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Monday, January 19th, 2009 | Author: Moody

Animal Collective: Merriweather Post Pavilion

Animal Collective, Merriweather Post Pavilion

Animal Collective, Merriweather Post Pavilion

There is no reason for me to explain it, no reason to get into an in-depth analysis of lyrics or comparisons of style; there is no reason for me to plumb the details, however rich they might be, when what it is I want is to simply have you hear me when I say that Merriweather Post Pavilion is the very next album you must get. But you will give me a reason to explain, won’t you? Understandably, you are not about to simply take my word for it. I understand. So let me do my best to justify my statement as best I can.

The first time I listened to Animal Collective it was their Feels album. Although I thought it was O.K., it did not really move me, and the style was not what I was into. I walked away from it feeling the kind of ambivalence about their work that leads me to just move on.

But just recently, on the recommendation of my partner, I gave their work another go. Specifically, I gave Feels another spin. And truth be told, I liked it a bit more and, this time, I left it on my iPod with the idea that I might, on occasion, listen to it. Still, as you may be able to tell, I was not really into them, not really a fan of any sort. So when I had the chance to listen to Merriweather Post Pavilion, I wasn’t expecting to be blown away; I thought I might like it. I was not expecting what I heard.

I heard something different from what I’d heard before… and I had the moment that Dave Portner (a.k.a. Avey Tare) points to in Animal Collective’s Pitchfork interview when he says, “It seems like there’s one moment where everything clicks”. That moment changed everything in terms of my feelings about the band. Thing is, that moment came in the first minutes of “In the Flowers”, with its opening perfectly reflecting the optical illusion used for the cover of the album. By the time “My Girls” was finished I was giddy with excitement. Here were two songs out of the gate that gleefully undermined all the usual pop sensibility by skillfully introducing elements of experimentation into the mix.

“In the Flowers” unfolds with this lovely, trippy, space that’s simultaneously lit by the sun and the moon. It’s a fantasy moment, and then it swells into this animated movement whose higher registers seem to carry goosebumps right through the nerves, only to subside once again. “My Girls” follows it up with its own subtle entry, the lyrics a peaen to making a family (done without any hint of sappiness). The tempo is established in the synth line right off, but it’s in the chorus that the stride catches the listener: “I don’t mean to seem like I care about material things like a social status / I just need four walls and adobe slabs for my girls”. From that point on there is nothing but a delightful expansion of vocal work, perfect lyrics to match it, and innovative music that remains playful and original track after track.

The songs have something to say, but even were you to miss the words you’d have to come away from the entirety of the album (which lasts not quite 55 minutes) feeling like you’d gleaned something sincere in the harmonies and melodies of the songs. And not a one of them misses or takes a wrong turn. Though doubtless it is that not everyone is going to appreciate Merriweather Post Pavilion, I think that a lot of people are going to be surprised by how quickly they come to love it. I am cherishing that surprise even now.

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Sunday, December 28th, 2008 | Author: Moody

The Sleepytime Gorilla Museum opened its doors to the public in 1916, only to show them a well-managed fire. Its doors were closed shortly thereafter and remained so for the rest of the century. Almost. The last year of the 20th century found the improbable trio of words once again adorning a placard posted outside a derelict urban building, with the addendum- “No Humans Allowed.” Indeed, the awkward re-inaugural movements were witnessed by a lone banana slug (Ariolimax dolichophallus)– a suitable beginning for a group that would soon shelter Oakland California’s hindmost interpreters of Anti-Humanist literature. Their incessant travels since 2001 have brought new life to the Movement. Like their namesake and its instigators (Futurist Lala Rolo and Black-Mathematician John Kane) the new museum embraces the essential weakness of the Movement. But also like their predecessors they reject the elitism of the avant-garde in favor of a reckless populism: They are entertainers. Though not without humor, their often wide-ranging musical and theatrical choices are rarely ironic. This sincerity extends to a passionate craftsmanship…. [Source; internal links are mine.]

SGM: Grand Opening & Closing!

SGM: Grand Opening & Closing!

In the cadaverous pre-dawn of a day not so far removed from the labyrinthine alleyways of an endless night like unto those illuminated by E.A. Poe and H.P. Lovecraft, I, having spent several interminable and distended hours curbside in the company of a drunken and spavined angel drinking White Horse and ruminating over the entrails of one Lemony Snicket, who, after a series of unfortunate events, had succumbed to the ministrations of an unscrupulous succubus,—I, as I was saying, heard a song. And the song said that all the desperate people in this town were coming out. And I was afraid, not of those desperate people, no, but was afraid instead of the immediate love I felt for the song.

SGM: In Glorious Times

SGM: In Glorious Times

Imagine, if you would so kindly indulge me, mixing a liberal dose of Glenn Branca with a tender lumpling of vintage Oingo Boingo and a lunch box’s worth of Marilyn Manson. The resulting concoction—distilled by some sort of Rube Goldberg machine made mainly from human remains—would, if imbibed during a new moon from an alabaster cinerary urn, result in the frenetic composition of such a song. And to think: since that time I have heard two albums of such songs! Such songs. Such songs! Such songs…. Melodious anthems to cacophany. Unraveling tales like bags full of spiders.

Sleepytime Gorilla Museum make theater. Literate and outré, outlandish and heathenish, theirs is the work of brujos and shamans. They comfort those trapped in the suffocating elevators of bureaucratically administered atrophic mentation, and inspire the unconscious to rebel against the ego. They make the listener want to bang his or her head in the way that, as Will Smith once put it, parents just don’t understand. They remind people my age that “evil” music is fun… not that I had even momentarily forgotten.

In any case, I am no longer afraid. I have embraced the music. I know in my bones that sleep is wrong.

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