The Albuquerque band rocks hard in concert. Prince may be the hardest working man in show business — but at what price? And Snow Patrol, Modest Mouse, and the Magnetic Fields carry the torch for great indie music.
Concerts shouldn't replicate studio recordings; they should enhance and enlarge the experience. The two shows that head this list prove it. And in the case of the Shins, I'm starting to see an already terrific band in a whole new light.
The Shins, live at the Wiltern LG, June 4
If Chutes Too Narrow taught me to appreciate Oh, Inverted World, then the live show has taught me that the band's albums don't even do them justice. James Mercer may have the skinniest legs in all of popular music, but he oozes presence on stage, transforming your favorite lilting Shins ballad into a pulverizing concert tune. And yet he and his band sacrifice none of the melodic assurance of the recorded versions, none of the tender introspection. From the drummer who couldn't wait to rip it up, to the keyboardist who brought the great magic tricks and goofy jokes, to every one of the singer's articulate high notes, the Shins evoked charisma, command, mastery. Miraculously, they combined the songwriting's inherent depth of feeling with an authoritative use of volume and urgency. If one of our great modern pop bands wants to become one of our greatest rock bands, I certainly won't get in their way.
Prince, live at the Staples Center, June 5
He's still a showoff, one of his great selling points. Plus, of course, the great underrated guitarist of any damn era. Dance moves intact, sex appeal without question. My main quibble for a show I'm thrilled to have seen is that old bugaboo: the nature of the arena comeback concert. Like Springsteen and U2 before him, Prince returns to the basics by adhering to a crowd-pleasing synthesis of not just greatest hits, but greatest strengths — those being what I described in the first three sentences. But if his conception of Musicology as musicianship par excellence introduces new ears to Maceo Parker, then it also diminishes another underrated Prince virtue: emotional content. I mean, the point of "Let's Go Crazy" is its liberating axe solo at the end; the point of "Sign o' the Times" its spare, steely, weary funk. All musical geniuses deserve the right to reinvent their past, but Prince does a disservice to his songwriting's impact by revue-styling too much and slavishly keepin' the party going all night. Call me greedy — I think one of the best talents of the last 25 years can take his audience even higher than he did proficiently, and often ecstatically, tonight.
Snow Patrol, Last Straw (A&M Records)
The Coldplay comparisons are there if you want 'em. But Gary Lightbody's warm, urgent voice is its own stirring instrument. And despite the technological enhancements, the music never stops feeling organic, lived-in, ethereal. Eventually, it settles into a drone-y sameness — and, yeah, maybe it smacks of the conventional more than I'd like — but songs of such unique resonance suggest a band that's only going to get more interesting the longer it's around. For once, here's a record whose long-delayed journey from import to American release wasn't just some hypemeister spinning a pet project.
Modest Mouse, Good News for People Who Love Bad News (Epic Records)
In general, Isaac Brock's band warrants huge respect but only mild love and devotion. They get significantly closer to earning my ardor on the new album, though, which shepherds the group's outsider petulance into track after track of bracing songcraft. Challenging and occasionally self-pitying they remain, but at least the misfires don't make you clench your teeth anymore. They're an indie band who can both ape Tom Waits and bring the funk without looking like fools. The crossover modern-rock single will entice the curious, and the rest of the record will give them memorable lines, hooks, moody piano ballads, and rude horns to keep them entertained.
The Magnetic Fields, i (Nonesuch Records)
Quite easily, you could sequence your 14 least-favorite tracks from 69 Love Songs and have something far inferior to this new record. Which is not an excuse but, rather, a legitimate rationale for the restraints of an album that simply cannot top a greater one. After all, what was 69 Love Songs if not merely a masterful song-cycle buoyed by a clever concept, several different vocalists, and (again) a concept that elevated and informed even the weaker material? Saddled with just some good songs, Stephin Merritt milks his dour deadpan for repetitive delights: you've heard everything here already. Most interesting development, though, is the growing melancholy that age lends to his downbeat, out-of-love misery. Which is to say that I'm not quite so sure he's joking as much as he used to about not having a boyfriend. Which will only make him more interesting, hopefully.
Nellie McKay, Get Away from Me (Columbia Records)
If Dizzee Rascal is a self-absorbed 19-year-old visionary with a distinctive outlook on his messed-up world, then McKay is a spoiled twit with a piano. She's got talent, sure, but this year's winner of the Conor Oberst Emotional Maturity Award gets by on cabaret music and a grudge against, well, everybody. Being young provides a candor and naiveté you lose as college debt eats at your soul, but McKay seems so hopelessly bratty and sheltered that the deficiencies could prove permanent. (And you can bet that her good press won't encourage her to change anytime soon.) If I don't concentrate, her lovely ballads and jazzy scat sound precocious and loaded with potential. Scan the lyric sheet, note how her coy voice loves everything she's singing, and (honestly) pull out 69 Love Songs again, and you'll realize just how much the anti-Norah backlash has allowed this comer refuge in the inner sanctum.
Los Lonely Boys, Los Lonely Boys (Or Music)
These three brothers, championed by Willie Nelson, practice the sort of feel-good roots-rock that made fairgrounds safe for Hawaiian shirts and beer guts. Guitars rip off Stevie Ray Vaughn, lyrics tick off every romantic/idealistic cliché imaginable, vocals fail to linger in the ear. This is music so generic in every regard that only its slight Spanish flavor saves it from utter oblivion. If Santana's current tastefulness still feels too racy for you, by all means here is the group for you.
Mayor of the Sunset Strip (First Look Pictures)
Our obsession with celebrity extends to the asterisks, hangers-on, and legitimate oddities who surround the famous. Rodney Bingenheimer's strange trip from Mountain View outcast to L.A. trendsetter is worthy of a comprehensive, exhaustive study. What he got instead was a loving home movie mixed with some halfhearted stabs at social examination and state-of-current-music hand-wringing. Put more bluntly, it touches on a little bit of everything without ever nailing down anything specifically. No doubt the man deserved the filmic treatment, but it's unfortunate that his documentarians fail to find the definitive portrait looming within.
The Day After Tomorrow (20th Century Fox)
If this was what it took for Jake Gyllenhaal to prove he can carry a major motion picture, I guess it was worth it?
Consumables is a regular overview of popular culture.
