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KYLE8A
To Walk a Middle Course
Prosthetic
Oh man. what happened to Kytesa?
Everylhing promised tiy ail ol those sin
gles and its selMided first odering have
fallen victim to a half-assed second
outing that wallows in crust metal
cliches. These guys were so much
cooler when it was harder to understand
what they were singing about, leaving it
up to the mind to fill in the blanks that
riddled the indecipherable tirades. Like
waxing up in the morning and brushing
with that special tooth paste tor sensi
tive teeth. To Walk a Middle Course
leaves a bad taste in your mouth and
doesn't leave anything feeling better off
than before.
In all fairness, the indestructible
production qualities and instrumental
breakdowns in songs like Train of
Thought* and •Phantoms'are among
the group* finest moments ever. But
vtoen any one of the tortured mutants
who has a microphone stuck in tract of
him opens his mouth to excise a tew
demons, the songs tall fiat on their
tac2s. This is mostly because the grime
and Cookie Monster vocal effects have
been minimized, revving a cteaner and
sappier growl hiding underneath it all.
Opening number In Memory*
poses the question;‘Have you ever left
tear?* To answer, yes, fear that this
record pates in comparison to any of its
predecessors. Hatred, aggression and
miasma cant be forced—especially in
metal. Above ail etse. Middle Course
deserves a middle finger, banishing
Kytesa back to Savannah to rediscover
that humid. Southern sludge that gave
(he group its appeal in the first place.
Chad Radford
Kyiesa is playing at the 40 Watt
Club on Saturday. May 14.
SOUTH SAN GABREL
The Carlton Chronicles: Not Until
the Operations Through
Misra
Until recently, there was no room in
my life tor a feline fetish. I was a dog
man. without a doubt, but then my girl
friend* cat began leaving me rodent
carcasses on the back porch every
morning. Moles, mice. rats, blue jays
and chipmunks as tokens of apprecia
tion for the two cans of Fancy Feast and
the daily attention my fingernails give
her beBy and ears. Sparae Americana
band SoUh San GabrW—essentially an
augmented alter-ego for Texas' Centro-
Mafic—examines an episode in the life
of a cat on its third album The Carlton
Chronicles: Not Until the Operations
Through the most eloquent musical
evaluation of pets. ever.
Moments into album opener
unarrea hesentmen me bame, its-
toners realize bandleader Will Johnson
is writing more than poetry here; epic,
and more interesting than The Iliad,
there is an intensity (despite the lazy
Sunday morning swoon) that suggests
this isnl a bedbme story tor children.
Carton plans to kid Ron the Sparrow,
and *WHh my new. patented surgery
things will change / Things will charge
-in my beBy / And things will change
with your vertebrae.'
The brilliant (and sparse) percus
sion of Man Pence and sweeping pedal
steel of Athens' Mat! Stoesset on
'Predatory King Today* help « sink
into the couch content, but fm a bit
jealous of animals that enjoy naps like
this several times a day. 1 Am Six
Pounds of Dynamite* is almost certainly
a song about more than Carlton*
spending the night kicked out of the
house. There are metaphors and allu
sions in this dusty slice of America for
the teking. but nt let you draw your own
conclusions. Please get started now.
David Eduardo
THE BUCK KEYS
Rubber Factory
Fat Possum
If you’re looking, you'll find The
Black Keys somewhere between
JUciter* bulwarked boukterti'roU and
the simple yet aberrant blues-rock of the
wnite otnpes. uke the aforementioned
acts. Dan Auerbach and Patrick Carney
are a drums and guitar duo that you'll
spend more time listening to. and less
trying to figure out if they're lovers or
siblings or whatever. Word is the pair
lost their jobs well before they had
planned on quitting, thus accelerating
their plans for crisscrossing Ihe country
showing oH Ihe audio emissions of
Rubber Factory.
Immediately, its difficult to believe
these men are Caucasians from
Cleveland (Akron, whatever). Delivering
a brackish blend of Midwestern and
Mississippi delta blues, rooted in tradi
tion and rarefied in a rock and rod
machine, like Hendrix and The Who
before (hem. Rubber Factory is tearless.
From the ominous opener *When the
Lights Go Out* to a sonicaity-levitated.
fuzzy guitar outtro on *10 a m.
Automat*’ where Auerbach howts,
*YouVe got pains / like an addict / Tm
leaving you/10a.m. automatic,'the
band is to contemporary blues what
Rare Earth was to Motoen. The band
opens the garage door wide for a loud
and proud interpretation of Robert Pete
Williams, TVe Grown So Ugly.* proving
they're ready to carry the torch tor
acerbic Wuesmeri everywhere.
David Eduardo
The Black Keys an playing at the 40
Watt Club on Wednesday. May 11.
TAYLOR
Shoot Me, Shoot Me, Heaven
Brash Music
I’ve been seeing his name for a
white now. on-line and in the pages of
this very magazine, and I've always won
dered. who is this Taylor Hollingsworth
kid? Lucky for me. I recently had the
chance to find out The Birmingham. AL
native's new EP Shoot Me, Shoot Me.
Heaven contains six tracks of gritty
guitar rock. The underlying music is
reminiscent of rockier Oasis topped off
with Hollingsworth* trademark nasal
and apathetic-sounding vocals.
The EP opens with "You Just
Wanna.* a well-paced, toe-tapping
number that closes with one of
Hollingsworth* flailing guitar solos. The
acoustic‘Come Along* stands out as
it* sandwiched between ihe guitar-
driven "When I Get Around* and the
poppy title track. The remainder of
Short Me. Shoot Me. Heaven ts equally
raw—and equally well-made. Armed
with plenty of attitude and a lethal guitar.
Hollingsworth will likely continue to tra
verse the Dirty South and deliver this
dirty rode to the masses; they’ll be lucky
to receive.
Leah Weinberg
Taykx Hollingsworth is playing ah
Tasty Work) on Friday. May 11
tW9^t
TWEET
Ift Me Again
Atlantic
Hey. Tweet. It* me here too. I can
tell you're thanktol tor all that* been
given you. You tell me a loL And why
wouldn't you be. with all the bedroom
grooves you Ve been given on your new
album? If not for tracks like "Sports. Sex
& Food* (a favorite, but much too goofy
and up-tempo tor the aforementioned
purpose), this could replace D'Angelo in
my CD player.
Tweet* unassumingly silky vocals
flutter over the airy, acoustic-heavy
tunes that have an undateabie but unde
niably vintage feel, and nothing is less
than listenable. but here* the thing; this
is the sort of atom that is often
described as "mature.* And with BrookB
Valentine and Amerie just wanting to fill
our coiiecthte musical maw with sugar
and fun. it* sometimes hard to find
mature anractrve. it definitely works
on *Cab Ride,' toough, w*to Its sample
of the theme song (IswetfH
works) and "Small Change,* a gentle
Wss-off song that overcomes some
weak rhymes.
But what you'll Tod yourself looking
tor are toe Missy-produced songs,
where mentor demonstrates to protege
how to hold a listener* interest Turn
Da Ugtts Off ,* toe first single of! Me
Again, Is one of these; its scratchy,
warpy beat serves as toe hook that*
most likely to make you buy the album.
So is Things I Don't Mean* But even
these reinforce toe sizzirp feel that coats
all of it If* not that it* muddled—every
sound is dear—but compared to the
sharpness of T Thing.* everything else
sounds softened, like toe edginess of
every tone has been sanded off. In short,
it* a little stow, a little demure, a little
smoky-eyed, a little grown-up. Tweet
call me again when I turn 30. Maybe HI
have something different to tell you.
Hillary Brown
M0UN1MN GOATS
The Sunset Tree
4AD
So the To-fi* thing is dead? And
maybe good riddance; it was ridicu
lously selMimitirvg for those with talent
and too encouraging tor those without
Even stalwarts like the Mountain Goats
have moved on. past toe tape hiss and
monochromatic noo-mastering. I was
halfway a tan before, back wtoen John
Damielie was recording his literate folk
songs for grad schoolers on boomboxes
and stereos, bU I've been irare how rd
handle the encroaching professionalism.
Alter listening to The Sunset Tree a
couple dozen times ir?t» last week or
so. I think rm handling it jusHine.
Damielie* narrative lyrics have
always been toe thrust of the Mountain
Goats matter, and that* stM the case
with The Sunset Tree Damielie
observes the fine details of modem
living like a Kay Jewelers gemologist
inspecting an affordable, if unspectac
ular, piece of frippery. But in opening up
toe sonic possibilities. Damielte has
been able to locus more fully upon
arrangements, and instrumentation, and
ail of that wonderfully fantastic Bertdee
biz mat sets toe muso heads a-bopping.
Instead of just one dude with a guitar
and the strident tone ol a tuneful mar
tinet. there are also drums, and a bass,
and various stringed instruments that
stop by briefly for a chaL These side
dishes don't distract or diminish the
nutritious benefits of Damielie* staple
sound. They complement it rather
nicely, and provide an interesting
glimpse at whattoe Mountain Goats
would sound like in a world where sok)
singer-songwriters were outlawed upon
pain of death.
With The Sunset Tree, Damielie has
advanced his production values white
mostly retaining his reliably high level
of quality. The record lacks the single-
minded knmafiacy of his earlier nwrk,
and yet it still impresses. The album
may not hit like the alcohoMaced
gloves of Sonny Liston, but Damiefte
remains a champ.
Garrett Martin
32 FLAGPOLE.COM • MAY 11, 2005