Author Archives: Kevin J Elliott

I’m at a loss for words to describe Kala, the second album from London (by way of Sri Lanka) tastemaker M.I.A.

She’s certainly without borders; globe-trotting from Liberia to India to Jamaica to Brazil to Japan to Baltimore for a grab-bag of tribal, almost jarringly disjointed, array of sounds and beats. And regardless if her skills as an MC are up to snuff or her reliance on male producers (here Switch, DJ Blaqstarr, Timbaland, and Diplo lend a hand) is in question, songs like the Bollywood scorcher “Jimmy” and the frenetic voodoo of “Bird Flu” are examples of pop music its freshest and most dangerous precipice.

Polarizing as she may be, by cutting and pasting Clash samples (“Paper Planes”) or Oxfam philosophies (“World Town”) into giddy collages of melody and third-world representation, M.I.A. is taking a major stab at being both earth’s reigning diva (move over Bjork) and its 21st century conscious. It’s hard to try and convey the joy of such a dizzy album when one of your colleagues does it so much better.

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MP3: The Underdog

For many Spoon turned a corner (or jumped a shark) with Gimme Fiction, one that favored big studio flourishes and a hankering to wallow in their rags-to-riches-to-rags-to-riches existence instead of the stalwart songwriting and idiosyncratic quirks that made Kill the Moonlight such a triumph. Save “I Turn My Camera On,” the album was a creamy, vanilla bore. The dour second half, enough to write off the band as comfortably set in their ways, with little regard to re-charting a path towards indie-rock salvation. Britt Daniel sounded awfully tired. Sitting with Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga months before its release (really, the leaks gotta’ stop), seeing them half-heartedly play live to an over-inebriated, thankless crowd, I started to get the feeling that Spoon was done for; another one of my collegiate idols reduced to a few awkward radio hits and soundtracking. Thing is, I’m wrong.

The horribly titled record, probably reference to the monotony and mediocrity Spoon was becoming, still relies on minimalism and a modicum of tattered edges to structure its songs, only difference being, Spoon have finally mastered being themselves. “You Got Yr. Cherry Bomb” and “The Underdog” in particular though, jump out of the two-toned, acoustic mood that defines the band’s sound, giving way to buoyant pop, gauzed in Spector-ish sonic frills and brass nicked from blue-eyed soul. Both are bright and punchy, but they were also undeniable birthed a Daniel/Eno creation as there’s little mistaking the former’s nicotine-dusted, near-scat vocal treatments, and the latter’s economical percussive puzzles.

Going beyond the obvious hits, the albums uses few tools to make a sizable, affecting racket and is prone to throwing in addendums of kora and Spanish guitar (both appear at the end of “My Little Japanese Cigarette Case”) as window dressing rather than basing songs around such excess. It’s the tiny mistakes, false choruses, and playful knob twists that characterize “Finer Feelings” and “Eddie’s Ragga;” simple as origami until it’s unfolded to reveal shortcuts and do-overs. Many of Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga’s ten tracks operate within that mundane repetition, Spoon’s entire m.o. post-Girls Can Tell has loitered around a slacker’s thrift, here though Daniel proves he has a skilled hand to dissect it, deconstruct it, and stretch equal parts glum demeanor and understated optimism just far enough not to flaunt his gift of melody. Whether it’s the career-encompassing record that will be their legacy remains to be seen, for now, after some deep listens, it’s certainly the finest version of Spoon being Spoon they’ve put to tape yet.

BUY: Amazon.com

Remember the SAT? Well if you do, then CDR is to Columbus as Exit Stencil is to Cleveland. Yes, despite my bias against the armpit of Ohio, the Indians, the Browns, the RNR Hall of Fame, and the eternal stench, Exit Stencil have proven that the city is much more than simply Pere Ubu, Electric Eels, and Bone Thugz. There’s actually a diverse and thriving music scene going on there. Go figure. Though a dear friend (and Cleveland native) recently quipped that all my stereotypes regarding his city were completely justified, I’m tempted to say, with this recent slew of Exit Stencil releases, there’s finally a suitable rivalry to deal with. This is not a condescending statement, merely fact. There has always been a Cleveland “sound” that has never sat well with my stomach, that is, until now.
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While not exactly timely, my late review for Volta had to be informed by intense listens; deep dives into the album’s mystic haze and playfully violent fits of claustrophobic noise. I had to ingest a reasonable cross-section of reviews in order to gauge where the populous stands. I’m eternally biased, an unhealthily obsessed fanboy. Throughout her career, Bjork’s body of work has become a monolith of polarization and the frustrating highs and lows of Volta are no exception.

She has always been more high-art, high-concept, than composer of “songs” or one who even remotely flirts with accessibility. It is better not to give her borders, expectations, and timelines. Anyone hoping for Top 40 dare not tread here, just be content that she has given you something tangible.
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