On First Solo Album, 'Use Your Delusion,' Man Man's Honus Honus Does Just That

Until Use Your Delusion, Man Man and Mister Heavenly maverick Honus Honus’ debut solo release, there had never before been a record you could fund in part with the purchase of a $666 denim vest and a disposable camera full of images of faked deaths. But, then again, there has never before been an artist with quite the same bizarro charm as Honus, either.

Despite flying solo, Honus (née Ryan Kattner) is backed by quite the supporting cast: Joe Plummer (Modest Mouse, The Shins, Cold War Kids, Mister Heavenly) pilots the percussion, King Cyrus King (Super Deluxe) contributes production and guitar, Dann Gallucci (Modest Mouse, The Murder City Devils, Cold War Kids) handles mixing, comedian Jon Daly is on sax, and even polymath Mary Elizabeth Winstead (Got a Girl, Scott Pilgrim vs. the World, 10 Cloverfield Lane) and Shannon Shaw (Shannon and the Clams) feature.

Still, it’s clear the self-released Use Your Delusion is a cathartic release of the chaotic menagerie stirring in its creator’s wildly whiskered head, loosened by the freedom of truly setting out on one’s own. It’s not easy to match the dynamic eclection of his Man Man discography, but Honus damn near tops it in half an hour. For example, the accessible pop of ”Heavy Jesus" leans more On Oni Pond, “Will You?”’s soothing piano is very Rabbit Habits, and the "sour milk and cocaine" death metal freak of ”Red Velvet" might feel most at home writhing on Six Demon Bag. But Honus explores brand new territory as well with the nearly David Gilmour-worthy guitar solo of “Santa Monica” and the surprise amusement of what can be likened to Eric Idle-esque pomp on album closer “Empty Bottle.”

Having moved his dystopian sound to the west coast, the “apocalyptic LA pop” vibe rings clearest through the surfy tones in the nimble guitar work most notably on single “Oh No!”. Set to lines like “Happiness is just an accident wearing different clothes,” it’s an artfully classic example of sad sentiments stuck in a sunny song. “Your heart is bubble-wrapped in permanent depression,” he coos too a deft touch of sax and an almost reggae pulse resulting in a deceptively delightful package. “Will You?” in turn matches its “Rabbit Habits” keys to the sunlit savagery of a suicide prolonged awaiting love with a paradoxical knowingness few could pull off with sincerity.

First single, “Heavy Jesus,” is similarly bouncy, but replaces the angst with heretic hilarity. They say God works in mysterious ways, but Jesus himself appearing to an unwilling heavy metal disciple via a late night quesadilla is certainly a new one. Use Your Delusion would lend itself well to a similar marketing campaign; It’s not hard to imagine midnight taco trucks blaring this album like an ice cream truck jingle gone rogue.

On “Midnight Caller” Honus claims, “I don’t see any point in honesty / ‘Cause honestly, it’s the worst / And honestly, honesty can take a long walk off a short pier,” with wordplay reminiscent of “Van Helsing Boombox.” Yet Use Your Delusion, nor any other song he’s ever sung, rings hollow or faked, even at his most maniacal. The word “carnivalesque” gets thrown around a lot when describing Honus’ repertoire, but endearingly that’s just what it often is. Honus howls, trapped in a house of mirrors that beautifully distorts the fits and visions of his genius. The alien bearded lady won’t stop screaming.

When Honus first spoke about the then-unannounced LP in an interview we did last year, he told us much of Use Your Delusion would be increasingly gentle on the vocal cords for a couple of reasons; One, Honus was shredding his pipes singing his older material and needed to tone it down in the interest of sustainability, and two, he sang more quietly in his LA practice space out of discomfort with an FKA Twigs knockoff and Bruce Springsteen cover band flanking him through either wall. I like to imagine somewhere they’re giving interviews about the shock of hearing “Red Velvet” from the other room.

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Read our full in-depth interview with Honus Honus about Use Your Delusion, Man Man, Mister Heavenly and more, here. Buy Use Your Delusion here.

Phantogram Amps up in Search of New Highs on 'Three'

Following their genre-bending collaboration with Big Boi last year, Phantogram’s next direction was always going to be an expansive and confident one. With Sarah Barthel’s dynamic, sultry vocals now commanding more widespread attention and Josh Carter’s glitchy backdrops earning larger stages, the dream pop trip hop duo found themselves on a deserved platform for growth. In enlisting mainstreamers from Ricky Reed’s (Jason Derulo, Meghan Trainor) glossy production to Semisonic’s Dan Wilson (Adele, Taylor Swift) co-writing credit, Phantogram’s transition from Barsuk indies to Republic pride became increasingly clear. 

On their aptly-named third record, Three, tracks like opener “Funeral Pyre” and plaintive lines including, “I keep on having this dream / Where I'm stuck in a hole and I can't get out / There's always something that's pulling me down, down, down,” carry extra weight in the context of the abrupt passing of Barthel’s sister, who was also a close friend of Carter, during the album’s creation. Through this lens Phantogram touches truly sobering depths, wondering, "Walk with me to the end / Stare with me into the abyss / Do you feel like letting go? / I wonder how far down it is."

But “Same Old Blues” quickly shows for all the morbidity they mustn’t succumb to moroseness in sound, peaking in a powerful gospel-turned-electronica punch with blistering guitar. Flagship single "You Don't Get Me High Anymore" next has Barthel's breathless vocals dancing over Carter's massive, fuzzed-out bass synth bombs at a frenetic pace. “Used to take one / Now it takes four / You don’t get me high anymore,” she cries, and indeed the track is a bold embodiment of the band’s restless climb. Maturing from a humble indie outfit from upstate New York into big league #FestivalKillers rubbing shoulders with Miley Cyrus and rap legends, the duo continues to push themselves to the brink as a louder, flashier, and more sexualized act at every turn.

Featuring a drum machine sonic collage reminiscent of "Don't Move," the sharp standout “Cruel World” seems primed for car commercial levels of ubiquity, but, complete with the nice, subtle touch of the warm fuzz of a vinyl spin we first heard on "When I'm Small," it’s one we wouldn't mind hearing around for some time. With its scattered string samples and equally scattered ramblings, “Barking Dog” is a welcome return to the oft overshadowed strengths of Carter’s increasingly rare lead tracks, but doesn’t quite cut to the same emotional depth as, say, “I Don’t Blame You.”

Urban influences showing through, “You’re Mine”’s electrifying rhythm isn’t unlike - dare I say it - Future’s “Jumpman,” and would feel right at home with Big Boi spitting a verse or two. “Run Run Blood” then features the brass creep of horns contributed by The Antlers’ Darby Cicci, the surprising highlight of a mix that has Phantogram at their most brooding in years. “Destroyer,” in turn, is a vessel for showcasing Barthel’s skyrocketing vocal range.

Hitting the notes required for both dancefloor movability and indie playlist inclusion, Three’s wild sonic and emotional swings can seem jarring. You’d be forgiven for wondering how you got from the initial feelings of loss to the sensual slink of carefree sex anthem “Calling All” in only half an hour, though that transition was long in motion since Big Grams was born. It’s in these ways Phantogram’s third installment sometimes reads less like an album and more like a collection of singles looking to package the eclectic angles of their human condition into different shots at exuberant accessibility, yet each shift arguably feels as natural as the last. Indulging in the instant gratification of radio-ready drops over the more stable, steady charm of classics like “Mouthful of Diamonds,” Three is at times moody and unhinged, but undeniably succeeds at what the duo seems to have set out to do.

Three reveals a Phantogram veering ever closer to the sun in terms of stadium-filling riffs and diamond-polished edges - Carter’s beard and black-rimmed glasses are long gone in favor of basketball jerseys and gold chains, while Barthel has evolved into a full-blown blonde bombshell - but strip it all alway and there’s still enough of their unique charm amidst the beats and bravado for now. What next emerges from the pyre of Three, though, is anyone’s guess.

'22, A Million' and the Dissociation of Bon Iver

In observance of Bon Iver’s career catalogue to date, each third can be easily identified through a distinct phase or impression: There was the apocrypha of For Emma, Forever Ago, the prophecy of Bon Iver, Bon Iver, and now the martyrdom that is 22, A Million. While the martyrdom is certainly sensationalistic in some regards, there’s a reason for such nomenclature – following Bon Iver’s 2012 Grammy win for “Best New Artist” and “Best Alternative Album,” Justin Vernon desperately needed (for his own well-being, not for the sake of the masses) to shed the label of “indie god.” In a way, Bon Iver had become exactly what Vernon had feared – a proverbial gateway drug to the world of independent alternative folk rock. So Vernon simply “ended” Bon Iver.

The instantaneous termination of Bon Iver devastated many a self-indulgent millennial hipster, of whom had yearned for an Elliot Smith or Kurt Kobain of their own, and to most, that was Vernon. But being placed on a pedestal of overblown apocrypha and adulation was never a desire of Vernon’s, who sought not to appease the fervent masses that had deified him without his consent. So he disappeared, hiding in plain sight the entire time - five years of runs with the likes of Volcano Choir, The Shouting Matches, (the highly publicized) Kanye West collaborations – but never producing new Bon Iver, outside of a commissioned track for a Zach Braff film (“Heavenly Father”), which Vernon aired his criticism of the process on a handful of occasions.

All the while, self-ascribed Vernon-nites pined for more Bon Iver, but Vernon would assert with great confidence Bon Iver was on hiatus, stating that intense writer’s block and creative stunting had impeded the process of envisioning Bon Iver’s next iteration. Then Eaux Claires came along, rekindling Vernon’s Bon Iver creative kick, presenting two new tracks (“666 ʇ” and “29# Strafford APTS”), and the following year, running through 22, A Million in its entirety.

Thus, indie en masse was aroused by the ensuing prospect of a Bon Iver album release, but at what price? The new tracks and eventual single releases – “22 (OVER S∞∞N)” and “10 d E A T h b R E a s T” – were utterly divisive and dissociative amongst fair-weather Bon Iver listeners, sighting the warbled vocoder effects and reverse percussive sounds alongside emoji-laden song titles as uninspired flourishes. But for the initiated and more familiar of Bon Iver faithful, the meaning of the peculiar track titles and hellish sound sequences were apparent – 22, A Million is the martyrous dissociation of Bon Iver as we know, all the while maintaining every tenant of classic “Bon Iver-dom." There are a myriad of reasons why a devout (with blind faith) Bon Iver disciple would assert that every single song serves as an ahead-of-its-time template that the next wave of industrial folk aficionados will undoubtedly imitate in vain.

22, A Million marks Bon Iver’s most impressionistic work to date, operating almost entirely upon an emotional plane. Songs like “715 – CR∑∑KS” delve into a single location that carries such depth and weight for Vernon that it seems as though there’s an attempt to masque the visceral emotion brought about by Vernon through the intricate (and magnificent) musical composition. Other tracks resemble the attempts at obfuscating emotion through synthetic flourishes, warping a distorted Vernon vocal to almost totally dissociate Eau Claire’s prodigal son, as he only provides the most intense and brief glimpses into Vernon’s past five years with little to no context, tracks like “33 “GOD”” being prime examples – “Staying at the Ace Hotel;” corporate branding, I think not.

Less observant listeners have gone as far as opining the newest iteration of Bon Iver is nothing more than bombast and old hat tricks of the indie trade, but one can only hope that such close-minded dismissal of anything other than For Emma or Bon Iver, Bon Iver will become withered and eventually dismissed within its own right upon a simple careful listen to 22, A Million. Where Vernon’s first two projects dealt primarily with the most outright of narratives in service of emotion and verve, 22, A Million focuses on the atmospheric feeling and synthetic grit to best service the project. While the primary focus of 22, A Million will likely never be revealed, as Vernon has become increasingly reclusive (or at least expressed his desire to do so) throughout the promotional cycle for the record, and tracks like “22 (OVER S∞∞N)” hint at a possible end to Bon Iver – “It might be over soon…” – 22, A Million will serve as the finest dissociation of Justin Vernon from Bon Iver, making it the project’s best work to date, and if things truly will be over soon, Bon Iver’s greatest album ever. 

Hamilton Leithauser + Rostam Combine Artfully on 'I Had A Dream That You Were Mine'

“I use the same voice I always have,” belts out Hamilton Leithauser in “Sick As A Dog” to an Edward Sharpe-esque choral echo. With over a decade of expertly exerting one of indie’s boldest howls it would be senseless to stop, and following his former band The Walkmen’s “extreme hiatus” starting 2014 and a solo release in the same year, he has thankfully found yet another vessel to carry them on I Had A Dream That You Were Mine.

Leithauser is at his best at his most strained, anguished, and raw, and in his pairing with newly departed Vampire Weekender Rostam Batmanglij, the Brooklyn veteran offers no shortcomings of any of his strongest qualities while Rostam does his best to mix up the backdrops to the production. Further enlisting White Rabbits percussionist Stephen Patterson, the result is deftly balanced dynamics and a surprisingly diverse combination of styles resulting in an album that somehow feels equal parts eclectic and whole.

Much of Rostam’s production, not least the Vampire Weekend-reminiscent string arrangements, gives I Had A Dream That You Were Mine the feeling of truly being composed. Whether the medium is meandering harmonica or baroque accentuation, the multi-instrumentalist blossoms in the newfound freedom of realizing a long-standing aspiration to write for a voice he spent the last 15 years admiring from the outside.

First single and opening track ”A 1000 Times" breaks right out of the gate with Leithauser's full register of glorious, pleading yowls. The potential energy is immediately palpable in the delicate opening few seconds that serve only to set the stage for a vocal main course that doesn't really let up once it starts. “Rough Going (I Won’t Let Up)” reaffirms their commitment to carrying on while looking back at doo-wop inspiration before “In A Black Out” pauses for finger-picked balladry. Though much of peak Walkmen-era Leithauser vocals are delightfully thrown against a clash of reverb and electric guitar, we have them gently laid over a bed of acoustic here, while a Rostam-procured "Step”-style choir combines to beautifully fill the space.

Banjo-nestled “Peaceful Morning” veers close to saccharine at first before finding its stride in Leithauser’s gentle coos turned cries once more, while "When The Truth Is..." is a swanky blend of bottle slide guitar, steady piano plinks, and a jarringly splendid marriage of his impassioned pipes with those of a saxophone. The latter’s ecstatic barroom brawl of a chorus is a powerful highlight of both the record and their respective careers, flawlessly punctuated with Patterson’s skittering high hat. Submerged in the locomotion of Patterson’s drums, a country twang even pokes through in “The Morning Stars,” and, past the initial confusion of a new voice being introduced just as the credits roll, “1959”’s Angel Deradoorian (Dirty Projectors) feature gives an angelic foil to Leithauser’s lead.

A damn good duo, Leithauser and Rostam are a veritable phoenix rising from indie ashes that wonderfully proves when two doors close sometimes the window that opens lets in more than enough light to fill the bar. To argue that together they’re greater than the sum of their parts would be misleading - this collaboration would have a long way to go before attempting to dethrone either of its member’s past projects - though they at no point rely on reputation to carry the record, leaving us with an album that deserves far more than a footnote when the curtain falls. The dream many of us hold of a Walkmen reunion (and now even a Vampire Weekend one, to some extent) may fade with each passing night, but at least I Had A Dream That You Were Mine can be spun a 1000 times to more than fill the silence.

Frank Ocean Achieves an Opus in 'Endless' and a Triumph in 'Blonde'

Regardless of how deftly Frank Ocean has eluded categorizations of his genre and sexuality, he could not escape his context. We all can be considered “products of our time,” but no artist in music has embodied such representation as artfully as Frank Ocean. From an industry perspective, Ocean has fully employed the practices of modern music business through mixtapes, surprise releases, and streaming exclusives; his professional choices are a Sign o’ the Times, as his hero Prince once sang.

But in an age of immediacy and artificiality, where modernity has rid us of the most organic components of creating art, Ocean chose to release the visual album Endless – a forty-five minute music video of three Frank Oceans constructing a staircase – to remind us of the protracted toils of creating… anything. Moreover, a five day stream of the carpentry featured in Endless preceded the album’s release. Was Ocean objecting to the contemporary culture of immediate music exchange with such a drawn out exhibition on long-winded process of creativity? Could he even protest such a thing when he himself owes nearly all of his fame and fortune to the internet? Was Ocean positing himself as an anti-generational spokesperson? No matter how long four years may have seemed, the album which broke Ocean’s hiatus forced fans to check themselves and question their impatient anticipation, and did so in a stroke of genius.

Endless is a unique multi-media presentation posing daunting, yet romantic, realist dilemmas. Time seems to be the obvious overarching subject of Endless. Its songs also explore love and hubris, but the visual platform of the album forces one to consider the focal points of Ocean’s lyrical matter in relation to the meaning behind his staircase construction. The best and most eloquent example of this is in the song “Wither,” in the line: “Pray [our children] get to see me wither.” The song’s minimalist instrumental brings the vocals to the forefront along with an earnest contemplation of the finite nature of life. The double entendre “see me wither [with her]” offers both a hope for long life and a desperate desire to share it with loved ones. While love forms the song’s thematic preoccupation, it ultimately becomes secondary to the protagonist’s worry of losing those he loves.

The production on Endless is highly experimental and quintessentially contemporary. Ocean incorporates rap vocal deliveries in the mode of Young Thug with highly electronic instrumentals and rapid-fire trap-style percussions. Ocean’s rap verses show a significant improvement from the verses previously released on his Tumblr. He demonstrates a greater command of cadence with bars that are less dense than previous and are more carefully spaced. A majority of the album is electronic, harkening to the style change made by Radiohead between 1997’s OK Computer and 2000’s Kid A. Ocean himself is undoubtedly influenced by the band, having incorporated Radiohead’s “Optimistic” (Kid A) as an interlude on his mixtape nostalgia, ULTRA and covering “Fake Plastic Trees” from Radiohead’s The Bends (1997) during his 2012 live campaign. Radiohead guitarist Johnny Greenwood even contributes string orchestration to the album’s opener. The stylistic transition towards the experimental alternative-electronic is a sign of maturation for Ocean who previously deferred to samples to obtain such an aesthetic.

But while Endless ventures into experimental territory, it retains the accessibility of Ocean’s singer-songwriting appeal. The album opens with a cover of the Isley Brothers’ “Let Me Know” (made famous by Aaliyah) accented with the dreaminess of Greenwood’s string orchestration. “Comme Des Garcons” and “Slide on Me” are enticingly catchy with their ascending melody and call-and-response chorus, respectively. Between the album’s most experimental tracks are minimalist R&B songs that highlight Ocean’s potent songwriting ability. Standout consecutive tracks “Rushes” and “Rushes To” evoke Bon Iver-esque composition with sparse guitar backing and alternatingly spaced and overlapping vocals. “Rushes To” offers Ocean signing at his most passionate, straining himself with exhaustive effort as he belts the closing lines of the song.

The lasting impression made by Endless is the balance between Ocean’s minimalist composition and the abstract free verse communicated through an ethereal electronic palate. He forces us to accept the new with the old, which creates a conundrum for fans who may not be able to access the album’s experimentalism. Creatively, Endless is an opus which refocuses our awareness of our humanity through an ode to love, loneliness, and desire. It is in one sense, however, a detriment to the artist.

A day after the release of Endless, Ocean released a proper LP entitled Blonde, a more accessible album which absolves Ocean of the predicament of profitability. The album opens with the luscious “Nikes,” a dizzyingly atmospheric track featuring pitch-altered rap verses which carry over the abstract content of Endless. The song transitions into a more nimble instrumental of acoustic guitar plucking layered with soaring synths. Aesthetic seems to be song’s focus. The “Nikes” music video features Frank surrounded by cars sipping the contents of a Styrofoam cup, suggestive of some codeine-infused drink. It is the perfect visual for a song that perfects the disorienting and droning hip-hop production made popular by A$AP Rocky.

The ensuing song is one that Ocean performed during his 2013 California Live, You’re Not Dead Tour. On “Ivy,” Ocean sings about a love fallen apart, the nostalgia of a blooming friendship, and the disconnect between estranged lovers. The song’s pitch-altered vocals detract from the sincerity of its beautiful lyrics, effectively conveyed through Ocean’s live performances of it. Over the high reverb of dream-pop guitars, “Ivy’s” lyrical substance seems cheapened by the artificiality of the song’s production. Ocean appears to compensate for this creatively at the song’s outro with sounds of instruments thrown around a room in the distance, accentuating the frustration expressed in the lyrics. But the mere seconds in which this frustration manifests doesn’t recompense the botching of what would have been a beautiful and endearing song.

Blonde is consistently minimalist in its instrumental arrangement. Simplistic, yet catchy, piano and Rhodes melodies on “Pink + White” and “Solo,” respectively, yield some of Ocean’s most sing-along moments. Harmonies contributed by Beyoncé featured on “Pink + White” hilariously distract listeners from the song’s message of futility.

Several songs overtly borrow lyrical elements from Ocean’s influences, the most obvious being “Close to You,” which draws both its title and chorus melody from the Carpenters’ single of the same name. “White Ferrari” borrows from The Beatles’ Revolver (1966) hit “Here, There, and Everywhere;” Ocean singing the line “Spending each day of the year” in the melody originated by Paul McCartney. In these two songs, Ocean draws from two of the most iconic and commercialized pop acts in music history. It is no wonder then that Blonde’s appeal reaches a much broader audience than Endless.

But Blonde’s accessibility doesn’t diminish Ocean’s potency as a songwriter. The album’s most heart-rending single “Seigfried” tells of a man struggling to find his fit in the world. Also performed on the California Live Tour, “Seigfried” retains the minimalist arrangement featured in its live performance, again bringing Ocean’s vocals and lyrics to the forefront. Lyrical gems “I’m living in an idea / An idea from another man’s mind” effectively invokes feelings of displacement while the closing lines of “I’d do anything for you / (In the dark)” deliver a potent sense of desperation.

Ocean makes references to several real-life friends of his across the album, giving Blonde a deeply personal and seemingly autobiographical feel. The album closes with recordings of his friends interviewed in low fidelity while a dancing synth melody creates a sense of nostalgia. Questions asked in this recording, such as “How far is a light year?” remind listeners of the simple joy of sharing the company of childhood friends. This substance found in these interview tapes is not found in the exchange of dialogue, but rather, the realization of time passed between good friends, understood in the youthfulness of their voices.

Though the dual-release of Endless and Blonde consequentially forces the two to be compared against each other – a comparison in which Blonde loses creatively but wins with fans – Ocean’s choice to release two separate albums simultaneously is remarkably brave. As we began when he first revealed his queer sexuality, we may continue to know Ocean for his courage. We have all the reason to believe in his creative direction; so far, he has yet to miss a step doing things his way.

of Montreal Continues the Chaotic Search for Identity on 'Innocence Reaches'

of Montreal's lower case cache of chaos, innocence reaches, opens with a question: “How do you identify? / How do you ID?" Though perhaps a newly-minted staple introduction of the millennial age, sexual discovery has been an omnipresent undercurrent in the kaleidoscopic catalog of androgynous flamboyance only the man who once transformed into a transsexual alter-ego named Georgie Fruit could procure. Whether aimed outward or introspectively (and we get both in spades), these sorts of probing enquiries form the spine of a record that combines Kevin Barnes’ psychedelic sound with newfound electronic experimentation.

Though not on the levels of Hissing Fauna, Are You The Destroyer?’s dense tracklist, Barnes grandiloquence is still on full display on innocence reaches as his trademark verbosity continues to force us to come to terms with just how limited the vocabulary of pop music usually is. Even at his most overwrought - Barnes amusingly recounts basking in the sun as "absorb[ing] some solar lashings" on “chaos arpeggiating“ - he still manages to somehow pull it off in a jarringly natural way. Only he could rhyme "gratuitous abysses" and make one 2016's catchiest rock hooks out of it while reminiscing of “The Jean Genie” guitar riffs. "Am I on the edge of a really big breakthrough / Or just another meltdown?" he again begins a song with interrogation. For Barnes the answer is usually both simultaneously, and we’re better for it in the voyeuristic way we as consumers of his emotional turmoil can't help but be.

Though the binary-challenging instant dance bounce of “let’s relate” and off-kilter feminist anthem of “it’s different for girls” may seem increasingly on the nose, it’s likely only because times have begun to catch up with Barnes himself, who has been strutting stages in dresses and glitter - if anything at all - since the ‘90s. “I’m thankful to have an outlet for that, to express that and not get chased out of town or beat up. I think we’re moving in the right direction now,” he’s explained, and for a gender-fluid performer based in Athens, Georgia (a classic Southern town that only just closed local favorite Confederate-themed bar last year) that's a feat not to be under-appreciated. Pressed beneath a cover adorned with neon naked female forms created by longtime art directer and set-opening hype-man David Barnes, his brother adds to the highlighting of the “wonderment for the female anatomy” (and we can't wait to see how many times this review is taken down by Facebook because of it).

Just as 2013’s Lousy With Sylvianbriar signaled a departure in sound as of Montreal shed its auxiliary members while Barnes fled to San Francisco, for this album he decamped to Paris in the waning wake of his divorce, and innocence reflects that shift in geography as well. Enjoying the anonymity only foreign excursions can bring, Barnes lyrically fleshes innocence with the tales of French flings from “les chants de maldoror”’s “We only act nicely when we’re ruining hotel beds / I greeted you in a hundred doorways” to “trashed exes”’s “The problem is a different girl / An Athenian beach­-goth.” Recorded in a small urban apartment, he also often eschews the cacophony and collaboration of the traditional rock band instruments of the previous two LPs for fear of neighboring flats complaining, resulting in a collection of solitarily forged tunes addressing new characters and love interests set to the more manageable modes of drum machines and synthesizers.

This change of scenery also burst the bubble that blocked the contemporary music climate from influencing Barnes, as he began pulling from peers Jack Ü, Chairlift, and Arca after a career largely inspired by Prince, Bowie, Beach Boys, and Beatles. Flirting with skittering trap beats and EDM-inspired synthetic sound, particularly on standout “a sport and a pastime,” Barnes both shows old dogs can learn new tricks, deftly mixing nearly nihilist levels of destructive tendencies with glittering rave. Vocally it seems he's settled on more monotonous murmurs and coos over his chandelier-swinging shrieks of the mid aughts.

One of the few certainties of each of Montreal release is the likelihood that its successor is already at least partially completed by the time your copy has arrived. Coming only one year after Aureate Gloom and their 14th proper LP in 19 years, one could argue the only reason of Montreal’s recent records fail to make a larger splash is simply because people can't seem to consume his confessional epics as quickly as he can produce them. While Barnes no doubt lapses in and out of varying degrees of self-indulgence, give them time and you can't help but still be entranced, even if it can take some time to chew.

"It's not bad / It’s not sad / It’s fun,” closer “chap pilot” bluntly justifies before ending with a repetition of “I guess we can still surprise ourselves when we stop acting way too tough.” It’s an appropriate realization for a shameless poet ever vacillating between unforgivingly brutal depictions of love and desperately vulnerable admissions. 14 albums and 19 years later the only consistent predictability is that Barnes will indeed still continue to surprise.

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Read our in-depth interview with of Montreal here.

Wild Beasts Unchain and Explore Virility on Bold 'Boy King'

“If you want someone with real balls it’s the male ballet dancer. That’s where the real grit is," Hayden Thorpe recently told The Guardian. Toying with the role - or lack thereof - masculinity plays in the oft married duo that is sex and rock ’n’ roll since the very first notes of their discography, Cumbrian natives Wild Beasts have come far from the raucously theatrical flamboyance of Limbo, Panto to the impeccably wrought beauty of Present Tense’s gentler sides. They’ve been swearing by their own “cock and balls” since they emphatically debuted in 2008, but on their fifth LP, Boy King, they outright swear with them, and it's clear that the courtship show is now over as raw, licentious aggression drips in its stead. Boy King consists of 10 sharp pop tracks beneath some massively ‘80s cover art reminiscent of a more polished News of the World, its robotic glow all the more curious when juxtaposed with the animalistic sentiments that writhe within.

Wild Beasts’ unique art rock has usually occupied the English indie scene’s outsider category as Arctic Monkeys-type lad rockers reigned. Thorpe’s exuberant, if not effeminate falsetto sounded an outright protest of them, though in embracing such lecherous id he and his band now wear their own brand of leather jackets and wear them quite well. “In some ways we're now the band we set out against!” Thorpe admits, but while artists grow and change, the true Boy King inherent in men remains limbic despite any change in our creative and cerebral representations of its primitive drive.

"After five records there had to be an element of 'what the fuck?’” Thorpe explains, leading one to wonder if “He The Colossus” line, “Not enough fucking and too much of wondering“ is a jab at their past selves. It was eight years ago when Thorpe first claimed he was tough, and nowhere is there such a stark example of their evolution - or devolution - from painstaking wordplay to outright brashness than the contrast in lyricism from then to now. On Limbo, Panto’s “The Club Of Fathomless Love” he dynamically delivers, “But I'm not a soft touch / And I won't been seen as such / So full with fierce fathomless love / I spit and have spats to be tough / Show I'm not soppy and stuff.” Put that up against “Tough Guy”’s simple assertion of "Now I'm all fucked up / And I can't stand up / So I better suck it up / Like a tough guy would,“ and it’s clear a lot has changed. Perhaps a self-fulfilling prophecy, the former’s opening line of, “Oh when I'm older I'll hear this moment and I'll laugh haha,” seems quite prescient.

Adding to the bravado, Dallas, Texan recording and John Congleton (St. Vincent, The Walkmen, Modest Mouse, Spoon) production makes it a sonically enthralling ride as well. Album opener “Big Cat” extends the metaphor of Wild Beasts’ rightful place atop the food chain as Thorpe’s sultry vocals and a steady percussion backing climax in a brief glimpse of some sharp guitar fangs that leave you wanting more. Though perhaps overly repetitive, “Alpha Female” has a delightfully thick slink to it plus some electrifying shreds of St. Vincent-esque guitar tones, while lead single “Get My Bang”’s funk foundation shakes with fuzzed out bass bombs over a simple, linear drum base. Following track and final single “Celestial Creatures” is a space-y track that maintains a steadily uplifting locomotion of synth undulations, boosted by more ever-elegant crooning. Later, Thorpe breathily threatens to surpass and consume the most vital dark meat the god of beauty and desire himself has to offer on “Eat Your Heart Out Adonis” before some sleazy riffs throw their hot weight around.

Baritone foil Tom Fleming, though not as vocally prominent as on past releases, has his not-to-be-under-appreciated moments too, most notably “2BU,” a brooding album standout built upon stutter step percussion and the unsettling confession, “Now I’m the type of man / Who wants to watch the world burn.” Also present is the proof that old habits die hard; for all its reckless abandon, Boy King's closer “Dreamliner” is a lovely relapse into the delicate control of records past, leaving you to wonder just what direction they’re headed in the end.

For all the straightforward sensuality of Wild Beasts’ newfound give-no-fucks mentality, it would seem their name is increasingly appropriate for such libidinous swagger. That being said, long-term fans of the band behind the moniker may come away feeling disappointed had they been looking for more of the same clever intricacies that drew them in at first. All but the hardest critics will get their “bang” regardless.

Through years of lusciously calculated yet carnal emoting Wild Beasts have earned the blurred line of irony now surrounding their unabashed virility (take, for example, the brilliant satire of 2009’s “All The King’s Men”). Newly emboldened, there’s an unflinching self-awareness of what it means to be the priapic pinnacle that is man in a rock ’n’ roll band, and they’re not afraid to seek out an equally satyric “Alpha Female” to prowl the stage with. And why not? It’s all just “self-loathing” anyway, and if life truly is merely a desperate race to mate before the crush of death then misery loves close, intimate company. "No getting it right / No getting it wrong / Just getting it on," indeed.

Margaret Glaspy Gets Straight to the Point on 'Emotions and Math'

Whatever your opinion of Bonnaroo 2016’s headlining lineup may be, you would be hard-pressed to find another festival that managed to book a stronger mid-level and breaking artists tier (the last breath of Superfly before Live Nation twisted its heel into Superfly’s throat), at least when considering other festivals of similar ilk. Without getting caught up in the divisive Live Nation booking practices, seeing bands like Whitney, Sunflower Bean, Luke Bell, Sun Club, Hinds, Bully, and Vulfpeck command (and steal) their respective Bonnaroo stages made for many a watershed moment in each band’s career.

While the aforementioned bands were formidable (and even exceptional) in their sets, there was one such set that had a particularly monumental moment, and that was Margaret Glaspy’s Saturday showing on the Who Stage.

For whatever (unfair) reason people want to place Margaret Glaspy’s music into the “folk-rocker” chick channel - as if such an unintelligible blanket statement equates for due diligence – because she’s seemingly unassuming when not on stage or whatever other closed minded pigeon-holed logic might arise. But that’s simply not the case, as exhibited on her debut LP, Emotions and Math, Glaspy’s cerebral songwriting and meditative-yet-managed stage presence place her in a channel that’s wonderfully indeterminate and unfettered, apart from the increasingly tired roots-revival tropism ascribed to any young woman that happens to play guitar.

Emotions and Math is an excellent debut for any artist, but through the lens of Glaspy, it exemplifies her intercourse between personal discourse and a wellspring of feeling and intuition; there are no wax poetic musings to be found on Emotions and Math. The eponymous album opener recalls associative assurance from a former lover of some sort. In a sense, it explores the periodic moments of borderline co-dependency within a relationship. It features feminist idealism while highlighting incongruous feelings of relational dependence.

One of the early points of contention featured in the record is misunderstanding, a common talking point in most indie-music, sure, but Glaspy manages to provide an aggressive and dismissive demeanor on tracks like “Situation” stating “Call me a rebel / Call me a renegade / Whatever fits the mould you’ve made,” while her guitar work bares tonal depth in creating an air confused tension. Admittedly, it's tough to immediately compare Glaspy’s “sound” and spirit to any other established artist – which is something to aspire toward as an artist, in my opinion – though songs like “Somebody to Anybody” and “Memory Street” recall occasional cadences of Cat Power and bellowing labelmates Alabama Shakes' guitar tones. She’s in good company, but it isn’t a total reverential imitation of influences, a practice that seems to be more and more common amongst the “indie” star(let) crowd.

There are tracks like “Pins and Needles” that manage to meld both Glaspy’s blues and rock opining sensibilities with the existential and relational crises of indie-music – “I don’t want to be on pins and needles around you of all people” – simultaneously developing a unique sense of Glaspy-ness. Then you have songs like “Anthony” that feel like a hardened Regina Spektor track (I realize this could be argued as a contradiction in the previous paragraph, but allow me to explain further) – it narrates an absent reciprocation from the aforementioned “Anthony” as Glaspy prays for the admiration and love of Anthony, only to come up short. It’s a theme all too common amongst many a finicky couple – continuing to stay together when feelings and compassion have so obviously run their respective courses. It's almost like Glaspy’s version of Kanye’s Amber Rose call-out on The Life of Pablo – “She said I took the best years of her life.”

Emotions and Math closes with a decidedly brooding tonality that acts as a slight divergence from the light(ish) feel of the rest of the record. “Love Like This” is arguably the strongest track on the record, examining a former romance that was unceremoniously tossed to the wayside, leaving Glaspy left to her own devices, while her guitar work is at its strongest, with a dark tango feel that flirts with positivity, but almost always maintaining a perpetual sense of “Saudade.” Emotions and Math’s closer is the record’s bluesiest track on the record – which seems fitting for a song titled “Black and Blue” – that highlights a slight sense of narrative neuroticism brought about lifelong misconceptions (aka “black is blue”), thus cementing a full-circle moment in Glaspy’s early career – the thought that a seemingly quiet artist could bring about such unabashed and insightful commentary on typical narrative tomes. With a strong full-length debut like Glaspy’s, it will be likely that her presence will quickly shift from the close-mindedness of those expecting a soft-cooing songstress into the proper ascription worthy of Glaspy’s ability.

Mitski Comes Into Her Own On 'Puberty 2'

Maturity is a tricky concept. We talk about it as if it’s some elusive nirvana attainable only through a vague combination of time and experience, but in reality the path to maturity is a long, twisted clusterfuck that you don’t even realize you’ve been following until you look at where you were the year before and realize how much you’ve changed… or how much you haven’t. As New York singer-songwriter Mitski Miwayaki puts it in her song "Crack Baby," it’s “a long, hard 20-year summer vacation.”

In this sense, Mitski’s fourth album Puberty 2 is her most “mature” to date – not an Ariana-in-leather-bunny-ears declaration of adulthood, but rather a weary demonstration of the hard-earned emotional clarity that comes from years of trying and failing to Figure It Out. She has channeled the raw emotional overload of her modern classic Bury Me At Makeout Creek into a more lush, expansive sound without losing an ounce of its gut-punch intensity.

Puberty 2 covers a broad emotional spectrum, but it is primarily defined by a longing for recognition and acceptance, even as it understands how fleeting these may be. “Dan the Dancer” and “Your Best American Girl” tell two very different stories of outsiders yearning to be understood, while “Fireworks” finds Mitski struggling to reconcile grief within her daily routine: “I will go jogging routinely, calmly and rhythmically run / And when I find that a knife’s sticking out of my side / I’ll pull it out without questioning why.” Intense blasts of emotion arrive unexpectedly – deep infatuation on “A Loving Feeling,” detached disappointment on “A Burning Hill,” and high anxiety on the contained punk rager “My Body’s Made Of Crushed Little Stars,” which sprints through Mitski’s inner monologue as she fantasizes about blowing a job interview and plotting her own disappearance. But these songs are over before you can begin to make sense of them, creating an experience as unpredictable as our own emotional cycle.

While Mitski’s expertly crafted lyrics masterfully reflect our own fickle feelings, her compositions are more confident than ever. The SUNY Purchase-trained composer and her co-producer Patrick Hyland find the perfect middle ground between the elaborate arrangements of her first two albums and the urgent garage frenzy of Bury Me At Makeout Creek. The panic-attack guitars on “My Body’s Made…” bleed into the dreamy synth globs of “Thursday Girl,” while the industrial clatter of “Happy” simultaneously recalls St. Vincent and political punks Downtown Boys.

Yet it’s impossible to listen to Puberty 2 and hear it as anything but a product of Mitski’s singular vision. Her turns of phrase provide a connective tissue for its disparate themes, and her affecting voice adapts to every new sound. She has come into her own as a writer, producer and performer, with a presence so commanding it sells every line like a short story. The genius of Puberty 2 lies in Mitski’s ability to turn this emotional whirlwind into a personal, cohesive statement. After all, there’s nothing more mature than knowing yourself.

Peter Bjorn and John Reach Peak Pop Polish on 'Breakin' Point'

The wait for this one was so long we're not young folks anymore. Everyone’s favorite Swedish indie pop trio, Peter Bjorn and John, had been taunting fans with #PBJ7 social posts for much of the five years since Gimme Some gave us 300% of a normal thumbs-up in 2011, before finally releasing their 7th LP, Breakin’ Point, today. Delayed by growing families and a label shift as the band left Sony imprint Startime for their own Stockholm startup, INGRID, the wait has turned out, of course, to be worth it.

Breakin’ Point launches straight into things; you can already picture audiences clapping along as disco-tinged lament of working for The Man, ”Dominos,” sets off the "chain reaction" that launches into 12 tightly-packed tracks, all clocking in at 3:something or less (even “A Long Goodbye" doesn't reach four minutes) as if the triple-headed hammer on the cover itself cranked them out.

“It says, ‘We’re back! We’re smashing it!’” bassist Björn Yttling explains of the album art, which consists of, per tradition, three parts - one for each member. It's the affable Swedes’ most cartoonish and playful offering yet, which says a lot for the trio that gave us the undeniable whistler “Young Folks" among others, but their pop sensitivities, as radio-ready as they increasingly are for better or worse, lose little in the ways of heart. It needs to be “like ABBA,” Yttling says, and it’s clear they take the inspiration of their compatriots seriously; PB&J recorded Breakin’ Point in studios formerly used by ABBA, and have even jokingly claimed to be the classic group’s illegitimate sons.

PB&J first explored using outside producers on Gimme Some, but they’ve enlisted an entire star-studded roster of them this time around, including Paul Epworth (Paul McCartney, U2, Florence And The Machine), Patrick Berger (Robyn, Icona Pop), Greg Kurstin (Adele, Sia), Emile Haynie (Kanye West, FKA Twigs), Pontus Winnberg (Miike Snow) and Thom Monahan (Wild Nothing, Devendra Banhart). The band explored several evolutions following their well-deserved Writer’s Block breakthrough from Seaside Rock’s instrumentals, Living Thing’s minimalist electro-funk, and Gimme Some’s amped up guitar-driven power dynamics, and the newfound influence of big pop producers doesn’t go unfelt here as Breakin’ Point instead reaches for peak accessibility and polish.

Pre-order the new album "Breakin' Point" here: http://smarturl.it/BuyBreakinPoint or on iTunes here: http://smarturl.it/PBJDominosiTunes "Our first new rock video is here! Check out the awesome video makers from ANIED and their playful adaptation of the lyrics in "What you talking about?" Love Peter Bjorn and John 'What You Talking About?'

Long-term fans will attest it was PB&J’s endearing quirks that kept them around after some fantastic sync licensing first propelled their 2006 ubiquitous flagship tune to the world stage, however - the beautifully poignant epic of “Up Against The Wall,” the captivatingly juxtaposed aggression of “Lay It Down," the viciously enthralling hook of ”Amsterdam” (which has been this author’s ringtone for as long as he can remember) - and Breakin’ Point lacks any adventurous, next-level standout in that way, resulting in their most consistently medium tempo, homogenous effort in years.

That being said, PB&J do however succeed at what they (safely) do attempt; the frantic skitter and plink of “What You Talking About?” proves they still know exactly what they’re saying, and they're slick while they do it. Their iconic, cheerful whistling notably returns in the title track and “Nostalgic Intellect,” (which “may seem like bigger news than it is, hey its only whistling,” the press release notes), with the former bolstering Peter Morén’s soaring vocals as they present a vulnerably honest attempt at finding courage for newfound fatherhood: “I saw it in Jesus / Saw it in Superman / Got it from whiskey / Like any loser can.”

“Do Si Do” drops a Beatles reference on its way to the dancefloor, while “Between The Lines” aptly concludes “It's hard to sing if your hearts not there.” The punchy cowbell in album highlight and closer “Pretty Dumb Pretty Lame” is far from either of those things as PB&J address the triviality and tension found in their own profession: “Well you complain in the press / You’ve been under a stress / Well every nine-to-fiver is stressed out for less / If you enjoy what you do / Don’t let it ruin you.” These glimpses of true self-awareness are a precious commodity in today’s pop, and it’s exactly that and their genuinely disarming disposition that has always set them apart from their pop rock peers, even at their most formulaic.

“There are very few songs in our collection that are positive. I can’t think of one,” Yttling admits, which may surprise casual listeners. “It's always been about the blues. Life is shit, but tonight is nice – that’s what pop is, especially the songs that we love. You wanna have some darkness to be able to see the light. That’s how we do it up here in Sweden! It’s like a black and white movie if you look out: snow and a black mass of darkness.” It’s may not always reach the depth of past works, but Breaking’ Point does its part to make that darkness abate, even if for only 41 minutes.

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Read our full-length interview with Peter Bjorn and John here.