MIA – /\/\/\Y/\
Unsurprisingly (and happily), M.I.A. the insider is more dyspeptic than M.I.A. the outsider. Maya’s opening romp, “Steppin Up,” brings the braggadocio expected from a rapper following a massive hit (“You know who I am, I run this fucking club”), but it’s buried beneath power-drill samples and Ministry guitars. “Teqkilla” allures with a DJ-battle intro and Bollywood-via-Timbaland clank before plunging into a six-minute fever of rude synth burps and an unintelligible, indigestible, unforgettable chorus about “sticky, sticky weeeed.” M.I.A. comes close to recreating the lackadaisical bubblegum sway of “Paper Planes” with “It Iz What It Iz,” but doesn’t bother to enunciate the verses. Even in Maya’s slightly slumping middle third, she wages a pop insurgency by somersaulting between genres, sympathizing with suicide-bomber spouses and obsessing over how technology democratizes and distracts. Conspiracy-addled claustrophobic noises swath the hooks throughout, revealing the intoxicating assuredness of a star who sought the spotlight in order to barrage it with glitter and shrapnel. Read the Full Review
Danger Mouse / Sparklehorse – Dark Night of the Soul
It’s not signaled outright, but Dark Night comprises four sections, and plays like a revue. Linkous has always feared putting himself out there too much, and seeming too “pop.” It makes sense that he’d open this collection with a triptych from Wayne Coyne, Gruff Rhys, and Jason Lytle, all of whom frequently sing in Linkous-like registers shot through with delicate, boyish wonder and play with psychedelia in similarly rewarding ways. On “Revenge”, Coyne works in a wheelhouse he’s not seen since The Soft Bulletin and Yoshimi, evangelizing, “Once we become/ The thing we dread/ There’s no way to stop,” in the form of a plangent ballad. For his part, Gruff Rhys works best at the level of empire, and the fuzzy psych-country of “Just War” could fit nicely on Phantom Power. As is his manner, Lytle’s “Jaykub” traces an everyday schlub’s dream of receiving official awards for simply being himself– until the alarm clock wakes him up. Read the Full Review
Sun Kil Moon – Admiral Fell Promises
By opening the album with the line “No this is not my guitar, I’m bringing it to a friend,” Kozelek invites the listener into an intimate space, offering candlelit serenades as haunting and beautiful as the black and white photo adorning the front cover. The song from which that line is pulled, “Alesund” begins the album with a series of gentle flamenco-inflected sweeps and plucks, slowly galloping toward an elegant waltz that starts the album off with a mesmerizing grace. And on “Half Moon Bay,” there’s a dreamlike quality to Kozelek’s naming of places and memories, from the titular bay to the humming highway, which achieves an interesting sort of onomatopoeic effect as his rich baritone creates its own hypnotic hum. Read the Full Review
