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Album reviews: Lynda Dawn, Lindstrøm, Babe Rainbow, Drew Holcomb & the Neighbors, and Brittany Howard

Brittany Howard's solo record, "Jaime," is our critic's favorite this week. Publicity photo

Lynda Dawn

At First Light (Akashik)

The first sounds on Lynda Dawn’s debut EP—a fat keyboard bass line and synthetic handclaps and claves —come straight from the ’80s glory days of electrosoul. And as it turns out, so do all the other sounds, including the U.K. singer’s sultry, gospel-tinged vocals. On At First Light Dawn plays it straight for 20 minutes of unrepentant quiet storm smoothness, and if nothing jumps out as a radio single or a world-beating hook, there’s also nary an unpleasurable moment. (Well, the breakdown in “Theme for Cha-Cha” suggests Return to Forever interpreting the “Price is Right” theme song—but that actually kinda sounds good too, right?) [8.3]

 

Lindstrøm

On a Clear Day I Can See You Forever (Smalltown Supersound)

Meantime, Lindstrøm points back to early-’70s electronic experimentation with the inspired On a Clear Day, as the prolific Norwegian producer ditches laptops for vintage synths on four extended instrumental tracks that are less dancefloor and more chill-out room. “Really Deep Snow” could be an outtake from Tangerine Dream’s hallucinogenic masterpiece Phaedra, and even if Lindstrøm’s compositions and improvisations don’t dissolve your ego, they’ll still feed your head. [7.7]

 

Babe Rainbow

Today (30th Century)

The hirsute surfer boys from Australia kick out more breezy jams on their third diverse, companionable album in three years. Today features the fetching acoustic guitar ditty “Butter” and the Donovan-does-tropicália “Morning Song,” and gets juicy with the shaggy Fela Kuti homage “Electrocuted” and “The Wedge,” which rides billowing easy-jazz piano chords into a chopped and screwed spoken section that’s like some impossibly friendly Butthole Surfers track. The nature boys do stumble, notably on the elegiac but torpid closer “For Your Eyes Only” (not a cover), but overall, Today goes lightly and sweetly. [7.6]

 

Drew Holcomb & the Neighbors

Dragons (Thirty Tigers)

Drew Holcomb and the Neighbors are on a mission: help some white people forget their problems. Dragons leads off with “Family,” and if there’s fleeting wryness (“Going on vacation / on the credit card”), there’s a lot of Family Circus imagery too—laughing in the rain, kicking off shoes to dance—all chanted over an overproduced mutant square dance/Irish jig. It’s facile, it’s corny, and yikes, it’s a high point. “End of the World” matches horrible pop schmaltz to its fatuous message: It’s the end of the world, so smoke, drink, party. There’s yet more benighted pap—Holcomb puts rich and poor in the same boat to let them know “You Want What You Can’t Have,” and offers “you got this!” bromides on the title track, which, by the way, is literally “The Gambler” slowed down with different lyrics. Know when to run, y’all. [4.9]

 

Brittany Howard

Jaime (ATO)

Alabama Shakes presented so coherently as a band that it almost obscured lead singer Brittany Howard’s singular talent (as did Howard’s throwaway spin-off group Thunderbitch, for different reasons). But with Jaime, Howard doesn’t just throw down the gauntlet, she slaps your face silly with it, and basically puts her own face on a mural next to D’Angelo, Erykah Badu, Prince, and even Nina Simone. And her band admirably keeps up—but hey, her band is Robert Glasper on keys, Shakes bassist Zac Cockrell, and jazz luminary Nate Smith (a VCU grad!) on drums. If there’s a head-scratching element of Jaime, it’s Howard’s predilection for concussive production, which would obliterate weaker tunes and voices. But Howard’s voice is a shelter in the storm, and on delicate numbers like “Stay High” and “Short and Sweet,” she’s a revelation. [8.7]

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Arts

Album reviews: Devendra Banhart, Ryley Walker, Gonjasufi

Devendra Banhart

Ape in Pink Marble (Nonesuch)

Devendra Banhart seems like a good idea. Handsome, talented and raised in Venezuela and Los Angeles by free-spirited parents, Banhart dropped out of art school at 19 to busk on streets, and subsequently came to the attention of Swans’ Michael Gira, who released Banhart’s home recordings to wide acclaim in 2002. Banhart’s experimental hippie shtick suggested a young Beck who traded the loveseat for a hammock under the palms.

Banhart has since tamped down his signature warble and expanded his stylistic palette to a thinness; the songs on Ape in Pink Marble, while agreeable, are a bit pat and bloodless. There’s the reggae-by-numbers “Mara,” the kind of genre exercise Flight of the Conchords would undercut with genuine humor, whereas Banhart sounds merely arch. On the seduction groove “Fig in Leather” he ickily coos “I’ve got frigid air to keep it cool / I will take the time ’cause you’re a lady, top-quality lady, quite powerful lady.” On “Souvenir,” there’s a fleeting wistfulness, along with plummy bass runs and woozy guitars—but overall, it’s hard to tell whether Banhart’s a mediocre satirist or just comfortable in the shallows.

Ryley Walker

Golden Sings That Have Been Sung (Dead Oceans)

I have a problem. There’s music I love, and then the voices kinda ruin it for me. It’s not that they’re bad voices—after all, I love plenty of terrible singers. These are just irksome. And there’s no getting around them.

There’s a reason I bring this up. Illinois guitarist Ryley Walker’s fourth album has some flat-out dazzling instrumental passages—lead-off track “The Halfwit In Me” concludes with dynamic, blossoming interplay between electric and acoustic guitars and a nimble rhythm section, invoking a blend of Nick Drake and Tortoise. Other songs reprise this gorgeous organic quality, as if they’ve spilled onto a tablecloth and are spreading out, making patterns on the fly.

And there’s Walker’s voice, which blooms at us beseechingly and then swallows words, seeming to insist we lean in and listen to his stories. As the irritating album title might suggest, they are the stories of a poetry-damaged, self-absorbed troubadour. Walker’s a rounder and a rover—passionate, you understand—and he might believe in God or not, but don’t worry baby, he’ll share his restless, sensitive love—tonight.

Gonjasufi

Callus (Warp)

Gonjasufi emerged from Southern California in 2008, lending his grouchy, space-blues howl to a Flying Lotus track; his FlyLo-assisted debut, A Sufi and a Killer, came out in 2010. Callus, his third album, is aptly named, as Gonjasufi works the same sonic terrain he always has. He is a stylist, and that style is corroded, dirgelike trip-hop, dark and industrial if not exactly threatening—it’s as if Kool Keith and Ween spawned a talented and troubled but cosseted youngster—the sludgy, clamorous drums even sound like muffled pots and pans.

Gonjasufi treats his voice like a lead instrument in the mix—he doesn’t try to distract with lyrics, and there’s no particular indication that you should struggle deciphering them. They mostly fall in let’s-bother-Mom territory: “Don’t let the church hypnotize you”; “In my last life I was a Satan too.” But there’s also some absurd whimsy: “Do you know what Satans do?”; “Eatin’ chicken and you’re so self-righteous.” And after enough noisy blasts, “Ole Man Sufferah” and “Krishna Punk” sound like sprightly pop songs, albeit sprung from a dumpster.