The Fiddleback

Whenever an artist promises a trilogy, strange things begin to happen to expectations. Back in the good old days, before every summer blockbuster tent-pole was envisioned as a trilogy from the outset, trilogies didn’t happen right away—they just sort of evolved, most of the time. Now, however, the idea of the trilogy speaks to audiences’ desires for bigger stories than can be contained by a single film. Maybe this is what The Weeknd was trying to tap into when it was announced that the project would release not one, not two, but three free-to-download “mixtapes” this year. As soon as the idea of a trilogy of dark r ‘n’ b for damaged psyches was proposed, audience anticipation for the second and third installments went off the charts. And why not? We still don’t have much of an idea about who The Weeknd is/are. We know that Abel Tesfaye sings, that Drake is a supporter (and on the new release, Thursday, a contributor), and that at least two different produces are involved with the project. But beyond that, all we have to go on are two albums full of darkly charged sexuality, emotional dysfunction, sad drug users, and uncomfortable seductions.

And while The Weeknd’s two albums—the previous release, House of Balloons, and the new one, Thursday—certainly feel like parts of a whole, there are important distinctions between them, distinctions that might tie back to the idea of the trilogy, and which might even point to a sort of narrative development (if not actual narrative) between the releases. Perhaps the most immediate difference noticeable on Thursday is that it is denser, heavier, and a little bit less accessible than its predecessor. The ghost-like vocal hooks are largely reigned in, and the emphasis shifts more directly to beats and arrangements. This is, perhaps, most apparent on “Life of the Party,” on which the beats are so heavy and mechanical, the layers of sound so sinister and artificial that, were it not for Tesfaye’s soulful croon, the cut wouldn’t sound out of place on a 90’s industrial record. This is an extreme example, though. “The Zone,” might be a more representative cut—Tesfaye’s vocals are front and center, his lyrics are painful and raw (“I’ll be making love to her through you/so let me keep my eyes closed,”), and the production has the vaguely haunted feel so prevalent on House of Balloons—but the arrangement’s layers are heavier, thicker, clearer, the beats and bass sound a little too clean, all of which adds up to an even more unsettling experience resulting from the disconnect of sound and subject matter. The song comes off so woozy that even Drake’s guest turn closing out the song feels uncomfortable and nervous, as if he is waiting for someone to break down his door.

And perhaps this unsettling quality is what drives Thursday—the album moves through different styles, keeping us at arm’s length with every turn. “Rolling Stone,” is acoustic guitar minimalism, “Gone,” builds around an otherworldly keyboard melody that sounds like a discarded scrap from Kid A, and “Heaven or Las Vegas,” is doom-laden dancehall reggae. That these three left turns comprise the album’s last three songs is a bold move—the stylistic shifts are so varied that we are forced to rely on Tesfaye’s voice and dark lyrics for stability. This is not an easy proposal, especially after heavier-than-heavy, pathos-gushing album centerpiece “The Birds” (parts one and two). Upon first hearing this two part song, I found myself considering how my ears had grown accustomed to hearing the “n-word” in pop music, but that in these songs the usage is so raw, honest, and self-deprecating that it was making me uncomfortable in a way I don’t feel when Ye and Jay drop it in “Niggas in Paris.” When Tesfaye howls, “Don’t you fall in love/Don’t make me make you fall in love/Don’t make me make you fall in love with a nigger like me,” over a throbbing arrangement and military-style drum cadence, the result is devastating.

But that is The Weeknd. And, while Thursday isn’t as immediate or accessible as House of Balloons, it might just be the stronger album. There is a hint of vulnerability in these songs, and that makes the darkness feel a little more real, a little bit darker. So we are left looking ahead to the next album, the final installment in this “trilogy” and wondering how it might bring resolution to The Weeknd’s 2011 journey. Ultimately, it seems that Thursday might be best revisited in the context of the three albums when the cycle is complete—maybe it will be the series’ Empire Strikes Back, a dark and desperate bit of connective tissue that raises the stakes and grounds The Weeknd’s work in something heavier than grainy, twisted fantasies and backroom seductions.

My first impulse in writing this review was simply to type three paragraphs of dollar signs and leave it at that. Everything about Watch the Throne wreaks of excess—from the brilliant gold cover art to the Otis Redding sample and product name-drops. But the dollar sign review would have been lazy and reductive. Not necessarily lazy in that it would keep me from having to actually write anything about the album, but in that most of what critics and fans have been saying about Watch the Throne so far has revolved around the glitz and the money, with some even going so far as to refer to the album using the Kanye-coined term “luxury rap.” What much of the albeit still-limited conversation is missing, however, is that Watch the Throne is a pretty strong album from two of hip hop’s best emcees. And, while it’s hard to consider Jay-Z as being at the top of his game—The Blueprint was released a decade ago—he is in fine form and West is coming off of one of the most audacious, thrilling hip hop albums ever released. What this does for Watch the Throne is give it a sense of being a side-project of sorts, something that could be a toss off but isn’t, thanks in large part to the immense talents that went into the album’s making.

Despite the “side project” feel of Watch the Throne, everything about the album is big. Album opener “No Church in the Wild,” which gets a heavy boost from Frank Ocean’s guest vocals, builds off a gritty bass line to find Jay and Ye rhyming about relationships of power and faith. The song is both large in scope and heavy in subject matter and establishes Watch the Throne as a serious record. This seriousness comes through elsewhere in the desperation of jittery “Welcome to the Jungle,” the dub-heavy electro-clash inflections of “Who Gon Stop Me,” and the choral chants and sampled acoustic arrangements that provide the backdrop for the anti-violence cut “Murder to Excellence.” What much of the “luxury rap” tag misses in addressing Watch the Throne is just how heavy and socially conscious much of the album truly is. We get the sense that Jay-Z and Kanye West actually set out with heavy ideas, as if they wanted to prove or re-prove themselves after their increasing fiscal indulgences.

What keeps Watch the Throne from being an immediate, unqualified masterpiece is the album’s reliance on oddly slight songs and a handful of production choices that don’t quite work out. A few of the tracks here just feel disposable, “N**gas in Paris,” despite its floor-thumping production comes off as a self-indulgent exercise in globe-trotting excess. “That’s My Bitch,” which benefits from exceptional production full of warm synth lines and a solid vocal hook from Elly Jackson, is little more than a slight boast-track. “That’s My Bitch” actually serves as an interesting example as to why Watch the Throne is a bit uneven—the song has been floating around for a while and was anticipated by many fans as a potential album highlight. Once placed against the heavier, more focused songs, however, it barely feels like more than an interlude. This juxtaposition of heavier and lighter fare works surprisingly well once, with album highlight “Otis,” which finds Jay and Ye rhyming over a chopped and spun Otis Redding singing “Try a Little Tenderness.” The song, which finds the emcee’s trading verses in rapid succession, walks the fine line between light-jam and total conviction-of-performance resulting in one of the best songs of the year that also happens to fit seamlessly with the album’s weightier cuts.

It was hard not going into Watch the Throne with immense expectations. Jay-Z and Kanye West are both larger than life hip hop stars who have earned their reputations through their respective bodies of work. It won’t come as a surprise, then, that while the album is an impressive and engaging collection of songs, it can’t possibly meet all of those expectations. But that’s okay—instead we find the artists’ getting back to basics a little, delivering some taut rhymes and not being afraid to get outside their own heads to take on some heavy issues. Sure, the album is a bit uneven at times and the “luxury rap” elements can be a bit alienating, but those issues don’t make Watch the Throne a bad album, they only mark the difference between a great hip hop album and a stone-cold classic.

Cut Off Your Hands sound like a lot of other bands. Their debut You & I was a sort of celebration of this. The energy on that record made it seem as if they were determined to transcend the Britpop standard. Their sound elevated that of similar bands. However, that same energy is missing from their follow-up Hollow.

Here, they’ve slowed down bit, trying their best to evoke The Smiths or The Cure. The problem is Hollow comes off as a bland imitation. Sounding like another band is not a major problem. The National sound a lot like Joy Division, but ultimately bands like The National are able to separate themselves from the comparisons and create something wholly their own. Cut Off Your Hands are a band trying their best to do just that.

They’ve done a nice job of mixing melancholy with jangly guitar-driven hooks and at points on the record they even seem passionate. They’ve got that down, but something fails to catch. Cut Off Your Hands definitely get lost in the crowd, as there are a dozen bands doing exactly what they do, only better (see Bloc Party, Idlewild, Glasvegas, etc.).

On the opener “You Should Do Better,” singer Nick Johnston does his best to find his inner-Morrissey, but eventually veers off and becomes mundane. Snoozers “Nausea” and “By Your Side” don’t do much to bring the tone back to life. However, “Hollowed Out” swirls and echoes with a sharp punching guitar sound, as Johnston howls like a Boy-era Bono and “Fooling No One” works well with an infectious hook and killer beat, ultimately shedding some light on what the band is trying to do with the album. While moodier pieces like “Oh Hell” and the closer “Buried” provide a nice atmosphere, there is nothing here that stands to grab the listener.

Hollow feels like a more cohesive musical piece than You & I, however listening to it makes me wish that the band had tried to surpass the fervor of their debut. Even coming up short would have been more exciting than playing it safe.

At this point, for just about anyone who has played along at home with the glo-fi/chill wave movement, Washed Out is a known quantity. When encountering new sounds by Washed Out (aka Ernest Greene), listeners know that they’re going to be hearing warm, hazy synth-pop tunes that vaguely sound like mellow new wave, but are really doing something altogether different. We’ll know that the hooks and melodies will be subtly buried beneath the keyboards and delicate fuzz, and that the whole ordeal will feel like a humidity drenched night, mid-summer, with all the requisite sweat-slicked skin, and sexy-sad glances across tired rooms. And really, as expected, that’s pretty much what we get with Washed Out’s latest, Within and Without.

As the album’s cover implies, the new album plays a little more heavily with the sad-sexy angle, but that works in the album’s favor. Washed Out’s Greene translates these potentially gooey sentiments into moments of lovely longing, as on “Far Away,” or quiet adoration as with “A Dedication.” We’re rarely sure what Greene is singing about as his the edges of his vocals are absorbed into the song’s rich textures leaving a sense of tone more than annunciation, but that’s okay—I suspect that the words wouldn’t add much to our enjoyment of Within and Without. Without a sense of what Greene is singing, it’s a little bit easier to get lost inside the songs, to feel whatever gentle waterbed ripples they produce and drift off into their sonic ether.

The only real surprise on Within and Without is that Washed Out doesn’t sound quite so washed out anymore. Without crossing any lines into lite-pop territory, Greene has tightened, cleaned, and focused his sound just enough so that his songs’ layers and arrangements sound crisp, but still dreamy. I suspect this slight shift will be one of the things that ends up giving Within and Without a slight step up on its peers—Greene wasn’t afraid to start edging Washed Out up the basement stairs to a place where a few more ears might appreciate his work. While fans of the lo-fi elements of the genre might be a bit disappointed with the move, this new interest in cleaner production might be just the thing that helps spin chillwave into the not altogether unexpected realm of commercial success.