Girls
Album
Turnstyle/True Panther Sounds/Matador
A- 84%
There’s a lot to say about Girls frontman Christopher Owens.
Besides escaping his former home in the extremist Children of God cult to live on the streets at age 16, Owens has worked through the chaos and turmoil of his past and is ready to sing about it with the band’s debut full-length record, Album.
With a backstory like Owens’, the intrigue surrounding the band isn’t unsurprising.
With the other half of the band, Chet “JR” White on production, the San Francisco duo has quietly risen in the indie music scene. Girls combine a surprising layering of genres with echoes of generational greats like Buddy Holly, David Bowie and the Beach Boys. After listening to their grooves, you might be torn between feeling like you’re in an underground grunge venue or a beachside bar. Owens’ whiskey-tinged and painfully evocative voice ties together each song, blueprinting the record with the band’s unique and innovative sound. There is a raggedy tone to his vocals, but they stay light enough not to venture into growl territory.
The Beach Boys theme that has become popularized in indie groups resonates strongly throughout the record, but the unique twosome finds a way to make it their own by backing up the sunny rhythm and vocals with strong and compact guitar melodies and muffled yet present drumming. The harmonious “Lust for Life” pairs a layered and climbing guitar with lyrics aptly describing a subject matter that rings strong throughout the album—girls.
The trance-like and strummy single “Hellhole Ratrace” lets listeners into Owens’ thought process with the opening lyrics “I’m sick and tired of the way that I feel.” These emotionally-charged and mournful tracks are paired with gleeful must-hear ballads like the 1950s-inspired “Big Bad Mean Mother Fucker,” a song that conjures images of Danny Zuko gyrating on some high school bleachers telling tales of summer conquests.
Possibly the only thing remotely summery about this year, Album is hopefully just a glimpse into what’s to come from Girls.
—Ally Hall
Jay-Z
Blueprint 3
Roc Nation, Atlantic
C- 60%
Jay-Z is pushing 40, a multi-millionaire and married. So much of his material lies in the past that one wonders how long before he starts sounding like your great-grandfather telling war stories. How many ways can he say “I used to sell crack” before he runs out? Luckily, a farewell album, an “I’m back” album, and an album based on a movie have given him a bit of variety over the past few years.
Hova is a pleasure to listen to, and on The Blueprint 3 he has a new enemy in the form of Auto-Tune. “Death Of Auto-Tune” is Jay-Z’s essay about how a piece of music software relates to the economy, hipster-rap and a general lack of toughness in today’s hip-hop world. This continues with “Run This Town” with more fashion advice from both Jay and Kanye West.
After a clichéd ‘ayy-ohh’ throwaway with Young Jeezy comes the completely unlistenable Swiss Beatz abomination “On To The Next One” which is like Lil’ Wayne’s “A Milli” dumbed down and drowning out all the rapping. Next is “Off That,” where Timbaland proves he’ll never be able to make a song without ‘hey’-ing along in the background.
“Venus Vs. Mars” is a weird Danielle Steele novel about a fictional relationship over a rejected Timbaland beat he dug out of his Missy Elliot box. The album ends on a high note with “Young Forever” a near-cover of the Alphaville hit about poor German-English translation and living forever, but mostly it’s a minimal and effective song that puts Jay-Z front and centre.
Herein lies the problem. These aren’t bad songs, per se. This album is a death by a thousand cuts in a kitchen of too many cooks. There’s a tipping point to variety and collaboration where your sharp knife turns into a rubber mallet and everybody forgets about it in a year. That’s fine, there will probably be a new Jay-Z album by then.
—Tyler Ball
Mannequin Men
Lose Your Illusion, Too
Flameshovel
C+ 67%
Few things are as cathartic as when something awful that is happening—or has happened— stops happening. After listening to Mannequin Men’s new album Lose Your Illusion, Too, my psyche was afresh, my cochlea sighing with relief.
Its gruff and anti-hipster trajectory is actually quite refreshing—a gain-heavy soundtrack to a burning pyre of 80’s memorabilia. The second endearing feature was the album’s end.
The boys’ sound is characterized by the simplicity of a couple guitars, a bass and some drums, and is probably what would have happened if prehistoric cave men had recording studios. The sound is Iggy Pop without David Bowie. It’s the Stooges without Iggy Pop. It’s Whitney Houston without a bag of yayo—there’s just something missing, and that something is probably a competent vocalist.
“Helpful” sounds promising at first with winding, brit-pop guitars and a strolling bass. ‘Not much could ruin this’, you think naively. And then the vocals happen. I say happen, not ‘come in’ or ‘begin,’ because something so off-key and abrasive could only ever just suddenly happen.
With voices akin to drunken banshees, or a high school ‘Against Me!’ cover band, the vocal stylings of the Mannequin Men manage to mess up a whole album of half-decent melodies.
—Tom Morgan
All final editorial decisions are made by the Editor(s) in Chief and/or the Managing Editor. Authors should not be ed, targeted, or harassed under any circumstances. If you have any grievances with this article, please direct your comments to [email protected].