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General Motors’ luxury line has long been attempting to shift its appeal to younger markets.   Their latest effort, the new Cadillac CTS has followed suit.  Instead of taking the green route, as Ford has, the new Caddy offers some kitschy features including an internal 40 gig hard drive.  This on board data storage is a terrible idea.

Not only does this smack of a last minute ad-on, which offers its own set of problems, it is completely unnecessary.  Clearly nothing but a cheap attempt to scratch our tech itch, and anyone with any use for a device like this already owns personal media player.  Why would I want to move my music to an iPod then a car stereo?  How does this work anyway?  Does it rip discs?  Do I have to connect a computer to it?

The CTS is a well designed car.  Its lines are masculine and graceful with the touch of arrogance that Cadillac embodies.  The addition of the useless hard drive is inexplicably frustrating.  Even if it was a device I chose to use, I would need more storage.  How hard is it to squeeze a 200 GB drive into a dashboard?  Apple has nearly done it in a pocket-sized device.  Beyond my wounded pride as a consumer, I just plain don’t want to update two devices.  An iPod dock with steering wheels controls gives me the flexibility I need and the convenience I’m used to.

Genres are helpful.  They help us discover new artists.  If you’re anything like me, when you meet a stranger the conversation generally shifts to music.  If I meet a cute chick with good taste, we can easily get to the point without naming the five most obscure bands we know in a pathetic pissing contest.  Unless my new friend is an obnoxious twit and in that case we won’t be talking for long.  But that’s a separate issue.  When I first heard a relatively new British group called (the?) Klaxons was opening for Bjork at Madison Square Garden, I was intrigued: they called themselves “new rave.”  I didn’t remember hearing that thrown around recently, I wasn’t sure what to expect.

Turns out, its nothing new.  I could have described their music with any number of current (sub)genres without inventing a new one.  I’d say “electro-pop” works pretty well.  There are certainly elements of dance music in Myths of the Near Future, but they aren’t the focus.  Telling a stranger “I like new rave” does carry meaning beyond “I’m a Klaxons fan;” it also says “I get my opinions from NME/Pitchfork/UniversalPalette because I’m too stupid to come up with my own.”  If that’s what you’re goin’ for, good luck.

After some exhaustive research (I love you, wikipedia) I’ve discovered that “the word ‘klaxon‘ is derived from the Greek verb klaz?, meaning ‘to shriek’, and most commonly refers to air-raid sirens or other warning devices.”  How clever and appropriate.   From what romance language is “fucking annoying” derived?  We’re treated to a barrage of sirens and distracting noises throughout the album, but most painfully on track two, “Atlantis to Interzone.”  I think I had a flashback-seizure.

So, MotNF isn’t stellar, but its not without highlights.  At its best, its catchy, “Two Receivers” is easily the strongest track.   At its worst, its irritating.  A central component of the album is the three-part harmony, which will later be shoved down your throat with a large, jagged spoon.  I’m beating a dead horse now, but I don’t know how “new rave” communicates “three part harmony.”  It’d serve its users if it did.  Every track employs a microphone-gangbang.  I’ve got it!  Pornstar Barbershop Rave!

When the harmonies are done well, with an interesting style and in moderation, I like them.  “Golden Scans” is infectious, if not too similar to another early single, “Magick.”  The problem lies in a paltry selection of devices and a reliance on glossy production.  The hyper-stylized vocals suffer when paired with the equally dense arrangement, few sounds are free of manipulation.  Amazingly, they pulled off the harmonies at MSG without flaw, and the rougher live sound served them well.  Just quit it with the fucking sirens.

Klaxons - Myths of the Near Future
4.9 out of 10.0

A rating of 5 or higher is “recommended.”

There is no way to dislike this album. The expectation was oppressive following the cryptic announcement that In Rainbows would be available via internet only, at no predetermined cost. Pay simply “what you like.” Of course, the band’s past efforts, the hype surrounding the length in production and the band’s grassroots/anarchist release concept gave the mp3 generation’s boner a firm stroke. Fan or not, this release must have aroused at least your curiosity. Mission accomplished, before anyone hit ‘play.’

This album is a strange combination of band’s previous styles. Songs swirl from distorted riffs to canned beats in seconds. 15 Step grabs like Everything in its Right Place did for Kid A. The arrangement on All I Need is balanced and appropriate. Nude is beautiful. From the moment in 2001 that I heard a scratchy bootleg at 96kbps I knew this song was something special, but the production on this track is mind-boggling. It gets better. The climax being Jigsaw Falling into Place. An infectious rhythm section and some coherent, structured lyrics left me in pieces. I think I even heard a theremin in there somewhere. Videotape, while thinly veiled, is a terrifying indictment of fame and a wonderful closer.

If forced to counter myself, the freedom afforded by the lack of a big brother is underutilized. It seems as if in their effort to escape the reigns they’ve become ever so slightly conservative. We gain in the wallet and soul from their decision to give the album away; but do our ears benefit? Simply put, In Rainbows doesn’t take many risks. From a band that tossed off the sound that made them (The Bends) for a new, experimental phase (OK Computer/Kid A) and lured millions of admirers with their bravery, a little innovation is expected. That said, it’s awesome.

As artists realize that the internet is a more effective delivery system for their work, they’ll flock to it. It goes from computers in the studio to, to CDs, and back on computer again to iPods. Silly, right? Record companies don’t offer the consumer anything an artist can’t give them directly. Eventually, the music business will be back where it belongs, with musicians. I can understand why the suits are pissed.

Pleasing the hardcore fans while getting your Big Statement to the masses is perilous. They got their claws into me early, let me go just enough, then reeled me back in and I was flopping on the deck like a sturgeon. In Rainbows has a clear and defined arch that past efforts have lacked; you may not get the ground breaking record you expected, but this album is immediately lovable.

Radiohead - In Rainbows (Disc 1)
9.0

“The next stop is…59th Street.  Stand clear of the closing doors, please.”

Scores of suits line up shoulder to shoulder, clutching thrice-folded copies of the Wall Street Journal and Women’s Wear Daily.  They file on, quickly arranging in rows.  This is a familiar task.

Eye contact is strictly forbidden.  Noise, aside from strategically placed sighs, is not allowed.  The guy with sunglasses on for incognito breast ogling is a coward.

Usually, they stand in the spot most accessible.  Door real estate is prime.  Sitting?  Never.  Sitting is for the weak.

Today is slightly different.  As soon as the wafting odor of shit hits the nose of those filing on, alarm bells go off.

There is a clearing in the field of closely cropped hair and delicate up-dos.  A man, shorter than most, smellier than all, clutches a large black garbage bag of unknown contents.  He is hardly able to stand, and supports himself with both hands.  His eyes are tired; his wrinkles beyond repair.  “Avoid eye contact and huddle in the furthest reaches of the car.”  The suits repeat to themselves.  They steal glances at the dirty wretch, and curse him for his foul odor and poor appearance.

The train dances along, those inside swaying to the beat.  Most will get off at the next stop. Freedom is so close.

Suddenly, the silent tranquility is interrupted by an uninvited guest.

“Bzzzzzzzz.”

“What the fuck?”  Those that have noticed wonder.  “Where did he come from? How did he get in here? What are we gonna do?”  A new enemy has infiltrated the aluminum and plastic comfort of the train car.  He flies between heads, terrorizing those in his path.  Soon, everyone sees him.  They duck, tumble out of the way.  Some can’t escape, there’s not enough room.  The hunter is sizing up his prey, caught in a cage of industrialization.

It continues for an eternity.  Its us against him, but who will lead us in rebellion?  Some make feeble attempts with newspapers, only angering the mighty beast.  His pace increases, swirling from end to end at breakneck speed.  Women are terrified, men are climbing over each other.  Chivalry has been thrown out the window and children are ducking under benches on the grimy floor.

“CLAP!”

And everyone turns to look in the direction of the feeble old man.  He slowly pulls his hands apart to reveal the smashed carcass of the giant monster, dwarfed by his palm.

The crowd is relieved.  Everyone takes a deep breath.  The train glides to a stop.  As the doors open the crowd is showering the man with a thundering applause.  The old man’s pride is renewed, he smiles.