When Beast Make Bomb settled into a cozy corner on the top floor of Georgetown’s pristine business school building, they were itching to finally play a song free of interruption.  Their first attempt in Dahlgren Square proved near perfect, aside from the earth-trembling twelve o’clock chimes of the neighboring clock tower.  On the second try, we secured permission from the kind folks at Uncommon Grounds to play inside the café, a venue that turned from humble to nightmarish once the coffee grinders went on in full force.

Undeterred, we led the Brooklyn quartet over to the Rafik Hariri Building to play a lovely tune amongst the business school’s suit-clad professionals.  As lead singer Ceci Gomez belted out the final “Ooo’s” of the song, however, a woman in a fuchsia suit and a temper to match stormed over to our crew to demand that we stop the show immediately.  Apparently, the business school’s board of advisors didn’t care for rock n’ roll.  Stifling giggles, we apologized and went out front to greet lax bros, MBA candidates, and undergrad students alike with one last song as they entered the building.

Eager for their 9:30 Club show with The Whigs, the band thanked us for the borrowed guitars and slipped out of sight into misting rain.  A day of setbacks and delays couldn’t stop the music.

Camera + Crew: Scott Lensing + Dan Stokes

Out of the gates, Kaputt sounded like a boozy and discordant take on something from the adult contemporary bargain bin.  But that completely hasty and unfair evaluation only emerged from my own bias against Bejar’s unabashed inclusion of saxophone and trumpet solos.  Bejar instead describes Destroyer’s style as “European Blues,” a label that is not entirely far off if only for its instrumental leanings.  On Kaputt, Bejar isn’t afraid to combine atmospheric synths with a down-tempo woodwind section, and to my gleeful surprise, he does so to marvelous effect.  Beginning work on the album in September 2008, Bejar constructed an instrumental portion that reflects his meticulous labor.    The record is grounded in glittering soundscapes, tempered by the strumming of an acoustic guitar and a steady bass line.  The rich, experimental backdrop he creates could almost stand alone, the album’s quiet star which at times makes the musician’s singing seem unexpected, though never unwanted.

To its core, Kaputt is a cerebral album.  The record represents a journey through Bejar’s own disillusioned perspective, but with glimpses of someone still passionate despite dashed expectations.  Bejar has never been a straightforward songwriter, and on Kaputt, he offers convoluted lyrics that seemingly jump around from one distinct thought to the next.  Still, these are musings with which Bejar has long been familiar.  Album highlight “Poor In Love” juxtaposes the songwriter’s own hesitancy to be self-congratulatory with the jubilance of those around him: “Why does everyone sing along, when we built this city on ruins?”  Bejar never seems uncertain, but he can’t help but wonder what he’s missing.  The lengthy album closer, “Bay of Pigs (detail),” is an ambitious track that pays off for its sense of both improvisation and careful arrangement.  Beginning with cloudy, ambient instrumentals, the song builds towards an arresting climax as the music stops and Bejar quietly pleads, “You’ve got to stop calling me ‘Honey.’”  The singer’s lyrical cadence is effortlessly remarkable, more poetic in its timing than any artist’s release in recent memory.

Dan Bejar has taken considerable risk with Kaputt, an album that is easy to quickly dismiss for its unerring devotion to recognizable elements of modern “lite” rock.  Nevertheless, armed with a little patience and above-average headphones, I promise that your investment in the musician will be handsomely rewarded.  Bejar’s breathy and tranquil delivery paired with his hypnotic instrumental arrangements meld perfectly into a proggy, jazz-pop effort that is the year’s first truly excellent album.

-Scott Lensing, co-host of The Weak End Edition, Fridays 4-6pm.

On his fourth album, Windjammer, Hauck offers above-average singer-songwriter fare, yet still displays a recurring paradox within the coffeehouse acoustic genre: deeply personal music that sounds entirely ubiquitous. The description that accompanied Hauck’s digital download explains that making Windjammer “transformed from a labor of love to a labor of necessity,” a claim that speaks to the significance of the album within the musician’s own life. Hauck does imbue the record with verve by adding occasional depth to the instrumentals (piano and strings) beyond the simple folksy sound of one man’s voice and his guitar. At the very least I appreciate Hauck’s expression of his love for music as something both secure and dynamic, but at no point was I either wowed or underwhelmed.

It takes a lot for a musician of Hauck’s ilk to capture an audience’s attention, and Windjammer failed to burrow itself into my own musical memory. Opening tracks “Martial Riesling” and “Windjammer” offer nimble and playful pacing and strong chorale hooks, but prove to be the only stirring songs on the album. As a solo artist pushing vocals front and center, Hauck’s poignant lyrics emerge sterile under a delivery sans variance in pitch or volume. Listening to singer-songwriters, I want to feel what the front man feels, to be sympathetic by virtue of vocal purity or imperfection. While soothing, Hauck’s voice lacks emotional resonance, and I’m afraid I couldn’t identify him in a lineup of other aspiring one-man acts. Perhaps I’m asking too much from Carl Hauck, but without more vocal character, I can’t say that I’d enthusiastically give Windjammer another spin.

Rating: 4.5/10

-Scott Lensing, co-host of “6 Degrees of Jeff Mangum,” Sundays 4-6PM

Bad Books brings together Andy Hull of Manchester Orchestra and singer-songwriter Kevin Devine, a pair that developed organically from informal jam sessions while the two were on tour together.  While the common questions surrounding collaborations are usually more fitting for “supergroups” like Monsters of Folk with their lineups of stand-alone indie celebrities, less-hyped collaborations like Bad Books still can’t escape similar curiosity.  Theoretically, Hull’s emotive soft-punk work with Manchester Orchestra wouldn’t exactly accommodate Devine’s intimate solo work, though the two aren’t completely at odds.  In their self-titled debut, Bad Books offer a compilation of standard rock tunes and reflective acoustic tracks, making for an engaging, yet not altogether distinctive, record.

Throughout the album, Hull and Devine alternate as lead vocalists, each taking command of their own songs with nary a peep from the other.  On Bad Books, the two lead singers meet each other in the middle of their distinct styles, averaging out their sounds to produce something mostly poppy, with a folksy undertone.  Hull has stripped down the pleading energy of his Manchester Orchestra vocals, and instead defers to a touching, slight warble to match the mid-paced melodies.  Meanwhile, Devine tries his hand at crafting bouncier songs, doing so thoughtfully and convincingly.  The arrangements might not be particularly noteworthy, but the strength of the lyrics (“God sleeps in the Gaza strip/And Man alone’s left to live with it”) combined with the reliably undulating rhythm of most songs results in an enjoyably simple listen.

Good tunes aside, truly successful collaborations weave the contributions of each party into a single musical narrative.  Both Hull and Devine wrote 5 songs each to the album, which explains why Bad Books plays more like one short story after the other, individually well-written paragraphs chopped together without a logical or intuitive flow.  Bad Books stumbles in the all-too-clear watermarks left by both frontmen on their respective songs, feeling like two EPs interspersed.  But Hull and Devine know how to be endearing, and that is a quality not many artists can humbly claim. Bad Books won’t bury itself too deep in your musical consciousness, but it will rest nicely in your November playlist.

Rating: 6.5/10

-Scott Lensing, co-host of “6 Degrees of Jeff Mangum,” Sundays 4-6PM

Considering that Lewis and Rice are both bona fide musicians in their own right, it shouldn’t be surprising that the two could produce an LP together that is more than just an indulgence.  Their individual styles actually complement one another quite well, so much so that the interplay between Lewis’ floating vocals and Rice’s sturdy delivery creates a natural balance throughout the album.  Jenny and Johnny share equally in singing duty, with Rice’ voice often resembling that of David Bazan (Pedro the Lion), minus Bazan’s characteristic brooding.  “Animal” in particular highlights Rice’s stylistic strength as a confident lyrical messenger, encouraging the listener, “Show your teeth to everyone/Don’t let no one prove you wrong.”  The real sense of mutual support between Lewis and Rice remains constant from start to finish, making this girlfriend-boyfriend collaboration appreciable rather than nauseating.

It’s the even keel quality of Jenny and Johnny, though, that really makes the whole album come together into a single benign effort.  If anything, the entire record feels too comfortable, failing to really draw much attention to itself, save a few moments.  After hearing Jenny Lewis belt it out to jangling guitars on the second track, “My Pet Snakes,” I couldn’t help but fancy to do the proverbial “mashed potato,” a dance move that I can only imagine involves plenty of wholesome hip-twisting and elbow-swinging.  I wanted more of that, something akin to the recent work of youthful rocker Ben Kweller, but I never found that distinctive groove a second time for the duration of the album.  It came and went, leaving me to absently smile for the next thirty minutes until the music faded to a close.  Should Jenny and Johnny stick together and team up for a second offering down the road, I really hope they can regain more of the fleeting excitement that fuels the honeymoon period of every budding relationship.

Rating: 6/10

-Scott Lensing,  host of “The Six Degrees of Jeff Mangum,” Sundays 4PM-6PM

Hailing from Blacksburg, VA, Jack Tatum of Wild Nothing does not shy away from the dream association; instead, he welcomes it from the very first track, “Live in Dreams.” With Gemini, Tatum constructs a musical world saturated with shimmering synths and reverberating guitar, creating the blissful mood that never falters for the duration of the album. His voice floats and drifts, sometimes for several seconds, seeming both all-encompassing and completely out of reach at any given moment.

The lyrics teem with unfulfilled sentiments and suppressed yearning (“Where are you going?/Can I come with you/I don’t feel right when you’re not here.”), but under the layers of hazy texture, the pain never seems acute. Compartmentalized in this other-worldly space, Tatum’s troubled emotions are only passing, and a sense of peace persists as each track fades to a gentle close.

The clarity of Wild Nothing’s expressiveness is refreshingly welcome, as the pervading anesthetic atmosphere takes the edge off the Tatum’s sharp reflection. If you are like me, you took one glimpse at the wholly discomforting album cover of Wild Nothing’s Gemini, and immediately grabbed at your own face to make sure that you still possess your highly desirable lower jaw. It’s not unlike waking from a fraught dream, shaking off the sleep and scouring your body to account for everything being intact. The sensation of reverie is entirely fitting for Wild Nothing, whose aptly pegged “80’s dream-pop” treads the familiar while never escaping the surreal throughout the artist’s wonderful debut album.

The entire album has a well-conceived rhythm, and as such, no one song is worthy of a skip. A full listen without interruption is surprisingly comforting, especially during the summer months when music often aims for stand-alone anthems. That’s not to say that Gemini does not have its clear breakout moments; “Chinatown,” for one, exudes exuberance and conveys the restlessness that so often accompanies the mid-year break. Another album hightlight, “O, Lilac,” features a bouncing acoustic melody and is decidedly upbeat in comparison to the rest of the LP.

Sure, Wild Nothing sticks to a consistent musical formula, and doesn’t introduce any particularly novel concepts. But the strength of Tatum’s composition is unwavering, and maintained a inescapable grip on my own attention within every listening moment. Ultimately, the cool lushness of Gemini provides the perfect counterbalance to the sweet, beachy, sun-soaked albums that have become commonplace in the summer of 2010, and will have staying power long after the warm months dissipate into the crispness of autumn.

Worth many listens: “Chinatown”; “O, Lilac”; “Summer Holiday”; “Confirmation”

Maps & Atlases

Perch Patchwork

4 out of 5 smilies

“I don’t think there is a sound that I hate more, than the sound of your voice.” Yikes. No, these are not the words of a recently burned high school boy, scribbling furiously on a scrap of crumpled college-ruled paper to his ex-gf of all of three weeks. Rather, this is the very first line melodically uttered by Maps & Atlases’ lead singer Dave Davison on the band’s debut LP, Perch Patchwork. But much like the songs that ensue, these lyrics prove to be more playful than contemptuous, setting the tone for the Chicago group’s entirely refreshing first full-length effort.

Maps & Atlases fit nicely under the banner of experimental pop, with an elusively familiar sound that refuses to confuse itself with stylistic orientation of any one group. Nimble guitar-work, quick percussive touches, and occasional orchestral flourishes mirror the bright inflection of froggy-voiced Davison, providing pleasant interplay between instrumentals and vocals. Neither the technically-sharp music nor Davison’s vocal contribution dominate the record, and both emit crispness in tandem that lends undeniable levity to the record, from start to all-too-soon finish.

As opposed to simply a collection of similar stand-alone songs, Perch Patchwork is a decisively cohesive album. The breaks between songs are rarely recognizable, as one idea melds stealthily into the next. While the majority of tracks clock in just under the three-minute mark, the frequently seamless transitions give the impression of drawn-out, cascading arrangements. “Solid Ground” is the only song that feels anything like a distinguishable single, with instrumentals reminiscent of the inner tinkering of the Keebler elf workshop (definitely a good attribute). Surprisingly, even with the flowing continuations on the album, Maps & Atlases never truly achieve any sense of robustness or concreteness. Pop often gets slammed for its lack of substance, and if Perch Patchwork falls short anywhere, it’s in its failure to strongly defy this common conception. Nevertheless, while the songs can seem individually fleeting, the sum total remains a lovely work of sharply crafted music sprinkled with just enough musical treasures.

by Scott Lensing

4.0 out of 10 disappointed fans

There it was, on display at the Whole Foods register, double-teamed by Jack Johnson and Michael Bublé: Infinite Arms, the latest release from Band of Horses. “Bwah?” No one around me would have known it, but I was immediately ashamed. How did my beloved band find themselves in the snoozer company of adult-contemporary all-stars who rhapsodize about banana pancakes (delicious, no doubt) and impersonate Frank Sinatra?A phenomenal debut and an excellent sophomore album raised expectations for this third LP from the Seattle-turned-Carolina rockers. However, what should have cemented of Band of Horses’ place as one of the most satisfying acts in indie rock instead represented a dive into a limbo of lazily meandering melodies. I probably should have seen the writing on the wall, as lead singer Ben Bridwell remains the sole original member of the band. Even when the video for the first single, “Compliments,” previewed in early April, with its bizarre montage of nature photos, I refused to believe that more of this risk-averse music would come on the album. Of course, I was wrong.

If Cease to Begin was one totally acceptable step from Everything All the Time into more accessible song-craft, then Infinite Arms is a leap into substanceless tunes. From start to finish, not one song truly stands out from the rest, an absolutely glaring change from their previous efforts that reverberated indefinitely in my head for days and weeks at a time. Multiple-part harmony with a Southern-rock tinge reigns the day on this record, usually accompanied by a daintily strummed acoustic guitar and nominally tapped drums. The wondrous reverb is gone, as this album relies completely on the pleasant but lackluster vocals that constitute the foundation for each and every track.

The only remaining constants of today’s Band of Horses are Bridwell’s lovely and expansive voice, and an abundance of beards. Despite the nature motifs of this LP, the songs fail to reach into the infinite abyss as they once did; the vocals are altogether contained and restrained. Bridwell’s pipes no longer haunt nor unsettle, but instead breeze past the listener without taking root. Lyrics like “If there’s a God up in the air/Someone looking over everyone/At least you got something to fall back on” are straightforward and uninspired, with a sense of contentedness to just have someone listen to the singers’ musings. Songs such as “Blue Beard” resemble dated 1970s love-ballads, and don’t elicit more than an unimpressed sigh. Ironically, even with tunes that spill over with affections and aches, this record lacks heart.

And I don’t strive to be overly harsh, but I can’t help but discuss at length my disappointment with a band that I once held dear. It just seems that with the well-deserved success of their first two albums, Band of Horses, and Bridwell more specifically, made an indulgent record that they knew could ride on the coattails of fan loyalty. While Whole Foods’ prominent recognition of the group is not a damning sign in and of itself, it is certainly an indication that the band had lost its creative and compelling identity. Let’s hope that, somehow, Band of Horses regain their unshakable sound on the next effort..

Meh…: “On My Way Back Home” and “For Annabelle”

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Even with the stellar headliners, the smaller acts on the Yeti Stage were not lost in the frantic hullabaloo of the weekend, and frequently provided some of the most crowd-pleasing performances of the three-day weekend. As one of the earliest groups on Saturday afternoon, Fool’s Gold succeeded on this stage, not only in getting people to break out of their dreary, sleep-deprived states, but also in giving everyone plenty to dance to. Incorporating African rhythm and melody into the bounce of their pop leanings, Fool’s Gold overcame their unfortunate time slot to become one of the underdog favorites of the whole festival.