Lil Wayne's new album reveals that beyond the ego a powerful talent lies, Ben Lee sings pedestrian songs about mundane realities and Marystaple demonstrate why they are the best New Zealand band you've never heard of.
Marystaple, or "the staple" as they are referred to, is a really hard band to write about. With limited fanfare and even less press, the basis for this review is prejudiced only by what is coming out of the speakers.
Although, on the strength of debut LP No Need To Be Nervous, that is certainly no bad thing.
Marystaple cover so much ground in such a short space of time that you could be convinced into assuming they have been at this for ages, and they kind of have.
School friends from Wellington, Marystaple initially set out to tear up venues in 1997. With a cult following, sporadic appearances and just two EPs, they epitomise the ethos of flying under the radar.
Within the pantheon of great capital rock bands, Marystaple is the closest approximation to Weta. In fact, as Jon Toogood embraces his softer side, Marystaple kicks off No Need To Be Nervous with three gloriously epic tunes that we have come to expect from the likes of Shihad.
After just three tracks I am left asking, "why aren't these guys huge?"
They are far from a one-trick pony: the contagious bombast of third track Accelerator, with an outrageous vocal pitch shift, gives way to the brilliance of Canna Shakem and we are on one hell of a journey.
Matthew Fairley's understanding of how mesmerising his mournful nasally vocals can be, is downright impressive.
Weaving curious rhythms around the tight rhythm section, Fairley's guitar sound shifts seamlessly from a bright and bold clean channel, to the type of muddy fuzz that Josh Homme would be proud of.
Slipping into acoustic sing-along for Roll the Dice, Marystaple reveal just how talented they are. Multitracked vocals blend with ease as the band evoke a classic Blur meets Supergrass moment.
Choosing to track the album live is a masterstroke. The sound is immediate, raw and, most importantly, captures the essence of a finely honed stage presence. Sure it is wildly eclectic and all over the place, but to these ears that is part of the charm.
Marystaple have no need to be nervous, they are hands-down the most exciting rock band in New Zealand at the moment.
- Mark Orton
Lil Wayne. Tha Carter III. Cash Money.
The latest Dirty South rapper to find himself talked up outside the region, Lil Wayne's reputation is built on a Herculean work-rate, releasing more than 150 tracks via the Internet in 2007 alone.
With no plans as yet for a clothing line or movie career, focus shifts to his sixth full-length, Tha Carter III, which, by virtue of the former Dwayne Carter's prolificacy, is among the most anticipated hip-hop releases of this year.
Of course, it would be reasonable to assume that with such an output, quality control is not Lil Wayne's highest priority. Lead single Lollipop suggests another vacuous rapper short on imagination and long on ego, and the ridiculous metaphor that frames it is bound to have 50 Cent tearing his hair out.
But what emerges on closer inspection is an artist fuelled by ambition, reverence, and with tongue embedded in cheek: his oddball sensibilities can be traced to hip-hop forebear Kool Keith, whose ribald rhymes are recalled in 3 Peat's "Abracadabra/ I'm up like Viagra", and who no doubt inspired the lunatic E. T. impression on Phone Home.
The bravura beat science, courtesy of an all-star production team (Kanye West, Swizz Beats, Robin Thicke) neatly complements Wayne's urgent, raspy delivery, managing to turn the voracity of his rhymes into chart-bothering gold (highlights include the soulful Comfortable, and the sparse menace of A Milli).
Over the album's 16 tracks, Weezy Baby proves he does not need the hype, offering a self-assured (and off-the-wall) take on the all-too-familiar rigours of street life.
- John Hayden
Ben Lee. Ripe. Inertia Recordings.
The trouble with writing about the mundane is that it has to somehow transcend it in order to become art.
Just as there's a difference between actual observational humour and merely observing, the writer needs to analyse routines, rather than merely catalogue them.
Such is the problem with Australian singer-songwriter Ben Lee. Despite good work with artists such as Evan Dando, his own solo efforts barely rise above the workaday. On his sixth LP, Ripe, Lee never gives us a reason for sticking around.
True, John Algia's insufferably slick production exacerbates the problem. Yet Lee could have tried to rise above it.
Opening tracks Love Me Like the World is Ending and American Television trade in empty platitudes: songs about the clothes the lover left behind aren't interesting unless there's a story behind them.
Likewise, the melodies are cheap, rushing towards the chorus without giving the listener believable payoff.
On Birds and Bees, Mandy Moore is neither coquettish enough to play the waif, nor alluring enough to play the femme fatale. Nor does she get any interesting lyrics or melody lines to play with, either.
Even worse, his few attempts to be quirky fail to alleviate the mood. What Would Jay-Z Do could have been funny, but it embellishes the backing harmonies too much, and smothers everything in wailing guitars.
Similarly, the power-poppy Sex without Love is too club-footed to be cheeky. Ultimately, as soon as he hits on an idea or melody, he does not develop it further.
True simplicity is hard, and Lee possesses neither the discipline nor originality to pull it off. Ripe is awfully stale.
- Matthew Littlewood
