Sound Affects: Music reviews and ratings

Stereolab: "Chemical Chords" (4AD) (rating: 6)

Stereolab's place in pop's evolutionary chronology is convoluted. They cherry picked then-forgotten styles from ‘60s and ‘70s, which were in turn made to sound like music from the future. While not necessarily influential in terms of sound, their musical philosophy certainly leaked into indie culture. Along with Beck and DJ Shadow, Stereolab's retrogressive tendencies kickstarted independent music's reinterpretation of lost gems and obscure genres. They were one of the first bands to be called "post-rock." Overlooking a few detours, the general arc of Stereolab's career has moved gradually towards pop, and they seem to have reached their final destination on "Chemical Chords." Sean O'Hagen's mellifluous string arrangements are back, and more prominent than ever. Opening tracks "Neon Beanbag" and "Three Women" immediately introduce "Chemical Chords"' raison d'etra with a jaunty melody and silly girl-group vocal instrumentation. Both are represetative of the album's poppier direction. There are a few short but vital glimmers of experimentation here - the squelching "One Finger Symphony" and the inverted percussion of "Pop Molecule." Both are strategically placed to shore up the album from a sugary collapse. And yet despite its pop lightness, "Chemical Chords" doesn't sound as if it were very fun to make. There's a workmanlike quality here; we sense that the album's melodies were painstakingly built from the ground up. All Stereolab albums are like this, to a degree, but because "Chemical Chords" relies so much on the strength of its melodies, there's little room for impromptu flourishes. Stereolab's latter-day albums have begun to sound, well, chemical. All the ingredients are here, but the one that holds everything else together is missing: propulsive krautrock rhythms. Lacking these, "Chemical Chords" is a cute summer record, one that's almost as easy to forget as it is to digest. - Cole Stryker

The Dandy Warhols: "...Earth to the Dandy Warhols..." (Beat the World) (rating: 3)

"...Earth to the Dandy Warhols..." is the group's first self-released album, and it easily ranks as one of their worst. True Dandy aficionados know that the group's first disc, 1995's independently-released "Dandys Rule, OK?," is where most of their best songs are kept, truly bringing a modern edge to the psych rock of the late ‘60s and early ‘70s that Courtney Taylor-Taylor and Co. so joyously worship. That's not to say that it was the group's only triumph. Songs like "Last Junkie..." and "We Used to Be Friends," along with albums like "Thirteen Tales from an Urban Bohemia," proved to be both retro-leaning and forward-thinking in equal measure. However, as time wore on, highlights started to be spread thin over their discs, as Taylor had somehow convinced himself that as long as you have an ample groove, you can keep piling instruments on top of it until you have something equaling genius. If you were put off by the musical fantasias that colored and presided over every moment of "Odditorium," then you may very well hate "Earth," as Taylor has now followed his muse to its wits end. Most of these songs pull a similar trick: making you think that their choruses are huge and catchy. Yet when each melodic phrase is repeated ad nauseum for the entire duration of the track, the impact is reduced to zero, all while a majority of "Earth" passes by in a stoned haze, melodies entering one ear before immediately leaving through the other. The longer that "Earth" drags on, the more preposterous it gets. There's the meandering "And Then I Dreamt of Yes," the mindless "Beast of All Saints," and - most glaringly of all - the closing duo of "Valerie Yum" and "Musee d'Nougat." The former is a seven-minute rocker where the primary lyric is the word "yum" recited to seemingly infinity and back, all while the song stops half-way through to become a slowed-down epic that gradually turns back to its original pace, signifying, ultimately, nothing. - Evan Sawdey

The Walkmen: "You & Me" (Gigantic) (rating: 7)

The Walkmen is a group whose albums are defined by their respective openers. On their 2002 debut, "Everyone Who Pretended to Like Me Is Gone," Hamilton Leithauser demur moans on "They're Winning" hearkened back to the New York malaise and dissidence that defined the group's citymate predecessors The Velvet Underground. But "Donde Esta la Playa", the opener from the group's latest effort "You & Me," sees a strangely optimistic and complacent Leithauser, content with the battles that have colored the entirety of the group's catalog. There seems to be an energy behind the group that hasn't existed in the past, the penultimate emancipation from the glum world of New York City streets and the grime that so comfortably covered their previous work. It's no difficult task to discover what's so different, though: Leithauser (or someone with serious influence over the group's collective songwriting) got himself a girlfriend. The Walkmen's earlier records were beautifully mundane, grim in all of the right places with subtle hints of joy and comfort. Like any good, smitten boy, Leithauser has been taking some singing lessons to impress his young lady. Rather than the hollow Dylan-growl on the Walkmen's previous records, his voice is fuller and smoother. It fills all of the gaps that gave it so much character, the metropolitan snarl of crushed Camel cigarette packs. "You & Me" represents a turning point, one in which the group continues to perfect their sound, one hinted at on previous cuts like "Louisiana." But the Walkmen can't continue with this partially-fulfilled realization. They've outgrown the New York rock that made them famous. Leithauser is simply too large for the City's claustrophobic guitars and frantic percussion. - Chris Gaerig

The Duhks: "Fast Paced World" (Sugar Hill) (rating: 7)

On their third Sugar Hill release, the Grammy-nominated group confidently offers up their witches' brew of zydeco rhythm, Appalachian banjo-picking, Celtic fiddle flourishes and newly-minted lead singer Sarah Dugas's soul-queen vocals for consumption. And there's no question that it's often thirst-quenching. The opening two-punch combo of "Mighty Storm" and the title track dissolves dashes of rootsy character into rock heaviness. "This Fall" is a smoothly jerking Slavic-circus waltz, and "You Don't See It" betrays lurking melodic-pop sensibilities. Virtuosity is never in question on the instrumentals, and Dugas is a convincing enough white-girl Aretha-proxy to push her way through the folksy tapestry with muscular aplomb. All this is certainly enough for a solid recommendation. But there's a high wall yet between this band and brilliance. Maybe it's the polished sheen provided by producer Jay Joyce, which further undercuts distinctive elements already diluted by furious intermixing. Maybe it's those moments when Dugas' performance fails to distinguish itself from the long tradition of soul singing. Maybe it's the occasional dodginess of the lyrics. Or maybe, ultimately, the Duhks contort themselves and their chosen vernacular so drastically in order to evade snide "Newfie music" (derogatory slang for a person from the province of Newfoundland) labeling that the simple eloquence they strive for is lost in the perspiration. The strain shows on "Fast Paced World," and for all its modest successes, one can't shake the feeling that this should seem a little more effortless than it does. - Ross Langager

Kristoffer Ragnstam: "Wrong Side of the Room" (Bluhammock) (rating: 6)

Kristoffer Ragnstam's good nature was an immediately appealing part of the Swedish drummer/songwriter's 2007 debut, "Sweet Bills." And because of this, you tended to forgive if the album careened hectically through choruses that seemed just a bit too familiar. What was already clear back then was Ragnstam's easy familiarity with both the studio and the little twistings of instrumentation that generate and sustain interest. Well, Ragnstam begins his sophomore record, "Wrong Side of the Room," right where he left off. "Nothing bores me more than an over-rated poet / With an acoustic guitar, and way too much to say," Ragnstam declares early on the record. In accordance with this attitude, he offers as much variety and as much narrative lyrical insight as an album can comfortably handle. Ragnstam's characters may worry, as with many pop protagonists, that he is "no longer in vogue," but he may be the first to articulate it so succinctly. The trouble is, exuberance alone doesn't create memorable pop music. Ragnstam piles pianos on electric guitars on fast tempi on layered vocals, and though this creates a pleasing clatter, the complexity also occasionally clouds the accessibility of Ragnstam's ideas. The first single, "Swing That Tambourine," is one of these narrow misses. As elsewhere, he overcomes an awkward juxtaposition of individually appealing studio sounds with a drawn-out chorus that suits a single's singalong-ability. The singer-songwriter may be going for something like Pelle Carlberg's intelligent pop, and though the results still smell faintly of Beck, that's not entirely bad. As I said, it's difficult to fault pop exuberance without seeming spoilsport. - Dan Raper

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