People have been tinkering with the hybrid of electronica and indie rock for a decade, but it took a metal band to perfect the formula. Weilheim, Germany-based band The Notwist released two albums of hardcore and metal in 1989 and 1992. By 1995, however, they had transformed into an indie rock unit that incorporated the experimental electronica of Oval with 12, a prophetic album that anticipated the blip-pop of Schneider TM and Arto Lindsay's shimmering electro-folk fusions. Meanwhile, the infatigueable Markus Acher honed his electronica chops with Valerie Trebeljahr in Lali Puna, and formed the electro-jazz fusion ensemble Tied & Tickled Trio with brother and Notwist mate Micha. The Notwist's fifth album, Neon Golden is the sparkling result of everything they've learned in the flurry of activity. The album begins unassumingly on "One Step Inside Doesn't Mean You Understand" with plucked and bowed strings, and Markus' understated, serenely plaintive voice. Soon a whole slew of acoustic instruments are introduced, from clarinets, saxophones to exotic percussive instruments, along with electronic sounds, while still managing to sound spare and delicate. "Pilot" uses a more traditional indie-pop structure, the sort employed by New Order or The Sea And Cake. The catchy chorus and electrified beats are deceptively simple -- close listening reveals layers of subtle details that make repeated listens endlessly rewarding. "Pick Up The Phone" features another winning vocal melody, this time with crunchy glitch pops and loops, the woodwinds sounding as if they were underwater. "Trashing Days" introduces a banjo of all things, and it somehow works with the judiciously placed Stereolab-like vocal chorus. "This Room" is another stunner, featuring pounding rhythms from Martin Gretschmann (Console), and a nod to Radiohead with vocals occasionally cut-up into a staccato riff. "Solitaire" gives plenty of space between the instruments and beats to focus on Markus' enigmatically melancholy lyrics, his inventive phrasing keeping you hanging on every word. The songs just get better and better. "One With The Freaks" actually builds into a rocking anthem that compels you to shake your fists and sing along to the chorus, "Have you ever/Have you ever been all messed up, have you ever?" Guided By Voices should cover this in their encores. The album rides the peak with the more meditative "Neon Golden" a brilliant, gentle clash between Eastern rhythms and Kraftwerk. The lovely "Off The Rails" glides the album gracefully earthbound, concluding with another surprise, an honest-to-goodness love ballad. "Consequence" is driven by a simple piano melody and hip-hop inspired beats. It's a perfectly beautiful song, leaving you, as the lyrics say, paralyzed, hypnotized, and in love with "the colour, the movement and the spin." Forget the redundancy of "electro-clash," Neon Golden shows how electro-pop can still sound utterly fresh, challenging and accessible.
A concept album based on the love affair of a creature from Greek mythology -- sounds like a descent into prog rock hell worse than anything Dante could dream up. Yet while 24 year-old Parisian Robin Couder (aka Rob) had dabbled in Pink Floyd-ish progressive rock on 2001's Don't Kill, Satyred Love is an entirely different sort of shiny beast. It's a pop song cycle is closer in sound to Air, in spirit to Hall & Oates, and accomplishes what the Beach Boys' Pet Sounds failed to. Really. Like the fabled Satyrs that played flutes for Dionysus, Satyred Love is full of Satyr-like lasciviousness and riot. However, unlike the Satyrs, who are beyond the cares and sorrows of mortal life, Rob digs deep into doubt, heartbreak and misery. On "Introducing A Satyred Love," Rob narrates, his spoken voice sounding uncannily like Serge Gainsbourg. "Godspeed" is a vocoderized prayer asking for protection as the Satyr goes forth into the cold, cruel world of . . . dating, mwa ha haa. Rob sounds like a cross between Depeche Mode and Gary Numan on the synth pop "You & I & My Song." Things truly take off with the appropriately seductive "King Lover," featuring an unforgettable chorus that will most likely stick in your brain for the rest of your life -- "Rock hard in a dirty place/I'll make you someone else/'Cause I'm a king and a lover." Seeds of doubt enter in the pop gem "Never Enough" -- "You say I'll leave you first/Well you're probably right." "The Wedding Day" repeats the question, "Shall I know if I love you the wedding day?" in the form of an anguished hymnal, and the most achingly gorgeous 5:15 of symphonic pop so far this century. "Mermaid Deluxe" is a meditation on temptation, it's ironic innocence and doo-wop choruses evoking Robert Wyatt. "Love Bizarre" is a chilly instrumental as emotionally convincing as anything by Sigur Rós or Godspeed You! Black Emperor. With a rubbery P-Funk synth riff, "Do You Mind If I Keep On Watching You" pulls off the estimable task of being sexy, creepy and playful all at once -- "Do you mind if I keep on watching you, while your legs' up my shoulder?" The love affair ends with "Unilarme," and "Angels cry for you and me." Indeed, the strings and guitar outro of "Godspeed Reprise" does sound like angels weeping. Pan, the most famous Satyr, who also lost his own beloved, Syrinx, once competed with his pipes against Apollo and his lyre in a musical contest. Despite moral support from Midas, Pan lost. Had he Rob's talent for melody and storytelling, things might have turned out differently.
Perhaps the reason the are still relatively few artists making daring innovations with world music is that they're afraid. Aware of the legacy of colonialism and appropriation, most artists would prefer to leave it alone rather than risk offending entire cultures and religions. Not so with Boston-bred, Barcelona-residing DJ /rupture, who takes samples from Middle Eastern, African and Caribbean artists, paints them in the neon glitter of artless pop like Foxy Brown, Aaliyah and Roberta Flack, bends 'em over the couch and has his way with them, cutting, splicing, spanking with punishing breakbeats. I love it. Each track is a dizzying clash between pop, world beat, and avant-garde, where fellow Tigerbeat6 labelmates Kid 606, DAT Politics and Cex intermingle with Nina Simone and Donna Summer. Agit-pop hip-hoppers Dead Prez, instrumental post-rock stars Cul De Sac and Egyptian percussionist Mahmoud Fadl make notable appearances. Many of the tracks feature dancehall reggae-style toasting over the manic fusions of bhangra, drum 'n' bass and dub rhythms. At times, the narrative thread resembles a bird's nest, as the chaotic din threatens to overwhelm. But Minesweeper Suite manages to effectively space out the bombs with moments of respite, a little jazz riff, or some soulful singing. DJ /rupture's intentions might be similar to Thievery Corporation, but his jagged mixes are far more stimulating than their more processed, yuppie lounge and coffeehouse-friendly style. By being brave enough to abuse the music properly, DJ /rupture ends up paying far more respect to it than anyone who would rather let it suffocate in a glass museum display case. Let's hope this is the blueprint for the future -- battling future shock with shockingly disparate weaves of cultures and genres.
When most hip-hop artists were pretty underwhelming in a live context, The Roots were a breath of fresh air, blowing competition away with their stunning display of musicianship, all with acoustic instruments, a human beatbox, scratching but no sampling. Yet at a time when music was giddy with possibilities in electronica and fusing genres, The Roots were coming across as fairly conservative, their brooding third album, 1996's Illadelph Halflife was even kind of a drag. On Phrenology The Roots set out to break all their self-imposed rules by attempting everything they never would have imagined doing a few years back -- employing sampling, tackling hardcore punk, rock, soul, a prog epic and even pure pop. The result arguably surpasses their critical highwater mark, 1999's Things Fall Apart. "Sacrifice" features a seductive, lazy beat, and the even more alluring Nelly Furtado. "Break You Off" is also startlingly poppy with another mainstream guest star, Musiq. However, it's Black Thought's relentlessly demanding lyrics and emceeing that anchors even the most frivolous moments. "Thought @ Work" is his biggest showcase, where his urgent flow is backed by a funky track worthy of the Bomb Squad. The biggest departure is also the best track on the album, "The Seed (2.0)," featuring a Keith Richards-style rhythm guitar, and an exquisitely melodic Cody ChestnuTT, sounding like the rebirth of Marvin Gaye and Sam Cooke. "Water" is a three-part opus weighing in at 10:24. It starts out innocuously enough with handclaps and rapping, and halfway in gets freaky with ambient noise, a moog, theramin and guitar by no-wave/jazz legend James Blood Ulmer. The album uses two ordinary tracks, "Quills" and "Pussy Galore" to recover. The two hidden tracks are as good as anything on the album, with human beat box Rahzel pulling off the amazing feat of imitating techno on "Something To See." Aside from a couple patience-testing indulgences (Amiri Baraka's poetry slam on "Something in The Way Of Things"), The Roots have finally become not just a group you can admire, but one you can enjoy.
The Walkmen are comprised of ex-members of The Recoys and Jonathan Fire*Eater, a much-hyped New York band that was burned by high expectations and a mismatched relationship with a major label that couldn't have marketed them beyond their cult following if they tried. Older and wiser, The Walkmen focus on what's really important -- the music. Having built their own recording studio with remaining JFE money, they were to take their time and experiment and develop a completely new, unique voice. The teasingly short opener "They're Winning" starts out like it might become a glorious Pogues tune, but stops just as it begins to build up. "Wake Up" establishes the essence of The Walkmen's sound -- spare drums, brittle-to-chiming guitars, muted piano, and Hamilton Leithauser's strong voice, which evokes alternatively Bono circa-October, or Iggy Pop. The rest of the album relentlessly tweaks this formula with dazzling results, starting with the anthemic title track, with an ambient drone, kinetic drums and a soaring vocal melody. "Revenge Wears No Wristwatch" is even better, the simple two-chord guitar gives an unassuming base for more of Letihauser's breathtaking melodies. Briefly, the energy reverts back to the guitar, creating a burst of Wedding Present fury. "The Blizzard Of '96" focuses on the piano and a variety of percussion, giving it the melancholy yet magical feel of being snowed in. "We've Been Had" continues the effect, but with more forceful hooks and melodies, making it single-worthy in an alt-universe. Every song reveals it's own specific, well-written treasures that it's difficult to agree what the best tracks are. Which makes it one of the most consistent albums this year. Other New York bands like Interpol may be more accessible, Radio 4 more blustery and The Liars unruly, but The Walkmen appear to be the most deeply talented, and destined for great things. Keep this fantastic, wintry album on heavy rotation 'til Spring, or when the Nick Cave album comes out, whichever comes first.
I haven't heard a heavily 60s-influenced album as fun as The Coral since The Dukes Of Stratosphere's 1985 album 25 O' Clock. Unlike XTC's alter-ego, however, The Coral are not an established group of geezers taking a break from their "serious" albums. Instead, they're a bunch of 19-21 year-olds who are desperately serious. Their honest-to-goodness rock 'n' roll spirit is utterly convincing when most bands would only come across as genre tourists. The Coral's secret weapon is frontman James Skelly, one of the better new voices in rock, whose powerful pipes recall The Animals' Eric Burdon, The Original Sins' J.T. and The La's Lee Mayers. Coming from the seaside village of Hoylake, it's appropriate that they start off with the sea shanty "Spanish Main," -- "We've set sail again!/We're heading for the Spanish Main!" -- setting out to pillage and cherrypick the best aspects of music that peaked twenty years before they were born. "Shadows Fall" is a reggae waltz that recalls Lee Perry's obsession with spaghetti westerns, while "Dreaming Of You" is a flawless moment of teenage lust Merseybeat. "Simon Diamond" is another highlight, a psychedelic story rich with bizarre imagery, swooping harmonies and odd time signatures. "Skeleton Key" continues the mariner imagery, re-imagining Captain Beefheart's Magic Band circa 1967 as coked-up pirates. "Wild Fire" is only slightly less crazed, adding a tinge of melancholy to The Crazy World of Arthur Brown. "Waiting For The Heartaches" grows with repeated listens -- here Skelly sounding like Ian McCulloch as a mod soulman. The closest thing to a misstep is "Bad Man," which oddly sounds like David Lee Roth. Nevertheless, it's all great fun. Pillaging the Nuggets collections is not the most original idea, yet somehow, miraculously, The Coral make it all sound fresh and exciting again. Best stop wondering why or how, and just enjoy for now.
As the first instrumental hip-hop album to be released on Def Jux, there was much anticipation and hype built up about Rjd2's Deadringer, the flames fanned by label honcho El-P who claimed it'll change the world. Based on the grimy, dissonant worlds of Aesop Rock, Cannibal Ox and El-P, one might expect a frightening beast of an album to perhaps rival Amon Tobin. Not quite. In fact, the unfulfilled expectations may be a blessing, as much of the Def Jux roster is sometimes more easily admired than enjoyed. Deadringer begins menacingly enough with "The Horror," recalling both the horror-funk of Gravediggaz and the underrated Never Is Now by DJ Swamp, though the cheesy synth evokes Dr. Who more than The Exorcist. Its use of spoken vocal clips is as ingenious as last year's "Frontier Psychologist" by the Avalanches. "Smoke & Mirrors" sets the general tone for the rest of the album, which is heavily influenced by DJ Shadow's Endtroducing, and surprisingly, the more downbeat, melancholy moments of Moby's Play. This isn't a bad thing once you remember how good that album sounded before its soul was sold to score every commercial aired in 2000-01. What sets Rjd2 apart from DJ Shadow and Moby are his wisely chosen vocal samples, which are never repeated too often, like the enigmatic "Who knows what tomorrow will bring/Maybe sunshine, maybe rain/Maybe it'll bring my love to me." Samples of acoustic guitars, pianos, and big brassy horns provide a warm, soulful, bluesy tone to cuts like the standout "Ghostwriter," with "mmm hmms" and "aaahs" seemingly coming from the ghosts of a gospel choir from the turn of the century, but with a funky James Brown "Mother Popcorn"snare beat. Three MCs - Blueprint, Jakki and Copywrite - each guest on a cut. All three are strong, but Copywrite's "June" comes out on top. It starts with some fairly ordinary rapping, but quickly slips into a sublime reverie with gorgeous classical acoustic guitar. "Work" ends the album on another peak, with a haunting piano loop and expertly integrated jazz guitar and a gritty soul vocal that sounds like an amazing hybrid of Ray Charles and Otis Redding, singing "Something you got babe/Make me work all day…make me bring you all of my things." Yet there's more -- a bonus track with another jewel of a vocal that this time recalls Sam Cooke, repeating a phrase of haiku-like simplicity about yearning for his missing lover over strings, horns and the subtle psychedelic touch of a sitar. More nudging things forward than blazing trails, Deadringer may not be the revolutionary album Def Jux heads hoped for, but it's by far the most satisfying, offering far more satisfying poetic magic than the latest by Prefuse 73, Mr. Scruff, Boom Bip, and even DJ Shadow.
The nearly oppressive massiveness of Out From Out Where brings to mind not so much anything currently coming from the electronica/turntablist scene as the coming of H.P. Lovecraft's terrifying Cthulu. It's easy to imagine such a beast coming from the unfathomable mind of an alien creature rather than a relatively unassuming kid from Brazil who first made his name in the British drum 'n' bass scene under the nom de plume, Cujo. 1996's Adventures In Foam introduced the fire of be-bop and free jazz into the genre so skillfully that by the time Tobin released his beat-crazy albums Bricolage (1997) and Permutation (1998) under his own name, he was being invited to perform at jazz festivals. No mere jazz-junglist, Tobin leapfrogged over contemporaries like Alex Reece, u-Ziq, Autechre and Squarepusher by incorporating Brazilian music, classical, psychedelia, metal and god knows what else into a brilliant, seamless whole, all with analog samples. Out From Out Where minces the samples even more finely so that it's virtually impossible to trace the source of any one sound. The result is Tobin's most thematically cohesive work, a cold, black marble monolith of astral funk. While the pieces aren't as charming and easily enjoyable as those on 2000's Supermodified, its invocation of epic dread is awe-inspiring. Taking cues from the cyber-dub of Techno Animal, the menacing "El Wraith" and dinosaur stomping "Rosies" feature "When The Levee Breaks" drums deep enough to make you feel the back of your eyeballs vibrate. But the overall heaviness is conveyed through sonic density more than bludgeoning beats. That's not to say every moment is heavy-handed. "Verbal" out-does Prefuse 73 in its nimble treatment of spliced vocals. Above the skittering beats and bleeps of "Chronic Tronic" floats an ethereal melody, handled with subtlety that could only be matched by perhaps Mouse On Mars. "Mighty Micro People" is delicate like a flower that, upon closer examination is made of fibers of wire and scrap metal. "Proper Hoodidge" sounds as if you're eavesdropping on an ancient Egyptian funeral ritual as giant aliens supervise the construction of pyramids in the background. Whispers of ancient Arabic Indian classical melodies squirm just below the surface throughout the album, particularly in the multi-layered "Searchers." "Triple Science" exudes that particular claustrophobia of space madness -- you know the kind, when the navigator robot is humping your leg and the mutant guinea pig is driving the ship towards a nearby black hole. With such a singular mood, the album may not get as much play as something more emotionally diverse and satisfying as DJ Shadow's Endtroducing, and will not appeal to everyone. But the genius of Out From Out Where is that it is so is richly evocative of different panoplies of images every few seconds. Forget John Williams and Danny Elfman, any director planning their magnum opus space-horror opera would be an idiot not to go directly to Amon Tobin, the 21st century virtuoso sound designer against whom all else will be measured.
Despite the unexceptional name, My Computer is the latest victory in the campaign to humanize electronica. As artists like Daft Punk, know, it's a difficult thing to achieve and avoid the blahs of conventional songwriting. It helps if you're a duo from the currently chic working class industrial town of Manchester, with physics geek Dave Luke programming beats that are original yet sound familiar. Then there's that voice. Lazy sods will compare Andy Chesters's (former One Lady Owner) uncommonly high quaver to Jeff Buckley, but more astute ears might also hear Feargal Sharkey, Green Gartside from Scritti Politti, and Tahiti 80's Xavier Boyer. From squirming between the sheets ("Fill My Cup") to dodging trouble in the streets ("Majic Flat," "No More Dealing"), My Computer cover similar lyrical territory to Mike Skinner/The Streets' dole life and rave nostalgia. Sonically eclectic, the songs continue to astound after repeated listening. The nine-plus minute opener "All I Ever Really Wanted Was A Good Time" delivers by morphing from a vocoderized voice to bubbly synth pop, acoustic strumming, a furious junglist breakdown, bluesy "Sister Ray" organ and back to the voice -- a journey all the more remarkable for its cohesiveness. One ballsy epic down, and the album only gets better. "More To Life" enters with some baroque classical piano before kicking in with breakbeats laced with delicately plucked flamenco guitar, and Chester's songbird voice dramatically enters clear and strong. "Rope" and "Vulnerabilia" are blissful synth pop tunes frosted with soulful melodies and bluesy arpeggios. The production is warped with a slight sheen of shimmering psychedelia, making the tunes more enduring. When "For Somebody Else" threaten to float away in bliss-out, it jars you back to reality with punishing industrial beats. "No More Dealing" plays like a religious hymnal, a 21st century junkie's prayer. "There Are Ways" is Vulnerabilia's gorgeous, melodic apex. The skittering "I Don't Care How You Treat Me" sounds like the masochistic answer to Super Furry Animals' sadistic "No Sympathy." The album ends perfectly with the over-the-top Disney cheeseball lullaby of "If You Dare." Exquisite.
Liam Hayes has been simmering just under the surface of the music world for a decade, contributing to recordings of Will Oldham's Palace Songs and Bobby Conn's 1998 imaginary Jesus Christ Superfly musical Rise Up!, while producing teasers of his creative genius in the lushly produced chamber pop single "Found A Little Baby" (1994) and the surprisingly spare piano ballads of More You Becomes You (1998) under the Plush moniker. Fed is the ambitious masterpiece Hayes has been rumored to be working on for the past eight years. Laying low, possibly going mad, presumed missing until spotted playing piano in High Fidelity, Hayes deserves more than cult notoriety. More accomplished than the Curtis Mayfield-inspired symphonic soul of fellow Chicagoan Neal Rosario's National Trust, Fed measures up to the best seventies arrangements with the assistance of arranger Tom Tom MMLXXXIV (Tyrone Davis, Earth Wind & Fire). The sheer scope of talent involved on this album is astounding, from jazz drummer Morris Jennings, John McEntire (Tortoise, Sea And Cake), to a cast of dozens contributing congas, tablas, choirs, horns, winds and strings. Hell may have just frozen over, because these sessions were partly engineered by the notoriously anti-lushness Steve Albini. It turns out to be a wise choice. In any other recording situation, the bombastic extravagance could easily collapse under its own weight. Without unnecessary production effects cluttering the recording, these songs sparkle rather than sag. While composers like Brian Wilson, Jim Webb, Laura Nyro, Harry Nilsson, Van Dyke Parks and even George Harrison provide some precedent, Fed is no mere genre period exercise. Muscular chord changes and daring twists of keys keep you on edge for every tune, establishing Haye's original, slightly off-kilter style. The opening number "Whose Blues" has at least three surprising turns, going from a lonesome, bluesy guitar to a hard-hitting R&B horn section, a downbeat bridge and chorus Lennon would be proud of, and a soaring orchestral false-ending, interrupted by rapping and eventually wailing. It's a mighty satisfying, total knockout first track. "Greyhound Bus Station" is easily the catchiest song, and not surprisingly the most straightforwardly melodic. From sublime Bacharach-type ballads to pop gems and symphonic barnstormers, there's simply too much going on in this album to give a complete description. Suffice it to say it deserves far better distribution and promotion than the Japanese-based After Hours label can give it. This album is far too great to be merely talked about. It belongs in the stocking of every lover of cleverly composed, meticulously arranged, beautiful sung music.
A couple years into the new-new wave/no wave/post-punk revival, now referred to ridiculously as "electroclash," a band has finally measured up to original inspirations like P.i.L., ESG, Liquid Liquid, 23 Skidoo, and Adrian Sherwood's dub explorations. In fact, the six-year old Out Hud, formerly from Sacramento, now in Brooklyn, have even managed to, as The Streets' Mike Skinner says, push things forward. The sometimes members of !!! (Chik Chik Chik) have managed to take elements of early 80s electro-funk and created something unique. The long vocal-less tracks all feature some sort of danceable beat, but not in the boring 4-4 house-style club automatrons are used to. Swirling in between the funk, dub, and hip-hop style breakbeats are finely textured elements acknowledging the post-rock 'n' prog excursions of Disco Inferno and Tortoise, cut 'n' click electronica, and even the monochromatic guitars of Factory Records pioneers The Durutti Column. The album's centerpiece is the 12:19 minute "The L Train Is A Swell Train And I Don't Want To Hear You Indies Complain," which near the end pays homage to Tortoise's equally ambitious "Djed" with its lovely organ and strings near the end. The shorter but no-less stunning "Hair Dude, You're Stepping On My Mystique," is a haunting death disco with scratching, staccato strings and eerie minor-chord guitars, laced with flashes of noise. "Dad, There's A Little Phrase Called Too Much Information" also incorporates controlled bursts of static noise to its gnarly skeleton. While S.T.R.E.E.T. D.A.D. incorporates some noise elements, it less jarring and more accessible than, say, Kid 606 or Black Dice. "This Bum's Paid" features an echoing, James Blood Ulmer-style harmolodic guitar on a bed of nocturnal drones and, of course, a funky beat. These are well-constructed songs that move from point A to B rather than meander aimlessly, holding up well under the scrutiny of headphones, as background music, and dance music. I imagine Out Hud's live show could turn the most uptighty of arm-folding indie cognoscenti into foolishly tail-shaking robo-bunnies on the dancefloor. It would be a great idea if Out Hud shared their rhythmic and atmospheric innovations with other artists like a 21st century house band à la The Meters, The M.G.'s, The Bar-Kays and The J.B.'s. No offense to the Neptunes or Timbaland, but the next pop start to upstage Missy Elliott needs Out Hud on their side. It's about time music starts sounding like it's the 21st century.
In one of the more startling metamorphoses in recent memory, Dirk Dresselhaus's Schneider TM went from the vocal-less blip-pop pioneer on 1998's Moist to a post-electronica crooner hearthrob. The momentous event was on the 2000 Binokular EP, where he and collaborator Kpt.Michi.Gan boiled down The Smith's "There Is A Light That Never Goes Out" to its glittering, twee, vocoderized essence as "The Light 3000." Glitchtronica finally found a heart. Five out of the eight songs on Zoomer feature well-written, heartfelt lyrics that outperform Beck's "Sea Change" for heart-wrenching effect. Particularly on "Abyss," on which Dresselhaus sings in a remarkably Beckian voice, "Better not discover/the secrets of your lover/the abyss of your lover." "Frogtoise" sounds like a combination of Beck and Sparklehorse, complete with graphic zoomorphic imagery ("I had a dream/I cut a frog in half/and a turtle too/…to plant the top/of the tortoise on/the poor frogs base"). "Reality Check" is the real stunner, packing as much emotional whallop as "The Light 3000," singing in a similar vocodor-treated voice over folky, treated guitars, "beware of the matrix/and keep a warm heart inside/don't jump off the train/there's still a long way to ride." The music remains electronic, done in the Schneider TM style that is just as glowingly, glisteningly elegant as Björk's Vespertine. "DJ Guy?" is an entrancing Kraftwerkian track that repeats one line over and over. "Turn On" is the biggest departure, featuring Kool Keith meets UK garage-style rapping by Max Turner. It sounds slightly out of place amidst the teutonic pop, but is quite good, suggesting that Dresselhaus could make some even more fascinating collaborations with, say, an R&B singer. "Hunger" and "999" are state-of-the-art blip pop, bristling and jolting, buzzing and scratching with microscopic details like electrified hairs on the back of your hand. Zoomer closes with its second best highlight, the lovely, mournful "Cuba TM." More substantial than Air, less experimental than Oval or Amon Tobin, Schneider TM is electronica's next worthy shining pop ambassador.
It's been far too long since the last Portishead album, and a crime to keep the talents of chanteuse Beth Gibbons away from the public ears for that long. Fortunately, she had made a lasting impression on former Talk Talker Paul Webb (aka Rustin' Man) when she auditioned for his post-rock band O'Rang in 1990. Out Of Season has little in common with Portishead or O'Rang. The instrumentation is brittle, spare chamber music, focusing on Gibbons' remarkably versatile vocals which evoke, among others, Sandy Denny, Joni Mitchell ("Show"), and Billie Holiday ("Romance"). The album starts with the aching, fragile lullaby of "Mysteries." Background vocals softly coo alongside a gingerly picked acoustic guitar. A deceptively slight beauty, it might be the best song on the album. "Tom The Model" is by far the showiest tune, with Gibbons belting out a chorus over a bevy of horns. A somber piano, flute and unobtrusive cello propels "Show," and Gibbons' quietly devastating vocal performance. "Sand River" brings to mind Nick Drake's autumnal folk ballads, while "Drake" directly pays tribute to him. While on the surface Out Of Season is a folk album, it also evokes timeless music from nearly every decade, from Frank Sinatra to Chet Baker and Nina Simone. Hm, folk that transcends folk. That would put it in the league of Tim Buckley and Van Morrison's Astral Weeks, no kidding.
Sigur Rós' second album, 2000's Ágaetis Bryjun was a stunningly original breath of fresh air. There's been much anticipation for ( ) and it might be unclear at first listen whether it's a success. On one hand, it's different than its predecessor, in that the compositions are less dynamic and bombastic. This can be a good thing, as some of Ágaetis Bryjun's drama was too much. However, it's not THAT different. Jonsi Thor Birgisson still sings in that made-up "Hopelandic" tongue, and this time it sounds like he's in a bit of a rut, as it sounds like he's repeating something that sounds like "you so" or "you saw the light" in dozens of minutely different ways. There are no major changes in instrumentation besides less reliance on strings. Ironically, the major focus has been the lack of the album's title and song titles, which were supposedly to force listeners to focus on the music more, and to add their own creative input. Yet it seems to have done just the opposite -- distract from the music. Newflash -- most non-musician listeners don't want to give creative input. They want the artist to tell them what the art is called, to have at least some hint as to what it means. To that end, I will refer to the songs by the names that were originally given them during live shows and early recording sessions. The album starts off nicely with the hymnal-sounding "Vaka." In fact, much of the album sounds like hushed religious music. Think of it as an alternative soundtrack to The Last Temptation Of Christ, or an atmospheric holiday album, or a ceremony for out-of-body travel. In this respect, ( ) is decidedly more delicate and pretty than the predecessor. Reports that this album would be rawer and rougher are completely unfounded. "Samskeyti" (track 3) has some nice piano and strings and builds to a modest peak before fading away like a comet's tail. "Njósnavélin" (track 4) features Kjartan Sveinsson's chiming guitar that's similar to some of U2's Daniel Lanois/Brian Eno-produced work, or Tim Buckley's Starsailor-era Lee Underwood. The sonic terrain is nothing new, but it's the best distillation of Sigur Rós' formula. "Alafoss" (track 5) ever-so-slowly builds to yet another subtle climax, a bit reminiscent of Godspeed You Black Emperor, this time focusing on a churchy organ. "E-bow" (track 6) focuses on said instrument, with Birgisson's vocals reaching a high falsetto. The best and longest tracks come at the end, with the 12:59 minute "Dauðalagið (The Death Song)" (track 7), which releases an album's worth of pounding hellfire and fury right at 10:30. The closer, "Popplagið (The Pop Song)" is hardly pop, but a sad waterfall of emotion that again climaxes into a furious percussive assault and howling banshee wails. It would sound quite nice amplified with a city's worth of electricity in a large canyon. While overall not as appealing as fellow Icelanders Múm's latest, ultimately ( ) more than makes up for its few shortcomings with sheer force of passion and beauty. Think of ( ) as the Amnesiac to Ágaetis Bryjun's Kid A, one of two essential sides of a brilliantly shiny coin.
The Black Heart Procession's first three albums contain some of the most uncompromisingly, deliciously grim music you'll ever hear. One step closer to the abyss could send them tripping into the void, or at least falling flat into self-parody. Fortunately, they have circumvented that dilemma by coming up with a wonderfully entertaining concept album, a richly orchestrated noir murder mystery. Borrowing from Nick Cave's brilliant storytelling and Gallon Drunk's lushly produced recent work, Amore Del Tropico attempts to tell an Elmore Leonard-type crime story. The lyrics fail to do so (they completely lack character development, for example), at least in comparison to Tom Waits albums like Frank's Wild Years, The Black Rider and Blood Money. It does work in the more traditional role as a soundtrack. In fact, a DVD is reportedly due to come out with a film to go with each song. "Tropics Of Love" is a brilliant Calexico-style bossa nova/Cuban mambo fusion. Paulo Zappoli (aka Pal Jenkins) expands his vocal repertoire beyond his normal wails to some soft balladry and even some melody. "Broken World" sets the scene with an affair ending in paranoia ("I know that you want to get rid of me/I know that you have a plan for me"). "Why I Stay" maintains a country-mex flavor, but savors it at a slower tempo. "The Invitation," "Did You Wonder" and "Sympathy Crime" establish the action with some of the Procession's most solid tunes, effectively suggesting the settings that the stories convey. "The Visitor" and "The Waiter #4" hark back to the dirges of the band's earlier work, but with more elaborate arrangements. "A Cry For Love" is a particularly provocative, foreboding piece that does a dance of death to a tango/waltz rhythm. "Only One Way" ups the pace to a trot if not full gallop, "Fingerprints" is a clever string-driven ditty, and the album closes with the ballad of regret, "The One Who Has Disappeared." One mystery may or may not be solved, but the answers to the enigma of love and broken hearts are left open and bleeding, as they should be.
What's so strange about listening to The Aluminum Group is that they sound like one of those timeless, hugely popular 80s pop bands that everyone knows. Yet rather than being bigger than the Pet Shop Boys, brothers John and Frank Navin are practically unknown, even in their native Chicago. Already on their fifth album with Happyness, the brothers are at a peak, seamlessly integrating Love, Steely Dan, Style Council, Bacharach, The Divine Comedy, Magnetic Fields and many other influences into clean, shiny new constructions, not unlike the Ray Eames furniture line the band took their name from. Self produced and engineered by Tortoise's John McEntire, Happyness is somewhere between the ambitious orchestral pop of the Jim O'Rourke-produced Pedals (1999) and the electronica-heavy John Herndon produced Pelo (2000). With assistance from members of Chicago's Tortoise, The Sea And Cake and Rebecca Gates, The Aluminum Group move from strength to strength in the spare electro pop of "Tiny Decision" the synthetic popcorn percussion and muted horns of "I Blow You Kisses" and sweet harmonies in "Pop" that Prince would die for. Succinctly witty, often wryly funny lyrics, impeccable arrangements, infectious melodies, hooks galore, a soothing production sheen, there's much to like here. Planned as the first part of a trilogy, god only knows if their audience will have caught up to this brilliant pop band by their eighth album.
The Flaming Stars are a real garage band. Not in the sense of that generic, vaguely post-mod, Nuggets style that is so popular right now. We're talking garage steeped in the Americana of 50s Elvis, western soundtracks, surf rock, The Velvet Underground and The Cramps. On their fifth album, former Gallon Drunk Max Décharné has taken tighter reigns on the songwriting after the somewhat slicker experiments on Walk on the Wired Side (2001). There's still plenty of nourish gloom and romantic tragedy, but the overall sound is more stripped down. Sunset & Void features two particularly delicate ballads in "Mansion House Blues" and "Five For The Road." But even the rockers are fairly low key. "Midnight Train" and "Killer In The Rain" simmer like Elvis with a dose of gothic dread. The maracas, marimba and harpsichord on "Mexican Roulette" recall the desert-baked mariachis of Calexico. The band takes the opportunity to rave on their surfabilly chops on "Baby Steps," which favors a shreddingly distorted guitar amidst tinkling ivories and acoustic accompaniment, and "Killjoy." "The Long Walk Home" is particularly impressive mood piece, with pounding bass and drums, menacing piano and handclaps. More mannered than their Songs from the Bar Room Floor (1996) and two singles collections, Sunset & Void is an enjoyably dark, gritty mood piece. Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds fans who are impatient waiting for the band to get back to rocking are well advised to check out The Flaming Stars.
Once deemed as the most powerful live band on the planet, Godspeed You! Black Emperor has much to live up to with their third full-length album. And like Sigur Rós, it's hard to say for sure if those expectations were met or not, or surpassed. At 75 minutes and no distractions like tape loops, it's certainly a long, intense ride. It's by far a more difficult listening experience than any previous GY!BE album. Engineered by Steve Albini, it sounds like he encouraged clarity if not brevity. Whereas their music is generally quite dramatic, the changes on Yanqui U.X.O> don't happen as much as they evolve, glacially, like plate tectonics only slightly quicker. The sixteen-and-a-half minute "09-15-00" starts out in familiar territory, achieving a noticeable buildup and climax of chords and quickened rhythms. The second, shorter part is all freefall afterglow. It's as if it can only be appreciated if you meditate and slow your pulse down to the pace of the song. If you manage it without passing out, the reward might be akin to catching a comet on video and getting to watch it in slo-mo. "Rockets Fall on Rocket Falls" has a plucking guitar that borrows fairly obviously from a Beethoven fugue, which is eventually obscured by strings and cacophonous noise, fading into a classical woodwind interlude and another slightly less noisy, orchestral reprise. After that slightly confounding twenty-minute piece, the heart and soul of GY!BE finally gel in "motherfucker=redeemer." Like the best moments on Sigur Rós' ( ), we're taken to church in a grandiloquent display of energy, from furiously sawing strings to dazzlingly swirling, interlacing guitars. The beautiful moment ends all too soon, though the ten-minute aftermath is sufficiently engaging to retain the rush. The second part feels less necessary, though it manages to reach one more decent climax. This high-tension music is not recommended as background music, so it might be difficult to take the time to absorb it and appreciate it at an appropriately loud volume. Hard core devotees who invest the time should be pleased. Everyone else should refer to earlier albums. Given the band's lack of lyrics, it seems their political agenda is fairly irrelevant, though the illustrated sleevenotes are fairly interesting. Amidst arrows connecting the major media conglomerates to giant arms-dealing corporations, it explains that U.X.O. is an unexploded ordinance, and that Yanqui represents the multinational corporate oligarchy/post-colonial-imperialist-police state. Cool.
Boom Bip is a Cincinnati-based hip-hop artist who has collaborated with rapper Dose One and remixed for electronica artists Four Tet. Recently signed to the Warp-affiliated hip-hop label Lex, Boom Bip is cleverly negotiating the terrain between hip-hop and electronica. While this type of crossover isn't entirely unprecedented, with Kid Koala, DJ Shadow, Prefuse 73, Boom Bip has already developed a highly unique style, combining scratching with a passion for organic samples. Three vocalists contribute, including "Dose One" ("Mannequin Hand Trapdoor I Remember"), Buck65 ("The Unthinkable") and Nacky Koma's spoken word ("Popsicle"). However, the best moments of Seed To Sun come from Bip's surprisingly gorgeous melodies and soundscapes, such as the serenely lunar "Pulse All Over" and the Boards Of Canada-like "Closed Shoulders." "The Use Of Unacceptable Colors In Nature" incorporates percussion and organ loops to hypnotic effect. Seed To Sun is an extremely promising debut from an artist who's future work just may reach the caliber of DJ Shadow.
Fans of Odelay and Midnight Vultures may be disconcerted by the plaintive breakup album that is Sea Change. It's not that the album doesn't have any fancy cut 'n' paste production. Mutations was fairly simple, yet it made sense as a Beck album. It's more the fact that this time, despite his lip service about Nick Drake and Tim Buckley, Beck sounds at times more like 70s MOR soft rock titans James Taylor and (ew) Gordon Lightfoot. Sea Change seems to have producer Nigel Godrich and Beck's father David Campbell to thank for keeping it from sinking into mediocrity. Godrich provides a shimmering vibe that keeps even the underwhelming "Guess I'm Doing Fine" afloat sonically. Campbell's string arrangements on "Paper Tiger" and "Lonesome Tears" really make the songs come alive. "Paper Tiger" particularly is an enjoyable homage to Serge Gainsbourg. What better way to recover from a broken heart than to take solace with a notoriously womanizing pimp daddy. The middle of the album ("Lost Cause," "End Of The Day," "It's All In Your Mind"), with Beck's dragging, somnambulist vocals, sags a bit. But things pick up at "Round The Bend," a spare haiku that does manage to finally evoke Nick Drake. "Already Dead" sounds like Beck imitating Beth Orton imitating Joni Mitchell, and it's quite good. "Setting Son's" subtle psychedelia and digital tables locks down the appeal of Sea Change. If you think of it as a hazy, lazy drift in the clouds rather than a gut-wrenching anthem of angst, it works much better. The songs are generally fairly original sounding, which is a tribute to Beck's songwriting ability. But let's not go crazy here, they're not his best, nor are they as good as Dylan's Blood On The Tracks, harumph. I'll take clever, inventive wordplay and risky arrangements over clichéd earnestness any day. So buck up Beck -- be a good pop star, date some supermodels and you'll be good as new . . . and be sure to finish that collaboration with Dan "The Automator" Nakamura!
The last thing one would expect the Fat Cat label, home of such original artists as Sigur Rós, Múm, and Mice Parade, to do would be to sign a guitar-based band. The fact that the band is from Oita, Japan and combines distorted loops like Suicide, distorted guitars like My Bloody Valentine and Jesus And Mary Chain ("Kyoro"), and savage static like Merzbow and Aphex Twin makes more sense. Add some sample-ridden synth ("Amaryllis"), Einsturzende Neubauten/Throbbing Gristle-era industrial ("You Died in the Sea"), and you have a hint at the chaotic, eclectic mix of Xinlisupreme's sound. "All You Need Is Love Was Not True" buzzes with a low-tuned droning guitar and an insistent beat, with buried, unintelligible vocals, and some gorgeous guitar on top. "I Drew A Picture Of Myself" recalls the buzzsaw guitars and throbbing bass of The Birthday Party, were they hacked to bits in metal shop. While many of the noisy tunes would be a bit low-fi for some tastes, they hold a lot of promise. Were they to attempt something more produced and coherent, perhaps they'll come up with something to rival some of the recent, stunning work by The Boredoms.
Why is Queens Of The Stone Age the best hard rock band on the planet? Let me count the ways. They assimilate countless disparate influences like Black Sabbath, Hawkwind, Neu!, the Ramones, Black Flag, The Butthole Surfers, The Cows and The Screaming Trees, while sounding like no one else. They avoid the boring clichés of standard aggro-rock, nü metal and stoner rock (Fu Manchu, Monster Magnet, Nebula) and instead unpretentiously describe themselves as psychedelic pop and "robot-rock" (referring to their hypnotic, rhythmic riffing). Rock's best baritone, Mark Lanegan is a member. One of rock's best drummers, Dave Grohl, recorded and toured with them. Each album is better than the last. On their third, Songs For The Deaf, QOTSA expand their already rich, deep, wide palate into a collection of songs so diverse that they felt they needed goofy Who Sells Out style skits to tie the album together, simulating a drive from L.A. along Highway 62 to Josh Homme and Nick Oliveri's hometown of Palm Desert. With or without the skits, the album flows beautifully between blistering punk to gloriously mesmerizing psychedelia, pop and even a sort of Flamenco. Moving from strength to strength, "No One Knows" manages to merge, screaming and karate-chopping, Wire with ZZ Top. In addition to his standard unhinged noise-rock screamers, Oliveri also contributes two of the shockingly catchiest pop songs in "Gonna Leave You" and the downright Monkeys-like "Another Love Song." Lanegan handles lead on two brilliant slices of desolate intensity, "Song For The Dead" and "Hangin' Tree," wandering through the land of the dead, teetering between redemption and damnation. Both rival his stunning highlight of R's "In The Fade." The best songs are Homme's "First It Giveth," "The Sky Is Fallin'," "Go With The Flow" (possibly the best track, though it changes at every listen), the T. Rex glam-stomper "Do It Again," "God Is In The Radio" and the multi-part "Song For The Deaf," certain moments of which evoke the other Queen. Songs For The Deaf features some of the tightest, most accomplished ensemble playing you'll hear this year. Strong songwriting, impeccable sense of dynamics, surprising twists and turns, QOTSA are at the top of their game. Never apologetic about its hedonism, QOTSA nevertheless exude focus and restraint, intent on securing its status as a band that matters, promising to rock us for years to come.
True to its pyrotechnic name, The Fire Show burned brightly and disappeared before hardly anyone noticed. Like This Heat, The Birthday Party, Mission Of Burma and The Pop Group, The Fire Show had their say within three albums or less, destined to be largely ignored at the time only to be deservedly revered later on. They are romantics, believing passionately that art should be expressed in everyday life, not cheapened by commerce and lifestyle marketing. On their website they pay homage to Guy Debord, founder of the Situationist International, and the post-punk "Spirit of '79." Yet they were not part of the recent post-punk revival that includes The Liars, The Rapture, Radio 4, Erase Errata, The Seconds, Ex Models and Life Without Buildings. Rather than mimicking the form, The Fire Show were inspired by the spirit. Sure, there's the occasional hint of Rowland S. Howard (Birthday Party) and Keith Levene's (PiL) buzzsaw guitars, but other than isolated bits, The Fire Show sounds like no one. While the Fire Show existed for only just over two years, the band is actually a culmination of a decade-long creative partnership between Olias Nil and M. Resplendent, who formed the more straightforward indie rock of Number One Cup. Their last album, the taut, stripped-down People, People, Why Are We Fighting? (1999) showed hints at the duo's future with it's Wire and Gang Of Four influences. For The Fire Show, drummer Michael Lenzi stepped out from behind the drumkit to become M. Resplendent, a volatile and electrifying front man. The Fire Show (2000) was a superb debut, summarizing the band's dark, savage live set. Number One Cup quickly seemed like a lifetime away. Above The Volcano Of Flowers (2001), with its blank cardboard sleeve (do-it-yourself cover art was provided via the website) suggested a work in progress, with five long tracks that sound like they were created by improvisation. Called release 1.5, it held up on its own as a satisfying album, with increased use of electronics and sampling. It showed the band was unafraid to experiment, risking failure and delving into ugly sounds along with the beautiful to get their message across.
Saint The Fire Show is even more boldly uncompromising. It starts out a-capella, with "The Making Of Dead Hollow," with Resplendent reciting his poetry, eventually joined by atonal violins and various percussive sounds. The cadence of his delivery and the occasional pan crashes recall Captain Beefheart's "The Dust Blows Forward" and "Well" from Trout Mask Replica. The effect can be disconcerting and uncomfortable, with some relief and release offered in the last couple minutes when the band kicks in and the guitar teases with just a shade of lyrical beauty. "The Rabbit Of My Soul Is The King Of His Ghost" is more beat-driven, with slashing guitar that draws inspiration from the same dark corners as Duane Denison (The Jesus Lizard), with multiple vocal tracks that criss-cross in various states of dissonance. "Brittlebones" is an inspired underwater dub fever dream. "Deviator Feel Like Crook" turns the cliché'd build-and-release dynamic backwards by exploding out of the gate with jagged, crunching aggression and slowly cools like molten lava into a throbbing bass and finally a startlingly lovely acoustic outro. "Dollar And Cent Supplicants" continues the chilly beauty, with gentle, falsetto vocals, subdued instrumentation and piano, while a warped sample of what sounds like an opera singer send shivers shooting up your spine for strikingly original, eerie effect. "The Godforsaken Angels Of Epistemology" and the next three tracks offer a myriad of rewarding surprises that I could fill pages describing. "Magellan Was A Felon" is the most riveting highlight among many, expanding into a wonderful space odyssey that would have Hendrix looking down, smoking his celestial spliff and smiling --finally someone understood where "Third Stone From The Sun" was getting at. Yet the band is economical in the tools they use, with an extremely modest recording budget with which Radiohead would only be able to complete a single bass track. Another surprise is the subdued, brooding cover of "You Are My Sunshine." It's a shock that album is over already, because while some albums make you think everything's already been done, The Fire Show demonstrate there are still infinite possibilities from guitar, bass, drums and sampler, just as there are with say, a paintbrush or word processor. Those lucky enough to see The Fire Show's final tour witnessed the band, stripped down to the core duo, accomplish the most amazing things, starting on the rhythm instruments, sampling and looping, and following their muse. Too difficult and prickly to be absorbed and spit out by any trend, The Fire Show's legacy is destined to be discovered in its ashes by future artists, it's spirit an inspiration for continued creativity and artistic bravery rather than mimicry.
Cutting her musical teeth as a punk rock drummer, Neko Case became a leading light in the alternative country scene with her solo albums The Virginian (1997) and Furnace Room Lullaby (2000). As good as those albums were, something big happened in the last couple years. Whether it was hard touring or she went to the crossroads and sold her soul to the devil, Case has blossomed into a world class songwriter and singer, totally in the league of Patsy Cline, Tammy Wynette and Loretta Lynn. It's hard to believe this is the same woman who blended in innocuously in the last New Pornographers tour. The songs on Blacklisted range from amazing to devastating. Many of the songs have an added weight of brooding, gothic dread, perhaps rubbed off from Nick Cave when she opened for him. The production makes the album sound like it could have been recorded in the sixties, as if Owen Bradley was at the controls. Except that frankly nothing in the sixties sounded quite this rich and frightening. It was actually recorded in Tuscon with Giant Sand. There are touches of Ennio Morricone's Western desolation, and Wanda Jackson's rockabilly. It's nearly impossible to pick the gems from the jewels, but "Deep Red Bells" is guaranteed to make you melt at its beauty and vivid sensory imagery ("It looks a lot like engine oil, and tastes like being poor and small/And Popsicles in summer"). "Tightly" shimmers like the moonlight in a country pond ("When I'm walking under trees I'm free to covet all I please/New moon's in the alley and it's madness…If I meet you in the night you're free to covet all you like/Don't you try and stop me I cling tightly, to this life.") "Look For Me (I'll Be Around)" covers the same creepy, noirish territory that Eleni Mandell has done so well, but is even more convincingly menacing. "Pretty Girls" even tops it. With its powerful feminist message, it's too bad Patsy Cline didn't live to get a taste of this strength. "I Wish I Was The Moon" wins out as the album's loveliest ballad, while the ferocity of Case's cover of "Runnin' Out Of Fools" gives Aretha Franklin a run for her money, with a soulfully angelic chorus of Kelly Hogan and Mary Margaret O'Hara not far behind. Between the tears and shivers, Blacklisted quite simply blows every country and countryish album out of the water from the past half decade. You know what to do.
Until now, Sleater-Kinney has never had an entire album that has fully measured up to their reputation of greatness. The best songs from their first five albums certainly make for a killer compilation, but now their sixth, One Beat, will force you to expand your best-of to two discs, because there's not a single dud in the batch. "One Beat" stuns within the first verse, Corin Tucker singing with the most explosive conviction she's ever done -- "I'm a bubble in a sound wave/A sonic push for energy/Exploding like the sun/A flash of clean light hope." Here she's the feminized version of Iggy Pop's "streetwalkin' cheetah with a pocketful of napalm," an angry force of nature ready to take over the boys and their phallic war toys ("Should I come outside and run your cars/Should I run your rockets to the stars…Could I turn this place all upside down/And shake you and your fossils out/If I'm to run the future/You've got to let the old world go"). Anger is an energy, and "One Beat" packs one big emotional whallop. "Far Away" more specifically addresses the September 11 terror, Corin nurses her baby, turns on the T.V. and watches "the world explode in flames." The last verse sums it all up with "And the president hides/while working men rush in to give their lives/I look to the sky/And ask it not to rain on my family tonight." "Oh!" changes direction into relationships, sensuality and some really unique harmonizing. On songs like "The Remainder" and "Light-Rail Coyote," the band rocks harder than ever, thanks partly to Janet Weiss, who sounds like she's upgraded her drumsticks to tree trunks, not unlike, dare I say, Led Zeppelin's John Bonham. Other elements like the slightly Middle-Eastern sounding strings also recall Led Zep. "Step Aside" features some Stax-like horns, and on "Combat Rock" Tucker hiccups her way back to politics, providing much-needed skepticism, a sharp relief from all the nauseating flag-waving in the past year -- "Hey look it's time to pledge allegiance/Oh god I love my dirty Uncle Sam…Dissent's not treason but they talk like it's the same." Throughout the album, Carrie and Corin have demonstrated an added level of sophistication in their guitar playing. On the fantastically creepy "Funeral Song," (complete with theramin!) it seems they have absorbed the brilliantly serpentine minor-chord innovations that Mary Timony developed while in Helium. The album closes on another killer, "Sympathy," featuring a bluesy slide guitar, and a nod to the Stones' classic with a "woo woooo" chorus. Here Tucker really lets loose. When she sings "And I'm so sorry/for those who didn't make it/and for the mommies who are left with their heart breaking" you can imagine her whole body quaking, channeling the sad, angry spirit of Janis Joplin. Sleater Kinney's best album, One Beat is not the best they can do. Combine their more accomplished, fuller sound with more heart-wrenching, melodic classics like "Good Things" and "Dance Song '97" and they'd certainly be the world's best rock band rather than "merely" contenders.
The more conservative fans of Austin, TX's Spoon would have you believe that their peak was their second album, 1998's uneven A Series Of Sneaks, it's charms boiled down into the 1:30 "Car Radio." Don't believe a word. Spoon gets better with each album. Last year's acclaimed Girls Can Tell pared down their sound to show off its stronger songwriting. Much like The Dismemberment Plan, Spoon eschews guaranteed crowd-pleasers on their new album, Kill The Moonlight to instead forge ahead and develop their own unique sound. While its melodic charms are not as immediate, it's by far their best album. Their arrangements are wound up so taut and spare, that the few points of comparison are Wire's Pink Flag, The Cure's Boys Don't Cry, and Young Marble Giants' Colossal Youth. And perhaps' Prince's "Kiss." "Small Stakes" starts with a muffled, compressed drumbeat, a tambourine and then a keyboard. Its lyrical buildup suggests a stripped-down Who-like mod anthem. "The Way We Get By" features piano, handclaps, tambourine, and a thick bassline. Soon the drums kick in and the simple piano melody has your head bobbing as you realize this is a stellar Revolver-era Beatles quality tune. "Something To Look Forward To" and "Stay Don't Go" feature enticing melodies that are not overdone and don't overstay their welcome, leaving you hungry for more. The latter is driven by a human beatbox rhythm track, along with other more subtle experiments. "Jonathan Fisk" is the only song that sounds much like older Spoon, with it's insistent rhythm guitar, it's tension expertly built up with drums and an additional guitar. The haunting "Paper Tiger" features a processed, rubbery drum beat, rim shots, a stalking keyboard, dub echoes and jittery strings. It's simple words, "I will be there with you when you turn out the light" are brilliantly affecting. "Someone Something" is memorably catchy, "All The Pretty Girls Go To The City" has some nice falsetto choruses, "You Gotta Feel It" adds horns, and "Back To The Life" strangely rips off the stomp-and-clap of Led Zeppelin's "Boogie With Stu." The brief (34:57) album ends with the lightly psychedelic "Vittorio E," possibly a hint at Spoon's next departure? In the meantime, Spoon's stature will continue to grow as the significance of this album grows over time. A modest masterpiece.
Interpol is a NYC (well, half-British) group of young, privileged, sharp-dressed boys who blatantly draw their influences from one specific era. Sound familiar? The difference is that the scene cognoscenti still seem open to liking them, partly because the hype has not yet risen to hysterical levels, partly because they have such damn good taste in what they plunder. Even better, aside from "Say Hello To The Angels"'s rip-off of The Smiths' "This Charming Man," Interpol manage to carve a (somewhat shallow) niche of their own sound, and it's gorgeous. Joy Division is most often the band cited, mainly because most people (at least the Yanks) aren't really familiar with The Sound, The Chameleons, Teardrop Explodes or Josef K. I'm willing to bet these guys are. The album starts strong with the scintillating "Untitled," with impressive drumming worthy of Radiohead's Phil Selway. On the tense "Obstacle 1," Paul Banks' singing verges on the brink of sobbing, as he seethes with frustration and rage. The floaty and atmospheric "NYC" would fit nicely on Echo & The Bunnymen's Ocean Rain. It's that good. "Stella Was A Diver And She Was Always Down" spells out the requisite doomed relationship with the ultra-depressed girlfriend, but despite the seemingly glib title, the band pulls it off with sincerity, tenderness and passion. Like Joy Division, Interpol could be unfairly pegged as gaudy gloom merchants, when in reality they feature a wide range of powerful emotions, all linked by their intensity. The album winds down with the almost Pixies-ish guitars of "The New," and the elegiac "Leif Erikson." Turn on the Bright Lights is a far better debut by such a young band than anyone could expect since, well, The Strokes. It'll be fascinating to watch them evolve.
Fans of Sixteen Horsepower's powerful Joy Division/Nick Cave brand of gothic country might initially be disappointed by this short effort, which consists of only four originals, and six covers. Much like Nick Cave's Murder Ballads, Sixteen Horsepower seamlessly mix their own songs with old bluegrass and country songs (so old that four of them are traditional, with no specific songwriter given credit), giving them a very contemporary feel in their unique style. Rather than rock out, the band gives the songs a darkly European folk feel (despite its Colorado base, two-thirds of the trio is French). It's the traditional songs that get the most revered treatment, like the epic "Outlaw Song," which evokes the vastness of the foreboding vastness of the 19th century Western frontier. Hank Williams' doomed romance "Alone And Forsaken" is given an appropriately apocalyptic treatment, while The Carter Family's "Single Girl" is shockingly peppy. "Horse Head Fiddle" is given a thoroughly unique arrangement, somewhere between an Indian raga and a Tibetan monk hymn. The album ends with the French waltz, "La Robe A Parasol," confirming Sixteen Horsepower's privileged position, alongside Tom Waits and The Walkabouts, as masterful interpreters and original creators of both Americana and European folk.
In the mid-nineties it seemed certain that Primal Scream was doomed to be remembered as the band who briefly hit at the right time with the house-inspired Screamadelica. 90s post-rave decadence seemed to drag them down to a parody of a Black Crowes cover band, until they awoke from their bad trip with 1997's chaotic yet inspired dub-trash excursion, Vanishing Point. Now into their seventeenth year as a band and settling into family life, it's nice to see artists like Primal Scream and Tom Waits resist slipping into soggy sentimentality. While not as reckless and political as 2000's Xtrmntr's "Swastika Eyes" (the controversial "Bomb The Pentagon" was reworked into "Rise"), Evil Heat remains sharp-edged and feisty. Reuniting with Screamadelica collaborator Andrew Weatherall, Primal Scream are also at their most consistently enjoyable since that album. "Deep Hit Of Morning Sun" is as pleasurable as the title suggests, a light tab of acidized techno laced with sweet harmonies. On the disco-on-steroids "Miss Lucifer" Bobby Gillespie swaggers and leers at his "Panther girl" to give him "evil heat all night long." "Autobahn 66" is an overtly obvious tribute to the space-motorik rhythms of Krafwerk and Neu! that feels more like a segue than a stand-alone piece. Gillespie's former bandmate Jim Reid (The Jesus & Mary Chain) contributes sulky vocals to "Detroit," ironically more a homage to the German proto-industrial D.A.F. than anything from the Motor City. Instead, "The Lord Is My Shotgun" evokes The Stooges' bluesy "Penetration," while "City" mates Bowie's "Suffragette City" with Iggy Pop's "Kill City" with shit-hot rocking results. The slightly depoliticized "Rise" still manages to rant about the government, CNN and "genetically engineered ultraviolence…are you collateral damage or a legitimate target?" to a PiL drone/Stones rhythm, peaking with a symphonic cacophony that could only have been created by the knobs of newest member Kevin Shields (My Bloody Valentine). "Some Velvet Morning" is a surprisingly unironic Lee Hazelwood cover, with breathy choruses by Kate Moss, who's voice is as pretty as the rest of her. "Skull X" manages to marry The Velvet Underground's "Foggy Notion" with My Bloody Valentine to spectacular results. Weatherall's Philip K. Dick-inspired instrumental "A Scanner Darkly" is a tad too similar to "Autobahn 66," but still enjoyable. The album bows out with the gospel ballad "Space Blues #2," referring to Felt's "Space Blues," with that band's Martin Duffy as guest vocalist. Unapologetic about their influences, most of the songs work well because no matter how many bands are blended and microwaved into them (Cabaret Voltaire, A Certain Ratio, Can) they still manage to bear the recognizable stamp of Primal Scream. Noisy, fun, a bit short, Evil Heat is only as revolutionary and explosive as a bomb pop on a hot summer day -- a cool treat rather than a fiery manifesto. Best enjoyed before it melts into a sticky pool on the sidewalk.
Back in the late eighties, it's doubtful that anyone predicted that the shambling Flaming Lips would outlast most of their contemporaries to become venerable art rockers. What sets them apart from fellow indie-statesmen Yo La Tengo and Sonic Youth, is how remarkably the band was initially when it first started in 1983. As much-beloved live performers, the Lips' shows consisted of nearly incoherently psychedelic originals and sloppy, intensely noisy covers of bands like Led Zeppelin. Their evolution was so gradual and smooth, no one blinked an eye when 1999's The Soft Bulletin not only incorporated homages to late sixties Beach Boys, but also Yes' Close to The Edge. More sonic architects than rock band now, The Lips have nevertheless rounded out their revolutionary arc by eschewing an impenetrable, convoluted version of Tales Of Topographic Oceans and have instead produced a more modest, emotional album. Not quite as ambitious and groundbreaking as The Soft Bulletin, Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots may ultimately get more playtime than its predecessor, at least here at F 'n' B. Loosely tied together by the band's connections to Japan via culture and friendship, the catalyst for Yoshimi was the unexpected and mysterious death of a friend in Osaka, and their attempt in "It's Summertime" to console her surviving sisters. The result is a Manga-like heroine with a name borrowed from Yoshimi P-We, the drummer of cosmic noise rockers The Boredoms. The songs are less a story than an allegory of mortality, love and friendship, bringing …Bulletin's bleakly existentialist cosmic musings down to earth. The sonic experimentation is still here -- innovative beats and wobbly tones warped by electronica -- but they are so subtly integrated that it's the songs rather than the sounds that stand out. "Fight Test" begins with gladiatorial combat, featuring one of the most infectious melodies The Lips have ever created. "One More Robot/Sympathy 3000-21" is just as wonderful, a hypnotic electronic movement with weedy, warbling vocals so warm and earnest that only Wayne Coyne (and perhaps Neil Young) can pull off, convincing us that the robot programmed to kill seems to fall in love with its adversary "'cause it's hard to say what's real- when you know the way you feel." The battle culminates in "Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots pt. 2," consisting of repetitive rising and falling electronic bleeps and screeching war cries, ultimately the least satisfying track on the album. The achingly gorgeous, orchestral "In The Morning of the Magicians" more than makes up for it as it ruminates on the relationship of love and hate. To some the sentimentality and optimism in "It's Summertime (Throbbing Orange Pallbearers)," "Do You Realize?" ("that everyone you know will someday die - and instead of saying all of your goodbyes - let them know you realize that life goes fast its hard to make the good things last") may seem glib, but really it shows the band bravely avoiding a cynical façade and simply letting pure emotion wash over them. The extraordinarily uplifting latter song and transcendental "All We Have Is Now" prove how great songwriting can be as powerful and healing as anything. Yoshimi may not bend your mind, but it'll move your soul.
At first listen, Cousteau sounded like a band that aims for the cinematic mood of the Tindersticks and wounded melancholy of Scott Walker, but ends up a bit of the smarmier side of Chris Isaak. It's difficult to believe this slick-sounding, thirty-something, well-dressed, good-looking, MTV (or VH1)-ready band's sad-sack songs of heartbreak and yearning. They seem like the kind of smooth chaps who will have dates lined up with mid-range movie stars. And for sure, after seeing their audience at a live show, the ladies love, LOVE Cousteau. They do fill a somewhat vacant niche of sensitive male crooners of torch ballads. And given a closer look, there just might be something more to them. There's a nice consistency between the blue satin and gold cover art that suggests underwater treasures, and the lushly aquatic imagery of the songs. Australian Davey Ray Moor writes all the songs, and the Irish Liam McKahey, with heavily tattooed arms, a weathered face and mysterious past involving addiction and interior decorating, sings 'em. Every song is impeccably arranged with pianos, strings, stand-up bass. Always tasteful and silky, when the songs work ("Nothing So Bad," "Talking To Myself," "Salome"), they have at least as much sensual and emotional impact as anything by Bryan Ferry or David Bowie. But after a while, the songs bleed into each other and sound too similar. They need a bit more variety, perhaps some whiskey-soaked grit of some seventies Tom Waits, or Nick Cave's darker lyricism. But then again, after all, it is for the ladies. Keep it around and program the best tracks before easing into Al Green, Tim/Jeff Buckley and Jacques Brel.
Arto Lindsay is a national treasure whose music is doomed to be under-appreciated until god knows when. From the pioneering no-wave of DNA to the evocative jazz-noise-funk hybrid trilogy (Envy, Greed, Lust) in Ambitious Lovers, Lindsay was already an underground legend by the early nineties. Invoke is the fifth installment a brilliant series of albums that pay tribute to the fertile creativity of Brazil, where the long time New York resident grew up. Much more than an ambassador/historian of Brazilian bossa nova and Tropicália, Lindsay pushes the boundaries by building on the past with more contemporary influences, and creating a sound that is uniquely identifiable as his own. Invoke is a departure from its bossa nova-oriented predecessors, incorporating a wider variety of rhythms and sounds. "Predigo" is a collaboration with Lindsay's favorite contemporary Brazilian band, Nação Zumbi, whose charismatic leader Chico Science was killed in a car crash in 1997. The track is a dizzying mix of Mahavishnu Orchestra-style jazz fusion, hip-hop, funk, distorted guitars and the maracatu rhythm native to the band's home in Pernambuco, where Lindsay coincidentally also lived. The track follows one of the logical conclusions (or beginnings) hinted at with Lindsay's work in Ambitious Lovers. "In The City That Reads" is the other big departure. It's also a collaboration, with a New York group called Animal Collective (Avey Tare and Panda Bear), who contribute ambient sounds and percussion. The invigorating experimentation aside, overall Invoke is much more direct and easier to listen to than recent albums. Rather than covering Prince and Al Green, in "Illuminated" and "Over/Run" Lindsay subtly incorporates some of the production techniques by mainstream hip hop/soul producers like Timbaland. "Invoke" and "You Decide" buzz and percolate with micro-electronic sound affects, reflecting the glitchy electronica innovations of artists like Matmos (who recently collaborated with Bjork). The rhythm in "You Decide" takes you on a complex, herky-jerky carnival ride that is utterly addictive, so long as you don't get woozy. "Uma" is based on a sample of tribal drums from the Bahia region, co-written with Brazilian rising star Lucas Santtana. "Clemency" sees Lindsay at his funkiest, and the minor chord string-led "Unseen" at his most menacing. The album closes with a breezy acoustic cover of the 60 year-old "Beija-me." Invoke takes more risks and is more diverse, and inevitably seems less perfect, particularly compared to the seamless Noon Chill. But by no means is it a disappointment. It's a step forward and over, with harder edges and a weathered soul. An essential addition to a subtle body of work by an important songwriter at the top of his game.
As elderly statesmen of avant-indie rock, Sonic Youth are always welcome in my overflowing CD racks. But to be honest, they had not really gotten my heart racing, aside from "Diamond Sea" on 1995's Washing Machine, since 1988's Daydream Nation. The albums were good enough not to damage their status as one of America's best bands, but A Thousand Leaves ('98) and NYC Ghosts & Flowers ('00) did get a bit dour and dull at times. A few things happened to invigorate the band. They recorded a series of experimental sides released on their independent SYR label, culminating in the breathtaking tribute to modern classical composers, Goodbye 20th Century. Every single one of their guitars that were preset to the various odd tunings they've developed over the years, were stolen. Production and avant-guitar guru Jim O'Rourke became a full-fledged member. And their practice space on Murray Street was destroyed on September 11. And so from loss and change and destruction comes renewed passion and energy. The songs on Murray Street are shimmering, emotional powerhouses. The instrumentation is unusually spare and clean, melodic and direct, leaving the few forays into feedback all the more captivating. "The Empty Page" starts things off with some of Thurston Moore's most expressive singing in years, rekindling the excitement that had been smouldering since the firestarter "Teenage Riot." The three-guitar freakout is short and to the point, and the song tapers off with a singular, chiming guitar. "Disconnection Notice" is more sprawling, but equally sensual and sonorous. "Rain On Tin" starts with their most menacing, minor-key chords since 1985's Bad Moon Rising and evolves into an epic guitar showcase, reaching a breathtaking crescendo, settling into a rhythmic cascade. It's no less than one of the few songs of the last 25 years to successfully follow-up on Television's glorious masterpiece, "Marquee Moon." After three winners, you'd think these old-timers would let up for a breather, yet "Karen Revisited" is just as captivating, with Lee Renaldo's vocals dualing with a snakey guitar riff that expands gradually until you're bathed in stardust and experiencing some sort of cosmic rebirth a lá 2001 A Space Odyssey. "Radical Adults Lick Godhead Style" and "Plastic Sun" are more down-to-earth rockers turn down the intensity, but still noticeably benefit from O'Rourke's production and guitar contributions. The album closes with its longest cut, the 12+ minute "Sympathy for the Strawberry." It's perhaps their biggest departure, with Kim Gordan purring and rubbing up against a slinky, insistent Al Jackson (Al Green) sexbeat, while a tremulous guitar breeds and multiplies into a viscous symphony. While paying tribute to a place, Sonic Youth have fallen in love with sound again. It sounds too good to be true, doesn't it? Hear for yourself.
Gemma Hayes is an inspiration to teenage girls who cringe at the prospect of finding inspiration in successful pop stars like Britney Spears. As a teenage My Bloody Valentine fan in Tipperary, Ireland, Hayes started playing her sister's acoustic guitar. With a few years, little taste, a lot of talent and even more luck, she found herself signed to the French Source label based on a demo she made with no accompanying information. On the strength of the 4:35 AM EP, Mark Linkous (Sparklehorse), Mark Eitzel and David Gray fawned over her and invited her on their tours. Wisely choosing Flaming Lips/Mercury Rev/Ed Harcourt producer-shaman Dave Fridmann to assist with her debut, Hayes has kicked off a very promising career at the tender age of 23. Night On My Side reveals her precocious songwriting talent and surprisingly mature voice, with a distinctly country-Americana lilt. Her pretty voice is almost too mannered and polished -- it could easily blend into an MOR format. But thankfully she avoids the pitfalls of cloying cuteness and annoying histrionics, modulating her voice like a pro while injecting the music with the necessary amount of indie-rock adrenaline. "Day One" is a short, shambolic starter that recalls the rustic forlornness of Sparklehorse. With guitar riffs that drive and sparkle, "Hanging Around" could have been an early 90s Blake Babies tune, while on "Back Of My Hand" a New Order bassline sets the tone for a mood piece of profuse aching and longing. "Over Over" continues the doomed romance theme with more heartfelt earnestness and a caressing string section. Maria McKee might have pulled off something this affecting had she not disappeared. Moving on to regret, "Let A Good Thing Go" shows that Hayes not only studied My Bloody Valentine, but also the underrated heart-squishing capacity of J. Mascis' mournful guitar solos in Dinosaur Jr. "Ran For Miles" and "What A Day" gently segue to a respite of uplifting tranquility before descending back into the maelstrom, peaking in massive layers of distorted guitars, squeaks and squeals in "Lucky One (Bird Of Casadaga)." "My God" might be her strongest song, a spare, brittle study of world-weariness that is utterly, succinctly moving, and will no doubt someday inspire many covers. Night On My Side ends with its title track, a melancholy country-tinged lullaby. With a handful of songs that measure up to the mature work of Joni Mitchell and Lucinda Williams, Gemma Hayes should have a brilliant career to look forward to.
Former Coctails leader, comic artist and member of The Sea And Cake Archer Prewitt is already a bona fide music veteran, with over a dozen albums in his vitae. Yet it seems his truly lasting musical legacy is just beginning. While his first two solo albums were clever, tuneful and thoughtful, there was always a nagging feeling that they were just academic studies in pop, in which he sounded more detached than brooding. On his third album, it seems Prewitt has finally wholeheartedly thrown himself into the creative vortex, immersing himself in the music, and emerging with his most accomplished arrangements and some absolutely deadly tunes. Three kicks off with "Over The Line," a sunny 70s pop gem with organs and harmonica setting the tone for Prewitt's more warm-blooded, emotionally direct approach. "Tear Me All Away" and "When I'm With You" continue the uptempo 70s pop feel, along with layers of subtle psychedelia, Beatles-ish harmonies, and hooks galore. Prewitt's inspirations are too numerous and tightly integrated to try to keep track of. This is a good sign that he's developed his own recognizable sound, though he does seem to share certain tastes in symphonic soul and British folkie Roy Harper with musical soul/label mates Bobby Conn, Jim O'Rourke and Neil Rosario (National Trust). Yet it's Prewitt who has the most potential to connect with a wider audience, with several compelling songs that would be on heavy rotation in Top 40 radio were it a just world. The first is "I'm Coming Over," which features the catchiest, lilting, chiming guitar melody since Johnny Marr's heydey. "Gifts Of Love" increases the pace with more infectious string-fueled melodies that match the best of Lloyd Cole & The Commotions. "Atmosphere" eases into a slower stroll, and stuns with the kind of heart-swelling chorus that Paul McCartney hasn't been able to muster for thirty years. "Sister Ice" continues his hot streak with a fabulous chorus by Kelly Hogan and Nora O'Connor (on loan from Andrew Bird's Bowl Of Fire). Aside from the highlights, the rest of the tracks are nearly as strong, well-crafted pop tunes. This may be sacrilege, but it would do a lot of people a world of good if they stopped hoping for anything of relevance to leak out of the noggins of burned out geezers like Elvis Costello and start noticing the embarrassment of riches that are growing right in their backyards. Catch Archer Prewitt at a bar near you before you have to wait in line for stadium tickets.
Remember when Guided By Voices sounded like they had the potential to truly be rock gods? You know, rather than just emulate, pay tribute, or remind you of rock gods? For me, that was about when Bee Thousand ('94) came out, when a handful of tracks sounded like Pollard had the Kinks held prisoner in his basement 4-track studio, feeding them lysergic acid. Seeing them play that year in a medium-sized bar made me imagine what it was like to see The High Numbers (The Who) during their weekly residency at the Railway Hotel in 1964. But then came the string of mediocre, disposable albums. Last year's hard rocking and catchy Isolation Drills ended their losing streak, and their major label stint. Back on Matador, the new album sounds like the quirky, sad, brilliant and tuneful Guided By Voices of old, but better. These days, that's as close to a rock god anyone is going to get. After trying their hand at slick commercial production, the band is back to producing themselves, with highly satisfying results. The sound is looser than recent albums, but far fuller than their early twee lo-fi efforts. "Wire Greyhounds" sets the tone, a 35 second teaser of melodic brilliance. "Skin Parade" has an acoustic intro that leads into a Slade-like stomper that recalls tunes on Vampire On Titus ('93). "Zap" is another short, pretty acoustic tune, and you can just tell we're approaching a real corker. Indeed, "Christian Animation Torch Carriers" is a classic. It begins slow and mournful, and gradually builds into a transcendent rocker, takes a few meandering twists and turns before returning to an uplifting chorus. "Cheyenne" is a sparkling, jangly sort of pop song that bands like The Shins have been striving for. "Back To The Lake" is by far my favorite track. It's the kind of song you wait breathlessly for at the show and scream and jump when they tear into it. It's a bittersweet breakup song that will be immortalized on many a mix CD. It might even be the kind of song where you recall exactly what was happening in your life in 2002 when you hear it in 2012. "Love 1" is pure, succinct poetry worthy of e.e. cummings. The brooding, contemplative "Storm Vibrations" lacks the immediate hooks, but it's obvious that Robert Pollard is at a revelatory crossroads. His lyrics recall Dylan's revelation of mature mixed emotions of still feeling love after a hard breakup on Blood On The Tracks -- "Confusing emotions - deliberately/Does it hurt you?/To love, I mean?" "Everywhere With Helicopter" overflows with classic powerchords, and guitar solos. "Car Language" is an impressively weighty slab of darkness, something about erotica with heavy machinery, with a dirgy beat that bumps and grinds, bathing itself in a shower of feedback sparks. The album winds up with a few shards of songs that could have been great were the Led Zeppelin acoustica of "The Ids Are Alright" and Bydsian whimsy of "Universal Truths And Cycles" were fleshed out. But what's a Guided By Voices album without some tasty scraps to leave you frustrated and wanting more? Most importantly, this album is the first GBV album to consistently pack emotional impact. Which I reckon makes Universal Truths And Cycles their best, don't you?
While the suits at Elektra have probably already pulled the plug on promoting the new Breeders album, Title TK, and are scheming how to get rid of them, it's the perfect follow-up to their 1992 Safari EP, as if Last Splash ('93) never happened. While that album had some great songs, its slick production was at times positively gaudy next to the exquisitely beautiful minimalism of their 1990 debut Pod and the heartbreaking melancholy of the aforementioned EP, which seemed to have been inspired by the breakup of Kim Deal's marriage to John Murphy, who ironically contributed lyrics to "Don't Call Home." Whatever happened during the years of The Breeders' brief stint as rockstars, and their nine years of writer's block, there's plenty more sadness to go around. Title TK is like that term paper that you procrastinate until the night before, then burn through it on all cylinders all night and end up with something that is inspired, if somewhat ragged. Good enough for an A-minus. "Little Fury" kicks things off with a slow tempo, resonating with much more feeling and even sensuality than those rushed, peppy songs on Last Splash that were so damn eager to please. If anything, the extra breathing room lend more impact to those special Deal-sisters harmonies. "Off You" is a spare, heartbreaking ballad with an almost imperceptible guitar, making the not-quite-a capella performance recall Mo Tucker's turns on the mic in The Velvet Underground. "The She" features a droning krautrock organ like a stripped-down Stereolab. Taking a break from the gloom and drones are "Too Alive" and "Son Of Three" with up-tempo major key hooks that show they still know how to write good pop songs, even if they refuse to drown them in six coats of laquer. "Full On Idle" an Amps remake that sounds more like a welcome Pixies-ish romp, while "Forced To Drive" reaches another highpoint, and coincidentally, another Velvets-circa-1969 moment. The album concludes with the compact, single-worthy "Huffer," a fitting oh-oh goodbye. Title TK is a modest anti-epic that was still worth the wait. Rather than cheapen their legacy by churning out garbage, The Breeders held back until they were ready, making this rare offering all the more special.
Once upon a time Silkworm were a crunchy post-punk band that added raw drama to their indie rock (see 1994's In The West and Libertine. Then sadsack songwriter Joel Phelps departed, and seemingly took the band's heart with him. Through their next four albums, they fleshed out their sound while managing to come across as dreary and bloodless. With Italian Platinum, it seems they finally grew a new organ and the lifeblood flows once more. On nearly every song they seem more emotionally invested, with a handful of unexpected innovations that finally make them sound like more than just an Steve Albini-endorsed second cousin of Pavement. "(I Hope U) Don't Survive" features Neil Young-like guitar lines and harmonies straight from Buffalo Springfield, albeit over a bashing rhythm section reminiscent of The Jesus Lizard. "The Brain" is assisted by keyboards and female "la-bah-la-bah" baking vocals, and "White Lightening" winds up with a nice piano outro. Most surprisingly, Chicago country chanteuse Kelly Hogan takes the lead vocals on the piano-driven power ballad "Young." "A Cockfight of Feelings" ends the album with fabulous big riffs, their best effort in eight years. Settling in Chicago and into normal working life was apparently rejuvenating for the band. By ending their hard-touring, make-it-or-break-it phase, it looks like they'll be enjoying a creative renaissance much like Eleventh Dream Day.
Iceland's rockists turned organica magicians Múm formed in 1997 when Örvar Þóreyjarson Smárason was wooed away from his guitars by the electronica of Aphex Twin. After collaborating with other artists, including Icelandic poet Andri Snaer Magnason , they released the U.K.-only 2000 debut Yesterday Was Dramatic - Today Is OK, a masterpiece of moody ambience and toy instrument symphonies, combining the acoustic and analog post-rock instrumentation of bands like Fridge and Pram with the glitchy digital experiments of Oval and Autechre. The effect on that album and the new Finally We Are No One is that of gauzy dreams of a distant childhood, similar to The Boards Of Canada but with occasional singing by twin sisters Gyða and Kristín Anna Valtýsdóttir. Their fey vocals tingle and shiver, like The Cocteau Twins and My Bloody Valentine if they were child-ghosts. What's striking about this music is how they manage to create such seductive melodies that sneak up on you. You'll be floating in a placid stream and in imperceptible increments you find yourself embroiled in an oceanic storm, whipping up sheets of drama to rival Björk and Sigur Rós. It's difficult to address specific tracks, as it all flows as a singular piece. Múm combine seemingly disparate elements into a seamless, iridescently beautiful whole in a way that is frankly much more listenable than Sigur Rós' more cumbersomely bombastic moments. Inevitably someone else will learn how to milk their more obvious charms for popular consumption, while they drift in semi-obscurity with Autechre and their ilk. No matter, the quiet innovators will get their recognition (if not their drugs and groupies) some day. In the meantime, seek out their essential import and keep both discs handy for your next astral trip.
It's ironic that a fan of such elaborately produced British music like Bowie, King Crimson, Genesis and XTC would write a paean to low-fi recording. It makes more sense knowing that after Vanderslice's experimental pop band MK Ultra broke up, he was inspired by Neutral Milk Hotel's richly layered music recorded with modest equipment. Vanderslice is on a creative roll, producing his third solo album in less than three years. Like last year's Time Travel Is Lonely, The Life And Death Of An American Fourtracker is loosely based on a theme inspired in equal parts by William Blake, contemporary fiction by Steven Millhouser, with additional lyrics by John Darnielle (Mountain Goats). Here the tortured, romantic child prodigy struggles with his instability and ends up drowning himself in the ocean while still a teenager. It's a familiar story about the torture of artistic inspiration, drugs and suicide, but co-starring, um, recording equipment. Leave it to the owner of Tiny Telephone recording studios to come up with that modern twist -- there's even a love song called "Me and My 424." To my ears it beats the hell out of Tommy. With help from members of Spoon, Death Cab for Cutie, Mates Of State and Beulah, Vanderslice's sound is richer than ever, his voice stronger and less quirky. His arrangements deftly segue from spare acoustic moments to full-blown orchestral bombast on tracks like "The Mansion," with horns blaring with a nicely booming Led Zeppelin/Flaming Lips drum sound. While the protagonist is a failure, the music is a love-suite about the amazing possibilities of sounds. It helps that it also features some of Vanderslice's best songwriting, every track piled with infectious hooks, melodies and emotion putting him on par with fellow eccentric mad geniuses Hawksley Workman, Eels and Sparklehorse.
In all the 90s hoo-ha about women in rock, Mary Timony was strangely overlooked. An underrated guitar virtuoso, she led Boston's brilliant Helium, an indie guitar band with subversively snaky prog rhythms and Eastern melodies. By 1997's The Magic City, Helium had become even more eccentric, single-mindedly focusing on Timony's obsession with a gothic fairytale netherworld of witches, dragons and faeries like a combination of the Grimm Brothers and Alice In Wonderland. Her 2000 solo debut Mountains dug a little too deep into the fantasy and forgot about good songwriting. The Golden Dove is a tuneful return to form, with some of Timony's most inspired, enigmatic work yet. Produced by Sparklehorse's Mark Linkous, the phantasmagoric songs are rooted in more substantial, detailed sound that complement's Timony far better than the poorly recorded Mountains. The song structures remain slippery, and there are few obvious hooks to be found (the chorus on "Blood Tree" is a nice exception), but songs like "Ant's Dance" and "Musik and Charming Melodee" rival Stereolab at their scintillating best. Traces of psychedelic pop, folk and space-rock can be detected. Timony's meandering melodies and eclectic instrumentation recall the spooky, nightmare-lullabies of Pram, but remain her own sound that she should patent -- pretty and prickly, a carnivorous flower. The delicately skulking "Dr. Cat" exemplifies Timony at her best -- sly, complex, sexy and creepy.
There are two ways to listen to The Private Press. One can listen to it as the follow-up to DJ Shadow, aka Josh Davis' genre-defining 1996 album Endtroducing, or simply as an album on its own terms. Endtroducing revolutionized the art of sampling by assembling a collage into a seamless, cohesive whole that packed as much emotional whallop as any classically conceived music. In that sense, The Private Press takes a half-step back, a stylistic hodgepodge that could have pre-dated Endtroducing. Ironically, the biggest points of departure are the vocal samples on cuts like "Six Days," which is indebted to Moby's Play, and "Walkie Talkie," which cleverly splices up the vocals, something that's been done more impressively by Prefuse 73. The shift from melancholy to wacky is somewhat jarring on "Mashin' On The Motorway," a cartoonish road-rage skit by Lateef. Shadow purists who expected the new set to be scratches from the mountain, laying out music's future path may be bitterly disappointed. But it's hard not to like these tracks once the pesky expectations wither away. "Right Thing/GDMFSOB" showboats Shadow's wild side, with a head-spinning array of dance-based samples that even gives a wink to an early Daft Punk sample. And there are certainly plenty of woozy, downbeat epics, from the eerie "Giving Up The Ghost," which would fit comfortably on Radiohead's Kid A, to the concisely haunting "…Meets His Maker," and the nine minute centerpiece "Blood On The Highway," built around hypnotic piano. "You Can't Go Home Again" is even more impressive, taking 80s electro beats, rubberizing and dubbifying them so that even when the cheesy synths come in, it evokes nostalgia without actually sounding retro. The Private Press begins and ends with samples from a 1951 homemade record. It's an interesting concept, one that Shadow didn't really do much with. Though he doesn't make any great leaps, he does remind us that recycled sounds can still express the primordial mess of the human soul.
Nina Nastasia's sophomore album is most likely the first you've heard from her. Her debut Dogs (2000) was released in a small batch of handmade editions on the tiny indie Socialist label, and was good enough to melt even the hard, black heart of Steve Albini, who hasn't been seen so speechlessly smitten over a female solo artist since PJ Harvey nearly a decade ago. Like Dogs, The Blackened Air was recorded by Albini, featuring a skeletal folk structures with chamber-like arrangements of accordian, cello, viola, mandolin and saw. The atmosphere recalls Cat Power's (Chan Marshall) haunting Moon Pix recorded with The Dirty Three, and Touch And Go labelmate Shannon Wright's eerie echoes of vaudeville cabaret. Her voice at first sounds deceptively girly and soft. Once you are drawn in and comfortable, cracks appear in the tunes' fabric, and seemingly innocent folk songs come crashing down in terrifying cacophony. The songs are surprisingly short for how much they accomplish. For example, In "I Go With Him," Nastasia begins with some lovely guitar picking worthy of Nick Drake and Richard Thompson, tosses off two stanzas of earthy, biblical perfection that Will Oldham would envy, and peaks and fades in orchestral creepiness like Paris 1919 era John Cale, all in 1:54. "This Is What It Is" is pure gothic menace, with an accordian drone, marching strings, the lyrics a Zen riddle -- "Take it out/Start again/Close it up/Be the one/You are beautiful/I couldn't take a bigger bite of it…Lose your head/It's always there/It's full of it." "Oh My Stars" brilliantly makes use of far Eastern melodies to timelessly elegant effect. "All For You" takes the form of more traditional country-folk, but it's just as moving as she sings to a wonderful melody, "I can see the stars above/I can give it all up/Up to you/All for you." In "So Little" and "Desert Fly," Nastasia's no-frills voice steps it up a notch, soaring and lilting, totally carrying the songs. "In The Graveyard" she really belts it out, a heart-wrenching funeral lament, a shadow of strength hiding behind doubt and fear. "Ocean" is the album's climactic peak in which Nastasia's stature swells with her passion, protesting a dying relationship -- "'Don't run away from me!,' I tell you/My eyes are black as iron/I'm toppling houses, trees and towns,/My crying makes everybody drown." So powerful and compelling is Nina Nastasia's artistry, we can only hope to go along with its flow, keeping our heads above the floodwaters so that we may survive and listen to her again, and again, and again. Fucking awesome.
Tom Waits' 1999 Mule Variations comeback tour (after about a dozen year absence) must have left him in a good mood. In three relatively short years, he's rewarded us with not one, but two albums, in top form no less. Most intriguing is Alice, the legendary lost masterpiece that never really existed. Alice was originally a stage production written by Paul Schmidt and produced by Texan dramatist Robert Wilson, with whom Waits and wife Kathleen Brennan collaborated with on The Black Rider. Premiering in Hamburg, Germany's Thalia Theatre in 1992, Alice was inspired by Charles Dobson/Lewis Carroll's Lolita-like obsession with young Alice Liddell, demonstrated in the opiate-fueled hallucinatory books Alice In Wonderland and Through The Looking Glass. The music for the "avant-garde opera" was written by Waits and Brennan, and performed by the cast along with an orchestra directed by Waits. The bootleg album that subsequently made its rounds, with Waits devotees proclaiming it in hushed tones as his best material yet, was merely a live recording of the performance. Nearly a decade later, after he had begun work on Blood Money, Waits decided to finally record the songs himself. The final product nearly measures up to its myth, though the edgy brilliance of 1992's concurrent Bone Machine still retains the edge as his best work. Having proven his mastery of all forms of Americana, Waits tackles the daunting history of European folk ballads. Like The Black Rider, Alice recalls Bertolt Brecht and Kurt Weill's darkly witty collaborations. While The Black Rider was the spooky, German folktale of devils and murder, Alice presents a more sweetly melancholy mood. With the exception of the rollicking, phlegm-spraying punk of "Kommienezuspadt," the music skips the Beefheartian rhythms and junkyard found-sounds Waits has become known for, instead using a pared down chamber orchestra. "Alice" is a smoky lover's lament, sung delicately to a jazz quartet that proves he can still smooth out his ravaged voice and hearken back to his classic 70s balladry. "But I must be insane/To go skating on your name/And by tracing it twice/I fell through the ice/Of Alice." Here we fall through the looking glass into a man's internal fantasy/nightmare of desire and regret. Next we board a haunted carnival train in "Everything You Can Think," a surreal dreamlog with images of red flamingos, sleeping babies in shoes, "your teeth are buildings with yellow doors." The dream imagery continues in "Flower's Grave," "Someday the silver moon and I/Will got to Dreamland." While they might recall children's fairytales, we are reminded of the bad turns our fever dreams used to take when we were children, with morbid visions of death. "Poor Edward" tells the chilling story of a man cursed with the face of his female devil twin on the back of his head, who whispered evil things to him at night until he hung himself. "Lost In The Harbour" epitomizes the verging-on-tears ballads, ("The roses are frightened to bloom") that avoid crossing into melodrama at the last precise moment. A rare instance of treading water, Waits catches a breather on "We're All Mad Here" practically a lyrical greatest-hits of his imagery as it crosses the line into cliché -- crows, hats, devils, bones, worms, eyeballs, fish, a decomposing train and more bones. Yet I still can't help but hang on every line. "Watch Her Disappear" is a creepy, spoken tone-poem of sexual obsession in which he spies on his object of desire as she undresses. "The air is wet with sound/The faraway yelping of a wounded dog and the ground is drinking a slow faucet leak/Your house is so soft and fading as it soaks the black summer heat…" "I'm Still Here" is wrapped around a piano melody that recalls a particularly forlorn song from a Charlie Brown cartoon. The album often recalls music from Disney films, particularly in the closing instrumental lullabye "Fawn," in which one can imagine the marimba and violin duet played by Jiminy Cricket. Like its original source, Alice is a sublimely hallucinatory experience that ends by drifting off and dreaming within a dream.
Blood Money comes out of Waits and Brennan's third and most recent work with Robert Wilson, Woyzeck which debuted in Copenhagen, Denmark in 2000 (and comes to New York and Los Angeles this fall). It's based on German poet Georg Büchner's 1837 play about the true story of a soldier in the Prussian army who murdered his unfaithful wife after being subjected to strange army experiments. It is highly appropriate that Waits would provide the music for Woyzeck, a classic example of Romanticism's melancholy and gallows humor, anticipating existentialism and expressionism. Waits and Brennan have arguably taken the reigns as the 20th/21st century masters of just about every dark mood in music. The fantasy and sadness of Alice is replaced by earthly madness here, with Waits unleashing some particularly unhinged, darkly humorous performances. On "Misery Is The River Of The World," he sounds like a deranged muppet, singing "Everybody Row! Everybody Row!," his enunciation becoming more slack and exaggerated as the song progresses. "Everything Goes To Hell" and "God's Away On Business" continues the misanthropic fatalism that recalls songs from Bone Machine -- "I don't believe you go to heaven when you're good/Everything goes to hell, anyway…" More diverse and frenetic than Alice, Blood Money jumps from crunching rants to soothing lullabies ("Lullaby"). The instrumentals revisit the expressive, haunting effects of The Black Rider -- "Knife Chase" conjures visions of a man running for his life from an army of possessed skeletons, while "Calliope" uses a 1929 pneumatic calliope with 57 whistles used by circuses because the sound can be heard for miles. "Starving In The Belly Of A Whale" is an instant classic driven by propulsive guitar picking by Waits himself. "The Part You Throw Away" is another highlight, subtly evoking the roots of Portuguese fado, Spanish flamenco and Argentinean tango with delicately plucked violins. The album ends with "A Good Man Is Hard To Find," the murdered wife bidding farewell with the words "Only strangers sleep in my bed/My favorite words are good-bye/And my favorite color is red." While the imagination and emotional impact is more devastating on Alice, Blood Music is nearly as evocative, effectively transporting us to another time and place. Few artists achieve such an effect in an entire lifetime, and Tom Waits has done it twice in one try. Bravo.
There are two contradictory discourses about British music that both overstate their case. One is that Britpop is dead and there are no more great bands from the U.K. (bollocks), the other that relative newcomers like Travis, Embrace, Coldplay, Starsailor and South are doing something new and exciting (pish posh). In between the piles of hyperbole reside Doves, a Manchester band whose 2000 debut Lost Souls caused critics to hyperventilate in heaping praise upon it, while largely ignored in the U.S. While they were credited (or blamed) for returning to "big eighties music" like U2 and Echo & the Bunnymen, the reality was that the album was a bit monochromatic and dreary. That problem has been solved with the diverse new collection, The Last Broadcast. On "Words" they harmonize like Ride amidst swirling electronics and glockenspiel, employing a stately circular rhythm that recalls The Verve's "Bittersweet Symphony," which practically defined the English zeitgeist of summer '97. "There Goes The Fear" starts with a glistening, cascading melody reminiscent of early James, and through its seven-plus minutes takes a percussive journey that tips its hat to New Order and The Stone Roses as it sails off on its paisley-print magic carpet, eventually landing in a Caribbean carnaval. "M62 Song" is acoustic psych gentle as hovering fireflies which may very well be UFOs in disguise (hello, Flying Saucer Attack reworks King Crimson's "Moonchild"). The celestial instrumental "Where We're Calling From" segues into the Mercury Rev-style rave-up "N.Y." peaking with a deliciously noisy, fading din. Moving from strength to strength, "Satellites" is another epic cut that stops just sort of overwhelming bombast, using gospel elements much like Spiritualized and Blur's "Tender." "Friday's Dust" integrate acoustic guitar, strings, oboe to a powerful, sonically glorious effect. Per it's title, "Pounding" charms with less subtle tactics that will make it a predictable, yet welcome, choice for a single. The remaining tracks cover similar melancholy territory as their first album and fellow Mancunians Elbow. With not a single bum track, The Last Broadcast is a mildly adventurous, surprisingly uplifting, often spine-tingling album that Doves' peers will be hard pressed to top this year save for a revolutionary giant step on the scale of Radiohead.
It's mind-bending how an album like Blackalicious' accomplished 2000 debut Nia could have been so incredibly overlooked while bozos like Jay-Z and Eminem get all the attention. After more than ten years in the underground scene, the duo of Chief Xcel and The Gift of Gab have finally signed to a major label. To the dullards who whine about them selling out, I say, where the hell were you when Nia should have made them as big as De La Soul? Blazing Arrow continues with the earthy, soulful, tuneful Native Tongues style hip-hop that Blackalicious is keeping fresh, leading a West Coast contingent that includes Dilated Peoples and Jurassic 5, members of whom guest on "Passion" and "4,000 Miles". Fans of Gift Of Gab's mile-a-minute verbal athletics like "Alphabet Aerobics," "Deep In The Jungle," "Rhyme Like A Nut" and "A2G" will be thrilled with the dizzying standout "Paragraph President," but disappointed by "Chemical Calisthenics," a heroic attempt at rapping the periodic table of elements, but just doesn't flow very well. Kudos to them for being unafraid to geek out. Perhaps they'll be commissioned to do a hip-hop update of the Schoolhouse Rock cartoon shorts. Pleasurable moments abound in tracks like "Aural Pleasure" which starts with Fela afrobeat horns and a jumping reggae beat; catchy choruses in "Sky Is Falling" and "Make You Feel That Way," and the clever bubbling water sample of the title track. "Passion" is the hardest hitting track with an assist from Rakaa and Babu of Dilated Peoples. Blazing Arrowis a masterful demonstration of old-school hip-hop skills and lyricism. Yet up-and-coming artists who use the inspired production madness of Outkast and Cannibal Ox as their blueprint may soon make Blackalicious sound a bit old fashioned. Enjoy until the next revolution.
Peter Murphy ranks as one of a small handful of aging artists (David Byrne, David Sylvian and, um, er…) from the post-punk era who manages not only to avoid embarrassing themselves, but remain relevant. Dust is his first full album of new tunes since 1995's Cascade. The traces of Middle Eastern influences in Cascade have expanded into a full-blown exploration of the genre, particularly of the trance music of Turkey, which has reportedly been Murphy's adopted home for some time. Turkish musicians mix bows, kanuns, uds, and tablas with Western musicians, including Michael Brook, who has collaborated with the great Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. Those looking for catchy pop songs like "Cuts You Up" or "I'll Fall With Your Knife" will be disappointed. Aside from opening track "Things To Remember," there are no obvious, memorable hooks, melodies or choruses. The nine songs have an average length of seven minutes. Those patient enough to appreciate the more meandering structures of Peter Gabriel's Arabic-influenced work and David Sylvian's Dead Bees On A Cake might enjoy the layered atmospherics and polyrhythms here. Mercan Dede mixes in sampled electronic sounds on cuts like "Girlchild Aglow" and "Your Face," keeping it from sounding like a generic world beat excursion, although Brian Eno did a much more interesting job over 20 years ago on My Life In The Bush Of Ghosts. Even those who don't appreciate the exotic instrumentation can make use of its overall beauty as the post-goth mash album to have this year.
Elf Power are the beleaguered middle child of the Elephant Six family, including Olivia Tremor Control, Neutral Milk Hotel and Apples In Stereo. With four previous albums under their belts, they have yet to receive the acclaim of the rest of the collective. Creatures should go a long way in evening that score. Ironically, this time around the band has kept the sound modest, passing up Dave Fridmann's studio magic from 2000's The Winter Is Coming for a sound less Flaming Lips and more pared-down jangly folk. With more room to breathe, the songwriting has taken a leap in improvement. "Let The Serpents Sleep" sounds like a late eighties Feelies outtake. "The Modern Mind" is lovely accordion-driven folk much like recent Gorky's Zygotic Mynci. "Palace of The Flames," "Visions of the Sea" and "Unseen Hand" are gorgeous tunes that recall at times pre-glam Marc Bolan (T. Rex), Yo La Tengo and Felt. On "Everlasting Scream" and "Things That Should Not Be," the specter of The Velvet Underground is omnipresent, again filtered through the guitar sound of The Feelies' "Tomorrow Today" and "For Awhile." "The Haze" brings to light Elf Power's chief weakness -- Andrew Rieger's voice. His reedy, unobtrusive vocals serve a song best when blending with the music. But on "The Haze" it's a liability, as it plods tunelessly to the point of annoyance. With only one misstep out of eleven, Creatures is a fine album that updates the pleasures of eighties Velvet-jangle for 2002.
Jeff Tweedy never ceases to amaze. Contrary to the typical pattern in rock where artists attract attention early in the career when they burn brightly and quickly burn out, Tweedy's career initially smoldered as the weaker link in Uncle Tupelo and then gradually grew in stature. Even Wilco's second well-received double album Being There (1996) was a modest campfire compared to Summerteeth's (1999) house fire. Yankee Hotel Foxtrot finds him full ablaze with virtually no peer. What makes today's Wilco a welcome antidote to the crushing mediocrity of most artists influenced by Uncle Tupelo and early Wilco, is madness. One would think a seemingly well-adjusted Midwestern family man would have pretty mundane concerns. But Tweedy has managed to tap into his inner madman to create a devastatingly emotional landscape, complete with eerie creaks and quivers as it threatens to crumble down around our grateful ears. While Summerteeth took tentative stabs at murderous urges and drug references, Yankee completely slays. With its disorientating psychedelic flourishes and sometimes loose song structures that threaten to unravel before pulling a deadly hook out of its sleeve at the last minute, the album is Wilco's version of Sister Lovers with tasty embellishments of 60s psych-pop (Love, Small Faces' Ogden's Nut Gone Flake), Can and Captain Beefheart's Clear Spot. Despite Jim O'Rourke's avant-ish mix job, the album is highly accessible. No matter how much songs like "I Am Trying To Break Your Heart," "Ashes of American Flags" and "Poor Places" may stray from the path, they are all rooted in timeless melodicism. And just when you think the songs have said their piece, when you're used to most songs repeating another chorus and ending, they slyly become beautifully noisy whirling dervish freakouts. From this description one would expect perhaps to hear some sort of electronica-tinged space rock album. But Yankee is still very much rootsy, firmly establishing its new form of Americana as the blueprint of the coming decade's classic rock. This is still guitar, drums, bass and voice based rock, of such a powerful sort so as to make people like Ryan Adams and Pete Yorn sound like clueless nostalgists, desperately clinging to their Replacements albums while the world leaves them behind. Wilco has the kind of mix of eccentricity and soul that can't be left behind. Who else could have created such a simple classic as the stunning, moving "Jesus, etc."? "Tall buildings shake, voices escape, singing sad, sad songs to two chords/ Strung down your cheeks, bitter melodies turning your orbit around." The arrangement is minimal, Tweedy's voice cracked and plaintive. It's a masterpiece. "Radio Cure" starts out as a limping, dragging depression ballad and gradually ascends to an uplifting chorus to the words "Long distance has a way/Of making love understandable." "Heavy Metal Drummer," "I'm The Man Who Loves You" and "Pot Kettle Black" display an arsenal of hooks, catchy pop genius that will inevitably prove on the radio to millions what numbskulls the Reprise suits are. "I'm The Man…" is particularly impressive, like a dream team-up between Neil Young and John Lennon in 1970. The album closes with another classic, the elegiac "Reservations," with perfectly placed strings, keyboards and cymbols. "I've got reservations/About so many things," he sings, "But not about you." Indeed, Tweedy's private confidence translates well into our rare luxury of being able to rely on a current band for ever-increasing quality.
Despite the praise, the hits and the awards, there have always been doubts about whether Cornershop would really endure as a truly great band. All their albums had their share of filler, and their vastly underrated 1999 electro-dance project Clinton failed to capture most Cornershop fans' fancy. Handcream For A Generation succeeds in fulfilling Cornershop's destiny as a party band with brains and substance. The first great good-times summer album of the year (it really clicked during an unseasonably hot early-spring day on the beach), Handcream is also Cornershop's best. Guest Otis Clay kicks off the album not with his traditionally darker-side of Al Green soul, but MC's an exuberant introduction that echoes King Curtis' "Memphis Soul Stew." "Staging The Raising Of The Raised Platform" is a sunny romp with a youthful chorus. "Lessons Learned From Rocky I To Rocky III" is based on the kind of hip-thrusting rhythm guitars last used so masterfully by T. Rex, while poking fun at "the overgrown supershit" of ego-driven pomp rockers. Co-produced by turntablist guru DJ Rob Swift, "Wogs Will Walk" is James Brown-funky, easing down its provocative social message like sugary medicine. "Motion The 11" could have been just another tribute to U-Roy style 70s dancehall reggae. Yet somehow Jack Wilson and Kojak of the Nazarites manage the conjure real magic here that conveys utter joy rarely heard from anyone but Toots and the Maytals. Multicultural dance songs with political sentiments haven't been this fun since The Specials and half of The Clash's Sandinista. "People Power" takes the only weak cut from Clinton's Disco & The Halfway To Discontent and improves it. "Spectral Mornings" is a hypnotic jam that takes a very catchy riff contributed by Noel Gallagher and stretches it to nearly a quarter hour, with not a needless second. Heck, they even broadcast a 24-hour mix on the Internet. One can't even criticize lesser dance tracks like "Music Plus 1" and "The London Radar" much, because they measure up to the best that critical favorites like Daft Punk and Basement Jaxx have to offer. Cornershop are an enigma, simultaneously cranky and celebratory, a tension they've developed to the best effect since perhaps Sly & the Family Stone. A song or two short of a stone cold classic, Cornershop have certainly proven that they are as relevant and evocative as ever. And a total blast.
Over the past decade Luna has established itself as a reliable yet unchanging source of Velvets-influenced guitar pop, a formula Dean Wareham perfected after leaving the influential Galaxy 500. When a Guns 'n' Roses cover ("Sweet Child O' Mine") was the most vital cut on 1999's The Days Of Our Nights, it was a sign that they were flirting with a rut. Romantica, however, brings them back recharged, blooming with flowers, new love and producer Dave Fridmann (Flaming Lips, Mercury Rev), who helps them fill out their normally flat sounds, especially on the majestic "Black Champagne". The tempos have picked up, and occasionally they even rock ("1995"). These aren't your average indie-rock love songs with the shy geek singer-songwriter struggling to convey any sort of passion. Wareham is downright twitterpated -- he's boinging about with exploding pink hearts around his head. Hell yeah it's spring. Who can blame him, crooning duets inches from silky-voiced Britta Phillips in "Mermaid Eyes." Aroo. If only the remaining songs could match that kind of sensuality. Romantica is by far Luna's best collection since 1995's Penthouse, while not quite at the level of Mercury Rev. I would steer newcomers to their first few albums, while diehard fans should be pleasantly surprised by Luna's energy boost.
Genre names are a tricky business. It's hard to tell which ones will stick and be embraced by both fans and artists (techno), while others will induce bristling sneers (post-rock). Trip hop, for example, was sort of in between. I could see the need to create a name for the seminal work of Massive Attack. Portishead popularized it, Tricky perfected it, but everyone else watered and dumbed it down, forever tainting those words. As far as I can tell, UK garage has not had a solid start. The music seems tainted by soul clichés and hollow B-boy posturing. While it had a So Solid to trip hop's Massive Attack, garage had no Tricky. That is, until 22 year-old beat taker and rhyme maker, Birmingham's Mike Skinner, a.k.a. The Streets arrived on the scene. On his debut, Original Pirate Material, Skinner addresses the scene's decrepit creativity in "Let's Push Things Forward," calling for his peers to put their money where their mouths are, and support or create music with substance rather than buy the same old crap and complaining that "everything sounds the same." Skinner backs up his words with skillful rhymes and a rubbery space-synth reggae rhythm with haunted trombones. Acknowledging that most people don't' listen to their music in trendy big city clubs, but rather at home, in the car and on headphones, "Has It Come To This?" proclaims "Cuz this ain't a club track/Pull out your sac and sit back" while they take their herb or drink of choice and plug into their videos, 64's and Play Stations. The song is the first single, the perfect introduction to The Streets as he clearly states his M.O. in a strong yet understandable (even to us Yanks) Brummie accent. Thankfully he stays within his stylistic range without trying to mimic black British patois. The rhymes are well put together, sweetened by very musical backdrops, from catchy choruses to symphonic strings and inventive beats. It took over a decade, but it seems the potential of Massive Attack's Blue Lines is finally being realized. The Streets offers new chapters of Massive Attacks "Unfinished Symphony." Nearly every cut tells a meaningful, compelling story, except "Who's Got The Funk," which is "just a groove.". The snapshots of working class life as Skinner knows it are populated with booze, birds, geezers and herb. "The Irony Of It All" is an amusing clash of classes, between Terry the boozing lout and Tim, an annoyingly smug stoner with an engineering degree. Skinner brilliantly method acts between the two, and you almost cheer when Terry gives Tim a beat-down. "Weak Become Heroes," spurred by a memory flashback to ecstasy-fueled house days, resembles Renton's soliloquies in Trainspotting, with Skinner seeking to get beyond life's problems by finding transcendence in his art and individualist ambition. He bridges the gorgeous chorus "Weak become heroes/And the stars align" with his own beatific "We all smile/We all sing" set to an uplifting piano loop that evokes the ecstatic feel of Coltrane's "My Favorite Things." He's not exactly a hippy dreamer though. "Stay Positive" acknowledges "the dark shit" where he veers away from both political involvement and hard drugs, keeping his eye on individual dreams and true love. The music belies the tension, with hard, doomy beats and lilting music floating above it. At a time when expectations in hip hop (and garage) have been diminished, The Streets offers a new benchmark worth striving for.
Eleni Mandell is a supremely talented singer-songwriter from Los Angeles. With her 40s style black Betty bob haircut she could be the mousy librarian, the sassy waitress (her sometimes day job), the sultry torch singer, the viciously vindictive ex-lover, the tempestuous vixen. On Snakebite, her third and most accomplished album, she's greater than the sum of all those parts. The most noticeable improvement is that her band, consisting of a rockabilly-type set-up with Sheldon Gomberg on upright bass and Danny Frankel on drums, have been tightened and seasoned by time well spent on the road. Like PJ Harvey, Mandell is influenced by Tom Waits' mix of Hoagy Carmichael Tin Pan Alley pop, noirish balladry and beatnik blues. The album features many extra guests who contribute horns, lap steel guitars, keyboards, cello and must illustriously, X's D.J. Bonebrake on marimbas and vibes. "Dreamboat" is soothing as a breeze at 3 a.m. on the waterfront. "Pirate Song," is Mandell's version of a sea shanty about the ghost of an ex-lover, propelled by a romping standup bass, "He loved only one time and he loved her well/I will bury his broken hands, that he strangled me with/Oh, I begged him to do it…yes I did!" "Don't Lose My Trail" is one of her best efforts yet. We follow her on an image-rich road trip from New York to L.A., set to a mesmerizing repeating guitar riff and haunting organ. The title track is the most effective demonstration of the claustrophobia and suffocation of a relationship gone bad since PJ Harvey's "Rid Of Me," complete with desperate gasping. She even has a science fiction lullaby in "Silverlake," with a dreamy pedal steel guitar. Throughout the album, her singing is better than ever. She's more restrained than on her previous two albums, but the underlying power is evident, especially the few times she really lets loose. Mandell is developing into a singular talent with a persona potentially as unique and memorable as a Peggy Lee, a Wanda Jackson or a Dusty Springfield. The album cover portrays her crouched over a speeding motorcycle. She's going somewhere fast, and it's high time you abandon all sense of self-preservation and jump on for the ride.
Fire Music marks the welcome return of Gallon Drunk's first proper studio album in six years. In the early 90s, in a scene that was dominated by flowery "Madchester" post-rave pop and gauzy shoegazers, Gallon Drunk was one of the few remaining British bands that still walked the walk with the swagger of gunfighters -- slinging a dangerous-sounding blend of The Cramps, Gun Club and The Birthday Party. In the meantime, the band dropped its Birthday Party-isms, lost Max Décharné to the Flaming Stars, and recorded a soundtrack for Black Milk (1999), a Greek black comedy. In doing their homework for the film, they absorbed plenty of soundtrack music, including the classic 70s Blaxploitation work of Curtis Mayfield, James Brown and Willie Hutch. Fire Music introduces additional elements, from gospel ("Things Will Change") to a slower, more studied Euro-blues of Nick Cave's Bad Seeds ("Outside Love"). Gallon Drunk has never been known for quick tempos, but now the songs unfold like silk sheets and flow like fine cognac. The 7:16 long "In This Moment" is a good example of their new sound -- low-range, nearly whispered vocals, pianos and horns not unlike Tindersticks, but with the funk-soul edge of later Afghan Whigs. "Everything's Alright" brings together the best of Big Chief's Funkadelic/Blaxploitation-inspired Mack Avenue Skullgame with the psychedelic guitars of The Screaming Trees. "Forget All That You Know" is the album's centerpiece. The instrumental intro swings with jazzy drums, bass and Ellingtonian piano. Gradually a guitar enters the picture, along with the most eerie, atmospheric use of a harmonica since The Dirty Three. Four minutes into the song, James Johnston sings the first verses, the best evocation of the grey area between dreamstate and nightmare since Steve Wynn and The Dream Syndicate in "When You Smile." "And as you fall into a dream," he sings, "Your pulse it races in it's stream/And in your wild imagining/Your heart and mind are both swept clean." "Fire Music (Part One)" is a melancholic, noirish downbeat instrumental, while "Part Two" is another soul-funk workout with waka-waka guitars and a heavy horn section. Last but not least is the stunning cover of Bob Dylan's "Series Of Dreams." Possibly their best album, Fire Music is perfect for those who think the new balladeering Nick Cave is under using The Bad Seeds. And for those who miss the early garage sound, there's still The Flaming Stars.
The Flaming Stars has been one of the best kept musical secrets of the past seven years. Until now, their four albums, singles compilation and Peel Sessions have been unavailable in the U.S. Thanks to Alternative Tentacles, Ginmill Perfume collects highlights from throughout their career in a fifteen song compilation. Early singles "Like Trash" and "Ten Feet Tall" put imaginative spins on trash garage rock, with stomping saloon pianos in the former, and whizzing organs and Lou Reed-ish vocals in the latter. "Who's Out There?" takes surf rock and boils it down to it's thick, black, creepy essence. Many of the songs employ sixties melodies to an echoey, Spectorish production that recalls The Jesus & Mary Chain. No matter how chaotic a noise the band blasts out, former Gallon Drunkard Max Décharné is the ultra-cool, deadpan eye of the storm, crooning like a mix of Elvis, Lou Reed and Lawrence of Felt. 
Ironically their most recent work has progressed in a parallel path to Décharné's former band. While The flaming Stars have retained some of the rough, garagey quality on many songs (like the Man Or Astroman meets the Munsters surf-basher "Grabber George"), others are more impressionist, cinematic efforts, with Décharné, like Gallon Drunk's Johnston, cooling down his vocals to a rough whisper on songs like the delicately Latin-flavored "Absent Without Leave" and the Velvety "She Says She Says." "Over & Gone" is a slow-builder that climaxes in a fantastic din of drums and guitars, ending far too soon. The droney, noisy tunes that don't delve as deeply into the usual menacing minor chords often recall Yo La Tengo, such as "Sleepless Nights" and "More Than Enough." Yet instead of pacing the rockers with ballads, The Flaming Stars offers funereal dirges like "The Dead Don't Care." With eighteen songs, A Walk On The Wired Side is an embarrassment of riches. The closest thing to filler are a handful of instrumentals which are short and add to the overall feel. Two of the strongest cuts, "You Don't Always Want What You Get" and "Some Things You Don't Forget" are included on the domestic compilation. But once you hear some, you'll be so hooked, and finding yourself hunting down all the imports on the Internet. This kind of attitude can't be manufactured. The Flaming Stars are the real deal.
Over the past decade, the Blues Explosion has proven itself repeatedly as indie rock's most dependable boogie rock band, mixing funk, soul, psychobilly and garage punk like a 90s ZZ Top (circa early 70s). Their shows are guaranteed to please, inspiring more ass-shaking in the nerd-chic thrift store crowd than anyone would ever guess. Think of them as sort of the hip cheek of butt rock. While JSBX are never afraid to jump between the sheets with newer experiments in hip-hop (Dan the Automator), dub and even digital hardcore (Alec Empire) mixes on Experimental Remixes EP and Extra Acme, they are less about innovation and big statements and more about groove and energy. And of course they do it with far more smarts and attitude than anyone. Few fans will place Plastic Fangs at the top of their Blues Explosion collection. It's not as exuberantly sexy and funky as Orange ('94) or Acme ('98), nor does it rock as hard as Extra Width ('93) or Now I Got Worry ('96). It is, however, their best sounding album. Produced by Keith Richards producer Steve Jordan, it's low ends are lower (despite the lack of bass guitar) and Russell Simins' meaty drumming is thicker than ever. Yet the newfound recording clarity manages to retain some surface grit. The Richards-inspired riffing is sufficiently dirty, and Spencer's hoarse shouting is far from glossy, though he does actually muster up snippets of melodic singing on stand-outs like "She Said." The album starts off with scratching guitar and pounding drums that sound like a sample from an early Shellac single. But soon it goes into standard JSBX fare. "Money Rock 'n' Roll" is a fine stripped-down Meters-inspired funk workout. "Mother Nature" has a slower Stones groove. "Mean Heart" starts out with a rare acoustic guitar and a Kiss-like riff. Aside from the gumbo ya-ya stew of "Hold On," mixing the guitar of Dr. John the Night Tripper (whose "Right Place, Wrong Time" they covered previously) and Bernie Worrell's keyboards, there are few surprises here. Nothing but instantly involving songs that give further reminders why the Blues Explosion continue to be one of the best live bands on the planet. That reason alone is good enough to recommend Plastic Fang as a souvenir for those fire-and brimstone performances.
The National Trust is masterminded by Neil Rosario (ex-Dolomite). Originally intended to be a casual project, the band released a 7" single and disappeared into a recording studio with Brian Deck (Red Red Meat, Califone, Modest Mouse) for over a year. The result is Dekkagar, a mammoth of an album, surpassing label mate Bobby Conn's ambitiously epic excursions into seventies excess. This may conjure nightmarish visions of an unholy union of Electric Light Orchestra, Fleetwood Mac and Supertramp. Fear not. Too much work was put into this album for it to be driven by mere irony. What could have been an overly cluttered everything-but-the-kitsch'n sink production is more of a tribute to the spare elegance of Curtis Mayfield and the studio mastery of Steely Dan. Take the first track, "Making love (In The Natural Light)." The 11 plus minute opus contains over 70 tracks, and was so unwieldy it had to be split into two parts. Many of the vocal tracks were improvised. But you wouldn't know it from listening to it, as it's smooth, soulful track that goes down like a fine Port and is gone before you realize it. "Neverstop" is sunny, up-tempo blue-eyed soul. "See No Evil" features a muted electronic piano, jazzy guitar reminiscent of Shuggy Otis, and Mayfield-inspired falsetto vocals. "Lachrymosa" is a real stunner, with multilayered "Pusherman"-style percussion, an army of guitars, keyboards and horns building to a briefly cacophonous peak that would fit in snugly on Funkadelic's 1972 America Eats Its Young. "So Anna" is a lush ballad that actually does recall ELO circa A New World Record (1976), but is closer to recent Super Furry Animals. The overall effect is less nostalgia than reviving seemingly long-forgotten recording techniques that haven't been heard since the symphonic soul of Florida's Little Beaver and Miami, and the silky, spaced-out cosmic country of David Crosby's If Only I Could Remember My Name ('71) and Ozark Mountain Daredevils. The National Trust have dug up the discarded baton of opulent, soulful music and they're off and running. I'm guessing there will soon be plenty more to pass on the baton and carry on this rehabilitated face of Americana.
Eileen Rose is a Boston-born singer who has served time in bands like Daisy Chain and Fledgling while spending the past decade in London. Her country-inflected debut, Shine like It Does (2000) attracted a fair amount of attention. It would have made good sense for her to capitalize on the U.K.'s fascination with New Americana. However, the best artists rarely follow conventional good sense. Instead, her follow-up, Long Shot Novena, is an eclectic album that jumps all over the place stylistically, from the Velvets-drone title track to the Dylan-like "Two In One" and "Tom Waits Crooning," where she wisely sounds like no one but herself. Rose joins the hyper-talented pool of women like Eleni Mandell, Shannon Wright and Thalia Zedek who are creating intense, powerful music while bubbling under mainstream recognition. Rose's voice can range from sweet and breathy to a throaty roar nearly as rough as Zedek's. She sounds confident as a seasoned veteran, like Marianne Faithful. On "For Marlee," she goes straight for the gut, a shattering account of a Boston friend who was murdered, and the mother's anguish as the killer is still at large. "Long Shot Novena," "See How I Need You," "Good Man" and "White Dove's Awake" pack just as much punch. "Tom Waits Crooning" is probably the best song about another singer since Waits' former paramour Ricki Lee Jones wrote "Chuck E's In Love." The only thing holding Rose back from joining the ranks of rock goddesses like PJ Harvey are the earthbound folky exercises of "Snake," "Wheels Going By" and "Big Dog." Not that the songs are bad by any means. They measure up to anything by Gillian Welch. But her strength lie in the songs that show she is developing into a unique, important new voice in American music.
At a time when guitars seem to have fallen out of fashion, it's a nice change of pace to hear someone like The Party Of Helicopters, even if they could easily blend in with the indie rock pack of 988. Not a bad time to be in, though. The Pixies were brand new, Dinosaur Jr. were still a hot live band and even Soul Asylum rocked. Meandering vocal melodies with non-stop guitar riffs, with hints of prog and metal thrown in. The relentless guitars recall MX-80 Sound at their most hyper kinetic. Melodies foreshadow the type of stuff that Swervedriver would do. Oh wait, I forget it's 2002, not 1988. Did I mention the guitars? Damn there's a lot of guitars. The first CD is only 22 minutes. Fortunately there's another CD (only 17 minutes -- couldn't they conserve some aluminum and combine them?), originally a limited edition The First Two Years Of Conquering The Tundra. The twelve minute "The Conquering" does the best job or approximating (1988 era, of course) Sonic Youth than And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead. Just imagine how popular they would be if they reigned their sound into three minute chunks with concise hooks and choruses. Oh wait, someone already did that, never mind. Just keep those guitars coming.
Mates Of State are Jason Klammel and Kori Gardner, veterans of various bands in Lawrence, Kansas. In 1997 they decided that guitars and other band members are superfluous, forming the drums 'n' organ duo. Their shows and debut, My Solo Project (2000) got enough critical acclaim that they felt bold enough to get married, quit their teaching and cancer research jobs and moved to San Francisco. They aren't the first indie-rock duo. The Spinanes did it in the early 90s, as did Quasi and The White Stripes among others. While Quasi might be the closest comparison stylistically, the Mates' harmonies and melodies are far more developed and compelling. Their vocals toe the threshold of dissonance, often shouting in unison like a proto-emo version of Sunny Day Real Estate or Rainer Maria, stripped down to Young Marble Giants size. All of which leads weight to the songs, making them more forceful than twee, and nearly always uplifting. Our Constant Concern is a sturdy set of tunes that promise entertainment as solid as their marriage.
On their 1999 debut How To Operate With A Blown Mind, Lo Fidelity Allstars capitalized on the big beat style pioneered by The Chemicals just before Fatboy Slim beat it to death. Three years later, they've wisely gone beyond the Brit disco formula by embracing soul, funk and R&B, evoking a pure 70s sound with the pop tracks "Feel What I Feel" and the downbeat title track with R&B horns slowed down to Massive Attack tempo, repeating the mantra, "Sign of the times." "Deep Ellum…Hold On" features vocals from Super-Collider's James Lidell, and samples The Ohio Players' "Rattlesnake." The exercises in disco-funk excess on this and "Cattleprod," "Lo Fi's In Ibiza" and "Tied To The Mast" are a bit heavy-handed and obvious. The album's strength lies in the slower grooves, like "Somebody Needs You," featuring love man vocals by Greg Dulli (Afghan Whigs/Twilight Singers) who seems to be making a bid to be the white Barry White. "On The Pier" is a slick slow-burner with Bootsy Collins fronting what sounds like an all-star collaboration between 80s techno-popsters The The and Shriekback, with backing vocals by The Brides of Funkestein and a sample of Joe Tex's "Oh Me Oh My." "Just Enough" slows things down even further to somnambulistic lullaby proportions. "Dark Is Easy" starts just as mellow, sampling Barry White's Love Unlimited Orchestra, building with some bongo drums, hip-hop vocals, shouts, and then enters a hypnotically elliptical loop of a chorus of "yeahs", peaking in a din of whizzing synths and more shouts, finally coming down in a soft afterglow. Program them with Isaac Hayes' "Hyperbolicsyllabicsequedalymistic," Parliament's "The Goose," Outkast's "SpottieOttieDopaliscious" & "Liberation," and you've got yourself a failsafe mash mix.
Playgroup is Trevor Jackson, the British hip-hop veteran previously known as Underdog. Taking his new name from Adrian Sherwood's early 80's instrumental experiment in avant-dub, jazz and beats, Playgroup sounds like a tribute to the creatively heady days when post-punk, dub and disco converged. Featuring an odd assortment of guest musicians, including Scottish indie-pop figureheads Roddy Frame (Aztec Camera)and Edwyn Collins (Orange Juice) who plays guitar on much of the album, and gets a showcase on "Medicine Man." "Pressure" starts promisingly, with Joi sounding like Martina Topley Bird (Tricky). It's standard dance fare falls short of its promise, however. "Front 2 Back" features hip-hop vocals by KC Flightt with some inspired Caribbean-flavored percussion. Things really take off with "Bring It On," with vocals performed by Le Tigre's Kathleen Hanna to a deeply funky bass riff, and a sample of The Slits' "UK Boatlaw!" "Too Much" is based on the Scritti Politti track "Sex," while "Make It Happen" has Kyra DeConnick (Thee Headcoates) talk-singing to a multi-layered avant-dub track that recalls Au Pairs and Bush Tetras. "Surface To Air" finds Playgroup on a roll, sampling the moody, Caravan-like horn section of Shoes' "Sheep Dog Inna Babylon" with a host of sound effects like a dream meeting of Brian Eno vs. Lee Perry. "Overflow" features Jackson himself on vocals, sounding not unlike Greg Dullie fronting his own sleazy post-industrial Love Unlimited Orchestra. The next couple tracks bring the album back to the realm of mortals, with more standard house-inspired disco. The album ends with a surprising cameo by 80s dancehall star Shinehead, in an amusing cover of Paul Simon's "50 Ways To Leave Your Lover." The creative arrangement is assisted by legendary punk-reggae producer Dennis Bovell, adding a lighthearted touch to a highly entertaining, playful jam session between a bunch of artists partying like it's 1981-3.
Just when you think that great singer-songwriters were long lost relics of the 70s, suddenly there's more twenty-something year-old balladeers than you can shake a stick at. Chris Lee is one of the more recent welcome additions, coming from a background of jazzy improv ensembles. When he moved from North Carolina to Brooklyn, he formed a new trio and recorded a debut album in 1999 with Sonic Youth's Steve Shelley as the unlikely producer, given the rather plaintive pop ballads he specializes in. Shelley also co-produced the follow-up, which has an even lighter touch than it s predecessor. His mercury-smooth tenor threatens to dissolve into gauzy mist on some of the slighter songs. But on stand-outs like "Lonesome Eyes," "Slow As The Sun" and the stellar cover of Neil Young's "On The Beach," Lee's immense talent is obvious. "Mount Venus" demonstrates his vocal abilities, stretching and crooning without getting showy like Jeff Buckley used to with his Robert Plant shrieks. The seventies soul production suits him well, especially in "On The Beach," where I swear to god he sounds like Sam Cooke when he reaches a falsetto in three refrains ("All my problems are meaningless/That don't make them go away…And I'm sitting here on the beach"). Wow. The album is worth the price for those fifteen seconds alone. The lovely album ends at only eight songs and 38 minutes, leaving one wanting more -- more songs, and variety that the long title suggests but doesn't deliver. But it's certainly a good omen for future greatness.
The Sound might be the most unfairly ignored post-punk band, both in their time and currently. Whereas CDs have long been available for the past 15 years of contemporaries like Magazine, Joy Division, The Cure, Echo & The Bunnymen, Comsat Angels, Psychedelic Furs and Teardrop Explodes, this is the first time the early Sound albums have been made available. Doubly strange are the impressive punk credentials of bandleader Adrian Borland, who died in 1999. His earlier band The Outsiders was the first punk band to release a record (Calling On Youth) on their own label in May 1977. By 1979, the band had evolved into The Sound, the most powerful live band at the time, with a voice that recalled the Bunnymen's Ian McCullough, a heavy melodic bass style like Joy Division's Peter Hook, and a fiery guitar style unmatched by anyone. A demo recorded at the time has just been released as Propaganda. The band's official debut, Jeopardy, came out originally on Korova, recorded for only £800. The album starts with "I Can't Escape Myself," sounding very bare-bones, until the crushing chorus and guitars makes the needles jump to red. It barely hints at what you're in for. "Heartland" is a complex pop masterpiece, a kaleidoscopic carnival ride which increases the nighttime urban imagery of Iggy Pop's "The Passenger" to warp speed -- "Setting out/City in your sights/You want an overview of the underground." "Hour of Need" is reminiscent of Joy Division's "Passover," with synthesizers adding extra coloring. "Missiles is a classic example of the peak of Thatcher/Reagan cold war tension and paranoia. They don't' just sing about the damage missiles can cause, the apocalyptic guitars vividly demonstrate it in a way that U2 could never match. "Heyday" is another high-energy, spiky dust devil of brilliance, and was their first single that should have made them stars. "Desire" closes the album like it began, stark and stripped down. A nearly perfect album.
From The Lions Mouth is even better. While it doesn't have the hard-hitting singles of Jeopardy, it has a shimmering, cohesive fusion of lyrics and sound. The album reaches a dark apex with "Possession" ("There's a devil in me/Trying to show his face") and the red hot "The Fire" ("Drawn towards the heat/Too fierce to contain"), and "New Dark Age," with thudding kettle drums of doom. The press went wild for it, but sales were dismal. Possibly because the album was too unique. It didn't fit neatly into any of the synth pop/new wave/new romantic stuff that was popular in '81. Nor did it have the bombast that would make Echo & the Bunnymen, U2 and Simple Minds so popular just a couple years later. Korova dumped The Sound onto its parent company, WEA as a write-off, who pressured them to go more commercial. The group's contrarian, self-defeating response was 1982's All Fall Down, which pleased neither the label nor the fans. Aside from stand-outs "Monument," "Party Of My Mind" and "Where The Love Is," the songs were fiercely uncommercial, grim and less compelling than earlier work. Surprisingly, the band carried on, and even managed to bounce back with 1985's excellent Heads And Hearts and a blistering live set, In The Hothouse. Unfortunately, the band never received the recognition they deserved. After one more album the band broke up in 1988. Disappointed at the lack of success, Borland eventually got started on a solo album, when he was struck by a train in April 1999. It's about time these lost treasures are finally appreciated. 
Inspired by the Velvet Underground (who wasn't?), Pere Ubu, Television and the monochromatic punk of The Subway Sect, Josef K formed in 1978 as T.V. Art. Changing their name to Josef K in reference to Franz Kafka, they were perhaps the most uncompromising of all the post-punk groups. Considering themselves primarily a live band (their anti-showbiz sensibilities consisted of holding back from between song chatter and encores), they were self-critical to a fault. What should have been the debut, Sorry For Laughing was scrapped at the last minute. They claimed that the mix was too bass-heavy and clean, failing to represent their live sound. Or perhaps they were afraid of the Joy Division comparisons. The official debut, The Only Fun In Town, had half the songs re-recorded and added a few more for a mere ten song, 30 minute set. With the vocals buried in the mix, the album hardly lived up to their legendary shows. The production is more twee rather than incendiary, unwittingly inspiring the C60 shambolic pop herd of bands who proudly flaunted their supremely shitty production work. However, the rhythms on the newer songs were more sophisticated, with more complex song structures that would have greatly benefited from real production. The one exception was the re-recorded single version of "Sorry For Laughing." It hinted at the potential the band had, that could have surpassed their contemporaries The Associates, and their Postcard labelmates Orange Juice and Aztec Camera. Unfortunately, the promise was never fulfilled, and they broke up, leaving behind two underdone albums and a distinctly funky Peel Session.
Gomez is a British band in love with American music. It's strange that this would be unusual, given that about every band in the U.K. except the Kinks paid homage to blues and soul in the sixties. Lately, Anglo centrism has come full circle -- the blues sounds once again refreshing. At least on Gomez's In Our Gun it does. The young band was prematurely awarded the Mercury Prize for best U.K. album in 1998 for their debut Bring It On, which was frankly a bit anemic in the songwriting department. Undoubtedly there was something special about the band, with its three distinctly talented vocalists in Ben Otwell, Ian Bull and Tom Gray. Their second effort, Liquid Skin, was unsuccessful, but it showed that Gomez had ambitions to be more than the British North Mississippi All-Stars. The self-produced In Our Gun shows off a sparkling new Gomez, complete with electronic bleeps, gorgeous vocal harmonies, and songs. Real, well-written, memorable songs. "Shot Shot" kicks off the album with bottom-heavy horn charts reminiscent of Morphine and a succinct vocal hook that ends all too quickly. "Detroit Swing 66" does in fact swing, with a vocal style and cadence much like The Beta Band's "Eclipse." "In Our Gun" features the most heavenly harmonizing since The Everly Brothers, or at least The Jayhawks, eventually peaking with a massive riff reminiscent of Radiohead's "Paranoid Android" given the 12" club mix. "Even Song" evokes Pearl Jam, but we'll let it slide for the nice touch of a cool-jazz horn break. So far in four songs Gomez has surpassed the entire output from their first four years. And it gets better. "Ruff Stuff" puts Beck-ish clever wordplay to a mariachi rhythm, and "Army Dub" is an inspired mix of piano-driven dub and layered vocals. Gomez has avoided the rut that traps many pseudo-traditionalists by incorporating more disparate elements into a cohesive whole, tied together by tastefully experimental production.
This album will shock many Buzzcocks and Magazine fans. Those who know their punk history may remember that the lovelorn Pete Shelley and intellectual curmudgeon Howard Devoto were two personalities so diametrically opposed that their partnership disintegrated before The Buzzcocks even recorded their first album. Devoto went on to form the brilliantly dark post-punk band Magazine, while Shelley's Buzzcocks became the Beatles of punk. Now they are together again, but this time Devoto is calling the shots. Perhaps because Shelley is still writing, recording and performing with the Buzzcocks, Devoto handled all the lyrical and vocal duties, except for the thrashy punk of "Til the Stars In His Eyes Are Dead," where they combatively trade verses. Given how worlds apart the music is from the Buzzcocks, it would be hard to believe Shelley contributed anything at all if it weren't for his drum-machine based synth pop album, Homosapien (1981). Nevertheless, the music is fresh and consistently challenging. Devoto's vocals are more expressive than ever, ranging from suave to strangled. The music combines primitive electro beats with Can, Brian Eno, Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark, Japan, The The and more sophisticated contemporary electronica. The moody instrumental tracks recall Wire in their late eighties phase, except Buzzkunst is much more challenging and vital. "Can You See Me Shining?" is a new-wavey pop song that recalls Magazine at their perkiest. "Self-Destruction" employs a disco beat with blasts of post-industrial noise. The album ends with the über-funky "Going Off." It's a statement of purpose that boldly declares these two middle-aged men have creative juices to spare indefinitely: "We are the future, we're going off/there is a name for the meaning and threat/we're just about as far from death as you get". Were this the debut of a young new band, they'd be labeled geniuses. It's best to give credit where it's due to these ageing boy geniuses, because they're sticking around.
Fans of Royal Trux who freaked out when one of the best rock bands of the past decade broke up, fear not. On his solo debut last year, Neil Michael Hagerty showed that he was indeed the heart, brains and soul of the duo. I'd like to say I'll miss Jennifer Herrema's cat-scratch on chalkboard vocals, but . . . did I mention how great that solo album was? Recorded by himself, he experimented with electronic sounds while still managing to sound gritty and earthy. He also, however, sounded a bit lonely. So this time around he brought his touring band into the studio -- Tim Barnes, Seven and Dan Brown -- and popped off an inspired nine song EP that eschews the 'lectronics for "Good Ol' Rock 'n' Roll." Yet there is nothing old or ordinary about it. The band manages to use the blues motifs that Royal Trux had become known for, while sounding utterly original. Hagerty is on a roll, his guitar playing is on fire. Plays showcases his shit hot guitar playing. The riffs cascade like a never-ending stream of lava, fusing VU's "I Heard Her Call My Name," Captain Beefheart, MX-80 Sound, the no wave of DNA, jazz fusion, country, R&B and even some violins. Guitar playing isn't Hagerty's only genius. An accomplished writer (he's working on a second novel), his lyrics are often scattered, but always provocative, covering conspiracy theories, Internet porn and emergency prayers. Don't expect reverent traditionalism, but do plan to be rocked.
David Kilgour is an icon of the New Zealand indie-pop scene, having founded The Clean in 1979 and kicking off the Flying Nun label's first release. Influenced by Dylan, the Velvets and West Coast psychedelia, Kilgour has created an impressive body of work over the past 23 years. Feather In The Engine is his fourth solo album, which offers Kilgour's recognizable reverberated open-string guitar playing. The album vacillates between hypnotic instrumentals that sound improvised, and melodic pop songs. The chugging "All The Rest" could fit comfortably on an old Yo La Tengo or Clean album. "The Perfect Watch" features more folky, chiming acoustic guitar with vocals that seem constantly on the verge of floating off into the clouds. Other highlights include the piano-led "I Lost My Train" and the joyously catchy "Today Is Gonna Be Mine." "I Caught You" is a black-lit psychedelic dirge fueled by a deep throbbing bass riff. "Instra 2 Reprise" lightens up with an airy chamber arrangement courtesy of Graeme Downes of The Verlaines. The meandering, spaced- out mood of that and "Wooden Shed" echoes Big Star's Sister Lovers. "Which One" reads like a Zen koan, and seems to be a tribute to Nick Drake, combining his songs "Which Will" and "Fly," complete with masterful acoustic finger picking. A short album at 38 minutes, Feather In The Engine can seem a bit slight. If the more rocking songs whet your appetite, it can be more than satisfied by Kilgour's extensive back catalog. At a time when big statements seem to be requisite, Feather is a fresh breeze.
Are You Down? is the debut by the Panthers on Troubleman Unlimited, a label that's made a name for itself in no wave style post-punk. The Panthers are a different sort of animal. Made up of members of Pitchblende, Doldrums, Unrest, Orchid and Red Scare, Panthers is a side project turned serious -- fuck the pigs, kick out the jams kind of serious. The sleeve notes are riddled with slogans cribbed from The Black Panthers, The White Panthers, and various art movements like the Situationists, Praxis and Dada ("The Revolution will be plagiarized! …We aren't a band, we are vandalists/outlaws/undesireables"). Playful titles like "Panthers! Pow! Pow!" and "A Panther Is A Motherfucker" add a sense of humor to their politics, unlike, say, The (International) Noise Conspiracy. Most of the songs are about how badass and unruly they think they are, although there are some scraps of thought-provoking lines about sexual politics and the re-appropriation of art. "Lies Are the New Truth" extols the virtue of collage and plagiarism, liberating their sources from history and giving them new meaning -- "You didn't drink together when you were alive/Now you're dead and I say you're lovers." More than anything, the Panthers are a good, loud, fast garage rock band. More than the MC5 and The Stooges, I hear Rites Of Spring, Fugazi, Lungfish, Rocket From the Crypt and At the Drive-In. It's difficult to differentiate the songs. The multiple guitars blur into white noise as the shouted vocals rarely vary, until they're like a neighbor's dog, yapping incessantly. They would do well to learn from The Stooges and Fugazi about varying dynamics and pacing. Nevertheless, just about every song manages to spastically jump to attention with agile guitar riffery without being wanky. For the moment, the sound of the Panthers is indeed the fucking noise.
Chan Poling was the singer for the legendary Minneapolis punk/new wave band The Suburbs. Simultaneously snotty like Johnny Rotten and debonair like Bryan Ferry, Poling was the original post-punk love man, the rapacious, raspy-throated blueprint for later alt-rock stars like The Afghan Whigs/Twilight Singers' Greg Dulli. Despite a rabid following, bands like The Replacements, Hüsker Dü and Soul Asylum got all the glory, leaving Poling to pick up from the disintegrated Suburbs and embark on an impressive career composing music for television and film. After winning an Emmy and composing Heaven, a musical with Kevin McCollum (Rent), Poling has revisited the pop world with a batch of dark, swoony songs, Calling All Stars. Not exactly returning to his new wave roots, the music has as much in common with cabaret as the euro-suave of Peter Murphy's post-Bauhaus solo work. These are sophisticated pop songs that should capture a wide-ranging appeal, from the theater-going crowd to precocious kids and their former indie-rocker parents who need some fresh mash tunes when the kids are away.
This ain't no eighties nostalgia revival nonsense. Sure, they released the Crystal Days 1979-1999 boxed set last summer. But Echo & The Bunnymen are a fully functioning band, having also released their third new studio album in four years with 2001's Flowers (for a total of nine). And as their live shows indicate, they sound better than ever. Documented for posterity is their performance at the Liverpool Institute for Performing Arts. Though Trinidadian drummer Pete de Freitas is still missed, Ian McCulloch's voice has barely changed in twenty years, and Will Sergeant's slashing, snaking leads are as sharp as ever. Most of the classics are there, from the swaggering 1980 post-punk single "Rescue" (given an extra Doors-like keyboard-driven arrangement), the menacing "All That Jazz," 1983's "Back Of Love" and an absolutely stunning rendition of the middle-eastern sounding "The Cutter," and of course the killer suite from side two of 1984's Ocean Rain. Remarkably, newer songs like "King Of Kings," "Buried Alive," "An Eternity Turns" and the epic "Nothing Lasts Forever" blend right in. Those who thought, along with The Teardrop Explodes, Wah!, The Sound and Comsat Angels should have been the real Britpop explosion, these Liverpudlians have tried on the old crown for size and it still fits. U2 may have won the popularity contest, but the Bunnies have my respect.
Circulatory System is Olivia Tremor Control's Will Cullen Hart. It's not a solo album however, with its 21 musicians, most of who have played with OTC. Without fellow songwriter foil Bill Doss, Hart has free reign to communicate his unique inner visions. Circulatory System is denser and darker than OTC, with minor chords and piles of instruments and incidental noises. The result is a hallucinatory listening experience -- nothing comes across as straightforward. Behind every melody and chorus are shadows and aural poltergeists. This is truly psychedelic music, yet unlike most of what passed for psychedelia in the sixties, aside from perhaps Jefferson Airplane's nightmarish Crown Of Creation (1968). Few psych bands had the studio know-how to weave so many elements together with such subtle mastery. It's as difficult to pick out individual songs as it is to remember page numbers of passages in your favorite novel. However, "Inside Blasts" stands out as a particularly striking example of Hart's craft. And on the album closer, Hart is joined by Neutral Milk Hotel front man Jeff Magnum, singing "we will live forever and you know it's true." They're talking about their shelf life in your CD collection.
Austria's multitalented Christian Fennesz has been involved in performance, dance theater and film music. His last album, Plus Forty Seven Degrees 56'37" (1999) was a noisy affair, while the Fennesz Plays single was made up of unrecognizable treatments of sixties pop songs. His third full-length, Endless Summer continues those ideas to a more complete conclusion. The cover depicts gauzy oceanfront scenes of gorgeous sunrises/sunsets, displayed on flat digital screens. The displays interfere with the imagery with scan lines. It foreshadows what will be contained within -- feelings of nostalgia, melancholy and euphoria communicated via technology, it's colors and clarity tweaked, enhanced and altered with digital dissonance. Fennesz balances the organic with the artificial perfectly. Feeding guitar leads into a laptop, altering organ pipes and evolving ambient sounds with decayed data, skips and static, this is magic of the subtlest variety. The results are simultaneously alien and familiar, with few reference points to current music aside from "A Year In A Minute," which sounds like My Bloody Valentine via Boards Of Canada, and "Before I Leave" which employs the Oval-pioneered pops and clicks. The many permutations the varied sonic debris offers reward repeated listening, while also managing to communicate undeniably human emotions and experience. For those who've wondered if electronica still matters, add Fennesz to your to-buy list along with Four Tet, Leila, Múm, Amon Tobin and Boards Of Canada.
As excited as I was by pioneering electronica artists in the early to mid-90s like Autechre, Oval and Mouse On Mars, the bulk of the stuff left me cold. When Radiohead were criticized for pillaging the Warp catalog, I countered that they helped pull the genre out of a rut. Too many albums were bloodless exercises in style and technique. Radiohead's hybrids helped breathe life into the techniques. After all, the best music sounds alive. When we listen to music, most of us want to be reminded that we are indeed alive, not trapped in a machine, ghosts or not. Recent albums by Leila, Múm, Fennesz and Boards Of Canada are indeed kicking like unborn fetuses soon to take their first breath in the outside world. Not to say that the Scottish duo have given birth with their second album, Geogaddi, but they're certainly on their way to creating new lifeforms, both alien and familiar. It's that sort of tension that drives them -- the contrast between warm, comforting sounds of the womb and childhood nostalgia, and the jarring dissonance of harsh reality and unknown horrors. "The Devil Is In The Details" integrates a rhythmic liquid sound, like pumping blood, with childlike cries, and the voiceover of what could be an exorcist or a witch meeting a watery grave. Much of the sound is diffusive and gauzy, disorientating and oceanic, like an updated My Bloody Valentine. It's no surprise that Boards Of Canada's previous effort, 1998's Music Has the Right to Children appealed to people not normally into electronica. Geogaddi is cut from the same cloth as its predecessor, but it's aged, acquiring some layers of paranoia and dread. A lot has happened since 1998, and the music reflects it. The songs are weightier, more densely packed, ensuring they will never be confused with, say, Air. On "Gyroscope," the distorted voice of a counting child is violently assaulted by machine gun percussion to chilling effect, while "1969" is a more melodic, bucolic venture that recalls The Orb. Geogaddi is another genre-defining installment that expertly negotiates the terrain between comforting and unsettling. It kind of sounds a lot like life.
And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead is a cumbersome but apt name for this brash, expansive band from Texas whose live shows leave behind smoking remnants of broken instruments and slayed audiences. Remember when bands used noise not simply to express anger, but to exult in the glorious vibrating air? It's okay if you don't, it's been a while. Think late 80s Sonic Youth (especially live) and Drive Like Jehu. Encouraged perhaps by the relative success of the (albeit now defunct) At The Drive-In, Trail Of Dead finds itself in the unlikely position of being pushed aggressively by a major label, after two solid indie releases on Trance Syndicate and merge. I don't know if they'll be having radio hits anytime soon, but it's a mother nonetheless. "Baudelaire" evokes the delirious reverie of the poet that has inspired rock icons like The Doors, Patti Smith and Television. The primary difference between Source Codes And Tags and previous releases is that the complete reckless abandon is reeled in slightly to reveal just a hint of control, like on the stunning, symphonic "Another Morning Stoner." "Relative Ways" consolidates Trail Of Dead's strengths into a tuneful package. Generally the band cannot be contained by anything short of sprawling epics, welcoming the apocalypse with ten times the power of fellow Texan doomsday rockers Lift To Experience. They're the noise rock answer to the cinematic melancholy of The Dirty Three, with "How Near How Far" adding vocal harmonies to the strings to dramatic effect. "Heart in the Hand of the Matter" pulls another surprise by adding piano to the chaos. From explosive fury to corrosive beauty and grand finales, Trail Of Dead offers the most fulfilling rock 'n' roll experience this year.
When Clinic's 2000 debut Internal Wrangler was released to critical acclaim in the UK, their perceived freshness had more to do with cultural amnesia than originality. Sure, compared to recent grandiose orchestral gestures and yodeling vocal gymnastics, the Liverpool band's garage-drone sound is definitely a fresh breeze, even if Th' Faith Healers already mastered the same spare, repetitive style a decade ago with 1992's Lido. The motorik Can-inspired rhythms set to thrashy sixties melodies and New Wave hooks is a great formula however, one that Clinic pulls off even better than Tom Cullinon's post-Faith Healers band, Quickspace. Even better, Clinic adds a twist of eerie Augustus Pablo dub melodica and the gritty post-punk electronics of Suicide and 154-era Wire. Walking With Thee, Clinic's sophomore album, is less raucous than the debut. The tempos are slowed down to a noir-ish menace that is more Wall Of Voodoo than The Fall. Gone also are the organ-heavy odes to "Sister Ray." Ade Blackburn's high register vocals are one of the band's unique strengths. A mix of Pixies-era Black Francis and Tahiti 80's Xavier Boyer, Blackburn sings with the world-weary cadence of Joy Division's Ian Curtis. "Harmony" uses a sample of Laurie Anderson's hypnotic "O Superman" for a similarly haunting effect. "The Equaliser" takes The Who's click-clacked "Magic Bus" percussion and dubs it inside out. The closer "For The Wars" shimmers in serene contrast. Yet somehow the album fails to surpass its predecessor. The forty minutes sneak by without any truly gripping, gut-wrenching moments, though "Pet Eunuch" manages to spurt some Surfer Rosa Pixy spunk. "Come Into Our Room" and "Sunlight Bathes Our Home" rely too much on recycled phrases and melodies from earlier songs. Clinic's sum has yet to outweigh its parts, but they're damn fine parts just the same. I'd put my money on Clinic to transcend its current songwriting kinks and become one of the future biggies.
Lambchop illustrate the point that originality does not guarantee likeability. Originally mis-labeled an alt-country band, the Nashville-based band led by Kurt Wagner gradually engorged throughout the nineties into a sort of orchestra of fourteen musicians. Their repertoire expanded to soul, covering Curtis Mayfield's "Give Me Your Love," and incorporated those influences with confoundingly quirky Nixon ('00), which earned frothing accolades. I recognized Lambchop's craft and unclassifiable style with a pretty high rating, yet to be honest, the album rarely made it back to my CD player. On Is A Woman, Lambchop's seventh album, they continue to be an acquired taste, abandoning the previous album's orchestrated ambition for a more internalized, muted yet upbeat approach. Liberated of his day job by the band's success, Wagner hung out at home, writing fairly life-affirming songs set to meandering piano arrangements and tentative guitar strums. The music bears resemblance only to the more subdued, filmic moments of contemporaries Tindersticks. It may be brilliant, but hardly captivating. However, those patient enough to nestle into the eleven cocktail-hour torch songs will be rewarded with clever surprises like the meticulously quiet sound effects, both analog and digital. You would never know it, but at least nine musicians participate on each song. The only time you even notice a band playing is halfway through "D. Scott Parsley," when drums, vibraphones and other instruments are actually audible. Those hungry for more musical moments are served a few enticing scraps in "The New Cobweb Summer" and "Caterpillar." Gone are the country and soul influences. Is A Woman is focused much more on the voice and lyrics. Wagner's vocals awkwardly refer back to the pre-rock crooners, though he's obviously less focused on entertaining than making an artistic statement, which won't be appreciated by the dinner-parties its destined for. Those who like their music bold, brash and eager to please should stay far away. The remaining diehards just might appreciate Is A Woman for its haiku-like simplicity.
Juicing up the energy on dancefloors since 1994 with a mix of hip-hop and bombastic rock 'n' roll, The Chemical Brothers can be blamed for introducing Big Beat to the unsuspecting masses. But while the Fatboy Slims are responsible for beating the beat to death, The Chemical Brothers have managed to evolve just enough to remain relevant, if not completely fresh. While their last couple albums played with pop forms and psychedelic rock (see the swirly "Setting Son," "Out Of Control" and "Let Forever Be"), Come With Us partly revisits their origins in Exit Planet Dust, focusing once again on dance music. "Come With Us" and "It Began In Africa" kick the album off with the kind of high-energy, mindless, visceral booty music we come to expect from The Chemical Brothers. "Galaxy Bounce" is a more ordinary sounding funk track with annoying sampled diva vocals. Yet the breakbeats redeem the track as at least good party fodder. The house-y "Star Guitar" manages to approximate the hypnotic, bittersweet emotional color of an early New Order instrumental without sounding superfluous. The seemingly down-tempo "Hoops," craftily takes you up an upward slope, using an Eastern-style scale that will find you ecstatically reaching for the sky. "Pioneer Skies" starts off with some baroque 60s psychedelic and ends up surfing the galaxy on space-rockin' sheets of sound. "The State We're In" is the Brothers' third collaboration with Beth Orton, and arguably the weakest track on the album. Her languid, folky ballad sucks the energy from the flow rather than providing calming respite. "The Test," with Richard Ashcroft, is more successful, proving to be another climactic, if predictable collaboration. Come With Us enters no musical realms we haven't seen before, especially the trippy electro-folk of Tranquility Bass. But no one can pull them off with as much accessible, joyous charm as The Chemical Brothers.
It's been over four years since Japan's Keigo Oyamada released his international debut album under the nom de plume, Cornelius. Given that time, his metamorphosis from shambolic indie-pastiche that recalled early Beck on Fantasma to a sleek electro-acoustic avant-pop shaman is unsurprising. On Point, Cornelius has trimmed down his kitchen-sink approach, showing more confidence in his composition abilities with a sparer sound and smoother transitions. This time around you can hear how he's done his homework, listening to Jim O'Rourke, Stereolab, the po-mo sambas of Arto Lindsay, and electronica artists like Autechre and Oval. "Point of View Point" sounds like a mix of Jim O'Rourke's chopped-up quasi-folk acoustic guitar and Stereolab ooh-ahs. "Smoke" is a catchy, syncopated tune in which Cornelius sounds somewhat like Billy Corgan. That is, until the poppy chorus is spiked by a Sonic Youth-style feedback solo. "Drop" is even more alluring, the sound of dripping water used as the rhythm track, with more acoustic guitars, layered vocal choruses and subtle sampling. "Another View Point" is unabashed synthed-up new wave instrumental laid out on the spine of a funky bassline. "Bird Watching at Inner Forest" sounds like a party of elves and faeries doing the cha-cha in the woods, while "I Hate Hate" is quick study of the Fantomas/John Zorn school of metal shredding. The uplifting "Fly" reaffirms us that Cornelius has indeed progressed leaps in bounds as a real songwriter. "Nowhere" is almost too much, with the sound of crashing waves, strings and almost cartoonishly mellow bossa nova rhythm. Yet as a whole piece it once again skirts nimbly around cliché and leaves you happy though not completely satiated, like hors d' vours and fizzy alcoholic drinks. While overall the album could be disguised as a pseudo-ambient electronica album, it is much more. Many of the tracks upon closer listen slyly reveal themselves as real songs, despite the difficulty in discerning any of the lyrics that are being sung. Point suggests that the multi-talented fashion designer, video and conceptual artist should focus his time and talent on his biggest strength and serve up the full belly-bursting masterpiece of a meal he's capable of.
The 20+ year-old band's twelfth album, The Process Of Belief is being viewed as a sort of comeback, even though The New America came out in 2000. The reason is the return of Brett Gurewitz, who left in 1994 to handle business affairs for his explosively successful Epitaph label, home of Offspring and Rancid. Appropriately, the album is also a homecoming back to Epitaph after a four album stint with Atlantic. To be honest, Bad Religion albums after 1989's No Control seemed redundant, much like Ramones and Motörhead albums of the same period. They weren't bad, but were reliably predictable. It would be nice to see Bad Religion take another risk like they did with their second album, 1983's Into The Unknown (which is criminally out of print). That said, The Process Of Belief offers by far their most catchy, melodic batch of songs wince No Control. "Supersonic" and "Prove It" are typically gripping blasts of punk. The acoustic-tinged "Broken" and the reggae-tinged intro of "Sorrow" add a little variety to the mix. "Materialist" and "Kyoto Now" serve up the political, thought-provoking lyrics Bad Religion are known for. A punk album worth buying in '02, who woulda thunk?
"No-one Ever Really Dies," says ultra slick hip hop producers Pharrell Williams and Chad Hugo, a.k.a. The Neptunes, a.k.a. N*E*R*D, they're just reborn into a hot rock band. Those expecting the same bouncy mainstream production that made big hits for Kelis, Jay-Z, Mystikal, Beenie Man and Ludacris will be surprised by the visceral, dirty feel of this music. Virgin released In Search Of last year against the band's wishes. The domestic version is quite a bit different. Listening to the two side-by-side, track-for-track, I can see how N*E*R*D would be pissed. It sounds like the UK version is a demo. A very polished demo, but two dimensional when compared to the fullness of the US version. The awkward skits were taken out and the song lengths tightened. Most importantly, they replace the stiff, dated drum machine with a real drummer. Many tracks that recalled early 80s electro, now sound fresher. And they swing. And they rock. Hell, sometimes they destroy. The new and improved N*E*R*D sounds both looser and tighter, with a harder overall mix. Besides the lame skits, nothing is missed from the previous version. All the cool samples and synth lines are intact. The end result is a stunning album that updates the spirit of Sly & The Family Stone, The Isley Brothers, George Clinton's Parliament-Funkadelic, Curtis Mayfield and Prince's more rockist moments, without plundering them for musical ideas. They also strive to bring back the lyrical weight of prime seventies Marvin Gaye and Stevie Wonder, with their own brand of Buddhist-B-boy social consciousness. While it's tough to top the masters, N*E*R*D comes close. "Lapdance" is a not-quite successful metaphor for politicians as 'ho's, but the intensity of the music brings it up a level, rivaling the urgency of Public Enemy circa 1989. A delicate Duke Ellington "Caravan" synth melody during the chorus is a brilliant touch. "Things Are Getting Better" recalls the sunny, sing-songy hip hop of A Tribe Called Quest, De La Soul and The Jungle Brothers. The rapping is nimble and witty, the synth lines fat and heavy, and the rhythm funky as hell. I look forward to the extended dance mix. In the sarcastically chivalrous "Brain" ("I just love your brain"), they take a choppy rhythm guitar line similar to the recent P. Diddy single and space and drag the chorus like a psychedelic garage nugget. The new version adds some prime scratching near the end. "Provider" is one of the few tracks that don't differ too much from the original version. It's a blues ballad that tells a dealer's tale in the tradition of Curtis Mayfield's Superfly. With a couple new wave breaks, the song is moving. "Truth Or Dare" vastly improves the old version by adding heavy staccato strings used like a guitar symphony adding much needed dramatic effect. "Tape You" gives a new meaning to home taping, when the singer's come on is to ask her to let him watch her kick it all night, to a slinky, sexy, rubbery rhythm, of course. "Baby Doll" adds an awesome, heavy bassline to the lightly loping reggae-ish synth lines. "Am I High," which was originally a sleepy, stoned groove, added a harder funk edge. "Rock Star" takes on the collective egos of N*E*R*D's music biz peers and completely shreds them to pieces. The power of the original version is magnified by a savage Bad Brains-like guitar and drums riff, following the introduction, "Fuckin' posers!" "Bobby James" is yet another peak, a first-person narrative junkie blues about a 17 year-old in a downward spiral. It avoids cliché and schmaltz by focusing on believable, realistic details, carried by an elegiac high-pitched chorus that truly rivals Curtis Mayfield. The album closes on another uplifting note with "Stay Together," complete with the best use of snare drums since U2's "Sunday Bloody Sunday." The song builds and holds an ecstatic level with yelps, Beatles harmonies and keyboards, and then winds down to a single voice. In an era when pop artists say and mean nothing, N*E*R*D raises the bar. Even when measured against heavyweight classics of the past, In Search Of . . . is a massive album.
Hawksley Workman is a flamboyantly eccentric young Canadian cabaret troubadour, a poetic soul (he's already published a book of poetry called Hawksley Burns For Isadora), Prince-like one-man band (he records his albums in his home studio and plays nearly every note) and spinner of tall tales. On his fictionalized bio, Workman claims he went from shining shoes at a tap-dance academy to becoming their top dancer, as chronicled on his debut album For Him And The Girls. (Last Night We Were) The Delicious Wolves is the latest chapter in his fantastical life story. Here we have young Hawksley losing his romantic innocence when he learns his favorite tap-dance instructor is also another sort of dancer who "moves without the mind" in "Striptease." While he retains his roots in early Bowie, Sparks, Harry Nilsson, David Ackles and Tim Buckley, Workman expands his palate to include early-80s Prince in the playfully funky "Striptease." The city writhes with misplaced desires, and our protaganist is compelled to dance and joyously revel in his newfound lust in "You Me And The Weather" and "Dirty & True," which dresses up Tom Waits in platform heels, sparkles and heavy metal riffs. Workman has a strong voice with incredible range, a worthy successor of Jeff Buckley, formidable competition to Rufus Wainright and Ed Harcourt. His rough home-spun John Vanderslice-like edges on his first album has been smoothed out for a more complex, original sound on Delicious Wolves. Workman's lust for life is infectious. Anyone unaffected by this uninhibited music could only be dead from the shoulders up and the waist down.
While The Czars hail from Denver, Colorado and are often labeled New Americana alongside fellow Denver natives 16 Horsepower, this band is as unique as they come. The country and folk roots are buried within their lush arrangements, and are as difficult to pinpoint as the orchestral soul of Lambchop and Pernice Brothers. Their music has a melancholic, cinematic quality of the Tindersticks, mixed with the mournful atmosphere of Ennio Morricone. They boast an extraordinary singer in John Grant, whose clear, strong multi-octave voice echoes that of Tim Buckley. Not surprisingly, they contributed a stunning cover of "Song To The Siren" to Sing a Song for You: A Tribute to Tim Buckley. And if you're not confused enough, there's also a slight Radiohead vibe (partially due to Thom Yorke's obsession with Jeff Buckley, Tim's equally talented but lesser accomplished son). Like last year's debut Before…But Longer, The Ugly People Vs. The Beautiful People was produced by The Cocteau Twins' Simon Raymonde and engineer Giles Hall, for their label Bella Union. Like labelmates Lift To Experience, The Czars strive for a sprawling, grandiloquent statement. They succeed swimmingly. Ugly People… flows gorgeously like a giant iceburg, occasionally encountering oceanic storms like the rocking "This" and the dramatic organ-drenched crescendos of "Side Effect." Pianos and acoustic guitars are augmented by trombone, trumpet (Ron Miles contributes an impressive improvisation on "Caterpillar"), pedal steel, violin and occasionally electronics, not unlike recent Flaming Lips and Mercury Rev. The Czars' overall sound, however, is quite simple and uncluttered, everything in its place. "Killjoy" is pure joy, a timeless country-pop melody with a thoroughly modern sound, assisted by Tarnation's Paula Frazer. "Lullaby 6000" is another major highlight, an epic slow-burn ballad that peaks with Frazer and Grant harmonizing beautifully. The rest of the album is less immediate, a sort of decorative psychedelia that hangs nicely in the air like suspended flowers which ultimately enhance the impact of the peaks. Meet The Czars, future rulers of your mash mixes.
In an era when every other British band is shamelessly apeing past incarnations of Radiohead (Coldplay, Travis, Doves), it's refreshing to hear a band actually worth paying attention to. Elbow's Asleep In The Back is the true marriage of Pink Floyd and Joy Division that OK Computer was mistakenly pegged as. While the lyrical themes and tones are downbeat, the sound is not cold and alienating like '97 era Radiohead. Manchester's Elbow is more organic and pleasurable, like later period Talk Talk and recent Beta Band, with Guy Garvey's voice echoing Genesis-era Peter Gabriel more than Jeff Buckley. There's no shortage of demand for this sort of gracefully dark miserablism. It's amazing that this album won't be released in the U.S. until January, when it made a reasonable splash in the UK nearly the whole year. The band is a victim of major label consolidation -- the album was originally slated to come out in 1998 on Island, but was shelved when Universal consumed them. With only five of the original eleven tracks, Asleep In The Back is release 1.5, showing Elbow in considerably sharper form than contemporary newcomers. The instrumentation manages to hold interest when there aren't vocals while avoiding clichéd prog-rock wankery. With subtle use of acoustic guitars, horns and keyboards, the mid-tempo music sparkles rather than drives. There are plenty of sonic surprises, such as the electro-blasts in "Coming Second" that somehow recall the "Oooh-eee-ooohs" of The Wizard Of Oz's Umpaloompas. While not exactly a concept album, it works as a cohesive piece much like, say, Echo & The Bunnymen's Ocean Rain. Any other song order simply wouldn't make as much sense. The centerpiece is the 7:33 "Newborn," Elbow's "The Killing Moon," which builds up into a heart-racing climax that you just don't hear very often these days. Cherry-picking from the past while sounding thoroughly current, Asleep In The Back is an impressive debut from Manchester's most promising band.
Soul Jacker is the fourth set of brilliance by the L.A.-based songwriter known as "E." Previous albums have dealt with harrowing personal tales of angst and grief, set to eccentric yet incredibly infectious hooks. Eels albums have always exuded a British feel in their layered pop fussiness, which is why Soul Jacker was released in the U.K. months previously. Soul Jacker, named after an American serial killer who thought he could steal his victims' souls, has a much different feel than last year's Daisies Of The Galaxy, which was an exercise in lovely, upbeat pop simplicity. Much like Sparklehorse's It's A Wonderful Life, this album explores darker themes with image-rich creativity, while avoiding self-pitying pitfalls of common miserabilists with wry humor. The sound is rawer, crunchier, dirtier, with tattered edges rather than a polished gleam. This sonic change is due in part to production by John Parish (PJ Harvey), and guitar assistance from Joe Gore (Tom Waits). Much like PJ Harvey on To Bring You My Love, they recycle and modernize the blues with "Soul Jacker part I," an update of Bo Diddley's "Who Do You Love." "Dog Faced Boy" starts out with a low, gravelly guitar that continues the Harvey-circa-'95 influence, mixed with the woozy, low-tuned guitars of an old Nirvana song, "Blew." The derivativeness ends there, as the rest of the album is bracingly original. On "That's Not Really Funny," E berates his lover for making fun of the size of his penis to a schizophrenic mambo and punk background. Hilarious. "Fresh Feeling" hearkens to the positivity of Daisies. It's an affecting love song with a swooning chamber string section, guaranteed to make it onto many a mash mix for 2002. "Woman Driving, Man Sleeping" is a subtly powerful mood piece, with laid back acoustic guitars. "Looking straight ahead into the black…there's no radio to play/sitting with the map/laying crumpled on her lap/looking for the toll money to pay." "Friendly Ghost," "Teenage Witch" and "Bus Stop Boxer" are character studies of misfits, accompanied by fresh, imaginative arrangements. "Jungle Telegraph" pulls off the unlikely synthesis of Tom Waits tin pan alley pastiche with a danceable funk groove. "World Of Shit" ("in this world of shit/baby you are it") is possibly the most deadpan love song ever, in which E proposes ("baby, I confess/I am quite a mess") he and his mate get married and "make some people/more than equal/in this world of shit." Music this brilliantly messed up simply must make the Eels famous. Soul Jacker is not as ambitious as Electro-Shock Blues or as entertaining as Daisies, but it's just as haunting, funny, beautiful and unique.
There must be something in the water in Wales. Two of the most ambitious, quirky, 21st-century psychedelic bands are Welshmen Gorky's Zygotic Mynci and Super Furry Animals. Like Gorky's, SFA have been around for a while -- creating bold psych-pop gems with little notice, at least from North America. 1999's Guerrilla was their OK Computer, experimenting with electronica without the hyperbolic hype. Last year, when third-rate Radiohead copycats Coldplay were celebrated, SFA quietly confounded and charmed the lucky few who heard the lovely Mwng, sung entirely in Welsh. With their fifth album, Rings Around The World, SFA have reached an extravagant peak. The songs are tied together by some vague theme of global communication and information pollution. However, the less-than revelatory lyrics are not the main attraction. It's the wealth of sounds and trippy melodies that make this 2001's update of The Flaming Lip's opus, The Soft Bulletin. The first five songs are minor pop classics, an astounding cornucopia of Beach Boys choruses, killer hooks and studio wizardry. They rush by so quickly that you want to hear them again before carrying on with the rest of the album. The pace slows to the erotically sinister "[A] Touch Sensitive," an instrumental mix of Orbital, Clinton and Gary Numan complete with digitized female panting. "No! Sympathy" begins as a languid, acoustic ballad that could have come from The Small Faces' mod psychedelic opera Ogden's Nut Gone Flake. But after the final kiss-off line, "You deserve to die," the song explodes into the most vicious techno fury heard outside of Alec Empire's brood of Digital Hardcore cronies. The single "Juxtapozed With U" provides light-hearted relief, with Charlie's Angels violins and Peter Frampton-style vocoder. Here Gruff Rhys sounds oddly like Elvis Costello fronting a Vegas showband. "Presidential Suite," gets a little too fluffy, like a Muzak remake of The Style Council. After the album's sole weak track, SFA introduces "Run! Christian, Run!" with a forlorn melodica, with an insistent two-note electronic blurp leading you towards release in a guitar-heavy climax. The album closes with the gentle synthesizer-tinged ballad, "Fragile Happiness." The ride is over, and I never even noticed where the heck heavyweight guests John Cale and Sir Paul McCartney came in, nor do I care. If you have a DVD player, the fun goes on, with twelve film shorts in full surround sound. More accessible than countrymen Gorky's Zygotic Mynci, and heavier than Mercury Rev, Rings Around The World is a perfectly balanced headtrip.
On 23 year-old Ed Harcourt's full-length debut, he outperforms Rufus Wainright, and Jeff Buckley, and uncorks more great songs than Elliott Smith's entire career. Before they've even heard of him, the competition is eating his dust. What sets Harcourt apart is his apparent knack for flawless arrangements worthy of Randy Newman/Van Dyke Parks. No doubt his good taste in choosing control-room assistance from Flaming Lips/Mercury Rev producer Dave Fridmann and Tim Holmes of Death In Vegas didn't hurt. In the face of the new wave of depressingly anemic and conservative troubadours like David Gray, Harcourt breathes life into the maligned singer-songwriter genre with his eccentric melodic style that cannot be pinned down with any specific influence, other than a slight hint of early 70s Bowie. Within just the first three songs, Harcourt covers as much emotional terrain as Van Morrison did between his despairing Astral Weeks and ecstatic Moondance. The opener, "Something In My Eye" begins modestly as a strummed acoustic number, but gradually builds into an inspiring orchestral yearning. "God Protect Your Soul," starts with an ominous growl that bears resemblance to Mark Lanegan. The music is barbed by thorns of slashing guitars and pounding drums. The infectuously poppy "She Fell Into My Arms" is shockingly sunny after the previous song's anger. Summer skips to winter in the funereal "Those Crimson Tears," accented by muted horns like perfect snowflakes. The album peaks with the epic "Beneath The Heart of Darkness" that betrays Fridmann's knob-twiddling. Who else could transform an off-kilter beat inspired by a rattling central heating boiler in Harcourt's house into a masterful opus of claustrophobia that would turn Thom Yorke green with envy? Here Be Monsters suffers from not a single weak song. This is a stunning work of enduring beauty by someone who's too young to remember the early 80s, yet seems to have absorbed more musical wisdom than any of his contemporaries. More please.
