My Listening Hours: The Worst of July–September
Okay, maybe "the worst" is a little harsh. And maybe categorizing them under "fucking terrible music" is a little too much. Oh well: these are the albums that really just didn't last more than a handful of spins—long enough to realize I just ain't into them.
White Stripes, Icky Thump
I don’t love or hate the White Stripes. The only other album I own by them is De Stijl, some of which I love while the rest is merely okay. In addition to that, I’ve enjoyed nearly all of their singles without ever feeling the desire to pick up their albums. So it was without much effort on my part that Icky Thump somehow fell into my household. But even from the perspective of someone who’s not a true fan but thinks Jack & Meg are capable of amazing songs, Icky Thump icky sucks. The title track, opening the album, is the closest the duo comes to magic, but it goes on for about a minute too long and becomes monotonous. That’s the problem with the rest of the album in microcosm. For a band that used to be so good at getting to the point, I get the sense that they just don’t have a point this time around.
Mika, Life in Cartoon Motion
Despite unapologetically falling in love with “Grace Kelly” when it came out—in fact I still sing along, in full voice, whenever I hear it—my expectations for this album were low. Doubly disappointing, then, that it still fell shy. This album is dreck. If I’m being generous, I would allow that I’m simply not the audience for this album—but how many pre-pubescent boys discovering their homosexuality did Mika expect to buy this album?
DeVotchka, Una Volta
I first learned of DeVotchka through the Little Miss Sunshine soundtrack, so was glad to come across this album and finally get a chance to see what they’re like on record. Hearing it, I can see why someone would think they’d be great for a soundtrack. Much of their songs are great for setting a mood but don’t often function very well as standalone pieces. When they spend time doing mostly instrumental gypsy-like numbers, I get the same feeling as when I listen to Calexico’s mariachi songs: I feel like I’m listening to hipster-approved world music. There’s a whole section for this stuff at Amoeba; why wouldn’t I pick up records there rather than the indie bins? Una Volta also suffers in its production. Lead singer Nick Urata has a commanding voice, but it is covered in reverb and often buried in the mix among the accordion and violin. I could see how a more crisply produced album could make for a better outing. This time around, I’m a little bored.
Amy Winehouse, Back to Black
As with DeVotchka, part of me resists this album because of its authenticity issues. What I like most about this album I could get from listening to Etta James, frankly. That said, there is still some terrific material on here. It’s impeccably produced, and Winehouse has the pipes to impress. As soon as I find myself letting go of my resistant urges—not least because of her awful personality—some lyric drops in and pulls me out of the song. As with Mika, I sense that I am not the intended audience—look no further than “Addicted,” in which Winehouse requests that “your boyfriend not smoke all my weed.” I probably would have laughed if I were a teenager, but weed jokes are just lame to this thirty-year-old curmudgeon’s ears.
Eels, Daisies of the Galaxy
For whatever reason, I was always under the impression that Eels were mopey Brit Pop along the lines of Trembling Blue Stars. Nothing British about them at all—it’s mopey Americana. Someone will have to tell me if I’ve messed up by hearing this album rather than another Eels record, because I find this one to be occasionally entertaining, sometimes annoying, and mostly boring.
