Recommended Recent Records Round-Up II (Morrrr)

Rrrr is back with another brace of recommended records, freshly skinned and gutted for your pleasure and convenience. This week's catch of the day includes firebrands, safe hands, comedy raps and guitar attacks. Hit up the comments below to give your take on any of these albums (or any other new albums). I'm also curious to find out whether the Satisfaction/Interest review scale is working for people or if it comes off as unnecessary and overcomplicated. Let me know!

Tyler, the Creator, Goblin

The controversy swirling around Tyler the Creator and the greater OFWGKTA rap collective has been suitably covered by the internet (Google it if you need a catch-up. Short version: it's all a bit rapey), so I'm going to restrain myself from commenting on Odd Future beyond the bounds of this album, Tyler's second solo LP and his first to be released through a label. Goblin is strangely reminiscent of Kanye West's Dark Twisted Fantasy on a conceptual level: a sprawling exploration of a troubled psyche, long stretches of total brilliance pierced by dozens of tiny, repulsive moments.

Like Tyler's first album Bastard, Goblin opens with a hypothetical conversation between Tyler and his therapist, an intense dialogue of petty tirades and self-recrimination that's revisited through the rest of the record. Musically, Goblin seems like a conscious step away from the smooth electro sheen of its predecessor; it's a bleaker take on hip hop that better suits its creator's nihilistic, self-flagellating fuck-you stance.

It's harder work for the listener, but the likes of 'Nightmare' and 'Her' effectively strip back the layers of surrealism and bravado to reveal a 20 year-old kid still fretting over female rejection and struggling to reconcile his own contradictions. The bangers are still there, albeit better hidden and always subverted: tracks like 'Radicals' ("Kill people, burn shit, fuck school") and 'Sandwitches' see Tyler and his OF cohorts flipping out with fire in their eyes and hate in their hearts. An album of two halves, Goblin is an unforgiving record that's as much at war with itself as with its listeners, aptly demonstrated by the brilliant opening line on standout track 'Yonkers': "I'm a fucking walking paradox/ No I'm not."

Satisfaction Score: 7/10

Interest Score: 9/10

Unintentionally Long Review Score: Whoopsies/10

Three Trapped Tigers, Route One or Die

What's this? A brilliant, genre-bending guitar band? And where are they from? London, you say? Well I never. Yes, Three Trapped Tigers are one of the few bands from the capital proving that UK guitar music hasn't hacked up its last gasp quite yet. At first glance, the trio's instrumental music could be folded into the math rock fold, all precision drumming and intricate riffage. But like most sub-genres, the description proves reductive. If we're talking genre, Tigers bear as much resemblance to the dream-punk of Fang Island or the expansive post-rock of Mogwai as they do Battles and their ilk. Route One or Die's seamless love-in between guitar, piano and fuzzed electro also evokes Scottish digi-punks Errors, but for all the comparisons, the band is staking its own claim here. Opening tracks 'Cramm' and 'Noise Trade' are unashamedly epic, the sweeping grandeur uninhibited by anything so staid as vocals. Later tracks see Tigers unwind a little, the intensity giving way to spacious stretches of lush electronics. With their three excellent preceding EPs, the band proved their potential but occasionally came off like mad geniuses struggling to contain the nuclear-powered behemoth they were creating. With Route One or Die they've established complete control, and now stand poised to inject some tiger blood into London's anaemic rock scene.

Satisfaction Score: 9/10

Interest Score: 7/10

The Lonely Island, Turtleneck & Chain

A glance at my recent piece praising The Lonely Island, among others, for their amazing collaborative spirit will hopefully convince you that, at the very least, The Lonely Island are substantially better than Welsh knuckleheads Goldie Lookin' Chain. Not a massive feat, sure, but the difficulty of eliciting chuckles on an ongoing basis through humorous raps shouldn't be underestimated. Second album Turtleneck & Chain sees the trio run the risk of outstaying their welcome, but for absurd giggles the album is easily the equal of Incredibad. Comedy highlights include a Pirates of the Caribbean-obsessed Michael Bolton ruining the boys' attempt at a smooth club anthem on 'Jack Sparrow' ("He's the pauper of the surf, the jester of Tortuga") and Andy Samberg's cheerful, Fresh Prince-esque description of being pulverised in a bout with cinema's most famous boxing icon on 'Rocky' ("People barfed in the crowd, they were going insane/ Then Rocky punched my nose bone into my brain").

But as ever, what makes The Lonely Island stand out is the genuine reverence for the genre they're working with, along with some genuinely good production, most notably on the Santigold-starring 'After Party', which could be a genuine club hit if the lyrics weren't so ludicrous. A couple of tracks ('Shy Ronnie 2') suffer for their reliance on the visual gags seen in the group's videos, but all in all it's a package that, against all odds, sees Samberg, Taccone and Schaffer match their previous work comedically and exceed it musically.

Satisfaction Score: 9/10

Interest Score: 4/10

Thurston Moore, Demolished Thoughts

With J Mascis' solo debut Several Shades of Why and now Demolished Thoughts from Sonic Youth frontman Thurston Moore, 2011 is shaping up to be a vintage year for elegant acoustic releases by veteran distortioneers. Unlike Mascis, Moore has previous in this area, in the form of 2007 solo collection Trees Outside the Academy. Demolished Thoughts picks up where Trees left off, centred around the delicate interplay between Moore's crystalline strumming and Samara Lubelski's violin. For this album, Moore has virtually abandoned the insistent drums that peppered his last solo record, uniting the tracks under a curious banner that mixes idyllic contentment with a vaguely sketched longing. Tracks like album centrepieces 'Orchard Street' and 'In Silver Rain with a Paper Key' bleed into each other perfectly, carrying over the album's appealing atmosphere from one track to the next. In that sense, Demolished Thoughts makes a superb mood album, ideal for wistful solo listening (staring dolefully through a rain-streaked window isn't obligatory, but would probably help). It's not all meditation music, however, with tracks like assertive foot stomper 'Circulation' testifying to Moore's gift as an expert craftsman of six-string textures.

Satisfaction Score: 7/10

Interest Score: 7/10

Recommended Recent Records Round-Up (Rrrr)

It appears I've been so consumed with writing articles about reviews of late that I've somewhat neglected to actually write any reviews. Of albums, at least. To redress the balance, here is a collection of choice sentences on some recently released albums that have been floating my boat in the last couple of months. This will also be the illustrious debut of Escape Artist's patented Satisfaction/Interest review scale (see here for long-winded explanation), which I'll be making use of from now on. 2011 has been a mighty fine year for new music so far, so look out for more of these round-ups in the near future.

Dels, GOB

Dels joins Ghostpoet in the vanguard of thoughtful British rappers directly inspired by the surely-knighthood-worthy-by-now Stockwell MC Roots Manuva. Sir Manuva even guests on Dels' first album GOB, bringing his husky drawl to blustering call-to-arms 'Capsize'. But for the most part Dels takes on tracks alone, showcasing both lyrical rigour ('Droogs' affectingly delves into the misery of domestic abuse) and the blend of drowsiness and animation that's rapidly becoming a hallmark of this fertile sub-genre of UK hip hop. With production split between Kwes, Micachu and Hot Chip's Joe Goddard, GOB's beats are an energising mix of monster synth, squalls of videogame electronics and intricate, intimate moments.

Satisfaction Score: 8/10

Interest Score: 8/10

The Pains of Being Pure At Heart, Belong

I wasn't overly impressed with PoBPAH's first album. It was hyped to all hell (they're from New York, did you hear?), and the odour of its Cure-ish, shoegaze influences far outstank the band's own musk. Frontman Kip Berman's nasal vocals didn't do much for me, either. So imagine my surprise when the band's follow up album turned out to be a hook-laden pop rock monster that's likely to dominate many a summer stereo. Belong is a huge improvement over its predecessor in almost every regard: the riffs are clear and punchy, the melodies are more powerful. Even those vocals are somehow less soul-destroying. The lyrics limit themselves to girls, summer and summer girls for the most part, but that's almost a plus for an album that demands mindless pogoing above all else. It was a close run thing between this and Yuck's excellent debut for this year's undemanding summer record par excellence, but Belong steals it by a cheerleader's ponytail.

Satisfaction Score: 9/10

Interest Score: 5/10

Panda Bear, Tomboy

Panda Bear's (aka Noah Lennox) Animal Collective cohort Avey Tare's first solo album Down There was Officially One of My Favourite Albums of Last Year, stuffed to the gills as it was with night-time mystery and just a hint of unseen threat. Tomboy, Panda Bear's fourth solo album, is the lustrous sun to Down There's spectral moon. Lennox's compositions here tread the same ground as previous album Person Pitch, all whimsical electronic hiccups and tribal rhythm. Tracks like 'Surfer's Hymn' and 'Last Night at the Jetty' send out beautiful waves of summery contentment, the latter summoning the spirit of the Beach Boys for a nigh-on perfect end-of-party nostalgia trip. No real change of pace for Panda Bear, then, but it's hard to demand change when the vibrations are so good.

Satisfaction Score: 8/10

Interest Score: 8/10

The Weeknd, House of Balloons

Teenagers are prone to brash statements; one of my best was the cripplingly short-sighted declaration that modern R&B was one of the only genres I'd never get into. Amidst the nauseating rash of late 90s/early 00s "urban" pop, I just couldn't think of any redeeming features for an overprocessed sound that seemed to rely on vocals that stretched a single note into a thousand belaboured syllables. Even back then, I was misjudging a lot of the music I was dismissing. But I certainly never saw a record like House of Balloons on the horizon. The album, released online by singer Abel Tesfaye and producers Doc McKinney and Illangelo, is deeply rooted in R&B, with Tesfaye's falsetto as lush and rich as Michael Jackson's, or Usher's. But this is R&B at a glacier's pace and with an Arctic, crystalline atmosphere. Tracks like 'High for This' and 'The Knowing' share DNA with the more melodic post-dubstep producers like Burial and How to Dress Well, dragging the beats out into new shapes while giving Tesfaye's stunning vocals ample runway space to take off. The best thing about it? You can download it for free at The Weeknd's website, here.

Satisfaction Score: 7/10

Interest Score: 8/10

Kurt Vile, Smoke Ring For My Halo

Hardcore lo-fi enthusiasts tend to sneer at the improved production values on Kurt Vile's last couple of releases of stripped back rock 'n' roll, recorded for Matador in proper studios rather than under an unmade bed in Philadelphia (a topic covered by Vile on 'Puppet to the Man'). For all right-thinking people who realise that being able to hear the motorway in the backround on an LP isn't the cure to all the world's ills, however, studio recording has given a new clarity to Vile's songwriting skills. Smoke Ring For My Halo is his best and most consistent album to date, 10 unmissable tracks rather than an hour of fuzz punctuated by flashes of brilliance. His lyrics, which we can now actually hear, are pleasingly layered, from the co-dependent desperation of opener 'Baby's Arms' to the brittle 'Runner Ups', which flicks a casual middle finger to the world ("When it's looking dark, punch the future in the face"). Vile is also becoming one of my favourite acoustic guitarists, his fingers deftly switching from heavy, buzzy strumming to intricate plucking. 'On Tour' makes for a brilliant centrepiece, a meandering spirit journey through the power and paranoia of a life on four wheels.

Satisfaction Score: 8/10

Interest Score: 8/10

Graphics vs. art in modern videogames

This is not a post that intends to argue that videogames do or don't constitute art. I believe it was Heraclitus of Ephesus who called this "a fucking boring debate". Art isn't a locked door that needs a password to gain entry. It doesn't respond well to rules or entry criteria. When we bark back and forth about art, what we're really discussing is indescribable differences in perspective, differences in the way we perceive the world. No one's right and no one's wrong. Having said that, green is irrefutably the best colour. I don't think you can deny this.

It's certainly hard to deny that the medium of videogames is at best considered cinema's irritating little brother, the hyperactive pre-adolescent clutching at the coat-tails of its betters for attention. There's a host of reasons for this, with roots within the games industry itself as well as the preconceptions of dismissive outsiders. I believe one of the reasons for many games being considered little more than toys is the industry's preoccupation with graphics.

I appreciate great graphics. There's a huge amount of craft and skill (as well as thousands of miserable, marriage-destroying labour hours, presumably) that goes into making a landscape both beautiful and interactive. Achieving graphics that encourage immersion, enhance gameplay or inspire player creativity is an artful pursuit. But graphics must sit within the larger visual realm; there must always be a point to pushing technology to new levels. Otherwise we're just fiddling with pixels.

Games that prioritise graphics without considering wider visual goals are usually pretty easy to spot. Recently, Killzone 3 proved a visual disappointment despite the big bucks spent on its development. All the bells and whistles are in place, it's just that they have nowhere to go. The game's visual design is so uninspiring that all the superstar rendering isn't driving towards any meaningful artistic goal. It's the equivalent of tearing open an immaculately wrapped, expertly ribboned Christmas present to find a collection of your dad's dandruff scattered inside. Pointless ostentation hiding an ill-considered core.

You might argue that depressing, drab industrialisation is the very point Killzone 3 is trying to make with its visuals. Very true, but does the game's visual identity actually succeed? Where are the incidental insights into the misery of life on Helghan? Does the look of Killzone's world affect how we want to interact with it? The game doesn't hold a candle to Limbo's pervasive sense of monochrome dread, or Machinarium's rusty, apocalyptic charm. Even the Gears of War series used its vision of "destroyed beauty" to enliven its backstory and evoke a sense of a historical grandeur now turned to rubble. With Killzone, all we get is an unending, featureless sea of rivets, railings and warehouses, populated by a faceless army of cockney Nazis.

The ever-expanding library of downloadable titles on all platforms, less burdened by the expectations of cutting-edge graphics, is proving that videogame art can be impressive without graphics. It's a shame that so many developers, and so many gamers, refuse to acknowledge that graphics are utterly useless without art. We can only hope that as this industry emerges from its rebellious teenage years with a full complement of pubes and an art degree, our perceptions of visual beauty in games evolves and, to some degree, inverts. Who knows, maybe in this new utopia, The Secret of Monkey Island will be considered one of Xbox Live Arcade's most beautiful games, and Shadow Complex one of its most ugly.

Review: 13 Assassins

With something in the region of 30 films plopped out since 2000, Takashi Miike has to be one of the most productive directors in the world. He's also indisputably one of the most extreme, with releases like Ichi the Killer, Audition and Visitor Q clawing at the boundaries of taste and sanity. Of course, with such an extensive back catalogue, he has also been responsible for comedies and family-friendly fare, but it's his more horrifying output that has predominantly established his reputation in the West.

13 Assassins, one of Miike's most accessible and straightforward films to get an international release, might go some way towards persuading Western audiences of his diversity as well as his fertility. The film is a straight-ahead samurai epic (chanbara) based on the relatively obscure 1963 film of the same name by Eiichi Kudo. In the period just before the Meiji Restoration in 1868, the sadistic and murderous young lord Naritsugu, brother to the Shogun, threatens Japan's stability when he is invited to assume a more powerful position in Edo. A secret plan is hatched by the Shogun's advisors to kill Naritsugu before he arrives. The task is entrusted to veteran samurai Shinzaemon, who gathers 12 like-minded warriors to ambush the sick puppy at a quiet village along the way.

Given Miike's reputation, 13 Assassins is a surprisingly stately affair for the first two thirds of its run-time. Classic samurai movie archetypes abound as Shinzaemon gathers his crew of murder machines, including the gruff and skillful Hirayama (a clear riff on the strong, silent template elsewhere exemplified by stone-faced lone wolf Kyuzo from Seven Samurai) and Ogura, the enthusiastic youth with little experience but a warrior's spirit.

The grimy fingerprints of Miike's horror past are still present, primarily in the early scenes depicting the cruelty of Naritsugu. Goro Inagaki plays Naritsugu like a spoilt child idly burning ants with a magnifying glass as he rapes newlywed brides and uses children as target practice for his bow. Most disturbing of all, and most distinctly Miike, is a village girl who Naritsugu punishes by slicing off all her limbs and cutting out her tongue. This is Miike's odd comfort zone, and the director effectively conducts the misery of these scenes to firmly mark out Naritsugu as an irredeemable nightmare, and a valid target for our heroes.

Once the scene is set and the assassins' trap is laid for their target and his 200-odd retinue, a sleepy Japanese boarding village is the scene for one of the most drawn out battle sequences in recent memory. It rivals some of Kurosawa's set pieces for sheer length and depth, but without any of the let-up that the legendary director built into his battles to allow the audience (and the characters) a breather.

Arrows split the sky. Houses are blown up. A herd of weaponised cattle is unleashed. And above all, there are sword fights. Hapless bodyguards are slashed and skewered in almost every conceivable way, each of the assassins slaying their foes in a variety of styles. It's a smorgasbord of carnage, and it's consistently thrilling in its sheer commitment. The action is shot brilliantly, the camera capturing the grit of combat, the bloody haze in the air and the stunning beauty of the battle's forested surroundings with equal vigour.

The audacity of the final battle does hide some lingering flaws. Tonally, the film veers from relative accuracy to moments of surrealism in a way that proves jarring. Both styles are executed well, but being asked to simultaneously believe that 13 samurai could chew through several hundred armed men and that the film's events also took place in a realistic historical setting is a little too much. Given the preposterousness of the film's concept, a more general sense of style and surrealism could have served the film well, as well as making its more baffling moments part of the fun.

The acting, especially by Koji Yakusho, who invests chief assassin Shinzaemon with wry humour and fatherly empathy along with all the honour and determination, is convincing, but few characters are given more than one layer. The group's number is unwieldy as well, too many of the 13 remaining essentially anonymous and undefined as characters.

The fact that 13 Assassins doesn't transcend the limits of its genre isn't necessarily a criticism. By the looks of things, that was never Miike's intention. 13 Assassins happily sits within the chanbara genre, content to take the themes set by its predecessors and execute them with startling conviction. In this sense, the film's main strength is echoed by one of its best (and possibly slightly mistranslated) lines, spoken by Shinzaemon upon being told of Naritsugu's depravities and the mission at hand: "I will achieve this task...with magnificence."

Review: Attack the Block

Contrary to the opinions of those who live north of the river, plenty of stuff happens in South London. There's a tennis thing every year. We made dubstep in our bedrooms out of clicks and clacks and rat-a-tats we scavenged up in Croydon. We're fairly proficient at murder. All these things and more can be found below the city's belt in London's sweaty crotch.

One thing South London doesn't have is a decent alien invasion. These tend to be reserved for giant American conurbations like New York and Los Angeles; when they do stray over the Atlantic we usually have to make do with a couple of shots of the London Eye falling over or Big Ben blowing up. Even North London got its own zombie apocalypse with Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg's Shaun of the Dead.

With Attack the Block, the debut film by Joe Cornish (of Adam & Joe fame), South London is finally getting its own slice of the supernatural, and we've not been let down. The film follows a group of young muggers and assorted other residents of a Stockwell tower block as they struggle to defend their turf from a batch of snarling, toothy extraterrestrials (or "dem tings", as they are referred to at one point) that have crash landed on the estate. It's a simple set-up that's minimal on exposition, making room for a breakneck pace, punchy dialogue and innovatively orchestrated action scenes.

The aforementioned Shaun of the Dead is one of the first touchstones for Attack the Block, and not only because Edgar Wright is one of the movie's executive producers. The two films share an incredible knack for finding an elegant, unobtrusive balance between humour, characterisation and surprisingly raw horror elements. As our five anti-social heroes, along with the lady they mugged a couple of hours earlier and a foppish suburbanite stoner trapped on the estate, tool up to scrap and scrape through the night, the script makes room for their personalities to bloom in the background without endless reams of clunky exposition.

Attack the Block's performances range from solid to excellent, with the gang's leader Moses a particular standout. Young actor John Boyega brings a bullish physicality to the role, investing Moses with a brooding toughness and fiery charisma reminiscent of a young Denzel Washington. He's the nucleus around which the young punks revolve; his gravitas gives the rest of the gang license to differentiate their characters, from smartmouth whippet Pest to the gentler, altogether more bespectacled Jerome. Special mention should also go to Nick Frost as good-natured drug dealer Ron; though only a peripheral character he makes a disproportionate impact on the film's gag rate.

The Shaun of the Dead comparisons only stretch so far. Audiences are unlikely to find their sides splitting quite so often as with Wright's rom-zom-com; Attack the Block is an action-horror movie first and foremost, and its primary appeal lies in brilliantly kinetic skirmishes. Our boys' encounters with the alien invaders feature pacy chase sequences, claustrophobic brawls through council flats, improvised explosives and more than a couple of grisly demises. In fact, the movie's backdrop of perpetual night and its synthy score often recalls vintage John Carpenter sci-fi like Assault on Precinct 13 and Escape from New York. The film's superb sound design also does a great job of modulating the myriad audio cues, cleanly separating bestial screeches, the roar of misused fireworks and clipped one-liners so they never interfere with one another.

The design of the movie's mysterious space critters might be divisive in its simplicity, but Cornish's creature effects team has turned a limited budget into a virtue here. Somewhere in between giant wolves and gorillas in shape, the creatures are wreathed in slimy shadow, the blackness of their forms pierced only by luminous rows of razor sharp teeth. They're bestial and bruising, and their design economically highlights the only thing that matters: those teeth and how fast they can get at your throat.

Attack the Block might not match up to this summer's blockbuster leviathans in scope or budget, but it's almost certainly destined for cult glory. As such, this plucky South London underdog might end up being fondly remembered far longer than even the glossiest superhero epic. Joe Cornish has made a movie that's lean and mean, without much green; a masterclass of economical filmmaking. He may also, at 42 years of age, have emerged as British cinema's exciting new talent, with a movie that feels more youthful and vibrant than any Harry Potter. Fancy that.