No, Virginia… by the Dresden Dolls was released on May 20, 2008. Although I had to wait a bit longer than that because I ordered directly from the band in order to get a signed liner note. (faaaaaanboy) Apparently not considered a full-on studio album, No, Virginia… is made up of the left over bits from their previous album, Yes, Virginia…, and a small recording session the band did early in 2008.
So why yesterdays confusing preamble for a quick album review post?
It’s all about artist growth my friend.
The Dresden Dolls first release essentially was essentially about all the left-over angst and pain of a previous relationship. The album is one giant cathartic fuck you to whoever was stupid enough to screw over the band’s leader singer (Amanda Palmer). Its pain, its anguish, its anger, it’s tenderness, it’s the closest you’ll thing you’ll find to a digital soul.
After the album’s release I found that subsequent music from the band lacked much of the anguish, but none of thepassion. Unlike Tori, who buried her demons so far down that her musical fingerprint was completely changed, the Dolls choose to refocus their incredible energy into their music, allowing the band to grow musically but still retaining their core sound. And that’s part of why I admire this band so much.
Core sound is a huge pet peeve for me. I’m all for artists experimenting creatively with their muse of choice. It’s a necessary and crucial step for anyone. But I’m uncomfortable when
a) they push their sound so far that I can’t recognize what it is that attracted me to their music in the first place.
b) they experiment with being avant-garde just for the sake of it, with no thought whatsoever to whether people actually have any interest in going down that particular path.
I take in a respectable amount of alternative media, stuff that will never find a large audience, but nothing pisses me off more than watching or listening to an unintelligible, opaque vanity piece that no one beside the artist is allowed to understand. I don’t need a road map but at least give me a decent shot at unraveling the message.
Anyway, No, Virginia… neatly tracks the Dolls artistic growth while allowing them to strike out in new directions.
I always categorize Dolls’ songs in two ways, sparse and moody or frenetic and up-tempo. Traditionally I haven’t been as enthused with songs in the key of the former but this album seems to hold all the exceptions that prove the rule. No, Virginia… has all the musical highs of any Dolls album and absolutely none of the lows.
Bar one.
The Dolls cover of persistent 80’s favourite, Pretty in Pink, hurts my ears so badly I want to make the pain go away by shoving a screwdriver into my brain. I don’t blame the band, even the Dresden Dolls can’t make a pig turd smell like Chanel No. 5. This is a song I was genetically pre-disposed to hate, no matter who sings it.
It’s hard to tell you why you should listen to this album. The phrase “It’s absolutely amazing Brechtian Punk” will mean nothing to you unless you’re already a fan of the sound. So let me clue you in, it’s punk piano playing, the likes you never seen, pounding drums and, for a change, they’ve even thrown in some light guitar this time out. It’s a pair of musicians who do their level best to leave a little bit of themselves on the recording. It’s for those who are interested in music that doesn’t always play it safe.
The best songs on the album are Dear Jenny, Night Reconnaissance, Mouse and the Model and The Kill. That’s a pretty extensive cross section of the album, but one that highlights all of the band’s strengths.
But don’t just take my word for it…
Showing posts with label Dresden Dolls. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dresden Dolls. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Monday, June 16, 2008
Muzak: No, Virginia...(Pt. 1 Prelude to a Review)
I loves me some Tori Amos.
From 1992 to 1998 I was privileged enough to be able to hear four amazing studio albums from her, plus a plethora of singles, remixes and side projects. It was some of the most powerful music I have ever known.
She was very much a product of her musical era, a 90’s singer/songwriter, showing off the softer, but no less tortured, side of grunge/alternative.
Then, in 1998, she seemed to make peace with many of her inner demons and her music went from soul-searing to light and breezy, and I lost my connection to her.
I enjoy female singers much more than I enjoy male ones. I touched on part of the reason for that in my Weezer Red album review. I find the majority of male-fronted musical ventures, who even touch on the subject of love, to be nothing more than sad, sappy bastards who waste my time moaning about how much they love some unobtainable woman.
I spent the majority of my late teens and early twenties doing the same thing so I fail to see the appeal. Why should I pay to hear some wanna-be rockstar complain about how, when he waves around his popularity and a fistful of cash, some groupie doesn’t throw herself at his feet fast enough. Gee I can totally relate to that scenario.
Pass.
So I found myself gravitating to female artists, the angrier the better.
Which is where I stumbled onto the Dresden Dolls. They opened for NIN at a concert about four years ago. I generally try to avoid opening acts like the bubonic plague but I’d made an exception for this one because I wanted to be as close to the stage as possible when Trent and Co. made their appearance.
Watching the Dolls (Amanda Palmer and Brian Viglione) play on stage that night was akin to listening to Little Earthquakes for the first time. I’ve seen plenty of concerts and watched lots of musicians strut and preen but I’d never seen someone actually play themselves to the point of collapse before. This wasn’t music it was a live exorcism. There was a demon in that keyboard goddamit and Palmer was going to get that thing out of there if she had to rip it apart with her bare hands.
Hells yah.
I was sold. I had my Tori back. I had the anger, the passion and the sheer human pathos digitally etched into my brain. This is what I wanted out of my music.
So I bought the album, played it all day, every day, for about a month, drove my roommate at the time abso-friggin-lutely nuts and thanked my stars that I’d been lucky enough to find the Dresden Dolls.
From 1992 to 1998 I was privileged enough to be able to hear four amazing studio albums from her, plus a plethora of singles, remixes and side projects. It was some of the most powerful music I have ever known.
She was very much a product of her musical era, a 90’s singer/songwriter, showing off the softer, but no less tortured, side of grunge/alternative.
Then, in 1998, she seemed to make peace with many of her inner demons and her music went from soul-searing to light and breezy, and I lost my connection to her.
I enjoy female singers much more than I enjoy male ones. I touched on part of the reason for that in my Weezer Red album review. I find the majority of male-fronted musical ventures, who even touch on the subject of love, to be nothing more than sad, sappy bastards who waste my time moaning about how much they love some unobtainable woman.
I spent the majority of my late teens and early twenties doing the same thing so I fail to see the appeal. Why should I pay to hear some wanna-be rockstar complain about how, when he waves around his popularity and a fistful of cash, some groupie doesn’t throw herself at his feet fast enough. Gee I can totally relate to that scenario.
Pass.
So I found myself gravitating to female artists, the angrier the better.
Which is where I stumbled onto the Dresden Dolls. They opened for NIN at a concert about four years ago. I generally try to avoid opening acts like the bubonic plague but I’d made an exception for this one because I wanted to be as close to the stage as possible when Trent and Co. made their appearance.
Watching the Dolls (Amanda Palmer and Brian Viglione) play on stage that night was akin to listening to Little Earthquakes for the first time. I’ve seen plenty of concerts and watched lots of musicians strut and preen but I’d never seen someone actually play themselves to the point of collapse before. This wasn’t music it was a live exorcism. There was a demon in that keyboard goddamit and Palmer was going to get that thing out of there if she had to rip it apart with her bare hands.
Hells yah.
I was sold. I had my Tori back. I had the anger, the passion and the sheer human pathos digitally etched into my brain. This is what I wanted out of my music.
So I bought the album, played it all day, every day, for about a month, drove my roommate at the time abso-friggin-lutely nuts and thanked my stars that I’d been lucky enough to find the Dresden Dolls.
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