2001 Reviews (F-M)
"Hypnotic…Ethereal…Otherworldly…Wyrdfolk…" These are a few of my favorite things and the German husband and wife duo Fit & Limo do it better than just about anyone else around, so if this is your bag too, rush out and pick up As Above So Below, their second full-length on September Gurls. This time around they incorporate more "krautrock" influences ("Owsley Blues" cops its riff straight off of Kraftwerk's "Hall of Mirrors" – on xylophone, no less!) but the usual suspects (autoharp, dulcimer, sitar, bouzouki, harmonium, tibetan bells and what Brian Jonestown Massacre's Anton Newcombe so delicately refers to as "loads of other weird Chinese shit") are here in abundance for all the pot headed pixies out there to trip the light fantastic.
Listen to "The Highest
Mountain" and see if you can top all the places Fit has
"tripped;" start your morning with the religious call to prayer that
is "Stormcows and Thunderclouds" (NB: tracks 4 and 5 are reversed on
the tray insert); contemplate the universe living in your pinkie to the violin
strains of "Christian Alchemy;" practice your jew's harp prowess on
"Mondwasser" and lie on your back in a tall field of grass, making
pictures out of the clouds overhead as "Glockenspiel" wafts across the
summer breeze.
This is nature's music, dudes and
dudettes and Fit & Limo are at one with the universe. So, roll up some of
nature's finest and join them on this most magical of mystery tours to discover
what lies hidden inside your mind's eye.
Mick Crossley (aka, Flyte Reaction)
has been quietly issuing some of the best pop psych albums to emerge out of
Great Britain over the past decade. In fact, it was exactly a decade ago that
Nick "Bevis Frond" Saloman's Woronzow imprint introduced me to Mick
courtesy the wonderful Songs in A Circle. Four releases later, the
prodigal son returns and this fifth Flyte Reaction release may be their best
yet. Following the radio friendly opener, "Candy Girl" (NOT the 4
Seasons' song!), "Try Me" borrows the driving drum beat and guitar
riff from The Pretenders' "Mystery Achievement" and builds from there
to a finger bleeding, callous popping guitar solo (even Saloman, arguably the
world's finest guitar player today, has long championed Crossley's finger
picking prowess and pop sensibilities.) The fast/slow sequencing dichotomy
continues on track 4, "Flow." Crossley's voice is well equipped to
handle both ends of the spectrum and this mellow offering sets the stage for the
heavy, stormwarning bombast of "Water From Your Well."
"Let It Go"'s bedsit
acoustic whimsy trickles softly across the ears like a fine sorbet cleansing the
palette for the "Sympathy for the Devil" riffage of "Diamond
Geezer," Crossley's tongue-in-cheek autobiographical stab at his
(mis)perceived approaching dinosaur-dom. Melding the Stones with Kula Shaker
bridges the generational gap nicely. The fact that one is over the hill and the
other broke up before catatonia set in speaks volumes. Nothing, however, can
prepare the listener for the curious anomalie of "Catching Leaves"
which sounds like Don Henley just checked back in to hotel California.
"Some Kind of Love" is another hook-laden example of Crossley's
penchant for catchy ear candy: a fine singalong that used to burn up the Top 40
airwaves back in the day.
Crossley has, to this point, dipped
into his jukebox bag of tricks, sharing his record collection of Stones, Kula,
Pretenders, and Eagles, so it should come as no surprise when the epic 15 minute
"Dark Rain Falling" opens with Led Zep's "How Many More
Times"' descending guitar riff and then segues into Saloman's
"Miskatonic Variations" territory of guitar pyrotechnics over Dick
Field's rolling bassline. Crossley then exhumes the ghost of Ian Anderson via a
nifty flute solo and the staccato percussion attacks of skin pounder Keith
Chenery drives this mother home. An exhausting, soul cleansing experience.
"Toasty" is just
ridiculous enough to let us catch our breath – sort of like Syd Barrett
meeting Monty Python at the argument clinic to decide who really is the upper
class twit of the year. I think I need to resume my "Getting hit over the
head" lessons after this one! "Eeeowww, eeowww," indeed! But then
comes the capper and I'm going to go on record right here and now to nominate
"You Said" for "Song of the Year" honors. Its sappy lyrical
sentiment, cascading guitar solo and arena-rattling drumming of Simon Das Gupta
(a Saloman psuedonym?) is everything this ol' sucker for tearjerkin',
heartstring tuggers could ever ask for . Magnificent!
A couple of hidden bonus tracks
[alternate (demo?) versions of "Catching Leaves" (solo acoustic style)
and a crisper, "cleaner" version of "Diamond Geezer" (with a
sharper guitar attack which reinforces the Kula Shaker comparisons)] round out
the set. A fine addition to the highly collectable Woronzow catalogue and a
welcome return to the spotlight after a five year absence for Mr. Crossley and
Co. Now go out and hunt down his four other releases (Mick has copies of the
previous Flyte Reaction release Create A Smile on offer directly from his
Cambridgeshire home address) and enjoy one of Britain's top pop songwriters –
"new" discoveries like this don't come along all that often these
days!
Speaking of anachronisms, try this
on for size: about 30 years ago, a Canadian power trio raised on Blue Cheer and
likeminded headbangers toured the Toronto area with limited success, but no
product to show for their troubles. The original line-up, guitarist Chuck
Gadsby, drummer Rick Skol and bassist Drew Tjernstrom (Scandinavia again!)
passed a tape along to Nick Saloman (of Ptolemaic Terrascope/The Bevis
Frond/Woronzow Records fame) of a recording they made recently of their old live
set. Saloman, no stranger to monolithic power chords/trios bleeding through
stacks of Marshalls was impressed enough to put the record out and here ‘tis.
The difference between this and the
ECS record we just spoke of is enormous. Rather than emulating a moment in rock
and roll history dear to their hearts, G&S have attempted to recreate it by
recording songs that are literally 30 years old. What saves the release
(somewhat) is that no one is familiar with these songs, so it is slightly better
than buying newly recorded versions of classics by your favorite band currently
rising the reunion circuit.
So, aside from a few standout tracks
like the anthemic KISS-on-steroids “Fool Like You”, the ZZ Top meets
Nazareth boogie of “The Feel”, the Spencer Davis (“I’m A Man”) ripoff
“I Don’t Know” (hard driving, despite the pedestrian opening call and
response countoff that probably wowed legions of Toronto barflies 30 years ago),
the “Stone Free” over an “In A Gadda
Da Vida” bassline of “Just A Little Bit” and, the album highlight,
“Stop” – manic drumming, wankoff soloing, megaton riffage and all (another
page torn from the KISS songbook), this album just sounds like one of those
classic, heavy metal obscurities that trade for three figures on ebay solely
based on scarcity rather than quality and originality. More often than not, the
(un)lucky winner sits down to bathe in the glory of an undiscovered gem, only to
discover halfway through that his diamond in the rough is actually cubic
zirconium.
This half live/half
computer-generated release from ex-Bunnyman guitarist Will Sargeant's current
ambient project opens with excerpts from his titular "performance" at
Gloucester's Guildhall on November 27, 1999. The ½ hour piece is divided into
seven segments and begins with the bubbling cauldron of electronic sound fx
called "Project Twinkle" and then seques into a cross between Cocteau
Twins (ca. Victorialand) and early Tangerine Dream as "The
Skylon" floats in on a muslin gauze cloud and trickles into the gentle
piano tinklings and backward synth loops of "Tales from Europe." As on
Tan Dream's similar sounding live LP Logos, audience participation is
nonexistent – presumably they're either asleep or stoned out of their gourds.
"Cosmos" opens with
chirping birds and cooing pigeons as a droning synth and soft piano lift us
skyward into the expansive unchartered dimensions of infinity. Old Will finally
straps on his six string for a few hyper-extended, overmodulated wah wahs on
"Vortexion 6" and "Valentina Tershkova" and illustrates why
his technique is so highly prized (and praised) amongst such cognoscenti of
ambient guitar structuralism as Windy & Carl, Jason "Azusa Plane"
DiEmilio, et. al.
A short organ based interlude,
"Prog 2" is the sorbet which cleanses the pallette for the
computer-generated "composition" "Frozen Teardrop in Space."
One of the "swollen appendices" in Brian Eno's 1995 diary ("A
Year," Faber & Faber) elaborates on his concept of "generative
music" (Eno's term.) A company named Sseyo wrote a program called Koan that
interfaces with the soundcard in your PC and "tells it what noises to
produce and in what patterns." About 150 different parameters are available
to the composer, who establishes a range of possibilities for scale, timbre,
harmony, rhythm, tempo, etc. and then sits back and lets Koan do its thing –
i.e., compose (or generate) the music. "Frozen Teardrop…" is the
result of Sargeant's "programming skills" and it opens a whole new
vista for composers of experimental music. It also presents the music critic and
listener with a Pandora's box of a conundrum: just who's in charge here? A
debate (which will never be resolved to the other side's satisfaction) finds
proponents like Eno and Sargeant championing this addition to their
compositional toolbox, but folks like me have to wonder if this is yet another
example of humanity subjugating itself to the machines it has created. When
human intelligence, ingenuity and originality are replaced by a piece of
software, is the day that far off when we can dispense with the composer
entirely? Will our children be attending concerts in the not-too-distant future
where they sit and stare at a pile of hardware on stage, wildly cheering the
bleeps, burps and gurgles emanating from its speakers? Has the 21st century
schizoid man become so lazy that he can no longer be bothered to think…to
create…to imagine? For when imagination is abandoned, freedom is surrendered
and one must then answer the question, "who is the robot and who (or what)
is the creator?" And if all this sounds like the plot to Mick Farren's next
sci-fi novel, we're in deeper trouble than I thought….
As to the piece at hand, Eno apologists will enjoy its soothing, put-it-on-and-forget-about-it background ambience, but others (those of us who actually listen to music instead of just hear it) will simply yawn, check our watches and leave early to catch the last train home, all the while pondering the irony of the title of this release.
Wisely eschewing the subtitle
"And All Who Sail With It" (which would have rendered this reunion
dead in the water before anyone opened the jewel case), the '80s answer to the
quintessential girls next door have moved back into the neighborhood with a set
of tunes that blows most other "rock chix" out of the water. Whether
it was rehab, detox or another overdue rent check that dragged these (alleged)
alcoholic, sex-crazed, drug addled babes out of the woods and gutters and back
into our living rooms, the decade and a half wait was well worth it. For
starters, it's obvious they spent a lot of time thinking about what got them to
the top in the first place (great tunes that refuse to leave your head), as the
opening trilogy of "La La Land", "Unforgiven" and
"Apology" can hold their heads up high alongside seminal tracks like
"We Got The Beat", Vacation", "Our Lips Are Sealed" and
"Fading Fast." The anger seems to have all but disipated from their
collective hearts leaving behind a sense of humor commendable in these days of
jive talkin' and drive-by argument settlers. Oh, there's the odd
"Insincere" and "Throw Me A Curve" to demonstrate the girls
are still not gonna take any shit from former lovers, and a few tracks, most
notably "Daisy Chain" are just plain silly. But overall, they're back
with a killer set of tunes that'll almost make you forget what The Donnas' real
first names are. You go (go), girls!
Well, I guess I lost the bet on
which would appear first, this or the next My Bloody Valentine record. All
kidding aside, Green Pajamas frontman Jeff Kelly and newest member Laura Weller
have been fine tuning this release for what seems like the last decade, but it
finally arrived in all its untrumpeted glory and is, to be honest, a mixed
blessing. As pet projects go, it certainly stands alone, completely isolated
from what you might expect from its pedigree. Like the legendary Beach Boys' Smile
and Mark Wirtz' A Teenage Opera projects before it, several tracks have
seeped out under various disguises: leadoff track "Autumn Leaves" left
the crowd at Terrastock IV in Seattle in teary-eyed amazement last year when the
PJs closed their set with a stunning 9+ minute arrangement; "Song for
Christina" and "A Nightmare" have been recorded several times by
the 'jamas and "My Elizabeth [To Me]" first got an airing on Kelly's Private
Electrical Storm solo LP (available in the 4xCD Melancholy Sun box
set, also on Cam Ob.)
The bulk of the release, however, is
previously unheard interpretations of the poetry of Victorian poets [My]
Elizabeth Siddell, Emily Bronte and [Song for] Christina Rosetti. Kelly and
Weller have set their words to music, added a few like-spirited originals and
tossed in a "cover" of Edgar Allan Poe's "El Dorado" for
good measure. While Kelly's "Autumn Leaves" original and Weller's
beautiful melody for "El Dorado" are the most accessible
"pop" tunes, the remainder are introspective, atmospheric
"chamber folk" pieces in baroque settings, best experienced in front
of a crackling fire with a warm brandy and a good cigar. Like that long awaited
vacation to some exotic foreign port-of-call, you may be a little disappointed
when you get there, but you'll be glad, in retrospect, that you made the effort.
Or, as Kelly sang in an old PJs song, "at least I have my
photographs."
Tony Hill should be a household
name, spoken in the same hushed reverential breaths as Beck, Clapton and Page
when shortlisting British Guitar Gods. The fact that he cemented the sound of
The Answers, The Misunderstood and High Tide instead of The Yardbirds, Cream and
Led Zep has everything to do with his total anonymity amongst the general rock
populace and absolutely nothing to do with his enormous talent. Fortunately, the
cognoscenti who study, recognize and
honor quality over quantity include one Nick Saloman, Ptolemaic Terrascope publisher, The Bevis Frond guitarist and
Woronzow label chief who has long championed Hill as one of his favorite guitar
heroes and High Tide's Sea Shanties as one of his favorite LPs of all
time. Finally in a position to put his money where his mouth and pen are,
Saloman and Woronzow proudly release Hill's second solo LP (and first in 10
years). The intervening decade may not have been kind to Hill's frail physique
(he looks rather anorexic on the cover photo), but it has taken nothing away
from his fluid style, as he rips off intricate solos with the elan and
simplicity of an up-and-comer half his age.
Backed throughout by The Bevis Frond
(Saloman, bassist Ade Shaw and drummer Andy Ward, with ocassional help from
former High Tide bassist Pete Pavli and violinist Matt Kelly, although I'd've
preferred a fuller Tide reunion with Simon House – no offense to Kelly's
wonderfully melodic playing), Inexactness offers a series of short,
concise exercises in guitar vistuosity which never teeter over into
stadium-sized pomposity. Hill isn't concerned with showing how fast he can run
his fingers up and down the fretboard…he's been there and done that (listen to
Sea Shanties.) Aside from the massive 15-minute jam, "Of Foundries,
Ships & Steeples" which should immediately quell any doubts as to
whether the "old man's still got it", most tracks are simple, melodic
rock and roll tunes punctuated by tastefull solos which embellish rather than
bury his fellow musicians.
Personal highlights include "Lineage" and "Positively Negative" wherein Hill, sounding incredibly like Ade Shaw on HIS solo records, sings of the simple life back in the day and the inadequacies and injustices of life in the 21st century; "Six Million Years" (co-written with Ward, ex-Camel stickman), a seemingly biographical litany of pain and suffering both men have endured and survived; and the aforementioned "Foundries", which rises to Magic Muscle-like status in its unrelenting tension built around Kelly's violin which anchors the melody line throughout it's never boring 15 minute length. Do yourself a favor and pick this up and sit back and appreciate the majestic work of one of Britain's finest guitarists at the top of his craft. Not only is this one of Woronzow's finest releases, it's also one of this century's best!
Not sure what to call this: it's 20 minute playing time lends itself to EP status, while it's eight short tracks would normally signal a mini-LP. No matter, for the Welsh wizards are back with their finest release to date, and they're playing to their strengths with melancholic (but not maudlin,) pastoral, trad. arr. acoustic folk ballads. Gone is the quirky, studio gimmickry which interrupted the flow of their previous long players. There always were beautiful pastiches of country life nestled within these earlier releases, but one had to wade through avant garde experimentation and weird-for-weird's-sake drop-ins that made Olivia Tremor Control so annoying.
Here they beautifully combine short instrumental interludes like the title track, "Foot & Mouth '68" and "Wrong Turnings" (which all recall similar usage by the likes of Nick Drake, Incredible String Band and Fairport Convention) with the vintage country-folk/jugband stylings of The Grateful Dead ("Fresher Than The Sweetness in Water") and the more traditional americana of The Band ("Free Like Summer.") The record was recorded over the course of eight days last July (which may account for its light and airy vibe,) but it is just reaching our shores now. You're well advised to seek it out and make it the soundtrack to the Summer of 2001.
On their ninth studio album,
Seattle’s Green Pajamas have tried something new with mixed results. More
metallic (as in, lots o’ Gary Numan-styled synths), more experimental and less
immediately accessible (you’ll be asking yourself, “where’s the
single?”, a superfluous question on recent releases), This Is Where We
Disappear is a hodgepodge collection of tracks that have the feel of a
“Greatest Hits” package, somewhat akin in wild mood swings to last year’s Narcotic
Kisses compilation on Camera Obscura. “Softly Elizabeth”, undoubtably
yet another tribute to mainman Jeff Kelly’s fascination with Victorian poetess
Elizabeth Siddel, and “Waitress at The Old White Lion” might have worked
better on one of his solo albums; “Spinning Away” (inspired by a 19th
century painting of St. Elizabeth of Hungary) and “The Monk” (inspired by an
18th century gothic story by Matthew Lewis) are better suited to Kelly and
fellow guitarist Laura Weller’s Goblin Market side project. Keyboard player
Eric Lichter’s three tracks, the jazzy “French to Japanese”, “Would You
Even Say Hello” and “Sweet Moth” also feel out of place – perhaps they
should have been saved for his solo album? The best of these, “Sweet Moth”
(with its memorable, catchy chorus) is unfortunately swallowed up by the avant
garde studio trappings of sound bytes and heavily treated distorted vocals. Even
the lonely sound of a piano tinkling mournfully in a distant room is washed away
by rainstorm sound fx.
It’s a shame, because the
remainder of “Disappear” could have formed the basis for another great
album. “The Moreland Ghost”, “Matilda”, “Sweet 16”, the epic album
highlight “Wild Desire” and Weller’s hard rocking, anti-suicide plea
“Downslide” all illustrate that when the current GPJ line-up have all their
collective energies firing on all cylinders, they can be one of the hardest
rocking, most original bands in the world.
One thing’s for sure: that silly
“Byrds/Beatles retreads” label should be retired immediately. Bassist Joe
Ross once told me, “When people stop comparing us to the Beatles, we’ll stop
sounding like them.” Point taken, Joe. Whether conscious or not,
“Disappear” and, to a lesser extent, 7 Fathoms Down and Falling
before it, have left the Beatles/Byrds/Paisley Underground triumvirate of
influences behind and, as such, serves as a transitional entry in their
impressive catalogue. Hopefully the aforementioned highlights are where the band
is headed and the momentary pauses and diversions are out of their system.
The last time the GPJs were this
disjointed was the disastrous Book of Hours, still their creative nadir.
Too many cooks spoiled that brew (half the band – keyboardist Bruce Haedt and
the late Steve Lawrence were on their way out – Ross wasn’t even IN, having
left to pursue other projects, including a short stint with Weller in Capping
Day), but their finest work was to follow. Not sure if personnel changes are
imminent this time around, but I’m rooting for the next phase of the GPJs
canon to once again raise them to the cream of the crop of today’s finest
pop/psych bands.
While the world awaits the PJs new
Goblin Market side project release [see above], Jeff Kelly and his band of merry
pranksters offer us this teaser, 5 songs recorded around the same time but
centered around (and inspired by) the writings of J.S. Le Fanu, a horror writer
(and contemporary of Poe) whose "Carmilla" (interpreted here) was one
of the first vampire stories and an inspiration for Bram Stoker's "Dracula."
One look at the band's photo on the back (all dressed in Victorian black like
they just returned from a premature burial,) and you have an idea where this is
going before the laser hits the aluminum. "Uncle Silas" opens with a
tinkling music box, then Eric Lichter's foreboding piano enters the room
accompanied by a foreboding violin, propelling the track along like an ominous
funeral march. Kelly relates the murderous tale in hushed whispers as the song
builds to a blistering guitar solo, culminating in the haunting sound of thunder
off in the distance.…
Ptolemaic Terrascope editor Phil McMullen's daughter Emily (for whom Kelly wrote the PJs classic "Emily Grace") contributes vocals to "Madam Crowl's Ghost" and the childlike innocense of her "I'm not afraid of you" refrain is almost as comforting as whistling in the dark. Like Nick Saloman's daughter Debbie (whose Petrocat performance enthralled the throngs at Terrascope III in London in 1999) it would appear the lass has a musical future in front of her should she (and dad) be so inclined.
Laura Weller has been acclimating
herself to her new green pajamas for a few years now and she steps up to the mic
on "Green Tea" and "Laura Silver Bell," two tracks she wrote
for Goblin Market, her side project with Kelly. These give an indication of what
to expect from that forthcoming release: disguised as pleasant pop tunes, there
are lyrical indications that something wicked this way comes and I can hardly
wait for it to arrive.
This is Green Pajamas frontman
Kelly's sixth "official" solo release, thus matching his main band's
total full-length "official" output (not counting EPs, Greatest Hits
and rarities compilations). Unlike his previous outings, this one rocks like a
sum'bitch and is closer to his GPJs releases in the fuller arrangements and use
of more traditional "rock and roll" instruments – tons of drums,
wild guitar solos, etc. and, as such, may be more accessible to GPJ fans than
his previous efforts. Unlike the evidence on the 4xCD box set, Melancholy Sun
(which gathers his first three solo LPs and adds a new one), this collection is
not as heavily reliant on Jeff's obsession with Cohen, Drake and early Victorian
(female) authors. As a result, it's not as dark and "folky" as those
records – Jeff actually seems happy this time out.
When I listen to the solo work of an
artist who is clearly identified in a band context, I like to ask myself whether
the release is really necessary – what is different about this record that
makes it stand on its own merits away from the contributions of the rest of the
band. I'm not sure I can answer that successfully with Indiscretion.
The two opening cuts, the title
track and "Someone's Daughter" are vintage PJs and could even date
back to outtakes from Strung Behind The Sun or All Clues Lead To
Megan's Bed (Kelly is obviously prolific and is always writing and
recording). The fuzzfest that is "Cruel Velvet Sea" benefits from a
wall-of-sound arrangement that also includes a nifty guitar solo, horns and
strings (no doubt all played on Kelly's trusty little
"studio-in-a-box" synthesizer). "Ambrosia's Song (She Looks Like
Mary)" offers a nice little organ break in the middle that is a first for
Kelly and hopefully will reappear on future outings – it adds another weapon
to his arsenal and presents some interesting possibilities for opening up the
PJs sound beyond the heretofore Beatles-Byrds-Stones axis that a lot of their
material has been centered around.
Kelly's previous solo records have
all included quiet, personal recollections of his childhood and snapshots of
memorable moments from his homelife and this one is no exception. It's basically
what separated the solo work from the PJ releases and seems to me to be the
raison d'etre for his career outside of the band aesthetic. Here, these tracks
("The Jailer's Song", Balthus, King of Cats", The Ghosts of Holy
Rosary" and "His Soul To Take") bring the record to a grinding
halt and seem out of sorts with the harder tracks which surround them. So, to
answer my original question, is this record necessary for your collection if
you're a GPJs fan?; I'd say "yes", especially if you're unfamiliar
with Kelly's other solo work – this is a good place to start. You'll enjoy the
upbeat, uptempo rockers which will only fuel your thirst for the next PJs
release, and you'll also get a glimpse into another side of Jeff Kelly that is
occasionally left on the cutting room floor (of Jeff's vault, as the case may
be) to make room for the formidable contributions from the other PJs, all of
whom are excellent songwriters. It's this variety of styles and influences that
is missing from this record, as is usually the case with any artist who plays
all the instruments and writes all the songs and arrangements (Nick Saloman of
The Bevis Frond is a prime example). However, it's the quality of those songs on
Indiscretion that overrides the potential pitfall of a single musician
exercising a single vision that usually could have benefited from the editorial
skills and input from the rest of the band.
Now this is more like it, Kawabata-san! Last month you'll recall we lambasted Makoto's main project, Acid Mothers Temple for inducing headaches and heart palpatations with his refried acid freakouts and speaker-shredding noise pollution (see review elsewhere), but managed to let him off the hook (barely) after we heard La Novia, still the only AMT to own in our opinion. Well, Makoto has crafted another gorgeous dronefest, veering comfortably into sonic architecture that soothes and comforts the savagery inflicted by the Mothers. Three tracks and over an hour of drifting, ambient, cinematic imagery float by, all recorded live with no overdubs – just Kawabata and his guitar. Fans of Stars of the Lid, Windy & Carl, Azusa Plane, et. al. will welcome another entrant into their little world of "music for unwritten films", although this would be the perfect soundtrack next time you watch David Lynch's Eraserhead. The half hour third track, "Evening On The Moon" features ominous and industrial soundscapes that capture Lynch's encroaching horror so well, I'd be surprised if someone hasn't already linked sound and vision cues a la Dark Side of The Moon and Wizard of Oz. That's one experiment you SHOULD try at home.
[NB: The ten tracks
on this release fly by in exactly half an hour and Badman are charging
full-length prices. In this age of CD technology and its 79-minute availability,
that's either a fucking ripoff or a fucking EP. I'm giving Mark the benefit of
the doubt.]
Mark Kozelek is either out of his mind or just plain doesn't give a flying fuck. Probably a little of both! The Red House Painter frontman had a song from their last release (Songs for A Blue Guitar) placed in a Gap ad and he had a small but memorable role in last year's best film, "Almost Famous" (he played the gay bassist in Stillwater.) Rather than parlay this newfound popularity into launching his long awaited new RHP release, he decides to issue a tribute album to one of the loudest, drunkest bands on the planet, AC/DC!?!?! Wait, it gets better: it's a solo acoustic album – one of the quietest, soberest releases of the year!
Now, imagine if Nick Drake walked
into Joe Boyd's office and said, "Hey, Joe. I've just heard about this new
act, The Jimi Hendrix Experience. They've got some great tunes and I want to
record a whole album of them." Well, this is not so far from that scenario.
Obviously, having survived telling indie heavyweight Ivo Watts-Russel (head of
RHPs first label 4AD) to essentially go fuck himself for not releasing
"Blue Guitar," Kozelek is not about to flinch when it comes to making
career choices.
Wisely avoiding the classics (no
"Big Balls," no "Have A Drink on Me," no "Dirty Deeds
Done Dirt Cheap"), Kozelek manages to strip the songs down to their
skeletal framework and then reconstructs them into his own image to the point
where the unsuspecting listener could easily be fooled into thinking they were
originals. The fact that I'm not a big AC/DC fan and am thus unfamiliar with
most of these songs works to Kozelek's advantage and admittedly skewers my
assessment of them. Fans may have a hard time swallowing the concept, let alone
the execution and are well advised to steer clear. Let's face it, AC/DC
headbangers are not known for their subtlety or openmindedness and will probably
react in accordance with Jeff Spicolli's assessment of famed surfer,
"Jungle Jim" Lieberman in "Fast Times at Ridgemont High":
"Oh, that guy's a fag!"
So, what do we have here? Besides
reprising three songs from his earlier debut EP (including the titualr
"Rock & Roll Singer"), Kozelek offers warm, contemplative
Drake-ish interpretations of such footstomping, beer guzzling anthems as
"Love At First Feel," "Riff Raff" and "If You Want
Blood." But these aren't of the tongue-in-cheek, wink wink, nudge nudge
variety – Kozelek is deadly serious and his honesty and respect for the source
material shines through. He's long been adept at taking classic tunes and
deconstructing them down to their basic chord structures and then reshaping them
into entirely different, almost unrecognizeable, new songs. Simon &
Garfunkle's "I Am A Rock" done as a funeral dirge, Paul McCartney's
"Silly Love Songs" turned into a Neil Young-styled guitar freakout,
Ric Ocasek's "All Mixed Up" (of the aformentioned Gap commercial) and
Yes' "Roundabout" are but some of his more famous reconstruction
projects. Last year, he did the same thing with one of his acknoeledged
songwriting heroes, John Denver (?!) by organizing and contributing to Take Me
Home, the John Denver tribute album. That he chose not to leave well enough
alone and tackle the seemingly incongruous AC/DC as his next project redefines
the term "indie maverick." Time will tell if it also gives new meaning
to the phrase "career suicide." Personally, I applaud his independence
and champion his new release. Now that he's (hopefully) got this frivolous
streak out of his system, he can next turn his attention to Old Ramon, the long
rumored (and even longer overdue) new Red House Painters' release.
Speaking of one of Virginia's
finest, Labradford's sixth release combines the more ambient elements of Donne's
Aix Em Klemm work with an unfortunate overfixation with Tortoise, a band they
successfully avoided comparisons with in the past. The short (4 tracks in about
35 minutes) album suffers from a lack of originality and growth and consists of
little more than Mark Nelson's endless variations on the guitar riff from
Tortoise's "Along the Banks of Rivers" (from Millions Now Living
Will Never Die), which in itself was merely a variation on Angelo
Badalamenti's "Theme from Twin Peaks." Underneath this film noir-ish
motif, there's an assortment of electronic beeps courtesy Carter Brown and
random radiator hisses and other unidentified "noises" (another bad
habit, this one picked up from Olivia Tremor Control) that do nothing to enhance
the listening experience. (Actually, they probably serve more to piss off
purchasers of the vinyl version, who are likely to examine their platters
looking for the "scratch marks.") The fact that Labradford finally
decided to use proper song titles this time out also means little as they are
totally superfluous (e.g., "Twenty" isn't -–it's actually about 18
minutes, and "Up To Pizmo," "David" and "Wien" are
equally inncouous.) A disappointing step backwards – the world is not ready
for "retro-post rock."
For a much better exploration of
inner space, pick up this debut release from New Zealand’s Craig Williamson.
Turn out the lights, assume the cross-legged yoga position, burn some incense
and candles and lose yourself inside the hypnotic sounds of sitar, tabla, flute,
chimes, finger cymbols and soothing electric and acoustic guitars as Chris
intones hosianic mantras to inner peace and outer space. “Lotus of a Thousand
Petals” is one of the most otherworldly pieces of music I have ever
encountered, its 9 minnutes seeming to stretch on into infinity. You don’t
even have to be stoned to get into this vibe (although that doesn’t hurt.)
If you locked Vini (Durutti Column)
Reilly, Steve (Porcupine Tree) Wilson and Sweden’s Spacious Mind in a studio
and turned them loose to feed off each other’s auras, you’d have an idea of
where this music will take you. A consistently high (!) quality permeates the
entire disk, which should be in the collection of every fan of the
aforementioned artists in particular and electric psychedelic headswirling sitar
music aficianados in general. Chris is already at work on a follow up and I’m
camping out on Richard Stockwell’s Cranium Records’ doorstep in
frothy-mouthed anticipation.
Brian John Mitchell's label is responsible for some of the more atmospheric, cinematic releases in recent memory and this is another fine entry in his catalogue. The drifting, mellow two-guitar interplay on "Orientation Point" and "Sommet" recall vintage Felt; "San Juan Capistrano", with its sampled FX, closely approximates a flock of sea gulls (the actual birds, not the '80s hair band) and "Altitude" lifts the spirits and gently touches down on a soft bed of cumulus clouds – quite like Tarentel and quite beautiful.
I'm not exactly sure what to make of
"Anquetil" – there's some French sound bytes dropped into what
sounds like an organ grinder (minus the monkey) loop interspersed with Wendy
Carlos-like electronics ca. her Clockwork Orange soundtrack. Over it all,
someone seems to be trying to play a trumpet with a sock in it. This is like
those weird electronic pieces on last year's "Ohm" box –
historically important, but aesthetically annoying noises. Not easy listening.
The lengthy title track floats by so
quietly and unobtrusively, it would make a fine soundtrack to a really rich and
rewarding dinner with the upper crusty neighbors. Set up your player to loop
this track, sit back and enjoy. In fact, at just slightly over 20 minutes, the
same could be said for "Mont Ventroux."
As I write, Low's sixth album sits comfortably perched atop the CMJ music chart, a sign that one of the progenitors of "snorecore" has finally arrived. Their initial offerings floundered on Virgin subsidiary, Vernon Yard, noticed by only a few Kramer completists (he produced their first two LPs, including their '94 debut, If I Could Live in Hope which was originally slated for his Shimmy Disc imprint.) Upon VYs timely demise, the band were rescued from obscurity by one of America's finest indie labels (Kranky's roster includes Windy & Carl, Stars of the Lid, Godspeed You Black Emperor and Labradford) and enlisted hot producer du jour, Steve Albini for their "Songs for A Dead Pilot" EP. Albini also helmed last year's disappointing Secret Name, burying its few melodies under an onslaught of strings and horns, thereby depleting what little life the band had left to offer. Or, so it seemed. [Sidenote: Albini also "produced" Labradford's latest (see above), so I wonder if he's now the Kranky in-house producer?]
Once again, Albini occupies the producer's chair and, mercilessly, that's just about all he does. Beginning with the radio friendly, "Sunflower," appending the import single "Dinosaur Act" (previously available on Tugboat, who also released their marvelous "Christmas" EP in '99) and ending with the incredible triumvirate of "Kind of Girl," "Like A Forest" and "Closer," "Things We Lost…" is easily Low's finest release to date! Oh, the strings and horns are still there, but unobtrusively so – they compliment the tracks rather than overwhelm them, serving as delicate filler and allowing the songs to breathe. The key to Low's success is the space around the songs, the "bits between the bits" if you will. It's essential that the songs take their time arriving at their pre-ordained destination. The beauty of their Vernon Yard releases was that the listener had no idea where the band were headed – half the pleasure was the journey getting there. Mis-steps like "Dead Pilot," Secret Name and the ill-advised split EP with Spring Heeled Jack were the result of concentrating on the payoffs at the expense of the setups. Telegraphing the "hooks" and relying on catchy choruses to sell a song seemed like desperate attempts to win new fans, leaving the faithful (including yours truly) ready to jump ship. But a return to basics signals all is well in Low country and I'm willing to overlook prior disgressions as the result of emotional overload and preoccupation following the birth of the Sparhawk's (drummer Mimi and guitarist Alan) daughter Hollis Mae, who makes her recording debut on the album's haunting finale, "In Metal," a beautiful tale of parental love and protection.
Elsewhere, the suspenseful
"Whitetail" and "Embrace" may be Low's most cinematic
offerings to date, with Alan's repetitive, single stroke guitar line on the
former and Zak Sally's similar one note bassline on the latter recalling the
ominous underpinnings of the shark attacks in Jaws. The Sparhawk's
harmonies never sounded better than on "Medicine Magazines" and
"July," while "Laser Beam" contains Mimi's finest vocal
performance to date, her crystaline soprano reaching heights previously only
visited by the likes of Joni Mitchell and Judy Collins. Coupled with her
operatic acrobatics on "Whore," wherein she achieves the theremin-like
qualities best exemplified in the "cave scene" in the original Invasion
of the Body Snatchers, hers must finally be acknowledged in the same breath
as Mitchell, Collins, Sandy Denny and Jacqui McShee as one of the finest voices
ever to emanate from your woofers and tweeters.
Things We Lost in the Fire,
a lyric from "Closer," asks the question, "How'd we ever make it
this far?" and provides it's own answer by combining exquisite vocals,
tastefully minimalistic orchestral flourishes and stick in the head melodies
into the best release of the new century.
This is the seventh in a continuing series of mini releases sponsored by the Konkurrent Onathankalijk Muziekbedrijf in Holland. The collective offers artists “space for expression and experimentalism” and the culprits this time out don’t disappoint. Low offer another of their trademark somnambulistic cover versions, turning “Down by the River” into a Prozak-fuelded iceberg that transforms Neil’s classic into a shaggy dog story minus the punchline. “Invitation Day” and “When I Called Upon Your Seed” are even slower, but the Sparhawk’s harmonies on the former and Mimi’s crystalline vocals on the latter are among the best in the biz, so just pull up the blankets and settle in for a long winter’s nap. Warren Ellis provides a beautiful violin accompaniment on “Invitation Day,” but his own efforts with the other dirty two are less successful. “Cody” and “Lordy” simply don’t have enough of a skeleton for Ellis to flesh out with his mournful violin flourishes and they end up as merely directionless, incoherent struggles for tunes that never arrive. “Lordy,” is a particularly annoying mess with the chorus repeated over and over in a weak Dylan impersonation. It sounds like an outtake from Bob’s “reborn trilogy” of embarrassments that even he had the good sense to leave on the cutting room floor. The Dirty Three should have followed his lead and done the same.
I chose to reproduce the entire
title of the new album by ex-Tarentel bassist Jeffrey Rosenberg's new band for
several reasons: first, because I challenge anyone to walk into a store and ask
for it by name; second, because I'm an anal retentive S.O.B.; and third, to
illustrate that pretentiousness and unoriginality (it's a sentence from an Italo
Calvino story, "The Mine Field" from his "Difficult Loves"
collection if anyone cares) is not always limited to major label artists (cf.
Nick Cave.) Having exhausted their quota of words, the band resorts to
ridiculous roman numerals for the song titles (i.e., "I" through
"VII.") [Note: wouldn't it have been easier to come up with another
album title and just use each of the eight sentence fragments as the song
titles?]
And what of the music itself? Well,
it starts off promisingly enough with the gently evocative, "I" a sort
of Nick Drake-led Tortoise piece (told you it was derivative) that welcomes lazy
summer afternoons spent in the hammock sipping mint julips. Cool, refreshing and
relaxing. "II" continues in this vein, the guitars reminiscent of
vintage Red House Painters, with the added ambience of a stroll along the Seine
courtesy of an accordian-like keyboard line that effectively captures olde world
Paris in the 20s. By "III" the drumming is beginning to overshadow the
beautiful Durruti Column fretwork cascading underneath and "IV" marks
the beginning of the end and it becomes apparent that this is a "drummer's
band" [although I'm not sure who that is as the chaps, perhaps wisely,
avoid identifying credits on the disk] as we're treated to the sounds of the
drummer practicing on his kit, waiting for the electrician or, perhaps, someone
like him to come and fix his snare. I can (barely) hear the Tarentel influence
begin to emerge buried beneath the incessant clamoring – like someone had From
Bone To Satellite playing in the studio, dropped the needle in the middle of
a Buddy Rich record and then hit the "record" button.
"V" begins with the
rolling guitar riff from CSNYs "Déjà Vu" until the drummer drops in
and starts banging away. Too bad he wasn't in the same room as the rest of the
band, because his racket is quite annoying and distracting. There's only so much
to be said about "synchronicity." "VII" gives the guitars a
chance to weave their magic and the beautiful interplay recalls the best of
Felt, Television and The Chameleons in its complexity as the guitar lines dance
around each other, bobbing and weaving like Mohammed Ali on a caffeine rush. The
absence of the drummer is duly noted and appreciated. The short closer,
"VIII" invites the drummer back to inflect more damage and he complies
by drowning out a pretty acoustic solo that sounds like something off a Pat
Orchard record.
If I had the right mixing software, I'd try to isolate the drum tracks and eliminate them as I burned another copy of the CD. That, with flourishes of Nick Drake, Vini Reilly, Pat Orchard, CSNY, Tortoise and Tarentel would be a wonderful record. This one, however, sounds like you just settled down for a relaxing evening of John Fahey or Roy Montgomery and the next door neighbors just invited the carpenters in to renovate the apartment.
As I write this, it's almost ten
years to the day that Dean Wareham inexplicably walked out of Galaxie 500 amidst
preparations for a Far East tour and their fourth album. The rhythm section he
left behind (Damon Krukowski and Naomi Yang) have done pretty well for
themselves, releasing four LPs on their own and another three as members of
Magic Hour (with Twisted Villagers Kate Biggar and Wayne Rogers.) Dean,
meanwhile, formed a supergroup of his own with Chills' bassist Justin Harwood
and Feelies' drummer Stan Demeski and released five LPs of diminishing critical
and commercial acclaim. Combining his love of vintage New York guitarrorists
Velvet Underground (Sterling Morrison's final sessions can be found on Bewitched)
and Television (whose Tom Verlaine appears on Penthouse) and adding his
own penchant for catchy melodies and (un)covering obscure gems (Serge
Gainsbourg's "Bonnie & Clyde" also appeared – as a hidden track
– on Penthouse,) Wareham has carved out a niche for himself as one of
indiedom's guitar heroes.
Label woes threatened to destroy the
band when Elektra dropped them after Penthouse failed to sell. Jericho
temporarily rescued them from oblivion last year by releasing Days of Our
Nights, another commercial flop, and now they're back (on yet another label)
with their first live recordings, combined from a 1999 Washington, D.C. show and
two gigs at NYCs Knitting Factory last July. Perhaps seeking to restore past
glories whilst simultaneously encouraging new fans to seek out the back
catalogue, Luna have chosen to present their (arguably) greatest hits in a live
setting and the results are, like the studio recordings, a very mixed bag
indeed. All their full lengths are dipped into, but their finest release, Bewitched
is only represented by three cuts ("Friendly Advice," "Tiger
Lily" and the title track,) while one of their weakest efforts, Penthouse,
is overloaded by a half dozen, including the aforementioned "Bonnie &
Clyde" and the Verlaine-guested "23 Minutes in Brussels."
(Mercifully, the awful Pup Tent is only dragged out for the title track,
although you will also find the old G500 live favorite "Fourth of
July" given a cursory once over.) Somewhere between these two shows Luna
apparently lost Harwood, as Britta Phillips plays on the NYC tracks and,
although her playing is competent, her duet with Wareham on "Bonnie &
Clyde" will have you pining for Latitia (Stereolab) Sadlier's talents on
the original.
And therein lies my problem with
this release. Oh, it's well played and, personnel changes aside (what is it with
Wareham and his rhythm sections?), the band sounds comfortable with each other,
but it's missing that extra something that would elevate it above the hundreds
of other live albums that are proliferating these days. Including "Friendly
Advice" sans Morrison is an insult to his memorable contribution to the
original and asking Sean Eden (an otherwise fine guitarist) to substitute for
Verlaine on "23 Minutes…" is treasonous, especially considering Tom
was probably a few blocks away and readily available to lend a lick or two.
Perhaps the strongest track in their repetoire, the opportunity to hear Verlaine
work his magic on a live rendition of "23 Minutes…" would have been
worth the price of admission alone, but, alas, it was not to be. And the less
said about Phillips' vocal prowess, the better.
It's one thing to invite famous
friends to drop by the recording studio and add a little icing to a few tracks
and it's expected that you'd include them in your live sets, but it's another
thing entirely to include them, sans guest appearance, on a live album. The
pessimist in me attributes this to a marketing ploy to force old fans to buy the
album to find out if their hero (or heroine) appears on it.
So what we're left with is Luna with
all the warts minus the famous flourishes. The performances are of the
run-of-the-mill, summer reunion circuit calibre: no trademark guitar freakouts
to embellish the studio versions. In short, a missed opportunity to hear what
could have been one of our finest guitarists break into a sweat every now and
then. In their heyday, Luna were one of the most exciting live bands around and
to encounter them on a particularly inspired evening was to witness a sonic
assault of epic proportions. Unfortunately, Luna Live might just as well
have been called Luna Dead, for I fear the life has long since evaporated from
this once vibrant band.
The following is transcribed
verbatim from an overheard conversation coming soon to an indie retailer near
you:
Irate Customer: Hey, man, I want my
money back. I just bought this new Godspeed, er, Mogwai record and it skips and
is all scratched up!
Curious Retailer: I'm sorry. What
seems to be the problem?
IC: Here, listen to this, man. The
first song ("Sine Wave") is nothing but scratches and surface noise.
CR puts on record and listens: You're right! I'm sorry, sir. Perhaps if we exchanged it for another copy. It might just be the first track.
IC: (fuming) No, listen to the sixth song ("Robot Chant"). It's the same thing. It just makes all this scratchy noise like a bunch of guns going off.
CR moves stylus over track 6, listens for a minute and confirms ICs suspicions: OK, this must just be a bad pressing. I can send it back and give you a clean copy.
IC: That's OK. I just want my money back. And another thing. You sure you didn't switch album sleeves on me, man? This is the same as all their other records. Here, put on track 5 ("You Don't Know Jesus"). See, there. Listen how it starts out real slow and then gets real loud and about 6 minutes in, the bottom falls out and it gets as quiet as a church. And the seventh track ("2 Rights Make 1 Wrong") is exactly the same – only it has all them scratchy noises about halfway through.
CR (shaking head sympathetically:) That's the problem with these guys, you know. They start out with a brilliant first record – trying to give us something besides the "same old, same old" and then everything they release after that is the "same old, same old" that they came up with in the first place.
IC (calming down, realizing he has attained the upper hand:) Yeah, you're right. No wonder I confused them with "God's pee." They're the same way….
CR (laughing:) Yeah, the same "Mog" way!
IC (chuckling:) So, you got anything else I can exchange this for?
CR: Well, you might like this new Glide record. It's by that guy who used to be the guitar player in Echo & The Bunnymen. It's real ambient, like Mogwai and, er, "God's pee" used to be before they got pretentious and all….
IC (intrigued:) Really, let me see that…. [Check above for review.]
Like Luna's Dean Wareham (see above),
Montgomery is also a native New Zealander, but that's where the comaprisons end.
In recent years, Roy has carved out a niche for himself as one of our finest
avant guitarists and his follow up to last year's wonderful The Allegory of
Hearing may be his best release yet. Recorded 2 1/2 years ago in New
Zealand, this is a series of hypnotic highly treated guitar drones. Using the
basic riff from the opener, "For The Imperiled" as its backing track,
each succeeding piece adds another layer of sound to create a unique song:
"For The Disoriented" adds a Farfisa organ solo on top of the guitar
track from "Imperiled," "For The Mortified" adds a siren
wail and viscious guitar solo, etc. So what we end up with is essentially three
variations on the opening theme, a typically "classical" construction.
Track 4, "For The
Dispossessed," begins with a heavily distorted fuzzbox guitar riff and
repeats it for 8 minutes, embellishing each repitition with an organ solo and
contrapuntal guitar riff to create a symphony of echoes that ends as abruptly as
it began. (Note the title.) "For The Intense" couldn't be more
descriptive. Over a heavy synth beat straight out of Suicide's debut 25 odd
years ago, Roy throws layer upon layer of 6- and 12-string guitar, his Alexis
Quadraverb, e-bow and an almost Wakeman-like, proggy organ solo. For 8 1/2
minutes! The "intensity is almost unbearable. Double-timing the riff and
then adding a pipe organ effect makes "For The Circulation" sound like
a lost New Order track. Get out on that dance floor and move your body! I can
almost HEAR the blood coursing through my veins. What's that? Dancing to a Roy
Montgomery song? What HAS the world come to?!
The epic (as in 16 1/2 minute)
closer "For A Small Blue Orb" returns to traditional Montgomery-ville,
a sonic guitar dronefest which features all the preceding elements of
multi-layered, multi-tracked guitars, organ, Quadraverb, e-bow, Farfisa - the
proverbial kitchen sink. Each of these tracks is accompanied by a corresponding
kalaidescopic black and white pinwheel which, if cut out of the CD booklet and
attached to the head of a pin or nail and spun around enhances the hypnotic
effect of the track and explains the disk's title. It's great to have
interactive music back - something to play along with while you're enjoying the
sounds of one of the year's finest releases.
All right, now, these names
are starting to get out of hand. Dandy Warhols was cute (for about 5 minutes),
but then we get Thomas Jefferson Slave Apartments and Brian Jonestown Massacre
and John Cougar Concentration Camp and now these guys from Long Island, NY. The
good news is that, after three albums of generic bar b(l)and boogie, including a
stab at a conceptual piece about the new millenium (albeit, a year too early),
the Cliffs have finally hit their stride with the new century's first all-out
power pop extravaganza. For years, the good folks at Baltimore's RPM imprint
have been almost singlehandedly trying to revive that short lived phenomenon
that bridged the gap between punk and new wave about 20 years ago, mostly
championed by labels such as Bomp! and Beserkley. Before long, the majors saw
gold in them thar hills and we were inundated with confections by the likes of
The Rubinoos, Wire Train, The Knack, The Now, The Pop, The Proof, 20/20, Shoes,
Quincy, The Heaters, The Producers and countless others (and that's just US
bands!) whose output still clutters cutout bins the world over.
However, the idea of
recreating the type of AM radio friendly, instantly digestible, imminently
forgettable pop music that we all grew up listening to as teenagers in the 6Ts
wasn't ALL that bad and many of the above groups actually had one or two
"hits" that I still recall fondly today. So, RPMs heart is in the
right place (and I highly recommend seeking out some of their comps such as Fuzzy
Logic and The Three Minute Revolution if you're into this sort of
thing.) Those of you still with me will also find a lot to like in this short
collection (a dozen tracks in a little over half an hour) of toe tappers that
come and go as soft as a cloud in a summer's breeze. "Ride" begins the
journey with the typical sticky sweet vocals, rhythm guitars and
mixed-way-up-front drum snaps the genre is known for. Bassist/vocalist Joey
Salvia (and is that anagrammed surname a classic power pop moniker or what?)
wrote the whole album, whose strongpoint is his boy next door, effeminate voice
that melts girls panties and pisses us macho guys off to no end, yielding cries
of that ultimate 6Ts teenaged putdown, "homo!" Remember how you used
to hate The Knack on principle just 'cause your girlfriend went ga-ga everytime
Doug Fiedler opened his mouth and winked at her bopping up and down in the front
row at their concerts? Same thing here. You just want to call this guy out and
have your friends do a number on him. Fans of homo-, er, emocore like Jimmy Eats
World, The Get Up Kids and all those Jade Tree bands (especially The Promise
Ring) will eat this stuff up. Naturally, they're almost all college age chicks!
But, petty jealousies
aside, let's examine the tunes. Lyrically, they're not much different from The Donnas:
sick cow, I'm better than your boyfriend so come hang out with me, love songs
all played over a pleasant, catchy chorus with hooks aplenty coming at you from
all directions. "Ambivalent" works up a bit of a sweat with a
semblance of macho bravado: "Are you another piece of ass or am I wasting
my time?" "Collagen Lips (and Silicone Breasts)" bemoans our
loverboy's dilemma of being caught in a relationship gone stale and phony, as
does "B-Side:" "I don't wanna be your B-Side baby, I don't wanna
be your second best." All of this is presented in a tune reminiscent of The
Rembrandts. These guys could certainly qualify for the theme song to NBCs next
feel good, must see, beautiful people sitcom. "O.P.B." actually
possesses not one, but two time changes from hell that find it starting out like
The Candy Skins, slipping into a Mexican cantina complete with spanish guitar
mini-solo and then reigning in a chorus straight out of some old Negro
spiritual. Whew!? Naturally, it's the longest track on here.
"Gary Numan" is a paean to the star's abandonment of music to concentrate on his passion for flying, but comparing his quick ascension and just as swift descension from public favor to both Jesus Christ AND Elvis is a bit much. "She Said" wraps things up with a rockin', no-holds-barred stomper that might just induce the wallflowers to take to the dance floor. And, ultimately, that's what this whole experience is all about: a night on the town, cruising the meat markets, looking for an easy score. When it's all over, you still won't remember her name in the morning, but you'll have the feeling that it was fun while it lasted. And The Montgomery Cliffs will be your soundtrack, gnawing at your innards for days afterwards - something you can't get out of your head no matter how hard you try or how guilty you feel, proving there is still something to be said for "guilty pleasures."
Speaking of failed
opportunities, this one is doubly disappointing because of the legendary status
of the artists involved. Quietly, Murphy, an ex-patriot living in France since
the '80s has released some of the finest, most underappreciated
"singer/songwriter" albums of the past three decades and Matthews'
resume during the same period includes stints with Fairport Convention, Matthews
Southern Comfort (#1 single, "Woodstock"), Plainsong and Hi-Fi, not to
mention about a dozen solo albums. The thought that these two giants would get
together to record a duet LP would seem unfathomable, although, as Matthews
relates in his liner notes, Murphy's status as the next big thing was originally
presented to him back in 1970 following Murphy's debut, Aquashow. Twenty
years later, Matthews manager was also Murphy's US representative and a few
years after that Iain met the head of Blue Rose Records (who counted among their
artists one Elliott Murphy) at the '97 SXSW indie music convention in Austin,
Texas. He suggested that maybe the two ought to consider recording an album
together and this is the result. I offer all this background information
because, unfortunately, it's more interesting than the album.
For the most part, you'd
never know the two were in the same studio together. Aside from a few (easily
the best) tracks where they actually share vocal duties on alternating verses,
the release is more like a split LP with little evidence of one appearing on the
songs written by the other. Another telling fact is that none of the originals
(there are covers of Dylan, Springsteen, Weill/Brecht and Jesse Colin Young)
were co-authored, leaving the impression that these are merely songs that each
of them were preparing for a solo album that they decided to record
"together." This theory is enforced by Matthews liner notes which
mention that each of them had songs available that they "threw out"
for discussion, all of which were eventually included. Sadly, they are not among
either artists' best.
Things start off promising
enough with the duet, "One Cold Street," a Tom Petty-styled rocker.
(As an aside, it should be noted that this similarity in sound to Petty and his
Heartbreakers was Murphy's ultimate commercial downfall. The public went for
Petty's radio friendly ear candy at the expense of Murphy's more introspective
songs. The lack of a consistent, strong backing band may also have hurt sales.
As an illustration, his most famous track, "Drive All Night" (off Just
A Story from America) sounds more like Petty than Petty himself.)
Dylan's "Blind Willie
McGee" is next and works well as the pair share lead vocals and their
harmonies hint at how great the collaboration could have been if they stuck with
this formula throughout. However, beginning with Matthews' "Close To the
Bone," a sappy, mid-70s West Coast vibe a la The Eagles (with Henley
singing lead), the remaining tracks veer towards solo efforts with only the
occasional harmony popping up to justify the dual billing. Murphy's "Navy
Blue" is one of his trademark song/stories, but sounds like something off
Mark Knopfler's latest solo effort, while Matthews' lone vocal on a very dark
version of The Youngbloods "Darkness, Darkness" is yet another missed
opportunity – why couldn't they have traded verses? That's the unanswered
question that ultimately dooms this project.
There are a few highlights, though. Murphy's Cohenesque "Big Umbrella" jauntily taps its way into the subconscious and is one of the few tracks warranting repeated listens. (Of course, Matthews' harmonies aid considerably.) Murphy again scores with "I Want To Talk To You," another toe tapper with a catchy guitar riff – it's the hit single and should be covered immediately by Springsteen. Matthews' maudlin "FF" brings things to a screeching halt and Murphy's "Dusty Roses" would fit nicely on a Tom Waits record, but mires the present collection in a melancholic swamp. Waits' spirit also hovers ominously over Brecht & Weill's "Ballad of Sad Soldier" courtesy of the lead vox of Wolfgang Niedecken. What the hell this is doing on here is another unsolved mystery.
Springsteen does make an appearance, albeit as the author of "Sad Eyes." It's one of the Boss' worst songs and a poor choice for a cover. It might sell a few copies to Bruce completists, but the curious should seek out Murphy's actual duet with Springsteen, "Everything I Do" from his Selling the Gold solo LP (1996, Deja Disks.) Matthews' best contribution is also the album's watershed track, "Unconditionally." Murphy's lead, coupled with beautiful harmonies fulfill the promise of the collaborative effort. Too bad they waited for the final track to do it.