wears the trousers magazine

The following reviews were all published on our old website between May 2005 and December 2006.

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Laura Veirs
Year Of Meteors ••••½
Nonesuch

At the risk of plunging straight into the pull quote, if there’s any justice in the world, Year Of Meteors will be the album that breaks Laura Veirs through to a wider audience. Following a trio of acclaimed collections, including last year’s stellar Carbon Glacier, Veirs plugs in to her more experimental side, melding ambient electro with traditional singer-songwriterisms, but crucially does so without dropping or fumbling the melodic ball. Throw in her sideways-looking, intelligent lyrics and quirky similes and it all adds up to more rather than MOR. Perhaps it’s partly her unusual background that marks her out from the crowd. After all, it’s unlikely that there are many artists in the Seattle alt-folk underground who speak fluent Mandarin and have a postgrad-level grounding in applied geology.

Certainly, Veirs’s way with a lyric flits from the Zen-like and philosophical to the mundane and seemingly irrelevant, yet somehow revealing. And that’s often with the space of a single song. Take ‘Secret Someones’, for example, in which she ponders a restless horizon before casually asking what you make of the drummer’s haircut. All of this propelled along by a beautiful jazz-tinged backing track set to a garage beat and punctuated with distorted guitar stabs and feedback. It’s an ambitious mélange that’s never quite matched elsewhere but is heartening evidence of the album’s inventive spirit.

Opener ‘Fire Snakes’ starts out with dreamy acoustics reminiscent of Suzanne Vega, particularly in the phrasing, but Veirs soon raises the bar with beats and bleeps that signify a defiance to be easily pigeonholed. Further textures are woven in with hammered dulcimer and Eyvind Kang’s haunting viola, amassing and ascending to an engaging climax. Similarly, the obvious first single ‘Galaxies’ kicks off with vocal and solo guitar (albeit this time spiky and distorted), contrasting nicely with the smooth beats, keyboard vibraphone and analogue synth sounds that follow.

Happily, Veirs never errs toward the pretentious in her music and the obscurist in her lyric. Each song is quickly appealing and the arrangements, though dense, are also swiftly accessible. Indeed, it would be easy to listen through the entire disc and be unaware of the complexity (and downright oddness in places – the heavy riffing viola on ‘Parisian Dream’ for example) of the sounds, so seamlessly do they become a part of the music. Similarly, the ambiguity in the lyrics allows space for the listener to draw their own meanings and fasten their own values to the frameworks provided. Even better, this multi-layered approach only serves to make the simpler tracks, ‘Spelunking’ and ‘Where Gravity is Dead’, all the more striking, particularly as they bookend the measured brutality of ‘Black Gold Blues’. Viola has never sounded so menacing! ‘Lake Swimming’ draws the album to a mesmeric close, save for the almost obligatory ‘hidden’ track; in this case, a short, protean version of what was to become ‘Magnetized’ with a performance for which Veirs could reasonably be accused of phoning in… but in a good way.

The skilful production from Tucker Martine, also the drummer in Veirs’s backing band, The Tortured Souls, turns what could so easily have been a sonic mess into a record of great beauty. Every performance is impeccably nailed, from Veirs’s vocal and acoustic guitar to Steve Moore’s keyboards and Karl Blau’s bass and electric guitar. It’s gratifying then that Year Of Meteors has been deservedly lauded from all corners of the press and should comfortably ensconce itself in many a shortlist for album of the year.

Trevor Raggatt
originally published November 28th, 2005 

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Laura Veirs
Live at the Fleece & Firkin, Bristol ••••
February 16th, 2006

The night does not start well. After a lengthy altercation with the bouncer about age, Citizen Cards and valid forms of ID in which I have to get my friend to drive down to the venue with my passport, I am finally allowed in midway through Pure Horsehair’s support slot feeling a little irate and somewhat weary. However, my malaise is dispelled in an instant when I catch sight of Laura herself sitting at a little table in the corner doodling on her setlists and signing stuff for the occasional fan. She’s sweet and entirely approachable, even when pestered by crazy-permed archetypal middle-aged men who have seemingly converged upon the venue to confirm the folk fan stereotype.

When she takes the stage solo, a serene hush cloaks the venue, in contrast to the noisy chatter that rather overwhelmed Pure Horsehair’s quiet melodies. It feels as if we’re watching one of our friends play for us. Opening with ‘Cool Water’ – a joyfully simple and beautiful song – Veirs sets the tone for a set comprised mostly of older songs, many from 2004’s Carbon Glacier. This is surprising and refreshing as she’s touring behind last year’s Year Of Meteors, but chooses from her entire back catalogue and does not allow the new songs to dominate.

Announcing “It’s good to be in Bristol!” (and looking like she really means it), she launches into ‘Lakeswimming’ and capably proves that she’s just as captivating solo as she is with the various incarnations of her band, The Tortured Souls. Making excellent use of a sampler and pre-programmed electronics, the song is ably constructed through a multitude of looped beats and layered vocals. This approach also perfectly suits the songs from Year Of Meteors, an album which sees Veirs embrace a far more electronic influence than ever before – think of a midpoint between The Postal Service and Gillian Welch. Speaking between songs, Laura seems almost apologetic that she hasn’t brought her band, but her impeccable musicianship shines through the myriad of sounds, melodies and layers that she spectacularly conjures on her own.

For ‘Tiger Tattoos’, Veirs passes out metal chiming sticks to members of the audience, asking them to accompany her by playing them against the venue’s walls and posts. It’s potentially a risky move as just one overactive participant could mar the song’s fragile beauty, but it pays off wonderfully. Under Laura’s direction, the crowd’s subtle chimes, as well as claps and even beatboxing (!), prove to be a highly effective accompaniment to her acoustic guitar and clear, crystalline vocals. On ‘Fire Snakes’, subtle electronic touches brush alongside the acoustics, and the song draws upon the geological and astrological images that Veirs returns to throughout the night – ice, stars, sea, glaciers.

During the main set, someone in the crowd yells out for ‘Ether Sings’, and Laura happily plays it when she returns for the encore, the beguiling melody weaving a hypnotic spell upon the attentive crowd. Throughout the evening, the beats and effects employed haven’t been at all obtrusive, but for closer ‘Jailhouse Fire’ they are, and wonderfully so. Pulling out a Melody Pop (remember them?) and alternately whistling and chomping on it, she records and layers the sound until her whistling fills the venue. It’s a fitting end to an entirely charming evening.

Danny Weddup
originally published March 6th, 2006  

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The Veronicas
The Secret Life Of… •••
Sire / Warner Bros.

Are Jess and Lisa Origliasso – aka The Veronicas – the Australian equivalent of Tegan & Sara? Not quite, but the diminutive identical twins certainly serve up many of the right ingredients on their debut album The Secret Life Of…, a collection of immensely likeable power-pop that presses a good many buttons with just the right amount of post-Lavigne attitude (though sadly not post- sk8r punk spelling, or should we just blame Prince and mobile phones?). With no less than seven producers on board, including Canadian songstress turned Lavigne co-writer Chantal Kreviazuk, there’s no shortage of gloss; these people have been put to good use! As such, the rockier numbers chime with smoothly crashing guitars, while tasteful piano and acoustic strumming effectively underpin the ballads like ‘Nobody Wins’, but it’s carried off nicely without sounding overly clinical.

Which is all well and good, but what about the performances? Happily, they are perfectly judged; Jess and Lisa’s dual vocals and harmonic interplay adds an extra sheen to an already polished sound, but, crucially, it seems natural and unforced. Like Tegan & Sara, their seemingly instinctive communication endears them to the listener and raises all the usual questions over twin telepathy. For what is essentially a straightforward pop product, it’s gratifying to be able to say that the songs on which the twins have a writing credit (that’s 8 out of 12) are the strongest, with special mentions for ‘Leave Me Alone’, ‘When It All Falls Apart’ and ‘I Could Get Used To This’. Indeed, any cynical preconceptions of the Origliassos as simply a fabricated marketing ploy are happily dashed after just one listen.

The tongue-in-cheek humour of first single ‘Everything I’m Not’ and the sublimely executed Secret are just two of the highlights, the latter song recounting the inevitable difficulties when your find out that your gay best friend isn’t really into guys and is actually just stalking you. It may not be original (did you see ‘Three To Tango’?) but it’s fun regardless. Less fun is their pseudo-angsty cover of Tracy Bonham’s ‘Mother Mother’ which fails to convince, attempting to invoke rebellion in a lameass, “ooh, I went to a bar and had two lagers” sort of way. It’s a disappointing way to close an album that, for the most part, is very enjoyable. 

When it’s good, The Secret Life Of… is perfect for zooming down the motorway with the top down, hair whipping in the breeze, and the tunes are defiantly hummable. What it really lacks is substance; the job of this sort of album is to inveigle its way into the teenage psyche and become the soundtrack to youth. You have to wonder how many of these songs are going to be played in 10 years’ time at a class of 2006 school reunion – not many I suspect, and that’s a real shame.

Trevor Raggatt 
originally published October 27th, 2006

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The Victorian English Gentlemens Club
The Victorian English Gentlemens Club ••••
Fantastic Plastic

For every terrible band that’s looking to the early 1980s for a shot of inspiration, there’s a surprising number of good ones. This may well be to do with the fact that they’re digging just that little bit deeper and pulling their influences from further and wider. So where The Futureheads dig Gang Of Four, Captain are the anti- fashion with their Prefab Sprout influence and countless bands pick up on the punk-funk element, The Victorian English Gentlemens Club are flying the flag for the overlooked genius of the early work of The B-52s and The Cramps. A recent radio interview saw the band proclaiming their love for XTC, and whilst that is certainly an audible influence, the Club have a stronger alliance with the former.

Take ‘Stupid As Wood’ for instance. There’s a rumbling bass line, trashy drums and psych-surf guitar – all the elements of The Cramps in glorious 3D technicolour. It’s no mere homage either; the Club are far too savvy and skilled for that. ‘The Tales Of Hermit Mark’ is another good example of this, right down to the way lead singer Adam Taylor yelps like Lux Interior, while the chorus shows off the B-52s link. Similarly, ‘Such A Chore’ jerks and bounces all over, exuding the same insanity that pervaded their major influences.

Other songs reveal a feeling much closer to some of their more contemporary peers. Latest single ‘Impossible Sightings Over Shelton’ has the ramshackle spirit of Clap Your Hands Say Yeah!, while ‘My Son Spells Backwards’ is musically reminiscent of The Young Knives with some really great interacting male and female vocals. As this is Wears The Trousers, it’s at this point that the brilliance of bassist Louise Mason and drummer Emma Daman’s backing vocals deserves to be mentioned. Indeed, the term ‘backing vocals’ almost does them a disservice as they form an integral part of the tune, filling out the melodies rather than being merely added as an afterthought. More of that please.

Early single ‘Ban The Gin’ is a pleasant surprise when it arrives just past the halfway point. Stylistically, it lurks somewhere between rockabilly and skiffle – unexpected but highly effective! However, closing epic ‘Cannonball’ dwarfs all that came before it, kicking off with such convincing Pixies-style latent dementia that you simply can’t wait for the dormant volcano to blow. And then, of course, it does, showering sparks of Sonic Youth and The Fall down from above.

Exhilarating and with great appeal, The Victorian English Gentlemens Club have come up with a very fine debut, one that’s very much of today and, simultaneously, of times gone by.

Russell Barker 
originally published October 5th, 2006

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Viva Voce
Get Yr Blood Sucked Out •••
Full Time Hobby

Any long-lasting relationship needs a bit of spice; in the case of husband and wife duo Viva Voce, you’re probably on fairly safe ground if instead of ‘spice’ you read ‘vast quantities of brain-warping intoxicants’. And though Kevin and Anita Robinson don’t explicitly bill themselves as proponents of illicit substances, the mantric vocals and hazy grooves of fourth album Get Yr Blood Sucked Out are so thoroughly blissed out you’ve got to think that, at the very least, they have freakishly high serotonin levels.

Much like its predecessor The Heat Can Melt Your Brain, giving Get Yr Blood Sucked Out a rating based on a totally sober listen is rather problematic when it appears to have been designed to accompany a heavy dose of prescription medication. Certainly, 10 minutes of ‘We Do Not Fuck Around’ (which you’ve got to think is maybe a smidge ironically named) is not necessarily something that qualifies as ‘fun’ when you have a clear head. But if a few of the tracks outstay their welcome, it’s still the duo’s finest moment to date; no jazz cigarettes are needed to appreciate the thunderous rumble of opener ‘I’m A Believer’, while lead single ‘From The Devil Himself’ sees the pair finally marry their fuggy soundscapes to something approaching a pop song.

More than ever, the sheer scale of the noise the two produce will floor your jaw; these tracks are huge, muscular beasts that stalk the earth like a herd of psychedelic dinosaurs. At this rate of growth the next record should be the moment the ambience of the Robinsons’ music is finally matched by the songs themselves. But to steal a march on such hedonistic pleasure, simply give Get Yr Blood Sucked Out a spin while imbibing your trusted narcotic of choice.

Andrzej Lukowski
previously unpublished

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Victoria Vox
Victoria Vox & Her Jumping Flea ••••
Obus Music

What is it with the ukulele all of a sudden? Not since George Harrison became obsessed with them in the early 1990s has the Hawaiian four-stringed instrument been so in the limelight. One of last year’s most memorable singles, Mara Carlyle’s ‘Baby Bloodheart’, was almost entirely ukulele and voice, and criminally under-rated UK singer-songwriter Sam Brown followed in her shoes with the, er, Ukulele & Voice EP. First though, Berklee graduate Victoria Vox steps up to the plate with Victoria Vox & Her Jumping Flea, ten deftly woven original compositions and well-chosen covers, some modern, some from the golden age of the uke’s post-World War I popularity.

For the uninitiated, the ‘jumping flea’ of the title derives from the literal translation of the Hawaiian. Rest assured, however, that there’s no fleas, flies or insects of any kind on Victoria Vox. Since striking out as an independent artist three years ago, she’s been plying her engaging brand of acoustic pop the length and breadth of the States, mostly backed by guitar, but since an accident of circumstance introduced her to the uke, she’s been slipping it into her live set on an increasingly frequent basis. An entire ukulele album was only a matter of time! Now, to be fair, the uke as an instrument isn’t blessed with the broadest of dynamic or tonal ranges, though it is a pleasing sound. However, Vox’s consummate skill as arranger and interpreter really pays dividends. So while the uke and vocals take centre stage on all tracks, a sympathetic backing adds texture and depth to each, adding in guitar, bass, cello, vibes, and even toy piano and kazoo.

The album starts off with ‘Ukulele Lady’, a cute little novelty song from the ukulele’s heyday, written by Broadway composer Gus Kahn, who also had a hand in classics like ‘Dream A Little Dream Of Me’, ‘Makin’ Whoopee’ and ‘My Baby Just Cares For Me’. It’s a charming period piece, with its authentic showtune feel and slide guitar ornament providing the perfect opener. Vox interprets another of Kahn’s tunes (‘Guilty’) later on, while the two more recent covers include the Talking Heads’s ‘Psycho Killer’, gorgeously arranged with cello, and ‘Le Vent Nous Portera’ by French rock band Noir Desir – better known in the UK because of their singer’s involvement in the death of actress Marie Trintignant. It’s a beautiful rendition, transporting the listener directly to the narrow streets of Montmartre or the Quatier-Latin with its melodica and Hot Club-styled jazz comping. The album’s centrepiece, however, is a fantastic medley of ‘Somewhere Over The Rainbow’ and ‘What A Wonderful World’. Here, mellow vibraphone chimes contrast with the staccato ukulele while Vox interweaves and improvises around the melodies, her beautifully pure voice bringing a feeling of innocence and intimacy to the hopeful lyrics – totally beguiling.

Vox is no slouch either when it comes to her own compositions. America tells the lonely tale of being a solo travelling troubadouress, while ‘Dreamin’ About You’ (the only song that’s simply uke and voice) shows that, for all the rich clarity of her vocal, Vox can extend to a more bluesy wail when she wants to. It’s a real testimony to her delivery that other songs like ‘My Darlin’ Beau’, ‘Yodelayheehoo’ and ‘Christmas With You’, that might have sounded twee or cloying in less skilful hands, are only ever charming and engaging. Certainly, there are few albums this undeniably enchanting, creating a world of their own around the listener. This is a pleasant world, both forwardlooking and back, and indeed, the only real complaint to speak of is that, at little over a half hour of music, it would have been nice to overstay our welcome.

Trevor Raggatt
originally published January 21st, 2006