But what’s strange is- it would seem that their most recent previous release, The Hazards of Love from May of ‘09, was truly the final Decemberists album, not this one. While there are a few songs here that bear the characteristics of former Decemberists recordings, most don’t. Oh, it’s obvious that Meloy wrote and sings the songs. Pretty hard to hide that, unless he were to sing everything in falsetto, in Spanish. Even then…

No, what we have here is essentially a Colin Meloy solo album, with benefits. This sounds more like a follow-up to Colin Meloy Sings Live! (2008 live solo album) than a true Decemberists album. Stripped down? I guess so!

It’s not that the other members are absent. They’re in the mix alright. But certain changes have taken place- most of them in Meloy. His songwriting, the songs’ arrangements, even their musical reference points have shifted pretty dramatically.

Whereas in former days we grew to know and love our young Colin and the band as purveyors of strange old British folk tales, steeped in imaginary history and a certain odd sort of whimsy. The anachronistic absurdity of their entire thesis was the foremost feature of their allure. Who but Colin Meloy would aspire to be the Edmund Spenser of the 21st century?

But here, the perspective has shifted- attributable in part to the vocal presence, on seven of the ten tunes, of Americana songstress, Gillian Welch; and the visitation on three numbers by noted guitarist Peter Buck of Tuatura. No, uh, REM.

REM. That’s a good jumping off point. Colin has chucked his 19th century British nautical/military melancholia for 20th century Americana folk revival. A strange, but no doubt necessary artistic decision. The Crane Wife flew away. William and Margaret are happily married, busy begatting little pebbles of their own.

It is the good old American harmonica that sounds the clarion call on this album. Loud blaring harmonica- like Bob Dylan. Like Neil Young. In fact, keep those seminal Folk-rootsists in mind. We’ll be returning to them later.

When last we left the Decemberists, William the wounded white fawn and Margaret, the rustic country girl, had set up shop as rocks in a river after a rigorous adventure that involved all sorts of evil-doing. The mayhem was initiated, primarily, at the behest of William’s wicked Queen mum and carried out by her malevolent ward, that nasty Rake (who got his in the end when his murdered kids came back to haunt him), whom she hired to screw things up. Because, she saw young Will as a good bet to “marry up” in station- and she was not about to allow him to blow it all on some rustic country girl.

So, as we resume the tale here, there’s no sign of Bill or Meg. Instead, with “Don’t Carry It All” we are gently crossing the Willamette on the Cripple Creek Ferry, headin’ out Happy Valley way, where the good life lies. Joey Moen’s big-beat, stripped down kick and snare support Colin’s acoustic guitar and resoundingly reedy harmonica. Flourishes of Nate Query’s ba-wooming bass and faint fiddle by Annalisa Tornfelt add texture. However the lyric is no less inscrutable than you would expect.

“A monument to build beneath the arbors
Upon a plinth that towers t’wards the trees”

Okay. So good so far. Good to see that Colin hasn’t lost his penchant for two-dollar words. Plinth. Sure. One might picture a great marble temple, such as the Parthenon, being constructed in the majestic splendor of a wooded glen. But whoa, whoa, whoa!!

“Let every vessel pitching hard to starboard
Lay its head on summer’s freckled knees.”

So where are we?  On some boat somewhere making a hard right on someone’s freckled knee? Now that’s an image that’s sort of hard to pull together. What happened to the Parthenon? Is it north of the freckled knees? But we’re bound to get this all straightened out soon.

“And there a wreath of trillium and ivy
Laid upon the body of a boy
Lazy will the loam come from its hiding
And return this quiet searcher to the soil”

It is not at all clear where this boy came from. Maybe he was on board the vessel? Or perhaps working on the temple? But he died. Oh, the Decemberists may be in the midst of evolving (or hibernating), but Collin Meloy will never completely change. Plinth. Yeah. Trillium and ivy.

Welch makes her presence known in a pleasant non-obtrusive way- as if she had been there in the mix all along. Buck may be playing a mandolin- but he is pretty much a wisp of smoke in the mix on this one.

Instrumentally, and this is going to be hard to feature, the arrangement of “Calamity Song” sort of reminds of Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way.” Colin’s windy twelve-string acoustic, is joined by Moen’s chunky drums in a fashion similar to that of Lindsey Buckingham and Mick Fleetwood. The song departs from there, riding Buck’s chiming electric guitar.

While we’re talkin’ ‘70s, “Rise to Me” has a Graham Parson’s meets Emmylou Harris quality about it- Chris Funk’s doleful steel guitar sliding wistfully behind bass and keys. Colin adds harp. Think of the Band. Neil Young’s Harvest. Colin’s stuff is still antique as a burnished brass bowl. It’s just of a more recent heritage. A good chorus. A well-built song.

And, “Rox in the Box” maintains the ‘70s as a reference point. I urge people to seek out the album: In Search of Amelia Earhart recorded in 1972 by the British folk musician Iain Matthews with his band Plainsong. The final cut on that album is called “Raider.”

“Raider” is not included in recent CD versions of the album, as Matthews didn’t write the song (written by the ‘60s folk duo Judy Henske and Jerry Yester) and so, apparently, acrimoniously dropped it from the set. Sad. However, vintage vinyl versions contain the song. Colin Meloy’s song “Rox in the Box” captures the American gothic spirit to be found on “Raider,” their Bluegrassy meets British folk elements are nicely interwoven between each of the two songs. Energetic.

Early Paul Simon comes to mind with the lovely “January Hymn.” Oddly, Jimmy Buffet’s “Tequila Sunrise” (“some people claim…“) is briefly quoted melodically before sliding neatly into a section parallel to Dylan’s “My Back Pages.” (with a hint of “Mr Tambourine Man” for good measure). Simple, slick, sly and very touching. Among Meloy’s best.

Buck returns for the masterful “Down By The River.” It’s a track to out REM: REM. Think of “Out of the Blue, Into the Black” era Neil Young sitting in on a re-make session of “Driver 8.”Buck adds his own characteristic sheen, while Colin does his very best Stipe- and a pretty good one it is.

There are some odd choices made by producer Tucker Martine on this number, namely Jenny Conlee’s accordion solo seems misplaced. Maybe the Buckster wasn’t available for a guitar solo. But certainly Chris Funk could have ordered up something appropriately tasty. As talented as she is, Conlee’s accordion sounds like foam on top of a stout beer- it froths up an otherwise hearty brew. All the same, this is one of the great Decemberists songs of all time. It’s a concise, direct and simple track; powerfully memorable.

The Stoneses countrified version of “Honky Tonk Women” is called forth on “All Arise.” Bolstered by Ms. Tornfelt’s sassy fiddle and driven by Moen’s Wattsian smacksmanship- they provide all the impetus necessary. It is only Colin Meloy’s unmissable voice that gives any indication that this might be a Decemberists hoedown.

The spirit of  a very young Paul Simon is again harkened with “June Hymn,” reminiscent of Simon‘s “April Come She Will.” A tender pastoral ballad. “Summer comes to Springville Hill.” Simple and simply perfect.

“This Is Why We Fight” sounds like the work of a completely different band. Tough, ominous, surly. Here Colin’s harmonica howls like a siren in the distant darkness. You could hear Stipe sing this one- if it wasn’t Meloy. The verses quiet down a bit- Funk’s worried guitar phrases wringing fingers beneath.

“Come the war. Come the avarice
Come the war. Come hell
Come attrition. Come the reek of bones
Come attrition. Come hell.”

Well, that lyric could have been ripped from today’s headlines: Tucson, Cairo, Wall Street. But wait:

“Bride of quiet. Bride of all unquiet things
Bride of quiet. Bride of hell
Come the archers. Come the infantry.
Come the archers of hell.”

Jeez, all of a sudden we’re lost in a chapter of Lord of the Rings. Archers? Well that casts the whole thing in a different light. So this is Robin Hood, Magna Carta stuff? Who knows? Who cares? It’s great.

Finally “Dear Avery” settles things down to a contemplative gait. Funk’s pedal steel slips pliantly beneath Conlee’s electric piano. The final chords signaling a certainAbbey Road sort of finality to the whole matter. Who are these guys?

Well, that is a question to be answered at some future date. It will be interesting to hear how Colin Meloy stretches his artistic wings and to see where he flies. The journey awaits our literary explorer. This is as fine a send off as any, though not, perhaps, as satisfying as what might have been hoped- ending not with an exclamation point, but a question mark; not with a period, but an ellipsis.

There appear to be somewhere in the neighborhood of eight or ten core members in the band including two ladies in the string section, three guys in the brass section and two in the drumming contingent with two more percussionists, with bassist Toby Tanabe and guitarist Dave Hall playing in support of Morton on guitar. Many are founding members- undaunted, apparently, by the unwieldy.

All, among the dozen or so people listed as contributors to this project, lend vocal support. A rock ensemble to execute a choral symphony, to be sure. Can Beethoven’s 9th be far behind?

A New Kind of House is not some compendium of rejected tracks from the album. Not in the least. The five songs presented here show a definite, fully-realized progression in terms of Typhoon‘s approach.

Perhaps the most obvious point in support of this assertion is the extenuation of the song “Claws Pt.2, from Hunger and Thirst. The sequel, “Claws Pt. 1” (don’t ask me), is performed far more powerfully here than its predecessor. One would hope the band decides to do an updated version of the song on everything they release.

However, the first song of this set, “The Honest Truth” is targeted as the single. It is not unlike “Starting Over,”  the first song on Hunger and Thirst, in that the new song similarly creeps in on little cat feet; before exploding into the full complement of instrumentation- which matches the drama of Morton’s woe-wrought tale of  thoughtful despair.

“The Honest Truth” lurches along on sputtering brass; sliding on the double-time quadruplets of Morton’s acoustic guitar flurries. The song itself sounds as if it could have fallen from Colin Meloy’s guitar case- though, lyrically they differ substantially: Morton being more direct and not so inclined to aspire to be the Edmund Spenser of the 21st century. Nor are their voices similar at all.

Kyle’s voice is worn and world-weary, finely encrusted with a coat of many sorrows; an impassioned vibrato fluttering lightly beneath: full, rich and evocative. Those familiar with Peter Gabriel’s work with Genesis in the 70s (especially the Foxtrot/Selling England By The Pound period) could probably find antecedents in Kyle’s vocals. A cool brass interlude ends the song.

The driving 6/4 time signature is impetus for “Summer Home,” another song that takes some time to coalesce. An exquisite rhythmic clatter builds to a peak before dissolving into a beautiful, windswept chorus; limbing sweetly great trees of sound. It’s a song of lost love, or lost family, or both. Evocative of antique sunlight through a spring sky window.

As mentioned, “Claws Pt. 1” is absolutely wrenching in its presentation. Like it’s predecessor, it seems to be almost a collection of several songs, neatly knitted together. If not, then the arrangement gives that impression, all the same. It is not a reconstruction of the former song, instead embroiders the cloth of that song with new emblemation. It’s a tributary of Pt. 2- but, perhaps, more to the point, more complete than the first version.

It also answers the age old question of which came first, the chicken or the egg? According to Typhoon, the chicken came first.

The song begins building from where it left off on Hunger and Thirst– a toy piano, or glockenspiel, and what sounds like a banjo flit behind the scene, lapping waves on the glistening musical surface. An angular, guitar/bass (?) theme bounds across the verse, slowly adding depth and movement. Then they advance upon the dramatic turn in the middle of the song.

Through the course of the “Claws” suite, David Hall’s forlorn lead-guitar broods impatiently, a gather of dark clouds- before finally pouring forth, in a deluge, the signature riff. While in its former incarnation it was a twangy, passing riff, here it sounds as if all the sky is crying; soaring, a swooping swoon.

Hall is met by an impassioned vocal chorus and the entire delegation of brass and strings- which melt into a gorgeously evocative guitar solo that carries the song out to its extended fade. A masterpiece.

The short song, “Kitchen Tile,” maintains a householding theme that pervades the entire work. The Home: A Concept Album. The composition sounds as though the kitchen tile in question were actually used for acoustic reverb in places within the song.

On “Firewood,“ Kyle plunks out a familiar progression a homely upright piano, singing in his upper register- sounding a little like Neil Young on his song “Birds” from After the Goldrush. A somewhat somber procession dirges sweetly in 3/4 time, enembered of radiant hearth. Warm and familial. All gathered: funereal, a melancholy second line; dancing through the streets of the spirit.

We in Portland are very fortunate. “Portlandia” notwithstanding, there aren’t many places in the country, or in the world for that matter, that can claim to nurture such a fertile creative community. The music being generated in this city is second to none. There are ten or twenty really great, world-class bands from Portland floating around out there. It would be remiss not to place Typhoon near the top of that list.

© 2011 Buko Magazine

In addition, they put out a couple of EPs in 2009, to serve as a sort of bridge between full-length releases. Depending upon whether or not you include the first Loch Lomond album, which was more or less a Ritchie Young solo project, this is their second or third album. There are three officially released EPs in circulation as well, although, it is a good bet that there are other recordings floating around.

What has become a familiar cast supports him- including vocalist Jade Eckler, keyboardist Laurel Simmons (who also contributes mandolin and vocals), drummer Scott Magee (with vocals and clarinet) and Dave Depper and Jason Leonard. The two of them alternate between a cavalcade of instruments, way too numerous to mention. But. Besides the obvious bass, guitars and keys, the two of them toss in autoharp, banjo, harmonica, glass harp, kalimba, glockenspiel and all kinds of other crazy stuff.

Such a broad palette of musical colors affords Young the opportunity to experiment with mood and texture, style and form.-  something which he does continuously and, generally, quite well. Whether it is the songs that determine the instrumentation, or the instruments that influence the songs- at some point, it really doesn’t matter.

The result is a sort of avant organic folk orchestra. Too claustrophobic to be a concert orchestra. Too versatile to be a chamber orchestra. They are a new animal. Comparisons to the Decemberists are fair- as far as they go. Sufjan Stevens had a similar “melting-pot” aggregation in operation a few years ago, although he has lately seemed to move away from that.

This journey begins with “Blue Lead Fences,” which is driven by Young’s propulsive picking on violin, ala a mandolin. It’s possible there is a real mandolin in there too. There is a certain sort of Decembrists sensibility to the song. Vocally, here, Young sounds a tad like the Meloy boy- a craggy nasal whine- spinning a mystical tale too obscure to fully grasp. Dylan Thomas-like childhood recollections? Perhaps. “Throwing air and throwing rocks/sharpened boards and ponds/an eight-year old having fun/lets organize the weaker ones/with enough wind, I can fly/Call them up and say goodbye.” A sort of imagistic shorthand.

More on the chamber side is “Elephants & Little Girls.” Wispy strings dance haltingly in the dappled glockenspiel light. Beautiful, angelic vocal harmonies, reminiscent of those on Elton John’s “Love Song,” (from Tumbleweed Connection) augment Young’s Thom Yorke/Neil Young tenor falsetto anguished wail. A beautiful chorus propels the song into a lovely vocal chant. Delightful viola/ mellotron interplay at the end, sweep the song: a way a lone a last a loved a long the… A moving piece of work. A great song.

Not withstanding the title, it’s a good bet the moony ballad, “I Love Me” is autobiographical: “Ritchie’s body is swelling/oh it’s swelling like a can/and he thinks his body, oh his body, his body is a man/and his friends think it’s funny/to watch him worry worry about himself/and he thinks it’s funny, not to worry worry about your health.” OK. If you/he say so. But one needs always to have some concern for those who refer to themselves in the third person.

The waltz, “Blood Bank” gives every appearance of being a dreary little ditty, with a predilection for knives being brought to the lyrical fore. Delicate instrumentation, featuring croaking bass clarinet, ringing mandolin and moaning viola swaddle Young’s deep, resonant voice (here). As he relates the tale, a saintly female choir hovers near.

An odd, eventually sort of symphonic instrumental, “Water Bells” ensues, affording the bowed saw yet another opportunity for the musical spotlight in a local recording. Alan De Lay the father of the late blues harp giant, Paul De Lay, was a renowned photographer. What is not as well known is that Alan De Lay was also a virtuosic saw player- among many other things.

The recent resurgence of the saw as a musical instrument (instead of the implement it was originally designed to be) has hopefully just about run its course in the local music scene. For, much like the Theremin, whose eerie sound it somewhat resembles, it is extremely difficult to manifest accurate tonality on the damned thing. Thus far, I have yet to hear anyone near reach Clara Rockmore-like proficiency on a saw. Alan De Lay came closest. Perhaps it is time to retire this wavery-quavery novelty instrument back to the toolbox, where it belongs.

Still, once the musical saw finishes taking up sonic space, in the first part of “Water Bells,” Depper’s mellotron and Lawrence’s viola meld to form a thick, rich reverbance, augmented by guest John Whaley‘s clarion trumpet calls.

The lyric to the apocalyptic “Earth Has Moved Again” suggests, possibly Haiti or some similar scenario: “The earth has moved again/this time it has made art/where there were houses, we have water/where there were people we have none.” Musically, we have a troubadorian ballad in 3, bolstered by a throaty, guitar figure that harkens directly back to Jimmy Page’s 12-string intro to “Tangerine.” Solemn, liturgical chant becomes the motif in the vocals. Another good one.

Micah Rabwin’s saw is ostensibly put to better use on the circus-y middle section of “Water in Astoria.” Absolutely inpenetrable lyrics purport some idyll at the beach, possibly involving a piano, though that is not altogether clear. The instrumentation includes a reprise of Young’s mandolin approach to the violin, here more of a plucking pizzicato technique is employed.

A clanging banjo and choppy piano chords supplement the production. Young makes the odd musical decision to sing the main vocal line in his lower register, while simultaneously intoning a falsetto part an octave above. With so many female vocalists at his disposal, his choice to sing the part seems peculiar, in that he doesn’t sound very good here- a little out of tune.

Perhaps a key change down a 1/4th or 1/5th from D would have placed this one in a more vocally reachable range.  Pastoral strings and flute dance beneath the lurching march of the arrangement

“Egg Song” is precisely the other side of that coin, with just Young’s solitary acoustic guitar accompanying ornately gorgeous choral vocal harmonies, over an enthrallingly lovely melody. Eccentric, but pleasing lyrics, oblique and opaque. “Oh the monsters they ate all of my friends, so I can relate/And oh, I’ll find the time, the time to cry/when I remember their names.” So there. Fans of David Byrne or New Pornographers would find much to enjoy this one.

The mood is cast, so “Alice Left With Stockings and Earrings” does not stray far from what came before. Tasteful, eccentric instrumentation supporting inscrutable lyrics. Something might have happened and someone might be a little bitter about the outcome, with some frustrations to vent. Around that lyrical theme circulate ethereal sounds of a “glass harp,” which is numerous goblets tuned to various pitches and played with a moistened finger. Ephemeral steel guitar, dusky clarinet and sad viola. But there is something else going on.

As a vocalist, Ritchie Young seems to be at a crossroads. He wishes to use his very evocative falsetto to sing these sometimes exceedingly sensitive and fragile little songs. But he also seems to want to employ his more sonorous register, an octave below- sometimes alternating the two on the same song. Sometimes pairing them. It sounds as if he is struggling to find his true voice. It’s a little schizophrenic.

Ritchie Young is very talented, though perhaps a bit unconventional. Still, being unconventional never hurt any one in the music business. His musical team is supplely organic, able to provide him with a panoply of unique sounds from which to arrange his pieces.

However, the band- and Ritchie Young- are still works in progress. There is not yet a definitive “Loch Lomond Sound.” While all the variety here can be exhilarating, especially for musicians to perform: it is often difficult for the typical listener to home in on a specific musical location. One wanders, becoming lost upon the steep stylistic terrain.

Still, it would only seem a matter of time before Loch Lomond coalesce into something substantial and memorable; congealing into the group which their great promise ultimately portends.

The prime movers of Hosannas, or whatever they purportedly call themselves, are the brothers Laws- Brandon who plays guitar and keys and sings, and Richard- who is the family percussionist, also playing keys and singing. Christof Hendrickson contributes very cool Moog stylings in many places, possibly in the capacity of providing bass lines- although that is not altogether sonically clear. Lane Barrington is the drummer.

The band released an album last May, “Then & Now & Then” that was mostly a collection of earlier efforts on a home, analog four-track tape deck, if you can imagine that! They also released “Song Force Crystal” in ‘09. But this new project would have to be considered the band’s first, real, studio presentation- produced by John Askew (Mount Analogue, Karl Blau) and recorded at Type Foundry and Scenic Burrows.

Hosanna’s music is rooted in alternative pop, with a nod to the masters of the genre, and by other more mainstream purveyors of contemporary music. They are a Pop band with one wheel seriously out of alignment. There are elements of “Smile” era Beach Boys, and a faint, ineffable intimation of Coldplay- a soupcon of Pink Floyd stirred into the musical broth, here and there.

They remind of the Shins, with the interference of several other radio stations bleeding through their performances. And just when the musical landscape seems to be taking shape, up bubbles some “Tom Sawyer” period Rush bass and synth- to alter the sonic terrain yet again.

The Beach Boys, “Smile” connection becomes readily apparent from the start of “Hoping That You Will.” Percolating high harmonies and liturgical organ anchor the intro before the song drifts into some sort of epic spaghetti western sequence, eventually evolving toward status as a heartfelt ballad. This is probably the least accessible song on the album, so why it leads off the record is a mystery to me.

Eerie, slippery synth-bass slides beneath soft, subdued syncopated drums on “Be Careful.” More ghostly guitar ethereally hovers like smoke above the reverberating musical milieu. Distorted, processed vocals add to a sense of stifling suffocation and trepidation. May be vaguely related to Radiohead circa “The Bends.”

Barrington contributes frenetic Phil Collins-ish jungle rhythms to “When We Were Young,” before settling in to a straight-ahead groove; synth-bass and strings complimenting, during a nice guitar solo by Brandon Laws. Here the arrangement and instrumentation threaten to suck the fragile context of the song beneath the surface altogether.

Something of a relief is the arid sparseness of “An Old Forgotten Tune,” perhaps one of the more direct songs of the bunch. And “John Pilgrim” with it’s interwoven background vocals, preserve the dreamier aspects the band maintains- with guest Alexi Erenkov’s forlorn clarinet sounding like a distant horn moaning in some foggy harbor.

“Multi-Chamber American Future” seems to be suffering from some sort of arrhythmia, the beat seeming to skitter away from the song. Hendrickson’s synth-bass groans and the roiling Moog lines prompt that Rush allusion. Familiarly, the wraithish yellow fog seeps down the alleys of the vocals and instrumentation, licking it’s tongue into the corners of the arrangement. The short, elegiac, guitar-infused fugue, “Tone Pony Crone Jonesing” induces strata of sounds to coalesce into a thick musical parfait.

Yawning Moog accents a tinkling piano, which pin together the brittle intro to “Open Your Doors.” It’s a simple enough song, and pretty, once one traverses the impediments and detritus left in the path toward its conclusion. Keyboard cello melded with trumpet and euphonium, contributed by Cory Gray, create a thick aural nest, to which the frail little song is tethered.

“Hello Moon” seems to want to hang out on Radiohead turf, with Hendrickson’s buttery Fender Rhodes keyboard fluttering atop Barrington’s Phil Selway-inspired, syncopatious showings forth. But, typically, Thom Yorke’s compositions invite such additions- require them, in most cases. Here they simply sound extraneous. It’s sort of a Beatles-esque number (“I Want You/She‘s So Heavy” ), but with Ringo on amphetamines. By this song’s conclusion you will hope you never hear another crash cymbal again in your life.

Playing against an arpeggiated synth figure, simple organ and langorous synth-bass, “The People I Know” unfolds gently, with only repetitive, annoying pink noise to interfere with the apprehension of the vocals. Drums and more dynamic Moog bass jump in at the half way point, opposed by an increase in noise in the midrange: noise which eats up an awful lot of dynamic range, perhaps better suited to the more musically distinguishable aspects of the presentation. This noise resolves into dusty jangly Native American sounding percussion, which may or may not be responsible for all the racket throughout the song- but it really doesn’t matter.

Hosannas offer a conundrum. Brandon and Richard Laws’ songs are delicate constructions, sometimes no more palpable than smoke. And often the arrangements here seem out of sync: gears that do not mesh, but indifferently spin, completely apart from one another. This is particularly true of Barrington- who is a great drummer- but he often plays as if he is trying to drive a song somewhere where it really, really does not want to go. Hendrickson is less obtrusive- yet his contributions still often seem incongruous or superfluous.

It has been rumored that Barrington and Hendrickson may have left the band. And that might not necessarily be a tragic event in the careers of either faction. Brandon and Richard could benefit from working with a drummer a little more straight-ahead and to the point and, perhaps, a player of an actual bass guitar. Barrington would fit in well with any aggregation whose music is as complex as his drumming wants to be. And as for Hendrickson, his services will be well-placed in an organization more aimed at an electronic sound.

Meanwhile, Hosannas are a band with songs and arrangements awaiting a rhythm section. Such a requisite is not easily fulfilled, but bands make that same adjustment all the time. It will be interesting to see how this band of brothers evolves- and what their name will be when that evolution is complete.

© 2011 Buko Magazine

Spiritual pursuits in the music industry are, by definition, a contradiction in terms. Anathema. For most musicians, to find spirituality means finding a good hook-up in Omaha that leaves no resulting complications: physical, psychological or moral. Some musicians do actually find a certain personal peace. But not very many.

In the past twenty-five years, Dan Reed has pretty much seen it all in the music business. Since the launch of his band the Dan Reed Network at the long departed Last Hurrah in December of 1984, Reed’s fortunes were on a consistent upward trajectory for many years.

After the release of their EP, Breathless, in 1986, the band hooked up with music biz impresario Bill Graham and producer Derek Schulman, eventually signing to Polygram, the parent company of the accursed Mercury Records label (see Nero’s Rome), in ‘87.

Late that same year the band released an eponymously entitled album, which spawned a couple of hits, including the memorable “Ritual.”  Soon thereafter the band toured the US and Europe, opening for Bon Jovi and then for the Rolling Stones on their Steel Wheels tour.

By the early ‘90s, as the band’s fortunes were beginning to wane. In 1993, Dan traveled to India, where he interviewed the Dalai Lama for a Spin magazine article. This led to divergent career changes. He became a writer and activist, involved in many worthy causes. He became a screenwriter and an actor. Around 2000 he opened and managed the Ohm night club, one of the Northwest’s most cutting edge spaces- home to Dahlia.

In 2005, Reed withdrew from the night club scene, renewing his search for higher purpose. He lived in a monastery in Dharamsala, India four four months, then traveled to Jerusalem, where he studied classical Judaism at a yeshiva for about a year. Later, he also lived in a Greek Orthodox monastery in Jerusalem’s West Bank.

Of those times, he has said.

“Investigating these different faiths, while at the same time keeping my feet in the secular world, affected my outlook on life and my music very much in that I feel in a world of environmental decay, corporate globalism, war and human and animal rights abuse… it was time for me to dedicate my energy and time to adding to the other side of the equation.”

So it was under those circumstances that Dan Reed returned to his musical roots, composing songs on an old beat up guitar he had purchased during his stay in India. After making a home in Jerusalem, he built a small studio and started developing many of the initial tracks for Coming Up For Air. In the creation of the album, a number middle Eastern musicians, including Israelis and Palestinians, contributed to many of the basic tracks- music thus accomplishing what years of political negotiations have been consistently unable to achieve.

The Dan Reed we find on Coming Up For Air is all grown up. This is a mature album, dealing with adult themes and feelings and a resolutely sober, some times somber world view- though a determined optimism always seems to find it’s way to the surface. Conversational. Philosophical. Earnest. Dan Reed is a true seeker. The mid-tempo songs (there are no real rockers) here wrestle with issues related to personal and inter-personal relationships: heartfelt and introspective, all written in the first person.

The title track displays a gritty, weary sensibility, the gritty weariness being comparable in tone and texture to John Mellancamp- “ We keep carving swords from our father’s plough/To cut off the head of the last sacred cow.” However, the production choices are dissimilar.

Dan’s musical decisions tend toward a more global approach. Here, Mark Eliyahu contributes a ghostly kemence (a 3-string middle eastern bowed-lute sort of deal), and Kfir Shtivi foggy key washes; while Clay Ostwald adds Bruce Hornsby-like chiming piano licks.

With a very nice nylon-string guitar solo, Rob Daiker sails over salient strings on the sweeping waltz “Losing My Fear.” “You’re the only teacher I ever need/I’m a perfect horn with a broken reed.” The song fulcrums beneath a gorgeous bridge, effortlessly lifting it to a higher place.

One of the few songs that would seem to approach “up-tempo“ velocity, “Closer” is motivated by Reed’s rhythmically propulsive acoustic guitar. Brief interludes of what sound like backwards electric guitar give pause for one to rethink the kemence sound in “Coming Up For Air.” But one must not dwell upon mysteries such as these for too long, lest his brain explode.

“On Your Side” is an impassioned ballad with a benevolent sentiment, colored by nice guitar and keyboard punctuations. All the instrumentation is so subtle, it is often hard to define all the various colors. Headphones are prescribed.

A bit of Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car” echoes in the opening theme of “Brave New World,” a song that lends credence to the impression of a nearly impenetrable depth of sound field. Swirling symphonies of possible strings vanish in wispy contrails. Slippery mosses slide upon the rocks of Daiker’s ethereal guitar cascades. A powerful song with a memorable chorus.

More probable backwards guitar effects faintly fog the decoration of “Middle of Nowhere,” another of the rare uptempo numbers- this one with a pretty, octave-jumping chorus, reminiscent of Tal Bachman’s “She’s So High.” A hit song. “Reach For the Sun” again displays Dan’s knack for writing an exceptional chorus. Tightly woven vocal harmonies provide a thick warm blanket around the pretty melody.

“Promised Land” intimates perhaps Peter Gabriel’s younger brother, an arid desert flavor provided by Eliyahu again on the klemence; along with violinist Srour Saleeba and Reem Talhamni: whose soaring, sighing, crying vocals evoke ancient wind and sand across a wide and distant expanse. “Welcome to the promised land/where dog eats dog and man eats man/God may be crazy, if this is his plan.” Saleeba’s weeping violin brings “Pray For Rain” to tears, especially during the especially moving fade of this very touching song.

Grabbing pieces of Charlie Chaplin speeches from his only speaking role in  “The Great Dictator,” Reed adds Chinese zither, fretless bass, as well as the familiar elements in this production, to create a sort of odd rap piece, that resonates with a message one could impart regarding today’s world and what humans do to it and each other in it.

Yes, Dan Reed is all grown up now. If he has not put his demons behind him- he has, at the very least, come to terms with them. This album is not going to be everyone’s cup of peace. Dan is nothing, if not resolute in his beliefs. And this album displays those beliefs in flying colors. But these are hard-earned songs, scribed from a hard-won wisdom. He is willing to share those ideas, if you are willing to receive them.

Luzelena Mendoza’s life story reads like fiction, but it is true and fascinating and worthy of many, many more albums to come. I could not possibly begin to tell- and that is not my job here. But a short Powerpoint presentation might look something like:

• Grew up in a strict Catholic family the only daughter of a Mexican immigrant father and mother who was American, born in Mexico.
• Family settled in Bay Area
• Family moved to Ashland where father worked in a lumber mill.
• Luzelena spent her girlhood summers in the orchards of the San Joaquin Valley- where she acquired a love for traditional Mexican folk music.
• In 2003, on a spiritual quest, Luzelena traveled to New Zealand and India. In India she contracted dysentery and giardia, losing 60 pounds, while battling insomnia and a near loss of sanity. Worst of all she lost her faith.
• Upon her return to the US, after initial punk forays, she began to craft songs of a different style and play open mics, etc
• She eventually met a few like-minded musicians in Ashland, then in Portland; a convocation musicians who understood the eclectic nature of her music, who hoped to help her achieve her artistic revelations.
• A band coalesced.
• Touring ensued.
• Eventually Decemberists guitarist (and perennial nemesis of Stephen Colbert), Chris Funk, became attracted to the idea of producing a record with Luzelena and the band

Thus: voila!

It isn’t like Luzelena has difficulty drawing attention. She is a statuesque six-feet tall, with a veritable graphic novel illustrated upon her body. She is availed of an amazingly unique vocal instrument that calls to mind comparisons to some of the best vocalists in the idiom of the popular song. But she is no sum of anyone’s parts. Her voice is only her own.

But, here. Let me try:

The dulcet smoky delivery of Peggy Lee or Dusty Springfield singing the sophisticated blues of the ’30s Billy Holiday. Tonality, somewhere between the haunting Astrud Gilberto and the haunted Beth Orton. Songs windblown and wuthering, like Josephine Foster or Joanna Newsom. The plaintive duskiness of Tracey Thorne of Everything But The Girl morphs into the dusky plaintivity of Mimi Parker of Low. Hovering over it all are the murmuring essences of Chavela Vargas and Lydia Mendoza.

“Monster” is Low-like- a dusty, dreamy tale of a murdering, incestuous uncle. Luzelena sings over her simple acoustic guitar accompaniment, a lonesome lament- harrowing in it’s simplicity of execution and delivery. A whining organ toys and winds in the background creating as much agitation as support. Soothing sirens sing backing harmonies, calling to mind those in “O Brother Where Art Thou.” Enchanting.

Meanwhile, “November” is more uptempo, in a mood reminiscent of “Kiss Me” by Sixpence None The Richer from back in the late ‘90s. David Kyle’s handful of a guitar figure in the verses melts into a jangly Cranberries-ish confection at the turns, at which point Luzelena evokes the ululations of Dolores O’Riordan. A nice change of pace.

Drummer Mike Kitson’s ephemeral vibraphone washes nicely compliment Eric Schrepel’s timeless accordion phrasings, with session strings underneath- on the lush, sensual ballad “Soy Capitan;” wherein Luzelena’s angelically smoldering contralto remains moltenly motile just under a fine gray ash of surface. And a great chorus. How exquisite .

The sultry lullaby, “Crocadile Eyes,” relates stylistically to “Monster,” but has an early blues quality about it that harkens to the earliest days of recording. A traditional spiritual from times of long ago gone by. A sonorous bowed saw contributes ethereal fog. Kittson and bassist Ben Meyercord provide warmly moving, anachronistically opaque harmony vocals.

Here and everywhere, whether it is Luzelena backing herself, or contributions from Kittson and Meyercord, the supporting vocal harmonies are rich and full and, at all times, really nicely delineated. Special.

The insistent cloudy waltz of “Abduction” speaks unflinchingly and frankly to Luzelena’s familial issues- “I’m sorry dear father/I’m your only girl/I’m your only daughter…” Above majestic harmonies, soars Luzelena’s poignantly gorgeous vocal. A voice so quixotically intimate and distant. Come closer, stay away. The heartrending final bars: like psychic fingernails clawing at the fabric of existence. You think I’m exaggerating, but I’m not.

“Juniper” is a pastoral pastiche with all three contributing vocally to the forlorn campfire quality of the song; with only concisely subtle bass, drum and guitar augmentation. The sound of a tumbleweed in motion across a hot dry desert basin.

The instrumental admixture that blended so well on “Soy Capitan,” strings, Kittson’s fleeting vibes and Eric Schrepel’s wistful accordion, reprise their positions on “Festival Of Panic,” a song with an intoxicating chorus that swirls around the line “Who said I could have it all?”

An unique conclave of musicians create a very special musical milieu here. Luzelena’s effortless vocal intonations are simply flawless. Cascading guitar/vibe filigrees shimmer into the extended fade, where disembodied voices ghost an eerie calm. Somewhere along the line, “Festival Of Panic,” melds into the busker’s waltz of “Winter’s Skin.”

Oompah-pah bass, accordion and spidery nylon stringed acoustic guitar flit and flicker behind the moody haze of Luzelena’s otherworldly delivery. Yes. Otherworldly. Not from around here. Midnight cats in summer heat- a pounding heart. “Sing me to sleep.”

Violins and cellos, like dreams, enthresh the scenery; a sudden chill of autumn in the air. A circus unfolds, mysterious musical saw moaning amid the ferris-wheel and carousel dance. Bertolt Brecht would be proud. Come hear the music play. Come to the cabaret old chum.

The elyptical tango of “Isla De Hierva Buena” is supplemented by noble brass interludes. Luzelena sings the song in Spanish- although that is not really at all detrimental, as just hearing her mouth random syllables with her sensational voice would suffice.

“Memories Of A Poor Start” again revisits issues Luzelena faced while growing up. A solitary electric guitar supports her marvelous vocal gift.

Back in early 2002, I was fortunate enough to catch a set from an impressive young trio called Noise For Pretend. They were an adventurous jazz ensemble, propelled, on vocals and bass, by a young woman named Esperanza Spaulding- at the time a recent graduate of Benson High School. I consider myself blessed to have a copy of their only full length album, “Happy You Near.” It’s apparently no longer in print.

Way back then, in early 2002, after seeing the band and seeing and hearing Esperanza play and sing, I predicted that she would be a huge star one day. Nowdays, the girl is world huge with a bullet in Jazz universe. And while she never fails to mention her difficult Portland upbringing in her bio, Noise For Pretend are sadly nowhere to be found- which is a downright shame, because that was a really good band and she should be proud of it.

Anyway, I only bring this up, because, I predict, here and now, without hesitation, without equivocation, that one day, much sooner than later, Luzelena Mendoza is going to be a name on everyone‘s lips, nationwide. Worldwide. She has only just begun to explore the gift of her fantastic vocal instrument. A Stradivarius voice, to be sure. And she plays it like a true prodigy. It will be exciting to see where her talent takes her.

I challenge any of you to listen to this album three times and then try not to listen to it over and over again after that. It is impossible. These songs and their impeccable arrangements bore a hole into the shadows of the unconscious, where they reside with other treasured thoughts and recollections across the arc of all being.

Read SP’s review of Esperanza Spaulding and Noise For Pretend in the Two Louies June 2002 Pgs 9 and 17

© 2011 Buko Magazine

No, that’s not true. I just made it up. But, just the same, I bet there’s some other band called Reporter out there already, so you kids look out now.

The name Wet Confetti kind of implies some Macarthur Park-ian product of a post-parade rainstorm; whereas, Reporter sounds cool, cosmopolitan and officious. Professional. That more or less describes the musical differences between Wet Confetti and Reporter, as well.

Wet Confetti were sort of an earthy, organic, minimalist garage band for six or seven years. Without changing personnel, they rather suddenly metamorphosed from a caterpillar into a beautiful butterfly of disco electronica, informed with Neopolitan flavors. Italian, French and German.

They are often compared to Portland’s other disco electronica band, Glass Candy, although the two organizations are considerably different in how they approach their musics. The only real similarities between the two lie in the predominance of breathy female vocals and the heavy usage of synths. Stylistically and referentially they are significantly different.

Temperature-wise, Reporter are far cooler than Glass Candy. Where Ida No of Glass Candy sort of smolders, Alberta Poon of Reporter shivers orgasmically. And for every breathless Deborah Harry coo, there is the murmured purr of Donna Summer, and the whispery Andrea True “connection.”

Today’s disco flavored electronica is constructed in ways similar to the original stuff in the ‘70s. But software has replaced the Linn drum machine, a Prophet 10 synthesizer and a midi sequencer. Drum triggered beats and riffs in a rainbow of sound colors are really very easy to access these days and for a righteous price. Synths are ubiquitous. Any sound known to man is available. What’s your choice?

Everything can be recorded (or stored, anyway) to a computer. That makes studio-quality productions entirely portable to any nearby club that will have you on a bill. Lay a band, say, Wet Confetti, over those tracks and woo-hoo- disco ball and crazy X sex. You have the best of both worlds: electronic precision and garage band ethos.

I couldn’t, for the life of me, ever begin to compare their music to others, especially Ms. Poon‘s ethereal vocals. Nico ( a little bit), Lena Lovich (hardly- except for the occasional goosey falsetto stuff) and Nina Hagen (barely at all) have all been tossed out there elsewhere.

I suppose, in order to fill a void, I would have to include Diamanda Galas to the list- if only to be the first to make that ridiculous comparison, no matter how ludicrously inaccurate it is (too). Diamanda Galas on helium. Now there’s a thought.

She’s closer to Beth Gibbons of Portishead. But not that close. Maybe Julianna Hatfield in an alternative universe. Perhaps Miki Berenyi of Lush. I guess she sounds like Deerhoof’s Satomi Matsuzaki too. Some piece of promo compares them. Sinead O’Connor. Don’t forget her. They all sing in a high, breathy voice- which, I guess, is what I‘m trying to convey.

For Ms. Poon’s vocals, Reporter add loads of swirly echo that bounces around your head like an empty gymnasium- vocals similar to those of Elizabeth Fraser in the Cocteau Twins. Put it all together and what have you got? Bibbity bobbity boo.

Musically, it is squiggly electronica, with a good beat and inventive arrangements. Reporter create great dance music- with a lot of variety, inside the fairly rigid constraints of what it is they are trying to do.

“Geronimo‘s Bones” begins with Daniel Grazzini’s treated guitars bubbling under Mike McKinnon’s insistent ostensible kick drum punches (what is real and what is synthesized is entirely arbitrary in this musical scenario). Slowly, loops and themes begin to add themselves to the mix, in some cases, by subtraction. Figure that one out.

Near the two-minute mark, the song turns into what it is going to be: an otherworldly paean to the ineffable inexplicability of the mysterious. At five-minutes, the band breaks into a very cool concluding groove, that could easily be a transition into another song, if the band desired. But not here.

Instead, while maintaining a straight-ahead kick beat, at about the same tempo as the previous track (who‘s counting?), “Total Fascination” creates a sense of drama- or as much drama as you can squeeze from a circuit board, anyway. Ms. Poon’s cool, surreal backing vocals are one of the main attractions here. Some very well executed, very well developed electronic interplay concludes the song.

Maintaining the tempo, but changing the beat and the feel, “Click Shaw,” heads away from the disco mainstream into something more thematically 80s pop- vocally related to Kate Bush and (yes) Lena Lovich in it’s nervous falsetto. A real cool bassline, that sounds as if it was actually played and not merely “generated,” drives the song.

“One Night” develops slowly, rather stuttering and meandering at first, before breaking into the familiar driving disco tempo (around 120 bps). Some fine guitar work from Mr. Grazzini, and possibly well-articulated bass work (presumably on a real bass in tandem with a synthetic one- but who can tell these days? Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery) by Ms. Poon. The silvery, shimmery extended fade is very nice indeed.

The relentless kick escorts the album to the instrumental “The Moon,“ augmented by crazy hand drums that may or may not be the work of Mr. McKinnon and little plinky synth ornaments, before a spaghetti western guitar swings the piece into a darker, more shadowy area. Synth hand claps. You don’t hear that enough anymore. A very nice pastiche. Film score stuff, for sure.

Mr. Grazini’s jagged guitar figure saws through the underside of “Lab Test,” as Ms. Poon’s dreamy vocals float upon a pelting rain of drony, arpeggiated synth splashes. Again with the insistent kick beat- here sounding like someone punching a leather sofa. Still more hand drums, in the background, add a crazy cool accent, daddio. When the song finally kicks into high gear, a succinct happy-skippy bassline propels the song (at times). It might be the work of Ms. Poon.

“Silent Running” rolls out with- wait for it- the unmerciful kick drum object throbbing like a goats heart after a voodoo ceremony. Underneath that is a tinkly synth arpeggio, creating a faint sense of foreboding. Faint, child-like vocals initiate the ceremony.

But, unexpectedly, at around one-minute, forty-seconds mark, the song launches into a wonderful disco pastiche that evokes the days of Studio 54 or Les Bains Douches. O mon dieu! A pretty piano filigree weaves a design for a while and then it’s back to something more tribal.

The title track is notable for the fact that the four-to-the-floor kick beat is replaced by a slight (welcomed) variation. Mr. Grazzini contributes a nifty, Andy Summers sort of lick- and, again, Ms. Poon executes solidly concise bass. But, soon enough, the song wanders into a different vibe, before returning to the main theme.

Wraith-like, hallucinatory vocals float around, trying to puncture the thin plastic film that wombs the arrangement. At four-minutes forty they go somewhere else, more electronic, with great results. Reporter are nothing if not adventurous and creative. They typically crowd three or four pieces into one whole. But they do it really well.

The instrumental “Love Sounds” serves as a lovely coda to the proceedings: downright pastoral and primordial- until a bit of edge creeps into the mix near the middle. Very nicely done.

Reporter are a remarkably talented bunch. This album more or less flies by, connected by the pulsations of the kick drum; but with each song ornamented individually, with special attention to detail. Time Incredible is a wonderful “concept” album, where the concept is the music. What a concept!

What is really clear here is, that despite good quality recording methods (murkily pristine, perhaps), it’s hard to tell what is being played and what is being manufactured. And, at a certain point, who cares? This is really great music. Slick, but warm enough to mistake the hologram of a warm hand for the real thing.

© 2011 Buko Magazine

Bands used to make a name for themselves by playing their music in the clubs and then, eventually, perhaps, releasing a recording. Presently, a band is just as likely to stake it’s claim on a good recording. Some bands now find their way into the clubs via their recording, totally reversing the whole process.

To be successful in the clubs, it was once necessary for most bands to play an entertaining form of music- more approachable maybe, certainly more lyrically light, though not always entirely vapid. Alcohol played an important role in the process. The debauched revel was once far more popular than it is today.

At present, there are so many more mind-altering agents from which to choose, that one is not solely confined to the big three (alcohol, pot and coke) anymore. The certitude of the experience of the popular drugs of the past, helped to assure a reliable expectation as to how the entertainment might unfold on stage. Things were simple then.

Today’s club bands are no less entertaining, nor are the agents of highdom. But, the public is more discerning than they used to be. Though still vastly popular, and rightly so, getting drunk and possibly laid, does not have the cache that it once held. All things must pass, one would suppose.

Among examples of the finest bar bands to grace Portland stages over the years, to name but a few, were Sleezy Pieces in the ‘70s, along with numerous Blues bands. Good God a’mighty, Portland loves their Blues. Billy Rancher and the Unreal Gods were exciting in the early ‘80s. The funk band Cool’r and the ska-informed Crazy 8s in the mid ‘80s, were popular- along with sloppy funkers Slack in the late ‘80s.

There were the Cherry Poppin’ Daddies and Drunk at Abi’s in the early ‘90s, later Sweaty Nipples and the Dandy Warhols sprung up. But, with the advent of the new millennium, the local club scene began to change- as the national music industry itself was undergoing drastic alterations, the reverberations of which are still to be felt today, never again to return to its former, “glory.” Thankfully.

Still, the bar band abides. One look at the monumental success of Blitzen Trapper gives support to that assertion. Blitzen Trapper embody all the crucial attributes necessary to attain greatness in the clubs.

The first identifying feature of a top-rate bar band is that they are entertaining. It is imperative that the band be fun. Their music must be approachable, friendly- not requiring a great deal of reflection. And they have to be talented. Without talent, a bar band never gets out of the bar.

That being said, it is wonderful news to report that the Quick & Easy Boys are a fucking great bar band. Mixing the sort of rock/funk fusion- which Joe Walsh’s James Gang were purveying in Cleveland in the late ‘60s- with a faint country element and an undercurrent of sweet soul music- the Boys celebrate the glory of the power trio: the compact majesty of over-the-top understatement.

Formed in Eugene in 2005, the Q&EBs eventually made their way North to the big city: um, Portland: to seek their fame and fortune. Snap guitarist Jimmy Russell, is nicely paired with the satisfying bass work of Sean Badders and the sinewy drums of Michael Goetz.

The release of their first CD in 2008, Bad Decisions With Good People, was met with a reasonably warm response among the local constituency; such that the band took off on a US tour to buttress the visibility of the album. More touring is anticipated in support of this new album. One would think that playing in the clubs is what this band was meant to do. The bigger stages? Sure. But in a hot, sweaty bar is where this band would shine.

In the intro, Russell kicks off “ Foster, I…“ with a great guitar tone, similar in texture and context to Jeff Tepper’s intro on Captain Beefheart’s “Ashtray Heart” from his groundbreaking 1980 album Doc at the Radar Station. But from there the Q&EB’s song heads toward a sort of funky rock sound, mixing in a reference to the Knack’s “My Sharona” along the way.

“Take Your Medicine” is straight out of the Funk/Soul/R&B songbook, recalling JJ Jackson’s hit from ‘68, “But It’s Alright.” Slippery rhythm guitar and falsetto vocals, like that on the Ohio Players’ 1975 hit “Love Roller Coaster,” propel the song. Slick.

A touch of swamp seeps through ”Black Panther,” which also seems to resemble the Presidents’ “Dune Buggy,” although I am at a loss to explain how, exactly. It’s just got a similar, loosy-goosy feel, I guess. Drummer Goetz lays down a syncopated beat for “7 Ways,” a song which seems to call upon James Brown’s “Sex Machine” for inspiration (except the Q&EBs’ exhortation is to “Get on down,” as opposed to the Godfathers’ “Get on up”), with more funk than Brown soul.

The title track runs wide open, with Badders providing a rolling bassline foundation for Russell’s high-speed guitar acrobatics. Whereas “Senorita” twists upon the gnarled funk of Russell’s guitar and his staccato vocal delivery. “Sweet Anticipation,” is closer to straight ahead rock, with sort of a Lenny Kravitz attitude. How else to describe?

“Spicy Paella” resembles “Black Panther,” for its chunky Dead-like feel, though, perhaps, even more reminiscent of the Band’s lurching “Cripple Creek,” maybe as if played by an early 70s funk band. Finally, Daggers” is a real change of pace, circling around the blues without ever actually landing, before soaring off in a completely different direction at about the four minute mark. The song affords Russell the opportunity to showcase his virtuosity on guitar. Hot, without being flashy.

In a former era, the Quick & Easy Boys would have made for a great bar band. They are entertaining and a lot of fun. Their music is accessible, but not real deep. And they are quite talented. Especially Jimmy Russell who obviously spent a lot of time listening to his parents’ record collection. Russell can really play the guitar, though by his understated manner, you might not think so at first. Give him and the Boys a listen. They are a first-rate bar band.

With “The Hazards of Love” Meloy and cohorts have created a “rock opera.” Perhaps to head off immediate criticism, Meloy calls it a “folk opera.” For rock operas (as well as “concept albums”) have a somewhat dotty history all their own. It is acknowledged that the Beatles’ 1967 release “Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” was the first “concept album,” although it could be said that there was no concept to that album- beyond a few sound effects. After that, the Who are mentioned with “Tommy,” from 1969. That “rock opera” was actually preceded by “SF Sorrow” by The Pretty Things in late 1968. Pink Floyd toyed with several different concept album forms, ultimately culminating with “The Wall” in 1979.

But probably the true antecedents to “Hazards of Love,” besides the work of members of the British traditional folk revival of the ‘60s and ‘70s- such as Anne Briggs (think Sandy Denny of Fairport Convention and Maddy Prior of Steeleye Span), who inspired the title of this opus, as well as Nic Jones of the ‘60s Celt trad band Halliard and the godmother of all Brit trad folksingers, Shirley Collins, are a series of albums by Jethro Tull: “Thick As A Brick,” (1972) “A Passion Play,” (1973) the second half of “Minstrel In The Gallery:” (1975) called “Baker Street Muse” and “Songs From The Wood” (1977). In many ways, Colin Meloy has much in common, with Tull leader, Ian Anderson. Both are extremely literary. Both are somewhat pretentious and unyielding in their approach to songwriting. “Hazards of Love” has much in common with “Thick As A Brick” and “A Passion Play,” sharing some similar instrumental choices as well as a few coincidental interludes.

While not the Decemberists’ first concept album (the 2005 EP “The Tain” was the first attempt and “Crane Wife,” from 2006, was a modest follow up to that mode), it is certainly their most ambitious work and their best realized–while not, perhaps, the most accessible of their albums. Stylistically, the band wanders much farther afield.

The story, somewhat ornate and drawn-out–like an Arthur Rackham illustration–surrounds the adventures of young Margaret, a rustic country girl. She is deeply charmed by William, who lives in a magical forest. He first comes to her in the form of a white wounded fawn. Margaret attempts to heal the fawn, whereby it is transformed into William. So, as these things go, it is not long before the couple fall in love, and Margaret becomes pregnant.

This situation incurs the wrath of William’s mother, the cruel Queen of the wildwood taiga (it would take too long to explain the meaning of that word), who will allow William only one last night with his love. To make certain of this, the Queen enlists the services of the Rake–a terrible fellow, who murdered his infant children after his wife had died a miserable death in childbirth. The Rake kidnaps Margaret. At this point, William sets out and eventually successfully rescues his ladylove. And they live happily ever after as rocks in a river. The plot somewhat resembles any of several Grimms Fairy Tales, as well as a couple of Shakespearian plays–Midsummer Nights Dream and As You Like It come to mind.

Musically, while still folky and loaded with acoustic guitars, the band display a decided prog-rocky bent, where one would find more “experimental” interludes, with Meloy and lead guitarist Chris Funk punctuating with more intense guitar colorations; while Jenny Conlee’s organ work often seems very reminiscent of Jethro Tull’s John Evan on “Thick As A Brick.”

And while Meloy assumes the voice of both William and the Rake–as well as that of a sort of musical narrator–for the first time, other singers play significant roles in the proceedings. Becky Stark of Lavendar Diamond assumes the vocal role of Margaret, while Shara Worden of My Brightest Diamond portrays the Queen. Robyn Hitchcock and My Morning Jacket’s Jim James make singularly brief appearances. Rebecca Gates of the Spinanes is rumored to be in the mix somewhere–apparently in the closing chorus with James–but it sounds like name-dropping to me. A string section also appears occasionally.

The album begins with Jenny Conlee‘s “Prelude,” a stately canonical organ piece, which consists of a minute and a half long pedal tone, before moving evocatively in an orchestral direction, buffered by a string quartet. This fades into the first chapter of the title song, which is repeated in various forms throughout the album. The subtitle “The Prettiest Whistles Won’t Wrestle The Thistles Undone,” gives a true indication of Meloy’s preoccupation with words–sometimes to the point of distraction.

But the song sets the scene. William, the transformed wounded fawn, et cetera. A blossoming love between William and Margaret, as “fifteen lithesome maidens lay along in their bower.” A gentle acoustic background consisting of acoustic guitar and what sounds like an autoharp are supplemented by Nate Query’s evocative upright bass and Conlee’s restrained Wurlie electric piano and shadowy, low-end synth figures.

With “A Bower Scene,” it becomes apparent within the story arc that our heroine, Margaret, is with child. Musically, the cut is as electrically metal as the Decemberists have ever been–with Chris Funk’s two-note guitar figure and a positively robust break– which, the second time around, melds into the Tull-ian march of “Won’t Want For Love (Margaret In The Taiga)” and with Funk providing a very nicely articulated alteration of his original two-note guitar theme. Here, the beautiful, winsome voice of Becky Stark enters the vocal picture–her soft phrasing a decided departure from Colin Meloy’s nasally discourses.

“The Hazards Of Love (Wager All) is vaguely reminiscent of “The Crane Wife” in its composition, and is a transitional piece within the story line, indicating the heroically undying love William feels for Margaret. “And we’ll lie ‘til the corncrake crows,” is a line that only Colin Meloy could get away with singing. Like two notched sticks being rubbed together. “Crex, crex.”

Segue into the short instrumental piece, “The Queen’s Approach,” where a sound like a banjo makes its presence briefly known and into “Isn’t It A Lovely Night,” perhaps the most beautiful little song of the set. Over Meloy’s flat-picked acoustic guitar lines and Jenny Conlee’s provincial accordion, Becky Stark positively thrushes as a lulling lovely, lilting nightingale–her voice perfectly matched to the charming little tune. A pedal guitar whispered waltz at the end is a tender and lovingly infused moment.

William confronts his mother the Queen in “The Wanting Comes in Waves/Repaid.,” where she proceeds to guilt trip the bejesus out of the poor love-besotted lad. Finally they come to agreement. William can have one last night of bliss with his damsel fair, but by morning he will have to turn back into a white fawn, or at least succumb to his mother’s maternal demands, deserting Margaret, possibly forever. Kind of a misguided swap in my book, but who am I to judge? This is a fairytale, after all.

Conlee’s roiling harpsichord patch arpeggio modulates into an intensely emotional section, where William bares his soul to his mother (SharaWorden, a vocal dead ringer for Sandy Denny and Maddy Prior). As the song transitions into its second half “Repaid,” the band takes off into another plodding prog-rock discursion of the highest order with twin electric guitar motifs between Meloy and Funk, along the lines of the ‘70s Celtic rock band, Horslips, with maybe a soupcon of Gentle Giant thrown in (and a piece of Dire Straits‘ “Money For Nothing” lopped on too) over John Moen‘s insistent, slamming drums. Worden’s husky dusky voice is well suited to her role, with bluesy undertones and a dark undercurrent flowing just beneath her delivery.

The instrumental “An Interlude” features Meloy on acoustic guitar, Robyn Hitchcock floating in the background on electric guitar, with Chris Funk on bouzouki. A pastoral pastiche. Over a familiar G-Em acoustic guitar riff, Meloy takes the vocal as the villain in “The Rake’s Song.” The rake in question seems to find great satisfaction in the death of his wife delivering his fourth child, “ugly Myfanwy,” with no feelings of regret. Ah, the fatal flaw!

“The Abduction of Margaret,” wherein the rapacious Rake makes off with our heroine, recycles the arrangement–two note riff and vocal melody of “A Bower Scene.” Meanwhile, “The Queen’s Rebuke/The Crossing” reveals the Queen’s true being, bred of wind and rain and sunshine with all the vicissitudes and random venomous compassion of a tree, a snake, or Nature herself. It is here that William’s fawnish shape-shifting history is divulged. And it is here, where her directive to the Rake to despoil poor Margaret is made patently obvious. You don’t cross this Queen. Nuh-uh! The Queen giveth and the Queen taketh away.

William, not one to back down from a challenge, confronts and cajoles the river, which separates him from his true love on “Annan Water.” A jangling acoustic background- comprised of acoustic guitar, mandolin, autoharp, hurdy-gurdy and hammer dulcimer lend the song a decidedly folkish feel not unlike Led Zeppelin’s “Black Mountain Side (which was loosely inspired by Anne Briggs’ “Blackwaterside,” incidently- or Burt Jansch‘s interpretation of her version, to be exact).

The Rake has his way with Margaret in “Margaret In Captivity,” as our heroine pleads with the wind to beckon William to save her. The Rake assures her this is impossible. A jangly 12-string acoustic guitar riff representing the Rake is balanced by the intense electric guitar crush of Margaret’s plaintive pleas. The string quartet returns at the end to lend destitute emotion to her furtive cries.

Reworking Conlee’s harpsichord riff from “The Wanting Comes In Waves” the electrified band hits heavy as suddenly the sweet voices of the Rake’s dead children come to haunt him in a gentle chorus. Uh-oh, the hazards of love. That electrified theme returns with the reprise of “The Wanting Comes In Waves” a dashing heroic piece. William is one motivated white fawn. Rest assured of that.

Finally William and Margaret are re-united though–as in James Joyce’s “Finnegans Wake”–the lovers become as inseparable stones in the Annan Water and drown, peacefully, in love. Those anticipating a happy ending to this tale will be saddened and uplifted by this final twist.

“The Hazards of Love” stands as a peculiar artifact, alike nothing else released in decades. While the conceits here are irrepressible, so is the artistry, which matches its author’s ambitions. The Decemberists distinguish themselves as a band who are just now coming into their own full voice, their own true sound.

One big relief on this album is the fact that Colin Meloy has pretty much ditched most of his various vocal affectations, which in the past put some people off (mainly me). Nearly gone is the Cockney Mockney, including an array of speech impediments, tics and tacs that need not be reiterated here, because, for the most part, they have vanished. Huzzah! Huzzah I say.

For folks who like their pop works short and sweet: songs three-minutes long and out, this album will be a colossal bore. But for those who appreciate the Decemberists own special anachronistic style, there is much in this, their finest album yet, to recommend here. This album is a true work of art and is artfully assembled by real artists