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The album produced by John Congleton, who has a ridiculously impressive resume at this point, makes Half Way Home sound like Olsen’s Nebraska. The album starts quaintly enough with “Unf*cktheworld”- intimate, hopeful, and heartbreaking, but when “Forgotten/Forgiven” hits, almost like a slowed down Japanther song, the listener gets their first impression that this isgoingtobearide.Asniftyofapopgemasit is, the country blues tinged fuzzy blissful “High Five” that follows, makes the rest of the album inevitably cruise downhill. But then you listen to the album a few hundred more times. The straight up jangle rocker, “High and Wild” with those vocals that sound like they’re right up next to your ear, and the fuzzy bliss of “Stars,” also stand out.
Williamson’s album, which is short enough to maybe be considered an EP is a little more consistent, if only by default. It’s a more mini- mal, muted affair, Williamson’s voice sounds like Bjork’s little sister, an elfin fairy adopted by farmers from west Texas. The album starts with her voice, and acoustic guitar walks in. All five songs are knockouts, and the lyrics are deep analyzers of growing up, growing old, and of course falling in and out of love. She namechecks Portland, Brooklyn, and Leonard Cohen on side A.
Her live show was stellar, backed by Shan- non, and some other dudes that look straight out those bearded, long-hairs in hunter’s caps and cowboy boots. Williamson, like Olsen, comes across as wise beyond her years, if only because she knows all the things she doesn’t know, and seems at peace with the confusion that comes with being young and beautiful. It’s a rough gig, but someone’s got to do it.
and I’m sure you don’t appreciate my tone” that the band’s unique sound really begins blaring. Fortunately for the Queens native, many do, in fact, appreciate his tone. The nasally de- meanor of his vocals, which come across more as talking-in-key than singing, epitomize the band’s stylistic mixture of genres.
It was difficult to keep expectations realistic after Killing Time left the bar pretty damn high. They met that bar, to an extent. By the fourth track, “You’re No Match,” it becomes apparent Bayside recorded Cult without a tremendous amount of thought put in. The first four songs are good, but could have neatly fit into any of their last few albums. Rather than branching out into uncharted musical territories, they hold true to the energetic riffs and melodic bursts of vocals heard on each of their albums since The Walking Wounded.
It’s initially relieving, but becomes a bit frus- trating. What they do, they do well. They’ve proven that for a decade. Yet, there’s clearly the talent and potential to experiment, and it might be time they started. They had three years between records to innovate. Rather than adventurously scaling the mountains to further musicality, they chose to comfortably remain in the valley of their niche. Nonetheless, that niche can be entertaining as hell.
“Pigsty” was pre-released as Cult’s single, which teased fans for weeks. Raneri belts out painful lyrics likely drawn from personal heart- break, which compliment the song’s frenzied orchestration in an oddly poetic way. Then, whammy! Lead guitarist Jack O’Shea sprints into one of his trademark solos, which have become staples on their albums.
Many of the bands Bayside toured and performed with in the 2000s didn’t make it through the death of pop-punk. Raneri, O’Shea and the boys survived because they could never simply be shelved into that one category. With their blend of pop, punk, emo and rock, they offer something more than just whiney vocals and power chords. Sure, they frequently utilize those aspects, but more con- sistently let the overtones of charismatic rock work as their music’s driving force.
The album ends on a high note with “The Whitest Lie.” The song as a whole isn’t terribly mesmerizing; it’s the last forty seconds that re- ally bring the eleven tracks home. Raneri’s final words ironically insist “nobody was listening,” which then segues to group vocals until it all goes quiet.
Because it is classic Bayside, Cult won’t dis- appoint the band’s faithful followers. Likewise, it has the depth to stand alone as a great al- bum to those unfamiliar with their discog-
raphy. However, for fans aware of the band’s previous endeavors, yet distanced enough to listen without bias, this release will be received more with a nod than a jubilant shudder (pun intended, Bayside fans).
Murdoch
Death to Murdoch
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In 2011, Flagstaff trembled as Murdoch was born. The following year, the mountain town again shook when the band released its first EP,
100 Beers. But with the band’s second, and final, release, Arizona’s City in the Pines remained calm. Why? Because the ten tracks represent more than just music; they embody the death of Murdoch.
Comprised of Josh Begay and Ben Velazco of Them Savages, along with Bryant and Chris Vasquez of Vagabond Gods, the musicians were forced to disband in 2013 after the two brothers left Flagstaff. Fortunately, they decid- ed to leave their fans with one last gem. Death to Murdoch seems too self-deprecating a name for music that lives so vibrantly, but it’s fitting given the circumstances. The album celebrates the short-lived collective, and honors their musically anarchic tendencies in good form.
Bryant and Velazco trade off vocal and skin pounding duties with proper fluidity, eradicat- ing any possibility of the album becoming te- dious. Begay strums it all together with the ar- dent luster required of the role. Keeping the in- terchanging percussionists in line, Chris slaps out the bass like a predatory groove shark.
Then there are the vocals. Whatever scraps of loose strands the instrumentation might leave loose, the vocals tie together in a grungy rolling-hitch. And that’s the ticket, old sports! Velazco’s voice cuts through hoarse and val- iant, while Bryant’s juxtaposes with raunchy indignation. Given the rough-and-tumble na- ture of many of the songs, it’s only fitting.
The first track, “Blank Tapes,” is also the lon- gest, but it doesn’t seem long. Once the bass, vocals and guitars join the introductory drums, hunting season is open. Bryant layers on by belting scraggly wordplay to the accompani- ment of intermittent guitar licks. It was the ob- vious opener.
The lead in the third song, “Gates,” is nearly impossible to forget. It’s as catchy as it is me- lodic, and accentuates one of the mellowest of the ten tracks brilliantly.
The collectiveness of the musicians shines through in the group chanting on “Fire Chief,” and their sheer charisma wails loud whenever one of the guitarists massages their strings.
Angel Olsen; Bayside; Murdoch
But the music couldn’t go on forever.
The final track is as well placed as the opener, unfortunate as it is the album had to end. “Blis- tered Whiskers” sets out fast paced and doesn’t fail to keep its momentum. It begins as one of the cheeriest on an album released as the band’s epitaph, then picks up and puts on its mourning black. Nonetheless, as Murdoch’s fi- nal hoorah fades, we’re left with a fool’s hope that there might just be more from the group in the future.
I’ve thrown down thousands of drinks since 100 Beers was released, and Death to Murdoch makes me excited to chug thousands more. It is hard-hitting rock & roll as fine as there’s ever been from a short lived band. Their charm is in their chaotic ethos, and that chaos is in our rebellious hearts, just waiting to break out and
gnaw away at society’s expected civility.
Awna Teixeira
Thunderbird EP
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Since 2005, Awna Teixeira has showcased her crooning voice and multi-instrumental talent with the internationally recognized Ca- nadian group, Po’ Girl. As the band slowed its touring in 2012, Teixeira took to her own mu- sical imagination and released her debut solo album, Where the Darkness Goes. The 11 tracks display a wide array of musical influences, with songs driven by guitar, accordion and banjo. But Teixeira had more to offer, which she com- piled into last year’s Thunderbird.
Running just over 20 minutes, each of the five songs offers something a little different. The first track, “All the Years,” is eerily beautiful. The Portuguese-Canadian singer’s voice gen- tly flows over the soft plucking of guitar and intermittent banjo. It’s aesthetically mournful in a simple way, and opens the EP calmly. The banjo oriented “Wooden Tracks” picks it up a bit, clearing away any leftover dreariness.
Despite its strong harmonies, the lyrics fail to stand out, which holds true throughout the album as a whole. When music is as easy to listen to as that found on Thunderbird, it should be accompanied by introspective world-play and/or narrative. Teixeira’s music is tranquil and lovely; her melodies accentuate the orchestration near perfectly; but the songs would be just as effective if the lyrics were senseless notes held in key.
It was refreshing to hear accordion included in “Sailor’s Dream,” which is the most alluring song of the five. The singer/songwriter incor- porates a variety of instruments in a short set, which is how each track stands apart from
— Bobby Carlson
Bayside
Cult
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It’s downright difficult to avoid Bayside as a guilty pleasure. In 2007, they seduced listen- ers with The Walking Wounded, followed soon after with Shudder, which proved a rollicking good time. Three years later, they compliment- ed their arsenal with Killing Time. After an ex- tensive wait, the four-piece from New York re- leased another boisterous eleven tracks suited for our little rock demons suppressed by the pop-driven Billboard Hot 100.
Once the drums begin to pound out the opening of the album, it’s all anticipation. Then the guitar cuts in with a grungy riff typical of the band. But it isn’t until singer/guitarist An- thony Raneri starts belting “I know it’s wrong
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