Reviews Listen to This Superchunk Majesty Shredding Merge
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gnited by a shock of escalating feedback and coiling guitar parts, a rush of delirious rhythmic momentum, and a hook so huge it stretches nearly back to 1989, Superchunk’s first LP in nine years wastes no time finding what opening track “Digging For Something” is really after: Renewal. The quartet that helped put indie rock and Chapel Hill on the map sounds as energized as the foolish kids who thought their “Slack Motherfucker” (and friends) worthy of a DIY cottage industry – one that now sits atop the indie label heap, by the way. But these 11 tracks don’t trade on the disheveled, smartass misanthropy and drunken-hookup/even-drunkerbreakup fervor of those youthful LPs. Instead they buzz anew with a more powerful urgency – the clock isn’t just winding down, it’s hauling ass. Punk-flavored assaults like “Crossed Wires” and “Learned to Surf” (both released in different incarnations recently) or the 153 nitro-seconds of “Rope Light” roil with that knowledge, guitars-drumsbass drafting and colliding in their rush to the finish line. The shape-shifting propulsion and six-string angst of “My Gap Is Weird” are most reminiscent of early Superchunk, only now the snark is leavened with an adult’s wistful learning: “Time and transition is a wave that will put you overboard,” McCaughan tells the corner youngsters. But despite how well McCaughan still channels his inner ‘Chunk, things like Portastatic and Here’s Where the Strings Come In happened, and certain tracks incorporate those elements – though without subverting the parent band’s aesthetic. The strings do come in, for instance, on “Fractures in Plaster,” but only to accent the guitar décor, which includes a marvelous fuzzy outro of Kirk Kirkwoodmeets-Ira Kaplan feedback. Elsewhere, the spiky guitar counterpoint and marching toms of “Winter Games” sound like a (beefed up) two-song Portastatic mashup, though hints of McCaughan’s now-shelved solo project waft in occasionally on other tracks – though they mostly serve as a reminder that this is Superchunk’s record. Still, it’s easy to miss young Superchunk’s endearing sloppiness and why-the-fuck-not risk-taking – think of the shambolic outro to Foolish’s “Why Do You Have to Put a Date on Everything?” But in Majesty we get the precision of a well-seasoned act that’s obviously still in love with indie rock’s spirit, even (or especially) if it’s sometimes fueled by cussedness - just ‘cause you’re older doesn’t mean life’s shit washes off any easier with that wisdom-soap. As McCaughan sums up on the poignant album-ending rocker “Everything At Once,” your elders need the rock, too, because however more complicated the problems, it provides the same life-affirming answer: “So here’s a song about nothing and everything at once/oh the minutes and the months/the feedback and the drums/oh the feeling noise becomes.” Well said, and well played, Superchunk. —John Schacht
Battle Beasts Werewolf in a Blender Self-released If Battle Beasts meant to represent itself as a reckless, high-energy, way-too-fuckingloud band, then Werewolf in a Blender makes the point with grand eloquence. This is a daring record by a bass and drums act not ashamed of its own chaos. Recorded and mixed improperly — intentionally — the instruments bleed all over each other and are distorted to the point of demolition. “On the Run” alternates seamlessly between skate video-friendly heavy punk and NES action game triumph. “Lord of Destruction” is defined by a call-and-response between a distorted demon voice and some kind of digitally delayed bird-person. The drums stutter and gallop under a wash of mercilessly distorted bass overtones. Yet it’s in these juxtapositions that Battle Beasts really holds its own. Making a noise rock record that honors the genre’s roots in 80s hardcore is something to be done right or not at all. And this duo did it right. Corbie Hill
Black Congo, NC Live in Miami 1984 frequeNC Despite the name and title, Black Congo, NC, who are actually from Charlotte, recorded Live in Miami 1984 in the living room of the Yauhaus one day during Winter 2008. Yet it’s a bright, breezy hour of slowly expanding and retracting songs touched with African influences. The
guitars and percussion catch air currents, vocals remain a little bit behind the beat (just enough to turn you on), while sax and synths add heft to the arrangements without weighing them down. Just as “Dot” reaches the highlife, it floats gently towards earth before zipping heavenward. As the album progresses, direct references to African music fall away, yet the buoyancy remains. The album peaks at its center, with “If Your Heart” developing out of a haze into joyous, unstoppable momentum that only slows briefly before the insect-like percussion of “Persimmon Valley” buzzes and slinks into an even more cathartic peak. Live in Miami 1984 overflows with life. Jesse Steichen
Double Negative Daydreamnation Sorry State Restraint still doesn’t feel like a proper adjective for Double Negative, but control does. The band’s power over its own chaos is the one trait that betrays its members decades of experience. But because this band steers its maelstrom like Pecos Bill might a cyclone, doesn’t mean there’s anything held back here. Daydreamnation finds the band at its most dynamic, stretching buzzing chords like a slow recoil; stepping into stop-time riffs and buttressing Kevin Collins’ vocals with harmonic echoes. The sounds the band has wrestled from its instruments — Justin Gray’s throbbing, buzzing bass, Scott Williams’ shoegaze-dense and needle-sharp guitar stabs, Brian Walsby’s roiling percussion and Collins’ manic expressiveness — belie its traditional assembly. But since day one, Double Negative has been smarter than your average hardcore band. Now, they’re that and more. And as the three years
of tribulation leading up to this sophomore LP seem to be violently exorcised through these 13 cuts, the adage proves true; this was definitely worth waiting for. Bryan Reed
Gigi Dover & the Big Love The Avocado Sessions Self-released As a stylistic overview of the breadth (and wealth) of contemporary Americana, Charlottean Gigi Dover’s latest scans with a satisfying assuredness; there’s enough programmable potential to keep Triple-A radio types, both listeners and M.D.s, in clover. Such a cursory analysis, however, does Ms. Dover and her band of merry men — Eric Lovell, David Clark, John Spurrier, Jason Atkins — a disservice, for in The Avocado Sessions’ diversity lies not its ‘mersh appeal, but its aesthetic reason for being. From moments of quintessential twang (the funky, B3-powered “Love Stove”) and Memphis strut (“Future” — check the Jordanaires-like backing vox), to dreamy psychedelia (“Ode To Barry”; pure Tom Petty/Mudcrutch) and perky Western Swing as seen through Django Reinhardt’s eyes (the appropriately titled “Paris”), these songs literally breathe, like 3D characters coming right off the screen, with Dover and her sensual Rosanne Cash/Margo Timmins vocal chops in the lead temptress role. Existentially speaking, this avocado’s one tasty fruit. Chomp, chomp. Fred Mills
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