There’s a preoccupation with place all over Booker T. Jones’ new album, The Road From Memphis. The city exists as an almost-magical hub of life, excitement and potential, filled with millions of individuals of limitless creativity and imagination. Memphis – the city of Booker T’s birth and the epicentre of his amazing career – obviously looms large, but so too does New York, where this album was recorded with The Roots in just a few short sessions.

“I’m fascinated with the energy centres of the world,” Booker tells me, from his new home in Hollywood. “I think I first became aware of it when I realised that all the Greek philosophers and writers were concentrated in one place, and one time; Socrates, Aristotle… Why does that happen? And the same thing happened in San Francisco and in Memphis in the ‘60s… It happened in Philadelphia with Teddy Pendergrass, and Gamble and Huff. And it happened again in Detroit, with Motown. There was just so much creative energy in one place – Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye, The Temptations, Mary Wells, Diana Ross – and it fascinates me. I don’t know how to explain it – it seems like there are wells of energy that come up in music in different eras and in different places, and it establishes a style, and the style lives for a long time,” he says. “And it happened to me directly. I was a part of one of those energy centres in Memphis, and it was just fascinating.”

The ‘energy centre’ he’s referring to was the legendary Stax Records, and Booker T. was there from even before the start. As a sixteen-year-old, Booker played saxophone on Rufus & Carla Thomas’ ‘Cause I Love You’ – the first hit for Satellite Records, which was renamed ‘Stax’ within twelve months. Booker was at Stax throughout the 1960s, writing songs for Otis Redding, Mavis Staples and Eddie Floyd, including Albert King’s ‘Born Under A Bad Sign’ – one of the classics of the genre. As well as writing, though, Booker T. & The MGs were Stax’ de facto house band, playing on literally hundreds of hits, including ‘Try A Little Tenderness’, ‘Hold On, I’m Coming’, ‘Soul Man’, ‘Walking The Dog’ and their own enduring classic ‘Green Onions’. As a group, they almost single-handedly defined the sound of soul.
It was hard work, though. Like Motown, Stax had teams of songwriters working all day, every day, under tremendous pressure to produce the next smash hit. “We had a strict schedule of recording from 11-6,” Booker tells me, “but I have to say, thinking back on it, all of that was driven by the passion of the writers. They could have gone and got other jobs, [but] people loved what they were doing, and were just driven to it. Because it doesn’t make any practical sense at all, to try and be a songwriter,” he reasons. “[But Stax] was a great place to cultivate music, and a great environment. You had writers like David Porter and Isaac Hayes right next door, and that was the whole thing; it was a conversation, and the focus all the time was to get better. It was a beautiful environment, and it’s too bad that it couldn’t have continued – but business got in the way.”

That sort of relationship, that sort of dialogue, is a rare commodity, but it seems as though Booker found lively conversationalists in The Roots. Booker arrived in New York a couple of weeks before the recording of The Road From Memphis was due to begin, but both parties were so busy that they didn’t get a chance to meet up until they arrived at the studio. Still, there’s an ease to the partnership that comes across on record – the sort of innate understanding that usually takes years to develop. “I think that was fortunate,” Booker says, somewhat modestly. “They had listened to my music before, and they were fans, and they were comfortable in their own skin. [And their] musicianship is probably as high as I’ve experienced in a band. The Roots really know what they’re doing with music. And it’s not wishful thinking – they actually execute. You better be ready if you’re going to play with those guys.”

But there’s was another, equally important member of the group – and we’re not talking about Lou Reed, Sharon Jones, Jim James from My Morning Jacket or Matt Berninger from The National, all of whom feature on the album. The final piece of the puzzle was New York itself, a city which has always provided Booker with inspiration. “New York has been very strong for me, musically,” he explains. “Every time I’ve gone to New York I’ve got good energy. I remember we recorded Melting Pot [1971] in New York when I was so frustrated. I’d been trying to record in Los Angeles and in Memphis, and everything we did just sounded the same. And I just really needed to bust out and do something different – I thought it was going to drive me crazy. But then [in New York City] we came up with Melting Pot.

“The Bronx is amazing,” he says. “If you look at the amount of talent that has come out of that city, it’s just amazing. Everybody from Woody Allen, to Mark Twain, and so many actors, actresses, singers, writers – so many people come from one area. Why does that happen? How does that happen?” It might be that there’s something in the water – but it’s hardly a coincidence that Booker T. Jones finds extraordinary musicians and unspoken connections everywhere he goes. Perhaps it has more to do with the man himself.

Originally published in The Brag, Issue 432

We Were Promised Jetpacks
In The Pit Of The Stomach
Fat Cat Records
3/5

A review of WWPJ’s debut These Four Walls remarked that singer Adam Thompson seems like he wouldn’t be able to buy a packet of cigarettes without it turning into some all-consuming emotional crisis. And although meant as a joke, it’s very true – WWPJ have a knack for making the mundane seem momentous.

It seems to be a particularly Scottish trait, one that labelmates Frightened Rabbit and The Twilight Sad have been doing for years. WWPJ overlap with the sound of both bands, although they beat the former for sheer epicness and have the edge on the latter for the strength of the emotions. There’s a touch of Mogwai (more Scots!) in the instrumental builds, but rather than their slowly-unfolding climaxes, WWPJ play everything with an almost punk energy, propelling the listener inescapably toward the crescendo.

But as terrific as the band are, it’s Thompson who’s their greatest weapon. His hushed, warm brogue whispers intimate nothings in your ear, drawing you into these small-scale dramas. His lyrics are more observational than oblique, but every so often they sum up a situation with devastating insight. And when the time comes to let loose, as he roars his betrayals over gigantic walls of sound, you can feel the catharsis – his and your own. There’s nothing on here quite so spectacular as ‘It’s Thunder & It’s Lightning’ from their debut, but there are plenty of hair-raising moments – ‘Act On Impulse’, ‘Sore Thumb’ and ‘Human Error’, especially.

WWPJ are sticking with their formula, but this album sees them taking the time to craft their songs, rather than just going straight for the jugular. An engrossing album that gets better with every listen.

Originally published in The Brag, Issue 432

Lil Wayne
The Carter IV
Young Money/ Universal
3/5

When Tha Carter III leaked two weeks before its release date, Lil’ Wayne shrugged it off and recorded an entirely new album from scratch – and that album has now sold nearly four million copies. Weezy is a prodigious talent and is always pushing boundaries, even when they are a spectacular failure (see Rebirth, his ‘rock’ album) – but much of Tha Carter IV seems restrained in a way that he never has been before, and is somewhat diminished as a result.

Tha Carter IV is probably his strongest album to date, actually working as a whole rather than a collection of singles. But the individual songs aren’t up to his usual standard, and it’s hard to shake the feeling that Weezy seems bored with yet another song about sex, or weed, or sex and weed. While there is some variation in the instrumentals, Wayne’s vocals remain the same – full of tremendous wit and wordplay, but nonetheless limited by the couplet form he favours. He gets by on his way with words, but too often it’s the guest MCs who provide the real spark, with Tech N9ne, Andre 3000, Nas, Bun B and Busta Rhymes all showing up their host.

The best moments on this album occur when Weezy departs from the minimalist thuggery that we have come to expect, and instead tries a different style. ‘Abortion’ has an actual melody (!) and is lifted immeasurably by its gospel sample, while ‘She Will’ has extraordinary space behind it, allowing itself room to breathe, and sounding like the lost track from Kanye’s Fantasy.

Tha Carter IV is a really good listen as a whole, but lacking any genuinely standout tracks. Still, after a couple of really bad albums, it’s great to see Weezy F. Baby back doing what he does best.

Originally published in The Brag, Issue 431

It might strike you as a bit odd that the master of the technique doesn’t really like introducing himself as a ‘beatboxer’ anymore. As it turns out it’s not a semantic distinction but a tactical decision, after spending years trying to explain what he did for a living… “To the average person, or someone who isn’t into urban music, ‘Human Beatbox’ throws them a bit, and they don’t really understand what you do,” Rahzel tells me over the phone, on the eve of his upcoming trip to Australia. “So to get over that I coined the phrase ‘Vocal Percussionist’ – and people totally get it… Plus, if you meet the wife’s parents and they ask what you do for a living, you need something a little more professional”.

It makes sense that Rahzel wouldn’t want to be defined by a label that someone else came up with. Throughout his career his creative output has been extraordinarily varied, working, performing and touring with artists including The Roots, The Who, Jay-Z, George Clinton, Bootsy Collins and BB King. He brought beatboxing to acoustic chillout mixes the world over on Ben Harper’s ‘Steal My Kisses’, and features prominently on Bjork’s weird and wonderful a capella album Medulla. (“When I realised the album was becoming a vocal record, the musical fascist in me decided using any MCs or vocal percussionists would be too cheesy,” Bjork said in a Popmatters interview at the time. “I changed my mind when I saw Rahzel freestyle a whole Kraftwerk track without pausing for breath.” He’s been known to have that effect on people.)

His approach is similar in many ways to that of Mike Patton. The Faith No More frontman always had eclectic influences, and his countless projects – including Mr. Bungle, Fantomas, Tomahawk, his bizarre hip hop lounge album Lovage, and his album of orchestral Italian pop songs from the 50s and 60s – serve as an inspiration for Rahzel, who collaborated with him on the Peeping Tom project. “Yeah, Mike Patton’s a very good friend of mine,” Rahzel says. “I love the guy. That’s a really strong bond, built over the years, and he’s been a big supporter of the beatbox. And he puts his own spin on the beatbox – so for me, hats off to Mike Patton.”

Rahzel explains his affinity with Patton as a philosophical connection; both keep moving forward like a shark, constantly seeking out new ideas and new things to try. It doesn’t always work, but it’s always interesting. “What he does with his label, and the different artists that he works with, and the different bands that he’s involved with, and the different collaborations and genres that he participates in – for me, we think the same. I think that’s why our bond is so tight, because we think the same way,” he says. “We don’t want to be stuck in one situation, we want to be able to move around and feel free.” This isn’t just true of Rahzel’s music – he also has ambitions to become the first beatboxer in the world who owns his own label. And it sounds like a pretty interesting setup. “I want to focus on people with incredible talent,” he explains. “At the end of the day it’s their vocal ability, whether that’s speaking, singing or imitating instruments… I want to focus on the vocals, but it’s going to be a wide range.”

Rahzel is coming to Australia for the third annual Platform Hip Hop Festival – this year expanded to a month-long celebration of all things hip hop, running at Carriageworks from March 12. He’ll be performing as The Magnificents, with two titans of underground hip hop – DJ JS-1 and Supernatural. The latter is widely recognised as one of the best freestyle MCs around, and also happens to be the Guinness World Record holder for continuous freestyling. His time? About nine hours. And no, that’s not a typo. Even Rahzel doesn’t know what he’s gotten himself into. “It’s always a surprise,” he says, of working with Supernatural. “Most of the show is improv – I’m looking forward to it because I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

For all his relentless forward impetus, Rahzel is always quick to recognise those who paved the way for him when he was starting out. For him, a large part of his role as the chronicler of hip hop involves continuing the legacies of Biz Markie and Jam Master Jay. “I want to be that beatbox encyclopaedia,” he says. “When you see me on stage, that’s what you’re getting – not just Rahzel beatboxing in to a mic; you’re getting history. I’m like a time capsule – I was there! You were a little baby, or you weren’t even born, but I was there!”

“It’s like, y’know, Back To The Future,” he continues. “I’m like a time machine. I was there in the beginning, and I’m here now, so that you know what was happening even though you weren’t around.” For a trip through the past, the present and the future of hip hop, head down to Platform Hip Hop Festival.

Originally published in The Brag, Issue 403

Maxine Kauter Band
Alibech The Hermit
Self- released
4/5

The annual meetings of the Bluesy-Folky-Pop Singers Collective have always been well-attended affairs. Particularly the Australian chapter, where currently our cup runneth over. Blasko, Bowditch, Throsby, and Julia Stone dominate the national scene, while splendid Sydney up-and-comers like Emma Davis and Girl Most Likely jostle with Mia Dyson and Adalita Srsen for the limited airspace leftover. Sydney’s Maxine Kauter joins the ranks with her debut album, a modest seven-track affair that manages to pack some blissful moments into its brisk 28 minutes.

More badass and bluesy than girlish whimsy, Kauter is backed by a damn fine band that fleshes out the very fine bones of her songwriting. Kauter proves herself a versatile performer, by turns breathy troubadour and badass guitar hero. But the release is credited to the Maxine Kauter Band, which tells you a little about the interplay here – because while the softer tracks are lovely, and both Kauter’s lyrics and voice are full of character and depth, it is the rockier, full band numbers that really grab your attention.

‘My Maria’ is a slow burner that manages to subtly accumulate tension before letting it all go in a sublime blaze of guitar and organ; ‘Inside Down’ manages a similar feat with a more conspicuous crescendo, but it is no less exhilarating once it finally takes off – but it’s gone much too soon. I can imagine that these songs could really soar live, if given a little room to breathe and to expand.

Kauter & Co. put a very promising foot forward; this debut is worth far more than the $0 that they’re charging.

Originally published in The Brag, Issue 403

The Dears
Degeneration Street
Dangerbird Records/ Albert Music
4/5

Fans have a tendency to get very strange about The Dears. Following 2003’s terrific No Cities Left, NME touted them as “probably the best new band in the world” – and I once read a review of their live show that declared it “the sonic equivalent of seeing the face of God.” …But to be fair to both reviewers, The Dears are fucking terrific.

Frontman Murray Lightburn has described The Dears’ sound to me as “heavy, thinking man’s rock”, and there’s plenty of that here. But more often than not, that heaviness is thematic, rather than sonic. Most of these songs are grand anthems, but the lyrics are something akin to The National’s tendency to intellectualise the minutiae of grown-up relationships, the pitfalls of married life, and the inevitable torpor and stifling misery that can come from too long in suburbia. So much of this album is quiet desperation – like the stunning, plaintive cry of ‘Lamentation’, or the longing of ‘Galactic Tides’.

But there’s some serious rock on this album, too: from sexy, slinky, opener ‘Omega Dog’ to ‘Blood’, probably the dirtiest song The Dears have ever written. It’s a wonderful mix of the bold and the badass – every time you start to worry that they have been lost to the soundscape, they come crashing back with a biting riff. Indeed, the only real complaint I have is that most of the truly memorable songs are within the first handful, so the back end does drag a little.

If Arcade Fire weren’t so damn precious about everything, they might sound a little something like this. Another top effort from one of the most under-appreciated acts around.

Origainlly published in The Brag, Issue 399

The Black Eyed Peas
The Beginning
Interscope/ Universal
0/5

There is so much to be sad about The Black Eyed Peas’ shift from a genuinely talented underground hip-hop act to one of the biggest, most shameless pop groups in the world. If you have never heard either of their first two albums (Behind The Front and Bridging The Gap), you won’t be able to reconcile the sounds coming out of your speakers with the personnel involved – or at least their post-Fergie incarnation. But for all the criticism that gets levelled at her, the real problem here is that will.i.am chose money over respect. And he discovered house music.

Because while they were doing the Top 40 hip-pop thing, at the very least they would build a song around the sample; ‘Pump It’ was a pretty basic R&B track, but it was propelled by that great riff from ‘Misirlou’, which gave it real vibrancy. The last two albums, on the other hand, have been dominated by gigantic house beats compelling everyone to dance, so the actual words you are singing don’t matter at all. That’s why we end up with couplets like “I’m a lover not a fighter/Loved on a dyke turned her to a dick liker”.

Even the music is just so basic – not to mention hugely predictable. It is real lowest-common-denominator stuff, for people who demand no more of their music than something to party to. Which is fine for what it is – but it’s so much less than what it could be.

You can’t blame The Beginning for achieving exactly what it sets out to do, but I can’t bring myself to reward it for clearing such a low bar. Not even with half a star. It just makes me too sad.

Originally published in The Brag, Issue 396

The Decemberists
The King Is Dead
Third Man Records/ Capitol
4/5 stars

No one is ever surprised when they find out that Colin Meloy, The Decemberists’ frontman, majored in creative writing at university. At their best, his songs are novellas set to music, with a rich cast of characters and plots that ebb and flow with the tune.

So really, the only thing that is surprising about The Decemberists making a country album is that it took them until their sixth. But this isn’t Nashville bootscootin’ country music; this is more like what Bob Dylan once described as “his kind” of country music, about “real people, real emotions, and real problems.” It’s Justin Townes Earle’s territory, and Gillian Welch’s; Meloy’s oft-florid writing is at its double-distilled finest here, and you would have to be a hardy soul indeed not to be moved.

This band have always had their roots in American and Celtic folk melodies, and the mix of slower numbers and more up-tempo fare really gives them a chance to shine. ‘All Arise!’ is a standout, as jaunty fiddles blaze away over a rhythm The Band would be proud of, but the deft touch is required – and achieved – on the beautiful ‘Rise To Me’, or ‘June Hymn’.

Meloy’s voice really comes into its own here as well; country is a genre suited to voices that are expressive, rather than overly polished. And the album is only forty minutes long – it never outstays its welcome – so when it ends all you want to do is play it again, Sam. Maybe a couple of times.

Country music gets a bad rap for stupidly large hats and ostentation. But when it is as beautifully written as this, it’s impossible to deny.

Originally published in The Brag, Issue 396

It’s fitting, really, that the lead-up to the release of Lupe Fiasco’s third album has been such a… well, such a fiasco. Originally announced in early 2008, it has gone through multiple name changes and countless delays – all because his label, Atlantic Records, didn’t really know what to do with a rapper who wasn’t talking about bitches and bling, but rather spitting rhymes about self-esteem, self-knowledge and children being forced to join the army in Africa. In the end it took an online petition (which gathered 30,000 signatures) and a protest outside their HQ in New York to realise that not only did Lupe Fiasco have fans, he had lots of them. And they were passionate about their man. A tremendous public show of support in the face of a lack of support from the label – fitting again, when you consider that the first Lupe album, Food and Liquor, was all about trying to find a balance between wants and needs, between good and evil, between food and liquor.

Of course, the whole situation is absurd when you consider the success of the first two Lupe records. Both reached #1 on the Billboard Rap chart; both were nominated for Best Rap Album at the Grammys; both featured heavily on nearly all year-end lists. The fact that Atlantic/Warner seemed to be holding out for a blockbuster rather than being content with what will (in all likelihood) be a terrific album with moderate sales says more about the modern-day structure of record labels than I have the space to get into here. Consider the words of its creator: “We wanted to go for a more ‘popular’ sound,” says Wasalu Muhammad Jaco, on the phone from California. “The album is a bit more, I guess, popular-sounding than the other albums,” he laughs. “You don’t have to be a die-hard Lupe Fiasco fan to enjoy the music that’s on it.”

Despite the years of obfuscation from his label, Jaco himself remains philosophical about the whole thing. It’s just a business decision, he says, nothing else. “I would say [they don’t understand me] as an artist… the artist I am, and the artist they want me to be”, he explains. “They have a certain idea of what ‘a star’ is, or what ‘a star’ should sound like, and they want everybody to fit that mould, no matter what. They are happy to stuff you into that commercialised space, even if they have to cut off your arms and legs…”

In conversation, Jaco comes across incredibly well. While the Lupe Fiasco persona seems to get bigger and bigger with every tour (the current promo posters, with him in his badass leather jacket, are a case in point), the man behind the curtain is softly spoken and almost excessively considered in his responses. Over the course of our talk I get the sense that he’s reached an understanding with his label: he will fulfil his contractual obligations as long as he doesn’t have to pretend to be thrilled with them. He is thoughtful and pragmatic when it comes to The Business, lamenting the fact that American radio is so narrow and restricted – although he’s aware that there’s not much you can do about it. Jaco is happy to admit, for instance, that the first single from the new album, ‘The Show Goes On’, was presented to him by his label as a compromise to get a release date. “It’s all about compromise,” he says, without even the slightest hint of indignation or anger. “Sometimes you have to compromise on what you want to do as an artist for the sake of the business, because at the end of the day it is a business.”

His response to Atlantic’s dithering was, essentially, to quit. Jaco left the Lupe Fiasco moniker in LA along with all the baggage that the name entails, to reinvent himself as the lead singer of a band called Japanese Cartoon. Although, as the man himself explains, it wasn’t so much a reinvention as the other side of a split musical personality. “I just created something completely different [in Japanese Cartoon],” he begins, “and said from the outset that this is me, being completely different, on purpose. It has nothing to do with Lupe Fiasco, it has nothing to do with hip-hop; it’s just all about me making the music that I want to make. Lupe Fiasco is [a product of] my hip-hop experiences and influences, with Nas, Jay-Z, Wu-Tang and what have you, but Japanese Cartoon is the product of my Clash, Queen, Bad Brains, Radiohead, Coldplay kind of experience,” he explains.

The most important part of Japanese Cartoon, for Jaco, is that it offers tremendous artistic freedom. “There’s only so much that I can do within the framework of Lupe Fiasco, without ruining my commercial appeal, or ‘selling out’ or whatever,” he explains, “[but] there’s no ceiling on Japanese Cartoon. So I could make the next album a Russian waltz album, or an instrumental album like UNKLE does, and I don’t have to worry about any repercussions.”

So, what are we left with? Well, we have a new Lupe album, which is a good thing. But Jaco had to compromise his artistic vision, which is bad. But he seems to be comfortable with this, which is good… If this is starting to sound like Homer Simpson and his cursed frozen yoghurt I apologise, but it’s hard not to play ‘on the other hand’ after talking to Jaco for twenty minutes. I suppose all we can hold on to is that Lupe Fiasco owes Atlantic three more albums, and he seems to be able to balance the business with the art. The good with the bad. The yin with the yang. The food with the liquor.

Originally published in The Brag, Issue 396

An Horse have been making quite a bit of noise in the past couple of years, due in part to their friendship with Tegan & Sara, but based largely on the strength of their music. And they do sound a little like the Quin sisters, but without the high production values and pop sensibility.

Singer Kate Cooper doesn’t have a pitch-perfect voice, but she imparts such tremendous personality through her lyrics and her delivery that it doesn’t matter. It has an innate sweetness to it, which makes it seem as though everything is infused with such great regret, and a wry sadness, that despite the relationship breakdowns she remains philosophical about it. It’s as if the coolest girl you ever knew had her heart broken. I guess if I could compare it to anyone, it would be to Sarah McLeod of The Superjesus (remember them?).

This album came out quite a while ago, but it has been re-released with an extra disc of remixes. I’m not sure if they add anything to the overall experience, although a couple of them do an excellent job of turning these direct, slightly slouchy songs into more propulsive, boogie-suitable numbers. And I suppose that is the purpose of a remix, really.

Overall, this is a great album of well-crafted songs that simultaneously possess great depth, tremendous punch and exactly the right amount of lo-fi, grungy guitars.

Originally published at Faster Louder

http://www.fasterlouder.com.au/reviews/music/24140/An-Horse