Album Review: Jason Stein's Locksmith Isidore - After Caroline

Jason Stein's Locksmith Isidore is the solo outlet of, you guessed it, Jason Stein- respected local bass clarinetist and the older brother of a formerly very visible comedian.* When Stein isn’t playing for himself he’s lending his wind to Mike Reed’s Flesh and Bone, Joshua Abrams’ Natural Information Society, and Hearts and Minds with Paul Giallorenzo and Chad Taylor, among others. After Caroline is Stien's fourth LP under the Locksmith Isidore moniker, and is named for his late grandmother, who passed away the day the album was recorded. Stein is joined on this record by drummer Mike Pride of the hardcore band Millions of Dead Cops and Chicago’s versatile, go-to studio bass guitarist Jason Roebke. When their powers combine Stein, Pride, and Roebke are a gracefully sonorous, no-frills, contemporary bebop powerhouse. It’s not exactly Coltrane (who is?), but sweet mercy does it swing. If this sounds like it would flip your switch, then give this a spin.

A treasure hunt of the mind (Northern Spy).

* Google. Heard of it?

Album Review: (T-T)b - Beautiful Extension Cord

Man, sometimes I wish CMJ were still around. When I worked at my college radio station, I genuinely looked forward to having their New Music Monthly issue plop in our receiving tray in the rec center, so I could check out what was hot and up-and-coming amongst people in the year [purged/redacted] who were of my age and educational track and believed were worthy of airtime and acclaim. But that was a long time ago. Like, basically a completely different timeline than the one I inhabit now. CMJ is dead- it was squashed and interred unceremoniously like a roadkilled raccoon- and with a few exceptions, community and college radio are all but exsanguinated- shambling shadows of their former selves, with a cultural presence as compelling as the gravitational strain exerted by a singular tennis ball. Even in the wake of this intractable decline, it feels like I can steal back a faint sigh of the whimsy that prevailed in a previous era of DIY music by imagining how a group like (T-T)b and their album Beautiful Extension Cord would have fared in the often cringy and bewildering, but also unconventional, creative, and all too excitingly competitive world of college radio- not solely because of the entertainment value I would have derived from hearing sophomore poli-sci majors fumble with the band's name on air, but also because I think (T-T)b would actually have had a shot at attaining some substantial and even sustaining success in that environment. Beautiful Extension Cord is foremost a very tuneful album, with an emphasis on complementing grooves and melodies that coalesce and spill into and over each other in a sturdy confluence of vibrant sonic tributaries that merge to chart a mighty subtle pop-power surge. Sure, you could get hung up on all the square waves and Sega-era soundcard stressors, but you'd be missing out on the classic college rock spirit of tracks like the persuasively pining opener "Julian," the sweep and savage of the cosmetically prescriptive dressdown "Hey, Creepshow," the parcing cartwheel-energized punt of "The Kick," or the slacker-steeped stumble-up builds and easy-as-pie let-downs of "Sugar in the Raw." Melodically and structurally, (T-T)b is pumped up and riding high on a blood transfusion from the likes of Pavement, That Dog., and The Rentals, and appears to be suffering from a little campy carbo-overload from too much Ozma in their diet (spiritually at least, as far as I know, their only named influence is Jeff Rosenstock, but their capacity for metting out moreish melodies gives even the greats of contemporary pop-punk a run for their rings... in my opinion). The adeptness in constructing melody and adapting it to a punchy rock format is almost irresponsibly applied on these tracks to make them as addictive as possible without sacrificing the group's capacity for earnest sentiments, a facet of their operations that seems hard-fused into the processors of their affectional logic board. (T-T)b is everything a budding alternative-beat connoisseur or established underground archivist needs to satisfy their pop-sweet tooth or round out the bevy of their cumulative apprehension of what the world of DIY and indie can offer. Beautiful Extension Cord is more than just a pretty accessory. All hits, zero lag time. Too nerdy to need your approval, but too sensitive to live without it. Cue it up and spin it with confidence that it will deliver Certain Damage to whatever expectations you've built up against micromusic's indie-gold potential.

Coming in at 74 on the top 75 it's Disposable America!

Album Review: No Men - DEAR GOD, BRING THE DOOM

Outing myself today as a No Men respector. There, I said it. Let it be known that I respect No Men... the band. Specifically, the band No Men... although I am somewhat lukewarm on mankind in the pejorative at the moment.* Which, coincidentally, puts me squarely in the proper demographic of persons disposed to enjoying No Men's music, their name literally being the inversion of the "Yes Man" trope- whatever you got, whatever you want, they'll slap it out of your hands and backhand you for good measure- it's a stylistic promise and aesthetic guarantee. No Men is that rare kind of group that can really cook up heat-seeker after heat-fucking-seeker and direct-hit after direct-fucking-hit when they put their minds to it, and this certainly justifies the veneration I plan to shine on them here, but they also represent something else to me. They were, for a minute, the quintessential Chicago punk band, a spiteful, loud, and incredibly fun group that was all about the music, and let their performances speak first and foremost, and with the most volume, even when the content of what they had to say was as devastating, or more so, than how they said it. They more or less came up in the midst of the "sad girl" era of indie rock characterized by Lucy Dacus, Phoebe Bridgers, and the like, and managed to hold their own against the winds of these trends as they swept through the Chicago scene, staying meaner, more punishing and crueler in an old school kind of way, without opposing their contemptoaries or losing their footing on the progressive fluctuations of the landscape as it shifted beneath them- remaining independent and flexible while praying for a rain of fire to cleanse the land of its endemic rashes of idiocy. Over time, the band has adopted more atmospheric and darkly dreamy embellishments into their sound, most notably present on 2023's Fear This, but to my ears, their debut is still the most faithful and compelling personification of the core of their aesthetic conceits. DEAR GOD, BRING THE DOOM is No Men's first full-length album, recorded mostly live over a two-day period at Two State Audio on the North Side of Chicago. No Men's sound is a blasting and antagonistic form of skeletal garage rock which draws influences from a wide spectrum of punk rock. They are analogous to some mid-aughts super heavy rock group, like Death from Above 1979, arriving at a dead-stop epiphany that all they really want to do is sound like Big Black, but with slightly more groovy gestalt in their austere, boiled-down guitars and bass lines. Lyrically, they deal mostly with revenge, failure, twisted romance, and episodes of pitiful angst that many crybaby losers bear like a large cross that they whittled from the original cross of the crucifixion.** Album highlights include the nihilistic smash and grab of "Stay Dumb," and the gut-shredding hooks and subterranean beat of "Brut," along with "Sleeping with the Enemy" which sounds like a sock-hop hosted by Steve Albini, in addition to the sharp and deliberate guitar work on "Hell is Real" and album closer "Violette," both of which are incorrigible, violent and unsettling while still managing to be stone cold rockers. This album's tense, dark vibe is reminiscent of '80s punk mainstays like Flipper and no-wave mavericks like Nick Cave. At the same time, its boisterous grooves put it in the camp of contemporary hard rock and pan-metal acts like Red Fang, and even bleed profusely and messily into Jesus Lizard-esque noise rock territory. Still, the emphasis on melody in these songs makes for a good pairing with witchy singer-songwriters like PJ Harvey- if, you know, you're workin' on a playlist for somebody who hates all the same stuff you do.*** DEAR GOD, BRING THE DOOM. Need I say more? 

*A discussion for another time.

** Feeling persecuted while having no real problems has basically become a profession for many internet-addicted grifters... they know who they are, and so do we! 

*** A very "mall-goth" and therefore very 2025 manner of flirting.