
New music: Thom Yorke and Mark Pritchard, PUP, Phil Haynes & Ben Monder, Borusan Istanbul Philharmonic Orchestra
Tall Tales (Warp)
Tall Tales, the first full-length collaboration between Radiohead singer Thom Yorke and electronic music pioneer Mark Pritchard, captures two prolific artists without much to prove and whole worlds left to explore.
Tall Tales captures their shared, endearing spirit of experimentation in a collection of dystopian, prog electronics that will satisfy fans of both artists. Across the album, Pritchard's inventive productions and use of vintage electronic instruments serve as a perfect foil for Yorke's darker lyrics and mournful vocals.
The opening track, A Fake in a Faker's World, serves as a mission statement. There, Pritchard presents a whirlwind of digital sounds, with Yorke's human voice the sole organic element.
A strong middle section begins with Back in the Game. The opening lyrics evoke the project's genesis during the pandemic: 'Have you missed me? How've you been? Back to 2020 again.' As in so much of Yorke's work, the track blends emotional despair with an infectious musicality.
It is anchored by the album's two catchiest tracks. Gangsters evokes 1980s video games with its use of a Mattel Bee Gees rhythm machine. This Conversation Is Missing Your Voice follows with a propulsive electronic-pop energy that falls somewhere between Gorillaz and Squeeze.
The late songs gradually add analog instruments to the mix, and by the finale, Wandering Genie, the initial musical premise seems almost inverted: In the beginning, Yorke's voice was the only organic sound; by the end, it's all recognizable instruments and his voice has been digitized beyond recognition.
Atop analog flute, bassoon and pipe organ, a mechanical Yorke brings the journey to its coda, repeating the single lyric, 'I am falling.' And in 2020, who wasn't? ★★★★★ out of five
Stream: Gangsters; Back in the Game
— Jim Pollock, The Associated Press
PUP
Who Will Look After The Dogs? (Little Dipper)
For those unfamiliar with Toronto-based punk rock band PUP, the name is an acronym for 'pathetic use of potential,' lead singer Stefan Babcock has said. That should give listeners an idea of the snarky rejection of perfectionism at the core of this group.
It should also be kept in mind when this reviewer says that PUP's latest offering is, well, not good. And compared to their previous work — it's not. But good is probably not what they were going for.
The quartet has come up in the past decade as a punk-pop rock staple, combining Babcock's yelled lyrics about human fallibility with humour and catchy, head-banging melodies, but Who Will Look After the Dogs? is missing the invigorating electric guitar riffs and cohesion that made past albums so solid.
The group's fifth studio album focuses on Babcock's relationships with romantic partners, bandmates and with himself. On the album, Babcock shares his vulnerable side, not the first time for the singer who has an open history with depression.
Dark, self-deprecating humour permeates the album — and PUP's work as a whole — such as on the gritty Olive Garden, when Babcock asks a past romantic partner to meet up at the restaurant, ('Last time your Grandma was in a coffin') or in the bittersweet Hunger for Death.
Some songs take a step back from the band's usual frenetic energy, especially the ones reflecting Babcock's romantic relationships. That is where the album can tend to lag, such as on breakup ballads Best Revenge and Shut Up.
There are pleasures and missteps across the album, but the latter outweighs the former, making this one of the weaker releases across the band's animated discography. ★★ out of five
Stream: Olive Garden
— Kiana Doyle, The Associated Press
Phil Haynes & Ben Monder
Transition(s) (Corner Store)
Drummer Phil Haynes has said he sees jazz musicians falling into one of two camps — traditionalists and modernists. His goal is to bridge the gap he sees as unnecessary.
Within his releases are riffs that might be called traditional but are, in fact, ideas present in Ellington or other earlier artists. This album puts him in duet mode with wonderful guitarist Ben Monder. Together they explore the meaning of 'modern' within a fascinating array of acoustic and electronic moods that are 'new' yet somehow seem familiar and comfortable. It is a terrific romp.
Clearly the overall impact here is electronic with sonic swirls augmenting the guitar. Monder weaves a wide range of moods with lingering chords and drawn out effects. There are a series of brief interspersed tracks titled Ben I etc. or Phil ! etc. that are tiny solos. They add a neat flavour to the longer tracks while tying the album together.
The longer tracks, such as Untitled Ones, are quite slow and meditative with gentle melodies that never jar or seem forced. As Haynes wishes, the familiar is captured within a contemporary package. The title track, Transition, has a harder edge with Haynes' drum driving a recognizable tune.
A highlight is Too Easily, a version of the classic tune I Fall In Love Too Easily that is pure delight. Monder and Haynes move around the melody and each other with grace and melancholy. As the tune slides in and out of the solos it completely relates the lyric instrumentally.
The blend of unusual drum sounds with a guitar feature is often haunting. The final track, Epilogue, exemplifies this and seals off the album beautifully. Highly recommended. ★★★★½ out of five
Stream: Too Easily; Beyond
— Keith Black
Bartók, Enescu, Kodály, Martinů
Borusan Istanbul Philharmonic Orchestra (Onyx)
The orchestral music of Eastern Europe is celebrated with the Borusan Istanbul Philharmonic Orchestra artfully led by its new chief conductor, Carlo Tenanof.
First to bolt out of the gate is 20th-century Hungarian composer Bartok's Dance Suite, Sz. 77, its six movements propelled by forceful syncopated accents and ear-cleaning tonal clusters. Tenanof maintains a taut rein, ensuring its densely packed orchestration and kaleidoscopic, often shifting textures spotlighting individual players remains clear, from its opening I. Moderato, through VI. Finale: Allegro.
Another highlight by Bartok's close friend and musical colleague, Kodály, is Dances of Galánta. The nearly 17-minute work was inspired by the Roma dance bands of (now) Slovakia.
Tenanof's expansive approach brings sweeping romanticism to this five-movement pleaser, its unabashedly lyrical themes evoking the ethos of traditional 'verbunkos.'
By contrast, Martinu's Frescoes of Piero della Francesca, H. 352 reflects the composer's visit to Arezzo to see the famous 15th-century frescoes the History of the True Cross in the Basilica of San Francesco. Its finale, III. Poco allegro, is particularly compelling with insistent rhythm motifs and clear passagework in the winds.
Last but not least is Enescu's Romanian Rhapsody No. 1 with its halting opening bleeding into more fulsome textures and dancelike rhythms.
One can only wish to hear this work performed live, with the orchestra's well-paced, no-holds barred delivery practically leaping off the album and full of fire from the Old Country. ★★★★ out of five
Stream: Dance Suite, Sz. 77, III. Allegro vivace; Romanian Rhapsody No. 1
— Holly Harris
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31-07-2025
- CBC
How punk made me the trans woman I am
Emerging Queer Voices is a monthly LGBTQ arts and culture column that features different up-and-coming LGBTQ writers. You can read more about the series and find all published editions here. It's Sept. 4, 2020. I've just moved into residence at Trent University, in one of a number of new townhouse-style buildings satellite to campus proper that are creatively named "the Annexes." My roommate and I, still barely unpacked, have just met our next-door neighbours. In this virus-blanketed, pre-vaccine world, they will be our nearest form of human contact for the next eight months. In that ever-so-brief period of time, we and the 16 other people who comprise our floor of Annex B will come together and crash apart. None of that matters now, however; in this moment, we have no idea what's yet to come. Instead, in a moment of semi-normalcy amid the warring tensions between youth and quarantine, we are piled into my neighbour's car, driving to Walmart. As we pull out of the parking lot, dead as it will remain for the coming months since parents have abandoned their children to fate, she punches the stereo and slips a disc into the CD player. A guitar lick begins to play. It's Morbid Stuff by PUP. This is the moment that cemented a friendship which has lasted — well, not exactly a lifetime, since I don't speak to any of the people who were in that car today, but which at least burned with all the clamour and vitality that only youth can briefly muster. Fitting for a friendship forged over a hardcore record that it should be short, explosive and involve no small amount of drugs. Punk is a common language like that. It's something shared, something which — at its best — can be a vessel, and even a sort of catalyst, for these very formative moments in one's life. Sept. 4, 2020, was also the first time I introduced myself to a stranger as a woman. I'd already come out to some close friends and had scheduled an appointment to get referred for hormones in a matter of weeks, but this moment was perhaps the most crucial for me. It was a clean break from the person I'd been in high school and yet it was also the logical extension of the woman my hometown's hardcore scene had made me. I spent my youth in Ottawa, a sleepy government town that had a bad rap for being boring among people who grew up there. I went to one of the city's most stratified high schools, which pulled from one of its richest neighbourhoods as well as the single poorest. A school like that is a bad place to be queer at the best of times, and the years of the first Trump presidency weren't that. Sure, we prided ourselves on our tolerance and enlightenment, but there were harsh social reprisals for sexual deviance all the same. The kids whose parents bought them SUVs were never going to slum it with gender trash like me. So, instead, I found solace in the scene. Contrary to popular belief, the ByWard Market does not represent the entire spectrum of possibilities within Ottawa's nightlife. On any given day, I'd be forwarded a Facebook invitation to some DIY show at 8 p.m. on a Thursday night. The venues for such gigs were often "normal" spaces by day — bookstores, coffee shops and the like. But by night, they'd shove the furniture to one side, plug some amps into a power bar at the back of the room and have garage bands play 15-minute sets until the noise bylaw kicked in. Crowds of maybe two dozen tops, aged anywhere from 14 to their late forties, would gather in these impromptu concert halls to chat, drink and mosh until they were soaked through with sweat and their ears were ringing. My friends started dragging me to these shows sometime in the 10th grade. Being a Good Kid™ at heart, I first went under performed duress. However, the more I went, the more I kept coming back. Punk shows, I found, were a space to both figuratively and literally let my hair down — to be myself at a time when I felt I couldn't anywhere else. Part of it, no doubt, is that the demographic — especially in the younger crowds — skewed exceptionally queer. Stereotypes about blue hair's comorbidity with certain pronouns are easily reinforced at basement shows frequented by angst-ridden 16-year-olds. Adolescence is a period of social experimentation, and a subculture already relatively tolerant of weirdness and diversity is as good a place as any to do it. Being in the punk scene was the first time I made trans friends — the first time I made queer friends, really, who weren't white bisexual women. Some nights, I'd go and find the person I'd been chatting to the previous week had changed their pronouns twice in the interim. More than to just come as you are, the sense was to come as you wanted to be. No one at a punk show cares who you are, what you wear, whether you're not-quite-a-girl or just a guy with long hair. So dark are the interiors of these dives and holes that, really, it'd be remarkable if anyone even noticed. You're just one of a dozen, one particle orbiting the frenzy of the mosh pit, colliding at random with strangers, buzzing the whole time. Nobody's looking at you. No one's even listening to the band. They're just the social adhesive holding this moment together, enabling this collision — enabling you to lose yourself. It's in this moment that you're able to become somebody else. Doing this as long as I did, I developed something of a split personality. Well, being closeted had already bequeathed me said split personality, but my night life embodied it: Public me wore button-downs and skinny jeans to school. Other me wore friends' makeup and Harley boots to shows. And then we'd sit — my friends and I — on the steps outside these empty warehouses and all-ages clubs, bumming cigarettes off the older punks and fuelling teenage angst into urgent confessionals: "I think this body of mine is slowly killing me." "Don't you ever wish you were just born a woman?" We'd hug, and smoke, and cry, and rest on each other's shoulders on the bus rides home. Every night was the most important night of our lives. By the end of 2019, I knew I had to transition. I'd give you a date, but I can't remember much before my first hormone consult, just a jumble of self-loathing punctuated by these occasional one-night crescendos. I'd confessed my intentions to a friend at 2 a.m. one night while listening to Dark Days. She'd told me she was thinking of changing her pronouns. We decided to room together at university. Flash forward to Sept. 4. She's in the car beside me. See You at Your Funeral is playing over the tinny speakers. In two years, we'll stop speaking. This is one of the last good memories she'll leave me. The other is a year and change later, at the Bovine Sex Club in Toronto — our first show since the world shut down. Just like old times, but we're older now and both women. I'm wearing the same Harleys I'd worn at my first show. The steel toes poke through in places where they've been battered in the pit. I feel like a different person — in control now, for the first time, of my life. Yet under that skin are the same muscles that screamed after basement shows, the same vocal chords that ached from screaming too hard. The marks of the scene are still under my body, in my tastes and mannerisms, and in my ears, which still ring in spite of everything. I'm still the woman that punk made me, and whenever I hear those first notes of Kids, I remember that.


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