New York Music Daily

Global Music With a New York Edge

Category: indie rock

The Myrrors Bring Their Dusky, Pulsing Psychedelic Postrock to a Killer Alphabet City Twinbill

It’s not clear what the title of hypnotically kinetic psychedelic band the Myrrors’ latest record Hasta La Victoria – streaming at Bandcamp –  refers to. Whatever the case, it’s definitely a victory for the band themselves. The Arizona-based group went their separate ways around the turn of the past decade, but regrouped in the wake of ongoing youtube popularity. If there’s any need for further proof of the eternal viability of good psychedelic music, this is it. The Arizona collective are headlining a killer twinbill on Jan 20 at Berlin at around 9; Eno-esque ambient soundscaper J.R. Bohannon a.k.a. Ancient Ocean opens the night at 8. Cover is $10.

The album is a mix of hypnotic, circling epics and shorter numbers. The methodically swaying, ten-minute opening instrumental, Organ Mantra has a simple call-and-response sax loop front and center while the guitars of Cesar Alatorre-Mena and Nik Rayne build a dense wall behind it, and finally join the conversation. Meanwhile, Kellen Fortier‘s bass and Grant Beyschau’s drums bubble above the surface.

Awash in reverb, Somos La Resistencia sounds like Mogwai covering White Rabbit, with a squalling sax solo on the way out. From there the band segues into Tea House Music, with its echoing rainy-day rise and fall, distantly thundering percussion, plaintive twelve-string guitar hooks and echoes of Joy Division.

El Aleph, an ominous string soundscape, has distantly Indian-flavored overtones and melismatics. It’s a good intro for the mammoth title track, a dense, grey swirl and eventual flurry of instruments slowly coalescing around a central loop much like the album’s first number. This is the furthest from rock the band’s ever gone, and the trippiest destination they’ve found so far on a sonic journey that promises to discover newer depths and more enigmatically remote destinations.

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Cynical, Bittersweet Powder Drug Noir at Pete’s Tonight

Interesting twinbill tonight, Dec 16 starting at 9 PM at Pete’s Candy Store. Bad Galaxy, who mine a sardonic folk noir vein, open for the similarly cynical, wryly surreal Dream Eaters, who play their distantly Lynchian quasi new wave at 10.

Ironically – in the true sense of the word – the Dream Eaters’ best song is the one that’s not on their album We Are a Curse, streaming at Bandcamp. That number is the woozily spot-on Klonopin Girl. But it’s a good prototype for the album tracks. “Back in the wasteland, sinking in the quicksand,” frontwoman Elizabeth LeBaron intones in a phenobarbitol murmur as Dead on the Inside begins. But then her voice rises to the rafters as the song grows from Jake Zavracky’s steady, staccato guitar strum to anthemic Julee Cruise territory. “I get so fried, trying to get through,” LeBaron wails.

With acoustic guitar, drum machine and enveloping vintage lo-fi synth textures, the calmly stomping Neanderthals follows the same template. “Keep the vermin out,” LeBaron instructs,” They won’t make us crawl, they’re all neanderthals.”

Dots is much the same: steady acoustic fingerpicking sparkles against deep-space ambience and LeBaron’s girl-down-the-well vocals. As you’ve figured out by now, the songs titles are dead giveaways. Astral Asshole and Sugar Coma share druggy outer-space metaphors and melancholy DollHouse harmonies. Almost Afraid, with its dreamy death imagery and understated front-porch folk guitar, brings back fond memories of late zeros Williamsburg cinephiles the Quavers. But Plastic Princess, which would be straight-up new wave at twice the speed, isn’t a dis: it’s a cautionary tale about the perils of conformity.

“Let me be your albatross,” LeBaron intones over a slow, stately chamber pop backdrop in So Heavy. With its grisly images, is the album’s languid title track a condemnation of Brooklyn gentrifier anomie? That’s open to debate. A final, fingerpicked lament, Brazil Song, is about as Brazilian as the Brazilian Girls. Some people might catch a few bars of this and dismiss it as wannabe Lana Del Rey faux-noir. But if sad, drifty music infused with gallows humor is your thing, stick with it.

Trippy, Eclectic Sounds in Deep Bushwick This Sunday Night

This December 3 there’s an excellent multi-band lineup put together by boutique Brooklyn label Very Special Recordings at Secret Project Robot, 1186 Broadway between Lafayette and Van Buren in Bushwick. The show starts at 8; the lineup, in reverse order, is psychedelic Afrobeat headliners the People’s Champs; female-fronted trip-hop/postrock band Green and Glass; brilliant bassist Ezra Gale’s funky, dub-inspired psychedelic project the Eargoggle; psychedelic pastoral jazz guitarist Dustin Carlson; similarly eclectic guitarist Ryan Dugre; and cinematic guitar-and-EFX dude Xander Naylor, who can be a lot louder and more fearsome than his latest, more low-key album. Cover is ten bucks; take the J to Kosciusko St.

It’s an album release show for the label’s new Brooklyn Mixtape, streaming at Bandcamp. The playlist is a cheat sheet for their signature, eclectic mix of hypnotic, globally-influenced grooves as well as some more jazz, postrock and indie classical-oriented sounds, which are a new direction from the stoner organic dance music they’re probably best known for.

The A-side begins with Swipe Viral, by Sheen Marina, a skittish, math-y, no wave-ish number awash in all kinds of reverb: “I gotta go to the edge of a digital world where I can find my soul,” the singer says snottily. Green and Glass’ Night Runner brings to mind Madder Rose with its slow trip-hop sway, uneasy low tremolo-picked harp anchoring frontwoman Lucia Stavros’ clear, cheery vocals.

Ryan Dugre’s Mute Swan makes postrock out of what sounds like a balmy Nigerian balafon theme. He’s also represented by another track, the pretty, spare, baroque-tinged pastorale Elliott, on side B.

There are three Eargoggle tracks here. Picking My Bones opens with a tasty chromatic bass solo: deep beneath this sparse lament, there’s a bolero lurking. The second number is You’re Feeling Like, a blippy oldschool disco tune with dub tinges. A muted uke-pop song, Hero, closes the mix

Shakes, by Carlson, is a gorgeously lustrous brass piece with countryish vocals thrown on top. Trombonist Rick Parker and acoustic pipa player Li Diaguo team up for the album’s best and most menacing track, the eerily cinematic, slowly crescendoing Make Way For the Mane of Spit and Nails. Then Middle Eastern-influenced noir surf band Beninghove’s Hangmen put on their Zep costumes to wind up the A-side with the coyly boisterous Zohove, from their hilarious Beninghove’s Hangmen Play Led Zeppelin album.

The.People’s Champs open the B-side with a throwaway. Twin-trombone roots reggae band Super Hi-Fi – whose lineup also includes Parker and Gale – toss in an echoey Victor Rice dub. Xander Naylor kicks in Appearances, a shifting, loopy resonator guitar piece with innumerable trippy overdubs.And Council of Eyeforms’ slowly coalescing, oscillating tableau Planet Earth – with guitarist Jon Lipscomb of Super Hi-Fi – is the most hypnotically psychedelic cut.

All of these artists have albums or singles out with the label, who deserve a look if sounds that can be equally pensive and danceable are your thing.

Maximo Park Bring Their Populist Dance Party to Bowery Ballroom

Maximo Park play fun, catchy, acerbic new wave-flavored dance-rock with smartly conscious lyrics. They’re more likely to bounce their way through the smoke machine haze than to strike a pose with a boot up on the monitor, Oasis-style. So it’s not likely that there’ll be a lot of trumpies at their show at Bowery Ballroom on Nov 30 at 9:30 PM. For the 99%, tickets are a reasonable $20 in advance, and you can get them at the Mercury Lounge on weekdays until 7.

The band’s latest album Risk to Exist is streaming at Spotify. The funky opening track is What Did We Do to You to Deserve, a sort of mashup of 1994-era Blur and the Cat Empire:

When the auditors add it up in the books
Will you keep it away
What’s that look upon your face
No this is not the good old days
What did we do to you to deserve this
You’re doing everything in your power to preserve this
Let’s all pretend to tell the truth…

Get High (No I Don’t) follows the same pattern, frontman Paul Smith calling bullshit on the appeal of forbidden fruit: “If someone tells your it’s wrong enough times, it’s a sinner’s song.” At the same time, the “no I don’t” mantra seems awfully suspicious.

What Equals Love is a more organic take on slick mid-80s new wave, guitarist Duncan Lloyd and organist Lukas Wooller harmonizing what probably would have been a string synth arrangement if a band thirty years ago was doing it:

Lock up the glass house every day
Hope the problem goes away

Tom English’s flurrying drums fuel album’s title track, a carpe diem anthem: so good to be alive while the whole world is dying, huh?

Wooller’s keys blip and bleep over tricky syncopation and then an enigmatic bass solo in I’ll Be Around: is this a come-on, or a sardonic look at a guy who’s willing to do the absolute minimum to look good?

Work and Then Wait is a defiant singalong anthem:

The rightwing views are getting me down..
The rich start life with a hand-me-down
The hand that giveth is set to take it away
They strip you of your dignity…
I won’t be caught in my fate

The Hero is a faux EDM dancefloor stomp, a sardonic tale of a hardworking guy too worn out to affect the pose:

How on earth do you begin
When you know you can’t win
They say that money doesn’t change a thing
But you know they’re not suffering…
Sometimes you have to give in but you better not make a habit of it

The Reason I Am Here starts out as Gang of Four no wave and rises to a big, triumphant Midnight Oil peak:

You will have to make a journey
Through the eyes of idiots
Where every problem is a country
It’s blamed on the immigrants
Not exactly high society
Neither fact nor sobriety
People who never doubt are the ones I’m worried about
People who never doubt are the ones who carry the clout

The ferocious, insistent Make What You Can has woozy Split Enz call-and-response, again building to a mighty peak, referencing somebody whose “Language is violent, somebody on the take” – which could be any dictator or would-be dictator, anywhere.

Respond to the Feeling is spare and funky:

You can sleepwalk into the night or focus on forever
You can make the short term right but you gotta focus on forever

The final cut here is Alchemy, a grimly funny, pulsing anthem that turns your typical online privacy disclaimer on its head and slams it into the ground. The Clash used to make albums like this.

Little Coyote Bring Their Relentless Angst to Bushwick

The alienation and sadness are relentless through Toronto band Little Coyote’s debut album The Trouble With Teeth, streaming at Bandcamp. Frontwoman/keyboardist Teagan Johnson blends brooding, neoromantic piano with Mike Poisson’s lushly elegant synthesized orchestration, yet with remarkable restraint: there’s more 21st century minimalism than there is Chopin or Tschaikovsky in her emphatic anthems. Little Coyote are headlining an excellent triplebill this Friday night, Nov 10 at Bushwick Public House at around 10 PM; trippy electro/downtempo chanteuse Pearla opens the night at 8, followed by excellent, catchy rainy day psych-pop band Minor Poet at 9. Cover is 5.

“I’ll figure it out,” Johnson intones uneasily as the album’s first full-length cut, The Bottom, winds up – but at that point her voice breaks. All the bluster that led up to it, bassist Aretha Tillotson’s lines rising like waves amidst a hurricane over the insistent drums, can’t lift Johnson out of the gloom that persists throughout this album.

“All my old friends say they can’t breathe,” she laments as the icepick piano chords of Medicine kick in. “Setting off atom bombs in the desert, said there’s nothing wrong wiith forever,” she broods as the alienated rainy-day ballad Daylighit Twilight begins its relentless sway. “Black water, black water swallow me whole/Oh daugher, oh daugher, when will you control the darkness?” she asks.

Teeth Rot is Cure-influenced without being a total ripoff: it’s the poppiest track here (and could do double duty as a commercial for small-batch toothpaste). Annie’s Dead rises from a plaintive, elegiac intro to a roaring blend of noir cabaret and stadium rock: “I’m just a memory, too easily replaced,” Johnson muses.

Byron Patterson’s icy tremolo-picked guitar mingles with stately piano in Lucy Get Blue, while the pounding, turbulent swirl of Electric mashes up two generations of goth: 17 Seconds-era Cure and Amanda Palmer. With its torrents of water imagery, Handshake Tragedy is the album’s most hypnotic track.

“We’ll make it out alive,” Johnson asserts in the bouncy Delirium, but again, she sounds far from certain. It’s clear that it’s going to take more than a relationship to pull this woman up from the bottom of the well: “My heart breaks easy and my bones do too.” The album winds up with the title track, which hints at ragtime but never goes there. Fans of the Mynabirds and Holly Miranda – and all the girls who’ve outgrown that New Zealand goth chick who was all the rage a couple of years ago -ß ought to check this band out. Dig out that black eyeliner and jump on the L this Friday night. 

Empyrean Atlas Bring Their Hypnotically Sparkling African-Inspired Sounds to South Williamsburg This Weekend

Postrock band Empyrean Atlas play African juju mathrock. Or indie classical African juju music. Their music chimes, and sparkles, and often circles hypnotically Bandleader David Crowell’s lines twinkle amidst the ripples from his fellow guitarists Andrew Smiley and Will Chapin. Their new short album Poly Rush is streaming at Bandcamp, and they’re playing the release show on an excellent twinbill on Nov 5 at 8 PM at Baby’s All Right. Similarly glimmering percussion group Ensemble Et Al open the show at 7; cover is $15.

Empyrean Atlas open their new album with the title track, which sounds like King Sunny  Ade playing Philip Glass: tightly interwoven, plinky guitar harmonies in subtly shifting, polyrhythmic cell-like phrases. The second track is Polipoli, a lovely, bucolically vamping, chiming theme where the guitars loosen as drummer Jason Nazary’s cymbals rise and then subside.

Echolocation is an amalgam of the first two numbers, with a cheery, low-key kora break that Nazary gently and methodically pushes upward. Ocelot sounds like a thicket of acoustic twelve-string models: it’s the lushest piece here, with the textures that are nothing short of celestial.

As the title implies, Nethermead begins with a lingering, steady Britfolk feel – John Renbourn comes to mind – and then rises toward spacerock as the electric guitars clash and clang against each other. It’s the most rock-oriented track here and the one where bassist Greg Chudzik is most present. The final number is Murmuring, its introductory atmospherics giving way to Nethermead’s ornate folk guitar elegance.

Haunting Reverbtoned Psychedelia From Galanos

“Loneliest of men at the bottom of the world,” Galanos’ Netochka Nezvanova and Gregory D. Jaw intone, low and hushed over his lingering, reverb-iced guitar, building to a stomping, echoing buzzsaw attack on the opening track of their debut album Deceiver Receiver. It’s streaming at Bandcamp and it’s today’s luscious installment in this month’s series of Halloweenish daily treats for you.

Let’s cut to the chase: this is one of the best albums of the year. There’s a gutter blues influence, some Thee Oh Sees dark garage-psych and some Black Angels ambience here as well, but they evoke more menace than either of those groups. With the guy/girl vocals, they’re sort of the X of dark 21st century rock.

Nezvanova’s voice rises calm and elegaic over a catchy clangrock melody anchored by Joe Puglsey’s fuzz bass in the second track, Padre Song, a poison underground spring of a guitar solo at the center. Flashbomb mashes up a hailstorm of noisy PiL reverb over steady new wave bass and John Steele’s Atrocity Exhiibition drums beneath Jaw’s alienated beat-poet recitation.

“Recognize it’s transitory, life is fleeting,” Nezvanova intones as Mariana Trench vamps along, a Lynchian roadhouse boogie. Eerie Syd Barrett chords ring over carpetbombing reverb-tank pings and echoes in the brief instrumental dirge Letters From Home. Then the band pick it up again with Stunner, a mashup of growling new wave and chimey surf rock, and do the same with Mr. Friend, but with more of a minimalist Joy Division feel.

The album’s catchiest track, Dead Leaves has an ominous retro Laurel Canyon psych feel, like the Allah-La’s with the amps turned up all the way. Bleak, stygian atmospherics punctuated by the occasional ghost of a surf riff filter through the final cut, Feel Good, the album’s druggiest, most macabre track. Dare you to make this the last thing you listen to tonight.

An Obscure, Darkly Tasty Treat by the Sandwitches

Today’s Halloween album is Our Toast, by Lynchian San Francisco lo-fi harmony rock trio the Sandwitches. Grace Cooper, Heidi Alexander and Roxanne Young put this up on Bandcamp in 2015 – after an intriguing series of ep’s and singles, it it looks like the band have been on ice pretty much ever since, probably consequence of less-than-optimal branding .

But it’s a great late-night album, suitable for any Halloween playlist you may be working on. Rusty Miller’s haphazardly jaunty western saloon-tuned piano propels the opening waltz, Sunny Side. With its casket girl harmonies, it’s got to be the saddest happy song ever written.

The Sandwitches may not have had a knack for band names, but they’re very good with song titles. The slow, tentative reverb-guitar intro to Play It Again Dick doesn’t offer the slightest hint of the slowly swaying dirge that it morphs into, vintage C&W through a twisted garage-psych prism, Des Roar with a woman out front.

Sleeping Practice – something we all ought to do more often, right? – follows the same pattern but even more morosely. with a series of playful false endings. The album’s most epic track, Dead Prudence has a slow, purposefully swaying. hazy pastoral Pink Floyd feel, with hints of oldschool soul and Cat Power, Nicolas Russo’s lingering piano channeling Rick Wright.

The group go back to waltz time for Miggy, the womens’ voices rising to the rafters for a plaintive, almost devotional atmosphere over the guitars’ steady sway and jangle. Even the vocal la-la’s, a melody that hints at a soca lilt and an unexpectedly starry dreampop outro can’t raise  Island Jam from its watery grave. Personal Hell comes together haphazardly and then swings along uneasily, James Finch Jr,’s bass punching through the torrents of jangle and clang.

Wickerman Mambo doesn’t have a trace of a latin feel:  the most energetic track here, it’s shambling folk-rock as the Jesus & Mary Chain would have done it, with a coy reference to a famous Tarantino film theme. The album comes full circle with another melancholy piano waltz, Nothing But Love. Throughout these songs, the lyrics are seldom distinct: bits and pieces float to the surface, tinged with regret, longing and a relentlessly downcast ambience.

The Long-Awaited New Dream Syndicate Album: Best Rock Record of 2017?

Steve Wynn is probably the greatest rock songwriter of all time. In terms of sheer output, tunefulness and consistently brilliant lyrical vision, he left Dylan and the Stones in the dust in a previous century. Since then, literally hundreds of songs later, he hasn’t let up. His latest and arguably most ambitious project has been to release a new album with his legendary, recently reunited 80s band the Dream Syndicate. Long story short: their dark, epic, surprisingly diverse new record How Did I Find Myself Here – streaming at youtube – could be the best album of 2017. Find out when this year’s best-of page goes live here in December!

[If you know the backstory, skip down a couple of paragraphs to find out what new album sounds like] Back in the 80s, when half the world was bopping to synths, a bunch of guys – most of them in northern California – created a savage new sound equally informed by psychedelia, punk and Americana. The critics of the day, doofuses that they were, dubbed it “paisley underground.” In reality, it didn’t have anything to do with paisley, the musicians were hardly what you’d call hippies, and they weren’t exactly underground either. In the 80s, as Reagan-era deregulation created a tsunami of media mergers and a resulting tidal wave of radio blandification, the college airwaves became what Spotify is now: the place kids go to find out about new bands.

The Dream Syndicate ruled college radio, and were frequent tourmates with the era’s biggest college radio act, REM. Even without the new album or recent reunion tours, the Dream Syndicate’s place in history would be secure. It’s safe to say that without Wynn’s signature blend of dueling guitars, pyrotechnic jams, gallows humor and tersely literate, brooding lyricism, there probably wouldn’t be any such thing as Yo La Tengo, and Sonic Youth would have been just another CBGB hardcore matinee band.

That’s a mighty heavy legacy to carry into the studio, but Wynn and the group pick up like they never left off.  If the Dream Syndicate hadn’t broken up in 1989, would they have embraced dreampop, and spacerock, and the far reaches of psychedelia that they do here? We’ll never know. What is certain is that the band are just as feral, yet focused as they were thirty years ago. The lineup changed in the 80s, and it has again: taking the place of the band’s last lead guitarist, the purist, bluesy Paul B. Cutler, is Wynn’s incendiary Miracle 3 bandmate and sparring partner Jason Victor. Behind the guitars, bassist Mark Walton and drummer Dennis Duck provide the sturdy support that music of this magnitude requires. If there’s anything to distinguish a Dream Syndicate album from a solo Wynn effort, it’s that this rhythm section’s backbeat drive empowers these epics to reach their destination. 

The first track, Filter Me Through You refines the dreampop influence that Wynn first touched on in his 2010 Northern Aggression album, but with the angst and guitar push-pull of the Miracle 3. It’s Wynn’s signature post-Velvets riffage through a glass, darkly, with an elegaic edge, “So that you can’t miss me when I’m gone,” as he puts it.

With its vast, swirling reverb-guitar atmospherics, Glide moves further into spacerock: an unrepentant hedonist’s anthem, it could be the great lost track on a Church record from the late 80s, Wynn and Victor subtly swapping good-cop and bad-cop roles. Out of My Head blends the skull-splitting twin-guitar assault of the band’s iconic 1981 debut The Days of Wine and Roses into an acidically whirling vortex over a steady, tense pulse: it’s hard to tell whose guitar is whose.

Wynn loves the occasional wry reference to his back catalog: Walton’s bass lick that opens 80 West is a prime example. This is one of those fantastically allusive film noir narratives that Wynn writes so well: even as his voice rises to a scream on the chorus, it’s not clear exactly what kind of horrible thing the driver in this desperate high-speed scenario did when he finally snapped. “The only thing that scares me more than getting caught is to stop and think about the live I’ve got,” Wynn’s frantic protagonist explains.

Like Mary is a classic Wynn character study: lyrically, it’s the album’s most harrowing track, a catchy, tensely muted, grim portrait of a woman who may be a child killer…or just an Oxycontin casualty. “In her dreams there were people watching as they lowered her into the ground,” Wynn intones, ‘In her dreams she was beautiful, lying on the floor.”

Wynn and Victor slash at each other through gritty tube amp distortion, searing upper-register wails and distorted roar as The Circle motors along: it’s the closest thing to The Days of Wine and Roses here. The biggest surprise is the title track, eleven echoey, enveloping minutes of psychedelic noir funk that rises to a searing, distortion-and-feedback-infused sway. With its latin soul allusions and eerily starlit Rhodes piano, it’s sort of the band’s Can’t You Hear Me Knocking. Original Dream Syndicate bassist Kendra Smith makes a welcome vocal cameo in the hypnotic and unexpectedly upbeat closing cut, a droning, pulsing, Indian-inflected psych-rock tone poem of sorts. 

The Dream Syndicate are currently on tour in Europe – where they are huge again – and return to New York for a stop at Bowery Ballroom on December 2. The equally legendary Richard Lloyd of Television opens the night at 9; general admission is $25, and be aware that this might sell out.

Artsy Afrobeat-Inflected Tunesmithing and a City Winery Show from Jenn Wasner

Jenn Wasner is an anomaly in the indie rock world: a fluent, imaginative guitarist who uses just about every sound available to her and writes smart, pensive, lyrical songs. She’s bringing her band Wye Oak to a rare Manhattan gig tomorrow night, Oct 6 at City Winery. If you can get to Manhattan, you can also get home afterward since the show is early – 8 PM – and you won’t have to worry about the train leaving you at some random outpost in the remote fringes of Bushwick. And you can get in for twenty bucks at the door.

Wasner also has an intriguing side project, Flock of Dimes, whose debut album is streaming at Bandcamp. The songs blend icy, crisply produced ABC-style 80s art-pop with a stainless-topped, airconditioned 90s lounge feel over Afrobeat-inflected rhythms. Wasner likes dancing vocal melodies and tricky tempos which percolate throughout pretty much every song here.

Wasner’s lingering guitar resonates over a soukous-ish triplet beat on the opening track, Birthplace; “My love is not an object,” she asserts, then dancing, synthesized strings kick in. The Joke is a powerpop gem as the Talking Heads might have played it, with blippy synth and surrealistically echoing faux-Leslie speaker guitars: the steel solo that the song fades out on is anunexpected treat and over too soon.

Everything Is Happening Today pairs atmospheric verse against kinetic, metrically tricky chorus.  Likewise, Semaphore shifts from uneasy resonance to subtly crescendoing dancefloor-beat angst on the chorus, “Too far gone for a sempahore.”

The danciest and techiest track is Ida Glow. which could be Missing Persons or Garbage without the sexpot pose. Wasner goes back toward Remain in Light-era Talking Heads with Flight, an allusive, lushly textured account of betrayal.

With its watery layers of chorus-box guitar and similarly disembodied vocals, Apparition could be late-period Siouxsie without the microtones…and then it goes in the direction of the Fixx or Tears for Fears. Spiraling, Spanish-tinged guitars punctuate the gorgeous Given/Electric Life, which could be Linda Draper with slicker production: “I’m not in the ways of counting days, distract myself,” Wasner insists.

“We seem to be awake, but we are dreaming,” shse intones enigmatically at the end of Minor Justice, a return to icy, blippy Afrobeat-pop. “I couldn’t free you, I couldn’t free myself,” she laments in You, the Vatican – #bestsongtitleever, huh? The album ends with,…To Have No Answer, which sounds like Bjork at her trippiest and most atmospheric. Throughout the album, Wasner plays all the guitars and keys as well: she obviously put a lot of time and effort into this. It’s like an artichoke, one layer after another to unfold. If the album had come out thirty years ago, every graying Gen-Xer would still have the cd somewhere – and that’s a compliment.