Primal Scream, More Light

It’s a tough old business, maintaining your credentials at the vanguard of out-there,
transgressive, us-against-The-Man rock ‘n’ roll when you’re into your fourth decade as a functioning band. Over the years, Primal Scream have often made their task harder by following the ambitious and the visionary with conservative regressions into rock ‘n’ roll retro. It started when they followed up 1991′s hallucinogenic rave soundtrack Screamadelica with the sluggish Stones impersonations on Give Out But Don’t Give Up in 1994. The spectre of another Great Leap Backwards is never far away.

This 10th outing, however, aims for the far-out — and surpasses its target by heroic margins. Co-produced by Belfast DJ and connoisseur soundtrack man David Holmes, More Light returns the Scream to the cosmic-futurist dance-rock of their Vanishing Point/XTRMNR days but turns up both the aggression and the psychedelia. It’s big, wild, valiant, occasionally ridiculous and possibly better than XTRMNTR — which puts More Light toe-to-toe with big old Screamadelica itself.

From the first few moments of opening track “2013″ it’s clear this will be no trad-rock Riot City Blues. Holmes installs a circular, buzzing, raga-like motif and when the riff kicks in it’s played not on period Mick Taylor-style guitars but a skronking sax — a sax! — more reminiscent of Roxy Music in the glory of their madness. “River Of Pain” summons up a serpentine, countrified vision of Massive Attack circa Mezzanine and then unfurls into a truly stupefying whirl of woozy free jazz and orchestral samples — some of the most bizarreand electrifying music the Scream have ever created. Even the returns to heads-down mötorikhead rock (“Elimination Blues,” “Hit Void”) and the slowies (“Tenement Kid,” “Relativity”) exhibit a questing sonic sensibility.

Some things remain the same, though. Bobby Gillespie is quick to detail the 21st century slaves, manipulated underclass, television propaganda and sundry other tribulations that mark his particular worldview. But there’s no denying the fetid energy and Sun Ra-meets-The Prodigy excitement here. They even round out this triumphant record by revisiting “Movin’ On Up” on the gospel-fuelled “It’s Alright, It’s OK” — a fitting finale for Primal Scream’s best and most exhilarating album in more than a decade.

Glenn Jones, My Garden State

New-school American Primitive guitarist Glenn Jones’s fifth solo album is an elegiac jewel. You may even discern the arc of a son’s bittersweet ruminations on his ailing mother and New Jersey motherland from the music alone, before taking in song titles or back-story, which sketch the contours of a sweetly autobiographical journey. Jones is a butter-smooth fingerpicker known for diverse open tunings and other harmonic alternatives; wind chimes and upbeat tracks bookend the album, which takes a stormy turn in the middle with “Alcoeur Gardens” (the name is for the Alzheimer’s care facility where Jones’s mother resides), a spontaneous composition augmented by ambient rain and thunder. Jones serenades another invalid in “Blues for Tom Carter,” celebrating the titular then-ailing guitarist with a partially capoed blues in the key of Mars. Charles Ives’s rollicking spirit levitates “Like a Sick Eagle Looking at the Sky,” which is about as fine an example of the new American Primitive spirit as you’ll find.

The Dillinger Escape Plan, One of Us is the Killer

As a live act, the musically volatile Dillinger Escape Plan are one of the last genuinely dangerous experimental metal bands going. Vocalist Greg Puciato’s forehead-slashing barbarism goes beyond shock rock straight into self-loathing and guitarist Ben Weinman’s onstage collisions with amps and gear often result in severe bodily harm.

But while The Dillinger Escape Plan’s live show is a subversive celebration of chaos in motion, their albums — especially from 2007′s Ire Works onward — are meticulous and almost scientific, inventive explorations of the way various musical styles can alternately mesh and practically demolish one another. The Dillinger Escape Plan’s fifth record, One of Us is the Killer, is a frazzling showcase of technical speed-prog, unrelenting post-hardcore barreling, near-industrial electrocution, swinging rock ‘n’ roll excursions and soulful pop forays. The basic techniques should be familiar to the band’s fans, but the group pushes the limits of its expansive sound further than ever.

Indeed, some will find the Dillinger Escape Plan’s sonic schizophrenia too difficult, but for those with patience and open ears, repeat listens yield hidden rewards — like the syncopated beats that weave expertly through the Faith No More-style euphony of the verses of the title track. The rest of the composition is another story, riddled with blasting, dissonant guitars and a labyrinthine midsection. “Understanding Decay,” meanwhile, starts with a drum-and-bass beat and a barbed, sonically reconfigured riff that barely resembles a guitar. Then it’s full-steam ahead into a psycho-prog passage that mingles with catchy melodic vocals. Even when they employ infectious sing-alongs, they do so with a pernicious smirk, secure in the knowledge that whatever wondrous designs they build — like the jazz-pop section to rival Antonio Jobim in “Paranoia Sheets — they’re soon knock down in yet another torrent of inventive chaos.

Bibio, Silver Wilkinson

The English musician Stephen Wilkinson, who records as Bibio, has blazed the meandering creative trail of a true muse-chaser, leaving just enough dropped crumbs — detuned pastoral guitars, snippets of nature recordings, tape wobbles — for us to follow along. His career began with three introverted electro-acoustic albums for Mush Records that sounded like Boards of Canada gone Brit-folk, and his artistic breakthrough came when he moved to Warp for 2009′s Ambivalence Avenue, an unexpectedly bold album of jubilant glitch-soul, clever indie-pop and moody folk that triangulated an undreamt-of sweet spot between J Dilla, Yo La Tengo and Nick Drake.

But Bibio backslid on 2011′s frequently incomprehensible Mind Bokeh, which seemed unfocused rather than eclectic, and his reliable taste faltered (“Take Off Your Shirt” showed that while he could ably explore many different musical byways, the one leading from Cheap Trick to Free Energy was not among them). Happily, the producer rediscovers his footing on Silver Wilkinson. While it doesn’t scale the effortless heights of Ambivalence Avenue, it’s a path out of the wilderness that leads back to more generous, agreeable clearings.

One curious thing about the record is how long it seems to take to get going. The first two songs return to the crepuscular folk of Ambivalence Avenue, though neither is as haunting as “The Palm of Your Wave.” The submerged warble of “Wulf” harks back further, to early albums such as Fi. It makes for a long and vague entrance. The album abruptly wakes up halfway through “Mirroring All,” when its reverb-brushed glide lunges into a whorled beat. Afterward, the folk material sounds fuller and richer (“Sycamore Silhouetting”), the pop more vibrant and catchy (“À Tout À L’heure”). Juicy sped-up soul makes a fine showing in “You,” and two muscular electronic tracks bring this slow-starting record to an exhilarating conclusion.

New This Week: Primal Scream, The Fall, Bibio & More

Primal Scream, More Light The Primals’ tenth album is big, wild, valiant, occasionally ridiculous and up there with XTRMNTR – possibly even Screamadelica. Andrew Harrison celebrates the band’s most exhilarating release in more than a decade:

“From the first few moments of opening track ‘2013’ it’s clear this will be no trad-rock Riot City Blues. Holmes instals a circular, buzzing, raga-like motif and when the riff kicks in it’s played not on period Mick Taylor-style guitars but a skronking sax – a sax! – more reminiscent of Roxy Music in the glory of their madness. ‘River Of Pain’ summons up a serpentine, countrified vision of Massive Attack circa Mezzanine and then unfurls into a truly stupefying whirl of woozy free jazz and orchestral samples – some of the most bizarre  and electrifying music the Scream have ever created.”

Mark Lanegan & Duke Garwood, Black Pudding Profligate collaborator Mark Lanegan teams up with London instrumentalist Duke Garwood on a wonderfully warm and evocative album of parched American blues. Luke Turner says:

“The finest tracks are the ones where the pair go the furthest into the sun-bleached yonder. “Thank You” is made of a swirling mellotron drone out of which piano notes and scrapes of violin emerge and disappear… Even in these jagged moments, though, there’s a sense of ease and confidence. Here’s hoping Lanegan and Garwood are just at the start of their journey along this road less traveled.”

The Fall, Re-Mit The band’s 30^th studio set since 1976 proves there’s no Fall album like a new Fall album. Andrew Harrison says:

“Long-time Fall-watchers will know that the band’s work now oscillates between basic, bloody-minded rockabilly-punk (see 1979’s Dragnet or Fall Heads Roll from 2005) and eccentric electronics (1990’s Extricate). This is chiefly of the first kind, a stabby, back-to-basics thrash with enough bile for a band a quarter their age and few adornments.”

Samba Touré, Albala This shows the protégé of the late, great Ali Farka Touré – the godfather of Mali’s desert blues music – shaping up to be a towering figure in his own right. Chris Nickson writes:

“This is a wonderfully mature album, one where less is often more – a lesson Touré has absorbed from his mentor. On Albala, Samba has really come of age and created something warm, wise and deliciously melodic, his own desert blues.”

Bibio, Silver Wilkinson Stephen Wilkinson’s seventh album is a swoon-filled mix of crepuscular folk, twinkly pop and muscular electronica, featuring the gorgeous “À tout à L’heure” – a sonic summer breeze up there with the Isley Brothers’. Brian Howe says:

“One curious thing about the record is how long it seems to take to get going… It abruptly wakes up halfway through “Mirroring All”, when its reverb-brushed glide lunges into a whorled beat. Afterward, the folk material sounds fuller and richer (“Sycamore Silhouetting”), the pop more vibrant and catchy (“À tout à L’heure”). Juicy sped-up soul makes a fine showing in “You”, and and two muscular electronic tracks bring this slow-starting record to an exhilarating conclusion.”

Maya Jane Coles, Everything The nascent house superstar releases another glimpse of the gems on offer on her debut album, Comfort, out in July.

Dungeonesse, Dungeonesse This synthpop duo craft effervescent fantasy music that’s escapist in the best way. Barry Walters says:

“The duo may draw sonically from Gaga / Beyoncé-world, but they’re clearly outsiders: Wasner’s womanly country twang compliments the pair’s urbanities, suggesting a hypothetical boho big sis to Taylor Swift. In the glistening ballad “Wake Me Up”, she flits from a throaty Annie Lennox-like alto to an airy Joni Mitchell soprano as slo-mo synths  sparkle and hum.”

Various Artists, High Voltage! Giant Steps & Flashpoints in 20th-Century Experimental & Electronic Sound Compiled by Kris Needs, this compilation honouring the forbearers of electronic music mixes avant-garde classical music (John Cage, Stockhausen), with musique concrète (Pierres Schaffer), pioneering synthesizer compositions (Herbert Eimert & Robert Beyer) and pop (Joe Meek). An investment worthy of anyone interested in the experiments of the first electronic sound scientists.

New This Week: Sam Amidon, The Fall, Bibio & More

Sam Amidon, Bright Sunny South: On his Nonesuch debut, Sam Amidon blends anonymous traditional folk with strategic pop tunes. Brian Howe says:

Compared to 2010′s lushly arranged I Saw the Sign, the arrangements on Bright Sunny South are highly stripped down, blowing over the cores of the songs like spindrift. But the themes are familiar: On the title track, a shimmering Hammond organ and rolling acoustic arpeggios set a Civil War-era lament for lost innocence; “He’s Taken My Feet” is a murmuring religious dirge in the manner of I Saw the Sign‘s “Kedron;” “Short Life” is a becalmed mountain fiddle tune about an unfulfilled promise of marriage, like a downcast counterpart to the jubilant “Pretty Fair Damsel.”

Dungeonesse, Dungeonesse: Wye Oak’s Jenn Wasner makes a synthpop album. Says Barry Walters:

In Jenn Wasner’s other duo, Wye Oak, she creates diaphanous indie-rock that draws from shoegaze, the 4AD catalog and other similarly echoing sonic caverns. Despite their subterranean name, Dungeonesse isn’t like that. Instead, Wasner and fellow multi-instrumentalist Jon Ehrens craft synthpop that’s neon-lit and glaring in the places where Wye Oak is sepia-toned and shadowy. This is effervescent fantasy music that’s escapist in the best way, but still grounded in the realities that inspire the pair’s liberating flights of fancy.

Small Black, Limits of Desire: Members of the chillwave class of ’09-10 finally graduate. Laura Studarus says:

Limits of Desire is a meditation on technology and the elements of modern society that foster emotional separation: Reveling in a newfound crispness in both production and vocals, frontman Josh Kolenik wears his heart on his sleeve across ten tracks of Instagrammed lyrics about love, escaping the big city, and being “reckless as rain.” As a result, the album shimmers with the kind of anthemic wonder usually found in the end credits of coming-of-age films.

The Fall, Re-Mit: Mark E. Smith and co. release their 30th (!) album. Andrew Harrison says:

Long-time Fall watchers will know that the band’s work now oscillates between basic, bloody-minded rockabilly-punk (see 1979′s Dragnet or Fall Heads Roll from 2005) and eccentric electronics (1990′s Extricate). This 30th full album since 1976 — does Smith get some kind of medal? — is chiefly of the first kind, a stabby, back-to-basics thrash with enough bile for a band a quarter their age and few adornments.

Bibio, Silver Wilkinson: English trailblazer Bibio rediscovers his footing on his latest LP. Brian Howe says:

Bibio’s career began with three introverted electro-acoustic albums for Mush Records that sounded like Boards of Canada gone Brit-folk, and his artistic breakthrough came when he moved to Warp for 2009′s Ambivalence Avenue, an unexpectedly bold album of jubilant glitch-soul, clever indie-pop and moody folk that triangulated an undreamt-of sweet spot between J Dilla, Yo La Tengo and Nick Drake. While Silver Wilkinson doesn’t scale the effortless heights of Ambivalence Avenue, it’s a path out of the wilderness that leads back to more generous, agreeable clearings.

MS MR, Secondhand Rapture: Buzzy New York duo offer a mesmerizing debut. Annie Zaleski says:

The theatrical “Salty Sweet” — with its tribal drums and overlapping harmonies — and the seductive, string-plucked murmur “BTSK” stand out, and the glassy piano-pop of “Twenty Seven” isn’t far behind. Max Hershenow’s warm, nuanced production is wistful without becoming consumed by nostalgia, familiar without feeling tired; his inventive appropriation of soul, electro, orchestral and hip-hop feels timeless.

The Dillinger Escape Plan, One of Us is the Killer: The fifth LP from one of the last genuinely dangerous experimental bands going. Jon Wiederhorn says:

The Dillinger Escape Plan’s fifth record, One of Us is the Killer, is a frazzling showcase of technical speed-prog, unrelenting post-hardcore barreling, near-industrial electrocution, swinging rock ‘n’ roll excursions and soulful pop forays. The basic techniques should be familiar to the band’s fans, but the group pushes the limits of its expansive sound further than ever.

Mark Lanegan & Duke Garwood, Black Pudding: Former Screaming Trees frontman and a London-based avant-bluesman combine American blues with more experimental sounds. Luke Turner says:

Black Pudding is an album that’s sparse in structure but immense in presence. “Pentecostal” conjures rich atmosphere with just guitar twangs, a shaker rhythm and Langean’s pitch-dark vocals painting vivid images: an albatross, a train, the eternal struggle between good and evil. “Mescalito,” with its arid drum-machine roll and bar-room backing vocal, would give a Nick Cave and Warren Ellis soundtrack a run for its jukebox dollars and cents. “Last Rung” is full of knackered, jazzy piano, and the eerie “Sphinx” sees Lanegan’s heavily-treated voice wobble as if through a heat haze.

Glenn Jones, My Garden State: The butter-smooth fingerpicker pens a sweet tribute to his family. Richard Gehr says:

New-school American Primitive guitarist Glenn Jones’s fifth solo album is an elegiac jewel. You may even discern the arc of a son’s bittersweet ruminations on his ailing mother and New Jersey motherland from the music alone, before taking in song titles or back-story, which sketch the contours of a sweetly autobiographical journey.

Standish/Carlyon, Deleted Scenes: Former members of Aussie band The Devastations explore new directions. Andy Beta says:

First single “Nono/Yoyo” finds Tom Carlyon’s guitar in Durutti Column mode, fragmenting and echoing around an 80 bpm snare as Conrad Standish mewls about the vagaries of love in his best Nu-Romantic falsetto. His voice is at its fragile best on “Gucci Mountain,” which mixes a drugged pace with a shimmering synth melody. And while “Industrial Resort” suggests smokestacks and rust belts, it chugs along like a lost Balearic classic. For the album’s sunny moments though, buzzing closer “2 5 1 1″ suggests not a summer jam but the dog days, made lethargic with humidity.

Brother JT, The Svelteness of Boogietude: John Terlesky’s craftiest album since breaking up the Original Sins in the early ’90s. Richard Gehr says:

Funky drum machine, squiggly synth lines, distorted vocals and sustained fuzzy guitars provide the bedrock for some pretty witty wordplay. Things begin to get weird with “Muffintop,” a slow-groove paean to fleshy surplus; JT returns to this topic a few tracks later in “Sweatpants,” a Zappa-esque slice of TMI-electrofunk that declares, “Life is hard enough, you need some wiggle room.”

R.E.M., Green (25h Anniversary Reissue) – R.E.M.’s big leap to Warner Bros., 25 years on. The record that brought us the goofy pop hit “Stand” and also the “Losing My Religion”-presaging mandolin lament “You Are The Everything.” Supplemented here with a bonus disc of the band in their live, constantly-touring prime, right before they all decided the road was too grueling and beat a retreat.

Cleaners From Venus, Cleaners From Venus Vol. 2 – Venerated little jangle-pop band, highly influential among current-day indie-pop bands, get their entire catalogue reissued via the ever-essential Captured Tracks.

Classixx, Hanging Gardens – Fun, sunshine-y, disco-pop stuff from hotly tipped L.A. duo. Nancy Whang of The Juan MacLean shows up for a vocal turn.

ADULT., The Way Things Fall – The long-running Detroit duo have perfected their sound a sour, gritty punk recasting of synth pop, complete with blankly pistoning techno drums and empty, arid space. This is a slightly more stream-lined version of this potent sound, which remains as intriguing as ever.

Snowden,No One In Control – The first Snowden record since 2006 (label troubles, not creative ones) finds Jordan Jeffares channeling his frustration into drifting, lovely synth-edged pop tunes, graced with his grey sigh of a singing voice atop it.

Pharmakon, Abandon – Brutal noise music delivered with performance-art lunatic flair by the 22-year-old NY native Margaret Chardiet. RIYL: Prurient, Throbbing Gristle, early Swans, ice picks, raw meat. Dark, dark, dark shit.

Public Service Broadcasting, Inform-Educate-Entertain – Fantastic concept behind this one – this London duo trawl through old film archives to set audio clips from time-forgotten pieces of footage – instructional videos, PSAs, propaganda films – and setting them to lightly propulsive electronic rock. Sad and oddly uplifting all at once.

The Handsome Family, Wilderness – The long-running duo return with a concept album about animals, overlaying each song with the distinct glum fatalism that they’ve made into a patent by now.

Pure X, Crawling Up The Stairs - These Austin guys have cultivated a certain syrup-slow beach music vibe – drawn-out, hallucinatory, slightly sick-sounding. The album title is well-chosen.

Kisses, Kids In L.A. – Coolly bumping little synth-pop nugget.

Pierre Boulez with the Cleveland Orchestra, Stravinsky: The Rite of Spring – In time to celebrate the piece’s 100th birthday, here is a rendition of this incandescent work, led by arguably the smartest and most sensitive conductor to ever shape the work: Pierre Boulez. Performed by the mighty Cleveland Orchestra.

Sage Francis, Personal Journals – The first official album by Sage Francis.

Ben Lee, Ayahuasca: Welcome To The Work – This is hilarious. Ben Lee is all into ayahuasca now, because of course he is, and he recorded an entire album celebrating its effects on his mind. The song titles are pretty indicative here.

The Blank Tapes, Vacation – Nicely chugging, low-stakes garage-pop from some guys who have been at it for awhile and never really gotten much shine.

The Boxcar Lilies, Sugar Shack – Dark and lovely traditional country.

Brian Eno x Nicolas Jaar x Grizzly Bear – Three names to make pretty much any living indie fan go “SQUEEE!” Not a full-length; actually a remix a piece by Jaar of one Eno tune and one Grizzly Bear tune.

Mark Lanegan & Duke Garwood, Black Pudding

Former Screaming Trees frontman Mark Lanegan needs no introduction but Duke Garwood, his musical partner on Black Pudding, is less well known. The London-based avant-bluesman has released four excellent albums that owe as much to the textures of ambient music as they do to the blues, and along the way has amassed a diverse set of collaborators, from Archie Bronson Outfit to the Orb, Seasick Steve and the Moroccan folk group the Master Musicians of Joujouka.

Lanegan has worked with Queens of the Stone Age, Greg Dulli and Isobel Campbell, so the two are kindred spirits in their enthusiasm for collaboration, and for subtly twisting the American roots tradition. Black Pudding was concocted when Garwood supported Lanegan on tour, and the latter has described their time in the studio as “one of the best experiences of my recording life.” The result is a warm, evocative and atmospheric album that combines parched American blues with more experimental sounds, nicely captured in the album’s book-ends: the finger-picked instrumentals “Manchester Special” and “Black Pudding.”

It’s an album that’s sparse in structure but immense in presence. “Pentecostal” conjures rich atmosphere with just guitar twangs, a shaker rhythm and Langean’s pitch-dark vocals painting vivid images: an albatross, a train, the eternal struggle between good and evil. Garwood’s solo work is marked out by a sense of space, which is also palpable here. “Mescalito,” with its arid drum-machine roll and bar-room backing vocal, would give a Nick Cave and Warren Ellis soundtrack a run for its jukebox dollars and cents. “Last Rung” is full of knackered, jazzy piano, and the eerie “Sphinx” sees Lanegan’s heavily-treated voice wobble as if through a heat haze.

The finest tracks are the ones where the pair go the furthest into the sun-bleached yonder. “Thank You” is made of a swirling mellotron drone out of which piano notes and scrapes of violin emerge and disappear. “Cold Molly” is fractured and bold, creating a steely funk from clipped drums and brass skronk. Even in these jagged moments, though, there’s a sense of ease and confidence that shows their musical chemistry. Here’s hoping Lanegan and Garwood are just at the start of their journey along this road less traveled.

Brooklyn Rider, A Walking Fire

The string quartet known as Brooklyn Rider is an offshoot of Yo Yo Ma’s Silk Road Ensemble, and they follow in that ensemble’s path of cross-cultural music. A Walking Fire is a musical journey that begins in Romania, with a suite called “Culai” by the violist and composer Ljova, and ends in Iran with “Three Miniatures for String Quartet,” by Brooklyn Rider’s own violinist Colin Jacobsen. In between, the quartet plays a major piece from the string quartet repertoire, Bela Bartok’s String Quartet #2. This format — mixing a “standard” with new and more exotic fare — proved to be a winning one for the group in their 2010 album Dominant Curve, which included the Debussy String Quartet in among contemporary works that had an Eastern cast. And it works again here: The Bartok quartet, heard after Ljova’s gypsy-inspired suite, gains a kind of clarity of purpose. Ljova’s piece is named after the late Romanian violinist Nicolai Neacsu, known as Culai, and famous among world music enthusiasts as the wild fiddler who led the gypsy string band Taraf de Haidouks. Alternately ecstatic and elegiac, it is a perfect foil for Bartok’s quartet, a lament written during the First World War which includes echoes of the folk music (mostly from Eastern Europe but also, somewhat incongruously, from Nigeria as well) that Bartok loved so much and spent so many years studying and recording.

Ljova’s suite is also full of echoes of the folk music of Eastern Europe. It opens with “The Game,” a jovial, stamping dance. “The Muse” has a more obvious Balkan sound, including a moment or two of Culai’s famed “ratcheting” sound — created by dragging a piece of horsehair or fishing line over the violin’s string. “The Song” is a jaunty number with a sinuous melody that takes a couple of surprising turns; it leads seamlessly into “Love Potion, Expired,” which enters the high-speed world of Balkan gypsy music. A typically full-blooded Roma-style lament, or doina, wraps up the suite.

After Ljova’s “Culai” and the Bartok second quartet, Jacobsen offers a trio of pieces inspired by Persian music and specifically by his (and the quartet’s) long-standing and productive friendship with Kayhan Kalhor, the pre-eminent virtuoso of the Persian fiddle, or kemanche. At seven-and-a-half minutes long, “The Flowers of Esfahan” tests the definition of the title “miniatures,” but it is also a highlight of the album, as the music coils and uncoils in flowing arabesques and gossamer textures. The outer movements, “Majnun’s Moonshine” and “A Walking Fire,” with their exotic melodies and the strongly accented rhythms, are probably hard to play, but fortunately for us, are easy to enjoy.

Valerie June, Pushin’ Against a Stone

As opening lines go, “I ain’t fit to be no mother/ I ain’t fit to be no wife” is certainly arresting. But then everything about Valerie June’s first album is startling. The line is from “Workin’ Women Blues,” which, over its short three minutes, builds from its dry-as-dust, spare blues foundations into an ornate brass-encrusted teetering edifice that shouldn’t make sense but does.

It’s a canny choice of first song, as Pushin’ Against a Stone rarely adheres to convention. The same could be said about Valerie June. This 31-year-old Tennessee native has spent the last decade flitting between Memphis and the West Coast, busking, selling herbs, working in bars and cleaning, all the time writing and playing. However, it wasn’t until June decamped to Brooklyn and the Black Keys’ Dan Auerbach agreed to write and produce with her that things finally clicked.

It’s clear that Auerbach’s patronage has liberated June. This is an album dense with ideas finally coming to fruition. The ghostly, tired desire of the beautiful “Somebody to Love” is minimalist soul that gives way to the languid, gospel-infused shrug of “The Hour.” That’s followed, however, by “Twined & Twisted”‘s keening Appalachian bare-bones folk, a shaft of bright beauty that almost makes you squint.

Any thoughts of austerity that working with a minimalist like Auerbach might inspire are quickly swamped by “Wanna Be On Your Mind” which slinks along lasciviously in an immersive and atmospheric fug of sultry Memphis heat. The title track, however, is a real killer, matching the heights of “Workin’ Women Blues,” by somehow simultaneously evoking the winsomeness of early-period Supremes and the forlorn sexuality of “Glory Box”-era Portishead.

Auerbach’s influence on Pushin’ Against a Stone is most noticeable on the near-preposterous swagger of “You Can’t Be Told” with its slash and burn guitar and tightly wound central riff. But this is Valerie June’s album, Valerie June’s triumph. She’s worked damned hard to get here. It’s been well worth the wait.

Samba Touré, Albala

If the late, great Ali Farka Touré has a spiritual heir, it’s Samba Touré — who’s no relation, despite the name. Samba was a protégé of the godfather of Mali’s desert blues and the sinewy guitar textures and incisive licks he brings to his lean, loping songs are eerily reminiscent of Ali Farka. Samba’s third release, though, shows he’s shaping up to be a towering figure in his own right, with a style very much his own.

That’s most evident on “Idjé Lalo,” which starts out as a lovely, swirling mass of sound, guitar, ngoni lute and sokou violin playing against each other to psychedelic effect before resolving into a relentless groove. As with most the material here, it draws lyrical inspiration from the fractured state of Mali, where a military coup in 2012 brought an abrupt end to democracy. The only track Touré didn’t write is “Fondora” — “Leave Our Road” – a traditional tune to which he’s put new words. Recorded in late 2012 when Islamist forces were taking over northern Mali, it’s an impassioned plea for peace, with a refrain of “I say, leave our road/ All killers, leave our road,” and a spare, looping riff that conjures up the wide spaces of Mali’s desert region.

This is a wonderfully mature album, one where less is often more — a lesson Touré has absorbed from his mentor. On Albala, Samba has really come of age and created something warm, wise and deliciously melodic, his own desert blues.

The Fall, Re-Mit

Like pigeons, the council dog catcher, street drinkers and the Queen, it feels like The Fall have always been with us. One day they will disappear and we will wonder who we are without Mark E. Smith’s free-form jeremiads against modernity, mediocrity and sobriety.

Long-time Fall watchers will know that the band’s work now oscillates between basic, bloody-minded rockabilly-punk (see 1979′s Dragnet or Fall Heads Roll from 2005) and eccentric electronics (1990′s Extricate). This 30th full album since 1976 — does Smith get some kind of medal? — is chiefly of the first kind, a stabby, back-to-basics thrash with enough bile for a band a quarter their age and few adornments.

The Fall’s current line-up is surprisingly stable with no sackings since 2006, and they’re very much up to their historic task of combining the sounds of Link Wray and Can. The no-frills “Sir William Wray” and “No Respects rev.” hurtle along on repurposed ’50s riffs, although “Hittite Man” — possibly celebrating the Bronze Age chariot-building civilization, possibly not – is gentler and rather beautiful.

Though it’s dependably exciting and as comical as ever (see “Kinder Of Spine” for Smith arguing with a spider) there is in truth not much here that adds to The Fall’s wonderful and frightening world. The miracle is that they’re still at it, still so driven and undimmed by compromise. New listeners will probably better acquire the Fall habit with A World Bewitched (Best of 1990-2000) or 1993′s spectacular The Infotainment Scan. The committed will find that, as ever, there’s no Fall album like a new Fall album.

Various Artists, Kenya Special (Selected East African Recordings From The 1970s &’80s)

East African music has long taken a backseat to the sounds of West Africa, at least abroad. Soundway offers a sprawling and entertaining corrective with this double-album follow-up to its Nigeria and Ghana “Specials.” From the ’60s into the ’80s, Nairobi’s River Road commercial district, with its hundreds of record shops, fed the country’s seemingly unquenchable appetite for seven-inch singles. Kenya Special spotlights 32 bright, bouncy ways that local tribal rhythms, Nigerian afrobeat, Congolese rumba and American funk and soul came together in regional hits and small-run gems.

In Kenya, no sound was bigger than benga, which originated among the Luo people. Benga’s synchronized guitars are in full effect on “H. O. Ongili,” the DO 7 Band track that popularized the style. But check out the Kalamba Boys’ Kamba version, which replaces benga’s fast instrumental section with a thrilling garage-rock exit strategy. And dig the Arabic tinge to Hafusa Abasi & Slim Ali’s “Sina Raha” (I’m Sad), not to mention the funky eight-minute Swahili-rumba epic “Sweet Sweet Mbombo” by Orchestre Baba National. Tanzania’s Afro 70 almost seem to go Sun Ra in “Cha-Umheja.” And on and on. How exceptional is Kenya Special? There’s not a slack track to be found, and presumably plenty more yet to be excavated.

Alan Silva, Unity

I can’t say whether the American and U.S.-based jazz musicians who decamped in Europe during the last part of the ’60s and stuck around for a decade or so made any money, but they sure sounded like they were having a lot of fun. Unity is a live party album — a kicking-and-screaming, avant-garde, free-for-all. When it was first released in 1974, it was issued under the name of tenor saxophonist Frank Wright. No matter; this band is an entirely equal partnership. Wright, bassist Alan Silva, pianist Bobby Few and drummer Muhammad Ali are true brothers in arms. And though it’s broken up into separate tracks, it’s meant to be played in its entirety.

Unity consists of five parts, and it’s almost entirely aggressive throughout. But the nature of the aggression is celebratory, and nearly humorous in many spots. The audience is clearly pumped up, and the band members spend a lot of time whooping and hollering. Still, once they get down to business (which takes them about a minute), they become a furious ensemble, with Few tearing into the keys, Wright wailing over him, and Silva and Ali boiling underneath.

Most players would have trouble sustaining this pace, but this kind of intensity is home ground for the quartet; there’s a cauldron-like center to this music, and each of the players is capable of feeding off it. “Part I” morphs into a strange Asian/polka blend, culminating in Wright’s emphatic honks. In “Part ll,” Muhammad Ali takes over. His playing is reminiscent of his brother Rashied’s (who’s best known for having replaced Elvin Jones in the John Coltrane group), but is more linear.

The band reenters in “Part lll,” with Wright now on soprano. They move into a modal section. Late-period Coltrane again comes to mind here; this is the music with which all four members of the group most closely identify, and they play the idiom with assurance. In a sense, they play it with more assurance than Trane himself did, since they are more comfortable moving the music toward total freedom than Coltrane was. This section, possibly the most fervent, is followed in “Part lV” by a spacey combination of chanting, arco bass by Silva, and highly vocalized saxophone, fueled by Few’s bashing pentatonic chords and Ali’s splashy cymbals. “Part V” is not entirely serious: People laugh and cheer, the band returns to the polka motif of earlier (sans Asian elements at first), and out they go in this vein, picking up muscle on the way toward the finish line. It’s funny, but there’s a lot of heft beneath the silliness.

Six Degrees of Fitz and the Tantrums’ More Than Just A Dream

It used to be easier to pretend that an album was its own perfectly self-contained artifact. The great records certainly feel that way. But albums are more permeable than solid, their motivations, executions and inspirations informed by, and often stolen from, their peers and forbearers. It all sounds awfully formal, but it's not. It's the very nature of music — of art, even. The Six Degrees features examine the relationships between classic records and five other albums we've deemed related in some way. In some cases these connections are obvious, in others they are tenuous. But, most important to you, all of the records are highly, highly recommended.

Fitz and the Tantrums, More Than Just a Dream (Deluxe)

The least authentic period-faithful of the recent soul revivalists — but also among the most spirited in performance — L.A.’s Fitz and the Tantrums, like their name implies, wholeheartedly embrace vintage R&B’s explosive energy. Lead vocalist Michael Fitzpatrick and similarly fiery background singer Noelle Scaggs achieve pop-soul alchemy, and for their second album, the group partners with fellow Los Angeleno Tony Hoffer for broader, more contemporary, studio-savvy strokes that suggest what fun.’s Some Nights might’ve sounded like had Janelle Monáe had sung on more than just “We Are Young.”

Although Hoffer supplies the occasional guitar, the band’s core remains keys, horns, drums and vocals, all given a thick, pounding punch. The difference is immediately apparent on the first few echo-drenched seconds of “Out of My League,” which recalls Hoffer’s most notable mixing work on, M83′s Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming. The excitement of the sextet’s 2010 debut is still there, but this time Fitzpatrick’s voice is double-tracked and fed through various gizmos for a cavernous effect, as drums, handclaps, keys, and various ooo-oohs swirl around him. “6am” drops the BPMs but heightens the vocal harmonies: Fitzpatrick shares his spotlight with Scaggs, then lets her fly solo for the first lines of the second verse, suggesting this already righteous ensemble would be even sharper if the vocalists split their mike time evenly and instrumentalists like trumpeter/saxophonist James King got more time to shine. These Tantrums are just as engaging as their Fitz.

Olafur Arnalds, For Now I Am Winter

The Icelandic composer Olafur Arnalds writes richly evocative, almost cinematic works in a style probably best described as “electroacoustic chamber music.” Not to be confused with his cousin, the singer/songwriter Olof Arnalds (her recordings are also worth checking out, though), Arnalds is part of the new breed of (mostly northern) European composers who draw on equal parts post-minimalism, post-rock and film music. Fans of Max Richter, Dustin O’Halloran, Sylvain Chauveau, Hauschka and Johann Johannsson will find in Arnalds a kindred spirit. New York composer/pianist Nico Muhly, a frequent collaborator on the Icelandic new music scene, provides the arrangements which, even at their biggest and most dramatic, somehow avoid pomposity and melodrama. But the most notable guest might be singer Arnor Dan, who appears on four tracks. Until now, Olafur Arnalds recordings had been a vocal-free zone. Even here though, Arnalds often uses Dan’s voice as a part of the instrumental texture, with the literal meaning of the text a secondary concern.

The title track, “For Now I Am Winter,” is a gentle song somewhat reminiscent of Antony and the Johnsons. It reappears in two remixes at the end of the album: the first an electronically-processed piano piece with a subterranean-sounding mix from Nils Frahm, and the second built around a sturdy downtempo groove by Kiasmos (Arnalds’s techno duo with fellow Icelandic musician Janus Rasmussen). The opening track, “Sudden Throw,” moves from a glittering, icy beginning to a grand, dramatic conclusion — the kind of thing we’ve come to expect from the so-called post rock crowd — except that it is compressed into a three-minute span instead of Sigur Ros’s 10 minutes, or godspeed you! black emperor’s half hour. “Brim” immediately stakes out further sonic territory with its highly rhythmic string quartet writing, contrasting with the sweeping electronics and digital percussion before ending with some plangent piano chords. Other highlights include “Old Skin,” another of the songs with Dan, with somewhat clearer vocals and a more propulsive string orchestra sound; and “Only the Winds,” an elegiac piece that seems to be inevitably headed for use in a film score.

Interview: Ghost B.C.

The curtain opens on the phantom’s opera, a masked demon in the basement of a decayed theater, hovering over a pipe organ, bringing forth demented canticles of lost salvation. If the B.C. is silent, as they say, Ghost B.C. also hew to a vow of silence, preferring to remain nameless, tithing their public personas to their chosen roles in a band hierarchy much the same way as a congregant joins a church, or in this case, antichurch.

Ghost’s version of the Albigensian Heresy surfaced in 2010 when the band’s first album, Opus Eponymous, cut through the underworld of the Scandinavian metal scene with a sense of bold purpose. Beyond the psycho-religious trappings, their riffs ‘n rhythms were precise and catapulting, leavened with a sense of harmony as inventive as Blue Oyster Cult and not sparing the crunching horror show of Iron Maiden or Helloween. Their newest release, Infestissumam, brings them to the Jerusalem that is Nashville, where they recorded with producer Nick Raskulinecz; and as the band approached their venue for this night’s human sacrifice in San Francisco, I made contact through the ether with a Nameless Ghoul — who, if I’m not mistaken, did sound a lot like Papa Emeritus II.

If the first record is about prophesizing the Antichrist, and the second heralding arrival, it seems to mirror your own movement as a band, now undertaking your first headlining U.S. tour and a major label album release.

I never thought of it like that, but that would make sense. Obviously for a band that was for quite some time considered a hype, or by many as a fluke, what we have managed to do is announce ourselves to the world with this record.

This may be a chicken-or-egg question, but which came first, the band or the theatrical concept?

Myself and the other guys are musicians, and we’ve been in several groups together in the past. And while being together in another band, Ghost started when I played a riff to everybody else. I said that this is probably the most heavy metal riff that has ever existed. Then I showed them the opening riff to “Stand By Him.” When the chorus came to me, it haunted my dreams. Every time I picked up the guitar, I ended up playing that progression, and when I fit the words in, it seemed to cry out for a Satanically-oriented lyric. This was in 2006. When we came up with the name Ghost, it seemed only natural to build on the foundation of this heavy imagery. Within that concept we were able to combine our love of horror films, and of course, the traditions of Scandinavian metal.

The shock-horror lyrics, the celebration of devil worship, the guttural vocals and massed slabs of guitar — they’re practically part of Swedish folklore now. The complex overlay of vocal harmonies and the predominance of the keyboards seems to broaden your appeal.

I think on the new record we’re not stepping away from it, but trying to expand on the classical themes of where we come from. When we began we were in an embryonic state, without knowing anyone was listening. Now we seem to be growing along with our audience’s expectations of what we are capable of.

There is a definitely a different feel to this new album than the first. It seems more expansive and inclusive. When you went into the studio with producer Nick Raskulinecz, what kinds of goals did you have in mind, ways in which you hoped the music would develop and grow?

All the songs on the new album, with the exception of “Ghuleh,” were written and demoed in 2011. We knew pretty well what we wanted to do, and going to Nashville was a way in which we could feel a sense of dislocation, of being outsiders. It was almost as if you were a Star Wars fanatic going to a Star Trek convention. Being so out of sync with the city left us to our own devices, like we were on an alien planet, and I think in some ways it pushed us farther out, allowed us to take chances we might not otherwise have were we in our homeland. We are certainly not a country band.

I’d surely agree. In fact, one might say you’re the Anticountry. Speaking of which, how much does the religious imagery you use reflect your own beliefs? Is it more of a theatrical concept, or do you spiritually believe in the dark side?

Let’s put it this way. My whole upbringing was within the extreme metal scene, where diabolical imagery is a way of communicating alienation and otherness. I have been a fan of music like that ever since I was 10, 11. That whole language, that whole way of thinking comes very natural to me. You can view it from different angles, and with Ghost we are attempting to fashion an aesthetic work of art, reflecting the artistic entertainment values of a Biblical linear anti-Christian Satanism. From a personal point of view, we are basically making a mockery of linear religion because it’s such a simplified way of looking at divinity. I think of philosophy and theology as so much grander.

It does seem that your staging and presentation is more for spectacle than hardcore devil worship. No one thought that Alice Cooper was really cutting heads off babies after the show; or that Black Sabbath was drinking the blood of virgins. What are some of the bands you take inspiration from?

We’re influenced by everything ranging from classic rock to the extreme underground metal bands of the ’80s to film scores to the grandeur of emotional harmonic music; that combination gives us a lot of freedom to move our music and staging anywhere. We don’t want to be confined to being any one thing.

So can we expect a Papa Emeritus III with the next album?

Well, I can’t reveal the future. Anything can happen in the antichurch, as within the church itself. In the days of the Avignon schism, back in the 14th century, there were once three Popes fighting for the right to lead the church, excommunicating each other. And that was before the Borgias. There may be a bloody war of succession to come.

Interview: George Saunders

George Saunders’s newest story, published only as an audiobook and Kindle Single, is told from the point of view of Fox 8, the title character who pens his tale of friendship and loss by way of a letter addressed simply: “Deer Reeder.” As the spelling gets weirder — and the voice dearer — Fox 8 implores his correspondent to “Reed my leter, go farth, ask your felow Yumans what is up.”

This is a really good question. Saunders doesn’t purport to have an “explanashun,” but as anyone familiar with his body of work knows — from CivilWarLand in Bad Decline, his breathtaking first story collection way back in 1998, to this year’s chart-topping Tenth of December, plus all the stories, novellas and essays in between — Saunders has a powerful knack for exploring the contradictions that drive our era, with an ear for the American idiom that is downright musical.

Happily, for those inclined to take their literature in the oral-tradition-meets-digital-publishing medium of audiobooks, Saunders narrates the audio version himself, adding warmth and wit to the listening experience.

eMusic contributor Amanda Davidson talked with Saunders over email about playing music, writing fiction, and reading stories out loud.

You’ve been on an epic book tour for Tenth of December. Are there any songs or albums that you’re currently listening to in order to refresh your spirits?

I pretty much blew my ears out in the 1980s when I worked on an oil crew and the Walkman had just been invented, so I try to minimize my headphone time these days. But we live an hour and a half from the nearest airport, so I get some good music-in-the-car time in on those drives. I’ve been listening to a mix that someone gave me, and it has on there “Peggy Sang the Blues” by Frank Turner, and “Stop Cryin’ About the Rain,” by Graham Parker. I’ve also been listening to After the Gold Rush by Neil Young, and (repetitively) “One Sunday Morning” by Wilco. Also “God I’m Missing You” — a Rodney Crowell-Mary Karr song done by Lucinda Williams on the Crowell-Karr album Kin. A really beautiful song, and an astonishing performance of it. Other than that — total silence.

There’s a connection between language and music in your new story, as Fox 8 trots past a house and hears “the most amazing sound. Turns out, what that sound is, was: the Yuman voice, making werds. They sounded grate! They sounded like prety music!” Can you describe the genesis of Fox 8′s voice?

As far as I can remember, I’d written a humor piece where the narrator was a dog, and had some fun with that — he was kind of smart and also kind of dumb. And then I wrote another humor piece called “Coarse Evaluation” which was this course evaluation written by a high-school kid who was basically illiterate. It started like this:

At first this class was a pretty easy class to take. The readings were interesting but often tedious. The kids in class always seemed paranoid about being struck down by others. Unfortunately this factor led to an awkward vibe which both contributed and caused the demise of the teacher

And had soon descended to this, re. the class’s reading of “A Christmas Carol”:

When them ghosts came we did not find it scarry. Would have been scarier if one ghosts tongue had shot out and likked Mr Scrooge or Marley or whoever, that one guy who was such a tightass in terms of his money?

So I kind of combined the two: a fox who is only moderately literate.

I like to have some sort of self-imposed constraint when I’m writing. Somehow this has the paradoxical effect of freeing me up. So to be “constrained” to the bad spelling helped me — it seemed like it produced a possibility for a sort of extra level of poetry, if you see what I mean. If you say: “When the sun went down, the world went dark” — well, that’s one phrase. If you say, “When sun goes down, werld goes dark” — it’s got a different feeling. So I had a good time exploring what felt like a slightly new form of English — trying to find the hot spots and funny places and so on.

Fox 8 is full of sentences that are both funny and heated, critical and tender-hearted. Is there a way that your approach to language allows you layer these tones and feelings?

I think there is, yes, absolutely. That is the whole principle underlying the notion of style: that how we say something and what we say are not at all separate, and that there are untold levels of magic possible in the simple arrangement of words — that the human reading apparatus is deeply nuanced and perceptive, beyond our ability to explain or reduce.

But the pisser is, there are not any rules or guidance as to how or where or when to do this — I think you have to just wade in, phrase by phrase, and see what you’ve done and adjust accordingly. That is the fun part and the terrifying part, to me: it is all done (and can only be done) on the line-to-line level, by taste. And then you come back again and again, micro-adjusting each time — which will often introduce new possibilities, and so on and so on…

Was there any particular music, or musical style, that informed Fox 8?

It’s a funny thing. I love music, I play music, but I tend to keep music and writing very separate. Never (never) listen to music when I’m writing, and have learned to run away if a certain song is “inspiring” me too much. When it comes to writing, I am a purist. I think the prose has to do what it does all on its own — has to come forth out of complete silence and move the reader completely on its own, and so on.

All this by way of saying that when you asked that question, I drew a total blank. I mean, I could make something up, but honestly — nothing musical presents itself, related to that story. Or any of my stories.

Writing in silence makes a lot of sense, considering the relationship between silence and music, or silence and language. If you ever listen for dialogue, do you listen for the unsaid?

I think most dialogue is the unsaid. There’s a great comic energy in that move where two people talk around something, or talk past each other.

I’m interested in the way that Americans — well, probably people in general — tend to address their anxiety with yap. I know I do. This tendency to lack the self-confidence to simply not do anything — to refrain, to be silent, not react, not shoot, just stay out of the shit — that seems to be an American thing. It’s like we can’t tolerate being sidelined or inactive or inessential to any moment. We always have to be active and at the center of things. That’s a big generality, but I do sometimes wonder why it is that, if, say, a European gets pissed off, he gets drunk and falls asleep on the curb — takes himself out of the action. He can tolerate being abased, somewhat. But an American guy (again, generalizing like a big dog), especially your generic white guy, doesn’t like that. It’s as if he can’t say: “I am small/minor/temporarily losing.” If humiliated, he has to go out and do something. It’s like the worst thing that could happen is that, for a while, he might be…passive, or absent, or quiet, or inessential.

Except for me, of course. I am one of those virtuous, self-possessed white guys.

I read recently that you play guitar. How long have you been playing?

I started in seventh grade. One of our nuns was offering free lessons, so I went for it. They were basically teaching us to play for Mass, so we first learned “Kumbaya,” and then “We Are One in the Spirit,” with the iconic strumming pattern called, uh, “Down, Down, Up/Up, Down, Up.” And then I played in bands all through college and after.

Do you practice a lot? Does the repetition of that process connect with your writing?

I do practice a lot. When I was in college, for a certain period, I was playing an hour or so of scales a day. Now it’s more that technical approach called “just farting around.”

I think music has informed my writing in lots of (very complicated) ways. There’s an “ear” component in both — a way of training yourself in close listening. There’s also this idea that the real place of communication is sub-rational — just learning to trust that the real magic in a piece of art occurs in sub-conceptual places.

And then, as you suggest, there is no limit to the number of times one may have to play a piece of music before it’s satisfactory. Ditto with writing. Being involved with music taught me early on that, in art, you get no points for mere effort — the thing has to work at the end, or it’s back to the drawing board.

Are you currently working on any guitar pieces?

Lately I’ve been trying to write songs — I have this goal of writing, in my lifetime, one song that doesn’t revolt me. So far, no luck. But it is fun to work on them, and especially fun to work on the guitar parts. I have Logic Express on a dedicated computer in the basement, so I’ve been overdubbing and very slowly learning about recording — just as a hobby, or as a reminder of what “beginner mind” really feels like. (“Beginner mind” is a nice way of saying “How it feels to keep sucking even when you really want to be good.”)

Do the songs that you write and record have lyrics?

They do have lyrics. That is actually the part I’m most unhappy with. The lyrics I write tend to be kind of linear and logical and narrative — and not in a good way. I haven’t found any truths that I could only express via a lyric, I guess is how I’d put it. So that’s interesting to me — I know what a great song sounds like, I understand the qualities of allusiveness and so on, but just can’t seem to summon that up in this context. That’s what I mean by “beginner mind.” And that’s why I like to experience it. It’s good to be reminded that a lot of what I take for granted in prose writing might not be so obvious to, or easy for, a young student writer.  And it’s also interesting (and frustrating) to see that diagnosing or recognizing a problem does not necessarily lead to solution of same.

You recorded your own audiobooks for both Fox 8 and Tenth of December. Did you enjoy the process?

I loved it. I said I’d be willing to, and Random House was nice enough to let me do it. I had a great producer, Kelly Gildea, and we just had a lot of fun with it. I do a good number of college readings, and I’ve come to understand reading aloud as a performance that is quite separate from writing but offers another opportunity to engage with what you’ve written, and also to sort of teach yourself what the next thing is going to be. I think I might also be a bit of a frustrated actor.

It’s an interesting question, this one of writing versus reading aloud. I remember when I was on tour with my first book — those were hard stories to read. They read better on the page than they did out loud — they had lots of strange phrasings and so on. And something about having to read them repetitively and never really finding the right way to do it forced out the first story in the second book. That story was called “The Falls,” and it was much more playful and colloquial and readable than the stories in the first book. I think that, at some level, I was giving myself something to read on the road. It was as if whatever it is in us that forms voice, pre-writing, had taken note, and was trying to come up with something a little more verbally interesting.

Do you make discoveries about the stories you’ve already written by reading them out loud, whether in the studio or at readings?

Yes, absolutely. You find out where the laughs are, you find out how to pitch a given character via the voice you give her (too much in this direction and she becomes a caricature; go too far back the other way and you start losing humor). Sometimes you can feel when a moment is powerful by the quality of the silence. There is also, I think, a really beneficial effect in that you are getting very close to that ancient storyteller mode: there you are, there’s your crowd, you’ve got 30 minutes; how much of a deep connection can you make? I’ve done a lot of readings since this new book came out in January and I can feel that I am really learning something about connection with an audience — for example, that you can trust them to get the subtle and deep things; that they really are interested in the things I’m interested in; that you don’t have to have a joke a minute to interest them. I can feel that all of this is going to come into play with the next book.

The live audience connection you mention is a rare treat, since there are so few forums in which adults get to listen to stories, together. Children, though, have this experience more often — Fox 8 even learns English by eavesdropping on bedtime stories.

Yes — Fox 8 started out as a kids’ book. But then, it turns out, kids’ books can’t have so many misspellings. I’d sent it out to a few editors and they all said the same thing. That was an interesting moment: What I’d thought of as a kids’ book was…not. For sure. So then I felt a door opening: Well, if it’s not a kids’ book, what is it that separates a kids’ book from one for adults? And I’ve always thought that a kids’ book should serve the function of assuring this scared, new little person that sometimes things turn out well; that goodness has a place in the world. And maybe a story for adults — especially in a fortunate, possibly smug culture like ours — might serve a different function: telling a powerful, self-assured person that sometimes things don’t turn out well, that they aren’t turning out well for some people even as we speak. So when I realized it was not a kids’ book, it gave me permission to change the function of the story, essentially; it allowed (or maybe required) some darkness to come in. And I liked the way that dark event resonated with the peppy kids’ book language — it was kind of like I’d made this complete sweetheart and then lowered the boom on him. A little harsh, but then I thought: Does that ever happen in the real world? Does a real sweetheart ever get the boom lowered on him? And I answered myself: Duh.

Fox 8 is a sweetheart, but he’s not simply a foil for human cruelty — he justifies his own aggression toward chickens, for example. Still, one layer of meaning I took away is that it would benefit all creatures if we humans were more aware and thoughtful about habitat destruction.

For me, the way fiction works is that it always occurs to a specific person (or fox), at a specific time under specific circumstances. So, to the fox, habitat destruction is a big issue, especially at this time. But he’s pretty willing to destroy a chicken habitat, or even a chicken, and then rationalize that. I think fiction works best when it is basically saying, “Ah, see? Sometimes it is thus.” So we can understand why malls get built and how that can be a good thing, and, at the same time, we can see that, whenever a mall gets built, stuff gets destroyed, which is a bad thing — and we can leave the scenario not saying, “Fuck it! Build malls anyway! Capitalism must be served!” and also not saying, “Evil mall-builders! Cease and desist! Never build a mall, if you love animals,” but rather, “Ah, see? Sometimes it is thus.”

Although, on the other hand, who can argue with “more aware and thoughtful”?

My feeling about the moral intention in fiction is: show characters in action, try to be fair to them, and tell the story in the most lively and truthful language you can; admit to ambiguity, and, as you write, try to move closer and closer to the natural energy of the story, and  away from your conceptions/hopes about it — and good things will happen. To the reader and the writer.

New This Week: Pet Shop Boys, Valerie June, Ghostpoet & More

Pet Shop Boys, Axis Produced by Stuart Price, former collaborator with Madonna and Kylie, the first track from the Pet Shop Boys’ 12^th album is a strobe-lit synth workout that sounds like a sequel to Giorgio Moroder’s “The Chase”. The album, Electric, is due in July. We’re excited.

Valerie June, Pushin’ Against A Stone The hugely anticipated release from the dreadlocked Tennessee singer-songwriter is an intoxicating mix of Prohibition-era porch music and soulful Southern blues, sung in a voice that’s as rich and warm as old vinyl. June describes her sound as “organic moonshine roots music”, and you won’t hear a better example of it this year.

Public Service Broadcasting, Inform-Educate-Entertain After capturing the bunting-decked mood of the Olympics with The War Room EP last summer, PSB’s debut proper fulfills its brief nicely by exploring the time-frame between the Blitz and the Coronation, and evoking a world of ration books and black market silk stockings. Victoria Segal writes:

“Their make-do-and-mend approach to music comes from their victorious digging through the archives, salvaging scraps of public information films, news reel and propaganda and pairing them with some thoroughly modern music. There’s no smirking kitsch, here, however: these songs are fascinated by the human capacity for wonder, endurance and plain decency.”

Ghostpoet, Some Say So I Say Light The follow-up to Ghostpoet’s Mercury-nominated debut is not only a more focused and purposeful record, but also a braver one. Sharon O’Connell says:

“Gone are the Beck-ish blues, electro and indie elements of Ghostpoet’s debut; he’s now opted for a far more cohesive and dynamic style of post-everything hip pop. It’s one that allows for chip-tune freneticism with strings and heavily treated vocal loops (“Comatose”), surging and euphoric Afrobeat (“Plastic Bag Brain”, which features drumming don Tony Allen, and guitarist Dave Okumu of The Invisible) and an adventure in pulsing synth house (“Dorsal Morsel”). All represent the confident and considered pushing of his parameters by a distinctive talent who’s in it for the long haul.”

Little Boots, Nocturnes Victoria Hesketh’s 2009 debut Hands generated hit singles, a gold album, worldwide tours and topped the BBC Sound of 2009 poll, and Nocturnes, the long-simmering sophomore effort, isn’t a total break from her buzzy beginnings. It adds to her glossy pop veneer with more eclectic synth sounds, overseen by DFA honcho Tim Goldsworthy.

Van Dyke Parks Songs Cycled The first solo album in 24 years from the legendary Brian Wilson collaborator and composer sees him reinvent himself as a protest singer with songs about “America, warts and all”. Behind the antique arrangements – Parks has never been shy of banjos, accordions and calypso flourishes – it has an affecting emotional power.

Still Corners, Strange Pleasures Still Corners try to rid themselves of the dream-pop tag. Alex Naidus says:

“Greg Hughes smartly juxtaposes the more traditionally “dreamy” elements of Still Corners’ sound with some crisper textures and more insistent rhythms. His songwriting and production style still skews sweeping and epic: On single “Fireflies,” the synths stack — pillowy pads, twinkling upper-octave melody lines and punchy synth-bass — and are buoyed by Tessa Murray’s vampish vocals. With Strange Pleasures, Hughes has carefully crafted a set with songs that inspire grandeur while remaining taut and gripping — an impressive feat.”

I Monster, Swarf A new album of rare tracks recorded around the time of 2009′s A Dense Swarm of Ancient Stars.

Sam Sanders, Mirror Mirror Super rare R&B / soul / funk record (apparently the cover art had to be created from scratch, the original is that obscure). A nice, digging-in-the-crates find.

Joshua Redman, Walking Shadows

This is Joshua Redman’s “ballads with strings” record, a venerable tradition that most includes such torrid beboppers as Charlie Parker and Clifford Brown. It continues Redman’s recent penchant for putting himself in new settings — his membership in the egalitarian ensemble James Farm and the knotty skronk he’s delivered guesting with The Bad Plus are other examples — but on Walking Shadows he allows himself the security blanket of deploying sidemen. It isn’t easy to come up with three more acutely creative jazz balladeers than the other members of his core quartet — pianist (and album producer) Brad Mehldau, drummer Brian Blade and bassist Larry Grenadier. Their low-key sensitivity is a secret ingredient here.

The material is a diverse but simpatico mix of American songbook standards, pop hits and group originals. Redman plays with gorgeous aplomb on Kern and Hammerstein’s “The Folks Who Live on the Hill” and Hoagy Carmichael’s “Stardust” (the latter also features Mehldau’s best solo). He teases out the familiar melodies of The Beatles’ “Let It Be” and “Stop That Train” by John Mayer before taking transformative liberties with them via deft improvisations. The most arresting of the originals is Redman’s atmospheric “Final Hour,” in which his tenor has the low-toned plangency of a bass clarinet.

The presence of the strings — conducted by Dan Coleman, who also arranged them along with Mehldau and Patrick Zimmerli — varies significantly from song to song. Ironically, Bach’s “Adagio,” featuring a sublime Grenadier bass riff, is among the least ornamented offerings, while on the ’30s standard “Easy Living” and the intro to Mehldau’s “Last Glimpse of Gotham,” they’re more integral to the song than Redman’s sax; Billy Strayhorn’s “Lush Life” is a compelling but messy pastiche. Nothing here is trite or bathetic however — no mean feat for jazz-with-strings endeavors. Walking Shadows is another colorful plume in Redman’s steadily adventurous career.