Cul De Sac are one of a handful of American bands who have carved out an inimitable, pioneering body of work without following any trend or making a single compromise. They could be credited for creating their own genre if it could be described in a way that rolled off the tongue more elegantly than "pastoral psychedelic ethnic surf space rock." As a vocal-less group, their audience are mainly musicians and people with large record collections who disregard preening showmanship and simply want to sit back dig some astounding sounds. The release of this laid back masterpiece, however, could extend their instrumental magic beyond their cult audience. It seemed inevitable that Cul De Sac would reach an artistic peak with this release. In 1996 they had the cathartic experience of collaborating with guitarist/bandleader Glenn Jones' primary muse, acoustic experimental guitar legend John Fahey in the aptly titled The Epiphany of Glenn Jones. By all accounts, working with Fahey was a harrowing experience, but both parties emerged victorious with a beautiful album. Their confidence bolstered in overcoming obstacles and replacing bassist Chris Fujiwara with the more accomplished Michael Bloom, Cul De Sac recorded a group of songs that move slowly, but with the certainty of plate techtonics. "Etaoin Shrdlu" begins with an epic organ intro out of Who's Next and settles into the subtle mysteries of Middle Eastern trance music. "Father Silence" is a majestic march that could softly flatten mountains with its powerful raindrops of sound. The twelve-plus minute "Sands of Iwo Jima" outdoes anything by their teutonic space rock predecessors with glacial slabs of guitar noise, synthesizer buzzing, pulsing bass and jazzy drumming. By the time the rich, intricately classical guitar picking of "On the Roof of the World" fades away, you realize you have never heard anything quite like this before. Like the 19th century pastiche of a flower painting bathed in moonlight on the cover, Crashes To Light Minutes To Its Fall is a work of natural lustrous beauty.
One would think a multi-talented nine-member artist collective founded by Icelandic filmmakers Stefan Ami and Siggi Kjartansson would have an ambitious agenda to take over the pop world. Instead, Gus Gus have focused on a singularly overused sub-genre often referred to as "trip-hop." Lacking the world-weary intensity of Massive Attack or the affecting blues of Portishead, Gus Gus mined a lighter-hearted take on their debut Polydistortion that was more precious than precocious. Their follow-up is an improvement, or at least a refinement, featuring the catchy single "Ladyshave" and "Teenage Sensation," laced by Hafdis Huld's pleasantly breathy voice. It's basically a half-step above the run-of-the-mill second generation trip-hop. Ocassionally, songs like the strings-and-Mercury Rev "Bambi" leap from the pack and show that they could be so much more, following the footsteps of fellow Reykjavik native Bjork.
"My little girl just loves your music. She puts you right up there with cherry bombs and clowns" read a fan letter to Tom Waits. Isn't that the way it should be, all the children of middle-aged hipsters loving Tom Waits? Yet as the long anticipated release date approached, people still respond to the name of the beatnik-hobo-avant garde-junkyard-cabaret troubadour with a, "Tom who?" Despite his failure to become a household name, he did remarkably well in being absorbed into the public consciousness (Nick Cave, PJ Harvey, Beck all paying homage).. Especially as he dropped out for six years, settling down to a rural homelife with a wife and a bunch of screaming children. Mule Variations is a more accessible album compared to the dark, theatrical Black Rider and brilliantly jagged Bone Machine, with the welcome return of his heartwrenching maudlin ballads, "Take It With Me" and "Hold On." Some of the songs here sound familiar, like re-writes from Swordfishtrombones and Rain Dogs. This doesn't make it a lesser album however. With the added spice of age, experience, a finely tuned taste for found sounds and the dirt and worms in the outdoor shack he recorded in, this is one of his best batches yet. He reunites with Joe Gore and Marc Ribot who contribute their gritty, spiky post-Beefheart guitar playing. The use of dobro, harp, pump organ, horns and reeds give the record the classic earthy Waits sound. That is, rich with alternatively horrifying and humorous imagery, such as a lurching, drunken carny pushing a lopsided ice cream cart containing empty, rattling whiskey bottles and a dead monkey. DJ M. Mark "The III Media" Retiman contributes samples that are subtly integrated throughout the album, but reminds you that it is indeed 1999. Not to be forgotten is the important contribution of his wife, playwrite Kathleen Brennan, who first helped revitalize his career with assistance on Swordfishtrombones. In a recent interview he commented, "I'm the prospector, she's the cook. I bring home the flamingo, she beheads it; I drop it in the water, she takes off the feathers . . ..no-one wants to eat it." Mule Variations is a 70-minute feast big enough to choke a horse, and it's delicious. On the last song, Waits asks, "Does life seem nasty, brutish and short? Come on up to the house" sit down, eat up and have some fun with the Waits family.
Next time you consider taking the rugrats or younger siblings to the carnival, consider sneaking them into the next Lonesome Organist show. Jeremy J. Jacobsen is a master of pure showmanship, performing unheard of feats of coordination on as many as five instruments at once, and he even tops his shows off with a tap dance routine. This unmatched one man band is more than just a sideshow. His musicianship all the instruments is of professional quality, and his knowledge of traditional music is deep. On his second album, Jacobsen whips through an off-kilter carousel of genres, including turn-of-the century vaudeville, Italian cinema, Carl Stalling cartoon scores, barroom piano rolls ("Cranked Up Too Hard"), Spanish guitar picking and even Appalacian yodelling ("All of Those Dirty Swine"). Just as he expanded his instrumental repertoire to include bowed and struck saws, saxophone, steel drum and synthesizer, he twists each influence so that each composition is stamped with the Lonesome Organist persona. On the spooky "The Storm Past By" and "Vibe Sequencer," Jacobsen picks up where Van Dyke Parks left off in his exploration of the Calypso steelbands of Trinidad in 1972's Discover America. The accordian-driven "The Low Strike" is seductively evil circus music that evokes the dark atmosphere of Tom Waits' The Black Rider. He also features some gruff Wait-like howling on "Fly on My Plate." One could imagine Jacobsen recording to his two-track in a hundred year-old haunted house, performing the cute yet eerie "Boing!" as the poltergeists dance a sly jig, until he soothe restless spirits with the sprawling midnight lament of "Lap Steel." True to his jaw-dropping live shows, he played all the instruments at the same time. Like the ghosts, seeing is believing.
The trio Add N to (X) are archivists of sorts of obsolete sythesizer technology. They exhume work created by the original innovators like Varese, Xenakis and Moog and on through the 70s with Brian Eno, Suicide and new wave. This vintage synth fetishism could get tiresome had they not congealed into a real band by their second album, last year's On the Wires of Our Nerves and come up with some fresh electro-shock therapy on the tired old nostalgia. By adding theramin expert Steven Claydon, Stereolab's Andy Ramsay the High Llamas' Rob Hallam for their tour, they showed promise as a creative new force in a possible new direction in rock and electronica. Unfortunately they did not benefit from their helpers on Avant Hard, and fell back on the same formulas, often sliding too far into kitsch. With the exception of the propulsive "Metal Fingers In My Body," the album doesn't offer anything their previous album didn't already cover. Danger, Will Robinson, we are caught in a time loop.
Imagine that some space aliens caught some wandering early-60s radio broadcasts of instrumental surf guitar like Link Wray, Dick Dale, Duane Eddy, The Ventures and The Shadows. They dug the grooves and decided to find the source. During their trip to Earth they caught broadcasts of a few Devo videos, and after landing not far from Sun Ra's crash site in Alabama (?!), they impersonated geeky college students and formed a rock 'n' roll band. On their latest album, Man or Astroman? have become more than just a novelty/nostalgia act. While their music continues to be based on instrumental surf rock, and they continue to sample dialogue from science fiction films, the futuristic sound effects and synthesizers are more integrated into the music. Think of the noisy, sample-heavy space rock of Chrome and sped-up surf punk of Agent Orange in a nitrous oxide-enhanced tussle. Taking inspiration from labelmates The Jesus Lizard and Shellac, the band has mixed up the rhythms to create a satisfyingly disorientating and hypnotic experience, as on "A reversal of polarity." While they have released over a half dozen albums since 1993, this is their most varied and interesting. And if you become hooked on that space-surf groove, there is plenty more where this came from in their other albums. As the sample in the beginning of the albums states, "It's the same series of signals over and over again!" Take a ride into infinity with your favorite spacemen.
Despite the typical hyperbole from the British press, Mansun seemed destined to be an also-ran second wave Britpop band, forever enamored by the glam and drama of early Suede and Manic Street Preachers. After releasing the well-received yet quite ordinary Attack of the Grey Lantern, they hit a roll by releasing over 40 non-album tracks on various EPs. Such prolific ambition has rewarded listeners with an expanded sonic palate, adding Primal Scream, Talking Heads, Duran Duran, Joy Division, Captain Beefheart to their typical Beatles-Bowie-Floyd influences. The album is a flow of many parts put together in such a way that you sometimes have to check the CD player to see if you're still on the same song. The first few songs sound more or less like proper Britpop. Then the acid kicks in, and the pastiche of sound bites threaten to collapse into a mess of samples, guitars and drugged-out haze. Instead, it's the most captivating half of the album. "Fall Out" brilliantly incorporates Tchaikovsky's Sugar Plum Fairy. Outrageous lyrics revisit the panic and paranoia of teenage angst, exemplified by bandleader Paul Draper's trauma of a Catholic upbringing in "I'm emotionally raped by Jesus/But I'm still here" on the epic "Cancer," Mansun's own "Bohemian Rhapsody." It starts with riffs straight from Blue Oyster Cult and switches between grandiose orchestral statements and a recurring delicate melody, eventually settling in the ninth minute into a liquid sugar buzz of vocal harmonies. The last track, and their first single, "Being A Girl" startles with a sprightly, choppy guitar straight from The Police before leaving behind their predecessors and competitors in a flight of fancy. Named after the character in the 60s TV series The Prisoner, Six is a captivating album that reveals Mansun's potential of being able to stand next to superstars like Radiohead and Verve and not sound too shabby.
Given the tortoise-tempoed and slow-to-unfold quality of their music, some might dismiss their four album plus a thousand EPs body of work as sleep-inducing "sadcore." But like other former Velvet Underground acolytes Yo La Tengo, Eleventh Dream Day and Luna, they have taken those elements of subtlety and become so much more. Low's simplicity is deceptive, now more than ever. On Secret Name the songs rarely go above a whisper, but often exude enough drama to send you reeling. "Starfire" sounds like Sister Lovers era Alex Chilton covering Smog, until it builds into a sweeping chorus of la la la's that would turn Brian Wilson green with envy. While their sad songs ("Missouri," prounced "misery," and "Weight Of Water") are sadder than anyone elses', they're also more beautiful. For the first time, they incorporate violin, viola and cello arrangements, courtesy of The Triple A Strings. The effect is more successfully striking than Nick Drake's valient effort on his ambitious Bryter Layter, especially on the lovely "Liar/Lamb" and "Soon," which also features a pulsing heart-beat straight from VU's "Ocean." Aside from the arrangements, the instrumentation is even more bare and spare than previous albums. The general absence of guitar isn't even noticeble, as this is their most engagingly varied and beautiful album yet.
Trans Am are the living embodiment of King Crimson's "20th Century Schizoid Man," having bounced like superballs between instrumental prog rock, garage rock, techno and electronica on their previous three albums. Don't be fooled by the opening title, "1999." This is early 80's new wave, where Gary Numan's coked-up Tubeway Army bends Kraftwerk over the couch and makes them howl. On paper it may sound like a fun exercise in kitsch. But in the headphones they sound at their most cohesively serious. In "City In Flames," you can feel Metropolis blowing up. Come the first time machine, they deserve a crack at going back, kicking Vangelis out of the studio and recording the soundtrack to Bladerunner the way it should have been. File between ELO's Time and Rush's Signals.
Showing the effects of Tortoise's spreading influence, Scotland's Mogwai came out with a promisingly interesting instrumental rock album, Young Team in 1997. Have they fulfilled that promise? Not if you expected anything new. But they do a good job at expanding their palate of influences and wrapping them up in a shiny new package for late newcomers. The albums starts with an amusing speech by Iggy Pop on how "punk rock" is being exploited as a façade by dilettantes. "Cody" features layered vocals reminiscent of Mercury Rev; "Helps Both Ways" employs background pratter of a football game on television and effectively conveys a vivid feeling of loneliness with the help of slow, spare drum beats and melancholy strings that remind me of the expressiveness of Dirty Three or Godspeed You Black Emperor. "Year 2000 Non-Compliant Cordia" boasts keyboard squealches amidst a cymbal-heavy cacophony that recalls early Jessamine. Overall the music meanders over pools of emotion, occasionally dipping a toe in. Eventually you just wish they would at least once make a big 'ol rock 'n' roll splash, climb into a noisy speedboat and leave it all behind. The nine-plus minute "Chucky" does eventually turn up the jet engines, but it never takes off.
After producing the best album of his career with Social Distortion's White Light White Heat White Trash lead singer/guitarist Mike Ness is taking a low-key break with his first solo album. Given the trend lately, I expected to hear spare acoustic, folky songs. Instead we get a full band, often turning on the juice, like on the rollicking, countrified cover of Bob Dylan's bittersweet "Don't Think Twice, It's Alright." While Ness puts on the wifebeater and cowboy hat and goes country, he's still electric, and he still rocks. His originals are pleasant, but do not approach the quality of his Social Distortion material. The most fun is had on the covers, including Hank Williams' "You Win Again," and the traditional "Long Black Veil," which even surpasses Nick Cave's cover. A pleasure for Social D fanatics or [electric] country fans, but missable for the rest.
1997's Dig Me Out, chock full of timeless, powerful songs, prompted the world to put the entire future of indie rock on their shoulders. Perhaps that was an unfair burden on a trio of young women, but one can't help be disappointed by the The Hot Rock. After two years, some sort of progression is expected. Instead, they have retreated to tried-and-true formulas. Worse yet, there are none of the irresistably catchy hooks and heart-wrenching anthems like previous albums' "Good Things," "One More Hour" and "Dance Song '97." Retreaded Sleater-Kinney is still better than most pathetic excuses for rock music lately. But if anything, the guitars sound at times more twee and awkward. Endlessly repeated riffs threaten to induce boredom. The most successful, or at least interesting songs are the slow ones, like the melodic "Get Up" and the loping melodica-tinged "A Quarter To Three," and the spare and lovely "The Size Of Our Love," which recalls the Raincoats when they started experimenting with different instruments, just before they began to disintegrate. Let's hope the same thing doesn't happen to our favorite Olympia rockers. All they need to do is get over the tired punk-rock authenticity anxiety and just put it all on the line and be the rock stars they're meant to be.
Built To Spill is almost a too-good-to-be-true success story. Unassuming band in Boise, Idaho release two indie albums full of sprawling nine minute-plus indie rock journeys of broken hearts and shredded guitar strings. They get signed to a major label, release an album that doesn't sell out and isn't even close to sucking. Now they have released their fourth and best album. They take the essence of the six to eight minute songs from 1997's Perfect From Now On and distill them into more concise creation that still seem compress even more emotional impact. "The Plan" wastes no time in kicking off with great melodies and guitar hooks. Let's talk about guitars. Guitars, guitars, guitars. I have not heard such a modern museum of tone-bending tricks since Walt Mink and Polvo broke up. On top of that, they have catchy melodies that rival, dare I say, er, Weezer. Not to worry, they don't fall into such smirking vapidity. The lyrics are always satisfying, taking you ever further into the twisted lives and loves of founder/leader/ex-Treepeople Doug Martsch's imagination.
Joi claim to be "the original Asian breakbeat fusionists." Indeed, they founded the Joi Bangla Sound System that ignited the amazing output by the British-based Asian Underground (Talvin Singh, Bedouin Ascent, Vedic, Asian Dub Foundation). After their recording debut on Star Rise, a tribute to Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, their debut is a welcome new guest to the party. Joi are a Bengali duo, made up brothers Farook and Haroon Shamsher. At their best, such as "Asian Vibes," they feature the vocals of Susheela Raman, a captivating hybrid of Sheila Chandra, Sussan Deyhim and Natacha Atlas. Their integration of sitars and tablas are masterful. My only complaint is that their reliance on mundane Western dance beats are a bit heavy-handed. From their obvious song titles like "Everybody Say Yeah," "Massive," and (duh) "India," it's clear that their mission is simple - too spread their Asian fusion to dance clubs around the world. If that means I'll never have to hear [fill in overplayed dance club anthem here] again, I'll give them my full support.
Producer/remixer Dan the Automator (Dr. Octagon) and beat scientist Josh "DJ Shadow" Davis tackle the dauntingly large body of work by prolific Bollywood composers and brothers Kalyanji V. and Anandji V. Shah. The Shah brothers composed literally hundreds of soundtracks for 1970s Indian "brownsploitation" films inspired by Shaft, Superfly, The Mack, etc. In turn, they were inspired by the accompanied soundtracks by Isaac Hayes, Curtis Mayfield, Willie Hutch, Marvin Gaye and even James Brown. If anything, they go beyond the original funk by adding the naturally dramatic flair of sitars and Indian classical music. The mixes are seamless, making it impossible to tell where the work of the 70s artists end and the 90s remixers begin. The result is party music of the highest caliber, making it impossible not to be addicted to the hilarious titles like "Fists Of Curry" and "Punjabis, Pimps & Players." Prepare yourself for volumes two through ten.
Those who were drawn to Siouxsie Sioux's more exotic songs, or Madonna's recent faux-Middle-Eastern mysticism should check Gedida out for the real deal. Actually, Natacha Atlas has much in common with Madonna in that she is an elusive amalgamation of styles and cultures. Atlas just happens to be about ten times more interesting, having been born in the Arabic quarter of Brussels to a Sephardic Jewish/Muslim/Christian family with roots in Morocco and Egypt, and educated in England. After paying her dues singing and belly dancing in Arabic and Turkish nightclubs in Brussels, Atlas got her break collaborating with Jah Wobble and Apache Indian in the early 90's. She has been a key member of Transglobal Underground, contributed to the soundtrack of John Carpenter's Stargate and toured with Robert Plant and Jimmy Page. While she sings mainly in Arabic, sometimes French, her voice is simply another instrument to absorb as part of the music. Gedida does not improve upon the Arabic/Asian fusion with dance rhythms that were perfected on her first two solo albums. But that shouldn't stop you from enjoying the majestic moments of strings straight from a Bollywood soundtrack. Previously downbeat Dead Can Dance arrangements are lightened up and more club friendly on this album. And perhaps inspired by Talvin Singh's successful Anokha Asian Underground, she incorporates some tabla-heavy drum 'n' bass, and even some rap. The album closes with "One Brief Moment," where she sounds just like Bjork, woo hoo! Everyone who is dying for the next Bjork joint put their hands in the air! For now, we can be placated by yet another indispensable undulating juggernaut from our favorite, er, second-favorite multiculti diva.
Fans of Siouxsie Sioux, the original Ice Queen of punk, the Godmother of goth, were disappointed to learn that 1995's The Rapture was the last Banshees album. Given the spotty quality of her work for the previous ten years, one could be forgiven for thinking she had exhausted her creative energy. But let's not forget about her side project with her husband/musical partner-in-crime Budgie, The Creatures. They released two albums in 1983 and 1989, experimenting with ethnic and dance rhythms and vocal styles. After a long love-in in the south of France, Siouxsie and Budgie are back with a beautiful, bouncing baby album. The Creatures are no longer a side project. Anima Animus is the offspring of a completely committed band. It's Siouxsie's most cohesive vision since the Banshees'1982 I Kiss In The Dreamhouse. Gone are the days of the dour ice queen. In recent shows at Barcelona and Chicago, Siouxsie sparkled as a slyly energetic, sassy diva, in love with her music and her drummer, sharing her joy with everyone who cares to join the party. The audiences cheered as if every song were their favorite hit single. Indeed, "2nd Floor," "Disconnected" and "Turn It On" are a string of immensely catchy, clubby anthems with chugging, but-cranking organs and overloaded new wave synths. Budgie is a booming force of nature, like an Afro-Brazillian drum army. "I Was Me" is the loveliest song the Banshees never made. They even get medieval (not to mention super loud) on "Exterminating Angel" and "Another Planet."
Of Montreal's mastermind Kevin Barnes is associated with the Elephant 6 collective - a largish group of friends (including Olivia Tremor Control, Apples In Stereo and Neutral Milk Hotel) who grew up together and happened to all share a love of sixties pyschedelic music. Of Montreal Presents The Gay Parade is a musical equivalent to a Fellini movie in which clowns, widowers, animals and robots march past in a surreal procession. Similar to XTC's cloyingly quirky side project Dukes Of Stratosphere, this over-the-[big] top production appeals to very specific tastes. If the words bouncy, whimsical and loopy make you want to run for the hills then by all means run, quick-like-a-bunny, run far and fast! If it is your cup of tea, then this exuberantly melodic everything-and-the-kitchen-sink production is the most elaborate psychedelic album you'll ever hear . . . until you get Black Foliage-Animation Music.
Olivia Tremor Control mine familiar territory of psychedelia from Sgt. Pepper, Smile, Piper At the Gates of Dawn, Van Dyke Parks, etc. Yet this is no mere stylistic exercise. They live in this world that only a handful of people care to visit, acid trips not included. Black Foliage-Animation Music is more like field recordings of little mystical creatures who also happen to exist in an alternative universe in Georgia and grew up together in the Elephant 6 Collective. Dreamworlds appears to be the theme of their next project, as they request in their liner notes "casssette taped details documenting your dreams and sounds of your environment (real or otherwise)." The creation of this music was not all prancing and frolicking through kaleidasopic forests, however. Three years of work went into the project, which involved sampling layers upon layers of found sounds, and effects upon carefully arranged harmonies and chamber music. And the result is not an easy trip -- 20 minutes into the album you start to feel a little woozy, like when you've had too many drugs or sugar bunnies. The dense swirl of folky psychedelia with layers and layers of spooky sounding bits of warped accordians, euphoniums, xylaphones, and selemintans 27 tracks all bleeding into each other produces a vertigo of a carnival ride gone bad. But once you experience the sound affects in the latter part of the album that approaches the mastery of electronica gurus like Aphex Twin and Howie B, you realize you just bought an intensely original piece of music that you'll be afraid to go near for a while, but will never let it go.
With the exponentially growing popularity of anemic pop-rap, the death of hip-hop has been often discussed. Thanks to great artists like Black Star, Common, Goody Mob, Outkast and The Roots, this ain't gonna happen. Their fourth album is named after Nigerian author Chinua Achebe's novel, and is by far their best -- a perfect amalgamation of their sublime interpretations of old-school hip-hop, deep, often spiritual rhymes, jazz and organic, live instrumental funk jams. This seven-piece Philadelphia group have been saving hip-hop for nearly a decade with about a tenth of the recognition they deserve. Thanks partly to their hit single "You Got Me," a captivating collaboration with Erykah Badu, their time is now. Now is exactly the time that Things Fall Apart represents. There is no nostalgia for the past nor the future, only the raw, live sound of vibrating bass strings, the amazing drum and scratching sounds coming from Rahzel's "the Godfather of Noyze" throat, the splintering of ?uestlove's drumsticks on the rim, and the contemplative, intellectual flow of Malik B. and Black Thought's words as if they were sitting right with you on the front steps. Most hip-hop "artists" anchor their boasts on things like their looks, sexual prowess, their collection of samples or material possessions. The Root's philosophy is perfectly summarized on their collaboration with Chicago's Common, "Act Too (The Love Of My Life)." It's a tribute to their mutual love for music. "I remember I'z a little snot nose/Rockin' Cazal goggles and Izod clothes/Learnin' the ropes of ghetto survival/Peepin' out the situation/I had to slide through . . . /Sometimes I wouldn't have made it if it wasn't for you." Humbleness, and respect for the power of music. Now that's something worth boasting about.
Tired of all those annoying between-song skits and pointless chatter cluttering too many hip-hop albums? You can blame it all on Prince Paul. He started it all on De La Soul's Three Feet High And Rising. Granted, it's not his fault that others couldn't match his unique humor and creativity on those first game show skits. But he's going to make it up to you anyway by, ironically, extending the skits into a full hour plus radio play. Perhaps its also to make up for the frustratingly promising but disjointed solo debut, Psychoanalysi (What Is It?) in which he reveals a sense of humor so twisted and sick it would disturb even Kool Keith (Dr. Octagon). Keith plays a part in this drama as Crazy Lou, a crazed arms dealer. The potential for howl-inducing comedy is high with guest stars Everlast as Officer O'Maley Bitchkowski, Big Daddy Kane as the pimp Count Mackula, and Chris Rock as a crackhead. But surprisingly, the jokes are tempered by a serious drama about Tariq, a struggling rapper trying to make it in the music bizness in the face of an unsympathetic mother, gangs and backstabbing friends. What makes this worth repeated listens is some of the best songs and arrangements Prince Paul has ever assembled.
On their 1997 self-titled album, Blur looked inside America and dug up a concise history of indie rock while still maintaining their distinctly British identity. This time around they are out to truly surprise. Damon Albarn's five year relationship with his sweetie is over, and he's an emotional mess. Who can blame him, when said sweetie is a righteous hottie like Elastica's Justine Frischmann. Gone are the disciplined, sardonic Kinksian vignettes of British life. This album is a Jackson Pollock splatter painting of pain, sorrow, relief, anger and the thousand other emotions that happen in a breakup. At first listen the mess of an album might seem too sloppy and unfocused. But Blur are too good to not hide some of their impeccable pop craft amidst the squalor. Nothing is immediately catchy like their old material, but repeated listenings reveal them to be more lasting. "Tender" starts as a heartfelt ballad and soon threatens to become over-the-top in a "We Are The World" kind of way with its gospel chorus. But like The Stones' "You Can't Always Get What You Want" and Lennon's "Give Peace A Chance," the bombast actually works. "Bugman" is a fine sloppy rocker that includes a startling tribute to Sun Ra. "1992" is a hypnotic lament that transcends into an explosive gas cloud of guitar feedback. "Mellow Song" pays tribute to Beck, and unintentionally sounds like Kurt Cobain in a good way. Producer William Orbit (Beth Orton, Madonna) is most noticeable on the meandering space rockers that struggle to be more than filler. He gives them a nice Low-era Brian Eno/David Bowie future/retro glitter 'n' grit that keep them engaging enough, especially with "Coffee & TV," and the organ[ic] dub of "Trailerpark" with the perfect mantra, "I lost my girl to the Rolling Stones." This bugged out, drunken hypersonic album might be too obliquely disorientating to be definitive Blur for their old commercial audience, but for the braver new souls, it's essential Blur.
Despite this being only his second stateside solo release, Vinicius Cantuaria is no newcomer. He participated as a drummer in the tail-end of the 60s Bossa Nova craze, played second guitar with founding Tropicalist Caetano Veloso in the 70s (whose "Joia" he covers on this album), and is currently a member of Arto Lindsay's ace neo-Brazillian band. Rather than reconstruct Brazillian music as a postmodern mosaic on a cracked, art rock/techno-damaged mirror like Lindsay, Cantuaria revisits the spirit of the original bossa nova jazz of Stan Getz, Antonio Carlos Jobim, Joao Gilberto, Astrud Gilberto Laurindo Almeida, Charlie Byrd and Luiz Bonfa who all, coincidentally, reccorded for his new label, Verve. But neither does he play the watered-down elevator music as many exotica fetishists envision bossa nova. This has gentle grace and beauty of the old, with the adventurous strangeness of the new, enriched by a diverse group of helpers including Sean Lennon, Laurie Anderson, Bill Frisell and produced by Lindsay. Before these smooth, musicianly love songs have a chance to relax into the buttery ooze of modernist schmaltz, they are rattled awake by the pre-millenium tension of genres clashing, samba notes crossing wires with opposing notes of a string section, and electronic cyber-critters gnawing away at the legs. The results are dizzying, hallucinatory and possibly even transcendent. Undoubtedly this album will be marketed as straight retro bossa nova. Which makes it possibly the most subversive album of the year.
Dead Bees On A Cake sounds like a momentous conclusion to a long, strange trip. One that began with the laughably pretentious but good-humored new wave band, Japan, through a couple overly earnest 80s solo ventures, collaborations with Can's Holger Czukay and King Crimson's Robert Fripp, and a five year hiatus that involved a move to California and tutelage from a variety of spiritual teachers. This sounds like a script for a rock parody, but the album earns respect through the sheer force of its music. The absurdities of life are reconciled with tasteful understatement. I'm not talking about bland post-prog noodling here. Sylvian has chosen stellar guests to realize his musical rebirth, including Talvin Singh, Bill Frisell, Ryuichi Sakamoto and Marc Ribot, who gives "Midnight Sun" a rakish blues saunter that recalls Ribot's work with Tom Waits. "Krishna Blue" evokes a stark desert setting which, after six minutes, peaks into a propulsively cinematic image of Arabic nomads marching through your tent. Deepak Ram's Indian flute and Singh's tablas lend a middle-eastern texture to that song, and to "All of My Mother's Names," an atmospheric, tribal stew with distant, spacey Miles Davis horns and organ fills that breaks into a post-bebop John McLaughlin/Mahavishnu Orchestra-like guitar skronkfest courtesy of Ribot. Close consideration of the lyrics can give you the uncomfortable feeling that you're about to be converted to Buddhism, but all can be forgiven on the strength of "Dobro #1," a brief, spare glimpse into endless interstellar beauty.
After six albums of monochromatic folk and Jayhawks-assisted country-rock, it seemed that Joe Henry's career would forever remain as unassuming as his name. But on 1996's Trampolene,, he discovered something that rarely enters most country-folker's vocabulary - flamboyance. He broke from the roots-rock chains and covered Sly & the Family Stone, and assimilated noise guitar and opera singers Fuse continues those innovations and burns them into Henry's best, most complete artistic statement. Completely gone are his days of grinning and picking. On this album reveals a newfound love affair with the science of sound, strutting confidently with a lush, highly detailed production of urban soul and Lloyd Cole sheen. "Angels" boasts a squishy space organ and a funky Al Green rhythm track, as filtered through the Afghan Whigs, topped by surprising alto sax breaks by R.R. King. In a non-segregated music industry, this would have climbed the R&B charts. Many of the songs feature trip-hop rhythms that are used sparely enough to avoid tiresome cliches. "Way Too Much" sounds like a Blaxploitation soundtrack with Isaac Hayes strings and a Superfly wah-wah guitar, and a haunting clave courtesy of Daniel Lanois. The funk flows on with wriggly Parliament-style keyboards and synths on the instrumental "Curt Flood." The album peaks on "Beautiful Hat." With moving lyrics and sublime horn charts from the Dirty Dozen Brass Band, it may be Henry's loveliest song ever. His lyrics are consistently captivating, drawing the listener in to the astute character studies and stories. The album ends perfectly with the cabaret theater of "We'll Meet Again," which is pure Randy Newman.
Sam Prekop's body of work has always reflected a logical progression. In Shrimp Boat and The Sea And Cake he explored country folk, jazz, soul, African, and Caribbean rhythms, and electronica, all within a consistent indie-pop sound. For his first solo album, Prekop is adding Brazillian bossa nova to his palate. Rather than steal the straight 50s rhumbas like so many nostalgia fetishists who shall go unnamed, he merely takes a part of its essence and updates it for the 90s, not unlike Arto Lindsay and Vinicius Cantuaria's latest works. Prekop and Lindsay also share a soft, breathy singing style that floats over and through the music like lillipads on a moonlit pond. And like Lindsay, he has assembled a group of diverse, crack musicians who make the fusion of diverse styles sound relaxed and effortless. They include guitarist Archer Prewitt (The Coctails, The Sea And Cake), upright bassist Josh Abrams (Town & Country), violinist Julie Pomerleau, and Chicago Underground Duo's Chad Taylor (percussion) and Rob Mazurek (trumpet). This album's secret weapon, however, is the production and ambitious arrangements by former Gastr del Sol and avant-garde trickster Jim O'Rourke, who's currently on a Van Dyke Parks kick. The centerpiece is the instrumental "Faces And People," with a hypnotic guitar-rim shot loop and muted Miles Davis cornet. The songs sound deceptively low key, but O'Rourke helps pack the delicate songs with picky, intricate details that still have room to breathe.
Jim O'Rourke has quietly become one of the most important musicians of the 90s. This restless iconoclast and an unstoppable force began as a Derek Bailey-inspired improvisational guitarist and tireless avant-garde tape loop alchemist and developed into an indispensable collaborator (Red Krayola, Faust, Gastr del Sol, Bobby Conn, Sonic Youth) and a burgeoning pop star. Well, not quite a star, but since Bad Timing, he has been going in a more populist direction. On his previous album he paid homage to John Fahey. This time around he gives props to Van Dyke Parks (best known for his Smile-era collaboration with the Beach Boys, but most notably his 1967 psych masterpiece, Song Cycle) and even a cover of Burt Bacharach's "Something Big." Indeed, compared to his jagged deconstructionist history, this is bar far the most easy-listening, and also the prettiest music he's ever made. The spicy stew of brass, woodwinds, strings and piano suggest he recorded this around the same time he produced Sam Prekop's album. This is probably less a shot at mainstream acceptance than a brief indulgence before he moves on to something completely different. Savor it while you can.
What could possibly inhabit the space between Radiohead's OK Computer and Beck's Mutations? Can You Still Feel? can possibly answer that question. All three albums were produced by Nigel Godrich. While one-man-band Jason Falkner lacks the world-dominating impact of the first two artists, he is a highly capable pop tunesmith with a long history, beginning as a teenage guitarist for The Three O'Clock. After subsequent stints with Jellyfish and The Grays, Falkner assisted Eric Mathews on his popular orchestral pop debut, and released his own self-produced Presents Author Unknown in 1996. Can You Still Feel? maintains the songwriting quality of his debut while increasing the visceral and emotional impact on songs like "I Already Know" with sweeping orchestral arrangements anchored to earth with an honest rock 'n' roll bottom.
Today's most popular electronica artists have achieved their fame through macho cock-rock bluster (Prodigy, Chemical Brothers) and goofy disco bombast (Fatboy Slim). Scottish master of understatement Howie B is quite content remaining underwater (his still-in-the-womb lullaby to his baby girl on 1996's Music For Babies) and under the sheets (his 1997 sexy, funky, beatcrazy Turn The Dark Off) on his solo albums released on his own record label Pussy Foot, named after a 1973 Brian Eno/Robert Fripp collaboration. Snatch takes elements from his brilliant production work with Bjork, U2, Tricky and Sly and Robbie and this time gets under your skin, expanding the scope of his easily recognizable mix of murky beats, clever loop grooves and bubbly acid jazz. The only way he'll top this is by adding a strong personality, like his (hopefully for his sake still current) girlfriend, Bjork.
With her overrated but universally likable 1997 debut, Trailer Park, Beth Orton drew a lot of attention with the techno-lite production by William Orbit, who later revitalized Madonna's sagging career. This time around, Orton has shed her identity as an honorary Chemical Sister and made a lovely, tasteful folk record. Without the distraction of electronic beats, the influence of space-folksters like Nick Drake and Tim Buckley become even more apparent, along with her Joni Mitchell/Sandy Denny phrasing. The songs vary between lush string arrangements and spare acoustic accompaniment. While there are a couple standout songs ("Sweetest Decline" and "Feel to Believe"), most blend into each other, melancholy love songs that fall about you like dry Autumn leaves. The lyrics might evoke empathy with lovelorn college girls, but they remain content to be fairly mundane. That doesn't mean it's an album worth owning and hearing. Van Morrison got away with it on Tupelo Honey. But Ms. Orton has yet to create her own Astral Weeks.
Any talented, beautiful female country singer has to face many perils in their career. They constantly have to balance the line between being bludgeoned by the Nashville mainstream into a vapid, perky sex kitten (Shania Twain) or driven away from country altogether (Maria McKee). One would do well to take on the gutsy and independent Lucinda Williams as a role model. Kelly Willis has taken a step in the right direction with her fourth album. She is no stranger to reconciling the conflicts between her rockabilly roots and the pressure to be a commercial success. What I Deserve is her bid for popularity that is polished but not too slick, taking one step forward, one step sideways in her squaredance with potential mass popularity. On her irridescent cover of Nick Drake's "Time Has Told Me," she's your favorite hippie space cowgirl having a Sister Lovers style hootenanny campfire on the moon. Unfortunately her lovely voice does not maintain such a vivid identity for the whole album. Despite the capable songwriting assistance of Gary Louris (Jayhawks, Golden Smog) on three tracks, most of the songs do not go beyond pleasant-but-ordinary. Next time out if she could ditch the weak Paul Westerberg and Paul Kelly covers, hole up for a couple years and dig deep into her songwriting chops, she'll easily top this and finally get what she deserves.
Dose is the second side project from Los Lobos' David Hidalgo, Louie Perez, Lobos producer Mitchell Froom and engineer Tchad Blake. Like their first album, this is a loosely chaotic, distorted mess. But this time they may have surpassed anything done by Los Lobos. Like tropicalista cut 'n' paste terrorist Tom Ze, or more recently Tom Waits, Beck and Ozomatli, the Latin Playboys cram about a hundred different influences in every song, and make it sound like natural down-home folk music as old as the hills. Which is, as a matter of fact, how the original bluegrass, blues and Mexican folk masters did it in the first place. This is the urban East L.A. folk of roaring engines, creaking snack carts, scratchy percussion, the psychedlic haze of ganja smoke and smog, and oh yeah, some of that screaming rock 'n' roll guitar.
Los Lobos guitarist/singer Cesar Rosas has gone in the opposite direction, leaving behind Mitch Froom's ornate production of Los Lobos' Colossal Head for a more traditional approach. With half the album co-written with Asleep At The Wheel's Leroy Peterson, his forays into blues, Tex Mex and New Orleans soul are pleasant, but lack the bite of his band. And he certainly lacks the deranged "vou-dou" of Dr. John, who's classic "Gris-Gris Gumbo Ya Ya" he liberally quotes. Like the similar tradition-rooted Iguanas, you're better off saving your money and seeing them in your favorite bar when they pass through town.
While mining similar roots-rock territory (especially New Orleans R&B) as Cesar Rosas, fellow L.A. native Chuck E. Weiss approaches the grittier sound of the Latin Playboys with a little help from his partner in crime Tom Waits. Best known as the title character of Rickie Lee Jones' 1979 "Chuck E.'s in Love," this beatnik blues hipster's formative teenage years were spent touring with Lightnin' Hopkins. He befriended Waits in 1972 and penned several soundtracks. Extremely Cool is his first recording in eighteen years. He speaks, moans, growls and yowls through songs full of parody ("Rocking In The Kibbitz Room") and humor ("Pygmy Fund"). Not surprisingly the best two -- the earnestly soulful "It Rains On Me" and "Do You Know What I Idi Amin" -- are co-written by Waits.
Former Weezer member Matt Sharp wrote this album while hanging out for a year in Barcelona, Spain, enjoying the nightly festivities that seem to go nonstop. There is a big contrast between the dark, gloomy pictures of the Gothic Barrio on the cover art and the bouncy new wave and Britpop on the album. It seems Sharp was more influenced by the bad pop music played in Barcelona's cheesy dance clubs than its twisted, moody medieval streets. Not that this music is bad. While it lacks the obvious hits, the happy, scrappy songs are of a more enduring breed of rock than Sharp's old band. Recorded in London with guests like Damon Albarn, he doesn't quite match the depth of Blur, but does achieve some memorable moments. The best, and most promising as a single is the catchy "Barcelona," which recalls Frank Blank's equally earnest tribute to Los Angeles.
It's ironic that, during his tenure with Uncle Tupelo, Jeff Tweedy's songs were the weakest. Because he has developed into a much stronger songwriter, eclipsing his former partner Jay Farrar's band Son Volt. Any dangling connections with the "No Depression" alternative country scene Uncle Tupelo is credited (or blamed) for sparking are left twisting in the wind by this shiny, upbeat, nearly psychedelic pop album. Unfortunately, part of what makes this album different is what holds it down. I'm all for the use of creative, trippy recording techniques, but with some artists it just doesn't fit. There are some great songs here, but too many are cluttered by the multilayered production tricks. While a band like Olivia Tremor Control integrates them seamlessly with their music, this sounds like it was tossed and sprinkled on top. I heard many of these songs performed by Tweedy solo with just a guitar, and they held up much better without the distracting sound affects. Despite that, Summer Teeth at least equals the consistent high quality of their previous work. Look forward to hearing relatively stripped down, more rocking versions in their live show. And if you miss that, I'm sure someday they'll come out with that live double album.
After a seven year absence, XTC are pared down to the songwriting duo of Andy Partridge and Colin Moulding. Rather than rebuild a band, they chose to hire an orchestra, resulting in lush, bucolic arrangements that recall the sound of Skylarking, if not its majestic melodies. The symphonic strings and warm horns are inviting, like a chamber music serenade in a post-wedding gondola ride. But soon they feel insecure that they may be revisiting old ground, so they ambush you with unsettling atonal notes and the boat tips over. Some of the songs grow over you like pale green moss over repeated listens, and others stay forever inaccessible. While Apple Venus can't completely escape the shadow of the past, it's a typically pleasant, whimsical ride, at least for hardcore XTC fans. Although if they were to retread anything, I would personally prefer the spastically caffeinated, prickly pop of White Music and Go 2.
Champaign Illinois's Poster Children has been through it all - the surprisingly early indie rock hit single, the major label feeding frenzy, the corporate indifference after not selling enough records. After twelve years, they've built their own studio, self-produced their first album, and finally settled into being a consistently excellent band. Known for their piledriving live shows, they have had problems with creating consistent albums. This takes a step closer to solving that problem, but still suffer some filler. When they attempt to toy with pretentious voice overs and new wavey synths they flounder. But on tracks like "Accident Waiting To Happen" and "6X6," they're best when stripped down to the mean, lean, post-punk machine (a la Gang Of Four and Wire) that they're meant to be.