THE SHINS - WINCING THE NIGHT AWAY

The Shins are widely known for their eccentric indie-rock sound and have proved to be frontrunners in how we know post-90s alternative rock. Since their debut album Oh, Inverted World in 2001, this Portland, Oregon band has been a breath of fresh air to the music industry, both on our ears and our eyes.

The album on focus this week is their latest release, 2007’s Wincing the Night Away. The album has received many plays on my iTunes library, and for the better half of my high school senior year, annoyed the shit out everyone who called me with one of its tracks as my ring back tone (remember when those were cool?). I come back to the LP every now and then, and every time I do I find myself still decoding its album art.

The art follows a similar pattern to that of the band’s other works: abstract, adolescent shapes reserved for study hall doodling. A snapshot into some sort of alien world, the jacket to Wincing the Night Away is as fluid and dreamy as the album itself. The original medium appears to be sophisticated BIC pen on highly rare and delicate Mead Composition graph paper. But it’s that kind of honesty that invites the eye in closer, making it want to examine its imperfections (the strokes of the pen, the curvature of the lines).

The three embryonic globes, while anchored on the page, deliver a feeling of liquidity, stretching and breaking apart like soft bread in some distant universe. The shapes morph and twist while small tree-like growths extend outward. This attributes to the idea of these being odd planets in the stages of growth and development in some place very far away.

The album itself also holds to that same sentiment. “Australia” is a track devoted to everything but the country (or is it continent?) itself, rather an alternative state-of-mind. “Phantom Limb” and “Sea Legs” also twist and morph into unrecognizable ideas and foreign lyrics.

With all its perplexity, The Shins stick to their true aesthetic fashion by keeping it clean and simple. The lines are crisp and sharp, and the spaces are well defined. The band’s name and album title, which appear in the top left corner of the jacket, are perfectly placed in a slightly gestural, tightly-controlled type that flows down the page.

It’s a step away from the color-blocking, 2-dimensional work on Chutes Too Narrow and the simplistic approach on Oh, Inverted World, but this work ties in well. It will be exciting to see what the band comes up with next and how they will use art to add to the interpretation of their music.

SANTIGOLD - SANTIGOLD

Gracing us with sassy hook-lines and mismatched sound effects from the not-too-far-back-in-the-distant past is Santigold*: the “M.I.A. wannabe” to some, the “reallyreallygoodartistIcan’twaituntilmoremoremore” to others. Needless to say I’m with the latter, and as you might have guessed, it’s not just thanks to the music…

From the bite in her lyrics to her eccentric fashion choices, Santigold seems to be living in a world of carefree paper cutouts and D.I.Y. photo editing. At least that’s just what the cover of her self-titled LP Santogold (as spelled on MY iTunes at least) is telling me.

Designed by artist Isabelle Lumpkin, the album jacket takes on the personality of a demented four-year-old’s cut-and-paste project—in the best, indie way possible, of course. The horizontal reflection of the photo provides at least a slight grown up sense of depth with crude craftsmanship.

The photo is candid and almost unflattering, letting it’s muted blue hues contrast sharply against the piled gold spilling from Santigold’s mouth. Some may see it as an artistic approach to deeper political issue, or even just a play on words in the album title itself (santoGOLD).

But methinks it could be a little broader than that. It’s unlike an artist such as Santigold to create a message with such a narrow answer, eliminating all other possible forms of discussion. At first glance this album cover might look all over the place, just another “extremist” attempt to be all things wrong and ironic, but when you really examine the art itself (and other works of the artist) you begin to realize that there really is a method to the madness.

Tracks like “My Superman” and “Anne,” push the album into a dark, almost twisted place. On the other hand, “Say Aha” and Bud Light Lime tune “Creator” hold a lighter, more innocent feel. Both conflicting sentiments can be drawn from the art of Santogold.

Her posture in the photo is meek—almost to the point of satirical, and the typography in the title looks eerily childlike. Yet the dead look in her face is haunting, empty and ominous.

An interesting cover that will always catch my attention, I can’t help but feel a strong draw to it every time I see it. Its elements are simple and marginally archaic, but Santogold contains that one special element that makes album art so much more than what meets the eye.

*Disclaimer/side note/whatever you want to call it: I still don’t like spelling it like that, but if it’s the PC term that will keep ACRN out of a lawsuit then I’m happy to oblige.

image source: Amazon.com

My Bloody Valentine - Loveless

There are two kinds of people out there – those who love My Bloody Valentine and those who hate My Bloody Valentine. And no, I’m not talking about the gore-infested 3D motion picture, but instead of the very foundation of shoegaze rock as we know it today

After sitting as one of the headliners at last summer’s All Points West festival in Liberty State Park, they seem to be making a small comeback to the current music scene. Although many may not particularly like the kind of noise MBV puts off, the band’s 1991 release Loveless is hailed as being one of the greatest albums of all time.

The record’s cover is truly a testament to what the band is all about. The different hues of magenta and purple blend together like a smudge painting, vaguely creating the shape of a guitar neck and body. It’s almost like someone set the camera shutter WAY low and let Kevin Shields (guitar, vocals) himself strum away under the stage lights, leaving only the blurred trails documented.

And that same concept really parallels their music as well. The vocals are so buried by guitar loops and muffled drums that it’s almost impossible to make out what Shields is singing half the time. But that kind of openness to interpretation is what has made Loveless such a big source of inspiration to bands like Radiohead and Guided by Voices. Their consistent choice of low-fi, blurred images has made their own mark of inspiration as well.

I sense a bit of irony, too, when I look at the cover. The album is called “Loveless,” but its basic make up and overall tone seems to me anything but. Everything we’re told of love is blurry, confusing and blissful. When you think of that feeling and what it means, you think of pink and red and those sorts of hues. The juxtaposition of placing an album name like Loveless onto an image that, in the common sense, would seem to be a visual representation of what we know love as, is humorous and very interesting.

Even listening to the record, while there may be a sense of apathy and emptiness, you can’t help but feel a taste of utopia. Everything sounds so natural, free and, well, beautiful. Isn’t that what love is? Ongoing, blind ecstasy of unending limits, predictions or rules? Loveless puts all those rules into debate by just simply naming the album.

It’s just another layer My Bloody Valentine has placed under their spellbinding music. Like the cover itself, the album is soft, blended and smooth. This album is no naked baby under water or a nurse holding a syringe. It’s nothing more than a series of blurred lines, questions and speculations. And that’s when there really is no limit at all.

'KALA' - M.I.A.

Introducing M.I.A.’s second studio album Kala (2007) is a difficult task. Springing off her groundbreaking debut release Arular, M.I.A. took what we know as sound and rhythm and brought it up to another level.

The cover art for Kala is almost as groundbreaking. In an age of stream lines, Adobe CS4 applications and Cinematic Mac Desktops, it is eye-opening—not to mention refreshing—to see a graphic design such as this at its rawest.

From pixilated text to the x-rayed images, Kala looks more like a computer virus than an album cover. Lime green, blue and zebra-striped triangles line the background while repetitive images of M.I.A. herself punch forward.

The jacket, which was designed by M.I.A. personally, also contains graphic work by artists Cassette Playa (Carrie Mundane) and Steve Loveridge.

With tracks like radio smash “Paper Planes” and “Boyz,” it’s no wonder why M.I.A. would choose the low-res route for her album. The music is as raw and glitchy (yes, I made that word up) as the arrows and stripes running up the side.

The LP’s heavy political references also play a part on the cover’s appearance. The main portrait in the center has the words “Fight on! Fight on! Fight on!” repeated around the edge of the circle.

Although she has received some flack from industry folks for her creative decisions, M.I.A. holds strong to her grass-roots design aesthetics. It’s not a route many rising musicians would choose. She shows, through both her music and her art on Kala, that she’s not losing her identity any time soon, the same identity that got her there in the first place.

Blonde Redhead - '23'

Before I even listened to Blonde Redhead’s seventh studio LP 23 (2007), I had already seen its artwork all over the web, from small-town Tumblrs to big city music magazine sites. In fact, I saw the jacket to 23 before I knew it was even a Blonde Redhead album.

Because album artwork in itself is such an equipped form of visual expression, we often develop our own preconceived notions about the music before we even hit “play” on our iPods. (See Britney Spears’ candy-sealed, Photoshop awarded Circus or even M.I.A’s pixilated computer glitch Kala).

When I first saw the cover art, I was instantly drawn to its kinky yet strikingly simple design. When I gave the record a first full run through, I understood the connections between the tracks and the four-legged tennis player on the front.

The album art for 23 was actually adapted from an earlier work by artist Adam Gross titled “The Tragedy.” In its original version, our quad-legged woman swims in a background of polka dots. And while both her pose and the tennis racquet remain the same in both versions, on the album cover her blue patterned dress shifts to a shade of beige and the ice cream cone in her left hand mysteriously disappears.

My only guess as to why Gross made such edits was to present a much simpler work. It would be one that would complement the songs — as well as Blonde Redhead’s overall style — a tad better.

Another bit noticeably different between the two works is the varying mediums on which they are presented. After some investigating, I found that Gross’ work routinely appears sharp and clean. The cover of 23, though, isn’t as crisp. Upon closer inspection, it even seems to be almost painted on canvas. Her face and body lines are blurred, and the image as a whole takes on a softer, more dazed identity.

When you listen to 23, you hear this same sort of sentiment. Tracks like “Dr. Strangeluv” and “23” are clouded and spacey while at the same time simplistic and fresh. The album’s experimental sound pushes further in songs “Heroine” and “Top Ranking.”

Blonde Redhead’s zany, offbeat sound and personality make the cover of 23 a perfect image for not just the album itself but for the band as well. Intentional or not, the band has done something smart— branding an identity for itself and for its album. Even if you’ve never heard a Blonde Redhead song in your life, you still may have seen that four-legged woman poised in a sea of blue. And while your ears may have failed you, at least you have your eyes to fall back on.

"The Tragedy" by Adam Gross
Photo source: Amazon.com

MOBY - 'PLAY'

It’s not hard to figure out why every band and musician strives for some kind of commercial achievement. This success equals money, fame and appreciation. But sometimes the hand that feeds you can also be the one that smacks you in the head with a blunt object over and over again until you bleed and die. I’m not talking about frivolous sex, excessive greed, stalkers or cocaine. I’m talking about car commercials, bad sitcoms and the movie Holes.

1999 was Moby’s year. His fifth studio album, Play—the audio bible of post-90’s advertising campaigns—put the experimental DJ on the commercial map. It was a feat few before him had accomplished.

Moby is considered one of the most influential electronica music figures of the 90’s, but it was Play, unfortunately, that also stumped Moby’s growth and recognition in the mainstream media since 1999. (This is arguably if you want to consider the adequate sales of Moby's 2002 release 18.)

I’m not trying to diss or hint at any displeasure in Play or Moby’s talent at all. I’m a huge Moby fan. I about cried when I heard my editor Jill passed him in Greenwich Village this summer carrying two Starbucks lattes in his hands. And the fact that Play is still the #1 selling electronic album of all time an entire decade after its initial released is indication enough that it’s nothing less than iconic.

It appears that the cover art for Play is just as iconic as the album itself. It’s refreshingly simple and raw—in true Moby fashion—while at the same time possessing a sense of sophistication and interest that leaves the listener (and viewer) curious.

The flush-left and flush-right alignments on the cover of Play are choppy and break the safe, traditional design rules of a centered, flowing layout.

Even the photographic content is awkward and unrefined, from Moby’s own disgusted facial expression and hairy chest to the photo assistant’s exposed arm and light meter. The photo’s unpolished harsh flash gives the objects a hard, unflattering shadow and light glare (see: Moby’s shining bald head).

The two splashes of red in the album’s title text and a cleverly placed “play” glyph tie the layout together in its own charming, loose-knotted form.

When you listen to Play, you may come to understand the design direction of the album art a little better. Every song on that album is so raw. Bluntly cut blues sample tracks are re-sewn together with streamlined house beats to create one cohesive masterpiece. That same patchwork of old and new transferred over to the cover of Play. It is simultaneously sleek and archaic, refined while awkward, recognizable while mysterious all at the same time.

Fiona Apple – 'Extraordinary Machine'

Rising from the ashes of delays and leaked tracks, shut downs and protests, Fiona Apple’s Extraordinary Machine proved four years ago (all the way back in 2005) that it was, truly, extraordinary.

If you’re any kind of Fiona Apple fan then you know at least part of the story. Girl makes album, album gets delayed, speculation arises, controversy ensues and said controversy continues on for two years. But then on October 4, 2005, all the drama came to a close when Apple released—in my opinion—one of the best records of the decade.

The framework of Extraordinary Machine is playful and stinging. Its ground-sewn beats and embellished lyrics are organic, quirky and imperfect. And the album art echoes that sentiment.

Rumored to be snapped by Apple herself in her own backyard, the jacket of the album (as well as of the vinyl my girlfriend bought for me just last week) features the picture of a pre-budding Agapanthus flower, more commonly referred to as the “Lily of the Nile.”

I see every little seed pod within the plant’s leafy cocoon representing the different tracks on this album, each on its own journey of growth and development. These seeds will someday soon bloom into the beautiful creation they set out to be, but it will take time and patience for each to fully reach its potential.

With all of Apple’s lyrical riddles and harmonic puzzles, it seems the album art for Extraordinary Machine is her last—and most immediately visible—metaphor. It’s genius, really, from the awkward plumbing text to the soft frame of green, pink and blue hues.

The album itself is a testament to self-betterment as well as learning from and accepting imperfections—a stray from Apple’s earlier works. It’s quickly apparent through interviews and her own recollection that she has grown a lot in the six years between her 1999 release When The Pawn and Extraordinary Machine in 2005.

As she warns on the album’s title track: “If there was a better way to go then it would find me/I can’t help it the road just rose out behind me/Be kind to me, or treat me mean/I’ll make the most of it, I’m an Extraordinary Machine.”

A self-proclaimed extraordinary machine, maybe Apple herself is the pod on the brink of finally blooming. Her music has evolved and sharpened tremendously, granting her major critical acclaim that includes having the #1 album of 2005 for Entertainment Weekly, The New York Times and Slant magazine as well as landing in the top 5 for The Village Voice, Blender and Rolling Stone.

It’s exciting (and a little scary) to wonder what the future holds for such a keen yet unpredictable artist. As long as the seeds are planted, the rain falls and the sun shines, I’ve learned that with this artist anything is possible.