Deerhunter - Monomania

I remember reading-and I’m too lazy to find the actual quote and hyperlink it for you fuckers-where Brandon Cox referred to Deerhunter’s first record as an angry mess, the product of young men fueled with punk rock angst and the novelty of learning their instruments while the tape was rolling.

Make no mistake, this isn’t necessarily an attack of Turn It Up, Faggot, but it’s a quote that I took to mean: “Here’s the place where we started, and here’s the place we’ve ended up after a lot of hard work and challenging ideas.” Because while the Deerhunter of the debut record is relevant in the entire menagerie of the band’s output, it’s also a good place to chart how good they became in their decade of existence.

Monomania is the band’s 6^th album, and is a blatant left turn compared to the releases before it, where each one seemed to making clear headway towards identifying Deerhunter as one of America’s most notable acts. By “left turn” I could also suggest that it’s a “U turn” as it returns to the scuzzy formula of their debut in an attempt to appear be spontaneous, noisy, and ambivalent to the pressures of high expectations.

The album is littered with Cox’s distorted vocals and abrasive input levels, where instruments are faded up to the point of distortion, serving little else aside from trying to make Monomania as inaccessible as possible.

And while I am not dissuaded by such techniques - Cox has used them at lot of times, mainly delegated to e.p.s and leftover discs, and I liked it. It’s when these strategies are used for your first full-length record in three years and it happens to be coming off the heels of what had been a career highlight that I begin to have a problem with it. The notion that Cox's in-the-red document is somehow representative of the rock pioneers he's supposedly channeling (Ricky Nelson, Bo Diddly) misses the point of those early artists passion. The subversive mix also does little to convince me of Monomania's ties to the avant-garde, particularly since so much of the record is indebted to the pop leanings Cox hints at, yet is too chickenshit to actually embrace.

In the end, it all spells that the creative forces of Cox and guitarist/vocalist Lockett Pundt have left us with a somewhat lazy effort. Speaking of: Pundt's contribution of "The Missing" marks his third song in as many records that ebbs into another arpeggio break, making hims sound like a one trick pony.

Curiously, "The Missing" comes as Monomania's saving grace, giving the record at least one title that forfeits the project's phony-baloney garage worship with at least three minutes of dreamy reprieve, even though it's the worst Pundt Deerhunter track in years and it comes three tunes into the album.

Monomania's saving grace are Cox's songs, and even though he tries to diminish their fey charms with grit and grime, they ocassionally rise to the surface, begging the listener to consider them in more softer tones. You heard right: Cox could have created his own Ricky Nelson "Lonesome Town" if his ego wasn't in such a rush to be validated by, I dunno, music blogs named after Fall songs.

The fucker is a pussy cat, and if he wants a chance to add meat to his bones, then the best way to do it is in a live setting - and that's exactly what they did when I heard Deerhunter perform a large bag from this album live over last summer.

In the meantime, let's put the studio to good use, fellas, just like those granddaddies did in the 50's when cutting those tracks that Cox seems to have an ever-present boner for. It's not like they intentionally dirtied up the sessions - it's because they could only afford one-take Jakes, making the warts 'n all approach a matter of necessity, not creative glad-handing.

Just watch me: I'll probably be all over this record in a few years, but for right now - and ever since I first spun it last summer - it's a disappointment. And probably the best way to describe that disappointment is to use a line from the title track: “If you can’t send me an angel, send me something else.”

80/35 Festival: 2013 Recap

“That band from Cedar Falls is playing 80/35 this year.” Advised my father, a bastion of knowledge concerning Des Moines’ entertainment schedule.  His database is the entertainment section of the Des Moines Register and another local weekly that he keeps close at hand, usually underneath a decretive bowel that holds his remote controls.

The “that band” he was referring to is House of Large Sizes, a now defunct power trio that provided the Hawkeye state with some of the most intuitive and original blend of rock music during their initial run. Since going on hiatus over a decade ago, the band has re-formed sporadically for quick Iowa/Minnesota weekend reunions and for special occasions like headlining the Kum and Go free stage, one of three areas at the 80/35 festival with live music offerings.

The comment I made to my dad went something along the lines of “I don’t want to diminish the memories that I already have,” which is partially true as H.O.L.S. would qualify as a band that I’ve seen more than any other, beginning with their second gig ever over a quarter century ago. There is nothing like watching a band start from uneasy footing and progress into a remarkable one, and H.O.L.S. turned into exactly that.

With a year, House of Large Sizes became a very potent live band, and I can safely tell you that, while not every performance was transcendent, a large portion of them were and I can’t ever recall a moment where I wasn’t disappointed in attending.

Probably the only performance that came close to qualifying as a disappointment would have been one of those weekend reunions where many Iowa natives returned home to witness H.O.L.S. reunite. There was nothing to complain about from a music perspective, but from the audience it was quite unsettling watching your peers, visibly older, pretending to be in their 20’s and navigating the Mevlevi Order directly in front of the stage.

That’s a problem for me to address. Not the band. Not the 45 year-old fellow caught up in the time machine, screaming “I used to walk to school! I used to walk to school!” while H.O.L.S. tore through their first hint of awesomeness with their early standout track, “1½ On A Hill.”

The visuals obtained from these gigs were enough to have me keep my memories of this great band intact by abstaining from any further reunion shows or one-off engagements.

So when Dad dutifully mentioned “that band from Cedar Falls,” I confessed my predicament and admitted that there were really only two bands in 80/35’s schedule that I wanted to see this year-Wavves and Deerhunter-and out of those, only Deerhunter made me want to get my wallet out and purchase a ticket.

The two headliners this year were David Byrne/St. Vincent (Friday night) and Wu Tang Clang (Saturday night), both of which were not enough to save 80/35 from their lowest paid attendance since the festival’s first event, six years ago.

When I went to that inaugural show, I was a buzzkill. I was suffering from the belief that I had grown beyond the challenges that any festival event prevents (drunkenness, heat, lack of manners, etc.) and that somehow the festival needed to adapt to my expectations.

It’s a ridiculous complaint, and the only way around it is to simply make the choice not to attend, which I have done in the past. But each year the festival presents at least one or two acts that I would like to see, so I’m forced to make some form of compromise if I want to see them.

This year, that challenge came from the band Deerhunter, a band that I admire a great deal and one that has not touched Iowa soil since their inception.

I bitched and whined about my choices until the last day of the festival, where I finally headed over to Des Moines without a ticket, hoping to score “a miracle,” to use Grateful Dead parlance.

Leave it to my mother to save the day, handing me $50 bucks from her purse and telling me just to go and buy a ticket at the gate. I didn’t see the value in spending $45 for what would have been one band, two if I felt inclined enough to battle the heat and check out Wavves mid-afternoon.

But as temperatures hovered in the mid-90’s and my parent’s two new kittens falling asleep on my chest after a hard afternoon play, Wavves didn’t make the cut.

That left the agenda wide open, and only two bands remained in the running.

For everyone else, it was the Wu Tang Clan, who I enjoy to a certain degree haven’t paid attention to since O.D.B. died. This isn’t to suggest that his input isn’t as essential to the Wu as a creative unit, but you know, when does the point of a collective turn into the whims of a few select members? When does all of it turn into a money-grab after the solo efforts begin to not get the attention that they once did?

And when does it all turn into an ungrateful booking where the remaining members finally hit the stage 45 minutes after their scheduled start time?

I was long gone before this, so I don’t have a dog in this hunt. But I do get a bit defensive when an act comes in to my state without any evidence of respect towards the people who paid to see them. That includes festivals, county fairs, and any opening act that gets on stage and mocks patrons like those fucks in Los Lobos.

I’m glad Paul Simon ripped off your shit and you don’t make a dime off Graceland. You don’t deserve it, you smug fucks.

The sun had begun to set when Deerhunter-specifically frontman Bradford Cox-fought with some unruly guitar pedals and barked orders at the soundman before the set began. When the music did finally start-right around the scheduled time, so fuck you, Wu-the soundman had apparently done his magic, appeasing the crowd and Cox with some very luscious sonics.

Beginning with “Cover Me (Slowly)” > “Agoraphobia,” the set pulled heavily from Halcyon Digest, which is fine, because Halcyon Digest is most awesome. For some reason, I felt the need to tell anyone near me that I had driven from Cedar Rapids (2 hours) and paid full price ($45) just to see Deerhunter. “Really?” said one of my neighbors standing next to me, feigning interest. He moved before I had a chance to tell him that my mommy bought the ticket for me and pushed my curfew to Midnight.

Cox is looking older these days, and he was nowhere near as flamboyant as I would have liked him to be. He made the curious decision to wear a black Cramps t-shirt with dark green corduroy highwaters and sandals. It was the look of someone who merely woke up in Atlanta, GA, hopped on a plane to Iowa, played 60 minutes at a festival and then flew home.

This is exactly what happened, probably. But I’m sure the shocking blue Teisco Del-Rey he was manning came with him on the plane. Most awesome.

Bassist Josh Fauver is no longer in the band, apparently having grown tired of this type of thing (touring). This was a concern at first, since he had a hand in one of the most awesome Deerhunter songs of all time (“Nothing Ever Happened”) and it meant that it probably would not be a part of the set list that evening.

New bassist Josh McKay has a pretty nifty look about him, and as far as I could tell, filled Fauver’s shoes nicely in terms of the band’s increasing reliance on strong 4/4 rhythms

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All the girls love guitarist Lockett Pundt, who worked “Desire Lines” into the evening’s most memorable moment. Fans of his reverb-laden Jazzmaster are advised to check out his band Atlas Sound, although I’m sure I’m speaking to the converted if you’re a fan of Deerhunter already.

Don't you cry, Timmy. There's a heaven above you, baby.

They have an additional guitarist, Frankie Boyles, who is actually the drummer in Atlas Sound, so go figure.

Drummer Moses Archuleta is pretty solid player, and I was impressed with his consistency.  His timekeeping was critical in matching the band’s more extended pieces into credible forms of translation. When they were on, they were perfect. When they were off-which was rare-they were nowhere near the troublemaking persona that made this show such a must-see-with-your-mother’s-money event.

The most tomfoolery that took place was Bradford’s banter with the timid crowd; most of their fans stood towards the front while the sourpusses waiting for Wu Tang Clan sulked in the back, discounting the weird white boy singling out audience members for some gentle ribbing.

“What’s with Nic Cage?” he asked, noticing that a member of the audience had taken the time to attach a big picture of Nicolas Cage’s head to a broom handle and brought it to Deerhunter’s set.

“What happened to Nic Cage today?” he continued to ponder, looking for an explanation as to why someone would find the need to bring a big picture of the star’s head to a rock concert. “You guys in Iowa like irony and humor, don’t you?” finding out that the gag really served no purpose other than to confound.

He then noticed a young man wearing a Black Flag t-shirt, who he promptly named “Timmy,” and complimented him on his attire. “Timmy” then suffered regular dedications and even a few alterations to song lyrics (“Don’t Cry” from Halcyon Digest became “Don’t Cry, Timmy” for example) on his behalf. Then Bradford noticed another youngster in a Swans shirt, complimented him on his choice, and then dedicated the next song to him.

“You guys have cool music t-shirts here in Des Moines.” He noted.

You could probably tell that I didn’t hang around for the Wu set, although I could sense it was going to be a long night for those that promptly made their way to the front of the stage just as Deerhunter’s fans were moving away from it. It would be an even longer wait thanks to the Wu’s poor time management skills.

Courtesy of David Byrne's journal. 

As is the case with any 80/35 main stage act, Deerhunter’s set was restricted to the allotted 60 minutes and it was clear that there would be no encore when the stage crew began shutting of the amplifiers still omitting feedback and tearing down the microphones.

The night was still young and the early July evening was shaping up to be a very beautiful thing. I decided to take a look at some old friends at the Kum & Go stage, a poorly named convenience store here in the Midwest that even David Byrne noticed when he was in town the night before, performing and riding some of Iowa’s extensive bike trail systems.

House of Large Sizes had already begun when I made the three block trek to the stage. The street directly in front of the stage was packed. There was a higher proportion of older people at this show, but a pretty big crowd for an act that hasn’t been together for the past decade.

The band tore through a catalog now measured in decades, and it seemed like they were trying to cram everything into an abbreviated set (again, one hour). I remember a few early gigs when HOLS was gaining popularity in the region when I loudly lamented to their drummer at the time that the band was losing speed by the end of the set.

He didn’t appreciate that comment from me, and I probably had no right in saying it.

I can safely say that this is never a problem with drummer Brent Hanson, who keeps the proceedings fit ‘n active by propelling a bunch of these classic cuts into double-time territory. Seriously, it was like those stories about the Ramones and how they managed to trim the fat on every tour, to the point where they would keep tabs at how quickly they could pound through a set, often ending a tour a full quarter-hour faster than comparable sets towards the beginning of it.

Hanson spends his time these days laying the foundation for metal bands in the Twin Cities area (see the badassed Bastard Saint for more insight into his skin work) when he isn’t commuting down to Ioway for HOLS practice on one of their regular reunion shows.

Good thing too: Hanson exudes enthusiasm with nearly every beat, transforming HOLS into a clarion of ass-kicking rock that’s inspiring to the crowd under the age of 30 who hasn’t been swayed away with EDM soundtracks and safe surroundings. House proved to be incredibly dangerous during their set and just as powerful as any other gig they may have implanted into our collective memory.

Barb Schlif. Tuck-and-Roll.

Bassist Barb Schilf jumped and twirled her braided ponytails around like a woman possessed, and I caught at least a few moments where she turned to face her ginormous Kustom cab like she was challenging it, the speakers pushing the air with so much intensity that her eyes began to roll back. The music was literally transforming her into La Dame Blanche right before us in a transfixing display of performing from a completely different space and time. That moment alone made the brief walk to the Kum & Go stage completely worthwhile and it made me miss the fact that House was no longer around  full-time  to recreate this kind of supernatural magic on a regular basis.

I was reminded of when this band started. Barb was still learning the instrument, and many performances found her looking down at the frets, making sure her fingers were on the proper location of the neck. There is none of that anymore, as Schilf has the notes embedded inside of her, but it’s the joy of executing those rumbles that practically make her the focal point of House’s live show.

This fact takes nothing away from the band’s designated driver, Dave Deibler, who commandeered the proceedings like an old pro. He joked with the crowd concerning his age, fibbing that he recently celebrated his 40^th birthday recently. After receiving a few bits of audience approval, he then admitted that he subtracted 10 years from the figure, which only made the speed that HOLS was chugging along with that much more impressive.

What I feared would turn out to be just another nostalgic offering was instead an honest attempt at getting old-school natives like yours truly to miss the possibility of what this band could accomplish with just a few more years of navigating the circuit. Mission accomplished, but with Dave and Barb now committed to their family and their businesses, it would be hard to have them justify a return when they’re making a bigger impact with the gear tucked away.

Big as a house and twice as wide, indeed!

Not only was my opinion of House of Large Sizes changed, but so was my overall opinion of the 80/35 Festival. It is a small-scale festival that regularly brings healthy support from fans of music from across the state. And while that may not seem like much to any fan of music that has a major music festival within a short drive of their home, for us in the Hawkeye State our options are limited based on our population and perception.

The only way around this is through events like these, where financial supporters and the festival organizers put their money and time on the line and we come out and participate, even when we have multiple reasons not to.

Iowa is hot around the 4^th of July and it can stay brutal like that for weeks afterwards. But it can also be a place where we use excuses like that to stay at home, only to whine when the heat breaks that nobody ever comes here to play. Des Moines is changing that with some really active venues, and the organizers of 80/35 are a big part of putting our state on the radar.

My issues with the event are of my own prejudice-a natural part of the aging process that grows tired of large crowds and drunken shenanigans. But the moment you have confined yourself from opportunities simply because you're unable to control the actions of others is a sign that you’re moving away from the very appeal of music: the ability to enjoy the human experience through song.

Don’t get me wrong, if I’m in the middle of a heat wave, I’m going to find shade (and if there are no shades like there wasn’t during Fucked Up and Dinosaur Jr.’s 100+ degree performances during last year’s 80/35Festival, then I’ll lather on sunscreen and drink water like it’s going out of style). If there’s drunken revelers, then I’ll stand clear of the mouthbreathers and find a calmer area.

And if I can’t find a cheap ticket, I’ll ask my mom if she can grab her purse and help contribute to one our state’s best outlets for good music.

Record Store Day 2011: Survivor's Guilt and Colored Vinyl

It was snowing on Record Store Day this year, the annual event that was created to celebrate what is now a dying breed, but what once was an establishment in nearly every town with a population of any decent size.

My town of Cedar Rapids is the second largest city in the state of Iowa, and with a population of over 125,000 people, it’s not enough to support one record store. The last one closed a few years ago, if I recall, and I remember making a special trip to city for one of the first record store closing of any significance-Rock ‘N Bach Records-when it shuttered, more than a decade ago. I drove up for the store-closing sale, snagging a rare Julian Cope picture disc for a song, and thinking, “I wish I’d known about this place sooner.”

It felt like a morgue in there. The store seemed depressingly dark, with windows blocked by faded promotional posters. We were late to the pickings-bins were missing entire sections from previous shoppers who’d gotten the more popular stuff. What remained were the obscure and undesirable. For ever oddball Julian Cope 12”, there were six copies of some EMF record.

There were more stores that closed before I moved up here, and several others that ended while I was here. So for Record Store Day 2011, the closest place I could solicit my support was to drive the forty-five minute commute to Iowa City, the same collegiate town where my love of independent record stores grew exponentially.

I’ve spoken before of this town and their selections, but like every other town that’s had a retailer devoted to the purchase of recorded music; Iowa City has seen a quiet dismantling of record stores. When I began coming to that town in search for eclectic selections and knowledgeable clerks, you could easily find a store on nearly every corner of its downtown district.

The Record Collector-which ended up becoming my favorite store out of the bunch-is the last one standing. I made the declaration that we would be traveling down to Iowa City to “celebrate” record store day, which is code for “If you let me putz around the record store for 15 minutes, I’ll take you kids to the shitty children’s museum, which is right across from the ice-rink inside the massive shopping mall next to I-80.

Immediately, I noticed the familiar face of the owner of the Record Collector-Kirk Walther-hurriedly assisting customers around the smaller square-footage of his latest location. By my count, this location at 116 South Linn Street is his third, and by my guess, the square footage is in between his original location and the one he eventually moved into when his business expanded.

It’d been years since I’d seen him, so a reintroduction was in order. At one point in time, I’d make the trip to his store about once a month-and that was when I lived over an hour away. Now that I’m closer, the drive was nothing like it was, but like everybody else, my purchasing habits have changed, as has the preferred format.

The drive down to Iowa City is indicative of this, where I loaded Prince’s “Sometimes It Snows In April” onto my IPod before loading the kids in the van, a song that fit the abrupt climate change that found my lawn covered in snow before we ventured out.

I could have easily just brought Parade with us and started the journey, but as it is with the convenience that the mp3 format brings us, why not just add one more file to the larger catalog that comes with me for any journey that will be longer than 10 minutes in length.

Like most Big Ten college towns, parking is a valuable commodity. They’ve planted strategic parking buildings around the downtown area, of course, and if we were planning a lengthy stay in the district, this may have been the ideal spot. But we were entertaining my whim, and I needed a spot close to the Record Collector in order to make a quick exit. I knew the event would be lost on the children, and the appreciation of traveling back in time to when visits to the record store were part of the routine.

I asked Kirk how things were going with the store and then immediately regretted it. I’m sure he gets asks this question, and probably even more direct ones like “Are you guys going out of business soon?”

“Yeah, I get sick of it…but I understand why it gets asked” he acknowledged, right before he asked me directly “Are you still buyin’?”

It’s a tough question to answer, because on every account it suggests that I’m not doing much to support an industry that has provided me so much. And by “industry,” I’m speaking directly to the independent record stores and not to the labels that directly contributed to the downfall of brick and mortar stores that now view Record Store Day as their version of Black Friday.

There I was, admitting to the convenience of ITunes for those late night impulse purchases, the bargain pricing of Amazon on the rare occasion that I actually order physical copy, and vaguely referencing the promotional downloads that I’ll get for free for review consideration.

He seemed to notice how uncomfortable my answers were, and he quickly tried to display an understanding as to why I wasn’t a guest of his store as much as I used to be. And his responses were right on: with not living in Iowa City and with wife and kids into the mix, I’m not the single guy in his late-twenties/early thirties that can find the time to invest money into a passion that no longer has the drive to make me choose sides over my personal life. My personal life has become my family life, and music has become the mistress that I visit when the kids are in bed and the wife preoccupied.

It still provides the soundtrack to my life and its there to document changes in my world, but the keys to obtaining the score have changed a lot since I use to walk into Kirk’s store with one purchase in mind and leave with several titles in hand.

He smiled at this fact, because it was those kinds of encounters with others and myself that enabled him to grow and prosper before realizing that the livelihood he had chosen was based on an unsteady foundation, one where Kirk would have to work twice as hard just to get to half of the intended results.

I’m sorry for this, but it’s ultimately beyond my control. Sure, I could travel down and spend twenty minutes circling the block looking for parking, to which all of this would ultimately accomplish a reality where I’m spending less on a passion that requires me to dig deeper. Instead of four albums, I would only be able to afford one. So when opportunities allow me to obtain those four at a lower cost, I’m taking the cheaper route.

Kirk tells me that the most lucrative time was in 1991-when “college rock” suddenly became “mainstream rock.” When people would sell their cds just to get other cds, which provide stores like the Record Collector with the enviable position that they could obtain a nice catalog of titles just by buying direct instead of through rigid distributors.

I was one of those people, and Kirk was there to encourage my quest for knowledge. You’d give him a band that you were playing a lot, and he’d bring out a half-dozen titles of similar artists knowing that one would surely stick.

Surprisingly, he sounded upbeat and positive, despite my initial questions to him, which were anything but. It’s the vinyl that’s been helping his rebound, which seemed to be the format that Record Store Day focuses on.

Regardless of my embarrassment, it wasn’t guilt that drew me to Kirk store on this blustery Saturday-it was the rare shit. The day had been good to him: most of the limited edition stuff he received for the festivities were gone. I began to rattle off my own list of items that I’d circled and Kirk took me to the area that housed the Record Store Day new releases.

The Beach Boys 10” sold out early, but my other two hopefuls-a Deerhunter single and the vinyl version of Mastodon’s new live album-were still in stock. As Meatloaf said, two out of three ain’t bad.

The kids were thoroughly unimpressed with the record store and they spent most of their time scarfing down the chips and pretzels that the store had laid out to ensure a long visit. Ironically, the kids were the reason why the trip was cut short as the snacks led way to “I’m Hungry!” which meant that their whining would ultimately become a business liability for Kirk if I didn’t get them some grub.

But not before snagging an original, mint copy of Marty Robbins’ Gunfighter Ballads And Trail Songs and a dirt-cheap copy of Phish’s Hampton Comes Alive.

“Mastodon and Phish in the same purchase! I love it!” exclaimed Kirk as his collegiate co-worker rang me out.

“There’s a Marty Robbins record in there too,” I added proudly, “There’s nothin’ wrong with tryin’ different things!”

And part of that diversity is because of the world that people like Kirk opened for me.

For that, I should be able to find at least one day a year to say “Thank you.”

Deerhunter - Weird Era

My copy of Deerhunter’s Microcastle came with a bonus disc, Weird Era Cont. I spun Microcastle a few times, fell in love with it, and in the heat of said passion wrote the review that I posted yesterday. Glorious Noise posted the review, but I never followed it up with a mention of Weird Era.
True story: I went months before I even remembered the disc was in there.
Can you blame me? We live in an era where bonus discs are a normal occurrence and an even rarer event is when said bonus discs are worth a damn.
Weird Era is not that kind of bonus disc. In fact, it rivals the legitimate release at some points. It’s an album-in the truest sense of the word-that I would have accepted as the actual follow-up to Cryptograms if it were released instead of Microcastle. Since it wasn’t, and since Microcastle is so good, you can only view Weird Era as the leftover disc, a collection of songs that may pale somewhat when compared to it’s more notorious brother but a collection of such decency that you’re actually shocked at how good it is and thankful that it was included in the package.
Trust me: for $15 (or whatever I paid for it) it’s a bargain and because I originally forgot that I had it for two months, discovering it made the value even more noticeable for me; it was like I just stumbled on to a new, awesome record and didn’t have to pay for it.
Less structured than Microcastle, Weird Era is a compendium of soundscapes, ranging from primitive, low-fi distortion to eerily beautiful ambient pieces. Vocals are a rare commodity, and when they’re present, the vocals are soaked in reverb or other treatments making them another element of the musical texture than as a focal point.
What we are witnessing with head hunter Bradford Cox is a creative peak that shows no sign of letting up or diminishing in value. It will at some point-of course-but when it does, the “throwaways” like the Fluorescent Grey e.p. and Weird Era will become more pronounced as shining moments in Deerhunter’s catalog when the band was releasing high points at a fantastically rapid rate.

Deerhunter - Microcastle

The running gag may be the notion that Deerhunter frontman Bradford Cox is somehow recoiling from the “fame” that all of the critical praise that was bestowed on Cryptograms. There’s additional evidence of the need to step away from the spotlight as early as song number two on the band’s third release, Microcastle. In it, Cox sheepishly dreams of being held in a room (“I want only to see/Four walls made of concrete/Six by six enclosed/See me on videos”-“Agoraphobia”) seeming hinting at a seclusion to which some have concluded is a result of all of the attention his band has received.
Make no mistake, that aforementioned attention is totally deserved…and will deservedly grow more with Microcastle…but we’re not talking about a band that gets name checked in everyday conversations and I would be shocked if Cryptograms sold more than 10,000 copies after all of the written hullaballoo (including here).
In fact, I bet at least half of you reading this right now are confusing this Atlanta quartet with Deerhoof.
My guess is that Cox is gunning for more limelight. He regularly dons dresses on stage, just finished a high profile support act for Nine Inch Nails’ most recent tour, posted pictures of his own shit on the band’s blog (admittedly, that’s not a good example) and has toned down the heroic atmospheres that made Cryptograms an important album as well as a divisive one.
Yes, Microcastle is definitely more accessible, but it hardly qualifies Deerhunter for the mainstream. For every step forward towards mass appeal there’s equal time given to feedback, electronic blips, and distorted vocals that give way to Cox’s dictionary of ailments, entendres, and pop-culture references. When Deerhunter isn’t amassing squalor, they’re deconstructing it, allowing Microcastle…particularly the album’s middle section…to be softly spun with pianos, tremolo, and layers of reverb soaked guitars.
This album is not as eye opening as its predecessor, but it’s a clear move forward (with the e.p. Florescent Grey now demonstrating itself to be more of a transition piece that a quick stopgap) and a better record to boot.
In fact, with each subsequent listen it feels like Deerhunter has created their first undisputed masterpiece even though it may take years before it’s acknowledged as such.
Cox again portends ambivalence to the whole matter during Microcastle’s highpoint, “Nothing Ever Happened.” Cox sounds positively dreary over the course of the song’s five minutes, whining like an impatient teenager that he’s “Waiting for something…For nothing.” The band then spends the second half of the song working out a tight rhythmic jam of interweaving guitars and arcing tones. It’s clear from it that Microcastle is not only something, it’s something that should provide him the attention he’s secretly craving.

This review originally appeared in Glorious Noise.

Deerhunter - Cryptograms

Foreward: The rest of planet rock is going to have a tough time challenging Deerhunter for out-of-left-field greatness in 2007. Not only have they released one of the most awesome albums (Cryptograms) this year, they also released a pretty stellar e.p. (Fluorescent Grey) that was recorded while they were mixing Cryptograms. The vinyl version of Cryptograms also includes the Fluorescent Grey e.p., which makes it a pretty sweet value if you still have a turntable hooked up. I do, but I unfortunately went the route of getting the cd version first. So knock the rating up another half point if you're looking at the vinyl version over the cd version.
Seriously. It's that good.

It’s amazing what a band can do when they have something epic in mind and only a shoestring budget to execute it with. Take Deerhunter, an Atlanta quintet that went in to the studio a few years ago with the intention to make a grand statement, only to have the sessions end in turmoil from a number of technical and personal dramas as well as a limited amount of financial resources to help keep the project afloat.
Understanding that they needed to press on in order to make their creative statement, and understanding that their bank accounts hadn’t grow at all since they first started recording, Deerhunter went back into the studio for a another attempt to complete their second album.
Because of their monetary limitations, much of Cryptograms was recorded “on the fly.” With only a few days of studio time at their disposal, every miscue, flubbed note, and mistake was captured. And every inch of tape was used: you can actually hear the recording tape run out of “Red Ink,” the final song of side one.
Which is appropriate, as Cryptograms is essentially two different sides anyway. Side one is the aforementioned “creative statement” with its lengthy forays into the ambient realm and enough droning imagery to keep a Flying Saucer Attack fan like myself in a Dilaudid nod for days.
It would be testing for anyone who requires some immediate gratification from their stereo. The piece ebbs-and-flows with haunting electrickery, and leader Brandon Cox finds his own vocals manipulated with robotic treatments. All of the elements take their own sweet time to develop; it is, after all, a testament to their own perseverance that the record saw the light of day to begin with. The listener’s job is to find the appropriate time to settle down with it and allow the long-player to unfold completely.
Side two is primarily an echo-laded Elephant 6 affair, which doesn’t mean that it feels out of place here, but it certainly strengthens the breathtaking dissonance that was the first thirty minutes of the album. The record’s second half is, for sure, the most accessible and the point where you might hear a selection on your local, low-wattage student radio station. It too was recorded quickly (in a different session), but without the storyline that the web has focused on regarding the album’s first half.
Addressing this: Cryptograms is by no means the second coming of Loveless. There are moments that may resemble it, and the financial damage incurred during the making of both of these records is similar (although Loveless broke Creation Records’ bank while Cryptograms mainly impacted the band’s purse), it is obvious that there is a world of difference between Kevin Shields’ studio perfectionism and Deerhunter’s day-long ambient opera. Both records are rewarding, but one of them can only be used as a reference for which others are measured.
You don’t need to guess to figure out which album that would be.
For Deerhunter, they’ll have to endure yet another story-worthy tale in order to build upon Cryptograms’ striking development. Such a story may provide enough copy for a great press release, but to suffer through another year of drama to produce an album of this magnitude is enough to make even the strongest of wills to consider an easier option.
To answer Brandon Cox on “Strange Light” (“What direction should we choose/We’re lost and still confused”), the road Deerhunter needs to take to make an album as gratifying as Cryptograms may be the one that proves to be their toughest journey when it’s over.

This review originally appeared in Glorious Noise.
Photo by Cyrus Shahmir