A Late Renaissance for This Veteran Poet

Gil Scott-Heron sounds older than 60. Years of cigarettes, cocaine and prison time have weathered his voice, scrubbed it with sandpaper. What remains is thick and careful and potent, like some forgotten whiskey. His voice is timeless.

Especially on I’m New Here, the poet’s first proper record in 16 years, which sounds like the Tibetan Book of the Dead as interpreted by William Faulkner as produced by Portishead. Still, that description underestimates the record’s touchstones, made by decades of artists that Scott-Heron himself influenced.

In fact, nearly a third of I’m New Here is cover songs (bold, considering the record doesn’t even spin for half an hour), but as blues standards, they’re the perfect canvas for Scott-Heron. All is cyclical with this raspy poet.

This is most obvious in the two parts of “On Coming from a Broken Home” that bookend the record. Lyrically, Scott-Heron sees just and vicious circles of morality: “If you’ve got to pay for things you’ve done wrong, uh, I’ve got a big bill coming,” he follows with a laugh on “Being Blessed (Interlude).”

That sort of casual introspection typifies I’m Not Here. It shows the poet also feels older than 60 – death looms ahead like a tall, scruffy pine and casts a shadow over all these song-poems.

Scott-Heron even anticipates his eulogy and mocks it in advance: “As every -ologist would certainly note, I had no strong male figure, right?” he says in the first song.

With much help from producer Richard Russell, I’m New Here is blues for the future. There are nods to folk, R&B, and hip-hop and some songs even recall dubstep, the most successful electronic movement of the past few years. But somehow all of it together makes for a lonely listen.

The best example is “New York Is Killing Me,” which is a classic blues tune recast in harsh streetlight. Russell uses cymbals, warped handclaps and a gospel choir to assemble I’m New Here’s darkest and best song.

If the record has a theme, it is uncertainty: in God (“if there is one,” he sneers, only to beg for His mercy a few songs later), in time (“Where Did the Night Go”) and in safety of any kind (“Running”).

But in his age, the poet is always certain of himself. “I was guided to get here,” he states, saying elsewhere, “I did not become someone different that I did not want to be.”

So while Gil Scott-Heron remains sure that his life was exactly what it was supposed to be, we remain sure of his genius. I’m New Here is an old-time record completely devoid of clichés, and one of the best records of this young year.

Gorillaz’ “Plastic Beach,” a Great Beached Whale

Gorillaz have been one of pop’s wackiest successes since “Clint Eastwood” invaded airwaves nearly a decade ago. It’s hard to believe a cartoon band lasted this long, even harder considering the group releases new music about once every five years.

Of course, it’s all the brainchild of former Blur front man Damon Albarn, a challenging and prolific songwriter, and illustrator Jamie Hewlett. The duo stays busy with an endless roll of side projects, thus Plastic Beach, the group’s newest album, comes a full half-decade after the fluke commercial success of Demon Days.

Plastic Beach is a braver record in every way, especially in its bevy of guest spots. Albarn wipes Snoop Dogg of grit and leaves him alone in a sterile soundscape. He employs the influential mutter of former Velvet Underground singer Lou Reed in a barroom piano jam. Veteran rap troupe De La Soul makes “Superfast Jellyfish” the jam of the spring.

It’s worth noting that many of Albarn’s collaborators are washed up music legends. The word here is “rebirth.” He treats these musicians as actors in his giant production, and Plastic Beach proves him a brilliant director – he rouses unexpectedly great performances from almost all of them.

The secret to Gorillaz lies in this pluralistic approach, and Plastic Beach is its realization. It’s as if the shattered pieces of world culture washed up on a beach, and Albarn, with the help of some friends, was there to reassemble them in his own demented way.

Speaking of pollution, the muse is an imagined island, composed of all the ocean’s floating trash. Plastic Beach is as a concept album should be: strange and messy and full of wit. Hewlett’s stylized version of the future is impossible and idyllic. The main characters aren’t cartoon characters anymore – they’re environments.

The result is a great beached whale of an album, one that was really written for sunshine. Albarn has a knack for breezy, winding melodies, as heard in the title track and “Broken,” the record’s best song. Elsewhere, the charming, carbonated sound of the band’s 2001 debut bubbles to the surface. (“Superfast Jellyfish,” “On Melancholy Hill”)

Still, Albarn wrote more than 70 songs for this record, and some of that blubber remains, sandwiched between distinct pop gems. Mos Def’s contributions to “Stylo” and “Sweepstakes” are especially disappointing – the latter sounds like M.I.A. with the cream filling sucked out. Two other songs relegate the funk-cacophony of Hypnotic Brass Ensemble to musical wallpaper.

Regardless, it’s a thrill to hear Albarn evolve from rock star to curator. He’s become a socially conscious prophet and vital pop musician. Plastic Beach is an undeniable success, especially in timing – I can’t think of a better soundtrack for spring break.

Eluvium’s “Similes,” A Restful Void

My first listen of Eluvium’s new record was interrupted barely five minutes in, when I fell asleep.

To my credit, Similes is an impenetrable, arrhythmic fog. Matthew Cooper, the man behind the moniker, has a track record of ambient releases, a genre born in the space between transcendent and tedious.

Brian Eno, the musician widely credited for the creation of ambient, once wrote that the music “is intended to induce calm and a space to think.” In this context, Similes rushes to buy wallpaper and curtains before building a doorframe. Cooper, an obvious member of the Pro Tools generation, squanders fine-tuned production on half-hearted song fragments.

Still, Cooper knows the trappings of ambient music: soft tones, innocuous chords, slow tempos and no singing. He violates that last rule for the first time on Similes, but does so timidly by burying his tuneless mutter low in the mix. He should have known better.

He also should have known that chaining Similes to a single mood would trap the record inside its own murky aesthetic. These are drones, not songs. Repeating the same progression for 11 minutes (“Cease to Know”) is no longer experimental – it’s lazy and it leaves little room for evolution or enjoyment.

Even more constrictive is Cooper’s reliance on piano and back-masked guitar, which lays a soggy foundation for every song on Similes. “If the colors and the shapes were clearly more defined,” he sings in the finale, a condition he would do well to indulge.

Sadly, of all the emotions the record strains to evoke, the only apparent one is disappointment. Deep yearning should lead to action, and this is Cooper’s problem: his voice is all welled tears and no balled fists. Only a child could enjoy this sort of sad indulgence.

The result is a piece of music unsuitable for active listening. Ironically, Similes is a soundtrack to its own failure.

Interview with Grass Widow

Grass Widow, a rising all-girl rock trio from San Francisco, spoke to super fan and IHYEB contributing writer Brady Tackett through e-mail correspondence over the winter break. With two wonderful releases behind them (a self-titled LP and EP), the ladies are now poised for their next record.

Brady: How does San Fran influence the music? What’s your favorite surf band?

Raven Mahon: Definitely our environment influences us, but not necessarily in a summer of ’67 kind of way or a California Surfin’ Safari kind of way. I’d say our foundation rests in the scene that existed in the Bay Area a few years back, before the explosions of MySpace and modern networking technology. When Hannah and I were in our first band together, Shitstorm, (which Lillian later joined) we played with friends in the parks a lot, practiced with a generator out by the bay and were essentially non-existent on the internet, as were most of our friends’ bands. I feel fortunate to have that time to reference, in an age when so much happens in virtual world.

Hannah Lew: I love surf music, but have never thought of SF as a surf town. I know people that surf here, but it’s too foggy for that sunny beach vibe. We do have a lot of So-Cal transplants here that bring the sunshine. Really if you tour through here, you’ll come to know that it’s sort of an island. It’s 6 hours to LA, 12 hours to Portland, and I don’t know how many hours east you’d have to go to hit a city, but basically we’re sort of isolated from the rest of the country. We kind of just do our own thing.

Brady: The press calls your music ‘punk.’ Does the political climate have an influence on songwriting?

Raven: I’m definitely aware that music itself can be a forum for discussions of political and/or social issues, and respect artists and musicians who are taking the opportunity to use their voices in that way. Our music tends to be more personal and based on our individual experiences, but we chose to exist as a band in an intentional way. That is where we feel we can express our politics. We participate in benefits and donate as a band, to causes we believe in, like the San Francisco All-Ages Show Space Project, Girls Rock Camp and now relief efforts in Haiti.

Hannah: We’re faced with many decisions everyday about how to do things as a band. When we play shows it gives us the chance to create an environment where people of all races and genders can participate.  We’ve never felt comfortable inserting any didactic messages into our lyrics or preaching at shows. For me, our music exists in a non-verbal place, where ideas and images can thrive, but not necessarily any “messages.”

Brady: What are your songs about and what will they be about in five years?

Lillian Maring: Our internal climates inspire what hopefully comes through in each song. We each have a tendency to deconstruct everyday experiences. The music itself may be upbeat but the lyrical content is often, for us, like condensing an hour’s worth of psychoanalysis into a couple minutes of melody.

Hannah: Our songs are generally about what we are going through or what we are passionate about/interested in. That being said, we are constantly taking those experiences and synthesizing them into something that we would hope could be universal and not self-indulgent. We’re able to write about very personal subject matter through our music, using metaphors and leaving room for people to insert their own stories. Sort of like a book without a cover.

Brady: What’s your favorite song that you’ve released thus far?

Lillian: We don’t play this one out anymore, but I really like “Time Could Bend,” from our self-titled LP on Make A Mess Records.

Raven: Hmmm.. I don’t have a favorite. But I like playing “Tattoo” and a song we’re about to release called “Uncertain Memory.”

Hannah: It’s like choosing your favorite child: I guess “Lulu’s Lips.”

Brady: What are Grass Widow’s plans for 2010?

Lillian: Release another full length, go to Europe. Help start an all-ages venue in SF.

Raven: To dedicate a lot of time to the project.

Hannah: To make this next record and tour!

Brady: How long have you guys known each other/been playing together?

Lillian: I met Hannah in the spring of 2006. I started playing with Hannah and Raven, as a fill-in drummer for their previous band Shitstorm, when I moved to SF in 2007.

Raven: Hannah and I met through our mutual friend, Wu Li Leung, who was also in Shitstorm. That was about 7 years ago?

Hannah: We’ve been playing as Grass Widow for around two-and-a-half years.

Brady: Hannah, there are some of your short films on your site. Any plans to use those in your work with the band?

Hannah: We’ve been throwing around some music video ideas that maybe we’ll have time to do when we’re done recording . I kind of work totally differently as a filmmaker than I do as a band member. I work better alone creatively as a filmmaker, whereas the band is so triangularly collaborative. Our collaboration is really special and satisfying, but I do look forward to having the time to focus on film. I’ve been working on a script that I may develop into a film in a year or so. You can check out my films at Hannahlew.com.

Brady: What do you do for fun?

Lillian: Shuffleboard, Web mastering.

Raven: Sleeping.

Hannah: Will Shortz, Monday thru Wednesday.

Brady: How often do you practice and where?

Raven: We have a practice space in a meat locker. For real. It’s about five square feet and we share it with our friends, Rank/Xerox (and Nodzzz for a while) and some stragglers.

Hannah: We practice once a week usually. Then we listen to our practice tapes and practice in our heads constantly. Constantly.

Brady: Dream tour (where and with what bands)?

Lillian: The world.

Raven: New Zealand, Turkey… with bands from those places.

Hannah: I’ll go where she goes.

Brady: What do you love about music?

Raven: It’s older than words.

Lillian: Music can provide an opportunity to transcend the literal or obvious interpretations of daily life, to create a space in which to form your own ideals and motivations. It can be a link to another world, another culture. It unites people.

Hannah: I can’t describe it.