Photo courtesy of U2.com
U2: “No Line on the Horizon” (Interscope) (rating: 6)
Hip-hop drum beats, strange reflections in ATM machines, mournful church organs and a female boot fetish. Without question, “No Line on the Horizon” sounds like no other U2 album that came before it; whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing remains to be seen.
Though the texture-heavy “Horizon” ultimately demands more than one listen to fully cement itself in the listener’s mind, the first few songs play it safe, making us believe that “classic U2” sound is firmly in place. The rumbling, surging title track may not try to do anything remotely new, but that’s because it doesn’t need to: the moment Bono unleashes his impassioned full-throttle wail for the first time, it’s impossible to turn away.
The Fly’s voice hasn’t sounded this good in years, but instead of using his pipes to grant us some massive group catharsis, Bono instead uses the opportunity to eloquently describe a girl who reminds him of the sea, changing for him every day. As “Horizon” marches on, things get increasingly more surreal and frustratingly less memorable.
“Restart and reboot yourself” the band shouts on the heavy-handed “Unknown Caller,” somehow demanding we change our lives for a greater good, even if that good is never completely defined. What stings most about “Horizon” is how there is absolutely no thematic cohesion to the album.
At the end of the day, “No Line on the Horizon” is an easy album to dismiss and an even harder disc to love, and some people will be ready to call it a masterpiece just as others are ready to deem it an outright failure. Neither assessment is correct, but that doesn’t mean either is without its merits: U2 may have rediscovered the art of subtlety, but when it comes to triumphantly uniting the world behind them, small gestures have never gone very far.
— Evan Sawdey
Photo courtesy of NekoCase.com
Neko Case: “Middle Cyclone” (Anti-) (rating: 5)
One of independent music’s most visible pin-up girls, Neko Case has all the right attributes to make the indie boys swoon. Both attractive and talented, she is difficult to resist in any setting; her rich, clear-throated trumpet of a voice would be a pleasure to behold even with the worst of cacophonies accompanying her. Save for Case’s voice (and the riotous cover artwork), “Middle Cyclone” is puzzlingly substandard.
This proves all the more perplexing given the album features a smorgasbord of distinguished guest musicians including members of Calexico, the Sadies, the New Pornographers and M. Ward.
Sonically, Case continues to branch out from the ever-so-slight experimentation she flirted with on her last studio album, 2006’s “Fox Confessor Brings the Flood.” While it worked to varying degrees there, here it fizzles, consistently marring the fragile beauty of the basic elements of Case’s sound — frugal drums, ringing guitars and, of course, her own siren twang.
Some will find the odd twists and tics gracing “Middle Cyclone” exhilarating and will hail it as a defining document from the New Weird America.
However, this disjointed collection of tattered ditties pales in comparison to the haunted American gothic soundscapes Case painted on “Furnace Room Lullaby” and “Blacklisted.” The starkness and austerity of those two albums were its chief virtues, creating an aura of preciousness that ringed the songs like a halo.
Hanging all manner of gewgaws upon them like a cheap Christmas tree destroys that presence of feeling — like daubing Case herself with bright red lipstick, purple eye shadow and thick globules of mascara. Sometimes, beauty is best left unadorned.
— C.T. Heaney
By Evan Sawday and C.T. Heaney / McClatchy Tribune
