Trevor Ikrath

In a folk scene in threat of becoming stagnant in the face of major label commercialization, even Mumford & Sons are trying to reinvent themselves. Nobody wants to listen to the same Lumineers song over and over again, but if you’re the kind of music listener who just needs an acoustic guitar and some raw, rusty vocals to have a good time, you’re in luck: two time Grammy nominee Matthew Santos has recorded an eclectic, often surprising folk record that is as adventurous as it is soulful and organic.

Into the Further begins with a vaguely-psychedelic introduction that showcases Santos’ tight rhythm section — who go on to provide the record with some of its most memorable moments — with some jazz-influenced percussion that I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear Kendrick Lamar rapping over on his recent experimental opus To Pimp a Butterfly. “Ojos” on the other hand sounds like Timberland producing an Amnesiac-era Radiohead joint, as some skittery beatboxing propels the song’s dreamy synth textures towards a soulful, beautiful climax.

Santos doesn’t start singing until the record’s third song, but “Under the Microscope” is as fine a moment to step up to the mic as any; it’s more straightforward but as equally lovely as anything that’s preceded it so far, a sprightly folk pop tune with a plucked double bass that brings to mind the comfortable arrangements of Andrew Bird, or perhaps Sufjan Stevens in one of his better moods. Less comfortable is the moody “Seven Years”, which finds Santos over a track that is all fire and brimstone, its ominous bass line chasing Santos around as if he’s trailing gasoline. The tension breaks as the band transitions into “It All Works Out” without missing a beat, although Santos seems less than relieved as he belts out the song’s titular consolation.

While many of these songs could have been performed solely by Santos and his acoustic guitar, the singer’s simple folk tunes are elevated to a higher standing thanks to the brass and string arrangements of Matt Ulery, whose utilization of weeping violins and foggy horns help make songs like “White Gloves” and “End of the Pipeline” such compelling and enveloping successes. Santos and his arrangements manage great chemistry, as his liquidy falsetto winds and twists among the string to deliver some truly arresting vocal moments.

With Into the Further, Santos has crafted a record that showcases his versatile talents as a singer, songwriter and performer. While any folk artist can learn their way around an acoustic guitar, Santos proves capable of commanding a variety of more complex sound palettes to deliver cathartic results the likes of which every artist in his field should strive for. 

Despite the high-stakes title of LA singer/songwriter Vince Grant’s debut EP, it doesn’t seem like his depression is always trying to kill him. Sometimes it appears to him as a lover, one with whom he dances and holds onto like an addiction that he describes as a venom in his veins. But Grant’s depression is a cruel lover, and while she may not always be there when he wakes up in the morning, she is always waiting, ready to appear at a moment’s notice to bruise and batter Grant into submission.

Such is the scene set by My Depression is Always Trying to Kill Me’s first single and opening track “Melancholia”, an acoustically driven power ballad in which Grant explains his complicated relationship with his own mental health. But while Grant surrounds himself with lovers and enemies of his art’s own creation, there is a certain sense of isolation to his music. At his most intimate, Grant plays alone with an acoustic guitar, but even when he strikes up the band and turns up the volume it still sounds as if he’s playing to an empty amphitheater, abandoned with no one to sing these songs to. Struggling with depression through music is nothing new, and throughout the course of his EP’s five tracks, Grant channels the tenderness and frailty of such classically bummed out alt-rock songwriters as Kevin Devine, Gary Jules and especially some Ryan Adams circa Love is Hell. The resulting sound is as comfortable as it is familiar, soft acoustic chords and warm guitar tones like a blanket to crawl under when everything seems impossible.

The majority of Grant’s music may be tender, but he knows how to rock out, too. “Melancholia” features a muscular chorus that wouldn’t sound out of place on a Third Eye Blind track, while highlight “How Many Times You” channels the kaleidoscopic wonder of U2 at their most starry-eyed into four minutes of driving post-punk, before Grant allows the song’s more ethereal elements to bring things to a satisfyingly pretty conclusion. The album’s extended closer “Sweet Addiction” takes that beauty and runs with it for an impressive ten minutes, featuring some beautiful instrumental work by collaborating guitarist Doug Grean and an exhausted Grant who sounds as if he could collapse beneath the weight of his depression at any moment.

The ambition of “Sweet Addiction” is matched by the record’s apologetic centerpiece, “Edge of the World”, which effectively captures the feelings of isolation and loneliness that come from having your support system driven away by the erratic behavior and failure to communicate that is often the result of the kind of depression that Grant knows is after his health, happiness and ultimately his life. This sense of feeling alone is something to which anyone with a history of depression can surely relate, but then again, there will always be times when a shoulder to cry on isn’t what you’re looking for. Sometimes you just need a good record that you know will speak to how you’re feeling. For times like that, Vince Grant’s got your back.

Like any subculture, punk rock relies on the spark of youth to propel it forward. Yet there comes a time in every young punk’s life when he or she must face an enemy more terrifying than the threat of conformity could ever be: getting old. Perhaps no one knows this better than Jeff Rosenstock, former leader of the recently disbanded DIY collective Bomb the Music Industry! and author of countless punk rock anthems that tackle the many difficulties of becoming an adult.

Rosenstock gave his followers little time to mourn the end of his longest-operating project, quickly releasing two short-but-sweet records with Fake Problems frontman Chris Farren as the power pop duo Antarctigo Vespucci, as well as a handful of quality singles and covers over the course of the past two years. Still, it’s been since 2012’s self-depracatingly-titled I Look Like Shit that fans were treated to an LP’s worth of cohesive Rosenstock material. While that record was set almost entirely in a domestic fortress of solitude lined with overflowing trash bags and dirty dishes, his latest solo outing finds our punk messiah resurrected from the dead and ready to breathe new life into his still-fledgling solo career.<

As its title implies, We Cool? is a record about the importance of maintaining personal relationships — friendships and connections that used to mean the world to you but now threaten to decay and disappear in the face of growing up, heading down separate paths, and maybe even making a few mistakes along the way. While such commonly explored material always runs the risk of cliché, Rosenstock’s presence as one of the most relatable and welcoming figures in the punk community helps turn We Cool? into a stunning success and one of his finest releases yet.

What remains most satisfying about Rosenstock’s music is the singer’s continuing development as both a songwriter and a performer. These songs burn bright with a level of urgency never before heard in Rosenstock’s already explosive catalogue. “You, in Weird Cities” contains not one but two of the finest choruses in Rosenstock’s career, both of which the singer delivers as if his life depends on it, as if the failure to address the growing distance between his friends could doom him to a lifetime of “always getting high when no one is around.” Meanwhile, the rousing and cathartic “Beers Again Alone” functions as the latest installment in a series of songs that includes such Bomb the Music Industry! classics as “Wednesday Night Drinkball” and “Stand There Until You’re Sober”, as Rosenstock continues to find creative new ways to express alcohol-fueled feelings of isolation, exclusion and depression.

Similarly high-stakes highlights such as “I’m Serious, I’m Sorry” and “Polar Bear or Africa” help make We Cool? as consistent an album as any of Rosenstock’s previous full-lengths, but the LP’s finest moment arrives in “Nausea”, the record’s jaw dropping centerpiece. While fans may be familiar with a previously-issued acoustic demo, the finished version of the song must be heard to be believed, as sprightly piano and brass arrangements are undercut by ugly, embarrassing lyrics about streaming porn in between bong hits and hiding from the people who care about you even when you know you’re just letting the darkness win. The song climaxes to a backdrop of beautiful Beach Boys harmonies and represents what just might be Rosenstock’s artistic peak: all of the themes and imagery he’s ever explored tightly written into one definitive burst of melodic excellence.

If there’s one lesson to be learned from We Cool?, it’s that you can’t hide from your problems. When Rosenstock compels another estranged friend to “crush that gloom!” he may as well be singing to you and me. Rosenstock has devoted enough of his career to writing and singing about feeling lonely and depressed to know that the answers to his problems aren’t at the bottom of a bottle or under his bedsheets; what really makes our lives special are the people in them, as well as the future that Rosenstock spends so much of this new record chasing, an adulthood that’s made worth it simply by the prospect of getting old with the people we love. Who knew that growing up could be so punk?

Let’s be frank: U2 is nothing less than one of the most successful and popular acts to have ever recorded a rock album. They need no introduction. As such, this review really needs no introduction either. By now you’re probably already sick of hearing about the band’s thirteenth studio album, Songs of Innocence, as well as the uniquely invasive delivery strategy surrounding its release. So allow me to start this review on a personal note: I spent the summer listening to a whole lot of fucking U2. Inspired by “U Talkin’ U2 to Me?” — a not-as-ironic-as-it-seems-at-first fan podcast hosted by Scott Aukerman (“Comedy Bang! Bang!”) and Adam Scott (“Parks & Recreation”) — I’ve devoted the last couple months to exploring the band’s back catalogue, from their 1980 debut LP Boy to their last self-consciously experimental outing, 2009’s No Line on the Horizon. Now, September is here and I find myself blessed with the opportunity to end my Summer of U2 with the band’s brand new album. If that wasn’t enough of a pleasant surprise, the thing is actually good, too.

If the release of Songs of Innocence has reminded me of anything, it’s that a lot of people really, really hate U2. Chalk it up to the band’s often cringeworthingly earnest sound or Bono’s refusal to step down from his soapbox; U2 may be insanely popular, but people fucking despise this band. I don’t. They may not be the greatest rock act in the world, but I think they’ve managed to turn in their fair share of decent material over their almost four decades of being a band, some of which — such as records like their first magnum opus The Joshua Tree and the band’s ironic reinvention Achtung Baby — have rightfully ascended to the position of rock classics.

That being said, it’s been a while since U2 have released anything outstanding. No Line on the Horizon’s respectable attempt at experimentation was marred by the presence of some of the band’s worst songs ever. 2004’s How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb was a scattershot collection of hits and misses. All That You Can’t Leave Behind found the band kicking off the new millennium with a solid A-side that gave way to a back half that is almost offensively dismissible. Forgotten 90s records like Pop and Zooropa are okay (if you’re into that sort of thing) but that takes us all the way back to 1991 and Achtung Baby — which means that it’s been 23 years since U2 have managed to record a truly impressive album.

If U2 have another masterpiece in them, Songs of Innocence isn’t it. Instead, it’s simply a cohesive collection of personal, catchy pop rock songs that is solid from front to back, and I couldn’t be more pleased to have it. This record is respectable to a fault; it seems like Bono and co. have somehow actually managed to learn from everything that has and — perhaps even more importantly — hasn’t worked for them in the past. Take the record’s first single and opening track for example. While the arrival of No Line on the Horizon was heralded by Bono getting on his “sexy boots” to shout about submarines and gasoline, “The Miracle (of Joey Ramone)” finds the band returning with a big sound but a personal message, comprised of just how significantly music can touch us at impressionable times in our lives. Not only does “Miracle” soundtrack the return of a band who have released their fair share of inspiring music themselves, but it introduces us to an album that is surprisingly free of the Bono-isms that have earned the band’s singer his reputation of being one of the most annoying frontman to ever pick up a microphone.

Which is not to say that Songs of Innocence is lyrically a great album; to tell you the truth, I haven’t actually given the record’s lyrics too much attention (from what I can gather, they’re fairly personal and surprisingly unoffensive, though). Fortunately, Songs of Innocence succeeds on various other levels. For instance, while I couldn’t begin to tell you what “Every Breaking Wave” is about lyrically, I can tell you that it finds the band functioning at the top of their game in terms of melody and dynamics. After a subdued intro reminiscent of “With or Without You”, the band reach for the heavens with an irresistibly huge chorus that proves to be one of U2’s most spiritually elevating moments since, well, “Elevation”. The band really go for it on this album; perhaps threatened by irrelevance, they’ve recorded some of the most undeniably catchy songs of their career, all while managing to sound more youthful and energetic than they have in decades.

That sense of youthful energy can probably be accredited to the record’s production. It’s worth mentioning that Songs of Innocence is the first U2 record since 1997’s Pop not to feature production from the likes of Brian Eno and Daniel Lanois, the duo responsible for many of the band’s finest moments. Instead, we’re either treated to big pop sheens and glimmers from Paul Epworth and One Republic’s Ryan Tedder, or the muted colors of Danger Mouse / Brian Burton. This might be the first U2 record to sound like Coldplay since Coldplay started sounding like U2, but the pop treatment actually serves the band well for the most part (“California” actually manages to sound like every good Coldplay single distilled into one track). Still, it’s Danger Mouse who actually manages to take the record’s b-side as an opportunity to push the band into more exciting and experimental territory. If I’m being honest, I haven’t really enjoyed Burton’s production work since his work with Gorillaz and MF Doom back in 2005, but he actually manages to pull some cool tricks out of his sleeve here; “Raised by Wolves” is a car-bomb ballad with some razor-sharp guitar and a drop from Hell and “This is Where You Can Reach Me Now” will have you tapping your foot before you even realize that U2 have gone disco. They’re two of the record’s most esoteric moments, but they’re also two of its best.

If you’ve been drinking the U2 haterade since back when Bono decided to replace four with fourteen, I’m sure Songs of Innocence will do little to change your mind on the band. But if you manage to put all pretenses aside and approach the record with an open mind, I think you’ll be as pleasantly surprised as I was that the record’s title is actually sorta fitting. Pretensions, lyrical blunders, political soapboxing… these songs are innocent of every crime U2 has been accused of in the past. Maybe they’ve finally found what they were looking for after all this time?

If you’ve been following the genre since its inception, I’m sure that I don’t have to tell you that pop punk hasn’t always been the emotionally-charged melting pot that it is today. While classic pop punk bands such as Blink-182 may have occasionally ruminated on the nuances of growing up, they ended up spending most of their time writing songs about alien conspiracies and getting stoned, all the while indulging in some of the most sophomoric humor ever to grace a pair of headphones. Hell, one of the most popular singles to ever bring the genre to mainstream radio is about little more than seeking a cure for boredom in the act of… well, we’re all familiar with Green Day’s “Longview”.

On the other hand, nowadays you’ve got acts like the Front Bottoms begging you to kiss your knuckles before you punch them in the face, Modern Baseball celebrating the simple joy of your crush sitting next to you on the couch, and most recently on Joyce Manor’s third LP Never Hunger Again, Barry Johnson quite literally wearing his heart on his sleeve (or somewhere on his body, the dude never really says specifically where).

In many ways, Joyce Manor are a perfect pop punk band. Relatable, catchy and instantly quotable, their songs are over in the blink of an eye yet paint vivid pictures, offering fresh and clever takes on subjects that have been long-standing staples of the genre such as dysfunctional friendships and small town angst.

Much like on their previous album, 2012’s Of All Things I Will Soon Grow Tired, the band still thrive on chaos, forsaking anything resembling a traditional introduction to a song in favor of simply propelling their listeners into the tune. The effect can be disorientating; if Never Hungover Again is your first experience with Joyce Manor, you might be forgiven for thinking that you’ve accidentally downloaded a copy of the record that’s missing the first 30 seconds of each MP3. You may initially bemoan the fact that some of your favorite tracks here are too short, but once you learn to appreciate the band’s style for what it is, you’ll realize that they’re just not messing around; the songs may not last long, but literally every moment of them is good. All killer, no filler, to quote a band you may have bumped in middle school.

Front and center of these songs is singer Barry Johnson, who seems to be working harder than ever to fill the shoes of the pop-punk-Morrissey both fans and journalists have hailed him as ever since his band swiped the Smiths’ jangly swagger on “Bride of Usher” two years ago. The parallels are not for nothing: Johnson’s friends may ask how he can be happy when he wears all black, but one only needs to turn to one of the Smith’s underrated b-sides to learn that he probably wears black on the outside because black is how he feels on the inside. Still, nowhere are Johnson’s Moz aspirations more striking than on the record’s closing track, “Heated Swimming Pool”, which finds the singer sharing a strange confession with a friend: “I wish you would’ve died in high school, so you could’ve been somebody’s idol.” Oh Manchester, so much to answer for.

Of course, Joyce Manor make sure to pay tribute to the veterans of the genre that paved their way, as well. It’s hard to hear the backing vocals that close out album highlight “Heart Tattoo” without the nasally whine of Blink-182’s Tom Delonge springing to mind, while the band’s biting sense of ironic humor can only be described as Jawbreaker-esque. Meanwhile, the stoned, summery production of the record harkens back to the basement sounds favored by punks of every era, from classic bands like the Descendents and Circle Jerks, to more modern acts such as the Ergs!.

Essentially, Never Hungover Again has something to offer you no matter what kind of punk rock you enjoy. From Barry Johnson’s clever yet relatable lyrics to the band’s uncompromising ability to whip up an instrumental fury, Joyce Manor have crafted what will undoubtedly be the pop-punk record of the summer, an album you’ll want to start over the second it finishes. Trust me, brevity has nothing to do with it.