On January 29, 2010, my best friend and I took the 1 Train over to the scenic (and white as white can be) Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts near Columbus Circle, Manhattan. We walked past the landmark fountain and headed straight into the box office area where I had purchased our St. Vincent tickets three months prior. The concert was a limited show at the Allen Room in the Jazz building. They informed us that our tickets had been sent over to the Allen Room box office, not where I had initially purchased them, so, fearing lateness, we dashed – in fifteen degree weather, mind you – about four or five blocks in the opposite direction. Not exactly an easy task in dress shoes, but this was my first concert; I practically dressed like an Oscar nominee that night. After almost blindly knocking over a hotdog vendor on the sidewalk at one point, we arrived on time: Our respective eighty dollar apiece tickets in hand and a hope that the “free wine” courtesy of our stage-side table didn’t come with a nagging I.D. check. (I was nineteen at the time.)

When we got upstairs, we saw some nice (and massive) art on the walls along with a small foldout table selling copies of Actor along with t-shirts I didn’t much care for. Not many people had arrived. We wandered around, and my friend had to use the bathroom, so I waited for him in the hallway. Then, carrying a sparkling red, two-tone guitar, David Byrne walked right past me. Psycho Killer…qu’est-ce que c’est? So, doing what I thought was most appropriate, I shouted, “fa-fa, fa-fa, fa-fa, fa-fa-fa, far better!” He kind of turned his head at that, just a little bit. About a half an hour later, security let us in to the main theatre. The stage was in front of a clear window, a full moon against the New York City skyline. Very pretty.

Without an opening act, Annie Clark made her delayed entrance with a procession of musicians and proceeded to own the modestly sized stage with a performance of Actor in its entirety. I might add that, being right against the stage, the solo to “Black Rainbow” damn near sent me into cardiac arrest. Other highlights included: An amazing impromptu rendition of “Mistaken for Strangers” by the National, lovely underage guzzling of surprisingly expensive wine, an unannounced duet with David Byrne, Bon Iver (Justin Vernon) taking on the role of backing vocalist for most of the night, and of course, Annie mocking her own placement on the Twilight Soundtrack, “Roslyn”, when time came for her and Bon Iver to fulfill their contractual obligation to perform it. By the time “The Party” concluded the show, after an insane version of “Your Lips are Red”, I was so drunk that I stumbled outside afterward and started to harass random Manhattanites on the street as to whether or not they knew any good local restaurants.

I apologize for the lengthy pretense, but it’s important to understand that I had the utmost expectations for Strange Mercy. Forgoing a critique of the album, I’ve sort of shot myself in the foot with my affection for this woman; not only did I expect too much, but I expected it from someone who has matured into an entirely different person, a different artist.

But this progression was clearly foreshadowed: The independence of Marry Me surely appealed to fans of Kate Chopin (“Now, Now”, “Marry Me”), whereas Actor was at times outright romantic (“The Party”, “Just The Same But Brand New”). The prerelease vignettes for Strange Mercy (intended to be humorous) enforce yet another character change, depicting Annie as a cold and manipulative heartbreak with a bright red smirk on her face. But in her songwriting, this attitude is more a cautiousness developed over time than it is arbitrary toying—though that’s definitely a byproduct; and the fantastical magic of Actor, for better or for worse, is replaced on Strange Mercy with not-so subtle bursts of distorted soloing and malicious bitterness.

“Cheerleader” makes the declarations Story of an Hour couldn’t, “I’ve told whole lies with a half smile,” but the guitar eruptions are more unpleasant than they are cathartic. “Northern Lights” begins with a punk-like energy akin to “Actor out of Work”, but can’t contain itself.

“Strange Mercy” is a standout, using the guitar for more than just improvised scatting. “Oh little one, your Hemingway jawline looks just like his,” Annie carries along, showing that she hasn’t lost a beat when it comes to great narrative. The story turns to a melancholy guitar riff with some ghostly background noise to contrast with the calm beginning.

“Surgeon” is both violent and threatening, but it’s one of the catchier songs. On both “Surgeon” and “Cruel”, Annie takes blatant pop structure and gets more out of it than she does with the noisier approach of most of the album.

The first half of Strange Mercy didn’t thrill me, nor did it create the need to chase this violent femme fatale down the alleys depicted in “Cruel”. The second half was arguably more uneventful. “Dilettante” bored me; “Champagne Year” begins like a cover of Jeff Buckley’s “Hallelujah” before swaying into the sort of slow, thoughtful balladry that Actor did much, much better; “Year of the Tiger” shoots for an obvious oriental motif and makes a parody of itself in the process.

The cover art supports what I felt listening to the album: Suffocation. Whereas every windpipe, violin, and horn on Actor established the scenes the way a score should, the music on Strange Mercy is buried, literally, under unnecessary experimentation. (“Neutered Fruit” even goes as far as to feature a talk box solo.) I can understand Annie’s desire to break free from the preciousness that encased her first two records, but it was that inherent sweethearted quality combined with her sinister songwriting that created a fascinating juxtaposition. But all of that is gone here in favor of an abrasive guitar record that rarely interested me.

In the meanwhile, enjoy some music you probably don't understand!

Believe it or not, 2003’s “House of Jealous Lovers” wasn’t the first time that the Rapture hit dance music. In fact, two years prior, iiO released their worldwide club hit interpretation of the Second Coming, “Rapture”; and I much prefer the unabashed club pop of the latter over the DFA blueprint of the former. For a tad more (necessary) context, Blondie’s “Rapture”, released in 1981, was the first rap video to be played on MTV. What separates Luke Jenner and his Rapture from a number of others, is that he actually has faith as opposed to merely wanting a two syllable synonym for orgasm.

Despite the lingering religion in Jenner’s lyrics, In the Grace of Your Love is more a retro discothèque than it is a church choir. Jenner’s break from music – specifically, his band – even turned to a nostalgic softball fixation at one point, rekindling his lost dream of playing college baseball. But Grace isn’t “Glory Days” either. Hardly; in retrospect, “House of Jealous Lovers” – and arguably, the band as a whole – was a Time of Measurement effect (for those of you who have studied psychology). In other words, it was an influential event of a specific time. More so, it was a time before James Murphy put out albums as LCD Soundsystem—releasing two records, a self-titled and Sound of Silver, which effectively made the Rapture, and bands like them, obsolete.

“Sail Away”, surprisingly, as an obtuse opening wail almost dooms it before it even gets going, is a great single. Jenner soars to a wonderful peak and freefalls through a charmingly simple but thoughtful refrain of devotion. “Miss You”, however, is alarmingly inappropriate. The death of Jenner’s mother is the theme, but you wouldn’t know it given the dance-punk treatment. A series of club hooks doesn't equal to mourning; in fact, it sounds more like typical girlfriend drama. “Children” is my favorite moment on Grace; it’s simple, much like “Sail Away”, but Jenner – for the second time, counting “Sail Away” – gives an endearing performance worthy of his lengthy soul-searching in-between softball games and church choir meets.

But “Never Gonna Die Again” goes right back to the plastic disco shtick: A would-be Saturday Night Fever anthem way outside of Jenner’s vocal capabilities. “Roller Coaster” is harmless, and sort of fun, but its only standout moment amidst laughable blunders is when Jenner sings, “You’re the only thing I get out of bed for these days, forevermore.” Say what you will about the song…it’s a good lyric.

In the Grace of Your Love tries to have a heart, a heart that loves unconditionally (and constantly), but disco grooves and lighthearted strobe light anthems aren’t consistent vehicles for child-rearing, coping with loss, and growing up. The Rapture denies evolution, relying on the false prophecies of Echoes (2003) and Pieces of the People We Love (2006) instead of the few deviations (“Children”, “Sail Away”, and “How Deep is Your Love?”) where they resurrect as pop masters—and more than just those guys who did “House of Jealous Lovers”.

     I don’t enjoy ambient music, so the best I ever did in that regard was M83’s beloved second album, Dead Cities, Red Seas & Lost Ghosts (2003). But even that record is more an orchestral score than it is homage to Music for Airports. Maybe indie pop has spoiled me, but I can’t enjoy something unless it has a beat. Chillwave, a genre determined to induce the same impromptu daydreaming as ambient (but with an ‘80s tape deck feel), seemed to solve this problem: I could be swept away by cheerful sonics and hooks – possibly driven by a synthesizer riff as opposed to a vocal – whilst hip-hop inspired drum machines loosely kept my attention. Ernest Greene (Washed Out) is responsible for the popularization of this sound, and 2009’s “Feel It All Around” is a major reason why. I don’t like referring to music as hypnotic, but that song seemed to sync up with the rate of my brainwaves, leaving me in a slowed down trance of focus. (And yes, that is the legitimate cause of that disorienting feeling you may occasionally experience when listening to music or watching a movie.) 

     Greene’s long-awaited debut (after two singles and three EPs), titled Within and Without, comes as no surprise; the looping daze “You and I” even appears, previously featured on the Adult Swim singles project over a year ago. However, the big issue here isn’t a more of the same feeling, but rather that an entire album is spread across Greene’s all-too-content songwriting process: Reverbed vocals that sustain, sustain, sustain, but never change or differ, shimmering but quiet keyboard rhythms with accompanying waves of ambiance, and drums that generally expose the likely source of the recording/mixing—an iMac. Within and Without sticks to Chillwave pure, rarely adding anything new the way of Toro y Moi’s Underneath the Pine in terms of varying musical styles. Chillwave should feel and sound synthetic to an extent (as that’s sort of the point behind it), but not manufactured.   

     “Eyes Be Closed” is a copy of “Feel It All Around” minus the enthusiasm, whereas “Echoes” is too subdued; there are intricate sounds about, and an interesting synergy between those sounds, but it’s far too quiet. “Amor Fati” literally jolts the record, like two fingers snapped right in front of your face, and Greene sounds almost too confident against the sunlit bliss. (Expect to be quite familiar with “Amor Fati” by the end of the year, as the potential for film and commercial placement is astronomical.) “Soft” gets me into that trance again, but that’s just the BPM. The song itself is dull, and the title is an apt description. 

     Throughout Within and Without, I was hoping for Greene to deviate from his formula, to make a record more than fitting room background music for an Urban Outfitters, but it never happened. I wanted one or two songs without the reverbed vocal, without the pretentious soars that make you forget what’s important—is it his vocal (the plural is not appropriate here given the lack of variety), or is it the instrumentation? To the album’s credit, “A Dedication” came really close to what I was looking for after eight songs. And yeah, “You and I” is just as good now as it was a year ago, and seems to have been remastered, but it isn’t enough. Instead of embracing the wide awake sunlight of “Amor Fati”, Within and Without mostly induces those five minute naps on the train where your head slowly lowers to your chest before snapping right back up.