Unlike past efforts, the overall tempo of this album has noticeably decreased. The number of “slow songs” or slow-building songs on the album is much more apparent than it has been before. Opening track “Obvious Bicycle” is one such song, with keyboardist Rostam Batmanglij playing a melancholy piano riff over lead singer Ezra Koenig’s crooning voice as he bounces to and from falsettos. Of all the mellow songs on the album, “Step” stands out, with Koenig’s soothing vocals over a medley of piano and synthesizer progressions. Drummer Chris Tomson keeps the beat so strong and steady throughout the track that head-nodding or foot-tapping is impossible to avoid.

Tomson shifts about five gears up for the following song, “Diane Young” — a track that, along with the speedy rhythm of “Finger Back,” would be easily at home in either of the other VW records. Single “Diane Young” feels like a modern-day adaption of the swingin’ big band songs, with Koenig pitch-shifting the lyric “baby, baby, baby, baby right on time” over groovy guitar riffs and rapid-fire drums. There’s even a “Wipeout”-esque drum and guitar roll thrown in — just in case your head and hips weren’t shaking enough.

Modern Vampires of the City is the album that VW has been building up to. While it’s not always a constant ball of energy, the balance of warm melodies and funky riffs make for an appropriate and satisfying conclusion to the band’s trilogy.

Ian Birnam covers music. Contact him at ibirnam@dailycal.org.

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“Winter” is appropriately placed as the opening track. It sets the somber tone for If You Leave. Igor Haefeli’s reverberating guitar kicks off the album, Elena Tonra jumps in with her vocals and Remi Aguilella percussion gently enters before all three break out into an anthemic song. Tonra’s aptitude for lyricism becomes instantaneously evident with the first lines, “Drifting apart like two sheets of ice, my love / Frozen hearts growing colder with time.” She establishes herself as a singer-songwriter to watch — the emotional honesty in both her lyrics and especially her voice is haunting.

For fans of their EPs, the withholding of tracks such as “Candles” and “Landfill” may come as a surprise. Furthermore, their biggest hit, “Youth” has been re-recorded. However, these decisions are not hindrances to the complete feeling of the album. After all, most of Daughter’s strength as a band comes from its predilection for restraint. The most poignant moments are the ones in which the blaring guitar dies down, the percussion becomes intermittent and Tonra’s voice is reduced to a whisper, sometimes even complete silence (though the album is not without their moments of all-out energy).

The album is worthwhile for anyone willing to put their heart through a listen. It reminds, relentlessly, that “underneath the skin, there’s a human.” Be prepared for goosebumps and a valid excuse to drink alone.

Contact Ephriam Lee at ephraimlee@dailycal.org.

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Since 1999, the siblings have maintained a uniquely mysterious, rigidly controlled image in which they carefully avoid coming across as human in any way. In their rare live performances and public appearances, they conceal their faces behind a screen or with disturbing bird masks and face paint. In addition to hiding their faces, the masks function to obscure their gender, part of an ongoing interrogation of gender throughout their career. Since their conception, the band has warped and pitched down Andersson’s vocals to sound androgynous and almost post-human. Additionally, the early press photos for Shaking the Habitual showed the siblings from behind wearing long wigs, making it impossible to distinguish their gender.

When asked about their disguises, Andersson told The Guardian, “It’s always fun to try out different roles. I would like to quote (gender theorist) Judith Butler, who says, ‘We are always in drag.’ That has to do with the idea of authenticity: is there really any time when you are your true self? I would say that we’re always playing a role.”

The idea of roleplaying is expounded on in “A Cherry on Top,” in which Andersson sings of luxury in a heavily manipulated voice: “Strawberry, melon, cherry on top (…) The Haga Castle evening cream.” Dreijer explained to Pitchfork: “We’ve been talking about the importance of making your privileges transparent in order to be able to say something political.” Here, Andersson’s performance functions as a form of resistance, inhabiting the voice of the privileged to fiercely rail against extreme wealth. The siblings aim to bring cultural constructs to crisis by exposing their limits, shortcomings and blind spots.

The exploration of gender is a fundamental aspect of Shaking the Habitual. The feminist and queer theory Dreijer and Andersson have been studying in the years since Silent Shout inform everything from their lyrics and album artwork to their videos, which are directed by queer feminist porn director Marit Ostberg and gender activists Roxy Farhat and Kakan Hermansson. The lead single “Full of Fire” sets the tone as its outro paraphrases Salt-N-Pepa: “Let’s talk about gender baby / Let’s talk about you and me.” Experimental feminist writers Jeanette Winterson (whose book “The Passion” provides the refrain for “A Tooth for an Eye”) and Margaret Atwood (who is referenced in the interludes “Oryx” and “Crake”) also have a visible influence throughout.

The feminism of Shaking the Habitual is especially striking in the modern, male-dominated world of electronic music. It is refreshing to see The Knife breaking the boundaries of electronic music amid the increasing popularity of superstar “EDM” DJs such as Skrillex, Aviici and Tiesto among raving MDMA-fueled frat bros, demonstrating that it is still possible to create intelligent electronic music.

Andersson and Dreijer recognize that in order to convey their political statement, their music must embody the same passion as the lyrics, so they experiment with form and composition to challenge conventions “on a structural level rather than a psychological level.” They achieve this by incorporating their progressive politics into the very structure of the music, including pieces such as “Old Dreams Waiting to be Realized,” a track consisting of 19 minutes of found-sound drones. These drone pieces act as intermissions, opening up empty spaces that require the listener to do the same. By locating a space of ambivalence, listeners can reflect on and acknowledge the intersections of power and the interactions between gender, race, sexuality and class.

Shaking the Habitual sounds as if it is immediately off-putting to listeners: It is 98 minutes long, six of its 13 songs exceed eight minutes and two of them are long drone pieces. However, it turns out that many of the things that seem inaccessible in theory are in reality those that hold the album together. The record moves fluidly from the electro-punk aggression of “A Tooth for an Eye” to the dissonant drone of “Old Dreams” to the sinister pop of “Raging Lung” and finally to the nightmarish deconstructed noise of “Fracking Fluid Injection.” The arresting combination of creaking homemade noises, pop sounds and progressive politics make for a seamless and staggeringly impressive work and recommend Shaking the Habitual as a contender for 2013’s best record.

Contact Meadhbh McGrath at mmcgrath@dailycal.org.

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For the first time, they seem to have released an album that doesn’t so much explore new terrain for the group as revisit an even blend of their old sounds. Not every trick they try works out for the better but, more often than not, Karen O and friends’ shenanigans manage to allure the listener via bombast, spunk and a touch of self-conscious camp. The lead single “Sacrilege,” for instance, has all of these. Karen’s vocals are tested but ultimately showcased, quickly changing from a delicate whimper to a robust yelp to a strained falsetto. The song’s garage funk morphs into bonafide plastic soul about midway through with a full gospel choir stealing the show.

The grungy dub of Fever surfaces on “Under the Earth” and “Buried Alive,” the latter featuring an out-of-place contribution by persona rapper Dr. Octagon. However, the highlight comes on the title track with straightforward hard rock bolstered by Karen’s boisterous violence/sexuality. Mosquito may be the least enduring Yeah Yeah Yeahs album to date, but it should thrill regardless.

Watch the music video for “Sacrilege” below.

Contact Erik Weiner at eweiner@dailycal.org.

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For an album of only nine songs totaling almost an hour in length, one might expect more substance than is found here. The opener “Look…The Sun Is Rising” is also the album’s high point, in terms of both quality and likability. Guitar work is minimal; like on all the other songs, the synths dominate. A mesmerizing beat backs the trippy melodies, which screech like alien bagpipes. “Love is always something / Something you should fear,” moans singer Wayne Coyne, maintaining his nondescript state of distress-cum-wonderment that looms over the record.

What The Terror lacks in immediate or even eventual spark, it makes up for in consistency. The only guests featured are Phantogram, whose presence is barely felt on the 13-minute would-be epic “You Lust.” Coyne has been freed up to do what he does best, namely producing carefree psychedelia, but sadly, he doesn’t deliver. Constricted by overly affected production, the songs manage to take long and winding journeys without really leading anywhere.

Contact Erik Weiner at eweiner@dailycal.org.

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Blake’s trademark crooning carries the first three songs on the album, a beautiful and stunning run of tracks that meticulously navigates emotional peaks and troughs. The title track builds to a supremely satisfying sweeping synth finish. The follow-up “I Am Sold” delicately plays with the line, “Speculate how we feel,” warping it with vocal filters to great effect. “Life Round Here” makes sonic references to Aaliyah’s smooth R&B melodies.

Then, out of nowhere, Blake is abruptly interrupted by RZA on the dark hip-hop backdrop of “Take A Fall For Me,” an awkward break in the album’s flow but an interesting one nonetheless. Some will see the inclusion of the Wu-Tang legend as a mark of the singer’s rising stock; others will see it as a serious misstep in an otherwise solid set of tracks. Either way, the anomaly is quickly forgotten among the likes of lead singles and synth masterpieces “Retrograde” and “Digital Lion,” the latter of which features the much more welcome inclusion of ambient music forefather Brian Eno.

The album is a moving, sometimes surprisingly aggressive and exciting experience (the repeated refrain of “Voyeur” eventually becomes a dubby club banger). Yet, for all of its merits, the oddly unique production style of his debut is mostly absent. The choice to move toward a more unified R&B sound is an honorable one, but like watching a bird leave the nest, James Blake’s growth as an artist is bittersweet.

Contact Damian Ortellado at dortellado@dailycal.org.

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If you agree that current indie rock has lost its edge, look no further than Wavves and their new release, Afraid of Heights. It’s snotty and abrasive, but it’s also equal parts catchy and endearing.

Wavves entered the scene with a hazy, dirty, lo-fi sound. But on Afraid of Heights, frontman Nathan Williams decided to make full use of the studio. The sound is clean and well-produced, but — luckily for us — it’s no less punchy, loud or potent.

Afraid of Heights gives us all the grungy guitar riffs and self-loathing lyrics of Nirvana but with the pop songwriting sensibilities of Weezer. “Sail to the Sun” hearkens back to Wavves’ 2010 single “King of the Beach” with its relentlessly fast guitar and anthemic melody. It’s the perfect adrenaline-pumping album opener. Other highlights include “Demon to Lean On,” with its guitar sound lifted from Nirvana’s “Lithium,” and “Dog,” with its slinky bass riff and subtle xylophone accompaniment. Lyrically, Williams wallows in despair and self-hate — on “Beat Me Up,” he tells a girl, “I just want to spend some time with you” before retreating and suggesting, “Or, you can beat me up.”

Unfortunately, Afraid of Heights becomes a bit repetitive. As we pass the halfway point of the album, the songs begin to drag as they offer us recycled ideas. But then it gets back on track with the last two songs — the hard-charging “Gimme a Knife” and the acoustic, Beck-like “I Can’t Dream.”

Afraid of Heights is more than worth your time — the musical high points are incredibly high, and the emotional low points are incredibly low. Kurt Cobain would be very proud.

Contact David Bradford at dbradford@dailycal.org.
Check him out on twitter at @catchadave.

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With his incredible music run in the second half of the last decade, Lil Wayne fulfilled his personal quest to become one of rap’s greats. The next few years found Wayne experimenting with song structures, finding new inspiration in singing and even rock music to push the boundaries of what was acceptable in pop music. At this point in his career though, Lil Wayne seems to have no greater agenda. Rapping is something he just happens to do, and there is no impetus for him to do it especially well.

Much of what is enjoyable on this album has nothing to do with his lyrics. The melodic delivery and inflection in Wayne’s voice transform the mediocre writing on “Curtains” into menacing braggadocio. The production and guest appearances drive the single “Bitches Love Me,” while Wayne coasts comfortably in the spaces between.

There are, too, rare showcases of vulnerability on this album. Referring to his 2010 stint in prison on “Rich As Fuck,” Wayne raps, “And then I went and got locked up, and every night I dreamed I broke out.” This album as a whole, though, is sloppy and frustratingly unnecessary. It is filled to the brim with awful jokes and graphic sexual metaphors (“Suck this dick and swallow that nut. Call it penis colada”) that would make even the biggest Wayne apologists cringe.

The album’s title refers to the image of an alien, which Lil Wayne has playfully taken upon in recent years as a way to justify his eccentricities and musical choices. But it turns out Lil Wayne isn’t an alien anymore. His abilities are now lackluster, his peculiarities less interesting. The few brilliant moments on IANAHB2 are overshadowed by utterly basic ones. The album doesn’t even seem to be all that important to him. In a statement in response to his recent hospitalization, in which the rapper reassured everybody of his health and well-being, Lil Wayne reminded his fans of the album’s release, stating, “You can get that shit if you want.” He followed that up by saying, “If not, it’s whatever.”

Contact Rahul Pandya at rpandya@dailycal.org.

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It seemed as if there was nothing left for Justin Timberlake to do after he released his superlative sophomore album FutureSex/LoveSounds. His success in music almost legitimized his ventures away from it. With his return to music six years later, though, the high expectations still exist. So how does Timberlake deal with the hope that The 20/20 Experience would manage to change the world? By bringing us all back down to Earth with an album rooted in doo-wop and old soul. It’s not entirely innovative, but it’s very well executed.

From the album’s opener, “Pusher Love Girl,” to the groovy “That Girl,” Timberlake glides effortlessly over guitar stabs and brass and string sections. There are a few nods to the contemporary pop of his first two albums to balance the traditional with the modern, but the older influences really shine through. As safe as this direction may appear, the album makes for an unbelievably pleasant listen. Coupled with the fact that the songwriting seems entirely inspired by his recent marriage, the album works as the perfect Sunday afternoon soundtrack, and that’s nothing to complain about.

The 20/20 Experience doesn’t reveal the future of pop music, and it likely will not define Timberlake’s career. It instead marks a shift in persona from Justin the showstopper to the elder statesman of sorts, re-establishing his prowess in the music world by simply reappearing in it. He really did nothing wrong this time around, and much of it is done very well, but one can only hope that the next project is significant for more reasons than just it being by Justin Timberlake.

Contact Rahul Pandya at rpandya@dailycal.org.

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Devendra Banhart, the Venezuelan-American singer who has often been labeled as freak-folk, is back after a four-year hiatus, though I’m not sure if I want him to be. On Mala, his ashram-appropriate voice returns, though it is not as impressive as it was on previous albums, like Cripple Crow. What once was able to spark epiphanies has now faded into a gloomy haze. Don’t get me wrong: Certain tracks on Mala are beautiful (try “Won’t You Come Home”), but the rest of the album falls a little flat.

Take “Your Fine Petting Duck,” for example. Its off-key female vocalist, coupled with depressing lyrics (“If he doesn’t try his best, please remember that I never tried at all”), produces at best an anti-love song about an unhealthy relationship, a song that seems almost as awkward as its title.

The star track of the album is “Never Seen Such Good Things.” This is your classic Sunday-morning-Starbucks-playlist tune. It has a solid beat and cleverly ironic lyrics, as the continuation to the title “Never Seen Such Good Things” is “go so wrong.”

An underrated though stellar track on the album is “Mi Negrita.” It’s airy and heavy all at once — a song for sleepy, smoke-filled bedrooms. Banhart’s inherent quirkiness shines through here. He croons in Spanish, comparing his heart to “un fantasma corpo real.” Something about likening his heart to a bodily ghost in Spanish is delightfully peculiar. Unfortunately, that’s where the delight ends. “Mala,” the title track, is halfhearted, and the rest of the album seems to induce a giant shrug of the shoulders.

Though Mala has everything you would want on an album — a mellow instrumental number, a trilingual crooner and a pretty solid single — you can’t help but notice that it’s missing something: personality.

Contact Addy Bhasin at abhasin@dailycal.org.

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