I’m not sure how common this practice is, but when I was in elementary school, teachers had this trick where they would whisper at a rowdy classroom to get the kids to quiet down instead of trying to yell over the noise. It worked: kids got curious after ten or fifteen seconds, and wanted to hear what the teacher was saying.
Swedish singer Alice Boman, with her silvery voice and light dusting of backing instrumentals, has the whisper trick licked. The songs on EP II (the digital version of which includes last year’s EP Skisser – Swedish for “Sketches”) draw attention precisely because they don’t overexert themselves trying to command your ears. It’s been well documented that Boman didn’t envision an international audience when she wrote EP II, and even less so with Skisser, which was recorded as a bunch of demos and don’t have titles beyond “Skiss 2,” or “Skiss 8,” etc.
Considering that the album that doesn’t really take audience into account, it’s worth noting that EP II persistently returns to themes of being observed and observing. What do you see when you look at me? kicks off the whole thing, the opening line of the opening track “What.” Lava lamp-like, that song drifts back and forth between melancholy – the eerie brokenness that comes naturally to Boman’s wispy songwriting style – and a surprising optimism. We float onward through “Over” and “Burns,” both of which hit some real transcendence in the high notes, despite lyrics like It burns, it burns, now you are gone. I am done. Those apex moments – usually underscored with an extra pop of vocal harmony or piano melody – pack a lot of wallop into just a little bit of momentum.
Like Skisser, this collection loses focus in places. This isn’t a direct result of its obliqueness, but Boman still seems like she hasn’t quite figured out how close she wants to be to her audience. Listening to the album takes patience: getting to the payoff requires your full attention but doesn’t seize it by force. EP II showcases a more mature collection than we saw with Skisser, but as a songwriter, Boman still operates very much in her own head on this new release. That will have to change before long–this EP will likely be the last she makes as a little-known performer. It will be interesting to see, on albums to come, what an Alice Boman song looks like when it has been intended for widespread consumption since its inception.
Until then, enjoy the rough drafts. You can go here to purchase the album, which came out last week– if you’re in the US, EP II will include the Skisser EP as well. Watch the video for “Waiting,” off EP II, below:
The Holograms‘ new video for “Hidden Structures,” off the full-length September release Forever, shows a basic juxtaposition between silence and noise, listlessness and energy. The Swedish foursome loaf on the rooftop of a graffiti-branded shack, stand discontentedly in front of pastel high rises and grassy hills, sit moodily in greenly lit bars, and pile into a station wagon that, against the grey backdrop of Scandinavian highway, looks nearly cartoonishly red. An Asian man stares at the camera, smoking mistrustfully.
By contrast, the band’s brand of heavy, epic synth-rock doesn’t let up once on this track. This rawness is par for the course–with the release of their debut album a little over a year ago, The Holograms established an energy-driven, fast kind of post-punk so cohesive that that made listening to their music feel like a full-body experience, a throttling surround-sound effected by the band’s cohesive vivacity. Their recent follow-up wavered little from the course already set, sticking to large, heavy themes expounded upon via synthesizer, but expanded the breadth of the sound, carving out deeper intricacies of their bass lines and moving further away from communality in the direction of the most insular, most introverted edges of synth-punk.
With scenes of record shops and fast driving, there’s glimmers of rock and roll in the video, but ultimately it’s the divide between outer isolation and inner rage that adds complexity to this song. The effect is one of looking out at the world–in this case, a sparsely populated, quiet and monotone Scandinavian landscape–and creating a vastly different world inside your head. When the band set out to make the new record, they were famously broke and despondent, connecting little with their more electro-inclined Scandinaian musical brethren. The video for “Hidden Structures” plays off that dichotomy, opening up the song to a loneliness that feels gritty and true.
“Hidden Structures” is featured on the Forever album, out via Captured Tracks. Watch the videos for “Hidden Structures” below!
[fusion_builder_container hundred_percent=”yes” overflow=”visible”][fusion_builder_row][fusion_builder_column type=”1_1″ background_position=”left top” background_color=”” border_size=”” border_color=”” border_style=”solid” spacing=”yes” background_image=”” background_repeat=”no-repeat” padding=”” margin_top=”0px” margin_bottom=”0px” class=”” id=”” animation_type=”” animation_speed=”0.3″ animation_direction=”left” hide_on_mobile=”no” center_content=”no” min_height=”none”]If Scratch ‘N’ Sniff internet had already been invented, this would smell like weed.
Post college, I lived in a house with a couple of record nerds. You know the type – usually dudes who have more vinyl than a human being could possibly listen to and just leave everything sealed so it will be worth more money when they die alone in their basement apartments. I don’t really mean that to sound so scathing; I had (and still have) a great affection for folks whose obsessive collecting is based in music adoration and not just hoarding rare albums. Without “my” record geeks, I might never have discovered Comus, an anonymous 1970’s Satan-worshipping psych collective. The music was complex and arboreal but also sort of frightening. Mostly, I was enchanted by the idea of some cult running around in the forests of Great Britain (or haunting the moors or whatever they have there), jamming to their trippy tunes by day and sacrificing virgins by night.
I felt twinges of that same awe when I listened to World Music by Sweden’s Goat. Their multi-layerd fusion of psych, funk, and disco is energetic enough to pull anyone in, but the mythology surrounding the band is equally fascinating. They supposedly hail from Korpilombolo, a tiny village founded by a voodoo priest, where the residents have collectively composed songs and played music as Goat for generations. World Music is the first release by the current incarnation of this project, an appropriate title given its timeless and eclectic feel, where the only rule for embracing a particular style of playing is that it be ecstatic.
Videos of the band’s live performances do little to reveal their identity; the performers wear mardi-gras style masks and dashikis. Members of the band have suggested in interviews that all of this obfuscation is a way to help center focus on the music itself rather than the personalities behind it, though the irony here is that these antics tread on gimmicky territory. In the end, though, it doesn’t matter if the folklore is truth or make-believe or a little of both, because the songs stand up on their own just fine.
I was pretty excited to catch the act at Music Hall of Williamsburg; originally scheduled for Glasslands but moved to accommodate a larger crowd, the event promised to be at least mildly spectacular – it was the band’s North American debut, after all. Two guitar players, a bass player, and two percussionists took the stage in outfits ranging from “creepy vintage clown marionette” to “gold-lamé clad fencing champion”. At first, the vibe was actually pretty stoic, leaving me to wonder if the performance was going to amount to that of the animatronic characters at Chuck E. Cheese. But that vibe went from zero to sixty the second Goat’s two female vocalists came on stage, gyrating, hopping, twirling, shaking tambourines and bells, chanting, and otherwise becoming the life of the bizarre psych Cirque du Soliel I was now witness to. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from years of going to psych and noise shows, it’s that no matter how long the recorded version of a song is already, it can always be longer, and Goat took the opportunity to extend the relatively succinct tracks on World Music into longform improvisations without alienating even one member of the audience or allowing for any stale moments.
The thing is, the band kept it fun. What could have been somewhat spooky or pretentious basically felt like a happy-go-lucky hallucinogen tasting. It’s true that Goat sings about worshipping a “Goatlord” but it’s also true that Goat sings about worshipping disco, and everything else is a permutation of one or both of those concepts. In the end, the show was a party, not a seance, and those watching were primed to celebrate. During “Let It Bleed” the band was joined by a sax-playing guest in a white robe and from the level of cheers it elicited you’d think Jon Hamm was under the mask or something (maybe he was, there was really no way to know).
It’s also hard to know if Goat will have the same cult following that bands like Comus inspired; because of the internet everything these days is a little too accessible, but then again it’s way easier to disseminate legend if that’s your marketing plan. Would revealing the identity of the musicians in Goat ruin the novelty inherent in their current buzz? Probably. But even if it put a dent in the build-up, there’d be plenty left over for fans of psych to enjoy. The kitsch factor barely factors in when you consider the talent and enthusiasm that truly makes Goat an interesting act to follow. I bought my copy of the LP like any good record nerd would.
