Said your name into a mirror three times / said it three times / said it three times
There’s
something about this album that makes it so much more than merely its sounds.
It’s a whirlpool of dark and light in a constant deadlock, ever so subtly
drawing one in to explore the abyss we all fear most. White Noise is a
collection of sounds, that put together, break your heart and tear your soul
apart in the most cathartic way possible.
PVRIS
(pronounced Paris) dropped this LP in November 2014, after having previously released
multiple demos and 2 EPs. While those EPs did suggest that this band was more
than just another group in the saturated Warped Tour scene, White Noise blew
that notion completely out of the water.
What makes
this album truly spectacular, in my opinion, is its darkness. I truly love the
entire vibe of the album – it’s like this album opens a Pandora’s Box of
emotions we pack up and store in a dark, lonely corner of our hearts. The
three-piece act effortlessly makes this dark shine, igniting it with a stunning
myriad of textures, ranging from hopeless ballads to arena-sized anthems.
PVRIS
display an astonishing variety of sounds and styles throughout the album, a
feat incredibly impressive for such a young band. Songs like Fire and Let Them In thrive on arena-sized choruses, with their steady
verses signalling the entrance of a tsunami-sized wave of sheer energy. My House, the most massive track on this
album, takes this energy to a whole new level, led by Lyndsey Gunnulfsen’s soaring
vocals. Clearly, the trio don’t fall short in packing a bloody good punch.
"It's my house / and I think it's time you get out"
But the rest
of the tracks add an entire new dimension to their already infectious groove, as
guitarist Alex Babinski and bassist Brian MacDonald prove that their arsenal
comprises much more than distorted riffs. Surely, St. Patrick illustrates this best – the flagship track of the
album, which is by far their most pop-influenced effort, and easily one of
their most electrifying songs. The tongue-in-cheek expressions of hopeless love
(“You give me something to think about / that’s not the shit in my head”) add
to the track, making it so easy to love. But if Lynn wanted her love back in St. Patrick , then maybe Ghosts would tell you the reason why her
love left. It’s incredible though, how the band can so easily put pleasant melodies
and heartbreaks together, as heard on this track.
Still, there
are songs on the opposite end of the energy spectrum, that move your soul as
much as the bashing stadium-sized choruses do. Goodbyes are always painful, and the
ballad Eyelids makes that pain in
your heart very, very real. Holy
takes on hypocrisy and brokenness at its most profound, weaving its beautiful
intricacies through lyrics that reveal the true colours of an individual living
his life in his own shadow. White Noise, the
title track, is in its own way a ballad too, topped with gripping Morse-code-like
synth lines that show the band at their most adventurous. Alex’s riffs in these
songs so delicately combine with Brian’s synth/ bass lines in these songs,
truly showcasing how immensely talented they are.
Smoke, the album opener, opens the album
with an urgency that steadily builds, and pretty much grips the listener right
from the opening beat. “I feel a fire in the back of my throat so let’s get
covered in flames and play some games with the smoke.” Mirrors spins a similar mid-tempo thump in a completely different
way, playing on terrifying yet alluring desires, possibly hinting at occult
references. It amazes me how this track loves in such a vicious way.
"I know you’re
dead inside / but you make me feel alive"
Along with
effortlessly pulling every heartstring of mine with their every beat, the album
also got me thinking about what made it so beautiful. I couldn’t really come to
a conclusion, so prepare yourself for the convoluted mishmash that I’m going
ramble about now.
I feel like PVRIS
have many concepts at play that go into their music, vibe and image, some of
which are in fact polar opposites of each other. On a musical level, for a
start, while the general theme of the album is dark and painful (of course not
without amazing feel good moments and sinister excitement), the album makes use
of weirdly sweet sounds, if that’s even a valid description. After all, Lynn
mentioned in an interview that while she has very dark thoughts, she also loves
sweet sounds. So they incorporated an interplay of synthesisers and guitar
riffs which in my opinion, turned this album into a masterpiece. Love and
loneliness, satisfaction and misery, and hope and hopelessness are also among
the conflicting concepts that make this album so unique.
Acknowledging
the second wave of recognition the album got, PVRIS dropped a deluxe edition
just this year, with three new tracks on it. They decided to shake things up a
little, and put the songs before the initial opening track, Smoke . And it made all the difference.
White Noise
was already brimming with energy, but You & I , the first new track, gave the energy a whole new dimension. It
builds to a crescendo of hope, love, pain and joy all at once, with an
absolutely stunning chorus. The stripped down version of this track has
completely different emotions going, putting this song into an entirely new
perspective. Empty brings chills to
the bone too, being similar in nature to You
and I (Stripped) . “What do you want from me?” Lynn bellows oh so gorgeously.
“I’m empty”.
"We can meet in the middle / bodies and souls collide"
White Noise,
as a totality, is far from merely being an album. It’s not a static
compilation, meant to represent a point in time; it’s a dynamic transmission,
with an insatiable thirst for more. Even through their mostly-black-and-white
music videos, (they have music videos for 11 out of the 13 tracks on the deluxe
edition by the way, which is awesome) they paint a picture that no other
combination of colour could paint. PVRIS’ made a masterpiece out of darkness,
by turning it into a priceless, intangible human connection. They showed us how
beautiful darkness can be, sometimes more so than light.
And its
exactly bands like these, those who speak to and resonate within the hidden chambers of our heart,
that make us feel alive.
Released in September 2001. Two towers on the album cover. Haunting lyrics talking about tall buildings shaking, skyscrapers scraping, saluting the ashes of American flags. Eerie coincidences that make perfect fodder for conspiracy theories. But beyond such dubious speculation, a closer listening of this album yields an even bleaker picture: a world plagued by communication breakdown - the gulf between what we mean to say or do and how we actually say or do it. Breakdown that lies at the heart of human misunderstanding; source of misery, vanquisher of relationships, kindler of violence.
Is it even possible to communicate honestly? Can one be born again, while still being alive? Read on for my take on how Yankee Hotel Foxtrot attempts to answer these perennial questions, and much more.
ALBUM REVIEW
Yankee, Hotel and Foxtrot are designations for the letters Y, H and F respectively in the NATO phonetic alphabet. These 'codewords' are an ambitious attempt to bridge barriers between different languages or communication channels and thus lead to effective understanding of signals, messages and expressions. By arbitrarily stringing together 'Yankee Hotel Foxtrot' and using it as their album title, Wilco not only hint to us the thematic scope of their work but also comment on the futility of such an exercise in honest communication.
Essentially, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot is an album about communication breakdown, communicated wondrously.
It is a pet personal theory of mine that there is a fundamental disjunct between what I've recognised to be the 5 pillars of communication.
Impulse -> Ideas -> Thoughts -> Words -> Actions
Along each step (at times a step is entirely forgone), our expressions veer away from their intended meaning. We end up saying/doing things that misrepresent what we meant to say/do. Communication Breakdown.
Right from the outset, Wilco break new musical ground. This isn't JUST a country or a folk or an indie rock album like their previous outings. This one's more experimental. It's riddled with electronica and atonal noise. YHF is to Wilco what Sgt. Pepper was to the Beatles or Pet Sounds was to the Beach Boys. Folk songs that appear from and vanish into fuzzy electronic noise. Much like our daily attempts to communicate honestly that somehow transmogrify into black and white static.
Throughout the album, there is a deliberate quest to convey communication breakdown by breaking down music itself into atonal noise. Most notably, songs like 'I Am Trying To Break Your Heart', 'I'm The Man Who Loves You' and 'Ashes Of American Flags' contain these fugue-state segues from music to noise at the beginning, middle and end of the songs respectively. Chaos revealing order. If melodies and words are unable to effect honest communication, let noise lead the way and convey this inability. Well played Wilco. Brilliant stuff!
Yankee Hotel Foxtrot is an extremely self-conscious album that offers catchy songs (Jesus, Etc., Heavy Metal Drummer), hummable melodies (Kamera, War On War) and poetic lyrics (basically every song) upon a casual listen. Makes for great entertainment in itself! But slide deeper into it, and the album will bare its existential soul to you and offer complex, intimate, pointed perspective on honest communication, second chances in life, identity crises and even mass consumerism.
ESSENTIAL TRACKS
If you're intimidated by the length of this post and simply want some song recommendations, do check these out! They are my favourite picks from Yankee Hotel Foxtrot!
TRACK BY TRACK COMMENTARY
I'd like to try something new here: I have penned down my thoughts below on each song from the album chronologically; I invite you to play the album (track times matching the video are given alongside each song) and scroll through my musings for each song. If you don't have the time (who has 52 minutes to spare these days?), read along as usual (or just listen along to the essential tracks)!
1. I Am Trying To Break Your Heart (0:00 - 7:00)
We're off! A strange, fuzzy electronic buzz surges and then settles into a ringing clamor. Like a strident alarm waking you up with a start from a half-remembered dream. Gentle guitar strums backed by a potpourri of synth, scratches and steady percussion advance the song into its verses. The atmosphere has been set: folk with an electronic ambiance. A bold new territory for Wilco.
"I am an American aquarium drinker
I assassin down the avenue."
Awakened from a drunken stupor, an inebriated voice amusingly boasts about his alcohol tolerance. The nonsensical slur 'assassin' cleverly belies a tipsy gait (drunkards, despite their befuddled state, CAN be geniuses). The state he's in is probably the aftermath of a failed relationship. Slowly but surely, his musings reveal pangs of regret and a yearning to reset the clock ("Let's undress just like cross-eyed strangers").
He regrets letting go of her. He regrets letting her back in. Dazed, confused. Well timed xylophone interludes between the verses sweetly capture the ambivalence of our drunken romantic. He's lost her (to be honest, it looks like he's been dumped), yet he claims to be trying to break her heart. On a sidenote, when he says 'Take off your band-aid' you can clearly hear scratches at the back, which is just legendary stuff.
The song crescendos into a conflict: a conflict between the aquarium drinker and an (imagined?) better version of himself. A version that would've held onto her. One last time before he zones out (he has probably stopped 'assassinning' and is lying motionless on the street by now), he berates himself and incoherently blurts 'I'm the man who loves you'. He really wants the last word in the relationship, the balance of power, and he would've had it if not for a surgical shrill silencing him and ending the song.
2. Kamera (7:00 - 10:30)
"I need a camera, to my eye,
to my eye, reminding,
which lies that I've been hiding,
Which echoes belong."
Warm, advancing strums pace the song comfortably, enhancing its catchiness. Jeff Tweedy (Wilco frontman) envisions, nay, seeks a camera capable of preserving his memories. A disconcerting uncertainty pervades his voice and thus the song. His identity seems to have coalesced into the fuzz of his music. Is he being his most honest self or is he blanketing himself with a dark shadow? Which parts of his collective experience are superficial and which truly belong to him?
Such uncertainty, what is often offhandedly labelled 'AN EXISTENTIAL CRISIS!', seizes all of us. I felt it while transitioning from childhood to adolescence, while leaving home behind for greener pastures, indeed I feel it every time I think about who I really am and what truly constitutes ME. What is interesting to think about is that will such a 'Kamera' really help or is it just a wishful fantasy for someone to cling onto so as to escape the exhausting endeavor of confronting their crisis.
3. Radio Cure (10:30 - 15:40)
What's this with electronic gadgets creeping up in song titles? A soft rumble, frenetic picks of a guitar and a gong set the stage for a sombre, reflective verse. A pounding bass drum, like a beating heart, pumps life into the song. A soft static enters the song before the second verse, not unlike the black and white noise you see on a television that is not receiving a transmission.
Tweedy's mind is the television, love the intended signal. He's in a daze again, a salient sense of loss envelops the song - but this is not the drunken aftermath of a failed relationship, it is a grudging acceptance that sometimes things just are not meant to be.
"Picking apples for the kings and queens of things I've never seen
Oh, distance has no way of making love understandable"
IMO one of the most beautiful lines in the album. Tweedy's been absent, slaving away for god knows who and to god knows what end. And his absence has translated into distance between him and his better half. A distance he cannot comprehend, let alone attempt to bridge. He hopes she can cheer up.
He seeks radio cures.
It has been suggested that radio cures are just songs that one turns to to mend a broken heart. But I think Tweedy is hinting at something more profound here. He's looking for an elixir that can transcend space (like radio waves do) and communicate his feelings, his anguish, to his loved one. It ain't just a cure for LDRs mind you, two people can be physically near and yet distant.
It's a cure, rather, for communication breakdown - the gulf between what we mean to say or do and how we actually say or do it.
4. War On War (15:40-19:32)
After a cursory listening, I initially thought this was a political song against War; that we ought to start a War against wars because all of us only stand to lose from them. You know, like how Bertrand Russell said "War does not determine who's right. Only who is left."
But I think this song is about an internal war. One going on within each one of us. The struggle against the Struggle. Resisting against Resistance. Fighting back. Very meta. Don't let the cheery musical arrangement of the song throw you off. This IS an optimistic song. Tweedy does not let you forget that about the 'War on War' by repeating it a gazillion times. When he croons 'You're gonna lose. You have to lose.' you bet he has positive intentions.
And indeed, this beautiful lyric hits his point home:
"You have to learn how to die
If you want to want to be alive"
I'll just let it sink in. If the 'war' is between you and an ideal 'better version' of yourself - you have to first rid yourself of those 'demons', that is, kill parts of yourself, if you want a shot at a better 'you'. Second chances are not a myth. Tweedy offers you that hope, in fact, he is on the same boat as you. I am not even gonna apologise for being cheesy, I just think this idea of 'being born again while still being alive' is beautiful.
5. Jesus, Etc. (19:32 - 23:24)
Following the controlled noise that concludes War on War, comes a bright folksy melody. Light at the end of the tunnel?
This is my favourite song on the album. There is something very honest about Tweedy's voice here. His earnest promise to just 'be around' is heartwarming. And when, in all earnestness, he sings "You were right about the stars, each one is a setting sun", the romantic in me just blooms with happiness!
But a transition to a minor chord progression in the chorus casts aspersions on the sunny picture. Tweedy once again incorporates urban imagery - 'talls buildings shake' , 'skyscrapers are scraping together', 'turning your orbit around' - to show how we project our inner fears into our surroundings. How when our life is on the verge of crumbling, everything around us appears to crumble too.
The word choices for the chorus are very esoteric but they flow so well together! Say what you will, this is poetry. And this song makes a great case in favour of Tweedy as a poet.
And then, in a coyly teasing fashion comes the bridge, and balances out the bleakness. Amid all metaphorical earthquakes and unstable orbits, it simply proclaims, "Our love is all we have". Beautiful.
6. Ashes Of American Flags (23:24 - 28:12)
If War on War was not a political commentary, this song surely is. Here, our protagonist Consumer knows the exact price of Coca-Cola (he prefers Diet Coke) and cigarettes. Amusing. The amusement turns into concern as he wonders "why we listen to poets when nobody gives a fuck".
It is worth noting that throughout the album, Tweedy has used Modern imagery (cityscapes, electronic gadgets, and now vending machines) possibly as an indicator of our obsession/reliance with/on these inanimate things over more human endeavours (relationships, honest communication, internal conflicts, and now poetry). Our Consumer realises this void, this lack of human touch.
Disillusioned with his meaningless life, he seeks rebirth. SPECULATION: Is this the same person from 'War on War' who bandied about struggling against his struggles but failed and resorted to materialism but found that empty too and is now burning American flags in a display of misplaced anger and just desperately seeks to die and come back new. No? Okay maybe?
"All my lies are only wishes. I know I would die if I could come back new."
Lovely. Tweedy comes up this sombre poetic gem that earnestly encapsulates his desire to remake himself (point to be noted me'Lord - does he mean a literal death and rebirth or a metaphorical one a'la being a better version of himself?).
7. Heavy Metal Drummer (28:12 - 31:22)
The least weighty song in the whole album. Nostalgic from the get go. Summery reminiscences of days gone by getting wasted during and after concerts and crushing on band members. Growing up and realising that most of our childhood favourites were mediocre bands but still liking them not because of their music but because of the happy memories they trigger. Tweedy admitted in an interview that this song was inspired by true events: Tweedy & his friends would make fun of the cool kids with 'shiny shiny pants and bleached blond hair' but later realise that it was those kids that had all the fun, booze and girls while Tweedy & gang watched their summers listlessly fly past them. Sweet, sweet song that perfectly captures the sentiment of the lyrics "I miss the innocence I've known".
8. I'm The Man Who Loves You (31:22 - 35:20)
The most interesting song in the album - it's wonderfully meta in a very comical way.
The stunted guitar solo in the beginning paves the road for the chaos ahead. We have our protagonist (aquarium drinker???), who's trying really hard to write a love letter to his lover. But he can't seem to collect his thoughts - they flutter from what the color composition of the page he's writing on is to him imagining wrapping the letter around a stone and throwing it through her window and running back home. He can't seem to find the right words. But, and this is the funny bit, HE CAN FREAKING PEN A SONG ABOUT IT. A song that, for all its chaotic subject matter, is coherent and catchy and cool.
"If I could you know I would,
Just hold your hand and you'd understand,
I'm the man who loves you."
This song is where the idea of communication breakdown is so explicitly and wonderfully addressed. He does truly love her, and were it possible to express that honestly, whether through a letter or by simply holding her hand, he would. But he'll never be sure that his intentions will be understood perfectly by her, would he? There'll always be lingering doubt.
9. Pot Kettle Black (35:20 - 39:20)
The verses in this song string together words that mean little or nothing at all, but sound like poetry! I really gave up analysing their meaning and instead focused on how they were used and what effects their diction brought about. Tweedy here seems to be talking to himself ("I have found a real rival in myself"), accusing himself of something.
"It's become so obvious
You are so oblivious to yourself"
Great syllabic wordplay. Harkens back to the whole theme of identity crisis. But despite being oblivious to himself (or because of it), Tweedy refuses to call the pot 'kettle black'. Remember that a 'pot calling a kettle black' is a classic trait of a hypocrite, But here, Tweedy is the pot, and the kettle, and he's all black. I don't know if that even makes sense, but then, neither does Tweedy. It's all absurd, just like the black and white static, just like trying to find meaning in life.
The absurdity escalates when he repeats a lovely self-contradictory line - "Every moment's a little bit later". But think about it, can you really seize the moment when its rushing right past you this nanoseond? Should you try to capture it or live it? Can we, should we carpe diem???
10. Poor Places (39:20 - 44:37)
First thought - wow this song has an irresistibly catchy tune. But, as is evident from the last few songs, Tweedy has sort of given up on making his lyrics meaningful and any coherence in the song is due to the picture it vaguely paints and the words in it that gel together so well. Maybe trying to write the letter to his lover in 'I'm The Man Who Loves You' really got to him.
Anywho, Tweedy seems to be calling out a certain kind of hypocrisy here. He subtly comments on how the ones who dictate things, the few great men holding great power and sway over worldly affairs sit in air conditioned offices in contrast to the ones at the end of their policies who are in the 'poor places' and who remain hot and miserable. That's all I can get from this song.
Oh, and don't miss out the noise segue at the end of the song where a robotic voice keeps saying 'Yankee Hotel Foxtrot' over shrill static, but receives no answer. SPECULATION: one way transmission that parallels unrequited love?
11. Reservations (44:37 - 51:41)
After 43 minutes and 10 songs, this song has Tweedy at his most confident self. Maybe our Aquarium drinker from song 1 has woken up from his drunken stupor, and in the course of the last 9 songs, has reflected on various aspects of his life, wished to be born again, raved about his inability to communicate honestly and write a simple love letter and essentially, come full circle to 'Reservations'. Here, he does something unusual and unprecedented - he learns to let go. "I've got reservations. About so many things. But not about you." Ouch!
Interesting lyrics:
"How can I get closer and be further away,
From the truth that proves it's beautiful to lie."
Satisfied by his conviction, and possibly having found closure with regards to his relationship and revelation when it comes to his existential crisis, he settles into a serene calmness that is paralleled by soft synth (remarkable for its absence of atonal noise, for the first time in the album) that brings the album to a peaceful conclusion.
If you made it till here, I applaud your tenacity. I know this was an exhausting post to read, but it was an even exhausting post to write. This album speaks to me immensely, and has also informed my personal philosophy, and so means a lot to me. I hope that someday, sometime, someplace, this album speaks to you too, in ways similar and different from mine - Atharv.
On one of the most eccentric yet most loved indie bands - the Jeff Mangum-led Neutral Milk Hotel.
Everything about Neutral Milk Hotel lies in the realm of the eccentric.
Take their name for example - three words from the English language which even a randomised word generator would find difficult to bring together.
Or the fact that they disbanded soon after ballooning into popularity (following the release of their second and final album 'In The Aeroplane Over The Sea')due to Jeff Mangum's nervous breakdown. Mangum, it seemed, was alienated from his music because of the attention he was getting, and took to being a recluse instead of embracing the fandom.
Not to mention that their music is some of the oddest you'll ever experience. Like a curio at a museum which can only be gawked at in awe but never be comprehended.
Listen to this, the 2 min opening track of In The Aeroplane Over The Sea. It's called 'The King Of Carrot Flowers, part 1' and talks about moms sticking forks into dads' shoulders and dads dreaming of different ways to die. Don't look at me like that, I told you NMH were nutcases right from the start.
This is either madness... or brilliance, isn't it?
It's remarkable how often these two traits coincide. (Jack Sparrow would concur)
This is exactly how I felt after listening to all of 'In The Aeroplane Over The Sea.' This was either the work of an advanced genius or that of an utter bonghead. NMH were either out of their minds or simply ahead of their time. How about both? Okay? Okay.
NMH's debut 'On Avery Island' did justice to their eccentricity, but not their musical ability. It was soft, fuzzy music with strange, silly lyrics expressing surreal, cryptic ideas - but it wasn't coherent enough, it wasn't chaotic enough, it wasn't emotionally mature enough. It wasn't Mangum-ish enough.
It did produce this gem of a song, though. (Lyrics)
Not that coherence and chaos are complementary, or that emotion and depth are demanded of soft, silly music to begin with. Ostensibly, we are dealing with opposites here. The oddball mind, or rather the astute genius of Jeff Mangum did however bring all of these qualities out in the musical roller-coaster that is In The Aeroplane Over The Sea, NMH's masterpiece.
Essentially a concept album (though what the concept is is anybody's guess), the album's 11 songs are flush with everything that On Avery Island lacked. Lo-fi fuzz rock - driven by rich acoustic guitars playing no more than 4 simple chords and incorporating musical saws, trumpets, accordions and horns. A marching band on an acid trip. Fueled by the indomitable Mangum's raw emotive energy that envelops, comforts and impassions you like a snuggly eiderdown. The lyrics packaged in these irresistible melodies are cryptic yet accessible, nonsensical yet meaningful, bizarre yet familiar. Classic Mangum, classic Neutral Milk Hotel.
Thematically, Aeroplane talks about the light anguishes of adolescence, fleetingness of life or just about anything in the universe. It all depends on how you view Mangum's view of the world. The lyrics do however make a lot of references to the legendary Anne Frank. Indeed, legend has it that one fine day Jeff Mangum read The Diary Of Anne Frank and was moved like never before.
"I would go to bed every night and have dreams about having a time machine and somehow I'd have the ability to move through time and space freely, and save Anne Frank. Do you think that's embarrassing?" - Mangum in an interview with Puncture Magazine
Aeroplane is essentiallythe product of Mangum's romanticism of Anne Frank. The love child of Mangum and Anna's ghost, if I may and if you will.
Having said that, trying to give meaning to any of these 11 songs is an exercise in futility. We are touring Mangum's universe in a synthetic flying machine, guided by the man himself. A world wrapped in gold silver sleeves, covered in semen-stained mountaintops where it is strange to be anything at all. Mangum's imagery is ridiculous (With pulleys and weights / creating a radio played just for two / In the parlor with a moon across her face), sometimes depressing (The only girl I've ever loved / was born with roses in her eyes / but then they buried her alive) and totally out of this world (God is a place / Where some holy spectacle lies) but undeniably beautiful. Tugging at, playing with the fragility of our heartstrings. Soft, silly music IS meaningful, magical.
Neutral Milk Hotel haven't released anything original since Aeroplane, have reunited a few times and rare Jeff Mangum sightings at obscure places are reported once a while. For all we know, Mangum is busy building his time machine to save Anne Frank from the clutches of the Nazis (or has he already done so?).
Here's In The Aeroplane Over The Sea in its curious entirety. Enjoy!
