Despite their inherent uncommerciality, Asian Dub Foundation burst with star power. With names like Sun-J, Dr Das, Pandit G and Chandrasonic, they sound like cartoon superheroes, fearless bigot slayers whose agit-pop hybrid of at least a dozen genres of music (including hardstep jungle, ragga, reggae, dancehall, hip-hop, punk) cannot be easily defined or pigeonholed in simplified marketing terms. Put simply, it's the new street music -- at least in Great Britain -- with as much energy as Germany's digital hardcore techno-terrorists Atari Teenage Riot, or L.A's Rage Against The Machine, and more creativity than anyone. Much like hip-hop pioneers Public Enemy on Yo! Bum Rush The Show, ADF made a bold introductory statement with their nearly impossible-to-find debut Facts And Fictions, and then melted brains with their second album, Rafi's Revenge in 1998. Like PE's Fear Of A Black Planet, ADF perfects their initial innovations on their third effort, while making increasingly articulate lyrical and political statements. Deeder, who began MCing for ADF seven years ago at the age of 15, has matured into a nimble rapper, a masterful toaster and storyteller. Chandrasonic's slashing guitars are more aggressive and catchy. The band's mixology, turntablism and riddim science have been refined into peak powers. The album begins mid-riot with "Real Great Britain," in which they waste no time in identifying the enemies and admonishing the phoneys -- "shoegazer nation forever looking backwards/time to reject the sixties charade". "Memory War" tackles government control of how history is taught, breaking it down with concise sitar 'n' dub knowledge. "New Way New Life" reigns in their attack with an uplifiting, melodic skank about their pride in their Asian community. These are field recordings of a cultural force in action. Rather than whine about the state of things, ADF back up their polemics by organizing a community based on ethnicity, politics and music (including education projects and ADFED), not unlike the commune centered around much maligned British anarchists Crass twenty years before. Sure, songs like "Collective Mode" are not very funny or sexy (the closest they come is with the undulating cover of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan's "Taa Deem," a welcome return from the overlooked tribute/remix album Star Rise), but they are certainly fun. Witness their shows, where raver kids, hipsters and crusty hippies alike jump and dance as the band kicks euphoric. Unlike one-trick-pony brethren like Fun-Da-Mental, ADF varies the pace, slowing things down with the apocalyptic Ennio Morricone Western of "The Judgement," the spliffed out dub of "Truth Hides" and the delicately beautiful space-rock instrumental "Scaling New Heights." "Committed To Life" features the words and voice of exiled American Black Panther freedom fighter Assata Shakur, who is also, coincidentally, also paid tribute to on Common's new album. Community Music is an important and entertaining landmark. If there's any justice, the supremely funky "Rebel Warrier" will become a huge club hit, making this a revolution the masses can dance to.
At last, at last, a hip-hop album that is deep, funny, musical, and thoroughly enjoyable from start to finish. Northern California based DJ Chief Xcel and MC Gift Of Gab have proven themselves to be the new kings of underground hip-hop, nudging over The Roots, Black Star and Outkast. They make it clear how they got there, by living and breathing hip-hop's entire history, taking it to church with uplifting, soulful lyrics worthy of Curtis Mayfield, and to the lab with the most creative beat science since Quannum labelmate DJ Shadow's masterpiece. "Searching" introduces the album with an earnest manifesto that is inspired by the more sarcastic metaphysical rants of Funkadelic. It succeeds in establishing an air of expectation of something huge to follow. "The Fabulous Ones" announces their arrival, but is more of a feint to the crushing blow of "Do This My Way," where the spirit of Boogie Down Productions is evoked in the spare beats. Gift Of Gab demonstrates his brilliantly syncopated cadence which is also more consistently in key with the music since the heyday of the Native Tongues Posse, "Such a beautiful thing/This musical thang/When I can do it my way." "A To G" slays all competing MC's with wickedly clever poetics in just over two minutes. "Cliff Hanger" melds old-skool Run-DMC beats to minor-key atmospherics, setting up a spooky thriller that packs more eerie impact than the Gravediggaz' entire catalog. The heavy rhythms lighten up for a bit with the lovely guitar strumming and female choruses of "If I May." After the twelfth track, Blackalicious could have stopped and had one of the best hip-hop albums in years. Instead, they increase the creativity level to devastating effect, with the Fela Kuti groove of "Smithzonian Institute of Rhyme," framed by delicate middle-eastern melodies. The jazz-tinged "As The World Turns" and Stevie Wonder keyboard-driven "Making Progress" are timeless 70s soul grooves that will send Lauryn Hill packing and going back to school. "Reanimation" features an Outkast-style chorus that is more propulsively catchy than anything from Blackalicious' contemporaries. The album winds down with "Sleep," possibly the sweetest sounding hip-hop lullaby ever written. The third-rate MTV R&B crooners would sell their collective souls for a piece of that beauty. Oh, yeah, they already did. Nia is the benchmark against which all other hip-hop will likely be compared.
The Eels frontman/pop genius' (who answers to merely the vowel 'E') third offering is much more upbeat than 1998's Electro-Shock Blues. Then again, Nick Cave's Murder Ballads was more life-affirming than that album, which deals with E's sister's suicide and his mother's terminal illness in painful detail. E is not necessarily viewing life entirely through rose-coloured glasses. "It's A Motherfucker" is a meditation on loss. Whether it's merely the end of a relationship, or the end of a life, it is less dramatic than the harrowing accounts on the previous album, which was recorded at the same time, with Grant Lee Phillips and Peter Buck helping out on piano, guitar and bass. The final hidden track is "Mr. E's Beautiful Blues," an insanely bouncy ditty in an over-the-top "Brown Eyed Girl"/"Hang On Sloopy" kind of way that he can't be serious when he sings "Goddam right, it's a beautiful day." Or is he? Much like Beck, E is just as comfortable sitting back and relaxing with an acoustic guitar as he is creating fussy, arty pop masterpieces with inventive arrangements and effects. Like Mutations, Daisies Of The Galaxy is a deceptively simple sounding acoustic folk-pop album that upon closer examination reveals some complex, orchestrated surprises. Everyone knows that death and misery sells. It is a testament to E's talent, discipline and integrity that he skips the tantalizing melodrama for less attention-grabbing ruminations on life and beauty. It is also refreshing that he doesn't suffer from the narcissistic asshole syndrome of many rock stars. The songs are full of small details rather than grandiose statements, with a dry wit ("Tiger In My Tank": "I bought some rock star ashes/From the back of Rolling Stone/I guess he wouldn't mind it/They couldn't sell his soul") and self-deprecating humor ("Grace Kelly Blues"). This is the Eels' best work, a perfectly sweet pop album just in time for Spring. Meet Mr. E, your new favorite songwriter.
Brett and Rennie Sparks of The Handsome Family aren't the first alternative country band to be accused of insincerity. Will Oldham has forever been criticized for tainting his Appalacian folk with sneering sarcasm. While they may have been guilty of this in the beginning, it is apparent that all artists concerned have truly fallen in love with the music. While Handsome Family's third album, Through The Trees featured irony and intellectualism, their sensual harmonies were as sincere as it gets. The Chicago-based husband and wife duo recorded their fourth album cheaply at home on their Macintosh, but have achieved a lushness that rivals Lambchop, and timeless songwriting that transcends genre and geography. Rennie Sparks' lyrical concerns recall Nick Cave's obsession with gothic country and murder ballads (the remorseless fratricide of "Up Falling Rock Hill" and "My Beautiful Bride"). Themes of death, fear, and nature as a deadly force run rampant. In "Poor, Poor Lenore," Edgar Allan Poe meets Tim Burton, and their lovelorn protégé is carried off by crows. The clam digger in "Lie Down" is seduced by the sea into drowning, and "The Sad Milkman" leaps from his rooftop to join the moon, his "milky goddess." Before you decide they need to check themselves into therapy, morbid themes have been a staple of American music since long before The Carter Family, the Louvin Brothers and gospel. The fire and brimstone hymnal "When That Helicopter Comes" predicts that "the dead gonna wake and sing and roll their bones in the grass." Two of the prettiest songs, "A Beautiful Thing" and "So Much Wine" share similar stories of romantic longing foiled by too much alcohol and bloody accidents, with the beauty of the night sky providing bittersweet respite. The songs of In The Air achieve a perfect musical fusion thanks to Brett's imaginative and delicate touch with a wide variety of folky instruments and found objects. Andew Bird supplements his "fiery violin" on a few tracks. Alt. Country naysayers and party poopers beware, The Handsome Family have arrived with a classic album and there's nothing y'all can do about it other than come to terms with it before it destroys you.
On his fourth release, Common is confident enough not to rely on the guest star power of Lauryn Hill and Erykah Badu, as he did on 1997's One Day It Will All Make Sense. The Chicago native and current Brooklyn resident continues, however, to feature a slew of other slightly less famous musical collaborators with enriching results. The album kicks off with "Time Travelin' (A Tribute to Fela)" featuring the deceased King of Afrobeat's son Femi Kuti, and some eerie post-Bitches Brew trumpet playing by Roy Hargrove. At 6:37, however, the song is about eight minutes too short to properly pay homage to Fela's massive afro-funk grooves. The majority of the album is produced by The Soulquarians, including D'Angelo and executive producer Ahmir "?uestlove" Thompson from The Roots, providing an earthy, soulful sound that perfectly suits Common's typically righteous raps. It's a tribute to A Tribe Called Quest's lasting influence that an organic, 50s-era hard bop jazz vibe permeates the album. The funk groove extends on the James Brown-worthy "Heat" and the syncopated "Cold Blooded" with imaginative background vocals by The Roots. The album settles into an easyflowing, loping cadence, highlighted by strong appearances by Mos Def ("The Questions") and MC Lyte on "A Film Called (Pimp)," an audacious and hilarious look at how men simultaneously pander to the latest popular feminist discourse while still trying to hold on to their mack daddy images. The album peaks at the end with "A Song For Assata," a moving, harrowing tribute to the Black Panther revolutionary Assata Shakur, who was shot and beaten by police and had her daughter taken from her before being exiled to Cuba. Goodie Mob's Cee-Lo provides soulful backing vocals. It's encouraging to see the supportive, collaborative spirit between hip-hoppers that harkens back to the golden age of jazz when individual egos took a back seat to the love of music. This could be a sign of a second golden age of hip-hop. While Like Water For Chocolate doesn't quite deserve the hype of its package sticker, "The first must-have hip-hop album of 2000" (heLLOOO, Blackalicious?!), it certainly measures up to the passionate, magical-realist book by Laura Esquivel it took its title from.
Gung Ho is the third album by punk's Godmother since she made her comeback after a 17-year absence with 1996's Gone Again. Part of Patti Smith's motivation in coming back was her belief in rock 'n' roll's power to heal wounds, as she had recently lost her husband Fred Smith and old friend Robert Mapplethorpe. It was thanks partly to her efforts, especially on the transcendently poetic Horses, that rock could ever coexist with metaphysical spirituality. Ironically, Gung Ho gets closer than the other two albums to the heights achieved by early Patti Smith when she is motivated primarily by the need to rock. And rock she does. Thanks to the stability of the lineup (including the venerable Lenny Kaye, Tony Shanahan, Jay Dee Daugherty and Oliver Ray), it sounds more like a band album, with a majority of songwriting credits shared with band members. "Boy Cried Wolf," "Persuasion," "Glitter In Their Eyes" and "New Party" may not be heavy enough to appease kids weaned on Rage Against The Machine or, er, Korn, but they certainly rival any of the overrated comeback work of, say, Neil Young. The songs are full of pop hooks and keyboard flourishes that sometimes recall former CBGBs associates Blondie, in a good way. Smith shows she hasn't lost her light touch with the lilting vocals of the delicate "China Bird." "Grateful" is a surprising tribute to Jerry Garcia, its acoustic beauty eclipsing anything his band ever achieved. Smith has always been at her best when she stretches her songs past the eight minute mark. "About A Boy," "Fireflies" and the improvisational "Memento Mori" were highlights of her last two albums. But the gripping "Strange Messenger" comes closer to the majesty of "Birdland" than any of them. The album closes with the positively epic 11:45 title track. It's a vivid journey that follows a boy born in a war torn country who grows up to be a revolutionary and dies in battle. "One more revolution/one more turn of the wheel." Patti Smith may no longer be able to revolutionize rock 'n' roll like she did in 1975, but she has certainly arrived as a consistently vital, current artist rather than merely a comeback.
I recall an interview with Jon Spencer in late '94 in which he said while the Blues Explosion had no interest in signing to a major label, his wife Cristina Martinez wanted a piece of the rock-star trappings with major label support, MTV videos and the whole shebang. And like a good husband, Spencer was going to support her and he was gonna like it, damn right. Boss Hog enjoyed a small taste of the pie with their 1995 major label debut, but not as much as less deserving bands like Hole. When the band was dropped last year, instead of crying in their beer like most of the other former indie-sellout wussies, Boss Hog recorded their third and best album for the indie label In The Red. Whiteout introduces their new secret weapon, keyboardist Mark Boyce from under-appreciated hip-hop band The Goats. He adds a noir-ish BarryAdamson (of Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds) flair to some songs, and a earthy Stax-Volt soul flavor to others. Martinez's first priority now may be her baby, but that doesn't prevent her from getting down, sexy and downright nasty. It is a perfect balance of funky dance rhythms, post-Pussy Galore scum rock and new wave. "Get It While You Wait" deserves to be a hit with its perfect pop moment of "doh-doh-doh" choruses. Throughout the record, Martinez's vocals are stronger than ever, at times recalling the powerful Flatula Lee Roth of Tragic Mulatto and Leslie Rankine of Silverfish and Ruby. Songs like "Whiteout," "Chocolate" and "Itchy & Scratchy" perfect the danceable rock that Ruby and Luscious Jackson have attempted. "Stereolight" is a fascinating mix of choppy guitar riffs with a sleek Stereolab vibe. The only disappointment is that at merely 10 songs, the album leaves one wanting more (you can just about fit it on a 74-minute CDR with the Girl + EP and Boss Hog...it's high time someone reissues their first album and two EPs from Amphetamine Reptile). If there is justice, today's savvy kids will get with the program, toss out their Garbage and ride the Hog.
A lot of praise has been thrown about regarding the resurgence of "divas" recently. Most of the singers have not quite grown into such statures that would deserve such a title. But the pres was half right. One merely needs to look beyond the increasingly irrelevant limits of nationality, culture and language. The World Music boom of the eighties got a bad rap partly because some artists were introduced to the world market who were not ready. Some were overproduced and sacrificed their distinction in trying to appeal to white Westerners, while others were recorded hurriedly resulting in the stiff sound of ethnomusicology recordings. Thankfully a handful of experienced labels have learned to handle artists as individuals and cultivate their talents. The result was a late 90s renaissance of classic albums, and the emergence of three women in particular who reign supreme. Susana Baca was introduced to the world outside of her native Peru by David Byrne's 1995 Luaka Bop compilation The Soul of Black Peru. Her first album for that label was a lovely folky summarization of Baca's unique take on Afro-Peruvian music. Her second and latest album, Eco de Sombras (Echo of Shadows) continues to explore the ancient rhythms of lando, alcatraz and samba, but this time with a more edgy contemporary sound. Producer Craig Street (Cassandra Wilson, Paula Cole) came on board, bringing with him hip downtown New York musicians, including Tom Waits/John Zorn bassist Greg Cohen, keyboard jazzbo John Medeski, and fresh from Los Cubanos Postizos, former Tom Waits guitarist Marc Ribot to supplement Baca's regular band. Despite their intimidating avant-garde credentials, the band's playing is sufficiently understated not to steal Baca's limelight. She adopts lyrics from several songwriters and poets, taking the possession of the themes of tortured love ("De Los Amores"), violent love ("Valentín"), romantic love ("Poema"), sensual love ("Los Amantes," "La Macorina"), slavery ("El Mayoral"), freedom ("Golpe E' Tierra") and more love ("Reina Mortal"). Baca may be in her 40s, but her voice has a timeless beauty that sounds eternally youthful, with the seductiveness to go with it -- "We the lovers/ Above us, rain and love/ Ceaseless rain/ unceasing love/ Above us, the rain, like love/ moistens the lovers." Everything is sung in Spanish, and even if you don't understand the words, Susana Baca's passion is unceasing, and soon you will love her as much as everyone who has heard her siren.
Until 1994, Virginia Rodrigues was a seamstress and unknown singer in Salvador, Brazil, until one night a religious performance of the Latin dirge "Veronica" (included on her 1997 debut Sol Negro) moved Caetano Veloso to tears. Widely considered the most impressive vocalist in Brazil, her singing is more operatically powerful than sexy, and the music on Nós is accordingly more sober and stately. Not that this is a stiff, churchy affair. After all, these are reinterpretations of songs written for the frenzied competitions of the famous Brazillian Carnaval by the Olodum, Ile and Aye samba schools. Some of the arrangements are genuinely punchy, such as the strutting bossa nova of "Afrekêtê," the sunny, even downright poppy "Ojú Obá" and the African drum-and-chorus dance of "Male Debale." But the overall mood is more in tune with "Uma Historia de Ifa," which evokes wonder more than movement, with its sensual acoustic guitars and chamber strings. Her inimitably mesmerizing alto may be an acquired taste for some, but her uncompromising persistence in pursuing her own vision will pay off in the long run, for there is no one in the world remotely like Virginia Rodrigues.
Affectionately known as the "barefoot diva," and the queen of morna (Cape Verdean blues), Cesaria Evora has been actively recording the longest, since the late eighties. There have been many recent reissues that nicely recap her folky traditional music rooted in the small West African island of Cape Verde. For those not yet acquainted with Evora's charms, however, Café Atlantico is the best place to start. Recorded in France and Cuba, it makes use of additional non-traditional instrumentation much like Susana Baca's latest. The arrangements, however, are more like big-band, and occasionally overdo the strings and flutes ("Amor Di Mundo"). Fortunately, the syrup is kept more tastefully in the background for spryly syncopated dance numbers like "Sorte," "Carnaval De São Vicente" and "Beijo De Longe." Other styles are incorporated, including Portuguese fado, Brazilian samba and even an accordian-driven polka. "Nho Antone Escaderode" is about wild drunken times fueled by rum punch, with boisterous Afro-Cuban percussion adding to the festivities. West Africa and Cuban have participated in an informal rhythm exchange program for decades, and the latin grooves permeate much of the album. This is good news for the wide audience turned on to Cuban son by The Buena Vista Social Club film and albums. Here is something a little different that is richly rewarding, and equally danceable.
Artists such as Massive Attack, Portishead and Tricky always get the credit for originating the hybrid of dub, soul, dance, hip-hop and electronica known as trip-hop. Yet Margaret Fiedler and Guy Fixsen were doing some of the same things with Moonshake in the early 90s. Laika's 1994s debut Silver Apples Of The Moon was a groundbreaking classic that has rarely gotten credit for its brilliant feat of making its dense polyrhythmic electronica sound organic. Good Looking Blues is Laika's third release, and is in the unfortunate position of sounding familiar now that many other artists, from Stereolab to Gus Gus and Björk, have incorporated their innovations. Nevertheless it is an essential new chapter in the band's development, progressing from 1997's Sounds of the Satellites by lightening up on the frantic heart-attack beats and incorporating more slinky dance rhythms. It still stands out from typical club fare, with subtle touches that can be surprising, but are still distinct, such as when the funky "Go Fish" uses West African rhythms in the background. Fiedler has grown as a vocalist, varying her usual hushed raps by truly belting it out on "Glory Cloud." Any passion, lust, anger in the lyrics are controlled to a slow simmer, tempered by a consistently dry humor which is overdone in "Badtimes," taken from an actual anonymous joke e-mail about a virus of mythological proportions. Amusing as it is, it belongs on a Bongwater record, or better to have been left to rot in cyber-Hell. All is forgiven in the stunning post-Bitches Brew Miles Davis space-horn driven funk of "Widows' Weed," proving that no one can sound like Laika better than Laika.
The Dirty Three are an Australian instrumental trio who seemed to have peaked with their second and third albums, which reach the depths of despair and decaying beauty and the heights of middle-Eastern tinged rock fury. But where the disappointingly subdued fourth album Ocean Songs failed to even remotely touch upon their passion, Whatever You Love, You Are succeeds. Learning from their mistake that a stripped down approach does not necessarily result in a subtle masterpiece, this time around they spent more time manipulating the sounds to bring out the ethereal quality of their music. In particular, Warren Ellis's violin is manipulated and multi-tracked, proving that it is Ellis who drives the band to greatness. It's no wonder why his rustic, mournful tones have been retained by Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds for the past several years, along with a recent album by German diva Ute Lemper. Yet without the always perfect accompaniment of Mick Turner's expressionistic guitar and Jim White's ornamental drums, they just wouldn't be The Dirty Three. The album is still missing the fiery crescendos of their live shows, but all is forgiven when one hears the heart-wrenching centerpiece, "I Offered It Up To The Stars & The Night Sky." Nearly 14 minutes long and not a wasted second, the stately song has a classical structure, like a Beethoven composition if he had been commissioned to score a soundtrack like Ennio Morricone. It's instrumental indie rock for those who are unimpressed by most instrumental bands who are often humorless and self-important. With titles like "Some Things I Just Don't Want To Know" and "I Really Should've Gone Out Last Night," Dirty Three keep it real with healthy doses of self-deprecation, which is charismatically displayed by Ellis in his hilarious, rambling drunken introductions to the songs. Think of it as ambient music with a humanistic edge and play it at your next dinner party or midsummer night's mashing.
Lambchop are not your average southern rock band. Comprised of more members than Lynnard Skynnard ever had (alive and dead), they manage to make a dozen instruments sound like a low key hootenanny. Not that the sound is lo-fi. There are definitely sweeping moments of post-Nashville string arrangements. But they're so strangely quiet. Their first two albums were difficult to listen to. Lead vocalist and songwriter Kurt Wagner's voice was a strikingly rich baritone, but you could barely hear what was going on in the songs. After a while it's like having an itch you cannot scratch. Perhaps it was while they were recording two seventies soul numbers for 1998's What Another Man Spills when they had a revelation - that they don't have to be unintelligible while playing softly. Taking their cue from Al Green and Curtis Mayfield, the band has achieved a new clarity on Nixon, their fifth and best release. The violin suites still evoke a cinematic moodiness similar to Tindersticks, but with an added funky sass to balance out moments of narcolepsy. The result is a synthesis of distinctly American music that is disorientating, thus, wonderfully original. The downside to Wagner's soul influence is his newfound falsetto, featured on "Grumpus," "You Masculine You" and "What Else Could It Be?" It may be ironic and campy, but to me it just sounds like Miss Piggy, I kid you not. He makes up for it with a pair of stunning southern-gothic love songs, "The Distance From Her To There" and "The Book I Haven't Read." The shimmering use of horns, pedal steel and orchestral flourishes are particularly understated and appropriate here. Later, Lambchop explores their dark side with a surreal cover of "The Butcher Boy" and the menacing "The Petrified Florist." The shift in mood could have been jarring, but in Lambchop's 24-plus capable hands, it is merely the last piece in the puzzle of their own uniquely compelling version of American folk.
Guitarist Ira Kaplan and drummer Georgia Hubley are a living testament to the fact that you don't have to have romantic strife and drama to create great music. Not that their marrige doesn't have struggle. "The Crying Of Lot G" features their most personal lyrics yet, assuming the marital conflict was their own. "The Last Days Of Disco" and "Our Way To Fall" seem to revisit their romantic past with Kaplan recalling, "I remember my face turned red/I remember staring at my feet." These two shy rock geeks would never have dreamed to expose themselves like this ten, or even five years ago. It seems that they now have the confidence to risk embarrassment because they know they're bad-asses now, that they have the musical and songwriting chops to stand on. Through patience and restraint, Yo La Tengo has made the rare achievement of reaching the peak of their powers fifteen years into their career. While their early albums had some great moments, no one would dare say they were better back in their Feelies/dBs jangle-pop days. This album revisits the acoustic intimacy of their 1990 covers-heavy Fakebook, combined with the guitar drones of 1992' May I Sing With Me. But this time, the longer space-outs are reigned tightly within the songs and used sparingly. The difference is that Kaplan seems to have come to terms with the fact that he will never be a guitar god. Their early-90s shows were riddled with excruciatingly long guitar-feedback solos. Since 1993's Painful, they have found their niche as a rock band with quirky songs about love and pop culture, filtered through a soft-focus lens of brush-drums, warm farfisa organs, vibes and gently fuzzed-out guitar. Their vocals are more up-close and cozy than ever, with heavenly "bop-bop-bop" choruses on "You Can Have It All" and harmonies on their first single, "Saturday." After showing how beautifully they could harmonize way back on Painful's "The Whole Of The Law," I'm surprised they haven't done it more often. There is only one rocker on this quiet album, the star-bursting power-pop of "Cherry Chapstick" that also leaves one wanting more. The cover of George McRae's 70s disco staple "You Can Have It All" ups the energy level a bit, but the album is definitely of a more singularly mellow mood. Play it next to their 1997 masterpiece I Can Hear the Heart Beating As One and you'll have a perfect summary of strengths of indie-rock's most valuable band.
After being consistently misunderstood about the Riot Girl movement and feuds with celebrities, one can't blame Kathleen Hanna for ending her band Bikini Kill and not looking back. Her first step forward was a partially successful solo album under the name Julie Ruin. Le Tigre fleshes out the best ideas from that and runs with it like a cat out of Hell. No longer hindered by issues of punk "authenticity," Hanna recruited the fresh talents of compatriots with backgrounds outside of rock 'n' roll -- Sadie Benning is an indie filmmaker and Johanna Fateman a zine publisher -- and let her tastes run free. Le Tigre will have you popping to new wave keyboards and girl-group harmonies, grooving to electronic boogaloos and shaking your moneymaker to on-the-one Motown beats. "Let's Run" is their statement of purpose -- "Oh we could rock/ Or we could bomb/ Or we could try/ Like super hard/ Or we could come/ Or we could lose/ Or we could totally totally, totally freak you." Of course, Hanna's involvement isn't totally selfless, as she coyly states, "I wanna spread my dementia...Give me attention...Don't want no crusty bullshit...Just wanna get electric tonight you know with you you you you." The song ends with "Or we could fail...So!?" So far the ride to potential failure is already worth the price of admission. "Deceptacon" is a cleverly sarcastic tease, asking, "Wanna see me disco?/ Let me hear you depoliticize my rhyme," and then into a goofy chorus with either irony or joyful abandon -- "Who took the Bomp from the Bompalompalomp?/ Who took the Ram from the Ramalamading dong?" "Hot Topic" puts a jump-rhythm to a roll call of several generations of female heroes, including Yoko Ono, Angela Davis, Nina Simone, Julie Doucet, and The Slits, pleading them to "don't stop...we won't stop/ I can't live if you stop." "What's Yr. Take On Cassavettes" is one of the most intriguing cuts in which they open discussion about the infamous filmmaker with "Genius? Misogynist? Messiah? Alcoholic?" "The The Empty" is the punkiest track that addresses musicians and celebrities whose hype-machines promise everything but give us nothing, "All that glitters is not gold/ I went to yr concert and I didn't feel anything". "Phanta" one-ups Elastica with a riff Wire would be proud to claim if they could. "Friendship Station" takes on swinging cocktail-jazz in the mode of Cibo Matto and Luscious Jackson. The last four songs continue in the same vein, eschewing hooks and melodies for cool electronic-lounge rhythms and spoken words. One is left wanting for just one more hot headed burst of energy. All the better, Ms. Hanna, to prime your audience for Le Tigre's world domination next time out.
Cadallaca are either a jokey supergroup side project or the best all-girl group in the Pacific Northwest, depending on your point of view. They go by the pseudonyms Dusty, Kissy and Junior, otherwise known as Corin Tucker of Sleater-Kinney, Sarah Dougher of the Crabs and STS of the Lookers. Cadallaca take their cue from Sleater-Kinney's "Dance Song '97," replacing their punk with new wave keyboards. While there are only four songs, Corin Tucker packs more riveting storytelling in this EP than her band's last entire album. "Out West" turns the tables on the typically mysoginist murder ballads when Dusty learns her man has been cheatin' on her out west, hunts him down and shoots his ass. "The Moon was dark and the sky was gray/God gave up on me today/My gun was hot and my mind slipped away." "Scarface" features a lovely guitar melody, girl-group handclaps and Dougher's moving vocals. "The Trouble With Public Places" most resembles Sleater-Kinney with its staccato guitar riffs and Corin's desperate singing, but breaks it down with organ solos worthy of the Spencer Davis Group. "Fake Karaoke Machine" brings things down to a whisper, and again is more emotionally convincing than one would ever expect from a side project. Out West is a much more focused effort than Cadallaca's inconsistent full-length debut, Introducing Cadallaca. Let's hope that Dusty, Kissy and Junior continue with another full length, or at the very least take their refreshed creativity and revive their other bands.
The Need are all about attitude, from their cool mod-ish name to their severe Russian constructivist cover art to their heavy post-punk guitars and robotic bleeps and farts. The Need are the power duo of Rachel Carns and Radio Sloan, mixing one half of Kicking Giant with early Ultravox, late Raincoats, Killing Joke, Six Finger Satellite and Metallica. Not that their sound is as dense as the latter three -- give 'em a break, they only have eight limbs. The album starts off where their debut left off, spare keyboard-driven new wave songs about superhero cybergirls and raunchy sex ("Vaselina" carries on from the last album's "Rim Me Isabella"). The singing is generally tuneless, but they are just too rad to let it matter. Then comes a complete surprise with "O Sally How's It Feel With A Fake Hand?," which is either a hilarious parody of The Melvins, complete with lo-end guitar crunch and an accurate pisstake on King Buzzo's vocal style, or an earnest tribute/cover. It extends into the next song, "Dark Sally," which is divided into three movements, including "Sally Iscariot." While this would be hilarious live, it's getting to be a bit much. By "Hellfire" you'll end up checking the CD changer to see if you're still listening to The Need, because it sounds more like early Slayer. They surprise again with the closing "Mona Tinsley," a haunting piano-driven piece with whispered, sexy vocals. Clocking in at 28 minutes, The Need Is Dead is both too much and not enough, which in a strange way, is just right.
Back in the early 90s, when the roster of the Too Pure label were the coolest new kids on the block (Moonshake, Stereolab, Pram, PJ Harvey), Th' Faith Healers were once the flagship band, melding frenzied speedracer tempos with high-strung, hypnotic two-chord repetitions that would extend to a half hour at live shows, recalling their obsession of space rockers Neu! Their kinetic motion was interrupted when they broke up in '93. Main songwriter and guitarist Tom Cullinan picked up new singer Nina Pascale and formed Quickspace. They floundered for two spotty albums, before hitting their stride with The Death of Quickspace. The chugging rhythms are reminiscent of Th' Faith Healers, but the raw guitars are refined into a more poppy, though still distorted sound. "The Lobbalong Song" is a swirling whirlpool of pixy sticks, guitars and keyboards whose sugar rush leaves one a bit woozy. "They Shoot Horse Don't They" builds slowly into a crescendo of mournful melodies and slashing guitars. Pascale's ethereal vocals provide a lighter touch, and she and Cullinan do more harmonizing than ever. But Quickspace won't be playing stadiums anytime soon -- there is still a fidgety unrest throughout the album that occasionally erupts in spiky guitar strangulations. Cullinan stubbornly adheres to his focused artistic vision on the spacey eleven minute "Climbing A Hill." "Munchers No Munchers" starts with a series of synthesizer squirts straight out of Rush's 2112, accompanied by a noisy circular guitar riff that spins like a top. But the time it slows and stops, you realize it was an instrumental, and a damn good one. The album evokes a vague nostalgia for great indie rock from the late eighties like Husker Du, The Pixies and bands from the Shimmy Disc label but have enough neo-futuristic tricks up their sleeves (theramin, electronics) to stay relevant through the 00s (I've been waiting to say that!).
It is no surprise that Tara Jane O'Neil's debut solo album bears little resemblance to the music I last saw her perform, Rodan's final, fiery show where, like their namesake, they clamped rock 'n' roll in their jaws and shook it like it was an animal soon to be devoured. Rather than linger to chew on the bones of indie rock's carcass, O'Neal moved on to less raucous projects like Retsin and The Sonora Pine. Peregrine is a personal affair in which she holed up in her New York apartment and played nearly all the instruments, including thumb-piano, balalaika and banjo with some friends dropping by to fill in the blanks. The resulting experiments meander without any typical driving rhythms or hooks, but are united by an airy acoustic consistency that billows like sheets in the breeze. The songs are studies in spare beauty, often evoking the zen koans of Nick Drake. The lyrics may or may not match the music's melancholy, as O'Neal mixed her vocals too low to be able to tell without headphones. But that's just as well, as such close listening will reveal the richly complex arrangements, with O'Neal whispering the words in your ear like your best friend at a slumber party. Loveliness.
Chan Marshall -- a.k.a. Cat Power -- truly arrived with her stunning 1998 album Moon Pix. Undaunted by the critical acclaim and expectations, Marshall has taken a side-step with an album of eleven covers and one original. Her confidence is evident when she starts with the cocky move of covering The Stones' venerable "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction." Not since Devo has this song seen such a daring reworking. Marshall reduces the song to two chords, a fragment of the lyric, and the bare essence of smoky cool that Mick Jagger hasn't had for nearly thirty years. All the covers, ranging from old folk standards ("Kingsport Town," "Salty Dog"), sixties classics (The Velvet Underground, Moby Grape, Bob Dylan) to recent indie-rock (Smog's "Red Apples") are pretty much successful. But the stark guitar and piano accompaniment leaves one craving a real band, like the two-thirds of Dirty Three, who so beautifully filled the desolate spaces in her last album. Yet it is on another bold cover of "Wild is the Wind," associated with the daunting Nina Simone, that Marshall's raspy, mesmerizing voice makes all instrumentation irrelevant. On "Sea of Love" she rescues the song from Robert Plant's schmaltzy eighties version and returns it to its rightful status of a meditation on sorrow. Any fan of the luminescent Cat Power cannot be without this, but hopefully it is only a prelude to the release of more brilliant originals in the near future.
The Dishes are reviving down 'n' dirty punk rock's post-Motorcity and roots along the lines of The Effigies, Naked Raygun and Cleveland's The Pagans. With the help of brother band The Nerves and other like-minded rocker cronies, the Chicago-based Dishes just might make the Midwest a place to punk out again. Overproduced mope rock, pretentious indie rock and testosterone addled lout rock are really getting to be a drag. The Dishes are the perfect antidote for anyone craving short bursts of unpretentious songs that can kick Limp Biscuit ass. Straw-grasping critics will compare The Dishes to every girl group under the sun. If anything, they recall the varied tempos and percussive vocals of late-70s mostly-female Brit bands Liliput, Delta 5, and early Slits and Au Pairs. More so in live shows than the album lets on, singer/guitarist Sarah Staskauskas lets loose some piercing rockabilly hics and Iggy Pop Fun House grunts and squeals as channeled through Liliput's Kaudia Schiff. The thirteen concise songs blow past in under 28 minutes and are best heard twice in a row to notice the details. "Punch Drunk" couples a fragment of Cheap Trick's "He's A Whore" with a melody that rivals the best of Sleater-Kinney. "Remote Control" is centered around a great locomotive guitar riff that would do the early Blues Explosion proud. "French Kissing" is hung on a tightly wound Wire hook, and "Lonely Nation" slows it down to a menacing strut. Time will tell if Sarah, Kiki, Sharon and Graeme fulfill the promise of their onstage rockstar charisma. For now, it's enough that the album will inspire a new generation of girls and boys to become guitar slingers. Slip The Dishes into your little sister's collection and hide her N'Sync. She may get in more trouble in the short run, but trust me, you'll like her better when she's grown up.
Shelby Lynne teaches a good lesson in how "selling out" does not always result in success. After playing by Nashville's rules through five albums, few knew know who Shelby Lynne is. To Hell with Nashville, she packed up and went back home to Alabama, and teamed up with producer Bill Bottrell (Sheryl Crow) and stormed the studio with aggressive eclecticism and therapeutic soul-baring. Lynne is still essentially a country artist, but colors her music with Memphis soul in the spirit of Dusty Springfield's "Son Of A Preacher Man" and Al Green's cover of Hank William's "I'm So Lonely I Could Cry." "Leavin'" is a break-up song that is as intensely personal as anything by Aretha Franklin, complete with Lynne doing her own soulful background vocals. Not everything is completely successful. The Phil Spector wall of sound of "Your Lies" and the alt-country pandering "Life Is Bad" come off as contrived enough to send less mainstream fans running. But they'll miss out on gems like "Gotta Get Back," complete with Stevie Wonder harmonica, and "Why Can't You Be?" which approaches the naked directness of Lucinda Williams, with a forceful Memphis horn section. The album peaks with Lynne's most intimate moment, "Where I'm From." Accompanied by a subdued guitar and faint strings, her voice whispers in your ear the melody of the heart-stopping chorus -- "Élégamment les batos passant/ ben on la flota vec du van/ all I'm trying to say is I'm/ never far away from/ Alabama frame of mind." Shelby Lynne has found herself, and thankfully, so have we.
As brilliant as RZA's post-Bomb Squad mixology is (and his hypnotic soundtrack to Jim Jarmusch's Ghost Dog: The Way Of The Samurai was perfect) the majority of The Wu-Tang Clan's body of work is unintelligible. After buying over a half dozen Wu-Tang releases, I realized that the prolific RZA was in serious need of an editor. Who has actually listened to the double album Wu-Tang Forever all the way through more than once? Rather than throw away half-baked ideas, he's simply use them as filler for Method Man and Ol' Dirty Bastard. Last year ODB put his foot down and limited RZA's involvement to three tracks for Nigga Please, instead using producers like The Neptunes. His reward was the most successful Wu-Tang-related project in three years. RZA may have learned his lesson. He seems to have saved all his best beats for the formerly masked Wu-hero, Ghostface Killah, perhaps because he has the coolest name in the clan. For whatever reason that part of the Wu-Tang's commercial fate was put upon his shoulders, Ghostface rises to the occasion with his best raps and frame-by-frame cinematic street narratives of his career. He has already proven on his first solo album Ironman that tough rappers can express their sensitive side, cry over ex-girlfriends and love their mothers. With nothing left to prove, Ghostface gets down to business with what he does best -- surreal accounts of gritty tales of regal bangers ("Ghost-dini"), political rebels ("Malcolm") and religious corruption ("Wu Banga"), laced with enough pseudo-Eastern metaphysical poetics and dada tongues to keep things hazy. "My rap is like ziti," he says on "One," "Rhymes is made of garlic/ Rumor is you might start to spit." Whatever you say, Ghostface. Musically, "One" recalls classic R&B and the blues. "We Made It" evokes Booker T. & the MGs, "Apollo Kids" gets brassed out, "Cobra Clutch" nearly sounds like a romantic jam, and "Ghost-dini" even features piano. Ghostface brings it all back home to the clan on the best rap, "Wu Banga 101," featuring five Wu-Tang MC's. Perhaps their reign will be revived for a whole new decade. And by the way, if anyone wants to sort through the Wu-Tang catalog and select the best 20 tracks for me, I would be eternally grateful.
"I hate you so much right now! Aaahhh!" It may lack subtlety, but hey, she is 19, and her man did get caught cheating on her. "Caught Out There," with the aforementioned chorus, was how most people were introduced to the orang-haired Kelis (pronounced Kuh-leece). Don't think it's merely gimmickry -- the debut single has enough hooks to hang all of Kelis' lyin' ex-beaus by their Calvin Kleins. There are a few other potential hits -- "Good Stuff" combines her youthful cockiness with the feminist sassiness of soul divas Jean Knight and Laura Lee and a minimalist killer funk bassline -- "Yeah, I'm telling you boy/ You're wastin' your time on them/ The good stuff is right here." She gets heavy on "Mafia," with its erotic beat and spooky sitars, her voice sounding mature beyond her years as she sings "For you I'd testify." "I Want Your Love" boasts a raw Dirty Mind groove that Prince would suck her soul to revive himself with it. Kaleidoscope was produced by the Neptunes (Mase, Noreaga, Ol' Dirty Bastard) with spare, stuttering beats reminiscent of Timbaland. Some songs betray Kelis' age, such as the amusing but blunt "Mars" ("Earth to your brain . . . you're fucked"). "Ghetto Children" strives for Curtis Mayfield-caliber righteousness and fails. But even her off moments are more engaging than the yawn-inducing weaker moments of Grammy-darling Lauryn Hill, Missy Elliott or new favorite Macy Gray. Kaleidoscope is a juicy mix of steamy soul and ghetto-tastic hip-hop that at times sounds a bit samey, but has already eclipsed the precocious fly girl's current boyfriend D'Angelo. And he better be good to her, because she has plenty of hooks to spare...
It's been nearly five years since D'Angelo's debut Brown Sugar put the soul back into soul. What once was an R&B wasteland of form over substance has begun to reverse. D'Angelo has a lot to measure up to. On first listen, Voodoo is a slight disappointment. It's a murky gumbo stew of laid back beats that has more in common with Basehead or Tricky than D'Angelo's more tuneful debut. Once the expectation for memorable songs are forgotten, the album can be enjoyed for what it is, an extended jam by an able band fronted by The Roots' drummer ?uestlove, recorded at Jimi Hendrix's Electric Ladyland studio. The session has a loose, live atmosphere in which clouds of cheeba smoke erupt at every kick of the bass drum. The lazy rhythms underly a tightly woven fabric of sound, with jazzy electric piano, metronome rim shots and layers and layers of buttery vocals. D'Angelo has subtly come up with a sound of his own, finally transcending the comparisons to Marvin Gaye and Curtis Mayfield. Okay, "Untitled (How Does It Feel)" does sound like a Prince cover circa 1988, but he manages to make Roberta Flack and Donnie Hathaway's "Feel Like Makin' Love" undeniably his own. Other standouts from the purple haze are the trippy hip-hop of "Devil's Pie," the percussive funk of "Chicken Grease," the sumptuously classic-sounding "The Line" and the horn driven head nod to Sam Cooke on "Send It On." The Latin jazz of "Spanish Joint" briefly raises the energy level just to make sure you're breathing okay. The rest of the album's six-plus minute songs are a cut above filler, and with titles like "One Mo'gin" and "GreatDayNDaMornin'/Booty," suggest that they're meant to be a backdrop to a 25 year-old's favorite pastime. Voodoo assures D'Angelo's place in R&B as a lasting talent with more potential. As with most artists, his lyrical concerns will eventually migrate from booty to politics, world hunger, God, and back to booty. And his faithful followers will enjoy every step of the journey.
Winter Birds is Atlanta, Georgia-based Seely's fourth album. The initial hype about Seely was that they were the first American band to be signed to the once-maverick Too Pure label. Initially they sounded like an amalgamation of several like-minded bands. Now they have developed their own sound as distinct as former labelmates Stereolab and Laika. Producer Steve Askew and engineer Scott Herren must have heard the German electronica of Mouse On Mars, Oval, and Marcus Popp's work with The Sea And Cake and Jim O'Rourke. The skittering sounds of manipulated CDs and sputtering bleeps permeate "El Cajon" and "Alias Grace," resulting in a busier, yet still nimble mix. The instrumental "Sapelo Sound" merges a soaring pop melody with a wobbly, dreamy wash of synths. Joy Waters takes us on a seven minute trip to cities around the world in "Planes Circle Do," with a tremelo guitar flying alongside. Joy's soft coo and Steven Satterfield's disembodied drone have been perfected in their understated blending with the dreamy textures of delicate guitars and wavy organs and synthesizers. Seely strive for the effect that was pioneered by the cool jazz bands in the 50s -- intellectually engaging and complex, yet soothing. A deceptively modest goal, and one they pull off swimmingly.
Mary Timony was that pretty girl next to you in class who drew unicorns on her notebooks and intimidated with scary, intense poetry. Yet she was too creative and weird to be accepted into the goth chick click, so instead she started her own band. Helium posed as a stellar guitar band, but had closets bursting with unsettling nightmares of goblins and witches. Perhaps to save her hapless bandmates from the therapy bills, Timony decided to take off on this particularly intense flight of fancy on her own. Mountains expands on the prog-pop leanings of Helium's 1997 The Magic City, painting the songs with a watercolor rainbow of harpischord, viola, pennywhistle, piano and maybe even a glochenspiel. The song titles read like chapters from C.S. Lewis novels -- "Dungeon Dance," "Poison Moon," "Painted Horses," "The Fox And Hound," "Rider on a Stormy Sea." Timony spins pretty involving surrealist yarns herself, but occasionally the music begs for a full band like, er, Helium. And while she has proven to be a master of constructing catchy hooks out of unusual minor-key chords, few can be found on this meandering album. It's certainly a pleasure to float with Timony's angelic voice into never neverland. Let's just hope that she lands back on earth, plugs in her guitar again and help slay the dragons she left behind.
San Fransico's Vue should have played on that Velvet Goldmine soundtrack rather than the washed-up oldsters and Brit-poppers to ineptly cover Roxy Music songs. Not that Vue necessarily sound anything like Roxy or Bowie or T. Rex. But they do manage to channel the gloriously trashy spirit of the glam era, along with the New York Dolls and Adam and the Ants. Overall Vue are more trebly, unruly and unwashed than any of their sleazy uncles. "Traffic White" mates the sneer of The Germs' Darby Crash with the hooks of Suede. "Girl" exhumes Suicide's Alan Vega (oh wait, he's alive isn't he?) into a spaceage psychedelic garage-grunge orgy. Vocalist Rex Selverton gets into character of a fourth generation white soul shouter ala The Original Sin's J.T. on "The Shame." "Talk To A Model" is Chrome administering electro-shock treatment to Gary Numan's Tubeway Army. Brainiac's Tim Taylor (R.I.P.) would have been proud. An engaging, maniacal live show seems guaranteed. Catch them before they either self-destruct or disband in disgust from lack of attention (remember, glam boys are in it for the attention and require lots of it).
Twenty years ago the "No-Wave" scene in NYC shook things up when punk had already died and new wave had gone top-40. There are parallels in today's musical climate, and once again, bands like Storm And Stress are stepping out and deconstructing what a guitar, bass and drums are capable of. Ian Williams of the disciplined prog-heavy outfit Don Caballero takes complex math-rock song structures apart and puts them back together with mismatched parts and missing screws. The result is a musical beast akin to creations of the Survival Research Laboratories -- horrible unions of flesh, bone and machine that are at times strangely beautiful. Beefheartian free-jazz drums fall down stairs. Guitars are plucked and strangled. Tentative vocals recall Gastr Del Sol, mumbling absurd William Burroughs cut-up lyrics. The bass eschews its traditional role of rhythm keeper and merely calms the proceedings with tones and colors. The album is more quiet than noisy, and could almost be relaxing if it weren't for the unsettling feeling it provokes, as if you are suffering from heatstroke and hallucinations in the desert. Their press release ironically states that the album is "a modest script for something pretty, something entertaining, popular with the kids." The only kids this edgy, sick music will appeal to are the few who cut their teeth on jagged math-rock in 6th grade while their classmates listened to Bush. The rest will miss out, but claim they were there when Storm And Stress have long since become experimental rock legends.
Despite the rise in popularity of new stars like Cheb Mami, Khaled is still Algeria's undisputed king of Rai. His first international release since 1996's Sahra, Kenza is his most successful fusion yet of the old world Arabic traditions of the souks and kasbahs of north Africa with modern Western pop. Recorded in Paris, London and strings in Cairo, Egypt, and produced by former Gong guitarist Steve Hillage, and Lati Kronlund, founder of the new York collective, Brooklyn Funk Essential, Kenza the album's diversity is blended into a consistent pop sheen. Khaled travels around the globe, not restricted to his signature rai-funk (which gets tarted up and clubby on "E'dir E'sseba"). On "El Harba Wine" he travels to India and recruits the angelic vocal assistance of the precocious young Amar, who was last heard on Talvin Singh's Anokha collection. He visits Spain in the flamenco 'n' salsa "Gouloulha-Dji," Moroccan sufi trance grooves complete with the pipes of Pan ("Derwiche Tourneur") and even drum 'n' bass on the album's most buoyant highlight, "El Bab." Khaled hosts a stable of stellar international musical guests, including Egypt's Hossam Ramzy on percussion and Fela Kuti's drummer Tony Allen from Nigeria. The only throwaway is a French ballad, although his cover of John Lennon's "Imagine" is decidedly iffy. Sung with Moa in both English and Arabic, it recalls a nightmare evening stuck in an Arabic karaoke bar. But somehow, Khaled redeems himself, daring to imagine if there were "no religion," he would not be exiled to France by the violently oppressive Islamic fundamentalists in his homeland.
Just like when Nigerian Afrobeat star Fela Kuti vehemently denied any influence from James Brown, Malian Ali Farka Touré denies any similar influence from American bluesmen Robert Johnson or John Lee Hooker. Perhaps the African diaspora influence on the blues is that strong. Whatever the case, Touré's music sounds as ancient as the dirt at his feet. After collaborating with Ry Cooder on 1994's Talking Timbuktu, Touré tended to more important matters of irrigation, farming and providing for his 11 children. He was coaxed into recording only when a mobile studio was brought into his home village, Niafunke. The result is by far his most intimate recording, with more traditional call-and-response choruses, the ancient sound of the keening one-stringed njarka fiddle and relentlessly propulsive conga drums. It's as if we are eavesdropping on a sacred ceremony. Sitting back literally in his back yard, Touré's vocals sound more relaxed and strong. And the spare yet complex finger picking is as devastating as usual. No fan or student of the guitar should miss this.
Argentina's Fabulosos Cadillacs' previous album, Fabulosos Calavera enjoyed so much crossover success and even won a Grammy partly because of the distinctly American styles it assimilated, including ska and heavy metal. La Marcha Del Golazo Solitario was an even more ambitious, with its eclecticism more tightly woven into the mix, sometimes jumping between three genres in one song, like Fishbone mixed with Mothers Of Invention. This is too much for your average lunkhead to follow, and the album was largely ignored. Steadfast fans are rewarded with the Fabulosos' most accomplished, adventurous playing of their career. One of the most pleasant surprises is "Cebolla, el nadador," straight from an early 70's blaxploitation soundtrack, complete with strings, horns, organ and wah-wah guitar. There are more traditional songs, such as the tango-inflected "La Vida." There seems to be more of everything -- more ballads (even a Beatlesque ballad, "Roble") and more jazz. "C.J." is pure lounge jazz, while the title track pays tribute to Thelonius Monk. Even better is the Mahavishnu Orchestra electro-jazz fusion of "La Rosca," and "Negra," which recalls Chick Corea's Return To Forever mixed with Santana. They don't stop there. "57 Almas" is straight piano-driven jazz that incorporates a twisted improvised bass line worthy of Jaco Pastorius. It seems the next logical step will be to tackle John Zorn.
Just in case anyone thinks I love every album I review (I simply review albums I like -- why waste time on garbage?), I thought I'd include an album that doesn't completely suck, but is extremely average and overrated. Just to give y'all a sense of scale here at Fast 'n' Bulbous, I present a negative review, a gift from me, to you.
Like Bono, Morrissey and Robert Smith, Billy Corgan writes adolescent music. It can start out raw and edgy and speak to you in a voice that feels true. However, this status becomes ever more tenious when an artist is well into their thirties and carries the mantel or manacle, you choose, of alternative rock. Maybe Corgan's music hasn't matured with him, so be it, many a commercially successful career is spent in thrall to an idea's unchanging reproduction. Yet, Corgan's problem is that while his music is something most listeners necessarily outgrow, his singing, at least, used to sound sincerely passionate. Now on Machina he just sounds bored. On Adore artistic restlessness resulted in some fairly interesting experiments with electronica. After being all but spanked by the public and his label, the Pumpkins have sheepishly handed in their standard fare, meant to restore their rawk god status. They must have been somewhat earnest, as they hired original drummer Jimmy Chamberlin back into the fold. But they just sound tired and flat. What does Billy want? To be loved again? To make more money? To look more like Michael Stipe? Artistic fulfillment? What's all this crap about god in the lyrics? "Send the bored/Your restless/The feedback-scarred/Devotionless/You're all a part of me now." There's more, but I'll spare you. One can appreciate the spiritual fervor of someone like John Coltrane who played so fiercely to express his love and devotion to the divine. But Corgan claiming to have god speak through his music? Puh-leeze. Talk about delusions of grandeur. Let's talk about the sounds for a moment. I recall an interview in which Corgan said he was embarrassed by how bombastic and compressed their sound had become, and he intended to go for a more basic rock sound. So what was he thinking? Listen to Gish and it jumps out of the speakers and grabs you. Corgan's singing sounded like it came from a human being. With Machina all you hear is an avalanche of molasses bent on suffocating the listener, topped with the irritating whine of a crybaby who is pushing 40. On "Heavy Metal Machine," Corgan asks, "If I were dead/Would my records sell?" While the lyric is melodramatic, it's not entirely rhetorical. Yes Billy, they would and they are. Bury the rotting Pumpkins and move on.