Indie rock needs a new face; Carrie Brownstein’s has my vote. If you’re part of the twenty/thirty-something “Always On, Slightly Off” demographic, chances are you’re already well familiar with it: Brownstein’s infectious, whole-face smile is currently plastered opposite Fred Armisen across the indie blogosphere in promotion of the duo’s hit sketch comedy show, “Portlandia.”
Pruning the next months’ concert calendar for the not-to-be-missed
Wild Flag (4/18 at The Fillmore · Tickets)
Indie rock needs a new face; Carrie Brownstein’s has my vote. If you’re part of the twenty/thirty-something “Always On, Slightly Off” demographic, chances are you’re already well familiar with it: Brownstein’s infectious, whole-face smile is currently plastered opposite Fred Armisen across the indie blogosphere in promotion of the duo’s hit sketch comedy show, “Portlandia.”
The series’ winning appeal lies in Brownstein and Armisen’s uncommon ability to satirize Pacific Northwest DIY hipster culture (variants of which, of course, thrive just as well in the Bay Area) while at the same time exuding genuinely earnest, irony-free excitement and heart.
It should come as no surprise, then, that Brownstein is also a first-rate music critic. In a piquant humbling of what she dubs “beard rock,” Brownstein laments the recent turn to “toothlessness” in indie rock – “the rise in popularity of mostly bearded men making very sensitive music.” She names names: “Fleet Foxes, Andrew Bird, Bon Iver, Devendra Banhart, Beirut, Girls, Grizzly Bear, The Dodos, Iron & Wine, and so forth and so on.”
Brownstein calls for music that provokes rather than assuages, that mirrors the chaos and uneasiness of modern life, and that isn’t afraid to be noisy. “Just go listen to The Stooges or Bikini Kill for a second to remember what that sounds like.” And, by the way, no need for this new wave of fearlessness to be a boy’s club.
With Wild Flag, Brownstein’s latest all-girl project (her previous band, Sleater-Kinney, has come to an end), she puts her guitar where her mouth is. The self-titled debut is raw, female confidence from beginning to end. Yet, contrary to the abrasive edge one might expect, given Brownstein’s aforementioned battle cry, Wild Flag is as easy on the ears as Brownstein’s porcelain mug is on the eyes.
Guitar riffs as powerful as they are catchy and clean combine with Brownstein’s swaggering riot-grrrl enunciation and melodic backing vocals to produce a sound that stokes pop and punk sensibilities alike. It’s a distinctively naked rock album – no hiding beneath layers of synth, distortion or reverb, it spurns the still-prevailing shoegaze imperative. Attitude, not mood.
The album is largely about Brownstein’s love affair with music – its beginnings (“My future in the system was talked about and planned/ But I gave it up for music and the Free Electric Band,” she sings in “Electric Band“), its crises (“you’re a rusty little razor/ with a past that gleamed/ you’re always trying to cut me/ on your dull machine,” in “Endless Talk“) and its unquenchable triumph (“We love the sound, the sound is what found us/ Sound is the blood between me and you,” in anthemic album opener “Romance“).
Wild Flag compels one to move, jump, shout lyrics that one may not necessarily even know. Don’t miss the opportunity to experience this brave new commotion, face to beardless face with one of indie rock’s saving graces.
Coldplay (4/27 at HP Pavilion, San Jose · Tickets)
Mean things have been said about Coldplay – that they’re gutless, mild radio-rock, stuck-in-The Bends-era Radiohead lite, innocuously sentimental and utterly unsexy iTunes commercial fodder. That they coast at a corporately determined sweet spot of involatile mass appeal. That they sell out stadiums due in no small part to the existence of girlfriends.
Maybe so, but – hear me out – there’s something to be said for that. Coldplay may not have the youthful punch of French counterparts Phoenix or masculine grip of Bruce Springsteen (new single “Hurts like Heaven” clearly shoots for both), but they understand pop and show a genuine commitment to their craft. Their latest Brian Eno-produced album, enigmatically-titled Mylo Xyloto, demonstrates this.
The work shows artistic progression in small, but measurable steps. Most noteworthily, Mylo Xyloto swings further than ever into extremes – mellow sentimentality (“Us Against the World,” “Up in Flames”) and energizing dance numbers.
The album introduces more synth than the band has traditionally incorporated, and does it well. Chris Martin-Rihanna duet “Princess of China” merges staticky club synths with patently Coldplay orchestrals to good effect, and barreling album standouts “Charlie Brown” and “Don’t Let it Break Your Heart” throw Balaeric House flourishes into the mix.
As a whole, the album is expertly well produced, achieving an impossible degree of textural balance between percussion, electronics, acoustic guitars, orchestrals, and, of course, Martin’s distinctively semi-nasal falsetto. Perhaps this is perfection to a fault. Indeed, many people would argue that this sort of obsessive smoothing neuters the band. At the same time, Coldplay’s orderly polish is what will surely pack HP Pavilion.
We Americans tend to like our Brit Pop somewhere between wry (Morrissey), rowdy (Oasis) and weird (Bowie), none of which comes close to describing the decidedly above-the-fray Coldplay. I have a feeling, though, that Chris Martin & Co. will go the way of Phil Collins. After years, perhaps decades of being made fun of, time will recognize Coldplay’s contributions to the pop canon.
Built to Spill (2/23 at The Fillmore · Tickets)
Of Montreal (3/22 at The Fillmore · Tickets)
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