Album Review, version 2. The End Of The World: You're Making It Come Alive.

Flameshovel’s good rep and commendably mixed bag of artistes sufficed to get my eyes twinkling at this Brooklyn-dude-trio: their name perhaps an REM allusion, their discography boasting an appearance on The Manchurian Candidate soundtrack; my suitably wetted appetite surely ripe for fulfillment yes?
Alas, no.
The Hollywood flirtation of course is side-lined and these niche NYC’ers offer instead a lo-fi hybrid of The Walkmen and The National complete with floundering tit-bits of bass, bitterness and eloquent hookeries for one to sink docile canines into. Although sporadically absorbing it morphs into a phlegmatic-at-best journey that avoids blatant derivation in the main, primarily by lacking vocal or lyrical prowess, but only soars when imitating the aforementioned progenitors.
By the time Stefan Marolachaki declares “this all seems so stale, the words so obvious,” I say ‘here here’ to that and drink to my copy of ‘Alligator’.

Album of the day/week/month/year/decade...Neutral Milk Hotel: In the Aeroplane Over The Sea.

Often, when reviewing an album, it’s important to give readers some yardsticks to deal with: an overall view of what a record sounds like, emotions it may recall, reference points to relate too, and all that bollocks. For some albums, this is just not fucking necessary. In The Aeroplane Over The Sea is so good it makes me want to sit down on my own and cry. Tears of joy yes, but also of sadness; a salty mixture of glee and despair. Glee because amongst all the shit, and the sewage, and the cunts, and the war, and the famine, and the stupid pretentious fucks that we all have to deal with day fucking in, day fucking out, I can come home and listen to Jeff Magnum. Jeff Magnum exists and so does this album. He probably doesn’t even give a fuck, he’s just swanning around trying to avoid the realization that he’s perhaps the most brilliant creator of pop songs on the fucking planet. This album also makes me want to say ‘fuck’ a lot, and that’s because swearing is often the best way to get a fucking point across; and that’s a fucking fact.

Album Review. The End Of The World: You're Making It Come Alive

Flameshovel can boast Tim Kinsella and his rampant experimentalism on their books, while TEOTW may crow about their breezy ditty ‘Little Theater’ featuring on The Manchurian Candidate soundtrack. This potential sonic amalgamation must surely be auspicious for their debut record yes? Yes?
No.
That track, of course, is side-lined and these niche NYC’ers decline the madness. Instead, they offer a lo-fi hybrid of The Walkmen and The National complete with floundering tit-bits of catchy bass, eloquent hookeries and thoughtful bitterness for one to sink their docile canines into. Although sporadically absorbing it morphs into a phlegmatic-at-best LP that avoids blatant derivation in the main, primarily by lacking vocal or lyrical prowess, but is in its prime when imitating the aforementioned masters of the genre. A block of mimetic, however beguiling, has never been an acceptable yardstick for art – just ask Plato.