Boyhood (Limited Release Date: 7-11-2014)

        Richard Linklater has been making feature films for the last 23 years, and we're only just now starting to figure him out. Undoubtably one of the most under-appreciated directors of his generation, Linklater's formal elasticity has helped him make minimalist art films (Slacker, the Before trilogy), layered character studies (Dazed and Confused, Bernie), rotoscope animation drama for adults (Waking Life, A Scanner Darkly), and live-action studio comedy for kids (School of Rock, Bad News Bears). This reluctance to be placed in any single box has threatened to become the very box itself, the auteur's insistence on variety serving as a defining trait of his filmography. Another is sparkling dialogue, as anyone who's melted over Jesse and Celine's crackling discourse, or poured over Waking Life's myriad of delightfully thorny ideas, can readily attest. With the release of Boyhood, the critical conversation has shifted to his obsession with time, the Before series having already incorporated the passage of literal years onto its fictional canvas, Dazed serving as a time capsule waiting patiently to be unearthed. All theories are right in their own way, but I'm here to posit my own; Linklater's real love affair is with the notion of growth.

        Back in the summer of 2002, Linklater cast a 7-year-old boy named Ellar Coltrane in the role of Mason, a character who would take his cues from the young actor's real life, rather than the other way around. Over the course of the next 12 years, Linklater and his crew embarked on yearly visits to Houston, filming for about a week at a time on each occasion. Without a concrete script to work off, the filmmaker consulted with Coltrane and the other three leads (Patricia Arquette, Ethan Hawke, and Lorelei Linklater, the helmer's daughter), molding the story according to the real-life development of all of the actors, the kids especially. There is no plot, only a two-and-a-half hour window into the youth of a human being, resulting in a film that could somehow be described as either a dull bore or a towering epic depending on whom you're talking to. And since it's me who's talking, let's go with epic.

        I have never seen anything quite like Boyhood. The most obvious comparison is Michael Apted's Up documentaries, but those films, which check in on the real lives of the same handful Brits every seven years, observe the aging of their stars over the course of many chapters, and many hours. Watching this young boy grow into puberty and then approach manhood over such a relatively short period of time makes a real emotional impact, a special effect more awe-inspiring than anything a computer could ever make. One usually shies away from praising a film for its concept above its execution, but Boyhood is that rare instance where form starts to bleed into content. However riveting the story may or may not be, the experience of watching Coltrane stumble through that awkward, immediately relatable thing we call growing up, all while his parents develop both wisdom and wrinkles before our eyes, is undoubtably the most emotional aspect of the picture.

         Another oddly relatable property are the Harry Potter books and films, a collection of stories that featured growing characters/actors whose collective adolescence ran parallel to that of their primary audience. We certainly know that Mason is Generation Hogwarts, Boyhood oft-referencing the series, and even taking time to revel in the joy of a midnight release of The Half-Blood Prince. The picture is constantly dating itself in this manner, and while one wonders how these year-specific citations will effect the film in the future, they recall the impression and importance of pop art on young brains. The fact that six-year-old Mason loves Dragon Ball Z, 14-year-old Mason loves The Dark Knight, and 18-year old Mason reads Breakfast of Champions and jams out to Arcade Fire is neither a mistake nor a minor observation; his interests chart the moments that, at the time, felt important in popular culture, as well as our protagonist's continuing maturation.

         Casting a pair of children in a decade-plus film project is obviously a risky gambit, but for the most part, both Coltrane and Linklater come up aces. The latter grows from the sort of in-your-face precociousness youngsters often take on into an aloofness readily familiar on the faces of many young adults. Coltrane's journey is a bit more rocky; he proves endearingly observant and pensive during his single-digits ages, then morphs into a counter-culture punk, complete with greasy hair, painted nails, and forth-baked ideas on philosophy and society as a whole. I cannot say, in good conscious, that I liked teenaged Mason, but the brattiness that will undoubtedly turn off a multitude of viewers rings completely true to me. Some will claim that Linklater's writing drops off at this point, but all of the cringe-enducing self-satisfaction marks a recognizable point in adolescent development. Hawke and Arquette are perhaps even more wonderful, Arquette especially, as parental figures who attempt to steer their children onto the 'right path,' an agenda that eventually helps them locate their own.

        The last filmic comparison I want to bring up is Terence Malick's The Tree of Life, a flick which Boyhood will likely follow into a Best Picture nomination. No, there are no dinosaurs on hand this time around, but the way in which both filmmakers present childhood memories less as momentous occasions than a series of poignant minor moments strikes an awfully deep chord. Boyhood might not be electric entertainment from cover to cover, but neither is life. I usually don't like this argument, as it favors films that treat boredom as a sort of artistic virtue, but this is an entirely singular example. Linklater's piece isn't a slice-of-life movie with covert plotting and a relatable human cast; it's a slice-of-life unto itself, posing as a feature film. When most movies fail to intrigue for a few consecutive minutes, you start looking at your watch; when Boyhood hits a lull, you just sort of wait it out, just like you would analogous dull periods in your own life. The only things that come off inorganically are the start and the finish, and only because life lays claim to neither an explicit genesis, nor a definite conclusion, outside of the literal. Even after a slow-moving 165 minutes, the end credits still provide a jolt; there's so much more life to live, and Mason has only just begun.

Grade: A

Guardians of the Galaxy (Release Date: 8-1-2014)

        In case you still haven’t noticed, Marvel Studios is on to something. In a day and age where your average summer blockbuster takes on a gravity previously reserved for Oscar hopefuls, Marvel’s output uses levity as a sort of inspired counter-programming. They’ve also got that whole inner-connectivity thing going on, a rhetoric that serves to creatively handcuff the film-house’s narratives, but has proven successful enough to shake the Hollywood business model to its very core. When it was first announced, Guardians of the Galaxy sounded more like a scouting report than a proper film, a product designed to test just how obscure the brand could get before turning folks away. In reality, it’s the very opposite; Guardians is Marvel’s big power move, correctly betting that our collective previous investment would again put butts in seats, and that said butts would be primed and ready for a comic book adaptation that functions as a comedy first, and an action movie second.

        Chris Pratt stars as Peter Quill, a human orphan and conman who traverses odd ends of the galaxy looking for his next big score, a Han Solo avatar in his own mind. Near the picture's opening, Quill steals a mysterious metal orb with sights set exclusively on the nearest inter-galactic pawn shop. The theft prompts a sizable bounty to be placed on his head, one that a wise-cracking, genetically mutated raccoon (Rocket, as voiced by Bradley Cooper), and his anthropomorphized tree sidekick (Groot, voiced by Vin Diesel) would love to get their grimy mitts on. Then there's Gamora (Zoe Saldana), assassin and hench-woman of the power-hungry Ronin (Lee Pace), and adopted daughter of ultimate celestial baddie Thanos (voiced by Josh Brolin), who's tasked with retrieving the orb, but might just have a few ideas of her own. There's also a tatted-up brute named Drax, as well as Glenn Close's incredible hairpiece, but that's probably enough zaniness for one paragraph.

        Like Jon Favreau (Iron Man) and Joss Whedon (The Avengers) before him, director/co-writer James Gunn treats his Marvel debut as an enormous coming-out party. After contributing a pen to such obvious Hollywood cash-grabs as the live-action Scooby Doo movies and 2004's Dawn of the Dead remake, Gunn retreated into independent film, focusing on genre send-ups like his gross-out, alien slug invasion film Slither, and the twisted cape-and-callow cautionary tale Super. This affectionate riffing carries directly over to Guardians, and while many have praised the movie for the way it frequently skirts expectations and rhetoric, it also employs them where it sees fit. Its parody comes from a place of affection, like a friend who has known you long enough to poke fun at your tendencies every once in a while. The key word, as with all things Guardians, is fun.

        Gunn's picture is also an eye-dazzler, hoping from one planet or location to the next, each new setting beautifully rendered and admirably textured. The technical elements on hand, from costume and production design, to special effects, to sound work, are all steady and assured, while the Oscar for Best Make-Up and Hairstyling has already been shipped out to Marvel Studios, and should be getting there in about a week or so. Even the oddball sound track, comprised of soft-rock hits from the 70's for reasons that prove move affecting than one could have possibly predicted, is a perfect choice, befitting and bolstering the film's tone in equal measure. Everywhere you look, Guardians is having its cake, and eating it too. Well, almost everywhere...

        Marvel's stayed MacGuffin problem crops up once again, yet another superhero movie who's plot is set in motion by something shiny that could destroy EVERYTHING (are these movies written by cats jonesing to chase laser pointers?). The climactic battle again features an endless onslaught of sound and fury signifying nothing, led by a bad guy who we never learn to truly care about (Pace). This wouldn't be such a problem if the film wasn't so good at endearing us to its characters, the movie baring a deep, unmissable affection for its characters that's downright contagious. I expected to giggle at Pratt's pluckiness and grin at Saldana's badass-ery, but emotionally connecting to a talking raccoon and a CGI tree? Now that's movie magic.

        Guardians of the Galaxy is near-ideal popcorn entertainment, a creation so deftly calibrated that you start to wonder why more films don't follow its lead. Instead of inundating us with further gloominess and destruction, why don't big film studios... you know... create characters we like and care about, write a few good jokes, and come up with a unique visual design? Maybe it's just too much to ask, but the experience of watching Guardians in a packed auditorium that erupted into applause upon the film's conclusion reminded me that this sort of fair is supposed to be fun first, and everything else second. Gunn's film, one of the funniest and strangest Hollywood offerings in recent memory, understands what our American tentpoles have been missing, and delivers it in spades. I've always chided Marvel for exclusively making good, not great movies; looks like I'll be changing my tune.

Grade: A-

Dawn of the Planet of the Apes (Release Date: 7-11-2014)

        A funny thing happens when you allow a few days to pass between first viewing a film, and subsequently writing about it. Sure, some flicks stay right where they were, stationed as beloved, loathed, or forgotten in a manner that is largely immovable. More often than not, however, a little reflection time can serve to elevate, diminish, or (most importantly) clarify the story you just absorbed. Then there's that mysterious third category, wherein initial disappointment/revery becomes muddled upon reflection, causing you to wonder where the two hour experience stops, and where your own projections onto the piece begin. That's why I've been scared about writing about Dawn of the Planet of the Apes (see what I did there?); the film that plays in my head and the picture that's currently lighting up screens across the world might not be the exact same thing.

        Ten years have passed since the events of 2011's Rise of the Planet of the Apes, and they have not been kind to Homo Sapiens. The Simian Flu, briefly explained in the last film's conclusion and this one's opening, has wiped out nearly all of earth's human population, leaving enlightened ape Caesar (performed in motion-capture by Andy Serkis) ample opportunity to steer the monkey mob that flanks him into a primitive sort of social structure, with language, ethics, and culture ever-evolving within. These advancements encounter a sudden threat when a couple of apes stumble across a handful of humans on a scouting mission, forcing the newly dominant species to decide just how to deal with their former captors.

        It's pretty heady stuff, all this moral ambiguity and juxtaposition between societal genesis and extinction, especially for a movie that also features CGI chimps double-fisting AK-47s while riding on horseback. Yes, the goofiness of it all occasionally shines through, but just as with the previous chapter, Dawn is far more straight-faced than one would have thought possible with this premise. Credit spousal writing team Rick Jaffa and Amanda Silver, here paired with Mark Bomback, for maintaining an ideal through-line between this and the script for their surprisingly cerebral initial installment. Then there's director Matt Reeves, who's visual approach to the material is worlds removed from Rise helmer Rupert Wyatt's crisp, clean, glowingly white aesthetic. Reeves is all about rainy jungle terrains that are straight out of Jurassic Park, with an extra pinch of darkness tossed on for good measure (really, another 2014 summer tent-pole is going to reference György Ligeti’s Requiem?).

        And this is exactly where my expectations, reflections, and research have undoubtably effected my final analysis. I was HUGE on Rise when it first premiered nearly three years ago, and while subsequent encounters might knock it down a peg, the film is absolutely in my top ten big budget summer flicks of the last five years. I also have a thing for Reeves; I will go to the grave defending his brilliantly creepy Cloverfield, and still think that his remake of Let the Right One In is superior to the original (and yes, I'm fully aware of how many readers I just lost with that last sentence). That's a lot of anticipation to throw onto one movie, the kind of expectations that turn the above-average into the starkly disappointing. To be completely honest, the film, as I sat in my comfy, air-conditioned theater, did not rise up to those otherworldly expectations (see what I did there?). But for whatever reason, being its enthusiastic critical response, its numerous comparisons to Hollywood classics like Empire Strikes Back and The Godfather Part II, or its own organic growth within my brain, I've found myself at a place where I'm worried about over-compensating. The internet sure can warp a brain, can't it?

        This much I know for sure: technology wise, this is one of the most impressive offerings I've ever seen adorn the silver screen. Serkis is worthy of every drop of praise he consistently receives for being the Michael Jordan of motion capture acting, but he's nearly matched by Toby Kebbell as Caesar's untrusting foil Koba, and Karin Konoval as the emotive, I-can't-believe-that's-not-real orangutan Maurice. To be sure, there are moments when the artificial apes aren't perfect, but the way that they're almost seamlessly blended into a non-artificial environment is simply a marvel to behold. The action here, one of the low points of Rise, a film that didn't really seem that interested in blockbusters' normative shock and awe, is equally dazzling and weary-making, an epic that understands both the weight and toll of the violence it displays. I have a few gripes; Kebbell's Koba becomes a tad simplistic by the film's conclusion, and the humans once again come off a bit faceless. But this is undoubtably a strong film, and one that I can't wait to see again in order to gain a greater understanding. As of now, I'm worried about under-rating it because of my gargantuan expectations, or over-rating it because of the degree to which I've talked myself into being a through-and-through advocate for the picture. I'll go with the grade you see below, and remain EXTREMELY open to changing my opinion upon further examination.

Grade: B+

Transformers: Age of Extinction (Release Date: 6-27-2014)

         Say what you will about Martin Scorsese's ability to capture the mental instability of power-hungry males, or Quentin Tarantino's commitment to plunging head-first into his stylized fantasy land, but no American director manages to get as much of his pure psyche up onto a movie screen as Michael Bay. An auteur by each and every single definition of the word, the man's films retain an unmistakably similar world-view from picture to picture, not unlike the killing-yourself-to-live through-line in the work of Darren Aronofsky, or the sense of cosmic futility that remains ever-present in Coen brothers flicks. Bay likes his explosions big, his jokes juvenile, his runtimes elongated, his girls underaged and underdressed, and his guns ever-blazing. This might sound like par for the course in terms of summer action blockbusters, all sound, fury and expensive effects cobbled together by committee, but the Transformers films, Age of Extinction perhaps especially, are nothing of the sort. The problem here isn't too many cooks in the kitchen, but rather one single chef with unimpeachable control over the menu, and a decidedly closed-minded pallet. Ridiculous as it may sound, this series is a deeply personal under-taking, a clumsy, unrelenting eruption of one man's unbridled id and pubescent fantasies, subsidized by a massive pile of cash, and supported by millions the world over.

        Those neither engaged nor made comatose by Extinction's furious bombast (two camps that represent at least a small majority of the film's audience) will find the tale of Bay to be the most interesting aspect of the film. It certainly isn't the plot, a laughably asinine collection of government cover-up cliches and cardboard-cutout characters that serves to steer us from one action set-piece to the next. Laying its scene 5 years after the men in metal completely demolished Chicago, the hilariously entitled black-ops missive Cemetery Wind, spear-headed by the ruthless Harold Attinger (Kelsey Grammer), has hunted down and killed nearly all remaining transformers, Autobots and Decepticons alike. Meanwhile, down-on-his-luck Texas inventor Cade Yeager (Mark Wahlberg, taking over leading man duties from Shia Labeouf), impulsively buys a beat up semi-truck for reasons that never become fully clear. And hey, wouldn't you know; that hunk of junk turns out to be Optimus Prime (voice of Peter Cullen), thus throwing Yeager, his teenaged daughter (Nicola Peltz, the new subject of Mike Bay's omnipresent ogling), and her car-racing boyfriend (Jack Reynor) into a narrative upon which they have the utmost minimal effect.

"The urine you discharge during the inevitable p*ss-break is guaranteed to flow better than any dialogue in this near three-hour movie."
        ---Ben Rawson-Jones (Digital Spy)

"Even by the low IQ standards of the three previous Transformers films, Transformers: Age of Extinction is grave and exceptionally stupid, with a plot as bewildering and incoherent as a caffeinated 5-year-old's explanation of the multiverse theory."
        ---Kirk Baird (Toledo Blade)

"Sitting through Transformers: Age of Extinction is like binge-watching the death of the human spirit."
        ---Devin Faraci (Badass Digest)

        These are just a few examples of the bilious reaction critics are having toward Bay's latest, but I personally cannot sum up the raging anger many are leveling against Age of Extinction. Yes, it is a long 165 minutes of mind-numbing stupidity, but the story they tell about this filmmaker, and the audience that netted the picture $100 million in its opening weekend, is a marvel to behold. Many films have a way of making fun of their audience throughout their runtime, but Extinction seems far more focused on insulting the legion of critics who have proven unable to derail the franchise thus far, Bay exacting revenge on all whom have doubted him, assuming his loyal viewers will equally relish in his anti-intellectualism. To boot, endless climactic throw-down is set in Beijing for reasons that feel inescapably cynical (Those holding out hope for a more artistic impetus should consider that A) a transformer literally says 'take the [MacGuffin bomb] to the biggest city' and B) Age is slated to become the highest grossing film in the history of China by the end of the week). Amidst the chaos, a why-did-I-sign-up-to-be-in-this? Stanley Tucci berates Wahlberg for his lack of a plan, at which point the action star asks if the Oscar nominee would like to take the reigns. Tucci cowers, and is told to shut up; one wonders who that message was for...

        That same level of frustration and backlash is felt throughout the film, and while the Transformers saga has always been derided for its spiteful worldview, this one raises the bar significantly. His 'bots seem especially vexed, Prime bellowing his intention kill someone in nearly every single scene, while a pair of his his more-than-meets-the-eye cronies display deplorable levels near-treachory (John DiMaggio) and hateful xenophobia (John Goodman). Then there's the problem with women; where else would we find a director so determined to keep his eye candy under-aged that, instead of finding his studly leading man a 20-something to romance, he's forced to go the daughter route to insure that his camera-violated starlet was born in the year 1995!?!. And who subsequently places her in constant un-fun mortal danger, including being pinned to the ground with a gun pressed hard against her temple? As a matter of fact, only one of the women with any real screen time (Sophia Myles) is over the age of thirty, and she's presented as a cold, calloused heart-breaker. Something tells me Bay hasn't always been too successful with the ladies.

         But here's the thing: I still think that the auteur truly believes that he's being all-encompassing and generous as opposed to displaying bigotry. Like the other three films in the franchise, Extinction is utterly determined to feature a multi-ethnic cast, only to have them play brazenly insulting and racist caricatures (Ken Watanabe continues to troll this summer's American blockbusters by pandering down to the very worst in Asian stereotypes, and going for broke). At one point, Marky Mark, an American flag waving in the background, sings the praises of his daughter to his (unspecified, but probably?) deceased wife by looking into the Texas night sky with a sense of ineffable wonderment plastered across is face. A shooting star slices through the night time. Seriously... a shooting star. Does that sound like a cynic to you?

        Look, by no means am I trying to recommend Transformers: Age of Extinction to you: it's brazenly moronic, subconsciously bitter, and the whole-point-in-even-going action sequences don't feel quite as inspired as in either the first or third installments (this and Revenge of the Fallen are neck-and-neck in the race for 'worst in the group,' with a slight edge going to Fallen). But for me, the joy of laughing at inhuman dialogue and beyond-canned delivery (Wahlberg is among the finest readers of stupid dialogue currently working in American film), paired with a think-piece about a man essentially treating gargantuan blockbusters as therapy sessions, is simultaneously thought-provoking and thought-annihilating. I wanted to think of a perfect closing line to finish this article, but, for my sanity, I need to stop thinking about Transformers, and I need to do it now.

Grade: I don't know... just don't go see it

Jack White: Lazaretto (Release Date: 6-10-2014)

        "I'm becoming a ghost," Jack White declares on the jaunty Alone in My Home, "so nobody can know me." Yeah... good luck with that. 15 years after The White Stripes' self-titled debut first met the world, White continues to ride an enormous wave of goodwill and fame, one he seems only semi-determined to outrun. It's clear the guy doesn't want to be thought of as a one-trick-pony, playing a crucial part in about 17,000 different bands in the last handful of years, even creating his own studio and label (Third Man Records), and producing other artists' work in his abundant free time. That said, he doesn't seem entirely ready to let go of past glories either, his solo music periodically indistinguishable from his more famous duo, while his recent buzz-generating interview with Rolling Stone magazine further confirms that the black, white, and red trim is still on his mind. If his solo debut, Blunderbuss, expertly (if perhaps obsessively) split the difference between experimentation and familiarity, his follow-up, Lazaretto, feels notably more determined to push further out into newer, more varied sounds. It's also decidedly messier.

        The early cuts from Lazaretto that have made their way across this internet in the last several months could readily be described as false advertising. Something tells me White was in in the bait-and-switch; our first taste of the LP, High Ball Stepper, was released on April Fool's Day, for crying out loud! The track, a swampy instrumental equipped with both bizarro mood shifts and a hefty helping of raw might, is completely singular on the disc, both for its lack of lyrics, and its jagged, schizoid sonics. Then came the title track, something of a White Stripes throwback that rides White's signature lyrical braggadocio and swagger through the 1:25 mark, when a savage guitar tares the track in half. It's an exhilarating burst of a song that works perfectly as a lead single, three-and-a-half minutes of lightning in a bottle. Too bad there's not more like it here.

        As was the case on Blunderbuss, White splits his time here between two different bands, fronting the all-male Buzzards and all-female Peacocks in alternating succession. It comes as no surprise that the men are more frequently tasked with the 'harder and rockier' tracks, but the degree to which that rule is followed this time around is highly restrictive. A damning example of this comes when the aforementioned title track is followed by Peacock-powered Temporary Ground, a modest ditty whose subdued fiddle and folksy sway can't help but be over-shadowed by its loud and rowdy forbearer. As a matter of fact, almost all Peacock numbers lead a listener to wonder when things will pick up again, such as serviceable piano-lead closer Want and Able, and the breathlessly bitter and awe-inspiringly arrogant Entitlement (Somehow I kind of mean that in a good way). Alone in My Home and I Think I Found the Culprit manage to rise above the malaise with lovely harmonies, twinkling instrumentals, and a bit more forward-moving momentum, but for the most part, Jack's ladies seem to be on hand for largely aesthetic reasons, and are given precious little in the way of engaging material.

        The Buzzards have all the fun here, such as on piss-and-vinaeger single-in-the-making Black Bat Licorice, a dingy blast with splashy percussion and a vengeful verve. It's enough to make one wonder what might have happened if White had dedicated himself to their bigger sound exclusively... until one remembers that he already did that for over a decade. Lazaretto, even more so than its immediate ancestor, sounds like a transitional album, suffering from the growing pains of an artist doing everything in his power to expand the walls of the box he's been put in without actually vacating the space altogether. It must be tantalizing, all of this musical freedom after so many years of self-imposed focus on the same basic goals and sounds, but the throw-everything-at-the-wall-and-see-what-sticks approach only serves to hinder this record. Wether he fleshes out his bluesy, down-tempo sound with the Peacocks, or regains his throne as a full-time rock god with the Buzzards, here's to hoping White just picks a side next time around. Many parts of Lazaretto work, but cohesive it ain't.

Grade: B-

Leftovers: April/May

Leftover Movies:
Under the Skin:
        After my bloated expectations turned this year's entirely serviceable iteration of Godzilla into something of a disappointment, I needed a break; no more movies that ended by knocking over the city.  My quest for something different led me much further from the norm than I could have ever anticipated, and thank god for that. Under the Skin stars Scarlett Johansson as (wait for it...) an often-silent extra-terrestrial being prowling around the outskirts of Scotland, seducing and kidnapping young men, and then harvesting their bodies. Director Brian Glazer's lets its freak flag fly to perilous heights, rejecting expository dialogue whole-sale, allowing his audience to decipher the meaning of his beautiful nightmare on their own terms. The visuals are at once gorgeous and unsettling, the varying vistas and textures all made memorably tactile by cinematographer Daniel Landin, bolstered by composer Mica Levi's score, which makes hair rise, and sweat go cold. Be warned; Under the Skin lives up to its name, and is not for the faint of heart, but those brave enough to stomach and process the picture will be left pondering themes of gender, identity, predation, sexuality, mercy, and a slew of others. I wasn't entirely sure what I thought of the flick upon leaving the theater, but after a week in which its ideas and images have rattled ceaselessly around in my brain, utterly refusing to leave, the truth has become undeniable: Under the Skin is the best movie I've seen in 2014 thus far.

Leftover Music:
Here and Nowhere Else---Cloud Nothings
        It's a standard musical complaint that every one of an individual band's songs sounds the same, but that doesn't have to be a bad thing. Here and Nowhere Else is nothing if not repetitive, eight tracks that mercilessly slash and pound their way through a tight 31-minute runtime. Drummer Jayson Gerycz, who made his debut with the band on 2011's also outstanding Attack on Memory, has become the outfit's muscular driving force, ripping straight through the core of opener Now Here In, fueling the stop-and-start mania of Psychic Trauma. Like all Cloud Nothings releases thus far, HaNO walks a tight rope between punk and pop, band leader Dylan Baldi's expertly calibrated combination of the two working like gangbusters on early piss-and-vinaeger-sing-a-long single I'm Not Part of Me, as well as the claustrophobia-inducing humdinger Giving into Something. Lovely and delicate it ain't; Here and Nowhere Else is an eruption of brute force that further solidifies its author as a band who demands our attention.

Nikki Nack---tUnE-yArDs
        Following up an album like w h o k i l l is no easy task; tUnE-yArDs' previous LP possessed an absolutely insane amount of madcap energy and confidence (not to mention tough-to-articulate pop appeal), prompting a cavalcade hosannas from critics and fans alike, gracing innumerable Best Albums of the Year lists along the way (including this one). As dense and confrontational as follow-up Nikki Nack might often sound, it notably refuses to sock listeners in the face in the same fashion as its predecessor, but then again, what album doesn't? Merrill Garbus is still a force to be reckoned with, many of the band's best tunes wrapped snuggly in her guttural howl and hauntingly evocative lyrics. Nate Brenner, the duo's seldom-celebrated bassist, is given more space to roam this time around, his plunks crucial to the charging Sink-O, even taking occasional center stage on closer Manchild. But he's clearly the Pippen to Garbus' Jordan, the vocalists' enormous personality warping esoteric sounds into ear worms on the brilliantly under-played Wait for a Minute, as well as on the irrepressibly ecstatic lead single Water Fountain. Something tells me that this Merrill Garbus is in the 'making provocative, challenging music,' scene for the long haul.

Voices---Phantogram
        Phantogram, where have you been all my life? The New York duo's debut disc, Eyelid Movies, met the US over four years ago, and while the LP wasn't a smashing success as a whole, it spawned a pair of undeniable night-time jams (When I'm Small, Mouthful of Diamonds) that still receive independent and college radio play to this day. Voices is the electro-pop outfit's first full-length since, and while it might lack an instant classic like Small, the band's maturational leap is difficult to ignore. They come out guns blazing, opener Nothing But Trouble setting the stage with its jittery pulse and surprise guitar solo, leading into the siren-infused stomp of lead single Black Out Days. As was the case with Eyelid, the record experiences minor setbacks whenever guitarist Josh Carter steals the mic; the real star here is Sarah Barthel, who vacillates between seductive confidence (The Day You Died, Howling at the Moon) and wounded earnestness (Bill Murray, Celebrating Nothing) with ease and aplomb. Please, guys, don't make us wait so long next time!

Tomorrow's Hits---The Men
        Everyone's got their pet bands, and The Men are one of mine. The Brooklyn-based five-piece has released one LP a year every since their 2010 debut, peaking on 2012's raw, emotional, exciting, and pulse-raising Open Your Heart. Just over two years since that album's release, the punk-ish classic rockers (with a pinch country... just for added flavor) remain steadfast in their refusal to stay still, releasing this scrappy, joyous eight song collection. Their instrumentation is notably more varied this time around, a jaunty piano-trumpet pairing serving as Another Night's unlikely backbone, while opener Dark Waltz clears out space for a harmonica to cut through the track's brawny central riff. You'd be forgiven for wondering if the boys are losing a bit of their edge, but the manner in which the more pop-leaning tracks (Sleepless, Settle Me Down) bounce off the more rollicking cuts (Different Days, Another Night, Going Down) is quickly becoming one of the band's greatest strengths. Another year, another low-key triumph for The Men.

The Black Keys: Turn Blue (Release Date: 5-13-2014), and Coldplay: Ghost Stories (Release Date: 5-19-2014)

        For two bands who don't actually sound much like one another, Coldplay and The Black Keys sure do have a lot in common. They're both household names, a rare accomplishment for a rock band in the year 2014. Both could be (and have been) criticized for riding the coattails of more innovative acts who came immediately before them (U2 playing Coldplay's granddaddy, The White Stripes fathering the Keys), both surpassing their forbearers in terms of fame and fortune along the way. Finally, they each lay claim to their own extremely exacting sound, one that leaves room for precious little experimentation, ensuring that each new release, while pleasurable, can feel remarkably 'same-y'. Perhaps each recognizing their creative stasis, both The Black Keys and Coldplay decided to mix it up... within a week of one other. How could these albums not be reviewed in tandem?

        Coldplay is a proud graduate of the School of More is More, frequently stuffing their songs with as much orchestration and sky-scrapping vocals as can possibly fit. Anyone who's listened to the radio at least twice in the past decade can tell you that this game plan often works (Yellow, Clocks, Viva La Vida, Paradise, Fix You, The Scientist, Lost... should I keep going?), though their song-to-song familiarity has become the impetus of much scornful snickering over the years. Ghost Stories dials everything back; eight of the nine tracks on hand (we'll get to the outlier later) feel about half as dense as the outfit's average offering, prompting listeners to hone in and come closer, rather than rushing out to meet them through every shopping mall, fast food joint, and car speaker in America. It's a remarkably smaller sound, one that harkens back to the band's still-popular debut disc, Parachutes, though favoring a far more electronic aesthetic this time around.

        Though their reign at the top has been decidedly shorter, one could argue that The Black Keys' sound is already more worn out than Coldplay's. With Dan Auerbach's raspy howl and chunky, muscular guitar riffs ever front-and-center, the band's faux-grit-and-grime blues rock sound has proven both immediate and repetitive. Each of their albums starts off with a head full of steam, steadily loosing listener interest through lack of variation, and exhausting sonic front-loading, not unlike a 3-D movie that starts out great, and makes your eye balls ache by the end. Their latest effort, Turn Blue, feels far more spacious than anything I've heard from the duo before, Auerbach and drummer Joe Carney each taking about three steps back, and allowing their moodier, mid-tempo tracks to breath a little. The mega-catchy, stadium-sized riffs and wily chants are largely absent here, replaced by more varied instrumentation, and a surprisingly increased reliance on Auerbach's falsetto. It's certainly not their most energetic approach, but it might just be my favorite.

        About half the tracks here are nearly impossible to imagine on another release of their's; the six-string that guides Year in Review comes enrobed in a swirl of violin, back-up singers, and additional percussion, while the wah-pedal lilt of In Our Prime would have previously proven too leisurely. Both are stand-out numbers on an album that, at just over 45 minutes, is remarkably listenable in one sitting, something I never thought I'd write about The Black Keys. It doesn't hurt that they lead off with arguably the best song of their career: Weight of Love announces Turn Blue's intentions right off the bat, drifting out of speakers like a soft mist, Auerbach's voice tucked away until past the two minute mark, and only sparingly employed thereafter. Stretching all the way out to the seven-minute mark, Weight grows at steady clip, morphing into an enormous guitar-solo throw down by its conclusion. It'll never make it as a pop song, but these boys have already made enough of those; this is an epic.

         Ghost Stories, on the other hand, is entirely bereft of epics, or even attempts at epics for that matter. It's almost difficult to believe that Magic is really the lead single on a Coldplay album, light axe strumming and a simple drum beat ushering us in where we're used to having enormous, almost confrontational big-ness hold the door open. It's a pleasant listen, something that could be said about the entirety of Ghost Stories, but those anticipating another massive Coldplay anthem won't find one here. As a matter of fact, the disc sounds determined to avoid such a hit, a pervasive hush defining all proceedings until the head-scratching, dance-floor-ready A Sky Full of Stars comes out of absolutely no where. It's a jarring tonal shift on an album full of quiet heartbreak, the perfect opposite of having the lights turned on and the music shut off at a club. Maybe working with Rihanna on Princess of China wore off on them; Stars would fit far more readily in the songstress' catalogue of bangers than it does here.

        A week following its initial release, Coldplay's latest is already being referred to as the band's worst disc to date, which is understandable regardless of wether it's accurate. There's no real world-conquering going on here, but for my money, its minimalist sway is vastly preferable to Mylo Xyloto's unrelenting excess. That album became just plain exhausting after a few listens, so many ideas and flourishes packed into every waking moment. I for one admire Ghost Stories' more modest ambitions. The miss-steps might be fairly glaring, Martin's cliche-ridden lyrics pushed up front and center by hushed sonics, Midnight's status as a Bon Iver rip-off proving unforgivably obvious (if still lovely), but this is no disaster. It's pleasant, nocturnal easy listening that's being overly punished for a lack of real hits... unless we're hedging our bets with A Sky Full of Stars. 

        Turn Blue is also being met with less-than-stellar reviews, though my support of the Keys' latest is far less passive. Again, the lack of radio playability will prove a demerit for some, but this is by far my favorite LP by the two-piece yet. Unfurling in a steady, funky rumble, the album is confident enough to let you come to it, and not the other way around. Even those who are bored by the languid grooves of In Time or the title track get to have their cake too, crunchy single Fever serving as the album's better-every-time-I-hear-it aspiring hit, closer Gotta Get Away sending us home on a rollicking sing-a-long with the good ol' boys. The Black Keys have always wanted to sound like a band from another era, tripping themselves up along the way by applying pop accessibility to a sound that doesn't intrinsically possess a whole hell of a lot. On Turn Blue, they finally go broke on their 70's aspirations, and, to these ears, they've never sounded better.

Turn Blue Grade: B+
Ghost Stories Grade: B-