The Atlantic Manor
The World Beneath This World is Brightening
Do Too Records
Spring 2010
“The Captain’s Name Was Death” by The Atlantic Manor
“I am proud to be lo-fi. I know of no other way.”
The above sentiment offered by R. Sell, the Miami based singer-song writer known as The Atlantic Manor, has so much heart it inspires. He rightly suggests that no matter your resources, you can find a way to record and circulate your music amongst a community of listeners. Over the last decade R. Sell has released 11 diy, lo-fi records under the The Atlantic Manor moniker and from the looks of it, this dude has no intention of stopping anytime soon. Sell strongly identifies with the American underground music scene whose beauty and authority comes from the pure motives and raw energy of those artists that dare to do something out of the ordinary. With complete disregard for the monotonous expectations of the cacophonous clamor of the music industry’s crony-capitalist regime, Sell envisions the American underground as a community and a movement that is required in order to maintain any semblance of genuine and authentic artistry within America’s broader music economy. Simply said the shear volume of work and the grit and guts with which this project has been engaged is awesome. But it must also be said to be problematic. Any record from one moment to the next can be said to have varying degrees of relevance, but I am unsure if this can be said of The Atlantic Manor’s 11th release The World Beneath This World is Brightening.
The record opens with lackadaisical strumming and a twisted child like voice singing what seems to be a satanic version of Old McDonald Had a Farm. The second track Vessels somewhat resembles Joy Division’s Atmosphere. It is a 14 minute long cyclical and meandering progression with muted and indistinct lyrics. The strategy of the track is the same as Velvet underground’s Heroine, a simple structure with vocals littering the staccato guitar notes, though the track never builds, it does not crescendo, and it does not really move a muscle from the first note until the last. The next song, Failing By the Second, begins with a muted strum subtly sounding in the background, and a metronomic back beat that is upfront and unwavering, save the occasional fill. The song is minor and brooding; it is haunted by guitar distortion that mimics the sound of a depressed whale song or the moan of steel beams that shift back and forth in some post-apocalyptic wind.
Like the majority of The Atlantic Manor’s music, The Captains Name Was Death is structured by the cyclical pattern of a few strummed chords. R. Sell’s voice is bloodshot with humility. The track just rolls along as tremolo accents and an inartful clean tone guitar solo dance with the synthesized sound of a wood saw song. The drums for DeathCrown, the epitome of diy recording, have Stephen Morris all over them, but it is at this very moment that R. Sell’s formulations become tired. The songs run into to each other, making it difficult to decipher one from the other. While Apple Dreams definitely has wistful qualities, these qualities are mere replications of what was heard for 14 minutes in Vessels. The songs may not be exactly the same, but some might say that one’s existence makes the other obsolete.
The World Beneath This One is Brightening, like the record itself, is out of sync and out of tune; it is a mélange of minor chords and baritone mud sack sadness that never really translates into anything. At this point it becomes clear that the record is limited in its depth. The transition from The World Beneath to The Good Son is astounding in its sameness. The closer is a 12 minute depressant that perhaps encapsulates Sell’s best effort. Black River Runs’ attempt to infuse various unorthodox sounds into the haphazardly strummed guitar backed by a syth drone is quite appealing. I have received much of Atlantic Manor’s back catalog and am eager to peruse the collection of songs. Like a second-hand store, The Atlantic Manor conceals the occasional diamond in the rough, but that gem is all too often embedded in throw away tracks. I understand that The Atlantic Manor wants to be profoundly productive—11 albums in 10 years—but I would say that the band/the song-writer would be very well served if they or he or whomever was more selective of the parts of themselves that they choose to exhibit; that is if they would like their community of listeners to grow.
Other Music
Slow Drugs and Other Sorrows (2009)
On the Wrong Side of Saturday Night (2008)
All the Best Girls Have Winter Hearts (2007)
Sneaking Up on the Death Scene (2006)
The Trouble that You Left (2006)
Special is Dead (2005)
Failing by the Second (2004)
The Desperate Vibe of Emotional Devastation (2002)
The Hate We Get Going (2001)
When I am a Viking (2001)
Modernage
Sirhan Sirhan EP
September 2nd 2008
Pirilla Records
The advent of adult pop alternative rock was a difficult time. During the mid 90’s, a fevered rush of talented but uninspired musicians emerged on the national music scene riding on the coattails of late 80’s early 90’s college radio and Seattle rock. They could shred, they could keep a beat, and in the parochial sense of the word, they could sing. Often they could do everything except what made the great bands of the early 90’s so exceptional; they lacked a certain madness, depravity, abandon, and self destructiveness that made the Pixies, Sonic Youth, Nirvana, Pavement, and (yes) Pearl Jam worth while. College radio and Seattle rock became ubiquitous staples of MTV and suburban fashion. After the Violent Femmes distributed their collected opus Add it Up, chronicling their music from 1982-1993, there was no going back. It was a genuine and rare moment when radio pop and subversive rock met at a crossroads. The crossroads allowed future iconic bands like the Flaming Lips, who had been making music since the mid 80’s, to release songs on top 40 radio. On the other hand, it was only a matter of time before Candle Box, Bush, Semi Sonic, and Sponge would be playing all the summer festivals, seamlessly taking the banner of subversive rock away from those who had led the way. It was bait and switch all the way.
In a shocking segue, I turn to Miami Florida’s Modernage. Last year they released their latest EP Sirhan Sirhan and I have to say, the record hints at the very same domestication and pasteurization experienced last decade. It would behoove Modernage, or should I say Middleage, to go the route of Tonic or Train, not because they are untalented, but because the aesthetic they construct was never meant to be anything more than FM ready. In moments throughout Sirhan Sirhan, Mario Giancarlo slyly simulates Matt Berninger of The National (“Really?” you ask, listen to the chorus on Creatures), but without the earnestness. The music is pop; it is catchy and easy on the ears. Make no mistake Modernage knows song writing and all the little elements that go into putting out a really cogent, polished record. They have a market with plenty of potential fans. This 5 song EP thoroughly and unabashedly explores the genre of pop alternative- they makes no bones about their decidedly lacking constitution. This could be the beginning of a new era where pop radio is overtaken by this modified indie rock, but somehow I think that things have changed so much in the industry that the formula simply is not the same.
Okkervil River
The Stand Ins
September 9th 2008
Jagjaguwar
Okkervil River, along with other musicians gracing our planet, are “Cro-Magnons on drugs with guitars”—so says Will Sheff, frontman behind the band. He also says that hybrid vehicles are yuppie porn, while much of the rest of the developed world simply considers them responsible. Given that I am a rational and emotional decision-maker, why would I choose such a troupe of barely-evolved and underdeveloped rapscallions to tickle my senses? The answer to this question is clear: I had purchased the disk before reading Under the Radar’s interview with Sheff. Since I bothered to buy the thing, I figured I owed it a listen. I enjoyed Black Sheep Boy enough, but the net effect was that I went into The Stand Ins with a pretty negative attitude.
Upon listening to the first real song on the album, Lost Coastlines, I thought my initial instinct was right, driving me deeper and almost irreparably wedged into that negative attitude. For example, one of many catchy lyrics is “Every night finds us rockin’ and rollin’ on waves wild and wide, well we have lost our way, nobody’s gonna say it out out loud” followed by la’s ad nauseum and some sappy horns. That said, this song may be the highlight of the Stand Ins.
The next song, Singer Songwriter, has a nice twangy guitar accompanied by Sheff’s scratchy singing, approaching a drawl at times. Unfortunately, the lyrics are very distracting. The sole purpose seems to be to make a mockery of a musician who has got it all: good fans, good music, a good family. But somehow this is still a bad person who deserves to be made fun of—you get the feeling that Sheff is trying to teach him a lesson. Not only is the subject of the song mocked, but the band also goes on to poke fun at fans wearing brand-name clothing. Sure, that’s funny. But folks, watch out—show up at an Okkervil River show wearing Chanel, and you may find yourself on the receiving end of their wrath, or maybe just the subject of their next album.
Starry Stairs is another song about a musician Pornstar who has seemingly got it made. Unfortunately for this musician, (s)he is unhappy and feels the need to apologize to his/her audience “if you don’t love me, I’m sorry.” I, for one, am happy to accept the apology, though I have a feeling it was facetious, at best (This song does boast a great lyric, “I’m alive, but a different kind of alive” which reminds me of my favorite line from Kafka’s Metamorphosis). Something had happened here: I enjoyed the pop sentiment created on The Stage Names, as it was often accompanied by errant and sometimes twangy instrumentation, cheesy oooohs, and a great Sheff yell here and there. Somehow this effect was not achieved on the Stand Ins.
In general, this album is well-made with music of an out-of-time and out-of-place style, and lyrics that make you want to commit suicide—and to no fault of your own. Find yourself singing along to the 50’s prom style song Pop Lie (the only things missing are a Pompadour hair style and the movie That Thing You Do), and you’ll get chided for being a fake and a liar. This is where you realize that the entire album is trying to teach not only the caricatures in the songs, but also you and the whole world a lesson. This theme goes hand-in-hand with the saccharine qualities of the music- sweet, but devoid of calories. The album appears to be a treatise on nothing. Maybe not nothing—on things that “bother” Sheff like designer brand clothing and successful musicians. I don’t suppose we’ll be seeing sweatshop labor topping his list any time soon.
Murder by Death O’Death
Kiss Kiss
April 4th 2008
The Bowery Ballroom
Many shows have a consistency to them. It is typical that bands chosen for the lineup exist in the same sphere of style as one another. The Murder by Death show last Friday night was no exception. Yet the show underscored how artists that have similar components, influences, and style still produce different qualities of music. I was very excited to see Murder by Death. I do not enjoy their last two albums but I hoped to hear a few standards from their earlier work on Like the Exorcist, but More Breakdancing and Who Will Survive, and What Will Be Left of Them?. While I was not denied this opportunity, I was sadly disappointed by their performance. This show was all about expectations. What one would suppose would be a perfect pairing, turned out to be a bust. Murder by Death and O’Death, what could be better?
As for Kiss Kiss, I had no expectations for them. They set up their gear, played a fairly bland set, and then scurried along. Their hardcore distortions, violin, and synthesizers had all the makings of a fine zombie rock experience, but their Castlevania shtick, though cool in concept, didn’t mesh well with Joshua Benash’s power pop vocals. It wasn’t an excruciating first act to sit through, but no one likes to unwittingly walk into a My Chemical Romance show, thanks again Eyeball Records.
O’Death’s reputation is only exceeded by their actual performance. As they thumped into a psychotic Appalachian episode, the center of the crowd began flinging and throwing themselves into one-another. The romping and stomping looked and felt less like a mosh pit and more like a pagan festival, the majority of violence being committed by a group of skinny girls. The more brut-like characters in the crowd were only too happy to comply. Soon enough the entire audience was arm-in-arm, swirling up close and personal into a salacious hoedown. With their energy and style, O’Death certainly tops the list of bands to see in 2008.
Murder by Death’s loss of Vincent Edward and Alex Schrodt was the loss of the very elements that made the band worth listening to. Sure Murder by Death’s Americana appeal was something to be heard, but it was the contrast between their electronic fuzz beats with the organic tones of the cello and guitars that elevated the music. Adam Turla’s vocal were more aggressive and pointed before the loss of their percussionist and keyboardist. It is clear that they wanted a change of direction. The band reshaped itself to exploit Turla’s Johnny Cash drawl and adopted a rockabilly persona that unfortunately tramples all over the experimental qualities that made them relevant. Murder by Death receded into the blasé, they resigned to worthlessness and typicality, provoking the multitudes that once grinned at the clever nuances of I’m Afraid of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf to balk and confront the music with a resounding “So What!”
The Fiery Furnaces
Widow City
October 9th 2007
Thrill Jockey
Every song on The Fiery Furnaces newest album Widow City is comprised of 45 second snippets of 15 other unpublished Fiery Furnace songs written while flipping between The History Channel and Oxygen. Widow City is a postmodern theater orchestration that can be tedious and exhausting to absorb. Even after the 5th play the record still refuses to present itself as a decent, listenable work. Just when every music loving bone in your body demands that you scrub your hard-drive, smash the disc, and write your senator emphatically instructing her to introduce legislation that would severely damage the First Amendment for all things objectionable and offensive, Widow City suddenly produces what appears to be an amazing 70’s era rock track. It is complex and groovy, imaginative and original, until Eleanor Friedberger switches gears and dribbles out a trite monologue about fuck all, which is then followed by a medley of creative malformations punctuated by boring drum solos.
The Fiery Furnaces want a restorative beer to take their mind off their tears. How great is that…a restorative beer…for their tears. I am reminded of late night channel surfing…while listening to Pippen. Other bands such as The Renfields have a similar style, but succeed where Widow City does not. It is not a matter of accessibility, but rather a matter of sensibility. The Friedbergers have in the past done their work well, but this record is an experiment gone awry. This is not to say that the actual music composed for Widow City isn’t excellent. The parts in themselves are compelling and truly solid. It is when they are assembled that one contemplates murder in the first degree. Philadelphia Grand Jury is a great track and Duplexes of the Dead follows suit. They aren’t exactly cohesive, but at least they function. It is with Automatic Husband that Widow City descends into furthest depths of schizophrenia, occasionally resurfacing for air, but then leading the listener deeper into futility. In short, the abilities of this outfit are to be commended, but the near complete lack of message or purpose in Widow City makes me regret making the purchase.
