CMX - Cloaca Maxima (1997)

CD1 (Physis): 1) Ainomieli '97; 2) Nimetön; 3) Kultanaamio; 4) Nahkaparturi; 5) Nainen tanssii tangoa; 6) Vallat ja väet; 7) Kirosäkeet; 8) Suljettu astia; 9) Elokuun kruunu; 10) Rautakantele; 11) Hiki; 12) Manalainen; 13) Kätketty kukka; 14) Linnunhammas; 15) Marian ilmestys
CD2 (Aetheris): 1) Hiljaisuuteen; 2) Ruoste; 3) Helvetin hyvä paimen; 4) Talviunia; 5) Turkoosi; 6) Veden ääri; 7) Aura; 8) Pelasta maailma; 9) Tähteinvälinen '97; 10) Tulikiveä; 11) Yöllisiä; 12) Mikään ei vie sitä pois; 13) Yö ei ole pimeä päivä; 14) Talvipäivänseisaus
CD3 (Astralis): 1) Musiikin ystävälliset kasvot '97; 2) Katariinanpyörä (Akustinen); 3) Siivekäs; 4) Hyvä tahto; 5) Joet; 6) Aamutähti '97; 7) Keskellä; 8) Marmori; 9) Seittemän Jeesusta; 10) Riitti; 11) Saatana; 12) Pimeä maa (Live); 13) Näkyjen pitelijä; 14) Shakti; 15) Reuna

A summarised chronicle of the first six albums and the assorted b-sides and rarities; and the particularly exciting new songs tucked away.

Key tracks: Out of the new and "new" songs - "Ainomieli '97", "Siivekäs", "Saatana"

CMX have made it a habit to close chapters of their story through the Cloaca Maxima compendiums, and the very first arrived at a particularly relevant time: drummer Pekka Kanniainen had left the band per mutual agreement by the time the compilation was out (his final recordings with CMX are here), which naturally left CMX reflecting on where they were and how they'd got there. They had been cult underdog punks who had somehow turned into national hitmakers, and the stylistic chaos of Discopolis had stirred the pot so that the next steps the temporary trio would take were still unclear both to everyone and themselves. The three discs of Cloaca Maxima act as the chronicles of that strange journey from the gritty beginning to the present: the first two collect together the singles and favourite album cuts, split between the louder, rowdier and more direct songs on disc 1 and slower, prettier and stranger ones on disc 2, while the third disc presents b-sides, previously unreleased recordings and brand new songs. Thorough and sprawling, it acts as the full stop for their first lifecycle before moving onto the next.

The third disc is going to be the big point of interest for most people who listen to this compilation at this point, so let's tackle that first. From a b-side perspective CMX weren't at this stage particularly wild with the format, and so the third CD largely consists of direct outtakes from their parent albums and it's clear why some of these weren't considered strong enough to make it to the actual records in the end. That isn't to say they're disappointing songs (only the largely pointless live version of "Pimeä maa" and thoroughly by-the-numbers "Hyvä tahto" go there), but any b-side maniac looking for that next hidden gem is unlikely to find many here. That said, there are some particularly delectable rarities here: the acoustic version of "Katariinanpyörä" is better than the original album version, the bonkers "Seittemän jeesusta" seems to be created out of elements from completely different songs (that bass groove with that acoustic picking and those odd electic guitar interjections?) and thoroughly stands out from the crowd, and "Saatana" tricks the listener with its acoustic first half before it unleashes its skeletal beat, off-kilter flute flourishes and a hell of a chorus which could've been on a single in itself. The re-recording of the early EP cut "Musiikin ystävälliset kasvot" which starts the third disc is effectively here to canonise one of their best early songs as part of the contemporary CMX lore, with the arrangement of the original version retained but everything else beefed up, and so the song is objectively improved as its maniac rock gets some muscles under it. The same goes for the re-recording of Aurinko's "Ainomieli" which receives its official coronation as one of the band's greats after being almost dismissed from its parent album in fear of being too commercial - now, here, it's showered with the respect it deserves and gets a similar faithful boost in performance and production which makes it the definitive version of the song (and it was also finally released as a single to promote the compilation). The other two 1997 re-takes across the three discs are on the other hand much less impressive: "Tähteinvälinen" has been given a new mix with a little more edge but it's still a semi-awkward song, and the brand new (and so thoroughly 1990s) trip hop -esque remix of "Aamutähti" is not a patch on the original and really shouldn't be here taking away its spot

The actual highlights are instead in the brand new songs - five in total, but three in particular. Following directly from Discopolis CMX have continued to flirt with electronic elements (and the prevalent use of drum machines could be seen as the band experimenting around without a drummer, given the circumstances), but the spirit of these songs is closer to the somber and graceful Rautakantele; "Joet" in fact is a Rautakantele outtake that wasn't finished in time for the album and which was now finally given the chance to get recorded. "Siivekäs", "Joet" and "Marmori" are bound together by their slower tempos, acoustic guitars guiding the rhythm and the gorgeous string arrangements that act as the dominant element of each song, with atypically longing and romantic lyrics from Yrjänä - all very Rautakantele, but the first two still retaining the programmed drums and synthesizer swerves of the directly preceding album. The gentle "Joet" and the more CMX-leaning guitar walls of "Marmori" are both beautiful songs in their own right, but "Siivekäs" is the gem of the entire compilation - it leans so heavily into its synthetic elements that it could be considered CMX's take on synth pop, and within the atmospheric production and breathtaking strings lies a truly phenomenal song full of pathos, emotion and stand-out melodic bliss. It's a strange creature which sounds both classic at first sight and yet even now almost subversive for the band, but above all it's an all-time great for the band - a swooning, epic, beautiful creature out of sync with everything else on the compilation but which rivals the very best the past albums had to offer. "Shakti" and "Piste" which close the compilation are on the other hand more direct Discopolis remnants, with "Shakti" a deranged clipshow of a quasi-dance song composed out of segments left on the editing room floor and "Piste" acting as its detached outro - they're not a patch on the other three songs and they'll never be anything but curios for the fans (and obvious disc filler), but in the right mindset can be a strange amount of fun.

As far as the actual Best Of portion of Cloaca Maxima goes, it does serve the purpose of really putting it into perspective how exciting CMX could be across their first six albums. The band's first decade was an uneven ride where inconsistency was often the norm and so while the first two discs represent a rather cleaned-up version of the discography so far with the dodgy bits polished off, it also highlights perfectly why those albums are worth a visit because there's so many great moments scattered across them. The selection isn't perfect (where's "G"? The "Aamutähti" remix?) and it skews strongly towards the trilogy of hit records from Aura onwards: the debut album Kolmikärki is only represented by a single song ("Nahkaparturi", which is a fine representation of it at least), though it is explained in the extensive liner notes that the band struggled to pair up the shoddy sound quality of the early ears next to to the more professionally recorded follow-ups. Even with the quirks, it's hard to deny just how solid the run of songs across both discs is and especially so on the non-stop rock and roll fierceness of the first disc, with a hit after hit after an obscure album cut which doesn't pale all in comparison to the canon classics. Despite the uneven weighting between the six albums and the scattered early EPs, the selection that did make the cut do represent all the sides of this era of CMX accurately and they work so tightly as a set of songs (the flow from the hymnal "Hiljaisuuteen" to the gentle "Ruoste" is actually ingenius) that even an established fan can get a kick out of listening to this once in a while. As an added bonus, and if you know Finnish, the liner notes feature Yrjänä's nutshell thoughts on each song ranging from interesting trivia and anecdotes to delightfully Nordic bluntness ("A song where I got quite close to what I wanted", he so elaborately writes on "Talvipäivänseisaus"). 

The first Cloaca Maxima feels particularly poignant given the sheer amount of development CMX went through during its timeframe, how Kanniainen's departure gave the band a natural sequence break and how from the next album (and the next drummer) onward they really did feel like CMX 2.0. This, then, is the summarised chronicle of CMX's successes so far, a reminder of how they became one of Finland's most influential rock acts. In the playlist age it's often easy to forget how compilations like these were often treated like important milestones for artists, in particular whenever actual care was taken during the drafting process - and Cloaca Maxima really does feel like the well deserved rest at the winner's podium after the first race.

Rating: 8/10

Physical corner: The three discs are stored in a "chubby" style multi-CD jewel case, which gives it that extra physical impression and suits the chapter-defining archival nature of the selection. The liner notes, as detailed before, contain Yrjänä's descriptions on each song and all the lyrics for the third disc.

Kent - Isola (1997)

1) Livräddären; 2) Om du var här; 3) Saker man ser; 4) Oprofessionel; 5) OWC; 6) Celsius; 7) Bianca; 8) Innan allting tar slut; 9) Elvis; 10) Glider; 11) 747

The first real Kent album. Moody guitars, walls of sound and classic anthems.

Key tracks: "Livräddären", "Saker man ser", "747"

In the liner notes for the box set Box 1991-2008, frontman Jocke Berg describes Isola as Kent's "first real album". It's an accurate nutshell of a description. Kent's first two records were a decent introduction and Verkligen in particular already had some genuinely great parts to its name, but both were rushed out by a band who were still learning. By the time the Isola sessions started, Kent had the experience to start expanding their horizons and they were more in tune of what worked and what didn't. In a more practical fashion, the surprise success of the last record had granted the band a proper studio budget and their new record ended up being produced by Zed, who'd click with the band so well he'd become a regular fixture with the group for a good while. Those same liner notes also mention that the band’s general line of thought at the time was that it was perfectly fine to be ambitious and to treat the band as something with a real future, instead of sticking to some pre-conceived notion of being a scruffy grassroots indie band forever. So, with the options available to them and with the sense of progress they themselves felt they had made, Kent decided to transform themselves into what they fantasised they could be. It worked.

Kent's sound until now had been indebted to the particularly melancholy strain of 90s Britrock, which itself was in the process of transitioning from the swooping Britpop-era anthems into the anxiety of the OK Computer-driven end years of the decade, and Isola tapped into the sweet Venn diagram spot right between the two: there's strings and there's hope as the band build themselves louder with each chorus, but a tinge of Scandinavian sadness trails underneath it all. That particular concoction clicked with the general public. For the benefit of the non-Nordics in the audience, it's perhaps important to note that Isola was a big album. The lead single "Om du var här" was almost omnipresent in Finland, and I can't even imagine how huge it must have been in Kent's native Sweden - it's a big, dramatic, string-laden angst anthem that sounds custom built for purpose to serve as an introductionary statement, that the scrawny punks of the first two albums had grown up. It lead Isola towards the charts and accolades across Northern Europe - so much so that Kent becoming a true international act could have been a real possibility. 

(As a matter of a fact, a re-recorded version of Isola sung entirely in English does exist, in an attempt to break the language barrier and reach the Anglosphere audiences; but the clunkily translated and pronounced attempt didn't quite work, and so Isola remained a Scandinavian success story.)

I don't mean to imply that chart success equals greatness, but sometimes - particularly with albums of this kind in this era of music - it can act as a kind of vindication, that all the hard work finally pays off with good reason. Isola is exactly that: the underdogs snagging the trophy. The reason it took off is because it harnessed all the latent talent Kent had that was almost bursting, and in doing so the band proved what had been hinted at on the first two albums: that Kent were actually a legitimately great band with some serious songwriting talent within, and it was now becoming too obvious to ignore. Isola doesn't stray away from the first two albums as much as it completes the gradual evolution from the beginning to now, perfecting the formula that the band rode on for in their early years - loud guitar walls, a strong sense of melody, and an emotional impact booming through Jocke Berg's slurring voice which has come leaps and bounds since he first got in front of the microhpone. The guitars crunch more, the choruses soar wider and the emotions climb higher - this is what the first two albums promised but didn't quite deliver.

Kent letting go of the fear of ambition also leads to some new winds blowing through Isola's covers, namely in its wider arrangements. Isola marks the moment where Kent begin to introduce new elements to their sound and moving beyond their standard rock band setup; with baby steps, but drawing a clear line nonetheless. The vulnerable late-night ballad “OWC” is dominated by piano rather than the familiar guitars, and the ethereal "Innan allting tar slut" is drowned in soft drum machines and keyboard textures, which fit perfectly into Kent's moody soundscapes; and where the slow songs used to be the band’s weakness, here they’re downright standouts, these two in particular. Elsewhere the expanded sounds can simply mean some additional strings (special mention to the stellar sweeping ending to “Oprofessionel”) or taking full advantage of the once-again quintet’s ability to wield three guitars at once if they want to, leading to the shimmering “Celsius” which has just about as many lead guitar parts as it has players. When they do just want to rock, there’s a dynamic confidence that wasn’t there before, from the driving rhythmic flow of “Bianca” to the incredible opening salvo of the crushingly loud "Livräddären", the timelessly undeniable rock and roll force of “ Om du var här” and the gently wistful 90s alt rock perfection of "Saker man ser". Of these, “Livräddären” and “Saker man ser” are in particular the most perfect examples of what Kent aimed for in the 90s, and why they were so great at it.

While “ Om du var här” was the big calling card, the album’s actual signature song is its closer “747” - not just because of how close the album’s visual side is to the song, but because out of everything on the record nothing exemplifies the band’s new horizons as much as "747" does. It’s the natural climax point that the rest of the album builds up to both musically and through production, with a partly-programmed drum beat shuffling through a dreamy soundscape the likes of which just a year ago would have felt impossible for Kent to achieve. It's when Berg finishes his vocals roughly around a third of th way through when the song truly begins and lifts off towards its sunset ride ending, dovetailing into infinity with skyscraping guitars and textural, carefully introduced synthesized elements. "747" is a lot of things: a fantastic fireworks-accentuated closer which feels like the natural end point for everything that came before, the codification of the now-tradition to close off the album with a long epic, and and enduring classic song and a genuinely legendary piece of Kent’s discography. It's also a foreshadowing of things to come: if Isola is Kent’s first real album, then the synthesis of sounds of “747” is the arrow sign pointing towards the group's future, and even now you can practically feel the pieces magically clicking into place when you listen to it. 

Kent would go on to make greater records than Isola as they followed their new ambition and instincts further, growing into a widely talented band while perhaps coincidentally moving away from the straightforward guitar sound that they started with. That doesn't diminish the strengths of Isola and if anything it's a testament to its quality that it still sounds vital for the band. In fact, arguably it's the company that it keeps that highlights its accomplishments. If we are perfectly honest the first two albums aren’t exactly the kind of start that leaves you in awe of a new band, and on their next record Kent would arguably dial their new tones up a little too much - which means that Isola stands as the sole balanced part of this first chapter of Kent’s career. It’s the strongest representative of who they were at this stage: a group of young guys who had started to dream big, who had a love for atmospheric guitars and with an almost romantic penchant for melancholy. They inhabit that space excellently, as Isola proves.

Rating: 8/10

Moby - I Like to Score (1997)

 1) Novio; 2) James Bond Theme (Moby’s Re-Version); 3) Go (1997 Mix); 4) Ah-Ah (1997 Mix); 5) I Like to Score; 6) Oil 1; 7) New Dawn Fades; 8) God Moving Over the Face of the Waters (Alternative Mix); 9) First Cool Hive (Alternative Mix); 10) Nash; 11) Love Theme; 12) Grace

An uneven collection of soundtrack discards, where the best songs are ones that had already been released on earlier albums.

  
Key tracks: "James Bond Theme (Moby's Re-Version)", "New Dawn Fades", "First Cool Hive (Alt. Mix)"

Despite his oft-cinematic soundscapes, so far Moby hasn’t found himself scoring films yet. He was, however, a frequent sight on various soundtrack releases at one point. Even just by the late 90s and before Play his “appears on” credits had become a long, expansive list. An odds and sods compilation like I Like to Score is thus, in theory, the kind of quick cash grab that actually has a decent purpose for fans, pulling together songs scattered across a multitude of releases for easy sourcing.

I Like to Score is understandably a big old mixed bag. Most of these songs were taken from “music inspired by” types of soundtrack CDs and are thus more like ordinary one-off tracks rather than anything particularly score-like - and understandably the styles and sounds vary greatly, given the period on display mostly consists of his dance years but the studio album right prior was the distorted angst oddity Animal Rights. A good chunk is familiar from Moby’s past albums, presented here with minor mixing and editing tweaks: even “Go” is here though it was never part of any soundtrack, but its Twin Peaks sample and the chance to reissue one of Moby’s early hit singles must have been enough for the label to include it. And what do you know, they’re also the album’s best songs: “Go”, “First Cool Hive” and “God Moving Over the Face of the Waters” all rank among Moby’s best songs of the 90s and the remixing is barely noticable so none of their original charm has been lost. Even “Ah-Ah”, which was just another song on Moby’s debut, still jumps out here.

Given the nature of the compilation the incohesiveness is perfectly understandable, but coupled with the wildly varying quality it really doesn’t make the album more than a curio at best. Pairing random key early tracks with novelties like “I Like to Score” and “New Dawn Fades” (the former a short take on porn funk, the latter a full-on Animal Rights-’d up take on Joy Division) is only going to make the latter pale in comparison, and the wild mood and style swings make it a difficult album to actually ever want to listen to. Moby’s take on the iconic James Bond theme sums up 90s action move soundtracks perfectly and isn’t half bad, but hilariously feels completely like a fish out of water simply because of how obviously it stands out among all the soundtrack compilation filler around it. And, well, filler it largely is. Decent filler with occasional flashes of goodness (“Love Theme” in particular), but clearly nothing that Moby felt he would waste by placing it on some random soundtrack somewhere.

The back cover pre-assumptively states “Music from films Vol. 1” - a sequel hasn’t happened, despite Moby scoring a legitimate movie hit by licensing “Extreme Ways” for the Bourne trilogy some years after this compilation. Really, I Like to Score is less about its film connection and acts more like an outtakes collection to mop up some loose ends before Moby would switch gears in his musical career with the release of Play. Even for a fan, this is far from being as interesting as you’d initially think and it’s completely clear that most of this album’s merits fall to the songs that the film directors heard on Moby’s albums and found them so strong they felt they had to license them for their movies. Those songs also work better on their original albums than here. But if it’s completionism that you’re after, this fits the bill just fine.

Rating: 5/10

Grandaddy - Under the Western Freeway (1997)

1) Nonphenomenal Lineage; 2) A.M. 180; 3) Collective Dreamwish of Upperclass Elegance; 4) Summer Here Kids; 5) Laughing Stock; 6) Under the Western Freeway; 7) Everything Beautiful Is Far Away; 8) Poisoned at Hartsy Thai Food; 9) Go Progress Chrome; 10) Why Took Your Advice?; 11) Lawn and So On

Rough and uneven in sound yet with some songs so good they break through it. Still, just a little too underdeveloped.

Key tracks: "A.M. 180", "Summer Here Kids", "Laughing Stock"

You break down Grandaddy's signature sound into some basic concepts and you get a few identifiable elements: the man-meets-technology concept that runs in the background for most of their discography, the production that meshes together intricate detail with a more home-spun aesthetic flirting between lo- and hi-fi, and Jason Lytle's recognisable songwriting. On Under the Western Freeway those goals had already been established, but actually getting there is still shaky. The running concept only appears in infrequent glimpses, the production is unintentionally uneven rather than a genuine stylistic choice (there's a lot of curious mixing imbalances throughout which do not strike me as genuinely considered decisions) and the songs swing wildly from classics to glorified segues. That is to say, Under the Western Freeway sounds like a work in progress: a proof of concept waiting to be fully formed.

To put it in greater detail, compared to the scattershot demos and pre-album EPs compiled in The Broken Down Comforter Collection Lytle and co (but pretty much just Lytle on record) have found a way forward that works for them and they've expanded upon it for the debut full-length record. There's a lot to appreciate in the Grandaddy sound even in its more formative shape and part of that even works to the record's charm: the slight fuzziness of it all meshes wonderfully with the offbeat and somewhat dated synths and keyboard elements show their age in a way that suits the more rustic, slightly slapdash form the band is in here. In fact, compared to the rest of the Grandaddy discography the synths and similar textural elements arguably play a bigger role here than they do later on given how striking some of the sounds used are, whether it's intentional or not: the album even opens up with a particularly memorable synth lead courtesy of the pseudo-intro "Nonphenomenal Lineage" which is a great way to guide into the record. That particular sound preference lends Under the Western Freeway its characteristic tone, slightly weary and out of time with the rest of the world to an even greater degree than most of Lytle's records. It's the one thing that works with the production, given the rest of it is unpolished to a more awkward degree, from indecisive mixing to the general lack of any depth in sound. One of the worst in this regard is "Laughing Stock" where the drums are loudly on the forefront but without any depth to them that the flat snare thuds et al border on distracting. This is not a headphone album in the slightest - there is nothing to gain hearing these songs in even greater fidelity.

"Laughing Stock" still comes out as one of the best songs of the album though and has a good claim to be its unexpected highlight overall; when Lytle stumbles upon a great tune, even this early on he can pull it off to such a good extent that you forgive the occasionally amateurish sound. Lytle's songwriting and arrangements are more straightforward here than in the later albums, as probably expected from a debut, but the tricks he repeats are really good ones. "Laughing Stock" for example is six minutes of roughly the same mid-tempo beat, but Lytle's frail singing against the other elements lends it a strong atmosphere and the simple but powerful chorus clears the haze surrounding the rest of the song. Lytle reaching for the limits of his range as the music picks up gives it that extra necessary oomph. and when the song finally does break out and play loud, it's the kind of classic release of tension that works brilliantly. It's a trick Grandaddy would repeat often throughout their records, with seemingly monotonous passages transformed into something far greater and resonant than expected, and "Laughing Stock" is the progenitor for the others of its ilk, and its chorus and breakdown still play strong. Yes I wish it sounded a lot better than it did, but when it finds those particular magic notes and has them played with gusto, you forgive it for its flaws as you enjoy its strengths.

The same attitude goes for much of the album's peaks, and it certainly has some. The rollicking cult classic "A.M. 180" with its signature keyboard riff is classic Grandaddy in form and tone, and it's no surprise it's become the breakaway hit of the album, encapsuling not only something essential about Lytle but also about the late 90s American musical landscape in general. It's probably an even worse offender in sound than "Laughing Stock" (the vocal mixing is a mess and I swear the drums accidentally mess the beat at one point) but it doesn't prevent it from sounding like an anthem. The high-energy "Summer Here Kids", the other big song with a signature keyboard riff (though a piano this time), is a to-the-point rocker the likes of which Lytle has rarely ever indulged in and certainly not under the Grandaddy name, hinting at a less contemplative and more festival-storming hypothetical direction the band could have moved towards. It's a great, fun cut showing the band at their most guitar-oriented and the fuzziness of the production works actually really well here, complimenting the song's rough guitars and whirlwind nature.

You'll notice these are all songs from the first half of the album, and it's that second half which places Under the Western Freeway in the bottom of the Grandaddy rate list. Lytle isn't particularly conceptual on Under the Western Freeway but an attempt has been made to make it sound like an album that sticks together and where the whole is even greater than the individual parts. Somehow this has realised into a number of filler-esque segues dominating the album's runtime from the title track onwards. Apart from the admittedly quite nice "Everything Beautiful Is Far Away" (with yet more delightfully on-the-nose synths taking over good chunks of the soundscape underneath the chugging rock rhythm), the later section of Under the Western Freeway is made out of short songs which behave like interludes, one after another trying to act like songs that rise up on their own right without having the ground to stand on for it: unless the run of a seemingly improvised pseudo-skit ("Poisoned at Hartsy Thai Food"), a half-raw glorified demo sketch that's over before you realise ("Go Progress Chrome") and a two-minute outro followed by minutes of silence and bird tweeting ("Lawn and So On") somehow sounds like an exciting sequence. "Why Took Your Advice" is the only one that feels like a full song, but it's a really plodding one and in fact is overlong for what it is - a far cry from Grandaddy's future minimalist melancholy stills in time.

It's a really disappointing way to close an album - especially when we're talking about it taking up nearly half the tracklist. The sound issues are one thing, the general underdeveloped tone is another: both are forgivable when you have songs as good as what's around the first half ("Collective Dreamwish of Upperclass Elegance" is fine as well, for what it's worth, just not so fine it jumps out as something that beckons you to the album). In fact, I always feel like I underrate and misjudge this album when I start it because it's easy to get into it when it begins, and the run from the lush synths of "Nonphenomal Lineage" to the shy majesty of "Laughing Stock" has nothing to be ashamed of next to any other record from Lytle and co. Then the songs get shorter, the melodies barely make an appearance and everything starts feeling like an afterthought, and it's like you've hit a shuffle button somewhere and gotten all the filler cuts in a row. Anyone who enjoys Grandaddy - or even this music scene or period as a whole - will likely find a lot to appreciate on Under the Western Freeway, but it's nonetheless a limping first attempt that hasn't yet figured out how to run with the ideas and concepts it's got in its mind. It's a demo or a beta, to run with the technology analogies that would soon start to crop up all over the group's lyrics, though to its credit even these unfinished basics make it obvious there'd be great things ahead.

Rating: 6/10

Radiohead - OK Computer (1997)

1) Airbag; 2) Paranoid Android; 3) Subterranean Homesick Alien; 4) Exit Music (For a Film); 5) Let Down; 6) Karma Police; 7) Fitter Happier; 8) Electioneering; 9) Climbing Up the Walls; 10) No Surprises; 11) Lucky; 12) The Tourist

Pre-millennial angst that changed things forevermore. You know this.

Key tracks: "Let Down", "No Surprises", "Lucky"

I'd like to think I'm good about not letting the wider critical world affect my own amateur reviews. Rather than saying this or that is overrated or underrated, or making parallels about my opinions vs everyone else's, I prefer looking at things within my own bubble - after all, it's my opinion that matters the most to my listening habits and I imagine someone would read my thoughts to learn what I personally think. With some records that's harder than others. There's a number of albums that are so universal that they form a part of our collective consciousness even if we don't care about them: albums which have been discussed and analysed so often and in such great detail due to their importance and place in the canon that there is literally nothing new to say. Most of the time, I can still comfortably get by. Enough time has passed from The Beatles, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin and other sacred cows that the old canon narratives are actively being argued against while new ones are established and there's a wider variety of opinions challenging the old classics, and somewhere between those lines I'm able to place my own opinion without feeling like I'm better off just linking to the relevant Wikipedia section. Not to mention that for most iconic records, I'm too much of a natural contrarian to hold them in the highest of pedestals in the first place.

OK Computer is a curveball for me in this regard. It's a landmark album, and even I agree with that - to a degree that it feels like an actual challenge to start dissecting it apart. You're not going to find unique angles to view this album through from me, is what I am saying. It's my generation's Sgt Peppers, and I'm saying that without a single ounce of hyperbole. It's a cultural milestone that has affected so much of the other music I enjoy, inspired countless other musicians and shifted genre trends. To this day it causes so much discussion, analysis and over-analysis that we are all absolutely sick of it. We can all recite from memory the story of Thom Yorke & co becoming increasingly fatigued by society and music industry at the same time as they felt their ambitions limited by their early sound, and in turn exploding in fame and finding themselves even more fatigued through the record they made to channel all of that frustration and ambition through. And if you don't, you're pretending - because OK Computer transcends any genre barrier knowledge if you're even remotely passionate about music. It's omnipresent.You can't avoid it, no matter how much you want.

Even now, OK Computer is a prime example of a band reaching for their lofty ambitions and realising the breadth of their own skill set, and taking a boundary-breaking leap within their own path. Comparing Pablo Honey and The Bends to it is practically pointless because the change is so vast: there's enough hints on both albums, particularly The Bends, to point out where OK Computer came from but the narrative is loose, the familiarities superficial at best. OK Computer effectively re-introduces Radiohead from scratch: the urban angst of grunge-era guitar walls has evolved into pre-millennial apathy and depression, and the band are musically thinking outside their own box to the point that the tropes introduced here are now aspects the band are forever associated with. Not just that, but they're also elements that are echoed within the particular kind of rock music that followed in OK Computer's wake. You can trace a direct genealogy from it to nearly everything that has been happening in indie and alternative rock since. You think of angst-laden, introspective guitars and you'll be able to trace them here.

Like all the very best progenitors, OK Computer still sounds like its own thing even now. Despite how many times its tricks have been repeated, there's nothing that combines them quite like here. Part of it is due to Radiohead's own uniqueness, the very specific traits its members have: Yorke's falsetto wailing (oft imitated, never bettered) and characteristic lyrical style most obviously, but also Jonny Greenwood's flourishes inspired by modern classical and Phil Selway's razor-sharp drumming. There's also the neurotic flair that OK Computer is powered by that has never really been captured by its followers in quite this way. Yorke was very obviously not having a good time, the band as a whole found inspiration through it and traces of it are all over the album, whether it's the resigned exhaustion of "No Surprises", the anger of "Electioneering" or the downright crippling paranoia of "Climbing Up the Walls". OK Computer frequently sounds like its suffocating within its own four walls creeping closer together, only to push them periodically away to reveal something hopeful for a fleeting moment.

OK Computer isn't Radiohead's best album. I understand why "Paranoid Android" is iconic and as admirable as its multi-suite progression is, I've never seen it as a particular discography highlight and its first part towers above the others to the point I wish it was the blueprint for the entire song, and "Electioneering" meanwhile is basically an attempt to re-do R.E.M.'s "Ignoreland" but quite simply not as good. They're good but neither are songs I could say lifts the album for me. I also just think that Radiohead started to get really interesting after they decided to deconstruct and reassemble themselves in OK Computer's aftermath, which is when their skitterish neuroses found a sound that perfectly suited it. But, I understand why it's such a revered album, and it wouldn't need a great stretch to make me into a true believer too. After all, many of their best songs are here. "Let Down" is in some days is in fact the best song they ever wrote, period, making the world-weary desire to disappear into the most gorgeous thing when in its final minutes the song jumps off a cliff and soars into the sunset on the wings of its layered vocal parts and intensifying instrumental section. "Karma Police" is one of Radiohead's most haunting but bottles a quietly churning rage, and it twists that dagger deeper with each new section it offers. The finale for "Exit Music (For a Film)" is like that bottled rage finally breaking through, igniting into a wall of distressed sound of the like the band's rarely tried since.

The final stretch of the album is also probably one of the all-time best closing runs: "Climbing Up the Walls" makes an orchestral section sound distressingly claustrophobic (it's phenomenal, by the way); the simple but endlessly beautiful "No Surprises" is the other big contender for the band's best song and in fact its quiet but powerful fragility is what converted me into thinking there's something to this band after all; "Lucky" is as atmospheric a rock anthem as the band would ever do and the second verse's introduction of the simple keyboard texture is one of my pet favourite moments of simple instrumental additions making a real difference; and "The Tourist" achingly floats in its own world, giving the paranoia of the album a calm breathe out in the end. OK Computer has throughout its length hit with some big punches and overall high quality miserablist rock, but it concludes like a real iconic moment in music history.

Furthermore, OK Computer still feels just as relevant as it always was as well, maybe even moreso in this modern society that's growing more cynical and fatigued by the month. It's just as evocative and its songs are still impactful, proving their strengths despite every single one of them having been picked to their bones over the years; including the "Fitter Happier" interlude, which genuinely has its own important slot in the overall flow and Greater Thematics of the album. OK Computer is a truly great album, often stunningly so, and very audibly a moment where a band realised their own capabilities towards greatness and made them a reality. That so many people in the world agree with me, a lot of them way more passionately than I do, is a happy coincidence. This is all to say that out of all the albums in my collection, OK Computer is probably the one record I find the most difficult to discuss, but you're in luck: in a matter of seconds you can find thousands of reviews, articles and in-depth essays that say what I'd likely think anyway. This must be what Beatles fans feel like.

It's not one of my personal all-time greats but its place among the canon is more than justified.

Rating: 9/10

John Frusciante - Smile from the Streets You Hold (1997)

1) Enter a Uh; 2) The Other; 3) Life’s a Bath; 4) A Fall Thru the Ground; 5) Poppy Man; 6) I May Again Know John; 7) I’m Always; 8) N------ Song; 9) Feminity; 10) Breathe; 11) More; 12) For Air; 13) Height Down; 14) Well, I’ve Been; 15) Smile from the Streets You Hold; 16) I Can’t See Until I See Your Eyes; 17) Estress

The pained ramblings of a tortured soul. If you think there's artistry here then, well, you're a better man than I am.

 

Key tracks: Uhhh... "A Fall Thru the Ground".

Frusciante’s 90s drug problems really take the wheel here. Niandra LaDes and Usually Just a T-Shirt still had some artistic thought behind it but Frusciante has openly admitted that Smile from the Streets You Hold was released solely to get drug money. You can tell - you can hear he is not in a good shape here. Physically he was little more than a skeleton with rotting teeth, his voice is completely shot and there’s little coherent musical thought in the sparse guitar sketches here. Where there’s a tune, it rarely takes shape: between the lo-fi recording quality, the quick seemingly one-take attempts and Frusciante’s clouded state of mind, even the best parts of the album sound like they were meant to be quickly discarded.

The element that makes Smile from the Streets You Hold an even harder thing to get through is that parts of it are genuinely painful to listen to. Messy songs are one thing - Niandra Lades had plenty of that and I could survive through that fine, even it it’s not a good album in the slightest. Frusciante on death’s door is another matter. He sounds genuinely deteriorated here and often barely hanging there. This is at its worst in “Enter a Uh” (which is the first thing you’ll hear!): over the course of its eight minutes it slowly disintegrates into a chaotic swirl of off-notes and tortured shrieks, sounding like a cry for help or a warning sign (whichever way you want to take it) than a piece of music anyone actually wanted to make. It’s a horrible song and that’s mainly because you can hear Frusciante’s pain through it, and there’s no amount of romanticism of a pained artist in the world to make it anything more than tragic to listen to.

That’s Smile from the Streets You Hold at its worst. At its best it offers barely passable ideas. A handful of songs such as “Feminity”, “More” and “Estress” bear marks of Frusciante’s more familiar songwriting style but ripped apart and distorted into little more than brief moments of unmemorable but relieving shades of light among the rest of the album. “A Fall Thru the Ground” is by and far the best song here, and coincidentally (or not) sounds like the most fully realised of the lot: with added instrumentation beyond Frusciante’s guitar, a sense of progression and abnormal clarity, it sounds like it comes from a wholly different mindset and place than rest of the album. It’s not a good song, but it’s the best you get here. And beyond its best parts, Smile alternates between dull rambles that go nowhere and painful snapshots of a suffering musician. It’s not an album that has much musical value to give, and there’s only so many vaguely formed lo-fi strums you can deal with in a row before it goes from novel to tedious. Basically you’ll be listening to this for the experience rather than for its songwriting, a fact that never gets any more enjoyable the longer the album runs for.

The experience isn’t really one to go for either, though. Someone stronger than myself could potentially find some artistic merit in hearing music like this where you can really feel a musician pour his life into the songs, regardless of whether the songs were actually good or not. I personally can’t with this album, because the life in question is too frail and clearly in too much pain. Judging just the music on its own it’s clearly not a good listen anyway, but what makes Smile something that I actively want to turn off is the air around it and the way it’s performed. It’s a struggle to finish, and to start to begin with if we’re honest, because it’s got too much authentic suffering embedded into its fragmented guitar chaos. I wouldn’t hesitate to call this the worst album in my collection because it’s actively repelling, and yet it feels wrong to state that because it’s so clear Frusciante wasn’t aiming for anything with this either, beyond just having something to get more cash with.

If there’s something to this, it’s hearing just how deep Frusciante went before his recovery - his post-drug releases sound downright miraculous once you have this to compare them with.

Rating: 2/10