My #1 Pick: St. Vincent – Actor
Lilting orchestral fantasias erupt into noisy guitar freak-outs while Annie Clark’s sweetie-pie voice gives breath to disturbing, Lynchian lyrics.

Bat for Lashes – Two Suns
Utterly modern…music for a synthique tribe! Hints of Kate Bush, of course, but Bats for Lashes has its own flavor of weird.

Black Tape for a Blue Girl – 10 Neurotics
A big departure for Black Tape. Slight traces of ethereal goth remain, but this is far more in the cabaret vein. An almost Weimar-esque fixation on sexual fetish is writ large in acoustic tones.

Zoe Boekbinder – Artichoke Perfume
Bluesy, whimsical vaudeville constructed from carefully layered sound. And that voice! I’d like to live inside that voice!
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As evidenced by the odd lyrical reference and the lush packaging that accompanies their albums, there has always been a sensual element to the work of Black Tape for a Blue Girl. However, this erotic undercurrent has sometimes been obfuscated by the swirling depths of the group’s epically ethereal aesthetic. If Quadranotics, a sampler of songs from the upcoming album 10 Neurotics, is a good indication, the next Black Tape record will substantially amp-up the sexual content and pair it with a new and exciting musical direction. At first blush, this seems like a risky prospect; not for nothing, Black Tape is one of the few darkwave acts who have a sound that is both immediately recognizable and distinct from the more imitative practitioners within the gloom-and-doom underground. 10 Neurotics, then, will be something of a gamble, but the songs on Qaudranotics indicate that such a bold artistic move that could potentially alienate the average Black Tape fan is actually poised to revitalize the project.

The first track on the sampler, a reworked version of As One Aflame Laid Bare by Desire’s “Tell Me You’ve Taken Another,” illustrates just how far Sam Rosenthal and company are willing to expand the group’s sonic palette. Where the lyrical narration of a man with a fetish for being cuckolded was formerly delivered amidst waves of synthesizer, it now floats along a breezy arrangement of guitars, flute, and Brian Viglione’s archly musical drumming. More startling is the increased range that the album promises; “Inch Worm” is a piano-based cabaret number, while “Sailor Boy” is a sea-shanty-with-a-twist. And yet, despite the changes, fans of ethereal whisperings shouldn’t turn up their noses at what is to come; “Caught by a Stranger” blends ethnic touches with electronics in a way that will likely please devotees of Wench, Dead Can Dance, Unto Ashes, et al.

I can honestly say, with no trace of hyperbole, that after hearing Quadranotics 10 Neurotics has shot to the top of my list of albums I am most anxious for in 2009. As a bonus, Sam R. has been blogging about the process of writing and recording the album here. Check it out and become enthralled!

The musical progression of Unto Ashes is like a study in sonic reincarnation except instead of each incarnation coming closer to a state of blissed-out nirvana, every new iteration is darker and more grim than the last.  Which is really saying something for a project whose previous offerings yieldings songs with such dour titles as “Teach Me How To Drown,” “I Cover You in Blood,” and “Song for a Widow.”  In a sense, the Unto Ashes oeuvre is like Dante’s Inferno–only there is no end to the descent, just a bottomless well of misery.  And so it is with the latest release from Unto Ashes, The Blood of My Lady.  This incarnation of the project find most of more baroque influences stripped away.  In its place is a bare, spare apocalyptic sound with rich acoustic guitars and occasional cello and horn to round out the palette.  Again in contrast to past albums, on The Blood of My Lady Michael Laird has assumed the main vocal duties; the effect is much more solitary and much more personal.  And amazingly, the result is the most melancholic Unto Ashes album yet.  Perfect for thinking about days gone by, and days that will never arrive.

Though at first I was a little unenthused by Morrissey’s Years of Refusal, it turns out that the album is a grower, not a shower.  (Normally, I would feel bad about making such an obvious joke, but since Moz compared his bollocks to powderkegs on the last record, I think I get a free pass.)  More muscular and aggressive than his past few efforts (think big guitars instead of torch ballads), Years of Refusal’s rock bombast initially covers up the album’s intricate, intelligent structure, but repeated listens reveals that Morrissey hasn’t missed a trick.   From the exploration of how love of a place can supplant love of a person in “I’m Throwing My Arms Around Paris,” the seemingly newfound realization that, despite his career of whinging about it, there are worse things than being unlovable on  “That’s How People Grow Up,” and the wry observations on the ambivalent nature of emotional attachment in “All You Need is Me,” Morrissey is still the poet laureate of effete, sensitive souls.

Somewhere along the line the lads in Franz Ferdinand decided not to live up to the promise of their debut album.  Their self-titled record had it all: artful edginess, clever lyrics, and an almost effortless rhythmic precision.  Tonight: Franz Ferdinand, the band’s third effort, possesses no tracks with the dark fire of “Jacqueline,” “Take Me Out,” “Dark of the Matinee,” “Darts of Pleasure,” or “Come On Home,” and feels hollow and illiterate when compared against its predecessors.  Though one could argue that they were already hitting the downhill slope with You Could Have It So Much Better, Tonight has little going for it aside from its lead-off singles “Ulysses” and “No You Girls,” and even those are lacking the usual wit.  Sure, the band has imported some electronica and afro-pop (whatever that means) influences, but a few new quirks doesn’t even begin to make up for the lack of interesting tunes.

Addendum: Okay, this has grown on me a bit.  Enough to warrant another half-diamond, mostly on the lyrical strength of “Twilight Omens.”

Since Kill the Buddha! is a live album commemorating Attrition’s 25th anniversary tour, I feel the need to state my bias upfront: I don’t generally like live albums.  At best, they manage to capture exactly what makes a band’s live show unique (think Rasputina’s A Radical Recital) or at least pack-in enough non-album tracks to make it worthwhile to diehard fans (as is the case with The Dresden Dolls‘ A is For Accident); unfortunately, most concert records fall far short of both ideals, and offer only muddy, energy-deficient performances that lack the immediacy of having been there in person.

And yet, I have to admit that Kill the Buddha! is an excellent example of what the enigmatic Attrition live experience is like.  I’ve seen Attrition twice (in two different countries, no less) and this album gives a fine indication of what yoan expect out of an Attrition gig: cold electronics, throaty male whispers, and soaring soprano vocals.  As a bonus, the recording is crystal clear; if not for the occasional applause of the appreciative crowd, this could pass for a recording conjured-up in the studio.  Also, I would be completely remiss if I didn’t note that the version of “I Am Eternity” featured on this album is absolutely brilliant.  Light a fistful of incense and it’s just like being there…

If you’ve got a whimsically morbid child (or whimsically morbid adult) in your household, Coraline is the movie to catch in the theater this season.  When the blue-haired heroine Coraline moves to the Pink Palace with her family, she quickly finds a secret door that seems to lead away from her rainy, humdrum world to a place that is something like the Stepford Family version of paradise.  If constant attention, entertainment, and cake are what every child desires, the Other Mother is there to provide it in abundance.  Of course, not all is what it seems, and Coraline discovers that the “new and improved” family on the other side of the door has  truly wicked Gothic past.

The plot—based on Neil Gaiman’s book of the same name—is a near-perfect parable about wish fulfillment, and the visual design of the film is absolutely captivating.  While Henry Selick’s work with Tim Burton on The Nightmare Before Christmas is the most obvious touchstone, there are also elements reminiscent of Jhonen Vasquez (particularly the Beldam) and perhaps even a smidgen of Stephen Gammell’s creepy illustrations.

Note to the caretakers of the young: While Coraline was a bit more grotesque than I expected from children’s fare, you should not hesitate to take your charge to see this movie.  Children need to see terrible things and endure cautionary warnings.  It helps them develop character when they grow up.  Everyone here at Liar Society was exposed to childhood trauma in their early years, and look how we all turned out.

If there is a market for industrial cyberpunk sci-fi, I hope it isn’t a very discerning audience because both The Gene Generation and Repo! The Genetic Opera have very little to offer.

The Gene Generation is a muddle.  The plot is supposedly about “gene hackers,” or somesuch, but really it is about Bai Ling in industrial club gear fighting Bad Guys and occasionally taking showers.

(Oh, one last thing about the “gene hacking”—apparently it makes your body sprout all sorts of scary, yucky tentacles.  Now, I’m not a scientist, but I’m pretty sure that’s not how genetics works.  Unless, of course, we’re talking about Hentai Science.)

Bai Ling is at once the movie’s greatest asset and it’s greatest detriment.  She has a certain appeal that will fulfill a lot of rivethead fantasies, but…she can’t act.  At all.  And she isn’t even the worst offender among the main cast, so I’m not sure there is really a reason to watch any of the scenes other than the ones where Ling assassinates people to a Combichrist beat.  Unless, of course, you have a deep need to see Bai Ling in the shower.

(I’m not kidding about that Combichrist jab.  They did approximately 90% of the soundtrack and even have a cameo.  Get yr body beat ‘n’ stuff.)

But if The Gene Generation is shallow judged on its own merits, it’s Citizen Kane when watched back-to-back with Repo! The Genetic Opera.  By shooting for “cult classic” status, Repo! shoots itself in the foot.  Cult status can’t be quantified; it’s elusive, and the result of people genuinely recongizing something wonderful that has been overlooked by the mainstream.  Repo! feels like the result of a brain-storming bull session gone horribly wrong: “Ah ha!  I know what those pasty-faced, black-clad kids like!  If we combine The Rocky Horror Picture Show with a ton of Hot Topic outfits, they’ll love our movie exponentially!”

No, not if they have any taste.

While there are a few interesting visual elements to Repo!, they’re swiftly swept aside by a tidal wave of plotless plot, nonsensical scenery chewing, clumsy storytelling, and interminable singing.  Oh my god, the singing.  There was no reason this movie should have been a musical, and there should be a law against whoever is responsible for the mind-numbing mix of opera, Avril Lavigne-weight pop punk, and atrocious industrial rock.  At one point during one of the movie’s many musical numbers I realized I was frowning harder than I ever have before.

Everyone involved in this farce should feel ashamed of what they have wrought.  Personally, I think Sarah Brightman is in this flick because she lost a bet.

The Gene Generation:

Repo! The Genetic Opera:

In Let the Right One In, Oskar, a young boy who is mercilessly bullied at school, makes friends with Eli, a young girl who just happens to be a vampire.  Of course, having a vampire as your best friend when you’re being bullied is really advantageous, but this Swedish import avoids being a simple case of revenge porn; instead, it offers up a surprisingly tender look at innocence, trust, love and the sacrifices we make for it.

There are a lot of life lessons to be had in Let the Right One In, but  those life lessons are punctuated by scenes of gore and violence.   And that’s the most surprising thing of all about this film: it balances those two extremes in a perfect, sublime,  and truly endearing way.

The Last Horror Movie is a poor man’s Funny Games.

Here’s the set-up: you start out watching a really bad horror flick about a murderer on the loose in a diner, when suddenly it’s interrupted by a smug British git who tells you that he’s taped over the movie you rented from…wherever.  And then you get to watch his DIY documentary about his life as a serial killer.  The footage features a few stabbings and strangulations, but 85% of it is comprised of him pontificating directly into the camera.  The only thing worse than being trapped with a serial killer is being trapped with a pedantic serial killer.

The Last Horror Movie ends in the worst way possible.  I’m going to spoil the ending if you read further, but it’s for your own good.  I do this out of love.  He tells you that he watched you rent the movie, followed you home, and OMG HE COULD BE RIGHT OUTSIDE YOUR WINDOW WATCHING YOU!!!111BBQGODZILLA!

I don’t think it’s out of the question that the people who are responsible for making this movie should be hunted down and punished by vigilantes.