Matt Brundage

The music world is now almost a decade removed from the pop-punk, “alternative”, and mainstream grunge of the ’90s. With that in mind, Virginia outfit No Compromise adds a healthy dose of nostalgia to both their live shows and their latest release, This Could Be You.

No Compromise is a classic rock band, in the loosest sense of the phrase. This Could Be You builds on that reputation, compressing the best of ’90s rock into seven tracks, while still managing to sound fresh. Standout track “Whatever It Takes” is full-on 1994/95-era Foo Fighters with scalpel-sharp guitar work from Jack Kwait-Blank and enough energy to tide them over for the rest of the album. Lead single “Love, Myself” is catchy and works in part because of a two-part harmony that pops up in a couple of places. Additionally, listen for it in the chorus of last year’s “Seams So Seamless”. It sounds appealing, but is vastly underutilized.

Their overall sound is pleasing. Think of a downtuned, grungier Jimmy Eat World without Auto-Tune, circa 2000. Altogether radio-friendly, the band takes another step forward, production-wise, with keyboards on “Rain Over Washington” and “The Only One Left” and subtle vocal effects (and perhaps double-tracking?) on the plodding “Cybernoia”. In the right hands, the track “Restless” could have hypothetically devolved into an all-out hardcore grungefest the likes of which Korn has never heard. If NoCo gets picked up by a label, I wouldn’t be surprised if “Restless” gets a makeover.

No Compromise played the State Theatre in Falls Church, VA last night and the relatively high quality of the venue’s PA system really “opened up” NoCo’s sound, as if a layer of dust had been squeegeed off. The trio fit in quite nicely alongside unsigned group Redshift and established local band The Blackjacks. Again, Jack Kwait-Blank’s versatile guitar work anchored the performance — at times channeling Billy Corgan, at other times even Dave Grohl or Al Pitrelli — sometimes all within the same song. William Bowen pounded the drums with a style that, for some reason, reminded me of Slowhand. The sticks appeared to be hitting the skins just in the nick of time. Thrilling to watch, to say the least. Bassist and lead singer Justin Fry was energetic and employed fuzz effects at times, essentially playing rhythm during Kwait-Blank’s solos. Or perhaps it was just my imagination.

The hype surrounding Seattle new-comers Fleet Foxes is altogether warranted. After receiving excellent reviews for their self-titled debut album (released June 3), they suddenly became the band to see.

Their performance last night at the Black Cat did not disappoint, although the band was not in full form. Lead vocalist and songwriter Robin Pecknold excused his singing with tales of a cold that has lasted for weeks; he even claimed that those in attendance were being “half-conned” out of their money. To the contrary, his vocals were more or less spot-on, save for a time or two when I could detect some cracking. I was hoping that it would hold up during the a capella numbers, and thankfully, it did. I recall thinking that, “presently, I’ve forgotten what all other voices sound like, and frankly, I don’t care.” They have that good of a blend — Robin’s voice in particular. Their harmonies are tight, high, and wispy, with no apparent bass sound. At times, it sounded as if Pecknold were singing two or three parts simultaneously.

The set started off quiet and subdued. The sold-out crowd became hushed, and no one dared flash their camera. For a while, the audience failed to clap between songs — I’m guessing that we were just awestruck. It’s as if we were about to applaud in church after a particularly eloquent Latin chorale piece. It not something that one does without serious contemplation. Eventually, the mood lightened a bit and the audience was as enthusiastic as ever.

Come down from the mountain; you have been gone too long
The spring is upon us; follow my only song
Settle down with me by the fire of my young love…

The only sour note was the exclusion of quite possibly their most accomplished piece, “Ragged Wood”, a song that evokes a “woodsy” sound — a style recently employed by My Morning Jacket, Band of Horses, and Midlake, among others. I kept waiting for it, but it never came (contrary to what NPR claims). At the encore, I had one last glimmer of hope, but it just wasn’t meant to be.

As some may know, Josh Tillman is now Fleet Foxes’ drummer, having joined the group in early 2008. I knew Josh back when we were in our teens. We attended the same high school for a few years; he was a grade below me. I told him after the show that I had never set out to find him or his music — his music simply found me over the normal course of events. I started listening to his solo albums and EPs a few years ago; I have a feeling that I’d still be a fan even if we had never had that personal connection back in high school. Seeing him drum for Fleet Foxes was almost surreal, and he has a fine voice as well. I have a feeling that even better things are in store for him and his band.

NPR has a write-up and streaming audio of the show.

The Pretenders’ “My City Was Gone“, known as the bumper music with the killer bass line on Rush Limbaugh’s radio show, has typically been viewed as a protest song: focused on then-president Ronald Reagan’s economic policies. Between the lines, Pretenders’ singer Chrissie Hynde argues that Reagan’s policies (the “government”) contributed to the mall culture in middle America — whereby bedroom communities and open spaces are replaced with big box stores, fast food joints, off-ramps, and strip malls. While there is some validity in protesting against the homogenization of American culture, Hynde’s anger may have been misdirected. Let’s examine if Reagan could have contributed to the injustices that Hynde rails against:

The Budget process of the United States government states that the president shall submit a budget proposal to congress, who will then approve and/or modify the proposal. Reagan’s first budget request was for fiscal year 1982, which started on October 1, 1981.

Since “My City Was Gone” first appeared on wax in October 1982, Hynde only had a small window by which to pen the supposedly anti-Reagan lyrics. Reagan didn’t even take office until January 1981, and his budget wasn’t effective until October of that year. I seriously question the influence that Reagan (and the gridlocked 97th congress) had on new construction contracts in Akron, Ohio between October 1981 and the day that Hynde wrote “My City Was Gone”. For the sake of argument, let’s say spring 1982, although it could have been much earlier. Various sources indicate that the song was written before the death of The Pretenders’ guitarist James Honeyman-Scott which occurred in June of 1982.

In reality, Hynde is lamenting that her Ohio isn’t the Ohio she knew when she was younger. In a perfect world, there should have been a moratorium on all real estate development in Akron, Ohio in 1973 — the year Hynde left for London. It’s becoming apparent that Hynde is railing not only against development and change, but against capitalism and the market economy itself.

Sera Cahoone is an interesting little-known “country” vocalist from the west coast. I first heard her on KEXP (Seattle) and purchased her first self-released album almost immediately thereafter. Her voice isn’t particularly commanding or strong, but it’s very pure and has a certain charm to it. Her band plays down-tempo classic-influenced country with just the right amount of pedal steel guitar and banjo.

Sea Wolf is a newish band — actually a pseudonym for Alex Brown Church, an indie-pop singer/songwriter from LA. I actually just purchased his debut EP (Get to the River Before it Runs Too Low, 2007) a month or so ago; it was only a matter of time before the full-length album came my way. I think what initially drew me to Sea Wolf was the way his songs sounded like sped-up dirges. Church also double- or triple-tracked his vocals on the songs — altogether pleasing to the ears. Further adding to his appeal are at least two songs on the album that specifically mention gypsies!

While I was singing and playing the guitar for Annie, Sniff hid under the bed and kept thumping his hind legs. We sounded like a badly rehearsed duet between a guitar and a bass drum. After a while, either my playing had improved or Sniff’s curiosity got the better of him as he came out from under the bed and began to inspect the cause of the ruckus. Pictured: Sniff helps me tune the “G” string, as I was presumably a bit flat.

It’s been said that the music you listen to as a young adult will — more often than not — be the music you’ll be listening to for the rest of your life. I’ve been trying to evaluate that axiom in terms of my own listening habits; so far the diagnosis is still quite muddy.

Like most people, my taste has evolved slowly and steadily; lately I feel as though I am settling down — not in the frequency in which I acquire music, but in the rate that I fall out of favor with certain bands or genres.

In my early years, I never listened to the radio and didn’t own any music. Exposure came from lying on the floor in my parents’ living room with an old Sears hi-fi record player and headphones massive enough to cause discomfort after a couple LPs. My parents’ collection was spotty at best. Random John Denver and Beatles albums. At least three albums by the now-obscure Mason Williams.

In the summer of 1989, I received a compilation tape of Beach Boys songs from my uncle in response to my positive reaction to the song “Kokomo”. A year later, I remember wanting to own M.C. Hammer’s breakout album Please Hammer Don’t Hurt ‘Em, and dancing around like a total loser to “Ice Ice Baby”. During this period, I was discovering vapid early nineties pop and listening to oldies. A few years later, I developed an intense obsession of the music of Ace of Base (my first pop CD). Throughout high school, I took to mostly mainstream rock (Weezer, then The Smashing Pumpkins) and pop and listened incessantly to commercial rock radio.

By the end of the nineties, I was acquiring CDs at an alarming rate of one every four or five days. It was as if I were making up for lost time. In 2000, I rediscovered the Beach Boys while taking a music appreciation class at Montgomery College. I embraced them with open arms and became a rapid Beach Boys completist almost overnight. At the same time, I began falling out of favor with commercial rock, especially that which is played on the radio. I started listening to more “indie” bands, more obscure sounds, more classic country, more underground bands.

Which brings me to the point of this post: what (in addition to my own tastes) has changed? I’ll use Semisonic’s breakthrough 1998 album Feeling Strangely Fine as an example. If this album had been released nowadays, I would probably not even hear it, given my aversion to commercial pop and rock radio. If I did happen to hear it, I would probably brush it off, classify it as forgettable, and move on. But yet the album remains a classic in my own mind — dare I say, a minor masterpiece. I must acknowledge that I’m approaching the album with bias. I can’t evaluate it objectively because I continue to view the songs through a lens clouded with good memories: Buying my first car. The bittersweet relief of graduating from high school. The giddiness and elation of having a girlfriend. Becoming independent. Climbing up the lower rungs of the career ladder. Et cetera…

I look back fondly at music from my late teens, yet I recoil with disgust at some of the cookie-cutter “music” being released now. I used to follow the Billboard charts every week and know most of the songs. Now, I’m lucky if I can hum one or two songs in the top 40. I’ve come to realize that the deciding factor isn’t the music itself, but my emotional connection to it. I like to think that I evaluate music more objectively now, as a (mostly) level-headed adult. My appreciation of a new band or particular song won’t be influenced by frivolous things such as unrelated emotions. Or at least that’s my hope.

The two CDs to your right may have only cost me about $10 a piece, but they’ve proven to be a much more expensive investment in the long run. I recently caused permanent damage to my car’s factory-installed speaker system while blasting Death From Above 1979’s “Romantic Rights (Erol Alkan’s Love From Below Re-Edit)” on the way to volleyball a few weeks ago. The song is little more than tribal-style drumming, a throbbing, distorted bass, and keyboards that sound like twin turbofans powering up before a sudden burst across the runway of an aircraft carrier. An indulgent six-minute mess of noise with, as one Amazon reviewer put it, no “socially redeeming value.”

My once-acceptable Saturn L-Series speakers now have clearly audible distortion, but only at certain pitches in the lower register. Certain bass sounds are now replaced with a slight vibrato. Not exactly a clipping sound, but still a clear sign that the speakers are trying in vain to reproduce certain sounds.

Travis released their fifth studio album a couple months ago; it was only a matter of time before it found its way into my living room. From the beginning, I had a good feeling about the album, as it was produced by Nigel Godrich — the man who also influenced the sound on The Man Who and The Invisible Band.

Their previous album, 2003’s 12 Memories, can be seen as an aberration — it was more or less self-produced and was overtly experimental and political at times. The Boy With No Name finds Travis sailing into safer waters, both stylistically and lyrically. While inferior to The Man Who, TBWNN excels, thanks to expert work by guitarist Andy Dunlop. Listen to his imprint on “Selfish Jean.” The song is pleasing in and of itself, but sticks out like a sore thumb as the second track. It would have been more at home after “My Eyes”, Fran Healy’s tribute to his newborn son, Clay.

“3 Times and You Lose” is possibly the standout track. It’s similar to some of the better songs on The Man Who and makes for a solid lead track. “Sailing Away” is also quite strong, but is hidden as a bonus track, tucked away at the end of “New Amsterdam.”

I saw Ben Gibbard, the ever-venerable David Bazan (pictured), and newcomer Johnathan Rice tonight at the 9:30 Club. NPR has a nice little writeup about the show, including download links.

While I bought the ticket solely for David Bazan’s set, I did enjoy Gibbard’s performance. I’m a casual fan of Death Cab for Cutie, but was actually disappointed that Bazan was touring with such a well-known and popular artist. I wanted another intimate show, with only the faithful standing by my side. The crowd was almost oblivious to Rice’s and Bazan’s sets, talking throughout most songs. When Gibbard walked on stage, the conversations ceased. While Gibbard did deserve the attention the crowd gave him, Rice and Bazan should have been afforded the same respect.

I’m officially in a rut with my concert going, with the majority of my shows involving David Bazan in some way. That Man Man show at the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hotel in April doesn’t count because — as much as I enjoyed the show — I probably wouldn’t have gone if a certain someone hadn’t handed me a ticket and offered to drive. Man Man are a kind of “guilty-pleasure” band: not a band to tell your children about, but something to indulge in every now and then.

I recently touched on a small OK Computer-related coincidence back in November. Here’s another similar coincidence that bears repeating:

For a little over two years, I split my work days between the Dept. of Energy and the Smithsonian, in buildings facing each other on both sides of the National Mall in downtown DC. Each day before lunch, I’d leave Energy and walk across the Mall, passing tourists and their buses, large packs of school children on field trips, hot dog and t-shirt stands, and the like. One afternoon on my “commute”, I was running a bit late and made a conscious effort to pick up the pace. No sooner had I started walking briskly than Radiohead’s “The Tourist” started randomly playing on my MP3 player. The song is a lament of the average tourist, who, when pressed for time, will try to pack as many events into his day, pausing briefly at photogenic buildings and monuments to take sub-par snapshots.

While the song could easily have been directed at the myriad tourists around me that day, it was also speaking directly to me. People actually tour my city. They spend hundreds of dollars flying or busing themselves in, and I would like to think that they genuinely appreciate the attractions Washington DC has. I live three miles from the DC border, but you’ll rarely find me in DC on the weekends. Perhaps a handful of times a year at most. A shame, really.