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Holopaw
Oh, Glory. Oh, Wilderness.
Four years is almost infinity in modern Internet terms, but Holopaw’s name actually came up a couple times recently when a bunch of us tried to nail the best albums of this silly decade. If you remember their self-titled 2003 bust-out, it was one of about 10 million albums in the Nothings that had birds on its cover. Yes, we sure fucking liked birds after 9/11. More importantly, it was a frail and delicate work, recognizable from afar, John Orth’s bizarrely quavering voice singing over quiet arrangements.
Six years on, the band’s third album delivers more of the same — though, I’d say, in a slightly more accessible manner to the legions of dumped or never-loved guys out there who like sad music like this. And there are a lot of bands that sound quite a lot like this now, so much so that Orth gets a little lost in the flood.
Still, take a tune like “p-a-l-o-m-i-n-e,” with its almost-secret football stadium chanting in the background, or even “The Lazy Matador”’s simple, rising encouragement to “tell her,” and you kind of get why this is still a good band. “The Last Transmission (Honeybee)” is also striking, with its slide and acoustic guitar, and makes me scared about bees vanishing. Lots of strings, pathos, and a little “genetic material”
still stuck on the pantlegs from Orth’s friendly relationship with Modest Mouse are enough to recommend you allowing this hurt yet feisty beast to live in your ears for a while.
And if it’s not quite gayballs enough for you to help you outta the Phantom Tollbooth doldrums, plop in La Roux from the summer and dance around the kitchen in your underwear. Just watch out for your three cats — their necks are fat and tender, and you need them more than they need you.
***1/2

Joe Pernice
It Feels So Good When I Stop
Those little handheld books about famous record albums have become one of my favourite things, and Joe Pernice’s take on Meat Is Murder is one of the best. Pernice is crossing further lines here by releasing a soundtrack to his next novel, which is actually a pretty rad idea as anyone who loves the disco-funk War of the Worlds knows. I’m just not sure one should soundtrack, especially with lyrics, their own book.
This is mainly because, as much as I like Pernice as a mellower, slightly less name-droppy Douglas Coupland, this earnest yet rather frictionless pop album makes me want to read World War Z instead.
When he thrice reads from it, the interruption is jagged each time. Call me traditional, but I’d like one or the other. Oh well — who gives a shit, anyway?
***

Old School
Bob James
Two (1975)
To hell with words, then. What we need here is some smooth fucking soul jazz, the likes of which only the man who brought us the Taxi theme song can muster. Rewind a couple years and this album still boasts some of the orchestral urges of the ’50s and stuffy side of the ’60s, with enough freaky chaos to fit its time.
As with most Old Schools, this is music for lovin’, though maybe stay away from the freakout “The Golden Apple” or your stuffing will get sore. “You’re Right as Rain” is full of Mr. Rogers magic, so start there. Love those muted keys, baby.
****