GIMDANG album of the year:
Monsters of Folk, Monsters of Folk
A band’s music is the sum of its parts. When those parts are Jim James of My Morning Jacket, Conor Oberst and Mike Mogis of Bright Eyes, and M. Ward of uh, M. Ward fame, it’s not presuming to expect the Voltron effect. That I haven’t listened to much of these guys individually doesn’t preclude me from saying that they’re great together. Though the band has been endlessly compared to the super-groups of yesteryear, Monsters of Folk are no Traveling Wilburys. True, there is a very real sense of mutual respect, of fun and community – the sound of four fine musicians creating a joyful noise. But unlike the Wilburys, the Monsters don’t share the same influences. They don’t really even play the same kind of music with their respective bands. I liken it to a jigsaw puzzle with each member as a piece. The Wilburys fit together seamlessly, resulting in a fine (albeit simply constructed) product. The Monsters however, don’t fit together as easily; their edges don’t quite line up and a little more effort is required to complete that fine finished product. Therein lies the beauty of this album: those pieces, and the very different ingredients they bring to the table, combine to great effect the same way a perfect recipe does.
The first single, “Say Please,” is a testament to the power of a band in its simplest, most pure form (check out the video). Everyone sings a verse, everyone plays an instrument and every individual unites to make music. The fact that they’re all exceptionally talented doesn’t hurt either.
Instead of sticking to down-home folk rock (as the moniker implies), the band members flesh out their own sounds with the help of the others. Though the main songwriter for each song is clear, their different styles mesh well together. The freewheeling bounce of the MMJ-sounding “Losin Yo Head” is anchored by Mogis’ deft bass work. The poetic and pointed lyrics of Oberst get the M. Ward treatment on “Ahead of The Curve” as urgency is abandoned and the pace is slowed to the speed of the song’s subject, a restless drifter. The moments when the band really falls in line are awe-inspiring. The campfire strumming and gentle pulse on “Temazcal,” the toe-tapping Everly-Bro time of “Baby Boomer,” the remarkably close harmonies on the ultra-soft “Sandman, The Brakeman and Me” – all are transcendent.
The unheralded champion of the album is multi-instrumentalist Mike Mogis. The dobro on “Goodway,” the mandolin on “The Right Place,” and the Wurlitzer effects and pedal-steel accents he peppers throughout are simply sublime. Though he takes a vocal back seat, his recording and mixing contributions are innumerable.
Anything but a vanity project, the entire album is an impeccably-concocted mixture of rock, folk and Americana with a dash of electronic texture: the result of four guys bursting with creativity, connecting, being free to do what feels natural, and supporting each other in the creation of good music. It’s almost as if this new crew of Monsters heard the advice of one Wilbury (the former Beatle) to carry on the super-grouping tradition: “Come together. Right now. Over me.” Lucky for us, they heeded it.
Highlight: The final song, “His Master’s Voice,” with Jim James’ piercing tenor telling a tale of faith and allegiance, is the perfect curtain.
Runner-Up:
Girls, Album
Girls, a duo from San Francisco (who are actually guys), reportedly crafted their debut on a speed binge. You wouldn’t know it by listening. Album is a sweet slice of Fifties-pop pie layered with a healthy serving of shoegaze and surf rock. While “Laura” could be the soundtrack to a stoned jaunt through Breakup Park, “Big Bad Mean Motherfucker” is a beach jam with a sand-storming guitar sound and a Johnny-Thundering solo. “Hellhole Ratrace” is built upon a teetering wall of sound that seems to have been hastily erected as an emotional shield while “Darling” comments on the redemptive qualities of a good song. The general tone of the lyrics is achingly sad; singer Christopher Owens lets most of the words seep out with a dynamic warble to rival Elvis Costello’s. Treading water in a sea of foamy distortion, he moans with all the despair of a lone cetacean, separated from its pod and its mate. Indeed, this is lonesome music. It’s a beautifully detached album – an album that might be best absorbed alone.Highlight: The atmospheric “Headache.” It was so deeply imprinted on my consciousness that it haunted a series of my dreams one night.
Honorable Mention:
Neko Case, Middle Cyclone
The pipes on this gal are otherworldly, like the calm before the storm, the hurricane and the aftermath. Her album boasts a collection of songs that are at once arresting in their simplicity and awesome in their grandeur.
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