Lost Dogs
(Epic)
It seems to have become de rigeur for rock bands that have released more than three albums to cobble together a Best Of, no matter how unnecessary or patchy they look, perhaps in an attempt to head off bootleg downloads. Trust Pearl Jam to approach the situation differently.
Lost Dogs is a collection of B-sides, rarities and songs that never made it onto the albums. Most such compilations are only of interest to fans, for whom the joy of greater quantity is sufficient to outweigh the standard dearth of quality. After all, the songs were presumably left off the albums for a reason, and really really good songs don’t stay rare for long. Unless, it would seem, you are Pearl Jam. For example, Lost Dogs heralds the first official release of the studio take of “Yellow Ledbetter,” the meandering sunshiney song that is such a fan favorite it is on roughly half of Pearl Jam’s legendary live discs.
So, while the Eddie Vedder adherents will have a field day, the truth is that Lost Dogs gives the sort of career overview that makes beginners buy Best Ofs. Over the course of the 30 songs, the band explore their roots and influences, including the punk-inspired “Don’t Gimme No Lip,” with Stone Gossard on vocals and a gleeful cover of “Leavin’ Here,” which pays homage to Vedder’s adoration of The Who.
The second disc features some mellow, acoustic Christmas songs released on the band’s fan singles, as well as “Last Kiss,” reportedly the band’s biggest single ever. In the tradition of such albums, there are also some interesting missteps—bassist Jeff Ament’s odd-ball rap song “Sweet Lew” is probably the weirdest track on the album. In the end, the album does most of the work of a Best Of, reprising the different stages of the band’s career and showcasing some highlights, only with the added attraction of all new material.
—Andrew R. Iliff
The Unicorns
Who Will Cut Our Hair When We’re Gone?
Alien8
Take a clump of hair from Brian Wilson’s head (don’t worry, he won’t notice). Stick it on the end of a piece of Canadian maple (you now have a paintbrush). Secure the palette that Scooby and company used on the Mystery Machine. For a canvas, find a sheet of some titanium-based Information Age alloy: light, strong, and thoroughly modern. Paint with careful recklessness, taking care to veer off the canvas once or twice. Then display your finished work at the bottom of a sunny swimming pool, all wet and distorted.
The resulting confection might be the optical analogue to the Unicorns’ new album, Who Will Cut Our Hair When We’re Gone? The two Quebeckers who constitute the Unicorns have crafted an endearing piece of quirky electro-pop that offers a fresh flavor for even the more jaded of indie-watchers.
The Unicorns exhibit a daring disregard for song structure and a fondness for odd sonic ornamentation. The production often sounds both lush and skeletal, electronic touches perching comfortably upon a reliable acoustic foundation. The record alternately buzzes and broods, pops and squawks, gleefully liberated from the boundaries of traditional pop songwriting.
Each track becomes a miniature movement unto itself—witness “Inoculate the Innocuous.” But wherever the Unicorns may roam, they anchor every song with beautiful melodies that ensure repeated listens. This mingling of experimentation and accessibility is the secret of the album’s effectiveness. The casual listener smiling at the sugary harmonies of “Sea Ghost” or nodding along to the galloping “I Was Born (A Unicorn)” will only later come to appreciate the songs’ structural intricacies.
And the lyrics add another layer to the band’s appeal. Sometimes otherworldly, abstract, and weirdly charming, they can also be more directly personal, as in “Les Os,” which yet maintains a sense of humor: “Tell me about your love affairs/I want to know all the lurid details.”
Together, Who Will Cut Our Hair When We’re Gone? reaffirms the vitality and possibilities of pop, consistently exploring new territory while celebrating what made us love the music in the first place.
—William B. Higgins