "Birds & Sun & Clay." Usui's brief solo track approaches a Japanese/Appalachian hybrid of banjo-strumming weirdness and Chasny's solo "You Will Be Warm" serves as a gentle, reflective album closer.

There is a certain comfort that comes from listening to Chasny. Somehow, through his intimate plucking and strumming, he makes soundtracks for the day's sacred moments; when you're still awake as the recycling truck rolls by, making coffee as your housemates drool, cleaning up last night's spilt beer and candle wax. BRIAN J. BARR