Heard Here

Anxiety Always, Adult.

If anything these days is more profitable than selling the culture of the 1960s, it’s selling the culture of the 1980s. But while most forward-thinking hipsters wouldn’t be caught dead wearing rectangular sunglasses or neon-colored anything without the influence of irony or alcohol, it’s safe to say that there is a prime audience for the music that the ’80s made popular. And this doesn’t just mean the fluff that Madonna and Prince threw around either. The ’80s even made weirdos like Devo a brief household name (those were the days) and gave everyone at least some hope that popular music wasn’t an absolute wasteland (despite much, much evidence to the contrary). But who really remembers the ’80s? The average Oberlin first-year most likely doesn’t even remember transparent Pepsi or a Nintendo system without the word “Super” in the title.
This is where Adult. comes in. Adult. condenses all of the best influences of the decade of feathered hair into a raw, minimalist package without descending into the cheesiness that even the most seemingly inventive bands somehow managed to fall in love with. Anyone who watched Depeche Mode’s slow decline from their first few albums to Songs of Faith and Devotion understands that sometimes technological advances in music aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. Adult. seems to agree. The group, comprised of bassist/programmer Adam Lee Miller and vocalist Nicola Kuperus keep it “rad” with primitive drum machines and synth hooks that sound like sped up recordings of a plastic garbage can lid wobbling to a stop. Kuperus croons like a female Gary Neuman such catchy and appropriately abstract lines as “Glue your eyelids/Together” on the song of the same name.
The lyrics don’t get more serious than that, but the whole thing has more juvenile attitude than a major label roster’s worth of Blink 182 clones. While it’s unfortunate that Adult. probably won’t appear on a Time-Life Undeground hits from the ’00s that sound like they came from the ’80s collection in 10 years, it’s nice to hear something that nails all the classic elements of the best songs we all vaguely remember from our childhoods or have seen thousands of times on VH1. Maybe, hopefully, the return of flowerpot hats and skinny piano-key ties is possible in our lifetime.

—Derek Schleelein

Decks And The City: Volume 1: New York, Marcus And Dominique

If I had to write the condensed history of the superstar DJ, it would go as follows. Dance clubs open for business and feature the talents of one or two DJs on a regular basis. Then someone in charge discovers that attendance and profits improve when they book the regular or resident DJs from other clubs to play at their venue. Later, someone discovers that compilations of songs mixed by those same DJs — simulations of their live sets — also positively affect profits and attendance. Repeat. Eventually DJs become so in demand that they give up their residency — their localized, regularly occurring gig — to concentrate full-time on performing at clubs worldwide and compiling CDs. Thus, the superstar, big-name DJ is born.
But what should ultimately not be forgotten is that nearly all of these DJs got started by playing regularly at some late night hole in the wall. They honed their ears and technique by spinning in front of, and bonding with, a core audience of believers. Here is where they nurtured their magic and their brilliance was recognized, first by a lucky few, but then by many. Even in the massive institution that is the global club culture, big things start small.
It was only a matter of time, then, before someone, namely those behind Decks And The City, would remember (and capitalize on) the little guy, the resident. Promising to highlight the “brightest new DJs in America’s biggest cities,” or rather, the residents that are most in tune with a city’s club-pulse, this new series of DJ mixes is poised to re-ground clubbing in specific locales and show what it’s all about from the perspective of the people that are rooted on the same decks (no, I don’t mean flight decks) every week.
For the Decks debut, Marcus and Dominique (of New York City’s Plant Bar) deliver a Grade-A serving of trashy house complete with all of the sex, drugs and filth that are part and parcel of Gotham City. It’s a wild inaugural ride, set in motion by the twisted a cappella intro of Derrick Carter’s “Where U At?” The duo build their set gradually by dropping deep, disco-licious tracks like Paul Johnson’s “Camel,” before hitting full speed with the inspired layering of Tony Thomas’ “Living It” and Tony Senghore’s “Hey Chica.” The one-two-knockout combination of Marcus & Dominique’s “Oil & Steal” and Illana’s “5.05” that concludes the disc reaffirms the vibe and attitude that permeates the compilation: it’s not for the faint of heart and it’s not to be missed.
The only problem with a CD like this, ironically, is that it’s both so good and easy to obtain that Marcus & Dominique will undoubtedly be continent-hopping before long. Perhaps, then, Decks And The City will join the ranks of Global Underground, Bedrock and Renaissance, as a series that marks the boundaries of the superstar DJ, thereby backfiring on its original aim. But until that point — when the music comes to you — this is as good a reason as any to visit New York City.

—Greg Teves

Up the Bracket, The Libertines

If you’ve got Mick Jones producing your debut album, then you must have done something right. Such was the hype surrounding London’s The Libertines that the four lads managed to snag the ex-Clash lead-guitarist to man the controls for the recording of Up the Bracket. (Such was the hype surrounding The Libertines that I was surprised to find them sitting on WOBC’s new-releases shelf for over a month before the Review covered it.) But as the gods of British rock n’ roll would have it, this Jam and Clash-loving bunch of wasters have actually thrown together one hell of a good piece of pop trash.
Up the Bracket proves that the rock media’s labeling of these fellas as “the British Strokes” has nothing to do with their music and everything to do with their timing. The Libertines sound about as much like the Strokes as the White Stripes do. Their debut’s 14 tracks whip through earlier British punk and maximum R & B like they’ve been doing it for decades. The luscious jangle of the guitars and Peter Doherty’s and Carlos Barat’s slurred vocals show that their studio money was spent on Guinness rather than on second takes. “Horrow Show” is all Fenders and misspent youth, and on the gloriously ragged “The Boy Looked at Johnny,” you can just see the four of them loitering outside their public school smoking Benson & Hedges, sipping on Tenents lager, and cursing passers-by.
The Libertines are less about musicianship, songwriting, or guitar chops, and more about well, attitude — ballsy, sneering, debauched British rock attitude. Up the Bracket is the soundtrack either to the next Guy Ritchie gangsta flick or the summer you spent in London on five pounds and two pairs of underwear. And this quartet, it seems, cares little for rock’s passing fancies, for as they sing in on this album, “I get along singing my song. People tell me I’m wrong. Fuck ’em.”

—John MacDonald