Indie Rocker: Spring Jams                                                                      Kurt Garrison

Leave Home – The Men

It took just one listen to come to the conclusion that these songs weren't recorded so much as forged, as if some gigantic weight, some out of control wrecking ball smashed every last bit of urban swagger into a million shards of lead.  The boys in The Men could be trust fund kids, but I can't imagine their acquiring said ducats without leaving a blackened eye and a few choice words among shocked and stupefied family members because the overall tone of these tracks is just so damned crushing.  The opening tune, “If You Leave,” sounds like some early electronic recording tapering in and out and through the speakers, then segues into exploratory post-rock noodling.  But then the hounds are unleashed and oh my christ-on-a-crutch is it ever good.  Thick vats of noise stomping the living hell out of melody and an outright contrariness towards harmony that recalls early My Bloody Valentine (and no, not the recalcitrant limey one-and-done-blow-me-wad genius MBV -- that shit's too staid for this -- I'm talking about the earliest visions of Kevin Shields before he put his baby batter-soaked socks down on that unfortunate tremolo pedal), or what Mission of Burma must sound like to Roger Miller when he's not wearing ear protection.  The only other suggestion I would make is to keep this away from children because who knows what activities will be birthed under such nefarious tutelage.  Actually, strike that -- give it to 'em.  It might do some good.  But I'd sleep with one eye open if I were you.

The Color – Yellowbirds

Those who know me are aware of my ambivalence toward the work of David Lynch.  Yeah, the dude has his own style but I often find his unique sense of weirdness a little off-putting; let's just say that he too often lets his predisposition to "being odd for the sake of odd" get in the way of telling a good story.  However, one thing that I find amenable is his taste in music.  And Brooklyn quartet Yellowbirds would make the perfect soundtrack accompaniment to whatever freako project Mr. Lynch might have gestating in the hopper.  Heavy on the twang 'n reverb, the band bops through track after track, extolling haunting and righteous vibes along the way that recall everything from the Beach Boys to Blue Velvet-era Lynchpin, Chris Isaak.  If they had formed about a decade earlier I could see them nestled snugly on the Beulah/Apples in Stereo limb of the Elephant Six tree.  Indeed, something sinister lurks beneath the soaring vocal accompaniment and churning melodies, something I can't quite put my finger on.  And when I think about it, I'd prefer to keep it that way.

Mr. M -- Lambchop

Is there a better band out there who so effortlessly recedes from the creases of my memory, only to come storming back upon every subsequent release with even stronger material, thus leaving me to feel like the absolute Worst Fan In The World?  I can't be the only one, can I?  Well, even if I am, Lambchop should know that there will always be a special place in my heart for their own brand of whatever-genre-they-happen-to-feel-like-tackling, even if I have to knock the cobwebs out every couple of years.  Mr. M, a dedication to the late Vic Chesnutt, is pretty much what a fan of the band would expect (meaning: we haven't the slightest idea what to expect from the band.)  My impression had always been that Lambchop, despite the critical props that little bespectacled nerdos like yours truly have always given, was often seen as just another alt-country band with a penchant for strings and tunes that referred to sucking bosses off.  But to more discriminating listeners the crew has always been capable of knocking around genres as decadent and diverse as neo-classical and jazz.  These pleasant detours through various styles never bogs the group or listener down like so many others who so inadequately cover even half the ground of Nashville's finest, because we realize that the band has no interest in doing anything other than making music that interests them.  Funny concept, huh?  With Mr. M being a little heavier on the orchestral side, Kurt Wagner's vocals pull everybody back into the fold, keeping the comfort level to, well, comfortable levels.  And really, who else could pull off singing, "Don't know what the fuck they talk about" with violins dancing about in the background?

Smoke Ring for My Halo – Kurt Vile

Stoner music for the millennium?  Sure, why not.  In keeping with the slacker tone of the record I waited until a year-end visit at a Lancaster record store to finally pick this baby up -- and I've been hesitant to put it down for more than a week ever since.  There's nothing groundbreaking about it: you have your fingerpicked guitars with some keyboards and percussion, and Vile's laconic southern Mascis drawl that sounds like that talented but lazy buddy you wish would get the hell off your couch and go home because it's 3am and you just want to get some sleep.  As Vile says, he's searching for something, but he's not sure what that is.  You could say this record is the last testament for all 30-somethings who still have no idea what they want in life.  But I'd prefer to see it as the exclamation point for the brief yet poignant retort that anyone who says they have it all figured out is full of shit.

Kurt Garrison does things.