New York Music Daily

Global Music With a New York Edge

An Uneasy John Vanderslice Instrumental Packaged As Collectible Art

Today’s Halloween song is the new John Vanderslice instrumental single, Mother of All Dead Time Factories b/w Convict Lake (For Minna), The A-side is a moodily surreal piano-and-organ theme, snappy bass over a techy trip-hop loop, like Goblin at halfspeed. The B-side has a similar groove, an uneasily ragtime-tinged parlor-pop number that brings to mind Andrew Bird. The single is available on 7” vinyl packaged with a limited-edition, signed 11 x 17 Guy Maddin print entitled Falling Man; the collage comes across as something of an update on Manet’s Dejeuner Sur L’Herbe. It’s expensive – $45 – but collectible value could justify the price. It’s the first in a planned series of vinyl singles paired with collectible prints from Cosmic Dreamer Music.

Celebrating the World’s Most Famous Suicide Song

What’s more appropriate for Halloween than the world’s most famous suicide song? The truth about Gloomy Sunday is a lot less lurid than the legend. The song’s composer, Rezso Seress, actually did commit suicide more than three decades after he wrote it in the early 1930s. It’s a sad tune, although the same could be said about thousands of other melodies from across the centuries, none of whose writers ended up killing themselves. Nor did Laszlo Javor, author of the lyrics to the first recorded version, by Pal Kalmor, in 1935. That reality didn’t stop the BBC and other radio networks from succumbing to an urban myth and banning the song until just a few years ago.

You can hear Kalmor’s wonderful dead-calm performance – complete with funeral bells and heart-wrenching strings –  on the new compilation album Hungarian Noir, streaming at Spotify. The playlist also includes the more famous and considerably subtler 1941 recording by Billie Holiday with the Teddy Wilson Orchestra along with recordings from the past few years, some of which are more Halloweenish than others.

A handful are ludicrous to the point of being funny. A breezy African pop version? How about a Brazilian rap version? There’s also a talented Cuban chanteuse whose phonetic command of English falls short of what a singer needs in order to channel much of any emotion, happy or sad, in addition to an instrumental arrangement by Cuban salsa orchestra Manolito Simonet y su Trabuco, whose icy precision speaks to the group’s professionalism more than their commitment to encouraging mass suicide.

But some of the new reinterpretations of the song are very creative. Matuto contribute a moodily psychedelic, cumbia-tinged version, guitarist Clay Ross’ Lynchian, chromatic reverb guitar mingling with Rob Curto’s accordion. Accordionist Chango Spasiuk approaches the song as a vividly spare, Romany jazz-tinged instrumental. Polish art-rock songbird Kayah’s spacious trip-hop take looks back to the original with stark vocals over lushly crescendoing orchestration. And unsurprisingly, the best of the reinventions here is by Cimbalomduo, a collaboration between two of the world’s most exhilarating virtuosos of the Hungarian zither: Kálmán Balogh and Miklós Lukács. Obviously, their take isn’t about pyrotechnics but slow, brooding ripples and lingering despair.

The best new version of the song didn’t make the cut – or the album’s compilers didn’t have it on their radar. Nashville gothic songwriter Mark Sinnis recorded it on his 2010 album The Night’s Last Tomorrow, and gave New York audiences plenty of chills with it before he headed for the hills and, ultimately, to North Carolina. Speaking of which, Sinnis returns to New York State for a cd release show for his latest album, One Red Rose Among the Dying Leaves on October 30 at 6 PM at Sue’s Sunset House,  137 N Water St in Peekskill. There’s no cover; the baritone crooner and his band will be playing two long sets. The venue is just steps from the Peekskill Metro-North station, and trains will be running for a couple of hours after festivities end at 11 PM.

Michaela Anne Brings Her Southern Charm and New York Edge to Williamsburg

Just a couple of years ago Michaela Anne was playing the small room at the Rockwood, now she’s on nonstop national tour. Last night at Union Pool, she and her tight, dynamic four-piece backing band transcended a laughably inept sound mix with an electrifying set that drew deeply and passionately on fifty years of purist country sounds.

She opened with the best song of the night, a ringing, rousing backbeat anthem that immediately brought to mind Tift Merritt in her early, full-throttle days, soaring up to a minor key and then an accusatory wail on the chorus. The rhythm section, anchored by drummer Aaron Shafer-Haiss, swung it hard as  pedal steel player Philip Sterk traded bars with the Telecaster player. Then the bandleader immediately flipped the script, channeling longing and sadness for an affair that never happened, distantly echoing Townes Van Zandt. Sterk kicked in with a melancholy, stratospheric solo that could have gone on for twice as long and nobody would have complained.

The night’s biggest hit with the ladies was Michaela Anne’s response to Ramblin’ Man. She explained that while she loves alienated wandering-stranger ballads and especially Hank Williams, she’d come to realize that the song is told from the point of view of a guy who’s abandoned his wife and probably his kids too. “”When you think about it, those guys were assholes,” she mused. “Well…maybe not, I didn’t know them, but that’s asshole behavior!” She followed that with a more upbeat oldschool honkytonk number, a co-write wirh one of the Stray Birds about falling in love at country bar; the lead guitarist kicked in a little wry Skynyrd to see if anybody caught it.

Introducing the catchy Worried Mind, Michaela Anne explained that during her time in New York, she constantly felt stressed. “But after I moved to Nashville, I realized that it wasn’t New York, it was just me,” she mused. After that, she brought the lights down, just her pensive, nuanced, Nashville twang, her acoustic guitar and Sterk’s steel, with an elegaic ballad inspired by the death of a loved one and the consolation that ultimately, we’re all the dust of stars. The rousing honkytonk hit Lift Me Up brought the energy back to redline, through the straight-up 60s C&W of Won’t Slow Down, another catchy barroom shuffle, a swampy Rodney Crowell cover and finally a lickey-split electrified bluegrass number where the band really got to show off their road-tested chops. The crowd screamed for an encore, but the house music came up immediately. The next stop on the never-ending Michaela Anne tour is the Armoury in Dallas on Nov 2.

The Calamity Janes opened with a similarly dynamic set of oldtime Americana, bluegrass and a slow, sad Hayes Carll ballad. Frontwoman/guitarist Mimi Lavalley, banjo uke player Betsy Plum, fiddler Kari Groff and bassist Jared Engel joined voices for some fetching high-lonesome harmonies through a a brisk minor-key Appalachian dance tune followed by an even darker country gospel number that was just as propulsive. They gave a surprise waltz ending to their take of Something’s Got a Hold on Me and dedicated a tune about the perils of marriage to Melania Trump. After a lowlit Carter Family tune, Plum switched to fiddle for a tightly spiraling reel; then she led the band through a romping version of Going Down That Long Lonesome Road. As with Michaela Anne, it would have been fun to hear more of them, even though they didn’t have their banjo player, Stephanie Jenkins. with them.

About the sound: a good engineer has to be able to respond in a split second on a fader, or a dial in or out, or, in a worst-case scenario, with a mute. The trouble with these newfangled laptop-controlled PA systems is that they’re unresponsive. Working that touchscreen is like trying to turn a boat, rather than turning a car, and the miserably sick guy in the beard and trucker hat obviously had his hands full with it. For one reason or another, his fault or not, it seemed that he was patching both the pedal steel and the lead guitar in and out of the same input. So when one came up, the other disappeared in the mix. To his credit, he kept a close eye on the band for the sake of bringing the instruments up during solos. But the biggest problem was the one he didn’t fix: the drums were way too loud. Then again, if all you listen to is Eminem, of course you wanna keep those bizzeats bizzangin’ at fizzull blizzast. Weird – the sound at Union Pool is usually excellent.

Gay Marshall Channels Parisian Depth and Joie de Vivre at Pangea

Chanteuse Gay Marshall‘s show last night at Pangea turned out to be as memorable and dynamic as Paris itself. It was also riotously funny – a Parisian might call it “marrant à chier.” In a little over an hour onstage, Marshall made good on her promise of a very individualistic musical tour of her adopted hometown, more imbued with knifes-edge intensity and current-day relevance than vaudevillian flair. Opening with a witheringly cynical Dave Frishberg number and closing with classic Piaf, she mined the depth and intensity of half a century’s worth of iconic and obscure chanson. She’s bringing this spectacle back to Pangea for a monthlong, weekly residency, repeating next Tuesday, Oct 25 and then consecutive Wednesdays, Nov 2 and 9 at 7 PM. Cover is $20 in this lowlit, intimate space, the scent of Mediterranean herbs wafting through the room. Most cabaret food sucks; this place is a refreshing exception to that rule.

To say that Marshall’s plushly crystalline, endlessly mutable mezzo-soprano vocals are disarmingly direct is an understatement. Being an actress, you would expect her to sing in character, yet there was zero affectation in these individuals’ angst, and longing, and devilish joe de vivre. Alternating between her own vivid English translations, and flawless French throughout each of the night’s numbers, she was joined by pianist Ian Herman, who switched seamlessly between wry barrelhouse theatrics, wistful blues, neoromantic lustre and the occasional blazing coda.

The audience was most transfixed by the darkest material. With its harrowing portrait of over-the-edge despair, tricky thematic shifts and vocal leaps and bounds, the night’s most challenging number was Stone, a roof-raiser from the obscure French musical Starmania. The night’s high point was not a whimsical love song but a harrowing triptych of Jacques Brel antiwar ballads. Taking inspiration from Marshall’s father-in-law, a World War II vet, the duo segued from the elegaic Les Grognards to the macabre tritones of La Colombe and finally the Vietnam-era Sons Of (Fils De), which reminds how the kids we send off to war have the same dreams, and nightmares, as those we don’t. Marshall was moved to the point of tears by that number, as well as when she recalled a moment busking on the banks of the Seine, where a homeless guy put money in her beret. Artifice is not a part of what she does, at least here.

Her between-song banter was priceless. She’d set up a whimsicallly minimalist building-block Paris atop the piano, using it as a springboard for wry recollections of her experiences as an American there. A vocal coach who couldn’t bear Marshall showing up in shorts with her skateboard; a Centre Pompidou exhibit exploring the meaning of nothingness (it happened; Marshall went); and the ne plus ultra vanity of people like the woman in Boris Vian’s playfully lyrical, satirical J’suis Snob.

As someone who’s lived in both Paris and New York, Marshall absolutely nailed the connection between the two cities. Much as we may love our respective stomping grounds, we’re equally cynical about them. Which is where her insight and unselfconscious depth really took centerstage, particularly on the more lighthearted numbers. She left out the third verse of Yves Montand’s Les Grand Boulevards because that was where the guy in the song whisks a girl into an alleyway: Marshall considered this “Trump-worthy,” and the audience roared. And she brought out the underlying unease in Piaf’s Marie la Francaise, a broodingly wistful take of Charles Aznavour’s La Bohème and a new translation of Autumn Leaves, reminding that its original title is Les Feuilles Mortes.

Fun fact: Marshall casually related that she used to bike up to the top of Montmartre. For anyone who’s ever walked that hill, especially after a few drinks, just thinking about that makes you want to jump over the fence and collapse in that meadow at the top. N’est-ce pas?

A Historic, Potentially Transcendent New York Debut This Friday by Sahba Motellabi

There’s a concert this Friday, Oct 21 at 8:30 PM at Symphony Space that could be as rewarding as it is historic. Iranian tar and setar lute virtuoso and composer Sahba Motallebi makes her New York debut in an intimate duo set with percussionist Naghmeh Farahmand, playing both traditional Persian classics and originals. $28 adv tix are still available as of today. This is the rare event that fans of both western classical music and the heavier side of rock music ought to consider.

Spend some time at Motallebi’s Soundcloud page and you’ll agree. The first track is an electrifying, lickety-split solo number, Birth. On the more pensive side, There’s A Tear At the Crossroad of Time, a stately elegaic theme spiced with flurrying setar, dynamically layered percussion and lush yet rawly emotive strings. There’s the lively yet ominous Do Asheghe Zar (Two Lovers), a hypnotically epic mashup of otherworldly spiraling Persian themes and icy trip-hop. There’s Chaharmezrab, a majestically pouncing, mightily orchestrated, uneasy illustration of how richly individualistic Iranian music can be, echoing the enigmatic modes of the Middle East, the moodiness of much of the Russian tradition as well as a distantly trancey Asian tinge. It makes your pulse race and your endorphins rush: it’s hard to think of another show anywhere in New York Friday night with as many pyrotechnics potentially in store.

This concert is especially noteworthy for reasons beyond awestruck beauty and thrills. See, in Iran, it’s illegal for women to be bandleaders, and also illegal for a woman to appear onstage unaccompanied by a man. Wouldn’t it be fun if she played just one number all by herself just to give the finger to the Islamofascists?

This concert is staged by Robert Browning Associates, who continue their decades of irrepressible, adventurous, often transcendent programming of similarly pioneering global acts. The next concert on their slate after this one is on November 19 at 8 PM at Roulette, where Andalusian ensemble La Banda Morisca perform “an intoxicating blend of traditional flamenco with Arab-Andalusian melodies and rock.” Tix are $25.

Superstar Film Composer Johann Johannsson and New Music Luminaries ACME Team Up This Weekend

This Sunday, Oct 23 at 8 PM there’s an auspicious collaboration between the vivid and frequently haunting film composer and keyboardist Johann Johannsson, and indie classical chamber music stars American Contemporary Music Ensemble in a recently renovated old church at the edge of where Fort Greene meets Park Slope. The venue is the Co-Cathedral of St. Joseph at 856 Pacific St, (Vanderbilt/Underhill); the closest train is the 2/3 to Bergen St. $27.50 advance tix are your best bet and available at the Poisson Rouge box office.

Johannsson works fast and is constantly putting out new scores. He’s also the rare composer with the good sense to release those scores as stand-alone soundtrack recordings. Of his most recent projects, the real creeper is Sicario, streaming at Spotify. It’s typified by all sorts of apprehensive white noise giving way to sudden swells – then virtual silence. It’s also a lot more electronic than Johannsson’s work usually is: its distant, echoey, icy gunshot sonics and relentlessly lumbering android stomp offer a fond nod back to Brad Fiedel‘s enormously influential Robocop score. A sad cello theme early on is unanticipated and welcome, as is a rippling, trebly electric bass passage. The music takes on more of the feel of a video game as it goes along – but that’s the nature of war these days.

Johannsson also scored The Theory of Everything (at Spotify), which supplies pretty much everything you would expect throughout a feel-good drama . If you’re one of the legions who enjoyed the Stephen Hawking biopic, you may remember the elegant but doggedly determined main theme, lots of anxious neoromantic piano-and-orchestra segments, pageantry occasionally sweeping in from a moody backdrop. You may not remember the composer’s sweet little lullaby, or how much fun he has building starry-night and deep-space scenarios. Hearing the score by itself facilitates new appreciation for such things.

Johannsson’s most recent instrumental album, also streaming at Spotify, is Orphee. The seemingly never-ending main theme and its variations have a surprisingly simple, indie pop touch, beginning with its minimalist, slowly rising waves of piano and strings. Half of it is so simplistic, and lacking in resolve, that it could be Arcade Fire – hmmm, maybe that explains the Poisson Rouge’s involvement with the Brooklyn concert. But that comparison is also not a dis – good film composers write to fit a narrative. Maybe Orphee is meant to follow a vaguely uneasy, possibly tortuous storyline that doesn’t move around much. The Greek myth certainly doesn’t offer much in the way of subtlety.

Carol Lipnik Sings This Year’s Most Hauntingly Mesmerizing Halloween Show

Last night a hunter moon cast its merciless stare over downtown Manhattan, opening some casually concealing corners to predators of all kinds. Inside on the lowlist stage at Pangea, Carol Lipnik took a rapt, silent audience on similarly moonlit journey through ominously murky water imagery, into a world populated by dead clowns, where spirit wolves circle your tracks, hungry ghosts gaze on your flesh and where the only real way to happiness is to get high. With her right hand raised, palm up, as if to conjure a stairway to a better galaxy, she worked every inch of her vast four-octave range throughout a chillingly dynamic, loosely thematic, tragicomically existentialist show. Lipnik has held down a weekly 7 PM Sunday night residency at Pangea for the better part of two years – if there’s any show you should see this Halloween month, this is it. Cover is $20, deals are available through Lipnik’s website and the good food here will ground you in reality while Lipnik takes you elsewhere. One suspects that she’ll really pull out all the stops at the October 30 show.

Widely regarded as the best singer in New York, Lipnik and her longtime pianist Matt Kanelos distill elements of noir cabaret, art-song, psychedelic rock, 70s freak-folk, theatre music and jazz into a blacklit reflecting pool. Kanelos – who is every bit as integral to this performance as Lipnik – held mostly to a rapturous low-midrange resonance, equal parts neoromanticism and jazz, often adding sepulchral electronic touches as well. The duo reinvented Nick Drake’s Black Eyed Dog as a relentless stalker theme, with a glittering chain-link rattle from the piano and Lipnik’s increasingly apprehensive echo effects. She worked two mics, one with a murderously muffled reverb, taking the phantasmagoria in Ray Davies’ Death of a Clown to new levels. The Screamin’ Jay Hawkins classic I Put a Spell On You was more slow conjury than it was outright witchy – until Lipnik picked up her kazobo and blew evilly jealous crow’s cries at the end.

The two gave a bittersweet Celtic lilt to Biff Rose’s cult classic, Molly, but left no doubt that this sad clown’s descent ends at the very bottom of the abyss. Ride on the Light of the Moon, a Lipnik/Kanelos co-write and the night’s most guardedly optimistic interlude, waltzed along with a pensive grace, the singer pulling out all the stops for a stratospheric, operatic coda. The night’s sardonic theme song, Goddess of Imperfection (a co-write with Taneke Ortiz) brought back the lingering echo effects thanks to Michael Jurin‘s pinpoint-precise sound design. Lipnik introduced him at the end as the “fifth Beatle” in this project, and she’s right.

She looked back with equal parts fondness and tongue-in-cheek ghoulishness to Klaus Nomi for her creepy outer-space version of The Twist. But her originals were the night’s strongest songs. A new one set a bestiary of aphroristic Brothers Grimm images over Kanelos’ insistent minimalism. The brooding waltzes Oh, The Tyrrany and The Oyster and the Sand contemplated the ravages of time along with waterborne apocalypse. A steady, suspenseful nocturne based on the James Tate poem Peggy in the Twilight found Lipnik half-singing, half-speaking a wry mystery tale about a woman whose eccentricity isn’t limited to cocktail hour choices like grasshoppers and sidecars. They closed with a harrowing, galloping, Sisyphean art-rock setting of Helen Adam’s poem Farewell, Stranger, encoring with what could be the most enigmatic Moon River ever, then Kanelos’ doomed, politically-charged parlor-pop ballad Nonviolent Man.

And special guest chantuese Gay Marshall – who has a four-week, Paris-themed stand this month at Pangea starting this Tuesday, Oct 18 at 7 PM – made a vivid and apt cameo midway through the show, joining Kanelos in a take of Autumn Leaves featuring Marshall’s own translation of the original French lyrics, revealing new levels of angst and longing.

The Monks of Norcia: For Halloween, or Yoga?

The distant, mysterious bells of the basilica where the Monks of Norcia reside open their debut album – a surprise hit, streaming at Spotify, which topped the classical album charts last year. Its thirty-three brief tracks, awash in the space’s rich natural reverb, raise questions of how we’re conditioned to perceive music. Is this an uber-gothic Halloween mix…a collection of expertly sung music with a function as practical as farmhands’ field hollers and African talking drums…or spare, sometimes understatedly attractive melodies suited to moments of reflection or relaxation? While many of us may relate to centuries-old themes like these via their association with horror film, the music here is otherworldly, but not particularly heavy. It’s serious and purposeful, and while these men may not be captured at the peak of a crazy party, their voices are not sad.

The tracks follow the monks’ daily liturgical activities, from sunup to past sundown. The melodies are surprisingly catchy, the rhythms carefree but confident: if you sing this on a daily basis, you get good at it. There are graceful exchanges of call-and-response, stately and often unexpectedly expressive solo passages juxtaposed with interludes sung in unison. There’s none of the intricate polyphony of the Renaissance; these antiphons and responsories go back much further. And yet, the lush harmonies of Monteverdi and Tallis come across as far more quaint than this music.

One likely reason for this album’s success as a seller is that it’s hard to listen to at Spotify. You don’t expect monks to have a Soundcloud or Bandcamp page, and these guys don’t. Since the individual tracks are so short, there’s an annoying ad popping up every couple of minutes, something that doesn’t happen if you listen to lengthy, sidelong pieces by, say, the AACM. Which certainly makes this calm, sometimes stark collection of rarely recorded material worth owning. Is it a Halloween album? For those who think of a place of worship as a place of death, absolutely, although the daily routine chronicled here seems anything but grim. See, when they’re not singing, the monks brew beer.

A Killer Album from Melodic Metal Band The Lords of Black

Are Trans-Siberian Orchestra a Halloween band? How about Iron Maiden? If you answered yes to both questions, you need to crank the Lords of Black‘s album, simply titled II – streaming at Spotify – at least once this month. If either of those first two groups are your thing, you will probably find yourself blasting this many times. Although there’s plenty here that’s definitely Halloweenish, taken as a whole it comes across as a requiem, more sadness and resignation than venom amidst the bursts and blasts.

While the band’s obvious influence, from Ronnie Romero’s grand guignol vocals, to the machinegunning guitar multitracks of Tony Hernando, is classic mid-80s Maiden, there’s also plenty of bluster and cumulo-nimbus ambience from the synthesized orchestration. Javi Garcia’s ammering bass riffage over Andy C’s bludgeoning drums complete the picture. The cemetery graphics on the album cover give pretty much everything away. And the album’s opening instrumental interlude, Malevolently Beautiful, with its towering twin-guitar attack, makes a solid launching pad for the pummeling first song, Merciless.

The band launches into the fiery anthem Only One Life Away with a tricky icepick rhythm, then the guitars intertwine like martyrs burning at the stake before one spirals away toward Eddie Van Halen territory later on – Hernando isn’t necessarily subtle, but he’s mightily impactful. By contrast, Everything You’re Not opens with unexpectedly pop-oriented piano before the guitars kick in and the storm begins to rage.

New World’s Coming has Exorcist Theme-like piano tinkling evilly behind the guitar crush: call this overhype, but when the volleys of eight-notes kick in, it hits you: this could be a great Maiden track from, say, Powerslave. The band oscillates in and quickly hits a staggering gallop with Cry No More, a toweringly elegaic shout-out to “broken heroes that can’t take it anymore.” Tears I Will Be keeps the drama going full tilt with more of a straight-up, volleying drive, some serious chromatic menace and Adrian Smith-like sprints down the fretboard (and a real Spinal Tap moment on the first chorus – it’s hilarious, and probably not intentional).

The band pulls back, but just a little bit, with Insane, a midtempo minor-key burner. Live By the Lie, Die By the Truth kicks off as what would have been the most likely track to get radio airplay if this was 1985, but by midway through, the savage volleys of tremolo-picking make it the album’s heaviest cut.

Ghost of You is the album’s most epic track: baroque acoustic guitar and toxic atmospherics mingle with a grimly wary dirge, shades of Maiden’s Rime of the Ancient Mariner. The Art of Illusion Part III: The Wasteland makes a good segue: it’s the ghost riders really soaring through the smoky skies, with some tasty phaser effects. The final cut is the defiantly heroic Shadows of War: assaultive as this band is, war is the last thing they want, as Romero’s Brian Johnson-like scream at the end makes more than clear.

Everyone in the group plays with searing chops. Throughout the album, the production has a magnificence drenched in icy digital reverb: the bass really kicks in when Garcia slams out chords as a chorus reaches combustion point, and the drums are tastefully back in the mix, vinyl record style. As melodic metal goes in 2016, it’s hard to imagine anything more fun than this.

La Femme Bring Le Noir to Williamsburg on the 19th

There’s no French equivalent to Halloween, but French band La Femme play as if they grew up with the American holiday. The core of the group comprises frontman/keyboardist Marlon Magnée, chanteuse/keyboardist Clémence Quélenneche, guitarist Sacha Got and bassist Sam Lefevre. Their June Summerstage show was tantalizingly eclectic, neither as dark nor as trippy as their previous studio output. While their latest album Mystere – streaming at Spotify  – is arguably their most diverse to date, there’s enough menace on it to entice you in and then keep you there with all its catchy hooks, both light and dark. The songs’ French lyrics range from surreal humor, to broodingly cinematic narratives, to punk hostility. La Femme are back in New York this Oct 19 at 7 PM at Warsaw in Williamsburg. Cover is $18.

The opening track, Sphynx, lives up to its inscrutable title – at heart, it’s a ba-bump noir cabaret number, but lit up with a swirly, circling synth hook and a big, ominously blustery string synth arrangement. La Vide Est Ton Nouveau Prenom (Empty Is Your New Name) follows a moody psych-folk sway, sparse acoustic guitar blending with mournful keys. Ou Va le Monde (Where’s the World Going?) sets Magnée’s apprehensive rap over the brooding surf rock that’s been the group’s signature sound, more or less, since the beginning. with a weird, achingly warped keyboard solo out.

The band takes an unexpectedly sunny detour with Septembre. notwithstanding the clever outro where they reintroduce a Jesus & Mary Chain theme to its Velvets roots. Tatiana sounds like the Black Angels on whippits (with a little Plastic Bertrand thrown in), while both SSD and Elle Ne T’Aime Pas (She Doesn’t Like You) come across as a Gallic take on Pulp during the British band’s snide pseudo-disco days.

Exorciseur (a pun on “exorcist”) nicks the changes from the national anthem of grunge and makes swaying psychedelia out of it. Mycose is a sardonically lyrical mashup of surf music, motorik disco and Planet Clare new wave. Tueur Des Fleurs (Flower Killer), with its low, looming string synth and Lychian tremolo guitar, is the album’s darkest and arguably best track. The dubby, ethereal, late Beatlesque Al Warda is ominously enticing; and the loping, surfy Psyzook, with Quélenneche’s stratospheric, airy vocals, is arguably even more mysterious.

Le Chemin (The Road) could be a dangerous early Dream Syndicate track if that group had been more keyboard-oriented. The album winds up with Vagues (Clouds), the epic that Julee Cruise never tackled. About 40% of this makes a first-class Halloween playlist; the rest you can sprinkle around your party mixes.