NYLON - October 2007 - (Page 112) EDI T ED BY KAT E WI L L I AMS BOOKMARK: BLUE Q BOOKS Finally, coffee-table books that are an appropriate size for New York apartments—you know, about two by three inches. Blue Q, the quirky company that makes everything from Miso Pretty and Dirty Girl beauty products to Mullet Gum, has introduced a line of what they dub the “world’s smallest coffee table books.” The collection of 15 books includes a hilarious The Holy Bibel, a Bible printed with rampant misspellings; Sleep, a collection of photographs by PINBACK Autumn Of The Seraphs (Touch and Go) After nearly 10 years in the game, San Diego’s Pinback have carved an undeniable niche in the indie community, and have consistently found new permutations of the idiosyncratic sound for which they are so beloved. From the driving opener of their fourth full-length Autumn Of The Seraphs, “From Nothing To Nowhere” Pinback bumps up the BPMs and features a beautiful cascading guitar line that’ll be stuck in your head for weeks—and the same can be said for the wonderfully disjointed “Barnes” and the drawn-out “Good To Sea,” the later of which is teeming with caustic barbs such as “It’s really not that kind to terrorize one in her sleep.” Unfortunately, Autumn Of The Seraphs loses its momentum midway through via plodding tracks such as “How We Breathe” and “Walters,” and the band seem, in places, to rip off artists such as Elliott Smith (“Subbing For Eden”) and the Police (“Blue Harvest”) when they’ve exhausted their own musical ideas. Thankfully Pinback manage to redeem themselves toward the end of the disc with the deep grooves of “Bouquet” and stoner rock-inspired romp “Off By 50,” both of which hint toward something truly transcendent lurking beneath the band’s already sparkling sheen. JONAH BAYER Michael Putnam, all of people asleep in public places; and How to Live, a visual printing of Charles Harper Webb’s poem of the same advice-filled name. Many of the books, such as the Big Books of Wisdom, which come in Romance, Art and Office editions, were created in conjunction with innovative ad agency Mother and are complete non-sequiturs, like a book dedicated to the evils of bananas or how a perm can revitalize not only your hair, but also your life. The opposite of regular coffee table books, Blue Q’s versions are not stuffy, not heavy, and sometimes don’t even make sense. KATE WILLIAMS PJ HARVEY White Chalk (Island) PJ Harvey records are like snowflakes: No two are alike. Since her grunge-and-bluesfueled debut Dry (1992), the British icon has adjusted her sonic palette as often as she’s changed her look Rid of Me and To Bring You My Love established her raw guitar snarls and from-the-gut singing style; 1998’s Is this Desire? dabbled in trip-hop; Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea was as slick as the pre-9/11 New York that inspired it. But so dramatic a departure is her seventh release, White Chalk, that one might initially think it was made by another artist: The piano chords and dulcet “Aaah-aaahs” of opening track “The Devil” certainly don’t sound like the same woman who, three years ago on Uh Huh Her, sneered “Who/ Who/ WHO?/ Fuck/ Fuck/ YOU!” Gone are Harvey’s guttural growling and electric guitar; in their place are soprano and piano. Ethereal, macabre, and above all devastatingly pretty, White Chalk’s 11 tracks address themes of death and heartbreak so intensely that they collectively threaten to freak the listener out. It’s hard to pick a favorite: “The Devil” is darkly angelic; “Grow Grow Grow” sounds like a phantom emanating from a Victrola; a silken vocal echo haunts the banjo-tinged title track. White Chalk, as it happens, refers to the geological composition of the hills of Harvey’s Dorset, U.K. home that someday “will rot my bones,” but it also serves as a fitting metaphor for her new sound: pale as a ghost, old as time, so finely textured it could blow away in the wind. EVIANA HARTMAN DEADLY SYNDROME The Ortolan (Dim Mak) If you were wondering, and I hope you were, an ortolan is a small Eurasian songbird that, in some places, is still considered a delicacy. The Deadly Syndrome, meanwhile, are a four-piece from L.A. who sound not unlike Wolf Parade (or any of its side projects), Built to Spill, and the Arcade Fire. But to dismiss them as some hotblooded hybrid of such bands would be to overlook the majesty of this debut album that blusters boisterously, explosively, and sporadically like a pile of leaves on a breezy autumn day. Xylophones, pianos, and guitars veer from crashing theatrics to delicate, whimsical melodies, layered ornately but seemingly effortlessly in exquisite, shimmering songs, which burble with dark, mournful lyrics. Catch the Deadly Syndrome now before your trendy mustachioed friend tells you about them. LUKE CRISELL
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