REVIEWS [ALBUMS]

proggy percussion, guitar deluges, and spectral organ into a bluesier, more anxiously desperate quest for catharsis. But their absolute focus liberates them, as bursts of chaotic instrumentation coalesce behind Jonny Bell’s frayed yowls on the patiently unfolding psych of “Andrew” and “Memorized.” His intense lament on “Time Erased”—“Now it’s too late / To find our way back home”—sounds as inspiring as it is ominous. ABIGAIL EVERDELL

became worthless, self-important humans—“the joke of all existence,” he concludes. The emo-punk angst is cut with little of the band’s trademark wit or ingenuity: Most of the songs plod bloodlessly to an inevitable, pointless climax of noise, sour humor, and teen nihilism. SPENCER KORNHABER

menacingly before swelling into a sunlit chorus, while “Winter Hill” wrings sweetness from breakup sadness. It’s familiar, sure, but Kingdom of Rust has a welcome warmth. JOSH MODELL

Cursive Mama, I’m Swollen

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MYSPACE AMAZON
Interminable cry against
man’s inhumanity, etc.
It would be charitable to
assume Cursive’s sixth
album is satirical, but that’s
the only way to stomach
all the humanity-hating
it holds. Tim Kasher, now
34, narrates some dude’s
responsibility-ditching
wanderings while obsess-
ing over the fact that we
all used to be worthless,
instinctual animals that

The Datsuns
HeadStunts

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Time to discontinue
the brand? (See auto.)
As fourth albums by
Down Under betwixt-
garage-and-metal bands
who’ve never lived up to
their initial hype go, the
Datsuns’ HeadStunts is
not without charms—
“Eye of the Needle” rides
some adequate space-
guitar swirl atop its
Gary Glitter rumble, and
the more concise and
gang-shouty “Highschool
Hoodlums” could’ve half-
way passed as Antmusic in
1981. But especially once
you listen beyond these
New Zealanders’ signature

PJ HARVEY AND JOHN PARISH

high muffled vocal hooks, the music mostly lies limp, even in speed-rock mode. Still, think Jet or Silverchair could do better at this point? CHUCK EDDY

but the time off hasn’t inspired any tectonic changes. And that’s a blessing: On their fourth album, Doves consistently deliver outsize rock drama, with slight diversions into New Order–ish electro (“Jetstream”) and hints of garage psych (“House of Mirrors”). Mostly, though, it’s all about the melancholy rafter-reaching, like Coldplay on their darkest day. The title track chugs

Extra Golden Thank You Very Quickly

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Okay, Vampire Weekend,
class is now in session!
This hybrid group—two
American indie vets and
two Kenyan benga musi-
cians—twist rock and
African riffs into drum-
head-tight grooves on
their third album, a feast
for multiethnic guitar
nerds but also a lively mix
that anyone can dance to.
Mid-fi recording at guitar-
ist Ian Eagleson’s parents’
house (!) adds a homey
vibe, “Ukimwi” is a shim-
mering prayer for the end
of AIDS, and the title track
chronicles the chaos back
in Kenya and wishes for the
best. Important reminder:
“You never know when
you might be next.”
JOE GROSS

Marianne Faithfull
Easy Come, Easy Go

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Battered bird takes second
flight on borrowed wings
Reuniting with tribute-
album master Hal Willner for
another intricately arranged
and wide-ranging covers
collection, this fallen British
Invasion angel again proves
she lacks the flexibility that
jazz demands—she simply
can’t swing. But when she
interprets material (from
downbeat bards Randy
Newman, Colin Meloy, and
others) that matches the
drug-ravaged wreckage of
her vocal chords, she kills:
This will likely be the only
time songs by Dolly Parton
and Morrissey coexist as
equally devastating accounts
of personal apocalypse.
BARRY WALTERS

Doves Kingdom of Rust

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Imagine Chris Martin if
Gwyneth shafts him
These Brits’ last record
came out back in 2005,

Fever Ray
Fever Ray

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Swedish enigmas’ sisterly
half gets even eerier
The ashen bird mask, the
possessed-pinball-machine
beats, the vocals doctored

No Regrets
Iconic gloom merchants mellow out—somberly

This is depeche Mode’s 12th studio album, but it’s only the second they’ve released since the dance-rock style they helped invent caught fire among crate-digging hipsters half their age. On 2005’s noisy Playing the Angel, frontperv dave Gahan and his bandmates seemed eager to prove that they were still as edgy as heirs like interpol and the Rapture (“A pain That i’m Used To” was the ominous lead track). Their point apparently made, Sounds of the Universe comes on a bit softer, with less industrial guitar clang and more of chief songwriter Martin Gore’s dreamy atmospherics; there’s definitely nothing as breezy as “Just can’t Get enough” here, but cuts like “Fragile Tension” and “peace” coast along on the kind of catchy synth-pop grooves depeche Mode specialized in throughout the ’80s.

Of course, the lighter sonics hardly convince glamourpuss

Gahan that it’s puppies-and-rainbows time: “The way you move has got me burning,” he moans at the top of opener

“in chains,” the latest addition to what certainly must be rock’n’roll’s longest s&M-themed songbook. Later, in “hole to Feed,” the singer breaks the news that “this world can leave you broken inside,” while lead single “Wrong” catalogs the considerable mistakes that Gahan has made over a lifetime spent chasing women and wine. dude doesn’t sound sorry in the slightest. MIKAEL WOOD

DEPECHE MODE Sounds of the Universe

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Show them the way to the next whiskey bar—oh, don’t ask why...

FROM TOP: MARIA MOCHNACZ; ANTON CORBIJN

78 APRIL 2009 / BECOME BE T TER LOOKING, VISIT SPIN.COM