Three Imaginary Girls - Dead Oceans

White Wilderness

Chris Estey — Thu, 24 Feb 2011 20:27:16 +0000

7.6

http://www.amazon.com/White-Wilderness-John-Vanderslice/dp/B004DK4AMM/?tag=wwwthreeimagi-20

San Francisco's John Vanderslice has worked his subtle, unique, elegant, and memorable musical magic for about eight full-lengths' worth of material. But like many excellent writers who fill lit journals and staff picks sections of bookstores, I have always walked away from his releases craving a little more, I don't know, danger. Vision. More happy accidents. Less concern to detail, a greater chance things might fall apart.

White Wilderness is his collaboration with Minna Choi and the Magik*Magik Orchestra, and just what he needed to do after hitting his singer-songwriter peak with 2009's Romanian Names (his last album for Barsuk). I wasn't able to hear his self-released Green Grow the Rushes EP before this debut on Dead Oceans, but the modern classical elements and instruments used to unpack or bundle up the nine songs on White Wilderness really help to make it more compelling to me than any of his earlier releases.

These are consistently somewhat sad, sober glimpses of the unsteadiness of existence, and the unity of entropy binding and crushing the world. The opening track "Sea Salt" feels like a woozy walk through the center-storm middle of a desert war zone, the cello ominously setting the protagonist up for possible cross-fire similar to images found in John Cale's solo post-punk work. "Convict Lake" is a brilliant slice of life gone weird, a short story about an animal surprise in the midst of a broken community.

Neither of these tracks are based in regular rock instrumentation, but feature gently chaotic keys and restrained strings and a hollowed-out rhythm that threatens to fall apart with what's being described by Vanderslice's smoothly melodic narration. For indie-rock fans who have a hankering for Scott Walker or less-rock XTC drama, these would satisfy on both levels. The album gets even more experimental from there, though occasional freezes in the pacing (as on the title track) tests the patience for enjoying it all the way through in one sitting.

Even so, it definitely points baroque folk-rock in a much appreciated even-further experimental direction than the big operatic epics of Vanderslice's contemporaries, showing that creative work can go deeper and quieter but demand just as much attention. And he worked up a gracious, if wasteland-chilling, set of songs to do this with on the perfectly-titled White Wilderness.

I believe in "Lita"

Imaginary Shrie — Fri, 24 Jul 2009 23:15:47 +0000

Did anyone just hear that Nurses song on KEXP, "Lita" from their new Dead Ocean album Apple's Acre? I'm not super-familiar with the band, but my ears perked up at this tidy little track.

John Vanderslice's newest opus and a sample MP3

heather hydra — Wed, 01 Apr 2009 17:40:38 +0000

According to the press release, this new JV album, Romanian Names, is "the best record he's made to date." Apparently he recorded the album demos in his basement, giving the process a lot more time to breathe and grow organically.

John Vanderslice: tour dates with Mountain Goats & record release shows

imaginary victoria — Fri, 20 Mar 2009 18:54:34 +0000

Cross country for now, and Seattle in May!

Pride

Andrew Boe — Wed, 26 Mar 2008 02:01:36 +0000

6.2

http://www.amazon.com/Pride-Phosphorescent/dp/B000V6JVQM/wwwthreeimagi-20

phosphorescent.jpg

Midway through the recording of Pride, Matthew Houck, the man behind Phosphorescent, decided to migrate from Athens, Georgia to Brooklyn, New York. The change of scene proved to be advantageous; Houck instantly picked up where he left off and finished the album with renewed inspiration. This is Phosphorescent’s third full-length release, following 2005's Aw Come Aw.

There is an almost sacred resonance evoked by the hymn-like quality of the vocals on Pride. Before ending up in Athens, Houck grew up in Alabama, and these southern roots permeate his work. There is a mood to the music that recalls a kind of Southern pastoral climate, with vocals that channel a remote but intimate sense of loneliness and abandonment. It is no surprise that this paramount solitude manifests itself so clearly in the songs, since Matthew Houck recorded almost the entire record by himself, using only the help of an assembled choir for some backing vocal assistance on three of the eight tracks.

What emerges is a singer-songwriter approach to the LP, which comes across as an isolated folk record that works best while driving on the freeway or while listening late at night. The choral aspects also make it suitable for a lazy Sunday morning over coffee. "My Dove, My Lamb" is an example of the overall feel of Pride. The chorus vocals are soft and almost angelic behind the Southern rasp of Houck's voice. An acoustic guitar strums slowly as the rhythm instrument, and a bluesy harmonica coughs and wheezes between lead vocals. When the chorus joins in, the atmosphere morphs from sorrow to exultation.

The strangest song on the album is entitled "At Death, A Proclamation." The composition lasts less than two minutes, but it provides a fabulous diversion from the core sound and style of Pride. Anxious drumming and noisy electric drone guitar chug along like a mystery train in what is by far the darkest and possibly strongest part of the disc. It is the unexpected storm that quickly retreats before there is
a break in the clouds and calm settles in once again.

Fans of contemporary folk artists such as Devendra Banhart, Espers, and Vetiver will find Pride to be right up their alley.

There is an almost sacred resonance evoked by the hymn-like quality of the vocals on Pride.

The Evening Descends

Justin Koeppen — Fri, 21 Mar 2008 12:47:34 +0000

8.6

http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/B0010V4U2M/wwwthreeimagi-20/

Evangelicals.jpg

BLACK
FADE IN
EXT. WOODS - NIGHT

Evening descends: We open on the rear of a Cherry Red convertible, top down, on a hill overlooking the mid-sized suburban city of BELLAWOOD, a grid of amber lights stretches into the distance. The car sits surrounded by shrubbery next to a wooden sign that reads “Chastity Point,” two silhouettes can be seen jostling in the front seat.

CUT TO MEDIUM SHOT, THROUGH WINDSHIELD

A young couple converse passionately, the young man BRET leans in toward the young woman DIANE but she is resisting.

BRET
C’mon Diane, don’t be such a damn prude! You said tonight we’d go ‘all the way’; why are you being so damn frigid?!

DIANE
Damn it, I said ‘no’, Bret! You’re stoned again; take your damn hands off me! I’m not that kind of girl! Besides, I though you meant we were ‘going all the way’ to the damn dance, not up here to Chastity Point, you creep! I’m tired of your party crashing, how do you sleep?

DIANE grabs BRET’S arm from her shoulder and tosses it back at him.
BRET scoffs.

BRET
C’mon, we’ve been going steady for 2 damn months and you’ve still never let me put the moves on you. You’re as cold as snowflakes. I don’t want people to think I’ve gone soft. I mean, you love me don’t y—

A twig snaps OFFSCREEN

CUT TO MEDIUM SHOT – PASSENGER SIDE DOOR

DIANE (alarmed)
Bret, what was that?! I heard a noise!

BRET
I’m sure it’s nothing, relax. Here, let me hold you.

DIANE
But Bret, isn’t this the area where that Mad Scientist performed all those horrifying experiments? Didn’t the newsman say that one had escaped and was wandering around eating lusty teenagers?

BRET
Well, yeah, but nothing’s going to happen to us, we’re the main characters…. aren’t we?

SWEEP UP TO BUSHES BEHIND BRET

ENTER GIANT RUBBERY MONSTER OR SOMETHING,
ALSO THERE’S PROBABLY A UFO AND DRACULA

MONSTERGraaaaagh! I’m the SKELETON MAN! I will drink from your bloodstream! You’ll all float here in the deadlights! C’mere you lusty teenagers!

BRET and DIANE
AAAGH! He’s going to kill us! We’re totally going to be dead! Oh, why didn’t we listen to our parents and go to church or whatever!?

THE MONSTER APPROACHES, ZOOM TO TIGHT AND FADE TO BLACK

Imagine that but set to quirky indie-pop in the vein of Icarus Line, Of Montreal or a spookier My Morning Jacket. Now add some b-movie sound effects, some Theramin, sci-fi synth arpeggios and some vaudeville flourish and you’ve got an approximation of what The Evening Descends sounds like. A haunting, cheeky ride through the spook house. Creepy songs about creepy things, never afraid to wink at the camera but always ready to jump out from behind some cardboard tree in a plastic mask. This record could replace Fantomas’ Delirium Cordia as my Halloween soundtrack, and it’ll probably scare the Trick-or-Treaters less, too.

THRILLS! CHILLS! GILLS! GHOSTS AND GHOULS! MONSTERS FROM BEYOND TIME!

Rise Above

Bob Ham — Mon, 15 Oct 2007 02:45:31 +0000

http://www.amazon.com/Rise-Above-Dirty-Projectors/dp/B000U3DF0O/wwwthreeimagi-20

DirtyProjectors07oct.jpg

On paper, the concept behind this disc is a fairly intriguing one: pay tribute to one of punk’s most influential albums – in this case, Black Flag’s seminal full-length Damaged – by trying to recreate it using your memory as your only guide.

In practice, though, the Dirty Projectors’ version is a mystifying experiment, one that seeks to emasculate the grinding punk rock of the original with an arch, evasive pop sound that seems to shelter itself under a thick coat of gloss and artifice. The martial rhythms of the original “Gimme Gimme Gimme” are eschewed for a clattering beat over which a spiral of singers, both male and female, render the lyrics as a Danielson Famile-esque sing-along; “Six Pack” is turned into warbling ‘70s progressive rock (precisely the music that Messrs. Ginn, Dukowski, Stevenson, and Rollins were rebelling against in the first place).

Call it the Red House Painters effect. After hearing Mark Kozelek turn a dozen or more AC/DC songs into funereal folk pleas, far too many artists are taking it upon themselves to “pay honor” to their forebears by rendering their versions virtually unidentifiable from the originals. They are not cover songs; they are carpet bomb songs.

Call it the Red House Painters effect. Far too many artists are taking it upon themselves to “pay honor” to their forebears by rendering their versions virtually unidentifiable from the originals.

The Broken String

imaginary ash — Tue, 24 Jul 2007 04:08:10 +0000

6.3

http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/B000RGSOCS/wwwthreeimagi-20

broken.jpg

I've been listening almost exclusively to The Broken String for about a week straight now, and my conclusion? It's fine. It doesn't make me jump and skip in circles around my room (cause, you know, that's what I do when I'm super excited about a record); it doesn't make me want to slice off my ears in a Van Gogh outburst; it doesn't really make me anything. Which is, again, fine.

The songs range from giddy and poppy in a Femurs kind of way (see "Click, Click, Click, Click") to Saps-like tales ("Like Castanets") to Maria Taylor-esque lullabyes ("Butterfly Nets"). Bishop Allen is officially two dudes, Justin Rice and Christian Rudder, but the Maria Taylor-esque-ness is courtesy of Darbie Nowatka, who provides backup vocals on some songs and lead vocals on "Butterfly Nets" — which is actually my favorite track on the album. If Darbie Nowatka releases an album anytime soon, I'm likely to jump and skip in circles around my room, y'know?

"The Chinatown Bus" is also a big winner, and inspired me to do a little research when I realized they were indeed speaking of the popular low-cost shuttle the runs between Boston and New York. (Turns out Bishop Allen is currently based in New York but has past ties to Boston. Sup, homeys.) It employs a Bright Eyes-like driving storytelling style, a la "Method Acting," and mid-way through it features a line that I inexplicably can't help but sing along with: "Every single one of them named Jennifer." Every single one of what? Yeah, dunno. But it's catchy! "Corazon" is an ode to a found piano in the same way that The Decemberists' "Apology Song" is an ode to a stolen bicycle, telling an elaborate story about where and how said piano was discovered and subsequently rescued. "Shrinking Violet" and "Like Castanets" experiment with regional music styles, the former sounding a bit like a swampland front porch banjo ballad and the latter like an urban Mexican fiesta song. If there's a hit among the mix, it's "Rain," an upbeat pop number with ironically sunny vocals and harmonies over a dance-y beat. This has pop classic written all over it, and would wisely be the album's lead single.

Perhaps the reason that The Broken String never makes me go gaga is that the songs are so wholly different from one another that it's as if they don't go together. I find that I like certain tracks quite a lot, but when they all come together as a forty-minute listening experience, it's a little disconnected, and just as I ease in to one kind of sound, the next song begins and goes in a completely different, unexpected direction, when in many cases I would have liked to have stayed and explored a bit more where I was. All in all, though, thumbs up to Bishop Allen.

It doesn't make me jump and skip in circles around my room (cause, you know, that's what I do when I'm super excited about a record).