The Argument features many aspects of the music community’s dream and nightmare, an album ready-made to form divides the size of the Grand Canyon, so perfectly does it epitomize everything that delights and frustrates music obsessives in equal measure. After a decade of establishing themselves as thinking, breathing, romantic writers of the post-hardcore genre that they played as large a part as any band in certainly blossoming if not birthing, MacKaye and Picciotto steer headfirst into the wonders of art rock, transplanting breakdowns with pop moments for equally transcendent release. It’s a highly enjoyable, even a mysterious listen, and one which looks good on Fugazi.

Despite not being as furious as the genre typically presents, or as excitable as previous Fugazi works, The Argument nonetheless stands as a crucial entry into the post-hardcore boom of the turn of the Millennium, fit in every way to stand alongside classics such as “Relationship Of Command” and “The Shape Of Punk To Come” as well as other albums of the time-frame which marry the atmospheric stylings of the genre to artier leanings, like “Source Tags & Codes.” The protection a fan-base feels the need to afford to the band it idolizes can be a strange matter, and any sort of split in the Fugazi ranks is rendered as perplexing as it is inevitable by the fact that they smack this one out of the park, a logical end point in their evolution of sound.

As mentioned, the characteristics of post-hardcore are channelled into a guitar album that relies on brooding, inexplicable vibes and complex melodies. The smooth, slow-moving riff of opener proper “Cashout” bubbles under the surface, seeming set to build to an all out climax that never properly arrives, over deceptively straight-forward lyrics that riot against the concept of money over morals, a bizarre option in the context, and which seem to veer between a presumably unintended tongue-in-cheek and a genuine, more Fugazi-esque hard-faced anger. There could hardly be a more appropriate track to intrigue, suck in the listener and leave a desire for more.

From there, the only crescendos are soaring rather than crushing. “Epic Problem” is a major highlight and is the track that unleashes the most ferocity, a groovy stop-start structure laying the foundation for a brilliantly poppy sing-a-long ending over a delicious, deadly strum. “Strangelight” is another track with a super-cool monster hook, providing enough satisfaction to make up for the general absence of guitar-based conclusion. The album is well summarized by the left turns of “Ex-Spectator,” where the track halts quite jarringly to give way to squirming guitar lines and a beautiful bass throb, the wondrous “Life & Limb”, which grows out across a condensed 3 minutes with a gloriously flexible riff and non-stop, dreamy vocal hooks, and the way tracks like “The Kill” and the closing “Argument” are so calm, made to bathe in their simmering and interlocking guitar-bass harmonies which never threaten to collapse from their watertight unison, either downwards into generic form or upwards into more standard, loud, discontent post-hardcore.

Yes, it’s art rock and no mistakes, a lesson in writing underground rock music with a royal subtlety and an awe-inspiring knack to bring in the listener, in the moment and for repeat listens, despite the fact that the answers are never going to be forthcoming, in terms of explaining the album’s nature. The decision to write an album like this doesn’t need so much explanation, as it only further solidifies Fugazi as masters of their craft. Some might even say that they saved the best for last.

by Michael

The Bouncing Souls are a pop-punk band and no mistakes; nobody is going to come to them for complex arrangements, drum solos and guitar virtuosity. None of these things matter all of the time, unlike girls, drinking and trying to have bucket loads of fun. How I Spent My Summer Vacation covers all of those topics comprehensively in a 40-minute ride that’s all thrills, no frills. While being in the same territory as the likes of guitar pop titans blink-182 and Fall Out Boy, and arguably even more to the point than those two, unlike those bands this album is revered in ‘the community’ just for not being famous, and it deserves it.

The record opens with a triple threat of sharp blasts of radio rock, riffs-a-rocketing, drums-a-snipering and vocals giddily wailed. The Souls have the dumb-ass punk formula down to a tee, which is never more evident than in the sunshine riffage of “Private Radio” and its highly effective coda, the track’s title simply shouted repeatedly. There’s a remarkable effect to this album, whereby despite the melodies, like everything else, being totally straight-forward they will stick. It’s packed with hooks throughout, despite threatening to be front-loaded after a listen to the openers. “True Believers” ought to be the theme tune of every high school kid the world over, and would be in a world where justice prevailed. Back when this was released in 2001, I was a stupid 12-year-old at secondary school (shout-outs to the UK) trying to find my way in life and music, and the track betrays that exact timeframe, despite never hearing it back then. My life, realistically, could have been 2 minutes 31 seconds better.

“The Something Special” is a love song and unashamedly so, once again opting for the ‘repeat one line’ chorus approach, and once again knocking it out of the park because it evokes a drunken goodness in the way it feels. Other highlights include the superbly-titled “Manthem” which I challenge anyone to listen to without a) rocking out, b) singing along and c) thinking of that special someone, such is the potency of this ode to bromance. It’s refreshing, after 40 weeks, to be able to say that “Streetlight Serenade (To No One)” is simply a song about a bike. “Late Bloomer” is shockingly anthemic, condensing an entire Smiths catalogue into the sugary hook ‘I’m no good, you’re no better; wouldn’t we be perfect together?’ Probably, though not quite as perfect as the “Smells Like Teen Spirit” guitar frenetics of “No Comply”, followed by the ultimate realization, the ending of as gloriously naked a record with a track entitled “Gone” which, you guessed it, centres around howling said word as loudly as possible. There would be no other way to close it.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation is the summer record that it makes no apologies for aiming to be, and since we’re in the business of recommending you albums, it’s one for when the barbecue has just started, when the first beer has been cracked open and when the sun has just started to set. Yet, it’s also one for bedroom listening, ultimately a record where every riff, drumbeat and brilliant pop moment was made to be pored over and treasured. If you haven’t already heard it, make it your summer 2010 album.

by Michael

The-Dream is a pure pop artist, but one who straddles the dichotomy with much awkwardness. Too pop and synthetic for the more self-serious of musical observers, he attracts their derision, yet his melodious jock-posturing is too inexplicably perfect to rocket him to the superstardom it seems built for, and which his writing has perpetuated for the likes of Rihanna and Beyoncé, leaving him largely ignored by the apparent pop audience. Contrary to the way he has been bigged up on occasion, he isn’t Kanye West, but nor is he one of his apparent idols in R. Kelly, an artist he has, whether he would agree or not, comfortably bested for consistency, credibility and quality with the trilogy-completing release of July 2010’s “Love King”. He’s a pop poster-boy for today, writing joyous chart-ready snippets that purport to be deeper on the subject of love than they are, which gives him one contradiction to cross off his K. West checklist of schizophrenic pop iconography.

The structure of Love Vs. Money loosely resembles the dream (tough crowd) concept for modern hip hop career trajectories, whereby the protagonist should reach the top of their game but descend into some parody, before becoming conflicted and realizing that the mainstream of the genre isn’t all it is cracked up to be. Basically, it ought to be about the genre, not the money, and as he tries to balance the evils of love and money against each other on the record, The-Dream slowly seems to realize this. Here The-Dream starts off by getting his fuck on, stops to realize how shallow blowing his cash as often as his load really is before ending up in a blissful snow globe of everything he truly loves, which in his case is fucking without regard to the apparently inevitable financial implications. It’s slightly more materialistic than would be ideal, but hey. The-Dream seems to love himself almost as much as he hates himself, another characteristic he shares with West, enough to have the latter pop up on the stunningly anthemic “Walkin’ On The Moon” where he delivers a technical career highlight in terms of flow and breath control. Seriously, give that one another listen.

Love Vs. Money examines the title’s conflict on a superficial level that ascends as a result of being more conceptual than pretty much any RnB album. “Either/Or” this isn’t. The assessments of The-Dream’s lyrics that I have made here largely result from me reading into the situation. There isn’t a hint of sardonicism in sight, which is a shame when you consider the laugh-out-loud bad lyrics of “Put It Down.” Crucially though, I felt like all could be forgiven, and that’s really all that matters. Nobody is coming to this for a lyrical work-out, and surely not a look in the mirror. It’s all about the feeling.

On that note, to the actual music then. Aural candy from start to finish. Yes, you might feel all sugared out after repeat listens, but with the quantity of hooks you’re going to be coming back repeatedly. The melodies? Head infiltrators. The beats are all glossily wrapped future-pop backdrops. “Rockin’ That Shit” is a dreamy (didn’t even intend this one) club banger of a track, the middle section of the album collects an orgy of melodies over sinister, flaring rhythms before being closed by the soaring, Heaven-touching “Fancy”, which lures you into aeroplane-in-the-clouds imagery before dropping the matching lyrical card, and all in all everything slots together pretty perfectly.

Judging by the shit splattered up the charts it does indeed amaze when something like this that begs to be huge is not. That said, a small explanation may be offered by the fact that as something so seemingly effortlessly yet luxuriously crafted, this comes off as a sort of alternative pop despite ticking all the obvious boxes for the main genre. This is no 365 Albums A Year record either, when you look at something like the run of stone cold classic albums Arika has spent the last month or so chalking up, the whole new world of music Phil is unlocking before my eyes on a weekly basis, the experimental leanings that Kyle coaxes in with serious aplomb and generally the fantastic job I think everyone is doing. Yet, on the other hand, it is, because readers will not all be familiar with this album and I would like to bring it to attention. All I know is repeat value is very high here and there are hooks to drown in. Although a record that many have been seen as a chance to score some points by downing, and though I won’t argue that the semi-concept is anywhere near substantial enough to backfire on said naysayers, this is something I would mark down as misunderstood. Sometimes, some of us want a superstar who’s a lot more Prince-strut chart-botherer than K Records t-shirt-bearing, scene anti-icon. Welcome to The-Dream’s world, where this 29-year-old divorcee tells you exactly how good he is at this lovin’ business.

by Michael

In the light (or darkness, perhaps) of England’s World Cup elimination last weekend, press attention has focused somewhat on the confusion over and fumbling of England’s national identity, arguably a very reactionary response to elimination from a sporting tournament, but on the other hand an understandable one from a country which thrives on its own sadomasochism and whose press constantly aim to perpetuate that mindset. It is in this context that London Zoo, the 2008 critical favourite from Kevin Martin under his The Bug guise, is best understood, an album ultimately about the capital which redefines what that concept means in England today through a kaleidoscope of dubstep, dancehall and reggae firepower.

On this record, Martin brings the intensity typified by previous affiliations with artists as seminal and furious as Justin Broadrick and Dälek. London Zoo’s spine is a sinister, head-spinning low end of pulsating bass to which computer speakers will do no justice. It begs to be played on a system, from the second that the surprisingly poppy opening track “Angry” bursts through, with a beat playing second fiddle in the menace stakes only to Tippa Irie’s frantic vocal on Africa, government and other things that, you guessed it, make him ‘angry.’ The real peak of the sonics is the instrumental “Freak Freak” which arguably says more with no words than the other tracks do with their worldly musings. The track is oven-hot, a dense, borderline-sentient monster of bass that rumbles as if transmitted from another dimension over a skittering, climbing drum line. Although it arrives at no particular climax, it doesn’t need to, so potent are its five minutes of dread, made for 3AM summer listening and indicative of any evils from imminent public sector cuts to knife crime statistics.

On the subject of crime, “Skeng” is another brooding diamond in the aural rough Martin constructs, the highlight of which is the best rhyming of ‘worse,’ ‘nurse’ and ‘hearse’ that my ears have ever been privy to. Of the guest stars recruited, Warrior Queen puts in the best work. After an M.I.A.-esque reflection on gun crime and all of the rest on “Insane”, she lends her talents to the album’s strongest track and the one with the greatest crossover appeal alongside the earlier “Angry”, in the form of “Poison Dart”. Its beat wails along at sludge speed, sounding incredibly tortured, but remaining danceable while Warrior Queen crafts a charismatic hook. On similar levels of sounding ready-made for underground clubs and being danced through fogs of marijuana smoke are the futurist dancehall of “Jah War” and a reworking of Spaceape’s earlier collab with Kode9, the righteous “Fuckaz” which sounds more bloodthirsty here after Martin’s bass-bin murdering treatment.

Despite all sounding very pre-apocalyptic, from the London-centric dissection of modern England best summed up by the skull and gun clutched by The Bug on London Zoo’s cover through to the tremor-inducing frequencies that really cannot be overstated, the record ends with incredible promise as the dreamy, minimal sound of “Judgement” which nonetheless gets its kicks from stating that the subject of its title is ‘around the corner’, provides the perfect backdrop for a vocal much more measured, and frankly, angelic than anything else on the album. Martin is in typically visionary form, putting the jigsaw pieces in place to create a focused if somewhat terrifying picture of the city, if not the country, as he saw it in 2008. If London Zoo and England’s World Cup destruction are able to simultaneously prove one thing, it would be that we do have problems at a fundamental level. Still, this kind of record almost makes it worth it.

by Michael

Despite the depth of the metal scene, it is, as in any genre, becoming increasingly difficult to create music that sounds genuinely innovative or unique. Zu are an Italian instrumental trio redefining the concept of ‘jazz metal,’ comprised of drummer Jacopo Battaglia, who provides high-quality percussion, a bassist in Massimo Pupillo playing the instrument loudly and gratuitously and saxophonist Luca Mai re-imagining the scorched soundscapes that the band throw up as a haven for luxurious brass textures, all constructed on an understated base of synthesizers.

The 2009 release Carboniferous is the most high-profile release in the band’s relatively lengthy catalogue, citing 1999 as its birth but thus far culminating in this release on landmark metal label Ipecac. The Ipecac brand is stamped over the record, with Melvins cult legend King Buzzo lending his sludgy trademarks to second track “Chthonian” and Ipecac stalwart Mike Patton appearing on mid-album stand-out “Soulympics” and closing track “Orc,” laying down a cerebral vocal on each, the former a cackling work-out and the latter, droning madness. The vocals are a weird look on Zu, whose music is more visceral, essentially rocking out in your face, but in as complex and as layered a manner as they see fit.

It’s one of those records where ‘time signatures’ is a buzz phrase. “Ostia” opens the album at a blast volume that hardly relents, with a significantly ominous sense of foreshadowing engineered by slick and frenzied bass tones and climbing drum lines. The track eventually unlocks its treasure to the tune of an orgy of sax (double-check, that’s s-a-x), the brass exploding into lubricious, ear-tickling form. It’s the heaviest saxophone I’ve ever heard. “Beata Viscera” and “Erinys” are a delightful one-two punch, twisting walls of bass subtly shifting their slippery form to nonetheless watertight precision, every aural crack filled in with spastic, wonderfully balanced drum licks. “Obsidian” has more of those incredible bass moments, as the guitar sounds elegantly fluid and keeps intrigue high.

Although the whole thing might represent a challenging listen at first, giving the album time to develop allows for an admiration of every arrangement and riff. All of Carboniferous interlocks marvellously, with a marked aggression that slots effortlessly into the not so much warm, but white hot sax pleasures offered up. One of the best summations of the formula is “Axion,” where after Pupillo and Battaglia have delivered their destruction, Mai wanders in to muse over the wreckage with a post-coital sax siren. It’s a self-explanatory argument for introducing more diversity to the genre, on an album which sign-posts the way to a world of undiscovered metal wonders.

by Michael

There’s a moment in “Secret Face,” a major highlight of Death’s fourth album, 1991’s Human, that sums up what made them such a fantastic band and what would make death metal as a sub-genre quite as mighty as it has grown to be, it being at a relatively embryonic stage at the time of Human’s conception, but in extremely capable hands in the form of the likes of tragic Death mastermind Chuck Schuldiner. The track has ramped up for two minutes when, after a brief but truly beautiful riff, the rug is pulled away and a rampaging air raid of scorching guitar fire is unleashed to soak the track with its color.

The moment I’ve just described is as strong an encapsulation as any of the extremes of death metal in the sense of both musicality and meaning. It’s an orgasming solo played over a furious, ironclad strum, every bit as melody-drenched as it is heavy. The ability of a band with a sound like that of Death to tower and crumble away again simultaneously is a wondrous one, and Human builds on earlier works with a delightful blend of technicality and evocative sound to establish a crucial early entry in the progressive metal canon, while subsequent albums would develop the ideas contained here further and further down metal’s evolutionary scale before acts like Edge Of Sanity and Opeth took the baton. Switching things up, the lyrics are as significantly self-reflective as anything those bands would craft later, reflecting the crushing but impossibly comfortable vibe of the album very well.

Another feature of the record that needs to be mentioned is the inclusion of the ever-divisive extreme vocal. Despite extreme punk bubbling under the surface throughout the 1980s, for a 1991 take, Schuldiner’s vocals are as dissonant as anything recorded since and presumably before. That, like the blazing fretboard abuse on offer, makes the album as much Converge and Dillinger Escape Plan in extremity as it is anything from the death scene. It’s the only way vocals cold be cut to as elastic a metal track as “Suicide Machine” or the back and forth, tear-inducing precision of “Vacant Planets.” To call anything on Human ‘robot-like’ or anything along those lines would be an almighty insult to the honest warmth it generates, which proves weirdly inviting. The production sounds huge and vibrant, as well as having room to breathe and morph into life without ever becoming claustrophobic. It’s not a blockbuster sound that all metal bands, particularly lesser-appreciated ones, have been able to rely on.

Despite being an album where importance within the genre is heavily evident, Human had sold only over 500,000 copies worldwide as of a couple of years ago, and has presumably not added any sort of whopping figure to that total since. Its most well-known track, the still barely recognised “Lack Of Comprehension,” managed to reach the status of minor MTV anthem in the same year that “Nevermind” was launched to world domination with what was presumably considered a hard sound in the mainstream. It was too early for me to remember, but we all know now that Cobain’s pop was his pull. A universe apart from that, the melodic hailstorm and sniper rifle riffs of one of Schuldiner’s finest half hours is a hugely influential segment of metal history from a band which, on some level for sure, gave its name to the movement, from its anti-iconic drum opening through every bouncing, blasting breakdown.

by Michael

Wonderful Rainbow is another of those ‘covers’ albums where the image adorning its face perfectly represents how it sounds. A mass of metal and punk scrappage is reflected through a ferocious sonic prism by a couple of Brians in messrs. Gibson and Chippendale, who manage to engineer vibrancy and colour in sound. The drum sound is loose, fancy-free and liberated, a very thrashy sound but one which feels highly celebratory as opposed to threatening. The guitar playing on Wonderful Rainbow is an element that has been lost on many a listener as there is only a bass in earshot, incredibly played and manipulated to astonishing aural range, sounding practically electronic at times.

Ultimately, this is one of the finest guitar records of recent times, and a lot is to be made about the fact that what is undeniably a loud, pummeling record is not intimidating or punishing. Perhaps nonetheless a dense and challenging listen at first, it does not beat the listener into submission so much as it opens up over time and eventually shoves you until you agree to dance with it. As implied by its cover, title and my previous paragraph, the album cannot be considered dark, rather exploring the full spectrum. While the gigantic “Duel In The Deep”, the record’s closer, may be a bomb-blast soundscape, it stands in contrast to the likes of the shimmering “Crown Of Storms” which climaxes with an utterly joyous riff that sounds as sizable as any of the more crushing riffs of the aforementioned.

After all, at the end of the day, Wonderful Rainbow is a party record, right? Albeit an experimental one. I’ve noticed a recent trend whereby the less well-mannered of the music community, the vocal ones who make it their actual intention to upset others, have used the inevitability of finding melody and beauty in generally abrasive music against those who do, another method to add to the list of ways in which people idiotically accuse others of ‘pretending’ to like music. Yet, there’s no pretending to be done about being captured by the galloping rapture of “Dracula Mountain” where the bass riffs slip and slide into different progressions to dramatic effect.

Structure is another of the interesting pulls of the album, but sometimes there’s no need to try to do anything all that interesting in terms of evolution of song. Take “2 Towers,” which is simply based around a napalm note garroting the ear, yet once again there’s no sadness to feel about its spellbinding fury. That incessant riffage may even itself be classed as experimental by some. All Brian and Brian obviously want to do is feel good and rock out. This album is pretty damn rocky and pretty damn happy, and in a way perhaps writing about it at length does it a disservice.

by Michael

In my view, this is one of the most relevant yet overlooked albums of the last decade. If the album cover, which sees a zombie-esque Manson sprawled in a crucifix position, doesn’t tell you that his, if I may say, ludicrous scapegoating at the hands of American conservatives as being responsible for the 1999 Columbine massacre is the topic of discussion on this record then the lyrics most certainly will. Manson is often derided for being a shock rocker, and while such an analysis may carry some truth it does his complex approach to writing a great disservice. This is a sparkling entry in an otherwise admittedly lukewarm discography, one which ought to encourage those who are unfamiliar with Manson’s work but don’t expect to enjoy it to think twice.

The Love Song announces the album’s main topics with its emphasis on ‘guns, God and government’ and the use of a conceit that places mothers as guns and children as bullets. The opus is loaded with plenty of alternative catchphrases for America and this makes it one of the strongest lyric sets I’ve had the pleasure of experiencing in recent years. “The Nobodies” infiltrates the school shooter mindset with its skyscraping hook of “we’re the nobodies, wanna be somebodies/when we’re dead they’ll know just who we are.” That not good enough? How about “Lamb Of God;” “if you die when there’s no one watching, then your ratings drop and you’re forgotten/but if they kill you on the T.V., you’re a martyr and a lamb of god.” It’s a simple but evocative depiction of the American dream of murder and tragedy as entertainment.

At the turn of the century Manson and Eminem were kindred spirits and this album has many parallels with the latter’s magnum opus “The Marshall Mathers LP.” It is defiant, furious and venomous yet its content betrays a paradoxical vulnerability. The one aspect of Em’s album that Manson doesn’t have nailed here is humour. Oh no, this is an exclusively dark album and no mistakes. The backdrop to Manson’s masterwork is a huge web of grinding but melody-drenched guitars and appropriately sinister electro beats, all propping up a relentlessly throaty vocal. It’s a fine component of the industrial rock canon, if one of its poppiest.

Basically, Manson is spot on and the cultural observations he makes come off as more expertly executed than the album’s actual narrative concept, even its sonics to be honest. They applied in 2000, they apply ten years later, and if I know America as well as I think I do they will apply in another 50 years. The album is full of life despite being so focused on death and the good bursts through the bad. In that way it mirrors America itself. I’d be tempted to group my own country in here, if this album wasn’t about the two main things that make it such a different place to America by their, regardless of events this past week, comparable absence; guns and religion. If I was to rate America, I’d give it 4 stars, and I love America. Just like I love this album.

by Michael