I don't like it. He's only ever read Dylan Thomas, and chicks in the late 60s still thought Dylan Thomas was some sexy-ass poetry, so he goes all-in on overwrought metaphors and pseudoprofundities for half an hour or so without a shred of irony or humor. Maybe he gets better when he converts to Islam?
The synth-heavy minimalist crooning style is worth a listen, but the occasional string sections feel like cloying Beatles references and the fricative, glottal Icelandic doesn't mesh well with the whisper-thin vocals. Maybe a more melodic Latin or Arabic language would fit better.
A classic piece of early art pop. Wilson's complex song structures and weird instrumentation cut across the grain of the oddly conservative bent in the lyrics, paeans to monogamy and settling down.
Meh
I was ready to be mostly uninterested in this, but of course the connection of Terry Riley's maximal-minimalist style on the electric organ lends a proto-math-rock sensibility to what might otherwise have been a pretty average early seventies bit of Brit rock.
Obviously, there's some watershed moment shit going on in this record: the king of smoky Chicago blues bringing the funk to the white college types of New England's most gilded age yachting town. Some cool renditions of blues standards in here, but this probably isn't the best Muddy Waters album.
I was never gonna like this, really, but I was a bit surprised by the cool tape effect stuff on "Save the Life..." And "Voices of Old People" was kind of a cool idea if Rob Reiner hadn't stolen it for When Harry Met Sally. "Mrs Robinson" is a kinda cool song, as is "Hazy Shade," though The Bangles made it better.
I dug the backing tracks on these songs, especially the ones with the languorous guitar and sexy slow beats, but of course, it's hard to get past the ick once you get a sense for the lyrics: the type of shit they might bump for happy hour for skeezy billionaires and b-list aristocrats at You-Know-Who's island. Leave it to the French.
The star of this record is JMJ and the Oberheim.
I really wish I could like this folksy, sincere singer-songwriter shit, but I just don't. The commitment to singing harmonies with Young's uniquely weird vocal range is oddly admirable, but truly, I just can't listen to much of this.
Spectacular. Herbie's solos against the backdrop of his own looping riffs are exquisite.
I liked the sound on this record except the singing. Very precious lyrics. The minimalist compositions and the blend of electronics with traditionally rock instrumentation keep this proggy enough to be interesting, but it's veering toward Spoon-type easy listening for inoffensive waiting rooms.
I like the idea of Fever Ray, but I'm not fond of this music.
Cobain's disaffected, nonchalant nihilism is a primary text of American counterculture, and though this record would catapult that counterculture into mainstream commercialism in a way that would contribute to Kurt's suicide, the record melds underground post-punk noise and pop song structures in extraordinary fashion.
I get it. I really do. But I don't like it at all.
Some of these tracks have become really corny over the decades, but this album represents necessary work to bring electronics out of labs and musique concrete studios and into pop music. The cool songs are very cool, and the longevity by way of sampling is testament to what these guys accomplished.
