When I imagine what a fuck buttons is, I picture the experiment in which scientists rigged a rats’ brain to emit doses of serotonin every time it hit a button. As to be expected, the rat continuously hit the bar — over-and-over again — foregoing all food and drink for a quick-fix brain orgasm endlessly until it died. So, what would a band like this sound like? Probably somewhere between Abba and Junior Senior.
But UK’s Fuck Buttons (Benjamin John Power and Andrew Hung) do not sound like that, at all. Not anywhere near it. It’s more likely someone pointed out to Benjamin or Andrew that they missed a button on their shirt, and his straight-faced reply was “fuck buttons”. This disregard, or at least challenge, of the “norm” sounds closer to what could be FB’s sonic approach.
Their sound is one of static, overdrive guitar layers, and distorted vocals out of which gasps of harmony and rhythm emerge. In 2008, F.B. unleashed Street Horrrsing to near universal critical acclaim — an unlikely feat for a six track, 49-minute endurance test whose first discernible beat begins after the 30-min mark. The coarse fuzz was dotted with keyboard peaks, tribal polyrhythms, indecipherable chanting and contorted screams — no one was sure what they were getting at, but were enjoying the trip.
The first discernible beat on their Sophomore album, Tarot Sport, enters at about 1:30 on the first track “Surf Solar”, followed quickly by a club worthy cut-up female vocal sample. So… the Fuck Buttons can throw a change-up as well as a screwball. It’s a pleasant surprise though; an apt introduction to the more accessible, more immediately pleasurable follow-up LP.
The highlight is the LP’s centerpiece, “Olympians”, whose gradiosity should soundtrack a slow-motion marathon montage. Clocking in at nearly 11 min, the track itself is a rewarding endurance challenge. Closing the album is equally epic “Flight of the Feathered Serpent” with drum machines, keyboards, and Zinner-like guitar squall creating what a mounts to an exultant sonic victory lap after an intriguing two year 15-track output.
While the first album felt more organically distorted, the Fuck Buttons’ more electronic approach this time around still reaches for a familiar goal; transcendence through pattern and repetition. Tarot Sport will be a different experience if you loved with their debut, but there is nothing you can really get upset about here. The base materials are still there — distortion, rhythm, synth – it’s just in a more structured form.
Imagine taking a weighty, imposing piece of abstract art and dividing into a more-manageable triptych. Arguably, the new form could make for an equally enjoyably aesthetic experience (perhaps even moreso), but those enamored with the original may still cry foul.
Last night newly married man (i.e. chilled out and off cigarettes), rocker Ryan Adams said the words: fuck/fucking/fuck you approximately 28 times while promoting his second book of poetry Hello Sunshine at the New York Public Library.
“Are there any kids here?” Adams blurted after catching himself hanging on an expletive. “Cause I cuss a lot.”
The lovely and casual — yet at times awkward — discourse between the jumpy musician and his interviewer, fiery actress Mary Louise Parker ran the gamut, from their love and hate relationship toward American poet Mark Strand to Led Zeppelin.
A question most of us were asking ourselves even before the talk began was: why were these two paired up?
The unifying link here stems from a bond they both shared over their love of poetry when they used to be neighbors. Ah! OK, got it. Their fluidity was overtly noticeable as Parker would whisper things to Adams, making sure he stayed on track, moving the length of talk along (she left right before Q&A’s). For the record, the talk was supposed to stay at the running time of a “typical shrink appointment,” though Adams himself said he had never had a session that long before.
Regardless of time, the talk did hit on some interesting topics, like why poetry matters, overused words (rain!), editing poetry or not, the works of Allen Ginsberg, Frank O’Hara, John Ashbery, Elizabeth Bishop, Frederick Seidel (or as Adams refers to him by “the Hannibal Lecter of poetry”), and Johnny Temple (bassist of Girls Against Boys and Adams’ publisher under the independent imprint Akashic Books.
Interestingly enough the most spontaneous and sincere moments were when Adams discussed his own works, in music, art and poetry.
“I don’t have a vocation,” he sort of proclaimed. “This is all I can do.”
He discussed variations between his earlier work to the pieces he is producing now under a sober and happier cloud.
“I’m 34 now. I do hypnotherapy,” he said guzzling down green tea. “The biggest dicks become such softies.”
Adams almost avoided sharing some of his own pieces with us (having said he doesn’t like reading his work) and jokingly threatened to leave until the NYPL MC coerced him into doing so. He ultimately read two exquisitely sweet pieces from his new book: Plus Dreams and White Diamonds.
At the end of the evening an attendee asked Adams which poem he’d read if it were the last thing he’d ever read before he died.
Lilledeshan: we should have our photos beside our posts. that way brian can hook readers like araceli into raising our profile
Araceli: no way. oh you wanna be like perez?
Lilledeshan: perez hilton, musical tastemaker
Araceli: i dont want people to know what i look like…my biggest fear is being a recognizable celeb
Brian: ha. you’re fist [sic] problem is BEING a celeb
Lilledeshan: why are you guys still at work? i’m going to do my city post
after i give away this free lou barlow song
Araceli: brian, you think i cant be a celeb?
Brian: oh, you can. But you can worry about being recognized later
Araceli: damn this biy [sic] is out of contorl [sic]. look i cant even spell! thats how angry i am. haha…whateves… lille is the one that wants to be famous
Lilledeshan: ya. i keep getting pre-empted. right before i get REALLY big. some stupid shit happens
As a little intro, we thought it’d be cool for the three of us to talk about what song we feel best fits our little towns. Read Brian’s here and Lille’s here.
In the coldest of days, here in New York, walking through slush, trying not to slip and fall, I can easily transport my brainwaves to a warm and sunny place: specifically, Los Angeles.
By scrolling the tunes on my iPod to The Cure, or Morrissey or Depeche Mode, I’m instantly back, driving down the 101 in bumper-to-bumper traffic, and listening to KROQ, because in 1996 that’s all you had, and that was quite great, actually.
I haven’t been in New York long enough for me to acquire a taste of a particular scene like I did with New Wave in L.A. All I have to get me in a New York state of mind is a handful of songs by bands that were “in” when I moved here a couple of years ago on my iTunes rotation like Peter Bjorn and John, Kings of Leon, and MGMT.
There is one song, however, that made me feeling like a New Yorker long before I arrived here on a one-way ticket and suitcase in hand. Frank Sinatra’s timeless song “New York, New York” had me, at the age of 13, daydreaming of walking the streets of Manhattan with a million aspirations inside of me, and a smile on my face. This song gets me every time.
Bembang! is a music blog written by a trio of music nerds who live in Los Angeles, Chicago and New York City.
