There is something inherently magical about a debut album. You get to hear a band in its formative stages, before they become worn down by the daily grind of touring and recording. As a band evolves, the first album might sound quaint and unfinished, but the initial spark always remains. These Four Walls contains more than a spark. Instead of an interesting idea, We Were Promised Jetpacks has a fully formed vision.
The band’s sound is hard to describe, a mixture of industrial dissonance and rock n’ roll beats. Icy guitars coupled with emotional singing. We Were Promised Jetpacks share many traits with other bands in the indie rock ghetto, but completely different from anything else released this year.
These Four Walls is an album of dynamics; loud and soft, fast and slow. The band switches those elements several times, creating a collage of sound. When you start to get comfortable, the song changes direction. The more you listen to it, the more you pick up. The opening track, “It’s Thunder and It’s Lightning,” sounds like a storm. It starts out slowly and steadily, picking up with every measure. The middle section is a torrent of fury. Conventional wisdom states that the track would fade out, but the band quickens the tempo and plays a different riff. These Four Walls is almost an album of mini-suites.
Lead singer Adam Thomson is possibly the band’s biggest aspect. His thick Scottish accent is not only unique, but incredibly emotional. When his voice rises, it’s never a scream or even a high note; it’s a rock hard slab of granite. On “Roll Up Your Sleeves,” he sounds amiable and almost friendly, but the chorus changes the entire tone. His voice is strong and powerful, and when he holds a note, it seems to come from the depths of his diaphragm. His accent takes some getting used to, but it has character. You can’t listen to Thomson and say “He sounds like (blank).”
The album’s centerpiece is the eight minute epic, “Keeping Warm.” The first half is instrumental. It’s the one moment where you can actually pinpoint an influence. The song starts simply and gets progressively bigger, similar to the slow burn of Radiohead’s “Fake Plastic Trees.” When the instruments finally swell, Thomson sings “Keep warm, keep warm.” The music dies down at first, but then the pace quickens and the second half of the song begins. Eight minutes is an indulgent length, but if they had split it into two parts, the contrast would be gone.
These Four Walls is an incredibly accomplished debut. It’s too early to call it an instant classic, or even the best of the year. However, this band shows an unbelievable amount of potential. It’ll be interesting to see where they take their sound next, because it’s truly unique. Do not hesitate to pick this up.
Rob Thomas does one thing well. He knows how to write a chorus. This singular gift is what has kept him in the spotlight well past his expiration date. Cradlesong is almost identical to his last album, Something to Be. It’s a collection of fourteen inoffensive pop/rock songs, nothing more nothing less. It would be easy to chide Thomas for his lack of depth, but he is a populist singer. The people who buy Rob Thomas records know what they like, and Thomas gives it to them. His music is not about artistic merit, but formula. When critiquing Cradlesong, the question is not “Is it good?” but “Does it deliver?”
Cradlesong plays to Thomas’s strengths. The album is comprised of mostly ballads, with a few rockers thrown in for variety. The music is an appealing mix of blue eyed soul and pop rock. The production is crisp, with just enough grit to give the music a slight edge. Everything is calculated for maximum dividends, and the calculation pays off.
The opening track, “Her Diamonds,” sets the formula perfectly. The song begins with a simple syncopated drum beat and Thomas’ radio-ready vocals. As he sings the first verse, more instruments come in, slowly building to the chorus. The chorus is rocking, but not abrasive. It’s agreeable.
Thomas shines on the mid-tempo numbers. His singing is much more soulful than his corporate rock ilk, and that works in his favor. He knows when to hit the high notes and when to hold back, so when he amps up the emotion, it makes in impact. He delivers the choruses passionately, which is the most important element of his music. If the audience is not able to sing the refrain, then he has failed.
The up-tempo numbers don’t come off as well. Thomas sounds confident and self-assured on the ballads, but the rockers sound awkward and forced. “Real World 09,” a sequel to Matchbox Twenty’s 1996 hit, is the worst offender. Thomas attempts to sound tough, but his voice remains affable and unthreatening. The electronic flourishes are totally out of place. It’s as if the album was due, and he needed one more song. It feels like a sketch instead of a fleshed out idea.
The album’s best moment is “Fire on the Mountain,” the token epic. Thomas delivers his most dramatic chorus to date, asking “How do you sleep when the world is burning?” Drums crash behind him as the guitars weave in and out. Instead of canned pathos, Thomas sounds emotional. The result is one of the most memorable songs he has ever written, and its proof that he is capable of more than he lets on.
The problem with Cradlesong is the problem with every other album remotely associated with Rob Thomas. It’s mostly bland, safe and forgettable. There are some decent hooks, but they tend to dissipate once the song ends. It’s the kind of album that was made to be played over the PA systems of big box department store. In that context, it’s a step up from Kenny G.
Playing Ricky Morton- The point in a wrestling match where the babyface takes a beating. Named for Ricky Morton of the Rock n’ Roll Express.
An American institution is dying. Professional wrestling has survived the Great Depression, exposure as a scripted performance, and numerous steroid trials and scandals. The business has ebbed and flowed over the years, experiencing unprecedented popularity and lean times. It has always bounced back, but it might not survive much longer.
In the past year, the WWE has gone out of its way to rebrand itself. Vince McMahon has always resented the term “professional wrestling,” and coined the term “sports-entertainment” in the mid-1980s. This year he has taken things one step further. Wrestlers are referred to as “performers” and “entertainers.” Announcers are told to refer to the product as wrestling only when it’s absolutely necessary. He has even blurred out the “Of Wrestling” on old broadcasts of WWF Superstars of Wrestling. This is to reassure the public that the WWE is a mainstream entertainment brand.
I have been a wrestling fan for 20 years. There have been some mediocre years scattered throughout, but I never questioned my passion for the sport. Even when things were really bad, there was always something to sustain me. In 1995, we were saddled with Diesel as WWF Champion. He wasn’t ready to carry the ball and didn’t have any decent heels to work with. I kept watching because Shawn Michaels had a perfect batting average that year, taking everyone he wrestled to another level.
On a recent episode of Raw, Donald Trump and Vince McMahon made a complete mockery of the sport. I watched it for five minutes and turned it off in disgust. I finally admitted to myself that I don’t care about a single person on the Raw roster. It’s one of the most poorly booked wrestling shows I’ve ever seen, and I watched WCW at the end. McMahon has completely forgotten what professional wrestling is.
People like to call wrestling a soap opera for men. Wrestling has never been a soap opera. Wrestling is a western. Before you yell at me for demeaning American mythology, think about it for a second. The basic premise is a babyface (good guy) against a heel (bad guy) over a dispute. That’s the basis for every single Western. The sheriff rides in to town to confront the outlaw. There is a showdown in the center of town. Good triumphs over evil. The Western has become more complex, but the basic premise remains the same. This is why wrestling has been a part of the American landscape for over a century.
Part of the problem is that there are no clear cut heroes and villains anymore. Traditional booking dictates that the hero is a paragon of virtue. He always does the right thing, even in the face of impossible odds. His promos are always earnest, thanking the people for their constant support. Most importantly, he needs to be able to take an incredible beating. Fan support is based on sympathy, and nothing builds sympathy like a good beat-down. Ricky Morton was the master of this concept. He would be beaten to a pulp every week, so when he finally vanquished the heel that was tormenting him, it was a true triumph.
John Cena is the number one babyface in the company, but he’s never really threatened. He dispatches his opponent in such a way that he always walks away unscathed. Even Hulk Hogan had moments where he seemed human. If you watch the Piper’s Pit segments leading to WrestleMania III, it’s clear that he doesn’t want to wrestle Andre the Giant. He is dealing with the fact that Andre is no longer his ally, and it tears him up. There is a wonderful moment where Andre rips Hogan’s shirt and crucifix off. Roddy Piper spots a cut on Hogan’s chest and says, “You’re bleeding.” Little bits of humanity made the cartoonish aspects of Hogan’s character work. There isn’t a person behind the hero anymore. Jeff Hardy is more human, but he can’t cut a promo. The two extremes don’t work.
Because Cena is Superman, he is never pushed to his limit. Therefore, the most important element of babyface booking is missing, the revenge. When Magnum TA and Tully Blanchard feuded over the NWA United States Title in 1985, Magnum was the epitome of the virtuous hero. He appeared on TBS every week saying how much he loved to represent the hard working people of the United States with the belt. Then Tully Blanchard hit him in the eye with a pair of brass knuckles, causing Magnum to lose the belt. Blanchard taunted poor Magnum every week, culminating in an “I Quit” match at Starrcade ’85. Magnum and Tully beat each other from pillar to post.
The climax occurred when Magnum tried to shove a wooden stake into Blanchard’s eye. Magnum’s actions are out of character, but since Blanchard took so much from Magnum, it makes sense. Modern babyfaces have no concept of desperation. Jeff Hardy fought his brother at WrestleMania this year, and they didn’t even bleed.
The babyfaces aren’t completely to blame, because the heel side of the fence has a depressing lack of depth. Chris Jericho and Edge are awesome, but that’s because they created fully-formed characters with actual motives. Randy Orton is supposed to be the most evil man on the planet, but he comes off like a fratboy. He’s arrogant and cocky, supposedly because he’s the best wrestler in the world. This is fine, except his matches consist of ten minute chinlocks followed by his finisher. Instead of paying to see him get his ass kicked, I’m waiting for him to get off the screen.
Like Ric Flair before him, Orton has a posse of goons. Unlike the Four Horsemen, the other two members of Legacy have no business hanging with the champion. Tully Blanchard and Arn Anderson were not only two of the best wrestlers in the world, they always held a championship. Barry Windham could have a good match with anyone on the roster, and his Lone Wolf persona was years ahead of its time. Cody Rhodes and Ted DiBiase Jr. are as useful as the flunkies on the old Batman show. They are props for Cena, Batista and their cohorts to beat up. There is no legacy in Legacy!
Professional wrestling still works. It will always work, because it appeals to our basest instincts. Human beings like to see good triumph over evil, no matter how cynical the world becomes. When sports entertainment morphs back into pro wrestling, it will be a cultural phenomenon…again.
Wilco’s self-titled album doesn’t innovate or re-invent the wheel. Jeff Tweedy and company don’t try to expand the parameters of the alt-country movement; they just wrote some songs and made an album. Eight albums into their career, that’s just fine. Wilco have rarely sounded so accessible.
Accessible is not a dirty word in this case. The music on this album is heavily influenced by the easy California country rock of the early ‘70s. The opening track, “Wilco the Song,” opens with shuffling drums, the right mixture of electric guitars and lap-steel and Jeff Tweedy’s relaxed vocals. The riff is simple and insistent, keeping pace with the drums. The music never changes, except for the bridge, which slows the tempo slightly. The slight change keeps the listener involved.
“Wilco the Song” is bookended by the next track, “Deeper Down,” which showcases the band’s slower, more introspective side. Both tracks are three minutes long, and both set the template for the rest of the album. The defining trait of “Deeper Down” is the guitar. Neils Cline’s mournful slide is reminiscent of Roy Orbison’s early work. The traditional laws of rock state that the guitar riff is the most important element of a song. On “Deeper Down,” the guitar provides gentle shading to Tweedy’s words.
As you listen to the album, the subtleties begin to emerge. The best example is “You Never Know.” The guitar tone sounds suspiciously like George Harrison during the Let it Be sessions. Towards the end of the solo, the melody of “My Sweet Lord” emerges. Little allusions like that make the album interesting.
Lyrically, Jeff Tweedy sticks to his usual themes. He sings about relationships, self-doubt and depression. The difference between Wilco and previous albums is that Tweedy sounds OK. It’s as if he is writing about these things, rather than experiencing them. He’s not actively trying to break your heart. On “Wilco the Song” he addresses this position in a self-deprecating manner, assuring the listener that Wilco will always love them. After several listens, it is unclear if Tweedy is talking to his fanbase or reassuring himself. The voice is ambiguous, which is probably why the lyrics work so well. “Country Disappeared” is the exact opposite, a moment of righteous indignation disguised as a gentle country ballad. It’s a bit weird hearing Tweedy deliver the line “We’ll fold ourselves into each others guts” as if it were a lullaby.
The weakest point of the album is “You and I,” a duet with Canadian indie-goddess Fiest. Fiest has a really lovely voice, but she doesn’t add anything to the song. She’s supposed to be the sweet voiced yin to Tweedy’s yang, but you can barely hear her. It’s supposed to be a duet, but she sounds like a backup singer. There is no real chemistry between them, so you don’t buy them as a couple. Isn’t that the point of a romantic duet?
It’s hard to say how Wilco will fall in the band’s catalog. There are going to be people who disagree with me, but I think it will be a perfect introductory album. It showcases what the band does really well, without being too intimidating. Wilco has made some truly remarkable records, but their depth can be intimidating. Wilco is a crash course, which is why it works so well.
