Cogwheel Dogs - Greenhorn (EP)

These days, eccentricity tends to arouse suspicion. It’s often so try-hard and affected that naturally we’re a bit dubious when confronted with it. This, presumably, is why the lowest common denominator, meat-and-potatoes bands tend to be the ones which sell oodles of records. This is all very logical, if a little depressing. So, with that in mind, maybe we need to embrace the oddballs a bit more.

Step forward Cogwheel Dogs then. Consisting of artist / singer Rebecca Mosley and bookish cello-thrasher Tom Parnell, they’ve been recording together in Oxford for four years, honing their sound and giving away most of their output on their website. Debut EP Greenhorn is their first full release, and features four new songs.

The EP might clock in at less than fifteen minutes, but there’s a hell of a lot crammed in here. The twin forces of Mosley’s bewitching voice, which can go from little girl lost to demented she-devil like the flick of a switch (often in the space of the same song), and Parnell’s unrestrained, ultra-distorted cello are the band‘s strongest weapons. On opening song ‘Kitchen’, the two combine to create a sinister, menacing atmosphere that hangs around the EP like a morning fog that won‘t quite lift.

Mind you, there’s more to Cogwheel Dogs’ sound than just cello and voice though. Mosley and Parnell employ a host of other little flourishes; a strummed egg slicer here, a creepy covert melody there, making the sound a lot more expansive than you would expect a home-recorded EP made by a two-piece to be.

The band’s lyrical content ranges from the trivialities of day to day life (such as the joys of boiling, slicing and peeling an egg) to the completely outlandish. Closing track ‘Octavia’, for example, starts off with ‘The recycling box is all mixed-up / I will fish out your plastic from your cardboard’ before going off on one about how ‘Octavia has eight thousand arms’. This emphasises the point that this is an EP of contrasts and contradictions; sweetness and menace, delicacy and strength, poignancy and aloofness.

It’ll be interesting to see how Cogwheel Dogs bear up over the course of a full album. The dense feeling of claustrophobia coupled with the vocal dramatics could get a bit too much, but there’s also a sense of urgency in the recordings which can offset that. Either way, Greenhorn is an interesting taster of what’s to come.

7/10

Cougar - Patriot (Album)

The name ‘post-rock’ has been a real cliché for a good few years now. As valid and vital as bands like Explosions in the Sky and Godspeed You! Black Emperor are, and have been, the term quickly became a cue for fans and critics alike to snigger into their sleeves at earnest, tired 20 minute quiet-quiet-quiet-quiet-loud-quiet-loud-quiet-quiet pieces. So, imagine my dismay on commencing my research into Cougar, when I found them to be a band to whom the dreaded ‘p**t-r**k’ label has been attached fairly liberally. Really though, while they may suggest very occasional and gentle whispers of post-rock, by and large this a case of mis-classification, presumably instigated (at least in part) by over-zealous last.fm taggers.

While they don’t have much in common with Godspeed et al, we can draw certain parallels between Cougar and the likes of Vessels and Errors (also decidedly NOT post-rock). But where these bands take occasional precise, clinical cues from math-rock elements, Cougar imbue their ‘not-really post-rock’ sound with fuzzy West-coast psych influences akin to Wooden Shjips on this, their second album, Patriot.

All in all Patriot is an appealing, if slightly patchy listen. It is arguably at its best when the instruments are jacked up to full power, and the fantastic guitars weave and crash around some of the most creative and engaging drumming I’ve heard in years.

One thing Cougar can not be accused of is a dearth of ideas. Patriot is adorned by plenty of really inventive snippets, like the glitchy loveliness that appears intermittently over the course of the record, or the creepy choral bits on ‘Rhineland‘.

Maddeningly, in spite of its obvious strong points, and such high watermarks as ‘Get Famous’ or ‘Daunte V.Armada’, the album wanders off course too often for us to be able to hold it up as a classic. It has a stubborn tendency to drift, bobbing pleasantly along on auto-pilot for minutes at a time, meaning you’ll be tearing your hair out, because the album has already proved beyond doubt that Cougar have the capability to enthral. And not just with the loud bits, either, because Patriot isn’t that shallow a record. ‘Pelourinho’, for example, shows a wonderful lightness of touch, with its soothing, nursery rhyme refrain.

Perhaps the most telling fact about Patriot is the fact that the first real surprise it offers is on its closing track ‘Absaroka’. This is a beautiful, vulnerable piece of instrumentation. It’s not the first example of Cougar’s ear for melody, but it’s definitely the most devastatingly effective. One plus point is at least the album goes out on a marked high.

Cougar are a phenomenally tight band, with precocious flair and creativity. In Patriot they have produced a record which shows them to be well worth our time. That said, it’s difficult to escape the nagging frustration brought about by the album’s occasional lullls, because you get the impression that this could have been an incredible piece of work. Instead though, we’ll take comfort in the fact that it shows enormous potential, and suggests that sooner or later this lot will deliver something really special.

My first gig - Manic Street Preachers (Gig)

As a band who shaped my musical upbringing more than any other have so far, it's quite fitting that my first gig happened to be Manic Street Preachers in December 1998. It's probably not a tour that will go down as a classic chapter in Manics history. They were touring This is My Truth, which as much as I like it, isn't their most thrilling of records, and it also saw Nicky's brief, inexplicable, and ill-fated experiment with a skipping rope. As well as that, it was in Newcastle's cavernous, echoey Metro Radio Arena (or Telewest Arena as it was then). But, in spite of the odds against it, the gig was an electrifying experience. Even now, some ten and a half years, and three stones later, I still get goosebumps whenever I hear live recordings of You Love Us or A Design For Life, and it's because of that night. It cemented my love for the Manics, and made sure that for better or worse, I'll always be a hopeless fanboy.

The Dead Weather - Horehound (Album)

Jack White is an extraordinarily busy man. Already juggling two bands, a second job as a producer, and apparently due to record a solo album, he’s decided he wants to be part of a third band. This time he’s teamed up with Allison Mosshart (The Kills), Dean Fertiga (Queens of the Stone Age) and Jack Lawrence (The Raconteurs) to form The Dead Weather.

Even without knowing which individuals have created Horehound, it’s pretty guessable. This is a record which sounds like the sum of its parts. In reality, this is no bad thing. White’s predilection for sludgy blues dovetails perfectly with Mosshart’s menacing drawl, and the added ingredient of a QOTSA member gives the sound a welcome harder edge.

The record was recorded over the course of three weeks back in January, an approach which suits its aesthetic absolutely perfectly. The whole thing feels raw and spontaneous. Spending six months pondering over every infinite detail and buffing out every little imperfection would have sucked the life out of it. As it is, the breakneck recording process, as well as White’s bang-on production, give Horehound the live feel which is a major feature in the best White Stripes records.

It’s clear that Jack White is not ‘just the drummer’ here. His fingerprints are all over the record, even if his characteristic yelp is used sparingly. When he does sing though, he sounds like a man reinvigorated. On ‘Rocking Horse’, for example, his voice is more vital and alive than we’ve heard it since Elephant. Clearly, working with Mosshart, one of the most captivating and charismatic women in rock, has brought out the best in him. The album is never better than when the two cut loose with their duelling vocals as they do on ‘Treat Me Like Your Mother’.

Horehound may feel familiar, but there’s still room for experimentation. The album is full of interesting ideas. There are plenty of weird effects-laden guitar riffs (presumably Fertiga’s doing), and some fantastic doomy organ on ‘Cut Like a Buffalo’. Instrumental ‘3 Birds’ is in itself a break from the norm on the album, with creepy guitar tones weaving in and out of acoustic chords which sound like they are desperately trying to escape the air of malevolence which hangs over the whole album.

The very fact that this record involves four such talented people coming together to produce something in a tightly constricted timeframe threatens the occasional bout of self-indulgence. Really, how could it not? Horehound’s protagonists have between them been responsible for countless millions of record sales, so it’s understandable that at times they would want to showcase their own individual talents. Fortunately, the moments of excess are mostly reigned in, and instead you get the sense that the band is just messing around and enjoying themselves.

If this collaboration had come about six or seven years back at the peak of garage rock mania, the music press would have probably had a collective heart attack. As it is, the Dead Weather have managed to slip this out with little hype, freeing themselves of the weight of expectation and the album sounds fresher for it. It’s an impressive piece of work and more than lives up to the reputations of those involved in its creation.

Years - Years (Album)

I imagine being a musician to sometimes be quite a frustrating thing. You come up with this killer snatch of a melody or verse, and for whatever reason you never expand on it, condemning it to a life gathering dust on a hard drive. Some bands are more than happy to leave songs on the backburner until the time is right. Regina Spektor is one noteworthy example, and just look how long Radiohead took to put Nude on an album. For others, like Ohad Benchetrit (Broken Social Scene / Do Make Say Think), these tiny morsels weigh like anchors on the creative process until there is no choice but to confront them head-on. Benchetrit has done just that, tackling his abandoned fragments and building them into the eponymous debut of his Years project.

The record may have had slightly inauspicious origins, but the process of creating it seems to have inspired a catharsis in Benchetrit. It’s as though his sense of guilt at abandoning these snippets in the first place has formed in him a resolve to make something special out of them. Somehow, from such disjointed elements, he has put together an album which is gloriously rich in substance and which never once sounds half-formed. Years may occasionally sound like ideas lobbed in a sack and pulled out in apparently random sequence, but at the same time it still comes across as being lovingly crafted.

As you would expect, the record saunters from one reference point to another, daring you to speculate what’s going to come next. The unpredictability of the whole thing is a big part of its charm. This is encapsulated on Are You Unloved?, which, over the course of just under seven minutes, sees a simple cheery folk melody capitulate into glitchy headfuck territory which is haunted by an air of heavy foreboding. Hey Cancer… Fuck You! is equally stirring, as Benchetrit heaps numerous layers of orchestration and laptop wizardry on top of one another, building a raucous tumult of noise on a grand scale.

The one common thread which holds things together, albeit loosely, is Benchetrit’s acoustic guitar work. There are instances, such as Don’t Let the Blind Go Deaf, and The Assassination of Dow Jones, where he chooses to leave his gentle melodies unadorned by any kind of sonic window-dressing, allowing them to chime on without interruption. This gives the album breathing space, as well as emotional depth, which is augmented by its one non-instrumental song A Thousand Times a Day (Someone is Flying), a fragile piece of dream pop featuring fellow Do Make Say Thinker Justin Small.

Amid the frequent bouts of clamour and melancholia lie odd moments of real warmth and playfulness. The Major Lift is the sunniest moment on the album, as blasts of gorgeous brass overlay skittery BSS-style percussion. It melts away the chill which the magnificently evocative preceding track The Fall of Winter has instilled in your bones. By these closing stages of the album, you’ve given up being surprised by the twists and turns of the journey, and instead you just enjoy the trip.

All told, Years is quite simply a triumph. Thank God for Ohad Benchetrit’s guilty conscience which harassed him like a nagging wife until he finally swept out his musical basement. Without it, this album would probably never have seen the light of day. 2009’s musical landscape is the better for it, so let’s praise the metaphorical Mrs Benchetrit.

9/10

Sore Eros - Second Chants (Album)

Connecticut’s Robert Robinson has been batting around the prospect of Sore Eros for nigh on seven years. Over that time he’s been something of a musical drifter, traipsing around the USA, releasing compilations and home recordings on his own Light Dead Sea Label. Along the way he’s assembled an impressive catalogue of collaborators, including the likes of Ariel Pink and Panda Bear.

Recently though, personal tragedy collided with serendipity in such a way as to give life to Second Chants, the ‘official’ Sore Eros debut album. While caring for his father who had suffered a heart attack, Robinson began work on some new songs in his spare time. Around the same time, he stumbled upon a tape of songs by his former high-school friend Adam Langellotti. Although the two had had no contact for a number of years, they reaffirmed their acquaintance over Robinson’s new songs. The pair roped in drummer Andy Tomasello, and lo, here we are with Second Chants.

What they have come up with is an absorbing if slightly disorientating listen. At it’s heart, the record is made up of simple, constant core elements. The heavy pulsing bass, sleepy acoustic strumming, maudlin vocals and playful percussion are evident pretty much throughout. The trio have carefully constructed a distinctive sound that is entirely theirs. They intersperse the basic ingredients which odd splashes of brass, distortion and miscellaneous background noise, which for the most part keeps the whole thing from drifting into saminess. That said, it can‘t be denied that the record can sometimes feel a bit longer than its 39 minutes.

When it’s at its best though, Second Chants creates an intense, almost cloying atmosphere akin to the sultriness that permeates the air before a summer storm. This stifling feel often provides the record’s best moments, such as the brilliantly messy opener, Smile On Your Face. It also can make for a bit of an overbearing listen, so all in all, it’s probably for the best that the mugginess tends to die down as the album progresses.

As this happens, the album against all odds, makes a late break to become an ideal accompaniment to a woozy summer‘s day, as it exhibits a number of moments of devastatingly simple prettiness. Sore Eros shed a bit more light on the strength of the songs that were really always hidden there among the disorder. One by One, for example is driven on by a pulsing nursery-rhyme rhythm and Whisper Me illustrates their often buried knack for a delicate melody.

The lyrical structure of the songs is equally simple and is one of the principal contributors to the charming, almost childlike lack of sophistication that hangs around the album. The sweet, introverted sentimentality belies the warped throb that often hangs around it.

So, with an uncanny ear for nightmare-pop, as well as a well-disguised knack for the conventional fabric of a song, Sore Eros have given us a slightly bewildering debut. But spend enough time in its arresting haze, and you’ll be rewarded with a fulfilling listen.

7/10