After 17 years of professional music-reviewing, Noel Murray is taking time off from all new music, and is revisiting his record collection in alphabetical order, to take stock of what he's amassed, and consider what he still needs.
"The Taut And The Tame" by Tortoise
It's been said that if you truly want to measure a chef's skill, you should order up a plate of mashed potatoes. Not fancy, truffle-and-garlic potatoes either, but plain potatoes, cooked with water, salt, and a little dairy. Or ask the chef to roast a chicken. Or to make a cheese omelet. Whatever the example, the idea is the same: The best chefs master the simple skills, and then build from there.
I try to think about this whenever I'm inclined to complain that a piece of music—or a movie, or a TV show—is "too conventional." Popular culture thrives on novelty, which means we pop culture commentators are constantly looking for what's next, because there's more glory in discovery than there is in merely appreciating what's already been done. Seen from the perspective of the creator though, it can be just as difficult to write a simple, memorable pop song (or to tell a joke with a punchline, or to craft a page-turning mystery) as it is to break new ground. The true, genius-level adventurers in any artform often create work that's more staggering and influential than the everyday craftsmen—I'll grant that. But there's a lot of hit-and-miss to the avant-garde too, and often the explorers get a free pass because they're making discoveries that even they don't fully understand. It can take years before these artists and their patrons realize that the ground they're plowing really isn't all that fertile.
I don't say this to set myself up as some kind of champion of the plain and hater of the daring. I confess that I'm little more than a curious dabbler, but I like a lot of abstract art, experimental film and progressive music. I just don't happen to think that any of them are inherently superior to the more formulaic versions of their art. They're all just forms—not necessarily "higher" or "lower"—and they succeed and fail on their own merits.
Towards the end of the '90s, the term "post-rock" came into heavy critical usage, initially as a way of describing a spate of bands who had started forgoing traditional rock song structures in favor of disjointed, textured, mostly instrumental jams. As the label became more familiar, its definition expanded, reaching beyond the Tortoises and Mogwais of the world to include any band that mixed up rhythms or combined genres in a novel way. Personally, I never cared for the term, and not just because it was bandied about so loosely. I didn't like what "post-rock" implied: that rock was decrepit, and due to be superseded by a new paradigm. The bands that bore the post-rock stamp largely earned the tag by performing alchemical experiments with genres and instruments (e.g. merging cocktail with No Wave). What's more "rock" than that? What was Elvis, if not the shotgun marriage of Bill Monroe and Arthur Crudup?
The problem is that no one really knows what "rock" means anymore—least of all The Rock 'N' Roll Hall Of Fame—and without an understanding of what rock is, it's hard to say when it's over. My feeling is that rock is merely an extension of the popular music that has been with us since we first learned to whistle. We've always gathered together to sing catchy tunes; only the presentation has changed to reflect the pace and timbre of the times. With jet engines and atomic-bomb blasts ringing in our ears, our music naturally got louder and faster.
In that sense, what we called "post-rock" was a reflection of its own time. Following our multiplexing culture, which has splintered into a hundred cable channels, 30 radio formats, and a magazine for every taste, popular music had no choice but to expand vertically. To attract increasingly disparate tastes, musicians drew not just from different genres but also from underexploited sounds. If that meant replacing a guitar solo with chanting Tibetan monks, so be it. The idea was to be open to what was in the air: in commercials, in film scores, and in the staticky noise from a boombox around the corner. The future of popular music seemed to be in fragmentation, and in the people who could translate those fragments into hummable melodies. (So rock would go on, after rock was gone.)
But while the post-rock movement started with promise, eventually it became tedious and (ironically enough) formulaic, as seemingly every college kid with a well-worn copy of Slint's Spiderland and a few music theory classes under their belts began disappearing into their basements to record murky 10-minute instrumentals. Their guiding principle? To maximize randomness and minimize melody, creating the sound of music destroying itself, with no backbeat for comfort.
On the flipside of post-rock is roots-rock, which relies on classically structured songwriting and simple instrumentation. Good roots-rockers typically get praised for coming up with a few catchy melodies, a handful of hearty guitar riffs, and consistently vivid lyrics: all traits which can take some time to penetrate. But freeform instrumental music can be equally tough to judge, since the human voice provides an element of expression that puts songs in context—even when that voice isn't saying anything comprehensible.
As I said, I don't have any automatic objection to one form or the other. I get dreadfully bored by one lone guy or gal with a guitar, singing a nondescript song; and I'm just as put out by music that rumbles and rambles and doesn't seem to have real reason to be. As to which I prefer? Well, it's hard to pick one without seeming to denigrate the other, but I do sometimes wonder whether the musicians who are the best at venturing into the abstract have the skill set necessary to record a song as simple and catchy as They Might Be Giants' "Don't Let's Start." I'm not saying they need to. I'm just saying that while I admire a person who can create an electric fan so unusual and original that it makes me see fans in a whole new way, there's also a lot to be said an electric fan that works when I switch it on, and generates a refreshing breeze.
"Don't Let's Start" by They Might Be Giants
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Pieces Of The Puzzle
They Might Be Giants
Years Of Operation 1982-present
Fits Between Brave Combo and The Jazz Butcher
"Meet James Ensor" by They Might Be Giants
"The Bells Are Ringing" by They Might Be Giants
Personal Correspondence I first read about They Might Be Giants in Spin magazine, in an article that made the duo sound stranger than they turned out to be. (This happened often with Spin and me in the mid-'80s.) I later heard "Put Your Hands Inside The Puppet Head" and "Don't Let's Start" a few times on college radio, and then a friend loaned me a tape with They Might Be Giants on one side and The Pogues' Rum, Sodomy & The Lash on the other. (A strange combination, but a sublime one.) Because of my Spin-stoked expectations, I was initially put off by TMBG's eccentric songs about rabid children and a "boat of car," but I ultimately couldn't resist the bouncy melodies and clever wordplay. I became a fan, and bought Lincoln the day it came out—during my first few weeks at college—and though it was initially a letdown, I came to appreciate the darker places John Linnell and John Flansburgh were willing to explore in between all the quasi-novelty tunes. I saw the band live at UGA the following year, and started to understand them better in the context of their physical presence: at once confident and geeky. Afterward, Flansburgh hung around outside the performance space (a ball/banquet/conference room in the basement of the UGA student center), selling and signing merch. A female friend of mine was too nervous to ask for an autograph, so when I told Flansburgh the name I wanted him to sign the album to, he gave me a funny look, and then related an anecdote about a male parking garage attendant named Connie that he once worked for. (I can still hear Flansburgh's voice barking, "My name's Connie… like a girl!") I've seen the band live a few times since, and have continued to buy their records—even the kids' ones, which my own children love. They Might Be Giants aren't as sharp as they once were, and they sometimes fall back on cutesiness where they used to strive for something a little wrigglier, but I still think they're more profound than they get credit for. For all the sing-song educational tunes and deadpan absurdity, They Might Be Giants have also spiked their music with sharp comments on the dangers of conformity, the silly continuity of pop-culture history, and the hard-to-articulate feelings of unease that make human interaction difficult.
Enduring presence? Though They Might Be Giants' most devoted fans can be a little overbearing, the two Johns themselves are genial, unpretentious guys. Nevertheless, they were clever enough to curry favor with the mid-'80s Village art-crowd, and thereby gain access to the entertainment press and to career-boosting appearances on MTV and Late Night With David Letterman. And they've remained committed enough to keep pumping out songs, continuing to balance Linnell's bright-but-quiet personality and Flansburgh's hardworking stuntman vibe. There's a lot of fear and anxiety underlying the Johns' lyrics, but I don't think their happy melodies and jaunty tempos are solely intended to add irony. More than anything, they just make people feel good.
Thomas Dolby
Years Of Operation 1981-present (sort of)
Fits Between Howard Jones and Robyn Hitchcock
"Europa And The Pirate Twins" by Thomas Dolby
"The Flat Earth" by Thomas Dolby
Personal Correspondence I appended The Golden Age Of Wireless to my first Columbia Record & Tape Club order pretty much as an afterthought, and it unexpectedly became my favorite album in that first dozen. It's such a rich, witty record, full of pretty melodies, strange stories, and a mix of electronics that sounds warmer and more varied than the era's cold, minimalist dance music. I liked the 1984 follow-up The Flat Earth even more—at the time anyway—appreciating the way it moved beyond technopop, using more acoustic instruments to stretch songs into sprawling, impressionistic epics that touch on jazz and funk. I can't say as much for Dolby's output since '84, though I think it's too limiting to think of him solely in terms of his solo work. As a session musician, Dolby added synthesizers to Def Leppard's Pyromania and Foreigner's 4, two megahit albums that crossed hard-rock and pop, using keyboards to provide shade and color. As a producer, Dolby created the wiggy sonic environment of Whodini's seminal rap hit "Magic's Wand" (which he also wrote) and the subtle soundscapes of Prefab Sprout's soft-pop masterpieces Steve McQueen and Jordan: The Comeback. He also produced Joni Mitchell and George Clinton, and has backed Robyn Hitchcock, Roger Waters, Joan Armatrading, and Malcolm McLaren, among others. He's a visionary, really, dedicated to the tactile qualities of sound and the elastic concept of "pop." And he's an underrated lyricist, whose catalog is peppered with songs about locating the human qualities within the technology we create. If I had to pick one '80s one-hit wonder who deserves to be remembered for more than just a fluke novelty single, Dolby would be my guy.
Enduring presence? I pitched an interview with Dolby to my A.V. Club overlords for a special technology issue, mainly because I was looking for any excuse to chat with a personal hero. And Dolby did not disappoint. We talked about his varied musical career, and where it ultimately led him. Most of Dolby's time since the mid-'90s has been taken up with his successful tech businesses. Dolby founded Headspace—later renamed Beatnik—and developed sound engines for websites and video games, as well as better-sounding ringtones for cellular phones. As I wrote in my intro to the interview—some of which I've cribbed for this Popless entry—Dolby's current occupation is an extension of his lifelong interest in making the artificial sound natural.
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