Landamar

"Your lover now is your enemy, but you see her again at the end of a dream"

Singer/Songwriter Adam Hitchell
of Chicago's Landamar

Landamar is the project of Chicago singer/songwriter Adam Hitchell, a friend and one-time fellow student of mine at Millikin University in Decatur, IL. Formerly calling himself Ten of Swords, Hitchell recently released the album Dry Spell under the Landamar name and resumed playing with a rotating lineup of musicians, including original Ten of Swords collaborator Chresten Hyde. Hitchell compiled an impressive group to support his country rock/indie folk compositions on the album, the backing instrumentation providing a fullness and richness that perfectly rounds out his thoughtful and intricate acoustic guitar and piano-based songwriting. Combine the best of Ryan Adams, the Wallflowers, and City and Colour, then quietly intensify the vocals, and you can begin to imagine the overall feel on Dry Spell. Suffice it to say I'm excited to see him playing with a full group again.

Hitchell took the original name for his project from the Tarot deck, in which the "Ten of Swords" is the most portentous card. Its illustration, that of a body on a beach pierced by ten blades, signifies the worst of fortunes, but beyond this scene lies redemption—a calm sea and a rising sun—since, at our absolute lowest, we can only find better days ahead. Dry Spell conveys such highs and lows, with a well-balanced mixture of up-tempo country rock and more moderate, crestfallen lamentations. The second track on the album, "Everybody Knows," begins with Hitchell's signature fingerpicking style, its intricate mix of suspensions and hammered-on melodies belying a single player. The band's entrance a few bars in feels patient and methodical, with layers of electric and lap steel guitars, piano, harmonica, and drums that all compliment, rather than complicate, the core of the tune, instilling it with mystery and mourning and capturing a lover's reluctant acceptance of the inevitable.

Landamar's 2013 release, Dry Spell

Contrasting with that track is "Little Girl," which begins with a descending vocal melody ("Well I thought you were a woman...") and immediately erupts into a wall of Nashville-worthy country sound that effectively writes off this "little girl" who "need[s] some growing time" before she'd make a worthy companion. Double-tracked vocals and soaring harmonies contribute to song's intensity, and the layers of instrumentation—especially the organ—fill out the song while leaving space where the primary guitar and vocals need it. The best part comes at 0:54 (and then returns twice later), when Hyde begins to strike the snare on each down beat and Hitchell's vocals call out decisively in constant eighth notes for two straight measures. If "Everybody Knows" is about regret, "Little Girl" is about moving on.

But my favorite track on the album by far has to be "Medicine," a line from which stands as the epigraph to this post. Opening with light acoustic strumming and delicate, breathy vocals that hint at an emotional exhaustion, Hitchell's melody builds upward at the turn of the verse as he sings, "You couldn't live up to anything," then drops down dejectedly to the tonic as he emphasizes, "oh, no." The swelling string and lap steel arrangements, twangy, lightly distorted electric guitar, and soft piano tinkerings support the raw emotional content throughout, helping it build toward a series of peaks that provide bittersweet but satisfying tension and release. And there's about eight seconds, starting at 2:37, where the drums drop down to light, constant strokes on the ride and the strings play a quiet tremolo, that may be the greatest moment on the album. More than any other song, "Medicine" combines the best of Hitchell's reflective lyricism and the band's passionate musicality—features that have made Dry Spell a mainstay of my music collection.

Hitchell and Robbins of
Lonely Companion

I've had the opportunity to see Hitchell play on quite a few occasions, both formally and informally, and I always look forward to watching his sets. He's a stellar guitarist whose easy delivery makes his fairly complex arrangements come across effortlessly, and when he plays solo it feels almost as though you're listening to a (slightly) larger group. As they do on Dry Spell, Hitchell's live vocals combine a richness and a raspiness that reminds me a lot of Richard Edwards from Margot and the Nuclear So & So's. In recent years, he's also played with wife Jessica Robbins in the group Lonely Companion, and while I've not heard any of the pair's original work, they do a fantastic cover of Fiona Apple's "Extraordinary Machine" (the link goes to Hitchell and Robbins' cover) that shows off both her vocals and his guitar playing (not to mention a fairly adorable dog). I'm told Lonely Companion is about to release their first original recording sometime in the very near future, so keep an eye out for them. And finally, while they have nothing scheduled currently, both Landamar and Lonely Companion have played frequently in Chicago, so keep watching their respective sites for dates as they do return. I know I will.

Happy listening.

Jeniferever

"There's a taste left of yesterday—a reminder of how the good things never stay."

With constant, moderate tempos, layers of reverb-laden guitars, and subtle, half-whispered melodies, foursome Jeniferever weaves together the best elements of ambient, shoegaze, and indie to create songs felt ultimately in the gut, or in the hollow of the chest. Songs of the aftermath, that leave an impression and move and haunt me long after I've walked away from my stereo.

Jeniferever

I discovered Jeniferever while searching through artists related to two of my favorite bands, Last Days of April and Logh, both of whom, like Jeniferever, hail from the great musical nation of Sweden (a country which, given its better contributions, can be forgiven the miserable panderers ABBA). I'd been feeling a bit nostalgic a few days ago and was listening to LDoA's 2000 release Angel Youth, which led me to their Deep Elm labelmates Logh, which led me, finally, to the bands' compatriots Jeniferever. Such is the beauty of Spotify.

In addition to the track "From Across the Sea" (2006, linked to above through the band's name), the songs "Alvik" (also 2006),  "The Hourglass" (2009), and "The Beat of Our Own Blood" (2011) provide an introduction to both the variety and evolution of Jeniferever's sound. Constant throughout each are fairly moderate tempos, which allow the group to draw out and develop melodies and motifs around the vocals and complex guitar arrangements. The multiple guitars in these and other tracks are marked by significantly independent, yet somehow complimentary, arpeggiations and runs whose harmonies and dissonances are intensified by liberally applied reverb and delay. The instrumentation, atmosphere, and overall contour of the band's songs—especially the tendency of the drums, guitars, and other instruments to swell epically toward an emotionally charged, central climactic point—remind me of Texas' Explosions in the Sky; but, whereas that group allows their instruments to tell the entire story, Jeniferever vocalist Kristofer Jönson provides a vocal and lyrical overlay that differentiates the group from others like it.

Beautifully complimenting the band's instrumentation, Jönson's vocals appear as quiet, melodic pleadings and resignations, tossed out or almost whispered, even as each song's intensity grows. This approach fittingly reflects the lyrical content. Take, for example, the opening lines of "Swimming Eyes" (2006): "A silhouette's passing by in front of your eyes / Someone walking through the crowd / That's just her body, it's not her / Just a reflection of a time that's lost." Jönson's delivery communicates the longing, the despair, the near inability to say what needs be said in these lines. Subtlety is a lost art, it seems, a fact especially apparent in the base explicitness of modern lyrics, or in the way vocalists feel the need to over-express themselves to the point where nothing means anything special; by contrast, Jönson's presentation calls the lyrics' meanings into greater relief, reflecting the content in the form.

Jeniferever's first full-length album,
Choose a Bright Morning

At the risk of being the guy who always claims to prefer "their earlier stuff," I do enjoy Jeniferever's first full-length effort, Choose a Bright Morning, best as a complete album (in my defense, I did say I liked Lost in the Trees' newest work in my last post). My favorite track, though, is probably "The Hourglass" from the band's second full-length, Spring Tides, and their 2011 release Silesia does diverge enough from their previous work to make it stand out. But the group is definitely able to put together albums, not simply collections of songs—yet another rare but important art. It goes without saying that I  hope for another release in the future.

I somehow never realized it, but it turns out I listen to a lot of Swedish indie, emo, and post-whateverisfashionable (no one has ever been able to satisfactorily explain to me what "post-rock" means, which leads me to believe it's a hipster word invented solely to satisfy the ego...but I digress). Something about the way Swedish vocalists pronounce their English-language lyrics bends my ear—it sounds almost as if they sing everything with a constant "r" shape in the soft palate—and there's an atmosphere about the music that makes a lot of state-side rock seem disappointingly flat. In addition to Jeniferever, Last Days of April, and Logh, I'd also suggest listening to The Knife, Lykke Li, The Hives, Shout Out Louds, and The Cardigans, all of whom represent slightly different veins of Swedish rock, indie, electronica, and pop.

If you want to learn even more about the Swedish music scene, the Chicago-based rock talk show Sound Opinions, hosted by critics Jim DeRogatis and Greg Kot, recently featured Sweden as the first stop on its "world tour" (you can listen to the episode as a podcast by clicking here). Their guest, Swedish critic Stefan Wermelin, provides a wonderfully informative and interesting look at how American and English music made its way to Sweden, and how Swedes transformed it into something all their own. If you're a music fan and you don't yet subscribe to Sound Opinions, I'd highly recommend it. Kot and DeRogatis are incredibly eclectic in their tastes, their analyses are top notch, their guests are phenomenal, and their reviews are spot on.

Happy Listening.

Lost in the Trees

"As a color she'll rise from the water, a golden light."

After two weeks of searching through bands and finding nothing terribly compelling to write about, I thought perhaps this little venture may have been in vain. Then I came home from class a few days ago and found the song "Red" by North Carolina's Lost in the Trees pulled up on Spotify—courtesy, once again, of my wonderful wife. I have listened to nothing else since.

Lost in the Trees

A larger group built around writer/composer Ari Picker, Lost in the Trees released its most recent album, A Church That Fits Our Needs, in 2012. The album was written, the band's website states, as a tribute to Picker's mother, who took her own life in 2009 and whose beleaguered, off-center portrait composes the album's cover.

The tracks "Walk Around the Lake," from the 2009 effort All Alone in an Empty House, and "An Artist's Song" from Church provide a strong introduction to the band's diverse but cohesive sound. The group synthesizes a variety of stylistic influences, from softer, folksy acoustic elements reminiscent of Damien Rice to more energetic, multi-instrumental powerhousing a la Arcade Fire. Lost in the Trees' instrumentation includes traditional rock's acoustic and electric guitars, bass, and drums, but also features piano, strings, dulcimer, and electronic instruments and tracks in more than a secondary, supportive role. Different instruments are featured on different tracks, creating varied atmospheres and moods, and the combination of male and female vocals further colors the band's sound.

Cover, A Church That Fits Our Needs

One of the most compelling aspects of Lost in the Trees' music is how the band uses time, often shifting between or using atypical/irregular meters and signatures. "Neither Here Nor There," the first full song on Church (after the album's short intro track), begins with an instrumental introduction that can be counted several different ways, then breaks into a verse in 7/4. "Red," linked to above as well, employs likewise atypical meters, oscillating between measures of 5/4 and 6/4 in the verses, then moving into a chorus whose meter I'm still trying to count. Heavy, wet snare and cymbal hits intensify this effect in "Red," calling attention to the way the female vocals and string instruments seem to drop down early from the top note of their ascending melody. Not all the band's songs make use of such metrical acrobatics, but those that do have a sort of sway, a driving-forward that couples seamlessly with the vocals and instrumentation in a way that distinguishes the band from others, like Animal Collective, who also play with rhythm and meter.

Overall, I enjoy the music on Church best, as it makes the most intentional use of the band's unique talents. I only wish I could better understand some of the lyrics, though more precise diction would detract from the mystique of Picker's vocals. What other groups have you found that feature similar sounds? Let us know via comment, and make sure to post a link of some kind.

Happy listening.

Turn off this blog and go outside.

I first heard Rocky Votolato when he opened for The Get Up Kids at the Metro back in 2004. Anyone who has listened to him--especially the album Makers--will immediately note the incongruity in having these two people/groups perform at the same show (though that lineup wasn't nearly as perplexing as that of a show I attended soon after, which featured Motion City Soundtrack, The Get Up Kids, Thrice, and...ready for this?...Dashboard Confessional--no show before or since has had a greater diversity of tattoos and screaming teenage girls). Rocky's name was printed on my ticket, but he was the first of two opening acts, and I didn't yet have the respect I now do for such people. I didn't bother looking him up before the show, figuring I'd spend his set checking out the merch tables or trying to wheedle my way to the front row. I--like most everyone else there--hadn't given a moment's thought to who he was or what he sounded like, figuring it would be the same brand of loudish, indistinguishable alternative rock concertgoers half-listen to before the group they came to see goes on.

Rocky Votolato

So when a single individual with an acoustic guitar and a harmonica walked out onto the stage in front of the other groups' equipment, introduced himself, and went into a rhythmical, folksy, and entirely acoustic first number, the crowd fell silent. We were intrigued. 1100 people had come to see a rock show, and this was not rock. But it wasn't bad. In fact, it was very, very good. We were silent throughout each song--so silent, in fact, that he thanked us for being so attentive to him, considering we'd come for something very different than what he was playing. Undoubtedly, Rocky Votolato had followers before that show, but we certainly hadn't known of him. Now we did. And we liked what we heard.

Since then, Rocky has become one of my favorite musicians, and I've found countless others who play in a similar (though always original) vein--The Civil Wars, for example--all because I randomly discovered him while trying to hear someone else.

A somewhat similar thing happened to me a few weeks ago. My wife, who has introduced me to more music than I can remember, pulled up a band, Milo Greene, which she'd heard while watching a TV show. She'd known immediately I would like them, and when I came home from work one day, she had them pulled up on Spotify--a service I'd long shunned because, frankly, I felt like it was just a way for people to brag about the hipness of their musical tastes. And the band was amazing. For two weeks, I listened to nothing else.

But then I got curious. I began to peruse the "Related Artists" section of Milo Greene's Spotify profile, and, lo and behold, there was good music there, too. Not all of it was good, obviously, and some of it I liked but knew I'd never listen to again. But some--well, I couldn't tear my ears off of it. Like The Lonely Forest. I honestly don't know what I've done without them my whole life. I can look back and literally re-imagine cross-country drives that would have been (even more) life-changing had I taken them while listening to "Turn Off This Song and Go Outside." And so, I'm beginning a bit of a journey here. I've started to hop from group to group, looking for related artists I like. When I find one, I listen to them for a while. Then I search their related artists. In this way, I've found music that is new, music that is old, music that's been hidden from me for one reason or another.

And occasionally I will blog about what I find, how I found it, and what about it I like. So. If you would like one more way of finding new (and new to you) music, let me do some of the work for you. If you have bands or artists to suggest, please do. And I promise I'll provide some dry humor along the way.

Happy listening.