Sufjan Stevens is a master designer of atmospheres. You would want to be a Jim Carrey-type character in a world of his design, and at the end of the movie you would ultimately choose not to escape through the hidden door. At will, and in bizarre, repeating cycles, he lulls you to sleep, jerks you awake, tussles your hair, and commands you to dance. On his newest release, The Age of Adz, his first since 2005’s phenomenal, folk-oriented concept album Illinois, Stevens again demonstrates this unparalleled creative capacity, only this time against the jarring background of lasers, synthesizers, hip-hop beats, auto-tuned vocals, and what seem to be robot guitar solos.

The album has received generally positive reviews, with some writers claiming it goes too far with the new sound, and others maintaining the artist has reached a new, more mature level of songwriting. However, the reviews I have read miss the essential point of the album and the strikingly new Sufjan Stevens sound: it is at once a philosophical treatise, a meditation, a plea, a call, and l’art pour l’art, all in one. Above all, it is a manual, written with the utmost sincerity, on how to be human in the age of the machine.

The new shtick begins on the second track, “Too Much,” an incredibly catchy tune that opens with what sounds like the staticky digital accompaniment to an underwater earthquake. The beat drops, revealing a Hot Chip-inspired car-chase melody, ripe for Kanye West sampling. A major theme is introduced on this early track: the computerized sounds overwhelm and ultimately take over the song from Stevens and his backing vocalists, and, in a way, the listener, too. The seven-minute song devolves into what seems like an in-studio battle between the musicians and these futuristic sounds, switching back and forth between digital dissonance and analog order—computerized chaos and human harmony.

On “Too Much,” as on other tracks, it often seems as if Stevens wasn’t allowed into a special room in the recording studio until now: the one with all the new-fangled equipment he was denied on his previous folksy albums. Like a kid in a candy shop, he samples various bleepy sounds before abruptly discarding them for other equally piercing noises. On most songs, it seems the musician himself is no longer in control, and the crashing, annoying digital anarchy is supposed to indicate who, or what, is.

Throughout the album, interesting lyrics and melodies are obscured by strange beats, unnecessary laser-like sounds and the frustrating use of reverb, as on “I Walked” and “All for Myself.” One begins to think there is not enough Sufjan Stevens on this newest Sufjan Stevens album, and wishes he would release a pared-down version of the album, as Paul McCartney did with the Beatles’ overly orchestrated Let It Be in 2003.

Indeed, the most aurally pleasing moments of the album come when the dramatic computerized sounds abruptly fall away, and only Stevens is left, picking his guitar and singing his sweet melody. These sections, as in the last minute of the title track, are what we used to listen to Stevens for, and are perhaps even more enjoyable on this album for being surrounded by such a futuristic, mind-blowing, incomprehensible hubbub.

By the end, the whole album appears as a necessary setup for the final track, the 25-minute “Impossible Soul.” This song breaks all the boundaries of the past, for the artist and the listener both. It lyrically parallels the album’s musical novelty, and furthers the theme of a propulsive thrust into the future, insisting repeatedly: “Don’t be distracted / Do you want to be afraid?” Answer: “The scariest things are not half as enslaved.” Freedom is possible despite the machines.

There are aspects of his new album that one cannot help but find annoying and overdone. But in the end, The Age of Adz emerges as more than all that, as something we cannot help but appreciate and be seriously moved by. Because, despite all appearances to the contrary, it is ultimately human, and so are we.

bcscene.ca

It’s challenging to listen to Dan Mangan’s song “Robots” without singing along with the refrain: “Robots need love, too / They want to be loved by you.” Those words may or may not be true, but you believe them when you hear them.

Perhaps Mangan, the 27-year-old singer-songwriter from Vancouver, isn’t really singing about robots. But your interpretation, he says, is as good as his.      

“I think the truth is that once you’ve written something and you kind of put it out there into the world, it’s going to take on different forms to you,” Mangan says. “I like the idea that songs are ever-changing and are never actually finished.”  

Having just returned to Ottawa from a three-week European tour with his band—including guitarist Gordon Grdina, drummer Kenton Loewen, and bassist John Walsh—Mangan will begin a month-long tour of Canada, entitled “Peculiar Travel Suggestions,” on October 25.  

“We’ve done a lot of touring in bars,” Mangan says. “This tour does have some bars on it, but we’re also doing some churches and halls, some places that are a little bit less chaotic.”

Not that he was casting any judgment on chaos.

 “I really enjoy playing bars,” he says. “You’re helping to kind of create a party.”  

But with the success of his most recent album, Nice, Nice, Very Nice, which was nominated for the 2010 Polaris Music Prize, Mangan has more freedom to write his own ticket.

“There are aspects of playing shows in more kind of civilized places that you feel like you can come across with a real concert from start to finish,” Mangan says. “It can be a more cerebral experience. For the time being I’m excited to take it into more intimate venues.”

Having spent about two months on tour with his band, Mangan is happy to feel less like a solo artist, which is how he first started touring, and more like a member of a tight, cohesive group.  

“I feel less and less like I’m writing songs and then having people play along,” he said, “and more and more like I’ve got a bunch of songs that are mostly written and then bringing them to the guys and saying, ‘What do you guys want to do with this?'”

Mangan feels he can rely on them to do something he would not have foreseen: Grdina and Loewen are jazz musicians, while Mangan’s music is more indie folk.  

 “It’s nice because they bring out all kinds of flavours that other musicians might not, and I get to drag things out of them that they might not normally do as well,” he says.

He and his band have been working out about three or four new songs while on tour and will use the upcoming shows to hone them on stage. Mangan plans on cutting a new record with the new material in December when he returns to Vancouver. Still, he doesn’t regard his other songs as essentially complete.  

“[It’s not good] if you can’t find anything relatable in the song each time,” he says. “I think that’s the most important thing—to just try and live a song every time that you play it.”

Dan Mangan plays La Sala Rossa, October 25. Tickets are $18.

Broughtupsy is the fresh debut album from reggae/dancehall duo Bonjay—and fresh is exactly what it is. Fronted by singer Alanna Stuart and produced by beats/effects master Ian “Pho” Swain, Bonjay brings an invigorating mix of dancehall rhythms and crisp hooks to the floor, displaying ample evidence that these two have the savvy and experience needed to pack a club. Their influences are harder to pin down. In addition to their aforementioned reggae roots, they incorporate a blend of R&B, soul, and hip-hop, cemented by an indie rock songwriting sensibility.

Broughtupsy brings the jungle to your living room. At only six songs that play in just under 20 minutes, the album is short, but it’s the kind of record that can and should be listened to more than once. From the background chanting of the persistently groovy “Stumble” to the slick, eerie piano riffs on “Creepin,” Broughtupsy remains consistently enthralling, even on the short interlude track “The Small Hours.” Much of the credit should go to Stuart’s varied vocals, which keep the tracks fresh when they’re in danger of becoming repetitive. The dub horn is admittedly overused and the stream of beats barely leaves the listener time to breathe, but that’s all part of Bonjay’s charm.

The Postelles are an English accent and a few cheeky lyrics away from being a full-fledged Arctic Monkeys knockoff, but unfortunately their debut lacks the complexity of a Monkeys tune. Instead, it’s pretty straight pop. The instrumentation is minimalist at best (though not at it’s best when it’s minimal), with the light guitar lines and virtually fill-free drums taking a backseat to the vocals.  

The album picks up a smidge on “Boy’s Best Friend,” a nicely structured song with the welcome introduction of backing harmonies. However, its novelty is short lived, as the following tracks show little variation on the vocal driven “hit you over the head with pop hooks” theme. This homogeneity leads to the album’s biggest problem: it’s forgettable. The songs are too similar, and for what it is, it’s simply not grabby enough; I couldn’t even pick out the single, but the Internet told me it’s the opener, “White Night.”  

The album feels like an EP rather than a full-length. It’s got some good ideas, but the execution isn’t fully thought out. There’s potential here, sure. But in the wake of so many emerging indie pop bands, it’s hard to know whether or not the Postelles will get a chance to come back swinging.

“Ice Cube is the West Coast” is the mission statement for his new album. But after 16 tracks loaded with self-indulgence, Cube and his small posse of gangster no-names, has-beens, and never-weres can’t give a decent reason for why he deserves the title of “Best in the West.”

The album isn’t all bad. Tracks like “Life In California,” “Y’all Know How I Am,” and “I Rep That West” have strong, quick hooks over catchy beats, but it’s the lyrics that drop the album from tolerable to vapid. The first half dishes out the phrases “West Coast” or “California” ad nauseam, while the second half bashes Kanye West, Lil’ Wayne, Eminem, and sends a huge “F-you” to the American system that took Ice Cube out of the slums of L.A. and made him a multimillionaire.

There was a time in the early 1990s when Ice Cube could have said he was the best in the West and all of California would have believed him. But it’s 2010, and he just doesn’t have the same storytelling style or energy he had on his ‘91 classic Death Certificate. The concept of representing your side of the country is irrelevant today, and it makes Ice Cube sound bitter, cranky, and short on material. If he doesn’t realize this soon, he’s going to wonder why the incessant gratitude and appreciation he shows for California isn’t mutual anymore.