Coldplay - A Head Full of Dreams

A year and a half ago, Coldplay released their best record. Let me stop you before you start trying to figure out how that warped timeline can get you back to 2008's Viva la Vida or 2002's A Rush of Blood to the Head. Sure, those records had big world-beating singles and a lot of ambition, but as an album, nothing in this band's catalog touches Ghost Stories. A stark, spectral disc about a Chris Martin's broken heart, Ghost Stories was great precisely because it played so against type for Coldplay. These guys were supposed to be stadium rockers! Where were the hooks? Where was the celebration? Where was the consummate hugeness that they'd been leveling up gradually for a decade? For most of their history, Coldplay have been a band about you and we, not a band about me. But on Ghost Stories, the key line was "Tell me you love me, if you don't then lie." It wasn't a record that was meant for communal gatherings in stadiums or arenas; hell, it didn't even sound like a record that was supposed to escape Chris Martin's heartbroken, insomniac brain, so personal and intimate was the music within.

A Head Full of Dreams, Coldplay's seventh full-length album (and possibly their last) comes quick on the tails of Ghost Stories, but it is not a sequel or a continuation. Rather, A Head Full of Dreams is a complete pivot, an album that leaves the heartbroken intimacy of its predecessor in the dust in favor of big-hearted optimism and unashamed universality. If Ghost Stories was a record for no one other than Chris Martin, A Head Full of Dreams is a record about everyone. No more me and I; this record gets right back to the we and you.

Coldplay making a return-to-form record at this moment in time isn't surprising and it's not, on the surface, a bad thing. Ghost Stories was bound to be an anomaly in this band's discography. Springsteen didn't make Tunnel of Love twice; Bob Dylan didn't make Blood on the Tracks twice. Nobody wants to make their heartbreak record twice. In that sense, the best thing that can be said for A Head Full of Dreams is that Martin sounds like he's happy again. There are still shades of the melancholy that defined Ghost Stories: the gorgeous "Everglow"—the album's best song, no contest—is a piano ballad with electronic drums, chopped up backing vocals, and a lot of the same ambient textures that flittered through this album's predecessor. "Everglow" also has a Gwyneth Paltrow guest spot, making it pretty obvious that the song is one last ode to Martin's marriage. "So how come things move on? Home come cars don't slow?/When it feels like the end of my world/Why I should but I can't let you go," Martin sings in the first verse. It's a typical Coldplay cliché, but it feels charged with the same tension that Ghost Stories did, that same small-scale, humanized tension that made that album better than just about anyone gave it credit for.

If "Everglow" is the look back, the rest of A Head Full of Dreams feels like an attempt to run way too fast into "moved on" mode. The overall feel of the record is "Now that we're done being bummed out, let's get back to celebrating how beautiful the world is." The resulting disc tries to be as celebratory and colorful as Mylo Xyloto, the band's 2011 album and still their most audacious, maximalist pop effort. A lot of people hated that album, but to me, it was the one where Coldplay really stopped trying to imitate their idols and made an album that was completely them. Where Viva La Vida to this day scans as the band's attempt to write their own Joshua Tree, Mylo was Coldplay playing the mad pop scientist role and coming up with near-cartoonish shit that no one else would even think of, let alone pull off. A Head Full of Dreams tries to out-Mylo Mylo, calling in favors from big names in the pop and rock industry and tossing new influences and experiments into the mix haphazardly. But where all of the weird gambles on Mylo Xyloto turned it into an explosive neon-drenched arena rock album, A Head Full of Dreams feels like the watercolor or low-cal alternative. From the interludes to the guest spots to the long sustained build-up at the end of the record, nothing works as well.

That's not to say A Head Full of Dreams is all bad. The aforementioned "Everglow" is a solid addition to Coldplay's famed stable of heart-on-the-sleeve ballads, and the propulsive "Birds" makes good use of this album's electronic influences with a foot-tapping beat that never loses its energy. Lead-off single "Adventure of a Lifetime," while a little weak in the hook department, is intriguing at least for its disco feel and a slick Edge-like riff from guitarist Jonny Buckland. The title track lacks the burst-out-of-the-gates momentum of proper Mylo opener "Hurts Like Heaven," but plays like a solid nod to post-millennial U2. "Army of One," meanwhile, is another spot where the album's attempt at a modern dance-pop sound really pays off, pairing heavy bass with a chopped up vocal sample. The lyrics are dull ("There is no fire that I wouldn't walk through/My army of one is gonna fight for you"), but musically, the song is entrancing.

Elsewhere, though, the band's attempt at making what amounts to a mainstream pop album results in some truly ghastly material. "Fun," an electo-pop duet with Tove Lo, is perhaps the dullest and most melodically challenged ballad that Coldplay have ever recorded—not helped by the fact that the eye-roll worthy couplet "Don't say that we're done/Didn't we have fun?" is the key line. Worse still is "Hymn for the Weekend," a dreadful duet with Beyonce that is so incredibly out of place on this album that it singlehandedly destroys any chance at cohesion or flow. Supposedly, this song is Coldplay trying to write a club-ready anthem. Unfortunately, that goal translates here to a song where Martin and Beyonce both get to sing "I'm feeling drunk and high" and rhyme it with "Let me shoot across the sky." As a standalone single or part of a leftovers EP, this gimmicky experiment of a song might not have been such a disaster. But "Hymn" sounds like it came from a different album—or, frankly, a different band—than the songs that surround it ("Birds" and "Everglow"), and on an LP that is supposed to be Coldplay's swansong, that bizarre tonal inconsistency is almost laughable.

A Head Full of Dreams also reverts to Coldplay's odd habit of tossing interludes into the tracklist. The band used interludes to varying levels of success on both Viva La Vida and Mylo Xyloto, but at least those tracks usually served logical as connective bridges between songs. Here, the interludes often feel as much like publicity stunts as the aforementioned Beyonce feature. "Kaleidoscope" is particularly egregious, starting with a reading of what is supposedly an old Persian poem and continuing into a sample of Obama singing "Amazing Grace." In another context, an interlude like this one might be powerful and profound. But "Kaleidoscope" makes no sense in context, dropped as it is between "Fun" and "Army of One." "X Marks the Spot," meanwhile, is an ill-advised hip-hop-influenced jam that, for some reason, gets tacked on as a hidden track between "Army of One" and the middle-of-the-road "Amazing Day." And "Colour Spectrum" provides a one-minute build-up to album closer "Up&Up"—a song that, at nearly seven minutes in length, didn't need any more ornamentation.

A band with six previous albums under their belt, a parade of hit songs, and enough clout to land the Super Bowl 50 gig shouldn't be making these kinds of inept sequencing mistakes. The early Coldplay albums are uneven and often feel more like collections of singles than true albums—particularly X&Y, which found the band at the peak of their powers and audibly unsure of what to do with them. But since Viva, Coldplay have learned to make sonically cohesive albums that flow well and convey emotional experiences that are greater than the sum of their parts. Ghost Stories was particularly impressive in that regard, trimming all the fat and indulgence for a lean nine-song album that never felt like anything other than an album.

"Up&Up" does a decent job of pretending like A Head Full of Dreams is cohesive, closing the album with a celebratory, gospel-laced coda that features both Merry Clayton (most famous for those scathing backup vocals on the Stones' "Gimme Shelter") and Noel Gallagher (who essentially just reprises the climactic guitar solo from "Champagne Supernova"). Ultimately, though, A Head Full of Dreams is too directionless and scattershot to deserve the big all-hands-on-deck communalism of its closer. Between the range of different styles, the throw-this-wherever-the-fuck-you-want interludes, and the stunt-casting of the guest spots, A Head Full of Dreams is the least cohesive and—pardon, but I have to say it—worst album Coldplay have ever made. If this was going to be their swansong—or, as Martin once described it, their Deathly Hallows—the band at least deserved the chance to put the focus on themselves. At every turn, though, A Head Full of Dreams feels like it's focused on someone else—whether that "someone else" is Beyonce, Noel Gallagher, or production team Stargate, who often seem to be trying to make Coldplay sound like a different band. There are a few good songs, but A Head Full of Dreams is disappointing because it's the first Coldplay album in awhile that is distinctly less than the sum of its parts.

Coldplay - Mylo Xyloto

I don’t know if Coldplay ever really stood a chance with me. My brother has hated them forever, and I was around so much distaste for the band right from their early days that I’m not so sure I ever got to form my own opinion. X&Y, widely regarded as their worst album, was the first record of theirs that I listened to in full, and my reaction to that one was lukewarm: I liked a few songs, hated some others, and thought everything in between was harmless, but fairly forgettable. Their endless U2-posturing on 2008’s Viva la Vida (right down to the producer) irritated me a lot. There were good songs somewhere underneath all the anthemic guitar lines and studio gloss, but I don’t think the band ever quite got them out in those arrangements. And Chris Martin’s voice has never been the most powerful instrument: a more talented vocalist can take his songs to heights this band has only dreamed of (take Frank Ocean’s yearning, nostalgic rewrite of “Strawberry Swing” from Vida).

Another thought that has crossed my mind is that this band was shoehorned into their “next U2” stereotype so early that they were never really even allowed time to find their own sound. Their more quiet moments, like the gorgeous “Til Kingdom Come” from X&Y (written originally for the late Johnny Cash) or “Amsterdam,” the fantastic closer from their 2002 record A Rush of Blood to the Head, hint at what could have been a great folk-pop band, and Martin’s voice, with it’s lilting falsetto, strong low range and distinctive tone, would have fit that style much better than it fits the faux-U2 style anthems that this band has become so universally known for. Alas, the band has never gone in that direction, and their latest, entitled Mylo Xyloto, does little to change that

It’s generally the quieter moments that thrive on Mylo Xyloto as well, like the sweeping ballad “Us Against the World” or the surprisingly intimate “U.F.O.,” but those are unlikely to be the songs that grab the most attention here. That’s not to say they’re the only songs worth anything though. Opener “Hurts Like Heaven” starts things off was an electronica rush, building into a well structured pop song that’s not really governed by a traditional verse/chorus format. As a matter of fact, Coldplay eschew that format a lot on this record, which results in songs that generally feel a lot less poppy or arena-ready than the material that littered their previous records. The curious thing is that they still produce the album like it really is a big, shiny pop record. Case in point are the singles, like “Paradise,” a relatively bland pop song with titanic production value, or “Every Teardrop is a Waterfall,” a sonic feast hampered somewhat by Martin’s weak lyrics.

Martin has never been a great lyricist either, but some of his lines from previous albums rang well due to their simplicity and honesty. He tries to go deeper here, but ends up falling further back, like on the bizarre “Princess of China,” with its much discussed Rihanna guest spot. The song is a bundle of lyrical clichés and a weak melody, and Rihanna seems to be there just to generate buzz. The pop princess, who’s become the go-to girl for guest spots thanks to her contributions to Eminem and Kanye West songs, sounds completely out of place here. Her job description on those songs was to sing the hooky chorus repeatedly, but “Princess” really doesn’t have a hook and Rihanna doesn’t really add anything, so the song just ends up falling flat. Still, it’s better than something like “Major/Minus,” a thoroughly worthless piece of filler that I have skipped nearly every single time through.

Mylo Xyloto doesn’t always ring hollow though: “Charlie Brown” and the penultimate “Don’t Let it Break Your Heart” might be the best and most effortless U2 imitating this band has done, “Up in Flames” is a decent piece of filler, strengthened by it’s evocative production, and “Up With the Birds” is a surprisingly compelling finale, a two-parter that builds from a gorgeously subdued opening section into a powerful conclusion and a brilliant summation of everything this album is. The problem is, the album just isn’t quite sure what it wants to be. Here, Coldplay seem halfway between revisiting their pre-Vida days and trying to make their own Achtung Baby. Sonically, the album bears a lot of similarities to that 1991 U2 classic, an album that melded the barriers of rock and pop so well that it’s still almost indescribably good. While Mylo Xyloto never even approaches the heights that album reached, at its best moments, it feels like a band that isn’t content to merely bask in their own success, and that’s a nice thing to see, considering that they’re probably the biggest act to come out of the last decade. It’s disappointing that the songs that will see the most success are actually the album’s weak points, but overall, Mylo Xyloto is a decent album from a band who I’ve never really liked before. In that case, die hard fans should be over the moon about it.

Coldplay - Ghost Stories

There aren’t many artists in pop music today that are easier to dismiss out of hand than Coldplay. I know this because I spent the better part of a decade doing it myself, mercilessly mocking this band for their limp, wimpy attempts at arena rock. I’m not entirely sure why that was, since Coldplay’s ballad-heavy music has pretty much always been situated directly in my wheelhouse, but regardless of the reasoning, the fact remains that there is something about Coldplay that just makes people want to disparage them.

When I finally started to pull down my walls of mocking, mean-spirited indifference toward this band, I moved instead to skepticism. I saw the promise in certain songs on the band’s third album, 2005’s X&Y, but I also saw a lot of bloat, the stink of lofty ambitions that didn’t pay off. I was only slightly more taken with the band’s fourth full-length release, 2008’s Viva la Vida, an album that most people adored, but that I saw as a pale imitation of countless better bands, from U2 to Radiohead and beyond. There was promise on that album too, but it was lost somewhere under layers of stadium rock pretense and misplaced bombast, from the overbearing title track to the lyrically inept “Lost!”

On both of those albums, my favorite songs were the moments of breathing room amidst the larger-than-life proclamations. On X&Y, the highlight was “Til Kingdom Come,” a hushed folk-country song that was initially intended for Johnny Cash. On Viva, it was “Strawberry Swing,” a number that maintained the rest of the album’s wall-scaling guitar parts and anthemic vibes, but which was, at its core, a lilting summer folk ditty. In fact, I was so pleasantly surprised with the band’s smaller-scale sound that I remember writing an amateurish review for X&Y in 2005, mourning the fact that this band had gotten so huge when there was obviously something so human and magical about raw, modest tunes like “Til Kingdom Come.” I might have been alone, but I wanted my Coldplay smaller, not bigger.

Fast-forward nine years and it looks as if my wish has finally come true. Right from the dreamy soundscapes of opener “Always in My Head,” Ghost Stories is the quietest, smallest, least ambitious, and most strikingly human album Coldplay have ever made. The band doesn’t reach that point by going in a folk music direction, as I once expected they might, but instead by embracing electronic music in new ways. Similar blips and ambient passages appeared on the band’s last album, 2011’s Mylo Xyloto, captured there in the form of blatantly cheesy, inexorably fun pop music. Most fans hated the record, calling it the band’s worst and writing it off as a collection of filler material (ballads like “UFO” and “Up in Flames”) or sellout garbage (“Every Teardrop is a Waterfall,” the most unapologetically Coldplayish song of all time). Surprisingly, I, the once-vehement Coldplay hater, loved both sides of the coin, and Mylo Xyloto stands today as my favorite Coldplay album. I suspect that I will go similarly against the grain on Ghost Stories, which has already been called out by critics and fans for being dull, cliché, and sappy.

Then again, I suppose it’s not all that surprising that I’m a fan of this album, since it’s the closest any artist has come to delivering a modern take on Bruce Springsteen’s 1987 classic, Tunnel of Love. On that particular album, Springsteen abandoned his previous heartland rock style for a dark trip into the doldrums of 80s pop. He also turned the record into an obvious solo outing, underusing the E Street Band in almost criminal fashion across the album’s 12 songs. And instead of singing universally relatable songs about everyman characters like he had on earlier records, Springsteen turned inward and wrote a record about his own experiences and about the emotions he was feeling as his marriage imploded. It was a dark, emotionally cutting record, and coming after the massively popular, moderately cheesy, and inexorably catchy Born in the U.S.A., it was a shock to the system of Springsteen fans everywhere.

Ghost Stories follows the Tunnel of Love template almost to a T, right down to the fact that it follows up a gloriously maximalist pop record in its creator's discography. As the title betrays, this is a dark, spectral disc loaded with nighttime grooves and songs that rely more on mood and atmosphere than on hooks or stadium-sized arrangements. The only song here that would fit into the band’s arena tour set is “A Sky Full of Stars,” a swelling piece of EDM-influenced pop that was produced by current hot commodity Avicii (and obviously so, for how much it sounds like Avicii’s own “Wake Me Up”). The rest of the record, meanwhile, ups the ante on slow tempos, acoustic guitars, tinkling pianos, spacious ambient interludes, and Chris Martin’s appropriately ghostly falsetto.

In fact, just like Tunnel of Love was more or less a Springsteen solo LP, Ghost Stories feels more like a Chris Martin album than the next entry in the progression that spawned Viva la Vida and Mylo Xyloto. Guitarist Johnny Buckland gets few opportunities to let loose here, while there are entire songs that seemingly don’t utilize drummer Will Champion at all. Of course, Coldplay is no E Street Band, but the decision to completely discard what has been seen as the band’s wheelhouse in the past (big, bleeding heart choruses and titanic guitar echoes) is what ultimately makes Ghost Stories such a refreshing entry in the band’s catalog. For instance, fans who have been following the band since the beginning will love songs like “Oceans,” an unhurried number that bears more than a few similarities to acoustic slowdances like “Sparks” from Coldplay’s 2000 debut, Parachutes, while first single “Magic” manages an earworm chorus without ever breaking a sweat or compromising its chill façade.

The most obvious tie between Ghost Stories and Tunnel of Love, though, is that they are both break-up albums written in the final stages of a marriage. When he inducted Bruce Springsteen into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, U2’s Bono ruminated briefly on the brilliance of Tunnel of Love, describing it as “a remarkable bunch of tunes where our leader starts having a go at himself and the hypocrisy of his own heart before anyone else could.” He continues: “But the tabloids could never break news on Bruce Springsteen, because as fans, he’d already told us everything in the songs.” Where Tunnel of Love chronicled Springsteen’s estrangement and divorce from actress and model Julianne Phillips, Ghost Stories is the soundtrack to the death of one of the most highly publicized (and scrutinized) celebrity marriages of the past 20 years, between Chris Martin and actress Gwyneth Paltrow.

Chris Martin didn’t get the chance to break the news about his failed marriage in his songs: Ghost Stories was still almost two months away when he and Paltrow announced their decision to separate. Still, the spirit of these tunes is the same as it was for Springsteen with Tunnel of Love. They’re introspective, downbeat, fragile things that show a titan of pop music at his lowest. “Tell me you love me; if you don’t then lie,” Martin begs on the chorus of centerpiece ballad “True Love.” On paper, it may just come across as another trite, overly sentimental Coldplayism from the same notebook that spawned lines like “tears stream down your face when you lose something you cannot replace,” but in context, it’s the sound of a man who has torn down every layer of pretense and self-defense separating himself from his fans. The song aches with hurt and longing, and by the time Buckland’s guitar solo breaks through the climax of the song, the delirium of heartbreak has become all encompassing. It’s one of the few moments on the album where the guitar is in the spotlight, but it’s not triumphant like you might expect. Rather, it’s broken. The notes clash and bleed against the rest of the texture, sounding like Marty McFly trying to play “Earth Angel” in Back to the Future, even as he’s about to cease existing. It’s one of this album’s many examples of a “less is more” mantra paying off in spades.

Ghost Stories is, unsurprisingly, a nighttime album, meant to be played in the moments when the light goes down and the world goes to sleep, leaving you alone to manage your reckless pain. Plenty of other records have played off this same thematic territory, from Frank Sinatra’s In the Wee Small Hours to John Mayer’s Battle Studies, but when it’s done well, it never fails to resonate like a shot in the heart. You need companions on those nights when you feel like you may not survive to see daylight, and from “Always in My Head,” a highway drive through the dark heart of a dream, to the Jon Hopkins-assisted “Midnight,” which funnels Chris Martin’s voice through a vocodor for a desolate, Bon Iver-esque dose of hopelessness, this album is that kind of companion.

Make no mistake, these are songs meant to be played at 2 a.m., when you come home from a disastrous night and are too emotionally exhausted to do anything but sit in the dark and think. I haven’t had a night like that in a long time, but looking back at the most downtrodden evenings of my life, I can just imagine hearing the percussive haunt of “Ink” percolating through the speakers, or the broken-record choir on “Another’s Arms” taking up residence in some hitherto inaccessible part of my brain. The former might be the album’s harshest comedown, a song where the narrator gets a tattoo that says “Together Through Life” – only for the statement to prove false. The latter, meanwhile, is the album’s weakest song, but is an example of just how well this record’s seamless sequencing works to shoehorn the less essential moments into a broader emotional experience.

And indeed, “emotional experience” is the best way to describe this record. For the bulk of its runtime, Ghost Stories is one demoralizing heartbreaker after another, so much that it feels like the light is never going to break through the clouds. When echoes of wedding bells pierce through the texture during an interlude at the end of “Oceans,” surrounded by nightmarish layers of instrumental ambiance, you can almost feel Martin’s broken nostalgia for the marriage that, for whatever reason, had to end. It would be easy for the frontman to feel angry or indignant about the way things went, but then the interlude rushes headlong into “A Sky Full of Stars,” the album’s biggest, most grandiose musical statement, and things suddenly feel like they might be okay again.

Complaints have been made that “Sky” doesn’t fit the album’s tranquil mood; I’d argue that it not only fits, but is the core of the entire project, a cathartic, resplendent pop song about how life goes on after heartbreak and how the memories of the people you love or loved don’t have to be tainted or lost just because things didn’t work out. “And I don’t care, go on and tear me apart,” Martin sings, “Cause in a sky full of stars, I think I saw you.” Forget the fact that the hook here gives Martin’s acrobatic falsetto the best display it has ever had on record, or that the lush, dancefloor production was provided by a guy that most listeners feel some weird obligation to hate. This song is great because it somehow manages to find uplift in the dark, dingy maze of sadness that is the rest of Ghost Stories, and when coupled with the piano-looped resignation of “O” (“So fly on, ride through/Maybe one day, I’ll fly next to you,” Martin intones on the closer), it turns this album into the best and most complete thing that Coldplay have ever made. Some will deplore the record for its relative lack of pop appeal, but for a massively popular band that has so often been derailed by its own lofty ambitions, there is a huge pleasure in hearing something that succeeds on such a small, modest, and humanized scale.

Sleeping At Last - Atlas: Darkness

Sleeping At Last - Atlas: Darkness

Self-Released, 2013

8.0/10

*The following review was one I wrote a few months back for AbsolutePunk.net. Ryan O'Neal (the mastermind behind Sleeping At Last), has since released Light, the second part of the Atlas series. Check it out here.

As modern trends have begun to overwhelm the system of music distribution, washing away the old ways of doing things and moving further and further into the digital realm, artists have continually strived to do different things with their music. Radiohead famously offered their seventh LP, 2007’s In Rainbows, on a pay-what-you-want basis. Other artists have taken to kickstarter pages in order to launch recording projects, or offered free downloads in hopes of building a fanbase for their live shows. And keepsake physical formats like vinyl records—and, in some bizarre instances, cassette tapes—have been resurrected to suit the ever-shifting whims of listeners. But in many cases, the most important rules of the game have become accessibility, immediacy, and visibility. It’s increasingly rare for artists to take years off between releases and tours, and as a result, EPs, reissues, live albums, concert DVDs, and special fan-club collections have all become important tools for maintaining a foothold in the industry.

Within this swirl of modernization—even as the major record labels attempt to cling to the old rules—indie-folk rock outfit Sleeping At Last has proven to be one of the most interesting players. The brainchild of Chicago-based musician Ryan O’Neal, Sleeping At Last released four full-length records between 2000 and 2009, but never really caught my ear until 2011. And when they did, it wasn’t a full record that did the trick, but a series of short, conceptual EPs called the Yearbook Collection. Released between October 2010 and September 2011, Yearbook encompassed one EP for every month of the year, each with three tracks, and all covering a wide range of musical ground, thematic atmosphere, and varied musical landscape.

But Yearbook, offered on an innovative subscription basis through the band’s website, was more than just another musical project. It was an experiment in keeping listeners engaged for an entire year; it was a triple-album’s worth of material spread out over 12 months; and it was a reminder of why the actual sonic portion of a musical purchase is only a part of the experience. With beautiful artwork for each EP and constant blog updates providing insight into O’Neal’s artistic process, Yearbook was a perfect example of how an independent artist can thrive in the modern age. And as songs from the collection landed slots on various television programs, as O’Neal contributed a track to the oft-praised Twilight soundtracks, it was clear that his artistic experiment was working out fairly well

After taking a well-deserved break in 2012 (aside from a handful of singles, that is), O’Neal has returned to kick off another series of EPs, and this time, his vision has an even wider arc. Where Yearbook had an obvious end-date from the moment it was conceived, the new series, titled Atlas, will allow O’Neal the bountiful freedom of moving the goalposts whenever he sees fit. Atlas, as a larger series, will be an exploration of “the origins, emergence, and experiences of life,” and it’s easy to see how those concepts might be manipulated into a musical odyssey that lasts a decade. According to the songwriter, the first three years of the project have already been mapped out, with potential for more releases to follow.

Poetically, the first disc in the series is called Darkness. “Like all things, Atlas begins with Darkness,” O’Neal reasoned on his blog, following the announcement of the series. “The meanings behind the word “Darkness” are endless: beginnings, fear, blindness, the unknown, loss, even hope, and so much more.” Fittingly, “Overture” begins the set with the commencement of the universe, carrying us through the tides of human history as it goes. Over a bed of organic mandolin acoustics and an orchesis of musical flourishes, first swelling and then quickly receding again, “Overture” is a gorgeous introduction to the world that Atlas will undoubtedly continue to flesh out as it moves forward.

The pulsating intensity of “Woodwork” is even more interesting, with a flickering, Coldplay-esque intro and a soaring, guttural hook. In four minutes, O’Neal builds an almost apocalyptic atmosphere. He gives us a view of the world in chaos, of darkness falling across life, love, and civilization, but he also imbues that dire situation with an eerie calm. We feel like we’re watching the universe fall to its knees while remaining safe in the eye of the storm, while holding fast underwater because to break the surface would be to come apart. “It’s a cruel, cruel trick/How we lose ourselves when we find everything else,” O’Neal sings in the final verse. “Like a train wreck, the sound of your breathing hits my ears/Our world reappears and it breaks us new.” The imagery is rich and the message clear: we take the greatest things in life for granted until they are about to be taken away. We only cherish the light when the darkness has stolen it from us. And that’s a sentiment that appears time and time again throughout these five songs.

By the time the record reaches its final track, the heart-shattering climax that is “Uneven Odds,” it overpowers you. Of all the songs on Darkness, “Uneven Odds” may be the only one to address the concept of death directly. “I once knew your father well,” O’Neal sings at the outset, his mournful croon and a series of funereal piano chords distinguishing the mood. “He fought tears as he spoke of your mother’s health.” It’s a sobering beginning to song that rises from its tearful intro into a rousing, orchestral catharsis. The mother dies, the father leaves, and the child is left to battle a world of his own darkness. But the narrator is his guardian, a helping hand for the hard times whose parting words hint at where Atlas will give us next: “Darkness exists to make light truly count.”

One of my only issues with Yearbook was that each EP was only made up of three songs. No matter how good the highlights were, there was never an opportunity for O’Neal to really build any sense of thematic or musical tension, and as a result, each piece passed more as a snapshot of the month it was covering than as a meticulously composed portrait. Atlas: Darkness takes full advantage of its extra time though, constructing a radiant latticework of mournful energy and emotive force through its songs. The result is a weightier, more fully-realized work than anything O’Neal has tackled before, and with the Light EP on the way sometime this year and more pieces of Atlas to follow, I’m looking forward to watching this panoramic vision come into focus.

Molotov Jive - STORM

Molotov Jive - STORM

Cosmos Music Group, 2012

Three stars

Sometimes epic, overwrought production can serve bands incredibly well: U2 almost defined the idea of arena rock in the late '80s and early '90s, not only by delivering towering choruses and heartfelt lyrics, but also by hiring guys like Brian Eno and Daniel Lanois to man the boards, guys whose knack for taking songs to the rafters (and beyond) are unparalleled. Coldplay has built a massively successful career out of channeling that tendency, packing their arrangements with such a vast array of sounds and musical ideas that they have to play live shows to a backing track. And meanwhile, there's The Killers, who burst onto this scene last decade by taking the influence of '80s new-wave and synth pop and merging it with the skyscraping hooks and production values of Morning Glory-era Oasis (or, on Sam's Town, Born to Run-era Springsteen). Needless to say, bigger has proved better for more than a few acts in modern music, and one need look no further than the tour receipts or album sales for the aforementioned acts to see that a massive sound is more likely to lure in large audiences than, say, a lone troubadour with raw production and an acoustic guitar.

But arena-sized ambition can derail bands as well: Tom DeLonge gave up blink-182 for a solid decade, making three oversized records with his side project Angels and Airwaves, a band whose depth of musical ideas never even approached the scope of their production. A similar thing happens to Swedish rock act Molotov Jive on their third full-length, titled STORM, an almost absurdly overblow spectacle of a record that constantly tries to sound huge...whether or not it has the melodies to make that sound work. But that's not to say that Molotov Jive isn't a talented band, that STORM isn't a solid album, or even that the production is a complete blunder: indeed, when the sound works, the songs are undeniable, like with the towering should-have-been-opener "Run," which possesses a shout along chorus, a wall of guitars (a la The Dangerous Summer), and a flourish of synth melodies that recall both '80s bands (the record is evocative of Depeche Mode throughout) and the post-millenial new wave revival (yes, The Killers) to pleasing effect. But just as often, that spacious, echoing production is shackled to songs that don't go anywhere, compositions that meander and search for melodies or hooks ("Take Me In Your Arms") or stumble upon grating ones ("Manhattan").

More frustrating is the vocal production, which surrounds singer and songwriter' Anton Annersand's voice in an almost comical amount of reverb, causing his every word not only to ring, but to actually echo for a few moments after he sings them. The effect is doubtlessly aimed at giving the band a bigger sound, but the actual result is almost aggravatingly distracting, and, for me at least, was almost impossible to get past. It doesn't help that Annersand's default setting as a singer is desperate earnestness, causing him to shriek, inhale, and almost cry out every note in order to heighten the emotional texture of the song at hand. I'm all for emotional connection, but Annersand's overwrought delivery is almost always aimed at breaking-point intensity, and as good as he can sound in that vein (the radio-ready "Friendship" is a good example of what happens when it works), it becomes exhausting over the course of the record. That said, when the band drops the tempo and Annersand sings the songs straight (and in a lower register) like on the climactic finale that is "Sleep Safe," or on the gorgeously resigned and electronic-influenced "Just Leave," the results are stunning. He has a unique instrument, giving the band an instantly distinctive sound (despite their obvious collection of influences), but he just needs to learn to save his emotional intensity for the appropriate moments.

It's almost not fair that Molotov Jive will instantly be compared to some of the biggest acts in modern pop and rock music, but that association also has its perks. At its best, STORM sounds like a welcoming bell, an announcement to herald an act with the talent and the scope to play in the big leagues; at its worst, it comes across as pale imitation of that scene. The songs the band has written here do generally merit the size and scope of production they attempt, so it's a shame that the finished product is a bit shoddy and mismanaged. With a giant like Brian Eno or Daniel Lanois behind the boards, these guys could have been filling stadiums; by all rights, the same thing should have happened with Sylvia Massy (whose resume includes work with Aerosmith, Prince, and Red Hot Chili Peppers), but the result is almost stifling instead. Still, these guys have a gift for the grandiose and the subdued alike, and while STORM only rarely reaches its high level of potential, with the right person behind the boards, they could go global.

Frank Ocean - channel ORANGE

Frank Ocean - channel ORANGE

Island/Def Jam, 2012

Four stars

Last year, Frank Ocean sneaked into my end of the year honorable mentions with his innovative mixtape Nostalgia. Ultra, something that may not have seemed like anything to write home about to someone unfamiliar with my musical tastes, but something that was a bit of a surprise for me. Just like the vast majority of the population, I had no idea who Frank Ocean even was until last summer, but furthermore, he was a part of a genre (R&B) that I have very little love for. But Nostalgia was something fresh, a guy with a great voice spinning catchy, well written songs of his own or reinventing those of others. There were a few duds in the tracklist, but those were mostly forgivable, especially given the strength of originals like "Swim Good," or the yearning, emotional spin he put on Coldplay's "Strawberry Swing." But the reinventions - which also laid down new lyrics on The Eagles' "Hotel California" and MGMT's "Electric Feel" - were a gimmick, and as good as they were, it was hard to believe that Ocean would make them a regular proceeding...at least if he was hoping to be taken seriously as a musician.

Fast forward a year, and Frank Ocean is one of the biggest names in his genre, and for good reason. His talent is undeniable in anything he does, whether he's lending guest vocals (Kanye West and Jay-Z's Watch the Throne, also from last summer) or writing his own songs. He's also entered the news lately with a very honest and very public coming out, and that event will have many a critic reading very deeply into the music and lyrics on his major label debut, searching for a profound statement. That debut, called channel ORANGE, earned a sky-high 9.5 from Pitchfork last week - the kind of score that normally means Album of the Year contention - and while it's certainly a solid and interesting set of songs, I don't think it quite deserves that level of acclaim. That said, it's all about hype in this industry, and Ocean certainly has that on his side as he charges into the summer that is going to turn him from underground favorite into global superstar.

Upon a single listen to channel ORANGE, its hard to see what the big deal is: these songs meander and wander down roads that are almost impossible to anticipate, the flow is bizarre, with interludes and sound effects meant to simulate a "channel surfing" mentality, and Ocean doesn't have as many moments to show off his vocal prowess as he did on Nostalgia. The material is also all completely original, and while that's probably the right choice for him to make, the reinvention gimmick is missed here. Ocean forgoes choruses on a regular basis, opting instead for ambitious song structures that don't always work. But once all expectations and pre-conceptions of Ocean as an artist drop away, as they inevitably will, what's left is a compelling (if flawed) document of one of today's most intriguing and talented young artists. Look no further than album centerpiece, the 10-minute long "Pyramids," to know that Ocean's ambitions extend far beyond simple pop or R&B music. It's a two-part suite, with a driving introduction and a slow-burning, seductive second half that eventually gives way to an incendiary guitar solo from none other than John Mayer. Mayer sticks around for the sexy instrumental that is "White," and his presence is deeply welcomed both times, but the album has no time to linger on ideas: it moves along with a jarring and fast-paced clip, and if you blink, you might miss the transitions.

Perhaps the most prevalent of the personalities that Ocean adopts across channel ORANGE's 17 tracks is that of Stevie Wonder, who, himself a shape-shifting musical force, proves to be one of Ocean's most obvious influences. He lets loose a gorgeous falsetto on the chorus of "Thinkin' Bout You," references some of Stevie's biggest pop hits on the all-too-short "Fertilizer," and throws out the album's truest chorus and hook on "Sweet Life," never drifting too far from the musical territory that Wonder mined on key records like Innervisions and Songs in the Key of Life. But just like Nostalgia was more than a "cover" album, ORANGE is more than a tribute to one of Ocean's favorites, and he does a lot here to distinguish himself from the other figures in his genre, both past and present. Songs like "Super Rich Kids," "Monks," and "Pink Matter" (with an entrancing verse from Outkast's Andre 3000) veer more towards hip hop than Ocean has attempted yet (though, as a member of the Odd Future group, which consists mostly of rappers, it was only a matter of time until that influence manifested itself). Meanwhile, Ocean unleashes one of the best pop songs of the summer with "Lost," which sports an indelible groove and an addictive swagger that will doubtlessly land it on many a playlist this season.

But even with all of his musical ambition and varied styles, Ocean is at his best when he opens himself up and lets the world see the man behind it all. The song where that happens, the climactic "Bad Religion", is the closest he gets to the kind of "grand statement" that critics will be searching for here. The song, awash with strings and ringing organ chords, sees the protagonist climbing into a taxi at the end of a depressing and demoralizing night. He's looking for answers, for somewhere to think and someone to talk to, and he asks the cab driver to "be his shrink for the hour" and to help him "outrun the demons."  Everything builds towards the rousing "chorus," where Ocean belts, in one of his most spectacular vocal moments on record, "if it brings me to my knees, it's a bad religion." The result is the album’s peak and one of the best songs of the year. It's a sonic feast, a lyrical tour-de-force, an affecting and relatable piece of storytelling, and a vocal powerhouse all in one. It's also over far too quickly. Clocking in at 2:55, "Bad Religion" ends just when you think it could build into something truly epic. It's a shame for a record that has at least ten minutes of throwaway material (grating moments like "Sierra Leone" and "Crack Rock" come to mind, as do the utterly worthless intro and outro tracks), but when the song is so good, it's hard to complain.

Ultimately, while channel ORANGE may not be quite worth the profusion of hype it is certain to collect this week and throughout the rest of the year (look for this near the top of many a year end list), it is a solid and fascinating release from a charismatic and promising artist. Ocean doesn't quite sustain that promise throughout, occasionally stumbling on his own ambitious drive, but the album's highlights showcase a dizzying amount of talent and charm that demand to be noticed. For listeners more at home in this genre, channel ORANGE may well be a masterpiece, but I think it's equally notable that Ocean has been able to reach beyond those boundaries so effortlessly. His appeal reaches far and wide, thanks to his voice and his eclectic musical palette, and while the resulting cluster of musical ideas is hard for me to love completely, it's also impossible not to respect.

Keane - Strangeland

Keane - Strangeland

Island Records, 2012

Four stars

Keane's Hopes and Fears, which dropped all the way back in 2004, was one of the handful of records from that year that turned me into an obsessive music fan. It was an album full of soaring choruses, emotional lyrics, and truly spectacular vocal acrobatics (courtesy of lead singer Tom Chaplin), and I fell in love with every one of those songs throughout the end of that year and the beginning of the next. A lot of people would have derided that album as "dull" or "repetitive," and they would certainly have a compelling argument for either case: Chaplin and co. didn't write with a lot of sonic variation. They were a three-piece band, with drums, piano, and voice, and no guitars anywhere in sight, but that wasn't even all of it: the songs generally were built around the same formula, and could easily have run together (in fact, I think they did at first). But that was a time when there were fewer albums at my disposal, and I spent a lot of time with that one: it grew on me, attached itself to a thousand different moments in my life, and became one of the most nostalgic records in my collection. It was a serendipitous connection that the band could never duplicate, and I enjoyed each of their releases less than the previous (though I always appreciated that the band did evolve on each of them). The dark atmospherics of 2006's Under the Iron Sea gave way to a more dance/pop-based sound on 2008's Perfect Symmetry and an EP a couple of years later, always with diminishing returns, and I became certain that, while I would listen to the band's future music, it would never have the impact of their debut.

Where their contemporaries in Coldplay have moved from their piano-rock roots towards a more fully orchestral, U2-esque sound, Keane has constantly delved further and further into the nuances of Brit-pop, and Strangeland is their poppiest record yet. Where their first two records were grounded in emotional piano-balladry, their latest finds them more bent on creating echoing pop soundscapes, full of sweeping choruses and wide-open production. Bassist/guitarist Jesse Quin, who joined the band fairly inconspicuously for Perfect Symmetry, helps with that task, but his presence also moves the band further away from what made those first two albums special for me. When I think of Keane, it will always be of the bombastic piano chords of "Somewhere Only We Know," or the cold synths of the power ballad that was "She Has No Time," both furnished by keyboardist and composer Tim Rice-Oxley. While both of those things are certainly present here, the wider array of instrumentation and electronic influences that the band has acquired over the past few records has turned them into a completely different musical force. But while that may hinder my nostalgic enjoyment of this record, it only enhances its pop music value, and make no mistake, this is one of the catchiest, most addicting collections of songs that anyone has made all year. Look no further than the opening trio (the introduction of "You Are Young" and the one-two punch of singles "Silenced By The Night" and "Disconnected"), all of which feature high-rise choruses and expansive, enthralling production. The gorgeous 80s AM-pop of "Sovereign Light Cafe" is a highlight and wouldn't sound out of place on a classic Elton John record, while the driving rhythm of "On The Road" sounds equally out-of-time. One of my biggest problems with Perfect Symmetry was that it seemed like the band was selling out, giving up on their own sound and major influences, and veering towards modern radio's obsession with electronic, dance, and hip-hop music; Strangeland finds the band melding their old sound with a more classic, radio-pop approach, and the results are both reminiscent of a past age and refreshing for the current one.

But while Strangeland is loaded with hooks and stirring pop songs, what is lacking is what Keane have always been the best at: the piano ballads. The album's poppier tracks crackle with life and energy that have been lacking from the band's sound since Iron Sea, but the slower moments, like the tepid "Watch How You Go," which has great verses but a snoozer of a chorus, or the forgettable "Black Rain," which actually gets buried in Dan Grech-Marguerat's reverb-soaked pop production, take an otherwise terrific album down a notch. That's not to say that, when the tempo drops, so does the quality: songs like "Neon River" and album-closer "Sea Fog" are less rhythmically driven than much of the record, but still have the same addictive pop sensibility, but it is a bit of a disappointment, as lyrical balladry has always been one of the band's biggest strengths in the past. Still, even as things have shifted within this band, one aspect, at least, has remained constant, and serves as the same "secret weapon" for these songs as it has for the band's entire output: that ingredient is the voice of Tom Chaplin, which soars, lilts, breaks, and cuts through every stratospheric arrangement and subdued moment that Strangeland has to offer; it lends songs like "In Your Own Time" and "Day Will Come" a palpable climactic energy, and imbues "Sea Fog" with a sense of resignation that carries the album out in haunting fashion. Chaplin's delivery, his ability to tap into the emotional core of every song Rice-Oxley pens, and his sheer vocal range, have always baffled me and kept me coming back to this band's music, and probably will continue to do so as long as they record it. People have mocked, derided, and written this band off from the get-go, but at very least, the vocal prowess has always been untouchable. In that sense, he's their Bono.

I received Hopes and Fears for my fourteenth birthday, along with Green Day's American Idiot and Sister Hazel's Lift, sandwiched between the weeks and months when I purchased Jimmy Eat World's Futures and The Killers' Hot Fuss, and in the same year that birthed Butch Walker's Letters and Arcade Fire's Funeral. That list of records constitutes some of my favorite music ever committed to tape and represents the backbone of explosive growth and musical discovery I went through in the fall of 2004. To put it lightly, Keane, no matter the direction they have taken since that release, remain one of the most important figures on my own musical timeline, and because of that, they have earned my attention for life. Only time will tell whether Strangeland will, like Hopes and Fears, stay in constant rotation and pop up on my end-of-the-year list, or be forgotten in the midst of superior records, but for now, it's one of the finest and shiniest collections of pop songs I've heard so far this year, and represents the sound of a band struggling with their influences, indulgences, and yes, hopes and fears, to get back on their feet and deliver a triumph. My belief is that, like their debut, it will only continue to grow on me.

"Echoes of a city that's long overgrown"

Florence + the Machine - Ceremonials

 Island Records, 2011

Four stars

Florence + the Machine have always seemed like a pretty minor pop diversion to me. Maybe it was the fact that the first version of their massive pop single "Dog Days Are Over" that I heard was the one on Glee, a show that has the strange effect of making me like songs less than I otherwise would have. Their debut album, entitled Lungs, never really caught on with me either either. Lead singer and brainforce Florence Welch had an interesting voice, and her songs were far from the usual pop music fare, but aside from a few moments of glory ("Dog Days" being one of them), I guess I never really gave it the attention that it probably deserved, not even after I saw them open for U2 on the final leg of their 360 degree tour. However, it was obvious from that show that Florence had charisma: she paraded around the stage, and held the attention of ten thousand audience members fairly easily, but even then, I was so set on the main event that, as tight a musical outfit as the opening band obviously was, they were still just that: an opening band.

That's all about to change, as Florence + the Machine move up to headliner status with their sophomore album, called Ceremonials. The time spent with U2 on the highest grossing tour in history obviously had a big impact on them, as ghosts of that band's early 90's records pop up in nearly every track, and Welch takes to making the kind of larger than life gestures that would make Bono proud. Ceremonials is bigger, brasher, darker and better than it's predecessor, filled to the brim with massive choruses, explosive tribal drums and gothic flourishes, all of which revolve around the core of the band's sound: Welch's unique and powerful voice. She sings like a woman possessed from the get-go, and while the fact that the emotional intensity really never dips below a certain point may result in some finding the disc (which clocks in at a lengthy 56 minutes) feel exhausting or repetitive, repeat listens yield rewarding discoveries and emotional textures that are hard to catch on the first time through. The more I listen, the more I think that Ceremonials is one of the finest albums in a great year, and that's not something I expected at all when I dove in for my first listen.

Ceremonials opens with the rather subdued "Only If For a Night," which presents the album's flair for dark, orchestral chamber pop. The drums pound heavy and high in the mix on the chorus, and Welch's vocals, multi-tracked and surrounded in reverb, sound eerie and massive. Distant pianos and backing vocals ring in the background throughout, and immediately, the album's mood and sonic template are established. Speaking of the latter, listening to this thing on a good pair of headphones is one hell of an experience, and kudos must be paid to producer Paul Epworth, who did some work on Adele's 21 (the biggest selling record of the year), and who gives the album an otherworldly quality.

Second single, "Shake it Out," is an album highlight, due mostly to the desperation Welch pours into her vocal performance. The chorus is huge, but it's the verse and the bridge that hit home the hardest, thanks to what might be the year's biggest powerhouse vocal; this is an anthem in the making, and if there's any justice, it will be an even bigger success than "Dog Days" was; I'd certainly call it the better song. First single "What the Water Gave Me" is a darker, more bass driven track, and is a less obvious single-choice, though it's probably more representative of the album's overall sound. Like many of the songs on the album, the song is based around a propulsive build; once the instrumentation fills out and Welch lets loose, the song explodes, and the result is stunning.

"Never Let Me Go" is another favorite of mine, a gospel-tinged catharsis built around a refrain of back-up voices and a cathedral-filling chorus that sits easily among the album's best. It's damn-near flawless on record, but it's also the kind of song that could end up being a real religious experience live: U2 had a bunch of those on The Joshua Tree, and it's not too surprising that Welch wanted one of her own after seeing Bono belt out "Where the Streets Have No Name" near the end of the show every night on tour.

After three heavyweights, Ceremonials takes a bit of a respite on "Breaking Down," a more straightforward, relaxed pop song, and "Lover to Lover," which wouldn't have sounded out of place on Adele's record (indeed, Welch seems to be channeling her, vocally). Here, it feels a bit out of place and ends up being the album's weakest moment, an inconsequential piece of filler that would be better if the album weren't already a bit long to begin with. "No Light, No Light" plunges us back into darkness though, and that's where this album sounds the most comfortable. Heralded by an organ intro, the song explodes, with a harp accent and a quick crescendo, into a sky-scraping chorus and some of the most personal lyrics on the record. "Would you leave me if told you what I'd become?" she asks on the bridge, where harp flourishes add a nice subtlety to the musical palette. Her voice soars, breaking into falsetto at points, and it's one of the most chilling moments of the record. "Seven Devils" is the perfect companion, a haunting slow-burner that wouldn't be successful in any other hands, but Welch's lilting voice gives it a pulse.

The massive "Heartlines," which opens with tribal drums and gang vocals, builds into one of the album's highlights, a crescendo enforced by Florence's mountainous vocals and a truly bombastic arrangement, all leading to in infectious chorus. It feels like it could be the closer, but we're not quite there yet. "Spectrum" opens in darkness but transitions to pure pop glory, while the anthemic and gorgeously melodic penultimate track, "All This & Heaven Too" might be the album's biggest triumph, as well as it's most instantly rewarding one.

U2's career reinventing classic Achtung Baby turns twenty this week (more on that later), but it's influence is still being felt today. Coldplay's latest has drawn many comparisons to that record, what with it's synth-heavy hooks and titanic production value, but Ceremonials hits far closer to the spirit of U2's second masterpiece than just about any album since. L.A. Times critic Robert Hilburn once called Achtung Baby "U2's daring descent into darkness," and just as that album ended amid turmoil and shadow on the transcendent "Love is Blindness," so does Florence end her record. "Leave My Body" finds the singer aiming for heaven, but she sounds significantly closer to hell in the song's swirling piano/acoustic foundation and it's pounding drums or far off backing vocals. "I'm gonna leave my body, I'm gonna lose my mind," she claims on the song's chorus. It's a resounding declaration amid a dark album's darkest hour, a climactic symphony of sound that serves as one of the most chilling and consuming climaxes of any album this year. It caps off a record that feels like a rebirth; a near-masterpiece that should catapult Florence + the Machine into the ranks of the most premiere artists in the business. No matter what, Welch is undoubtedly one of the most captivating personas in pop music. Most artists with a hit like "Dog Days" up their sleeve would aim to write a full album of pop hits on the follow up, but Ceremonials is anything but safe. It's an honest-to-God album in an age of singles, a strikingly left-of-the-mainstream work of art where Welch airs her demons, sings her heart out, and comes out sounding like a true rock and roll star. And you can't beat that.