#13
Better With the Lights Off
Who remembers the 1990s? What a decade of trash, cheapness, waste, decadence and depression it was. While fellow adolescents were siring children in the car parks of discotheques, tipping truckloads of cheap Dutch jungle juice into their ashtray lungs to the music of 2 Unlimited, us bookish types were indoors reading copies of Being & Nothingness and rocking back and forth to the mournful sway of alt-rock mopesters Madder Rose.
Imagine a drab weekend in one of those towns were the village elders are in charge, and the agenda is bric-a-brac and conversations about Lapsang Souchong. Perhaps this Saturday the vicar, loaded to the eyeballs on antidepressants and homemade tablet, is giving a talk on the history of the tweed industry. Feeling depressed yet? Well, this quartet from New York certainly do. Bring It Down is an elegant album of rainy-day mope rock and mid-tempo alt-rock topped off with the soporific tones of Mary Lorson and the guitar mastery of Billy Cote.
It all sounds rather glum thus far, does it not? Well perhaps I can introduce a little light into this gloomsome world of ours when I say Madder Rose are perhaps the finest overlooked acts to emerge from the mop-top crop of mid-nineties alt rock acts. Their standing in the eyes of this makeshift music critic is above such noise-niks as Hole, such slopsters as The Breeders and streets ahead of those shoe-gazing pretenders such as Lush.
Beautiful John, for example, highlights their talent for upbeat rock pop songs with venomous undertones. The prettiness of Lorson’s vocal is undercut with her repetitive swoon of “you’re no flower” to highlight how the passing of time turns one rank and bitter. While Away is a mellow piece that sways through its random drum tapping and acoustic weariness. Imagine sitting on a porch while the summer sun turns your skin the colour of roast chicken. This tune was designed for such an event. I lost a child to skin cancer once. Nah… just kidding. It was my father.
However, there is more to this album than resigned gloom and escaping the tedium of existence. The jaunty Swim blends self-referential lyrics with a squalling guitar part from exceptional fret-burner Billy Cote. Matt Verta-Ray on the old bass is no slouch either, nor kit-killer Johnny Kick. Note the wow-wee speed of fast-mover 20 Foot Red or the sizzling venture we call the title track for such proof.
Anyway, under a veranda in 1996, I once ran into Cherie Blair, who would then achieve some notoriety as being the wife of the British Prime Minister who confused New Zealand with Australia and made millions milking her position on the lecture circuit. She said the following to me: “In a basement – where the dark forces converge to make whoopee and transform basic dolts of your ilk into Cellophane jerk-offs of the lowest emotional rung – there sits a curtain named Silicone Artichoke.”
“Where she be now, Miss Blair?” I asked, pulling some pasta from my nose.
“For interrupting I’m not going to tell you. Now get on with the review. This is such deviation. Do you want to damage your reputation on this website?” she said, kicking my dog Schafer.
“It’s OK. You don’t think anyone reads this tripe, do you? I’d have greater success running naked through the high street shouting ‘Madder Rose, all fans of alt-rock ought to give them a go’ than scribing half-baked opinions on this website,” I said, eating the remains of my dog.
“What a defeatist attitude. No wonder no-one wants to marry you or buy your igloo. Good day, sir. And please get on with the review,” she added, threatening to unleash John Prescott on me (a fat man in the British Government).
Since I respect Cherie Blair, let me tell all those interested that Lay Down Low is a laugh, a fast one about skinny dipping. Ever done it? I once lost a pair of trunks in the local pool and was giggled at by Jennifer Richmond who once showed me her bra outside the chip shop. That’s as far as I’ve taken the experience. Please send me all your skinny dipping stories. I live somewhere outside America. Those who can name my country of residence wins a car.
OK, OK. Living A Daydream is a charming and wonderful piece of music, dwarfed thoroughly by the soothing depression of Sugarsweet and Lights Go Down. They all make me want to hibernate, live in a tepee and accuse the current generation of old people of messing up our global sense of joie de vivre. That’s a French expression meaning occasional moments of happiness. Happiness is a concept that eludes me. This review is what is known as a “mistake” meaning before writing I took three cartons of milk. Whoops.
Other tracks I didn’t mention are Altar Boy (sublime drumming), Razor Pilot (sublime thrumming), Waiting For Engines (sublime humming) and Pocket Fulla Medicine (not sublime).
Madder Rose were overlooked and Bring It Down is their finest album. It radiates a glorious summer melancholy to “while away” the saddest and hottest months of the year. So get baked or get this record. The choice is yours, people. There, I did it.
I need sleep. Apologies for 99.9 percent of this review since I’m between medications at the moment. Normal quality shall be resumed once I regain consciousness in 2045.
See y’all then.
Rating: 9/10
Better With the Lights Off
Who remembers the 1990s? What a decade of trash, cheapness, waste, decadence and depression it was. While fellow adolescents were siring children in the car parks of discotheques, tipping truckloads of cheap Dutch jungle juice into their ashtray lungs to the music of 2 Unlimited, us bookish types were indoors reading copies of Being & Nothingness and rocking back and forth to the mournful sway of alt-rock mopesters Madder Rose.
Imagine a drab weekend in one of those towns were the village elders are in charge, and the agenda is bric-a-brac and conversations about Lapsang Souchong. Perhaps this Saturday the vicar, loaded to the eyeballs on antidepressants and homemade tablet, is giving a talk on the history of the tweed industry. Feeling depressed yet? Well, this quartet from New York certainly do. Bring It Down is an elegant album of rainy-day mope rock and mid-tempo alt-rock topped off with the soporific tones of Mary Lorson and the guitar mastery of Billy Cote.It all sounds rather glum thus far, does it not? Well perhaps I can introduce a little light into this gloomsome world of ours when I say Madder Rose are perhaps the finest overlooked acts to emerge from the mop-top crop of mid-nineties alt rock acts. Their standing in the eyes of this makeshift music critic is above such noise-niks as Hole, such slopsters as The Breeders and streets ahead of those shoe-gazing pretenders such as Lush.
Beautiful John, for example, highlights their talent for upbeat rock pop songs with venomous undertones. The prettiness of Lorson’s vocal is undercut with her repetitive swoon of “you’re no flower” to highlight how the passing of time turns one rank and bitter. While Away is a mellow piece that sways through its random drum tapping and acoustic weariness. Imagine sitting on a porch while the summer sun turns your skin the colour of roast chicken. This tune was designed for such an event. I lost a child to skin cancer once. Nah… just kidding. It was my father.
However, there is more to this album than resigned gloom and escaping the tedium of existence. The jaunty Swim blends self-referential lyrics with a squalling guitar part from exceptional fret-burner Billy Cote. Matt Verta-Ray on the old bass is no slouch either, nor kit-killer Johnny Kick. Note the wow-wee speed of fast-mover 20 Foot Red or the sizzling venture we call the title track for such proof.
Anyway, under a veranda in 1996, I once ran into Cherie Blair, who would then achieve some notoriety as being the wife of the British Prime Minister who confused New Zealand with Australia and made millions milking her position on the lecture circuit. She said the following to me: “In a basement – where the dark forces converge to make whoopee and transform basic dolts of your ilk into Cellophane jerk-offs of the lowest emotional rung – there sits a curtain named Silicone Artichoke.”
“Where she be now, Miss Blair?” I asked, pulling some pasta from my nose.
“For interrupting I’m not going to tell you. Now get on with the review. This is such deviation. Do you want to damage your reputation on this website?” she said, kicking my dog Schafer.
“It’s OK. You don’t think anyone reads this tripe, do you? I’d have greater success running naked through the high street shouting ‘Madder Rose, all fans of alt-rock ought to give them a go’ than scribing half-baked opinions on this website,” I said, eating the remains of my dog.
“What a defeatist attitude. No wonder no-one wants to marry you or buy your igloo. Good day, sir. And please get on with the review,” she added, threatening to unleash John Prescott on me (a fat man in the British Government).Since I respect Cherie Blair, let me tell all those interested that Lay Down Low is a laugh, a fast one about skinny dipping. Ever done it? I once lost a pair of trunks in the local pool and was giggled at by Jennifer Richmond who once showed me her bra outside the chip shop. That’s as far as I’ve taken the experience. Please send me all your skinny dipping stories. I live somewhere outside America. Those who can name my country of residence wins a car.
OK, OK. Living A Daydream is a charming and wonderful piece of music, dwarfed thoroughly by the soothing depression of Sugarsweet and Lights Go Down. They all make me want to hibernate, live in a tepee and accuse the current generation of old people of messing up our global sense of joie de vivre. That’s a French expression meaning occasional moments of happiness. Happiness is a concept that eludes me. This review is what is known as a “mistake” meaning before writing I took three cartons of milk. Whoops.
Other tracks I didn’t mention are Altar Boy (sublime drumming), Razor Pilot (sublime thrumming), Waiting For Engines (sublime humming) and Pocket Fulla Medicine (not sublime).
Madder Rose were overlooked and Bring It Down is their finest album. It radiates a glorious summer melancholy to “while away” the saddest and hottest months of the year. So get baked or get this record. The choice is yours, people. There, I did it.
I need sleep. Apologies for 99.9 percent of this review since I’m between medications at the moment. Normal quality shall be resumed once I regain consciousness in 2045.
See y’all then.
Rating: 9/10
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