sonic slang

Jack Johnson - Sleep Through the Static

2008, Brushfire Records
Verdict: C+

The hook for bloggers covering Jack Johnson's latest LP, Sleep Through the Static, was his incorporation of electric guitar into the mellow mix that's made the surfer-turned-folker an unlikely chart superstar.  Unfortunately, hooks are exactly what's missing this time around. 

The vibe remains the same - Beach bums will still dig it, and the "dude with the guitar" at your summer bonfires is probably already hard at work learning the licks, but where Johnson might have gone too far into pop territory on In Between Dreams, this collection is his "sleepiest" to date.  Trust me dudes, electric guitars aren't raising any pulses here.

Lead single "If I Had Eyes" comes closest to capturing the James Taylor-meets-Jimmy Buffett sound that's been honed in the years since Brushfire Fairytales.  The rest treads closer to his work on the kid-focused Curious George soundtrack.  Relaxed, comfortable as an old pair of flip flops but vanilla as hell, Sleep Through the Static can't help but feel like Johnson on autopilot.  Here's hoping the next LP can recapture the promise seen on 2003's dark, groovy and still totally chill On and On.

Official Site | MySpace Profile | Label Site

Key Tracks:

"If I Had Eyes"
"What You Thought You Need"
"Sleep Through the Static"

Video Clip:

"If I Had Eyes""

Bob Mould - District Line

2008, Anti
Verdict: B

Bob Mould’s latest LP takes cues from his pop-heavy Sugar era (lead single “The Silence Between Us”), and his more recent, electronic introspection (“Shelter Me”) to create a satisfying, if ultimately low-key concoction.  Not the return to rock form the blogosphere was hyping, and don’t let anyone fool you - the Husker Du days are long gone, but if you've been any kind of fan over the last 15 years or so, District Line should do nicely.

“Again and Again” employs acoustic guitars and piano licks for a mid-tempo ballad that fits right in with Mould’s best.  With vocals effectively strained, he’s at his most vulnerable and more than a little bitter.  If Mould still has teenage fans, this is one for the breakup mix tape.

“Who Needs to Dream?” is another pop outing that fans of Mould classics like “If I Can’t Change Your Mind” and “Gee Angel” should love, while “Return to Dust” has a chunky riff that takes you right back to 1994. 

Little on District Line might not make it into the pantheon of Bob Mould classics, but the disc as a whole serves as a quite serviceable montage of the artist’s metamorphosis from furious indie rocker to electronica’s Paul Westerberg.

Official Site | MySpace Profile | Label Site

Key Tracks:

"The Silence Between Us"
"Shelter Me"
"Who Needs to Dream?"

Promo Clip:

"District Line EPK"

The Republic Tigers - EP

2007, Chop Shop Records
Verdict: B+

The Republic Tigers' Chop Shop Records debut EP features four tracks of quiet, modern beauty.  Built around crisp acoustic guitars with subtle electronic touches, songs like "Buildings & Mountains" or "The Drums" at times recall the subtle electro-pop of Frou Frou, at others the airy pop of, well, Air.

"Rollercoaster" is probably the standout track, nailing the "intimate epic" feel cited in the PR plug we got from their pitchmen.  The melody loses its way a tad towards the end, but for about 90 seconds we were completely transfixed. 

Gorgeous background music for the cool kids, chill out rock for potheads, The Republic Tigers need only a break on the next Garden State-like soundtrack to get the bloggerati foaming at the mouth.  Zach Braff, you listening?

Chris Walla - Field Manual

2008, Barsuk
Verdict: B

Chris Walla's debut solo disc, Field Manual, is precisely what one would expect, for better or worse, from the Death Cab for Cutie guitarist and in-demand producer.  It doesn't qualify as much of a departure, but if his band's forthcoming LP is as strong, there should be a lot of happy bloggers out there.

Moody, yearning indie pop with a dash of slick shoegaze, Field Manual instantly qualifies as a solid follow up to Death Cab's Plans.  Though Walla does occasionally try to branch out from that proven formula - those tracks are generally the weakest of the lot.  In the end it's the tried, true and still engaging formula that wins us over.

First the bad: "The Score" sheds his band's trademark melancholy for an up-tempo rocker, but ends up landing smack in the middle of generic radio pop-rock terrain.  Later, "It's Unsustainable" is a slow-burn ballad that never really takes off. But when Walla embraces his Death Cabiness, the results are far better.

"Geometry and Co." is an obvious single, riding a catchy guitar riff, thoughtful if well-worn lyrics and a propulsive drum beat.  If the band takes any of Walla's solo stuff on the road this year, it might make for a good "Sound of Settling" follow-up.

"Everybody Needs a Home," though a tad moodier and softer. mines similar terrain, while "Archer v. Light" is an engaging bass/drum-heavy winner.

"St. Modesto" is probably our favorite track.  Shimmering, heartfelt and catchy as hell, Gibbard might be wishing his band mate saved tracks like these for the day job.

Official Site | MySpace Profile | Label Site

Key Tracks:

"St. Modesto"
"Geometry and Co."
"Archer v. Light"

Video Clip:

"Sing Again"

The Libertines - Time for Heroes: The Best of the Libertines

2007, Rough Trade
Verdict: C+

With a catalog covering just two LPs recorded over a scant three years, a "Best Of" collection for The Libertines is a ridiculously unnecessary.  In order to cast a critical eye on Time for Heroes: The Best of the Libertines, we have to first get past this fact.  But once there, one is quickly reminded of why the band made a splash in the first place: Early Clash riffs combined with post-punk Strokes melodies and romanticism.  It was a recipe for super-stardom, that is of course, if the songs themselves had been as good.

The Thrills - Teenager

2007, EMI
Verdict: A-

Even though The Thrill's 3rd LP was recorded in Vancouver, this time out they've captured the sun-drenched melancholy of young California love like never before.  The cynics out there might find such lack of growth problematic, but the romantics surely will pick up on at least one thing: Teenager stands head and shoulders above the band's earlier work.

The Killers - Sawdust

2007, Island Records
Verdict: B

The Killers' new odds-and-ends collection Sawdust probably won't burn up the charts, but it just might prove to be a savvy PR move for the oft-maligned act.  After the successes of synth-happy Hot Fuss, followed by the ill-conceived Springsteen-aping Sam's Town, The Killers find themselves largely without a proper identity.  This latest disc, filled with album castoffs, b-sides and covers, allows Brandon Flowers and his cohorts the chance get loose and have some fun, without suffering the scrutiny that comes with a "proper" release.  It also helps that the disc actually ain't too shabby.

The Hives - The Black and White Album

2007, A&M/Octone Records
Verdict: B+

The Hives had its eyes set on world domination with 2004's Tyrannosaurus Hives LP.  But while the disc's energy was as infectious as ever and it took real effort not to fall in love with "Howlin'" Pelle Almqvist's punked-up Mick Jagger swagger, the tunes themselves were starting to get a little stale.  So On The Black and White Album, they've tweaked the formula just enough and the result is The Hives' most impressive disc to date.   

Minus The Bear - Planet of Ice

Suicide Squeeze, 2007
Verdict: B

Minus the Bear's last release, Menos El Oso, saw the band evolving from its sophomoric past with an album of moody, atmospheric brilliance.  Planet of Ice continues that evolution and while it doesn't break any new ground, it does show that these guys are definitely taking their music a lot more seriously these days - almost too much so at times. 

Considering the talent level in play, who can blame them for trying to escape a reputation for goofy song titles ("Hey Wanna Throw Up? Get Me Naked") that overshadowed the thoroughly unique arrangements and intricate riffs of their early work, but the generally somber town of Menos is taken even further this time out, and it sometimes sounds like Minus The Bear is sacrificing fun for artistic street cred.  It's too bad in a way, since the real fans knew better all along. But small quibbles aside, Planet of Ice is clearly the work of a band hitting its stride.

"Knights" and "Throwing Shapes" recall the surf-ready angular rock of Menos El Oso with eerie, echoing guitars and studdery beats that propel the tracks along a less-traveled alt rock road, while "Part 2" features almost sinister effects and a subdued acoustic strum that would recall Pink Floyd had it not ended about 3 minutes too early.

The rest of Planet of Ice continues on the same mid-tempo road with the math rock licks, electronic ticks alternating bouts of peaceful strums and heavy riffs.  It's a great 3am record, and had Minus the Bear not already released the slightly superior Menos El Oso, we might have called it another stunner.  But next time we wouldn't mind seeing another "Monkey! Knife! Fight!" thrown in the mix.  Remember guys, this shit is still supposed to be fun, critical love or not.

Tegan and Sara - The Con

Vapor/Sire, 2007

Any critic worth his salt should never admit this...but I was ready to dislike Tegan and Saras's new disc before I even opened the case.  At their worst, the girl-folk always come off like bland chick-folk with some token techno beats thrown in to reel in the hipper-than-average.  If you read us regularly, you know twee indie pop always has a place here, but these gals just seemed a little too Indigo Girls and not enough Rilo Kiley to hook me in.  But after giving The Con a handful of spins, I'm happy to concede that it holds more than its share of modest pleasures.

This time around, many tracks show the Quin sisters employing the sharp production skills of Chris Wala (Death Cab for Cutie) to craft a sound closer to 1980s power pop than Lilith Fair rock.  The title track wizzes and whirls with fuzzy synth keyboards and an irresistible melody while single "Back in Your Head" is one of those oh-so-simple pop tunes that has you bouncing around the room in spite of yourself.  The Con has its share of filler, but the perfect pop bounce of "Burn Your Life Down" had me forgiving Tegan and Sara every time.

Fountains of Wayne - Traffic And Weather

Virgin, 2007

The success of "Stacey's Mom," a nugget of new wavey, Cars-channeling splendor, thrust Fountains of Wayne into the spotlight long after the band established an underground rep as the thinking man's (or kid's) provider of sugary-sweet, three-chord pop.  Chris Collingswood's quirky characters and clever pop culture lyrics were consistently able to overcome the occasional run-of-the-mill arrangement, and when the band did stir up a memorable riff, well, those were the tunes that earned the band a Best New Artist nod for Welcome Interstate Managers.  It's been four years since that release, and critical interest reached news highs in the lead-up to Traffic And Weather.  Did the band deliver another winner?  Yes and no.  There aren't as many memorable tracks as on the band's last, superb release.  But Fountains of Wayne's tried-and-true formula still works more often than it doesn't, and Collingwood still delivers characters and lyrics you'll remember long after the disc stops spinning.

Winners include the sunny, synth-heavy "Hotel Majestic," the groovy pop of "Strapped For Cash," and a more melancholy, piano-driven turn with "Fire In The Canyon" (which recalls Welcome's winning "Valley Winter Song").  Lead single "'92 Subaru" and "Someone to Love" are less enthralling, musically speaking, but as long as Collingswood continues to infuse seemingly mundane snapshots of life like "Michael And Heather At The Baggage Claim" with such wit and meaning, much can be forgiven.

Jesse Malin - Glitter In The Gutter

Adeline Records, 2007

Jesse Malin's new batch of love-lorn power pop certainly has more than its share of high points, but Glitter in the Gutter is never the transcendent moment many of us wanted.  The truth is, following the greatness of 2003's The Fine Art of Self Destruction and 2004's The Heat with a three year wait + news of both Springsteen AND Ryan Adams cameos, it was hard not to hope for that Pleased to Meet Me-meets-Nebraska disc we all suspect Malin has in him.  But while Glitter rocks a bit harder than previous solo efforts (recalling the artist's earlier work with NYC punkers D Generation), the whole affair is a tad too lightweight to get our hearts properly positioned on our sleeves.

Tracks like "Don't Let Them Take You Down (Beautiful Day)" and "Tomorrow Night" recall the wistful rock feel of The Heat most closely, (which Malin clearly enjoys, considering the inclusion of "Happy Ever After [Since You're in Love 2007]") but other tunes like "Prisoners of Paradise" and "In The Modern World" reach for more up-tempo, pop-rock territory and prove less successful.  Though the former in particular has an irresistible 80's riff and will certainly make for a fun live performance, it's a lot more Butch Walker than Paul Westerberg, and Malin already has the burden of increased expectations to contend with.

In the end, Malin's strengths still come out in his more pensive, introspective moments.  His "Broken Radio" duet with The Boss uses a piano and a healthy dose of street-corner blues to greater effect than an album's worth of riffs.  Later, an aching, dialed-down cover of The Replacements' Bastards of Young" again showcases an artist with much soul to spare.

Fans holding out for that Malin masterpiece - keep the faith.  Glitter in the Gutter is the work of an artist still finding his solo voice.  Hell, it took Paul Westerberg almost 10 years to find his post-Mats muse, and tracks like "Love Streams" indicate that Malin might be well ahead of that pace.  Combining gorgeous lyrics and riffs with a chill-up-your-spine chorus, it should have rightfully been the album closer, and gives hope once again that Malin really is as good as we want him to be. 

Modest Mouse - We Were Dead Before The Ship Even Sank

Epic, 2007

Some of the old-school fans cried foul when the brighter, more accessible version of Modest Mouse broke through with the massive success of Good News For People Who Love Bad News.  But though it's true that mega-hit "Float On" edged the band into new, more upbeat territory, the success of We Were Dead Before The Ship Even Sank should convert a fair number of naysayers.  With this latest disc, Modest Mouse has crafted its most melodic, fully-realized batch of songs yet.

None of the new tracks are likely to have the success of "Float On" (how many really do?), but a number are nearly as deserving.  First single "Dashboard" might have the catchiest hook, qualifying as the closest thing to a dance song in the band's repertoire, but tracks like  "Invisible" or "People as Places as People" reach deeper and manage to marry the band's new pop feel with the usual grab bag of quirky layers that make up its best work.

Much has been made of ex-Smiths guitarist Johnny Marr's joining the fold, and his presence does result in some of the catchiest, most impressive licks in the band's history, but it does little to affect the general band aesthetic.  The show still revolves around lead singer Isaac Brock's endearingly twitchy yelp of a voice, his angst-ridden lyrics and a now-patented switch between moments of perfect melody and screeching diversions.

"Fly Trapped in a Jar" might best exemplify Modest Mouse's ability to play to both crowds.  The song begins as a dark, ragged thumper than recalls much of the band's early work, before shifting gears completely to reveal a post-punk riff that will have Franz Ferdinand licking its chops. 

Sure, hearing Modest Mouse on the radio again might still be weird to some.  But hey, We Were Dead is a great pop record, and at least now all the other pop bands have something to shoot for.   

Kaiser Chiefs - Yours Truly, Angry Mob

2007, Universal

When the Kaiser Chief's debut, Employment, stirred up a buzz in 2005, it often got lumped in with other post-punk or new wave revivalists bands like The Stills, The Strokes or Interpol.  The blogger buzz this category provided not withstanding, these English lads really deserved something of a different category for their power pop rave ups and 60's-leaning modish attitude.  It wasn't any more original than their new genre-mates, but at least they weren't imitating the imitators.

Unfortunately, on 2007's Yours Truly, Angry Mob the band is instead imitating itself, offering a surprisingly stale batch of rehashed riffs and barroom bravado.  Nobody expected them to reinvent the wheel, but these tunes offer very little new material to get the hype machine moving again.

The disc opens with "Ruby," a by-the-numbers fist-pumper than struggles to build up some excitement for the tracks to follow.

"The Angry Mob" might qualify as an album highlight, but it still follows the similar pattern of hand claps, foot-stomper guitar riffs and cocksure attitude.  Only this time the riffs aren't as memorable.

At the end of the day, Yours Truly, Angry Mob, having given up many of the more experimental leanings of its predecessor in favor of mass-appeal arena rock, is a bigger yet far less ambitious disc.  The band can clearly still craft a winning Brit rock single ("Heat Dies Down"), but those dreams of sold-out stadium gigs will have to wait.

The Fratellis - Costello Music

2007, Interscope

Equal parts giddy pub swagger and jaunty punk riffs, The Fratellis bust out of the gate like some drunken offspring of Franz Ferdinand and the White Stripes. Fans of cheeky, goodtime hard rock will count Costello Music among their favorite releases of 2007.

"Flathead” has already been beaten to death in the latest iTunes ad, but none of its simple “handclaps and fist-pumps” charm is lost on repeated listens.

"Henrietta" is equally addictive - Beginning with a sticky riff straight out of the aforementioned Franz Ferdinand’s playbook, the track builds to an wicked garage rock chorus that begs for barroom moshing.

There are lighter moments, like on the bouncy, acoustic-based “Whistle for the Choir” or the almost countryish “Vince the Lovable Stoner,” but the heart of Costello Music is all catchy punk riffs and boozy charm. Technically they aren’t Irish, but The Fratellis would make for one helluva St. Patty’s Day concert.

Albert Hammond Jr. - Yours To Keep

2007, New Line Records

Albert Hammond Jr.’s solo debut is in many ways, quite a departure from his band’s most recent effort, First Impression of Earth. Where that disc has a harder edge and some more experimental (for The Strokes) moments, Yours To Keep finds the band’s guitarist more often echoing the sweet, melodic sounds of his famous father ("It Never Rain in California," "To All the Girls I’ve Loved Before").

Sure, the riffs that made his band the toast of NYC post-punk are still there on tracks like “Everyone Gets a Star” and “In Transit,” but the majority of the disc has a softer, sweeter feel to it, and frankly, better hooks than most of The Strokes recent output.

Yours to Keep won’t blow you away or break up the band, but it’s a solid debut from a surprisingly strong songwriter. If anything, it should give Hammond a lot more clout in the studio, the next time his critically waning band lays down an LP.

The Feeling - Twelve Stops and Home

2007, Interscope

Some hipsters might find the mellow 70’s vibe (think Supertramp) of The Feeling to be on the cheesy side, but if you’re in the mood for some breezy, bright harmonies and catchy pop hooks, give it a shot.  Despite it's sometimes AM radio-ish vibe, Twelve Stops and Home is always good fun.

First single “Never be Lonely” treads closest to the aforementioned light rock of Roger Hodgkin’s AOR staple band, and actually does it justice.  The same can be said for “Fill My Little World,” with its piano-driven riff and acoustic guitar verse. 

"Love It When You Call” deviates from the pattern a bit, approaching more of a 90’s alterna-rock sound.  It’s poppy as hell, but just try not to sing along with the chorus.

The lyrics are simply and cutesy, which works at times and induces groans at others:  “Remember me, I used to be, your best time buddy that you couldn’t wait to see.”  But it’s all part of the feel good mood The Feeling tries to bring, and usually pulls off. 

Listening to the driving chorus for tracks like “Anyone” you get the sense that The Feeling are basically what a band like The Darkness might have sounded like, had they been a bit mellower, and a tad more serious.  And just like that band, many of you might not want to advertise your fandom, but everyone needs guilty pleasures, right?

Scissor Sisters - Ta-Dah

2006, Polydor

Despite an irrefutable celebrity in the UK, Scissor Sisters remains something of an enigma in the band's native NYC. (I can't even imagine what they might be viewed as in Kansas.)  Are they Bees Gees revivalists?  Gay band?  Novelty act?  Or are they just a bunch of folks who play dance-flavored disco rock and wear tights pants?  With their second LP, Ta-Dah, on now on the shelves, let's see if we can sort it out, shall we?

First thing's first.  Ta-Dah probably has fewer bona-fide hits than on the band's near-brilliant debut.   But its musical mojo shines through in a batch of songs actually more imaginative than the more one-note Scissor Sisters.  The only problem is, too often this fact gets hidden behind a mugging, jokey style that goes over the top at times and resembles a disco take on The Darkness.   

Don't get me wrong, the songs are there.  "I Don't Feel Like Dancing," the obvious lead single, is catchy as hell and though not quite as addictive in the long run as "Take Your Mamma Out," it's a hit out of the box. 

The equally strong "She's My Man" channels early-80's Elton John (who guests on "Dancing") and though it might not get the ready play, it could prove to be the album highlight. 

Later, "Lights" lays down funk on by the barrel in a ultra-smooth dance floor groove that could have made the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack, and "Ooh" goes bass-heavy once again with a quirky, Prince-like riff.  Though when the latter's chorus kicks in it's straight Brothers Gibb (the band's bread and butter) again.  The thing could even have a coma patients toe tapping.

The problem is, when Scissor Sisters lay on the glam a little too heavy, the clever mugging and campy attitude detracts from the song itself.  No where is that more evident than on "I Can't Decide," which trips over itself trying to mashup a cabaret verse with guitar licks from a bona-fide ho down.

So this brings us back to our question: Who are Scissor Sisters?  I still don't have a clue, but your best bet might be to just shut up and dance.  Some bands aren't meant to be pondered, merely enjoyed.

The Format - Dog Problems

2006, The Vanity Label

Lyrically, The Format's sophomore disc might be about broken hearts (particularly singer Nate Ruess), but sonically it's another batch of bright, quirky pop that picks up right where the band's 2003 disc, Interventions and Lullabies left off.  Dog Problems does contain its share of throw-away tracks, but when it hit the mark, it hits it dead on.

"Time Bomb" is a lively, piano-driven tune that delves into the well-worn story of picking up the pieces after a breakup.  With catchy oo's and aa's and sprightly percussion, it's bound to make anyone feel a bit better about getting dumped, and on that level it's pretty much a perfect pop song.  The same can be said of "She Doesn't Get It."  Hand claps, a catchy little guitar lick and a rousing keyboard-driven chorus dare you to keep from dancing around your bedroom.

The title track relies on another quirky, fuzzy keyboard hook and irresistibly breezy vocals.  Feel good, roll your window down pop is The Format's strong suit, and though the songs might not be terribly deep, they are still a good bit smarter than your average bear.  On no song is that more evident than the lead single, "The Compromise."  Though not the strongest tune on the disc, it combines their usual giddy exuberance with some witty commentary on the band's well-publicized label problems at Atlantic in 2005. 

The Format tends to lose steam when they slow things down a bit, but when they keep things loose and up-tempo, Dog Problems is the perfect soundtrack to a sunny, indie pop summer.          

Maximo Park - Missing Songs

2006, Warp
Grade: B-

When Newcastle’s Maximo Park came on the scene in 2005 with A Certain Trigger, many in the States dismissed them as Franz Ferdinand clones riding the wave of angular post punk riffs and snappy suits.  To an extent that still may be true, but with the new odds and ends collection Missing Songs, the band proves that, posers or not, great songs are great songs.  In truth, this collection of B-sides is a much stronger collection than Franz Ferdinand’s recent “proper” release.

The disc opens with “A19,” a riffy pop gem that could easily add to the band’s growing list of hit singles in the UK.  It’s the most danceable track on Missing Songs, but avoids the overt new wave influences of some of their current peers.

“I Want You to Leave” bears the closest resemblance to the jittery punk of the aforementioned Franz, but the band, again, keeps the disco influences to a minimum. What we’re left with is another solid, punchy punk tune that’s, if not terribly memorable, certainly a good bit better than your typical B-side.

The next two tracks, “A Year of Doubt” and “Trial and Error” show off a little versatility, deviating from the post punk feel for a bit.   The former has a jangle guitar riff and some backing “ooo’s” that give the track a much lighter, pop feel, while the latter is a groovy mid-tempo tune that might be a little undercooked, but still does well to change up the pace.

Maximo Park might look like preening new wave pin ups, but generally speaking the band comes across more as a straight-ahead British pop punk band on Missing Songs…one that just happens to dress to the nines for shows and public appearances.  It’s like a punkier The Hives, if they had some better chops.

Missing Songs’ highlight is still the demo version of "Apply Some Pressure," one of the big singles off A Certain Trigger.  The song doesn’t bring anything really different to the table this time around, but it certainly hasn’t worn out its welcome.  Beginning with a typical angular punk riff, the song really takes off at about the midway point, dropping that addictive bridge with a killer melody that still gets caught in your head every time you listen. 

Maximo Park might be calculated and pandering, but the band sure knows its way around a hook.  If nothing else, Missing Songs will have the British press salivating until the next full-length (due late this year).  With more shtick-heavy bands like Franz Ferdinand already wearing out their welcome in the U.S., these guys might end up outlasting them all once the 80’s scene gives way to the inevitable 90’s, alternative rock revival.

Speaker Speaker - Again & Again & Again

2005
Grade: B

Speaker Speaker represents everything that good pop punk should be.  Nothing more.  Nothing less.  Again & Again & Again, their first EP, offers three catchy as hell, pretension-free, finger-snapping, hand-clapping, freewheeling tunes that make you want to cut class and hit the road with the top down. 

"Again and Again” rocks the hardest of the trio.  It’s punky enough, but there’s definitely a sweet side to the song that really endears them.  They’re having a blast; that much is clear.

The same can be said for “Statues/Shadows” and “I Was Wrong” (probably the best of the lot).  Bright hooks, harmonica solos, “ooo wa ooo” backing vocals; there’s something charmingly old-fashioned about Speaker Speaker’s sound.  A 50’s retro vibe sneaks in there somewhere, and really is the spark that sets these guys apart from the often cookie-cutter genre.  With the pop punk label that’s often associated with the likes of whiny emo, a la Simple Plan, we’ll take these guys in a heartbeat and head for the beach.

The Fonz would give them a big “ayyyyy” for sure.

The Strokes - First Impressions Of Earth

2006, RCA
Grade: B-

There was no denying with Is This It that The Strokes was a derivative band.  Be it the trash glamour of 70’s CBGB’s New York or angsty hooks of U.K. punk, it was accepted that they were recycling a bit.  But with Room On Fire that sound became identified with The Strokes, and instead of being a derivative offshoot, Hot Hot Heat was the lesser impersonator.  First Impressions Of Earth either confirms that Julian Casablancas has milked it dry or Hot Hot Heat shouldn’t be given a hard time.  Whichever way, this third installment trying its best doesn’t swagger and own it as much as its two predecessors, and its songs often sound like other peoples songs; something that had been there, but was otherwise better hidden.

What helped define that Strokes sound was the restraint in guitar: simple, chunky, rhythmic, but rarely ostentatious.  Much of First Impressions… comes off like second-hand Television; pristine noodling that puts Albert Hammond on display, as he may be tired of looking like Eric Bogosian, not wailing so much.  But there is positive to report.  The Television thing may not work, but, as Room On Fire did, the attempt to pull off pop-reggae (like Blondie) is incongruously successful, making “On The Other Side” a touching, soulful and revealing highlight.  Previously content to moan on strictly surface imagery or observations, Casablancas takes this opportunity to look at himself, reeling off diary entries from sadder days: “I hate them all/I hate them all/I hate myself for hating them/So I’ll drink some more/I love them all/I’ll drink even more/I’ll hate them even more than I did before.”  Perhaps being the It band for a few years, and then to have Franz Ferdinand usurp most of your attention, fucks you up. 

Where First Impressions… falls short and succeeds the most is more or less the same department: rehashing their signature sound.  “You Only Live Once”, the strongest song offered, opens the record with a flash that simple guitar, clockwork drums, and a fabulous hook, putting Casablancas voice to the front (no longer hidden behind his clenched fist), cool and confident. It’s pitch-perfect Strokes, and a red herring in suggesting a lack of change or deterioration.  One the flipside, “Vision Of Division” takes its lead from Room On Fire’s “The End Has No End” as a driving, ragged rocker with a soft and irresistible New Wave pre-chorus—in stead of the Buggles, this pre-chorus chimes with an intricate Andy Summers-y guitar part.  Unlike its predecessor, “Vision Of Division” dies off after that, lost in more noodling and no other apparent hook. 

It’s hard not to be pessimistic about First Impressions of Earth; especially when there’s so much it does right.  “Juicebox” rocks harder than anything they’ve done before, focusing on Casablancas confident yell; the lovely “Ask Me Anything”, one of their quietest—just voice and electronic cello—would fit nicely into the rather large Magnetic Fields catalog; and, “Razorblade” packs a tight, poppy punch guaranteed to put a smile on the face of even the most skeptical listener.

After the surprising excellence of their sophomore outing, The Strokes’ third album is a disappointment.  By other standards it’s a success, and should be regarded as one then.  Besides, they’re not going anywhere.

Zachary Bloom

The Subways - Young for Eternity

2006, WEA
Grade: B

There’s something about the cocksure swagger on display on Young for Eternity that makes you almost forget how young the members of The Subways really are.  The simplicity of some of the tracks might remind you they're teenagers from time to time, but you’ll generally be rocking out just the same.  The Subways offer a muscled-up brand of UK rock that has been somewhat missing as of late and whatever its drawbacks, it’s a helluva start to a career.

“Rock ‘n’ Roll Queen” is a straight-ahead foot stomper a la The Vines “Ride.”  There’s not a whole lot to it, but a great lick and plenty of bravado carry it out of cookie-cutter range.  This is an apt description for most of Young for Eternity, actually.  You’ve certainly heard it all before, but for a teenage act’s first release, it’s really rather marvelous. 

“Mary” is a mid-tempo rocker that reaches for Oasis’ terrain and nails it better than they have in quite some time. 

“Young for Eternity” and “Oh Yeah” are both down-and-dirty riff-heavy rock and could have come from a band twice The Subway’s age, despite the youthful, rock star outlook of the former:

“Thank God for Dracula, He sucked the shit out of me.  Now I can leave my work for nights, and leave my day for sleeping."

“No Goodbyes” changes up the formula.  An acoustic little ditty, the track is a catchy, wistful love song that serves as a nice change of pace from the relative bombast seen elsewhere.

All in all, Young for Eternity is solid rock and roll similar to the aforementioned Vines or perhaps more so, The Von Bondies.  Only on the closing track, the longing “Somewhere,” do we get a hint of what may come later.  Dark, a little haunting and alternating between heavy riffs and eerie restraint, it’s certainly the most “adult” track on the disc, and serves once again to remind us of the band’s tender age.  But hey, what the hell were you doing at 17?

Lost Tricks - EP

2005, Long Lost Tricks Music
Grade: B+

Many of the better-known "piano pop" bands out there these days drop a healthy dose of irony and smirking cool in their tunes.  Lost Tricks founder and songwriter Trevor Oswalt has no such pretensions.  Citing Billy Joel and Bruce Hornsby among his influences, clearly the man has little concern for appealing to the hipster cool, post-punk audience and the blogs they frequent.  Yet, they sent us a promo anyway, and the truth is, Lost Tricks is damn cool, and certainly some of the catchiest straight-ahead melodic pop to arrive in some time.

"Freeman" is the kind of earnest, sunny piano anthem that recalls the best tracks on Keane's recent disc.  A top-down, summer's day driving tune, the song would put a smile on the face of even the most jaded pop cynic. 

"12"  is the most restrained track on the self-titled EP, sounding a bit like a good Coldplay ballad, as interpreted by Ben Folds, with some 1970's pop flourishes thrown in. 

"Second Chance" brings out the band's soulful side, and "All Around You" also resembles the aforementioned Folds, with some Billy Joel piano licks from his late-70's heyday. 

It's all very lush, atmospheric and heart-on-your-sleeve, without sounding overblown.  Lost Tricks' debut has no agenda other than creating soaring, infectious pop melodies.  On that level, the band succeeds brilliantly.

Download tracks from Lost Trick's self-titled, debut EP at www.LostTricks.com

Sigur Rós - Takk...

2005, Geffen
Grade: B+

Some great artists are great simply for their ability to connect with the listener.  Be it through lyric or sound, they make you feel something so real and so deeply personal, it's almost as if the song was written with you, and only you, in mind.  As a boy growing up on the Jersey shore in the 1980's, Bruce Springsteen made me feel this way.

Then we have another kind of great.  Then we have a band like Sigur Rós.  To be honest, nothing about this band resonates with me personally, and for all I know they are a group of magical Icelandic elves that run around sprinkling fairy dust when not writing other-worldly post rock anthems.

In fact, I prefer to think of them that way.

Sigur Rós' genius lies in its ability transport the listener.  I imagine them as the U2 of Narnia, and God how I want to go there.

On Takk..., the band’s fourth full-length, Sigur Rós continues an amazing run of creating gorgeous, enchanting, ethereal combinations of angelic vocals, piano, fuzzy guitars, strings, and horns piloted by a backing band of tripped-out Keebler elves.

The fact that every release even registers on the hipster radar is testament to the group’s magic.  Without overstating even a bit, it’s unlike anything you’ll hear in pop music…but with that being said, this latest release does sound very much the same as previous Sigur Rós releases.  Now when you’re caught up in the eerie majesty of tracks like “Gong” and its shimmering vocals and glacial synth, or the two minutes of rock catharsis in “Meo Blodnasir,” this fact may not bother you a bit. But still, at their worst Sigur Rós do meander, bog down and tread a little close to a post-rock Enya for this reviewer’s taste.  But when they focus their efforts into a burst of anthemic glory, like on "Seaglopur," clearly the album’s centerpiece, there’s no place I’d rather be.

Sigur Rós may not help you get over the girl, fight the establishment or even rock and roll all night and party everyday. But when they cast their spell properly, you’ll forget all about those things anyway.

Jeff Cambron

Black Rebel Motorcycle Club - Howl

2005, RCA
Grade: B

These guys sure are persistent.  Among 2001’s slew of hyped hipsters—The Strokes and White Stripes among them—Black Rebel Motorcycle Club prove their serious intentions with focusing more on releasing albums than anything else.  Twice since their eponymous debut, BRMC has stepped to the plate, and this time with Howl.

They’re an American band—of that much, we’ve been told—but serious anglophiles for sure.  B.R.M.C. took its leas straight from the halls of early-90’s Creation Records: all Shoegaze cool, and swirling guitars.  Howl coats itself in archetypal American music accustomed more to the British than any Americans.  It’s a detached, third person rendering of Folk and Blues, full of upbeat, gut-wrenching twang and loneliness.  Best exemplified by Elvis Costello’s King of America and every odd Supergrass album.  Bruce Springsteen may be one of the few Americans to have managed this.  Nebraska harnessed the listener’s associations with Jack Kerouac and Bob Dylan to ground updated tales of isolation.  BRMC’s “Devil’s Waitin’” takes it lead from the Boss in that way—though, given the album’s title, they may want you to think Ginsberg before Kerouac.  It’s a lovely track—as is the bulk of Howl—and strongly amounts to something more than derivative.

Three years ago BRMC were little more than a fancy light show and a good record collection; Howl shows a little soul, ambition, and foot-stomping unity.  Only the finest, and it’s rare, develop a sound truly their own.  But whichever way you cut it, BRMC sounds good.

Black Rebel Motorcycle Club Official Site

Zach Bloom

Nada Surf - The Weight is a Gift

2005, Barsuk Records
Grade: B

buy it at insound!

Looking back now, their former status as a one-hit-wonder might have been the real gift for Nada Surf.  After the novelty hit “Popular,” subsequent low expectations lulled critics to sleep, and when the band dropped the sophisticated, delicate pop of Let Go in 2002, a collective sense of “Hey, these guys are real musicians, with feelings and stuff!” led to perhaps some slightly inflated reviews.  Not that the album wasn’t good…it was…just perhaps not the masterpiece that some might lead you to believe.

Three years have passed since Let Go, and the public has had time to accept Nada Surf as more than a Weezer-wannabe footnote of the late-90’s.  This time they’d have to earn their good marks, and with The Weight is a Gift they do, but if you're like me, you still might find yourself wanting more.

Let’s start with the best.  “Always Love” is one of the best straightforward pop singles of 2005.  In some ways, Nada Surf hasn’t changed its sound much since the band’s 15 seconds on MTV.  The guitar riff and soaring chorus would fit in nicely on a Best of the 90’s collection, next to the likes of Matthew Sweet and Semisonic.  That’s not a putdown, mind you.  Great is great, and “Always Love” is great, but you don’t get the sense that the band is pushing itself to reach these heights. 

Other solid tracks in that vein include “Concrete Bed” and “Do it Again.”  Mid-tempo rockers with bittersweet harmonies and restrained, shimmering guitars, the tracks illustrate Nada Surf’s obvious skill at crafting a memorable pop single.  In fact, that same sentiment could be applied to the majority of The Weight is a Gift, but the heartfelt melancholy shtick begins to wear thin by album’s end.  It would be interesting to see the group spread its wings a little next time around, sonically and emotionally speaking, and break out of the “earnest pop rocker” mode they are rapidly boxing themselves into.

There are signs of life though.  “Blankest Year” finds lead singer Matthew Caws shouting “Aww, fuck yeah.  I’m gonna have a party” over a fuzzy guitar and driving drum beat.  It’s not what you’d call a “party song,” but it does show off the band at its loosest, and in a way, most fun.

Everything on The Weight is a Gift comes off as completely effortless.  At their best, one gets the feeling that the band could easily churn out “Always Love”-level, mid-tempo pop albums from now to eternity - Most certainly pleasant but not terribly memorable.  Escaping the 90’s collection bargain bins was an accomplishment in itself, but I for one would like to see how far they can take it from here.

Jeff Cambron

The Go! Team: Thunder, Lightning, Strike

2005, Columbia
Grade: A

A giddy mix of Chips guitars, cheerleader-style backing vocals, jump-rope rhythms, Hawaii Five-O horns and every other late-70’s/early-80’s TV effect, The Go! Team is both tremendously original and deliriously addictive.

Thunder, Lightning, Strike finally got its release in the U.S. recently, and thankfully retained all the magic of the U.K. version.  The sound is probably unlike anything you’ve heard before.  Likely the only album in recent history that could be equally enjoyed by a 5-year-old watching Saturday morning cartoons, and a trendy 20-something hipster in the club, it may very well prove to be the pop masterpiece of the decade.

The album’s overall vibe will surely trigger adolescent flashbacks to afternoons spent watching The A Team or Speed Racer for the 25-35-year olds, but the disc is much more than a nostalgia piece.  Brainchild of Ian Parton and his M.C. known as Ninja, Thunder, Lightning, Strike employs old-school sounds, rhythms, phrasing and samples that simply aren’t used in mainstream pop.  Yet, the songs are so ridiculously catchy, they can end up nowhere but radio.  (Well, at least the cool stations.)

The obvious single is “Huddle Formation,” a sprightly little dance pop number that’s cheerleader vocals would do Toni Basil proud, but in truth, The Go! Team has much more inventive tricks up its sleeve.

“Panther Dash” is a more guitar-driven, sort-of surf rock track that wouldn’t be out of place during a chase scene starring Eric Estrada.  The same can be said of the driving horns and wave-crash drums in “Junior Kickstart,” while “Power is On” uses handclaps and harmonica to better effect than any pop song in…well maybe ever.

If deep lyrical thought is your bag, then Thunder, Lightning, Strike  might not fit the bill.  But hey, if you want brilliant lyrics, break out the Dylan.  If you want brilliant beats, brilliant samples and just a damned brilliant idea, The Go! Team has arrived.    

My Morning Jacket - Z

2005, ATO Records
Grade: A

Let’s cut to the chase: it’s all about “Off The Record.”  While not the lone highlight, or even the strongest song, on what amounts to be a near perfect record, it’s the perfect distillation of just about everything that makes My Morning Jacket less and less of a tough argument for America’s best band. The Song can be broken down into three measurable parts, all of equal importance and great impact.  Is it surf guitar, reggae or ambient pop? Well, all of the above, from a band that’s reputation for blending Southern Rock and Shoegaze is widely known.  “Off The Record” is a perfect three-minute song that clock in at five and a half.  The surf riff segues seamlessly into a rollicking, irritably catchy reggae showstopper: simple chords, full band sing along, and hands in the air anthem moment, don’t leave much else to be desired.  But as the second chorus fades—a moment where most would interject a bridge before the standard double-chorus outro—My Morning Jacket bleeds the momentum dry.  Like the electronics on 2003’s It Still Moves’s “Run Thru” reminisced of Chemical Brothers, “Off The Record” goes out on what I can only imagine is involved in a session of Air brainstorming.

That introduction is roughly 200 words; 200 words without mentioning the word “reverb.”  For a My Morning Jacket review, it’s nearly unheard of; and it's appropriate when Z is the subject.  The process by which singer Jim James manipulates his voice, projecting it bulbously towards the heavens, is still a large part of the mix, but the leaner sound on this, the Louisville, KY natives’ fourth album, significantly dresses it down.

It Still Moves, a breakthrough, won hearts with that aforementioned Southern Rock concoction, and a similarly down-home-style acoustic warmth. For those expecting more of the same, though, Z may pose as a bit of a struggle.  Where its predecessors were an earthy brown, Z is a lean gray; it’s not their “difficult album”—like Bowie’s Low or Dylan’s Self
Portrait—but, if anything, MMJ’s most straightforward; tight, sharp and focused.

“Anytime” is the perfect example, and a candidate for two honors: Song of The Year, Best Drums Ever.  The reduced reverb reveals cracks and more personality in Jim James for a more intense performance.  And those drums; big says it all.

Z is at times both expected and unexpected, warm and obscure, safe and risky, but ultimately brilliant.  Jeff Tweedy wishes he could write the lovely “Knot Comes Loose” or eccentric “Into The Woods” and harness the same emotion and sincerity while still stretching the boundaries of alt-country. The scary thing is, My Morning Jacket is not going to stop getting better.

Zachary Bloom

Stellastarr* - Harmonies for the Haunted

2005, RCA Contemporary
Grade: B

When Stellastarr* first came on the scene with their self-titled debut LP back in late 03’, there was a lot to find irritating about the NYC four-piece. Let us go over the facts:

1. Arriving with countless other new-wave, post-punk worshipers of Joy Division, they were anything but original.

2. NYC fashion-rock is, by its very nature, often rather off-putting to anyone but hipsters and wanna-be’s. (Is there really a difference?)

3. Shawn Christensen’s gothic whine of a voice is something of an acquired taste.

4. That freakin’ *. I mean seriously, what is the deal with that thing??

All of this would be forgivable had the band delivered the goods. But what we got instead was a watered-down rehash of everything that made the skinny tie-era great. Stellastarr* (ugh) were posers and nothing more. Pass me Turn on the Bright Lights.

Then a funny thing happened when the band’s 2nd full-length, Harmonies for the Haunted, reached my desk. It hasn’t left.

Cynics might still say that Stellastarr* is shamelessly aping their idols, but when imitation is this tight, affecting and polished (not too mention catchy, something the first disc was lacking)…is it fair to still call it imitation? Brooding, posturing and image-conscious though they may still be, Stellastarr* have raised the musical bar in almost every way on Harmonies.

The first single, “Sweet Troubled Soul,” is a dark, driving slice of Pixies meets The Cure-style rock that will stick in your head for weeks. When Christensen sings “I want to see your face in the reflection of my bedroom stereo,” Ian McCulloch-level greatness almost seems tangible.

“The Diver” and “When I Disappear” are eerie, gloomy and equally compelling. The group excels during these mid-tempo, haunting tracks as despite their kind making up the bulk of Haunted, Stellastarr* manages to keep them from bleeding into each other.

The closest thing to a pure pop song would be “Stay Entertained.” With its bouncy verses and jangling guitars, the track is almost upbeat. I guess even the spooky kids need to get down once in a while. Remember, the 80's brought us Wham! too.

Paul Westerberg - Folker

2004, Vagrant
Grade: B

Now creeping into his mid-forties, Paul Westerberg seems to have finally found his niche, for better or worse, in the music industry that has managed to both critically worship and commercially reject him for going on 25 years. With his latest release Folker, we find him continuing the rough, loose, almost sloppy style of recording he adopted following a re-birth at Vagrant three years ago. As is becoming customary, it is simultaneously charming, at times brilliant, and ultimately frustrating.

After his seminal 80’s band, The Replacements, imploded in the early 90’s, Westerberg embarked on a solo career that was expected to vault him into the rock-star stratosphere. Musicians already worshiped him, his followers were almost fanatical in their dedication, and he himself was freed from the alcohol addiction that plagued him during his years with the band. The world was his for the taking. Then a curious thing happened. The records didn’t sell. It wasn’t for lack of trying though. Paul signed a major deal with Warner Bros., got a big push (by his standards) from radio and MTV, and recorded a solid, professional batch of pop-rock tunes for his solo debut 14 Songs. The album certainly had its moments of Westerberg magic, but the abiding feeling was that something was lost in his transformation from ragged, devil-may-care rock rebel, to slick, sober, music professional. Many of the Mat’s faithful rejected it, and even worse, the general public ignored it. After another, even less successful stab at commercial success with Eventually, Westerberg jumped ship to Capital and released the largely acoustic-based Suicaine Gratification. Depression followed and he retreated to suburban life as a husband and father.

With his return on Vagrant, Westerberg quickly remedied the chief complaint against his post-Mats career. Ditching the polished, produced sound of his previous releases, he returned to the raw, off-the-cuff style of his earliest Mats releases. Recording tracks from his basement, Westerberg found some of the heart that had been missing from his major-label work. A few flubbed lines here and there were a small price to pay for getting the creative juices flowing again. With Folker, Westerberg may have taken this style as far as he can take it, and then some.

That’s not to say that highlights on Folker aren’t a-plenty. Acoustic rockers like “Gun Shy” and “Folk Star” can hold right up with some of his Replacements-era work. The endearing “My Dad”, a tribute to his late father, is heart-on-his-sleeve Paul at his best. While “Lookin’ Up to Heaven”, arguably the catchiest of the batch, unfolds like a softer version of his Singles soundtrack tune “Dyslexic Heart”. All good stuff, and for the Westerberg-faithful most of Folker is sure to bring a smile. As one might expect considering the album title, nothing rocks like Mat’s era Weste, or for that matter even like Mono-era Weste. But he’s clearly more content than he’s been in years. Though this makes for a satisfying and heartfelt album, it also contributes to the ultimate letdown.

Westerberg’s continued adherence to a loose, one-take approach on all his releases with Vagrant can be hit or miss at times. At best it’s refreshingly honest and casual following the years of labored, mainstream pop. At worst it just sounds lazy.

For example, coming from the man who penned achingly beautiful songs like “Here Comes a Regular” and “Answering Machine”, hearing a lyrical dud like “Promise not bug you, only just to hug you” honestly made me shudder. These moments combined with the aforementioned lyrical flubs, some off-key plucks, and a few rhythmical hiccups can often make Folker sound more like a demo tape than a serious release.

But perhaps that’s all Folker was ever meant to be. Maybe Westerberg, at this point in his career, is just having fun. The tossed-off genius that shines through a release as rough as this might make the hardcore fans once again long for the “proper” release that rockets up the top-40, knocks the legions of imitators down a peg, and finally gets Weste his due. But then again, he seems to have forgotten all about that. Paul Westerberg screwing around in his basement is still better than 90% of the radio fare meticulously constructed by teams of hit-makers. Perhaps it’s time we forget too.
Jeff Cambron

So Many Dynamos - When I Explode

2005, Skrocki Records
Grade: C+

When I Explode, the debut disc from So Many Dynamos, opens with the jittery, angular “Bed Of Nails,” a track the sounds like a Franz Ferdinand b-side. It’s danceable, vaguely punky, and a little retro. So, it’s exactly what you might expect in these synth-heavy, electronic rock days of 2005. It’s not a bad track, just not good enough to separate it from the masses. What’s surprising though, is that it might be the only mediocre track on When I Explode. The remainder falling into one of two camps: excellent or disastrous.

So Many Dynamos often seem to suffer from an overabundance of energy. At times with the right hooks, like on “Let’s Laugh About It Later,” it recalls bands like Hot Hot Heat or The Rapture. But more often, for example the mess that is “A State Without Springfield,” it’s just a schizophrenic jumble of jarring guitars, buzzes, and bells and whistles.

This frenzy infects the majority of the tracks on When I Explode, but not surprisingly, when So Many Dynamos bring in the reigns just a bit, they often conjure up a winner.

“When We Were Machines” and “Seriously, Now” are evidence of this “less is more” theory. The former is a hook-heavy guitar and keyboard affair with a very 80’s groove, while the latter is an uncharacteristically restrained mid-tempo rocker. They illustrate a genuine flair for melody and style, adapting the aforementioned retro flourishes but injecting enough originality to avoid simply aping the pioneers. Together the two give me hope that with a little polish, more focus and less caffeine, So Many Dynamos might be on to something.
Jeff Cambron

Tom Waits - Real Gone

2004, Epitaph
Grade: A

Since 1983 with the release of Swordfishtrombones, Tom Waits has cast off the label of barroom crooner/piano man and redefined himself as an experimental musician and thus created a new realm of musical classification- that which defies classification. Alongside other albums of this nature, including 1992’s Bone Machine, Real Gone is here to stay in Waits’ classic repertoire as the epitome of his since deviant musical expressions.

Like most of Waits post ‘83 recordings, Real Gone can not be clearly defined. Just when it comes close to being pigeonholed as raunchy jazz/blues scattered with steady melodic rock textures that have the semblance of vintage folk balladry in ‘How’s It Gonna End’ and ‘Day After Tomorrow’, the next track jolts the listener into a frenzy of freestyle ‘human beat boxing’, distorted, rusty vocals, and thick, loud beats delivered in a crude and near primeval manner. This frightening yet superb mixture is something Waits’ has coined as ‘cubist funk’. The lyrical content of Real Gone is quite the opposite, needing no introduction and finding a suitable home under the roof of classic Waits poetry- smoky, feverish wordscapes seeped in imagery, metaphors, and irony. To fill the gray area between these striking collaborations of percussive noise, lyrical beauty, and roguish presentation, Marc Ribot’s subtle yet distinct acoustic riffs lace through tracks such as ‘Green Grass’ and ‘Sins of My Father’. It’s refreshing to hear a turbulent delivery from Casey Waits, Tom’s son, on turntables in “Top of the Hill” and “Metropolitan Glide”. Among other outstanding appearances include a couple from bassist Les Claypool and drummer Brain Mantia of Primus. Larry Taylor, former member of Canned Heat and a regular on Waits’ recordings since 1980’s Heart Attack and Vine, graces the liner notes for almost every track.

The tone and atmosphere of Real Gone is consistent to the point of near repetition at times, but there is too much power and confidence incorporated into the heedless, freestyle attitude of this album to consider that as an imperfection. Veterans of the global music scene, Waits and co-writer/producer Kathleen Brennan-Waits are brilliant in the production of this anomalous masterpiece.

“I’ve always admired people that are able to dance like there’s nobody watching – that’s kind of what making songs is trying to accomplish, to ignore the fact that it is being recorded”, Waits said in an interview early this month with Mojo Magazine. Real Gone is, for Waits, this dance he has described - an honest portrait of a now weathered yet sharply exquisite Tom Waits at his very best. too.
Lael H. Adams

The Zutons - Who Killed...The Zutons?

2004, Deltasonic
Grade: A

Who Killed...The Zutons? is the debut album of the UK band The Zutons, which consists of David McCabe on vocals/guitar, Boyan Chowdhury on guitar, Sean Payne on drums, Russel Pritchard on bass, and Abi Harding on saxophone. Oh, that’s right – saxophone. These guys are that groovy.

"Basically, we just want to be the next modern soul band with trippy guitars," says McCabe in an interview on the bands website.

“Zuton Fever” opens the album, with musical-theater horns and this singular of-another-era voice which seems to need to tell us something very urgent and very confidential. What could it be?

“Know I’ve got that feeling, it’s the best; got the Zuton Fever in my head....”

Oh, of course. Hush-hush.

“Pressure Point” is a bit more rocked-out, but still eclectic: classic-rock guitar, New York hipster-band drums, Broadway horns, do-wop background vocals, and the secret, urgent voice that every so often can’t help breaking into a scream or a growl. He’s can’t get this pressure point out of his head, man.....

“You Will You Won’t” opens with a Jimi-Hendrix-style guitar riff and a very 80’s-New-Wave chant, then lapses into something that could be the Kinks or Between-the-Buttons-era Stones.

“Confusion” carries on in this vein. So, all right -- so far we’ve got Jet/The Strokes meets early Stones/Kinks with a little bit or Broadway thrown in, right?

But then comes “Havana Gang Brawl,” which can only be described as the perfect T.V. theme song for a 1960’s secret-agent drama.

I have to stop and say, I am digging Who Killed...The Zutons? a lot at this point. It’s catchy, very danceable (trippy, mod, hip, hot...) – it’s making me write words like “groovy” and “dig” and think I can get away with it (that’s how hip it is). Plus – all of the songs don’t sound alike!

That's a phenomenon to appreciate all in itself, if you think about it. So many new-rock-trying-to-sound-classic bands (The Killers, to use a recent example) tend to try the same trick over and over again. They’ll have two or three great songs, and you wind up liking the whole album – but only because the rest of the songs on the album sound like not-quite-as-catchy versions of the three great songs.

But every song on Who Killed...The Zutons? sounds quite different from the last, and as great as the trippy hard-rock guitars can sound, The Zutons know better than to utilize them on every song. We get some acoustic – the nostalgic and melodic “Railroad;” the country/folk/Wilco-esque “Moons and Horror Shows;” and “Not A Lot to Do,” which opens like a 70’s-sex-ballad and slips into pretty and strange instrumentals mixed with some awfully sincere-sounding crooning.

“Long Time Coming” is back to being pretty rocked-out, but a little bluesier than you’d expect.

The intro to “Nightmare Part II” gets my toes inadvertently tapping, and it only gets better as the song goes on, developing into a sort-of swing-meets-rockabilly style that makes me want to dance like Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction. “Dirty Dancehall” is another rockabilly/swing concoction, and “Remember Me” is another toe-tapper (maybe a head-bobber, even), just unbelievably catchy.

These Zuton fellas – I think they’re on to something here. They aren’t going for lyrical poetry, they aren’t going for social consciousness – they are going for music, pure and simple and fun and fantastic.

The album concludes with “Don’t Ever Think Too Much” -- sooooo mod, soooo super groovy. Oh, man, I’ve so got it (the Zuton Fever, that is).

McCabe’s desire to be just another “modern soul band with trippy guitars” is selling The Zutons way short.
Elizabeth Brown

The Used - In Love and Death

2004, Warner Brothers
Grade: C-

Perhaps Bert McCracken grew weary of testing the limits of his vocal cords. Regrettably, the Used’s lead singer, known for (besides dating Kelly Osbourne) screaming so hard onstage that he often threw up, has traded in the band’s corrosive caterwauls for a more soothing sound. What made their debut unique was his mixture of alternately sweet and sadistic sentiments and the group’s earnest effort. However, on the Utah four-piece’s second record, they appear directionless and allow for too much genre influence. For example, the song titles (“I Caught Fire”) are reminiscent of those by the decidedly dark punk veterans Alkaline Trio, but the vocals are similar to newer pop-punk acts such as Sugarcult and Simple Plan (observe “Yesterday’s Feelings” and “Light with a Sharpened Edge”). The Used’s obvious quest for radio-friendliness, which is altogether unnecessary since four songs of their first record wound up being released, can be attributed to producer John Feldmann, front man for Goldfinger, who also had a hand in the recent success of Story of the Year.

The Used start to stumble on track five (“Cut Up Angels”) when they decrease their tempo, as it exposes a lyrical deterioration with lines like, “If we go out the same time they’ll clean up the mess” that might not register as laughable if the song had some force to it. The incorporation of strings (Yesterday’s Feelings”) is a mistake and doesn’t create content any more poignantly reflective. For those who enjoyed the old fare, the soaring and manic “Let It Bleed” and “Listening,” as well as the self-condemning closer, “I’m a Fake,” should satisfy, but the what to make of the curious profusion of crooning? The guitar and drum work is undistinguished, if not downright bland and, this time around, provides little for McCracken to work with. His response is to treat them as an afterthought on many songs here, including the lamentation of love lost, “Hard to Say.” As commanding as McCracken can be vocally, both sides require each other in order to craft a catchy tune.

“Who am I now,” McCracken wonders on “Light with a Sharpened Edge,” almost forlornly beseeching his fans for an answer. The Used may be in the midst of an identity crisis, but one thing is for certain, being mellow won’t help these fellows find themselves.
Marc Tandan

Taking Back Sunday - Where you Want to Be

2004, Victory
Grade: B

TBS (not to be confused with the Ted Turner owned television network) burst onto the scene in 2002 courtesy of hardcore label Victory Records, who had just the year before helped launch the career of another emo band named after a day of the week, Thursday (who have since defected to Island). However, TBS invests itself more in pop-rock than many of its counterparts, by crafting sweeping hooks carried by dual--sometimes dueling-- vocalists, a la Midtown. These boys aren’t trying to scream themselves hoarse. After a slow start, the band picked up steam (even enlisting hip hop icon Flava Flav to star in one of their videos) and then nearly imploded. Despite losing three members (including John Nolan who left to start Straylight Run), TBS sound remarkably the same as before, so fans of the first album should be satisfied, as long as they weren’t hoping for any sort of musical progression. It’s not a coincidence that they have a song called “Bonus Mosh pt. II ,” because this really is the sequel to Tell All Your Friends.

TBS stay the course, not opting for the Brand New experimentation route, and that’s not necessarily a decision they should be penalized for making. In fact, it’s refreshing to witness a band sticking with what works for them, not attempting to deceive themselves or their fans--and the record feels whole as a result of their stylistic honesty.

The five piece cruises through the eleven tracks with an increased cohesion that can only partially be attributed to receiving a bigger budget and better production. Sure, there is some repetition (and not just of courses and verses), but the Long-Islanders just want to reinforce that they haven’t yet gotten over their bitter high school breakups, and what’s emo without a copious amount of acrimony and remorse (no more poignant an example than their first single, “A Decade Under the Influence”)? “One-Eighty By Summer” and “This Photograph is Proof” are songs that are appealing due to the reality that they are instantaneously recognizable in their structure, and consequently, they will stick in your head even after the disc is over. Although they’re a little tardy in penning their homage to the late, legendary tap dancer Fred Astaire (see lesser-known contemporaries in the genre, Lucky Boys’ Confusion), all is forgiven on this solid, if unoriginal, follow-up.

Marc Tandan

Bruce Springsteen - Devils and Dust

2005, Columbia
Grade: B+

A great many critics have drawn comparisons between Bruce Springsteen’s latest release Devils and Dust, and his 1995 disc, the stark and also acoustic-based The Ghost of Tom Joad. OK, it’s true they are both largely E Street-less sets featuring Bruce in singer/songwriter, storyteller mode. Neither of them rock. Neither of them have any rousing Clarence Clemons sax solos, and neither of them have any fist-pumping arena moments like Born in the USA or The Rising. But let me clear things up right now. This album is NOT The Ghost of Tom Joad Part II. Despite the fact that many of the songs were apparently penned in the same years of that “poetry over barely-audible guitar” snooze-fest, Devils and Dust runs circles around that disc in almost every category. And it packs more oomph than most would have you believe.

The album opens with the title track, bearing the most resemblance to the sound of Springsteen’s previous effort, 2002’s 9/11-themed The Rising. Starting simply with a gentle acoustic strum, the track builds to include harmonica, strings and brass that seem headed for a crescendo that never quite arrives. Considering the emotional wallop packed by the politically-charged lyrics, Bruce is wise to avoid those easy rah-rah theatrics and let the song keep it’s quiet burn; redemption and easy answers remaining out of reach.

“All The Way Home” is the most up-tempo of the tracks on Devils, and works just fine as a little jolt of energy among more somber fare, but in truth it’s the kind of track Bruce can churn out in his sleep and recalls the more generic rock found on his early 90s output, Human Touch and Lucky Town. It would have been a standout on those albums, but expectations are higher these days.

“Long Time Comin’” is another mid-tempo rocker with country flourishes. Steel guitars, violin and chorus-like backing vocals give the song a rustic, old time feel. It’s another solid track, but perhaps most noteworthy is Bruce dropping the F-bomb for the first time on record!

“Maria’s Bed” keeps the twang quotient on high, breaking into a toe-tapper that marks the closest thing to a danceable track on Devils. Call it “Dancing in the Dark” for the 50-something, honky-tonk set.

The rest of Devils and Dust covers more subdued terrain, which of course lets Springsteen’s lyrical gifts come to the surface. High points include "Matamoros Banks" and "The Hitter," and once again like on The Ghost of Tom Joad, he paints vivid portraits of the outcast and downtrodden reaching the end of their ropes. Once again, happy endings are hard to find. Those looking for the romantic, escapist anthems like "Thunder Road," or the house party groove of “Rosalita” or more recently “Mary’s Place,” will be in for a letdown. But for those of us that own and love albums like Greetings From Asbury Park, Nebraska or Tunnel of Love, a stripped-down Bruce can be just as satisfying as E Street rock and roll salvation.

In the end, I suppose the outlook of Devils and Dust might be just as bleak as its acoustic forbearer. But with a fuller sound, a backing band and the occasional light if not joyous moment, Bruce has managed to channel Woody Guthrie one more time, this time without putting us all to sleep.
Jeff Cambron

Spouse - Are you Gonna Kiss or Wave Goodbye?

2004, Pigeon Records
Grade: B+

Based on the music of recent months, what with the 80’s synth thing going on in popular music, one can only assume that a full-blown 90’s revival can’t be far behind. If so, Spouse looks to be on the cutting-edge with Are You Gonna Kiss or Wave Goodbye?, a surprisingly catchy and well-crafted batch of pop rock tunes that recall the days of Dinosaur Jr., and late-era Replacements.

Twenty-somethings everywhere rejoice.

On their third release, Spouse spends a good amount of time rockin’ out like your all-time favorite bar band back in high school…and I mean that in the best possible way. The album opens with “American Run-through”, which admittedly might borrow more closely from late-80’s Replacements, but let’s not quibble. The track is a loose, ragged, pretension-free track that would make Paul Westerberg proud in any decade.

The title track slows things down a bit with a semi-ballad, but is endearingly “heart on your sleeve” and let’s lead singer Jose Ayerve use his scratchy yet charming vocals to full effect.

Things pick right up again though with “Army Song”, a jittery track with an insanely danceable chorus. The songs anti-war message is far from subtle:

Joey you can fight along, I won’t go to your combat zone.
You keep shooting who you can, watch yourself become a man.

But the thing is just too damned catchy for anyone to really focus on lyrics anyway.

Later tracks indulge the more experimental side of Spouse, veering away from straight on rock. “Dancing to the Nuclear Stomp” is darker and more brooding with some haunting backup vocals, and “Goodbye San Diego” mixes guitars and synth to make spacey kind of rock that’s unique but still groovy as hell.

The two best tracks on Are You Gonna Kiss are likely “Here Comes the Headache” and “Feather Boa”. The former illustrates Spouse’s ragged, free-wheeling side once again, and sounds a little like that early, livelier Wilco we knew before they carried the burden of being the world’s greatest rock band. The latter is a fuzzy, poppy number that's tailor made for college radio circa 1992 and 2005.

For many of those that lived it, there was much more to the last decade than grunge and teen pop. Spouse manages to build on those other amazing influences and craft a unique yet accessible sound that recalls, yet never copies. Here’s hoping for the 90’s revival real soon. I’ve got my Superchunk t-shirt all laid out.
Jeff Cambron

Simple Plan - Still Not Getting Any

2004, Lava
Grade: C+

With one of the top three selling records nationally, it’s tough take the implied meaning of the album’s title at face value. At the very least, the band’s legions of pre-pubescent fans are showering them with admiration by plunking their hard-earned allowances down. As with their previous offering, the title accounts for the only sexual connotation to be found among otherwise squeaky-clean material. Simple Plan’s strategy is indeed facile: churn out Blink 182-lite, bubblegum pop punk ditties for mass consumption by the TRL-obsessed crowd who find Good Charlotte too abrasive and threatening, what with their piercings, tattoos, makeup, and dyed hair (either that or these youngsters aren’t quite prepared for GC’s level of musical sophistication—as compared to Simple Plan’s, of course).

There are a throng of American bands that Canadian import Simple Plan owe thanks to for clearing a smooth trail for them to amble down with anthems of teenage insecurity, confusion, and overriding optimism — MxPx and Home Grown for starters (they’ve already paid their dues to Blink, by having singer/guitarist Mark Hoppus guest on the 2002’s single, “I’d Do Anything”). Their resolute belief that they can surmount all oncoming obstacles--set to bouncy harmonies and sugary sweet whining that could cause a few cavities--is either infuriating or heartening, depending on which side of the optimist/pessimist spectrum you stand on.

On the opener, “Shut Up!,” they burst out of the gate displaying their sunny side obstinately, with lines like, “You’ll never stop me/ Nothing you say today is going to bring me down.” From that point forward, Simple Plan pours the hope on thick and sticks to laying their woes and wishes out formulaically. There’s a basic pattern followed on nearly every track and they’ve mastered it, right down to the acoustic lead-ins, three-chord riffing, and pregnant pauses preceding the soaring hooks. “Promise and “Me Against the World” submit tame refrains remade for the zillionth time, but the variations on a theme scheme serves as their stabilizing shtick. However, when they attempt to branch out slightly (baby steps), as on “One,” all it demonstrates is that they’re better off leaving the violin strumming to colleague’s Yellowcard and adhering to the basics.

If you were partial to their debut, this follow-up will certainly meet your expectations (perhaps be deemed a triumph), but if you were lukewarm about the quintet before, don’t waste your time scouring the CD for something novel (and if you downright detest them, they should fall off the map in a few short years). Simple Plan’s insistence on utilizing the safe, tried and true approach won’t convert anyone, but judging from their vast commercial success so far, it appears that they don’t have to.
Marc Tandan

Senses Fail - Let it Unfold you

2004, Vagrant
Grade: C

Before you begin accusing Senses Fail of being late-comers to the screamo scene, the truth is that their tardy arrival is not wholly their fault. In actuality, they tried their best to arrive punctually at what might have been the genre’s peak, but a fiasco over the rights to the band ensued involving both major and indie labels, (including a vicious and well-publicized spat between biter punk rivals Drive-Thru Records and Vagrant Records) after the young group’s 2002 ep, From the Depths of Dreams, sold remarkably well. Senses Fail was more heavily courted than the beautiful Bianca in The Taming of the Shrew, but the initial affection they were shown proved to be of a superficial, disingenuous variety and Senses Fail soon found themselves in a docile, subservient role like that of Bianca’s sister Kate (referring to the startling shift in her disposition near the end of the play), at the mercy of labels’ mercurial whims.

The most striking aspect of an otherwise middling effort is the album’s surreal artwork, depicting the duality of man and the classic internal/external self conflict. The painting suggests a tormented collection of young men, but their offering is smarmy more than savvy. The Bergen County, NJ band lacks the force of Finch or the inventiveness of Dead Poetic. Instead of trying to bridge the gap between hardcore and emo, or even blur the line, they totter precariously between them, languishing in limbo. Those who enjoy poppy numbers about defiling a corpse are in for a treat. “Buried a Lie” poses as a macabre narration of a who-dunnit caper where the band plays crime solving sleuths, but the story drags on to the point where it comes across as a parody, though that doesn’t appear to be the intent. Another song, whose title’s cleverness exceeds that of its lyrics (“Rum is for Drinking, Not for Burning”) portrays them as pirates sailing the seas, and is more likely to elicit an “argh” in frustration, than an “arr” in enthusiasm.

Senses Fail, when playing at breakneck speed, frequently sound like a morbid version of Saves the Day (listen to the opening track, “Tie Her Down” for corroboration of this statement), who enjoy envisioning and planning pernicious pit falls for others, including their home state (“NJ Falls Into the Atlantic”). On “The Irony of Dying on Your Birthday,” singer Buddy Nilelsen reveals his aspirations for rock immortality, but he also presents the converse and undesirable side, mediocrity (it’s difficult to discern if one or even both of these perspectives are presented in jest). He posits, “Maybe I will write a sad song/Or another cliché poem/Of the person that I long to be.” Be careful what you wish for, Buddy, at least one of your own worst nightmares may have already come true.
Mark Tandan

Run Away From The Humans - We Exist

2004
Grade: A-

We Exist is a pretty unassuming title for a band’s debut disc, but it suits the subtle yet intoxicating charms of Run Away From The Humans to a tee. This 6-song EP from the Philadelphia band carves out a perfect blend of indie rock, electronica, and dream pop that will surely leave listeners longing for a full-length follow up.

Upon first listen, comparisons to The Postal Service are inevitable. Singer Jason McBride’s vocals have the same emotional quality of Ben Gibbard’s work; and even tend to surpass him in terms of actual skill. Also, tracks like “We Are” have the same staccato, stutter-step drum beats and futuristic-sounding bells and whistles that have become trademark of the Postal Service sound. The comparisons end there though. These guys are not simply emulators of the latest hipster sound of the month. Instead they carve out a unique sound that manages to feel both retro, and thoroughly modern at the same time.

The opening track, “Wake Up, Wake Up”, is a mid-tempo, restrained rocker that allows McBride’s voice to take center stage. Keeping the high-tech synth in the background, the song is carried on vocal strength, delicate guitar work, and a simple percussion loop that makes for a subdued, yet moving opening.

“Lost My Way” finds the band veering into techno/club territory. A pulsing bass and slightly eerie synth make for an instantly catchy 4 minutes of electro-pop. It evokes 1980’s-era Pet Shop Boys and could be the breakout track for the group.

Other songs focus on the more muted side of Runaway From The Humans, but are no less affecting. “All That Was Left Were Ashes” a standout and arguably the most melancholy track on the disc, employs some simple but beautiful piano work, and quiet, fuzzy guitars to craft a dreamy little track with a Brit-rock feel to it.

While the majority of songs on We Exist emphasis the softer side of indie-rock, Run Away From The Humans are sure to make a big splash once listeners get turned on to their debut. This is music that grows on you with each passing listen. To call it “atmospheric” sounds like a disservice. Though they do conjure an emotional, heartfelt, brooding ambiance with their songs, We Exist is not an album to be left in the background. It is a more than promising debut from a band to keep an eye on.
Jeff Cambron

Pris - The Kiss Off

2004, Loveless Records
Grade: B

Any rock album with 24 tracks on it is likely to have its fair share of filler, and The Kiss Off, the latest release from Pris, is no exception. But the low points are few and far between as the band has pulled together something of a mini best-of collection that highlights the last couple years in the life of this surprisingly potent Seattle act.

Led by Burke Thomas, sometimes drummer for Vendetta Red, Pris are a difficult band to categorize. Some might call them pop punk, but doing so is potentially misleading. Sure, most of the songs are melodic, hook-heavy, and crunchy. But they lack that slick, glossy feel and the band is better for it. Plus, some of the songs just freakin’ rock a lot harder.

“Doobie Down Down” will appeal to the Weezer fans out there, with pop melodies and fuzzy guitars that Rivers Cuomo would kill for. Even the guitar solo sounds like a direct lift from The Green Album. It’s Pris at their most catchy and accessible.

“Tighty Whitey”, despite its jokey title is darker in feel and has heavier guitars, but maintains its pop sensibilities. It’s really pretty emo, but not in that whiny way that anyone older than 17 finds utterly annoying. It actually rocks.

“T.D.O” finds Pris indulging their slightly experimental, spacey side with a new wave feel mixed into another hard rocker. It sort of sounds like what The Cars might have been if they started 15 years later.

“Satellite Bitches” is likely a live favorite, and has the catchiest hook on The Kiss Off. Here Pris show off their knack for pop melodies while maintaining that ragged edge.

The rest of The Kiss Off follows similar terrain. A few songs make detours, like the almost instrumental, industrial sounding “Increase the Bypass” (with only brief distorted vocals and some Speak and Spell effects), but generally speaking the album goes on a slight autopilot after a very strong opening.

I certainly can say the album doesn’t really have a single outright dud. But I can’t help but think that there’s a truly exceptional 12-14-track disc buried in the mix. In fairness, the album was meant to be a kind of collection of recent tracks and highlights, so the length may be understandable. But at over 75 minutes, even the best bands would be hard pressed to maintain the creative peaks Pris manage to hit several times on The Kiss Off. Buy it, and load your favorites onto the iPod.
Jeff Cambron

Papa Roach - Getting Away with Murder

2004, Geffen
Grade: B-

Gone are all traces of rap that marked Papa Roach’s blistering 1999 debut, Infest. Not to worry, as there are still many gaping wounds remaining for lead singer Jaocby Shaddix to detail. Shaddix still lurks in a largely dreary place where items and organs alike are shattered and scattered, souls are unaccounted for, loyalty is esteemed, and insinuations serve absolutely no purpose (the brooding and honest “Take Me” is archetypal). “I can’t keep my mind from going into dark places,” he sincerely warns listeners, but at this point (track 10 on the album of 12) there is no turning back from his confessional style and blunt delivery. Unfortunately, by this juncture the potency and force of the ardent anthems “Not Listening” and “Done with You”--which should have fans shouting along and banging their heads in empathy--have dwindled and the topics have been recycled.

The title track and first single, with its pulsating industrial beat, seems Nine Inch Nails-inspired and underachieving (albeit catchy), more appropriate for a lesser band such as Adema or Spineshank. Jerry Horton’s stellar guitar work maintains the quartet’s separation from its peers, and provides the driving engine when Shaddix starts to run out of steam. Despite the increased cohesion, their anger feels toned down and their abrasiveness has noticeably worn away (it must be noted that the rage isn’t processed anywhere near Linkin Park levels). Furthermore, what should be a primary cause for concern amongst fans is that some songs, both thematically and melodically, would rest comfortably alongside new material from such mediocre acts as Puddle of Mudd and Smile Empty Soul on alternative radio. The media-friendly fare that dulls the band’s edge should come as no surprise with producer Howard Benson at the helm, he who catapulted former niche Christian rap-rockers P.O.D. into the mainstream, plastering them all over MTV (fellow Geffen artist Cold managed to avoid Benson’s penchant for softening bands’ sound).

Perhaps Papa Roach is getting away with murder, as they suggest (i.e. not putting forth their best effort); it sure appears as if Shaddix sought some assistance from the rhyming dictionary on “Tyranny of Normality.” When he asks, “Does anybody out there feel the same? Put your fist up and vent your pain,” one can only assume the faithful are already enraptured by this call to arms, so Papa Roach is yelling to the choir, who, if they can overlook or forgive the pseudo-punk experimentation and the back-to-back cheesy ballads that slow down their momentum, should be pleased by the results--assuming they enjoyed lovehatetragedy.

After disappointing sales of its sophomore disc, Papa Roach’s commercial success is pinned on their third effort (it is by no means a coincidence that the CD ends with a song entitled, “Do or Die”), but will the legions who feasted on Infest emerge from their hiding places to scoop up Getting Away with Murder or have their followers dispersed permanently? “There’s a time to lead and a time to follow,” Shaddix confidently and clairvoyantly declares on “Stop Looking/Start Seeing”. Alas, after the record runs its course, the question still lingers: which option has Papa Roach selected?
Mark Tandan

Nonpoint - Recoil

2004, Lava
Grade: B+

After the sudden collapse of industry giant MCA, a bevy of young bands found themselves scrambling to find another label willing to release their work. As is the nature of the business, some folded, unable to secure a fresh deal, and Nonpoint, who incurred the dreaded sophomore slump, seemed a likely victim. However, their tantalizing talent spurred Lava/Atlantic to sign them and the Florida foursome’s third album finds them rightly returning to their nu-metal roots.

Instead of shying away from contact, as the title suggests, Nonpoint goes on the offensive, with the opening track, “The Same,” and continues in attack mode throughout. “Things haven’t changed/You haven’t changed/I haven’t changed, no,” vocalist Elias Soriano asserts, simultaneously dispatching detractors and reassuring their fan base that they haven’t gone soft (melody is still an unforgivable sin in many music circles). The second song and the first single, “The Truth,” is a thinly-veiled shot at the secrecy that enshrouds the current regime and a condemnation of its foreign and domestic policies. Though Soriano vents his frustrations with democracy, he is no Zach de la Rocha, and this is as political as Nonpoint gets. “Done It Anyway” offers direct defiance, and not apologies, about their past decisions to morph musically. As always, Nonpoint sound more steadfast than stubborn, even when figuratively sticking to their guns (“Side With The Guns”).

Just when you are convinced that you’ve figured Nonpoint out, as exclusively eardrum rattling rockers (“Move Now”), they throw several wicked curves (“Wait,” “Past It All”), including turning in a surprisingly solid rendition of Phil Collins’ “In the Air Tonight”. “Rabia” is a searing number screamed entirely in Spanish by Soriano, who, along with drummer Robb Rivera, is of Puerto Rican heritage. The final track, “Reward,” finds Soriano scanning his psyche to discover his motivation to continue to create music. The process concludes with him expunging any remaining self-doubt. Backs against the wall, Nonpoint have fought themselves out of a tough corner and, by pulling no punches, produced a hard-hitting album that should help them rise to prominence.
Marc Tandan

My Morning Jacket - The Sandworm Cometh/Learning

2004, Darla
Grade: B+/B-

Lou Reed concluded the liner notes to Take No Prisoners by saying, “My week is better than your year.” Less inclined to swagger than rock’s answer to deterioration, My Morning Jacket could easily match that with “our demos are better than your album” to many of their peers.

Like I.R.S. did with R.E.M.’s back catalogue after they catapulted to success on a major label, San Francisco’s Darla records has unearthed two discs of demos, rarities, b-sides and goodies spanning 1997-1999. (I was failing math in high school at the time; Jim James was writing and recording great songs, that’d never be released. Well, not until now.)

Ch. 1: The Sandworm Cometh, and Ch. 2: Learning. It’s a bit like your friend burning you two discs of some band’s rarities, cobbled in no particular order, without indicating years or sources, and just immersing yourself in the stuff. For the uber-fans, two discs are welcomed, but for the sake of a having a bundle of new-to-you material that’s quality through and through, perhaps twenty-eight tracks in all is a bit too hefty. For a new listener, Ch. 1 has the good stuff. “Weeks Go By Like Days” is the closest to a finished track, ready to nestle itself somewhere on 1999’s At Dawn—right after “Lowdown” would work. While MMJ’s live act focuses on the whole being greater than the sum of its parts, these recordings feature Jim James almost exclusively. On record, and in concert too, his voice is so produced with reverb its hard to imagine how thin it would be naked. What this proves is that even in his bedroom or kitchen, on some four-track with a shitty microphone, that often flat, gargantuan howl of his doesn’t need any assistance. And that crappy recording device inserts necessary hollowness into these songs—a much needed side effect, however spooky. This, dare I say, “stripped down” atmosphere puts even more of an emphasis on James’ songwriting, boasting chops on “Isobella”and “They Ran”. Still, even at these moments, it’s hard to know what someone who hasn’t heard It Still Moves or At Dawn would think of these treasures.

Probably not a lot, which is their loss.

While Ch. 1 takes stabs at “Rocket Man” and a wonderfully haunting version of Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit”, .Ch. 2 gets a bit bogged down in some silly covers (“Take My Breath Away”) that dilute the strength of demos of the songs you might already know. (Making an exception, however, for Erykah Badu’s “Tyrone”, playing it straight and soulful, confirming once and for all that, while only narrowly edging out Conor Oberst, Jim James is the whitest man alive.) Demos of “Just One Thing” and “Death is the Easy Way” sound as one who knows the originals would expect: badly recorded versions of the originals, without variation; valuable nonetheless for a collector. Recorded at KVRX in Austin, TX, MMJ’s prettiest song, At Dawn’s “Bermuda Highway” is one of this chapter’s shining moments: simple, pure, smothered in reverb, and really lovely. The other is the Paul Westerberg-tinged “I Will Be There When You Die”, a note-perfect handbook on how to do alt-country right, sending shivers down your spine without much effort.

My Morning Jacket’s finest work is still in their three LPs. As a buyer’s guide goes, grab those, the split EP with Songs: Ohia, live EP Acoustic Citsuoca, and then these collections, both superior to the lackluster Chocolate and Ice EP. It’s a lot of work, and demands some time, but when Jim James' voice starts to send the shivers, it’ll be worth your while. On a good day, America’s finest band.
Zachary Bloom

The Music - Welcome to the North

2004, EMI
Grade: C

A word of advice to all the aspiring rock gods out there: If you’re gonna be bold enough to name your band something as grandiose as The Music, you’d better deliver the goods. Despite an at times gallant, if pretentious effort to meld Zeppelin-style arena rock with timely eletronica, this quartet from England does not.

On Welcome To The North, The Music wants the best of both worlds; to rock your socks off and still cut a danceable groove. It’s an admirable goal, but these guys don’t display much in the way of moderation and often suffer for it. Too often Welcome To The North gets bogged down in a sea of prog rock guitars, Robert Harvey’s falsetto, and overused electronic effects that add little to the overall sound. To continue the Zeppelin comparison, “Cessation” wants to be the new “Rock and Roll”, but falls short in both memorable riffs and basic coherence. They’d got energy to burn, but there’s a shortage of focus amid all the bluster.

Not surprisingly, Welcome To The North hits closest to the mark when it tones down the bombast a notch or two, and lets a melody sneak through. “Into The Night” is a moody, pulsing rocker that might have the catchiest hook of the bunch. “One Way In, No Way Out” is a simple, yet effective fist-pumper that doesn’t reinvent the wheel, but gets your head noddin’.

No one likes to admit to any limitations, but The Music might just be a classic case of a band’s reach exceeding its grasp. There’s a solid, rockin’ band beneath the layers of conceit on display in Welcome To The North. Once they decide to stop reaching so hard for rock star glory, their name might not seem nearly as unfortunate.
Jeff Cambron

Metric - Old World Underground, Where are you Now?

2003, Everloving
Grade: B-

Remember the 90's band, Mazzy Star -- a couple of guys, a sexy girl lead singer, and together they produced trippy rock-lite ballads and ephemeral goth-pop? Ever wish they'd be reincarnated this decade with, say, a little more synth, a little harder edge, and a song about Homeland Security?

'Cause, um, that pretty much sums up Metric.

And, okay, I realize Metric's latest release, Old World Underground, Where Are You Now?, came out almost two years ago. The album -- which their website insists is their "second debut album" -- was actually released in January of 2003.

I, however, did not seem to notice them until this fall, when their single "Combat Baby" began getting airplay on a local radio station. Chalk it up to the fact that I live in Ohio, chalk it up to the fact that Metric's people are obviously very confused (second debut album?). Regardless, I didn't know they existed until recently, and maybe you didn't either. So let's chat a bit about Metric.

They're not all Mazzy-Star-eriffic. They have one song, “Calculation Theme,” which sounds a lot like Rilo Kiley, all dreamy lyrics and yearning ("I wish we were farmers / I wish we knew how / to grow sweet potatoes / and milk cows"). And “Dead Disco” is frantic and gloomily hyper in a Garbage sort of way.

Point being: they sound like other people.

Take that for what you will. I like Mazzy Star, Rilo Kiley, and Garbage. Sounding like them isn't exactly a bad thing, unless……

Unless your website describes your songs as “eternal, multi-layered portraits of instantaneous moments, the luminous blur of street life rendered as a freeze-tableaux, daily rituals portrayed in a fantastical light.” Unless you put out a song called “Dead Disco” complaining about how everything in music is rehashed (“All we get is dead disco / dead funk / dead rock and roll / remodel everything….”).

It just makes it seem that maybe you take yourselves a little too seriously. Which is exactly what people don’t want from a slick dance-hall-rock band.

But okay – let’s forget about the pretentious website. And let’s forget that Metric aren’t groundbreaking musical pioneers. They still make some pretty all right music.

"Succexy" and "Combat Baby" are by far the two best songs on the album. The former is an urgent and, indeed, sexy comment on reality TV and other vaguely Orwellian themes ("All we do is talk, static, and split screens / as the homeland plans enemies”). “Combat Baby” is also kinda sexy, and ridiculously catchy in a way that programmed synthetic back-beat melodies on those old-school keyboards used to be.

I would say that Metric is the musical equivalent of Sugarfree Red Bull, but that sounds cheesy at worst and pretentious at best. So let’s just say that while Old World Underground, Where Are You Now? may not be an earth-shattering musical gem, it is well-crafted and enjoyable synth-pop that will make you feel energized, glamorous, and vaguely tragic as you listen. And who doesn't want to feel that way from time to time?

Elizabeth Brown

Nellie McKay - Get Away from Me

2004, Sony
Grade: A

Nellie McKay does not look like you’d expect her too, not after hearing her debut album, Get Away From Me (a title that pokes fun at Nora Jones’ best-selling album, Come Away with Me).

On the album cover, McKay is decked out in goldilocks curls and sorority-girl-red lipstick, throwing her arms in the air à la Mary Tyler Moore. She could be Faith Hill’s younger sister, or a Revlon poster girl circa 1964. She does not look like a girl who would sing about United States foreign policy or even needing a stiff drink, for that matter.

This is, of course, part of her charm.

Behind sugary-sweet melodies and cutely theatrical vocals lies some of the most intelligent and perceptive commentary in pop music today. To say that her style is eclectic would be an extreme understatement. Perhaps a friend described it best when he called her a mix of Doris Day and Eminem. Except that Nelly has expressed in interviews that she is not a fan of Mr. Marshall. And this, of course, is also part of her charm.

While she sings about foreign affairs (“Yeah, I’ll have my coffee black / Hey, look, we’re bombing Iraq”) and satirizes the current social climate (“Salute the flag or I’ll call you a fag”) with a poignancy that belies her 19 years, when it comes to popular culture she hearkens back to a more genteel era. The satirical “I Wanna Get Married” (“I want to pack cute little lunches / for my Brady Bunches / then read Danielle Steele”) is straight 1950’s ballad, all swoony vocals and lazily drifting piano.

Songs such as “Really,” “Won’t You Please Be Nice” and “Manhattan Avenue” continue in this vein, lounging melodies from another era laden with sarcastic and witty lyrics, while “Clonie” and “Ding Dong” conjure Petula Clark to mind. “It’s A Pose,” a tirade against “copulatin’ populatin’ masturbatin’ denigratin’” men (“Fellas can’t you see I’m pissed!”) is a jazzy, theatrical number.

Oh, and she has a rap.

That’s right, a rap – “Sari” – a relentless tirade against the expectations placed on women, Janet Reno and presidential elections that’s surprisingly catchy.

And wait – maybe I’ve finally got it – therein lies Nellie McKay’s charm. Not once does she substitute style for substance, nor vice versa. The kitschy throwback tunes, the piano crescendos, the swinging cocktail hour ditties, and McKay’s at times angelic, at times growling voice all make for fun, enjoyable listening. But the girl’s also got a lot to say, and she says it with uncanny wit, perception, and self and social awareness.

And come to think of it – maybe that smile on the front cover isn’t as innocent as it looks. I think, perhaps, that McKay is laughing at us, those of us who would condescend to judge her from this silly photograph. “Stick around a minute more / I’m smarter than you think,” McKay sings on “Ding Dong.” Take a listen, McKay is smiling and taunting us. You have no idea what you’re in for.
Elizabeth Brown

Magnolia Electric Co - Trials and Errors

2004, Secretly Canadian
Grade: A-

Apparently so enamored with the name of his last album, Magnolia Electric Co., Jason Molina wants it to be permanent. And so Songs: Ohia is no more. Moving on and revving up, Molina and co. are alive and kicking on the road, debuting new and cranking old material.

Live albums have been making a bit of a comeback lately. When the Rolling Stones structured a tour around one, this pompous indulgence had finally gone too far. Rarely in its history has a live album had that bullet to your chest feel of an actual P.A. blaring show. But with the current flock, in the age of a downloadable everything and digital infinity, perhaps this arena-rock phenomenon (surely the Who have more live albums than Songs: Ohia had albums) has finally gotten the right idea, in the hands of meeker folk. Traditionally a highlight reel from a multi-city tour, dipping in and out of sets, the live album was cursed by its inability to maintain momentum. Then Pearl Jam came along and released every show from several tours (later to be copied by the String Cheese Incident), and the “Instant Live” phenomenon, where you can buy a live recording moments after the show, came closer than ever to evening the plane between a concert and one on record. Alex Chilton’s Live in Anvers, the Pernice Brothers Nobody’s Listening, and now Trials & Errors not only give fans a batch of their favorite songs, but a well produced memento—whether or not you attended the show—better equipped than their predecessors to bang that whole right through your chest.

When Jason Molina sings, “Something held me down and made me make a promise” in the opening verse of “The Dark Don’t Hide It” it sets the restless tone for this outing. Try and make him commit and there’ll be a struggle. But with the name change, Magnolia Electric Co. is more or less the same gang of cohorts from Molina’s studio days, bringing the same influences to the table. Though this doesn’t just feel like the same old band. “Heavy” is an adjective surely attributed to Molina countless times over the last eight years, describing his darkened acoustic stabs and deep whine. That badge remaining, still exposing the cracks, burns, and creaks in southern rock, bordering on gothic spookiness.

It’s hard to tell if Trials & Errors is deeply immersing or just repetitive, but the distinction between this and Songs: Ohia is clear. Shredding guitars and the mounting din travel a new road: a band playing together, more than a bunch of guys on album, recorded loosely. Dipping slightly into its reservoir, three tunes come from either Songs: Ohia’s namesake album or Didn’t It Rain, with the rest inevitably slated for Magnolia Electric Co’s studio debut in April. What’s new evokes Neil Young’s live havoc with Crazy Horse, short of fits of droning feedback, deconstructing the intricacies of modern rock ‘n’ roll. Close to its roots, Molina and co. take joy in a little verse, chorus, verse, bridge, solo, double chorus, out, remembering that structure and form were invented for good reason. And when used correctly, hardly fail. Tired of disappointing results, Trials & Errors suggests that Molina’s habit of packing-up and searching may be the most comfortable destination.

So whatever pompous atrocities this decade's Rolling Stones may commit, it’s good to know there’s something up Jason Molina’s sleeve, either a slide guitar lick or hollow chant that could help save the day. Or at least keep us modest.
Zachary Bloom

Magnolia Electric Co - What Comes After the Blues

2005, Secretly Canadian
Grade: B+

It’s been said enough: The Futureheads are like a rock ‘n’ roll Barber Shop quartet. There are only so many times a critic, struggling for a snag, can repeat the same hook. Keen as the observation may be, it just gets pointless after a while. But the rules may apply differently to Jason Molina: for the four-hundred-eighty-seventh-and-a-half time, the former Songs: Ohia haunter has spent his entire career trying to emulate Neil Young’s sparest moments, and he may have finally found perfection. His dedication makes a chump out of every writer in the world who gives a crap, myself included.

Well worth it, though, since What Comes After The Blues is a humbling quest that ultimately accomplishes the right blend of echoing melancholy and an earnest dash of sweetness, straight from Molina’s thick, beautiful voice.

Three tracks were previewed on January’s live Trials & Errors, but in the studio, adrenaline lowered, the searing lead on “The Dark Don’t Hide It” is replaced with a howling pedal steel, eerily stacked against the confidence of the album’s most straight-ahead rocker. That Crazy Horse ferocity eschewed, save the tamer outro-solo, it doesn’t take long for Molina to revive his Young obsession: one track later Jennie Benford’s “The Night Shift Lullaby” goes After The Gold Rush, and “Leave The City” tips a heavy hat to “Heart Of Gold.”

They walk a thin line, fortunately on the bright side. Molina’s newest incarnation is simply lovely. And, when you really think about it, an actual rock ‘n’ roll Barber Shop quartet would probably suck.
Zachary Bloom

The Libertines- The Libertines

2004, Rough Trade
Grade: B+

With few exceptions remaining as the homogenization of rock continues, sliding towards the middle of the road, it seems there’s little to choose from: those mid-level groups, good enough to gain sizeable notice but not commercial enough to break through, are managing to tread water, while maintaining a danceable groove. Three years ago the Strokes and White Stripes beaconed as saviors of rock, picking up where Radiohead imitators (those that ushered out Nirvana clones, who ushered out Guns ‘n’ Roses clones, etc.) had stagnated, but since done little to progress past the late 1970s. Maybe all those insipid rock-writing academics are right: perhaps there’s no new territory; in the end, it was the Sex Pistols that were last to originate. With The Killers and Radio 4 filling the shoes of this decade’s forgettable cultural off shoots, it’d be a pleasure to write “popular” music off as just a wheel in a machine, but if all the poor imitators made the few inspired meaningless, there would be nothing to listen to on college radio. But if there’s a good song in front of you, no matter what era it’s from, what’s it worth to dismiss it? Not a lot. So while sifting through the roughage, there’s got to be some diamonds somewhere. Shining and intact, the Libertines, a pack of wild underdogs from London, have overcome one or two obstacles to bring a second album. While lifting heavily from The Clash yet again, these are down right solid, fun, and remarkably catchy songs.

It’s not just the Clash, rather, that inflect the opening of “Can’s Stand Me Now”, Echoing The New York Dolls’ “Personality Crisis” in the opening bar, before retreating and reemerging with that quintessential Libertines guitar lick; the one that’s so simple—maybe two or three strings used—but bounces in your head well into the subsequent track. Having survived the past two years since their ragged debut, Up The Bracket, the Libertines were careening recklessly towards the ultimate after-school special example, upon finding rock stardom in its purest form: crack. That nasty habit for co-leader Pete Doherty cost him his role in the group for a good chunk of time—and possible once again—, not to mention the prison sentence for burglarizing the home of fellow co-leader and childhood friend, Carl Barât. Nine times out of ten, those crazy rock stars make shit for albums, and it’s the dorky guys who just never got into pot who make Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots. For every generalization there’s an exception, right?

The calculation of such aforementioned Williamsburg-residents to always be doing something—be it the development of another snyth loop, or tightening your slap bass chops— lacks evidence on The Libertines, delirious to be alive, not just in on the conversation. Swapping tempo finds the record superior to its debut, side-stepping predictions with the funky-folk of “Music When The Lights Go Out” and the rock-a-billy shuffle of “Narcissist” (even channeling Television-esque noodling on “Campaign of Hate”), fascinated by darker avenues, and, in complete opposition to their real-life spats, perfecting the shared vocal balance of Doherty and Barât.

With little ability to stop the imitators, and The Libertines are no answer to all of rock’s issues, but a surprising young group of men—and not idiots, as hitherto forecasted—here’s a fine example of riding a wave you’ve already caught, when too many keep swimming after and paddling around in its wake. Whatever it is that makes a band work—that intangible success—these Libertines have got it.
Zachary Bloom

Talib Kweli - The Beautiful Struggle

2004, Rawkus
Grade: B+

“Artist X’s new CD release is an infectious blend of melodious beats and happy-go lucky lyrics and the world is now a better place because of Artist X’s album…”

There goes most of your typical new album reviews. Well, yaddah, yaddah, blah, blah, blah…

These sugar-coated critiques have become the literary equivalent to 6 o’clock news sound bites sought out by over zealous plastic reporters. They are merely recycled comments that usually leave me still wondering, more than ever, whether I should buy “Artist X’s” new joint or not.

I know I have been spared real detail and in-depth opinionated analysis about “Artist X’s” sophomore effort for far too long, since editors are afraid of damaging the tenuous relationship between media outlets and temperamental stars that are considered “It” artists. Well, I say down with watered-down People Magazine-type assessments, and up to a reviewer actually listening to a disc play in its entirety!

Talib Kweli’s newest release, The Beautiful Struggle, 2004, has not only been played in it’s entirety but has secured a place within my music library’s heavy rotational list. Anyone familiar with Kweli’s work will know he’s a regular within the “Dirty Backpack” music set, and has several new collaborations with other fellow “Dirty” artists, like Common and my favorite new R&B find, Anthony Hamilton. (In my mind, I’ve categorized these musicians as those that have a penchant for wearing dreads and hemp backpacks as they frequent poetry readings where snapping your fingers is an acceptable substitute for applause.) Faith and Mary J. Blige also guest star on the album and shine on up tempo tracks. Imagine my pleasant surprise when late one night, I see Blige’s collaboration, “I Try,” attempting to find a home on BET’s train wreck of a mainstream video show, 106 & Park’s Top Ten Countdown. And while Kweli has several radio worthy joints on his disc, the real highlight of the album is his lyrical skill.

I think New York’s Can-Do-No-Wrong emcee, Jay-Z, said it best when he paid homage to Kweli on his arguably impeccable, The Black Album, 2003, “If skills sold, truth be told, I’d probably be, lyrically Talib Kweli. Truthfully, I want to rhyme like Common Sense, but I did 5 mil, I ain’t been rhyming like Common Sense…” Jay-Z creatively acknowledges that he knows there is a whole genre of talented artists being ignored because they go against the grain and buck the conventional rap lifestyle as it is known today.
Kweli graciously replies to Jigga’s kudos in “Ghetto Show” with, “If lyrics sold then truth be told, I’d probably be just as rich and famous as Jay-Z. Truthfully, I want to rhyme like Common Sense, next best thing I do a record with Common Sense…” Kweli knows that he’s often overlooked by the mainstream, but on this album, he continues to spit on conforming to no one. His videos don’t contain slow motion shots of hair-extension clad chicks getting splashed with bottles of Moet as they valiantly attempt to convince viewers that wearing La Perla lingerie as outerwear and last season’s Steve Madden- Manolo Blahnik-Timberland boot replicas, is suitable club attire. This dude has solidified his self as a lyrically gifted rapper/storyteller that doesn’t resort to typical hip-hop diversions in hopes to distract anyone from surmising whether he’s talented or not. Trust me. He is.

Oh, yeah…And I almost forgot. In response to the passengers on the E train who have wondered what the light skinned chick with the gold ipod mini is bobbing her head to….I proudly offer Talib Kweli for your listening pleasure.
Kara Cahoon

Interpol - Antics

2004, Matador
Grade: C+

Ok, all together now. Slowly, let’s let it all out. Exhale.

Right, ok then. It’s October 2004 and, finally, The New Interpol Album Is Here! This is the deal straight-up: it’s called Antics, and it’s clear to me now that it’s not likely I’ll hold my breath for this band again.

To prep myself for the new album, I put Turn on the Bright Lights again last week and, amazingly enough, it still sounds great. Or sounded great, I guess. It’s now been two years since Interpol dropped that 2002 debut, an album that was, at the time, the flagship soundtrack to a revitalized and again-relevant New York music scene, and it’s no exaggeration to say that much of the indie world has been waiting with bated breath to see what their follow-up might yield. Despite repeated criticism suggesting that Interpol heavily channeled Joy Division, Turn On the Bright Lights received almost universal praise from the rock-digging music world, success perhaps capped off by winning the Best Album of 2002 from one of independent music’s most influential criticism sources. While I’m not sure I think it was the best 2002 had to offer, there’s never been a question in my mind that Turn on the Bright Lights – Ghost of Ian Curtis and all – was a magical album, one that lead to a great many nights spent drowning in my dingy London flat, with only a two-liter bottle of cheap cider to keep me company. And now, here was Antics, and, I hoped, a chance for more of those wonderful evenings.

But alas, no. I’d be lying if I said I was devoid of expectations before I put the album on – how could I, really? – but I did at least think it would probably be good. Unfortunately, Antics seems to confirm to me precisely what I feared about Interpol from the moment I first heard Turn on the Bright Lights: that what in fact I liked about the album had less to do with the quality of the music itself and more to do with its distinctive sound and sonic sheen. While these latter designations certainly deserve a place in any critical observation, the presence of them alone is the absolute representation of 20/21 century form over content in art.

Please allow me to take a detour for a moment.

Because I’m in the interest of being ultra-cool, I’m on the mailing list of the London club night Trash; each Monday the folks at Trash continue their desperate attempt to retain some kind of Hold On Cool – usually accomplished by bringing in edgy electrosleaze of Jet-esque shite-rock – and this time they wanted to let me know that the big act that week would be ole Carlos D, bassist of Interpol. Punters, they said, would be treated “to the finest cuts from his record collection as Carlos steps up to the Trash decks – a mix of post-punk, electro and new wave, with a nice sideline in classic rock, country and metal”. Right. Umm, how about a little Can I Get a Fuck You? I’m sure Mr. Ultracoifed is probably a nice guy, but who really needs to hear him ejaculating his record collection all over a crowd? (I’m thinking specifically about a blurb I saw in an issue of XLR8R this summer that suggested no one ever let Nick Zinner of the YYYs get behind the Technics at a party ever again.) And no, there isn’t any fucking irony in me saying this right now. It’s just our ability to be easily wowed by fake plastic rather than hold out for significant artistic excellence, whatever the fuck that is anymore. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I ain’t wowed by worthless fake shit too, and again, I dug their first album, but it seems worth mentioning this point in a discussion about Interpol.

If you’re still with me, let’s get back to Antics. After repeated listens, my basic feeling now about the album is best described by “Eh”. Try as I might, I haven’t stopped experiencing feelings of sameness to the point where even now, after listening to the album 15-20 times, I still feel like I don't remember which songs sounds like what (except perhaps "Slow Hands," describes by one music reviewer as having "Interpol's first unabashedly disco chorus"). It's honestly hard for me to even get a sense of how far along I am when I listen to it because there are few distinctive sounds or even “Fitter Happier More Productive” checkpoints within the album itself.

Listening to Antics gave me a sensation that I can't remember having in a long time, the feeling where you put an album on and then suddenly remember twenty-something minutes later that you’ve been listening to it after it happens to get a bit noisier, like, “Oh shit, I’m listening to Album X.” Usually this only happens when I’m listening to an album like Music for Airports, but that was Eno’s intent; the fact I experienced this listening to Interpol, however, seems cause for alarm. It’s kind of funny (or sad, I guess), because when I first listened to Antics, the intro notes to the opener "Next Exit" were REALLY exciting; not just because of my anticipation to hear new shit, but because they also sounded different than Turn On the Bright Lights. I thought, “Alright, here we go!” But after just one listen, the excitement had almost entirely disappeared; a single run-through made it apparent they'd simply chosen to pick that one new sound and play it for forty minutes, with less variation and worse songwriting than their first time around the block. Sweet. Where Turn On the Bright Lights had a bunch of beautiful "moments" – the little musical flames that just attack you and burn themselves into your mind – Antics just sounds like a forgettable minor-chord soup of quasi-melancholy. Sure, I guess they sound less like Joy Division than before, but now they're just - in the words of Morrissey - a bunch of "crashing bores."

But I’m going to be fair: not every single moment of this album is a waste of time. I do not think Antics is terrible, just supremely mediocre. There are at least two moments on this album, that are strong enough to rouse me from my general boredom.

- At about 1:20 into track four, “Take You On A Cruise,” the music cuts from a typically sludgy Antics verse into a few seconds of quiet, arpeggiated guitar chords, which then explodes into a chorus: “Along the way / Tears guarding the wake of your life / There's nothing like this built today / You'll never see a finer ship in your life / We sail today”. This moment is just spellbinding, and it’s the single point on Antics where Interpol come together and demonstrate that they really do understand the power that can be harnessed with proper dynamics. It also gives me a reason to think that maybe Turn On the Bright Lights was not a fluke, and that this album is not a demonstration of Interpol’s actual place in world, but just an unfortunate delay to greater success. - And track eight, “C’Mere”, is just a straight-up good track. It’s the briefest of all songs on Antics and this seems to work: the boys do a good job condensing all of their best ideas into three minutes and eleven seconds. This song is powerful and compelling in a way that they’ve been in the past but fail to do so on the rest of this album.

So yeah, one good song and one great moment on Antics – but as Jay-Z once said, a one in ten average is pretty weak [look for lyrics to “the Takeover”]. The saddest thing for me about this album is not even that I think it’s crappy, but that it’s managed somehow to ruin my ability to enjoy their previous music. Every time I’ve put on Turn on the Bright Lights since hearing Antics, well, it just hasn’t sounded the same; it’s kind of like trying to feel good about a lover you’ve taken back even after you found out they cheated on you.

The verdict: for people who haven't heard Turn On the Bright Lights, I'd give this album maybe a C+/B- or so, but for those who have, I give it a Don't Bother.
Ben Scheim

Inouk - No Danger

2004, Say Hey
Grade: A

As any astute music listener can tell you, dynamism and originality in new music are as difficult to come by as unique themes in literature. However, every now and again, a band comes along to surprise us all by embodying them both and doing it marvelously. Welcome to INOUK land. Inouk has set out in a fascinating and fabulous direction with their debut album, No Danger, and it does what few out-of-the-gate albums can do for a band; it shows they have a story to tell.

This freshman New York City band covers such a broad cultural, emotional and musical range that they get to be called a band unique among bands. Producing tracks and tricks to meet the demands of each song/narrative, Inouk ensures that, while each song sounds like Inouk, each song sounds, well, like itself; is its own entity.

In a sense, No Danger, recorded in lower Manhattan, is just one long song with gigantic leaps from elation to demise, from knowledge to France. “What I Want” starts it off, a screaming basement number with guitar riffs that sound like echos from an old ship’s galley, the wailing of a seafaring vessel. This one slides into the deep bass driven title track sounding, essentially, like a new age call and repeat. Through “Elected”, “Father’s House”, “Cherry Orchard” and beyond, these five unlikely strategists pick through anger, issues and questions with some biting guitar, influential rhythms and tenacious bass. Song after song, with barely a rest between, Inouk traps its listeners with the courageous kind of sound no other band is putting out. “Island” is the album surprise, a boppy, complex number that actually might make you want to dance, complete with a cut in laugh track or real giggles from hyper band members.

Because of their broad sonorous vocabulary, Damon and Alexander McMahon, the brother co-helmers of Inouk, are able to break the tradition of establishing an album’s sound on the first track and carrying it through. Jesse Johnson wails on the bass while Ian Fenger produces that terse but calculated guitar one hears over lapping and exploring the other guitar riffs. At the back of it, Glen Brasile rounds out the sound with his studied and well timed drums. Together, their stylish combination of methods, props and musical contortions, in the end, provides a full meal with 11 distinct, delicious courses.

No Danger is not an album for the causal listener; it’s more of a three-listen album, one that takes, as with nearly all good albums, some time to absorb and sort through. At points, riffs and lyrics dependently arise. At other points, they contradict one another, but never distract. What does all this mean? It means pay attention. It means take your time to soak up No Danger and this imaginative new band.
Marie Slayton

Hell On Heels - Hell On Heels

2004, Bomp Records
Grade: B

With The Donnas moving away from their punk image towards a more classic, hard rock sound on last year’s Gold Metal, that leaves an opening for a new group of chicks looking to belt out two minute bursts of pissed off guitar rock backed by enough “heys” and “hos” to keep Joey Ramone’s head bobbin’ in the great beyond. Enter Hell On Heels.

What this self-titled release may lack in diversity and sophistication, it makes up for in sheer energy and catchy riffs. With their black leather and rockabilly belts and scarves, they look like groupies from a Social Distortion show, but Hell On Heels back up the digs with eleven punchy, snarling tracks that combine catchy pop harmonies with dead on punk riffs. Some of the tracks may blend together after repeated listens, but let’s be honest; this brand of punk rock has never been about sonic diversity, even for the great ones. Did “I Wanna Be Sedated” really sound that much different than “Blitzkrieg Bop”?

Standouts include “Ain’t So Cool” with its 50s-ish “sha la las” and “Pretender” with a drum intro straight out of Billy Idol that evolves into a rocking kiss-off song that lets the girls unleash their venom inside a simple yet catchy rock riff. The truth is though, if you like one song on this disc, it’s a pretty sure bet you’ll like em’ all.

"My Kind of Trouble" is more of a slow burn, but rocks just as hard as the others. The backing vocals closely resemble the aforementioned Donnas, but the song itself echoes The Ramones more closely.

Lead singer Paula Monarch adds a nice touch of punk rock sneer into her perfectly suited vocals. She carries off the image of Hell On Heels as a potential badass opening band for an all-female act like The Go-Gos. It might be a fun bill, but I bet they would kick Belinda Carlisle’s ass after every show.
Jeff Cambron

Mitch Hedberg - Mitch All Together

2004, Comedy Central Records
Grade: A-

Taking its title from one of Hedberg’s memorable jokes on his first comedy album, Strategic Grill Locations, is this follow-up that won’t be nearly as difficult to track down as his initial offering. Thanks to his Comedy Central Presents half-hour special, the standup comedian has gone from having a small, niche audience to acquiring an underground following, chiefly comprised of college students and twentysomethings. His observational humor has evoked comparisons to Steven Wright, but 39 minutes of Hedberg should be sufficient time to persuade those unconvinced or completely unfamiliar that he has a unique style all his own. Hedberg, as if sensing the uncertainty of his listening audience, begins with a quip about his relative anonymity, remarking, “The only way that I could get my old CD into a store is if I would take one in and leave it.” And just like that, within less than a minute, he switches from warming up to on.

Hedberg’s routine consists of short jokes, random remarks, and plenty of non sequiturs strung together. The punch lines aren’t always obvious (or existent) and sometimes it may take several moments for you to discern the intended meaning or fill in the gaps (don’t feel bad if some comments fail to register). Trying to follow his runaway train of thought is half the fun, though. A large portion of the humor also stems from his delivery, which is a distinct stoner drawl that allows the jokes to lazily roll of his tongue in a very casual manner. As an admitted pothead (“I like the FedEx driver because he’s a drug dealer and he doesn’t even know it”), it’s no surprise that food is a primary topic in his material--there are whole tracks devoted to sandwiches, candy bars, and sesame seeds. His laidback disposition belies his keen wit and the clever connections he draws. He manipulates language as well as anyone on the current circuit; literally interpreting phrases and then taking things one step further by placing odd expressions in strange and imaginative verbal scenarios (listen to “Bed and Breakfast,” “Three Easy Payments,” and “Mitch in the S’th” for proof).

Hedberg’s act doesn’t possess true segments (or true segues, for that matter), since he seldom stays on one topic for long, so the laughter arrives in spurts. His jokes are like tiny firecrackers, providing a short burst of joy for your senses before disappearing as quickly as they arrived (in this case, you have the luxury of hearing them as many times as you desire; good news if you failed to understand some of them). Hedberg is not for everyone—honestly, you have to be attuned to his wavelength—but if you’ve ever lain awake at night and pondered why citrus fruits float in water or considered the power arrows exert over us, chances are Mitch Hedberg is your kind of comedian.
Mark Tandan

G Love - The Hustle

2004, Brushfire
Grade: B

Though he never really broke into the mainstream to begin with, the last few years have been particularly lean for Philadelphia’s G Love. Let’s be honest, it’s been a decade since “Cold Beverage” put him and his boys Special Sauce on the map, and his blend of rap, blues, funk, rock, and Philly-soul has faded from whatever marginal celebrity it once held into relative obscurity. Call it the curse of Vanilla Ice, but perhaps his hip-hop influences have always kept G Love just beyond the artistic credibility he deserves. Even today, it seems that unless an artist fully immerses himself in the gangster rap mentality (see Eminem), maintains an ironic, cerebral edge to his music (see The Streets), or accompanies his flow with crunching guitars (see Kid Rock or 311), a white-boy bustin’ rhymes is still generally considered vaguely poseur-ish and a little lame.

It’s a shame really. Because though his new album, The Hustle, likely won’t win him many new fans, it is one of the strongest offerings of his career. Emphasizing his acoustic, laidback leanings and downplaying the rap a bit, it gives us perhaps his most radio-ready batch of songs in years.

This mellower G Love was no doubt influenced by the studio presence of Jack Johnson, who co-produced several tracks. After collaborating a few years back on the minor hit “Rodeo Clowns”, G Love saw his friend leapfrog him in recent years, straight into position as the successor to Jimmy Buffet’s thrown of beach-bummery. Songs like “Two Birds” with its spare acoustic strumming and gentle percussion, or “Stone Me” featuring an unusually downcast, bluesy G Love, could have been ripped straight from Johnson’s recent chart topping On and On. This is not to say that G Love is letting the current musical landscape dictate his sound entirely. He always had his softer side, and with Johnson working behind the scenes on The Hustle, these elements were bound to bubble to the surface a bit more.

Despite the presence of his surfer-turned-singer buddy, G Love still brings his unique Philly-funk sound out on several standout tracks. The Hustle’s opening number, “Astronaut”, is classic G Love with a fat baseline and distorted vocals. “Booty Call” also finds him in familiar territory, rapping over a bluesy piano riff and adding the occasional funky harmonica lick.

This time out, G Love may sound like’s he’s spending a little more time lounging on the beach in Cali, than driving down "I-95" back in Philly, but all the elements of what made him so appealing in the first place are still there in spades. Now in his mid-30’s, tracks like the catchy “Back of the Bus” show he can still rap about detention, riding the school bus, and studying for finals like it was yesterday. While another bouncy little track, “Gone Fishing”, has those corny double-entendres we’ve come to expect.

“All the fishes love me. The all wanna jump on the end of my line.”

Mellowing out doesn’t necessarily mean growing up.
Jeff Cambron

Figurine - The Heartfelt

2005, March
Grade: B

In 1991, the members of Figurine found themselves dispersed throughout the country: Meredith Figurine in Cambridge, Mass., David Figurine in San Francisco, and Jimmy Tamborello in Los Angeles. In lieu of letters, the threesome began sending sound files through new technology called the World Wide Web. We know it as the internet. Synth-pop obsessed kids start their musical odyssey using cutting-edge technology? How fitting. Or cliché.

“We started as a novelty,” Jimmy has said of the formation of the band. “We just thought it would be fun to make an 80s techno pop record.” And so, they did. Although the band first began to lay tracks in 1995, its debut disc, Transportation + Communication = Love, was not released until 1999. The album was a little bit synth, a little bit pop, and a whole lot of fun; themes ranged from robot love-making to misconstrued human intentions. It was pop music for the Space Age, and members intended for its listeners to blast off as soon as the first note dropped.

Figurine’s influences can be plainly heard throughout its second effort, The Heartfelt, as the group barely toes the line between cheesy fuzz beats and the other-worldly energy of influences such as Stereolab, Mouse on Mars and Human League. “International Space Station II” strives for the eerie calm of Bowie’s “Space Oddity,” while “Stranger” immediately conjures the image of a Ziggy Stardust-like character as he watches his love from afar. On “Rewind,” the album’s strongest cut, the group clearly vibes off Depeche Mode’s “Dream On” as Meredith and David swap verses. The couple discuss life together, and apart: “And if you’re still sore/ try pressing forward/ see how empty your life would be without me” she sings with a laid-back delivery which perfectly compliments David’s deadpan style, a formula employed many times throughout the record.

Figurine found a fan base in those looking for a fusion of indie-pop, electronic, and ambient influences. Fans loyal to Tamborello’s other band, the Postal Service, were also thrown into the mix. For its sophomore effort Figurine has decided to cater to the diverse interests of its audience. Fans needn’t worry, there is no sign total synthesizer infatuation is waning in any one member of the group. The Heartfelt is simply more listener-friendly. If the group’s debut was an inside joke between members, its follow-up is the punch-line, an attempt by the threesome to give its audience something they, not just the group, would want to hear. We’re laughing with them now, not just nodding along.
Sam Spector

Eminem - Encore

2004, Aftermath
Grade: B+

Much has been made of America’s unlikely love affair with Eminem over the last two years. Since his well-received starring role in Eight Mile, the man who once passionately rhymed about slitting his wife’s throat has some how reinvented himself and gained if not adoration, at least a palpable degree of acceptance from the parents and critics who once vilified him as nothing short of a musical antichrist. This all seems like wonderful news for Detroit’s golden boy Mr. Marshall Mathers, but truth be told in a genre which trades so heavily on street-cred and image, any signals of Slim Shady going soft could be the first sign of trouble on the horizon.

Sure, if Eminem wants to do a total 180, embrace Middle America, and become the next Will Smith, he’s in great shape. After all, in just one film he’s already proven his chops more successfully than the LL Cool Js, Ice Cubes and Ja Rules of the world ever did, hinting at a legitimate theatrical talent not unlike that which the late Tupac possessed yet never fully realized. But on the other hand, once Eminem loses his ability to shock, disgust, or even get a simple rise out of his more conservative listeners, has he lost his key bargaining chip for continuing his streak of chart-topping albums?

Needless to say, anticipation was high for Eminem’s latest release, Encore. Would he continue down the path towards social acceptance, sitcoms, and a buddy cop movie with Martin Lawrence, or would he come back firing with his most shocking and disturbing release to date? Based on the kid-friendly, sophomoric, and thoroughly annoying first single, “Just Lose It”, signs most certainly pointed to the former. But ultimately, it seems Eminem didn’t really let soccer-mom endorsement affect him one way or another. Though Encore isn’t his best work to date, it still continues his streak of topnotch albums, with all the moral contradictions we’ve come to expect from the world of gangster rap and its stars.

At turns full of bravado, humility, fart jokes, political criticism, violence, tenderness and misogyny, Em is still just being himself for better or worse. We may never know how much of his album persona is show, and how much is genuine dementia, but he’s still the guy you can love, love to hate, or just plain hate in equal doses.

Sonically, Encore isn’t Eminem in peak form. On the more serious cuts, like the politically minded “Mosh”, the beat takes a back seat to the message, and consequently the songs tend to plod along a little to deliberately to pack much of an emotional impact. Even a protest song needs to get your head noddin’. Yet, there are certainly a few moments, particularly the Dre-produced tracks “Never Enough” (featuring 50 Cent and Nate Dogg), and “Encore” (featuring the Doc himself and 50 Cent), which are sure please fans of Em’s more commercial fare. The former is a pulsing, almost club-worthy three minutes that, profanity aside, seems tailor made for radio play. The latter recalls Chronic 2001-era Dr. Dre with G-Unit-eque backing vocals. But moments like these are less frequent than in Eminem’s prior work.

But whatever Encore lacks in terms of beats, it almost makes up for in wordplay and humor. This is definitely Em’s funniest album to date. Much of it may be exceedingly juvenile (see the literally-themed “Puke” for a prime example), but tracks like the Triumph-inspired ode to well-endowed beauties “Ass Like That” is as gut busting as rap gets. Though he takes obvious and dated jabs at easy targets like Michael Jackson and Pee Wee Herman, Em can still play the clown-prince of rap whenever the mood strikes him.

Encore once again gives listeners a glimpse into the still fascinating mind of Marshall Mathers. Eminem’s shtick hasn’t grown stale as many may have expected, and for better or worse, he remains largely unchanged. Tracks like the becoming requisite, tender ballad for his daughter “Mockingbird”, illustrate Em’s ability to combine heartfelt confessions with mild psychosis and produce a bewildering yet compelling song. After four minutes of sincerity and emotion, “Mockingbird” concludes with a tossed-off moment of typical Slim Shady violent imagery:

“If that mockingbird don’t sing and the ring don’t shine/ Ima’ break that birdie’s neck. I’ll go back to the jeweler who sold it to ya/ and make him eat every carat don’t fuck with Dad.”

Thankfully, Eminem hasn’t compromised for anyone just yet. Encore may not pack as many hits, or the emotional punch of his hereto masterpiece, The Eminem Show, but he still can’t be accused of losing a step. And for those who wonder what a post-mainstream approval Eminem might sound like, they need only check out the final moments of the closing track, “Encore”. After some typical gangster-style boasting and a plug for the forthcoming Dr. Dre album Detox, Em is met with thunderous applause from an adoring audience. Instead of walking off with a hearty thank you, we hear him pull out a 9-millimeter and gleefully starting offing his supporters. With a maniacal laugh, he saves the last bullet for himself.
Big Willie he ain’t.
Jeff Cambron

Duran Duran - Astronaut

2004, Epic
Grade: B

Like, ohmigod, like, I've been waiting for this for like 20 years!

The original Duran Duran lineup of Simon LeBon, Nick Rhodes, John, Andy, and Roger Taylor are back with a new CD, Astronaut (Epic Records). Like, you do know none of the Taylors are like related, right? All the original elements are in place - LeBon's wail and whine, Rhodes' synth programming, Andy Taylor's crunching guitar and John & Roger's thumpin' & bumpin' rhythm section.

Post A View To A Kill soundtrack and LiveAid performances in 1985, D2's splintered side projects included Nick & Simon's ethereal Arcadia, and John and Andy's funkhouse Power Station which included Chic drummer Tony Thompson and the late Robert Palmer.

On Astronaut, the band partners up with producing legend Nile Rodgers (Chic, Madonna, David Bowie), Dallas Austin (Pink, TLC) and Don Gilmore (Linkin Park, Avril Lavigne).

The result is a rousing, upbeat and FUNKY! record. Standout tracks include the first single "(Reach Up For The) Sunrise" and "Want You More". "What Happens Tomorrow" is an introspective talk to a child reminiscent of "Show Me" by The Pretenders.

The title track "Astronaut" features Simon LeBon's trademark semi-nonsensical lyrics (Morrissey he's not) rife with goofy sex references whereas the sexy "Bedroom Toys" uses a more straight forward approach.

One could only imagine what may have jumped off if the mighty Pharrell Williams had had a hand at this one...

Veteran Duranies and new listeners will not be disappointed. Astronaut is a blast.
Karyn Exilus

Draw Tippy - Draw Tippy

2004, Art Test Music
Grade: B+

Draw Tippy’s self-titled debut draws upon so many genres and influences, it might comes as a surprise that this “band” actually consists of a single, ambitious musician. After spending a year locked away in his NYC loft, Dave Pachence emerged with a new moniker, and 14 candy-coated pop-rock gems that combine elements of neo-punk, new wave, and 80’s glam. Mix it all together and you have Draw Tippy, an impressive debut that manages the always-neat trick of sounding instantly familiar, but genuinely unique in its own quirky way. Unabashedly, and unapologetically commercial, it’s still might be too catchy to resist for even the most jaded of indie rock purists.

The album opens with “Oscillate”; a pop-rock tune that mixes hooky riffs with some bouncy synth and computer-generated bells and whistles. The next, “Armageddon Girl” travels similar ground, but just when you think you’re in for a whole album’s worth of Good Charlotte-esque pop-punk with a little gadget gimmickry, Draw Tippy throws you for a loop.

“White Noise” brings to mind what They Might be Giants might have sounded like if they’d gone punk, and “California” throws some Beach Boys-like backing vocals into the mix.

Later tracks reveal the band's emo side, but maintain a slightly retro edge that sets them apart in the crowded genre. “I’ll Wait” even goes so far as to devote an entire verse to John Cusack’s character in the 80’s classic Say Anything.

“Standing on her lawn, with a vintage raincoat on. Got my boom-box overhead. Blasting ‘In Your Eyes’, till her mother cries ‘won’t you please just go away’.”

Ok its corny. But for those of us that grew up during the Cusack heyday, its great fun.

Unlike most albums these days, so often front-loaded with the best tracks, Draw Tippy actually gains momentum towards the middle of the disc, with some of the most memorable cuts coming after song ten. “Decide” might be the most pleasant surprise, with its bouncy acoustic guitars recalling Fountains of Wayne’s softer side. Name checking artists from Big Daddy Kane to Timbuk 3, its one of those songs that lodges in your brain, and for better or worse, you just can’t get it outta there.

Draw Tippy closes with a punky cover of Rainbow Connection that would make Kermit the Frog proud…and maybe even mosh just a little bit.

Pachence makes no bones about aiming his “band’s” music straight for the TRL crowd. It may be lightweight, fun pop-rock, but few of Draw Tippy’s peers manage to do it with the same level of wit, imagination, and infectious energy.
Jeff Cambron

Destiny's Child - Destiny Fulfilled

2004, Columbia
Grade: A-

Just hearing Destiny Child’s new album, Destiny Fulfilled, 2004, demands for the listener to know the difference between mediocre and meteoric. Although both adjectives sound similar, this group of girls continues its meteoric rise above their cookie cut-out peers and surprises even the most jaded of all music consumers, (yes, that would be me), by things commercially deemed hip.

Let it be known that I’m resisting the urge to simply refer to Destiny’s Child as Beyonce & Friends…a name seemingly reminiscent of a 1970s variety show, since it appears the public’s enamored with the deity-like diva whose solo endeavor has rocketed her to one word moniker stardom, a la Cher, Madonna, and Sting. Beyonce’s expensively weaved caramel colored ringlets seem to surround her face halo-like as she’s seen belting out tunes on TRL or the Grammy’s. You stare at this chick and think, “Whoa. She’s a hit-making, product hawking, movie starring machine…..” And then there are the other two members, hmm….what are their names…..?

Fingers snapping...
Fingers snapping…

Oh, yeah. Kelly and Michelle cannot be considered diminutive divas either. (I tried to write this without resorting to using the word “diva” but couldn’t help myself…) Both girls had moderately successful solo album efforts and Michelle even had a short lived stint as Aida on Broadway. There’s no question that they’re all talented. Kelly and Michelle deserve acknowledgement for their contributions on this album. Their newest release is full of mature writing, (with all of the girls racking up producing credits), inviting lyrics, and tight melodies. It’s obvious why Beyonce, in 2001, won ASCAP’s Pop Songwriter of the Year Award at the tender age of 19. With groups like 3LW and solo singers like Christina Milian reverting to canned “sexy singing tactics” and trite romantic declarations, Destiny’s Child ascends the ranks and positions themselves as veterans in this music game and as THE ones to be patterned after.

This disc takes you through a gamut of loving emotions…love of yourself, love of your best friend, love of family, and finally, love of a significant other. Instead of rousing teenager-y sounding anthems like the prior “Survivor” and “Independent Woman,” hits, the listener hears three grown-ass women ruminating on the trials and tribulations of a progressive struggle to love themselves and discovering that when and if they can accomplish that, then, and only then, can they find a true and healthy romantic love. I’m impressed because their album is obviously marked with growth and a deeper breadth of wisdom that has not been seen in music from a female group since perhaps, dare I venture.... TLC’s Crazy, Sexy, Cool.

“Lose My Breath,” the first single release is classic Destiny’s Child. You listen to this song and the snare drum bass line prods you to get up and dance yet you also feel empowered enough to attend a YMCA self-defense class. They smoothly transition into “Free” who’s vocals cause you to imagine someone finally being released and soaring forward to something better….(and yes, I did say “soaring…”) “Cater 2 U” pays credit to the man that has learned to treat his woman right and she wants to reciprocate.

Fast forward twenty years and Beyonce & Friends, oops, I mean Destiny’s Child will have their name whispered in hushed reverence as rumors of sporadic performance dates circulate around these iconic divas, (there goes that word again,) how people whisper about Diana Ross and the Supremes.

Destiny’s Child reminds me of Detroit’s Motown sound when it was at its peak with the distribution of talented girl groups circa the 50’s and 60’s. These girls are now more relatable than ever and their music is easy to be identified with as a 20something young woman…and they have the talent to back up my assertion.
Kara Cahoon

Daydream Nation - Bella Vendetta

2004, Elephant Stone
Grade: C+

You’ve got to credit a band willing to so obviously adapt their sound from influences that aren’t even the least bit hip. While every other band on the planet seems to be adding a “The” in front of their name and trying to playing some semblance of lo-fi, garage, 80’s-influenced rock, Daydream Nation take their cues from a different era altogether. With a sound that draws on classic (if there is such a thing) Oasis, shoegazer, and early-90’s Brit pop, this Canadian duo are clearly out of step with the times, but still manage to craft a few fairly memorable tracks amid some standard dream pop.

Bella Vendetta, Day Dream Nation’s second release, opens with “Neon”, almost a stadium rocker that would do the Gallagher brothers proud. It even has Oasis’ patented minute long intro before settling into a mid-tempo riff as good as anything those lovable Brits have written since 97’s Be Here Now. OK, I’m not sure if that was a compliment, but nevertheless, it’s certainly one of the album’s highlights.

“A New Dawn” is another rocker, again recalling a band that saw its heyday around 1995: Catherine Wheel. Pat Vaz’s vocals have a weathered, yet passionate quality, which works well here against some driving guitar work. It’s the most up-tempo of the tracks on Bella Vendetta, standing out starkly as the album settles into a medium pace from that point on.

The rest of the disc finds the duo firmly entrenched in shoegazer mode. It’s lush, atmospheric, and at times beautiful, but ultimately the lack of diversity among the remaining tracks keeps Bella Vendetta from breaking out of the ranks of the dream pop also-rans.

“Satellites” has longing, gorgeous vocals that float impressively through the song’s four minutes, but the generic guitars do little to distinguish the track from any of the album’s latter half.

Shoegazer isn’t a genre particularly noted for memorable licks or stick-in-your-head choruses, but when you can’t, even after repeated listens, tell one track from another, there’s obviously a problem. Still, as background music it’s pleasing enough. And based on the opening track, once the public tastes start clamoring for those 90’s retro bands (and we all know they’re on the way), Oasis might just get a run for their money.
Jeff Cambron

Alex Chilton - Live in Anvers

2004, Last Call Records
Grade: A

Simply put, Alex Chilton is probably the greatest man to ever live. Agree or not to that extreme, take into account all that he has given: Before legally eligible to vote, with the vocal maturity of an incumbent pro, Chilton lead the Box Top’s “The Letter” to the top of the charts. Safely nestled in a slew of Tiger Beat covers he felt forced to abandoned stardom for creative autonomy. In Big Star that was found, and so came three albums that defined power-pop, relit rock ‘n’ roll, and rest only slightly below the surface as one of the most important stepping-stones in rock history. But the proverbial baby went out as well, and Big Star didn’t sell. Slowly, then a superb young man, well on his way to aforementioned status, the endless frustration of obscurity overwhelmed him, and subsequent albums struggled to find any sort of footing. What could have ended tragically romantic, lost to the dark streets of New Orleans where he presently resides, the man endured. Still blessed with that wondrous, crackling soulful voice, Chilton’s dotted the periphery some twenty-years, now collected and re-focused, since the mid-90s the shell of a devastated artist has been peeling away. And what’s on Live In Anvers is the willingness, scope, and proper context for Alex Chilton to re-cast his career, comfortably, and have it be, as he once required, “melodius” to his ears.

The record’s highlight is the recasting of an unknown diamond, Frederick Knight’s “Claim To Fame”. Allegedly, so obscure that having only heard the song a few times when it was originally released over thirty years ago, and unable to find a copy today, Chilton arranged the tune from memory. This is mellifluous rock ‘n’ roll: a jazzy soul strutter, as Chilton interprets, with a chunky chorus that lands each chord perfectly, bypassing your brain and heading straight to the heart. And gone is the cynical sneer of No Sex-era LX, charming and exuberant in its replacement, one would be hard pressed to connect this to anyone who hasn’t earnestly loved rock ‘n’ roll all along.

Dwelling on the past has not been Chilton’s recent style. Eager to forget all of the 1970s, it’s with delight and surprise to hear him reach back into his own catalogue here. Big Star’s “In The Street” is introduced with reference to its recent ubiquity as the theme to FOX’s “That 70s Show”. Though the way it’s played here, close to the original, it’s barely related to Cheap Trick’s balls-out rendition on television, something Chilton must enjoys. “Bangkok”, his debut single after Big Star disbanded, the product of a drug and alcohol induced meltdown, is what one can imagine you’d want to forget. It’s not in great taste, either (references to “slanty-eyed men,” and “making love the Japanese way”), so amidst Count Basie and Wilson Pickett, it’s strange that it totally fits. But of course it does: it’s rock-a-billy at its core. With that thrust to the foreground, light on the lewd delivery, sung more, “Bangkok” is just as classy as any Stax single. Better too.

The set comes to a close with a stellar swing through the Cornelius Brothers’ “It’s Too Late To Turn Back Now”, and it sounds like Chilton’s actually at ease with that.
Zachary Bloom

Lou Barlow - EMOH

2005, Merge
Grade: B+

Let’s recap: Lou Barlow played bass in Dinosaur Jr, an SST mainstay and hero of ‘80s college rock; he formed Sebadoh soon after, riding Sub-Pop’s grunge momentum to becoming the biggest name in indie-rock; and eventually scored ubiquity with a hit, Folk Implosion’s “Natural One,” transcending the underground, right onto mainstream MTV. With so many accomplishments, do they make Lou Barlow one of the most important people in rock? The nominating factors are undeniable, having bridged three decades, respectively, though it's unclear if he still has an audience. But even legends that succeeded in only one of those categories (Paul Westerberg), today, have a mythical status unknown to Barlow. Or Sonic Youth, with a similar decade-spanning arc, hold a place in the annals of rock history Barlow may never see. I guess that means he just has to work all the harder.

Being on the label that broke Kurt Cobain for the better part of its days, Sub-Pop hardly shaped Sebadoh’s sound. Always sharing writing credits with its bass player—generally unfortunate—Barlow managed to weave together an awkward blend of bouncing snotty anthems and heartfelt balladry rarely heard in the early-90s underground—at times evoking Bread and the Minutemen back-to-back. The title of Barlow’s newest record isn’t in reference to the cutesy music movement—it’s “home” spelled backwards. Similarly he’s eschewed the irony of those bratty anthems and focused his efforts on a marriage of Harmacy’s “On Fire” and Folk Implosion—serious, melodic, and as well produced as lo-fi can be. Eight and a half years on from Sebadoh’s last substantive offering (ignoring The Sebadoh), others have faired well on the ground Barlow paved. Sensitive, nice guy music came into vogue, seeing Elliott Smith gain momentum and Pete Yorn sell records. Nearly a decade late, the prodigal son returns to perhaps claim something of what he deserves—safe, in comfortable surroundings.

EMOH is Barlow’s warmest work. (It may be winter, but when the sun comes, take this outdoors with you—at least to the porch.) Stacked against any version of “Brand New Love”, or all of Bakesale, it’s the maturity of “Legendary” and “Home”—the restraint of Lou’s smooth, plaintive voice—that reels it in, and matches his past. (The absence of erstwhile bass players Jason Lowenstein or Eric Gaffney interrupting the mood is an undeniable benefit). Still struggling to figure out the opposite sex, or more so, his uncontrollable feelings for them, a decade of marriage, and a baby on the way, haven’t made it any easier. Or maybe he has moved on, understands his life, but doesn’t know what else to write about; EMOH’s strengths, in the end, don’t veer far from Sebadoh. A retreat to form, nearing middle age (forty next year), Lou Barlow not only deserves credit for what he’s done so far, but also an ear for what he’s up to now.
Zachary Bloom

A is Jump - My Ice-Fingered Ghost

2004, Futureappletree
Grade: B-

Indie pop and emo, though falling in none too similar categories in terms of style and fan base, do share one very similar trait. They represent likely the two most over-crowded genres for young musicians today. Just as it is supremely difficult for the legions of pop-punkers to distinguish themselves among the Jimmy Eat Worlds, Dashboards, and a revolving door of flavor-of-the-month teen bands, it is equally hard for earnest, sensitive indie acts to rise above the masses and carve out a place for themselves in the public consciousness. The recent indie boom might seem like a blessing, but with every young kid jumping on the bandwagon hoping to become the next Bright Eyes, it only makes things that much harder. With My Ice-Fingered Ghost, A Is Jump don’t quite escape these problems, they do offer a charming disc of subtle delights. It’s warm, engaging, and intelligent fare from a talented, if overly familiar group.

The album opens strongly with “Peeling Space”, a mid-tempo rocker that channels early R.E.M. With delicate vocals and guitar work, it’s a charming, if restrained piece of pop rock that largely reflects the disc as a whole.

The album’s highlight is surely “Waited So Long”, with shiny yet soft guitars; it’s the catchiest song on My Ice-Fingered Ghost and also the most danceable.

Other highlights include “The Sad-Eyed Truth” and “Cursing the Green Wave”. The former is fuzzy and hushed, borrowing a bit from bands like My Bloody Valentine at their most reserved. The latter is an effective, if not overly memorable tune that might have been a Superdrag b-side in the early 90’s.

And there in lies the problem with A Is Jump. Clearly a group of competent musicians, they have crafted a batch of indie rock that follows the formula to perfection, but does little to distinguish them from the vast sea of competition. Musically they have the chops, and My Ice-Fingered Ghost is certainly not without considerable charms, but it’s pretty disposable once you turn off the stereo.
Jeff Cambron

Ryan Adams & The Cardinals - Cold Roses

2005, Lost Highway
Grade: A-

For the still rabid cult of Ryan Adams followers, the last couple years have been trying times. As the bratty, legend in the making struggled to break through with the mainstream success that had eluded him thus far, a backlash of epic proportions ensued.

Of course the man always had his critics. What with his cocky attitude, seemingly desperate yearning for mass approval and occasional childish outbursts, he was never in the running for America’s sweetheart. But then again, few rock stars ever are. Maybe the guy got a bum rap. Or maybe not. But what people complained about most was his insistence on aping his heroes rather than finding his own muse. Albums like the 80’s-influenced Rock and Roll and the moody Love is Hell discs, though technically proficient and often a lot of fun, seemed somehow forced and contrived. It was as if Adams was simply trying out every genre to see which one stuck. While in this reviewer’s opinion he’s still never produced anything close to a bad album (Rock and Roll actually contains a couple of Adam’s most inspired tracks to date), many fans have been anxiously awaiting his triumphant return to Whiskeytown-era alt country glory. Cold Roses is just that.

After the letdown of mediocre sales for Rock and Roll and Love is Hell, followed by a nasty wrist injury, Adams did what he does best and retreated to the studio to add to his already mythic library of songs. The double-disc Cold Roses, said to be the first of three releases in 05’, finds the artist sliding comfortably back into a country rock groove. It most closely resembles his first solo release Heartbreaker, but with the sound amped up by his new backing band The Cardinals. The result is a consistently satisfying journey full of mid-tempo rockers and Adams’ now patented lover's lament ballads.

“Magnolia Mountain,” the album’s opener, would not have been out of place on Love is Hell, but country-tinged guitar slides veer the track into Heartbreaker territory. "Cherry Lane" mines similar terrain and gets even closer to full-on honky-tonk mode.

“How Do You Keep Hope Alive” closes disc one, and is another one of those brooding, tragic love songs that have become Adams’ bread and butter. Whether his recent break-up with actress girlfriend Parker Posey played into the song’s writing is up for debate, but either way, Adams has become a master at injecting heartfelt lyrics with seemingly real sincerity.

Disc two is likely the more consistently satisfying collection, and opens with the breezy rocker, “Easy Plateau”. Adams seems most comfortable on tracks like these, and his considerable charms bubble pleasantly to the surface.

The same can be said of “Let it Ride,” the first single off Cold Roses. It’s the most up-tempo track and recalls Whiskeytown at its finest.

“If I Am A Stranger” might be the album’s highlight. Again we find Adams seeming more natural and honest than he has in years. Another mid-range rocker with restrained, but catchy guitar work, it’s the type of gem that vintage Adams seemed to churn out in his sleep.

Admittedly, sales expectations are likely lower than in the previous star-making years. But with the pressures of being the next rock god off his shoulders, Adams can once again just be himself and let us all remember why they made such a big deal out of this guy in the first place. Who knows, he might toss out an album of sample-heavy dance tracks next year (I’m sure it’s in the vault somewhere and I’m sure it would be a perfect imitation of New Order or Depeche Mode) but for now let’s just welcome him back.
Jeff Cambron

Fallout Boy - From Under the Cork Tree

2005, Island
Grade: B+

For a band that was named after an obscure character on “The Simpsons,” (the sidekick of Bart’s favorite comic book hero, Radioactive Man, to be specific) Fall Out Boy’s first album, 2003’s breezy Take This to Your Grave, sold like hotcakes (mmm…hotcakes). An upgrade to a major label and a concise but glowing recommendation from Newsweek ensures that they will fly under the radar no longer. The lesson this four-piece from Chicago carries over from its smart-aleck predecessors, such as Blink 182, is that they avoid taking themselves very seriously for the span of more than one song, which allows their cleverness to shine through.

Tongue is planted firmly in cheek when they announce on the opening track (“Our Lawyer Made Us Change the Name of this Song So We Wouldn’t Get Sued”) in mock disclaimer fashion that their music is “not worth the hearing you’ll lose.” Silly and prolix titles notwithstanding (and there are several of them), FOB is acutely self-aware and disarmingly frank about the glut of hollow relationships they encounter, both on the business and romantic side, and their uneasiness with being wrenched further away from normal life by increasing notoriety. FOB openly questions people’s motives and behavior, including their own, and finds no simple explanations, but plenty of stories to relate. Still, on tracks like “Sugar We’re Going Down,” cynicism never sounded so peppy. There’s a desperate desire for attachment skulking around, met by a fatalistic resignation that it will be too short-lived to bring real satisfaction that somehow doesn’t manage to depress the listener.

Their ambivalence about accepting transitions has helped them deliver a rollicking record that you can bounce around to or sing along with from start to finish. Fans of Jimmy Eat World and New Found Glory (i.e. infectious, heart-on-the-sleeve-style rock) searching for a band with wit that is unafraid to expose their inimical side will be thrilled. Despite the somber deduction that, “the poets are just kids who didn’t make it,” FOB has arrived, proving that not all incisive lyricists slip through the cracks.

David Bowie - David Live

2005, EMI
Grade: B

This generation knows more about David Bowie’s love affair with supermodel Iman than the epic career that preceded it. I say it’s time for those who know better to teach the uninformed: call him the Thin White Duke, Ziggy Stardust, Lord of the Labyrinth, he is the premier chameleon of his time. We, as mere mortals, can only do our best to keep up with him. With the re-release of his pinnacle concert album, David Live, we are again reminded why we still try.

David Live was recorded during Bowie’s 1974 American tour in support of Diamond Dogs. It was a strange year for the Duke; known for his ever-changing stage presence, he had surpassed his time as the deity known as Ziggy Stardust and fell into a sort of R&B-esque limbo as he quickly evolved into the Thin White Duke. The inconsistency caused by this pseudo-identity crisis is clearly heard during this set, recorded with primitive technology in Philadelphia at the legendary Tower Theatre.

As legend has it, Tony Visconti, Bowie’s longtime collaborator and producer, was on his way to the venue when he got stuck in traffic, arriving just in time to watch Bowie take his final bow. Whether the muddy, one-dimensional quality of the original release of this set is due to his absence or not, it is clear that his presence during the re-mastering process was nothing short of revolutionary. In addition to sound, improvements were also made to the set-list of the original compilation, now expanded to include a cover of “Here Today, Gone Tomorrow” (which originally appeared on the Ohio Player’s 1968 album Observation in Time) and the Bowie staple “Space Oddity” (the song was first recorded by being sung into a telephone and was not included on the 1974 release because, as one might imagine, of poor sound quality). Visconti’s influence is also seen in the eloquent liner notes that are included in the re-mastered version.

Although many (re: all generations previous to ‘Y’) still feel nothing will ever compare to the mood set through vinyl records, a lot can be said for the warmth and depth now given to Bowie’s voice thanks to our modern technology. The production has been cleaned up, though not altered; the stereo separation is audible, individual instruments are more pronounced, and the audience’s appreciative cheers and applause still remain understated. But above all, it was Bowie’s voice that made the first release of this album a hit to true fans, and thirty years later, that sentiment still holds true.

Devout Bowie-ites are still out there, evidence of which can be found in the astronomical success of last summer’s Reality Tour. Therefore, I fully expect for those associated with the re-release of this project to make the money that they intended to. Honestly now, everyone knows there is always one reason packages of mediocre recordings are re-mastered and the answer begins and ends with one word: cash. But I did call this concert a pinnacle in Bowie’s career, and for good reason. It signaled a change in an already anomalous career. He stripped himself of his Stardust sparkles and allowed his fans to find out more about who he truly was, both in his music and stage presence. And, whether or not it is my American ego-centrism talking, his stint here had something to do with the ‘changes’ (pun intended) in his musical spectrum. This album is thankfully incomplete, hard to label, even harder to judge. David Live is still not a great recording, but then again, it never was. But re-mixed, re-mastered, and re-packaged, there is no doubt that this album is worth the second chance it’s been given.
Sam Spector

Isobella - Surrogate Emotions of the Silverscreen

2005, New Grenada
Grade: C

Granted, writing a great dream pop album is hard as hell. For every My Bloody Valentine, a band that managed to combine exquisite shoegazer moments with memorable hooks, there’s a truckload of moody records full of shimmering guitars, ethereal vocals and spacey, melancholy noises that are perfectly suitable for pleasant background music on a rainy Sunday afternoon. The trick is getting the listener to remember the track after the sun comes out and the music goes off.

There in lies the problem with Isobella’s Surrogate Emotions of the Silverscreen, the band’s 3rd LP. As one perfectly decent track blends into the next, the listener is hard-pressed to differentiate them five minutes after it’s over. Lack of musicianship certainly isn’t the problem, and it’s hard to criticize a band for lack of hooks, when their very genre is based around atmosphere rather than riffs…but even dream pop has its limits.

Tracks like “Majestic,” finding the band drawing amply from the manual laid down by the Cocteau Twins, Valentine and more recently Low, let Isobella put Laura Poinsette’s wistful vocals to fine use, and the alternatingly fuzzy and shimmering guitars set the mood perfectly…but mood is all we really have here. Expertly executed ambiance. Dream pop crossed with Enya is certainly a perfect recipe for drifting off to sleep, but not enough to raise them above the masses. The sound is, at times, gorgeous. But hey, so was my ex-girlfriend. She wasn’t that memorable either.
Jeff Cambron

The Rolling Stones - A Bigger Bang

2005, Virgin
Grade: B

Lester Bangs on the Stones: “No matter how excellent you continue to be, people will just get bored with you. Not anybody’s fault particularly. But the Rolling Stones, my god, how many different ways can you recycle Chuck Berry riffs? How many different phrases can you use to talk about balling before you have to resort to outright grossness? There’s only so much ‘mung’ to go around, and most artists do their best work in a very compressed period of three to five years or at most ten years. The Rolling Stones lasting twenty or thirty years -- what a stupid idea that would be.”

That was from an article published in Creem in 1973. Bangs isn’t around today to see the Stones now-- 21 studio albums later, and not twenty, not thirty, but over forty years later. A Bigger Bang, released on 9/5, is the latest Glimmer Twins production-- the first studio release in 8 years. As my mother says, the Stones now appear “ancient, haggard, and used” -- a parody of all the glories of youthful angst that their music once mirrored. So what? This album proves they can still make great music. Question is, what does it all stand for anymore?

A Bigger Bang is, almost surprisingly, not a disappoint, in itself. It’s vulnerable, it’s humorous, its got social content, and best of all, it struts, too. A timely and compact collection of songs, as is famously typical with most Stones records, the album is a perfect frame of a certain moment in time. The album is also classic, raw Stones. Keith calls it a “just give me the cake” kind of album.

“Rough Justice,” the opening hard-riff rocker, is the new “Start Me Up.” A tongue-in-cheek declamation of signature Stones cockiness debuts the album with lyrics like: “One time you were my baby chicken/ Now you’ve grown into a fox/Once upon a time I was your little rooster/ But now I’m just one of your cocks.” Some of the best Stones “mung” to surface on any Stones album. And there’s plenty more in songs like “Dangerous Beauty” and “Oh No, Not You Again.”

Here’s the social content. No need to make much mention of “My Sweet Neo Con.” No, it’s not about George W., says Mick. It does have a catchy harmonica riff and with minimal guitar work, the rhythm section carries this one along swift and funky.

There’s a nice surprise in the middle called “Back of my Hand.” A fantastic blues number with Mick on slide guitar, it sidles up on you with subtle harmonica punctuation and a half-moaned, stretched vocal. A great reminder that the Stones played the blues before they even thought about rock ‘n‘ roll.

And another barroom ballad from old Keef, called “This Place is Empty,” is crafted in the likeness of “Losing My Touch.” The piece is an awkward display of Keith’s gravely, underrated croon. It’s a tipsy, personable, and (dare I say) sweet buffer against Mick’s often brazen approach.

But perhaps the most honest piece here is “Laugh, I Nearly Died.” It’s almost believable. With such a strong sense of grief, it’s the closest to what it would seem the Stones have internalized after years of use: “I’m so sick and tired/Trying to turn the tide/So I’ll say my goodbyes/Laugh, Laugh, I nearly died.” Mick outright pleads throughout this song. The doleful lyrics insinuate a refugee of a particularly demanding life and briefly take us back to an image of years past, maybe years regretted, maybe years spent searching.

Like I said, the album itself is not disappointing. It is, in fact, a great album. But I still can’t help feeling disappointed about something. What does the music represent anymore? Surely not angst-laden expressions of a socially discontent generation erupting in the midst of a sexual revolution. What does it mean to be a Stones fan today? Most Stones concert-goers this time around are going to be soccer moms and businessmen who remember the Stones from their heyday, or college students who can’t tell Mick Jagger from Keith Richards. What does it mean to be a Stone? The Stones are old and haggard, and settled and comfortable. They’re raising kids, lounging, living contently. And they’ve mirrored that in the album-- it’s fun and accessible. Everyone’s going to like it.

It seems each new album, no matter how good, is starting to take away from the legacy these days and just add to the tally marks. Maybe Bangs was right -- rock ‘n’ roll shouldn’t get older than mid-twenties. Perhaps it would have been healthier for the Stones’ dignity had they ended tragically in the late ’70s like Led Zeppelin. There is nothing startling, uncomfortable, unnerving, breathtaking, or mad about this album-- it’s just solid. There’s nothing hauntingly desperate like “Shine A Light”, no nerve-stinging ballad like “Wild Horses,” no whispered love song like “Angie,” no cry of social malice like “Gimme Shelter.”

This doesn’t mean I don’t like the new album or don’t like the Stones, because I do and always will, no matter. But, even back in ‘73, Bangs put it best: “There’s a sadness about the Stones now, because they amount to such an enormous ‘So what?’ The sadness comes when you measure not just one album, but the whole sense they’re putting across now against what they once meant.”
Lael H. Adams

Rat Cat Hogan - We're Bicoastal

2005, Skyrocki Records
Grade: D

Sometimes stories are just stories. They might be worth hearing, but that doesn’t mean they should be set to music.

Such is the case on Rat Cat Hogan’s We’re Bicoastal. Singer/songwriter Herbert Bergel certainly has plenty of quaint, amusing and occasionally engaging tales to tell. But unfortunately, his lack of any real vocal skills and some fairly generic guitar work on the whole makes for a pretty uneventful experience.

At its best, We’re Bicoastal sounds like generic, indie pop-rock. At its worst, like Bergel was sitting around one night having beers, and talking about, I dunno, a trip to Portland or his friend Wendy who’s a librarian in Georgia, and just decided “Hey, let’s write a song about it!”

The tracks alternate from forgettable to cringe-inducing, which is too bad since reading the liner notes is actually fairly entertaining, and I mean that in a good way.

“Doctor Explosion” and “Juan Carlos Comes to Live” are, if nothing else, a heck of a lot more original, lyrically, than the drivel tacked onto the latest volume of NOW That’s What I Call Music!

Bergel might just have a viable career as a novelist. But a rock star he ain’t.
Jeff Cambron

Minus The Bear - Menos el Oso

2005, Suicide Squeeze
Grade: A

Minus the Bear’s previous efforts, despite frequent moments of genius, were often overshadowed by the curious humor of their song titles. I mean let’s face it, when a band writes a track called “Hey Wanna Throw Up? Get Me Naked,” well, I think we can agree that artistic credibility is gonna take a back seat most of the time. But kids, this is no Bloodhound Gang clone. Serious listeners that were able to get past the jokes would find surprisingly melancholic tracks with truly innovative rhythms and riffs supported by catchy-as-hell choruses that are poppy, but not quite pop. It was a great band in the making…but then they’d write “Monkey!!! Knife!!! Fight!!!.”

Well it seems that Minus the Bear, comprised of members of Botch, Kill Sadie and Sharks Keep Moving, is playing it straight this time around on Menos el Oso. The results just might have the masses seeing this Seattle band in a whole new light.

The angular, math-rock arrangements are there just as before, but backed up by their strongest batch of melodies yet. The band also seems to have toned their sound down just an ounce, hitting a mid-tempo stride on a few songs that suits them beautifully.

In fact, there are really two versions of Minus the Bear on display on Menos el Oso. First, you have the jittery, stutter-stepping Minus the Bear of tracks like “The Game Needed Me” or “Memphis & 53rd” that will appeal to fans of their previous efforts.

Later though, the disc reveals a more subdued, atmospheric vibe that evokes the surf rock of Morning View-era Incubus. “El Torrente” is the most restrained with its gentle, finger-tapping guitars and moody riffs. It’s the perfect nighttime driving song for beach bums.

“Pachuca Sunrise” finds the band hitting closest to the Incubus style. Lead singer Jake Snider sings, “We met on the beach in Mediterranean,” while a soothing, almost eerie guitar floats over the track majestically.
For a rock act, Minus the Bear is very danceable, but not in the new wavy, 80’s retro way that most bands are gravitating towards these days. Menos el Oso alternates from chill out disc, to driving hard rocker ("Michio’s Death Drive") but never loses the programmed beats and gorgeous riffs that will keep heads nodding and feet tapping on and off the sand.

One of the great rock albums of 2005.
Jeff Cambron

Kanye West - Late Registration

Roc-A-Fella, 2005
Grade: A-

Kanye West’s meteoric rise from producer to preeminent emcee and his coinciding anointment as the undisputed social and intellectual leader for a much-needed movement in rap has startled everyone. Whereas he was decidedly self-conscious on his debut, West appears to be settling into his own skin on Late Registration, an album meticulously arranged to uphold his broad appeal. Ever the perfectionist, West has filed down the rough edges that give hip-hop its grit to meld music and message harmoniously.

Clearly, Kanye West is a conflicted man with a lot on his plate, but to his credit, he never serves a platter of cockiness without following it up with a slice of humility. On “Gold Digger” he tries to untangle greed from love and separate ambition from loyalty in relationships, alternately embracing and rejecting the qualities. He accepts that his outspoken nature displaces him, but laments it nonetheless (“Heard ‘Em Say”). He wavers between upbraiding his peers in the industry for coveting material excesses, yet admittedly yearns for them himself in his weaker moments. “Diamonds from Sierra Leone” asks if sporting bling is worth the moral quandary it presents. Similarly, he muses on “Crack Music” as to whether a profit made preying on your own people has real value. West largely blames the government for the proliferation of narcotics that ravaged predominantly black communities nationwide in the 80’s and 90’s, still that doesn’t prevent references to enjoying alcohol and weed from popping up periodically. While the answers to the queries the songs pose may seem like no-brainers, the theme West continues to return to is that temptation is tough to resist and the call of opportunity convinces many to disregard right and wrong.

His struggle of feeling bound by the very conventions he seeks to break makes him vulnerable--and therefore accessible--to a degree few artists in hip-hop would be comfortable with. Though nearly every rapper brags about “keeping it real” and then proceeds to undermine their credibility as they become swept up in their own embellished stories of machismo, West is authentic because he allows room for his true self—contradictions and flaws included—to be exposed. His purpose is to raze the thick barriers that block understanding, so West wisely steers away from lecturing his audience, all the while fending off the urge to preach demonstratively (he decided to save such an outburst for live television). As a precautionary measure to ensure that one voice does not dominate, he pads his tracks with an extensive guest list of notable names: Brandy, Common, Cam’Ron, Nas, and, of course, Jay-Z. West is the vanguard of a more inclusive form of hip-hop, one whose purpose is to start a dialogue, since he works out of a sense of duty not just to his people, but all people. The beats are refined, which helps him deliver flows in his relaxed yet urgent tone. His affinity for sampling from the jazz and blues eras of old lends gravity to the material, while creating multi-layered composition that warrants an ear’s undivided attention.

Whereas an artist such as Dr. Dre was widely ridiculed for incorporating soul and saxophone into his music (on 1992’s The Chronic), West, because he never claimed to be a thug, can employ a xylophone and an orchestra (“We Major,” “Celebration”) without the selections being questioned. Learning is a continuous process, and Late Registration proves that it is never too late to return to school for more lessons, especially from a pragmatic instructor.
Marc Tandan

Moonlight Towers- Like You Were Never There

2005, Spinster Records
Grade: B

Moonlight Towers’ 2nd disc, Like You Were Never There, sounds exactly like you’d think a power-pop band from Texas should sound. Take two parts early 90’s guitar fuzz (Superdrag or Matthew Sweet), add some honky-tonk flourishes, and blend it up with a dash of 1950’s melody. That’s the basic dynamic of this talented Austin four-piece. But if their influences sound all over the map, you’ll be pleasantly surprised with this disc. It’s a seamless, warm, country-flavored piece of pop-rock that instantly sounds both timeless and contemporary.

Tracks like “Everybody Knows Why” or “Every Second Drags” have their roots in classic American rockabilly of the 50’s and 60’s, but with the added kick of 90’s-era guitar crunch.

“I Sleep Alone” leans closer to a mid-western punk style, and rocks the hardest of anything on Like You Were Never There. It’s a catchy song, but Moonlight Towers are often at their best on more down-tempo fare like the barroom ballad “Born to Die” or the Wilco-esque “Hung Up.”

Lead singer and principal songwriter James Stevens has an engaging vocal style that’s just strained enough to be thoroughly affecting. When he delves into one of the slower tracks, you can almost picture him strumming an acoustic, crooning alongside Richie Valens or The Bigger Bopper half a century ago.

Moonlight Towers have the sound of a fantastic bar band...but they're a damn good studio one too. They might be a little bit more fun to experience while turning up a few pints at some dive in Austin, but hey, you can always drink at home too.