Olas: Cada Nueva Ola

The invincible Olas

A surprisingly pop Cada Nueva Ola

Olas will tell you they’re more family than band, but maybe that’s not so uncommon. Actually realizing the nature of the relationship? That’s rarely talked about, the intimacy and intensity of the experience of playing music with someone else. Maybe it’s those bands who accept that reality and explore the inner reaches of each others’ souls that produce the truly transcendent works. Maybe that’s as silly as arguing that “chemistry” helps win baseball games.

Regardless, the band have newly created Cada Nueva Ola, as rollicking as any family dinner table. The latest five songs from Portland’s premiere flamenco outfit offer a wild emotional ride, from life-affirming highs to soul-searching lows, explosively crafted from acoustic guitars, an oud, and the various percussive sounds created with hands on hands and body and shoes on floor. This is music for hair-wrenching and wild abandon, impulsive shouts, whoops, and hollers.

Alongside the new EP, being released on vinyl, the band will also issue videos for the first three songs, directed and edited by Ali Mann, with help from David Meiklejohn and Nick Poulin. Watch them first. They lend a great appreciation for the work Olas do, for the performative construction of the songs, and for just how serious this business is for the band.

Ushered in by an upbeat strum build from Chriss Sutherland and Leif Sherman Curtis on guitars, and the cycling riffage of Tom Kovacevic on the oud, it’s hard not to be impressed by the gravity of Lindsey Bourassa and Megan Keogh’s movements in “Mis Amores Han Desparacido.” Their shoes echo precisely off the floor, invited by a storm of claps from Molly Angie and Anna Giamaiou, who also provide ooo-ooo backing vocals.

Sutherland, too, sounds particularly insistent and impassioned, but the translation of their Spanish lyrics reveals a more contemplative message: “A great wind came through my life/ Carried and scattered my friends around the world / A test perhaps? / I don’t know.”

The sheer athleticism on display by Bourassa in “Baya Song” is impressive in its own right, as she rips 32nd notes with her feet while muscling her way around the floor (perhaps the earlier baseball metaphor was inspired the fact that she has the quick feet of an elite second baseman). Again, though, they belie their seriousness by opening up into a power-pop chorus (in relative terms), repeatedly belting out “soy invincible,” their insistence that they are invincible incredibly compelling.

I wanted to quit my job and write a novel, right away. Listen to this with a buzz on and you might find yourself halfway to airport with nothing but a passport and an extra change of underwear.

The look on Bourassa’s face is incredibly determined. It’s life and death. This is the mantra of people who need to tell themselves they’re invincible just to get by, the oratory of the underdog, those people who have nothing else. The song is the same kind of subversive pop that KGFREEZE worked with “Better Falsetto,” when it comes down to it.

Olas don’t take the easy way out, and they aren’t some kind of sunshine-all-day bullshit artists, but they are fiercely into what they want to do and offer a version of the world that’s hard not to fall in love with. I wish I spoke Spanish so I could better appreciate the biting realism of the “Phar Lap” verse, “Beating dead horses / You know how they say / You won’t want me tomorrow / But you love me today,” in their most Flamenco song on the album.

They’re gorgeous without trying to convince you they’re pretty. On the closing two traditional numbers, “Volare” and “La Llorona,” Olas alternately bring the former into the present, by taking something from Domenico Modugno (think Dean Martin) and making it sound like a present-day stringband tune, and then absolutely crushing your hopes and dreams with the dark and brooding story of the mythical weeping woman, shoes on the floor sounding like echoes of gunfire in the distance. Sutherland nails the desperation of a woman who drowned her children for a man, only to have him reject her.

That’s the kind of bad decision family sometimes forces you into, shattering hearts and tearing at souls. Family, too, is a bedrock on which you can build toward the highest heights and Olas have, again, truly created a monument here.

Tall Horse: Glue

Tall Horse, short album

With Glue, they leave you wanting more

If Sláinte did nothing more than allow Nick Poulin the time and space to get Tall Horse together, its legacy may be pretty well secure. Who knows what will eventually come of the band, but Glue, as a six-song introduction to the world, is a damn fine work filled with highly listenable, ’90s-style indie rock, with some slo-core and alt-country mixed in.

Like Toronto’s collection of bands and musicians that make up Broken Social Scene, the core of people who flitted through Sláinte over the years has created a sound you can hear in Dustin Bailey Saucier’s various incarnations (new album coming soon), in bands like Worried Well and Boxes and First in Maths, and now in the three-piece Tall Horse, which gets plenty of help from the likes of Saucier and Forget, Forget’s Tyler DeVos.

Though with bassist Dom Grosso (Boxes, and any number of other projects) and drummer Devin Ivy (Lisa/Liza), Poulin has a plenty-tight core. Grosso is happy to take over the melody of a chorus and Ivy plays with a loose and elastic style that mimics Poulin’s fluctuating moods, working transitions especially well. Poulin, himself, is in the Doug Martsch (Built to Spill), Jeff Martin (Idaho) class, both somewhat downtempo and fully emotionally invested, holding in the upper register but never quite moving into a falsetto.

And he’s miserly with his lyrics, mulling lines over in his mouth, repeating them into meaninglessness, then hammering home an idea with a quick aside.

“Walk of Shame” is the epitome of his direct approach, neither judging nor particularly surprised: “Drinkin’ till you’re fucking what’s his name/ Walking home that morning dressed the same.” Similarly, the open here is the best of what is a consistently great acoustic guitar sound, captured by engineer Jayson Whitmore (his brothers are the guys in Caro Khan) at his Penumbra Recordings. Then Ivy counts in on his sticks and the Patia Maule violin and swirling Saucier electric guitar are just the right kind of post-drunk remorse, miserable and a little bit clumsy, but damn if that wasn’t a good time.

Tack on Maule’s backing vocals and extra contribution of tasteful piano near the finish, plus a meandering guitar solo and Grosso’s tossed off bass lick to close the piece out, and you’ve got one hell of a song, a piercing and bold and straightforwardly honest piece of sincerity.

As with Wes Harding’s work, it’s that cracked-chest, open-veined sentiment you really respond to here. When Poulin broods in “Sour” that “you think I taste sour, but no one’s as sour as you,” it is less bitter than matter-of-fact, and when he notes in “Old Gun Shot” that, “I want to take you out with one old gun shot to the brain/ Because I love you,” it really does seem affectionate, with the “because” clipped and cut short like he doesn’t want to admit it.

That latter song is taken Uncle Tupelo by McKay Belk’s steel guitar, a cry that doesn’t become cloying thanks to a big-room sound. The backing vocals, too, sound more than a few steps away, like the band are aping the song’s central characters, keeping each other at a distance.

With so much contemporary production focusing on immediacy and loudness, this record stands out for its openness and space. It’s plenty warm, and the various instruments are present and fully realized (except maybe for Grosso’s bass from time to time – it could be higher in the mix), but you never feel claustrophobic in the headphones. That helps the relatively rare big choruses here standout, as in “Insane,” where the jangledy pop comes through in bouncing guitar notes and extra backing vocals the second time around, where “know” has three syllables and Poulin’s voice tends to crack with rawness: “We’re all insane, you know.”

It’s not hardly a question, and the way he delivers “insane” is with all the emphasis on the “in” so it almost seems more inclusive than accusatory.

The whole thing is remarkably accessible, even when it gets loud in “Lights Out,” and even with slightly sketchy overtures. Whether imploring the listener to “beat the shit out of me” or insisting “I don’t know how to feel,” right before asking that you “die for me,” Poulin is often working some dark angle, but he never lays the nostalgia on too thick or gets overly maudlin.

Nor does he waste your time. These are songs that deserve to go past four minutes and continue to feel fresh even when the words are washing over you for what seems like the twentieth time.

Really, the biggest flaw might be that there’s not enough here. Over already? I was just getting into it. Perhaps there’s more material hot on its heels.