Six years since his last album, 62year-old Tom Ze has released only his fifth album in his 30+year career. "Songs are inside of me, like pearls resting in oysters … it takes that grain of sand many years of rubbing before it becomes a pearl. That's why it takes so long for my songs to develop."
Last year [1998] marked the 30th anniversary of the release of Tropicalia: Ou Panis et Circencis, on which Ze contributed the satiric antidevelopment anthem "Parque Industrial" where laughing children repeat the mantra, "made in Brazil." In 1968 Brazil was throbbing with multiculturalism. With so many ethnic groups crammed into dense megacities such as Sao Paulo, there often came rifts. The Tropicalista movement, founded by Caetano Veloso, Gilberto Gil, Gal Costa, Os Mutantes and Tom Ze, took on a traditional role as artists mending cultural rifts in untraditional ways. The artists loosely shared an aesthetic philosophy that promoted artistic appropriation ("cannibalism"), which plundered music from around the world (free-jazz skronk, psychedelic guitar, lounge basslines, African percussion, and classical violins), and regurgitated it as something distinctly new and exciting. It was an anarchic melting pot that eschewed borders and encouraged the mixing of classes, races and nationalities. It was an avant-garde modernist rebellion that offended both the left and the new right-wing military dictatorship. Like Boukman Eksperyans in Haiti, these artists literally risked their lives for the music. Ze had been jailed twice and had numerous encounters with police at shows. Veloso and Gil were jailed and then forced to live in exile in London for the remainder of the '60s.
Even among the Tropicalistas, Tom Ze was a black sheep. His dadaist pop, while catchy to ears bred on '90s postmodernism, was too disjointed for most people. His records remained largely ignored and in the late '80s he was about to get a job pumping gas when David Byrne sought him out and released a collection on Luaka Bop in 1990. Ze is fairly bitter about being ostracized by the Brazilian record buyers. "After five years, Tropicalia was being forgotten, and after ten years I was being taken out of pictures, like Stalin used to take people out of pictures," Ze told Billboard. His overdue recognition will likely come from the artists he influenced, including Tom Waits, Beck, the Beastie Boys and more techno and drum 'n' bass artists than you could shake a stick at. Beck paid tribute to the movement with his recent single, "Tropicalia." And in an ultimate '90s-style validation, artists such as Tortoise, Stereolab, the High Llamas and Sean Lennon have remixed songs from his new album, Com Defecto De Fabricacao (Fabrication Defect) to be released in January 1999.
With cover art that recalls the classic Funkadelic covers drawn by Pedro Bell, Fabrication Defect picks up the ball where George Clinton dropped it in the '80s in battling the "placebo syndrome," a condition where people become robotic, and decidedly unfunky due to bad music and worse politics. Ze asserts that the people in the slums of Sao Paulo, and the Third World in general, have been converted into "androids" by First World colonialism and capitalism. While corporations would like to keep their workers impoverished and mindless, the "androids" display "defects" in the forms of curiosity, dreams, raging hormones and the urge to dance. Ze graciously encourages their "defects" by creating art from consumer and sonic refuse like toys, cars, whistles, commercial jingles, and homemade instruments made of household appliances. He once constructed an instrument made of triggered typewriters, blenders, radios and floor sanders that took up two Volkswagen buses. "The sound was so beautiful," remembers Ze, "it brought tears to the eye."
"Esteticar" is a twisted samba that clearly illustrates his mission statement: "Hold on to your seats milord/The mulatto baiao/(he's blacktie-ing himself)/tuxedo-izes himself in/the Esthetic of /the Arrastao." "Arrastao" is a dragnet-like technique used in urban robbery, where a small group fan out and run through a crowd, taking people's belongings. Ze claims thes "esthetics of plagiarism" will end traditional music composition as we know it and inaugurate the "plagi-combinator" era.
While there are plenty of traditional choruses, rhythms and melodies, there are also instances of dissonant weirdness that may be jarring for the average listener, not unlike early Captain Beefheart. Like Beefheart, Tom Ze weaves his political concerns through a wreath of irreverent riddles, ironic humor and playful, nonsensical language. His love of language is rooted in lullabies his mother sang, e.e. cummings style word games and Russian Literature, which he studied at the University of Bahia. There he also studied classical composition, developing an affinity for Stravinsky and Bartok.
But Ze's music is not all politics and intellectual avant-gardisms. The overwhelming impression left by listening to Fabrication Defect is whimsical fun and buoyant beauty. Much of the album is accessible. You don't need to know Portuguese to appreciate the sounds of the lovely language, and the lyrics are translated on the sleeve notes. You'll find some moments so breathtaking that you'll want to learn Portuguese, such as in "Juventude Jovali" - "The wine of open legs/soaks the offerings on the altar/screams, sperm and handcuffs/The fury of pure lavender." The gorgeous, shimmering guitar of "Curiosidade" transcends language barriers, and "Emere" evokes expressionist violins that could have come out of sessions for Van Dyke Park's 1968 album Song Cycle. The album closes with "Xiquexique," a mesmerizing techno-accordion odyssey that stretches from Andalucia, Spain to rural Louisiana.
For the uninitiated, the best introduction to Ze's magical world would have been the aforementioned 1990 collection of his 70s work, Best Of Tom Ze: Massive Hits. Unfortunately it is currently out of print. Either way, Fabrication Defect is a necessity, one of the best releases of the year. And hopefully just the beginning of Ze's revitalized career.
Much was made of the Joy Division-meets-Barry White lyrics of the Afghan Whigs' 1994 breakthrough album, "Gentlemen." But before Greg Dulli was awarded notoriety for his lascivious dick-swinging characters, he was already waxing poetic with lyrics far more substantial than contemporaries like Mudhoney, Soundgarden and Pearl Jam. 1990's Up In It even pre-dated Nirvana's breakthrough. Meanwhile, left in the background was the underrated, brilliant guitar stylings of Rick McCollum. His consistently captivating guitar parts define the Afghan Whigs sound, keeping their music interesting even when Dulli went overboard with self-importance and symphonic impenetrability in 1996's Black Love. After a year of separation, a change of labels, and recovery from depression, the Whig's have lightened up, gotten funkier, developed a sense of humor and are better for it. While Gentlemen was about the politics of breaking up, 1965 is simply a shameless shagfest that would have made even Marvin "You Sure Love To Ball" Gaye blush in that same year. Isaac "Chef" Hayes is recalled in the use of strings and women backup singers. On "Sweet Son Of A Bitch," they strip down butt-naked for a 20 second bump and grind quickie a la Prince's "Kiss" and "Superfunkycalifragisexy." Add this to the others in your 5 CD-changer and get back under those sheets!
Here's a thought to make you feel real old -- R.E.M. have been together for 18 years. They are now at the same point in their career as when The Rolling Stones released Tattoo You in 1981. That, of course, was the Stones' last decent record. Maybe it's because R.E.M. has so far only released a fraction of the classics the Stones had, or maybe it's just the promise that Up holds, but I think they'll be releasing great records years down the road, while other equally canonized bands are mere parodies of themselves. As a fairweather R.E.M. fan, I'm the first the kick 'em when they're down. With Out of Time and New Adventures in Hi-Fi, R.E.M. have shown that they can excrete some of the worst over-commercialized maudlin butt-wipe ever. With Monster they proved that they are incapable of properly rocking out even if a gun is held to their collective head. Even the lackluster second side of Document gave early hints of that. Their real strengths became apparant in Green's folky ballads "You Are The Everything" and "Hairshirt." They took that melancholy vibe and ran with it, hitting paydirt with the consistent Automatic for the People. And while that album veered uncomfortably close to cheese with the insipid "Everybody Hurts," Up updates it for the hip, ironic late-90s, complete with electronica bleeps. While Beck's drum monkey guru Joey Waronker helps out on a couple songs, they do not try to replace Bill Berry's big beats. They've come to terms with no longer being rockers and instead chose to seduce you with the beauty of heartache.
For those of you who missed the funk on their last album, the punk-heavy Now I Got Worry, Acme follows up their groove on 1994's brilliant Orange. For a band accused of being anachronistic, they have taken a fresh recording approach that will set a blueprint for countless bands to follow. In January they recorded the basic tracks with Steve Albini. Then they invited, among others, Dan Nakamura, a.k.a. the Automator, producer of Spencer's favorite recent hip-hop album, Dr. Octagon's Octagonecologyst. to produce and mix. Then they took the tapes and holed up at Greene St. Studio (birthplace of classics from Kurtis Blow, L.L. Cool J and Public Enemy). Certainly you can hear influences -- a bit of a Booker T. & the Mgs riff on "Magical Colors," some Sly & the Family Stone, Isley Brothers, old school hip hop. But in contrast to the fascinatingly fragmented Experimental Remixes EP, it all comes out in one coherent piece. The Blues Explosion have always been about moments, like "Baby, baby you sure like to F***!" My favorite moment on this record is when they suddenly switch from trademark Blues Explosion rockout to the syrupy-smooth doo-wop oohs, ahs, soulful squeals, wails, a human beatbox, all asking the penultimate question, "Do You Wanna Get HEAVY?" Why yes, Mr. Spencer. Yes I do.
Despite recent comeback efforts from A Tribe Called Quest, The Jungle Brothers and De La Soul, the collective creative energies of that camp seems to have petered out. It's time to pass the baton to new blood to challenge the current reign of the Wu-Tang and Fugees camps. Brooklyn's Black Star are one of the more promising groups to step up. Lyrically they are quick to criticize their hip-hop peers in "Hater Players." "A lot of rich players are making wack-ass music, that's the bottom line! I remember when the worst thing you could be was a sell-out. Then the sell-outs started running things. We call this song "Hater Players" because there are many players who hate the fact that we do this for the love" wrote Kweli in the liner notes. Whattaya say to that Puffy?! They point out the hiphopcrasy of trying to 'keep it real' ("He was out chasing cream and the American Dream/Trying to pretend that the end justifies the means." As the cover art suggests, Black Star are down with roots reggae's ethics and dub reggae's low end. Once they learn to vary the monotone raps with a few catchy hooks, they'll be pulling the rug out from under Puffy and all his flunkies.
Just when you think this band would be slowing down, they release no less than a doulbe CD packed with two hours of vintage Stereolab. Aluminum Tunes is the third installment of their Switched On compilations of songs originally released on limited edition singles, B-sides, promo discs and multi-artist collections. Those who were disappointed by the drum 'n' bass foolery of the bubbling Dots and Loops will be comforted by the familiar driving hypnotic drone-chuggers they were always known for. Highlights include the entire 1995 EP Music For The Amorphous Body Study Centre, "Golden Atoms," an outtake from Emperor Tomato Ketchup, and "Klang Tone," an outtake from Mars Audiac Quintet.
On their 1996 release Ende Neu (ending-new), the post-industrial engineers of noise once again played nice. While their early explosions of scraping dissonance were nice in their own way, Einsturzende Neubautin have produced their most accomplished records worthy of repeated listening with 1993's Tabula Rasa and Ende Neu. Not to say they've packed their power tools for good. They have merely used them to highlight moments rather than constructing the entire work with it and then leaving it to burn up with the stage. Blixa Bargeld's decade-long tenure as one of Nick Cave's Bad Seeds has gradually instilled a sense of melodious lyricism. He even sings in English for much of the album. The musical beauty does not mean these are all maudlin love songs, however. "Was ist ist," is a furious, fast-paced slander on the constant wanting of mankind. Chaos ("Die Explosion Im Festspielhaus"), revolt ("Installation No.1") and Kafka "Der Schacht Von Babel"still reign over love in Einsturzende Neubauten's decayed universe. Live it. Want it. Get it.
Take one shot of Motor City Madness (Amboy Dukes, MC5, Stooges, Alice Cooper, "Detroit Rock City"), one part space madness (Lemmy Kilmeister-era Hawkwind, teutonic space rock) and a jigger of stoner cultuh (bongs bolted to the floor of the tour van, blacklight posters, hobbit-addled lyrics, Spinal Tap), shake vigorously with a shot of Blue Cheer, and you've got the best 90s metal band in America. While some prefer the sonic sludge of early songs like "Pill Shovel" and "Nod Scene" from 1992's Spine Of God, I truly enjoyed Superjudge, with the best post-cock rock riffage since The Cult's Electric. They refined their sound somewhat in 1995 with Dopes To Infinity, and Powertrip is more of the same. But goddam is it fun or what? This time around they are either preparing to become rockstars, or poking vicious fun at those who are, with their readymade radio promotion kit disguised as a bonus CD. It contains a funny radio ad intro to Monster Magnet, a collage of samples from the album, and closes with a censored version (deja vu!) of their awesome cover of MC5's "Kick Out The Jams" (muthafuckas!). And if that ain't enough, their sleeve art is even more camped out, with pictures of a pope, bishop and nuns cowering as a member bursts out from flames in a vintage chevy convertable bookmarked by busty waitresses. Other photos features the women dressed up in slutty security guard uniforms as a member lounges on a pile of gold bricks, and another where one is standing atop of a pile of skulls with Philadelphia burning in the background, and another with Wyndorf himself presiding over a dinner table full of demons. Like Urge Overkill, they're trying to become rockstars by acting like rockstars. Except Monster Magnet are WAY cooler and truly have a sense of humor about it. Miss Big Chief and Soundgarden? Order a Monster Magnet sandwich with extra reverb. You won't be disappointed.
Last year Arto Lindsay made a big critical splash with the one-two punch of Mundo Civilizado and the remix album Hyper Civilizado. Noon Chill confirms that he's on a creative roll. With career-stalling two and three year periods of dead air becoming all too common, it's refreshing to see someone crank out albums every year for a change. On this album, Lindsay turns up the acoustic, relaxed tropical warmth of the previous album to a scorching, funky jungle hoedown. He features pretty much the same all-star band, including bassist Melvin Gibbs, legendary jazz percussionist Nana Vasconcelos, Vinicius Cantuaria and guest singer Sussan Deyhim. Rather than just a group of sidemen, they have truly gelled into a bona fide band, completely in sync with each other. His production work with Carlinhos Brown's alfaGAMAbetiZADO must have inspired him to add much sassier rhythm arrangements. This is Lindsay's career masterpiece. Here's hoping he takes his hot band on the road and tear the roof off the mother earth.
On the demo-turned-album Sad & Dangerous and their two albums on Touch And Go, Dirty Three redefine the word melancholy with some of the most expressive instrumental rock music I have ever heard. The secret behind Dirty Three's ability to paint such vivid imagery without any words is the classically-trained violinist Warren Ellis, who started out by writing and performing music for plays. Jim White's Elvin Jones-inspired drumming and Mick Turner's expressionist guitar added bleeding colors to the aural portraits. The slow songs combined the eerie gloom of fellow Aussie Nick Cave (whom they toured with) with the sun-baked Italian western film music of Ennio Morricone. The albums also included rockers that built into explosive crescendos to balance out the ennui and make the heart pound. Unfortunately, ennui wins out on Ocean Songs. The songs meander about so quietly that I don't even notice when the album has finished. It's not until the three songs on the bonus CD when the band finally adds some juice. Previously, even the quiet songs sounded passionate and memorable. They are definitely missing something on this album, which begs for a producer who could fill out the skeletal gaps that Steve Albini left behind. Despite the uncomplimentary bare-bones recording, there are still plenty moments of immeasurable beauty. After listening to the emotionally exhausting early releases, put this on as you drift into dreams of aquatic voyages and black whirlpools of despair (whee!).
Someone in Tortoise must be up on Taoist philosophy. They are the musical equivalent of wu wei, a Taoist concept that roughly translates to "effortless action." They adapt to a changing environment, floating past the "post-rock" backlash (a term they do not identify with or endorse) like water flows around rocks. Their interviews emphasize and re-emphasize working with a natural, organic collaborative process rather than any individual's ego. At their Soma Studio loft, they seem to have achieved a communal atmosphere not unlike the commune Sun Ra's Arkestra had in 1950s Chicago, but without a Sun Ra figure. In the tradition of jazz musicians, each member participates in many other projects, reflecting a collectively formidable musical appetite. These cats love to play, and they work hard at it. TNT, which could stand for tough 'n' tender, takes a giant step into digital cut 'n' mix production. They are no stranger to remixing -- their previous two full lengths were both subjected to every form of mixology imaginable. This time they did it themselves. While Tortoise remains an instrumental band, they have absorbed some of the innovations from electronica artists like Oval, Microstoria, Panasonic and Autechre, and come up of with a few of their own. The results of their experiments are mixed. A few tracks are not as engaging as their earlier work. They have yet to match the emotional impact of 1995's "Cliff Dweller Society," the most beautiful piece of music they ever created. When the melancholy chorus of horns come in, I can almost sense the ghost of Charlie Mingus brush past me, sit in front of the stereo and stroke his goatee in bemused pleasure. The remaining two thirds of the album, however, is as rich and satisfying as I had hoped. While complex musical concepts are sometimes involved, it is not cold and academic like some detractors claim. Rather than Weather Report and Mike Oldfield, think in terms of the kamikaze experimental spirit of This Heat, the wild eclecticism of Mahavishnu Orchestra, and the sub-aquatic groove of 70s Miles Davis. Let it flow turtle people.
At first glance, John Fahey seems to be an unlikely hero for today's indie rockers and avant popsters. He entered the folk scene in 1959 with Blind Joe Death, an album of steel-stringed acoustic country and blues instrumentals. His influence on hundreds of grinnin' and pickin' folkies, along with the more exceptional Leo Kottke and Ry Cooder is widely known. Dig deeper into his music, however, and you'll find layers of more mystery to the myth rather than any one true essence. You'll find dark, oblique mysticism that influenced New Age. Not only was he an encyclopedia and avid collector of pre-war country and blues, Fahey had a firm grasp of the modern classical harmonic concepts of Bartok, Charles Ives and Harry Partch. You'll also hear hints of Indian classical music, dissonant guitar tunings and even precursors to psychedelia. It's amazing that this musical treasure was found in the early 90s wallowing in sickness and poverty in Oregon. Thanks to a career retrospective in 1994, Return of the Repressed: The John Fahey Anthology and his rediscovery by hipsters, he is back in the limelight again with several new releases and collaborations, and even his own record label.
Jim O'Rourke is not strictly definable as a Fahey acolyte. His large body of solo and collaborative work is impossible to pin down, but it seems is early influences included Fred Frith, Henry Kaiser and Derek Bailey. He has worked with tape manipulation, experimental and improvisational jazz and ambient. Even in Gastr del Sol, he couldn't be constrained by mere experimental rock, and recorded a single 17-minute orchestral piece on 1995's The Harp Factory on Lake Street. The majority of Gastr del Sol's work is very difficult listening. Fascinating if you like idiosyncratic structures that sound just plain wrong to the ear. 1996's Upgrade & Afterlife, however, introduced more traditional dynamics, thanks to O'Rourke's Fahey-esque guitar. On Camofleur, Gastr del Sol's swan song, they have finally achieved a perfect balance of experimentalism, pop songs and downright pretty guitar playing. The lush piano and horn-augmented chamber music invoke moments of folky melancholy that wouldn't be out of place in a scene of a movie. Oval contributes their art-damaged CD mixology to a couple cuts that somehow do not sound out of place. Instead, they add an eerie, elegant beauty to the pot. Jim O'Rourke's Bad Timing features more sprawling song structures and more guitar, guitar, guitar. This is where the Fahey influence is strongest. The instrumentation is spare and consummately tasteful. There appear to be no titles for the four long pieces. The first sounds like Nick Drake interpreting a Tortoise song (fittingly, it features and a percussive cameo by Tortoise's John McEntire). The second track features a hypnotic, cyclical guitar riff, that builds upon it with bubbly organ and a pedal steel. The third one is stunning. The gentle guitar picking is backed by an ethereal chorus of bells, strings and accordion that closes in swirling psychedelia. The album concludes with an ominous growl of guitar distortion, but surprisingly reverts to O'Rourke's unaccompanied acoustic guitar, and surprises again with raucous horns and pedal steel that march off into the sunset. Jim O'Rourke's most accessible work to date should appeal to anyone who enjoys the sound of an acoustic guitar, no matter how far removed they are from (or entrenched in) the world of indie rock and experimental music.
On The Epiphany Of Glenn Jones, the master actually participates. He didn't play nicely, though. Cul de Sac brought a nearly complete batch of songs for Fahey to play along with. He refused to play the material the Cambridge-based band had prepared. Instead, they were forced to plunge blindly into Fahey's world, resulting in an anarchic improvised music Guitarist Glenn Jones should have known it would happen that way. After all, he's a long time fan of Fahey, and should know by now how he works. On their first album, ECIM, Cul de Sac rearranged Fahey's "Portland Cement Factory at Monolith California." Fahey's influence can be heard on all their releases, along with elements of 60s instrumental surf rock, psychedelia, 70s German space rock and Middle Eastern devotional trance. Cul de Sac are quite the live act to behold. Bassist Chris Fujiwara is also a filmmaker, and his films often play during their performances, along with Italian films by A.S. Hamrah. In addition to his imaginative guitar playing, the band features Jones' Contraption, a homemade stringed, er, thingy, loaded to the gills with electronic gadgets. Robin Amos compliments the Contraption with synthesizers and sets the mood with noisy soundscapes, allowing Fujiwara and drummer Jon Proudman to take their rhythms into the stratosphere, where they find John Fahey. Together they take a thoroughly entertaining magic carpet ride through no less than the past and the future of rock 'n' roll.
Scotland's Long Fin Killie are a strange lot. Formed in 1991 in a church out in the boonies between Perth and Dundee, their debut Houdini sounds like a drunken confrontation between British band James and traditional folkies Steeleye Span. It's one of those tense moments when you don't know if the room is about to explode into a brawl, or if it's just the homoerotic tension and they really just want to shag. Long Fin Killie does both, and at times it can get a bit heavy handed, the stylistic extremes not quite blending. Named after Amelia Erhardt, the first woman to fly solo across the Atlantic, their third full length achieves that balance. Long Fin Killie have succeeded in avoiding being pigeonholed into any particular category. Unfortunately they may have resulted in their unique style being ignored. It's time to take notice. The production is the one thing they have in common with Too Pure labelmates Pram, Laika and Jack. It lends a consistently sensual satin sheen to songs that threaten to boil over with seething anger, or build up into blissful, propulsive reverie, or others that simmer under a rainfall of busy percussion. At times they recall the jazzy and African rhythms of The Sea And Cake, especially when Luke Sutherland croons in soft-spoken, nearly whispered vocals very similar to Sam Prekop's. If you like any of the aforementioned artists, or are simply ready to go out on the limb and try something new, this is highly recommended.
The first time I saw Chicago's Cash Money play they had set up a hotplate onstage and fried up a big slab of bacon. I think I saw them smirk when vegetarians in the audience choked on the smoky smell, which nevertheless mingled well with the thick guitar chords and fatty drums. The sound was so full, one would never have imagined that they were only a two piece. I kept looking for the bassist hiding under the stage, but no bass was needed. Formed by former God And Texas singer/guitarist John Humphrey, Cash Money play lurching urban redneck rockabilly-blues that occupies a space left between the defunct Mule and the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion. Their liner notes contain a hilarious disclaimer that reads, "In an Effort to dissuade ever present critical ears from making misguided comparisons to contemporary artists, Cash Money gratefully acknowledge and tip their hats to the works of: Johnny Cash, Freddie King, Led Zeppelin, ZZ Top and Elvis Presley. Any other incidental or accidental hat tipping is purely coincidental and thereby unintentional." Had ZZ Top gotten to know Scratch Acid back in early 80s Austin . . . well nevermind. Their first album, Broken Hearts and Broken Wills, was a perfect supplement to their propulsively raucous live shows. Their new album attempts to stretch out with the Sun Records boogie of "Ashes to the Wind," bluesy shuffle of "Drowning Boat," the heartfelt country ballad "Evangeline," and the mournful violin of Dirty Three's Warren Ellis on "Mask Of Amontiago." It's a valiant effort, but the songwriting falls short of building upon their previous accomplishments and influences. While it adds nothing new to the rock canon, fans will dig it, and they continue to be an ass-kickin' live band. But when the bacon smoke clears, they might want to consider adding some other ingredients to their diet before they keel over with clogged arteries.
When Patti Smith made her first comeback with 1988's awful Dream of Life, I thought she had completely lost her muse, not to mention her marbles. There already was a hint of that on Wave's completely embarrassing title track. For her second comeback, 1996's Gone Again, Smith deals with the triple tragedy of losing her husband, brother and close friend Robert Mapplethrope. Having suffered through the mewling, tuneless meanderings of Lou Reed's Songs For Drella and Magic And Loss which also deal with death, I avoided it. It wasn't until Peace And Noise did I realize that the 1996 was Patti Smith's true second coming. Smith was a poet first, and the lyrics here are the most gripping she's come up with since her first two classic albums, Horses and Radio Ethiopia. This album is better than Easter, her third album from 1978. After wrapping up some elegiac and somber business left over from the previous album, explores some fresh themes that deal with the struggle between domestic issues of raising children, and finding her place in the world as a rebellious, but aging artist. She pays tribute to her recently deceased colleagues Allen Ginsberg ("Spell") and William Burroughs ("Dead City"). And throughout, her singing sounds great! It's nice to hear that Patti Smith can still do Patti Smith better than P.J. Harvey.
I've been a fan of Unwound since 1993 when Fake Train rocked my post-punk world like Nirvana could have but didn't, and Fugazi used to but wouldn't. Like Fugazi, these formerly concise rockers have stretched out into increasingly abstract instrumental noodling, the vocals more obtuse and buried. Is it just me or does everyone want to be King Crimson? Unwound's evolution seems to have coincided with the rise and stagnation of "math rock." This seemed to be an excuse for a myriad of bands to steal ideas from perfectly decent bands like Slint and Seam, and water them down with lazy playing and listless, passionless vocals. Unwound still makes the cut becuase they ARE passionate, and they are one of the best at what they do. They have done a fine job in progressing from album to album, but are teetering close to edge of boring "progressive" math rock. After six albums, one can't blame a band for running a little short on ideas and energy. To my ears, the touches of horns and harmonium are merely cosmetic. The album is a decent bookend to a great body of work. But I expect so much more from them.
Trans Am are a fascinating band building an unpredictable body of work. I first saw them open for the critically acclaimed Ui a couple years ago. They blew them off the stage with a highly entertaining combination of relatively straightforward instrumental rockers, with occasional passages that came straight out of Rush's 2112, to old-skool beat box jams. I kid you not. They followed up their solid debut album with an EP of hardcore techno. Their next album, Surrender To The Night, was a more atmospheric approach to electronica, with occasional references to early 70s Krautrock. On Surveillance, they retain some of the experimental electronica while combining it with their old, jagged-edged, loud rock and roll. Their most balanced, rewarding album yet.
This may be one case when media overexposure was good for an artist's development. With her punky-colored dreads and piercings, Difranco was a perfect magazine covergirl for Spring/Summer '97. Having put out eleven albums since 1990, Ani is not easily starstruck. With constant touring, writing, recording, and running her own record label, the consistency of her albums is impressive. Nevertheless, none of them really went beyond simply good folk rock. In an interview last summer, having experienced some hype as the next big thing, Difranco was energized by the attention. She talked excitedly of being inspired by artists like P.J. Harvey and Bjork to creatively stretch out. With this album, Difranco has finally fulfilled her potential. "Little Plastic Castle" starts out with her trademark passionate singing accompanied by her acoustic guitar. Then the horn section kicks in, and it's like going from black and white into Oz. I swear it gave me a chill much like people may have felt when Bob Dylan told the folk purists to kiss his ass with "Like A Rolling Stone" in 1965. Fans of her stripped-down folk-rock style need not worry, however. Besides the first track, only three additional songs step out from the folk-rock mold. "Deep Dish," has an almost calypso feel to it and "Swan Dive" features a pump organ. The closing track, "Pulse," is a hushed 14 minute meditation in which Ani plays concertina, drummer Andy Stochansky plays the West-African talking drum, and famous trumpeter Jon Hassell blows like a soft breeze. I might find the other traditional arrangements disappointing, but the songs are consistently great. "Glass House" rocks, and the whole album has an inviting, intimate sound. Your little sister will memorize the words, your brother will play guitar to it, your mother will dance to it when no one's looking. If you ever want to hear it, you better buy two copies!
The Arabic influences are strong, and more engaging than any of the recent Egyptian and Moroccan releases I've heard. The album is one of the best examples of a successful postmodern mix of Mursal's native influences, Egyptian, electronic music, French-produced Afro-Pop, and even Chinese Bluegrass! Her story is equally amazing. Mursal fled Somalia with five children in tow at the height of the civil war. Her seven month journey consisted of walking and riding on donkeys and trucks through the desert until she reached safety at a Danish refugee camp. There she was discovered by an arranger who brought her to the attention of Peter Gabriel's Real World label. She recorded the album with the group Waaberi, who came out with their own album last year, and the renowned Egyptian percussionist Hossam Ramzy. You can see Mursal on tour this summer with Africa Fete. See their webpage for concert dates.