B 76%
Georgie James
Places
Saddle Creek
All too often, it seems being a fan of indie music means accepting the synths and dissonance that have come to define the genre. Sometimes the computer-generated squeaks and grainy sounds can sate a listener’s expectations, but there’s nothing wrong with wanting some good old-fashioned atchy pop tunes once in a while.
Duo Georgie James understands this basic need and fills their debut album Places with hooks and jangly guitar riffs that insist on being danced to.
Although they still qualify as an indie band—Places was released on the record label of Bright Eyes frontman Conor Oberst—Georgie James fully embrace a pop sensibility in their music.
Laura Burhenn and John Davis share the vocals on most tracks and their voices meld smoothly with the instrumentation, which relies heavily on auxiliary percussion along with traditional bass and guitar to create an upbeat thread that runs throughout the album Tracks like “Cake Parade” and “Henry and Hanzy” are standouts and suggest a style that’s Belle and Sebastian combined with a catchy but hollow buoyancy not far from ABBA’s. However, most of the songs sound the same and they bleed into each other, creating an enjoyably light listening experience but an ultimately forgettable indie album.
—Tekla Nagel
D 54%
Luke Doucet and the White Falcon
Blood’s Too Rich
Six Shooter
Toronto singer-songwriter Luke Doucet presents his newest offering of lightweight lyrics and throwaway less-than-alternative country.
The first chugging tune, “Long Haul Driver,” a try-hard, US state-name dropper sets the tone for the album—a soft-bellied, weak-kneed drive through the night. Like the three solo discs before it, Blood’s Too Rich errs heavily on the side of caution: predictable guitar solos, ultra-tight mixing and sleepy vocals.
An amalgam of influences (the Weakerthans, Joel Plaskett, Ron Sexsmith) present themselves in poor reflections throughout the album, but the worst impersonation is Doucet’s trucker-hat version of The Cure’s “The Lovecats.” A pathetic attempt at jauntiness, the tune loses it’s enchantingly silly mystery in favour of a tinny beat and Doucet’s half-hearted whine.
Blood’s Too Rich isn’t worth falling asleep at the wheel for—take the short cut and throw on one of the Can-rockers Doucet wishes he was or, better yet, put the top down and listen to The Cure.
—Meghan Sheffield
A+ 90%
PJ Harvey
White Chalk
Island
If there was any question that PJ Harvey’s creative energy had fizzled out—a concern raised by 2004’s Uh Huh Her, which conjured the gritty taste of her earlier work but without its charm or pulse—White Chalk, her eighth album, reaffirms her artistic imagination is alive and kicking. The album demonstrates what Harvey does well: 180 degree musical twists and turns so risky they work under her well-honed songwriting skills.
Abandoning her electric guitar and throaty snarls, Harvey plunks away at an upright piano and sends her vocals to greater, wispier heights, weaving an illusion that she’s communicating these songs from another realm—in a way, she is. By selecting instruments and a vocal range Harvey’s obviously not as comfortable or experienced with, she seems to have tapped into a new well of inspiration.
The aesthetic is eerie from the high wails on “The Mountain,” to the sullen Emily Dickinson-esque cover portrait to the lyrical ode that is “Dear Darkness.” Delving into this haunting consciousness is something she has only hinted at lyrically in the past but Harvey ventures deeper in this all-encoming sonic journey where banjos murmur alongside broken harps. Surprisingly, behind the morose veneer, the songs are more accessible than you would initially think. “When Under Ether,” a dark choice for the first single, describes a woman’s experience undergoing a Victorian-era abortion. The track is cold as Harvey subdues her voice, constraining it to a whisper-light volume and repetitive melody. However, the tale veers away from being tragic or gruesome and emphasizes, rather nonchalantly, human connection in strange circumstances (“Look up at the ceiling feeling happiness / Human kindness / The woman beside me is holding my hand / I point at the ceiling / She smiles so kind”).
The pacing of the album is slow, but odd enough to stay intriguing, making the 33:53 running time feel justifiably long enough for listeners to visit Harvey’s brash new world.
—Adèle Barclay
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