aktinos

2 DD's, no way!!!!







A special thanks to *Schelly for noticing and suggesting my work, please check out her wonderful work.












Also a special thanks to ^Kaz-D for featuring my second DD, please check out her wonderful gallery as well.

"pues cuando ardió la pérdida, reverdecieron sus maizales"

when what was lost was burned, the corn fields became green again

-Alejandro González Iñárritu







Photography by sblourg.deviantart.com/

I saw The National at The Riverside in Milwaukee last night, it was epic!  An excerpt from pitchfork... pitchfork.com/reviews/albums/1…

The National became popular in a very traditional way: by releasing some really good albums, then touring the hell out of them. They're boilerplate indie, free of hot new genre tags or feature-ready backstories, which is something their detractors derive great joy from pointing out. If the National are important, rather than merely good, it's for writing about the type of lived-in moments that rock bands usually don't write about that well. The characters in National songs have real jobs, have uninteresting sex, get drunk, and lie to one another. They do so during the regular course of a workaday week, on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. The National aren't "dad-rock" so much as "men's magazine rock": music chiefly interested in the complications of being a stable person expected to own certain things and dress certain ways.

On the National's fifth album, High Violet, those constraints are starting to wear on them, which makes a lot of sense: they wear on most people. In between patches of obtuse imagery, singer Matt Berninger sounds increasingly self-destructive. The record's upbeat numbers don't cheer him up so much as commiserate with him. All of this makes High Violet a dark affair, even for a band with a reputation for sad-bastard melodrama. The National have never sounded triumphant, but they can still be reassuring, with Berninger's lyrics acting as salves for our own neuroses. Six drinks in, tired of your coworkers, wishing you could just go home and laugh at sitcoms with someone? Maybe get laid? The National's got your back.

With an ever rising profile and plenty of indie-famous friends-- Sufjan Stevens and Bon Iver's Justin Vernon guest here-- the National were afforded the opportunity to obsess over High Violet. They could've holed up and recorded an idiosyncratic, expectation-defying mess. Instead they produced an ornate, fussed-over record that sounds like no one other than themselves. Given the amount of flack they take for being a no-frills bore, simply refining their sound was arguably the braver option. They miss, occasionally-- the string-drenched closer, "Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks", is too decadent for its own good-- but mostly, they construct gorgeous, structurally sound vignettes. There are few bands that could craft a song like "Sorrow"-- in which emotion acts as a character and the band turns Berninger's balladry into a well paced jog-- without stumbling over their own ambitions. The guitars on "Afraid of Everyone" actually sound nervous; "England" speaks of cathedrals over properly magisterial drums. These are triumphs of form.

Berninger is still, for the most part, a socially obsessed claustrophobe. He has upper-class guilt on "Lemonworld" ("Cousins and cousins somewhere overseas/ But it'll take a better war to kill a college man like me," "This pricey stuff makes me dizzy"). "Bloodbuzz Ohio"'s magnificent chorus ("I still owe money/ To the money/ To the money I owe") addresses the familiar, harrowing financial burdens of adulthood. He's best when he tones down the angst in favor of reflection or confusion. High Violet seems less likely to engender the personal connections of Boxer, but it's also bigger and more engaging-- a possibly offputting combination for a band following the footsteps of Echo and the Bunnymen, Wilco, and Arcade Fire. After all, eagerness often trumps execution, and the National aren't immune: For his part, Berninger looks increasingly like Dos Equis' Most Interesting Man in the World, and his cryptic lyrics seem like an application for the title.

But the National rarely miss; when they aim for powerful or poetic, they get there. High Violet is the sound of a band taking a mandate to be a meaningful rock band seriously, and they play the part so fully that, to some, it may be off-putting. But these aren't mawkish, empty gestures; they're anxious, personal songs projected onto wide screens. Even if you don't consider yourself an upwardly mobile stiff with minor social anxiety, the National make it sound grand, confusing, and relatable.

— Andrew Gaerig, May 10, 2010

Even if the rock kids aren't doing the standing still as much these days, indie-friendly electro-pop bands are still liable to have their own backs against the wall-- Hot Chip with their Urkel affectations, Junior Boys' overriding permafrost, Cut Copy and their unflappable cool. Despite residing on the always trustworthy Frenchkiss, Passion Pit aren't cool. Their approach to danceable rock music is more Friday night than year-end-list. It's also distinctly, for a lack of a better term, American. It's extroverted, brash, and unconcerned with nuance, each synthesizer used for maximum melodic impact instead of texture. Most of the time, singer Michael Angelakos' half-eunuch/half-Jeremy Enigk voice is likely voicing some sort of commentary on his feelings. There's an almost archaic belief that a record should have at least four singles and the nagging feeling that Passion Pit could just be another garage/emo band that traded in their guitars for samplers. Now that we've gotten that out of the way, just about all of this works in Manners' favor, as it's the sort of heart-to-heart populist record that's every bit as sincere as it is infectious-- though Angelakos sings in a manner rarely heard outside of a shower with unpredictable temperature control, it feels symbolic of a band that's completely unashamed, not shameless, in its pursuit of a human connection.

It's easy to be skeptical. I understand. Passion Pit are, after all, following a buzzed-about EP, Chunk of Change, that attracted detractors and admirers in equal measure. The story of Manners, however, is how Passion Pit evolve from a one-man pet project to a fully fleshed concern that gives substance to Angelakos' melodic sensibilities over the course of more focused song lengths, more dynamic arrangements, and 40 minutes of joy-buzzer pushing.

Chunk of Change certainly had its rickety charms, but while "Make Light", "Moth's Wings", and "Eyes as Candles" retain the EP's building blocks-- glycemic keyboards, insistent major keys, and falsetto-- their compositional aspects go beyond what Passion Pit were capable of as a solo affair. "Make Light", despite working patiently towards a satisfying hook, would've likely plateaued during its midsection, but Nate Donmoyer's live drums keep it skidding perilously towards an organic collapse Chunk of Change never allowed. The elegiac tempos of "Moth's Wings" and "Eyes as Candles" veer closer to first-kiss soundtracking than even Chunk's mushier moments, but they're rendered fleshy with slowly blossoming arrangements of church choirs, saxophones, and a winding synth lead on the latter that catches you off-guard with its similarity to "Walk of Life".

Barely past drinking age, Passion Pit are obviously overjoyed with the studio as romper room, but the toy that has gotten the most attention is the kiddie choir that pops up on two of the first four songs. Call them behind-the-curve as they double up the "higher and higher" part of the chorus from "Little Secrets" (that's the one that sounds like "D.A.N.C.E.", Jarvis), but it's more over-the-top, and that's kind of the point-- in a weird way, it's heartening how little Passion Pit concerns themselves with decorum or trend-watching in the search of an irresistible hook. Manners does go for the quick knockout, pulling a similar trick five minutes later on the Hissing Fauna branch-off "The Reeling", and while Side B tends to delay gratification, Manners is deceptively consistent even beyond its singles-- if you like one Passion Pit song, you'll probably like them all. Or you might not like any at all-- though "Sleepyhead" has proven to be something of the consensus, its real-time chipmunk soul ambitions fitting in better on Manners than it did tacked as a transitional track at the end of Chunk of Change.

But as "Let Your Love Grow Tall" ushers in last call with a big ol' group hug, I realize how it puts me in a difficult position as a music critic: what happens when you're scrambling to think of why a record is worth hearing and you keep coming back to "it makes me happy"? Too often, we use a band's debut simply to conjure comparisons to other bands, but Manners is every bit as likely to bring to mind a successful night out with friends, or the party where you finally got to talk to that person you've been eying all semester. The video for "The Reeling" certainly helps with that visualization, but in a manner similar to layers of faux-flesh being peeled off Angelakos' face, the cracked-up lyrics themselves ache for some sort of connection after realizing the futility of physical and emotional bunkers. It's a fitting contrast for a record that's certainly not the most innovative or cred-boosting you'll hear this year, but quite possibly the one that most demands to be socialized with and is just so easy to love back.

— Ian Cohen, May 22, 2009

I've been considering ways to dole out an introduction to this review for nearly two weeks, each attempt more futile than the last. I considered keeping a diary of listening (and actually went so far as to do it on a number of occasions), piecing together thoughts and hoping something cohesive would come of it. Re-reading my scribbles, I realized that it was like fitting the jumbled pieces of a puzzle together. Every entry referenced something wholly other than what had preceded it. Inevitably, part of it became personal; so I nixed it. Still, the task became a vital part of this, almost as if I had lived inside the sounds of Neon Golden, drifting in and out of song, mixing familiar with unknown, moving above and beneath the textures and never completely keeping time. In the end, it's apt that this resulted from a Notwist record. The last decade for them was full of shifting movements.

Beginning in Weilheim, Germany in the early 90s as a heavy metal outfit, Markus and Micha Acher, along with drummer Martin Messerschmid, released two albums filled with pounding drums and guitar solos (The Notwist and Nook) before almost abandoning it completely. However, with Nook, things had already started to change. Interests moved away from thudding power riffs and toward the direction of complex rhythms and structures. Even so, to listen to those albums now, most people would find it difficult to believe the same band made this new disc.

In the mid-90s, the Notwist finally got an American distributor with 12, on the now-defunct Zero Hour label. With that, they began to explore even more textures in their sound, enlisting Martin Gretschmann (aka Console) to help with production and add his special electronic touch. Resulting in a more poppy sound for the group (some might even call it indie rock), 12's beauty is startling from beginning to end.

With Martin Console now in tow as a full-time member, Shrink was a huge step into the world of electronic music and sounded almost completely unlike anything else made at the time. Mixing rock and pop with free jazz, old-timey folk, jagged minimalist beats and just about anything else you could toss in, I don't have any problems saying now that the record was ahead of its time. To top it off, the shame in it all is that very few took notice; Zero Hour went belly up (rendering 12 and Shrink virtually impossible to find in record shops these days), and the Notwist went back to Germany and sort of disappeared for a few years.

So it seemed. Console never really slowed down, releasing a ton of solo projects (one of which was 1999's Matador-released Rocket in the Pocket), remixing just about everyone, and doing the programming and production on possibly the best track from Björk's Vespertine, "Heirloom." The list of Notwist side projects became quite lengthy, too: Tied and Tickled Trio (sax player Johannes Enders' continuing project), Village of Savoonga, Potawatomi and Lali Puna, to name a few. So, after four years of what only seemed like hiding, the Acher brothers and the Martins (Console and Messerschmid) return with Neon Golden. Their website says it was worth the wait. And, well, it's true.

Neon Golden is replete with textured sounds, drifting (and occasionally driving) pulsations, and mesmerizing hypno-rhythms. It's been quite a while since the last time I actually felt I've been with a record like this. Sounds odd, but that's exactly the feeling I've received over the last two weeks. And when you've got that much time to spend with a record, it becomes an entity in and of itself. Most times with a record review, you get a few precursory listens and then by number five or six, you're spitting out a review. Not so here. With well over fifty listens to this disc, it's like a relationship has begun to spring forth out of the ether. I guess you could say Neon Golden and me have become well acquainted and it's already akin to hanging with an old friend. Given that amount of time, realizations occur. One of my first was that, in many ways, this record is about textures: electronic bleats, pulsing waves, the mixture of organic instruments with digital blips and loops, and most notably the serenity of Markus Acher's voice.

While Acher's singing has always been appealing to me, it wasn't until this album that I finally recognized something and, for you lyric analysts, it's probably not a good thing. I've found myself spending more time listening to Acher's voice than paying attention to what exactly he's singing about. In some ways, it's similar to Arto Lindsay. On albums like Mundo Civilizado-- when he's singing in Portuguese, it's unclear exactly what he's talking about. Yet his ability to mesmerize and captivate the listener with his singing can be simply haunting, and damn if his voice just doesn't ooze sex appeal. A very similar thing often occurs when I'm listening to Acher. The songs are sung in English. I know the words and I can sing along. Thing is, my attention becomes devoted to the way his phrases are formed, his ability to roll words off his tongue, the manner in which certain syllables, consonants and vowels are stressed, and the way familiar English words all at once become foreign. On "This Room," there's a moment at around the 1:30 mark where the driving percussion suddenly comes to a delirious halt and leaving only Acher's voice imbedded in a wave of electronic gurgles and throbbing beats. The track is rendered into two halves here, Acher's voice cut-up and pieced back together in a dizzying loop, bouncing off itself in nonsense half-syllables and creating a split-second feel of nausea-inducing vertigo.

Elsewhere, a track like "One Step Inside Doesn't Mean You'll Understand" is comprised of plucked strings atop a low saxophone moan while hisses and crackles burble just below the surface, waiting for the end of the song, and fading out with the hum of nothing but fuzz, as if the stylus was just caught in a locked groove. Prior to that fading hum, thin layers of sound begin to unfurl themselves, something that transpires on almost every track-- whether it be the distinguishing Notwist banjo, clanking percussion or the layer upon layer of electronics. Even on Neon Golden's most driving track, "Pilot," the band allows space for those resonating electronic hums to break through.

And then, another realization. The Notwist have an uncanny knack for allowing their compositions room to breathe, creating lush sonic textures. Dynamic numbers like "Pilot" or "Pick Up the Phone" come off as thoughtful and unhurried, songs transitioning into each other with languid movements. "Pick Up the Phone" is awash in spastic, pointy-headed beats and it sounds like the feel of crumpled and un-crumpled candy wrappers. With Markus Acher singing in what sometimes sound like barely hushed whispers, Neon Golden begins to take on an introspective beauty, almost as if everything (the musicians, the singer, the music) is lost in contemplative thought.

Nowhere is this pensiveness more present than in tracks like "Neon Golden" or "Off the Rails." The muted, tranquil beauty of an acoustic guitar and Markus Acher crooning "this is all I know" gently over electronic washes of sound in the latter make for lullaby material. "Neon Golden," on the other hand, begins as a gritty dirge, containing a deep saxophone groan, plucked acoustic guitar and banjo, and the mantra-like title chant. As it progresses, though, the song begins to be taken over by drops of scattered percussion, rhythmic drums, congas, and the murmuring buzz of Console's electronic manipulations. At first, my feelings for "Consequence" were ambivalent, but now I see that it's the perfect choice for a closing song. Markus Acher's lovely, plaintive moan of "Leave me hypnotized, love/ Leave me paralyzed, love," is the one time when the lyrics stand against the backdrop of the song, stark and revelatory. Neon Golden can do exactly what he's singing: it leaves you mesmerized, lost in meditative thought and captivated by the grainy, exquisite textures.

Neon Golden would be a staggering feat for any band, much less a band most people had long since forgotten about (or maybe never really knew). A decade into their career, the Notwist have created a masterpiece by pulling the same trick they pulled on Shrink: mixing things that might not seem to fit together into a beautiful, seamless whole. Again, the unfortunate thing is that anyone outside Europe is going to have a difficult time getting their hands on a copy. If you do find one, be prepared to pay, as City Slang stuff just ain't that cheap in the USA. So, why haven't labels like Mute or Communion or Darla jumped on getting this available for domestic distribution yet? A more obvious choice would even be Matador, who recently released one of Console's albums domestically. As of right now, the Notwist have released the record of the year. It's a shame that most people might not have a chance to hear it.

— Luke Buckman, February 6, 2002