An interview with Matthew West
As all Rasputina albums should be: Reeking of mold and moss, terrible, rusting metal tools and the fascination of limb loss.
Spacey blips and tones, something like Moby meets Enya, with Suzanne Vega-like floating soprano vocals.
There are almost no refrains or singable lines. Dissonant chords, whispers, high squeaks, and line after line about love and disillusionment and The Man.
With steady, heart-bearing emotion washing through the notes like a young Michael Stipe, Tim Hort has created the R.E.M. album we’ve all been wishing for since Out of Time.
There is something inherently stirring about that Billie Joe (of Green Day) virile slacker-collegiate sound certain singer boys seem to have, and Pensive has it.
Rob knows how to write good pop with a touch of rockin’ country twang. He does it with energy and a smile, and throws in some gentle slow jazz sounds and even a little funk for good measure.
Imagine Blue Öyster Cult meet The Moody Blues, soulfully singing “I don’t talk to no one but myself” and occasionally slowing it down with a folksy ballad. I don’t have hard proof, but I smell a Renaissance Faire somewhere in here.
With something of The Cardigans’ coming-of-age melancholy and vulnerably out-of-tune harmonies, it’s obvious why Joint Custody was a staple on the college festival circuit.
Those who know what “They Might Be” means will be very interested in this. Songs about mix tapes, a math prof rock star, and schizophrenics appear with singable pop harmonies galore.
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