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Real Estate
Real Estate
About a decade ago, back in the heyday of The Sea and Cake, the impulse to take a good song and drown it in a thick, stove-reducing soup was for some band pretty much overwhelming. Overamped basslines vibrated and rattled our stereos as plinky little Stratocasters danced around like homeless animals. Drums were subdued, vocals half-dematerialized into the echo chamber. Was this simply a product of irony? Boredom with the flesh? Only a true shoegazer can tell you why he (and it is always a he) is so afraid of rock and roll, except in predictable spurts at live shows near the end of the night.
Real Estate is certainly a child of this school of exhausted-sounding, morning-after “underwater’“ pop. If you’re a sleeveless fan of, say, April Wine, you probably wouldn’t even play anything this mellow at your own funeral. However, as you’re one of the few people sitting around you right now who can even read, I’m going to take a guess that you’re not entirely opposed to the idea of meditation.
Having listened to this album 10 times or so now, I can certainly attest that there is something magnetic here. The hooks, though dainty, are like the ghosts of power chords left behind at another party. Dreamlike more than dreamy. Maybe there’s just something about Brooklyn right now that makes singer Martin Courtney want to snuggle with the dust bunnies. With repeated listens, you come to appreciate the silly SK-5 organ, the icy echoes of a surf soundtrack accidentally trapped in a teleporter’s memory banks, bouncing around for years. Still, the world needs the heat of Oowatanite and cowbells, too. Perhaps there’s room for both?
***

Mulatu Astatke
New York — Addis — London: the Story of Ethio Jazz (1965-1975)
Fans of the Soul Jazz label will like this delicious clash of spheres, a hint of which we heard on Jim Jarmusch’s paralyzing Broken Flowers. Mulatu Astatke was trained on the American East Coast in the ways of jazz, worked with Duke Ellington in the ’70s and, don’t you know, is considered the papa of Ethiopian jazz, which we learn all about here.
Think the experimental side of Coltrane with a little more tango and lots and lots of beautiful male vocals saying, for all I care, how much they love cheese. The compositions are gorgeously hypnotic, containing proto hip-hop beats and toothy sax that could cut through an ice wizard. Peppered with New York funk, too, and classical xylophone and flute. Basically, just get this on.
****

Old School
Debbie Harry
Koo Koo (1981)
One of the first times I ever felt funny in my pants was thanks to Debbie Harry’s raunchy solo album, the cover of which features her face spiked by H.R. Giger.
As good as the best of the Blondie albums, if even more slickly produced, there’s a relentlessly dark sense of humour to this. It’s also the first place I can remember hearing rap, although it’s buried in plenty of funk horns. The album is also strangely full of references to the CIA, the military, being under arrest, and the Middle East. Every song is interesting, but especially try “The Jam Was
Moving,” “Military Rap,” and the closing “Oasis.” More than a hint of Bowie quirkiness here.
****