I’ve been paying some additional listens to Radiohead’s most recent effort, The King of Limbs, released (in a guerrilla-like fashion) about a year ago. I already wrote about this album, pretty much upon its release, but the passage of time allows me a new perspective, which warrants another post, in my eyes. Besides, since whoever is reading this is, as far as I am concerned, a total figment of my imagination, I think I can afford some flack from my imaginary readership.

I use the word “effort” as a figure of speech, since it seems like there was very little effort put into this album. Well, maybe that’s unfair, the album is as meticulously crafted as any in Radiohead’s long and rather glorious discography, perhaps even more precise and focused than their previous album, In Rainbows, which had some haphazard charm to it, having been recorded over a long period and apparently with great pain and difficulty (but then again, almost every record that Radiohead recorded since OK Computer has been described by various sources as a fairly traumatic experience for the band, from the Kid A/Amnesiac sessions, through Hail to The Thief and In Rainbows, so I’m beginning to think this is more than just a phase this band is going through).

No, when I say there was little effort put into this album, I mean that though it is very focused, and is a wonderful example of just how well Radiohead (along with 6th band member across the mixing board, Nigel Godrich) can create and control atmospheres and moods, it has little to offer in the way of discovery and exploration. This is Radiohead, confidently piloting through familiar ground, digging deeper and deeper into patterns and sonic settings they’ve already established.

Many musicians throughout history have reached this phase. Some start off from it immediately, some take a long while to enter it, but many, if not most, do. It’s the point when you stop searching for new ground and you start setting deeper and deeper roots within a familiar one. Consequently, it’s the phase where musicians get increasingly more comfortable in a certain niche. I, for one, prefer my artists uncomfortable, I think it usually leads to more interesting art. I prefer Steve Reich’s early experimentation with looping techniques during the mid 60s over his later, more established work in the 70s and the 80s. I prefer Ligeti’s lean and pioneering work in the 60s over his later work as canon-master for the new age (see his etudes for piano, for instance). I prefer Frank Zappa’s daring masterpieces from the late 60s and the early 70s over any of his later work. And I prefer Radiohead struggling to find new frontiers and conquer them, to Radiohead pleasantly cruising along familiar paths (though very few acts can steer along a beaten path as elegantly and as imaginatively as Radiohead).

I think what made it click for me was watching this Youtube video, of Radiohead playing Bloom live. It actually works pretty well. Radiohead have always been a band driven to a great extent by their amazing and fairly singular musicianship and chemistry as a live band (see here, as Radiohead perform - not really cover - a Smiths song. The fact that they’re a really proficient five man band enable them to perform live things that Johnny Mar had to overdub several times in a studio). Nigel Godrich’s greatness is, in many ways, finding the alchemy that allows this synergy between Radiohead’s sound as a live band and their studio work, that translates one form of the art into another, pushing the evolution of both.

I really like TKoL. It has 2-3 really great tracks, and many interesting ideas and moments. But somewhere, somehow, I feel it shies away from the true challenge Radiohead faced. At the moment when they had to choose whether to stay comfortable or push their boundaries and feel uncomfortable again, they opted for comfort. It’s their right. And the result isn’t inferior in any way. It’s interesting. Had it been a side project, for instance, I’m sure it would have gained much greater support (I can see the quotes, “Radiohead take their playing farther in different directions”, “free jazz influences meshed with electronica” etc). But it’s just not interesting enough or evocative enough, sadly, for a group of people who’ve set the bar so high during their previous albums. I guess what I find most curious is that for well over a decade, Radiohead have opted to steer away from obvious pretension, toning down their ambitions. Of course, an album like Hail to the Thief would only be considered “modest” if the band in question were Radiohead, because even in their least pretentious, they are a band of grand schemes, who take themselves extremely seriously (in the studio, not so much outside of it, to the ire of the hipster community, who seem to like their artists the other way around). But still, one simply cannot compare the unbridled ambition of OK Computer and Kid A (with Amnesiac as an addendum of sorts rather than an autonomous piece) to that in Hail to the Thief and In Rainbows. And now, with albums like The King of Limbs. Upon its release, it was hailed (by some) as a return to the Kid A days. Not so. Not by a long shot. It’s the same kind of moderate ambition, and the same kind of stomping on familiar grounds). I guess I’m not in a position to judge, its their right to do whatever interests them, but there’s something almost self indulgent about it. What I wonder mostly, is when they’d have enough, when they’d be fed up with hiking along the hills and feel that urge to take on Mount Everest again. I very much doubt Thom Yorke or Johnny Greenwood genuinely believe this is their best work to date, and I very much doubt they got into the studio thinking they needed to top themselves this time. And that’s fair, and I’ve already stated when I first wrote about this album that an artist’s journey needn’t be a linear succession of ever greater achievements. Artists have the right to meander. In fact, they should meander. But still, when someone you think is truly great stands by the foothills of a daunting ridge, watching them meander around it, carefree, rather than dare conquer it, can be a bit upsetting. So I guess what I am saying is this - Radiohead, I respect your choices, but I really wish you still had that burning desire to make truly great albums again.

Thanks for reading, imaginary readership.

Elad

I’ve postponed writing about this album for far too long, but I guess it’s only natural - writing about your heroes is hard. So, let’s set this text in the proper context (warning - long winded exposition ahead. If you have no patience, I suggest you skip to the next paragraph :-) ). The gradual formation of my musical consciousness can be divided (somewhat reductively) into three major geographic epochs: basking in classical innocence, discovering Pink Floyd and subsequently delving into the depths of progressive rock, and, finally, discovering pavement, and all that followed. After that, musical crushes came and went, some of them bands I will admire always (Grizzly Bear, TV on the Radio, and many more), some of them circulated in the vicinity of my CD player for a while but were eventually, inevitably forgotten (Cake, Hefner, Tame Impala, to name a few). But after that third, all-important period, the way I think about music - my musical ideology, if you will - pretty much stayed the same. When I was around 17, I remember liking Nirvana and Blur, in a somewhat casual way, but most of what I listened to was classical music and progressive rock (shameful, I know, but I have to say in my defense that most of what I listened to back then I still consider good - Pink Floyd, King Crimson, early Genesis stuff, Gentle Giant, Soft Machine. That kind of stuff. My taste wandered quite far, in general, but I may still enjoy a listen or too once in a while). Then, I met a girl (that’s usually what happens, right?). Half her hair was black, the other half bleached blonde, she wore only black, and listened solely to indie rock (kind of a goth-indie hybrid, really, well before her time in a sense). Sort of eager to impress her, and also curious to know what the fuss was all about, I somehow got a hold of Slanted and Enchanted. By Pavement. Somehow, quite weirdly, I guess, in a purely revelatory way, I listened to it in a loop for nearly two weeks. The only time that happened to me before was when I was 11, and discovered The Piper at the Gates of Dawn and Dark Side of the Moon, pretty much at the same time (they were the two sides of a double cassette…For those born after 1990 - it’s OK not to know what these are ;-).

But I digress. Anyway, discovering Pavement brought about an epiphany - this was the music I should be listening to. That I am meant to listen to. Complication isn’t complexity, and complexity isn’t  creativity, virtuosity isn’t content, innovation and style and charm are more important than proficiency (well, I guess it defends on how you define proficiency - I refer to proficiency in it’s classical sense, not the kind of proficiency that makes guitarists like Joey Santiago great). My exposure to indie rock revealed a lot of of prog rock’s vanities for what they were - form over content, ego over purpose, quantity (in instruments, notes and minutes) over quality. My perception of beauty effectively changed. I was no longer impressed with technical proficiency for its own sake. After that, several other acts followed to deepen this idea in my mind - Sonic Youth, Beck, The Pixies, Radiohead, Blonde Redhead, countless others - but Pavement will always be the first. My first. And whenever I’m asked what my favorite band is, I have no doubts as I answer, immediately, “Pavement”.

Two years ago, I went to see Pavement, live, in London, during a rare, one-off reunion tour (don’t worry, I’m getting to the end of my long-winded exposition). I remember that apart from the tears of joy and excitement, finally seeing my heroes live after all these years, I also felt some mild disappointment at Malkmus’ clear emotional detachment from the whole thing. There was a jarring dissonance between how thrilled I felt, and how dispassionate Malkmus was about this moment in space and time. Later, a friend with better connections told me he got to hang with the band for a few minutes backstage before the show started, and that Malkmus was mostly talking about how much being in a band was like being in prison and how much he hated this tour. 

And it makes you wonder - is that really how Stephen Malkmus feels about his band, this great band who’s written a fine page in the history of rocknroll? Whose music inspired so many people in the last two decades, and would probably continue to inspire many more? I ask these questions because while Malkmus stated he was so eager to get away from this reincarnated band membership hell, he went back to complete probably his most Pavementesque album ever, as a solo artist. That pendulum stroke was somewhat expected. Malkmus has followed a very predictable pattern in his solo career thus far - one indie album chock-full of quirky pop tunes of the kind he is renowned for, followed by a 70s inspired psychedelic rock homage, with 10+ minutes long freak-out jam sessions and fuzz distortions to boot. I kind of like it that Malkmus feels the need to express these two sides of his creative spirit. Malkmus is an idiosyncratic amalgam of extremes - minimalistic low-fi indifference met with 70s art rock swagger, a penchant for off-kilter guitar work interlaced with a gift for small, perfect pop gems. What’s interesting is that somehow the Pavement setting induced reality-bending powers that allowed these contradictions not only to merge but thrive, combined. But the moment Malkmus went on his own, his different sides became more distinct and less intermixed. Hence the pattern discussed earlier - ever more crystallized, anecdotal pop morsels (of the type his eponymous debut is rife with), vs. extravagant 70s art rock blowouts (of the type Real Emotional Trash is rife with).

Which leads us, finally, to Mirror Traffic. I know Malkmus started working on this album before the reunion tour, but still, the ghostly effigy of his musical alma mater hovers above this album to such an extent, that writing it off as mere coincidence seems unlikely. Whether Malkmus is trying to reconcile with his musical past or vies to compete with it, I do not know, nor will I ever know. Perhaps it’s just that this 45 year old father of two wanted to prove to himself that he still could manufacture that unlikely mix of contradictions that made his classic work in the 90s so captivating. The opening tune, Tigers, sounds vaguely reminiscent of the Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain days, whereas the folksy follow-up would have found its place on Terror Twilight (had you added the lush Nigel Godrich production). But “Senator”, the great, shambolic lead single (that actually took me a few listens to sort of figure out, with it’s ominous nihilist message), that reveals its true colors - in looseness of form, and its chaotic feel, this album proves closer to the Wowie Zowie days than to any of Malkmus’ other musical efforts thus far. Of course, it’s different, more mature, less wild. It has some really great songs, such as “Asking Price”, a beautiful tune, whose wonderful melodic properties overcome a relatively weak chorus, and problematic lyrics; the bluesy “All Over Gently”; and the charming “Fair Away”, a classic Malkmus song, probably written in five minutes, and its this kind of effortlessness that makes it so charming. I’m a bit hesitant to rank Malkmus’ solo albums, I like them all in complicated ways, but I think that all in all, Mirror Traffic is probably one of Malkmus’ best solo albums, if not the strongest, by virtue of its relative cohesiveness, its deliberately sloppy (and yet mystically precise) production, that hearkens to the glory days, and Malkmus’ songcraft, which seems to have reached a local peak at this album, to be sure.

I have to say, it’s curious that while produced by a peer of such distinct style and musical language as Beck (of whom I should elaborate further sometime, he’s really a fascinating case study), his signature touch is hardly noticeable. It mostly feels like he was there to facilitate Malkmus’ ambitions and not get in the way. I respect that, but I really think that Beck’s presence could have been more significant, both editorially and production-wise. It could have led to far more interesting results. It might not have been so Pavement-like then, but I don’t need new albums sounding like old Pavement albums. I want new albums sounding like new things alltogether. Pavement taught me that.

Thank you, my imaginary readership,

Elad

OK, a few quick things.

First of all, apologies to my (fervent, I’m sure) readership, for not writing for so long. I’ve been so ridiculously busy. But now I am back (sort of - courtesy of a generous academic scholarship that enables me not to work as I finish my MSc). So a few quick links.

First of all, this. I’m not an American (though I will be spending my next 4-6 years in the US, it seems, I’m not sure where yet, I need to decide. It’s a rich man’s problem to have options). But either way, one needs to live on a consistent diet of the E! Channel and Dancing with the Stars/American Idol etc in order to avoid knowing who Mitt Romney is. If you do, and are aware to even 5% of the things he said and/or were said about him, you will find this hysterical. Also, really nicely done.

(Jon Stewart rightly commented that Mitt Romney does indeed look like he’d just got off the Monopoly board…)

Secondly, I can only hope you know Daniel Rossen of Grizzly Bear and Department of Eagles fame. Anyway, bask in the glory of this. No additional words necessary.

Last but not least, I’ve been sick for the last few days. And this morning I found myself by the piano playing some Chopin. Playing this while wheezing and coughing seems oddly befitting, I guess (considering Chopin’s inevitable date with fate, having suffered from tuberculosis). It also amuses me to think how Chopin would have reacted, had he been told that most of my generation (and probably the generations directly before and after me) would mostly recognize the theme as what’s played when Digger dies. I guess he would have been amused. And possibly equally horrified. I think he would have liked the idea of a computer. Judging by his penchant for unique sonic effects, at least.

More to follow soon!

Take care, mes amis!

Elad

Enjoy your “democracy”, people. It’s working out great, isn’t it? ;-)

Hello again, imaginary readership.

There are a couple of good reasons for this post. First of all, I haven’t posted anything in a few months, I don’t even remember exactly how many, and it doesn’t seem to matter, but a really long while has passed, and secodnly, I’m cramming (read as “trying to cram but instead watching the last installment of Community”) for a rather stressful exam, and the only thing to cheer me up is The Kinks Are The Village Green Preservation Society, and I felt the sudden (rare) need to share this with the world, i.e., you :-)

(The original cover is horrible, and there’s something pleasant and weirdly befitting in this back cover)

It sounds a bit weird to call the Kinks underrated, I mean, they are commonly acknowledged as one of the greatest bands of all time, and Ray Davies is often hailed as one of the greatest songwriters in his generation, but still, having had the misfortune of sharing the British invasion with bands like the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, the Kinks are often overlooked and cast aside in popular culture. The best telltale both for the Kinks’ greatness and their relative obscurity is the following phenomenon - if you hear a “Sixtiesy” sounding little gem on the radio, a great little tune you are unfamiliar with, it is most likely to be a song by the Kinks (check it out - it rarely fails!).

So, without further ado, I present thee with “The Kinks Are The Village Green Preservation Society”. Released in 1968, after a relatively rough patch for the band, it was the last to feature the Kinks in their original lineup, and is probably their finest album, and in my book, one of the greatest albums of all time (…and not just in my book, obviously - Rolling Stone rated it 255th in their list of 500 greatest albums of all time. I would have easily rated it in my top 50, if not higher). A concept album of sorts, it revolves around nostalgic themes and scenic images from the countryside, a choice of concept material that justifies its generally sweet and poppy tone, but at the same time, it’s a cutting edge collection of killer songs, meticulously crafted and honed to perfection - in a hundred years, when they’ll be teaching music analysis of what we today refer to as “popular music”, this album would make one of the best study cases, it’s a textbook for songwriting. And while the songs constantly maintain their accessibility (the kinks were never prone to the experimentation of the Beatles or the “bad boys” attitude of the Stones), there’s always something clever and subversive about them, gently reminding us that nostalgia is inherently false (and indeed, Ray Davies grew up in London, and by lamenting a life he’s never really had, he is cleverly implying how affected and fake this whole thing is). From the somber shuffle of the opening track, to the perfect harmonic progressions in “Do You Remember Walter?”, through the classic “Big Sky”, a perfect song in every sense of the phrase, the upbeat charm of “Picture Book” - really, nothing short of “perfect” is enough to describe this album, in my eyes (as an aside, the opening of “Walter” is so closely reminiscent of ELO’s “Mr. Blue Sky”, that one cannot wonder how direct an inspiration Jeff Lynne took from that album - a lot, I’m pretty sure. Especially considering one the finest songs in Village Green is Big Sky, which, by the way, gained some renown in the indie community when Yo La Tengo covered it - more of a tribute than a proper cover, in the sense that they barely changed the arrangement). 

So, go and check it out, go and get to know the Kinks, they were a truly great band, and keep listening to great music. It’s what’s keeping me sane (sort of) - maybe it’ll work for you guys too! (And now I’m off to try and study again…)

Take care, imaginary friends,

E.

I’m trying to shuffle my way back into a blogging routine of some sort. It is not easy. Not only because it’s time consuming, but because it’s getting harder to muster the energy to do it. Because it somehow feels less rewarding to share than I had thought.

Still, sometimes it still comes, that urge. Like now. A couple of days ago Bob Dylan played here. I didn’t go to that show because it was too expensive and because of Dylan’s problematic reputation as a performer. Also, I guess, because I am a bit ambivalent about my feelings towards Dylan. Surely, he’s great, he’s responsible for some of the greatest albums of the 20th century, but personally, I’ve always had a hard time connecting with his persona. There are some albums of his that I used to listen to quite a bit, however, and his visit here made me revisit them, figuratively speaking, only to discover that I still hold them quite dear. One of them, not necessarily dearest of all, but very dear, is Blood on the Tracks.

It’s hard to explain the exact allure this album has on me, I guess it’s that blend of the rich, warm 70s production sound contrasted by the very personal and very minimalist writing, or how the album doles out tenderness and vitriol in equal measures. But then again, these two are relatively constant in Dylan’s career. I guess maybe it’s just that it contains some of my favorite Dylan songs (even though in that respect I think I like Highway 61 Revisited and Blonde on Blonde somewhat better, but listening to them again, there was something genuinely more touching about Blood on the Tracks than these other two).

Dylan doesn’t need my commendation, really, and I think this album is probably the most canonical piece of music to be on this spot (even McCartney’s solo albums are more off the beaten track - no pun intended - than this one). But I don’t particularly care, and I’ve never been one to partake in the hipster obliqueness competition (i.e. the more off-kilter and obscure a band is, the cooler it is to sport a fancy for them).

But, of course, while half of me honestly believed what I just wrote there, the other half was lying through its teeth - I totally adore obliqueness :-) So to counter Dylan (probably the most famous single musician still living), allow me to present Night Club by The Yummy Fur.

The Yummy Fur were a Scottish indie band that operated around Glasgow during the 90s, and besides being a decent indie band in their own right, their legacy also includes being a spiritual mother of sorts for the renowned Franz Ferdinand (Both Paul Thomson and Alex Kapranos were members of the Yummy Fur). But the Yummy Fur is definitely not Franz Ferdinand. Replace the melodic and elegant charm with a weird, off kilter bubblegum pop attitude, take out the Gang-of-Fourish disco fused beats and replace them with low-fi old school garage influences, take the angular guitars and multiply them by five, and that’s what The Yummy Fur is, compared to Franz Ferdinand. Certainly not everyone’s cup of tea, with short, bizarre indie vignettes heavily influenced by The Fall (especially noticeable on songs like Chelovek), but personally, I think they’re great, and this album has something very fresh about it, with its lean, low-tech production and its dry, jagged sound. Also, I have a fetish for Scottish accents, and frontman John McKeown’s accent is so thick, it’s like having one of the lead characters from Trainspotting record an indie album. What’s possibly not to love? :-)

Elad

Well hello to you all, my imaginary readership. I have missed you guys too.

After a long bout of silence (mainly caused by sickness, then five weeks abroad, then end-of-semester craziness - still ongoing - in that order), I have decided to rejoin the active tumblr community. 

So, I don’t have time to write anything elaborate at the moment (ongoing craziness etc…), but I do have time for one musical recommendation, for those of you who haven’t heard of her yet, allow me to present to you tUnE-yArDs(the very talented Merrill Garbus, as her parents call her - so I assume). Instead of spewing out words on how great she is, just check out these links:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YqV5KzbNYIQ

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YQ1LI-NTa2s

Anyway, gotta run, but I will check in more often, I promise.

E.

Day by day, that’s my motto for now, trying to withstand each day at a time. If I make it to the 10th of April, I think things would calm down a bit, and I could go back to normal (“normal” being my usual meandering self, I miss having free time to spend on inconsequential things).

Anyway, for today’s musical excursion we go boldly deep into avant-garde territories, with Big Science, Laurie Anderson’s debut album from 1982.

This album, which represents both the culmination and the summation of the musical language Anderson had developed for her installation art in the late seventies, is a rare moment of intersection between modern classical music, the mainstream (you know, those guys who actually buy records, or to be more exact, used to buy records, before the downloading era), and the moonstricken, off-kilter outskirts of what is often contemptuously referred to as “popular music” by academics and classicists alike.

O Superman, an eight and something long masterpiece, is in many respects the pivot and the focal point of the entire album. It relies on a Steve-Reich-like ostinato, vocoder manipulations, minimalist harmonic transitions (straight out of the Phillip Glass playbook), and Laurie Anderson’s mesmerizing, half-sung, half-spoken delivery. It is still a bit astounding, nearly 30 years later, how this song became a mini-hit (mostly in England, but to some extent in the US as well), serving as an entry point into public consciousness for Anderson and for Big Science. It is even more astounding when you take into account that O Superman is a free-spirited cover of sorts to the aria Ô Souverain, ô juge, ô père from the opera Le Cid by Massenet. So how the hell this Anderson person, strolling carefree across the spectrum between Massenet and Phil Glass, proto-electronica and late seventies avant-garde, managed to obtain such an influence? Perhaps it’s her poppy charms, that Anderson knows how to inject even to the most bizarre of experimentations, or perhaps because both French post-romanticism and 1960s minimalist avant-garde are, in one way or another, rather pleasant and accessible, in essence? It is unclear, but whatever Anderson did back then, she kept doing “it”, and by “it” I don’t mean replicating the same kind of music – au contraire, she kept reinventing herself and her approach in a way that’s truly artistic and inspiring, continuously traversing the semantically ambiguous terrain between genres and frames of reference, and one can only admire her artistic integrity and her devotion.

Big Science itself is a fascinating, albeit demanding experience, its elements consistently observable, but at the same time defying categorization – ranging from the proto-futuristic, electronic experience, the perception of the synthetic, genuine pop, and experimentalism (but being able to break her own mold, thanks to her sharp instincts – by introducing a drum set and a bagpipe in Sweaters, for instance). It can be meditative and almost soothing at times, but it never indulges the listener, so patience is required. Not everybody’s cup of tea, for sure, but definitely worth your while.

Hold on, my phantom readers, and take care.

Elad

I try to resurface every now and then and post something even though I’m undergoing a rough spell, still recovering from illness on top of it. And today, the lovely posthumous classic Dock of the Bay, by Otis Redding.

Otis Redding died a mere month after his 26th birthday. That is, far far too young. But he manage to record some seriously significant stuff in his short career. Dock of the Bay, the first release of his music after his death, compiles some b-sides recorded between 1965 and 1967, along with some songs he had just recording (including the eponymous title song), which illustrate his great evolution as a songwriter, from a “classic” soul-blues performer to a gifted and introspective writer. The airplane crash that ended his career (something of an understatement) also ended this fascinating process prematurely, but we can still appreciate Otis Redding’s fine achievements in the mid-60s.The production of the album is nothing short of perfect - sexy Motown soul with an awesome guitar sound, elegant bass lines and powerful brass back up. Though deeply rooted in soul, Otis flirts (heavy petting style) with rocknroll (as evident in songs like Come On Home or the wonderful closer Ole Man Trouble), which complements the album greatly and adds a certain edge to it. The only problem is the brevity of the album, which barely lasts half an hour, but that’s OK - you can hear it on repeat at least 6-7 times, from my experience :-) Enjoy.

Elad

I’m alive!

Well, sort of. Still sick, but at least my fever broke down. By the way, if you ever develop pneumonia, try to avoid giving two hour long lectures about algorithms for structural alignment of proteins (I never follow my own advice though).

So, to celebrate, an album I am quite fond of - The Warning by Hot Chip, from 2006.

Still, it’s submissions week, so I’ll keep it shorter than usual, but I will try to be more consistent with my posts (well, I know, it’s not like I owe you anything, but I get this way once I assume something on myself, real or imaginary).

So, what can I say about Hot Chip? Hot Chip, along with TV on the Radio (look them up) define the “new sound” that to a great extent dominated the indie scene in the second half of the 2000s (or “the naughts” as I’ve seen them called a couple of times, I kind of like it :-) ). And indeed, while the album is mostly electronic, its clear indie-oriented underpinnings are constantly showing. To use more “academic” terms, while the morphology belongs to the world of electronica, the syntax and the essence are totally withing the indie-rock realm. And so, Hot Chip’s music relies (again, much like TV on the Radio) on contrasts - clever and yet straightforward, totally off-kilter and yet poppy and melodic. And the songs themselves are full of charm, from the subversive “over and over” to the delicate grace of “boy from school”, there’s a certain air of elegance, thoughtfulness and deliberation in this album that makes it a very effective, very coherent, very engrossing experience.

And now, back to furtively doing school stuff while my boss isn’t watching :-)

Elad