转p4k: (so mean)
转p4k: (so mean)
The Vienna-based, London-born producer SOHN is one of the more high profile examples of new artists whose vocabulary of R&B was formed almost entirely during the few months between the release of James Blake and House of Balloons—Blake’s vocal abstractions and hiccuping rhythms, the inelegantly wasted atmosphere of the Weeknd, with just enough outside that frame to foster a “nature vs. nurture” argument: Bon Iver’s subtle tweaking of Auto-tune, the monastic purity of How to Dress Well, and the vague appreciation of Sade. Just about the only thing sourced from more than five years ago is the occasional Timbaland beat as heard from the PBR&B O.G., Junior Boys’ Last Exit. Give Christopher Taylor this, he probably made a few good mixes back in the day.
But good taste is a crucial quality for music supervisors and owners of clothing boutiques, not necessarily songwriters. Which is just as well, since Tremors seems desperately wanting for the approval of the former two groups. As producer, Taylor only grasps the superficial aspects that made his influences timely, as opposed to what made them timeless—melody, rhythm, atmosphere, texture, just to name a few. As such, Tremors is nu-nu-indie R&B, cluttered, painfully stylized, and overaccessorized with baubles.
Rather than trusting a groove, triplet beats are bent out of shape for no reason and bump like a broken bicycle wheel. Chopped up and humidified vocal harmonies lend “The Wheel” an intriguing introduction, but what was once a subversion of R&B tropes has become a trope itself, lending an unintentional irony to the title’s usage in chorus (as in “reniventing…”). As those samples just stammer on throughout its entirety, the drum programming is the sound of James Blake endlessly rummaging through a bag of Tinkertoys. Even when “Artifice” becomes the first time that Tremors wisely settles into a steady rhythm, the soggy hook feels pulled from the depths of Infinity Pool, the last record from the similar, unfashionably late When Saints Go Machine.
Presumably, the songs with a less obtrusive production touch would fare better and they do in the sense that SOHN is trying to make music for commercials rather than “commercial music." As a vocalist, Taylor’s no showstopper, but he is capable, able to nimbly swoop from a blanched moan to falsetto when the situation calls for it. But for an album where every song is documenting some letting of blood, sweat, and tears, Taylor’s inability to generate grit or grain makes his earnest pleadings incapable of provoking any emotion other than the vague sense you could stand to buy more expensive shoes. He cries “it’s called home video” during “The Wheel”, Abel Tesfaye minus the all-in conviction in his debaucherous anti-seduction. And then you have the half-hearted metaphor of “Veto”, either Tom Krell or Arthur Ashin without their demonstrative, fearless emoting. During “Paralysed”, he rends his clothes while bemoaning his tangled intestines and being left dead on the roadside; it's meant as Tremors' centerpiece and can only muster the emotional resonance of a series of Mozz-bot Tweets.
That said, Tremors is actually kinda intriguing in a “canary in the coalmine” sort of way. It’s going to be framed as an “indie” record and in closing, take some time to thank yourself because Taylor couldn’t have done it without you. Think of what had to be overcome for this happen: literally decades worth of antipathy towards synthesizers, mistrust of acts incorporating R&B and pop, a side-eye towards vocal technical prowess, good old American provincialism. It does represent a weird kind of progress in establishing equality, almost heartening that all of these exciting fusions can result in “indie” albums based in pop and R&B and electronic music that are every bit as dull as your average Pavement or Yo La Tengo derivative from 1996.
The Vienna-based, London-born producer SOHN is one of the more high profile examples of new artists whose vocabulary of R&B was formed almost entirely during the few months between the release of James Blake and House of Balloons—Blake’s vocal abstractions and hiccuping rhythms, the inelegantly wasted atmosphere of the Weeknd, with just enough outside that frame to foster a “nature vs. nurture” argument: Bon Iver’s subtle tweaking of Auto-tune, the monastic purity of How to Dress Well, and the vague appreciation of Sade. Just about the only thing sourced from more than five years ago is the occasional Timbaland beat as heard from the PBR&B O.G., Junior Boys’ Last Exit. Give Christopher Taylor this, he probably made a few good mixes back in the day.
But good taste is a crucial quality for music supervisors and owners of clothing boutiques, not necessarily songwriters. Which is just as well, since Tremors seems desperately wanting for the approval of the former two groups. As producer, Taylor only grasps the superficial aspects that made his influences timely, as opposed to what made them timeless—melody, rhythm, atmosphere, texture, just to name a few. As such, Tremors is nu-nu-indie R&B, cluttered, painfully stylized, and overaccessorized with baubles.
Rather than trusting a groove, triplet beats are bent out of shape for no reason and bump like a broken bicycle wheel. Chopped up and humidified vocal harmonies lend “The Wheel” an intriguing introduction, but what was once a subversion of R&B tropes has become a trope itself, lending an unintentional irony to the title’s usage in chorus (as in “reniventing…”). As those samples just stammer on throughout its entirety, the drum programming is the sound of James Blake endlessly rummaging through a bag of Tinkertoys. Even when “Artifice” becomes the first time that Tremors wisely settles into a steady rhythm, the soggy hook feels pulled from the depths of Infinity Pool, the last record from the similar, unfashionably late When Saints Go Machine.
Presumably, the songs with a less obtrusive production touch would fare better and they do in the sense that SOHN is trying to make music for commercials rather than “commercial music." As a vocalist, Taylor’s no showstopper, but he is capable, able to nimbly swoop from a blanched moan to falsetto when the situation calls for it. But for an album where every song is documenting some letting of blood, sweat, and tears, Taylor’s inability to generate grit or grain makes his earnest pleadings incapable of provoking any emotion other than the vague sense you could stand to buy more expensive shoes. He cries “it’s called home video” during “The Wheel”, Abel Tesfaye minus the all-in conviction in his debaucherous anti-seduction. And then you have the half-hearted metaphor of “Veto”, either Tom Krell or Arthur Ashin without their demonstrative, fearless emoting. During “Paralysed”, he rends his clothes while bemoaning his tangled intestines and being left dead on the roadside; it's meant as Tremors' centerpiece and can only muster the emotional resonance of a series of Mozz-bot Tweets.
That said, Tremors is actually kinda intriguing in a “canary in the coalmine” sort of way. It’s going to be framed as an “indie” record and in closing, take some time to thank yourself because Taylor couldn’t have done it without you. Think of what had to be overcome for this happen: literally decades worth of antipathy towards synthesizers, mistrust of acts incorporating R&B and pop, a side-eye towards vocal technical prowess, good old American provincialism. It does represent a weird kind of progress in establishing equality, almost heartening that all of these exciting fusions can result in “indie” albums based in pop and R&B and electronic music that are every bit as dull as your average Pavement or Yo La Tengo derivative from 1996.
